Ruminations, 3/24/2016

I expect ‘Ruminations’ to be a fixture on my blog (still in the embryonic stage); my thoughts being so haphazard and varied that they present themselves best in short, succinct bursts.

On Polygyny

I hold the custom and general acceptance (though the winds of change rustle) of polygyny — that peculiar institution of ours — in contempt. A mark of our savagery and primitiveness, I should think; only in a benighted, patriarchal (these two go hand in hand) society could such a thing persist and thrive. In a tribal community such as ours, a man’s worth is based on his possessions: women, children, camels, dates, etc. Understanding that fact, the origins and purpose of polygyny become evidently clear. Through the subjugation of a woman, a man feels empowered, and other men recognize this. It is this rivalry between men in all things (one is reminded of the Bedouin proverb: ‘I against my brother; my brother and I against our cousin; my brother and cousin against another’ — and on and on it goes) that is so intrinsic to tribalism that one cannot be rid of it without erasing the much-cherished clan lines — lines borne out of and necessitated by the vainglorious squabbles that molded so much of our present society.

The difference between a monogamous marital engagement and a polygynous one is that the former tries, at least, to be egalitarian, while the latter has no regard for any such notion of equality; it is an inherently tyrannical arrangement, serving only one. Given the prevalence of polygyny throughout history, and to a lesser extent the modern day, one can’t help but wonder why polyandry — where the roles are reversed — was seldom, if ever, practiced. Of course, this is due to our fixation on legitimacy and bloodline; a relic of that most ancient tribe from which we all derive.

Death

Unlike the Stoic, I dread death. Perhaps it’s because I’m young, and I have yet to grow weary of life. Death is, after all, finality — the end of all possibility. To my youthful eyes, life has yet to be made something of; to die anytime soon would be a tragedy.

Dusares (alas, not his real name) is a 17 year old Saudi Arabian trying to survive in that festering, intoxicating hellhole he has the misfortune of calling ‘home’. Given his country’s aversion to any forms of exercise that might lead to fun, he has to content himself with writing; a mostly joyless endeavor.

Originally published at yourfavoritesaracen.blogspot.com on March 25, 2016.