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A book of writing and translation by young people from Bethnal Green and Newham, created in 2012 as part of a Clore Duffield Foundation funded project called Brave New Words, produced by English PEN - the charity that promotes the freedom to write and the freedom to read.
Citation preview
TARIRO ELIZABETH MUTERO
GIDEON TAPIWA KADZURA
ROSANNE SERADOY
AMINA OSMAN
ALLYSON MOLINA
ARNOLDAS RAMANOWSKAS
ATIKA AKHTAR
CHANDELLE UZIMA
ZAHRA AWALE
JAMAL ABDALLAH
ZAHRA AWALE
EMMANUEL MUREMNAYUNDO
INGRID TCHEKO
YONIS OSMAN
NOMAKHOSI NDEBELE
IMRAN AHMED
DANIEL UZUNOW
OLAGOKE ADEYEMO
NATHAN RIVER
SARA MONDRAGON
ROZELYN
RUBEL MOHAMMED
AHAMAD
KHADEM
ZAINAB
MOH
AZAH
SHEILA
English PEN / READERS & WRITERS
With introductions by Joelle Taylor and Sarah Ardizzone
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PEN_Clore_DustJacket2.pdf 1 23/03/2012 18:04
English PEN / Readers & Writers With introductions by Joelle Taylor and Sarah Ardizzone
First published in Great Britain in 2012by English PEN, Free Word, 60 Farringdon Road, London EC1R 3GA 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Collection copyright © English PEN, 2012 The moral right of the authors has been asserted. The views expressed in this book are those of the individual authors, and do not necessarily represent the opinions of the editors, publishers or English PEN. All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of the book. A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN 978-0-9564806-6-8
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Aldgate Press, Units 5&6, Gunthorpe Street Workshops, 3 Gunthorpe Street, London E1 7RQ www.aldgatepress.co.uk Designed by Brett Biedscheid, www.statetostate.co.uk
Brave new wordsJOELLE TAYLOR and SARAH ARDIZZONE
Love takes you far TARIRO ELIZABETH MUTERO
10 minsGIDEON TAPIWA KADZURA
A nostalgic landROSANNE SERADOY
And when she sleeps she knows no boundsAMINA OSMAN
And when she sleeps she sees the worldALLYSON MOLINA
It’s like surfing through lifeARNOLDAS RAMANOWSKAS
I come from the colours green and white ATIKA AKHTAR
I come from exotic fruitsCHANDELLE UZIMA
Poem #3ZAHRA AWALE
Time is like a swordJAMAL ABDALLAH
I come from #1ZAHRA AWALE
I come from #2ZAHRA AWALE
ElevationEMMANUEL MUREMNAYUNDO
I come fromEMMANUEL MUREMNAYUNDO
BrokenEMMANUEL MUREMNAYUNDO
BriséeEMMANUEL MUREMNAYUNDO
Child soldierEMMANUEL MUREMNAYUNDO
Cactus INGRID TCHEKO
New natureINGRID TCHEKO
My mother used to say..GIDEON TAPIWA KADZURA
HollandYONIS OSMAN
I Love you, my crazy childNOMAKHOSI NDEBELE
A cry from above IMRAN AHMED
Blurred memories DANIEL UZUNOW
My piece - from homeDANIEL UZUNOW
Cheated wife with Rubel MohammedDANIEL UZUNOW
ShootingDANIEL UZUNOW
The storm yet to comeDANIEL UZUNOW
The wisdom from the pastDANIEL UZUNOW
The last moments of a prisonerDANIEL UZUNOW
If you can’t beat them join themOLAGOKE ADEYEMO
The past NATHAN RIVER
The youth anthemGIDEON TAPIWA KADZURA
Dogs from the southSARA MONDRAGON
She sleepsSARA MONDRAGON
AtahualpaSARA MONDRAGON
Angels without godSARA MONDRAGON
I give birth to deathSARA MONDRAGON
My motherSARA MONDRAGON
She calls meSARA MONDRAGON
I amSARA MONDRAGON
Hymn for DiegoSARA MONDRAGON
Love Struck ROZELYN
The beauty of the seaRUBEL MOHAMMED
Ahamad’s kites (Afghanistan)IN CONVERSATION WITH SARAH ARDIZZONE
Ahamad’s kites 2 (London)IN CONVERSATION WITH SARAH ARDIZZONE
Fresh air is not free KHADEM
How to eat grapesZAINAB
How to become an expert at eating sunflower seedsMOH
What goes around, comes aroundAZAH
Writing to my grandfather back in UgandaSHEILA
Soundscape from where I used to live, back home in Kampala, UgandaSHEILA
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Brave New Words JOELLE TAYLOR
Some pages are pages are windows. Others are walls. This is a door.
When I opened the door to the first session of the Brave New Words course held over 8 weeks at NewVIc Activ8 in Newham, I had expected to see 3 or 4 young people shyly struggling to get their pens to speak. What was actually behind the door was a hardcore of 20 young poets and rappers from across the world, who turned every wound they had received into a poem. A song. What I found was that the door was actually a mouth.
What you will read over the next few pages is a small selection of what those brave and clever young people wanted to say. Some of the words are in English. Others are in Swahili, Arabic, Ndebele, Spanish – or even in the universal language that is poetry. Words change worlds. There can be no doubt about that. The words and worlds pressed between the pages of this book will take you on a journey across continents. You will find yourself at a refugee centre in Holland or watching a childhood friend become a child soldier. The next page takes you across Kenya, and over in to the Congo, stopping for a long rest in old Ecuador. Some of the words you will not understand. This is not important. All of the best poems are written in invisible ink.
Every one of these poems is about freedom of speech. Every one of these poems understands the limits of its page, and that the bars across your exercise book can translate into real bars across a cell for many writers across the world.
These young people may have finished the poems contained with in this book, but they are now undertaking the biggest and most important editing process of their lives: that of writing themselves.
It does not stop here. It begins.
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AN English PEN BOOK / READERS & WRITERS
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BRAVE NEW WORDS
SARAH ARDIZZONE
What can I add to Joelle’s brave new introduction? Except to say that while a door (or a mouth) was being opened wide at NewVIc, fine voices were being heard loud and proud from the inter-generational participants at Praxis Community Centre in Bethnal Green. In these pages you will find how the memory of home can be captured in a sunflower seed; how childhood and the savagery of war came together in the making of a kite; if you strain your ears, you might catch parrots riffing in Kampala or tune into the soundscape of a day-in-the-life in Homerton. Such is the dizzying mix that these always fresh, ever surprising new writers can draw on and that Nii Ayikwei Parkes and I had the privilege to witness. For us, the words became especially real on the evening when Ahmed walked in through the door at Praxis with three handmade kites delicately wrapped under his arm - on their odyssey from Kunduz to Bethnal Green, from tissue paper and string to words and back again. If I’m not mistaken, Nii and Khadem have a date to fly one of those kites which has been given to Nii’s daughter. And so the story continues to unfold...
No one enters this spaceWithout the dream of a
common languageAdrienne Rich
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AN English PEN BOOK / READERS & WRITERS
Love takes you far TARIRO ELIZABETH MUTERO
My mother used to say to me
Uthando liya kutshiya khat shana*
Now I’m starting to think
THAT’S A MYTH
Because to me
Love is a curse, love is a poison
Love is disease, love is pain
Love is unpredictable
Love never stays down my road
It always comes but never takes me far
* Not all is gold, what is shining
10 mins GIDEON TAPIWA KADZURA
Only ten mins
But the poem is at my grip, trying to catch it before my imagination
takes caption
I look and look the time is of the essence watch it get lost as I create
something unusual
built from letters I show the paper what I can imprint
Written in codes only I can cypher this
Behold the masterpiece that’s unfinished, I give to you in ten mintues
My hope is to show you words create and they take time
But then again gives enlightenment, never shunned by the dark
you give and get.
Leads you in different directions with many ideas you can never be stuck.
A nostalgic land ROSANNE SERADOY
A nostalgic landWhere my mother’s language is spokenI have no recollectionOf masteringMy tongue stiffTo the words spoken
The noise unbearableColours so vibrantSo different that I’m shocked stillTaking it all in
Jeepneys that were once aggressive military trucksAre painted over with bright coloursBright, tropical and psychedelic, free
The monsoon ragesSwallowing up houses and treesThe water pools into puddles, a lake, and then a seaWhere mosquitoes resideIn the stagnant liquidUnsatisfiedTo kiss sleeping bloodied formsLaying on street cornersTwisted with the dogs that lie
The barriers are why I cryBut why should I long to run freeIn povertyBut how can I put in wordsWhat could it have been?A nostalgic landThat I would have called home
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BRAVE NEW WORDS
And when she sleeps she knows no bounds AMINA OSMAN
And when she sleeps she knows no boundsThe air is sweeter, softerHer body wears no crown but a queen of the eastern winds her spirit soars high in flightAn unyielding phoenix of the night, battered but stillShe makes blood red fire from the scratches by cruel matches and those who tried to smother her When she tried to make her own light – before she discovered something new She was cutHere she dreams of endless waters reflecting an endless sky – pure like silk woven by angelsBeaming far away from the echoes of her soul-cryHere there is no fear she may die, here she need not hide her questions, here there is no wallHere her wings stretch wide over crashing tides and then dry barren land, the glowing desertsHere she glides over small houses made of plastic woven U.S Aid bags, and dark faces, shadowed by cupped hands Here she will find them all, hawk-eyedTheir eyes will burn when they see her glideBlinded, they will not recognise their own monster, glittering with pride Their eyes will burn when they see her rise above their hot knives hovering over candlesTheir culture and scalding disinfectant Now they will burn. I will make heavens pour velvet liquid flames like rain over them, And they will lose something precious to themHow their heads will turn, their horror, their rageMy wounds are open and bleed freely the blood of a womanAnd you, your hearts will be sealed forever under thick ash
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AN English PEN BOOK / READERS & WRITERS
And when she sleeps she sees the world
ALLYSON MOLINA
1And when she sleeps
She sees the worldTHE HOLOCAUST
Where people die, children cryWhere some waste and others need
She sees the worldWhen she wakes up
She wishes she was thereWhere?
In the HOLOCAUSTIt seems better you see,
Better than waiting for her dad to die and her mum to liveTo live the life she never had.
The life she desires.As her dad lies, her mum drinks.
Drowning her sorrows……..In ALCHOHOL.
2I come from
A big building.Flocks of women of all kinds,
Who are they?I wonder you see,
A long blue tunic..mhmWho are they?
I wonderWhere is your bible?
One of them said.I do not own one
I answered.Claaaaaaaap!
Slapped me on my face.
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BRAVE NEW WORDS
Who are they ?I wonder
I no longer feel the left side of my face.Tears roll down my silhouette
Hunger mumbles in my stomach.Beautiful from the outside
But from withinSmall children search for their mothers.
Nanny clothed in REDSlowly leaves the scene.
The gate closed.Father’s eyes shuttered
I am six and I am sombre.
Mother do you not love me?Do you not want me?
I need you mother.Destructive thoughts came to my head.
It’s been a week nowFrom the slaps. I am half deaf.
Here I am seated in this long sided bench.Old chewing gum and black marks is all I see.
I can hear somebody please tell me my brother it’ll be.OH brother I have missed you.
He hugs me so tight that my spine is greeting my ribs.Oh please do not leave me, I pledged.
Where Is mummy Edwin?Silence overcame the place
I cried and cried until I dried out.Aqui sentada sin poder hablar,
No quiero aceptar que mi mama no me ama.Un perfume muy peculiar toca mi nariz.
Mami, Mami.She came back.
3My mother used to say to me
Respect it’s the root of it darling.Respect is the root of it.
When you go out do not look down
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AN English PEN BOOK / READERS & WRITERS
Learn how to talk to othersDo not let anybody down.
My mother used to say to meEl que espera desespera
Pero obtiene su reconpensa.My mother, my hero.
My mother a strong women, A fighter.My Mother.
The unique living soul No matter what I’d do
Or who I’d be She‘ll always, always
Stand by me.My mother used to say to me
Make me proud my child.I know you will win in life.
4Bluely; Hitler’s sister,
Hitler’s wife.Stands up with pride,
Holds her chin up with disguise.Always ready to fight
But never ready to die.Discriminative women
I wish you’d go elsewhere.Ogre that always appears at night.
Lady’s look up to it, trying to talk like herTrying to imitate.
Horrible, Horrendous, unkind creatureWhose conception is unknown?
Forever prepared to bring your sentiments down.Making you feel erroneous.
The reminder she leavesIs a strong paroxysm in your heart?
Semblance of a brain crushed on high heels.Feeling of remorse she will never trigger.
Makes me think she is himself.Jack the ripper.
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BRAVE NEW WORDS
5Hide and hide
Until the rain comes outI like it when it’s quiet
When nobody is around.With my hundred feet
I can get anywhere I can get to the moon.
I am strong, just like SAMSON.I am sly and fast.
If I’d like to do something, that’s what I’ll do.I am soft and playful
However don’t you dare to underestimate me?I would bite you, Make it sting forever.
So my being you will always remember.When they see me, they avoid me.
They are afraid of what I can do.I might be small,But I am brave.I am a fighter.
I might seem dark,Well, I can be brighter.
What I’m I?A CENTIPEDE!
6A father’s got to leave his family.
He makes sure the most ponderous item is comfortably saved.Saved like a treasure from the far long lost islands.
Holding each other’s hands, his wife’s, his daughter’s,Not wanting to let go.
Wanting this moment to last forever.Astonished child does not know what is taking place.
On his way, Father makes gesture.Attempting to accomplish his daughter’s joyful smile.
Affections show as their hands hold.Ancestor is gone,
Progenitor and mademoiselle walk alone.
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AN English PEN BOOK / READERS & WRITERS
7I learnt how to shoot as a small girl.
I wanted to be somebodyI wanted to get somewhere
Kept walking around like a wooden soldier.kept thinking I would destroy everything I touched.
Thunder.I am confused.
Cannot comprehendLow is where my spirit remains.
(to be continued)
8Ella, tan dulce y tan serena.
Ella, dejando rosas en la arena.Ella, sin mascara no es bella.
Ella, se convirtio en bruja para dejar de ser doncella.The way she walks
Reflect the way she talksHer hair, dirty and tangled
Give forth to the way her life has become strangled.Her eyes are smashed CCTV cameras.
Stopping her from seeing The way she is being.
Fingerprint in stained glass,Blood in her arms.
She shouts to the inside of her selfUnderstanding how it feels to become
SOMEBODYELSE.She thinks there is not right path for her to take,
So the wrong decision she must make.This sentiment,
The baby wants to escape.Blood and pain she must face.
Life is unfair for the ones that care,Life is good if you learn how to shoot.
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BRAVE NEW WORDS
It’s like surfing through life ARNOLDAS RAMANOWSKAS
It’s like surfing through life.When you’re still 12 in your mind.Living best time of my lifeWas always a hobby of mine.
With all the people that I lovedAnd all the happiness I sharedBut everything ended so quickThat I didn’t notice how it did
And suddenly I changedWhen I got a nickname under my nameWith the lost breath that took
He saidAchilles – that’s your real name.
I come from the colours green and whiteATIKA AKHTAR
I come from the colours green and whiteWith pride my country withholdsI come from the land where streets were never empty or lostWhere women walk in fearAnd sleep in shameI come from the land of liesWhere there are conflicts, war, disagreement and moreI come from a land of rapeWhere women are never safe
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AN English PEN BOOK / READERS & WRITERS
I come from exotic fruits CHANDELLE UZIMA
I come from exotic fruits, juicy, freshReal fruits that leaves you mouth watery
I come from coloured liputa filled with patterns. Green, purple, orange
I come from a place where every thing Is bright. The sounds of kids playing
I come from a place where the Drums speak before mouth.The rhythm of a heartbeat.
I come from a place where politics control me, grey, black and red.
I come from a place where the streets are coloured in red, where is it coming from? Ask that man sitting there while the women cry.
Poem #3 ZAHRA AWALE
I learnt to shoot as a small girlI liked to see that my effort wasn’t in vain
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BRAVE NEW WORDS
Time is like a sword JAMAL ABDALLAH
My mother used to say to me in Arabic…
Time is like a sword, if you do not cut it, it will cut you.
Alwaqt, kalsaif, in lum taqta’h, qata’akFollowing the trace of my past,Every minute, I have an obstacle It will never be my last,I am driving the route of my life ballisticTime travels, quicker than my blink of an eyeBut I play my game life as if there is no “I”This is where I begin to show my real identity,Paper deteriorate, people only think as if they are a only a sanityPapers left over, are only a remained in a fire place untouched, lastlyFor 100 years.Sitting with my granddadIt was only my…Memory on rewind mode.Bullets went through my body, That bullet…touched the yellow oyster card radar. But it only showed the red light of life.Beeped with life supports around meCritical is the only word Internal organsFlushing red blood around the unknown cityYoung men, women, and innocent childrenChildren; colouring their own picture bookToo late…A bazooka went throughThe last thing I know I was told By mum“I will not buy my freedom at any price!”Flashing images are turned on talking about this
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AN English PEN BOOK / READERS & WRITERS
Toxic economic crisis we are inMedia don’t care about my voiceless voice.My brother across the worldSitting eating his qaat, having leisure and watching TV.They are under a warm dueve whilst im strangling to find the warmth and love that I need.
Twitter Edition: Democracy
IgtThstwitterIstrtdarevolutionofwntindemocracyBtjsticewasntseenfor40yrsia mgoverndby59fakersPplonlybehvelkeHeathLedgerBtI’llplymygmelkelakers insight Explanation: Democracy I got this twitter, I started a revolution of wanting democracy But justice was not seen for 40 years I am governed by 59 fakers But I will play my game just like NBA Lakers People only behave like Joker: Heath Ledger BirthPlace: Born in the United Arab Emirates, my parents are from Yemen, Older generation have some roots from the horn of Africa. My world is reflected by: • Wealth of natural resources • health – vital piece of my cake • or should I say the greed of people • so many of the hidden truth is covered by a dueve of mass media. “Black Criminal, Formal economics” is the way politicians use to hide innocent truth of different 3rd world countries. Identify is unknown, confused, my food
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BRAVE NEW WORDS
is mandi rice, the meat is heated up with reflective foil under the ground using underground furnace, natural salts and minerals enter the marinated meat. Every dirham spent is only travelling around the world yet only crushed by the strongest pound. It is seen and symbolised by the Arabian.
Animal mythology:
If I was an animal I would be an Arabian falcon mixed with a stallion, I fly with an Arabian falcon mixed with an Arabian stallion, the courage to eat my prey, I am only a road runner with quick pace, lightning quick, strong to jump my upcoming hurdles.
The colour of the sea, eyes seeing the world with perspective of my horizon on mount Everest glaciers, coated with white fur on top of my world searching for my final destiny. Flowing from one river to the ocean, I have a life cycle. Endless. People fight for saviour, people keep me as necessity, I cure the fire of burned houses across the world. I am expensive as the black crude oil, rare and genuine. A country where my roots started the first architectural designers were born to build the historic city of Little Aden and Sana’a from my grandfather.
I will be scintillating on the paper writing the black boldness of every type of calligraphy to the style of my Japanese writing and artistic passion for the root language; latin and Arabic Writing is the shadow of my patience. Musically, I play it like an Arabian lute. The way I tip toe around the house when I was 3.
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AN English PEN BOOK / READERS & WRITERS
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BRAVE NEW WORDS
I come from #1 ZAHRA AWALE
The land of clean straight lines Of hills like wavelengthsOf HijabOf Burka, BayboyiI come from the land of IstanbulBy my fat father over a hot steaming stoveI come from the land of war, passion, technology and beauty
I come from a land where women are covered like mummies and hidden in houses
I come from #2 ZAHRA AWALE
I come from a land of beauty where the hills and towns meetWhere there is no end or defeatI come from a land where women are hidden, caged in houses.A land where men say ‘where my feet lead, go’But I’m also from the land of culture tradition and danceA land where animals roam freeWith no despair, with no fear and care, something I wish to cherish and have.
The land I come from has changedWhilst carrying its traditions and RULES!!I come from the land of possibilities
Elevation EMMANUEL MUREMNAYUNDO
The overwhelming feeling of satisfactionThe end of loneliness, victoryNo more will we bunch together at nightGoodbye to hoping and wishingOur day has come, this joy given to usBy this big angel, our saviour
Came to us in our darkest time at nightWalked his way through and shown a lightThis slavery is now no moreWith the word “come” a pulse is restoredHigh we raised our fists to the skyThe joy overwhelms us so much that we cry
I come from EMMANUEL MUREMNAYUNDO
I come from warm tasty treatsTo be eaten before the evening feastIt is a party of flavour, a festFood that surpasses all the restI come from places which are hard to sayFrom the Eiffel Tower and Les Chants ElyséeFrom football fanatics to passionate paintersThe love for art rings deep in the theatresI come from a place where we say “te toi mon amis”That means “shut up my friend” if you don’t understand meThe Mount Everest standing high up aboveI come from Paris the city of love
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AN English PEN BOOK / READERS & WRITERS
19
BRAVE NEW WORDS
Broken EMMANUEL MUREMNAYUNDO
The life in him is fading, slow
Like when a lamp turns off, the dim fade
His eyes are red, no longer white as snow
As he looks down, I witness his soul, a shade
Broken
It’s been a long year and a half
18months, 540days, 12960 hours have passed
For a father, that is a long time without his kids
He blames himself for what he did
Slow breaths of air the air is humid
The image of what used to be vivid
Broken
The ray of sunshine which was once frequent
Comes out when he sees them, he returns hidden
He can’t stay, so far away, I hear him say
But there’s that 1 gate, of massive hate, a family trait
He can never again lay with his soul mate
Without a doubt he must accept his fate
Broken
Divorce can break anyone, whether big or small
They called it “civil partnership ending” if I recall
Placing labels on topics of high sensitivity
A label that keeps a man away from his family
It wasn’t a path that he had chosen
From head to toe it is clear he is BROKEN
Brisée EMMANUEL MUREMNAYUNDO
It happened on a nice evening as he laid on the bedA big grin on his face her voice in his headHis heart trembling when she calls himPeut savait-il qu’elle avait une mauvaise nouvelle he was no long the “one” pour elle Their journey as a couple arrive a la FeinPlus jamais pourra-t-il prendre sa main
The long promenade dans de herbe verteWith the mass of oiseaux libre dans le cielDans un mots elle termine tout a jamaisNever again will she lay on his breast and sayJe t’appartient et je t’aimeWithout her he wasn’t le même
Child soldier EMMANUEL MUREMNAYUNDO
His teeth were concaved like a deep cave with no lightHis teeth as the sun, bright and yellow from the beer they make him drinkHis hands like sandpaper from the grit of the gunHis voice was no longer virgin like a child who lost his innocenceHis feet once soft as feathery cotton now hard as the artillery he handlesHis heart now without tenderness, seeks innocent blood
The wound of words is worse than the wound of swords.
Al jarh al kalam amak min jarh al seyoof
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AN English PEN BOOK / READERS & WRITERS
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BRAVE NEW WORDS
Cactus INGRID TCHEKO
Multitudes.
They came like lightning.
Flash
His soul was no longer his.
A child to a devil
A map
Embedded deep in his back
Crafted with whips
He wept his innocence
Until he became
a non-entity.
They say
Where there is water there is life
There is no life in him
For his eyes are dried like the desert
Deserted by God
His life is nothing but drought
Destroyed Mother nature with infinite stab wounds
Of cracks
New nature INGRID TCHEKO
Embraced by chains of guilt
He cannot break free for its grasp is too strong
RAPE
TORTURE
ANGEL OF DEATH
His heart is bruised. A trap.
The devil is liar
For God is higher
And not a buyer
Of souls
For he is not childless
A devil into a child
A curse too easy to crack
So smile
For you are not a commodity
But a CACTUS
For you
You
Have defeated the desert.
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AN English PEN BOOK / READERS & WRITERS
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BRAVE NEW WORDS
My mother used to say.. GIDEON TAPIWA KADZURA
My mother used to say to me
“tinobva kure kure, kushandisa maziso kupenga”
Only the ones that are not living now; the ones unknown.
Stretching is only the motion,
But the actual is unseen as it stands with time
What they left us….
A look at my grandparents
A tunnel in structure I trace back the foot steps
The crouchy look. the only cause could be
The late night dances in the rain, showers from heaven they called it.
Thumbs from the feet rumble against the thunder
Fear is unseen in their eyes
“Ndinooera shumba” they were one with the jungle
What they resemble the body exposes
But as I said, my mother used to say
“tinobva kure kure, kushandisa maziso kupenga”
Using your eyes to figure out where we came from is mere madness.
Holland YONIS OSMAN
My young life never seemed steady
Because every time I grew, we went on the move
Holland.
A place for groups and groups alone
Newcomers aint welcome, coz they aint known
I went from place to place and house to house
This is why I never settled down.
For I am like a cat mixing in with dogs
New teachers, new faces
Why did I move without a single scent?
Walking home all alone, hoping that one day I make a friend
I step into the house, unknown with all these rooms
But one thing always slaps my face no matter what
That is the smell of my mother’s fresh and tasty food that will never rot
For this is the one thing that makes me aware of what I own.
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AN English PEN BOOK / READERS & WRITERS
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BRAVE NEW WORDS
I Love you, my crazy child NOMAKHOSI NDEBELE
My mother used to say to me
Nguyakuthanda, hlanyalami
Followed by a kiss on my cheeks
Eyes closed, and I’m back to the
Same place. Again, and again
Words echo…
Echoing as if the words disappear
Into the air
Forming a cloud above my head
Again it echoes
As the cloud turns to rain
Each letter, each drop of rain
Falling , sliding down my cheeks
Eventually
My body is soaked with words
Like an invisible hug
Sinking into my skin
And straight
To
My
Heart.
A cry from above IMRAN AHMED
Each day I try not to sin
I try to play with the rules so heaven lets me in
lives lost some are spent in the bin
it’s like we’re living a game that you can never win
But I’m just trying to stack my paper
so I’m selling food like a cater
but everywhere I go I always find a hater
and feds want to put me in a box like a trainer
It’s like I’m back home
children skinny, all you see is bone
no parents so were all forced to live alone
rob anyone for their cell phones
the government don’t care he’s on his throne
they don’t play our voice coz there’s no tone
Blurred memories DANIEL UZUNOW
Back in time, all alone – I am lost.In this dream, all alone – I feel frost.Struggling; fight, all alone – I am lost.I’m alone – the feeling that I hate the most.
Snowfall time – sparkling, cracking, fighting;Strong don’t cry – keep fighting, lying, trying.White-bluish death – the price – overwhelming,In pure-white scenery – I with death am attending.
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AN English PEN BOOK / READERS & WRITERS
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BRAVE NEW WORDS
My piece - from home DANIEL UZUNOW
I come from the land of fields,
That is called after them,
The fields of copper, gold and silver,
The land of history, faked liberty,
At times misery, but never poverty
I come from land of eagles,
Above rivers of red,
Where people are eager;
Where children are fed
I come from land of milk and honey,
Yet we have problems with money;
I come from land of tradition,
Where history tends to repetition
I come from land of winged knights
Winged, yet robbed of their flight;
I come from land of heroes,
Kings – reigning from the past
Yet I come from land of future,
With hope within heart,
For what is coming is rupture,
I hope it’s not too far.
Cheated wife with Rubel Mohammed DANIEL UZUNOW
Her neck like a bent broomstick;Her arms like cranes her husband drives;Her skin like messy bed;Her eyes made of crystals that she cleaned half of her life.Her hands – once silk – now are like the rugs she washes.Yet her hair still shines, like a TV display,For she still has hope, in the children she fed,For how she was cheated, she also can play.
Shooting DANIEL UZUNOW
I learnt to shoot, as a small girl.I’ve fallen in love with gunpowder – instantly.Piff-paff – the smell after shot…The shells of the bullets – shining like jewels;The radiance of the shot – blinding like the sun;Feeling victorious, getting ready to run,Laying in the grass with the gun,Bathing in sunlight, making my skin tanI remember the wind in my hair – so refreshing…I remember my first shot – embarrassing.
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AN English PEN BOOK / READERS & WRITERS
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BRAVE NEW WORDS
The storm yet to come DANIEL UZUNOW
The wind, so cool – softly veiling my faceThe sea, so full – the waves moving in one paceAnd I, being grasping future clash of mine,Outside, the everlasting hounds of the time.Then rush, like spell – engulfing everything I made.That’s storm, so cruel, enraged god of the two;He is here, the ruler. Engraving times yet to come;He is here, to cover - us in the sands of time.
The wisdom from the past DANIEL UZUNOW
My mother used to say to me:‘nie wszystko złoto co się świeci’1;‘prawdziwych przyjaciół poznaje się w biedzie’2.I heard, nodded wisely my head in agreement,But understanding never came to me.That is, as always, until it was too late.The story stretches back in time,But I won’t bore you with details.Needless to say, price of ignorance was dear.But I also learnt from my lesson;On my mistakes learnt.For ignoring ancestors’ warnings,Is like dance in darkness –A fool’s play.
1 Not all is gold, what is shining2 True friends, are met in distress
The last moments of a prisoner DANIEL UZUNOW
My eyes are now wide open,Yet still, all I see is dark.I kneel, on shattered glass,The pieces aimed straight in my heart.But why, the truth long forgotten,Am I all alone in this cage of light without light?
I struggle; try really hard. Finally my binds come undone.I sneak to the window, sealed since ancient times,But the seal is weak, and as I reach with hand,I break the seal, and finally bathe in true light.
It is supposed to come with picture, depicting insides of building in darkness, with window full of holes after bullets.
If you can’t beat them join themOLAGOKE ADEYEMO
I was born into this world as self-respectful, nice, quiet person, very shy and peaceful but as the world changed I realised I was holding back from the world and its obstacles….2006.…2008….2010…the world kept changing, people changing, animals and everything changing which made me felt like a tortoise among giants cornered and stepped on, I just had to change and improve in my social life. Since the day I changed I have been known for being smart, sharp and ready and for any strike some called me a bold eagle not bald eagle.
My mother used to say to me “if you can’t beat them join them” “Be the leader never the follower” “You will never know what success feels like without failure”.
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AN English PEN BOOK / READERS & WRITERS
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BRAVE NEW WORDS
The past NATHAN RIVER
The land of forests that have been cut off, and changed into the ones of steel.The memory of them gives me a thrill.The land of wolves – now they are gone.There are no wolves – we’re left just with dogs.
All the places where I’ve been.All the places that I’ve seen.They are no more.They all blend together – until they’re gone.
I never lived anywhere long enough to say that I have home.I always walk through the desert – I always walk alone.
The youth anthem GIDEON TAPIWA KADZURA
The bible in my hand…They don’t expect that from me, I never bring good newsI was born by an iron will the 9 what I knowBang bang one gone one up, Babies before diplomasThey tell me that my pants are baggy“where could I put all my emotions”Carried myself to this position, mental fitness you will never weigh me downYou talk like you know me trust me u don’t.You wear suits cause you cant dress no moreAm I meant to be scared?I walk like a thief in the evening reason being they dropped that title on meI cover my face, cause we all wear masks My presence is repulsive….Well I tell you this Mr man My parts done, you don’t hate me you hate who make meSo you don’t offend me.
Dogs from the southSARA MONDRAGON
Many souls too much sweatForget the people they are a threat
People believe in everyone else but themselvesFinally someone does something for the struggle
Faith can be dangerousA meeting between strangers
Can lead to some trouble
Try to close your ears with your mouthKill the dog from the south
Send bombs to the place you hateBecause they already ate
Create a diversion with your handsShow them your empty palms
Kill the seeds of natureTrying to feel better
Money feels good in your position Too bad there is opposition
She sleepsSARA MONDRAGON
And when she sleeps She dreams her life is hell
Feeling her life will endNot knowing that now, she is dead
She dreams about clouds and breadAbout the love
About waterAbout walls
She dreams that she is awake But she dies long ago
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AN English PEN BOOK / READERS & WRITERS
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BRAVE NEW WORDS
AtahualpaSARA MONDRAGON
He was praying for his land
Just before he was going to die
He hid gold in the mountains
For the gold of the fountains
Child don’t be sad I am just going
To take the holy coin
Please don’t kill our tongue
Please don’t do me wrong
Because this place you call
New world is always old
My blood soars like an eagle
Concealing history in your ego
Long ago there was peace
Before you came along and took the bliss
I prefer to kill my child myself
Rather than you teaching him
How to sit on chairs, how to behave
You bring guns to my sacred place
Insulting the souls possessing my race
Angels without godSARA MONDRAGON
Los niños de la calle
Son angeles sin dios
Rogabanporperdon
Talvez are a la sociedad
Talvezyo
The kids from the street
Are like angels without gods
They ask for forgiveness
Perhaps from society
Perhaps from me
El niñovestia nada y poco
Haciendomeperder el antojo
There was not any food or shelter
I ought to believe that was not sad
I ought to believe it was a joke
Those black eyes has pain
And had lost colour
Si no hubieranniños en la calle
Teaseguroque no habria Diablo andante
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AN English PEN BOOK / READERS & WRITERS
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BRAVE NEW WORDS
I give birth to deathSARA MONDRAGON
Decisions made up by mistakesThat children have to pay
Flowers of the sun, tried to blossomBut died of poison
Poisonous hands driven by mindWanted to rape children’s mind
Her white soul cries for more She used to look up, now she looks below
She was insulted by ghostsBut it was not her fault
Children of the sun I will rape your soul
How much can you takeNo one will know
I feel powerful over you Honey our baby is due
My motherSARA MONDRAGON
My mother used to say to me Delayed victory comes strong
We will have revenge against the throneDeliver the child to the door
Centuries will go on
Explode my insides with a smileDo not forget to kill my desire
She calls meSARA MONDRAGON
I like the mud in the floorI want more
I pass my emotions from the sandTo my hand and my hands pass it
To my paper to describe her temperEverything is free
My ancestors are calling meShe is here with me
Passing stories of my raceTo teach me about my face some say is a shame to be dark
She says they are not smartBecause I don’t bite
I believe is better than black and white
I amSARA MONDRAGON
I am an ebony condorThe first of this generationI fly higher than the clouds
Alone of courseThe vivid colour of orange
Orange like fire, like volcanoI am the mandolin
Stunned at midnightIn the heart of the jungle
I like white feather for the waterThe water of your eyes
I am not country because I am nothingThe wind takes me always to the south
I write to mother of unborn childrenI write to myself the only one who
Understand why we are like this
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AN English PEN BOOK / READERS & WRITERS
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BRAVE NEW WORDS
Hymn for DiegoSARA MONDRAGON
I come from Ecuador
From 13 years of old culture
I know what you have to do to stay alive
My friend Diego begs the wealthy
For a dusty slice of bread
I come from
Where the music has a voice
And the deaf have ears
Three different weathers in the same day
I can smell the rain of nature
Famine stays behind mothers without children
They take your organs
They take your breath
They leave your clothes on the bench
They know who is going to wear my sense, my smell.
My angels of the street
Life is not sweet
You have no mother
You have no father
You have your friend:
Hunger.
Love Struck
ROZELYN
Am I acres of green
Mountain after mountain
The smell of Mother Nature
Or the miles of concrete
Building after building
Man-made gold only in its
Finest.
Am I the shadow of the hidden secrets
Of the stars and the sun or
Am I the bright red straps that tie
Around my body as I carry that
Deceiving blue cross over my back.
Like a seed in my heart they both grew
Into something wonderful.
My eyes glimmer at their sight, blinded
By their beauties. I am proud to be part
Of both
But in their own different ways.
But as I stand here I ask myself this
Where am I to stand?
Love struck
By both of them.
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AN English PEN BOOK / READERS & WRITERS
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BRAVE NEW WORDS
The beauty of the seaRUBEL MOHAMMED
For the first time in my life,
I was going to see the sea. I was excited!
When I was in the train, my mind was spinning only a picture,
the picture of the sea that I have seen on TV.
My heart was beating as fast as a running horse,
I was looking to the right and to the left,
In front me and behind me,
but my thoughts were only with the beach
where I’ll see water and water.
The more time passed, the more I felt emotional
minute after minute, second after second
in the silence I was waiting…
It was like waiting for final results
It was like waiting for the day before my birthday
It was like the blossoming of a rose,
where a person looks forward for this event.
Suddenly, I’ve seen the wide big blue!
The biggest free space that I have ever seen,
where my eyes have limitless scope
it seems like that I was inside my big void
and the peaceful noise of the wave makes me new
where I can listen to myself.
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AN English PEN BOOK / READERS & WRITERS
Ahamad’s kites (Afghanistan)IN CONVERSATION WITH SARAH ARDIZZONE
I was twelve when I made my favourite kite. It flew the highest of all my kites. I flew it at Nairuz – New Year. New Year is a Wednesday in March...I am from a city in the North of Afghanistan, called Kunduz. I grew up in Kunduz all my life. There were always wars going on. When I was a child it was with Russia. I started school when I was six.
When I was twelve I was on the roof mending it in time for winter when the rocket hit. It got my face, my nose, my legs. I have had so many operations since then...
I could make a kite in just one hour. Or sometimes I would take two to three hours in the evening. It was a white paper kite, with green paper too. And I used blue to decorate it.
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BRAVE NEW WORDS
Ahamad’s kites 2 (London)IN CONVERSATION WITH SARAH ARDIZZONE
I catch the 171. There is a bus-stop close to my house, but for one month it’s not working properly because of road-works. So for ten minutes I have to walk and after I catch the bus. I say hello to the driver and stay downstairs. I am on my way already when I remember – “Oh, last week, I told them I would bring the kites.”
So I have to go back again. The same problem: I can’t use the bus-stop near my house – I have to keep walking with the three kites I’ve put very carefully in the plastic bag, which I tie up in a very neat knot. I don’t say hello to the bus driver this time. The bus is too crowded, everybody is packed in, I feel very tired. I get a seat right at the back. I have to go carefully through the crowd of people with my fragile kites. Then I come to New Cross Gate. Another problem there – because of the kites it makes it difficult to change to the Overground for Whitechapel.
Finally, I come out from the Underground at Bethnal Green. Oooh. Much busy. Rush. Rush. Rush, Many people. If you come out from the Underground, there is a lot of wind. If I’m not careful, everything is broken.
Straightaway, I come here. And you have written all this down about my kites for me, but I can’t read it. It’s like a GP’s writing. When I hand in the prescription at the pharmacy, I don’t know what is written there.
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AN English PEN BOOK / READERS & WRITERS
Fresh air is not free KHADEM
I was at Liverpool Street, right opposite the Tube Station, waiting for the Bus No 8. As I looked back there was a guy who was giving people a free energy drink. As you know, in this country fresh air is not free, so I rushed for it. And you know what? I got one.
How to eat grapesZAINAB
Take it out of the pack.
Wash it with cold water.
Leave it for two minutes for the water to drain off it.
Put it in a bowl, grab a chair and start enjoying your fruit.
Make sure not to eat the little trees around it.
Make sure you no eat the small-tree way day pand ham.
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BRAVE NEW WORDS
How to become an expert at eating sunflower seedsMOH
Eating sunflower seeds can be very hard and annoying. Because they are so tiny.
If you would like to learn how to eat them, first you have to choose the right types because there are lots of different ones, like salted or not salted.You really want to eat sunflower seeds when you are free, doing nothing special – watching a film or the football. The best time to eat sunflower seeds is at the weekend, on a sunny day, in the park, with your friends, sitting on the grass. Or in the evening, sitting on the sofa, with a nice movie flickering on the telly. Or you’re on the bus, sitting at the back, staring out of the window, trying not to make too much of a mess – there’s a big plastic bag wise open next to you.
What goes around, comes aroundAZAH
I love this old saying, because my Mum used it while she was making conversation with someone. Like, for example, if someone was planning to do a wrong or a bad thing to the other person, she would say: ‘What goes around comes around’. And it always was true. When you do something bad to someone else, then something more worse would happen to him or her.But there are some times when people do whatever they wanna do and still they would get away with it and so in that situation I would say: “What goes around doesn’t come around.”
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AN English PEN BOOK / READERS & WRITERS
Writing to my grandfather back in UgandaSHEILA
You know in London there are several means of transport. There is the really fast box-like called a train. It moves very quickly so if you are going to very faraway places it would be best to use. You have to pay more money however compared to a bus. Anyway, I don’t have so much money so I choose to use the bus.
I have to catch the 109 to get to KFC. At KFC they sell chips and chicken. Their chicken is so tasty. The skin on it is the most delicious thing you could ever taste in your life. I can’t explain how they make it coz anyway they keep their recipes as secrets to attract more customers.
Anyway, I touch my oyster card on the machine that takes the money off and I head for the upper deck, as usual, to catch my views. An oyster card is the card you put money on and you have to touch it on the bus machine to you to get on the bus. It’s like paying for your travel, the only difference in this case is the money is already put on the card instead of in paper notes.
I can only see one side of your face, but I don’t know what is on the other side. I can’t tell what is there.SHEILA
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BRAVE NEW WORDS
Soundscape from where I used to live, back home in Kampala, UgandaSHEILA
In the morning when I am awake, but still contemplating if I should get up, I hear my sister’s phone ringing. She’s sleeping so it rings until it goes off. It’s got a very loud ring-tone. Left with no choice, I wake up. I walk into the living room. Outside, I can hear the parrots mimicking each one of us in the house. “Hey, Capucci! Capucci!” they shriek, copying the high-pitched voice of my young niece very accurately. They get all the details, they can even copy the way people click their tongues. They can even laugh. They’re like a photocopy.
In the kitchen, I can hear the housemaid washing saucepans and putting them away. It is so loud that it sounds like her and the saucepans are having a big fight!
Outside, my auntie is talking to her husband from the boys’-quarters where they live (boys-quarters are like extra rooms in case you get visitors). Anyway, my auntie and her husband are so loud that I feel like I’m part of their conversation.
Then it’s the milk-salesman who comes by every day to deliver the milk. He has a bell on his bicycle which he dings non-stop until someone attends him.
Brave New Words is a literature education projectfrom English PEN’s Readers & Writers Programmesupported by the Clore Duffield Foundation
English PEN is one of the UK’s leading literature and free speech charities, based at the innovative Free Word centre in Farringdon, London. We promote the freedom to write and the freedom to read. The founding centre of a worldwide writers’ association, established in 1921, we are supported by our active membership of leading writers and literary professionals with an elected Board led by the distinguished author Gillian Slovo. Our education programme develops the writing of prisoners, detainees, refugees, asylum-seekers and other socially-excluded groups. We also run a full programme of public events and award prizes to outstanding British and international writers. Brave New Words involved two groups of young people from London: Brighter Futures in Bethnal Green and NewVIc Activ8 in Newham. Each group worked with a writer and a translator for eight weeks, learning new creative writing and translation skills. The groups were led by Joelle Taylor and Bhavit Mehta, and Sarah Ardizzone and Nii Parkes. This book was launched at a special event during Young People Seeking Safety Awareness Week 2012 at the Free Word centre in Farringdon.
Thanks to everyone who took part in the project and extra special thanks to Steven and Amina at NewVIc Activ8 and Yeukai and Alex at Brighter Futures.
www.englishpen.org
English PEN is a company limited by guarantee, number 5747142, and a registered charity, number 1125610.
TARIRO ELIZABETH MUTERO
GIDEON TAPIWA KADZURA
ROSANNE SERADOY
AMINA OSMAN
ALLYSON MOLINA
ARNOLDAS RAMANOWSKAS
ATIKA AKHTAR
CHANDELLE UZIMA
ZAHRA AWALE
JAMAL ABDALLAH
ZAHRA AWALE
EMMANUEL MUREMNAYUNDO
INGRID TCHEKO
YONIS OSMAN
NOMAKHOSI NDEBELE
IMRAN AHMED
DANIEL UZUNOW
OLAGOKE ADEYEMO
NATHAN RIVER
SARA MONDRAGON
ROZELYN
RUBEL MOHAMMED
AHAMAD
KHADEM
ZAINAB
MOH
AZAH
SHEILA
English PEN / READERS & WRITERS
With introductions by Joelle Taylor and Sarah Ardizzone
C
M
Y
CM
MY
CY
CMY
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PEN_Clore_DustJacket2.pdf 1 23/03/2012 18:04
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