Other Words for Home

by Jasmine Warga

You should care about our country, too, he says. I do, I say, but what I mean is that I care about my brother and my baba and my mama and I just want to live in a country where we can all have dinner again without shouting about our president or rebels and revolution.

We are lucky. I know this because Mama tells me over and over again as we walk down the narrow hall toward baggage claim. Mahzozeen, Mama whispers under her breath. And I know she is referring to the fact that our papers worked, that we are not still stuck in that line, that we were not sent back. It is so strange to feel lucky for something that is making my heart feel so sad.

America, like every other place in the world, is a place where some people sleep and some people other people dream.

Every food has a label. It is sorted and assigned. Just like I am no longer a girl. I am a Middle Eastern girl. A Syrian girl. A Muslim girl. Americans love labels. They help them know what to expect. Sometimes, though, I think labels stop them from thinking.

I wonder if it is exhausting to be a tree.

To lose something, year after year, only to trust that it will someday grow back.

Sometimes all you can do is hold on.

The better our English gets, the better we get at reading the newspaper articles, the signs, hearing the radio, about how so many people don’t want us here.

Hoping, I’m starting to think, might be the bravest thing a person can do.