Photography by Catherine Khorrami & Giacomo Oliviero
Written by Jonathan Marshall
In our last piece about Artin Avaznia, we introduced an artist that was making their debut into film with his tribute project, The Velvet Rope: A Dance Short Film.
Inspired by one of his most esteemed idols and teachers, Janet Jackson, Artin wanted to recreate the feelings he remembered experiencing when he first heard the original album in his youth.
Now he follows in her footsteps once more, with his performance at Ottawa’s popular Westfest.
Artin was the first solo dance artist to appear on the Westfest stage since its inception 15 years prior. In his multi-set performance, he acknowledges the great dancers that led him to where he is today, but more importantly he struts into his own story with sensual and provocative displays of choreography he spent months devising.
“Ever since last summer, I’ve been experimenting with new ideas and visions for my performance,” says Artin. “My goal is how you receive my piece; it’s one thing to be entertaining, it’s another to be understood.”
His routine was exacting, and perfect in its execution. The crowd that swelled from a dozen to over 200 once he took the stage sang as his feet sailed and shook every time his cane landed with crack. They couldn’t help but feel that hand on his thigh, or how the bass rhythm replaced their own heartbeat. Artin’s aim was to entrance, and his body was working magic.
While Artin is no stranger to live performances, this was by far the largest audience he had ever had the chance to enthrall.
“My career is just taking off,” he muses. “It’s important to me that every step of the way I am proving myself to be better than I was before, and to offer powerful emotions to my fans.”
Certainly, he gave everything that day. The future is ripe for Artin, and if he continues to progress as he has been -a soul brimming with passion- then Ottawa will soon see this talented choreographer reaching heights that heroes are made on.
In this story that will be continued, Artin Avaznia leaves us with moments to be remembered...
Updated: Dec 10, 2020
Photo by James Park
Khaleefa "Apollo The Child" Hamdan, spoken word poet and co-director of Ottawa slam poetry collective, Urban Legends, won the OG 500 Poetry Slam at the 2017 House of PainT to a roaring audience of Ottawans. Hamdan is an active member of the Ottawa cultural scene, co-host of The Home Invasion Show, on CKCU, and a regular contributor to PACE Magazine.
I watch it shake
Curl and take shape
Moving in the way it wants to
In it's own pace
Envious of the way it lives,
You should see the way my mouth gapes
My hair, the mane
Defiant in the way it hangs
I remember my father once asked me
When I would cut it down
This was back in my afro days
Back when I wore my own crown
I've never been one for monarch
Or even world leaders
I've often seen their evil ways
But this crown was mine
This was around the time
When the United States went to war
With Iraq again
Under the guise of weapons of mass destruction
Defiant
I refused to reduce the size of my hair
Defiant
I told my pops I would do cut it down when Iraq was truly free
Defiant
Free from Saddam Hussein
Free from the United States
Free from the hatred my people seemed to have shackled themselves to
A shame
How we try so hard to differentiate
Even though we are one and the same
Sunnis kill shiites
Shiites kill Sunnis
Even though we are one and the same
And what Saddam Hussein did to the Kurds
Can never be forgotten
It can never be forgiven
And so I grow my hair
And I am proud of the way it hangs
Like octopus tentacles
It tangles
Knowing it is stronger together
Like my people should be
I thank the old white ladies for the compliments
I tell them,
“No you may not touch my hair, I am not your dog to be petted. To you it is only hair but to me, it
is my antenna to the Heavens”.
And it curls
And it shakes
And it moves
In the ways my life's avenues do
It is for me, it is not for you
Samson it gives me strength
It reminds me of my heritage
Of desert sands
And palm trees full of dates
And so
I will sow a date tree seed in me
So when I die
And meet the reaper
I will always have my home with me
I want my body's decay
To be able to provide shade
In a place
Where they are so quick to throw it
Rather than break bread
I kneed the dough
Because I need the dough
Working overtime to feed my home
So fuck your hair nets
And minimum wage
I'm trying to keep my family fed
Callused hands to complete the set
In kindergarten they used to mock
My mop and my locks
Like their wasn't beauty
In the wild and unkempt
So for a little while
I lived in self contempt
I thought I was ugly
But now I realize that this wild hair is a gift
Ma ameshud sharee
Akalee whoua whoua
(I will not comb my hair
I will leave it as is)
I'm more proud of it
Now that I grew up
And I let it loose
On every stage
As I produce
Art with these words I say
And I leeeeeaaaaan back
And I oil my curls
And I repeat
Ma ameshud sharee
Akalee whoua whoua
And I repeat
I will not comb my hair
I will leave it as is
And I hope to God that it tangles
Knowing that it is stronger together
Like humanity should be
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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