Loading summary
Transcript3 lines
- [00:00]
A
Hey there, it's Maggie. For the next two weeks of episodes, the poet Sameer Bashir will be guest hosting the Slowdown. I hope you enjoy her selections and reflection. I'll return on February 18th.
- [00:22]
B
I'm Samia Bashir and this is the Slowdown. This Saturday, rock and roll aficionados will celebrate the 13th annual International Clash Day in honor of legendary punk band the Clash. The day was launched in 2013 by Seattle DJ John Richards of KEXP and has since been picked up and spread worldwide. Today, their message feels even more evergreen. We're anti fascist, we're anti violence, we're anti racist, and we're pro creative, said the late great Joe Strummer, the band's co founder, lead vocalist and key spokesman. We're against ignorance. Hmm. Same sis, Same. They say the immigrants steal the hubcaps of respected gentlemen. He sung on 1980's Something About England they say it would be wine and roses if England were for Englishmen again. Immigration, which built the United States for better and for worse, is again on trial not just here, but in much of the West. The crackdowns are beyond devastating, yet the potential for complete societal collapse seems unable to trigger our better natures to see each other's humanity, the crackdowns seem instead to be quickly creating a whole new disaster. It takes so much strength to leave everything you know behind, to try to build a new life amongst strangers, to find that the place one has been sold as the new North Star of Safety carries yet more danger, directed specifically at those who've worked so hard to survive, who continue to work so hard to contribute. Must then be a devastation beyond words. Today's poem, written by a Somali immigrant who has made a home in England, breaks through the rhetoric to the heart of Asylum Seeking Home by Warsan Charay one no one leaves home unless home is the mouth of a shark. You only run for the border when you see the whole city running as well. The boy you went to school with, who kissed you dizzy behind the old tin factory is holding a gun bigger than his body. You only leave home when home won't let you stay. No one would leave home unless home chased you. It's not something you ever thought about doing, so when you did, you carried the anthem under your breath, waiting until the airport toilet to tear up the passport and swallow each mournful mouthful, making it clear you would not be going back. No one puts their children in a boat unless the water is safer than the land. No one would choose Days and nights in the stomach of a truck unless the miles traveled meant something more than journey. No one would choose to crawl under fences, beaten until your shadow leaves, raped, forced off the boat because you are darker, drowned, sold, starved, shot at the border like a sick animal, pitied. No one would choose to make a refugee camp home for a year or two or ten, stripped and searched, finding prison everywhere and if you were to survive, greeted on the other side. Go home. Blacks, dirty refugees sucking our country dry of milk, dark with their hands out smell, strange, savage. Look what they've done to their own countries. What will they do to ours? The insults are easier to swallow than finding your child's body in the rubble. I want to go home. But home is the mouth of a shark. Home is the barrel of a gun. No one would leave home unless home chased you to the shore. No one would leave home until home is a voice in your ear saying leave. Run now I don't know what I've become two I don't know where I'm going, Where I came from is disappearing. I am unwelcome. My beauty is not beauty here. My body is burning with the shame of not belonging. My body is longing. I am the sin of memory and the absence of memory. I watch the news and my mouth becomes a sink full of blood. The lines forms, people at the desks, calling cards, immigration officers, the looks on the street, the cold settling deep into my bones, the English classes at night, the distance I am from home. Alhamdulillah. All of this is better than the scent of a woman completely on fire. A truckload of men who look like my father pulling out my teeth and nails. All these men between my legs. A gun, a promise, a lie, his name, his flag, his language, his manhood in my mouth. The Slowdown is a production of American Public Media in partnership with with the Poetry Foundation. To get a poem delivered to you daily, go to slowdownshow.org and sign up for our newsletter and find us on Instagram @downdownshow and bluesky@downdownshow.org.
- [07:10]
A
Maggie here, host of the Slowdown Listening to and reading poetry helps us find our footing in an uncertain world, especially during challenging times. You can help keep these moments of poetry and reflection going by making a gift today. Visit slowdownshow.org donate.