Amal Kassir est une poétesse bilingue syro-américaine de 20 ans. Elle est née et a grandi à Denver, CO (USA)
Étudiante universitaire, Amal travaille sur un projet , associant la psychologie de l'enfant, l'écriture et l'éducation pour élaborer des programmes d'études pour les enfants réfugiés avec traumatisme dans le cadre du développement humain et les relations familiales. Elle a présenté son projet dans 8 pays et plus de 30 villes, dans des camps de réfugiés et des centres de détention pour jeunes, lors de conférences et dans des écoles. Elle fait des ateliers avec des personnes de tous horizons et sa vision est l'autonomie des jeunes marginalisés en utilisant l'écriture comme outil d'autodétermination.
Elle
dirige un projet intitulé Plus de métaphores qui met l'accent sur
l'initiative éducative pour les enfants syriens déplacés, mais utilise
les bases pour rassembler les communautés pour toutes les conversations.
Quand elle n'étudie pas ou n'intervient pas devant un micro, elle travaille comme serveuse au restaurant syrien de sa famille.
source article: lien1
Syria - Poem by Amal Kassir
"Limbs of what was once my family lay in my arms
My throat was stolen
My blood screams
Seven generations tortured
Lord, send angel Israel to guard the souls
Let them know that they are still living
And let the living hear the anthem of something
I know my people are here
Even though I can not see my people
I can hear my people
We are speaking as one
The tyrant inside of me is ravenous
Forty-one year old rotting hands bedazzled
With rings of oil drums
And gems of blood
Grinding at my veins
I tried to keep my mouth shut
But my tongue did not have any more room
For scars
In the shape of my teeth
March 2011; we have been reborn
A social infant screaming,
‘Let us live!
We will speak until throats are raw!
Until all of Syria is in the news!'
The dates will read like obituaries
The dates are coming towards us
The dates are coming towards us
The dates
Mashaallah, where?
The dates
The dates
The dates keep coming
Then men are not moving!
Why are the men not moving?!
Why are you not moving?
Why are you not moving?
They are all lying
La ostata' an taslem! [I can not give up]
Lan taslem! [Don't give up]
You can shoot, blood, push, stab, rape, bomb, break me
I will not fall
Stalin, McCarthy, Hiroshima me
I will not fall
Lie, shackle, battle, sweatshop me
Refugee, water board, oppress me
Textbook-capture, Tutsi me
You will try to crack my rib shotgun
But the bending of my knees belongs to my Lord
Lord, allow Hades to light a fire in my chest
On days you didn't ignite the Sun
When nails are torn from bloody hands
When mother is ripped from son
When the last Damascus rose
Is stripped of all her colour
When I am left clutching out for the last mirage of a broken land
I can not fall
I. Will. Not. Fall.
There will be a time when we can eat together
When we will build homes out of abandoned tanks
Peace is a rusted recoil
We will sip from the cups made of old grenades
And shades of green are only worn by nature
There will be a time when the fences choose to sit with us
Instead of standing between us
Ameen
My throat was stolen
My blood screams
Seven generations tortured
Lord, send angel Israel to guard the souls
Let them know that they are still living
And let the living hear the anthem of something
I know my people are here
Even though I can not see my people
I can hear my people
We are speaking as one
The tyrant inside of me is ravenous
Forty-one year old rotting hands bedazzled
With rings of oil drums
And gems of blood
Grinding at my veins
I tried to keep my mouth shut
But my tongue did not have any more room
For scars
In the shape of my teeth
March 2011; we have been reborn
A social infant screaming,
‘Let us live!
We will speak until throats are raw!
Until all of Syria is in the news!'
The dates will read like obituaries
The dates are coming towards us
The dates are coming towards us
The dates
Mashaallah, where?
The dates
The dates
The dates keep coming
Then men are not moving!
Why are the men not moving?!
Why are you not moving?
Why are you not moving?
They are all lying
La ostata' an taslem! [I can not give up]
Lan taslem! [Don't give up]
You can shoot, blood, push, stab, rape, bomb, break me
I will not fall
Stalin, McCarthy, Hiroshima me
I will not fall
Lie, shackle, battle, sweatshop me
Refugee, water board, oppress me
Textbook-capture, Tutsi me
You will try to crack my rib shotgun
But the bending of my knees belongs to my Lord
Lord, allow Hades to light a fire in my chest
On days you didn't ignite the Sun
When nails are torn from bloody hands
When mother is ripped from son
When the last Damascus rose
Is stripped of all her colour
When I am left clutching out for the last mirage of a broken land
I can not fall
I. Will. Not. Fall.
There will be a time when we can eat together
When we will build homes out of abandoned tanks
Peace is a rusted recoil
We will sip from the cups made of old grenades
And shades of green are only worn by nature
There will be a time when the fences choose to sit with us
Instead of standing between us
Ameen
Aucun commentaire:
Enregistrer un commentaire