My name is Homs
And as you sit down to analyse,
Point fingers: “oh its complicated!”
As we sit down to argue
Over power, ideology, greed
I am being
(Homs has been under severe and constant attack since the beginning of the Syrian revolution with 15 of its district under a siege since 13 months. Today, reports cite that thousands of shells have been launched on the city, since the morning, in a heavy serious attack).
On the 23rd December 2012, aircraft of the Syrian regime bombed a bakery in Halfaya, Hama, outside of which civilians had queued to buy some bread. 94 civilians were killed. It was not the first time a bakery was bombed- several before had been shelled in Aleppo and across the country, resulting in atrocious massacres Continue reading →
Working on collating human rights violations within Syria is not easy. The daily videos which arrive at the inbox and the feelings they induce are difficult to describe. Sometimes you learn to become immune to them or you ignore them, and at other times, you push yourself to watch them… and it is just horrific.
One day as I sat at my desk, someone in the office clicked on a video that had arrived. And although I did not see anything, I heard something else very clearly. It was the sound of a human… yet it was almost inhumane. It was worse than howling; beyond imagination or perception. It shook me to my core. And it made me write the below.
I don’t know whether this is poetry or prose. It just came tumbling out. But read it aloud with expression if you really want to feel it. Continue reading →
This is not peaceful poetry. This is a response to the way the Syrian regime flaunts its power, dances with it, stripping humanity from the human, dignity from the dignified, rising arrogant, rearing its head like a snake, asking… who will dare challenge? Written on 19/10/2012, the day Wasim al-Hasan was assasinated in Lebanon. Because the Syrian regime does not only dance to its own tune in its country, but on neighbourly soil as well. Continue reading →
Underneath her cloak he would sit and watch the city. If the city slept, night was his comrade and his companion. She was his armchair for reflection, his schoolbook, inspiring him with lines of poetry and undiscovered treasures of imagination.
And if the city was alive, if she danced to the tunes of a wedding, burst with the beeps and bustle of traffic, winked at him with her lights; she opened for him the doors of discovery, curiosity, and adventure. His heart raced with the music, his feet itched with delight and longing. The shop lights would beckon at him as he pictured chicken on rotating skewers, the knife coming down on them gently. The quick wrap of bread by nimble fingers. Saha– good health- move on. What’s your order?
Often he would sit on the roadside with his friends, wraps shared between them. Continue reading →