lush green below a cloudy sky
the rays of sun at fajr time,
a hush across the roofs.
faint buildings lead into the airport that would tear me away from the dirt i was made from.
the sun beats down, a taxi horn blares.
“mama, hum kahan jaa rahey hain?”
my homeland, so beautiful, so broken.
ghar. khonsa ghar?
my roots trail an entire ocean.
i am neither here nor there;
i am everywhere.
my mother tongue is soft and harsh
all at the same time.
the gentle smile of my grandfather teaching me the alphabet:
“roll your r’s, beta.”
i do. i say ‘pahaar.’
a mountain stands between
azaadi and occupation today,
blood runs from 1947.
the consequences of a partition
so necessary,
so cruel.
no one wants us
but everyone lays claim.
this land has given me so much.
it has taught me to be bold, to be free, to speak up.
it has also taught me to peek behind walls,
that i should be seen not heard: an ancient patriarchy
that i am slowly unraveling:
this land is my land.
i will respect it, but i will not let it own me.
it has taught me to believe, to be soft,
and somewhere along the way,
i became the teacher.
a crescent moon smiles down at me
next to it a star engulfed in green.
a golden age impending.
pakistan: the land of the hurt, of the flawed,
of the pure.
--
seventy two years ago,
the world watched
as the bloodiest partition
occurred in an effort
to migrate to a land
for those so stifled in what was supposed to be their united home.
seventy two years ago,
my great grandparents
and so many countless others carved out a land
where they could be safe from hate.
seventy two years ago,
my grandparents were born at dawn in a new country
made from blood, sweat, and tears; a country made from hope.
seventy two years later,
i know the stories of a sweet escape to a land all our own.
the sacrifices, the violence.
the inferiority.
and i know now the stories haven’t ended.