What is in a name?
That is a question I have been struggling with my entire life. When someone asks me my name, why do I always answer “Moh”? That is not the name my parents gave me. They named me Mohammad.
Identity is a funny thing. It’s a concept I have wrestled with for years, growing up as the born product of refugees from a land I’m told is no longer mine. Growing up in white schools and white neighbourhoods, I tried to be more like everyone else, but some things can’t just be shaken. I’m brown.
When I go through airport security, I’m a young brown man with an Arab name. When I click submit on that online job posting, I’m a young brown man with an Arab name. When I check off the ‘visible minority’ box on every form I fill out, I’m a young brown man with an Arab name.
And when I walk the streets of Palestine, I’m a young brown man with an Arab name, only this time, I’m the norm.
So what about here? Canada? My place of birth? One of my homes?
The truth is, I’m still a young brown man with an Arab name, and that’s not going to change no matter how much I travel or where I go.
So, for the kids in Canada named Mohammad that bring weird lunches to school, I guess what I’m trying to say is: be you. Embrace it, because that doesn’t change.
And when the time comes when they ask you your name, tell them what makes you comfortable. But if you shorten it like I did, make sure it’s because you want to, don’t do it for others. Your name, your identity, that’s your home, no matter where you are.
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Biography:
Mohammad Mousa is a 23 year old Palestinian-Canadian, born and raised in Ottawa, Ontario. He graduated from the University of Ottawa in 2015 with a major in Conflict Studies and Human Rights, lived and worked in the West Bank, and plans to continue on to graduate studies in a related field within the next year.
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Synchronicity: When an unnoticed occurrence begins to manifest within the backdrop of your day-to-day. You become conscious of the trend - hanging in the blind spot - only discerned through a series of vaguely causal chains. And then suddenly... it is everywhere.
Graffiti art in Ottawa is the ruffled feather of a beautiful bird, semi-migratory and ethically hawkish. It can be at times intelligible, intolerable, unconventional, profitable, political, and for those who take to the streets with running shoes and aerosol cans, liberating.
Who are these composers, writers, vandals? They leave teardrops and halos, horns and crosses. They sign their names in an indecipherable fashion to the untrained eye. They run with cliques so influence, geography, and prestige can be flaunted.
AGNS, RACER, PAT BUCK, MARO, MOPES, BUSTA,
NESPA, FALL DOWN, DRIPPING SOUL, MYRAGE,
BOSKO. NFNC, SKC, OMB, & 925.
Artists, outlaws, acclaimed citizens.
At all hours traversing this town, seeking out shadows and fresh canvas. The usual places are known to all, spots are first come, first serve, and generally recyclable. Most are part of groups sharing tags, territory, and often personal ties.
They start young, having grown up in local burrows watching construction and gentrification redefine municipal lines. There is a formative drive to see their name, their art, up on the Ottawa forum. Many who start tagging are a part of, or have friends who are involved with, the hip hop community. The music, dancing, drugs, and rhetoric highlight anti-authoritarian motives, but unpermitted street art can be about more than defacement.
Breaking the rules is frequently inherent when starting out, though Ottawa does host several open spaces (Tech Wall and the infamous HOP). Even here, a certain code-of-conduct is instructed via interaction. Unspoken, there is no rule book for tagging, but respect plays an integral role. Don’t paint over what you can’t improve; and don’t get caught.
All real estate follows a central rule. Location. Ottawa offers much in terms of architecture and unique (if not bizarre) district planning. Yet the dismal lacklustre of dirty concrete echoes the sentiment that even the grimiest canvas could look better splayed out and bespattered. Artists aforementioned claim that their initiation came by dropping their autograph anonymously among their communities and daily stomping grounds. A form of community expression, many spectators would agree it improves the scenery.
Prestige comes with productivity and skill, with renown given for their reach, upkeep, and area saturation. Though first attempts seem heinously manufactured, eventually each writer discovers a voice, sometimes even their own. Note: Emulation is flirtatious, but imitation can be rejected despite naive intention.
A seasoned artist will eventually find themselves settling for a font or iconography over longer periods of time. Rehearsal develops signatures, habits that others can recognize no matter the authorial experimentation. With practice and access to preferred caps/paint, truly resplendent pieces have graced this city in hidden corners, forgotten by urbanity and artist alike. Masterpieces charming masses; no love for the AKA.
As a matter of course, independent business owners and locals in-the-know have begun to identify the value of such capabilities. Artisans who have done nothing but pay for the privilege of paint, are now bought out to plaster beauty. Painters can find themselves offered lucrative contracts to proffer their work with the community. The projects are large-scale and regularly undervalued, but it serves to melt the puzzle-piece outline that envelopes so many turn-over locations.
In the same breath, the city will offer substantial remuneration to pre-certified artists for “public works”. A mural doled out on tax monies in the support of marginalized groups is recouped from $600 tickets given to people spending their below-LICO paychecks on spray paint and fines.
Not all graffiti is community driven. Recollections are blemished by indignant curses, slurs, and grossly misconstrued genitalia. Unfortunately, in recent memory this includes instances of fear-mongering, racial degradation, and hate speech.
Graffiti is a public echo, which re-beats the triggered pulse of the community. It carries political weight, whether intentional or not. Our society demands accountability for incitement towards hate, but can often seek to destroy the means of communication in the process. These phlegms of rage do not reflect who we are, nor the ones who deal in premeditated visions.
This medium has prevailed for millennia due to the passion of cast-aside individuals who risk livelihood, and at times, freedom to offer the rest of us emotions too big for canvas. They who are chased down, tackled, charged, pilloried, and punished for the tenacity to share their talents. Their work rarely lasts longer than that first snowfall, and the only glory that can be reveled in belongs to a pseudonym and the city to which it belongs. For those who notice their shifting backdrop, respect is a small recompense.
// images by Bust It Away Photography
I shop differently than I used to. I also don't pay for many things anymore. I guess knowing of the incredible treasures to be found in the garbage can lead to that real quick.
I went through a phase once of spending lots of money on wellness shit and organic food. I was making a fair bit of money during this time so it worked. Then life happened, I became frugal (raiding clearance sections ayyy), and began to spend less and less. Later I spent all my money on yoga and travel. Money became a limited resource. Lucky for me, some great souls spoke of dumpster diving in a way that gave me the confidence to try it. And so I did, and my first night at it I pulled out three full boxes of organic produce in seconds (high score yo). It’s kind of a super power. Just last night I was walking down Bronson and found a great Columbia sleeping bag in some sidewalk garbage bin which I then slept in that same night
“That's nice”, you say. Indeed it is. Not worrying about money as much has done wonders. Being able to travel almost money-less was a magical experience. I don’t pay for food very often anymore (at least when I have time to cook, lately that’s been a challenge). My line of work in food waste recovery and redistribution on campuses helps out a fair bit when times get tough, but that aside, I know the ways.
Consider this: walking down the produce section, you notice many a blemish on assorted sections of produce. People seem to be averse to said blemishes, so there is a fair expectation that they may be thrown away. So, all those apples and tomatoes are basically garbage that hasn’t made its way to the compactor yet. But wait! See all those other shiny pristine pieces of granny smiths about? Imagine a third or so will be tossed, too. Now stop imagining and understand that a third of those grannies (or some other significant amount) will be tossed as well. Likewise for all the other produce. And those cosmetics. And the packaged food items. And meat and dairy and bread. Basically, a lot of it will end up in the garbage, compacted or recoverable in the bags in the dumpster (heheh).
This is what I see in grocery stores. I see inevitable waste (I see other things, too). And then I go around back when the sun sets and it’s all right there. And I can have it. Only this time I don’t have to pay for it. And I get a workout out of it (diving is quite laborious, let me tell you). It's a predictable series of events happening every day in almost every food selling establishment. And it makes me gag. I don’t need that many containers of yogurt, or 20 different bottles of assorted supplements and herb powders in capsule form. Or eye shadow. A bunch of kale, some root veggies and a loaf of bread will do me well. Think broccoli is scary? Imagine having to decide whether to drag two dozen heads back home or take one and accept that it will be wasted. You get over it pretty quick though; you’d be dead before you can carry that much home.
Maybe they should give it away or something. Maybe to their employees. Could be a thing to try.
// image by Rohit Anand