One of the more awesome of the fabulous compositions is General Suleiman – a song that is neither young in pop-cultural terms (2 years old) nor particularly offensive.

It is however, pertinent, cheeky and the video is a wonderful blend of satire and unity.

Which makes the following announcement all the more incredible:

Zeid Hamdan has been arrested today for his song General Suleiman, after 2 years of its release.

The investigations have been happening for 3 weeks now, after the video clip has been seen by the General Security in Lebanon.

Today, Zeid rode his bike and went to the Palace of Justice, thinking he’s going to sign some papers and go back home. Surprisingly, he didn’t go back home. He was arrested.

No trial is scheduled yet, and we don’t know what the verdict will be.

It is nice to see that in the country of Freedom of Expression, in the time of revolutions in the Arab World, in the time of demonstrations against the system in Lebanon, in a country where you see on TV everyday politicians insult each others, where you see TV shows and theater shows making loads of money out of mocking every single politician in the country, the one arrested is a citizen, who dares to say to his president “go home”, because he, this miracle man, ironically is -not- sending home all the militia men, all the corrupted politicians, all the weapon dealers, all the trouble makers, the foreign intelligence….

Zeid has been arrested today, we don’t see why. He can go into trial, and it’s the country’s right to send him to court, but it is not of their right to arrest him in Jail meanwhile.

This is totally unacceptable. It’s a shame. We must not stay silent when our co-citizen is unjustly treated.

Despite years of conflict, Lebanon has long stood as the bastion of culture and liberalism – all of which renders the news more shocking.

As is always necessary in such circumstances, pass the message on via the blogosphere and social networks, follow the hashtag #freezeid and tweet, tweet, tweet.

Another album to be yearned over on YouTube as I scowl at Amazon and my inability to purchase it

And so I present Sonya Knox, over at Sawt al Niswa:

We all know that taking down the sectarian system is linked to combating poverty, allowing civil marriage, establishing civil rights for Palestinian refugees, ensuring a living wage to men and women, guaranteeing fair working conditions to all, providing decent health care to all… And none of these, not one, can be achieved without the active participation of women.

Read the full post in all its audacious glory, here.

Although today’s workshop ‘Arab Youth Politics: Challenges and Aspirations’ primarily aimed to gage the involvement of the youth in the media and political structures of the Middle East, talk invariably veered towards the events unfolding the past months.

In the spirit of technology I commenced tweeting the findings, only to be thwarted (ironically!) by the lack of coverage that made Tweets less instantaneous bursts and more agonized, two-minute delay frustrations.

And prompted a painful re-acquaintance with pen and paper. The seizures will last for days.

As the ten papers progressed another question emerged: how do we define the youth?

In its coverage of the revolutions the Western media bandies the term about – certainly, it would be incorrect to suppose that the participants in Tahrir Square were drawn solely from the 18-30 year bracket.

Yet revolution is synonymous with youth: one need only look to the emergence of Gaddafi and Ben Ali as testament to the revolutionary vigors that phase of life inspires.

The pervasiveness of the youth cannot be ignored: during a paper addressing the rise of youth and social movements in Egypt, the number of parties catering to the sector of society was noticeable: Al-Ghad, the Youth Association of Islamic Action, Youth of al-Tagm’a, Youth of al-Wafd… and so the list went on.

As is wont with such debates, the conclusion brought forth added questions, rather than solving them (and is this not how all the best meetings end?).

What are the narratives of youth?

Is the youth an imagined community?

How does the concept (and self-imagination) of youth contrast with previous generations?

Is the youth demographic, merely temporal, or is it spatial?

As a delegate from the University of Edinburgh pointed out, the issue of the shabab has been around since the 1920s and the youth have become targets since then.

Targets for regimes to revile, reconcile, engage, utilize and capitalize on: they are a symbol, an enemy, and a fresh wind of change – be it positive or negative.

Personally, I agree with a friend’s surmisal: where once we regarded identity as dichotomous or prone to grey-areas, it is now spatial in definition.

The day ended on a cautionary note, the notion that danger lurks in the romaticization of the youth by the media: where to now?

Today they are valiant fighters for freedom; in a few months, years, will they hold the same objectives that we triumph them for?

Qaddafi and Ben Ali are not just figures of farce, then revulsion, but reminders that even the blossom of youth can wither and decay into corruption and slaughter.

On the agenda is refugees: of the 7.2 million scattered worldwide, the number to be granted the right of return fluctuated wildly during 2007.

The then Israeli Prime Minister, Ehud Olmert, kicked off negotiations with a figure of 5,000.

This was increased by Saed Erekat to 1,000 per year for ten years, ergo 10,000.

While the details peter off, in 2009 Erekat confirmed that “On refugees, the deal is there” and the subsequent year distributed a document to EU diplomats stating the PA had expressed willingness to accept an Israeli proposal to allow in 15,000 refugees.

The other points include some of surprise and others that many are acquainted with, including that the US secretary of state, Hillary Clinton, and other American officials refused to accept any Palestinian leadership other than that of Mahmoud Abbas.

Likewise, the news that Tzipi Livni told Palestinian negotiators in 2007 that she was against international law and that it could not be included in terms of reference for the talks (“I was the minister of justice. But I am against law – international law in particular”) is about surprising as day following night.

In what will become a daily slot, Erekat has once more emerged as the goblin of concessions (or the angel, depending on your views) as he sprints out of the multi-denominational camp in support of an entirely Jewish state.

In talks with Livni in 2007, Erekat stated “If you want to call your state the Jewish state of Israel you can call it what you want” before comparing it to Iran and Saudi Arabia’s definition of themselves as Islamic or Arab.

And if the Palestinians in the diaspora consider themselves eligible to vote on the future of their land, his response is bleak:

I never said the diaspora will vote. It’s not going to happen. The referendum will be for Palestinians in Gaza, the West Bank and East Jerusalem. Can’t do it in Lebanon. Can’t do it in Jordan. [Source]

An aspect that has long been a source of personal fascination is that of a replacement land and I am particularly familiar with the theory of Jordan as a substitute.

Elite education has led negotiators to the highly rational conclusion that the high number of Palestinians residing in the Kingdom renders it a moot point of population relocation.

That there is already a Jordanian population is irrelevent; that the Palestinians would rather prefer their own land is disregarded.

Pretty much in the same manner as Condoleezza Rice has suggested Chile as the new Palestine based on the fact that there is an Iraqi community already present.

I understand that there is a large Tunisian community in France – given the current troubles, perhaps France would not mind being renamed New Tunis?

Thought not. But apparently Condi does.

On a final note: who is the (as a friend termed her/him/them) Palestinian Assange?

The night is mine: I love sunsets, while loathing sunrises; I find ethereal mysticism in the dusk, while  the very words ‘dusk’, ‘twilight’ and ‘gloaming’ hold auditory and visual allure.

The full moon renders the high sun redundant in its splendour and my memories of Jordan are not of the radiant heat, but the coldness of the moon.

As the plane ascended from the second transfer en route to Amman, it climbed through the impenetrable clouds over Holland.

Suddenly, it broke free and the night became tangible: bounteous curves of varying shades of navy, black, blue and dark silver cascaded as far as the eye could see, lit by the swollen moon.

I gasped, the memory was forever savoured and my conversion to Nyx affirmed.

In Morocco, as the bus trundled through the desert darkness and passengers snored, snaffled or sighed through the inexorable miles, my forehead relentlessly pressed the cold glass, craning at a constellation so vivid that it could have been a shower of diamonds.

Last summer, we lay on a hill above the city at midnight and I discovered  the mesmerizing circular movements of the satellites could be beheld for hours.

The darkness envelopes, anonymizes, silences and comforts.

It is a void onto which we can project dreams, hidden smiles, summon demons of our own creation and scream into our night terrors.

It is freedom, realized.

At least, it should be.

When I walk home late from the office and the trees lurch from the shadows and a badger strolls across the empty road, I am no longer in awe.

I do not linger with slow steps as I would wish.

Rather, I briskly walk, scouting for shapes, sounds that would belie somebody.

I fear the night, but even more I loathe my trepidation.

Just as the heartbeat quickens when headlights slowly approach, correspondingly my rage intensifies that as women we must entertain this anxiety.

As I walked back late last night and a car cruised by, I lamented my lateness.

Then I corrected the thought: I should stay late – I should be a presence on the street and not let the fear win.

Our presence as women is a reassurance to other women walking alone: dangerous though it is who has not exchanged a relieved smile and nod when the shadow ahead becomes female?

The notion of reclaiming the night is a poignant one: night has become synonymous with menace, the bastion of sexual predators, men in crawling cars, and corner-lingerers.

Putting aside their motivations, we must ask the question: why must they claim the night? Why should they have the monopoly of those hours?

Many universities have started buddy-schemes in which individuals can call and request company to walk home.

It is a damning indictment on contemporary society that we are no longer safe to walk alone and, full of pique, I thwart that.

I face my terrors, screw my courage to the sticking-place and convert fear to rage.

Replacing ‘Damn, what the…’ with ‘To hell with you, this is my time, too!’ and ‘What if that man tries something?’ with ‘Just try it. You won’t walk for a month. At least.’ nocturnal empowerment is born.

As women we confront marginalization economically, professionally and in certain cultures, socially.

Let us not be marginalized by the night.

Let us take back the night.

The following is an excerpt from Spirits Rebellious, Part One: Madam Rose Hanie (1908):

“Destiny comes suddenly, bringing concern; she stares at you with horrible eyes and clutches you at the throat with sharp fingers and hurls you to the ground and tramples upon you with ironclad feet; then she laughs and walks away, but later regrets h er actions and asks you through good fortune to forgive her. She stretches her silky hand and lifts you high and sings to you the Song of Hope and causes you to lose your cares. She creates in you a new zest for confidence and ambition. If your lot in life is a beautiful bird that you love dearly, you gladly feed to him the seeds of your inner self, and make your heart his cage and your soul his nest. But while you are affectionately admiring him and looking upon him with the eyes of love, he escapes from your hands and flies very high; then he descends and enters into another cage and never comes back to you. What can you do? Where can you find patience and condolence? How can you revive your hopes and dreams? What power can still your turbulent heart?”

It is music in prose and poetry, sublimely beautiful and enduring.

Rejoice in more Gibran, here.