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] |
