Tag Archives: misogyny

Antierra Manifesto-Blog post #8 – Tiegli

[begin blog post #8]

Chapter 5 –  “Tiegli”

 “One must be poor to know the luxury of giving” (George Eliot)

He knows nothing of love, just fucking and that’s fine by me under the circumstances.  He responds to his lust stirred by my overwhelming desire for sexual release and finds his satisfaction.  When it’s over for him, it’s over and I’m left with an incredible ache of in-completion.  ‘Damn you!’ I think.  Hiding my shaking hands by pressing them hard into my stomach I wait as he slips his white robe on and directs me outside.  He calls to another man sitting perfectly still on a stone bench against the wall to my right.  He is wearing a white tunic uniform and apparently reading on a slate.  To me he appears as an extremely handsome man, taller than the doctor when he stands up from his reading to acknowledge the doctor with a quick wave of his hand, an unusual greeting or signal, the arm bent at the elbow, the forearm extended forward and the hand, facing down, moved stiffly and rapidly across the body and back.

They speak low, the uniformed one casting probing looks in my direction.  I am the intense subject of their discussion.  Leaving me standing there they walk across the yard and through a heavy stone door that opens and shuts automatically and silently.  I am left confused and utterly exhausted with my slashed arm throbbing horribly despite the doctor’s assurances that everything is fine; that it’s only a flesh wound.

With nothing better to do, knowing I can’t walk anywhere without some male escort, I focus on that new character, the white tunic.  What role does that one play, I wonder?  It surprises me that in such a black-white, cartoon-like world that so much still happens behind the scenes – so much that all the research I did on this world and my painstaking efforts to duplicate my future experiences here come to practically nothing in actuality.  You can study a thing until you go blind and still, until you experience it, you really know nothing about it.  I realize it’s fear that makes my mind wander thus but I cannot help it.  I have to “grow” into this place or it is going to rob me of my sanity.

Forget all that you know, or think you know.  Such is my life now: a blank followed by a question mark!  I wonder at the value of past life memories.  How can they help one when thrust into an alien power structure?  Yet, what else have I got here?  I was warned I would get no “off-world” help while I remained here.  I’m the only source of all my thoughts and all the decisions I make.  The right and wrong of it all, it belongs to me alone.  I can agree with what I do, or I can judge and condemn myself.  Still, I must live or die by my own choices. 

Ah, choices!  I remember my long-ago discussions with friends on the subject of free choice; how I insisted there is no such thing.  Indeed, if nothing else, Malefactus is proving that I was unfortunately correct on that point.

My handlers (guards or trainers, I still can’t quite sort them out) finally remember to come for me.  I am ordered to wash in a wash trough then I am served a meal, alone, by a kitchen slave girl.  I realize I am famished and the food tastes good to me.  After I eat I’m taken inside the cage area and shoved into one of the cages where a woman is sitting.  She is typically broad shouldered with a thick, short neck and her pale, almost white flesh is covered with scars.  She is bald; one eye almost shut and her left ear is missing entirely.  Her right breast has a deep scar from a cut through it and the nipple is missing.  She looks up at me and smiles a crooked, gap-toothed smile.  She reaches over and touches me with her right hand. She is missing two fingers there also.

Female gladiators do not have names, just physical descriptions and fighting titles.  She is “The Crone” being the oldest surviving female in the line-ups.  No point asking how long she has been here, the brands tell that story accurately enough.  Hers tell me when she was born (1303, bred fighter class 04)  The next line indicates she’s been in this compound since 1316 and according to my brand it’s now 1328.  That’s twelve years of surviving hundreds of encounters; of fights to the death. 

When they turn off the lights we lie down side by side, holding each other and although I desperately want to sleep she insists on telling me her story. 

“Why did they put me with you?”  I whisper to her.

“For me, a favour by guard, one night.  Accept?  I speak with you,” she whispers back, “tell something very important for us.” She grabs my wrist as if to impress her thoughts through my flesh, “You know we have no name?  Fighters have no names?  But I have name, real name!”  Proud she sounds even in her whispering.  She points at herself.  “Tiegli – and it has meaning too.  Undaunted.  No Man hears this name, but all fighters here have, and they have much envy my luck.  Some they fight with this name – very strong name.  Also mean fearless.  I live this name, many years. 

“Listen: there is big fight tomorrow and die with four women escape to desert and bring back – you know this.  Tomorrow is killing orgy.  No fighter live after this no matter how many of men we kill.  They just come more and more.  We weaken with losing blood and so tired we can not hold weapon or stand.  Then they kill.  Sometimes give rape if we still have enough life, much hurt they give before we die – revenge for men we kill – ritual.  Vengeance ritual.”

Her story is short.  At age of ten she has already been sent off from her crèche to be trained as a fighter and is being held for auction in a female child compound.  There is a raid that turns into a blood letting until the besieged make peace by offering their attackers the “contents” of their female compound.  Now both sides fall upon the hapless females.  Tiegli is taken by a couple of young brothers and hidden.  They hope to keep her alive long enough to sell her on the black market that flourishes in certain parts.  They stuff her in a pack bag and from a tear in the side she is able to observe everything that takes place as the young girls are raped and killed, some tortured viciously.  She sees her best friend gang raped then cut open across the stomach.  She throws up inside the bag and forces herself to pass out.

As a bag of grain stuffed in a pack, making no sound and no demands for food or water, surviving the heat in her vomit and excrement, she is bounced along for two days strapped to a harness carried by male slaves.  She is taken out during a violent storm in between suns twilight, staked out in the rain to wash where she is inspected, haggled over and sold to buyers from Hyrete – the fortified city we are in now.  Hyrete is a major center of commerce and entertainment in Elbre, but also distinguished by being the capital city of the kingdom of the royal house Tassard. 

So the people of Elbre are called the Tassardi.   The only other major “kingdom,” actually a so-called unified republic ruled by an oligarchy of merchant houses, is Estáan.  The people there are known as Estáani.  While complete enmity officially exists between these empires and dependencies, there is much slave trade between them.  As elsewhere, business knows how to take advantage of enemies as well as friends.  The bottom line remains the bottom line.  Trade is good.  War is even better.  First and foremost, profit.  Then whatever.

During her training in Hyrete there is an uprising while a multi-event killing orgy is taking place.  She is taken by the group of rebels and with male help and the use of two stolen “carriers” they flee into the desert.  The rebel leader baptizes her and gives her the name of Tiegli.  When they are captured, as inevitably happens, the ring-leaders are executed by torture and she is returned to the compound.  They cut off her ear and shave her head.  She would never be allowed to grow her hair again.  She is entered in her first fight much too young and almost killed.  Fortunately her opponent is a young foolish buck with little experience.  She barely manages to bring him down and the fight is terminated before she has to kill him.  After this, it’s just fight after fight, kill after kill.  From training/holding compound to the arena and back.

“Why do they do this?” I ask.  “Why do they fight you if they know they will get killed?” 

She chuckles in the dark and pinches me, “They say honour but mostly is money.” 

“Honour?”  I ask.  “How can there be honour in killing a woman, or being killed by one?”

Another chuckle, “You not know these things?  Some, we say you from the land, the rock of T’Sing Tarleyn.  Some, we say you Desert Beast rise from desert sand, come to help women.  Some, we say you from other world.  We know only this world.  Are people up there?”  She grabs my wrist tighter and lifts my hand upward so I understand what she means.  You tell, not lie to Tiegli, please.”

“No, not lie.  I will tell you but you must answer my question first.  About honour.”

“Everybody is enemy; someone is enemy of someone.  Women most dangerous enemies because men attracted to woman sex and lose fighting power.  So young boy must kill female as proof he free of female weakness.  Boy is given young girl – sometime older woman no good no more – to kill.  Rite of passage to be man.  Necessary or boy killed too.  They always must … hmmm… show power to hate and do by shouting and killing.  Also must kill enemy.   Boys go to great hunts in big desert” (I note she points to the south) “and where high mountains live.  After big desert and mountains there is green land of grass and short trees that make tent” (I cannot make her explain further – canopied tops of leaves that deflect water or sunlight?) “In that away far land they kill wild beasts or take wild black people for slaves if they find,” and she points to the only dark-skinned woman I’ve seen, a young woman whom they nickname “The Brute” sitting and rocking herself in a near-by cage.  “She harvested when very young.  They train, she good killer.  Dangerous.  Something wrong in head.”

She continues with her story and I try not to interrupt her. 

“Sometime, yes?  They make large group, many weapons (I gather she means armies) attack other group, city.  Much die in what called raids.  Sometime fight group join enemy group in wild celebration after battle.  Compounds full of females they raid to rape and kill and if “evil juice” is found men become like Warris (which she describes to be wild peoples of the south lands who practice cannibalism) and cook female bodies to eat. I, Tiegli, know.  Saw, smelled the flesh, even I get hungry from smell.  This I see when taken.” 

[end blog post #8]

 

Rethinking our Cosmology: more on Lucifer

Is it Time to rethink our Cosmology?  More on Lucifer
     [voice from the Other Side  ~burning woman~]
 
Seen on a bumper sticker:  “Eve was Framed”
 
Indeed.  And on that note I want to leave you with a thought I’ve broached before, if only to demonstrate that “history” can be re-written – and always is.
 
In “researching” the timeless files for my work on the *Stacked Worlds I’ve uncovered some interesting history available to us mostly through deductive reasoning.  The following is but a glimpse into what I have seen from my travels across space and time… and beyond!
 
How to begin such a tale?  In the beginning (only it wasn’t the beginning, of course, just a beginning which was subsequently, for political reasons dubbed the “only” beginning) when this universe was just coming together there already existed mighty entities who had the ability to cross the great energetic barriers erected between the various universes, for even though a universe can be nested within another, it wouldn’t do for the energies of one to intrude upon another and either crush it out of existence, suck it dry or overload it — and vice-versa.  So there are set “boundaries” that universes may not, or cannot, cross.
 
But these mighty beings could cross.  As in all things, these beings were possessed of both good and evil natures, to use a common terminology.  But they liked to think of themselves as perfect, so whatever they did, they called good.  And who would gainsay them?
 
I jump now into this universe at a later time.  The beings I refer to, of course, are the Time Lords.  I have alluded to these before.  They “invented” time as a means of control over their share of creation.  Anyway, there was a group of Time Lords who made the area we observe from Earth as the constellation Orion their home worlds.  I shall refer to that particular group as the Jehovian Gods.  Even in their early days they were warlike and dreadful to their neighbours.  These Jehovians were, and note, male and “white” in how they perceived themselves.  (This information is crucial to understand what happened subsequently on Earth.)
 
The Jehovians do not need females to procreate for them.  For the most part they can “bring forth” (create!) their own offspring as they choose.  To put it bluntly, they can clone themselves over and over.  Thus are the great Divine Families multiplied to rule over their manifold conquered worlds.  It is also a trait of these male Gods, and note, that each ruling divinity likes to be seen as if it were the only Divinity extant in the cosmos.  This perception provides much political and psychological benefits among the conquered and (lesser) created.  So thus they insist their history be written.
 
What the Jehovians require for themselves of “man power” they either create or enslave neighbouring worlds where suitable exploitable life exists.  But they cannot escape the fact that creation is based on duality and they do need female companionship as sex slaves, concubines and for the rulers, as consorts. 
 
Long ago, but never lost in the mists of time, in their imperialistic wars of conquest, they came upon a group of very bright stars inhabited by “angels” — female beings who were, when seen from a physical perspective, black in coloration.  These females had no concept of war or defense and many of their worlds were quickly overrun by the Jehovians in search of spoils and pleasure.  Along with billions of these black angels they captured their leader who was named “Lucifer” which means “Morning Star.”  She was forcefully joined to the then ruling Jehovian Divinity to become his female slave and consort.  Lucifer was the personification of female perfection and considered of great prize.  Her beauty, intelligence and gentleness attracted competing Jehovian Divinities from other worlds.  Her presence engendered much jealousy among the great Jehovian houses for which she was blamed.  Civil wars were fought over her for which she was also blamed.  (You can trace this pattern down to the Helen of Troy story)
 
Lucifer pondered the state of affairs in “Heaven” and after much talk (telepathic conversation) with her enslaved sisters, she decided to confront the God and ask that she and her people be released from their bondage and be given their worlds back.  As is to be expected her pleas fell on ever-deaf ears.  The God was not about to let himself be swayed by a slave.  His final reply to her was this:  “If you can defeat me in war, you can go free.”  It was an inane statement but Lucifer considered it.  There were some odds in her favour, namely that a number of the “Sons of God” of the lesser members of the Jehovian group had fallen in love with the beautiful angels and let it be known that if it came to a war they would side with the angels. 
 
Desperate times call for desperate measures.  There was “war” in Heaven, only it was a war of nerves.  Lucifer declared universal satyagraha or peaceful non-cooperation towards the conquering Jehovians.  The angels refused to serve the Gods and Lucifer was no longer seen to adorn at the left hand of God when he mounted his throne.  She refused summon after summon.  On the conquered angel worlds the same thing happened.  There was widespread non-cooperation.  The angels took whatever punishment was meted to them and waited for many long, dark years. 
 
The situation in Heaven became untenable, pointless, even idiotic.  Neither side would give in.  So the great Heavenly Advisor Michael proposed that the angels with Lucifer as their leader be exiled, along with all Jehovians who had sided with them.  They would not be allowed to return to their home worlds but would be “dumped” upon a small solar system that was still unformed.  All the angelic slaves of Heaven as well as all those who could be found on other worlds were rounded up and forcefully taken to the new solar system and an energy shield was placed upon it, effectively cutting it off from the rest of the galaxy and universe.  From Sol as we called it the angels could see the far-off stars twinkling in space but they could not return to them, at least not as long as the Orion Jehovian Time Lords ruled or they themselves developed the means to defeat the energy shield.
 
Lucifer called her people together along with the faithful Sons and pointed to the chaos of Sol.  If we must live here she said, and we must, then let us make this place into a veritable paradise for ourselves and all the life we are going to bring forth here.  Let us make this our home.  And so it came to pass.  The creative works of Lucifer are the seven days of creation as depicted briefly in the first chapter of Genesis, the Bible.
 
Lucifer chose the planet Tiamat as her home world.  Tiamat was a large water world, a “super earth” that possessed much potential for new life.  However there were spies among Lucifer’s people, among the Sons, and these sent reports of all that was taking place within Sol.  The jealous Jehovians decided to destroy Tiamat by sending another planet now known as Nibiru-Marduk to “attack” Lucifer’s world.  It took two attacks over a period of 3600 Earth years but Tiamat was successfully destroyed as the ancient Sumerian writings attest.  It was split approximately in half, one half shattered and became the asteroid belt (the hammered bracelet) and the other became Earth.  And so it came to pass that Lucifer indeed was “cast to Earth” as it is written.   But even then she would be persecuted and endlessly demonized.  Her people would be called demons.  Earthian females and black skinned peoples would be oppressed, enslaved, repressed and killed without due process over the millennia.  For you see, one of the Jehovian Divinities was allotted Sol as his ruling domain.  Part of the plan was to prevent Lucifer from re-creating in Sol the kind of worlds she once ruled before the Jehovian onslaught.  The other was simply pillaging and raping, a process that continues to this day.
 
Some interesting anecdotes: 
 
–As already mentioned, misogyny is common on planet Earth yet cannot be logically explained.
 
–Black skinned peoples are “naturally” seen as less human than lighter skinned ones and have been used as slave labour for millennia.  Though some things have changed on the surface the pattern remains and will in all likelihood re-assert itself in the future, if indeed the truly black races have any future. 
 
Throughout the planet ancient peoples have worshiped a Black Goddess or Black Madonna.
 
The (then and perhaps still) oldest human skeleton ever found was in Africa.  It was a female skeleton and they called her “Lucy” (short form of Lucifer).  Is it safe to assume this “Lucy” was black?
 
In the Biblical book called “Song of Song” – a love song attributed to Solomon – the woman says: “Dark am I yet lovely, [] dark like the tents of Kedar, like the tent curtains of Solomon. [Tents were woven from black goats’ hair]  “Do not stare at me because I am dark.”

(Question: why would people “stare” at her because she is black if there were no stigma attached to her skin colour?)
 
And now ponder this:  Over the thousands of years that Earthians have existed on Earth and evolved so-so, they have been unable to change their behaviour even when it is abundantly clear that such behaviour is anti-life, counter-productive if not utterly insane.  Are Earthians mentally defective in some irredeemable way?  Not at all.  There’s a much simpler explanation for their insanity.  As is stated in ancient books, and particularly in Jewish literature (and more than hinted at in the Bible) Earthians are given a “soul” at conception.  This is the gift of the ruling Jehovian God to every Earthian.  This soul is an implant that overrides the natural programming of mind-body and replaces it with Jehovian patterns.  Thus is “man” ever and anon created “in the image of God” and helpless to correct his “sinful” nature.  Thus can the ruling Deity make promise after promise of salvation and redemption from a “corrupt” human nature for those who are “chosen” according to the will of the Deity.  But although all are chosen at conception not all willy-nilly follow the divine patterning.  Some remember a time before Eden; before “Adam and Eve” — before the coming of the Jehovian male Deity; a time of fullness, peace, simplicity and comfort.  A time when there was no fear of man or animals; when there was no predator and no prey; when there was no death on this world; when all, human and animals, lived in harmony. Some do remember the Lemurian age before it too was destroyed.
 
Would we end war, oppression, greed, moral corruption, racial hatred and fear on planet Earth?  Would we substitute compassion and love for the evils we continue to cling to as if there was no choice?  Perhaps now as never before we have the chance to re-think our cosmology, our Earthian heritage and the crucial “Why?” reasoning behind the blind trust we repeatedly put in our rulers and deities despite all evidence that they are our worst predators. 
 
“Was man, indeed, at once so powerful, so virtuous and magnificent, yet so vicious and base? He appeared at one time a mere scion of the evil principle and at another as all that can be conceived of noble and godlike. To be a great and virtuous man appeared the highest honour that can befall a sensitive being; to be base and vicious, as many on record have been, appeared the lowest degradation, a condition more abject than that of the blind mole or harmless worm. For a long time I could not conceive how one man could go forth to murder his fellow, or even why there were laws and governments; but when I heard details of vice and bloodshed, my wonder ceased and I turned away with disgust and loathing.” (Frankenstein – Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley)

*Stacked Worlds is an Altarian theory on how and why certain universal or cosmic patterns, usually of the negative kind, keep repeating even after it would seem all their energies have been drained. ‘Stacked Worlds’ is  the theory I used behind the futuristic, dystopian sci-fi novel, “The Antierra Manifesto” which may yet see the light of day. 

The Cursed Year, the Year of Bliss

I just finished writing a short story in seven short chapters.  I am going to post each chapter, one at a time, either daily, or every two days or so, depending on time available.  Again, let me remind you that if the story is of interest and you want to read it as one story and not seven installments, please just copy and paste each segment in your own computer or tablet.  It’s what I usually do with blog stories that I like.  If you find discrepancies, please point them out in comments. Remember also, this story is fictional, only the names of towns and cities are real and they are all places I’ve been to, or lived in. Thank you for reading.  Enjoy.   “Sha’Tara”  

[The Cursed year, the Year of Bliss – short story by  Sha’Tara – part 1]

“Home”

The movie, Memoirs of a Geisha, begins with these memorable words: “A story like mine should never be told” meaning that such things should not happen, or so our minds insist on telling us women.  Things are done to us which we know are wrong but which we are helpless to prevent or more often, programmed to accept.  We live in fear in a system that operates on fear as the fuel of choice.  That system, supported from every power base is properly called “The Patriarchy” and in that Patriarchy women are the number one inferior group.  Fortunately some of us fight back and some of us discover ourselves in our struggle.  And some of us are re-discovered.  We are after all and above all else, “Mystery.”

It had been the coldest year on record, up here in the Peace River country, in northern Alberta.  And late in spring, almost summer, that is, the end of May, it looked like it was going to be the wettest summer on record.  The old snow was pounded into the ground by rains driven from dark angry clouds sweeping from the west in wave after wave from April and throughout the month of May.  What crops were seeded were soon drowned.  Only the hay fields would remain and of those precious little was foraged.

I turned sixteen that winter, November 11th, actually.  Mother was pregnant again and sick most of the time.  The boys’ squabbles and irresponsibility made my life hell.  My older brother gave me those looks, and as if that wasn’t enough, when mother went to the hospital, dad finally crossed the line before Gene did and under pretext of changing the bed sheets, got me into their bedroom where he suddenly locked the door, grabbed me and threw me on the bed. 

I was alone in the house, the boys were at school.  I struggled against him but dad was a very strong man.  He wanted me and he was going to have me however I struggled, screamed and kicked at him.  He slapped me hard, several times trying to slow me down and systematically ripped my clothes off.  He took his belt out: to tie me or beat me and subdue me? 

I knew if I stopped struggling it was all over.  He would rape me and then despise me and use me as his sex slave.  I would get pregnant and have his child and be forced to remain in his world forever.  The church would label me a “whore” and the entire village would blab on about my seductive wiles and my just deserved punishment raising a child out of wedlock.  Wedlock: what a telling word.  And for good measure they would say that my child looked dark and I had sex with an Indian out in the bush.

I knew these things went on in the village, that it was only luck that had allowed me to escape my fate until now.  I knew that nothing and no one would ever stop him or my older brother when he decided it was his turn.  I knew mother would accept it and hate me for it.  Everybody would hate me and all the village’s men would think that they could now have me too.  And I knew just as clearly that I couldn’t let it happen.  That it would be better for me to die than experience this.  In one blinding moment I knew and in that same blinding moment I knew just what the situation required of me.

A rage as from the wildest storm, something I had never experienced filled my entire body and I became akin to a raging wolverine defending her young against a marauding grizzly.  My unashamed, wild nakedness became my weapon – there were no longer any boundaries; there were no rules of combat, of decency, of respect or of love.  The barriers had been torn down allowing me to give full freedom to my feelings, my revulsion and my sacred rage.  

His arm came over my face and I bit into a protruding vein with all my strength.  When he tore his arm from my mouth his blood came flowing out.  I aimed my left knee at his crotch and caught him perfectly, immobilizing him.  I thrust fingers into his eyes and pulled his head back with his hair.  Some of it ripped out and I felt a glowing satisfaction well up within me.  I ripped the belt out of his hands and lashed out with it, whipping every exposed part of his body with such anger I imagined him dead from my slashing.  His blood was all over the bed sheets and the sight of it drove me into even greater fury. 

I saw a rope on the floor as I backed out of the bed.  He’d brought it to tie me to the bed posts.  I grabbed it and swiftly pulled several half-hitches around his wrists and ankles, enough to give me time to wipe myself up, get another dress, shoes, a coat, some of my stuff and run. 

Where to?  No idea, I just had to run.  I bumped the coal oil lamp and it spilled over on the kitchen floor.  I saw the box of Eddy matches on the stove and thought of setting the house on fire before leaving but my animal fury was ebbing and being replaced by another sense: compassion?  No, just normal fear of the patriarchy’s long arm and serious retribution.  I knew I’d never see justice.  Run… and hide in the vast world called Canada.  I knew I could do that.  

I didn’t have keys to the old International truck sitting by the barn so I got old “Beauty” in the pasture, saddled her and galloped away, my brother’s duffel bag filled with my most precious possessions and extra clothes dangling from the saddle horn.  I hitched the mare at the general store, walked in with a made up story that I needed to go see my mother at the hospital in Peace River, the main town some twenty miles away.  I got a ride with Mrs. Dermott in their old late 40’s pickup.  Mr. and Mrs. Dermott owned the store and she needed supplies anyways, she said.  She took the Nampa road because the rains had made the coulee road to Peace River completely impassable. 

On the way she noticed my bruises and I saw her questioning look.  I told her what had happened, and that I was running away and never coming back.  She knew, she said, that I was telling her the truth – she’d seen how my dad looked at me when we’d gone to the store after Mass and had wondered when the shit would happen, and what would come of it.  After buying me lunch at the Sun Café downtown, she took me to a friend of hers in the town of Grimshaw and assured me that she would tell my father, or anyone who asked, that I’d jumped out of the truck in Nampa and saw me hop a freight bound for Edmonton.  Nampa was in the opposite direction from Peace River, so it should throw any search for me “to the woods” she said in her Norwegian accent.  She gave me a hug and I never saw her again.  I was on my own, making up my own path.

The Henderson’s gave me some money and put me on a bus to Edmonton, wishing me well and long life.  They also gave me their niece’s driver’s license she’d left behind when she’d returned home to Norway.  Licenses didn’t have pictures in those days.  I memorized the address and a few details, like the birth date that said I was now eighteen, and the last name, Kristofson.  They didn’t ask me if I knew how to drive, assuming as anyone there would; that of course I could drive.  Every kid in the north could drive as soon as they grew legs and arms long enough to reach steering wheel and foot pedals at the same time.  That aside, they too knew I’d never return. 

I watched the road pass under the bus, the broken center line, the water filled ditches and the muskrats swimming across in their endless foraging and my spirit lifted with each mile thus gained away from what had been my home and my private hell.  Now I too knew for a fact I’d never return to the north. 

[end part 1: “Home”] 

~burning woman~  and the Great Evils

I’ve been doing this for a while now.  It’s called “blogging” and that has many descriptions but for me it means sharing “stuff” with others, and learning from the stuff they share on their own pages.  So I maintain a “blog” on which I post personal thoughts, ideas, pictures, stories and sometimes I’ll re-blog someone else’s article because I feel it deserves to get more “publicity” so to speak, or it contains ideas that help us understand ourselves and the world we live in. 

I guess that makes me a blogger.  So I blog to learn and to share.  But I have an agenda here.  I’m not looking for “stats” in numbers of “followers” or “likes” – though these indicate that what I am sharing provides some appeal to certain individuals and that’s great, but my long-term purpose in blogging is finding a way to create conversations around the really tough issues, subjects, ideas. 

I’m not here to discuss “religion, politics, global warming, misogyny… or anything else” for that matter.  Of course these topics will be engaged.  News, statistics, opinions, articles and rants will come into play.  That’s our background: expressing what we see as “wrong” and talking about solutions to such wrongs, and sometimes even talking about positive developments and how they make us feel good, or make us feel that we are finally accomplishing something “humane” somewhere in the world.  There’s an endless game going on and we like to see the “home” team score once in a while, though the home team always remains the underdog.   

But for me, that’s just the opening salvo.  I don’t want solutions, I want answers.  I’ve been building this blog under the title  ~burning woman~  which has raised a few eyebrows though for most I suppose it’s just one of those titles people make up to stand out from the crowd. 

~burning woman~ is the author of this blog.  She is me: the perennially denied, powerless, oppressed member of – get this – 50% of the human population of planet earth.  Any normal person would stop in absolute shock right there and think, how is it possible that 50% of the adult population of this world has little or no social power, legal status, physical safety and gets no recognition for playing a role without which society and civilization would not be possible! 

This isn’t a feminist blog.  I just want to point out that misogyny is one of the few truly great evils that gnaw at the roots of society.  Misogyny lies athwart the path of mankind’s evolution and blocks it completely.  As long as such an evil is countenanced among “men” that is how long all other evils will continue to plague man and destroy his civilizations, one after the other. 

~burning woman~  is a reminder that the greatest pollution on this world is the stench that comes from her permanently burning dying flesh.  No part of this world is free of that poison.  But she is also a reminder that she is, in herself, very much aware of this terrible condition – and how could she not be?  It’s her living flesh that is being burned in the public square for all “male” gawkers to jeer at.  The 19 year old Joan of Arc, and millions upon millions of others burned on the altars of the patriarchy and although the methods have slightly changed, the same thing goes on day after day and it’s business as usual.

This blog is meant to expose the great evils that plague the human race of earth and to seek answers by asking the troubling “WHY” question.  Why misogyny?  Can any sane Earthian give just one good reason why men should hate, fear, oppress, disempower, rape, torture and kill women?  And their children?  One single good reason that could explain – and justify – it all? 

Here’s another great evil, and make no mistake, it’s completely tied to the previous evil: predation.  Can anyone give one good reason why earth must exist under such a life-destroying concept?  There is no doubt that man is a violent predator and that he revels in this role.  We see it in sports, in hunting and fishing, in extraction of natural resources from the planet, in enslaving certain groups and races to serve elites, and certainly in man’s endless and spreading wars.  Man is so addicted to being a predator that even knowing he has far surpassed his limits to growth, he continues his business as usual as if nothing mattered but the kill.  But in this case, the evil runs even deeper, down into the roots of the planet itself, running amok among all of it’s life-forms.

There are those who believe in karma.  In the “Chrisrael” holy book it’s reaping what you sow.  Man is so utterly alien and unnatural that even when faced with his own extinction from his predatory mindset, he will not turn.  It’s as if he cannot break his programming.

So, this blog is about questioning the programming.  It’s about looking over history – official or not; accepted or not; real or fictitious (for who can sort it out and keep a straight face about it?) and looking for answers to the great evils that plague the species and are about to plunge it into quasi-oblivion.

Don’t get me wrong here, I’m not concerned or worried about man’s quasi extinction in the near future – I have been shown this to take place before the next 500 years – that to me isn’t the problem since it is inevitable.  My problem is, I’ve begun to develop a sense of empathy and to be an empath on a world driven by fear, hate, predation and misogyny is, put bluntly, unbearable.  I “sense” the level of horror, terror, agony; the screams of those now being crushed and the billions about to be crushed, by the man-made engines of destruction.  In my heart I join in the screams and want no part of this coming world, and often I want no part of this one, even now.

But if I’m going to remain a part of it for a while yet, I need to engage my mind looking for answers to the “WHY?” question.  And I’m hoping to do this on this blog, bit by bit with probably more false leads and wrong tangents that can be imagined.  Those answers are well hidden and man’s “masters” fear their discoveries and the development of fail-safe antidotes.

I may have written this before, but it bears repeating, for comparison.  I often queried the Teachers about the state of planet earth and the Earthian mindset about the oh, so casual killing if innocents.  There is a world they call “Altaria” which by way of avoiding giving it a location they say exists in what they call “the Nexus” – the non-space-place they say, that exists between all universes.  Altaria is what some would probably call a fifth dimensional world.  El Issa, one of the Teachers, said to me: “If a single child died of preventable causes on our world, the entire world would come to a horrified stand-still and slip into universal mourning.  Nothing would happen on the world: no teaching, no business, no sleeping or eating or even talking until as one body the people had worked out the reason for this unthinkable anomaly and resolved it.  Now compare that to your world where some 40,000 children and their mothers die of completely preventable causes, i.e., deliberately condemned to death… each and every day.  This crime is of such unthinkable proportion that your Earthian mind cannot even engage it.  You live within this murderous horror day after day and you believe that by living in denial of it you can give yourself a “normal” life.  You cannot, you never will, until you put an end to this.  And before you question me on the possible: yes, you can.  We know because we had the very same problem and we ended it.  We stopped it.  That’s what you need to do: you need to stop.” 

You know this is the case, but do you know WHY men oppress women?  You know this is the case, but do you know WHY predation is a ruling force on your world?

 

 

 

The Infiltrator – a short story

      The Infiltrator
[short story, by Sha’Tara]

 Sharmat Madi was tiny, just under two-third the size of the average Belagan female.  In her very young times she had often been troubled by her diminutive size, but her greater family never seemed to pay any attention to her size, including her in all events as if she were normal.  In her young life there came the usual:  Application times, Teaching times and finally, the Choosing.  Counting in earth years, Sharmat Madi was a precocious young girl of barely eighty years at her First Choosing ceremony.  She had graduated a full half-times ahead of her peers but in her society that would never be cause for either pride or jealousy.  You achieved what you could, when you could, all from a sincere commitment to life.  Life is sacred to every Belagan, as it is to every Human in the galaxy.

 The Choosing simply means that, based on your skills and your desires, you choose a first life’s purpose for yourself.  If the Consensus approves your choice, and it rarely intervenes, that is who you are for the next approximately two hundred years (earth time) after which comes the Assessment, and the Second Choosing.  At the Second Choosing, a Belagan (inhabitant of Belaga) would not only choose a new purpose, but have the opportunity to choose a different gender as well.  But I’ve said enough, indeed, more than necessary on this subject for the purpose of this anecdote.

 When Sharmat, smiling in her sparkling floor-length rainbow coloured gown, her waist-length black hair neatly braided and coiled on her head, stepped up to the podium to make her Choosing, an Intervener stepped up to her and held its hand up – a sign that stopped the proceedings.  Sharmat stopped, confused and just a bit afraid.  The Intervener, an android of ancient tenure, spoke gently to her and said, “Be not afraid young Sharmat.  Though it is your inalienable right to make a Choosing this day, the Consensus has discussed your case and wants to offer you a particular choice no one else on Belaga can make at this time.  It offers you training as an Infiltrator, to eventually be sent to alien proto-human worlds to study their ways and report back.  Your size, which is no surprise to the Consensus since you were genetically modified in your mother’s womb to be as you now are, makes you perfect for the needs of the scientific arm of the Consensus in learning the ways of smaller stature humanoids.

 They want you to become a Scientist to be trained in Belaga’s most esoteric arts.  I have here a contract which you may touch for clarification, and mind-sign if you choose to accept.  Your first act of acceptance will require your allegiance for a period of two and a half times, after which, as the contract states should you decide not to continue, you will be processed, mind-wiped of memories of your training; your body rendered of normal size.  You will then be regressed to this point, when you will make a free First Choosing.  This is our offer.  It can only be made once, and you must accept or reject in the moment.

 Sharmat didn’t think of herself as bold, but she was highly inquisitive and loved riddles, considering tough questions and tackling complex, unsolved problems.  She immediately saw the great opportunities this training would give her mind.  She touched the contract and focusing, signed without any reservation.  Then heaving a huge sigh she turned to her gathered greater family, raised her right arm as a sign of acceptance and completion and smiled.  The telepathic approval, especially from her younger siblings, was loud, rousing.  She felt nothing but pure elation at having her stature thus vindicated and thanked her people for having treated her as normal all those past times. 

 Sharmat went through a brutal time of training.  To drive home the full idea of what would be expected of her, they gave her a world to study and to mimic its residents.  Predictably as you’ve guessed, it was earth. There are few people on that particular world who even think of the possibility that among them reside alien “infiltrators” who in all appearance resemble normal Earthians.  It is not too difficult for alien observers, teachers, data-gatherers to infiltrate societies such as those of earth.  First, a general lack of observational abilities, then much diversity of race, beliefs, political awareness and education and a Babel of languages.  Much interaction is utterly chaotic and add to the mix the fact that Earthians have yet to open up their sense of telepathy which fully developed humans naturally possess and normally use to communicate with one-another.  Also, Earthians lack empathy so they have no discernment: they judge shallowly based on appearances or falsifiable data; are easily swayed by propaganda and react emotionally to almost any sort of pressure or challenge.

 It wasn’t as if Sharmat would be entering a truly dangerous world, not at least in the sense of being discovered as an alien.  No, her problems lay in the fact that her skin was dark and she was a woman.  In other words, her danger lay in the fact that she appeared totally normal.  These were very real problems but that is exactly why she had been chosen.  Her Trainers had the contract to develop processes to change certain programmed responses among primitives.  Earth as they well knew, had two major unresolved social problems which tens of thousands of earth years and guided evolutionary civilizing had not made a dent in: racism and misogyny.  Basically, Sharmat was sent to earth as a kind of guinea pig; to gather specific data that her body would record based on how she was treated, both as a dark-pigmented individual, and as a woman.

It did not take long for the data to flood her neurons.  With the credentials she had brought, she applied for a teaching post in a predominantly conservatively-leaning Muslim country.  While the national government was technically a liberal democracy, much of the real power resided in local governments, mosques, bureaucracies and traditions. 

 Sharmat’s people had done their work impeccably.  Her credentials, from family background, place of birth and nationality as well as religious affiliation and education were solid.  Her qualifications led her to apply at a small college in a city of two hundred thousand people.  While the position was offered to all qualified applicants, she was denied on various, and constantly changing, points which she legally contested.  Eventually, after legal battles lasting two years and which led all the way to the Supreme Court of the country, she won her position and became a tenured professor of history. 

 She had the job, but her problems were far from over.  In fact, they were only beginning.  Wherever she went seeking accommodation, she was refused as soon as she gave her name and nature of employment.  Her public court battles and worse, her vindication, had demonstrated the level of bigotry extant among the ruling elites of the town, and the country in general.  Fortunately for Sharmat, her position paid well and she was able to secure accommodations throughout various tourist hotels, moving around from one to another as it was discovered who she was and unceremoniously evicted from one hotel after another. 

 Finally Sharmat’s lawyer came to her help.  She found her a suitable room in a home whose owners believed in the cause of women’s emancipation from old traditions and who had supported her legal struggles.  The couple who owned the house were both professional journalists and had no children, by choice, since their work meant spending much time travelling away from home.  Sharmat was given keys to the house and her rent consisted of making certain all was well in the house when the owners were gone.  An ideal arrangement which gave Sharmat a permanent abode.  When she commuted to her campus she wore the traditional garb of local working women, only changing when she got on campus.  She’d hoped that she would avoid detection if she was still being followed as she had been during her court appearances when she had been subjected to much verbal abuse, harassment and even death threats.  On occasions she had even been refused transportation and been forcibly thrown off public buses. 

 During these events as you may have guessed Sharmat was in constant telepathic communication with a pair of observers and recorders aboard a cloaked shuttle craft that orbited above the city.  Her experiences were duly noted and sent on to her home world.  “I feel so alone at times,” she would say to her friends, “I feel like quitting.  It’s a terrible experience to live like this, yet millions of women of dark pigmentation must endure this day after day, and have for thousands of years.  I don’t know how they can put up with it in such a hopeless situation.  It feels as if nothing, absolutely nothing, can change the mindset here; as if they enjoy causing trouble and pain to each other for no reason that I can fathom.  When I bring up this subject in my classes, I can feel the fear and the hate rising, as if even mentioning this exists goes against their programming. 

“Main problem: they don’t want to know, and they don’t want to change [emphasize]. 

 “In one of my classes, there are two women, two sisters, who are eager to engage the topic of oppression of women in their society.  One of the women only has one eye.  The other carries a white scar across her scalp.  Both sisters were attacked by a village mob when it was found out they had been approved for college education in the city and refused arranged marriages.  They would have been killed after being beaten if their father and three brothers hadn’t come to their rescue.  To illustrate further, when the police finally came to the scene of the trouble, they sent everybody home and took the sisters into custody for disturbing the peace.  They had to secure legal aid to avoid a six month prison sentence.” 

 “This is a terrible place,” she said some weeks later, “I feel I’m in serious physical danger.  I’ve been followed to the house on two occasions now, although I try to take different routes as often as possible.  I’ve thought about getting one of their small vehicles to move about but that feels even more exposed.  If I were attacked on a road I’d be alone and there would be no one to help me, and no witnesses as to what happened.  My lawyer suggested I arm myself but I hesitate on that.  I was trained in self-defense but my empathy would constrain my ability to use either a gun, or a knife.  I can only be sure I can use violence if I use my body, not weapons.  I am a professor, what am I doing, thinking of killing people?  What is this world doing to me?  I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this.  Please advise: can I end this and return home?”

 “We need more information.  We advise you take all necessary precautions, within reason and control your fears.  We need you to remain at your post for at least the end of your earth year of teaching.  Here is the address of a Teacher who will give you additional training in self-defense.  Please contact her today at your earliest convenience.  Her fees are covered.” 

 “Well, that’s that,” she thought, “as if more skills in self-defense are going to be of any help in a mob attack.”  Sometimes she wondered about the wisdom of the Consensus.  Maybe they’re getting too old; maybe we need a whole new system to oversee Belaga.  Fascinating thought, that.  I’ll challenge the Consensus on this after I’ve returned.

 A bomb went off in a market not far from campus.  Everybody heard the noise; tremors from the blast were felt on campus and everyone pretended nothing happened.  Sirens were heard, then nothing.  Sharmat went to investigate the area at the end of her last class.  She saw dark red blotches on the street.  Several makeshift shelters that had housed vending tables had been shredded and blown against buildings.  Hundreds of people were slowly moving about.  She heard heart-rending shrieks and deep sobs.  Bodies were still being carried off and the main point of impact was encircled by yellow police tape.  Through a break in the crowd of onlookers she saw a gaping hole in a building, a gaping black hole. She felt raw fear, just looking into that hole.   

 “My studies of earth religions told me that both current major religions, Islam and Christianity, were, in principle, religions of peace.  I also learned that Islam in particular holds women in high estate.  But principle doesn’t carry much weight here.  In practical terms, both religions are radically fundamentalist; both claim exclusive access to divine forgiveness and grace.  Anything else is worship of evil, of a Devil.  To a Muslim, a non-Muslim is a blasphemer.  To a Christian, a non-Christian is an unsaved pagan whose destiny is eternal damnation in hell.  Such beliefs can only lead to madness and repetitive cycles of violence against individuals.  Since the divinities purportedly reigning over these religions are males, it stands to “reason” that males must maintain hegemony within these power groupings, hence they must constantly reinforce male dominance through oppression of the female; through the practice of misogyny, officially or non-officially.  When you inject these sicknesses into the political and economic fields it is easy to see how women are automatically marginalized.”

That afternoon Sharmat took a taxi to a park only a short distance from her house.  She felt heavy and tired and did not want the driver to know where she lived.  She entered a public park and followed a pathway along the bank of a small stream.  The air was cleaner here; birds sang and water fowl swam lazily in the stream, bobbing for food along its bottom.  Trees with translucent yellow leaves bowed over the stream, adding a sense of peace to it.  White water lilies bloomed in a small pool.  She found a bench to sit on and began to dream of home.  Gradually she let the warm air, nature sounds and the distant hum of traffic lull her to sleep. 

 Voices woke her up and she noticed the sun was dipping behind the trees.  She stood up, brushed her sari and picking up her bag (she dared not carry a case in public) she headed up the slope to the lane that passed her house.  The voices, male, followed her but she paid scant attention.  She wanted to get home, have a bath and just sleep.  There would be no long period of study this night; just a glass of wine, some bread and cheese and sleep.  She would sleep and dream.  She always dreamed. 

 The house with its white paint stood shimmering against the late afternoon sun hitting directly on it.  Brown fake shutters outlined each window.  It was a pretty house, by earth standards, certainly by that town’s standards.  Its neighbours were far enough away to give the house the impression of self-importance; of standing alone in wide open spaces.  It was a good house and Sharmat liked living there.  She unlocked the door, walked in then turned and locked it again.  Home, she thought, even if on an alien world with so much visceral, irrational  energy. 

 She was half-way up the stairs to her own room when she heard the first crash, then smelled smoke.  “It’s happening!  I’m under attack.  Please advise!”  Her query was received by the shuttle even as she turned to survey the situation.  Several more crashes occurred and the downstairs was quickly filling up with eye-stinging and choking black smoke.  Flames were climbing up drapes or wherever the Molotov cocktails landed against anything flammable.  Unable to reach any ground floor exits, Sharmat dropped her bag and ran up the stairs to the very top of the house.  She found the roof exit and climbed up and through the “clothes line” door and unto the roof.  Smoke was coming out the windows now and she saw at least a dozen men moving around the house, looking in windows, lobbing more home-made incendiary bombs.

 A couple of men saw her on the roof and yelled curses at her.  “We’ve got you now, whore.  We’ll burn you!  If you jump, we’ll kill you right here.”  She was shocked to see that among the men were a couple of her students and at least three of the men wore local police uniforms. 

 “Please advise: what should I do?”  Her query was meant to elicit immediate answers.  “We’re coming down now, so please remain open to us.  We need exact rendez-vous point.  ETA, nine earth minutes.  Can you hold that long?”  “I think so, yes, but the fire is climbing up and I can already feel the heat rising.  There is no protection here and if I jump you won’t be able to rescue me.  I recommend maximum haste, please!” 

 It seemed an eternity to Sharmat, watching the smoke and listening to the crackling of the fire eating the inside of the house.  How long would the structure hold the roof before it caved into the inferno?  Was the house held by masonry or wood?  Then she thought of her research, all neatly coded in memory cells in her room.  “I have to retrieve my research – if I’m not on the roof when you arrive, I’ll be inside if I can get in.”  She ran back down the first short flight of stairs and encountered an unbearable wall of heat.  Too late, she knew she’d never get out again if she went lower.  She ran back up and closed to roof access door to slow the flames down.

 Just as she thought it would be all over, she felt the familiar tremor of a small ship spinning down and the air shimmered.  A figure appeared, extended an arm and she followed.  The ship silently lifted away into space.  In her mind, Sharmat looked back at the scene, watched as the house collapsed and the flames rushed freely into the sky.  Only then did the fire trucks show up.  She knew then for a fact that intent to burn her and destroy the house was not the work of a mob, but orchestrated with full authority and cooperation of college, police and local council.  She knew also that the bomb in the market that afternoon was a false flag event meant to draw attention away from her own destruction.  “Earth,” she thought, “what a sad, stupid, hopeless place.” 

When Sharmat came before the Consensus, she was enjoined to give her overall personal impression of earth.  She said, unhesitatingly, “You have my official comments and records from the shuttle computer.  But I must say this of myself, based on my own feelings.  Earth is a lost cause; a waste of talent and energy for us to be involved with.  Rescind the contract, it’s a no-win situation.  Turn the problem over to Galactic Defense Consensus and quarantine the world.  Do not, ever, allow any of them to get out of their solar system.  Not ever.  There is a resident evil on that world that we of Belaga, and all other human worlds who share our consciousness, can never even begin to understand.  All beings on the planet, to some greater or lesser extent, are infected with that evil presence. 

 It’s not something you can overcome with empathy; with simple compassion or “goodness.”  Earth’s evil is a living thing, a mind imbued with death; as it were, an ancient creature of ultimate darkness that chose that world to reside within.  The very heart of the planet is evil personified.  I have touched it and it almost pulled me in.  I do not ever want to feel any horror like that again.”