Like
others in my hometown© 1991 George Azar / University of California Press
Hamza
Like
others in my hometown
the salt of the earth
who toil with their hands for their bread
Hamza was a simple man.
When we met that day
this land had been a harvest of flames
in a windless hush it had sunk
in a cloak of barren grief.
I had been swept by the daze of defeat.
Hamza said,
"This land, my sister, has a fertile heart
it throbs, doesn't wither, endures
for the secret of hills and wombs
is one
this earth that sprouts with spikes and palms
is the same that gives birth to a warrior.
This land, my sister, is a woman,"
he said.
Days passed I did not see
Hamza
however, I could feel
that the belly of the land was heaving
in travail.
Hamza
was sixty-five
a burden deaf like a rock
saddled on his back.
"Demolish his house"
a command was ordained
"and tie his son in a cell"
the military ruler of our town later explained
the need for law and order
in the name of love and peace.
Armed soldiers rounded the courtyard of his home
a serpent coiled in full circle
the banging at the door reverberated
the order "evacuate"
and generous they were with time
"in an hour or so."
Hamza opened the window
looking the sun in the eye
he howled,
"this house, my children
and I
shall live and die
for Palestine."
The echo of Hamza propelled a tremor in the nerve of town
A solemn silence fell.
In an hour the house burst apart
its rooms blew up to pieces in the sky
collapsed in a pile of stones burying
past dreams and a warmth that is no more
memories of a lifetime
of labor, of tears, of some
happy day.
Yesterday I saw
Hamza
he was walking down a street in town
as ever simple as he was and assured
as ever dignified.
by
Fadwa Tuqan
Introductory Text | The Underground | Bethlehem | Via Delarosa | Ramallah | Gaza | Home Demolition | Hamza | Flag over Beita
© 1991 George Azar / University of California Press
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