Hymn of Hope
Translation by Myriam Khiari
“Sad tunes, 1977 - Silman Mansour”
Source: Silman Mansour, “Sad Tunes, 1977- Oil on Canvas”, https://slimanmansour.com/
After a long journey, steeped in despair and anguish, I finally stepped off the bus,
drawn toward the gathering of mothers stationed in front of the prison yard. They come here to perform their rituals, hoping to reach their sons who are held captive in these colonial prisons. I had heard stories of these mothers before; these mothers who radiate feelings of longing and devotion for their children through codified songs in Arabic; songs that only their children can understand. Until today, I never pictured myself standing here, working to assemble the fragments of my son’s soul scattered across the short, yet overbearing distance that divides us. Singing for him, in the desperate hope that he might hear the tremor in my voice, that he might know that beyond these prison walls, I stand here, as I pray for him and wait for the songs to break down the walls between us.
The mothers took their stand, poised and eager to sing. Each of them has more than one child locked up behind the walls, and this yard has sheltered them since the dawn of time. They have grown accustomed to this grim and tormenting spectacle, morphed it into a daily ritual. I, on the other hand, sought to summon what little strength remained in my frail body to sing. I felt out of place among them, like an intruder - a wave of shame washed over me at the thought of singing in front of them. My feet had never trod upon the soil of this prison before, nor had I ever raised my voice in public, let alone in such dire conditions. How could my mind and body conjure the resilience to see this through?
In that moment of clarity I grasped that, despite the suffocating gap, we were bound together, united, in our love for our sons and our shared thirst for justice in a city that cruelly denies it. I swallowed my grief and resolved to join them in the song.
One by one, they stepped forward, as their melodies filled the air with echoes of sorrow:
And tonight, it is I who sends with the northern wind,
That arrives and circles toward the beloved.
Oh wind, carry them my greeting
I took a deep breath, my chest swelling with hope, and I launched into my song.
Still, my voice trembled. I faltered and tripped over a few words.
A sudden weight settled in my throat. A silence descended, and their eyes, heavy with pity, bore into me. I remained there, at the heart of their focus, encircled by all these mothers, as my eyes fought to connect with theirs. I was the newcomer; freshly immersed in the struggle. I shut my eyes, allowing for the image of my son to wander through the recesses of my memory: tearful, his eyes locked with mine in despair, his arms burdened with helplessness, surrounded by soldiers hauling him towards an unknown destination.
With a gentle touch to my shoulder, I planted my foot on the ground as strength surged through me, otherworldly and almost divine, my eyes closed in silent resolve. I was ready to unleash with all my might, the song I had composed for him only a few days before. An unseen power coursed through me. In that moment, I felt my body crystallize, losing all sense of control as my consciousness was swept up in a transcendental stream.
My lungs expanded and contracted, pushing my voice to fill the space, while my arms spoke for the silent spaces my voice struggled to articulate. Each movement of my body seemed to sway in perfect harmony with the melody. An unearthly force seemed to tether me to my son, despite and beyond the walls. His presence was everywhere, omnipresent and wrapping me like a cloak.
The prison and its walls dissolved as my voice took over; reverberating in every corner. The mothers stood still, motionless; mesmerized by the rhythm of every movement, swept away by the resonating vibrations, all of which I no longer controlled. I felt the weight of the misery nested in my lungs, slipping away with every heartbeat. I lost track of time and place, as I imagined myself standing upon the greatest of stages, reciting a tragic and sorrowful poem.
An overpowering wave of euphoria flooded over me, and I sensed an immense force, so magnificent that it could tear through the prison cell bars and deliver my son into my sweet embrace. I could taste my tears, the salty trails pouring out without any warning as I lost myself in the song. The space was shrouded in darkness, the guards oblivious to and unmoved by the chorus of mothers outside. We were understood by no one but ourselves; perhaps only by our children, if they were able to hear. But I did not falter; my feet remained steady and I carried on in the unshaken hymn of hope.
The edge of my hijab fluttered in the night breeze as my head swayed gently from side to side. One hand rested on my heart, and the other seemed to reach out, quietly sharing the torment that ravaged my soul alongside the mothers. I stood at the center of this curious spectacle, singing through my tears as memories poured in waves. The strength of my body and the tremor in my voice coaxed their ears to listen. Sorrow had taken over the prison yard and claimed it as its own.
I watched as the boundaries around me crumbled, dissolving into the air. This song has set me free. It unravelled the chains of time and space. At that moment, the world existed only for me and my son; it seemed to revolve solely around us, with no walls to divide us. How exquisite is liberation! How suffocating is this life, with its endless corridors and barriers! Yet in that fleeting instant, my voice was my only freedom.
The presence of the mothers by my side carried me to the heights of emancipation, my voice slipping through the prison windows, apathetic to the oppressive, concrete walls and the unforgiving guards.The sterile prison lights seemed to swell, transfixed by the warmth of the song. I watched the prison columns weep and groan for us, almost yearning to collapse and set their captives free. My body swayed to each note; the echo of the melody breathing life into the air around me, joining me in this dance. Though I yielded to the rhythms of my body, an unfamiliar yet powerfully rebellious urge to claim it as my own stirred within me for the first time, a state of mind where the line between myself and my body seemed blurred as we swayed together.
The prison yard felt more confined and tight, more suffocating, its darkness pressing in to consume the space. The mothers watched me intently as their eyes followed every motion. They were worn out from years of waiting, unlike me. Each bore the burden of memory, fragments of their sons’ childhoods before their capture in the spring of their lives. As for me, my memories were still raw and vivid. I could still visualize the scene from last week when I called out to my son and prayed for him, just before the soldiers shattered our door.
As I neared the end of the love song, their gazes still scrutinized me, silently pleading with me to keep singing and to extend our visit. The ground beneath us soaked by our tears, the branches bent with the magic of every melody. I let my body lean into the motion, moving forward, a silent invitation for them to join me. One by one, they stepped up, their voices so pure, merging with mine to wrap up the song. As the ecstasy reached its pinnacle, I felt a cold thrill run down my spine. Our voices cried out for justice and defied the walls that caged us. My voice soared above theirs as if I knew my child was listening, his ear pressed against that doomed wall, smiling that gentle smile, one that once soothed and revived my heart. My voice rose above theirs, as if mine were the yardstick against which to measure this awful fullness of yearning.
Tears overwhelmed them, leaving me alone to complete the song. I lifted my hands to the heavens in supplication, and prayed to Allah:
The exile has endured, and we have missed them.
Bird, go to the beloved and carry them my thoughts.