My Ickle Thoughts – Matilda, Knowledge and Limitations.

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matildaMatilda. Seen the film countless times. Read the book too. Her character never ceases to fascinate me. She takes so much negative energy from her personal life, and transfers it into something positive- something magical.

And if we choose, the magic in Matilda can be a metaphor for the great things we can achieve in life if we seek knowledge with an attitude of openness and kindness. Each time we find ourselves thrown to the ground we are granted a choice. We can remain there, let resentment manifest, and watch the world pass us by. Or we can find an escape and bounce- ten times higher and help others up on our way up too.

Pessimists at this point will say – so what, she’s a fictional character, but isn’t that just an excuse – a placement of limitations on ourselves?

“Having power isn’t nearly as important as what you choose to do with it and what Matilda had in mind was nothing short of heroic.”

Whether you learn it from Matilda or Akala, the definition of power is the same: knowledge is power. Seek it. And seek it for a purpose.

Learn about yourself, learn about others. Help yourself, help others.

Little Bitty Pretty One…!

#PAP 1: The Cally Fest

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#PAP 1; The Cally Festival

London. That place where small town people are overwhelmed by the “City life”. Business men and women talk only when on their phones, too preoccupied to notice other people’s existence even as they run past one another on the tube. Tall bulky buildings of top shot corporations breed robots through their glass doors; the “suited and booted.” But is that a true depiction of what London’s about? The longer I stay in this city the more took the time out to open my eyes to London’s true culture. It’s unique, it’s diverse and it’s inclusive. Cally Fest epitomized this and reminded me community does still exist in London and is as vibrant as ever! We found some incredibly special people here… the ones who are truly reppin’ London without them even knowing it! For them I gave this City a chance.

Art vs Journalism. Who can we trust as a source of truth?

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A multi-million pound mural painted by Russian-American artist Mark Rothko was defaced with large black writing yesterday in the worst security breech to hit London’s Tate Modern.  Outrage ensued on social networking site Twitter as Rothko began trending. When I hear stories of art being defaced, whether it’s renowned work or simply on the street it strikes sadness within me. If a person dislikes a piece of art, they should leave it be or challenge it with their own work. What can anyone possibly have to gain by destroying something another person has spent time and energy in creating? Surely they cannot feel pride for such cowardice behaviour.

The entire art incident led me to recall a thought-provoking question Dr. Benedetta Brevini posed in an ethics lecture at City University London: Who do you trust more, artists or journalists? The ideal response would have been an overwhelming consensus of journalists being the most trustworthy. Unfortunately, as you may have guessed, this was not the case.
The purposes of art and journalism are not dissimilar. Their existence is to tell a story and is often packaged in a way that connects to the reader/listener and can at times reveal more than creator intended.

Art in its many forms plays a key role spreading stories and ideologies from socio-political hand-painted cartoons to political rap, music and poetry. Art throughout history has proven itself to be thought-provoking and beautiful but how far can we go in trusting and ingesting it as a source of truth? An artist could be deemed too free in the ability to impose their own personal opinions whilst producing their work. Ultimately they have no restrictions placed on what they wish to show the world. The nature of art allows it’s creators to enthuse their passion in a way that may overemphasize the element of truth it once stemmed from. All art can be interpreted in the way a reader wishes and therefore cannot be an ideal source of truth. On the other hand, as the saying goes; “there’s no smoke without fire.” All emotions encompassed in an artists work has a purpose; a reason for existing. Each precise stroke of Monet’s “Impression, soleil levant” has a purpose and so began Impressionistic Art.

No-one can deny the need for journalism to be a trustworthy source of information. At the same time it is incredibly influential making a journalists work tricky. The modern-world media can be summed up following a report on Vietnam in 1968 by journalist Walter Cronkite when President Johnson is claimed to have said: “If I’ve lost Cronkite, I’ve lost Middle-America.” But how much do we rely on media now and how trustworthy is it? After the disastrous year Britain faced with News of the World’s hacking scandal followed by the Leveson inquiry, it’s safe to say there’s room for improvement. Breveni referred to the organization Media Reform which focuses on issues regarding media ethics. Ever growing numbers of media platforms and outlets gives viewers a mass choice of coverage. Viewers therefore have a responsibility to look at multiple media platforms that are available to them and think critically to make their own conclusion. Different outlets may use different images and different diction to present stories due to different house-styles. It is impossible for a journalist to present absolutely everything in news packages so they must make judgments on what is important. A journalist may be restricted in what they can present therefore not able to tell the story efficiently. An example being news writers who are often unable to use many adjectives as descriptions can be deemed subjective.

Art and journalism are different methods of telling stories to the world. Both must be respected for the significant role they play in society. And whilst it may ultimately journalism’s job to share the news, audiences must learn to understand the way the media world works and is changing. They must remember to always think critically regardless of the where the news came from.

TAKING SIDES: Abdul and Tim – Iraq – 911

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27/03/2003
“Abdul is my world, my 3rd child. My first two children went straight to Jannah… heaven. Still born. That’s what the doctor called it. You see it’s difficult to raise children here in Iraq. UN sanctions are impoverishing our land, it’s been 13 years now. Children are malnourished…” I offer halwa to the Western journalist sitting at my kitchen table. Little food comes into Iraq. Little of what we produce goes out. And rarely do we find a journalist willing to tell the rest of the world what is happening to our country. This month many journalists are flooding in. There are high hopes in the hearts of our people. Hope that they have come to finally relieve us from these chains. Relieve us from the way our schools and hospitals are slowly being run into the ground. She says my son Abdul is one of the happiest children she’s ever met. I tell her how me and my husband will never make him realise how he suffers. “This has been the life he’s always known. And for that he is happy.” The journalist seems lost, as though she is seeking something I cannot offer. She soon leaves. It is at this point I realise how blessed we have been to have had a healthy child for 9 years. Babies who have complications rarely make it. The first few years are the scariest for any mother here.  Last week I saw a look in my child’s eyes a mother never wants to see. It was the look of fear. It mirrored the fear in my own face. The ground thudded. Our house shook. A noise louder than I’ve heard in the 35 years of my life. Earthquake I thought. Suddenly I recalled the last thing the journalist said to me: “Protect your family, they’re planning shock and awe.” She wasn’t talking about sanctions.  All I ask is that Allah protect my Abdul from the evils in this world.

10/08/2012
I’m Abdul. 4 years ago today our house in Fallujah was raided by the armed forces. They fired their large guns through our kitchen. My mother was cooking. Six of those bullets sent her to Jannah. My Dad could no longer face that house… or our country anymore so we left. We arrived in London soon after. My father knows the meaning of hardship. He missed our country, lost every job he struggled to get. He was a hard worker, but employers don’t care for that much. My father wasn’t accustomed to living in a place where only a rare few stopped to say hello so when he was friendly to people they suspected him. People see us as a threat. That’s the first thing we noticed when we landed. The funny thing is, we “the big threat” feel the most vulnerable. Our local Mosque was trashed by “far-right extremists”, “terrorists” graffittied on the walls. They don’t understand Islam.  My father is getting old. Though he battles, he has become weakened with the life we’ve been faced with. When I have the money I will return to Iraq and train to fight against those invading our homes. May Allah protect my Father whilst I am away.

13/09/2001
Four days have passed since I had to tell my darling Timmy that his Daddy wasn’t coming home to us anymore. I know he feels it, my Timmy. He smiles and plays like every 7 year old boy should, but I can tell from the reflection in his little green eyes, he knows the worst has happened to us. And I know it’s not long till those smiles turn to confusion. He’s waiting. Waiting for John, my husband to return. Oh and what a husband he is… was. Too good for this world. That’s what I keep telling myself. That’s what I keep telling everyone else. It helps, but of course if I had to chose, he’d still be mine. He’d still be here with me throwing Timmy up and down in the air whilst I’d repeatedly ask him to be more careful. But he was careful, and through my moaning I secretely knew I’d could never feel safer than when he was with us. He’d always protect us. And that’s what made me marry him; love and security. I just wished I could’ve protected him. He phoned me, just before… he said: “They’ve hijacked the plane… we’re circling the World Trade Centre.” 5 minutes later, I saw it on the news. All I ask is for God to protect my Timmy from the evil in this world.

10/08/2012
I’m Tim. I’m 18 years old. I lost my Dad when I was a young-un. It’s no secret. Everyone at high school knew ‘bout it… talked ‘bout it. Before 5th grade people used to understand what September 11th meant to me. I’m not too sure now. I hear people talk ‘bout how all those died on 9/11 just don’t matter when no more. “Those who died in 911 are nothing compared innocent people being killed in Iraq and Afghanistan”- that’s what they say. But it matter to me. My Dad’s death didn’t mean “nothing” to my family. He was innocent too you know. There needs to be justice for my Dad’s death. This is the year I can finally join the forces. My Mom don’t want me to, she scared. She’s been scared for a long time now. I tell her I just want to protect people. I want to protect my future family, and protect the families in Iraq. See I know what it’s like to lose someone you were never meant to lose, I don’t want them to know that feeling too… May God protect my Mom whilst I am away.

Timmy is a terrorist
Timmy will murder the innocent
Timmy is part of an evil regime
Timmy is racist
Timmy is attacking the East

Abdul is a terrorist
Abdul will murder the innocent
Abdul is part of an evil regime
Abdul is a racist
Abdul is attacking the West

Perception. Isn’t it strange how it differs depending on who we are and where we are from. Sometimes, we need to take a step back and remember; everyone else is human too. Those of us blessed enough to not be in the positions of Timmy and Abdul are in a position to think critically. Instead, so many decide take sides, make assumptions resounding of those above. Does it ever help? No, it only adds fuel to fire.

Acts of kindness: A tiny stone.

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Caledonian Road tube station. There’s something special. And it’s not that one exit reads: “Holloway prison” whilst the other: “Pentonville prison.” Something beautiful. It has the presence of an artistic spirit who leaves a mark of kindness for those who pass through the station. The kindness comes in little messages written on the “Service Information” whiteboards. I won’t delve into details for I’m saving this for another time.

Today as I was passing through the station, I realised a lady had noticed the messages as I had. It read:

“My lovelies, this day is all yours to keep, to experience… and to own! I hope that at its end you are greeted with satisfaction, comfort and love! Have a wonderful day! Love Kim x x x”

The lady seemed as uplifted by the sentiments left by tube worker Kim as I was. This I’ve not seen before but inside I was feeling glad. Glad to know I wasn’t the only one who took the time out to appreciate them.

She noticed I took a snapshot of the message on the white board. We acknowledged each other as we shared a lift with some others waiting to catch the trains on the Piccadilly Line. I wanted to say something to her, but I had my headphones in. It seemed smart to just continue with my journey. It was during the tube journey where I realised I should speak with her; ask her how the message impacted her day. I spent a minute or so contemplating, thinking how silly I’d look moving over to the other side of the carriage. I was shy too. Rarely, if ever do I initiate conversation with strangers, especially on a tube which was awkwardly silent.  

Would I regret not talking to her? Yes. So when the train reached Kings Cross, I stood up, walked to the other side of the carriage and sat next to her. Others sitting on the tube wondered what I was doing, I could tell, but I didn’t care. I introduced myself as a local and a journalist. I told her I noticed she liked the messages Kim left. She gave me her contact details, the business card read that she specialised in acupuncture and reflexogy.

For the next few minutes we spoke how the messages left at the station were so simple, but made such a positive impact on passersby. She mentioned about the artistic aspect of the messages. This is something I’d not realised fully before. She told me how there is so much negativity in this world. I related to her in an instant. Kindness essentially is the most beautiful thing on this earth. It can come in any form, in any place.

As we were speaking she pulled a stone from her bag and handed it to me. It has a beautiful intricate design on the front. On the back it had her contact details again. I told her the stone was pretty. She told me to keep it.

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I wonder if there is a deeper meaning to the stone, perhaps in acupuncture terms, spiritually, that is of course if anything. Perhaps it’s just an innovative way to promote her work. I almost missed my stop on the tube. Before I rushed off she told me to call her to finish the conversation. When I phone I’ll ask her if there is a spiritual meaning behind the stone.

But till then, it is a reminder to me. It is reminder of the kindness at Caledonian Road. And a reminder of the compassion and understanding of those who take the time to see witness it’s beauty. As is everyday, today was a blessed day. But thanks to the messages left at Caledonian Road, and the encounter I had, my day reached a new level of completeness and for that I am thankful