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The Winds of Prayer - A poem by Gisele Gauthier
Jun 3, 2010, 21:52 Digg this story!
A poem written by a non-Tamil lady, who stood with the Tamil demonstrators for a year now. She was so touched last May by the Human Chains and the Queen's Park events and all the broken hearted people she met that and started attending the demonstrations and haven't stopped since.
She wrote the poem, "The Winds of Prayer" in honour of those who stood on University Avenue across from the American Embassy non-stop for close to a year. The many fragile seniors especially touched her as it was primarily they who kept the protest going all of late summer into the winter.
Last year, Canadian Tamils in their hundreds of thousands took to the Toronto streets, suburb intersections, lawn of Federal Parliament, lawn of Ontario Parliament, American Embassy and many other places, day and night demonstrated to draw the attention of politicians and policy makers to prevent the slaughter of their kith and kin in northern Sri Lanka . At the time of their demonstrations, U.N. warned impending "Blood Bath on Beach" as over 300,000 Tamil civilians were herded by Sri Lankan forces into a narrow strip of Mullivaikal "No Fire"zone and avalanche of multi-barrel rockets, shells, bombs, chemical weapons and cluster bombs were rained down by Sri Lankan forces on those people.
Anticipating the impending slaughter of their kith and kin by the Sri Lankan armed forces, Canadian Tamils begged their government and the international community to save those innocent people's lives. It is evident and history from the recent reports from International Rights groups such as HRW, ICG, and AI, that 40,000 Tamil civilians were slaughtered and 50,000 or more maimed including tens of thousands of children in May 2009 alone.
"The Winds of Prayer"
A good and kindly people They fed me spicy rice and sweet coffee And held my hand when I cried for them Deep warm eyes, dazzling smiles Shy grins, heads bobbing gently Brown hands clinging to Signs proclaiming their dreadful story Worn old fingers warming over A feeble flame, a tiny light Amongst many tiny lights Praying, crying, sighing Waiting, waiting Begging to be heard, clinging to hope Please, please, please Have you heard what is happening in my country? Flyers and signs and sad little alters Letters to the world, to the powerful ones Have you heard? Children leading crowds Children knowing exactly why they stand In the sun and the rain and the wind Into the night Pausing now and then to play amongst themselves Parents thanking God as they watch them run and As they listen to their laughter But ask why the other children The children in the pictures The ones that are no longer children The same parents ask the same God – why? They pray for their own parents For the young men and women, their kin For elders and babies, and those yet to be born For the innocents and the battle worn For peace and home For simple precious safety and food and medicine
For blue skies and quiet and good honest work Rich dark hair flowing like ebony waves Down the wide avenue that streams Between the people and The silent flag adorned wall The silent wall on the other side of the avenue Thick coats and woolen caps Standing under winter skies and rain Umbrellas defending the defenders Then hot sun and long silky skirts Students abandoning books to bear witness to history The flutter of silver winged birds, cooing, cooing And lush greenery and bright flowers Hot sun baking the elders day after day Waiting, waiting, waiting I’ve brought you cold strawberries Have you heard anything? Is there news? The prince drove by and waved. Did he know he was waving to saints? Do the speeding cars, racing down the avenue know? Night falls and candles are lit And lit again and again As the winds steal the flames again and again I wonder where those determined winds Carry those little flames Those tiny flickering flames they take from the people Night after night after night Those flames, those prayers, those hopes Of these good and kindly people Perhaps the winds carry their little flames All the way to God Perhaps the winds carry them all the way to those Who wait so far away So that those who wait so far away will know that They are not forgotten.
An Ode to Toronto’s Tamil Demonstrators 2009 - 2010
by Gisèle Gauthier gisele.gauthier@sympatico.ca
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