طه عاشِقُ البَحْرِ والزَّيْتون(1)
كَالبَرْقِ بِلَيْلٍ غائِم
مَرَّ وَفي كَفَّيهِ نُجومٌ مُطْفَأَةٌ
تَنْتَظِرُ عُيونَ امرَأَةٍ تَحتَضِنُ البَحرَ وَراءَ المَجْهول
طهَ! إِجْلِسْ يا وَلدي!
قالَتْها أمٌّ، والقَلْبُ ذَبيحٌ
يَتَلوّى في ريحٍ عاصِف
كَلماتٌ تَتَكَسَّرُ وَحُروفٌ ناضِجَةٌ كالحُبِّ الدَّافِئ
كالشَّمسِ المُشرِقَةِ على زَهْرِ الحِرْمان
كَأنَّ الكَلِماتِ نُجومٌ تَسْبَحُ في بَحْرِ العَينَيْن
وَالأَمَلُ الذَّاهِبُ في المَجْهول
يَتَنَسَّمُ رائِحَةَ العُشْبِ البَرِّي
ويَسبُرُ عُمْقَ البَحْرِ
ويبحثُ عن طَيْرِ الثَّوْرَةِ في أَحْضانِ الشَّمْسِ
وَكَلِماتِ المَوَّالِ البَلَدِي
طه! يا وَلدي، اجْلِسْ!
يَتلاشى الحُلْمُ الدَّمَوِي
يَتَلاشى حُلمُ الأُم
ويَسترجِعُ هذا العالمُ كُلَّ خَفاياهُ
ويَكبُرُ طهَ هذا الطِّفْل
هذا المارِدُ يَكْبُرُ
يَكْبُرُ كَالتِّينِ البَرِّي
ماتَتْ بَيروتُ مِراراً، حَلُمَتْ
ذَهَبتْ للبَحْرِ وَقالتْ كُلَّ الأسْرارِ الدَّمَويَّة
غَسَلتْ آثامَ البَشَرِ المُكْتَنزينَ الغَيْظ
ابتسمَتْ للأَرْزَةِ والزَّيْتون
وَكانَ “الزَّعْتَرُ”(3) غَيْماً وَرَصاصاً وَقَنابِل
كانَ “الزَّعْتَرُ” طِفْلاً يَلقُمُ ثَدْيَ امرَأةٍ ماتَتْ بِرصاصِ الغَدْر
وقَرارِ التَّنظيمِ السِّرِّي
لَمْ يَسقُطْ طهَ رَغْمَ الحَرْبِ
ورَغْمَ القَصْفِ
ورَغْمَ القَتْلِ العَلَنِي
طهَ لَمْ يَسْقُطْ
كانَ يَموتُ بَطيئاً
كانَ يُمارِسُ ألوانَ الحُبِ العُذْرِي
وَتَمُرُّ الأيامُ سَريعاً
يَكْبُرُ طهَ
يَكْبُرُ، يُصْبحُ كَالزَّيتونِ الرُّومِي(4)
يَتَوهَّجُ قَمَراً غَجَرِيًّا
يَتَأهَّبُ للتِّرْحالِ وَللسَّفَرِ الأَبَدِي
طهَ يَكْبُرُ...يَصْغُرُ
يَتَرَدَّدُ كَالصَّوْتِ المَذبوحِ بِسِكِينٍ أَزَلِي
يا طهَ لا تَحْزَنْ، لا تَقْلَقْ
إنَّ العالَمَ كَفَّاكَ وَنَعْلاك
وَيافا تَكْبُرُ بَيْنَ يَدَيْك
وأَرْضُ فِلسطينَ مِنَ “الماءِ إلى الماء”(5)
زُهورٌ وَزنابقُ بَيْضاء
رَصاصٌ أَحْمَرُ مِنْ عَيْنَيْك
يُسْتَشْهَدُ طهَ هذا الوَلَدُ الصَّفْصافُ،
اللَّوزُ، وَنورُ الشَّمْسِ، وَأشكالُ الحَرْفِ العَرَبِي
يُسْتَشْهَدُ طهَ، يُولَدُ مِنْ رَحْمِ الأَرْضِ
ويَحْلُمُ بِالزَّهْرِ الأَحْمَرِ وَالزِّيِّ البَدَوِي
يُولَدُ مِنْ ضِلْعي الآنَ
وَيَخْرُجُ للثَّورَةِ “جيفارا”(6) و“الرَّبَذِي”(7)
يُسْتَشْهَدُ طهَ، يُولَدُ،
يَعْرِفُ أنَّ حُدودَ فِلِسطينَ مِنَ “المَاءِ إلى المَاءِ”
إلى وَجَعِ المَحرومينَ
إلى جَسدِ الثورةِ والنَّفطِ العَرَبِي
طهَ يَنْسى الأَلْقابَ وَيَنْسى الأَنْسابَ
وَيَنْسى أشياءً شَتّى، مِنْها:
أصْلُ الثَّوْرَةِ، وَالإنْسان،
ورائِحَةُ الدَّمِ النازِفِ من رُوحي،
وشُواءُ اللحْمِ البَشَرِي
وَيَنْسى أخبارَ العَسَسِ الليْليِّ وَأزْهارَ الرُّمان
طهَ، يا وَلَدي!
أَخْبِرني كَيْفَ يَموتُ الزَّيْتونُ،
وَكَيْفَ نَعيشُ الحُزْنَ الأَبَدِي؟
أَخْبِرني يا وَلَدي!
إِن رِجالَ أَبي جَهْلٍ(8) خَلْفَ ضُلوعي
زَرَعوا الحِقْدَ الدَّمَوِيَّ،
فَأَخْفَيْتُ يَدي مِنْ أَسْيافِ الحُكْمِ القَبَلي
طهَ، يا وَلَدي!
ما زِلْنا نَأكُلُ بِالإثْمِ طَعامَ الثَّورَةِ وَالأَيْتام
ما زِلْنا نَسْرِقُ بِالجُمْلَةِ أَقْواتَ الأُمَّة
نَتَعاطى أَوْجاعَ المَحْرومينَ نَبيذاً عَتَّقَهُ النِّسْيان
ما أَسْوأَ أَنْ يَبقى الإِنْسانُ بِلا وَطَنٍ عُرْيان؟
يَتَقاذَفُه القَوْمُ
يَنوءُ حَزيناً حَيْران
طهَ، يا وَلَدي!
أَخْبِرْ “عَمْروشَ فَلِسْطينَ”(9)
بِأَنَّ الثَّوْرَةَ قَدْ تاهَتْ وَالقَلبُ حَزين
أَخْبِرهُ بِأنَّ فِلِسطينَ الآنَ تُحارِبُ حافِيةَ القَدَمين
أَخْبِرْهُ بِأنا ما زِلْنا – نَحْنُ – كَما كُنَّا
لا شَيْءَ تَجَدَّدَ فينا غَيرُ القَتْلِ وَذَبْحُ الإِنْسان.
Ṭāhā, Lover of the Sea and Olives(1)
Like lightning in a cloudy night
He passed—in his palms, dimmed stars
Waiting for the eyes of a woman,
Embracing the sea beyond the unknown
‘Ṭāhā! Sit down, my son!’
His mother cried, her heart shattered
Twisting in a raging wind.
Words splinter and letters ripen like warm love,
Like sunlight rising over the flowers of deprivation.
As though words were stars
Swimming in the sea of two eyes
And hope—heading into the unknown—
Breathes in the scent of wild grass,
Plumbs the depth of the sea,
Searches for the bird of revolution in the arms of the sun
And the words of the folk mawwāl.
‘Ṭāhā! My son—sit!’
The bloody dream fades.
The mother’s dream fades.
And the world retrieves its hidden secrets
And Ṭāhā—this child—grows
This giant grows
He grows like a wild tree
Beirut died many times. She dreamed.
She went to the sea
And confessed all her blood-soaked secrets
She washed away the sins of those who hoarded resentment,
She smiled at the cedar and olive trees.
While the ‘Zactar’(3) was heavy with clouds, bullets, and bombs.
The ‘Zactar’ was a child suckling at a woman’s breast
Slain by treacherous bullets
And the decree of a secret squad
Ṭāhā did not fall despite the war,
Despite shelling,
And despite public executions
Ṭāhā did not fall
He was dying slowly,
He was practicing every form of chaste love.
Days pass swiftly
Ṭāhā grows up
He grows up, becoming like a Roman (4) olive tree,
Glowing like a far-off moon
Preparing for departure, for the eternal travel
Ṭāhā grows up and shrinks.
He wavers like a voice slaughtered by an eternal knife
Oh, Ṭāhā, do not grieve, do not worry.
The world rests in your palms and beneath your feet.
Jaffa blossoms in your palms
And the land of Palestine stretches ‘from water to water’ (5)
Adorned with flowers and white lilies
Red bullets bursting from your eyes
Ṭāhā—the willow child,
The almond blossoms, the sunlight
And the forms of Arabic letters— is martyred
Ṭāhā is martyred, born from the womb of the earth
Dreaming of red flowers and Bedouin attire
He is born now from my ribs
And emerging for revolution
Like ‘Guevara’(6) and ‘al-Rabadhī’(7)
Ṭāhā is martyred, yet born again
He knows that Palestine’s borders are ‘from water to water’
To the pain of the dispossessed
To the body of revolution and Arab oil
Ṭāhā forgets titles and lineage.
He forgets many things, including:
The origin of the revolution, the human being
The scent of blood flowing from my soul
And the roasting of human flesh
He forgets the night watchmen’s intelligence
And the pomegranate blossoms
Ṭāhā, my son!
Tell me how the olive trees die?
And how do we live eternal sorrow?
Tell me, my son!
The men of Abū Jahl (8) —behind my back—
Sowed bloody hatred
So, I hid my hand from the swords of the tribal rule
Ṭāhā, my son!
We still eat, in sin, the bread of orphans.
We continue to steal the nation’s wealth in large amounts
We treat the pain of the deprived
Like wine aged by oblivion
What could be worse than—for a human—
To remain homeless and naked?
The people toss him about,
And he wanders sadly and confused?
Ṭāhā, my son!
Tell cAmrūsh Filisṭīn (9)
That the revolution has been lost
And the heart is grieving
Tell him that Palestine is now fighting barefoot
Tell him that we are still as we were
Nothing in us has changed
except killing and the slaughter of the human being.
Notes:
1This poem will appear in the poet’s forthcoming bilingual poetry collection, titled Rhymes of Blood and Jasmine. The poem was written in memory of Taha, the only child of a Palestinian refugee who was uprooted from his land during the Nakba in 1948 and lived in the Sin el-Fil neighbourhood of Beirut, where he worked as a building guard and slept with his child Taha and his wife under the staircase.
The poet visited this family by chance at their place of residence on 21 August 1975. During the bloody war in Beirut that broke out that year and lasted ten years, this child was killed, and with him was killed his mother’s dream that he would grow up and save the family from the hardship that had plagued them since the Nakba. How similar today is to yesterday? The Nakba continues!
3The massacre of Tal al-Zactar was one of the most tragic episodes of the Lebanese Civil War. Tal al-Za‘tar, a Palestinian refugee camp in eastern Beirut, was besieged in the summer of 1976 by right-wing Lebanese militias. For weeks, the camp endured intense shelling, starvation, and the destruction of water and medical facilities, leaving civilians without basic means of survival. In August 1976, after the camp fell, thousands of Palestinian civilians were killed or disappeared, and the survivors were forcibly displaced. Tal al-Za‘tar remains a powerful symbol of Palestinian suffering, statelessness, and the catastrophic human cost of sectarian war.
4“Roman olive trees” in Palestine refers to ancient olive trees believed to date back to the Roman period, roughly 2,000 years ago. Many of these trees are still alive and productive, symbolizing continuity, resilience, and a deep-rooted Palestinian presence on the land. They are valued not only for their agricultural importance but also for their historical, cultural, and national significance.
5From the Arabian Gulf eastward to the Atlantic Ocean on the boundaries of Morocco in the west. This is an allusion to the suffering of the Palestinians, which extends over the Arab world, including countries that show solidarity with these people.
6Che Guevara (1928–1967) was an Argentine revolutionary and Marxist theorist who played a central role in the Cuban Revolution and later pursued armed struggle in Africa and Latin America. For Palestinian resistance movements, Guevara became a symbol of internationalist revolution, anti-imperialism, and armed struggle against oppression. His image and writings resonated with Palestinian groups seeking global solidarity and framing their cause within wider Third World liberation movements.
7al-Rabadhī is Abū Dharr al-Ghifārī (d. 652 CE) was a prominent companion of the Prophet Muhammad known for his asceticism, moral rigor, and uncompromising stance on social justice. He openly criticized the accumulation of wealth by elites and advocated for economic equality and care for the poor, grounding his views in Qur’ānic ethics. His principled opposition to corruption, even at personal cost, made him an enduring symbol of social justice in early Islamic history.
8Abū Jahl (cAmr Ibn Hishām, d. 624 CE) was a leading Qurayshi chief of Mecca and one of the fiercest opponents of the Prophet Muhammad in the early Islamic period. Renowned for his political influence and militancy, he actively persecuted and tortured early Muslim converts and led efforts to suppress Islam. In Islamic historiography, he symbolizes arrogance, tyranny, and violent resistance to moral and religious reform.
9cAmrūsh Filisṭīn “Amrouche of Palestine” was a nickname given to the Palestinian leader Abū cAlī Iyād (real name Walīd Aḥmad Nimr Naṣr al-Ḥasan, 1935-1971), one of the most prominent figures of the Palestinian resistance in the late 1960s and early 1970s, particularly during the “Black September” events in Jordan (1970–1971). He opposed Yasser Arafat’s conciliatory political choices and insisted on armed confrontation. He was killed in northern Jordan and became a symbol of revolutionary steadfastness and resistance.
The nickname was inspired by the Algerian revolutionary Amrouche, a symbol of the Algerian War of Liberation against French colonialism. Abū cAlī Iyād was compared to Amrouche because of his revolutionary discipline, military rigor, unwavering commitment to armed struggle, and rejection of political compromises he viewed as concessions. The title symbolized the connection between the Palestinian struggle and global liberation movements, especially the Algerian revolutionary experience, which deeply influenced Palestinian resistance thought at the time.
© Text by Hilmi M. Zawati
Artists & Writers in This Issue
| Velibor Baćo | Alexis Krasilovsky | Nathaniel Lachenmeyer | Jeff Larason | Lisa Suhair Majaj | Liliana Mercau | Susanna Fiona Murray | Laura Ann Reed | Michael Roberts | John Whalen-Bridge | Hilmi M. Zawati |