Birth, Blood, and Breath..
Dedicated to my dear and beloved Eskendereya... Alexandria!
I bleed for her, I breathe for her, my heart beats for her, and when I die, I will be with her...
Who is it that deserves the legitimacy of nationality? The one who is born there?
Maybe, because he is the one who woke to this life in the arms of his new homeland, even if he never lived in it for a day.
His first breath counts for more than all of the others, doesn’t it?
And so, the legitimacy belongs to him.
Or does it?
Because maybe blood counts for more.
A full-blooded something, far removed from the origins of his parents, perhaps, has to feel something for his stolen homeland.
He has to, because it’s blood that animates our hearts, throbs within us, creating pulse.
But. Someone might wonder if a place that they migrated to might seep into their lungs or their veins, making them an out-and-out member of the place that they’ve come to call "home."
And wouldn’t they be right?
No.
At least, not anymore than the others would be.
Because... it’s not just breath or blood or proximity that ties us to a land, it’s something far more substantial, something that can be pierced or broken or lifted or shattered or stolen.
And, if we love a place in such a way, our hearts live for it in such a way, then that’s the most important thing.
Blood and breath count for something, yes, but when the mention of our land makes our hearts beat that much faster-—or beat, in general-—then it’s clear that that is the maker of legitimacy...
I bleed for her, I breathe for her, my heart beats for her, and when I die, I will be with her...
Who is it that deserves the legitimacy of nationality? The one who is born there?
Maybe, because he is the one who woke to this life in the arms of his new homeland, even if he never lived in it for a day.
His first breath counts for more than all of the others, doesn’t it?
And so, the legitimacy belongs to him.
Or does it?
Because maybe blood counts for more.
A full-blooded something, far removed from the origins of his parents, perhaps, has to feel something for his stolen homeland.
He has to, because it’s blood that animates our hearts, throbs within us, creating pulse.
But. Someone might wonder if a place that they migrated to might seep into their lungs or their veins, making them an out-and-out member of the place that they’ve come to call "home."
And wouldn’t they be right?
No.
At least, not anymore than the others would be.
Because... it’s not just breath or blood or proximity that ties us to a land, it’s something far more substantial, something that can be pierced or broken or lifted or shattered or stolen.
And, if we love a place in such a way, our hearts live for it in such a way, then that’s the most important thing.
Blood and breath count for something, yes, but when the mention of our land makes our hearts beat that much faster-—or beat, in general-—then it’s clear that that is the maker of legitimacy...
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