9 Months
by Syrian poet Omar Al-Farra
Read by Om Mohammad on Mother's Day at Camp Za'atari
first, write my greetings; second, write my love.
and write … 9 months ... I carried you inside… inside my womb
9 months … and you were my hearts’ neighbor ...
Neighbors
Dearest neighbors
Loving neighbors
9 months
As you grew, I grew
And I felt the world around me become bigger (vast)
9 months ... and I get up at night … in the middle of the night
I wake up at dawn and pray:
Lord do not disappoint me ... Lord do not torment (torture) me (or do not make me suffer)
Lord have mercy on me ... Lord send me my loved one
So I can raise him with my tears
And vow with every letter of your name to the Lord
9 months
I have never felt in my life longer than these 9 months
And I see you in my dreams ... walking
On my soul ... on my eye lashes (it means he is very dear to her)
I see you carrying me to my grave
I see you reading your books
I see you leader of your friends
I see you strutting like Antar (antar is a name used to refer to a mischievous/smart/popular boy)
No not like Antar
You are greater and more handsome
You are just like a full moon
You, when your voice is heard the world listens
I wake up from a sweet dream with a touch of kindness from you
And I feel you leaning towards my soul playfully
I soar with happiness when you tease me
You know what?
I don’t know how I can visualize it
and I bet you that there will be no man who can feel the ecstasy of prenancy
Even the thrill of being pregnant; when the heart of the fetus flutters
No man…
Tonight I thought
I will send you your mothers’ love
Love that flowed through your veins
and then became your own
Maybe you will talk to me
so I can lessen the burden of distance
If it were in my hands .. I would plant yearning in your eyes.
Maybe you will remember your mother
Come next to me
Come next to me
Missing you has been torture
I love your eyes, I love your soul, I love your heart
Come next to me
Because you see, tonight I am missing you.
Just like a camel crying for losing her son.
In the end,
Every ones’ eyes has someone to love.
My Regards,
My Regards,
And once we were done from writing the letter
She took it from me and held it near her heart
then kissed each side of it and threw it to the whirling winds so it could take it;
and said:
Tonight it will reach him
And so she sobbed
And moaned
And cried
And when she left they said to me:
a poor women; she was infertile
Never was she pregnant
And never has she given birth.