17.9.14

CHOTA DEV "Tiny Giants" faces of Speak Sudan

Chota Dev celebrates the inspirational and powerful team of Speak Sudan 

Rania El Mugammar
Founder, Executive Director & Editor in Chief
rania@speaksudan.org
Manar El Mugammar
Events Coordinator
manar@speaksudan.org

Mazin Osman
Program
Development Coordinator
mazin@speaksudan.org

Salma Suliman
Programming and Design Executive
salma@speaksudan.org

Mariam Ahmed
Media and Community Outreach Coordinator
mariam@speaksudan.org

Sara Suliman
Online Editor
sara@speaksudan.org

Mahad Mohamood
Volunteer Coordinator
mahad@speaksudan.org

Sarah Salih
Treasurer
sarah@speaksudan.org

Lisa George









22.7.14

I am Bleached


Roll over and vex my soul insist on a lashed up deviant corpse of rot life. Make amends to ensure bursting at the seams of the next hopscotch misfired lie. Trying to weasel trail blaze tunneling tunneling into the midst of smoky horror hall of reflected shards. Giving up on the last resonating sense of who we really are. The spiraling waves of golden yarn webbing across soulscapes of lust and tar, move me. Hold me. Lighten thus the innards of my cerebral surge of coloured glass. Remove me. Tender thumping a nerve crossing over onto melted emotion and dusty floors, will you sand me down. Pressure rises as a stampede of darkness rides into a horizon of dimmed down hope. Whisper a moment into the cracks of my closed up heart. Bleached me down to reexamine the engravings these shadows of words mean nothing after.  




10.4.14

I am not here


This about turn is the last on a road folding in on its self. It was here, red cartons stacked, spring twine baskets spilling interlaced joy raindrops on us. Take a good look cause the moments passing. Make amends Nayha. This medicine isn’t worth all the grey sky in the foreseeable distance.  Paths gleaming slipping touch. 

Miss communication handed her tongue to the Cheshire and decided to collapse into herself. You leave a trail, an umbilical cord of innocence. The white naivety shredding against rough wind could it withstand another blow too hard? Blue is the colour of a throbbing tiny vessel hidden behind a pretend bright red heart. 

Flowing ever so quietly turning ultramarine. You wont see it. No one will. 

The sting of cold pins my blood pricks and bolts through this moment.  

   


18.2.14

I am creation


When I think about one of my first memories of actively practicing religion, I remember riding in the car with my mother, grandmother and two older sisters. It was some summer vacation from maybe sixth grade. The mornings were spent attending some religious ceremonious sermon-ana-bob-thing.

I spent days sitting among large groups of women much older than me, hours spent happily listening spending time with my sisters, cousins and sort off summer camp friends. I can probably credit the respectful etiquette to that and in fact this etiquette guided me to be open to all kinds of religions and peoples later on in my life


Having been brought up attending community based activities, relief work, being paired and teamed with so many different kinds of women. I grew older from pre-teen to full bloom teenager. The last of such summers was when I was sixteen. Background on what kind of family we are, by this time my parents had taken us traveling, my sisters were in Mount Holyoke College, summer vacations were just me and my mom. I had chosen to start covering my head and was now very familiar with the dichotomies any teenager faces when thinking about religion, society and science.

In fact, I distinctly remember having been assigned individual projects that summer at the community center to talk about any religious concept pertaining to the Quran. And being who I was then and who I am now. I wanted to talk about the words in the Quran no one knows the meaning of and link that mystery to aspects of the human intellect. The limitations, the imaginative, the exploration and the unknown.


I look back fondly at this memory. A probably very definitive one at best, I had a few ideas, a few flash cards in my hand, budding debater at school, I thought how hard can this be? This argument is valid.

I had reconciled the ultimate question at fifteen. I was going to solve the “Why deny god?” problem facing born-muslims-neo-intellectuals. I was ambitious. I started my presentation with celestial bodies, human flaws, societal morality, fluidity in thought and closed the presentation by saying the human intellect has its limitations just as the belief in God does. At some point we need to give into the imaginative, the awe we sense in creation. I was telling them I believe in God because I want to, not because he necessarily exists. That I was accepting of falsifying logic, dubious doubts, distorted truths and despite all the neon signs, I was ready to accept that too was from the creator. Those truths don’t threaten or manipulate a spiritual truths reality and strength. 


I think I was on to something or probably thin ice


9.12.13

I am make it


Make it stop. Twisting it shard pores mingle into the driest muck of his dermis. Make it work. Blend the sea glass move closer into the earth. Make it move. Mortality can never shiver as much when in hands of your mold. Make it hurt. Draw it in and pour it over into my darkest hope. Make it tear. Founded on a weave of delicate lines of your inner dome. Make it sing. Yards of cold glossed over tinkering gold. Make it glide. Over your displaced terrain of wounds try landing steady. Make it open. Turning over ears done hot jarring known dust. Make it heal. Hide it into layers of silk and close up these cracks on the walls Dearest you love cling to cloud forecast me into the unknown. Make it to me. Make it up to me. Make it make love to me. Just make it find us once more.

Unless all the winds decided to direct their rage straight into these walls of my self loathing soul, I would not move even a little inch. But more than that more than all the defined realities I call home try to see that in the end what matters more than anything else is if you want winds to come do what has to be done willingly on your own. I can’t be a storm. I can’t even breathe when things mount themselves onto my sense of duty. Don’t push me. Don’t tangle me into your pits. I know what your asking seems easy to give but to the naked eye it’s all red entrapment. Try to reach. Cause a standby and an orchestrate wont be.

24.11.13

"Tiny Giants" - Chota Dev



Chota Dev.  We embody fluid and intertwined alternative discourse. Looking for the overlap in ourselves and others. Indulging everything but a conclusion. We are against absolutist ideals or the degrading rationalisation that society clings to in order to label it sane. We encourage enchanting interactions between thought and conversation, art and non-art, citizen and barbarian. We ground our selves in participation and ceaseless exchange.




SHARE IT. pumps me to post more. yes. yes.

Follower

YOU ARE NUMBER - THANKS FOR VISITING.