The Gift (poem)

The Gift ( poem)

Suraiya coaxed her daughter Amna,
A dingy room is where she took her.
Rites of passage to womanhood
Is marked with a gift.
No other words exchanged
For the girls at school
Bullied her for being a ‘ girl’.
‘Not yet a woman’.
The little girl oblivious
To the slurs
Found meaning all too soon
Without verbal or sacred explanations.
A razor raised by rough hands
Spread and touched her
Where no one should.
Excruciating pain.
And shrieks.
But no muscle on
Her mother’s face flinches.
“It will be fine.
You’ll be a woman.”
The only words uttered,
To a bleeding seven year old.
Legs tied.
Groggy with pain.
Still no sign of painkillers.
For fourteen days,
She cries and bears
The rites of passage.
And finally on the fifteenth day,
She has earned the rite.
She crosses over to the ‘other’ life;
With the gift of infection,
Another ‘woman’ had died.

—Dr Hafsa Siddiqui (2018)

Commentary:

FGM is an unIslamic and barbaric practice that must be banned and condemned. It has gone on for far too long in the  fake shroud of cultural practices. Women for women. Women for their own daughters and sisters.

 

 

The Sacrifice

The Sacrifice

Separating her young legs,
His manliness found a way,
And she reciting the durood shareef,
Fought her senses
To get done with the incest.
Take me,
Not my sister.
The sacrifice.

© Dr Hafsa Siddiqui

27/1/17

Commentary: This poem that I wrote almost a year ago, was asked to be taken down due to its objectionable content. We adults need to wake up to  what exactly our kids are facing. If all things will be under the rug swept, then more distorted and unhealed stories will continue to be written. Speak now. Act now. Care now. It matters to a child.

Monsters

Monsters

I wonder if monsters
Ever have demons of their own.
Demons that plaque them…
Demons that creep
From under their bed.
Incubus or succubus
That call their name in sleep.
Medusa that turn to stone,
Their shocked bodies.
Or just ‘humans’
That beat the monsters
At their game.
Stalkers, serial killers, rapists,
Online predators …
Up to date.
So called ‘feminists’
That sling mud
Onto women that cannot hurt.
Cat- calling , Eve- teasing,
For tis’ the women are to blame.
Even monsters may have rules.
What to speak of mortals; fools.
Pedophiles lure the innocence,
To their darkest lairs.
Putting even demons to shame.

 

©Dr Hafsa Siddiqui (2018)

Lessons from the Birds

Lessons from the Birds

Have you not seen
The birds flying in a flock?
Held in mid-air
Soaring on the air currents,
By Al Rehman?
Have you not seen…
That when one is tired
And flies low…
Leaving his position
Of the leader of the flock,
He glides back
To fly in
Another’s tutelage?
But doesn’t give up.
The air pressure decreases
As does the strength.
Taking turns
To migrate to a favourable place;
Their destination.
But they don’t ever give up.
They remain;
A flock.
A team.
A pack.
So, when your brother is hurt or dismayed
Pull up your socks
And be there.
For one good deed
From you is all it takes.
A few kind words
To help him get back up.
A dua …
To raise his ranks.
A shoulder
Onto which he can momentarily rest.
Perhaps, this little deed will be the one
That puts you in Paradise.
And let you hear the words
“Razi Allahu Anhu wa Radu.”*

©Dr Hafsa Siddiqui (2018)

 

* “Allah is pleased with them and they are pleased with Him.”

“To the Ones Who Only Pray”

“To the Ones Who Only Pray”

I’m not innocent Maryam AS
Who bore a child and faced inhumane slurs
On her chastity.
I’m not Yusuf AS who fought against desire,
And won after seeing Burhaan from Him
While Zuleikha tempted,
Tearing at his shirt.
And, I am not Adam AS
Whose loneliness
He saw and blessed
With a loving companion.
A desolate, woman
I am buckling under
And struggling to get back on my feet,
Half-heartedly.
And to the ones who pray;
I’ll tell Him
On The Judgement Day
To question those
Whom I approached for help.
“What did you do when
My slave came to you for help…?”
Will your answer suffice that:
“Lord, we prayed for her. Nothing else.”
Remember.
For I will, too.

©Dr Hafsa Siddiqui (2018)

Gulqand

Gulqand

Wrapped between the betel quid,
Sticky sweet roses fade,
Aromatic and fresh,
Yet their own colour has bled.
Lying between slaked lime
To cut a tongue into an ulcer
And the brown earth of kathaa.
Stuffed between the cheeks
Of a lecher or haseena;
Or that of a couple
From a cheap cinema.
The pure
And innocent rose petals
Immortalised and
Confined
In a cheap green tavern bed;
Trapped and tainted innocence.

Hafsa Siddiqui