Voice of British Muslim Women

Yusra Dahri, Tilford

It’s cold and I want to go home.
I’m writing this letter because I’m desperate.
Everyone on this street calls me crazy.

They say there’s no home to go back to,
That I came from nowhere.
If my house really existed
I should remember the address.
I should know where to send
This thin letter
– and I don’t. I don’t.

But the feeling of home never left me.
I was sewn out of something…
Hugs, and blankets, and wool.
I was stuffed with a sleeping heart
And a soul that was small, but full.
Then, I was pushed into the world
Like a needle through cloth.
Firmly, but with love.

The feeling of home never left me
But it is getting colder.
My fingers have gone numb. Without warmth
My heart will harden, sharpen
And cut me from inside.

Some people have lit
A small fire, street-side.
So I’ll put this letter in my pocket
And find a place to sit.

I try to nestle on the pavement
But my knees get scraped and soaked.
At least, the fire helps my fingers thaw.
The man managing the fire
Smiles at me through the smoke.

“Stay all you want,” he says,
“But I need kindling. Do you have paper?”
I pull out my letter.
“Yes…” he slurs, “That’s…perfect.”

“But I need to send this letter home.”

“If you really believed that, you wouldn’t sit here.”
I try to explain about the cold and the pain.
“You’re only cold because you’re trying so hard.
Stay by the fire. Make your home here.
We all burned our letters too.”

I stuff my letter back, quickly stand and go.
Dizzy with smoke, my limbs feel like pins
Losing their grip. I untether, collapse
But two figures clasp each of my hands.
“Who are you?” I croak, “Let go. I need to -“

“Get home? We know, us too.”
The one on my right
Points out a group in front.
“None of us remember each other
But we figured
We were all looking for the same place.
The letters aren’t just letters. Together,
They are maps.”

I trudge to the group. Together we walk.
Whenever there’s a fork
In the road, a few break off.
I try to call out to them, make them stop.
I almost lost myself,
I don’t want to lose anybody else.

But the others reassure me:
“They’ll come home, but differently.
Our destination is still the same.
And we’ll probably meet again
At the next town, so have faith.”

I frown, but I do like to think how
None of us are quite the same.
Yet all of us, in our own way
Are just doing our best
To get home.