the door that i can never enter
a poem on Farasan Island. the complicated relationship between a history enthusiast with a past that she will never feel.
Farasan Island
They say history repeats itself.
In the sandy hues of this island,
there is a village of mud-houses,
walls adorned with seashells where
wonder never stops crashing at your feet.
I think of house 56. A family. A girl making
sea-shell adorned sandcastles with her siblings,
day-dreaming. Her parents falling into sujood to thank
Allah for a simple life, thinking of the people that came before
like I am doing now. I think of the love felt between the brittle bricks,
like sea beds carrying the weight of the ocean, only to be cracked open
by time. I stand in front of the locked door, knowing that I could never enter
their home. And the only residents are ghosts wrapped in memories, observing
tourists as they take pictures of everything that has been lost. Did a boy ever secretly
climb up the watchtowers of the Red Sea, only to be warned of a winter storm, or an armed
enemy that would turn his bustling village into a museum of ghosts? Did he ever wish to know?
Around this time last year, I was in the main islands of Farasan Islands, Saudi Arabia. We went to Jizan first, and visited this island for a few hours. There was a Heritage Village known as Qassar Village, in good conditions. We went around, looked at the houses, the Masjid, the abandoned shops, it was all so beautiful. Not in the aesthetic type beautiful, but in the way that makes your heart wrench, that these used to be houses of people just like me, and here it is, empty. I felt like writing a poem there and then, but I didn't. So I did today after remembering where I was in January 2024.
These islands have a LOT of history. It was actually part of the Roman Empire, it was known as Portus Ferresanus by 1 A.D, according to an Latin inscription found that dated back to 144 A.D. Settlements on the village were one of the oldest ones in the entire region. And then the Arabs took over, and spread Islam. Later on, the Ottomans conquested it. And after it became part of Saudi Arabia, people still lived in the villages as normal, until everyone left for better jobs, probably 50 years back. So it is turned into a heritage site, perfectly resevered and you can visit and roam around. A museum of ghosts you can say.
love,
afifa
Sorry for the spams, just wanted to mention that there's a special tab in the drop down menu for formatting poetry when you make your draft. At least on the desktop site. You can find it if you go all the way to your tool bar and click on "more." Hope that helps!
Also I lovveeee how you formatted the poem, like a large hill. Almost feels like a hill with a lighthouse. I really liked the wondering part about it, like the boy at the end, and also the part about never being able to enter the home.
Well penned!!