By Sehrish Tahir
The shared kitchen space at work.
I fill that bottle of mine.
‘Hello, how are you? How is work?’
‘Thanks, well. Soon on leave, going home’
It begins —that damn four-lettered word.
I regret it every time.
Eyebrows rise,
eyes widen,
lips drool for an exotic confirmation.
‘Home is going to Germany.’
Eyebrows frown,
eyes narrow,
lips pressed together in consternation.
‘To see my parents and siblings.’
Consternation leading to frustration,
to a possible contemplation
yet utter exasperation
and eventually resignation
no, capitulation
to the dominant narrative
White identity, Brown skin?
Hijab in the equation, what a scene!
I wonder whether
to enjoy this amusement,
this skin-colour complication.
I wonder whether
to sit on this mountain,
this bitter-sweet flavoured elevation.
I wonder whether
to justify this Brown face
How dare I attempt this provocation?
I wonder whether
I’m ever seen beyond the surface,
Yet I see my misconceived imagination …
… To be
what I felt to be
Eyebrows high,
eyes frantic,
lips sealed in desperation
‘Who of your parents is German?’
Eyebrows sweaty,
eyes bursting,
lips twitching in irritation
‘Parents Pakistani, born and raised there.’
From that powerful pinnacle, I fall,
Onto that face that is not at all,
What it should look like
What was expected
Eyebrows unfreeze,
eyes blink,
lips move in a bleak simulation
‘You speak German then?’
Eyebrows untighten,
eyes lighten,
lips release a sigh of alleviation
‘Of course I do, it’s my home.’
As if my sight had robbed the lungs of air to breathe,
As if it were beyond imagination to see,
what I claimed to be
Yet my White identity
does not serve me.
It shows me my place
Permission where to walk
It makes me small,
Small
like that talk.