The Refugee

A transcreation from Old English by Denis Ferhatović

A lone refugee, often I must say I am blessed

By the mercy of Al-Rahman, Al-Rahim

Even when I am in the back of a truck

In a ship’s freezing hold

Jammed in the cattle class of an airplane.

Qadar is inescapable.

Praise be to the Lord of the Judgment Day.

A refugee spoke thus, aware of everything that has happened to them

Of shelling at dawn, of entire families dying (maybe even his own).

Often I must awake before everyone

For the red-eye shift, murmur complaints to myself.

No one would understand, they might call the police.

In this dark city we are all but ants

Delivering food, cleaning gutters, providing sex.

It is the way of our ancestors to suffer

In dignity, not to scream, not to mourn

To tie up what can be tied

To tighten your jaw, to discipline your thoughts,

Worrying does not help, therapy is for the native-born.

Just stay tranquil, do your work, close your eyes.

This is what I usually have had to do,

To be locked and loaded, calm and collected

Moisturized, unbothered, in my lane

When the pain of longing for my land overtakes me,

Everyone I knew and held dear

Held to my chest, abuzz with warmth

Because my beloved protector died some time ago.

I dragged him out of the rubble, buried him, read the Fatiha,

My upturned palms a calligraphy of scars, empty.

Then I crossed the sea, the land, any number of borders,

Thought of a small apartment with all the amenities,

Someone who would embrace me at the door,

Split a meze sampler, give consolation,

Land a small kiss on the back of my neck.

In this I am not alone, if you know – you know:

The earth is teeming with those in our predicament,

All of us followed in step by our troubles,

Work permits on our mind, not a garage of Porches,

Bodies in piercing cold rather than high-thread cotton.

How we remember going to the secret club after work,

Groups of friends, your crush with a new bracelet.

He kisses you in an underground locale

With everyone swaying to Western pop,

Levantine remixes, our own voices karaoke-hoarse.

How our beloved protector took care of us,

Salaries, health insurance, rent control,

Entire constellations bombed out of existence now.

In sleepless nights, when melancholy hits

Me and us, while we lie awake thinking,

A memory of my protector enlivens my psyche.

I see him spread open, his legs up, his face eager,

Waiting to receive from me my carnal tribute,

Plentiful treasure, liquids poured inside and on top of him,

His shapely abdominals gleaming with quivering seed.

Those days are far in the past.

My iPhone returns them to me stamped by month and year.

I shake myself awake, rain lashes the windowpanes,

Snow trickles down the sides of buildings,

Pigeons, rats, and squirrels of the city shudder and shriek.

It is all the harder for me then to recall

His warm welcoming gifts of hole and hall.

Before my eyes passes that beloved entourage,

Club mates and work friends: Farid, Aisha,

Farid Number Two, Sumayya, Zulaikha, Yusuf,

Aziz, Salma, Mohammad Rafiq and Mohammad Ali.

I say salaam, I kiss and embrace, pat the shoulders

And admire the outfits, whisper-gossip-take selfies.

They disappear suddenly as frost-bitten birds outside cry,

As vermin scuttles across the cracked kitchen floor,

As creaky ancient radiators try not to breathe their last.

No consolation from my dearest scattered across the world:

In Italy, Sweden, Austria, Turkey, Canada, the US,

Carrying bags of cement in Dubai, washing the elderly in Bonn,

Dead on the bottom of the sea somewhere off Sicily.

Only to You do we pray and from You we ask for help.

Why is life to me merely a record of our losses?

It has always been thus, and thus will it continue.

Every day so many bodies and souls fade, caught in the mill.

We ignite briefly like fireflies, then go into the night.

A person has to be patient-understanding-strong,

Not easily discouraged-not anxious-not (completely) depressed.

They should measure the storehouse of their words.

They should savor small moments, but know they are transient.

They should know that worldly wealth means nothing,

That they need just enough to survive day by day.

The bosses’ mansions will stand like Roman ruins.

Everything in their lives will be destroyed.

All that is left is their formerly magnificent graves.

The Great Leveler will level, God be thanked

That is our only consolation and relief.

We are just tasting existence, it is how it should be.

Their palaces, villas, corporate headquarters will rot.

Our companions in labor and pain taken out, too:

Hypertension, diabetes, cancer, AIDS, accidents,

Heart attacks and strokes, brain hemorrhages,

Falling off buildings, self-slayings, drug overdoses,

Killed by a mugger in an alley, shot randomly by the police,

Or maybe a natural disaster will squash them.

With this mind, bearing the hoard of our experience,

With images of massacres, dispossessions, deportations,

Imprisonments, starvations, checkpoints,

I add myself a link to the old chain of Ubi Sunt:

Where has the beach gone where we swam on that July evening?
Where has my best friend gone, all dimples and clove smell on her fingertips?

Where have my three boyfriends gone, one a jock, one a prep, and one salt of the earth?

Where are the iftars with chosen families?

Alas, wanderings through the mall. Alas, evenings at the Cinémathèque.

Alas, reading in the National Library, slightly high. Alas, the smell of my mother’s kitchen.

Alas, all our cousins in one place talking at the same time.

I should spare you another list of horrors.

Open your phone and you will see them, updated.

Maybe some great architectural structure will remain,

Something perceived from the heavens by reluctant aliens,

Elaborate serpentine designs, patina on intermittently surviving gems.

Here, the bicycle repairman on Lilac Street is on loan. Here, the smiling waiter balancing the mother-of-pearl encrusted tea tray is on loan.
Here, the laughing group of bridesmaids ululating are on loan. (Qaftans in the wind.) Here, the youths flirting in a park by a Greek statue are on loan. (Their fragrant sideburns.)

Everything we have and see and love will vanish without trace.

Thus spoke a refugee before going to his cold bed,

After taking his magnesium and applying his retinol,

Whispering a prayer, looking for divine embrace,

Mystical annihilation in God.

I seek refuge with the Lord of Daybreak.