My terrorists do not drop bombs
They are the rapist residing in every strange man’s face
The glances tossed my way as I walk down the street
The idea I guard against when I lock my doors tight
And pray that it’s not me that’s attacked tonight.
My terrorists have no convenient names
Like ISIS or Bin Laden.
They carry ugly hereditary titles:
Poverty, abuse, social decay
And every title is but one branch
On a Lernaean family tree desperate to be pruned.
My terrorists have no real race or identity
No matter what technicolor my TV feeds me
Or what nationalities are spat at
By friends, families, strangers
Who feel safe to speak only in their homes.
America’s terrorists are not my own
Switch off the internal media feed
You’re already surrounded by enemies
And it begins with an ambush inside your head.
(the symptom is not the problem
recognise the crisis
treat the disease)
© Zaynab Asmal