On the invasion of Iraq by US forces.








A part of me died at Karbala


when Ur, Abraham’s Bethlehem,


became a battleground


for the three Semitic sons of his loins.





A part of me died at Karbala


when the harp of my history


was looted from its showcase in Baghdad,


erasing my past as though it did not deserve a future.





A part of me died at Karbala


when swaddled infants were killed, their throats


speared by the shards of precision bombs


that can now target the necks of innocents.





A part of me died at Karbala


when the month of Moharram again became


a month of mourning, of bloodied bodies,


flailed peeling skin, and conditioned grief.





A part of me died at Karbala


when the death of martyrs became a sound-bite,


a zikr wedged between TV commercials


for discounted tickets to Damascus.





A part of me died at Karbala


when the Zainabs and the Sakinas gave their lives


so that pseudo-Syeds could flee to Syria,


and boast of the mother of all battles they never fought.





A part of us all died at Karbala


when the viscous blood of those who died


seeped deep beneath the sand,


and coagulated into black oil.








[Published in DAWN Magazine, 1 June 2003]