An Oriental
Tapestry
Renewal
of the Pledge
I
stand trembling among the
frenzied millions,
loosened in the glittering streets of a festive Damascus -
streets already cluttered with
colored
signposts,
flags,
photos of you, sir,
and
banners.
(Thousands
upon thousands of eloquent,
and downright mediocre-sounding
banners.)
I stand quivering and alone among these
millions,
frenzied
by fear and sycophancy,
let’s be honest, sir,
rather than
love.
(For that has long indeed
become our historical trademark, hasn’t it?)
I stand shuddering, sir, shuddering
among the millions
paving,
with their
oscillating
haggard-looking
bodies,
your way
to a rather dubious form of glory and fame.
Renewing their pledge
to you, sir, to you,
(for
ours is still a time
when
an entire nation is still required,
and
still quite willing, in fact, sir,
in spite of the shame of it, sir,
in spite of the shame,
to pledge
herself, her whole self,
for the well-being
of a single man.)
Declaring their wish for a
“fifth
springtime,”
under
your auspicious,
if not always successful,
command –
(a
springtime which had always,
in our rather extraordinary case, sir,
had more power to mortify
rather than
resurrect.)
Avowing, quite sincerely, sir,
oh yes, quite sincerely,
if you could believe that, sir,
if
you can really believe that,
to protect you, sir,
to protect you,
to fend for you,
with their very blood and soul,
if necessary,
with their very blood and
soul.
(like
the rest of your obedient flock, their not-so-beloved compatriots,
still
entombed, at the moment, in their homes,
awaiting
their turn
to
be dug out.)
So that you
should be
the only one
left, sir,
one eventual eye-opening day,
standing
alone
in the country,
in your palace
on
top of the Mount,
where you think you can oversee everything,
a solitary symbol,
(but
of what?)
a leader of corpses,
a president
of a cemetery,
(assuming that you aren’t
already,)
full of dead and buried hopes, not to mention men,
which is indeed your just due, sir,
which is indeed your just due.
I stand shivering
among the millions, sir.
I stand alone. All alone.
For someone, sir,
someone,
no matter how humble and
insignificant,
no
matter how young and foolish,
no matter how wrong he could otherwise be,
has to save
the face of this putrefying
Nation
that is Syria, sir,
that is my home –
my bittersweet,
un-welcoming,
un-dignifying,
and downright
reluctant
home.
Notes
Written on February 3, 1999, amidst the
organized celebrations taken place on the
occasion of the upcoming presidential referendum, which was initially scheduled to occur
on February 8, and was later postponed until February 11 for coinciding with the late King
Hussein’s funeral. Unsurprisingly
in this authoritarian country, the whole referendum is a formality, the
outcome is known a priori to every Syrian and Arab citizen and every
observer of Syrian politics
|