fadwa tuqan

fadwa tuqan Poems

fadwa tuqan Biography

Fadwa Touqan (Arabic: فدوى طوقان‎, also transliterated as Fadwa Tuqan, Spanish: Fadwa Tuqan, French: Fadwa Touquan and Fadwa Touqan; 1917 in Nablus – 2003), was well known for her representations of resistance to Israeli occupation in contemporary Arab poetry.[1] Touqan's poetry is known for her distinctive chronicling of the suffering of her people, the Palestinian, particularly those living under Israeli occupation.[2] Born in Nablus to the wealthy Palestinian Touqan family known for their accomplishments in many fields, she received schooling until age 13 when she was forced to quit school at a young age due to illness. One of her brothers, Ibrahim Touqan, known as the Poet of Palestine, took responsibility of educating her, gave her books to read and taught her English. He was also the one who introduced her to poetry.[2] Touqan eventually attended Oxford University, where she studied English and literature.[2] Fadwa Touqan's eldest brother is Ahmad Toukan, former Prime Minister of Jordan. Touqan eventually published eight poetry collections, which were translated into many languages and enjoy renown throughout the Arab World.[2] Her book, "Alone With the Days," focused on the hardships faced by women in the male-dominated Arab world.[2] After the Six-Day War, Touqan's poetry focused on the hardships of living under the Israeli occupation. One of her best known poems, "The Night and the Horsemen," described life under Israeli military rule. Touqan died on December 12, 2003 during the height of the Al-Aqsa Intifada, while her hometown of Nablus was under siege.[1][3] The poem Wahsha: Moustalhama min Qanoon al Jathibiya (Longing: Inspired by the Law of Gravity) was one of the last poems she penned while largely bedridden.[1] Touqan is widely considered a symbol of the Palestinian cause and "one of the most distinguished figures of modern Arabic literature."[1][2] Touqan's poetry is set by Mohammed Fairouz in his Third Symphony.[4])

The Best Poem Of fadwa tuqan

Hamza

Hamza was just an ordinary man
like others in my hometown
who work only with their hands for bread.
When I met him the other day,
this land was wearing a cloak of mourning
in windless silence. And I felt defeated.
But Hamza-the-ordinary said:
‘My sister, our land has a throbbing heart,
it doesn't cease to beat, and it endures
the unendurable. It keeps the secrets
of hills and wombs. This land sprouting
with spikes and palms is also the land
that gives birth to a freedom-fighter.
This land, my sister, is a woman.'

Days rolled by. I saw Hamza nowhere.
Yet I felt the belly of the land
was heaving in pain.
Hamza — sixty-five — weighs
heavy like a rock on his own back.
‘Burn, burn his house,'
a command screamed,
‘and tie his son in a cell.'
The military ruler of our town later explained:
it was necessary for law and order,
that is, for love and peace!
Armed soldiers gherraoed his house:
the serpent's coil came full circle.
The bang at the door was but an order —
‘evacuate, damn it!'
And generous as they were with time, they could say:
‘in an hour, yes!'

Hamza opened the window.
Face to face with the sun blazing outside,
he cried: ‘in this house my children
and I will live and die
for Palestine.'
Hamza's voice echoed clean
across the bleeding silence of the town.
An hour later, impeccably,
the house came crumbling down,
the rooms were blown to pieces in the sky,
and the bricks and the stones all burst forth,
burying dreams and memories of a lifetime
of labor, tears, and some happy moments.
Yesterday I saw Hamza
walking down a street in our town —
Hamza the ordinary man as he always was:
always secure in his determination.

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