All we have is us
Sanmeet Kaur
1.
This time, he’ll speak and they’ll believe him:
‘We are okay. We made it across.
They waited for us.
They were so kind.
You wouldn’t believe it.
They laid out blankets as soon as we mounted the shore.
Enveloped the kids in their arms,
Took them in as their own.
You wouldn’t believe the kindness.
My -
My own body felt like it was disintegrating.
But they would heal with it.
I knew they would.
These are kind people.
Of that I’m sure…
Sing me that song again. The one Ma did when we were ill.
No, no I’m not crying.
Why would I cry?
We’re safe now. I’m happy now.
I just -
I just wanted to hear home for a while.’
2.
Before the war, he shared his woes and joys unashamedly.
That time, he was stopped by the solider demanding
where the yellow patch that was to be sewn onto his clothes had gone,
he had been enraged.
‘All Sikhs have to mark themselves out, you know that,’ the Taliban had barked in his face.
And he’d walked back home, ready to throw every curse word his teenage mind could fathom
when relaying the story to his brothers and sisters.
Then another time, he’d spotted the girl that would later go on to become his wife
In the bazaar trying on bangles
Casting quick glances in his direction.
He’d only told his friends about that.
His siblings weren’t to be trusted with such sensitive information.
Then there was the time he’d snuck out to see Ahmad Zahir
The most famous Afghan Singer the world had ever - will ever - see.
‘The Elvis of Afghanistan’ as he was known.
But we all know that he was so much more than that.
He was the voice of the youth who hung on his every word.
Filled out the streets and halls to catch a glimpse of their star.
A star who would sing for their liberation.
A star who allowed them to imagine another world, another life.
This story of his love for Ahmad Zahir was told on loop to anybody who would listen.
3.
But here,
Here the stories of woes and joys were not be shared.
They had to be moulded and crafted
So as to not to pain the listener
Even if what he was said was a lie he would be forgiven surely?
He couldn’t relay the stories of constant glances in his direction.
Of the daily attacks they faced.
Of the metal death container in which they were placed.
Of the lives they saw lost along the way.
Surely back home they would mock him for his naivety.
For believing the lie that the white man would look kindly upon them.
He asked himself the same question almost every night:
How could these people not know that it was their war that had brought them here?
----------------------------------
4.
Sanmeet, Sahmeet, Sunmeet.
None of these sit comfortably in my mouth.
But it’s the Sunmeet that feels closest to home.
Because the people who utter it are home.
Often I speak and question the voice that leaves my mouth.
Most days I don’t recognise it.
It feels far away.
Floating from lips that feel foreign.
From a mouth that commands its own authority.
5.
I would what my dad was like before the war.
Whether he could have predicted how ridiculous it was that his own daughter struggled to pronounce her name.
When I was younger I would go with my Dad to his off license shop.
I would sit below the counter and pop my little head up whenever a new customer walked in.
Ahmad Zahir would play on a loop in the background.
The Farsi hanging uncomfortably in the west London corner we called home.
‘Bossman’ is what they would call him.
‘Ay bossman can I top up my oyster?’
‘Ay bossman, you got that bottle of Smirnoff?’
‘Ay bossman I’m 50p short, that okay?
At school when they asked what my dad did, I would say he was a boss.
My dad - the bossman.
One day I asked him why he listened to the same songs on repeat.
Why his beloved Ahmad Zahir didn’t release more music.
‘Oh my dear child’ he paused.
‘He’s dead.’
He died many years ago and after his death, when the Taliban came to power they made it a point of showing their hatred for his music by blasting his gravestone to pieces.’
Funny how the mundane flirts with the epic.
6.
I put pen to paper and wonder how to make a make a metaphor of the hurt I feel all the time.
How do I bring to life the experiences they have spent so long flattening?
Is my story too hard for them to digest?
Is what I’m writing palatable?
Will it make them uneasy?
Jolt them to the fact that I’m not like them?
How do I make my art truthful whilst not flaunting my trauma for their entertainment?
How do I humanise but not romantise?
Here’s my poorly formed attempt.
7.
I come from people who are hidden from maps.
I come from people who don’t know they are hidden from maps.
They lord over in places that detest their being
But still they stand tall because they are my people.
Most of my people have left home.
Home threw them out claiming they were not their people.
So my people came here, even though home is not here.
But still we rebuild with nothing left to rebuild.
Phantom faces watch on as we lay imaginary bricks.
Building a shrine for the dead.
You think we have nothing.
That we came here empty handed.
But don’t you see that it was you who robbed us?
And still we stand tall.
Looking you right in the eye, daring you to look back.
This time, he’ll speak and they’ll believe him:
‘We are okay. We made it across.
They waited for us.
They were so kind.
You wouldn’t believe it.
They laid out blankets as soon as we mounted the shore.
Enveloped the kids in their arms,
Took them in as their own.
You wouldn’t believe the kindness.
My -
My own body felt like it was disintegrating.
But they would heal with it.
I knew they would.
These are kind people.
Of that I’m sure…
Sing me that song again. The one Ma did when we were ill.
No, no I’m not crying.
Why would I cry?
We’re safe now. I’m happy now.
I just -
I just wanted to hear home for a while.’
2.
Before the war, he shared his woes and joys unashamedly.
That time, he was stopped by the solider demanding
where the yellow patch that was to be sewn onto his clothes had gone,
he had been enraged.
‘All Sikhs have to mark themselves out, you know that,’ the Taliban had barked in his face.
And he’d walked back home, ready to throw every curse word his teenage mind could fathom
when relaying the story to his brothers and sisters.
Then another time, he’d spotted the girl that would later go on to become his wife
In the bazaar trying on bangles
Casting quick glances in his direction.
He’d only told his friends about that.
His siblings weren’t to be trusted with such sensitive information.
Then there was the time he’d snuck out to see Ahmad Zahir
The most famous Afghan Singer the world had ever - will ever - see.
‘The Elvis of Afghanistan’ as he was known.
But we all know that he was so much more than that.
He was the voice of the youth who hung on his every word.
Filled out the streets and halls to catch a glimpse of their star.
A star who would sing for their liberation.
A star who allowed them to imagine another world, another life.
This story of his love for Ahmad Zahir was told on loop to anybody who would listen.
3.
But here,
Here the stories of woes and joys were not be shared.
They had to be moulded and crafted
So as to not to pain the listener
Even if what he was said was a lie he would be forgiven surely?
He couldn’t relay the stories of constant glances in his direction.
Of the daily attacks they faced.
Of the metal death container in which they were placed.
Of the lives they saw lost along the way.
Surely back home they would mock him for his naivety.
For believing the lie that the white man would look kindly upon them.
He asked himself the same question almost every night:
How could these people not know that it was their war that had brought them here?
----------------------------------
4.
Sanmeet, Sahmeet, Sunmeet.
None of these sit comfortably in my mouth.
But it’s the Sunmeet that feels closest to home.
Because the people who utter it are home.
Often I speak and question the voice that leaves my mouth.
Most days I don’t recognise it.
It feels far away.
Floating from lips that feel foreign.
From a mouth that commands its own authority.
5.
I would what my dad was like before the war.
Whether he could have predicted how ridiculous it was that his own daughter struggled to pronounce her name.
When I was younger I would go with my Dad to his off license shop.
I would sit below the counter and pop my little head up whenever a new customer walked in.
Ahmad Zahir would play on a loop in the background.
The Farsi hanging uncomfortably in the west London corner we called home.
‘Bossman’ is what they would call him.
‘Ay bossman can I top up my oyster?’
‘Ay bossman, you got that bottle of Smirnoff?’
‘Ay bossman I’m 50p short, that okay?
At school when they asked what my dad did, I would say he was a boss.
My dad - the bossman.
One day I asked him why he listened to the same songs on repeat.
Why his beloved Ahmad Zahir didn’t release more music.
‘Oh my dear child’ he paused.
‘He’s dead.’
He died many years ago and after his death, when the Taliban came to power they made it a point of showing their hatred for his music by blasting his gravestone to pieces.’
Funny how the mundane flirts with the epic.
6.
I put pen to paper and wonder how to make a make a metaphor of the hurt I feel all the time.
How do I bring to life the experiences they have spent so long flattening?
Is my story too hard for them to digest?
Is what I’m writing palatable?
Will it make them uneasy?
Jolt them to the fact that I’m not like them?
How do I make my art truthful whilst not flaunting my trauma for their entertainment?
How do I humanise but not romantise?
Here’s my poorly formed attempt.
7.
I come from people who are hidden from maps.
I come from people who don’t know they are hidden from maps.
They lord over in places that detest their being
But still they stand tall because they are my people.
Most of my people have left home.
Home threw them out claiming they were not their people.
So my people came here, even though home is not here.
But still we rebuild with nothing left to rebuild.
Phantom faces watch on as we lay imaginary bricks.
Building a shrine for the dead.
You think we have nothing.
That we came here empty handed.
But don’t you see that it was you who robbed us?
And still we stand tall.
Looking you right in the eye, daring you to look back.
Sanmeet Kaur is a freelance writer and has written for a number of publications including gal-dem, Metro, i newspaper, Media Diversified and Oh Mag. She lives in London and can be found on Twitter at @sanmeeet.
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