The Name By Yousif M. Qasmiyeh I From the raised traded for an otherwise presence, to spirits gathering to dislodge the body, ruffling its limbs. The anonymous always on guard. II I could swear that my name lies in memory. III My claiming asylum happened on unclaimed territories. IV I was constantly reminded that for the claim to make sense, I needed to reclaim the name. V In their eyes, when a name is handed over, it is to be verified as a name for the yet-to-benamed. VI It is in the name that I am pronounced alive and dead at the same time. VII When they first asked for my name, I dissected the sounds with a scalpel so the name’s innards became too bare to be ignored. VIII Once the name is misspelt, attending to the crack becomes a matter of time. My name – is it not the antibody taking the body’s hand? When the Officer asked again for my name, I could not but laugh. Since when are names inanimate? When I was left to fend for myself I hid in my name. IX 42