There are those who laugh with us,
walk these streets with us,
call this soil their own
until a shadow brushes the light.
Fear, thin as mist, rises
and the hands that once reached out
pull back into themselves,
tighten into fists of suspicion.
Suddenly, we are strangers again,
the streets colder, the spaces smaller,
the home we built for all
shrinks in their shrinking hearts.
One trembling moment, one whisper of unease,
and they tell others
stay away,
it is not safe,
it is not yours to know.
They who once sang our songs
sell stories of fear instead.
Fear is a market that never closes,
and clout is a hunger that never tires.
Tourists come, eyes wide with wonder,
and find in these valleys
the arms of kindness still open,
the songs still sweet.
But those who should have remembered better,
who should have held the truth
like a fragile lamp in a storm,
chose to trade it for applause.
And when the winds calm,
the trading does not stop.
New slogans.
New posts.
New coins of pity collected.
This is not anger speaking,
not hate rising from old wounds
only a reminder:
be careful whom you believe.
Our stories are not commodities.
Our pain is not a prop.
Our love is not a reel.
Our stories are ours
to tell,
to guard,
to carry forward
unbroken.
The writer writes to rest her heart and untangle her thoughts
Nowsheen Mushtaq
no**********@***il.com