Words in the Dust

“Where I’m From…” Zulaikha’s Larger Picture by SB

I am from dusty chadors and aching, labored fingers.

From toy cars and soldiers; brothers battling in the yard.

I am from the towering tree of the Citadel,

Whose arms grasped my brother,

Forcing me to climb.

I am from the eyes that barely glance over ugly, and the lips

That don’t dare say

“Beautiful”.

From the torturous “Donkeyface”.

From the frightened order: “Zulaikha, get upstairs!”

I am from the reluctance to flee to the attic,

The horror and gunshot.

From Allah, the Great and Merciful, whose mercy

Is daily nourishment.

Whom I pray to for hope and gratitude.

I’m from Saima and Sadiq.

From Sadiq--and Malehkah.

From constant sprints to the market, searching

For rotten oranges and bananas.

I am from ripped naan and slabs of mutton with beans and rice.

From hand-crafted wedding dresses

And veils hiding the bride’s unknowing face.

I am from tears of the night,

Hidden from watchful eyes.

I am from favorable memories.

From madar-jan’s routine storytelling and steaming, sweet

Tea with Meena.

I am from unfathomable pain.

From the fiery flames that engulfed my sister.

From never-ending burns and scars, and seeing her lose

The will to live.

I continue to press forward,

Learning, living, searching for good.

I pray to Allah

Believing in a beautiful future,

Dragging my finger in the dust, forming a word:

Inshallah, God willing.