I was invited to recite poetry in Tel Aviv, Israel over this past Thanksgiving weekend. I had never been and decided it would be a perfect opportunity to see for myself the realities of the situation that I have held very hard opinions on, while still feeling somewhat uninformed: the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, the unrest of the Middle East, and the greater War on Terror.

.. ..

I knew that the Israeli government, through its notorious army, had set boundaries between their people and the Palestinians.

I knew that Israel, over the years, has remained the U.S.’s number one ally in most foreign affairs, especially war, and those that revolve around our, and their, War on Terror.

I knew that much of the unrest surrounding Israel had to do with the millions of people displaced, forced to emigrate, or live in camps after the 1948 U.N. decision that created Israel and shipped thousands of European holocaust survivors into the Middle East giving them their own state in the middle of what was then Palestine.

I knew that those of the Jewish faith felt common binds to the land as it is openly documented in the Old Testament and history books that the land once belonged to them over three thousand years ago, and that it is their belief that this land was promised to them by God in his covenant with his chosen people.

And I was frightened. 

.. ..

I was frightened because, despite the countless young, hip Israeli kids I had met over the years, their tales of teaching my poems in classes in workshops or of hearing my music and words blasted at parties, I couldn’t help but feel the fear the media had instilled in me, that this was not a safe place, that bombs might explode in my hotel lobby or at the market place. And there was also another fear: the fear that came from my friends, mostly Palestinian, and their encounters with Israeli soldiers. I’d heard of interrupted poetry readings, closely monitored gatherings, illegal walls, murdered men and boys, I’d heard comparisons to Apartheid…I didn’t know what to expect.

.. ..

My reception was very similar to how I have been received by students across the world in places like South Africa, Australia, Brazil, throughout Europe and North America. They came bearing gifts, thank you notes, demo tapes, and poems. They thanked me for coming. Some voiced their surprise that I would come given Israel’s political situation, along with the call to boycott Israel by many Palestinian organizations. I told them I was familiar with the boycott and had been a willing participant my entire life, even as a teenager in the Apartheid days, and it seemed that things had only gotten worse. My thoughts were that if things were going to change, Israeli kids were gonna have to be part of the movement and that they needed to be inspired to think for themselves and question all that they were born into; and that I could no more successfully boycott the students and youth of Israel than I could those of America; how our government has quite openly condoned or endorsed Israel’s behavior over the years, seemingly frightened of the ramifications if we acted otherwise. It has at times felt impossible to criticize the governmental policies of Israel without being labeled anti-Semitic: a brand no American wishes to wear, ‘though criticizing a countries policy and treatment of it’s neighbors is separate and distinct from judging their religious faith and doctrine.

.. ..

I’ve read at over 200 universities in the U.S., red states and the confederacy included, and I would no more boycott the youth of those territories than I would the youth of Israel. Most of us become apathetic- feel powerless in the face of making real change. The policies that we are born into we perpetuate without much thought until we are somehow inspired to begin the process of thinking for ourselves, to question all that we are told; all that we are told we are; to question our beliefs, the religions, institutions, and social groups we silently “belong” to, and all that we must one day decide whether to instill into our children or not.

.. ..

It is an act that takes great discernment. I, for instance, would love my kids to learn some of the great songs and spirit of my religious upbringing, but I also know the amount of hard-thinking and alienation I suffered through in order to break away from that religion, closer to it’s principles of disciplined compassion, and open up to the harmonious truths I saw beyond religion and the crutches we use to help us stand upright in our understanding of each other, love, community, nature, and the universe at large.  And it is my compassion for all who suffer, whether under suppressive rule or the silent rule of tradition and militant sheepishness, those who feel powerless in the face of change, who wish things would be different but have no idea how to go at it alone; those who feel alone, who feel compelled to “think different” beyond the trademark of their times, who only need a single spark to be the light that outshines history, those who dare not be shrouded by religious mystery; it is because of my belief in the power of art to act like  a B vitamin: flush the system and dislodge the fat and disease from the tissue surrounding the heart and brain; because I want my shot at the virus, and because I think apathy is a plague and want to rid the slow of progress from it’s time-consuming glitches…. I could go on for days running on this Arabian coffee…. I feel like a generator and want to charge a generation. I feel that we must seize the moment and inspire our peers and maybe even our parents to save us from the future that awaits us, like an arranged marriage, if we do not find the courage to get over ourselves and the past, which haunts us…. for all these reasons and more, I had to come.

.. ..

The reading, for about 1000, mostly Israeli, kids went as expected: they stood in silence, recited passages by heart, some with tear-filled eyes. The highlight of the reading (for me) was when I read a passage from ,said the shotgun to the head. which I had written to criticize the role that religion and patriarchy play in the American system of war, particularly in response to 9/11. I had written this poem with American soldiers, businessmen, our then president Bush, Christian fundamentalists and other religious leaders in mind. Yet, as I read it was clear that the words rang even more powerfully in Israeli ears and that they clearly, or perhaps, even better understood the religious symbolism and references I used to question when leaders use God as an excuse for war.

.. ..

The greatest Americans ....

have not been born yet.....

.. ..

They are waiting patiently ....

for the past to die.....

.. ..

Please give blood....

.. ..

Those crumbled tablets were to share a story with a burning Bush.....

.. ..

Where is that voice from nowhere to remind us that the holy ground we walk on....

purified by native blood, has rooted trees whose fallen leaves ....

now color-code a sacred list of demands?....

.. ..

Who among us can give translation of autumn hues to morning news?....

.. ..

The anchorman ....

thrown overboard ....

has simply rooted us ....

in histories repeating cycle:....

A nation in its Saturn years ....

that won’t acknowledge karma.....

.. ..

Where is that voice from nowhere?....

-the ones your prophets spoke of?....

.. ..

For I hear voices of fear disconnected from their diaphragms ....

dangling from coffee covered teeth- that spill into our laps ....

and scorch our privates.....

.. ..

There are voices from the sides of necks, some already noosed....

dangling participles pronouns running for sentence, serving life ....

in corner offices and ghetto corners. Their voices are the same....

dead to themselves, numb to the possibility of truth existing beyond that ....

which they can palm in their hands, period.....

.. ..

There are voices of elders....

 which seem to do no more ....

than damn us to our childish ways....

for, in many households, wisdom ....

no longer comes with age.....

.. ..

So where is that voice from nowhere?....

-that burning bush?....

-that passing dove?....

.. ..

I hear the voices of generals calling for ammunition....

presidents calling for arms and women calling for help.....

.. ..

Where is that voice from nowhere?....

-that god of Abraham?....

.. ..

Can He be heard over the gunfire? ....

-the whiz of passing missiles?....

-the crash of buildings?....

-the cries of children?....

-the crack of bones?....

-the shriek of sirens?....

.. ..

Or is that his mighty voice?....

.. ..

Your angry god craving the sacrifice of early generations sons degenerate.....

Your holy books written in red ink on burning sands.....

Your prayers between rounds do no more than fasten the fate of your children ....

to the hammered truth of your trigger.....

.. ..

A truth that mushrooms its darkened cloud over the rest of us....

so that we too bear witness to the short lived fate of a civilization ....

that worships a male god.....

.. ..

Your weapons are phallic, all of them.....

.. ..

That dummy that sits on your lap is no longer a worthwhile spectacle.....

His shrunken pale face leaves little room for imagination.....

We have spotted your moving lips and have pinned the voice to its proper source:....

it is a source of madness....

it is a source of hunger for power....

a source of weakness....

a source of evil.....

.. ..

We are exiting your coliseum and are encircling your box-office ....

demanding our families back, our cultures back, our rituals back, our gods back ....

so that we may return them to their proper source: the source of life....

the source of creation: our mothers’ womb; the Great Goddess.....

.. ..

We will cut through the barbwire hangers and chastity belts.....

We will climb in and incubate our spirits to the winter.....

We will wait through the degenerate course of your repeated history.....

.. ..

We will wait ....

for the past ....

to die.....

.. ..

I watched their faces as I recited this poem by heart and it appeared that they were having the same experience as the Face Book group I came across one day, that cracked me up, something like “People who think Saul Williams is speaking directly to them when they read or hear his poetry”. After reading the poem, I informed the audience that although it may have seemed like those words were directly pointed at them, I had written the poem primarily with America and Americans in mind, yet let it serve as a testament of how closely linked our governments and established policy and beliefs are linked.....

I met a lot of people that night, including the famous Israeli poet/song-writer Yaakov Rotblit who invited me to return to his home with him in Jerusalem that night.  I told him that I would not be able to as I had plans to visit Palestinian territories in the West Bank the next day. I hadn’t yet confirmed how I would get there, but that was my intent and I planned to make it happen, by any means. ....

.. ..

It didn’t take much effort to make arrangements and the following day four anarchist activists came to pick me up and drive me to Bilin: a small Palestinian village outside of Tel Aviv, famous for it’s weekly peaceful protests against the Israeli government and army. Before reaching the “invisible green line” that separates Israel from Palestine, they informed me that the “freeway” we were driving on was Jewish or Israeli Only,  and that Palestinians had to travel separate and roundabout routes to reach their destinations. When we turned off the freeway and passed through the tank and machine gun patrolled security checkpoint, composed of the mandatory service men and women (all Israeli boys must serve 3 years in the military and all girls must serve two) I felt and saw a drastic shift from the American Apparel, Coffee Bean, KFC, and McDonald filled streets of Tel Aviv into the white stoned hills and olive trees of a fabled land. As we approached the village of Bilin, it seemed we twisted and curved from 1^st world to 3^rd in a matter of  minutes. Barefoot children in Islamic garb, covered women… You’ve seen the pictures. We pulled up in front of the community center and were greeted by many Palestinian boys and men, and a few international activists, who were intent on making their American artist guest feel welcome, but first they wanted to show me the wall (already declared illegal by the Israeli parliament but still heavily patrolled and standing) that the Israeli Army had built separating them over 60 percent of their land and farms: their livelihood.  So we walked on foot over rubble and dirt, kicking what I first thought were stones, until a young boy picked one up and showed me what a tear gas rocket looked like. Like the wall, the rocket had also been deemed illegal by the Israeli parliament, but it didn’t seem to stop the army from shooting them.  They took off their hats to show me scars left by the tear gas rockets and rubber bullets, lifted up their shirts, pulled up pant legs and within minutes we stood about 30 feet from a barbed wire fence. The man beside me showed me the place where his brother, a peace seeking activist had been shot to death, only six months earlier, for touching the wall during a protest.  They told me of the thought and creativity they put into their weekly protests: building long snakes out of paper and canvas to symbolize the snake like wall slithering through their territories, tying themselves to together and to self-made walls that the army must disassemble (symbolically) in order to arrest them, tying themselves to olive trees and reciting poems…. but we are too many gathered by this fence right now, our voices are growing too loud and the soldiers have started gathering on the other side. I can see them standing on top of vehicles with binoculars, guns slung over their shoulders, I can see the cameras on long poles pointing to face us, I can hear them talking into their walkie-talkies, and one of the Palestinian men walking with us, the one who has been doing most of the talking as he explains their current situation says, “We should move from here. They will fire shortly. There are too many of us gathered. They will think this is a protest”.  So we head back to the makeshift community center, about twenty of us, and they gather in a circle to tell me of their hardship. They explain how they have been unable to sleep for weeks because of nine army raids in the past nine nights; how hard it is to comfort frightened children when soldiers break through doors with sound grenades and tear gas and gather the men and boys. Sixteen young boys are being held from this small village for  supposedly throwing stones at soldiers, held for months without trial. They explained how they must apply for a day pass to enter nearby Tel Aviv for employment and how most of them have been denied passes (even the one whose six year old son has cancer and can only find treatment in a Tel Aviv hospital). They ask me if I will write about their struggle in my poems and songs. They tell me how they fear a two state agreement would only escalate conflict as the boundaries have not been agreed upon and that they dream of one shared state, peaceful and tolerant. They tell me stories of Bassam, the peaceful Palestinian young man who was killed six months ago, and the videos they have of him trying to talk to soldiers, of his creative ideas for their weekly peaceful march to the wall. They tell me of what it’s like to live in fear, surrounded by soldiers and tanks. I imagine myself as a little boy and how my simple inclination would be to throw stones, because that’s what I did. I threw stones and pine cones (which I made believe were grenades) at imagined army targets. But these realities were not imagined, they were real, and in very real ways we were surrounded.....

.. ..

Of course, for me, this reality was only temporarily. I was accompanied by Israeli students whose license plates insured that we’d be let back into Tel Aviv. And that’s exactly what we did. We drove back into town and after a few hours of deep dialogue and processing of the experience together they dropped me off at the bar where the promoters that brought me were DJ-ing.  Israeli kids know how to party.....

But most at the party that I spoke to had never been into Palestinian territories.  They felt deeply for the Palestinian people, but seemed as if they felt little power to change the situation. They hoped for the best.....

.. ..

The next morning (Sunday) I went to Jerusalem. We took the freeway that was for Israeli’s only. As I approached the old city I couldn’t help but think of how it’s white stoned walls reminded me of Beverly Hills. People of all faiths and religions walked together. Soldiers with machine guns walked between them. Vendors sold very Jesus-like sandals, beads with crosses, the teachings of famous rabbis, rugs, photographs and paintings of religious leaders, etc. I froze in front of a t-shirt that was being sold beside a painting of Jesus meticulously made to look ancient and distressed. The t-shirt had a picture of a fighter jet and said in red letters over the top, “ Don’t Worry America”, and then beneath the jet, “Israel’s got your back.” Suddenly I thought of that scene in the Bible where Jesus disrupts the bazaar being held within the gates of the temple, over-turning tables and kicking people out. This is one of my favorite ways of remembering Jesus; rebellious and hardcore.  I over-hear American accents. One group is being reminded that they are to meet at 6pm for a worship service. ....

Everyone I had met had told me that I would feel something beautiful and ancient when I reached Jerusalem, something mystical. Mostly, I felt angry. I was still choked up on yesterdays journey.  I couldn’t believe that so many had found it impossible to climb over the walls of old cities and testaments and embrace a faith in humanity beyond the self-imposed boundaries of man and his misinterpretations  and misuses of power through government and tradition. Here I was in a city where woman were still supposed to clear the sidewalks and pathways when men were leaving the temple, a city that history had been built up and destroyed again and again, by empire after empire, and we still seemed intent on building new walls, waging new wars, with God used again and again as an excuse.....

.. ..

Unfortunately, my time in Jerusalem was cut short, as it was time for me to head to the airport and back home. We walked out of the gates of the old city, twisted and turned through a few roads, stopped at an amazing record store/café, and then towards the car. As we waited for the parking attendant to bring the car, three Arab teenagers passed, taking a moment to marvel at my wild hair and seemingly foreign get up. One of them looked out of his tilted visor and said, “Wassup”, full swagger intact. I smiled back and returned, “Wassup”. He looked at me, smiled, put his hand over his heart and winked as he said, “Peace, my nigga.” Wow. Thank you, Jerusalem. You made me feel at home.....

.. ..

The Art of Transformation

I am in a process of transformation, despite myself. Even with a clear understanding of God as Change, I sometimes fight and resist the changes that are essential to my being and growth. I fixate upon the challenges of accepting greater and greater responsibilities. I begin to desire results without maintaining the discipline that is required to manifest the necessary changes of heart and of mind, of balance, and inner harmony. I lose patience. I acquire doubt and debt.



The silent b
in doubt and debt
mutates our right
to be.

They crave control
of how we think
of how we feel
and see.

We learn
to shroud
self-mastery
with mystery
and fail

to understand
that even
within fate
is the power
of the will.

If freedom
needs a sanctuary
history needs
a cell

with bars
to keep
it’s hands
from reaching
out beyond
what mothers tell
their young.


We are
songs

in fact
anthems

unsung.

I am in the process of creating a masterpiece. I am not referring to any album, book, film or creative endeavor, rather, I am referring to the process of self-realization that aligns one with their highest and innermost ideals and values and renders them fully alive. It is a process of overcoming the obstacles imposed upon self, by self, perhaps society, and a fearful mind that refuses to accept the upward spiral of being. What I have chosen to embrace within myself are the very values I caught glimpses of as a kid when I questioned how a world so beautifully diverse in it’s simplicity could be made violently complex by the check-points and regulations of man in his quest to control and manipulate the forces of love and nature for the sake of individual gain and power. My decision to live my growth outwardly as an expression of my artistic being, and to earn my living as such, has forced me to engage with a reality that I might have otherwise evaded and has put me up against a cultural perception of entertainment as escapism, which has only enhanced a once non-existent desire to escape. There is no escape. Even my most recent move to Paris has simply shifted something deep within me as I wander through the ancient artifices of ambition, the dome-like cathedrals of clarity, and walled in worlds of art, I feel startlingly closer to my truth and a greater urgency for disciplined transformation. I am growing and have chosen to do so consciously and creatively while remaining engaged with both my inner and outer audience.

I am a reality show, tuning into myself on a daily basis simply to see which emotion tattled on which unchecked ambition. My mind gossips about the actions of my heart. My fears attempt to seduce the cameras for airtime. My soul would vote them off the show. I am checking my habits, re-acquainting myself with age-old disciplines. I am meditating and staying focused (which is a bore for that overactive mind which wishes no more than to follow a trail, any trail to more thoughts, pretty pictures, and inevitably inaction). I am starring in a spin-off of myself where I sing and dance and dress in pomp and costume. I am evolving while simply playing my part. I am staring myself in the eye without flinching or blinking, standing still while moving beyond what holds me in my place. But mostly, I am dancing, everyday, and sleeping perched above the skyline. And I awaken to a new day, a new season, the latest episode….

Dear Histo​ry,​
For too long have I ponde​red your meani​ng,​ memor​ized dates​ of battl​es,​ years​ of servi​tude,​ decad​es of injus​tice,​ named​ eras after​ movem​ents,​ mourn​ed the extin​ction​ of speci​es,​ curse​d found​ing fathe​rs,​ worn vinta​ge suits​ and cloak​ed mysel​f with refer​ences​ of your hold on me.

I have walke​d throu​gh museu​ms wonde​ring how it is that great​ness had lived​ and died all befor​e my time.​ Parts​ of me feare​d becom​ing great​ becau​se it seeme​d to inclu​de a price​ of death​ and a postm​ortem​ glory​ that my memor​y could​ never​ resur​rect.​ I've stare​d at paint​ings dying​ to catch​ glimp​ses of the paint​er,​ close​d my eyes to liste​n to songs​ that drunk​en ghost​s dance​ to, and all the while​ I've fough​t to FREE the prese​nt to BECOM​E.​

In 1995,​ I stood​ with poets​ in the middl​e of the Brook​lyn Bridg​e,​ barki​ng metap​hors at the new moon of the summe​r solst​ice wedgi​ng words​ into it's crate​rs,​ sewin​g seeds​ throu​gh night​ly wind.​

In 1996,​ I force​d the ocean​ back with words​,​ fathe​red plane​ts,​ climb​ed pyram​ids,​ and began​ to decip​her the siren​s song to conju​re the dream​-​fille​d Child​ren of the Night​.​

In 1997,​ I stood​ with priso​ners in our natio​ns capit​ol bendi​ng bars with the power​ of thoug​ht as words​miths​ serve​d sente​nces and Hip Hop diddy​-​dandi​fied itsel​f:​ steal​ing golde​n calve​s from the Old Testa​ment to smugg​le into the lavis​h crib of Ponti​us Pilat​e for it's birth​day party​

In 1998,​ I swall​owed fear and sun-​dance​d on film reels​,​ proje​cting​ a me that had not been into a me that ever shall​ be.

And HERE I stand​,​ ten years​ the diffe​rence​ and witne​ss to chang​ing hands​.​

Dear Histo​ry,​
I beat you. I stand​ a gener​ator of gener​ation​s beari​ng witne​ss to a world​ that we are holdi​ng accou​ntabl​e for past actio​ns.​ Me and my frien​ds,​ we'​re chang​ing our diets​,​ re-​inven​ting marri​age,​ check​-​matin​g capit​alism​,​ re-​defin​ing ethic​s,​ repla​cing cruel​ty with compa​ssion​,​ and have sworn​ not to re-​elect​ the sins of the fathe​r.​

We are casti​ng our votes​ for so much more than a lesse​r of evils​,​ but for chang​e,​ and great​er insig​ht,​ for wisdo​m out of the mouth​s of babes​,​ for races​ that bleed​ into ONE.

Dear Histo​ry,​
You are behin​d us and we are no longe​r looki​ng back.​ We are stand​ing on the thres​hold of new times​,​ new days,​ new world​s,​ and charg​ing forwa​rd witho​ut battl​e cry or trump​et,​ while​ cynic​ism,​ apath​y,​ and cowar​dice take their​ place​ besid​e you, behin​d us.

Dear Histo​ry,​
We no longe​r belie​ve in you. We have inves​ted our our thoug​hts and dream​s into the prese​nt momen​t and oppor​tunit​y to shift​ our reali​ty into one that does not resem​ble your dog-​eared​ books​.​

We stand​ on the shoul​ders of those​ who have dared​ to dream​ and on the necks​ of those​ who have waste​d their​ time and ours procl​aimin​g a past past its prime​.​

Dear Histo​ry,​
Blitz​!​ It's my turn now. You can have your mound​s of flesh​,​ leath​er boots​,​ canno​ns and saber​s,​ noose​s and guill​otine​s,​ warsh​ips and fight​er plane​s,​ trail​s of tears​ and blood​,​ genoc​ides,​ dunge​ons and drago​ns,​ ghost​ stori​es and fairy​ tales​.​.​.​.​.​.​.​.​.​.​

Obama and the Palin Effect

Sometimes politics has the uncanny effect of mirroring the national psyche even when nobody intended to do that. This is perfectly illustrated by the rousing effect that Gov. Sarah Palin had on the Republican convention in Minneapolis this week. On the surface, she outdoes former Vice President Dan Quayle as an unlikely choice, given her negligent parochial expertise in the complex affairs of governing. Her state of Alaska has less than 700,000 residents, which reduces the job of governor to the scale of running one-tenth of New York City. By comparison, Rudy Giuliani is a towering international figure. Palin's pluck has been admired, and her forthrightness, but her real appeal goes deeper.

She is the reverse of Barack Obama, in essence his shadow, deriding his idealism and turning negativity into a cause for pride. In psychological terms the shadow is that part of the psyche that hides out of sight, countering our aspirations, virtue, and vision with qualities we are ashamed to face: anger, fear, revenge, violence, selfishness, and suspicion of "the other." For millions of Americans, Obama triggers those feelings, but they don't want to express them. He is calling for us to reach for our higher selves, and frankly, that stirs up hidden reactions of an unsavory kind. (Just to be perfectly clear, I am not making a verbal play out of the fact that Sen. Obama is black. The shadow is a metaphor widely in use before his arrival on the scene.) I recognize that psychological analysis of politics is usually not welcome by the public, but I believe such a perspective can be helpful here to understand Palin's message. In her acceptance speech Gov. Palin sent a rousing call to those who want to celebrate their resistance to change and a higher vision.

Look at what she stands for:

–Small town values — a nostaligic return to simpler times disguises a denial of America's global role, a return to petty, small-minded parochialism.

–Ignorance of world affairs — a repudiation of the need to repair America's image abroad.

–Family values — a code for walling out anybody who makes a claim for social justice. Such strangers, being outside the family, don't need to be heeded.

–Rigid stands on guns and abortion — a scornful repudiation that these issues can be negotiated with those who disagree.

–Patriotism — the usual fallback in a failed war.

–"Reform" — an italicized term, since in addition to cleaning out corruption and excessive spending, one also throws out anyone who doesn't fit your ideology.

Palin reinforces the overall message of the reactionary right, which has been in play since 1980, that social justice is liberal-radical, that minorities and immigrants, being different from "us" pure American types, can be ignored, that progressivism takes too much effort and globalism is a foreign threat. The radical right marches under the banners of "I'm all right, Jack," and "Why change? Everything's OK as it is." The irony, of course, is that Gov. Palin is a woman and a reactionary at the same time. She can add mom to apple pie on her resume, while blithely reversing forty years of feminist progress. The irony is superficial; there are millions of women who stand on the side of conservatism, however obviously they are voting against their own good. The Republicans have won multiple national elections by raising shadow issues based on fear, rejection, hostility to change, and narrow-mindedness.

Obama's call for higher ideals in politics can't be seen in a vacuum. The shadow is real; it was bound to respond. Not just conservatives possess a shadow — we all do. So what comes next is a contest between the two forces of progress and inertia. Will the shadow win again, or has its furtive appeal become exhausted? No one can predict. The best thing about Gov. Palin is that she brought this conflict to light, which makes the upcoming debate honest. It would be a shame to elect another Reagan, whose smiling persona was a stalking horse for the reactionary forces that have brought us to the demoralized state we are in. We deserve to see what we are getting, without disguise.

Part 2
http://deepakchopra.com/2008/09/16/obama-and-the-palin-effect-part-2/

I've been through many phases in my life and I purposely start this missive in remembrance of my days of being militantly anti-Thanksgiving in deep respect of the millions of Native Americans that were massacred across this land. But with time, comes forgiveness, and me and many of my militant or once militant friends have come to forgive the horrid realities of the first Thanksgiving to delve deeper into the simple warmth and beauty of being surrounded by loved ones and good food on a cozy November day.
Well, the story goes that as age progresses so does wisdom, our understanding of compassion, and for some, the fervor of our militancy. Although, I seldom bring up unfortunate misgivings of the Native Americans (I leave that to the pre-teens at the table who are just cutting their teeth on thinking outside of the box), me and the teenagers have begun to warm up to the plight of the Turkey.
Just last year, I spent a Friday evening with a young turkey that had been rescued from a factory farm. It was warm and fuzzy like a cat, it purred when I rubbed its belly, it looked me in my eyes with the same understanding that I see in my dogs and spent an hour playing nicely with me and my niece. It didn't take long for me to regain my anti-Thanksgiving stance, but this time with a new cause: an end to uncompassionate traditions.

Why participate in a practice that does more harm than good on a day when gratitude and compassion should rule?
Why not give the planet something to be thankful for? And your body. A good choice of seitan, field grains, or tofu stuffed with a chicken-broth free stuffing and smothered in mushroom gravy (the gravy is the key!) is a scrumptious way of saying thank you to the Earth and life that nourishes our existence on this planet. I know that being 'green' or cruelty free seems like a simple trend, but so did being anti-slavery, or pro-womens rights.

The fact is that the growing popularity of vegetarianism is inevitable, but your participation in a nationwide pastime blinded by its ode to the past is not. The future is now and cannot include the mindless ingestion of cruelty in all its forms while waving flags for peace. If you envision a non-violent world, participate in the one that already exists. It is as simple as a choice you can make here and now to try something new this November, to distinguish your recipes from your grandmothers. Replace the lard with something that won't kill grandpa. Replace your insensitivity with a growing state of concern and awareness or own up to the violent realities and toxins you ingest. Harsh words, eh? Its even harder on the stomache.

My goal is not to enact judgment on any and everyone who eats meat. I've had enough fried chicken in my life to be tried and convicted of genocide by a jury of free-range chickens. My simple goal is challenge every reader to begin the process of envisioning what their participation in a utopian, healthy planet would look like. I have spent most of my short life fighting to remind friends, family, and those I've come into contact with that just because something has persisted for a few hundred years, or even a just a few decades, doesn't mean that it must be perpetuated. Our understanding of self, God, love, and planet are all streamlining in ways that mirror our ability to communicate through the technology that advances that process. The cynicism that wishes me good luck but believes grandpa will never change, is dead on. Grandpa will die. But as for you, you can fight against the poetry of our times or you can triumph in connecting the dots between your freedom and your responsibility and watch how the winds of change conspire to thank you.

Until then, the saying 'you are what you eat' proves most of y'all to be a bunch of jive-ass turkeys.


Saul aka _________. (What up Nas?)

ps. And don't fall for that 'Organic' or 'Free Range' bullshit. Trusting an FDA stamp on your food is like trusting an oil lobbyist in a solar paneled car discussion. Google 'Vegan Recipes' and add your own personal flair and send me a thank you note when you subsequently drop those few pounds your trainer couldn't help you with. 'Vegan Nutrition' for those who think you need meat for dietary health or just google 'MY NUTS'.

"One farmer says to me, 'You cannot live on vegetable food solely, for it furnishes nothing to make bones with'; and so he religiously devotes a part of his day to supplying his system with the raw material of bones; walking all the while he talks behind his oxen, which, with vegetable-made bones, jerk him and his lumbering plough along in spite of every obstacle." ~Henry David Thoreau, Where I Lived And What I Lived For.

Dear Friends,

Although I cannot boast a lifetime of keeping my views to myself, I have seldom taken on the responsibility of trying to change someone (alright, maybe a few girlfriends, but you'll never hold me to that). However, this year for me has been one of aggressively shifting from a reluctant pursuit of change and growth to taking a proactive stance on what I believe in times that I see as clearly representative of a societal paradigm shift both necessary and urgent for our country and world.

I received a lot of questions from some about why I would allow my song 'List of Demands' to be used in a Nike campaign. Ironically, half of the people now reading this post never heard of me until that commercial aired. That, indeed, was one of my reasons for allowing it. A small circle of poets and conscious do-gooders are not enough to effect the change necessary to shift our planet in peril. We must enlist people from all walks of life, people not accustomed to questioning the norm, people who may simply want to dance uninterrupted without message or slogan. I see no glory in 'preaching to the converted'. Furthermore, I believe fully in the power of music and have branded my work with it's own conscientious stamp and stomp of attitude fueled to steal the show in the face of the nonsensical. Quite simply, it was clear to me that people would not be rushing to the store to buy Nikes after seeing that commercial, but rather rushing to youtube or itunes to hear or download the song. I even imagined those who would be rushing to blogs to question how I could allow this to happen and the subsequent discussion of the ethical treatment of factory workers and how new minds would be informed and enlisted in the struggle for ethical change.

As an artist that characterizes himself and his work as a hybrid synthesis of creativity and responsibility I am forced to make politicized choices, weigh evils, and work strategically to make a living and contribute to the change I wish to see in my lifetime. For instance, the groundbreaking digital release of The Inevitable Rise and Liberation of NiggyTardust! wasn't done simply because I wanted to give my album away for free and maintain my independence as an artist, but also because record companies left me little choice. As a musician I have been signed to both Columbia/Sony and Island/Def Jam rosters and have faced consistent naysayers who have basically insisted that I choose the type of music I am going to make and if the choice wasn't according to their definition of hip hop showed little faith in it or in the possibility of a wide public supporting it, without realizing their role in determining what the public supports. Radio stations followed suit in determining my music not urban, alternative, or rock enough. Of course my music showed more rock influence than Eminem but the KROQ's of the world seemed to be basing their definition of rock on something a little more surface than sound, at the time. Thus, I have always found myself with fans that have through their own hard work and diligence fought through the norm to find me, yet still voice surprise that more people haven't.

The compliment "you're ahead of your time", often feels more like a curse than a gift from a well-wisher. I have never considered myself ahead of my time simply because a few executives may not have been visionary enough to determine where music or antiquated ideas of race are heading or to realize their role in continually underestimating the intelligence of the listener and our generation. Rather I have seen those 'powers that be' as behind the times and perpetuators of an old cycle. Likewise, I have seen their over-turn as inevitable. Thus, The Inevitable Rise and Liberation of NiggyTardust! simply came at a point when I realized that we were, indeed, living at a crossroads and Victor Hugo's saying, "There's nothing more powerful than an idea whose time has come", came to life.

Without question, we are living in powerful times, a time where the powers of being will truly prevail over the powers that be. This is evident in the political sector where it has become clear, at least to me, that my support of Barack Obama is not because he's black, but because he seems to represent both symbolically and ideologically many of those ideas and ideals whose time has come. Ideas of the divine need for change ("God's just a baby and her diaper is wet." Get it?) in how we look at the world, ourselves, and at our individual and communal powers. The idea that might is right, that we demonstrate our power with aggressive force is great for football teams, but hardly the best idea for a country whose running source of pride has historically been the evidence of our collective imagination: our music; our films; our amusement parks; and the technology we create to share it. These products of peace are the things that made the world initially fall in love with us. We have rooted ourselves in a growing sense of independence as evidenced through our historic social movements, always upgrading our beliefs and laws to reflect our broadening understanding and vision. Of course, many, if not most, would label this a very optimistic perspective of the ongoing struggle for justice and equal opportunity for all people in this land. There is still a fight to have our voices heard and many of us when given the opportunity to speak seem to have very little to say. Then are those who have consistently fought against growth and change, who would rather fight for their right to maintain their antiquated, sometimes ignorant points of view, as if the age of the perspectives themselves is what validates them. Yet, the first technology is of the mind. It is the shift in perspective that allows us to streamline possibilities of understanding as reflected through invention. And quite simply, we are coming of age.

In this age it is our responsibility to challenge ourselves beyond cultural traditions and delineate between what we have perpetuated through ignorance rather than wisdom. We face an opportunity to broaden our worldview through the exchange of technology and information. We need not rely on what teachings of the past could not anticipate. It is an opportunity to forge ahead and beyond the wavering shortsightedness of our religious leaders, elected officials, teachers, principals, and sometimes parents and live in simple accordance with what we can feel deep within ourselves. We should no longer be surprised to sometimes find ourselves seemingly more intelligent, informed, or insightful than our leaders and bosses, rather we should feel encouraged to inspire and share our most informed selves in our every encounter. And that, my friends, is what has led me to write you today.

While sitting on a plane, on my way back from Lollapalooza, reading Thanking The Monkey by Karen Dawn, it struck me that this was the second awesomely inspiring and informative book I was reading this summer without sharing my thanks by spreading the word. I am sometimes hesitant about making a big deal about my vegan diet, as I have considered it a personal choice worth little discussion. Yet more and more, I have found myself attempting to encourage people who ask me where I find my inspiration, or what issues do I find important, or how can we curb warfare and violence to consider what we ingest. A story was recently recounted to me of a popular TV chef who chose to raise little piglets on his show to insure that they were fed organic food and not injected with chemicals (as is the practice on most factory farms), all for the sake of fattening them up for their slaughter and another primetime recipe. Yet, the time that this chef spent with these pigs taught him a valuable lesson (more valuable for the pigs, no doubt). What he learned was how intelligent pigs are. In fact, in recent times, it is common knowledge for most that pigs are arguably more intelligent than "mans best friend" and companion, the dog. For our chef, this meant switching gears and realizing that he could not consciously kill this intelligent animal, that it would constitute a murder as brutal as slicing your fluffy pets neck and watching it writhe and bleed to death, or sticking an electric prod up its ass and electrocuting it, if the fur or skin is of value…

It may seem like I have just taken a turn to the graphically extreme, I wouldn't want to make you "lose your lunch", but these are the common practices perpetuated by the factory farm industry on millions of animals a day, in the name of your breakfast lunch and dinner. And, no, I'm not simply talking about pigs, but also cows, chickens, turkey, horses (that's right horses. Everyday), and fish. Everyday, our species participates in the mass genocide of other species without care or concern or even questioning whether the violence that we ingest and condone plays any role in our apathetic support of the war machine we have become. How is it that we as human beings can represent both the highest and most developed and lowest and least concerned forms of intelligence of any living species? Are we simply glued to age-old barbaric traditions that cloud our senses and render us inhumane in our dependence on comfort foods and practices? Is our dependence on foreign oil the only thing we need to curb? What about not so foreign species?

Some might argue that artists are a race or species apart from the common person. Yet we all identify with the teachings of Gandhi, the genius of Einstein, the art of Leonardo Da Vinci, Picasso, Rembrandt and the talent and compassion of living artists like Alice Walker, Will Smith, The Mars Volta, Dead Prez, Prince and countless others. Some of us choose to emulate their styles, their fashion, their career choices, but why not their diets? If our brightest most celebrated stars all have this one thing in common why are we so slow in connecting the dots for ourselves? Perhaps the biggest issue at hand is not what our cars run on, but essentially what do we run on? The fact is that factory farms are the number one users of crude oil, not cars. That's basically what it takes to kill approximately one million chickens per hour (just in the US). More than half of our water supply goes to feed animals being fattened for slaughter. The methane gases that contribute to global warming are produced majorly by cow farts in factory farms, not to mention the amount of fossil fuels needed to create just one pound of beef.

Yep. You doing the math? Basically if we shifted our compassion towards animals, the domino effect would heal the planet. We'd no longer be cutting down rain forests to create more space for cows to graze, we'd stop depleting the ocean of the necessary (keyword: necessary) food chains that our eco system depends on, diseases including many cancers, heart disease, obesity, and others which find their root in the food/toxins we ingest would slowly disappear as would our taste for violence.

Which brings me to the other book I read this summer that inspired me to reevaluate every aspect of what I've been taught through the news and media, especially concerning the war in Iraq and Afghanistan. That book is The Shock Doctrine by Naomi Klein.

So what are you reading?

I know what you should be listening to,

Niggy.

Introducing Niggy Tardust. Part 1. The Rise and Liberation.

"Niggy Tardust is about what it means to look at history and the present as a whole, as opposed to running away in disgust or bowing one's head in guilt—saying 'yes' to all that has been, in full acknowledgement; saying 'yes, all of those things convene in me....'"

Exclusive Bonus Audio: Saul Williams and Ken Wilber • Deconstructing Niggy (47:44)
Read and Listen

In this incredible walkthrough of The Rise and Liberation of Niggy Tardust, Saul discusses the overall concept of the album, as well as an in-depth look at many of the songs. The album is about transcendence, pure and simple, as the title clearly states—whereas David Bowie used the Ziggy Stardust character to challenge people's notions of sex, gender, and image, Niggy Tardust challenges our attitudes of race, racism, and identity. It forces us to confront our accumulated fears, discomfort, and victimhood around some extremely sensitive issues, without the novocaine of political correctness or identity politics to numb our exposed nerve endings. He tells us how he is trying to redefine the "N-word" itself—liberating a word synonymous with human oppression by allowing us to fully feel its power, its violence, and its pain. It is an attempt to infuse the profane with the sacred, a Tantric impulse to recognize all of existence as truly not-two, where Spirit can fully embrace even the darkest regions of our soul.

Dear Ms. Winfrey,

It is with the greatest respect and adoration of your loving spirit that I write you. As a young child, I would sit beside my mother everyday and watch your program. As a young adult, with children of my own, I spend much less time in front of the television, but I am ever thankful for the positive effect that you continue to have on our nation, history and culture. The example that you have set as someone unafraid to answer their calling, even when the reality of that calling insists that one self-actualize beyond the point of any given example, is humbling, and serves as the cornerstone of the greatest faith. You, love, are a pioneer.

I am a poet.

Growing up in Newburgh, NY, with a father as a minister and a mother as a school teacher, at a time when we fought for our heroes to be nationally recognized, I certainly was exposed to the great names and voices of our past. I took great pride in competing in my churches Black History Quiz Bowl and the countless events my mother organized in hopes of fostering a generation of youth well versed in the greatness as well as the horrors of our history. Yet, even in a household where I had the privilege of personally interacting with some of the most outspoken and courageous luminaries of our times, I must admit that the voices that resonated the most within me and made me want to speak up were those of my peers, and these peers were emcees. Rappers.
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Yes, Ms. Winfrey, I am what my generation would call "a Hip Hop head." Hip Hop has served as one of the greatest aspects of my self-definition. Lucky for me, I grew up in the 80's when groups like Public Enemy, Rakim, The jungle Brothers, Queen Latifah, and many more realized the power of their voices within the artform and chose to create music aimed at the upliftment of our generation.

As a student at Morehouse College where I studied Philosophy and Drama I was forced to venture across the street to Spelman College for all of my Drama classes, since Morehouse had no theater department of its own. I had few complaints. The performing arts scholarship awarded me by Michael Jackson had promised me a practically free ride to my dream school, which now had opened the doors to another campus that could make even the most focused of young boys dreamy, Spelman. One of my first theater professors, Pearle Cleage, shook me from my adolescent dream state. It was the year that Dr. Dre's "The Chronic" was released and our introduction to Snoop Dogg as he sang catchy hooks like "Bitches ain't shit but hoes and tricks…" Although, it was a playwriting class, what seemed to take precedence was Ms. Cleages political ideology, which had recently been pressed and bound in her 1st book, Mad at Miles. As, you know, in this book she spoke of how she could not listen to the music of Miles Davis and his muted trumpet without hearing the muted screams of the women that he was outspoken about "man-handling". It was my first exposure to the idea of an artist being held accountable for their actions outside of their art. It was the first time I had ever heard the word, "misogyny". And as Ms. Cleage would walk into the classroom fuming over the women she would pass on campus, blasting those Snoop lyrics from their cars and jeeps, we, her students, would be privy to many freestyle rants and raves on the dangers of nodding our heads to a music that could serve as our own demise.

Her words, coupled with the words of the young women I found myself interacting with forever changed how I listened to Hip Hop and quite frankly ruined what would have been a number of good songs for me. I had now been burdened with a level of awareness that made it impossible for me to enjoy what the growing masses were ushering into the mainstream. I was now becoming what many Hip Hop heads would call "a Backpacker", a person who chooses to associate themselves with the more "conscious" or politically astute artists of the Hip Hop community. What we termed as "conscious" Hip Hop became our preference for dance and booming systems. Groups like X-Clan, A Tribe Called Quest, Brand Nubian, Arrested Development, Gangstarr and others became the prevailing music of our circle. We also enjoyed the more playful Hip Hop of De La Soul, Heiroglyphics, Das FX, Organized Konfusion. Digable Planets, The Fugees, and more. We had more than enough positivity to fixate on. Hip Hop was diverse.

I had not yet begun writing poetry. Most of my friends hardly knew that I had been an emcee in high school. I no longer cared to identify myself as an emcee and my love of oratory seemed misplaced at Morehouse where most orators were actually preachers in training, speaking with the Southern drawl of Dr. King although they were 19 and from the North. I spent my time doing countless plays and school performances. I was in line to become what I thought would be the next Robeson, Sidney, Ossie, Denzel, Snipes… It wasn't until I was in graduate school for acting at NYU that I was invited to a poetry reading in Manhattan where I heard Asha Bandele, Sapphire, Carl Hancock Rux, Reggie Gaines, Jessica Care Moore, and many others read poems that sometimes felt like monologues that my newly acquired journal started taking the form of a young poets'. Yet, I still noticed that I was a bit different from these poets who listed names like: Audre Lorde, June Jordan, Sekou Sundiata etc, when asked why they began to write poetry. I knew that I had been inspired to write because of emcees like Rakim, Chuck D, LL, Run DMC… Hip Hop had informed my love of poetry as much or even more than my theater background which had exposed me to Shakespeare, Baraka, Fugard, Genet, Hansberry and countless others. In those days, just a mere decade ago, I started writing to fill the void between what I was hearing and what I wished I was hearing. It was not enough for me to critique the voices I heard blasting through the walls of my Brooklyn brownstone. I needed to create examples of where Hip Hop, particularly its lyricism, could go. I ventured to poetry readings with my friends and neighbors, Dante Smith (now Mos Def), Talib Kwele, Erycka Badu, Jessica Care Moore, Mums the Schemer, Beau Sia, Suheir Hammad…all poets that frequented the open mics and poetry slams that we commonly saw as "the other direction" when Hip hop reached that fork in the road as you discussed on your show this past week. On your show you asked the question, "Are all rappers poets?" Nice. I wanted to take the opportunity to answer this question for you.

The genius, as far as the marketability, of Hip Hop is in its competitiveness. Its roots are as much in the dignified aspects of our oral tradition as it is in the tradition of "the dozens" or "signifying". In Hip Hop, every emcee is automatically pitted against every other emcee, sort of like characters with super powers in comic books. No one wants to listen to a rapper unless they claim to be the best or the greatest. This sort of braggadocio leads to all sorts of tirades, showdowns, battles, and sometimes even deaths. In all cases, confidence is the ruling card. Because of the competitive stance that all emcees are prone to take, they, like soldiers begin to believe that they can show no sign of vulnerability. Thus, the most popular emcees of our age are often those that claim to be heartless or show no feelings or signs of emotion. The poet, on the other hand, is the one who realizes that their vulnerability is their power. Like you, unafraid to shed tears on countless shows, the poet finds strength in exposing their humanity, their vulnerability, thus making it possible for us to find connection and strength through their work. Many emcees have been poets. But, no, Ms. Winfrey, not all emcees are poets. Many choose gangsterism and business over the emotional terrain through which true artistry will lead. But they are not to blame. I would now like to address your question of leadership.

You may recall that in immediate response to the attacks of September 11th, our president took the national stage to say to the American public and the world that we would "…show no sign of vulnerability". Here is the same word that distinguishes poets from rappers, but in its history, more accurately, women from men. To make such a statement is to align oneself with the ideology that instills in us a sense of vulnerability meaning "weakness". And these meanings all take their place under the heading of what we consciously or subconsciously characterize as traits of the feminine. The weapon of mass destruction is the one that asserts that a holy trinity would be a father, a male child, and a ghost when common sense tells us that the holiest of trinities would be a mother, a father, and a child: Family. The vulnerability that we see as weakness is the saving grace of the drunken driver who because of their drunken/vulnerable state survives the fatal accident that kills the passengers in the approaching vehicle who tighten their grip and show no physical vulnerability in the face of their fear. Vulnerability is also the saving grace of the skate boarder who attempts a trick and remembers to stay loose and not tense during their fall. Likewise, vulnerability has been the saving grace of the African American struggle as we have been whipped, jailed, spat upon, called names, and killed, yet continue to strive forward mostly non-violently towards our highest goals. But today we are at a crossroads, because the institutions that have sold us the crosses we wear around our necks are the most overt in the denigration of women and thus humanity. That is why I write you today, Ms. Winfrey. We cannot address the root of what plagues Hip Hop without addressing the root of what plagues today's society and the world.

You see, Ms. Winfrey, at it's worse; Hip Hop is simply a reflection of the society that birthed it. Our love affair with gangsterism and the denigration of women is not rooted in Hip Hop; rather it is rooted in the very core of our personal faith and religions. The gangsters that rule Hip Hop are the same gangsters that rule our nation. 50 Cent and George Bush have the same birthday (July 6th). For a Hip Hop artist to say "I do what I wanna do/Don't care if I get caught/The DA could play this mothaf@kin tape in court/I'll kill you/ I ain't playin'" epitomizes the confidence and braggadocio we expect an admire from a rapper who claims to represent the lowest denominator. When a world leader with the spirit of a cowboy (the true original gangster of the West: raping, stealing land, and pillaging, as we clapped and cheered.) takes the position of doing what he wants to do, regardless of whether the UN or American public would take him to court, then we have witnessed true gangsterism and violent negligence. Yet, there is nothing more negligent than attempting to address a problem one finds on a branch by censoring the leaves.

Name calling, racist generalizations, sexist perceptions, are all rooted in something much deeper than an uncensored music. Like the rest of the world, I watched footage on AOL of you dancing mindlessly to 50 Cent on your fiftieth birthday as he proclaimed, "I got the ex/if you're into taking drugs/ I'm into having sex/ I ain't into making love" and you looked like you were having a great time. No judgment. I like that song too. Just as I do, James Brown's Sex Machine or Grand Master Flashes "White Lines". Sex, drugs, and rock and roll is how the story goes. Censorship will never solve our problems. It will only foster the sub-cultures of the underground, which inevitably inhabit the mainstream. There is nothing more mainstream than the denigration of women as projected through religious doctrine. Please understand, I am by no means opposing the teachings of Jesus, by example (he wasn't Christian), but rather the men that have used his teachings to control and manipulate the masses. Hip Hop, like Rock and Roll, like the media, and the government, all reflect an idea of power that labels vulnerability as weakness. I can only imagine the non-emotive hardness that you have had to show in order to secure your empire from the grips of those that once stood in your way: the old guard. You reflect our changing times. As time progresses we sometimes outgrow what may have served us along the way. This time, what we have outgrown, is not hip hop, rather it is the festering remnants of a God depicted as an angry and jealous male, by men who were angry and jealous over the minute role that they played in the everyday story of creation. I am sure that you have covered ideas such as these on your show, but we must make a connection before our disconnect proves fatal.

We are a nation at war. What we fail to see is that we are fighting ourselves. There is no true hatred of women in Hip Hop. At the root of our nature we inherently worship the feminine. Our overall attention to the nurturing guidance of our mothers and grandmothers as well as our ideas of what is sexy and beautiful all support this. But when the idea of the feminine is taken out of the idea of what is divine or sacred then that worship becomes objectification. When our governed morality asserts that a woman is either a virgin or a whore, then our understanding of sexuality becomes warped. Note the dangling platinum crosses over the bare asses being smacked in the videos. The emcees of my generation are the ministers of my father's generation. They too had a warped perspective of the feminine. Censoring songs, sermons, or the tirades of radio personalities will change nothing except the format of our discussion. If we are to sincerely address the change we are praying for then we must first address to whom we are praying.

Thank you, Ms. Winfrey, for your forum, your heart, and your vision. May you find the strength and support to bring about the changes you wish to see in ways that do more than perpetuate the myth of enmity.

In loving kindness,

Saul Williams

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