Do Not Believe Me if I Talked to You of War
Do Not Believe Me if I Talked to You of War (لا تصدّقوني إن حدّثتكم عن الحرب) is the title poem from Haifa-based poet, essayist, and performer Asmaa Azaizeh’s 2019 collection. This poem is full of vibrant images that mix with blurry timelines to create a dream-like feel. The visual language is what brought me back to this poem. I can picture vivid scenes as I read it and each time I find myself focusing on different details.
Like many poems, Do Not Believe Me if I Talked to You of War is written in a complex and poetic Fusha, which can be difficult - for those of us who aren’t academics - to understand. Luckily, there’s an Arabic audio recording and an excellent English translation by Yasmine Haj to help us out on this one.
So, yalla, let’s begin. Read and listen to the poem in Arabic, then we’ll dissect it a bit and dive into the English translation below.
The poem opens with contrasting and tactile language that bring details of war to life, while at the same time creating distance between Azaizeh and the war:
لا تصدّقوني إن حدّثتكم عن الحرب، لأني أتحدث عن الدم وأنا أشرب القهوة، وعن القبور وأنا أقطف الصفّير في مرج بن عامر، وعن القتلة وأنا أمعن في قهقهة الأصدقاء، وعن مسرحٍ محروقٍ في حلب وأنا أقف الآن أمامكم في هذا المسرح المكيّف
“Do not believe me if I talked to you of war, because when I spoke of blood, I was drinking coffee, when I spoke of graves, I was picking yellow daisies in Marj Ibn Amer, when I described the murderers, I was listening to my friends’ giggles, and when I wrote about a burnt theatre in Aleppo, I was standing before you in an air-conditioned one.”
Azaizeh continues to use imagery of blood throughout the poem. Blood as it’s spilled from wounds, and blood in the hereditary sense - bloodlines - often using one as a reminder of the other.
حين تخطئ سكيني ورقة الخسّ، أشمّ رائحة قبيلة الدم التي تركها جدّي في جسدينا
“When my knife misses the lettuce leaf, I could smell the scent of the tribe of blood my grandfather had left in my body and hers.”
الدمّ حارٌ كصوت أمي في الأغنية، ناعمٌ كجلد أبي
“The blood is as warm as my mother’s voice in a song, and as smooth as my father’s skin.”
ولم أشمّ دمًا من جرحٍ إلا ذاك الذي شممته مع أمي حين حضتُ لأوّل مرة
“And I’ve never scented blood from a wound except for that which I smelled with my mother the first time I menstruated.”
As the poem goes on, she deepens and expands that theme of familial ties by bringing in language of dreams and the imaginary. This also adds an element of ambiguity to the story - it becomes difficult to separate the real from the dream.
كّلما خلتُ جلد أبي مسلوخًا فيها، ألمسه سليمًا في العناق. وكلّما سمعت نواح أمي، هدهدتني بأغنيةٍ قديمةٍ وغفيت كملاك
“Whenever I imagined my father’s skin flayed in it, I could still touch him afterwards, safe and sound, with an embrace. And whenever I heard my mother’s wailing, she would lull me to sleep with an old song, and I would sleep like a baby.”
الأحلام صكٌ مفتوح
“Dreams are an open cheque”
Azaizeh then walks us through three cheques - or perhaps three dreams? - the third cheque being a direct contradiction to the second.
انهال عليّ رصاصٌ كما انهالت كلمات الرّب على الأنبياء
Bullets rained down on me as did God’s words on the prophets
لا تصدّقوني حين أحدّثكم عن الحرب. لأني لم أسمع طلقةً في حياتي سوى تلك التي رماها أبي من جفته في عنق يمام مرج بن عامر
Do not believe me when I talk to you of war. Because I’ve never heard a bullet shot besides the one my father threw from his double barreled gun into Marj Ibn Amer’s doves.
As I read, I’m unsure which of the stories Azaizeh describes happened to her, or maybe happened to a family member, or maybe to no one she knew. I’m left thinking that maybe it doesn’t matter who it happened to, or if it happened exactly the way we’re told. Perhaps the feeling, the impact of the events matters more than the specifics.
Vocabulary / مفردات
لا تصدّقوني (صدق)
Don’t (you all) believe me
تشغلني الحرب (تشغل)
War preoccupies me
The root of “to preoccupy” is شغل, which means to work, to fill, or a task
الدم
Blood
Sometimes pronounced as الزم in عامية
أمامكم (امام)
In front of (you all)
ادام in عامية
محروقٍ/ة
Burnt
سكين
Knife
نبي / الأنبياء
Prophet/s
ناعمٌ/ة
Smooth
متل كنافة ناعمة
خلتُ
I imagined
تخيل
To imagine
رصاصة / رصاصٌ
Bullet/s
الشام
The Levant
Also used to refer to Damascus, specifically
