Unsaid

Contact me by: setaishhaidari1@gmail.com

  • Generation of Immigrants

    Ride with me to the fall of the sky
    For a life without providence.
    I will leave here one day.
    I am from generations of immigrants.

    To Iran, Turkey, and America,
    Living in places around the globe.
    Again, man-made destructions
    Live in my country, forever.
    Fixing this mess would take over decades.
    Kills me, the good memories
    Of my childhood in that country.

    Will anger now only take over me?
    Will the news only be tragic?
    How much more are we willing to sacrifice?
    Will families have enough to live?

    What if they send me back to Afghanistan?
    My cousin says it’s nothing like before.
    It was my generation seeing this in real time.

    Some rode on a plane and lost a piece of their soul.
    Some stayed and bore the souls with no food,
    No roof, rights, education, life, job,
    Security, water, medication, dignity.
    Entitled to chains with wrong rulers,
    Cries, wings tied, the guardian angel.
    And remains in my country, rain in bullets of rifles.

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  • A Society of Ashamed Women

    A country that falls in the one
    That withholds its women,
    A society of gender-based critics,
    That never gets to important questions.

    The people of stone beating, the alive burning
    Of women did nothing but the death of innocent women,
    Manipulating the minds of many children to torture,
    The deceptive waves of humanity.

    If any, the women’s nature is the natural leader,
    The one always responsible for social regulations.
    Now, if taken expectations from women—
    There lies to patriarchy such frightful power.

    Yet evil finds its way
    Into the brains of society, fallen curiosity.
    Such society, when half of its population
    Are silenced.

    For studying, they are dead.
    The people of which half are oppressed.
    The young girl who sees herself with fear and flaw,
    The young boy who’s told he is superior
    Of his older sister, because he’s a man.

    A society of ashamed women,
    Of beaten, scared, and hated women,
    Never finds its way into better
    Because they are busy debating if
    A woman is worth being human.

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  • Salsal Yet Breathes Beneath The Stones

    Bamyan’s every stone is a story, 

    Traced in nights relentless with history

    Isn’t there no one who didn’t steal from you? 

    So you’ve kept your jewelry ever since? 

    Ajdar’s cry as every day peels to night, 

    For its burned heart it cries at night.  

    My city, who hasn’t stolen your light? 

    So in Salsal’s exploded eye-

    It hasn’t seen injustice every night. 

    The soil of you is to my eye Kohl, 

    The dried blood on many innocent souls, 

    What has made you so unlikely,

    That you don’t hide longer, as Gholghole did. 

    Dance to the honor of my misery, 

    I am a girl raised outside of my city, 

    You alone are different to ever hate, 

    Hearing of Bamyan’s situation now hurts-

    For Afghanistan, hearts shed blood. 

    Baba Mazari’s statue is also stones on the ground, 

    Before it was blasted by looters of rights, 

    A leader who once saw the genocide, 

    Was more than tortured to death.

  • A 5th Anniversary of Terrorist

    Passes from the terrorist’s anniversary: 5 years
    Hell’s reservations are waiting for longer terms,
    As if a dance with no songs means the world.
    What about the world of thousands of young kids you took?

    The morals of the extremists are always ironic.
    I hope it burns you, your every step in the country,
    To drown in the tears of many Afghan girls—
    That you preserve their piece of soul in history.

    The darkness of the Talibs still hunts the country.
    A man-made, blood-debt-paying society,
    The faces of the old women haven’t yet smiled
    To the extent of the pain you caused them for years.

    Today is only a red day of misery,
    Further pushed into Afghanistan’s history.
    Your rules are based on selfish gambles,
    But our lives were your betting coins, lost in nonsense.

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  • Take Our Souls Next

    I can see the history that once seemed in the past is taking place again,
    Oppressors always took the land they desired;
    Now it’s happening to my house we built.
    I can’t believe how close I got to seeing this—
    I don’t know how the worst can happen after I said it can’t be any further away.

    That house was the dream we built for a year,
    The money’s savings for more than 2 years,
    The year we moved into there.
    It’s been 6 years, and the house is no longer ours?

    May every rock of that land burn you from within,
    Tear you apart until all your regime’s gone from within,
    May the clouds rain rocks to your head—
    And you stay alive to only thoroughly feel the pain.

    How can a country be built with no rules upon?
    Every beardful, brainless, is a law enforcer of their own.
    Now, to where will go my grandparents?
    Who’s taken shelter in that house, and now in clearance?

    Now, how can they pay the rent for another house?
    When the bloodthirsty run to any remaining remnants of life,
    How can the old couple survive that country,
    When even the young and healthy are bound to suffering?

    Of my words, it will never be enough to justify
    The dread of having pretentious, dirty devils in my house,
    In which I don’t live; if I did, it was my corpse in a burqa,
    And that house a graveyard to a family of a Hazara.

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  • At The End of The Day

    At the end of the day, it’s me again;

    My worries and dreams of the day, 

    I sit again with many wonders of tomorrow 

    With many unfinished thoughts of yesterday. 

    I see my world with my help this time, 

    I want to drive to my old house alone, this time, 

    I’d see what I lacked battles ago

    I’ll surely be kinder to myself this time. 

    Because time passes by itself, 

    It either makes or breaks a person 

    It broke me a lot. I’m bound by promises,

    I’m many broken pieces of a mosaic. 

    Yet I stand up like before, 

    Unwilling, but fish doesn’t walk ashore, 

    I’m in war with destructive ocean waves, 

    It’s a never-ending business.

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  • Illusion of Seven Skies

    Why can’t a dying star fall on the cloud’s shoulders 

    Be buried in the depths of space’s fortunes

    Unlike war victims, can we notice them?

    The way about many starving children on earth- 

    We don’t care one dirham. 

    Can we beautify the dark skies in galaxies 

    So later, can it be a roof for the unsheltered kids?

    Maybe drink to them the Milky Way galaxy

    Because no one provides drinkable water from the Earth’s seas

    Would they be familiar with the dark holes?

    Like their governments in search of inhaling new wars

    Of which treasure do we introduce them more?

    The many planets of diamonds, or basic human rights?

    It can be even harder to explain-

    For the war lost parent’s children. 

    Let’s just say their parents are the stars of the sky. 

    And the government’s God wants gold of seven skies.

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  • My Mind In Revision

    Days pass, and as I get older, my existing schemas of the world around me change, and it troubles me to speak about them without a list of research, as it appears to me that understanding these controversial topics may need years or experience in the specific topic, or a Harvard degree.

    Sometimes I think I might have the topics that include experience, like immigration and racism, which cannot be debated on since I lived through them, but as I spoke about them very often, intending to educate people around me, I lost track of what the topic is that I can just share.

    This, of course, will not limit my writing as I started to educate myself more on world history, feminism, and politics. But the more I learn, the more I realize I don’t know about it and feel as if I’m pulling the clouds all around the sky to my arms, but the start needs to be from somewhere anyway.

    Now, I will try to write about the changed mindset as I reach a final state that might never be, given how diverse the ocean of right writing is, let alone the topics to write about.

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  • Sore Throat

    Why do voices get cut when just about to speak up?

    What is it that keeps us down to what we shall stand up?

    If such a perfect world, then why were we intended to protestingly speak?

    If the world were created to be this, why were we given a voice to speak? 

    Maybe we weren’t; it was just a delusion.

    Maybe it’s the unchangeable truth with an illusion

    To the highest in the world that was created

    The idea expressed was meant to be “confusion.”

    But if so, who made the system?

    Who wrote what to be and not to be righteous? 

    Why did we abide by it when it changed?

    Weren’t we on the threshold of noticing when we disarranged?

    Again, who am I to question this dynasty? 

    There are a thousand answers to my few questions, profoundly. 

    Nothing will change if no one brings it up

    Why do voices get cut when just about to speak up? 

  • Between Lines and Lands

    “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.”

    -Constitution of the United States- First Amendment

    We are supposedly given the right to speak freely, to protest, and immunity to be protected even if written what is against the government’s wishes. Still, people get arrested in ICE protests. International students face undercover police operations for posting their opposing views on war, and the immigration processes stop when the “King” of the state wishes so. 

    Yet, I come from a country where basic human rights are seen as far too impossible to reach. So much so that every day I must be grateful that I didn’t die under a terrorist attack, grateful I’m given the right to exist in public despite being a woman, and that I can sleep with my stomach full of what I could have to eat. Of course, at a higher level, I can list education, independent choice of grooming unrelated to religious beliefs, and a job for my parents.

     But so far, I have lived in this country for almost 4 years now, and God knows I don’t belong to a country, but a given geographic map in which the rulers want my ethnicity off the surface of the earth, and have tried mass genocides, by which I doubt my choice of the phrase “my country”. 

    It reminds me of when I heard “Wherever we live is our country. Every city that we are in is our city.” I either heard from my father or the masjid sheikh. 

    I wonder whether I can belong to a country that shelters me but doesn’t guarantee till when, or how I’m a citizen of a country in which my ethnicity and existence are denied and unwelcome? 

    Maybe I can choose to stick with one when secretly also thinking of the other, but which struggle am I capable of speaking of when both are such stimulants of my life, and unfavored by the government that can choose my faith?

    Will we writers, poets, artists, musicians share too much of the disturbance of what we see that numbs people the way it numbed me? People are already exposed to such cruelties; they are numb in their own special ways. 

    In a world where some voices are shared but no actions are taken, all we do is to continuously suffer in what we acknowledge as wrong, but it’s not beneficial and doesn’t match the aesthetic of our lives to connect to it, any move that might ostracize us from the norms of how we grew up.  

    But to close the loop? The loop never ends until a formal action is taken, enforced by “We the People of the United States.” 

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