Citizen Khan Quotes

In the midst of all of this local peace and harmony, a man named Ronald John was now the President-elect of the United States. He campaigned on a platform that promised to “rid America of the Muslim scourge.” What does this mean? Arya pondered. Does this man seriously intend to engage in the process of deporting all Muslims, whether here legally or illegally, whether citizens or non-citizens? Isn’t that unconstitutional? Arya Khan was inspirited and . . . terrified.

We live in a world of pomp and muscle, of strutting that glorifies jet thrust and far-flying warheads. It is the same kind of strutting that produced the misery of the days of Caesar, Genghis Khan, Napoleon, and Hitler. In this kind of world it is not easy to recognize that— “A babe born in a stable of the village of Bethlehem, “A boy reared as a carpenter of Nazareth, “A citizen of a conquered and subdued nation, “A man whose mortal footsteps never went beyond a radius of 150 miles, who never received a school degree, who never spoke from a great pulpit, who never owned a home, who traveled afoot and without purse “Truly, his coming, ministry, and place in our eyes is as foretold by the ancient prophet Isaiah: ‘For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.’ (Isa. 9:6.)

For the poor man, the immigrant, the homeless veteran living under a bridge, to be treated under the law the same as the rich man, the scion, the connected political appointee is the greatest privilege of being a United States citizen. It is what all people, everywhere, aspire to: the fundamental dignity of equality. When you live somewhere it doesn’t exist, it is all you yearn for.

Pakistan need to better prepare their citizens for the demands of a changing information economy, and they need to adjust tax and social protection systems to ease the transition from labor market to information one.

citizens see their government’s primary responsibility as being to keep them safe. After

Hulagu Khan’s Mongol forces burn Baghdad to the ground, killing 1,000,000 citizens.

thought of him as a citizen not of New York but of the invisible city of Octavia which Marco Polo described to Kublai Khan in Calvino’s book, a spiderweb city hanging in a great net over an abyss between two mountains.

As the Mongols approached Kyiv in November 1240, their huge army made a dreadful impression on the defenders. “And nothing could be heard above the squeaking of his carts, the bawling of his [Batu’s] innumerable camels, and the neighing of his herds of horses, and the Land of Rus’ was full of enemies,” wrote the chronicler. When the Kyivans refused to surrender, Batu brought in catapults to destroy the city walls, built of stones and logs in the times of Yaroslav the Wise. The citizens rushed to the Dormition Cathedral, the first stone church built by Volodymyr to celebrate his baptism. But the weight of the people and their belongings proved too heavy for the walls, which collapsed, burying the refugees. St. Sophia Cathedral survived but, like other city churches, was robbed of its precious icons and vessels. The victors pillaged the city; the few survivors remained in terror in the ruins of the once magnificent capital whose rulers had aspired to rival Constantinople. Giovanni da Pian del Carpine, an ambassador of Pope Innocent IV who passed through Kyiv in February 1246 on his way to the Mongol khan, left the following description of the consequences of the Mongol attack on the Kyiv Land: “When we were journeying through that land, we came across countless skulls and bones of dead men lying about on the ground.

And the careless disregard with which her fellow citizens – men, in particular – vacated their bodily effluent, liberally spraying walls and floors as if they were avant-garde artists of the type she sometimes saw in discarded magazines . . . A night shift in hell might have seemed paradise by comparison.

I Am Not Like Them” They call us terrorists, filled with hate, Our prayers, they say, hide darker schemes. But I’m different, peaceful, good— I don’t belong in their fearful dreams. Yes, I am a Muslim, but… I am not like them. They mock my accent, my skin, my face, They say we lie, and hoard, and cheat. But I’m honest, fair—don’t lump me in With those who tarnish the country’s seat. Yes, I am Indian, but… I am not like them. They say we’re leeches, here to take, Their jobs, their homes, their hard-earned bread. But I’m no thief; I work, I strive, Unlike the others, who cheat instead. Yes, I am an immigrant, but… I am not like them. They see us as paper citizens, fake, A birthright they claim we don’t deserve. But I was born here, raised with pride, Not like those who don’t “preserve.” Yes, my parents are immigrants, but… I am not like them. But what is this game we choose to play, This fight to stand above the rest? In trying to prove we’re “not like them,” We leave our brothers dispossessed. These words, so small, so selfishly sharp, Slice through the ties that could bind us strong. Each time we say “I am not like them,” We let the hate march further along. For what is hate but a shifting mirror, That turns and finds a new face to blame? Until we shatter the mirror itself, We will always live in its frame.