[The full prose poem written just after the July 22 bombing in Kabul during the large demonstration calling for fair electrical service to the established for areas where Hazara people live. - by Hakim]
Insecurity, exploding like this senseless massacre in Kabul,
stacks up with the lack of work and hope,
and drove Ibrahim, his family and about 146,000 Afghans from
their places of birth, traditions, tea and weddings,
to find shelter in Europe,
as the second largest group of asylum seekers after Syrians.
The ‘powers’ are tearing Syria apart,
in the same way they have successfully shredded Afghanistan.
You were too young, like many others,
but family meant: you fled as a family,
and after you no longer turned up at the Centre,
word came through your grandma in Kabul,
who was distraught and shaking like paper burnt to grey ash,
“crying without pause for days and nights,” she said.
“Dear Ibrahim, such a good boy, is gone,
gone, how is that possible?
She sighed, wiping off the stream from under her eye bags.
“How am I supposed to stop this pain?”
Ibrahim’s grandma was broken. Lost.
Ibrahim, I knew what to wish for you,
but you never saw any sea before,
and the money-makers from these wars
would never visit your grave,
and certainly not without blaming you and your mother,
or, if you had survived, they would have considered you a nuisance,
a dispensable number.
My wish was: “I hope you have a school you can enjoy going to.”
but that’s impossible now,
and when another bomb went off this bloody afternoon,
killing at least 80, in a sea-less land,
I was reminded that your family was willing to risk all,
to journey from possible death to possible death,
and I felt incredibly angry at what we are doing to fellow human beings,
to the children of the world.