A Diaspora in Motion

I see a Diaspora set in motion.

I see it in the refugees that swarm shores only to be pushed away.

In their hands held palms up,

A backpack strapped tight, and a lost childs toy.

Syria is the new victim.

 

'History repeats itself' professors whisper.

I sit in a classroom and debate

what a Diaspora is,

something that has a meaning that is forever evolving

but staying the same.

 

I am not a true child of a diaspora,

I look at my skin and I'm ashamed of my history.

I'm ashamed of each person who claims that this skin has had a diaspora.

 

I've never seen the face of a slave,

but I've seen their descendents.

Strong and still resiliant, toiling still in a white mans world.

A world that should except them for every truth and flaw,

not discard them or steal their belongs and call them theirs.

 

I can not claim a diaspora,

I would not want to anyways.

I see friends who cry out

for an identity, for a sure history that they will never have.

I see friends cry out for isreal and a clan of people they have never met.

I cry for nothing for I am sure in myself, in this skin I carry.

Still though I am ashamed.

 

I see history repeat itself,

and I can do nothing to stop it.

I see a diaspora set in motion,

like a wave crashing on the shore.

This poem is about: 
Me
My community
My country
Our world

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