When you are a Palestinian

A poem by Shadi Abdul-Kareem
Translation and illustration by Nahida Exiled Palestinian

When you are a Palestinian 

 

You would need daily practice of hiding tears 

 

And swallowing huge chunk of wishes 

 

 Overflowing from your reality

 

 

 

  

In front of which you stand flabbergasted 

 

Wondering who’d find the genie’s lamp 

 

That would bring back your olive tree, 

 

the straw tray and the sea fragrance? 

 

 

 

 

When you are a Palestinian 

 

You wouldn’t dare to broaden your smile 

 

The ghosts of Alaqsa would encircle you 

 

And the blood of Saladin which runs in your veins 

 

Would remind you whenever you attempt to smile 

 

That your smile is a betrayal… punishable by history  

 

 

 

When you are a Palestinian 

 

You cannot dream solo 

 

There is always someone with you 

 

Rather taking control 

 

And whilst others dream of wealth, power, wife, children 

 

Your dream is 

 

A nap beneath an orange tree in Haifa 

 

A cup of coffee by the shore of Tabareya 

 

A prayer that rises up to heaven

 

 Following the footsteps of the beloved 

 

 

 

 

 

When you are a Palestinian 

 

You’d live in a state of unceasing absence of normal life

 

 No wakefulness… no sleep 

 

No work… no rest 

 

No awareness… no unconsciousness 

 

Without the remembrance of Palestine; 

 

How was Palestine!

 

What became of Palestine!

 

And what will happen to Palestine ?

 

 

 

 

 

When you are a Palestinian 

 

You would live a stranger in your homeland 

 

And a stranger outside your homeland 

 

 You would provoke all kinds of feelings 

 

You’d be an instigator of pity, some times 

 

An instigator of sadness, some times 

 

An instigator of curiosity, some times 

 

An instigator of admiration, many times 

When you are a Palestinian 

 

You’d work tirelessly 

 

Promoting a redundant commodity 

 

Called DIGNITY

 

No longer in circulation 

 

Since new dictionaries of morality have been invented 

 

 

 

 

When you are a Palestinian 

 

 You will unavoidably get an illness called melancholy 

 

You will infect all those who know you

 

 And those who gaze at the caged tears in your eyes 

 

And those who’d listen to the howl of mosques, churches and stones in your voice 

When you are a Palestinian 

 

You would enjoy an extraordinary memory 

 

You’d remember the number of sand grains under the sea

 

 The voice of every muezzin 

 

The laughter of every child 

 

You’d remember the colour of dawn 

 

The flavour of sleep

 

 The scent of rain 

 

You’d also remember those black nights 

 

The voices of their monsters and their moves 

 

You would remember the smell of death mixed with gunfire 

 

You’d remember the wailing of widows

 

 And the moaning of little girls 

 

You’d remember your footsteps towards oblivion 

 

Every tear, and over which soil granule it fell 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When you are a Palestinian 

 

You’d discover the value of numbers 

 

You’d fall in love with them 

 

Or hate them 

 

A strong bond will anchor you 

 

Since your name became a number 

 

Your history, a number 

 

Your home address, a number 

 

Your lost-family members, a number 

 

Those who died, who imprisoned, who were torn to pieces… numbers 

 

The days you squandered -or squandered by- in refugee camps… a number 

 

Your dreams and failed prophecies of the day of your return… a number

 

 You’d appreciate indeed the value of numbers 

 

You’d be filled with gratitude to those who invented numbers 

 

Otherwise your life would’ve been lifeless, and numberless  

When you are a Palestinian 

 

You’d live in chronic yearning to a past you never knew 

 

And to future you would never know 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When you are a Palestinian 

 

Words of love would not matter to you 

 

Nor the stock market

 

 Nor festival celebrations here and there

 

 It would not matter to you if nights became endless 

 

Or if days disappeared forever

 

 It would not matter to you if the year is twelve months 

 

Or twelve watermelons

 

 

 

 

 

It would not matter to you if people ascended to the moon 

 

Or if the moon descended to them 

 

It would not matter to you if a party loses the election and another wins 

 

It would not matter to you if a country is triumphant and another defeated 

 

All what matters to you is that 

PALESTINE WAS STOLEN

 

And 

IT MUST BE OBTAINED BACK  

 

 

 

 

 

 

When you are a Palestinian 

 

You would abruptly stop talking

 

 And leave the story unfinished 

 

The poem without an ending 

 

As most likely the ideas in your head would become overcrowded 

 

So much so that they’d run over each other 

 

And you’d have to stop writing or talking immediately 

 

To attend the funeral of those thoughts which have been squashed 

 

And died before even being born

 

 

 

 

 

 

Therefore I will cut short my speech 

 

Leave to give my condolences in exile

 

 Where thoughts pass away 

 

Because they refuse to survive 

 

Without a HOMELAND 

 

 

 

 

 

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