-i’m Arab, nine

-i’m Arab, nine

They want the exotic of you,
not the reality of you,
they fancy all things,
media propped into their minds.

If they could,
they would take only the sound of the ney,
on a sandstorm backdrop,
palm trees rustling,
harems filled with boy servants,
and jewellery on plates.

But they don’t want your stubborn skin,
your eyes so dark,
because they carry the weight,
of what your ancestors have seen,
even if your eyes are sky blue,
emerald green,
or almond brown.

They don’t want your bulging discs,
because your backs are so heavy,
with the weight of the world wanting,
the black sludge under the ground,
your peoples blood is being used to paint the canvases of war.

Their addiction to the canvas,
to our paint, to the sludge.

They can’t survive,
it’s their drip feed,
it’s our curse.

Keep your callused hands they say,
because we have no use for the soil you tended to for generations.

Were gonna’ turn it over,
and build pipelines through your hearts,
and then when you turn your backs on your homes,
we’ll have the audacity to call you savages,
homeless, barbaric, refugees ……
But we’ll still want your exotic.

We’ll holiday in Dubai,
hashtag ‘exotic’ all day,
drape our heads with your veils,
to show how accommodating we are to customs,
and when we get back home,
turn on the news and revolt at seeing a woman in a veil.

Just last week, it was exotic,
and now it makes you neurotic.

I’m exotic when they want me to be.

English tongue,
Arab heart,
Olive skin that sizzles a copper brown,
reminisce of the Moroccan pots you hang,
I’m Under your southern sun,
but still….
it’s that Muslim soul…
whatever are we going to do about that thing.

We can’t have him using our language,
to spread love like fire rings,
that’s not part of the narrative,
that the media sings,
that’s not what we can slot,
into the category of terrorising,
speaking  of terror rising,
when were you thinking,
of giving back the land,
and stopping all the Aboriginal killing?

I’m exotic when they want me to be.

When the words sink deep into their souls,
and make them wonder,
just how the fuck I can write what they’re thinking,
what they hid from everyone.

He’s just be a gypsy magician,
he must have access to a realm we don’t.
For  the most part, I do,
it’s my father’s blood, and his father’s blood,
it’s my mother’s womb, and her mothers womb.

I’m exotic when they want me to be,
but for the most part I’m Arab,
because I was made a refugee from Australia the minute I was born here.

W.E.

Read whilst listening to this.