Maybe They Were Forced. Maybe They Weren’t.
My own people sold the land.
Not under threat.
Not with a gun at their heads.
Just with eyes that had stopped recognizing home.
No war.
No fire.
Just silence.
They handed over the keys
like handing away the ghost of a language
no one remembered how to speak.
Not because they were weak.
Not even because they wanted to.
But maybe—
just maybe—
they had been made to feel
like they didn’t belong
a long, long time ago.
And who could tell the difference?
Was it exile if they smiled?
Was it a sale, or surrender?
Or just the slow erosion of self
when every corner whispers:
“This was never really yours.”
We will never know
if they were forced
or simply forgot
what it felt like
to say:
“This land is mine. Still.”