Over there, in the horizon
Facing the nebulous where Heaven meets Earth
By the ancient well, where baby swallows used to drink
Near the valley of almonds and prickly pears
On top of the hill of apricot and mulberries
Beneath a stone, removed away once, by my grandfather
To make a pathway for his flock of goats
Under a majestic olive tree
Between an array of irises and a lone poppy
My heart was born
Over there, in the horizon
Where I could no longer see
Clinging onto a stone,
Held once by a brave little hand
Far, far away from me
My heart was buried
Filed under: soul songs |
Poetry for Palestine 
Feelings provoked by this extremely emotional poem, can not be squeezed in one sentence, quickly thrown together while the heart feels heavy.
The poem conveys in delicate tones, tender and descriptive, almost whispering, this wonderful land of Palestine with its history, its population known since centuries for its gentle, pastoral existence, the kindness, the timeless harmony of their peaceful lives, touching the land with their bare hands every day, as delicately as Nahida’s words touch our soul.
The poem does not mention landmarks in time or space, nor does it mention explicitly the abomination of a savage invasion and occupation, followed by almost a century of massacres committed by a Jewish collective of cruel and sadistic foreigners who have rejected even the most elementary moral codes adopted by mankind to leave in relative peace.
The author transports us in her garden, walking about the paths and the flowers, learning about the heart buried by the absence. Palestinians love their land like their children, they care for each other like they care for the land, with Love, modesty, and wonderful smiles.
The beauty of Palestine did not happen in a vacuum, it was modeled by its spiritual indigenous population.
Nahida has internalized that delicate society so profoundly, that she is able to make the reader comprehend the horror, simply by showing the beauty that was, and the Love that is exiled, or for those who stayed: assassinated, one child at a time.
Jews commit these abominable Crimes and obscenely boast without an end, while Palestinians like Nahida do not even lower themselves to express the barbarity. Such dignity under such duress, is extraordinary and ought to be an example to a world gradually more battered by a vile clique who seize all the apparatuses of power and capital, and leave entire regions devastated.
Instead of talking of flow of blood shed by sheer Jewish savagery, Nahida caresses the memories of what should have been lasting forever, and of which every Kiswani (nickname of Nahida’s besieged village Beit Iksa), and every Palestinian in his own village or town, is part, just like the fruits and the paths, the landscape modeled by loving hands for thousands of years. There is a sense of eternity, about Palestinians and their culture, that has always fascinated travelers, prior to the savage invasion.
Forced exile, being ripped off the place we belong and being barred from returning, is an extreme form of torture, especially when this is a land and a culture se far reaching in time.
To have timeless roots, has become is a very rare reality, in our battered era. Most people have fallen to the song of the judeaized sirens of “mobility” and “career”, etc In Palestine those who were wise enough to stay, were forcibly broken off and torn apart from where their heart is beating, taken away from home, away from the village, where people speak the same dialect, where neighbors know each other for generations.
To anyone animated by feelings of deep, real, empathy and compassion, expressed by the moral obligation to protect and defend victims of crimes, it is extremely difficult to be unable to change it at the snap of the finger, repair it and pave the road home for those in exile.
May be only those subjected to such torturous exile, can comprehend the depth of the hardship, this void, this absence from where the heart lays. Their eyes still see what often had been destroyed or disfigured by creatures devoid of any of the most elementary human features that make life sweet.
It is not easy to be witness of an injustice so immense,
But….
Alhamdulillah,
Palestinians are the martyrs of mankind. Not so by their own choice. In fact, were Palestinians not scattered throughout our shrunken planet, the world would have abandoned even more the land they say is holy…. And in that respect, even if nothing else, Palestinians in exile assert the existence and persistence of Palestine, and ultimately, its regeneration.
As Muslims the above is even more evident. It is a duty to oppose by all means those who want to destroy everything, including smear and defame Islam. As such, even existence, just simple life as a Palestinians in exile, is an anchor that the occupier and usurpator of Palestine can not uproot, wherever we are!!!
The poem is poignant, it gives a glimpse of the sweet beauty and peace of this extraordinary country, that is Palestine.
Every inch the occupiers destroy, and every drop of blood they shed, is evidence justifying the ultimate and full eviction of the Jewish foreigners.
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May its compassion, tenderness, and long suffering, feed Lions Of Resistance Fighters, who will, no question about it: Free Palestine.
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John Flood and I co-wrote a song for Palestine:
I will post the lyrics soon and make a post with them, I was exited to have you listen to it, so even though it’s not completed, that being, the lyrics are not posted yet and such, the song is up on SoundCloud.
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Yeah there’s a pink rose and it grows on a rock
There’s all these wars that won’t stop
And there’s a sky that knows how the rose grows on the rock
And it’s gonna show us peace
And I release into the thought of how that may feel
You little pink rose, you’ve grown so beautiful where you’re told to not
So much blood shed tell me when the last will drop
And who is gonna throw the last punch of this war, One sided
And there’s little kids running round
Theres ones dead on the ground
All the little ones don’t understand what’s happening now
It’s a pink rose it knows more then it shows
But there’s war machines coming down our streets, the rocks that we throw
They will… put us away for twenty no matter how old you are
And there’s little kids running around
There’s dead bodies lying on the ground
All these little kids have no idea what’s happening now
A pink rose grows on a rock and no one knows, how
We look out our windows, we see explosions and we don’t know, how
They’ll let our skies clear
Let our sons and daughters not have to live in fear
What may happen, so much has happened already, don’t you see
And what if the last punch ends up taking us all?
I say open your eyes
Open your eyes… Now
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Dear Geneviève,
Thank you so much for this poignant song and words. Children who get injured or killed for absolutely no reason, is a stain of shame on the face of all humanity
We must write about them, sing for them, tell their stories, be their voice, shouting from the depth of our souls, until the deaf world hear our cries, and make it STOP
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Dear Nahida,
I am deeply moved by your words: “until the deaf world hear our cries, and make it STOP”
Indeed!
John recorded a newer version, same link, though, so if you listen to the song, it’s an improved version, will ask him for the lyrics that he added before I post it on my site, will add the updated lyrics here too.
Great news: John Flood has submitted the song to a publishing company, so hopefully, it will get a lot of exposure and the deaf and dead will rise from their graves and: Free Palestine!
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❤ hearts never die, are never buried, neither far away or just here. They fly, high, where grand-fathers and mothers and sisters and all Loved ones rejoin to revive gardens forever, with heavenly scents, with soft little stones and colorful smiles. Infinite Love is never buried. Be reassured ❤
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