Readers & Writers 5: The Wrestlers

8/3/2019 Readers & Writers 5: The Wrestlers

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First published in Great Britain in 2011

by English PEN, Free Word,

60 Farringdon Road, London EC1R 3GA

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Collection copyright English PEN, 2011

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 978-0-9564806-4-4

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


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Contents

5 Philip Cowell Introduction On Wrestling

6 Akiko Hori Inside of My Mind

7 Rafika Furey My Favourite Foods

8 Alessandra Marucci What Does Your Long Hair Tell Us Tonight?

9 Alessandra Marucci Food Is An Old Book

10 Patricia Hicks Harris Winter

11 Patricia Hicks Harris Walk Alone

12 Tesfu Food

13 Margaret Nambi My Soil13 Ivareen My Identity in England

14 Shazea Quraishi February

15 Louis Osayande Anaemia

16 Louis Osayande Goody Goody

17 Louis Osayande Cotonou

18 Louis Osayande Dagenham

19 Louis Osayande Returning Exile

20 Louis Osayande A Song For My Dear Country

21 Joy Nwachukwu et al Fire

22 Marie Eveline Lavoile Haitian People

23 Marie Eveline Lavoile Hate

24 Marie Eveline Lavoile Love is

25 Marie Eveline Lavoile Marinas world

26 Maggie Dube Hack, Hack

27 Eunice Omorere Bread

28 Elizabeth C. Mendy-Thomas Water

29 Nanette Mendoza A Flower30 Jacqueline Lwanzo In England I Would Like To Grow Beans

31 Shazea Quraishi Sweetie Girl

32 Yaya Yosoff Green Eye

33 Yaya Yosoff My Mother Aisha Bet Alhaaj

34 Mahmood Alnaimy The White Blanket

35 Mahmood Alnaimy Careless Bullets

36 Enrico Sibour Baumwolle

37 Enrico Sibour Who Are We?

37 Enrico Sibour Onions38 Caspar Hall the house of being

38 Aissata Thiam Soiled Locks

40 Aissata Thiam A Letter To God

41 Aissata Thiam The Tears of My Mother

42 Aissata Thiam The Wrestlers


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5

THE WRESTLERS

On Wrestling

Philip Cowell

This is a book written by people from all over the world from

Nigeria, the Democratic Republic of Congo, Eritrea, Haiti, Italy,

Pakistan, Japan, Sudan, Iraq and many more countries. Everyone

who is published in this book attended an English PEN creative

writing and reading workshop series at their local refugee andmigrant centre. They took the time out of their busy lives to stop,

think and write about things.

Our writer facilitators Shazea Quraishi, Malika Booker,

Nii Parkes, Miriam Halahmy, Irene Garrow and me alongside

stalwart volunteers, Pat Hicks and Ben Harvey, helped them only

so far: with confidence when helping was helpful but also

with some ground rules of writing (rules likebreak all the rules!).

It does take it out of you, this writing malarky this business

of writing, and wrestling with, a self.

Wrestling seems just right. An Old English word, wrestling

originated some time around 1100. Its allegedly the oldest

word still in use in the English language to describe hand-to-

hand combat. I dont know any combat more hand-to-hand thanwriting. Wrestling, after all, is what you do when youre trying to

understand something (or someone) else. Wrestling is that slow,

fat grapple with life. To amend Marianne Moore: writing

is exciting, wrestling is like writing.

All the worlds writers in this book are wrestlers, and admirable

wrestlers at that. As Aissata Thiam writes, whose poem bothnames and ends this collection: They just seized one another by

the torso, and there, they started. They started, and they went

places. This book displays the results of their seizure, of their

takedowns and throws and of their grappling holds.


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ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE

Inside of My Mind

Akiko Hori

Life is short, so it becomes

colourful memories.

Time flies, so it becomes preciously.Lack of confidence, so it becomes

power to make an effort.

Weakness and strength both have sides.

That's why I don't worry about myself.All I should do is do my best.

That's why I don't worry about myself.

If I lose the way after I have

made a choice,I would never regret because that

is the way I choose.

Sometimes I lose the way.

But just keep going on the way I choose.

Look! I may find the way before I notice.


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7

THE WRESTLERS

My Favourite Foods

Rafika Furey

Sun break, I was force fed a mixture of tasteless gunk that fills

my lungs and my heart beat gets stronger. I hunger for freedom.

At sunrise, it was mashed apples, porridge with tiny specks

of biscuits looking like tiny specks of promise.

In the afternoon, my mouth is adorned with burger and chips,

all lavishly downed by ice cold coke, little cherry drops fill up

my mouth with ecstasy for dessert.

Its mid-afternoon, champagne glasses are filled, strawberries

float on top absorbing all the goodness of the alcohol,

appetisers are served, and cakes are eaten.

At sunrise, pickles mixed with ice cream. I eat to feed my seed.

Night follows back to basics with tubes filled with

pain and anxiety.

Midnight, no food can enter my mouth and I yearn for nothing

for I had eaten every fruit of the tree.


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8


What Does Your Long Hair Tell Us Tonight?

Alessandra Marucci

to my great grandmother

My hair tells a story as long as it is

as complicated as the spiral its curled up in,

after washing in the very early morning when,perfumed with modest lavender, I was ready for the poor breakfast,

not enough to feed my youth in its prime;

and when the hard winters had very special

heart-warming moments:

the evenings before the fire with friends and the accordion,

and maybe bread and anchovies.

There wasnt spare time for usand green was a friendly, but hard, working place,

obsessed by hunger and the hope of a different life.

Every day was a gift (the war burnt)

and one more step to the only accepted goal:

a family, our daily ration of food, perhaps love;

our stories being big ideas confined to small lives.

We didnt have the time to cry,

our dreams costed us hard work under the rain,

the legs in the water, in the rice-growing fields

we would have paid for this in our late years.

And yes, still now I remember home, every day,

the thick walls and the green paintwork,

my fathers uniform in the trunk,

the ducks and the rubble in the farmyard.


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THE WRESTLERS

Food Is An Old Book

Alessandra Marucci

Food is an old book (1968)

with porous pages tasting of custard,

the rich, mouthwatering colour shading off

into a tender pinkish-orange

towards the corners, so worn down they look hairy.Food is a book

and a special inscription on the very first page

cooking your best dishes youll remember auntie

and my mum-to-be holding it in the tapering hands

(I can see frames of the nice present-giving)

and collecting recipes over the years.

Food is a bookwhich has flown (what if it had got lost?)

to reach a daughter not so far, but far enough

a changeover, a delicate thought,

a symbol of love through generations,

speckled with short pastry and my baby sisters scribbles.

Food can be a book for sure,

words now and again,

most of all pictures that have never been taken:

maybe brown bread and butter

on the mountains with mum and dad

or a healthy picnic on the roofs with my friends,

under the warm blue sky of Rome,

the Milky Way like a soft blanket made of cotton;

maybe grandma baking the most delicious

sweet bread under the ashes,her tall body curled up in the fireplace,

as large as a wall, in the medieval Abruzzo;

or the wild Sicily and the light-blue side of me,


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kneading mediterranean flavours

in the overwhelming light and thin fabrics.Food is also a map

when it leads me alongside the beach

in Alimini, with sandwiches and juice to escape the dog days

in the maritime pine woods

bewildered by the bacchanal of thousands of cicadas;

or moves me to north for a coffee at Mulassano

and mini-rolls to eat on your fingertipslike the idle, decent ladies in Gozzanos poems.

Food is a book I flip through

laughing, with droplets of tears

when I come across funny portraits

of me, going mad in the kitchen

dreaming of meeting one more time

my auntie

and getting a piece of advice.

Winter

Patricia Hicks Harris

The last time I saw him,

his back, his shoes, his trousers, his coat.he struck me and I was in shock.

The slap across little legs, easily

could have been my face.

Had I been naughty?

I cant remember. Only the smell

of tobacco lingering long

after he was gone.

He left the room. Left us.

The fire turned to ash.

Who would bring coal to a cold room now?


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THE WRESTLERS

Walk Alone

Patricia Hicks Harris

A cat looks at the world with glassy eyes

impervious to ordinary life.

Of death it seems impenetrably wise

walking away it hides, avoids all strife.

For dying alone is all compassion.

No suffering to see, no pain, no tears,

no guilt, no cries of last minute passion;

quiet acceptance, no apparent fears.

For those who grieve, who mourn beloved loss

there is no comfort, no body to touch.

Words of condolence, flowers, all are dross.

Helpful words mean nothing and say too much.

Remember then, with some regret, the cat

who proffered only cold warmth to a mat.


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Food

Tesfu

I hungered for plenty,

you were little and never enough.

Drought and war made you scarce.

You appeared for lunch

then disappeared for a day or two,

you made me cry and happy,

your lack made me slim,

your plenty made me fat and miserable.

Shall I curse you or bless you?

Should I call you sour or sweet?

I dont know, I dont know.

Some talk of you and enjoy you,

some still search and cant have you

as much as they would like.

Finally I have enough of you

but I still have a lot of friends and relatives

who hunger for you

so I still dont know if

I should say thank you or curse you.


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THE WRESTLERS

My Soil

Margaret Nambi

In Uganda when I was still in my country

we dig to our own soil to get

food.

And when it rains we get

hoes to go to prepare our landto grow some food. When the

land is ready and soft, we

invest in it some food like maize

cassava, onions, potatoes, ground

nuts....

My Identity in England

Ivareen

My name is Ivareen. I have been in this country for 9 years.

It been hard for me. I have to live with friends most of the time.

I have no job. I cant work because of no passport most of the time.

I go hungry no food to eat. When I just came here I used to do

cleaning for one lady and then I get pregnant with Javangni.

I did stop doing it and now it is so stressful for me because I dont

have the help I would like for me and Javangni but I hope one day

things will get better for us.


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February

Shazea Quraishi

Saturday

Early morning dark.Small bare feet hurry across

the cold bathroom floor.

Blue sky after so

much rain. Birdsong two voices again and again.

Sunday

8:20 a.m.and the sudden shriek of a

childs pink plastic flute.

Red grapes in a white

china bowl. Small hands pluck one,

it rolls on the floor.


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THE WRESTLERS

Anaemia

Louis Osayande

I am not on a mission.

Neither am I the goingand the coming.

I am on a long and short journey

Into the world of sporadic agony.

I am hot and I am cold.My blood is caking up.

I am burning up.

Oracle,

You dont know me.

I dont lick lamp oil.

I have no mark on my forehead.

Check with the laser beam.Physician,

What can you do for me?

This is not malaria.

My blood is pollutant for the anopheles.

Father and mother,

Is this conspiracy coated with love?

Or utter ignorance?

I am the rope in the game of tug-of-war.

You told me I am 20 years old.

Why am I in my 90s?

I see huge water in my dreams.

And I kill dragons in my dreams.

But I am innocently harmless.

You made me a mimosa.

Soon the stub of fire bids its farewell.Shall we meet again?

I dont know.


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Goody Goody

Louis Osayande

My dear goody goody,

How can I forget you?

Though you left me with bad teeth,

I still crave for you.

I cant even remember the first time I had you.

All I know is, I grew up having you every day.

Though you got me in trouble several times,

Still I could not leave you alone.

You were a perfect rectangle.

Brown like brandy and whiskey,

You tasted like the forbidden apple in the

Garden of Eden.

You smelt like hot cake.

How can I forget you?

Each time I had the gift of money

I came straight to you.

When I crave for you

You cant even follow me.

What a one-way love.

Each time my kids cry for sweets now

It brings me back to you.

But sad to say,

You are no longer the form, shape, and taste I found you.

Where have you gone to?

I wish you were back.


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THE WRESTLERS

Cotonou

Louis Osayanda

An ancient city lying along the beautiful West African coastline,

Streets paved with beautiful interlocking stones and

So clean and immaculate.

Your irresistible long and clean beaches

lined up by rows of slightly bent-over coconut trees;

viewed against the ocean blue mass of water and the sky

all exuding the beauty and power of creation.

You are such a peaceful town one can pass the night out doors

safely till the break of day.

The electricity supply is comparable to that of

any advanced nation.

Your roads are never chaotic.

Your drivers and motor bike riders are well mannered

and cultured and the most careful transport workers you

can ever find. I cant help but admire your beautiful women

riding on their bikes to and fro.

You lie between the ancient and the modern.

Your markets are so peaceful, you never encounter ruffians of any

type. The taste of your rice with stew lingers on.

No doubt the large statue of the market woman at the

market square continues to beckon with openness and warmth

to the inhabitants. The peace you bestow on all your visitors

is everlasting. I long to see you again.


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Dagenham

Louis Osayande

Ran through the length of the road

Like a goat beaten by the rain,

Looking for any available shelter.

Every house looks like a church.

Yet not even a shelter against the cold winter rain.

Smooth nylon tarred roads.

No trace of gutter and no litter.

Beautiful lawn adorned with flowers.

Silent like a grave yard.

Little wonder the white man has time to invent.

A piece of coin can buy a meal

of chicken and chips with drink;

very much a delicacy at home.

From the breast pocket one can

buy fashion in vogue.

Still, no place like in the sun.


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THE WRESTLERS

Returning Exile

Louis Osayande

They are like huge balls of light;

Like huge fire works and

Christmas decorations

in clusters.

All in the skyline of Europe.

This is in sharp contrast

to sand dunes,

Deserts, and some cities

that look like

Small clusters of farm ridges.

And some roads that look

like snakes Meanderingthrough the deserts.

Otherwise total darkness

and void.

The dark continent indeed!

On the skyline of Nigeria,

I could see Smoke bellowingto the sky like the Smoke of

forest fire in California.

Emanating from the

boiling-over cauldron;

And the water turning

into streams;

And streams turninginto rivers

Rivers of frustrations in the

entire country.

Same sight ever!

Weeping and wailing and

gnashing of teeth.

Emaciated and despondent

sea of people In the hustle

and bustle of living for the day.

People of all ages hawking

wares where, Daily, turn-over

is less than 2 in the

grid-lock traffic.

Also in this milieu:

families of beggars;Blind, lame, deaf and dumb,

All scrambling for the

non-existent good life.

Would this alone be my

testimony on earth

Like those before me?

Everything that reminds meof My dishonour! All still intact!


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A Song for My Dear Country

Louis Osayande

November (money dew) Okra

Show me the leaf

The leaf that makes you the envy of all.

Show me the mystery of your beauty and elegance

Show me the secret of your blissful marriage.Show me the secret of your blossoming.

Its neither charm nor amulet,

But in mind and upbringing;

And above all, accommodation.

Accommodation makes a house a home;

And it makes a country a nation.

Forget not also, my friend:

Never be boastful about life;

Particularly this time of ours;

No one that can beat his chest

That he owns the world alone;

Otherwise he holds his hands upon his head in lamentation.

This life is like a whirling smoke

Spinning around in circular motion.

So Mr All-powerful and All-knowing,

Why make a still birth of the nation?

How long would the country stand by and watch

As the world marches ahead?

You would rather shape in or out.

No stand-still!


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THE WRESTLERS

The nation is like barracks.

Soldiers go, soldiers come.Barracks remain.

Soonest, history beckons

Where is your foot print in the sand of time?

All your stolen money is in European banks

Your children are in the best schools in Britain.

You are on medical check-up in Britain every month.

They are mortals like you.

Oh! What a disgrace!

Why do this to your people?

Look at the mirror

Would you wish you and your family to be treated like this?

Fire

Euice Omorer, Joy Nwachukwu, Samina Khan Rafiq, Annette Same

The nights around the woods when the sounds of burning woods

and the smell of sweet curry and bean fill the air. I think of the

heat from the fire that makes my skin warm and the lightthat glows bright red.

When I think of fire, I think of the sweet aroma of roasted lambs

and family gathering, the feeling of peace and unity. Though you

are so dangerous to touch, yet the heat from joy we cant avoid,

and the thought of you makes me feel well.

Fire, you are beautiful to behold, when you glow, scary when

angry, fierce when irritated and sometimes I think what

a wonder you are.


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Haitian People

Marie Eveline Lavoile

Haiti a name given by the Arawak Indian

Formerly named Saint-Domingue

Independent since 1804

The first black republic

Free from slavery and imprisoned by misery

Tragedies and calamities are our faithful companions

They are never too far away from us

Transported from West Africa

Chained and packed like sardines

We arrived in Saint-Domingue to work from sunrise to sunset

Having survived slavery, more than 200 years later,

What do we have to show for it?

We are still chasing freedom

Our enemy the earthquake visited us before

He came in 1770 and in 1842 and now he feels 2010 is just

the right time for a visit

We are running away from earthquakes

From hurricanes and floods and political unrestThe educated few and the uneducated are running on the same track

The finished line could be anywhere else under the sun

France, America, Canada, Italy and England

Haitian people are chasing freedom

Our struggled is relentless

We struggled for jobs and healthcare

We struggled for education and shelter

Our homes are pre-fabricated and they carry their ID with them

They come all over the world; still we are homeless

and living in the slum.


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THE WRESTLERS

Haitian people are grateful when humanity comes to their rescue

Celebrities with big cheques on the television

Individuals queue in banks and charity shops

To give to the unfortunate people whatever they can afford

Little children too communicate kindness by sponsoring their services

To help the strangers in a land far away

Haitian people see the unity of the humanity in action.

Haitian people export goods to develop countries

We export sugar, coffee, cacao, rum, cotton and we export

Fruits as well

We have beautiful beaches and warm climate throughout the year

We love music, we love singing and we love dancing

People come from lands far away to enjoy what is best from our land

We export people too to anywhere without any cost

except our dignity

Despite our tribulations, Haitian people are happy people.

HateMarie Eveline Lavoile

Did you see hate when he

visited me last night?

He came to see me in disguise

I have mistaken him for love.


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Love is


Love is like a hot air balloon that liftsyou up higher and higher to the topof the world and then suddenlycrashes to the ground.

Love is like the weather: when the sunis out, love wears the biggest smile youcan imagine. It runs for shelter in therainy and windy seasons.

Love is a storm that devastates andruins lives, leaving casualties behind.

Love is like allergies. The mild form canbe controlled but the more dangerousform kills.

Love is a beautiful rainbow that takesyour breath away, but its too far awayto capture.


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THE WRESTLERS

Marinas world


The year is 1940. It is summer time, July. The pasture is golden

and the scorching heat is uncomfortable. Now and then the wind

blows and a cold breeze cools the air. On a secluded farm Marina

lives in a cottage with her husband who is five years older than

her, and their three year old son.

Marinas cottage is run down and in need of major repairs. She is

looking forward to seeing the end of the war so that her husband

can come home from Germany. One day Marina was in town, and

while having a coffee she met John, a younger man who took an

interest in her. So they agreed to meet the next day. Not having

anybody to leave her son with, Marina left him at home alone.It was not an easy decision for her to make; however, she reasoned

what if my husband does come back? He has been away for ten

months now. The days are very long and the night even longer.

Marina made a special effort with her appearance. She tied up her

long black hair in a bun. Wearing a light pink dress with a belt

around the waist, she felt seventeen again. Quietly, Marina closed

the door behind her and went on her rendezvous.

After the meeting Marina hurried back home. As she approached

the cottage from a distance she saw two men carrying her son

away. For a moment she thought they kidnapped him. She shouted

and begged them to give her son back to her. However, they told

her that they were from the war office reporting the death of her

husband and had found her son on fire as a result of playing witha box of matches. Her grief was so great that she was unable to

stand. Marina fell in the middle of parched grass and realized that

her world had ended.


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Hack, Hack

Maggie Dube

Hack, hack goes the knife

clumsily as the crust is hacked off

the rest of the loaf.

Today is a glorious day

today is me on the rota

today is a lovely breakfast

today is Crust Day.

Good old humble, crunchy, hard crust

tasty without butter or jam

better eaten on my way to schoolenough to keep me full all day

enough to cause me to sleep in class

enough to earn me the wrath of my teacher

Now I know why the knife had to hack

and not cut off the crust.


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THE WRESTLERS

Bread

Eunice Omorere

1 Beautiful bread

sweet and tasty

made from yellowish wheat

fresh and crunchy

I like when its sliced.

2 Bread, Bread, Oh beautiful bread.

Soft to touch

Smells divine.

A piece certainly brings good dreams

I always like a piece in the morning.

3 Bread. Oh! Succulent and yummy

Never ceased to amaze me

comes in different shapes

Yet produces different taste.

I cant be too full to eat more.

4 Bread, Bread, mans beautiful friend!

Eaten in the morning,

Thought about in the evening

Always a part of me.

I will always remember Bread.


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Water

Elizabeth C. Mendy-Thomas

Water, Oh Water

Why Did You Deceive Me

Having Walked This Long Road

Coming From A Hard Days

Work In The FieldSighting You Ahead Of Me

Happy That My Thirst Is About

To Be Quenched

My Hot Face Soothed With

A Splash Of You

Sighting You From AfarMade Me Forget About My

Tiredness And Aching Feet

Out Of Lust I Walked And Ran

Just To Get To You And Ease

My Broken Body

Knowing How Very Consoling

You Are

Also Aware Of Your Various

Capabilities

One Of Which Is Your Ability

To Restore Life

Considering That I Was

Almost Lifeless

Due To A Very Hectic Day

Sighting You Brought A Smile

To My Face

And A Warm Feeling Within Me

The Assurance Of Satisfaction

And EaseHaving Spent The Whole

Morning Without You

Under the Hot Boiling Sun

Just In The Name Of Survival

I Hurried All The Way To The

EndOf This Long Road

Only To Realise That You

Arent Here

How Comforting It Would

Have Been

To Have Just A Cup Of You

Just To Ease My Thirst

At Least

Water Oh Water

How Could You!


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A Flower

Nanette Mendoza

In my houseI would like to plant roses.Red, pink, yellow, purple and all sortsin my front and backyard.

When I sit in my gardenAnd see them flowerBeautiful to see,they take my worries away.

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THE WRESTLERS

A Candle

Elizabeth C. Mendy-Thomas

A Candle longed for

A Candle really needed

A Candle of reassurance

A Candle that has always been

A Candle in disguiseA Candle recognised by few

A Candle when in possession

A Candle for sharing

A Candle for all

A Candle that restores life

to the full

A Candle so calm and peacefulA Candle to cherish

and treasure

A Candle for companionship

A Candle in time of need

A Candle in time of abundance

A Candle in time of sorrow

A Candle for joyful momentsA Candle for all SEASONS

A Candle worthy of having

A Candle so unique

A Candle really pure

A Candle second to none

A Candle when accepted

A Candle to have for lifeA Candle so worthy

A Candle for ETERNITY


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In England I Would Like To Grow Beans

Jacqueline Lwanzo

In England I would like to grow

beans. Beans can be planted to make

a quick harvest which is only three months.

In the process of the harvest of beansthey can be harvested fresh from the pods, cooked and eaten.

As they are drying too, they can be harvested

kept to help me economise till

the next season. I would have

them and not go hungry for the rest

of the year.

They dont need to be grown in

a nursery or be treated special to

harvest more.

They are very good as a source of

iron for the family in general.


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THE WRESTLERS

Sweetie Girl

Shazea Quraishi

I love to watch my grandmother eat

tarte au citron, battenburg,

lemon drizzle cake.

Lost in the feel, the taste,

a low moan escapes.

Later, calling me

by my mothers name, she worries

they are planning to put her in a home.Dont go.

Holding my hand at the door,

she cradles my cheek,

calls me sweetie girl.


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Green Eye

Yaya Yosoff

What a delight it is

To see people around you

Happy, very happy

What a delight it isTo fly like a bee, free in the sky

To touch the Green Eye


To walk on the rain

Clouds are your umbrellas


To catch the last train,

In your brain, no crash, no steen*


To sit around the fire, in a desert

To count flashes green eyes, looking

At the lovely green light coming from the sky


To catch that light, to swim in it

To swallow a cup full of it, then

Run fast, very fast as a tiger has to be!


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THE WRESTLERS

Yaya Yosoff

She is garden of flowers,

Mosaic, flowers carnival

Pink, red and yellow

pure and fresh smells

She is a bird heart

Soft, creamy and honey

And more...

She is dignity, truth and faith

She is morning prays

Pure, quite and touchable

She is a Bee

Flying vertically to

touch the sky,

Behind the sky,

Having rest under the tree

Sending messages full

of Love, peace and joy.

She is a town

Paradise town

People live a life

Eat, sleep and work

Children to school

Plying, laughing and jumping

She is the sea

Full of toners of water

Large, very large,

Full of hope.

She is kings Suleiman fish

Holding the Bull and the earth

On her noise,

For us to live.

She is between the clouds

In the sky.

She is an endless horizon.

My Mother Aisha Bet Alhaaj


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34


The White Blanket

Mahmood Alnaimy

It was an early morning in December

Beyond the window of a warm room

The roofs of houses and backyard gardens

Were covered with snow

Silence and stillness were everywhere

Then suddenly snow started to fall again

A fine snow like small white butterflies

The lawn turned into a white sheet

The snow stole the identity of 'things'

Turning them into shapeless white ghosts

Nature's shapes and colours are veiledAn empty street stretches away

There were no birds in the sky

Life slows down in submission

To the mighty snow

The rain drops on trees and flowers

Small transparent pearls, the small birds suck with joy

Rain drops falling on tired faces

Wash out the worries and fears of lonely people

In these turbulent and distressful days

The view stirred the memory of an old homeless man

Taking shelter in an alleyway in a snowy night

The cold and hunger prevented him from sleep

After a long time of agony and shiveringHe was exhausted and fell asleep

Wrapped up in a blanket of snow

That was the homeless man finale.


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35

THE WRESTLERS

Careless Bullets

Mahmood Alnaimy

In a sunny morning in May

The husband, wife and child were going on a picnic

The car was full of laughter and joy

A convoy of armoured cars was ahead of them,

The vehicle at the rear carried a sign"Keep 100 metres away. Don't come nearer"

Beware of them my dear husband,

Don't worry my beloved wife,

We are more than 100 metres away from them.

Suddenly there was a loud thundering noise

The windscreen shattered

The car skidded and fell into a ditchThere was silence for awhile

The woman was shocked

She recovered at the loud cry of her child

She turned and touched him, still in confusion

The man was silent, motionless and covered with blood

The woman cried and embraced the man

Her feelings were torn in agony and despair

The bright light of the day turned dark

The days of her happiness had ended

The bullet injuries were blamed

For the death of the man

There was no investigation into the "incident


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Photo By Deon Green

Baumwolle

Enrico Sibour

Baumwolle from Egypt, probably,

subtle and delicate fabric,

but strong looking and resistant;

Touching it gave you a taste of freshness:

you felt the sun outside, the warm wind

in the yellow street, the pleasure to have

the soft and light fabric on your chest, nipples;

You were no more in that shop,

far away from the sun,outside there was mist and rain, a cold breeze

indulging the serico contact with your fingers;

Light and colours, you remembered

the blue sea and the grey pebbles,

just opposite the shop, at the end of the street.


36


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37

THE WRESTLERS

Who Are We?

Enrico Sibour

We are the dangerous people,

We look at the others, but they are scared,

We try to say something, but it becomes bullets.

We tell relatives about our life, but they are worried.

We look at someone...and he runs away.

We are too direct, we are impolite, we say the unutterable.

We look with hurting eyes,

We'd like to be friends, but nobody holds us,

We like to meet people, but at the end

no one stays where we are.

Onions

Enrico Sibour

Blonde one

Two red: better, purple

The crunchy dry fragile external layers

The hard inside, translucent

ready to make you cry,

able to sizzle softly in a pan, butter or oil?When you touch, you hear the skin crack and feel

like old brownish broken paper under your fingers.

Blonde or red....or orange?

Big boxes or bags of them,

with skin dust and fragments.

Dry outside, so fresh and juicy inside.

Two little bowls, threeThe Lord of the Onion Rings.

Not too smelly if you don't break.

Veins, thin skin, you can paint them Easter Eggs.

Onion Soup.


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38


the house of being

Caspar Hall

"Language is the house of Being.In its home man dwells. Those who thinkand those who create with wordsare the guardians of this home."

Heidegger

the house of being

is not a place for saying, or knowing,

it is a place of seeing,

breathing,

a place for being free

to be.

Soiled Locks

Aissata Thiam

I once knew a woman who was so desperate to live that she

almost killed herself.

She came to realise that she did not belong to herself anymore.

Her body was what others would make of it.

Her mind was theirs. Her soul as well.

She found comfort in being able to move her limbs around

even though it was in an effort to follow a paththat some invisible hands had drawn for her.

They put clothes on her back, and food in her mouth,

a roof over her head, and decided her fate.


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39

THE WRESTLERS

One day, they concluded her case and told her to go.

Where to? Anywhere!She did not run. She was there, in front of us all.

You could have seen her if you had tried.

Or perhaps, you remember her

with soiled locks on top of what seemed to be an empty skull.

Yes, you may have noticed her on buses and trains,

sleeping rough at night and pretending to be clean during the day.

She was there. Before our eyes.Her peers in Africa would have blamed this on juju

as only the work of the devil can lead a soul to such a decline.

A few years later, when they came for her once again,

she thought she would be freed.

No sir, she had more to suffer.

They decided to put her on a plane that would land her back

to the pain she had left.

She refused food.

They strongly disagreed, and she strongly starved herself.

This woman who came close to death once more in her life

was eventually released back to her streets.

If you open your eyes, you will notice her.

She is the one with soiled lockson top of what seems to be an empty skull, on buses and trains,

dreaming and praying for freedom.


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40


A Letter to God

Aissata Thiam

Dear God,

If one day I have to make a decision on

somebody elses life, let it be that of a childthat I would have carried in my womb andshowered with my love.

If I ever have to decide what I feel is good orbad for someone, please never allow me totake a resolution for anybody that I despise.

Lord, refrain my vanity and my otherdemons from having a say on somebodyelses fate.

And if I cant come to a fair adjudication,never put me in a position where I wouldhave to do so.

Dear God,

Never let my personal judgment torment

others, as I do not want to be tormented.


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41

THE WRESTLERS

The Tears of My Mother

Aissata Thiam

Mother, your eyes are red.

Have you been crying again?

Sana left your compound and never came back.

He went that damnable dayEmbarking on a long journey

And said he would bring back a river of treasures from abroad.

Instead, Mother, misery has come to you.

And what happened to Sana?

Will the traitorous sand and pebbles of the vast and ariddesert ever tell you?

Will the Mediterranean sea ever reveal where

she has taken your son?

Will the streets of Athens and Rome ever admit

they had seen him?

There is no sense in crying, Mother.

Your Sana has betrayed you.

No loving son ever dies far away from his roots.

And none of these young men coming from the West

has heard of him.

And they all look pitiful when you ask them again and again

Did you meet my Sana over there?

Dry your tears, Mother.We love you now even more than before.


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42


As featured inFlowers That Grow From Concrete

Mr John

Ahmadullah Safi

I like cats because cats are

very beautiful.

I have a cat in Afghanistan.

My cat is very dangerous.

My cat fights with dogs and other cats.Sometimes my cat goes to

another house.

He eats live chickens.

Always my cat looks after my pigeons.

He doesnt eat them.My cat is yellow and his eyes

are green.

His name is Mr John.

I miss my cat all the time.

When I remember you, I cry for you

my cat!


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43

THE WRESTLERS

As featured inThe Stories Of Different Countries

My Journey

Shaheen Hashmat

I remember the old sikh man

with the longest beard Ive ever seen.

The old man who kept looking

over my shoulder at the book I was reading.

I remember the voice saying

this country is a fu**ing disgrace.I remember the life that ended just over an hour ago

the pregnant lady for whom I gave my seat

I remember the doors

opening and closing,

opening and closing.


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44


The Wrestlers

Aissata Thiam

They were standing barefoot on the

burning concrete of a parking bay.

The sun forgot to be absent and wasruthlessly pouring its rays on them.

They werent sportsmen of any sort,

and they did not pretend they were.

They were two strong fellows whose

bodies were facing each other with rage.They were about to fight.

There was little introduction, there was

little discussion, there was no

declaration of war.

They just seized one another by thetorso, and there, they started.

Saya ka fisa maloyadi!


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45

THE WRESTLERS

No punching, no scratching, no biting,

not even any name calling.

This was proper wrestling.Yet, one hour of fighting did not see any

winner, and both were getting exhausted.

As an old man passed by, he could not

help but ask what the dispute was about.

He spreads rumours when he owes mefive hundred Francs, said one of them.

He treats me like a thief; thats even

worse!, shouted the other.

Five hundreds Francs? You wouldnt buy

peanuts with that, said the old man.

Saya ka fisa maloyadi!

Death is sweeter than shame!

The old man went, and the wrestlers

remained.


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The Wrestlers

From Readers & Writers

the literature education programme

of English PEN

Edited by Philip Cowell, Readers & Writers

Programme Manager

The English Centre of PEN International the

worldwide association of writers exists to

uphold the values of literature, literacy and

freedom of expression. The first PEN clubwas founded in London in 1921 to promote

intellectual co-operation and understanding

among writers, to create a world community

of writers that would emphasise the central

role of literature in the development of world

culture, and to defend literature against the

modern worlds threats to its survival. Readers

& Writers is English PENs literature educationprogramme which brings these international

values back home to London in the form of

creative writing workshops for refugees,

asylum seekers and migrants.

The programme of workshops that led to

this book was supported by the Big Lottery

Fund, A B Charitable Trust, Scotshill Trust,the Pack Foundation, the Allan and Nesta

Ferguson Trust and the Arts Council England.

The workshop programmes took place at the

Migrants Resource Centre in Westminster, the

Migrant and Refugee Communities Forum in

Ladbroke Grove and Praxis in Bethnal Green

and PEN is especially grateful to all the staff

in the refugee centres who help make theworkshops happen.

Special thanks to Laura Marziale, Nora

Hussein, Alex Sutton and Bethan Lant.

English PEN is a company limited by guarantee, number

5747142, and a registered charity, number 1125610.


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Documents

Readers & Writers 5: The Wrestlers