Castrated Warriors Poem by Mustafa Marconi

> Early this morning in San Migelito
> Children ran frantically for their lives
> Mothers cried out for their young
> While two cousins embrace for the very last time
> A pre- selected portion of the evening news
> Examined the gun epidemic and the rise of violence
> As the littered dirt road leading from poverty to nowhere
> Claims another lost descendant of African origin
> In these traditionally poverty stricken towns
> The clever cameraman instinctively focuses on the decaying raw garbage
> Scattered throughout the dusty streets
> Bystanders complain that the neighborhood is dangerous
> And that the police presence is rare and tremendously ineffective
> The blood soaked cousin refuses to be interviewed
> And as the reporter begins to leave
> He angrily shouts out, 'His Blood Is On Your Hands'……
> A few miles away in what was once known as the Canal Zone
> The restaurants and after hour clubs are standing room only
> The streets are sparkling and very well illuminated
> The scent of romance fills the night air
> And young lovers are holding hands as they stare into a moonlight sea
> It is as if San Migelito did not even exist
> To the concerned citizens and backseat politicians
> The violence is a recent phenomenon
> A troubling new trend spearheaded by youth and ignorance
> The hungry do not understand why they are hungry
> And the overfed do not care if the hungry ever eat
> It is the tale of two different ways of life
> Weaved together under the banner of patriotism
> Where nationalism trumps racial identity
> And where politics, policies, financial clout, and opportunities
> Are disproportionally apportion alone racial lines
> The poor and disenfranchised do not see race
> So they do not understand their predicament
> They do not identify with their ancestral lineage
> So they cannot comprehend their enthusiastic compliance
> To a life of compromise, sacrifice and servitude
>
> 'Let he who is without sin cast the first stone'
> A moment of silence for the deceased as the pastor comforts the family
> The 40 to 50 grievers pay their last respects and begin their journey
> To the home of the deceased
> Detours to local establishments for refreshments and trinkets of condolences
> Underscores the true issues in San Miguelito
> For a community that does not control its own economy
> Is predestined to exist in second class citizenship
> In theses traditionally poverty stricken towns
> Nationalistic pride trumps everything else
> The clever media and politicians instinctively focus on patriotism
> As crime riddles the neighborhood
> And police presences continues to be rare and highly ineffective
> The hungry do not understand why they are hungry
> And the overfed do not care if the hungry ever eat
> As the littered dirt roads leading from poverty to hopelessness
> Welcomes new generations of menial workers, working poor
> Criminals, hoodlums, and gangsters
> It is the tale of two different ways of life
> Weaved together under the red, white, and blue flag
> Of the Republic Of Panama
> Where nationalism trumps racial identity
> And where politics, policies, financial clout, and opportunities
> Are disproportionally apportion alone racial lines
> The poor and disenfranchised do not see race
> So they do not understand their predicament
> They do not identify with their ancestral lineage
> So they cannot comprehend their enthusiastic compliance
> To a life of compromise, sacrifice and servitude
> Tomorrow Morning in San Miguelito
> Mothers will continue to cry out for their sons
> And 'their blood will be on your hands'.
>