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What is Darfur

What’s so important in understanding the magnitude of genocide, and any human suffering really, is not just the act of destruction in itself – but the world that was lost in it.



Darfur Is

 

Not the tanks we heard one morning

            The drone of airplanes overhead

            The crumbling of the ground from underneath our feet as the village grew dark

            Or the way their voices rumbled as they entered our homes –

                        Were they speaking Arabic? Or German? Or perhaps it was Swahili?

 

Nor the grey landscape which we saw after,

            Ghosts pits skulls smoldering huts.  Emaciated hands, outstretched.

            Desperate footprints across the sand.

            The chilled air of Poland, Kosovo’s silent eyes.

 

Not a two-dimensional name on placards

            At the foot of Capitol Hill,

            Or a rubber bracelet gracing soft young arms.

            Drained activists, weary of never again –

            Petitions and Facebook groups will save millions.

 

Just a windy village of dust

Women carrying jugs on their heads

And a pot of aseeda stew over cooling embers.

Small dark hands and feet, giggles and skips

Inta naari w’laheebi, qadari w’naseebi.

Colorful headscarves, sacks of sesame seeds tomatoes grapefruits

Sweaty young men playing football, old man telling the young of the Good Wizard

Drums and bagpipes and lutes in the desert night–

Iw-ana a’ishqaq, will-a’ishqi maraar.





By Avital
won a prize at the Yeshiva University contest

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