They
asked me what I am, as if I couldn’t be a person too
But
since I’ve been asked, let me go ahead and tell you
what
I am…
I
am the one whose seeds were planted beneath American soils
but
whose heart remains pleasurably entangled in the veins of Syrian sands
I
am the daughter of a resilient ancestry that has survived centuries of
ruins—that will survive centuries more
that
will continue to uphold the title
of
the country that houses the oldest continuously inhabited city in the world
The
world
I
am the bold architectures that stand tall,
that
welcomingly sheltered not only our sisters and brothers
but
all of our kin seeking refuge from the borders drawn around us
Little
did we know those borders were prison gates in disguise,
preparing
to house our blood within to drown Syrians in demise
I
am the depths found throughout the elaborate gold etchings of woodworks,
made
by the callused hands that yearn
to
invite you to explore the intricacies of their wealthy history
I
am the intoxicatingly beautiful scent of fresh bread from those bakeries,
that
rise with the sun
It
is this bread that unites us all—or it once did
How
have we become a world that breaks souls instead of bread?
A
world that asks me what I am, not what I can do
But
since they asked, I’ll go on telling you…
I
am the refreshing cup of licorice root juice
poured
from the ornate golden kettle
in
the shaded ancient beauty on a hot summer day
I
am the culmination of art and literature, pride and intellect
Esteemed
values of the Syrian world that produced the rich talents
you
leave stranded atop the freezing waters of the Aegean Sea
I
am the one who shamelessly holds on to the age-old legacy laughed about
that
Arabs breed only doctors and lawyers and engineers
It
is because of this emphasis on knowledge that we produce the best of these
three and more
because
what I am
is
of the world whose origins cautioned against ignorance
because
it is never bliss
I
am the sweet aubergine colored damascene berries
that
sprout only from our soils during a certain season to delight the senses
in
a flavor that remains a nostalgic imprint upon the lips
And
from those lips, I am
the
poet that fuses the dialect of my grandmother from Aleppo
and
the dialect of my cousin from Damascus
with
my multinational dialect of American verbiage
I
am as colorful and as complex as the tapestries woven on the loom
that
has outlasted a journey from B.C. to A.D. amidst rumbles of war,
louder
than its beating strives
I
am the one that will fight till the death
to
preserve my Syrian history, my Syrian culture and my Syrian people
The
same way they fight to preserve their lives and their roots
Their
trades and their landmarks,
once
known as momentous heritage sites
And,
I am…
the
light,
flickering
from this candle I hold for Syria
Praying
to never extinguish in my flight to keep doing all that I can do
So
I hope,
that
answers
all
the curiosities that linger within you
Because
that’s what I am
