The Ballad of Nabhan*

 

The Ballad of Nabhan*

 

For peace fighters in both sides

of the Green Line

 

 

Nabhan was only fourteen,

a handsome young boy, with healthy dark skin.

Living in a refugee village in Gaza Strip,

he witnessed on daily basis,

tortures and humiliations to his people on their working trips.

 

On one fine day, headmaster of his school,

a man whose job means to be respectful,

was being stripped naked at the checkpoint,

when he and his classmates passed by.

They turned their heads down,

feeling shameful, sorry, and hurt,

seeing their headmaster treated like a clown.

 

Late that afternoon,

he approached his father, Rashid,

who sat and smoked a made-in Israel cigarette,

in the corner of their small house

(used to be a house, because now there was a big hole in the wall,

and a crack in the roof).

“Abu,” said Nabhan, “Give me money enough to go by a cab -and come back-

to that checkpoint. I’m gonna throw stones to those soldiers,

who have humiliated my headmaster.”

His ummi looked at him sadly, and looked up at the picture on the wall.

A picture of her late eldest son, Mahmoud, who died at nineteen,

blowing himself at a discotheque, full of Jewish young people partying.

“You too?” Ummi asked with despair.

“No, Ummi, not me. I will become an engineer.

I will build you a real house, and buy you a nice hand bag.

I will just throw stones and come back …”

“Son ….” said Rashid, “here is money, enough for one way cab.

You’ll come back in an ambulance anyway, in a body bag.”

 

Nabhan cancelled his plan.

And in days after days after days,

he just played with his friends, constructing a toy plane,

fixing a damaged radio, being creative in many ways.

Their play ground was the rumble rocks of a used-to-be mosque,

buldozed only two weeks ago,

for what reason, nobody bothered to question.

In the background was the tall, long, grey, intimidating wall.

“I would be an engineer, or a pilot, one day …” he dreamed.

A diligent and skillful boy he seemed.

 

Then one day,

a leader of the feared religious group approached the boys.

“They say about how cruel we were? Blowing kids,

while they were partying in a discotheque?

What about us? What about you? You –our own kids-

have never gone to a party, you don’t even know any discotheque.

It’s not fair!”

Then, the recruitment began. And the doctrine. The training.

How to strap the bomb in your body.

How to pass a checkpoint successfully.

How to blow yourself among other people,

And become a heroic example.

 

Nabhan went home very late that cloudy evening.

He kissed his siblings, while they were sleeping.

He ate what ummi provided at table, cold food.

He ate like he never again would.

At dawn, he let his mother hold him tight

Not  a word, but ummi knew her son was ripe to fight.

She felt the same thing a few months ago

when Mahmoud hugged her and insisted to go.

His son came back in a coffin.

She had tears in her eyes.

“Again? My son? When will it stop?”

 

“It will never stop, Saidah,” her husband whispered huskily 

“Peace is only a dream. But whose dream?

Our leaders enjoy the conflict as much as the Israeli’s.

Without conflict, there wouldn’t be Arafat, nor Sharon.

They put all efforts to keep it this way. Life and death just go on.  

Like the Israeli, we’ll be just waiting for the lord, or the dog, to die.

But while waiting, we all will die first. Don’t you see?”

 

Rashid exhaled the smoke, and continued:

“It’s business. Their business is fear, Saidah,

every citizen has gun, and mask for Weapon of Mass Destruction.

Look at the Wall surrounding us. It’s the reflection of their fear.

If there is peace, the fear is gone,

and gone also the business.

And our business, my dear wife, is hatred.

Our leaders teach our people to hate.

Never a family value, now hatred is planted in our kids’ minds.

without hate, there is no Palestinians.”

Rashid got up from his chair, put his hand on his wife’s shoulder.

He had only one leg. He lost one when he was younger.

 

Saidah –wordless, she was not a stupid housewife-

eventually kissed Nabhan’s forehead.

Blowing up yourself and others was the way to heaven, they said.

She didn’t buy it, but, this was the way it was in this part of the world.

Nobody dared to object or question it.

You question it, and you’re a traitor!

 

Nabhan prayed his last pray

It’s supposed to be two raka’at, but he prayed quite long.

He kissed the hands of abu and ummi

And left

 

Later that day,

the family gathered in front of  a small TV in the neighborhood centre.

And there it was!

Another suicide bomber, just like dozen others.

But this time it was Nabhan,

their beloved child,

their lovely neighbor’s kid,

their full-spirited friend,

who wanted to be an engineer, or a pilot,

who never knew what a discotheque was,

who never got a chance.

And he was only one of many.

 

 

Sirikit Syah

July 2004.

 

Notes:

*Nabhan is the name of my fellow (Humphrey fellow, 1994-1995) from Palestine, whose eye was damaged during his hard time at Israeli’s prison.

** This poem is inspired by the news on TV and books I read.