Tariku's Droplets

“Like all art that arises from culture, games are deeply political,” writes Alfie Down in her Guardian article entitled Video Games are Political. And according to American Psychology Association magazine, 91 % of children in the United States between the age of 2 and 17 play video games and nationally 99% of teenagers play these games. That is why, according to Erika Schickel, who in her article Grand Theft Mommy recounts her love of virtual games, video gaming” is currently framing the argument for the need to tighten restriction on content and rating video games to protect America’s youth from its immoral influences.” However, the puritan impulses of the society toward sanctifying the field of gaming seems doomed from the start. It appeared not only destined to fail but also headed towards propagating the problem even more. Part of the problem seems to be the fact that “America’s youth” are not a homogeneous group that could be served with “one fits all” protective ruling. T...

Homo-sapiens can be redefined as homo-reflectus i.e. beings living by and for refined reflections of the self. And the 'reflections element' of the species is inherent in what each person ultimately accepts as being human. Examination of this inherent and common reality that one can't avoid living by and can’t imagine life without leads us to the inevitability of transaction of reflection through the currency of given, received, refuted or accepted gazes. An examination into the language we speak, the religion we follow, the philosophies we cherish, the dresses we wear, the lifestyle we follow, the things we feel free to see and the eyes we allow to be seen by, the cinema we prefer to watch, the way we prefer to be seen in the cinema, everything that made us who we are homo-reflectus is a manifested gaze. As bell hooks in the   Oppositional Gaze , puts it,” there is power in looking” because, she quotes Fanon, “This “look’ from - so to speak - the place of the othe...

"I have a special gift for you,” my mother said.  It was the day I turned 18. “Where is it?” I asked, “Wait till the end of the barbecue," she replied; It was the yearly Thanksgiving barbecue night, The urge to fry was high, And the fire was hungry for flesh; The day went as usual; The smell of fried meat churned appetites; Happiness perfumed the air, Laughters ignited candles of conformity; This went on until an eerie silence descended on all at the end of the barbeque. It was a sacred silence where everyone fell into a trance. First, my uncle brought a sealed black urn and a white photo album from the living room and put it at the center of the backyard table Mom told me to sit. And the ritual started: Dad turned towards the garden, where two white Magnolia embraced,  As if they were confiding secrets into each other. He stared at them like a tree whisperer. My Mom sat at the table,  covered her eyes, and ...