A Body Divided: A Review of Fatimah Asghar’s If They Come For Us
Source: Aditya Desai
BY STAFF WRITER ADITI DESAI ‘24
Oftentimes, wars fought over land end in no particular victory. Rather, a series of hasty terms and temporary promises are made—in other words, there is compromise. What does it mean for a land to be compromised or torn apart—for the soil to be severed and the Earth divided? Is it the physical ground that separates, or the people, whose homes, languages, and rituals are woven into the land?
The 1947 partition of India and Pakistan is rarely addressed in American history textbooks and classes, much less in literature. Like many territorial disputes, the India-Pakistan conflict over Kashmir, an ethnically diverse Himalayan region known for its natural beauty, was rooted in religion. This conflict ended in anything but compromise. The forced migration of over 14 million people—of Muslims to Pakistan and Hindus to India—tore both families and land apart.
In high school, I briefly learned about this partition from a twenty-minute lecture complemented by a single paragraph in my World History textbook. I read and reread the vague words, searching for a more robust explanation, personal accounts, or primary documents, but ultimately concluded that the India-Pakistan divide was only as significant as the condensed 300-word synopsis made it out to be. I learned that India had been split into two, with Hindus residing in Indian territories and Muslims living in Pakistan. It seemed peaceful enough—each group would have their separate homes.
However, the paragraph failed to address the bloody legacy of the great divide—the violence entrenched within the border, the millions of Hindus and Muslims who trekked in opposite directions, and those who were unsure of which land they belonged to. “Partition” is too innocent of a word to describe one of the largest refugee crises in South Asian history. “Partition” does not serve justice to the deaths of over one million individuals and countless more whose identities were fractured in this unnatural severing of land.
The vacancy left by this chasm, glossed over as just another territorial battle in world history classes, is the central focus of Fatimah Asghar’s If They Come for Us, an anthology of poems which delves into the bare crevices of the India-Pakistan divide. Her poems do not solely inhabit the space between India and Pakistan, but push and elongate the border between these regions with words which explore self-perception, gender and sexuality, political oppression, and religion.
Ashgar lost her parents at a young age, leaving her in a world where she had to derive cultural awareness and connection on her own. With familial roots still deeply tied to Pakistan and the divided territory of Kashmir, Asghar, a queer Muslim teenager living in a post-9/11 America, was left to navigate not only the partition of India and Pakistan, but likewise the numerous boundaries entangled in her identity and painted on her body. With uniquely crafted poems which take the form of floor plans, bingo boards, and crossword puzzles, she shows her audience what it feels like to be constantly told that you don’t belong—what it means to feel threatened, yet confident—in a world torn apart by marginalization.
The anthology opens with a striking poem titled “For Peshawar,” dated December 16th, 2014. The city of Peshawar, which is mentioned in other poems, refers to a region that had become dangerous for Muslims to reside in during the India-Pakistan partition. The poem begins with the 2014 terrorist attack on The Army Public School in Peshawar, forcing Ashghar to question whether “we are meant to lower [our babies] into the ground / from the moment they are born.” Asghar’s tone is pensive as she grapples with the notion of something as brutal and wrongful as death proximate to young individuals who have yet to understand what it means to be threatened. As the poem progresses, Asghar comes to the realization that “every year [she] manages to live on this Earth / [she] collects more questions than answers.” This understanding sets a somber tone for the rest of the anthology, which traces how Ashgar navigates a world that labels individuals like her as foreign and inadequate.
Later in the poem, Asghar directly addresses death, stating, “in all our family histories, one wrong / turn & then, death. Violence.” Moments like this appear frequently throughout the anthology, wherein Asghar notes how the atrocities of her family’s past trickle into her present identity. With precise words, she expresses that “the dirge, our hearts, pounds vicious, as we prepare / the white linen, ready to wrap our bodies.” The conversation around death and the normalization of the ritual of burying bodies highlights just how routine violent oppression was in Peshawar during the partition.
In “For Peshawar,” Asghar introduces readers to the seemingly comfortable rhetoric around death and the regularity of losing loved ones amidst injustice. This battle with death, which Asghar and her family face in both Peshawar and America, is then slowly reconciled in a later poem entitled “Gazebo,” a piece which details the building of a safe space, in which Asghar writes, “We had too many funerals to waste / flowers. But we loved our story: the gazebo / that dared to live on concrete.” With “Gazebo,” Asghar begins to bridge the common occurrence of death with the power and fortified resilience that come with surviving in spaces where oppression is commonplace.
Threads of embodying courage in the face of danger are woven into the anthology, building on Asghar’s initial juxtaposition of death and resilience in “For Peshawar'' and “Gazebo.” Asghar, who has a fierce reputation of wielding words packed with sharpness and intelligence, likewise challenges the conventional practices of writing poetry. In “Microaggression Bingo,” her words, much like her personal and cultural identities, are carefully divided and fitted in the structured tiles of a bingo board, with the central free space square reading “Don’t Leave Your House For A Day - Safe.” The surrounding tiles are filled with chilling statements and memories such as “Casting Call to audition for a battered Hijabi Woman” and “Editor recommends you add more white people to your story to be more relatable.” The poem illustrates the limited space and movements the speaker is able to take as a Pakistani-Muslim subject to microaggressions in America, a land that pledges to be rooted in diversity. In essence, the speaker’s world is as dissected and limiting as the Bingo board. Their experiences mirror the game: move into any square—in any direction— on the board, and a microaggression takes place; the only safe haven on the board sits in the center: Home. With this poem, readers are immersed in a personal account of the day-to-day experiences of Asghar as she searches for acceptance in America and routinely faces threats and insecurity.
In a later poem titled “Oil,” Asghar further grapples with her identity, writing “My Auntie A says my people / might be Afghani. I draw a ship on the map. / I write Afghani under its hull. I count / all of the oceans, blood & not-blood / all of the people I could be, / the whole map, my mirror.” Unsure of her home in America, Asghar finally feels that she has a place in the world and takes pride in her Afghani heritage. However, she then describes how “Two hours after the towers fell I crossed the ship / out on the map. I buried it under a casket of scribbles / All of the people I could be are dangerous / The blood clotting, oil in my veins.” With the tragic destruction of the Twin Towers during 9/11, Asghar returns to a place of discomfort and hesitancy of her origins—questioning whether she could carry her cultural heritage with pride or trauma in a grieving, post-9/11 America that views individuals like her with fear and distrust.
Subsequent poems choreograph Asghar’s dynamic reconciliation and continued battles between her cultural identity, sexuality, and position in America. The speaker's feelings of belonging until threatened in India-Pakistan and un-belonging until invited in America penetrate the anthology, imbuing each poem with a degree of duality and division. Asghar chooses to conclude this intricate choreography with the titular poem “If They Come For Us.” In this piece, Asghar’s lyrical prose intensifies as she leaves readers with tangible revelations about the simultaneous pain and joy of having one’s being so intimately tied to a land. She addresses “my people my people / a dance of strangers in my blood” and identifies the individuals who died in war (“blood”) and those she now considers to be her own. Asghar continues to elaborate on this community, writing “my people my people I can’t be lost / when I see you my compass is brown & gold & blood / my compass a Muslim teenager / snapback & hightops gracing the subway platform,” further stressing how she is able to lean on those who have sacrificed for her—those who have been and continue to be there for her.
“If They Come For Us” ends with an honest declaration of love and appreciation—loyalty and unwavering commitment—to the many communities she wholeheartedly identifies with: “my country is made / in my people’s image / if they come for you they / come for me too in the dead.” Paying homage to all her family—whether they be blood relatives or friends—Asghar celebrates the communities she’s battled with, fought against, and finally embraced. “If They Come For Us” leaves readers with fear and uncertainty of a nation that has become arduous and burdensome for immigrants. But with this understanding, Asghar’s compact yet clear prose also reminds audiences that, although pain exists in our world, we must reckon with our role in creating a more just community. Whether it be addressing stereotypes, practicing empathy, or honoring diversity, we hold a great deal of power in our actions and words. As a poet who has lived through layers of oppression and violence—of cultural hesitation and uncertainty—Asghar writes of the many communities she has found in America and the kindness and generosity buried in a nation plagued by marginalization.
Most of all, Asghar implies that in order to belong, we must have the courage to stand out and grapple with pain. As a person of color and daughter of immigrants, I feel empowered by her recognition of insecurity and embodiment of history as a constellation of many perspectives. She motions readers like myself towards a more compassionate understanding of history which has been narrated by vagueness —beyond a 300-word synopsis that tries to encapsulate an intricately layered past—and a realization that violence can live through generations.
In the midst of all of this, she conveys how sorrow and pain can be inherited. These inheritances seep from country to country, body to body, and word to word, generating animosity and division. But, through these inheritances, there is also care and comfort, sweetness and love, that provide structure to our identities, bodies, and imaginations: “For the fire my people my people / the long years we’ve survived the long / years yet to come I see you map / my sky the light your lantern long / ahead & I follow I follow.”
Visual Media: [Page 68]
