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Poem	For Taslima Nasrin, in sisterhood There is no fatwa in this land, what are you thinking, this is Europe. A place without borders and without internal wrinkles, without possibilities for asylum and exile. There is no fatwa in this land – it is divided into thousands of small conspiracies, tiny murders per partes, which seem like coincidental misfortunes and sap your blood, drop by drop. There is no fatwa in this land, what are you thinking, this is Europe. No one foresaw the exit from Eden, no one is responsible for it. There is no fatwa in this land, it is replaced by countless cunning tattling friendships, humiliations at the workplace, the disabling of every shift, treading in place in a thick, impassable ether, in a treasury where your every move crosses a laser beam five times. The mechanisms for the prevention of breathing multiply, the windpipe squeezed just enough for several molecules of oxygen to enter. There is no fatwa in this land, what are you thinking, this is Europe. A sovereign union of the poor and the tycoons, no more borders, but also no decency or dignity. There is no fatwa in this land, but when you die, we will cash in your death as well, sell it five times over to raise its value. After death we will make you immortal, now you be quiet and leave us your achievements and success. Did you mention asylum or exile? Why? There is no fatwa in this land. © Taja Kramberger, Z roba klifa / From the Edge of a Cliff, CSK, Ljubljana, 2011 © Translation by Špela Drnovšek Zorko, 2012
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