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Madinat al-Muslimeen Islamic Message Board
Some Powerful Poems! |
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Maliha |
12/18/02 at 11:42:33 |
[slm] [i]Mashaallah, I came across this poet from [url=http://home.nyu.edu/~aa400/pumpkinaa.html]Pumpkinaa's Patch [/url] I asked her for more, and she was kind enough to email more of Zara's poems to me- Enjoy :) [/i] Behind the Veil, or something catchy like that [i]Zara Khan[/i] So suddenly everyone wants to know where my flag is. But most days I don't have to explain how when red isn't the blood of innocents, Afghan or otherwise, when white isn't the color of supremacy, when blue isn't the police department's résumé of brutality, or that crisp prison guard's uniform, -- well there'll still be a long list of grievances to get through before I can consider sporting red white and blue. You expect my answer to be yes to everything blinding expectations, bleeding racisms. But you know what, No. I will NOT participate in this deluge of American flags this patriotism because I know better. You want me quiet and doll-like. Limited English Proficient. [see, even I'm a victim of Americanism - as though being limited in English proficiency was a deficiency.] You need to have faith in my docile nature, need to believe there's something backwards about modesty. Something about this veil makes you think I'm mute. [well something about that uniform has gone straight to your head.] You want me oppressed, so you can 'liberate' me from myself from this way of life you know nothing about from all the men in my life that cover me up husband, father, brother. Because you can't even conceive of a woman liberating herself. Can't conceive of a woman who's not a slave to man, to money, to materials. A woman so liberated she wears the veil. You talk about independence but you don't know the forms it can take. You want all this and so much more. But I won't be your subject. You won't orientalize me. I won't be a victim of your ignorance because you won't stifle that scream that's gonna rip they sky in two. [like a woman giving birth, guttural shriek of life passing life.] My life, my deen, my veil, my womanhood. My every act is a dissent from you and yours. I refuse you. I will outlive endure persist survive you. And I'll do it all from behind the veil. All the while you put me in a box labeled "Muslim Woman". The walls are made of fiction that exploits princesses, harems, and clitoradectamies. The floor is volumes and volumes of fifteen hundred years of racist history crusades, heathens, and manifest destiny. The ceiling's a televised newscast -- proudly waving the American flag and measuring progress as 'the women of Afghanistan have taken off their veils!' congratulations. on 'liberating' the women of Afghanistan on saving them from that horrid dread -- the veil. [at least now their children can enjoy Macdonnel Douglas Happy Meals can enjoy cluster bombs the same shade of yellow as food packets.] and besides, we'll just ignore that the red white and blue never passed the E.R.A. that American women don't get equal pay for equal work. [Sigh…] Muslim Woman- Veil- Oppressed-. The triad is inseparable in your world. But in my world, your rhetoric penetrates - I wish it wouldn't, a testament of my own weakness - But it does, it gets behind my veil and under my skin. There it crawls, to my life vessels vermin circulating in my blood. I try to spit your words out of my system, but sometimes I can't. Sometimes a bloodletting is needed. And I bleed it out of me, red stripes on a white tourniquet. red stripes on white. no white stars on blue, though. I'd rather look for those in the sky. But enough of this, khalaas. Let me lead you somewhere. Jumping out of your invented race and class I'm gonna right-side-up that hourglass. The era of your oppression has come to an end. As the grains sit piled so calm and complacent my mind's wrath is gonna flip it violently. I am that dark shrouded figure you can't quite discern. Take a closer look and you probably still won't learn. I'm dressed in all black from bottom to top. The reins of the camel firm in my hands, my squinting eyes make unapologetic demands. The speed of my travels creates a sandstorm so turbulent, it obstructs your vision. A blast from your racist past, I just won't be your subjugated caste. Orientalist missions and crusades from hell, my weapon is my mind and my knowledge of you. Take cover, because it's been unleashed. So I dare you not to fear my words as they escape from behind this veil. I dare me to be an agent of change. Till then, till justice, till salaam, the lines have been drawn in the sand. And what do you know - I'm facing you. |
12/18/02 at 11:46:43 |
Maliha |
Re: Some Powerful Poems! |
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Maliha |
12/18/02 at 11:44:11 |
[slm] 11-7 [i] (unwittingly written on the one-month anniversary of US airstrikes against Afghanistan)[/i] children's bellies swollen with tapeworm others have skin stretched over ribcage gonna rip, gonna pop something's just not right cause other kids sport baby Gap and baby Tommy material babies, material victims I'm a material witness their lives are not equal their worth determined by the cost of their clothes, their toys their land some babies cry in English some babies cry in Arabic you gotta listen carefully or you'll miss whether they said God Bless America or La Illaha Ill Allah children swatting flies sitting in rubble ruins children swatting flies sitting in public park sandboxes Children are beautiful unconditionally! children wide-eyed, looking down at shrapnel in their chest children wide-eyed shaking hands with Mickey Mouse children laughing, eating Happy Meals playing with Happy Meal Toys children playing with the mold they peeled off rationed bread And here I thought all children were angels Perfect angels, with rights over privilege children reach for bright life jackets jump into pools that smell like chlorine children reach for bright yellow food packets -- oh, oops, that's a cluster bomb that didn't go off ye-- Oh God, take their little souls, give them Paradise children frightened - where's my mom in this shopping mall throng? children frightened - uncle don't tell me I'm orphaned children trying to figure out why hospital food tastes bland and plastic like hospital utensils children trying to figure out a hospital's where you go to get better not get bombed to bits Oh, sweetie please don't cry…my heart's soaked and heavy and its gonna fall apart children putting plays on stage smiling bright angels in costume children putting thank-you prayers forth to God for the faculty of their remaining limbs children laughing, children crying children afraid to fall asleep …fall apart from the weight of responsibility children of poverty, children of privilege why can't I love them all? raise them all? embrace them all? bright angels little blessings gifts to me, but I'm ungrateful Children are perfect They have rights over me can't I go there? to the war(s)? lay them all down to sleep kiss their perfect faces dry their tears warm their shivering souls their perfect little quivering bodies with the warmth of my body Oh children, please forgive me! come my darlings, time to sleep let me tell you stories forever I'll save your lives with stories but don't call me Sheherezade call me Umi, Mama, Mother the beautiful angels go from listening to sleeping I watch them all night reluctant to take my eyes off one anxious to behold the next Oh God, please forgive me! when sunlight stirs me to wake I see clearly blood on my hands, my breasts, my lips blood in my hair and on my face blood that got on me when I tried to love these children my children My love was not enough to keep them alive dead children but I don't cry or die for them no tears and no remorse surrogate mother feels surrogate pain Surrogate pain not good enough some children get big bucks some children get big guns children's eyes full of sparkles glittering stars and promise children's eyes glassed over no stars, just promise diffused children's laughter is the most beautiful song in the world children's sadness casts dark clouds over the whole world children, beautiful children robbed of safety robbed of water that has no shit in it robbed of their parents robbed of air that doesn't hurt to breathe robbed of their beautiful ugly lives And here I thought all children deserved to have the very best -Zara Khan |
12/18/02 at 11:46:13 |
Maliha |
Re: Some Powerful Poems! |
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Maliha |
12/18/02 at 11:45:36 |
[slm] Memoirs from Basra to Baghdad for an American Audience my name is yaqub mehsen and I died when I was two-and-a-half years old. at the moment life passed from my eyes my little soul pulled from my little body you thought the gulf war had been over for five years. you didn't know that in Iraq babies die from simple infections. I died because your country sanctioned me to death because they said penicillin for me would mean annihilation for you. I am the writer of this poem, and I am alive. I've never lived in Iraq, never lived in a warzone. my life has never been threatened. when I learn about the gulf war, as it exists in the most elaborate network of lies, my mind spins like metal blades on a helicopter tail and my hands/heart/body shakes like the ground in Iraq. I wonder about them, the men who order strikes who stand at podiums and deceive as they defend their acts who punish civilians for their geography for the crimes of their dictators who punish them for nothing at all. my name is rida chaleb and my mother shrieked in tears when they brought me to her the nurse was stiff and expressionless she looked neither at me, the bundle in her arms, nor at the unfortunate goddess that had borne me. if only my upper lip hadn't been growing out of my nose and my head not been bigger than my body ya Allah my mother would not have cried so. I am a piece of scrap metal lying dust-covered complacently by a blown-up tank. he can dig me up and take me home, but I am not his war trophy. the fruits of his firings have started to ripen in his lungs where he breathes debris from depleted uranium. soon they'll be turning blind eyes to him and the hundred-eighty-thousand like him and then calling it gulf-war-syndrome while they keep using DU. he should've just let me lie there dust-covered. my name is maqbul hussain. I'm a medical doctor at the hospital in Basra. the relief workers come here a lot basically I tell them the children come here to die the lucky ones get sent home so they can die at home but the rest just come here to die. I am the writer of this poem check 1, check 2, check 3. checking to make sure I'm still me. I am uranium-238 also called depleted uranium, or just DU. I contain traces of plutonium - which is the most toxic substance - so I must be specially stored. by the time the gulf war came around, tests were in progress to see if I could be used in weaponry because recycling me would be more PROFITable than storing me. I am a force unparalleled, even in my wasted form. I condemn the air where I've been launched to 4.5 billion years of pain and detriment land and water turn against their inhabitants in my presence. even mothers betray their babies as my traces cross the placenta. my name is sana khaled. I am 22 years old. I'm an intern at the Human Rights Council in Baghdad. I get to work with organizers and photojournalists. I can't understand why American media isn't covering this war with any integrity. at least on al-jazeera you get the facts. like the truth about the satellite photos. when Iraq invaded Kuwait, US officials flew to Saudia and convinced the Saudi king that thousands of Iraqi troops were waiting to invade Saudia next, waiting at the border. they said they had proof - satellite photos. the truth came out though. those photos were real - but they showed nothing but an empty desert. the US officials lied to the Saudi king. and CNN didn't even mention it. I am the state of Yemen. my capital is Sanaa. when the united nations' general assembly voted on whether Iraq should be attacked I was the only state that voted no. right after the vote an American official came up to my delegate and said, "that'll be the costliest 'no' you ever voted." three days later, all aid to me was cut off. I am the writer of this poem. check 1, check 2, check 3. checking just to see if I'm still sane. my name is arif shaikh. I'm from the Free Iraq Foundation. we work with Global Relief to fundraise and send student and relief delegations to Iraq. on my last trip there I went to Basra. (Basra is an open-sewage city, which means the sewage pipes are open, exposed, curbside.) at the hospital in Basra, each room was like the last. a skin-and-bones child on the bed a desperate mother bedside. I was so embarrassed to be there, a spectator to their private tragedy. it got to bee too much, and soon I was crying shamelessly. in my broken Arabic I asked one mother, 'what can I do?' I am Umm hafeeza -- mother of hafeeza -- I've brought my baby here to die. I'll bury her next to her brother. I used to speak of Allah's mercy, but now I only taste His cruelty -- venom at the back of my throat, I can't cough it out. these relief workers come here -- for what? they bring cameras, not medicine. but I let them document our misery. hoping it might finally help. one actually asked me, in broken Arabic, crying all the while, 'what can I do?' I looked at him a long time. and then asked, 'why are you here?' I AM the writer of this poem check 1, 2, 3, and 4 just not the same 'me' as before. I am Iraq, I'm stuck in time. I am the infrastructure of Iraq, I don't exist. I am george bush sr. and I said we bombed Iraq into the stone age. I am henry kissinger and I said oil is far too important to be left to the arabs. I am madeline albright and I said the Iraqi children casualties are worth it. I am the writer of this poem. not Iraqi, not American. in the netherworld I stand performing microphone checks check 1, check 2, check 3. checking, but I don't recognize the writer of this poem. don't recognize her world. -Zara Khan. [wlm] |
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