I live in the solitary cell. in the Fenway. by the park.
(is this where we're heading...)


Afraid of your own identity. your very own identity… you. afraid of you.
Afraid of getting hurt just by being what you are.
And sometimes you can’t hide. and how would you? why should you? and who would?
Anything points at you. the friend. the neighbor. the stranger on the street.
Everyone has something to say. a knife to plunge in your breast… mercilessly.
I am an arab. I am a Lebanese.
I am a… I am a… I.
This only comes with anger. helplessness. and with fear.
Fear of being who you are: “I am!” “I am!” are nothing but whispers, resonating from the back of a darkened auditorium.
From the back of a throat. The back of a… barricade.
Screams resonating from the back of a darkened interrogation room. a living room. a bed room.
A parent weeping. a brother ruling you dead. and maybe you… almost dead.
From dust to dust to dust to dust to dust… how many times?
I live in a prison of my own making. I live in a prison. I live in a concentration camp. I live in the solitary confinement cell.
But you listened to the cries, seeping through the apprehension and the silence of a night. You heard them. These are not cries of cowards.
These are cries of fear. Learn this as you read:
When the brave are afraid they do it in silence. in dignity. they stay home. make their tea. wear their finery. and wait. and wait. and wait. they wait in silence. for the knock on the door. And when it arrives, solemnly they collect themselves, kiss each other goodbye, only one kiss on each cheek, and then are taken away. are taken apart.
No farewell. no pity. only pride. pride for who they are.
They are… they are… They.

Where do you live?