”War came out of me
It came out of my flesh, my hair, the cracks in my heels,
my breath that has turned blue from crying
I walk each day in this cemetery called Life.
We survived? For what?
Who said that those who came out alive came out unharmed?
We came out dragging our entrails in nylon bags.
Today I live, oh… I live
But not like other people live
I crawl from the hour of sleep to the hours of nothingness
I chew dry dust as a declaration of survival
I count my breaths so I don’t die by mistake
And every morning I hate the sun for rising
The sky above me is a torn black cloth full of holes
From which the souls of martyrs escape
And from which the scent of my mother wafts as she cried kneading bread
They told us: Adapt!
How does the hole adapt to a child’s body?
or the wall to the absence of its family?
or the picture to the missing wall?
My heart adapted to no longer delighting in the lemon tree
that grew up with us.
I am the stone I place on my chest every night
So I don’t fly away from my fear.
My shadow is very light, because I’ve abandoned everything heavy:
Homeland, Memory, and Fairuz’s Voice in the morning.
I don’t have a dream.
I am beyond the dream.
I am the remains of a dream that slept on the ground so long that it became rubble.
Survival is not Salvation; survival is the slender betrayal of those who have passed away.
Survivors are tested every day with the same questions:
How are you still alive?
With what heart do you sleep?
With what mind do you reminisce?
Life, if it were to return, would find us sleeping in the dark.
All we want is for daylight to tiptoe past us and let us remain asleep where we can forget our old names
for we no longer recognize ourselves.
If I die tomorrow,
Bury me standing up
So I don’t look idle in the grave, as I did in life.
For hunger steals sleep,
And oppression steals prayer,
And war has stolen me…”
-Hudia