Such Tenderness, For the Mothers of Gaza

Such Tenderness by Michael R. Burch for the mothers of Gaza There was, in your touch, such tenderness—as only the dove on her mildest day has, when she shelters downed fledglings beneath a warm wing and coos to them softly, unable to sing. What songs long forgotten occur to you now— a babe at each breast? What terrible vow ripped from your throat like the thunder that day can never hold severing lightnings at bay? Time taught you tenderness—time, oh, and love. But love in the end is seldom enough ... and time?—insufficient to life’s brief task. I can only admire, unable to ask— Mahmoud Darwish: English Translations Mahmoud Darwish is the essential breath of the Palestinian people, the eloquent witness of exile and belonging ... his is an utterly necessary voice, unforgettable once discovered.?Naomi Shihab Nye Palestine by Mahmoud Darwish loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch This land gives us all that makes life worthwhile: April's blushing advances, the aroma of bread warming at dawn, a woman haranguing men, the poetry of Aeschylus, love's trembling beginnings, a boulder covered with moss, mothers who dance to the flute's sighs, and the invaders' fear of memories. This land gives us all that makes life worthwhile: September's rustling end, a woman leaving forty behind, still full of grace, still blossoming, an hour of sunlight in prison, clouds taking the shapes of unusual creatures, the people's applause for those who mock their assassins, and the tyrant's fear of songs. This land gives us all that makes life worthwhile: Lady Earth, mother of all beginnings and endings! In the past she was called Palestine and tomorrow she will still be called Palestine. My Lady, because you are my Lady, I deserve life! Identity Card by Mahmoud Darwish loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Record! I am an Arab! And my identity card is number fifty thousand. I have eight children; the ninth arrives this autumn. Will you be furious? Record! I am an Arab! Employed at the quarry, I have eight children. I provide them with bread, clothes and books from the bare rocks. I do not supplicate charity at your gates, nor do I demean myself at your chambers' doors. Will you be furious? Record! I am an Arab! I have a name without a title. I am patient in a country where people are easily enraged. My roots were established long before the onset of time, before the unfolding of the flora and fauna, before the pines and the olive trees, before the first grass grew. My father descended from plowmen, not from the privileged classes. My grandfather was a lowly farmer neither well-bred, nor well-born! Still, they taught me the pride of the sun before teaching me how to read; now my house is a watchman's hut made of branches and cane. Are you satisfied with my status? I have a name, but no title! Record! I am an Arab! You have stolen my ancestors' orchards and the land I cultivated along with my children. You left us nothing but these bare rocks. Now will the State claim them as it has been declared? Therefore! Record on the first page: I do not hate people nor do I encroach, but if I become hungry I will feast on the usurper's flesh! Beware! Beware my hunger and my anger! NOTE: Darwish was married twice, but had no children. In the poem above, he is apparently speaking for his people, not for himself personally. Excerpt from “Speech of the Red Indian” by Mahmoud Darwish loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Let's give the earth sufficient time to recite the whole truth ... The whole truth about us. The whole truth about you. In tombs you build the dead lie sleeping. Over bridges you erect file the newly slain. There are spirits who light up the night like fireflies. There are spirits who come at dawn to sip tea with you, as peaceful as the day your guns mowed them down. O, you who are guests in our land, please leave a few chairs empty for your hosts to sit and ponder the conditions for peace in your treaty with the dead. Passport by Mahmoud Darwish loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch They left me unrecognizable in the shadows that bled all colors from this passport. To them, my wounds were novelties? curious photos for tourists to collect. They failed to recognize me. No, don't leave the palm of my hand bereft of sun when all the trees recognize me and every song of the rain honors me. Don't set a wan moon over me! All the birds that flocked to my welcoming wave as far as the distant airport gates, all the wheatfields, all the prisons, all the albescent tombstones, all the barbwired boundaries, all the fluttering handkerchiefs, all the eyes? they all accompanied me. But they were stricken from my passport shredding my identity! How was I stripped of my name and identity on soil I tended with my own hands? Today, Job's lamentations re-filled the heavens: Don't make an example of me, not again! Prophets! Gentlemen!? Don't require the trees to name themselves! Don't ask the valleys who mothered them! My forehead glistens with lancing light. From my hand the riverwater springs. My identity can be found in my people's hearts, so invalidate this passport! Keywords/Tags: Gaza, Palestine, Palestinian, children, mothers, injustice, violence, war, race, racism, intolerance, ethnic cleansing, genocide what is the source, whence comes the desire of a woman to love as no God may require?