Every beautiful poem is an act of resistance, wrote Mahmoud Darwish, the Palestinian poet of resistance. In his poems, you could see the ravaged landscape, grieving lovers and lost children. There was conflict everywhere, even in love where he wrote about Rita and her rifle, and the impossibility of love in such estranged conditions.
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Plato thought poets were dangerous. Stones are thrown and forgotten. Poems are read and stored in memory. Those who write, write. That's resistance too. After the killings and the evocative images of blood being washed with water on the streets of Kashmir, many words have been written to express anguish, anger and desolation.
A young poet, Inshah Malik, responded to each killing with a poem.
In a faraway place in Tehran, Iran, where she currently lives, Inshah heard of the curfew in her homeland, the mentally deranged man who was killed, the pellet injuries, the cries of freedom and wrote relentlessly after she read about each killing.
"I reject the identity of victimhood," says the young poet.
She stopped after 20 poems. That’s commemoration, too. It is often a tool of memory. Poetry is the advantage of the underdog and of everybody and nobody. It is a challenge to the prime time theme song.
It is how Robert Lowell once wrote “Pray for the grace of accuracy” and then used the words as a response to everything you witness. I found her on Facebook one night and she said she believes it is not victimisation alone that is alienating Kashmir. It is the historical illiteracy of Indians, and the lack of political will to deal with Kashmir’s aspirations that hurts, she said.
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The gag on the newspapers and the curfew ensured the real stories would not be told. She saw the official accounts, and wanted to respond as a poet would, with despair and hope. This is her way of being “on record” and challenging the headlines in the media. Her poetry, she says, is in the realm of her feeling.
“I personally reject the identity of victimhood,” she says.
In her words:
"'A poem for a death' started as a response to the continued civilian killings in Kashmir. As a Kashmiri, I can feel a sense of urgency when deaths start to become mere numbers. I don’t want to make peace with this idea anymore. I decided to write about each news item that flashed on social media or any event that perturbed me. It was also a response to the media gag in Kashmir and to commemorate the traditional Kashmiri practices of keeping memory alive.
There are various motivations and attractions in the project of writing. I have mostly written to clear my head, to inform a discourse and, many a times, challenge the rampant unreason. It’s often the impulse, in some sense prophetic.
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I could be amidst people or making life when this urge comes to write it down. I'm self-directed in most cases except in what makes me deeply perturbed, and then I can't do without a response. I write as if a lightning bolt is about to hit me or a meteor is about to strike; like the earth is about to shatter and I won't have a fraction of time later to complete my thoughts.
Poem 1:
Does it take two to tango?
Does it take two to tango?
The sooner you know it
It will become three
In the batting of an eye-lid
It will be an orgy
Of blood-laced bodies
Too brash
In nakedness
In front of the rolling cameras,
The world will witness
This dance of erotic pleasures
This is where nation
Comes to mark
Its treasures
PS: In response to "2 killed in Qazigund, death toll 46" and when the deaths became three.
Poem 2:
We must win
We, the ones, who hang our hearts
On the walls of desolation
As the stampede of jackboots
Takes over the city
We must win
We must win
We, the ones, which raise, our children
As soldiers of love
And they believe our struggle
In the tempest of disbelief
We must win
We, the ones, which have no narrative
Other than pain
Determined to take another blow
In the raining bullets
We must win
We, the ones, which have called on
God, to witness
Our breaking backs
And bruised legs
We must win
We, the ones, which raid the taverns
Of the gun wielding patriarchs
While we bleed profusely
And lose our eyes
We must win
PS: In response to "BSF evacuates Nuso post after 47 years"
Poem 3:
Death is sought!
As his slipper slipped out of his feet,
A stampede is what he feared
Feeling anxious about death
That was sold,
At the kiosks set up to assist
People’s journey,
Between two worlds
He was mindful of
What his mum said
Your slipper is bad
Don’t wear it to the street
He was in a rush,
He couldn't care
And then it struck him
The cold feeling in his abdomen
Was not, just the bad food
That his mum fed him
He woke up again,
It was too late
He did not want to accept
People like him
Were just disposable
But wishes are wishes
He wanted to be
In Bandepor
And he wondered
If they would bury him
Next to his grandfather
PS: In response to "Youth shot dead in Bandipora, death toll climbs to 45"
Poem 4:
A ‘Mentally Deranged’ Man
He lived with an eminent distinction,
Amidst the absconding comprehension
When fists were raised,
He kissed them
When guns blared
He danced with them
He was mocked for his madness
His madness mocked the slavery
Slavery that held people
By their throats
He couldn't let the reason triumph
Because it made
Objects of the people
And subjects of feelings
He lived carefree
And drank at every flowing stream
He ate his meal
Unmindful of his hunger
He was more hated
He was free
In that he rejected
The life so brute and fraught
You couldn’t enslave him
So, master, he left
How sham is oppression?
It kills the madness!
In that no distinction
Remains between
Reason and unreason
PS: In response to "If this is not war crime, what is?"
Poem 5:
The Roses of Drogmol
They didn't water the roses,
In the pots, all over the yard
The water supplies are cut
One doesn't think of water much
Until it rains or is scarce
When Asif was fixing a shrub
That had fallen on its face
He heard gunshots in his lane
And he gets distracted
By things unrelated
That's probably why
He would never
Have made it
His peculiar urge
To peep in the lane
Cost him his life
And his blood was let
Into the drain
PS: In response to "Kashmir violence: Toll reaches 39 as another protester is killed"
Poem 6:
Hilal, a crescent
Hilal, a crescent
This is who he was,
He would go into hiding
Till he became apparent
Once while talking about politics
He felt grief about the death
Of young boy of his name
He thought to himself,
How death was so cheap?
In his paradise
On Friday, he was there
When a trail of young boys
/
Were walked naked and bruised
/
On the streets of Batmalun
He knew he had to protest,
How else could he carry on?
With his acts of hiding
Till everything was apparent
PS: In response to Batmaloo youth laid to rest amid pro-freedom slogans
Poem 7:
It has stopped
They have blocked the media
Those letters of grievances
We wrote, to wail
In each other's face
We read that as memorabilia
And keep them
Between the books that promise
Us a flight from pain
We keep them as letters from the past,
As messages from the graves
When it becomes silent
My heart flutters
Look for the pain
Look for the pain
So many of you
Die and maim
I must see them
I miss that face
In its power and pain
PS: In response to "Mobile services suspended in Kashmir"
Poem 8:
The fathers of Kulgam
His father announced,
From the mosque’s pulpit
Oh, stone pelting is so wrong
In the lure to save
His 7-year-old
From the hyenas rampant
On the streets of Kulgam
As he finished saying it,
He broke down and cried.
He left the mosque for home
On the way, just next to the
Magnanimous chinar, he found his
Child, beaten black and blue
With a sigh of relief
They were together
Onwards to home
But at the turn of his alley
He saw Abdul Rahman
Abdul Rahman is wailing his son
He is shot in the street
The only question,
You must ask,
Is it Abdul Rahman's turn
To make a plea for peace!
From his people
Whoonly break it!
To wail and mourn
PS: In response to "Another youth shot dead in Yaripora"
Poem 9:
Little boy dreams
Now that I can't know
How I and mine are viscous,
That our bodies fall
And become ash
On our own
They touch an honorable death,
And lick no boots
I don't need your media,
I know the truth from the lie,
If anything,
This is what you taught me,
To distrust, to deny
Right now, Afroz is sitting cross-legged
Sipping nunchai,
And wiping broken pieces of bread,
Off the dastarkhan,
His mind is so full of contempt
He grew up knowing
This 14-year-old
You shot in Kopwore
A teen filled with love
Afroz knew who his first crush was,
And secretly
He had wondered if he would,
Grow up to be a man enough,
To let her know how he feels
Afroz is shocked,
That the 14-year-old
Was man enough
To know what injustice was
He ran amidst the curfew
To fight the 7,00,000 of them
He did no calculation
Relied on no statistics
Believed in no might
Afrooz is right
When he says the 14-year-old,
Would have failed in his expression of love
Because he wasn't so much in love with her
Than with the idea of love after all
PS: In response to: Teenage boy killed, 3 injured in Kupwara