Poetry: I Write My Story With Blood

Please, don’t come near

I’m pregnant. Spare me

O brother! Don’t you have sisters?

See, I’m like your sister

You don’t do dirty things to your sister, do you

I’m eight months pregnant

My child will die

They pointed gun at me

Asked to cook, give them bed

How could I say no when I saw death before me

Please believe me

I’m a poor woman

I know nothing about Saddam

I don’t recognize Bin Laden

I have to work dawn to dusk

To feed my family

My husband is a bonded labourer

Please don’t come near

Why are you pulling my maxi

You want to corrupt expectant mother

Don’t you fear God!

If I knew this was what I was to pay

For giving shelter to the terrorist

I would have faced the gun instead

At least my child would not have witnessed this horror

Forgive me, my unborn child

I could not save you

That’s what I’m hearing

The voice is distant

Yet pierces my heart

I try to become insensible against her suffering

I place my clotted hands

On the cold cemented floor

Pain eases. Is she a terrorist?

A pregnant terrorist!

I hear cries,

I can’t understand what she is saying

Her voice is choked

Death would have been easier for her

I wish her death

How long does it take to self-heal

Wounds on your lips

I’m waiting for my turn

To be taken away

Blindfolded. Hands and feet cuffed.


And then face a death squad

Perhaps, I will be chosen to live

Here, everyone is not condemned to death

The old man who said

His son was a migrant worker in Syria

Came back after the interrogation

He said they whipped him

Even fired a bullet that hit his left ear

But let him live

Two days later he came to me, dressed properly

Asked my address

Said, he will give message to my family

That I’m alive.


Is this the living?

My hunger never satiated

Thirst never quenched

I can’t ask them for water

They will pee over me

I pick up bread pieces from the floor

I don’t want to waste anything

Don’t know when I will get to eat again

I want to go to bathroom

But can I survive their batons

Even my barn is more spacious

We are cramped here

There I see a boy

Perhaps 14 years or maybe 15, but no more than 17

Was he Taliban?

Did he kill Americans

Hurl bombs over the patrolling army?

He says he was going to school

Taliban kidnapped him

Made him dig a trench,

Carry bombs and ammunitions

Always on gun point

Poor boy,

From frying pan, he fell into the fire

I want to listen to his stories

But poor soul, could not sustain electric shocks

On the bare floor he remains unconscious

I don’t see that girl

Last time I saw her

She was bleeding below her waist

She tried to walk

But fell on the floor

Two men in fatigue

Pulled her by her hand and dumped in the corner

In the morning she was gone

I look at my swelling legs

Will I be able to walk to the interrogation room?

Blood clotted shirt is stuck on my body

Do I have to take out my shirt to face the squad?

Can my sore throat utter

Words to justify myself

At the last hour

What will I remember

Wife? Son? Daughter?

Or God?

My country people, forgive them

But do not forget what happened to me

What happened to us!

Inside Abu Ghraib!


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *