Milk Isn't The Haruub Itself Poem by Ali Farah

A hyena was once asked,
"Do you know what milk is? "
He burst into laughter:
"Of course, it's the black container,
Passed from hand to hand,
In the livestock pens."

In the darkness of the night,
the hyena knows only
what he sees and hears,
Lurking near the animal fence.
Voices call,
"Hey, give the children some milk, "
And he watches the black gourd, haruub.
Handed from the milker to waiting palm.
To him, milk is surely that vessel.

So too with us:
Statehood, law,
Justice, courage, patriotism,
All become what we glimpse
From far and outside,
Chattering confused with knowledge.

Observe Maryooley,
The Armchair Warriors,
Critics of all things under the sun:

One opposes federalism,
No reason weighed or informed:
‘Only his clan rejects it.'
Another defends it,
No thoughtful cause availed,
‘Only his clan desires it.'

Confidence grows from echoes,
Stubbornness blooms in guesswork,
Cocky voices repeat narrow views:
"Of course, I know it too."

Yet the wise,
Conscious of their own unfamiliarity,
Remain open, ready to learn,
To listen, to be guided.

But the one who thinks,
"Milk is that black container passed hand to hand."
How could anyone lead him,
Out of darkness,
Or truly quench his thirst?