➣Original in Arabic, translated by Alice S. Youssef
Dawn breaks again.
An old man leans on his cane, uncertain
how to tell us it is time to go.
He doesn't need to. The artillery does it for him,
and machine-gun fire quickens his feet.
He circles his house, inside the noise—
evacuation, sirens, death, rubble.
I ask him:
Who will I leave the almond trees to?
Who will take the hand of spring when it is born?
Who will stand at the door for April's rain?
If only I had a rooftop, God,
I would climb it above the world
and bare my chest before you,
show you everything that burns in me,
and say: I am a Christ
who walks between far villages
preaching Jabal Amel*—
its wounds, its exile, its dying, its rising again.
Out of the broken stone I call out:
we are the faithful and the faithless,
the messengers and the miracles,
the ones who already foretold our lives,
the death of our men.
We saw women dancing,
hair loose at the shrines.
We saw visions, and dreams—
a reality that keeps us
from our houses, our graves,
the incense of Eid.
Home: volcanic stones erupting in the soul.
I push through the crowd,
though the crowd has already gone somewhere I can't follow,
somewhere behind the gunfire.
I reached out my hands
the way believing women reach out,
the way sorceresses do,
the way mothers reach out, giving birth beneath a tree.
somewhere behind the gunfire.
I reached out my hands
the way believing women reach out,
the way sorceresses do,
the way mothers reach out, giving birth beneath a tree.
Take my strength, Lord, as an offering.
Take the warmth of my blood as another.
And give them half a date to share.
I cry out in a land voided of meaning.
My heart is holy; it knows no stain.
I love God. I love Jabal Amel. I love other faces too.
I cry: I am a prophetess—
without revelation,
without a sword,
without wonder.
I follow the footsteps of the wombs that sheltered me
before I was born.
I follow the sweep of my grandmother's sickle,
the cries of a fleeing childhood.
And I walk, as all the women of Amel have walked,
carrying the weight upon my back.
I walk beside the river,
a weapon at my right hip,
a jar of water at my left.
I pass among enemies,
steadied by my child.
For I am a woman of the South.
I do not walk in timid shame.
I do not choose winding roads.
Night settles over our shining rocks.
I tell my beloved the stories of the day,
the prophecies women read in the spring's clear mirror.
I feel poetry pouring out of me,
a waterfall spilling over ornate dresses,
hoping the small birds will finally stop chirping inside my head,
so I may weave a poem about love,
about the exile in your face,
about the strangeness of your path.
You move farther away, and I draw nearer—
a moth yearning to die in the light of your lamp.
I sent an angel to my house.
I sent another to find you.
The first returned saying: an almond tree is waiting for you.
The second said: if he cannot find you, you are in many stations.
Will you come?
Or shall I devote myself to every road, the narrow ones and the wide?
Shall I speak, in every language I possess,
of love, of longing, of stubbornness, of resentment?
Your fate is a line upon your neck.
Mine was written upon my heart.
I send you my peace, my prayers, my strife.
Sleep, my beloved, when at last you find a patch of earth that lets you rest.
Die, my beloved, only when you find someone who will weep for you.
As for me, I will reach you once I have found my way home.
For I am a woman of the South.
I come striving, and I depart striving.
*Jabal Amel is the historic name of South Lebanon, yet it represents far more than a geographical territory. It evokes a cultural world shaped by centuries of learning, poetry, agriculture, and collective memory. Although its population is predominantly Shiaite, Jabal Amel has also been home to Christian, Sunni, and Druze communities, whose presence has contributed to one of the region's most enduring traditions of coexistence. The name therefore carries not only geographical meaning but also the memory of a diverse society bound together by a shared attachment to the land and its cultural heritage.
ARABIC
امرأة جنوبية
ﯾﺄﺗﻲ اﻟﻔﺟر ﻣرةً أﺧرى،
رﺟلٌ ﻋﻠﻰ ﻋﻛّﺎزه ﺣﺎﺋر،
ﻛﯾف ﯾوﺻﯾﻧﺎ ﺑﺎﻟرﺣﯾل؟
ﯾدﻓﻌﮫ ﺻراخ اﻟﻣدﻓﻌﯾﺔ،
وﺗﺳﺗﻌﺟﻠﮫ اﻟرﺷﺎﺷﺎت.
ﯾﺗرﻧّﺢ ﻓﻲ اﻟدار ﺑﯾن اﻷﺻوات:
إﺧﻼء، إﻧذار، ﻣوت، دﻣﺎر.
أﺳﺄﻟﮫ: ﻟِﻣَن ﺳﺄﺗرك اﻟﻠوز؟
ﻣن ﺳﯾﻣﺳك ﯾدَ اﻟرﺑﯾﻊ ﻋﻧد وﻻدﺗﮫ؟
وﻣطر ﻧﯾﺳﺎن؟
وأن ﯾﻛون ﻟﻲ ﺳطﺢٌ ﯾﺎ ﷲ
ﻷﺻﻌد إﻟﯾﮫ وأﻛﺷف ﻟك ﻋن ﺻدري
وﻋﻣّﺎ ﯾﻠﺗﮭب ﻓﻲ ضلوعي
وأﻗول ﻟك:
ﻣﺳﯾﺢٌ أﻧﺎ،
أﺳﯾر ﻓﻲ اﻟﻘرى اﻟﺑﻌﯾدة،
أﺑﺷّر ﺑﺟﺑل ﻋﺎﻣل2،
ﺑﺂﻻﻣﮫ وﻏرﺑﺗﮫ، ﺑﻣوﺗﮫ وﻗﯾﺎﻣﺗﮫ
أﻧﺎدي ﺑﯾن أﻛوام اﻟﺣﺟﺎرة:
ﻧﺣن اﻟﻣؤﻣﻧون وﻧﺣن اﻟﻛﻔرة،
ﻧﺣن اﻟرﺳل وﻧﺣن اﻟﻣﻌﺟزة.
ﻗرأﻧﺎ ﺧطﱠ ﺣﯾﺎﺗﻧﺎ وﺗﻧﺑّﺄﻧﺎ ﺑﺎﻟرﺣﻠﺔ،
ﺗﻧﺑّﺄﻧﺎ ﺑﻣوت رﺟﺎﻟﻧﺎ.
رأﯾﻧﺎ ﻧﺳوةً ﯾرﻗﺻن ﺑﺷﻌورھن
ﺑﯾن اﻟﻣﻘﺎﻣﺎت.
رؤى وﻣﻧﺎﻣﺎت،
وواﻗﻊٌ ﯾﺣول ﺑﯾﻧﻧﺎ
وﺑﯾن اﻟﺑﯾت،
واﻟﻘﺑور، وﺑﺧور اﻟﻌﯾد.
اﻟﺑﯾت: ﺣﺟﺎرةُ ﺑرﻛﺎنٍ ﺗﺛور ﻓﻲ اﻟﺣﺷا
أﺷقّ طرﯾﻘﻲ ﺑﯾن اﻟﺣﺷود،
واﻟﺣﺷد ﻟﻲ ﺑﻌﯾدٌ ﺑﯾن زﺧّﺎت اﻟﻧﺎر
ﻣددتُ ﯾدي
ﻛﺎﻟﻣؤﻣﻧﺎت، ﻛﺎﻟﺳﺎﺣرات،
ﻛﻧﺳﺎءٍ ﯾﻠدن ﻋﻧد ﺟذع ﺷﺟرة.
ﺧذ ﻣﻧﻲ ﯾﺎ رب ﻗوﺗﻲ ﻗرﺑﺎﻧًﺎ،
ودفءَ دﻣﻲ ﻗرﺑﺎﻧًﺎ آﺧر،
واﻋطﮭم ﺷقﱠ ﺗﻣرة.
أﺻﯾﺢ ﻓﻲ أرضٍ ﻣﻘﻔرةٍ ﻣن اﻟﻣﻌﻧﻰ.
ﻗﻠﺑﻲ ﻗدّﯾسٌ ﻻ ﯾﻌرف اﻟرﺟس
أﺣبّ ﷲ، وﺟﺑل ﻋﺎﻣل، ووﺟوھًﺎ أﺧرى
أﺻﯾﺢ: إﻧﻧﻲ ﻧﺑﯾّﺔ،
ﺑﻼ وﺣي، ﺑﻼ ﺳﯾف، ﺑﻼ دھﺷﺔ
أﺗّﺑﻊ ﺧطﻰ أرﺣﺎمٍ آوﺗﻧﻲ ﻗﺑل ﺧﻠﻘﻲ
أﺗﺑﻊ ﺿرﺑﺎت ﻣﻧﺟل ﺟدّﺗﻲ،
وﺻراخ طﻔوﻟﺔ ھﺎرﺑﺔ،
وأﺳﯾر ﻛﻛل ﻧﺳﺎء ﻋﺎﻣل،
أﺣﻣل اﻷﺷﯾﺎء ﻋﻠﻰ ظﮭري
أﺳﯾر ﺟﻧب اﻟﻧﮭر،
ﺳﻼحي ﻋﻠﻰ ﯾﻣﯾني ﺧﺻري
وﺟرّة ﻣﺎء ﻋﻠﻰ ﺷﻣﺎل ﺧﺻري.
أﺳﯾر ﺑﯾن اﻷﻋداء
ﻣﻌﺗدّةً ﺑطﻔﻠﻲ،
ﻓﺄﻧﺎ اﻣرأة ﺟﻧوﺑﯾﺔ،
ﻻ أﻣﺷﻲ ﻋﻠﻰ اﺳﺗﺣﯾﺎء،
وﻻ أﻣﺷﻲ ﺑدربٍ ﻣﻠﺗوٍ
ﯾﻐطّ اﻟﻠﯾل ﻋﻠﻰ ﺻﺧورﻧﺎ اﻟﻣﺗﻸﻟﺋﺔ
أﺧﺑر ﺣﺑﯾﺑﻲ ﻗﺻص اﻟﻧﮭﺎر،
وﻧﺑوءات اﻟﻧﺳﺎء ﻓﻲ ﻣرآة اﻟﻧﺑﻊ.
أﺷﻌر ﺑﺎﻟﺷﻌر ﯾﺧرج ﻣﻧﻲ
ﺷﻼﻻ ﯾﻔﯾض ﻓوق اﻟﻔﺳﺎﺗﯾن اﻟﻣزرﻛﺷﺔ،
ﻋلّ اﻟطﺎﺋرات اﻟﺻﻐﯾرة ﺗﺗوﻗف ﻋن اﻟزﻗزﻗﺔ ﻓﻲ رأﺳﻲ.
ﻷﺣﯾك ﻗﺻﯾدة ﻋن اﻟﺣب،
وﻋن اﻟﻐرﺑﺔ ﻓﻲ وﺟﮭك،
وﻋن اﻟﻐراﺑﺔ ﻓﻲ درﺑك
ﺗُﺑﻌدﻧﻲ ﻓﺄﻗﺗرب،
ﻓراﺷﺔٌ ﺗﮭوى اﻟﻣوت ﻋﻠﻰ ﺳراﺟك
أرﺳﻠتُ ﻣﻼﻛًﺎ إﻟﻰ ﺑﯾﺗﻲ،
وأرﺳﻠتُ ﻣﻼﻛًﺎ إﻟﯾك
ﯾﻘول ﻟﻲ اﻟﻣﻼك اﻷول
إن ھﻧﺎك ﺷﺟرة ﻟوزٍ ﺗﻧﺗظرﻧﻲ
ﯾﻘول ﻟﻲ اﻟﻣﻼك اﻟﺛﺎﻧﻲ
إﻧﮫ ﻟم ﯾﺟدك، ﻣﺣطّﺎﺗك ﻛﺛﯾرة
ﻓﮭل ﺳﺗﺄﺗﻲ؟
أم أﻧدر ﻧﻔﺳﻲ ﻟﻛل اﻟطرﻗﺎت
اﻟﺿﯾﻘﺔ واﻟواﺳﻌﺔ،
أم أﺣﻛﻲ ﺑﻛل ﻟﻐﺎﺗﻲ
اﻟﺣبﱠ واﻟﺷوقَ واﻟﻌﻧﺎدَ واﻟﺿﻐﯾﻧﺔ؟
ﻣﺻﯾرك ﻣﺣﺗومٌ ﺧُطﱠ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺟﯾدك،
وﻣﺻﯾري ﻣﺣﺗومٌ ﺧُطﱠ ﻋﻠﻰ ﻗﻠﺑﻲ
أﺑﻌث ﻟك ﺳﻼﻣﻲ، وﺻﻼﺗﻲ، وﺳﻌﯾﻲ
ﻧم ﯾﺎ ﺣﺑﯾﺑﻲ ﻣﺗﻰ وﺟدتَ أرﺿًﺎ ﺗرﯾﺣك،
وﻣت ﯾﺎ ﺣﺑﯾﺑﻲ ﻣﺗﻰ وﺟدتَ أﺣدًا ﯾﺑﻛﯾك
وأﻧﺎ ﺳﺄﺻل إﻟﯾك
ﻣﺗﻰ ﻣﺎ وﺻﻠتُ إﻟﻰ ﺑﯾﺗﻲ،
ﻓﺄﻧﺎ اﻣرأة ﺟﻧوﺑﯾﺔ،
أﺟﻲء أﺳﻌﻰ، وأروح أﺳﻌﻰ
