Thursday, October 29, 2009

"ANOTHER BIRTH" 24 GIRLS IN A CLASS OF 25 HAVE DROPPED OUT OF SCHOOL-ALL OF THEM PREGNANT.

Last week there was a very sad story on Kenya's leading newspaper the Daily Nation about the high rate of early pregnancies. This came at the time when there has been a debate about contraceptives and the HIV prevalence rate going up. The story on the Daily Nation was about this school that twenty four girls out of twenty five have dropped out of school because they are pregnant. This are girls well under 16 years and infact most of them are just 10 years or slightly above. This has made me think about Birth especially the young mothers most of them barely 15 years old yet expectant.

Could this be the new tread in the rest of the world? I have just one more question, how shall tomorrows birth look like?

Below is the Poem, " Another Birth"




ANOTHER BIRTH

Yesterday’s birth was good
The new born survived
There were pains- as usual,
Every woman cried,
Wailed,
Screamed, to welcome the guest
Many of them are used to this treat and test

Today there will be another birth
There will be more pain
It will be unbearable
The wails and screams will likely be louder
The first experience- more to come
Today’s birth will be different from yesterdays
Today’s birth may be better than tomorrow’s

Everyone is talking about it
The women are talking in whispers
The grannies are dumb
How about the men?
Only a few are shocked
After-all this yet another strike
A strike from an iron rod
That she handled without care

Young and tender
She let it tore her fabric
She let the ink spill on her fabric
She let the sword pierce the fabric
She let them, him, skin her alive
She let it happen nine months ago,
Innocently

Everyone is waiting eagerly
For tomorrows birth
To see the little thing
And how it shall look like
The day after tomorrow
Another birth
Then, the world might
Listen and reason
For the fruit is not yet ripe
For that birth

Simon Mwangi Muthiora
COPYRIGHT: MWANGI MUTHIORA 2009
AUTHOR: MWANGI WA MUTHIORA

Monday, October 26, 2009

"WHO AM I" came into my mind when I came across a batterd Woman and I wondered howmuch we appreciate our DAUGHTERS, WIVES, SISTERS and MOTHERS.......!

WHO AM I



Who do they say I am?
In the vast savanna
They call me daughter of the sands
The beleaguered woman
The shelter maker

Who do they say I am?
At the coast, I have several names
Saumu, Fatima, Harsia…..
Daughter of the deep seas
The mummy water; others quip
Who am I?
The beleaguered woman
The pilau cook

Akinyi yoo
Akoko yoo, Atieno yoo
Daughter of the fishes
They say my omena is the best
And you, who do you think I am?
Have you ever seen me dancing?
Off course not to those silly instruments
Not at all
Dancing to the tunes of otutu
Daughter of Ramogi
The beleaguered woman

Irio is my favorite
I also make good matoke!
Many a man fears me
“She is the money manic; the gold-digger?”
Wanjiku, Gaceri, Waithera
All are my names
The beleaguered woman
Pillar of Mt. Kenya

Kitu cha mtongoea
What does this mean?
Kitu gain hii
Others say I am the daughter of the salty waters
The face of the vast plains
The hip buster
Others call me a witch
I am not one,
I am a bed wizard

SPECIAL ONE FOR THE WOMAN WHO BORE ME; PURITY MUGURE, "You are such a darling to me. Despite those very ugly episodes in your life. I attest to the fact that you are the greatest Woman i have ever known. I love you!

"This post will never be complete without the rare mention of WAIRIMU KAIYEHE; You make me proud baibe. I have never known any better way of appreciating our love. But one day i am certain we shall kill the distance. You are special too"
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. MWANGI MUTHIORA 2009

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

TELL ME NOW what i was writing about, first it was a Spoon, then on the way i thought about a Woman's 'Eye'



TELL ME NOW

Oh tell me now
What I have never known
Throughout my long journey
I have had encounters

No one has ever told me the truth
What pleasures they derives from me
I have never explored myself
I may never get the opportunity
I may never feel the taste of myself

Tell me,
Would there be taste without me?
You may say yes,
How then do you crave to scratch my back?
Your finger has always pointed at my eye

During my long journeys
I have been to the corridors of power
I have been to the most holly shrines
I have been to the murkiest forests
I have also been to
Battle fields
Many a night I have slept in tents
In slums
In palaces alike

Tell me now
What pleasure do you derive from me
Your finger always pointing at my eye
None of you has ever exhausted me
That’s why I fly on
Run on
Walk on
Swim on and
Crawl on

Oh tell me,
What pleasure you finds in me
Your finger always pointing at my eye
What pleasure do I give you?
I am tried, tested, tasted and trusted
Your finger always pointing at my eye.


ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. MWANGI MUTHIORA 2009 2HRS B4

"AMPUTATED ITCH" is the story of our childhood jiggers that reminds us how far we have come from. Amputation reflects the change of Fortunes in life.


AMPUTATED ITCH

Until the accident
That road accident
I had my toes- I would feel them on
That reminds me of my childhood
Those little creatures
That some time gave me a sweet itch
I would love to scratch between the toes
Not before they breed
And their white eggs
Oozed out!

My leg is now gone
Gone with the scalpel
Knee downward

That reminds me of the accident
That crippled and condemned me to a wheelchair
It is many years now
After feeling the scalpel rip my leg off
After the amputation
But I can still feel the itch
Through an illusion nerve
Reminding of my childhood
The wrong gone days,
Gone long away!

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
MWANGI WA MUTHIORA

Sunday, October 18, 2009

What Osama bin Laden and Ayman al-Zawahri Do All Day, or Why I Cannot Talk About Politics With My Father

I have finally come to understand why I cannot talk about politics, terrorism or international relations with my father, not that it matters much, except as a glimpse of a much larger phenomenon.

It's not just my father. I can't talk about politics or terrorism or world affairs with anyone who has lived his or her entire life under the great umbrella of American propaganda.

They have insulated themselves under an enormous web of lies, and hidden themselves away from actual knowledge of their nation and its role in the world, both of which they see dimly, if at all: the world as a dark, dangerous, mysterious place, and their nation as the best of all nations -- nay, the best of all possible nations.

They have been content to collect the scraps tossed their way by the American War Machine, although they would never call it that. Nor would they ever consider themselves in any way complicit in America's endless war on the rest of the world, a war they never even acknowledge.

It's a war waged on multiple planes, of which the military, being the bloodiest, is easily the most visible. And it didn't start last week, or last year, or even eight years ago.

It's been going on all their lives -- or since they were little kids. For an ever-increasing percentage of America's population, it's always been there.

Like the land, the sea and the sky, it's the backdrop against which their lives take place.

Only a fool would question the sea and sky.

... or the notion that the American War Machine should be what it is, and is what it should be.

Except that it's not true. None of it is true. And even worse -- they know it's not true.

As long as every little lie stays in place, the umbrella stands, so to speak: the big lies remain sacred, so to speak. But once you start to pull and tug, and separate one lie from another, and expose them to the light of knowledge and reason ... well, that's where it gets intolerable.

And I guess I just love to pull and tug.

I came to this moderately interesting conclusion in the hospital room where I've been spending most of my weekends lately, sitting there with my father and reading the newspaper he read before I arrived.

He's so far from where I grew up that I have no connection with any of the local stories: I read them as if they were field reports from places I may never hear of again, much less visit.

One week there was a story about a guy who took some construction equipment and started blazing a trail through a state park. One week there was a story about a new McDonald's opening in one of the suburbs. This weekend there was a story about a schoolteacher who was sitting alone in her classroom doing paperwork when a buck burst through the window.

You just never know what you'll find in the local news, but all the stories share a common feature: they're verifiable. I could go see the damage to the park. I could eat at the new fast food restaurant. And I could visit the school, admire the new window, and meet the teacher who hid under her desk.

I haven't actually done any of these things, and it's not likely that I ever would. But I could. You could. Anyone could. And the same is true of virtually all the local news: you can't predict what you'll find, but you can certainly check it out.

On the other hand, with world news, and often with national politics, it's just the opposite. What there is to read -- what my father reads every day, what he's been reading for his entire adult life -- is utterly predictable, and completely unverifiable. And therefore, he doesn't have any reason not to believe it -- unless I start talking.

I've just had dental surgery and I wasn't doing much talking this weekend. But that's another story -- and one I'll spare you.

I've read a lot of predictable, unverifiable, manure over the years, but I have never seen it more concentrated and hilarious than in Sebastian Rotella's most recent piece in the Los Angeles Times.

Entitled "Setbacks weaken Al Qaeda's ability to mount attacks, terrorism officials say", it had me laughing so hard that I've preserved it for posterity at my "other blog".

I happened to read Sebastian Rotella's newest masterpiece, not because it was in the paper in my dad's room, but because it set off my Google News Alert with its mention of Rashid Rauf. As long-time readers will remember, I wrote extensively about Rashid Rauf and the so-called Liquid Bombers, beginning in August of 2006 when they were arrested, and continuing until I became unable to blog much (or at all). But even when I haven't been writing, I've still been reading, and collecting.

Over the past three years I have preserved more than 330 articles mentioning Rashid Rauf, and it has been fascinating (in an entirely predictable way) to watch his legend develop. (And you can read the word "legend" in either of two ways: it can mean either "a fable" or "an intelligence agent's cover story".)

In 2006, Rashid Rauf was merely a "key figure" in the so-called Liquid Bombing plot -- possibly a messenger of some kind. Then he was the al Qaeda connection. Then he was the bomb-making expert. Then he was the mastermind. Then he was an al Qaeda commander.

The latter was an interesting step in the growing legend. Not everyone gets to be an al Qaeda commander.

I first read that Rashid Rauf was an al Qaeda commander from Bill Roggio, who writes the aptly named "Long War Journal". Upon reading that Rashid Rauf was an al Qaeda commander, I immediately felt a sense of inadequacy -- having read everything I could find about Rashid Rauf, how could I not have known he was an al Qaeda commander?

Then I got a bit indignant: Why should Bill Roggio know that Rashid Rauf is an al Qaeda commander when I don't know it myself? Later I simmered down a bit and became less emotional and more pragmatic. The question became: How does Bill Roggio know Rashid Rauf is an al Qaeda commander?

Much to my astonishment, Long War Journal takes comments from unknown visitors. So I left Bill Roggio a comment, saying: "How do you know Rashid Rauf is an al Qaeda commander?"

To my further astonishment, my comment appeared immediately. So I bookmarked the page and returned a day later, hoping for an explanation from Bill Roggio as to where and how he had learned that Rashid Rauf was an al Qaeda commander. Instead of such an explanation, I found -- to no astonishment at all -- that my comment had been deleted. "Aha!" I thought, "That's how we know Rashid Rauf is an al Qaeda commander." What a thing to have learned!

We also learned quite a bit about Bill Roggio and his "Long War Journal", none of which could have been news. (Long War Journal? Why do you think it's called that?)

Then Rashid Rauf was also named -- as always, by an unnamed source -- as the al Qaeda contact for the dozen Pakistani students arrested in the UK in April of 2009 under so-called "Operation Pathway". No criminal charges were filed against any of the students, who were released from police custody but nonetheless held pending "deportation hearings" which still haven't started -- and most of the students have now left the UK "voluntarily".

Shortly after the Operation Pathway arrests, Rashid Rauf's legend began to grow again. Soon he was was al Qaeda's Commander for European Operations. Then he was a facilitator for the London bombings of 7/7/2005.

How much more is there? I've been wondering: How long it will take before he was behind 9/11? Or the 1993 WTC bombing? Oklahoma City? Beirut? Who really killed JFK, anyway? Was it Rashid Rauf? Or to put it another way: How do we know it wasn't?

I may have been kidding about that last part but the rest is serious, and Rashid Rauf's legend continues to grow backwards. The most recent additions to the legend have proceeded despite (or because of) the death (or not) of Rashid Rauf in a drone-launched missile attack in Pakistan in November of 2008.

Sebastian Rotella's LAT piece hints -- for the first time of which I am aware -- at a connection between Rashid Rauf and a failed attempt to bomb London in 2004. This is a year earlier than the previous publicly hinted connection: the backward legend-building is only three years short of 9/11 now, and it won't be long ...

It's a sick laugh, and one I can't share with my father, but laughs are scarce in these days of bogus terror everywhere, and unspoken dangers everywhere else. And the people who make me laugh have an impossible job.

The task -- for somebody like Bill Roggio or Sebastian Rotella -- is to make the threat of terrorism appear to be diminishing and increasing at the same time. It has to be serious enough to justify spending hundreds of billions every year, and throwing your civil rights down the drain at the same time, and the results of such an enormous sacrifice must be tangible. And yet, despite the tangible success, the threat must never go away, or even be significantly diminished, because then the hundreds of billions of dollars per year would have to stop -- or at least stop growing. And we can't have that.

You might start clamoring for the return of your civil rights. We can't have that, either.

For all these reasons -- not to mention the oil -- we simply can't have an end to the War on Terror (by whatever name the president wants us to call it these days), and that means no president can ever declare it won and no president can ever declare it un-winnable.

Victory, while always getting closer, has to remain as far away as ever.

Very few writers manage it well, and Sebastian Rotella is a master of the art. But he exceeds even himself in his most recent piece. You have to read the whole thing to get the full sick belly laugh from it, but a few fragments may entice you to read more (at the LAT or at my home away from home).

Rotella leads with this give-and-take combination:
As Al Qaeda is weakened by the loss of leaders, fighters, funds and ideological appeal, the extremist network's ability to attack targets in the United States and Western Europe has diminished, anti-terrorism officials say.

Nonetheless, Al Qaeda and allied groups based primarily in Pakistan remain a threat, particularly because of an increasing ability to attract recruits from Central Asia and Turkey to offset the decline in the number of militants from the Arab world and the West.
Rotella even uses the words "diminished" and "increasing" in his opening paragraphs. The man is a wizard!

And he follows with another combination:
Al Qaeda's relative strength these days is of crucial importance in the complex debate in Washington over future U.S. troop levels and tactics in Afghanistan and Pakistan.

Although factions within the Obama administration differ on how best to deal with the Taliban in Afghanistan, all agree that the paramount priority is defeating Al Qaeda. Unlike the Afghan Taliban, the terrorist network Al Qaeda remains committed to a holy war against the West with a goal of matching or surpassing its devastating attacks in 2001.
Matching or surpassing whose devastating attacks in 2001? There's the rub, isn't it?

All chroniclers of the Terror War, from hacks like Bill Roggio to masters like Sebastian Rotella, must write as if 9/11 had been fully and impartially investigated and that the conclusions of said investigation had been accepted as final by all thinking people. The fact that only non-thinking people believe any of the 9/11 manure is routinely glossed over, by wizard and hack alike.

Rotella is not only a wizard himself but he also has some wizardly sources:
"Some pretty experienced individuals have been taken out of the equation," a senior British anti-terrorism official said in a recent interview.

"There is fear, insecurity and paranoia about individuals arriving from outside, worries about spies and infiltration," said the official, who requested anonymity because of the sensitive topic. "There is a sense that it has become a less romantic experience. Which is important because of the impact on Al Qaeda the brand, the myth, the idea of the glorious jihadist."
"Taken out of the equation" is British math-talk for "killed along with hundreds of civilians in a series of drone attacks".

But "Al Qaeda the brand"?? And "the myth"?? This senior British anti-terrorism official has one foot in the grave and the other on the truth, does he not? Outrageous!!

But it gets better! Enter the president:
President Obama cited the debilitated condition of the terrorist network last week during a visit with U.S. counter-terrorism officials.

"Because of our efforts, Al Qaeda and its allies have not only lost operational capacity, they've lost legitimacy and credibility," he said.
I almost stopped laughing long enough to ask myself: How could this fiction lose "legitimacy and credibility"? Is Obama pulling our leg, too?

Next in line for Rotella: an "ex"-CIA man working for the NYPD (whom Rotella calls a "scholar") virtually confirms the long-simmering notion that the entire al Qaeda legend is built on entrapment:
The number of failed plots in the West, whether directed or inspired by Al Qaeda, also shows that the quality of operatives has declined, scholar Marc Sageman testified at a hearing of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee last week.

"Counter-terrorism is working," said Sageman, a former CIA officer and New York Police Department expert. "Terrorist organizations can no longer cherry-pick the best candidates as they did in the 1990s. There is no Al Qaeda recruitment program: Al Qaeda and its allies are totally dependent on self-selected volunteers."
Self-selected volunteers, indeed. Knuckleheads of the world unite!

I won't make you wait any longer. Here's the bit you've been waiting for, and once again it's from the unnamed senior British official:
In several recent cases, Western trainees in Pakistan allegedly had contact with Mustafa Abu Yazid, also known as Said Sheik, a longtime Egyptian financial boss. Abu Yazid acts as the day-to-day chief of the network while Osama bin Laden and his deputy, Ayman Zawahiri, spend their time eluding capture, said the British official.
It's a thing of beauty, is it not?
Osama bin Laden and his deputy, Ayman Zawahiri, spend their time eluding capture.
As I was saying, it's a sick laugh. But it's a laugh all the same.

The pity is that my father (who reads three newspapers a day and has done so for the past 40 years) and millions of other mainstream media Americans believe every word of it. It doesn't matter to them if Osama bin Laden is obviously dead, or Ayman al-Zawahri (whose name is always misspelled as "Zawahiri" in the Western press) is obviously an agent of Israeli propaganda -- just the same as it doesn't matter whether Rashid Rauf is alive or dead: if he's dead, his death is a victory for the forces of good (the US military, of course) and if he's alive, then he's a threat that must be eliminated by the forces of good (ditto, ditto).

It's no wonder we can't catch bin Laden or al-Zawarhi.

And only a fool would question the sea and sky.

So I rubbed my jaw and tried to smile. Dental surgery is such a bitch!

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Saturday, October 17, 2009

"APPEAR TONIGHT" is a poem about wife inheritance. A practice as old as time, it remains deep rooted in our society! But we can all say no, TONIGHT.




"APPEAR TONIGHT|

Oh my poor man
Man of a woman
Son of a woman
Did you have to leave?
At one million hour
When I needed you most?

A son was not all I wanted
One was not enough
Three or four would have been better

Could you be watching this?
Your lustful brothers
Your cruel mother
Oh! I hope I left instead

I remember those days
When we soiled and toiled together
Remember the ever dying promises
Promises of a prince to a princess
The kisses
All those adventures,
Now gone and washed away

The moment you shut down,
A part of me went under
It went with you
I hardly live again

Why did you have to go?
Was it natural?
Could your mother have a hand in this?
Probably she is the bad omen

Your splendid smile
Is still fresh in my mind
My body is nostalgic
Missing the golden touch
Warming the loins and
Illuminating my womanly faculties
Were you here tonight…?

To share my wet dreams
Did you see him force me?
Please forgive me my dear
They forced me
Threatened me with eviction
If I declined!
I am sorry I lay him, I know you saw that
But I had to, or else your sons would loose
The land would go
And ‘home’ is no better, my brothers are no better
Neither is dad any good!

Your lustful brother has made me swell
Is this the way to sorry a widow?
Lay her night long?
It’s him to blame, eating from your plate.
This could never have happened, if you were around

I miss your smile
You would be cheering me up
Please cheer me tonight
Let me see beyond
Let me feel you
Only for tonight
Creep below my blankets
And warm my loins
Creep deep in, and
End my thirst, the thirst of a widow
It is only you who will know how!

Before they retires to bed
I don’t know who will be the man tonight
But, feel me before ‘he’ comes
I want you one last time
Touch me
Appear tonight
For a night


This a special one to all Inherited Women in Kenya and other parts of Africa. This practice is as old as the Bible yet women continue to suffer silently. Besides been inherited this women are battered and treated like deities by preying male who use them as sex tools.

ALL RIGHTS RESEARVED
MWANGI MUTHIORA 2009

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

He was young at the time of his death, but his strong Will & Love was enomous. Simon Kamatu, your typical young saint, "My Tribute To Simon"

DEAR SIMON- "MY TRIBUTE"


"DEAR SIMON- MY TRIBUTE"

I doubt you will read this
I hope you will anyway.
It hurts to think about you
Atleast not now

How much I wish you are on a short journey
Oh, how much I wish you are just somewhere
Smiling as you always did.

Simon, my pen is refusing to write
Its innocence is open
My mind is refusing to think
My guilt is open
This paper is refusing to bear you
Its innocence is open

Why did this happen to you?
Why?
At that tender age!

When you lived
Very few people cared, just a few
Many didn’t bother.
Very few
Wanted to be with you,
To know you,
To help you,
To feed you,
To listen to you,
Or even to think about you.

You were always jovial,
In an empty stomach
You smiled
In torn shirts and shorts
You laughed
When no one showed love
You simply praised God.
What a heart!

Now that you are with us no more
We are all crying our hearts out.
Our eyes are swollen
A true sign of guilt
And even pretence

Wish we loved you when you lived
Wish we made you laugh
Wish we smiled together
Wish we appreciated you
Wish you would live again.

Simon, all and sundry gave eulogies
Young
Cheerful
Playful
Prayerful
Faithful
But they were all regretful

Your love for the world was not in vain
It was the best lesson for us all
That the ‘will’ is bigger than people, years, and it
Can conquer this world.

As we celebrate you Simon,
We just make one request…..
That we are all guilty,
Fill our hearts with joy again
And heal this cancer
That has eroded and eaten away
The Love of our hearts!



Simon Kamatu was my cousin and he died young. He had the spirit and will of a real gentleman.

All rights reserved. Simon Mwangi Muthiora

Saturday, October 10, 2009

Dear Troops ...

Tonight I drove past a "Christian" church with sign saying this:
THANK THE TROOPS. WRITE A LETTER.
So I did. And here it is:
Dear Troops,

Thou Shalt Not Kill.

Please always remember this Commandment, and go find a job which does not require you to violate it.

Thank you very much.

Sincerely,
WP


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"A WOMAN'S MEAT" is my next Poem that is about Female Genital Multilation. STOP FGM TODAY



FGM continues to be practised in many countries. I read the Novel; DESERT FLOWER and this book inspired me to write this poem. How many of our sisters are suffering quietly in the hands of this merciless act? God apparently created the clitoris for the sole purpose of generating pleasure. It has no other purpose. There is no instruction in the Bible or in the writings of the Qur'an which require that the clitoris be surgically modified. Thus God must approve of its presence. And so, it should not be removed or reduced in size or function.

Mutilated genitalia reduce or eliminate a woman's pleasure during the act. Besides its in-human to subject a woman to this suffering that continues to haunt many.

A WOMAN’S MEAT


Early in the morning
Before the birth of the sunlight
And the death of the moonlight
The old gypsy woman appeared
Her motive open
Clad in the humor of guilt
For a woman’s meat
Was all her target
In the name of cleanliness

Grinning, she closed in
Ha ha ha ha, ha ha ha........
“It is not painful granddaughter”

In her kiondo, gawky instruments
A near rust knife
Stained with dry blood-from yesterday’s cut
“Part your legs child, culture does not hurt”
She spit
With no opium she knelt between
And the slaughtering started

“This knife is blunt”
She knelt again between the tender thighs
And searched for the bottom of
Her womanhood with the finely filed teeth

Within no time she spat out the ‘meat’
A woman’s only meat
Ha ha ha ha, ha ha ha........
“You have graduated daughter
You are clean; you will now get a man
You are a woman; the dirt is now gone......
Ha ha ha ha, ha ha ha........”
She laughed, her lips red in fresh warm blood
From yet another cut, or munch-amid ‘her’ yells and screams

“You are not dirty anymore”
Wearing a grin of terror,
She picked a long sharp keiapple thorn
Teared across the fabric
Of her wounded womanhood

Amid the young girls wails and screams
The gawky woman makes the stitch
In the name of cleanness
Besides the ailing girl
Stood the mother
And a dozen of smiling aunts, all
Celebrating the cut
Of a woman’s only ‘meat’

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. SIMON MWANGI MUTHIORA(O) 2009 2HRS B4

"The importance given to virginity and an intact hymen in these societies is the reason why female circumcision still remains a very widespread practice despite a growing tendency, especially in many urban settings, to do away with it as something outdated and harmful. Behind circumcision lies the belief that, by removing parts of girls' external genitals organs, sexual desire is minimized. This permits a female who has reached the dangerous age of puberty and adolescence to protect her virginity, and therefore her honor, with greater ease. Chastity was imposed on male attendants in the female harem by castration which turned them into inoffensive eunuchs. Similarly female circumcision is meant to preserve the chastity of young girls by reducing their desire for sexual intercourse."

IMAGES ON FGM SOURCE
FGM HAS VARYING COMPLICATIONS; THEY INCLUDES BOTH PHYSICAL AND PSYCHOLOGICAL
The physical complications associated with FGM may be acute or chronic. Early, life-threatening risks include hemorrhage, shock secondary to blood loss or pain, local infection and failure to heal, septicemia, tetanus, trauma to adjacent structures, and urinary retention.13,14 Infibulation (Type III) is often associated with long-term gynecologic or urinary tract difficulties. Common gynecologic problems involve the development of painful subcutaneous dermoid cysts and keloid formation along excised tissue edges. More serious complications include pelvic infection, dysmenorrhea, hematocolpos, painful intercourse, infertility, recurrent urinary tract infection, and urinary calculus formation. Pelvic examination is difficult or impossible for women who have been infibulated, and vaginal childbirth requires an episiotomy to avoid serious vulvar lacerations.

Less well-understood are the psychological, sexual, and social consequences of FGM, because little research has been conducted in countries where the practice is endemic. However, personal accounts by women who have had a ritual genital procedure recount anxiety before the event, terror at being seized and forcibly held during the event, great difficulty during childbirth, and lack of sexual pleasure during intercourse."

Friday, October 9, 2009

Truth Is Fiction: Peace Prize Fits Obama Like A Velvet Glove

War Is Peace in Orwell's 1984, and the same is true here and now.

In addition, Truth Is Fiction, as demonstrated in Barack Obama's selection as Nobel Peace Prize winner, and as elucidated in the New York Times, which says: "Surprise Nobel for Obama Stirs Praise and Doubts"
“The question we have to ask is who has done the most in the previous year to enhance peace in the world,” the Nobel committee chairman, Thorbjorn Jagland, said in Oslo after the announcement. “And who has done more than Barack Obama?”
Clearly this was one of those unaccountable moments when the list of possible answers was so long that the list itself seemed to disappear. But that's not the first time this has happened to the Nobel committee.

This is the same "Peace Prize", we may remember, that was given to Henry Kissinger, who at the time, as Richard Nixon's Secretary of State and National Security Adviser, was directing a massive American bombing campaign against Southeast Asia, part of a "war effort" that killed at least two million people and led directly to the deaths of at least two million more, not to mention damage to the survivors and their countries. Southeast Asia was only one of Kissinger's killing fields. And Kissinger is only one of the war criminals who have won this "Peace Prize".

With his mythical "withdrawal" from the war crimes in Iraq, his aggressive escalation of the war crimes in Afghanistan, his instigation of more war crimes in Pakistan, and his continuation of the war crimes in Somalia, Barack Obama has clearly "done the most in the previous year to enhance peace in the world" -- certainly much more than anyone on a list so long it seems to disappear.

Similarly, the list of Obama's efforts in support of the atrocities begun under the George W. Bush administration is a long one. And it must have disappeared as well, since nothing of it is ever mentioned in mainstream news reports.

By going to court to keep evidence of torture secret, for example, Barack Obama has inscribed his own name on the list of American war crime enablers -- a list so long no one can find it anywhere. And this list dates back much further than the Bush/Cheney years, back to a history that seems too awful to be countenanced, most of which has apparently evaporated.

But it's not just about Iraq and Afghanistan, Pakistan and Somalia. The list of countries not currently occupied but still under threat of American force is a long one, and some of the names on it are certainly victims of American interference: Iran, for example, Venezuela, Honduras, Russia, China... The list goes on and on but -- curiously -- it also seems to be invisible whenever the official historians are around.

War Is Peace. Truth Is Fiction. And the fabric of reality is threadbare. Before it vanishes entirely, let us make a few hasty notes:

As the tale of WMD in Iraq clearly demonstrates, the USA is currently engaged in a state-sponsored program of mass murder for fun and profit. One might say the USA is a state-sponsored program of mass murder for fun and profit. Enormous fun for the rubes. Enormous profit for those who pull the strings. Enormous pain and suffering, death and destruction for the rest -- in numbers so large they can't even be seen.

To become a "leader" of the USA, one must excel at the game of politics. Politics in general is the pursuit of power -- normally above all else, inevitably to the exclusion of all else. And politics in the USA is primarily -- or entirely -- the pursuit of power over a state-sponsored program of mass murder for fun and profit.

As the USA is still nominally a democracy, American politics necessarily involves doing one thing while saying another -- constantly, eternally, as a matter of course. And, for structural coherency if nothing else, the pinnacle of this murderous and deceptive power structure must house the mother of all murderous lies. Thus, a Peace Prize for a War Criminal is not only warranted and predictable, but altogether fitting and proper. It's amazing that American presidents don't get Nobel Peace Prizes every year.

None of this depends on Barack Obama personally, or any aspect of his background, or any member or members of his staff. The same could be said of any President in your lifetime who wasn't assassinated in office -- and anyone else who has risen to the top of the system. Indeed, the same could be said of the system itself. And the system is -- and was designed primarily to be -- self-perpetuating.

We appear to be headed for more of the same unless and until we can change the system. And we appear to have no way to change it.

To wit: What are our resources? What are our obstacles? Who are our friends? Who are our enemies?

Speaking of enemies -- enemies of peace, enemies of truth, enemies of humanity -- it is quite clear, is it not, that the Nobel committee is one of them. And so is the New York Times. And so is the president of the United States.

But then, how much of this is news?


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Thursday, October 8, 2009

Paul Kibe makes a return with the "NEW SEASON" Where are the rain Gods? Kenyatta Day is my D-day. I perform in public for the first time.




NEW SEASON

The enchanting sun spread its wings across the barren vastness like a warm and sensual soothing light,natural yet surreal.
For six seasons,the skies looked down scornfully as the streams turned into valleys,crops choked under the scorching heat while an army of vultures banqueted on sumptuous meals of animal carcasses that dotted the countryside.The farmers watched helplessly as the fields became a furnace,the sun the executioner.
But the afternoon still crawled on as the once vibrant village drowned in silence of blood-cuddling screams of anguish set out to break the coldest of souls.Mathioya's life of quiet desperation was slowly becoming a nightmare,a fleeting shadow on a cloudy day.
Then without warning,pregnant cumulonimbus clouds gathered hurriedly above the jagged Ngai hills pushing the crimson sunset rays to the western periphery as the sun dived into the ocean blanketing the village into near pitch darkness.
Whirling dust to skies infinite,a violent breeze gushed scattering the clouds momentarily and giving way to bolts of lightning punctuated by incessant roars of thunder.And as a multitude of drops coalesced menacingly,a wolf howled from a distance as a mother scolded a truant child who was still playing outside just in time for the long knitting needles of rain commenced their choreographed dance of clatter on the thirsty soil.

Muhunjia was still lying on the concrete floor of the cell of the shrine almost lifeless when the three horns trumpeted in unison.He stirred laboriously as if to scare away his sealed fate,the stench of death threatening to suffocate him.
He reached for a matchstick by the side with much difficulty.Striking it on his left earlobe,he lit the sooty lamp and as the wick hungrily swallowed the last few drops of oil,he propped his bones on the wet wall.He clutched the rosary beads with trembling hands unsure of what prayer befitted that hour of need.
He was still mumbling some caned lines when steady footsteps approached hurriedly.Then the black door creaked open allowing in the three wizened clan elders.
The mesh work of cobwebs clung defiantly almost indignantly on the door frames,the streaks of freedom preying into the room briefly.And as they mopped their soggy faces,one staggered onto a dry bone.The intruding clatter reverberated,scaring a curious lonely rat.
The rat dived into the pile of bones as it scampered for safety disturbing their ordered sleep and like a house of cards,the heap came crushing down in a deafening scream of mercy.
A gush of fresh air stole through the half open door whistling soft commands to the ears of the warring parties in a jig of pacification.Then it rushed out violently,unsteadying the precarious lamp on its belly as the door banged shut.
For a brief moment,the village shook as the explosion resonated in unison with an ear splitting rumbling thunder from the mountains.
Panic stricken ,the entire village poured into the shrine but a moment late.They found the charred bodies of the three elders prostrate on one side alongside their sharpened machetes while that of the new village pastor was sprawled on the other still clinging on his rosary.
That planting season was marked with less fanfare for there were no seasoned elders left to lead the celebrations.And as they toiled in their farms,the peasants would occasionally share snuff or cut sweat in small hushed up groups exchanging notes of that fateful evening.Some blamed it on the lightning while others cursed the lamp.But they all unanimously agreed that time had come to stop spilling innocent blood at the onset of the long rains.The rains had not only brought hope on the dry fields but also watered the seed of tolerance in their hearts .
The Thai faithfuls took an oath at the eve of the bounty harvest to uphold their beliefs and allow other doctrines to take root in memory of the three Matathi elders.