Hello. My name is Gi. Nice to meet you. Where are you from?
The multinational wants a postcode,
a flag to file you under—
postcode, nation, borderline,
a box to tick, a form to close.
It does not mean who are you;
it means what tribe do I owe you.
Peace be with you.
The Arabic salam spills—
not greeting, blessing.
Not information, prayer.
You are not geography.
You are soul, and may it rest.
Have you eaten?
The Chinese do not ask after your God.
They ask after your stomach.
Have you had rice? Have you survived
another day?
This is the only creed:
You are still here. I am here to share.
---
The Zulu says Sawubona—
I see you.
Not your passport.
Not your hunger.
Your existence.
Your eyes meeting mine.
The Hindu says Namaste—
The divine in me greets
the divine in you.
You are not a citizen.
You are a god wearing shoes.
The Hawaiian says Aloha—
the breath of life between us.
Share mine.
We are alive together.
For now.
---
But where are you from—
we keep asking it,
we children of borders,
we who need to know
if you are friend or file,
insider or invader.
Have you had rice?
is the humble question.
I am also hungry.
I have nothing but a bowl, but it's enough.
It admits: I care whether you live.
Peace be with you
is the deeper question.
I cannot protect you.
It admits: I fear for you.
I am small,
but I am wishing.
---
So what defines us?
If I ask where are you from?
I am a census.
Have you eaten?
I am a mother.
Peace be with you—
I am a mosque at dawn.
The greeting is the seeing:
Do we fear the stranger?
Do we feed the stranger?
Do we bless the stranger?
If you could ask only one—
before the rice, before the God,
before the map, the passport, the assumption—
would you just say I see you
and ask: what next?