 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
| Poetry in English | Poetry in Translation | Culture News | About Us | Write to Us |
PEOPLE OF THE TRAFFIC LIGHTNaaman Ismael Abdulqader - MoroccoTranslated by Hassan Sarsour
The road I use to take in my travel from my village to Nazareth is the shortest one. It only takes one hour or so.. Nevertheless, when taking this road you'll come across the Valley of A'ra, and you'll see several Arab villages adjacent to the Green Line. In addition, you will have to stop at traffic lights spread in road junctions, waiting for cars and travelers moving back and forth. There, your eyes will catch the sight of little boys of which some are less than eight years of old, with their rags , bale faces and innocent souls, bathing in a waterfall of burning sun rays, fighting their way valiantly between lines of cars, asking for help. When you give them something, they will pray for God to bless you, and thank you with a smile showing their content with the situation and their acceptance of the fate that neglected them, and gave its most attention to the sons and daughters of Jacob and Isaac . On the other hand , if you refuse to give them anything , they will leave you and go for another as to find something useful .Little boys under the harshness of life forcing them to be miserable and beggars . Fearing the victory of hunger , they surrendered to life lest they leave it . One morning as I was traveling to Nazareth with my friend " Naief " , I decided to give something to every one I meet on my way .When I reached the road junction of " Kufur Qarrea " I started scanning the place with my eyes . I found two little children . One of them was taking refuge in the shade of the traffic light while drinking water from a bottle that was in his right hand .. The other one was biting a candy that someone gave it to him as charity. The traffic light didn't give us time to stop and we were forced to proceed towards " Um Alfahm ". Seeing the red light of the traffic light from distance we stopped .Little children approached us and I gave them enough money to buy a meal or two . A little girl stood behind . Her clothes were rags and her shoes were torn as if they were expired sixty years ago with her toes coming out from the sides . Without saying a word she looked at me with her sad and shy eyes which made me feel pity and sorrow . She mumbled few words of prayers and praises that she had learned by heart . There I remembered my little girl and her doll that she used to hug and kiss all the time . - What's your name my little one ? She answered with a fading and shy voice : - Manal …. - Here… take this please … She reached out her tiny hand and took the money after reciting some of her prayers and showing a smile that appeared on her dark mouth … She almost flew out of joy with her gain and lavish fortune ... " Naief " awoke and started bluntly rumbling :
" Naief " , I think they are
from Jeneen and its camp … May God help them .. In 1948 they were forced to
leave their villages and cities … and they are beggars … just like gypsies
…" Naief " ! do you know that if the rich Arab people gave only one penny
each month as a charity , you would never ever find a poor person in this
nation… Where are the alms ? Where is the oil? Where is the foreign aid ? Of
course , all dried on the desert way …
It is said that when a child dies ,
the world becomes sad , the sky feels pain , the fate cries out of regret , and
the letters fall from the books out of anger ..
Pointing at the child on my left they replied : Yes , she is his cousin … Another added with a grievous voice :
Her father died five hears ago and
her brother was arrested three years ago .. She came here to find her daily
bread … she's been with us only a week … Overwhelmed withy the feelings bitterness and anger Naief said : Damn you life … What daily bread these children pursue ? Oh humanity …Alas … Where are you freedom ?? Oh , he who died and left Life for the miserable , weak and the hard workers …alas .
|
|
|
|
 |
 |
|
|