I have nothing much to say except that my babies were actually born and lived with me. But a part of what she says, rings so much within me as she says
“Each of these
My three babies
I will carry with me
For myself
I ask no one else will be
Mother to these three ”
France je te renie, bleu, blanc, rouge, je t’oublie
18 août 2010
…
J’aime de ta couleur, les nuances bleues saumâtres
France que, de mon exil, je me mets à observer
Plongeant mon regard avide dans tes eaux verdâtres
France, de ta Seine, j’ai tant parcouru les Quais
…
France, que j’aimais ton teint de colombe albâtre
France, au rang de Sainte, ta justice j’avais élevée
France de mon cœur qui, rouge, pour toi fut un âtre
France, que mon père, de Pondichéry, nous chantait
…
France, ta justice, ouvre nos veines rougeâtres
Tes sillons, de nos sangs impurs, tu veux abreuver
France, tu renvoies vite à leur déconfiture ces pâtres
Indiens, Arabes, Musulmans, peuples tant décriés
…
J’aime que tu n’aimes pas du tout ma couleur jaunâtre
Car ce sont autant de raisons pour, enfin, me donner
Une raison pour refuser tes relents fort douceâtres
France que j’aimais, France que j’ai enfin oubliée
My only sins are big, so Judge M. crucified us
18 August 2010
…
I don’t drink alcohol, I never took a drug
I don’t even smoke
…
But I’m Indian, Arab, Muslim, despicable bug
This makes him choke
…
I also am, alas, a woman with a mind so snug
Loud and bespoke
…
That can never deserve you a cuddle, a hug
A woman to cloak
…
He thinks in Dubai we sweat, live on a lil’ rug
Such a sad bloke
…
The thought of loving us is like eating a slug
His mind does provoke
…
Looking at me, he can only hate my sad mug
His eyes I poke
…
The sorrow in which this cloaked, ugly humbug
Made my kids, me, soak
…
The only thing he knows he can do, smug
Is take my yoke
…
Broken egg, into my insides, he delved, dug
Justice? A joke!
…
With strength, love, hope, faith, I fill me a jug
I still invoke
…
The lost justice that this sleek and cloaked thug
In me broke
Je t’accuse toi, France, de me courber, moi, demi-nègre
18 août 2010
…
J’accuse
J’accuse la France de partialité
De paternité coupable retrouvée
De fanatisme paternel, en dérivée
…
J’accuse
J’accuse la France de méconnaître
Droits d’enfant mineurs, envoyés paître
Droits des mères enterrés sous l’hêtre
…
J’accuse
J’accuse la France de coupables dérives
Une fille de douze ans, faire en sorte qu’elle vive
Entre père négligeant et mère sur l’autre rive
…
J’accuse
J’accuse la France d’un peu trop étreindre
Droits paternels laissant enfants mineurs s’éteindre
De racisme et de sexisme, ses jugements teindre
…
J’accuse
J’accuse la France d’analphabétisme
De regarder le réel à travers un prisme
Coloré de mille phobies, ce néo-racisme
…
J’accuse
J’accuse la France, d’enfants mineurs, arracher
A leur culture pour, à la sienne seule, condamner
Anglais ? Arabe ? Ce ne sont pas des langues. Pitié !
…
J’accuse
Je t’accuse, Toi, de nous avoir ainsi égorgés
De nous avoir, un semblant même de justice, nié
De n’avoir pas pu, ta toque de justice, mériter
—
J’accuse
J’accuse cette justice de nous étouffer dans mon vomi
Vomissures provoquées par cette justice qu’on me nie
Droit des enfants mineurs, agneaux apeurés qu’on oublie
…
J’accuse
France, les mères, je t’accuse de les avoir oubliées
Tes propres Mariannes, leurs pauvres droits violés
Vive Napoléon ! Son nouveau code peut triompher
18 août 2010
On me reprocherait mon sensationnalisme,
Mon maternel et filial intégrisme
Mon étalage de ma vie privée,
De méconnaître les dangers….
Connaissez-vous d’autres moyens rapides et efficaces de prendre aux tripes pour faire triompher contre l’injustice?
Cette justice française qui traînait des pieds, elle me donnait 15 jours pour faire appel. Quel temps nain, factice!
Des jours qui ne s’égrènent pas mais qui s’entrechoquent,
Se bousculent en courant pour oublier ce crime commis dont on se moque,
Une vraie tache rouge vif sur une chemise que l’on veut blanche,
Une faute qui ne mérite pas qu’on s’y épanche
Une mouche sur un plancher qu’on veut balayer,
Une injustice qu’on voudrait vite camoufler
une faute qu’on évite,
que l’on oublie un peu trop vite…
Croyez-vous que ça me plaise d’être ainsi prise à la hussarde, bousculée, bafouée?
Croyez-vous que je n’aurais pas d’autres moyens plus paisibles cherchés?
Si seulement, si seulement, plus de temps, plus de moyens, j’avais….
Was it for the feathers or for the eggs?
17 August 2010
…
And the rooster crowed
And I asked, “rooster, why do you crow so”?
The rooster said, “because it is in my nature”
And the rooster showed
His lustreless feathers that shined no more
Said, wait as I get some shine from an old pasture
…
The rooster strutted over to his forgotten hen
Sitting cowering there in her narrow den
And the rooster said, “give me back my lustre
Or all hell against you I will now muster”
…
And the hen squawked
And I asked, “hen, why do you squawk in fright”?
The hen said, because I just want some peace
And the hen balked
At the rooster plucking her feathers, causing her plight
Said, my beautiful eggs and feathers you shall not fleece
…
The rooster crowed
The hen squawked
The rooster said she owed
The hen again balked
…
They ran around in circles so vicious
While foxes and wolves hailed this precious
Unexpected, juicy meal for the years to come
That would last a while, make their stomach a drum
…
The fox jumped upon the hen
The wolf nabbed the rooster
And that is when each fowl realised
That they were oh so ill-advised
…
And fox and wolf lived happily ever after, their stomachs replete
Morale of the story: When dead, no more feathers for which to compete
Woman, cover up !
15 August 2010
He calls me seething with rage and concerned for my well-being. “I am your friend, I think about your well-being”, “Someone has to stop you”, “Why did you put all of that on facebook?”.
To which I answer coldly “Not only. I also blogged about it and tweeted it too.”
He goes “Are you crazy? Why on earth did you do that?” “You should think about your reputation” “How can you talk about this in front of everybody? How can you speak about your life so that everybody can read it? This is impossible. Someone has to stop you” “I am your friend, I really need to see you, someone has to talk to you. You cannot go on like this”. “My God, you should think about the kids”.
“Precisely”, I answer coldly. “I am thinking about them. I cannot stop thinking about them. A court of (in)justice has refused to hear this reality and grant them and me our rights. What that courtroom refused to hear, hundreds of ears shall hear it and a thousand eyes shall read it.” “I want the whole world to be my witness, so that my appeal, at last, may be heard in its whole truth, may be truly judged and not misjudged” “So that my appeal may bring THEM back to me.”
Yes, my friend I think about THEM, night and day. There is nothing else that I can think about.
He pleads with me thinking that madness has possessed my mind. He pleads with me to remove all traces of this shameful confession, this ghastly, unwelcome display of flesh and pain. He would like me to cloak in hypocrisy what I displayed today. I know he thinks he means well. But I know I have a mind of my own and can think too. I do not need someone to think for me. I do not need to be “in custody”.
Woman, cover up!
Don’t forget. You owe it to tradition, you owe it to custom, you owe it to religion, you owe it to your husband, like you owed it to your father before him like you will owe it to your brothers and then to your uncles if all else die. And if you have no family left, you will still owe it to the male representatives in your neighbourhood, …. You may not be your naked self. You may not share your thoughts. You may not express your feelings. Woman, cover up! You are “in custody”.
Woman, cover up!
Have you been raped, has someone forced what he calls love out of you? Hush! Do not speak! Hush! Do not report! The shame, the shame, the shame…Hush! For if it comes out in the open, I will have to kill you. Or maybe I will just kill you all the same. Out of precaution. For your redemption. It is the most honourable solution for you and for us. I will have to kill you. Me. Your father. Your brother. Your husband. Your uncle. Your legal guardian. Woman, cover up!
Woman, cover up!
Has he beaten you? Is there a mark on your face, on your body that should not exist, naturally? Is it too highly placed to have been caused by a flailing window, by a recalcitrant door? On the small of your back is perfectly alright. Nobody can see that. On the edges of your throat is still okay. You can cover that up in no time. Is it on the side of your cheek? On the top of your brow? On the edge of your chin? On the side of your lip? On the end of your lid? Woman, cover up! What else is makeup for?
Woman cover up!
Have you been wronged till you were cloaked in your sorrow? Have you been married off with no hope of a loving morrow? Have you been betrothed with a man much older than you? A man old enough to be your father? A dying man, old enough to be your grandfather? A man at the peak of his vigour, as some tell you jeeringly to convince you. A nice mature and strong man, while you were only nine, twelve or hopefully thirteen? Well it is all part of life. Nothing to alert the neighbours about, so don’t! Not even a secret to tell your best friends, so don’t! Those best friends, women that I will choose – only women of high morality that I approve of – will anyway be living the same life. The only life that you will ever know. Let me screen them so you may not stray. Woman, cover up! That is all that you are allowed to do. You are after all “In custody”.
Woman, cover up!
Have you been oppressed? Has male justice wronged you? Has again male supremacy silenced you? Did you think you had something to say? Did you think that you had rights? Did you think that you were meant to be happy? Did you think that you could go out in the open and tell everybody your secrets? Have you not learnt anything? Woman, cover up!
Woman, cover up!
Sorry, I lost my Sifsari, never learnt to wear a Burqa and Sheherezade stole my veils. The problem is only she knows where she hid them. The other problem is, Sheherezade is dead. Ask Joumana Haddad. She killed Sheherezade. And now, I will never know where my veils are, so I am afraid I cannot… cover up…Me, woman…
The truth of the matter is…I don’t want to. I will not cover up…Not anymore…
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