The following is a poem about Omar Khadr, the only western national not to be repatriated by its host country from Guantanamo Bay.  This is due to the utter incompetence and blatant disregard the current Canadian government has for its own citizens.  Khadr was interned at age 15 and he is now 21.

Hooded and bound I sit in my prison cell,
While my mind plunges into the darkest depths of hell.
I hear the devil mock me with his ominous knell bell,
While I gravitate towards demons dressed like military personnel.
They exorcise my soul leaving just an external shell.
I yell in despair and bid my previous life farewell.

I sigh…

The demons infiltrate my mind for information.
Like cockroaches scurrying for food during an infestation.
Like the CIA plotting scenario’s before an occupation.
They bribe me endlessly to force my participation.
But I cannot help them much to their resignation.
Then I remember the water-boarding, sensory overload, and sleep deprivation.

I lie…

In my dreams the devil talks to me with a crooked grin.
Telling me how I was born of original sin.
He then shows me a vision of my dead conjoined twin.
Frightened, I think of my mother’s sweet caress and soft skin.
Playing soccer with my brothers and how they’d always win.
Wondering if I’ll ever get married and have a next of kin.

I cry…

As I read the Quran to appease God’s wrath against me.
The tears from my eyes flow like the mother of a slain Iraqi.
Creating an ocean of sorrow saltier than the dead-sea.
I dream of the moment when I am set free.
I dream of the moment when I can shout with joyful glee.
I dream of the moment when I’m no longer a detainee.

I try…

Hooded and bound I sit in my prison cell.

And I wait…

http://www.opednews.com/articles/Non-Enemy-Combatant-by-Aurangzeb-Qureshi-080814-693.html

For IWD, there are many women who’s example I’ve tried to follow.  I have always looked up to political activists such as Amy Goodman, Arundhati Roy, and Cindy Sheehan, but none of them have really had a direct effect on my life.  Perhaps the greatest influence (and I plead bias on this one) is probably my mother who continues to be a person I respect and admire.  I wrote a poem not too long ago depicting how we tend to take things for granted and how that leads to regret.  I certainly see myself guilty of this and I hope this illustrates that the motherly qualities of a woman is something that is truly priceless.

I Remember…

I remember your comforting presence at this time,
The way your essence made the household shine.
I remember when creating a mess was a punishable crime,
And your sweet songs that would always rhyme.

In the hour of your passing I stand in illuminated solitude,
Trying to gather some sense of artificial fortitude.
My heart heavy with a foreign sadness,
Driving me to the brink of suicidal madness.

I remember the way you held out your hand,
And helped me build castles in the sand.
I remember your calming whispers when we were about to land,
Somehow you always made me understand.

I am devoid of emotion,
Lost in the midst of chaotic commotion.
I am descending into the abyss of eternal despair, I am beyond repair.
I struggle to fight my vulnerability
Unable to break the inevitable laws of gravity

I remember when you always came to my immediate defense,
Your reassuring attitude that always made sense.
I remember when you scolded me and how I always became tense,
Whatever you did for me, the gains were always immense.

It pains me that I took you for granted,
How did my psyche become so slanted?
During your last breaths I prayed for your revival,
Realizing how you were essential for my survival.

I remember how you acquiesced to my ridiculous demands,
Buying me clothes that were expensive name-brands.
And I remember how I still ignored your motherly commands,
And now in the twilight your tombstone stands.

Your love was always platitude,
But I never showed you any gratitude.
Even though I shall visit your grave every December,
I will forever,

Remember…

As Ali mentioned in his blog post, the 2nd annual Mosquers event is set for February 16th at the University of Alberta.  A couple of friends and I also got together and submitted a film.  We felt that Muslims have a tendency to focus primarily on international issues and rightly so, there many issues directly impacting Muslims all over the world.  However, we decided to take an alternate approach to focus more on local poverty issues.  I also hope to have the film on the blog once I receive it in proper format, but here is the poem I wrote that served as the narrative.

Born Into Poverty

I wake up confused, devoid of direction,
Trying to achieve some semblance of perception.
In a dream a once questioned God about my conception,
and God struck me down with vehement aggression.
I am a victim of extraordinary rendition,
Taken to hell without permission, endlessley tortured, beaten and brought to submission.

The piercing wind ravages the essence of my core,
I plead with God, please no more, no more.
I inject the needle of necessity info my designated pore,
As euphoria rushes through my soul like a tsunami approaching a sea-side shore.
For a moment, my body isn’t sore.
For a moment, I am an invincible hero in folklore.
For a moment, I forget I am poor.
For a moment, I forget I am poor.

My mundane life loses colour gradually.
My reality becomes black and white like conservative ideology.
Subjected to solitary confinement damages me psychologically.
I scream out in anguish to expel the demon from inside of me,
while weeping tears of blood incessantly.
To escape the solitude I reach for the flute in my trolley,
and perform the monotonous melody of malignant melancholy.

Stereotypes reign supreme for those like me.
They don’t realize I was born into poverty.
Unable to free myself from the clutches of darkness - I want to see.
I again inject myself with the venom of veneration - I am an exception to God’s mercy.
My vision blurs and my veins freeze, I see my tombstone standing in my memory,
etched with the phrase “here lies Mr. Nobody”.

I forget I am poor, for eternity…
I forget I am poor, for eternity…