I Shall Return |
| |
| |
 Samih Al- Qassem , I lament the land of my birth, The spot of beauty on this earth; But nobody hears my lamentation, Though I wall across all creation! I am rejected, deprived, compelled To roam everywhere, exiled, expelled: I walk the streets of every town; I am denied, and left to drown. They deny me the air, the water, the shade, And want me to vanish, to die, to fade: They have plundered my plough and furrow And even the hope of a fruitful tomorrow; But although everything seems to burn, No force on earth shall hinder my return! |
Jan 10, 2010
I Shall Return
I Shall Never Cry
I Shall Never Cry |
| |
| |
 Fadwa Touqan At the gates of And on the ruins did I come to cry Yet I stood in silence and in shame, Receiving remonstration and blame From the loved ones who did stay, And never thought of going away! 0 dear loved Ones, at thy feet I creep, To learn faith, rather than to weep, To be guided by the glowing lamp, And my eyelids shall never be damp: How shall be defeated by despair When thy courage fills the throbbing air; Thy strength resembles the mountain. Inspiring me, steady like a fountain! |
I am Jenin
I am Jenin |
 Nancy Hook I am Jenin and my heart aches with the taste of fear, the smell of vanquishing hatred,, blood spilled and smeared in the toy-strewn rubble, puddled in the dust of where I used to live. I am and I still hold in my hand the keys to my father’s empty ransacked home. I am but my children’s’ bellies are distended with hunger, Their eyes huge with anger and fear. I am I am the sun swept hillsides and beloved valleys no longer grazed. My orchards and olive groves have been plowed under and destroyed, My shrines desecrated, my women raped, My men humiliated and killed, My children, -- oh my children! I am raped, Waiting on her once-golden hillside For The one who speaks of Justice and Love. Abandoned, alone, I speak out but the world hears neither my screams, nor my cries nor my reasoned pleadings for justice and common sense if not Mercy. Desperate, enraged, I strike out and am further condemned. My soul is battered but not broken, my hope is shaken but not shattered. (I watch heartsick from afar helpless, tearfully, endlessly pleading that the rulers of my beloved country would do the right thing which they refuse to do.) (Jenin, I share not your blood, and dwell in the land of your oppressors but my soul, oh my soul, is of you, Jenin, is broken for you, (I look out on my hillside, lush, verdant, alive – and I see the scars where once was your world.) Our Lord, the same Lord, Whom we worship in different ways, has not forgotten you, Palestine. He does not abandon His own. Your crowded multitudes will persevere and will yet prevail! I am Jenin and my birds shall sing once more, my orchards and flocks will rise from the ashes, and my cities will hum with the bustle of many peoples. Our God, God of the Oppressed and the Oppressors, will bring Justice, and Peace, His Love will prevail and I shall return to my home. I am a middle-aged Christian American woman who supports your cause. My husband and I speak neither Arabic nor Hebrew, but follow the English-language press daily and are sickened by what we learn. We write letters weekly, and are endlessly frustrated with our country’s leaders. But, because it is our country, your blood is on our hands, too, and we are deeply sorrowful and ashamed. As believers in the same God, your cause is our cause and we, too, are presently helpless. But just as Martin Luther King and Mohandas Gandhi ultimately prevailed, by shaming those who currently have no shame, we deeply believe that, somehow, with God’s Grace, you will regain your homeland. Please accept this poem – it is from my heart. I hope that by writing it – by expressing to you my deepest feelings as one who bleeds for you and with you, but is not of you and therefore cannot possibly know the true depths of your feelings – I have not in some unknown way offended you. |
Homeland
Homeland |
| |
| |
 Mahmoud Darwish Translated by: Denys Johnson-Davies/The Music of Human Flesh. Suspend me on the tresses of a date palm. Hand me-I shall not betray the palm. This land is mine and long ago, In good mood and in bad, I’d milk the camels. My homeland is no bundle of legends. It is not a memory, not a field of crescent moons. My homeland is not some story or anthem, Not light on the boughs of some jasmine bush. My homeland is the anger of the exile at being made to grieve, A child wanting festivities and a kiss. And winds confined within a prison cell, An old man mourning his sons, his field. This land is the skin on my bones, And my heart Flies above its grasses like a bee. Suspend me on the tresses of date palm. Hand me-I shall not betray the palm. |
Here We Shall Stay
Here We Shall Stay |
| |
| |
 Tawfiq Zayyad As though we were twenty impossibilities In Lydda, Ramla, and Here we shall stay Like a brick wall upon your breast And in your throat Like a splinter of glass, like spiky cactus And in your eyes A chaos of fire. Here we shall stay Like a wall upon your breast Washing dishes in idle, buzzing bars Pouring drinks for our overlords Scrubbing floors in blackened kitchens To snatch a crumb for our children From between your blue fangs. Here we shall stay A hard wall on your breast. We hunger Have no clothes We defy Sing our songs Sweep the sick streets with our angry dances Saturate the prisons with dignity and pride Keep on making children One revolutionary generation After another AS though we were twenty impossibilities In Lydda, Ramla, and Galilee! Here we shall stay. Do your worst. WE guard the shade Of olive and fig. We blend ideas Like yeast in dough. Our nerves are packed with ice And hellfire warms our heart. If we get thirsty We'll squeeze the rocks. If we get hungry We'll eat dirt And never leave. Our blood is pure But we shall not hoard it. Our past lies before us Our present inside us Our future on our backs. As though we were twenty impossibilities In Lydda, Ramla and O living roots hold fast And--still--reach deep in the earth. It is better for the oppressor To correct his accounts Before the pages riffle back "To every deed..."--listen To what the Book says. |
Hands off Our People
Hands off Our People |
| |
| |
 Tawfiq Zaiyyad Hands off our people, whose holy ire Can only explode and blaze the fire: How can you live on a ship and antagonize An ocean of flames, that will surprise You with a devastating conflagration ? We tell you that our vigilant nation Shall never succumb to savage repression, Nor to you; acts of plunder and aggression! We do not slaughter, loot or pillage, Nor prowl the streets of e very village: Nor do we harass, torture, or blackmail, Nor do we make innocent people wail, And then fill our ears with cotton and mud; Because we do not feed on flesh and blood! |
Hadeel’s Song
Hadeel’s Song |
| |
| |
 By Hanan Ashrawi Some words are hard to pronounce He-li-cop-ter is most vexing (A-pa-che or Co-bra is impossible) But how it can stand still in the sky I cannot understand— What holds it up What bears its weight (Not clouds, I know) It sends a flashing light—so smooth-- It makes a deafening sound The house shakes (There are holes in the wall by my bed) Flash-boom-light-sound— And I have a hard time sleeping (I felt ashamed when I wet my bed, but no one scolded me). Plane—a word much easier to say— It flies, tayyara, My mother told me A word must have a meaning A name must have a meaning Like mine, (Hadeel, the cooing of the dove) Tanks, though, make a different sound They shudder when they shoot Dabbabeh is a heavy word As heavy as its meaning. Hadeel—the dove—she coos Tayyara—she flies Dabbabeh—she crawls My Mother—she cries And cries and cries My Brother—Rami—he lies DEAD And lies and lies, his eyes Closed. Hit by a bullet in the head (bullet is a female lead—rasasa—she kills, my pencil is a male lead—rasas—he writes) What’s the difference between a shell and a bullet? (What’s five-hundred-milli-meter- Or eight-hundred-milli-meter-shell?) Numbers are more vexing than words— I count to ten, then ten-and-one, ten-and-two But what happens after ten-and-ten, How should I know? Rami, my brother, was one Of hundreds killed— They say thousands are hurt, But which is more A hundred or a thousand (miyyeh or alf) I cannot tell— So big--so large--so huge— Too many, too much. Palestine—Falasteen—I’m used to, It’s not so hard to say, It means we’re here—to stay-- Even though the place is hard On kids and mothers too For soldiers shoot And airplanes shell And tanks boom And tear gas makes you cry (Though I don’t think it’s tear gas that makes my mother cry) I’d better go and hug her Sit in her lap a while Touch her face (my fingers wet) Look in her eyes Until I see myself again A girl within her mother’s sight. If words have meaning, Mama, What is Is-ra-el? What does a word mean if it is mixed with another— If all soldiers, tanks, planes and guns are Is-ra-el-i What are they doing here In a place I know In a word I know—(Palestine) In a life that I no longer know? Hanan Ashrawi Jerusalem |
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
