Illustration by Wynter Somera

I feel lost for the first time in a long time as I walk to school today. 

I know where to go, just down the street. I still feel lost. 

My heart is not in Chicago, because my heart is in Bint Jbeil. 

I imagine my neighbors would shout, “Sabah al khayr” (“Good morning”)

From their balconies, where they drink their morning coffee.

I’d respond with, “Sabah an-noor.” 

My heart is not in Chicago, because my heart is in Bint Jbeil. 

A place my Jido calls, Heaven on Earth

He tells me stories that are meant to say, “Our homeland is resilient” 

I have begun to write about how my homeland is resilient. 

My heart is not in Chicago, because my heart is in Bint Jbeil. 

As I walk down Wabash, I hear a low rumbling from the train above me. 

I imagine this sound as a sound that means, “Something is coming,”

In my homeland, this is a sound that means, “Something is coming.”

My heart is not in Chicago, because my heart is in Bint Jbeil. 

But everyone in Bint Jbeil has fled, except for few who refuse to go. 

The ones who left are seeking safety and shelter for their families. 

The ones who stayed no longer fear death, only fear losing their homeland. 

My heart is not in Chicago, because my heart is in Bint Jbeil. 

Only one thing remains here, and that is my body. 

Similar to those buried under the rubble of their homes. 

Same brown skin, same bones, same blood. 

My heart is not in Chicago, because my heart is in Bint Jbeil. 

But I am here, approaching my school where I smile and say I had a good weekend and people ask what I’ve been up to and tell me I’m always so bubbly as if it’s something I want to hear and I go to the bathroom to catch my breath and listen in class and I act like I’m happy and — 

I don’t have the guts to admit that it’s all for show and 

my heart is not in Chicago, because my heart is in Bint Jbeil.