Adi Keissar
Clock Square
My nephew Itai and Iare walking around
the Clock Square
in Jaffa.
More than 80 years separate us
from Oum Kalthoum
who performed here on a stage
and I’m trying to discover if the applause
got tangled in the clotheslines.
But where is Oum Kulthoum
and where are we
and opposite us there’s a shopkeeper, talking.
And my nephew Itai asks in trepidation
Adi, is he an Arab?
An Arab, I reply.
In Jaffa there are Arabs who live here.
And are they good Arabs or bad Arabs?
he asks breathlessly, tightening his hand in mine.
Fear presses his lips together.
In every nation there are good people and bad people
I reply.
He huddles closer to me
unconvinced
and I realize that reassurance is needed
here.
Good, I add.
And how do you know they are Arabs?
He pursues his investigation,
his eyes following a dove
strutting in front of a restaurant door.
Ordinarily, he’d be chasing it
and scaring it.
Now it’s part of a horror story.
Of course I know,
they are speaking Arabic
I reply
in the confident tone of someone
who knows the answer
isn’t quite right.
With that antenna kids have
he senses his aunt is herself confused
and his vigilance seeps into the sidewalk.
Don’t worry, they are like us
I extend him a lifeline.
So sometimes people think we are Arabs
and they are Jews?
His words make flocks of bird fly though my body
ripping my blood vessels in the commotion
and I want to tell him about my Grandmother Sham’a
and Uncle Moussa and Uncle Daoud and Uncle Awad
But at the age of six he already has
Grandmother Ziona
Grandmother Yaffa
lots of uncles
and fear and war
he received as a gift
from the state.
כיכר השעון
כיכר השעון
אַחְיָן שֶלִּי וַאֲנִּי
מִּסְתוֹבְבִּים סְבִּיב
כִּכַר הַשָעוֹן
ביָפ ו
מֵעַל שְמוֹנִּים שָנָה
מַפְרִּידוֹת בֵינֵינוּ וּבֵין
אֻּם כֻּלְתוּם
שֶהוֹפִּיעָה כָאן עַל בָמָה
וַאֲנִּי מְנַסָה לִּשְמֹ ע אִּם מְחִּיאוֹת הַכַפַיִּם
נִּתְפְסוּ עַל חַבְלֵי כְבִּיסָה
אֲבָל אֵיפֹה אֻּם כֻּלְתוּם
וְאֵיפֹה אֲנַחְנוּ
וּמוּלֵנוּ עוֹ מד מוֹכֵר, מְדַבֵר
וְאַחְיָן שֶלִּי אִּתַי שוֹאֵל בַחֲשָש
עֲדִּי, הוּא עֲרָבִּי?
עֲרָבִּי, אֲנִּי עוֹנָה
בְיָפ ו גָרִּים עֲרָבִּים.
וְהֵם עֲרָבִּים טוֹבִּים א ו עֲרָבִּים רָעִּים?
הוּא שוֹאֵל בְלִּי נְשִּימָה
מַצְמִּיד אֶת יָד ו בְיָדִּי
הַפַחַד סוֹגֵר את שְפָתָיו
בְכָל עַם יֵש טוֹבִּים וְרָעִּים
אֲנִּי עוֹנָה
הוּא נִּצְמָד אֵלַי יוֹתֵר
לֹא מְשֻּכְנָע
וַאֲנִּי מְבִּינָה שֶדְרוּשָה כָאן
הַרְגָעָה.
טוֹבִּים, אֲנִּי מוֹסִּיפָה.
וְאֵיךְ אַ ת יוֹדַעַת שֶהֵם עֲרָבִּים?
הוּא מַמְשִּיךְ בַחֲקִּירָה
עֵינָיו עוֹקְבוֹת אַחַר יוֹנָה
שֶהוֹלֶכֶת בְאִּטִּיוּת מוּל כְנִּיסַת מִּסְעָדָה
בְיָמִּים רְגִּילִּים הָיָה רוֹדֵף אַחֲרֶי ה
וּמַבְהִּיל אוֹתָהּ
עַכְשָו הִּיא לוֹקַחַת חֵלֶק בְסִּפוּר אֵימָה
מָה זֹאת אוֹמֶרֶת אֵיךְ אֲנִּי יוֹדַעַת
הֵם מְדַבְרִּים עֲרָבִּית
אֲנִּי מחְזִּירָה,
מוֹסִּיפָה נִּימָה נֶחְרֶצֶת
כְמ ו מִּישֶהִּי שֶיוֹדַעַת שֶהַתְשוּבָה
לֹא בֶאֱמֶת נְכוֹנָה
וְהוּא מַרְגִּיש בַגַלַאי שֶל הַיְלָדִּים
שֶהַדוֹדָה מְבֻּלְבֶלֶת בְעַצְמָהּ
וְהַדְרִּיכוּת שֶל ו מְחַלְחֶלֶת אֶל הַמִּדְרָכָה.
אַל תִּדְאַג הֵם דוֹמִּים לָנוּ
אֲנִּי מוֹשִּיטָה ל ו חֶבֶל הַצָלָה.
אָז לִּפְעָמִּים חוֹשְבִּים שֶאֲנַחְנוּ עֲרָבִּים
וְהֵם יְהוּדִּים?
הַמִּלִּים שֶל ו עוֹשוֹת
לְלַהֲקַת צִּפוֹרִּים לָעוּף דֶרֶךְ גוּפִּי
פוֹרְעוֹת אֶת כְלֵי הַדָם בִּמְהוּמָה
וַאֲנִּי רוֹצָה לְ ספֵר ל ו עַל סָבְתָא שַמְעָה שֶלִּי
וְדוֹד מוּסָא וְדוֹד דַאוּד וְדוֹד עַוַד
אֲבָל בְגִּיל שֵש יֵש ל ו כְבָר
סָבְתָא צִּיוֹנָה
סָבְתָא יָפָה
וְהַרְבֵה דוֹדִּים
וּפַחַד וּמִּלְחָמָה
From: Shahor al ga-bay shahor/Black on Black
Publisher: Guerilla Tarbut, Tel Aviv
Clock Square
My nephew Itai and Iare walking around
the Clock Square
in Jaffa.
More than 80 years separate us
from Oum Kalthoum
who performed here on a stage
and I’m trying to discover if the applause
got tangled in the clotheslines.
But where is Oum Kulthoum
and where are we
and opposite us there’s a shopkeeper, talking.
And my nephew Itai asks in trepidation
Adi, is he an Arab?
An Arab, I reply.
In Jaffa there are Arabs who live here.
And are they good Arabs or bad Arabs?
he asks breathlessly, tightening his hand in mine.
Fear presses his lips together.
In every nation there are good people and bad people
I reply.
He huddles closer to me
unconvinced
and I realize that reassurance is needed
here.
Good, I add.
And how do you know they are Arabs?
He pursues his investigation,
his eyes following a dove
strutting in front of a restaurant door.
Ordinarily, he’d be chasing it
and scaring it.
Now it’s part of a horror story.
Of course I know,
they are speaking Arabic
I reply
in the confident tone of someone
who knows the answer
isn’t quite right.
With that antenna kids have
he senses his aunt is herself confused
and his vigilance seeps into the sidewalk.
Don’t worry, they are like us
I extend him a lifeline.
So sometimes people think we are Arabs
and they are Jews?
His words make flocks of bird fly though my body
ripping my blood vessels in the commotion
and I want to tell him about my Grandmother Sham’a
and Uncle Moussa and Uncle Daoud and Uncle Awad
But at the age of six he already has
Grandmother Ziona
Grandmother Yaffa
lots of uncles
and fear and war
he received as a gift
from the state.
From: Shahor al ga-bay shahor/Black on Black
Clock Square
My nephew Itai and Iare walking around
the Clock Square
in Jaffa.
More than 80 years separate us
from Oum Kalthoum
who performed here on a stage
and I’m trying to discover if the applause
got tangled in the clotheslines.
But where is Oum Kulthoum
and where are we
and opposite us there’s a shopkeeper, talking.
And my nephew Itai asks in trepidation
Adi, is he an Arab?
An Arab, I reply.
In Jaffa there are Arabs who live here.
And are they good Arabs or bad Arabs?
he asks breathlessly, tightening his hand in mine.
Fear presses his lips together.
In every nation there are good people and bad people
I reply.
He huddles closer to me
unconvinced
and I realize that reassurance is needed
here.
Good, I add.
And how do you know they are Arabs?
He pursues his investigation,
his eyes following a dove
strutting in front of a restaurant door.
Ordinarily, he’d be chasing it
and scaring it.
Now it’s part of a horror story.
Of course I know,
they are speaking Arabic
I reply
in the confident tone of someone
who knows the answer
isn’t quite right.
With that antenna kids have
he senses his aunt is herself confused
and his vigilance seeps into the sidewalk.
Don’t worry, they are like us
I extend him a lifeline.
So sometimes people think we are Arabs
and they are Jews?
His words make flocks of bird fly though my body
ripping my blood vessels in the commotion
and I want to tell him about my Grandmother Sham’a
and Uncle Moussa and Uncle Daoud and Uncle Awad
But at the age of six he already has
Grandmother Ziona
Grandmother Yaffa
lots of uncles
and fear and war
he received as a gift
from the state.
Sponsors
