tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63094132011-09-16T19:36:24.018-07:00The Revelations of an ImmigrantPersonal life observations.ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comBlogger181100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309413.post-74614184656036931772009-10-27T10:15:00.000-07:002010-08-03T11:41:11.664-07:00My Speech at the National Assembly to End the Iraq and Afghanistan Wars and Occupations Conference.Read more at: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/zaineb-alani/my-speech-at-the-national_b_237719.htmlOn July 4 of this year, Vice President Biden celebrated American Independence Day in occupied Iraq, in one of the presidential palaces of the former regime, now an integral part of the US-run 'Green Zone'ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309413.post-37514681608307425132007-02-24T05:40:00.000-08:002008-08-22T10:15:28.657-07:00The Human Cost of War and American Indifference Mohamed had a wide brow, knotted eyebrows and intense eyes. He always looked worried, but when you engaged him in conversation, he was the calmest individual you could have interacted with. We used to car pool to Baghdad International School in the summer. He would pull the seat back for me in his coupe, as I climbed into the back seat because our ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309413.post-1147223452557368342006-05-09T18:10:00.000-07:002006-06-20T04:46:11.370-07:00This letter was Published in the Columbus Dispatch on Saturday, May 20, 2006, under the title 'Give Iraqis a Chance to Fix Their Country on Their Own'.http://www.dispatch.com/editorials-story.php?story=dispatch/2006/05/20/20060520-A13-00.htmlEverybody Out!My father's travels ended in 1980. We came back to live the Iran-Iraq war. Zinnah was a child of ten when she attended the Dijla (Tigress) ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309413.post-1126750139795721312005-09-14T19:07:00.000-07:002005-09-14T19:11:08.330-07:00Letter to the Columbus Dispatch, published in the Editorial page on Monday, September 12, 2005Bad planning hurt U.S. in Iraq, Gulf CoastAs an Iraqi living in the United States, watching the chaotic scenes in Louisiana and Mississippi really explains the mess in Iraq for me. The parallels are overwhelming. Policy-makers knew years ago that something like this would hit the southern coast of the ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309413.post-1120542006200663242005-07-04T22:39:00.000-07:002005-07-11T10:01:21.493-07:00Our Family Doctor in BaghdadDr. Ihsan or Amu Ihsan (Uncle Ihsan), as we liked to call him had had a tough life. He lost a beautiful wife to cancer, early in his marriage. He was left to raise two boys and a girl, alone. I remember, Ayman, his daughter, at Baghad High. She had inherited her mother’s looks and was as kind as she was pretty.We had a number of ‘Family Doctors’. There was Dr. Khalid, ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309413.post-1115018517779287232005-05-02T00:20:00.000-07:002009-06-29T18:54:52.614-07:00http://mrzine.monthlyreview.org/alani180606.htmlIstimar!It was the height of the summer season in Baghdad; what we normally referred to as ‘Aab Al-lahab’ or ‘Flaming August’. The dates had over-ripened and were dripping black spots on the patio in the larger villa next door. Some of it dripped off Dad’s favorite tree. It was that same tree, which fell to the ground, hours before he passed away inZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309413.post-1117423223916717392005-04-20T20:17:00.000-07:002005-05-29T20:24:45.056-07:00Letter in response to an 'optimistic' US Army Personnel:----- Original Message -----From: Morrow, James L.To: Z. AlaniSent: Tuesday, April 05, 2005 12:22PMSubject: RE: Pictures from Iraq.DEPARTMENT OF THE ARMYJOINT CONTRACTING COMMAND - IRAQAPO AE 09316James Morrow / Contract ManagementDate: 05, April 2005Attn: Z. AlaniImportance: HighI cannot tell you how much I enjoyed these photos.I spent the ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309413.post-1112763906358015562005-04-05T22:05:00.000-07:002005-04-05T22:05:06.356-07:00Contemplations...before... ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309413.post-1086707083801382072004-06-08T06:36:00.000-07:002005-03-23T14:03:33.443-08:00"I know what that means!" he remarked, with a hint of excitment."It says 'Allah'. " I explained."Yeah! Aalaa!". I wasn't going to argue with a security guard at BWI over the correct pronounciation of the Arabic word. We were in the in the 'High Security' line."I know why they placed me here," said the lady before me. "It happens every time I don't check in any luggage"..."Well," I replied, "It ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309413.post-1081803917073892852004-04-12T13:35:00.000-07:002004-04-27T09:26:11.200-07:00"Today, he was hung on a piece of wood," laments Fayrooz, "he who had hung the skies over the waters..." The music is brilliant, her voice lavish, yet soft. It was a Sad Friday, and Pollina had taken us to the Catholic church up the street, from our house in Al-Mansoor, to light candles. In the darkly painted manger outside, I lit a candle -I still light a candle every now and then. Inside the ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309413.post-1077207311302059222004-02-19T08:14:00.000-08:002004-02-21T20:26:09.890-08:00‘I don’t know…Well, we didn’t know until the lists came out...the published lists.
He was taken in 1981. My older brother had fled the country. So they came for him, for the younger brother…our youngest. He was a student at the University of Mousl.
My mother visited him when they would let her, for a year or so. He would grope at the dirty bars that separated them, and say, “I’m fine. It’s onlyZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309413.post-1075697870338293762004-02-01T20:51:00.000-08:002005-02-08T12:11:46.926-08:00It was 1964 and I had not been born yet. Ahmed was a year old as he sat in the passenger seat of my father’s dark diplomatic sedan in downtown Peking at the peak of the Cultural Revolution. A cigar dangled from my father’s intellectual lips. It caught the eye of a 'figure of authority' infused with xenophobia, ready to revolt! He halted the passage of the car, down the crowded street, totally ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309413.post-1074544177089382202004-01-19T12:29:00.000-08:002004-08-30T03:05:34.216-07:00‘They say that you are a Kurd. We’re going to turn you into Mr. Hyde! You are worth the honor! You should be proud to have been chosen.’
Sarbast looked away. He turned his eyes towards an invisible God, somewhere above the ceiling fan, who must be watching this happen, in this dingy office, behind a rusty metal desk. Who else could he turn to?
‘Sir, I cannot. Can you please not grant someone elseZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309413.post-1074218004476806522004-01-15T17:22:00.000-08:002004-02-21T20:40:04.793-08:00'Falluuuuuuuuujaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh!' Basil’s voice trailed as he attempted a not-so-philharmonic rendition of Eruption's, ‘Illusion’ –then, a chart hit, in the eighties.
We all sat there, in the rear of the Volvo station wagon; what my mother’s cousin used to refer to as the ‘Monkeys' Stall’. We sat like monkeys, our folded elbows resting on our bent knees, rocking vigorously, to the music, ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309413.post-1073967993840340502004-01-12T20:00:00.000-08:002004-01-19T12:52:58.076-08:00Her eyebrows raised; her soft brown eyes, annoyed,
"Why do you keep feeding those American ducks, when none of your American neighbors do?"
"They are not American ducks mother; they are Canadian geese. They're not even Canadian; they're God's Geese! Some of my neighbors will feed them, but not everyday like I do...-it's part of the culture; everyone has to take care of himself. They don't like ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309413.post-1073879850205485442004-01-11T19:34:00.000-08:002004-02-24T13:11:58.700-08:00'I'm sick of hearing about this. I am hopeless.'
His Palestinian eyes glistened, a hazel gleam in them. He looked 'sick of this!'
He lived on Nuzha Street, in Ramallah. The long street knew Sunday walks to church every morning; people adorned in their 'haut-couture', according to the Greek Orthodox ritual.
This Armenian family made the best chocolate in town. Everyone could taste it at the ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309413.post-1073789895762645782004-01-10T18:46:00.000-08:002004-01-15T20:39:02.390-08:00'We want a State'...Her eyes were black and lonely...
They were also glistening with defiance. That was Nesreen for you. Born in Iran, raised in Iraq, married in the United Kingdom, trying to raise her children in Sweden.
'So does Palestine'...I stammered.
Years later, the sixteen year old boy that watched while the visiting Harvard Team asked that I wait outside while they spoke to Peshmergas...ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6309413.post-1073714088615168102004-01-09T21:47:00.000-08:002004-01-15T20:39:21.420-08:00The words fly past me and above me...planes diving and crashing, and compensations...heavy compensations follow...
I want my compensation too...
I was stripped from the heart of my beloved father to continue down an unknown path of promised sweetness...there was no sweetness.
His bitter tears were all I tasted...they seemed mixed with the smog of the consecutive wars...the carbon bit my tongue...ZZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17801453370942220247noreply@blogger.com