I Am An Export

Just at work feeling very restless and I wrote this piece which I wanted to share with you all.

I am an export,
I have been exported by a nation which is over spilling with beings wanting to reach out
An import into a nation which once needed me to recover its economic stance
But now rejects me for being aloof to its cultural demands.

In a world full of disparity because of a constant drive for capitalism,
We are merely numbers once again wanting to reach out.
The trend for individualism and the desire for fame
Pushes us to a plane of undying egotism.
The nation that once was a promised land, where we all had dreams
Has apparently become a reality, I find myself tortured at the thought of immovable poverty.
A poverty of the soul, where we care no longer for our brother, nor our mother,
But care solely for ME. Me is my world and me is my concern.
I will push and prod, exploit and denounce others for my sole purpose in life, me.

This is a culture which is now deep rooted within the membranes of a global society.
This is the society that taught us civility.
This is the very society that taught us to steal away hopes of another for our own accomplishments.
This is a society, borne out of pride and driven by stroking our personas.
This society that has given us the ability to unflinchingly keep a third world within its confinements of the third world.
A third world that exists solely because we regard their natural resources as our own, because we own the rights to the land, because we colonized them, because they matter not to us in our ultimate goal of sustainable wealth built on the undevelopment of the undeveloped world, where we prefer to help a community of starving people to starve themselves more by taking away from them the only opportunity they had to claw themselves out of the dire situation that we put them in. Is it any wonder that in a continent where resources such as pearls and natural gas are abundant, its people suffer more famines than anywhere else on the planet. Is it any wonder that the oil rich countries of the middle eastern peninsula seem to be our mouth wateringly tasty region next on our list of exploitation. Is it any wonder what while the country of Bangladesh harbors more natural gas, petroleum and potential for hydro energy, its children are lying on the streets of its Capital begging and selling themselves? I say that the people who make the decisions to sell their nation in exchange to line their own pockets are the ultimate whores. They deserve Capital punishment, not a place on Capitol Hill. This is my society, that taught me to speak and now I cannot hold my tongue.

I do not have an Immortal Technique nor do I have a Platform to scream from, what I have is an unnerving frustration
That whilst we are aware of the plight of another, we can sit and relax and be ignorant of an issue that we are all accountable for.
We are all expatriates, we are all foreigners, to what extent do we ever think that have a hold of a land that we live on?
We are in a state of an ignorant bliss as we admire one anothers talents whilst the reason that we are even here is unknown.
A simple request to think of the mess that we have created on this planet which we have no permanent home is rejected and is the loudest method of saying that ‘I don't care'
I care for noone but myself, and noone cares for me but myself. This is the positive moral ground that we stand on today, where we once had a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed. We had a dream that one day our children will live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character. Instead I find myself ashamed to know that the content of our character today is one which is obsessed with cultivating success out of anothers failure. The content of our character accepts poverty, it accepts the robbery of an imperialised thirld world, it accepts the persecution of a community which has been forced into thinking it is beneath me, an export, an expatriate, an import and a martyr in the name of equality.

Copyright belongs to Mabrur Ahmed