The French ritual of Saturday market is one which continues to prevail, particularly in the countryside. It is a day, of not only getting fresh produce and browsing wares, but also engaging with one’s community, observing who’s around, discovering what’s new and sharing updates with neighbours, farmers and local businesses.
She who cries
with wailing baby
Remembers how she was once
Looking at others
It is the ‘othering’ that remains at the heart of our problems, our conflicts
This takes place not in faraway places but at home
In our own families
How do we overcome the fear that we have of those we do not (think we) understand?
We too are different
Shades of red. Signs of privilege. Protection and safety.
We stand on balconies, inhaling deep realisations of what we want and do not want.
We are sheltered. And yet this suffocates us.
A beautiful essay on writing as a way of life. There are many ways to write and forms of expression. Is it through writing in your own personal journal? What about short stories? Poetry? A possible novel? A blog? Or is it writing academic articles? Policy reports? A PhD? What is writing for you? How often do you write?
Many people want to become authors these days, to be published and make a living writing fiction. And many of them work hard on their books. Yet only relatively few writers bloom into authors in the true sense of the word — dedication doesn’t guarantee success. I sometimes wonder what makes the difference between those who work hard and succeed and those who work hard and don’t.
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A birthday party in Madrid
Photographic evidence of the Hungarian’s white shirted shoulder and his left ear
Neither meant to make an impression.
The Italian who left for surgery in Cairo,
would flee to Rome in the midst of the Arab Spring.
Hands shaken above large desks
Never to un-meet again.
A bartender with impeccable English
Quiet with the city mourning a tragic fire accident
I am new to Baku.
Only the combined sound of Drake playing
And the gurgling of the apple-flavoured shisha pipe
Actually people think I am a terrorist.
Because I don’t come from Azerbaijan.
And that is how my people are often perceived.