Post by MoonyLuna on Jan 7, 2009 17:02:50 GMT -5
In 1972, the Bangladeshi state adopted a policy to accord a new visibility to the 200,000 women raped during the War of Independence by eulogizing them as birangonas (war heroines), though they were frequently ostracized by their families and social circles. —Nayanika Mookherjee
Do you remember what you were doing when they came for you?
When they came for me,
my green and yellow Eid sari
was flapping damply
between two palm trees.
I remember bayonets. Teeth.
Gleaming water swept
over Mother's feet. Grandfather
used to call me Priyobashini, girl
of sweet words. That morning,
I braided my hair, tied it back,
twined a red string around my thigh.
That evening, a blade sliced
through string through skin, red
on red on red. Kukur, the soldiers
renamed me. Dog.
*
Who was in charge at this camp? What were your days like?
The commander would take me into his office, make me milk tea,
offer me butter biscuits for dipping, then would lean back and ask me
what it felt like to have dirty blood running through my veins.
The tea was always lukewarm, and I would stare down at the stains
on my Eid sari. Even now I don't have an answer to his question.
All I knew was underground: bodies piled over bodies, low moans,
sweat, rot seeking out scratches on our thighs, the makeshift tattoos
he carved on our backs to mark us. But there were days we wooed
him, betrayed each other for his attention. He would turn me over
on burlap while outside, bundles of jute still floated through the river:
pale-thin silk. He would say, kukur, you smell. I would turn my face away.
He would say, now I've seen a Muslim girl naked, and then, don't cry.
You think you know, but tell me everything you know about your body,
and I will tell you how the body turns against itself, becomes an eddy,
a blackblue swirl. How, when the time came for his choosing, we all
gave in for tea, an overripe mango, for a chance to hear the river's gray lull.
Copyright
Tarfia Faizullah
Do you remember what you were doing when they came for you?
When they came for me,
my green and yellow Eid sari
was flapping damply
between two palm trees.
I remember bayonets. Teeth.
Gleaming water swept
over Mother's feet. Grandfather
used to call me Priyobashini, girl
of sweet words. That morning,
I braided my hair, tied it back,
twined a red string around my thigh.
That evening, a blade sliced
through string through skin, red
on red on red. Kukur, the soldiers
renamed me. Dog.
*
Who was in charge at this camp? What were your days like?
The commander would take me into his office, make me milk tea,
offer me butter biscuits for dipping, then would lean back and ask me
what it felt like to have dirty blood running through my veins.
The tea was always lukewarm, and I would stare down at the stains
on my Eid sari. Even now I don't have an answer to his question.
All I knew was underground: bodies piled over bodies, low moans,
sweat, rot seeking out scratches on our thighs, the makeshift tattoos
he carved on our backs to mark us. But there were days we wooed
him, betrayed each other for his attention. He would turn me over
on burlap while outside, bundles of jute still floated through the river:
pale-thin silk. He would say, kukur, you smell. I would turn my face away.
He would say, now I've seen a Muslim girl naked, and then, don't cry.
You think you know, but tell me everything you know about your body,
and I will tell you how the body turns against itself, becomes an eddy,
a blackblue swirl. How, when the time came for his choosing, we all
gave in for tea, an overripe mango, for a chance to hear the river's gray lull.
Copyright
Tarfia Faizullah