Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Michael R Burch Dec 2021
The Story
by Kamal Nasser
translation by Michael R. Burch

I will tell you a story ...
a story that lived in the dreams of my people,
a story that comes from the world of tents.
It is a story inspired by hunger and embellished by dark nights of terror.
It is the story of my country, a handful of refugees.
Every twenty of them have a pound of flour between them
and a few promises of relief ... gifts and parcels.
It is the story of the suffering ones
who stood waiting in line ten years,
in hunger,
in tears and agony,
in hardship and yearning.
It is a story of a people who were misled,
who were thrown into the mazes of the years.
And yet they stood defiant,
disrobed yet united
as they trudged from the light to their tents:
the revolution of return
into the world of darkness.

Kamal Nasser was a much-admired Palestinian poet and Palestinian Christian, who due to his renowned integrity was known as "The Conscience." He was a member of Jordan's parliament in 1956. He was murdered in 1973 by an Israeli death squad whose most notorious member was future Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Barak. Barak (born Ehud Brog) later ruled as Israel’s tenth Prime Minister from 1999 to 2001. His adopted Hebrew name Barak means "lightning." As a younger man, Brog/Barak was a member of a secret assassination unit that liquidated Palestinians in Lebanon and the occupied territories. In the 1973 covert mission Operation Spring of Youth in Beirut, which was part of the larger Operation Wrath of God, he disguised himself as a woman in order to assassinate Palestinians. The raid resulted in the deaths of two women, one of them an elderly Italian. Two Lebanese policemen were also killed, along with the poet Kamal Nasser.

Nasser was the PLO's most prominent Christian and he enjoyed "great appeal" in Lebanon, Syria, and Iraq "both as a distinguished poet and likeable personality." He was the “conscience of the Palestinian revolution,” according to Nazih Abul-Nidal, who worked with him on the magazine Filastin al-Thawra. Nasser “had the most democratic outlook of all Palestinian leaders at the time,” he recalls. He respected opposing views, admired the commitment of young people, and was a major recruitment asset for the Palestinian revolution. “That is why he was put high on the hit-list.” The previous year, the Israelis had murdered another renowned Palestinian writer and activist in Beirut, Ghassan Kanafani, by *****-trapping his car. Nasser’s successor, Majed Abu Sharar, was also assassinated by Israelis, in Rome in 1981 while attending a conference in solidarity with the Palestinian people.

Keywords/Tags: Kamal Nasser, Palestinian, Palestine, PLO, Conscience, Ramallah, Christian, religion, poet, Arab, Arabic, Arab Spring, betrayal, conflict, courage, devotion
Robert Ippaso Aug 2024
I am Indian by birthright,
Simply black when it feels right,
A gender champion through and through,
A Southern Belle from the Bayou.

I cover all the bases from Gay rights to MeToo,
Environmental warriors – I’ll always stand with you.
Black lives truly matter, the Homeless my pet task,
All you need is Me, you don’t even need to ask.

Show me any audience and I'll immediately relate,
Where's the very harm to myself Ingratiate;
They say my laughs a cackle, but that's blatantly untrue,
It's simply Inner-me, reaching out to Outer-you.

As to championing Hamas, that's nothing but a slur,
The fact my husband's Jewish should that thought conclusively deter,
Same deal with loving felons, what will they dream up next,
That I'm a prosecutor who's never read the text?

On drugs and immigration, they titled me the Tsar,
I never asked for that as our Border is too far,
I'd rather spend my days engaging our core base,
Cajoling them to spend for this pivotal new race.

Vance calls me a Chameleon, Trump's confused by who I am,
They'll figure soon enough the cunning of this femme,
The more I keep them guessing, the less prepared they'll be,
When finally I pounce, then they'll twig who's truly me.

I've got the Party pliant, putty in my hands,
Celebrities galore, like shiny rubber bands;
Money pouring in, donors by the score,
All the worthwhile Media gushing it's Kamala they adore.

As to any policies, I don't stay up at nights,
Why worry when my bag holds Reproductive rights;
C'mon Donald, admit you’ve badly lost,
I'm the future President and you’ll be simply Toast.
This is a humorous parody of course. But as Shakespeare proved, there is often truth in parody
You can see her among Egyptian girls' styles.
Her rosy lips are like Tharia's when she smiles.

Her eyes glow like Thania's, twin stars shine,
Her wavy hair cascades, parted to the left, neatly in line.

With the sweetest hairstyle, she seems like Kamal's bride,
Her deep golden wheat skin mirrors Khadra's pride.

Her tenderness, as breeze, shows Sawsan's grace.
Blush roses on her cheeks, painting a glimmering face.

Oh my God, truly, she is a masterpiece.
Her photo moves from hand to hand, hearts aspiring peace.

A gaze of pity towards her youth,
While those unaware wonder about truth.

Djamila's fate, a truth, can not be silenced to set her free.
Djamila from Algeria, the land by the Mediterranean sea.

Proudly, knights of legends, our brethren sharing the Arab identity.
A flag planted, fluttering on the peak, symbol of fidelity.

Those abandoning their homes, comfort, and warmth.
Standing firm for justice, to live a dignity's worth.

A rebel from the people's heart, who hates the wrongs, brave and true.
She loves Algeria, songs, buildings, gardens, and children, too.

Djamila's fate lies beyond all imagination's might,
She runs while bleeding,O wound, endure the plight.

Locals count the days, and my love for Algeria exceeds worship.
Cut and run, with a bullet in her shoulder, bones shattered in hardship.

She bled, ran, until she crumbled from strain.
The attack dogs caught her, yet she never surrendered despite the pain.

Yet she never spilled, despite torture, crucifixion, and relentless force.
Oh, the sorrow for the youth, trapped in dogs' jaws, with no remorse.

They wrote torment upon her, where wedding vows should have been.
The world spins, and the eye has silently seen.

In her picture, her eyes, like Thania's, appeared.
Fading lips that once laughed like Tharia's, that now disappeared.

Her wavy hair, parted from the left side,
It was soaked in blood rather than cascading like Kamal's bride.

The apple of her mother’s eye, the sprite of strife,
Djamila’s fate is a load  that even mountains can not strive.

A single string from the violin's heart wailed in the anthem's prelude for her,
The remaining strings screamed without tears, reaching the throats of the masses everywhere

Before the courthouse door, the crowd stands still, singing a thunderous song,
While judges, a ruthless band, with hearts of stone, their judgment wrong.

As if upon their eyes, a haze,
A blood upon their hands, ablaze.
They listen to the songs, as in a distant land, so wide,
What good are meanings in mind, so dark and blind?

Through endless nights, the guillotine is whetted, chains are drawn,
While in her cell, she waits till dawn.

Throughout the night, the battles rage within the mountain’s stronghold deep,
And Jamila, through the storm and cage, lives on hope, her soul to keep.

O hero, move forward with the rifle in your hand,
Let the fire ignite, for the battle will stand.

For Djamila, her fate is naught but never to give up.
No escape from striving, nothing but to rise up.
-Written by Salah Jaheen, a leading Egyptian poet, lyricist, playwright, and cartoonist.
-Translated by Menna Abd-Eldaiem
Translator and Poetess
-Djamila Bouhired is an Algerian nationalist militant who opposed the French colonial rule of Algeria as a member of the National Liberation Front.
Sachin jeengar Dec 2017
Aao sathiyo Mai tumhe thoda sa vyapar sikha du
Machino ki is duniya Mai bikta Ye insan dikha du
Suraj se Brahmand tak fir Prithvi se Ye chand tak
Kahaniyo k Mai aj hazaro gulistan bicha dun
Aao sathiyo Mai....
Badal raha h waqt Ye Yaro badal rahi h duniya
Badalti is duniya Mai sambhalta Mai insan dikha du
Aao sathiyo Mai...
Hai daud yaha par paise ki paise ka mayajaal h
Hota ik pal Mai idhar udhar kaisa bedhangi kamal h
Kamaal ki is sajish ka Mai tumhe sartaaj bata du
Aao sathiyo Mai...
Tum dhund rahe the aj jise kal Mai kese mil jaega
Jo kho chuka vo ** chuka tu khud ko kese batlaega...
Mai batlata hu tumhe ab tum ko bhi Ye chaal sikha du
Aao sathiyo Mai...
Fahad shah May 16
Last night I dreamt of my grandfather
Who died six months ago.
Passed away, people speak in my ear.
Yes, passed away. He passed away.
He passed away on one fine Saturday.

Two days ago, I wrote a poem.
A friend said, “Write one for him too.”
A eulogy?
My grandfather died six months ago.

He left a cane behind,
a torch
And diaries scrawled with debts:
Jamaal, 300.
Kamaal, 500.
Even our milkman who helped dig a grave.

Abu ji, dear Abu ji—We called.
Abu Ji died six months ago.
Passed away, they say. He passed away.
His friends say he passed away.
His sons say he passed away.
His wife—she says it too.
He passed away, they all say.

Last year, he gave me a shirt to wear
and a belt of fine yellow leather.
“This, I bought in the 60’s when I was young.
This, I bought when I was married.”
He talked of two dozen friends often,
a menudo, mi abuelo, Sus amigos.
I learned in Spanish.
A menudo: often,
Mi abuelo: My grandfather.
Sus amigos: His friends.
He spoke of his friends,
“My friends.”
Men, tall men in long boots and khaki uniforms,
who called him “Inspector,”, “Our dear inspector”
mis amigos y sus zapatos, I learned again.

Before he died, he asked
In a voice, strong, shrewd, and tired,
“Who won the election?”
“No one, for now.
Here, Congress had a rally today.
Yes, he… came to speak too.”
“A brave man,” he said.
“Yet…”

My grandfather died six months ago,
Suddenly. Of a heart attack.
I suppose.
I calmed his face by rubbing his chin,
He stared at me in a silent disbelief.
I took him to a hospital, my brother too,
“Check his pulse.”
“Is he breathing?”
“let’s turn back. There is no point.”

In the hospital, I was the brave one.
Even so, braver was my brother,
Quieter, shaken–he didn’t cry.
Nor did he in the ambulance,
Or at home.

Wrapped in a red blanket,
“Wait, did you tie his mouth?”
“Here. Take this bandage,
Tuck it beneath his chin.
What a fine beard.
What a fine man.
Are you the adult here?
Call your father”

“Father, come home. Abu Ji died.”
“Passed away,”. “He passed away.”
“Yes. He passed away.”
Brother, however younger, pats my shoulder,
“Do not cry. What shall we say?
What shall we ever say?”
“To whom?
“to mummy?”
We call our grandmother mummy.
“Yes, what shall we tell mummy?”
Abu Ji died. he died six months ago.
Passed away, she’d say. Passed away.

He died at noon. While eating.
He had only started.
A morsel of rice, dry in his white palm,
Mother screamed in disbelief,
I ran down, so did my brother
who had just come home.

“Why didn’t you come yesterday?
When I asked you to come yesterday,”
Abu Ji had said.
Then gave him all his keys
in an untimely hour.
“Quite lucky,” they said. “He gave you his keys before he died.”
Passed away, he says. He passed away.

Mother said, “Abu Ji called your name before he died.”
Passed away, she says. He passed away.
“He called your name before he passed away.”
I am shy about writing my name,
Too reserved to write my name.
If my name was Kamal, Abu Ji said,
“Kamal, come to me, I will die.”
If I was named Jamal, Abu Ji said,
“Jamal, come to me, I will die.”
Mother swears she heard it.
While Grandma was lost somewhere else.
“I heard him, he called your name.”
I do not believe it,
Not even six months later.


We came back in an ambulance
Received by 300 strange men
With 300 different hats
Men I only nodded to.
Men, who would visit my grandfather often.
“Pity, he was great.”
“Indeed. He was.”
“Oh, how every soul shall taste death”

Grandmother cried in disbelief,
“He did not die. Nor pass away.”
“Yes, you are right.”
“Yes, you are right.”

My grandfather died.
Six months ago.
I no longer cried; only felt sad.
Talk to people, I hear them say.
My great, great aunt and her great, great uncle
To their dismay
I thought of an old friend
who never calls.

My grandfather died,
Two months later, I met a friend
Where were you all this time?
She says, “I am sorry. Was he sick?”
I say, “It is all right. He was just old”
It is not all right.
“Do you miss him?” she asked again.
“I do not want to talk about it,” in disdain.
Not with her. Ever again.


My grandfather died,
Some say he called my name,
While others say he was a great man.
He left me an old ashtray,
his two diaries and a cane.
I do not want a key.
Or a shirt.
Or a belt from a forgotten age.

Last week, an old politician breathed his last,
This week, a city fell to a wildfire’s wrath.
Who is left to talk to anymore?
Last night I dreamt of him, saying that
wise old man is gone!
“Abu Ji, that city itself is ash and smoke too.”
What a pity.
My grandfather died.
Passed away; I remind myself.
Six months ago, he passed away.
Abu Ji, Dear Abu Ji.
To all grandfathers who make your lives better.
To all the best friends who always make you laugh.
Years Ago ,
A leaf
Presented by my Niece ,
Nurtured and Nourished
Weeded and Pruned
The Plant ,
Vivacious and Green
This time of the year
Gloriously blooms

Bhrama Kamal
'Queen of the Night'
A beauty Rare
Mystic and Divine

Twilight ,
Your beauty Unveils
Milky white Petals Slowly Unfurl
A translucent Sheen
Makes my Spirit Gleam

By Midnight,
Your beauty Shimmers
The gentle breeze of the night
Wafts
The  fragrance of the Exotic Blooms
Into the Rooms

The scintillating Blooms
In Harmony with The beauteous Moon
Cast  a Spell
For me
And
The Starlit Sky to Revel

Your beauty all Divine and Pure
Wilts Away
Shying
The Dawn
The Sun enchanted
By The Magical Dream
Lost in The Mystical Allure
This year on 9thAugust , two flowers bloomed .
Had one more bloom on 14 th September:)
Hira malik  Feb 2019
.........
Hira malik Feb 2019
yay jo haal hoa sare- shaam hi,
siyah dasht -o- garibaan hoa,
Mjhay hasil naan tha jo kamal bhe,
Wo bay-sabab shikasta -o -jaan hoa..
aay rahbar -e-zindagi, yay kaisi taveel tar raat hai,
Naan amaan mili, naan hi koe imtihaan hoa!!
Wo jo pamaal kar gay meray khwab ko,
us hashar-e- jaan ka kia samaan hoa;
Yunheen gard main liptay bujhay khayal,
Shahr say jaanay ka yun ihtimaam hoa!
Yay rang nhn saraab hain,yay ehsaas say door paar hain,
Meray bayrabt say tootay pyaar main,Jo hoa tou bass yunheen hoa!!
i like to share this story from sherina to say ------ is very good story beacase our people in last life was saw girls are bad something in there life but i see girls is the best thing god give us to live our life and see sherina saad is best friend to me case she is so kind
sherif kamal
Hakikur Rahman  Apr 2022
Delusion
Hakikur Rahman Apr 2022
Kautilya or Katyayan,
They were the best examples in their own essence.

Khana or Galileo,
Couldn't be to become too dear to many.

Van Gogh or Jibanananda Das,
Society did not recognize them, all were delusions.

Sukarno or Kamal Ataturk,
Have they got the real happiness of freedom?

Asking questions back to whom today,
To answer these, who remains there!
XnwxrMxlik  Mar 2021
INSXN
XnwxrMxlik Mar 2021
Kamal ka phool kechad mein khilta hai
Par dekk tere damann mein kechad kitna hai

Pyar baatne se badta hai
Dharm ke naam phe tu kyu ladta hai
Janta hu koi naah hai masoom
Par akhir mein insan hi tho marta hai

Bhattka sa tu firta hai
Tutt jaane phe
Hasna kyu bhulta hai
Aye musaafir tujhe aage badna hai
Tu chalta re
Manzil ka pata nahi
Kar wahi jo lage dil ko sahi

Yaar aaise hai jo
Bhulane par bhi bhulte nahi
Bachpan ki yaade
Whai purani baate
Andheri raato mein hum ghum ** gaye sabhi

Kho diya humne apne aapko
Iss insano ki basti mein kahi

Abb kyu jalta hai tu
Naah raha ishq naah mehboob
Kya baacha hai karne ko mehsus
Dillagi aur bedardi ke beech hu masroof...

— The End —