Voice Of The Age

Mother, i am tired and numb.
I feel as if a great age has passed and I have taken root here like a
tree,
An old and worn down tree that never bore fruit or green leaves ,
And sprouted from its seed, withered and spent.
Mother, make me well again!
I was not always like this.
You know when I was a girl,
I was fierce and impatient.
I cried tears of rage that I could not go with my brothers,
And hurl stones and bitter curses,
At the oppressor.
You never said a word to me of hate,
But mother when I saw your eyes,
When I saw the devastation built in layer upon layer,
Alternating with pain and hope and fear and rage and patience.
It seemed as if I had seen another being ,
One that God had created to live inside you ,
Like a parasite ,
And I desired to set you free.

What have I known of freedom!
I was born a captive,
In a land run over by death,
And now it seems that even were we to win our heart's desire,
We would not know what to do with it .
We would wonder dazed through the land we'd won,
And our eyes would see only the faces of the dead.

I knew nothing of the Enemy.
I did not think of them as human.
They were beasts;
The Damned and cursed evil,
They were the blood drinkers,
Whose children were taught,
To play with flesh and life.

But I am tired of hate Mother.
It has preyed upon me,
Like acid.
I want to learn Love.

Love mother,
The sweetness of which,
Woke me up every morning,
When I felt your touch,
Heard your voice.
Felt the sound of the Quran,
Sink into my being,
With every rise and fall of Father's voice.

Love which welled up inside me,
The day my child was put into my arms,
And overflowed ,
Till it colored the entire world,
For an instant!

And then it was gone,
Driven away by fear,
Fear for my child's future.

Then fear too left and ushered in,
Rage at this world,
And all in it who do not,
Lie awake at night,
Thinking of my child and others like him,
Born into captivity,
And hate.

We are so arrogant Mother!
Each of us thinks that,
No one else in this world,
Has loved as he/she has done,
And each of us believes a new record is to be set,
In intensity of love or hate.

My child's face taught me,
That I did not know a millionth part,
Of love,
And there was an Ocean,
In front of me,
That I must drink,
Before I could love him,
As he deserved.

There are ninety nine names of Allah,
Mother,
Not one of them is love,
Yet who knows Love more than Him?

Does this not prove Mother,
That we know nothing of Love?

I wish now only for peace Mother.
I wanted freedom.
I wanted Land,
And a country to call my own,
Where my brothers could walk without,
Having to look at the ground for stones to fill,
Their pockets with ,
Where my son could smile,
And not have to,
Wonder if it was his duty,
To strap bombs to his young body.
Where the sight of people,
Bowing down before Allah,
And the sound of the Call for prayer,
Would not be put on T.V.,
For non Muslims,
To watch while a voice in the background,
Teaches them to equate it with terror and hate!

But now I have learned humility,
And I wish only for the chance,
To look at my Love's face,
Without the intrusion of fear,
And insecurity.