lunes, 27 de octubre de 2014

Rafeef Ziadah - «We teach life, sir»




Today, my body was a TV’d massacre.
Today, my body was a TV’d massacre that had to fit into sound-bites and word limits.
Today, my body was a TV’d massacre that had to fit into sound-bites and word limits filled enough with statistics to counter measured response.
And I perfected my English and I learned my UN resolutions.
But still, he asked me, Ms. Ziadah, don’t you think that everything would be resolved if you would just stop teaching so much hatred to your children?
Pause.
I look inside of me for strength to be patient but patience is not at the tip of my tongue as the bombs drop over Gaza.
Patience has just escaped me.
Pause. Smile.
We teach life, sir.
Rafeef, remember to smile.
Pause.
We teach life, sir.
We Palestinians teach life after they have occupied the last sky.
We teach life after they have built their settlements and apartheid walls, after the last skies.
We teach life, sir.
But today, my body was a TV’d massacre made to fit into sound-bites and word limits.
And just give us a story, a human story.
You see, this is not political.
We just want to tell people about you and your people so give us a human story.
Don’t mention that word “apartheid” and “occupation”.
This is not political.
You have to help me as a journalist to help you tell your story which is not a political story.
Today, my body was a TV’d massacre.
How about you give us a story of a woman in Gaza who needs medication?
How about you?
Do you have enough bone-broken limbs to cover the sun?
Hand me over your dead and give me the list of their names in one thousand two hundred word limits.
Today, my body was a TV’d massacre that had to fit into sound-bites and word limits and move those that are desensitized to terrorist blood.
But they felt sorry.
They felt sorry for the cattle over Gaza.
So, I give them UN resolutions and statistics and we condemn and we deplore and we reject.
And these are not two equal sides: occupier and occupied.
And a hundred dead, two hundred dead, and a thousand dead.
And between that, war crime and massacre, I vent out words and smile “not exotic”, “not terrorist”.
And I recount, I recount a hundred dead, a thousand dead.
Is anyone out there?
Will anyone listen?
I wish I could wail over their bodies.
I wish I could just run barefoot in every refugee camp and hold every child, cover their ears so they wouldn’t have to hear the sound of bombing for the rest of their life the way I do.
Today, my body was a TV’d massacre
And let me just tell you, there’s nothing your UN resolutions have ever done about this.
And no sound-bite, no sound-bite I come up with, no matter how good my English gets, no sound-bite, no sound-bite, no sound-bite, no sound-bite will bring them back to life.
No sound-bite will fix this.
We teach life, sir.
We teach life, sir.
We Palestinians wake up every morning to teach the rest of the world life, sir.

lunes, 20 de octubre de 2014

Almanaque de días laborables: el microcosmos de una doncella descarriada y otras idioteces consagradas

Gordes (1955), Willy Ronis

I
Librofilia: necesidad imperiosa de apoderarse de libros como si la vida dependiese de ello, sin atender a fundamentos racionales, como, por ejemplo, ser una pobre rata de cloaca. Después de adquirir el libro, el adicto siente un apaciguamiento emocional y espiritual que ninguna otra cosa o ser humano ─exceptuando a su gato y Coltrane─ es capaz de proporcionarle. Así mismo no se libra del remordimiento, hay que pagar la luz. En medio de la noche los que padecen esta enfermedad suelen preguntarse si sería posible construir una casa de libros, o si, tal vez, sería bello y trágico en lugar de eso un nicho, como un tálamo, y esas cosas.

II
Ya sabes lo que se dice en el amor y en todas las calles: vigésimo terceras partes nunca fueron buenas. Resulta que andábamos por nuestro quinto siglo de emboscadas, así que mejor ni hacer la cuenta. Es
            el
               periplo,
 qué más se puede decir.

III
Escalera incolora. Voy por el tercer desembarco.


IV
Así, así la vida.


V
Qué fin nos espera, quiero la gloria del desangre y una fuente en el patio trasero, no un sinfín de palabras necias articuladas por los falsos aliados. Pero el silencio, cautivo del tiempo, aunque sublevado. Así nosotros.

lunes, 6 de octubre de 2014

Cumbres de expiación


Don’t torture me till I am as mad as yourself.

Emily Brontë

Las leyes soberanas del mundo no vencen al amor,
pero sí lo convierten en un ser abyecto
si tú decides someterte a ellas.
No ensuciarte las manos en el amor
es negar su pureza,
es ser un frío testigo de su crucifixión.
Hoy cumplo mi pena
habiéndolo siempre sabido.
De esperanzas mutiladas
la franqueza de lo terrenal se rendía
a su terrible hermosura,
que lo quieran o no es inmune a sus suicidios.
¿Trataste alguna vez de estar a la altura de nosotros?
Me obstiné en  seguir tallando una roca con las uñas.
Tu corazón me lo iba a poner más difícil,
y hoy la tormenta que celebré se vuelve contra mí
y el dolor ya no es bello,
y tú ya no comprendes quién soy yo.