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Rangzeb Hussain Feb 2011
I huddled into my collars and looked to the sky,
The day was overcast with yesterday’s lies,
The wind ripped through the streets and sang pain in my ears,
The clouds above heavily pregnant with tears,
On such a dark and cold day...
My eyes beheld a sight full of radiating rays.

Striding down the street in a landscape very urban
was a youth dressed in a gentle green turban,
His white salwar and kameez caressed by the air,
His fresh face beaming shining and clear,
And upon his lips and around his chin
curled a beard neatly combed and oiled from top to rim.

He walked with the confidence of a vibrant caliph,
I did for a moment in my mind stop and marvel at his belief,
This young man was such a contrast to the dark day,
He displayed brilliance and integrity and trod upon truth’s way,
He seemed one who was at ease with God and his deeds,
What a wonderful ambassador for all races and creeds.

As we two passed I offered up a greeting,
“Asalaam Alaikum”.

His eyebrows rippled and coiled like twin cobras lacking intelligence,
He replied to me with the surly silence of arrogance,
He ignored my universal humanity,
He ignored my peaceful charity,
He ignored my friendship and camaraderie,
He ignored God’s solemn word so rich and full of love’s clarity...

This young man...Who was he?
What did he think himself to be?
He was a stranger to me
and a stranger to himself. Could he not see?
He was a stranger even unto God Almighty Himself,
This self-assured man condemned his soul and lost touch with life itself.



©Rangzeb Hussain
Rangzeb Hussain Feb 2011
The shadow crawled up the staircase,
The long bony fingers crept up,
The arm long and wrinkled.

The candle flickered and momentarily flared
creating even more bizarre and terrifying
shadows along the balcony.

The cold air brushed past
the phantom on the stair
as it reached the child’s bedroom door.

An old hand,
wrinkled and dark,
turned the doorknob slowly.

There was a loud creaking as the door swung open.
Inside it was black,
as black as a tomb.

By the light of the silvery moon
a small bed could be seen near the window.
“Hello Grandma,” said the child.



©Rangzeb Hussain
Rangzeb Hussain Feb 2011
Her name is Magda and this is her story.

Cast your mind to another time, another place...

The year is 1939 and the place is Germany. The night is cold, the wind howls and upon the strike of midnight there is a thunderous hammering upon the door where little Magda lives. It is the Gestapo, ******’s secret police, they arrest Magda’s father and send him to clear minefields for the German army. Her father has not committed any crime. He is a law abiding citizen who works hard and is a respected member of society. He is arrested because he happens to be Jewish.

Less than a year after the arrest Magda’s mother receives a letter which says her husband has been killed.

Then, on another wild and frightful night there is thunder once more upon the door. This time the soldiers arrive and take Magda, her mother and Magda’s brother George, who is only four-years old.

They are driven to the railway station and packed into a cattle truck with many other people. The floor of the tight compartment is slippery with cow dung, the walls greasy with grime and dirt, and the air hangs heavy with the stale sweat of fear. The prisoners pray silently.

Magda can feel the heat rising as time passes and her mouth and lips become dry. The air is becoming humid, people are gasping, some have fainted, others are weeping. Magda has no idea how long she has been trapped in this claustrophobic dungeon. Her throat burns but there is no water and no food, just slow and painful suffocation. The journey seems to be without end.

Finally, when she thinks she is about to faint, the train screeches to a halt. There are screams and shouts as the prisoners are pushed and shoved out of the carriages and marched towards the barbed-wire gates of the death camp that looms out of the morning fog. Soldiers stand at the sides pointing rifles at the new prisoners. Magda jumps back from when she sees a huge dog snap at her. The spittle from the dog’s foaming mouth flicks across her wrist and she shivers. She notices the sharp teeth and the raging eyes of the dog. The soldier tugs on the dog’s leash and laughs.

There are men in black leather uniforms who are separating the prisoners into two lines, one for men and one for women. Magda’s little brother George is torn from his mother’s arms and thrown into the line where the male prisoners are waiting. Her mother tries to fight her way through the soldiers but she is thrown back and falls into the mud. When she gets up she sees the line of men close around little George and he vanishes. This will be the last time Magda and her mother will ever see little George.

The seasons change, the world turns and time passes. The year is now 1944 and the prison is a place of hunger, thirst, disease and death. There is nothing but fear and sadness as family after family is killed for no other reason except that they are Jews.

Once more, on a stormy night, there is a scream in the night and Magda wakes up. She reaches over and touches her starving and skeletal mother, she searches for her mother’s warmth and her protection, but on this night when her fingers clutch her mother she finds only the cold. Her mother has passed away during the night.

The next day the Allied Forces arrive and liberate the death camp. Magda is free at last. Her frail body is thin but she has survived. She knows that her mother only lived as long as she did so that Magda would survive.

There is an ambulance waiting and Magda is driven to a hospital and from there she is given the very last seat on a plane bound for Great Britain. She arrives in Birmingham and is welcomed with open arms. The people are friendly, warm, kind and smile when they speak. Magda cannot speak English but in time she learns to read and write and soon she is living with a foster family who treat her with love.

Magda knows that in Germany she was not allowed to go out and play. Her mother could only go to one shop for a few minutes under armed guard. The family had no freedom and no protection. Things in England are different. She can go to school, visit shops and parks, spend time with friends and go to her place of worship without any fear.

Every week she goes to Steelhouse Lane Police station and gets her documents stamped. She can only stay in England if she is a student otherwise she will be deported to Germany.  Thus, Magda studies hard and hopes to go to college. She is still sad inside because she knows when her education ends she will have to return to Germany. Sergeant Roberts, from Steelhouse Lane Police station, smiles warmly and advises her, “Magda, if anyone ever asks you what it is that you’re studying, tell them you’re studying to be a grandmother.”

Once more time spins and this time eighty years have passed and the year is 2011 and the place is Birmingham Town Hall. An elegant lady walks onto the stage, the light bounces on her curly hair creating a silvery halo around her glowing face and the audience wait eagerly to hear her speak. She is calm, peaceful and her voice is clear despite her age. She carries no darkness or hate or vengeance, only love. She looks at the audience and smiles gently and says, “My name is Magda and this is my story...”



©Rangzeb Hussain
Rangzeb Hussain Feb 2011
The night winds sing,
the chorus rings through
the dead hour of the valley.
Hear it, the music of the wolf’s pain.

Against the backdrop of the new moon,
high on an icy blue rocky ridge
with the pine trees stabbing the black sky,
there shivers the weeping wolf.

This day he has lost
two precious things...


Hunters came bearing muskets,
bayonets and torches.
They rampaged through the wood
shooting everything that moved.
The air hung heavy with the stink
of the musket shot.

The wolf’s mate,
a beauty amongst beauties,
had been suckling her pup
when a hunter’s sabre silently sliced
through her fur
and cleaved her silky shoulder.

Death silenced her
and snatched away her pup.
Rangzeb Hussain Jan 2011
You, yes you...

You think you know?

Tell me, what do you know?

You can give me facts and figures,
Lists of numbers and statistics,
You speak in a dry dead monotone,
You know this but you don't feel it.

But know you this...

Every number,
Yes, every number,
Every dot on that page,
They were people.

People who looked different,
Dressed different,
Danced different,
Sang different.

They had the same pearly passions,
The same daily dreams,
The same jolly joys,
The same high hopes.

Into cattle trucks wet with abattoir stink,
Into barbed wire tattooed around veins,
Into cells shrill with apocalyptic hymns,
Into Death's breathing gas.

Remember them,
Their tales were ours,
There is blood on the wires of history,
Look to it and fear it...

Humanity?
We preach it
but we fail to live it
or wake up and embrace it.



©Rangzeb Hussain
Rangzeb Hussain Jan 2011
"...I awaited Death's sweet knife
and bared my jugular vein
without fear, without dread,
I offered my dreams, I offered my joy,
I knew you, I knew you not,
Here, take me, cage me.

You silent Angel with a bittersweet sting,
I am afraid of your kiss no longer.

You, the winged reaper of souls,
I want to see you when you seize hold of my soul
and put it in a small cage
and fly with it to a place I know not where.
I want to see that golden sparrow that they say flies
from our noses as we depart this leprous life.

Come, my dread Angel,
Let us two dance under the cool shade,
The clouds above us dripping wet with moonlight,
The wind aches with the pain of ages,
And see how the misty night yet burns
with the glow of my fast fading soul..."*



©Rangzeb Hussain
Rangzeb Hussain Jan 2011
"Ah, so thou think'st thou know'st me?

How so?

How can it be thus?

For truth be told, I know'st not even myself...

Behold me,

For I am a creature alien even unto my soul,

Lovest thou me?

Nay, thou hast loved nothing more than this here hollow husk
of blood and bone,

Come, cast thine divine eyes upon my desire,

Tonight I shalt dine on thy honeyed lips
that flow like ruby red wine..."*



©Rangzeb Hussain
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