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THE HANDSTAND |
JUNE 2003 |
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to the weary wanderer a brief collection of poetry about conflict in a stony land vincent white to my niece and her classmates calibrating the scale of words in distant city so far from epicenter of painful faults... i wonder if slight tremors can still give pause to distracted hearts? does shamed earth still tremble under tiny footfall of mohamed al durra? do school walls still shudder as the boy pleads, father protect me? the stony land these stones once holy stones in the ground stones in the walls stones in the hand once blessed now cursed stones of hatred stones of ignorance stones of apathy just a lot of stones stones against bullets stones against racism stones against oppression a stony land enduring till shame anoints us holy again a verse in search of a name for a land once holy ***** Dear friend, The dream of one state is, unfortunately, quite unrealistic. Both peoples reject it. Each wants his state, his flag. Perhaps in 50, 100 years, after a phase of two states. Shalom salaam, Uri Avnery to the weary wanderer so casually dismissed a summons to join the struggle for justice… i offer a simple precept to challenge the logic which betrays your soul. when spirit is sore and even sorry from long search for salvation, the only solace is to lift the eyes to glimpse once again faint glow far ahead of the precious promise. move then to lead the way forward but recall that even moses, face shining with reflection of the light revealed, even he had to shout himself hoarse to remind faithless wanderers of the glory of distant destination. prophets and pestering cassandras must calculate that human indolence will incline weary feet to adopt each desiccated stop for shelter as substitute for destiny’s home. yes of course the horned combatants proclaim birthright to sacred patrimony and demand to wave colored rags and shout competing dialects and celebrate ancient rituals, their demands always most strident. but who among them celebrates the cold stare of snipers as they aim between the eyes of children? should each hard fought detour of arduous passage to redemption be defended fiercely as final destiny? don’t give the faithless voices credence. the confined geography of this contest is not large enough to contain yet more oppression of the people of the land. conscience dictates that the disparate tribes be gathered to community which bestows the gift, no, the right, of equal justice upon all the children of abraham. yes of course many followers object, but surely we are more than the basest of reflexes conditioned, branded within by merciless pogroms of strife, of course theirs theirs theirs, but, look to heaven, even yours. to compromise with infamy is sad fate. and of course only the holy fools are brave enough to squawk as the wanderers stumble down descending spiral of spiritual malaise. but who among them claims credit for the cold stare of snipers as they aim between the eyes of children? the discouraged thirst for fuller truth to justify trial by hardship and despair. the weary hunger for sufficient strength, the hopeless for enough inspiration to rouse even the withered souls of the chosen. so why bother to count the number of feet marching behind the banner of democracy? such excuses immobilize only the timid. be assured that the brave will follow those foolhardy zealots first summoned by the resurrection of cherished ideals. the antipodes of fury battling for jerusalem, are they, as you suggest, harsh evidence that both peoples reject a common fate? the vocal and the violent flaunt their practiced talent for dominating our view. the silent majority of both tribes crave nothing more perverse than normalcy. don’t doubt their capacity, even if tardy, to comprehend that unity in justice is the only formula for peace capable to transmute mundane dreams to reality. but who among them will atone for the cold stare of snipers as they aim between the eyes of children. haven't the conspiring generals proven beyond doubt that the only client state worthy of their unholy sanction will be divided cantons of abject shame? after all else is said and negotiated and done, what else could possibly be the rationale of the tightening noose of bypass roads and the malignant facts infecting the hills and the daily rehearsals of foul repression, except to prepare for the unilateral separation of the arrogant from the damned? when the bearers of arms impose their new improved millennial apartheid to violate yet another fragile spring, when you stumble amidst the stony fields of blood red poppies, yours and theirs, remember to lift your eyes above the strife to draw comfort from the promise of a better land still shining somewhere ahead. take heart, it’s not that far distant. the journey will be complete when the light of justice blinds enough logic. but who among them could forget the cold stare of snipers as they aim between the eyes of children? a poetic polemic to inspire a more courageous strategy for a weary leader of the wanderers ***** February 2002 a litany of betrayal not by accident he promised their peace to us he brought our war to them he treated them as the enemy he confiscated their birthright he demolished their history he paralyzed their economy he offered them no empathy he uprooted their olive tree souls he divided their land with our roads he continually harassed their civilians he negotiated by dictating capitulation he caused our rage to infect their hearts he violated the trust of signed agreements he spoke peace but enlarged our settlements he was not satisfied with only most of their land he pretended a little annexation was not control he tried to coerce acceptance of isolated cantons he feigned agreement to divide the most precious he boasted of not returning one inch of territory he denied their right to the most sacred site he pushed the button for the explosion he provoked them to escalate the violence he besieged their villages to force surrender he bombed their homes and neighborhoods he sanctioned snipers to slay their innocence he trained death squads to murder their passion he persuaded us to hate them and their leaders he humiliated their hero while negotiating with him he never uttered even one positive word about him he caused his own people to despair of peace he proved his indifference to our social issues he did next to nothing to remedy our social ills he treated our own then with complete contempt he did not appoint one of our own them as minister he was silent when we killed many of our own them he did not send the commanding officer to hell he convinced us to elect a war criminal he attempted to ally himself with infamy he exited to nurse his wounded pride a poem which began its life as a lyrical adaptation of a published commentary by uri avnery, a prominent leader of the israeli peace movement, concerning the betrayal of peace by ehud barak ***** when will justice prevail? the time is ripe! she said. good, good, just like a fruit all ready to gobble and slurp, succulent sticky juices dribbling down our happy faces, all those vitamins and fiber and lots of goodferus things. which fruit then is this time that she claims is ripe? a mango? of course not, much too sweet, too easily accessible, nothing in israel is like that. a fig? perhaps, they do grow here, but that vulgar fleshy orifice offers no resistance at all; we wouldn't want to cast aspersions on local morals, no, that’s not on at all. a banana? hmmm... well, maybe, but that rather rude curve might be too crude a reference to what’s being done to the people of the land. i have it! this ripe time is a prickly pear, correct? ouch! damn, ooow... but enjoying that sweet succour entails too much pain and aggro - well, perhaps it's not worth the trouble after all. but that's not what she meant when she dreamed of planting seeds of justice and equality as facts on this stony ground. a speculation about an intriguing comment overheard from the conversation of two zealots ***** they are firing
at gilo! to start with, i don’t know the proper way to address you. my neighbor, my enemy? my future partner, my nightmare? all are titles that match the scenic reality of this blessed, cursed place one way or the other. the second problem is, where should we start? perhaps with where we are now? or a summary of our relation? where we’re heading? or what? excuse me if you find me leaping between ideas because i’m more confused than most of you. but first let me introduce myself. i am your worst fear, the one branded in your consciousness, the one whose birth was a mistake and shouldn’t have happened and must be corrected. the one whose mother should have miscarried just to make your life that much easier. the one you can enjoy brutalizing in exchange for the one who tortured you. for you to breathe, the one to be suffocated, for you to drink, the one to keep thirsty, for you to feel secure, the one to besiege, for you to have space, the one to push away. i am the goem, the stranger, the non-jew, but i am different from the others because i am your enemy by your own choice. my dreams are as insignificant as i am. i don’t want to strut like a master race, nor do i aspire to be a global beggar. i simply want to preserve my heritage and pass it on proudly to my sons, to serve no one but my little family, to help my people live in freedom. my dreams are as simple really as the olive trees rooted deep in my land. i am the one who helped you discover the meaning of color. as you know by now, blue and yellow aren’t the hues of two beautiful roses; they mean pass and stop, wanted and unclean, trusted and should be searched, jew and arab my crops were parched so that you could enjoy green grass and a nice swim on a hot afternoon. i forced you into the embrace of that policeman, good-hearted but dim-witted as he may be, and turned him into your willing accomplice. i gave you the status of a superpower, even though i am so tiny. i am the one who is, in your eyes, not worth very much. a hundred thousand creatures similar to me should be imprisoned in their homes to allow four hundred people like you to civilize hebron. more than a million beasts just like me should be herded behind barbed wire in gaza for the safety of three thousand just like you. and millions more fecund rodents like me should be excluded from the terrain for which they hold title and deed, for your peace of mind. the whole situation is vexing enough that you have to envy how earlier settler pioneers who colonized lands without people dealt with similar pesky and annoying infestations. i am the one who patiently endured while you practiced how to twist our national rights into knots and transform them into your national interests, how to impose facts on the ground and demand that the captive audience believe, but even more amazing, how to incite the stubborn doubters to resist and then condemn us all as terrorists i am the one who lent a hand by forcing you to violate every charter for human rights, to disregard countless united nations resolutions, to introduce your own set of rules based on the might of arms and the ability to dictate. in other words, i helped you to stand naked in front of yourselves, to lose your illusions about ethical superiority and even your monopoly on victimization. nowadays you are the same frame of reference that your own people barely survived more than a half century before. why do i bother you with this list of benefits? simply to remind you that your recent complaints about what i do against you do not stand the judgment of history. they are firing at gilo! can anyone tell me what you did when they were not firing at gilo? a question that stands for an answer. a poem which evolved from an article authored by ghassan andoni, executive director of the palestinian center for rapprochement between people. ***** the reluctant conscience i can sniff the ozone in the air, like a ferret trembling, all alert, why aren’t the guilty running for cover? a colossal earthquake rears to shatter the stony inertia of our terra sancta. missives register on my monitor screen like richter measures of tumult, from berkeley, london, even tel aviv - a seismic shift of political tectonic plates threatens to rouse the reluctant conscience. provocations summon bloody demons and ignorance excuses the dreaded blow. but how the law of symmetry can be harsh! sweet dreams turn rancid, lies implode, failed assumptions crumble before our eyes. in the numbing penumbra cast by the electoral triumph of war criminals, while hardened faces labor to impose the final solution of apartheid separation, witness the genesis of a new era. as death squads and vengeful bombers violate the innocence of all the tribes, zealots of justice will use the truth we share to bridge the gaping cracks which now scar our sacred soil. reflection on the 2001 election of the butcher of sabra and shatila ***** dear lion of judah i heard your voice above the slaughter. dare i congratulate or celebrate words burdened by such gruesome content? while we both stubbornly survive our distant corners of this vexed region, i reach out to touch your spirit in solidarity. for solace
there is but to turn inward, to the painful process of this moment. for the irreverent there is inspiration from the dialectic gleaming on distant hills, a secular brotherhood of all the tribes. but friend, your russian accented solidarity with the victims of zion sounds peculiar while still you clutch its stained passport. to israel shamir, essayist advocate of a secular democracy for all of mandate palestine, in response to his articles about the spring 2002 incursions into the occupied territories ***** in my name suffering sore images of the profane, a little desperate, i close my eyes, wondering which feckless authority in heaven or hell grants absolution to voyeurs these days? i subscribe to a one-sided narrative to be sure, but in that injustice festers my conscience. i am humiliated, impotent, immobile, trapped in the throng at the side of the street. the brutal procession to calvary passes. vision clouds with bitter tears as i stare stunned and incredulous at the easter parade. hosanna! moan the bloody stones underfoot. it was in my name that pontius dubya pilate washed his hands and disclaimed responsibility, in my name the butcher crucifies the damned. i protest feebly. i do nothing. i bow my head. watching digital images from palestine, easter 2002 The copyright of the material published in this collection belongs solely to the author, who can be contacted at: thestonyland@mail.com. |
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