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On the darkened stage, between three pragmatic, concise journalists, she sat demurely, hands in her lap holding sheets of paper. Wearing black garments, an upswept hairstyle and a striking, antique-looking silver choker, she seemed out of place amongst the pontificating speakers discussing the state of journalism in Afghanistan.
But near the end of the panel discussion – held nearly a month ago at the Asia Society in Manhattan – she spoke up, reading two poems with a strong, inspired voice. And suddenly she had the spotlight, bringing the beauty and plight of Afghanis to light with an eloquence that seemed to affect the audience more than the authoritative opinions of the journalists.
Later, poet Zohra Saed would say it was an odd forum for her – a poet at a journalistic discussion. But her friends and family contend that Saed is never out of place – she always sends a message with her presence and work. And now the 26-year-old Brooklyn native and doctoral student at City University is gaining attention in wake of the September 11th attacks for her lyrical poetry based on family experiences.
In the Beginning:
Born in Jalalabad, Afghanistan, Saed and her family left when she was only a year old and moved to Saudi Arabia - finally migrating to New York City in 1980. Though she spent but a year in Afghanistan, Saed is bonded to her home country through the stories of her father.
“We came as a nuclear family,” Saed says. “We were all deeply spiritual. My dad taught us at home. We had a deep awareness of Islam when there were no mosques or Sunday Schools around to teach us.”
Saed says she never felt alienated in the United States though because of the large Afghan community where she lived. But it was difficult at first. “We went from being an affluent family in Afghanistan to a struggling family here,” she says. “Ours was a balancing act.”
The stabilizing factor was her parents, especially her father’s traditional folktales, which inspired Saed to become a poet and writer.
“After dinner we would sit in the living room and drink tea, and he would tell [my brother, sister and me] stories that had moral lessons,” she says.
Saed recalls trying to translate her father’s stories from Dari to English – writing “Pumpkin Deer” on her Commodore 64 computer in second grade. It was a frustrating process.
Though she didn’t plan on being a poet – “I was going to be a pharmacist,” she says – Saed gravitated towards literature and writing early in life. She published a literary magazine in elementary school and had her first poetry reading at age 17. At Brooklyn College she started a magazine with other friends that passed from hand to hand, eventually reaching as far as Senegal, Africa.
“We wanted to be famous superstar writers,” Saed recalls with a laugh. “Well, at least we got to write.”
Saed continues to dabble in magazine writing, publishing her work in publications such as the Afghan Communicator and web magazines like www.afghanmagazine.com. It was while working at the Afghan Communicator that Saed and her co-workers decided to create an anthology of Afghan writings – prose and poetry. Drop By Drop, We Make a River: A Collection of Afghan Writings from 1978-2001 has over 200 pages of material ranging from memoirs to poetry covering all historical periods. Saed and her colleagues are currently searching for a publisher for the work.
A Way of Life:
Saed is a poet in all aspects, her family and friends say. It comes forth from her whole being. Baljeet Purewal, who became friends with Saed at Brooklyn College, says everything about her drew people in. “[Zohra’s] friendship itself is poetic,” Purewal says.
“Just in talking to her, her advice, in the way she dresses – the warmth she gives off is very deep. The way she writes stories and poems, it takes me back to where she comes from,” Purewal adds.
Poetry and her father’s stories have been Saed’s lifeline. Most of her inspiration comes from the stories told in her cozy Brooklyn apartment where Saed lives with her parents and younger brother and sister. The front door sports a bright American flag sticker (“We put that up after September 11th,” Saed says. “We’ve changed our number three times following threatening phone calls.”), but the inside pays homage to Afghanistan.
Framed postcards of Kabul and other places in Afghanistan adorn the wall along with a small rug detailing the geography of the country. A small copy of the Ayatul Kursi (a famous series of verses from the Qur’an), copied by Saed’s grandfather, sits above the dining table. In the living room, dominated by its red carpet, framed photos of her father and grandparents and past Afghani presidents dominate the room.
Saed’s mother, small and round in stature, tucks her feet under and sits on the carpet, recalling her daughter’s early interest in story telling and writing. “Every day she say ‘Daddy, daddy, you were going to tell me a story,’” she recalls. “Zohra memorizes everything. She asks so many questions, she wanted to know all the details.”
Saed’s mother attends most of her poetry readings, though she is sometimes shocked to hear her life played out in a poem. “[Zohra] tells everything about my family, my history, everything! Some of her poems I like. Some are very hard to listen to.”
One of Saed’s poems, “Neptune Avenue”, details a child’s life in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn. Its simple cadence echoes the energy and carefree life of children who yearn to have fun and be loved by her parents. One stanza stands out in particular:
We'd rather stretch our weekends and wrap it across the belly of
the year.
We'd rather dangle out everyday on the fire-escapes of the
second floor
Mosque; spill the Khutba onto the sweating concrete by opening
the windows wide.
Then jump onto the sidewalk, align our velvet prayer mats next to
Parked cars, and play Imam and ummah as passerbys gawk at the
magic of our
"Flying carpets" and at one five-year old brother
Serious-faced, hand over ear,
Singing out the call to prayer with a sugar-sweet throat.
“Neptune Avenue” is one of her favorites, Saed says. It visits happy times in life. Now Saed is focusing on translating more of her father’s stories, getting the anthology published and writing poems based on her experiences after September 11. The latter is the most difficult thing to do, says Saed, who saw the World Trade Center towers collapse from 5th avenue in Manhattan.
She remembers walking over the Manhattan Bridge into Brooklyn, with shoeless people and papers fluttering about, a smoky stench permeating everything. “It was the only time I experienced war as a refugee in a visceral way,” Saed says; though she can’t write about it yet. “I have to write around it for now, like a spiral.”
But the time will come when a poem will emerge. The inspiration will come like music, a rhythm that that will beat deep and strong. “And then I’ll be ready,” Saed says.
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