aBigForehead

Grief.

From Feltham I have found myself in Guantanamo.

A book is to be published later this year containing poems written by Guantanamo detainees. Here’s one:

Death Poem

By Jumah al Dossari

Take my blood.

Take my death shroud and

The remnants of my body.

Take photographs of my corpse at the grave, lonely.

Send them to the world,

To the judges and

To the people of conscience,

Send them to the principled men and the fair-minded.

And let them bear the guilty burden, before the world,

Of this innocent soul.

Let them bear the burden, before their children and before history,

Of this wasted, sinless soul,

Of this soul which has suffered at the hands of the "protectors of peace".

Article and more Gunatanmo poems.

It not enough, what I do, I am not doing enough.  I have tripped in my own goody two shoes.

Tomorrow I must be at work again. Breakfast will be a Latte, skinny, who wants to be a fat do-gooder? Dressed smartly, who wants to be free and choose to dress in orange overalls, no sirree, you won't catch me dead in one of those! Talking, talking about the progress of the project, the deadline, the politics…a third of the day spent with an absent heart.

In the evenings I release my heart from its prison and read, write, call people and take calls from people who think I have answers. I have facts, let me show you- they look like you, are uninspired, disconnected, turning to crime and returning to their places of punishment with a frequency that makes me wonder if an urban monster roams the streets and chases them back in. Here, let me show you, a person that looks like you is no more likely to commit a crime but more likely… oh Gurbux Singh said it best on the 5^th of September 2000 at the Howard League Conference(Look, see, I know my stuff!!) . He said:

"If you have been unfairly treated by the system, charged with a harsher crime than was appropriate, given a custodial sentence instead of community service, given a longer prison sentence than others committing the same crime, and been bullied and victimised while in prison , are you likely to emerge from prison as a sane, sanguine, reformed character?"

You don’t need my answers, the facts they aren’t mine, I carry them and on days like today they bear down on me and taunt me:  More walking, less talking Firdos.

The other day I suggested I write stories, add them to the Ramadan packages we’ll make for the men at Feltham and perhaps beyond. I thought the idea cute, then remembered some won’t be able to read them so there may be need for audio recordings of the stories. Cute, very cute. Would the prison allow it? These are the thoughts that fill my time when I'm not polishing my goody shoes.

Now I think how quaint that sounds, really is that all that I can offer? I am doing that thing everybody does, limiting their reach. My head is filled with the reports, the stats, the names, the deaths, the culture of crime, the apathy, the guilt of.. I can’t write today, where’s that stream of consciousness when you need a sip? I thirst, I thirst too for answers.

I hear the sound of the sound of my own voice.

Am I too full of talk and talk alone?

Grief.