By Neeha Attiq
This poem aims to tackle the polarizing, almost existential question that is “where are you really from?” The narrator of this poem, to whom the question is being asked, is subjected to this internal conflict subsequent to a storm of turbulent thoughts and hostile emotions that forces her to reopen old wounds and reflect upon the current obstacles faced by many who share her journey but have still not reached their desired destination. The nature of the situation is alluding to the experiences of refugees and the dichotomy between how their circumstances are construed by those not privy to all the facts (the dream) and the adverse reality that many are enduring (the truth). In the end, the answer sought by the questioner would suggest that the narrator’s place of residence was not an answer that proved to be satisfactory, rather there had to have been a better answer that would explain why she doesn’t look the same or speak the same, but which story is the one asking willing to hear? To remain blissfully ignorant or educate oneself with the right intentions is the choice that needs to be made before exerting dominance over another person due to their differences. This subtle prejudicial implication is essentially what makes this question often problematic and is what this poem is meant to express.
You asked me in a very optimistic tone,
battered in genuine curiosity
during conversations of languid movements between yourself and your reflection,
arousing animosity in the presence of your inferior,
who unlike many found comfort in the lustre and gloss of a polished glass door.
You asked me this question,
this question that fights an unarmed battle against itself,
wreaking havoc in search of its unrequited love in the form of an answer.
Your thoughts mingle, your heart beats frivolously, and the pause between your ask and my response suddenly
becomes longer.
The silence grows fonder of the mystery,
this enigma is my questionable authenticity.
Photo from Unsplash
Where are you really from?
You asked.
“They say home is where the heart is
So do I not have a heart?
Do we dig graves for our sanguine hearts or our friends?”
The crowd of brazen men clamouring for answers circle overhead a shock of inferno like seagulls
as the vessels of hearts soiled around the edges summon a blast of fiery rage crackling and snaring,
making the earth tremble moreover,
and the masses recoil in horror.
I jolt and my body instinctively curls, moving my knees close to my chest to act as a shield as I transition into a deep, impenetrable slumber on the cold floor of my family's tent.
I saw what is, what was, and what could have been all at once:
The girl stood near the bow of the ship;
Crestfallen, half of a whole hanging still above a serenade of ripples dancing upon the waters blue-bound skin. She ran her finger in wreaths of promises across an amethyst illuminated sky, and brewed remedies in her mouth to heal pain imperceptible to the mortal eye so she could blow blessings onto fellow voyagers.
The chorus of poetry the stars sung brought art to the wreckage wedded war in her soul.
Calluses embraced her bare feet from balancing the weight of her mother’s absence. When dragged across the striker in her life jacket, a fire burned her insides as she watched the only life that she ever lived dissolve in silence,
disappear into the darkness, no longer gawked by violence.
She stumbled upon a foreign land redolent of a crisp-pristine beginning. It was blanketed by comfort beyond the fruits of meditation, an oak bearing such gifts basked under rays of light, surrounded by summits pointed so high she thought that once night blanketed the sleeping sun, they’d try to pluck the stars from the sky like grapes off vines.
She blinked thrice to ensure the absence of dilapidated roads and broken homes that aged every day to defile darker shades.
The present welcomed her with a merry-go-round of peonies and the bare spines of overarching trees taking her on a ride of unseen colors of amusement in a park of her own.
A sensation of the fifth season. There was so much world and not even a scintilla of rubble at its folds. More than half of what her frail hands could hold.
This world taught her to fling open the door to her heart with a melodramatic display that could just slightly knock you off your feet. She was not an outcast nor a castaway like a moon that is exiled to a life behind the sun’s glory at dawn. She was home.
And this home is where her heart is -
should have been.
All promises made by man are made by liars.
Fantasies are lies you let cradle your pain in its infancy before it’s exposed to the cruel, and unbearable nature of the real world; your imagination is exploited until the anger coursing through your veins runs dry and the numbness of your nerves paralyze all emotion because the world is in fact just too cold for warm, hopeful expectations.
In an instant, awake, alive and abandoned by freedom, she lugged a heavy heart and the burden of unshed tears into the night once again in search of home.
Before the chasm between fantasy and reality widens, which answer is the story you’re willing to hear?
I ask.
About the Author
Neeha Attiq is an 18-year-old student at the Schulich School of Business and an aspiring writer who is constantly contemplating the convoluted universe. You'll often see her staring into space or mastering the art of procrastination and professional binge-watching. She mostly writes poems and prose but one day hopes to develop enough creative ability and stamina to write a book of her own.
So well written! Mesmerizing!