Norfsky - it is either honey or sugar - not both - baddoyahow i got stucked at the lift/wiish/elevator

How do you say feminist in Af-Soomaali?? Anyone?? N.B - it is not Naaya

Amir Nizar Zuabi in Jerusalem. Photograph: Gali Tibbon I Am Yusuf and This Is My Brother: A Palestinian story about Palestinians In the war of 1948, thousands of Palestinians were uprooted from their homes never to return, and playwright Amir Nizar Zuabi is determined to tell their stories. It was six decades ago, but the fallout from the war continues. A few months ago, one fast-rising, rightwing Israeli party tried to introduce a bill that would ban Palestinians from commemorating the Nakba of 1948, their catastrophe (but which Israelis hail as the creation of their state, the apogee of their independence struggle). In the end, the law will probably be watered down, but the principle seems to have wide support. As far as most Israelis are concerned, they won in 1948, the Palestinians lost, and history has moved on. Except, of course, it hasn't. Next week, a compelling new play opens at London's Young Vic, promising to thrust the discomforting story of that war back into public scrutiny. At the age of 33, Amir Nizar Zuabi, the play's writer and director, is from a generation of Palestinians raised on stories of the Nakba, haunted by tales of how hundreds of thousands of Palestinians were uprooted from their homes, never to return. "We have it as a covert partner in everything," says Zuabi. "Two of us can sit having coffee and the third person will be Mr Nakba." Zuabi was brought up in Nazareth, in the Galilee, where there is a large population of Palestinians living within Israel, and where all around there is evidence of the 1948 war, including ruined villages. One of the razed villages was Baissamoon, a tiny Palestinian community. It is here that Zuabi set his play, I Am Yusuf and This Is My Brother, which tells of two brothers, an ill-fated love, and the dislocation and tragedy brought about by the war. The play, says Zuabi, began as a personal investigation to scrape away layers of myth. "Why did people make the decision to leave? Or did they make the decision to leave? What would you have done?" Zuabi, living in Israel, found the story had been "hushed up": "It's the big taboo, because it's the primal sin. It is the mother of all problems here. They don't like talking about it." Zuabi's writing is, however, far from polemical. The Jews who fought to create their state are almost absent; never named, they appear only in the background. "We saw them first in January, then all the time," says one brother. "They invaded our dreams, our conversation." Zuabi simply wanted to tell a Palestinian story about Palestinians. "Our narrative is the less known one – history is written by the victors," he says, but adds: "There is no spite. I find the blame game futile. It's not like I do theatre to crush Israeli propaganda. I don't hear Israeli propaganda. I don't care about it." The villagers are divided: should they run or fight? Some see the battle in stark terms. "The war was over before it began," says one character. "We lost. They won. It was that simple." But with Britain's Mandate ending, the same character tells a British officer: "We are not a rubbish heap for your guilt, my friend. We're in your Middle East and what you sow here you'll reap in 50 years or 100 years in your lovely London." Dropped into the middle of this is the original, sombre recording of the results of the UN vote on the 1947 Partition Plan. Rejected by Palestinians, it was passed by the UN and, but for the war, would have carved Palestine into two states around an internationally protected Jerusalem. "Soviet Union: Yes. United Kingdom: Abstained. United States: Yes . . ." The play explores the what ifs, says Zuabi. "My grandmother, this Palestinian matriarch, used to say, 'If you plant what ifs, you'll sow I wish.' When I walk around Haifa, in some of the neighbourhoods that are empty, I really have to ask myself, 'What if that hadn't happened? What are they doing, these people that once lived here?'" Zuabi studied acting in Jerusalem, then worked with the al-Kasaba theatre in Ramallah as the second intifada, the Palestinian uprising, took hold. He and his actors produced short sketches that drew unexpectedly large audiences, hungry for relief. The sketches turned into Alive from Palestine, which toured abroad, with runs at the Royal Court and the Young Vic. Zuabi then spent a year working at the Young Vic, studied in Moscow, and returned home to work with the Palestinian National theatre. I Am Yusuf is the first play from ShiberHur, a new touring theatre company based in Haifa, whose name means Within a Few Inches of Freedom. It has already toured Palestinian villages and refugee camps – communities with little access to the theatre. "We have everything going against us as a theatre movement," says Zuabi. "Lack of funds, infrastructure, the fact that theatre is not really part of our cultural tradition – we come from a poetic tradition." When Zuabi was at drama school, he was the sole Palestinian among Israeli students (one of whom, now a successful actor, later became his wife). Only recently has a drama school opened in Ramallah. Until then, Palestinians went to Israel, if they could obtain the permit, or abroad, if they could afford it. "It's a new art form for us. We have an audience that's completely uncatered for and is very thirsty. Once they know theatre exists, they keep coming back." He has been surprised by the reaction to the play across the generations. In Jerusalem, an elderly man came up to him after one performance and said: "Thank you very much for telling my story." In Haifa, a woman in her 20s told him: "I understand my parents better now." Still, he doubts how much difference one play can make towards unravelling this bitter conflict. "I have to believe it does affect people," he says. "On the other level, I'm not daft. I know I can't change the reality. I can't make a show and tomorrow everyone will walk hand-in-hand."

A Young Vic/ShiberHur Theatre Company co-production - 19 January 2010-6 February 2010 90 minutes 1948 - Palestine. The British Mandate is ending. The United Nations votes on who will control what part of Palestine ... Ali is in love with Nada but her father won’t let them marry because his brother Yusuf is ‘odd’. War begins. The villagers become refugees. The secret that kept Ali and Nada apart is revealed. Tickets from £15 - Performed in English and Arabic (with surtitles). From the frontline, a poetic exploration of loyalty and love by the director of Alive from Palestine ‘an astonishing testament to the power of theatre.’ (★★★★★ The Guardian)

Originally posted by Jacaylbaro: He is telling us buuhoodle has flowers and tables in the buulasha ,,,, ask Val - if you don't believe me. Horta adiga - ma waxaad u malaysaa meel walba in ay abaar tahay sida JQ?

Buuxo - i tried baking once - to appease my daughter’s pestering to help her make cupcakes. Once we finished the mrs confiscated the cupcakes under the health and safety regulation “not fit for human consumption” Norfsky - why would that rumble your stomach? true story by the way - buhoodle & flowers are my addition. Faheema - only if i had known where you live - Ngonge & I would have gate crash your little baking sessions long time ago.

I don't know Buuxo - rumour has it he was invited to his pal richard place for dinner LOL@ norfsky's quote - "I didn't eat bloody thing" - you can tell that his an English man from that sentence alone.

Mr. Farah who is famously referred to as Jug-soo-dhacay (He-Who-Landed-With-a-Thud), Mr Concussion.

^Cunsiriyad! - when are you going to invite the gentlemen?? and to add injury to insult - your rubbing it in front of our eyes. nevertheless - wishing you speedy recovery.

"Now I know what you're thinking. You're thinking it's more of that Baaji custard. I admit I thought the same too, but no. It's mustard Richard. MUSTARD. More mustard than any man could consume in a month ." i like the way he keeps calling him "Richard" as though he was his pal.

my favourites bits: - on the biscuit: It had caught my eye earlier due to it's baffling presentation - appears to be in an evidence bag from the scene of a crime. A CRIME AGAINST BLOODY COOKING. Either that or some sort of back-street underground cookie, purchased off a gun-toting maniac high on his own supply of yeast. on the entertainment: Is that Ray Liotta? A question I found myself asking over and over again throughout the gruelling half-hour I attempted to watch the film like this. After that I switched off. I'd had enough. I was the hungriest I'd been in my adult life and I had a splitting headache from squinting at a crackling screen.

Juxa - No i tried making myself Canjeelo - made a mess of it up - so ended up having a pancake made for me

Subax Wanaagsan Kuli, Val, given Juxa had just made laxoox, ironed shirts, packed lunch and then woke husband - a lot to be jeerful about don't you think? Talking about laxoox - reminded me of story of londoner who went to Buhoodle and married local girl. on the first morning the girl woke up early and prepared an all somali breakfast: Laxoox, fried liver, fresh coffee on a table with fresh flowers and all the nine yards as they say. fish and chip woke up mid day - scratching his head - uttered in grumpy voice - where is the wheatabix??

This is a letter recently received by the Virgin Atlantic customer complaints team and is currently being hailed on news blogs as possibly the funniest customer complaint letter ever. Paul Charles, Virgin’s Director of Corporate Communications, confirmed that Sir Richard Branson had telephoned the author of the letter and had thanked him for his “constructive if tongue-in-cheek” email. Mr Charles said that Virgin was sorry the passenger had not liked the in-flight meals which he said was “award-winning food which is very popular on our Indian routes.” Here is the letter: Dear Mr Branson REF: Mumbai to Heathrow 7th December 2008 I love the Virgin brand, I really do which is why I continue to use it despite a series of unfortunate incidents over the last few years. This latest incident takes the biscuit. Ironically, by the end of the flight I would have gladly paid over a thousand rupees for a single biscuit following the culinary journey of hell I was subjected to at the hands of your corporation. Look at this Richard. Just look at it: I imagine the same questions are racing through your brilliant mind as were racing through mine on that fateful day. What is this? Why have I been given it? What have I done to deserve this? And, which one is the starter, which one is the desert? You don't get to a position like yours Richard with anything less than a generous sprinkling of observational power so I KNOW you will have spotted the tomato next to the two yellow shafts of sponge on the left. Yes, it's next to the sponge shaft without the green paste. That's got to be the clue hasn't it. No sane person would serve a desert with a tomato would they. Well answer me this Richard, what sort of animal would serve a desert with peas in: I know it looks like a baaji but it's in custard Richard, custard. It must be the pudding. Well you'll be fascinated to hear that it wasn't custard. It was a sour gel with a clear oil on top. It's only redeeming feature was that it managed to be so alien to my palette that it took away the taste of the curry emanating from our miscellaneous central cuboid of beige matter. Perhaps the meal on the left might be the desert after all. Anyway, this is all irrelevant at the moment. I was raised strictly but neatly by my parents and if they knew I had started desert before the main course, a sponge shaft would be the least of my worries. So lets peel back the tin-foil on the main dish and see what's on offer. I'll try and explain how this felt. Imagine being a twelve year old boy Richard. Now imagine it's Christmas morning and you're sat their with your final present to open. It's a big one, and you know what it is. It's that Goodmans stereo you picked out the catalogue and wrote to Santa about. Only you open the present and it's not in there. It's your hamster Richard. It's your hamster in the box and it's not breathing. That's how I felt when I peeled back the foil and saw this: Now I know what you're thinking. You're thinking it's more of that Baaji custard. I admit I thought the same too, but no. It's mustard Richard. MUSTARD. More mustard than any man could consume in a month. On the left we have a piece of broccoli and some peppers in a brown glue-like oil and on the right the chef had prepared some mashed potato. The potato masher had obviously broken and so it was decided the next best thing would be to pass the potatoes through the digestive tract of a bird. Once it was regurgitated it was clearly then blended and mixed with a bit of mustard. Everybody likes a bit of mustard Richard. By now I was actually starting to feel a little hypoglycaemic. I needed a sugar hit. Luckily there was a small cookie provided. It had caught my eye earlier due to it's baffling presentation: appears to be in an evidence bag from the scene of a crime. A CRIME AGAINST BLOODY COOKING. Either that or some sort of back-street underground cookie, purchased off a gun-toting maniac high on his own supply of yeast. You certainly wouldn't want to be caught carrying one of these through customs. Imagine biting into a piece of brass Richard. That would be softer on the teeth than the specimen above. I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was relax but obviously I had to sit with that mess in front of me for half an hour. I swear the sponge shafts moved at one point. Once cleared, I decided to relax with a bit of your world-famous onboard entertainment. I switched it on: http://l.yimg.com/i/i/uk/ne/image4.jpg I apologise for the quality of the photo, it's just it was incredibly hard to capture Boris Johnson's face through the flickering white lines running up and down the screen. Perhaps it would be better on another channel: Is that Ray Liotta? A question I found myself asking over and over again throughout the gruelling half-hour I attempted to watch the film like this. After that I switched off. I'd had enough. I was the hungriest I'd been in my adult life and I had a splitting headache from squinting at a crackling screen. My only option was to simply stare at the seat in front and wait for either food, or sleep. Neither came for an incredibly long time. But when it did it surpassed my wildest expectations: Yes! It's another crime-scene cookie. Only this time you dunk it in the white stuff. Richard.... What is that white stuff? It looked like it was going to be yoghurt. It finally dawned on me what it was after staring at it. It was a mixture between the Baaji custard and the Mustard sauce. It reminded me of my first week at university. I had overheard that you could make a drink by mixing vodka and refreshers. I lied to my new friends and told them I'd done it loads of times. When I attempted to make the drink in a big bowl it formed a cheese Richard, a cheese. That cheese looked a lot like your baaji-mustard. So that was that Richard. I didn't eat a bloody thing. My only question is: How can you live like this? I can't imagine what dinner round your house is like, it must be like something out of a nature documentary. As I said at the start I love your brand, I really do. It's just a shame such a simple thing could bring it crashing to it's knees and begging for sustenance. Yours Sincererly...

KK - abaayooy, haddii Juxa kuu timaado fadlan sii qaxwe qardho laga keeney oo saanjabiil leh - walle 'severe allegric' geedu daawo u noqon. iyadoo Qardho qoorta ugu xirintahay hasoo noqotee

You know Juxa never buys presents for reer qardhoo So Cara is careless. KK QALEYDA JOOJI - QALIN SOO QAADO - QARDHO GURU KA DHISO. - alright - i am bored - someone please entertain me NOW!!

Somali Wars: Attack of the Clan - Look hard enough and you'll see Jaja and King Jejebow :mad:

don't worry juxa - at least they send them a doctor. Ngonge xataa hays wuu ka baqaaya. even though it is full of his cousins. EDIT - i am awaiting the details myself man - trust reer burco to send anything on time.

Juxa don't start on qardho - you know, i had enough defending xaradheere and those pirate cousins of yours and their shamelessness. Ngonge - stop with the fuuleynimda and come to Hays on the 13th and i'll be sure to surprise you and debunk that theory of yours

^yey, somalia is number one.

Originally posted by A.Z: Year One: getting chased around the livingroom by my brother's Toy Robot. I was truly terrified: I couldn't ditch it. is that one years old or year one in school was it back in Saylec or Scandinavia??. Thanks Faheema for that little expose - i see that Malika already done the topic - even though it was on generic childhood memories. Malika, have you done an assignment on the topic - if so do you still have and willing to share?? i am thinking of giving this site my reference to back up some the wild claims of the somalis. LOL@KK - faankaan waa mid aad xamar kala timid. Habar gaalo

Apparently there are three types of Muslims: 1. those that worship Allah (SWT)for fear of punishment = worship of slaves 2. those that worship Allah (SWT) seeking rewards = worship of traders 3. Third, those that worship Allah (SWT), out of modesty and shame; discharging the right of service and discharging [the duty of] gratitude, seeing oneself along with that falling short, and along with that one's heart is fearful because one does not know whether one's action is accepted or not. This is the worship of free people, I Wonder why do atheists reject Islam - is it ignorance or arrogance??

violence is not solution - take it from me Juxa. Warya Ngonge isa soo xadir haddeer - i have invitation for you :cool:

Originally posted by Xaji_Xunjuf: http://www.boramanews.com/images/stories/0%200111KULMIYE/DSC04583.JPG Even the Somaliland animals support silanyo in office Actually that is soo wrong on soo many levels - i don't even know where to begin BTW - where is that Political Animal - what was hios name? Monkey or Maroodi???

Mornign people - where is ngonge today - i have surprise for him