The tragedy can be her tears lying upon the pillow every night.
The tragedy is the nightmares embracing
her innocent heart, burning her endless dreams.
The truth is a tragedy
that exists beyond reality.
It is her definition.
It is the definition of her skin and bone,of her features.
They called her frail, with disbelief.
But it was never her tragedy.
It was theirs.
Sana Jangeer Hamad is a Kurdish author, poet, writer, translator, compiler, and final-year English student at Salahaddin University. From Kurdistan, she is a First-Place Winner of an International Poetry Competition, a Voice of Asia delegate representing Kurdish women, and a Model United Nations delegate representing Uruguay in UNESCO and UNDP committees. She has also been selected as a Model United Nations delegate for the UNDP Committee at an international MUN conference in Istanbul. She was selected among 40,000+ writers from across the globe at the Pan India Mega Pen Star Writing Event, organized by Epic Sphere Publication, representing Kurdistan, Iraq.
She has also been invited by Radio Aldora Argentina and television channels to discuss her literary work and achievements. Her poems have been published internationally by literary magazines, organizations, and initiatives, and she is a co-author of multiple literary anthologies. She has experience in translation, English education, literary compilation, and international youth initiatives. Her learning and professional development experiences include programs and initiatives connected with the United Nations, UNDP, OHCHR, HP LIFE, Google Cloud, Microsoft, the British Council, and Cohort. Aspire.
A dedicated student from the Rohingya community at IIUC, where I’m studying Electronic and Telecommunication Engineering (ETE). I have a strong interest in leadership and rights defense—Rohingya community development.
As part of my academic journey, I also studied for an Associate Degree in Political Science at the Rohingya Academic Research Institute.
As a member of the Rohingya community, I’m passionate about education, empowerment, and creating opportunities for displaced people. Through my writing, I represent the Rohingya community’s engagement. I hope to contribute positively to society and inspire young people to pursue their dreams despite challenges.
GOAD 33
The package exaggerates volume of contents.
America wants. More. Not all Americans.
Slow up: read waves.
The re mainder of
this globe may not
continue to get be
hind us. Think about
how you can dodge
perils of some major
investments.
Thomas Fink
GOAD 34
Well-fed shoes. Snoring thighs. A human shelf.
Shackled to a wealthy lifestyle. Chronic devil-may-care
avidity paused by
occasion. al avalanche.
Toupee umbrella leak.
Complain ing cheerfully.
Dessert devouring
diner. Lack fills. From
is toward not. You give
your cardiologist a
heart attack.
Thomas Fink
GOAD 35
Shards of fact merge to inflate shrunken
photos. House keeper of losses, laminating lament
ations. Applying
angry wallpaper.
For the love of
hatred. Feasting
on curses. Should any
one be stuck with that
personality? Obdurate
waste ensues.
Thomas Fink
EGG YOLK
explodes in microwave.
Sometimes the floor
is the ceiling. You’re
an idiot, right? Tuition’s
paid for
intuition.
Can’t count on facts we don’t have.
No one calls it a front line because there are placemats.
Because a child is colouring three feet away.
Because the man shouting has a family photograph in the hallway and a job he goes to in the morning.
But she knows where not to stand.
She knows which sentence will make the room change.
She knows the distance between his anger and the drawer where the knives are kept.
She knows how to make her voice flat, her hands useful, her face unreadable.
These are civilian skills for a war the world keeps filing under private.
No medals.
No ceasefire.
No official count of all the nights a woman negotiated with danger while packing lunches for tomorrow.
The table is set.
The children are hungry.
Someone asks her why she did not leave.
As though leaving were a road and not another battlefield.
THE WORD DOMESTIC DOES TOO MUCH WORK
Domestic violence.
The adjective arrives first, soft as a dish towel.
Domestic: of the home, of ordinary life, of things kept inside.
Violence: there it is, second, already made smaller by the room around it.
We do this with language.
We put terror in slippers.
We call stalking relationship conflict.
We call control jealousy.
We call repeated threats a difficult breakup.
We call a woman high-conflict when what we mean is she has learned to document everything.
Maybe the word we need is not domestic.
Maybe the word is public.
Because every woman who has to calculate whether home is safe is living inside a failure the whole society built.
The walls may be private.
The consequences are not.
THE WOMAN WHO WAS BELIEVED TOO LATE
First they asked whether she was sure.
Then whether she had proof.
Then why she stayed.
Then why she returned.
Then why she waited to tell anyone.
Then why her story had changed in one small place after years of carrying it alone.
By the time they believed her, she had become an archive.
Screenshots.
Dates.
Photographs.
Witnesses.
The whole terrible museum of what one person can do to another while the world requests better documentation.
She did not need to become more credible.
Everyone else needed to become less comfortable with disbelief.
THE MOST DANGEROUS SENTENCE IN THE HOUSE
It was not I hate you.
That would have been easier to name.
It was
I love you.
Spoken after the door was blocked.
After the phone was taken.
After the apology became an accusation.
I love you meaning you belong to me.
I love you meaning your leaving is something done against me.
I love you meaning my fear of losing you has more authority than your fear of me.
Years later, someone says it without ownership.
No demand follows.
No audit.
No punishment for being separate.
She learns that love is not the sentence that closes the room.
It is the one that leaves the door where it was.
WHAT SURVIVAL LOOKS LIKE FROM ACROSS THE STREET
From across the street she looked fine.
The garbage went out on Tuesdays.
The children wore coats.
The lawn was cut.
She waved.
This became evidence against her later.
People prefer suffering with visible smoke.
They want the house to announce the fire.
But some women survive by becoming excellent neighbours.
They answer How are you? with Fine.
They remember birthdays.
They bring cupcakes to school.
They learn that appearing ordinary can keep a dangerous person from becoming more dangerous.
Do not confuse function with safety.
Do not confuse a clean kitchen with peace.
Sometimes the woman waving from the driveway is not hiding the truth from you.
She is hiding inside the only version of the day she knows how to get through.
J.L. Orango is a British Columbia writer whose poetry and nonfiction examine survival, coercive control, motherhood, accountability, women’s rights, and the ordinary life built after violence. Her work centers survivor voice and the language societies use to minimize what women endure.
Gregg Norman is a Canadian poet living and writing in a lakeside cottage with his wife and a small dog who runs the place. His work has been placed with many international poetry journals and literary magazines. He has been nominated for Best of the Net and The Pushcart Prize.
It was Halloween and raining steadily in New York. It was also cold, but Ellen was layered with wool and suede in black and tan, and scarfed and caped and booted.
She was enjoying the weather. It hadn’t rained in a while. Even though her small gray umbrella had a broken handle and was difficult to manage, she picked her way among the sea of other umbrellas along Madison Avenue and remained relatively dry.
She was in the east sixties, trying to find the bus stop on Madison which would take her to the Metropolitan Museum of art. She didn’t wait long for the bus, climbed aboard, dripping around the edges, and deposited her token. Smelling of wet wool, she moved to a seat and sat down gratefully. The bus moved slowly up Madison through the crowds of traffic.
She got off at 83rd and walked over to the Park. There was the Metropolitan Museum, in all its wet magnificence, draped with banners whipping in the rain and cold wind. One banner read “Degas”. But it wasn’t Degas that prompted Ellen to come through the ran today. It was the Seated Lohans.
Yesterday Richard had asked her if she had been to the museum lately. She hadn’t been for six years.
“Go to see the Lohans,” he said in his usual cryptic way. Nothing more than that.
It had been Judith who explained that Lohans (Ellen kept calling them loohans until Judith corrected her twice) were perfected beings who had achieved Nirvana and would not be reborn again.
“Stand quietly and watch the old man,” Judith said. “There are only two of the at the Metropolitan. When these were found, they were a group of sixteen seated in a circle, representing the sixteen disciples of Buddha. The rest are scattered in other museums.”
Ellen made her way to the information desk and asked where to find the Lohans. None of the three advisors knew. They pulled out their floor plans and decided that Ancient Chinese Art was the place to start.
It was Tuesday morning yet the Museum was crowded. Many seemed to be in line for Degas. But Ellen was there to see the Lohans.
She had to walk through the Ancient Egyptian exhibit. She was awed with the magnitude of the hall, the columns, the statues. She made her way steadily past the clay figures and art to the end of the hall where she walked slowly and with purpose up the stairs. They were marble and wide and magnificent, deserving to be walked upon.
At the top was China. The guard knew where the Lohans were. “Down the hall and . . . see the entrance to the left. There.”
She followed his directions and entered a large room with Buddhist statues from China. Most seemed to be of clay.
The two seated Lohans flanked the entrance. They were life size and pale gray almost white, with green, yellow and crimson robes draped around them. They sat on pedestals four feet off the floor.
A little read, “Seated Lohans in porcelain, three colors. T’ang Dynasty 9th century AD.” Ellen read the description of Buddhism in China. It said the Lohans were transcended beings.
She spent twenty minutes with them, which was all the time she had, standing quietly at different angles to see what was there. She wanted to experience them.
She stood close to look at the old man, and she stood back. His face was formed with distinct lines, his ears large with long lobes. His mouth had full lips which turned down at the corners. He didn’t look oriental. His eyes looked down.
Tell me what you know, old man, she said to him in her mind as she looked into his eyes.
She stood back and watched from a quiet place inside. Even though his mouth turned down, she realized he was actually smiling a soft, peaceful smile. He was incredibly calm and serene.
The second statue seemed to be of a younger man who sat twisted at his waist to the right. He, too, seemed to be smiling, not as peacefully but somehow knowingly.
The guard walked in and out of the room several times, maybe wondering why she stood there so long. Most people wandered casually through, stopping only briefly.
Then it was time to leave. She didn’t really want to go. She folded her hands in front of her in salutation and bowed briefly to each one. Tears accompanied her as she slowly made her way back out onto the wet, cold street of New York.
Ho’s Wok
Lunch at Ho’s Wok.
People crowding in.
Confusion ebbs and flows.
She waits to see where
the tide will flow next.
A look at the menu board.
What to order?
The combo chicken with garlic
sauce has a star.
She steps to the order line.
The entrée steaming
on the front counter
looks better.
Too late now.
“No more combos,” shouts the head server. “Water, please.”
“No water, only soda.”
“No napkins?”
“Napkins on table,” shouts the man.
Tray in hand
she makes her way
to the front window
where she can watch Sixth Avenue.
Slowly, the food disappears from her plate.
It burns in her stomach.
She catches the eyes of
several who go by.
She looks away.
A young man, wrapped in wool,
smoking,
goes by.
Dark hair and moustache,
friendly smile.
He looks into her eyes,
smiles
and looks again.
He waves a greeting,
smiles wider and
goes by.
She pauses
fork in hand
and smiles back.
A small smile,
half expecting him
to turn around
and come back
to chat awhile
in Arabic or Persian.
Pleasantness fills her.
The smile drifts down
into her body and
stays with her
out onto the street.
The Loft on 27th Street
Filtering light through New York windows decorated with rain spots and dust overlook other windows with rain spots and dust. Dark, uneven courtyards with potted plants, fading now. Rust and black fire escapes.
Wide plank floors. New York off-white ceiling in bas relief square patterns. Light on a bed through a skylight, grilled and etched in fashionable, New York grime.
No place to hide. Everything exposed. No secrets.
Air slightly cool. Hot tea takes the chill off. All Hallows Eve. The promise of an only-in-New-York-parade in the West Village.
Brakes squeal, doors slam, boxes load and unload. Horns honk and honk and honk.
The traffic never ends. The horns never stop. The people keep coming.
