#with the stone even intermingling with the planks

[roundtheworldrambles]

Penang, Malaysia

Day 147 – Kuala Lumpur to Penang

Early in the morning, I jumped on a modern commuter train heading south to Terminal Bersepadu Selatan, the main station for long-distance buses in Kuala Lumpur. Looking out the window of my air-conditioned car, I couldn’t help but notice a substantial amount of trash along the edges of the track as we moved south. Arriving at my transfer point to the bus station, I was also stunned by the number of people begging for money outside the terminal– well over 50. Both of these observations contrasted strongly to the polished, modern side of KL that I had seen in the previous days.  

The multi-storey bus terminal was chaotic, with passengers criss-crossing in every direction as I arrived. Designed to serve over 50,000 travellers a day, the station was fortunately well signed in both Malay and English. As I navigated through the throngs of people, I eventually located my check-in counter, picked up my ticket, and began hunting for my departure bay. I must have checked my ticket 50 times, as there were countless buses rolling in and out of the departure bays – and I was almost certain I would miss my bus in the hubbub of fellow travellers!

I finally boarded my bus around 9:45am, heading north to Penang, a small island in Northwestern Malaysia. I was looking forward to my stay in Georgetown, a UNESCO World Heritage Site known for its eclectic architecture, impressive street art, and delicious street food! A 5–hour journey by bus, our route traversed through small towns and green, tropical hills, making occasional stops for washroom breaks (there were none on the bus, much to my dismay) and snacks. The interior of the bus was full of wide, blue velvet chairs, which could fully recline. As I was reading along the route, three young Malay boys ran up and down the aisles, stopping briefly at my chair to check me out, before giggling and running away again. By the time we had arrived in Penang, they had gotten quite comfortable with me, and hung around my chair. I would say a few words in English, which they would delightedly repeat back to me, all while chattering between themselves in Malay.

As our bus arrived at Butterworth, the mainland town adjacent to the island of Penang, I grabbed by pack from under the bus and wove through the crowds, taxi drivers and hawkers to board a city bus to the Jetty. From there, I completed the last leg of my trip with a short ferry ride across the bay to Georgetown, my final destination. Brightly coloured long-tailed boats skimmed across the water next to us, bobbing up and down in the ferry’s wake. We passed a large, moored ocean liner, with barbed wire and life-sized human dummies, intended to ward off pirates.

Streets of Georgetown

As I disembarked in Georgetown, I could immediately see that the city was steeped in history, with influences from all over the world. Georgetown was the first British Settlement in South East Asia, and has continued to act as a trading port since the late 1700s. In the early 19th century, the island of Penang was at the epicenture of spice production and trade – with spice farms on the island producing nutmeg, clove and pepper. During World War 2, the Japanese Army also occupied the island of Penang for 4 years.

Today, the Georgetown represents an intermingling of ethnicity and religion, with Chinese, Peranakan, Malay, Indian, Eurasian, Siamese, and indigenous cultures being primarily represented. In the past, the city was also home to Persian, Filipino, Japanese, Sumatran, Arab, Burmese and Jewish communities – a true global city! Because of all of these influences, modern-day Georgetown is packed with unique, eclectic architecture and pre-war buildings. All four major languages of Malaysia are also spoken in Georgetown: Malay, English, Chinese and Tamil.

Walking through historic Georgetown, I arrived at my guesthouse for the next 3 nights. A converted three-storey heritage shophouse in old Georgetown, The Frame Guesthouse was previously the workshop of a colonial frame maker. The hostel has been upgraded to a modern, clean space, with big open communal areas shared with other travellers.  

I quickly met one of my roommates, Tonje, a traveller from Norway, and later met up again with Caroline and Jannes from Kuala Lumpur. As evening fell, we hailed a Grab, heading out to Lok Sok Si Temple, the largest Buddhist temple in all of Malaysia, and an important pilgrimage site for Buddhists living across Southeast Asia.  Located at the base of Air Itam mountain, this temple also features predominantly in Chinese New Years celebrations. Since we had the good fortune of visiting Penang around the time of this festival, Lok Sok Si temple was open late, lit with thousands of lights and colourful red lanterns.  Although we arrived just as the temple was closing, we were still able to take in the sea of light surround the temple, with the city lights of Georgetown twinkling in the distance.

Nasi Lemak

Heading back into town, we meandered through street food stalls along Chulia street, deciding what we wanted to eat for dinner. Woks sizzled in every direction, with sounds of chopping, stirring and pounding filling the air. The smell of unknown spices and savoury dishes followed us as we walked along. Overwhelmed by the choice, we opted to try numerous dishes, including Nasi Lemak, Char Kway Teow, Beef Rendang, Hokkien Mee, Oh Chien (fried oyster) and Rojak (spicy fruit salad). After only a few bites, it was immediately obvious to me why Georgetown had such a widespread reputation for gastronomy and street food. Needless to say, it was a very tasty way to end my first day in Penang.

Street Food Stalls in Penang

Day 148 – Penang

In the morning, I met up with Caroline and Tonje for breakfast at Mugshot, a nearby (thankfully air-conditioned!) café on Chulia street, and spent a few hours doing planning and bookings for the rest of my trip in Southeast Asia. Mid day, Tonje and I headed out to wander the streets of Georgetown. It was a hot, humid afternoon – as the island is located in a tropical rainforest climate.

Architecture of Penang

In addition to Georgetown’s stunning architecture, the city is also famous for it’s street art.  Dozens of wrought iron caricatures have been put up around Georgetown, depicting local culture, ethnic groups, city history and lifestyle. The street art scene has blossomed throughout the city over the past decade, and it was fun to keep our eyes peeled for street art in the most unexpected places – sometimes down side alleys, or above street level.  

We walked through the streets of Little India, checking out sari stores and Hindu Temples, the deities inside adorned with fresh floral garlands, called mala. Along the roadside, massive bunches of bananas hung from the ceilings of shophouses. Tonje and I stopped into Restoran Kapitan for a late lunch, tucking into delicious Indian dishes, including claypot chicken biryani, chapati and squid.

Durian Ice Cream

Continuing onward to Armenian Street, we walked along the narrow street, home to the famous “Children on a Bicycle” mural and other street art.  Colonial shophouses along the street were selling everything from fresh fruit to souvenirs and other trinkets. Chinese clan houses, local art galleries and small museums were also scattered along the street.  Tonje and decided to try durian, sometimes considered to be the “stinkiest fruit in the world”, which in Malaysia, Singapore and other parts of Asia is a well-loved delicacy. That said, we “cheated” a little in this regard, as instead of trying the fresh fruit, we opted instead to try durian ice-cream!

“Children on a Bicycle” Mural

Heading east towards the harbor, we stopped at the Leong San Tong Khoo Kongsi (kongsi translates to “clan house”), built over 600 years ago by the 5 big Chinese clans of the Hokkien community in ancient Penang. A large, ornate building, this kongsi is a place where Chinese families with the same surname gather to pray to their ancestors. The lavish architecture of the Kongsi was truly stunning, embellished with intricately carved wood and stone, and beams painted in brilliant shades of red, gold, blue and green. The Leong San Tong Khoo Kongsi is a complex series of structures, including a temple, and association building, a theatre, and nearby 19th century rowhouses for clan members. Historically, these “clan houses” were almost mini-cities unto themselves, with clan members running their own education, finance and social programs with a self-governing structure.

Streets of Penang

Tonje and I stopped for dinner at the Jetty food hall, tucking in for another terrific meal of char koey teow, poh piah (a large variation of a spring roll) and bowls of steaming laksa. As the evening began to fall, we headed down to the clan jetties on the ocean. There are 6 remaining jetties down by the water that were historically home to various Chinese clans.  Clusters of century-old homes have been built on stilts above the ocean, with each jetty named after a Chinese clan. Historically, these jetties were used for loading and unloading cargo ships, where there was sometimes a rivalry between different jetty clans for control of the seatrade and economic resources of Penang.

As we walked through the Chew Jetty, along a boardwalk of creeky planks, and wound between the historical stilted homes, it felt like a bit of a time warp. Many Chinese families still live here, and occasionally we could catch a glimpse into the entryways of homes, many with large shrines to worship their ancestors, the air hazy with swirling clouds of incense. While the jetties now have electricity and running water, many of these community members live in homes that have hardly changed in over 100 years. On the main floor of some of these stilted houses, clan members have turned these spaces into small restaurants and shops.

We reached the end of the jetty, and sat down, taking in the twinkling lights of Butterworth across the bay, listening as music from nearby buskers drifted through the air. Fishing boats and long-tailed boats zipped along the water, returning to town as evening began to fall.

Taoist Temple at Chew Jetty

As the sky darkened, thousands of red lanterns began to shimmer overhead as we headed back into town, passing several Taoist temples at the entrance to Chew Jetty, dedicated to the God of Heaven and the Taoist Sea Deity, Haisen. This day in Penang was near perfect – packed with incredible company, unique architecture, cultural experiences, street art, and (importantly!) fantastic food.

Day 149 – Penang

In the morning, Tonje and I threw on running shoes and workout clothes, grabbed breakfast at Mugshot, and jumped on a bus, taking us up into the lush, dense jungle surrounding Penang Hill. As we passed through a neighbourhood shopping street near the base of Air Itam, our bus inched through heavy pedestrian traffic, with locals bustling between stores and stalls, doing last-minute holiday shopping before the official Chinese New Year’s celebration the following day – February 16, 2018.  

We arrived at the base of Penang Hill, and bought our one-way ticket for the funicular, taking us up the slopes to the top of the hill.  It was an overcast day, with humidity heavy in the air, and as we ascended, we could see little more than a hazy view over the distant towns of Georgetown and Butterworth. Tonje and I wandered around the top of Penang Hill, where there were numerous lookout points and walkways through the area’s spectacular rainforest. A small mosque, a Hindu temple, and several residential homes and guesthouses are scattered nearby.

Funicular up Penang Hill

Hundreds of birds chattered overhead as we meandered around the hilltop, with dusky-leaf monkeys and macaques scampering through nearby trees. We had decided to hike down from Penang Hill to the Botanical Gardens, which took us deeper into the jungle as we descended on a steep jeep track. Leaving the tourism hub behind, we saw more and more flora and fauna as we went along – including countless monkeys, and the occasional snake slithering out of our way. It took us about an hour and a half to descend the 5 km zig-zagging track – a true knee-knacker! I was thrilled to finally arrived back on flat ground at the botanical gardens. With some difficulty, we figured out the bus route back into town, and arrived back in Georgetown in the late afternoon. I had a shower and a brief nap, before doing some more life-admin and Vietnam visa applications.

At dinner time, all of the street markets and food stalls were closed for Chinese New Years, so Tonje, Egle and I went out for tacos on Love Lane. True to its name, this lane was apparently once the location of many brothels, and was where Peranakan and Chinese businessmen would reportedly keep their mistresses.

Our Mexican dinner, though from a cuisine on the other side of the word, was still delicious – further solidifying my opinion that Penang can do no wrong when it comes to food! As we enjoyed Tiger beers and tacos, a steady procession of buskers, fire performers and street artists moved along the narrow laneway. Live music floated towards us from every direction. I clearly remember how present and alive I felt in that moment, feeling deeply linked to cosmopolitan group of people surrounding me – locals and travellers alike - even though they were strangers to me. In that moment, people from countless backgrounds, countries, ethnicities, and religions were gathered in the same place, all collectively enjoying good food and entertainment.

After almost 6 months of travel at that point, every day I felt more strongly that, as global citizens, we have far more in common than the differences that separate us.  

[tratius]

An introduction. And a Thing.

Hello, all... or none, this is my first time posting on Tumblr, and I figured I should explain just what it is I do. I write things, so please be prepared for lots of idle-ness, from both WoW and my in the works original story.

In that vein, I’ve typity-tapped a story, introducing one of my stories’ characters, and how she first came to be, enjoy.

________________________________________________________________

Rothchilde

It was morning. Or at least as close to morning as she could tell, judging by the emerging sounds of bustle intermingled with the slow and deliberate lapping of water at the wooden walls that surrounded her. Someone outside called; she held her breath - a frightened whimper escaped her; was she caught? And then someone replied, her worry evaporated. Movement continued - the room continued to shift and sway over the waves - her stomach lurched, an acidic bile threatened to press its way into her mouth, but she couldn’t, she knew. They had told her to remain quiet, and quiet she remained. She had taken passage on a skiff - the small boat was unsteady and constantly bobbing on waves that threatened to rise much higher than it, but through this all - she was thankful… that was until it came to a sudden, and absolute stop.

Suddenly what little light managed to struggle through the wooden planking of the roof was abruptly cut off, it took all her will not to scream in fear as the small, cramped and dirty compartment was plunged into blackness. There was a lurching feeling; as though the wooden skiff that she had stowed herself away in was being brought out of the water, suspended instead in the air by the power of some mighty Djinn, or a spirit; her thoughts ran over every possibility, an over active imagination playing the part of an enemy, an enemy that threatened to make her scream; but she wouldn’t. She was strong.

The doors opened. Daylight flooded into the compartment. Someone stood outlined in the doorway; he was young, she could tell, not many years older than herself - a young boy whose hair was in a mess, and his eyes darted constantly to and fro, as though searching the shadows for something that no one else can see.

He spoke quickly; in a language she didn’t recognise, she couldn’t understand him and his frustration at this fact was clear. He repeated again, a hand held out to her, again, she couldn’t understand him and didn’t budge from her position amongst the grain barrels.

With a hiss, he called out - another person came stomping down into the overcrowded galley. A great giant of a man, brimming with muscle and reeking of sweat.

A question was thrown at the young Galley boy. A response, quick and cautious.

The big man stepped forward, extending a calloused hand set on tanned arms bunched with muscle and tattoos. A man, she could tell, from home; and when he spoke, he spoke a language she could understand. “Come princess. Come away. Twenties will be here soon. Don’t want to be caught by them, no. They will send you back. Come with me, darling lady.” he talked with such smoothness and calm reassurance that to an eight year old mind, she could not help but take his hand - which dwarfed hers, and step out from her place.

His face was grizzled but kindly. Pitted with pockmark scars that framed squinting, brown eyes beneath a bushy brow. His skin was tanned, and for all the world to her young mind he seemed all like a great sand bear, and less a man. And now he was her guardian. Her saviour. His name was Khalim. She knew him as Khally.

Together they stepped out onto a suspension dock. A pier that stretched some height above the waterline below. Here small ships with little cargo were brought - great cranes held the gently swaying vessels; adrift on a vaporous sea.

They were surrounded by buildings many times larger than there was at home - stone and wood, towering smokestacks loomed above a bustling street, studded with cast iron gas-lamps, which had not been extinguished due to the earliness of the morning; the flames guttered and danced, hissing fitfully. Of course, she did not know this - to her this place was noisy and smelly - reeking of oceanic detritus and the coal-smoke that billowed from countless chimneys. To her the buildings seemed to grow in rows radiating outwards, the next row each taller than the last. Two stories, three stories, five stories. Immense structures of glass and red brick, stained black with soot - stone roads that hurt her bare feet - not at all like the pounded sand, and soft earth of home… and she was grateful for it. In the distance bells tolled.

They spoke Andlish here. The language was foreign to her, too complex - she was always told that the people of these isles did not always say what they meant, told by the other slaves back home, by Bhajarbi and Maja, they were gone now - she only had Khally left; the giant who rescued her, gentle and sweet. She was always told what love was; and she thought that the fluttering feeling in her chest was such a thing in the sweet way a child viewed grown emotion.  Love for Khalim.

She huddled close to him as he led her through the crowds streaming in from the alleys and buildings. New smells came to life; cooking, the scum of unwashed flesh, emptied chamber-pots, horses - all of them mingled here and nearly overwhelmed her, but Khally’s grip was strong, and he reassured her.

They moved through the streets, carefully - she remained close to Khalim as he moved certainly, but at a slow pace so as to ensure that her tiny legs could keep up. A group of men in armour sauntered by, halberds held at rest as they swaggered onwards with the self-assurance of people who knew that amongst the detritus of human waste; that they were untouchable. “Twenties…” Khalim hissed with scorn. “Avoid them, girl. Little more than brutes. Cruel men.”

The cobblestone street was widening now - windowed shopfronts - a great rarity in her desert home - glass was rarely if ever used, but here every window was paned, or shuttered, with curtains being twitched by furtive shop owners. Readying their buildings for the day’s bustle by letting what little sunlight that filtered in through the early morning cloud and mist in. she was too busy staring at the buildings around her; of brick and wood and stone… that she nearly tripped.

Khalim managed to drag her to her feet quickly, nearly jerking her arm out of its socket. “Careful!” He hissed, looking over his shoulder and ahead with panic; she was confused… until she too looked ahead.

The Barred gate was one of many defensive fortifications that choked passage to the city, it was an intimidating building of brick, stone and metal - several stories high, with few windows, except on the higher stories. It was manned by many guards, who patrolled the high ramparts, and stopped people who passed the gates, which - due to the earliness of the morning; were still closed and barred - Of course, to the small child - all she saw were closed doors, always.

Khalim muttered a foul swear under his breath, which seemed to coalesce into a vaporous mist as it chilled on the autumnal air. While she stared onwards, realising that the scope of the city wasn’t only this foetid waterfront, there was much, much, more. Already, home seemed to be dwarfed.

Khalim suddenly dragged her to the side, bundling down a cramped alleyway that smelled of alcohol and piss - smells that she was well accustomed to, too much for such a young person, perhaps. They moved quickly, even though there were no sounds of pursuit, no raised calls, no clanging of bells, no barking dogs, or the sound of hissing sand-sleds sliding through the dunes after them…

They kept moving, dashing down the narrow walkway, up a series of metal stairs, that led to gangways that criss-crossed between clustered houses and buildings. They were next to a factory now, all brick and smoke, massive chimneys choked the air with a black cloud. They ran past a group of men wearing face-masks and goggles designed to save their eyes from the ruinous air. Her eyes were streaming, and yet Khalim dragged her on, not tiring - she slipped, he picked her up and held her underarm like a package, not slowing. They seemed to run parallel to the massive wall that encircled the city, and when Khalim designed to slow they had come upon a canal filled with sluggish water that glopped almost solidly. A boat awaited them.

To call it a boat would be polite. It was little more than a collection of planks hammered together into a flat, rectangular surface with a raised lip to keep the water out. There was no sail, just an odd mechanical collection near its stern, and a metallic chimney that puttered smoke. A man waited for them, bundled in a yellowed coat and wearing a faded hat. He spoke, she couldn’t understand him, he sounded irritated, he then directed a question at Khalim, who responded in that language, clinking coins changed hands, Khalim paying the boatman, they clambered onto the small barge, and huddled… Khalim gave her his cloak, hiding her beneath it. “Make no sound little one… remain silent, it will be over soon.”

With a burbling hum the boat took off away from the edge of the canal, and with a stream of black smoke puffing out from its single chimney chugged down, toward the open waters of the river, which bypassed the city walls.

The river was wide, it divided the city like a grey wound, with buildings clustering on both sides of the riverbank and its tributaries. Factories, houses, warehouses and other boats on drifting moorings cluttered around the river, hodgepodge. If this wasn’t enough to overwhelm the poor child, a massive shadow passed over them, accompanied by the low droning of engines and propellers… She gasped, an airship heaved over them. It was an immense machine, nearly as long as the river was wide, it moved slowly, propelled by purring engines, she could see the forms of people, like ants above clambering across gangways that hung from the main gondola, Khalim too seemed awestruck by the complex machinery that hung above their heads, moving swiftly southwards, deeper into the city, away from the river.

The boat followed the current, chugging downstream - occasionally the boatman would toot his horn, which in turn drew responses from other drifting vessels, blind in the morning mists.

The boat passed under what at first seemed to be the shoreline - but as they chugged underneath the darkened arch, she found it to be a bridge - a bridge that had been stacked high with houses overlooking the river, she could hear people bustling above, voices calling out, children laughing, the rattling, marching footsteps of soldiers on a patrol, she cowered… but the boat moved onwards, swiftly into daylight once more, and the mists.

She awoke with a start. The boat’s horn had sounded again. How long had she slept for? Raising her head off of Khalim’s shoulder, she looked around blearily - they were still on the river, but the mists had evaporated, replaced instead with an overcast grey, threatening a downpour, lamplight glittered on the shoreline, a shoreline they were steadily getting closer to.

The buildings here seemed finer, tall and grand they stood, in hues of colour different to the drab greys and browns of the earlier city, here was marble, and red-tiled roofs with gables and crenellations, turrets and large, paned windows. Patches of green sprouted between buildings instead of the hard, cold stone streets of before. Trees swayed in the light breeze, festooned with the fiery reds and oranges of autumnal leafs as well as twinkling fairy-lights in its boughs.

Suddenly the engine cut, the boat was left drifting, out of place amongst much finer vessels docked at persona quays outside of fine buildings - the barge drifted towards a building that perched on the shore. It was a building surrounded by a high wall, with large, circular domes topping each segment, amounting to three domes in total, it seemed, to her young mind, a building out of one of the fairy-stories that Maja had told her when she was younger, when she had been first bought and enslaved by their cruel master.

There was a loud thunk as the barge connected with the dock, water glopped beneath them, and the vessel rocked as Khalim stepped out and onto the pier.

“Come, darling girl.” he leaned back into the boat and offered her one of his hands, aiding her back to her feet and onto the pier. “Come. You are home.”

Could it be?

At last?

She looked up - the building didn’t look like a home. It looked large and intimidating, looming high above her, as a crowing bird swooped, black out of the sky to land on one of the high parapets. Large windows framed larger balconies, one such window had been opened allowing the faint red of a curtain to billow out. But she followed Khalim regardless.

He led her through a gated archway, through the wall, his step was sure and confident. They had entered a garden of sorts, a place of green and fragrant flowers that lined a paved path. The Queen of Tashire herself could not have such a fine garden, she thought to herself as she walked past a stone worked bench, and a quietly glittering fountain. There were people here she realised - black formed individuals wielding brooms and shears, tending to the garden, polishing the wooden banisters of a pretty gazebo, wrapped in red roses, none of them paid her any heed.

Khalim led her further, up a short flight of stone steps - a pair of glass doors opened up, greeting them, a perfumed air wafted out - she didn’t like it, it was too strong for her youthful nostrils.

He stopped, looking around - a pair of women walked past, arm in arm- chatting lightly to themselves wearily. He spoke… they paused and turned, looking at him before replying - she couldn’t understand them, Khalim nodded, and led her firmly on into a room.

It was a large, circular room. Its centre taken up by a series of seats, wrapped around green plants - a small tree, a rose bush… all pretty to look at. Trays were scattered on side-tables, cups and decanters of amber coloured liquid took up most of the space there, each chair had its own.

It was then, after Khalim had called, that another woman entered the room through a set of double-doors next to a curving flight of stairs. She was a tall, almost skeletal woman - wearing a red, flowing dress which clung tightly to her bosom. Her face was pinched, and black hair had been pulled tightly back into a high bun - a streak of grey whisked into the mix, she scowled at Khalim as she seemed to glide closer, painted lips pursing sourly. She couldn’t help but stare at this woman… she had a mole right above her mouth - but it wasn’t natural, it was painted on.

Tersely she asked him something, her voice high and her tone indignant - she was good at reading people, but this lady exudes world-weary scorn. When Khalim replied, it was also quick, conciliatory, apologetic, he indicated the girl with nods… the woman nodded and appeared to consider something. Before sighing and reaching for her waist, a large belt had been strapped around her stomach, a set of keys hung there as well as a jangling pouch, which she gave to Khalim, he nodded, and turned to her. “Darling girl. You stay here now. You do as you are told. You behave, or they will hurt you. Yes?” He spoke sternly, she didn’t understand - he didn’t elaborate, for with no further words he turned… and left, leaving a hole in her heart.

[republicstandard]

Ethnocentrism: The Politics of Love

One thing to take notice of if you ever study both geography and biology, is how just how far apart the places of origination for the separate races really are.

Different races were not spawned from the same environment, they developed radically differently according to their territory. For instance, the dry, waterless plains of North Africa make for an ideal habitat for the indigenous Nubian people. They roamed in tribes across the Sahara desert to set up camp across the dunes, the upper part of their continent. They had evolved no cause to construct, unlike the demographic who later conquered the lands, the Egyptians from West Asia. As the Arabs and Nubians interacted, they realized they weren’t at all the same, and not just in appearances. The Egyptians enslaved the Nubians and constructed pyramids upon the northern section of Nubia, expanding their culture into Sudan and dealing with African merchants.

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This was a system of economic empowerment for the Arabs, but not for the indigenous Nubians. The people of Nubia, once the predominant ethnicity of their region, were reduced to minorities, made inferior in their own homeland and enslaved to the Pharaohs. As Fatin Abbas wrote:

They explicitly defined themselves as Nubian as opposed to Egyptian writers and set their literary tradition in opposition to the Egyptian literary canon (Uddūl 31). Post-dam writers were deeply conditioned by the experiences of marginalization and racism prompted by their displacement, as many Nubians migrating north to find work confronted discrimination and bigotry firsthand. In this regard not only nationalism, but issues of race and racism are central to their writing.

This primordial variation of the proletariat had lower living standards than that of the foreign Egyptians, were treated poorly by the pharaohs, and, eventually, weren’t even classified as "real Egyptians". In this same period, they weren’t recognized as Sudanese either, due to their widespread association with the architecture and labor concentration of Egypt.

With giant blocks of brick, stone, and dehydrated sand lifted upon their shoulders, they made their way up the long, steep planks of the pyramids. Whipped by their superiors, slave owners, they toiled, unable to resist the power of authority. These were the Afro-Asiatic people living under the spear of Arabs, having originated in Sudan and Southern Egypt, overtaken by a more civilizational, advanced group of people. It remains to be said that ancient Egypt may not tick the box for standards of “civilization”, as none of its earliest architecture and constructions reflect purposes of progress, rather only glory-bent monuments for their commanding chiefs to narcissistically marvel at.

Despite both being people sprung from the Nile, the two ethnic groups -the Nubians and Egyptians- got along quite horribly. That doesn’t mean that the two didn’t interlock like puzzle pieces. The reason for this is because the culture of Sudan and Egypt reflected a disdain for the archaic cultures of the Sub-Sahara, with Ethiopia being the only Sub-Saharan nation on the continent to create its own civilization. Egypt was built upon flattery, and deliberately starved its own people to achieve self-aggrandizing structural progress. In the modern age, you can build all the skyscrapers you want but unless they serve a purpose -such as population storage or economic benefits- then they’re of no use to anyone and are instead a waste of money and a product of cruel wage labor.

During the times of ancient Egypt and Sudan, interaction within the Mediterranean Sea between the old civilizations of Greece, Rome, and Turkey was prevalent in cultural development. Southern European influence played key roles in progress made in science, literature, art, and linguistic attainment. The Egyptians realized that a nation where nobody speaks the same language can never truly function (take note, South Africa). This helped create a wider distance from the pure black cultures across southern North Africa, with the region’s demography also changing; Arabs now interbreeding with Nubians and Europeans. At the time, they struck success from their intermingling blood with the indigenous Mediterranean people of Turkey, but were later at dismay to discover quite the reverse with that of the black-headed peoples of Ethiopia, Somalia, and Eritrea. Of course, no miscegenation landed universally positive results, yet they perceived marriages between the brown-skinned swordsman of their own country to be beneficial with that of women of light, their facial features, hair and eye colors, to be a good predictor of upward social mobility. It did, as the outcome shall be told of, increase rates of civilizational progress, with the full-blooded Arab Egyptians viewing these encounters as improving their reputation as a culture. Traders, dealers, and tourists from Greece flocking into Egypt as though it were a colony of the Mediterranean state hanging at the southern tip of Europe. Egypt and Sudan were never anywhere close to development standards of the West, neither were Namibia and South Africa, but they did yield similarities as cultural appropriation from Western cultures became more and more prevalent, long before any Old World colonialism took place.

Although there were a sudden boom of progress occurring within Egypt due to its practices of intermingling genes, none of the monuments and stone facilities it made, were to any value of the people, only their selfish private owners. Miscegenation between Arabs, Africans, and Europeans -an evil act- created a series of depressive mixed-race diseases, illnesses, and sicknesses, along with a lowering of average health. As the indigenous blood was soured by links between genomes forming to comprise genetically divided entities across North Africa and West Asia, levels of depression and sadness rose drastically, with social relations between the various racial groups of Egypt worsening. Happiness was sacrificed for productivity, and with an erosion of biological identity, the only people who gained from the horrific situation were that of the racially pure, yet ill-hearted capitalists. This were a blatant example of profit over people, an exploitation of their labor to maximize the joy experienced by the few at the expense of the many. The mixed-race Egyptians were disliked by everyone, including themselves, having no identity to call their own, just a combination of genes which from the start should not have been clustered together.

Ancient Egypt was constructed entirely upon hierarchy, people owning one another and keeping them in cages, forcing them to work for those who were actually able to feed themselves, the vast majority of the country’s population going impoverished. Water was only reserved for the wealthiest on the financial pyramid, with large quantities of Egyptians perishing due to sweeping droughts. No one was happy. They were interbred, miserable, and seeking racial and social homogeneity in a state disinterested in ethnocentrism. At the time, Egypt found herself in such close arms to Greece, Rome, and Turkey, she never expected they’d evolve, and in order to keep up with them, Egypt would have to sacrifice entirely her gene pool to the Europeans, essentially becoming racially European -white inhabitants of Egypt- in order to thrive. As we all know from history, that didn’t happen even under the satrap of Ptolemy and the later annexation into the Roman Empire. Yet an abysmal legacy of race-mixing and racial discrimination has been left behind to torture Egypt’s present.

Prior to the Neolithic period, prehistoric Sudan and Egypt went their own separate ways, walked down their own paths in life, and the two main populations - the Nubians and Egyptians - got along just fine with their own flesh and blood.

There’s no love in hierarchy, diversity, and mixed populations. They are inherently unhealthy, inorganic, and altogether appalling inventions of an authoritarian revolt against the roots of nature, homogeneity, ethnocentrism, and a shared love of one’s own people. Ethnocentrism is the desire for a certain group of people to form their own nation based upon preservation of their ancestry, and to take pride in their genes, allowing for them to express their unique and creative characteristics, personalities, physical appearances, societal contributions, and native tongues.

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As with miscegenation in North Africa, as with miscegenation in Latin America, with the destruction of once beautiful nations such as Brazil -once New World circumpolar, than European, and now a crime and violence-wracked de-facto apartheid state torn between different peoples- so will follow the United States. Canada has already fallen to depravity, the cycle of pain inflicted upon children who couldn’t consent to their birth-attained malfunctional genetic state will only continue, escalating, to the point where no values of any variety can be preserved for any group of people, anywhere.

Without love, a society will become the Brazil, the Canada, the US, the Australia, the New Zealand, the South Africa, the ancient Sudan and Egypt, of its time. It will fail as no more than the disappointment it was expected to be from the very start.

Nationalism is the cure for that, particularly ethno-nationalism.

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