November 28, 2010

أحداث العيون: فاجعة وطنية



تحية لإخواننا الصحراويين الشرفاء المتشبتين بمغربيتهم وبالتوابث الوطنية تحت ظل العلم المغربي وعاهل البلاد وتحية لقوات الأمن والدرك وللقوات المساعدة وللقوات المسلحة الملكية الباسلة الحامية لوحدتنا الترابية من طنجة إلى الكويرة ولوحدة الشعب المغربي العربي المسلم دون أي تمييز بين الصحراوي والأمازيغي . وليرحم الله عز وجل من سقطوا في سبيل الحق على أرض صحرائنا الحبيبة من رجال الأمن . إن ما حدث في العيون فاجعة وطنية أدمت قلوب المغاربة قاطبة وجعلتهم يتحسرون على استباحة الأرواح والممتلكات العمومية والخاصة والعتو في أرض العيون فساداً. تعددت الأسباب لكن الفاجعة واحدة.

الصحراويون أحرار في بلدهم يمارسون حقوقهم الوطنية كاملة في أي رقعة من التراب الوطني لافرق بينهم وبين باقي المغاربة ولا وجود لأي نوع من الحساسية ضدهم أينما كانوا . وتلك طبيعة الشعب المغربي المضياف بمختلف مكوناته في السفوح والجبال وفي الشواطي كما في الصحراء.

إن شرائح اجتماعية عريضة من الشعب المغربي من طنجة إلى الكويرة تعاني من الفقر ومن غلاء المعيشة ومن أزمة السكن ومن العطالة ومن سوء التدبير ومن المحسوبية ومن الزبونية ومن الارتشاء ومن استغلال النفوذ ومن شراءأصوات الناخبين ومن انتشار الفكر الظلامي ومن التهميش الاجتماعي ومن التفاوت الصارخ بين المناطق في الاستفاذة من المخدمات العمومية . تلك أمراض خبيثة متفشية عبر العالم يجب أن نتجند جميعاً كمغاربة لمكافحتها كما تكافح الأوبئة . نكافحها بالانخراط في العمل السياسي المسؤول وفي العمل النقابي وفي هيئات المجتمع المدني الهاذفة وبدعم الإعلام الحر المتشبع بالقيم الوطنية وبأخلاقيات المهنة.

السؤال المطروح هو: هل كانت هناك دواع وإكراهات حقيقية جعلت من إقامة مخيم " أكديم إزيك " ضرورة قصوى لا بديل عنها في ظل الحرب الإعلامية المغرضة التي تشنها الجزائر ومن تدعمهم من الانفصاليين وفي ظل تخليذ ذكرى المسيرة الخضراء وموعد المفاوضات غير المباشرة برعاية الأمم المتحدة ؟

May 02, 2010

خطبة الهندي الأحمر - The Speech of the Red Indian - By Mahmoud Darwish

Extract from the poem

Tending our last fires
we fail to acknowledge your greetings.

Don't write commandments
from your new steel god for us.

Don't demand peace treaties from the dead.
There's no one left to greet you in peace,
which is nowhere to be seen.

We lived and flourished before the onslaught of
English guns, French wine and influenza,
living in harmony side by side with the Deer People,
learning our oral history by heart.
We brought you tidings of innocence and daisies.
But you have your god and we have ours.
You have your past and we have ours.
Time is a river
blurred by the tears we gaze through.
But don't you ever
memorize a few lines of poetry, perhaps,
to restrain yourself from massacre?

Weren't you born of a woman?
Didn't you suckle the milk of longing
from your mother as we did?

Didn't you attach paper wings to your shoulders
to chase swallows as we did?

We brought you tidings of the Spring.
(Don't point your guns at us!)

We can exchange gifts, we can sing:
My people were here once, then they died here...
Chestnut trees hide their souls here.
My people will return in the air,
in water
in light...

Take my motherland by the sword!

I refuse to sign a treaty between victim and killer.

I refuse to sign a bill of sale
that takes possession
of so much as one inch of my weed patch,
of so much as one inch of my cornfield
even if it's my last salutation to the sun!

As I wade into the river wrapped in my name only
I know I'm returning to my mother's bosom
so that you, white master, can enter your Age.

Enter your brutal statues of liberty over my corpse.
Engrave your iron crosses on my stony shadow,
for soon I will rise to the height of the song
sung by those multitudes suicided by their
dispersion through history
at a mass where our voices will soar like birds:

Here strangers won
over salt and sea mixed with clouds.
Here strangers won
over corn husks within us
as they laid down their cables for
lightning and electricity.

Here's where the grieving eagle
dived to his death.
Here's where strangers won over us
leaving us nothing for the New Age.

Here our bodies evaporate, cloud by cloud, into space.
Here our spirits glow, star by star, in the sky of song.

6

A long time will have to go by before our
present becomes our past, just like us.

We will face our death, but first
we'll defend the trees we wear.

We'll venerate the bell of night, the moon
hanging over our shacks.

We'll defend our leaping deer,
the clay of our jars, the feathers
in the wings of our last songs.

Soon you'll raise your world over ours,
blazing a trail from our graveyards to a satellite.

This is the Iron Age: distilled from a lump of coal,
champagne bubbling for the mighty!

There are dead and there are colonies.
There are dead and there are bulldozers.
There are dead and there are hospitals.
There are dead and there are radar screens
to observe the dead
as they die more than once in this life,
screens to observe the dead who live on after death
as well as those who die
to lift the earth above all that has died.

O white master, where are you taking my people
and yours?

Into what abyss
is this robot bristling with aircraft carriers and jets
consigning the earth?

To what fathomless pit
will you descend?

It's your to decide.

A new Rome, a technological Sparta and an
ideology for the insane...
but we'd rather depart from an Age
our minds can't accept.

Once a people,
now we'd rather flock to the land of birds.
We'll take a peek at our homeland through stones,
glimpse it through openings in clouds,
through the speech of stars,
through the air suspended above lakes,
between soft tassel fringes in ears of corn.

We'll emerge from the flower of the grave.
We'll lean out of the poplar's leaves
of all that besieges you, O white man,
of all the dead who are still dying,
both those who live and those
who return to tell the tale.

Let's give the earth enough time to tell
the whole truth about your and us.

The whole truth about us.
The whole truth about you.

7

In rooms you build,
the dead are already asleep.

Over bridges you construct,
the dead are already passing.

There are dead who light up the night
of butterflies,
and the dead who come at dawn
to drink your tea
as peaceful as on the day your
guns mowed them down.

O you who are guests in this place,
leave a few chairs empty

for your hosts to read out
the conditions for peace
in a treaty with the dead.

Translated by Sargon

October 1992 (From: Eleven Planets.


August 14, 2009

In Memory of Mahmoud Darwish

Photo: Dreamer




On this Land, there's what's worth living



There’s on this land
what is worth living,
The recurring of April,
the smell of bread at dawn,
A woman’s amulet for men ,
Aeschylus’s writings,
the beginning of love,
Grass on a stone,
mothers standing on the thread of a flute,
and the invaders fear of memories.
There’s on this land what is worth living,
The end of September,
A lady leaving the forties
with all its apricot,
The hour of sunlight in prison,
Clouds imitating a flock of creatures,
A people’s cheers for those going up
to their doom, smiling
and the tyrants fear of songs.
There’s on this land what is worth living,
There’s on this land,
the lady of lands,
the mother of the beginnings
and of the ends.
It was called Palestine
Its name later became Palestine
My lady: I deserve,
since you’re my lady,
I deserve life


Mahmoud Darwish

translation: Dreamer

August 09, 2009

Tribute to Mahmoud Darwish

" There’s on this land, the lady of lands, what is worth life"


I'm from There

I’m from there.
And have memories.
I was born like everybody else.
I have a mother And a house with plenty of windows .
I have brothers.
Friends and a jail with a cold window
I have a wave that was stolen by seagulls.
I have my own view.
I have an extra plant
And I have a moon at the extremes of speech,
and the birds food
And an eternal olive tree
I walked the land
before the swords had passed
over a body they turned into a table.
I’m from there.
Taking the sky back to her mother
when the sky cries over her mother
And I cry so that the returning cloud
could recognize me
I learnt all speech worthy of the blood court
to break the rule
I learnt all the language
and dismantled It
to make a single word
That is homeland…




Mahmoud Darwish


13 March 1941 – 9 August 2008


My own translation

Tribute to Mahmoud Darwish




Once again



the killers sleep
under my skin
and the Gallows become
a flag
or
a spike
in the sky of the burning forest
the shadow removed her hands from my forehead
then we hid at midday
once again
the soldier passes by
under my skin
once again
he covers my lip
in the wrinkles of the national hymn !
the shadow removed her hands from my forehead
then we hid at midday
once again
The martyrs are fleeing
the poets songs
once again
we got off our crucifix
then we found no land
and saw no sky
the shadow removed her hands from my forehead
and we hid at midday
once again
we united
myself , the murderer and the hostile death
my freedom became a burden
over my heart
and her eyes became exiles and countries
once again
the water is lost in the clouds
and we are called for war
the shadow removed her hands from my forehead
then we hid at midday
They killed her at midday
instead of me
and they didn’t arrest me
once again
for the killers are under my skin


Mahmoud Darwish
13 March 1941 – 9 August 2008
My own translation

Tribute to Mahmoud Darwish




The One-O’clock Train

A man and a woman separating,
dusting roses off their hearts,
breaking .

The shadow getting out of the shadow
They ‘re becoming three:
A man,
a woman
and time…

The train does not come
So, they get back into the café
saying something else,
getting into harmony
And loving the rising of dawn
out of the cords of a guitar
and not separating…

..Then I turned back roaming the sight

in the yards of this heart.
A lane and friends
getting into the cave
and into oblivion,
called upon me in Madrid.

I don’t forget but the woman’s face
or my delight…
I’d forget you and forget you
and forget you a lot
I f we had been a bit late
for the one-o’clock train.

I f we had sat down for an hour
in the Chinese restaurant ,
I f returning birds had passed by.
if we had read the night papers.

But we were
A man and a woman meeting...
Mahmoud Darwish
13 March 1941 – 9 August 2008

My own translation






May 24, 2009

A Big Smile from You



A big smile from you
and I’m the one who will stay up tonight
so, remember me
when the rain pours down,
before the white snow dresses up
The color of the garden grass
with another costume
then listen to me,
before the face of the sun
gets dry and the wave water
gets wet out of boredom
before the palm trees stand in a line
behind the sea mussels
Another look from me
and the moon is your side
so, compose your verses
on the page of my chest
then watch me from the summit of another hill
and Sprinkle the dust of my Warm ashes
In front of your eternal wind
as I’m right here right now
at the disposal of your inspiration
so, make me sing you another song
a kiss from me and joy from you
but I don’t know if it will last
for how many other hours
Hug me to the warmth of your breast
and take me as I’m yours
for so many other times
Since the creation of poetry and prose
express me among words the way you wish
a caller may all of a sudden summon me
At this moment or at any other time
and you may not find me
in the heart, where I used to be
before I decide to leave for another trip

February 04, 2009

Don't Leave Me !لا تتركيني



وطني جبينك، فاسمعيني
My country is your forehead, so listen to me
لا تتركيني
Don’t leave me
خلف السياج
Behind the fence
كعشبة برية
Like a wild plant,
كيمامة مهجورة
Like an abandoned dove
لا تتركيني
Don’t leave me
قمرا تعيسا
a miserable moon
كوكبا متسولا بين الغصون
a begging planet among the branches
لا تتركيني
Don’t leave me
حرا بحزني
free with my sadness
و احبسيني
and imprison me
بيد تصبّ الشمس
with a hand pouring the sun
فوق كوى سجوني
On the louvers of my prisons,
وتعوّدي أن تحرقيني
and get used to burning me,
إن كنت لي
If you are mine
شغفا بأحجاري بزيتوني
Out of love for my stones for my olive
بشبّاكي.. بطيني
for my window.. for my clay
وطني جبينك، فاسمعيني
My country is your forehead, so listen to me
لا تتركيني
Don’t leave me!



محمود درويش Mahmoud Darwish

February 03, 2009

كمقهى صغير هو الحب * محمود درويش*



كمقهى صغير على شارع الغرباء
هو الحب يفتح أبوابه للجميع
كمقهى يزيد وينقص وفق المناخ
إذا هطل المطر ازداد رواده
وإذا اعتدل الجو قلوا وملوا
أنا هاهنا يا غريبة في الركن أجلس
ما لون عينيك؟ ما اسمك؟ كيف
أناديك حين تمرين بي، وأنا جالس
في انتظارك
مقهى صغير هو الحب. أطلب كأسي
نبيذ وأشرب نخبي ونخبك. أحمل
قبعتين وشمسية. إنها تمطر الآن
تمطر أكثر من أي يوم، ولا تدخلين
أقول لنفسي أخيراً: لعل التي كنت
أنتظر انتظرتني...أو انتظرت رجلاً
آخر. انتظرتنا ولم تتعرف عليه/ علي
وكانت تقول: أنا هاهنا في انتظارك
ما لون عينيك؟ أي نبيذ تحب
وما اسمك؟ كيف أناديك حين
تمر أمامي
كمقهى صغير هو الحب

Like a small cafe - Mahmoud Darwish



Like a small cafe that is love

Like a small café on Strangers Avenue
It is love… open for all.
Like a cafe that is full or empty
According to the climate:
When it rains customers increase,
and when the weather is moderate,
They decrease and get bored…
I’m right here sitting in the corner,
strange woman,
What color are your eyes?
What’s your name?
What shall I call you,
when you pass by me,
while I’m sitting, waiting for you?
A small café is love. I order two glasses
of wine and drink my toast and yours.
I carry two hats and an umbrella.
It’s raining now.
Raining more than any day,
and you don’t come in
I say to myself in the End:
the woman I was waiting for,
must have waited for me…
or for another man. She waited for us
but couldn’t recognize him/me,
and she was saying:
I’m right here waiting for you.
What color are your eyes?
What wine do you love?
And what’s your name?
what shall I call you
when you pass in front of me
Like a small cafe that is love

January 24, 2009

رحـــلة أخــرى* Another Trip*

منك بسمة كبرى ومني السهر
فاذكريني حين يسقط المطر
قبل أن يكسو بياض الثلج
لون عشب الحديقة بحلة أخرى
* * *
واصغي إلي قبل أن يجف وجه الشمس
ويبتل ماء الموج من الضجر
ويصطف النخيل خلف بلح البحر
مني نظرة أخرى ومنك القمر
* * *
فانضمي أبياتك على صفحة صدري
وارقبيني من فوق تلة أخرى
وانثري غبار رمادي الدافئ
أمام ريح عاصفتك السرمدي
* * *
فأنا هنا الآن رهن إلهامك
فاجعليني أغنيك قصيدة أخرى
مني قبلة ومنك السمر لكن
لست أدري لكم ساعة أخرى
* * *
ضميني إلى دفىء صدرك
وخذيني فأنا لك كم مرة أخرى
منذ أن خلق الشعر والزجل
فصيغيني بين الكلمات كيفما ما شئت
* * *
قد ينادي علي مناد على حين غرة
في هذه اللحظة كما في لحظة أخرى
فلا تجدينني في القلب حيث كنت

قبل أن أهم بالسفر في رحلة أخرى
-----------------------------------------
Un Autre Voyage
Un grand sourire de ta part et c’est à moi de veiller la nuit
Rappelles-toi de moi à la tombée de la pluie
Avant que la blancheur de la neige ne couvre
La couleur du gazon du jardin d’une autre robe
* * *
Puis écoutes –moi avant que la face du soleil ne sèche
Et avant que l’eau des vagues ne se mouille par ennui
Avant que ne se mettent en rang les palmiers derrière les moules
Un autre regard de ma part et la lune de la tienne
* * *
Composes tes vers sur la page de ma poitrine
Et surveilles-moi du haut d’une autre colline
Et disperse la poussière de mes cendres chaudes
Devant le vent de ta tempête éternelle
* * *
Puisque je suis à présent ici suivant ton inspiration
Alors fais-moi chanter un autre poème pour toi
Un baiser de ma part et de ta part la joie mais
Je ne sais pour combien de temps
* * *
Serres-moi contre la chaleur de ta poitrine
Et prends-moi car je suis à toi plusieurs fois
Depuis la création de la poésie
Alors façonnes-moi dans tes mots comme tu souhaites
* * *
On pourrait m’appeler sans préavis
Maintenant et à tout autre moment
Et tu ne me trouveras pas là où j’étais dans le cœur
Avant de m’apprêter à partir pour un autre voyage
* * *