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Some Powerful Poems!

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Some Powerful Poems!
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!
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!
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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