Sleep

February 2022.

Written by: Haya A. Elmizwghi

Edited by: Fatima M. Mami

Published by: Fasila

A smog-infested breeze greets me at the open door.
A promise of fresh air brings nothing but betrayal.

I go outside, in hopes of breathing,
better than I did inside,

yet I still feel just as choked;
not with pressure, with dread instead.

Somedays, I cannot hide
all the pride that fills my lungs
for this nation; for this tribe.

Other days, I cannot hide
my utter disgust.

A cold wind brushes my cheeks;
the only source of comfort; I almost weep.

Coming from miles away, from a land overlooked by another flag,
as good as finding warmth in a stranger's arms,
sometimes necessary to survive, to breathe.

My lungs collapse, my knees fall to the floor,
dust grazes my clothes, claiming them as its own;
like everything before.

I live in a world of ruins,
some created by God over centuries, others created by man in seconds.

The wind whips my hair loose; a battle between the land and the sky
over who wins this battered soul;
I am merely the spoils of this war.

I try to cast away the pounding of my uncle’s generator,
which compares not to the pounding of my head.

I turn to the right and to the left,
yet to no avail; the pounding remains.

As much as I yearn to scream and shout
to demand of my uncle to grace us with one peaceful night;
he has a baby to warm, children to entertain, and a wife to lay eyes on.

Why is it that the things famed to sustain life
only seem to destroy it from the inside?

Generators.
Wars.
People.

It is not my uncle's fault; there lies no peace in this land.

The sun rises and lifts my eyelids with it;
another sleepless night whips away
in a blink.

Will today bring more merriment,
or only more sorrow?

It is hard going to sleep,
thinking you might never wake up,
yet it is even harder waking up,
knowing you shall repeat it all.

And so it does;
the process repeats;
day after lighter day,
night after darker night;
like clockwork.

Except all the gears are lazy,
and all the springs are overstretched.

Who shall fix this old broken clock?
Surely not the parts themselves!

Let’s wait for a miracle, for all eternity;
in this dusty, abandoned attic.

Everyone who lives here dreams of leaving,
everyone who leaves dreams of returning,
and I, in the middle ground.

With one foot out the door, but a heart that wants more,
that is what this foreign wind can give me,
and what the smog-infested air can not.

While the floor is cool, my body laying flat on it,
it feels like I am stepping on lava.

Time rushing me to make a choice;

Them or us?
Them or us?
Them or us?

I would gladly choose us, had ‘us’ not meant a gun to my head,
yet I do not want to choose them, for fear of ending up dead.

Did I betray my land, or did my land betray me?
I’m going to end up dead anyway.

Yolo.

Taking one last breath,
in this land I call home.

My lungs give out,
my eyelids give away,
never to see another bright day.

I let the foreign cold lull me,
and my home embrace me,
and I finally go to sleep.