Tools of violence

Identity violence

Symbolic violence

Communication violence

Historic violence

Revisionist violence

Repetitive violence

Infantilising violence

Nostalgic violence

Communication violence

Prejudiced violence

Tiring violence

Destructive violence

Sexual violence

Gendered violence

Religious violence

Spiritual violence

Class violence

Linguistic violence

Colourist violence

Male violence

White male violence

Co-opting violence

Toxic violence

Co-opted toxic violence

Ideological violence

Paternalistic violence

Patriarchal violence

Symbolically patriarchal violence

Promotional violence

Just violence

Violence violence

Tiring violence

Too tired coz I’m broken and it’s the result of all the above and more violence

Mental violence

Inferred violence

Implicit violence

Bright-eyed violence

Broken souls violence

The once you had bright eyes but then you got co-opted and are stuck but still need peeps and I get it but don’t you get that I get it, so why you gotta erase the stuff we excavate and stop us entering and flinging open the doors-no revision check, not open the doors break all these fracking symbolic capitalistic colonial walls – so that we can all evolve together and your tired eyes can weep and rejoice in celebration with us all, bold beautiful and brave and bound to the forward March of completing our shared ancestors abolitionist principles and journeys to create a new fair fresh deprogrammed society so we keep being we and us, and you and me, happy and free together… urgh! Gah! For f***! *sigh* but you can’t and that’s violent, violence.

So instead here we stand. Ina pyramid and I keep trying to educate and create and collate and collaborate while we survive and you thrive but I don’t even cry coz I’m proud inside that at least someone who got one part of our ancestral spirit souls good side to the table where it’s all about whose there to dine, and whose outside… not about our fellow people who die and are also pushed towards pipelines to die. Whether quickly or slowly, that’s for us all to see with our eyes.

I’m too tired to speak, so I’ll leave it to that… and sleeps for the night.


Oh sickening spirit.. Leave me.. I beseech thee.

I see a spirit so independent and true,Fighting within fortunes so similar

A life path through the challenging bush,

But dissimilar too, the essence of our awkward roots,

a legacy that we inhabit,

yet to given

To be seen to take fruit.
This wandering mind,

anguishing in hells your imagination could barely reside in,

Your powerful strides strapped to an ever-questioning mind, dissatisfied by seemingly having nothing good to find.

Our certainties gone, withered and lost, the day we forsook thankfulness, gave up the greatest gift given by God, this here our deep love.

That now flows ever-present, causing doubtfulness and depression,
As we work, in wakefulness without the others presence.

Incapable to come to terms with our shattered brittle spirits.

To you your road and me my own.
One should have learned by now,

There can never be a companion on this sickeningly septic journey, in which even an 11-year old me has been,

But whose horrors you have neither heard of nor seen.

Goodbye my love. Goodbye my dream.

As I always said you must leave me.

No end..

The kind of night that knows no end,

The bitter northern winds howl,

like the devilish hounds that have pushed us to the brink.

unsure of what exists and what is to begin,

where we’ll be be led and what will be got rid,

What will leave and what will be eradicated in this din.

Here’s hoping that no harm comes forth in our midst,

though harsh and selfishly I cry,

At the plight that touches not this,

Allowed to warble self-pityingly about some external, self-absorbent shit.

All the while wishing against wish that I could but hold my love, to kno that I am mine and he his, but that some holy force blesses that union before the world crumbles into mist.


NaBloPoMo #11: An Unconventional Love Story – Part II (working title)

I am Ayesha. I am a Muslim and I am going to blow this stinking joint wide open. 

To use an old turn of phrase, that no kid these days would even know of. Mind you they don’t know crap these days. Not my name, not my background. Not even Muslim. No spirituality. All festering, liberal pseudo-nonsense crap and he’s the cause of it all. 

Look at him. Just look. Look at his just standing there so blatant. Surrounded by those spineless airheads. Smug. Smug, classist, daft, bourgeois bitch! I know he thinks a lot of himself. Hear it day and night. He thinks he runs this place, these people, this house, community, nation even. But he doesn’t run his own shits. Racist, anglophile, neo-liberal fascist, closet royalist! 

He may not do much. But he definitely gets points in the blame department for what he’s done. What he did. What he keeps doing. All this festering mess is all his fault. This neo-globe of ours, this nation, this crap. This same old shit with a new stinking frigging bow tied around it. This revolution gone wrong. Our revolution gone wrong… and now they’re all gone. The ghosts of them all thought they’re still here. Keeping me strong. 

It’s all his fault. It’s him I’m going to start with, right. Him to start and finish this wreck. 

Luckily we’ll be alone again soon. To end it like it was begun huh. Like that phrase Tim came up with, “Endings Hasten New Beginnings” – I was so sure he stole it from The Mummy movie franchise. We must’ve been stoned and watching the box when we came up with that one.


She’s staring intently again, at me. If only I could shout for help. Must smile though old chap. Oh she sure was precious when she tries. Is. You can just hear those rusted tiny cogs whirring away up in there. No doubt planning the sleeping arrangements for this gorgeous soiree. Lucky also that Status and diplotasks have kept us separate, I wouldn’t mind exercising some beast of duty tonight. I’m sure she’ll get some soft feeling “love” of her own kind tonight. She used to be so ravenous and insatiable. I guess tastes move on and connections falter. Would be fun again to know what she’s learnt while I’ve been busy away working, building and re-building. Those unhinged emotions whizzing around were just a spectacular sight.

Fuck I’m horny.

Gosh. Just thinking. Think. I have that. She’s bloody beautiful. The ideological brown goddess, the dream within a dream and I get to be it’s commander. It’s chief, sorry co-chief. New equality as always. Precious discourse for our future.

G-d I’m beginning to use the terms and slogans in my head now as well. I need a blaze and a fuck. I guess I’ll get that soon… When I’m with the slut that saved the revolution. My slut.

It will also be a shame to lose her. To end it all. But I’m sure the future will be brighter and fun for all of us.

Oh these twats are circling again. Great! Now the Goons/Keystones/Facilitators have all spotted me. The perks of being the big cheese I suppose. ARGH!

I can’t wait until we’re along again. I’m alone. Just me. Well her and me and them, but not them.. It’s going to be a wildly cleansing time. Gosh this isn’t the time for it. Must wrap up this party with some fireworks and end of eve shmoozing.


What am I doing? Why am I here? What will she say? Why did he make me come? Commanded even. Surely he should know. It isn’t, well wasn’t like her to keep secrets. Well at least with me, I guess.  Am I.. We’re we.. dare I say it special? That sounds so naff. That’s what she would say if she could only hear you now. 

I wonder what she’ll be wearing. If her scent will be natural or some posh pong for this diplomatic party rubbish. 

Oh this is crazy. Why do I have so many questions? Why am I questioning myself. Paralysed I need to just do. I wasn’t like this. Not even before. With her. This isn’t, wasn’t, me. Or was it? Maybe I shifted this part of me for her to worry with?

Fuck it. It’s now or never. Final hour. 

****** END SCENE ******

I know and understand that this is fast becoming a collection of introductions in my head. But for now I like the sense of crafting the perfect introduction, or else it could even be an entire collection of texts simply about the one meeting. Even many meetings, happen simultaneously, similarly, on different affective and emotive registers?

I also wanted to share that I unexpectedly came across a book called “The 38 Most Common Fiction Writing Mistakes (And how to avoid them)” by Jack M. Bickham. Unexpected as it was in the old Brotherton library at University that I never bother going to, far more intriguing it was left on the self-scanning machine that I went to use. Strange and serendipitous. 


#NaBloPoMo #7: Masculinity

For making Saag Paranthas when mum got sectioned,
For letting my small legs dance and showering us with affection,

For the long walks to get us out of the house,
For helping us all get rid of that pesky mouse,

For doing the world of a couple alone,
For keeping everything light and together at home,

For showing no cultural judgment of my mother,
For helping her come back and keep it together,

For the constant cooking and cleaning,
For being okay with your self and other’s jeering,

For living within a culture that is full of two-faced vultures,
For being a man that doesn’t fit on any poster,

A true and masculine man,
Who’s able to use both his hands,
Who was a mother and father,
At times to kids who should have known better,
Who stuck by my mum,
Helped many times to bring her back home,
To fight those inner demons and get normality,
This and much more is why you are all that is masculine to me.


A lived personal “truth” on mental health and healing.

Emotions that rollercoaster severely often lead those of us between 15- 32 to widely speculate that we are flawed, mentally unstable, unfixable and an absolute failure. From experience, this is what “growing-up” is like for many of us today. As someone with a family of mental health issues I know this burden more than most. Coupled with the fact my lived knowledge helped me, empowered me even to become an intuitive carer, I was again blessed  to be a proximate therapist for many of my friends, loved ones, colleagues and even strangers, through the last decade. Though it could also be a curse  depending on the framing of each context and how I felt.

The flip-side of this knowledge is though that it is harmful. Toxic. It threatens your very being because it undoubtedly flaws your understanding and structuring of your environment, it’s cultures, people and most of all your own self.

I have found in the last few weeks that I am a multi-faceted being. Something I have run from, for… well a very long time. I shouldn’t feel the need to classify myself as “unhinged”, “emotional”, “bi-polar” (undiagnosed) or “mental”. However this is the lived reality for our culture. We are pushed to “process”. I myself love this term. But what does it mean? Is it not just another way for cultural perfection and the need for simplicity  to over-ride our individuality? Our autonomous perceptions? The nurtured genetic truth that every single one of us is different. Unique. My truth is not your truth. My mind is not your mind. My pain is not your pain.

This is where my criticism of mental health or rather personal mindfulness comes in. I am sick and tired of the world thinking that there are quick fixes. That time only exists to be spent not given. Because this the truth as I have seen in. The world is a quagmire of ideological paradoxes. There is no one truth, but this does not stop our governments, our organisational structures, our media, our communities, our schooling, our healthcare, our families and friends even from portraying that there is. No-where is it more evident than in mental health.

Healing can only begin until you, YOU learn the way that you can become grounded to yourself, to your loved ones, to your life and to your context. Only then can YOU move forward. Take those steps to realise and be content with yourself. The entirety of yourself. Meaning…. well meaning whatever that means for you.

Now this doesn’t have to be on your own. Please don’t think I am saying that. As someone who herself is a very communal being, I know the (at times harmful) disconnect that occurs when you are trying to heal the rifts you find in your life. Healing comes in many different ways. It could mean a darkened room you lying on a couch, or a drink with a friend where you literally spew, vomit, pour out everything that ails you. It could even be colouring, doodling, or simply writing a very long-winded [some might say pointless] piece of writing. Or something short like a pathetically simple bit of poetry that regurgitates old syntaxes and quite possibly taxes your souls and those that are joined to it. What I will say is that all of this takes time. The one commodity we never think of. The one we dedicate and plaster everywhere but never truly consider. Never appreciate. Time.

It takes time to learn what is best for ourselves. It takes even longer working damn hard to achieve that which is best for ourselves. Especially when at times it can feel that you are losing the battle with your own misgivings, or community-wide nay-saying. Particularly when professionality, or lack of it, is held out as a “Stop” sign to halt any healing you are perhaps in the midst of.  So what if I didn’t train how others saw the illnesses I see before me? Or if I didn’t learn how we as a species learnt to dissect, disturb and define our experiences – and then destroy the visions that were not held to be “true” enough, down the years? Or if I didn’t learn the language to decipher these encoded inherited knowledges, so I could further obscure, “cure” and minimise our hurt?

We as a people forget at times that there was a time when it was only us. The old saying; “You leave the world as you enter it- alone”, for me is a great way to start forging my inner-strength again. It reminds me that the only path and timeline I should consider is my own. Harder to do than to say. I think it is more difficult for me, being a person who believes unreservedly in spirituality, community, souls, soulmates, romance and familial contexts and love in all it’s forms. Doubly hard as a women who has internalised my oppression so that I find that I can easily sacrifice my time for others, without regret for my own path. (This sounds so weird to write, but it’s so true it’s scary. Anxiety and introspection overload)

I must end. This knowledge serves only to share my story. My re-found power, whilst I still have it and before my shame, anxiety and fear causes me to loose this clarity in which I find myself. Because despite my confidence and belief in my words here, I equally know that these self-affirming statements I start creating, often disappear in the face of my crippling inner-anxiety that I have learnt to mask, by learning from true masters of course (<3 Mothers). The me I kill every single day.

In short, we are individually a collective. We form a vast, confused, unknowing, educated, blinded ilk. We have many abilities. None more so to vocalise, describe and create. What we create better than most is oppressive ways to silence ourselves. Eradicate our existences. Our uniqueness. We must stop this communal self-harming by accepting our own truths. Whether it’s by arriving at a very individual system or process, or one that requires a greater number of people than just yourself. We must end the obscuring of our hurt and the ingratitude of time.

No-one must be allowed to capitalise on our basic human need to heal. To share, to oralise our hurt so that compassion can be given, in turn so that we may travel down our life-paths to attain self-knowledge and contented security, pass on our love and leave this world in the way that we arrived. Happy, free and with a primal breath.




Today was a dark day. An oh so weary day.

Without dwelling too much into this, today a huge amount of my past was chucked back into my face. As a sensitive person, who tries to empathise and rationalise (oxymoronic I know), I’m left at the end of this day still processing not just my present and future well-being but, again having to navigate my past (mis)takes.

I have been processing and a functioning depressive personality for the past 10 years, 6 of which were healthy years.


Like most young teenage ‘sensitive cry-babies’ I sought treatment for the mass of hormonal, social and physical illnesses I was going through. Tried to reach out. Was admonished by family and friends.Acted out in a, what even now I would say was a middle-of-the road, way. Then I resorted to unhealthy patterns. Some vices (drinking and smoking) tame 50s expressions of radicalisation, which as an Asian girl, was the equivalent of being part of a gang or working on street corners to my parents.


After being rejected, mistrusted and repeatedly fobbed off by doctors.I did manage to get two therapy sessions, but by this time I had found a safe plateau on this never ending journey. I worry now that you dear reader will think I am making up my illness. But I really urge you to read this comic by Marina Watanabe that appeared on my Facebook feed via Buzzfeed. My lack of a concrete medical diagnosis and help in containing and managing my emotional ‘out-of-wack-ness’ is an on-going issue and fight. One that I chose to take up now and again. But on the whole I am happier to get to know and manage myself healthily. I know my triggers, I know how I can sort my head out once my buttons have been pushed and I can happily re-enter and work on rebuilding my trust and love for my fellows in society.


There’s still a lot of stigma that I see, from my part I have always been an extrovert. A talker, sharer and carer. I am able to understand, to empathise, and I try (no matter how hard it gets or how much I don’t want to) to find a way forward for the collective good. But I guess I’m also one of those people judged and more likely seen when I fall, just for being perceived to be loud all the time? Medical staff and actually fellow familial suffers have by far been the worst perpetrators of ‘It’s a phase’ dialogue. Maybe perhaps because an an eloquent young women (as one doc put it) ‘I’m sensible enough to know how to get over it’. Or as someone seen to be removed from the terrible issues that have affected them, I have (questionably) been seen to enjoy a site of privilege.

BUT one thing I have realised and do want to say is; mental illness is not a conscious consequence. Mental illness cannot be picked up and worn. It doesn’t come and attach itself like the virus it is, when you may have been careless. There IS and SHOULD BE no blame for the countless individuals who feel it everyday.


At it’s worst my mental illness made me doubt my existence. There not enough words in me right now to explain how twisted and sick I got. How I could robotically engage myself, smile like I meant it, get great grades, be fun, but at the same time be an internal mess. To feel like I did not, could not exist. That I had no worth. I had no space. No .. just nothing. Complete and utter loneliness. To welcome hurt and pain. To be willing to embrace death but morally against self-inflicted murder.

It seems like a fuzzy Crimewatch reconstruction thinking back. I don’t know how I got myself out of that despair. How I renegotiated my relationships, renewed them healthily, which I did two years before leaving the site of my unhappiness for good.

Now I’m back and all those past selves are haunting. Past pains. Those clumsy instances of otherings and self-otherings I went through. The knowledge that as a young ethnic woman, my space to exist could only come from fulfilling bonds of expectation and acceptance. No matter how overt or covert those requests, demands and threats I must follow suit in negotiating their invisibility. In creating my own pains invisibility. It’s all back.


Now all that is left is to see what I’m going to do. Even I don’t know. But this was cathartic. So thank you! I do want to say, I know I am never alone. I also know I will get through this. My guiding light, my God Allah, my faith, my love and my trust will keep me true and get me through this. My hope is that I don’t cause any more perceived offence or hurt as I try and re-negotiate my existence.


Mostly, though, at times like these I wish I could pin-point what it was that made me like this. If only so that I could know where to point my future time-travelling machine. ^.^