Just a little while ago, I wrote about Warsaw Shire, the song writer behind Beyoncé,  this very talented young song writer living in England now, got there as a refugees, years ago with her parents (please see my posting about Warsan Shire – Beyoncé a few weeks ago, to learn about her).

Anyway I read this very touching article from her today, which I would like to share with you on this cloudy Sunday. It makes me cry. Writing so beautifully, but the facts are rude, hard, awful, unbelievable, and we are sitting in our cozy world, and are scared to SHARE.
It is so true. Warsan has gone through that completly. But now she writes poems for Beoncyé. Thank you Beoncyè. I love you.
And I strongly hope, beg you, that you distruibute it further – to everybody, even to the haters, small minded people, those unable to share anything, tiny in mind and personality, unable to feel but there own pity –  so they can at least read what is is to be on the road, because you cannot live in your home land, because your country treats you bad or does in some cases not exist anymore.

Love Kimi
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Conversation about Home  (at the Deportation Center) by Warsan Shire….

Well, I think home spat me out, the blackouts and curfews like tongue against loose tooth. God, do you know how difficult it is, to talk about the day your own city dragged you by the hair, post the old prison, past the school gates, past the burning torsos erected on poles like flags? When I meet others like me I recognizes the longing, the missing, the memory of ash on their faces. No one leaves home unless home is the mouth of a shark.



I`ve been carrying the old anthem in my mouth for so long that there´s no space for another song, another tongue or another language.

I know a shame that shrouds, totally engulfs. I tore up and ate my own passport in an airport hotel.
Im bloated with language, I can`t afford to forget. They ask me „how did you get here“?
Cant you see it on my body? The Libyan desert red with immigrant bodies, the Gulf of Aden bloated, the city of Rome with no jacket. I hope the journey meant more than miles, because all of my children are in the water.

I thought the sea was safer than the land.
I want to make love, but my hairs smells of war and running and running. I want to lay down, but these countries are like uncles who touch you when you’re young and asleep.
Look at all these boarders, foaming at the mouth with bodies broken and desperate. I`m the color of hot sun on the face, my mother´s remains were never buried.
I spent days and nights in the stomach of the truck, I did not come out the same.
Sometimes it feels like someone else is wearing my body.
I know a few things to be true. I do not know where I am going, where I have come from is disappearing, I am unwelcome and my beauty is not beauty here. My body is burning with the shame of not belonging, my body is longing.
I am the sin of memory and the absence of memory. I watch the news and my mouth becomes a sink full of blood.

The lines, the forms, the people at the desks, the calling cards, the immigration officer, the looks on the street, the cold settling deep into my bones, the English classes at night, the distance I am from home, but Alhamdulilah, all of this is better than the scent of a woman completely on fire, or a truckload of men who look like my father, pulling out my teeth and nails, or fourteen men between my legs, or a gun, or a promise, or a lie, or his manhood in my mouth.

I hear them say „go home“, I hear them say fucking immigrants, fucking refugees. Are they really this arrogant? Do they not know that stability is like a lover with a sweet mouth upon your body one second, the next you are a tremor lying on the floor covered in rubble and told currency waiting for its return. All I can say is, I was once like you, the apathy, the pity, the ungrateful placement and now my home is a mouth of shark, now my home is the barrel of a gun.

I`ll see you on the other side!

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Love Kimi
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