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has kept me from the safe
oblivion of sleep.
High school science told me
that nothing escapes the earth’s
atmosphere.
Perhaps this is how the stench
of gasoline and burning tires,
see, douse them in gasoline and
flick a lit match.
Raped Sikh women and children
in a self-righteous quest to defile
our collective beliefs and future.
This is why this era reeks of
scorched hair for it was our hair
untitled by Sves
Pulled Out
By The
Roots
by Nimerta Kaur Dhami
“Spare me,” she sneers,
“everyone’s ancestors were
scalped. Get Over It.”
Get over it. Get over it.
This is how a people’s history
of genocide is disappeared and
unlearned, forgotten before it
could even be remembered to
begin with. No, this was not
The Genocide; admittedly 60
million white europeans were
not tortured, raped, and killed
in this one. Regardless of the
fact that our eurocentric school
curriculums shape history
and memories to applaud
the winning (killing) team,
regardless of the fact that at
the time I was nestled in my
mother’s womb, the smell of
death burning in India’s 1984
scorching hair,
still lingers and wafts from time
to time. And why the collective
screams of some 30,000 dead
Sikhs, not to mention the horror
of their loved ones, still resound
like a ricocheting bullet that will
never lose its inertia.
I do not need to close my eyes
to imagine the trains full of
dead flesh and torn clothing
slithering like evil metal snakes,
or perverted Trojan horses.
Only once these Trojans
reached their destinations
they were slaughtered and
then sent back to be collected
by their families.
Did you know this particular
piece of world history?
A white woman has the privilege
to tell me to “Get over it” while I
am left imagining the panic.
Sickening
Sickened that ordinary people
threw tires over Sikh shoulders,
pinning their arms down, you
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hair turbans beards religion
history of resistance
that made us targets.
Yet this is somehow irrelevant,
somehow trivial compared to
the european genocide we vow
to Never Forget
Kesh
Kanga
Kara
Kirpan
Kachera
Some things are worth too
much
Some histories are too heavy.
I am a 23 year old hairy feminist
committed to anti-racism,
social justice activism, and the
eradication of heterosexism and
homophobia. My interests include
books, chocolate, and the loves of
my life; when I grow up I want to
be a writer and a midwife.
nkdhami@gmail.com
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