It was a blast heavier than a dubstep’s bass, bashed through
my being. The whole room jumped up in fright and finally woke me up. My
heart thumped so hard until anxiety filled me up. I looked around, from a
satisfied-with-life space I had to hit back to reality- the reality of a
refugee camp.
The blast had spilled blood around, the red of it mixed in
orangish yellow-what a beautiful color to paint. Orangish yellow? Oh yes, the
hue of the flames. Everything was on fire, our tents were made of cloth,
remember? That is how refugee camps are, fragile and easy to destroy, just like
our hopes.
I was in complete white, my clothes, my skin, the color of
my camp, my sheet, my spirit. White is not peace, sometimes it reflects the
lack of color, lack of life.
I woke up and of thought of Kubla Khan, ‘In Xanadu did Kubla
Khan./ A stately pleasure-dome decree’. Where was our Kubla Khan? Where is our
Kubla Khan?
