Hazaras bleed ________________

And then,

only bloodstained shoes are left behind

with bombed arms, separated heads, flesh,

bloodstreams running across the wedding hall.

Human body parts shrouded the chairs and tables,

the fresh skin parts are swaying with blood drops,

sliding down on the parted forehead of a child –

their intestines sprouted out of their bellies

like my grand mother’s woolen carpet threads,

kidneys are fractured from the middle with

the bullets stuck with heads half in and half out.

The bride and groom are laying deed,

steeped in their own sticky blood

with the ribboned knife in her right hand,

stopped cut, motionless on the wedding cake –

their wedding dresses are stained, soaked

by warm reddish departing blood –

like the raw fruit falling upon the ceramic.

A mother lays faced up, with eyes still open,

hands stilled, locked on her burnt chest,

father’s head swings like football in blood.

The the left hand of little Qasim is still hanging

in father’s pocket with fractured bones, flesh,

blood dropping filled the father’s pocket…

And the father only holds his hands and screams.

He falls unconscious and turns to conscious again

not knowing that his left leg is blown up.

The agony of death:

The victim of hatred:

The hostaged refugees in closed camps:

The prey of genocide in their own lands:

The unloved,

The brutalized,

The terrorized,

The slaughtered,

Hazaras…and only Hazaras.

But each time silently graved in group,

prayed to rest at peace in the heart of

the only Death Accepting Soil…

while others remain behind waiting for their turn,

though burning in the blowing wind like a candle,

trembled, burnt, relived and then killed.

This is painful, knowing you are genocide,

persecuted in every possible way

with no faults but of your:

Facial feature,

Race,

Religious believe,

And your civilized attitude.

How should I dare to offer you my hands

from behind these distant celled walls?

My hands are chained, my legs are banned,

my voice is cut; lips are sewed tight –

experiencing a more painful death here…

this death is compromised, negotiated and planed….

How shall I negotiate the implications of:

Shame?

Agony?

And sorrows?

How should I consolidate this grieving heart

while witnessing my Shoulders, Eyes, Hands

are cut one by one by a blunt knife?

This reminds me of one of my friends’ poem:

First, they came for Hazaras,

I stood up with arms in held

saying, “They are not Hazaras.”

Second, they came for Shaias,

I said, “They are not Shias.”

Third, they came for us all,

but there was no one anymore

to stand and defend us.

Rise up Human Rights Defenders.

Don’t blank us with your empty slogans only.

Today is our turns and tomorrow will be yours

if you keep silent now.

_________________________________________________

Abdul Samad Haidari

(19/08/2019 10:48am,

Jakarta, Indonesia).

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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