Syria

Syria,

Where are you, Syria?

Across a thousand miles of deserts and seas and oceans

That roar and lash and claw at my feet

But never, ever make room.

Are you there, Syria?

I am stuck, here, in a land of strangers

Strangers who give me curious looks in the stores

In the streets, rolling down their car windows as I pass by.

Measuring my life's worth

From my pallid skin, my headscarf, my dark owl eyes and my bony hands.

And as the cars rush by in a whiff of smoke that smells like a kick between your legs

I stand, shopping bag in hand, my brow damp and my fingers trembling,

And whisper under the ghost of a breath

'Where are you, Syria?'

Back in the apartment I share with four other women who left home to find a shelter,

I live off food stamps and old charity clothes

With sick stains and specks of blood.

The only thing of any real value in the room are our passports.

With their shining laminated faces, they once promised me the refuge they never gave.

And as each lost girl weeps herself to sleep at night, passports buried under their pillows with the dreams,

I cry into my cold palms,

'Where are you, Syria?'

And as drunk men feel me up in the bar where I wait tables,

As they rub their dirty hands against my thighs

And scratch me with their sharp grimy fingernails,

Whenever the beer is too warm

Or I don't unhook the top button of my shirt for them.

I cry into the empty mugs after my shift is over.

And weep for you, Syria.

Where are you?

Maybe the man who groped me in the dark on the way home

Knows where you are

How you are doing,

Maybe the white lady who wouldn't let me into her shop has an inkling of your whereabouts.

Or how the messiahs in black robes are treating you.

Or the reverend of the local church

Who warns godfearing men about us dirty immigrants

In his Sunday sermons,

He may know whether you have enough to eat

Or if you are cold and weeping blood like me.

Syria, life is no better, here, on the other side.

It is, as if someone twists a knife into your heart throughout the day

And starts twisting again, the next day

And the day after.

Till you throw up your innards

Till your tears dry up

Till your breath becomes short and ragged like a dying animal's.

Syria, my daughter, I could not bring you onto that boat

I am sorry.

But, it seems, I cannot see you become the person I find in front of the cracked mirror everyday.

Trust me, one day, all this will end.

Till then,

Don't breath

Don't speak

Don't step out of your room.

Die of starvation, Syria

Die of a bullet in your heart.

But not of painful nights in a prison cell

With murderers leering at you through the bars,

Or a savage between your legs.

Don't bend over like I did.

Let the tears dry up on their own.

For when they do, the thousand miles of

Deserts and seas and oceans will dry up too

And I will find my way back to you.

Goodbye, my Syria.

Maybe it is best if

I don't know anything about you

Anymore.