When you are a Palestinian by nahida the Exiled Palestinian A poem by Shadi Abdul-Kareem Translation by Nahida Exiled Palestinian When you are a Palestinian  You would need daily practice of hiding tears  And swallowing huge chunk of wishes   Overflowing from your reality  In front of which you stand flabbergasted  Wondering who’d find the genie’s lamp  That would bring back your olive tree,   the straw tray and the sea fragrance?  When you are a Palestinian  You wouldn’t dare to broaden your smile  The ghosts of Alaqsa would encircle you  And the blood of Saladin which runs in your veins  Would remind you whenever you attempt to smile  That your smile is a betrayal… punishable by history  When you are a Palestinian  You cannot dream solo  There is always someone with you  Rather taking control  And whilst others dream of wealth, power, wife, children  Your dream is  A nap beneath an orange tree in Haifa  A cup of coffee by the shore of Tabareya  A prayer that rises up to heaven  Following the footsteps of the beloved  When you are a Palestinian  You’d live in a state of unceasing absence of normal life  No wakefulness… no sleep  No work… no rest  No awareness… no unconsciousness  Without the remembrance of Palestine; How was Palestine! What became of Palestine! And what will happen to Palestine? When you are a Palestinian  You would live a stranger in your homeland  And a stranger outside your homeland   You would provoke all kinds of feelings You’d be an instigator of pity, some times  An instigator of sadness, some times  An instigator of curiosity, some times  An instigator of admiration, many times  When you are a Palestinian  You’d work tirelessly  Promoting a redundant commodity  Called DIGNITY No longer in circulation  Since new dictionaries of morality have been invented  When you are a Palestinian   You will unavoidably get an illness called melancholy  You will infect all those who know you  And those who gaze at the caged tears in your eyes  And those who’d listen to the howl of mosques, churches and stones in your voice  When you are a Palestinian  You would enjoy an extraordinary memory  You’d remember the number of sand grains under the sea  The voice of every muezzin  The laughter of every child  You’d remember the colour of dawn  The flavour of sleep  The scent of rain  When you are a Palestinian  You’d also remember those black nights  The voices of their monsters and their moves  You would remember the smell of death mixed with gunfire  You’d remember the wailing of widows  And the moaning of little girls  You’d remember your footsteps towards the oblivion  Every tear, and over which soil granule it fell  When you are a Palestinian  You’d discover the value of numbers  You’d fall in love with them  Or hate them  A strong bond will anchor you  Since your name became a number  Your history, a number  Your home address, a number  Your lost-family members, a number  Those who died, who imprisoned, who were torn to pieces… numbers  The days you squandered -or squandered by- in refugee camps… a number  Your dreams and failed prophecies of the day of your return… a number  You’d appreciate indeed the value of numbers  You’d be filled with gratitude to those who invented numbers  Otherwise your life would’ve been lifeless, and numberless  When you are a Palestinian  You’d live in chronic yearning to a past you never knew  And to future you would never know When you are a Palestinian  Words of love would not matter to you  Nor the stock market  Nor festival celebrations here and there  It would not matter to you if nights became endless  Or if days disappeared forever  It would not matter to you if the year is twelve months  Or twelve watermelons  It would not matter to you if people ascended to the moon  Or if the moon descended to them  It would not matter to you if a party loses the election and another wins  It would not matter to you if a country is triumphant and another defeated  All what matters to you is that  PALESTINE WAS STOLEN And  IT MUST BE OBTAINED BACK  When you are a Palestinian  You would abruptly stop talking  And leave the story unfinished  The poem without an ending  As most likely the ideas in your head would become overcrowded  So much so that they’d run over each other  And you’d have to stop writing or talking immediately  To attend the funeral of those thoughts which have been squashed  And died before even being born  Therefore I will cut short my speech  Leave to give my condolences in exile  Where thoughts pass away  Because they refuse to survive  Without a homeland  Nahida the Exiled Palestinian  September 2, 2012 at 11:52 : http://wp.me/p166J1-SM