April 20, 2013
Tamerlan and Tamerlan: American Journalism Gone Nuts

There’s journalism and then there’s this thing where journalists go batshit crazy and expose themselves for who they really are - which no one’s able to name, yet, since we’re laughing too hard. Seriously, some people are wondering why one of the Boston bombers was named after a 14th century Turko-Mongol ruler and conquerer Amir Temur. Here’s the American Thinker’s J R Dunn:

“Tamerlan Tsarnaev, hmm?

Tamerlane (properly, Timur the Lame, 1336 — 1405) just happens to be one of the most brutal conquerors in recorded history. Tamerlane was a 14th-century successor to the khans. He is noted — if that’s the word I’m groping for — for the sheer viciousness and gratuitousness of his conquests, which put the actions of predecessors such as Genghis Khan in the shade, and remained unmatched until the 20th century.”

Add three more paragraphs of suchlike and he reaches this marvelous conclusion:

“What might have been going on in the heads of parents who chose to name their child for such a figure is beyond easy surmise. But here’s a memo for any proposed new immigration regulations: no entry for people named after genocidal Tatar conquerors.”

Yep, the writer at American THINKER *thinks* this - although the mechanisms of that thought process might be way too hilarious even for AT’s pages. Were you named after that ruthless oil magnate from Dallas, JR?

The article seems to have found impetus from a Julia Ioffe article in The New Republic yesterday which goes:

“If Dzhokhar seems to have been a relatively well-adjusted kid, the elder, Tamerlan—who is named for a Muslim Mongol warrior—clearly had more trouble.”

Does she add a “shares the name with a 20th century Soviet genocidal maniac” after the name of every Joseph?

All of this goaded white savior par excellence Nick Kristof to loudly wonder if the atrocity of naming your child Temur or Tamerlan should be finally put to rest. Nick, you do know you’re named after Saint Nicholas, the patron saint of among others, THIEVES?

Eliza Shapiro at The Daily Beast piles on by talking to someone who wrote a book on Amir Temur as if that would make the idea less looney. I urge you to compare the numbers para in her article to the opening paras of Wikipedia’s entry on Amir Temur for kicks. ;)

And therein lies the problem.

To Eliza and J R Dunn and everyone else fanning the Name War, Amir Temur may be a Wikipedia article or a figure in books, but to someone like me - an Afghan and Central Asian -, he’s far more sophisticated than a man with a name and a history of atrocities.

Here’s a story I read in our 3rd grade Farsi:

They say Amir Temur, before he became the scourge of half of Asia, lost a battle badly and made out with his life alone. Exhausted, he took refuge in a ruin and was contemplating existence when he saw an ant try to carry a grain up a wall. The ant kept climbing, but the grain was too heavy so each time he went up, they’d both fall and it’d have to start all over again. Temur amazed, paid close attention and wondered when the ant might give up. It didn’t. After hundreds of tries, the ant finally managed to lift the grain up the wall. The Amir was so impressed by its persistence that he vowed he’d never give up himself.

If Nick Kristof found a time machine, you’d be wall paint, Mr. Ant.

Does my 3rd grade story sound similar to stories you might’ve read about Alexander? Constantine? Richard the Lionheart? Or more recently Honest Abe? Of course it does! People make these things up because it’s fun! And over time, the historical figure is lost and all the general population - who don’t want a post-graduate degree in medieval history - remembers is these little stories. Why wouldn’t anyone name their kid after the guy who teaches 3rd grade kids Farsi?

You may find a dozen stories like this involving the Amir and poets, religious leaders, animals, beggars and courtesans. He’s part of our national psyche and not just our psyche, but the psyche of every nation he left a mark on. He may have destroyed large swaths of Asia, but he built the cities of Samarkand and Bukhara gloriously. His descendants rebuilt many of the cities he destroyed back to their former glory. One even went as far as India and founded the Mughal dynasty. Take Temur out and you may not have the Taj Mahal. (That’s right, you’ll find Temurs in India and Pakistan, too, oh the HORROR!)

That name may have invoked terror in the past, and loathing in the present for some indeed, but for most, he’s a myth from a bygone era that only history lovers know much about, really.

But that might not even be the motivation. I have encountered many Temurs and Tamers and Tamerlans in my lifetime. The motivation behind their names is probably not their parents’ love of history or the myth of conquerers and such. Here’s why.

My first name is Suleiman. That’s Arabic for the Biblical Solomon. My grandma didn’t name me Suleiman because she had any love for Jewish religious figures, but because she’d had a son named Suleiman who’d died young. Now don’t go conjecturing that I’m single because I’m waiting for an Ethiopian beauty to lure me with her wisdom!

I was named Suleiman because generally people name people after other people they’ve known or met or seen who have the same name.

Historical figures as names is nothing new and not restricted to my culture and I’m pretty certain in Chechen culture as well. Amir Temur just happens to be a famous conquerer of the past who controlled large swaths of south, central and west Asia. He’s become part of our daily lives.

Heck, in Uzbekistan, he’s revered as their founding father. That’s the same country Herman Cain tried to Ubeki beki beki.

Naming children after historical figures is part of American culture as well. Though not every George was named after Washington nor every Thomas after Jefferson. And hey, even if you want to name your kid after a fruit, so what?

To jump to such outlandish conclusions as this is simply bizarre. And its especially bizarre coming from journalists in a country whose capital district and female personification are named after a monstrous figure who is responsible for starting the genocide of Native Americans.

April 16, 2013
On Belongings

From @JihadiJew:

The great Rabbi, the Chofetz Chaim lived in poverty and had only a table a few chairs and a straw bed for furniture. A visitor from another town asked him, “Rebbe, you are so famous, surely you could afford more furniture. Why don’t you have some?” The Rabbi responded. “Where are you staying now?” “At a hotel.” “And did you move your furniture from home into your hotel, your couch, beds, lamps, everything?” “No, Rabbi, there is no point, I am only here for a very short while.” “Ah, there is your answer!” said the Rebbe. “I too am only here in this world for a short while. I have no need for a lot of furniture.

April 14, 2013
Excuses

Sometimes the quest for life,

Brings forth answers,

The like the questions,

Only open new doors,

Breaching walls so that the flood of emotions bottled up outside,

Could pour in,

Creating a whirlpool of doubt to consume more time,

But didn’t they know,

Time needs no escuse to pass!

April 6, 2013

Feeling a bit like this song these days…

March 31, 2013
Stale Air

You’ve ran,

And you’ve hidden,

And sometimes,

When I’m alone for a long time,

And it’s too cold to open the windows to let the stale air out,

I look in the mirror and wonder aloud if it’s you,

Or the sound of my own frustrations,

But enough with the accidents,

If you were so good at it,

You wouldn’t have been this clumsy,

Redirecting me to the path you’ve chosen,

Instead of the walls I’ve climbed to give up,

To accept my defeat in all its mortal fatalisms,

And maybe it’s not love,

Or longing,

Or even an echo of the need for the present,

To alter the past,

Whatever it is,

Or has been,

Or may be,

I know,

That I’m not looking for nothing,

You’re there,

Just as I am,

Looking for you from inside the mirror of my acceptance,

Still wondering if I can alter your destiny,

Just as you refuse to alter mine.

March 21, 2013
Just Ask

From far away,

You get loud,

Your voice sounds like an angry sitar,

And I wonder,

Why you have to play so furiously,

Knowing that I’ll give you what you want,

Whether you want to ask,

Beg,

Or take.

March 7, 2013
Buried

Each morning,

I wake up,

Digging,

Past you,

Past the time when I was getting to know you,

Past the time I was looking for you,

Searching,

Hoping to get to reach a time when there wasn’t anything of you,

Not you,

Not your company,

Not your want,

Not the quest to find you,

And I hope to find beneath all that is somehow connected to you,

Maybe a sliver of me,

Within myself,

And,

Each time,

I close myself to end another day,

Giving up,

Not because I can’t go on,

But because maybe I’ve accepted,

That my existence without you,

May have never existed.

March 7, 2013
Ambivalence

I went days without remembering you,

And in those days,

I kept telling myself,

That it’s not that I don’t love you,

I just want you to know,

That if you create things in your own image,

Expect them to act as you do at times,

March 3, 2013
Vast Dusty Plains

I heard a distant cry in a dream on Friday night,

I knew you were taken from me,

From us,

But more importantly,

From yourself,

I heard today that you, too, have joined the millions,

Who were turned to nothing,

Under the swift hooves of the band of horses that is time,

You, too, are now dust,

You, too, have gone to be with those who were before you,

Settlers in,

Or travelers through,

Or conquerors of,

That unfortunate land that birthed us,

That harsh mother whose tree-less mountains,

Ice-cold rivers,

Skin-piercing winds,

Sculpted our frames,

And moulded our character,

We are children of harshness,

We never live long enough to know warmth,

And now you, too, didn’t make it,

I shall remember this,

As I shall remember the last time we spoke,

Remember?

You told me it was all nothing,

That what you had was nothing,

That what you were going to would be nothing,

And now you, too, are nothing,

I won’t mourn,

The children of our mother don’t do that,

We only accept,

And our acceptance,

Like our love,

Is nonchalant,

Like my sadness for you,

No tears here,

Just a wish,

That some day,

In those vasty dusty plains,

I, too, can become nothing with you.

Here’s to hope.

February 14, 2013
It’s Over

There was a tree outside our door,

It covered the entire balcony,

Never letting the light of the sun enter my room,

Leaving me in a never-ending winter,

Like your pain,

Always there,

Never wavering,

Reminding myself every day,

That all I can do is hold on to shades of what my heart can hold onto,

Then last week the sunshine woke me up,

The tree was gone,

No branches,

No leaves,

Not even drag marks on the ground,

Nothing,

Just a stump,

A reminder that there stood a majesty once,

And this week,

I was startled by how my mood didn’t swing when I listened to our favorite songs,

I felt nothing,

I rushed home from the streets where I wander in search of thoughts of you that I might’ve missed to miss,

Afraid,

But you weren’t there,

My heart feels like it’s felt sunshine for the first time in years,

Your cold shadow is gone,

And as hard as I try to miss the pain,

I can’t even miss that,

I’m free,

Free to bask under the sun,

Without remembering how your head felt on my lap on the grass,

Free to breathe the fresh air,

Without your hair swinging and getting caught up in my stubble,

Free to not miss you,

To not feel the pain of your separation,

Perhaps that’s what you were,

A tree,

And as I feel your roots slowly die inside my chest,

I reclaim my own body,

Merging those roots; memories of what you were,

With my own flesh and blood,

Perhaps,

Finally,

We’re one.

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