You Say I Am Not Welcome...
CREATIVE WRITING
You say I am not welcome.
You've made that clear.
Brutally, callously, deathly clear.
You say I am not welcome,
but every morning, you delightfully sip coffee
from beans, my people first brewed in Mokha,
yet you manage to find the audacity
to spit out my name
like it is an unwanted pit.
You say I am not welcome,
but you use my numbering system
to carry out the most complex calculations.
You say I am not welcome,
but you mapped stars
with Al-Farghani’s constellations.
You say I am not welcome,
but you built hospitals
on Ibn Sina’s grave.
You say I am not welcome,
but use my ancestors’ accomplishments
to further your understanding of this world.
You stripped our discoveries of their souls
to fuel your war machines.
Yet my tongue is buried
like it is something foreign.
Something unknown.
Something you exiled as a threat.
You say I am not welcome,
but your enlightenment was built
on libraries, we refused to let die
while your dark ages choked you
into a dependent silence.
You say I am not welcome,
but the hands that catch your newborn’s first breath,
treat your sick,
and take care of your elderly
are the same hands you happily tattoo ‘terrorist’ in the blood
of my genocided people.
You say I am not welcome,
but when you count your sins, use our numbers.
When you document your genocides,
add the zeros to my people’s graves.
Yet you fear my prayer mat
more than we fear
the echoes of your bombs.
You say I am not welcome
but celebrate the clockwork
while vilifying the hands that wound it.
You say I am not welcome,
but you dissect light
with Ibn al-Haytham’s eyes
yet glare at me
as though I were a stain on your streets.
And so, your children solve for X,
but instead of finding Al-Jabr,
a word buried with the bones
of Muhammad al-Khwarizmi,
your equations must wear Latin masks.
You say I am not welcome,
but what good my people have contributed
to humanity is claimed as your own,
and your cultural industrial complex churns out lies and propaganda
to erase our contribution.
To erase us.
Why?
To baptise your lies:
Worthless.
Haters of life.
Worshippers of death,
you preach as your drones hum hymns
over our skies.
You say I am not welcome.
Then why do your cities
still wear the robe
of my people’s accomplishments with pride?
You say I am not welcome,
but I am you, and you are me.
Ask your monuments.
They will cough—
and whisper my name.
You say I am not welcome.
Then why does your future
hang onto my ancestors’ fingerprints