The letter



It is tough for me to think of you as a product of a biochemical blissful event, a distinct moment in time.
Should I have sniffed the life out of you the moment I held you in my arms?

The pain, the struggle that I went through to bring you here, yes, I should have known better.
Look in the mirror and read my words aloud.
See, where one of the greatest sins, Greed, has gotten you?

My eyes are wet and I have failed as a mother, but this burqa will fool you.
For your aversive tribute to your childhood and the love we seemed to share.

A new mother will be grateful for the lessons you teach her;
The case study of how not to raise a son.
The only place left for you to be a hero, a man, is the bedroom.

But then, I have taken Asma’s word for it, for you are her batta.
You have now succeeded in raping every child’s view of a beautiful and peaceful world.

In the words of an unequivocal teenager, “You suck!”
I do not wish to poison you, because I pray each day for your extreme violent death.

Remember, I am a strong mother, history will tell you I have survived the loss of a child.
And to go down in narratives as the woman behind the Syrian revolt, I will, if I have to.
My end seems to be nearer, my neck will snap as my head hangs in shame.

Yours truly,





Assad says in an interview with ABC: “….No government in the world kills its people, unless it’s led by a crazy person…..”


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