Poetry of Occupation

Behind the Shackles
Written by umm qalamul-jihad

Oh Prisoner, how dear you are to me;
You need not to eat, sleep, talk, or walk
Your presence is my heart
Without you I breathe not
Without you I sleep not

Oh Prisoner, how dear you are to me;
I speak only to You who lives in the shackles
Who breathes from the shackles
Who sheds sweat, tears and blood from the shackles
Whose image will remain in the core of my heart

Oh Prisoner, how dear you are to me;
You seem that you passed, but you are not.
You seem that you've gone but you are still with us.
Your words and your legacy still remain.
In the white pages you stain in your name.

Oh Prisoner, how dear you are to me;
You a thunder of destruction, a symbol of fear
You won my respect, and love to
You did what no-one else was willing to do
You kept your promise firm and so strong
You directed the path away from the wrong

Oh Prisoner, how dear you are to me;
The shackles flow your precious tears
The shackles a witness to your faith
The shackles a friend you remain with
The shackles in which preserves your fruits
Without the shackles you dare smile not.

Oh Prisoner, how dear you are to me;
The flames of Islam burn away your heart…

Oh Prisoner, your burnt scars told me your story:
"Here we are O Islam of the honourable.
We are here in defence of all that is sacred.
Here we are!
Let us create for your glory stairs made of our skulls.
Here we are! Here we are! Here we are!"

“Cry my beloved country” *

By Raja Mattar

Cry for my non-existent childhood

Cry for my stolen youth

Cry for my uprooted olive trees

Cry for my village which lost its name

Cry for the maimed children

Cry for the widowed mothers

And cry for the raped land.

A land I tended with my tears



Yes, cry, as I am crying

For non-caring kin

Yes, cry as I am crying

For non-caring humanity

Cry because I stopped crying

I have no more tears to spare

I need them for my children’s graves



My children have gone to war

They will not come back alive

They think their blood will bring back the olive trees

They think that their blood will wipe out the infamy

Of kin who did not raise a finger

Of humanity which did not utter a word

To protect my olive trees



* Theme inspired by the title of the South African writer Alan Paton’s book “Cry the Beloved Country”