we commemorated the 63rd anniversary of the Nakba last night in Boston as well as honoring and commemorating the b'earthday of El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz (الحاجّ مالك الشباز). an intimate space, amazing food by ahmad kawash, in which i still eat currently on the bus back to nyc. brilliant performances by miriam & evan greer, as well as abu nurah. the readings were moving, poetic and visually stimulating as Lana organized projections to accompany each piece.
powerful. the event started with Zahrat Al Mada'in video of Palestine followed by A Reading from the Quran. if you heard such a reading, you know its more of a melodic poetic beauty of all that is us.
the night progressed, climaxed and engaged into a conclusion of political discourse, strategy and reflection.
i'm sharing a poem below that was recited by myself and comrade Lana. i thank her for involving me and having trust that i would do such a piece justice.
moments such as last night make me smile, cry and assure why i do and how i do.
with whom never becomes a question, and all the reasons exist in the beauty of my communities eyes.
this is a healthy reminder as we read reports from aljazeera about our palestinian brothers and sisters being assassinated and wounded by the IDF during a time of peaceful protest, commemorations and rightful resistance by any means necessary.
http://english.aljazeera.net/news/middleeast/2011/05/2011515649440342.html for Malcolm, for palestine, for freedom
In Jerusalem
We passed by the home of the beloved,
and were turned back,
By the laws of the enemy, and her walls,
And I said to myself
Perhaps it is a blessing,
For what is it you see in Jerusalem
when you visit her?
You see everything you can’t bear,
When round the curve of the road,
Her homes come into sight,
Not every soul, meeting the beloved,
is gladdened
Not every absence hurts,
And if there is happiness, before the separation,
It is a happiness that can never be safe.
But when Jerusalem is seen once
The eye will see her everywhere it turns.
In Jerusalem,
a grocer from Georgia
Bored of his wife,
thinking of vacations, or repainting the house
In Jerusalem
an old man from upper Manhattan
teaches Polish boys the Torah’s rules.
In Jerusalem
an Ethiopian policeman
Closes a street in the market,
Gun on a settler
not yet twenty,
Hat saluting the Wailing Wall,
And Frankish tourists, blonde, who don’t
See Jerusalem at all.
You see them
taking pictures of each other,
With a woman
who sells radishes in the square all day.
In Jerusalem
the booted soldiers march over rain clouds.
In Jerusalem
we prayed on the asphalt.
In Jerusalem
there are those in Jerusalem, but not you.
And history turned to me, smiling:
Did you really think
your eye would miss them?
See someone else?
Here they are before you, a solid text
You are the footnote
and the margin to.
Did you believe a visit would
Unpeel from the face of this city
The veil of her dense reality,
For you to see in her
what you desire?
In Jerusalem – is every young man but you,
And she is the gazelle on the horizon,
With time’s judgement upon her,
And you still chasing after her,
Since, with the edge of an eye,
She said her farewell.
Be gentle with yourself for an hour,
I see you grow tired.
In Jerusalem, there are those in Jerusalem,
But not you.
Scribe of history, slow down,
This city’s lifetime has two lives:
One foreign, secure, with unchanging steps
As though he walks in his sleep -
And one waiting, masked,
Walking soundlessly, cautiously, in fear of the people.
And Jerusalem knows herself.
Ask the people there,
they will guide you,
Everything in this city has a tongue,
When you ask, all is revealed.
In Jerusalem the moon
Curls into a fetal position,
Above the dome, in mimicry.
Over the years,
They have developed a connection,
Like that of the father to the son.
In Jerusalem
there are buildings whose stones
Quote the Bible and the Quran.
In Jerusalem
the definition of beauty
Has eight angles and is blue.
Above it – may your pride continue –
A golden dome which seems,
To me, a convex mirror,
Where you see the face of the sky, summarised,
It brings it closer, and withdraws it,
Allotting its aid, as in siege, to those in need
When a nation, after the Friday prayer,
Extends its hands skyward.
In Jerusalem
there is a sky dispersed in people,
She protects us, we protect her,
And we carry her on our shoulders,
If the times grow too cruel for her moons.
In Jerusalem,
there are dark columns,
As though the definition of marble were smoke,
And windows above the mosques and churches.
She catches Morning’s hand,
Showing him how to paint,
And he says: No, like this!
So she says: No, like this!
Until, when the dispute lengthens, they share their task,
For Morning is free outside these precincts, but
If he wants to come in he has to accept
The laws of the lord.
In Jerusalem
there’s a school named after a Mamluk,
Who came from behind the river
They sold him in a market in Asfahan
To a merchant from Baghdad.
He came to Aleppo and its prince
Was frightened by a blueness in his left eye,
So he gave him to a caravan that came to Egypt,
And a couple of years later he became,
The vanquisher of Moghols
and the friend of the Sultan.
In Jerusalem
there’s a scent compounding Babel and India,
In the perfume market by the oil quarter,
A scent that, by God,
has a language,
You’d understand it if you listened.
And when they throw their tear gas,
it says: never mind,
And when the gas has dispersed,
it says: you see?
In Jerusalem contradiction relaxes.
Wonders are not denied,
Like cloth, turned over, the new with the old.
And miracles, there,
can be touched with the hand.
In Jerusalem
if you shake a sheik’s hand
Or touch a building,
You’d find a poem etched
In your palm, O son of the proud, or two.
In Jerusalem
for all the recurring tragedies,
There’s innocence in the air,
there’s a child-like purity
So you see the dove flying
Declaring a country
in the space between two bullets.
In Jerusalem
the graves line up
As though they were the lines,
Of the city’s history
and the book its earth.
Everyone has passed this way,
Jerusalem accepts whoever comes to her,
Believer or unbeliever,
Pass through, read her testaments,
In every language of the earth.
In her, the Africans, and the Franks,
The Kipchak, and the Boushnak
The Tartars, and the Turks,
People of God and the Hulak,
And the poor and the rich,
The debauched and the hermits -
In her is everyone who has set foot on earth.
Are her restrictions for us alone?
Scribe of history, what has changed
For you to set us apart?
Sheik, go over your reading
And your writing once again.
The eye closes, then opens:
The driver of the yellow car
Has turned to the left,
Away from her door,
And Jerusalem is now behind us.
And the eye sees it in the rear view mirror,
Its colours changed in the sun
Before the sunset.*
And a smile surprised me
I don’t know how it slipped in
With the tear.
It said: Now you’ve said all you said,
You who cries behind the wall -
Are you a fool? Have you gone mad?
Stop your crying, you,
Forgotten from the body of the text
Stop your crying, and know
In Jerusalem
there are those in Jerusalem
But I don’t see anyone in Jerusalem but you.
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*sunset: ghiab: leave-taking, absence
Translated by: Tasnim Qutait
