(on) The Assassination of El- Hajj Malik El-Shabazz

A: from The New York Times 

Malcolm X, the 39-year-old leader of a militant black nationalist movement, was shot to death yesterday afternoon at a rally of his followers in a ballroom in Washington Heights.

Shortly before midnight, a 22-year-old Negro, Thomas Hagan, was charged with the killing. The police rescued him from the ballroom crowd after he has been shot and beaten.

Malcolm, a bearded extremist, had said only a few words of greeting when a fusillade rang out. The bullets knocked him over backward.

Pandemonium broke out among the 400 Negroes in the Audubon Ballroom at 166th Street and Broadway. As men, women and children ducked under tables and flattened themselves on the floor, more shots were fired. Some witnesses said 30 shots had been fired.

The police said seven bullets had struck Malcolm. Three other Negroes were shot.

About two hours later the police said the shooting had apparently been a result of a feud between followers of Malcolm and members of the extremist group he broke with last year, the Black Muslims. However, the police declined to say whether Hagan is a Muslim.

The Medical Examiner’s office said early this morning that a preliminary autopsy showed Malcolm had died of “multiple gunshot wounds.” The office said that bullets of two different calibers as well as shotgun pellets had been removed from his body.

One police theory was that as many as five conspirators might have been involved, two creating a diversionary disturbance.

Hagan was shot in the left thigh and his left leg was broken, apparently by kicks. He was under treatment in the Bellevue Hospital prison ward last night; perhaps a dozen policemen were guarding him, according to the hospital’s night erintendent. The police said they had found a cartridge case with four unused .45-caliber shells in his pocket.

Two other Negroes, described as “apparent spectators” by Assistant Chief Inspector Harry Taylor, in command of Manhattan North uniformed police, also were shot. They were identified as William Harris, wounded seriously in the abdomen, and William Parker, shot in a foot. Both were taken to Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center, which is close to the ballroom.

Capt. Paul Glaser of the Police Department’s Community Relations Bureau said early today that Hagan, using a double-barrelled shotgun with shortened barrels and stock, had killed Malcolm X.

Malcolm, a slim, reddish-haired six-footer with a gift for bitter eloquence against what he considered white exploitation of Negroes, broke in March, 1964, with the Black Muslim movement called the Nation of Islam, headed by Elijah Muhammad . . . .1

B: from Newsweek

He was born Malcolm Little, an Omaha Negro preacher’s son. Before he was out of his teens, he was Big Red, a Harlem hipster trafficking in numbers, narcotics, sex, and petty crime. He was buried as Al Hajj Malik Shabazz, a spiritual desperado lost between the peace of Islam and the pain of blackness. His whole life was a series of provisional identities, and he was still looking for the last when, as Malcolm X, 39, apostate Black Muslim and mercurial black nationalist, he was gunned to death by black men last week in a dingy uptown New York ballroom.

He had seen the end coming?predicted it, in fact, so long and so loudly that people had stopped listening. Malcolm X had always been an extravagant talker, a demagogue who titillated slum Negroes and frightened whites with his blazing racist attacks on the “white devils” and his calls for an armed American Mau Mau. His own flamboyant past made it easy to disregard his dire warnings that he had been marked for murder by the Muslims, the anti-white, anti- integrationist Negro sect he had served so devoutly for a dozen years and fought so bitterly since his defection a year ago.

His assassination turned out to be one of his few entirely accurate prophecies. Its fulfillment triggered an ominous vendetta between the Malcolmites and the Muslims?ominous in its intensity even though it was isolated on the outermost extremist fringe of American Negro life.

Death came moments after Malcolm stepped up to a flimsy plywood lectern in Manhattan’s Audubon Ballroom, just north of Harlem, to address 400 of the faithful and the curious at a Sunday afternoon rally of his fledgling Organization of Afro-American Unity. The extermination plot was clever in conception, swift and smooth in execution. Two men popped to their feet in the front rows of wooden folding chairs, one yelling at the other: “Get your hands off my pockets, don’t be messing with my pockets.” Four of Malcolm’s six bodyguards moved toward the pair; Malcolm himself chided, “Let’s cool it.”

Volley: Then came a second diversion: a man’s sock, soaked in lighter fluid and set ablaze, flared in the rear. Heads swiveled, and as they did, a dark, muscular man moved toward the lectern in a crouch, a sawed-off shotgun wrapped in his coat. Blam-blam! A double-barreled charge ripped up through the lectern and into Malcolm’s chest. From the left, near the spot where the two men had been squabbling, came a back-up volley of pistol fire.

Malcolm tumbled backward, his lean body rent by a dozen wounds, his heels hooked over a fallen chair. The hall was bedlam. Malcolm’s pregnant wife, Betty, rushed on stage screaming, “They’re killing my husband!” His retainers fired wildly through the crowd at the fleeing killers. Four assailants made it to side doors and disappeared.

The man with the shotgun, identified by police as 22-year-old Talmadge Hayer of Paterson, N.J., dashed down a side aisle to the stairway exit from the second floor ballroom. From the landing, one of Malcolm’s bodyguards winged him in the thigh with a .45-caliber slug. Howling in pursuit (“Kill the bastard!”), the ballroom crowd caught Hayer on the sidewalk, mauled him, and broke his ankle before police rescued him.

Hayer was charged with homicide. Five days later, police picked up a karate-trained Muslim “enforcer,” Norman 3X Butler, 26, as suspect No. 2.

The arrest of a Muslim surprised almost no one. For all his many enemies, Malcolm himself had insisted to the end that it was the Muslims who wanted him dead. They seemed to dog him everywhere he went; a bare week before his death, he was firebombed out of his Queens home, the ownership of which he had been disputing with the Muslims. Increasingly edgy, he moved with his wife and four children first to Harlem’s Hotel Theresa, finally?the night before his death?to the New York Hilton in the alien world downtown. When he died, Manhattan police assumed that Muslims were involved . . . .2

C: from New York Post

They came early to the Audubon Ballroom, perhaps drawn by the expectation that Malcolm X would name the men who firebombed his home last Sunday, streaming from the bright afternoon sunlight into the darkness of the hall.

The crowd was larger than usual for Malcolm’s recent meetings, the 400 filling three-quarters of the wooden folding seats, feet scuffling the worn floor as they waited impatiently, docilely obeying the orders of Malcolm’s guards as they were directed to their seats.

I sat at the left in the 12th row and, as we waited, the man next to me spoke of Malcolm and his followers:

“Malcolm is our only hope,” he said. “You can depend on him to tell it like it is and to give Whitey hell.”

Then a man was on the stage, saying:

“. . . I now give you Brother Malcolm. I hope you will listen, hear, and understand.”

There was a prolonged ovation as Malcolm walked to the rostrum past a piano and a set of drums waiting for an evening dance and stood in front of a mural of a landscape as dingy as the rest of the ballroom.

When, after more than a minute the crowd quieted, Malcolm looked up and said, “A salaam aleikum (Peace be unto you)” and the audience replied “Wa aleikum salaam (And unto you, peace).”

Bespectacled and dapper in a dark suit, his sandy hair glinting in the light, Malcolm said: “Brothers and sisters . . .” He was interrupted by two men in the center of the ballroom, about four rows in front and to the right of me, who rose and, arguing with each other, moved forward. Then there was a scuffle in the back of the room and, as I turned my head to see what was happening, I heard Malcolm X say his last words: “Now, now brothers, break it up,” he said softly. “Be cool, be calm.”

Then all hell broke loose. There was a muffled sound of shots and Malcolm, blood on his face and chest, fell limply back over the chairs behind him. The two men who had approached him ran to the exit on my side of the room shooting wildly behind them as they ran.

I fell to the floor, got up, tried to find a way out of the bedlam.

Malcolm’s wife, Betty, was near the stage, screaming in a frenzy. “They’re killing my husband,” she cried. “They’re killing my husband.”

Groping my way through the first frightened, then enraged crowd, I heard people screaming, “Don’t let them kill him.” “Kill those bastards.” “Don’t let him get away.” “Get him.”

At an exit I saw some of Malcolm’s men beating with all their strength on two men. Police were trying to fight their way toward the two. The press of the crowd forced me back inside.

I saw a half-dozen of Malcolm’s followers bending over his inert body on the stage, their clothes stained with their leader’s blood. Then they put him on a litter while guards kept everyone off the platform. A woman bending over him said: “He’s still alive. His heart’s beating.”

Four policemen took the stretcher and carried Malcolm through the crowd and some of the women came out of their shock long enough to moan and one said: “I don’t think he’s going to make it. I hope he doesn’t die, but I don’t think he’s going to make it.”

I spotted a phone booth in the rear of the hall, fumbled for a dime, and called a photographer. Then I sat there, the surprise wearing off a bit, and tried desperately to remember what had happened. One of my first thoughts was that this was the first day of National Brotherhood Week.3

1Peter Kihss, The New York Times, Febnruary 22, 1965, p. 1. Copyright @1965 by The New York Times Company.
2Newsweek, March 8, 1965, Copyright @ 1965, Newsweek.Inc. All rights reserved.
3Thomas Skinner, “I saw Malcolm Die,” The New York Post, February 22, 1965, p. 1.

Copyright © 2000 by Daniel J. Kurland.  All rights reserved.

Source: http://www.criticalreading.com/malcolm.html

[i,S.I.S note: en today, en the moons forward, we have all the power to share mo resources with bredrin en dadas on the continent – our freedom fighters, peacemakers and those spreading love, hope and positivity in abundance on the frontlines and wherever  they may be – from Harare to Kampala, Accra to Nairobi, from Cairo to Cape town….like check dis’ and spread the werd! or do anything you want with these stories, but don’t say you’d have lived your life differently if only you’d heard dis story, now you know….]



22 February 2011

This Union is outraged at the arrest of 52 activists in Harare on 19th February by armed security personnel. It appears that their only ‘crime’ was to be part of a discussion group, with a film examining recent events in Egypt and the Middle East.  They are all currently being detained in Harare Central Prison. This unprovoked attack on a peaceful political education session is indicative of the type of terror that was unleashed by ZANU-PF in the run up to the last elections.

afrika huru! afrika moja!

The purpose then as now, is clearly to instil fear into the general population in an attempt to demobilise democratic forces from asserting their rights. ZANU-PF has made it clear that they intend to win the next elections, even without an agreed constitution in place, and to win it by any means.

Zimbabwe continues to be in a state of siege. The working class and the poor continue to bear the brunt of the prolonged economic crisis while those in positions of power enjoy all that money can buy.  It is therefore imperative that those who wish to see a peaceful and prosperous Zimbabwe, where all are able to share in the resources of the country, must speak out when such attacks take place. They do not belong in a democratic society, and are a crude attempt to intimidate those courageous enough to say that another Zimbabwe is possible.

We demand that the 52 persons arrested be immediately released, and that if any charges are brought against them, that they be vigorously challenged and decisively refuted as justice demands they be. Furthermore, that those who disrupted this peaceful gathering be called to account and be exposed for what they are, wreckers of democracy.


Source: http://www.kubatanablogs.net/kubatana/

[From i,S.I.S to Bredrin en dadas in solidarity, in the words of  one of my life-long sista/wifeys, “……..i fucking love you….” wanted to send you a special of specialiest of asantes for your divine selves and zawadis…i’m so grateful that we were sent into each other’s lives and that these soul families of ours are so nourishing and positively transforming….dis love letter is reposted with overflowing love, respekt en humility from a life-long dada in India and @  http://www.rehanatejpar.com ]

Hello dear friends,

I hope you are all well and carving your paths the way you wish.  Since I last wrote here, there have been many experiences and moments of self-reflection which have impacted my views on life, learning and where I think I need to grow.  I will try to capture some of my insights and outsights here, bearing in mind that my ideas are constantly being reformed and re-thought, that I am on a journey of seeking and have by no means reached my destination.

I am in Udaipur, Rajasthan and Shikshantar is a beautiful and inspiring place. It’s an open learning community where people of all ages are living and learning in a more practical, collaborative and sustainable way.  Do-it-yourself, zero waste – everything is made into something else. Solar cookers out of old trunks, a bicycle powered washing machine from an old drum and a stationary bicycle, a table from an old door on two wheels, baskets, blinds, coasters made from newspaper, never will you need to go to IKEA again, I tell you.

Guided by Gandhian principles,swadeshi – meeting needs locally and using indigenous products to the land you find yourself, is really important to Shikshantar.  They are growing organic vegetables in the garden, and support local farmers to also grow organic.  They pay a lot of attention to the food they eat, and try to eat a diversity of local millets, which have nourished Indians for millennia but which arebeing eaten less and less with the pressures from industrial agriculture towards monoculture. So although there are thousands of different kinds of rice and grains, today you find only a few largely being used across India, threatening the survival of many.  Cooking and eating is a communal ritual at Shikshantar and a lot of care is put into the process. Everyday all veg, local food is cooked and eaten together – without oil! For India, this is hard to imagine, since oil is in everything. Instead they use alternatives like nuts, mustard seeds, onions, tomatoes.

A sign in the kitchen says “We consider healthy, organic food to be the best form of health insurance.” I couldn’t agree more.

They are really working to shift consciousness and re-imagine other ways of thinking, doing and being

which are outside of the known, dominant systems currently in place.

They understand participation in the dominant system as violent as they know that exploitation is involved in extracting resources, manufracturing products and transporting them. They try to find local, more gentle alternatives to meeting their needs and are bringing forward indigenous knowledges, creativity, and the lesser recognized powers of trust, love, collaboration and spirit to empower their movement.

There’s a revolving door of workshops happening in the space, not to mention knowledgeable people from diverse fields, so learning from doing and discussing is happening constantly.   Last week we had a 10 day film making workshop and people came from across India.  It’s called Swapathgami – the one who makes their own path.  The first project was a personal photography project which I think helped to situate folks in themselves first.  Next they chose groups and created a short film which we screened the last day.  There wasn’t huge emphasis placed on technical skills of editing and videography, but more on creating good stories.  This way you first unleash your creativity and then you will learn how to edit and what shots work more or less as you go.  What was really refreshing was that every other day there was a skills share where participants had the opportunity to share something they know and people picked up far more skills than just film making. I learned how to make a spoon from a coconut!

The film making workshop introduced me to many unschoolers. Shikshantar has a walkout/walkon network which supports people who walkout of school or from their jobs to pursue their own paths, versus the ready-made road. I have for a long time felt and known that the

system of schooling worldwide is insufficient to developing our good character, our practical, life skills, our creativity or knowledge of self which enable us to be in the world in a non-violent way.  What I am realizing now is that schooling is a violent process which views people, souls, as pieces of clay which can be molded into whatever society wants and needs.  And the school’s goal of manufacturing conforming workers to fit into neat boxes in society, tries to beat out the being’s being.

Where is there room for the being to identify what resonates within them, to self-guide their learning, to pursue their own passions and know themselves? There is very little freedom within the processes of schooling.  And what has schooling produced?  The society we live in.  What do you think of our society?  I see a lot of negative, unfortunately (though I am consciously trying to think more positively these days). So I won’t even go into the hierarchies over nature and between humans, the violence, exploitation, constructed needs, and suffering which is man-made and within and around us.  How can we not locate schooling, the most far-reaching socially constructing device in this modern world as a serious cause of society’s ills? How do its disciplining structures and rigidity block our creativity and confidence, producing fears, insecurities and competition?

How has the emphasis placed on literacy resulted in the loss of oral traditions and livelihoods of peoples and cultures worldwide?  How have the schooled and literate produced more harm in the world than the unschooled, illiterates? How can we think differently about the way we could allow our young and old to grow? Learning, after all is what enables humanity’s continual survival and evolution.

The past week I spent with a beautiful family in Ahmedabad, Gujarat. They have unschooled both their children and have chosen a path less traveled.  I observed and played with these children and was so impressed with how mature, confident, creative, and articulate they are.   They really are exceptional humans. They spend the day rotating between drawing, playing active games outside, making jewellery, paper-mache, playing chess…They chose what they want to do, and have learned a lot from observing their mother who is often making something.  These kids know what they want and what they don’t want because they are given space and freedom to choose.  They can articulate themselves well, are witty, smart…, 7 and 11 years…just exceptional. I have so much respect and admiration for their mother’s ability to not intervene in everything in her children’s lives, to let them figure out a problem instead of jumping to telling them what to do, how to do, or just doing it. She trusts them and believes that they are souls on their own unique path and that she must only be a guide to them self-actualizing.  I think about how much I want to create an open learning space where my children and other children could learn through

doing and discussing together.  And then I also think about how bossy and controlling I can be.  And how that comes from ego and insecurity – subconsciously or consciously wanting to have power over life – even my own – to dominate over uncertainty and natural flow to breed anticipated outcomes.  So that things happen the way I think they should – as if I may know better than the Divine what should happen, or how someone ought to be.  When just being who we really are is the best we can be.  Just like a flower, who just is, and doesn’t need to go to school or be told how to be a flower and smell and look good and provide pollen for bees – we also need to just be.  I have much to unlearn.

I’ve been thinking more about movement and theatre and how I have always had a passion to work with these mediums, either as a performer myself or as a facilitator with youth and children, but how I’ve somehow allowed “work” to get in the way of really diving into it or trusting my capabilities in these fields (because I have no piece of paper that says I’m an expert….ahh the diploma disease!).

So now that I have been gifted this time of rethinking I am realizing that I want to work with these mediums to facilitate re-imagining , understanding and transcending oppression, reconnection to our inner voices, cooperation vs. competition, mindfulness of what we think, speak and do, interconnectedness, living non-violently, trust in oneself and others….let me start there. And that I want to yes, be inspired and use the experiences and methods of others who have come before me, and also, more intentionally create my own ways of using these methods especially with children and youth from marginalized communities.   I hope to develop workshops and practice them here and then hopefully with you when I next see you again!!

And in the process I’m working on healing myself from my socialization and schooling which has taught me away from nature and my natural way, to distrust myself and my abilities, to be violent against myself and other beings by taking more than I need and having too many expectations of myself, from negative thinking, and control, disconnection from my body, my waste (and how it should be recycled)…and much more. Healing is happening on all levels. Being slow is helping. Picking vegetables from the garden, cooking and eating really good food is helping (I’m going to start organic farming soon!). Having more time to think, make, read, write, meditate, talk and walk is really helping me to come back to being.

I am blowing you all a kiss of peace, wholeness, health and love. You are all in my hearts.


[i,S.I.S note: I give thanks for yesterday, today and tomorrow….   Give thanks to my kukhu and granpa,  give thanks for my family, give thanks for those who share their love with me, and all those who have been sent to me, [give thanks for powah! Of prayer! ] en for all the positive transformashun!….

bless the collective of Bredrin and dadas watering the seeds of, fundraising for and facilitating good (re)education with youth/peers en elders in Brazil, India, Kenya, Uganda and Turtle Island, (like) through Elimu Sanifu, Safe Spaces, QLGBT groups, Black Queer Resistance, Goldelox Productions, AND The People Project; with the support of global networks like Bredrin en Dadas in Solidarity &  Schools Without Borders………  bless all a dem en their families, and all those around us….]

[  To Ma3t na upendo from i,S.I.S:

I give thanks for your hadithi of big love and salaam dada, give thanks for your commitment to the struggle for Afreekan liberashun.

Bless you and u’r family, bless all those around us, bless our friends, and enemies…….I give thanks to the ancestors, I pray for their continued guidance and protection….Bless the ancestors of the Afreekan shores, and in the diaspora of righteousness….Bless the motherless and fatherless, bless those who are sick, bless the hungry, bless those without a roof over their heads, Bless our freedom fighters, Bless our healers and peacemakers, bless those who spread love and positivity in abundance…so much tings to pray for…..

I pray for our unity……ase……

Re/posted from http://ma3t.blogspot.com/2010/12/i-was-created-with-love.html …..ase, ase….]

When I was young, I had a theory about love. My theory was that the more pleasure and love a man and woman share during sex, the more beautiful the kids they will conceive.

My theory was based on solid evidence. People commented on how me, my brother, and my little sister were beautiful kids, and I knew for sure that my parents invested a great deal of love and pleasure while creating each one of us.

I love stories. I love attaching stories to small moments that may seem insignificant to others. So, I’ll share with you my favorite one.The story of how I was conceived:

I was created with love.

I was born while my dad was in prison.

He was sentenced to spend 5 years in prison because he was part of  a communist group opposing Mobarak and his regime.

When the verdict came, my mother was not in Egypt. Their friends managed to hide him away and bring them together before he goes to prison.

Mama knew Baba will be away for years. They both wanted a baby girl and she thought that having a baby would soften the coming years with out him. So they hid away, took their time in creating me and in bidding each other farewell.

When they were certain my mother was pregnant in me, my dad went and turned himself in.

I had images of visits to my dad in prison. Blurred images stored in my head. It was strange because I was too young to remember. But when I sat with mama and described the images and she confirmed them. Then she started telling me how it was.

Alot of her friends shielded their children from this. They thought that exposing their kids to seeing their dads in prison is a harsh experience that they should try to avoid as much as possible.

Mama thought differently. She thought this should be a day to celebrate. She turned it into Eid day. She would dress me up in a nice dress, arrange my hair in my favorite updo (i used to call it the palm-tree style 🙂 , and we go visit Baba in our most colorful bubble.

I remember that one of the guys working there used to prepare a box full of sweets and biscuits for me to take every time i visit. I also remember a small black board and me drawing cats with chalk. Back then I didn’t know how to draw anything but cats.

When Baba got out of prison, he came back with a treasure of stories. My dad could do magic with simple words. He could change the bleakest moments to colorful wondrous stories.

My favorite bed time and travel stories where of his time in prison.

It took me years to realize that this place which was the source of an amazing fountain of childhood stories, was a place where my dad was severely tortured.

It was silly because I was old and I knew many stories of activist friends who were tortured, but the childish part in me refused to allow it to sink in till my first year in university when there was no way I could escape the truth coz I had it right in my hands, ink on paper.

Those are the people who raised me up.

This is the kind of love I grew up around.

This is the kind of love I’ve been seeking ever since I could remember.

When I was seven, I walked into my parents room unannounced. I saw him kissing her stomach tenderly. I squeaked an apology, ran to my bed and hid under my covers. Mama followed me, and with a smile asked me what I wanted. I told her I just wanted to make sure she remembers i have an exam tomorrow. ( hehe I was such a nerd!)

Years later this image returned and assumed a new meaning for me. Suddenly this memory wasn’t about a moment of embarrassment but rather of discovery. I knew then that there was more to love than what I am grasping. I also knew that for always this image will be my definition of love.

Now every time my soul gets bruised and I lose bits of my wings I remind myself that love – like what mama and baba share – is waiting for me around some corner in my future.

What keeps me going despite the pain and disappointment is the belief that at some point in my life I will meet someone and in my mind see him kissing my stomach tenderly for the rest of my life.

There’s a story I know. It’s about the earth and how it floats in space on the back of a turtle. I’ve heard this story many times, and each time someone tells the story, it changes. Sometimes the change is simply in the voice of the storyteller. Sometimes the change is in the details. Sometimes in the order of events. Other time’s it’s the dialogue or the response of the audience. But in all the telling of the tellers, the world never leaves the turtle’s back. And the turtle never swims away…

[The truth about stories: a Native Narrative]

There’s other hadithi I know, like how I discovered this series of stories a few days ago, that reminded me that around dis time last year, a manifesto of revolushunary intent was quite magically (re)born through the collective wisdom of warrior kings and queens, archived in dis world wide web that we find ourselves meeting in again en again, en practised in many villages en urban spaces..

These articles made me so happy, not because of why they were written (in direct response to the African Commission for Peoples and Human Rights denying ‘observer’ status to the Coalition of African Lesbians) or their content per se, but quite simply because there were so many of them (TEN!) coming from a place of (anti-oppressive) solidarity, which is where the I,Sista.In.Solidarity manifesto came from……

These articles triggered me to reflect much more on the tasks we have of harnessing the power of our intersecting interests and resources.

 It made me so happy to consider that it was inevitable that I would read these articles, coz I have to admit to stalking Pambazuka news for the latest on the shifting boundaries of our social movements…the bigger point is, I’m ever more grateful for bredrin en dadas around the world, and significantly, on the continent, who are speaking BACK and working on the necessary elements of truth, justice and peace, with big love.

Check these stories out, and if you are, like me, in the diaspora, consider how you/we could share more resources with our bredrin and dadas on the continent, what strengths can we harness over here to build solidarity not only with LGBTI movements in Afrika, but all progressive social movements? Where do we position ourselves as allies?

Consider what it means as we commemorate the International Day for the Elimination of Violence Against Women, for queer & trans women in Afrika, for the indigenus women & trans folk of Turtle Island….

Recently Indian writer and activist, Arundhati Roy spoke of the Indian state:

‘Pity the nation that has to silence its writers for speaking their minds. Pity the nation that needs to jail those who ask for justice, while communal killers, mass murderers, corporate scamsters, looters, rapists, and those who prey on the poorest of the poor, roam free.’

We say pity that 53 African nation states – and we really need to emphasise this because a few people are deciding about the validity of our lives – feel they have to silence the voices of their innocent citizens who ask for justice and the rights shared by their sisters and brothers, fathers and mothers while ‘communal killers, mass murderers, corporate and political scamsters, looters, rapists, and those who prey on the poorest of the poor, roam free’!

  1. The day the African commission disavowed humanity  Fikile Vilakazi and Sibongile Ndashe


2.  African commission should reconsider decision on Coalition of African Lesbians


3. The fallacy of human rights at the African Commission


4.    Are we not human?


5. If not, why not?   Doublespeak  on LGBTI rights at the African Commission


6. Face Down   


 7. Sexual orientation under the African Charter on Human and People’s Rights


8. Where can we find refuge and justice?


9. Lesbians can no longer be silent  Rose Wanjiku


10.   Let this group find comfort and safety here  Asha Ramgobin

Statement at the 48th Session of the African Commission on Human And Peoples’ Rights





 “Friends are angels who lift us to our feet when our wings have trouble remembering how to fly.”

Born in the womb of two brothas that (not only) I love, respekt en admire so, there’s a story I know that goes like El-Farouk Khaki en Troy Jackson seeded Human Positive last year, in response to the backlash that the brothas received for publicly standing in support of Queers Against Israeli Apartheid, Palestinian rights, and criticising the state of Israel. Or so one version of the hadithi (story) goes…

Dis grassroots organisation has been nourished in expanding el-tawhid families (of loving ‘mis-fits’) en evolving collectives of muslim (identified) folks, and is rooted in principles of big love like salaam and ubuntu. Or so another version of the hadithi goes….

The bigger point is, big tings a gwaan with H.P’s programming for next year…..

These are some of the (s)heroes of the Q_t werd: a doc exploring (as ) many intersections of our diversity (as we can), and the possibilities of building revolushunary solidarity, in dub: in a caravan of us-people hadithi of (our vision) quests.

The riddle of the sphinx is in the connecshuns among the legends of GALCK, Human Positive, Fahamu, The People Project, Bredrin en dadas in solidarity, Nneka and Nneke Dumela

This blog is strategically mystic, personal and political.  I’ve been sharing pieces of a doc that we (a couple o’ dadas) officially started shooting dis’ summer, these bios of some of the 32 (en then some) folks that we love, respekt and admire so,  are a tapestry of all the brilliance and intersections in our diversity, en real tox on the struggle for afrikan liberation.

Dis blog is  the (un)official home of “The Q_t werd”: A caravan of us-people stories exploring bio/myth/ologies of (our vision) quests. The riddle of the sphinx is in the 4(+1) bredrin and dadas that are the crux of dis doc’

….The ancient ones sing in joy that you have come here to deepen your spirit.

Spiritual warrior’s pledge: Not for myself alone, but that all the people may live.

We can come to the wilderness to feel what is possible and naturally beautiful – but we must stand rooted in the Earth and face the crying issues right where we live…..

[Buffalo Woman Comes Singing]

In a sa(cre)d mood tonite, paying respects to the passing of legends, weaving life/death/life cycles in(to) the tapestry of the Q_t werd…..

The riddle of the sphinx is in the connecshun between Elijah Masinde and [G is for the legend of] Gregory Isaacs. Thank you for all the gifts en knowledge you share…..ase…..