This is my translation, with help from friends, of another poem by Makhdoom Mohiuddin. As always, the translation is still a work in progress — so if you know Urdu and English, and have suggestions, let me know through the comments (same goes for transliteration).

The poem itself was collected in his 1944 anthology, Surkh Sawera, or Red Dawn. It was written to protest Indian troops fighting for Britain in the “imperialist phase” (samraaji daur) of the second world war.

sipahi
makhdoom mohiuddin

jaane waale sipahi se poochho
voh kahaaN jaa raha hai

kaun dukhiya hai jo gaa rahi hai
bhooke bachchoN ko behla rahi hai
laash jalne ki boo aa rahi hai
zindagi hai ki chilla rahi hai

jaane waale sipahi se poochho
voh kahaaN jaa raha hai

kitne sehme hue haiN nazaare
kaisa Dar Dar ke chalte haiN taare
kya jawaani ka KhooN ho raha hai
surKh haiN aaNchaloN ke kinare

jaane waale sipahi se poochho
voh kahaaN jaa raha hai

gir raha hai siyahi ka Dera
ho raha hai meri jaaN savera
o vatan choRh kar jaane waale
khul gaya inquilaabi farera

jaane waale sipahi se poochho
voh kahaaN jaa raha hai

Soldier
Makhdoom Mohiuddin

Ask the departing soldier
Where he is going

Ask the departing soldier
Where he is going

The vistas themselves are afraid
How frightened the stars proceed
Such murder of youth
Red are the hems of veils

Ask the departing soldier
Where he is going

The tent of darkness is falling
My dear, the dawn is coming
O you who have left the nation!
The revolutionary flag is unfurled

Ask the departing soldier
Where he is going

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This is my translation of a poem by my homeboy Makhdoom Mohiuddin. I did this last week, and the translation is still a work in progress — so if you know Urdu and English, and have suggestions, please hit me up in the comments (same goes for transliteration).

The poem itself was collected in his 1944 anthology, Surkh Sawera, or Red Dawn.

muhabbat ki chhaoN
makhdoom mohiuddin

raat aur din yooNhi aate jaate rahe
husn aur ishq takmeel paate rahe

Shade of Love
Makhdoom Mohiuddin

When I slept in the shade of love
Even thorns seemed to be flowers then

That was a matter of the beginning of passion!
That was a night of love, full of stars

My heart’s strings were struck by the pick
Fires rose up, a kind of intoxication cast over

The one endowed with beauty was endowed abundantly
The one I looked at endlessly was revelation

Once my whole heart was washed over with lightning
Lightning was dissolved in my every vein

My heart’s amusement became the reason for my heart’s pain
My heart’s amusement became the story of my tears

My life began to change in a moment
My life began to be cast in the mould of sorrow

The day of love declined, the evening began
My heart began to throb, my eyes began to cry

Night and day came and went like this
Finding beauty and love finished

Revelation. I’ve translated toor as revelation. toor literally means hill or mountain, but refers to Mount Sinai and to the revelation received by Moses there. On Mount Sinai:

bol, ke lab aazad haiN tere
bol, zabaaN ab tak teri hai
tera sutwaaN jism hai tera
bol ke jaaN ab tak teri hai
dekh ke aahangar ki dukaaN meiN
tund haiN sholay, surKh hai aahan
khulnay lagay qufloN ke dahaane
phela har ek zanjeer ka daaman
bol, yeh thoRa waqt buhut hai
jism-o zabaaN ki maut se pehle
bol ke such zinda hai ab tak
bol, jo kuch kehna hai keh le!

V.G. Kiernan’s poetic translation:
Speak, for your two lips are free;
Speak, your tongue is still your own;
This straight body still is yours’
Speak, your life is still your own.

See how in the blacksmith’s forge
Flames leap high and steel glows red,
Padlocks open wide their jaws,
Every chain’s embrace outspread!

Time enough is this brief hour
Until body and tongue lie dead;
Speak, for truth is living yet–
Speak whatever must be said.

V.G. Kiernan’s literal translation:
Speak, for your lips are free;
Speak, your tongue is still yours,
Your upright body is yours’
Speak, your life is still yours.
See how in the blacksmith’s shop
The flames are hot, the iron is red,
Mouths of locks have begun to open,
Each chain’s skirt has spread wide.
Speak, this little time is plenty
Before the death of body and tongue;
Speak, for truth is still alive–
Speak, say whatever is to be said.

Faiz Ahmed Faiz

I’ve read and heard this one a few times, and even in Faiz’s own voice (frankly, he isn’t no Habib Jalib as far as this is concerned). But it wasn’t until today that I heard Tina Sani’s rendition and it really hit me, pretty deep. (Of course, Z sent me this file a long time ago and in my usual indolence I didn’t listen to it until now. My bad.)

Sani’s version on YouTube:

Skirt, or daaman, doesn’t have the gendered implication it would in English. The word, depending on the context, has one too many meanings. Another way to translate the line is to imply that the chains are actually begging. But Kiernan was down with Faiz and the latter looked over the translation. Note, also, the poetic translation, “Every chain’s embrace outspread!”

I wanted to put up a quick note to bring together something that I have been noticing for a while on subways, bus shelters, and most recently on the television.

First, if you needed any more reasons to buy the HTC phone, here’s a solid one: you are now a revolutionary. An HTC phone revolutionary. Join the revolution.

Second, if you needed any more reasons to listen to hit music radio, here’s a solid one: there is a movement. The Virgin radio movement. Join the movement.

Third, if you needed any more reasons to get the flu shot, here’s three solid ones: resist missing midterms and finals, resist missing res parties, and resist missing hanging out with friends. Resist the flu. Join the resistance.

It’s that easy.

No!

The letter I sent to the Globe & Mail’s editor-in-chief, comment editor, and Tony Jenkins:

Dear Messrs Greenspon, Martin and Jenkins,

The cartoon printed on Monday, February 18, attempts to take a stab at the substance of what an Afrocentric curriculum may look like. As many readers have noted, the cartoon is racist. I can imagine that, in your defense, you will say something along the lines of, ‘If we thought it was hateful, it wouldn’t be allowed.’ Mr Jenkins might assert that his cartoon is based on real life, and that it is only meant to shed light on a different viewpoint. After all, this is not the first time Mr Jenkins has expressed his racism through his art. On July 6, 1994 the Globe & Mail published a cartoon captioned, ‘Wisdom of the elders…’ This cartoon depicted Natives as drunken, smoking gamblers, passing on such “wisdom” to Native youth. A humourous turn of phrase, no doubt, in the minds of Mr Jenkins and the then associate editor of the Globe & Mail, Sarah Murdoch — but vile and racist, nonetheless.

In this latest cartoon, the ‘joke’, of course, is that knowledge itself is decisively nonracial and, indeed, can’t possibly be racialized — so the only way these schools would be “Afrocentric” is through the thick-lipped, ebonicized blackness of the teachers (and students).

In the cartoon, the key element of Afrocentrism is the ebonics (“S’up, dog?”), and this means that what characterizes African cultures (and the cultures of descendants) is the bastardization of proper, common standards of discourse (that is to say, knowledge), and therefore, behaviour. And this bastardization—this wanton inability to get it right—is all that separates the Afrocentric curriculum from the supposedly non-cultural, non-racial curriculum that gets taught in “normal” schools. So, not only are these Afrocentrists setting themselves apart, but they are going to ruin the ability of black students to interact with “mainstream” Canadians.

These assumptions and assertions, carried by the cartoon, are not only ignorant of the content of and debate surrounding Afrocentric schools, but wrong and deeply racist. Tony Jenkins and the Globe & Mail should apologize to all readers for printing this cartoon. It was not funny, it was racist. It was not enlightening, except to reveal how deeply racism is entrenched into Mr Jenkins’s art and the Globe & Mail’s editorial decisions. In addition, Mr Jenkins and those involved in deciding to publish the cartoon should attend anti-oppression and anti-racism seminars.

Awaiting your apology,
Noaman Ali

Yes, folks, letters can and will change the world. (Not.)

I googled Tony Jenkins, the cartoonist who drew the racist Globe & Mail cartoon I commented on earlier. It turns out this isn’t the first time Jenkins has been a racist. In 1994, Jenkins drew, and the Globe & Mail published, the following:

Does the racism in this cartoon need to be elaborated upon? Does anyone have to break this down?

Tony Jenkins, the cartoonist, defended his work, saying it wasn’t racist but based on fact or real life. He said the inspiration from the work came from a story about the Kahnawake community’s rejection of a casino project. There are about 60 bands waiting in the wings to get into gaming.

Natives are into smoking, drinking and now gambling, Jenkins said. At one time, Elders would pass on information about hunting and trapping. Now the knowledge that will be passed down will be about gambling, the cartoonist said.

Jenkins attempts to take the political issues of the day and make people laugh and think. It’s one man’s opinion, and is expected to be taken with a grain of salt, he said. The intent wasn’t to mock, but to shed light on a different viewpoint.

Globe and Mail Associate Editor Sarah Murdoch concurred. Racism is not allowed in the paper, but ‘fair comment’ is and Jenkins is given a lot of latitude, she said.
“If we thought it was hateful it wouldn’t be allowed,” Murdoch said.

So there you have it: If the Globe & Mail’s editor doesn’t think it’s hateful, it isn’t. If the Globe & Mail’s editor doesn’t think it’s racist, it isn’t. If the Globe & Mail publishes some vituperative, base, racist content, well, it isn’t.

We see here how deep Jenkins’s racism is, and how entrenched racism is in Globe’s editorial decisions.

Fathima has a brilliant post about the virulently racist editorial cartoon featured in the Globe & Mail on Monday, comparing it to The Star’s two editorial cartoons as well.

What’s particularly interesting about this Globe & Mail cartoon (by Tony Jenkins) is that, unlike the ones in The Star, it takes a stab at the substance of what an Afrocentric curriculum (so to speak) may look like. The joke, of course, is that knowledge itself is decisively nonracial and, indeed, can’t possibly be racialized — so the only way these schools would be “Afrocentric” is through the thick-lipped, ebonicized blackness of the teachers (and students).

In asserting that the key element of the Afrocentrism is the ebonics, “S’up, dog?” [sic], it asserts that this, this is what characterizes African culture and its derivative culture: the bastardization of proper, common standards of discourse (that is to say, knowledge), and therefore, behaviour. And this bastardization, this wanton inability to get it right, is all that separates the Afrocentric curriculum from the acultural, aracial curriculum that gets taught in “normal” schools. So, not only are these Afrocentrists setting themselves apart, but they are going to ruin the ability of black students to interact with “mainstream” Canadians.

(In all of this I imagine certain administrators from the University of Toronto’s Faculty of Arts & Science looking at the cartoon and saying, “I can see how it’s offensive, but it’s not quite racism.”)

I don’t understand why anyone who watches this video would think badly of communism:
1. You can be a maniac who gets kicks out of power-tripping over kids, teaching them to pray to (glorious leader) Fidel Castro instead of (won’t deliver on the goods) Jesus Christ in return for candy. This is an ideal job for about 73% of the population.
2. Typical criticisms of communism revolve around shortages of consumer goods. In this version of Castro’s Cuba, though, you can have all the candy you want. Ever.
3. The chalkboard clearly says, “COMMUNISM IS GOOD.”

Update: I think the absolute best part of the video is at about 1:06, when the guy says, “Let’s see if your Jesus will bring you some candy now and produce a miracle.” Then he looks up to his left as if waiting for lightning to fall. It’s fantastic.

mere mann yeh batade tu
kis aur chala hai tu
kya paya nahin tu ne
kya dhoondraha hai tu