As If I Were a Wall

A selection of poetry from Dima Khalil.

Dima Khalil is a Palestinian teacher, translator and writer. She was born and raised in Gaza, and spent her life in Al-Maghazi, a refugee camp in the central Gaza Strip. Khalil studied at the Islamic University of Gaza, where she earned a BA in Teaching English as a Second Language (ESL). After graduating, she worked first as a translator, and then as a teacher at UNRWA schools. Khalil and her family left Gaza for Cairo in March of this year; she currently teaches online by way of various learning platforms.

That was how I came to know Khalil: by taking Arabic lessons. As it turns out, we share a love of languages, reading and writing; after I mentioned my newsletter, she sent me a few dozen of her poems in Arabic and English translation. I read them through in a single sitting, and immediately thought about publishing a selection here; although Khalil had only shared her writing with close friends – I think all writers can relate to that – she agreed.

For reasons of space, this newsletter does not include the original Arabic, other than the titles; the translations are Khalil’s own. If you’re interested in reading more of her work, or would like to share some thoughts on these poems, let me know and I’ll pass the message on. -JRS

Missing | في عداد المفقودين
October 19, 2023

I quickly checked the latest news,
Went through my inbox for messages unread,
Answered some missed calls,
Set my alarm for 8 a.m., as I always did.
I turned on Pachelbel,
Lit a Yankee candle,
And switched off the lights.

I woke to the sound of hurried footsteps,
And noises falling, fading, colliding.
Sirens wailing on the other side
Was it six or almost seven?
Someone urged me to hurry.
I hastily packed my things:
ID card, passport, and some money.
What else?
The perfume bottle I bought for myself
From a small stall in Istanbul
A few years ago,
A carry-on bag of childhood photos,
And my necklace that bears a familiar name,
That I carry,
Like a birthmark,
Like an address.

I heard a frantic knock at the door,
Overlapping voices, jumbled, panicked,
Calling us to leave.
Someone received a call from an international number,
In broken Arabic,
He ordered him to evacuate.
I rushed to nowhere,
Glanced back with puzzled eyes.
I realized I was barefoot
And saw everyone was lost.

I made a desperate call
To a friend I hadn't seen in years,
Told him I needed shelter
For a short while,
For a few days, maybe weeks.
His brother told me he left the country
Long ago,
Married a Spanish girl,
And had two children with her, maybe three.
The call ended suddenly,
The line went dead.
I found myself in an abandoned basement,
Where darkness and shadows lurk,
My eyes filled with ash and dust,
As if I had never known colors,
Surrounded by the ruins of memories, burned photographs,
And remnants of names.

Here,
Where death chooses its victims
By lottery,
A postponed wedding,
A memorial for the missing,
An exorbitant travel tax,
A closed crossing,
An expired meal,
A single radio station,
And failed attempts to connect.
Blackout,
Torture,
Blindfolds and handcuffs,
Bodies unidentified, disfigured
All gray and red.
Tents,
Endless queues for
Water and bread,
Orphans,
Mass graves,
Pleas,
And newspapers
Tired of their own headlines,
Obituaries that have become
A daily column,
And a message from a friend,
Who’d rather see me crowned a hero
On the list of the dead
Than alive and free
On the list of survivors.

A flash of light,
Gunpowder,
Rubble,
Last breaths,
And another dream added
To the missing…

---

Dark Comedy | كوميديا سوداء
November 30, 2024

2 a.m.
She
I’ll keep the first glances,
the first smiles,
the first messages,
the first conversation,
the first compliment,
and our silly, childish attempts
to feign disinterest,
our staged performances,
our first date,
our first picture,
our first kiss,
our first night,
and place them in a sealed box,
bury it in the garden under the willow tree.

I’ll return to it when we’re past seventy,
to remind him he was the one who started—
the chase,
the flirting,
the talk,
the poetry,
and the endless excuses
for coffee and a date.

2:05 a.m.
He
A photo,
a new status update:
“In a relationship”

Fine.

---

Utopia | يوتوبيا
April 25, 2023

I want to imagine life as a simple equation
That begins with a morning greeting
That I offer to everyone
But here at home, there’s no one
That’s fine
I’ve learned the silent language to speak with things

I turn on the radio
While I prepare a hot cup of coffee
I flip through the stations
But as usual
A weather report
Classical music
And Fairouz
They say there’s a chance of rain today
In the evening
That’s fine
The umbrella leans against the wall
And my car rests in the parking lot
Right below my apartment
I can stay home too
I don’t have any urgent appointments

I look at the newspaper lying on the desk
Not for any reason, but I’m captivated by the smell of ink and fresh paper
And the headlines, as usual
It seems that Leo’s luck is the best today
And that some celebrity got married in a secret ceremony

I scan the accidents page
And see that someone collided into their first love
at the train station where they parted ten years ago
And another fell head over heels
After being a sworn enemy of women

I turn to the obituaries
And the addresses of mourning homes
But nothing new
For death here is nothing but the death of words
Yesterday, fear died
The day before, war died
And today, sadness died
And one day, death will die too
And the dictionaries will become devoid of sorrow
And publishing houses will rush to release new colorful editions
For the color black will also have died

I feel as if I’m in a hurry
But when I look at the clock on the wall… I remember
“Oh, how foolish of me”
The clock stopped a long time ago
And the calendar still shows the same date since six years ago
I feel relieved that I’m on vacation
And don’t have to go to work
I look out the window at the cherry blossoms
I wonder if I should leave a memory there
With my footsteps before summer comes
But that’s fine, maybe next time

I toss the newspaper on the table
And pick up the phone to call a friend
I tell him that one day we’ll meet
And toast to memories
He tells me he’s booked a return ticket
For next December
I tell him his mother will be waiting for him
And so will his favorite meal,
His arcade games,
His bed,
His books,
His dog,
his guitar,
And the clock on the wall…

---

As If I Were a Wall | كأنني جدار
February 5, 2023

My eyes are not closed,
Because when I close them,
I see,
I imagine,
I dream,
I stumble,
I rise,
And I move on.

But my eyes are open,
And yet,
I do not see,
I do not dream,
I do not imagine.
I stumble and fall,
But I do not care.
I do not rise,
I do not move,
As if I were a wall…

---

A Stampede | تدافع
February 12, 2024

While everyone thought
I was among the dead or missing,
there were hundreds of messages,
spaced a few seconds
or minutes apart,
lined up one after another
in a waiting room,
before a locked door
that hadn’t opened
in a long time.
Behind it,
nothing but the unknown.

She closely observed the news,
the breaking headlines,
hoping not to find my name
buried between the lines,
cast aside in the margins,
or scattered letters,
that she had to piece together.

She searched for people
sharing the same family name,
the same DNA,
the same blood type.
She sifted through maps,
and neighborhoods,
wandered alleys,
streets,
and narrow lanes,
hoping to trace my steps
and find more about
my whereabouts.

Two months missing.

A weak signal,
a flickering Wi-Fi,
a waiting room,
a tiny crack,
a glimmer of light,
and a timid first message slips in.
Then a second,
then a third.
Suddenly, the door bursts open,
and the messages pour in—
rushing like a hunted stream,
like a sweeping flood.

Some fall,
never to be read,
some go astray,
some get stuck in the crowd,
and some reach my inbox,
safe and sound.

And on the other side,
a single message reads:
“I’m fine,
I’m still alive.”