Home.

By Ikhtisad Ahmed

Home.
I am tired and I want to go home.
I want to be cocooned in the folds
Of my blanket, on my bed within the four
Walls of my own, my sanctuary, my room.
I want to speak softly to my kin who holds
Me tight, vanquishing sorrow forevermore.
I want to be a comfort to my neighbor,
To stare into my kin’s eyes, see tomorrow,
Smile and, as my lips part, say that all is well;
I want to tell my friend to fear no more,
But truth says from it I can no longer borrow –
It has called in its debt, told me to say farewell
To my home.

Truth is white, dressed in white, atop
A pale white horse, a cross behind him,
Rifle in one arm, star-adorned flag in another,
And he says I need to go home.
He says if I speak or move he will stop
And search me, put me in a dim,
Squalid cell if I disobey his order.
I am to go back home,
Somewhere away from here,
Anywhere that is not here.

Truth was my neighbor,
My friend, my kin;
The sun turned to darkness,
The moon to blood,
Now he is none.
I am the deplorable other,
A few shades too dark, my skin.
The new laws enforced thus,
By truth I am expelled,
My home is gone.

 

Ikhtisad Ahmed is a human rights lawyer turned writer of Bangladeshi descent. His socio-political writings include the short story collection, “Yours, Etcetera”, and the poetry collection, “Requiem”. Visit his website at www.ikhtisadahmed.com.