OK.
We'll read a poem called "Fooling the Killers,"
which was the title poem of one of Taha's books.
And the poem is about a friend of Taha's from childhood,
a boy named Qasim, who shows up in a lot of his work,
in stories and poems and so forth.
And I think Taha wants to tell you a little bit about who
Qasim was, yeah?
Well, Qasim is my age, my neighbor, my friend,
inseparable.
I'd say 24-year-old, both of us.
But Qasim, exactly like a coin with two faces.
Like the life with two real faces.
The coin, this face is writings and the other [INAUDIBLE]..
The life itself, there is happiness, friendship, health,
good eating, good looking, good--
and then there is all ages, canes, diseases, [INAUDIBLE]
and [INAUDIBLE].
Qasim is the life itself.
Good [? thieves ?] see through life in Qasim.
He loves me so much, but he is ready to change me
for five cigarettes and a packet of sugar.
I don't know him, but I like him.
Because I like the life itself, and I like the [? British ?]
and [INAUDIBLE].
And I'm sorry to tell you that every poem here
and there, when I started to read it or to hear it,
I feel it myself.
Qasim used to say something very terrible.
Used to say something very beautiful.
Used to do things very angrily, but used
to do things [INAUDIBLE].
From his bad things that he used to see, anything he's seen.
To read to his mother, especially to his mother.
And what his mother always said--
تقول مت يا "قاسم". في داهية يا "قاسم".
But once, he leaves [INAUDIBLE].
[? He leaves ?] [INAUDIBLE],, and there's
two eggs from under the hen.
Which is, they're sitting 21 day to make the egg chicken.
He took 15 and went to the shopkeeper, and put there.
He gathers two bags of sugar, and [? he went ?]
with the wind.
Everybody understand?
He stole eggs from under the hen, and the eggs were--
he stole them before they were ready.
The hen hadn't sat on the eggs long enough.
A tax collector came to the [INAUDIBLE]..
Came to the head of the village.
[INAUDIBLE] went to [INAUDIBLE] him the food.
He went to the shop and bought the 15--
Eggs.
His wife said, it blood.
This is not eggs.
When he opened the eggs, there's blood in the eggs.
This is a sign that they haven't sat long enough.
The man went to the mother of Qasim.
Told her what happened.
Oh, he leaves [INAUDIBLE],, and she
went to a high window open to the God of wisdom.
There's one over there.
Opened her [INAUDIBLE],, her old like [NON-ENGLISH SPEECH],,
and put it, oh, God--
She opened her, the top of her dress.
يا الله عاقب "قاسم" وعذبه بقدر ما رضع من ثديي
[? Hang ?] Qasim and make him suffer as if--
please give him, give me--
Make Qasim suffer as long and as severely
as my breasts gave him milk.
And this is at morning at 4 o'clock--
in this time, in 4 o'clock, no taxis, no horses.
And God himself listened to the people.
And every day she would do this.
[LAUGHTER]
1948 he went to the [INAUDIBLE].
Qasim entered my poetry, my story, because I
write short stories and poetry.
And here I want to see what's happened to him.
I [INAUDIBLE].
He tells me, Taha.
I will go to do [INAUDIBLE].
Go, see him.
Please.
He found him.
Qasim [? said, ?] Taha.
He said yes, he's a good guy.
That's all, but he put you in his [INAUDIBLE]..
So I said it to more than 10 [? languages. ?]
I know that he is a good guy.
That's what he told you?
What's more?
He said, nothing.
Nothing more.
And I see his mother.
Now she is, she is 95 years old.
What's she do?
Everyday at the 4:00 morning, she opened the [INAUDIBLE]
and opened her empty [INAUDIBLE] until يا الله عذب "قاسم" بقدر ما رضع من ثديي
And still she doing the same.
[INAUDIBLE] from England invited me to be [INAUDIBLE]..
[? I think ?] usually [? there ?] are good people,
good-hearted people.
They give you a hotel, food, and sleep.
Just like here.
Like here.
But I took 20 English pounds, two papers,
to buy something for my wife as a gift.
Two tins of [? Israel. ?] After we finish,
after we're [? cooking, ?] I went to the airport.
There is Qasim.
I saw him.
Qasim!
He said--
He saw Qasim at the airport sentinel.
Qasim!
He said, Qasim, I like you.
I'm your friend.
He said, I know that you're a good guy.
That's all.
Good guy.
[? Hey, Taha, ?] this needs to be short.
Have you money?
Money?
Qasim asked him, he said, do you have any money?
Two, I--
Here you go.
One for you, and one for-- he took his
and took the other one.
And Taha, see you, ugly good.
[INAUDIBLE]
Qasim!
Qasim-- he goes.
[LAUGHTER]
Then I look for a window in this time.
[LAUGHTER]
Went there, took my old, ugly time, opened my fleece
and says, Qasim, my God, make Qasim
suffer as long and as severe as his mother milked him.
This is Qasim.
But to see [? who it was. ?] In America,
the critics say creative writings
have to be these two things.
One in life itself, the real, and the other in imagination.
Not only in the life is to be like camera recorder,
and not imagination only.
It would be nonsense.
And Qasim, and the story of Qasim, and the story I
told you was two bits.
One in the life itself, the other one in the imagination.
But this is a poem about Qasim.
Qasim.
"قاسم"! تُرى أين أنت الآن؟
أنا لم أنسك خلال هذه السنين الطويلة طويلة كأسوار المقابر
دائمًا أسأل عنك العشب وأكوام التراب
أأنت حي؟ بعكاز، بهيئة، بذكريات
هل تزوجت ولك أولاد؟
أم قتلوك على مداخل الصفيح؟
فلما تزل "قاسم" الصبي الذي يركض ويضحك ويقفز عن السناسل
يحب اللوز ويبحث عن عشاش العصافير؟
حتى إن كانوا يا "قاسم" قد فعلوها وقتلوك
فيقيني أنك ضحكت على قاتليك كما ضحكت على السنين
فهم بالتاكيد لم يجدوا جثتك على كتف الطريق
لم يعثروا عليها لا على مصبات الأنهر لا على الرفوف
ولا على طريق الحج، ولا تحت الأنقاض!
ولأن أحدًا لم يرك وأنت تُخفي جسمانك
فما من أنسي سيعثر عليك
ما من جهة ستقع على عظمة منك
أو إبهام يخصك أو فردة حذاء بقياس قدمك
لقد ضللتهم يا "قاسم"!
لقد حسدتك دائمًا يا "قاسم"
على حُسن اختبائك في الغميضة
التي طالما لعبناها حُفاةً في الأمسيات
ونحن أطفال قبل أربعين سنة.
"Fooling the Killers."
Qasim,
I wonder now where you are.
I haven't forgotten you after all these years,
long as the graveyard wall is long.
I always ask the grass of the field about you,
and the dirt paths.
Are you alive with your poise, your cane and memories?
Did you marry?
Do you have a tent of your own, and children?
Did you make it to Mecca, or did they kill you
at the foot of the Hill of Tin?
Or maybe you never grew up, Qasim,
and managed to hide behind your mere 10 years.
And you're still the same old Qasim,
the boy who runs around and laughs
and jumps over fences, who likes green almonds
and searches for birds' nests.
But even if they did it, Qasim, if, shamelessly,
they killed you, I'm certain you fooled your killers just as you
managed to fool the years.
For they never discovered your body at the edge of the road,
and didn't find it where the rivers spill,
or on the shelves at the morgue, and not on the way to Mecca,
and not beneath the rubble.
As no one saw you concealing your corpse,
so no one will ever set eyes on you,
and no earthly breeze encounter a bone of your body,
a finger of your hand, or even a single shoe that might fit you.
Qasim, you fooled them.
I always envied you, Qasim, your skill at hiding in the games
of hide-and-seek we played--
barefoot at dusk-- forty years ago--
when we were little boys.