Thursday, July 27, 2006
The children are shahd (8 months) and Maria (5) with their mother, Asma' (33). All were killed by Israeli occupation troops in Jabalya, Palestine.
Dead civilian bodies are can still be seen in this van which was bombed by Israeli occupation forces on the road to Tibnin.
Something about Happiness by Iraqi poet `Abdul-Wahab Al-Bayyati (my translation):
"They lied; happiness,
oh, Muhammad
cannot be sold
Newspapers have written
that the sky rained frogs
last night
Oh, my friend
they stole happiness
from you
They deceived you
They tortured you
They crucified you
with the ropes of words
To say that you died
to sell you a place in the sky
Oh, what is the value of crying
I am ashamed Muhammad
Frogs have stolen happiness
from us
And I am heading
toward the sun despite
the suffering
They planted daggers
in the night, and dogs
****
The ceiling of the night
is crashing on them
So rebel!
Oh, Muhammad!
So rebel!
And beware of treason
"...I called Salim. He told me Mohamad’s mother is …. so I decided I won’t go . I’ll wait a couple of days. Is that enough for a mother to get used to the idea that her 23 years old “baby” was killed? Last night air raids were so close, I was almost out of my mind. Israeli fighters were flying so low, I couldn’t wait to go home and hug my little baby (we live on the 12th floor, remember?). It turned out later they were bombing more TV, radios and phone transmission arials somewhere close (Amsheet, near Jounieh). I’m not supposed to write to you anymore. That was my decision when Mohamad was killed. But I did miss you. And I know this will sound corny, but so many of you wrote to me, and it made me feel …"
Brother by Lebanese poet Mikha'il Nu`aymah--he wrote it in 1917 (my translation):
"Brother, if a Westerner brags
after the war about his exploits,
and if he honors the memory of
the dead and glorifies the violence
his heroes,
Do not celebrate those who prevailed,
and do not despise those who fell,
but bow down like me, with a bloodied
and modest heart
to cry over the lot of our dead
*
Brother, if a soldiers returns home
after the war
to his homeland
and if he throws his exhausted body
in the lap of his kinsfolk,
Do not ask if you return home
for kinsfolk
Because hunger did not leave us
but the ghosts of our dead
to converse with
*
Brother, if a farmer returns home
to till the land,
and to build after a long absence
a hut destroyed by a cannon
our streams have dried up,
and humiliation smashed our
shelters,
and the enemy only left us
the corpses of our dead
as plants in the land
*
Brother, what happened would
not have happened without our will,
misery has spread, and we could
have prevented it
Do not mourn, the ears of others
do not hear our grievances
But follow me, to dig a trench
with a shovel
to bury our dead
*
Brother, who are we? No homeland,
no folks, and no neighbor
If we sleep, if we rise up, we are
covered with shame and dishonor
Life has stunk with us, as it has
with our dead
Bring the shovel and follow me
to dig another trench,
to bury our living..."




