Let me repeat: my country is where my friends are and where my poems are read.
- Flora brovina
American culture is a beam of hope for young immigrant women stuck in households that still bear the rules they were taught in their motherland. These women fall in love with men and women and art and shame rapidly settles in. “You can’t choose the world over your family.” We have been taught secretly falling into the hands of strangers for a night is our only option. We have been taught to allow our burdens to be groomed and molded into something beautiful and soft in an attempt to live in two worlds at once. We have been taught to wake up in the morning and put on the culture we don’t fit into anymore and head home like nothing ever happened.
In 1999, the evacuation process started during the Kosovarian genocide. After weeks of hiding and staying away from the streets to prevent my siblings from being kidnapped or killed, my mother made the decision to lead my grandparents, siblings and I from Prishtinë, Kosovo to the Macedonian border. The time we spent en route is still blurred to me. Railroad tracks that never ended were my only hint at time. When we reached the Macedonian border, there was a sea of people with mud up to their thighs. Cries from children and adults mixed into one loud sob. Kosovo was crying and still hasn’t stopped. My mother was a silent hero that night when she fought for my grandparents and I to cross the border without knowing if she’d see us again. After a long, fear-inducing week, my mother found me by hearing my name amongst thousands of separated families being broadcasted through radio hotlines and we left for America. I tell this story often because I would not be here today if my mother did not risk everything for her family. I tell this story because my mother’s mouth will not speak these words of strength - her story. And just like her, I once believed I couldn’t either.
A Woman’s Hymn was created almost three years ago when my thoughts were eating me alive. I had become consumed with the idea that if I wanted to be free, I must rid myself of my Kosovarian culture completely. That no modern, self-respecting woman would ever want to be a part of such an oppressive world that my ancestors had created. It wasn’t until I started writing about the process of coming to America that I found the beauty of what it means to be a Kosovarian woman. I began to see myself. this whole being instead of a woman bred for marriage. This message was uncommon in my culture. I grew up with the idea that the strength we present must be silent and unseen. As I allowed my body to accept this new way of thinking, I realized what I needed to rid myself of was my father’s shame, my mother’s silence, my sister’s desire to keep the traditions alive when our family was no longer a living, breathing force. I realized quickly that our culture taught us to stay silent about our mental illnesses, our traumas, our anger and our desires. I realized that women with this way of thinking have lived before me. They have fought in the Kosovarian War and written the most beautiful poetry. Miles worth of women led a movement that has been historically silenced.
a woman’s hymn is a beckoning. a voice to be heard. we all carry it.