I have been forced to
make homes out of human beings but
I am still searching for my home country.
My parents immigrated to America in the 90’s in search of the great American dream- they didn’t know it was just propaganda. They didn’t know that when they packed their lives into one worn, brown leather suitcase, they would be subjecting themselves to a life of oppression.
I thought I knew where home was but I can still taste the bitterness of Southern America lingering on my lips. I can vividly remember what it felt like trying to gasp for air under the scorching Colorado sun.
The immigration officers told me they would be taking me to a deportation center for the night- until they could put me on a flight ”back home” in the morning. “But this is my home”, I told them, barely able to speak without drowning myself into a river of tears. I was stripped of my belongings and all I had left from my twenty years was my name and my memories, all of which were of my time in America, a country I once declared home.
There were many young women there, all of which were considered to be ‘illegal immigrants’, whatever that means. I was among them. My parents never warned me this day might come.
Couldn’t you have prepared me for the trauma, mama? Papa? Where were you? Couldn’t you have stopped them? Help me rewind to a sweeter time- a time that smelled of fig trees, infinite spices and mint tea. Take me back to the time, mama, when I was in your womb, where my freedom once lied.
Mothers are losing their daughters to the sea.
Can you imagine drinking dust instead of water?
The people have begun to set themselves on fire.
You call them madmen but they’re the epitome of human.
Millions wander lifeless in limbo,
hopeful for better days.
Never forget that the color of their blood
is the same as yours.
I often find myself reminiscing of
a time I’ve never known.
Immersed in memories that
I’ve never lived.
My mind won’t stop
I dream of wars, bullets, bombs and shells
I can smell the crisp, innocent blood from the ongoing massacre
I can hear the Aleppians cry
I can imagine the centuries of history on the creases of their hands
I don’t know their names, but their eyes once glistened-
no safe zones, no life
I can’t stop crying
I have forgotten how to breathe
I wonder if the people of Aleppo
have accepted what is happening.
What is the difference between
revolution and war?
and why won’t it end?
I don’t know what the Middle East looks like
but I imagine it smells of blood and prolonged terror
Cities that once smelled of jasmine
now reek of
fear and famine
I am sorry for the horrors.
I am sorry for turning your pain into poetry.
levitates in limbo
some place in between
the faint taste of peace and the
prominent taste of war.
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Written By: Anais Sarah Aiache