A song by Angolan artist, athlete, and activist, Bonga, to honor the moment:
Dear relatives,
This letter began with resistance. I had intentions about what to write, and then everything happening in Israel changed the course.
We’ve watched and read the news, and taken in commentary. There are funds being raised, and resource documents being shared. And then, as always, there is poetry. A friend sent over one she had written in response to seeing something (everything) horrific. Another friend shared an image with a poem about something (everything) they had read that made their blood boil. All of it is heartache, a break in the routine of the daily to-do list that seems to get longer, and more demanding as the weeks and years press on.
All of this to say, whatever I had planned to share today can wait. I think this moment necessitates a pause. Saturday was an eclipse in Libra, after all, where we can witness the shadow side of our relationships. And they are being called toward transformation.
Who are we serving with a laundry list of mandates? If how we move through the world is stifled, so is our relationship with the land. When our actions are dictated by policies meant to silence us, how do we seek liberation?
I am reminded of the poem “Kulila”, by Aboriginal poet Ali Cobby Eckermann, a survivor of The Stolen Generation—a period in Australian history from 1910-1970 marked by the government's removal of children from their families. Through the poem, the poet calls readers into the threshold between memory and storytelling:
tell every little story
when the people was alive
tell every little story moredon’t forget ’em story
night time tell ’em to the kids
keep every story live
Each time I reread this poem, I lament a little more, and it attunes my mind and heart to listen more deeply. In just a few lines, Cobby Eckerman is able to convey so much about the legacy of colonization and the attempted erasure of Indigenous people. She also speaks to the role that stories have in maintaining cultural knowledge, acting as a connector between generations.
We’ll end our letter this week, not with a question as usual, but with an excerpt from a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye, “Jerusalem: A Trilingual Poem”. This one has stayed with me since I read it on Friday:
Each carries a tender spot:
something our lives forgot to give us.
A man builds a house and says,
“I am a native now.”
A woman speaks to a tree in place
of her son. And olives come.
A child’s poem says,
“I don’t like wars,
they end up with monuments.”
He’s painting a bird with wings
wide enough to cover two roofs at once.
With gratitude,
Christian
Thank you, Elena. I sincerely appreciate you taking the time to comment.
thank you for this thoughtful compilation of poems, quotes and resources for our hearts.