Mustafa Santiago Ali
Dr. Mustafa Santiago Ali is the Executive Vice President of Conservation & Justice for the National Wildlife Federation (NWF), former Interim Chief of Programs at the Union of Concerned Scientists (UCS), and Instructor at American University. He is the Founder and CEO of Revitalization Strategies. He also serves as a commissioner for The American Academy of Arts and Sciences (AAAS). He is an award-winning writer and poet focused on social justice. Dr. Ali is frequently seen on television, including appearances on MSNBC, ABC, CBS, NBC, CNN, VICE, FUSE, BET, National Geographic, Full Frontal with Samantha Bee, and Democracy NOW! Mustafa is also a regular guest on Roland Martin Unfiltered, Black News Channel, Tavis Smiley Show, The Dean Obeidallah Show, and many others…
Editor's Note: This poem is the 39th in our Democracy and Hope Series. This series will highlight hopeful aspects about our Democracy using various genres including poems, interviews, short stories, and articles about political events.
maybe on Sunday, we’ll care enough to pause,
maybe our hearts won’t hide behind hymns or applause,
won’t wear ignorance like Sunday’s best, pressed and neat,
won’t let our prayers be the only time we’re on our knees—
maybe on Sunday, we’ll see how close the blood runs,
how each bombed village hums the hymn of our tongues.
maybe on Sunday, we’ll remember the names,
learn the cadence of grief in a language of flames,
feel the heat of homes turned to dust in our hands,
see the smoke curling up like a question that stands—
why we keep on feasting while the world is starved thin,
why we clothe our guilt in silence and sin.
every bombed village is my grandmother’s street,
is the playground where I lost my first tooth, bare feet—
it’s the corner store that knew me by name,
the church pew that cradled my sorrow, my shame.
it’s every place I ever called safe, torn open,
it’s the bridge between us broken, the promise unspoken.
maybe on Sunday, we’ll finally wake to the cries,
see every shattered window as our own broken eyes,
maybe we’ll feel the weight of the sky split apart,
hear the echo of truth in the beat of one heart—
for every bombed village is a wound we all bear,
maybe on Sunday, we’ll finally dare to care.
but by Monday, amnesia’s whisper sets in,
we slip back to our routines, our daily spin,
forget the vows made in the sanctuary’s glow,
were we ever sincere, or was it all just for show?
did we lie to ourselves, to the world, to the sky,
or were those promises just pretty ways to pacify?
©️MustafaSantoagoAli
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