Water has a long story. So does my soul.
\nOne it recounts every day to silent rocks,
\nan avalanche of memories that falls headlong
\ninto this damp patch of darkened sand.
\nUnder the sand the mute tongues of the waves
\nkeep recounting, recounting their histories.
\nSince water is a long story in itself
\nit never tires and it never wants to stop.
\nIf you go down to Da\u0127let Qorrot when it rains,
\nyou\u2019ll hear the water calling you to come near,
\nto lie down on the sand and listen to
\nlong recitations that to the end unfold
\nlike blood leaking silently from your soul.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I\u2019m beginning to think my blood is diseased,
\nI\u2019m beginning to think you don\u2019t love me anymore,
\nI\u2019m beginning to think I might forget how to smile,
\nI\u2019m beginning to think my eyes are about to melt,
\nI\u2019m beginning to think my hands will soon fall off,
\nI\u2019m beginning to think my face will start to slip,
\nI\u2019m beginning to think I\u2019ll soon be a crybaby,
\nI\u2019m beginning to think I\u2019ll soon stand with legs apart
\nand give birth to a hideous boy with red eyes.
\nI\u2019m beginning to think I\u2019ll soon have forgotten my name.
\nI\u2019m beginning to think that I\u2019ll soon knot the rope
\nin order to pluck this flower from its spot,
\nin order to run this boat up on some reef.
\nI\u2019m beginning to think I\u2019ll forget who you are.
\nI\u2019m beginning to think my blood will start to flow,
\nwill spurt all of a sudden from my pores.
\nI\u2019m beginning to think I\u2019ll soon be a night-moth,
\nI\u2019m beginning to think I might yet be a seagull.
\nI\u2019m beginning to think soon everything will be at an end
\nand I\u2019ll be standing here swaying on my own
\nlike a flower that\u2019s been tied up with a heavy rope,
\nlike a flower that\u2019s withered under the moon,
\nlike a boy waiting for his mother\u2019s summons,
\nlike a boy gone to cry for his mother\u2019s help,
\nlike a boy clinging to his mother\u2019s apron strings.<\/p>\n
I\u2019m beginning to think that I\u2019ll no longer think.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
You walk like a bird drenched in the rain
\ntowards the last metre that\u2019s been reserved for you.
\nYou want to stop some place and listen
\nto that girl with her guitar weeping nearby,
\nwith raindrops falling on her hair
\nand warm tears emerging from the strings.
\nThough she\u2019s young enough to be your daughter,
\nyou still want her to teach you the truth
\nthrough the notes she sings while weeping.
\nYou\u2019re in need of a breather before the last metre,
\nyou need to browse through the pictures of
\nyour mother, your father and your siblings,
\ntry to understand why you\u2019re a stranger.
\nOr flip through the pictures of those lovers
\nwho came along to love you, while you
\nturned aside your excellent face.
\nYou\u2019re in need of a breather before the last metre,
\nto have a pause so at last you\u2019ll understand.
\nBut how can you grab the sea in your hand?
\nHow can you pack all this away now?
\nDo you remember what happened to you once upon a time?<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Jael Menahem cooks soup. Facing the wall, her waist against the oven or the kitchen sink, she is always silent. Jael Menahem\u2019s heart always beats fast. She is afraid that one day a rocket will shoot through the kitchen window and fall into the saucepan, into the soup. Jael Menahem\u2019s heart beats most of all since they have put her Juval, who until recently still sucked her breast and drank her milk, minto a uniform and have taken him where the fire was. Jael Menahem wishes to go out walking or running or dancing or at least to lie on the ground, but she is afraid, very afraid. And when she gets into the bus to go care for her mother, she examines each unknown face that glances at her. And this strange behaviour makes her even more afraid and almost squashes her morale. And Jael Menahem knows one day she will lie down and choke and she will not get up again. Unless, that is, some day a rocket will come to rest by her side, where once her husband used to lie, before he disappeared.<\/p>\n
Nadwa Hammad cooks beans. Facing the wall, her waist against the oven or the kitchen sink, she is always silent. Nadwa Hammad\u2019s heart always beats fast. She is afraid that some day a helicopter will come and shoot into her house and the ceiling will fall in on her. Nadwa Hammad\u2019s heart beats most of all now that the men in their green uniform are allowed to enter everywhere. Suhejr is going to school and often they think of schools as mice nests, devil-caves. Nadwa Hammad is very afraid. And as she walks on the pavement on her way to take care of her mother, she scrutinizes every face that glances at her big belly. Who knows what they think she\u2019s carrying under her dress? And this glance frightens her as well and makes her heart race. She wishes so much that she could just wander off, greeting all she met, smiling at them, telling them how good she is at cooking beans. And Nadwa Hammad knows. That some day she will hear the heavy boots in her little street, and perhaps even shots. Or maybe she\u2019ll be wakened by the roof descending to lie on top of her in bed, where once her husband had lain and whose whereabouts she doesn\u2019t know anymore.<\/p>\n
I, Manuel Mifsud, have a name as Jewish as Jeremiah and Jesus Christ; my surname is Arabic, like the Prophet\u2019s. Before she died, my mother split an orange open for me: This is a Jaffa orange, a Jaffa<\/em>. Its juice was red, the colour of fire, the colour of blood. My mother told me: In half of this orange you have a sister, and in the other half you have another sister. Go down to the sea and row towards the Middle East. You will find them somewhere. One is Jael, the other Nadwa.<\/em><\/p>\n And Manuel Mifsud found them fearing each other; and afraid of buses, of supermarkets, afraid of streets; afraid of the dark; afraid of rockets; afraid of missiles; afraid of people with power; fearful for their lives; afraid for Juval in a uniform too big for him; afraid for Suhejr who goes to school every morning; afraid of their following shadow; afraid of the silence at night, the silence of God who sleeps alone behind the furthest corner, old and dumb.<\/p>\n He found them afraid and weary and sad and found them longing for one moment in which they could look into each other\u2019s eyes and perhaps start to laugh.<\/p>\n 7th January 2009<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Da\u0127let Qorrot, Gozo Water has a long story. So does my soul. One it recounts every day to silent rocks, an avalanche of memories that falls headlong into this damp patch of darkened sand. Under the sand the mute tongues of the waves keep recounting, recounting their histories. Since water is a long story in […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":241,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[346,349],"tags":[],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\n