Hibakusha – 被爆者

A peace poem

Hibakusha –
atomic bomb survivor
… what a distressful epithet.

Loss
tragic loss
carbonized beings
in an urban desert.

And for so many years
discrimination
pushed aside
for being different
branded
feared
– that instinctive fear
brought on by ignorance.

Seventy three years
since Hiroshima and Nagasaki
and still
people have not learned
people fail to remember.

Still playing with missiles
as though they were match sticks.
Still trying out new ways
to kill, to inflict pain.

Big people playing
the games of little brats
for real
because they can
because we let them.

Kenza.


This short text was inspired by a recent encounter with a Hibakusha. My son and I were honoured by his presence and his words, poignant words said with utter simplicity about his experience on that day and the years that followed. We were most humbled as he encouraged everyone to work for peace, no matter the size of the gesture. The gentleman was six years old when the atomic bomb feel on Hiroshima.

Ribbons of multiple colours

In the middle of the night, I come out of the house with a soft squeak of the door. The scent of the garden greets me — the one that only comes out at night, a mix of jasmine and lime, transporting me to the ancient gardens of the Mughal Court.

The wet grass feels soft under my feet. My eyes look for the lamp, up there in the sky. But the moon is gone until tomorrow and I have no matches. The light of my heart’s flame does not reach that far.

I walk and I stumble on the basket. The one you left behind. The one filled with pieces of ribbon of multiple colours. All the ribbons are tied in knots. It will take me a long time to undo them, just like the ones you left in my heart.

Kenza.

The gift of words

A king who was very fond of poetry, heard about a poet who taught the gift of words. He inquired and found that the poet lived in a village about half a day away by horse. The next day, he asked his horse be saddled and went to visit him.

“I am the king and I humbly ask you to teach me the gift of words,” the king told him.

The poet was sitting on a simple carpet, surrounded by his students. Some were young and others old. Some were men and others women. Even children were there, along with a black cat with golden eyes attentive to the poet’s every word.

“You are welcome among us,” the poet answered.

The king learned to use metaphors and similes; to find rhymes where he had never looked before; to spread gold dust on simple words and make them enchant. He attended the poet’s sessions everyday for the duration of a moon’s cycle.

As the new moon was about to appear, the king visited the poet and told him: “You have opened my soul to beauty. I am most grateful and I would like to bestow a gift upon you. What would please you most? Just let me know and it will be yours.”

“Thank you Majesty,” the poet answered. “What I would most appreciate is that you no longer attend the poetry sessions.”

The King was dumbfounded.

“Have I offended you in some ways? Have I offended some of your students? Please tell me and I shall change my behaviour. I really want to hear your teachings! You have made me a better king as I see beauty in all and can finally calm anger, negotiate peace and impart justice with the right words.”

“I am grateful my humble teaching has made you a wise king,” the poet answered with a smile, “but understand that since you have started attending the sessions, students no longer praise beauty and simplicity in their poems; now, they praise you, hoping for favours. This is not poetry from the heart.”

The King was devastated and did not know what to say. He left feeling sad and very much alone. A few days later, the poet sent him a poem.

“King and ruler of the land, come with an empty hand.
Undress of silk and gold, and put on a woolen coat that is old.
The pilgrim crossing the desert will sure be left behind
if he insists on adorning his camel instead of filling his gourd.
The secret of words is hidden behind seventy thousand veils.
Come. Please come.
But come with humility and an open heart,
so that the secret may at last be shared.”

Kenza.

The Sufis believe there are 70’000 veils between the ego and the absolute; much akin to the 84’000 dharmas the Buddhists refer to, or the “veil of ignorance” mentioned in the Bible (2 Corinthian)