Leila in the Sky with Dynamite

Posted: May 1, 2014 in MiB Hates Us All

[Beloved readers! What’s up my nig-nogs? Is it all good in da hoo – fuck, I can’t do this. I’ll leave the Indian ghetto schtick to Kevin Gnapoor and the cast of Slumdog Millionaire, namean? Anyway, listen up yo: the WITS Palestinian Solidarity Committee is hosting a social meeting next week surrounding the topic of Leila Khaled and whether she should be revered as a freedom fighter or condemned as a terrorist. For those uncultured heathens that have no idea who Leila Khaled is or what she did, pull through to the event – the gory details are at the end of this rap-poem that I wrote on the topic. Where’s my snare?]

 

[Leila in the Sky with Dynamite]

Her palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy

“Bismillah” she whispers, “God, I’m ready”

She stands up, gazes round at all of their faces

At all of the people that all have their places –

Their countries and cities and houses and homes

A birthplace with no gates they can call their very own

She swallows, determined – enough with the grieving

The time for bereaving and seething and thieving

Is over! It’s time now for action; for reaping

The seeds sown and watered by decades of weeping

So Leila, possessed with the love of her land

Skyjacks a plane in Majnoon now and

Suddenly! She’s the symbol of desperate madness

Borne of desolate sadness; fucking hell, she’s a badass

Now on to Damascus, with the world watching, engrossed

And as they fly over Haifa, she whispers, my home

 

[Bibi and his Boy]

He’s calm, relaxed, alone, untaxed

In his palm, a pen, a phone perhaps

In front of him prayers and papers and maps

Of the Holy Land, no longer whole but in scraps

His thoughts spin and swirl as he tries to surmise

Rocks, tanks, guns, ranks, lives, lies, walls, spies

A boy bursts in; “Abba!” he cries

With a smile that spreads from his heart to his eyes

And love and affection and pride undisguised

He embraces his father who, with a shrug and a sigh

Decides to bring his good day of work to an end

But before he walks out with his son hand in hand

He turns, and with a final swish of his pen

Ten thousand children will be homeless, again

 

 

[A Life for an “i”]

His body’s bleeding, mind screaming, soul is seeping

Khaled Al-Masri is in misery unceasing

“My name is Khaled Al-Masri and I’m innocent”

“Your name is Khalid alright, and you’re militant”

Arrested in the dead of night with no charge

They silenced him worse than any woman did Raj

Through torture and terror at the secret Salt Pit

They came to the answer “Shit, he’s legit”

“So what?” said the CIA – we had a hunch

He’s Muslim, he’s brown, he had falafel for lunch

So we stripped him and whipped him and ripped him a new one

And shipped him and dripped him when he struck out in hun-

-ger, and then when we realized “Oops, we were wrong”

We shunted and punted him to where he belongs

And when he cried out for justice and dignity lost

We said “Fuck that shit, it’s not worth the cost”

But it’s all for your own protection, you see?

Imagine if he was what we had thought him to be?

Fuck a hand for a hand, this is a life for an “i”

Turns out: to lose your life, you don’t have to die.

 

[Border X-ing]

He’s disinterested, disjected, disillusioned and bored

And all of those other lovely “dis-“ words

Not much to do at the post down by the Wall

‘Til Lady P comes along, wrapped in her red-and-white shawl

“Finally, fun” he thinks. “Strip down!” he says

With a leer in his eyes and a sneer on his face

She refuses, of course. And in her strong steady gaze

He sees fury and hatred and total defiance

Sheer triumph replaces the fright in her eyes and

now he’s fearful and nervous, this lost son of Zion

A gunshot

A bloodspot

A teardrop

Silence

It’s over. He showed her. Though not as he planned.

He’s shaken, awakened, mistaken. Alas, and

In the now vacant slain palm of her hand,

He places a gun, as her blood stains the sand.

 

 

Where’s the humanity,

Where is the sanity,

Where the fuck is our excuse for inanity

How can we sit here and like this and tweet

And write blogs and right wrongs with our ass in our seat

Discussing, discoursing, doped up on debate

Where is our anger? Where is our hate?

In this age of fear-mongering with its mirrors and smoke

It’s easy to find yourself blindsided and choke

Dear comrades and fighters, I leave you with this

Was Leila the terrorized or the terrorist?

 

[So there you have it – MC Em-Eye-Bee’s second venture into the world of rap (I’m still working on my badass hip-hop alter-ego title-izzle, as you can see). The aforementioned gory details for the Leila Khaled social meeting are as follows: Tuesday 6th May, 1:15pm to 2:15pm, South West Engineering Atrium, WITS University, Third Cosmic Sphere from the Sun. Turn up. Tune in. Be there or be square and all that jazz. I never really got how calling someone a four-sided polygon was an insult instead of say, an asswank – apparently people really have something against the poor squares, but that’s another anti-oppressive cause for another day. Follow me on Twitter @MibHatesUsAll or @WitsPSC1 for more info. Refreshments will be served too, so now you really don’t have an excuse to not pitch. Peace out yo]

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