When you are a Palestinian by nahida the Exiled Palestinian A poem by Shadi Abdul-Kareem Translation by Nahida Exiled Palestinian When you are a Palestinian You would need daily practice of hiding tears And swallowing huge chunk of wishes Overflowing from your reality In front of which you stand flabbergasted Wondering who’d find the genie’s lamp That would bring back your olive tree, the straw tray and the sea fragrance? When you are a Palestinian You wouldn’t dare to broaden your smile The ghosts of Alaqsa would encircle you And the blood of Saladin which runs in your veins Would remind you whenever you attempt to smile That your smile is a betrayal… punishable by history When you are a Palestinian You cannot dream solo There is always someone with you Rather taking control And whilst others dream of wealth, power, wife, children Your dream is A nap beneath an orange tree in Haifa A cup of coffee by the shore of Tabareya A prayer that rises up to heaven Following the footsteps of the beloved When you are a Palestinian You’d live in a state of unceasing absence of normal life No wakefulness… no sleep No work… no rest No awareness… no unconsciousness Without the remembrance of Palestine; How was Palestine! What became of Palestine! And what will happen to Palestine? When you are a Palestinian You would live a stranger in your homeland And a stranger outside your homeland You would provoke all kinds of feelings You’d be an instigator of pity, some times An instigator of sadness, some times An instigator of curiosity, some times An instigator of admiration, many times When you are a Palestinian You’d work tirelessly Promoting a redundant commodity Called DIGNITY No longer in circulation Since new dictionaries of morality have been invented When you are a Palestinian You will unavoidably get an illness called melancholy You will infect all those who know you And those who gaze at the caged tears in your eyes And those who’d listen to the howl of mosques, churches and stones in your voice When you are a Palestinian You would enjoy an extraordinary memory You’d remember the number of sand grains under the sea The voice of every muezzin The laughter of every child You’d remember the colour of dawn The flavour of sleep The scent of rain When you are a Palestinian You’d also remember those black nights The voices of their monsters and their moves You would remember the smell of death mixed with gunfire You’d remember the wailing of widows And the moaning of little girls You’d remember your footsteps towards the oblivion Every tear, and over which soil granule it fell When you are a Palestinian You’d discover the value of numbers You’d fall in love with them Or hate them A strong bond will anchor you Since your name became a number Your history, a number Your home address, a number Your lost-family members, a number Those who died, who imprisoned, who were torn to pieces… numbers The days you squandered -or squandered by- in refugee camps… a number Your dreams and failed prophecies of the day of your return… a number You’d appreciate indeed the value of numbers You’d be filled with gratitude to those who invented numbers Otherwise your life would’ve been lifeless, and numberless You’d live in chronic yearning to a past you never knew And to future you would never know Words of love would not matter to you Nor the stock market Nor festival celebrations here and there It would not matter to you if nights became endless Or if days disappeared forever It would not matter to you if the year is twelve months Or twelve watermelons It would not matter to you if people ascended to the moon Or if the moon descended to them It would not matter to you if a party loses the election and another wins It would not matter to you if a country is triumphant and another defeated All what matters to you is that PALESTINE WAS STOLEN And IT MUST BE OBTAINED BACK When you are a Palestinian You would abruptly stop talking And leave the story unfinished The poem without an ending As most likely the ideas in your head would become overcrowded So much so that they’d run over each other And you’d have to stop writing or talking immediately To attend the funeral of those thoughts which have been squashed And died before even being born Therefore I will cut short my speech Leave to give my condolences in exile Where thoughts pass away Because they refuse to survive Without a homeland September 2, 2012 at 11:52 |
Monday, September 3, 2012
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