A Poem of something lost

An abanded house

There’s an empty house up in Ballysillan

The closest thing I called Home

In Belfast

 

Now

Only memories remains

And a broken heart

That might never be healed

 

A story that will never be read

 

Everything I ever loved

in Belfast is no more

Changed

Into something unrecognisable

 

Coming back

Was opening old wounds

Tormenting

Heartbreaking

 

Not pleasant at all

I guess it’s right what they say

What goes around comes around

 

And my ties here are gone

Forever

 

 

Morten Alme

 

Belfast, November 2009

 

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A Story from Persia, the dissident

During one of my travels, my fate lead me back to Belfast some years ago. There I met a witness on what is going on in his home country Iran right now. He insists on calling it Persia. Iran is linked with oppression.

The scene is in a hostel on Botanic avenue called the ARK. My Iranian friend shares fate with other people who had to escape their countries due to war, oppression and famine.

We sit down in the dining room together. It’s Monday night. My 4th pint is about to be consumed. He is eager to tell me his road to Belfast. Back in Iran, or Persia as he calls it, his big crime was wanting freedom of speech and freedom of religion. Two very important things in the UN charter that every country in the world has signed. But Iran may have a warped sense of these two human rights. Everyone calls him Koroush. I call him Cyrus after Cyrus the Great. He is very proud of his country’s past. A pride that has turned in to contempt of his own government run by religious fanatics. 6 years ago my friend was a part of a small group of people who liked to discuss things that concerned them. In their governments eyes they were criminal elements as they consider all opposition. But Cyrus would not let draconian laws stopping him form speaking his mind. He left his religion Islam many years ago. As an apostate, you are but a traitor to Islam. He chose Zarathustra as his guide instead of some illiterate loony from the Arabic dessert. According to religion of peace, that is an offence worthy of capital offense. No wonder he don’t trust or like the Muslims from Somalia living at the ARK. Cyrus and his friends were eventually arrested for simply exercising his basic freedom. Twice! He knows what torture can do to a human being. He was arrested despite the fact that he left the group on philosophical disagreements. But that didn’t count much for the religious police. They sent him to Evin Prison in Tehran. It’s a prison where more than 20 000 people have lost their lives due to hideous crimes against Muhammad the Dickless wonder from Mecca. Eventually his father manages to get him out. By paying off Allahs representatives on Earth a bundle of money. This father sold his land and much of his possessions to save his sons life. 60 000 dollars is a sons life worth to a father in Iran. At least that’s the price the corrupt government have put on him. My friend managed to get out of Iran 4 years ago. Cyrus is worried about his mates and family in Iran; Constantly worrying about her mother, whom only a week earlier got a little visit from the local religious police in the middle of the night, beating her teeth out. No wonder… They are using the same scare tactics as Stalin’s and Hitler’s henchmen. Cyrus tells me more from his prison time. They did torture him. Trying to get more admissions from him. The more they beat him, the more outrageous the accusations became. During his time in prison, he’s seen many people tortured, murdered and officially executed. The visions he has often haunts him at night. And he speaks to me with a passion and intensity that mazes me. My pen can’t go fast enough for his words. I wonder if these lines would ever be able to give his and many others stories justice. Cyrus told me that Iran since 1980 has been rotten to the core. With the help from Reagan and his thugs in the GOP. The GOP and the priesthood of Iran is basically the same. They are willing to use any rotten trick in the book to win and have it their way no matter how many corpses they are creating. From there, he manages to get his son a passport and a way to escape from Iran. Through many obstacles and stops on the way, he ended up in Belfast, where our paths would cross each other, and our fates somehow would be intertwined. He tells me another story from his country. A young girl, a virgin was arrested for the same kinds of crimes as Cyrus. Her mind was free. Something that most tyrannical governments hate. Most governments even in the Western World are not fan of freethinkers. These freethinkers might think pf some of their policies are not right. And break them at will to show how stupid they are. But some places are worse than others. This girls mind was free. But her body was not. The thing is, that they couldn’t impose capital punishment due to her virginity. But where there’s a will there’s a way. The last night of her life, they sent her parents a letter congratulating them; “Your daughter is now finally married to have her virginity taken away so that we could go through with the execution.” In other words “We got her married to one of the guards so we could fuck her brains out and then kill her! Congratulations! Here’s the bill for the marriage license! And for the noose!” Cyrus is one of few or many witnesses to tell the tale on what is going on in his once great country. A country that might have been a thriving democracy, a beacon in the Middle East if the West didn’t put our noses in someone else’s business. And the whole “Islamic Revolution” is nothing but a brain child of corrupt bastards in the west, a direct consequence of our own ignorance, arrogance and hypocritical definition of freedom. They are such sweethearts. I wonder. He tells me another story. A story of a young killer. He might be a murderer in the eyes of Bush’ USA and the Priesthood in Tehran. He is not in my eyes. He killed one of the priests in self defense in Tehran. He killed this priest that probably has more lives on his consciousness than a private SS guard in Auschwitz and the 9.11 attackers. This young man is in the eyes off the power mongers a terrorist. In my eyes, he is a freedom fighter. Fact: He shot an old bastard to death in Iran who probably deserved it. I can’t pass judgment on that. This youngster fled to Dubai and went straight to the American embassy. He wanted the world to know what atrocities that was going on in his country. He fled for his safety and his life. It did not help much. The suits and ties in the American Embassy, Dick Cheney andBush’s handpicked representatives who’s never gone through the same hardships in their own miserable lives, never faltered once. They sent the poor bastard straight back into the arms of the loving ayatollahs and the prison guards in Tehran. His fate? Imprisonment, torture and most likely a noose around his neck. Thanks America! Cyrus’ story is long and detailed. A book on him alone would might serve him and his country justice. But this is my story, and my ARK friends are there to share their stories with me. All of them victims for policies chosen by you! The fearful ignorant westerners gullible to your governments corruption. Hence Iran! Because you chose it! Why do I tell this story in the middle of this Savage Journey to Belfast, on a quest to win back my Beloved.? Because I have to tell the Truth! Cyrus’ story is not unique. It happens around the world every day. From USA to North Korea to all the Islamic countries and African ex. Colonies. And many of these countries are being served by your own governments! Applauded by you! I’m telling you this because I got a bloody bleeding heart. And this is probably the only thing that makes me still give a shit!

 You’re Welcome!

Bohemianwriter

Sicko in Ireland

Two months gone.

My infatuation of this place is long gone.

Reality checked in already when I got my first paycheck and was deducted 50% in emergency taxes.

It took me several weeks to get it sorted out. I do not not however if I will see that money again.

And then things got worse. Just a few days before I planned to go to belfast for poetry night and seek out my old destiny, my ttoth was getting so bad that I went to the hospital, thinking the health care system was anything similar to that of up north.

It was not. They did not have an emergency dentist, nor real facilities. It was like a hospital in a banana republic. The day before I was suppossed to leave for Belfast, I got an appointment. It proved that it cost 50 euros just to shake the quacks hand. An X-ray later, he informed that there was no hope for my front tooth. A gum desease that has spread, and it was no going back. though, he gave me prescription for antibiotics. that was it. the price for this ordeal: 65 euros! And then it was another 7 euros for taxi to work. but at that time, I didn’t feel well. In fact I was sick to my stomach, and upset. A depression was going to take the best of me the day before I was supposed to face destiny. to sse what “was meant to be” really meant.

My teammate saw that I was not on par, and let me know that me being there was redundant. I would only wear myself more out.

For three days, I spent in bed burried with my own thoughts.

And loosing revenue for being home sick.

The next blow came middle October. One Tuesday night after dozing off, I woke up, shivering. My whole body was like a leave. And it wouldn’t stop either.

In one hour my cold sweat went over to a fever. all symptoms of a kind of flu i have never had before was invading my system. Swine flu I thought.

Again I had to call in sick for the rest of the week. And lose another 250 euros in salary. 85 euros a day was wasted as I tried to cope with this new reality. It felt as if forces was working aginst me in fullfilling what I camre for. and the cold rainy days was not improving my imression.

That was the time I also got mail: From the hospital. A 100 euro bill for a five minute non treatment. I was getting pissed at the whole system. It stank like a mini America where billing people is more important than actuall treating them, or at least being able to treat them.

My job seemed less than empathetic, or even sympathetic. to them it was more important to go through the right channels in calling in sick than actually be of any assistance whatsoever. The first three days was the worst. I had no money the first two days, and no onee to help me get pain killers or any food suffs. that-s when I really missed the one I love(d) up North to come and nurse me back to health, and give the comfort I needed at the time. For 8 days I battled the fever and symptoms by myself +  and won.

It was not swine flu this time. And I didn-t need at doctor to tell me that. But I was required to go to the doc and get another batch of prescription drugs and a notice for work. Another 90 Euros out the window.

There seems to be bastards in Irealnd amongst doctors, employers and revenue whos main role in existence is to screw you good and hard, and even give you a warning for being sick so long. At least that-s what happened to several of my colleagues. I was preparing for a similar treatment the day I came back to work.

No such misfortune. Because I had prepared a speech for them they would never have heard before or ever will again. Instead I actually got a “pad” on the shoulder “good to have you back”… This come old stone face, the floor manager himself. But I wasn`t on par yet, and left early to get in a warm bed and sleep off the remains of my ilness.

Getting sick in Ireland is a costly business. And even if you`re born here, doesn-t mean you`re getting any breaks. Part time workers and temp workers no matter who you are and where you come from have basically no rights, nor a system that will insure that you won-t suffer more economically when being disabled for shorter or longer periods of time.

If you have any rights regarding benefits, they-re surelly not telling you. It must be a secret not to be spread around. Maybe they have other priorities than to fight for the right of the workers. Like saving the corrupt arseholes in NAMA. Irelands equivalent to Goldman and Sachs.

Not only was I in a rotten state, but my dream, my goal was drifting away in the horizon.

And other people from work have also had their problems.

All 30 of them living in an apartment building on the other side of town was threatend with eviction a few weeks ago.

The whole building was branded fire hazzardous by some department. Litigation and meetings; well one at least.

Now, there are 30 people living from day to day wondering if they have to move out. but it seems that there`s nothing being done.

Some of them have also been struck out by illness.

People have started to leave their job. some have just had enough.

And my journey feels at a standsttill. No positiv sign from anywhere. Being too kcackered or too broke to be able to do anything I was supposed to do. My writing is practically non existent. Where I have started to doubt myself, my ability to write, or to find that sanctity where words were working for me, and I didn`t have to fight for each and single line I put down.

Doubt in wether what I`m doing is the right thing, doubting that whatever happy days I had ever existed or if it was all just a dream, being relived over and over when the dark days came and light vanished and hope dissappeared.

I wrote my first poetry in a year last night.  

It`s not a happy. poem. It`s about being back in the gutter when my angel made a turn and I found myself in utter darkness.

Getting sick in Ireland bloody sucks….

Bohemianwriter