umkahlil

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2006/08/26/AR2006082600917.html

This will be neither a nice nor a measured post. I am livid that the memory of one of Palestine's most brilliant writers is vilified by a war criminal and his accomplice in the Washington Post. It was just a couple lines in a nauseating article in which we are made to believe that Israel's war criminal generals "anguish" over murdering a people on whom they have sinned against so mightily that only God will forgive them. Yet, the way Blumenfeld tells it, a brainwashed reader feels sorry for these monsters whose business it is to kill Palestinians and take their land.

It really is a shame that Laura Blumenfeld has an audience. It really is a pity that she extolls creeps like Ehud Barak and dismisses someone of whom she's probably never heard as a "terrorist." It really is inconceivable that in the United States of America people are so stupid and brainwashed. But that's how malicious Zionism is able to make such inroads.

But the Zionists weren't able to wipe out Kamal Nasir's beautiful words and so I will illuminate Blumenfeld about the famous poet to whom she in her ignorance calls a terrorist, this famous Palestinian poet,who the war criminal Ehud Barak killed in Beirut in 1972. This is how Blumenfeld refers to Kamal Nasser:

"'It wasn't something new -- we were in this business,' Barak said in an interview. In 1973, in Beirut, wearing high heels and a woman's wig, Barak helped gun down three of the terrorists who murdered 11 Israeli athletes at the Munich Olympics. 'I was a brunette, I had a strawberry blonde behind me,' Barak said, with a small smile."

This is the poetry of Kamal Nasser. This is the poetry of Kamal Nasser who never harmed a flea. This is something which uniformed reporters for the Washington Post can not take away nor can the pernicious criminal ethnic cleansing usurpers from Europe and America ever kill the words of this poet, who God blessed:


I will tell you a story
A story that lived in the dreams of people
A story that comes out of the world of tents
Was made by hunger and decorated in the dark nights
In my country, and my country is a handful of refugees
Every twenty of them have a pound of flour
And promises of a relief...gifts and parcels
It is the story of the suffering group
Who stood for ten years in hunger
In tears and agony
In hardship and yearning

It is a story of people who were misled
Who were thrown in the mazes of years
But they defied and stood
Disrobed and united
And went to light, from the tents
The revolution of return
in the world of darkness.

From an earlier post:

Kamal Nasir, Palestinian poet, killed by an Israeli death squad on April 10, 1973 during a time when 1570 Palestinian educators, doctors, and professionals were deported from their homeland as well as assasinated and maimed in botched assasinations. Their crimes: intellect, resistance, leadership This poem was written in 1961.

and from "Kamel Nasir's Last Poem," translated by Abdel Wahab Elmesseri

Beloved, if perchance word of my death reaches you
As, alone, you fondle my only child
Eagerly awaiting my return,
Shed no tears in sorrow for me
For in my homeland
Life is degradation and wounds
And in my eyes the call of danger rings.
Beloved, if word of my death reaches you
And the lovers cry out:
The loyal one has departed, his visage gone forever,
And fragrance has died within the bosom of the flower
Shed no tears...smile on life
And tell my only one, my loved one,
The dark recesses of your father's being
Have been touched by visions of his people.
Splintered thoughts bestowed his path
As he witnessed the wounds of oppression.
In revolt, he set himself a goal
He became a martyr, sublimated his being
even changed his prayers
Deepened their features and improvised
And in the long struggle his blood flowed
His lofty vision unfolded shaking even destiny.
If news reaches you, and friends come to you,
Their eyes filled with cautious concern
Smile to them in kindness
For my death will bring life to all;
My people's dreams are my shrine
at which I pray, for which I live.
The ecstacy of creation warms my being, shouting of joy,
Filling me with love, as day follows day,
Enveloping my struggling soul and body.
Immortalized am I in the hearts of friends
I live only in others' thoughts and memories.
Beloved, if word reaches you and you fear for me
Should you shudder and your cheeks grow pale
As pale as the face of the moon,
Allow it not to look upon you, nor
feast on the beauty of your gaze
For I am jealous of the light of the moon.
Tell my only one, for I love him,
That I have tasted the joy of giving
And my heart relishes the wounds of sacrifice.
There is nothing left for him
Save the sighs from my song...Save the remnants of my lute
Lying piled and scattered in our house.
Tell my only one if he ever visits my grave
And yearns for my memory,
Tell him one day that I shall return
--to pick the fruits.

Another earlier post on Kamal Nasir:What Spielberg Left Out, Said Reveals: Putting Kamal Nasir in Context