Voice of British Muslim Women

Yusra Dahri, Tilford

I splay out my hands
Inspecting my scars with awe.
No longer are my wrists being wrenched
From my very body.
I raise them in prayer
Grateful that I was wrong:
For my God did not forsake me.

And my mission is not yet done
I must find the rest of them
The lost tribes, the lost children.
Like the balm that healed my side and hands
I must take a mending thread through other lands,
Close the open wound that throbs between
My brothers and sisters, scattered refugees
Waiting to build their homes on truth.

I travel by day. I rest only at night.
I sleep on my cloak, my staff by my side.
I gather from forests whatever my God provides.
My suppers are not farewell feasts
There are still many people I have promised to meet.

I tie knots in each place I stop
Different hands weave the same cloth.
Masiha, Messiah, Metteyya, Mi Shi Hu.
I guide the threads for as long as I am able to.
But I am human, and only human.
At my decreed time, I come to the end
Of a long, well-lived life.

The threads have tangled.
Some have broken.
People have twisted me into a story
A character whose life is the shape of a cross.
They nailed me to it only once
But they crucify me again and again
Instead of my legs, my teachings are broken.
They insist on pinning me to the sky
Where I do not belong.
Giving me a station
That makes my fists clench with shame.

My God, my God,
I did not teach them this.
My God, my God,
Send someone to break the cross
Before it breaks them.
My God, my God,
Do not forsake them.

30 / 06 / 2024