Stars burst, minds blown
The bizarre disparity of this virtual reality
How did we manage to demolish humanity?
With barbed ideologies and peculiar stupidity
Hatching the egg of illusions
A splendid demonstration of failure
Worthy of a gilded medal
The alienation is successful
The smashing of individuality
Under the feet of culture’s footmen
Institutions and theocratic spears
Piercing deep the seeds of fears
We are all forced into a test
That is deemed to fail
We all think we understand
The unimaginable, the indescribable
As we take down the steps of chaos
A slow down glide into the ditch
The depth of the abyss
And once we cut through the blinding veil
And witness the backfire of darkness
The one history spent decades conjuring
A flashback of images will haunt our eyes
As the wheel of time loses its momentum
In an unreversed direction
Heading straight into a cosmic drama
Hearing the invisible mouth
Speaking pompous and posthumous words
Slicing the drums of our ears
How did we manage to accept this path?
Of a total destruction to our only home
Why are we too polite and obedient?
Why do we line up in this toxic corridor?
And willingly shackle ourselves
With anti-human chains
On a platform so odiously
And clearly intellectually bankrupt
The roots of our home are deteriorating
In the swamp of greed and decay
The one we all happily produced
With the bulkiness of our melted ego
The inevitable is undeniable
Unless we reignite the engine of consciousness
The home will collapse.
Author Archives: KWC Admin
Home by Menasi
Prologue: this is the journey of a soldier in the army, suffering from PTSD, and not willing to open up to even family members. This was written following the Uri attacks, in which 18 Indian soldiers died.
Dear Aditi,
How are you doing? I’m fine. Well, a bit exhausted. Missing your dal, the rations they give us aren’t that great. Black rajma beans and rice that has lost its flavor after being packaged, with poppadoms adding a crunch of excitement from time to time. I saw the photo you sent, of Neha in the school play. Tell her she makes a beautiful butterfly, and daddy will take her and fly her over the boardwalk soon! Ah, not now though. My muscles ache from the rigorous training we are subject to. Puts our honorable countrymen into perspective, ha?
(Italics) I miss you Aditi, take me home so we we can sit on the porch again, and you can watch the kids tug me into their game of ‘galli’ cricket, and you can be the almighty empire.
Dear Aditi,
My eyes are aching now, as I watch over the plains of dust and dirt, the barbed wire corrupting my view of the border once established for reasons of peace. I struggle with the lack of action, and hold my muscles tense, jerking at the call of a crow from afar. It’s like the crow is echoing the ghosts beyond the dry mirage of these plains, piercing me without touching me. The lieutenant tells us that we are in a low risk area, but the hush in the camp these days makes me question otherwise. You would be proud of my crisp uniform and straight posture. Give the kids my love.
(Italics)This is an immovable part of me now, Aditi. I can’t leave now, I can’t leave ever. I write tell-tales, fables with no morals in my letters, but the truth remains unseen beyond the dust clouds and soil blowing in front of my eyes. The nonexistent ghosts have been existent people, only sleep captures me before I can open my eyes to touch them, say my prayers, and apologise.
Aditi,
Today, I survived. Today, I met rocks and gravel in a bitter embrace as we both plummeted to the ground. Aditi, my best friend is gone. Inside, I am an entanglement of stray emotions, distorted pieces of a jigsaw puzzle with pieces missing, the imperfections of myself evident in the incomplete picture I build. My memories of home are blurred, but I remember the curve of your smile, the gurgle of Neha’s laugh.
(Italics) Take me home, Aditi, so that my arms will carry the weight of my children, instead of the weight of the armour, around me.
Postmortem
(Italics) Take me home, so I can feel the tickle of the grass, through the layers of ebony wood. Swing me through the meadow brook, and then take me home, and guide me to the depths beyond Columbus. In the absence of charts and compass, I’ll find my way, but first, take my helm, and guide me home.
Home by Fatma Al Shehab
“To love me is to love a haunted house; it’s fun to visit once a year, but no one wants to live there.”
The first time you approached me, your incessant pounding on my front door frightened me because nothing good ever comes from an unwanted visitor.
But you slept on my doorstep and one day when the rain was coming down tremendously hard, I decided to invite you in.
You didn’t mind that my floorboards were creaky and you never winced even once at the cobwebs covering the majority of my ceiling.
I knew because I was watching.
You didn’t overstay your welcome and when you left, you forgot your jacket.
For some reason, seeing it sit on the back of the sofa made me feel perpetually comforted.
I wasn’t surprised when you didn’t come back the next day, or the day after.
I would have to be stupid to think you could ever feel safe in such a dark place.
But you startled me when you pulled up my winding driveway with buckets of paint in both hands and one of those smiles that made your eyes look all crinkley.
I was worried about the blood that was still smeared on my walls from previous owners, but you calmly washed it away.
It didn’t seem to bother you?
My walls were being covered with all the vibrant colors of the rainbow.
The next thing I knew, you were coming back everyday.
When you pulled back my shades, the sun came flooding in and I have never seen light make something so beautiful.
You took every bone out of my closets and cupboards, but you knew that you could never get rid of them no matter how bad you wanted to.
Instead you whittled them into intricate dollhouse furniture, and it felt like my youth was being refunded.
All of my broken windows had sharp edges and you were very careful around the glass that was left behind because you knew how deep it could cut
So you put gloves on and replaced it and now there isn’t a draft or howling sound inside of me anymore.
Slowly, and very unsurely, I felt myself being renovated completely.
There was even a for sale sign in my front yard that had the words “open house” written on it.
And people actually came.
You made a home out of me and decided to stay.
I may still have ghosts that wander through my hallways and bedroom, but you order them away.
I’m no longer haunted.
Box by Hawra’a Khalfan
Boxed in an alternate reality
clouded by truth and insecurities
in love with a notion of freedom
that I will never be accustomed to having
shackled to a world of the dominating
fighting and screaming to leave
to shatter it all;
and live,
and breathe,
and love,
and exist.
Boxed in a world of don’ts
a world of no’s
a world of must-not’s
lusting over mischief
with an appetite for my own self-destruction
craving life
and an exhilarating breath
craving a love that will knock me out of everything I know
craving a meaningful existence.
And no matter how many traditions I desolately stampede,
I am expected to abide, unshaken.
I am expected to feel grateful it’s not worse.
Box by Bader A. Shehab
January 24, 1991 – Iraq
Chris: We should probably box-round the enemy base.
Andy: I’ve had recon on them for the last 12-hours we can go through no harm.
Chris: We’re just a few hundred kilometers away from Kuwait, I think it’s worth it if we box-round this base.
Andy: Chris, the base is badly monitored, half shifts on infantry, and the ground defence has been inactive since that scud missile hit Israel, this whole operation Desert Storm is complete garbage.
Chris: Hereford is asking for full caution at all times, regardless of intel, I know the war is almost over but we have got to cross to the Kuwaiti border even if it means box-rounding 500-kilometers more.
Andy: And all I’m asking for is common sense, on what logic are we to hit high desert at subzero degrees with hardly any rations left? When we are only a stone’s throw away from the UN green zone.
Chris: On the logic that we are to defend Kuwait and not risk alarming this enemy base that is basically a backdoor to the border. Please comply, that is an order; we will box-round the enemy base.
Andy: If intelligence says this area is fine, then I am going through, Kuwait is literally right there and it’s a green zone. I can see the burning oil dumps, I am not taking any unnecessary “precautions”.
Chris: No precaution is unnecessary! Stand down, soldier!
Andy: Who dares wins, aye Chris?
Chris: I said stand down, or…
Andy: Or what, Sergeant? Huh! This whole operation was a load o’ bollocks right from the start, you and I know it! Our comms went down 48-hours ago, we got seperated from the rest of the team because of bad weather which intel never informed us of, and the whole war is fucking over. The Americans are pulling out, for fuck’s sake the UN are at the border crossing!
Chris: And you’d like to make it any worse by walking through the base or sneaking by the fence. Then be my guest if you get shot at or captured… This isn’t how SAS go about operating.
Andy: Oh give me a break Chris, you and your special operations manual propaganda bullcrap, save it for the rest of the team who are probably lost out in the desert.
Chris: They are fully-equipped and trained men, they will manage, but right now it’s you and I, or if you’d like it to be; you or I. This is the last time I ask of you to comply, going to radio-in our locations. We are heading North from our current position to the Safwan area, and from there we will meet with allied forces, then head East to Kuwait, and I promise you we’ll head home after that.
Andy: You’ve got your thumb up your arse, Chris…
Chris: Do it for Kuwait, Andy.
Andy: It’s not even my country.
Chris: But it’s your pay day.
Andy: And what if Saddam takes her?
Chris: Not on my watch he won’t, not on the NATO’s watch, or the US’s.
Andy: Oh you hero you, defending a country that’s not even yours. Haha!
Chris: Let’s move, do your job!
Andy: Fine, you sad sob…
Box by Toby Al-R
I know some people believe in angels, see I don’t understand that, but anyways.
There are more galaxies out there than the grains of sand on this planet, so what do I know?
We tend to dismiss this splendid conundrum of life and we worry about jobs, exams and things that are shallower than a second coat of paint on a bench seat.
The mouth of curiosity and wisdom is speaking to us, with the language of silence and the sound of nothing, how can we understand it? It is sitting there like a big block of foggy ice waiting for us to break it.
So then, let me say this; my last romantic date was with an escort… I had to pause there, I can feel the awkwardness around me. Well she was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. What? I thought you believe in angels, what happened now?
It is okay, time is a mystic teacher. But time needs time.
You see, life drilled things into my forehead like an alienating Indian ritual; I am not supposed to be understood and I owe nothing to anybody.
Prospective can be different once the boundaries are dissolved, to become one with the universe, nakedly dancing in the spiritual lake of ease.
The ill concealers will do their best with their hypnotizing gadgets and silly toy guns. But the truth always shines itself out, it shines so brightly it will end up blinding them. Then they will say; well now we can’t see it. I say they can’t handle it.
We worry about things that might never happen, what are we afraid of? Unleash yourself, follow your curiosity; you are not going to die! Well… you actually might, depending on your level of imagination.
But then I think death is exciting. Think of it that way; at least you won’t have to go to the toilet again, ever. Or sleep with an alarm on; so you can wake up for a stupid job only to make money and buy trivial stupid things.
Or it could well be the final answer to our philosophical question; what is afterlife? It is possible that an angel will fall, take your hand and escort you… well let’s not go there again.
I think being dead is to be dead, complete nothingness. The good thing about it that you wouldn’t know it happened anyway, because you just died. I think it is a win win situation. But what do I know?
They say we are made of stardust or perhaps clot of blood. I think we are made of illusionary microorganisms, fifth dimensional bacteria of the vast universe.
Whatever it is, whoever we are; I kind of like it. This ceremonial platform is filled with; mystery, dance, drama, sensational touches, kisses, winks, hugs songs, painting naked bodies, expression, creativity, smiles, individuality and chasing love.
It is fun, take it easy, enjoy it and don’t forget; your life is inside an invisible box of glass. Break it! Shatter it! And walk through. Underneath you, you will hear the ground cracking festive sounds.
Box by Fatma AlSumaiti
I cut your tongue
And put it in a box
Every night
I stick my ear to that wooden box
And I listen for
All the things I’ve been waiting for you to say
Box by Hind
She hands me two papers, clumsily stapled together. I ask her for a pen. At first, she acts like she hasn’t heard my question. I’m just another number, another person who was careless enough to show up without a pen. But something in the way I stood there at the counter made her look back. Maybe it was my face, because it usually reminds people of someone familiar. And no matter how much you want to, you can’t ignore someone you know.
She points to a corner, where a cap-less pen lies stranded on a table. I walk over and place my paper next to it. Five boxes, five questions. Five minutes to fill out the form.
Box one. Name.
My name is not my own. I was named after my grandmother, a woman who was married off by her father at the age of fifteen. A woman I never saw because she died two years before I was born. I think of myself at fifteen, dressed in denim and climbing that scrawny tree in my aunt’s front yard. Peeling bits of dry bark from its trunk, the coarseness of which was as foreign to me as the concept of marriage.
Box two. Age.
I am older than I look, and feel older than my years. I am silly around children, somber around adults, and withered among old friends.
Box three. Gender.
I’ve worn dresses and makeup. Helmets and soccer shoes. I wobbled in heels one night and tossed them out because I decided I could walk just fine without them. I’ve spoken softly and loudly, using the same voice. I love math, monarch butterflies, and glitter. I am more than my X chromosomes. I am more than what I choose to wear, what I choose to cover, and what I choose to do with my womb.
Box four. Occupation.
I am a healer, a teacher, a muse. A difficult daughter, protective sister, and the worst enemy you can ever make. Some jobs I am paid for, others I do for free.
Box five. Address.
I’ve lived in three countries and nine different homes. I keep a brown box filled with my childhood toys that moves with me wherever I go. It’s the only one I never unpack. Everything else comes and goes: furniture, carpets, and frames. Nothing stays the same in my world. We move, move along. Afraid of being caught, of being left behind.
Five minutes have passed. The last box is filled and the pen runs out of ink. Five questions, five answers. The span of my life, in five little boxes.
Book by Fatma AlSumaiti
You tell me to cover up my skin.
That my laugh should stay coy and my words measured.
You want me to carry myself gracefully for I should be a lady.
My ripped jeans and expressive wardrobe offend your ideals. Continue reading
Book by Hind
If you were a book, I would recognize you on a shelf
in a bookstore, among a thousand other books.
I wouldn’t judge you by your cover
or title
or by the horrible art someone else drew on your face. Continue reading
Book by Hawra’a Khalfan
Life has taught me not to trust, and not to welcome. I was taught to shelter myself from everybody. To shield myself from even those who seem to be worthy. People wear masks and those masks only perish when it’s too late. When you’ve given all you can give, when parts of you are deeply invested and it’s hard to step away. Continue reading
Book by Fatma Al Shehab
What she loves about being a writer,
is that she’ll always know what will happen in her story.
What scares her about life;
is that there is absolutely no control over what will happen. Continue reading
Book by Layla
These words have been laid down so effortlessly,
yet passionately.
Who is the author of this book I’m reading.
A biography of twists and turns,
cuts and burns,
struggles endured. Continue reading
Book by Manasi
A rhythm of art has never been so
varied;
as wide and lively
as your ecstatic joy riddled with panging grief.
Your wars, your white flags and your weddings will mark
Windows of words – a million of them pouring in to my world
and focusing to make one blinding ray in my mind. Continue reading
Book by Toby Al-R
I open my eye lids like a fortress gate
For you to step in the orthogonal domain
And discover the labyrinth of my mind
Please don’t be afraid and make yourself at home
The home of madness, the sanctuary of centuries Continue reading
Book by Bader A. Shehab
“The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” by Mark Twain
You have been in my memories,
since my earliest years.
Not that ragged clothing,
nor the star-bangled hair,
or your charismatic charm,
has left my mind… Continue reading
Traitor by Hawra’a Khalfan
Take the care I had for you,
exhale in a balloon made up of your deepest hopes,
and burst it with my bare teeth.
Take all the thoughts I had about you,
all the moments I wasted with you jolting recklessly into my mind
at all odd hours of the day,
and charge them into that abyss you seem to be living in.
I want to wreck you.
Shatter you.
Power over your stubbornness.
until you’re unable of ever going a day
without regretting
how you crumbled us up with your bare hands
crushing our dreams
with casual routine.
I would have loved you,
had you let me
I would have loved you
had you….
I would have shaken you awake,
because darling,
no amount of water would have put out our blaze.
Take all the moments you stole from me,
and blend them with the repulsed feeling I get when I remember your face,
and walk away
smiling.
Traitor by Layla
Cold stinging winters;
I no longer feel you,
you no longer bother me,
not in the same way that you used to.
My skin has turned thick,
my heart has hardened by what has become.
I no longer feel pain,
I no longer feel anything towards you. Continue reading
Traitor by Merriam AlFuhaid
You look at me like I have betrayed you. Have I? Or have I only betrayed the expectations you had of the person you wanted me to be? I don’t think that is the same thing. I don’t think my life is related to the feelings I have towards you. You disagree, but then, you don’t understand why you drive people away. I would not leave you, but I understand everyone who has. Perhaps it wasn’t right, but I know exactly how they felt. Continue reading
Traitor by Hind
She looked out the window, alarmed by the rattling of the gate. A cloud of dust edged towards the trees. The branches swayed apprehensively, scaring the birds away from their nests. But the sand kept moving, indifferent to the destruction it brought to her home’s garden. Continue reading
Kuwait Writing Club 