An Open Letter to Iran...

This is from an Iraqi woman.

I will not mess around with words...I know that this is your speciality...it is not mine.

I have learned that life is too short lived...and I have no time for words.

I will tell you, give it to you the way it is...and the way it is supposed to be.

There is a sense of urgency looming over my head. And am getting quite impatient...

I have swallowed words, paraphrases, sentences, dictionaries...whole and undigested.

Now, excuse me, I have one hell of an indigestion and I need to vomit it all out...in your faces.

Listen to me, and listen well...

I am no beggar of an Arab,

I am no Palestinian either...

These are your pawns, and they love being played around with...to the applause.

I am neither.

I am no pawn and no beggar.

And I also have no time for delicacies,

I have no time for niceties.

I have invented Language, I own it.

I play with it, pull it like a string dangling from a

from a puppet...


There is nothing you can teach me,
nothing you can invent...


I have mastered the Art

The art of deception,
the art of hypocrisy
the art of language...

I have mastered the art,

of sitting on edges
like a humpty dumpty
and I see you now
teetering...


I know,
you know,
we know...

Leave aside the wordings
kick away the propaganda...
like in a football
match

I match,
you match ?
No you don't.

I know, I know.

I know and you hate me for knowing.

I know your torturers by names.
I know your hidden agents by their codes.
I know your identities even if you are hiding...


Cover up,
like you cover us up.
Ali, Hassan, Hussein
watch them over
wearing Arabic labels
glued on their chests,
stamped from Al-Hijaz.


I see Darius galloping
in your minds,
minds covered with turbans
of pretence
bowing to yourselves....
bowing,
prostrating
to a saint
the saint of your imagination...


I hear echoes...
blasting through cement walls
as thick as your brains
thicker than your brains.


I see colors pouring down hallways,

I see the green
I see the black
I see the red
and
I see the white
of Death
hovering over...
fluff, fluff
cotton fluff
cloud fluff
word fluff
hovering above
open arms
receiving truths
from dungeons
dungeons
where Aryans
dark skinned
Farsi
interrogate
in the name of
Mani
of Zarathustra
in the name...

Whose name was it
do you remember the name?

I have forgotten names
I have erased them,
with chalk
with paint
with black covers...
a thick cloth

A thick cloth
through which you are now
shouting
I hear you
I hear you,

But did you hear me
in that dungeon
where you engraved
my name
with the sword
of some Ali
where you chained me
with the rods of
some Hassan and Hussein...

My eyeballs just rolled on
the floor
like some dice of fate
like some dice from a poker
game
being played
in a sand castle
a castle of turbans
a castle of turbans
and lamenting women
waiting
for another prince...


I feel metal drills
drilling secrets in my limbs
touching nerves
with which
I will awaken you....

I push aside thick curtains
black thick curtains
hanging behind bars
hanging behind subterranean
cages
I push them aside
and watch your faces
shouting
for freedom...

I cry out to you,
I am Josef in the well
give me your hand.


You do not hear me,
you buried me
alive.

Now you are screaming
I hear you screaming
alone...