is the village grandmother,
who wakes while her husband snores,
walks through fog and mist,
air dense with the moisture of responsibility,
with a dash of cedar.
To pick parsley,
from the seedlings her great grandmother planted on soil of prophets,
lift a hen for its egg, without waking it,
has shoulders muscle thick, carrying pails of water,
to be the early bird that gets the worm,
and the hand of love mending a breakfast for her family.
We’ve known feminism for centuries in Lebanon,
but every man, woman and child dare not question it,
and we laugh at this mockery of delusion,
the pretenders of the west have paraded as being their liberation.
Try and explain your frivolous banter,
to a woman whose hands are callused,
vice griped forearms and calves as thick as tree trunks,
that she is oppressed,
and if her eyes don’t pierce you,
her palm will shatter your jaw,
aptly known as a Kaf,
And the silent mothers and grandmothers worldwide smile at your youthful zeal to identify,
to find meaning in your life,
but they continue being feminist as fuck by doing, not talking.
So my dear sister with grandeur in her mind,
that the woman sitting in a desk chair writing you what everything that feminism is,
is every silent woman’s bitch.
Make no mistake, this man,
wants nothing to do with defining this feminism parade,
I’m just calling what I see,
a spade, a spade.
Don’t be misled,
by what pretends to bleed,
feminism, is under the nails of our grandmothers,
not at your fingertips.
Inspired by a picture I saw on the feed of @pencilfulloflead (handle on instagram) and reminded me of the many grandmothers I’ve met. Love to see anyone try and teach them what feminism is. You’d cop a swift back hander with so much love she’d make you long for another.