I Don’t Want to Write a Qasida Using Your Language

Maryam Khalifa Al Shehhi

I Don’t Want to Write a Qasida Using Your Language

Note: these poems were written in 2021 for the class Foundations of Literature II: Novel and Lyric. They have been revised and edited in 2022.

I want to write a poem that has its own identification card half Arab, and half Arab has no religion, no faction

Consider this a naked poem using a language of its own belonging to its definition of Arab nationalism (pre- what you call “colonialism”)

Instead of your twenty-six letters, i’ll use my alif, baa, taa with flowers on top of each and dancing letters in your so-called Harem

This poem will break your narrative - of women in jilbabs and men in kandoras* both will be naked, twenty-eight letters— and countless diacritics later

No, it won’t sound like preaching prophets nor will I speak about furious camels

it will stand in battlefield, naked, fully embracing its own being

You’ll see my naked poem dancing, on music that won’t be familiar to you with a language you won’t understand Helwa ya baladi, watani habebi, mawteni mawteni*

Take some guesses, familiarize yourself with my letters my language, my poem my music my identity my nationality my belonging my existence; (pre-colonialism)

may my language haunt you, for 1001 nights (and days),

Helwa ya baladi, watani habebi, mawteni mawteni* I don’t want to write a poem using your language, but I am. Amen

Natasha Segebre, Dreamer

Maryam Khalifa Al Shehhi

From A to Alif (and Everything in Between)

Note: this commentary was written about the process of writing and translating a poem I wrote in 2021 for the class Foundations of Literature II: Novel and Lyric. It has been revised and edited in 2022 for submission.

Inspired by Abdelfattah Kilito’s book Thou Shalt Not Speak My Language (2008) which revolves around the individuality of a text, problems of translation, and the problem of world literature, I situate myself in blank document, wondering what poem I would write, translate, and comment on. Reflecting back and forth on Kilito’s book, I am constantly reminded of the cause I am passionate about the most; language, and specifically our Arabic language that has been colonized, altered, downgraded, and underestimated throughout the years. It’s the language I grew up falling in love with as I delved into its beauty; from rhetoric to composition, oral to modern poetry, and everything in between. Language became my personal cause, hence writing I don’t Want to Write a Qasida Using your Language (2021) and its translation (2021)

Writing the English version first involved revisiting my utmost dedication to the language I wanted to write about, connect with, and defend. Fueled by the notion of exoticizing Arabic in western media, the hierarchy and how Arabic might not qualify for the canon (another westernized form), and along with the reminder (which isn’t a reminder because “body has memory” and memory accompanies language (Rankine, 2014)) that this language has been colonized for year; I start telling my reader (which is a westernized one in this case) about the shaping of my poem; its identity, individuality, and form. After

this shaping, I remove my language from the mold of colonialism and situate it into the concept of Arab nationalism, which, although it has increased questionably post-colonialism, still remains vibrant.

Abandoning the so-called narratives of the west, this poem removes all the bounds surrounding it, embraces its own being, and dances freely on the tunes of three nationalistic songs from Egypt, Kuwait, and Lebanon; three prominent countries that have undergone various changes and challenges, yet continue to embrace their national identity through art and music, poetry and culture, and simply through existing and being. The choice of including only the first two words of every song in Arabic was a radical one, as it situates the reader into a mold-less poem, causing the reader to feel alienated from a language that he/she does not understand. The final line (I don’t want to write a poem using your language, but I am) ends the poem in a very powerful tone, showing the reader that the only way I as a writer can cross bridges is through the English language.

On the other hand, the process of translating this poem to the Arabic language was not easy, because it contradicts the notion of writing in English to connect with the reader. It also situates me in the position of the reader, as it did not sound radical to write in Arabic to an English-speaker. One main complication was with the verb tenses used. In the English version, mentioning that “it will be” equates “it is” as the poem is doing exactly what it wants to do (embrace itself, dance freely, take pride in its national identity etc.), while in the translated version, “it will be” did not make sense to the context as a whole, as it is already in Arabic doing all of that stuff. The titles also reflect different contexts, as the Arabic title translates to “I won’t write a Qasida using your language.” Using the word Qasida in the title only instead of staying consistent throughout the poem reflects the divide and the space in between two worlds, while ensuring accessibility and contexts of using the word “poem.” However, despite several complications in translating this poem, the final lines still embrace the radicality of the language. I think another complication was with literal translation. In a former version, this poem was a mere reflection

of the English version, which did not sound natural and disturbed the flow of words, hence making them one poem instead of two as I hoped them to be. Working on both as individual yet connected pieces allowed both to mirror yet reflect their individuality. I exist in a space where words and contexts are “lost in translation.”

Translation is an act of carrying, but also an act of being carried. Teju Cole’s Carrying a Single Life: On Literature and Translation (2019) gives me the space to wonder how translation connects and enables many possibilities. Carrying my poem on language from one language to the other has not been easy, as carrying requires power and dedication. However, despite the bumpy roads, I carry to be carried one day to languages and cultures that I’ve never heard of. I carry because as a poet and future translator, I feel obligated to give back to literature because it’s given us beyond twenty-six letters, twenty-eight, not even a million. I feel obligated to learn languages, write, and translate for decades ahead because language is a mediator that carries words across worlds.

I want to carry,

and be carried