RAQABIYYA, or Neck Tax

RAQABIYYA, or Neck Tax

Granny, chewing a date, transmits 
her soul, then presses it between 
the baby girl’s lips.

“[They] suffer from the tyranny of their masters 
more keenly than language can express,” 
observes Captain Robert Taylor of the East India Company
as he passes over our homeland 
like smog, the dull weight of his judgement unsettling 

our bones. Granny, holding the stone 
in her bite, soothes the pulp along the infant’s tongue. 
Granny and the infant share a sweet smile,

Dad’s in prison, the bars, his
||R|A|Q|A|B|I|Y|Y|A||
its consonants wound around 

his neck. The keepers at the archives will fussily record 
the Sheikh trading our ancestor’s cadaver for a penny. 

Granny deposits the stone in a grave, 
tended to a garden. Shhhhh, 
she says, shhhhh. She stays, 

Fatima ya Fatamtam ya rabi’at gawm
Fatima, our Fatamtam, 
her face like a springtime bloom.
She went to sell our yoghurt,
she went, now twelve days gone.
Was she taken by a foreign man,
or kidnapped by a lord?

Mum, pitting the date, saves
the sweet flesh. Her daughter
shares a lullaby. Dad’s without

citizenship, his prison, 
an anti-terror law fit for the current century. 
Daughter, expectant, consuming a date 
whole, carrying, past the record keepers, the stone.

***

“RAQABIYYA, or Neck Tax” is included in the latest anthology by Young Identity.

Raqabiyya, or Neck Tax has been published in the past month in the latest anthology by Young Identity, titled “Ecosystems of Fury – The Scalpel and the Sledgehammer – Myth Restoration”. The first draft of the poem was scribbled out in a 5 minute freewrite exercise in February 2020; it was only much later, when the invitation to submit work came, that this poem came together. It’s one of my favourite pieces to come out of the past year (and I’m grateful to my editor Roma Havers, who guided me through a very fun editing session — and it’s rare to call editing fun).

The poem is about a few things quite important to me, all centred around history. Who’s telling our stories?

The Title – Raqabiyya

Raqabiyya is the name of an arbitrary tax that was levied on the Baharna peasantry by their lords. It, along with sukhra (forced labour), made peasant life unbearable. I’ve written about this way back in 2013, when I first started reading the British archives. In December 1921, so nearly 100 years ago, a deputation of Baharna arrived at the British Agency demanding help to end this injustice; the chain of events would lead to the abdication of the ruler in 1923. One of the records is this horrifying litany of abuses, which included abduction, rape, and financial exploitation of village men, women and children.

When I first learned about Raqabiyya, I called it ragabiyya, the qaaf becoming gaaf in my Bahraini dialect. A family member corrected me. “Not ragabiyya. RaQabiyya.

Why not ragabiyya?”

“You just don’t with that word.”

As if this word did not deserve to be pronounced in our mother dialect.

The Quote by Captain Robert Taylor

In 1818, a colonial agent by the name of Captain Robert Taylor wrote a lengthy record detailing the many states of the Gulf, which the British called the ‘Pirate Coast’ because the seafaring Arabs would sometimes disrupt the trade routes to India (by 1820, Britain would force the ‘Pirate Coast’ and Bahrain into submission through a very literal example of gunboat diplomacy, razing Ras Al-Khaima to the ground and forcing the Arabs into treaty relations. I’ve written it about previously here.)

Of the Baharna, my ancestors, Taylor writes: “The Chiefs of the Beni Itbah, a foreign tribe of arabs from Grane (or Koweit), have governed its aboriginal inhabitants for more than thirty-five years with absolute power … The aboriginal inhabitants, now subjected to a foreign power, suffer from the tyranny of their masters more keenly than language can express.”

This quote has stayed with me in all the many years since I read it. It is a disturbing, momentary reference to my ancestors (the ‘aboriginal inhabitants’), and skimmed over far too quickly. Yet oral family history does capture the suffering keenly. Stories of the ancestor born in Tubli to such poverty they migrated to Qatar, returning to Bahrain as an adult after the the end Raqabiyya and Sukhra in the 1920s. Other ancestors who had to flee to Basra and beyond. Debtors prisons and humiliation.

(Not all of life was suffering – I’ve just been reading the sarcastic poetry of Sa’ida bint Nasser, a witty woman who lived in the mid-19th century. Her rhymes included everything from conversations with date palms to a show of solidarity with a bed-wetting wife threatened with divorce. I mention this because our history shouldn’t be solely defined by traumas).

I’m drawn to this quote because it is the earliest references to the Baharna that I’ve read in the colonial records. It helps me understand my history. But it also reveals a lot about the colonial officer who wrote about it – he, who can write a book’s worth detailing the economic and political makeup of Oman, Bahrain and every emirate in between, lacks the vocabulary to explain the peasant and working class lives of the people he witnessed.

The Folk Poem

I translated Fatima ya Fatamtam in the summer last year after I first came across it. As with any folk poems, there are multiple variations, but this is the one that came down to me from my locality (Bani Jamra).

I’ve been collecting more folk poems since then and have more I wish to eventually share. What is striking about these poems are:

1 – They are often in a female voice. Although we don’t know the original poet, her voice is powerfully heard.

2 – They express the “the tyranny” more keenly than Robert Taylor’s colonial language ever could.

There are many of these poems. A large number of them are about the danger of women being kidnapped by aristocrats (as we know, from this record, was a real and recurrent threat).

Female and Male Voices

History tends to centre male voices over female ones. The historical record is made up primarily by the writings of men, focused on the issues of men. Yet the history of our emotional experiences, that is so often retained by women. In this case, it was captured in folk tales by women, passed down by mothers to their daughters; a chain of oral repetition. Fatima ya fatamtam is not a historical record in the sense that it tells us that “On such a date, a girl called Fatima, on her way to the market, etc…”. But it tells us that such things did happen, and that they happened with enough regularity that variations of this poem were told from the northwest coast of Bahrain to Sitra island.

In this poem, the female voice passes from ‘Granny’ to ‘Mum’ to ‘Daughter’ whose is ‘expectant’. The female voice is enduring – sidestepping the male stories and histories of trauma, not entirely safe herself, but passing on a record of her own which goes ignored past the record keeper.

I wanted to centre these stories in the poem. In a way, this poem acts as a personal manifesto, of my movement away from the study of history to the study of literature. And my efforts to ‘decolonise’ in practice – I’m committed to decolonising education, and what does that mean? It means raising folk stories like this to the same (or greater) level of importance to the standardised, elite, male historical record.

References

‘Selections from the Records of the Bombay Government’ ‎23, British Library: India Office Records and Private Papers, IOR/R/15/1/732, in Qatar Digital Library https://www.qdl.qa/archive/81055/vdc_100022870191.0x00003d [accessed 15 April 2021]

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Review: The Arabic Prose Poem by Huda Fakhreddine

I had the pleasure of discovering Huda Fakhreddine’s work a few months ago, just as I set myself the challenge to write more in Arabic. Her articles on the Arabic prose poem were insightful, and so I eagerly awaited her new book. In a way, it could not have come at a better time. The review is followed by personal reflections, the stirrings of my own theories that I am still learning to express, and an ars poetica – a poem on the art of poetry – of my own, which I wrote in the course of reading the book. Enjoy.

Review

The Arabic Prose Poem, by Huda FakhreddineThe Arabic Prose Poem: Poetic Theory and Practice by Huda Fakhreddine (Edinburgh University Press, 2021) is a thought-provoking contemplation of the prose poem, which has now occupied a transformative space for some 60-odd years. Well-researched and effectively paced, the book is a great asset for any poet engaging with the Arabic tradition of prose poetry. This review is aimed not at an academic crowd (for I am not in academia), but rather to other poets, particular diaspora Arab(ic) poets, for whom this text offers something useful.

A word on definitions before I begin. Arabic poetry may be distinguished into three main strands: Classical, which is bound by rules of metre and rhyme; Free verse or taf’ila poetry, which is bound by rules of metre; and Prose Poetry, which is not bounded by either. The terminology is complicated by ‘free verse’ and ‘prose poetry’ having different technical meanings in English. I will follow the author’s own terminology and refer to ‘taf’ila’ and ‘prose’ as distinguishing terms.

The book begins its study prior to the inception of the prose poem, in that early 20th century literary impulse which gave us poetic prose and the taf’ila poem. The prose poem, when it enters the scene through the work of Unsi al-Hajj and the Shi’r journal, is mercurial, difficult to pin and define. Fakhreddine explores the idea of ‘churning’ meaning and the appropriation of the Arabic prose tradition to justify the prose poetry movement; the internationalism of the Shi’r poets, and their metaphysical journeys into language reaches its heights, of course, in Adonis. Commentary on his two seminal anthologies, “Diwan al-shi’r al-arabi” (1964) and “Diwan al-nathr al-arabi” (2012) bookend the review of his works, which is centred around his “Mufrad bi sighat al-jam’” (1977). While these chapters present an interesting study of this modernist Arabic poetry, even Fakhreddine sounds frustrated by these intentionally esoteric poets at times (“But making sense of it is torturous and futile”, she writes of one Unsi al-Hajj poem which he himself described as “cursed and cancerous”).

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Between Two Islands — Out now!

Between Two Islands

Between Two Islands is OUT NOW and free to download: https://alialjamri.com/betweentwoislands/

For print copies, please enquire. Check the link above for full details.

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World Poetry Day – The Stories We Thread

Sunday 21 March was World Poetry Day, and I was delighted to be one of the poets featured in the film marking the day for Manchester City of Literature and Manchester Poetry Library.

You can watch the video below:

I appear alongside three other Manchester poets. Also featured is Imtiaz Dharker, whose poem was commissioned to mark the opening of the Poetry Library, as well as two poets in Granada (Spain) and Slemani (Autonomous Kurdistan Region of Iraq).

It’s a fabulous event, and I encourage you to watch it!

My poem celebrates doorways as portals – and specifically reflects on my commute in Salford to the local school where I work. I often pass through Albert Park, the view from which I stop to contemplate the city. I nearly wrote ‘admire the city’ there — but it’s the skyscrapers which always catch my eye, and I have personally never liked these buildings. To me, they represent unchecked capitalism and greed. I think of the skyscrapers in Bahrain, Dubai and London and how little they represent me – and how little these skyscrapers represent the Manchester I know. That disquiet is there in my poem.

But more than that, my poem is really a love letter to my grandmother, Zahra, who I often spend my journey to school talking with. During the pandemic, I’ve spent a lot more time on the phone with family, and I understand better the value of every one of those conversations than I ever did before. That World Poetry Day should have coincided with Mother’s Day in Bahrain felt very meaningful.

Thank you Manchester City of Literature and Manchester Poetry Library for the opportunity.

Without further ado, my poem:

The Stories We Thread

Home has never felt so far away
as when the order came to Stay At Home,
yet my granny’s voice has never charmed me more
than when I could only hear her through my phone.

Standing in the mouth of Albert Park
holding, in the arch’s frame, the cityscape,
my gaze passing over the red brick homes,
pausing, daily, on my key worker’s commute to hear

my granny, Ummi Zahra, at home in Bahrain weaving
warm visions of her once-thatched village, pulling
together the distances, immense as all the stories
she threads of childhood memories.

To think that my tiny, far flung country
would fit neatly in a pocket of this city!
But in unprecedented times, pursed in this arch’s lips
not my city nor my country nor my granny seem so small.

Through Ummi Zahra I see the graveyard by her street
where our history sleeps, it remembers the cut palm groves
the litanies of stolen lives, the rumbling stomachs and splendour
of mullahs, serfs and weavers fighting for their futures.

In return, I tell her how Salford’s a city swallowed up
by a city. In this Victorian arch, skyscrapers
protrude, like anxious needles, into the city’s heart.
Perhaps it’s being cut from her cloth that makes me at home,

in Ummi Zahra’s stories, familial names become visionaries
no different to workers, Luddites and Suffragettes
mustering together to build better. And still building now:
when I loop through the park like a thread

and place Salford in the arch’s mouth,
I picture a quilt, its patches are the red brick
homes of migrants and Mancs, warmly woven
with Ummi Zahra’s village, still resilient in her memory,

a fabric threaded by shared history,
it’s texture the hope I hear in her voice.
When the hard times end, we will stay knotted,
she in her village, I in my city,

sharing our stories
in the lips of this arch.

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Resistance Is My Mother Tongue – Reflections

Today is International Mother Language Day and as part of the festivities planned in Manchester, I co-produced, with Nasima Begum and Young Identity, Resistance Is My Mother Tongue, a multi-lingual poetry event.

You can rewatch the event here:

Major thanks to Nasima, Shirley May, all the participating poets, Young Identity and Manchester City of Literature.

The event came out of conversations I had with Nasima and other poets (particular mention goes to Jova Bagioli Reyes and Amina Atiq) about our relationships to our mother languages starting in the summer of 2020.

Often, those of us from migrant, diaspora communities feel divorced from our mother tongues. This affects our confidence: we struggle to be accepted by the ‘host’ culture, and cannot fully fit in with our ‘home’ culture. So Resistance Is My Mother Tongue was very much about accepting the middle ground, the liminal space, we inhabit. Owning it. Positioning ourselves as powerful in relation to both home and host cultures.

Before the event, we held one workshop discussing our relationships to our mother tongues. As I said regarding my own relationship to language, there is pain as an Arab divorced from Arabic – unable to engage with the depth of its poetry to the extent I want to. My great-great-grandfather, Mulla Attiya Al-Jamri, is one of Bahrain’s most influential poets of the 20th century, and his religious poetry is still popularly recited today. I struggle, with my damaged Arabic, to fully engage with it, and I know I cannot write Arabic at his level. I can’t write poetry like he can.

But, I came to realise, were he alive today, he would not be able to write poetry like I can. That realisation gave me a confidence. I’m not claiming superiority to my ancestor, rather, acceptance that we are poets of different qualities, and that is not a bad thing.

There was another part to Resistance Is My Mother Tongue, which was to ask: what if we have a multilingual poetry that makes no apologies, that does not try to translate or cater to an English-only audience?

From this position of confidence, the project fell into place.

My poem In The House of Colonialism kicks off the event. The poem, which begins “severed” in London, surrounded by Jinn – Aladdin, Tony Blair, Harry Potter, Francis Fukuyama – rejects the overwhelming pressure of Western culture and chases after the shadow of Enkidu from the Gilgamesh epic. It ends in Bahrain’s Salmaniya Hospital (“Where the walls remember the blood”) with an excerpt of a Bahrani folk song. (Publishing rules mean I can’t put the text in this post if I hope to publish it in an outlet in the future)

I’m proud of this dense poem. In conversation with my co-host Nasima, we focused on the poem’s attack on Disney’s Aladdin. I suspect that my British community will connect more deeply to the first half of that poem, while my Bahraini community will connect more with the second half. The poem makes no apologies for that and I don’t want it to.

The rest of the event was a pleasure. P.A. Bitez took us in a suitcase to Jamaica; Esther Koch took us to an Irish céilí for song and dance. From one céilí to another, Kayleigh Jayshree gave us an insight into her relationship with Gujarati (“We tick ‘other’ on most forms / visit Google Translate more than Twitter”). Ella Otomewo read a sonnet about her relationship to her two mother languages, Urhobo and Okpe. Meduulla gave a passionate address to Zimbabwe (“Being with you was like loving someone who only kissed me in public / but behind closed colonial doors, we were strangers”). Amina Atiq gave a heart-rending poem about the meaning of “بلادي” – “my nation”, culminating with that dreaded question, “Where do you come from?” Jova Bagioli Reyes gave us an epic poem in both English and Spanish (making no apologies for their Chilean accent), with too many brilliant moments to choose from (“I remember Henry Kissinger … acting as if Pinochet were a bad hook-up from his college years”). Shirley May, Young Identity’s CEO, rounded the night off with a poem from her collection “She Wrote Her Own Eulogy” (“Still I hear my mother’s voice in my head / ‘harsh words stir up strife, while soft words turn away wrath, he that keepeth his mouth keepeth his life'”).

The night was brilliantly hosted by Nasima Bee whose energy brought the entire event together. We worked hard to make the event run so smooth – the little touch that I think brought it to life was our decision to have poets and Nasima “face each other” during the conversation segments – a small touch that I think broke us away from the usual fare of Zoom events, where you the viewer hold unbroken eye contact with whoever is on screen over the course of an hour.

We have plans for a lot more. Nasima’s hinted at performing her own poem at a future follow-up event – so there’s one thing. Throughout, we worked with the value of bringing different diasporas together to celebrate the shared, complicated experience of our conflicted tongues.

Watch this space — and until next time, happy International Mother Language Day!

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Between Two Islands: Poetry Writing Workshops for Bahrainis in Britain

ما بين جزيرتين – ورش عمل حول كتابة الشعر للبحرينيين المقيمين في بريطانيا

I am excited to announce a new series of poetry workshops for the Bahraini community in the UK!

Click here to register for the events

(اضغط هنا للاعلان وربط التسجيل باللغة العربية)

What does it mean to be Bahraini in the UK? How does it effect our relationship to our homeland? What are the things we crave, the truths we have discovered, the things we have had to create for ourselves? Some of us see our time in the UK as temporary; some of us are as British as we are Bahraini. But for all of us, the British isles are our home today.

This project, funded by Arts Council England, is a first of its kind: a creative writing space for Bahrainis living in Britain.

Through poetry, we will unlock our creative voices. Each week, we will explore a different aspect of poetry, from form and function to editing and performance.

Beginners are welcome and encouraged to join – no experience necessary!

The workshops are FREE for attendees and will run over six weeks in January/February 2021. They are for you if you are:

  • aged between 18 and 81
  • a Bahraini who immigrated to the UK for work or study, was born to immigrant parents, or came to the UK as a refugee
  • an English or Arabic speaker
  • interested in writing and creative arts

They will be led by Ali Al-Jamri and Amina Atiq.

Ali Al-Jamri is a Bahraini and British poet and writer. He was a semi-finalist in BBC Words First 2020, and his translation of “The Desire of Life” by Abu Al-Qassim Al-Shabbi was published by Modern Poetry in Translation. He was a notable contender in the Bristol Short Fiction Prize.

Amina Atiq is a poet, performance artist and activist from Liverpool’s Yemeni community, one of the oldest Arab communities in the UK. A BBC Words First 2019 Finalist and Young Associate for Curious Minds, she is currently a Poet in Residence for Queensland Poetry Festival 2020-21 and working on a new online project, Yemeni Women on the Frontline.

To join, complete our registration form by Thursday 31 December.

Further information:

  • The workshops are 2 hours each and will be conducted over 6 weekends in January and February 2021.
  • We ask that participants commit to the full six-week programme.
  • Workshops will be conducted via Zoom due to pandemic measures. This may be reviewed.
  • To be inclusive, we offer participants compensation and travel cost reimbursement. We value your time and want to make this event accessible, particularly if you have childcare, study and work responsibilities to juggle.

We would like to thank the Arts Council England for funding our project as well as partner organisations, mentors and supporters at the Arab British Centre, Liverpool Arab Arts Festival, Young Identity Manchester and Commonword and the community centre Dar Alhekma for making this work possible.

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The Desire of Life – Abu Al-Qassim Al-Shabbi (A New Translation)

My English translation was published in Modern Poetry in Translation, 3/2020

In November, Modern Poetry in Translation published my English version of The Desire of Life by Abu Al-Qassim Al-Shabbi. Please do check out the magazine and buy a copy – it’s a fantastic edition and I’m honoured to have been featured alongside such great lists and translators!

Here’s the introduction I wrote for MPT:

Speak to me, you, the darkness that consumes us,
can life return when the springtime of youth withers?

The question captures the personal and political anguish troubling Abulqassim Al-Shaabi when he penned The Desire of Life in 1933. Personal, because Al-Shaabi was just 24 and dying of a heart ailment. Political, because he was expressing the bottled rage and resentment of Tunisians under imperial French rule. This is the heartbreak of a young, ambitious artist, bitter in the knowledge of his own mortality and his country’s exploitation, channelled into his finest poem.

Abu Al-Qassim Al-Shabbi (1909-1934) is the national poet of Tunisia

I translated The Desire of Life with the aim of celebrating its thrilling, lyrical energy. The poem’s opening lines compel the reader to action and echoes in the slogan of the 2010-11 Tunisian Revolution – al-sha’ab yurid isqat al-nidham – The People Desire the Regime’s Downfall. This slogan was on the lips of millions of protesters, first in Tunisia then in Egypt, Bahrain, Syria, Yemen and Libya, and has been heard chanted again in the streets of Beirut this summer. The Desire of Life heralded a decade of protest bookended by the Arab Uprisings and Black Lives Matter.

Keeping the “R” end-rhyme which runs through the original text was an exciting challenge. Desire trills through the verse, opening one line to the next, so that the entire poem itself is like the soft beat of a wing / its lift-off in reach.

Towards the end of the poem, the above question to the darkness is answered by the arrival of Spring, who kisses the lips of departed youth / with a passion that restores their colour. Today’s protests echoing Al-Shaabi’s poetry are like Spring’s kiss, restoring his memory to life, time and time again.

***

The Desire of Life – Abu Al-Qassim Al-Shabbi
translated by Ali Al-Jamri

One day, when the People act on Life’s desire,
they’ll force the hand of a higher power,
Night shall flee at the sound of Dawn’s choir
and the chain, the chain shall finally shatter.

For if the People do not thirst for life,
why, they’ll shrivel and expire —
those who scorn the struggle for life,
Death shall punch with the force of a boxer.

So said Earth through her creations
when our sorry state roused the forces of nature.
From mountains, through valleys,
beneath my trembling feet, the Wind blasted his anger:

When destiny calls, I seize the day,
warn me of danger and I’ll shriek with laughter —
I’ll always take the path less travelled
I’ll always run through the blazing fire —
if the view from the peak makes you tremble with fear,
then crawl in a grave and await your maker.

If all youth are like me, then their blood’s run cold
and their heart’s drummed to the beat of despair.
I slipped in the slop and the mud, assailed by rains,
attacked by winds, condemned by thunder.

Earth, you hold us in such contempt,
how dare you call yourself a mother?

I bless of your lot the children of ambition
who chase and snap at the heels of danger,
but I curse the louts who waste this gift,
who aspire to live the life of a boulder.
The Universe is alive! He loves the living, He scorns the dead.

Does the bee kiss the dead flower?
Does the horizon embrace the dead bird?
Does the maggot distinguish the great from the lesser?
Were it my way, my dear, I’d not allow for burials,
but my tender heart breaks for the weeping mourner.

Spread my warning to those who accept a life in fetters:
When their story ends, Death alone emerges the victor.

On an overcast night one autumn,
as I watched Earth’s displeased clouds gather,
I raised my cup to see off the stars
and sang ’til Sorrow joined my stupor.

Speak to me, you, the darkness that consumes us,
can life return when the springtime of youth withers?

But the Dark’s lips did not part,
nor did Dawn voice her bewitching murmurs.
It was the Forest who spoke, like a lilting harp,
so delicate, so loving, so tender:

Here comes Winter, the winter of fog
the winter of ice, the winter of downpours
to snuff the magic, the magic of branches,
the magic of flowers, the magic of nectar.
The beloved blossoms of youth and yearning
are thrust unceremoniously in the air,
whipped this way and that by the hostile Storm,
drowned by the Flood, they are torn asunder.
Like a dream illuminated by the soul
then blotted out, all, all expire.

But in the earth remains the Seed,
springtime’s forgotten, hidden treasure.
Memories of seasons, visions of life,
ghosts of a world, its base and its tenor —
the Seed embraces them all, beneath dead earth
and thick fog, a shield against Winter’s icy spectre.
It grips Life in all its thrumming joy
and bears the promise of Spring’s green wonders.
It dreams of birdsong in flight,
the juice of a fruit, the scent of a flower.

Time marches on, with it an oppressor,
and when this one falls, there shall come another.
Dreams rouse from troubled sleep
in a twilight that will not disappear.
They ask:

Where is the morning mist?
The evening’s spell? The moonlight’s shimmer?
Where is the singing bee and the passing cloud?
Where does the elegant butterfly flutter?
Where are all the Earth’s creatures?
Where is the light and the life I yearn for?
I thirst for the sunshine dappled through the leaves,
I thirst for the shade of a tall tree’s shelter!
I thirst for the brook between meadows
that tinkles and dances with the flowers!
I thirst for the bird’s croon, the breeze’s murmur,
and rain’s gentle patter patter.
I thirst for the Universe! And yet, the world
I wish to witness, I must yet wait for.
For He, the Universe, is dormant, His grand awakening
on the horizon. Is it on me to make Him stir?

This longing is like the soft beat of a wing,
its lift-off in reach. As it grows stronger,
the Seed breaks the earth and, peaking out,
beholds the world. No view delights it more.
Thus dawns Spring, the Melodious,
the Fragrant, the Inspirer of Dreamers,
He kisses the lips of departed youth
with a passion that restores their colour
and says to them:

You have been granted life,
and the Seed has been your protector.
Bask in the Light that guides you, the restless youth
of this fertile land, to bloom together.
Whoever worships the Light in their dreams,
the Light shall bless them wherever it appears—
For you is this space, so radiant, so pure,
for you is this chance to truly prosper,
for you is all this resilient world’s beauty,
so firm, so flourishing, so clear,
so spread as you wish across the fields
by your supple blossoms and sweet nectar.

And thus survives the breeze, survive the clouds
survives the moon, survive the stars,
thus survives this exalted existence and its allures
thus survives Life and its desires.

The Dark slips to reveal a deep beauty
which electrifies and inspires.
Across the Universe a strange magic spreads
willed by the wand of a master spell caster.
Incandescent stars radiate across the sky
and there spreads the scent of a fragrant flower.
A soul, strangely beautiful, flutters
on wings formed of the moonlight’s shimmer,
and the holy hymn of life resounds
in a temple, bewitching every dreamer.

Across the Universe it is declared:
Ambition is the soul’s triumph and Life’s blazing fire,
When the People speak their spirit’s ambition,
Destiny must bow to their desire!

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On Instagram

Just a note, in case people still regularly come across my writings here, that my most up to date place for my work is Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/alialjamri_scribbles/

This blog will continue to be a home for longer pieces, but if you want to find my latest musings on poetry and history, you’ll usually find it there.

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After the Last Edition

The ink stains on the rollers, like so much
coughed up blood, are dry to the touch.
Halls echo desertion, and dust mates
with dust.

None knock.
None knock but the bulldozer.
None knock but the man in the ghutra.

The stories, the photos,
the rusted presses.
They cannot speak.

The bulldozer rumbles a Bedouin language,
deep, guttural, pre-historic,
one extended moan.

Yet even as snapping metal shrieks
beneath collapsing walls,
a loose sheaf flutters free.
It carries an ink-lined olive branch.

Note
It’s now been two and a half years since the closure of Al-Wasat newspaper. The government of Bahraini indefinitely suspended the only independent paper in the country from publication in June 2017, forcing its closure. The paper was founded in 2002 in that distant moment of optimism Bahrain witnessed at the turn of the century. It was the most forward-thinking newspaper in the Gulf and now it is gone. In June 2019, Al-Wasat’s printing presses were demolished, and the paper’s era brought to a final close.

This poem is written in its memory. It was published in November 2019 in the book Peterloo Poems by Manchester People by Seven Arches Publishing.

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200 Years of British-Bahraini Relations? Pirates, Rogue Diplomats, and a Missing Treaty

2016 is apparently the 200th anniversary of British-Bahraini relations. The story goes that, in 1816, Britain and Bahrain signed a Treaty of Friendship which has endured the centuries, that these allies have grown to be amongst the closest and warmest friends, and that we now enter the third century of relations. So reported both Bahrain and the UK in January, when the anniversary year was launched. The Foreign Office gaily announced: “When the Kingdom of Bahrain and United Kingdom signed a Treaty of Friendship in 1816, few will have predicted the diplomatic, political, military and economic ties between the two kingdoms would endure for two centuries.”

But go back to the records and you’ll find no treaty was signed. Formal diplomatic relations can barely be said to have occurred prior to 1820 – so are we actually on the 196th anniversary of British-Bahraini relations? Perhaps it was felt that something should be celebrated this year, but 196 does not make for an attractive anniversary year.

What did happen in 1816? What happened in 1820? Was there a Treaty of Friendship? What form of relationship have the UK and Bahrain had for the last 200 years? The answers lie in the India Office Records, and the answer to the first question draws a picture fundamentally different to the that which the FCO is regrettably painting.

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