I forget to bury myself as I die
On two separate islands. My love, I am ready for our funeral. When they buried my uncle They said the swelling & the bruising from the cancer Had disappeared. God purified him before Taking him back. Me, I am split in two. You watch hungrily As i wash my body One last time Preparing For the earth to Consume me. Your eyes narrow Pupils dilate As i try to clear Your saliva, my blood From my breasts. Your head Inches forward Locks in As i wipe your sweat And bloody fingerprints from Between my thighs. You smile slowly As the ocean water stings My torn arms. I ask Do you think they’ll recognize my body, The imams, the men From our masjid? You don’t answer me at all. Standing erect Staring down into my Sandy wet grave “This is not big enough For her body. Where will i bury the soul?” So carry us home, I say. You don’t have to let me die Here. “No, no This won’t do. I’ll go back home. They can’t see me here.” I’ll carry myself, I say Maybe then i can Tell them all goodbye & hide myself Soul Bones Bruises Blood Hair Breasts All Deep Under the dirt Of my backyard. “You’ve been buried so long I don’t know why you’re Still here.” I step towards the broken island & let the ocean Swallow me whole.
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“Be careful of what you say, beta.” This is what my parents say to me each time I find myself challenging authority, which is probably more often than not. When I was twenty years younger, a tall and skinny brown girl with an awkward smile, I didn’t speak up for the things that mattered to me. I was a good girl. I thought “good” girls endured. “Good” girls didn’t resist. They persevered. They were resilient in the face of all obstacles, no matter how unjust. So when I was first called the n-word in school, I didn’t tell my parents. Instead, I asked my kindergarten teacher what it meant. She, of course tried to track down the two white fifth grade girls who had yelled the slur at me as I walked, head-down on the sidewalk leading to school, but to no avail. At the time, I was somewhat relieved because I didn’t want to get anyone into trouble. As I reflect on this incident today, I think about the power I allowed those girls to have by keeping silent. The girls were never held accountable, and perhaps went on believing they could continue using violent, hateful rhetoric against other brown and black people they encountered. For at least a decade thereafter, I was afraid to speak up. I was known for my shy yet warm demeanor. What most people didn’t know is that I had a ferocity about me that only came out when someone I cared about needed me. I found myself spending many of my days thinking about what I should have said, regretting my silence especially when it affected the people around me. It wasn’t until my first year of college that this changed. I was taking a class titled, “Women, Gender and Islam” taught by a white, non-Muslim man. Throughout the course of the semester, I realized that this man truly believed that he was an expert on Muslim women. He told my class that Muslim women had always been at the mercy of Muslim men, and that most Muslim women didn’t understand their plight as oppressed, marginalized subjects of society. It was then that I realized I couldn’t stay quiet. The rest of that semester, I sat next to my professor every single day and refused to go a single class period without challenging something he said. It seemed silly to me at times, but I had never felt so empowered in my life. Here I was--an 18 year old, brown, hijabi Muslim woman sitting next to and fighting an intellectual battle against a white man who thought he knew everything about my experience. From that moment on, I was hooked to speaking truth to power. The following year, I read about Nusaybah bint Ka’b (RA) and her role in the battle of Uhud with our beloved Prophet Muhammed (pbuh). I learned that the wife of the Prophet (pbuh), Umm Salama (RA) asked him, "Why does God only address men in the Quran?" and that after this exchange, the Prophet (pbuh) received a revelation that mentions women can attain every quality to which men have access (Qur’an 33:35). Soon thereafter, I read about Nana Asma’u of Nigeria (RA), who spent the better part of the 19th century traveling with a troop of radical Muslim women to educate girls in rural areas. I read and learned about incredible, powerful women who used their voices as weapons against misogyny, racism, and more. I knew it was my duty as a Muslimah and as someone engaged in resistance against oppressive power structures to do the same. When I choose to speak out today, I do so knowing my ancestors and sisters in resistance stand with me, that their legacies are the roots that allow me to stand tall in the face of adversity. It is not my job as a Muslim woman to endure pain or suffering if I can stop it. It’s not my job to remain silent when I see rampant anti-Blackness, sexual assault and other injustices in my community. Just as Allah swt gave Nusayba (RA), Umm Salamah and Nana Asma’u (RA) the strength to revoke their silence and teach their communities to do better, He has given me the right to ask questions and speak up when I see inequity in my own community. We’re often times reminded of our jobs as mothers, sisters and daughters in the Muslim community. What people forget is that we were also the first activists of Islam, the first teachers, and the first entrepreneurs. And we (or I, at least) need to continue reminding ourselves this as we raise young Muslim girls in a society that reduces them to what they wear. Muslim women don’t need to be silenced or asked to be careful about what we say to people in power. We need a mic. I remember when we were younger: Before the hands of the clock ran far from each estranged Roman numeral Before your eyes changed to the color of the morning dusk Before I could see the lines of the Mississippi on your face & I begin to Wish that you had taught me the difference between East and West So that when the sun wouldn't shine, I would know where to throw my gaze I wish that you had opened your eyes as I buried the small, lifeless bird in our attempt at a garden And I wish that you would stop crumbling in my hands & I begin to Whisper to the breaking sky, hoping the wind will carry my words to you I whisper to you gently, reminding you to keep your eyes on the ground as we stand side by side to pray And I whisper loud enough for us to make the words out as I lie in wake, while you pretend to sleep I begin to end, slowly With You and without you. “Death has shaped me,”
You say quietly Over your cup The day we meet Not looking my way Too ashamed to admit That you find comfort in Your grief So you begin to love me Because I think I am dying Dying with my eyes open And my mouth closed Fists clenched, just slightly. And you learn to love Me in the tomb-like darkness Of your home in September I let you press your Hands against my back In the middle of winter And you come to know My body, when bare Is a map of scars; Remnants of my close encounters With my coming death Scars Leading all the way Back to the grave I’ve saved for myself I tell you there’s still Space In my family’s cemetery For more deaths Silently wishing You’ll want to lie with me, Someday. You look at me gravely And inhale. The air around us is dead In spring, The day before your father Buries you You kiss me Your lips wet, cold And I wonder if you See my map of scars Recharting And marking the smooth place You kissed Right in the nook Between my neck and shoulder A scar For my encounter with you. ‘Lord,’
i say to the ceiling. ‘please give me three more hopes by the first hint of dusk’, while you let the cold enter through our bedroom window. hope. i look out over the lawn and imagine us laying in the grass You in the ridiculously soft burgundy shirt i bought you in the winter Me in my off-white crushed bed sheets i lie there watching as you create and recreate your future in the clouds. i look out over the lawn and imagine. hope. i wash my body and prepare to pray for us, falling to my knees my hands outstretched palms open wide. i am ready for what- ever good i am promised. i shift my gaze and see you throw your own towards your suitcase. i wash my body and prepare to pray. hope. the paint on our walls is still fresh, wet, white and i dip my brush in again, preparing to cover my own fingerprints your voice fills the room and a void becomes a filled grave. i turn to look at you and see nothing only wet, white paint where you should have been. the paint on my walls is still fresh. i close my eyes at the first hint of sun set. ‘alhamdulillah,’ i say to the ceiling, my voice heavy as i imagine the empty lawn in the morning. ‘alhamdulillah,’ i say again as i wash my body and prepare to pray before i sleep. ‘alhamdulillah,’ the windows are shut but light has seeped through, staining my fresh, white walls a slight shade of pink. |
About ASma20-something y/o writer, activist, and youth worker in the Twin Cities. Stick around to read some of my thoughts! Archives
January 2018
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