Yet to soar over razed earth.
maybe you fund its causes
maybe you make your social media a monument
to the faraway sufferings of poor dark folk
maybe it’s the topic of your every conversation
in the end, what really changes?
a million voices conversing with hands tied
your distance, your helplessness
your apathy remain on your screen:
you scroll, you tap, you swipe.
it remains.
they remain.
suffering, starving, bleeding, dying
beaten, bloody, thirsty, trampled.
the sun merciless on their skin
the boots merciless on their backs,
the moon belonging to them, the direction for their longing;
the nights theirs to dream of freedom,
to cry,
and to mourn with the tears forbidden during the day.
the same nights given to us for sleep
and sleep we do,
knowing we’ve done something
not knowing to what effect.
not knowing the where the shot landed
the bullet in the bullseye of charity and concern
the bullet in a skull, the bullet in a back
all the same.
one fire in an activist belly
another stoked halfway across the world
to burn evidence of existence
memories and identification dancing in flames
ashes that the world will never see
soot sprinkled on an unmarked grave
and all of a sudden
it is a time in the near future
we stand:
you, them, us,
collectively.
and in some monstrous noise,
the greatest disaster since mankind
the accusations start flying
blame-guilt-regret
a hybrid of remorse and sorrow
deafening in a foreign tongue
maybe one, maybe a million
fingers point at you.
your family
an ethnic group
an unfortunate people
you watched them
live, die, and everything between
you met and shook the same hands
that held them, pinned them down
you fell asleep
to the soundtrack of suffering
wailing a white noise
pleas for help an ambient mix
you pinched two fingers in their faces:
index and thumb
to tease
maybe with salt to rub into their wounds
maybe with sand to rub in their eyes
maybe with a round piece of currency
cold metal to pelt at their foreheads
your single grain of rice
laid like an offering
on the corpse of their dead
your empty thoughts and robotic prayers
hollow sound at a funeral.
Cynical, dramatic, worst-case scenario. One not from my notes app, but from a yellow copy, scribbled a while after reading ‘First They Erased Our Name’ by Habiburahman. Some elements are from the Rohingya struggle, some from the Uyghur people. Some from general senseless violence, wars in Yemen, Syria, Palestine, Mali, Sudan that have set the earth on fire. Some for those forgotten. Some for poverty and manufactured famine. Some for sectarian violence and tribalism. Some for race relations. Some for cheap labour, trafficking and exploitation. Some for natural and unnatural disasters and a volatile environment. All for disconnect, detachment and lack of concern. All for discomfort, turning a blind eye and changing the channel or skipping the ad. All for ‘pities’ and ‘shames’ with little real concern. All for helplessness and being trapped on the side of complicity and ignorance.
Islamic theology of relevance: the concept of martyrdom, the Day of Judgement, the concept of ummah.
I thought to footnote the piece with a disclaimer e.g. this piece is not to belittle the efforts of those aware and genuinely concerned, not to promote hopelessness and cynicism, not to criticise the millions of ‘thoughts and prayers’ sent by well-wishers worldwide, blah, blah, blah. Really it is to criticise everyone, and to point a finger at us all. Ever slaves to a system where violence is profitable, where lives are commodified, comfortable as usual convincing ourselves that doing our best within the current world order is enough. The bitter humour in this is that while we still squabble over how best to help The People, The People have not conveniently stopped suffering in the meantime. We’ll give credit where credit is due, but people are still dying.
De nobis fabula narratur.
