Last night, far from shore, and ringed by roiling water, I sensed a gentle wind calling me towards the shallows. In the morning, I searched the papers for some sort of hidden meaning; they think they killed you, Stan Swamy, but I can still hear you breathing.Leave a Comment
Just a week ago, my mother called to say my father had fallen again; they were taking things day-by-day. Life’s hard enough in the end, the way we all slip and weaken— how could they make Stan Swamy pass his last months in prison?Leave a Comment
The day my mother calls to confess she’d woken in tears (she still misses her mother, after so many years), I am blessed to meet a six-week-old baby girl; drunk on her mother’s milk, she smiles as she sleeps sprawled on a charpai, like a pehlwan after a hard-won match. Later that night, I read that Stan Swamy can no longer walk or bathe or even feed himself, and how he’s told the court he does not prefer a hospital to Taloja Jail; he prefers to suffer and die in prison— or to go home: ‘Whatever happens to me, I’d like to be with my own.’Leave a Comment
Umar Khalid smiles and raises his fist on his way out of court, and an 83 year old priest is denied bail in the 'collective interest of the community'. Meanwhile in Myanmar, protesters disappear in the night, and a striking worker tells a reporter, 'They are the king now, but we are not their servants.'Leave a Comment
-Christmas Eve, 2020 Tonight in Taloja Central Jail, Father Stan Swamy shakes but also rejoices; he knows that soon enough carpenters, fishers and blunt speaking women will join others who labour— in fields and factories, forests and homes— and that all those who hunger will be satisfied, and our weeping will turn to laughter.Leave a Comment