يوميات حلب Aleppo Diary

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يوميات حلب

(1)

الكتابة ألم.

والدم الذي ينقط على الشاشة يلوث المشهد ويترك على الكنبة مايشبه بقع القهوة الجافة نلمسها بأصابع مرتجفة كي لا تنتقل الينا العدوى

نستند بظهور مكسورة كأننا ذاهبون الى الجحيم بعيون مغبشة بالاحمر الداكن.. لكنه بنيٌّ أيضاً ويترك على الروح مايشبه الصدأ

نمسح على الرؤوس الهرمة ونهرب من لفظها ثم نلعق الملح الذي يسيل من العيون.

الذين يزحفون من طرف الشارع الى طرف الشاشة يتركون على الاسفلت أثراً أخضراً سرعان ما يكبر مثل سياج من الحبق، يرموننا بوردة ويموتون على عجل كي لانخجل منا

... اخلعْ نعليك الآن وامشِ على قطع الزجاج.. إنك في الوادي المقدس.

(2)

"رفاق القراءة نائمون.

تتجول وحيداً بين رفوف المكتبة

دون إشارات تدل على المخرج.

الأنين على اليمين من الرف الثالث

فصل كامل مطرود من الرواية،

والضحك عنوان مأساوي

لكتاب في الفلسفة.

تسيل السياسة كالمخاط من رف لآخر

لا وقت للملاحم

لكتاب الإمتاع والمؤانسة

حيث ماتشادو يدفع الغلاف المقوى برفق

كي لاتسقط الصحون

نحن أشبه ما نكون بمسودات الكتب

مليئين بالمقاطع التي تحتاج الى تنقيح"

(3)

على شرفة البيت أجلس، حلب أمامي سوداء وموحشة، قرقعة صحون في العتمة تعني ان ثمة حياة تحدث على طاولة. لا نأمة سوى رشقات رصاص متقطعة من مكان ما وقذيفة واحدة يسبقها صفير غريب... ثمة من يترك الان هذا الكوكب بحلق جاف.

حلب أمامي سوداء وساكنة، الظلال العملاقة هذه ربما لأشجار ربما لغيلان قادمة من حكايات بعيدة في الطفولة ربما هو بخار اسود تنفثنه الآن نساء ينتظرن اولاداً صاروا أرقاماً في نشرة الاخبار

حلب.. لا نقرة عود.. لا قدٌ يميس.. لا كأس في "العندليب"* .. لا ندامى .. ولاغناء

واحداً فواحداً

يستيقظون،

وحوش العتمة

(4)

مارينا شحوارو

أنا مارينا قسطنطين

أرملة الخوري جورج شحوارو

ورفيقة مارسيل في الطريق - متأخرين- الى البيت

المزودة بأسرار الكنيسة المقدسة

وحبات الكرز في قعر كأس العنبرية

المشغولة بالضحك في الخمسين

وعقصات الشعر الضائعة في الجوارير

أنا مارينا

العائدة من الكارلتون

حيث الحياة تتشبث في الموسيقى

وتتصلب كشجرة الصمغ

على راحتي

أرش الملح

وأنا أعلم ان المائدة لن تفسد

وأغمس إصبعي في النبيذ ليفرح القلب

أنا مارينا

التي شمت في المنعطف الخطأ

رائحة الخوف تنز من القبضات العرقانة

وتخترق الهواء كمعدن رصاصي

قبل أن تغيب القلعة في قبعة الساحر

أنا مارينا

التي لم تعلم أنها ماتت

الا حينما أصغت مع الآلاف الذين يرتدون الابيض ويلوحون بالورد

الى صوت الكاهن في كنيسة النبي الياس :

يا أحبائي

لنردد جميعا بين يدي الرب

وبقلب خاشع

لراحة نفس ابنتنا.. حاملة الإكليل الى الذي في السموات......

........

الفااااااااتحة.

*العندليب: بار شعبي في حلب يرتاده كتاب وفنانون

Aleppo Diary

Writing is pain.

And the blood that drips down the screen pollutes the atmosphere

staining the couch with what looks like dried coffee, which we touch with trembling fingers so we don't get infected.

We manage with broken backs as if going to hell seeing dark red - no, brown as well - which deposits a residue like rust in the soul.

We stroke their old heads then turn aside to lick away the tears.

Those who crawl from street to screen leave green traces on the asphalt that spring into bushes of basil; they toss us a flower and die in haste to spare our shame.

Now you've entered the sacred valley, take off your shoes and walk on broken glass.

The comrades in reading have fallen asleep.

You wander alone through the book stacks

with no sign of an exit.

From the third shelf on the right comes a groan -

a whole chapter expelled from a novel.

Laughter the tragic title

for a book of philiosophy.

Politics flows like phlegm from one shelf to another.

There is no time for epic

for The Book of Delight and Intimacy

as Machado eases open the book covers

gently, so as not to disturb the ornaments.

We are the proofs of books

full of paragraphs in need of revision.

I sit on the balcony. Aleppo spread before me black and deserted. The clatter of crockery in the dark means life goes on. No sound save sporadic gunfire from somewhere, then a single shell preceded by a peculiar whistle. Someone is leaving this planet with a dry throat. Aleppo before me black and still. These huge shadows might be trees or childhood goblins or black vapours exhaled by women waiting for children who are already numbers in a news report.

Aleppo. No oud plucked. No 'Swaying Silhouette'. No drinks in The Nightingale. No drinkers. No song.

One by one

they awaken

the beasts of darkness.

Marina Shihwaro

I am Marina Constantine

widow of the priest George Shihwaro

companion of Marcel as we walk, late at night, to our home;

I am she, endowed with secrets of the holy church,

with cherries at the bottom of a glass of liqueur,

busy with laughter at the age of fifty,

hair braids forgotten in an old chest of drawers.

I am Marina

returning from the Carlton

where life clings to music

and thickens like frankincense

Freely

I scatter salt

even though I know that meat will not spoil

I dip a finger in wine to rejoice my heart.

I am Marina

who, at the wrong turn, smelled

the odour of fear exuding from sweating fists

piercing the air like lead

before the Citadel vanished in a magician's hat

I am Marina

who did not know she had died

until, alongside the thousands bearing roses wearing white,

she heard

the words of the priest in the church of Prophet Ilyas:

O dearly beloved,

in God's hands and with humble hearts

let us pray:

May the soul of our daughter

who ascends with the crown to our Lord in Heaven

rest in peace.

…

Al-Fatihah.

Aleppo Diary

Writing is pain.

And the blood that sprinkles on the screen stains the scene and leaves on the couch what resembles spots of dried coffee which we touch with trembling fingers so that the infection will not come near us.

We recline with broken backs as if going to hell with eyes blurred a dark red.. yet it is brown as well and leaves in the soul what resembles rust.

We wipe the aged heads and escape pronouncing it, then lick at the salt flowing from our eyes.

Those who crawl from street to screen leave green traces on the asphalt that grow quickly into hedges of basil, they throw us with a flower and die quickly so that we will not be ashamed of ourselves.

Take off your shoes now and walk on broken glass, for you are in the sacred valley.

"The comrades in reading are asleep.

You wander alone among the library shelves

without any signs indicating exit.

A groaning comes from the right, from the third shelf

an entire section expelled from the novel

and laughter a tragic title

for a book on philosophy.

Politics flows like mucus from one shelf to another

There is no time for epic

for the Book of Delight and Intimacy

where Machado pulls back the cardboard wrapping

so that the plates will not fall

…

We are like the proof-sheets of books

full of paragraphs awaiting revision.

I sit on the balcony of the house. Aleppo is before me deserted and black. The clicking of plates in the darkness indicates that life occurs on a table. No sound except intermittent gunfire from somewhere and one shell preceded by a strange whistle… Someone is leaving this planet with a dry throat. Aleppo is before me black and silent. These enormous shadows may belong to trees, or to distant childhood stories, or may be black vapors expelled by women now waiting for their children to become numbers in a news report.

Aleppo. No plucking of an oud. No figure dances. No cup in the Nightingale. No drunkards. No song.

One by one

they awaken

beasts of the darkness.

Marina Shihwaro

I am Marina Constantine

widow of the priest George Shihwaro

Marcel's companion on the road - late at night - to our home;

endowed with secrets of the holy church

and with the cherries at the bottom of the cup of ambergris,

busy with laughter at the age of fifty,

with braids of my hair lost in drawers.

I am Marina

returning from the Carlton

where life clings to the music

and hardens like the gum tree

At my leisure

I sprinkle salt

though I know that the meal will not spoil

and I plunge a finger into the wine so the heart will rejoice.

I am Marina

who smelled at the wrong turn

the scent of fear diffusing from sweaty fists

and piercing the air like leaden metal

before the citadel vanished in the magician's hat

I am Marina

who did not know she had died

until she listened with the thousands wearing white and waving flowers

to the voice of the priest in the church of Prophet Ilyas:

O dearly beloved

let us chant within the hands of God

with humble heart:

Let rest our daughter's soul

carrying the crown to our Lord in Heaven

…

...

Al-Fatihah.

We had the largest ever number of people at this workshop, many of whom had in-depth knowledge of Arabic from very different backgrounds and one of whom, Golan Haji, was a Syrian poet from Aleppo (now living in exile in Paris) who was very helpful indeed in giving us some essential local detail which otherwise we would have missed.

One of the main difficulties we always face in translating from Arabic into English is that English demands a level of concrete specificity absent from Arabic. We first encountered this problem in the second stanza of part 1 when it took some time to work out the exact positioning of what was taking place in relation to the blood and the (tv) screen.

The next stanza was also tricky: did people have red eyes or reddend vision?

For the following line, there was a lot of discussion about getting the tone right: tender but also melancholy.

In part 2, the first line, ‘comrades in arms’ is like the English expression, ‘brothers in arms’; it’s affectionate and slightly mocking.

Machado is one of the most important early twentieth-century Spanish poets.

In part 3, ‘Swaying Silhouette’ is a very famous Syrian song. The bar, The Nightingale, was where all of Aleppo’s artists and thinkers would congregate.

Part 4, Marina Shihwaro was killed on 18 June 2012. We didn’t have time to tackle this section in the workshop so Sam’s fine literal version was tinkered with by Norbert Hirschhorn and Sarah Maguire.

Sarah Maguire, Workshop Facilitator

Note on the original text:

*العندليب: بار شعبي في حلب يرتاده كتاب وفنانون

Faoud Mohammad Faoud, Poet