I Am Not Berber

I am not a Berber, the barbarian
of Greek Generals or Roman raiders,
Cowering in the dust,
conquered and crushed.
Illegitimate invaders
marauding coveted minerals,
advancing your empires further.

The enemies at the gate.
The carpeted Caliphates.
A pie divided in two.
"Half for me and half for you."
"Gracias, Merci,Adieu!”

I am a powerful Amazigh
who has smirked at adversity
for thousands of years,
flicking dusty tears.
Sipping warm mint tea
as Syrah dripped from the wounds
of the nomad fraternity.
Rising stronger from the debris.

My tongue peppered with Arabic,
French and Spanish.
Souvenirs I cannot vanquish.
My words an oral history
of defeat and victory,
immersed in rhythmic Maghreb music.

I cannot be erased or silenced
by the creed of the conquerors
with their patriarchal parlance.
I am of Al Kahina and conjurors.

A matriarchal Warrior Queen.
Neither faith nor power can defeat
a heart forged in desert heat.
Beware my spectacular spleen.

Sands scattered by the winds.
I travel across the globe
in Al-Maghreb woven robes
and olive grove skin.

One day you will say Berber
and I will see our ancestors,
the civilised and the barbarian.
The Amazigh and the Invader.
The jailer and liberty's Dame.
I will face you with fervour
as I majestically assume my role.

Hear my ululations
rising above tribulation
throughout history.
I am Amazigh.