familiar yet foreign still.

gathered sitting on the grass with this family that is not my own,

breaking bread, sipping tea, in this backyard with the olive tree. 

the sun fills us with warmth, the breeze offers its gentle touch. 

friday sermons from nearby mosques oscillate within earshot. 

i catch words here and there, in a tongue familiar yet foreign still. 

mostly my mind wanders, somewhere between this land and home. 

felt differences are present, but surprisingly they don't seem so stark. 

the hospitality of this culture i've long known from my endlessly giving mother.

this baba, like my father, tells silly jokes and gardens and listens to classic rock. 

sisters here too bicker over "borrowed" clothes, but at the end of the day love. 

kids on this street make up games outside, a reminder of the childhood i cherish. 

some things know no barriers of the imagined boundaries we create. 

arab or western, christian or muslim, citizens or stateless: human.

 

...

the other night i had a dream, set in my neighborhood across the world.

gathered with family and friends, we hid in terror, silenced and confined. 

peering through the window, we watched soldiers shoot civilians outside. 

our existence turned to fear, confusion, tears--never knowing who to trust. 

in the end, we had but one chance to stay alive: isolation, life as refugees. 

sometimes the differences forced upon us lie below what we can see.