TELL ME I want you to tell me about every person you’ve ever been in love with. Tell me why you loved them, then tell me why they loved you. Tell me about a day in your life you didn’t think you’d live through. Tell me what the word home means to you and tell me in a way that I’ll know your mother’s name just by the way you describe your bedroom when you were eight. See, I want to know the first time you felt the weight of hate, and if that day still trembles beneath your bones. Do you prefer to play in puddles of rain or bounce in the bellies of snow? And if you were to build a snowman, would you rip two branches from a tree to build your snowman arms or would leave your snowman armless for the sake of being harmless to the tree? And if you would, would you notice how that tree weeps for you because your snowman has no arms to hug you every time you kiss him on the cheek? Do you kiss your friends on the cheek? Do you sleep beside them when they’re sad even if it makes your lover mad? Do you think that anger is a sincere emotion or just the timid motion of a fragile heart trying to beat away its pain? See, I wanna know what you think of your first name, and if you often lie awake at night and imagine your mother’s joy when she spoke it for the very first time. I want you to tell me all the ways you’ve been unkind. Tell me all the ways you’ve been cruel. Tell me, knowing I often picture Gandhi at ten years old beating up little boys at school. If you were walking by a chemical plant where smokestacks were filling the sky with dark black clouds would you holler “Poison! Poison! Poison!” really loud or would you whisper “That cloud looks like a fish, and that cloud looks like a fairy!”
Do you believe that Mary was really a virgin? Do you believe that Moses really parted the sea? And if you don’t believe in miracles, tell me — how would you explain the miracle of my life to me?
I wanna know what you see when you look in the mirror on a day you’re feeling good. I wanna know what you see when you look in the mirror on a day you’re feeling bad. I wanna know the first person who taught you your beauty could ever be reflected on a lousy piece of glass. If you ever reach enlightenment will you remember how to laugh? Have you ever been a song? Would you think less of me if I told you I’ve lived my entire life a little off-key? And I’m not nearly as smart as my poetry I just plagiarize the thoughts of the people around me who have learned the wisdom of silence.
ILLUSTRATION: LUCINDA WHITEMAN
See, I wanna know if you believe in any god or if you believe in many gods or better yet what gods believe in you. And for all the times that you’ve knelt before the temple of yourself, have the prayers you asked come true? And if they didn’t, did you feel denied? And if you felt denied, denied by who?
Do you believe that concrete perpetuates violence? And if you do — I want you to tell me of a meadow where my skateboard will soar. See, I wanna know more than what you do for a living. I wanna know how much of your life you spend just giving, and if you love yourself enough to also receive sometimes. I wanna know if you bleed sometimes from other people’s wounds, and if you dream sometimes that this life is just a balloon — that if you wanted to, you could pop, but you never would ‘cause you’d never want it to stop.
Nour El Attar
RIPTIDE The gravitational pull; the endless time It doesn’t stop the cycle. A crash against the front smashes the back Beams of your white light, his pulling tide, That never ceases to rock. Back and forward, right over my head. Whirlpool against me, pushing you. Distance across the plagued oceans mind acquired. The yank; the force endured A commotion in a silent sky where you were equivocal. When the night pours over the edge Kissing the pool tide where the ripples infatuate the thoughts And curdles in the mind, where you lay Restless, silent to the naked eye, Carrying me offshore.
Beneath and sunken. The noise is muffled, I can’t understand, my ears They’re blocked, trapped. The tide, it pulls. Smaller, can’t you see?! Smaller and smaller and. Drags me down. I want to reach? Pull myself to you The smell of belonging. There, you stand, opulent before my pupil is awoken Thinking to myself; should I dive Right beneath the rocks that balance on my head It was all I knew. Restless, but alas the dance of morning! The sun that awakes the sight of him, A crash against the front smashes the back Once more, over and over. Unobtainable; the control over the tide Is it my head?
Under the uniform Danny O’Neill
Under the uniform lies the truth. Infinite stories, habits. Vices Every one of them, has one of them. Ingestion of liquid, combustion of solid. Rejection of feeling, acceptance of expression Hatred of thought, adoration of thoughtlessness. Unrecognizable to the human eye, No to the reality, yes to the image: the lie. Presentability wins, expression loses Imagination dies, the plain clothed chooses. Good habit, bad habit, who decides? The institutionalised will tell you, They will feed you, nurture you like a child Fill your head full of lies, always tell you time flies, And then your willpower dies, You drag yourself up every day just to say you can rise. Be careful what they tell you because if you know too much You won't tell the lie, the truth will tell you. Wear the badge and show them what it really means, A bag of truths bursting at the seams.
ILLUSTRATION: BEN WHYTE
coconut Ever heard the term “coconut”? Regularly used to describe people like me; black in skin colour, yet not in the perceived meaning of black; not “roadman black”, nor “ghetto black”. Instead, we hang in some kind of social limbo, defined as black on the outside yet “white” on the inside, hence the term “coconut”. Of course this has comical value but at the same time it creates a sense of alienation, invokes a series of questions and self-analysis, where do I fit in? Being raised with an Ethiopian mother who takes incredible pride, as she should, in her beautiful culture and a British father whose cultural values differ greatly, I have learnt to become a hybrid, drawing on the best parts of each, learning from both and yet, when it comes to social media and today’s society, I find myself caught between the different typically labelled “black cultures” that exist across the Western world. The phrase “black culture” annoys me, because it is a gross generalisation of countless cultures, and I question how they could all come under one term that therefore devalues each one of them in their uniqueness and individuality. Of all the 54 countries in the continent of Africa, there are multiple cultures per country, all of which are completely different, whilst being tied to the same skin colour. In Kenya alone, there are 42 tribes, each with their respective cultures which differ greatly from each other. So there isn’t even one distinct Kenyan culture, let alone one African culture, and certainly not one black culture. Yet in social media, the phrase connotes one stereotype; “ghetto” black, referring to a fraction of cultures, and glossing over the diversity of different customs all under the umbrella of skin tone. And so, I decided to look into social media’s interpretation of “black culture”, starting with music. Before diving into this, I don’t mean to state that rap is reserved for black people, it’s huge in Ireland, meaning that the link between socio-economic standing and music lies in struggle and relative poverty, not in race. However, as far as the stereotype of “black culture” on the internet goes, rap is claimed as black, which seems unjust. In the rap and hip-hop genres in America, artists are predominantly black and this image which forms a significant part of social media’s definition of black culture, as in the black community online. Whether or not music is an accurate representation of culture is highly debated, but I reckon it’s fair to say that for the millennials and the better part of Gen Z, music has a heavy influence upon culture. For instance, black rappers who
make it into film, such as Tupac and Nas, have ‘earned their places’ in pop culture by making their early music about the struggles they endured throughout their childhood and adolescence in Harlem and Queensbridge (where Tupac and Nas respectively grew up). Both are distinctively “ghetto” areas of New York City and are populated mainly by African-Americans in unfortunate socio-economic situations and these, I have found, are the types of areas wherein “black culture” is typically coined. Firstly, a definition of “ghetto” from the undisputedly most reliable source of information: Wikipedia. "A ghetto is a part of a city in which members of a minority group live, especially because of social, legal, or economic pressure." This seems a fitting definition. Within these here named “ghetto” suburbs of America, the population is poverty stricken and crime rates are significantly higher than those of the national average, for example Chicago was responsible for nearly half of 2016's homicide rates in the entirety of the US and was labelled the “murder state” of America and to reiterate my point, in such areas, rap music is the most popular music genre and their music is highly embedded within their culture. Here you can see why some people think that the introduction of white artists or any artists that are in a better socio-economic standpoint than those artists into this genre can be offensive. It’s the defensive feeling over their definition of “ghetto”, it’s the importance of the pain behind all of the struggles in the lyrics of these songs that gets devalued when someone, white or black, uses a similar beat and rhythm that is characteristic of the ghetto rap pioneered by disadvantaged artists like Tupac and Nas. And here is the basis for cultural appropriation. There is so much history and depth of meaning steeped in these parts of culture that makes it difficult to overlook when it is so called “culturally appropriated”. Moving onto the point of cultural appropriation, “black culture” seems to be a phrase most used as a way of claiming things like dreadlocks, which has become a massive online debate now, and frankly just seems ridiculous, as if your skin colour lets you take ownership over a hairstyle, which even the Vikings had - it wasn’t even “black” in the first place. On this topic, I had an interesting encounter with a ‘social justice warrior’ on Twitter, after I tweeted that cultural appropriation doesn’t exist. Naturally, said ‘social justice warrior’ accused me of catfishing as a black woman because obviously, people of colour could never feel complete indifference towards a white person with cornrows for instance, and obviously, the only acceptable reaction is anger. Oh and “because of slavery” is a valid argument, if you hadn’t heard. Personally, I think that
the term “black culture” and the defensive nature of cultural appropriation both approach the issue from the wrong angle. Through my twitter war, I realised that there is such a dangerous rhetoric now being perpetuated by people of colour standing against white people, and that what was once a movement in the celebration of diversity has now become racism towards whites, and a feeling that your skin colour allows you to claim something. After all of this, I’ve come to a conclusion, of how the phrase “black culture” and cultural appropriation are informed by social media, and go hand in hand. The term has become so constricted to this limited “ghetto” group, which in no way represents more than a fragment of all of the different cultures that marry and contrast and constitute what it means to be black. It is this limiting assignment of a whole race to this one stereotype that creates such a furious defense from this marginalised group of society that prompts them to take ownership of social media’s definition of “black culture” to the point where they cannot accept others participating in it. What should be an appreciative and empowering term that is inclusive of all the different cultures amongst black people has instead curbed and devalued the majority of the many black cultures, and it has to be abandoned. What we need is a much broader idea of black culture and an awareness of the diversity that exists within this realm. This would rid social media of the angsty possession that makes up cultural appropriation, and give rise to an understanding that culture is diverse, and fluid, and ever-changing, and can’t be confined to a segment of black society. Perhaps we can start to understand the notion that multiple cultures can coexist within a single person, and that non-conformity to a wrongly-perpetuated stereotype does not define their skin tone. Then maybe, just maybe, the phrase “coconut” will lose all meaning.
hanna carroll
DeadHead
ILLUSTRATION: sARAH wILLIAMS
I STAND Days turn to nights While nights turn to day, Sun and moon fuse, Forming incessant twilight. Here I stand steadfast, Through the gelid nights And the sultry days I endure. Rooted to hope, Moored to a pipe-dream Of silk sheets and red roses, Luke warm with human form As the dim sun rouses me, I remember I am alone, Yet here I stand steadfast, Waiting for you to come home
ALEX GOUGH
PATIENT 001 It was one of the hardest days of her life. Raindrops softly hit her face as she looked up to the gloomy, grey sky. Hushed conversations spread around her but she paid no attention to them. The smell of smoke lurked around the thick air making it hard for her to breathe. The voices inside her head were screaming for her to run as far as she could, and for the first time in her life, she listened. She ran as far as her legs would take her, till her throat felt like burning coal and her breaths we short and jagged. Her parents were probably wondering where she went, but to her that didn't matter. She had to get out of there - it was becoming to much for her to handle. She ended up by the old oak tree where the leaves were long gone and the bark was crumbling away. Flowers swarmed the ground surrounding the tree; daisies and dandelions of many different colours and sizes brought life to the ghostly town. As she began to climb the tree she thought of all her childhood adventures, even though they no longer felt right. They said that what happened was an accident, but she knew otherwise. Even if she told them the truth they wouldn't believe her; No one ever did. Finally, as she approached the top of the tree where minor branches were escaping from the more significant ones, she took in a long, deep breath. She never knew why, but climbing this old oak tree had always calmed her in times of panic and desperation. Slowly, she could feel the heavy weight upon her eyelids as they started to shut, drifting her off into a deep sleep.
Waking up to the view of four white walls clouded her mind with confusion. ‘Where was I?’, she thought. To her right, there was a small wooden door with a glass viewer barred up on the outside, to her left a small desk and stool were screwed into the wall and floor– it was almost like a prison. On the ceiling there were two long rectangular lights, one twitching on and off, on and off, as if with indecision. There was no clock, no calendar and the lack of windows made the room completely lifeless. Slowly she had tried to get out of the bed, but she couldn't. She tried again, again and again using more force each time, but her body was still reluctant to move. ‘What is happening to me?’ she thought. Looking down, she saw a thick strap of brown leather tightly wrapped around each of her wrists making her hands go numb. Suddenly a wave of panic whiplashed through her body as she unleashed a Banshee’s scream, causing the glass on the small door to smash almost instantly. But still, no one heard her. The stench of chemicals gradually invaded her room as the door started to unlock with a loud click of the handle. A large man with a white coat and a woman wearing blue scrubs sauntered into her room, wheeling a tray of what seemed to be a set of different needles and bottles of medicine. Whispering incoherent words to the woman, the man watched her intensely, causing her to squirm in her bed. She had not paid much attention to the woman until it was too late and she was being injected with one of the needles from the tray, enchanting her brain into the thoughts of nothingness, making her feel light-headed and dizzy. The last thing she saw was the man and the woman standing behind the locked door, through the glass viewer that she had shattered with her scream. Only it was no longer broken.
The Call of the Land Abdur Rehman Bin Saquib
If you are young and strong and free and fit, Not shy of work and long to do your bit, Then there is a job for you– you’re in demand, The motherland, calls you, calls you to the land, If you would feel the wind, the rain, the sun, Upon your face as you run, On the weapon you hold in your hand, The motherland, needs you, needs you on the land, If you would see the brown earth turn gold, And nature’s gift before your eyes unfolds, And feel this miracle by your hand, The motherland, calls you, calls you to the land, The nation asks your help without delay, The motherland, awaits you, awaits you through-out the day
PHOTOGRAPHY HAYA SULEIMAN
Semblance of Normality Beneath the calm tranquillity; a tormented reality, Deceit branded upon the skin. Honesty ravished by hypocrisy, The appearance, a mere delusion: Manners and kind regards that conceal A raging beast feasting on evil. Layered and intertwined in dual identity, Suppressing the instincts society forbids, To not tarnish a refined reputation. Mimicking the moulds and Masks of the reality The collateral damage of man's repression. Conflict between the right and wrong, Or instead the battle between reality and illusion, Duality or delusion?
Jasmine Laws
illustration: lucinda whiteman
the minority report My first memory of the Minority Report takes me back to my ten year old self, slumping down to watch TV. Flicking through the channels on the then massive 35” TV screen I discovered the Steven Spielberg neo-noir movie. Five minutes later I had no clue what was going on, and was forced to switch to a Harry Potter movie that I had already seen a hundred times. 7 years on and a lot has changed: 35” screens are used for PC’s, Netflix has, for the most part, replaced cable TV, and I absolutely love the Minority Report. The Minority Report was part of Spielberg’s phase of fast paced, white washed movies in the early 2000s. Likewise, Tom Cruise was also in the midst of a flurry of releases at the time, ranging from Vanilla Sky to The Last Samurai. Even John Williams, the baton wielding magician, was just finishing off Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets when he was called up for the movie. All the indicators pointed towards an end product that would be rushed and lacking depth, but it turned out to be quite the opposite. Set in a Dystopian world in 2054, Tom Cruise’s mentally fractured character, John Anderton, is forced into the investigation of his own future homicide. Sound complicated? Basically, in this Spielberg world, three ‘humanoids’ called pre-cogs are able to predict murders, and the police use this vision to prevent the potential murder from occurring. Anderton is the police officer in charge of the pre-cogs’ vision analysis and is also part of the team that tracks down and stops the murder. However, his whole world is thrown into a whirlpool when the pre-cogs’ latest prediction shows him killing a man that he has never met before.
Watching the movie again in 2018, it is truly remarkable how good the CGI looks after nearly 16 years. Spielberg tries to use it as little as possible in the movie, but when he does, it is usually on top of real objects, meaning it adds depth to the subject and doesn’t look fake. What really the sells the futuristic world is its dirty and almost slum-like look. This keeps the setting slightly familiar, despite all the crazy new innovations in technology. And on the topic of tech, it was fascinating to see how many of their predictions the writers got correct. The opening scene involves Anderton controlling a screen with gestures, most of which we all use on our smartphones and tablets now. Also, in the shopping mall of the future, all the advertisements show recommended products based on your purchase history, again something that we are used to on Amazon and other online shopping sites. The acting in the film is also highly impressive. Tom Cruise portrays his witty yet broken character solidly. Samantha Morton is freakishly inhuman yet relatable as Agatha, one of the pre-cogs. She spends most of her time covered by a blanket or floating in a pool of milk, but is still able to get us to empathise for her. And Colin Farrel’s character, despite at times feeling like he is there just to chase Anderton, brings depth and suspense to the movie. The film’s action is masterfully stitched together, and when you think the main action sequence is over, Spielberg takes you for another round of the rollercoaster ride that are his chase scenes. The feel of the movie is near perfect until the third act, where the movie seems to to stray away from the tone it carried throughout. The movie lost its claustrophobic and chaotic mood as the finale leads to a conclusion which just seems too good to be true. Of course, movies are allowed to have happy endings, but in this case it just seemsed incongruous with the character of the rest of the movie. However, after researching the film, I discovered a theory that would not only make sense of this issue, but would also would make it one of the greatest plot points of all time! If you have watched the film I would implore you to search this up as I don’t want to spoil it for those who haven’t. All in all, the Minority Report exemplifies why Steven Spielberg is one of the finest storytellers of all time. It has some great action set pieces combined with fantastic usage of CGI and a riveting storyline. And better yet, it’s available on Netflix in the UAE, which is something I am not used to saying.
achu prasad
alan mutabchie
I entered in the scarcely breathing silence, a soliloquizing hum filled the room. The flames in the open fireplace crackled, making it a retreat from the grey veil of hissing rain. The room was lit up by a bulb, its casing peppered with the bodies of dead flies. The light was frozen, dead, a ghost. The room was dark and forbidding. The only sign of life was the torn curtain hanging across the window which was covered in crawling mould, only the gloomy light filtered into the room. It was a large room, bare but dusty. All the corners, secretive places of shadows and whispers, were covered in cobwebs. Neglected, the stairs wound steeply up the side of the wall. I had a feeling that overcame me, that something, or someone, was there. I wasn’t going to willingly walk into a trap. I cautiously scanned my surroundings, analysing every square meter to reassure my conscience that I would be okay.
illustration: lucinda whiteman
the unknown
It was her. Before I knew it I was standing in a pool of blood, screaming in agony. The last thing I remembered were her hollow cheeks and her wrinkled flesh. The thought spread through my body like a dull ache, slowly engulfing me. The rush of anguish surged into my chest, then my throat, and my eyes flooded with tears...
Temporary TemporaryTouch Touch at 11:12, my eyes began to burn, where soft guitar strums resounded throughout the cold of my cage, where my stomach started to turn, and my curtains withered inward—shutting out stars and fluffy companions from the stage when my bed became hostile, and the water singed my skin, and a thump in my side became a thorn, plasma and hope spilling from within and quaint guitar strings held my throat, clogging mustard memories there and stalling what little breath could escape but i did not mind. the wary feeling that everything is temporary creeping past the door frame and casting an ugly shadow amongst creamy sheets that quiver in fear—but i did not mind. at 11:17, i yawned and the cold in the room lusted after my flesh, and the tip of my nose froze and my crimson lips became a rose, where thorns spilled constantly out of their gape and my feeble attempts at speaking were haphazard slits who could not bear but to make the hurt hurt; but i did not mind. i promise to stay conscious in the feint of the evening, but i can’t escape my head, that remains screwed to my shoulders in all that it is, a crown that weighs on the fragility of my bones—and in my zest reduces the fizz, and what was once simple in the daytime reduced to dust, alone in the haze of perfume—a midnight musk, i did not mind. it was temporary.
NYARKO NYARKOOBED-ARTHUR OBED-ARTHUR
To Purge The blistering sun ascends into a violent sky The sphere of our unified suffering extends its fiery gaze A flaming reckoning here to purge the depths of our disgrace For we are filth wrought flesh Perversions of morality The decaying remnants of former glory Opportunists and fiends of the most malign degree Waving the torn banner of virtue As we descend into obsolescence Ben Whyte
digital art: deevya swain zen mag issue 4 edited by: arissa tapper, jasmine laws, annika toma, nyarko obed-arthur ben whyte, lucinda whiteman, tilly elwen, alex barr and alicia asaad art by: lucinda whiteman, sarah williams, liam patell, ben whyte and alex barr designed by: amy williams, lucinda whiteman and arissa tapper property of zenmag producers 2018