October 2023

“The songs of our ancestors are also the songs of our children.” —Philip Carr-Gomm

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Altars, places to honor our ancestors along with displays of that which we experience as sacred, were never part of my upbringing. I didn’t start having an altar until well into my adulthood. A central part of my home altar is my connection to the ancestors. My ancestors include family and friends who died and some becoming ancestors too soon on their life path.

Our connection to those who lived before us can be deep and profound if we invite their memories into our lives. Not only their memories, but what they worked for and how
they lived.

Those of us who hold identities that have been the target of oppression know that our ancestors faced hardships we may never fully understand intellectually, but we carry the memory in our bodies.

As a woman born in Egypt and raised a strict Muslim in the United States, I have had to face challenges that include anti-immigrant sentiments when I was a child from those here in the United States, and in Egypt I was faced with misogyny and strict rules of conduct because of my family’s interpretation of the faith. I often felt stifled as a child and teenager, rules imposed on me did not apply to my male cousins of the same age. I was angry at the unfairness of it and  I finally left the faith in my early twenties.

I connect most closely with my female ancestors, especially my two grandmothers. I knew my maternal grandmother, Labiba (her first name) and I adored her. She was feisty, gregarious and honest to a fault. I am grateful that I remember my maternal grandparents. My grandfather Abdelgawed (his first name), was more of a quiet introvert, who was kind and generous. I have a picture of both my grandparents on my altar.

My paternal grandmother is my namesake, Aisha. By all accounts she was the life of the party, a vivacious, generous and welcoming soul. She died when I was young and I don’t have any memories of her. I was born in Egypt and spent my first year of life living with her in Alexandria.

There is a picture of me as an infant on her lap and it is the only picture I know of with the two of us together.

I will never know what my grandmothers had to endure as Muslim females who were mandated into behaving a certain way in order not to be ostracized. They made the best of their circumstances, that I do know given how generous of spirit they were and how I heard stories of their antics.

My grandmothers are the reason I am alive, they suggested to my parents that they marry each other. They were friends and loved to laugh with each other, host parties and socialize.

I think of them often with the knowledge that I am living the life they didn’t know was possible for a female. I am independent, a faith leader and working for liberation of all. I am my ancestors’ wildest dreams.

What is your relationship with your ancestors like? What shapes that relationship for you?

Shawn
CLF member, incarcerated in PA

My relationship with my ancestors is very, very important. I have relationships with them just like you would with your living relations. Because, as I see it, they are just as alive as our relations, they are just on another plane of existence, yet here with us. They are around you all the time. You just may not be able to see them. Some of us can.

Ancestor worship is important to Wiccans, Druids and Native Americans. The Japanese also have ancestor worship. You can learn from them because they lived in another time and/or place. You can talk to them and worship them. Revere them. They still shape our lives as they did in the past. They flow through our veins. So it is very important to have a relationship with them. I learn from them as I would with my living relations. We have remnants of them in our Megalithic structures.

Gary
CLF member, incarcerated in NC

Growing up in the South during the 1960s was tumultuous but also a time of tremendous change. Coming from Quaker ancestry, my forebears were active in the Underground Railroad at what is now Guilford College, Greensboro, North Carolina.

Heritage means many things. Just as each individual is unique but also complex, so too is one’s ancestry.

Jacob
CLF member incarcerated in AR

My relationship with my ancestors is definitely not what I want it to be. I have barely explored it and feel like I am ignoring parts of their sacrifices and wisdom. I know some of my father’s side but have not been in the situation where I have been able to explore my Cherokee ancestry. My great grandmother Easter Sunrise dropped off the Trail of Tears in Missouri. I do not know much of anything about my mother’s side of things. Who are her ancestors? Due to all of this I have decided to start trying to learn more of both sides. I truly want to know where I came from, where my ancestors’ beliefs came from and what shaped them. 

GARY
CLF member, incarcerated in NC

I am from persimmons,
from Karo syrup, and grits.
I am from the front porch,
wide, long, cool in the Southern heat.
I am from magnolias,
whose fragrance is the quintessential South.
I am from Sunday dinners and blue eyes,
from Joseph and Kathleen.
I am from the stiff upper lip,
from seen and not heard.
I am from back row Methodism.
I am from Glenwood and Randolph,
Guilford and Shropshire,
the Queen Anne II,
Icebox fruitcake, fried chicken,
homemade cream puffs.
I am from the Christmas ornaments
made of cardboard and glitter
that Pop bought during World War II
when metal and glass went to fight Hitler,
carefully preserved, precious, rare.
I am from Grandma’s tea set, fragile,
tea pouring from a dragon’s mouth,
Sitting out of reach upon the sideboard,
teaching me to value heritage, tradition,
family.

Sarai Rose
CLF member, incarcerated in NC

There once was a child who found herself standin’
at the edge of time, life she thought—could be so cold and cruel;
but then there were brief moments when it could be so sublime.

One day, standing in the midst of silence, alone, with nothing but her own thoughts; back to her youthful and nice dreams and wishes,
far out upon life’s dark horizon she sat sifting through yesterday’s painful, cold gray ashes.

Soon she found herself quickly slipping and sliding along life’s bloody ledge, and in her worn and tattered heart, she made a silent pledge.
No matter what she vowed; the coming moments or days might bring, there’d be no surrender, with her all—she’d stand and fight.

She knew deep within, that this journey and all that might come along its long and winding roads, the sorrow and pain, smiles and laughter, like a rose growing among the thorns, this was her own tempering plight.

She had her moments of doubt and pain,
grueling moments, some so bleak, she thought herself on the edge of time’s continuum, only a heartbeat away from going insane.

The days passin’ ever so rapidly, so chaotic, life becoming nothing more than a blur, darkness creeping in until she finds herself slipping into an emotional manhole; empty shadows black as night.

Often she has found herself sitting in the heart of despair, cold and numb, quite dead inside,

from the hungry ghost there is nowhere to hide, while she realizes that in her demise, there’d be no one to truly care.

Within her bleeding and nice heart, there are many scars, wounds left by those who sought to use and abuse without remorse—the weak and naive, demons descended from the fallen stars.

She knows not what tomorrow might bring, nor if she’ll yet witness another precious sunrise, and thus within her heart she begins her silent goodbyes.

The weight of the world rests upon her shoulders; feeling as if she were a daughter of Atlas, yet surrender she’ll never do, she finds her courage to cling to an inner and mysterious faith.
She holds tightly to the voices of her ancestors; that should she endure until the end, very trial and battle, that come the ‘morrow—
She’d be freed of her deep sorrow.

For the sun’s wondrous and golden rays, shall pull her from the depths of hell’s dark and suffocating manhole, freeing her from yesterday’s haunting wraith.

As heaven’s glorious and miraculous light filters into her heart, washing her clean, and re-newing from the depths of her grieving soul. She’s refilled with a love so unconditional, a love far beyond human comprehension, a love she knows will never depart.

Through the windows of her soul has the Divine poured forth a cup of his own pure love, and within this infant’s curious and seeking eyes— burns true hope and assurance given from above.