Mother tongue, I cannot speak you, they said.

They tell me that they do not want to hear my thoughts turn to filth the moment I put them into words.

Mother tongue, why do they hate us so?

This march that I am marching, with the sand searing the bottoms of my feet, has no destination but death.

I do not know when I will meet a fate like the others.

Mother tongue, what have we done?

The juice of the pomegranate stains the very sand we tread. Blood red, mother tongue. Blood red.

Mother tongue, do we sound threatening?

They have torn my cross, the very source of hope, from my neck. I’m helpless.

Mother tongue, have we wronged them?

The others scream, mother tongue, but I’m afraid to console them. I might live if I save my graces.

Mother tongue, I do not know whether I should live fearing you or die embracing you. I’ve walked so far that I cannot run, cried so much that I cannot speak, thought so much that I cannot think.

Tell me please, my mother tongue, why is this happening to us?

For the juice of the pomegranate is now pooling at my feet, and it is only a matter of time before the words spill from my mouth.

Fear has consumed my pride.

I am not safe.