LAVA Omer Darwesh is a 24-year-old poet and translator from Iraq. She lives in the city of Sulaymaniyah – where the streets are named after poets. Darwesh was the youngest resident at this year’s International Writing Programme at the University of Iowa. She has stated in an interview that she writes about “social and cultural issues” – and this is particularly reflected when one reads “Du’a” a short poem that can be found in her sample on the International Writing Programme’s website. This also happens to be the first poem I thought of when I found out about the terrible assault and murder of teacher, actress and mother, Kescia Branche. Darwesh’s poem is graphic and emotional and, therefore, it was easy to connect it to the never-ending tragedy of the loss of lives of women around the world, but particularly women in Guyana whose lives come to an end because of men adhering to one or a combination of factors that all grow out of the system of patriarchy – which is very much ingrained in our society.

“Du’a” describes the stoning of a young woman in the Middle East, who is being killed before a large crowd for the crime of “loving a boy from another world.” Of particular interest is the description of the way everyone stands around silently, watching as the girl is stoned. The writing is simple, slightly reminiscent of Rupi Kaur – and more effective – almost as if the poet knows that to write anything else would dilute the reality and emotional impact of the scene she is presenting. The doomed persona of the poem says: “In the crowd I see / My dad, the first love of my life, / My brother with red sleepless eyes / The uncle who used to stop by / The grandfather who never said goodbye / All of them stood by me.”

These lines are really powerful because they convey the collective blame that must be shifted on to a society that sits back and does nothing – a society like Guyana, for example, where so many people say nothing when they see a man hitting his wife, or when a bus conductor is seen holding the hands of an underage girl, or a parent who beats their child. The poet makes complicit everyone who stands in the crowd, including those closest to the persona, while, at the same time, ensuring that the reader also feels the complicity by being apart from the violence and standing, like her family, as an observer. Furthermore, these lines tap into the general culture of obliviousness and blindness that we have when it comes to violence against women.

“Love / Love is what made them merciless / Love” reads another line in the poem. This one is also reflective of the overall simplicity of the poem, while still cutting deep. Who hasn’t treated a loved one terribly while convincing oneself that one means well with statements like: ‘I only said what I said because I love you so much’, etc. The line is ironic because love is not supposed to hurt, yet we have the family of the girl who has condemned her to death and many people here in Guyana who “love” with fists. The thin line between love and lust and lust and infatuation and infatuation and abuse is explored in just a few words within Darwesh’s poem.

“Du’a” coming from a young Middle Eastern woman poet is interesting to me because while it speaks about a particular kind of violence against women – simultaneously highlighting oppression and the perils of patriarchy – it also manages to highlight the plight of women everywhere. But universality is a trait of good literature. With the young and talented Kescia Branche joining the seemingly never-ending list of Guyanese women who have been murdered by men – a list containing names like Babita Sarjou, Neesa Gopaul and transwomen like Desiree and Jada – I find myself seeking out literature that condemns violence against women more than ever. Lava Omer Darwesh’s poetry is the first one I found earlier this year, and it remains one of the easiest to read and one of the most powerful I’ve come across.