In My Country, There Are Over 250 Ways to Say Grief

Photo: Eyasu Etsub

I say where I come from, and everyone understands that my country is a war zone. There is no way to say my country’s name without evoking the image of bloodshed and terror. Every day my people are being brutalised, mutilated, and blown to pieces. They do not have time to pick up their blown-off limbs from the ground or to nurse their wounds from the last conflict before the next one occurs. They are tired, but violence does not let them rest. Either children are being stolen from their mothers’ arms, or they are suffocating in the smoke of enemy gunfire. If they are not dying of starvation in displacement camps, they are cracking their heads open on the rocks at the bottom of mines. In my country there are over 250 languages, so there are over 250 ways to say grief. There are 2.3 million square kilometres of land, and half of them are on fire. There are 110.6 million people, and they are all turning into smoke. Every day more of my people are being forced to leave their homes to escape the conflict of war. They are walking day and night for kilometres with dust in their sandals, carrying what’s left of home on their heads and on their backs. When people see this on the news, they feel sorry that this is the place I call home. I want to tell them that I love my country, but the words fall out of my mouth like teeth. What’s there to love about a place that is being ravaged alive? All I can do about my country is mourn it.

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Mia Maisha

Mia Maisha is a writer from the Democratic Republic of Congo, currently living in South Africa. In her work, she explores themes of war, migration, post-colonialism, imperialism, geography, and language. Her work has been published in The Rising Phoenix Press, Anti-Heroin Chic, The Moth, Right Hand Pointing, Brave Voices, and Inlandia.

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