Monday, November 12, 2001
I want to talk about RAWA, the Revolutionary Association of the Women of Afghanistan. The slogan of this organization is "If you are freedom-loving and anti-fundamentalist, you are with RAWA".
Perhaps you have already learned of RAWA through the media on shows such as Oprah, Larry King Live or through news coverage by major TV networks in Canada and the U.S.A.
For those of you who haven't I invite you to visit their website at http://rawa.org
RAWA is a political/social organization of Afghan women struggling for peace, freedom, democracy and women's rights in fundamentalism-blighted Afghanistan.
There are many ways we can help RAWA to help others.
Here in my small town twice a month a few female friends come to my home. We discuss. We talk. We learn. I have a small angel vase on my coffee table. After each gathering my friends & I put what money we can afford into the angel. When we have a respectable sum we will send our cheque to RAWA. It's a small thing to do.....but just like the tiny lights glowing throughout our world if we bring enough tiny lights together we can make our world shine with love.
When you visit the website of RAWA you will be inspired by the many ways women are coming together to help the women of Aghanistan. You can help too. Tell your friends about RAWA.
THE GHOSTS OF AFGHANISTAN
a poem by Sue Silvermarie
When I couldn't breathe
when I lifted a corner of the heavy burqa
when I exposed my mouth and nose desperate to gulp air,
they beat me unconscious.
When they beat us again with whips and metal cables
while we waited in the hospital
when the sick babies in their mothers' arms fell on the floor,
my will to live began to tremble.
In the summer of '96 we laughed. I can't remember the sound.
Before that September when the Taliban came
we were no different than you
Now we are the ghosts of Afghanistan
The women and the girls of a whole country
under house arrest.
For trying to go to work, my sister was beaten
For leaving her home alone, my neighbour was tortured
For showing her ankle as she rode behind her husband
on a bike
my girlfriend was shot dead on the street.
My children are shrinking before my eyes but
I am banned from receiving food from the World Food
Programme.
In the orphanage are girls who
have never seen the sun or trees
My sons are being taught
a man should beat a female who is seen
even through the windows of a home or a bus.
I view the world through a patch of mesh
in a voluminous tent that pulls me to stooping
The garment gates me, takes mobility and voice
When the burqa descends over my tender head
I am invisible, a living woman who can't be seen or heard
My woman's will to live
can strengthen only
on the thread that connects me to you.
