Kunst op Zondag: de drie van Tilburg

Een gastbijdrage van reageerder Rigo Reus

Het gedicht My grandfather was a terrorist, is afkomstig uit de debuutbundel [1] van Mosab Abu Toha, een Palestijn, die nu met zijn vrouw en drie kinderen in Amerika woont. Hij schrijft o.a. voor The New Yorker, essays, over het lijden van de Palestijnen in Gaza, journalistiek werk, waar hij begin mei de Pulitzer Prize voor ontving.

Maar Mosab Abu Toha schrijft dus ook poëzie, en dit gedicht heb ik voor de gelegenheid proberen te vertalen naar het Nederlands.

My Grandfather Was A Terrorist

My grandfather was a terrorist—
He tended to his field,
watered the roses in the courtyard,
smoked cigarettes with grandmother
on the yellow beach, lying there
like a prayer rug.

My grandfather was a terrorist—
He picked oranges and lemons,
went fishing with brothers until noon,
sang a comforting song en route
to the farrier’s with his piebald horse.

My grandfather was a terrorist—
He made a cup of tea with milk,
sat on his verdant land,
as soft as silk.

My grandfather was a terrorist—
He departed his house,
leaving it for the coming guests,
left some water on the table, his best,
lest the guests die of thirst after their conquest.

My grandfather was a terrorist—
He walked to the closest safe town,
empty as the sullen sky.
vacant as a deserted tent,
dark as a starless night.