Tonight I went to see the extremely moving lyrical story of Palestinian poet Taha Muhammed Ali at The Lowry, written & superbly performed by actor and director Amer Hlehel.
Directed by Amir Nizar Zuabi – author of ‘I am Yousuf & This is My Brother’ who some of you may recognise as the very first Palestinian author we explored for our ‘Platform For Palestinian Arts’ project last year, the play tells the story of Taha’s expulsion from his home in Galilee and the subsequent reality of war his family faces.
Themes of love, loss, trauma and survival were explored as in many narratives of displacememt but it was Amer Hlehel’s ability to take the audience through what I can only describe as a visceral experience that truly brought this writing to life.
I thoroughly recommend catching this in London, one of the highlights of which was hearing the recital of Taha Muhammed Ali’s beautiful poem at the end of the play called ‘Revenge’.
Revenge
At times … I wish
I could meet in a duel
the man who killed my father
and razed our home,
expelling me
into
a narrow country.
And if he killed me,
I’d rest at last,
and if I were ready—
I would take my revenge!
But if it came to light,
when my rival appeared,
that he had a mother
waiting for him,
or a father who’d put
his right hand over
the heart’s place in his chest
whenever his son was late
even by just a quarter-hour
for a meeting they’d set—
then I would not kill him,
even if I could.
Likewise … I
would not murder him
if it were soon made clear
that he had a brother or sisters
who loved him and constantly longed to see him.
Or if he had a wife to greet him
and children who
couldn’t bear his absence
and whom his gifts would thrill.
Or if he had
friends or companions,
neighbours he knew
or allies from prison
or a hospital room,
or classmates from his school …
asking about him
and sending him regards.
But if he turned
out to be on his own—
cut off like a branch from a tree—
without a mother or father,
with neither a brother nor sister,
wifeless, without a child,
and without kin or neighbours or friends,
colleagues or companions,
then I’d add not a thing to his pain
within that aloneness—
not the torment of death,
and not the sorrow of passing away.
Instead I’d be content
to ignore him when I passed him by
on the street—as I
convinced myself
that paying him no attention
in itself was a kind of revenge.
by Taha Muhammad Ali
