RESISTANCE : A BIRD
Resistance is a hungry bird in a cage left behind with a forbidden piece of meat.
The bird gazes at the meat. Hunger burns in its belly. Years passed suppressing this liquid that people proclaimed as anger — and anger for existing, an anger for desiring to exist and an anger for believing this naïve desire to exist is in itself an anger.
Who plays a tug of war with heaven? A blind judge sitting there never learns how to unravel the soft silk that blindfolds him. He who believes the world is a dark place by merely closing his eyes never knows how to sink in his teeth.
You must not dare asking that judiciary to stand where your wings were snapped. You are supposed to simply bow down your body that sits up like an exclamation mark in humbleness. You must take your dignity that arches its spine for you as your walking stick.
But slowly, inhabitant. Walk lightly. Your feet are sinking into this earth. How could you dare leaving behind trails for travelers to write sonnets in remembrance?
Resistance is an angry bird in a cage left behind with a forbidden piece of meat.
A wind carries the scent of spices and juices to the bird. The meat is still fresh, the bird has been made conscious of its delicacy. To provoke is to fuel someone’s agony but what it really becomes when agony is a mere medium for self-entertainment?
A knot in the belly, a knot in disgust. Even greed corrupts the purest of hearts, ask Eve. ‘I refuse to eat, I will die a martyr’ The bird professes loudly.
A grebe looks over from a nearby pond. It smiles, extending its humanness from one creature to another. It preens and then chews on a feather. Somewhere, a snake is eating its own tail.
The bird begins to chew along, joining a ritual of survival but adapting to necessity can never change anyone’s true nature.
After choking on an eagle feather, the bird reaches for the juice dripping from the meat to swallow. Resistance is an angry eagle in a cage left behind with a forbidden piece of meat. What a relief to be cured. What a grief to be abandoned. What a horror to be known.
The eagle cries upon breaking its oath. The savoury taste lingers in its mouth. It is alarmingly aware and perhaps an awakening is the most frightening emotion.
Every breathing creature functions on lust. Take a look at that oak tree. It stretches its arm to the sky. It wants to pluck o stars. Yet, its angers are rooted down, exploiting the fragile body of soil in their love air.
The half-eaten meat is still tender. Just one bite, the eagle oaths. Promises, rules, laws, oaths — all solemn only after first violation.
A bite turns into a mouthful and then, senses are forgotten, sincerity is stripped, bigger becomes a share to rip apart the meal — a human heart.
Resistance is an angry eagle in a cage left behind with a human heart.
There is no morsel left. The eagle closes its eyes to sleep soundly till vitamins absorbing in its body stretch a little. It dreams.
A world outside where daisies dance, the sky is blue in rhymes of children singing nearby. In this version, the eagle survives. It flies higher and preys on a grebe to devour its neck. This is how everyone lived. This is a testament of freedom that the eagle has realised.
When sorrow is driven by anger, it becomes madness. The eagle strikes on the cage, pulling apart by its beak each bar, rib by rib. It breaks through and slips away.
Resistance is an angry eagle in the chest left behind with a human heart.
An old woman sits by her balcony, waiting for her son to return home. Her son is a newscaster who wears a press vest so his homeland is not forgotten in the mass tragedy of the world.
On the opposite side, a teenage boy inhales the last love letter from his beloved. Jasmine oozes from each stroke. He says his beloved once aspired to be a writer.
His sister calls him from the kitchen. She is wearing her late mother’s pink summer dress and old leather shoes that are loose for her — they will always be. She heads out to work as a babysitter.
For the sixth time that afternoon, the baby cried on her father’s shoulders. A spoon of white rice of silence is fed. It tastes too sweet and the world from her father's shoulders used to be much more peaceful.
What I am saying is, martyrs are not a symbol of resistance.
War loves people and cities till they are grey. It writes their names in black on pages that fade into yellow with time. Pages become Editions, Editions become Numbers. They multiply till no longer possible to roll o anyone’s tongue smoothly.
And death is a shy lover that lingers by the door. She has left behind her muer as an excuse to meet again. An opportunity to pull you closer by your returning arm. A chance to kiss you deep. An obligation of staying for eternity.
Ghazal Azad is an Asian writer, focusing their works on nature, love and liberation, and their interconnective — something they had learnt from their ancestors. You can find them on twitter or bluesky (@odeonoud)
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