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Thursday, April 9, 2009

Song to the Green Hills Home







The Green hills home:

The day is announced to be stormy. The rain, the cold wind, is on a tour again. The beautiful sunrise that I spotted through my large window at 6 am, already rolled away its golden painted linen two hours later, handing over quietly, the sky to a large dark cloud that rushes in and cover it, as it was waiting for so long. All day long, a moody weather can’t decide which face to make before us: Mother Nature is torn with pain and anger over the slain of little angel Sandra Cantu. I can’t get over it either. It is too absurd to admit. For almost 10 days, we’ve prayed and prayed for Sandra’s return. Grass and stones have been turned up and down; Tracy has been rummaged through all over, but little Sandra is no where to be found. Unfortunately, this time, it seems that “Power” has chosen the camp of Evil. It’s hard to get over it.

What is appalling is that this tragedy happened after series of gun related murderer of many honest people across the States. As it is usual in those circumstances, the statistics came out to remind us that on this land of prosperity, and in time of peace, at least 1000 Americans die every year with gun related incident. This means that if it were in Togo, a country of 34.7967 mi.and 5 millions human beings, the equivalent of my entire village would have to be rubbed out of the map every year. Where is the threat then? Not in the mountains of Tora bora, I guess, since we are exterminating each other so perfectly already here!


So my question is where is this ugliness from, and what is it doing right here in the heart of a Land that is praised to be Heaven on earth?

I need to keep the belief that “Goodness is stronger than evil, Love stronger than hate”. Is someone listening, and ready to answer my pleading?

Almost four years ago, I set foot on the most prosperous land, seeking safety and peace. I’ve been welcome and embraced wherever I went. A stranger gave me a coversheet and a shelter. I was thirsty of belonging, and my thirst was quenched with abundant wells of love from people who had no clue of the stranger I was. I got friends and family to lean on, and I said to myself “Oh it is good to be here!” But today as Tracy, and we all are mourning little angel Sandra Cantu, I’ve ever felt so strongly about a heaven that I might not have anymore. And I keep thinking of my green hills sweet home, where little Sandra wouldn’t have the chance to get ice cream when she wanted, but could jump, dance and sing freely with her peers, and fearlessly wander far away from home, but still return safe before sunset, to help Dada cook dinner in her smoky kitchen .

The day is at end. The rainbow is waiting in a showery sky, to take little Angel Sandra Cantu back home. I need to pull myself together, to sing the song Sandra needs for her splendid ride home:

On the top of the green hills home
There are no skyscrapers
Just rainbow riders

On the top of the green hills home
There are no street lights
Just twinkle stars in sight
And no plane in the sky
But the dream of little Sandra will fly high

On the top of the green hills home
The grass is wild and green
Little Sandra can play like a queen
Without leaving us with no goodbye
In sorrow and powerless “why”

On the top of the green hills home
Monster spurred on by madness
Everywhere else ready to spread sadness
Is nowhere to steal little splendid Sandra
While Angels are nowhere to say hola basta!

In a leafless tree in Tracy,
A disconsolate mourning dove is voiceless and thirsty.

But on the top of the green hills home
The grasshopper is singing
So jump, jump, little Sandra jump all over
There is no more killer in cover
Dance, dance, little Sandra dance your tango
Butterflies join your circle across the meadow
Your heart is larger than a suitcase
Your smile brighter than a life in cage

Your slayer is now on run
Up at him our nose is turned
“No mercy” is his end

So jump, sing, and dance
Free little Sandra, dance!
A rainbow is here to give you a ride
To the top of the green hills home.

Monday, February 23, 2009

Stolen hands


After the half day break of yesterday that allowed me to escape for a nurturing hiking in the Redwood Park, another rainy Sunday. In prospect nothing exciting in the air that can drag people out. Moreover, it is the Oscars night. Millions of eyes are riveted on tv screen, to share the emotion and the gratitude of actors who are rewarded for their genius. I wanted to stay home, and be part of the game. I catch myself thinking about the place of the cinema Arts in our lives. Anytime I walk out the dark of a movie theatre, I can’t stop reflecting on this questionable pact between “heroes”, and we the “ordinary” folks. We walk in, one hand loaded with a sack of popcorn, and the other a tank of soda; we take a seat, pledge to turn off our cellphone or are reminded to do so, and we are ready to go. By the time the light is off, and we let our mind captivated by the first images when in the meantime we keep our jaw busy, we never notice that we’ve just waived the boundaries of our ego, and give to a third party, the right to break in our “comfort” zone. For one, two or three hours, we assist to our own self-lashing or glorification. An unhealed wound re-opened, a dream expanded, a twinkle star in the sky to make us see, a failure to remind us our limits. It is still raining; the Oscars ceremony is on the air a while ago; I am not at home but in the dark room of PFA. The African Film Festival is in its last day ,and for 96 minutes we are taken 3 years back in the time, to see Paris through Moussa’s eyes. The water pump, the only source of hope in a Guinean village is on its last legs and Moussa is appointed to go and buy a new one in Paris. After coming across all the difficulties immigrants have to deal with, crime, police raids, working at small odd jobs, he is returning home with the precious treasure in his hands. He’ll never make it there alive. At the airport, he is commanded by the police to pay a fine; his visa expired 5 days ago. A police holds up his life when he asks to be treated with respect. “To come is a problem, to stay is a problem, and to leave is a problem” were his last words. Moussa’s tragedy as end of the movie is unexpected, unwanted. His visit to Paris is unexpected, unwanted. His life is a joke, his village a joke, the pump a joke, the future of his children, a joke. That is the way some people are called to be treated. They work hard, and before they reach the mid of their life, they lose the palm of their hands in the bowels of the earth. For them, no past, present or future is needed to be written, and will ever be read. When their land is snatched from them, and the river dries up with no fish to catch, they can still sail away, but not allowed to shore. If the angry stream of the sea cannot strip them, the spines of the wall of shame won’t miss them for sure. And if there is a few out there who are lucky enough to make it to the “promise” land, they can choose between the street, a charter or jail. Like the millions of immigrants souls who are lost in the waves of the Pacific and the Atlantic, like the thousands whose lives are twisted in crammed jails, Moussa is a stolen hand. It is just too hard to read the message written on the screen of his fading eyes: I come to give and share what I am made of: the fire, the water, and the sand. I am here for nothing but to enrich, respect, and dignify! After all what is the matter if Moussa dies? He has been brought to existence by mistake anyway, by a God who doesn't know quite well what to do with him out there. 2:17am

Thursday, February 19, 2009

Think twice

Think twice...before you grab your holster
Think twice...before you press the trigger
See twice...before you shoot
Don't cut his life short
A child can be orphan
A wife, a hopeless widow
A mother can be lifeless forever
A sister, a disconsolate soul
A brother can switch from hope to anger
A taser can turn a killer

Think twice before you grab your holster

The power is in your heart
Not in your hands
The fear, in your mind
Your eyes are just its window
The threat is nowhere
Shut it down, Let it go!!

Think twice...before you grab your holster
Think twice...before you press the trigger
See twice...before you shoot
Don't cut his life short

He is your brother
You are his keeper!
A Peacemaker!

Think first...twice... before you steal a Future,
And left with... "where am I?"

Foenix
Labels: Poem in Memory of Oscar Grant
Debout

A la meme heure
Contre les memes heurts
Et aux memes lieux
Parfaire tout au mieux
Fiel, foi de héros
Arracher le droit au bourreau
Sur le meme elan
Oublier tout relent
Ferme jusqu'au bout
Gagner le Combat
Debout!

Fyd