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.