My
grandfather once told me that someone truly in love, in real love, can never
put in to words that love. So he said that all those artists in history, who
professed their love in poetry and song, really hadn't achieved the apex of
love. I smiled and admired him, sitting there in his navy grid bathrobe,
sipping his afternoon tea on a somewhat quiet Syrian afternoon. The missiles
had subsided or maybe by then we had all adjusted to the booms and shakes that
surrounded us after all those weeks.
In
my fifteen years of writing poetry, I never could write a true love poem. I
could write about heartache, about pain, about yearning, about hoping to be
loved back, but love in its purest beautiful form? No, and I always wondered
why, but I felt like my grandfather answered that question just last year.
I
remembered when my ex-husband, during the early period of our engagement, asked
me why I hadn’t written sonnets of love for him. I was taken aback slightly but
I hid it and suddenly understood Sara Bareilles’s song, “Love Song.” An artist
should be left alone to manifest their art in its organic form, not by demand.
That is love.
A
human being should be left alone to manifest their expressions organically as
well. Being rushed or coerced creates nothing but tension, but I was under a
deadline to prove my loyalty and a poem was born. It was powerful and deep and
it left a smile on his face but I wondered was it love or was it relishing in
the reality that he made me do
something? After the divorce, I read that poem and laughed. I vowed to never
again allow myself to be cornered into poetry creation.
That
vow transcended all barriers in the genre of poetry and at the start of the
Syrian war, I was questioned as to the absence of my poetic catharsis for my
country. The thing was, the entire situation left me aching and paralyzed. It
was the hardest thing to talk about it, let alone write about it. There’s so
much to say and it seems like never enough space. Syria has beauty that never
ends. One brick of a Damascus wall can be described in twelve different poems.
Event
after event I would hear other artists express in poetry or paint their love
for Syria and once again I questioned my capabilities. Is my love for Syria
below par or has it left such a deep imprint upon me that I’m still weighed
down by writer’s block from too much love?
The
answer came to me one year, eight months and five days later. A poem was born
about my grandfather and Syria and I decided to title it just that: One Year, Eight Months and Five Days Later.
Suddenly the writer’s block turned into a writer’s flood and every whirling
thought I had buzzing within me for Syria came to fruition. It’s not that I
didn’t have enough love for Syria, it’s that I have all the love for Syria.
So
this year, when Trump issued the Executive Order for the Muslim Ban, and
decided to include Syria in the ridiculous decision, the passion grew and so
did the poetry. The ACLU put together an anthology and called for writers from
all seven countries to submit their work in order to be published to honor and
shed light on these seven cultures. Two people sent me the notice and I
submitted three of my pieces on Syria, including One Year, Eight Months and Five Days Later.
That
particular poem talks about Syria through my grandfather, and on my trip last
year, I printed it out and framed it for him. He read it, got up and shuffled
around in his office (my absolute favorite room in the entire world) and looked
puzzled. I asked him what was wrong and he said he was struggling to figure out
where is the most honorable place to put the poem. I cry now simply thinking of
him. He’s a man who goes out of his way to make everyone and anyone on this
planet feel worthy. He cleared off a special space and placed the frame. He
turned to me with a smile and said, “You know, you truly are a talented writer
and poet my dear.” No other critic matters.
I
submitted my poems in February and last week a package arrived in the mail.
Puzzled I opened it up, trying to think back about what I absentmindedly
ordered from Amazon and couldn’t recollect. But when I opened the package, saw
the cover and read the title, I was ecstatic. The team that put together the
book sent each author a complimentary copy and there it was, my name beside
other remarkable Middle Eastern authors expressing their words.
Humbled
is the weight I feel now. Being published is such an honor and I am utterly
grateful to the ACLU and its partners for thinking of such a beautiful project.
Seeing its manifestation only got me more excited to expedite the publication
of my second poetry book, Oceans &
Flames, which highlights my personal experience and survival of domestic
abuse. It’s coming nine years after my first publication, 91 at 19, and I’ve
been published in other anthologies here and there, but this ACLU publication,
Seven Countries, is outstanding.
