Out of context. Out of order

Out of context. Out of order. From the land of the seemingly condemned to the land of the seemingly free. Break the context. Defy the order.
Words that I once choked on in fear of losing. Scribbling them down in madness before they could leave me. With no inspiration in this world of privilege.
Flashback to the days that were spent in silence. And lost moments of sincerity when I was too scared to share. Over a cup of matte under the German sun. Listening to words that are louder than my own. Reminding me of the fears that I was too vain to admit. Fear of loneliness. Fear of companionship. Fear of fear itself.
Out of body. Out of mind.
Drowning in memories of a past where whips and veils are all that is to remember. And the growing distance that separate me from this past. Far away from the street that will never see the light of day. Where you drove forever to capture a photo that can keep me grounded.
Far away from the village that will forever carry the legacy of a massacre. Where children sing about a dreamland in which men don’t die young and women don’t weep.
Drowning in my new world where I don’t quite belong. Where my reality has been turned into entertainment. A privileged new world that turned my massacre into news headlines.
Publishing words that misread my Cause. Calling my revolution names that I never used. Names that were not among any of the million slogans repeated in Tahrir.
News that misread my fight over the vulva and the veil. Writing about all the things that women in Saudi Arabia still can’t do, without talking to one single Saudi woman.
Turning me into a spectacle, the child that viewers are relieved is not their own but will still watch in the news.
Bear your scars with pride. Bear your pain with honor. Switch off the news. The blood of the deceased has not been shed for entertainment! Break the context. Defy the order.
The child that has become too close for comfort. Sitting right here, laughing over matte under the German sun. Pretending not to enjoy the life of privilege. Pretending to be sorry for leaving death and abuse for those who couldn’t escape. Pretending to have no silent words that never reach the surface.
Living in a new world that transformed me into a monument. A monument of social mobility. Of surviving massacres. Of forgiving my own violators. Of joining the Left and upholding the bourgeois ideologies that I can afford. Of consuming organic food and reducing my carbon footprint. Of marching in foreign protests with the locals for entertainment.
A monument celebrated as a rare victory in a world that has failed over and over again. And in the society in which I lost the copyrights of my own past. Left with nothing but a voice that has become too privileged for the streets. For the massacre whose scars I no longer bear. And the refugee status that I no longer hold. But this coarse voice will never belong to the “civilised” world.
Sharing matte under the German sun. Sharing a few words and leaving the rest for the silence. The silence of comfort distance. The silence of privacy. The silence that doesn’t tell you about the other side of me. The side that I lost along the way.
Back to the days when life came in simple black and white. When the fight wasn’t between two sides of me. And there was no Foucault to deceive me. Back in Omraneya where the only struggle was against power cuts and sewage water coming from the tab. And the massacre where my enemy came in solid bullets and clear chemical gas. Back to the Holy Land where nothing but the veil could choke me.
When I didn’t care that I was that kid in the news. When my words never left me. When my mother was young enough to fight for me and hold me forever. And my scars were just on the surface and the pain wasn’t too deep. When I never lost home and home never lost me.
Out of context. Out of order. From the land of the seemingly condemned to the land of the seemingly free. Break the context. Defy the order.
