A Cry of Those Who Refuse

This is a rendering of Habib Jalib's poem, I will not concede, I will not surrender.

That lamp which burns only in mansions,

That dawn which rises for the joy of a chosen few,

That order which shelters itself in the long shadow of private gain—

That tradition, that darkened morning—

I will not venerate.

I will not bow to greet it.

I am not afraid of the thrones that glare from above.

I am not afraid of the hands that sign decrees in ink and blood.

I, too, am Mansoor—

Go, carry this word to the enemy.

Do you think prison walls can frighten me?

Do you think Stone understands fear better than a conscience taught to burn?

The language of oppression,

The night rehearsed in ignorance—

I will not submit to them.

I will not grant them recognition.

You say, “The branches are heavy with flowers.

”You say, “The thirsty have found water.

”You say, “The wounds of the heart are being stitched closed.”

This naked lie. This theft of reason. This masquerade of mercy—

I will not consent to it.

I will not accept its name.

For centuries, you have looted the peace that once was ours,

and called your plunder order, called your silence stability.

Your spell has lost its power over us now.

Your words fall empty,

Like prayers recited without belief.

Why do you pretend to be healers of the grieving?

Physicians of sorrow?

You are no healers. You are the wound.

Even if many nod in agreement,

even if crowds repeat your lies as truth—

I will dissent.

I will not concede.

I will not surrender.

I will not be taught to kneel before injustice dressed as law.