I
stand trembling among the frenzied
millions,
loosened in the
glittering streets of a festive Damascus –
streets already
cluttered with
colored signposts,
flags,
photos
of you, sir,
and banners.
(Thousands upon thousands of
eloquent,
and downright mediocre-sounding banners.)
I stand quivering and alone
among these millions,
frenzied
by fear and
sycophancy,
let’s be
honest, sir,
rather than
love.
(For
that has long indeed become our historical trademark, hasn’t it?)
I stand shuddering, sir, shuddering
among the millions
paving,
with their
oscillating
haggard-looking
bodies,
your way
to a rather dubious form of glory and fame.
Renewing their
pledge
to you, sir, to you,
(for ours is still a time
when an entire nation is still
required,
and still
quite willing, in fact, sir,
in spite
of the shame of it, sir,
in spite of the shame,
to pledge
herself, her whole self,
for the well-being
of a single man.)
Declaring their wish for a
“fifth springtime,”
under your auspicious,
if not always
successful,
command –
(a
springtime which had always,
in
our rather extraordinary case, sir,
had more power to mortify
rather than
resurrect.)
Avowing, quite sincerely, sir,
oh yes, quite
sincerely,
if you could believe that, sir,
if you can really believe that,
to
protect you, sir,
to protect you,
to fend for you,
with their very blood and soul,
if necessary,
with their very blood
and soul.
(like
the rest of your obedient flock, their not-so-beloved compatriots,
still entombed, at the moment,
in their homes,
awaiting their turn
to be dug out.)
So that
you should be
the only one left, sir,
one eventual eye-opening day,
standing
alone
in the country,
in your palace
on top of the
Mount,
where you
think you can oversee everything,
a
solitary symbol,
(but of what?)
a leader of corpses,
a president
of a cemetery,
(assuming
that you aren’t already,)
full of dead and
buried hopes, not to mention men,
which is indeed your just due, sir,
which is indeed your just
due.
I stand shivering among the
millions, sir.
I stand alone. All alone.
For someone, sir,
someone,
no
matter how humble and insignificant,
no matter how young
and foolish,
no matter how
wrong he could otherwise be,
has to save
the face of
this putrefying
Nation
that is Syria, sir,
that is my home –
my bittersweet,
un-welcoming,
un-dignifying,
and
downright
reluctant
home.
Note: Written on February
3, 1999, amidst the organized celebrations taking place on the occasion of the upcoming presidential
referendum, which was initially scheduled to occur on February 8, and was later
postponed until February 11 for coinciding with the funeral of the late King
Hussein of Jordan.