Author: Yusef Rahimzada

Well… it was very cold out. Maybe during Ramadan, I remember the neighbors had brought over some rice that day to break our fast.

This seemed as a sufficient response to my grandmother, when my father asked her what his birthday was. During the war, I guess she was more concerned with making it to the next day that she forgot what day it was.

“I have 37 friends with the birthday of January first” proclaimed Ali, the Afghan restaurant owner. My father’s birthday is April 4^th. One dash one, four dash four, These are easy dates to remember and countless immigration forms do a good job of imprinting these dates into your memory and identity. The tragedies of the Jungle were familiar to me. All of the Afghans I know have their own horror stories they overcame, in arriving to America. Their struggles may not have been as intense as though who ended up in the Jungle, however a refugee is still a refugee.

Neurula’s delivered his monologue in a setting that enhanced and dramatized the performance. The room was black with a single light source on Neurula, this singular focus gave more weight to his words. He spoke to the English woman about his journey, I believe directing this speech at this 1^st world women allowed the crowd to better relate. Us in the audience can not fully grasp the emotional distress and pain these refugees face, no matter how many accounts we hear. Neurula and the women both affirming how unrelatable this story is, is an important part in understanding it.  Neurula’s monologue of his journey to France from Sudan reminds me of the stories of my aunts and uncles. Paying smugglers to bring them from one country to another, the uncertainty of having your life in someone else hands, and how fast the tables can turn in these situations. Neurula considers himself dead, drowned like hundreds of people who died trying to arrive to the same spot as him. It must have been fate or luck that he made it to France, I wondered what luck it was that I wasn’t in the same spot as him.

The Jungle was not an overnight creation. The entirety of first act demonstrated the evolution of the camp. Beginning as huts, ethnic groups moved in one by one, proclaiming each region of the Jungle for them and their countryman. Soon one saw how a barren field transformed into the homes, restaurants, barber shops. Emotions ran high during each new crisis the camp had faced, settling ethnic tensions, learning to build homes, recovering from the fire. Each crisis brought the camp closer and closer together, until they were no longer just refugees they were the United People of the Jungle. Watching the creation of this home from the inside of the afghan restaurant made it all the more striking when it was destroyed. The Bulldozing by the French government returned the Jungle back into the barren waste land that it originated from.

Tawalute Mubarak, Tawalute Mubarak. (Happy birthday, Happy birthday).

We had sung this song on my birthday, just as those in the Jungle had sung to Omar on his. For the first time in my life, I’ve never been so happy to have a birthday.

*

Jewish museum

*Television static* During Eid prayer in the capital city of Kabul two car bombings were detonated killing four people and injuring twelve.

These are the images of Afghanistan the media presents to me: Bombing here, terrorist there, U.S. troops everywhere. I can only dream for a day, when I might be see the nation of my parents with my own eyes. For now, I can only view the images of horror on my 4k plasma screen television from safety of living room couch. Martha Rosler understand the hypocrisy of being outraged by images of war while still partaking in consumerism that caused them.

The medium the artist choose was a photographic collage. In total there are three photos overlapped on each other, the Iraqi street, a women and child, and some women in a white gown. Each picture carries their own meaning. In the image of the Iraqi street, The US troops are armed; they are covered in head to toe in full combat gear holding semi-automatic rifles standing atop a tank. This would be fine if they were in the middle of a war zone, however they are just in the city streets of Iraq. There are no enemies with rifles pointed back at the troops only little boys with rainbow covered kites. The streets are filled with freighted pedestrians holding their breaths on what the troops might do.  This leads into the second image of the women and child. The positioning of this picture right in the line of fire of the tank and rifles shows the aggressiveness of the troops. They are not facing criminals only old women and children; the colors of the child and women are muted perhaps indicting some poor fate they might be subjected to. Both of these photos combined take and anti-war stance. The artist herself has proclaimed her as an activist against the US’s position in Iraq and Afghanistan. Point and shoot refers to the troops holding rifles, but as well as the third image of a tall blond women holding a camera. Her camera can take pictures of this conflict and bring it home for all to view. The women herself is an idealization of the 1960’s American sociality expectations on women: blond, tall, pin rolled hair, thin, elegant dressed, with a calm demeanor. Martha Rosler hopes to convey that we, the American public, are equitable to those out in the middle east actively creating violence by our passiveness as witness who do not take action against these war crimes. The economic and political imperialism that has to the violence in this conflict is prolonged just as much as our consumerism and complacency to not take action as anything else.

The medium nor the content of the image is avant garde. For an artistic piece to be avant garde it must be pushing the forefront, creating a style that has never been seen or used before. However unfortunately for this artist, Photocollages have been around as long as there has been photography. As well, political commentary on the horrors of war through the medium photography have been used since the Vietnam war. Commentary on consumerism can been seen in Andy Warhol as well as the communist manifesto. Although none of these ideas are new, doesn’t mean this piece cannot be influential. The medium used shows real word events and horrors, which wake up the public from their complacency and desensitization by the media. Hopefully it wakes us up enough to take action and not allow Martha Rosler’s work go to waste.

“ Sir, that will be two dollars and seventy-five cents”

Reaching inside of my leather pockets, I come up empty handed. I tap my front pockets and then back, fumbling between my keys and phone I find nothing but lint. I feel the glares of the passengers behind me like rays of heat. I apologize to the MTA cashier and silently step aside to the subway walls. Catching my breath, I take off my jacket and place it in my back pack. The subway corridors seem unusually warm during the winter. I wipe my sweat from my forehead and proceeded upstairs to 66st street for some air. Taking a deep breath of brisk fall air, I thought of my cognitive map of Manhattan. I thought of its many blanks. I will not be taking the subway today. I turn around to Lincoln center, I recognize the doors of Fordham University’s library to Breads Bakery where I would often study.

Coming to New York City for College was a rite of passage, I followed the legacy set by my three older sisters. Fordham University has a special place in my home. It is home. “Fordham is a home away from home”. My oldest sister Neilofar would often say this when she was upset. The household I grew up in could be strenuous at times, and it seemed to them that those beautiful rod iron gates functioned as a sanctuary. This concept was nothing new to me and my siblings, education was an escape that we all learned young. At the age of twelve, I learned the beauty of a library. The muted colored books on a shelf had a dull beauty to them that I could only learn by running my fingers along their dusty spines. The quite tables taught me how to hold my gasps for breath for three seconds intervals as to not disturbed the defining quiet. The most comfortable spot in the library could be found on top floor between the book shelves, this is often where I would find my solitude. I’ve followed these old tendencies when I would visit Fordham’s library, out of force of habit as well as respect for the home of my sisters. My reciliation ends as I run my fingers along the last iron rod of the Fordham gates. I’ve reached the end of my cognitive map, what lies below 63^rd street remains a mystery. I procced onward.

“One, two… three” I mummer this to myself as I carefully watch my steps. There is a certain pattern to avoiding cracks in the side walk. I time my steps: ” one” at the beginning of the block – “two” the end- “three” to the middle of the next – the pattern repeats its self. Humming along, I found that my little game has lead me right into the center of times square. Above my head I see a hundred lights, and in front of me I see a hundred faces. I wonder to what could have compelled each person to come here, at this time, on this day. I look below, to see a homeless man on the side walk with a small can of cashews. His face is wrinkled, black, and tired.  I try to avoid eye contact, but he reaches his hand out to me. The man asks me for fifty-three cents, proclaiming how he needed to find his shoes. I froze in place for a second by his nonsensical ramblings, starring into his withered eyes. After a couple of seconds which felt like eternity, I walked on .

“ Lincoln Center, Columbus Circle, then Times Square” I repeat this to myself, filling in my cognitive map. I follow a slightly deranged women out of Times Square. She parted crowds in time square with nothing but her demeanor. I was fascinated with her, she clearly had a score to settle with someone, but I’m not sure she knew who it was with. I continued with my pattern of avoiding cracks down the blocks of Broadway. Every so often I would take a look at the petite black women I followed to Penn station. Every time took the time to loom up, I would see her next victim of her aggression. First was a trash can on 44th street that made the fatal mistake of being in her way. Next was a tall blond white man who felt the need to comment on the women’s demeanor. I laughed as I saw him almost run when the women turned around to address his comments. Her last victim was a fat middle age taxi driver, who from the comfort of his car yelled at her across the street. Parting with the women, I felt bad for initially judging her. I only followed her only ten blocks, but I was saddened when I imagined how much she is bothered throughout the day. The torment, the anger it she started to make sense to me.

Arriving at Penn station, I see that I had missed my usual 8:15 train and would have to take the 8:44. I reflect on my walk, twenty nine minutes that’s all it took, and that has made all the difference.

The walk from the 6-train wasn’t far, yet the unseasonably cold October air did me no favors. I could not help but spectacle the thought process of those who walked around without coats, but then again on Halloween comfort isn’t always the first thought. The streets were filled with monsters, ghouls, witches, and surprising amount politicians. I witnessed Einstein and Obama walk into an Irish pub, the infinite possibilities of a potential joke distracted me the entire way to 36 Bowery street. Arriving inside, I was greeted by the warm welcome of fellow Macaulay peers and better yet central heating.  As I took my seat, I wondered what was in store for me on this festive Halloween evening by New York City’s latest emerging artists.

The venue was quaint and cozy, dimly lit and carpets everywhere. The pleasantly comfortable ambiance,  distracted me from being offended by the exuberant of Persian carpets  in the room. When did it become exotic and Avant Garde to decorate the room with my culture?

Event organizer

“Folks, you are all in store for a lovely evening tonight. We have three artists for you tonight. Without further ado, The Dixon Place present the artists Guerilla Lit Reading Series”  

The most memorable readings came from Laura Catherine Brown, reading from her self-published book Made by Mary. I recall Brown’s clothing, it fit the room well. The brown walls complemented her floral patterns. Her costume was obvious, an American Hippie. As Mary introduced the title of her novel, she spoke in a soft voice that pulled the audience in and had them hold their breaths to catch her next word. Brown’s tone of voice and characteristics to me was reminiscent of mother. She looked like a mother, as if she had put her children to bed, right before arriving to The Dixon Place. This image of a mother that I had conjured, made her story seem all the more surprising.

The narrator of the novel was young lesbian women struggling with her partner about surgency. The first tale account allowed the audience to understand the dilemmas and ordeals the narrator faces. The excerpt begins in a doctor’s office, the narrators mind wonders dully around the room. She eventually arrives at the understanding that the gynecologist has just informed her that she is unable to carry child. the narrator turns to her lesbian partner, instead of finding the comfort one would hope for she is meet with emotionally abuse. Arriving back to her apartment, she engages in substance abuse to cope with the emotion distress and toils around trying to find some higher meaning. The story concludes with a memory of the partner pressuring the narrator into mulling illicit drugs into her cervix cavity.

Although the story’s premise is very intriguing, the delivery of Brown fell short. It was difficult to understand the emotional weight of her thoughts due to her raspy poor enunciation. This might be due to lack of practice, Brown did mention it was her first time reciting this excerpt. As a member of an audience, I could not absorb the full content of her reading. Perhaps there is a gap of understanding between reading the words yourself compared to hearing them aloud. Upon reflecting on her excerpt, I noticed that how one says a word is just as impactful as what one is saying. Had Brown just enunciated her reading with more intensity or used hand gestures to convey the narrator’s mental turmoil, the experience of the audience  would be significantly different.

As I walked out of The Dixon Place on Halloween night, I chuckled to myself. So, four Macaulay students walk into a poetry reading-