Poison from the sky

Even if from the sky, poison befalls all, I’m still sweetness wrapped in sweetness wrapped in sweetness - Rumi, translated by Ari Honarvar

I have somehow known this my whole life. Somehow, despite growing up neglected, abused, often homeless, devouring poetry on the library floor, sleeping in a church basement at 16, scribbling in notebooks and waking up next to strangers. Poetry does that, it gives us the gifts that we cannot give ourselves. But we aren’t here to talk about Rumi, or poetry. We are here to talk about something else entirely. 

Statue of Mastoureh Ardalan from Unsplash by Levi Meir Clancy

I live in Saint Paul, Minnesota, and for the past three months or so the Twin Cities have been occupied by the US Department of  Homeland Security Immigrations and Customs Enforcement. They. Are. Everywhere. They wait at school bus stops and take kids knowing their parents won’t be able to stay away from the detention center for long. They raid schools and throw tear gas at teachers. And they murder people. This is what government repression looks like, this is what it means to live in fear of your government. 

A few weeks ago, I came across a picture of a statue. She looked so much like me. I learned her name, and that she was a poet and a scholar, like me. Mastoureh Ardalan. She was Kurdish, like me, and took it upon herself to chronicle the history of her people and the people of her community - like me. Mastoureh Ardalan lived in Senna, where my ancestors lived and some of my family still lives. Senna is a beautiful place, but I’ve only seen it in pictures. It was later renamed Sanandaj by Reza Shah, the ruler who centralized power in Iran, eliminating Kurdish autonomy and ushering in a new era of repression for Kurdish communities. 

And this week, Senna was bombed by the United States in the name of freedom. I’m here in Minnesota, where federal agents occupy my city in the name of freedom. Is her statue still there? Is my family?

Senna, Photo from Unsplash by Nasim Keshmiri