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First published in Great Britain in 2012 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, 2012 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 978-0-9564806-7-5 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
On looking in this book Jonathan Scheele Words of greatness Bidisha My Maria Mahboobeh Rajabi Story of a Street Trader Yaya Yosof Humanity Mahmood Alnaimy Parisian Story of the Beggar and My Lover. Paula Discussions About Marriage Aissata Thiam My Place in the Congo Mariesumbi My Garden Cecile Weta Ruth Liya I am Alieu Sisse City of Dreams Tecli Tesfagabir My Scarf from Beki Asmeret Haile Tsegai Sara Shahla Ahmad I am a Tree Tecli Tesfagabir Passed Away Mahmood Alnaimy Nostalgia Brigitte Nongo-Wa-Kitwa I am a Tree Alieu Sisse The Bag Yinka Akintayo Wishing Tree Mitsuo Nakamura Captured N. N. Dee Another View of the Sun N. N. Dee
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My ugly classroom Kakengi Monatsheba Lemon tablecloth Elmi Ali Hands Enrico Sibour Extract from Monster Erse Dor A Letter to Maman Marie Lavoile The Suns Rays Jacqueline Lwanzo Mind Map Beatrice Tibahurira My journey to England Haimanot Nasser The Lovely Daffodil Jose M. Alemeza Disenchant Monique Leoni ScottBennin I need the sun so I can rise Monique Leoni Scott-Bennin Haiku 1 Marian Labaraad Haiku 2 Marian Labaraad The Eyes of Men Camille Sangster Sitting in Silence Leo Schwartz Postcard From Tomorrow Aissata Thiam A Place Called Tomorrow Patricia Addo-Asante, Sandra Mbala, Agnes Swamba and Julie CHISOSA: My secret corner of Africa Tchiyiwe Thandiwe Chihana Its a Long Walk to Nelson Mandela Avenue Ethel Maqeda
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One Day Qandagha Faryad, Julie France and Aissata Thiam Friendship in the Trenches Kelileh Va Demneh As if I am back in Asmara Tesfamhret Tsegazghi Alahwaz Freedom for My Land Jamal My Place Seida Ndoloma Life is Bio and Organic Kakengi Monatsheba A Diamante Poem Rahel I am who I am... Asmeret Haile Tsegai My Beautiful Home Siromari Tarapatla Very nice TV Fatima Biscuits Enrico Sibour I found a key Yaya Yosof Yearning Wade Wallace The Sun Mitsuo Nakamura I am... Tecli Tesfagabir Postcard From Tomorrow Patricia Addo-Asante DOPPIAVOO Stewart L D Laing Life Noggies Tunde Molnar Noggies to my Apricot trees Tunde Molnar Peach Crisp Margaret Siegel The Cat and the Fly Tania Hershman
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Words of greatness
In the autumn of 2011 and the spring of 2012 a small group of writers and poets across London and England encountered a host of new worlds. Through our workshops, classes and tutorials hosted by migrants and refugee centres we met people and heard stories from Iran, Uganda, Cameroon, Malawi, Syria, Somalia and beyond. Through seemingly small exercises, brief writing assignments, short essays and on-the-spot writing challenges we uncovered great swathes of recent history, learned about long journeys undertaken, losses endured, challenges fought, gambles made with life and death, wars witnessed, loved ones lost and gained. I cant speak for the other writers but I can say that I learned much more from my students than they could possibly have learned from me. I had students who had been placed in detention centres, who had been told by UK government officials that their testimonies of life in the Congo were just a story you made up, who struggled to survive on just a few pounds a day.... yet who continued on with great determination. Most of my students had been in limbo in the UK for years, denied both the right to stay and also to work. Despite this, many of them did work as cleaners, porters, domestic help, all the jobs no-one else will do despite being educated and speaking several languages. Our enterprise was entitled Big Writing for a Small World. What we found, instead, was small but powerful writing, by seemingly ordinary (but secretly extraordinary) people, which enabled us to discover the bigness and breadth of the world and of human courage and resilience. The sessions were by turns hilarious, heartbreaking, inspiring and baffling: I am still deeply confused about the subject of a Hungarian students poem (youll see her work on page 55). So I will end this introduction not with any solemn words of greatness about the triumph of the human spirit, but with a brief, writerly enquiry: what on earth are noggies?
Bidisha
When I woke up this morning I ask myself what life is about I found the answer in every room The fan said be cool The roof said aim high The window said cool the world The clock said every minute is precious The mirror said reflect before you act The calendar said be up to date The door said push hard before your goal The carpet said kneel down and pray. Hope all goes well this year.
Souleyman Sow
My Maria
Mahboobeh Rajabi White serious swan looking forward to the lake open her wings holds my heart safe and gathers all the light through her eyes is my Maria. Summer expanse, wind that touch your cheeks on a hot day and take you to the sky calm you in clouds is my Maria. The forest and green and living air always laughing even to the angry sky and keeping all the life inside safe is my Maria. Green bush in the eye of hot sun always love desert when nothing change there and give living hope to young desert creatures is my Maria. Glass Sea with a world inside giving the beach her breath and heart beat and reminding the beach: the sun is rising, no need to worry is my Maria. The beach that is me see the Glass Sea, beautiful and shiny but no idea whats going on inside of it ... inside of a world that is my Maria.
Humanity
Mahmood Alnaimy The identity that embraces us all Though we differ in things that matter The blue planet holds us like a mother And the sun gives life to all. Humanity identifies this unique race Scattered in nations all over the place In peace or fighting, settled or dispersed Those suffering hope for an escape. Earth keeps us linked despite distances Under the banner of Homo sapiens We are all alike and live in communities Though many are scarred from atrocities The wonderful sun sends its bright light To the blue planet wrapped up in warmth Human beings of all nations have their share Of the Sun and Earths gifts and care. Though these gifts are not in equal shares Some are fortunate and many are hardly there There are winners and losers, greed overbid care Now Who will lend a hand of love and charity? A safe shelter of human rights and peace Is what every human being needs So let us pray together and hope That our strives, one day will stop.
What is this sickness, How does it feel to, not want to feel. Twisted, ugly, wounded, beautiful fate. I gave him me. I gave him everything. The soul does not know defeat.
Love, Life, rebirth, Death, It is a gift to breathe. A few moments later, Unfettered bewilderment, My lover welcomed me, he wants to feed me, A plate of hot food, coffee straight from Paraguayan soil. Never knew it was possible to love so simply, so profoundly. Gods beauty is all around. We can be nourished. Through love we can be healed.
Paris rain recalled at liftoff strapped to windowseat; Above clouds savouring Rioja and mussels as vertical streaked late afternoon light in Rue Keller, Marais. Seatflap dropped I wrote this missing you saying; Le soixante-neuf est interdit dans les couloirs.
Erse Dor
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The Husband My dear, o my lovely wife, let me remind you that I am the one who brought you to this country: I paid lawyers, visa and travel ticket for you to enjoy this new life. It goes without saying that you belong to me body and soul, possessions and all. What is yours is mine and what is mine is mine. You have the right to be what I want you to be: emancipation, liberation and all stupid-ation must never be part of your vocabulary unless you are willing To return to the hell you once came from I feel surprised by your lack of gratitude: thousands of women from the misery I found you in, wish they were you, and they wish they were mine. So you do as I say, and I will do as I please I never asked anything unreasonable: just to keep my house impeccable. Is that a lot to ask for when I, your devoted companion, give you my time and give you so much? You owe me more than you would dare imagine, so please dont cause any anger as I could become the husband you would not want to have. And shall l remind you that I can send you Back to the nightmare you once came from?
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The Wife I took care to spill a few drops of water outside in the garden as I do every morning to ensure that my worries will leave as fast as the substance penetrates the ground. And then, of course, I prayed in silence that he would die or never come back. Oh I know, I should not say that, and I know, I should not mean that, but this is what I have in my heart. Mother said the wedding would help the whole family, but in what ways does it benefit them that I come to suffer in this foreign land? And then these ladies and gentlemen In their official suits, looking stern and uncaring visit regularly with countless papers, and they say we dont seem like we know each other. I guess they cant hear me well, or they dont understand me because they keep asking again and again the questions they posed six months earlier. They cant see my despair, they cant hear the humiliation, they cant feel the beatings, thats why they keep asking again and again Is he your husband? Mother needs to tell me what the soothsayer advises about my future. I want it to be without this man, but it is as though I cant escape I am not the arriviste he says I am I just want to be free at last.
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My Garden
Cecile Weta Behind my house theres a small garden. In this garden there are three plants: plant avocado, plant orange and plant lemon. The vegetables: tomatoes, potatoes, onions and carrots. In my garden, sometimes I listen. The birds are singing. I like my small garden.
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Ruth
Liya She is 40 years old and she works hard. She is also poor. She walks long road. Always she tired because she go to market. Everyday she want to buy some grain to make fufu for lunch.
I am...
Alieu Sisse I am my needs that make me feel happy I am the English language that makes everything bright I am my family that I miss I am my sister that I need to see I am loneliness that makes me think too much I am all the people who make me feel better I am the travel that will make my life open I am who I am which is why I am in England.
City of Dreams
Tecli Tesfagabir When I arrived in London the first time. I thought this is a small town because I saw the small house the same shapes as home and the narrow streets. But when I asked someone he told me this is London! At that time I felt disappointed because I expected nice houses, amazing buildings, wide streets and different coloured houses. But after some time I realised that in the UK all people live in smaller houses no different between poor and rich. When I asked about the UK, the foreign people say that in the UK everything is bad except for the pound (money!) English people arent friendly and they dont see/ visit their family very often.
Sara
Shahla Ahmad The women they not free like here, Sara comes from Kurwsta but she was very sad of her Life because she wasnt free so one day she decided to leave her family because she was in Love with someone, but her family did not like Love, she is getting Life because always shed been home with a lot of Fear and then she go to free in UK.
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I am a Tree
Tecli Tesfagabir My branches are strong, thick and long. My trunk is quite short, strong and thick. It is rough and I have brown colour. My leaves are green and big, when you rub my leaves it smells good. My roots are spread around me and grab the rocks and give me water and minerals. Around me there are nice flowers and beautiful bungalows. Above me I see a white cloud and blue sky, during the night I see the scattered stars around the moon. Below me there are a lot of rocks diamonds and wet soil. In the past I was inside a fruit, one day someone took me from the fruit and ate the fruit but threw me on the Earth. I am from Sudan. In the future I will produce a lot of flower fruits and I give them to people to eat for free.
Passed Away
Mahmood Alnaimy The old nice lady, next door, In a late hour of the night Passed away in a silent way Over are her long days of malady The daughter sat in her chair Staring at the empty room Memories of the past happy years Hang around in mournful gloom Her mind troubled with worries And Fears shake the placid soul The death call echoed all the day O mother, come back to me in my dreams The coffin laid in the crematorium Then the old lady is left alone Who will be with her in the journey Into the wilderness of the unknown Now the old lady is gone Not having a sigh of cold stone.
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Nostalgia
Brigitte Nongo-Wa-Kitwa There was a place where I could feel being real in nature when I looked around, I could see only greenery. There was a place where there were not human beings where I could hear the winds voice and the rivers sound. There were hills far off where I could see the setting sun leaving its splendid colours in the sky. There were trees near the river I could see the reflection of the setting sun in the river. I could see some birds flying out of one tree to another. There was a place where I could hear the sounds of leaves hitting each other in the breeze, where I could get some fresh air. There was a place where I felt lonesome in nature, which I liked. There was a place where the wind often howled , bending trees and leaves. I miss that place.
I am a Tree
Alieu Sisse My branches are weak, thin My trunk medium black My leaves are green and smell like mint My roots are different Some grow sideways and one grows down Around me is a garden and some chairs Above me, I see the moon and the stars Its nice to watch In the past I was a happy man Now I am a sad man I am from Senegal In the future, I will be alright.
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The Bag
Yinka Akintayo Ouch ! The zip snapped, broken me again has she? Now shell slide me back Am something to hold but no one gives me a hug, just a caress now and then The unending mouth I am, A place of refuge for all things, she may need at hand and like the Cookie monster swallow all, but unlike the cookie, when am full, shell stop stuffing I never complain, no headaches do I get, not even from the pen that spills left unattended in me Am like the army recruit with a uniform of many sided pocket to my parts You never know what she may need and when Help ! Shes dumping on me again.......
I like having a glass of orange with my food. I like apple. I dont like apple. He likes soap. They like chicken.
Yahiya
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Wishing Tree
Mitsuo Nakamura I like to see smiles of children Children write many wishes. Wishes are taken on my arms. My arms grow up toward somewhere. Somewhere in the future, wishes bloom like blossoms.
Captured
N. N. Dee Locked in an embrace and frozen in time, Their image stands still in a corner. This small slice of life captured my eye: A mothers safe arms tenderly wrapped Around her precious baby daughter.
My ugly classroom
Kakengi Monatsheba Who said ugly is ugly? Why cant ugliness be a beauty? I started learning in the cold, But as cold changes to a bright heat like the start of a summer, My ugly classroom becomes a splendid place for knowledge
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Lemon tablecloth
Elmi Ali Black cotton soil submits, when el-Nio visits, deep ravines vein the slopes. The one tarmac road in town is swept clean, it chokes the river bed and cracks in the sun. African violets quickly reclaim the spot where it once stretched.
I watch as crawling children, toothless with nostrils caked in snot pick and chew on the purple petals. Chastising mothers, hawk eyed, use their index fingers but struggle to evict the stubborn colour. Tears well up before a wide mouthed cry.
The exhaust breathes and coughs TB behind primary colour buses ripe with sun stroke. Glistening brows and wet underarms use elbows and shoulders to complain of the heat. Tinted windows open like small slits, loud music yelps from the perforated mouth of a speaker. The driver dodges a pothole.
Her deep sleep is stirred, after a cupped palm greets her bosom. She is surprised at her own alertness. She wakes me up and whispers profanity in my ear, I turn and meet her in an open mouthed kiss. She shudders.
Like a sun baked roof, corrugated iron trying to resist the wind.
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The wind pushing it to a crackle. The hen scratching in the moist earth nearby is startled. She leaves the earthworm she has found, gathers her chicks, watches the sky for a kite.
We use our backs watching the clouds, our palms touching, our fingers linked, spot a graceful bird, mid swoop, a hen and a cockerel ruffling their feathers at the site of a wide shadow. But there are no chicks to claim.
The lemon tree perfumes lift into the yard. A sweeping woman rising is sobered by an ageing back, a husband empties a margarine container of tobacco golden spit One embroidered table cloth white as truth hangs on a sagging clothes line.
The hen scratching in the moist earth nearby is startled. She leaves the earthworm she has found, gathers her chicks, watches the sky for a kite.
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Hands
Enrico Sibour Big, square, strong hand, with the broken life line. A big palm, thick fingers feeling them touching his body, his back, his legs, his cock and bottom. Missing the sea, missing the snow. Strong hand, too much, dry skin often, with bruises and cuts few hair, when sunny really blond if not white. Large nails. Taking the knife and cutting the skin Cutting the wrist and the veins. Blood on the palm and in between the fingers. And falling asleep, closed eyes, Sad, sadness, what to do with my hands, leave the knife in the drawer. Keep the drawer close.
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A Letter to Maman
Marie Lavoile London, England February 29, 2012 Dearest Maman, I am writing to let you know that you are constantly on my mind. You said I have become a different person and I dont care as much as I used to. Maman, I really care more than you could ever imagine. I know that I have not been able to do as much as you wanted me to do. However, I have been doing exactly what you did when you were bringing up your family. Every two years I had a little brother or sister who needed your attention. You did what was best for your children and you put them first before anything or anybody else. For example, you gave up your teaching career for them. I remember also those nights when I or my siblings were sick, you took the portable lamp and went to the neighbour to buy what was needed to make us feel better. I appreciated those loving acts then, and now as a mother I do appreciate them even more. Maman, you are my role model. Further, the weekends you had spent making me pretty dresses to go to mass on Sundays are not forgotten. I want you to know that I do the same for my children. Maman, did you know that you started a trend long before it became popular around the world? Yes, I remember how you used to cut your long black hair to use as extensions for my short hair. Unfortunately, I cant do the same for my daughter because her hair is longer than mine. Please Maman dear; dont judge me by the pretty dresses and the smile that I am wearing in the photographs that I have sent home. They are camouflage to disguise the real reasons why I stay away for so long. Life did not deliver what it had promised me. However, what it gave me I have used to the best of my ability. Maman, you ask me repeatedly if I am going to let you die without seeing you. I really, truly, desperately want to see you. I know it has been almost 38 years since I last saw you, and you are now 85 years old. Please Maman dont die, I am longing to see you. Please wait for me! I am counting on divine assistance to make this year the year that I see you again. Your loving daughter, Bibine
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Mind Map
Beatrice Tibahurira Real: Work - I am not allowed to work Money - no money since I dont work. I get lots of financial help from friends. Home - I live with a friend Health - good, a few headaches when stressed. Education- I studied in Uganda up to university level. Family and friends - I have five children, four of them over 18. I have my father, five brothers and six sisters. All in Uganda. Ideal: Money - I would like to earn my own money, pay my own bills. Work - I would like to be able to work, mostly teaching English and General Knowledge and writing about life. Love - ? I would like to get a responsible man friend that I can share the rest of my life with. Home - To own my own home in East London. Education - I would like to learn how to use the computer to excellence and study for a Masters in English. Family and friends - I would like to be living with some of my children and with my friends all still around so we can share our lives and go on holidays.
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My journey to England
Haimanot Nasser My journey was terrible. Really terrible. I travelled from Sudan. Hours and hours in a lorry. Low down, under lots of boxes. We were all squashed together. No room to move. No air to breathe. I dont know how many hours we were there in the dark, unable to see, unable to move, unable to say a word. I remember we were under lots of boxes and the boxes on top of us were full of chocolates, and toys. It was freezing. I couldnt feel my hands or feet. I thought I was going to die. When the police came with their dogs we couldnt move, or breathe in case they found us. We had to cover our faces with plastic to prevent the dogs sniffing us. When they finally let us out, I didnt know where I was. It could have been New York or Paris or anywhere. I didnt know how long I had been in the dark or how long I had been travelling. Then they told me I was in England and that I was safe. This was my fourth attempt. I lost my husband and my family, but now I have freedom.
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Disenchant
Monique Leoni Scott-Bennin Love is engaged to hate, my ego gave birth to fear and I nurtured that motherfucker with unconditional love, but unrequited. Fear didnt want me, but I needed it, I abused it. Possessive, never left fears side. Fear is mine, I gave birth to it. Imagine what its like being at home with fear What does it need feeding, it never knows. So indecisive. But I need to feed it something, Fear is starving, tugging at me but I have nothing to give. Then fear starts shouting, I start crying, I tremble because fear wants something I dont have. Fear I need you as much as you need me. Please dont leave me because Im weak. You have no place on your own, stay with me. Grow old with me. But, fear is lazy and love is blind. Im doing all the work, you leave your mess everywhere and I have to clean it up. One day Im gonna start looking elsewhere, been doing this for too long and youre not pulling your weight. I cant take his shit no more. Fear didnt even see it coming, stupid fool. Utterly oblivious. Didnt even notice me staring at happiness, laughing with respect, admiring love. Then I saw life, damn life has it all. The aroma of love. Internal happiness. The regal stance of a God. The call of a siren.
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Haiku 1
Marian Labaraad Outcast from others Loved by many people Blessed in my presence
Haiku 2
Marian Labaraad Hot breeze, no palm trees. Ocean behind, I love thee Africa heaven.
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Sitting in Silence
Leo Schwartz Check my watch, walk in the door Knowing it could be more than four score minutes Before you sit before me... Finally! I sit here You sit there Like Face Off With Nicholas Cage Im playing all the parts As you refuse to engage Weve both crossed oceans To get to this stage Anticipating a sea-change Stormy weather, The pent up rage of a tidal wave You sit there I sit here Trying to read between the lines Of your creased brow Where deep, dark shadows Avoid my gaze My unanswered questions Disappear into an empty cafe Just the hint of a smile plays on your face Its meaning I cant trace Not seeing the joke. I want to throw a fit And answer your silence With my own violence to show I give a shit Tear up the upholstery Throw the chairs Smash windows Pains to share
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Full of feeling, Head starts reeling Mind tricks My semantics are useless As I try to keep myself in check Mate, I got wisdom to disseminate Dredged up from the drains Behind the sink At the back of my brain Struggling to find the words They sound absurd Because Im blocked, Beaten by your locks and chains Making my attempt to Communicate seems inane But youre still sitting here And Im still sitting there Wanting to tell you Im a porous rock. Able to absorb the shock of your tears, your fears All the things you never said you saw, The beatings you bore The screams which never left your lips. I. Can. Hear. This. I want to read aloud the words written on your face But your silence makes me crumble. Dumb, defeated, deflated, exasperated. Finally, you finish chewing Chicken and chips eviscerated The violence of your gaze fades A more satisfied silence pervades And some minutes later you say Can we sit together soon? Again?
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Patricia Addo-Asante, Sandra Mbala, Agnes Swamba and Julie When you arrive in South Tomorrow, dress in bright coloured, light clothing, drink more water as your throat will be dry quickly because of the long summers. Visit the local church on the left-hand side of the airport to change your way of living. Visit also the gardens where people are always smiling and you can smile as well. Turn right and you will find the government writing laws for equality where both men and women work together for a better tomorrow. Ahead of you there is a big house where human rights are practised in the parliament. Get on bus number 30 to the Viking market where you will find fresh vegetables sold by healthy looking people for you to become healthy as well. Visit the local community hall where hope is found together with peace and unity exists. A little away from the hall, there is this wonderful college of bright children who are gaining knowledge and bettering their lives to become leaders of the next generation. Finally the tour ends where you are shown to the 48-storey hotel where you will be welcomed by well-mannered stewards, where every room has a story to tell. Stewards will show you with love and peace into a double king-sized bedroom for a sound and calm sleep without any disturbance. You will enjoy Tomorrow.
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I wish I had armed myself with a net the kind used to catch butterflies or minnows because the stories I heard at the Migrant and Refugee Communities Forum held me spellbound until a breeze carried them away. I think of them still, those stories I didnt manage to catch, and wonder where they are now. Are they still living in their writers head or on a folded page, or did they perish? Butterflies live for 2 weeks or 2 days... I wish a much longer life for the stories I heard. I wish they would live forever, to delight and enlighten everyone with the good fortune to meet them.
Shazea Quraishi
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One Day
Qandagha Faryad Julie France Aissata Thiam Darkness is still in power and the day has not yet come. Hope is still there but the day has not yet come. One day I will go to university the day has not yet come. One day in my country there will be nice cities that are safe. The day has not yet come. When all the wars are erased from memories, the day has not yet come. When love and peace fill everyones heart, the day has not yet come. I will laugh without fear, without regret. The day has not yet come. I will be light as a sunny dress, flying. The day has not yet come.
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As if I am back in Asmara
Tesfamhret Tsegazghi South to my left North to my right Unfolding their past Through the top floor window of Ambassador Hotel Looking outside peeping through To see but not to be seen. Gazing far and contemplating Seeing houses filled with sadness Gathered over decades Looking ahead from near to the far west The day is heading to dark. South to my left North to my right Unfolding their past I look down to the street beneath me As if a funeral procession is happening Mothers weep Children whine Fathers wail Like others Two decades ago South to my left North to my right Unfolding their past I look to the left Those who made them cry Both came from the South gate And those who left Left the city via the North gate South to my left North to my right Unfolding their past
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Will the people who are causing their agony Leave in the same way via the North gate? But leave the city In peace and tranquillity That lasts for ever Unlike their predecessor I wish they will But only wish Because Im a powerless citizen.
I never forget while she packed my things into her suitcase. My clothes first, shoes, lingerie, trousers and tops mum used to have, full of love. As fresh air... She could put only few things of her inside the suitcase, Greater than anything.
Yahiya
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My Place
Seida Ndoloma My town is a crowded place From noon, there is much traffic on the road In my town, people like stay under the tree Taking something cool. After a sunny day, in evening, there is a torrential rain with thunder.
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A Diamante Poem
Rahel Love Laugh, happy Appreciating, interesting, approaching Enjoy, invite, disagree, badface Unseeing, ignoring Dislike, ignore Hate
I am who I am...
Asmeret Haile Tsegai I am my sister that is smaller than me I am sport I am a balanced diet that makes me healthy The romantic movies that make me smile I am the English language that lets me communicate I am the nurse that gives me medicine. I am who I am because of everything.
My Beautiful Home
Siromari Tarapatla My beautiful Indian home My beautiful Indian village house My home in Idrabad.
Very nice TV
Fatima and beautiful woman, she is nice. She is walking, her name is Joanna.
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Biscuits
Enrico Sibour I touch and they crunch and the salt sparks when I open the packet. I break one when I take it from the yellow paper and when I eat it. I remember the same flavour when I was on the terrace at the seaside.
I found a key
Yaya Yosof I found a key today, So I need never jump in the window, as before.
Yearning
Wade Wallace The key has locked it Like a clock frozen, beautiful icicle never flinching I do care, the ice just wont melt. I will it to but the magic surrounding the key stomps on me like gravity pushing two planets apart The deep dark hole that the clock sits in just gets bigger, on this planet full of ice that shines as bright as your smile. Searching for the lock is nearly impossible Whats this sinking feeling? Get up! Get out! Dont come back. Wait! No The silence fills the air like mist seeping in from your eyes Come, go, stay, please just one more kiss She has already left
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A space alien says to his son Its a really tiny star from his planet. He never thought that we live on the earth next to
The Sun
Mitsuo Nakamura
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I am...
Tecli Tesfagabir I am the sun that makes me warm My cousin who makes me good at maths I am my friend who makes me happy And my village which made me strong I am the school that made me literate I am the music that makes me relax I am geography that makes me see the world, the planets and the stars I am the bible that made me believe and trust in God I am the doctor who makes me safe for life The sport which makes me a healthy man I am who I am because I am a healthy man.
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DOPPIAVOO
Stewart L D Laing Black scythe John Cheever. Lets what happens to him simply happen...till he ran out of breath...finally resigned to be dumb. Ted Hughes. Emir Goseibi owns an island in the sea called Red; a barren coral platform reeking of buried human waste, a former prison colony the mystery being; where does the water come from? To eat one needs to close all the wooden shutters and the door so that the clouds of flies, suddenly in darkness, fly out when they see sunlight through an offered chink. That, and toxic clouds of flitted insect spray. Sleeping outdoors on woven wicker beds one woke to the sound of goats munching the coral gravel near ones head; and smiled. Abker Areeshi loves ALF LEILA WA LEILA the Thousand and One Nights but misses the fact that this island is full of wonders too. Where else would one gather thirty pigeon eggs to break and cook an omelette? Lying prone and looking down through the friable coral cliffs scooped out by the sea one sees big shoals of plump emerald green fishes, and the opulent ruins of the houses built by pearl fishing merchants are crusted with intricate gymsum-stucco decorations. I know other islands as enchanted, none more so than where the boy Walter, known as W or Doppiavoo...played. His gang Claudia, Serafino and others explored the coastal cliffs with me, and arriving at the ruined tuna-fishing castle of Montebello in Porto Palo di Capo Passero he said, so seriously, There is nothing here save zanzare, rospi, lucertoli e scarafaggi ! (mosquitoes, toads, lizards and cockroaches) The news of his death from meningitis the year following was like a black scythe; I keep the drawing he made for me of a flight of geese at sunset. On Farasan we tired of flicking the tiddily-winks across the talcum smoothed Shatrange-board and set off to find the stupor mundi of that place, Abker, Moh. Ajeebi and I....a ruler- straight horizon a mild sun and a cooling breeze...and sporting in splashes, a school of dolphins. We trudged, chatting of this and that and gradually drew near the marvel in that treeless place, a sapling a metre and a half tall, stripped by goats of all foliage save a posy of glossy green leaves at the top. Our footsteps stilled, our chatter silenced by Abkers up- raised index finger, we listened, so silent the sound of our own hearts beating could be felt.... and the little wind there was swayed, the treelet and the leaves danced gleaming in the light and the sound was music; li-ving La, Vi-da, Lo-ca ! I let what happens, simply happen, then running out of breath, Im finally resigned to be dumb.
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Life Noggies
Tunde Molnar To live is travelling. Destinations, stops, destinations, stops... Passing beauties. Destinations, stops, destinations, stops... Passing bliss. Longer destinations, longer stops... Blocking in a desert. Soul is thirsty. My thoughts are reflecting hopes. My highest hopes are kept alive. God! You surprise me. God you are on my mind more often than any other thoughts. Wherever I wander, the ways take me to you.
Peach Crisp
Margaret Siegel 4 cups fresh peaches (the riper, the juicier and therefore the better) cup sugar cup sugar teaspoon cinnamon 1 cup flour 4 ounces butter Peel and slice peaches. Add half of sugar and all of cinnamon. Cut butter into flour (or stir with wooden spoon) until pea sized. Add remaining sugar. Place peaches in buttered baking dish and cover with flour/crust mixture. Dot top with small pats of butter, especially if peaches not very ripe. Bake at 190 for 30 minutes or until bubbly and lightly browned. Servings: 5 This is a beloved family recipe from a collection my mom gave my siblings and me with the inscription So that youll always feel at home...wherever your adventures take you. I grew up in the U.S, in The Peach State of Georgia, and the best peaches were from the roadside farm stands on the way up to our favourite spot in North GEORGIA, Lake Burton. Peach Crisp or Cobbler, as we call it, went great with a summertime barbecue of chicken or burgers. Its the ultimate comfort food. I made it the evening of September 10 2001, while living in New York City. The next morning, when the World Trade Centre was attacked, my brother was in lower Manhattan. Right after the towers were hit, he called to say he was being evacuated, but then I couldnt reach him for hours after the towers had collapsed. I thought the worst. A friend was staying with me, and I tried to be a good host to her and her cousins who had come to pick her up, serving them Peach Cobbler with my mind on my brother. Thats the Southern Way, and now that Im living in London, I realise, the British Way Keep Calm and Carry On. In the weeks following the attacks, I found comfort in familiar foods from my childhood, starting with the Peach Cobbler. Its a very simple recipe and a little taste of summer in the South. You can almost hear the cicadas when you take a warm, gooey bite.
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I feel good as the suns rays get to me Through the window. I feel so much, recalling the days I was in Africa As this suns rays remind me of the morning sun That prepared me for work, Visits to the market, The sun under which I hung my clothes to dry.
Jacqueline Lwanzo
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Big Writing For A Small World was created in partnership with the European Commission Representation in the United Kingdom. English PEN is one of the UKs leading literature and free speech charities, based at the innovative Free Word centre in Farringdon, London. We promote the freedom to write and the freedom to read. The founding centre of a worldwide writers association, established in 1921, we are supported by our active membership of leading writers and literary professionals with an elected Board led by the distinguished author Gillian Slovo. Our education programme develops the writing of prisoners, detainees, refugees, asylum-seekers and other socially-excluded groups. We also run a full programme of public events and award prizes to outstanding British and international writers. Lots of people helped make Big Writing For A Small World happen. Thank you to the amazing writers who led our workshops: Bidisha, Shazea Quraishi, Malika Booker, Nii Parkes, Seni Seneviratne, Degna Stone, Maeve Clarke, Tania Hershman, John Siddique. Thank you to Jeremy OSullivan and Jonathan Scheele at the European Commission Representation in the United Kingdom. Thank you to the refugee and community centres and their amazing staff: to the Migrants Resource Centre (Laura Marziale and her team), the Migrant and Refugee Communities Forum (Francesca Valerio), Praxis (Bethan Lant and Alex Sutton), the Jesuit Refugee Service (Louise Zanre), Kids Company (Leo Schwartz and Chris Williams), Northern England Refugee Centre (Jeni Vine), St Chads Refugee Centre (Emma Birks and Sister Margaret), North of England Refugee Service (Mohamed Nasreldin), Community Arts North West (Katherine Rogers and Segun), and Bristol Refugee Rights (Alice). The project wouldnt have happened without the extra help of: Estelle Worthington (Manchester Council for Community Relations), Matthew Morrison at the University of Westminster and our creative writing volunteers (Chloe Wenborn, Georgina OReilly, Anete Kruusmgi, Jon Kearnes), Zoe Lambert of Comma Press, and English PEN member Gauri Raje. This project was in partnership with the European Commission Representation in the United Kingdom. English PEN received further support from A B Charitable Trust, Scotshill Trust, Morel Trust, N Smith Charitable Settlement and Limbourne Trust, without whom the book in your hands would disappear. www.englishpen.org
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