Poem of Pritha Paul, a lawyer and activist from India, about the “Jin Jiyan Azadi” Revolution
This poem was written in the wake of the widespread, worldwide protests which erupted in rage against the murder of Jina Amini by the moral police in Iran. The poem aims to capture the collective struggles, dreams and hopes of all the revolutionary women around the world and across times who are bound to each other, if not by blood, in spirit and in defiance. It is intended as a tribute to all the revolutionary women who continue to resist, rebel and revolt against an unjust world for a fairer future, as well as a tribute to the Kurdish Women’s Revolutionary Movement which acknowledges and recognises the central role of women in the revolutionary process, spaces and structures and propagates the same by raising their slogan “Jin Jiyan Azadi” or “Woman, Life, Freedom”.
INHERITANCE
My mother fought a fight last night:
She was dreaming.
My mother was murdered last night,
While you were sleeping.
The State came looking
For signs of chaos,
Guns and bombs but
They found something worse:
Thoughts, ideas and a desire to be free,
And the same desire for you and for me.
My mother was writing a song:
On prison,
A song on Liberty,
But singing was Treason.
Yet she sang, she danced,
She chopped off her hair;
Unbothered by her discarded Scarf’s dirty glare.
They warned her: Ghosts
Of her Ancestors’ Cats,
Told her someone will come
Knocking on her gates.
But their mistresses gave her
Their strength and might.
Let whoever come,
She was ready to fight.
That’s when she heard a banging sound
That tasted like fear and smelled like a hound:
The State barged in
And marched through the door,
Held her by the hair
And threw her to the floor,
Her dreams got scattered
But she held them to her chest,
The State failed to seize them
Despite their very best.
At last, they decided
To set her dreams on fire,
They wanted to test
How her fate would transpire.
Brave, she held her own,
Her dreams, her desire.
But the State failed to notice
That the Scarf’s state was dire.
They turned their back,
Thinking it’s the end.
But with her fiery ashes,
Like poems, we were penned.
We, her daughters,
Have inherited her wrath,
Her memories, her moves,
Her maverick attacks.
I speak with her tongue,
Her words and her voice,
I shriek for the right
Of my sisters’ choice.
I scream for all women,
I scream for our life,
I demand my liberty,
And my sisters’ alike.
I may be burned, drowned,
May be buried alive;
But my daughters will grow,
Like weeds,
Where they’re not wanted to thrive.
Pritha Paul, a lawyer and activist from India
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