I’m an Arab!
I shouted, at the doorway to departures,
short-cutting the woman soldier’s path to me.
I went up to her and said: Interrogate me! But
quickly, if you don’t mind. I don’t want to miss
take-off time.
She said: Where are you from?
Descended from Ghassassanian kings of Golan is my heroism, I said.
My neighbour was Rehab the harlot of Jericho
who gave Joshua the wink on his way to the West Bank
the day he occupied the land that occupied history after him
from the very first page.~
My answers are as stony as Hebron granite:
I was born in the time of the Moabites who came down before you
to this submissive ancient land.
My father a Canaanite
my mother a Phoenician, from South Lebanon of old.
My mother, her mother died two months ago
and she was unable to see her mother off two months ago.
I wept in her arms so that on-looking from Buqaya might console
the worst blow of tragedy and fate:
Lebanon, you see impossible sister,
and my mother’s mother alone
to the north!
She asked me: Who packed your bag for you?
I said: Osama Ibn Laden! But hold on,
take it easy. It’s no more than a joke in poor taste,
a quip that the realists here like me use professionally
for the struggle.
Sixty years I’ve fought with words about peace.
I don’t attack the settlement
and I don’t have a tank like you do
ridden by a soldier to tickle Gaza.
Dropping a bomb from an Apache isn’t on my CV
not because I lack qualifications,
no, but because I see on the horizon a ripple echoing
enough to the out-of-place revolt of the non-violent
and to good behav
Did anyone give you something on the way here? she asked
I said: An exile from Nayrab refugee camp
gave me memories
and the key to a house from the fabled past.
The rust on the key made me edgy, but I’m
like stainless steel, I compose self with self should I grow nostalgic,
for the groans of refugees
spread wings of longing across borders.
No guard can stop it, nor thousands
and not you for sure.
She said: Do you have any sharp implements in your possession?
I said: My passion
my skin, my olive complexion
my being born here in innocence, but for fate.
Pess-optimistic I was in the seventies
but I’m optimistic about the roars of disobedience
right now being raised to you in Gilboa gaol.
I’m straight out of the
tragic novels of history, the end of the story
a funeral for the past and a wedding
in the not far-off hall of hope.
A raisin from the Jordan Valley raised me
and taught me to speak.
I have a child whose due date I postponed, so he’ll arrive
to a morning not made of straw like today, daughter of Ukraine.
The muezzin’s chanting moves me, even though I’m an atheist.
I shout to mute the mournful wailing of the flutes,
to turn pistols into the undying strains of violins.
Th soldier took me to search my things
ordering me to open my bag.
I do what she wants!
And from the depths of the bag ooze my heart and my song,
the meaning of it all slips out eloquently and crudely, within it all that is me.
She asked me: And what’s this?
I said: The sura of the Night Journey ascending the ladder of my veins, the Tafsir of Jalalayn,
the poetry of Abu Tayyeb al-Mutannabi and my sister Maram,
as a photograph and real at the same time,
a silk shawl to enwrap and protect me from the chill exile of relatives,
tobacco from a kiosk in Arraba that made my head spin until doubts got stoned.
Inside me a fierce loyalty, the wild thyme of my country,
the fieriness of pomegranate blossoms, Galilean and sparkling.
Inside me agate, camphor-wood, incense and my being alive,
the pearl that is Haifa: scintillating, everlasting, illuminating,
preposterous, relaxing in the pocket of our return for one reason
only: we worshipped our good intentions and bound
the nakba to a slip in the past and in me!
The soldier hands me over to a policeman
who pats me down and shouts in surprise:
What’s this!?
The manhood of my nation, I say
and my progeny, the fold of my family and two dove’s eggs
to hatch, male and female, from me and for me.
He searches me
for anything that could pose a threat
but this stranger is blind
forgetting the more destructive and important bombs within:
my spirit, my defiance, the swoop of the hawk in my breath and my body
my birthmark and my valour. That is me
whole and complete in a way this fool
will never see.
Now, after two hours of psychological grappling
I lick my wounds for a sufficient five minutes
then embark on the plane that has taken off. Not to leave
and not to return
but to see the soldier below me
the policeman in the national anthem of my shoes below me
and below me a big lie of tin-can history
like Ben Gurion become as always, as always, as always
below me.
I shouted, at the doorway to departures,
short-cutting the woman soldier’s path to me.
I went up to her and said: Interrogate me! But
quickly, if you don’t mind. I don’t want to miss
take-off time.
She said: Where are you from?
Descended from Ghassassanian kings of Golan is my heroism, I said.
My neighbour was Rehab the harlot of Jericho
who gave Joshua the wink on his way to the West Bank
the day he occupied the land that occupied history after him
from the very first page.~
My answers are as stony as Hebron granite:
I was born in the time of the Moabites who came down before you
to this submissive ancient land.
My father a Canaanite
my mother a Phoenician, from South Lebanon of old.
My mother, her mother died two months ago
and she was unable to see her mother off two months ago.
I wept in her arms so that on-looking from Buqaya might console
the worst blow of tragedy and fate:
Lebanon, you see impossible sister,
and my mother’s mother alone
to the north!
She asked me: Who packed your bag for you?
I said: Osama Ibn Laden! But hold on,
take it easy. It’s no more than a joke in poor taste,
a quip that the realists here like me use professionally
for the struggle.
Sixty years I’ve fought with words about peace.
I don’t attack the settlement
and I don’t have a tank like you do
ridden by a soldier to tickle Gaza.
Dropping a bomb from an Apache isn’t on my CV
not because I lack qualifications,
no, but because I see on the horizon a ripple echoing
enough to the out-of-place revolt of the non-violent
and to good behav
Did anyone give you something on the way here? she asked
I said: An exile from Nayrab refugee camp
gave me memories
and the key to a house from the fabled past.
The rust on the key made me edgy, but I’m
like stainless steel, I compose self with self should I grow nostalgic,
for the groans of refugees
spread wings of longing across borders.
No guard can stop it, nor thousands
and not you for sure.
She said: Do you have any sharp implements in your possession?
I said: My passion
my skin, my olive complexion
my being born here in innocence, but for fate.
Pess-optimistic I was in the seventies
but I’m optimistic about the roars of disobedience
right now being raised to you in Gilboa gaol.
I’m straight out of the
tragic novels of history, the end of the story
a funeral for the past and a wedding
in the not far-off hall of hope.
A raisin from the Jordan Valley raised me
and taught me to speak.
I have a child whose due date I postponed, so he’ll arrive
to a morning not made of straw like today, daughter of Ukraine.
The muezzin’s chanting moves me, even though I’m an atheist.
I shout to mute the mournful wailing of the flutes,
to turn pistols into the undying strains of violins.
Th soldier took me to search my things
ordering me to open my bag.
I do what she wants!
And from the depths of the bag ooze my heart and my song,
the meaning of it all slips out eloquently and crudely, within it all that is me.
She asked me: And what’s this?
I said: The sura of the Night Journey ascending the ladder of my veins, the Tafsir of Jalalayn,
the poetry of Abu Tayyeb al-Mutannabi and my sister Maram,
as a photograph and real at the same time,
a silk shawl to enwrap and protect me from the chill exile of relatives,
tobacco from a kiosk in Arraba that made my head spin until doubts got stoned.
Inside me a fierce loyalty, the wild thyme of my country,
the fieriness of pomegranate blossoms, Galilean and sparkling.
Inside me agate, camphor-wood, incense and my being alive,
the pearl that is Haifa: scintillating, everlasting, illuminating,
preposterous, relaxing in the pocket of our return for one reason
only: we worshipped our good intentions and bound
the nakba to a slip in the past and in me!
The soldier hands me over to a policeman
who pats me down and shouts in surprise:
What’s this!?
The manhood of my nation, I say
and my progeny, the fold of my family and two dove’s eggs
to hatch, male and female, from me and for me.
He searches me
for anything that could pose a threat
but this stranger is blind
forgetting the more destructive and important bombs within:
my spirit, my defiance, the swoop of the hawk in my breath and my body
my birthmark and my valour. That is me
whole and complete in a way this fool
will never see.
Now, after two hours of psychological grappling
I lick my wounds for a sufficient five minutes
then embark on the plane that has taken off. Not to leave
and not to return
but to see the soldier below me
the policeman in the national anthem of my shoes below me
and below me a big lie of tin-can history
like Ben Gurion become as always, as always, as always
below me.
“An Arab at Ben Gurion Airport”
Sou árabe!
Gritei, na entrada das partidas,
cortando o caminho da mulher-soldado que vinha na minha direção.
Aproximei-me dela e disse: Interrogue-me! Mas
depressa, se não se importar. Não quero perder
a hora da decolagem.
Ela perguntou: De onde você é?
Descendo dos reis gasânidas do Golã, está o meu heroísmo, respondi.
Minha vizinha era Rehab, a prostituta de Jericó,
que piscou para Josué a caminho da Cisjordânia,
no dia em que ele ocupou a terra que, depois dele, ocupou a história,
desde a primeira página.
Minhas respostas são duras como o granito de Hebron:
nasci no tempo dos moabitas, que vieram antes de vocês
a esta antiga terra submissa.
Meu pai, cananeu;
minha mãe, fenícia, do antigo sul do Líbano.
A mãe da minha mãe morreu há dois meses,
e ela não pôde se despedir da própria mãe há dois meses.
Chorei em seus braços para que o olhar de Buqaya pudesse consolar
o golpe mais duro da tragédia e do destino:
o Líbano, veja só, irmã impossível,
e a mãe da minha mãe, sozinha,
ao norte!
Ela perguntou: Quem fez sua mala?
Respondi: Osama bin Laden! Mas espere,
calma. Não passa de uma piada de mau gosto,
uma tirada que nós, realistas daqui, usamos profissionalmente
na luta.
Há sessenta anos luto com palavras pela paz.
Não ataco o assentamento
e não tenho um tanque como você,
tripulado por um soldado que faz cócegas em Gaza.
Lançar uma bomba de um Apache não está no meu currículo,
não por falta de qualificação —
não —, mas porque vejo no horizonte uma onda que ecoa,
suficiente para a revolta deslocada dos que não usam violência
e para o bom compor—
Você recebeu alguma coisa de alguém no caminho até aqui? — perguntou.
Respondi: Um exilado do campo de refugiados de Nayrab
me deu lembranças
e a chave de uma casa de um passado lendário.
A ferrugem da chave me deixou inquieto, mas sou
como aço inoxidável: recomponho-me, por mim mesmo, se a nostalgia crescer,
pois os gemidos dos refugiados
abrem asas de saudade através das fronteiras.
Nenhum guarda pode detê-los, nem milhares,
e você, certamente, tampouco.
Ela perguntou: Tem algum objeto cortante em sua posse?
Respondi: Minha paixão,
minha pele, minha tez de oliva,
o fato de ter nascido aqui em inocência — salvo pelo destino.
Eu era pess-otimista nos anos setenta,
mas hoje estou otimista com os rugidos da desobediência
que agora se erguem contra você na prisão de Gilboa.
Venho diretamente dos
romances trágicos da história. O fim da história:
um funeral para o passado e um casamento
no salão da esperança, não muito distante.
Uma uva-passa do vale do Jordão me criou
e me ensinou a falar.
Tenho um filho cuja data de nascimento adiei, para que chegue
numa manhã que não seja feita de palha como a de hoje, filha da Ucrânia.
O chamado do muezim me comove, embora eu seja ateu.
Grito para silenciar o lamento fúnebre das flautas,
para transformar pistolas nas melodias eternas dos violinos.
A soldado me levou para revistar meus pertences,
ordenando que eu abrisse a mala.
Faço o que ela quer!
E, do fundo da mala, transbordam meu coração e meu canto.
O sentido de tudo escapa, eloquente e bruto; ali dentro está tudo o que sou.
Ela perguntou: E isto, o que é?
Respondi: A surata da Viagem Noturna, que sobe pela escada das minhas veias; o Tafsir de Jalalayn;
a poesia de Abu Tayyeb al-Mutanabbi e da minha irmã Maram,
ao mesmo tempo fotografia e realidade;
um xale de seda para me envolver e me proteger do frio exílio dos parentes;
tabaco de um quiosque em Arraba, que me fez girar a cabeça até que as dúvidas ficassem chapadas.
Dentro de mim, uma lealdade feroz, o tomilho-bravo da minha terra,
o ardor das flores de romã, galileias e cintilantes.
Dentro de mim, ágata, madeira de cânfora, incenso e o meu estar vivo;
a pérola que é Haifa: resplandecente, eterna, iluminadora,
absurda, repousando no bolso do nosso retorno por uma única razão:
adoramos nossas boas intenções e amarramos
a Nakba a um lapso no passado — e em mim!
A soldado me entrega a um policial,
que me apalpa e grita, surpreso:
O que é isto!?
A virilidade da minha nação, respondo,
e minha descendência, o seio da minha família e dois ovos de pomba,
para chocar, um macho e uma fêmea, de mim e para mim.
Ele me revistou
à procura de qualquer coisa que pudesse representar uma ameaça,
mas este estranho é cego,
esquecido das bombas mais destrutivas e importantes que carrego dentro de mim:
meu espírito, meu desafio, o voo do falcão em meu fôlego e em meu corpo,
minha marca de nascença e meu valor. Isso sou eu,
inteiro e completo, de um modo que esse tolo
jamais verá.
Agora, depois de duas horas de luta psicológica,
lambo minhas feridas por cinco minutos inteiros
e então embarco no avião que já decolou. Não para partir,
nem para voltar,
mas para ver a soldado abaixo de mim,
o policial no hino nacional dos meus sapatos, abaixo de mim,
e, abaixo de mim, uma grande mentira de história de lata,
como Ben Gurion, como sempre, como sempre, como sempre,
abaixo de mim.
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