What we can do, ask ourselves, and we want to do so much that we are doing a world and we do nothing, or maybe asking the question already seems to us a moral conquest, so then we go around. The second case is insurmountable, but the first is not. Ford Fernández, Jordi Maíz and Aina Pérez Duran read, write, translate, edit, teach. This is what they do every day, they are what they are, and that is why they have now wanted to translate and edit a collection of current Palestinian poets in a volume entitled, born in the shelter of Salúmnia, a stamp in revolt based in Mallorca and anarchist roots.
The gesture has many meanings, all small, all essential. First of all, the plurality of voices, not only with regard to the selected authors, but also to the translators, is a mirry of names of several Catalan generations and accents, all of them committed to the scandal that they feel in front of the genocide.
[Mirem-nos aquesta paraula, genocidi; fullejo a casa els diaris de Klemperer, els d’, hi penso, i em reafirmo i escric tres cops més ]
In the prologue, Fernández emphasizes the connection of most collaborators to the university world, and claims a “where the unexpected” is still possible. He says, I’m sure, because he knows that his colleagues at the Recherche de Sexennis and positions would have recommended not to waste time with a non -indexed initiative. And this is the second meaning of the gesture.
The third meaning is born of poetry and is justified by it. We find extraordinary poems, in this anthology, images of scary clarity that illuminate the bombings, the diaspora and especially the childhood, true constant agreement of the massacre: I speak of the dead children who so annoy the scrupulous of the nuance, presences-absences that put Zionism in front of an unbearable mirror. And how did you want to protect yourself from murdered children, cretins? This is how Tarik Luthun sings it translated by the Menorcan Aina Triay: “I just ask me: Can a little boy / find death, and not / do it at home / to show everyone / what he found?”
Oh, but someone will ask if a poem is good or not, or if it is really poetry or not, when they exterminate a people. The answer could allude to the testimony or to be sophisticated theories, and yet everything is simple: while we are alive, we want to sing beautiful poems. Do you want to snatch this right to, this pride?
There is a last meaning, a And Dius Gazaand hides in the corridors that link those lives with ours, parallels of a cruel imbalance. I read Hala Alyan, “[] It is not a place for a children’s trunteel, ” and remember the day a doll ceased to be when he undoed his black trunteel in front of his lover.He was many years ago, in the chapel of Saint Philip Neri of Palma, then empty and in gloom, silent, crossed by desire. And suddenly, his butzes and his heart make all the places that gaza is not, all the places that are not, all the places that he deserve.
