These poems are part of Migrant Women Press’s 16 days of activism against gender-based violence.
Photo by Jessica Felicio on @Unsplash
Gender or biology
he was a strong man
when he pushed me
I went flying
hitting the tall windows
my body wasn’t heavy enough
to break the glass but it
shook the house
he was a strong man
who could not swim and
was scared of
Escalators.
Solange
In the morning she calls
her voice loud and shaky.
Cries echo down the line,
I feel a drop in my chest.
“Solange?
Can you hear me?
I can’t…”
Line’s cutting out and I hear broken shrieks.
They’re twins,
two months old,
staying in a Children’s Services guesthouse.
Temporary accommodation.
“Bugs. Bugs everywhere,” Solange says.
We don’t speak the same language.
It’s hard on the phone.
Only broken sentences and cries.
“In bed. Bugs. My babies. Cold,” she says.
Later in the morning I see her
holding one
pushing the other in a single-seat buggy.
She shows me their little arms and legs.
Bitten, swollen, red.
We need to get them out of here.
Today.
I’m on the phone
Solange and babies beside me
Strangers passing by.
They seem familiar.
I want them to help.
There isn’t another room available.
They can only stay until they’re deported.
Illegal immigrants, after all.
These babies are
British.
Their father is British.
We’re trying to get him to sign the papers.
Some more time in a safe place.
DNA test?
He’s not around.
He’s left.
They suggest voluntary return.
They strongly recommend it.
“She was raped at gunpoint back home,”
I shout at the eyes shooting at me.
Only me.
Not Solange.
Not the babies.
“By an official.
A policeman.”
“No, there’s no proof.”
“There isn’t.”
“They would be returned and settled safely.
And there’s money
for the first week or so,”
says the man
going through files.
Efficient.
Pedantic.
I’m on the phone.
Battery’s dying.
Line’s breaking up. I go outside.
Crowds are pushing.
I’m on hold.
I look around. Where are they?
“Solange? Solange?”
She’s gone. Where is she?
Phone dies.
I rush back in. They’re not there.
I’ve lost them,
but the crowd doesn’t care.
5 minutes pass.
They come out of a bathroom,
buggy in hand, baby in another.
“Come here. Let me hold him.”
In the evening we are sitting on a bench,
four of us.
No one’s talking.
No one’s crying.
Birds are singing and the light is fading.
A call comes in,
bringing another room with it.
Available for ten days.
A shared kitchen on the ground floor.
Heating system.
We need to be there by six.
Dead of night and we’re sitting in the room
Solange is breastfeeding.
One of them is fast asleep.
I explain,
she nods.
She points at the buggy, shows me one finger and says,
“One”.
She points at the babies and says,
“Two”.
“You need a two-seat buggy?” I ask.
She nods.
She smiles.
I know, Solange. I know.
Mariam Saidan is a Specialist Advocate for Women’s Rights at Ashiana Network and has worked as a Children’s Rights Advocate. She studied Human Rights Law at Nottingham University and Creative Writing at Kent University. Mariam was born in London and has lived in Iran, France, and the UK. She wrote her first journal when she was eight while travelling with her family in Iran during the Iran-Iraq war. Her pamphlet “Far From Home” is due to be published in 2024, and her most recent publications can be found at ‘Kent Review’, ‘ink sweat & tears’ and ‘The Bombay Review’.
