‘Until Liberation’ is a labour of love that we created through the use of lino printing. We took inspiration from the intricate, golden, and resplendent poetry inscribed on the cypress walls of the Forbidden City in Huế. Each panel is adorned with a symbol of liberation or culture of the people of Palestine. Recall the songs of the Palestine Sunbird or the gentle steps of the Gazelle. Residing on either side are unbreakable olive trees that represent the ancient, loving, and hopeful roots that the people of Palestine have established for generations.
Finally, we incorporated two incredibly powerful poems: ‘I am from there’ by the late and esteemed Mahmoud Darwish – regarded as a National Poet of Palestine – and ‘Seven Skies for the Homeland’ by Hiba Abu Nada. We hope that you will come to appreciate the profound connection that both Darwish and Nada hold for the beautiful land of Palestine.
Mahmoud Darwish’s ‘I am from There’
I come from there and I have memories
Born as mortals are, I have a mother
And a house with many windows, I have brothers, friends,
And a prison cell with a cold window.
Mine is the wave, snatched by sea-gulls, I have my own view,
And an extra blade of grass.
Mine is the moon at the far edge of the words,
And the bounty of birds,
And the immortal olive tree.
I walked this land before the swords
Turned its living body into a laden table.
I come from there. I render the sky unto her mother
When the sky weeps for her mother.
And I weep to make myself known
To a returning cloud.
I learnt all the words worthy of the court of blood
So that I could break the rule.
I learnt all the words and broke them up
To make a single word: Homeland. . . .
Original in Arabic:
أَنَا مِنْ هُنَاكَ. وَلِي ذِكْريَاتٌ. وُلِدْتُ كَمَا تُولَدُ النَّاسُ. لِي وَالِدَهْ
.وبيتٌ كثيرُ النَّوافِذِ. لِي إِخْوَةٌ. أَصْدِقَاءُ. وَسِجْنٌ بِنَافِذَةٍ بَارِدَهْ
وَلِي مَوْجَةٌ خَطَفتْهَا النَّوارِسُ. لِي مَشْهَدِي الخَاصُّ. لِي عُشْبَةٌ زَائِدَهْ
وَلِي قَمَرٌ فِي أقَاصِي الكَلاَم، وَرِزْقُ الطُّيُورِ، وَزَيْتُونَةٌ خَالِدَهْ
.مَرَرْتُ عَلَى الأَرْضِ قَبْلَ مُرُور السُّيُوفِ عَلَى جَسَدٍ حَوَّلُوه إِلَى مَائِدَهْ
،أَنَا مِنْ هُنَاكَ. أُعِيدُ السَّمَاءَ إِلَى أُمِّهَا حِينَ تَبْكي السَّمَاءُ عَلَى أمَّهَا
.وَأَبْكِيِ لِتَعْرفَنِي غَيمَةٌ عَائِدَهْ
.تَعَلّمْتُ كُلِّ كَلامٍ يَلِيقُ بمَحكَمَةِ الدِّم كَيْ أُكْسِرَ القَاعِدهْ
تَعَلّمتُ كُلِّ الكَلاَمِ ، وَفَكَّكْتُهُ كَيْ أُرَكِّبَ مُفْرَدَةً وَاحِدَهْ
…هِيَ: الوَطَنُ
Hiba Abu Nada’s ‘Seven Skies for the Homeland’
In our lungs is a homeland
and on our breath an exile,
a homeland that rushes in our veins
as our footsteps edge toward it.
It grows in the groves of sorrow,
a vine of strangers, glances like tears hanging.
It gifted us its tune,
and gave up all the singing.
Can we deny it, can it deny us, when it is our blood
and we have mastered the bleeding?
In our books, hunger and bread are synonyms,
light and darkness all broken shards.
I have learned to find hope in the extremes of love
and rainclouds in the desert of rhymes.
It’s a homeland that returns to us naked
but knows how to wrap us around it like robes.
In our blood, it hides seas,
and launches ships with our heart throbs.
It tucks its sidewalks in our pillows
and its cities in our dreams.
Will it slumber in us for eternity
and continue to invent time, again and again?
Like these olive trees that stand as strangers,
their color and taste alien,
there is no room for us in this universe.
Like a narrow corridor, it closes in.
It’s as if we were scandals, our longing a crime,
and the love of our country a sin.
Original in Arabic:
لنا برئاتنا وطن وفي أنفاسنا منفى
يهرول في خلايانا فتقطعه الخطى زحفا
يعربش في حقول الحزن دالية من الغرباء
أين تدور أعينهم سرى بالدمع ملتفا
وقد أهدى لنا لحناً وباع بإثره العزفا
أننكره وينكرنا ونعلم أنه دمنا وأنّا نتقن النزفا
قرأت ُ الجوع قاموساً فكان الخبز واللقمة
يهشّم ضوءنا كِسراً تعيل عجائز العتمة
وقد أسرفت في عشقي ليمنحني الهوى الحكمة
وفي صحراء قافيتي كتبت قصيدة الغيمة
وعاد لنا بلا ثوب ويدري كيف يلبسنا
يخبّئ في الدما بحراً وفي دقاتنا سفنا
رصيفاً في وسائدنا وفي أحلامنا مدنا
ألا يغفو بنا أزلاً إذا ما استنسخ الزمنا
غريب ها هنا الزيتون والألوان والنكهة
وما في الكون متسع لنا فكأنّه ردهة
فنحن فضائح تمشي كأن حنيننا جرمٌ
وحبُّ بلادنا شبهة
