When I tie my Dastar
I don’t see my reflection looking back at me,
Nay, I see my forefathers dying for my freedom.
I don’t comb the tangles out of my hair,
I comb out the pain of generations past.
I don’t tie up my hair on top of my head,
I tie together the memories of my people dead.
I don’t tie my Dastar with love and care,
I tie bandages on the wounds of torture and oppression.
I don’t place the Simrana on the top of my Dumalla,
I remember the number of victims of 1984.
200,000 presumed dead.
25 years later.
Still no justice.
I remain as a reminder to these atrocities, and all other atrocities past.
Look into my eyes and you will not see pain,
You will see pride.
Pride of my martyr-hood,
Pride of the rivers full of blood my people left behind,
And pride of the freedom we have paid for with our lives.
I will keep tying my Dastar,
Tall and proud,
I will never forget,
For the memories are loud.
When I tie my Dastar every morning , on my head,
I remember all my brothers and sisters, in cold blood dead.
When I tie my Dastar every morning , on my head,
I remember all my brothers and sisters, in cold blood dead.
When I tie my Dastar every morning, on my head,
I remember all my brothers and sisters, in cold blood dead.
When I tie my Dastar, I remember.
