[Congressional Record Volume 165, Number 199 (Thursday, December 12, 2019)]
[Senate]
[Pages S7023-S7024]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]




                         TRIBUTE TO KIAH MORRIS

  Mr. LEAHY. Mr. President, I recently had the pleasure of meeting with 
my friend, former Vermont State Representative Kiah Morris, who among 
many distinctions was only the second African-American woman ever 
elected to the Vermont Legislature. Kiah's talents are far-reaching. 
She has also been an actress of stage, film, and television, spoken 
word performance, as a singer, dancer, and arts manager. Whether as a 
legislator or on a theater stage, Kiah's work has focused on 
amplification of the voices of oppressed people, on human rights, and 
on social justice.
  It was in keeping that Kiah recently traveled to El Salvador and 
Honduras under the auspices of Oxfam America to meet with families 
struggling with the violence, poverty, lack of opportunity, injustice, 
and hopelessness that is causing thousands of destitute, frightened 
people to abandon their homes to seek refuge elsewhere. In those 
countries, Kiah saw where people had been gunned down, victims of gangs 
or corrupt police. She listened to the stories of threats and 
extortion, of kidnappings and deadly attacks, of fear and desperation. 
Inspired by the people she met and outraged by the brutality they 
described, she wrote a poem.
  I ask unanimous consent that Kiah's poem, which captures the essence 
of what the debate here over Central American refugees should be about, 
be printed in the Record.
  There being no objection, the material was ordered to be printed in 
the Record, as follows:

                       I Saw the Places They Died

                         (By Kiah Morris 2019)

     I saw the places they died
     I saw the places they died
     I saw the blood on the wall as if it were fresh

[[Page S7024]]

     I saw the bullet holes pierce their flesh
     I saw the places where they died and their spirits left their 
           bodies onto a heavenly place
     Far from a war-torn country of our design which orchestrated 
           their demise
     On the darkened brick walls splashed with stucco
     Metal bars on windows each home a fortress from the violence 
           that hovers in wait across the thresholds
     Street vendors who compete for our Starbucks money to feed 
           their souls and nourish their dreams
     I saw the places they died in the tears behind the eyes of a 
           priest who saw too much Mental memorials to the 
           expressions of horror and sadness on the face of a 
           mother who died trying to save their daughter's life 
           captured in the space between his eyes and the weight 
           of their loss
     Their state-sanctioned murders designed to leave no witnesses 
           behind
     Ordered bullets to fillet her face to ensure no viewer could 
           recognize their own mother's eyes in her frozen gaze
     I saw the places where they died, where the children were not 
           spared
     No life too precious to halt corruption and gang warfare
     Daily genocides where there are no sacred spaces or 
           sanctuaries in which to hide
     I saw the places that they died in the cobblestone streets
     Where people are pawns in a corruptors endgame
     The depth of the violence bears no shame
     I saw the places where they died when I heard the women speak 
           of the terror that they face every day,
     Every week
     The normalcy of rape, the dignity decimated, the beatings 
           meant to break and the constant earthquakes that shake 
           the fragile state
     I saw the places they died in the hopeful smiles of the proud 
           feminists who carry the burdens of their sisters as a 
           shield
     To protect the dignity of their humanity which too often is 
           forced to yield
     I saw the places they died, float off into still air
     Laden with promises unfulfilled and hidden ambitions laid 
           bare
     I craft petals with poem to form a bouquet dropped off in a 
           history of genocide
     With the hope the path these roses display will propagate a 
           garden in honor of the many places they died.

                          ____________________