‘A New Year in Gaza’: By Ibrahim Nasrallah

A New Year in Gaza

By Ibrahim Nasrallah

Translated by Dr. Sali Karmi

 

The people named in this poem are the writers, painters, and musicians martyred in the genocide. They are only a few of the many artists who were martyred in the past two years of war against Gaza.

 

 

This morning,

I open my window

that no longer exists

and lean on its ledge,

which is no longer found.

 

I water my mother’s flowers

that aren’t there

and wave to my neighbors,

vanished into thin air

by a newly minted bomb.

 

I sing a song—

at least half its words missing

since the start of the war—

and I whisper into the ear

of a hollow sunflower

that once grew near the door,

a wish

the color of the sea.

 

I study the remains of footsteps

on thresholds now covered in ash

and watch a little girl

in pink shoes

that were worn only once.

 

I stretch a hand

toward the branch of a lemon tree

that now plays hide-and-seek with me.

I ask a bird—

its feathers scattered, throat scorched—

to sing me a last song.

 

Then I leave the house

that no longer exists.

 

… …

 

I will search for the street,

and perhaps find the end of it.

And I will knock at the neighbor’s door

now found on the other side.

 

I will jump over a washing line

still holding the shirt

of a three-year-old girl.

And brush the dust off a packet of milk,

since it might be needed

by an infant

whose mother was killed.

 

I will drive in the stakes of the burnt tent

and dig a narrow channel at its center,

for water might fall

to quench the thirst of the ashes

of those who were burnt inside.

 

I will walk to a nearby shop

and search through the devastation

for a piece of chocolate

not drenched in blood.

I will give half to a child

who is asking me about his parents—

perhaps it will lessen his tears by one.

 

I will remove six rocks from the road

so that young martyrs don’t stumble at night

and smooth the earth with my fingertips

so the wounded might find a moment’s rest.

 

I will pass by the hospital

and make the shattered beds

brushing dust from torn sheets.

I will stitch the rips in them,

so the wounds of the sleeping martyrs might heal

a little.

 

I will hold my head high

and stare at an F-18

crossing the sky,

for perhaps

God will grant me the strength

to strike it down.

And I will glare at a tank

emptying its fire on Hind Rajab,

so I might turn the bullets

toward the hardened hearts

of the soldiers inside.

 

… …

 

 

I will take a turn toward another street

that was there two weeks ago,

and I will write the poem that

was on Refaat Alareer’s mind long ago.

Then I will write the ends of two poems

Saleem al-Naffar and Heba Abu Nada

left unfinished.

 

I will play a melody

on Lubna Elayan’s violin—

Lubna, who once dreamt of being on stage

at the Sydney Opera House,

Milan’s La Scala Theatre,

and London’s Royal Albert Hall

with her companion in heaven, Yousef Dawass.

 

I will kiss the forehead

of the piano teacher Elham Farah

and the letters from the last text

on her phone:

“I am lying in the street.

I can’t feel my legs,

but my fingers—thank God—

are fine.”

 

I will close her eyes,

so she can remember the melodies

she played for eighty years.

I will hear the echoes

of opera singers performing Carmen

as they embrace Elham’s body,

and Carmen, as she sings:

“Do what you wish,

but Carmen was born free

and free

she will die.”

 

I will listen intently to Akram Al-Ajleh,

the drummer whose beats drown out

the sound of explosions

and cleanse—if only for a moment—

children’s souls

from the demons of fear.

I will sit on the pavement

that was once here

and contemplate the last painting

by Mahasen Al-Khateeb:

We Are Burning.

 

I will rise and shake off the dust,

leaving an empty space

for the ashes of children

whose bodies found neither grave nor corner

in the ruins of their homes.

 

I will walk,

yet behind me is

screaming:

Return.

And in front of me

begs:

Move forward.

My feet have lost their sense of direction

since their toes were amputated.

 

I will spin around myself,

hoping to knock into something

that might tell me

whether I’m still alive

in this life.

A wish—

the shape of my heart

Laughter—

resembling my eyes

A whisper—

the shape of a drop of water

for which my parched throat yearns.

 

… …

 

This night

is not like last night.

This morning

nothing like the sun

I once saw at the seashore.

This air

is nothing like my mother’s breath.

This branch

nothing like the birds’

dreams of spring.

 

… …

 

Why do the waves

flee far from the shore?

Why does the sea

bury its head in depths?

Why does the cypress tree

shrink in fear

inside the neighbor’s yard?

Why do they

unleash this hell upon us

when far less

would be more than enough?

Why do they

swallow the earth

with their bombs from the sky?

Why do they not leave some victims,

a feast for another day?

Why do they kill us all

in just one hour?

Why do they

stroke the fur

of their nuclear bombs,

whenever they speak of Gaza?

Why do they

embrace their fission bombs,

whenever their intelligence reports

inform them of the number of infants

in neonatal wards?

Why do they

scream about killing us

on the streets of Tel Aviv

as if their soldiers

had been passing out candy

for the past two years?

Why is the genocide not enough to satisfy

their hunger?

 

Take a piece of a child’s flesh.

Take two

Take it all

The road to kill them all is still ahead, a general whispers

to his soldier.

 

I walk yet feel more tired.

I sit yet feel more tired.

I remember yet feel more tired.

I wish yet feel more tired.

I despair yet feel more tired.

I yell yet feel more tired.

I whisper yet feel more tired.

I wake yet feel more tired.

I dream yet feel more tired.

I live yet feel more tired.

But I refuse to die.

Since if I did

I would do nothing:

I would not open the window,

I would not finish this poem.

I would not see Carmen again.

I would not brush the dust off my body.

And I would not listen to music

at the Sydney Opera House

nor perform there.

I would not walk

to the birthday parties

of my martyred friends

in the nearby graveyard

as I have decided to do tonight.