Poetry: Ashraf AboArafe
O land of Somaliland—
who taught maps how to betray?
Who whispered to the sea
to open its mouth
and devour nations?
What wind is this
that declares—under the name of absence—independence,
deaf to the pulse of the soil,
forgetful of the names of the fallen?
They called it recognition,
as if sovereignty were a document
sold in an international market,
dragged by caravans of interests
and signed by hands
that have never tasted blood.
They called it a unilateral step—
yet we know
the first step
is always the bullet,
splitting the back of Africa
and planting in its heart
a wound only history can heal.
This is not Somaliland alone.
Palestine fell
the day they said: this is reality,
and the sky remained silent
before the first wound.
From Palestine to Somaliland,
the stab is one,
the silence is one—
the same silence
that teaches killers
that division is possible.
And Egypt remains—
like a palm that refuses to bend,
saying to the maps:
who betrays a small homeland today
will slaughter a greater one tomorrow.
