Ahmad uz-Za’tar
A poem by
Mahmoud Darwish
Translated by Fawwaz Traboulsi
January 1985
———————
For two hands of stone and thyme,
this psalm,
for Ahmad forsaken among butterflies
Outcast by departing clouds,
by mountains sheltered
… Descending from the scar of the old wound
to the topography of the land
the year the sea receded from the cities of ash
I was alone
and still alone
Ah! for my aloneness
And Ahmad was the sea’s migration
between bullet shots,
a refugee–camp that grows
and breeds thyme and fighters,
an arm strengthened by oblivion,
a memory recovered on passing trains,
on platforms with no passengers or jasmine,
Ahmad was self-discovery in cars
or on the seashore,
in the darkness of prison cells in brethren countries,
in fleeting relationships
and the quest for Truth
Everywhere, Ahmad met his opposite
For twenty years, he queried
For twenty years, he roamed
For twenty years.
His mother barely had minutes
to deliver him in a basket of banana leaves
and took off.
He claims an identity
and is struck by lightning.
Outcast by departing clouds,
by mountains sheltered
I am Ahmad ul-‘Arabi, says be
I am the bullets, the oranges, the memories
I found my Self next to myself
And abandoned the dew and the seashore.
Tall uZ-Za’tar is the tent
and I the Homeland incarnate,
I, the permanent voyage towards Home,
found my Self within myself.
Ahmad reunited with his ribs, his hands,
Ahmad the step-star,
From the Atlantic to the Gulf
from the Gulf to the Atlantic,
they were whetting their knives
as Ahmad was climbing to cast just one look
at Haifa and then jump off.
Ahmad now the hostage
the city deserted its streets
and converged to kill him.
From the Gulf to the Atlantic
from the Atlantic to the Gulf,
they were preparing the funeral
and selecting the guillotine.
I am Ahmad ul-‘Arabi,
let the siege be
my body is the fortress-
let the siege be –
and I the fireline –
let the siege be –
for I am besieging you
besieging you
yet my chest a door open for all
let the siege be !
I do not sing to paint Ahmad in the trench,
memories are far behind
and this is a day of sunshine and lilies.
Youth, stranded between windows
that do not transmit my messages
Resist!
A sand grain is like any other,
but you, to the azure are destined.
Counting my ribs,
Barada slips from my hand
and the banks of the Nile pass me by,
groping for my fingertips
I find all the Metropoles mere foam.
Ahmad marking time in the trench.
I do not sing to paint burnt Ahmad in blue,
Cosmic Ahmad he is, in this crammed tin,
tortured and dreaming,
the orange bullet he is, the violets of lead
and the stark illumination of noon
on a freedom day.
Youth, to dew dedicated,
Resist!
Homeland–gun in my blood,
Resist!
I shall now complete my song for you
and join in your siege,
and now end my quest for you
and rise from your dust.
So, seek my heart,
You’ll find my people a multitude of peoples
in your blast.
…wandering among the details,
I sought support on waters and collapsed.
Must I lose the frontiers of my heart
whenever a quince ripens?
or seek refuge in a siege
to determine my residence
O, Ahmad ul -‘Arabi?
Love did not fail me
Yet, when night falls,
a distant toll absorbs me
and I have only my running blood
to define my identity.
The bread of my enemies
is still soaked with my blood,
whenever I take to a road,
roads, far and near, flee under my steps.
Whenever I befriend a city
the suitcase is thrown in my face,
and I seek refuge on the quay of dreams and poems.
How long have I marched towards my dream
to be overtaken by daggers.
Ah ! for my dream
and for Rome !
Beautiful are you in exile,
assassinated in Rome.
Haifa begins here
and Ahmad is the ascent to Mount Carmel,
and the Basmala of dew, home–grown thyme and Home.
Do not abduct him from among the swallows
or pluck him from the dew,
eyes have written their epitaphs
and abandoned my heart to echos
Do not redeem him from Eternity
nor scatter him on the cross
for he is the map and the body
and the brazen albatross.
Do not steal him
from the doves
or assign him to a desk
do not in medals cast his blood
he’s the bouquet of violets in the shells.
… ascending towards the healed dream,
details take the form of a pear,
the country parts with its offices
and horses with suitcases.
Pebbles sweat
and I kiss the silence of this salt
and render unto lemon the sermon of lemons.
From my open wound do I light a candle
in memory of flowers and dried fish.
Pebbles sweat and reflect
and the woodcutter’s heart is a dove’s.
O, my beautiful woman
who breaks the heart, cuts tender onions
and goes for violets,
if I have abandoned you
it is only for policemen to lay off my track,
remember me lest my hands deny me.
… still ascending towards the healed dream,
seats shrink under my trees and your shadow,
crawlers on your sores disappear
like season flies and voyeurs of your wounds vanish.
Remember me lest my hands deny me!
To butterflies have I dedicated my strife
And to rocks my message on Earth:
Troy is not my home
Or Massada my time.
I rise from dry bread and requisitioned water
I rise from a wandering lost horse on the road to the airport,
I rise from the sea breeze,
From shrapnels addicted to my body
from eyes seeking sunset in the plain,
from groceries’ boxes
from the force of things, I do rise,
and identify with the poor in all the alleys chanting:
we shall overcome
we shall overcome
we shall overcome !
The refugee camp was Ahmad’s body,
Damascus his eye-lids
and Hijaz his shadow.
The siege became Ahmad’s journey
across the hearts of the millions in chains,
the siege became Ahmad’s offensive
and the sea his last bullet.
Waist that defies all winds
weeklong of honey !
appelation for eyes and echo of marble,
O Ahmad born of stone and thyme,
you will say NO!
you will say NO!
My skin is the cloak of every peasant
Who will arrive from the tobacco fields
to abolish the Metropoles.
And you say: NO!
My body, the manifesto of marchers
from light industries’
reticence and epic poems
to storm these Present Times.
And you will say: NO!
My hands, the salute of flowers and a bomb,
on-duty raised, in defiance of these Present Times
And you will say: NO!
Body stained by mountains slopes
and approaching suns, you will say: NO!
Body wed to the wages
on the guillotine,
You will say: NO!
You will say: NO!
You will say: NO!
You die next to my blood and rise in flour bags,
and we shall be pilgrims to your silence
when your hands beckon to us
or are urged to write.
Horses tread over birds
and we have invented jasmine
to exorcise the shadow of Death from our words.
Go forth into the clouds and the green:
this is no time for exile and my song …
The throng of Death shall drown us,
so dive into the throng,
per chance to strike the innocent Homeland
and the promised jasmine.
Go forth towards your blood, readied for your exodus
and go forth towards my blood unified in your siege.
This is no time for exile
nor for handsome portraits on the street walls,
no time for funerals
nor wishful thinking.
Birds have sung their funeral march and outcast me
fields spread their cloaks and sheltered me.
Go deep into my blood! Go deep into flour!
perchance to strike the innocent Homeland
and the promised jasmine.
Every day Ahmad!
name of hunters for dew and simple words,
appellation of the orange,
Ordinary Ahmad!
how did you manage to abolish this verbal difference
between rock and apple
between gun and gazelle?
This is no time for exile and my song
we will go into the siege
till the day of the Metropoles comes.
So, go deep into my blood
be wedding rings
go deep into my blood
be flower buds
go deep into my blood
be ladders
O Ahmad ul-‘Arabi
Resist!
This is no time for exile and my song
we will go into the siege
till the quay of bread and waves
for this is my space,
the space of the possessive Homeland:
death in the face of the dream
or the dream on the slogan crucified.
Go deep into my blood! Go deep into flour!
Perchance to strike the innocent Homeland
and the promised jasmine.
…His are the autumn swerves
his the testament of oranges
his the hemorrhage of poems
and the wrinkles of mountains
his the cheers
his the weddings
the colored magazines
the serene funeral orations
the posters on the walls
the flag
progress
the brass band
the mourning order
and everything, everything, everything
when he reveals his face
to those coming to identify the features of his face.
Enigmatic Ahmad!
how did you dwell in us for twenty years
and then simply disappeared
your face vague like noon?
O Ahmad as mysterious as forest and fire
unveil your popular face for us
and proclaim your last will.
Spectators! Disperse in silence!
Step back, you’d find him in you
a hand full of wheat and two bare hands.
Step back, you’ll hear him reciting his will
to the dead when they die
and throwing his mask
in the face of the living, if they survive!
Ahmad, my brother!
worshipper, idol and temple:
When will you testify
When will you testify
When will you testify?