The broken land of my people was told to wait, though no one is busy and time is fleeting. My people are sick and some are dead and yet, they breathe and walk and go to work, but they are dead. The sick home of my people was told to be patient and it has been patient for hundreds of years, and though it is soaking with blood it promises to be patient until forever. The silence creeps up on mothers who hold the little ones that cannot breathe and cannot walk. Their fathers are nowhere to be seen; just like the food that once touched their lips and the comfort they felt knowing all was well. The sick land of my people has not heard of laughter and though we break and do not own much, our silence does not echo around the world.

But far away in a land I do not know of, in a place I will never see, I have brothers and sisters who pray for us ask my Lord to grant me Paradise. They pray for for my friends  and family, and for an end to our asperity. They cry for my broken land, their hearts bleed for us as we bleed, and as the moon settles in the dark canopy of stars above us they too suffer from sleepless nights knowing all is not well. Their souls find no comfort in warm beds but rather in waking up in the very depth of the night and in a united effort to pray for the innocent and weak who can no longer fall asleep.

These are my people and though they are few in number, I know they are there …

“The similitude of believers in regard to mutual love, affection, fellow-feeling is that of one body; when any limb of it aches, the whole body aches, because of sleeplessness and fever.”  (Muslim) 

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