Gabrielle Goliath

Between cousins who survive

Dear Cousin

It has been a long time since we’ve spoken, but I know I must speak for you now.

In order to speak I must learn the rules. I must learn to walk in shoes that make me look like a goat no matter the outfit. I must own a handbag the price of the house I was born in. I long for that house, though I barely remember it. You were born there too. I wonder if the old house still stands… do you know? Do you live there still?

In order to speak, I must learn the art of the perfect lip, the perfect eye. I must practice my voice; head voice, heart voice. I must obtain degrees from universities our parents never dreamed of attending. I must hold two passports or give up the one of my homeland- if it still exists. I must master the language they speak here, so I can speak for the people I come from- if you still exist. These are some of the rules I must learn.

I do all of this because inside me is a voice… mine, yours… it hardly matters. The voice longs for a listening audience, and these are the rules of all the rooms with audiences whose ears are still able to hear.

Whose ears are not besieged by drones, bombs and shrapnel. Whose ears are not colonised by propagandists, preachers, influencers and opportunists selling empty desires and stolen dreams. Whose ears are not preoccupied by voices asking for food, or school shoes, safety or shelter. Whose ears aren’t locked behind the silent walls of prisons, whose ears aren’t drowned by the din of a thousand tongues from within and without in mental asylums from which there is no parole. Whose ears are not ringing from chants and slogans and songs of freedom passed down through mother tongues I cannot understand anymore.

I know that these rules were learnt over generations. I understand how many saved and sacrificed for me to qualify for the credit to borrow on terms some split toe shoes and a handbag to match. To afford the price of the passport, and some limited rights. I know some sacrificed their own passage so others could survive. I know some stole what they could from those they left behind… in order to pay for their own escape.

Finally, … the door opens to the room where I will be able to speak to those who really listen. I paint my lips and fix my hair. My voice trembles. I am shown to the podium. I pull out my speech, the crumpled notes of our people, centuries old.

A hand stops mine, my paper-thin speech choked back into the ridiculous bag I must return tomorrow. Auto-generated text appears on a teleprompter ahead. I hear the mic go live. 

I won’t bore you with more detail- it hardly matters, you know nothing really changes because of one single voice. But I can send a bit of money if that might help? It’s not much but at least it’s something.

It’s now my turn to continue a tradition which might be the only thing that still holds our family together. Let me know where to send the gift and love to everyone or anyone who still survives.

Love Always

C

P.S Please send me stories from home. I miss your stories, they always make me smile.