Tag Archives: Poetry

Maybe I’m just asleep

Maybe I’m just asleep
Maybe I’m just deeply in hibernation
I don’t know how many years I’ve been asleep
Maybe it’s a thousand year old sleep
I which you were here
Not for a long time
For just a glimpse
I’d like to be a Tulip
To describe it a bit
So when a dove sits on my door
It remembers
There is some one here hidden
Let me say it again
I am alright
But, don’t you believe it.

– M. (Manus 2015)

My mother, Reza’s mother and Fazel’s mother are crying together

Fazel’s village is near Reza Barati’s. Their villages are beside a river and a high high mountain. My home is near their homes. There is only a mountain between us. A mountain and a river between our homes.

My mother climbed up the mountain today and went to Fazel’s mother’s home.

My mother, Reza’s mother and Fazel’s mother are crying together.

I heard Seymare river is crying with them.

Under Fazel’s village is one of the most ancient and oldest cities in the world. It is called Sirwan. They are crying on the oldest city for Reza and Fazel.

I heard that all of Kurdistan’s beautiful mountain’s are crying. All of Sirwan is crying – mountain, river, wild flowers… All of Sirwan is crying with out mothers.

I hear the oldest songs the mothers are singing in Ilam city, Sirwan and Kurdistan. I hear their voices crying from this Manus prison.

I hear the oldest song from the mothers. It is called Moor.

Moor is the oldest song the Kurdish mothers sing for their boys and warriors who lose their lives fighting with enemies that attack Kurdistan land. It is a song for brave sons.

Fazel and Reza were brave sons. They fought for their lives with the Australian government and the dark ocean.

When I was in Kurdistan, many times I climbed up that highest mountain. There are the oldest oak trees there. I hear the oak trees are crying too.

My heart is so heavy because I heard the deepest sorrow Moor from my mother today.

I have never heard a Moor like this Moor that Reza’s, Fazel’s and my mother are singing.

This is Kurdish culture. We are born by song, live by song, fight by song and die by song.

I feel deepest sorrow because of Fazel’s death.

He deserves the deepest Moor song.

My heart is heavy because I am crying and listening to Moor for my best friend in a prison on the remotest island in the world.

I never thought I would hear Moor for the bravest of Kurdish sons in a remote island in the heart of a big ocean.

I always think about the Moor my mother will sing for me when I die.

I thought that song would be sung in beautiful Kurdistan. I am sure Reza and Fazel thought like me but their lives were taken in remote places, not in Kurdistan.

They lost their lives because of injustice.

They lost their lives in a foreign land.

Who was there when their lives were taken?

My mother, Reza’s mother and Fazel’s mother are together singing the deepest Moor.

– Behrouz Boochani
(Kurdish journalist incarcerated Australia’s black site on Manus Island)

My Soul Notifies You

My soul once provided
Only tranquility
And it would not make my body impatient.
Now my soul’s tenderness for my body
Has been forgotten.
My body is in tatters.
My soul follows
To notify you:
“I am talking about Freedom!
You throw me into the corners of your dark
You put me into the very depths of exile.
The delicacy of my soul and body is no more
In this endless shadow.
If this continues any longer
I will not see anymore light
And my soul will be forever

– Farhad Bandesh,
Manus Island, 27 months

My Fear

Being without you is not my fear.
Nor is it from the grief of being alone in a prison’s embrace.
How long must I look at the calendar of life
Through the burning red of my eyes?
Where shall I sit in tis prison you made for me
Out of hard metal?
What price should be returned to me for the price of myself;
For the loss of my youth? For my banished life?
Oh Freedom! How I longed to sit in the corner of your heart!
How I laugh at you whilst you cry at my condition.
I am entirely spent yet have so much more to say.
Oh my god! How could life have become so sorrowful
That I almost drowned in the pool at the bottom of my endless tears?
Yet to sit now, in mourning, in my cage, is sweet
Yearning for that precious lost time.

My fear is not coming from my loss of you now
Nor from the grief of being all alone
Within the possibility of being destroyed.
Because breathing simply the scent of the freedom to weep is good.
It’s tick-rock is pleasing; gives colour to my life
Separating me from your yearning,
Suspended in the sky.
It is is restful on this full-bodied Freedom Mountain!

– Farhad Bandesh,
Manus Island, 27 months

These Long Days

Distressing, depressing moods move and
wash like waves
inside me now
though I go above
to survey the sea
to gaze at waves
in a wind that makes
tree limbs dance
and leaves to tremble.
How romantic this should be!
But never now for me.
Glaring at Mother Nature from my cursed grey cage
Speaking from my heart
in nothing but the language of complaint.
Then I’m in a jail of grief-dreams
when night surrounds me
with its own particular darkness.
Yet still I wait
even now
for the light
of Freedom.

– Farhad Bandash,
Manus Island, 27 months

My Cocoon

How I continuously and irritably look at my life.
How I break in a strange and soundless way
in my green destiny a yellow hope waves.
And in my lonely solitude,
in the night of the cage,
a strange lump is standing outside the door
knocking constantly to destroy
a memory,
drown the life.
Who says that you are as beautiful as a butterfly
I am hiding in my cocoon
I die slowly, so slowly in this tight cocoon
with no space to shout.
I die soundlessly under the rubble of walls.

– Mamali,
Manus Island, 27 months

A Mother

A mother calls from an extreme distance
And her shout shakes the earth
Even the sky becomes impatient and dark
While she cries “Why are you captive? Why?”
When your camp-worker son returns to you
You search for answers, saying,
“Why John , can’t you bring these seekers of asylum
Home to me where I can give them a life?
Next time. Promise me.
Next time you come!”
But when John says “I can’t do it.
They live in a cage.
Immigration forbids it.”
Tears will fall down your face
You will collapse with a lump in your throat
Unable to find words
Choking with tears.
Everyday with your heart filled with love
You pray for our freedom
And it is for you I write this poem
Our dear mother.
I write and I say
“Wait! Our day of freedom is near and
All of us love you,
Our Mother.”

– Farhad Bandesh,
Manus Island, 27 months

Silence of Nature

Listen to birds in evergreen trees
Where only good news is in their world
And where nature keeps perfectly quiet.
There arise now sighs and groans from throats
Of seekers of asylum who found no refuge here.
Yet a cry for freedom stays stifled behind their lips
In a silence louder than a scream
Which no one will hear.
The birds and creatures, even grass and trees
Stare innocently at faces made of woven oppression.
This land, understanding their pain,
Does not even murmur to the sunrise
And the wind arriving gustily from the beach
Can see that the trees will not dance with it.
So long it is that news has not come with the wind;
Does even the wind understand us?
It takes the waves of the sea to break the calm
Of this noiselessness.
And that silence is a scream,
A shout louder than nature’s quiet.
A roar from the bottom of those hearts of men,
Of utterly worn refugees.
And the silence breaks its silence
Setting free it’s songs from the depths
The shouts of sleepers
Releasing the voices of the voiceless
Screaming”Freedom! Freedom!”

– Farhad Bandesh,
Manus Island 27 months

July 18, 2015

Our life is ending, we have lost our hope
Like an addicted who has lost his Dope

Our voice is voiceless,no one sees our pain
We’d been taken,out of human chain

It’s been two years, July always hurt
Thank God this year, no has died yet

We are not alive, we are just breathing
Who can feel this pain?any human being?

The world is just fence,there is no beauty
Like in love soldier, who’s always on duty

There is no more love, everywhere is cell
Pray never works, if you are in Hell

I was human, once upon a time
I wish I had known, being witness is a crime

Have you ever lived in a Pharmacy??
We are victims of July policy…

– FRT009,
Manus Island, 27 months