as blahaj.zone and lemmy.blahaj.zone run on different servers, and both were unreachable at the time of my op, i really meant dead, not down
Is blahaj.zone dead?
not only its sharkey instance seems to be affected, but also its lemmy instance ...
The Journal of Palestine Studies presents an original translation of a 1981 article by Yugoslav anthropologist Nina Seferović (1947–1991) on “Bushnaqs”–Palestinians whose ancestors hail from the territory of present-day Bosnia-Herzegovina. Seferović describes the circumstances of the Bushnaqs’ departure in the late nineteenth century; the distinct community they founded in the village of Caesarea near Haifa; and their assimilation into the Palestinian nation. This study is a contribution to the social history of Palestine that raises productive questions about the legacies of the Non-Aligned Movement and about the role of race and temporality in framing such categories as settler and native in the broader examination of settler colonialism.
from the article:
From the Popol Vuh, or National Quiché History
[Excerpt from Part II]
“Brother, the bats have stopped moving. It looks like the sun has begun to rise,” said Ixbalanqué to Hunahpú.
“Perhaps. I am not sure,” answered Hunahpú, “Let me look…”
And when Hunapú stuck out his head, to see if dawn was breaking, Camazotz cut it off at the neck with a single blow.
“Hunahpú, is it morning yet?” Ixbalanqué asked. And when his brother did not reply, he yelled out, “Hunahpú! Where are you?”
Then Ixbalanqué understood the silence. […]
100 Refutations: Day 72 | InTranslation
The Popol Vuh is a collection of mythic, legendary, and historical narratives from the K’iche Maya people, whose current descendants live primarily in Guatemala and the Mexican southwest. It is often referred to as both a historical account and sacred book. It has no single author and may be one of the most important documents to survive colonial cultural eradication efforts. Current copies of the Popol Vuh are taken from the transcription made by Fray Francisco Ximénez and, it has been theorized, an unknown native man who learned the Latin alphabet and then transcribed it from the recitation of an old Maya man.
The edge of descent - Asmaa Dwaima
I stand at the edge of life / thin, like a knife / swinging between / present and past.
A Turkish court ruled on Tuesday to release Kurdish poet İlhan Sami Çomak after he spent more than 30 years in prison on unproven charges, making him one of Turkey’s longest-serving political prisoners.
about us hums / a mythical insect / a God
from the article:
I, Who Am Ignorant
I, who am ignorant Need to know If white is virtue true So I can go and bleach my skin
Asks this question, a loyal man Because he needs to know If the black man should not be baptized In the baptismal font
If there is yet another more pure
Going forward, going back Prettier, shinier Where the white man is dipped Will someone tell it straight For I, who am ignorant
Two men and one woman From whom we all descend While only the black man With disdain ought to be faced
The same blood it must be Though the black man alone Is placed forever Separate
If the black man is not baptized I need to know Black was St. Benedictine Black his paintings too And in the Holy Scripture I have never seen a single word writ in white ink
Black were the nails driven through the Christ’s hands Died, he, upon the holy cross Is it possible then, that down he came Not to suffer for the white man’s sins Only this way will I know If the color white is virtue true
When we have to account To my God for every deed How will the black man atone For the white man’s sins
If the black man is then found Without a crime for which to pay Will they say that it’s not true That the white man has no sentence That it’s all been misconstrued So that then I may go and bleach my skin
100 Refutations: Day 71 | InTranslation
Manuel Saturio Valencia Mena (1867-1907) was a teacher, a poet, a popular leader from the Chocó region, and the very last man officially sentenced to death in Colombia. As a child, he participated in the parochial choir and learned both French and Latin under the tutelage of the Capuchin priests. He was an exceptional student and the first black man accepted to Cauca University’s law program. He earned the rank of captain while fighting in La Guerra De Los Mil Dias. He was a lifelong autodidact and served in many important positions in the region. In 1907, he was framed for arson—for likely political reasons—and, after a six-day trial, he was executed by firing squad.
New Poetry in Translation: Ibrahim Nasrallah’s ‘Mary of Gaza’
The new poem “Mary of Gaza” was composed by Ibrahim Nasrallah. The English translation is by Huda Fakhreddine.
from the article:
Every time…
Every time I lift my foot, every time I lift my hand, I shake my tail. I listen to your voice come from very far. I am almost asleep: I look for a fallen tree to crawl inside, and sleep. My skin, my foot, my hand, my ears are scratched.
100 Refutations: Day 70 | InTranslation
This poem is believed to be a festive poem for children with religious connotations. It was originally collected by Phillip and Mary Baer from the Lacandon people of the Pelhá region.
In advance of READ PALESTINE WEEK 2024, Publishers for Palestine is releasing a digital chapbook and abbreviated zine version of And Still We Write: Recent Work by Palestinian Poets & Actions Y…
In advance of READ PALESTINE WEEK 2024, Publishers for Palestine is releasing a digital chapbook and abbreviated zine version of And Still We Write: Recent Work by Palestinian Poets & Actions You Can Take to Stop Genocide Now.
From the introduction:
“These poems and reflections do not exist separately from their authors, nor from the place and time in which they were composed. They are not here for passive reading. And so, at the end of this collection, we leave you with suggested actions. As poet Rasha Abdulhadi has written:
‘Wherever you are, whatever sand you can throw on the gears of genocide, do it now.’”
With poetry and prose by: Mohamed Al-Zaqzouq, Heba Al-Agha, Nasser Rabah, Samer Abu Hawash, Mahmoud Al-Shaer, Esam Hajjaj, Basman Aldirawi, Doha Kahlout, and more.
Also: On December 1, Publishers for Palestine member Radical Books Collective will host an online discussion of And Still We Write and Isabella Hammad’s Recognizing the Stranger.
from the article:
Return to the Countryside
Women pounded the grain for a vegetable stew
night was imminent they had to hurry because lanterns were forbidden
when the gong called for dinner the soldiers did not share the meal with the peasants
the next morning half of them had denounced their parents the other half wore posters on their bodies condemned to certain death
the order was to climb the mountain to live up in the heights among the lowliest but the sky answered with floods
so they returned to the cities looking for carrion
that was my army ravenous crows
Rationing
In the line a woman shouts there’s flour
I think of warm biscuits
Soon I hear only rice is left but my happiness is futile
They’re bringing sugar Oh! miracle I will wait I hear words ricochet the sugar is gone
The line begins to disperse
I persist eventually they will bring something finally a hand offers me a chicken I leave with my treasure
In a bookstore nearby a friend has the nerve to read me a long poem the poet doesn’t know why I flee such an ordinary goodbye fills me with guilt
You must live in a country with hunger to understand how a poem’s symmetry can be broken by the slow drip of guts and blood
100 Refutations: Day 69 | InTranslation
María Teresa Ogliastri was born in Los Teques, Venezuela, and lives in Caracas. She is the author of five collections of poetry: Del diario de la señora Mao (From the Diary of Madame Mao, 2011); Polo Sur (South Pole, 2008); Brotes de Alfalfa (Alfalfa Sprouts, 2007); Nosotros los inmortales (We, the Immortals, 1997); and Cola de Plata (Silver Tail, 1994). She has been featured at poetry festivals throughout Latin America, and her poems appear in several anthologies of contemporary Venezuelan poetry. She is a professor of philosophy at the Central University of Venezuela.
Translation of an oral transmission between a mother and daughter. Originally narrated by Yanina Koubatski. Translated, from the Palestinian Arabic, by Reem Hazboun Taşyakan Chrisho, my daughter, I’m going to tell you about what happened to me, but this …
from the article:
Like Coal
And then you were born, girl with eyes so black. Black as the coal your father burns, like your mother’s skillet, like the burnt underside of her comal.
Like the eye of the well shot through by darkness.
100 Refutations: Day 68 | InTranslation
Briceida Cuevas Cob was born in Tepakán, Campeche, Mexico. From 1992 to 1994, she was part of the Maya poetry workshop in the Casa de Cultura de Caliní run by Walderman Noh Tzec. Her work has been widely published and anthologized. She has also been the recipient of numerous awards and scholarships, and in 2010 she became Artistic Creator in the Sistema Nacional de Creadores de Arte.
Existence – Fadwa Tuqan
In solitary life, I was a lost question;
In the encompassing darkness,
my answer was concealed.
You were a bright new star radiating light from the darkness of the unknown, revealed by fate.
The other stars rotated around you —once, twice — until it came to me, your unique radiance.
Then the bleak blackness broke And in the matching tremors of our two hands I found my missing answer.
Oh you! Oh you intimate, yet distant! Don’t you remember the coalescence Of your spirit in flames? Of my universe with yours? Of the two poets? Despite our great distance, Existence unites us – Existence! _______________________
source: https://www.amust.com.au/2017/11/fadwa-tuqan-the-poet-of-palestine/
translated by Michael R Burch
biobibliographical note: Fadwa Tuqan became the Grand Dame of Palestinian letters, and was also known as ‘The Poet of Palestine.’ She is considered to be one of the very best contemporary Arab poets.
from the article:
Retelling of the Flood Caused by the Mapocho River in the City of Santiago de Chile
“On June 16, 1783 the effects of torrential rains caused the river Mapocho in Santiago, Chile to flood its banks. At the time the small community of Carmelite nuns resided in their cloistered convent next to the river. The rains started in May, but became a deluge in early June and by the time of the great flood, it had poured for 209 hours straight. The nuns would have drowned, had it not been for some neighbors who broke a hole in one of the walls, leading twenty-eight women to safety. Sor Tadea de San Joaquín, a nun from the Carmelite Convent of San Rafael, retells their story in a 516-versed romance [ballad], wherein Sor Tadea affirms that it was God’s will that the nuns be saved by the three men (she does not leave out the ironic detail that they had to be sobornados (bribed).”
– Sarah E. Owens, Travels, Natural Disasters, and the Texts of Cloistered Nuns: A Case from Colonial Chile
100 Refutations: Day 67 | InTranslation
Sor Tadea de San Joaquín (1750-1827) was a Catholic nun and writer during the Chilean colonial period. She is regarded as the first woman poet of Chile.
A Vision – Adonis
Its grave is my home, and I’m an exile.” Our city fled, And I saw my feet transform Into a river overflowing with blood, Into ships growing distant, expanding, And I saw my drowned shores seducing ... Our city fled, And refusal is a crushed pearl Whose powder anchors my ships, And refusal is a…
Our city fled, And I saw my feet transform Into a river overflowing with blood, Into ships growing distant, expanding, And I saw my drowned shores seducing ... Our city fled, And refusal is a crushed pearl Whose powder anchors my ships, And refusal is a…
from the article:
Indigenous Identity
Identity, it is not in my hair It is not in my face Reflecting in the mirror. Identity is not something to see, It has no form, it has no color But delicate like a flower it is Identity lies within the speaking force In the profundity of a look In the singularity of my place Identity is open hands and share Feel the earth’s echoes and Love and peace at heart. Identity is open arms and receive The brotherly affirmation. Identity is Union!
100 Refutations: Day 66 | InTranslation
Márcia Wayna Kambeba is a member of the Omágua/Kambeba indigenous community in the Brazilian Amazon. She has a master’s degree in geography and is a writer, poet, composer, singer, storyteller, photographer, teacher, and lecturer. She is currently working on a project that combines literary and musical compositions to portray the resistance, culture, and identity of indigenous peoples. She lives in Castanhal, Pará in Brazil.
In 1960, the Syrian Lebanese poet Adonis published his prose poem manifesto and the Lebanese poet Unsi al-Hajj published his collection Lan (Won’t) with its seminal introduction theorising for the …
In 1960, the Syrian Lebanese poet Adonis published his prose poem manifesto and the Lebanese poet Unsi al-Hajj published his collection Lan (Won’t) with its seminal introduction theorising for the possibilities of poetry in prose. These are two theoretical cornerstones that launched the prose poem in Arabic. They are the first instances of using the Arabic term qaṣīdat al-nathr (prose poem) and by that announcing the entrance of the phrase into Arabic as a ‘simple abstraction.’
from the article:
The Man
When encircled by a thirst of soul man, a desert traveler, wishes to gather armfuls of laurels, having reached the gates of glory; “Stop right here,” however, he says to the woman… Returning, then, to his march, if he feels himself waver, and lose his valor, “Come, come,” he tells her, “You are my partner in the hours of combat and agony…”
100 Refutations: Day 65 | InTranslation
Adela Zamudio (1854-1928) was a highly intellectual Bolivian writer, feminist, and educator. She wrote verses from her adolescence under the nom de plume “Soledad” and lived her entire life in the city of Cochabamba, dedicated completely to education and literature. She was a formidable debater, using her talents often to defend the rights of women in the official debates of her time. According to her biography in the Antología de la Poesía Hispanoamericana (1965), in 1926 she was officially crowned for the government of her country. She is credited with beginning Bolivia's feminist movement and remains one of its most famous poets.
Nakba – Sheikha Hlewa
My mother is three years younger than Nakba. But she doesn’t believe in great powers. Twice a day she brings God down from his throne then reconciles with him through the mediation of the best recorded Quranic recitations. And she can’t bear meek women. She never once mentioned Nakba. Had Nakba been her neighbor, my mom would’ve shamelessly chided her: “I’m sick of the clothes on my back.” And had Nakba been her older sister, she would’ve courted her with a dish of khubaizeh, but if her sister whined too much, my mom would tell her: “Enough. You’re boring holes in my brain. Maybe we shouldn’t visit for a while?” And had Nakba been an old friend, my mom would tolerate her idiocy until she died, then imprison her in a young picture up on the wall of the departed, a kind of cleansing ritual before she’d sit to watch dubbed Turkish soap operas. And had Nakba been an elderly Jewish woman that my mom had to care for on Sabbath, my mom would teasingly tell her in cute Hebrew: “You hussy, you still got a feel for it, don’t you?” And had Nakba been younger than my mom, she’d spit in her face and say: “Rein in your kids, get’em inside, you drifter.”
—Haifa ________________________
source: https://internationaleonline.org/ca/contributions/we-have-been-here-forever-palestinian-poets-write-back/ tr.: Fady Joudah
biobibliographical note: Hlewa is an award winning writer living in Haifa, and little known outside of Palestine. This is often the fate of Palestinian writers writing in Arabic and living within the 1948 borders of the settler state. Like my experience with my own family, the Arab literary scene has been historically cut off from Palestinians who never left the homeland. I first encountered this poem through the translation here by award winning Palestinian-American poet, translator, and medical doctor Fady Joudah. In addition to being a most sensitive Palestinian poet writing in English, Joudah is a committed curator and translator of Palestinian and Syrian poets, and his work has introduced me to many writers that I would consequently begin to read and to follow.
from the article:
Foolish Men
Foolish men, eagerly accusing women without cause, seeing not that from you springs the very same, those very flaws;
If readily you do invite them to happily disdain you, how do you want them well behaved if toward evil you’ll incite them?
[…]
What temper could be stranger? Than that of he who, lacking counsel, fogs the mirror with his breath and then whines at blurred reflection?
[…]
How can she, who for your love longs, keep her wits and keep her center if she who doesn’t is a prude and offends and she who does is a slut and angers?
Though between the anger and the insult by all your liking forged, if there still be one who doesn’t want you, then joyous hour for complaint.
Your lovers hang sorrows on liberty’s wings for, after making them bad, you wish to find them good.
Whom, then, has sinned more in mistaken passion: she who falls to his begging? Or he who, fallen, begs her?
Or who has greater blame, though in any blame you’ll find, she who sins for pay or he who pays to sin?
How are you then startled to find guilt there in your heart? Love them as you make them. Or make them as you wish.
[…]
Now, with all my weapons your arrogance I battle, for in promise and petition you join devil, flesh, and world.
from the article:
Prayer to the Moon
Moon, lead to me a woman to be my wife. Lead her to me, oh moon. Moon, a horse, lead to me also. Moon, lead to me, a tiger.
from the article:
To Live and Die
Smoke and nothingness, the breath of being: Flower, man, and bird die too as love runs to forgetful seas and pleasure flees to a burial of brevity.
Where are yesterday’s lights? All splendors have their dusk, behind liquor hides all bitterness, and everything is rectified by the evil of being born.
Who laughed without first, in pain, moaning pleasure, sweet suffering? Crazy and vain, the passion of feeling!
Vain and crazy, I long for thought! What is it to live? To dream without sleeping. What is it to die? To sleep without dreaming.
from the article:
Neurosis
You do know that the spirit is an abyss and the heart an ocean: That this is how I can carry within me one infinity, and also the other.
My nerve endings, a living harp, hang from the branches of my frame of forest flesh, letting out a whimper as—across the strings— tiptoes the storm.
from the article:
Excerpt from Relaciones, or Anales
Here is the water and the hill, here the altar of jade, Amaquemecan—Chalco in the place of renown in the place that is example, near the fields of reeds, at the edge of the forest, in the nearness of snow, where they say Poyauhtlan,
[…]
in the garden of flowers, in the garden of mists, where lives the white quail, where curls the snake, near the dwelling of tigers, in Tamoanchan, in the place of our beginning, where flowers rise… Here they came to settle the lords Chichimecas, the priests, the princes…
from the article:
Defeated
We can give up.
It matters not to surrender in silence, if the drums of vengeance echo from afar.
Sign of the Times
Nouns, pronouns, articles… prefixes of the quotidian, suffixes of the allowed. Verbs to regulate conduct and adjectives to qualify injustice.
Nouns, pronouns, articles… exact forms, easy to invert.
The letter, occasionally freed, rebels. And adds, but, also divides.
The word is cursed. It is the sign of the times.
from the article:
For Haiti
Oh, my poor island, victim of hopeless hopes, On the other side of the ocean, tempest and wind, I think of your misfortune and hold for you, within my soul, A dream for happier things. All the while they slander you,
Your daughter in the shade of an absent sun From the great sea where a red sky bursts in laughter, Guiding you to the other side of tempest and wind, This memory as deep as the shadow of your verse.
from the article:
We Came to Dream
Thus spoke Tochihuitzin, Thus spoke Coyolchiuhqui: ****Perhaps we left the dream ****we only came to dream, ****it is not true, it is not true, ****that we came to live upon the earth. ****Like a weed is spring ****in our being. ****Our heart bears, makes sprout ****flowers from our flesh. ****Some part their petals, ****then wither. Thus spoke Tochihuitzin.
from the article:
In Waters of Darkness
Breaking ship and shore it plunges deep. Giving of itself what the self is unable to give. Shipwrecked heart: you unleash storm clouds and you drag drown bleakly the High Heavens.
Cihuateteo¹
Her body’s indigo flakes away but red remains the cinnabar of her headdress, mineral wax on her eyelids, a serpent coiled around her waist, a resin brazier, her half-open lips …desire still remains.
¹Nahuatl word meaning “Divine Women.” In Aztec mythology, the souls of women who died in childbirth became these spirits who accompanied the setting sun.
from the article:
Footprints
Like the wind stirring up what has been lost… I return to look for them to no avail: dismembered, they left with the echo of the world Misplaced, abandoned, bewitched to the beat of “New York, New York” Scattered leaves, pigeon droppings they let their owner loose to raindrops Meanwhile, the ocean drinks up my groove, my recollections, splashing the shifting of memory: “Blowing in the wind” Bob Dylan is singing.
from the article:
The Creation of the Uinal [Excerpt]
This is the song of how the Uinal was created before the world was created, before dawn. […] Before the first awakening of the first world, the Uinal was born. Then, he began to walk, all on his own, in the company of his maternal grandmother, of his maternal aunt, of his sister-in-law. And the women said, “What shall we say, when we come upon tracks on the road?” In this way, they spoke, before man existed. While they walked along together. Then they arrived there, at the East, and found tracks upon the road. “Who has tread here?” they asked themselves. “We shall measure these tracks with our own feet,” they added. And they measured God’s footsteps, which is why they called the count of the world’s cycle Lahca 12 Oc (the day: young sun, son and nephew of moon). The measurement was taken when they’d gathered their feet precisely so, and then they left, from the East.