© Lozan Yamolky
He shouted,
“Go back to where you come from.
Get back on the boat!”
“I cannot,” I said.
Where I come from
they would marry me to a man as old as my grandfather.
They would stone me to death,
for being in love.
They would drag me through streets till I die,
because I am homosexual.
They would ostracize me for being of a different faith.
They would hack me with machetes in the streets,
for not believing in their God.
I cannot go back to where I came from,
because they would behead me for refusing
to join their religion.
Our village counsel would order my gang rape
for debts my family cannot pay.
They would shoot me while I am on the bus,
because they do not want girls to go to school.
They would make me work at age five
because they need my small hands and small size
to move in jungles, in caves and underground.
They would humiliate and publicly torture me.
They would use and abuse me
for being born third gender.
Where I come from,
they would assassinate me
for standing up for women’s rights.
They would publically flog me,
hundreds of times,
for blogging online about freedom of religion.
They would dismember my body
for not wearing religious garments.
They would cut off my hand
for stealing food to feed my hungry family.
Where I come from,
they charge me with apostasy
and sentence me to death for writing poetry.
They would force me to join their army
or be killed.
Where I come from,
they would buy and sell me just like property;
I am their sex slave.
They would chain and imprison me
just because I am a girl.
They do not let me speak my mind,
they do not let me be free;
I can no longer be a child.
Where I come from, they took my ancestors’ lands,
my family’s homes and threw us to the streets.
I am no longer allowed to live in my land
because they gave my land away
and even gave it a new name.
I cannot go back to where I came from
because I am deformed since birth;
I just sit on sidewalks
begging for my daily bread.
The bombs disabled me.
Fear paralyzed me.
Chemical weapons blinded my sight.
Shouting and screaming at the loss of my people muted me.
The fires burned my flesh alive.
I am deaf from the endless sounds of bombs:
bullets,
explosions,
guns,
mortar shells,
air strikes,
and…
and…
and… I cannot go back to where I came from.
Where I came from,
the war is not going to stop,
because weapon makers are profiting.
I cannot get back on the boat because it sank
and with it, sank my hopes and my dreams,
my aspirations and my future;
my illusion of peace.
I can’t go back to where I came from you see
– but you can!
You can go back to being tolerant of others;
back to having empathy and compassion
for the innocent hurting in our world.
You can go back to the time
before you were taught
– to hate.
____________________________
© Lozan Yamolky
From my debut poetry book: I’m No Hero
By: Silver Bow Publishing 2016
To get your copy of my poetry book, (I’m No Hero) and/or (Counting Waves), send me an email. I ship worldwide and take PayPal
$20.00 Canadian$ + shipping.
Disclaimer: Phot of the lady sitting on the rock is my sister Viyan
