The Blog

Who Will Love Me Now?

CW: Graphic content

In light of President Trump’s executive order banning immigrants and green card holders from seven Muslim-majority countries, Kashaf Doha (BC’19) vents her frustration over this and the refugee crisis with a poem.

Who Will Love Me Now?

A girl emerges from the rubble,
staggering into the street,
where blood-stained debris and tattered limbs
replace the men and women negotiating with
the loud, but kind street vendors.

She doesn’t recognize her school.
She walks down the street,
not knowing where to go
and wonders if her classmates or teachers

She recognizes a bald man.


She runs over to him,
“Papa, wake up! No time to sleep!”
“Papa, we have to take you to the hospital!
Look at your leg!”

She shakes his head angrily: “WAKE UP!”

she feels a strong force
that pulls her away.

“She’s alive!”
“But her father is dead!”
the man in the white helmet yells

Don’t let them take me!
I want to be with you!”

The other men in white helmets
zip her father’s body in a bag.
They quickly pile into an ambulance,
passing all the destitution that
should only belong in a

Hot tears stream down her small face.

She remembers holding her father’s finger,
as he walked her to school,
the other girls’ made fun of her,
because he braided her hair,
but Mama died at childbirth,
so who else would braid her

She remembers his big smile,
whenever she told him that she wanted
be to a doctor.
She remembers his laugh,
whenever she told him school gossip.
She remembers his seriousness,
whenever he watched the news.
She remembers his pain,
whenever he would describe her Mama’s
kindness, intelligence, and beauty.

She remembers his love
whenever he told her that
she was the most important thing
to ever happen to him

Who will love me now?
She thought.

A boy emerges from the rubble,
He doesn’t remember what day it is,
But he remembers watching his mother and sister,
being squashed as his home caved in
and the world going black.

He makes his way to the mosque,
where his older brother told him to go,
in case something bad happens.

It’s difficult to avoid walking over limbs,
because they are everywhere.
It’s difficult to not get lost,
because all the buildings look the same:
heaps of concrete.

He finds pieces of glass with the word
“Bismillah” on them.
This is the mosque–
or where it used to be.

He sees a man in a white helmet
who begins to cry
as they reunite.

“Mama and Sarah are gone,” he says.
“So is Papa,” his brother replies.
“We found a girl, who lost her Papa too,” he adds

They quickly pile into an ambulance,
passing all the destitution that
should only belong in a

Hot tears stream down his small face.

He remembers his Mama
packing his lunch and kissing him on the cheek
every morning before he went to school.
He remembers his sister,
who laughed every time he
stuck out his tongue.
He remembers his Papa
telling him to respect his Christian neighbors:
“Different ways to love God
is still loving God,”

He remembers his family.
He remembers their warmth.
He remembers their love.

Who will love me now?
He thought.


*Editor’s note: The Lion doesn’t usually publish poetry, but we thought that this was an especially relevant exception.

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