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Nazreen Fazal
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Letters Written Never Sent

Darling,A year has gone by without you by my side. After 35 years of being one with you, I spent the last one year collecting the stray pieces of my soul you left in your wake. I haven't finished yet.Losing you was getting my skin peeled, breathing smoke, and falling into a dark, endless pit. All at once.People come and try to console. They tell me 'time will heal everything',...

Continue Reading 13 Apr 2016

How to MAKE a Girl in Ten Steps

For those who don’t want to break her in ten steps.

Continue Reading 12 Apr 2016

Muslims Get Depressed

'True Muslims don't get depressed' he thundered off the mimbar. "If you really believe in Allah you will not get sad. Ever."With that the imam sealed Her a weak Muslim, or worse, a disbeliever. The voices in Her head laugh gleefully. 'You never belonged'. One cackles and says 'You are insane.' and another one, most solemn of all, announces 'Maybe it's time to put an end to this.' 'Maybe you...

Continue Reading 06 Apr 2016

Not A Fairy Tale

Once upon a time, in a far away land, lived a people who did not care for the Little Things. They cared so little for the Little Things that soon the not-so-little things became mere Little Things too. One may wonder what took up all their attention, so much so that they stopped caring for the poor Little Things. Well, it was the Big Things- much much bigger-happening in lands...

Continue Reading 30 Mar 2016

BOOM

BoomGo the blasts fromindifferent bombsin distant lands andecho round the worldwhen the right shade bleeds.The screen feeds more tweets aboutSenseless violence whensome nations shake andmake exceptions when otherlands quake underoutsourced violenceof the everyday,within borders on bodies imprisoned.What is this prismthat bends light andmakes blood more redwhen certain bodies bleed and break?Explain this new lexicon of tragedywhere borders decide solidarity.Or do lives matter more locatedoutside the peripheries?Explain why some deaths are...

Continue Reading 27 Mar 2016

For the Omran Daqneeshs of the world.

The image still haunts me. I see it when I close my eyes. I’m there. Outside the ambulance, looking in. There is debris, there is dust–lots of it–floating everywhere. And then there is Omran, seated on a bright orange seat. The only thing providing contrast to his otherwise dull dress of dust being his own blood, painting half his face. That dust should have been mud from playing football with...

Continue Reading 22 Feb 2016
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