I walk these colonized streets with Punjab’s light in my eye,

when I see people they always give me that colonized “hi”,

my skin carries my mom’s stories and my dad’s pride,

my nose ring hangs with the songs my Dadhi sang before she died.

“Where are you from?” is a question I have learned to hate,

I feel like yelling “I’m from the same land you’re from stop your ignant’ hate”,

Instead I answer with my Dadha’s pride and educate

them,

Its not their fault,

it’s all they are taught,

their ancestors left India’s people to rot,

after taking everything that they had, GUN SHOTS’,

fired. Exhausting them from wars they fought.

for them, for their mistakes and greed for more,

my words carry stories from those that they hurt and the pain they store,

of the rape of land and women, stories of injustices and gore,

yet we still walk on the streets they tore,

apart.

We still walk with turbans to the sky,

We dance to bhangra with our warrior eyes ,

our mothers and sisters wear their suits with pride,

we carry our farms in all countries we carry the stories of those who have died.

In bluestar tears afraid of bluestar fears,

waiting for truth to persevere,

instead we are given less hope as (operation) bluestar nears,

Again.

 

A poem by Nivie Dhami

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