Dream, dad, dream

I opened my tired eyes. Warm all around me, the blanket that dad used to used. I lay in bed, visions of dad still fresh in my mind...

Another dream of dad. And like usual, I wake up suddenly with a sense of missing and longing. Dad is really gone, and even if I see him now and then in my dreams, he is really gone.

But dad's scent, dad's smile, dad's voice still lingers, as it lingered in my dream this morning. We were alone, walking in an empty street, sometime at dawn. As often when we are together, we were silent, but then again sometimes words are unnecessary. I felt close to him, and our footsteps were in sync. When I was little, I would always look at his feet and try to adjust my own footsteps to match his, even if it meant having to slightly skid and hop uncomfortably. But now that I have grown bigger, it wasn't necessary any more. Our footsteps and strides seemed to so naturally match.

I took a look at his face, and see the same dad that I still remember. That same haircut, those same energetic eyes and brows, and the same posture. He caught me looking at him, and he returned the look with a small smile. A smile that seemed to say, as he used to do before in those rare moments of affection, that he was proud of me. Proud of me, and of what I am doing.

We said nothing, but deep down inside I felt a sense of gratitude, love and affection that I never could say to him outright, and only managed to write down in words in my letters. I never could be sure if he read those letters...

Somehow, he went ahead of me, and before I knew it, was gone. I was left, alone, in the empty street, surrounded by towering buildings that blocked out ths sunright. And it suddenly felt so cold.

I told mum about the dream, and she wasn't sure whether it was a good or bad thing. I think it's a good thing, I said, because it shows how deep inside me dad's presence (and now his absence) still influences me. It shows, in a warming but at the same time sardonic and sad way, that he is still very much my dad. Even if it means that I sometimes wake up crying in the middle of the night, with nothing to hold onto but his blanket....

School politics

It was a holiday reception, a get together, but there were tensions in the room. I'm sensitive to these kind of unspoken languages.

Universities, I guess like all places where people congregate in confined spaces, are breeding grounds for competition, intrigue and excesses of pride and predjudice. I've seen it at my last university, and I see it again here. And it's disappointing, because the last thing I want is to be involved or drawn in in any way.

But I guess it's inevitable. I'm part of the system, or perhaps the system is part of me, and I'm sort of asked to take sides... with them or against them? I want to chart my own course, neutrality, and not have to bother with power play and displays. Yet, suddenly I am told today Ive been drafted into a project aimed to bridge two sides.... when in fact, it seems like it's one side trying to assert domination over the other. I politely smiled, non-committedly, but I knew deep down I am roped in.

I was only there for two hours, but I left the room like I've just spent the whole day exhausting myself, even though I've done little else than just smile and make small talk. There are those who are terribly good at it, those who can smooth-talk anyone with authority and influence. And I'm not one of these people. I'm glad I'm not, and that I keep down until I'm discovered. If ever.

Well, at least the food was good.

Better

Spoke to mum just now, and she said she felt better. She sounded better. A swollen bit... what's that compared to other people who have their cancer spread to other parts of the body? She did sound better, especially having just received another deadly dose of chemo treatment. A few moments in the past few days, I have stopped to wonder how painful it feels.... I imagine that tube stuck to her, and wherever she goes she was reminded that she is a patient, a victim....

It's been a while since I wrote on here, I must admit. I guess partly because I've not been feeling too inspired lately, but instead rather down and troubled for some reason. I guess the whole move to Canada has not been as smoothly as I have planned. Not that all the materials things are lacking or missing... but it's more the emotional. I feel empty inside, like I did not 'take' everything in my life with me here. Which may explain why whenever I come home I feel so lonely, and save for the sound of music on the radio that is constantly playing, there is but an empty silence all around.

And I've been having a lot of thoughts of dear dad.... he seems to be in my dreams a lot, in my thoughts, in my mind... and the shameful and painful thing is that he cannot share this part of my life with me... he cannot enjoy the sights, sounds, the cold and the wonderful discoveries that I'm making here in my new life in Canada. And for that I feel.... 'guilty'.

The other day, at a posh banquet I sat next to a guy who I've known since hte beginning of the year, but never really talked to much. We sat and chatted about studies, politics... and family too. I told him how I've been feeling lost and down, how I lost dad, and well, perhaps am losing mum too.... he comforted me, said if he could, he would give me a hug. But I guess the awkwardness of social conventions and two men hugging is too strange, especially at a posh dinner.

But later on, as I made my way out, and toward home, he came running down the slope. "I forgot to give you something," he said, and he leaned over and gave me a hug. A semi-hug, but a hug nonetheless. And a meaningful, a powerful one at that.

Pictures of Montreal

I was sent an email the other day to take part in a competition at university. The winner will have his picture selection posted on the website for all the world to see!

You can have a preview already. The theme is "An international student's view of Montreal"

Swollen

Just got off the phone with mum. The doctor said that her colon has a swollen bit again, and that she needs to undergo chemo treatment. Tomorrow already.

"Don't worry... I didn't want to tell you... I'm prepared...It's just the therapy feels so awful..."

I fell silent. What could I say? But the silent does not help. I'm not sure what I could say that would help...in any way.

Gay crimes on the rise

Interesting news on crimes against gays back in the Netherlands.

In the past two years I have reported on an increasing intolerance towards gays or those suspected of being gay. Some of these crimes take place even in the pink-districts of cities like the self-proclaimed Gay Capital of the World, Amsterdam. This is not helped by the Christian-right government, which at one point (wrongly!) said it was safe to deport gay Iranian asylum seekers back to their own country.

In the past two days, two reports have "come out" that try to pinipoint the cause of gay-related crimes, but arrive at contrary conlcusions.

The first is a research conducted by the University of Amsterdam (called "If only they will keep off of me, "Als ze maar van me afblijven"), focusing on the city of Amsterdam. Basically, the report concludes that the overwhelming majority of crimes against gays are committed by 'allochtones', or people from an ethnic minority background, and of this minority, the Morrocans are a majority. This more or less confirms what's generally the perception of the average Dutchperson, especailly since its often regurgitated by (rightwing)politicians and the media: that crimes against gays are committed by minorities (in the Netherlands, Moroccans tend to be the scapegoats, for this and everything else that's wrong with the country).

The report concluded that perpetrators are 36% whites, and 64% people of colour (36% Morrocans). Contrary to popular belief that ethnic minorities go gay-bashing because of cultural or religious motivations, the report concluded that more often than not gaybashers feel a conflict/threat to their “masculinity”, and a “good” way to express “manhood” is to beat up a gay. Part of the reason for the increase in crimes towards gays, according to the researchers, is poor education in school about issues such as homosexuality and coming out. Most surprising of all, gays are forced to “adapt” their behaviour and lifestyles in violence against homosexuals because they are afraid of being subject to violence.

Part of this report is worth quoting at length (translation mine):

"

“2001 was the highpoint for homo(sexual)-emancipation: with the opening of marriage for couples of the same sex, [with] an imam who, due to his anti-gay pronouncements, will be referred to the police by almost all politicians, and an openly homosexual politician (Pim Fortuyn) who gained many votes, also among groups with anti-homosexual perspectives. No wonder the generally shared opinion was that homo(sexual) emancipation was complete. Unfortunately, it appeared that legal [equalisation] did not imply social equalisation, and the hetero-normativity did not disappear with the introduction of homosexual marriage.

Many gays and lesbians say that they have the feeling that it is becoming unsafe for them […] All sorts of institutions play a role in the marginalisaiton of homosexuality. To be clear, from politics and the media there are many calls of support for homo(sexual)-emancipation. The condemnation of discrimination of and violence towards gays and lesbians is loud and clear. Those pronouncements sometimes have a highly rhetorical calibre as well. Instiuteions do not always do what they promise. […]

It is clear that there has in recent times much attention for tolerance of homosexuals. […] these are important gestures, but they appear not to reach the perpetrators of anti-homo(sexual) violence. Hetero-norms and gender-dogmas are so deeply ingrained that such initiatives are inadequate to effectively tackle the source of anti-homo(sexual) violence."

The second report was releashed by the Dutch Ministry of Internal and Royal Affairs, and was compiled based on police records of gay-related crimes throughout the country. The government report on violence towards gays in the first half of 2008 (released on 17 November), attributes a shocking 86% of perpetrators are “autochtone” (or native white people), compared to 14% non-whites. A third of violence towards gays is verbal/written (internet), while 28% is physical, and around a quarter is in the form of threats or intimidation. An overwhelming 89% of victims are males, 3% females and 1% transsexuals (the remaining just people who happen to be at the wrong place). Interestingly, most of the perpetrators commit violence acts against gays in groups (46%) and 39% are men working alone. Only in big cities, like Amsterdam, are the gay-related crimes committeed by a higher proportion of ethnic minority groups.

Intruder

A noise. Ruffling, scrapping. Then nothing.

Another noise. This time louder, closer, as if just outside the door. I peeled open my sleepy eyes. 3am, an unearthly hour, on a frigid and dark, dark wintry night. As if this thing, whatever it was, read my thoughts, it stopped moving, and went away. So did the noise.

Barely into my sleep, another shuffle. This time, it sounded like something was scrapping against the wall. Scrapping and scratching. I opened my eyes wide, and lay there listening. Trees danced outside the window, and through the sliver of the window blinds, I could see a shadow dart quickly to one side. Beneath its steps, leaves, rustling, crunching.

Silently I crept out of bed, my heart still, my breathing edgy. I shivered, unsure whether from the cold or from the unknown I was about to face. Carefully, I leaned close to the window and peered out into an unforgiving darkness.

A dark forbodding figure, black from top to toe, with just a wave of white on its back. Thank goodness it had not noticed me yet. I sniffed the air, and it was simply cold and dry. I watched it, its back hunched, as it sneakily tiptoed toward the outer wall of my apartment, and there it started to scratch.

I tapped the window, and leisurely it just hunched its back and walked away, without even turning its head to look at me. Perhaps it was ashamed of having been caught in the act. Bravely, knowing that the window would protect me, I tapped loudly again. But there was no reaction For who knows how long it continued to loiter around as if it were the most normal thing to be doing outisde of someone's bedroom window at 3am.

I went back to bed. The scratching and rustling sounds continued. I actually started to feel sorry for it, freezing outside with no roof over its head, and having to resort to scavenging and stealings from sleeping strangers.

But however cold it may be outside, bringing a smelly skunk home is probably not the smartest thing to do.

Speed date

I've never been speeddating before. Until tonight.

Hesistant, I was, before entering the bar. I felt self conscious, and wondered what I would say to people. It was a nervous moment. Thankfully I had dragged a friend along, so I was at least not alone.

Eight o'clock came, and the bar crowded. All these strangers I did not know, except for a few I've met before from our weekly discussion group. Sat down, and were handed a piece of paper and a number. An empty table, which but the end of the evening, if you're lucky, you should have filled with people you've spoken to, and marked whether you want to date them or just be friends with.

Then the musical chairs game began. Every two minutes or so, you move around the bar, looking for someone interesting to sit down with and strike up a conversation.

I moved around, self-consciously, unsure if I could sit down. In total I met around four or five. They were so vague I don't even remember their names or who they were. Most were not interesting... simply just not my type. Too femme, too much of the stereotypical fashion-craving, shallow types that I just have little to say to. I felt like a geek, and old too, since most were undergrad first years who had just gotten out of the countryside, and were ready to party.

I left early, together with two friends, who found it too hot in the bar. But I suspect they found it as stiffling and stuffy as I did, so were bored, and wanted to leave. It was good, to leave, not alone, but with the same people I had originally come with. Then you know who true friends are.... even after having met these strangers for just a minute or two.

I guess that's why they call it speed dating. But where's the depth?

Creep

He reached over and touched me. A few strokes on my fingers, but it was enough to give me the shivers. I do not like to be touched. Especially by someone who looked like he has not bathed for a long, long time.

I would never think that just sitting there, just quietly reading as I waited for the metro on a Sunday morning would be an invitation to be touched by a complete stranger. It was as if the character in my novel, about ‘deformed’ people with ‘deformed’ lives, ‘deformed’ thoughts and acts, had somehow miraculously taken shape in front of me.

“Change?”

I shook my head, even though I did have some in my pocket. I refuse to give money to anyone who just begs, and does nothing else but beg. “Change? Cigarette?” he asked again, this time revealing his rotten and twisted teeth. His face, unshaven, and hair wild with dirt.

I said no firmly, and that I do not smoke. He looked at me, and grinned. A queer grin, and it was at that moment that his hand first reached out to touch my fingers. I pulled away, and just as he retracted his hand, he leaned over to stroke my cheek too.

Horror. Shock. Speechlessness.

“Please go away”, I eventually managed to say, perhaps too politely given what had just happened. What did just happen? It was too strange to comprehend… was there any meaning in it? The vagrant grinned away, and I returned with a grin too, but the kind of grin that quickly morphed into a look of disgust. A grin that taunted.

He left, and disappeared somewhere along the platform. But I was left sitting on the bench, feeling dirt, soiled, violated. Perhaps I should have done something to the man, like strike back, or push him. But how do you hit a man who is already so broken, who is already lost, delirious?

I smelt my hand, and it reeked of cigarettes. A few seconds of physical contact, and somehow all the foulness of smoke had crept onto my fingers. I longed to wash and scrape my fingers thoroughly with soap.

Creep.

Lost and down

I'm really not sure what it is... for the last month or so I've been feeling so restless, so devoid of motivation. I sit at home, surf the net, fidget with things here and there, and the hours, days, weeks go by. I try to study or do the research work I'm supposed to be doing... but I cannot concentrate. I simply cannot sit down for long enough without being distracted.

And I feel terrible.... terrible because I'm so restless and so lacking in motivation. What happened to me? What's wrong with me now? I have it all... a nice comfortable home of my own, no worries of money, not much worries about family, yet I'm so agitated and so down for some reason.

There is one thing I can point to, but I'm not sure it's the reason.... if it can be one. I often feel so alone here at home... often feel so lonely, being here in this what could be a really warm and romantic home, all alone by myself with noone to talk to, noone to share with.

Could that be the reason behind my agitation, my restlessness, my lack of motivation and just simple lethargy? I feel down.... like I'm not even sure what I am doing here, what I am doing in this study of mine.... like there is nothing I'm working towards...

Really lost, and down...

Club all night long

Blood rushing to my cheeks, mixed with much rose, vodka and orange. I feel hot, and sweat drips down my neck. My feet move to the beat, my hands and hips swing.

It's been a long time since I last went clubbing. I like the dancing, the exercise, the opportunity to do something different on a Friday evening other than stay home and watch videos alone.

I looked around, my eyes dazzled by the globe light, my ears echoing in the vibes. All these bodies around me, moving in rhythm. I moved too, free like I am, swinging and swaying at liberty. My eyes caught people kissing.... I turned around, but curiousity turned my head, and I gawked from the corners of my eyes. The intense kissing, the warm embracing and cuddle... I turned away, blinked the memory out of sight. I tried to catch the rhythm and tried to again move my body to the beat.

But next to me are people kissing away and bodies warmly latched together, in heat, on fire.

State of (in)security

All competing pleasures will be destroyed. But always—do not forget this [...]—always there will be the intoxication of power, constantly increasing and constantly growing subtler [...]
1984, George Orwell

I was born into a world of 1984.
A special year.
And a special read.

It was, and is to some exten world where "Big Brother" constantly watches, where fun and sexuality is suppressed, where suspicion is the new religion, and where the Party controls all thoughts and all movements. There is one truth, and that is a manufactured truth packaged and sold through the media. There is one lie, and that lies in the power of resistance, of individuality, which cannot be tolerated in the utopian society of sham freedoms and suppression.

But people are told, and reminded again and again, through propoganda, through torture, through confinement, or worse, that "Slavery is Freedom", that "War is Peace", that "Ignorance is Strength". In the name of security and unity, we are subject to fear, to distrust one another, and the 'Other', and to place our utmost faith and commitment to the State. Only then can we are one. Only then there is peace. Only then there is freedom. Only then there is strength.

You would think what I just described is a distant world, far away from the comforts of our consumerism and civil liberties we take for granted. Perhaps, you would think the state of 1984 exists in certain 'undesirable' country belonging in the Axis of Evil. But the United States, and many Western countries are getting close to such a State of (in)security. In an age of terror, and the all-out 'War on Terror', nothing seems unjustified. Nothing seems illegal. Basic rights, held so high for so long, defended and affirmed repeatedly in triumphs for individual freedoms, are slowly being eroded. Encroaching our liberties, a goliath of a State, with as its overreaching and overarching security measures, agents and bureaus as its limbs.

And the situation is no more different in Canada. Draconian measures are slowly being put in place, and a secret service that few within and with-out Canada know of is at work. The victims? Foreign-born minorities generally, and Arabs or Muslims more specifically.

The story of Adil Charkaoui is telling, and disturbing. An ordinary Permanent Resident originally from Morrocco, who has been living in Canada with his family since 1995. One day in 2003, he was surrounded by police, and handed a "Security Certificate" signed by the Ministry of Public Safety and Minister of Immigration. On the basis of an investigation by the Canadian Security Intelligence Service (CSIS-- the Canadian secret service), Charkaoui is said to be "a member of the terrorist organization of Osama Bin Laden and that he has engaged, is engaging or will engage in terrorist activities."

Charkaoui was thrown in jail, without charge or trial for almost two years. When the case came to trial the "evidence" against him is so secretive that it cannot be revealed for him to defend against. Charkaoui was later released on bail, but under strict conditions. He is forced to wear a GPS device, cannot leave area of Ile de Montreal, cannot use the internet, cannot leave his home without being accompanied by a family member (who must submit a 'monthly report' on Charkaoui). And the police can search his house without a warrant at any time. In effect, despite being out of prison, Charkaoui is a prisoner at home, at home, his every move and word in everyday life constantly surveilled and watched.

Below is an exchange between Charkaoui and his four year old son:

- Daddy, daddy …
- Yes, little one.
- What are you wearing around your neck?
- Around my neck! Nothing.
- No - there!
- Ah! You mean around my ankle.
- That's the neck of the foot, the ank... ?
- Ankle.
- But you haven't said what it is.

- Well, that, it's a bracelet.
- How long have you worn it?
- Three years.
- Why do you always wear it?
- Because i've got to, it's a present.
- Who gave it to you?
- It was tonton.
- Which tonton?
- Okay…it was uncle Sam…
- Who is uncle Sam?-
- Really, you ask too many questions. It was somebody who gave it to me ...uncle
Sam, uncle Stephen, uncle Security. It doesn't really matter, you don't know him.
- Ok, but why is your bracelet black?
- Because those who gave it to me have white faces but black hearts.
- Why isn't it gold like Mommy's?
- Because the people who gave it to me don't have golden hearts, little one.
- But why are you the only one to wear it in Quebec, Daddy?
- Not for long, you should get used to it. Pretty soon it will become a fashion, like tatoos: everyone will have one. Already in cell phones, in cars, for workers, for daddys, for babies, for dogs ... Uncle Sam doesn't have a heart of gold, but he forgets no one.

For a number of years since his arrest, Charkaoui and his family has been threatened with 'deportation' to Morocco, even despite very high risk of torture or being killed if deported--a fact that the Canadian authorities admit is the case.

The United Nations Human Rights Committee has cautioned the Canadian government about the potential breaches of Canada's international obligations to protect fundamental human rights and the arrest, detention and expulsion of non-citizens and refugees on (so-called) "national security grounds". When Charkaoui challenged the legality of the Security Certificate, the Supreme Court of Canada held that such a document and the entire process of trial and detention without charge or justification was "unconstitutional". Indeed, the highest court in Canada even held the Security Certificate violated key provisions of Canada's much championed Charter of Rights and Freedoms. These include the "right to life, liberty and security of the person" (S. 7), and rights not to be arbitrarily detained or arrested (S.9), and the rights to be informed of the reason of arrest (S. 10).

Despite this court victory, the Conservative government of Canada is seeking to bypass the judgement, and spearheading legislation that is basically a carbon copy of the old law, albeit with even more draconian measures. This so-called new legislation, Bill C-3 in effect:

"...re-introduces this perverse security certificate process virtually untouched beyond the inclusion into the hearings of a "special advocate" who would have access to the so-called evidence but who would still not be allowed to share it with the suspect.

Although the "special advocates" would be able to challenge the intelligence report, they would not be able to cross-examine the source of this intelligence, for instance a detainee in a foreign jail or an agent from another government.

In other words, Bill C-3 sustains a two-tier justice system in Canada – with one set of rights for citizens and another, reduced set of rights for non-citizens. It also, strangely enough, sets up two different standards of proof with the weaker standard applied to what many people believe to be the more serious suspicion of terrorism.

Security certificate cases rely on a much lower standard of proof than do criminal prosecutions. A judge ruling on the case of a non-citizen subject of a security certificate only needs "reasonable grounds to believe" that they represent a risk as opposed to "proof beyond a reasonable doubt" in a criminal case.

Bill C-3 would maintain a process whereby, on intelligence conclusions from CSIS, individuals who are considered a risk to national security are deported to their countries of origin."

In fact, the Canadian bill would simply be introducing a system which has been condemned even in the UK House of Comons and House of Lords' Joint Committee on Human Rights, which wrote that the introduction of a so-called 'special advocate' system to a person detained without charge:

"has absolutely nothing to do with the traditions of adversarial justice as we have come to understand them in the British legal system." Indeed, we were left with the very strong feeling that this is a process which is not just offensive to the basic principles of adversarial justice in which lawyers are steeped, but it is very much against basic notions of fair play as the lay public would understand them."

Both Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch have also identified this as an area of grave concern.

What has been just outlined above is not the case of Mr. Charkaoui. Other Muslims, all accepted refugees living in Canada, are facing similar ordeals and threats of deportation based on shoddy evidence and travesties of justice. Hassan Almrei, Mahmoud Jaballah, Mohammad Mahjoub, Mohamed Harkat, and the famous Guantanamo detainee Abdullah Ahmed Khadr face similar fates of being singled out, detained, harrased, and accused of crimes the evidence of which are so secret it cannot even be produced in court, let alone defended against.

"The worse enemy of secrcy is publicity", a determined Charkaoui said in today's public lecture.
What I have outlined are prime examples of what the worse excesses of racial profiling reveals the institutioalised two-tiered justice a prime Western democracy is underpinned by. Why else would a judge of the Supreme Court of Canada blurt out that "Al Qaeda members are not from Sweden" and that they are "not Buddhists, but Muslims".

But there are other victims too. The democratic society, with our freedoms guaranteed under the rule of law, the very freedoms of thought, movement, and privacy can one day be threatened too. Simply by the arbitrary evidence of hearsay or some obscene evidence extracted from torture, anyone of us could be the target of a smear campaign against your good name and character, whereby the burden is reversed on you to prove yourself innocent, and until then, you are guilty before the State, before the media, and before an increasingly unfair and biased judicial system.

Today it is the Muslims.... but can it not just as easily be labour unions, or students with 'subversive' thoughts and actions? And could it not just as easily be you, or me, or you and me?

[...] Always, at every moment, there will be the thrill of victory, the sensation of trampling on an enemy who is helpless. If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face … for ever.
1984, George Orwell

I see a future, a future with a human face. It need not necessarily be beneath a boot. But for the sake of our liberties, it must speak and shout. Back at the boot, back at power, and show that the human face is anything but an enemy. Most of all, it must speak and shout back, and show that a human face is anything but helpless.

Immense

This is not just a river. But a vast lake, with a shore far, far, far away in the distant. Its waters strong, its current stubborn, as it flows downwards into the city.

Seagulls flew, silent and almost without effort high above reddening maple trees. One in full bloom, another right next it, naked and exposed, its branches surrendering to the indigo sky. The sun set, radiant rays of gold shimmering on the surface of the water. The grass danced in the breeze.

Loonies braved the currents, stood steadfast in the fast whirlpooling river. I cycled on, into the sunset, with every pedal slowly discovering a miniscure bit of this immense land before me.