Genocide Denial is Genocide Acceptance

Today, we (Georgetown University Faculty and Staff for Justice in Palestine) held a vigil to honor the more than 20,000 children murdered by the Israeli military during the past two years. I spoke briefly about genocide denial. Here’s the text:

We are here today to honor the memory of the child victims of the ongoing genocide in Gaza. It is not being carried out in the name of Israel, but rather in the name of Jews and Jewish safety everywhere. And that is a travesty of the Jewish tradition. It is being carried out with American weapons, with American financial aid, and with American diplomatic aid.

What do you people think about Holocaust deniers? If you’re like me, you probably feel nothing but scorn for them.

I used to think that genocide deniers  were monsters. But the last couple years have taught me something about denial I never wanted to learn. I now know that for every atrocity, there are those who will deny it, diminish its evil, or explain why it had to be done. I now know that many good people will deny genocide, or act as if it’s not happening, even as it takes place before their eyes, even as it takes place with the full support of their tax dollars, even as it is done in their name. I know this because I have many genocide deniers among my neighbors, colleagues, friends, and in my own Jewish family. For many of them, ‘Never Again’ doesn’t apply to Palestinians.

I now understand that genocide denial is a common, even banal fact. This troubles me. Because genocide denial adds a second level of evil to the crime of genocide. Genocide is merely about the mass murder of people. Genocide denial goes further—it aims to kill the memory of that murder, so as to leave the door open to other genocides in the future.

I now know that it is far easier to tolerate genocide than to oppose it. It is easier to turn away from the murder and starvation of Gaza than to keep your eyes on it. I know what it is to wake up each day to news of fresh massacres—it turns your stomach, and crushes your ability to feel. I know how exhausting it is to grasp the scale of these crimes in a moral framework that values human life in a universal way. For to admit that a genocide is happening and that our leaders and institutions have a hand in it means that we have an obligation to act. And not just to condemn the crime of genocide with words, but to stop it from happening by deeds.

This genocide isn’t being done by Turks or Nazis, or Serbians or Rwandans. This time, the genocide belongs to us. Israel may be the one conducting operations on a day-to-day level, but this genocide is American-sponsored and American-armed, and it has been cheered on by the leadership of both our political parties, and by our legacy mainstream media.

Which means, this genocide is not far away. It is not foreign. It is American. We paid for it, and continue to pay for it. The problem goes beyond our status as tax-paying citizens. This same American-Israeli genocidal regime has an established, even privileged place on this campus, like it does on many others.

I am not talking here about the individuals within our community who have been cheering on murder, or our expert colleagues who explain why Palestinian deaths are deserved or don’t matter. I’m talking about how our institution invests in mass murder. Yes: like other colleges and universities, Georgetown remains financially invested in weapons manufacture and arms trading with Israel.

We should not be naïve about this point: we have been demanding transparency on this issue for many years now, only to be ignored. If Georgetown University had no holdings in the business of mass death, our leadership would be open and proud about the fact. Instead, they act in shame, hiding the books, overturning student referenda on BDS, and punishing students for posing good questions. So much for cura personalis when it comes to Palestinians.

By the same token, we should not be naïve about where our leadership stands on Gaza: just this summer, in a congressional hearing, President Groves bragged about forging ties with Hebrew University, a prestige institution that plays a central role in the surveillance, incarceration and mass slaughter of Palestinians living under a military occupation that is as old as I am. President Groves also boasted that our administration is working with the ADL, which used to be a noble civil rights organization, but is now a notoriously racist institution whose present mission is to repress all criticism of Israel on American campuses. If this relationship blossoms, it will take years for this university to recover its reputation as a place of serious and free inquiry.

What I am saying is that genocide denial is alive and well at Georgetown University. This institution invests in Israeli militarism and genocide and punishes students for asking questions about that fact.

Those most vociferously denying the genocide today will tomorrow admit that the genocide happened. They will say that it was unfortunate, or that we need to move forward. And they will urge us to turn the page on the past so we can build the future. They will encourage us to be realists, or not caught in the past. They will advise us to forget about bygones. They did this with the Holocaust, they did this with Indochina, they did this with Iraq—and they will no doubt do it once again with Gaza.

But that is intolerable. There is no future worth building if we cannot face a genocide in our present, especially when it is done in our name. Genocide denial is genocide acceptance. Genocide denial is genocide normalization. I do not want to live in a world where genocide is normal, and where genocide promoters rule the roost. Gaza deserves much better, and so does Georgetown.



Muin Bseiso, “The Besieged City”

trans. Ahmed Saidam and Elliott Colla


To the stars, the Sea tells the tale of a captive homeland,

While, with tears and moans, Night knocks like a beggar

On the doors of Gaza, which are shut upon the grieving people.

It stirs the living who sleep upon the rubble of years,

As if they were a grave disturbed by graverobbing hands.
 

The morning light nearly shows from the weight of pain,

As it chases the Night, still youthful and strong                                   

But now is not the hour of its coming or going

The mighty giant has covered its lofty head with dust,

Like the sea which is shrouded in fog, but not killed by it.


Dawn speaks to the city, confused and unanswering.             

Before her lies the salty sea. Within her, barren sands.      

While alongside her, the suspicious steps of the enemy.              

What does Dawn say? Have the roads to the homeland opened?        

So we may bid the desert farewell and walk toward the fertile valley? 


To the wheat stalks that have ripened and await harvest:                  

Suddenly they are given to fire, to scattering birds, to locusts.      

Night marches on them, dressing them in black on black.                     

And the river, rushing through mountain and valley,         

He casts his staff down upon the ruins and turns to ash.                    


Here she is, Beautiful Gaza, as she wanders through her  funerals, 

Between the hungry in their tents and the thirsty in their graves.    

And a tormented man, feeding on his own blood, squeezing roots for juice. 

These are mere images of humiliation: My Captive People, you should rise in anger!               

Their whips have written our fate across our backs.


Have you read about it—or are you still weeping over the lost homeland?  

Fear has bound your arms, and so you flee from the struggle.    

‘I have drowned,’ you say. ‘The wind has torn my sail!’                     

O you, wretched in an earth roaring with light:                         

Sing the songs of struggle, and join the long march of the hungry!

Source: Mu‘īn Bisaysū, Al-Aʿmāl al-shiʿrīya al-kāmila (Beirut: Dār al-ʿAwda, 2008), 42.

"المدينة المحاصرة"

للشاعر معين بسيسو

البحر يحكي للنجوم حكاية الوطن السجين 

والّليل كالشحّاذ يطرق بالدموع وبالأنين

أبواب غزة وهي مغلقة على الشعب الحزين

      فيحرّك الأحياء ناموا فوق أنقاض السنين

      وكأنّهم قبر تدقّ عليه أيدي النابشين


     وتكاد أنوار الصباح تطلّ من فرط العذاب

     وتطارد الّليل الذي ما زال موفور الشباب

     لكّنه ما حان موعدها وما حان الذهاب

     المارد الجبّار غطّى رأسه العالي التراب

     كالبحر غطّاه الضباب وليس يقتله الضباب

   ويخاطب الفجر المدينة وهي حيرى لا تجيب 

    قدّامها البحر الأجاج وملؤها الرمل الجديب

وعلى جوانبها تدبّ خطى العد، المستربب

    ماذا يقول الفجر هل فتحت إلى الوطن الدروب 

    فنوّدع الصحراء حين نسير للوادي الخصيب ؟

    

لسنابل القمح التي نضّجت وتنتظر الحصاد

    فإذا بها للنّار والطير المشرّد والجراد

    ومشى إليها الليل يلبسها السواد على السواد

   والنّهر وهو السائح العدّاء في جبل وواد

   ألقى عصاه على الخرائب واستحال إلى رماد


   هذي هي الحسناء غزة في مآتمها تدور

   ما بين جوعى في الخيام وبين عطشى في القبور

   ومعذّب يقتات من دمه ويعتصر الجذور

   صور من الإذلال فاغضب أيها الشعب الأسير

   فسياطهم كتبت مصائرنا على تلك الظهور


  أقرأت أم ما زلت بكّاء على الوطن المضاع ؟

  الخوف كبّل ساعديك فرحت تجتنب الصراع

  وتقول إنّي قد غرقت وشقّت الريح الشراع

  يا أيّها المدحور في أرض يضجّ بها الشعاع

  أنشد أناشيد الكفاح وسرّ بقافلة الجياع

Nuh Ibrahim, "What a loss, O Izz al-Din!"

Nuh Ibrahim (1913-1938) was arguably the leading poet of the 1936 Arab Revolution in British-occupied Palestine. In 1936, Ibrahim joined the Palestinian national liberation movement, joining the same brigades that al-Qassam had organized. It was around this time that Ibrahim published a collection of his nationalist (or militant) poems, which was quickly banned in Palestine. He was imprisoned for five months in 1937 following the publication of his poem, “Commander Dill,” which skewered the top British military commander in Mandate Palestine. In October 1938, Nuh and three other militants were traveling outside the village of Tamra when they were killed by a British patrol who threw their bodies down a well. Later, local residents retrieved and buried the bodies in the local cemetery.

Though Ibrahim was only 25 years old when he was martyred, his poems and songs (almost entirely in the Palestinian Colloquial, rather than Modern Standard Arabic) remain popular, having been long part of nationalist song repertoires, and performed by bands such as Firqat al-Ashiqeen.

“What a loss, O Izz al-Din”

by Nūḥ Ibrāhīm

trans. Ahmed Saidam and Elliott Colla

Izz al-Din—What a loss!

Sacrificed for your nation

Who could deny your bravery,

O Martyr of Palestine?


Rest in peace, Izz al-Din,

Your death’s a lesson for all.

Oh—if only you’d lasted

Chief among freedom fighters


You gave your life and wealth

For the independence of your country.

And when the enemy came to you

You resisted them with firm resolve.


You resisted them with a steady heart

And your enemies feared you

Has Palestine ever seen

Someone as devoted as Izz al-Din?


You formed a league for righteous struggle

To liberate the country

Its goal: Victory or Death!

And you gathered together fervent men


You gathered together great, brave men

And with your own money, bought weapons

“Let us go to struggle,” you said. 

“To defend the homeland and our Faith!”


You gathered together the very best of men

Holding onto so many hopes.

But treachery, my Man,

Played its role to give them power.


Betrayal played its game

And then the disaster came

Blood came up to the knees

And you would not surrender or yield


You roared, “God is great!”

Like a fierce lion

But fate decreed

The will of Our Lord


How sweet is death amidst struggle

Compared to a life of oppression. 

His praiseworthy men answered,

“We die so that Palestine may live!”


The body has died, but the idea lives on,

And blood never turns into water!

We pledge before God, My Brother

To die as Izz al-Din died.


Recite the Fatiha, Brothers,

For the souls of the homeland’s martyrs.

And register this, O Time:

Each one of us is Izz al-Din

Source: Nūḥ Ibrāhīm, Majmū‘at qaṣā’id Falasṭīn al-mujāhida (Damascus: Maṭba‘at al-I‘tidāl, N.D. [1939?], 49-50.

يا خسارة ، يا عزالدين

للشاعر نوح إبراهيم


(عز الدين) يا خسارتك 

رحت فدا لأمتك

مين بينكر شهامتك

يا شهيد فلسطين


(عز الدين) يا مرحوم

موتك درس للعموم 

آه لوكنت تدوم

يا رئيس المجاهدين


ضحيت بروحك ومالك 

لأجل استقلال بلادك 

العدو لما جالك

قاومتو بعزم متين


قاومتوا بقلب ثابت

والعدا منك هابت

فلسطين مين قال شافت

مثل غيرة (عز الدين)


أسست عصبة للجهاد 

حتى تحرر البلاد 

غايتها نصر أو استشهاد

وجمعت رجال غيورين


جمعت رجال من الملاح

من مالك شريت سلاح

وقلت هيا للكفاح

لنصر الوطن والدين


جمعت نخبة رجال

وكنت معقد الآمال

لكن الغدر يا خال

لعب دورو بالتمكين


لعبت الخيانة لعبة

وقامت وقعت النكبة

وسال الدم للركبة

وما كنت تسلم وتلين


كنت تصيح الله أكبر

كالأسد الغضنفر

لكن حكم المقدر

مشيئة رب العالمين


محلا الموت والجهاد

ولا عيشة الاستعباد

جاوبوه رجاله الأمجاد

نموت وتحيا فلسطين


الجسم مات المبدأ حي

والدماء ما تصير مي

منعاهد الله يا خي

نموت موتة (عزالدين)


اقروا الفاتحة يا اخوان

على روح شهداء الأوطان

وسجل عندك يا زمان

كل واحد منا (عزالدين)

Nuh Ibrahim, "The Arab and Zionist Debate"

Nuh Ibrahim (1913-1938) was arguably the leading poet of the 1936 Arab Revolution in British-occupied Palestine. In 1936, Ibrahim joined the Palestinian national liberation movement, joining the same brigades that al-Qassam had organized. It was around this time that Ibrahim published a collection of his nationalist (or militant) poems, which was quickly banned in Palestine. He was imprisoned for five months in 1937 following the publication of his poem, “Commander Dill,” which skewered the top British military commander in Mandate Palestine. In October 1938, Nuh and three other militants were traveling outside the village of Tamra when they were killed by a British patrol who threw their bodies down a well. Later, local residents retrieved and buried the bodies in the local cemetery.

Though Ibrahim was only 25 years old when he was martyred, his poems and songs (almost entirely in the Palestinian Colloquial, rather than Modern Standard Arabic) remain popular, having been long part of nationalist song repertoires, and performed by bands such as Firqat al-Ashiqeen.

“The Arab and Zionist Debate”

by Nūḥ Ibrāhīm

trans. Ahmed Saidam and Elliott Colla


The Arab: 

I’m an Arab, my Dears. 

At death’s embrace, cast me

To erase the Zionist’s name

And defend my country, Palestine,

From the schemes of settlers!


The Zionist:

I’m a well-known Zionist

In this world, I play an open game

Wiliness and bluff are all that I own

I must have Palestine!

Palestine must be mine!


The Arab:

 It’ll be yours by early tomorrow morning

` When woe and falling befall you

And you meet the Angels at the Gates.

On Judgment Day, you poor fellow,

That’s when Palestine will be yours!


The Zionist:

I’m a fleer, not a fighter

My daughters answer for me

With them, I never lose

Out of a ten times, I win nine

I must have Palestine!


The Arab:

Uff—I spit on those kind of men

Who boast with such words.

Your hopes are all in vain.

Your luck is awful, it’s rotten.

Time to leave, you misbegotten..

The Zionist:

Khabeebee, listen to my words,

No matter what I see before me,

A national homeland remains my goal..

To Zionize Palestine… 

Palestine must be mine!

The Arab:

You’ll never live to see it!

Go on being freshly plucked

A sheep pretending to be a lion,

You will see the fatal sign

If you stay here in Palestine.

The Zionist:

I’m sick of the whole world

And the lands that rejected me.

Now you are also chasing after me,

To take away my Palestine 

Land of my ancient bloodline.

The Arab:

What a load of nonsense.

Sounds like you got lost in a dream.

Palestine is Islam’s birthplace,

Cradle of Christ and Prophets, too.

Where’re you going, fool?

The Zionist:

I can’t leave it behind,

I must save my forest.

Either I win or I lose.

I won’t leave Palestine.

Palestine must be mine.

The Arab: You must go.

The Zionist: I won’t leave.

The Arab: Why are you still standing here? 

The Zionist: I’m not afraid.

The Arab: Consider how this will end.

The Zionist: Do whatever you want.

The Arab: Bam bam bam bam.

The Zionist:

What a loss! What a disaster!

I lost my money, all that I owned!

I’ve lost all of Palestine!

Source: Nūḥ Ibrāhīm, Majmū‘at qaṣā’id Falasṭīn al-mujāhida (Damascus: Maṭba‘at al-I‘tidāl, N.D. [1939?], 19-20.

"محاورة العربي والصهيوني"

للشاعر نوح إبراهيم

العربي:

أنا العربي يا عيوني

عند الموت ارموني

بمحي اسم الصهيوني

لاحمي بلادي فلسطين

من كيد المستعمرين


الصهيوني:

أنا الصهيوني المعروف

وامري في الدنيا مكشوف

رسمالي مكر وبلوف

ولازم أملك فلسطين

ولازم أملك فلسطين


العربي:

بمتلكها بكرة بكير

لما تشوف هم وتعتير 

وتقابل ناكر ونكير

يوم القيامة يا مسكين

حتى تملك فلسطين


الصهيوني:

بهرب انا ما بحارب

وبناتي عني بتجاوب

فيهم ما برجع خايب 

وبكسب بالمية تسعين

ولازم أملك فلسطين


لعربي:

أخ تفو على هيك رجال

بفتخروا بهالأقوال

خابت منك الآمال

وقعتك قطران وطين

ولازم ترحل يا لعين


الصهيوني:

خبيبي اسمع كلامي

مهما شفت قدامي

الوطن القومي مرامي

علشان صهيون فلسطين

ولازم أملك فلسطين


العربي:

والله عمرك ما بتشوف

ولازم تضلك منتوف

عامل سبع يا خروف

لازم تشوف غراب البين 

إذا بقيت بفلسطين


الصهيوني:

كل الدنيا زهقتني

 ومن بلادها رفضتني

وأنت كمان لاحقني

لتحرمني من فلسطين

بلاد أجدادي من سنين


العربي:

حاجة تخبص بالكلام

كنك غارق في المنام

فلسطين مهد الإسلام 

والمسيح والمرسلين

فين رايح يا مسكين


الصهيوني:

مش ممكن أرحل عنها... 

ولازم غابتي أنقذها

با بكسب يا بخسرها

ما برحل عن فلسطين 

ولازم أكسب فلسطين


العربي: لازم ترحل

الصهيوني: ما برحل

العربي: بعدك واقف

الصهيوني: أنا موش خايف

العربي: وقف شوف آخرتك

الصهيوني: اعمل انت اللي بدك

العربي: بم بم بم بم


الصهيوني:

آه يا خسارتي ويا مصيبتي

ضاع المال والراسمال

وراحت مني الحزيطة فلسطين


Nuh Ibrahim, “The Arab and Englishman Debate”

Nuh Ibrahim (1913-1938) was arguably the leading poet of the 1936 Arab Revolution in British-occupied Palestine. In 1936, Ibrahim joined the Palestinian national liberation movement, joining the same brigades that al-Qassam had organized. It was around this time that Ibrahim published a collection of his nationalist (or militant) poems, which was quickly banned in Palestine. He was imprisoned for five months in 1937 following the publication of his poem, “Commander Dill,” which skewered the top British military commander in Mandate Palestine. In October 1938, Nuh and three other militants were traveling outside the village of Tamra when they were killed by a British patrol who threw their bodies down a well. Later, local residents retrieved and buried the bodies in the local cemetery.

Though Ibrahim was only 25 years old when he was martyred, his poems and songs (almost entirely in the Palestinian Colloquial, rather than Modern Standard Arabic) remain popular, having been long part of nationalist song repertoires, and performed by bands such as Firqat al-Ashiqeen.

The Arab and Englishman Debate

by Nūḥ Ibrāhīm

trans. Ahmed Saidam and Elliott Colla


The Arab:

Hey History—record this, write it down.

Hey Tyrant—crush and torture us!

What goes up must come down.

You shall rejoice, My Palestine

The Englishman:

Write it down or not—whatever!

I’m a stranger to promises and honor.

I fear only force.

That’s how I govern Palestine


The Arab:

Where’s my justice, where’re my rights,

Mr. Clever Englishman?

We thought you were compassionate,

We thought you kept your promises.


The Englishman:

Hey Arab—Talk all you like.

Who will listen to you, poor man?

Shout as much as you want, I won’t hear.

My ears are plugged!


The Arab:

You burned my heart,

With your promise to the Zionists.

Will you doublecross us? 

Are you trying to destroy Palestine?


The Englishman:

There’s no going back on my promise to Balfour

I won’t give up the millions I got in return

Even if I have to escalate things with artillery,

airplanes and rifles!

The Arab:

Woe is me, My Oppressor

Your heart is hard and never softens

You think we’re animals?

Or just a nation of savages?


The Englishman:

Seems you don’t understand

The colonizers’ philosophy.

Wake up, if you’re still asleep:

We are a nation of excellence. 


The Arab:

Mr. Englishman—we fought with you,

When you came out victorious!

What happened to our hopes and demands?

To our independence in Palestine?


The Englishman:

No matter how much we offer and promise,

—We might swear a thousand oaths!—

We won’t change this policy

That we follow.


The Arab:

As long as you do not hear my voice,

And have no respect for the law,

I will take care of myself,

As the Lord is my support.


The Arab:

Where have you gone, Good People of Honor,

Good Muslim Kings?

Let me hear your voices thunder,

To save Palestine.


Source: Nūḥ Ibrāhīm, Majmū‘at qaṣā’id Falasṭīn al-mujāhida (Damascus: Maṭba‘at al-I‘tidāl, N.D. [1939?], 42-3.

محاورة العربي والإنجليزي

للشاعر نوح إبراهيم


العربي

يا تاريخ سجل واكتب

يا ظالم اطغى وعذب

لازم الدهر يقلب

وتنفرحي يا فلسطين


الإنجليزي

سجل مجل ما بعرف

ولا بفهم عهد وشرف

غير القوة ما بخاف

وهذا حكمي بفلسطين


العربي

وين العدل والحقوق

يا انجليزي يا فطين

كنا منفتكرك شفوق

وإنك عالعهد أمين


الإنجليزي

يا عربي احكي لتشبع

من يفهملك يا مسكين

مهما تصيح ما بسمع

حيث آداني مسدودين


العربي

قلبي منك صار محروق

بوعدك للصهيونيين

راح تصفينا بخازوق

وبدك تهلك فلسطين؟


الإنجليزي

بوعدي لبلفور ما برجع

ما بترك قبض الملايين

وان كترتها بالمدفع

والطيارة والمرتين


العربي

آه منك يا ظالم

قلبك قاسي ما بلين

بتفتكرنا بهايم

والا أمة متوحشين


الإنجليزي

الظاهر انك مش فاهم

مبادي المستعمرين

اصحى ان كنت نايم

نحنا أمة موصوفين


العربي

يا نكليزي حاربنا معكم

وخرجتو منصورين

فين أملنا ومطاليبنا

واستقلالنا بفلسطين


الإنجليزي

مهما عطينا ووعدنا

وحلفنا ألف يمين

ما منغير سياستنا

هاللي عليها ماشيين


العربي

ما دمت ما تسمع حسي

وما بتراعي القوانين 

أنا بدبر نفسي 

والمولى إلي معين


العربي

فينكم يا أهل النخوة

ويا ملوك المسلمين

سمعوني صوتكم يدوي

لإنقاذ فلسطين


Nuh Ibrahim, “Commander Dill”

Nuh Ibrahim (1913-1938) was arguably the leading poet of the 1936 Arab Revolution in British-occupied Palestine. Born into poverty in Haifa, Ibrahim studied at Haifa’s Islamic School where Izz al-Din al-Qassam, taught. After working with printing presses in Haifa and Jaffa, Ibrahim traveled to Baghdad for more training in the craft. He then moved to Bahrain to help train typesetters and printers. While living in Bahrain, he composed many poems and songs in vernacular Arabic, and developed a following while performing at private functions in Manama and Muharraq. Upon hearing the news of revolt in Palestine in 1936, Ibrahim returned home to join the guerrilla movement, joining the same brigades that al-Qassam had organized. It was around this time that he published a collection of his nationalist (or militant) poems, which was quickly banned in Palestine. He was imprisoned for five months in 1937 following the publication of his poem, “Commander Dill,” which skewered the top British military commander in Mandate Palestine. In October 1938, Nuh and three other militants were traveling outside the village of Tamra when they were killed by a British patrol who threw their bodies down a well. Later, local residents retrieved and buried the bodies in the local cemetery.

Though Ibrahim was only 25 years old when he was martyred, his poems and songs (almost entirely in the Palestinian Colloquial, rather than Modern Standard Arabic) remain popular, having been long part of nationalist song repertoires, and performed by bands such as Firqat al-Ashiqeen.


“Commander Dill”

by Nūḥ Ibrāhīm

trans. Ahmed Saidam and Elliott Colla

 

Hey, Commander Dill

Don’t think the nation’s grown tired

But since you’re following its affairs

Maybe you’ll be the one to fix things?

Since you’re an expert,

And an effective military leader

Who understands our whole cause,

You need no explanation.

Tell London what’s happened

And what is yet to come:

The Arabs are a nation of free men

Whose friendship you badly need.

 

So make it work, Mr. Dill

Perhaps you’ll fix it all…


Mister General—If you want

By force to change the situation

Then you must certainly grasp

That your request is difficult, impossible,

So take it with a bit of wisdom.

Pay us our due, Uncle

And give the nation what it demands

Of freedom and independence.

 

Manage it, Mr. Dill

Maybe you can fix things.


You came to a free Palestine,

To put down the Revolution.

And when you studied the situation,

You discovered how precarious things were.

You ought to make Britain understand,

So we may be spared its harm,

And reconcile with the Arab nation

With a prohibition on land sales and immigration


So get on it, Mr. Dill,

Maybe you’ll be the one to fix things?


As long as you’re in charge,

Then solve this problem and end this crisis.

Reach out your hand and take ours,

Take all your battalions away.

Fulfill your good-faith promises,

So we can erase this mistake.

This would be an honor for your regime

And the best plan of action.


Hop to it, Mr. Dill

Maybe you’re the one to fix it…


Source: Nūḥ Ibrāhīm, Majmū‘at qaṣā’id Falasṭīn al-mujāhida (Damascus: Maṭba‘at al-I‘tidāl, N.D. [1939?], 23.


قصيدة القائد دل

للشاعر نوح أبراهيم

 

يا حضرة القائد دل

لا تظن الأمة بتمل

لكن انت سايرها

يمكن على يدك بتحل

ما دمت رجل خبير

وقائد عسكري خطير

وقضيتنا كلها فهمتها

ما بلزم الك تفسير

فهِم لندن باللي صار

واللي وبعدوا راح يصير

العرب أمة أحرار

صداقتها لازمتكم كثير

 

ودبرها يا مستر دل

يمكن على يدك بتحل


إن كنت عاوز يا جنرال

بالقوة تغير هالحال

لازم تعتقد أكيد

طلبك صعب من المحال

لكن خدها بالحكمة

واعطينا الثمن يا خال

ونفذ شروط الأمة

من حرية واستقلال

 

ودبرها يا مستر دل

يمكن على يدك بتحل


جيت فلسطين الحرة

حتى تقمع الثورة

ولما درست الحالة

لقيت المسألة خطرة

بدك تفهم بريطانيا

حتى تكفينا شرها

وتصافي الامة العربية

بمنع البيع والهجرة


ودبرها يا مستر دل

يمكن على يدك بتنحل


ما دمت صاحب السلطة

حل هالمشكلة وهالورطة

ومد يدك وصافحنا

وما تخلي ولا أورطة

ونفذ وعود الشرف

حتى نمحي هالغلطة

للدولة هادا شرف

وأحسن مشروع وخطة


ودبرها يا مستر دل

يمكن على يدك بتحل



Tell Me What's going On

I have good news about your blood work

Your cholesterol looks good,

But your sugar is 5.9,

That isn’t pre-diabetic

But it’s heading there

Looks like you lost some weight since the last time you were here

Does that concern you

How are things at home

Any concerns with your sex life

How often

How long has it been

Are you eating well

Are you sleeping well

Do you ever feel sad

Do you ever feel despondent

So tell me what’s going on

 

I don’t know how to get through this

It is there when I wake up

And it is there when I go to sleep

Every day, a hundred or so

Sometimes more,

Here, there, young, old

Men, women, children, infants

In tents, basements, hospitals, and schools

On the beach and in the road

So many

You know

They stopped counting in February

 

He blinks and makes a note

I’m sorry to hear that

 

People are posting

They are posting videos

They are posting recordings,

Phone calls, clips, snippets of

Beheadings, immolations, mass graves

Girls are posting their final poems

Boys send last messages to mothers and sisters

To the rubble of their homes, their city, their land

An old man points to a crater,

            Or a missing limb

An orphan points at the sky

            Or a tattered kite

            Or a story

And then they are gone forever

No surviving family

Disappeared in broad daylight

Captured, recorded

But gone forever

 

This forever is still going,

You know,

They stopped counting in February

There’s a long pause

As he finishes his notes

Are you ready for your flu shot today?

I pay the co-pay and leave

 

Later, my shoulder starts to ache

Where the injection was

At dinner, a pretend-real fever

And actual symptoms of mock fatigue

I rub the sore muscle

And listen to the celebrations outside

 

My neighbors are dancing

My neighbors are singing

They have won

And now they are choosing

Their next Amalek.

(November 2024)

Sugar Maple

The man knocked on the door

And gave me his business card.

He wanted to tell me he would

Cut it down

For only $250

If we wanted.

 

And I had been thinking the whole time

That the maple

Was just being slow this year.

It is youngish, and healthy.

But suddenly, I was standing next to that man

Talking about that maple,

As if I always had known it had died.

 

Just like that, know-it-all words coming out

Pronouncing a death sentence.

And then it did.

It died abruptly, just then,

As we stood in front of it

Discussing its evident death,

And me, “No, thanks,”

Thinking to myself that man just killed a maple.

That man just murdered the beautiful tree.

And he touching the card in my fingers, “In case you change your mind.

You gotta remove it, you know.”

“Of course, I know,”

I spoke as if I did.

 

Days went by, then weeks.

By June, no one could deny it was dead.

Sloughing off its bark

Like an unneeded parka,

Withholding red-tinged buds,

And lime-dyed keys

Strangling on unborn leaves.

One afternoon, I pulled a muscle in my neck sawing off

The most obvious branches.

 

Weeks went by, and we

Began to notice the other

Dead trees by the creek.

Maples? We checked, but it turned out

They were tulip poplars

And catalpa.

It was happening all around now,

Beneath the green canopy

Ash, chestnut, oak, holly

Beech, elder, sycamore

So many dead sentinels,

Flagless poles

Was this part of the cycle

Of life

The dying and

Rotting and

Feeding so that others might live

Or the site of a massacre?

 

Months went by. Winter came,

Slowly, but it did.

And now the barren maple

Didn’t stick out

So much

Against the leafless willow oak

 

The city crew, who comes each January

To inspect the last elms

Stranded in the neighborhood,

A century after the blight or more.

They came with their bucket and experts

And I pretending to know,

“I’ll give you $100 cash if you take down that little thing over there.”

The man looked at me,

Then at his boss,

Then at me again, “Can’t right now. We’re on city time.”

His boss nodded.

“But I can come back on Saturday.”

 

He did, climbing up that dead tree,

Chain saw dangling

five feet behind by rope.

He lopped it off,

Head to stump.

We paid 250 in the end, because he pruned the mountain laurel too.

 

We split it and stacked it and waited.

 

When the first real snow finally came a month later,

We threw a piece on the grate,

Mostly out of curiosity.

It blazed hot, quick lighting, slow burning,

Not a pop,

And none of the smoke

You’d expect from maple,

Young or old.

 

That tree was seasoned.

Must have been dead for a good long while.

A lot longer than we ever knew.

Spitting out leaves and keys and buds

For at least a season

Somehow, though it was already dead

In root and trunk.

 

And we huddled around it,

Snow drifting into the house

From the unfixed old gap

Under the front door

As we fed this tree

Limb by limb

Into the fire

And became warm again.

(January 2016)

Autumn

It seems late this year

The yellowing of these leaves

This carpet of foliage composted

The fogging of my breath

Under the low white sunlight

 

He turns off the path to sniff and snort

Rifling at sycamore roots

Curling through the pawpaws

Grazing among elm volunteers

Stripping twigs bare

Munching last green leaves

Same botanical breakfast he had yesterday

 

He tears off after deer

Gone for 15 minutes or so

For him, the world is alive

With smells, sounds, and vibes

He finds patterns and reads signs

Identifies friend, foe, and prey,

He comes back to greet a Lab

Gets chased by a Visla

Hunts for the fox that left the scat

And ignores the rest

 

We follow the creek up

Towards the library gardens

We pass two elderly walkers,

Wielding four poles between them

People are friendly out here

Nodding or saying hello or nothing

Careful to never interrupt

Each other’s private idyll

 

A middle-aged white guy

Shlubby, but decent like me

Like most of us, probably

Comes up the path

Followed by his well-behaved Doodle

We nod to each other, dogman to dogman

We complement the hounds

Stepping past each other

And on our ways forever

 

Only then do I notice his IDF baseball cap

It reminds me of the hospital yesterday

And my colleague who cheered it on

And the other who wrings his hands

But says nothing

 

I continue walking up the path,

Heart thumping,

Breaths cut

By the climb

Or the sight of a hat

 

I cross the bridge and continue up

I think of all the things I could have said

But didn’t

And suddenly, for the first time

I notice how alone I am

Where’d he go?

 

I think he was up there all along,

But I couldn’t see him for the tears

He was kneeling, snout in muck

Then rolling in it,

A pile of scat, an old carcass, or both

Get out of there, you filthy…!

Even from this distance

You can smell the stench of shit and death on him

(October 2024)

Mourid Barghouti

Mourid Baghouti (1944-2021) was a poet from Deir Ghassana, a village outside of Ramallah in Occupied Palestine. After studying at Cairo University, he remained in Egypt and became a leading figure in literary circles there. He is best known to English readers through his 1997 memoir, I Saw Ramallah, which reflected on memory, return, and daily life in the Occupied West Bank. Throughout his years in Cairo, Barghouti remained a steadfast advocate of Palestinian liberation and leader within radical Egyptian movements. He was married to the Egyptian scholar, novelist and activist, Radwa Ashour, with whom he had one son, the poet and activist, Tamim Al-Barghouthi. These short poems are from his 1987 collection, Ṭāl al-shatāt (The Diaspora Has Gone On for a Long Time).


Interpretation

A poet sits in a cafe, writing.

The old lady thinks he’s writing a letter to his mother

The teenager supposes he’s writing to his beloved

The child imagines he’s doodling

The businessman assumes he’s drawing up a contract

The tourist guesses he’s writing a postcard

The bureaucrat believes he’s counting his debts

The secret policeman approaches him very slowly


Essential Components

Coca Cola. Chase Manhattan. General Motors.

Christian Dior. McDonald’s. Shell.  

Dynasty. Hilton International. Saint James.

Kentucky Fried Chicken. Tear Gas.

Billy Clubs. Secret Police.

As Ibn Khaldun said, “Among the Arabs, these are the essential components of the State.”


Two Women

One knows all the silver shops of Paris and complains.

One cries every Thursday over five graves and thinks nothing of it.