Mukhannath Alone

Last week while waiting for the B54 bus at JayStreet-Metro Tech I spotted a figure in a chador crossing the plaza. Not an usual sight in Brooklyn with its sizable Muslim community, however this person's gait was unusual for a woman and I realized that they were trans-gender. They weren't wearing a veil and their face was male. I was surprised but also happy that this person was strong enough to be their self, considering rampant American transphobia and Muslims' disapproval of any sexuality other than male or female.

I wanted to approach this brave soul, however respectfully refrained approaching them.

THey were unaccompnied by a male.

This sighting was a first, but perhaps not, since many Fatwahs have been issued by Mullahs on the sexual diversity in the cause of social justice. The Koran reads in Surah 42 Ash-Shuraa, verse 49-50), "The dominion of the heavens and the earth belongs to Allah. He creates whatever He pleases. He grants females to whomever He pleases and males to whomever He pleases or grants them a mix of males and females, and causes whomever He pleases to be barren. He is All- Knowing, All-Powerful."

Fundamentalist interpretations of the Koran have led to the persecution of gays and transgender people through the Muslim world as their Christian counterparts seek to criminalize transgender and gays throughout their realm, going as far as Uganda seeking the death penalty for the violation of their Transgender God in a MuuMuu's Ten Commandments.

Based on Al-Tabari’s understanding of the Hadith, he at first, acknowledges that the Prophet did not forbid the hermaphrodite and mukhannath from entering the women’s quarters until he heard them giving a description of the women in great detail.

There was an understanding which rejected the belief that Allah never makes a mistake.

As an Atheist I reject such blind judgments by a mythical Supreme Being and vow as I have always to protect those without protection. I used to use violence to do so, but I am a seventy year-old man with a recent liver transplant. My anonymous donor was a forty year-old woman weighting three-hundred pounds and who might have shot herself in the head. I took it on myself to call them Paula whose final sacrifice granted me life.

We are us.

We have no gender.

We do not reject others with multiple genders.

We are travels of eternity and eternity only exists in the Now.

Resist all attempts to make us 'them'.

There are no absolutes.

And bonne courage to that brave soul crossing the plaza.

please read the June 2020 article: Countering Islamic conservatism on being transgender: Clarifying Tantawi's and Khomeini’s fatwas from the progressive Muslim standpoint by Aisya Aymanee M. Zaharin

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC8726683/

Dog Yum Yum

The islands of Ternate and Tidore had been the destination of European explorers seeking to circumvent the Ottoman Empire’s spice trade monopoly . Only one ship from Magellan's fleet returned from their historic voyage around the world and the spices purchased on these islands paid off the cost of the trip and enriched the investors beyond their dream.

In 1991 I flew from Ambon, the Spice Island's administrative capitol, to Ternate. I was the only westerner on the airplane. George Bush had ordered troops to the frontier of Kuwait to confront Saddam’s invasion of that oil-rich country. Indonesia is 95% Muslim. Ternate was 100%. The hotel manager asked if I were American.

"No, I'm Irish." I dropped the green passport on the counter. I had received citizenship thanks to my Nana from County Mayo.

"Maybe tidak apa-apa."

He gave me a room next to the front desk.

"I want a room with a view.” The volcanic island of Tidore lay across the bay. Its slope were covered with cloves. Their fragrance mingled with the Kretek cigarette smoke. on the tropical night air.

"Room with view apa-apa banyak."

Apa-apa means trouble. Banyak much trouble. He feared something worst than mosquitoes.

"You only Mistah here."

"Any Israelis?" A bunch of discharged IDF soldiers had occupied the Dutch hotel on Biak. The Indonesians thought they were dirty. I didn’t disagree. They smelled even worse. Indonesians disliked them almost as much as haughty Italians.

"No Israeli, you only “mistah."

The Dutch overlords had insisted on the Indonesians calling all white men ‘mistah’.

“Then no apa-apa. Like I said I am Irish.

The tropical evening fell like a black cloak on the streets lit by 40-watt bulbs. I walked to the harbor for dinner. The eyes in the doorways were sullen. The TV screen were filled by the 'Shock and Awe's destruction of Baghdad. The war had started in Iraq. Mullahs at the Mosques called out for evening prayers. The faithful kneeled in the direction of Mecca, but not all.

Some followed me. The quay was illuminated by the bright lights of restaurants. I stood before an offering of foods. None of them were familiar. One smelled good and everyone else in the restaurant was eating it. I ordered one plate with rice. More men stood glaring at me. I ate quickly, but the dish was so good I ordered another to show I wasn't scared of the gathering crowd.

Each man had a clove cigarette dangling from their lips, I came from the South Shore of Boston. We never ran, unless we could and retreat was became impossible as the 20 became 30 and the 30 grew to 50. It was time to order the bill. The older waitress placed the bill on the table. I read two orders of Danjing.

"Danjing?" I knew this word in Bahasa Indonesian.

"Yes, danjing?"

"Dog?"

"Yes, dog," she said it loud enough for the mob to hear and they laughed realizing I had unwittingly dined on dog. I smiled as the butt of joke should and said, “Irish eat dog.”

"George Bush eat dog." A voice in the crowd shouted and the men laughed without humor. I agreed with the mob. George Bush had trained the Guatemalan and El Salvador troops in counter-insurgency. Hundreds of thousands of Mayan peasants had died in his pogroms.

"Walk, don’t run," I told myself. Two cops were across the road. They turned their heads. I bought a loose cigarette from a tobacco shop and smoked the kretek butt, as the mob tramped several feet behind me. Upon reaching the hotel the manager asked, "Tidak apa-apa."

“No problem.” I grabbed my room key and barricaded the doors, as the crowd chanted, "George Bush eat dog."

The police ordered the crowd to go home, I listened to the BBC on my world-band radio. The battle of all battles was a blow-out. Iraq’s tanks burned in the desert, but my safe escape was seriously in doubt, since I figured the odds were 5000-1. Worse than Custer, yet no one smashed down the door and in the morning when I ventured from the hotel, the faces on the street were smiling.

Several men gave me the thumbs up.

"Rambo #1. You # 1. You eat dog."

And like that they switched sides, because everyone loves a winner and I liked dog enough to eat it twice.

Jeff Foxworthy - Opinion of Muslims

Americans do not travel to foreign countries.

"Everyone there hates us."

Few people ask why or even if it's true.

"The French hate us."

The French hate everyone.

"The Mexicans hate us."

Maybe that's true, but America stripped Texas, California, New Mexico, and Arizona after the War of 1848, and then bought another strip of land from present-day Yuma to Los Cruces in the 1854 Gadsden Purchase for $10 million US or $300 million in 2015 dollars, which would buy three billionaires three 10,000 square feet condos overlooking Central Park. The President of Mexico, Santa Ana, must have needed that $10 million bad, because the Madsden Purchase was a rip-off, but even worse has been the deal foisted by the West of the Arab World.

TE Lawrence and fellow Arabologist, Gertrude Bell, were approached by the Foreign Office and told to designed a map for the break-up of the Ottoman Empire. Treatyist Mark Sykes pointed to a map and told the prime minister: "I should like to draw a line from the "e" in Acre to the last "k" in Kirkuk."

Westerners cleaved tribal lands into impossible to govern countries and only dictators were allowed to rule of diverse peoples.

Of course the worst insult was the creation of Israel clearly violating the human, social, and economic rights of the Palestinians.

Violence begat violence.

Occupation gave birth to resistance.

Bombs were met with F-16s.

And everyone in the West was taught to think that Muslims are our enemies, even though they number over 3 million in the USA. They are law-abiding and patriot as the rest of the nation, however Hollywood and TV have portrayed them as monsters and most recently comedian Jeff Foxworthy entertained a crowd of his peers with a list of generalization of Muslims.

1. If you refine heroin for a living, but you have a moral objection to liquor, You may be a Muslim.

Of course if you manufacture pharmaceutical Oxy-Contins and sell them to a public unaware of their addictive properties, you are a good businessman in America.

2. If you own a $3,000 machine gun and a $5,000 rocket launcher, but you can't afford shoes, You may be a Muslim or in the option of my friend James Steele, a potential mass murdered in the USA>

3. If you have more wives than teeth, You may be a Muslim or a Mormon.

4. If you wipe your butt with your bare hand, but consider bacon to be unclean, You may be a Muslim or a Hassidim.

5. If you think vests come in two styles: Bullet-proof and suicide. You may be a Muslim or a US cop ready for mayhem.

6. If you can't think of anyone you haven't declared jihad against, You may be a Muslim or a member of the Join Chiefs.

7. If you consider television dangerous but routinely carry explosives in your clothing, You may be a Muslim or a right-wing terrorist from Montana.

8. If you were amazed to discover that cell phones have uses other than setting off roadside bombs, You may be a Muslim or a CIA assassin or Pentagon contract killer.

There are always other answers.

If you really listen to the questions.

Free Palestine.

Free The World.

Peace in our time.

ps - Jeff Foxworthy اللعنة عليك

He's one funny Redneck.

To see Jeff Foxworthy in 1991, please go to this URL

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BvPCcYrBg5s

BEAR SEASON by Peter Nolan Smith

Hunting season along the Hudson River opened in mid-October.

Bow and arrows only.

Guns weren't allowed until November, so I felt relatively safe walking in the woods wearing a neon-orange hooded sweatshirt. No animal in that color existed north or south of Troy, New York and during the shooting season non-hunters drape their bodies in brilliant orange to prevent any hunter from mistaking them for a deer.

d

“No one has ever been refused a hunting license because they’re color blind,” Floyd told me at the Green Acres Tavern. The drinking establishment on Rte. 29 was brightly lit at all hours of the day, since the owner thought people looked more honest under 100-watt light.

“So someone might shoot me even if I’m wearing this.” The orange was hurtful to the eye.

“If drink was involved, everyone is fair game.” Belvin shrugged his shoulders.

The fifty-six year-old farmer was a crack marksman. The previous weekend he had scored 99 out of 100 with a bolt-action .308 Winchester. “People shoot at whatever they see come hunting season. One time I’m sitting here and this down-stater enters the tavern, telling everyone about the spike-horn deer he killed. None of us had ever heard about this species of deer and asked to see his kill. It was a billy goat.”

“That’s nothing. Them folks will shoot anything that moves.” A scrawny UPS driver diverted his attention from the NFL replays. People up here like talking about hunting season. “My uncle’s game warden down in Duchess County. One time he stops a truck on Route 44 and asks the driver what he has on the roof. The driver tells him a spotted deer. It was a St. Bernhard.”

“I lost a cow to a hunter three years ago.” A lady mournfully remembered with a Bud in her hand. “She was a good milker.”

“I’ve never hunted in my life.” My father was vehemently anti-gun, so the majority of my experience with weapons came from shooting with my Dutch uncle Howie Hermann at the 20th Street Shooting Range in Manhattan. Every Monday night we would meet at the 2nd Avenue Deli and then drive over to shoot pistols; Lugers, Colts, S&W ad infinitum. Howie was real gun-nut.

Sweet as pie, but he liked his guns.

“Nothing wrong with not hunting," another drinker commented from the end of the bar. His voice betrayed his real feeling on the subject. Guns were sacred this far north of New York City.

“I know that.” My youth had been spent in Maine. Deer and bear had been strapped to cars during hunting season. Their blood dripping over the windows was a badge of manhood in the North. “I never really wanted to kill anything, but I’m not saying it’s not a good thing as long as it’s for eating.”

“Deer meat’s good.” Belvin had a side of deer in his freezer. “Bear not so good.”

“If you get them in the fall, you can grill them up as steaks.” A bearded beer-drinker added from his stool. Everyone here knew everyone. “But they cook up dry real quick.”

“But if you undercook it, you get trichinellosis.” I was the outsider, but was familiar with this problem thanks to reading about the disastrous Franklin polar expedition. The crew ate bear and died of trichinellosis.

“That’s deadly, ain’t it?” The beer-drinker was scratching his head, as if his fingers might jog lose the brain cells holding that information.

“Same as if you ate uncooked pig.” Belvin was a subsistence farmer. He could eat everything on his land, excepting the tree bark and his wife knew how to make teas from them. “You get nausea, heartburn, dyspepsia, and diarrhea. That’s why the Jews and Muslims don’t eat pork.”

“I’m not so sure that’s the reason. I have a lot of Jewish friends who are bacon Jews. They love pork. I think the real reason that their religions prohibit pork is that it tastes so good.” At least to my palate. “I was in Sumatra once. A big island in Indonesia. Full of Muslims. Anyway I go up to the highlands and the people are Christians. Everyone of them. They even sing Christian prayer songs like BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON. We were out in the forests and I asked them as we were cooking wild pig, why they didn’t become Muslims like everyone else. The elder explained that they loved the taste of pork too much to give it up for any god.”

“Not much tastes better than bacon.” The UPS driver smacked his lips.

“What about apple pie?” The woman eyed the dessert tray by the kitchen window. The food at the tavern was home-made.

“Apple pie is pretty damn good, but it ain’t meat.” The bearded farmer’s statement granted him a bar of nodding heads.

“The pig that night on Sumatra was good. The hill people ate everything, but the oink. Afterwards the headman asked, “You know why we like pig so much?” I shook my head and he answered by saying, “Because it tastes like man.”

“Cannibals.” Belvin’s hand reached for a gun at his waist. The .357 was in the truck.

“Supposedly not anymore, but I didn’t like the way they were looking at me. Sort of like a fat person after eating a salad.”

“What you do?” The UPS driver was on the edge of his seat.

“I thanked them for the dinner and headed home. I thought they were going to bushwhack me on the trail. I locked the door of the hotel and left the next day. Believe I was happy to be back with the Muslims, although they were a little grim about my beer-drinking, but I’ve never heard of any Muslim cannibals.”

“Me neither.” The bartender put a shot of whiskey in front of me.

“What’s that for?”

“You won the biggest bullshit story of the night award.” Belvin scanned the rest of the clientele. They were locals. “No one here can come up with better.”

“But it wasn’t bullshit.” My bone marrow trembled with the remembrance of the ex-cannibals’ faces.

“You should make it a double.” The UPS driver had returned his gaze to the Jets’ highlights. “He even believes his own bullshit.”

“Here’s to bullshit.” I drained the shot and ordered a round for the bar. It wasn’t painful. Buds in the Green Acres are only $2.50 and that’s everyone’s favorite beer. Mine was Labatt’s Blue. It cost $3. Belvin drove me home before midnight. We had long tomorrows ahead of us. He left me off at the end of my friend’s drive.

“That was sure some good story.” Belvin was smiling with the belief that I was the best bullshitter he had heard in some time.

“Thanks.” Sometimes it’s best not to disappoint the masses. I waved goodnight and Belvin disappeared over the crest of the hill. In the light of the moon my sweatshirt glowed orange. I made it home without a single shot coming in my direction.

Next month would be another story.