Whose Story Is It Anyway?
Whose Story Is It Anyway?2 mins 14K 2 mins 14K
I am listener, a very good listener
During the nights, I listen to the screams
Of the little prisoner,
Haunted by her dreams?
The remnants of a ragged doll that reminded
Of her once beautiful universe, well provided
Snatched away instantaneously
By the bombs that were dropped unashamedly.
The warm touch of her father
Did it soothe her spirits?
Did his silent tears wash away her fears?
The big key in the pocket of his gown
Of his home in Sinar that was burnt down
As the crowns stood their ground
A part of his soul was never since found.
The sever-year old huddled in that corner with a smile
Dreams of going back to the cobbled streets of Douma
Forever reminded of the flowers that stretched a mile
In the beautiful gardens, back home in Mesraba.
His little sister gazed at the ceiling
Picture of that fateful day unfolding
When all her classmates held their hands while hiding
Under that tables to escape from the bombings.
I am a good spectator, a very good one indeed
I cried when they cried and I laughed when they laughed
I saw Aaliya, the fully pregnant one, as she sobbed
A caressing tune to the unborn, she sometimes hummed
Whose childhood was overnight robbed
When Aaliya left behind at the border she crossed
The father’s dismembered body
Coated with dust and encrusted blood.
Dreams shattered, innocence scarred
Aspirations deprived, unspeakable violence inflicted
Never ending stories of sorrow, strength and survival
Of escapes from the ravages of bombings
Only to walk into poverty and despair
Past and future – a distant dream, a nightmare
Does anyone really care?
Will their souls ever repair?
Off the maps, territories wiped
Pages of history with brutality blemished
As Uncle Sam and Aunty Sophia disputed
And the neighbours in silence watched
Millions of deaths and mass exodus reported
To mere statistics everything reduced!
Whose story was it anyway?
Of humanity and mankind?
Who is telling the story?
I don’t know.
I am just a listener, a spectator
I hear, I listen, I see, I watch
The words and emotions fluttering in the wind
I am just a pile of bricks, a wall, a tent
Housing the immigrants, a shelter, a tomb
Without dignity, where they will never be home.