Offerings
by Tahani Almujahid
The first time I went to the farm with my father, he told me not to worry. All the other children will be there, watching their fathers too, like they were lining up at the edge of heaven. My father held its slender body, instructing his desire, a sacrifice. the way our prophet Ibrahim did, almost with his son, then, with Allah’s exchange for an animal. A logic, a test of obedience, to the one who created us Allah’s voice calls and sounds like blustering wind for the ones who choose not to obey, weeping in blood-squished condensation When I saw how the sheep was killed, head pointing in the air, I thought, It’s time. It’s dying already. It will meet its creator in a fog of a day’s celebration But not for me, I felt an inarticulate ache in my chest. Then, I reasoned, it is gone, far away, in a better place. It did not cry for a blessing. It rested its jaw in a solitary offering. Still, I cannot tell the line between enchanted and enchained. But when there is a living creature in your hands, their life between your fingers, safety or demise. Or sometimes, both in a secret of blood’s splatter,
Writer Spotlight Tahani Almujahid
“...On one hand, you want to represent your community in the best way that you can and also call out issues that you and your community might be facing. Sometimes, I try to stray away from it; I try not to fall into the orientalist tropes. Sometimes we don’t realize we’re doing it. And especially being children of immigrants; sometimes you might be unwittingly writing off the experience of your parents, or writing off experiences of people in your community who you aren’t even related to. I always question myself and think, ‘Am I allowed to write about these others’ experiences? Does it even remain authentic?’... How do you write an authentic piece of work without overstepping towards any group of people, even if that group of people are your own? The ending of the poem is what I find most important. I know, a lot of people think that they need to have that starting point where they think, ‘Oh, if I read this first line, everything else after that is going to be so good.’ I feel the need to have the story reel in the reader at the beginning subtly, but at the end, I really want to leave them with the punch.”
The power is daunting, it is never truly yours. Everything is written. We go back to our roots. The meat, its tenderness melts on my tongue. my head is thick. My mind is always hungry. My grave is already plotted.
5
Hear more from the writer on our website!
6
