توم الصديق

[FocaalBlog @FocaalBlog]

First blog for 2025 just dropped.
An insightful review into the refugee politics and the role of critical history. Thanks for writing for us, @gorkem_akgoz
#Refugees #Denmark
https://t.co/4KS0jLjhZL

[Philosophy Matters @PhilosophyMttrs]

Elizabeth Anscombe made hugely influential contributions to contemporary action theory, moral theory, and philosophy of mind. Learn more about her on this episode of Philosophy Talk … https://t.co/wLypRLpNuV

[ArabLit & ArabLit Quarterly @arablit.bsky.social @arablit]

This is our complete-ish list of Arabic literature in translation in 2024 (into English, but we also found volunteers to help with lists into French, German, Malayalam, & Portuguese).

https://t.co/D2d0I5hjfX

Some highlights 🧵:

[Lydia Polgreen @lpolgreen]

I was recently in Dubai and it is really not hard to see how a totally pitiless system of exploitation of migrants could become quite common and even celebrated across the rich world.

[Science girl @sciencegirl]

Timelapse of a penguins day

[توم الصديق @telamigo]

https://t.co/vXlnILWdKY

[vincent cochetel @cochetel]

Europe court condemns Cyprus over return of Syrian refugees to Lebanon https://t.co/9u5V4jo18L via @NeosKosmos a key verdict that sets a precedent for all forms of interceptions at sea & returns to countries in North Africa which do not offer a place of safety

[digitaldjeli @digitaldjeli]

#PrivateEquity Fabulous but disturbing @gdnlongread on the virus known as private equity https://t.co/xJuKkzoGda

[Aqylbek Muratbai @muratbaiman]

🇺🇿 @CurrentTimeTV published an investigation into how a company from #Uzbekistan helped Russian oligarchs to export artworks from Europe to circumvent sanctions. In this regard, it recalled the situation nine years ago, when Tashkent scandalously fired the director of the #SavitskyMuseum in Karakalpakstan, which houses the world's second largest collection of Russian avant-garde art.

Karakalpak art historian Marinika Babanazarova had headed the Savitsky State Museum of Art in the Republic of #Karakalpakstan for 30 years and had resisted attempts to move the collection (or certain paintings) from #Nukus to the capital of Uzbekistan.

Three years after Babanazarova's dismissal, the museum had an incident with Oleksandr Shevchenko's painting “The Woman with Buckets”. The painting was flooded with water as a result of a fire alarm system going off. At the same time, it became known about the loss of two more artworks - the painting “Night Namaz” by Nikolai Karakhan, which was torn and cannot be restored, and the wooden sculpture “Amu-Darya” by Zholdasbek Kuttymuratov, which died as a result of rotting.

In November 2018, the Friends of the Savitsky Museum Foundation announced its dissolution. David Pearce, the foundation's chairman, stated the reason as the disappearance of charitable gifts to the museum, which included audio equipment and books donated over the previous three years. “As far as we know, they have been confiscated or stolen” Pierce explained at the time. Museum officials have denied the allegations that the foundation's gifts were stolen.

[The Conversation Africa @TC_Africa]

#RIPJamesMatthews: the rebel writer who was South Africa’s voice of resistance https://t.co/PtpI0rtoXA

💻 Hein Willemse, University of Pretoria @UPTuks
#ArtsCultureAndSociety

[Democracy Now! @democracynow]

Two Journalists Killed in Turkish Drone Strike in Iraqi Kurdistan https://t.co/innIZ9EjK3

[Nature is Amazing ☘️ @AMAZlNGNATURE]

I think I need a cow now..

[Hanif Kureishi @Hanifkureishi]

NIGHTMARES AND KISSES

He is still asleep when she gets up to have her yogurt and honey. She likes to eat privately in her narrow kitchen without being observed. Then she returns to bed, to read the Italian newspapers on her iPad.

They are in Rome, in her apartment across the river from the Roma stadium, on the Via Flaminia. Outside the window there is a square with a newspaper kiosk, a tram stop and a taxi station. On the corner there is a pizza restaurant they often frequent.

When he wakes up, he heads to the table to write his morning pages; dreams, ideas, fantasies and notes on what he is reading. He interrupts himself to glance at the British newspapers. She makes fresh orange juice in the kitchen and brings it to him. She drinks an espresso, it’s too short for him, he prefers a longer coffee.

After a lunch of salad, mozzarella and spring rolls he announces he is taking his walk.

“Wait until six, when it has cooled down. No one goes out in this heat.”

“I’m restless now. I can’t sit down another moment.” He gathers his things. “It will have to be a mad dogs and Englishmen situation.”

She continues working and off he goes, glad to be outside. He is always surprised when he leaves the building by how quiet Rome is compared to London; not the tourist spots, of course, but the residential parts, which make the city seem provincial, from another era, at another pace.

He walks up to the Piazza del Popolo, through the busy throng into the historical centre. He ducks his head under running taps as he goes, striding right into the bustling city, crazy with tourists, just walking, walking, looking at everything, there are always surprises.

Later in the afternoon, when he is tired, she drives into town to pick him up. They sit down outside a bar and have a smoke and a beer. She likes potatoes chips.

This is her city, she went to school and grew up in the area. She is seventeen years younger than him, good-natured and optimistic. He likes to imagine her as a young person with her friends, going to gigs and parties, hanging out at bars, studying philosophy in the libraries, living out her continental, bourgeois youth in 80s Rome. He is a disturbed, mixed-raced Englishman, a vacationer, with no grasp of the language, and no intention of learning it.

The next morning, they prepare for the Amalfi coast. He writes while she packs computer equipment, clothes, a cafetiere and coffee, and food and wine for the evening.

It is a three-hour journey on the motorway, past Naples and Pompei. She drives, he is the DJ, knowing that she likes to listen to Lou Reed, Bowie and the Beatles.

“Do you remember when we went to Pompei?” he says.

“Don’t. I paid for a guide that day. You told him it was like a building site.”

“Like crossing a building site in a hundred degrees with a fridge on your back.”

“I was so offended. What’s the point in taking you anywhere?”

“You tried to run me over in the car park when we were leaving.”

“You stepped out in front of me.”

They talk all the way, stopping off at his favourite service stations for cappuccino and pizza.

Finally, they see the blue of the Mediterranean. Her mother has a little house on hill. It's an old-fashioned place with a terrace and a view of the sea and sky. Oddly enough, it is one of the noisiest places he has stayed, being adjacent to a church. The inhabitants of the little town are religious, carrying a wooden image of a local saint through the village while singing and playing instruments. All day, and most of the night, bells ring out.

In the evening, they have supper on the terrace as the sky darkens, before going back into the house to watch a TV show on her iPad.

He’s in hospital on the outskirts of Rome. She drives in at midday to see him. She’s been up and shopping all morning. Like a child sitting at the window, he watches out for her as she hurries across the grounds from the car park. He cheers up when she arrives. He likes the Italian nurses, many of whom are gay, some are even Lazio supporters, but he finds it difficult to communicate with them. She has to be his translator.

She pushes him outside to the terrace, which is filled with people in wheelchairs, their visitors and nurses. Finding a spot for him in the shade, she puts on his sunglasses and feeds him. He appreciates how difficult it is for her every morning, before coming to the hospital, to prepare both lunch and supper, bringing in something different everyday. But she does it, although he finds it hard to eat, and must force himself. She kisses him on the forehead. He likes her kissing him, his mother never did. He wants to remember every kiss she’s given him, as if every one is an affirmation of his existence, that he is wanted.

He remembers being in a hotel room in Milan in 2012, asking if she would like to be his girlfriend. His directness surprised him. She said yes and he was elated. The next day in a bar, when he was mostly silent, not wanting to spoil things by saying too much – and knowing they had to separate later when he went back to London - he asked her if she would look after him.  She said yes to this too. He had no idea this request would become so meaningful.

Three years later she finally came to live with him. That night, his friends were having a party in a big house in Notting Hill to celebrate the publication of his novel. This was the first time she had met two of his children and their mother. He hadn’t worried about it so much, though he had had a bad experience in the past with regard to his children and a new partner, but now the kids were grown up, and no bother.

She had never lived with a partner, but he had, with four women since he was eighteen. He was excited about her arrival, he felt at ease with her, which meant he could carry on writing, reading, speaking, eating as he did before. They would work side by side in the same room.

He had always been charmed by her, and still is. Her presence lifts him: her voice, in particular, her accent, her noises, the way she looks, the way she does things. He watches her all day. He likes hearing what she has to say. He asks her a lot of questions, many of which she ignores. But what a thing to do, after so many years, to continue to observe someone, to want to look at them, an everchanging show. What are they thinking, what are they feeling, where is their head?

He thinks of her as a delicate, shy person, impressive in her modesty and style, not someone who speaks much about herself, unlike him. He has to observe her, to track her mood, and gauge her temperament, because she won’t open herself. He imagines that she was always, what might be called, a ‘good girl’, well-behaved, hardworking, always truthful. But she is not conventional at all; she is hard in her beliefs, and will suddenly say something he had no idea was in her.

On the terrace, in the sun, she feeds him mozzarella, flatbread, and a cappuccino from the bar, before preparing him for his physio in the afternoon. They go back to the room and she calls the nurses to insert the catheter into his penis to empty his bladder.

Since the accident, everything between them has changed. They are in an emergency. He fell on his head and can no longer use his hands or legs. She must do everything for him. This has become a terrible test and she is exhausted. She hasn’t been able to work.

She will stick with him; it would never occur to her not to. That’s not a question for her. But what does it mean, sticking with someone? Does it mean helping them organise their life for years, giving up their dreams and hopes?

It is gone, the future they had planned, the places they wanted to go, their walks and talks, it will never be the same. How do you adjust to that? But you do; in the ruins you make a life, one you had never anticipated.

At home in London, after working all morning, she comes down and makes him lunch. He has fish soup, toast, and a soft sheep’s cheese they buy from Giovanni at the market in Brook Green.

She slings a tea towel around his neck and holds the spoon close to his mouth – often too close - as he chatters away, asking her if he is her favourite person in the world. She says no; he is not even the second or third favourite. He says this is unfair, she is his favourite, the one he most likes talking to and looking at.  But she doesn’t like these provocations. If only people knew how childish he really was. Playful he calls it; he doesn’t know where he got it from, his dad wasn’t like that. But he likes playful people, who see conversation as a game. After all, what is conversation for?

When he has finished lunch, and she is done working on her phone, they will go out onto the street and down the Shepherd’s Bush Road, to King’s Street, Hammersmith, where they enter Marks and Spencer.

It is not easy for him to shop with her as he is at a lower level, like a child who can’t see the higher shelves. Wearily she has to describe what is up there. After food shopping they go into the men’s clothing section. He is at an age where he can appreciate some of the men’s clothes, T-shirts, sweaters, even trousers. But his look isn’t as significant as it once might have been. He hasn’t worn a pair of jeans for eighteen months, only track pants and sweaters. Her can’t regulate his temperature, he is always cold.

Waiting for her at the check-out, he sees she is carrying at least five bags. She is thin and light and looks weighed down. He feels helpless that he cannot take some of them. He wheels away and she follows him out.

He fears he has dulled and constrained her. All day, she deals with bureaucratic problems; appointments, hospitals, medicines and equipment. It is draining and all-consuming. He wants her to have more time and freedom, to be liberated from his problems. She is less care-free now, everything is more serious. He is now her responsibility.

At six, she prepares him a Bloody Mary. At seven, he is put to bed by, as he puts it, ‘the government’. At eight, she feeds him supper. They watch television and bicker until she kisses him goodnight at ten.

He has to sleep on his back and cannot change position, which makes him feel trapped.

He has a bad night, waking up yelling from a nightmare. She comes down to kiss and calm him.

If you want to pre-order my forthcoming book, Shattered, you can do so here: https://t.co/8trVopaGSd

[توم الصديق @telamigo]

https://t.co/I2U8IPNBZb

[توم الصديق @telamigo]

Krzysztof Warlikowski stages JM Coetzee / Elizabeth Costello's moral tales in a 4-hour-long play https://t.co/Qe98tVOBvK

[digitaldjeli @digitaldjeli]

#Ethiopia migrants and the treacherous journey to Saudi Arabia https://t.co/jnM8FtI7lR

[Stijn Oosterlynck @StOosterlynck]

Ontploffing in Hoboken is niet gewoon ongeluk. Het is wat (opnieuw) gebeurt als politieke wil ontbreekt om alle burgers kwalitatieve (sociale) huisvesting te garanderen en mensen dan maar toevlucht zoeken tot slecht onderhouden panden op private huurmarkt. https://t.co/R2shd3jzXl

[توم الصديق @telamigo]

https://t.co/pHusHpjl8k