Mourning February 13, 2015


They ask me why I always wear black.

And I answer “I am in mourning”.

They ask me who am I mourning.

I’m mourning my grandfather, I say.

They found his bones 10 years after his head was cut off, Quran in hand.

I’m mourning my uncle too; his remains still not found. I wonder how much he suffered.

I’m mourning my grandmother, killed by the grenades that left her son handicapped.

I’m mourning the thousands of Ahmeds, Aishas and Fatimas massacred for being Bosniaks, for being Muslim. I’m mourning my Bosnia, the land of milk and honey.

I’m mourning Palestine and her olive trees. I’m mourning Palestine and the land my friends will never get to see. I’m mourning Palestine and her rascal children, now gone.

I’m mourning Somalia. Forgotten by our Ummah. Her cries drowned out by bigger issues and bigger worries.

I’m mourning Yemen and its sky full of drones. Nigeria and its fields full of bones.

I’m mourning Iraq destroyed by the American Snipers.

I’m mourning the Central African Republic, the genocide of their Muslims.

I’m mourning Syria ravaged by destruction, her people are gone and we didn’t even notice.

I’m mourning Pakistan. The laughter that once filled its streets replaced with grief.

I’m mourning my Ummah.

Desolated by imperialism.

Displaced by war.

Devastated by hate.

Destroyed by the racism.

I’m mourning my Ummah and her smiles.

I’m mourning


And Yusor

And Mohammed.

Reposted with permission of the author. Originally posted at Femme Genius. Read more by Arnesa B on our site, here.

Arnesa B. is a writer, social worker, and grad student from Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina. Currently residing in the Midwest and on a sabbatical from the financial industry, she spends most of her days trying to change the world. You can catch her tweets about feminism, religion, and the Bosnian culture on Twitter @Rrrnessa.


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