Theme of this Issue "Diaspora" I am wondering when the precise moment was that speech left me. But I can't seem to recall. The free voice that could fall off a canyon and sore like an eagle, when my body sat in a classroom is gone. The describer, the endless story teller that could weave a tale for two strangers-- a greeting between two souls-- and call them clashing universes. If I knew how to bring it back and coax it to be my companion again, I would. But I must have buried it in the sand we left behind. For now, there is only anxiety as comfort, and I have to swallow my own words without color, until I find my rainbow tongue again. Maybe the woman stole it. The one who had the fire of hatred lit behind her pupils, but smiled as though I was Love. I wished she would have called me a bitch or a whore. It would have hurt less. But her's is not the power to take away my oceans of imagination, which since childhood, I have learned to hide in my pockets. Her's is the powerless vision of ignorant wanting. I have to rise above her if I am to speak this new language and find my words in her unfamiliar art and music. --Zaheda Ghani Co-Editor - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Copyright © 1999 Aftaabzad Publications. All Rights Reserved. May not be duplicated or distributed in any form without permission.