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The God of History

By Maryam Kordkheili
September 30, 2002
The Iranian

The following poem is the story of those nameless, powerless generation of men whose voices are seldom heard. It is the story all of us from the Middle East.


I shall ride on my chariot. I shall tread all paths and pathless ways to diffuse the seed of your truth... "God of History"


I first met the God of History
during those days
I spent in history classes
as a student.
I met Him
during those days
when I believed in Him quite faithfully.
In my mind,
He was the most honest God of the world,
sitting in His Chariot, scattering all The Truth, no doubt.
Many among us wished Him well.
Many among us even wished Him longevity.


He had disappeared from my sight
until once
I asked my friend,
"How does it feel to grow up in the arms of an Enemy
who killed your Fathers, your Brothers, and raped your Mother?"
Oh, the weight, the weight is too heavy
when you hear the words
uttered proudly in this Language
of Power
"You know, that was the past, before I was even born. I don't belong to those days. I'm not Vietnamese anymore!"

Like a madwoman,
I was left alone to laugh.
I swear,
I swear to His Chariot, all The Truth,
I laughed, like a madwoman.
"O Master, O Dear Master!
Listen to her!
Can you hear me?
She doesn't know anything about you!
She doesn't even remember you!
You have been erased from her memory!
Do you hear me?
Prove me your worth, and show me your support."
But He didn't listen to me!
He didn't even look at me!
He left me all alone,
Sitting in His Chariot, scattering all The Truth, no doubt.


I turned my TV on to catch up with the latest news.
On the gloomy day of the eleventh of September,
down Broadway,
everything was burnt away.
I saw, I saw, the saddened face of The City
where sorrow was first allowed to enter.
I saw, I saw, the lofty wall of The City
where it was supposed to be Safe Land,
broken down in just a few minutes.
And I saw the mournful faces of the People
whose parents, and grandparents, and great grandparents
had seen everything, but tearful eyes.
Then, I saw a "Japanese-American"
lighting a candle, and telling us that:
"You know, it was the most terrible event in the history of the world!"
I saw Him,
I swear, I swear to all the withered flowers in the world
I saw the shadow of the God of History
behind the face of the Japanese girl.
He was quite invisible in her eyes,
but not in my mind's eye.
I shouted, I shouted with rage,
"Hey Sir, Sir!
What is the use of history and being invisible?
Didn't you hear her?
What is the use of
spending years and years in your goddamn classes,
mastering your goddamn ages,
when no one wants to remember you?
Prove me your worth, and show me your support.
Support me for your own sake!"
But He said nothing.
He disappeared among the crowd,
sitting in His Chariot, scattering all The Truth, no doubt!


Though it was a cold evening
in the streets of Manhattan,
I was walking like a wanderer
at the edge of society
quite alone.
I had just seen a movie, a documentary,
at New School.
It kept creeping into my head,
gripping its fingers around my throat,
the red-rimmed eyes of the little boy,
who happened to be Palestinian.
His brother, his vanished brother,
wrapped in his bloody shroud in front of his eyes,
and his mother, his soundless mother
grieving bitterly in pain.

Oh, What a heavy weight of sorrow you must bear nameless generations of men!
Oh, What a heavy weight of sorrow you must bear powerless generations of men!

There were no tears left in the little boy's eyes
when he stared darkly through the American reporter's camera telling him:
"You know, the face of your camera is as dark as the face of Power."

And there, we saw all the grief, all the suffering.

It was a battleground, tank battle.
So dreadful!
In the depth of terror,
down, deep down,
down on the earth
when I heard the shout of brutality
I saw Him again.
hand in hand with the Demon of Power, eradicating the seed of all The Truth.
"O God, O silent God,
I'm sick of you, and your delusive faces!
Can you see the misery?
Your misery!
Many among us thought
You were our patron saint,
our memories, stories, voices, struggles, and all our truth!
We blessed you with honors!
No wonder you won't hear me!
No wonder you won't see me!
Your soul is withered in darkness!"

He was lost with the wind,
hand in hand with the Demon of Power,
sitting in His Chariot, scattering all The Truth, no doubt!


At the Academy of History,
among all those heavily titled historians, professors, scholars
who had come long ways to worship
I was a madwoman
alone on the stage
reading my verses.

I hoped, I really hoped, one of them, at least one of them, wished to buy my verses.
I hoped, I really hoped, one of them, at least one of them, wished to appreciate My Truth.

There was a long pause.
Their eyes were fixed on me.

One said: "That's a rebellion!"
The other said: "She deserves reproach!"

The time announced 6 p.m. April 19th, 2002
when I was kicked out from the Academy of History.

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Send an email to Maryam Kordkheili




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