ترجمت قصيه رجب بوحويش الشعيرة ما بى مرض الى اللغه الانجليزيه
Rajab
Buhwaysh, "No Illness but This Place"
By: Khaled
Mattawa
This long
poem is from the concentration camp of El-Agheila in Libya, is one the most
criminal chapters in the history of colonial Africa. The Italian colonization
of Libya began in 1911, but in the east, the Sanussiyya movement for more than
two decades successfully resisted it. When the Fascists rose to power in Rome
in 1922, colonization efforts intensified in order to pave the way for
settlement programs—and the resistance intensified in kind under the leadership
of Umar al-Mukhtar.
By 1929, the
Italians began removing the native population so as to deprive the resistance
of material support. By the end, they had deported two thirds of the population
of the east to 16 camps. Forced to walk hundreds of miles, many perished before
they even arrived. In some sense, the camps were a colonial prelude to those of
Europe in the years that followed—with barbed wire, forced labor, a total lack
of medical aid, and intense hunger and deprivation. Prisoners talked of having
to eat grass, insects and mice to stay alive. In 1931, Omar al-Mukhtar was
captured and executed. The majority of the other resistance leaders were
captured or killed by 1932, and the resistance collapsed soon thereafter. By
1934, the camps were no longer necessary. Of the 110,000 Libyans originally
sent to the camps, less than 40,000 survived the ordeal.
No illness
but this place
I have no
illness but this place of Egaila,
the
imprisonment of my tribe
and
separation from my kin’s abode.
No illness
but endless grief
meager
provisions
and the loss
of my black red-spotted steed
who, when
strife broke, stretched her solid-flesh neck,
Impossible to
describe,
her peer does
not exist.
I have no
illness except my threadbare state
and this
unbearable longing
for Aakrama,
Adama and Sgaif,
And for the
pastures Lafwat, best of places,
which, even
when parched
bursts grass
green for the herds.
I long for
Aakrama and Sarrati,
I wish I were
there now.
I’ll be
grateful to reach them alive.
When I
remember those places I forget my misery—
tears fall,
storms
drenching my beard, raging floods.
I have no
illness but the memory of the sons of Harabi,
the best of
friends
who keep on
striking as bullets rain down.
and who ride
spirited red horses—whoever falls
is promptly
snatched up
by great
companions who concede his love.
I have no
illness but the loss of good men
and all our
possessions
and the
incarceration of our women and children.
The horseman
who once chased untamed camels,
Now bows his
head to the invaders
like an
obedient girl.
He bows to
them like a concubine
who has made
a mistake
and must show
deference morning and night.
Carrying
filth and wood and water,
a low life
indeed—
none but God
can rise and lift this grief.
Bowing like a
slave
forgetting my
status
having lived
my life untainted, strong,
I stand
without vigor, light and useless,
a mere
factotum
carrying on
as if healthy, free of disease.
I have no
illness except missing loved ones
gentle,
honorable folk
riding sturdy
camels, prancing steeds.
They were
lost for a trifle before my eyes
and I’ve
found nothing
to console me
since they were laid to waste.
I have no
illness except this endless aging
this loss of
sense and dignity
loss of good
people who were my treasure,
Yunes who
rivals al-Hilali
throne of the
tribe
Emhemed and
Abdulkarim al-Ezaila and Buhssain.
His sweet
countenance and open hand
and al-Oud
and the likes of him,
lost without
a battle to honor their parting.
I have no
illness except the loss of young men
masters of
clans
plucked out
like dates in the daylight
who stood
firm-chested against scoundrels
the blossoms
of our houses
whose honor
will shine despite what the ill-tongued say.
I have no
illness except the dangers of roadwork
my bare
existence,
returning
home without a morsel to shove down a throat.
Whips lash us
before our women’s eyes
rendering us
useless
degraded, not
even a match among us to light a wick.
Nothing ails
me except the beating of women
whipping them
naked
not an hour
are they left unharassed.
Not even a
shred of regard for them,
calling them
‘whores’
and other
foulness, an affliction to the well-bred.
I have no
illness except an inability to think straight
my
scandalized pride
and the loss
of Khiyua Mattari’s sons, Moussa and Jibril
sweet
companions of night-dirges, masters of horses
tamers of
wild camels
unharmed by
rumors calling them cowardly, meek.
I have no
illness except this long homesickness
my arms bound
tight
my patience
withered, no means to make a livelihood.
And my
stalwart mates who rescue in strife
best of the
tribe
neighbors who
nightly guard the camel herd.
I have no
illness except my far-flung kin
imprisoned by
thugs
and the lack
of friends to grieve to when wronged
the lack of
those who rule with fairness,
justice
nonexistent
evil
dominant, crushing any grain of good.
I have no
illness except my daughters’ despicable labor
the lack of
peace
loss of
friends death hurriedly took
and the
capture of my firm-muscled Bu Atatti
his likes
desirable
who sooths
the heart in a forlorn hour.
No illness
except the loss of my pasture
and I’m not
counting
even though
the taker has no remorse, no pangs of guilt.
They bring
nothing except rule by torture
long booming
throats
tongues
tapered with pounding epithets.
No illness
except the lack of defenders
frailty of my
words
the humiliation
of the noble-named
the loss of
my gazelle-like unbridled steed
swift-limbed
fine-featured
like a minted coin of gold.
I have no
illness except the hearing of abuse
denial of
pleas
and the loss
of those who were once eminent.
And women
laid down naked, stripped
for the least
of causes
trampled and
ravished, acts no words deign describe.
No illness
except the saying of “Beat them”
"No
pardon”
and “With the
sword extract their labor,”
thronged in
the company of strangers,
a base
living—
except for
God’s help, my hands’ cunning stripped.
No illness
but the swallowing of hardship
my
imagination pining
for our
horses, sheep, beasts of burden.
Nothing but
starving work under lashing wails—
what a
wretched life!
Then for
tattered chattel they turn on the women.
No illness
except the loss of sweet and good people—
a government
of imbeciles now
faces that
bespeak calamity, others vulgar glare.
How many a
child has fallen writhing to their whips
his senses
bewildered.
O my
conscience, an old man now among his peers.
No illness
except the breaking of wills
my tears pour
and drip
herds let
loose to no one’s care.
Shepherds
have roped their best studs
letting
unfit, measly males
mate with
their young dromedaries.
No illness
except the capture of honored men
the nullity
of my days
and the Capo
who daily beats the kind-hearted.
He stands,
calls you out with a burning tongue
spewing
foulness.
You fear
he’ll kill you before you sound your grievance.
Ill-bred
imbeciles now rule. How could one sleep
with them
roaming about?
They’ll sell
you out for the slightest of cause.
I have no
illness except shorn honors.
Black guards
standing
stiff with
cruelty, barbed wire looped around poles.
No strength,
will, or effort to lift these burdens—
Of our lives
we’re ready
to absolve
ourselves when death’s agent comes around.
No illness
except the bad turn of my stars
the theft of
my property
the tight
misery of where I lie down to rest.
The fearsome
horseman who on days of fray
shielded his
women folk
now begs,
straggling after apes without tails.
Every day I
rise complaining of subjugation
my spirit
disgraced
and like a
helpless girl I can’t break my chains.
I have no
illness except the bent shape of my life
my limpid,
wilted tongue.
I cannot
tolerate shame, though now shame has overtaken me.
And my
tribesmen of whom I used to boast
beautiful in
strength and poise
unshakeable
when a day turns, disaster foretold—
When they
fell, I was chased out of my home
a long night
its darkness
overpowered my lanterns’ bright flames.
I have no
illness except missing my land
and longing
for my home
the pastures
out west towards Sa-aadi…
I plead with
the Generous one
on whom I lay
my dependence
to swiftly
lift this evil before thirty nights pass.
Only God is
eternal. The guardian of Mjamam is gone—
an oppressive
light now shines
no daylight
is safe from the wicked’s dark.
If not for
the danger, I would say what I feel—
I would raise
him to noble heights
expound my
praise, sound the gratitude I owe.
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