Eman Al-Obeidy: The Whore Of Libya

This blog you will read below, I had written on the last day in March in recognition of Women’s History Month. The news report from which I  drew my inspiration,  didn't have much information about the woman in Lybia. Many people hadn't heard of this young woman, Eman Al-Obeidy who is a lawyer. Her story is tragic and at the same time triumphant. On Anderson 360 last night, we heard what is thought to be Ms. Al Obeidy's testimony translated to English where she reported that she was  sodomized with guns,repeatedly beaten, and raped by her captors. I paraphrase what she said:  My life  it is beyond this; it is meaningless, I don't care if I die; I just want people to know what is happening to me and other women in this country.
Eman, I saw you on television last night. You were outraged, and disheveled.  I saw your beauty, and felt your anger and pain. I understood your fury. I applauded your noble stance you have taken in the throes of your country’s upheaval.  You have inserted your own pain and made the world aware of what’s happening to women as the men go about fighting for their liberty. Your mere presence has sparked such terror in the souls of an entire country it seems.

It was reported that it was an army of men, who purposefully perpetrate a war against you; that you have been raped by 15 soldiers. Now you are imprisoned for their sins -- disappeared to an unknown location. I shutter, at the thought of what might be happening to you since you were last seen.

Fifteen men you say, who have misused the instruments of love as a weapon against your holy body and mind?  

I too fear for these men, who cannot see their mother in you, or their sisters or daughters. How blind they are, to not be able to see themselves in your eyes when they raped you.  For surly you must have thought about your son, brothers or father who sit with you at the same dinner table and who sleep beside you at night. Did you wonder if they were like these men?

Oh you Whore of Libya, I am also given to understand from the news report I watched on CNN last night that you’re insane. Well of course you are, as the image of your madness was clearly evident and repeatedly televised, to prove that you are out of your mind.  I watched you scream and shout and witnessed you being dragged away from the camera and shoved into the back seat of a car. I saw someone throw a black coat or something, over your head as if this would make you null and void in my mind.

Could it be possible, that you the Whore of Libya, who allegedly  took on these fifteen men like a champ, are part of a long line of women in your country who are silenced? And that you have broken this code by choosing to speak out about the age old atrocities, visited on women not only in Libya, but all over the world”

And if what you say is true, I am wondering if you will be seen as one of the heroes in your country’s war for liberation?   I am wondering if the women in your country are allowed to be heroes. Because clearly sister, you are well qualified to be Libya’s Whore.

I Want

I want to walk along the edge of time.

I want to meet a perfect stranger.

I want to romp and sing in the rain.

I want to dance when someone is looking.

I want to crawl among the stars.

I want to kiss the man in the moon.

I want to feel like a kid again.

I want to fall in love with love.

I want to cry unitil I laugh.

I want to hear the sound of peace.

I want to be a perfect stranger.

relatively synchronistic

the night of the earthquake in japan, leading to the tsunami, water ran from my kitchen sink and downstairs to my neighbor’s apartment.

the synchronicity of the two floods obviously can’t be compared by any stretch of my imagination, but the relatively lesser tragedy, of my neighbor's ceiling collapsing was as horrific to her, as the homes in japan being swept away.

this incident has caused me to take note that i must take more time, rather than rush through my days, as if my hair is on fire or that I have a plane to catch, as i so often do. further, i must not forget to turn off my stove and oven when not in use. more so, i might want to contemplate my navel more frequently, pay attention to my breath
and listen to my heart on a regular basis.

that i must focus more, give more thought to one thing at a time, rather than to think or worry about what i have to do tomorrow or the next second; that multi-tasking is an accident waiting to happen, as was so sorely evident on the night of the flood.

Josephine Baker A Universal Treasure On The Paris Noir Trail

Paris Noir, (Black Paris) is less than a place and more so a memory lane to where many African American’s make their pilgrimages every year. Their journey is as sacred to them as one going to Mecca, Benares or the Vatican. Along this trail one of the most universally recognized treasures is Josephine Baker (b. 1903).

At 18 years old, Baker a native of St. Louis, Missouri, was a dancer. She, had come to Paris to perform at the popular café, Bricktop’s (66 Rue Pigalle. The club’s owner was what was then termed, a Negro woman named Ada Beatrice Queen Victoria Louise Smith from West Virginia. Smith was in her business the equivalent to an Empress who held all of Europe’s royals, American dignitaries, celebrities and writers who had haunted her place till many early morning dawns in Paris, in the palm of her hands. It would be for nearly a half century that Bricktops was the place to be and to slum with America’s writer Ernest Hemingway and music composer Cole Porter and Europe’s Duke and Duchess of Windsor, to name a few blue bloods and luminaries.

After World War Two had ended, Baker stayed on in Paris and would eventually adopt France as her country. She is still loved and remembered by the French people who claimed her as their own, had anointed her “La Baker”, connoting her stature and unique qualities, as an entertainer, a screen actor a humanitarian and citizen of France.

During her life, Baker’s image was the face (and body) on products from theatrical stage bills to automobile engine lubricant and everything in between the two. Today, her iconic image is highly valued by interior designers and collectors of objects baring her recognizable banana skirt and bare breasts found on curios, posters, caricatures, lithographs picture postcards and book covers, such as “Negrophilia, Avant-Garde Paris and Black Culture in the 1920s” where Baker is posing with her famous pet cheetah.  It is also very important to remember that Baker, though having left her native country, America she had returned there to join Dr. Martin Luther King in his march for Civil Rights and racial equality, in the country where she was born, but one that never fully embraced her.

While visiting Paris, visitors and natives alike can take a dive in the Josephine Baker Swimming Pool, located on the banks of the Seine. (Paris’s famed river), known for its nine bridges that connect the Right and Left banks of the city, including the oldest one of all Pont Neuf.

During Baker’s lifetime, she held the prominence of being the most fabulously dressed, and most famous and wealthiest female entertainer in the world. And as a patriot of her adopted country, Baker was awarded the highest medal of honor in France for her bravery (working as a spy) in General Charles De Gaulle’s war against the Germans who invaded Paris in 1939. Tragically, she died a poor woman.

Baker’s last home, a Château located in the French Countryside is now a museum and though off the beaten track is included on the Paris Noir Trail.

It is there where Baker had lived almost to the end of her life, and where she raised her 13 adopted children, born in different countries,  who she called her Rainbow Tribe.

In New York City, on West 42^nd Street, is located Chez Josephine. The restaurant’s owner is Baker’s son, Jean Claude Baker (#13) of the tribe. It is a charming place, evoking France and a befitting tribute to his mother’s style and class and most significantly, Josephine Baker’s contribution to World Peace, World Culture Fashion and History.

Thanks again for coming to Moi, Mahmoudah. This blog is written in celebration and acknowledgment of Women’s History Month 2011.

Collague Mahmoudah Young