I am an immigrant 
Her eyes shine, like two beautiful stones. 
Her face is covered with her big loose headscarf.
A few strands of hair move in the rhythm of wind.
She is holding her scarf with her thumb and index, so it doesn’t fall off.
She is holding something..maybe someone.
Is that her son? maybe a brother? a cousin?
I don’t know who that is, the child, and I am terrified of the fact that I might never know that. 
She is getting farther and farther, and I am terrified I might never know who that is.
I fasten my steps, I nearly run…
Oh, my foot hurts…
She is getting farther
I run faster…
She looks calm, relax, even confident.
And God, it was getting farther
I stand for a fraction of a second
Who is she? Who?
I look at myself, covered in a big loose headscarf.
A strand of hair out of my scarf
Holding the scarf with a thumb and index, so it doesn’t fall off.
Oh, my foot hurts.
I look at my clothes, full of dust.
Who is she? 
Is she me? Am I her? 
and I am terrified of the fact that I might never know that. 
Or I know…
The police van is getting farther and I, or she, start running again
I, or she, am an immigrant.
My foot hurts, I run…
Her eyes shine, like two beautiful stones. 

-Tahera K.
Guest Writer
Girl Museum