H. A.

“No object is in a constant relationship with pleasure,' wrote Barthes. 'For
the writer, however, it is the mother tongue.' But what if the mother tongue is
stunted? What if that tongue is not only the symbol of a void, but is itself a
void, what if the tongue is cut out? Can one take pleasure in loss without
losing oneself entirely? The Vietnamese I own is the one you gave me, the
one whose diction and syntax reach only the second-grade level.
As a girl, you watched, from a banana grove, your schoolhouse collapse
after an American napalm raid. At five, you never stepped into a classroom
again. Our mother tongue, then, is no mother at all—but an orphan. Our
Vietnamese a time capsule, a mark of where your education ended, ashed.
Ma, to speak in our mother tongue is to speak only partially in Vietnamese,
but entirely in war.”
― Ocean Vuong, On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous

“Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”
― Alfred Lord Tennyson, Idylls of the King and a Selection of Poems

“بَلِّغُوْهَا إِذَا أَتَيْتُم حِمَاهَا أَنَّنِي مُت فِي الْغَرَام فِدَاهَا

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بِدْر عَلَى عَرْش الْجَمَال تِرِبَّعَا فَنَفَى الْرُّقَاد عَن الْعُيُون وَلُوْعَا
أَشْكُو الْهَوَى فَيَصُدُّنِي مُتَمَنِّعَا مُلْك الْفُؤَاد فَمَا عَسَاي أَن أصُنْعا
يَارَب حَشَاي بِجَوْرِه وبِغَلْبِه
لَكِنَّنِي الْصَّب الْمُذَل فِي حَقْلِه
أَلْقَى الْحَلَاوَة فِي مَرَارَة حُبِّه
مَن لَم يَذُق ظللَم الْحَبِيْب كَظَلْمِه حُلْوَا فَقَد جَهِل الْمَحَبَّة وَإِدَّعَى

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بِرُوْحِي فَتَاة بِالْعَفْاف تَجَمَّلَت وَفِي خَدِّهَا حَب مِن الْمِسْك قَد نَبَت
وَقَد ضَاع عَقْلِي وَقَد ضَاع رُشْدِي وَإِسْتَبَدت وَأَقْبَلَت
وَلَمَّا طُلِبَت الْوَصْل مِنْهَا تَمَنَّعْت وَقَالَت أَمَّا تَخْشَى وَأَنْت إِمَام
مَقَامَك يَاهَذَا مَقَام مُبَجَّل وَفِي الْدِّيْن وَالْدُّنْيَا عَلَيْك الْمُعَوَّل
أَتَزْعُم ان الرِّيَق مِنِّي مُحَلَّل فَرِيْقَي مُدَام وَالْمُدَام حَرَام
لَكِنَّنِي الْصَّب الْمُذَل فِي حَقْلِه
أَلْقَى الْحَلَاوَة فِي مَرَارَة حُبِّه

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بَلِّغُوْهَا إِذَا أَتَيْتُم حِمَاهَا أَنَّنِي مُت فِي الْغَرَام فِدَاهَا
وَأُذَكُرُوْنِي لَهَا بِكُل جَمِيْل فَعَسَاهَا تَحِن عَلَي عَسَاهَا
وَبِحَق الْوَفَاء أُعِيْدُوْا عَلَيْهَا ماعَرِفْتم مِن عَذَابِي فِي هَوَاهَا
وَإجَلُبُوْهَا لِتُرْبَتِي فَعِظَامِي تَشْتَهِي أَن تَدُوْسَهَا قَدَمَاهَا
إِن رُوْحِي مِن الْضَّرِيح تُنَاجِيْهَا وَعَيْنِي تَسِيْر إِثْر خُطَاهَا
لَم يَشُقْنَي يَوْم الْقِيَامَة لَوْلَا أَمَلِي أَنَّنِي هُنَاك أَرَاهَا”
― اديب الدايخ

“And, they tell us, we at home
Live free from danger, they go out to battle: fools!
I’d rather stand three times in the front line than bear
One child.”
― Euripides, Medea