poem
It’s quiet in Darfur. It is not the silence of peace, but it is the silence of death.
My homes that once carried histories of generations are now burned ashes on the ground
waiting for the wind to blow them to their final destination.
My mothers who were once leaders of their communities are now used
as war weapons.
My sisters who once had chances to be future leaders are now afraid to see the sun.
So I speak for them.
I speak for the thousand mothers who have been speaking forever
but there is no-one to listen.
I speak for the thousand girls who want to speak but don’t have a voice.
I speak for the thousand children of Darfur because they can only speak in silence.
I speak so they can be heard.
Because I feel their pain.
When I was a little girl I used to cry,
but only in silence,
never showing my parents my tears,
not even my siblings, or peers,
because they told us if you showed people your tears,
it meant you were afraid,
it meant you were weak. it meant you were powerless.
Yes I was young, but I knew I wasn’t weak,
and I knew I wasn’t powerless.
I had and still have a weapon
a voice
a voice that once it’s heard, demands attention
a voice that doesn’t only speak, but repeats,
so I will speak so they can be heard.
