Jasmine Tears
دموع الياسمني
by Noor Ghali
Translation by the author
Jasmine Tears/دموع الياسمني resulted from the second iteration of the workshop “Carrying Ourselves Across: The Art of Self-Translation.” This workshop was designed by Megan Berkobien, a PhD student in Comparative Literature at the University of Michigan. As part of an internship at 826 Michigan, she worked with students from Ypsilanti Community High School to write and collectively translate their stories. Besides conceiving literary translation as a form of pedagogy, this workshop spotlights the cultural capital produced by those living across cultures and languages, such as English language learners, who are arguably “our world’s most frequent translators,” and yet are rarely acknowledged as such. This poem is part of the workshop's compilation, “Everything You Fight for and Gain: Stories from the Workshop Carrying Ourselves Across: The Art of Self-Translation.”
Megan Berkobien (left) with five students from the translation workshop she led at Ypsilanti Community High School.
“The task was, on the surface, a straightforward one: the student authors and translators, all English-language learners, would chronicle their experiences in one language and transpose them into another. They would carry their stories, as they had done their own bodies, into a context legible to their newly imagined audiences.”
—Megan Berkobien, ’20 PhD in Comparative Literature, University of Michigan
Jasmine Tears
دموع الياسمني
by Noor Ghali
Translation by the author
ABOUT THE POEM:
“I write in Arabic and in English and I translate my own writings into these two languages. My poem is a brief of the reality about what is going on in Syria.
This writing helps the reader to know and to visualize the bright and positive image that shows how beautiful my country was before the war and to realize how this image turned into a dark and negative picture while going through my lines.
I do that by adding more descriptive words in my writing, plus that this poem is like a mirror that reflects the reality about what has been going on then and still. I draw inspiration and ideas from my memories and experiences that I have been through.”
Michigan Quarterly Review Editor-in-Chief Khaled Mattawa and student Noor Ghali. Photo by David Hutcheson.
أنا من أرض الياسمني
حيث الحسون يغني ويرقص عىل شجرة الليمون القدمية العطرة ،
حيث رائحة الخبز وحبوب النب تفوح عرب النسيم..
أنا من سوريا
حيث الفرات و الفيجة ، العايص و بردى
أنا من بلد أوغاريت
.حيث ولدت األبجدية األوىل.
أنا من الجامع األموي والكنيسة املرميية…
أنا من بلد الحب والربكات
حيث ترشق الشمس الذهبية كل صباح مرسلة أشعة حبها لكل بيت.
حيث أطفالها يف األزقة يلعبون ويضحكون ، من مدرسة ألخرى يذهبون.
و العائالت لسوق الحميدية من محل ملحل يتسوقون, مالبس العيد يجهزون..
كم كانت جميلة بالد الشام!
كان كل يشء مثاليا و جميال حتى فجأة تحول كل يشء إىل كارثة رأسا عىل عقب
لتبدأ املأساة و تسيل دماء وطننا الثمينة و ليحصل كل عائلة منا حصتها من تلك الوحشية...
أنا من سوريا
ٍسوريا... مثانية سنوات و أكرث، من حرب مجنونة ٍ ، أنانية أد ال منطقية
ٍمثانية سنوات ُ دمرت فيه النفوس والقلوب والعقول
حرب اخرتقت األبواب خلسة فاستوطنت بيوت و أذلت أهلها
ٌ حرب أبكت جميع أمهات الوطن، و أنهكت رجاله
ٌ حرب مل تعرف البداية
ٌ حرب تحلم بالنهاية
أنا من سوريا
حيث مات طفل من الجوع ،
حيث فقدت طفلة والدتها ،
حيث األطفال يف األزقة يركضون، من القصف والدمار يهربون.
حيث تحول املقاتلون إىل قتلة...
حيث أصبحت القنابل طيور السامء...
والدماء سالت أنهار...
أنا من سوريا
حيث تحولت املباين إىل األنقاض,
واملدارس يف الحجارة وكتبها إىل رماد.
و املواطنون ينزحون ، من بلد ٍ لبد يلجئون عن مأوى آمن يبحثون .
لكن رغم ذلك ، ما زال هناك كمشة من الحب و األمل بقلوبنا يكفيان لدعمنا يف مواجهة تلك
حرسة.
ً ما زلنا نذكر جامل بالد الشام ولن ننىس أبدا السالم و الهدوء السحريني الذي شعرنا به يف أزقتها
و منازلها القدمية.
و السؤال سيبقى يف ذهوننا: موطني... هل اراك مجدداً...؟ هل أراك ساملاً منعامً و غامناً مكرماً؟
هل اراك يف عالك تبلغ السامك؟
و الجواب سيكون دامئاً نعم... نعم سرناك ... سرناك ساملاً منعامً و غامناً مكرماً...
سرناك يف عالك تبلغ السامك...
و ال بد للشمس أن ترشق بعد غروبها.
I am from the land of jasmine
that decorates every wall and each block of the neighborhood
where goldfinch birds sing and dance on the fragrant old
lemon tree,
where the aroma of Arabic bread and coffee beans wafts
through the breeze
I am from Syria
Where the Euphrates, the Asi, and the Barada rivers flow
I am from the country of Ugarit
Where the first alphabet was born.
I am from the Umayyad Mosque and the Mariamite Church.
I am from the country of love, peace, and blessings
Where the golden sun rises every morning
sending its rays of love to every family.
Where the children in the alleys play and laugh, from school to
school they go.
Where the families go to the Al_Hamidiya Souq, from shop to
shop, joyfully shopping for Eid clothes.
How beautiful was Bilad al-Sham.
Everything was perfect and beautiful until suddenly, everything
turned into an upside down disaster,
To start the tragedy, and to bring out the precious blood of
our homeland spilled, that each family will get its share of that
brutality.
I am from Syria
Eight years and more . . . of a crazy, selfish, and illogical war
Eight years in which souls, hearts, and minds have been
destroyed
A war that snuck through the doors stealthily without knocking,
to settle down in the homes and humiliate their owners
A war that brought the nation’s mothers to tears
A war that never knew its beginning . . .
I am from Syria
Where a child died of hunger,
Where a baby lost her mother,
Where the children in the alleys run,
from the bombs and destructions, they fearfully flee.
Where the fighters turned into killers.
Where the bombs became the birds of the sky,
and blood into rivers.
I am from Syria
Where the buildings turned to rubble,
and schools into stones and its books to ashes.
Where citizens migrated from country to country despairingly
looking for shelter or a safe place.
A war dreaming of its end.
Yet, there is still enough love and hope to support us in the
face of that heartbreak.
We still remember the beauty of Bilad_al Sham and we will
never forget the magical peace and calmness that we felt in its
old alleys and houses.
And the question will stay in our minds, my homeland, am I
ever going to see you again . . .?
Am I ever going to see you safe, prosperous, triumphant and
dignified?
Am I ever going to see you safe, Blessed, Victorious, and
Honored?
And the answer will always be: yes we will . . .
We will see you safe, prosperous, triumphant and dignified,
And the sun will shine and rise again after its sunset.