Jody McIntyre: Life On Wheels

I was always optimistic. Reading the newspapers’ estimates of 20,000 students registered for the march the evening before, I thought to myself; I haven’t “registered”, no-one I know has “registered”... This was going to be huge. If you told me on that evening that I would end up on the roof of the governing party’s headquarters, however, I would have laughed.

The sun was shining on the morning of November 10th, and our blood was boiling. If the government thought they could slash our education and destroy our futures without a response, they would soon have another thought coming.

Me and Finlay, my younger brother, who could be losing his EMA under the education cuts, drove into central London around an hour and a half before the demonstration was due to begin. Everywhere we looked, people were gathering; some were walking towards the University of London Union, some were walking towards the London School of Economics, some were walking towards the official meeting point at Horse Guards’ Avenue off Whitehall, but everyone was ready.

As we parked up, and began walking back down the Strand, we saw a crowd emerging from Aldwych; around 2000 students had set off from LSE. However, they were only marching down one side of the road, and we were in a militant mood. Me and Finlay crossed over, into the oncoming traffic, and within seconds the whole crowd had followed.

We passed Trafalger Square, and half way down Whitehall found ourselves approaching the main bulk of the demonstration, which had assembled there. It was an endless sea of people, but unfortunately, they had been corralled by police and NUS stewards into one lane of the dual carriageway. Me and Finlay immediately set to work, tearing down the metal barriers which separated the two lanes. Oncoming traffic drivers looked on in wonder.

The task of removing the barriers proved an easy one. Persuading people to move onto both sides of the road, however, was impossible. It was a full half an hour of standing still; the police had seemingly blocked the march at the front, and we needed a spark of an inspiration.

About the same time that I looked up to see my brother and a friend of mine standing on top of a bus stop, I turned around and saw that a huge group had come from the back of the crowd had surged onto the other side of the road that I was still standing on. Now, the gaps in the barriers proved invaluable, as an endless flow of people began coming through. We were moving again.

We heard loud music coming from the centre of the crowd, but as we located the moving bicycle it was emanating from, it became clear that this music was leading a crowd of it’s own. Finlay looked pleased; “Those are my friends from school!” he told me.

We joined the music crew, which was weaving it’s way forward through the crowd. We were approaching the Treasury on our right; “That’s our first target,” I told my brother.

The people with the music system must have had the same thought. All of a sudden, the bicycle burst out of the crowd, rushing through the pair of armed police guarding the private road of the Treasury. A group of 200 followed, including me in my wheelchair, and Finlay pushing at full speed. A dubstep tune came on, and the chanting began; “Fuck Cameron! Fuck Cameron! Fuck Cameron! Fuck Cameron!” Not the Treasury’s proudest day.

We had just penetrated the belly of the beast, with ease, and I couldn’t quite believe it. Little did I know, it was just the beginning of events.

We continued down the sixty stone steps at the other end of the Treasury road without so much as a pause for breath. We were on the rampage.

Ten minutes later, we were outside the Business and Skills centre, where Vince Cable likes to work when he’s not out wasting people’s time in his constituency. The building was occupied on the day the Browne Review was released, so here the police were ready for us. We flooded into the courtyard, but the riot cops were called within minutes. As batons began to swing, me and Finlay stood our ground on the front line. I stood up on my wheelchair, but attempts to re-take the courtyard soon fizzled out as a riot van was brought in. The sound system had been savaged by the police, but at the same moment, as we turned back out into the street, another magically appeared, and our journey continued.

We headed back towards the Houses of Parliament, inside which “our” politicians sat cocooned in the bubble they refer to as “Prime Minister’s questions”. It would have been the ideal third target, but unfortunately, the moderate NUS block were in the way, standing around waving pink placards, and not doing a great deal. The numbers, however, were undeniably impressive. By now, 50,000 students and staff were on the streets.

We turned right, onto Millbank. I met up with Kareem, who had postponed a studio session to join the action. “Where are we headed now?” he asked me. I wasn’t quite sure. And then I remembered.

“The Tory Party HQ!”

The energy was rising. We were walking, jogging, running. We were ready. And then we saw it.

To the right, a huge courtyard was packed with thousands of students, with thousands more still pouring in. In front of us, a huge glass building towered; it was the Conservative Party’s Headquarters, and it was under attack. The crowd was so tightly packed that even with the wheelchair, it was a huge effort to force our way through. Around half way we gave up. The crowd was swaying. “They’re smashing the windows...”

Me and Finlay looked at each other. We knew that we had to make it to the front. Kareem started pushing the wheelchair again, and Finlay cleared a path in front of us.

Two rows from the front of the crowd, I saw a close friend, Jonte. He grabbed my arm. “This is so tight, we are going to break the police line any moment now.” Me and Finlay went for one last push, and forced our way to the front. Five riot police stood in front of me, and they looked terrified. Their under-staffing is something that I now see as seriously suspicious. Perhaps the Metropolitan Police are keen to avoid the cuts the rest of us will suffer. “You want to go through?” one policeman asked me. “I want everyone to go through,” I replied. Red smoke billowed from flares, and shattered glass hung from what remained of the windows. The noise from the crowd was deafening. I could see that some students were already inside the headquarters.

It wasn’t long before the next surge came. A Mexican wave of bodies. I fell out of my wheelchair and pushed through two cops. Finlay stood behind me, the wheelchair still in his hands. The crowd continued to push. Below my hands, I could feel the smashed glass. The police were batoning the crowd, desperately trying to defend the Conservatives’ HQ. I tried to pull my way through, but my left leg was still trapped under two policemen. The crowd continued to surge. A demonstrator already inside the building grabbed my arms and pulled me through. I cannot describe the sense of achievement I felt at that moment.

Scores of demonstrators followed. Finlay came running in with the wheelchair a couple of minutes later. Victorious chants rang in the air; “Tory scum! Tory scum!” “When they say cut back, we say fight back!”

But then, the chants changed... “To the stairs! To the stairs!” Two policemen blocking a tiny door were soon brushed aside, and around fifty of us forced our way through before they had a chance to re-seal the entrance.

It was an epic mission to the top. Nine floors; eighteen flights of stairs. Two friends carried my wheelchair, and I walked. We couldn’t give up now.

When we finally made it to the roof, a feeling of calm descended. I looked over the edge; thousands of students, three massive bonfires and masses of passion still occupied the courtyard. The Tory’s HQ was on it’s last legs. And we were on the roof.

This is only the start.

I lasted approximately three days at University before dropping out. Clearly, it wasn’t my cup of tea.

Nevertheless, I do not appreciate seeing our education savagely sliced by a government of liars and thieves. In fact, they remind me a lot of the last government.

So after the “independent” Browne Report, written by former British Petroleum boss Lord Browne, recommended scathing education cuts and soaring tuition fees as a fair way of solving an economic crisis created by bankers and politicians, we decided to pay Business Secretary Vince Cable a call.

Twickenham was the location of Vince Cable’s surgery; after terrifying flashbacks of Week 1 of Life on Wheels, I decided to drive. I was being accompanied for the day by Christian, a cameraman-friend from Windfall Films, and we went to Twickenham an hour early, to scope out the target. There was a step to get in through the front entrance, but it was going to take more than wheelchair inaccessibility to halt this mission.

I had arranged to meet a group of around 25 students at a nearby pub, and I was impressed by the turn-out. Together, we were going to subject Vince Cable to the worst constituency surgery of his political career.

As 5pm approached, we made our way back towards Cable’s building. Myself, Christian and a few students from the local St. Mary’s University, which will be amongst the most badly affected by the cuts, walked straight through the front door. Several more students joined us inside, with their mouths gaffa-taped and holding placards expressing their disgust at Cable’s audacity. The rest of the students were setting up tents and chanting loudly outside. Cable told his office staff that he felt “intimidated” by the protest, and the police were immediately called.

Undeterred I demanded an appointment for myself, and Siobhan, a student from St. Mary’s. They had no choice but to relent, as the chanting outside continued.

As I walked into the small office Vince Cable was sitting in, they tried to not let Christian, who was filming events, come in with us. I explained that Christian was my carer and that I needed him to help me walk. Mr. Cable then demanded that the camera was switched off, but Christian secretly kept the film rolling...

“How can I help you?” Vince’s first question was his first mistake.

“The main reason I am here,” I began, “is because I am wondering how you can justify you and your party’s complete U-turn on tuition fees, from a position of promising to scrap them, to now not only not scrapping them, but to removing the upper limit so that Universities can charge whatever they like?”

“Well,” Vince replied, “I can justify that in several lies ways...”

“Because it seems to the public,” I continued, “that the Liberal Democrats have been transformed from a party that strongly oppose the Conservatives, into the Conservatives’ cheerleaders?”

“That’s just a lie!” Mr. Cable angrily responded, without providing any evidence as to why it was a “lie”.

When I suggested the fact that half of the deficit could be paid off simply by collecting the unpaid tax in the country, he again said that what I was saying was “simply not true”. I pointed out that Vodafone’s documented bill of £6 billion, still unpaid, suggested otherwise.

Vince Cable was clearly not my biggest fan, and began to engage with Siobhan instead, insisting that he would be happy to have a discussion with students from St. Mary’s University “at any time”, despite Siobhan’s claims that he had previously avoided them.

“Well I’m glad you’ve brought that up Mr. Cable,” I said, “because is it not true that you were due to give a talk at Oxford University two days ago, but after you heard that students were planning to protest outside, you cancelled your visit? If the students at St. Mary’s also decide to protest, will you cancel another visit?”

According to Mr. Cable, I was being “ridiculous”.

And then came the climax of the interview (although I suspect that “the grilling” would be a more appropriate term); Vince had been repeatedly making astonishing claims that students would not be paying more after the recommendations of the Browne Report, so I decided to ask a simple question:

“Will tuition fees increase?”

“Graduate contributions will increase,” Mr. Cable replied.

“OK, but will tuition fees increase?”

“Graduate contributions will increase.”

“Look, Mr. Cable, this is really just a yes or no question; will tuition fees increase?”

“I’ve told you, graduate contributions will increase!”

I wonder why Vince Cable was being so evasive? I wonder why he cancelled his trip to Oxford? I wonder why he told police that he felt “intimidated” by the students who occupied his office in central London a week before? What is it that Vince is so afraid of?

Considering that most of the other constituents in his surgery had been dismissed after five-minute appointments, I was fairly pleased with our half-hour bombardment. As I stood up to leave, however, I could not help but to ask one final question:

“What happened to the old, anti-Apartheid Vince?”

“He’s still here!” Mr. Cable replied, somewhat unconvincingly.

“So what do you think of Israeli apartheid?” I asked.

“Well,” he replied, “that’s another conversation for another time.”

“OK then, see ya next week Vince!”

Ni’lin really is a surreal place. When I first arrived in the small West Bank village that I would spend the next week in, I didn’t expect to see an orthodox Jewish settler getting his car fixed... I stared at him in complete disbelief, and he smiled and waved back. Stealing people’s land is one thing, but apparently it’s worth leaving them a little bit so that they can give you cheap rates for puncture repairs.

I walked further into the village, past the blood-stained butchers with cow-carcasses hanging in the front porches. A guy called out to me from a shop:

“Hey you! When did you arrive from Gaza?” I’d never seen the man in my life.

I met up with Saeed, a friend of a friend whose father used to organise the demonstrations against the Wall here, but was recently arrested and sentenced to over a year in prison, and I told him about the settler I had spotted. “You might see them coming in at the edges of the village,” he replied, “but they wouldn’t dare to come down to the centre!”

That evening, in his grandfather’s house, Saeed showed me videos that my eyes struggled to believe. Images of Aqil Srour, Ni’lin’s fifth martyr in just one year of their struggle against the Wall, bleeding from his heart. He had been murdered in cold blood by an Israeli soldier as he attempted to come to the aid of an injured youth, shot just seconds before by the very same soldier. Ironically, Aqil was present in every previous video. When the Israeli army tried to enforce a curfew upon the entire village in the summer of 2008, everyone was out in the streets, building make-shift road blocks and throwing stones at invading soldiers. It is this kind of militancy which we must take our inspiration from.

From the pictures, it looked like Ni’lin was a war-zone, or as Saeed remarked... “You don’t see this in Bil’in, do you?!”

On Friday we marched to the Wall, here comprising towering concrete blocks. The settlements surrounding Ni’lin are so close that they appear as if you could touch them... you can literally see the residents driving around in their 4x4s, and the sprinklers watering their gardens.

It was as I was observing this scene that the first shower of tear gas came raining down from the other side of the Wall. All the other demonstrators ran into the fields and trees to the right, but the restrictions of my wheelchair meant that I had to stay on the main path. A couple of minutes later, I saw the huge gate at the Wall sliding open, and a few seconds later I saw Israeli soldiers running through...

I quickly turned, and began progressing back up the hill. Unfortunately, I had made my move too late. I heard two soldiers behind me shouting for me to stop, and felt that running from armed, racist kids might be a mistake. When they caught up with me, they started ordering me, in Hebrew, to go down to the Wall where their base was. Two more soldiers came and after telling me to shut up started saying the same thing. Luckily, they eventually got distracted by the other demonstrators in the fields. So much shooting to do, and so little time. I used the opportunity to make a move.

I saw the news about the floods in Kashmir, and behind the headlines I see that comparisons are increasingly being drawn between stone-throwing Palestinian and Kashmiri youth. I predict that my conscience will compel me to travel to the region next. Unless, of course, we are successful in initiating our own uprising, and we make the streets of London our own battlefield in the global struggle for equality.

The fact that we managed to smuggle a Palestinian girl from Ramallah through an Israeli check-point proves an important point; the Wall that they have built around the West Bank is not for security, and never has been. It is purely a symbol of the system of apartheid that Israel is imposing on the Palestinians. The fact that she was pretending to be my sister, and “pushing” me in my wheelchair, may have also helped.

It was a first for both of us. Apart from some districts of Jerusalem, neither of us had ever ventured into Palestine ’48. I can’t say that I liked what I saw. From rooftops of certain villages in the West Bank, you can see the port of Haifa, but on rooftops in Haifa, the occupiers only stare out into the sea, choosing to ignore the suffering that their very presence here entails. They come in their droves from Russia and eastern Europe, without a thought for the refugee camps on the other side of the Wall. Ghettos, perhaps not dissimilar to the ones their grandparents used to live in.

So no wonder I saw tears in this Palestinian girl’s eyes when we arrived. She is a refugee from Fallujah; not the Iraqi town, but the Palestinian village... although both have suffered at the hands of imperialism.

We were staying with a Palestinian friend’s family, the only Arab family in the entire area. The neighbours have taken them to court to have them evicted, but through their steadfastness they have stayed. For once, racism hasn’t succeeded in the racist state.

It was the night of my twentieth birthday, so we walked down to the beach to swim in the warm, clear sea. One of the few places where all of life’s problems can be forgotten...

I’ll leave you hopeless like a /
Ethnic cleansing on the coast of Haifa /
My thought-stream flows in words so you know I’m a writer /
But not the type to... /
Spill ink I’d rather spill blood so I’m a fighter /
Not a scholar or a martyr /
Olive oil in my skin give me zeit or zartar /
Fight for equality, not for supremacy /
Dig a grave, bury our government’s legacy...

I had a feeling that the Mossad were about to pull something on me. It all seemed too easy, but when I finally got through all the “security checks” in Tel Aviv, I was told that my wheelchair had been left in Rome. They should know by now that it will take a lot more than a stunt like that to hold us back.

A frustrating 12 hours later, it was delivered to an address in Jerusalem. From there, everything was good to go. Not that I had a plan or anything.

But you don’t need a plan when you’re going home.

After reunions with my brothers and sisters in Sheikh Jarrah and Bil’in, I travelled to Balata refugee camp with my family from the Existence is Resistance Tour. Rest assured, revolutionary conversations were in abundance.

On the second night of our stay in the camp, Israeli Occupation Forces and settlers invaded the camp, and a huge green laser beam from a military base above guided them on their way. Drones flew in the sky, just in case someone was to look up and imagine freedom for a brief moment.

In reality, the occupation represents a night-time curfew for every single day of the year, for not a single soul walked the streets... except for the invaders.

I turned to Hurriyah, and saw a smile on her face. The break-dancing kids from Chicago were exclaiming in hushed tones that they were sure Israeli “tanks” were on their way, and trying to decipher the symbolism of the green lasers’ various angles and patterns.

But for Hurriyah, and even for me after a period of nine months living in occupied Palestine, these are a regular occurence. How can one define a “normal” life, when so many across the world live under oppression. Without a doubt, these struggles must be united if we are to ever succeed. But for the people living in such situations, it is simply home.

This week, I travelled through Paris, Lyon and Geneve on my way to Frankfurt in Germany, to meet Hamde, who I lived with for most of my time in Bil’in, Palestine. Six months was a long time, so now he’s more than a brother.

Although most of our three days together were full of happiness, there was a sad element to the trip as it made us remember the months spent together under the endless frustration of occupation. It was surreal to traverse through the streets of Frankfurt together, him riding a bike and me sitting on a wheelchair and holding onto the side. Dark with the night, but not a soldier in sight...

“Jody, how do the people here not understand?” Hamde asked. Sometimes I’m left asking myself the same question.

The seven Smash EDO activists from Brighton certainly understood what’s going on. As bombs rained down on Gaza last January, they broke into a factory building the weapons and caused £300,000 worth of damage. After eighteen months with two of the activists languishing in British jails, and the other five on bail, the trial finally came to an end. All seven were found not guilty on all charges. A victory...

So what are the rest of us waiting for?

A British judge and jury has just set the precedent, taking direct action to prevent war crimes is not illegal in this country. I don’t think we need a second invitation.

Frankfurt wasn’t the only place to bring back memories. In Lyon and Geneve I caught up with Patrice and Nesrine, both of whom I met during the epic trip around South America, and both of whom touched my heart in ways they will never even begin to understand.

As I swam in the lake in Geneve, I realised that not enough travelling was really taking it’s toll.

But the quote of the trip came from Charlie, an old friend from school now living in Paris, and one of the most apathetic unrevolutionary people you would ever meet...

“Oi Jody, if you ever go back out there, can you just tell Aviv to f*** off?”

That’s one way of describing a struggle for freedom and justice.

Hanging out with Hamde also made us remember Haitham, our ultimate “scrumping” partner, who unfortunately couldn’t be out there with us. Luckily, he made us a film to enjoy in his absence...

These days, I don’t like football as much as I used to. It must be the first time in my life that I haven’t experienced the feeling of excitement and suspense as the World Cup explodes into action. With England’s first game up against the USA, I had no choice but to go out proudly wearing my Scotland t-shirt. The crowds that had descended upon central London looked pretty confused.

As I stood outside a bar in Leicester Square at half-time, my skepticism in footballing culture was proved correct. As some Hare Krishna’s walked past, they were greeted with chants of “Who are ya? Who are ya?” and “Sit down shut up! Sit down shut up!” Really, the biggest possible criticism you could have of Hare Krishna’s is “they’re a bit crazy”, but I thought the treatment was a bit harsh for people who give out hot meals for free and meditate in a temple. It was particularly ironic to see one of the drunk fans shouting “Scum!” as the robed monks continued on their way.

This is my point – the line between nationalism and racism is too thin. Any nation that England loses to, and the list is extremely long, immediately becomes the target of the hatred of millions. Margaret Thatcher would probably have declared war over a dodgy penalty decision. I don’t see any reason to be proud of our flag – the English flag that has represented centuries of imperialism and colonialism for millions of people across the world. The same flag now being expropriated by the thugs of the so-called “English Defence League”, who unfortunately cancelled their march through Tower Hamlets this week-end. Unfortunate, because it would have been the end of the EDL.

With the clash of the two world-ruiners a big disappointment, I was pleased to see that England’s second encounter offered me a lot more choice for support, in the form of Algeria. A trip to Edgware Road was the order of the day, and I’ve never been so happy to see a 0-0 draw. My brother had also just finished his GCSE exams, so there were two reasons to celebrate. I sounded my car horn in appreciation for most of the journey home.

The next day, I was back in the area for a festival on Golborne Road. The police had a tent inappropriately set-up, teaching kids how to fingerprint themselves. As Lupe Fiasco would say, “give ‘em gum, give ‘em guns, get ‘em young, give ‘em fun!” George Orwell would be turning in his grave.

The Metropolitan Police... yet another reason not to be proud of my country. Or as Lupe concludes:

“...they ain’t living properly /
break ‘em off a little democracy /
turn their whole culture to a mockery /
give ‘em Coca-Cola for their property...”

As if the World Cup hadn’t given me enough food-for-thought, I then heard the news that thousands of South Africans had been evicted from their homes and relocated to Blikkiesdorp, which the residents have described as a concentration camp, to make way for the construction of new football stadiums. So, it seems that Coca-Cola will be the only real victors in the “tournament of dreams”.

Saturday 5th June 2010, outside the Israeli Embassy at a demonstration of 20,000 people, London:

“Five months ago, I was sitting on the beach in Gaza, watching the waves of the Mediterranean lapping onto the shore. If I was to return to Gaza today, the sea would be tinged red, with the blood of the innocent civilians murdered...

On Monday May 31st, at 1.30am, I was sitting on the front steps of a friend’s house in south London, when a man walked past asking for a cigarette. His name was Glen, and he lived in a home for people with mental disabilities just a few doors down. But not even a schizophrenic, would be able to think of an excuse for the crimes that Israel has committed in this week. Not even a lunatic would dare to justify the slaughter of humanitarian workers, as they deliver aid to a besieged population.

This is the greatest tragedy Israel has ever seen. This is the final nail in the coffin. But it seems that the Israeli government are keen to prolong their farewell, so now, we must double, we must triple our efforts. And I ask Mr. Netanyahu, I ask Mr. Obama, I ask, our Prime Minister, Mr. David Cameron... how many more? How many more must spill their blood? How many more must sacrifice their lives? But one thing is for certain... for every one that falls, a hundred will rise in their place, a thousand more will raise their voices in condemnation, and a million more will dedicate their lives to the struggle for freedom for Palestine!”

As I was sitting on the steps of my close friend Fifi’s house in Catford, south east London, at around 1.30am, a man walked past asking for a cigarette. Fifi politely obliged.

He came and sat down on the floor next to us, and Glen, as he introduced himself, turned out to live in a home for people with mental disabilities just a few doors down. He told us about the maltreatment of people living there, which could well have been true, and his plan to set up a system of cameras to catch the staff as they carried out their dirty work.

However, as Glen spoke with us for the next couple of hours, it quickly became clear that his grasp of reality was extremely thin. He was clearly very anxious, suffering from extreme paranoia and believed that, to quote him, “the air is actually poisonous”. He was a nice guy, and I always believe in treating all people in a decent manner, no matter what their disability, but one thing was certain, you take stories from a schizophrenic with a pinch of salt.

After the actions that have taken place this week, “lunatic” is the only word that can be used to describe the State of Israel. I arrived home from Fifi’s at three o’clock in the morning, to find out that the Freedom Flotilla, which many of my friends were aboard and I was very close to travelling with myself, had been brutally attacked by the Israeli military, with several people murdered.

A lunatic will find a story to justify every action he/she takes, no matter how outlandish or outrageous, and Mark Regev, spokesman for the Israeli government, was on hand, as always, to fill the role.

“...the hardcore extremists on the boat...a blockade is a legitimate tool...”

After all, every circus needs a clown.

Let’s just put this into context. This boat was in international waters! No further questions need to be asked. We can ignore the fact that this was a humanitarian aid mission, we can ignore the fact that it’s aim was to break a siege that the UN and every government in the world has condemned time and time again, we can even ignore the fact that there were less “weapons” on that boat than you would find in your average household kitchen! The underlining fact is, Israel have broken international law, maritime law, and committed a massacre.

I can only hope that this will be the beginning of the end of Israel’s crimes. No-one could have predicted this. Even Glen would have been stupefied.

Returning to London, without any plans to think of, apart from reading books and taking down quotes which may come to some use in the future, has been a chance for me to reflect back on what I can only describe as a life-changing eighteen months.

If one thing is for certain, I would say that travelling the world instills in you a set of unshakable moral and ethical beliefs. For me, my priorities are clear. Honesty above all.

I am sure that there will be times when I’m attacked for telling the truth, not least in situations on when the people on the other side of the fence are so intent on maintaining untruths, but I still believe in it.

As Malcolm X once said, “You’re not to be so blind with patriotism that you can’t face reality. Wrong is wrong, no matter who does it or says it.”

As is often the case at a time like this, lyrics were the first thing to come to my mind...

I’m furious... your lies are becoming so spurious /
Judge me, but we got the jury with us /
And uslee*, from Lebanon, where they leave cluster bombs /
From Beirut where the soldiers shoot /
It’s like a pattern and you’re following suit /
It’s like the sheep run now you’re following who? /
I can’t avert my eyes from all the lies /
Or hidden secrets you can call them whatever you like /
Like a refugee running from his UK-built camp /
But when he reach the “free land” you turning him back /
The one time he reach out and you turn your back /
Now it’s far too late for turning back /
Take it back to the start /
Wonder why it fell apart /
Shoot the messenger, but who really broke their heart /

*Arabic for “my roots / originally”