NSPP 2019
Skins
I find it fascinating how a mother’s tissue is used to develop her child
Passed down like an heirloom of the body
How every inch of my skin elopes organs made maternally
Within me
they live eternally
With tales to be told
Tales of grandmother Wafika who never left a mouth hungry
Tales of my mother who lived on a land she was not welcome to
I read them on the trails of scars that track my mother’s legs
that continued the trails my grandmother’s hunched spine followed to bring water to
bomb shelters when the sky didn’t exist over the smoke
She never left a mouth hungry but her own
And the callouses never left her body
The callouses that line the heels of my mother on her flee from a country
whom she had been birthed of from its cracks
Leaving her skin in Palestine so her veins can flee to Jordan
Birthed from cracks
cracks that have formed calloused grounds underneath spilled blood
Were civilians own names were masked by the lands they fought for
Their footprints erased from history
A body
A bloodline
Draining and forgotten
The land has never understood supple hands
Because they were told to grow thicker skin
I hold the stories of my ancestors through the cracks of my palms
The blood of warriors
The silence of protestors
The shackles of prisoners
The thick skin of my people
And I am reminded everyday
When the backbone of my grandmother carries my shoulders with dignity
In the land I am not welcome in
And when my mother’s footprints carry my path
when my heart does not want me to keep going
I have no shame in my name
Which is foreign to their tongues
No shame of my mother’s scars that I was told to pave over like a blinded highway,
But i now follow the directions to like a map
In a desert we were told to make of our dreams
So our footprints won’t remain
Through generations of skin fibers colored by the soil of our homelands
Grounded by the roots of our mothers
As the skin fiber dies, it grows thicker
And as the years pass me
I grow thicker
For the story i hold
Is just beginning
On a foreign ground
Where footprints are not rooted in this land
Where my heart conflicts with the fear of those around me
For a religion i chose
But a skin i did not
The prophet Muhammad (pbuh) once said there will be a time where holding onto your religion will be like holding onto hot coals
I have not dropped these coals
I just grew thicker skin
So we can salt these coals with our tears, like blazing embers
And let the sky taste our dreams
So when our breaths continue as the air that passes through the sand
We can open our arms and read our skins like unfinished maps
And let the earth hold our footprints
For when our names aren’t remembered
Windows to the Soul
My families eyes are all similar, however you need to look a little closer to see the difference. To see the difference, that keeps us all from being too much alike. The miniscule difference, that establishes who we are. Because only then will you realize, the soft light blue that lines the deep dark chocolate of my mother’s eyes.
So stern -yet so soft.
Stern from the pride, not wanting to hide the emotions and opinions- that line her mind. Yet, so soft-almost beaten down, from the world and what it brings.
Although you’ll always notice the way she almost-mindlessly looks at you. As if, she’s not just looking at you, but right through you. Seeing every single smile, scar, and tear. As if she already knows who you are, without a single slip of your lips. Then there’s my sister’s eyes. Not so lively. As black as a night, when there’s no stars shining.
As if sadness has taken over. When you look at her, you sense this feeling of- unevenness. As if her eyes have a certain divergence to the rest of her convivial features. Because even though she may stay quiet, her eyes still speak a thousand words. Then there’s my vivid virtuous younger brother. So curious, so naive. With prodigious hazel eyes, as if trying to get a better look at this world. With eyelashes to compliment and frame his eyes, long, dark, and curled. My second oldest sister with light green eyes like leaves that disintegrate into brown, as if those-leaves were attached to a tree. As strict as a wolf, the only emotion her eyes show are furious- exasperated. When she’s angered, there’s this certain fire, that’s best not to deal with-a fire in her eyes that can’t be put out. Always frustrated, worried, she’s a perfectionist-which explains why she always throws those chilled glances at me. She’s like an eagle, watching your every move, with her eyes-that cut deeper knives.
Though my second oldest sister acts as if I’m a nuisance, I always seem to see a crinkle at the side of her eyes. The same crinkle that lines my eyes when I smile. When she’s not scolding me, which happens to be very rarely, her eyes seem to bring a feeling of comfort yet regret. As if she regrets all the cold glances, stern faces. As if that fire in her eyes was finally put out. I don’t know where the bucket of water came from-but it surely seems to be doing its job.When talking to her you must keep your mouth closed and let your eyes listen. I look at her eyes when I speak to her-because I know her eyes speak louder than her mouth ever will. Her eyes are sometimes like walls-hiding every emotion, protecting her thoughts. But when you look deep enough to break down those walls, you see a soft spot. You’ll see a beautiful girl with gorgeous eyes-and a hidden world of hurt and lies. Because she still feels emotions-it’s just that her eyes cover them up quite well. I’m hoping for a day where my ears will hear the story her eyes have told me so many times. I’m hoping for a day where I can break down that wall-and never see it again. But for now, I must keep my eyes wide open, and let them listen. Look beyond that wall that separates me from her. I wish I could live in my own dream, with my eyes closed tight. But for now, I must keep them open and learn the ways of sight. They say that eyes are the windows to the soul-but sometimes-those windows could be dirty,closed, covered in blinds-but no matter how hard you try, you’ll never look beyond those windows, until you’ve open your own.
Title: Egyptian Queen
I stand there before the queen of an empire that dictated history upon eternal grains of sand. The light of the sun glinting in competition to the sweet honey of her cheeks--the rich, herbal gardens of jasmine on her neck.
Notice the chrysanthemum budding within her carob iris.
With her acacia fingertips blossoming at the edges in reach towards the sun as the Valleys of Luxor.
Who would not be tantalized by the silk of her skin, the Nile she has made of her body?
And nourish she does the worldly creatures, like a mother to all, but youth still prancing within her essence.
Her body of gold, grazed by gods and peasants alike, for its gifts.
That all who lay their eyes upon her seek to bathe in its glory!
And to whom do I owe such a beauty, where the strength and art of civilizations couldn’t compete?
The wisdom that spewed her lotus lips caressed you with the thought of milk and honey, a youth that tantalized even the sagacious soul of Cleopatra.
Her eyelids curling like a midnight crescent moon above the Nile.
A river whom doves and panthers alike return to in salvation to ponder of her upon its waters. Her lips a blush tone of supple carnation.
The shimmering gold undertone of her skin embellished underneath the sepia of her hands like a treasure hidden underneath sand dunes.
For they wonder how the pyramids of Giza steal no ounce of beauty from the Egyptian Queen.
Real Beauty
My vision of beauty is not like society’s,
For beauty does not describe the women on magazine covers,
And it does not define how much makeup you can cake on your face,
For it is not how loud your high heels can scream,
How many times you could stare into the mirror until you break into tears on the bathroom floor,
How many girls are ashamed that they don’t portray “perfect”,
Until eventually eating disorders lead to detrimental destruction,
Their once beautiful smiles grabbed by the bones of their face,
Their desperate dreams of being like Barbie
Clouding like an addiction,
Beauty is now a rarity,
How the world has manifested itself into a plastic playground,
Staring at the screens that numb the pain,
To escape from the merciless madness of the war-torn world,
Only opening your representation as yourself to see,
Ugly, fat, worthless screams the screen
For the sinister words like cyber monsters tore her down
Into that world of shame she had drowned,
Only because despite her qualities,
She didn't see herself as a girl in a magazine.
But how the world calls us all,
We are one of the human race,
Your legs don’t want you to desire a gap,
And your face doesn’t need a compelling complexion,
Beauty is not the TV’s intervening illusions,
It’s through a message as kind compassion,
And how you can change the world,
When you use those who knock you down to build yourself up,
And when you finally finish changing the lives of others as a hometown hero,
They won’t be caring about what you look like.
Vitality of the Night
Khan El-Khalili (خان الخليلي) erupted with life at night.
People dressed in all sorts of colored hijabs, turbans, and dishdashas animated the streets alongside neon store signs and bazaars.
In the center of it was a masjid, light up a warm lime, where mounds of people swarmed, stirring around one another like spilled water molecules but quick to organize themselves together as one being for Isha’a prayer.
We were protected from the heat at the hands of the dark garment that clothed the still sky. The sky and breeze quieted itself down to watch the life that the darkness brought through our culture, through my people.
We were the vitality of the night.
The buzz of flutes complemented the drums and tabla that danced to the trudging feet of by passers, young children laughing as zils and bells that hung off shawls ringed with each step into an unconsciously synchronized tune.
Cigarette butts jumping to its vibrations and freckling the dusted floor, scattered stars between the gray rocks.
The breath of hookah suffocating the air, seeping into our pores, but did little to suffocate the smell of the market spices and perfumes.
They lay in large burlap sacks, open for the flies to taste, their vitality shining as pots of gold ready to be taken home and enjoyed.
For now, they lay under the rainbows we have made of our market tents in such a gray world.
Little forts, like the ones of our childhood, outstretched over tables filled with various items. Each market held its own unique items, from silver rings to hanging Persian rugs to food and chips to flowery oil perfumes.
They lined the streets, each store seating two people in front on stout stools, usually sharing a cup of shay (tea) between themselves, or even welcoming customers inside for tea of their own--a common alluring trick that the naïve tourists often fell for.
Yet also a sign of hospitality and family amongst other Egyptians.
Glass cups clinked together as plops of sugar poured into them, uniting every Egyptian as another family member gained, despite bloodline.
But all family came with argument and disagreement.
Voices of bartering people leaked into the cobblestone pathway, the customers, if they knew their items’ worth, often marked down the already low prices of various items, usually got their way.
Carts of food and other items were accompanied by clicking horses and adults yelling their items and prices.
Cats and stray dogs sped off at the sight of yelling children who often chased after them, their frail ribs barely able to keep ahead.
The various people glinted upon the streets as shooting stars.
In synchronization to the music, to each other, like a continuous family connected at the veins through my culture.
We were the vitality of the night.
White Noise
White Noise
I’ve never been good at waking up to my alarm clock.
Hearing something
over and
over again
makes it easy to ignore.
When you see something
over and
over again
it becomes white noise.
Soon enough, listening becomes no more than a waste of time.
We walk along trails of fallen trees
So silent our footsteps can be heard
Well, I’ve never seen so many trees in the desert
I’ve forgotten how much silence loves my people
My people of Syria.
We’ve become sensitized to high death counts.
I refuse to be another statistic in your history books.
We have the weights of the dead
shackled on our lungs.
It’s hard to breathe in here.
I won’t waste my last molecule of oxygen to expand my chest, I’ll use it to shout the forgotten names of the fallen
I’ve forgotten how much death
loves my people
My people of Palestine
Their concerns don’t consist of waking up to morning alarms, but only waking up
---period
Trust me, I’ve tried to swallow these words so many times, but my tongue has no more room for scars in the shape of my
white teeth, carrying all the words that I wish I could’ve said.
People listen to all the wrong things.
We will
strip our throats
free of noise and
clothe them across the sky
Throats more raw than the skin on our hands that throw rocks against tanks, throwing love against war.
Look up at the night sky,
all the stars have rained down on us, sowing reticence onto
bold letter media headlines. My bones shrilling up into stiff tree bark to produce newspapers that nobody reads.
White noise does not belong in the
loudest of places.
My pedigree never came with an instruction manual, but all I’ve been taught is to stay quiet.
These leaves are all too familiar in my hands.
If our teeth won’t keep up we’ll construct new ones of the backbones of our mothers, the backbones of our children.
Can you not hear the hollow sound of cracking?
it echoes in my throat like a cave with burning fire.
Crimson flames forming fallen rainbow shadows.
I am forced to hear the darkness of war composed over the bodies of my people
you can not escape
from something that leaves black painted upon your tongue
reminding you
that white noise
is not an option.
Bomb smoke has a way of suffocating us with our
blood or tears, whichever comes first.
We will hold up our hands
desert sand
holding memories we wish to forget underneath our fingernails
Fallen trees in a forest made to crackle and fuel fear into the desert sand that tastes of bone
The worst thing about war is not the murder
It’s the white noise.