Nuha Foundation Blogging Contest

I've participated to the Nuha Foundation's Blogging Contest. My essay is called The Igniting Power of Imagination: Education Through the Arts .

By envisioning the school of the future, I sense that the traditional educational system might not be enough to prepare the youth to handle the future, if it doesn’t contemplate the Arts as an integrated part of the school curriculum. The reason is simple: the more the world progresses, diversified, well technologically connected and fast, the more education needs to respond to the need of creating community and re-define identities. A quality we all have and that needs to be revalued is imagination. It was Italian writer Italo Calvino that said ‘Imagination is like communicating with the soul of the world’.

Why imagination? Being a writer and an avid reader as well as being raised in a single-parent environment where I didn’t have many friends, where I was the only child, imagination has been my daily companion. It is deeply rooted within ourselves and it’s not difficult to consider it as the engine of our being human. It has its foundation in two words: What if.  It was William Shakespeare, in his comedy ‘As You Like It’, that underlined the importance of the word IF through the tirelessly inquisitive fool Touchstone, who keeps on questioning ‘what if?’. It is Touchstone himself who foresees what poet Adrienne Rich defined as a ‘revolutionary question, the virtue to uphold’.IF is important, not because of how things are, but how they could be. The free exercise of imagination shapes the world in which we live, it creates many possibilities and realities. READ FULL ARTICLE HERE

Anyone can leave a comment below the link's page and also share it on Facebook and Twitter.
There 's a 2000$ prize. in the eventuality I'll be the recipient of it, I will be able to set a permanent free writing workshop for marginalized youth in Nairobi and also help to build sustainable bookshelves in Nairobi Slums.


Writing Workshop in Kibera

Last week I had a presentation of my Writing Workshop with the children of Kibera (Katwekera section).

Kibera view

Kibera is the second largest slum in Africa. With an estimated population of one million people living within 2.5 square kilometres, it is one of the most densely populated areas in Sub-Saharan Africa. 
Youth in Kibera face particular challenges. Many grow up in deplorable living conditions, lacking basic infrastructure and services including safe water, proper housing and sanitation, health services, garbage collection, law enforcement and access to an education which could lift them out of poverty.
Lacking employment and hope and faced with extreme hardships, many youth are pushed to engage in risky activities such as prostitution, early marriage, and substance abuse; activities which also put them at greater risk for HIV/AIDS.

John Adoli the founder and director of the community centre in Katwekera, has given me the opportunity to come and teach children how to write stories, starting from theirs.  By creating this space he has provided a safe place for kids and youth to gather and spend their time involving them in educational and artistic activities.

Presenting the workshop I decided to use a simple variation of Renée Watson's Visual Poem which made possible for all the children to tell who they are in a more intimate way: so following Watson's example they had fun portraying themselves and telling what they like and who they are.

These are the children holding their works.

Even if I'm volounteering,  and I'm not always in the position to do so, I can see how kids would love to know more about books and writing. They like stories, who doesn't after all! The problem is that sometimes they don't have parents to tell them stories nor books to read. 
After the meeting they felt inspired and some came to me and said they wish to become writers! So I knew my work has been valued.

The idea is to let them write stories and make a small anthology out of their works to present in their community and also to share with other communities in Nairobi's slums to inspire many more youth.

Journal's to be
Today I bought for them excercise books to decorate and personalize (we will do in the manual art workshop on saturday) which will become their daily journal. If they practice keeping the journal, they will improve their writing skills and give space to their imagination.

The children are willing to write and hungry for books, and for this reason we are looking for books for kids from 7 to 16 years old which could be part of  library to organize in Kibera-Katwekera and also to provide them colors and paper to write. 
Ofte their vocabulary is poor due to the lack of books, without books they can't improve their reading and writing skills.

Sending books in Kenya might be expensive, but in countries like UK and USA (Googling is easy to find many options) there are many cargo services that send items for a reasonable price.

Who is willing to send books (writers, publishers, private) I can send in pvt the address. 
Who is willing to sponsor the two workshops you can donate here:

Workshop Children €200
Workshop Youth €200

Each donation will allow each child to have access to reading books, paper, pens, colors.
With this amount the books we will be able to purchase will be the ones available in Kenya.

For international author's books the price is high so we need a different approach:
- If you are an author and you'd like one of your book to reach Kibera-Kenya you can ask your publisher to send a donation copy on your behalf (i will provide the address);
- If you are an indie author let me know if you can give a discount on your books so that I might purchase directly from you  (Amazon has very expensive shipping rates to Kenya).

Once we receive the books, before setting up the community library, we will train kids and educators on how to catalog and keep books in order.


FGM in Iran ... The Documenatry

Rayehe Mozafarian
Activist, Researcher and Artist Rayehe Mozafarian has directed, edited and produced a short video interviewing women in Sirik city (Province of Hormozgan), about Female Genital Mutilation. The video, which is part of the StopFGMIran campaign,  took four days to shoot and it happened in coincidence with a wedding ceremony: it was intentional to put the two events in the same video, the interviews and the wedding ceremony. While I was interviewing some midwives, I was invited to the wedding and it seemed a perfect combination to emphasize the importance of addressing FGM and the sufference of women who have undergone or will undergo the cut."
Rayehe explains the reason why the faces of the women interviewed are blurry: I didn't get permission so I had to obscure their faces. 
Rayehe is now planning to produce a longer documentary for which she already had permissions from the Government.  A work that will enlighten the presence of FGM in Iran. 

Rayehe has been working extensively in two different related campaigns: StopFGMIran and Stop Early Marriage in Iran.

She is the author of: The Ring which is intended to find and make light on child marriage and its causes (published in 2016), Razor and Tradition (Utopia Publisher, Paris 2013), Tigh o Sonnat (Razor and Tradition) (Takht Jamshid Publisher, Iran 2015). 
More about Rayehe's Work here.


The Ring


Mother... a Poem


Does my whiteness
prejudice my worth to this continent
where I first breathed
and the sound cuddled  my tiny ear
like the blink of a soft jacaranda petal?
Does my forced exile
compromised the sense of belonging
to this land of lost fathers
whom I buried in grief too early -
though is never the right time for farewells?
I elected my space according to
emotion not geography
feeling not citizenship
intellect not borders.
I thought myself as an illegal seed
carried in a borrowed womb
for mysterious reasons that elude
the logic of the mind.
Elephants migrate spreading seeds in foreign lands
the wind blows above the soil
carrying a bunch of tiny gems
feeding new horizons,
why couldn’t I have had the same journey?
A seed launched out of circumstances…
It comes a time you got to kill your mother
to find your own belongings
shrug off the virginity of a safe place
embed in a different landscape:
love  doesn’t have to coincide with blood
there’s a natural sentiment that comes along
ignoring given bonds.

I have two mothers:
my biological mother looks like me,
pale and strong bodied,
my other mother is brown like the soil
with a golden shade between her eyebrows
her name is Sera.
Mama Sera
it was the time when History didn’t match with justice
and segregation fell lives apart
dividing people by
it was the time when History kidnapped people lives
and threw them in a cell underneath,
Jo’ burg was burning behind the walls built
to secure the wardens’ lives;
waving their phallus they pleased their ego
entering the unlocked doors of the dreamer’s sleep.
But you were there, Mama Sera
you were there everyday
from Alexandra township walking your body
like  the gentle flame of a candle
on the shores of every day’s aspirations
to clean the sense of unease
that history has weaved on this patch of land
so fertile of life ‘n love.
No one, a part from myself,
knows how secretly
I dreamt of an equal dialogue
between my two mothers.
I longed for a love that would not be defeated by roles,
a love that could be one and inseparable
but life has chosen for me 
Mama Sera
to be you my spiritual mother.


That’s how Mama Sera
became my second mother.
She did not feed my stomach
she fed my imagination.
She did not carry me in her arms
she showed me the direction for the day
I could be strong enough to walk on my own.
She did not wash my face out of the sleep
she gave me a cup filled of water
and sang me the song of the rivers that travel all their way
to wash the surface of the mighty ocean
from losses and oblivion.
She didn’t lace my shoes
instead stood by my side encouraging me to do it myself
regardless to my tears of shame.
She did not bring me gifts for Christmas
she let me sit on her lap and tell me stories
where the hero wasn’t a beard old man sliding on the snow
but a child who walked three miles to fetch water and who
along the road met the ghost of his grand father
who saluted him playing the sacred drum.
She did not push me to my dreams with Cinderella’s league,
she encouraged the ancestor’s to bring me stories from the of old times.
She didn’t wish me  happy birthday,
but taught me the reasons why we should be celebrating our life every day,
in struggle and peace -
celebration is a luxury of the losers – she said.
She didn’t fill my schoolbag with milk for the day
but taught me responsibility for the things I care.


I ‘ve spent afternoons staring at the cupboard
where you kept some of your belongings
clothes, old magazines and the box of perfumes
you received your first day of work,
someone assumed you needed to have one
and on the fundaments of this assumption
all of a sudden, I embarked on a different ship.
I started secretly, intimately, sailing on a different sea
driven by a sense of unease
which attempted to pollute my love for you.
That’s how you became my second mother.
I’ve spent bunches of time thinking weather
I should just open the door and throw those perfumes away
cause the idea that made them to be there was wrong.
For this I loved you more
and you became my second mother.
I’ve spent all my lunches sitting by your side,
close to the kitchen’s window where the stove stood
generous of steamy pots
I ate from your hand sweet pap dipped in hot chilly
      - gravy,
the food you were asked to prepare for me
wasn’t appealing to my taste.
I did an effort eating two meals
but I did, because I wanted that privilege
to remain still in maternal complicity with you
and for this I loved you more
and you became my second mother.
I played with my brother Tumelo.
When I was sick you brought him home
to fill my loneliness
playing kudoda and laughing and crying.
empathy acts in mysterious ways.


Time has delivered an answer to the life I embraced
and I’m back
I came to look for your face
Mama Sera.
To mirror my wonder in your eyes
to caress your skillful hands.
I came back to listen more songs
and stories.
I came back to see my brothers and sisters
who grew in the secrecy of my room
fearless and curious.
I came back to sit at the same table eating together
the dreamt food of my childhood
remembering the two of us sitting by the stove
eating pap from the pot
while the food on the table
was getting cold and tasteless.
I came back to tell you
I managed to break the chains of my exile
that I came back to stay
that I had encountered the fear of loss
that I faced the judgment of the ignorant.

Strengthened my bones I chose
hardship out of hypocrisy and mediocrity.
I came to tell you that I’m your child,
never lost,
just suspended in a limbo
waiting to bring you something
you could be proud of
but you had already gone.
I wanted to be sure I existed in your life
as well as you existed in mine -
                          -  memory needs a double check.
I came back and drew your face on the red soil
outside in the field where we used to walk side by side
moving my first steps toward life.
I drew a big face with the golden shade between the eye browses,
it was the sun that marked your skin
                                  – you said in delight
so that you could enlighten your children’s journey
towards freedom
in those arrogant days where freedom wasn’t available
I’m one of your children and I found my path
towards the destination you aimed for us.
Barefoot in countless sunny days you taught me
to feel before thinking
to think before judging
to chase hate out of my life
to trust myself
when I cannot trust others.

You’re now my memory
I’ll dig in the earth and deposit my seed
deep inside
I’ll send it to the future
so that your grand children
will harvest love and gratitude.
Like a tree I will stand waiting for the birds
to rest on my branches and feed my lelhala.
Hours, days and weeks will shift in other rooms of time
While nostalgia will nourish your absence.

From my last short poetry collection OUT
Kabiliana Press 2016
Work Art by Iki