Around our throats tight like a chain — this headscarf;in our hands loaded like a gun — this headscarf.Each strand of our hair can stoke a revolution;burn the symbol of our pain — this headscarf.It isn’t Islam but a fabrication,lies and an empty refrain — this headscarf.Deprivation and dependency,soul’s opiate, it rots the brain — […]

I wasn’t a helmetI wasn’t a bootI wasn’t a bulletI wasn’t a tankI wasn’t a commanderI wasn’t a privatea minefield, barbed wireI wasn’t a fortI was a piece of a photographin the left breast pocketover the warm bloodof a soldier’s burst heart.