The horrendous crimes committed in Delhi, India, there was not just a local outcry but a global one. Facebook and twitter was flooded with anti-rape, pro death penalty messages that were filled with such anger, blame and sadness.
I wrote a status urging artists, musicians and producers to come together and help make a difference through music. A lot of people say that music brings a change, that it can change people to become better people. If you can draw in THOUSANDS upon THOUSANDS of people to music festivals … you can have the power, ability and channels to MAKE A DIFFERENCE!
Last night, my dear friend Anuj Rastogi from Canada shared with me a piece called ‘India’s Daughters (Amanat’s Reprise)‘ he had written the night before.
I’ve been pretty disturbed by the Delhi gang rape situation, and everything rotten in society that allows it. Last night, when I tucked my little girl into her crib, I was hit with this piece – was written, recorded, produced all between midnight and 7am.
If this resonates with you, please please share this video with your every!
Tonight, as I tuck her into her crib for the night,
I stare down at her, under the waning moonlight,
As on all other such evenings, I kiss her goodnight and wish away any fright,
That she may feel while asleep, or awake,
With all my might_ I wish I could make it all go away,
Every crime, every curse,
Every danger, every hearse,
That carries away the bodies of souls departed,
Or in tonight’s case, the soul of a country that needs to be restarted,
A country, raped by a mother’s own sons, brothers, and fathers,
A country that has failed every one of its daughters,
Tonight is the first night that I’ve wondered, maybe even wished,
What Mother India could’ve been had her sons instead been drowned in a dish,
Had families cursed their misfortune for having a boy,
And looked in envy at their neighbors unbridled joy,
Celebrating their good fortune for having a daughter;
Perhaps our sons should’ve been lead away to slaughter,
One-by-one before they should plunder, or chance an act of such moral blunder,
For centuries Mother India has been MOTHER INDIA,
And like Jocasta, violated by Oedipus every fort night,
Raping his own mother, cloaked in the illusion of non-existent virtue,
Dear sons, why am I left feeling I must now curse you?
A land that venerates the Goddess, dresses her scantily and then,
Insists she be modest,
A land that elevates women to positions of political status,
Lies naked and wounded, questioning her chastice,
This land rides on her back to procreate and drive economic progress,
And then questions her character should she dare to step out in a dress,
This land so fertile for its women, lies morally barren of more than a few men who value what is within.
Rape is an act of imposed power,
But it is not simply caused when a beast deflowers,
It is one spoke, but one extension,
Of a social ill that few dare to mention,
In our dowries, in our words,
We do nothing but seek to curb,
The spirit of the truly free woman,
WE ARE the problem,
Men rape women.
Women rape women.
Mother’s In-Law rape women.
Protectors of law rape women.
Politicians rape women.
Film makers rape women.
Ancient Traditions rape women.
Modern police stations rape women.
Silence rapes women.
Speaking out rapes women.
Apathy rapes women.
You and me rape women.
Every minute, of every day,
Somewhere in this ancient country,
Be it physical or parliamentary,
A woman is raped — her spiritual dignity, once draped,
In self-respect has through decades of social neglect,
Been left to wither and rot, in plain sight,
This is NOT the country of my moral parents,
This is not the planet I want for my children,
This is NOT the world I want my daughter to grow up in.
And so here I sit, 3000 miles away,
Proud to be brown, but ashamed to be a man.
I am a man. A father. A son.
How do I tomorrow face my little one.
And tell her the monsters of the dark were once little boys,
Whose mothers and fathers bred a society armed with penile toys.
And when one woman dared to speak, she was shut down, or drowned in the noise,
Of a society that values its life-giving daughters less than its public poise?
As I lie here, my little girl asleep in her crib.
I am in anguish, she sleeps still, I’m torn right next to her.
When she asks me about India, What will I tell her?
Will it still be my heart’s home, full of history and culture,
Or will it be truly overrun by soul-less vultures?
Perhaps this fire that burns,
Sustained and relentless, is what Amanat’s sacrifice has earned,
Perhaps tonight is like every other night before it;
And every woman in Delhi will walk in fear from her brothers, the police and the state.
Or perhaps tonight is the night that we turn the tables on fate,
And embrace our shared anger, and our common hate,
For the ills of our world, and the suffering of our girls,
Perhaps, tonight is THE night that through Amanat’s plight, WE can awake.