I have always felt culturally isolated in England, in my home. I am not quite Arabic and not quite Jamaican and not quite British. I am reminded of these facts constantly. Navigating belonging in a world so static in its boundaries has been a challenge.  Upon visiting my mother’s homeland as an adult, I prepared myself for acceptance however my displacement followed me on my travels. This is a poem I wrote reflecting on these experiences.

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(I went to Morocco as a Moroccan I left reminded I was not)

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if the ants ceased to scurry

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you would never know there was a hole present

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one by one, like an army

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they marched

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from the crack in the wall

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across the cold floor

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to the fridge

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I watched the ants

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as my Senegalese twists were tugged

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and pulled, by the handful

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as words and phrases

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were said by the mouthful

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so sped

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I forgot to understand

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It didn’t hurt

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but before it had been issued

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I knew

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the style wouldn’t suit me

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It was made for straight hair soft hair silky hair

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not my hair

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instead of thinking too deeply about the oxymoron of my competing hair styles as a physical amalgamation of my internalised cultural dispute

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I looked closely at the uniform ants

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all aware of their place

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along the cracked white tiles

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I looked closer still

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one wasn’t quite in line

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Original article on RifeMagazine website: https://www.rifemagazine.co.uk/2020/07/i-went-to-morocco-as-a-moroccan-i-left-reminded-i-was-not/?fbclid=IwAR0EBcKLFhYyYtGX68ok5bsuzxsThD5wV2vqcdYHXAP8DWPRMu5ViDKyDnA

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Audio piece on RifeMagazine's Soundcloud: https://soundcloud.com/rifemagazine/morocco-audio-by-sophia-harari