Poets Against War continues the tradition of socially engaged poetry by creating venues for poetry as a voice against war, tyranny and oppression.
Maryna Ajaja
Seattle, Wash.
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“Write down that I am an Arab, that my grandfather’s vineyards were stolen and all the Arab lands were stolen.
“And when I’m left to starve, I’ll eat anything, even the flesh of those who stole our land.”
—Mahmoud Darwish from I.D. Card
Write down that I am a Jew from an oppressed people now known as the oppressor. Write down that I am a Jew with brown hair and green eyes. And for all the gold fillings pulled and piled into mountains, I am changing the landscape. I offer irrigation and orange groves. Write that I share the exile stance, that refugee has always been my name. That we share the same holy places and the same word for peace. Write down that I’m a Jew living in Northwest America, land of green and dampness, and that I reject the desert, the Promised Land. I reject that law of both peoples— An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. I’d rather be mute and blind.
Write down that I’m a Jew and reject the veil, the wig and the male god who orders them. I bet that bothers you. I bet you don’t like that! And don’t bother to write my name, no mister, no missus. I’m not interested in formalities, your stalling tactics.
Write that this land belongs to no one. Only dust claims first ownership. And over this dust we erect a new landscape, over the bones of Abraham, over the bones of Mohammed’s children. Write down that I hate no one and reject oppression.
I have walked through the orchards, those lush landscapes, and seen tractors roll down aisles of gleaming fruit. I’ve heard the prophets scream from the roofs of Jerusalem. I’ve heard all the dogmatic arguments and prayers at the wall. And for every passive Jew who stood in the shower line— I write this for you: Hate begets hate and religion is hypocritical, pitting people against people. And for every Arab with a drawn knife, with the same blood I have, insist on justice and be just yourself.
Yes, write at the top of the page that I’m a Jew with brown hair and green eyes. Write that I’m a Jew and that I don’t hate anybody. I have been hungry but I would rather starve than eat your flesh.
Blackout
Last night a blackout on the east coast lost us an evening of illuminated life. Maybe it’s better in the dark where bats fly and flies can’t be seen. Maybe it’s better without light. Besides, hasn’t infrared cured us of night blindness? Between smart bombs and dumb people, I lie on the couch and see my “evil doer” looking straight at me. “Americans are so cheerful,” my foreigner says. “Paper or plastic?” I reply dressed in my usual megalomania and lies – my burka of camouflaged denial. When the power’s switched on it won’t be coming back in black and white. To say we learn from history is a lie. To be self-righteous, blindness.
The day they start bombing Iraq my head is stuffed with blank pages. I want to light them on fire and flame in protest. Hindu women committed suttee when their husbands died. Buddhist monks in Saigon set themselves on fire as Quakers did, beside the Pentagon, and Czechs, in protest of occupation, and Indians against the caste system. Call it despair, powerlessness, moral outrage, all part of a global repertoire of protest. To will yourself to burn. To wake from blankness. To lie informed by flames from my first word “Hot!” Instead, on that day, I see a man cry – In our country men do not. Perhaps it’s a luxury – though our ruined house is no longer abstract. My father carried wounds of Guadalcanal. My generation, wounds of Vietnam. And now this war on Terror. I respectfully bow to the man who cried.
Today is Veteran’s Day 2003, not a happy day for us. Today I wore my father’s Purple Heart on the lapel of my black blazer and received various reactions. "Tell your father thank you," said the guard at the Westin when he asked if it was mine. “My father received it in Guadalcanal for shrapnel,” I said. A guy in the office simply said “Wow!” The blond in the lift said she’d never seen one before. No doubt most people keep them locked in a dusty drawer. George Washington, in 1782, established this decoration for what he called “virtuous ambition” and “military merit.” As I left the building the guard again said, “Tell your Dad thanks.” I stammered, “He’s not of this world anymore.” For once I couldn’t just say, “He’s dead.”
