Jazz From the Next Room Meets the Baghdad Blues
Tripoli, Libya Oct. 28, 2014
Late October. Have an awful chest cold, surely contracted while wandering around the airport in Istanbul, where some hag walked past and coughed like a 4 year-old in my face. Got on the plane, finally, to Misrata, then was driven the 200 kilometers to Tripoli. I sit in a large villa. One crusty old fart, Billy, got canned today. I guess I’m taking the poor sap’s place.
This is a dangerous place; the old turf of Gaddafi until he met his ignominious end at the hands of his countrymen in a meat locker somewhere in downtown Sirte, his birthplace. They tell me he was raped with a pistol then shot in the head with the same device before being retired to cold storage for a few days so as to arrange a little payback time for certain, privileged Libyans.
This is a strange and dangerous place. I live in the aftermath of a war zone. This country, indeed, went through a full-blown revolution. The evidence is all around – it is impossible not to see. Streets are littered with trash, and people don’t seem to care. Nearly every block wall is filled with slogans from the revolution: ‘Feb 17’ is a popular one as is gruesome graffiti depicting the hanging of Gaddafi and one of his (presumed) henchmen. There are other images that are more disturbing.
The fact of the matter is that, with considerable foreign intervention and support, the Libyan people kicked the bum-forty-year-dictator-Gaddafi out and ceremoniously (or perhaps not) dispensed with said dictatorship. But then the tribes came into it, you see, as is the case in all Moslem lands of Africa and the Middle East – then the squabbling and jockeying for power began. The result has been (completely apart from Benghazi and all of that) a sort of “staged” internecine warfare between two rival militias in this land. It’s on for a few days, then off. Nobody seems to know who’s got the upper hand.
As I say, the remains of a pretty bad fight are everywhere. Down the street, someone shot a rocket at somebody’s house. It left a black hole in the wall about five feet in diameter, looking just as it must have some 3 years earlier. Burned out cars on the street. Several blown tanks sitting by the side of the road waiting to be scrapped. High caliber bullet holes pepper the walls on every side. And the graffiti goes on and on and on. ‘Free Libya’ posters are everywhere. Feb 17, Feb 17, Feb 17. Free Libya. “Libyans – do not forget your heart!” There are signs of good English being done here, as many of the writings are grammatically correct, or nearly-so.
But I believe that it is impossible for these people to ever have anything other than a sort of “Tribal Democracy”, at best – which is saying very little. And this is because we’re dealing with Moslems, the Moslem Mindset/Psyche and of course, the Tribal Plane of Islam. The trouble with these Libyans who went to all the expense and effort to overthrow their government is that they’re Moslems and that is a problem when it comes to tribes, or clans. For in reality, Islam and Tribalism are nowadays incompatible. Therein lies perhaps its greatest flaw – that Islam sprang from a tribal people and time and, because of its hyper-rigidity, cannot extricate itself from barbaric practices of its past such as beheadings, female genital mutilation, honor killings, stoning, executions for sorcery, death for apostasy…the list goes on. These are tribal things and Islam is a religion in the 21st Century attempting to live by medieval codes of conduct. Indeed, with the peculiar privileges afforded the Moslem Man, why would he want to update his behavior and world-construct? He is happy being blissfully evil. He gets whatever he wants, in his Seventh Century way.
Yet, Islam doesn’t serve tribal interests very effectively because there can be only one “Allah”, just one supreme entity. And in the African and Middle Eastern Moslem culture, (one could argue each Moslem culture) every man is his own little Tribal Mohammed, allowing him many a special fringe benefit – such as owning his wife, or wives. That is as simple as it is – the Moslem Male regards his woman as his property. As a piece of property. Curiously, he demands complete respect from his wife, yet is not required to show her any, for she is his property; it would be an absurd notion for a Moslem Man to expect obeisance and groveling from the automobile he owns, for instance. The arrangement is decidedly unhealthy, yet there it is. So, basic notions of sex, power and gender lie unsolved within Islam and amongst Moslems. Sex, sexual perversion, Religio-Homo Erotica, Misogyny and the Supremacist Tribal Mindset – all reinforced and sanctified by Islam – make the Moslem Male the King of the World.
I met a Moslem man recently – the owner of a little smoke shop in Istanbul – who openly admitted to me that he had raped a donkey when he was a teenager. I would not lie to you. He went into great detail about things I won’t mention here, but it was clear to me that he did what he said he had done – had tribal sex with an ass.
Tripoli, Libya Oct. 29, 2014
It was a bizarre day at school. The kids are beginning to act like I am their father, calling me “Baba” and wanting physical contact. They’re such sweet little kids. The “other Baba” was crushed earlier today, though, returning from a one period break during which the Islamic Studies class was being given. Other Baba had not met the “mama” teacher previously. It was bad enough to hear the little ones chanting Koranic verses as I approached outside, but then as the door opened, I saw what can only be described as the spitting image of the Wicked Witch of the West, peddling her poison to innocent babies. The face was the same. The voice and black Halloween dress – the same – the exact, dour and malignant expression on a face which became yet more menacing when it turned to see the Infidel back in the class. One knows to the marrow when he has just walked into something terribly wrong. The feeling is unmistakable and makes the body shudder. In this life, indeed, there are moments for most everyone when we look the Devil right square in the eyes and swallow roughly. That was one of which, for this man, there are only very few and less than the fingers on a hand.
As this is written, the hellish Minaret Symphony is going off again. The sound is right out of Dante. A vast, murmuring dissonance washes below the closest one who sings so out of tune he sounds as if he were being strangled. I cannot yet express in words the horror that is in that sound. This is a strange, dangerous place. It’s no wonder these Moslems have so much trouble. They’re damned evil and their damned religion has made them that way.
Tripoli, Libya Nov. 1, 2014
I went to the Old City yesterday, down to the Medina, or Martyr Square. In Tripoli, there at the seaside, one can visit the Arch of Septimus Severus – battered and chipped at – the victim of a millennium at the hands of Moslems, mainly. It struck me, as I stood underneath it sheltering from an early afternoon rain shower, that this was yet another example of both Moslem indolence and ignorance. They like to exploit almost everything they didn’t build – because it’s easier – churches, arches, ideas. But to build an arch such as did the brother of the local ‘Governor’ in 165 AD is an impossibility for these heathen; the Moslems therefore only tolerate it because it is the last edifice of the ancient city of Oea and it’s good for the tourism business, I suppose, when there doesn’t happen to be a revolution raging through the streets. Other than that, they ignore the masterpiece in their front yard and allow trash to accumulate around it. They are a tribal, stealing, crude and warmongering religion of people immune to the engineering genius of the Romans. That which they do not understand but must give grudging credit to, they co-opt – then eventually claim as their own in some, Islamic way.
For to give credit to the Romans in a suitable manner would be taking it from Allah, from
Mohammed, and then of course, from themselves; for everything devolves along those lines –
Allah, to Mohammed, to Me – down to the Everyman Prophet, the Common Moslem Man. If it weren’t for the utterly sordid nature of the personage, the idea might have worked as it did in the Jesus mold where there is a God, Jesus, then the rest of us. And just as the Moslems do, Christians are attempting to emulate the object of their devotion. But this Mohammed character was a decidedly bad man, and copying him is akin to emulating a pile of donkey shit, while emulating Jesus is akin to fashioning a Rose.
Tripoli, Libya Nov. 3, 2014
It’s unfortunate, but this place is already wearing on me. I know it must be a flaw, personally, but little, irritating things I cannot tolerate much anymore, the amount of which depends upon the level of stupidity behind each. I’m thinking of Moslem women. One of them, a supervisor of sorts, asked what I was doing today as I sat in a room on the internet. I was astounded but didn’t show it, telling her, “It’s Arabic now.” These are the tiny things that crush a man’s soul. I later learned what was behind it. Apparently, some local Libyan teacher had complained that I was “at his desk” and could I please move out into the office area to use the internet? I moved, but it’s clear that these Moslems don’t like working in the same room as infidels – especially when there’s women around. I inquired after I came home and my suspicions were promptly confirmed. Again, the problem is with sex, the Male Moslem and his insecurities. Soul-crushing nonsense, indeed, and so yes – the gig is wearing on me. I’ll be glad to go in January, for it can only get worse from here, as I reckon.
Indonesia will also be populated by Mohammedists but I will have a private apartment and be working at a place where my students are not all Moslem. There will be Chinese and Koreans – sizeable Buddhist and Hindu groups. Anyway, the school here in Tripoli is a shady deal. They were supposed to pay staff four days ago and today told those foreign teachers “This week, inshallah.” I guarantee you that if they pull that on me come December 1, I will lose any remaining sympathy for my students and pull that runner in January. Pay is pay and I’m sick of weasels and their weasel stories. At any rate, I can read the writing on the wall; these people are going to be a pain in the ass for the next two months. I just don’t see it going any other way, so I’ll make the best of it, keep smiling, and stick it out.