Every now and then, I would follow current event issue with interest. Not too often, because sadly, our national affairs are in a pitiful state of chaos that is nothing if not disgruntling to follow up.

Typically, people would argue and voices would be raised and words would turn sharper and sharper, until the issue is stomped back into oblivion with no further resolution. A wide range of people would contribute to that hectic fury, some with more right than others, and others with only the illusion of the right to speak. And as they argue and bicker at one another, I find myself wondering whether that argument is for what’s in the best interest of the nation, what’s in the best interest of their personal bank accounts, or simply in the best interest of fickle egos that feed upon little victories, such as silencing an opponent- who might as well be bored into silence.

Some of the arguments I hear are reasonable, coming from individuals who don’t claim to be well-informed, but who sound it. Individuals who have the common sense and the logic to support an argument and carry it confidently without sounding like five year olds in a brawl over toys. At other times, arguments are supposedly supported by evidence that are flaunted around like a stripper’s feather boa in a cheap show, supported with the same amount of common sense expected to be found in the brain of a gum-chewing bimbo whose life revolves around manicures, and of course, sprinkled with moments of childish persistence and an occasional foot-stomp or two. The type of argument that gives a headache, an indigestion and an incredible sense of contempt towards the level some people seem to descend to, while claiming superior knowledge and skill.

Personally, I am a firm believer in sheer human values; my ‘Iraqism’ is secondary to my humanity, and everything else is secondary to my ‘Iraqism’. For that matter, I simply believe that Iraq would be a worthless piece of land without people to hold it true to its value, whatever that is. A lot of people seem to disagree with that, seeing that their personal ‘vision’ for a futuristic and prosperous Iraq has to be the offspring of their current convictions. And that if anybody disagrees, they’re traitors to the land and…whatever values it allegedly stands for.

One argument I was dragged into lately was regarding the likelihood of a Kurdish separation, and where the remainder of the Iraqi population would stand.

I have to say at some point I was rather spiteful towards separationist Kurds and the fact that while the country is in time of crisis, they would be bailing on it. However, as time passed by and I saw that not one stratus of the population was reaching to another in an attempt to reconcile, I realized that having the potential to break free from a situation, no one should have to deal with a mess they do not claim as their own.

Let the eagle, sparrow or even the chicken spread its wings, so long as it can. Whether it takes off is another matter, and it’s the bird’s problem.

One lady, who interestingly claims to be educated and refined and spends a vast amount of her time praising herself and ridiculing all opposition, suddenly came up with the theory that separationist Kurds should be expelled from the country. To quote roughly, she said something to the effect that if they claim the potential to start a country of their own, they should go buy an island off the shores of Turkey and live there, we will not share our land with them.

Apparently she forgot that Arabs didn’t sprout out of the lands of Iraq, and that by the same argument, we should all be denounced and expelled southwards into the sands of Arabia, and that the population should solely be composed of our Assyrian brothers. And apparently she has forgotten that the reason Iraq used to be so unique was its diversity; our inherent ability to live together despite all the so-called ‘differences’. Once that ability turns to an inability to tolerate one another, it’s best that we go our separate ways.

Another argument I shared just yesterday was regarding Kirkuk; whether the city should be integrated into the autonomous region of Kurdistan, or whether it should maintain its status quo as…I don’t know what.

The opinion that I shared on that matter, which seemed to displease so many people, was as simple as that I believe nobody has as much as half a vote on that matter beside the actual population of Kirkuk, regardless of their ethnic and religious backgrounds, given that the city is a tapestry of threads in diverse colors that compose the overall pictures. Poetic analogy, completely ripped off another person’s argument, who ironically saw that they had no right to demand to be integrated into Kurdistan. My opinion was as simple as holding a referendum to see how opinions swayed, and operating based on that. Because after all, one cannot force them into adopting the failing southern part of the country in the name of patriotism, while they could have a chance to prosper under the flag of the northern region.

That flag is another point of argument which I find rather ridiculous.

At any rate, what happened was that everybody disagreed, or almost. Ironically, not one person was from Kirkuk and the vast majority of the speakers haven’t seen Iraq in a number of years that can mostly be counted using double digits.

Claiming the right to decide what’s best for Iraq is a nice thing. We all have the right to express our opinions, especially regarding what we think is best for our nation. But if we fail to agree or reach out into a middle ground, then we ought to shut up really, and give other people an opportunity to try what we have failed at.

Moreover, people who have left Iraq 10, 15 or even 20 years ago and have settled into various other countries aren’t likely to ever return regardless of all the pink dreams and the cloud-nines they paint so artfully with words. Having settled into a new country, integrated into its population and adopted the most suitable of its habits, having gotten a job and a home and put your children to school, having achieved stability, financial and otherwise…such things aren’t particularly easy to give up for the dreams of returning to a home that is no more than memories we bear and cherish, and that no longer exist anywhere but our minds and hearts.

People who have settled and established their lives with any amount of success aren’t likely to trade the stable life of a stable country for the unstable, doubtful life of a country that is still very much like a prematurely-born infant struggling for a breath in an incubator. And by the time that infant is sturdy, breathing on its own and functioning, the odds are that none of us will be alive to dream anymore, and our children will have never seen what we speak of. Our children will have forgotten what we used to say, and they will have already established their own lives in the only homes they’ve known. Away from ‘Home’.

So ultimately, the arguing and the grudges that build from it are time and effort laid to waste. An unnecessary heart ache. Emphasizing non-existent differences and sprouting disagreements out of the fact that we are all practically the same and only human beings. Somehow, the fact that we would all like to live in peace and prosperity is overridden by a mad impulse to prove right, to have the loudest voice and the fattest wallet and the most powerful contacts. And the most fed egos.

It’s usually why I avoid current events and arguing.

So I’m in one of those absolutely ridiculous and absurdly undecided moods where I’d like to do a fuckton of things, none of which seems quite doable at the moment. That is, beside vegetating and writing a crappy post that represents the manifestation of those stirrings of life that are summed up in occasional, stray electric pulses going off between the remainder of those still-functional neurons in my brain.

Way to try to sound smart. I could have just said ‘bullshit’.

I blame that on coffee.

I feel like giving my feet a good soak in hot water and then some load of cream and ridiculously thick cotton socks- the footsie idea of a spa- since they’re aching after yet another day of walking around picking the perfect ‘accessories’ that we don’t exactly need for the new apartment. In sandals. I might add that when the Romans (Or the Greeks, or who-the-eff-ever) invented Sandals, they didn’t really consider the amount of things that –could- and –would- fall on your feet while you’re doing some shopping. For example…curtain rods, entire rolls of curtain or upholstery fabric, that big giant box where the metal table lamp you were particular about sits, or just your good little bottle of water that decides to inconveniently slip and fall down on your toes, because you’re just at that point where your brain doesn’t toss a nickel to coordinate whack for you. Not to mention by-passers pushing carts – shopping, baby and otherwise- who aren’t exactly paying attention to tiny little you with your tiny little feet in your tiny little sandals. Because they’re tall, and you’re just below their ‘superior’ field of vision.

In this case, that’s…pretty much ‘me’.

The reason why I can’t do that just now is unknown. Well, at least unknown beyond ‘too tired to give a rat’s ass about pampering my feet right now’.

I also feel like grabbing the guitar for some strumming if it wasn’t for the fact that my arm and my shoulder aren’t getting along well- not beyond the fact that I’m their common enemy, anyway. Apparently, shoulders get touchy-feely about heavy weights and over-loaded purses and shopping bags with shoulder straps that aren’t exactly designed for the shopper’s comfort as much as they’re designed to prod the lame shopper into going home as soon as he’s paid the dues. So that too is out of question.

I do feel like writing a post. Unfortunately, I also feel like sleeping but I have two coffees running my system at the moment and the only thing that would come out of my mouth- or my fingers, such is the case now- is totally useless nonsensical crap. Most of which consists of whining about my day and about all the things I’d like to do right now but can’t do because I’m physically beat and quite close to being brain dead. If not just that.

Anyway, so I feel like drawing. But apparently when your arm and shoulder don’t get along your hand tends to catch the ‘vibe’ of ‘negative energy’ and breaks in tears. And since both ‘arm’ and ‘shoulder’ agree on the fact that you’re the common enemy, the hand is of course swayed by…well…democratic means, and agrees with them by proxy.

I mean me, of course. And not much logic can come out of this brain so…well..beat it!

And brain death tends to…you know…hinder all ‘creative’ effort put into drawing something that is completely out of my artistic league to begin with. And that was “UNspired” by the prolongued ride home, passing by one exceptionally-lame goth motel in the downtown area at lunch time rush hour. With an empty stomach. And a….well…my brain was dead already by then. Go figure.

That brain death thingie? Being a vegetable and all? Yes that’s the result of waking up at 9 at the sound of ‘hammering’, not quite the ideal wake up ‘music to my ears’ kind of thing. After like 4-5 hours of sleep when my system is only functional after 8+ sleep hours. Plus the two coffees that should have compensated for the lack of sleep but completely blew the task by killing what little gray matter was restored by those few sleep hours, and finally…a long day of walking around various shops, putting up with heat, cold and noise and lots of tiny accidents where…well…pain was playing the grim reaper for my brain.

Time to pop a pill for the pain, watch some lame sitcoms and call “dibs out” to going grocery shopping.

Anybody that has moved at least once in their lifetime ended up realizing that moving, exciting as it may be at times, is the supreme form of legal self-inflicted torture ever invented by mankind.

At least with my family, it is.

So I moved from Portugal almost a year ago now. And my moving I mean a process that took well over two months that involved packing everything from the most unnecessary sort of needles in our drawers to those gigantic pieces of furniture my mother fell in love with, and by the grace of that menace, we had shipped. In between lies everything from quilts and blankets, to hordes of pillows and all sorts of household items, china and silver, electronics and all sorts of oddities either parent fancied useful. Or just…fancied, really. And by everything, I mean everything short from anything that can actually be put to daily use; fancy pieces of furniture are too fancy for me to sit on with a bowl of Mac &Cheese, and there was no actual furniture shipped beside that, after the ridiculously long shopping process and the painstakingly-longer packing process.

I cannot complain, however. I’ve participated my fair share to that menace; I’ve chipped in with five gigantic and ridiculously heavy boxes, full of everything from books to my pillows, posters, checkered sorts of adhesive paper and things as ridiculous as glow-in-the-dark items. Again, nothing particularly useful or good for daily use. Save for my sacred box of stationary and about a dozen blocks of paper (I’m a stationary glutton, tyvm!)

Now, when I was moving I knew forehand that I won’t be moving to the apartment/house I was to settle into. Because we had practically had no idea where we were moving. To make matters worse, it was still the high season of tourism, which meant that our hotel reservation could not be stretched by much. Quite so, that the week we stayed at the hotel was a sort of a miracle, and we were preparing to either find another hotel or dig for another room by the time we found an apartment to move into. But of course, it was a furnished apartment.

To be in the picture, imagine this. My mother is an extremely opinionated lady who can be extremely picky about what she wants and where she lives. To her, staying at a furnished apartment was very much like staying at a convenient hotel until she found an apartment she really fancied. Knowing that, by the grace of God that is, my suitcase weighed a whopping 57 kilograms the morning I left because I’d made sure I’d stuffed everything I could possibly need for a year to come. Not to mention the two pieces of hand luggage which weren’t checked; the backpack containing my laptop and which quite inconveniently weighed about 15 kilograms to its own right thanks to the masses of AC adapters and electronics I’ve stuffed there. And the other trolley bag in which all the books, papers and a variety of other items settled into.

Indeed, I did not regret the mind-numbingly packed luggage, because almost a year later I was still living in the furnished apartment, using the same things I brought with me, and waiting for my dear-dear things of which I no longer had a solid memory. I only knew I had a guitar in those boxes, and that I liked the contents quite enough to pack them.

….Not exactly.

After a year spent looking around apartments in Budapest, we came to a conclusion that sizeable apartments were a myth. Furthermore, living in the metropolitan area gave you one of two choices; old and supposedly classic buildings which would give me the creeps on days when classes ran late and well into the dark and which had more problems than a 90 year old lady, or modern and super-convenient buildings which came with apartments the size of a thimble. The furnished apartment I was staying at was in a modern and super-convenient compound, suitably situated at a proximity from everything; the subway, college, the marketplaces, the tourist attractions, promenade spots, a mall and most conveniently of all, two supermarkets downstairs. So after a year of looking, the conclusion was that we utterly refused to consider even the sole idea of moving out of that particular neighborhood. A little while afterwards, it was ‘no leaving this compound’.

The REAL issue here was the size of almost all the apartments we’ve seen; they’re too small, most came with no storage space and many people thought that we ought to ‘rent’ their garage separately, which went otherwise unused. Didn’t add up to make much sense.

But one day, two contract-extensions later and less than a month to go for another extension, we found an apartment! Not only was it in the same neighborhood and the same compound, it’s in the same darn building! And not only was it rather large, but it also came with a storage space in the basement and a parking spot as well. The only issue here was the fact that it was empty; zilch, nada, nichts. There was absolutely nothing in that apartment beside…well…blinds.

I was thrilled, of course. At first at least. Not that long afterwards it dawned on me that shopping for furniture was a form of torture to its own right. But I was telling myself I will finally have my precious boxes and the rest of my suitcases and that I will live happily forever after. Or for a few years at least.
Well….no.

A month later, we did have the bedrooms and the closets and the desks and the dressers and the television and the rest of…what you expect to find in a normal household. Or a relatively normal one. But it was finally time to get the boxes and dude was I surprised. I’ve apparently underestimated the 50-something boxes, each of which with the potential of packing three people my size with extra room for foam!

That was the real hiccup. I was just done packing today and I swear I would rather…die than pack and move again. The storage is full to the point where you cannot even stuff a slipper. My closet is so full I can’t even slip my hand between the racks. My dresser is quite full that if I don’t fold a shirt right, the drawer will hang open. And mind you, I’m not the type to fold things, so that isn’t sitting well with me at all.

Not only that, but I’ve had a rather unimpressive collection of bruises thanks to the number of items I’ve bumped, dropped or walked straight into. A number of old injuries prevailing like my beloved right knee going bonkers to the point of having me call it an unflattering name that begins with a B and has an itch. And I’ve only unpacked two boxes worth of items because- surprise, surprise!- there’s no room for anything else.

Not that I deemed ANY of the remaining items of any use.

I also refuse to consider what could have happened if we’ve found an apartment in another building or worse, another compound. The apartment I moved to is at the 5th floor, two floors down from the furnished one where I stayed.

I spent last night in the apartment for the first time while my folks spent it in the other apartment as they were supposed to move the fridge’s contents this morning and hand over the keys. Not to mention that the satellite receiver had to be moved here, and they’re as attached to it as I am to the internet subscription which I had transferred here.

Was it all worth it?

The bed is a world more comfortable, I have a fancy desk straight out of a futuristic sci-fi gig and a room to go with it, the lights are to my taste- I even have a table lamp with leads- and I have a lovely view over the compound’s garden instead of the high school yard the old apartment overlooked. It is a mess if I step outside my room, but it’s a mess my parents are sorting out, so that doesn’t bother me. I have my massive collection of silly glow-in-the-dark items stuck on the walls already, with my 5 posters pending for me to muster the will to climb around and hang them.

Yes, the compound’s playground is in the garden and I’ve exchanged street and school noises with children, not to mention the unholy sound of the lawn mower every other day. I’ve also exchanged the laughter of over-partied and quite drunk youth wandering back home for the noise of crickets and frogs lurking about the miniature pond. Which is oddly soothing and ‘nightley’, so to speak.

And there are no shutters on my windows anymore because the sun doesn’t hit here, but there are blinds. Again, my walls aren’t white but a shade of beige I would pick if I were 30 years older even though it sits rather nicely with everything now.

Moreover, mom’s hideously oversized pieces of furniture seemed to eat up space in the living area, and they’re not items I’d risk my life by sitting upon; they look gracefully sturdy, but it’s my mother I’m fearing here.

But I am quite content despite sleep-deprivation (my fault), and despite feeling as though somebody has taken the trouble to break every single bone in my body in three or more locations before poking my muscles with pins. I’m finally ‘home’.

Every time I turn on TV, pick a news paper or surf the web I find myself staring at one of three things; American primary elections, or in other words the Hillary-Obama show. The Lebanese crisis which is, to me, of no interest whatsoever. And finally, whatever fireworks take place anywhere in Iraq. Which is, in all honesty, becoming like a broken record in terms of how the government responds to it and how everybody peeves everybody else about it.

Regarding the primary elections, it’s very much like living in the same building as a big fat lady; she dyes her hair every four years. It shouldn’t concern me if she dyes it blond, as long as she doesn’t come to my doorstep and act blond.

Lebanon; that’s a different building, in a different compound, altogether in a different district. It can crash and burn. My interest in that area is similar to that in Panama’s forecast.

When it comes to Iraq though, sometimes I feel compelled to just sit and watch bits and pieces of the news because it’s simply impossible to be disinterested no matter how frustrating it all gets. Though regardless of how frustrating it gets, it all sounds comic in the news. At least the parts where some boo-hoo government official makes a doo-daa statement about something altogether preposterous. The bigger the scale, the more darkly-amusing it all gets.

For example, during Al-Maliki’s visit to Iran, which was dedicated to un-ruffling their ruffled feathers over the security pact project, he made a statement which, if anything, made me look around and wonder what the hell I’m doing so far away from home if it’s all so…good!

“Iraq today doesn’t present any threat as it used to be in the times of the former regime. Today’s Iraq is a constitutional state based on the rule of law, and it seeks to develop its relations with the regional countries based on cooperation and mutual respect”. Al-Maliki said.

True enough, the ‘country’ couldn’t hurt a fly if it wanted to. I don’t suppose it could manage anything of the sort when it’s got gastrointestinal cancer. However, what really amused me more than anything is how Iraq is a constitutional state based on the rule of law. It’s a no-brainer, turn on your television and amuse yourself.
When it comes to “developing relations with the regional countries based on cooperation and mutual respect” I suppose by that he means “We provide a nice mess to keep the world too occupied to what may be happening next door” or…”we provide their religious fanatics with a cause to become martyrs” though I’m sure we’ll catch a glimpse of them in hell. Or perhaps he means something in the line of getting bullied on grounds of “cooperation and mutual respect”.

The cherry to that lovely cupcake would be…

Earlier, Iran’s state-run news agency IRNA quoted the Iraqi leader as saying that “Baghdad would not allow its soil to be used as a base to damage the security of the neighboring countries, including Iran.”

I don’t know whether he actually made that statement or some genius improvised it before publishing his front-page report about Al-Maliki’s visit. I just know that it takes absolutely no genius to sort two things out.

The first being that with or without a security pact, if and when the US perceive the need to take action against Iran, they wouldn’t have a real problem with using Iraqi soil for that purpose (Whether strategically and logistically convenient it’s another matter). The government can bark all they want about it, but the fluffy secure dens in which they all live are kept tightly secure by Americans. And if they bark too loud, hell will break loose. Think about it.
The second is simply that the chances for the US taking military action against Iran in the near future, with Iraq representing the deep swamp in the way it currently is, are so slim. Pick a map and take a good contemplative look at the massive frontier extending from Iraq to Afghanistan, and think “Would they, or wouldn’t they”.

I’m a simpleton, I like to look at things as they are. I don’t like fancy and elaborate conspiracy theories with justifications to everything that has happened since day-1, made and fitted specifically for the gap at hand. I have no problems with staring at TV for a while, staring at the map for a while and doing some simple math.

It’s just safe to make statements of the sort, especially when the whole mission behind the visit is to hand over tranquilizers to people who do complicated math before opening their mouths. It makes everything sound more or less like…well, the Muppet Show. Which is, again, preposterous.

So it’s been five years. Do I really want to open that can of worms…

Let’s see. People talk about it, and in their words there’s a hue of sentiments from praise to resentment, all of which have already been chewed up and spit out so repeatedly over the years that if anything, it all sounds slimy.

I don’t even have an opinion regarding the war and its aftermath anymore. It’s something that’s happened already; even though I’m too much a cynic to believe in that bull about the basic human goodness which made everybody want to free Iraq and Iraqis, I wouldn’t particularly care if they were driven there by the devil. Truly, in my opinion, finding out the true reasons and waving them out like “Eureka!” won’t do, or undo, anything.

I’m sick of people flaunting their make-shift believes at me as though they’re worth a nickel, demanding that if I don’t blindly believe, that I don’t believe in the opposite. I’m sick of people with brains like a shiny bubble that…reflects everything but is full of air. I’m sick of people who are determined to stifle thought; all thought except for what serves their interests…or suits their mood. I’m sick of people who are blind and deaf to all but the voice of their mind and the voice of their idol.

In honor of a fifth year of futile nonsensical rattle passing, why don’t you all shut up?!

I don’t care about race, ethnicity, religion, political orientations and hands that rock the godforsaken cradle anymore. I don’t care. May they all, idiots and idols and ideologies, rot in hell. All I care about is that five years later, that piece of land remains the Reaper’s hot spot, thanks those who sell canned thoughts with patriotic wraps, causing the bloodshed to continue and lives to have become nothing but statistics.

If only the bloodshed made a difference, but we have all seen beyond doubt that it will not raise the dead or restore the lives that fell apart from either side. Not the soldier, and not the civilian; those who fell are missed as parents, siblings, partners and friends. They’re missed as humans. But people stopped noticing that because they’re too busy talking and “being different”.

Happy-effing-Anniversary, Cain and Abel!