Last week, it snowed heavily in Malmo. Temperature dropped to -8, and it was enjoyable to watch the snow fall, with an open landscape, without rows of cement buildings blocking the way, just like Yarmouk. How despicable was that place for one’s eyes!!!Although it is cold outside, but houses are warm, everything is isolated here, even human beings are isolated. You feel a form of immunity, mounting immunity, against everything, from sadness to insecurity.
A lot changed since you were arrested on the 30th of December 2012. Following the MiG attack on Yarmouk on the 16th of December of the same year, a partial siege was imposed by regime forces, the very same forces that kidnapped you unlawfully. People were starved to death. Plus 170. They call it a second Nakba. I think it is beyond a Nakba, it is a farewell.
Two years Salma, two full years, did they know that you write beautiful poetry when they laid their dirty hands on you? Did they know that you are capable to describe their savagery with a million word? Two years. What metaphors can do you justice? Mustafa is alive, his sniper headshot did not kill him, but he lost his capacity to talk. Your little brother can’t talk but he will tell you about it all silently.
Today, in Syria, there is no difference between those who can talk and those who can’t! The whole population is shouting, at least half of the population, the 10 million displaced, the thousands that were swollen by the Mediterranean, the ones who remain in the no man’s land, the ones trapped in the mountains of Albania trying to reach Germany, they are all shouting.
Staring at my new passport, red with biometric chip, the security officer at Copenhagen airport shouts at me, gently, “welcome home Sir, can I see your passport please?” He added politely. “Home” I mumble. How dare he say it is home? How dare he decide for me? I think of your cell Salma, I think of its coldness, the rudeness of your guard, did you cite some of your soft poems to him? Did you tell him that you deserve the sunlight?
How can I justify the warmth of my room when I know how freezing is your cell? Write me soon Salma, that simple question ponders in my head loudly, like the security officer’s words, the one who, believe it or not, treated me politely.