The tell-tale of a refugee 

My mother – my beloved mother,
my hands shiver out of wretched fear,
and tears fall with groans, they pine
as I dare to take your name and
push my broken pen in your name.

The world you gave me was quite different
than the world now I face with the people who humanly take care of me, my mother. 

But they are not like you mom,
they talk to me in a very harsh way
and often shout at me when I miss
the que for a small pack of boiled rice
with a boiled piece of chicken, they give.

When i get too hungry,
my phraseless hands begin shivering harder
and my heart begins beating quit faster
than usual mom,
yet I can’t get a piece of boiled chicken
or some rice, while hardly starving.

They never perceive the storm caught within,
they always ignore my feeling as a human,
and often impose very difficult roles on me,
when I ask a cellphone to talk to you mom.

I sleep on small hard piece of mat
they provided,
often do I wake up at midnights
when the pain is too fatal,
while the coldness and humidity
sometimes make it harder
to even take a breath.

My smiles are gone now
and pain replaced well,
piece of boiled rice
with a boiled chicken leg
enable to survive by passing a humiliating cell.

I squat weeping,
while taking your name mom,
standing thin legged, 
like a carcass in nostalgia,
and small bodied hands
to my mouth in prayer,
five months with little food,
since I am settled.

Here is not enough vegetable
to eat well mom,
boiled rice is small
that lasts few days eat to calm,
only eating to remain alive,
and starving days in row
and often vomit my next food
for I have to eat slow.

Often do I get sick,
and never sleep well in nostalgia, 
feeling lost and so disappointed
with this disorder that the world’s
most generous fellows imposed on me
to live like a hell, with no feeling to heal.

You are so kind my caressing mom,
my whole being longs for your arms
and my heart with whims beats so fast
to be enfolded in your reverend arms
which are my radiant mansion.

I miss your kindness
and fortified pacification,
my beloved mom –
wherein your fairy visage would protect me of burning sun – therein you pace,
i shall put the dust of your footsteps
in my eyes, in your noble recitation of reflection mom.

But you don’t have to worry,
I will hold my writhed breath tight
until I meet you with no more tide.
Your son forever,
Abdul Samad Haidari 

About samad1986

Abdul Samad Haidari is a poet, writer, teacher and a former freelance journalist, currently residing in Indonesia as a stateless refugee. He is the author of The Red Ribbon He fled his home country at the age of seven and grew up wandering in Pakistan and Iran as a child refugee, and was separated from his family for the majority of his childhood. For two years, at the age of eight and nine, he was forced into child labour in the construction industry in Iran. In contrast, Pakistan offered refugees like him the opportunity to study and work. This education and work experience culminated in Abdul teaching computer studies and English language courses at the Intel Computer Center and Pak Oxford Professionals. After the collapse of the Taliban government, Abdul returned to Afghanistan thinking that the security situation had improved, and that he could take part in the reconstruction of his war-torn country. With this in mind, Abdul served as a freelance journalist and humanitarian aid-worker in areas of the country that remained dangerous to civilians because of the influence of terrorist groups. Abdul served with the Norwegian refugee council (NRC), ActionAid Afghanistan, Daily Outlook Afghanistan group of newspapers, and The Daily Afghanistan Express. As a freelance journalist, Abdul wrote articles and editorials about on-the-ground realities, which were then circulated widely. These had a particular focus on women and children’s rights, corruption, transparency and accountability in government, warlords and terrorist groups’ actions and the systematic persecution of minority groups in both Afghanistan and Pakistan.
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