Immigration Roads

On the Sea shaking on a tiny ship, 10 masked Africans, in their hands ladles…
On the fore of the boat, they boiled rice on an outdoor gas tank, they caught fish and cooked them, on a wide-wide open trip.
How much food can fit in a tiny ship?

Refugees, struggling with huge waves coming at a boat like sharp rocks, unable to breath stuffed together on trucks, are moving from south to north, from east to west to open the routes of migration.
The immigrants road is not free or easy, it is a blocked road with a huge wall, people are buried in this wall.
“Empty stomachs are being globalized!” with screams…
A coast comes into view, this is a forbidden world with guards and protectors looking.
There are nameless corpses on the coast, the huge sharp rock-like waves are applauding

While immigrating from their homes, not even hunger, thirst or the fear of death…
Can make them forget that their children cry out for food, the poetry of their lovers’ music on their souls.
What has become of their homeland? How far away is it?

Why are you trying to escape, explain?
With the wars of imperialism
Your place on earth has been stolen, your land has been raided.
With a days wages they race with nothingness
Not even able to work for a filled stomach.
As you left all you took with you was war and poverty
What was left of war and poverty.
In history the boat always tilts these two sides.
Whatever else poverty is a natural law, right
It is a biologic rule so say the forbidden world’s knowledgeable folks!

Hasan tried to explain what it was to be a refugee, his head rested on hand, his elbow on a table, his mind hurt from a headache.
He was still on rocky waters on the ship that had brought him to this dry land.
“How many days did your journey take?” I asked him.
He said, “I don’t remember the numbers of sunsets and sunrises, the ways sun lifting up and sinking back on planet made our world red and purple in the dust and dawn. I can’t remember.”
Maybe 10, maybe…
He had forced doors open, he had wanted a home here, he had wanted food, he kept coming to the trash of Istanbul.
He was a trash sorter here.
As Istanbul shines on in the night with its fast “sexy” neon light, Hasan carries a sack on his back, travels the landscape of giant Istanbul
He passes huge African Statues on display in a museum…
The name of this museum is “Spoils”…

Arif Murat Gür
June 13, 2011

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Arif Murat Gür is a writer, poet and activist who lives both in Istanbul and Holland. He can be reached at arifmuratgur@hotmail.com

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