No Ocean Here: Stories in Verse about Women from Asia, Africa, and the Middle East by Sweta Srivastava Vikram, (2013-02-08), (World Voices), Modern History Press, Kindle Edition
No Ocean Here
Like a gypsy with no shoes
I walk humbly through cultures,
Documenting stories for women without a voice
No Ocean Here presents portraits of girls and women of Asia, Africa, and the Middle East, where women are often stripped of basic human rights and lack basic means of education and protection. It’s a beautiful collection of poignant poems that covers difficult subjects such as domestic violence, honor killing, dowry deaths, female infanticide, arranged marriage, female excision, prostitution of widowhood, rape, trafficking, misuse of religion and child abuse. The author of the book is Sweta Srivastava Vikram, an award-winning writer, two times Pushcart Prize nominated-poet, novelist, author, essayist, columnist, and educator. Vikram decided to write this book ‘because listening, telling, and writing the stories of those who can’t write them will create awareness’. She writes that ‘over a period of time, every story I heard, every interview I conducted led me to believe that women and girls in many parts of the world, even today, deal with gender inequality and violence. Numerous issues still exist in all areas of life, ranging from the cultural, political to economic’.
Extracts from this collection of poems
She Is Story
The tides in the ocean urge her to tell her story
Her wounds are mysterious
Her wounds are mysterious like the Congo;
The depth unseen to the world but home to insects
Rarely heard,
She is just an asterisk on an endless list*
Ocean of Knowledge
Fins don’t let you walk,
She forgot.
She swam like a lost mermaid,
In circles,
Unable to swim away
Mayit Nar
(In some parts of Gaza, mayit nar (acid) is thrown on women who don’t cover their faces)
Her palms, reaching out to God
Hold onto the hem of ambiguity
Wishing the silence of the ocean would explain
The mirage of her freedom
War
All cavities of the women’s trust were emptied out
When each man selected a victim
Breast Ironing
The petals of red bougainvillea
Will fill
The current of the winds
Seated in a rocking chair,
Her braid will sway back and forth
Her shadow will finally not stare
At the blades of the ceiling fan,
Waiting for the torture to end
