First published in Great Britain in 2011 by English PEN, Free Word, 60 Farringdon Road, London EC1R 3GA 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Collection

copyright English PEN, 2011 The moral right of the authors has been asserted. The views expressed in this book are those of the individual authors, and do not necessarily represent the opinions of the editors, publishers or English PEN. All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of the book. A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN 978-0-9564806-4-4 Printed and bound in Great Britain by Aldgate Press, Units 5&6, Gunthorpe Street Workshops, 3 Gunthorpe Street, London E1 7RQ www.aldgatepress.co.uk Designed by Brett Biedscheid, www.statetostate.co.uk

Contents
5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 37 38 38 40 41 42 Philip Cowell Introduction On Wrestling Akiko Hori Inside of My Mind Rafika Furey My Favourite Foods Alessandra Marucci What Does Your Long Hair Tell Us Tonight? Alessandra Marucci Food Is An Old Book Patricia Hicks Harris Winter Patricia Hicks Harris Walk Alone Tesfu Food Margaret Nambi My Soil Ivareen My Identity in England Shazea Quraishi February Louis Osayande Anaemia Louis Osayande Goody Goody Louis Osayande Cotonou Louis Osayande Dagenham Louis Osayande Returning Exile Louis Osayande A Song For My Dear Country Joy Nwachukwu et al Fire Marie Eveline Lavoile Haitian People Marie Eveline Lavoile Hate Marie Eveline Lavoile Love is Marie Eveline Lavoile Marinas world Maggie Dube Hack, Hack Eunice Omorere Bread Elizabeth C. Mendy-Thomas Water Nanette Mendoza A Flower Jacqueline Lwanzo In England I Would Like To Grow Beans Shazea Quraishi Sweetie Girl Yaya Yosoff Green Eye Yaya Yosoff My Mother Aisha Bet Alhaaj Mahmood Alnaimy The White Blanket Mahmood Alnaimy Careless Bullets Enrico Sibour Baumwolle Enrico Sibour Who Are We? Enrico Sibour Onions Caspar Hall the house of being Aissata Thiam Soiled Locks Aissata Thiam A Letter To God Aissata Thiam The Tears of My Mother Aissata Thiam The Wrestlers

THE WRESTLERS

On Wrestling
Philip Cowell This is a book written by people from all over the world from Nigeria, the Democratic Republic of Congo, Eritrea, Haiti, Italy, Pakistan, Japan, Sudan, Iraq and many more countries. Everyone who is published in this book attended an English PEN creative writing and reading workshop series at their local refugee and migrant centre. They took the time out of their busy lives to stop, think and write about things. Our writer facilitators Shazea Quraishi, Malika Booker, Nii Parkes, Miriam Halahmy, Irene Garrow and me alongside stalwart volunteers, Pat Hicks and Ben Harvey, helped them only so far: with confidence when helping was helpful but also with some ground rules of writing (rules like break all the rules!). It does take it out of you, this writing malarky this business of writing, and wrestling with, a self. Wrestling seems just right. An Old English word, wrestling originated some time around 1100. Its allegedly the oldest word still in use in the English language to describe hand-tohand combat. I dont know any combat more hand-to-hand than writing. Wrestling, after all, is what you do when youre trying to understand something (or someone) else. Wrestling is that slow, fat grapple with life. To amend Marianne Moore: writing is exciting, wrestling is like writing. All the worlds writers in this book are wrestlers, and admirable wrestlers at that. As Aissata Thiam writes, whose poem both names and ends this collection: They just seized one another by the torso, and there, they started. They started, and they went places. This book displays the results of their seizure, of their takedowns and throws and of their grappling holds.

ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE

Inside of My Mind
Akiko Hori

Life is short, so it becomes colourful memories. Time flies, so it becomes preciously. Lack of confidence, so it becomes power to make an effort. Weakness and strength both have sides. That's why I don't worry about myself. All I should do is do my best. That's why I don't worry about myself. If I lose the way after I have made a choice, I would never regret because that is the way I choose. Sometimes I lose the way. But just keep going on the way I choose. Look! I may find the way before I notice.

THE WRESTLERS

My Favourite Foods
Rafika Furey Sun break, I was force fed a mixture of tasteless gunk that fills my lungs and my heart beat gets stronger. I hunger for freedom. At sunrise, it was mashed apples, porridge with tiny specks of biscuits looking like tiny specks of promise. In the afternoon, my mouth is adorned with burger and chips, all lavishly downed by ice cold coke, little cherry drops fill up my mouth with ecstasy for dessert. Its mid-afternoon, champagne glasses are filled, strawberries float on top absorbing all the goodness of the alcohol, appetisers are served, and cakes are eaten. At sunrise, pickles mixed with ice cream. I eat to feed my seed. Night follows back to basics with tubes filled with pain and anxiety. Midnight, no food can enter my mouth and I yearn for nothing for I had eaten every fruit of the tree.

ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE

What Does Your Long Hair Tell Us Tonight?

Alessandra Marucci to my great grandmother My hair tells a story as long as it is as complicated as the spiral its curled up in, after washing in the very early morning when, perfumed with modest lavender, I was ready for the poor breakfast, not enough to feed my youth in its prime; and when the hard winters had very special heart-warming moments: the evenings before the fire with friends and the accordion, and maybe bread and anchovies. There wasnt spare time for us and green was a friendly, but hard, working place, obsessed by hunger and the hope of a different life. Every day was a gift (the war burnt) and one more step to the only accepted goal: a family, our daily ration of food, perhaps love; our stories being big ideas confined to small lives. We didnt have the time to cry, our dreams costed us hard work under the rain, the legs in the water, in the rice-growing fields we would have paid for this in our late years. And yes, still now I remember home, every day, the thick walls and the green paintwork, my fathers uniform in the trunk, the ducks and the rubble in the farmyard.

THE WRESTLERS

Food Is An Old Book

Alessandra Marucci Food is an old book (1968) with porous pages tasting of custard, the rich, mouthwatering colour shading off into a tender pinkish-orange towards the corners, so worn down they look hairy. Food is a book and a special inscription on the very first page cooking your best dishes youll remember auntie and my mum-to-be holding it in the tapering hands (I can see frames of the nice present-giving) and collecting recipes over the years. Food is a book which has flown (what if it had got lost?) to reach a daughter not so far, but far enough a changeover, a delicate thought, a symbol of love through generations, speckled with short pastry and my baby sisters scribbles. Food can be a book for sure, words now and again, most of all pictures that have never been taken: maybe brown bread and butter on the mountains with mum and dad or a healthy picnic on the roofs with my friends, under the warm blue sky of Rome, the Milky Way like a soft blanket made of cotton; maybe grandma baking the most delicious sweet bread under the ashes, her tall body curled up in the fireplace, as large as a wall, in the medieval Abruzzo; or the wild Sicily and the light-blue side of me,

ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE

kneading mediterranean flavours in the overwhelming light and thin fabrics. Food is also a map when it leads me alongside the beach in Alimini, with sandwiches and juice to escape the dog days in the maritime pine woods bewildered by the bacchanal of thousands of cicadas; or moves me to north for a coffee at Mulassano and mini-rolls to eat on your fingertips like the idle, decent ladies in Gozzanos poems. Food is a book I flip through laughing, with droplets of tears when I come across funny portraits of me, going mad in the kitchen dreaming of meeting one more time my auntie and getting a piece of advice.

Winter
Patricia Hicks Harris The last time I saw him, his back, his shoes, his trousers, his coat. he struck me and I was in shock. The slap across little legs, easily could have been my face. Had I been naughty? I cant remember. Only the smell of tobacco lingering long after he was gone. He left the room. Left us. The fire turned to ash. Who would bring coal to a cold room now?

10

THE WRESTLERS

Walk Alone
Patricia Hicks Harris

A cat looks at the world with glassy eyes impervious to ordinary life. Of death it seems impenetrably wise walking away it hides, avoids all strife. For dying alone is all compassion. No suffering to see, no pain, no tears, no guilt, no cries of last minute passion; quiet acceptance, no apparent fears. For those who grieve, who mourn beloved loss there is no comfort, no body to touch. Words of condolence, flowers, all are dross. Helpful words mean nothing and say too much. Remember then, with some regret, the cat who proffered only cold warmth to a mat.
11

ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE

Food
Tesfu

I hungered for plenty, you were little and never enough. Drought and war made you scarce. You appeared for lunch then disappeared for a day or two, you made me cry and happy, your lack made me slim, your plenty made me fat and miserable. Shall I curse you or bless you? Should I call you sour or sweet? I dont know, I dont know. Some talk of you and enjoy you, some still search and cant have you as much as they would like. Finally I have enough of you but I still have a lot of friends and relatives who hunger for you so I still dont know if I should say thank you or curse you.
12

THE WRESTLERS

My Soil
Margaret Nambi In Uganda when I was still in my country we dig to our own soil to get food. And when it rains we get hoes to go to prepare our land to grow some food. When the land is ready and soft, we invest in it some food like maize cassava, onions, potatoes, ground nuts....

My Identity in England
Ivareen My name is Ivareen. I have been in this country for 9 years. It been hard for me. I have to live with friends most of the time. I have no job. I cant work because of no passport most of the time. I go hungry no food to eat. When I just came here I used to do cleaning for one lady and then I get pregnant with Javangni. I did stop doing it and now it is so stressful for me because I dont have the help I would like for me and Javangni but I hope one day things will get better for us.

13

ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE

February
Shazea Quraishi

Saturday Early morning dark. Small bare feet hurry across the cold bathroom floor. Blue sky after so much rain. Birdsong two voices again and again. Sunday 8:20 a.m. and the sudden shriek of a childs pink plastic flute. Red grapes in a white china bowl. Small hands pluck one, it rolls on the floor.

14

THE WRESTLERS

Anaemia
Louis Osayande I am not on a mission. Neither am I the going and the coming. I am on a long and short journey Into the world of sporadic agony. I am hot and I am cold. My blood is caking up. I am burning up. Oracle, You dont know me. I dont lick lamp oil. I have no mark on my forehead. Check with the laser beam. Physician, What can you do for me? This is not malaria. My blood is pollutant for the anopheles. Father and mother, Is this conspiracy coated with love? Or utter ignorance? I am the rope in the game of tug-of-war. You told me I am 20 years old. Why am I in my 90s? I see huge water in my dreams. And I kill dragons in my dreams. But I am innocently harmless. You made me a mimosa. Soon the stub of fire bids its farewell. Shall we meet again? I dont know.

15

ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE

Goody Goody
Louis Osayande My dear goody goody, How can I forget you? Though you left me with bad teeth, I still crave for you. I cant even remember the first time I had you. All I know is, I grew up having you every day. Though you got me in trouble several times, Still I could not leave you alone. You were a perfect rectangle. Brown like brandy and whiskey, You tasted like the forbidden apple in the Garden of Eden. You smelt like hot cake. How can I forget you? Each time I had the gift of money I came straight to you. When I crave for you You cant even follow me. What a one-way love. Each time my kids cry for sweets now It brings me back to you. But sad to say, You are no longer the form, shape, and taste I found you. Where have you gone to? I wish you were back.

16

THE WRESTLERS

Cotonou
Louis Osayanda An ancient city lying along the beautiful West African coastline, Streets paved with beautiful interlocking stones and So clean and immaculate. Your irresistible long and clean beaches lined up by rows of slightly bent-over coconut trees; viewed against the ocean blue mass of water and the sky all exuding the beauty and power of creation. You are such a peaceful town one can pass the night out doors safely till the break of day. The electricity supply is comparable to that of any advanced nation. Your roads are never chaotic. Your drivers and motor bike riders are well mannered and cultured and the most careful transport workers you can ever find. I cant help but admire your beautiful women riding on their bikes to and fro. You lie between the ancient and the modern. Your markets are so peaceful, you never encounter ruffians of any type. The taste of your rice with stew lingers on. No doubt the large statue of the market woman at the market square continues to beckon with openness and warmth to the inhabitants. The peace you bestow on all your visitors is everlasting. I long to see you again.

17

ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE

Dagenham
Louis Osayande

Ran through the length of the road Like a goat beaten by the rain, Looking for any available shelter. Every house looks like a church. Yet not even a shelter against the cold winter rain. Smooth nylon tarred roads. No trace of gutter and no litter. Beautiful lawn adorned with flowers. Silent like a grave yard. Little wonder the white man has time to invent. A piece of coin can buy a meal of chicken and chips with drink; very much a delicacy at home. From the breast pocket one can buy fashion in vogue. Still, no place like in the sun.

18

THE WRESTLERS

Returning Exile
Louis Osayande
They are like huge balls of light; Like huge fire works and Christmas decorations in clusters. All in the skyline of Europe. This is in sharp contrast to sand dunes, Deserts, and some cities that look like Small clusters of farm ridges. And some roads that look like snakes Meandering through the deserts. Otherwise total darkness and void. The dark continent indeed! On the skyline of Nigeria, I could see Smoke bellowing to the sky like the Smoke of forest fire in California. Emanating from the boiling-over cauldron; And the water turning into streams; And streams turning into rivers Rivers of frustrations in the entire country. Same sight ever! Weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. Emaciated and despondent sea of people In the hustle and bustle of living for the day. People of all ages hawking wares where, Daily, turn-over is less than 2 in the grid-lock traffic. Also in this milieu: families of beggars; Blind, lame, deaf and dumb, All scrambling for the non-existent good life. Would this alone be my testimony on earth Like those before me? Everything that reminds me of My dishonour! All still intact!

19

ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE

A Song for My Dear Country

Louis Osayande November (money dew) Okra Show me the leaf The leaf that makes you the envy of all. Show me the mystery of your beauty and elegance Show me the secret of your blissful marriage. Show me the secret of your blossoming. Its neither charm nor amulet, But in mind and upbringing; And above all, accommodation. Accommodation makes a house a home; And it makes a country a nation. Forget not also, my friend: Never be boastful about life; Particularly this time of ours; No one that can beat his chest That he owns the world alone; Otherwise he holds his hands upon his head in lamentation. This life is like a whirling smoke Spinning around in circular motion. So Mr All-powerful and All-knowing, Why make a still birth of the nation? How long would the country stand by and watch As the world marches ahead? You would rather shape in or out. No stand-still!

20

THE WRESTLERS

The nation is like barracks. Soldiers go, soldiers come. Barracks remain. Soonest, history beckons Where is your foot print in the sand of time? All your stolen money is in European banks Your children are in the best schools in Britain. You are on medical check-up in Britain every month. They are mortals like you. Oh! What a disgrace! Why do this to your people? Look at the mirror Would you wish you and your family to be treated like this?

Fire
Euice Omorer, Joy Nwachukwu, Samina Khan Rafiq, Annette Same The nights around the woods when the sounds of burning woods and the smell of sweet curry and bean fill the air. I think of the heat from the fire that makes my skin warm and the light that glows bright red. When I think of fire, I think of the sweet aroma of roasted lambs and family gathering, the feeling of peace and unity. Though you are so dangerous to touch, yet the heat from joy we cant avoid, and the thought of you makes me feel well. Fire, you are beautiful to behold, when you glow, scary when angry, fierce when irritated and sometimes I think what a wonder you are.

21

ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE

Haitian People
Marie Eveline Lavoile
Haiti a name given by the Arawak Indian Formerly named Saint-Domingue Independent since 1804 The first black republic Free from slavery and imprisoned by misery Tragedies and calamities are our faithful companions They are never too far away from us Transported from West Africa Chained and packed like sardines We arrived in Saint-Domingue to work from sunrise to sunset Having survived slavery, more than 200 years later, What do we have to show for it? We are still chasing freedom Our enemy the earthquake visited us before He came in 1770 and in 1842 and now he feels 2010 is just the right time for a visit We are running away from earthquakes From hurricanes and floods and political unrest The educated few and the uneducated are running on the same track The finished line could be anywhere else under the sun France, America, Canada, Italy and England Haitian people are chasing freedom Our struggled is relentless We struggled for jobs and healthcare We struggled for education and shelter Our homes are pre-fabricated and they carry their ID with them They come all over the world; still we are homeless and living in the slum.

22

THE WRESTLERS

Haitian people are grateful when humanity comes to their rescue Celebrities with big cheques on the television Individuals queue in banks and charity shops To give to the unfortunate people whatever they can afford Little children too communicate kindness by sponsoring their services To help the strangers in a land far away Haitian people see the unity of the humanity in action. Haitian people export goods to develop countries We export sugar, coffee, cacao, rum, cotton and we export Fruits as well We have beautiful beaches and warm climate throughout the year We love music, we love singing and we love dancing People come from lands far away to enjoy what is best from our land We export people too to anywhere without any cost except our dignity Despite our tribulations, Haitian people are happy people.

Hate
Marie Eveline Lavoile

Did you see hate when he visited me last night? He came to see me in disguise I have mistaken him for love.
23

ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE

Love is
Marie Eveline Lavoile

Love is like a hot air balloon that lifts you up higher and higher to the top of the world and then suddenly crashes to the ground. Love is like the weather: when the sun is out, love wears the biggest smile you can imagine. It runs for shelter in the rainy and windy seasons. Love is a storm that devastates and ruins lives, leaving casualties behind. Love is like allergies. The mild form can be controlled but the more dangerous form kills. Love is a beautiful rainbow that takes your breath away, but its too far away to capture.

24

THE WRESTLERS

Marinas world
Marie Eveline Lavoile
The year is 1940. It is summer time, July. The pasture is golden and the scorching heat is uncomfortable. Now and then the wind blows and a cold breeze cools the air. On a secluded farm Marina lives in a cottage with her husband who is five years older than her, and their three year old son. Marinas cottage is run down and in need of major repairs. She is looking forward to seeing the end of the war so that her husband can come home from Germany. One day Marina was in town, and while having a coffee she met John, a younger man who took an interest in her. So they agreed to meet the next day. Not having anybody to leave her son with, Marina left him at home alone. It was not an easy decision for her to make; however, she reasoned what if my husband does come back? He has been away for ten months now. The days are very long and the night even longer. Marina made a special effort with her appearance. She tied up her long black hair in a bun. Wearing a light pink dress with a belt around the waist, she felt seventeen again. Quietly, Marina closed the door behind her and went on her rendezvous. After the meeting Marina hurried back home. As she approached the cottage from a distance she saw two men carrying her son away. For a moment she thought they kidnapped him. She shouted and begged them to give her son back to her. However, they told her that they were from the war office reporting the death of her husband and had found her son on fire as a result of playing with a box of matches. Her grief was so great that she was unable to stand. Marina fell in the middle of parched grass and realized that her world had ended.

25

ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE

Hack, Hack
Maggie Dube

Hack, hack goes the knife clumsily as the crust is hacked off the rest of the loaf. Today is a glorious day today is me on the rota today is a lovely breakfast today is Crust Day. Good old humble, crunchy, hard crust tasty without butter or jam better eaten on my way to school enough to keep me full all day enough to cause me to sleep in class enough to earn me the wrath of my teacher Now I know why the knife had to hack and not cut off the crust.
26

THE WRESTLERS

Bread
Eunice Omorere 1 Beautiful bread sweet and tasty made from yellowish wheat fresh and crunchy I like when its sliced. Bread, Bread, Oh beautiful bread. Soft to touch Smells divine. A piece certainly brings good dreams I always like a piece in the morning. Bread. Oh! Succulent and yummy Never ceased to amaze me comes in different shapes Yet produces different taste. I cant be too full to eat more. Bread, Bread, mans beautiful friend! Eaten in the morning, Thought about in the evening Always a part of me. I will always remember Bread.

27

ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE

Water
Elizabeth C. Mendy-Thomas Water, Oh Water Why Did You Deceive Me Having Walked This Long Road Coming From A Hard Days Work In The Field Sighting You Ahead Of Me Happy That My Thirst Is About To Be Quenched My Hot Face Soothed With A Splash Of You Sighting You From Afar Made Me Forget About My Tiredness And Aching Feet Out Of Lust I Walked And Ran Just To Get To You And Ease My Broken Body Knowing How Very Consoling You Are Also Aware Of Your Various Capabilities One Of Which Is Your Ability To Restore Life Considering That I Was Almost Lifeless Due To A Very Hectic Day Sighting You Brought A Smile To My Face And A Warm Feeling Within Me The Assurance Of Satisfaction And Ease Having Spent The Whole Morning Without You Under the Hot Boiling Sun Just In The Name Of Survival I Hurried All The Way To The End Of This Long Road Only To Realise That You Arent Here How Comforting It Would Have Been To Have Just A Cup Of You Just To Ease My Thirst At Least Water Oh Water How Could You!

28

THE WRESTLERS

A Candle
Elizabeth C. Mendy-Thomas A Candle longed for A Candle really needed A Candle of reassurance A Candle that has always been A Candle in disguise A Candle recognised by few A Candle when in possession A Candle for sharing A Candle for all A Candle that restores life to the full A Candle so calm and peaceful A Candle to cherish and treasure A Candle for companionship A Candle in time of need A Candle in time of abundance A Candle in time of sorrow A Candle for joyful moments A Candle for all SEASONS A Candle worthy of having A Candle so unique A Candle really pure A Candle second to none A Candle when accepted A Candle to have for life A Candle so worthy A Candle for ETERNITY

A Flower
Nanette Mendoza

In my house I would like to plant roses. Red, pink, yellow, purple and all sorts in my front and backyard. When I sit in my garden And see them flower Beautiful to see, they take my worries away.
29

ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE

In England I Would Like To Grow Beans

Jacqueline Lwanzo In England I would like to grow beans. Beans can be planted to make a quick harvest which is only three months. In the process of the harvest of beans they can be harvested fresh from the pods, cooked and eaten. As they are drying too, they can be harvested kept to help me economise till the next season. I would have them and not go hungry for the rest of the year. They dont need to be grown in a nursery or be treated special to harvest more. They are very good as a source of iron for the family in general.

30

THE WRESTLERS

Sweetie Girl
Shazea Quraishi

I love to watch my grandmother eat tarte au citron, battenburg, lemon drizzle cake. Lost in the feel, the taste, a low moan escapes. Later, calling me by my mothers name, she worries they are planning to put her in a home. Dont go. Holding my hand at the door, she cradles my cheek, calls me sweetie girl.
31

ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE

Green Eye
Yaya Yosoff What a delight it is To see people around you Happy, very happy What a delight it is To fly like a bee, free in the sky To touch the Green Eye What a delight it is To walk on the rain Clouds are your umbrellas What a delight it is To catch the last train, In your brain, no crash, no steen* What a delight it is To sit around the fire, in a desert To count flashes green eyes, looking At the lovely green light coming from the sky What a delight it is To catch that light, to swim in it To swallow a cup full of it, then Run fast, very fast as a tiger has to be!

32

THE WRESTLERS

My Mother Aisha Bet Alhaaj

Yaya Yosoff She is garden of flowers, Mosaic, flowers carnival Pink, red and yellow pure and fresh smells She is a bird heart Soft, creamy and honey And more... She is dignity, truth and faith She is morning prays Pure, quite and touchable She is a Bee Flying vertically to touch the sky, Behind the sky, Having rest under the tree Sending messages full of Love, peace and joy. She is a town Paradise town People live a life Eat, sleep and work Children to school Plying, laughing and jumping She is the sea Full of toners of water Large, very large, Full of hope. She is kings Suleiman fish Holding the Bull and the earth On her noise, For us to live. She is between the clouds In the sky. She is an endless horizon.

33

ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE

The White Blanket

Mahmood Alnaimy It was an early morning in December Beyond the window of a warm room The roofs of houses and backyard gardens Were covered with snow Silence and stillness were everywhere Then suddenly snow started to fall again A fine snow like small white butterflies The lawn turned into a white sheet The snow stole the identity of 'things' Turning them into shapeless white ghosts Nature's shapes and colours are veiled An empty street stretches away There were no birds in the sky Life slows down in submission To the mighty snow The rain drops on trees and flowers Small transparent pearls, the small birds suck with joy Rain drops falling on tired faces Wash out the worries and fears of lonely people In these turbulent and distressful days The view stirred the memory of an old homeless man Taking shelter in an alleyway in a snowy night The cold and hunger prevented him from sleep After a long time of agony and shivering He was exhausted and fell asleep Wrapped up in a blanket of snow That was the homeless man finale.

34

THE WRESTLERS

Careless Bullets
Mahmood Alnaimy In a sunny morning in May The husband, wife and child were going on a picnic The car was full of laughter and joy A convoy of armoured cars was ahead of them, The vehicle at the rear carried a sign "Keep 100 metres away. Don't come nearer" Beware of them my dear husband, Don't worry my beloved wife, We are more than 100 metres away from them. Suddenly there was a loud thundering noise The windscreen shattered The car skidded and fell into a ditch There was silence for awhile The woman was shocked She recovered at the loud cry of her child She turned and touched him, still in confusion The man was silent, motionless and covered with blood The woman cried and embraced the man Her feelings were torn in agony and despair The bright light of the day turned dark The days of her happiness had ended The bullet injuries were blamed For the death of the man There was no investigation into the "incident

35

ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE

Baumwolle
Enrico Sibour

Baumwolle from Egypt, probably, subtle and delicate fabric, but strong looking and resistant; Touching it gave you a taste of freshness: you felt the sun outside, the warm wind in the yellow street, the pleasure to have the soft and light fabric on your chest, nipples; You were no more in that shop, far away from the sun, outside there was mist and rain, a cold breeze indulging the serico contact with your fingers; Light and colours, you remembered the blue sea and the grey pebbles, just opposite the shop, at the end of the street.

36

Photo By Deon Green

THE WRESTLERS

Who Are We?

Enrico Sibour We are the dangerous people, We look at the others, but they are scared, We try to say something, but it becomes bullets. We tell relatives about our life, but they are worried. We look at someone...and he runs away. We are too direct, we are impolite, we say the unutterable. We look with hurting eyes, We'd like to be friends, but nobody holds us, We like to meet people, but at the end no one stays where we are.

Onions
Enrico Sibour Blonde one Two red: better, purple The crunchy dry fragile external layers The hard inside, translucent ready to make you cry, able to sizzle softly in a pan, butter or oil? When you touch, you hear the skin crack and feel like old brownish broken paper under your fingers. Blonde or red....or orange? Big boxes or bags of them, with skin dust and fragments. Dry outside, so fresh and juicy inside. Two little bowls, three The Lord of the Onion Rings. Not too smelly if you don't break. Veins, thin skin, you can paint them Easter Eggs. Onion Soup.

37

ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE

the house of being

Caspar Hall

"Language is the house of Being. In its home man dwells. Those who think and those who create with words are the guardians of this home."
Heidegger

the house of being is not a place for saying, or knowing, it is a place of seeing, breathing, a place for being free to be.

Soiled Locks
Aissata Thiam I once knew a woman who was so desperate to live that she almost killed herself. She came to realise that she did not belong to herself anymore. Her body was what others would make of it. Her mind was theirs. Her soul as well. She found comfort in being able to move her limbs around even though it was in an effort to follow a path that some invisible hands had drawn for her. They put clothes on her back, and food in her mouth, a roof over her head, and decided her fate.

38

THE WRESTLERS

One day, they concluded her case and told her to go. Where to? Anywhere! She did not run. She was there, in front of us all. You could have seen her if you had tried. Or perhaps, you remember her with soiled locks on top of what seemed to be an empty skull. Yes, you may have noticed her on buses and trains, sleeping rough at night and pretending to be clean during the day. She was there. Before our eyes. Her peers in Africa would have blamed this on juju as only the work of the devil can lead a soul to such a decline. A few years later, when they came for her once again, she thought she would be freed. No sir, she had more to suffer. They decided to put her on a plane that would land her back to the pain she had left. She refused food. They strongly disagreed, and she strongly starved herself. This woman who came close to death once more in her life was eventually released back to her streets. If you open your eyes, you will notice her. She is the one with soiled locks on top of what seems to be an empty skull, on buses and trains, dreaming and praying for freedom.

39

ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE

A Letter to God
Aissata Thiam

Dear God, If one day I have to make a decision on somebody elses life, let it be that of a child that I would have carried in my womb and showered with my love. If I ever have to decide what I feel is good or bad for someone, please never allow me to take a resolution for anybody that I despise. Lord, refrain my vanity and my other demons from having a say on somebody elses fate. And if I cant come to a fair adjudication, never put me in a position where I would have to do so. Dear God, Never let my personal judgment torment others, as I do not want to be tormented.
40

THE WRESTLERS

The Tears of My Mother

Aissata Thiam Mother, your eyes are red. Have you been crying again? Sana left your compound and never came back. He went that damnable day Embarking on a long journey And said he would bring back a river of treasures from abroad. Instead, Mother, misery has come to you. And what happened to Sana? Will the traitorous sand and pebbles of the vast and arid desert ever tell you? Will the Mediterranean sea ever reveal where she has taken your son? Will the streets of Athens and Rome ever admit they had seen him? There is no sense in crying, Mother. Your Sana has betrayed you. No loving son ever dies far away from his roots. And none of these young men coming from the West has heard of him. And they all look pitiful when you ask them again and again Did you meet my Sana over there? Dry your tears, Mother. We love you now even more than before.

41

ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE

As featured in Flowers That Grow From Concrete Mr John

Ahmadullah Safi

I like cats because cats are very beautiful. I have a cat in Afghanistan. My cat is very dangerous. My cat fights with dogs and other cats. Sometimes my cat goes to another house. He eats live chickens. Always my cat looks after my pigeons. He doesnt eat them. My cat is yellow and his eyes are green. His name is Mr John. I miss my cat all the time. When I remember you, I cry for you my cat!
42

THE WRESTLERS

As featured in The Stories Of Different Countries My Journey

Shaheen Hashmat I remember the old sikh man with the longest beard Ive ever seen. The old man who kept looking over my shoulder at the book I was reading. I remember the voice saying this country is a fu**ing disgrace. I remember the life that ended just over an hour ago the pregnant lady for whom I gave my seat I remember the doors opening and closing, opening and closing.

43

ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE

The Wrestlers
Aissata Thiam

They were standing barefoot on the burning concrete of a parking bay. The sun forgot to be absent and was ruthlessly pouring its rays on them. They werent sportsmen of any sort, and they did not pretend they were. They were two strong fellows whose bodies were facing each other with rage. They were about to fight. There was little introduction, there was little discussion, there was no declaration of war. They just seized one another by the torso, and there, they started. Saya ka fisa maloyadi!

44

THE WRESTLERS

No punching, no scratching, no biting, not even any name calling. This was proper wrestling. Yet, one hour of fighting did not see any winner, and both were getting exhausted. As an old man passed by, he could not help but ask what the dispute was about. He spreads rumours when he owes me five hundred Francs, said one of them. He treats me like a thief; thats even worse!, shouted the other. Five hundreds Francs? You wouldnt buy peanuts with that, said the old man. Saya ka fisa maloyadi! Death is sweeter than shame! The old man went, and the wrestlers remained.

45

The Wrestlers From Readers & Writers the literature education programme of English PEN Edited by Philip Cowell, Readers & Writers Programme Manager The English Centre of PEN International the worldwide association of writers exists to uphold the values of literature, literacy and freedom of expression. The first PEN club was founded in London in 1921 to promote intellectual co-operation and understanding among writers, to create a world community of writers that would emphasise the central role of literature in the development of world culture, and to defend literature against the modern worlds threats to its survival. Readers & Writers is English PENs literature education programme which brings these international values back home to London in the form of creative writing workshops for refugees, asylum seekers and migrants. The programme of workshops that led to this book was supported by the Big Lottery Fund, A B Charitable Trust, Scotshill Trust, the Pack Foundation, the Allan and Nesta Ferguson Trust and the Arts Council England. The workshop programmes took place at the Migrants Resource Centre in Westminster, the Migrant and Refugee Communities Forum in Ladbroke Grove and Praxis in Bethnal Green and PEN is especially grateful to all the staff in the refugee centres who help make the workshops happen. Special thanks to Laura Marziale, Nora Hussein, Alex Sutton and Bethan Lant.
English PEN is a company limited by guarantee, number 5747142, and a registered charity, number 1125610.