In Siria continuano a compiersi crimini contro
l’umanità e noi, persone, opinione pubblica, non stiamo facendo
pressoché niente di fronte al massacro siriano. Le parole di questa
donna lasciano tremanti ad ascoltare il dolore di un popolo che diventa
poesia, pur di farsi comprendere.
-In
1971, Assad changed Syrian democracy into a dictatorship. For 41 years
over 80.000 people have been murdered, more than 20.000 imprisoned,
kidnapped or gone missing. This poem, is for those that have not yet fallen.-
"Limbs, of what was once my family lie in my arms. My throat was stolen, my blood screams seven generations tortured... Lord, send angel Azrael to guard the souls. Let them know that they are still living and let the livings hear the anthem of something. I know my people are here even though I cannot see, my people I can hear, my people... We are speaking as one. The tyrant inside of me is ravenous, fourty-one years old rotting hands bedazzled with rings of oil drums and gems of blood grinding at my veins, I try to keep my mouth shut but my tongue didn't have any more room for scars in the shape of my theet!
March 2011, we have been reborn! A social anthem screaming let us live, we will speak until our throats are raw, until all of Syria is in the news!
The dates will read like obituaries -APRIL 2011 SYRIA BEGAN 11 DAYS SIEGE OF DARAA, JULY 31st 140 DEAD, DECEMBER 10th 210 DEAD, MAY 25th 107 DEAD, JUNE 9 76 DEAD, MAY 29 2012 500.000 PEOPLE PROTEST IN AMAH, (in Arabic: I can't give up , I will not give up)!
You can shoot blood, push, stab, rape, bump, rape me I will not fall! Stole (...) I will not fall! Lie shackle, bound, shock me, refugee, waterboard, oppress me, textbook capture, (...) me, you will try to crack my ribs, shotgun, but the bending of my knees belongs to my Lord! Lord allow (...) to light a fire in my chest on days you didn't ignite the sun, when nails are torn from bloody hands, when mother is ripped from child - father from son - when the last Damascus rose is stripped of all her color! When I am left clutching out for the last Maraja of a broken land. I cannot fall. I will not fall!
There will be a time when we can eat together. When we will build homes out of abbandoned tanks, pieces of rusted recoils. We will sip from the cups made of old granades and shades of green are only worn by nature. There will be a time when the fences choose to sit with us... instead of standing between us."
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