The Other Warriors Poem by Shikhandin Shikhandin

You talk of hatred, bullets, bombs
and bad memories. Here
we inherit these things
from our fathers and mothers, who
in turn inherited them from theirs and sometimes
their uncles and aunts too. For generations now
we have fought to retain what is
ours. We are the terrorists, anti-nationalists and even
petty thieves and murderers. When
our families find our dead
and mutilated bodies, they do
the last rites in secrecy and honor us
as martyrs and heroes as best as they can. This is

our way of life. Fighting, fighting, freedom
fighting. And, I trained my son
to wield a gun when he turned three. Who
knows how soon it will be time
for him to assume the mantle
of man of the house?
Our women learn
to sing and cook and sew up open wounds
as easily as they learn to make
crude bombs. Our legends sing
of war, but this, our existence is a legend too
that we will pass down
to our children's children, should
our race survive

this holocaust that rages quietly
in the jungles, the streams and hill slopes,
while our history is not worth
the price of newsprint. That is why
we create new songs
to last us through the day and each day
brings with it a new war with
its new ways, and the battles are waged
seemingly following the same
pattern of blood red pain
and bone white cries. As the thrashing

of the river carp shining
deathly silver in the sunlight, the distant
toll of falcons cutting air
beside military copters, the wilting
of the Morning Glory leaving
behind its shy perfume, and all
these insignificant, ordinary
things that still bring joy remain
seemingly fixed to a certain
gap in time hanging
in the endless space of mankind's history. So
our beliefs, our faiths tread
silently through the forest paths, and you,
your people have no idea at all
of the secret songs beating
a hidden history
of a people
that you don't even consider human.

(First Published in The Arabesque Review, Algeria)