1)
\nYou drowned.
\nI watched God die
\non sea waves, in the mirror,
\ninside your tears, between the pages
\nof holy books where you never imagined God\u2019s demise.<\/p>\n
Five-year-old child drowned in the English Channel…
\nWhere was your childhood going to rest
\nwhen the sea vomited you out into an unwelcoming land?
\nA refugee from death to death.<\/p>\n
My head is spinning. I vomit
\non the Universal Charter of Human Rights,
\non all the UN statements,
\non feminist movements,
\non the defenders of freedom and equality,
\non research done by the happiest city in the world,
\non all the holy books, and on the saddest
\ncity in the world: myself!<\/p>\n
Nothing shelters me,
\nnothing sheltered you.
\nEach morning, the sea regurgitates my corpse
\nand the wind diffuses my unalive breaths.
\nEach day, I die and my body greets people,
\ndeath and exile, then spreads itself far.<\/p>\n
We are the corpses of the stateless
\nwithout shelter and God, traveling
\ncity to city, reading
\nthe Holy Book while our pores
\nwiden and swell with fury.<\/p>\n
I vomit.<\/p>\n
The lost ring from the Titanic
\nsurvives and finds its way into a museum
\nbut your name, bright and shining
\nas a bird on the sea, your five years of innocence
\nperishehs in this world of borders and codes.<\/p>\n
On which side of the sea,
\nwhich direction of the sky,
\nwhich side of the border,
\nwas God busy with a new mischief
\nwhen the sea opened its mouth
\nand swallowed your small body?<\/p>\n
2)<\/p>\n
The postman does not come on Mondays.
\nNo letters in the post office Thursdays and Fridays.
\nFor me, the world is always on a break.
\nMy lamp does not burn late into night.
\nNo one asks for me.
\nNo one walks past my window.<\/p>\n
I leave a caf\u00e9 on Fifth street
\nand look for home.
\nLook for myself.
\nI don\u2019t remember my address.
\nThe more I search the more lost I become.
\nNo one is familiar.
\nI try to speak in another tongue
\nin my Herat accent, but my voice breaks
\nlike the last glass of wine, I drank.
\nThe last sip is always bitter
\nlike a letter that never arrives,
\nlike exile,
\nin Berlin, Moscow, and Rotterdam,
\nin Tehran, and Washington DC.<\/p>\n
Pieces of me do not return to me.
\nI do not return to a home no longer there.<\/p>\n
3)
\nListen,
\nthis wound is like cancer.
\nIt sinks its claws into every cell
\nand spreads into streets
\nbeyond our invaded veins.
\nThese days
\nthe war begins in one spot
\nrecruits\u2019 soldiers in another
\nand ruptures in yet another place.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Somaia Ramish is a poet, writer, and human rights activist whose influential voice resonates in the world of literature and human rights advocacy. She holds a Master\u2019s degree in Persian Language and Literature from the University of Delhi, India, and is currently a Ph.D. candidate in the same field.
\nShe currently leads “Baamdaad: House of Poetry in Exile,” a global movement she founded to protest against censorship and the repression of literary and artistic expression in Afghanistan and beyond. This initiative has become a beacon of hope, uniting artists and poets worldwide in solidarity with Afghan creatives facing severe restrictions under the Taliban regime.
\nHer poems have been translated and published in multiple languages, earning her prestigious awards and medals for both her literary achievements and human rights activism.
\nIn addition to her writing, Somaia Ramish regularly lectures at various universities on poetry and literature, with a special focus on women\u2019s poetry in Afghanistan.
\nHer poetic talent, combined with an unwavering commitment to human rights and freedom of expression, continues to inspire many, establishing her as a vital figure in both the literary and activist communities.
\n\ud83d\udd17 Website | Baamdaad | Instagram | Facebook<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":17649,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[111],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-17648","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-111"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/abahaman.com\/abahaman\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17648","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/abahaman.com\/abahaman\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/abahaman.com\/abahaman\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/abahaman.com\/abahaman\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/abahaman.com\/abahaman\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=17648"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/abahaman.com\/abahaman\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17648\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":17651,"href":"https:\/\/abahaman.com\/abahaman\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17648\/revisions\/17651"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/abahaman.com\/abahaman\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/17649"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/abahaman.com\/abahaman\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=17648"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/abahaman.com\/abahaman\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=17648"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/abahaman.com\/abahaman\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=17648"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}