Sisters in the Shadows

Islam Nashrif

Tashrif, my dear little sister,

If I told you what I see coming, some night,

In some ungodly hour, to the sound of unearthly sirens

And gunshots at a distance, closing in on our ears,

This one thing you can’t imagine,

To your constrained knowledge, of course,

Something that hasn’t happened yet, …or has it?

The place where we will arrive tonight,

Covered in black abayas and grime.

Will grumble at our presence, asking us to perish fast.

Face to face, in a cold embrace, it will thunder upon us

This war, which we South Asians did not want

…You would be petrified.

 

This war is millions of innocent people writhing in vain,

This needless conflict, made up of hatred and sorrow,

Muslims versus Hindus, liberals versus jubbas,

Rupom, the rosy sweetshop boy

and Kalim Chacha from the tong downstairs,

Slashing each other in this orgiastic dance of gore

That smears the line between love and hate.

This war, of which I have spoken to you, will begin.

I shall always hope to see you again, but will leave.

I’m going away from you, with a heavy heart,

Trembling at the thought of leaving you,

Abandoning you, to fight an invisible foe.

 

To my sisters in the Middle East,

Johora, my dearest sister, if I told you what I see coming…

The irrelevance of baby girls born there

Facing their wrecked fates, bargaining petals in front

Bowing their heads at the slightest grimace

Can you count those who are mothers but not women?

Who have lived so much while they haven’t grown up

Who were said to be happy but didn’t smile

And whose tears and prayers have been silenced?

When you come of age, in due time,

You would ask to be buried alive at birth.

 

To my sisters in West Asia,

Maysan, my dearest sister, stillborn and little,

If I told you what you’ve been spared to catch sight of…

Mothers, Fathers, siblings, friends and neighbors

Writhing in pain under the rubble, clutching onto lost limbs,

Reaching for Severed heads and gathering splattered vessels,

The constant shuffling of those who don’t have a Home anymore

Their fate, sealed in liquid soot, ordained to be smeared away

While their shrill bodies prepare to abandon the aching,

… You would consider yourself lucky to have departed early.

 

I am writing, I am writing for these blameless children

So that one day in heaven their freedom will hover

And the bare walls of the Defiler will topple over

With spectacular vines emerging from the debris

Painting graffities of courage and peace.

My dear sisters, I may be gone now, but I will arise again,

Through the illiterate soldier and your foul-smelling uncle,

your oppressors who see in black and white,

Through countless races and ethnicities

In the form of messiahs and peasants,

To try and ignite fire in the bare walls of stray hearts,

For I am Conscience.