Asian Reflections on Trauma and Healing

Asian Reflections on trauma and healing: Voices from Japan: Perspectives on Disaster and Hope

Anonymous — Mon, 26 Jul 2021 15:19:03 +0000

Asian Reflections on trauma and healing: Voices from Japan: Perspectives on Disaster and Hope Anonymous (not verified) Mon, 07/26/2021 - 09:19 Danielle Rocheleau Salaz

As people all around the world are aware, twenty years ago on March 11, 2011, an earthquake struck off the coast of Japan, triggering a tsunami that claimed the lives of tens of thousands of residents of the Tohoku region in the northeastern part of the country, which in turn caused a partial meltdown of one of the reactors of the Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant in Fukushima Prefecture. The devastation and tragedy were well documented, as were the resiliency and gaman (perseverance) of the communities most impacted by the triple disaster (known as 3.11 in Japan, based on the date.)

Voices from Japan: Perspectives on Disaster and Hope was an exhibition of poetry and photographs stemming from 3.11 that was held first in New York City and then at Colorado College in Colorado Springs. Tanka poems (which total 31 syllables across five lines in a 5-7-5-7-7 pattern) have traditionally been a form of emotional and artistic expression in Japanese culture, since before the time of the Man’yoshu, a poetry anthology compiled in the mid-eighth century. To this day, newspapers across Japan feature a weekly poetry column, and following the disaster, these columns in various newspapers served as a way to process, memorialize, and move through the trauma experienced by so many Japanese people near and far. Readers submitted thousands of poems reflecting on their experiences and emotions following the disaster and professional poets selected which poems would run in the newspapers. Isao Tsujimoto, the project director for Voices from Japan, along with his collaborator Kyoko Tsujimoto and three scholars of Japanese literature, Laurel Rasplica Rodd (professor emeritus of Japanese at CU Boulder and former director of the Center for Asian Studies), Joan Ericson (professor of Japanese at Colorado College), and Amy V. Heinrich (former director of the C. V. Starr East Asian Library at Columbia University) selected and translated 100 tanka for the project. Subsequently, Kawaranai Sora: Nakinagara Warainagara (The Sky Unchanged: Tears and Smiles) was published by Kodansha Publishing in Tokyo.

The following tanka are a small sampling of the voices presented in the project and represent some responses to the disaster that provide signs of hope and healing through the pain. As the world’s attention turns once again to Japan during the postponed Tokyo 2020 Olympic Games, we encourage you to consider these expressions of sorrow, grief, healing, and growth. The people of Tohoku are still working to overcome the 3.11 disaster, but we can all share in bearing witness to the trauma and join in remembering and memorializing those who were lost and harmed as Japan and the people of the region look toward recovery and healing. And hopefully these poems will serve as inspiration and solace as we all move through our own personal traumas, including the global COVID-19 pandemic and the uptick in racist anti-Asian sentiments in the U.S. over the past several months.

May we all process trauma and heartache with as much grace as these poets.

the sky I gaze at

from near my window

is the Fukushima sky

that is unchanged

from how it looked last week

Rieko Hatakeyama, Fukushima, March 2011

praying that my

friend's name is not there,

I search the names

in the newspaper column

listing the victims

Satoshi Ito, Niigata, April 2011

to the mother who

birthed her baby

in the midst of the earthquake

I want to deliver

some nice hot stew

Wako Matsuda, Toyama, April 2011

one who is able

to respond calmly

to a rude query

is a person whose father and mother

have been washed away by the waves

Kimiko Kawano, Gunma, April 2011

because I have to

go on living

even on the day

of the atomic explosion

I am polishing rice

Toko Mihara, Fukushima, April 2011

still, after all,

spring has come again—

dimly shrouded

blossoms of Fukushima:

plum, peach, cherry

Toko Mihara, Fukushima, May 2011

somehow or other

everyone has become

kindhearted

on the crowded streets

as the aftershocks continue

Mikio Fukuhara, Miyagi, May 2011

wiping away the mud

of the sea with a soft brush

to keep from ruining

the smiling faces

in the photograph

Atsuko Kobayashi, Saitama, September 2011

the full moon

climbs up

over the mountain of rubble

like a silent

requiem

Saburo Shinohara, Shizuoka, October 2011

you know, it’s true…but

the Fukushima rice,

peaches, apples,

pears, persimmons, vegetables,

and people

are still around

Toko Mihara, Fukushima, January 2012

the first time

for me to receive

so many guests

at my temporary dwelling—

like family

Nobuko Kato, Iwate, December 2012

I take comfort in the flowers

of the eggplants

and the cucumbers I raise

here in my refuge from

the nuclear disaster

Keiko Hangui, Fukushima, September 2013

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Asian Reflections on trauma and healing: 1965 massacres in Indonesia, excerpt from novel Beauty is a Wound

Anonymous — Mon, 24 May 2021 18:17:47 +0000

Asian Reflections on trauma and healing: 1965 massacres in Indonesia, excerpt from novel Beauty is a Wound Anonymous (not verified) Mon, 05/24/2021 - 12:17

Asian reflections on trauma and healing: 1965 massacres in Indonesia, excerpt from novel Beauty is a Wound (New Directions, 2015) by Eka Kurniawan, translated from Indonesian by Annie Tucker.
CAS Advisory Council Member Stanley Harsha offers this translated excerpt.

In 1965-66, the Indonesian army led a massacre that killed an estimated 500,000 Indonesians, accompanied by widespread rape, torture and imprisonment without trial. The army officers who led this purge were largely trained in the U.S. and the U.S. government supported the army in these actions, amidst the climate of the Cold War and threat of communism in Southeast Asia. The target of these massacres were communists, but in reality this was a bloodbath against all ethnic Indonesian Chinese, socialists, scholars, writers, artists, and anyone subject to vendettas. Eka Kurniawan vividly describes a vignette of that massacre in this excerpt from his first novel, Beauty is a Wound. In this excerpt, a gravedigger’s romance with a young woman is interrupted by massacred villagers dumped at his graveyard, until mass graves supplant burial sites. This depiction is an accurate portrayal of what happened across Indonesia in 1965. This novel continues in later chapters to depict how the village heals from the massacre—the local communist commando’s life is spared by the military commander, romance survives, and the commando raises a family.

The Indonesian version of Beauty is a Wound, Cantik Itu Luka, was discovered gathering dust in a library by an American translator, Annie Tucker, who recognized its magnificence even though the novel was a flop in Indonesia. She asked a surprised Kurniawan for permission to translate it. From this translation, which was longlisted for the 2016 Best Translated Book Award, the book gained immediate international recognition, winning the 2016 World Readers Award and a finalist for the 2016 Man Booker International Prize. The Sydney Morning Herald wrote, “Kurniawan’s story of an undead woman had morphed into the story of modern Indonesia, an epic novel critics are more wont to compare to One Hundred Years of Solitude and The Canterbury Tales.” Written in a distinctly Indonesian style of magic realism, Kurniawan brings to life Indonesian history from Dutch colonial times to modern times, told in the story of a beautiful prostitute and her four daughters, and drawing from Indonesian folktales and superstitions. Emerging as arguably Southeast Asia’s most gifted novelist, Kurniawan has gone on to write a series of unique haunting and satirical novels, several of which have been translated.

Eka Kurniawan

Excerpt from Beaty is a Wound, 2015, New Directions Press, by Indonesian writer Eka Kurniwan.

This love story was slightly disrupted by a busy afternoon. Five people had been killed in a clash between communists and anti-communists. There were four communists and one anti-communist and Kamino had to bury them all. He soon realized that more and more corpses were going to arrive at that cemetery, and that these days would mark the inevitable downfall of the Communist Party. He knew this from the numbers of dead. He dug five new graves, four in one corner for the communists, and one in another corner where the regular folks were buried. Five dead people, each with their kinsmen crying over their graves, and short speeches from the Party leaders, consumed all his time until the afternoon. But while he was busy, Farida didn’t go anywhere. She sat all day beside her father’s grave, just as she had done the day before.

“I am willing to bet,” said Kamino to Farida after his work was done and he was walking back to the house to wash up, “that tomorrow ten more communists will die.”

“If it gets to be too much,” said Farida, “bury them in one mass grave. On the seventh day there might be as many as nine hundred dead communists—there’s no way you can dig that many graves.”

“I just hope their children aren’t as foolish as you,” said Kamino. “Because to feed them I’d have to throw a banquet.”

“Tonight, may I be your guest?”

That question took Kamino off guard, so he could only respond with a nod. Farida prepared their dinner, and after eating they once again called a spirit: none other than Mualimin, of course, and Farida could once again have a nice chat with her dad. This continued until nine o’clock at night, when it was time to go to bed. Farida got the room that used to belong to Kamino’s mother and father, while he slept in the same room he had slept in since he was a child.

The next day, Kamino and Farida’s predictions came true—early in the morning twelve communists died. This time there were no eulogies by Party leaders, because the situation was dire. There was talk that DN Aidit and the leaders of the Communist Party had in fact been executed. The twelve communist corpses were thrown into the cemetery without ceremony. He didn’t know their names. And even though he only dug one big grave for twelve corpses, it was a busy day for Kamino because at noon the military truck reappeared and tossed out eight more corpses. Then in the afternoon he got seven more.

Farida sat at her father’s grave, and when night fell she was Kamino’s guest, while he was still busy with the onslaught of corpses. And that’s how it went until the seventh day.
While most Communist Party sympathizers had gone running, more than one thousand communists still held out against the mob of soldiers and anti-communists at the end of Jalan Meredeka. Some of them shouldered old weapons, with severely limited ammunition. Besieged for one day and one night, they were very hungry but not willing to surrender. The stores in the area had already been destroyed and all the inhabitants had fled. Heavily armed soldiers surrounded them from all directions, and their commander had ordered the communists to disperse, telling them with a shrill voice that the Party had been finished from the moment their coup failed. But one thousand or more communists still held out.

As dusk approached, a few of them took shots at the soldiers. But their bullets wounded no one. The commander finally lost his patience and ordered his men to shoot. Hit from all sides, communists collapsed in the street. Those who had not yet been killed ran about in a blind panic, knocking one another down, before the bullets killed them off one by one. That afternoon, in one quick massacre, one thousand two hundred and thirty-two communists died, bringing an end to the history of the Communist Party in that city, and the entire country.

The corpses were heaved onto trucks, more and more, packed like stacks in a slaughterhouse transport, and a convoy of those corpse-filled trucks headed for Kamino’s house. That day was the man’s busiest day of all. He had to dig an extremely large pit—by the middle of the night he still wasn’t done, only finishing up with the help of some soldiers as dawn broke. He kept hoping that the communists would surrender, so that no more corpses would appear and he could finally rest. Through all this, Farida stayed with him, waiting for him, preparing his food, and sitting beside her father’s grave.

That morning, after the troops and their trucks had gone and one thousand two hundred and thirty-two communist corpses had been buried in one mass grave, Kamino, who hadn’t slept but still looked full of energy, approached Farida, who’d been there for almost an entire week, and asked:

“My lady, would you like to come live with me and be my wife?”

Farida knew that it was her destiny to accept that man. So that morning, after they’d bathed and put on their finest clothes, they went to the village headman and asked to be married. They became husband and wife and went on their honeymoon to Farida’s old house.

This meant there was no gravedigger on duty that day, but that was no problem, because the army troops had grown tired of bringing all the communist corpses to the graveyard and having to help the gravedigger dig mass graves. After all, some of those communists had been killed by regular army troops but most of them had been killed by anti-communists—carrying machetes and swords and sickles and whatever else could be used to kill—who had left their corpses at the side of the road to rot. The city of Halimunda was now filled with corpses sprawled out in the irrigation channels and on the outskirts of the city, in the foothills and on the riverbanks, in the middle of bridges and under bushes. Most of them had been killed as they tried to escape.

Not everyone had been killed, however. Some had surrendered and had been thrown into local jails and the military prisons before being brought to Bloedenkamp, the delta’s most terrifying prison. Interrogations lasted for hours, ending with the promise that they’d be continued the following day. Some would die there, starved or beaten to death. Communists still on the loose were savagely hunted down, even deep into the jungle.

Kurniawan, Eka. Beauty Is a Wound (pp. 281-282). New Directions. Kindle Edition.

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Asian reflections on trauma and healing: Weapons and Children (1954) by Badr Shakir al-Sayyab translated by Professor Levi Thompson

Anonymous — Mon, 12 Apr 2021 19:39:35 +0000

Asian reflections on trauma and healing: Weapons and Children (1954) by Badr Shakir al-Sayyab translated by Professor Levi Thompson Anonymous (not verified) Mon, 04/12/2021 - 13:39

Professor Levi Thompson offers a translation of the poem Weapons and Children.

Weapons and Children (1954)
by Badr Shakir al-Sayyab

The Iraqi poet Badr Shakir al-Sayyab (d. 1964) published this poem in a chapbook in 1954 after originally composing it in 1953. 1953 was a tumultuous year in Sayyab’s life, as he was on the run from the authorities after participating in an uprising against the Iraqi monarchy. He eventually ended up in the Iranian capital, Tehran, where he witnessed first-hand the 1953 royalist coup that the US and UK spy agencies organized against Prime Minister Mohammad Mosaddegh (d. 1967) to bring the Shah back to power. This poem treats the hopes decolonizing nations had for independence during the early 1950s, many of which were never realized. Sayyab’s poetic persona here makes a call for peace across the world in the face of imperial violence and unbridled capitalism, symbolized in the poem by the merchant’s call for old iron and bullets.

A musical interpretation of the poem by Ghazi Mikdashi is available here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JhZtjOs54qY.

“Weapons and Children”

Birds? Or children laughing,
A glint of tomorrow sparkling at them?
Their bare feet
Are seashells clinking on a water wheel.
The hems of their robes are the north wind,
Blowing over a field of wheat,
The hiss of bread baking on a holiday,
Or a mother gurgling her newborn’s name
Sweetly whispering to him on his first day.
It is as if I hear the sails flapping
As Sindbad storms out to sea.
He saw a vast treasure between his ribs,
Chose no other treasure, and returned!
An echo crossing over the ages:
From the cave, the forest, and the temple
A warm brook filled with the sweat of stones,
And the chisel of their overworked stonemason
Sings of his untamable yearning
For the lofty summit…
To subdue death with life.
Life’s coming generations shall meet death
Upon a rock carried in its hands
Greeting him with a smile on the lips,
With eyes whose streaming tears
Have hardened into stone.
An echo tiny hands return,
Clapping in a bright street
Like the flapping of butterflies, the day passes
By them with its blue lamp.
How many fathers return home
At night after leaving early,
Eyes full of worry
Enveloped by curdled blood?
A lost child meets him at the door
Bursting with pure laughter
Then kindness pours out to fill existence,
Planting stars on his dark
Horizons, making him forget the weight of the chains.

On long winter nights, children are
A spring of warmth and good health,
From which the elderly collect roses
Glancing once again on childhood
Dancing among the hills
And rocking in a cradle of imagination
With a virgin on a moonlit night
In the shadow of an apple blossom
Where birds sleep.
In the morning, they
Are the sound of steps on the ladder
Hands on sleepy faces
Playfully tickling them awake.
They are one of those songs of the road,
One of those old tunes
One of those rushing voices.
They are a mother by your side when she wakes up,
When the fire is lit on the hearth
Like a line you can see tomorrow begin on.

Birds? Or children laughing
Or water, ripened by stone,
So the grass becomes moist and the flowers dewy
Flowers and light
A lark singing,
And an apple blossom.
The flap of bird wings has
An echo of a mother’s kiss on her baby’s cheek
“Wilt thou be gone? That was not the lark!
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale,
Yon light is not daylight.”
Are those the ships that lost course
On the way to a harbor lamented by the winds?
Soldiers’ hands beckoning there
To a thousand Juliets on the dock,
“Goodbye, goodbye to those who don’t return.”
For a mother, all alone during fall
Behind the darkness, a tree stripped of her leaves
Whose songbirds have fled!

Birds? Or children laughing
Or water, ripened by stone,
Running over a bloodied corpse?
And a lark singing
For a dilapidated ruin?
Birds?!
No, children singing,
Their lives in a tyrant’s hands,
And rising over their sweet, pure songs
A far-off call,
“Old iron
   Bullets
       Iron.”
And like the shadow of a hawk in open country—
When he strikes, like a passing blade,
Birds will sing out over the hills—
Thrown at the feet of innocent children,
A call in which I smell blood,
“Old iron
   Old iron!
Bullets.” As if the air
Were bullets, and as if the road
Were old iron.
Scattered about, like pickaxes,
The terrifying sound of the merchant’s steps.
Woe unto him! What does he want?
“Old iron
   Bullets
       Iron!”
Woe unto you ill-omened merchant,
Who plunges into a stream of blood,
Who has no idea that what he’s buying
To stave off hunger and want from his own children
Are the very graves they’ll be buried in!
“Old iron
   Bullets
       Iron”
Old iron for a new death!

“Iron”
Who is all this iron for?
For a chain twisting around a wrist
A blade held to breast or vein
A key to the prison door for those that are not slaves
A noria that scoops blood.
“Bullets”
Who are all these bullets for?
For miserable Korean children
Hungry workers in Marseille
The people of Baghdad and the rest
Whoever wants to be saved
Iron
   Bullets
       Bullets
           Bullets
Iron…
   I hear the merchant
And the laughing children,
And like the blade before the victim notices,
Like lightning scattered in my mind
Like a screen, like a wound gushing blood—
I see craters rumbling—
Filling the horizon—flames, and blood
Pouring down like rain showers, filling the expanse
Bullets and fire. The face of the sky
Scowls whenever iron shakes it
Iron and fire, fire and iron…
Then the impact, then the bomb!
Thunder everywhere,
Lifeless body parts, and the rubble of a home.
Old iron for a new battle
Iron… to level this waterless desert,
Where children drew in the sand
And where older folks thought it was safe.
“Peace”
As if the spark in the letters
Is covered over by the darkness of caves,
With the hopes of the first man.
What picture did he inscribe on the stones,
Spurred on by death: is it a victory,
A longing for the best of worlds?
“Iron
   Bullets
       Old Iron
Bullets…” To rid this road
Of pure tears of laughter,
Footsteps, and merry chants.
Who then, at sundown, will fill the house
With noontime warmth and wet clods of dirt?
The field blazes in the eyes of the tyrant.
The sunbaked ground of its remaining breaths
Circles the house at sundown
And its decrepit ruins.
“Old iron
   Old copper”
And the whistling sounds of fire.

“Iron, iron”
A mother sells the old bed,
She sells the iron upon which, only yesterday,
Lay a place where lovers met
And the sound of life’s origin rang out,
Arm in arm, so they would not tremble!
Alas, when tomorrow comes
Shrapnel sounds, and at the edge of the distance,
One arm surrenders the other
As the bed falls to pieces and the sparks go out

Was it there that lips met
Out of love, harmonizing with the thread of life,
Where Death weaves his black song
With blood and smoke? Does Death weave
A window of fire around houses
When boys and girls must die?
He turns even the iron bed frame,
Into a sin with jealous intentions,
And the hoarse voices of bullets
Are packed up in the
Tired and mercurial eyes of dolls.

“Iron, old, iron, iron”
Their bare feet
Are seashells clinking on a water wheel.
My mind has gotten used to—like far off thunder—
The din of footsteps, the crash of stones,
And the flicker of lamps in the mine,
What oozes out of naked backs,
And tasting blood in a cough!
Our tongues are filled with iron dust,
Silence rings out where church-bells did…
Far off car horns that
Children, playing bells at dawn,
Rush out to on a holiday
In the water there are shadows of a new bridge,
The norias whisper, and the farmers too.
In every field—like life beating on—
Plows swing to and fro in the heart of the soil.
The villages build
Villages—their mud made from the tyrant’s rotted corpse—
They make mortar from the tiniest pebbles,
And even the desert wastes give rise to
A city,
Another, and another, on and on!
“Iron… iron!”
Their bare feet,
And the flicker of lamps in the mine,
Its depths ribboned in black,
Like Death’s shadow—a gaping mouth
Like a well overflowing in darkness,
From which a thousand graves will be drawn
Blindness tumbles out of its darkness over
Every light following a mighty jolt,
Over the light coming from the door of a lit-up hut,
From small windows in shepherds’ tents,
And from a balcony shaded by jasmine.
“I tell you, it was the nightingale,
Who doesn’t sing at dawn.”
Darkness tumbles over the light coming from the hearth of those staying up late talking,
Light from a path cleared by our tongues,
Over every light, winds sprinkle
Shadows of tyrants in the mine,
Like a noria that scoops blood
The wind, the wind, the wind sprinkles them over
Cradles in the darkened playroom,
Flickers of lamps and the stars.
The din of footsteps and small hands,
The flap of butterflies, which the day passes by
With its obscured lamp.
Who then, at sundown, will fill the house
With noontime warmth and wet clods of dirt?
Bullets, iron, bullets, iron
Sighs of bereaved mothers, and a child with no home!
Who will make the land understand that the young
Are getting crowded in this cold pit?
If they ask it to let go and end up far from home
Then who will follow the straying cloud,
Amuse himself collecting seashells,
Make battle upon the riverbank,
And pounce on nests and birds?
Who will work at spelling—all throughout the day—
And who will lisp his “r’s” at his desk?
Who will fling himself on Father’s chest
When he returns from a hard day of work?
Who will chat with Mother? In every house,
A painful sorrow because the young are dying.
A sorrow from which I tasted streams of tears,
Burning hot and frothing in my mouth.
I sensed the blood flaring up
Into my eyes from the hemorrhaging of ribs.
Wailing from the far-off village,
And an old man calling out for a drowned boy,
On this path, on that one,
He finally reaches the empty bank,
Asking the waters about him
And he screams at the river… he calls out for a boy.
His dim lamp
Sings out in vain, its oil all dried up.
“Did you see that?”
He bends over the blackened page,
Staring into an unending sadness.
His eyes find nothing
But his own sullen, saddened face.
Something ripples in the water,
Muttering, “No, there’s nothing to see.”

“Old iron and a new terror!
   Iron
       Bullets”
           For the tyrants
Want life to be cut
Short, and for the slaves to never know
That the bread they eat
Is the bitterest of fruits
Or that the drink they wash it down with
Burns with the taste of blood
Or that life, life is in self-liberation.
They want them to deny what their eyes see:
For there is no threshing ground on the plains of Iraq,
No children playing at noontime,
No hum of a faraway mill.
The postman never knocks
With good news. No house
From which a lonely light brightens the darkness
Generous, like how a brook makes you laugh,
No lullabies, no bells
Ringing on a newborn’s leg
Or in the hills around goats’ necks
No hissing teapot on the fire
And no story to pass winter nights,
For the tyrants do not hear
The birds sing at sundown—
Like gamblers clinking their chips together—
No procession of golden wheat.
For tyrants only carry
Wares and stocks,
Tyrants hear
nothing but the clink of pennies and dirhams
Tyrants consider
The far-off shores of Asia
To be but a market for selling iron
Where wind and fire die down.
Favors abound for its conquerors.

We swear an oath by
Our children’s bare feet, by bread and health,
If we do not sprinkle the foreheads of tyrants
On these naked legs
Or melt the attack’s bullets
Into letters, guiding stars
(In every house, there is a book
That calls out: “Stop, and let the lances rust!”)
If we do not light up the dark villages,
Silence angry mouths,
And drive the aggressors out of Asia…
Our memory will be sullied
Or we shall damn the coming generations!

Peace to the whole wide world
To field, house, and office
To doll and textile factories
To nest, bird, and down,
To the berry, so sweet when plucked
At dusk oars row
Over a flower on a bride’s cushion
Over boys waiting for Father
Over a poet heating up suns
With his eyes while listening to a grasshopper.
Peace to the whole wide world
Peace to the Ganges, overflowing with blessings
Birdsongs ring out on its banks
The hospitality of one who squeezed out
The light from giant grapes there.
Peace to China, the farmers,
And tanned fishermen,
The blood of revolutionaries planted in the ground,
And what shines forth from the red flag
To boys in far off villages
In the shadow of their shining apple
And what maidens’ robes, on harvest nights,
Dragged across the threshing floor.
Peace, for Spring
Passes through our valleys each year,
And the arc of clouds remains
Only with the gold they collected in Spring,
Do they stay lit up without day.
Millions hunger at its sides
As the harvest decreases every day. There is
Blood on it coming from jugular veins, or mere flecks
Like specks of dust.
When mothers rock cradles
By the abyss of shadowy graves,
Soldiers’ wives shed no tears
In sea or desert,
And the gray-haired farmer
Lifts no trembling hand to wipe his eyes.
He stares into the darkness of the storm,
Listening, he fears the bombs.
The father does not cry for the victims, his sons,
Out of worry he might bereave others of theirs
Nightmares of dead eyes
Do not scare off lovers’ sleep.
The wailing of a whistle cries out and
“Boom!” They regain consciousness under starless night,
No flash of light can be seen
Just the clank of weapons
And the raging wind.
No naive child left to ask his mother
If there are places without sky.
The rocket launchers of destiny do not change,
And shrapnel cannot fill up outer space.
Refugees are not favored over cockroaches,
And eyes looked upon the blessings of Jaffa,
Which was taken by the usurpers
Urged on by thirsty spears,
What they rented from lying eyewitnesses,
And fortresses they clad in death.
Peace to the whole wide world
To east and west alike,
Peace to Avon, which filled the veins
Of Shakespeare, the flowers, and the waterwheel.
Wake up the poet of light, for sunrise
Is threatened by a darkening cloud
Under which Macbeth tried to hide,
For he does murder sleep,
The innocent sleep.
Peace to the Paris of Robespierre,
Éluard and the surreal,
Its lovers on the last night
Scattered by a dark power,
Like a vortex of hellfire.
To Tunisia, where a shadow surrounds its burning flame,
And around bloodied Rabat, there is a roar.
In the neighborhood of China
A defeat befalls its rough but ferocious herds,
Glory is yours, O Asia!
Peace to Venice and the Carnival
And its colorful, bright lights.
Lovers whisper among the shadows
In the warmth of its moonlight.

Birds? Or children laughing,
Or water, ripened by stone?
Their bare feet
Are lights shimmering in the darkness
We rip apart the tyrant’s bunker with them,
And the useless caves of pitch-black night.
It’s up to us to do it, for this is all there is
Every holiday, the waterwheels
Are spurred on by the wind… and my spirits lift up!
We overcome the dark ages,
Arriving at a world bathed in light
(Bullets, bullets, bullets, bullets
Old iron)…
For a new existence!

-translated from Arabic by Levi Thompson

Here is a link to the poem in the original Arabic.

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Asian reflections on trauma and healing: Professor Aun Hasan Ali Offers a Tribute to Those Who Lost Their Lives Monday

Anonymous — Wed, 24 Mar 2021 15:49:22 +0000

Asian reflections on trauma and healing: Professor Aun Hasan Ali Offers a Tribute to Those Who Lost Their Lives Monday Anonymous (not verified) Wed, 03/24/2021 - 09:49

In 1952, the great Pakistani poet Faiz Ahmad Faiz (d. 1984) published a collection of poetry titled Dast-e Sabaa (The Hand of the Zephyr). This collection included a poem titled “Un Talaba ke Naam” (“For Those �鶹��Ժ”) that was dedicated to young Iranian students who lost their lives in the struggle for peace and freedom. Since then it has been read as a tribute to the victims of every darkness that precedes light. It is in this spirit that we share it with you here, as a message of loss and hope in the aftermath of tragedy.

For Those �鶹��Ժ

Who are these generous ones,
Of whose blood
The gold coins, clink, clink,
Into the earth’s continually thirsty
Begging-bowl are running,
Are filling up the begging-bowl?
Who are these young men, oh native land (of theirs),
These spendthrifts
Of whose bodies
The brimming youth’s pure gold
Is thus in fragments in the dust,
Is thus scattered street by street,
Oh (their) native land, oh native land?
Why did they tear out, laughing, and thrown away,
These eyes their sapphires,
These lips their coral?
The restless silver of these hands,
To what use did it come, into whose possession did it fall?

Oh questioning foreigner,
These boys and youths
Are fresh pearls of that light,
Are new-grown buds of that fire,
From which sweet light and hot fire
In the dark night of tyranny there burst forth
The garden of the dawn of rebellion,
And there was dawn in every mind and body.
The silver and gold of these bodies,
The sapphire and coral of these faces,
Glittering, glittering, shining, shining—
The foreigner who wishes to see,
Let him come close and look his fill:
These are the ornament of the queen of life,
These are the bracelet of the goddess of peace.

–Faiz Ahmad Faiz (trans. by V. G. Kiernan)

Here is a beautiful rendition by the contemporary poet and screenwriter Zehra Nigah:

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I4d-kmel37I]

To read the poem in Urdu, Hindi, and transliteration, see: https://rekhta.org/nazms/iiraanii-talabaa-ke-naam-ye-kaun-sakhii-hain-faiz-ahmad-faiz-nazms?lang=ur

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