Chapter 8 Poets without Borders
Iara:
I am in Sao Paulo after a mission of Doctors Without Borders
in Southern Sudan. I was there for a month and a half. A war came to us, and
after three days under heavy fire, they rescued us. A few months passed, and
today when I saw the ipê tree blooming in a very hot winter, I remembered the
African heat. I wanted to tell about Sudan. I wrote a few lines.
Still carrying the heat of southern Sudan / the naked
soldiers in the Nile / the children in the bunker crying between the shots /
the girls who are quietly giving birth in the tent, sweating. / The children in
the refugee camp who are running, laughing, inviting me to play catch / The
masses on the road walking and walking and escaping, / And the bright smiles /
exploding / like yellow ipê flowers in the hot winter of Sao Paulo
Ze'ev:
Hi Iara, I'm glad you came back safely. I thought you
belonged not only to Doctors Without Borders but also to Poets without Borders,
because you wrote poems in Brazil, in Israel, in India, and in Sudan.
What do ipê flowers look like? Are they exploding?
Maybe you will expand the line "The girls who are
quietly giving birth in the tent, sweating "
Did you help the women there give birth?
Iara:
Trying to melt what's inside me is a little heavy, like a
stone. I knew wonderful people who fled when the war broke out. They are not a newspaper
headline for me. They have faces, names, voices, families. I learned a while
ago that everyone was all right. Slowly they return to their places. All this
brought me even closer to their country. I finally knew war. I came to visit
Israel after I returned from Sudan and there was an alarm, in a pool in the
north. I thought there was at least a safer haven than the bunker in the UN
camp in Sudan. It was a false alarm. I continued to lie in the grass in the hot
sun. I went back to Brazil a month ago.
The ipê loses all its green leaves / then the brown stems
give birth to small trumpets, in groups, / bright yellow flowers / Fireworks /
the children in Sudan hide shiny teeth in their mouths / The smiles illuminate
the pale yellow in the dry scenery / girls give birth quietly in the tent /
Sweating / not fighting / First baby, second, may be third, even / the father,
a man-boy, waiting in distress outside / wants a son. / It was difficult to
breathe in the heat of the Sudanese / I was sleeping with ice under my head and
feet / It was hot in the open bunker during wartime / We sat quietly listening
to bombs and shots / The crying of the frightened children brought a melody /
It was hard to breathe in the heat and the fear / and I arrived in Sao Paulo in
the winter / instead of the familiar cold / it was hot / maybe the heat came
from Sudan / maybe Sudan was just a dream / or another planet / in old time ...
/ The Nile bank is full of papyrus / Handsome naked men swimming / bathing /
soldiers / In Sudan there are no female soldiers. / When they are naked they
are not scary / singing and playing / like children / they are children
Ze'ev:
It was hard to breathe in the
Sudanese heat
I slept with ice under my head and
feet
Sweating girls give birth quietly in the
tent
First baby, second or even the third
Outside, waiting in distress
The father
He wants a son
On the edge of the Nile behind
papyrus
Handsome males swim naked
Singing and playing
Like children
They are children -
Soldiers
There are no female soldiers in Sudan
And I returned to Sao Paulo in the
winter
And it was so hot
Maybe it came from Sudan
It was hard to breathe
Iara:
The children and the bright smiles are still missing. They're
really cute. The little ones take care of the even smaller ones. Next to their
mothers they are quiet, respectful. Outside they run and shout. They make poop
together, in a circle, on the ground. They call those who are not completely
black, even if it is brown: Kawaja. Kawaja means gentile. I thought it meant
white, but no. They're afraid of the Kawaja. The mothers would tell them that
if they did not behave well the Kawaja would come to pick them up. Then they
would call out to me, " Kawaja!" Approaching and then running away,
laughing, they wanted me to catch them.
This picture I sent you with all the children was in this
situation. They began to call me and run. I stopped and said: I'll catch you in
the picture! They hold me by the hand and turn it in shock, because the color
of my palm is also the color of the back of my hand. They play soccer barefoot.
The ball is made of cloth, there is no other ball. And more and more ... about
the beautiful cows and the goats, who live in houses that look like people's
houses.
And about the war. And the cat that gave birth under my bed.
About the rebels who entered the camp immediately after we left. About the
food, the clothes ... they called me mama Iara because I am very old.
Ze'ev:
I liked the row on the cat that gave birth under your bed -
what did you call her? Was she also black?
Iara:
before I arrived, they chose her the name Sissie, after the
princess / they said she was not polite / She went with all the cats in the
area / The truth is that she went elegantly, like all the tall, thin, black
Negroes like her / Perhaps she learned how to walk by seeing them carrying
water on their heads / The cats she had in her womb were waiting for the right
time to come / and maybe she chose me because I had the smell of a mother /
so I would watch her / She ran under my
little bed to give birth / Didn't want cloths or water / On the hard floor she
gave birth to the three cats / And immediately kept them at the edge. And since
then I have not closed my door / Sissie was independent / She went hunting,
eating, and came back to nurse / both in the days and in the nights / The
little ones were as quiet as the Sudanese children / They did not bother at all
/ Little polite princes / Then the rebels came to the camp / We, the people,
ran away quickly. The last one locked all the doors before he left / forgot
Sissie outside and the quiet little ones under the bed. / Under shots and bombs
inside the bunker. / I was worried about their safety. / Then I learned that
the rebels were in the camp / They stole and broke all the doors / what a
relief / Maybe Sissie was able to return to her kittens, just as I returned
safely to my children.
Ze'ev:
Sissie, the cat, walked as elegantly
As any native woman in Sudan
Like them, she was slim and black
On the hard floor, she gave birth to
her three kittens
Since then, I have not closed my door
She went hunting, eating and came
back to nurse
The kittens were as quiet as the
Sudanese children
They did not bother me at all
Then the rebels came to the camp
And we escaped to the bunker
The last one locked all the doors
Forgot Sissie outside
And the kittens under the bed
When I learned that the rebels
had broken all the doors during their
looting
I knew Sissie had managed to get back
to her offspring
Just as I got back safely to mine
Iara:
The children are very tall, thin, beautiful. So black it's
hard to photograph. I fell in love with the people, the landscape, the Nile. I
fell in love with work (I worked in mental medicine). I treated people, but my
main task was to teach a group of locals how to give mental care. I had a group
of seven. Among them were some men, who were soldiers from the age of 11 to the
age of 20. They told me: here the boys grow up to fight, they teach us not to
think or feel ... and these I had to re-teach how to think and feel, how to get
emotional in order to listen and talk to those who suffer.
It took me a while to realize that this was reality. The camp
and the heat, the scenery and the people, the big cars with the Doctors Without
Borders logo, which you only see in the movies, and the language that does not
mention anything familiar. And the Nile - it was a week after Passover, and it
seemed to me that Moses would arrive in the box between the stems of the
papyrus. The Nile was just like I had imagined it during the Seder nights. The
women fixed my hair, they always gave me cold water. I also have a film, which
I did not photograph, shot in the bunker: a crying baby, volleys of gunfire and
bombs, and everyone sits quietly, without moving, waiting for everything to
calm down. Women would wave cloth to keep the mosquitoes away, and to ventilate
the babies a little. I would close my eyes, put tunes into the rhythm of the
shots, and try not to think. I thought of samba and people dancing. Three days
and nights were like a year. Tanks and soldiers, black smoke near us. We knew
that the whole town was on fire. I was afraid to die. And all the time I
remembered the kittens and Sissie. I want to believe they survived like me. I
was told that the rebels must have eaten them. The soldiers did not have enough
food.
Sudanese mothers have many children / they are always
pregnant, breastfeeding or giving birth / preventing pregnancy is a disgrace
for the husbands / and they always have a few women / the women live together
and replace each other at their jobs / and the husbands change women / men
exchange women for cows and goats / buy them, and then they belong to them /
They build the Tukul houses / cook, breastfeed, arrange, carry water from the
river to the house on their heads / and the men drink their tea and wait for
wars / When they go to war, if they come back / Many times they bring diseases
as gifts from other women / gifts for women and children to come / And these women walk elegantly / dress up,
comb, know how beautiful they are / cook, laugh / Hug the babies / lie at night
with the husbands / proud
Ze'ev:
The women in Sudan move gracefully
They know how beautiful they are -
Always pregnant, nursing or giving
birth
Cooking, cleaning or carrying on
their heads
Water from the river to their home
The men exchange women for cows and
goats
Or woman for woman
Drink tea and wait for wars
Iara:
In the Desert in Chad / camels and sand / elephants /
goats / tired children / hungry / smiling to the cameras
Ze'ev:
In the desert in Chad
Hungry, tired children
Smile at the cameras
Iara:
All the colors between white yellow and brown / camels in the
color of sand / white sky / wind and dust / blue bird reminds me of the color
of the sky / and I dream of water
Camels are usually a little darker than the sand, but if the
wind blows and there is dust in the air - they disappear and reappear,
disappear and reappear.
Ze'ev:
In Chad
When the wind blows
And there is more dust than air
Camels, the color of sand, disappear
from sight
Then reappear
Only the blue bird
Reminds me of the true color of the
sky
I liked this poem very much. You're lost in Chad. Everything
you know is gone, and what you see before your eyes is strange but not scary.
Iara:
Indeed, I am lost in Chad. It is surprising to set off when
the road is an ocean of sand. I took a short walk around the house, which is
also the office. I looked at the landscape, the houses, the children, and
almost trampled the camel sitting there quietly. There are camels everywhere,
and lots. They look like giraffes from afar. They stand by the trees and
stretch their long necks to gently eat a small fruit they find among thorns.
The people also eat the little fruit, which has a dry, thin peel, but only from
the floor, because of the thorns in the trees. A few days ago, in the middle of
the sandy ocean, a large camel passed by, carrying a man talking on a modern
mobile phone. On the road, you can see huge trucks that are hard to understand
how they manage to pass through the sand. Sometimes they do not succeed - they
stand there for days until they somehow move.
Iara:
Hi Ze'ev, after reading this chapter I was surprised that I
did not tell you about the Sierra Leone survivors of the Ebola. I was in
Liberia and Guinea too. I did not tell you about the boy who lost the whole family,
wanted to study, dreamed of engineering, like my son, but could not study. He
broke stones to eat. Another child was ashamed, because he had lost sight in
one eye and was squinting. He stopped playing. He did not talk to his friends
until I reminded him that everyone had something else: a crooked nose, big
ears, crooked legs, only God (if there was one) is perfect. He returned to me
after two weeks, happy, and drew me a field where he played football. I did not
tell you about a young woman who lost a son and a husband and showed us a baby
born of a new surviving partner. I learn hope with them.
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