Home Stop Deportaties: in het Nederlands More poetry

To: STOP DEPORTATIONS! - You want to do something? Here you can find a list of active groups against deportations. Note for the (non Dutch) reader! Other pages (in english) with poetry protesting deportations, exclusion, illegalisation: - Open The Doors! A multilangual project: the idea is to collect as many translations of this poem as I can. So, go and read it. Maybe you can help! - Just A Lifetime - Today It Can Be Happening - Before We Proceed - Slaves Of Us - Lady, You Are Safe With Me - Diss To The Pointless Self - Lady, You Are Safe With Me - Cave Canem

STOP DEPORTATIONS ! A statement against the silence Not in my name Deportations from the land of tulips Deaf ears in the land of windmills Kicked out of the land of wooden shoes Once again our minister will be signing a death sentence, masked by laws and rules and approved by democracy. Once again people will be dragged from their homes because they don't have the right documents, only stories that are not being believed because these people know too much of the things that we don't want to know; and so we, voters, idle bystanders, become an extension tool for torturers and murderers and we'll be returning their victims to them, but not before we will have prepared them for weeks, confined to four square meters between walls of concrete, between barbed wire and lies, for what will await them back home. A mere taste. Isolation, exclusion, no prospect, no air, no breath, no peace because we gladly provide passage for tyranny, because we stamp the faces of men without passports, because we grant status to that same minister that places her signature, in fine curls by a pen flowing, made of silver, dipped in blood, seated in leather in the ballroom of the state and yes, in my name, in my name she keeps doing all of this and by doing so she makes thousands of bucks per month. Not in my name Exploitation in the land of commerce Clipped in a land that spreads its wings Child in a land where it may not learn Locked up in the land of freedom I remember, years ago, when all of this was still being called fascism and the ideology of 'Our people first' was rejected and made us sick to the stomach. So what shall we do now? Shall we write to the papers, rant on a soapbox? It sure is the least we can do! Shall we join in marches and occupations, shall we disturb with our outcries parliamentary justification in high rising government seats? Shall we demolish the center which serve as camps for the unwanted, shall we let sound the voices that are not being heard? Then, I predict, and it's already been done, that a state of emergency will be declared, that marches will be prohibited or otherwise ignored, that laws will be used against us, that photographs and fingerprints will be taken of all those who raise their voices, that riotpolice will show up with teargas and batons. But so what, if only we feel just a bit of what those people feel, from whom a life long freedom has been taken away? So what? Maybe then we will actually see it, because what's it worth, our freedom, without someone else's freedom? Because what's it worth, my freedom? It's the freedom of an executioner, who doesn't get his own hands dirty. Not in my name To a land where clitoris and labia are cut from women Not in my name To a land where because of kiss homosexuals are being locked away Where is the freedom that we may enjoy, to be exuberant and make love on the beach, to smoke a joint, get loaded? Where is this freedom that makes it possible for me to say what I'm saying, right here, where is this freedom for the other? That freedom has been gagged, chained, in a plane away from here! And I do want to take this further because it is this strong that I feel powerless, even though everyone listens, this strong I feel the lethargy, even though somebody yells 'Right on!' Eighteen years ago, the Kedichem fire, who can still remember? There were two parties, right extremist parties, and I stood there watching the way smoke turned into flames and the way the merger of evil so became prevented. Behold this very same evil, represented by reason that may not be condemned because that is called demonising, it has now become decent and civilized, and well integrated. Established in decent discussions by decent people except for this one word, this one large word, because woe this one word will exclude a man from participation in our majority-rules-deliberation, here it is, this word: deportation. That's the way we do things around here, right? Not in my name To a land where because of words knives are being sharpened Not in my name To a land where because of seeing eyes are being stabbed And we celebrate our freedom because all of this is far away. And we celebrate our freedom because our war is over. And we celebrate our freedom because it's Queen's Day. And we celebrate our freedom because despair we do not know. Despair that sews up lips and eyelids. Despair that feeds a hunger strike. Despair that makes young kids still bind bombs around their waists and be prepared to die. And we celebrate our freedom and sell our success where it is well being paid for. And we celebrate our freedom and dump our shit where it is welcomed out of poverty. And we throw them overboard, the numbered people that expected to find it here, the greatest goal to live for, freedom, you know, the thing you can't find in a cell, a cell to which we hold the key. Come on, all you people, say it and show it, we don't want this kind of freedom! Destroy the instruments that are being handled for deportation, as in war you would be standing in front of doors of homes out of which asylum seekers will be carried off; help neighbours, help children, at least say 'I don't want this!' I don't want this. Not in my name, the deportations. Not in my name. Now if you, reader or listener, think that I am trying to make you do something somewhere and if you believe that I'm being extreme, my answer is: You are right, because I don't want some title like poet of the month or poet of the year, because all I write about is boozing and partying and fucking or about the way once again the leaves on the trees in spring grow green. It has all been written so many times but protest will never be heard enough! This is why I call upon everyone, writers, poets, poet laureate, say it, let it be heard. Call for revolt and take part. Not in my name Deportations, torture Do in my name Resist, disobey Not in my name Smooth talk, invalid guarantees Do in my name All that it takes Break down the walls! Stop the deportations! You can drag me away instead, Minister Verdonk, because you don't act on my behalf! It's not the unfortunate that are now slyly being put away, concealed from the eyes of critics, that you'd rather not welcome. No, it's me you should want to get rid off, even though I've been born here which is the sole reason for me to be privileged, because I'm not shutting up so I'm more of a nuisance than them and why should your proceedings limit themselves to the so-called strangers because aren't we all equal according to our constitution? I'll prefer anything over becoming an accomplice to the crime of deportations! Not in my name, to remain silent. Not in my name. Not in my name Deportations from the land of tulips Not in my name Deaf ears in the land of windmills Not in my name Kicked out of the land of wooden shoes Joke Kaviaar 12 april 2004 translated may 14, 2004 NOTE: In the Netherlands the word 'deportation' is considered to be politically incorrect because of the World War II connotation. Opponents of this government policy however, use the word deliberately, to make clear what is happening to 'repatriated' asylum eekers.