A spider on my window is digging up the moon. My father won’t let us kill a single spider. My father, a man who won’t even kill a spider because the prophet Mohammad owes them a debt. I’m certain that his Mohammad owes him a debt for letting his saviours strut like queens in our home. In his name, even spiders strut like queens in our homes. Exiled from all countries, my people want their own. Exile is the country my people call their own— like spiders on a window, we’re digging up the moon.