border
by Dulani
the British left India in nine-teen-fourty-seven
broke
us
in
two
and called it:
freedom.
violence gave birth to separate nations
people
turned on their neighbors as if WAR was GOD’s creation
homes and trains were set on fire -
religion was
the torch
lit by fear
and power
women were raped
their bellies cut open
fetuses
torn out of
their wombs
whole families burned alive,
while millions of others changed tongues
and faith
to survive.
seems to be the s t o r y of so many
shedding away
parts
of
identity
being uprooted
for a better life.
seems why we are in constant search of wholeness –
like putting a mirror
back together;
the cracks show how we’re broken inside,
reflecting the borders we’ve internalized.
yeah, in constant search of wholeness –
like putting a mirror back together
sharp edges that
meet each other
so perfectly,
smoothing out the roughness that makes us incomplete
in-com-plete -
I don’t know my history. I thought it was a simple “point a to point b” immigration story.
didn’t realize that there are more points in the journey than I can count
didn’t realize warriors run in
the family
cuz amongst all that violence and chaos
there was a brave little girl
who was my mother
and
a brave little boy
who was my father.
how is it that so much doesn’t get passed down?
generation
after generation,
our stories of survival fading
but we remain haunted
inheriting
the pain without
the healing
the numbness without the feeling
our MOTHERS and FATHERS trying to protect us -
but we are the
SONS and DAUGHTERS of resistance and sacrifice,
and protection from the truth makes for
ignorance is not bliss
and
I feel lost and scared
- I need to not only land on my feet
but have strong roots
to sustain me
there.
for years as a poet, I was a storyteller
who didn’t know how
to tell
her own story
why did it take me so long to ask my parents these questions?
of where did you grow up and what was that like
and who are you?
not just you don’t understand me -- but I don’t understand you -
and when
we say
I love you
we really mean
I miss you,
I think
its time I got to know you
from
a small village in Pakistan to a refugee camp in India
from New Delhi to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
my mother
has crossed many borders
always having to decide what to take with her and what to leave behind
belongings,
language, culture,
memories of another home, another time -
seems like a past life
so
that dreams be the only spot different worlds merge together
people and places from different continents in one subconscious
forever
reminding us we are not ghosts,
we are real and living,
even when there is no reflection,
no
compassion to our being
we build community
knowing we are neither here nor there but somewhere in-between
living
at the borderlands,
raising strangers who don’t understand,
why
the house
is always full
of suitcases
why are we afraid to live?
constantly pushed out or pushed in
physically
emotionally manipulated
They say home is where the heart is –
my heart has been stretched across borders
and shattered
broken pieces and stolen pieces
brought back together by truth.
brought back together
by love.
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