A Foreigner to Both Lands
A foreigner to both lands.
My arms stretch, caught between the soft oceans of there and the swaying trees of here.
Food is sweeter here, but there, my bed is warmer.
How do I explain it?
My belonging is a shapeless figure.
It does not fit into a mold,
It crumbles and yet begs
To be held and wrapped in the arms of one.
The pressure to feel at home is oppressive, as if it is my own fault
That I cannot find a mere feeling.
My lungs breathe differently here.
Deeper, longer, more…
Am I disloyal?
How can a bird be punished for not wanting to forever sit in a cage?
Do you hear me?
Or do you have a peaceful mold to sleep in,
sunken inside,
Unable to see?
My words get tangled on my tongue.
My eyes water.
My voice hurts as it climbs my throat,
But I’ll swallow this lump of emptiness once again.
To speak is to unravel a burden in the shape of thoughts
You cannot help me to piece this puzzle.
Where I Belong
October wraps herself around my ankles,
Like a stray cat that roams the streets of my Lebanon.
Her eyes plead me to follow her,
So I place my trust in where she will lead me.
I pray to be led to a familiar November,
Where my gaze will meet your soft face again.
I do not belong here, my love.
I belong with you.
A foreigner to both lands,
Yet I am not torn between the two.
Between the old walls of Beirut’s buildings,
And alleyways of my sweet Tripoli,
Between the laughter of cousins playing board games,
And chattering of adults in the living room,
Between the music of midnight bypasses,
And chirping of the sunrise birds,
Between echoes of the morning call to prayer,
And the bargains of sellers and buyers,
Between the aroma of silky Lebanese coffee
And strings of white fog that dances around your hands,
Between the power shutting off
And the hot water running out…
I choose to be there, my love,
And not here.
Birth me in my home country.
Birth me on my war-torn land.
Birth me where I truly belong and keep me from a life of lies.
Do not birth me
In a country where my tear drops
Salt my spoon.
Do not birth me where I bury my face in a pillow,
While others bury theirs in dirt.
Do not birth me on a soulless and fruitless land.
Do not birth me to helplessness.
Birth me in my war-torn home and
Leave me where I belong.
A painting I created in 2023 (Translation: To our land, and it is the one near the word of God, To our land, a heavenly horizon, in its bloodied night)