The silence is not peace. It is heavy with memory, with rage that still breathes in me.
Before I was seven, I had already learned what it means to be treated as an object, a thing, a stat, by a father who claimed authority, by a mother who excused him, by neighbors, by teachers , by politics, by economics..by witnessing massacres, by witnessing survivors barely surviving, by starvation, I was a means and so were they.
What is a child to do when her existence is claimed by others through abuse, through war, through negligence?
What is a soul to do when protection becomes betrayal?
The first forms of betrayal.
The first but never leaving.
Constant and everywhere.
What is a young soul to do helplessly watching other souls burn while dragging her to the fires too with them?
What was there to learn? Why did I have to burn?
Why did I have to get broken in every possible way? Ways I can't even bear to talk about.
At seven, I watched my sister and cousins suffer, then die.
The why is Him clinging to power others wanted.
It was his fault.
Their screams still echo in my bones, their blood I can still smell, i can still feel the ropes, the blades, the back of the rifle. The physical pain. I remember everything.
I was meant to follow them, but I was dismissed by luck , not out of mercy. I was insignificant. And they thought I am already dead.
What is survival when it comes by chance, and others don't survive?
What is life when you walk away carrying death inside you, and alone?
I remember the nothing people.
The hundreds of people who did nothing.
Their family names.
They hid in their homes while we suffered because of our race.
I remember them.
And I remember how they treated me for not dying. Their questions and whispers about me for the years to come.
Something tore in me back then. I fractured. I developed many selves to carry the unbearable weight alone.
And one of those selves was rage, fierce, dangerous rage. Pure. It was my sister. My rage was my sister. The only love I ever had back then became rage.
When my father came once again as a man cloaked in higher purpose, a leader, I struck back. Sharp fists, teeth, fire ,and I made him feel fear and regret. I showed him his true self in me. And while he pretended to still have the upper hand, I was the one in control..
But it didn't go unnoticed how my mother again betrayed me for him. My brother became his weapon against me.. betrayals again. That was my fate.
What does it mean, when those who should guard your life instead deliver you to the wolf?
What does it mean to be blamed for surviving?
I carried that rage into the years that followed.
And I used it to carve freedom.i plotted, I fought, I detached, I tore myself from the cycle of needing to save my mother so my younger siblings would not grow up in it.
Did I create new wounds in the process?
Yes.
But was there any other way?
If a house is burning, is it sin to break the door, even if glass shatters? Should I have burned with you? I never understood you mother.
Betrayal followed me again and again.
My country itself betrayed me, giving a political pardon to people who took away my sister. My country betrayed me. Democracy betrayed me. Does anyone even slightly understand how evil that is?
And then again as an ex muslim I faced abandonment.
My voice too inconvenient, too honest, too loud..Don't speak of the bigotry or the life threats to not disturb the comfort in binary. Don't speak in depths your story is inconvenient.
Going to a different country helped my siblings but it didn't help me. I deserved better for everything I have given away.
Why so much betrayals I have to ask?
And again and again and again as an activist, masks of false care. You think it is small but it is not. It is nothing small.
How many times can one be retraumatized by betrayal before they decide to kill their humanity?
What does justice look like in a world where apathy and oppression the norm?
The only time I took what was mine was through force. What does that teach me you think?
What does healing look like for someone who has lived as object, weapon, survivor, and fought like a dog?
Can a soul that split to survive ever be whole? Why would wholeness be the goal, instead of truth raw, unvarnished, unashamed?
The breath comes and goes. Ahh. I am burdened by the disillusionment but at least it is real.
I don't want answers that soothe. I don't need them. I want to look at this as it is, for what it is. I want to return to it and look at it again and again.
I sit with this rage and the fractures. Even if the world preferred me broken, silent, compliant I did not surrender. I don't say this to bring myself comfort. It brings me conflict and suffering to not surrender. Resistance is suffering. And suffering doesn't always have to get "fixed". Sometimes to surrender is to give up your humanity for someone else's narratives.
What is a child to do when her existence is claimed by others through abuse, through war, through negligence?
What is a soul to do when protection becomes betrayal?
The first forms of betrayal.
The first but never leaving.
Constant and everywhere.
What is a young soul to do helplessly watching other souls burn while dragging her to the fires too with them?
What was there to learn? Why did I have to burn?
Why did I have to get broken in every possible way? Ways I can't even bear to talk about.
At seven, I watched my sister and cousins suffer, then die.
The why is Him clinging to power others wanted.
It was his fault.
Their screams still echo in my bones, their blood I can still smell, i can still feel the ropes, the blades, the back of the rifle. The physical pain. I remember everything.
I was meant to follow them, but I was dismissed by luck , not out of mercy. I was insignificant. And they thought I am already dead.
What is survival when it comes by chance, and others don't survive?
What is life when you walk away carrying death inside you, and alone?
I remember the nothing people.
The hundreds of people who did nothing.
Their family names.
They hid in their homes while we suffered because of our race.
I remember them.
And I remember how they treated me for not dying. Their questions and whispers about me for the years to come.
Something tore in me back then. I fractured. I developed many selves to carry the unbearable weight alone.
And one of those selves was rage, fierce, dangerous rage. Pure. It was my sister. My rage was my sister. The only love I ever had back then became rage.
When my father came once again as a man cloaked in higher purpose, a leader, I struck back. Sharp fists, teeth, fire ,and I made him feel fear and regret. I showed him his true self in me. And while he pretended to still have the upper hand, I was the one in control..
But it didn't go unnoticed how my mother again betrayed me for him. My brother became his weapon against me.. betrayals again. That was my fate.
What does it mean, when those who should guard your life instead deliver you to the wolf?
What does it mean to be blamed for surviving?
I carried that rage into the years that followed.
And I used it to carve freedom.i plotted, I fought, I detached, I tore myself from the cycle of needing to save my mother so my younger siblings would not grow up in it.
Did I create new wounds in the process?
Yes.
But was there any other way?
If a house is burning, is it sin to break the door, even if glass shatters? Should I have burned with you? I never understood you mother.
Betrayal followed me again and again.
My country itself betrayed me, giving a political pardon to people who took away my sister. My country betrayed me. Democracy betrayed me. Does anyone even slightly understand how evil that is?
And then again as an ex muslim I faced abandonment.
My voice too inconvenient, too honest, too loud..Don't speak of the bigotry or the life threats to not disturb the comfort in binary. Don't speak in depths your story is inconvenient.
Going to a different country helped my siblings but it didn't help me. I deserved better for everything I have given away.
Why so much betrayals I have to ask?
And again and again and again as an activist, masks of false care. You think it is small but it is not. It is nothing small.
How many times can one be retraumatized by betrayal before they decide to kill their humanity?
What does justice look like in a world where apathy and oppression the norm?
The only time I took what was mine was through force. What does that teach me you think?
What does healing look like for someone who has lived as object, weapon, survivor, and fought like a dog?
Can a soul that split to survive ever be whole? Why would wholeness be the goal, instead of truth raw, unvarnished, unashamed?
The breath comes and goes. Ahh. I am burdened by the disillusionment but at least it is real.
I don't want answers that soothe. I don't need them. I want to look at this as it is, for what it is. I want to return to it and look at it again and again.
I sit with this rage and the fractures. Even if the world preferred me broken, silent, compliant I did not surrender. I don't say this to bring myself comfort. It brings me conflict and suffering to not surrender. Resistance is suffering. And suffering doesn't always have to get "fixed". Sometimes to surrender is to give up your humanity for someone else's narratives.
