“The Task is to Warn You”

I once tasked myself with building a small, disciplined revolutionary organization in Israel and the United American that could strike at human traffickers and or oligarchs as readily as it could train medical workers in zones of atrocity and deprivation or war. It was like herding drunk cats first of all. The State forces never even ever needed to repress it. I turned abroad to find my Fidel as it were. I liked the general idea of Che, I sought to apply myself as the revolutionary and the medical worker hand in hand. First, I went to Palestine and saw the nasty apartheid wall. I noticed the moral sickness as well in Israeli society, but this flirtation with a drunken peace process waned as I got older. In 2010 I was deported for good from Israel. Second, I went to Haiti and wet my hands with the blood of 316,000 plus or minus who died in the great quake. My otriad trained hundreds and it was here I developed the basic idea of medical capacity building, mass capacity building and remote application of Cuban medical internationalism. Then, I sucked in my chest and got ready for the death I thought immanent Syrian Civil War. I couldn’t look away from the atrocities in Aleppo. Then, reading of Democratic Confederalism I came to understand that most of my own rhetoric was being implemented by the PKK and its allies, following the mandate of Abdullah Ocalan, imprisoned by the Turks forever on Imrili Island…merciless Turks.
This organization which seemed to re-spawn itself in varying configurations eventually managed to outlive its purpose once we discovered Kurdistan. It now seemed superfluous. Almost an anachronism to see American allies as useful. Except as directly in the fight. For these endless agitations were all very fourth rate compared to the advanced Worker’s Party in the mountains battling both Turkey and the Islamic State.
I used the field hospital Wi-Fi and a Syrian sim card to let everyone who was listening know I’m alive. It’s not that many people anymore. It’s a blonde debutante in Midtown, following me out the corner or her eye from a high tower of captive luxury. There’s a sexy Harvard lawyer who gave me Mindfulness on the Go, and her cute little sentimental blessings. My parents say almost nothing, my brother especially. Polina Mazaeva, my lover, she has shut be off right during the final battle for Mosul. But I write to her anyway; “I’m alive, motivation is high!” “I’m alive, tell me the weather in Boston, New York and Nizhny Novgorod. Besides Ms. Chanie Rossi, Ms. Daria Skorobogatova and before Polina; no one seems to be keeping any track of my exploits. That mighty revolutionary organization we’d tried to build, well it crumbled in my absence amounting to zero less than nothing.
And all these three lovely ladies ever asked or said; “Are you alive, come home,” as if there was something good about the home I was from or life I had before the war. Secretly I always believed that I would fall gloriously as a shahid in patriotic defense of Rojava. Well so far 43 of 500 volunteers had. Mines had felled over half. Prepared, not eager, but certainly prepared to die I wished to be in two places that seemingly I could associate with a happy vacation, or at least one place it was logical I visit before I pass into the world to come.
I began in Cuba, then Russian Federation, then popularly mobilized Shi’a Iraq, also Kurdish referendum North Iraq and then into the hell of Syria. It all took about 9 months to ruin my resolve and completely lose my mind. Then in Cairo I waited two days in February and then into indefinite detention in the New York Hospital Camps; which swore I was a mad man. I recite in my cell a poem that was my 88th; made for one Elena Komarova, a confidant who can’t deal with my lifestyle anymore. It was about red and white Russians, about Moscow and exile and death and love and what I will refer to as my Special Period; my special period of love and war.
I had been to Cuba once before. It occupied a special place in the revolutionary epoch and I timed my arrival in Russia with May Day and Victory Day; in order to sort of pay tribute to the legends of the USSR.
First I must warn you, I’m a very powerful as a man in my own mind, half the year or more, in that I do not fear death and consider my well plotted deeds heroic. But, I’m jointly powerless before a woman who believes in me and so it was fate, misplaced silly fate, that when the war ended for me and none of my confidants were attentive, obsessively, yes obsessively I made a new muse out of a tavern shot girl. Not amorous, not frivolous. I just wanted that pretty stranger with the Vodka bullets to care if I was alive. I wanted her to believe in my seriousness as a hero and an artist, I wanted her to trust in my, ineffable might. And clearly I simply wanted to go to bed with her, because it had been one whole year since the last kiss of Polina Mazaeva until the unruly discharge from Bellevue hospital.
I’m about to try and tell you a story about my year in Kurdistan, but there is something hard about even doing that. For one thing, the ghosts of the dead haunt me. For another, many of my friends are dead, Rojava is being overrun by the Turkish military and I’m far from the front in America; survived to live my life and feel like nothing is where it should be.

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