Till The Camel Reaches the Sea

The scene is not strange to my eyes anymore. The scene kept repeating since years. Still there is that particular strange day that puzzled me. He keeps promising that we will reach the sea. I am still hoping to see the sea, although I realized from the very first day that he took me from the oasis that we are walking in circles. He takes his watch for a compass. Anyway, what can we expect more, from a man, with a big hole in his marine hat through which a boucle of tortuous hair dances to this desert wind funnily. I was just weaned from my mother when he chose me to accompany his journey. He calls me a "ship". I am still waiting to see the sea he promised me so that I can see other kind of "ships" as he said to me once. He told me many things during those passed years. He told me once about somebody named "Freud", and kept talking about an "Iceberg" and an "Unconscious". An "Id". Well, in English they call us, Camels and all other animals, by "It". And I can assure you to a degree that we, Camels at least, have nothing but an "Id", and we have nothing called "memory" cause, all what is in our brain is, memory. Future doesn't worry us much, cause we got no "Great Expectations". In our memory, nothing erased, nothing forgotten, we live as we dream, we dream our life. So the scene that kept repeating every night, that scene that the owl told me later it is called "The Captain's Memory", is not strange to me at all but, but that don't means that I understand it. Repetition doesn't merit understanding.

Why should his memory be so strange? And why that particular night he woke up shouting at the owl with those meaningless words? Well, here is the story to you, and to me too, hoping in the future we can decode those symbols of this vast desert, until we reach sea.

The scene begins every night, when the captain decides that we sleep, to complete our journey the coming day. Just as he take off his pierced naval hat, the anchor that is embroidered in the front of the hat, starts to separate, getting bigger and bigger floating in the air, and "DOOM!", it falls deep into the sand. The captain starts at that particular moment to snore very strangely and funnily. An owl wakes up from his head and fly to a nearby hill. Then an anvil, a hammer, and plenty of nails appear. The nails, one by one, stand on the anvil, the hammer falls on them. Crooked, the unfortunate nails fall on the ground. A tortoise then appears from his head always yawning and complaining from the useless clamor of the "iron tools" as she seems to call the anvil, hammer, and nails. I don't know if she includes the anchor in her term. She never speaks to me. The tortoise always walks slowly to a deep green lettuce head that I always miss finding it before the tortoise head to it. It seems that the lettuce head appears as the tortoise head to it and starts biting it slowly and chewing. I like the calming sound which almost declares the end of the scene. The end of the scene for me, at least, cause I usually fall asleep on that calming sound of the tortoise eating the lettuce head.

But the problem was that particular day when I woke up at the captain's sound yelling at the owl in the middle of the night: "Fly and catch those Rats!! Fly and get me rid of those Rats!!" It was the middle of the night and it wasn't the time for the owl to go back into the captain's head so she started to fly anxiously not knowing which way she must go. I failed to see any rats nearby. The hammer stopped in the middle of its work opening his mouth astonishingly. The tortoise turned her face from the lettuce head and was gazing the captain calmly but still chewing slowly. The captain yelled at them all: "Why you are playing Seek-And-Hide with me? Why?"

To my surprise he fell asleep again. When the morning was about to come, they all, except the crooked nails, went again into his head. He woke up. And we started our journey again. The crooked nails always stay surrounding us in the morning but the captain never cares. It is me, after all, who got to step on them, with the captain above my hump.

The scene repeats itself, without the captain's midnight turmoil and yelling. But I am little more confused that I used to be in my oasis where I was born. I started to have a future to care about, a great expectation to see the sea. I started to think about that "Freud" the captain told me once about. I started to think about what happens when I fall asleep. What can get out from my camel head? Do I have an ID? A Camel's ID? Do my memory plays Seek-And-Hide with me and erase my dreams?

Hoping to find some answers, meanwhile, I'm still hoping that we reach the sea, someday.

Cabaretian Politics

It was very long ago since I followed a T.V. series. Ramadan is usually known for its special quality of series in Arabic channels. They try to show their best. This Ramadan I followed 4 series. Three of them are Iraqi, and one of them is about the Palestinian poet Mahmood Derwish.
I will chose today one of the Iraqi series to write about, and this series is "Baghdad Beauty" which is about the life of Affifa Iskandar, one of the first Iraqi singers which started to gain her fame in the 50s of the last century. The series is exclusively shown in Al Sharqia Iraqi satellite channel. I liked you to see with me those pictures hoping to transfer to you some of the spirit of the series.

The real Afifa Iskander

Afifa Iskander in the series

She sang in the same cabaret in which her father, Iskancer, plays the violin. Known personalities attend to the cabaret to listen to her. Among them, Naseem, the British, who represent what the UK wants from Iraq, Bakir Sidqi, an Iraqi Army leader, and lately a Nazi German, who offers his country as a new ally to Iraq.

The real Baki Sidqi

The real Bakir Sidqi, see his moustache


Bakir Sidqi in the series




Bakir Sidqi's car in front of the cabaret

Bakir Sidki started to love Affifa. Naseem wanted from Affifa to reveal to him what Bakir says, especially about the Iraqi Army, and what they are planning.

Naseem, in the series, reading the famous journal, Al Bilad

Naseem asking Afifa to reveal secrets

Afifa and Bakir

Affifa reveals to Bakir Naseem's intentions

The Nazis in Baghdad

King Faisal died in today's episode.

After hearing the news of King Faisal the first's death


After hearing about the king's death

Haddad, one of Affifa's neighbours, working as a journalist is also in love with Affifa.

Haddad

Haddad wrote an article that put him in jail.

Haddad's mother, to the right, complaining to Affifa's family about her son not coming home as usual

Knowing the Hadad is imprisoned, Mariam (Affifa's mother) is empathizing with his family at their home in a visit at night

Haddad's father, Ya'aqoub (Jacob) visiting his son in prison

Affifa asked Bakir to intervene and free him, and he did in few hours.

Haddad in his working place

Haddad, after knowing what happened, being jealous from Affifa's relation to Bakir went into rage.

Haddad. Behind him is a picture of king Faisal the first

I don't know if really this series is made well or I am just seeing it wonderful because I am longing to Iraq.

Sorry about not including the actors names cause I really don't know them but will do soon.

Louiza

Louiza, I don't understand your language but I like you so much Louiza. God knows how much I dreamt about you. About being your friend. About spending happy time next to you. Next to you there above that violet mountain next to the sea. To receive the unstopped winter rain, to smell the spring blossom, to swim in your summer sea, and singing a song about time in Autumn Louiza. Louiza

Diary of a Worried Mind

Nature around you flourishs,
People go to the sea,
You go to your bed,
And navigate to sleep.

You nourish your worries with smoke,
You drink coffee,
You like the smell of Camembert cheese,
You go for a walk,
Got pain in knees,
Enter into a cafe,
Ordered tea,
Lit a cigarette,
To encircle your worries,
You meet your nephew:
"I want to go to the sea!"
He said okay,
He knew how sad you are,
He promised to take an off from work,
And go with you to the sea.





You swallow your dinner,
It started raining outside,
You let your clothes spread out on the rope,
You turn off the light,
Sat on the ground,
You drink apple juice,
Do your smoke ritual,
Play with your growing beard,
Thinking about returning to Iraq,
You run out of sleep,
Surrounded by smoke,
Nothing to do but to take steps ahead,
Even if it's gloomy and painful,
Life is offering you this after all,
You got to adjust your needs,
You got to keep the ember red,
Till it finally sleeps.

Un Amor

Un amor
Un amor vivi
llorando
Y mi decía
Las palabras de Dios
Llorando por ti
Es con amor

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A71p0RMRP3Y

A card of identity is produced as fast as possible to the newborn. In Iraq, they used to write our beliefs in our cards too. Some, got their real identity stable as the stability of the card information. Some, wanders around.
Esmeralda had no card of identity. Her identity is her multicolored skirt, which waves to the wind. And every time I reach in my wandering in front of her, next to Notre Dame de Paris, she repeats her question to me: who are really you?
Puzzled and enchanted I usually don't find an answer. All I can read in my identity is one love. Un amor.

Un amor vivi
Llorando ya tormentado
Las palabras de Dios
Llorando por ti
Es con amor


Dehbia is her name, and she is Christian. And a Berber. Orphan. Very poor. Spending her life between two small villages, with Amazigh names that are difficult to remember. Difficult to remember, difficult to reach, but cannot be imagined but to be between mountains, and having no road paved to. Dehbia, is so white, pale white. And she wears the same dark colored clothes. And is serious. So, is there anyone but Amer, the atheist, the communist, who has just come from France, to fall in love with?
And to add the last flavor, Amer is like the majority, muslim, a religion that was not chosen, but inherited.

Yo quisiera
Para entenderlo, un amor y saber
Que me quería ya tormentado
Las palabras de Dios
Llorando por ti
Es con amor

It is the 68th page, from this 204 pages novel and still, we are no more advanced in information from the first page, the day Amer was killed. The 68 pages, so far, is a retrograde remembering. It is Dehbia's flow of thoughts while she is lying silently in the darkness alone. Her mother, Nana Malha, is frightened from what may happen next. Yes, her mother, Nana Malha. There is only her mother Nana Malha, from whom Dehbia, must have, taken her sense of pride. A pride, of the poor, and of the minority.

Hay para ya vivir acunto a ti

Me enamoré allá de ti

Ya sin tus besos yo no puedo

Vivir y recordar

Mouloud Feraoun's novel, "Les chemins qui montent" is a novel about love, and identity. Not only the identity of individuals, but also, of mountains.
Like Amer, Mouloud Feraoun, the novelist, was killed. Yet, the novel is still unfinished.
My Esmeralda, would you accept me as a Quasimodo? As the one who saves you from the priest?

Waiting for my Esmeralda to reply, many crossroads has been crossed and still, the love, is Un Amor.

Ay-lo-lai-lo-lai-lo-lai...

http://lyricstranslate.com/en/Un-amor-Un-amor.html

Why Does the Sea Laugh?

They say translation is treason. A betrayal. And this is special when the case is a poem. But let us leave the word-for-word translation to dictionaries and sit together little bewildered in front of symbols. Symbols sometimes reach the shore of abstract. The words are symbols, for they are concrete, and in whatever combination they are, they would be still, codes, or in another word, symbols. But music is abstract. Words and music meet in a song.

(A male pronoun talking:)

Between me and you wall after wall

And I am neither a giant nor a bird

In my hands there is a Nay*

And this flute is broken

And I became a proverb of love

(The two lines Refrain is in a female prnoun – i.e. a female is talking:)

And why the sea is laughing while,

While I am going down unveiling flirtatiously filling the jars **

I came to Algeria with two Ph.D.s of psychiatry and an M.B.Ch.B. of medicine and surgery and that was 8 months ago and still, they don't answer me if my diplomas are equivalent. They are studying my case, they say, and "it is a difficult case" they add. Meanwhile, I cannot practice. I have worked as a seller in a pharmacy for two months and few days, and then worked with a relative as a repairer of different kinds of motors for another two months and few days. I have self-studied French, and read few Algerian history books and novels. Still the sea is laughing and I don't know why.

The sea is angry and is not laughing

For the story is not for laughing

The sea wound never withers

And our wound had never ever withered

And why the sea is laughing

While I am going down revealing my body childishly filling the jars

Wounds, the lyrics is talking about. Wounds, from them I got many. Ignorance, in me, and in my surroundings, keeps some wounds open. And in the sea, wounds hurt more, because they are sensitive to the salt in the sea. The sea might clean them, or heal them; I am still ignorant of these possibilities. After all it is life, a long lesson, and some lessons are not an enjoyment you know. I promise you that I will give myself a vacation as soon as I can and go out of the narrow classroom to promenade in beautiful Algeria. I will take pictures and share it with you. But for God's sake why the sea is laughing?

Our jars' pottery is GNAWI ***

Saying stories and songs

Oh jar of lowness I am intending

To not drink even if the water contains honey

And why the sea is laughing

While I am going down revealing flirtatiously filling the jars

* (A kind of flute made from reed).

** (This line of the Refrain is translated in a new way each time it is repeated hoping to convey the meaning better).

*** ( I have failed to find the meaning of the word GNAWI as an adjective to a type of jars but it can be used as an adjective to a type of music special to the Amazigh tribes in north African desert).

The song is originally of Sayyed Derwish. Here performed by Mohammed Munir.

The Poor Man's Son

"The Poor Man's Son", the title of the novel, has two declarations, a declaration of sonship, and a declaration of poverty. The protagonist is born the same year the writer has been born, and in the same village, in 1912 in Tizi-Hibel high in there in the mountains. Both of them became, a teacher.

The declaration of sonship in the title makes us understand simply that the writer is in psychological peace with his father. His father the farmer there up in the mountains between the fig and olive trees.

From the first page he tells is in realism: "what is present in the areas of the Kabylie is almost present in everywhere", abandoning making his novel a myth, blowing it with heroism, drawing a magical halo around the mountain tip up there where the village is. Here is another two lines:

"We, the Kabylies, understand those who praise our area and like to hide its insipidity under the description of the praise yet we realize exactly the vile impression which our poor villages leave even on the sympathetic visitor." Page2

"But I admit that my aunt, Khalti, taught me who to dream and who to love to build a suitable world for me, a fabulous world that nobody but me can have access to." Page 70

Talantikit Edtions of the novel in the original text (French) and its translation to Arabic by Sid Ahmed Trabulsi

One of his aunts, Nana, dies while she was trying to give birth to her first child. Her baby dies with her. She drags her baby with her to the cemetery in melancholy and mourning. His other aunt, the one who taught him dreaming, started to have a mental illness. A kind of psychosis. They were obliged to tie her in a room. She runs away. Force her back. Laughs and sings. Her eyes are lost in the no-place and the no-time when she is quite. Runs away again, but this time they don't ding her. They started to search the cadavers which go down from the tip of the mountain in the small stream, but no trace. They put an end to their search by the belief that she is dead and they practice lesser sadness.

"Childhood memories lack fineness and binding: we hold few valid images that the heart can always gather, one after the other when he remembers them,…."

The protagonist, Fouroulou Minrad, finished the primary school with success. There was no secondary school in the village nor near it. He won a grant to study in Tizi-Ouzou, exactly how is the case with the writer, Mouloud Feraoun. Still he was facing the problem of lodgment. Azir came to him, another poor student, and offer the solution: to live with him the coming four years in the Protestants missionary that lies in front of their school. This missionary was accepting the students who were coming from the mountains and provide them with electrified room, with a bed, a chair, and a table, and coffee and bread in the morning, and all for free. The students were gathered in the evening to be told about religion. They were "Les Peres Blanc". They didn't oblige the students to do anything special. Fouroulou and Azir were going to the meetings regularly, read a verse from the Torah like everybody, sing a recitation with diligence, hear the explanations, then go back to their room to resume their work without hesitation. The writer tells us that his protagonist had an inferiority complex at the beginning form other students in the missionary and in the school, and from the teachers too, but after relatively a short time he: "gave up his inferiority complex". Nobody saw them asking for explanations, about his point or that, regarding religion, nor they did ask the monk to say a prayer or an invocation for their sake. They slipped away.

What? I spoiled the chance of you enjoying reading the novel? But is that possible! Did I tell you about the rituals of harvesting and gathering figs and olives? Did I tell you about the secrets of making dishes and jars from mud? The traditions of marriage? The traditional therapies? The décor of the interior of their houses? The wool weaving? Or traditional childhood plays?

In this novel there are, if you may, exploits and tunes, the exploits and fig and olive, the melodies of mud and wool, and fissured hands from the excess of manual working, hands which time had didn't pass on without leaving a trace, hands closer to the nature, to the fig and olive there up in the mountain, hands nearer to the mud and wool.

Oh Mouloud Feraoun, how beautiful is your reciting, for it seems that your aunt who taught you how to dream then she was swallowed by her own dreams depth, had and will stay reciting an original Kabyle Amazigh melody, as old as the mountain, up there in the highs.

El Watan, my Friend

MORE FRIGHTENED THAN CATS, OUTSIDE MY PLANT

Four years of living alone in Iraq, three years and three months in Baghdad, and eight months in Mosul, had left its effect in me that’s for sure. Reached Algeria in last august I was, and still to a degree, highly cautious, and a little bit paranoid. I noticed that cats are not afraid in Algeria in big big contrast to the case in Iraq where cats run away terrified from any human being figure. Here, they march relaxed, and even be friendly to you. I was more fearful from cats God damn it. Feeling so alone and helpless walking in a street "Le Petit Prince" cartoon of Le Hic, in El-Watan journal caught my attention. I bought that issue of El-Watan and managed to read it with the help of the aid of a pocket French-Arabic dictionary. "Dessine-moi un couteau" would be translated to "draw me a knife". A sheep in the planet with the prince, and this cartoon appeared in the first day of Aid El Adha. I wondered if solving the symbol is this easy to the other readers cause I didn't understand the whole symbol. In book stores I usually find few books but "Le Petit Prince" is commonly there in many editions and publications. I read the novel and understood the cartoon.

The music is of the Algerian musician Mohamed Rouane, the piece is entitled "Sebrinel" from the Album "Reve". All the picture are for El-Watan papers (except the one about the paramedical intersyndicates which was from Algerie-News, anther good newspaper, Emir Abd El-Kader from Liberte, a good journal also, while Kateb Yacine's and Setif picture taken from various sites form the net, and of course the two pictures of the cover of my copybook, one in the beginning, the third picture in the film, and the last picture in the film at the end.

I kept buying El-Watan to find in one issue that Saint-Exupery had written part of his masterpiece in Alger. I took El-Watan more seriously and bought a big copybook and started my El-Watan encyclopedia.

Lessons of Algerian history, art, and literature were given to me most elegantly and cleverly. El-Watan is a journal that respect its reader.
Wikileaks started, Le Hic clever cartoons was an amusement. It shocked me how franc the cartoons were, how clever.

POLITICS AND A PSYCHIATRIST

One day I knew about an Algerian psychiatrist named Said Sadi who lead a party that is not so popular, and that it called for a peaceful march every Saturday in Algeria calling for some changes. The psychiatrist mounted over the roof of a police car. Le Hic came again with that clever cartoon in which Said Sadi is saying: "No person can reach above my ankle".
Rachid Boudjedra, whose writing I adore, adviced against the demonstrations and explained why in a long clear article. A cartoonist named Saad came with a cartoon against the governmental inhibition of the march in Alger the capital in which the protester is jumping holding the tablet in which he wrote: "je ne marche pas, je saute" (="I do not march, I jump").
Le Hic is always a master in cartooning so, just see his cartoon. Students made some kind of association, paramedical workers united in one syndicate, still, El-Watan, the realistic and the respecting to its readers, made a file on Setif Hospital, but it was gloomy.

ISSIAKHEM, PLANTS, AND PHOENIX

Lessons of history and art continued. Issiakhem, the painter, and his loss of one of his arms in childhood, and his ambiguous relation to his mother came in a wonderful rich deep dossier.
Pierre Rabhi, a specialist in botany, talks in a book about the disadvantages of "Propaganda" in its invention for the human kind new needs that we don't really need, and about our neglection to plants. He tour around the world and talk about his ideas. Such a nice subject to read.
Phoenicians, and their relation to Algeria, and their how they found that sand, under the fire, is crystallizing over time, and hence discovered glass.

MORE HISTORY

Freres Lumiere and the first cinema show in Alger and Oran in 1896.
El-Watan articles, were getting more easy and wonderful to read as my French language was getting better and better, Alger history, Sahara, Skikda and the bowing tress, Tipaza and its roman heritage.

Beauty over beauty I discovered more and more with another cartoonist named Zino and the cartoon about Chibanis (old north African men) and their life between France and Algeria, one Chibani says to the other: "if I stay in France my retirement salary will not be enough to buy my cigarettes, if I stay in Algeria more than a month they cut my retirement here", what a dilemma.
Notre Dame D'Afrique history in Alger, then another day a dossier on authorized brothels in Algeria and their history, with the history of a famous prostitute.

Farhat Abbas and why he was against the timing of the Algerian revolution and its methods, but finally he aided in it.

And of course, Emir Abd El-Kader.

Seven months already in Algeria, jobless and friendless but, El-Watan has found its place in my heart, and the copybook will be always open to receive these Algerian treasures.

Lautrec, as a Hunter

"I knew that you would not miss the pleasure of hunting"
Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec (1864-1901)

Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec parents were divorced in his childhood. He lived with his mother. He got an inborn disease that made his bones fragile causing him bilateral femoral fracture when he was around the age of ten, a thing that hindered his growth. His father loved hunting. While Lautrec was 37, his already devastated body by alcoholism was reaching an advanced degree of syphilis, and in his bed, a night before he died, he wrote this simple line to his father:
"I knew that you would not miss the pleasure of hunting".


I am not in position to talk about Lautrec's Oedipal wounds, but, at least, about hunting. A hunter needs a trained horse and a trained dog. Tamed horse and dog. Systematically trained to follow the orders to aid in the hunting of free birds and gazelles, among other "beasts". The hunters stop for sometimes motionless to focus on the target and then shot their bullets into the birds' and gazelles' bodies declaring their death with the proud of human superiority over animals. A human that knows how to draw strait lines to tam animals, and knows how to shot accurately to kill "beasts".
There is another kind of animal hunter, the photographer who also search for animals, and in their presence, like a hunter, he keeps quite, sometimes breathless, he slowly draw his camera and took his shot. He let the animals to behave freely and learn the lessons of instinct. He can show us those lessons on National Geographic.
There are other types of hunters. The poet who hunts for words, and the painter who hunts colors and shadows.

Lautrec wasn't lucky enough to have a colored camera, and his bones didn't help him to go to the jungle, although he did paint few paintings about horses and hunters, instead, he headed for another jungle, the city night life in cabarets, bars, and brothels. He took his colors and draws for history and time what lies behind the scene, in the coulisses, where the dancer is changing clothes, the clown is without makeup, and the whore is tiredly lying speechlessly.
Lautrec, you who's body was hunted by bone fragility, syphilis, and alcohol addiction, had hunted for us those moments at the end of the 19th century, so thanks a lot for letting us share you those moments.

My Father's Colors

Life is a path. It has a beginning and an ending. Actually they are a moment of beginning and a moment of ending. A starting point and an ending point. A womb, then a tomb. Two black wells. Between any two points there can be a straight line or a tortuous one. A narrow passage or a wide one, a wide one that is open to the sky, to the different skies.




















Some, sees this path as a racetrack; others, sees it as an exam. Some sees it as a pleasure; others see it as a suffering and question why they were put in this path, why they were born? And for what reason life had been given to them, and then, someday, will be taken?

{O thou man! Verily thou art ever toiling on towards thy Lord – painfully toiling – but thou shalt meet Him}
The Holy Quran, The Chapter of: "The Rending Asunder" (Al-Inshiqaq), the 6th verse.

A path with a starting point and an ending one. A white dot, then a black one. Sufis think that the right path goes in circles. They wear white inner dress symbolizing a shroud, a black jacket symbolizing the tomb, they put their hand on their heart where God they believe is residing, and they goes dancing in circles on the tone of their spiritual music.

{I saw my Lord with the eye of the heart and said: "Who are you?" He answered: "Yourself."}
Mansur Al-Hallaj

Between my white dot, and my black one, my path was going in gray most of the time lately. Late on that day I chose to go upstairs when suddenly I saw some colors up there. It was one of my father's paintings. It was a trial to copy the original painting by Serwan Baran Aarif. When I asked my father someday why he paints he said: "just for the pleasure of doing so, and to discover new kinds of beauty".

My father's painting

The original painting by Serwan Baran Aarif

The shoemaker in the painting gave me an advice: "I made shoes for your naked feet but, do not ever forget to walk barefoot from time to time." He didn't add an explanation, for his words will find their explanation with every new path feet may step on.

{Straight ahead of him, nobody can go very far…}
The Little Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Two wells. Two holes in time. A womb then a tomb. A laugh then a tear. A reunion then a farewell. A white and a black and we got to add the colors. Thank you my dad for adding those colors to our life, in our long and uneasy journey.

To Freedom with Brooms

Books unfinished, plants unwatered, clothes unwashed, the house was left for a hopeful return. Friends weren't goodbyed for the plane ticket was two-way.

Half a year already passed and no plant had been watered yet, nor book being touched.

Not long after the departure, alcohol sellers were attacked in the same land that fermented barley into beer for the first time in history, Babylon festival which deals with folklore was cancelled because it contain music, songs, and dances, things that are "not accepted by people of Babylon" they have said, then Baghdad's Fine Art Institute threatened to lose its statues, and its music department to be cancelled.

Tunisia came to the news scene suddenly then Egypt took the lead.



A new Iraqi facebook group that deals with the deteriorating Baghdad services in a very funny way had started before a day or two, they concentrate the jokes and comments around Sabir Al Eesawi, the governor of Baghdad since long. The group is in Arabic and its title might be translated to: "The Nexus of Saber Al-Eesawi Lovers…. from one side".
After a good deal of laughing on the jokes and comments the following words came to the notice:

"Members of Iraqi youth will hurl tomorrow morning, the Friday, at 10 a.m., in groups, from Al Mutanabbee street toward Al Tahrir (Freedom) square. They will be carrying brooms and plastic bags to clean the centre of Baghdad".


How much I wish that I got a witch broom to fly tonight to Al Mutanabbee street.

The song is "We Weren't Born To Follow" by Bon Jovi