I'm not angry on behalf of
my father, who took his last
breath with your words as his
purpose in life.
I'm not angry that he spent
forty years reading newspapers,
watching reports, analyzing
events, repeating national anthems
until I learnt them by heart.
I'm not angry that his feet were
cold on the last day of his life, as
he laid there, on a hospital bed,
with machines beeping next to him,
unconscious, not
knowing he lived a lie.
I'm not angry that the four
seconds of his coffin descending
into the grave still haunts me
in my sleep. I'm not angry anymore
that I promised the love of my life
that he'll make it through, he'll
be fine, he won't die until
he's ninety years old and has
a bald head, and a couple of
annoying grandkids around him.
I'm not angry I broke my promise.
I'm not angry anymore.
I'm not heartbroken over
the torn limbs, over the blood
spilled on the sidewalks, over the
families in their cars bombed
to ashes, over the tears of thousands
of orphans, over the hungry,
over the naked knees
in the most freezing time of the
year, over the bones cracking
in your prisons, over the
people who vanished after
questioning your righteousness.
I'm not heartbroken that
I spent three years stuttering
when I speak, because of fear.
That I can no longer feel like a human,
that my utmost dream is to
leave your zoo.
Your cage.
Your wilderness. Your carnage.
I'm not heartbroken anymore.
I know what it's like to be a victim,
what it feels like to be hushed,
deprived, lonely.
I'm not a victim anymore.
I am fire in the body
of a woman, I'm
all poetry and determination.
I'm a loud voice now.
I'm eager, and waiting,
and dying to see your name
in history books right next to the
word "war criminal".
I'm dreaming of the day
where I know you feel as
powerless, voiceless,
helpless as you
made us feel
for years.
And I will.
I promise you.
This time I won't break it.
