I woke up today much later than my intended time, only because I was on Instagram until 1.30 am last night. The evening was spent in reeling with the news of Al Jazeera journalist, Wael Al-Dahdouh’s son Hamza al-Dahdouh who was killed by an Israeli air strike. Another Israeli air strike in October, took the lives of Wael Al-Dahdouh’s wife, two other children and a grandchild. Watching videos of him caressing his son’s hand, while his daughter clings to his shoulder, weeping and desperately asking her father to stay alive, shakes everything that makes one human.
It has been days like these, when normal routines, ideas of ‘productivity’ and to-do-lists have barely made sense. Grounding practices have felt like a performance or activities conducted on auto-pilot. What then is left but to stop and witness everything that arises within oneself. To name feelings, to sit with them, to recognise the weight of collective human condition and the pain it must carry. To honour the lives lost and pray for their families and loved ones. To learn, seek and inhabit sumud.
This poem is not a poem. It is
a way to get back to your morning routine
at 3 pm. This poem is for rainy days,
when going out means carrying an
umbrella, and you can barely carry the weight
Of a heart, not prayed for, yet.
This poem is an icy shower, for a parasympathetic nervous system
that needs a warm hug instead. This poem is for
Sundays. Mondays. Tuesdays. And a Saturday.
This poem for grounding you. But might
Only ground those around you. This poem
Is a rain check on returning due items at the library.
This poem is a response to a friend’s missed call.
This poem is letting go
the urge to make sense.
This poem is a resolve.
This poem is untitled. This poem does not need one.
This poem is an attempt to pick out
surface emotions, like wrinkled skin
over chai. Waiting to be sipped since morning.
This poem is a witness. This poem is a muse.
This poem is to let freshly framed drawings
Await their turn to be hung on walls.
Let their oaky smell fill the closet instead.
This poem is a question: can you resist what you don’t know imprisons you?
This poem attempts to answer.
Mariyam Haider is an independent writer-researcher, producer & host of Main Bhi Muslim podcast, and spoken word artist creating works on feminism, culture and society. Her writing has appeared in Scroll, Kontinentalist, Asian Review of Books, Centre for Feminist Foreign Policy, AWARE, Livemint, Mekong Review, among others. You can follow Mariyam’s other work on Instagram or LinkedIn.