Our King's Crown

The Origin of Easter

The word Easter comes from the word Ishtar the Assyrian goddess of love and fertility. Ishtar was the symbol of love (of nature and mankind). During The Akitu festival, (which means building life on earth), the Assyrian king would initiate the union between Ishtar and Tamuz in temple ritual, signifying the coming together of two energies to give life. The Akitu ushered in the Ishtar Festival, celebrated by the Assyrians to signify fertility and fruitfulness, and the resurrection and renewal of nature.
During the Ishtar Festival, Assyrians would dye eggs in various colors and hang them on the temple walls to symbolize fertility and birth. They would also light candles in the temple and pray for a fruitful Assyrian nation. Assyrians would bake sweet breads in honor of Ishtar and to show the fruits of their harvest. They used barley and wheat to bake these sweet breads because those two plants ripened first.

Centuries later, the Celtic Hittites leaving Assyria and settling in Europe, took with them these traditions. They called the Spring goddess Estarte, and the fertility celebration as the Festival of Estarte. This festival spread to other European regions and the name of this festival became known as Easter.
Around the 7th century BC, the Jews started to commemorate the Passover pascha, a Jewish Holiday beginning on the 15th of Nissan. There is no doubt as to wherein lie this Jewish tradition, but for some reason it later came to be known as the day the Jews left Egyptian bondage, (which we realize now an exodus of the Jews out of Egypt never took place.)

Many, perhaps most, Pre-Christian religions in the Mediterranean area had a major seasonal day of religious celebration at or following the Spring Equinox. Cybele, the Phrygian fertility goddess, had a fictional consort who was believed to have been born via a virgin birth. He was Attis, who was believed to have died and been resurrected each year during the period MAR-22 to MAR-25. "About 200 B.C. mystery cults began to appear in Rome just as they had earlier in Greece. Most notable was the Cybele cult centered on Vatican hill ...Associated with the Cybele cult was that of her lover, Attis (the older Tammuz, Osiris, Dionysus, or Orpheus under a new name). He was a god of ever-reviving vegetation. Born of a virgin, he died and was reborn annually. The festival began as a day of blood on Black Friday and culminated after three days in a day of rejoicing over the resurrection.
Wherever Christian worship of Jesus and Pagan worship of Attis were active in the same geographical area in ancient times, Christians "used to celebrate the death and resurrection of Jesus on the same date.
Around the second century A.D., Christian missionaries seeking to convert the tribes of northern Europe noticed that the Christian holiday commemorating the resurrection of Jesus roughly coincided with the Teutonic springtime celebrations, which emphasized the triumph of life over death. Christian Easter gradually absorbed the traditional symbols.

Sargon Truth-Seeker - "King Abgar"

To Be An Assyrian

With all this talk about what makes a person an Assyrian my brain kicked in and scraped off the rust. What group do you need to be apart of? What political party do you join? What is it that makes a person an Assyrian? Don't know.

What makes me an Assyrian? I think I gots myself a little clue.

It's 9/11, the traffic was insane all over the city as they were evacuating downtown Chicago. I got myself a call from work and was told not to come into work that day. Being that traffic was hectic and all. Not a problem they're just looking out for me.

The next day I found out that the only two people that were asked to stay home was me and a Muslim co-worker. Interesting as it was I let it be. Too much going on for me to pick a fight for my rights. It could have been for our safety being that cab drovers all over the city were getting the beating of their life.

Later that week a senior manager asked me to come into her office. Her request was simple enough. "I know you are from Iraq, please help me understand your people better". Had to laugh when she had a map of the Middle East on her monitor. Normally I would be more then happy to explain. Tell her that I was born in Baghdad. Tell her the stories my parents would fill me with. Stories about three day weddings that had the entire village soaked in araq and the air filled with the sounds of dawoola o zorna. Shareh that had everyone enjoying the aroma of lamb. Musardeh and all the young kids playing the water pranks they have been planning for weeks. Not this time. This time it was different.

I've never felt so uncomfortable about being an Assyrian. As a child during the first Gulf War it was hard to tell people where I was born. Not as an adult. Not until this day.

A couple of years later came the icing on the cake. I was back to my normal routine. Explaining how I would have four priests attend a special church event out of respect for my father. Telling my co-workers what an honor this is. The same manager said "you're Christian". "Yes, I am" was followed with "no you're not". All this time she assumed I was a Muslim. Had to laugh it off. Not her comment but the fact that I almost blurted out the word Bitch.

Then came the Passion. The same woman enters my life again to ask if I understood the language. The same person that had a map of the Middle East on her monitor years back had been doing some research. I said "yeah, a word or two". Her eyes widen and in all the excitement in the world she tells me how lucky I was to understand what Christ was saying. I almost let go and called her a Cunt this time around, but held back. A nasty word yes, but it's not my fault. Blame it on the years of hate people like her have showed me. So me being the ever so charming man told her "no, I understood what Jim Cavieziel said not Christ. Never heard Jesus speak before". She didn't get it.

Like so many at that time she actually thought it was Jesus. Poor Cavieziel, so many people saw this film and none of them know who he is. For all she knows Cavieziel was probably Jesus Christ's stunt double in the film.

Now comes the end to this saga. Haven't spoken to her since that comment. She asks to see me in her office. Mind you that every visit had me thinking that she's going to make a move on me. Not this one. I figured that now that she believes I am a Christian the taboo is gone. No need for this scumb to want to bang a normal Christian. It was the evil Muslim boy from Iraq that she wanted to tame. Well, she probably still wants me being that I'm am a pretty hot sonamunagun.

So we meet. She is in tears and I don't ask why. I don't care. The one teaching of Christ to Gandhi to Mother Teresa I never cared for was to forgive and forget. No! If you're good to me I'll try hard as hell to give you the world. But, go ahead and screw me once, JUST ONCE, and you won't know what hit you. I don't care for her damn tears. "My father has cancer in his liver. They don't know if they can save it or if he'll need a transplant. They don't know if it has spread. I came to you because I need to speak to someone who has been through it before" is all she wrote. What a bitch, kista'd ziblah, horrible, horrible, horrible. She got me.

My family has been hit so hard by this monster that I smell the radiation to this day, everyday, everywhere. Honestly, it's found a home in my nose. It still changes the way my food tastes no matter how many cloves of garlic I use. I've been known to get a dozen "hellos" to this day from the hospital that became my second home. This monster lives in my closet as an adult. It sneaks under my bed and refuses to leave my dreams. She got me good.

"I wanted to talk to someone who's been there. A good Christian."

That comment right there deserves to be left alone, in all it's flashy bling. So I'll leave it alone. My answer to her was kreeta o' khleeta. "It doesn't give two shits what religion you are. And, no one can give you the "right" answer no matter what religion they are. All I can say is that you need to check yourself at the door and settle down a bit. He's the one that's hurting right now. You wanna cry, do it on your own time. When you're with him it's his clock you're on. Be strong for him, everything else is selfish". Her tears dried up, she smiled, thanked me like I was Jim Cavieziel. Didn't want to hear it so I got up and left her with this, "if you ever want to talk let me know".

The pieces to the puzzle were connected and made very clear to me. I was asked to stay home out of fear. It was so clear that if it were any other so-called Assyrian a lawsuit would have been settled by now.

This is where I get my answer from. This story and many others like it in my lifetime. Each one of us needs to find OUR own answer as to what makes us an Assyrian. It's not in Church. Mel Gibson can't tell you. It's not in Iraq. I can't tell you what makes YOU an Assyrian.

I am an Assyrian. I am a warrior that never hates his enemy but learns from him. I fight a strong and able enemy, fair fight all the way. Not one that is down and out. I never take the coward's sick reward of kicking a dead dog. I am a leader that makes followers stronger. A leader that makes followers of his enemies. Keep them close? Screw that! Make them love you.

It's good'ta be an Assyrian...

The Battle of Holly Hill

Holy Hill… an Assyrian weekend

I remember going there as a kid and enjoying every minute of it. We would leave on Friday morning, excused absence from school always being a welcomed honor. Get there and immediately set up camp with fire and all. The men in the family would always try to spark up a flame to light the fire. Telling stories about how they would never use a match in their days back home. This would last a couple of hours until one of the women would tell them off and "light the fire already". Out came the matches.

Lunch would consist of hot dogs on the grill for the kiddies and a pot of some home cooked meal on the fire for the adults. At first it was hard to eat the hot dogs without all the toppings and side of greasy fries. We would always make do by using Taboola as the topping and Humus as the side.

Exercise after the meal meant running up and down the stairs leading to the church. At times taking a break from the stairs to explore the woods surrounding this beautiful location. All the while telling horror stories of Assyrian ghosts that still roam the woods. My favorite was the one that had all Assyrians of past visiting this location every year as a break from the other world. Funny how even as a child it was easy to see that we Assyrians are the epitome of conditioning.

Dinner, ahh yes, the nights spent at Holy Hill were the greatest nights an Assyrian child could have. Mind you that camping with your family was never really an Assyrian norm. Just as playing catch with your father or having THAT talk before you lose your virginity. Nope. Our substitution for camping was hanging out in a relatives backyard all night as the adults drank their qawa and whiskey over a nice game of kon kan. "That" talk for us would come from the so-called "experienced" friends who told you where to stick it. The same friends that always had a girlfriend that lived in another state/country.

It was these nights that the kids crowded around the fire until one was dared to explore the dark woods. The adults watched the teapot boil over the fire with cries of "chi al noora is da best" and "hal habania, la?" sang like a lullaby. There was entertainment all around. Be it that one singer in a group a couple of fires down with a nice enough voice to attract a crowd. People that were strangers to him before that day making requests of what his next song should be. Someone who brought along his dawoola joining in to create the proper beat. Or the families who brought a battery operated radio. Sounds of Sargon Gabriel covered the West end while Ashur Bet Sargis lit up the East. Holy Hill was an excuse to live the way we did back home if only for a couple of days. A reason to show the children what life as an Assyrian on Assyrian land was like. This was the schedule for Friday and Saturday.

It was Sunday morning that the entire troop made their way to Church. I mean EVERYONE on the campgrounds went to church. The long walk up the million flights of stairs seemed to go by quicker on Sunday morning. The crowd of smiling faces made it go by so quick. So this is what it feels like when ALL Assyrians work together. This is what it's like to be Assyrian… together… as one.

These were the times spent at Holy Hill back in the day. Hell, I never thought I would use those words to describe something that happened twenty years ago. Isn't "back in the day" reserved for a minimum of fifty years? Not with this new generation. No, they have their own reason for going to Holy Hill. Grant it our reasons weren't very religious either. Although it served a unique purpose of bringing families together. It was a way of having Assyrians unite and celebrate a belief together. Key words here are Assyrians, and together.

The new generation of Assyrians has taken all our memories and burned them in a cloud of hashish. In the last couple of years Holy Hill has gone from a "bring your own weed/beer" weekend to a very profitable event. I kid you not. Take a nice walk around Holy Hill when the sun goes down and meet the new children of Night/Assyria. There are drug dealers all around. Each one very proud and unashamed to pitch their product to whoever passes them by. Little kid got some money? Little kid gets his dime-bag! Little kid only got a couple of bucks? Little kid gets a rolled up joint.

Take a walk with your lovely lady friend and hear the booze hounds go to work. "Zee deeza/qoota" is the more common comment made. The famous "hey baby what's yo name" is always followed by a "stuck up bitch" or flat out "gahba" when the young lady ignores them. Every now and then you have an Assyrian that chooses not to ignore but instead defend his lady's honor. A true warrior that would rather die then let anyone disrespect his Assyrian Goddess. He is always met with a dozen or so fists and legs. These bastards make their comments under the protection of a minimum five other friends/bastards.

Walking in the woods was at a time an adventure. A young Assyrian's version of a Charles Dickens novel. Now it is a voyeuristic dream come true. Make your way deep into the woods to find where the kids go with their newly purchased joints. Pass by the eleven-year-olds that are enjoying the Budweisers kindly donated to them by the boozing bastards beating on the warrior with the "fine ass gahba". For the feast al a resistance, go a little deeper to see a stoned fifteen-year-old being hit on by two boozing bastards. Isn't it still illegal for a grown man to be seducing a fifteen-year-old in Wisconsin? Yes, but not on their turf.

I hear they even had Karaoke this year. Sex Drugs and Karaoke was the theme.

Sunday morning comes and the walk up the stairs seems longer. The crowd is now a small group of folks that actually came here to go to church. People are moving slower, stopping to rest every so often. Where are the rest? Where are all the smiles I grew up with? Are they all at the campsite too tired to wake up? No, that's all the boozing bastards and potheads passed out after a night of hard partying. Where are they then? They're exactly where I've been for years. At home… away from this place. Away from all the binge drinking, crackheads that have taken my childhood and wiped their asses with it. They walked into my tree house and pissed all over it then burned it down.

The new Holy Hill weekend has become another addition to the horror stories we would tell each other in the woods. Only this time I can add the words "true story" and actually mean it. What happened to these kids? Our kids. Where are their parents? Oh yeah, they're busy trying to build Assyria. Only thing is, you can't build Assyria by fighting each other. The foundation is and always will be the children. As you are too busy trying to figure out who you're going to hate tomorrow, the kids play. Just remember this Assyria, the games these kids play are far from the horror stories in the woods game. You know, the ones we played back in the day.

Federated Monkey

The artist
The mind
Useless culture
Bronze replicas
Thoughtless feelings
Anguish and despair
Build something
Get nothing

Can you lick?
Can you feel?
Can you jump?

Jump, jump, JUMP!

We let the Monkey convey
Message of love
Message of hope
message of monkey togetherness

Living, loving, fucking
The federated monkey!

The Rebel

De Khol!