A Lesson In Drawing: Nizar Qabbani My son places his paint box in front of me and asks me to draw a bird for him. Into the color gray I dip the brush and draw a square with locks and bars. Astonishment fills his eyes: … But this is a prison, Father, Dont you know, how to draw a bird? And I tell him: Son, forgive me. Ive forgotten the shapes of birds. My son puts the drawing book in front of me and asks me to draw a wheatstalk. I hold the pen and draw a gun. My son mocks my ignorance, demanding, Dont you know, Father, the difference between a wheatstalk and a gun? I tell him, Son, once I used to know the shapes of wheatstalks the shape of the loaf the shape of the rose But in this hardened time the trees of the forest have joined the militia men and the rose wears dull fatigues In this time of armed wheatstalks armed birds armed culture and armed religion you cant buy a loaf without finding a gun inside you cant pluck a rose in the field without its raising its thorns in your face you cant buy a book that doesnt explode between your fingers. My son sits at the edge of my bed and asks me to recite a poem, A tear falls from my eyes onto the pillow. My son licks it up, astonished, saying: But this is a tear, father, not a poem! And I tell him: When you grow up, my son, and read the diwan of Arabic poetry youll discover that the word and the tear are twins and the Arabic poem is no more than a tear wept by writing fingers. My son lays down his pens, his crayon box in front of me and asks me to draw a homeland for him. The brush trembles in my hands and I sink, weeping.
Posted on: Sun, 04 May 2014 17:03:57 +0000
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