Taslima Nasrin - Poet, Feminist, Humanist

This morning I've been reading through The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry, and I've come across a woman whose story and work I have to share with you, especially since I had very little to post on International Women's Day (hopefully I can redeem myself here).

Anyway, Taslima Nasrin was born in Bangladesh, where her novel Shame was banned by the government, where fundamentalists called for her execution for blasphemy, and where conservative mullahs offered rewards for her murder (McClatchy, 401). She eventually fled to Sweden, where she continues to live and write.

On her website Nasrin defines herself as "a physician, a writer, a feminist, a human rights activist, and a secular humanist." And indeed, she's received much support from the International Humanist and Ethical Union, and in 1994 the European Parliament awarded her the Sakharov Prize for Freedom of Thought. In other words, she's damn cool, and her poetry definitely reflects that.

Here's a poem from her site, titled "Mosque, Temple":

Let the pavilions of religion
be ground to bits,
let the bricks of temples, mosques, guruduaras, churches
be burned in blind fire,
and upon those heaps of destruction
let lovely flower gardens grow, spreading their fragrance.
let children's schools and study halls grow.

For the welfare of humanity, now let prayer halls
be turned into hospitals, orphanages, universities,
Now let prayer halls become academies of art, fine art centers,
scientific research institutes.
Now let prayer halls be turned to golden rice fields
in the radiant dawn,
Open fields, rivers, restless seas.

From now on, let religion's other name be humanity.

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And another, titled "Happy Marriage":


My life, like a sandbar,
has been taken over by a monster of a man
who wants my body under his control
so that, if he wishes,
he can spit in my face,
slap me on the cheek,
pinch my rear;
so that, if he wishes,
he can rob me of the clothes,
take my naked beauty in his grip;
so that, if he wishes.
he can chain my feet,
with no qualms whatsoever whip me,
chop off my hands, my fingers,
sprinkle salt in the open wound,
throw ground-up black pepper in my eyes,
with a dagger can slash my thigh,
can string me up and hang me.

His goal: to control my heart
so that I would love him;
in my lonely house at night
sleepless, full of anxiety,
clutching at the window grille,
I would wait for him and sob;
tears rolling down, I would bake homemade bread,
would drink, as if they were ambrosia,
the filthy liquids of his polygynous body
so that, loving him, I would melt like wax,
not turning my eyes toward any other man.
I would give proof of my chastity all my life.

So that, loving him,
on some moonlit night
I would commit suicide
in a fit of ecstasy.

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She has lots more on her website, which I highly encourage you to visit.