Ghaida Radi Sobh (Prepared Angela Kosta)
Moderator 
GHAIDA RADI SOBH - SYRIA
Ghaida Radi Sobh is a Syrian writer, poet, and social researcher, currently pursuing a PhD in Media Sociology. She works as a social counsellor in Damascus schools and has published several literary and educational works in Damascus, Egypt, and Tunisia, including Educational Discipline: Pros and Cons, Life: Its Etiquette before Its Sciences, The Agonies of Letters in the Mischief of Memory (Egypt), and Steps on the Path of Life. Her books have been featured in various Arab fairs, and she has served as editor-in-chief and contributor to a number of Arab and international journals and newspapers, such as Al-Muhajir in Australia, Voice of Arabs in London, Al-Masaa Al-Arabi, Al-Jumhuriya in Egypt, and Barniq in Libya, as well as papers in Tunisia, Yemen, and Iraq. Her writings have been praised and analysed by critics in both Arab and foreign journals, earning her numerous awards and honors across the Arab world and internationally. She was named Best Writer in Iraq in 2013 during a cultural conference in Damascus and was recognized by Al-Masaa Al-Arabi (Egypt) and the Afro-Asian Union as Best Arab Writer of 2022. She also completed a course in Journalism and Arts in Egypt, after which she was appointed Director of the Al-Jumhuriya newspaper office in Damascus.
AH, MY HOMELAND
I am the one who lingers at tavern doors by night,
stealing what the drunkards leave behind,
their swollen pockets,
their hollow stares fastened upon a dancer’s sway.
stealing what the drunkards leave behind,
their swollen pockets,
their hollow stares fastened upon a dancer’s sway.
I return with what my hands clutch:
is it grief, fresh and soaked in wine?
or sustenance haunted by the ghosts of desire?
Shall my children grow accustomed
to what I pour into their hollow stomachs,
they who pray only not to forget
the count of evening prayers?
is it grief, fresh and soaked in wine?
or sustenance haunted by the ghosts of desire?
Shall my children grow accustomed
to what I pour into their hollow stomachs,
they who pray only not to forget
the count of evening prayers?
I sip tea, stale and discarded,
a neighbour’s leftover sachet
cast aside before its colour could fade.
It numbs thought instead of rousing it,
lulling me briefly, till dawn shakes me awake.
a neighbour’s leftover sachet
cast aside before its colour could fade.
It numbs thought instead of rousing it,
lulling me briefly, till dawn shakes me awake.
I rush to labour in cafés,
return with bread,
a loaf glazed with nothing but sweat.
Between the dregs of yesterday’s cup
and the ashes of today’s toil,
I drink both heaven’s water and hellfire’s flame.
return with bread,
a loaf glazed with nothing but sweat.
Between the dregs of yesterday’s cup
and the ashes of today’s toil,
I drink both heaven’s water and hellfire’s flame.
I bear time upon my back
and plead with God without shame:
Let the hearts of the forsaken crumble,
let them search for humanity again,
stone by stone fashioning an ark,
vowing that Cain shall not slay Abel once more.
and plead with God without shame:
Let the hearts of the forsaken crumble,
let them search for humanity again,
stone by stone fashioning an ark,
vowing that Cain shall not slay Abel once more.
I stumble into encrypted naps,
board the ark,
while the house roof collapses inverted upon me.
I wake to the moans of a sick child,
her breath steeped in hunger for mercy
beyond promises already buried.
board the ark,
while the house roof collapses inverted upon me.
I wake to the moans of a sick child,
her breath steeped in hunger for mercy
beyond promises already buried.
I draw near,
her head slipping, her pillow hiding
the thought of an ending.
She whispers:
“Come, kiss the cracks of my forgetting,
touch the remnants of my fading face.
Surely Paradise’s dew will restore me,
even if the apple falls upon coffins of salvation,
slain from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean.
For I am still the Arab homeland.”
her head slipping, her pillow hiding
the thought of an ending.
She whispers:
“Come, kiss the cracks of my forgetting,
touch the remnants of my fading face.
Surely Paradise’s dew will restore me,
even if the apple falls upon coffins of salvation,
slain from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean.
For I am still the Arab homeland.”
I SHALL BEAR A SEPTEMBER
I shall bear a daughter and call her September.
She will grow, nourished by virtue,
crawling upon the blossoms of spring,
lending her ear to the thunder of January,
whispers of passersby, the philosophy of saints.
She will grow, nourished by virtue,
crawling upon the blossoms of spring,
lending her ear to the thunder of January,
whispers of passersby, the philosophy of saints.
She will drink the elixir of wisdom from rhyme,
a new hymn to eternity,
whenever her breath grazes the holes
of that dark phantom.
a new hymn to eternity,
whenever her breath grazes the holes
of that dark phantom.
At the corner of rebellion she will abandon despair,
renounce the mute string of memory,
rekindle the pulse,
and bargain with night
from the balconies of love.
renounce the mute string of memory,
rekindle the pulse,
and bargain with night
from the balconies of love.
She will ride the shadows of devotion
to stand in the presence of pure madness.
She will wash in the sanctuary of peace,
erase the faces of days,
and record her birth a thousand tales
before safety’s name was spoken.
to stand in the presence of pure madness.
She will wash in the sanctuary of peace,
erase the faces of days,
and record her birth a thousand tales
before safety’s name was spoken.
She will draw innocence, challenge passion,
slay despair,
circling the temples of repentance and pardon,
embracing loss to give birth to rebels,
to dance with victory,
like a woman dispatched
from the churches of the free.
slay despair,
circling the temples of repentance and pardon,
embracing loss to give birth to rebels,
to dance with victory,
like a woman dispatched
from the churches of the free.
Her speech, sweet upon sweetness,
awakens, then pleads,
to rectify the word,
to defend the right of the field,
to claim the reward of the Merciful,
to attune the law of time.
awakens, then pleads,
to rectify the word,
to defend the right of the field,
to claim the reward of the Merciful,
to attune the law of time.
O September, September!
You who renounce the lips of the violin
to release a thousand songs for humankind,
resisting the plea of the devil,
born upon the line of fire,
to know when you are part of the shore
and when you are half-concealed in piety,
climbing the oaks to point the way
to shelves filled with the Qur’an,
and to a thousand consciences
laid aside for humankind.
You who renounce the lips of the violin
to release a thousand songs for humankind,
resisting the plea of the devil,
born upon the line of fire,
to know when you are part of the shore
and when you are half-concealed in piety,
climbing the oaks to point the way
to shelves filled with the Qur’an,
and to a thousand consciences
laid aside for humankind.
O September, September!
Sublime question,
flower that raises to heaven
a prayer of loss.
Sublime question,
flower that raises to heaven
a prayer of loss.
You riot through the days,
in the labyrinths of feeling,
resting on the tooth of Muhammad,
walking with the peace of Jesus,
shaking hands, believing
in the staff of Moses.
in the labyrinths of feeling,
resting on the tooth of Muhammad,
walking with the peace of Jesus,
shaking hands, believing
in the staff of Moses.
O September, September!
The tale shall not end,
it will go on, and on...
The tale shall not end,
it will go on, and on...
Prepared for publication by Angela Kosta
