Roots of Resistance

I’m afraid to put down roots.

How do you put down roots when you’ve been uprooted? 

How do you put down roots when your inner child still clings on to dreams and promises of repatriation? 

How do you put down roots when you fear the next generation will be more troubled with their sense of cultural identity than yourself? 

How do you put down roots when you don’t want to witness their native tongues wither away?

How do you put down roots when you fear you would be depriving them of the home you felt you’ve never had? 

The only roots I have are roots of resistance.

I’d rather live in my distorted illusions.

A place where I’ve seamlessly weaved together all the homes I carry within me.

Where I’ve carved out the banks of the Nile to give life to other cities I’ve known.

Where I surrender myself to the embrace of warm brown faces I cried goodbye to too many times to count.

Where the faint sounds in the distance of my grandmother’s zaghreet,

mark the celebration of our unity,

and end to our waiting.