No one would choose to crawl under fences, be beaten until your shadow leaves you, raped, then drowned, forced to the bottom of the boat because you are darker, be sold, starved, shot at the border like a sick animal, be pitied, lose your name, lose your family, make a refugee camp a home for a year or two or ten, stripped and searched, find prison everywhere and if you survive and you are greeted on the other side with go home blacks, refugees dirty immigrants, asylum seekers sucking our country dry of milk, dark, with their hands out smell strange, savage - look what they've done to their own countries, what will they do to ours?
Who would choose to spend days and nights in the stomach of a truck unless the miles travelled meant something more than journey. And I'm not glorifying MD, but I need to us to really see that we are suffering, and not feel ashamed for traumas we've been subjected to and have hope that there is a light at the end of the tunnel and start to heal.Migrants hang onto flotation tubes in the sea after jumping from an overloaded wooden boat during a rescue operation 16 kilometres off the coast of Libya. I just want to share this poem as it really soothed me and made me realise so many of us can be so hard on ourselves, and feel so much shame and guilt, that we have this condition when it's the one thing that's keeping us from death. Mama, I made it out of your home alive, raised by the voices in my head. She wakes with a fright, someone cutting the rope, something creeping deep inside her.Īre you there, God? It’s me, the ugly one.īless the Type 4 child, scalp massaged with the milk of cruelty, cranium cursed, crushed between adult knees, drenched in pink lotion. The child reads surahs each night to veil her from il protecting body and home from intruders. Maladaptive daydreaming, obsessive, dissociative.īorn to a lullaby lamenting melanin, newborn ears checked for the first signs of color.
A loop, a girl born to each family, prelude to suffering.īless the baby girl, caul of dissatisfaction, patron saint of not good enough.Īre you there, God? It’s me, Warsan.
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