Fatima Naoot
Translated from Arabic by Katia Aoun Hage
Jeanne Bessette
The Suitcases
—Cairo, February 4, 2013
The suitcases
Hide behind the book piles
Maybe the traveler
Would forget
His flight.
* * *
A suitcase whispers to her mates:
This is his Home!
Where does the young-man go away
Leaving his homeland?
If he just opens the window
And listens,
He would hear
The mothers’ wails
Melting within the chants
And minarets;
They are mourning their children in the squares
And murmuring through their pain:
“We love you Egypt!”
. . .
He ought not to travel!
* * *
Another suitcase says:
This morning,
While drinking his tea,
I snuck behind him
And tore his passport
Which he had left in my secret-pocket
And sent a note to the departing planes
To cling to the air
Amongst the clouds
And to never land
* * *
This is his home!
Why travel!
While the land is sobbing,
And the girls
Are incessantly praying?
How do lovers leave their beloveds?
And go away?
. . .
He ought not to travel!
* * *
Feebly,
A heavy suitcase murmurs:
Yesterday,
Every time he folded a shirt inside my heart
I snuck it away from him
And expelled it out of my insides,
Then I locked myself into darkness
And slept with eyes wide open,
But he
This traveler
Being such a stubborn Southerner
Before dawn
Broke all my locks
And stuffed again his shirts and coats inside my body
Filling me to the brim!
. . .
He ought not to travel!
* * *
The garments yell:
No worries from my side
Dear suitcases!
My fabric
Will not warm the coldness of his exile
And my threads
Being from the Egyptian land
Watered by the Nile
Would never cover the strangers.
. . .
I am by your side:
He will never travel!
* * *
The immigrant young-man listens
To the sad whispers of the suitcases
Thoughtfully
He smiles in grief
And admits:
Yes,
This is my Home,
And the land of Thebes lives in me
As the good saint said once
Before he traveled to paradise,
Yet there,
In the far frozen countries,
My little sparrows
Are still asking me:
“Will you come back?”
. . .
I have to travel
So that I can feed them wheat and barley.
* * *
Here
Is a land
That fails to love her children,
While the far frozen land
Warms the hearts of strangers
And immigrants!
* * *
By the door of the house
The suitcases lined up
And sang
A sad melody:
Let him go on his way O friends!
Tomorrow
Or the day after
He will return
Whenever our Homeland
Comes back again.
حقائب السفر
القاهرة/ 4 فبراير 2013
حقائبُ السَّفر
تتخفَّى وراءَ أكوامِ الكُتُب
علَّ المسافرَ
ينسَى
رحلتَه.
تهمِسُ حقيبةٌ لرفيقاتِها:
هنا بيتُه!
فإلى أين يمضي الفتى
ويتركُ وطنَه؟!
لو أنه فتحَ الشُّرفةَ
وأنصَتَ
لَصَكَّ سمعَه
نحيبُ الأمهاتِ
يذوبُ بين الترانيمِ
والمآذنِ؛
ينكين أطفالَهنَّ في الميدانْ
ويهمِسنَ نزغمِ الوجعْ:
"بنحبك يا مصر"!
...
لا يُسافر!
قالتْ أخرى:
هذا الصباحْ
ووفيما يتناولُ الشايْ
غافلتُه
ومزَّقتُ جواز السَّفرْ
الذي دسَّه في جيبي السريّ،
وأبرقتُ للطائراتِ المغادرةِ
أن تَعْلَقَ بين السَّحابِ
ولا تهبِطَ هناز
...
هنا بيتُه!
ففيمَ السَّفرُ!
ولأرضُ تنتحبُ
والبناتُ
لا تكفُّ عن الصلاة؟
كيف يتركُ العشُّاق حبيباتِهم
ويمضون؟!
....
لا يسافرُ!
في وَهَنٍ،
همهمتْ حقيبةٌ بدينةٌ:
بالأمسْ،
كان كلّما طوَى في قلبي ملابسَه
أغافِلُه
وأطردُها خارج جسدي،
ثم غلَّقتُ الظلامَ على نفسي بالمزاليجْ
ونِمتُ قريرةَ العين،
لكنه
جنوبيٌّ عنيدٌ
هذا المسافرُ
استيقظَ قبل الفجرِ
وكسَّر الأقفالَ
ثم حشرَ القمصانَ في جَوفي
والمعاطفَ
حتى انفجرتُ!
....
لا يسافر!
هتفَتِ الملابسُ:
لا عليكنَ مني
أيتها الحقائبُ الطيبة!
لأن نسيجي
لن يُدفئ صقيع غُربتِه،
وخيوطي
من أرضِ مصرَ
زواها النيلُ
فلا تُدثِّرُ الغرباءَ.
...
أفا معكنَّ:
....
لا يسافرْ!
يُنصِتُ الفتى المهاجرُ
لوجيبِ الحقائبِ
يُطرِقُ بُرهةً
يبتسمُ
ثم اعترفَ:
نعم،
هنا بيتي،
وأرضُ "طِيبةَ" تسكُنني
لكنَّ لي،
في بلادِ الجليدْ،
عصافيرَ صغيرةً
تسالني:
"هل ستعودُ إلينا؟"
....
أسافرُ
لكي أُلقِمُها الشَّعيرَ والقمحَ
من كفّي.
هنا أرضٌ
لا تُحبُّ أبناءَها،
لكنَّ أرضَ الصَّقيعِ البعيدة
تُدفئُ الغرباءَ
والمهاجرين!
جوارِ بابِ البيتْ
اصطفَّتِ الحقائبُ
ورنَّمتْ
في نغمٍ حزين:
دعوه يمضي
يا رفاق!
غداً
أو بعد غدْ
سيعود
إذا
ما عادَ الوطنْ.
Fatima Naoot, born in Cairo in 1964, has published ten books: five poetic collections, four translated anthologies from English into Arabic, and one book of criticism.Her fifth volumeof poetry was awarded first prize in the Arabic literature section of the Literary Festival ofHong Kong in 2006. Naoot has attended many poetic festivals and committees intheMiddle East, Europe, and Latin America, and writes weekly columns in newspapers in Egypt and the Middle East. Her poetry has been translated into languages including English, French, German, Italian, Dutch, Spanish, Chinese and Kurdish.She graduated from Ein Shams University in Cairo as an architect and worked in the field for ten years before devoting all her time to literature as a poet, writer and translator.
Katia Aoun Hage was born in Cameroun, raised in Lebanon during the civil war, then moved to the United States where she resides with her husband and three children. Graduated from the University of Redlands with a Masters in Music Education, Katia is not a stranger in the art scene of the Inland Empire of Southern California. She has collaborated with choreographer Sofia Carrera at Riverside Community College, performed poetry and music at California State University San Bernardino, displayed her artwork at Art for Heaven's Sake and performed music in local venues. Katia Aoun Hage listens deeply to the voices inside, her own and those of her people, becoming a bridge between past and present, East and West, through her poetry, translations and artwork.