I am my grandmother’s overgrown garden, 
and the violet hydrangeas she left behind.
I am the balcony floor which cradled my past self as she watched bombs drop on her city, 
 I am the smell of cedar trees, 
 I am the incessant honking that keeps Beirut’s roads alive,
 I am the friendly bodega owner who saved my sister and I a chocolate bar for our daily walks home from school,
 I am the graveyard in which my grandfather was buried.
 I am the unlocked door which invites the hungry in for iftar,
 I am Fairouz playing faintly in the mornings,
 I am the insults hurled at a television screen during the nightly news,
 I am the smell of freshly-baked pita bread.
 I am the sign held up by a protester as she fights for the freedom of her brothers and sisters,
 I am the heads held high of the women who formed a wall to push forward the Lebanese revolution, 

I am the abandoned homes of those
 whose eyes were tired of crying,
 whose hands were shaking as they signed immigration papers, whose broken hearts were left bleeding beneath the rubble.
 I am the long-distance phone calls home that end in prayer.
 I am the anger,
 the hope,
 the loss,
 the unity,
 the resistance of my people.