Poet and short-story writer Nasser Rabah is on the list of finalists for this year’s Arabic Flash Fiction Prize from ArabLit and Komet Kashakeel. He and translator Wiam El-Tamami share this poem.
Amjad
Nasser Rabah
Translated by Wiam El-Tamami
Grief is cheap;
death a worn-out horse;
the hospitals heaving with the calls of the drowned.
Who will listen to me tell the story of Amjad?
Who will give me their heart — and a moment of silence?
I tried to tell the driver. He pulled photos of a stream of tears out of his shirt pocket. The limbs and remains of his loved ones went flying. Oh no — he chased after them — Hamada’s legs, Suad’s dreams…
I tried to tell the hawkers. We’re just selling things — they replied — exchanging people’s sorrows for fake papers and poisoned tales. The market is full of slaughtered birds walking around, just like you.
I headed back to my neighbor. He has a brother working in television, and his brother has one son. Both were pronounced dead on the evening news. Ashamed, I left without asking him.
I went to see Mounir, who works at the bakery. I found his home full of neighbors, pouring coffee at his memorial: Mounir the baker is dead.
I hurried over to Mazen, the history teacher. I heaved a sigh of relief when I found him. Oh, thank God, you’re alive. Have you lost any loved ones? He said no, but Huda’s feet have been amputated, Nahil needs urgent treatment abroad, and Mahmoud has been missing for months. What about you — what’s wrong? he asked. Nothing, I replied. There’s just no history without geography.
Grief is cheap;
death a worn-out horse;
the hospitals heaving with the calls of the drowned.
Who will listen to me tell the story of Amjad?
Who will give me their heart — and a moment of silence?
Who will listen to me say: He was my closest friend.
When I look into the mirror, I see you laughing.
Amjad? Which one of us was closer to the other?
You would visit one house after another, passing around sweet dates of joy.
You would come back to leave your tears in the palm of my hand.
What’s wrong?
Nothing. Just tired.
In every place you left behind, your palm trees are growing, rising, reaching out for God.
For ten years you were the closest one to me; I was the closest one to you.
And I never asked you: What’s that scar on your forehead?
And you never asked me: What’s that opulent wound on your neck?
We passed over all the wounds of a lifetime without a word.
It was enough for us to walk together, Amjad, and to keep walking.
We were like a victory sign held up in the face of exhaustion. What has become of it now?
Grief is cheap;
death a worn-out horse;
the hospitals heaving with the calls of the drowned.
Nasser Rabah is Palestinian poet and novelist. He has published five poetry collections and two novels. Some of his works have been translated into French, English and Spanish. He is active in the literary field in Gaza, where he currently lives. (You can donate to a fundraiser to support Nasser Rabah at spotfund.)
Wiam El-Tamami (wiameltamami.com) is an Egyptian writer, translator, editor, and wanderer. She has spent many years moving between different cultures and communities.