Muzaffar al-Nawwab’s ‘One Day, We’ll Return to Our People’

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One day, we’ll return to our people

By Muzaffar al-Nawwab

Translated and introduced by Isabelle Felenda

Many Iraqi writers have spent much of their lives in exile—some by choice, others by force—yet few have experienced exile as restlessly or extensively as the Iraqi poet Muzaffar al-Nawwab (1931/4–2022). Following a turbulent youth in Iraq, the second Baathist coup in 1968 compelled him to leave his country (ironically with the assistance of the then-young Saddam Hussein). His political commitments led him through more than twenty countries over the course of the subsequent decades, including France, Greece, Venezuela, Iran, Vietnam, Syria, Oman, and Eritrea, until eventually he settled in Damascus, and later, after being diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease, in the Emirates.

In May 2011, when he was 77 or 80 years old, and gravely ill, he returned to Baghdad for the first time in forty-two years. An old acquaintance who accompanied al-Nawwab during this visit recalls how the air in the city was thick with dust during his stay. However, when the driver apologized for the weather, al-Nawwab merely smiled and said, “Baghdad is beautiful in the dust.”[1]

This following text is a transcription of a live reading recorded in Switzerland, which I was fortunate to obtain from the Iraqi collector Qusay al-Bayati. A shorter version of the same poem, recorded during a reading in London in 1995, can be listened to here. Since Muzaffar al-Nawwab’s large following is due not only to the content of his poems but above all to his unique style of delivery, much of the poem’s impact is lost when read privately in written form. Therefore, we recommended you listen to the performance while following along with the translation.

As with many of al-Nawwab’s works, this poem was set to music. In this case, the Iraqi legend Saadoun Jaber lent it his voice, turning it into a moving mawwal.

One day, we’ll return to our people

 

One day, we’ll return to our people,

One day, we’ll gather the sorrow of days

and the garments of patience,

and return to our people.

One day, the road will choose its course

and guide us back to our homes.

One day, we’ll pass exile around like candy,

and grief in cups of henna.

Our children will grow knowing

that the world stands with them:

a city, people,

family and neighbors.

No child will name them foreign Iraqis

and let the joy of play die within them.

Child of the people, we don’t blame your family,

we’re all foreigners,

but we see all sorrow, my dear, as lovers.

One day, our children will weave the sun’s thread

through every alley—

maybe a child has strayed from home.

The alleys will take them to gardens,

where they will pick molten dates.

That day will come,

but I fear, before it does,

the scorpions will consume me.

One day, joy will take the shovels of sorrow

and dig a channel

and pour in life

to which we will say: My friend, joy!

Spring passed…

Each day, I took the mushroom of sorrow

to a new station.

How many false stations have passed by,

and how many deceitful drivers, joy, my friend?

They take your right and tell you it won’t last long!

I swear, it’s a shuttle train[2]

I board along with the people;

This one buys, that one sells,

and each arrives at a stop

to embrace their family.

I watch like a ghost from the windows of sorrowful cars

and wait for someone who never comes.

I wait for her whose tears

were shining stars upon my cheek.

I wait, I wait,

and return to my place.

Spring remains silent in my heart.

The rails come to an end, but I haven’t arrived.

So I go on alone, without any rails.

Oh, you love without rails,

homeland,

oh, with you!

And without you, I’m lost.

One day, I will run through the alleys

and cling to shanasheel,

kiss the doors,

and cry: Enough, Baghdad

Exile raised me on sickness

What can I say, beloved?

Time is a pimp.

Take me into the black night

where I hear a bird singing as it pleases.

Over there, the Tigris toys with stones

and sometimes even with sand.

Take me, by your eyes,

I never bowed my head,

but carry a metric ton of resistance within.

That day will come,

and if not,

bury me standing,

with my forehead turned to Baghdad.

يجي يوم نرد لهلنا

يجي يوم نرد لهلنا

يجي يوم انلم حزن الأيام وثياب الصبر

وثياب الصبر

ونرد لهلنه

يجي يوم الدرب يمشي بكيفه

ياخذنه لوطنه

يجي يوم انفرّگ الغربة على العالم املبس

والحزن طاسات حنّه

زغارنه يعرفون

الهم ظهر بالدنيا

ومدينة وناس

وجيران وگرايب

ما يگللهم طفل: غربة عراقيين

ويموت اللعب بيهم

يا طفل الناس ما نعتب على اهلك

كلنا غربة

لاچن احنه نشوف كل الحزن يحبيب حبايب

يجي يوم زغارنا يعگدون خيط الشمس

بدرابين كل الناس

بلچي هناك حي الله طفل عن اهله غايب

تجي الدرابين تاخذهم للبساتين

يلگطون التمر خستاوي ذايب

يجي ذاك اليوم

لاچن انه خايف گبل ذاك اليوم

تاكلني العگارب

يجي يوم الفرح ياخذ كل مساحي الحزن

يحفر ساجية

ويسگي العمر

ونگله يا عمي فرح

راح الربيع

ظلت افطرة حزن كل يوم

اخذها لمحطة

چم محطة چذب مرت

وشكثر سواق چذابين يا عمي فرح

لاجن يخشون بعيونك يگولولك سريع

والله چطلة

واصعد ويه الناس

هذا اليشتري وذاك اليبيع

كل بشر يوصل محطة

ويشبگ اهله

وانا أشوبح من شبابيچ الفراگين الحزينة

أنطر احد ما يجيني

أنطر الدمعتها

چانت نجمة تتلالى بجبيني

أنطر أنطر

وأرجع ردود لمچاني

يسكت بگلبي الربيع

السچچ خلصت ما وصلت

ومشيت وحدي بلايا سچة

ايه يا عشگ الماله سچه

يا وطن

يا بيك

وبلياك أضيع

يجي يوم أركض بالدرابين

أتلعگ بالشناشيل

أبوس البوب

أصيح يزي يا بغداد

هيج الغربه ربتلي علل

وأگولن شحچي يحبيبه

الوگت گواد

اخذيني لسواد الليل

أسمع طير يغني على كيفه

ودجلة يلعب بالحصو

ونوبات يزاغل بالرمل ليغاد

اخذيني وحگ عيناچ

ما دنگت راسي

وبيه طن عناد

يجي ذاك اليوم

وإن ما جاش

ادفنوني على حيلي

وگصتي لبغداد

Muzaffar al-Nawwab was one of Iraq’s most prominent poets and political critics. Since the 1950s, he reflected the political upheavals in the Arab world through his poetry, becoming a lasting voice of protest and resistance for many to this day.

Isabelle Felenda is a student of Arab and Comparative Literature based in Berlin, currently writing her PhD dissertation on Muzaffar al-Nawwab.

[1] كاظم غيلان، مظفر النواب…الظاهرة الاستثنائية: دراسات وقصائد ومخطوطات بيده، بغداد: دار ومكتبة عدنان للطباعة والنشر والتوزيع، ٢٠١٥.

[2] This word can also mean “a trick”.