The Seamstress Daughter

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 sun-gilded 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 grey 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?