The Ten Commandments of Fawziya Alhasan

Por: Abdallah Issa

The first Commandment 

In the beginning you were, 
and the little earth was in your hands 
as two handfuls of water. 
Because you resemble a riverbed,
all springs flowing from the mountain nearby 
will follow you 
Therefore, follow yourself, all by yourself. 

The serpent that has aged 
behind your horse’s footsteps  
protects herself from what you tell the wolves 
through your neighbor’s flute. 

The hypocrites who brought the bread 
that vanishes upon their shirts
emulate your shadow crucified on the wall.  

Go to yourself by yourself    
and you will not stray 
and your shadow will follow your guidance. 

The path you’ve hurt 
with the thorns in your feet 
is warmer than some homes where you are 
still a stranger like a prophet. 

Talk to none save the mud of the field 
as it spritely runs after the birds 
Neither your folks –
since they threw away their blunt daggers 
near the sheep’s heads among the hills – 
could see that their guests were blind,
descending down the mountainsides,  
nor did the disobedient of the neighborhood 
take notice of the thin light 
flowing in the awkward movements of the butterfly 
between your hand in your dream 
and the fire from those homes. 

 
The Second Commandment 

You shall not be like them 
Be like you, as you are; 
nothing is like you. 

You are growing up amidst small wars, 
while the smoke of the houses grows old   
between your weary fingers, 
but you keep  
waving – among the pebbles and the water 
flowing between two rivers 
that have gone dry – at your own face 
till it comes back to you  
with what resembles talking – 
in the mortuary, 
which cooled after the shelling abated – 
to yourself  
with a broken heart in the passageways 
between the shadows of those who’ve gone away 
leaving no legacy for their grandchildren 
and the mirrors that cooled down after they were gone,  
with the truth, the whole truth, 
without blemish, 
and with your flute 
which was turned into a handle 
for our neighbor’s knife 
in the last siege; 
with what causes soldiers to be confused    
as they clean the roads, 
sweeping corpses that returned 
with no blind guns guarding those effigies.   

Blind is the lamp of others 
that you hold in your hands. 
It sees you above the remains of the two walls, 
and does not reveal your presence.  
Nothing comes before you 

Be like you, as you are 
suffering 
for the sadness of the snails underground 
when soldiers tread heavily 
between funerals, 
for the water that has been in the vase  
since they demolished the house 
for the stone that has been lying aside  
in the lonely mountains –
since the strangers settled on the sides of our beds –   
with the disenchantment of a lover who could not find 
her shadow in the mirrors of her beloved, 
who has not returned from beyond the hills, 
with what doesn’t cheer up the ibex in the forest 
 or the gypsies coming to their morrow
in the tents of departure.   

As though you have been telling tales  
only to be seen by others.  
Not a single thing, after you were gone, 
bears witness 
that you’ve existed, save your sins 
in the papers of the passersby. 
And nothing is there before you. 
Therefore, do stay, with what you will, 
as yourself   
rising up 
to what you like 
of what your beloved desires.  

Things have to end where you begin. 
This is your cross in your kingdom 
still on earth 
guarding your shadow 
Nothing 
Nothing
Nothing is like you. 

 
The Third Commandment

You shall not forget your face 
in the mirrors of others,  
as countenances, like the maps in the enemies’ hands, 
have the odor of dead people 
whose body parts were not found inspecting walls 
in the narrators’ biographies. 

As you talk with them, keep a stone 
between you and them 
so that you may leave behind them 
a trace attesting to their plot 
against your voice, 
when their shadows tilt them 
towards you on the wall. 

As though the ones who died saw them 
moving to and fro along the strangers’ bedrooms 
so that they may stay alive 
with the shrewdness of a sparrow 
between the fingers of a hunter; 
with the body 
whose parts were fascinated by it; 
with the snake’s contemplation 
of its own sin on the apple of vision; 
with what remains of regret  
that bleeds on the sides of your day;  
with what is in your palm lines
by which the morrow is made wretched;  
with the pain for which the tyrants 
fall prostrate on their faces.   

Find your last look in their mirrors, 
and come back 
with the ringing of the mirrors’ disappointment 
to the bells of the rams of the breed.  
Your wrists on your cross 
might stay sleepless if they see you rise up 
from the graves; 
and the stone tablets of commandments 
in their narrative might be brought together 
 by your standing amidst them 
like the wind above the ladders of paradise, 
higher than their betrayal of your salt  
on the way to doomsday. 
It’s not your voice that is narrating 
for them to see your eyes 
descending down the cross 
to embrace the parts of your shadow.    

It’s not your voice 
but the pain of remembrance. 

For you alone has Mariam waited 
in the words of the disobedient. 

 
The Fourth Commandment

You shall not come from where you returned, 
nor return from where you came… 

Places never forget their shadow 
save on the trace of water passing 
in the wind 
like you
Therefore, stay alone between the memories 
of two swallows 
that have awakened the air 
by knocking desperately 
on the darkness of the windows. 

You have not betrayed those homes, 
but you have not buried your old shadows 
that dried 
on the terraces with their dead 
under the rubble. 
Nor have you betrayed their residents, 
But they died so hurriedly, 
leaving the old boxes in the passage,   
as they wanted, 
so that their shoulders could be seen 
watching out for strangers, 
like you 
allowing exile to occupy your whole bed, 
and with the bafflement of the eloquent 
you narrate the story of the slain 
to a priestess 
who believes that her little bitch 
still likes my smell. 
Like you, 
their call outdoors was defenseless.  
In the past, he who did not trust their resurrection
on the crosses was blind  
like an echo and a shadow 
in the coachman’s carriages of words. 

 
The Fifth Commandment

You shall not stand in the path of the disobedient  
lest the wind settle in your shadow 
at the curve 
like the memory of offerings 
made by a nation that has vanished 
beyond the caves.  

And You shall not look at the birds 
in the cypress trees 
digging reptiles’ graves before sunset 
before the eyes of the ibex hunter, 
nor rejoice for coming close 
to the chicory growing in the planes, 
wet with the compassion of heaven’s domes... 
while your heart fails to find the grass 
on the pathway to your home. 

You shall not go after preachers  
lest Death get busy with your death,
forgetting others
Neither the land will bring you anything 
save the mud of commandments 
cast by an old messenger 
in the beds of brooklets, 
nor will heavens come back to you 
save with the paleness of your prayers 
before the belated angel 
more like the quivers of a salamander  
than his shadow, 
and then you’ll go astray 
like the color of the signs of your dead 
in the quiver of the sound. 

You shall not heed the echo in the narrators’ talk,  
for time has other names 
hanging between the wrists of so many men 
who were murdered  
but never mentioned in the chronicles 
save to drive out the double-faced 
and the masters who came from wars smiling 
with the amputated arms 
back o their kind-hearted vassals.  
You shall not mention those 
who stand at the edge of eternity 
unless to tell the tale of your nation 
thoroughly without a blemish, 
and then forget so that you may forgive 
as you wish. 
Allow anything you wish,
if you so wish, or everything 
whenever you wish, 
to bury his dead in the well of Death’s memory. 

You shall not take notice of the eloquence 
dancing in praise of the tyrants. 
Be a poet as you are 
the voice of life. 

He born 15 January 1964, he is a Palestinian poet, First Secretary of the Embassy of the State of Palestine, journalist, political analyst, film producer, winner of several literary awards, and recognized as a national Palestinian poet. He is known as one of the representatives of "the poetry of updates".

Abdulla was born in the Yarmouk Camp near Damascus in Syria. In 1984 he became the laureate of the "New Arabian poetry", and at the age of 21 he published his first collection of poems in Arabic, the Last part. From 1985-1989 he was editor of the magazine New tomorrow, becoming a laureate of the prize of the Union of writers of the Arab countries in 1986. In 1989 he moved to the Soviet Union where he began to study Russian at the preparatory courses at Moscow State University. In 1991 in Moscow he led the Palestinian Democratic Union under the direction of the Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO). From 1993 to 2003 he was the editor for cultural programs at TV and radio company "Voice of Russia". authoring programs about Russian and Arabian culture. In 1994 he was an editor of the literary magazine "Poets". In 1995 he graduated from the Maxim Gorky Literature Institute with the separation of "Poetry".

Published poetry books: Poetry 1985 – Last part (Hazi); Dead are prepared for burial (Mauta youidduna aljanaza), 1987; Alaaa (Benefit of divine) (Alaa), 1996; Ink of the first heaven (Hibr al-samaa al- ula), 1997; Rise of the fences (Kiamatu alaswar), 2000; Shepherds of the sky, the shepherds of grass (Ruaatalsamaa ruaat algufla), 2013; Father is my brothers, not a wolf (Ikhwati ya abi la alzib), 2014.