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Love is a burning thing…


ring of fire

Love is a burning thing
And it makes a fiery ring
Bound by wild desire
I fell into a ring of fire

I fell into a burning ring of fire
I went down, down, down and the flames went higher
And it burns, burns, burns,
the ring of fire
The ring of fire’

Fortune or misfortune ? All I know is I wallow in sadness ever since. As I come by your side no utterance may come out. Love or hate you ? They say there is always a man to save you from another, but as he may he might as well be ready to destroy. Too jaded have I become… like a woman who loves a man she never touches or barely sees, only writes about, or keeps memories of. In your presence I feel insecure and alone.You disappear and fall out of my grasp. It seems like I am drowning in loneliness as long as you’re not mine. Drowning, going down, down down… and it burns just enough to make you pleased.

Now and then people choose to harden their heart against pain.. but isn’t it only fear of love and loss of it ? I’ve grown too obsessed with longing to erase my loneliness, to flush away my apparent grief. It’s madness how people will hurt each other even for the smallest things. And yet… the specter of you followed me everywhere I go, no matter how I fight the thought of you. Fighting one’s feels… worst mistake. Feels are the only possible truth you can hold on to, and what holds truth upon you is the only possible arm to destroy. Mother always thought me to be true to myself, and whenever I did not, only this was enough to instill further self-hatred, eventually pushing, on and on, towards a stifling loneliness…

We’re in one way or another only facets of the same coin; the type of people who dive into the bottom and yet, keep shallow relationships for fear of failure. Not once have I thought you were blatantly a fool, for never trusting women. You are, at best, a puerile and (terribly) discourteous misogynist. And, believe me, if there was an equivalent word against men, I would call myself the same, although I have better aptitude to hide my discontent.
Howbeit, under the thick layers of bitterness and seeming non-compassion, there is the figure of the disheartened man or woman ready to love, but afraid to. The idea of love terrifies us, chokes us, abashes us… not compared to others, but compared to our old selves.. We’re too scared to face ourselves if the same mistakes occur over again… I would rather die than cry once more.

You’re the drunk asshole who at best is sinking into a river of lost tracks. You keep pushing yourself until not knowing who you are anymore. And yet… what I only see is a humorous one probably acting it all out like there was never any remorse, with complete crassness and utter disgust.
Yes… Choking is your presence. Double the struggle when not. Like a twist of fate again was your sight. I wish it never happened. Loneliness is much more convenient than madness over how ugly you act and yet how beautiful you are inside, nothing you know of. I would prefer loving you million times from afar.

You’re leaving again, and these thoughts and feels are going back to the shadows again, as you’re gone.

I wish I could run on the streets without being harassed


Yesterday someone asked me what was my dearest wish for this year. I said I wish I could run alone on the streets of Rabat without being looked upon like a sexual object, without hearing the annoying remarks and advances of men ranging from filthy homeless ones to the apparently good looking allegedly civilized ones. I wish I could run freely at any hour of the day without having to shrink my running time because my heart rate was going up and down because of fear and insecurity. I wish I could run whenever I wanted to, instead of waiting for my parents to come home at 8PM and tell me they’re too tired to keep me company, or wait for the week end to be able to finally run around the forest, where guards are there and still… men don’t miss a chance to put a word in edgewise anyway.

 

Every once in a while, I really wish I was not a girl in a predominantly Arab-muslim country. For too long, we have heard about the sexual harassment causes and the spread of awareness… what men only take from that is that women want to go naked on the streets and still be respected. Yet… what we only want is freedom. Freedom to go to the Grocery store and not feel like a random piece of meat. Freedom to have the grades we deserve or validation of our class at school without having to have sex with a filthy unjust teacher. Freedom to have a decent job without being harassed by the boss for desire of a promotion…

No… I don’t want to go out on the streets and show my breasts. Respect is only moral. Whether you wear a t-shirt or a burka, if a man is vicious he will stay vicious for the rest of his life. If a man chooses to care about his business, ain’t no piece of sexual meat going talk his eyes out of his business. Yet, vested or not, a woman will stay a women… I mean some sort of box emptier for men’s libido and lust.

 

This whole argument was not even about clothes. I am speaking on my behalf only. Not being able to run when I want to, where I want to, ruins my training and ruins my ambitions… it destroys the very wish I have to get better at what I do. It’s a metaphor of life. It destroys every potential, every energy I have to burst out and excel in what I love and cherish the most. Women will never get better at what they do as long as they are obstacles that hurt them in the core of their being, making them uncomfortable even when having to accept what there sex is.

A woman will be a mother one day, of a girl, of a boy… She will never teach them equality and respect unless there is security.

 

My only wish is to run one day… alone, free, and secure.

 

woman-running

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Morocco’s friendly deals with Spain: When a Pedophile is released by Royal Pardon


Massira

Today is a sad day for Moroccans. Today is the killing of hopes of thousands and thousands of Moroccans in a Democratic system solidly based on justice and equity. Today Moroccan’s dignity has been brought down to the lowest levels, perforated with the spiky spines of an unrighteous law and smashed by the power of the divine. Today a man with no mercy on 11 Moroccan children was released and given the joy the latter would never experience again… A vicious man with vicious practices on 11 children that can happen to be mine or yours, your little brother or my little sister, your fellow co-citizen or even the King’s child… the Prince, and ours happens to have around the same age as that of the children who were robbed their dignity and innocence back then.

On the 30th of July, which is the Moroccan Throne Day, the King Mohammed VI released 48 Spaniard prisoners. Among them: Daniel Galvan: A name that cannot be uttered without disgust, acrimony and total hatred. This Spanish man was sentenced to 30 years of prison in 2011, convicted of the rape of 11 children between 2 and 14 years old… The wounds did not even get enough time to heal, though the criminal was already released by order of Royal Pardon. Now we all know it’s a King’s decision, yet everyone still keeps questioning, “how the hell did the name of Daniel end up on this list”. When Juan Carlos –King of Spain- visited Morocco a week ago, he asked the King to release a group of Spaniards. Of course, Juan could not be any more pleased. Out of friendly deals or maybe signs of post-colonial subservience? You choose… or maybe it’s not a random citizen’s choice after all. It’s up to law and justice detainers, they sure know better.

According to a local web based newspaper –Lakome.fr– when we asked the Royal Spanish Palace about the origins of that list, they couldn’t provide any further information given that the Spanish Embassy in Morocco was entitled to come up with the list of grantees. When we asked the Spanish Embassy, the latter referred us to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Madrid. When we asked the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Madrid, they told us that Moroccan authorities were the real ones behind the conception of that list, and that Spain did not give any name suggestion. When you ask Moroccan authorities, everyone remains silent. Maybe Casper the ghost did it… or Moroccan jnouns (ghosts) as it goes in popular culture.

Today when a highly placed Moroccan makes a mistake, silence is their best ally until someone finds out. Because after all, who would ever confess now for such a national mess that threatens national security and trust? Cowardice, ineptitude and incompetency, and most importantly “Corruptability”; it has now become a national sport for Moroccan pseudo-leaders. It’s the amazing ability to corrupt your own people, serve your enemies on behalf of your allies, and ignore your brothers and sisters for the sake of how heavy your pocket would be. You don’t care about the 47% illiteracy your country is suffering from, you don’t care about the homeless people agonizing because of the cold, workers, masons and domestic maids who work day and night to make a living and yet do not benefit from the basic needs as those of education, health or insurance,… and still they’re deteriorated by work and hope in better conditions.

Daniel was paying 50000DHS for indemnities to the families… Rich man, is he? When corrupt men in Moroccan higher hierarchy get money in the pocket in exchange of the favor of putting his name in edgewise, they only fantasize of how many trips they’re going to do with their wives/mistresses and children, how better of a lifestyle they’d have, how many more things, and things and more thing they’d acquire. They don’t see themselves smashing down dreams and Moroccan pride and integrity. They don’t see themselves overthrowing our security for the sake of personal good. They steal our lives and take away what’s most precious we have.

Yet it’s not their only fault. When a list is made for Royal Pardon, you don’t just give it away and nod. When a list is made for Royal Pardon, one should dig in the criminal history of the concerned, one should establish the criteria that would make the prisoner eligible for such a Grace. Moroccans are Forgiving just as the King is, but they are even more Forgiving when One admits a mistake and redeems it.

Now as I wander through my Facebook timeline, I watch a couple of people reassure each other: “As long as he is forbidden to cross our borders, we will be fine”… It’s not about Moroccan children; it’s about children of the world. When you have an insane man living among sane citizens, you don’t care about their color, their race or their religious beliefs, all you care about is how much of human beings they are just like you are. We’re not chasing a Spaniard, we’re chasing an infringement of Humans basic Rights. Jailing a rapist is nothing but as symbolic Right to be compensated for a loss that is irremediable. We’re saving hundreds and thousands of liters of tears poured over our bearings, out of grief, pain and suffering.. We’re telling those fathers and mothers: “Justice has been made. Your country, your government, your juridical system, your friends and surroundings and fellow citizens are all here for you, standing up for the rights of your infants” And to those children we wish to say: “It’ll be alright, you’ve nothing to be afraid of. You’re safe now.”

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