We neither want to live in a palace.
Nor do we love the leaders.
We are a people who kill degradation and misery.
We are a people who destroy the foundation of oppression.
We are a people who do not want the people to remain in this setback.
(A dialogue between Hamad bin Khalifa and Iblis, the Devil, takes place on a table set with the suffering of the people)
Devil: Hamad, have some fear of God, on their behalf.
My heart is in pieces over them.
I and I, Iblis, by God, now want to put my hands in theirs.
Turn against you, my tyrant.
Kneel this hour before their prophet,
And return to my Lord,
As I am distraught by the way they are chased.
Hamad: You have taught me, my supporter,
How to renounce them,
With humiliation and degradation and disasters
For which I blame them.
And the time has come, little brother Iblis,
When you act as their mediator.
Your identity appears to have been shaken
By their father, by their consciousness
Devil: Yes, Hamad, your people have shaken me.
Don’t you hear their cries?
Don’t you see the crowds?
Don’t you see their case?
Listen to their complaints,
To their attempt to plan their steps.
Listen to your people’s cries, which you have purchased,
Hamad: My stomach still has not had its fill of their blood,
Little brother Iblis.
I have yet to nationalize the rest of my family and their wives.
I have yet to decree the uncivilized become machines.
I have yet to leave every candle at the streetlight,
Imploring every passerby:
I have water, come, buy.
I have yet to torture every mu’amam in this land,
Every youth and child,
And push into my prisons the blossom of youth,
And open for degradation a thousand doors,
And force all the people to cry for their lamentations.
Still, little brother Iblis, the number of youth hasn’t risen,
Each one of them, a diploma on his chest.
No occupation and no pre-occupation left to them.
I still have not had every Indian on this land.
Hold in his hand our flag and cheer: “Long live, Abu Sleiman!”
I still have not sucked their blood.
From the scourge of rents and leases,
From apartment to apartment,
While the uncivilized have homes and lands,
But they still number 120.
I don’t think anyone hears their echoes.
How could the Hajji say the world?
If 120 and their echoes don’t reach?
Look, Abu Sleiman, my brave pupil,
Your treachery has surpassed your teacher’s.
Your people in revolt have aged me.
And their brothers have aged me.
Sunni, Shi’a are brothers.
There is no division among them.
But your heart is like stone.
Will you heed some advice from
Your supporter, oppressive one?
Pack up your regime’s encampment,
Until they are satisfied.
Because your people, my darling …
You are not at their level.
---Ayat al-Qormezi [ Poet was sentenced to one year in prison. Below are some of her poems, translated to English by Nahrain Al-Mousawi]
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