The Story of My People
By Bänoo Zan
I
How many—
as we speak—
have fallen in protest against hunger
at the hands of
the government of the oppressed[1]
in the jail-land of the home-land
Streets are war zones—
soaked with blood—
yet again—
****
Pay for the bullets
we used to kill your child
Bury the body at night
We forbid a funeral
****
In the dark days
beasts were unleashed against
people—
The beasts dressed like people
looked like people
lived like people—
The beasts were people—
You couldn’t tell who were the people
and who were the people—
This is the story of
my people—
****
And they dragged the wounded
from the streets and hospital wards
to makeshift detention centres
Drones hovered overhead
They recorded protestors
and arrested them
one by one—
****
And we turned away
We couldn’t bear to watch
the tortures—
the floggings—the cables—
cutting through the flesh—
the nerves bursting
into clips of recorded
confessions—
We couldn’t bear to watch
the broken bones and resolves
We couldn’t bear to watch the hangings
and the threats of rape—
we couldn’t bear to watch the rapes—
We closed our eyes
There was no evidence
Communication had stopped
and the beasts went unleashed
We could not verify
so we did not report
****
But I believe the worst
and trust the rumours
I have always believed the worst
about my people—
I have lived long enough among them
to know they are capable of the worst
****
Suddenly
this weight of exile
is light in the light
of this darkness—
****
And if the waves roll into a revolution again
would there be a moon cycle
or will it stain the body
as yet another failure
of freedom
to bloom
****
The protestors had no leaders
but the oppressors
had an imam
who called his people enemies
****
I may be the voice
but the story is not mine
This is the story of my people—
****
We are people
sanctioned by the world
and savaged by our kin
We are people
like you and yours—
lovers, children, parents—
We are people with a long history
of bloodshed and civilisation and
cruelty and art
The criminals are our people—
The torturer, assassin, rapist, dictator
are our people—
and so are the people—
We play all characters in this play—
kill and nourish
save and condemn
We are our own heaven and hell
We are our own people—
The jailer the same blood as the prisoner—
the rapist the same blood as the violated—
the murderer the same blood as the corpse—
We go around the vicious cycle
one more time in this blood dance
accusing the others
of being the others
****
My people are a sleepless nightmare
My people are a dream
that never came true
These are the people I call my people—
the people who share my destiny
in bondage and freedom
I wish this wasn’t
the story of my people
My people have lost their story
My people are a divided people
II
The Isfahan minarets shake in sympathy
the domes stained with unhallowed blood
The Thirty-Three Bridge[2]
offers no passage over the River of Life[3]
The mirror work replicates the bullets
to infinity
****
The woman steps out of the pharmacy
kneels down to help an injured citizen—
is shot in the neck
and meets the Allah
the ayatollah does not believe in
****
Where are you, God?
They kill us in your name
They kill you in your name
****
He was arrested unbroken
Two days later
his body was delivered
with a gunshot wound
in his neck
****
A few days after her arrest
her confession was aired
on state TV—
the video carefully edited
****
Is God a dictator
or an assassin
ruthless torturer
or a revolutionary guard?
The leader
the follower
the liar
obey Him!
So they claim!
****
How does a nation
fight against
what it believes in?
****
But God!
This time when we finally dethrone you
we will show no mercy
to blood
As you showed yourself
no god of mercy
but a god of blood
We will be a
godless people
lost
and free
III
Let me tell you
why I am here—
away from my people—
****
As we all are—
away from our people—
Those who do not look like us
or speak our language—
are all our people—
****
I left my people—
as blood bombs
exploded
on the carpet of
culture—
and safety was conformity—
and is still—
My people—
loved me so much—
they wanted me—
to be one of them—
****
In this lonely space of now
I wonder
was I ever one of my people—
was I ever one with my people—
I have always been
the other—
an outcast
whose story
speaks a different language—
whose bloodline
is alphabet of ancient ruins—
who doesn’t know
how far back the memories
of her nation go—
who is drowning in the wave
prophets rode to vision—
****
This is the history—
of usurpers of truths and tempests—
whose god is my god—
whose god is no god—
****
Let me tell you
how I got here—
I didn’t—
I am still in the land
I left behind—
and will never ever
leave—
IV
Let’s hold hands—
the mother said to her son—
That was the most beautiful
night of our lives—
she said later—
Ten minutes after their hands separated
she saw the crowd
bringing the body
chanting: “I will kill, will kill
whoever killed
my brother”[4]
****
“I am someone’s son,”
he said in the video he was taking
before he was taken down
They planted him
under a tree
****
People in black
beating their chest and head
mourning the martyred imam
of centuries ago—
Even the Ashura
cannot keep the revolution alive
when you resurrect it
against mourners
to whom distance
from danger is denied
We are mourning
the joy of vicarious mourning—
Don’t speak to me
in the name of god or land
when you want me dead—
****
This dam—
cannot hold—
Slaughter
stains the butcher
in the pages to come—
Anger
is harvested
in this desert
that was once an oasis—
Nothing grows but hunger
in the Republic
we once tried to build—
The sacred dead
in martyr-chronicles
rebel against sanctity—
The wolf howls in freedom ruins—
in this urban war—
****
I am not my people—
I am a people without a people—
I own borders
but have no roots—
I am on both sides—
on all sides—
on my own as well as my assassins’—
When I quake
the rubble crushes
me to death
I have no courage
to raise my fists
I do not dare
to mourn my loss
V
You brought tanks into the streets—
anti-personnel vehicles—
machine guns—
and took aim at
chests and heads—
Like Zahhak[5]
you have a craving for youths’ brains
****
but testimonies emerge—
into the sunlight—
You hoped silence
would save you
but you know there is no saviour
don’t you—
killing the way you do—
****
We have voices
You have weapons
We have faces
You have masks
We have poetry
You have scissors
****
Who is my people?
Everyone—
Who is not?
No one—
VI
Blood costs less than fuel
they chanted
****
A mother of six
watching protests
on her balcony
was shot in the heart
and died on the way to hospital
across the street
****
The leader
wants to announce them shaheed[6]
He wants to pay blood money—
to silence his own people
****
The world was absent—
The world turned away—
Now that I can’t see—
you said—
I can pretend that I can’t see—
What I can’t see—
you said—
doesn’t exist—
Show me the evidence—
you said—
****
The leader that kills his own people
is their enemy—
But the leader is
one of our people—
We have always been
jailing, torturing, raping, killing
one another—
We have always been
othering one another—
Some of us
have been better
at being us
than others—
****
“My brother is a youth—
my brother drowned in his blood—
his hair a volcano”[7]
****
Who is my enemy?
My culture is my enemy—
My God is my enemy—
My people are my enemies—
All strangers plotting against those
are my enemies—
those who have no past
and those who have no politics—
Politics is my enemy
and history is my enemy—
My past glory and present misery
are all my enemies—
****
In this enemy world
I reach out and embrace
my enemies—
****
Does the story
have to unfold
like history
or can we have
a blessed chapter now?
VII
I am divided—
against my people—
I am me—
and I am my people—
I am the one who reconciles
and the one who divides—
and I am the witness—
****
I am my story—
I am the story of my people—
and I am none—
****
I am the blood of
the martyrs of revolution—
and the martyrs of freedom—
a drink
fit for a nation
that God betrayed—
VIII
God!
Send a miracle
to this desert—
join it to the sea—
Let the sun dance on the waves—
****
We are a sad people—
If someone laughs
others explode:
“What is wrong with you?!”
****
When worshippers stand in rows
shoulder to shoulder
I keep myself away—
I have been hated by too many—
My tense muscles
bricks in the wall of separation—
****
They have taken you away
from my people—
****
My people have struggled
with your name
Deliver your people
from nameless night—
Stand with people!
****
God!
We are broken—
Send us a miracle—
Send us joy, laughter,
and hope—
Glossary
[1] مستضعفین
[2] Si-o-se-pol (literally: The Bridge of Thirty-Three[spans]) an ancient bridge in Isfahan, Iran
[3] Zandeh Rood or Zayandeh Rood, literally “Live River” or “Life-Giving/ Birthing River”
[4] می کشم می کشم آن که برادرم کشتThe chant at the start of Islamic Revolution against the agents of the Pahlavi regime, repeated later under the Islamic Republic against suppression
[5] Iranian Mythology, the Shahnameh, the king that demanded brains of the youth to be fed to the serpents growing on his shoulders
[6] Martyr
[7]برادر نوجوونه. برادرغرق خونه. برادر کاکلش آتش فشونه Line from a revolutionary song at the start of Islamic Revolution in Iran
Bänoo Zan is a poet, librettist, translator, teacher, editor and poetry curator, with more than 200 published poems and pieces along with three books. Song of Phoenix: Life and Works of Sylvia Plath, was reprinted in Iran in 2010. Songs of Exile, her first poetry collection, was released in 2016 in Canada by Guernica Editions. It was shortlisted for the Gerald Lampert Memorial Award by the League of Canadian Poets in 2017. Letters to My Father, her second poetry book, was published in 2017 by Piquant Press in Canada.
She is the founder of Shab-e She’r (Poetry Night), Toronto’s most diverse poetry reading and open mic series (inception: 2012). It is a brave space that bridges the gap between communities of poets from different ethnicities, nationalities, religions (or lack thereof), ages, genders, sexual orientations, disabilities, poetic styles, voices and visions.
Social media links
LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/banoozan/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/banoo.zan
Twitter: https://twitter.com/BanooZan
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/banoo.zan/
Books:
Songs of Exile https://www.guernicaeditions.com/title/9781771830874
Letters to My Father https://www.amazon.ca/Letters-My-Father-Banoo-Zan/dp/1927396107