المتشبتينبمغربيتهموبالتوابثالوطنية تحت ظل العلم المغربي وعاهل البلاد وتحية لقوات الأمن والدرك وللقواتالمساعدة وللقواتالمسلحة الملكيةالباسلةالحامية لوحدتنا الترابية منطنجةإلىالكويرةولوحدةالشعب المغربي العربي المسلم دون أي تمييز بين الصحراويوالأمازيغي . وليرحم الله عز وجل من سقطوا في سبيل الحق على أرض صحرائنا الحبيبة من رجالالأمن . إن ما حدث في العيون فاجعةوطنيةأدمتقلوب 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 ؟
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.
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
" 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…
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
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.
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
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!
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
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
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
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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 * * *
