The tent

Poem by Alaa Al-Akkad

 

Every time I gather the fragments of my days and organize what remains of my memory,

a new evacuation order has come.

We are condemned to move from one pain to another.

Comfort has no place among us, and safety is just an old story.

 

The tent doesn’t protect me from the cold, nor does it ward off the blazing sun,

but it is the only place that hasn't expelled me.

It hasn't asked for my ID,

for papers or a permit.

It merely contains me, like grief contains us every day.

 

I have difficulty moving.

I watch from afar as children run and play on the rubble of what used to be our towns and homes,

and I can't take a single step without pain.

There are no paved streets, no accessible sidewalks,

only sharp stones and scattered rubble.

A world rejecting my arrival every time.

I search for a way to a place far from death, from the bombs, the screaming, the tears,

but few cars pass by.

And no driver would take someone like me,

a body that can’t help anyone, and a heart heavier than the small bag with my possessions.

I thought being displaced once would be enough, but we are displaced every day.

From one corner to another, from small dreams to big nightmares.

 

At night, fear doesn't sleep, and the sound of airplanes never ceases.

The children hug us, seeking our protection. All we have is our hearts to protect them. We tell them of a better tomorrow, but we don't believe in it.

 

We are returning to the tent again, but we don't know how many of us will be back this time.

Will we ever return to our real home, though?

Or will the tent be all we have left of our homeland?