Poem #17. I Am From There [​أنا من هناك]

by Mahmoud Darwish [محمود درويش], translated by The Scholar

Mahfodah Shtayyeh, the tree hugger, protecting her olive tree from Israeli troops and settlers

[Standard Translation]

I am from there. And I have memories.
I was born as people are born.
I have a mother and a house with plenty of windows.
I have brothers, friends, and a prison with a cold window.
And I have a wave seized by the seagulls.
I have my own scene.
I have an extra blade of grass.
And I have, for myself, a moon at the height of speech,
And the birds’ sustenance,
And an everlasting olive tree.
I passed over the earth before the swords passed
Over a body they turned into a table.
I am from there.
I return the sky to its mother
When the sky cries for its mother.
And I cry so that the returning cloud will know me.
I have learned all the words suited to the court of blood
So I can break the rule.
I have learned all the words,
And I dismantled them
To construct a single word
It is: Homeland.

أَنَا مِنْ هُنَاكَ. وَلِي ذِكْريَاتٌ. وُلِدْتُ كَمَا تُولَدُ النَّاسُ. لِي وَالِدَهْ
وبيتٌ كثيرُ النَّوافِذِ. لِي إِخْوَةٌ. أَصْدِقَاءُ. وَسِجْنٌ بِنَافِذَةٍ بَارِدَهْ.
وَلِي مَوْجَةٌ خَطَفتْهَا النَّوارِسُ. لِي مَشْهَدِي الخَاصُّ. لِي عُشْبَةٌ زَائِدَهْ
وَلِي قَمَرٌ فِي أقَاصِي الكَلاَم، وَرِزْقُ الطُّيُورِ، وَزَيْتُونَةٌ خَالِدَهْ
مَرَرْتُ عَلَى الأَرْضِ قَبْلَ مُرُور السُّيُوفِ عَلَى جَسَدٍ حَوَّلُوه إِلَى مَائِدَهْ.
أَنَا مِنْ هُنَاكَ. أُعِيدُ السَّمَاءَ إِلَى أُمِّهَا حِينَ تَبْكي السَّمَاءُ عَلَى أمَّهَا،
وَأَبْكِيِ لِتَعْرفَنِي غَيمَةٌ عَائِدَهْ.
تَعَلّمْتُ كُلِّ كَلامٍ يَلِيقُ بمَحكَمَةِ الدِّم كَيْ أُكْسِرَ القَاعِدهْ.
تَعَلّمتُ كُلِّ الكَلاَمِ ، وَفَكَّكْتُهُ كَيْ أُرَكِّبَ مُفْرَدَةً وَاحِدَهْ
هِيَ: الوَطَنُ....

[Translation With Romanization]

I am from there. And I have memories.
أَنَا مِنْ هُنَاكَ. وَلِي ذِكْريَاتٌ.
Ana min hunak. wa li dhikrayat.

I was born as people are born.
وُلِدْتُ كَمَا تُولَدُ النَّاسُ.
Wulidtu kama tuladu an-nas.

I have a mother and a house with plenty of windows.
لِي وَالِدَهْ وَبَيْتٌ كَثِيرُ النَّوَافِذِ.
Li walidah wa baytun kathir an-nawafidh.

I have brothers, friends, and a prison with a cold window.
لِي إِخْوَةٌ، أَصْدِقَاءُ، وَسِجْنٌ بِنَافِذَةٍ بَارِدَهْ.
Li ikhwa, asdiqa', wa sijnun binafidhah baridah.

And I have a wave seized by the seagulls.
وَلِي مَوْجَةٌ خَطَفَتْهَا النَّوَارِسُ.
Wa li mawjah khatafat-ha an-nawaris.

I have my own scene.
لِي مَشْهَدِي الخَاصُّ.
Li mashhadi al-khass.

I have an extra blade of grass.
لِي عُشْبَةٌ زَائِدَهْ.
Li ushbah za'idah.

And I have, for myself, a moon at height of speech,
وَلِي قَمَرٌ فِي أَقَاصِي الكَلَامِ،
Wa li qamar fi aqasi al-kalam,

And the birds’ sustenance,
وَرِزْقُ الطُّيُورِ،
Wa rizq at-tuyur,

And an everlasting olive tree.
وَزَيْتُونَةٌ خَالِدَهْ.
Wa zaytunah khalidah.

I passed over the earth before the swords passed
مَرَرْتُ عَلَى الأَرْضِ قَبْلَ مُرُورِ السُّيُوفِ
Marartu ala al-ard qabl murur as-suyuf

Over a body they turned into a table.
عَلَى جَسَدٍ حَوَّلُوهُ إِلَى مَائِدَهْ.
Ala jasad hawwaluhu ila ma'idah.

I am from there.
أَنَا مِنْ هُنَاكَ.
Ana min hunak.

I return the sky to its mother
أُعِيدُ السَّمَاءَ إِلَى أُمِّهَا
U'id as-sama' ila ummiha

When the sky cries for its mother.
حِينَ تَبْكِي السَّمَاءُ عَلَى أُمِّهَا،
Hina tabki as-sama' ala ummiha,

And I cry so that the returning cloud will know me.
وَأَبْكِي لِتَعْرِفَنِي غَيْمَةٌ عَائِدَهْ.
Wa abki lita'rifni ghaymah a'idah.

I have learned all the words suited to the court of blood
تَعَلَّمْتُ كُلَّ كَلَامٍ يَلِيقُ بِمَحْكَمَةِ الدَّمِ
Taallamtu kull kalam yaliq bimhkamat ad-dam

So I could break the rule.
كَيْ أُكْسِرَ القَاعِدَهْ.
Kay uksir al-qaidah.

I have learned all the words,
تَعَلَّمْتُ كُلَّ الكَلَامِ،
Taallamtu kull al-kalam,

And I dismantled them
وَفَكَّكْتُهُ
Wa fakkaktuhu

To construct a single word:
كَيْ أُرَكِّبَ مُفْرَدَةً وَاحِدَهْ
Kay urakkib mufradah wahidah.

It is: Homeland.
هِيَ: الوَطَنُ....
Hiya: al-watan....

[Scholars Notes]

One of the greatest figures in Palestinian literature is also at the forefront of resistance poetry, specifically protest literature that offers a voice to the oppressed people of Palestine. Had he been alive today, he would be appalled (as many of us are) at the state of Palestine, and even more so at the world’s response.

Once upon a time (not so long ago, my own grandparents are older than the creation of Israel), the world still had some contentment in its humanity. “I have a mother and a house with plenty of windows” is a line that resonates with everyone, creating a sense of kinship, if not understanding itself. But that is no longer the case. The houses are gone, the windows shattered, and mothers are either mourned or mourning. “The everlasting olive tree” is no more; burned, bombed, and destroyed alongside many of the land’s native crops. What can one do against the vast army of Israel rolling through the fields? Mahfodah Shtayyeh, otherwise known as the olive tree hugger, could do little more than embrace her olive tree as the government destroyed everything around her.

But I believe there is hope in resistance, as Mahmoud Darwish makes evident in the line: “I passed over the earth before the swords passed / Over a body they turned into a table.” There was a time, not long ago, when one could pass through life without violence, when one could walk in the park, feed the birds, plant trees, and play in the grass. That time, when the homeland was at peace, is the central figure of this poem. Just as it once was peaceful, so too shall it see peace again.

This is the power literature holds in all its forms: stories, essays, poems. It offers a nonviolent form of resistance, a voice to the oppressed, a protest, and above all, hope. Hope for a time when Palestine will once again be free, and we can proudly enter the gates of the land of the olive tree.

Video: Poetry and recitation: Mahmoud Darwish

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