This is an excerpt from an introduction to an upcoming collection of Safiya’s essays, prepared by her daughter, Wanda. It goes like this:
For me, reading the thoughts of Safiya Asya Bukhari is a bittersweet experience. For to read her is to hear her, and to recognize her brilliance, her acute intelligence, her self-deprecating humor, her deep commitment; all that, but mostly, her searing honesty. Such thoughts evoke an almost ethereal aroma of sweetness. Like passing by a sunlit garden in a spring breeze. Then we must acknowledge the truth that she is no longer among us. And that many of us didn’t take the time to let her know how brilliant, beautiful, intelligent, committed, and honest we knew she was. Why not? Because we wrongly assumed that we could do it tomorrow. That we could drop her a letter next week, after the present project was over. We had time, but she did not. That fierce, powerful, determined Panther woman expired like a supernova. Quickly, abruptly, in a flash, lighting up the heavens like a morning star. Did she know, in her final fevered hours, did she know how admired she was, how respected, how loved? Hence, the bitterness.
My memory of Safiya actually predates her adoption of her Muslim name. To a young, barefaced Panther transferred from Columbia Avenue’s Philadelphia branch office, to the Black Panther Party East Coast Ministry of Information office, in the Bronx, she was sister Bernice, a tough, salty-mouthed officer, who ran the office with grit, and will. Those of you who are familiar with my We Want Freedom: A Life in the Black Panther Party, may recall my recollections of Panther women, and in particular, Sister Bernice, who ran the Bronx BPP office with all the tenderness of a drill sergeant. In describing this sister, I recalled she could be mercurial. At one moment, she could be whispering encouragement to you as you worked on a project, but in the next she would bark out, “Drop down and give me 20!” and stand there, her dark, bespectacled face and impassive mask of obsidian, as she counted out the push-ups. “One, two, 17, 17 and a half. Give me a real push-up, NI$$a. 18, 18, 19, 20.” The office was a beehive of Panther productivity, and she, Sister Bernice, was the undisputed queen. That Sister Bernice, would later emerge as Safiya Asya Bukhari. Her studies and life experiences of love and war led her to become a deeply conscientious and religious woman. But as these things enriched and transformed her life, her speech, her dress, and her worldview, the iron will of her core self remained. So did her solid integrity. These have been memories of Safiya Asya Bukhari. Love and respect. From death row, this is Mumia Abu-Jamal.
These commentaries are recorded by Noel Hanrahan of Prison Radio.
