Walihadha Astaqil

It saddened me to hear it then, long ago.  It saddens me even more now.

The Palestinian people still have not been given a return to the homeland, and the birds still 'inhabit the nest of the impossible' in dreams that flee upon awakening.  

So much betrayal, so much corruption.  Darwish is dead.  He wrote about it all for decades, sensitive to every nuance.

'Walikadha Astaqil'

Poem by Mahmoud Darwish,

Music by Admad Qabour

When the applause breaks out in the hall,

And the shadow tilts towards my chest,

The makeup falls off the face of Galilee

And that is why... I resign!

Tonight I find myself naked

Like a massacre.

My acting was far from my father's style,

My acting was strange to the birds of Galilee,

And my arms are a fan.

That is why... I resign!

They taught me everything the director asked

Who danced to the rhythm of his lie.

I am tired now.

I hung my legends on a clothesline

And that is why... I resign!

In your name, I now admit that the play

Was written for entertainment.

The critics were satisfied,

But the eyes of the Magdalene were closed.

It dug into my body,

The form of the sublime,

And that is why... I resign.

My dear...

Their brushes paint pictures of Lydda,

And you are the ink.

Jaffa is nothing but drums

And my bones are like a stick in the director's grip.

But I say,

Master the role tomorrow, sir.

And that is why... I resign!

Ladies

Ladies

Ladies

Ladies

Gentlemen

I entertained you for twenty years.

It is time for me to leave today

And to escape from the crowd,

And I sing in Galilee

For the birds that inhabit the nest of the impossible,

And that is why I resign.

I resign.

I resign.

And the curtain falls,

And the curtain falls.

عندما ينطفئ التصفيقُ في القاعةِ

والظلُّ يميلْ

نحو صدري

يسقط المكياج عن وجه الجليل

ولهذا… أستقيل !

أجدُ الليلة نفسي

عارياً

كالمذبحة

كان تمثيلي بعيداً عن مواويل أبي

كان تمثيلي غريباً عن عصافير الجليل

وذراعي مروحهْ

ولهذا أستقيل

لقّنوني كل ما يطلبه المخرج

من رقص على إيقاع أكذوبته

وتعبتُ الآن ,

علَّقتُ أساطيري على حبلِ غسيل

ولهذا .. أستقيل

باسمكم , أعترف الآن بأن المسرحيهْ

كُتبتْ للتسليهْ

رضي النقّادُ لكنَّ عيون المجدليَّهْ

حَفَرَتْ في جَسَدي

شكل الجليل

ولهذا …. أستقيل

يا دمي…

فرشاتُهم ترسم لوحات عن اللدِّ

وأنت الحبرُ

ما يافا سوى طبول

وعظامي كالعصا في قبضة المخرج

لكني أقول :

أتقن الدور غداً يا سيدي

ولهذا … أستقيل

سيداتي..

آنساتي..

سادتي !

سلَّيتكم عشرين عامْ

آن لي أن أرحل اليوم

وأن أهرب من هذا الزحامْ

وأغنّي في الجليل

للعصافير التي تسكن عشَّ المستحيل

ولهذا.. أستقيل

أستقيل

أستقيل ..

…

 

ما ينطفئ التصفيقُ في القاعةِ

والظلُّ يميلْ

نحو صدري

يسقط المكياج عن وجه الجليل

ولهذا… أستقيل !

أجدُ الليلة نفسي

عارياً

كالمذبحة

كان تمثيلي بعيداً عن مواويل أبي

كان تمثيلي غريباً عن عصافير الجليل

وذراعي مروحهْ

ولهذا أستقيل

لقّنوني كل ما يطلبه المخرج

من رقص على إيقاع أكذوبته

وتعبتُ الآن ,

علَّقتُ أساطيري على حبلِ غسيل

ولهذا .. أستقيل

باسمكم , أعترف الآن بأن المسرحيهْ

كُتبتْ للتسليهْ

رضي النقّادُ لكنَّ عيون المجدليَّهْ

حَفَرَتْ في جَسَدي

شكل الجليل

ولهذا …. أستقيل

Wadihadha Astaqil

Righteousness is my Weapon

Righteousness is my Weapon

Resistance

Resistance

Julia Boutros

Shame on your glory with humiliation and defeat

When the south gave up to fight back

The history of fathers is not sleep

He writes about our land, the land of those who know

I am a man of determination when determination is called

This will make me a dead standing adult

My people are all a land of resistance

Only the goat and the machetes satisfied

Shame on your glory with humiliation and defeat

When the south gave up to fight back

The history of fathers is not sleep

He writes about our land, the land of those who know

We didn't stand for humiliation, but we didn't agree.

And we won, despite the aggressor's aggression

Let the free see, all capitals

How glory prevails in the homeland forever

Shame on your glory with humiliation and defeat

When the south gave up to fight back

The history of fathers is not sleep

He writes about our land, the land of those who know 

Mouqawam

Julia Boutros, Yamma, Mwel Lhawa

Julia Boutros just released her version of the old Palestinian song:

'Mother, the song of love becomes my ballad,

I would rather be stabbed by daggers than be ruled by a scoundrel.

I walked under the rain and the rain has drenched me,

And the summer as it rolled in has set ablaze my fires.

My life remains a price I would pay for freedom.

Mother...

Oh night, rouse the dewdrops from their slumber,

So that they bear witness to my wounds.

And the armies of the Occupiers have come round from every corner,

And the night witnessed Death as it took lessons from me.

The rifle of the mountains stands taller than the highest of peaks,

(I carry) The key to the Road of Hope

And I place my hopes in my fellow man.

O my people! O my heroes!

I would give up my own eyes for your sake.

Yamma Mwel Lhawa

Mum, Sing to the Wind

An old Palestinian song:

' Mother, sing to the wind.

Sing the old song of my people.

The sharp wound of a dagger is better than being ruled by a scoundrel.

Mother, I am returning,

So hide me in your eyes.

Oh, how much anguish and sorrow

I have seen in my days.

My life has passed in so much agony.

Mother, sing to the wind,

Sing this song of my people.

Better the sharp wound of a dagger

Than to be ruled by a scoundrel.

Oh how I wish my chest were a bridge

So you, (my people) can cross over it

And you and I can live a Palestinian life together.

Mother, sing to the wind...'

Mum, Sing to the Wind

From Ansar to Ashklan

Fabulous album by George Kirmiz, 'From Ansar to Ashklan'

Unadikum

Unadikum

'Meen' by Ahmad Qabour

When I was young, he raised the banner and strengthened our courage and our resolve. His song 'Unadikum' remains an anthem for Palestine to this day.  

This song references the young boy Muhammad ad-Durrah, murdered in cold blood by a sniper as his father attempted to shelter him.

Ahmad Qabour and Reem Bana: For Palestine

مين

من أول ما شفت النور، عم فتّش عليها

أنا بقطع كرمالها بحور، وإغفى عإيديها

هيّ حلمي والخلاص. يا ناس... ضوّولها شمعة

إن بكيوا أطفال الحرب، بتحولها الدمعة دمعة

مين ؟ ..

مين بيتحمل عزاب .. عتاب نظرة عينيها ؟

 

مين ؟ ..

مين رح يفتحلا الباب تالشمس تشرق عليها

مابدها غير نقطة ماي, حتى تزهر أرض البور

بيكفي تفتح كفها شوي, حتى القدس تشعشع نور

ببحرا مركب نجاة, حياة... لتعيشوا فيها

بيكفيها صوت الآهات..ومحمد دُرة بيكفيها

مين ؟ ..

مين بيتحمل عزاب .. عتاب... نظرة عينيها ؟

 

مين ؟ ..

مين رح يفتحلا الباب... تالشمس تشرق عليها

 

Who?

From the first day seeing the light, he searched for her.

I will cross seas for her sake, 

I will fall asleep in her hands.

She is my dream, my salvation. 

O people!

The light is a candle.

If the children of war cried, she would turn this tear into hers

Who?

Who can bear the torment, the look of rebuke in her eyes?

 

Who?

Who will open the door for her, so the sun can shine above?

It only needs a drop of water for the barren land to bloom.

It would be enough that she opens her palm a little and Jerusalem will radiate light.

In her sea there is a lifeboat, a life to live.

The sound of sighs is enough for her, Muhammad al-Durrah is enough for her

Who?

Who can bear the torment, the look of rebuke in her eyes?

 

Who?

Who will open the door for her, so the sun can shine above?

Meen

Al Halat al Ihtidar al Tawila

This is an old song by the incomparable Khaled al Habr entitled: 'Al Halat al Ihtidar al Tawila', 'Long State of Dying'. I am posting it now because tragically, the words remain as true now as they were decades ago

Thanks to my friend from Nazareth who, at my request kindly sent me the words of the original poem, 'Mazameer' written by Mahmoud Darwish. 

The translation is mine and I am happy to be corrected.

'Long state of dying:

It took me back to a street in the neighbourhood of my childhood.

You brought me into homes, hearts, an ear of wheat,

You gave me an identity.

You made me a cause.

Long state of dying...

It seemed to them

That I am dead,

And the crime depends on the songs.

They passed by, but did not pronounce my name,

They buried my corpses in files and in coups,

And they moved away.

And the country I was dreaming about,

It will remain the

country I was dreaming of.

It was a short life 

And a long death!

I woke for a little while

And I wrote the name of my land on my corpse

And on a gun.

And I said:

This is my way!

This is my guide

To coastal cities.

And I moved...

But they killed me,

They buried my body in files and coups and moved away.

And the country I was dreaming of,

It will remain the country I dreamed of.

I am in a long state of dying,

Master of sadness,

And tears from every Arab lover...

Singers and preachers multiplied round me,

And on my corpse poetry and leaders grow.

And all the national language brokers,

They applauded.

They applauded.

They applauded,

And have banquets.

Long state of daying,

Long state of dying.

It took me back to a street in the neighbourhood of my childhood.

You brought me into homes, hearts, an ear of wheat,

You made me a case,

Gave me an identity and heritage.'

حالة الاحتضار الطويلة

أرجعتني إلى شارع في ضواحي الطفولةْ

أدخلتني بيوتاً

قلوباً

سنابل

منحتني هويَّه

جعلتني قضيَّه

حالةُ الاحتضار الطويلةْ.

كان يبدو لهم

أنني ميّت، والجريمةُ مرهونةٌ بالأغاني

فمرُّوا، ولم يلفظوا اسمي.

دفنوا جثتي في الملفّات والانقلابات،

وابتعدوا.

(والبلاد التي كنتُ أحلم فيها -- سوف

تبقى البلاد التي كنتُ أحلم فيها).

كان عمراً قصيراً

وموتاً طويلا

وأفقتُ قليلا

وكتبتُ اسم أرضي على جُثَّتي

وعلى بندقيَّةْ

قلت: هذا سبيلي

وهذا دليلي

إلى المدن الساحليَّةْ.

وتحركتُ،

لكنهم قتلوني.

دفنوا جثتي في الملفات والانقلابات وابتعدوا.

(والبلاد التي كنتُ أحلم فيها --

سوف تبقى البلاد التي كنتُ أحلم فيها).

أنا في حالة الاحتضار الطويلةْ

سيِّد الحزن.

والدمع من كل عاشقة عربيَّة

وتكاثر حولي المغنّون والخطباء

وعلى جثتي ينبتُ الشعر والزعماء

وكل سماسرة اللغة الوطنيَّة

صفَّقوا

صفَّقوا

صفَّقوا

ولتعشْ

حالة الاحتضار الطويلةْ

حالةُ الاحتضار الطويلةْ

أرجعتني إلى شارع في ضواحي الطفولة

أدخلتني بيوتاُ... قلوباً... سنابل

جعلتني قضيَّة

منحتني هويَّة

وتراثَ السلاسل.

Halat al Ihtidar al Tawila

Tawfiq Zayyad and Refaat al Areer

Tawfiq Zayyad wrote:

'I never carried a rifle

On my shoulder

Or pulled a trigger.

All I have is a flute's melody,

A brush to paint my dreams, 

A bottle of ink.

All I have

Is unshakeable faith

And an infinite love

For my people in pain.'

His words were echoed recently by the martyr Refaat al Areer.  When the Isrselis killed him, the echo of his death was heard throughout the world and continues to break the silence imposed by  their propaganda.