“Do you see this hill? It is named ‘The Lady’s Seat’ because
this is the place she sat to rest after raising
the warriors to fight in the battle
of this plain, here, where we are standing.”
So spoke my guide as we wandered
the land that had known his grandmothers’
grandmothers, and theirs before them.
Every rise had a name and a story, a piece
of history that touched him and his kin.
What is it like to see your history scribbled on every
hill and river you have ever known? To know
you belong to this land, that your feet
trace the same path pioneered by your people?
To live where you bear the name of every hill,
not the other way round.

Transplants on stolen soil, can our roots ever
find that depth or certainty? Or must we always
echo the lands of our grandmothers’
grandmothers? How long before this is home?
And what stories are we writing over?


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