Poetry

Rooms :: Under Siege

by Elina Kumra

I.

The shelter which is concrete-gray or maybe dust-white, and mattresses
on the floor and little fists stick out of blankets and
olive-brown cheeks and my ummi bent over. the shelter
is never quiet and somehow milky and the child's nails
scratch a bit when they grasp my finger. there is no
clock on the wall but my ummi always knows —
it's always time for prayer and it's not time for leaving.
the keffiyeh has tiny stains on it. the walls have bullet holes.
there's a crescent moon on my sister's bracelet and Allah
watching over with infinite patience we cannot borrow.

II.

my brother walks through debris    to what was once his classroom
where he is still    the only dark-haired boy remaining
and the only one who remembers    more than one way of living
and the classroom walls    are now just chalky outlines    plastered with
Do this, Stay here, We did this and So-and-So is a Martyr
and my brother cries    refuses to step further    i have to find a way
look    a bird somehow nesting    look    the alphabet scratched on concrete
look    a pencil case intact    look    so many colors in the dust
my brother says    he wants to go home    and i cannot answer
Is there something I can do    there is a small plastic toy    trapped
beneath fallen ceiling    maybe a soldier    maybe some other figure
and when the drone's whine returns    my brother's hand
squeezes mine tighter

III.

in the exam room    my sister doesn't look up
this is how i imagine it    she tells it differently
qawaiy    sumud    endured it    almost smiles
when she says    she kept writing    even as bombs
fell nearby    our parents will be so proud    when
the teacher calls us    from the makeshift school to say
she has excelled    my mother blushes    my father's
face is flushed    they just say alhamdulillah
alhamdulillah    my sister's face is dust-pale
she later describes the room as shattered    the test
as meaningless

IV.

in another room    my sister is examined by a doctor
his cold hands on her stomach    his tired eyes
on her wounds    she tells me it's so lonely
being touched by metal in there    so
impersonal    she says all this    for an injury
from flying glass    proving something to herself
she says    Promise not to tell    and i do    and we don't
the room is darkened    the generator failing
the room is metal    the room has a ceiling
which drips its bead
of saline solution    on the forehead    and my sister says
nobody will ever understand this
her little fists clenched even in sleep

V.

where she meets her future husband    the waiting area
in the tunnel between neighborhoods    in a clouded
concrete shelter    he offers her water    and asks
where she's from    she's wearing her best hijab
and so is he
his cleanest shirt    Janna    she says
and he laughs    Paradise    the story told over and over
embellished with the brand of bottled water
the color of his eyes    but really    she says
I couldn't see him that clearly    It was like being in a mosque
a tiny darkened mosque    no prayers    no imam
just breathing and pretending they were normal
when in fact they were all    slowly being erased
in that strange dusty place    between destruction
he gave her his mother's ring

VI.

my sister holds our father's hand    he coughs
and the bed shakes    the pills rattle in the small
brown bottle    my mother looks away    a nurse
walks in    there are no thermometers left
walks out    my sister tucks the bedsheets
under the mattress    looks down at her feet
I think I'm pregnant    she says    I think I am
I think    and then she stops when my father coughs
these makeshift beds so narrow like graves
these grown-ups waiting and eating in silence
sleeping
forgetting    our father    helpless
and tiny like a bird she tells me later
in this hospital where being alive
is both miracle and continued suffering

VII.

it's a girl    khalas says my sister
Only if she wants to be
in the shelter    in Room VII    see how
she's clenching her little fists
against a world that arrives
already broken
my sister whispers to her daughter:
under your skin    little one
we keep all our disappeared houses
safe    in your tiny perfect bones
we've hidden all the rooms
we've ever loved

Appeared in Issue Fall '25