Please Stop

“… Please stop…” I can hear the man handcuffed to the chair whimper, I look at him, his blue uniform torn, stained with blood and drenched in sweat, an expression of pain and agony on his face, looking at me in terror, begging me to stop, I can see the marks where the cigarettes burned his arms and the knife sliced him.

I look at the table and wonder what should i use next, and opt for the pliers, his eyes widen and his and he makes a shrill noise, “No, no, no, not the pliers, I beg you, please please…” he says, his voice failing, I can almost not hear the last words, he starts to shake hysterically.

“You must face the consequences of your actions” I respond calmly, “the problem with you people is that you don’t understand that what you do effects people’s lives, what you did can cost someone his job, a relationship, a chance at a better life!” my tone rises with each word, to the point I almost scream the last ones in his face, the look of terror on in his eyes only deepens, “I swear I wont do it again, I swear i learned my lesson, now please let me go, please”, hearing his plea for mercy I smile, and start laughing maniacally, when finished, I look at him seriously and say “You don’t understand do you? It’s too late for you, you will have to serve as an example for the others, they will know not to do the same thing, and then I can stop”.

I look at him again, its been hours since i started, and I’m not sure if he can keep up more, ‘It shows that I lack the experience to do it’ I think, but still it seems effective, I squeeze the pliers in my hand and get closer to him, steadying his hand I use the pliers to tear out the nail of his pinky, a loud high pitched scream can be heard, and then “…Help, help, help…”, “no one can hear you” i respond smugly as I close the pliers on his ring finger’s nail and tear it out, “It’s gonna be a long night…”

It’s morning and the first people coming to the central bus station can see the disfigured body hanging from a pole next to the main door, when the police comes and take it down they can see a note pinned to its back with two pins, and it says “This person is a bus driver that skipped a bus stop full of people, so next time you think of doing the same, PLEASE STOP”

Life isn’t fair. (But Im not complaining)

A friend asked me some time ago if I thought life was fair. I said that I did not think so. She was surprised, because to her, it seems that I get pretty much what I want in life.

For me, this raised three questions: What is the meaning of fairness? Can life be fair? And do I get what I want in life?

In the book “Soul Music” by Terry Pratchett, the granddaughter of Death (“Death” is a character in the book) complains to him that life isn’t fair. Death’s reaction expresses exactly how I feel about the notion of fairness:

“TAKE THE UNIVERSE AND GRIND IT DOWN TO THE FINEST POWDER AND SIEVE IT THROUGH THE FINEST SIEVE AND THEN SHOW ME ONE ATOM OF JUSTICE, ONE MOLECULE OF MERCY. AND YET—Death waved a hand, AND YET YOU ACT AS IF THERE IS SOME IDEAL ORDER IN THE WORLD, AS IF THERE IS SOME…SOME RIGHTNESS IN THE UNIVERSE BY WHICH IT MAY BE JUDGED.”

I think humans invented the idea of fairness. In a way, fairness, karma, justice and other similar abstract concepts are just narratives that we make up because its nicer to think about life that way. We like the idea that if we behave in a certain way, we will receive a certain reward. Life has a certain logic and order. We also like to think that we can each become whomever and whatever we want (think about it, why are books like “The Secret” so popular?). If you do “good things,” you’ll gain “good things,” right? These kind of thoughts motivate us to act in a certain manner that we might not otherwise.

I would even venture to say that humans have an innate sense of fairness (even other primates have that innateness). We are encouraged to be social animals through the concept of fairness. What would be our motivation to help others if we didn’t get any fair reward or reciprocation (even through an indirect reward, like group protection)? We usually don’t like helping people who do not at least thank us and show appreciation. I think it’s a rare and admirable talent to be able to continuously help others without any recognition or repayment.

In reality, most adult humans know that people don’t always get what they “deserve,” good or bad. Bad things happen to good people, and good things happen to bad people. For instance, innocent, decent people are sentenced to jail or even killed. And corrupt, selfish people can easily end up leading a country. Then again, “good” and “bad” are concepts we have invented as well…

These are concepts that help us organize the world and decide how to relate to it. It is rare to find people that consciously think of themselves as doing bad things (unless they feel somehow forced to). Even people who have committed genocides think that they are doing important, good work. It is hard to determine “good” and “bad” when everyone approaches these concepts from their own points of view.

Even people who claim to agree with each other about the definition of these concepts often disagree when you get down to the nuanced details. For example, while a majority of people may agree that the use of force can be “just” in cases of “self-defense,” not all people may agree on a shared definition of “self-defense.” Sometimes the same words and phrases conjure up completely different meanings to different people. Thus, it is extremely difficult for us, as a community of human beings, to reach a consensus about justice and what anyone “deserves.”

One example of this dilemma that comes to mind is from my childhood. As a kid, I felt that my dad used to favour my younger brother in many decisions that he made, especially when my brother and I were fighting over the same toys or games. When I got older, I asked my Dad about the habit, for example, of always letting my brother have time on the computer before me. He told me that, as the older brother, life was already skewed in my favor. Everything I did was cool by definition; I was bigger and stronger, I had friends, etc. He said he gave my brother the advantage because it evened the playing field.

If you had looked at this situation, between my brother, my Dad, and I, without taking the context that I just described into account, it would have seemed that my Dad was acting unfairly towards us. However, looking at the bigger picture, I now agree with the way my dad acted in those situations. Justice isn’t about following a strict set of rules, but is about understanding how to interpret those rules for each unique situation.

I do think the ideas of fairness and equality are important and can be beneficial to all classes of society, but only if we approach these concepts in the right way. I do think it is good to help the poor improve their lives, but I also think that the rich can benefit from being brought to the middle as well. If we accomplish this, the former-rich will suffer from less isolation and depression, as is seen in wealthy, capitalist countries around the world. For these reasons and more, I am a socialist…let me explain more…

Socialism means “to each as much as he/she needs.” This means that if someone is disadvantaged, they should get as much help as possible to try to balance his/her situation with that of the rest. Socialism does not claim that everyone starts in exactly the same place, without taking into account individual backgrounds and abilities. That is actually a very capitalistic thought. For example, many citizens of the US think that if there’s equity by law, then there is no good reason that colored people should be disadvantaged in current US society; i.e. their position in the lower classes must be their own fault and not because of their unique circumstances (for a good book challenging this theory, read “The New Jim Crow.”).

What I’m trying to say is that the world isn’t fair. We shouldn’t expect it to be fair, or unfair. Fairness is a human concept. The world just is. It doesn’t really care about us. But this doesn’t mean that we should give up or become angry. On the contrary, we should be happy that we can shape parts of the world the way we want to. We can create a “fair world” by building a society that encourages fair social interactions.

I’m not saying this is easy. We know that society is already shaped in a certain way, and it is always hard to try to undo what has been done for so long.

An easier goal could be to start with a small step; to create a small social group that is comprised of people we know and respect. We could try to manage fairness within this small group. If it works out well, then others could join. We would still have to interact with the outside world, but this could be easier to figure out in a supportive, group environment.

It may sound crazy or too “hippy-dippy” for some of us, but I would argue that we spend most of our lives in these very groups. Our family relations and close friendships are often based on shared values and world-views that encourage fairness and the ability to compromise for the benefit of the whole. This is more common amongst family than friends, but I see no reason to limit the circle of relationships this kind of “mini-society” can include, especially since some of us respect and value friends just as much or more than blood-relatives.

As for getting what I want, I think the secret is to learn how to be content with what you have. I am happy with my life. but that doesn’t mean that I get everything I want. I realize that life isn’t fair, and that even if it was, I probably wouldn’t get everything that I want.

In a funny way, learning how to be content with things (it’s a long and complicated process, parts of which I’m not even sure how they happened) helps life improve. People tend to be nicer, and things tend to go smoother. Even when day-to-day things don’t go my way, it’s usually not a huge deal, because, in general, I am content with my life.

To summarize, I would say that the world isn’t inherently fair, but that doesn’t mean we can’t change that fact and influence how the world functions. First, we must be realistic about how unequal we all are now. Then, we can evaluate how to distribute resources and act in a “fair” way to all (which at first, may seem “unfair” because some people will receive more than others). The key is that we need to think of fairness as a goal, not a current reality…

Finally, the secret to getting what you want in life is just to be content with what you have. This doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t strive to improve our lives or we shouldn’t work to achieve our goals. It means that when we fail (or don’t immediately succeed, which is what failure is anyway), we can accept it. Once we can accept that we cannot be successful at everything all the time, we can have the courage to try again. Happiness is not about always getting what you want, but understanding that when you don’t get what you want, you will live, try again later, or move on to something better.

Terry Pratchett

“Human beings: Little bags of thinking water held up briefly by a fragile accumulation of calcium.” – Terry Pratchett

My favourite author died recently.

It’s weird knowing that there will be no more books in a series I really liked to read. It got me thinking: What does the death of our favourite writer/musician/artist really mean to us?

I was never affected deeply by a death before and I can’t even imagine what it is like. Honestly, I can’t remember any death of anyone that is close to me. I have experienced the sorrow of others, but not mine.

Then, this writer, who is not really part of my life, dies. I grew up reading most of his books (I read more than 40) and in many ways, he shaped how I see the world, for he was the most insightful writer I have ever read. Now I’m in an awkward place because I’m not sure how I am supposed to feel about his death. How I feel about it.

Many people expressed their emotions over social media. Some even mentioned the discontinuation of the book series. It feels weird that someone has died and people are worried about something like books. This includes my thoughts as well; they seem so cynical. We are taught to think that death means much more than a discontinued book series.

I also wonder how Terry Pratchett would have wanted us to react to his death. I am not scared of death. After all, when it happens, it’s not going to be my problem. Pain and disability scare me much more. Anyway, when I die, I would like people to party. I don’t want to cause people sadness, so I feel it will be best if people commemorate my death by drinking whiskey and listening to nice music instead of mourning.

As for my favourite author, I don’t know how he would have liked to go. He probably just wouldn’t have liked to go. As an aspiring writer, I have deep respect for his writing. As an avid reader, I love his style, wit, and ability to tell entertaining stories. His insights into human life will never cease to amaze me, even when I read his books for the 50th time. From what I know, the standard thing to do in these situations is say a few nice words and to say goodbye. So here goes…

Terry Pratchett – He was a big part of why I started reading seriously. He was an inspiration, for writing, for thinking about many things : politics, racism, what makes humans tick and for shaping my world view. He made the world a better place for me. I salute him. May he rest in peace.

Joke

So this is an old communist joke, and one of my favourites, I googled it and didn’t find it. So I decided to make the internet a better place.

God and Satan meet to play chess every Sunday.

They are both good players, so their games are always evenly matched. Sunday is their weekly rest day, and it is very important for them to have a chance to kick back, relax, and discuss what is happening in the world.

In 1967, when Che Guevara dies, God brings it the subject to Satan during their weekly game.

“The great infidel Ernesto Che Guevara died last week. Since he worked for forces opposing the church, we will send him to Hell. I ask that you will prepare a special treatment for him.”

Satan, who wasn’t paying much attention to Che’s involvement in the world, just nods his head in agreement. They continue their chess game, and on this occasion, Satan happens to beat God.

Che is sent to hell, and the chess matches continue every Sunday.

A couple of weeks later, Satan comes to the game looking distracted. He makes some foolish moves. God. who is aware that everyone has their “off days,” doesn’t comment.

The next week, Satan is even more distracted. He loses a couple of games by making stupid mistakes, and is too distracted to make interesting conversation. Although frustrated by the lack of challenge and good company. God is a wise and patient God, and thus decides not to comment.

The third week is a disaster; Satan plays like an amateur. He looks obviously distraught, and he cannot even hold a conversation. This really frustrates God, who looks forward to that very time on Sunday the whole week, and he decides to ask Satan about what’s going on.

“This infidel Che that you sent to me, God, is the devil. Ever since he got to Hell, my life has been a living hell. The tortured souls are demanding rights…that I can understand, they’re in hell…but the demons who torture souls became unionized, and now they are asking for a shorter workday, free weekends, and health benefits! Last week they made a solidarity demonstration with the tortured souls, and this week they are on strike. This is just insufferable.” replies Satan.

God laughs a bit, but then realizes that Satan is truly suffering, and that he shouldn’t make fun of anyone that suffers. Instead, God decides to help Satan, He sound just a little bit smug when he offers to take Che into heaven with a, “Well, I’m sure I can take him off your hands if you can’t handle him.” Satan detects the undertone, but agrees to the deal, for Che has made Hell a hell for him.

That same night, Che gets his marching orders and moves to heaven.

In the following weeks, Satan manages to take control over hell. He is revitalized and relaxed, so much so that his chess game returns to normal. He seems more focused and on top of everything.

Then, a few weeks later, God’s chess game is a bit off. He seems distracted, and does not take his time to think about his moves. He loses more games than usual. Satan notices, and smiles to himself about the change, but it is not bad enough to warrant a comment.

The week after, God is playing quickly. He doesn’t have his regular patience and composure in the game. He also is not contributing much to the conversation as it seems that he is preoccupied with something else. Satan feels very happy with the situation, but decides to give God another week before he comments, just to let him stew.

The third week is just a disaster for God’s game. He is playing so badly that he even loses a match by a scholar’s mate. He keeps checking his watch, and he can’t converse at all as he is too busy watching the time. After yet another win, Satan decides to ask:

“God,” He says smugly, “Your game has been getting bad the last few weeks. It seems like there is something on your mind… pray, tell me, what is it?”

God looks at Satan and says, “First of all, there is no god. Second of all, call me “Comrade God.” Thirdly, play quickly, I’m late to the weekly Communist Party meeting.”

Narratives

“The anthropologists got it wrong when they named our species Homo sapiens (‘wise man’). In any case it’s an arrogant and bigheaded thing to say, wisdom being one of our least evident features. In reality, we are Pan narrans, the storytelling chimpanzee.” -Terry Pratchett

Boy Meets Girl

The first time we met, she was on a bad blind date. A mutual friend and I passed by the bar, we received the ‘SOS signal,’ and I came to the rescue like a knight in shining armor. When I introduced myself to her, I felt an immediate connection.

We tend to think of life in narratives, as if thinking about what is happening is easier if we build some story around it. Think about it. We like to reduce every complex series of events into a simplistic formula: David and Goliath, the knight in shining armor, boy meets girl, good versus evil. They all have slight variations, but in the end, we always end up relying on old archetypes. Even religion, the most basic way of explaining our world, is dependent on stories that can be easily retold and understood by the masses.

What I always forget in telling this story is that she had already gathered a sizable group of friends there to help. I didn’t even know I was crashing a date at the time. I wasn’t really the one to save her.

But then it gets me thinking: is it possible that we are deceiving ourselves? Or maybe even being decieved by others who are striving for certain goals by utilizing these narratives? For example, can a skilled politician or any manipulator make us ignore some of the facts and highlight others just so that events will fit with a certain narrative that is in our heads?

One example of this phenomenon can be seen in motivations for war. How many wars today are being fought in the name of “good versus evil,” or in other words, “give democracy to the people” or “kill the terrorists.” And how many of us double check the intentions of our politicians? Or on a personal level, as an anti-imperialist, how easy is it for me to always cast anti-US efforts as positive, even if they might be just as morally reprehensible? It seems we need to analyze our own story-telling in addition to the story-telling of others.

Boy Falls for Girl

The second time we met, we had our first private conversation. I remember that I thought she had a special spark in her eyes. I asked her about herself, and we had a long conversation about politics. I was really digging her and felt that this could develop into something deeper.

How much of our personal lives are affected by events that just “feel right” because they fit a certain template we have been taught? Is it possible that we even rewrite stories in our heads that tell us how we met and got to know different people in order to fit those stories within standard narratives, giving more weight to the parts that fit and ignoring the parts that don’t?

One example for this is how many of us confuse physical attraction to someone with the idea of loving them, essentially confusing sex with love. We may do this because, as kids, we are told that sex is something we do “only with people we love.” Thus, we assume that we must love our sex partner, even if it goes against all other logic (i.e. we just met five minutes ago in a bar). The narrative is so ingrained that we cannot avoid the trap.

Another example is based on the “good girls save themselves for marriage” narrative. This narrative leads girls to wait longer before they have sex, even if all other impulses tell them otherwise. Even worse, the narrative also encourages guys to lose respect for girls who, for instance, sleep with them on the first date. The guy might genuinely like the girl, but because of this nagging narrative in the back of his mind, he cannot view that girl who sleeps with him with respect.

The truth is that the second time we met, we were at a party, and she spoke a lot with another guy there. I’m pretty sure that she spoke to him more than she spoke to me. They may have even hit it off better.

Think of the possibilities of approaching life like that. Could we make any person fall in love with us just by doing things that fit into their narrative of love? Could we consciously manipulate people to do things our way just by presenting them with the right narrative? This all seems very malicious, changing “reality” to get what we want, but what if a couple decides together to use it as a tool for good? For example, can a couple sit down and figure out each others narratives for romantic love in order to ensure a long and fulfilling relationship?

In a research I saw at the New York Times concluded that certain questions and actions taken by any random coupling of people could lead to a “love connection” between them. This begs the question; could any person who is willing to mold themselves in order to fit into our “love narrative” be “The One?” Does it even matter who the person in front of us is? If love is just a matter of effort and correct timing or willingness, then basically any narrative can be made to be true.

Thinking like that makes our personal history look interesting, doesn’t it? How much of what we remember and shapes us is real, and how much of it is just a story that we tell ourselves?

Girl Falls for boy

We hung out again at a mutual friend’s house. We were joking and laughing the whole night. I gave her a ride home and she asked me if she’ll see me again. This was the moment that I knew she was into me.

But then again, does it really matter? I mean ALL of us do this, and some of us have nice, good lives, so it can’t be all that bad. In a way, relying on standard narratives to guide our lives may be something that is evolutionarily positive. Being able to generalize and analyze situations quickly is a great survival tool. For example, if you see a dead animal in the middle of the forest, it might mean that there is danger lurking around. By telling an elaborate story about a monster living in the woods, you can quickly convince the people of your community to stay clear of danger zone and ensure survival better than going around looking for a real predator.

I feel like this “trait” that we have is both a blessing and a curse. On one side, it helps us navigate our day to day life by finding patterns that we know to be good and safe. On the other hand, we can become lazy and forget to analyze these patterns, thus ignoring any important facts that may contradict with our comfortable, well-known ways of life. The paradox is that our tendency to follow patterns is only helpful to us if the patterns themselves are constantly critiqued and reviewed for their virtue.

Now that I think about it, she was kind of drunk when she said that…maybe she only liked me as a friend? After all, she did have a boyfriend…

Then even more interesting questions arise… like how do we learn our patterns and narratives? Modern psychology says that we learn a lot of these things from the adults around us as we grow up, mainly our parents. It makes sense to think that many of our wants and needs in romantic relationships are a reaction (following or rebelling against) the narratives our parents acted out in front of us. For instance, think of people from families with an abusive parent who confuse domestic abuse with a sign of love.

Are there other places we get our narratives from, like books, TV, and cinema? How much do those affect us? One example that comes to mind are the romantic comedies which teach women to expect grand romantic gestures from men, like proposing in front of a baseball stadium. When men don’t act with such dramatic flare, women feel let down, like their men don’t really love them. It makes you wonder: would mimicking the type of relationships that are found in our favorite fiction help us feel happy just because our brains would be able to identify it with a comfortable pattern?

And do we only feel comfortable with known patterns or do we need some variety in our patterns as well? If we need variety, is it in the substance of the narrative or is it only in the details that it matters?

Together Ever After

We decided to date seriously, and we introduced ourselves as boyfriend and girlfriend to our family and friends; the whole shabang. We felt like we were embarking on the biggest adventure of our lifetimes.

Moreover, can we consciously learn new narratives or patterns to lead our lives in better and different ways? I am a big believer in self improvement, so I believe we can and we should. We should always learn from what happens in the past in order to create something better for the future. I think breaking our usual narrative is sometimes very hard, but the result can be worth it.

How many examples of something positive does it takes to change our standard narrative? For example, if I wanted to prove to someone that same-sex families can raise “normal,” healthy kids, how many examples would I need to show them? I’m not sure there’s a “magic number” of exposure needed in order to make change, but I hope we can do our part to challenge standard narratives in ways that lend our world to a more diverse, accepting place. The more we see alternative narratives out in public, the more people will be willing to explore them and deem them as legitimate and safe. I see introducing more narratives as beneficial, given that humans are complex creatures, and surely there is not just one or even two ways to live our lives “correctly.”

All in all, I think it is important to remember to take our own thoughts with a grain of salt and have a good amount of self-criticism combined with self-confidence. Being able to learn from our mistakes and break our regular habits is one of the most admirable things a person can do. I don’t think having and following certain narratives is a bad thing as long as we are self-aware enough to know what we are following and do it in a conscious way.

Except that being a couple isn’t actually the end of the story anymore. Centuries ago, when most of our narratives about love were formed, humanity learned that you are coupled up, married and that’s the end of it. FOREVER after. But how do we relate our old narratives to a new way of life that doesn’t necessarily end with marriage?

What you never really can grasp is how long “forever” truely is. It is a long time; things happen, and people change. We were so young, and so infatuated with each other that we could barely think straight. Now we realize that we very different people and I’m not sure how our story will end since they never tell you what happens next…

The Hitman

I wrote this one based on a character my mom thought off, I hope it encourages her to do something with it. dedicated to you Iris

The Hitman

I’m a hit-man and I hate the downtime between hits. It’s like there is something missing. No sense of purpose. Nothing to plan for or work for. Nothing to look forward to except for the next hit.

But for now life is good. I’m concentrated on reaching my next target. I study the guard in uniform standing at the entrance of the building. I need to create a distraction to lure him away. I find an empty can of coke on the floor, and throw it some meters away from where I hope to enter. The sound of it banging on the floor startles the guard, he pulls his gun out, and walks slowly and carefully towards the spot where the can hit the floor. I crouch and sneak quietly behind him, making it as fast as possible to a dark corner inside the building.

Everyone has their own style in approaching a job. Some people go in guns blazing, shooting in every direction until they happen to reach the target. I find this approach distasteful. I prefer to plan every step ahead, wait in every dark spot a couple of minutes to make sure I will be surprised by unexpected factors, and learn the routine of my target and his guards so I can make the perfect hit. When it’s really good, no one knows what has happened until I’m long gone. Nobody sees me going in or out.

I made sure the guard wasn’t looking my way, and made my way towards the service elevator. I needed to take it up as far as possible in order to get to the roof. My target was having a meeting in the building across the street, and my building’s roof was the perfect spot for a silent sniper’s perch. I decided to take the elevator to the floor before the last, as I’m sure the roof and the last floor are going to be guarded. I turn to the first door to the right. My intel says it should be empty. I slide my fiber optic cable under the door to check if it really is.

When it seems like the coast is clear, I manage to pick the lock open. I make it across the room to a large window, open it, climb out to the ledge and start scaling the side of the building. I grab onto the balcony above me, make sure there is no one on it and pull myself up. To the right of the balcony I spot a pipe leading up to the roof. I put my arms and legs around it and start shimming. I feel the rush of excitement that always comes with getting close to my target(and probably from hanging from a flimsy piece of metal so high in the air didn’t hurt either).

I reach the top, and slide to the edge of the roof, lifting myself up slightly, and checking to make sure the guard doesn’t look my way. As swiftly as possible, I climb over. Now is the time to act fast. I manage to make it almost halfway across the length of the roof when the guard starts to circle back towards my direction. I dive between two big water heaters on the roof, and waited patiently for him to walk past me. When he passes, I grab his neck from behind and squeeze it, making sure he will be “asleep” for the next couple of hours. I can’t afford to be bothered now. I find the best spot to lie in ambush, take my sniper rifle off my back, and wait.

I look into my target’s room through the scope, and the lights finally come on. The target walks into the room. This is my favourite part of every hit. You have to take your time, but not too much time, You can’t miss. I never miss. I take a deep breath, center my scope on him, and stop my breathing. I put my finger on the trigger and… my phone rings. I press the escape button to pause the game and answer the phone My next mission’s details are finally ready.

I hate white people.

I hate white people.

Looking at this statement (a statement that I say every now and then), I realize that it’s wrong.

“Hate” is a strong word. The truth is that I don’t think I hate anyone, not even people that have hurt me seriously and repetitively. Hate seems like a lot of energy dedicated to the wrong people. Maybe it’s more accurate to say: “I dislike white people.”

While we’re at it, let’s break down the concept of “white people.” With this phrase, I mean to evoke a certain type of attitude more than a skin color. Maybe I have a different concept of race than some because, where I come from, people are mainly segregated along the lines of religion and ethnicity/culture rather than color. The attitude I’m talking about is related to what is known as “white privilege.” I’ll admit, most people with white skin act with white privilege, but I will also acknowledge that a few have successfully countered that status/behavior.

I should also mention that the reverse is also true; that it is possible for non-white people to act as if they have white privilege. For example, when rich non-white people travel to poorer countries or when they interact with poor non-white people, I’ve seen them behave very similarly to white people of the same class. I will go into more detail below about these behaviors, but at its core, these behaviors make an appearance in situations where privilege meets under privilege. For the sake of simplicity, I will refer to persons behaving in this privileged manner as “white people” throughout this article, because they are the majority of people acting this way and those with the true power in this dynamic.

I have noticed that there are at least two separate groups whose behaviors are both based on white privilege but manifest in different ways. One group I will label as “bad white people”; those whom take advantage of their privileges without shame or care for the less-privileged. They own up to their status and act in a logical fashion for their class; for this reason, I can understand them.

The second group are “good white people”; those who want to help others less-fortunate but who refuse to acknowledge and challenge their privilege. This group wants to “fight the man” but fails to see that they themselves are part of “the man”; they cannot break away from their own stereotypes of POC or break their racist, patronizing behaviors. The people in this group act in contradictory and hypocritical ways; for this reason, I cannot understand them. I see these people trying to fight the same type of behavior that they themselves take part in (although in a less obvious form). In this article, I will refer more to “good white people” than “bad white people” because it is already clear to our society what is wrong with “bad white people.”

A ton of articles and books have been written about white privilege. Instead of beating a dead horse, I’m going to try and write something about the manifestations of white privilege that piss me off the most because I believe we can all benefit from recognizing these faults in ourselves and trying to work on them.

The thing that I dislike the most is the “know-it-all” attitude.

First of all, let me say that many of the world’s disenfranchised and forgotten poor are grateful to white people who, with more resources at their disposal, go out of their way to give charity to people they do not even know. Their efforts are valiant and should be celebrated. However, there is a danger (and a tendency) for decent people who have this intent to fall into the trap of a “know-it-all” attitude and thus to exhibit traits of “good white people.” Let me explain…

People who know how to be effective and truly helpful towards the less-privileged come into the situation with a clear head and willingness to listen to the people they are helping. They have the humility to admit that they probably don’t know everything about the situation in that place, and that they might never fully comprehend it. Most of all, they have the ability to challenge their prejudices and preconceived notions, and accept that they might be completely wrong about how to solve the problem, and/or what the people want and need.

Unfortunately, many folks who “just want to help” are unwilling to do the above and end up contributing more to problems than solving them. I’m talking about your common aid workers, mission trip volunteers, and even NGO professionals. These groups, more often than not (although usually unintentionally), try to force their “enlightened” solutions on others. It is okay to have your opinions, they are valuable and important, but it doesn’t mean they are right. The people with the problem most likely know better than you about how to solve it. At the least, they have the experience that will be essential to solving the problem.

Most obviously guilty of this “know-it-all” behavior are politicians and governments, especially the government of the United States. Just look at what every United States administration has done in meddling in the Israeli/Palestinian conflict; the invasions in Iraq; the support of cruel dictators all over the world, but most notably, in South America; the drone strikes in Pakistan; and every other war crime perpetrated under the slogan of “spreading freedom and democracy.” Sadly, through the last few years, we have seen that the US government can even turn its first black president “white” by this logic. That’s right, I said it, Obama is one of the whitest people I know.

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Another thing I dislike is elitism. This one hits very close to home from me.

I was born and raised in a middle-class family in “the ghetto.” The neighborhood was given that reputation because it was the poorest, most neglected area in town and was mainly home for non-whites. Still, I never realized that I lived in “the ghetto” until I noticed that my more privileged classmates were too scared to visit me at home. This confused me as a kid; in my opinion, it is a pretty nice neighborhood. The people are friendly and I always felt safe. When I think of “the ghetto,” I am reminded of the inner-city slums in the US where people are murdered regularly in drive-by shootings, or of the notorious favelas in Brazil riddled with drug trafficking; not of my home.

Now, when I hear people talking about similar, poor neighborhoods, saying things like, “I wouldn’t raise my kids in that kind of place,” I’m skeptical whether this is a legitimate fear or just an attitude stemming from ignorance and privilege. Sure, living in a less affluent neighborhood is a different way of life than living in a rich suburb, but I never felt that I was lacking anything growing up and I’m proud of my roots. Each environment has its positives and negatives. For example, where my neighborhood lacks in “quiet,” it surpasses others in “a sense of community.” I do not agree with the notion that one way of life is superior to another because it has more wealth.

This kind of elitism can have wider repercussions. White people who judge others by where they come from (i.e. a poor neighborhood) tend to take those people less seriously and view them with pity instead of respect. Again, it is very hard to help someone whom you cannot respect or think of as equal.

You can see extreme cases of elitism in mostly-white groups like “hipsters” and preachy vegans. They consider others “sell-outs” when they cannot afford to be picky about which products they buy or which jobs they take. The members of these privileged groups forget that they can be so particular only because they have surplus money and resources. I’ve even seen leftist activists act exactly in the same snobby way; by looking down on poorer people who are too busy making a living and trying to survive to be active on a larger political level.

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One more habit that disturbs me is fetishism.

“Fetishism” (negative) can be mistaken for “appreciation”(positive), so it is important to distinguish between the two. Appreciation is when you put effort into studying a culture and you can see it as a living, growing and changing thing, with all of its pros and cons. You can recognize that not everyone in that culture group strictly complies with cultural norms. Essentially, you appreciate a culture when you see it as equally valid to your own and thus recognize all its nuances and gray areas. It is not a monolithic whole that can be easily categorized or stereotyped.

On the other hand, “fetishism” is when people come to think of cultures that are different from their own as “exotic.” Due to the phenomenon of white elitism, many whites never take the time and effort to learn about non-white cultures but instead revert to convenient stereotypes. These stereotypes are usually exciting and provoking. The “exotification” of culture leads to a surface-level understanding at best. Some examples of fetishism that I’ve seen myself are: foreign tourists in my country who try to sleep with Israeli soldiers, and foreign tourists who make photo-shoots by posing in front of destroyed Palestinian houses.

Fetishism is sometimes called “positive racism.” For example, in the US, many whites believe “all Asians are good at math” or “all Blacks have big cocks.” This attitude reduces groups of diverse individuals into a single generalization and reduces complex cultures into simple packages for consumption.

One example of positive racism that I’ve noticed is prevalent these days is the overwhelming love white liberals have for Barack Obama. These folks, instead of looking at Obama’s policies, defend him to the death and support him passionately just because he is black. I can understand the fervor that black citizens of the US must have felt the day Obama was elected; it was hard proof that some things can be achieved. As for the liberal whites, I only see the attempt to assuage white guilt and encourage the false appearance of equality. If liberals were truly looking at Obama as equal, they would not be ashamed to critique his especially imperialist and cruel policies abroad (i.e. drones, anyone?)

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Lastly, there is the tendency of privileged people to police others’ identity politics. This means refusing to let people define themselves as they choose to be defined.

I have a Dutch friend, born and raised in Amsterdam, whose family is from Suriname. When people ask him where he is from, and he answers, “Amsterdam,” he usually gets the follow-up question, “but where are you originally from?” This behavior alienates people who don’t look “typically” of a certain place, even if they were born and raised there. The follow-up question essentially tells the person asked, “I refuse to believe that someone who looks like you could be a part of a certain culture or environment.” Some may disagree with me and say that the follow-up question is posed out of innocent curiosity, but let’s think how often this question is asked to white Dutch citizens.

It seems to me that white people have a need to sort and divide non-white peoples into neat little boxes so they know how to handle them. This is some mechanic of control; when privileged groups treat others in specific ways that align with specific labels, the non-privileged groups begins to form behaviors and alliances around those labels. This is also a form of disenfranchisement because it takes away power from non-white groups to decide where (and to what) they belong. Because white people hold the highest power in many places, this policing of identities can, and has had, led to serious repercussions, For example, the “divide and conquer” tactic of inventing new identities by emphasizing minute differences within native populations was a key part of British colonialist strategy in the 20^th century.

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These are the main forms of white privilege that bother me. I’m sure there are others that I’m forgetting as well. The important thing is that any of these behaviors can be avoided with a little bit of introspection and self-criticism (myself included).

Snow Journey (my first short story)

This is my first blog post in a while, but also this is my first (not so) short story.  I didn’t plan it to be so long, but some things happened… and then editing took even more time.

Special thanks to Dana for helping me edit this story, and probably making it so much better, and thanks to Alicia for the conversation that inspired this writing.

I hope you enjoy reading this story even more than I enjoyed writing it. This story is actually fan-fiction, with big parts inspired by Lewis Carol, Steven Brust and Roger Zelazny.  If you like my style even a little bit, try them. Try them anyway, actually, since they are way better than me.

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Snow Journey

I wanted to build a snowman with my lover.

I know this doesn’t sound like a very big deal, but it is.  

I have rarely seen snow in my life.  I traveled around the world, and I never had any luck; it seemed like good weather follows me everywhere I go.  I visited Amsterdam in November, and it was sunny.   Stockholm in February was also sunny; Manchester in January was the same.  (To be honest, it rained a bit in Manchester but it was sunny).  The one time I have seen snow was on a vacation to Toronto in February a couple of years ago, but, once again, it was sunny when I arrived and the snow melted quickly…

Since it seemed that I will never build a snowman, I did the best next thing; I complained about it to a friend.

“You need to see the shaman!” he said.

I looked at him confused. “Sorry, I think you just said ‘shaman.’”

“Yes, you remember Storm? We drank with her couple of times.”

“Is that even her real name? She was awfully hipster.”

He laughed.  “She’ll help you, man.  Get her number and call her tomorrow…just not too early.”

I complained more about the perfect weather, hipsters, shamans, and other things that are worth complaining about (complaining is a basic human right after all) and then I called it a night…

The next afternoon (it was nice and sunny like it always is), I went to Storm’s building.  It was an old soviet style apartment building with grey cement and depressingly uniform, small windows.  Her apartment was on the second floor.  When I went inside, I found a dark hallway with a flickering, fluorescent light to set the mood.  I found the door with number seven on it, between apartment number six and apartment number thirteen, and knocked twice.

Storm opened the door.  I was wrong; she wasn’t just hipster, she was the manifestation of hipster.  She wore big glasses, and her hair was shaved on one side and dyed purple on the other.  She also had colorful feather earrings reaching all the way down to her shoulders, and was wearing a US army jacket that looked old enough to have served in Korea… you get the drill.

“Hey I’m…” I started to say, but Storm cut me off.  “I know, I understand you have a weather problem,” she said sternly.  “I’m gonna give you instructions for a snow dance.  It should not be too hard.”

I managed to hold in my laughter.  The idea of a snow dance sounded ridiculous.  I had no idea why I was really there except that my friend convinced me, but at the moment it seemed like the only thing that might take me in the right direction.

I stepped into Storm’s apartment, and surprise, surprise, it was hipster too.  I’m not even going to start describing it.  I’ll just say she had a vinyl album collection and an Apple computer on the desk.  I hate hipsters.

We made our way to the couch and Storm started looking at me in a peculiar way.  Then she asked me to take my glasses off, and open my eyes wide.  I didn’t see the point of arguing.  Storm looked into my eyes and said, “Interesting.”  Then she stared into my eyes a bit more.

Then she asked for my hand.  I refused to marry her.  She didn’t think I was funny, but I counted it as a point for me.  I finally gave her my hand, palm facing up.  She pricked my finger and collected the blood before I could even react.  I didn’t even see where she got the needle from.  She must have really not found me funny.

“WHAT THE FUCK?” I shouted.

She gave me a smug smile (she must have thought it was funny) and said, “It’s a bit more complicated than what I thought, but that’s all the sacrifice we need from you.  Go get some cigars and whiskey, and will figure this out.”

This time I did not see a reason to argue, so I went to the store.

I returned a couple of hours later with a bottle of Jameson and some Cuban cigars.  I realized that the mood in Storm’s apartment had changed completely; it went from hipster to… hippy.  It was dark, and some weird ambience music was playing.  I could smell incense and the air was a bit smoky.  The walls were covered in colorful rags.  Someone had moved the table and couches out of the living room and there was Storm in the middle, painting strange symbols on the floor.  I watched her for some minutes, and finally, she looked up at me and said, “You’re back just in time.  Give me the cigars and the whiskey.”  I handed them to her as she stood up.

Then she asked me. “Do you have a favorite deity?”

“What? I’m an atheist,” I said.

You’d figure I’d be expecting the crazy talk by then but you never really get used to it.

She kept pushing.

“It’s always wise to ask some god or goddess for assistance and protection before a journey like that.”

“Well…I’ve always liked Yemanja.  She’s the Cuban…” Storm interrupted me again (I was starting to feel that she was really rude).   “–I know who she is,” she said, “Spill the whiskey on the floor, and light the cigar.  When you’re done, eat this.”  She handed me a little piece of yellow cake.

I did what she said and I was glad that I didn’t buy a very expensive whiskey (I hate wasting a good drink).  I smoked couple of puffs of a cigar.  Then, Storm took the cigar from me and told me to eat the cake.

I inspected the cake. It seemed harmless; although its bright yellow color was a tad suspicious, it was mostly cake-like.  It didn’t taste very much like cake though.  It was sweet but disgusting, like a used gym sock dipped in honey.  I really didn’t want to know what was in it, but I swallowed it anyway.  Maybe I was getting used to crazy by then…

Suddenly, Storm started chanting in some intangible language.  The room filled with dark smoke, and my eyelids felt heavy… the last thing I remember is the sensation of falling.

I opened my eyes.  The sky was an intense blue.  The feeling started to slowly come back to my body.  I was lying on what felt like grass.  I moved my fingers and my toes.  I felt pretty fine, and then I felt a strange breeze.  I could tell that I was outside, but there was a breeze tickling areas of the body that shouldn’t feel breeze.

I stood up.  Sometimes you only feel fine until you stand up, but except for a short spell of dizziness from standing up too quickly, it seemed like I was okay.  I was butt-naked except I was wearing my socks.   I was in a middle of a big patch of grass.  Looking around, I noticed there was a black puma duffel bag that looked exactly like the one I have at home lying next to me, and a forest in the distance in front of me.  I felt a little exposed, and the bag looked too familiar for it to be a coincidence.  I opened it.  Inside there were some clothes, and a note:

This bag was prepared especially for you, milord. Go south to the palace.

Perfect, I thought to myself.  I am a city boy and I can’t follow directions like that.   

You would expect someone who tells you to go south to leave a compass, but the person who prepared the bag wasn’t that thoughtful.

I carefully unfolded the clothes in the bag.  There were a pair of black…for lack of a better word, I will call them “trousers,” and a silver long-sleeved tunic.  I put these on and I looked like someone who had just walked off the set of a medieval movie.  Even though I knew a couple of girls who would have probably loved this style on me, I felt ridiculous.  I looked into the bag again, and there was a pair of black boots, which I put on, and a pair of silver gloves and a black cloak with a big sun with a crown on it (I did not wear that).  I didn’t like whoever prepared these clothes especially for me; I’m sure they hated me and wanted to play a cruel joke.

The sun was high in the sky, and I decided to walk in the opposite direction of the forest because everyone knows nothing good ever happens in forests.   As I walked, I slowly noticed that I was going uphill.  The scenery got very mountainous; all around me there were big rocks with a few pathetic trees sprinkled in occasionally.  The walking was annoying, but at least I wasn’t in a forest.

I walked some more and then I heard it, or better yet, I felt it.  Inside my head, there was a voice saying, “Duck!”  I don’t usually argue with the voices in my head so I ducked, which was a good idea because what seemed to be a big rock flew into the space I had recently occupied.  I looked behind me and there it was; the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.  It had it all; jaws that bite, claws that catch, two big wings that kept it flying ungracefully, a long reptilian neck, and what looked like two long, thin tentacles popping straight up from its head.  It seems like a good idea to run.

I started running and then I heard a voice my head again.  “Follow me,” it said, and a smaller flying reptile appeared in front of me, flying furiously into the distance.  I thought, “Is this thing telling me to follow it?” and immediately heard a response, “Yes, boss, just keep running.”  I decided to follow it.  I figured that if it was the thing that told me to duck, it probably saved me once already.  

I don’t remember much from the run.  I was too concentrated on following the small flying reptile, getting away from the bigger one, and not stumbling on rocks.  I was too busy to notice the time, but we must have run for a while when I suddenly felt dizzy from the adrenaline leaving my body.  I tripped, hit my head, and got even dizzier.  “You’re great at this!  Just wait here,” the strange voice said.  The last thing I thought before my lights went out was, “That’s exactly what I need, a sarcastic flying lizard.”

I woke up to a wet feeling in my ear.   When I carefully opened my eyes, I heard, “Finally, you’re up!”  I vowed to never wake up in an unknown place again.  My new friend was standing on my shoulder and licking my ear.  I was in the corner of a dark, stingy bar.  On the other side of the bar, an old man in a black top hat was having a conversation with what seemed to be a human-sized hare dressed in red and wearing a few pieces of straw on his head.   In between these two characters slept a dormouse and they used it as a cushion.  It was peculiar but since I still felt disoriented and pretty sure that a flying lizard just saved my life, I decided not to comment on it.  All in all, they seemed to be enjoying their tea and I’m not the type to comment on others’ behaviors (with the exception of hipsters, of course).

“Who are you?” I thought, hoping that my new friend will hear me.  

“My name is Brundle, boss,” I heard inside my head.

“My name is –”.

“–I already know,” the creature interrupted.

“How?”

“I’m not sure actually… all I remember is flying over the sea today, and suddenly, I felt the need to find you and help you build a sneeuwpop.  I don’t even know what a sneeuwpop is!”

“Ohh…anything else?”

“No, this is all I remember.  Do you know what a sneeuwpop is?”

“Yes.”

“What is – ohh, we have company.”

Suddenly, I noticed that there were two beer mugs on the table in front of me and a cat was sitting across of me.  The cat smiled at me (it was weird because it was the first time I noticed that cats can smile).

“Kitty cat…” I began, rather timidly, as I did not know if it would like the name.  The cat only grinned wider.  It seemed like a promising start so I went on.

“Would you please tell me where I am? And what should I do?”

“That depends a good deal on what you want to do,” said the cat.

It’s like everyone I meet is a smart ass.

“I’m not really sure what I am doing here,” I said.

“Then it doesn’t matter what you do,” said the cat.

I don’t know why I expected him to be helpful.

“Tell him about the sneeuwpop,” Brundle urged.

“I think I’m here to find out how to build a snowman,” I tried.

“That shouldn’t be a problem. You just need some snow, make three snowballs, and then stack the balls on top of each other.  Of course, you also need a carrot and some twigs.” The cat looked very happy with himself.

Yes, everyone I meet here is a smart ass.

“I know, but–”

“–But of course, you are in the wrong place for that.  These are the lands of the sun god; you might want to talk to him.”

“Where should I go to meet him?”

“Leave the bar and go that way,” the cat said as he waved his right paw.  Then he chugged one of the beers and vanished.

Maybe everyone here is just mad.

“A snowman?  Really?  That is what I’m helping you with?” Brundle exclaimed in anger.

“Are you surprised?  Did you think you were doing something important?”

But no response came.  I downed some of the beer in front of me, and stood up to leave the bar.

When I made it to the door, a floating smile appeared in front of me and said, in the cat’s voice, “Are you not going to pay?”

“I don’t have money,” I replied.

“Typical human,” the smile said, and slowly the cat’s body appeared around the smile, beginning with his head and ending with the tip of his tail.  It was carrying a sword that looked as if it were made of moth wings and folded moonlight.

“You will need this for the Jabberwocky,” it said while handing it to me.  I took the sword out of its paws.  Then a paw vanished for a moment and reappeared with a piece of paper.  The cat said, “You have to sign this whenever you take the Vorpal sword.  Usually there’s a deposit, but we will waive it for you.”

“Thanks,” I said hesitantly.  I signed the form and headed out of the bar.

As I walked in the direction he indicated, Brundle said, “He vanished again… only the smile is watching us walking away.  It makes me nervous.”

“You have to return it intact!” the smile cried after us.

I quickly realized that the direction the cat pointed me was towards a forest. Nothing good ever happens in forests, and from what I understood, it was the home of a Jabberwocky.  Why would the sun god live in the wonderland?

I found a narrow path that looked as if animals made it.  The forest was growing darker, and I kept the Vorpal sword hanging from a loop in my belt.  I was beginning to gain a bit of appreciation for the fashion-sense of the guy who chose the clothes I was wearing.  The sword was hanging in a way that was comfortable to walk.

It looked like it was late in the afternoon, maybe four or five, and suddenly, strange noises surrounded me.  It probably was slithy toves gyraing and gimbleing, borogoves being mimsy or mome raths outgrabeing… whatever that means.  Then I saw it.

It was even uglier now that I had time to take a good look at it; besides the claws that claw and the jaws that bite, it also only had four big teeth in its mouth, two tendons growing from the top of its head and two tendons growing from its chin, a long, slim neck leading to a big, round body covered in scales, two wings that didn’t look like they should be able to carry the weight of the thing, and a long snake-like tail.

It lifted its head to take a look at me.  I held the Vorpal sword in front of me.  It was slightly glowing, and for some reason it looked way more vicious (or maybe I felt like that because of the way the Jabberwocky reacted to it).  The Jabberwocky looked scared and angry, as if the sword assaulted its senses in some way.   It kept trying to look at me without looking at the sword, which was kind of hard since I was holding the sword between us.

“What now, boss?” Brundle asked in my mind.

“I don’t know.  You got any ideas?”

“The sword scares it; we should use that.”

“Shame I don’t actually know how to use a sword.  I guess I will improvise.”

“This is exactly what I wanted to hear.  No sword skills and no plans…are you good  for anything?”

“I make a mean shakshouka.”

By the time we had finished our telepathic conversation, the Jabberwocky took flight, and its head was waving back and forth, still trying to avoid looking at the blade and searching for some way to attack me.  I felt calm and focused and somehow bloodthirsty.  It was surprising as I don’t think I ever felt that before, but in retrospect, it’s probably the right way to feel when going into a fight.

“Try distracting it.  I’ll hit it with the sword,” I told Brundle.  

Brundle flapped his wings and went flying.

“Remember to use the sharp end,” he said, and he flew into the monster’s face.  It was actually an amazingly brave act as the Jabberwocky was many times his size, but I guess Brundle had the maneuvering advantage.  

As he caught the attention of the Jabberwocky by flapping around its face, I started sneaking towards it.  I saw Brundle manage to get out of range of the Jabberwocky’s jaws at the last minute.  When I was close, too close for the Jabberwocky to notice anything but me and the glowing sword, it suddenly looked scared.  I don’t think I have ever seen so much fear on any creature’s face before.  It looked directly at the sword and it froze for an hour or a moment, and time froze as well.  

Without any warning, the creature launched at me, so fast and so slow at the same time; I could see every muscle moving as it dived towards me, its wings flapping furiously.  Luckily, I still had enough time to decide to dodge.  I tried to roll away but half of my body refused; I ended up staggering to the side with my sword hand stuck straight, pointing the weapon directly towards the monster.  I heard a snicker-snack from the Vorpal sword and I felt pain in my right arm, and then numbness.  I fell on the ground and was busy trying to breath and not black out.   I was getting tired of doing that.

“That was amazing, boss!” I heard Brundle’s voice after what seemed like forever.

“What just happened?”

“You killed it!  It charged at you and you dodged to the side.  It wasn’t perfect, but the sword cut through it like butter.  Your hand looked like it was moving on its own, and just cut its head off.”

“I didn’t even try…and my right arm hurts like hell now”.

“Magical swords, boss, you can never know what they will do.  I’m glad you managed to get out of the way.  Can you move your fingers?”

I could.  I sat there for a while.  When I felt like I could walk, I stood up, cleaned the sword on some leaves, and continued walking.

There was a lot of walking happening.  I kept walking into the direction the cat pointed us.  Brundle alternated between flying around and sitting on my shoulder like a parrot.  The forest thinned out slowly.  We found a road and followed it for a while.   We met some people, and asked for directions.  It was getting kind of boring, really…so boring I almost missed getting hit on my head and waking up somewhere interesting…almost.

A sandy beach appeared to my left and sand dunes stretched to the right.  Here and there you could see sparse desert vegetation.  I could just barely make out five towers on the horizon; I hoped it was the palace of the so called “sun god.”   Brundle was flying at the moment, probably looking for something more interesting to do than just trek towards a palace.  Don’t you just wish you could fly sometimes?  Or at least that you could steal a car?  Or a horse (since I didn’t see any cars around there)?

“Something is coming towards us, boss.  From the right.”

“Can you describe it?”

“I’m not sure… it’s walking on four legs though.”

I kept walking, and a moment later, Brundle said, “It’s a sphinx and it’s moving quite fast.”

“A sphinx?  Brundle, I’ve a feeling we’re not in the Wonderland anymore.” I’m not sure if he got the reference but it made me feel clever.

I didn’t know much about sphinxes, but I knew they liked riddles, and that they eat people who can’t answer their riddles.

The sphinx had a gold-brown lion’s body, large feathered wings folded against it, and a genderless human face.  It licked its lips and I could see a set of large, sharp teeth.  It was moving quickly towards me. I didn’t feel like I could outrun it, so I stopped and waited.

“Finally!  A player!” the sphinx exclaimed.

“What are we playing?” I asked. My hand automatically rested on the hilt of my sword.  I didn’t think this was a smart reflex since I don’t know how to use a sword. The sphinx didn’t seem to notice or maybe it just didn’t care.

“Why riddles, of course,” it answered.  “It’s my favourite.”

“I think I’ll take a rain check,” I said, and started walking again.

“I must insist.”

I didn’t stop.  “I won’t play your game.”

“Then you lose by forfeit,” it said, and I could see its muscles tense.   The thing looked ready to jump.

I stopped and said, “Wait, I thought about it, and it sounds fun.  Let’s play.”

I’m sure I didn’t sound excited, but the sphinx seemed lacking in the ability to read tone of voice and body language because it smiled and said, “That’s better!”

I stood in front of the sphinx, my back to the palace, and looked at him.

“Are you ready?” asked the sphinx.

“No, but I’m sure that won’t stop you,” I replied.

“You seem to be lacking the proper spirit for this,” it observed.  “But here we go: At night I come without being fetched, and by day, I am lost without being stolen.”

A couple of minutes passed, and the sphinx finally said, “Do you have an answer?”

“To what?”

“The riddle, of course!”

“What riddle?  You made a series of statements and no question.  How can I answer if I don’t know the question?”

“It’s a time honored format.  The question is implied.  Obviously, the question is ‘What am I’?’”

“It could also be, ’What color is the sun?’ but sure.”  

I paused, and said after a few moments, “It’s a star; it comes at night with no one bringing it and it disappears in the morning when the sun comes up.”

“Wrong,” he said, and he smiled in a way that made me feel uncomfortable.

“Wait a second,” I said, “it’s not wrong.  It answers the question; it might not be what you’re looking for, but it fits the riddle.”

The sphinx shook its head and said, “I ask the question, and thus, I am the final authority on the answer.”

“That’s cheating!”

“No, it’s not.”

“If I drink half the contents of a glass of water, is it half empty or half full?”

“Either, both.”

“Exactly.  If more than one answer fits, you have to the accept them all.”

“I don’t like this approach,” it declared defiantly, “it could open a door to all sorts of ambiguity.  It could ruin the riddling business.”

“Not my problem.”

“But you raise an interesting point…”

I nodded my head.

“But there should only be one correct answer.”

“We live in a less than ideal world,” I suggested. “Let’s call it a tie; no one wins, no one loses.”

“I find that aesthetically displeasing.  Let’s go with a tie breaker; you ask me a riddle.”

“But I don’t have any riddles.”

“Then you better find one fast, or I will declare you the loser.”

“Ok.  Give me a second.”

“What the hell, Brundle! Do you have any ideas?”

“I don’t know, boss.  I don’t know any riddles, and I’m not sure we can take him in a fight, especially with your hand like that.”

“Ok…” I thought for a second.  “I have an idea.  I’ll call it the watermelon gambit.  Be ready to distract him in case it fails.”

I looked to the sphinx and said, “Ok, it’s a two part riddle, if that is permitted.”

“I’m not sure this is a proper form for a riddle,” he retorted.

“But it’s only fair!  If you guess one answer, we’re tied, and if you guess two, I lose.”

“That does make sense and you have my curiosity.  Tell it to me.”

“What is red from the inside, green from the outside, has watermelon seeds, and starts with the letter ‘W’?”

He smiled.  “That’s way too easy.  It’s a watermelon.”

“Correct.  Now for part two!  What is red from the inside, green from the outside, has watermelon seeds, and starts with the letter A?”

The sphinx furrowed its brow, and seemed to be thinking deeply.

After couple of minutes, I prodded him.  “Well?”

“I’m thinking…”

“Take your time.”

To pass the time, I decided to talk to Brundle, who landed on my shoulder and started thinking about the riddle as well.

“So what do you think?” I asked Brundle.

“When you asked the first part, I wanted to face-palm myself, boss.  I really wished I had human hands.  But now it seems like a pretty hard riddle.”

“It’s one of my favourites.  It’s pretty silly, really.”

“What do you mean ‘silly’?  What’s the answer?”

“Let’s wait until the sphinx comes up with something and then I’ll tell you.”

Some more time passed and the sphinx was muttering to itself.   “Starts with the letter A…” I was fed up with waiting so I finally said, “I don’t wanna rush you but–”

“—I’m still thinking!” he pleaded.

“Then maybe we should set a time limit.”

“Just a bit more!”

“Ok.”

I sat down, laid down on the sand, and took a short nap.  When I woke up, the sun was setting, and the sphinx was still there.  It seemed as if it hadn’t move an inch since I had fallen asleep.

“All right,” I said, “you have taken long enough.  I need to be moving.”

“I don’t like your riddle,” it said at last.

“Sorry.”

“What’s the answer?”

“Are you giving up?”

“I have to.  What is the answer?”

“Ready, Brundle?”

“Sure, boss.”

Loudly and proudly, I stated the answer: “Another watermelon.”

“Really, boss?  I can’t believe I trusted you with this!” Brundle said to me at the same time that the sphinx said, “What?!?!”

Its shoulder muscles tensed and its teeth became very apparent.

“It’s ‘Another watermelon.’  This is why it is a two part riddle.”

“This is a bad riddle!” the sphinx said angrily.  It crouched down slowly and looked like it was getting ready to pounce again.

“Wait a second!” I said.  “Let’s talk about this.  Maybe the problem is your perspective. It seems that the riddling business does not fit you well, with all its ambiguities and stupid clients. Why do you do it?”

The sphinx didn’t expect this response and he looked extremely confused. I guess they don’t give a lot of career advice in sphinx high school.

“What do you mean? I’m a sphinx; riddling is what we do.”

“But why let yourself be defined by your species?  Isn’t there anything you always wished to do?  Travel the world?  Be an astronaut?  Anything?  It seems that many things are more interesting than riddling innocent bystanders.”

The sphinx furrowed his brow again.  I was getting used to his thinking face.

“Something else, something else…,” he muttered, “I guess I always wanted to be an actor.  I’m great at memorizing lines; they are just like riddles!”

“Great, work on that.  And if I meet anyone who is in the business, I’ll put in a good word for you.”

“Thanks,” it said, “you are a good guy.”

“I try,” I said, as I turned around, and kept walking towards the palace, hoping the sphinx would not change its mind.

As I approached the palace, I started making out more of its details.   The whole scene reminded me of an orientalist’s dream, like the palace depicted in Disney’s Alladin. (I communicated this thought to Brundle, but he chose to ignore me.  He really needs to work on his pop culture references.) First, I noticed the towers; there were five of them, phallic-shaped, and dominating the scenery.   They seemed to be made out of white marble that reflected the sun; it was so bright, it was almost blinding to behold.   Surrounding them was a big, white retaining wall that was too tall for me to see most of what was behind it.  I could just make out the roofs of couple of buildings and a massive, golden dome. The road I was taking led directly to a gold-plated wood gate, decorated with elaborate details of cellestial objects. I couldn’t help but feel like someone was trying to compensate for something.

When I approached the gate, it opened towards me and two men were standing inside.  They had beards and long hair, and they were dressed in clothes similar to mine, with a black and yellow color scheme.  They had sheaths for the swords they carried and it appeared they did like the medival gloves and cloaks because they actually wore them. For this reason alone, I decided on the spot that I didn’t like them.

One of them smiled and started walking towards me.  He was blond, white, and built like a jock from an American high school movie.  When he got close to me, he extended his hand for a handshake.  I gave him mine and he looked me in the eyes and said, “We welcome you to the sun god palace.”

“Thanks. Can I get an audience with the sun god?” I asked.

(He wouldn’t let go of my hand, which was annoying.)

“Of course.  But first, I must say, I like the sword that you are carrying.  I would like to formally challenge you to a duel.” He said.

“No, thanks.  I don’t really do swords,” I said, trying to retrieve my hand from his death grip.

“Yet you carry a masterful sword.  I must insist that you try your skill with it. You have no reason to fear, for we will duel only until first blood is drawn.”

Now that sounded condescending, and to top it all up, he wouldn’t let go of my hand.  It seemed like I had judged his character correctly from the beginning.  Luckily, he wasn’t holding my left hand. My right hand was still in pain from the earlier Jabberwocky incident and wouldn’t have been much help with what I did next.

I pulled the annoying man towards me with my right hand and aimed an uppercut with the left directly to his chin. His feet collapsed under him. Years of kickboxing finally paid off.  Even though my left hand was in pain now as well, at least he finally let go of me.

I looked down at him.  He didn’t look like he could do any harm in the foreseeable future, but he did open his eyes just slightly, looked at me, and said in a low, cracking voice, “That wasn’t fair.”

“This is not the Olympic games,” I replied.

“Do you feel like screaming, ‘You got knocked the fuck out’ to the dude’s face?” I thought to Brundle.

His answer wasn’t what I had hoped for.

“The other guy is clapping!” Brundle said with a hint of surprise.  

I looked up and I saw him, still standing at the gate, clapping his hands with an amused expression of his face. He looked very different from the other man I had just schooled; this man had black hair, a dark brown beard, and tan skin.

“Bravo! Bravo!  He really needed that.  He was starting to get arrogant,” the darker man cheered while laughing.

Maybe I was wrong; maybe not all of them are that bad. I grew more dubious of that thought as he continued talking to me.

“I am Prince Simon; that is Prince Adam,” he said, pointing at the fallen prince. “We have been waiting for you.  Father is glad that you made it here,” he said.

I felt my blood boiling under my skin.  If they knew I was coming, they could have sent someone to guide me (but preferably not the guy I just knocked out). Some help would have been nice.  I complained about this to Brundle, and he told me that I should save my whining for the prince. I am not a confrontational person, so of course I voiced my complaint.

When I finished my lament, Prince Simon laughed (which really didn’t improve my mood) and said, “We could have sent someone, but some people wanted to test your abilities.  We are impressed with how well you handled the journey…after a rocky start.”

Before I could respond to that, he turned around and walked into the palace grounds, motioning me to follow him. As I passed through the portal, two servants that were waiting just behind the gate rushed to help the knocked-out Prince Adam.

Prince Simon asked if I would like the full tour, or if I wanted to go directly to his father.  I opted for the later.  We walked towards the grand building with a golden dome, past green gardens with orange trees and apple trees, and past fountains and ponds (which got Brundle asking if they have fish in them- I think he was getting hungry). We entered a gate that had two guards and walked down a long corridor with many doors to each side. Through one open door I could see a big room with a long table and chairs; maybe a conference room. When we almost reached the end of the hallway, we stopped in front of one more set of guards.  

The guards told Prince Simon that the king was waiting in the library. Prince Simon led me up some stairs, a small hallway, and another flight of stairs, until we reached a closed door with what seemed to be a bodybuilder in a gold and yellow uniform. He was bald with a face that reminded me of a toad, and he had a long, curly, black mustache.

The Prince said, “Announce us.”

While we waited, Prince Simon gave me a short briefing on his old man.  “Apollo, the sun god, is waiting for us inside.  Try to be polite when we enter, and don’t, under any circumstances, punch him.”

The guard opened the door and said, “May I present, Prince Simon and Baronet–”

But before he could finish, a loud authoritative voice said, “–I know, I’ve been waiting.  Let them in and close the door.”

The library, as expected, was big and full of books.  I like books; they make me feel at home.  On another occasion, I would probably have spent hours there browsing the tomes.  There was a small reading area with comfortable-looking chairs where a man, who I soon discovered was the sun god, was sitting.

I was surprised to hear there was a Baronet with us.   My first words as we entered were, “Who is the Baronet?”

The person I assumed was Apollo laughed. He had a loud laugh that filled the entire room. Prince Simon, who shared a little laugh as well, said, “You are the Baronet. Your mother’s great grandmother had an affair with his majesty, the sun god, and so, her firstborn’s family and all their descendants are nobility, and under the protection of Apollo.”

For a second I stood there shocked, but Brundle’s thought returned me to reality: “You are nobility! Should I call you milord or his lordship?”

Even though it was a telepathic message, he still managed to make it sound sarcastic.

I replied, “You can’t believe anything a prince tells you.”

Honestly, what he was saying was a perfect explanation for the perfect weather that plagued me, but I didn’t (and still don’t) like the idea of being nobility. They are usually arrogant and useless.

I observed Apollo as he stood up and walked towards me with both his arms outstretched to hug me.  I don’t think I ever tried to imagine a sun god, but he still wasn’t what I would have expected.  He looked like he was in his late 30s, and he didn’t seem much taller than me. He had flowing, dirty blond hair, blue eyes, and black skin.  His build seemed like an ex pro-athlete; you could see he used to be strong, but also that he started letting himself go just a little bit.  Like both of his sons, he also wore fancy clothes that looked as if they came from a medieval movie set, but his colors were gold and yellow.   A heavy golden pendant around his neck caught my eyes; all I could think of was “bling.”

He gave me a bear hug and said, “It’s been a long time since any of your family came to visit this land.  Welcome.  Tell me, what is your purpose here?  Did you come to take your place in court?”

I couldn’t think of a worse idea; I would much rather come back one day to endorse a revolution against the monarchy, I thought.   

What I actually said was, “No, I came to ask for a small break from the sunny weather that’s been following me my whole life.  I just ask for a couple of cold days in February, so I can build a snowman.”

Apollo was standing close to me. As I finished my plee, his facial expression changed suddenly from calm joy to a mixture of anger and surprise.  For a second, everything felt tense and awkward, and then, Apollo pushed my shoulder playfully while shouting, “Why?”

I didn’t lose my balance but the light push sent me half a step backwards.  I tried to reason with him calmly, “It’s not that I don’t enjoy the constant sunny weather…”

He cut me off, “Do you know how much I do for you by putting you under my protection?!? The energy I put into you and your family?!?  To make sure you always have a nice weather?!?” he asked harshly, his volume incrementally rising.

“I understand, but…” I started again without success.

“–Don’t ‘but’ me!  You have never suffered from the cold and the rain.  You have never had to stay at home because it was rainy or cold outside…you just don’t appreciate what is being done for you!  How dare you come to me and ask for something like that!”

“As I already said, I like it, but there is something that….” I attempted to speak again.

“—No…”  He interrupted me…AGAIN!  I hate being interrupted. This is when I did something that, in hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have done.  It still felt good though.  I raised my voice to match his:

“No, YOU listen to ME for a second!  I like the good weather, but I really want to build a snowman…listen, it’s for a girl, okay?! All I’m asking for is a week of snow!  Just one time; why is that so hard?”

He looked infuriated; I don’t think he gets cut off often or at all.

“You dare talk to me like that?” His face was red with anger, and his voice was dead cold.

He pointed at me, whispered something to himself, and a yellow ray of light shot from his hand to my chest. When it hit me I felt a hot, searing pain. Suddenly, my skin was shining in soft, blue light, and then the pain ceased.

For a second, Apollo looked surprised.  I was just as surprised as he was.  It might be obvious to you, hearing the whole story, but right then, I didn’t understand what was happening.  Suddenly, Apollo had a realization.  He gasped and said in a soft voice, “You are under the protection of the sea goddess.”  He paused, and then said. “Smart move, but don’t think you can get away with this lightly.  If you don’t want my sun, then you won’t have any.”

I muttered thanks to the shaman under my breath; it turned out that burning an offering to Yemanja was my saving grace.

---

Actually, I’ve invited you here and bored you with my story because I wanted to tell you I’m leaving for an adventure. I have decided I’ve had enough of the snow; today is the day I go and get my sunshine back. I’m getting more whiskey and better cigars, and I’m headed to Storm’s place after I leave you…But first let me finish my story …

---

The sun god Apollo called a servant and told him to arrange for me to go back home.

“He overreacted so much!” I said to Brundle.

“I don’t think I should get involed in your family disputes, boss…”

“I don’t even know him!”

“I know, boss, but still… that thing you did with the blue light was cool.”

“Yea, I didn’t know I could do that!”

The servant led us to someone who also looked medieval; this time wearing an old man in a wizard costume. At this point, I was getting really tired of the weird scenery and was ready to go home.  I said my goodbyes to Brundle.  I gave the sword to the servant, and promised him that Brundle will haunt him forever if he doesn’t make sure it returns to the cat in the bar.  

Then, the wizard whispered something and pointed at me.

After a bright flash, I opened my eyes and looked around.

I was in the middle of Storm’s room.  There were still strange symbols painted on the floor but the room had reverted to its previous hipster look (in comparison to the tacky palace I was just in, it didn’t seem so bad).  I could hear raindrops banging on the window, and see dark, gray rainclouds hanging over my town.

Guest Post by Free Haifa

By: Free Haifa

Welcome Nur to the blogosphere…

You called your blog “bombing4peace”, so I may assume that you intend to expose some of the annoying and dangerous contradictions in our world order. I know you experienced and suffered a lot from the contradictions of our distorted society. I really hope you will have the time and passion to bring more of your experience and reflections into writing.

To be more specific, I wanted to celebrate your new-born blog by relating to your first post.

You named it “I don’t want to ‘work to live’ or ‘live to work’”… At first glance it may look like an expression of “laziness” of a spoiled youth that don’t want to be enlisted to the mass slave-labor (or wage-labor) market. In the post you go much beyond your personal choices and propose a new world economic order, based on universal division of the really necessary work (maybe 4 hours’ work, 4 days a week) in order that everybody in the world will be able to live in dignity and still have a lot of free time and control of their life choices.

* * *

The belief and knowledge that “Another World is Possible” is an important part of our self-defense mechanism against our enslavement to the system.

Fighting for a better world is not only a matter of choice, but it is a necessity. You pose the question “how much work is really necessary?” In our age things are changing fast, and the answer to this question is also changing…

On my first year working in the factory (as a computer programmer), more than 30 years ago, our work week was shortened by a quarter of an hour, at the initiative of the management (We were never allowed to organize!). I thought this was the most natural thing, and that with the progress of technology we will have to work less and less. But it never happened again.

The Capitalist system failed to translate better technology and higher productivity to lesser work burden. This is in part because the system itself is causing high friction, inflicting immense extra expenses on everybody through wars, arms-race, the legal system, mass imprisonment, advertising, pollution, bureaucracy, the financial system, rampant consumerism and much more.

But unnecessary work is not the only damage caused by the Capitalist system. While the original meaning of work, as you suggest in your post, is to produce the necessities for human living, Capitalism converted work, or waged-labor, into a commodity that is traded in the market…

Our work is not ours any more. We are not making the things that we need, but we sell our working power in order to get the money to buy our needs. Our magnificent ability to change the world, our creativity, doesn’t belong to us but we are obliged to sell it in order to live… This way our work is converted from the essence of our Human lives to an activity that is forced upon us, mostly in frustrating and humiliating circumstances, many times in direct service to our most despised enemies.

This system of alienated over-work may not be sustainable much longer, even as we put all our effort unwillingly at its service.

* * *

In a special report about the world economy, dated October 4, 2014, The Economist investigates the future of work under the third industrial revolution – the consequences of the information and communication technology. It provides a wide perspective of the change that is just taking place… It estimates that about 47% of current jobs in the US may be replaced by computers or automation over the next decade. It describes how the percentage of the population employed in manufacturing has already peaked in many 3^rd world countries before industrialization had the chance to pull them out of poverty.

In spite of all the amazing technological development over the last decade, productivity growth and economic development are slowing. The report goes on to describe the shrinking part that workers are getting from the hardly-expanding cake, while the rich elite are accumulating unprecedented wealth. Within the working population itself, the proportion of income of the top small minority is increasing while the fate of most workers is not improving or even getting worse. The types of available jobs is also changing, as middle-skill jobs with decent wages are most prone to be replaced by technology, and therefore, most workers are pressed to the lower skill low-paid jobs.

The prospect that the report is predicting for the majority of Humanity who live from their work is dire: “a generation of workers, the world over, is facing unemployment and stagnant pay”… By treating work as a commodity that workers must sell for their living, they conclude that there will not be work enough for everybody and the price of Human working-power (like any commodity whenever its supply exceeds demand) will continue tumbling.

* * *

We learn in High Tech that every problem is an opportunity.

Capitalism is a system that designates most of humanity to poverty, just because work (defined as the caring for peoples’ needs) can be done ever more efficiently. This system IS lunatic while yours proposals are pure logic.

Actually, what we are missing is political power to the people. As the Capitalists are controlling the state and the international system, they utilize them to their self interest – to make more money at the expense of the vast majority. More and more people today understand that only through political power this process may be stopped or even reversed. You can see it in the mass movement to raise the minimum wage.

If putting your effort in order to create better conditions for Human livelihood is the original meaning of work, than working for political change, working for a just social order, for Socialism, is the most necessary and productive work in our times.

You might even discover that writing your blog is also work… I hope it will not dissuade you from going on with this blessed effort.

* * *

To finish with some real-world hard facts about work and working times, I wanted to mention also a recent BBC inquiry into working conditions in the supply-chain used to produce Apple’s iPhones.

They report appalling condition in a Pegatron factory near Shanghai, with workers working up to 16 hours a day. They also report the exploitation of children in dangerous conditions in mines in Indonesia.

As all big companies expertise today in “Social Responsibility,” Apple was quick to reply that is making a lot of progress to assure decent working conditions along all its supply chain… They claimed to have reached 93% compliance with their generous goal of no more than 60 working-hours a week!!!

On Writing

As I’m having a hard time writing my second blog post (it wasn’t supposed to be this one), I started thinking about my writing process. This blog post is partially me complaining (but my mom says its part of our basic human rights) and partially me trying to decide what to write next, and what to do with the stuff I have already written but can’t see how to finalize.

What do I read?

Usually, I read fantasy books (but I haven’t been doing that enough lately), and articles trying to understand how the world functions and what it should ideally look like (see the first article in this blog).

What do I write about?

The blog isn’t made to be about a specific topic, but I would like to write about social/economical/political issues.  I like to think about those things, and there is no way to test and hone up my arguments better than making them public and getting feedback (except for testing them out in reality, but that is just a little bit harder).

Actually, the first pieces I wrote were personalized short stories for people I like (which I’m not going to share here).  The blog is the first time I write without a certain person in mind.  The last subject was something I’ve been talking to lots of friends about, so I had a foundation to build upon.  Now, there are issues I want to address but its really different from the way I’m used to writing.

How do I write?

I have a problem “waiting for inspiration”… I can always find something more interesting to do/read (sidenote: damn the people who invented the internet) when I’m waiting for inspiration.  I found that when I force myself to sit and write, I actually manage to write something (look at this post!), but the quality isn’t always how I want it.

In school, every time I needed to write something (which I tried to avoid as much as possible) I ended up writing what is called “stream of consciousness.”  I never knew that that is what it’s called, but this felt like the most natural way to write. But then all of the things I actually write are different; short stories need some kind of structure and the same goes for articles that are related to a certain issues, if you want people to read them.  I’ve found that it actually takes some extra effort to organize myself that way.

Then there is editing!  Editing is the bane of my existence. I hate rereading things I have written.  For example, even when I take exams, I hardly review what I answer.  If I do, I start doubting things that I know are right and suspect that I used the word “and” too many times and other things of this nature…

Why do I write?

Now this is the question of questions.

I’m not really sure why I write, and this is probably a big part of why its hard for me to write a second blog post.  When I write for somebody, I write to make them smile, but for the blog?  I don’t think I actually want to affect anyone.  I’m not planning to advertise much or get attention.

Is the blog for myself? I’m all into introspection and trying to understand myself, but I never felt the need to do it in public (this is probably going to be the most introspective it’s going to be).  What other reasons are there to write? I have a friend who blogs, but he is hoping to save the world.  I don’t have such aspirations (“go down dancing” is my motto).

To tell the truth, this is mainly a challenge for myself, like how I challenge myself in other aspects of life (relationships, sports, and ideas…).   Sometimes its hard to push myself to do it, but luckily right now its going well.  Apparently mental masturbation needs the right mood…

To conclude, I’m still not sure what I will write next, but I wrote something, so I feel lot less writer blocky right now… It’s something!