POETRY
A conversation between a woman and the last wild witness
I met Tiloor
where the desert keeps stories,
where the world forgets—
under an open sky.
Where every footprint fades
before it becomes proof.
It was not a meeting,
more like looking in the mirror.
Atsomething I had carried
without knowing its name.
A bird of dust,
distance, and instinct.
It stood there still—
not in surrender,
more like recognition.
Talor,
why do you run
when God gave you
the whole sky?
Why do you whisper
when God gave you
a beautiful voice,
Zainab?
I laughed.
Because my voice was trained.
Because my mouth was raised
like a cage.
Fed enough to sing,
never enough to leave.
Because men mistook
silence for grace.
I know men too.
Men who arrive
with kingdoms hidden
in their pockets.
Men who descend
like silver hunger,
to take what cannot
be returned.
Men whose falcons
wear hoods like brides.
Men who call killing
tradition.
Call appetite culture.
Call my body medicine
for their desire,
I know them too.
Not by face—
by pattern,
by repetition.
Men who cross limits
with softness in their mouths
and firmness
in their hands.
Men who leave girls
behind like ruins,
quietly, repeatedly,
without apology.
I kept speaking.
Because grief is a wound that,
once opened,
refuses to close again.
There are girls too.
Tortured behind walls.
Carried like objects
that learned to breathe.
Girls whose names
are stolen,
before they are fully
spoken.
They once tried
to save me.
Men in distant rooms
spoke gently.
Let it live.
Let it nest.
Let it scatter
like seed.
But mercy here
does not stay.
By next season,
my wings became negotiation.
My body an agreement.
My blood cheaper
than a single
signature.
Do you hate them?
Hate is for those
who can rest.
I pity them.
Imagine being born
For tenderness
and choosing violence.
Imagine kneeling
to pray,
then standing
to destroy.
It only watched.
A witness
that does not
intervene.
And somewhere
I felt myself
splitting
open.
hanging
from something unseen,
a sculpture made
of bone.
Already part
of its weight,
already part
of its falling.
I died there
for a moment.
Not in body—
in allegiance.
For two nations
I was never allowed
to hold
at once.
Only belonging,
and the violence
of being forced
to choose.
I am alive.
I am dead too.
A body breathing,
a heart hanging.
Like a rose
about to rot
before reaching
the beloved.
I wish I could
place this flower
in gentle hands
before dying.
I am already dead.
So speak for me.
Until palaces lose comfort.
And courts remember justice.
Until falcons forget
obedience.
Until stolen names
return home.
So I write.
I interrupt
With dust in my teeth.
With women’s pain
folded inside
my ribs.
With the sound
of wings
that refused
ownership.
I write for him.
For girls beaten
into silence
by loud men.
For lands turned
into appetite.
For bodies turned
into borders.
For the day
a feather becomes
not fragile—
but a knife.
Note from the poet:
This is a poetic piece centered around the Houbara Bustard (Tiloor) through an ecofeminist lens. The piece takes the form of a conversation between myself and the bird, where both voices reflect on shared systems of violence – patriarchy, control, ownership, and exploitation. The bird speaks of being hunted, endangered, and transformed into an object of diplomacy and tradition, particularly in relation to the history of Houbara hunting in Pakistan and the lifting of bans due to foreign policy. In parallel, I speak of women – their silencing, exploitation, and the ways their bodies are similarly controlled and politicized. Through this dialogue, the poem draws connections between environmental destruction and gendered oppression.
Zainab Jokhio (b. 2003, Mehrabpur, Pakistan) is an interdisciplinary artist based in Lahore. Her practice explores nature, divinity, and the relationship between humans and the more-than-human world through an ecofeminist lens. Working across installation, textiles, sculpture, video, and poetry, she creates research-driven works that reflect on ecology, memory, and care. Her work has been exhibited nationally and internationally.
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