The question is simple enough, right?
Why don’t we just leave?
Everything is falling apart, and there’s bombs being dropped.
Political talks don’t seem to make a difference, doors are open to the Western world; surely you’ll have a better life there, so why don’t you leave?
Because we can’t, it was our home — they invaded us, stole from us, riddled our society with mischief, and then left us for the dead with hopes that soon this culture would revive and its people would thrive; yet 17 years later, there’s no end in sight.
Why come back? Why not leave?
Am I an idealist? A hero? A fanatic?
What am I?
I’m hopeful, as futile as it seems; if the most educated in our society start leaving, what’s left?
The very bigots who destroyed us?
They’ve already won, haven’t they?
Chased from our land, like the fallen prey from its hunters — waving peace flags around us.
The choice isn’t always that simple.
There’s time when you feel empty and think, I probably should leave; heck I’ve got the options, right?
I’ve got two passports, I’m a dual-citizen, fuck it; just leave.
Leaving is easy, though.
It’s easy to walk away, book myself a ticket and never look back.
I know countless others who’ve done the same; and I’ve heard their stories of how they found freedom and prosperity, good for them.
People die, cultures don’t — ideas live on.
As vicious as those words seem, you don’t ever abandon home.
Home is all you got.
Maybe I am an idiot for believing that I was born in a certain place, at a certain time, into a certain culture; for a reason.
That reason never taught me to run, it taught me to cultivate, to explore, but remember no matter how far you fly, kid — you’ll always find your way home.
Whilst, there’s no end in sight.
We’re surrounded by lunatics and idealists and fundamentalists.
Doesn’t mean we just give up and surrender.
It’s a reaction; friction rubbing against two divided ideals.
Formed and forged through fear, split apart and spreading like a disease.
There is nothing like the sight of a place you once remember from your childhood, now merely resembling ashes and rubble.
But the memories, they remind us — what was once there.
Will always be, in our hearts and minds.
The most fondest of our legacies.
To the outside world, it’s savages.
To the people amongst us, we’re betrayed.
Torn, divided, and to what end?
You see soldiers walking past, and can’t help but wonder — they too have a family, someone who cares about them; they’re here.
But they don’t get to make the decisions, the choice was theirs but the consequences were laid down upon them — just like they were upon us.
We’re not so very different then, and maybe someday we’ll come to an understanding.
But for now, this is what we have — and it’s home.
No matter how broken it seems, it always will be.
And it doesn’t scare me anymore, because if there’s one thing I still hold dear to myself; you don’t run away, you learn to repair what’s broken.
Brick by brick, no matter how long it takes.
Even if there’s no end in sight, I’m glad it was my choice.
I wasn’t chased from my land, I chose to stay.
Much like the ones before us, and to survive long enough for those that will encompass this very land; much different from what it looks like now.
It’s still home; always was, and always will be.
Well I roll down that ribbon of highway
I saw above me the endless sky
I saw below me the golden valley
This land was made for you and me
Well I roamed and rambled and I’ve followed my footsteps
To the sparkling sands of her diamond deserts
And all around me a voice was callin’
They said this land was made for you and me
— Counting Crows / Woody Guthrie, This land is your land.
(August and everything after, 1993).