Fatima Nazzal (Palestina)
Palestinian Belief and Homeland Humanity Belief,
My soul will be shed for you, O world.
I live as a refugee in my homeland. The occupier who settled in my land and stole it considers me a static person, while those who brought them from different parts of the earth with different nationalities only because they are Jews or have been judaised are considered citizens.
I wrote what my spirit was flooded and translated into Turkish, English, Italian and Spanish and I tried to reach my voice for the whole world.
The bitter neutrality
I want to draw to you the lines of the labyrinth
Not for fun or wasting the time,
But drifting towards a secret, melting into the furnace of losses
That we try to surmount, not because of our eloquence,
But an escape for hope, which is a lie and a mirage.
We might get caught in the labyrinth
Lured by the surprises.
The heart watches its steps
And the roughness of salt that stuck to our skins
And leaks what the sensors of vacuum
has absorbed from our bodies.
We feel dizzy
The night steals the truth from us.
Darkness becomes a secret hidden under its coat
And when the night comes after decades,
our grandmother opens the well of her broken tales.
What history are we to write now?
devouring dust, eye-lining with it our intentional
blindness to our pains under the pretext
that war is deception,
and loss is another face of maneuvering.
Let me now draw the scene for you;
It is now being embodied at the gates of Jerusalem
At the sloping and serpentine wall
that splits the home, the yard, the road, and me.
I am the body torn into two homes.
I have become a field of mines,
where my children are their detonators,
the tremblings of the hanging night
on the two lines entwined in black and white.
Salvation has become grey,
Neutrality is our blast:
we who gasp after the morsel dipped in begging.
The young boy who stood upright holding
his catapult, is dodging the rifle pointing to his chest.
The wind carries to his ears
the echoes of cries in the time
the bullet hit the gazelle dead,
shedding its musk behind the fence.
We had dreams like all lovers.
In my country we built with sands
our home at the beach, named our children,
quarreled, and I wanted a baby daughter
that takes after me.
We woke up astonished
at our yells, where we used
to steal our meetings between
two windows separated by an alley in the camp.
After the third decade of your absence,
my last day was at UNRWA.
I was leaving. I looked in the mirror that
was hanging in the corridor.
Grey hairs had invaded the parting of my head.
Time had left its slams on my face.
The creams of our unborn children.
The memories of our madness.
The passions of my heart for your
voice that was missed behind two
life-sentences and an impossible distance.
Its boldness appeals to me.
Nothing betrays me if I leave my
steps to the road.
Love has a space growing in my heart,
which my eye feeds to a window
I have just opened.
My imagination is greedy
that devours all that pass through it.
Then it cuds them in a memory
attacking me now, where the river
flows and floods the banks.