I sit here in confinement awaiting my demerit, in perhaps the same place that others once awaited certain death, and my blood boils.
You left our destiny to the Godless American, who, in their own interests had the courage to sacrifice their sons and daughters to take back for us what was ours.
How dare You choose whom I hate, to deliver me such a bittersweet prize. I’d rather the brutal hand of Saddam, than our Lord save us with this twist of irony.
You mock my cowardice with an abomination of our culture; the bearer of my independence. I rebuke their ‘generosity’, for I lent my pen to keep their ‘freedom’ from my people.
They shame me with a gift soaked in the blood of our kind, their warriors, and my Arab foe. You expose my impotence, and allow me the audacity to pitch shoes at a king and a kingdom.
You robbed me of a spine when it mattered, and gave me one in the trail of victory. You are merciless in that I will cheat death, as my enemy ‘allows’ me free expression.
Guilt and sorrow You bring me, O’ Lord; for with this price of freedom, there in lives my naked humility. I cannot bear the stain upon me, that I had not the fortitude to help free them myself.
What is my reward dear God? What will You bestow upon me for allowing my hate to soar above the prospect of freedom for my countrymen? Will You enslave us in their Capitalism, immerse us in their equality to women and minority sects, or allow Your flock to worship as they choose?
Would You banish us to wander in the wilderness, we who stood by while atrocities once ruled this harsh land? Outside my cell, they who once trembled in fearful tyranny now praise my protest.
A living martyr I’ll be (and a frustrated thrower of soles). I’d sooner You scorch the earth than admit my disgusting role as an agent of oppression. The dead laugh at me now, as my cold heart hides the foot I have wedged in my mouth. My hell is that You know. You’ll always know.
- M. R. Behr
