trembles and cake crumbles

Trembles.

A window trembles over my desk and I hold on to my books,

to faith in God alone,

to a Damascus I had once known,

and to my phone,

Calling.

Explosions do not ask for permission before they happen. You have to be ready to call at all times. Call everyone. Pray. Stay away from the windows. Let them tremble. Do not go near the site, even if it is four blocks away, even if you can hear the ambulance, the people, the police, even if you can hear fear, smell death, and see chaos. Another might be coming. They have done it before. Days after, blood will still be on the concrete. Do not focus too much on the red liquid and just walk to your destination. It is a red liquid after all. You are not the only one who can see it. It will wash away from your shoes. Do not dwell on it, and if you do, make it worth something, write it, or do not, because you will be in denial. Later, write it — it will help you process, and it might help someone else out there, process this, or something similar, too.

Trembles.

My lip trembles,

As I smile uncomfortably at the customs employee,

Hoping I answer correctly,

To questions I do not know,

Keeping short my sentences,

So, they would let us go.

When you reach the customs window, smile. Do not say anything more or less than the question asked. When the employee there tells you and your sister that Selena Gomez was standing at your place just last week, act excited. Do not question why Selena Gomez would have had to go through international customs, even though you are sure she is American. Once they let you go, quickly find your way out. You will not have a phone. But you have your memory. Look for your grandfather and your uncle. You will not find them. Do not panic. Approach the information desk, where a nice lady sits. Her heavy Southern accent will confuse you as to where you are a little more. Just wait. When they come and pick you up, do not be disheartened by the emptiness of the landscape. Welcome to Texas. Be prepared. What is coming is hotter than the sun out here and rougher than some of these small country side roads.

Trembles.

My heart trembles,

As my body dances unapologetic,

Unstoppable and poetic,

With its moves to the Arabian tunes,

Undistracted by the American fumes.

The next years will change your life. Your Everything will change now that you are here in the United States. Miraculously, you will be granted asylum. Miraculously, you will be admitted to Emory University. Miraculously, you will there find home. You will learn to love and to hurt, to be hurt, to stop hurting, to forget hurting, through dance, and writing.

You will learn to be thankful, to transform guilt into gratitude,

to cultivate meaning within pain, acceptance within difference, and love within hate.

You have been uprooted from a wounded country into one that wounds. But you are not wounded. Healing is always available. You will discover healing in unconditional love and be so transformed by it, that your roommates ask, that your Hindu best friend asks to join at church, that your Jewish professor welcomes your gift of a miraculous icon. By God’s grace, you will wake up to our unified essence,

and tremble

to our blindness to it.

Home will change over the years. You are changing, too.

You will find home in your recipes, in your refuge,

in The Recipes of Your Refuge,

Where you will be inspired to keep record of it all, to process,

and for the world to taste.