الخميس، 13 مايو 2010

‘Not my Mother Tongue’

Hannan Hever

Not my Mother Tongue


"In Place", written by Salman Masalha, obliges its readers to listen acutely to the penetrating poems within, for they demand a rethinking of Hebrew poetry, its possibilities and its borders.


As an Arab poet writing in Hebrew, Masalha reconfigures the ethnic boundaries of Hebrew literature, which appear to be uniform; this literature has set an implicit condition with respect to who may included in it and who may not, a condition marking it as Jewish literature. But when an Arab writer writes in Hebrew, and the Hebrew language does not necessarily signify a Jewish writer, a trail is blazed toward the representation of a wide-open Israeli national identity.

Due to the fact that Arab writers are active in Hebrew literature, and especially since the dramatic appearance of Anton Shammas’ novel Arabesques in 1986, the definition that restricts “Hebrew literature” to “Jewish literature” has been shaken at its very foundations. Readers of Hebrew are obliged to acknowledge one of the direct influences of Israeliness on the definitions and boundaries of Hebrew literature.

Masalha writes with extraordinarily precise sensitivity from the standpoint of a national minority which exists, with reservations, within the canon of Hebrew literature. This stance poses a challenge to the Hebrew canon, through the voice of “the other” which the writer inserts into Hebrew poetry. Masalha’s language is impressive, mature and melodious; he maintains, to a large extent, a consistent voice and ‘correct’ poetics. At the same time, Masalha demonstratively answers Hebrew readers’ expectations that they will find in his work a variety of ‘typical’ Arab writing. In a characteristic move of what [French theorists] Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari call “minor literature”, he subverts the foundations of “major literature” in Hebrew, doing so from the inside and in the language of the ruling literature. Masalha creates a language of his own within Hebrew poetry by means of a parody of the poetic Arab stereotype; he creates a sharp tension between what his poetry is supposed to be and what it is.

An outstanding example of this is the poem ‘Anemones: PalestinianSong’, which is “dedicated to [Israeli poet] Zali Gurevitch’s grandmother”:



The lake has long climbed
to the branches of the trees.
The peasant plows the field
with bare feet.
In the dawn hour he does not see
the approach of spring.
The anemones all around
have already bloomed forth
red tile roofs.

The words “have already bloomed forth” have a double significance. They continue “the anemones all around” and they begin a predicate-subject-or-object sequence that ends with “red tile roofs”. Thus the poem, which has a structure that is blunt in its (expected, stereotypical) simplicity, acquires at its end an unexpected complexity that subverts a simple and stereotypical reception of it.

Here, too, humor is Masalha’s weapon as a writer of “minor literature” that subverts the language and the canon within which it operates. A particularly mischievous atmosphere prevails in the poem ‘On the Belief in Amulets as a Means of Making Peace in the Middle East’ which notes in its subtitle that it is “about Jewish-Arab coexistence”. It contains a rhyming pattern which flings down the gauntlet to readers’ perceptions of the boundaries of Hebrew literature as ethnically Jewish, a pattern which is developed in other poems in this book as well: the systematic adoption of a combination of internal rhyme and end rhyme, giving the poem an ostensibly naive melodic regularity. But this melody, for example in the poem ‘Arab Ballad’ presents an orientalist, stereotypical text – turned upside down: that is, a text that is written about the East, but from the direction of the East and not, as usual, from West looking at the East with an orientalist perspective. The subversive poetic stance has its source in the recognition that the poems were written in an atmosphere of violence and death. In the poem ‘Sign of Scorpio’, a self-portrait, poetic diction grows like a bifurcated tongue in the presence of this profound awareness of disaster:


And over the years I also learned
to shed my skin.
Like a snake caught
between scissors and paper.
Thus was my fate sealed
in words cut from the roots of pain.
With a tongue forked
in two. One, Arabic
to keep mother’s memory alive.
The other, Hebrew – on a winter’s night
to love.

The writing of poetry is like the snake’s reaction to the danger it encounters. The scissors press the snake to the paper, a metaphoric act of cutting which results in words that are ‘cut out’, [meaning removed and lost, and meaning also] ‘derivative’, [that is, inauthentic]. The snake sheds its skin – and the response is a tongue which is bifurcated like a snake’s. Masalha splits the language of his poetry, which enables him to address the Hebrew audience [albeit] through a mask. The writing of poetry, then, is a survival mechanism in a violent and impossible situation. The act of poetry enables the poet to survive nonetheless between two split organs while adopting a post-colonialist perspective, an intermediate stage of oppression that operates in indirect ways. And therefore, when he declares a split he does this through the (Hebrew) rhyme of the words meaning ‘guarantee’ and ‘love’ – which in their sound also hark back to the word for ‘pain’. The location of the poet is represented as a violent one from which there is no exit:


It changes so fast,
the world. And for me it’s
now absurd. Things have got
to the point that I’ve stopped
thinking about the fall.
Because, after all, from here,
there’s nowhere to go.
And anyway, even in the park
the trees are uprooted and gone.
And at times like these, it’s dangerous
to go out in the streets.
The road is so wet.
Blood flows in the main artery.


By means of homage to [Israeli poet] David Avidan (“Because, after all, from here,/ there’s nowhere to go”), Masalha interprets the everyday phrase “wet road” as the violence of another kind of liquidity: “Blood flows in the main artery.” Again, this melodious poem ends with the recognition that this location is violent and exitless. In the same way ‘Homeland Hymn’ ends with the line “A land of milk, a homeland flows with curses”, and the poem ‘Caesarian Section’ with “In a back room, the evening undergoes/ a Caesarian section, a homeland . . . raped.” Thus death and its symbols end a number of the poems in the book, also the case in ‘Spots of Color’, (“the pit that is mined”) as well as ‘Self-Portrait’ which ends with the subject of the portrait hanging himself on the wall.

The recognition that Masalha’s poetry is written in a place battered by violence repeatedly elicits bifurcation as the only way to survive in it. In the poem ‘I Write Hebrew’, Masalha writes:


I write in the Hebrew language
which is not my mother tongue,
to lose myself in the world. He who does not
get lost, will never find the whole.

The loss of orientation – linguistic and therefore of identity – is depicted in the poem as the only orientation possible in a world that is replete with violence, and just a step away from the fortuitous recognition, in the same poem, of partners along the way who are relevant for not having defined identities:


I shall
meet many
people. And make them all my friends.
Who is foreign? Who far, who near?
There is no strangeness in the ways of the world.
Because strangeness, mostly,
lies in man’s heart.

The people around him, and especially he himself, do not have defined and particular identities:


As I have no government, with
or without a head, and there is no
chairman sitting on my head, I can
under such extenuating circumstances
sometimes allow myself to be human,
a bit free.

The identity with which the poet chooses to define himself is linked to place by virtue of the fact of his presence as a native there and not by virtue of any national connection: “And I was a Jew, before Jesus walked/ on the Sea of Galilee . . . / And I was a Muslim in the land/ of Jesus, and a Catholic in the desert.” The homeland is no more than an apartment house. This is the case in the poem in memory of Emile Habibi:



In a row of trees immersed in stone,
they planted men, women, a youth. Tenants
in an apartment house called homeland.
Jews whose voices I never heard,
Arabs whom I never understood.
And other such tunes I never knew
how to recognize in the moment that went silent

(‘In Haifa, Facing the Sea’)

Masalha challenges the connection to place that exists by virtue of national identity, as well as the claim that national identity is the one which grants freedom. In the poem ‘Father Too’ he poses an option of autonomous existence with respect to the symbols of the Israeli government – the freedom of someone who exists in the presence of the rulers over the land and despite them:


My father,
who was born on the slope of the mountain
and gazed down on the lake,
never had a passport.
Or even a laissez-passer.
He crossed the mountains
when the borders did not flow
in the river.
My father
never had a passport.
Not because he didn’t have
a land and a seal.
Just because the land
always dwelt calmly
in the palms of his hands.
And just as the land
never slipped from his hands to travel
overseas,
Father – too.

***

First published in Haaretz, March 5, 2004.


***

الجمعة، 16 أبريل 2010

فيليتسيا لانغر - أنا عربي


فيليتسيا لانغر ||

أنا عربي


تُهتُ أكثر من مرّة في خفايا الذكريات. ولكم أدهشتني طبيعتها الناقدة والمتفحّصة وقدرتها المتميّزة في الاحتفاظ بكلّ ما يُسجّل على لوحتها. أحاول أحيانًا أن أمحو من ذاكرتي شيئًا ما يظلّ يزعجني ولكن عبثًا ما أحاول.

زنازين غزّة والخليل، ورِجْلا إبراهيم غرايبة المقطوعتان، وعَيْنا عمر سلامة المذعورتان وقطامش الذي أصاب الشّلل جميع أطرافه فأقعده. كلّ هذه لا تبرح ذاكرتي ولا تُغادرها.

لكن، ثمّة ذكريات حبيبية عليّ، ذكريات أحبّها حقًّا. ذكريات هي غذاء روحي في الساعات الصّعبة تبلّ رمقي، إلى ما هو جميل في الإنسان. تلك هي ذكرياتي عن سلمان. تعرّفت عليه في ظروف عاديّة جدًّا. عرفت فيه شابًّا مثقّفًا وشديد الحساسية وشاعرًا يتعشّق الفنّ. وقد قالوا لي: إنّه "درزي".

كان لقاؤنا الثاني والهام في السجن، الذي زُجّ به بعد أن رفض الخدمة العسكرية. تحدّث إليّ بهم. لم يحطّمه السجن، ولكنّي شعرت بمعاناته. لقد عبّ الكلمات التي تروي ما يحدث في الخارج، عن النضال والأحداث، وأسف لأن ليس بإمكانه المشاركة فيها. وأحسست لمعرفتي للسجون العسكرية، كم هو مهمّ إخراجه منها بالسرعة الممكنة. انتظر سلمان المحاكمة العسكرية. إنّه فَرارِي، رافض للخدمة، وعلمنا أنّ مصيره لن يكون حسنًا.

التقينا في قاعة المحكمة المختصّة في يافا. جاء أصدقاء سلمان كرجل واحد وحضر أيضًا أخوه البكر. أمّا سلمان فكان يرتدي البنطلون الخاكي، الفضفاض بسبب نحافته، ويرتدي القبّعة التي لم تجلس على رأسه بصورة جيّدة. كان يبتسم لأصدقائه، رأيت الاعتزاز على وجهه وفكّرت: فعل السّجن به فعله.

واستمعت المحكمة قبلنا إلى قضايا جنود آخرين. وتتالت المآسي الإنسانية البسيطة واحدة إثر أخرى. فراريّون، اعتادوا على الهروب من الخدمة ليخطفوا بعض أيّام عمل لمصلحة العائلة المحتاجة لكلّ قرش. كانت تفسيراتهم منفعلة، تعتريها صعوبات التعبير وخوف الحكم.

ها هي إسرائيل الثانية، إسرائيل "القبيحين" على حدّ تعبير غولدة، فكّرتُ. وقد دلّت الأحكام القاسية المفروضة عليهم عن توجّه الحاكم لمشاكلهم المؤلمة.

وجاء دورنا. وطُلب من سلمان، المُتّهم، أن يقف وقفة الاستعداد، وقرأ رئيس المحكمة اسمَه وعنوانه. ولاقى صعوبة كبيرة في لفظ اسم القرية "المغار" بشكل صحيح، وأشار "درزي". وعندها قال سلمان بصوت عالٍ، والذي لم أظنّ أنّ لديه مثله: "أنا عربيّ". وخيّم الصّمت على القاعة. ونظر القاضي إلى سلمان بدهشة وقال: "حسب ما أعرفه فإنّ المتّهم درزي"... وابتسم سلمان منتصبًا بقامته في الثياب المضحكة وأجاب: "لا، يا سيّدي، أنا ابن الطائفة الدرزية، ولكنّي عربيّ القوميّة". ورطنَ القاضي بشيء ما، من أنّ الدروز ليسوا عربًا. وأصرّ سلمان على رأيه وأعاد جملته القصيرة والمُغضبة: "أنا عربيّ".

وأظهر قاضي المحكمة، بصورة تظاهرية، عدم صبره، إذ أنّ هذا المستعرب لا يفهم أصول اللّعب المعروفة منذ سنوات للجميع: أنّ السلطة بحاجة لدمهم. ولقاء دمائهم تمنحهم فتات الامتيازات: نقول إنّهم ليسوا عربًا، وأنّهم أفضل بكثير من العرب. وهذا تحديد ذو أهميّة خاصّة وأنّه يشير إلى تفكيرنا عن العرب. وكم من الصعب أن تكون عربيًّا بيننا... مفهوم جدًّا أنّهم حتّى الآن بعيدون عن "أنتَ اختَرْتَنا". إنّهم بكلّ بساطة "قوميّة متوسّطة" ولن يقول لهم أحد "عربي قذر". وهذا المتّهم المسكين، يرفض بوقاحة فتات الامتيازات. ليس هذا فقط، بل إنّه يقفُ أمامي مثل هذا الموقف ومصيره بيدي، أن أعفو أو أحكم، واختياره إمّا الحريّة أو الزنزانة المليئة بالجرذان وذات الرائحة الكريهة حيث لا نهاية لدقائق الساعات.

كنت ملتصقة كليّة بوجه سلمان وملتصقه بعينيه السوداوين الواسعتين المفتوحتين. وُخيّل إليّ أنّه انتظر هذه اللّحظة، وفي زنزانته في السّجن لاطف ودلّل هاتين الكلمتين ليقذف بهما في جوّ القاعة كتحدٍّ للقاضي.

شيء ما فرح وسعيد ملأ أعماقي في هذه القاعة المكتظّة. وأتذكّر كلمات أخد أبطال مكسيم غوركي:

"كلمة الإنسان هي ترنيمة الاعتزاز".


***
فيليتسيا لانغر، من مفكّرتي، تقديم الدكتور إميل توما، منشورات دار الكاتب، القدس 1979
***
صحيفة الاتحاد








الجمعة، 26 مارس 2010

Poetry Is Still Alive

Marzuq Halabi

Poetry Is Still Alive

If the texts included in the volume “Sea Feathers” were to have come into my hands without the author’s name, I could have identified the author immediately. Only Salman Masalha can bring such formulations, ideas, images and these texts.

It seems to me that he writes poetry the same way he speaks, with sarcasm, anger and contrasts, and it is amazing how all these are based on an idea that is well-constructed like a scaffolding on which the other motifs climb. The texts in this volume are varied with respect to subject matter and form – and in all of them all of this variety, which includes colors and ornamentation that are located in spaces that he creates, which envelop the reader.
The most notable thing that arises from the texts is the reflection of the poet’s complex identity – Palestinian, Arab and universal. Under the first rubric, he fulfills the role of the narrator who sets forth the pain, the agony and the life-story of the victim. Under the second, he is full of anger at his people and their collective heritage, as well as the rules of the language and its grammar. Under the third rubric, he appears in the character of a close friend who brings up world-embracing questions and thoughts.

From all these rubrics, he looks out at us will a great deal of feeling, gathering all the implication, seeing what is hidden and understanding what is hidden and making all this into images and indirect references as well as into direct and explicit statements.

It should be noted that he question of the essence of poetry occupies the poet, and this is evident in the texts. He talks about poetry, with all its echoes in the space of the world. Poetry, then, is not sentimental emotional state that occurs or doe not occur in the world, as we believed, but is rather a permanent state of mind, a way of life that the poet has chosen for himself. Language, which is the poet’s trade, is particularly present in this volume and it appears that there is a close relationship between the poet and his language, a relationship of love that allows him to use it in unfamiliar ways and he moves freely between the present of the language and its distant past, between the new and the old. The poet here is proof that that the relationship of love between a poet and his language is a necessary condition for the engendering of poetry. The poet as reflected in his texts lives many transformations that indicate cultural richness, as this is the space that allows for the journey and the poetic situation. There is no poetry outside the cultural space and education is a condition for the existence of this space.

Salman Maslaha’s “Sea Feathers” is proof that poetry is still alive in our country, despite all those who have pretensions of belonging to this world of poetry.


Published in: Fasl al-Maqal, Nazareth, July 16, 1999

الاثنين، 1 مارس 2010

The Power to Free Birds

Ronny Someck

The Power to Free Birds


On: "In Place", Am Oved, 2004.


"In Place," Salman Masalha's book of poems, is written at the juncture where my Arabic language kisses my Hebrew language. "I am an Arab poet," and the next poem in the collection begins "I write in the Hebrew language, / Which is not my mother tongue …"

In any case, Salman Masalha's language of poetry is very precise in its ability to lay the paving stones on which he will dance his tango. "An Arab," he writes in one of the poems, "walks beside the wall. He carries / cans of preserves on his back / through Jerusalem's streets. // A Jew / walks past, /grips, in both hands, a Siamese cat / and wails." The distance between "cans of preserves" and "Siamese cat" shrinks considerably in Salman Masalha's poems. He succeeds in leaving in all the question marks and adding the colors that are in the twilight zone between black and white. Sometimes the statement is direct and sometimes it paves a very private path for itself, as for example in the poem "Cage:"

"On the palm of her hand the others drew / the lines of a cage, where they imprisoned / her life story. / And, son of Arabia that I am, / I hate an imprisoned bird. / Each time she / gave me her hand, I erased a line. // And released birds." In this wonderful poem, the esprit de corps (And, son of Arabia that I am") works overtime. It can also be read as an ars poetica poem and learn from the imprisoned birds about the imprisoned words the moment before they are released to become a poem. But above all this is a love poem. Usually love is perceived as a mutual agreement to enter a metaphorical cage together (see, for example, "Georges Moustaki's "Ma liberté"). In "Cage" the love is strengthened by the man erasing the remnants of the previous cages in which the "biography" of the beloved have been imprisoned.

Another wind that blows between the lines is the wind of humor. In "The Poem About Maya," he describes "the line that stretched through air / between her lips and my ear." This is the line between the enchanting naïveté of the young girl "who asked me to write a poem / about her" and the seriousness of the poet who has allowed the sorrow of the world to rest on his shoulder. Further on, once he is persuaded, he will say "That's the position / when a poet gets caught / with paper / in times of transition."

"Times of transition," which tickles the funny bone in "The Poem About Maya" is, in my opinion, in a different context the black box of the poems in this book. Masalha does not cease his examination of the transitions between village and city and between language and language. "On what will love spin in the lazy summer haze?" he asks in his poem "Dream," and answers: "On a poem and a flame and holes inside the shade.' This sharp transition between "flame" and "the shade" is the poetic muscle of his poetry. The ability to stand at the border station and paint with great power with the same pen. And what about the color of the ink? He has called one of his poems "Black, But Green."


Published in: Itton 77, No. 291, June 2004
***

On the Wings of Freedom

Sabah Zwein

On the Wings of Freedom

On "Khana Farigha" (Blank Space)

Salman Masalha’s language is characterized by the pushing of the self far from the banal. The language presents itself to the reader, sure of itself, quiet and different. The difference is in the constant orientation that the poet adopts in the work of constructing the poetic expression, which seems ostensibly familiar but in truth is truly striking.

In Masalha’s poetry we feel as though it were a storm wind that is blowing without taking into account what it will leave behind. Salman Masalha’s language is a fortress that he places in face of the tribulations raging all around. He does not describe, but rather states the details of life from within a profound perception in which there are intense emotions mixed with the idea of death, the hidden and the unknown. He does not address the everyday, even if in a quick reading we might think that he adopts this sort of discourse. He goes forth from within a personal and surprising articulation and takes off in order to glide alone in the skies of poetry, equipped with the wings of freedom. He does not belong to any flock and he sounds only his own song. He seeks truth and pursues new fields and when he returns to the forest he finds only an old nest, and even the tree in the forest no longer recognizes him. The love of the journey to the unknown causes death to grow in his wings, cause the search for a woman.


The poet mourns the loss of place and the loss of meaning. When he notices the “dry branch,” he seems to come to the realization of the difficult and bitter reality, as it has not remained the same land and the same place, with the precious memories. This is the reality of death in the homeland, or life in the unknown homeland.

Nostalgia leads the poet to distant realms, to realms that belong to the distant past, to distant memories and a distant heritage. The waves bear him and throw him onto shores of primal sands, and at the same time place him in the erupting nature that never rests for a moment nor reveals his identity to him. “Hidden, like Bedouin love, the winds of madness blew over me, letting me lean on the trunks of palm trees, eternally tied, I would return to the empty desert like one whose entire search is in vain, apart from the faded splendor.”

If the writing of poetry cannot be devoid of nostalgia, and every poet expresses this in his own way, then Masalha serves it up with a light hand. He writes his nostalgia in a realistic way by means of presenting the idea in clear words and sentences and with great economy. He does not go on at length, and he keeps away from whining. He relies on his roots, dreams about them and it appears that he is burning with longing for those roots.

At the same time, Maslha lives the present. Ostensibly, he seems not to care. Is this really the case? Even though it appears that he is free of this flood, often stream of feeling flow from him that suffice to set the landscapes around him on fire. At the same time, he takes care to control his language so that it will not deviate from the fortress he has built for himself, so that the language will continue to reside within the wall of beauty that is carved in a sensitive way. “As I lie on my back with nothing beneath me to protect me from my sorrow, I cannot see above me anything but the night I have brought down, shards of ancient countries at my feet. If I come to build the house of our love in you, keep the house and be.”



Published in: An-Nahar, Beirut,June 26, 2002
***
مقابلات صحفية
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    My heart is full of chambers -- not just four or five like those described in anatomy books, but an entire palace in which each open door leads to a new discovery.


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قصائد ملحنة
  • إنكليزية




    The Song About the Child

    Boston Community Gospel Choir:
    The Song About the Child
    Text: Salman Masalha
    Composer: Stephen Feigenbaum
    ***
    More


  • عربية

    يا صاحب الدن

    كَفِّي عَلَى خَدِّي
    وَالعَيْنُ فِي الكَاسِ
    أَرْضُ النَّوَى مَهْدِي
    وَالْخَمْرُ أَنْفَاسِي


  • عبرية



    בחיפה‮, ‬מול הים


    בְּחַיְפָה, מוּל הַיָּם, רֵיחוֹת הַמֶּלַח
    עוֹלִים מִתּוֹךְ הָאֲדָמָה. וְשֶׁמֶשׁ
    הַתּוֹלָה עַל עֵץ פּוֹרֶמֶת רוּחַ.



 
مجموعات شعرية
  • بلد في الحلم



    عشق مؤجل



    אחד מכאן



  • في الثرى، في الحجر



    خانة فارغة



    مقامات شرقية



    مغناة طائر الخضّر




  • لغة أم




    ريش البحر



    كالعنكبوت بلا خيوط



كتب أخرى
  • قصص التوراة في الرسومات الإسلامية


    العقد الثمين



    العقد الثمين، في دواوين الشعراء الستّة الجاهليين



  • فهم المنطوق


    فهم المنطوق، مسائل تراثية وأبعاد راهنة

    تتمة - more


    ما نحن؟


    لقراءة الكتاب، تتمة - more


  • Six Early Arab Poets


    Six Early Arab Poets
    New Edition and Concordance




    Writing a Homeland


    Writing a Homeland
    The Bancroft Library
    The University of California, Berkeley 2019



ترجمات عبرية وعربية
  • حليب سباع

    Photo:
    روني سوميك

    أوزو وموزو من كفر كاكاروزو

    Photo:
    إفرايم سيدون

    كتاب النيمومات الكبير


    جوڤانا جوبولي وسيمونا مولاتساني

    إنهم قادمون


    سيلڤي نيمان * ألبرتين

  • ذاكرة للنسيان


    محمود درويش

    الصبار


    سحر خليفة

    شهادة


    شهادات عن الاحتلال الإسرائيلي

    حكايا الانتفاضة

    Photo:
    درور چرين