Oh Warrior of My Sacred Land
Oh warrior of my sacred land
the gun you bear on your shoulder
has neither eyes nor feet.
It steals your eyes to watch my step
it steals your feet to track me,
to blast a hole through my chest,
to hear my dying cry with your ears.
Oh warrior of my sacred land
this gun you bear on your shoulder
is it crippled, deaf and blind?
Has it shed its eyes, ears and feet
to take yours in their place?
You may know nothing about this gun -
but I know that our mutual enemy
schemes in a land far away.
He schemes for us to destroy our brothers,
to smash each other's jaws with brutal force
while he is safely out of reach.
He wants to mix our blood with soil
while his blood stays unspilt.
He wants us to freeze each night on the front
while he stays warm by a fire.
This is how our enemy schemes:
leaving his body at home like a shirt
he comes to our land in the form of a gun.
Oh warrior of my sacred land
when this sinister, limbless enemy
comes to our land in the form of a gun
he doesn't come alone, but in hordes
exceeding the headcount of this land,
each gun roaming and shooting ceaselessly:
not one with a bone that could break,
not one with skin that could burn,
not one with veins that could rip,
not one with blood that could spill.
All its limbs are safe at home
and instead it uses our limbs here.
One gun pursues me with your feet,
another marks you with my eyes,
a third lies on another man's shoulder -
just as this gun lies on yours.
All of its limbs left at home,
it came with only its mouth.
The shoulder is yours but the mouth is his -
a toothless mouth that speaks in bullets.
But when a bullet pierces a man
he doesn't see that gun's toothless mouth;
instead it's your shoulder, your hand he sees,
he takes you for his enemy, not the gun:
and he seeks revenge from you.
Oh warrior of my sacred land
the gun you bear on your shoulder -
how much blood has it spilt on our land
and never been called to account?
You alone are blamed for this blood
and revenge is sought from you
as they hoist another gun to their shoulder
aiming the bullet from its mouth at your heart.
Oh you who crave the crown,
one day this bullet will piece your heart
you’re edging closer to a coffin than a throne -
take care and think again
before the enemy hurls you in a grave.
To save yourself from this dark fate
you must know the enemy who plots your end.
I am your brother: our mutual enemy
lies on your shoulder, crippled, deaf and blind.
It watches my footsteps with your eyes,
it pursues me with your feet
to blast a hole through my chest
and to hear my dying screams with your ears.
6th December, 2001
Oh Warrior of My Sacred Land
Oh warrior of my sacred land
The gun that lies on your shoulder
This gun neither has eye nor a foot/leg
It sees my steps through your eyes.
It searches and follows me through your feet/legs
In order to make a hole in my chest
And listen to my heated cry through your ears.
Oh warrior of my sacred land
The gun that lies on your shoulder
Is this gun really that crippled?
Deaf and blind?
Or it has left its eyes, feet/legs and ears somewhere else?
Instead, it uses limbs of your body.
Oh warrior of my sacred land
The gun that lies on your shoulder
You might not know well this gun.
But I know
my enemy an your enemy/our mutual enemy is sitting somewhere far away.
He wants to fight us in a manner
to break our jaw with a heavy blow.
While he (our mutual enemy) is safe from the reach of our thrust,
He wants to mix our blood with soil
But (he wants) his blood remains safe in his veins
He wants that we spent our nights in a freezing front
But he remains seated beside the warmth of fireplace
With this in mind, our enemy prepares
He leaves his body at home like a shirt
But come to our land in the shape of a gun.
Oh warrior of my sacred land
When this limbless, black/dark enemy
Comes in the shape of a gun to our land
It doesn't come as one or two or four / alone
Their number is greater than the population of this land
Each one of them wanders around and fights fearlessly
It doesn't bring a bone with it that would break
It doesn’t have any skin or flesh that would hurt
It doesn't have any vein that would be cut
It doesn't have any blood that would spell.
All of its limbs are safe at home.
It uses our limbs here
One of them searches for me through your feet/legs
The other looks at you with my eyes
The third rests on the shoulder of another one (of us)
in the same way as this gun lies on your shoulder.
It has left all of its limbs at its home
Except its mouth, that it brought with it here
The shoulder is yours but it is his mouth that operates
This mouth doesn't have any teeth
It speaks the language of bullets
When the bullet pierces through someone's body
He doesn't look at its toothless mouth
He sees your shoulder and hand
He considers you, not him as the enemy
He wants to take revenge of his blood from you.
Oh warrior of my sacred land
The gun that lies on your shoulder
How much blood has it shed in our land?
But no one has demanded it to compensate for the blood it has shed.
You are responsible for this blood.
People will take revenge from you,
By allowing another gun from their shoulder,
to direct its mouth and bullet
towards your chest and heart.
This bullet will eventually reach your chest.
OH you who is fond of the throne/power,
You are getting closer to coffin than throne.
Be careful and think of yourself
Before your enemy throws you away into the dark grave
save yourself from such a dark fate/end
Find out / Know who your real enemy is.
and who is pushing you towards the dark grave?
Believe me, I am not your enemy
I am your brother
Our common/mutual enemy is the gun that lies on your shoulder,
which is deaf, blind and crippled.
It sees my footsteps through your eyes.
It follows me through your feet.
(in order) to make a hole in my chest with a bullet
and listen to my heated cry with your ears.
This brilliant, powerful poem was a real delight to translate, especially since – for the first time in five years – we were able to welcome back leading broadcaster Dawood Azami, one of the BBC World Service’s finest correspondents.
‘Oh Warrior of My Sacred Land’ was written by Durrani on 6th December 2001, only weeks after the US and Coalition forces entered Afghanistan, ostensibly in response to the events of 11th September. In the poem, Durrani asks his people to recognise that they are being manipulated by foreigners who foment unrest and flood the country with guns.
As usual with translations, it was the tiny details we grappled with. For example, we chose to go with ‘mutual enemy’ rather than the more usual ‘common enemy’ because of the echoes of Dickens’s Our Mutual Friend and the irony that brought.
We were really impressed with the way in which Durrani, by personifying guns and saying how these inanimate objects steal the human agency of those conned into using them to wreak havoc on their brothers. A deceptively simple poem with a powerful, resonant message.
Sarah Maguire, Workshop Facilitator