I Have Not Found the Key
By Fazileh Mansour Beigi, Saba Vasefi
Published 21 June 2022
Translated by Saba Vasefi
Do you remember me?
I am the mourning mother
who is left alone on the island of ignorance.
Like a wounded crow
I was bleeding
scratching the soil
to find a grave
for my son's stateless corpse.
I’m the mourning mother
who took her 20 and six-year-old sons
and our bag of hope,
escaped secretly from Iran
to overcome injustice
and resist our rightless life.
But I have not found a key
for the lock of captivity.
We sat on a fishing boat.
When the salty water
and spiky wind
were splashing our faces.
I held my sons
between wings of hope
to keep them warm
within the arm of longing.
We arrived on the shore
of the torture house of Nauru
where life started to rot
like meat.
I requested assistance,
asked for help
begged for aid
wished for at least an upgrade to our tent
but each time silence was the only answer.
My 26-year-old son,
an athlete
a dentistry student,
had his last breaths in the mouldy government tents,
closed his beautiful eyes to injustice
under deadly heat.
Even death did not save him from cruelty.
I was powerless to bury him
entrust him to eternal peace.
They kept a young corpse in the fridge
for 26 days,
inside a container
near a place I was living.
To find the cause of death
To detect the killer.
For more than four months
his lifeless body
remained in a fridge in Brisbane.
They didn’t permit a burial
as his dead body
was still a stateless number.
They ripped his body
without my consent.
Four years passed,
I still do not have the autopsy result
they did not smell blood on their hands.
In the camp, I became a number
in the court, I remained a number
I always said if any harm befell my children,
I would not remain silent.
Where hope does not exist
the pen can stitch us to life.
I write not as a number
or a woman defeated
but in resistance.