September 12, 2006
From A New York Times article September 10, 2006
“Darfur Trembles as Peacekeepers’ Exit Looms.“
Darfur Trembles in the shadow of the relentless sun
This place echoes Rawanda
This camp a tangle of weeds,
Squalid shacks and straw huts
This place echoes Rawanda
Not for the soldiers
who hold together the tattered peace
Not for the soldiers with
dusty guns and dead eyes
This place calls out Rawanda
This place, Dali, Its true name
a camp near Tawila
where our own soliders
Fire upon us in the marketplace
They call this place Rawanda
The Sheiks say
the name holds a darker truth
A nod to a another massacre
To a promise unfulfilled
What happened there will happen here
Rawanda – Darfur - my village
Tawila, a name that was once a town,
| I am this place Its’ red sand woven like beads in my hair I am this rambling camp of despair Camp of children |
|
| Cut in half by mines Cut in half again by hunger Cut in half again by fear Cut in half again until they disappear |
|
| Everyone wants this piece of dirt Not for what it holds But for where it leads And where it doesn’t |
|
Darfur quivers in the cold faced moon
Darfur where you are either Arab or Non-Arab
To be defined by what you are not
Who will remember what you have been
Defined by the small space you once occupied
By the empty shell you leave by the roadside
When you cannot carry one more bucket of dirty water
When you cannot face your hungry son
One more day with empty hands
I am Mariam Ibrhim Omar
I buried my son Ismail on Wednesday
No one is sure what killed him,
Will someone call this genocide?
When one group of people disappears
A day at a time
A meal at a time
A cup of dust at a time
Who will call this genocide?
We are not even visible
So how can we disappear?
The only thing growing here is the graveyard
With bodies buried
In bleached in white sheets
heads facing Mecca
Those who bury them
bend their knees to the ground
Red sand furls out of their hands like ribbons of water
dust and clay clog the mouths of the living as well as the dead
White sheets white turbans white sky
black holes shallow graves
red dust red blood or no blood
Huts made of bundled sticks
stand stubbornly against relentless sun.
How to tell the dead trees
from the makeshift homes
There is nothing here to have
Nothing here to want
Nothing here but piles of bones and rags
cracked cups that could not hold water even if the well were not dry
Wrapped in someone else’s blanket – the colors of another tribe
I hide beneath the pieces of straw
I hide beneath the cook pots
I hide because I can
I hide until the enemy can see my dead eyes
I hide until the enemy can see my bones
I hide until the enemy can see nothing the nothing I have become
I have become nothing to hide from them
I am sure I cannot become something ever again
I cannot inflate my thin skin to walk even as a ghost in my own town
I am Miriam Ibrahim Omar and today
I pull the white sheet over my own head
And lay down in the red dust river
Careful to face my head toward Mecca.
To read more of Shelley Grabel’s poetry go to www.depoetry.com/poets/200712/grabelshelley.html.
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The Delaware Poetry Review, or DePoetry.com, is an online compilation of amazing, contemporary poetry gathered by a group of erudite editors based in the Mid-Atlantic Region. This notable compilation of poetry has been available since 2007, publishing new editions about once a year.
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