The seamstress'daughter

I am Siroun the Armenian, the agent of humiliation in the desert. All I remember are ages of wandering, humiliation, dissolution, and death. All I have in my body is the smell of semen, graves, pus, and coagulated blood. I am the corpse born from a corpse: to whom shall I surrender my remains that reproduce in places? I am Maysan the Palestinian, daughter of the sun-gilded earth, owner of the eye that resists the awl. I will not hand over the keys of the houses, I will not close the balconies, and I will not leave, until I witness the return to the land. I am Shireen the Lebanese, I drink in Lebanon's ruin and pain, so that the moon may once again shine above its mountains, unblemished or humiliated. I am Jamila the Syrian, guardian of the deposit, I raise my blood in the face of the night to be an ember that burns the killer's hand. Close the sky over me, place me under eternal clouds, and extend me in the arteries of water so that it may flow. I am the Armenian, the Palestinian, the Lebanese, the Syrian. I am grandmother, mother, daughter, and granddaughter. I am the elongated womb, the cycle that began with suicide, and ended with suicide. How many more deaths must I count, how many more lives must I mourn before I deserve the light? I am Siroun the Armenian, the agent of humiliation in the desert. In my memory, there are only ages of wandering, humiliation, decay, and death. In my body, there is only the smell of semen, graves, pus, and coagulated blood. I am the corpse born from a corpse: to whom should I surrender my remains that multiply in places?

I am Maysan the Palestinian, the daughter of the sungilded land who stands tall in front of the oppressor. I will not hand over the keys of our houses, I will not close the shutters, and I will not leave until I witness the return to the land.

I am Shirin the Lebanese, I drink the ruins of Lebanon and its pains, so that the moon shines again over its mountains, keeping its white flesh from being marred by wounds or humiliation.

I am Jameela the Syrian, the guardian angel, I raise my blood in the face of the night for it to become a burning ember that scorches the hand of the killer. Throw the sky at me, keep me under everlasting gray clouds, and spread me in the veins of water so that I can rain down.

I am the Armenian, the Palestinian, the Lebanese, and the Syrian. I am the grandmother, the mother, the daughter, and the granddaughter. I am the womb that has been violated, the cycle that began with suicide and ended with suicide. How many more deaths do I have to count, how many more lives do I have to mourn before I can see the light?