Through the eyes of Mohamed Mattar

Through the eyes of Mohamed Mattar

About a month ago, news came that a young man had died protecting two women in Sudan. He was shot. His favorite color was blue and that’s where #blueforsudan comes from. They still need our help and that’s only possible through spreading awareness. So this is me, doing that in the way I know how to.


This poem is fictitious but hopeful.
(TW: misery, death)

26, died protecting two women.
Stood like a wall
made of every instance throughout his life that made him
the man we know;
protecting his humanity to the very last breath.

With his finger wrapped around the width
of his mother’s finger
like a burka around the head,
he must’ve said his first proper word when he was 17 months old.
“aas-” giggles “-rakkh” drools.
azraq, blue.
His mother must’ve told his abbu and cried a little.

Despite living in a conservative household,
his parents probably spoke to him about everything.
He must’ve known about the horrors women had to face
at the hands of men who slaved for liquor,
at the hands of monsters that called themselves human.
While his bedtime stories were of castles,
his dreams must’ve been of being worthy of it.

When Mohamed turned 13,
he cut a black forest cake for the first time.
It must’ve been a gift
because his friend’s mother had called to thank him
for saving her kid from the bullies,
or judging by the type of man he was,
it must’ve been a gift by the bullies to thank him
for making them human.

Some random facts about him that I think
could be true:
His first breakup was mutual.
His favorite food was kofta.
He was always a good man.
His favorite t-shirt had the graphic of a cute doggo.
He loved cats too.
His mother was proud of him.

One fact that is definitely true:
we are proud of him.

Two hours before he became the voice of Sudan,
he cut a black forest cake for the last time.
He’s gone but his first word has stayed behind,
to protect.
26, died protecting two women.


Into stories? – Autumn
Instagram – @myspirals

Sevenfold

Sevenfold

Till the day the world is a safe place to live in, I’ll write about the reasons why it’s not. While I do sugar-coat things very often to give people reasons to smile, I know that being raw is the only option to spread awareness. This post is about marital rape and justice. I hope you like it. 🙂 Let’s talk about it in the comments?


What I know of this is: if someone did something to harm Cain, the damage would come back sevenfold. The same goes for anyone with the mark of Cain. I’ve used that as a prop to give seven hells to the villain of this poem.

(TW: abuse, rape)

When you touched me that night with
one hand around my neck
and the other on parts of me that still scream,
I tried my best to stop you.
I hit you across the face and dug my nails deep into
your empty skin
but nothing seemed to wake you up
from the monster that you’d become.
Sometimes I wonder if people found out that I’d hit my husband
because he was raping me,
which part would they be more concerned about?
Your hand choked my cries inside my throat,
and your lips curled into a smile
that still makes mine quiver.
My tears were the mark of Cain
and for every piece of me you broke,
life was going to fuck you up seven times.

Continue reading Sevenfold

Trigger alert.

Trigger alert.

The title is also the precaution I’d like you to take before reading the poem. While this post is fictitious, I don’t know where the line stops. So help me out, okay?
I wrote this because I know how tough it can be with triggers all around you. This post is not going to help heal you but maybe it’ll let you know we all have triggers. If you don’t know what triggers your friend’s bad memory, ask and try to not hurt them. It’ll mean so much to everyone. I hope you like this poem. Enjoy 🙂


Triggers come in all shapes and sizes.
A moving train,
a pizza boy, an autumn leaf,
26 alphabets, crop-tops,
anger, the chains of a swing.
It could be anything.

Continue reading Trigger alert.