Stack the wood, light the fire

St Patrick’s day  

St Jeanne’s way  

11 September 2010  

You took a second look  

A wish that came true  

For in that small book  

The colour was so blue  

Twas a new age Avatar  

In a world full of change  

Living in a coloured Bazaar  

That may a mind derange  

You feel good and I feel blue  

Rhyme in woods for me and you  

And as you will that blue admire  

Some just stack it for their bonfire  

Bring the wood and stuff the hay  

Hasten now your step you crowd  

St Patrick or else St Jeanne’s day  

All fire we’ll cheer clear and loud  

It might be that it’s St Patrick’s day  

They danced and feasted in delight  

For finally they’d have their way  

The witch will burn now in its light 


Reading of a modified version of the poem

Weathering storms

“Rather windy isn’t it?”  

28 August 2010  

Woman all over the world, suffering

We yield not in vain shuddering 

But pliable reeds, we flex in pain 

To spring back to our tall selves again 

While the strong oak may tower

Over us and want us to cower 

We welcome with love and consent 

All hate, anger and resentment 

To turn darkness into bright light

Despite the hate, despite the spite 

For when HE gave us to hold a womb 

HE knowingly gave within us a tomb 

For the world’s hatred as we can bear 

From suffering more than our share 

But with the womb he gave us the seeds 

To grow within us those slight, silken reeds 

A gift of love so, many a storm, we may weather

With a heart, though sinking, light as a feather 

So when the mighty oak from storms splits 

We resume our grace that us so befits

My only sins

My only sins are big,  so Judge M. crucified us 

18 August 2010 


I don’t drink alcohol, I never took a drug 

I don’t even smoke 


 But I’m Indian, Arab, Muslim, despicable bug 

 This makes him choke 


I also am, alas, a woman with a mind so snug

Loud and bespoke

That can never deserve you a cuddle, a hug

A woman to cloak

 He thinks in Dubai we sweat, live on a lil’ rug 

 Such a sad bloke 


 The thought of loving us is like eating a slug 

 His mind does provoke 


 Looking at me, he can only hate my sad mug 

 His eyes I poke 


 The sorrow in which this cloaked, ugly humbug 

 Made my kids, me, soak 


 The only thing he knows he can do, smug 

 Is take my yoke 


 Broken egg, into my insides, he delved, dug 

 Justice? A joke! 


 With strength, love, hope, faith, I fill me a jug 

 I still invoke 


 The lost justice that this sleek and cloaked thug 

 In me broke


Je t’accuse toi, France, de me courber, moi, demi-nègre

18 août 2010


J’accuse la France de partialité

De paternité coupable retrouvée

De fanatisme paternel, en dérivée



J’accuse la France de méconnaître

Droits d’enfant mineurs, envoyés paître

Droits des mères enterrés sous l’hêtre



J’accuse la France de coupables dérives

Une fille de douze ans, faire en sorte qu’elle vive

Entre père négligeant et mère sur l’autre rive



J’accuse la France d’un peu trop étreindre

Droits paternels laissant enfants mineurs s’éteindre

De racisme et de sexisme, ses jugements teindre



J’accuse la France d’analphabétisme

De regarder le réel à travers un prisme

Coloré de mille phobies, ce néo-racisme



J’accuse la France, d’enfants mineurs, arracher

A leur culture pour, à la sienne seule, condamner

Anglais ? Arabe ? Ce ne sont pas des langues. Pitié !



Je t’accuse, Toi, de nous avoir ainsi égorgés

De nous avoir, un semblant même de justice, nié

De n’avoir pas pu, ta toque de justice, mériter



J’accuse cette justice de nous étouffer dans mon vomi

Vomissures provoquées par cette justice qu’on me nie

Droit des enfants mineurs, agneaux apeurés qu’on oublie



France, les mères, je t’accuse de les avoir oubliées

Tes propres Mariannes, leurs pauvres droits violés

Vive Napoléon ! Son nouveau code peut triompher

Woman, cover up!

 Woman, cover up !

15 August 2010

He calls me seething with rage and concerned for my well-being. “I am your friend, I think about your well-being”, “Someone has to stop you”, “Why did you put all of that on facebook?”.

To which I answer coldly “Not only. I also blogged about it and tweeted it too.”

He goes “Are you crazy? Why on earth did you do that?” “You should think about your reputation” “How can you talk about this in front of everybody? How can you speak about your life so that everybody can read it? This is impossible. Someone has to stop you” “I am your friend, I really need to see you, someone has to talk to you. You cannot go on like this”. “My God, you should think about the kids”.

“Precisely”, I answer coldly. “I am thinking about them. I cannot stop thinking about them. A court of (in)justice has refused to hear this reality and grant them and me our rights. What that courtroom refused to hear, hundreds of ears shall hear it and a thousand eyes shall read it.” “I want the whole world to be my witness, so that my appeal, at last, may be heard in its whole truth, may be truly judged and not misjudged” “So that my appeal may bring THEM back to me.”

Yes, my friend I think about THEM, night and day. There is nothing else that I can think about.

He pleads with me thinking that madness has possessed my mind. He pleads with me to remove all traces of this shameful confession, this ghastly, unwelcome display of flesh and pain. He would like me to cloak in hypocrisy what I displayed today. I know he thinks he means well. But I know I have a mind of my own and can think too. I do not need someone to think for me. I do not need to be “in custody”.

Woman, cover up!

Don’t forget. You owe it to tradition, you owe it to custom, you owe it to religion, you owe it to your husband, like you owed it to your father before him like you will owe it to your brothers and then to your uncles if all else die. And if you have no family left, you will still owe it to the male representatives in your neighbourhood, …. You may not be your naked self. You may not share your thoughts. You may not express your feelings. Woman, cover up! You are “in custody”.

Woman, cover up!

Have you been raped, has someone forced what he calls love out of you? Hush! Do not speak! Hush! Do not report! The shame, the shame, the shame…Hush! For if it comes out in the open, I will have to kill you. Or maybe I will just kill you all the same. Out of precaution. For your redemption. It is the most honourable solution for you and for us. I will have to kill you. Me. Your father. Your brother. Your husband. Your uncle. Your legal guardian. Woman, cover up!

Woman, cover up!

Has he beaten you? Is there a mark on your face, on your body that should not exist, naturally? Is it too highly placed to have been caused by a flailing window, by a recalcitrant door? On the small of your back is perfectly alright. Nobody can see that. On the edges of your throat is still okay. You can cover that up in no time. Is it on the side of your cheek? On the top of your brow? On the edge of your chin? On the side of your lip? On the end of your lid?  Woman, cover up! What else is makeup for?

Woman cover  up!

Have you been wronged till you were cloaked in your sorrow? Have you been married off with no hope of a loving morrow? Have you been betrothed with a man much older than you? A man old enough to be your father? A dying man, old enough to be your grandfather? A man at the peak of his vigour, as some tell you jeeringly to convince you. A nice mature and strong man, while you were only nine, twelve or hopefully thirteen? Well it is all part of life. Nothing to alert the neighbours about, so don’t! Not even a secret to tell your best friends, so don’t! Those best friends, women that I will choose – only women of high morality that I approve of – will anyway be living the same life. The only life that you will ever know. Let me screen them so you may not stray. Woman, cover up! That is all that you are allowed to do. You are after all “In custody”.

Woman, cover up!

Have you been oppressed? Has male justice wronged you? Has again male supremacy silenced you? Did you think you had something to say? Did you think that you had rights? Did you think that you were meant to be happy? Did you think that you could go out in the open and tell everybody your secrets? Have you not learnt anything? Woman, cover up!

Woman, cover up!

Sorry, I lost my Sifsari, never learnt to wear a Burqa and Sheherezade stole my veils. The problem is only she knows where she hid them. The other problem is, Sheherezade is dead. Ask Joumana Haddad. She killed Sheherezade.  And now, I will never know where my veils are, so I am afraid I cannot… cover up…Me, woman…

The truth of the matter is…I don’t want to. I will not cover up…Not anymore…