Dibs Camp, the Women's Prison Poem by Choman Hardi

You do not die! Not when you want to.
Not when you see your strong husband, the big
brother in his own family, kicked bloody by a group
of men equipped with loaded guns and hatred.

Not when your beautiful teenage daughter
is handpicked by soldiers, never comes back.
And for the rest of your life you are left to wonder:
was she sold to prostitution? Does she still live?


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Not when your son withers in your lap
and he cries until he can no more, when the last thing
he asks of you is ‘cucumber', and you give him
a green slipper to suckle on, because he is beyond

knowing the difference. No. Not even when
the rest of your children grow fed up with
your black garments, secret tears, headaches
when you smell cucumber. You do not die.