Oppressed
Backwards
Developing
Barbaric
Terrorist
These are a few of the words
They use to describe the land that holds my identity
The land that holds my family
These are the words that have,
For eighteen years,
Painted a picture in my mind
A foggy, distraught picture
Of what my homeland must look like
I had forgotten
The truth
The reality
For eighteen years,
The only memory
I held close to me
Was the smell of cardamom and gasoline
For eighteen years,
That smell was enough for me
To never give in
To the hate
To the ignorance
To the fear
Of my identity
As my feet hit the ground
After eighteen years of being missing
I realize
I’ve been oblivious
People who have nothing to their name,
They give
People who don’t know what family is,
They love,
People who have no time to waste,
They are patient
The whole world
Deems them as “third world”
Yet they remain
Smiling
Defiant
These people
Have sewn their souls into my identity
Forever.
These people are the truth
These people are the embodiment of love
These people are what other people don’t have the privilege of knowing
It all makes sense
There was a reason all along
As to why my soul felt displaced
And wandering off from this state
It all makes sense.