There is nothing banterish about this collection of poems by @thebrownhijabi. In itself, the evocation of ‘banter’ in the title of her debut solo book conceals the forensic and incisive social commentary that we are treated to throughout each poem – perhaps speaking to how this young poet sees her own early progression in the world – her wisdom being masked by self-deprecation. This isn’t just a book of ‘fire poetry’, this work must be considered an education beyond the immediate artistry of her verse.
Even the dark humour that permeates the pages of the collection cannot be reduced to banter, the acerbic wit has a constant feeling of poignancy. You get a real sense of this from the titles, and the oft-accompanying subtitles that so readily capture Suhaiymah’s lack of reticence in discomforting the reader. ‘STRADDLING THE / LINE you’ll know if it’s for you’ - there isn’t any hiding, as the poetry address typologies of abuse. The reader is forced to confront themselves by the notion that they may well be the subject of the poem’s content. This immediately makes the target of her critique both simultaneously knowable and unknowable - a difficult thing to achieve. We are treated to a form of critique that is generalised to become advice, and not specified to embarrass - and just like the best of the Prophet Muhammad’s (saws) advice, it was given to make people consider its implications in their own lives.
Another example of this comes in ‘PICK ONE for the woman who asked’ “Muslim, Feminist, or Human?” (p.90). The unnamed woman who asked this question is provided a response, and while she is not named, her name is meaningless because Suhaiymah’s response is never a personal attack, it’s a moment of critique and education. Even if you don’t get it, if you can’t read yourself into the lines of the verse, then it doesn’t matter, because THIS POEM IS NOT FOR YOU - her poetry is an act of truth-speaking that carries its own power, one that is more about her own relationship with the world and the hereafter than it is about you getting the point of it:
and if it is for you
then at least let me tell you
don’t you dare file it away some place
don’t you dare blink-nod it into the “race” draw
or “mm”-scrunch-eye it into the “colonialism” cupboard
don’t token-applaud it into the “feminism” lever-arch
I can see you doing it now
this poem is beyond you (p.14)
The poetry isn’t about simply screaming into the void; this is an opening into her own development as a person. The one who grates at her brother’s use of the word ‘paki’ in front of her. We follow their relationship around this word in PAKIas she smiles at his fourth use of it in front of her, but if you know Suhaiymah, then you can see the gentleness and care with which she seeks to teach herself and her sibling in this moment – it’s a journey she will take with him:
I lead him into the kitchen
cut out our tongues
and sew them back together in new shapes
relearning the language of our grandmother (p.20)
There is a tutelage that occurs that is not just of her making, it is recognised in the homage that she pays to her mother, but also to her maternal grandparents, there is a poem for NANI and NANA but a more general and genuine love for those who have laid a platform for our lives, because the only people she wants “to fall in love with me / are old women” (p.36) – a reverence for their wisdom, love and kindness that isn’t a throwback to a bygone era – this is part of how she is rooting her contemporary strength, and being completely unashamed about that. As we are sold ideas of atomization, of happiness through material things rather than being intricately connected to our communities, Suhaiymah’s sharing of her own private relationships with these elderly women feels like an ultimate ethic of counter-culture:
The shy offering urges me to take the plunge
and the plunge feels more like floating
so I reach into it
I say, squeezing the flesh of her right lower leg
I say, mei aap ko boht pyaar karti hu
adamantly focusing my eyes on her shin (p.36)
Immediately with these words I am transported to New Garden Town in Lahore, in the home of my own Nani, squeezing her legs as a child, as my brothers, cousins, aunts and uncles sit around her listening to her stories of the past, a melding of laughter, crying and joy, of being present and in that moment. The sharing of these intimate moments has so much more meaning than the simple act of sharing a tender moment, we are confronted with the latest version of our own connections or lack thereof. As Muslims, we’re told to maintain ties to family, and by the end of VOICES ROLL OVER THE CHARPAI you can only ask yourself, am I doing enough?
That is the thing about Suhaiymah, she doesn’t see the world in narrow areas in the way that subject matter area experts do, she is engaging with it all simultaneously, so poems about her grandparents never seem out of place with her critique of the War on Terror. There is nothing secular in this collection as faith, identity, politics and family are in constant conversation because for her:
If all the oceans were ink
they would run dry before the words of my Creator did (p.118)
This is the Creator that Suhaiymah recites “subhanallahi wa bihamdihi” (p.73) to as she cycles her way to my favourite mosque in the UK, Lewisham. Much like her, it is a space that doesn’t secularise the prayer from the mosque from the praying with our feet that Martin Luther King Jr spoke of – that interacting with the real world, working with local communities, engaging in issues of social justice and speaking truth to power are all part and parcel of a complete Muslim life. Her ode to prayer and the mosque in A POEM THAT WINDS THROUGH THE STREETS OF LEWISHAM reads more like a litany than it does a poem:
mosque is a girl in a mosque
head rounded dome-like gazing downwards
legs rooted firmly to the ground side by side cacophony of nations
voices like hands sliding over each other in salaam
girl thinks of writing a poem when praying
thinks praying is a poem – no incentive but another world (pp.73-74)
All of this possibly comes back to one of the central themes of Suhaiymah’s writing, which is an escape from what William Blake described in London as the “mind-forg’d manacles” – the chains that we are bound by in a world not of our making. The world she inhabits, is one that only ever ‘sees’ her as an object as she proclaims in Q: “WHAT DOES IT MEAN TO BE A MUSLIM WOMAN?” – a question that recognises the epistemic violence that is often accompanied with attempts to construct Muslim women externally:
It is to be always an object
object of fascination: veiled body object of desire: mystery body
object of ridicule: letterbox body
always an object. (p.84)
This objectification is raised immediately in the following poem ‘SCHOOL INSPECTORS IN ENGLAND HAVE BEEN TOLD TO START ASKING YOUNG GIRLS IN PRIMARY SCHOOL WHY THEY ARE WEARING A HIJAB IN ORDER TO ASCERTAIN IF THEY ARE BEING SEXUALISED.’ for Ofsted – a direct response to attempts to save Muslim women from themselves. It is in these poems that you find her strongest voiced reserved, she calls out the hypocrisy of state institutions that have little interest in actually caring for Muslim women when the state is responsible for the harm that is perpetrated against them:
you do not care about Muslim girls when we are drowning
when we are neglected
when we are at your borders
when we are starving
when we are in detention centres waiting for deportation (p.87)
Fittingly, this collection is ended with the poem that captured the imagination of Muslims all over the world as the strength of her words went viral across the internet. THIS IS NOT A HUMANISING POEM was relatable on so many levels that even two years later, it still moves audiences despite the number of times they might have heard it. The fundamental truth of her words, is that they reverse all preconceived notions on how Muslims are caged, how they are required to exist within secular modernity, and her subversion of those notions stands as the anthem to our resistance, and so like Suhaiymah, I will end this piece with her words:
Instead
love us when we’re lazy
love us when we’re poor
love us in our back-to-backs, council estates, depressed, unwashed and weeping
love us high as kites, unemployed, joy-riding, time-wasting, failing at school
love us filthy, without the right colour passports, without the right sounding English
love us silent, unapologizing, shopping in Poundland
skiving off school, homeless, unsure, sometimes violent
love us when we aren’t athletes, when we don’t bake cakes
when we don’t offer our homes, or free taxi rides after the event when we’re wretched, suicidal, naked and contributing nothing
love us then
Because if you need me to prove my humanity
I’m not the one that’s not human (pp.140-141)