M’Hamed Issiakhem

M’Hamed Isiakhem is a very famous Algerian artist; he was born in June 17, 1928. As he was a little kid , during World War II, he saw the allied forces invading the country, as Algeria was a French colony at that time. His curiosity led him to run after one American military truck and jump inside of it to steel something that he wanted to play with. He was happy with his new toy and went away balancing it from one hand to another until suddenly a big explosion blasted his left hand away. He then realized that he just lost most part of his left hand and the toy was in fact a little bomb. That was the shock of his life, which reflected on most of his work. A signature of a hand and a touch of sorrow, characterize most of his marvels. That is why his style went more into a tragic abstracted expressionism, which is now the tendency of many of his followers in the land of unique artists, our mother Algeria.

He died in December 1, 1985 from cancer but his art will live to eternity. Just before he died he said his famous words:" A country without artists is a dead land; a society is forever in a vital need for creative artists". The meaning of these words are more appreciated if you keep in mind that in Algeria at that time, artists were not well considered as they do now.




For more on Issiakhem, please do follow this link… (In French of course).


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The Queen of Love

     To the Girl that marveled me with her words…To the Queen of  love I

          wrote this…



I heard a whisper, down in the east,

Telling the story of a broken nest;

Ramble of a soul, seeking for a rest,

Murmur of the time, love is never lost.


There is a bloom, that does not fade,

Not found in Eden, nor glow of Jade;

It is a blossom that roots in love,

Roses and lilac in the sky above.


Sultan of the names, the Queen of love,

Eyes of gazelle, the blink of a dove;

Moon of the smiles, in a clear night,

Heart full of love, to forever bright.


Sitting at her window, gone with her mind,

Curly black hair, unique in her kind;

Round of the face, traces of a sorrow,

Away with her dreams, flying in tomorrow.


A suitcase in a corner, lonely in her room,

Waiting for the rise, hushed praying her doom;

Eyes in the sky, Yovna star of my Queen,

Early in her trip, at station sixteen.


She loved true, pouring all her tide,

Gave him the best from a deep pride;

Failed her trust, dumped her to sears,

Leaving the rest, to a flow of tears.


To ever he shall vanish, in hell he shall burn,

On him she put a spell, never he will return;

A dance from the stars, singing her a tune,

Her fate yet to claim, the Queen of her throne.


Her love a word of honor, no fickle no tweak,

Her liver knows the fire, her heart a single seat;

Ears on her door, waiting for her knight,

A trip on her wish, a blast into the bright.


In the day of twenty-two, month of December,      

Two of the thousand, five made the lumber;

A story of my Queen, words made the ample,               

Her love is her truth, a mark on her temple.




Yovna: A star where I beleave all ma family members souls will converge. 


The QUEEN OF LOVE is a 16 years old girl somewhere in the middle east, the space of whom can be found here: http://spaces.msn.com/members/shoosh21/

She was dumped in her true deep love and, seeking for a beam of hope, she sprays magic words in her Blog. It is in Arabic and that is why I came up with these few words to take her voice beyond the language barriers. 


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Jailed in Paradise



It goes and it goes, for it will never end; this random motion of space that keeps me jailed in a tiny cubic entity of time. It had rocked in all the directions and rolled down through all the bumpy hills and cliffs. Its carcass has been restless bouncing and turning my world around in a tornado of days. This vacuum of existence that keeps me captive in the middle of an agitated flow of doom is squeezing my ribs to suffocation. Its walls of a dimmed glass raised tall all around, wrapping my little share of fate, keeping me fighting for a grip of clamber. Never could I enjoy the chance to reach up to the heights or even make it above the ground, failing to resist the temptation of following my weight in its way to the lower abyss of the western side of my sphere. I look around and scrutinize the tiny number of corners that form my world, looking for a sign of hope. My eyes roll back of desperation and my brain get seized into a loop of confusion.  

Everything is so silent and the silence resonates in a sound of a high river falls. It could be that my ears have had a drop of deafness and they are now diving into a cave of illusions, as I can see a rain of challenges sliding down against the other side of my glassy walls. In the center of my little garden, a tree stood up tall and rife with its branches leaning down, heavy with perished hours and minutes. The prophecy written on my skull is about to spread out its wings and the story of father Adam is in its way to repeat itself.  

I have a hunger for the survival and I have been starving since my first cry. I have a thirst for life but my Eden has been a dry oasis of dunes and stony hills. How did I come here? What is the purpose of this endless struggle? What is it this phenomena that led me to end up under the roof of this lamentation gable? What are all these graves that populate my little territory? Is this my promised land or have I lost the trail of my people? 


I open my eyes and try to broaden them wide, but under the heavy burden of the dream they fail to obey and stay half open. I lift my head above my hallucinations and look through my glassy walls in an effort to have a glance from the outside world. It is deep dark and very heavily raining. A jungle of dense vegetations and tall trees surrounds the place. No sign of life and no movement of any living being except for the trees that are waltzing at the music of the angry winds. I am alone in the middle of nowhere and I never had any choice to come here. I am lonely in this lost corner and I have no memories of any past or even any present. What did bring me here to this lost piece of fate? Am I taking part of a reality or my era is over? What is happiness if I have to spend my time in this closed garden?  Is this a waiting room for the unknown? What am I waiting for and what is it that will make of me a living being?  


The pain of lamentations is so painful that my head is now so heavy and falls down over my chest. My left hand tries to escape and run away from my body but it does meet in its way the big toe of my left foot. My hand is caressing my foot while suddenly drops of blood come out of my nose and cover my bony feet. The blood cumulates all around in a form of a little lake. The branches of the tree make a disturbing noise. They are trying to lean down in an effort to go even lower than what their flexibility can allow and I can hear some of them being broken. With their leaves, the tree branches reach down to my lost blood and go on sucking it in a very slow motion. My tree of life is trying to save the blood of my family in a gesture of last hope, seeking to recover my perished bequest. The tree pulls back its branches and they now stand tall and high red of blood. Each leaf has got a drop of my blood and fall colors are now covering the tree of my life. A big noise of a mixture of laughter, screaming, crying and calling for help, comes out of the tree. All the sounds are so confusedly mixed with each other in a form of a symphony of weeping that vibrates all around my little jail. I lift up the eyes toward the tree to see that each leaf of it has changed to a human face. They are all faces of me at different moments and years of my life. I can see my baby faces and I can see my other child, teenager and adult faces as well. They all seem to be struggling against something and each one of them looks so brave and innocent. I cannot see these faces anymore and I close my eyes while hiding my head between my chest and my arms. The noise keep on targeting my ears and after a while they hush down and I finally can find some peace and feel every part of myself again. They are all still with me and soon they will be taken away by one of those tree boughs. This is me, and all these parts all together are what make of me this jailed being. My legs, my arms, my head, and all these parts that I have at my disposal are what seem to be me, the living entity that is trapped in this garden. They are all sentenced to keep me company until the end of time. We are all stuck in this green house with no glimpse of any beam of sun that could chase the darkness of this paradise.


Everything is painfully silent and the noise of anxiety bells is yawning into my ears. I try to dive into a trip of doze in an attempt to flee away from this reality. I let it down trying to pretend that nothing is really happening and I do still have the power to ignore this state of mind. It is silent, scarily silent, and all the tension of this endless struggle is falling down all around my shoulders that I start to taste the honey of a slight relief. Time is taking a break and the existence is having a nap. Everything is fine, now that I am able to go out of this flow and be part of a parallel reality, where I have a better control of my surroundings. I stay there willingly and I love the feeling of freedom that I can enjoy away from myself.


Suddenly and from the end of no beginning, I can hear a laughter coming out from somewhere around or that is what I think so. I am not certain if I am drunk of this surreal moment or it is indeed a genuine laughter. I try to turn off my thinking and lift my hearing above my ears, unleashing the hope in an effort to distinguish what seems to be coming down from the roof above. A woman voice is sending bursts of laughter that seem to come out from different directions. I can’t believe it that I now finally have some company in this lost corner.

Is anybody there?

I keep quiet and I am waiting while feeding my thoughts with hopes of desperation. Silence hammers my head and, having received no echo, I finally give up and get ready to fly back into my parallel reality. As I am ready to do so, I get pulled back by the woman voice saying something that I could not discern. The voice does indeed exist and I now have no doubt about it.  

Where are you? Who are you? Are you there?

Bubbles of a scattered cry come out of my chest and drift away from my throat at the idea that finally I am no more alone in this forgotten emptiness. A reverberation clears out its way to my circle and the ground under my feet gets shaken up that I felt daisy.

Yes my Son, I am here; don’t you see me?

She calls me my Son, although I never had any memory of any Mother that I could reference myself to. Is my Mother back to save me and make it to me for all the long lost years? Is my mother back to give me the breast that will nourish me happiness and piece of mind? Do I finally have a Mother that will bring my world together and make of me a Mortal? Tears blind my eyes and all my body members enter into a total confused motion that left me between trying to stand up or keep frozen in my bulked position.

Mother, are you there?

Yes my Son.

Are you my Mother? Why I can’t see you?

I am here my Son; don’t you feel my whisper?

No Mother, I don’t see any sign of you, but I still can feel the pain of your loss. Where are you? What is your name? Why you’re always absent when I have been looking for you since I remember? Isn’t the place of a Mother always by her Son?

I am here my son and I was always around. My name is Destiny and I am the only mother you have ever had. I have the heart for you and I never left you alone. I made your days and a darkened your nights. I heard your cries and I counted your tears. I have the bosom full of your love and I always loved to play with you. I saw you growing and I paved your path. I counted your steps and I cleaned your way. I lightened your candles and I shaped your shadow. I am your definition and I am the source of all your events. I am your so beloved Mother; I am your Destiny.

She laughs and her voice comes out clear and sound.

Holly Mother, my beloved Destiny, I am so happy to have you back.  Please forgive the tears and the shaking, as I don’t know how a Son should feel about his Mother.

What do you want my Son? What can I do for you?

Holly Mother, sweet Destiny; I am tired and my horses are starving hunger. I am drained, and my angel guests are knocking on my eternal doors. There in my land, my cows are dry and my milk is lean; my goats are gloating, and I must go there to enter the woods. The voice of my inside is full of that cry that never could make it to the free. I want to go back to those days, those moments when I could not see the clouds that were to cover my trees. How many streets I loved and how many corners talked with my name? My heart was beating energy and the soul was for the gorgeous sunset. Reddish illumination talking about love and the shadow of love took all my dreams. The woods, the roads, the hills and those brave mountains made the conversations and I was the child and the knight. My tears used to shake the stones and the street dogs rested on my legs. The butterflies guided me to the eternal food and the graves kept me company. Where are those green fields? Where are those wild wolves? Could they send some of their magic and let that early morning fog embrace my weary grown bosom? The distances were so short and the sight never took it from my knees; hills and valleys welcomed me when I was the master of the lands. What was in me those nights when I slept my back to that lost tree; it was a deep sleep that harmonized with the down creek’s talking. It was darkness that showed the bright light; it was so warm when hunger hugged me in the days and said its prayers in the nights. Bread was so tasty and those blessed olives were so sweet. The birds of those lands learned my songs at the rhythm of the frogs that meditated on the down side. There was no headache and there was no roughness, it all was part of my world and they were my sole family.

Heavy clouds of silence invades my jail and the voice of my Mother has faded away behind the dusk. The winds outside have lifted their blowing to a higher level and the branches of the trees are striking against my glassy walls. A storm was born and its noise is more and more threatening.

Mother, are you there?

The winds blow and pass by the roof of my jail in a symphony of anger. Noise of branches and flying twigs hammering the outside of my glassy walls come out loud and sound. Fear has sent its army to invade my little world. I am now at the mercy of her majesty QUEEN OF FEAR, and powerless as I am in my jail, I keep silent in my corner. The hope in my heart and the memories in my head are holding me alive, while waiting for the return of my Mother. My thoughts go to those faces of me that are hanged on the branches of my tree of life. When will they rest in peace? What is their guilt that they have to endure my fate? Each one of them seems to have come at the wrong time in the wrong place. No one of them had any choice to be one of mine. If I only had the power to change the decoration and the weather of this jail, I would make of those faces of mine fruits of happiness. I would color each one of them with a flower of a single species. The tree of my life would be a Blue Lilac with its flowers eternally fresh and rife. This is the human being and the way it was created. Although it came with such a complicated logic, everything of it and each law governing its logic seems to be made the wrong way.

The words in my thoughts continue to flow and they now form a river of dreams in my heads. The words talk and select the vocabulary at the best of their ability, but they will never say it enough and the questions will blossom in my inside, adding to the hell of pain that I have been enduring since my first sob.


While absorbed by my tranquility a whisper comes to my left ear and pulls me out of my sleep. My mother’s voice is back and she is telling me something. Hope comes back to my chest and I jump out of my dream.

Mother, are you there?

My Son, I am here and I never went away.

Where are you Mother? Why I can’t see your face?

Nobody can see the face of his Destiny my Son.

But Mother, I need you.

I am here my Son and I will never let you down.

Suddenly I could distinguish a human shape suspended in the air. A very long dark brown hair covers her right side and it is so long that it is waving around the feet level. The face is hidden behind a smoke of fog, but the rest of the body is clear except for the feet that seem to be not there. A long dress colored with a breath taking sky blue color, adorned with little forms here and there in very elegant embroidery. A perfume of lilac came into my nose and filled my lungs with a sensation of safety.

Mother, I want to get out of this jail and run away from this garden.

My Son, why you want to run away from your Mother’s place? Isn’t the home of a child by the side of his Mother?

Mother, I want to be free and fly like a bird to wherever the winds will take me. I want to restructure my moments and sweep the tears of the child I was. I want to get my family back under the same roof and sit among them, while listening to my grandfather’s legacy. I want our land to flourish and our meadow to wave with fresh grass. I want to hear the voices of my people calling each other with words of love. I want to hear the sound of our cows coming back to fill our buckets with spring milk. I want to hear the flow of the creek of our meadow. I want to hold the hand of my father and take him back home where my Mother is waiting for dinner. I want to say words of love and devotion to sisters and brothers that I will have. I want to stand at the highest summit of our land and look around and say: “this is me and this is the life that I always wished”.

My Son, those are indeed beautiful dreams.

No, I want them to be reality. I want to live the life I myself choose.

Not yet my Son; not yet.

Mother, I am tired of waiting and I am tired of this garden; can’t you just take me in your arms and fly away from this place? Aren’t you my Mother destiny?

Not yet my Son; not yet.

How long I have to suffer this situation? How long I have to endure the pain of this garden?

You have to wait until the last of your journey faces get possessed by a leaf of your tree of life. You have to wait until your heart get dried from its blood while suffering your lamentations. You have to wait until your tears drop and poure down in a flow that will end up digging the path for a river that will make your tree grow to its final height. You have to wait until each of your family members take a ride to his grave one after another. You have to wait until you see your legs no more able to carry your mushy body. When your voice will not be of any help for you to send a hum of pain, then and only then, I will come back and take my lovely Son away from this place. But until then my dear lonely Son, you will stay where you are, jailed in this paradise.

A strike of energy pinches my body and I jump out of my bulked position. I stand up on my feet and I run toward my Destiny trying to catch a piece of her. She vanishes away and I end up the face against the western glassy wall of my jail. I go on punching the wall with both of my fists trying to break its glass, while screaming as high as my voice could breathe out: You are not my Mother. You are not my Destiny. Soon or late, I will find the way to get out of this paradise. I have always defied you and I never accepted your arrogant fate. Nothing could ever happen in my life without a fight and I will fight again and again. I will give you the best of the fights that you ever had. I will run out of here and I will free myself from this paradise”.

A scattered sound of laughter vanishes in the air and she disappears.


    The words will suffer, but they will never say it enough



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Saint Augustine

St-Augustine is a great Christian theologian known for his bright philosophical style and level of thinking. Among his works the confessions and the city of God. He was born in the 13th of November 354 after J.C in MADAURE in the vicinity of Thagaste (my native town). He lived and studied as a child in Thagaste where he stayed until he was designated as the Bishop of Hippone where he died in 430.

I do share the pride with my Ancestor Augustine of being born in the same place and from the same Berber blood.




Notice: For more information about St-Augustine please do visit this web link:
It is the most detailed and well organized web site dedicated to Augustine that you can find at this moment.
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Etienne Dinet

Alphonse Etienne Dinet is a French artist who was born in 1861 within a rich family in Paris. He traveled to Algeria, which was a French colony at that time; first in 1883 as a visitor but then he returned in 1884 to stay as a permanent resident. He fell in Love with the Algerian Sahara and in 1905 he chose to live in the beautiful city of Bou-Saada at the door of the Algerian Desert. He met an Algerian Friend (Slimane Ben Brahim Baâmar ) from the Berber tribe of  Ouled Nail. Their friendship was so tight that it allowed him to be introduced among the people of his friend’s tribe. He succeeded to learn the local language, which helped him to be accepted into the intimacy of the tribe and be considered as one of them. He painted the daily life and the traditions of his adoptive people. He even decided to convert to Islam and changed his name to Nassr-Eddine Dinet. He went for a pilgrim to Mecca in April 2, 1929 and as he returned to France from his pilgrim he died in the same year in Paris. He was buried according to his final wishes in the city of Bou Saada among his adoptive family.




For more information please do visit these web links if however you can make it in French as well.








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Letter to Myself


Take the ride Jade, time for you to leave,

Pack your sorrow and sip your cup of pain;

No food you need, only your stick to heave,

A traveler you’re born, a nomad you’ll remain.


Voices in your head, screaming the loud,

The heart pinching the pain of a story;

A throat in choke, hushing the sound,

A breath in your deep, so alert in worry.



Take the ride Jade, time to start the fight,

Battle hiding the next, bleeding you’ll survive;

Broken of a heart, the strength of a knight,

Fighter you’re born, warrior you’ll thrive.


Turn your face to the sparkling stars,

Yovna your mother shining the lime;

A mark on the sky for each body scars,

That now is your turn for a crumb of time.


Get it from the end of the never,

Take it, it was always yours;

Jump high and crossover the hover,

Climb the walls and align it to your course.


Throw that cry and wash your face with the sun,

Tears of fate, water for all doom of life;

Have your thoughts for those left in the gone,

Torn in your deep, your stem thirsty for a rife.


I have a pity for you and I do,

I have a word for you and I do really do;

I have prayers for you and I will always do,

A rock of your kind is a garden of all the do.


The volcano over that hill is red of threat,

A sound of a thunder darkening your sight;

Winds waved your trees, music notes of fret,

Your land is arid, time to start your fight.


Get out of this snaky yellow labyrinth,

Free yourself from this flood of the days;

Swim the mud and reach up to your strength,

Clean up your eyes, for they will fade the grays.


This drum that I hear, itching me for a dance,

I can’t move, if only I could pray my hips;

This song waving me for a remembrance,

I can’t scream, if only I could beg my lips.


Take the ride Jade, go down beyond that shield,

The unknown is a silence, a hive of murky sweet;

Run free, race the wind through that grassy field,

You can do it Jade, it’s only your rusty feet.





 Yovna : A star where I believe all my family souls will converge.

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A Train Ride



My bag shallow and dry, pocket empty in sorrow,

Hunger starving the pride, my hopes food of tomorrow;

Nowhere asked the day, the train has made the sound,

The path searched the way, for who lost in the crowd.


The train rushing the smooth, tearing hills and mountains,

Tunnels bearing the weights, dusk playing the curtains;

Fields jade of the bliss, winter had left the place,

Calves playing with cows, a smile brightened my face.


Trees sitting the quiet, warming feeling the sun,

Snow browned the twigs, nature spell of the fun;

That farm saying the words, a home love of the sight,

Horses hearing the song, lonely seeking a knight.


The heart wide in delight, the eyes know where to rest,

The wish praying the hopes, may they give me the best;

My kismet I have to chase, for a share I got a thirst,

The egg called the chicken, did you or was I the first.


Dove brought me the news, with eyes blinking the beauty,

Child, smile of my dream, green eyes, gift of the Mighty;

My knees bending the rust, belly thrive to escape,

My hair steeling the grays, body went out of shape.


Bechihi I got a stem, Tayeb named the pride,

Father heart of my grief, to Yovna he took a ride;

My fate queen of my path, on me she put a spell,

My years she took the days, of nights she made a hell.


Queen death haunting my thoughts, a bell voicing the sound,

Whisky last of my toast, a rope ashes to ground;

Yovna queen of the stars, my fate stone of my ring,

This mist shall clear the sight, Ashley the best will bring.





 In the train traveling from Lausanne (swizerland) back to Salzburg; it tells about the trip and my state of mind.




Bechihi: Relative to Ouled-Bechih the name of my Berber family Tribe (Native people of Norrth Africa). It is the biggest tribe in my native town region .

Tayeb:    My beloved father who gave his life for freedom before my second spring. 

Yovna:    A star where I believe all my family Souls will converge.

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