I am the remnant of Xerxes' armies,
The last of the barbarians
I do not know that two thousand years
Have elapsed since then.
I have fought on both sides,
With equal ferocity. Every single man
Of my clan is an enemy. I live neighborless.
My ethos are determined by cruelty
I am known for that
And take pride in that.
I have no city of my own, and only live
In the suburbs of other cities.
I am still a herdsman,
I take slight on any judgment against me.
I have been a mercenary, be it in Abdali's
Command, or some Ghaznavi, or Khushal.
I prefer red color of revolution,
But am color-blind. Wrapped in green
Or eternal black.
I am the second army, unpaid, untrained,
I am the conqueror of Kashmir
‘Defeated' the Soviet Union,
And have been given the sword of religion
A disciple of Ipi, Powinda or Akhund,
Or their latest versions.
A mard-e kohistani, i.e. man from the hills -
Holder of the ‘bigger fort'.
I need a pat on my back
A piece of bread,
Then I am readily a suicide-bomber.
I love hospitality
And am consort to the whole world's
Hardened ‘fighters'.
I hate being called modern,
Can't even speak other language,
I am monoglot. I live in hills behind big
Mud walls, with metal gates.
I am a prisoner,
Without being in prison.
I love the sight of airplanes, bombing me,
Like an ape, drones and Howitzer canons
Even if I am tied to its mouth.
I am a captive, in occupation, and every time
Humiliated, the most sought after criminal
Is hidden underneath my cap.
My women have not forgotten,
The practice, and have taken it
As a fashion, -that they not talk to husbands,
Or call them by name, and vice versa
Or share a meal with them,
Because the fathers and brothers of certain
Women had been killed by invaders, (in remote times)
And since they think of me, of that invader too,
And pass on the woes to daughters.
Educating women is against my honor
I prefer killing them, and those others
Want me to perpetuate it, for their benefit.
My history is full of follies,
One, Syrian pir, (a British agent) lead me to capture Kabul,
And few others are telling me, to become a preacher.
A pilgrim, and convert the United States,
Or China, en-bloc - a kind of Pocahontas story.
Though my tongue is that of hell,
But paradise is my destiny,
My spirituality is distorted, I am extremely
Vulnerable. An angst. A dilemma.
People love me for my looks,
My bold disposition and my freedom of spirit
And of the planes they want to identify
With me, but I am a loser, of the first category.
I have a character, pristine and noble
But my curse is still the enemy's bones served
Upon him. I cook lamb whole,
I have not come out of the ‘Herodotus' Histories'.
I am the colonial's classic case,
Of British meekness. I wished the ‘red revolution'
Might have changed me, as they changed
The other tribes, more savage than mine.
I am the last of the barbarians,
I am Pashtun, and a ‘Tribesman'
I need to be rescued, from my own self.
I make therefore an ardent appeal
To the civilized world,
I am a victim,
And I am at the verge of human catastrophe.
Sadiqullah Khan
Islamabad
July 10,2014.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem