The fire spreads across the hearts of the ones who haven’t seen—but heard. The smoke constricts the minds of those who breathe in—with no exhale.
“SHAWARMA FOR STEVEN”
Halal food carts, an American craze in our post 9/11 world. Steel, aluminum, gunpowI mean, rubber, and pure ingenuity. Food carts bring foreign tastes to the people at a delectably affordable cost! What a beautiful vision—
As a Muslim in the United States, I grew up administering to Islamophobes who’d spread, “We need to patrol Muslim neighborhoods!!!” I needed to express my voice. By patrol Muslim neighborhoods, did they mean loitering Syed’s Shawarma? I always found it ironic that bigotry satisfies its’ tongue, reeking of rancid rhetoric, with Lamb over Rice. Be careful! If the food isn’t cooked properly, bigotry will call ICE!
Was the American Dream watching bigotry chow on my aroma smeared with their proviso? It felt like years of Islamophobia pent up and sold as a 5-dollar curry. These foods come from the same lands where American “Carts”, metal machines of war, mangle Muslims, brutalize Bengalis, and shape my soul. But hey- tahini amirite? That’s the world I grew up in—a false dichotomy with my only savior, Islam: longing to crawl out the broken towers of prejudice.
Now I’m not a cynic, don’t get me wrong. I just feel best when thrown against a sharp white plane. Look at the great poets, activists, and lawyers: James Baldwin, Malcolm X, Mehdi Hasan—all asphyxiated by prejudice, but resilient, able to stand apart from the thousand shades of white—inflaming change.
Whilst tackling this seemingly unconquerable hunk of metal, I discovered my voice—the greatest weapon. Greater than any pig’s-blood silver bullet. Greater than any drone strike. Greater than any bigot telling me to “go home.” In my young years of public speaking, my ambition for speech blossomed. The fire in my tone, the roar, and resonance of the crowd, the emotions I instilled with a glance, the minds that opened once they inhaled my spice. In high school, this spirit took me to spoken word poetry: a smoldering viscera where I could harbor my talents, heightened by emotion; the masala to my rhetoric. The timbre drives me. My performances on Islamophobia allowed for reflection, not to antagonize the ignorant, rather to highlight it. My flame became a garden of knowledge. Society plants weeds whilst the world waters. I strive to remove the weeds—amending the rot. I cannot rewrite history, but I sure can color our future. Like smoke and spices, the fire in my voice entices. I strive to embolden our society’s crises and understand them. I stand for rights, so I place my cartwheels into the heart of the city to arouse its citizens with foreign flavors, culture, and intellect waiting to be consumed.
I welcome creativity with the same kindling. Its atmosphere envelops me, allowing for the true diaspora of knowledge. Imagery, discussion, even arguments reside in our hearts; to say, creativity is a food cart. Filled with meats and rice, all that’s left is to prepare it. Heat the charcoal and I will spread its aroma.
So, who am I? I am a dynamic figure, often seen amending rot and transplanting ethos. I’ve been caught howling at the moon and mistaken for a predator. I am chicken shawarma, introducing a new taste for the people. I am a prisoner of the press. I am a poet, using my flame to spread passion to hearts. I am smoke, not suffocating but mouth-watering. I am spoken word, astound essence, masala, spice, and everything nice. I trust the smoke, my couture culture, the fire in my throat, changing the world—as I dream for millions to line up at the scent of shawarma.
I am a food cart. A young establishment, striving to flourish in our world.