Act Your Anglo-Saxon Shoe Size

Act Your Shoe Size

Chasing the symptoms of eternal youth is a billion pound/dollar/any currency industry and the older we seem to be able to get the more intense this chase seems to become. I am talking about the symptoms of youth like smooth skin and non-sagging bits as no one really seems to seriously quest for the source of true youthfulness. Perhaps because we really don’t know what that is. Just like in modern medicine one tends to treat the symptoms to cure a disease and not necessarily the cause. We want to look young by any means, but acting or even being young is not always considered that desirable. Youth is often linked to immaturity, foolishness and irresponsibility. When you’re a kid, the only thing you want to be is a grown-up as all that responsibility seems a lot more fun. In the English language there is this expression made famous across the world by the legendary Prince to act one’s age, not one’s shoe size. Being from Continental Europe I never understood this back in the days as our shoe sizes (for grown-ups) vary from 34 to 50, but since we’re dealing with Anglo-Saxon language and culture acting one’s shoe size would mean from being a toddler to a moody person in their mid teens. I might not be selling the concept with the toddler-to-moody-teen analogy, but what is actually wrong with child-like behaviour? As grown ups we admire the innocence and straight-forwardness of kids. Images of kids soften our grown-up sharpness and sell a product or cause (ask fabric softener manufacturers or charities). Kids have little idea about adult hang-ups – just give it a few years- and not taking kids from war-torn regions, those slaving away in sweat-shops, or young creatures with other traumas into consideration, being a kid is all about play and being looked after. O yes, and then you also go to school were they aim to teach you to be a useful and respectable citizen when you grow up, but you don’t know that at that time. As grown-ups we often think back on our youth with fondness and nostalgia as the world appeared less complicated and the music was a lot better. While we might feel restricted or even stuck in the web of grown-up responsibility the secret does not lie in modern beauty myths. Forget the acting-your-age adagio, do act your shoe size. What your life as a kid was or was supposed to be about has not fundamentally changed. Life is still about learn and play.

image: Richard Hickman Gallery hicksartgallery.com

Black Chicks Can’t Dance

Moneky See Monkey Do?

 So after months – no years- of telling myself that I really should go to the Papaya Studios in theatrical Covent Garden to do some dancing because a) I love dancing and b) it’s a good way to stay fit and far more entertaining than hitting the gym, I finally went. So a few days ago I decided to go to a particular class. I am not a complete beginner as I have danced for several years, but I am well rusty so I thought a class with level all/general would suit me just fine. I felt a bit nervous beforehand as I was about to do something out of my comfort zone, but I guess that’s what life is all about.  The class was full and being it daytime I don’t know whether it was a case of working actors who all have shows to do in the evening or just actors with no day job as I would’ve thought dancers would choose a different level class (and ‘normal’ people are at work).

The warm up was pretty thorough, but I could definitely keep up. Then it came to the routine. The routine itself was really not that difficult, but I am not sure if it was rustiness, ‘old’ age or too many herbs along the years, but the steps just wouldn’t stick. I mainly had to rely on others to remember them, which back in the days was never the case. So there I was, the only dark fairy in class and the only one who couldn’t keep up. Others might have had very rusty technique, but when it came to the choreography they knew what they were doing. I am not being too hard on myself – or you can just call me stubborn- and I’ll be back next week.

Us black folk are supposed to be natural dancers, but you don’t see many of us at the Papaya Studios. If we are such natural boogie people how come we seldom win Strictly? How come there were exactly two people of colour in the final top 20 of the last series of So You Think You Can Dance of which one was voted off in the very first week? Us black folk are supposed to be fabulous athletes, but when it comes to management and/or playing a senior role in governing sports bodies there are very few of us around.

Monkey see is monkey do so if the monkey ain’t doing it, it makes it harder to copy. I guess black fairies and other creatures have to live their lives according to a different rule; If monkey is not seeing it, monkey should believe in it and just do it anyway.

image: brainbasedbiz.blogspot.com

Eyes On the Price

 

A rite of passage...?

I had a night out with my friend Saskia, who I met in Alex. I stayed in Amsterdam and she decided to visit me there. It’s the start of the academic year and in Holland – I don’t know how it works in the UK- new students do all sorts of activities in freshers week to get to know the city and their fellow and sister students a bit better. Some of those students like to join a student corps and are taking part in a so-called initiation week. This initiation is often covered in secrecy. The activities they have to do seem rather cruel and degrading and the media has covered stories in the past about these initiation rites in which students seriously harm themselves or even die.

While we were strolling through the city we came across some of these rites. It is a cold September evening and freshers dressed in suits are standing on a square facing a pub full of members of the particular fraternity they want to join. In the pub they all seem to have a jolly good time. The freshers are not allowed in. They are allowed – no, they HAVE to- stand outside 20 yards or so away from the pub, staring at the jolliness they so wish the join. They’re not allowed a drink, they just have to stand there for hours, occasionally receiving some abuse from older members. Saskia, who is horribly kind-hearted, felt so sorry for them. On the Nes, the theatre street of Amsterdam- it’s more a alley rather than a street- we came across two girls standing outside a cafe. It was not completely clear to me what they were doing. It seemed they were humming into a mobile phone held to one ear while sticking a finger into the other. Saskia, who is more familiar with student corps and their initiation rites than I am, explained that they have to close their ears and keep humming for hours on end. Apparently it makes you go slightly insane. Again, Saskia felt horribly sorry for those girls. Like those boys in their suits, going thirsty and freezing their freshers’ arses off on the square, I don’t think there is anything to feel sorry about as this torture is all self-inflicted. No one forces them to join. I was also wondering how sick one can be to invent ‘games’ like that. ‘You know what would be fun, let them hum for an evening. It leads to a rather unpleasant sensation in ones head. That’ll teach them!’

I know the drive for most if not all people to belong is very strong. I have never understood why one is willing to endure degrading activities in order to belong. I don’t understand that members who have been degraded themselves last year, the year before that or even longer ago, are more than willing to inflicted the torture they have endured themselves. And I probably sound like an old hag now, but the twenty-something-year old who feels oh-so cool to be degrading the teenager is actually a baby herself. Maybe that’s the point; that you get the magic of it all after you have been initiated. You enter the old-boys-and-girls network and you are sorted for life. Your father used to be member and speaks of it with much love. Maybe all your girlfriends talk about joining and you don’t want to lack behind.

Saskia might feel sorry for those freshers and I might think they are a bit sad but it’s very likely that those freshers find us sad as non-corps members. That bit of torture and degrading is so gonna be worth it. It will open golden gates that probably will be closed to us and other ‘commoners’- or whatever they call muggles in corps world- for ever.

Belonging, exclusivity, individualism, uniqueness, taking risk, playing safe. Whatever leads us to the Golden Gates and beyond or keeps us from insecurity. The choice is ours.

image: bbrussen.nl

How to Kick a Super Power Out of the World Cup

 

As a nervous wreck I had set myself on front row again in my ‘second living room’ in Kafr Abdu. I had done some packing in the morning and was hoping to spectate the match of matches; the quarter final Holland- Brazil. I knew the sentiments back in Lowlands Country were upbeat but I myself wasn’t completely sure if the Boys of Orange were able to beat a throughout the tournament superb playing Brazil. From the very first minute both teams played with an eagerness and determination that was very pleasing to the eye. After 10 minutes a combination of a Dutch defence mistake and Brazilian virtuosity resulted in Robinho scoring a superb goal making it 1 to nil for the Samba Boys. The Boys of Orange played well during the first half with some excellent defending by goalie Stekelenburg and although no more goals were scored Brazil was clearly superior. After half time the Boys came back on the field with renewed spirit and Sneijder scored via the back of a Brazilian defender making it 1 all and we were back in the game. I abandoned my pessimistic view point and started believing that we could actually win this match. In the 68^th minute a corner kick landed on Sneijder’s deliciously gifted forehead and his header made it 2-1. At that moment I, the stadium and probably the whole nation went absolutely mental. There were still a good 20 minutes to go and Brazil was fuelled with fighting spirit and displayed some dangerous actions but after 90 minutes and 3 minutes of additional time the score remained 2-1 and the Boys have shown that they are truly champion’s material. A few hours later I was due to board a taxi to Cairo airport to be leaving on a jet plane to -in my eyes- more civilized lands. The Orange victory has been the best leaving present I could wish for. We are the champions, my friend.

 

Wesley saves the day

 

And So It Continues

And there I was in my ‘second living’ room in the nicest cafe in Kafr Abdu with the best sheesha in town, planted in front of the tellie hoping for some top entertainment and another victory for the Boys of Orange. I got rather disappointed. Yes we won, and Sneijder’s goal was pretty awesome, but I am not sure if we were the best team. In the first half Holland had far more ball possession but Japan made far better use of the ball possession it had. It had a very strong defence and displayed some pretty dangerous attacking spirit as well. Holland didn’t seem to know what it wanted by playing the ball around on own half and not able to find holes in the Japanese defence, never putting the Japanese goalie in any real danger. Frustrating, probably for both teams and for me and probably anyone else who was watching. I guess both teams got a proper beating during the break as the start of the second half looked a lot more exciting and we got what we came for: 1-0 for us lot. This excitement was not maintained and Holland failed to score a second goal despite several chances. Luckily Japan didn’t score either. If I’m allowed to fall back on the Dutch habit of whining I would like to say, we won, elhamdulilah. Well done boys. But if they’re really to come home with that cup and send the whole nation into ecstasy, the Boys REALLY need to step up their game. Two down, five matches to go, insha allah.

image:guardian.co.uk

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sanity is in the Mind of the Beholder

So on Thursday I decided to go out with the girls, Anna and Jameela, who is now living with us. Nothing ‘big’, we went to see a film with friend Bee, who is a native Iskanderany. I hadn’t been to the cinema for f*cking ages and I was rather excited at the prospect of watching a film on the big screen. We missed the first 15 minutes or so which was quite annoying. Apparently they don’t do adverts and trailers in Egyptian cinemas. Or maybe they do but the listed time is the time when the actual film starts, not the ads and trailers. You learn something new every day. We went to see Shutter Island, which in my opinion is a wicked, wicked film. It all made up for the nasty,salty popcorn- I prefer sweet but they didn’t have it and failed to tell me so-  the rather noisy audience, children included, which I found rather worrying since this seemed very much an at least 15+ rated film and it was the 10 o’clock screening. But hey, this is Egypt, get over it fairy face.

Shutter Island is set in 1954 and is about a US Marshall Teddy Daniels played by Leonardo di Caprio, who witnessed the horrors of the holocaust as a soldier. He is investigating the disappearance of an inmate at a mental institution, who apparently has killed her children and is deemed dangerous. He has been wanting to take on this assignment for personal reasons as there seemed to be a lot of unethical things going on at the institution and Teddy Daniels with his clever mind seem to have found a lead to solving the mystery. The photography of the film and the suspense are brilliant and there are several plot twists that keep you on the edge of your seat. For me the film is about what sanity is. I absolutely loved the film and find it one of those works of art that you have to see a second or maybe a third or fourth time. Jameela wasn’t too impressed. She doesn’t like films with a lot of blood and death. I wouldn’t say Shutter Island is a bloody film, but some images, most of them dream sequences, are quite grim, but beautiful in their surreality. For Anna the film was very clear, she liked it but wouldn’t go and see it for a second time. For me the film was not that clear in the sense that I still had quite a lot of questions, which the others couldn’t answer to my satisfaction. I think it would be made clearer when watching it a second time. In the film they mess with Daniels head or he messes with his own depending on your interpretation, but the film was messing with my head too and it makes me think about what (in)sanity is or what it is considered to be. In dictatorships and totalitarian regimes someone who doesn’t agree with the system and tries to fight it might be considered insane and be put away in a camp or mental institution. In our free and democratic eyes this person is not insane at all. Back in the days when you were epileptic they probably considered you insane while now we know there is nothing wrong with your sanity. While physical health seems a lot more straight forward I somewhere find it quite scary that mental health besides physiology very much depends on the assumptions and attitude of the time, place and the system. My slight off-the-wallness, which might be considered entertaining in one place, could be considered a concern or a right out threat in another. This fairy is very much an individualist and believes the uniqueness of the individual should be acknowledged and celebrated. I don’t really believe I’m a threat to the Egyptian system but individuality is most definitely not approved of as any form of subculture seems non-existent.

But I’m digressing. Go see Shutter Island if you haven’t already done so, ’cause it and you are worth it.

Boulevard of Slick Dreams

 It’s that time of year, one of the biggest events in the world of entertainment will take place tonight. I will miss a good night sleep and I know it’s so not gonna be  worth it. It’s the night of the Academy Awards. Back in the days when I went to drama school in Lowlands country me and my mates would organise sleep-ins. We would make are own predictions, which would earn you much respect if you got it right, diss the old farts who are the members of the Academy for their tame, lame and sometimes right out bad choices and criticise or praise acceptance speeches- criticise in most cases as that is much more fun to do. As time passed it became more difficult to catch the ceremony live as the broadcasting rights probably got too expensive and only the channels you have to pay extra for would transmit it, so I haven’t witnessed the spectacle live in years. But this year as I find myself in the periphery of the world I will be up all night checking out those frocks, scrutinising the speeches, see if there are any surprises and if the jokes of the presenters are any good. Long live satellite TV.

Some find me rather silly that I’m willing to stay up all night just for some old-fashioned, predictable Hollywood tripe, which seem to change very little from year to year. The frocks and bling might be expensive but on the whole the fashion tends to be very tame, undaring and often just plane boring. The a-bit-off-mainstream or the right-out-obscure seldom wins or gets nominated in the first place and not a lot of artists who do win can transform the magic of the silver screen into a sophisticated, inspiring speech. Perhaps that is exactly the appeal; its predictability. Massive spectacles like these, which are transmitted across the globe are not made to be daring, innovative, ground-breaking or world-changing. The Academy Awards ceremony is not about art, it’s about a billion-dollar industry kissing its own *ss. Millions of people feed of it and when people’s livelihoods and reputations are at stake there is no room for experiment. Change only when you must. And while I’ll be criticising the predictability and slickness of tonight’s ceremony, which is half the fun, I’ll keep on dreaming that my adapted novel, screenplay or producing efforts will one day win one (or more) of those golden boys. If you can’t beat them, join them. It’s good to dream, you know.

 

Fields of Joy

A seed has been planted in me and it is growing into a beautiful tree. Not a normal tree, a Tree of Dreams. A Tree, that sings, dances, blossoms when it fancies, cracks jokes and pretends it’s a normal tree when it feels like it. A money Tree that provides shade and comfort for whomever needs it and has good intentions. A Tree that changes scenery whenever it gets bored of the view or is threaten by urban development. A Tree that’s not unknown to pain or hardship but that uses it to grow stronger and wiser. I got inspired. There is really no need to make concessions to your Purpose if you don’t want to. If you really, really don’t want to. Let no one fool you. If it is what you came here to do, how can it be denied? You can do what you dream of doing. I’m not without fear becoming that Tree of Dreams. But I have faith, I have myself and the Divine Forces.

I wish you faith and inspiration,

Inspired Dark Fairy on a Mission

No News from the Southern Front

A few days ago I realized that since my arrival in Alex I have only been to the cinema once  and the occasion was a friend’s birthday. I used to live in very close vicinity of the best cinema in South London, which made it very easy to catch a film on a regular basis. Now I don’t even know what’s on or what films have been on general release in the last five months. Despite the internet and having access to satellite TV including channels like BBC World, Al Jazeera and Rusiya el-yawm (Russian news channel in Arabic) I very much feel I am in the periphery of the world. According to these international news channels nothing happens in this part of the globe. When it comes to the weather we only find out what the temperature is in Cairo ’cause no one lives in the rest of the country or in North Africa in general and the ‘few’ people who do live there..well, sod them. No one brings out a new book or album. The ‘latest’ fashion they sell here in H&M for more than you would pay at home is Europe’s last season’s collection. Funky art house films are not being released in this corner of the globe and even if they were I wouldn’t know about it. They show the blockbusters in a censured version (if ‘necessary’) and I don’t want to enjoy/ suffer censored art and entertainment on principle. The newspaper I occasionally buy for my media classes mainly informs us on what Mubarak (president of Egypt since an eternity) had for breakfast.

When you live in Europe the media can give you the idea that all the news and all the action happen in the capital (cities). Capital cities are exactly that for a reason but having lived in the provinces I can tell you it’s not too difficult to get a piece of the action wherever you live. Living in the Global South is a entirely different matter, though. The Middle East or North Africa as a region might be culturally and politically very interesting but if you’re residing outside the capital cities- or let say, outside Cairo and maybe Jerusalem- according to the international media your location is not worth a news story. There is always something going on anywhere in the world but what the big corporations consider a good story is what will reach our television screens. If you’re outside the range of vision of the world’s eye, it feels like you’re not really there. You don’t see you current location on television or read anything about it in the papers, therefore it doesn’t exist. Alex, Egypt and other countries in the Global South are mainly leftovers of an imperialistic experience. You can find them on a map,but they don’t exist, not really. Alex is not my home, it’s my current place of residence and I feel for the people who do call it their home. It must be hard work trying to live everyday life in a country with great income inequality , an inefficient infrastructure, a government who won’t allow a democratic system in the name of security and on top of that your struggles are not known to the world because mainstream media doesn’t consider them to be of any interest to their audiences. It doesn’t sell papers. It’s very likely you’re not bothered. You’re probably too preoccupied with surviving and making it to the next day. I knew we were living in an eurocentric world but there is a difference between knowing and experiencing. No one said life was fair.

First row in el-Azhar; let religion be religion

Last weekend Anna, Raisa, Mubarak and I went to Cairo. I wanted a weekend of culture, party, nice  food and shopping all in the name of my ’16^th’ birthday and Anna and Mubarak were happy to join me. Raisa never says no whenever there is fun to be had but her main reason for joining us to Cairo was to catch a plane to Damascus the next day where she wants to do her internship. While Raisa left us after breakfast on Friday to go to the airport, Anna and I and our flaky friend Michau went to Cairo Tower to enjoy a nice view over the city for way too much money. Since it was Friday Mubarak went to the mosque for Jum’a (Friday prayer). After performing his religious obligation we met him at el-Azhar mosque, which is quite an institution in the world of islamic faith and culture. Mubarak, who is a highly excitable Pakistani Jordie with matching accent, was behaving like he had seen his biggest idol in the flesh. Since Anna hadn’t seen el-Azhar mosque yet, which is a beautiful building and an oasis of calm in the otherwise chaotic world of Islamic Cairo, we went in which very much pleased Mubarak . Having Jum’a in El-Azhar is a big thing and he proudly told us to all our endearment that he had been praying in fourth row (from the imam). One of the things I like about Mubarak is that I can ask him as a pious muslim anything about religion. He knows who he is and what his faith means to him and is (therefor) comfortable being with people who might have different believes, so he has female friends and doesn’t mind anyone drinking alcohol in his vicinity as long as he doesn’t have to touch it. There are muslim ‘brothers’ who are giving him grieve because of this. They tell him he is not a good muslim and that he should not befriend women or people who drink. He and our friend Jameela are the most pious and at the same time most open-minded, kind and compassionate people I know. Is that not what religion is about? When and how does faith, which in my opinion should be a personal matter between the person and God, become a controlling and scary matter, an issue to fear? An awful lot of people have a vision of islam as a suppressing faith in which people kill each other by blowing themselves up, were a(n) (perceived) attack on the teachings results in riots and death threats. A believe, in which women have no rights, are not worthy of any respect and are forced to dress in a large, shapeless, all covering piece of cloth. Does it go wrong when faith becomes political? When it’s seen as a mean to cure most-if not all ills? I do believe that (almost) everything  in life is political. From how you deal with your, parents, your partner, your house mates to your interaction with your co-workers, your boss, your friends or the guy or gail at your corner shop and how all these people relate to others. That game is called politics. Politics might be very present in the world of religion, but I believe their should be no room for religion in the world of politics.  I’m not sure about my exact argument against this issue. Perhaps I believe politics should be based on reason and not on spiritual beliefs. Values like compassion and doing good to others form the basis of most if not all religious beliefs but they are human values first and foremost. Besides that I find religion and spirituality a completely private matter. I am probably against religion entering politics because there are too many examples of how horribly wrong that can go (Iran, Afghanistan, (Bush in) Iraq, the ‘Troubles’ in Northern Ireland. Perhaps we humans should protect ourselves against ourselves and just keep religion out of the political arena. Pray on your own first row and mind your own business.