I am Palestinian and Lebanese, and hold Lebanese and American citizenship. I was born here, and grew up mostly in California, so consider myself a 1st gen immigrant of the Palestinian and Lebanese diaspora. On my Palestinian side, we are descended from Beit Nabala, a village that was destroyed in 1948 in the Nakba. On my Lebanese side, we are descended from a northern Lebanese mountain village called Kfar Helda. I am also a queer woman. I relate most to the experience of being part of diaspora, with a foot in the East and a foot in the West.
A Silent Poem, بروح
Speaking is hard these days.
This was not a year to remain silent,
But disquietude is always vanity
And I fear I may have lost my way.
The mountains fall upon me
Demanding broad shoulders, a steady hand
And the rivers flow beneath my palm:
The word, مكتوب, it is written.
The view outside my window has not changed,
But the eye of the viewer has changed through it.
طل من الشباك, the bird took wing,
The feathered soul takes flight.
May our blood run free.
May our spirits remain unbroken.
My language has changed,
من غروب إلى شروق, from West to East, my language changed,
Or I reclaimed it, by turning the world upon its head,
And looking outside my window.
I (re)learned Arabic,
Because I met with the living.
But having found it,
I find myself communing with the dead.
A silent poem,
A mournful asking,
The rhythm is strange to me,
But finally, I am home.
-
Finally I am home,
But the rhythm is strange to me.
A mournful asking, a silent poem,
Communing with the dead.
Having found it, I find myself
But only because I met with the living
I (re)learned Arabic,
And looked outside my window.
I turned the world upon its head,
My language changed, or I reclaimed it,
From East to West, من شروق إلى غروب,
My language has changed,
My spirit remains unbroken,
And my blood runs free.
The feathered soul takes flight,
The little bird took wing,
طل من الشباك, but the eye of the viewer has changed through it,
While the view outside my window has not changed.
It is written, مكتوب, the word
The river flows beneath my palm
Demanding a steady hand and broad shoulders,
The mountain falls upon me.
And I fear I may have lost my way.
Disquietude is always vanity
But this was not a year to remain silent;
Speaking is hard these days.
