You ask me

If I’m doing well but the sun is being cruel as I protest the rape and murder of yet another child. 
My belly gurgles—I wanted to feel grateful this Ramadan,
like I’d wanted in the last two—for the meal Maa cooks for us when I go home.
It seems only the confines of the earth are forced to accept those in Gaza, Sudan, Congo…home. 
(Guilt and God are now roommates in my jugular.) 
Nausea builds as I watch the Epsteins audaciously defend themselves on TV in the same universe 
my nieces sing along to Kpop Demon Hunters. 
Oh, and did you see the influencer screaming about missiles?
Drones don’t destroy empires, silly! 
Though my expecting childhood friend in the UAE has to go to work even at skyfall. 
(We remember: there is no war in Ba Sing Se.)
The Mideast have an ironclad defense system, don’t they? 
They’ll be grand! Every gunshot has a recoil anyway.
My fingers scroll from a suffocating country to the strait of Hormuz 
as I selfishly worry about my nation’s flailing economy.
(I have learned it’s collateral damage if the victims resemble you and me.)
And I’m so sorry Dadie, I don’t have any more emotional storage. 
I will grieve you again next March, I promise.
(I’m listening to your favourite song while wishing I knew your favourite prayer.)
I turn in some half-baked review essay on time 
about an obsolete microfinance system in Argentina from 2001. 
I am 25 this year. My resumé is so new. Living a quarter-century feels so old.
(Children are staying children forever.)
After all this, tonight, the moon will ignore my compact distress 
as she gracefully adjusts her opaque luminosity.
(Does she glare at the mosquitoes who visit her too?)
So, to answer your question: Yes, this email finds me well, I’m doing good, 
no, I didn’t have an anxiety attack at 3 in the morning. 
Still alive, can’t complain, right?
 

Shehreen Islam is pursuing a Master’s degree in Development Studies at North South University.

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