Suheir Hammad Drops
Lyrical Bombs
Words: Ali Jaafar
Photographs: Hala Mufleh
“it is written
the act of writing is
holy words are
sacred and your breath
brings out the
god in them”
So begins the poem Talisman, by Palestinian-American poet Suheir Hammad. She is only passing through the UK when I meet with her, fresh from entrancing audiences in the US with her performances as part of the Tony Award-winning show Def Poetry Jam.
Arab poetry has long been celebrated for its lyricism and romantic playfulness, and it is no coincidence that poets such as the legendary Nizar Qabbani often had their verses incorporated into the songs of Fairuz, Abdel-Halim Hafiz and Um Kalthoum, among others.
Born and raised in Brooklyn, Hammad’s voice is unique, with its fusion of hip hop sensibility and Arab culture and politics. In her poem On The Brink of, composed on the eve of the war in Iraq, she writes:
“In Iraq, children are looking towards
the night sky with fear, as though
there were no stars, only bombs in the cosmos.
And they are afraid of the earth because
they can count the cancers in their
hoods now, where once there were none.”
The use of the word “hood” is interesting, juxtaposing a term one would normally associate more with the streets of urban America than those of Baghdad, and reveals the extent to which Hammad’s poetic voice is influenced by the cultural melting pot of Brooklyn.
In the flesh, Hammad is every bit as dazzling and impressive as her poems. Tall and strikingly attractive, the imprint of her Levantine ancestry is clear to see, “all eyelashes and nose and beautiful colour and stubborn hair,” as she describes “the archetypal Arab” in one of her poems.
Politically active from an early age, she is passionate about her roots, despite the political climate in New York and America as a whole since the outbreak of the current intifada and especially post-September 11. “I always say I’m Palestinian. I never try to hide it by saying I’m Arab.”
She talks with great candour about her experiences as a working class “minority within a minority,” and having to deal with an education system where “most of my schoolteachers were European-American Jews. I remember them pointing at the map and saying that there was no such thing as Palestine, or whenever there was a hijacking and say that ‘those are your people’.”
Going on to talk about the way the Israeli-Palestinian conflict is portrayed in the US, she explains that “there’s no historical accuracy in the covering of the conflict. There’s no sense of an occupation. There’s absolutely no compassion for Palestinians in the mainstream media in America. There’s no sense of there being a culture and a people who deserve to live.”
She accepts the dichotomous nature of her own identity and this informs much of her poetry, most notably in First Writing Since, composed in the aftermath of the September 11 attacks.
“i have never felt less american and more new yorker – particularly
brooklyn, than these past days."
The poem itself is filled with undulating emotions of loss, sorrow and trepidation. Beginning as an elegy to all those who perished in the terrible attacks, the words are haunted by the overshadowing spectre of death and carnage on display.
“no poetry in the ashes south of canal street…
sky where once was steel.
smoke where once was flesh.”
Having described the scene from her kitchen window, which looked out straight onto the Twin Towers, Hammad attempts to convey the indescribable grief she feels as a native New Yorker.
“i am looking for peace. i am looking for mercy. i am looking for evidence of compassion. any evidence of life. i am looking for life.”
She brilliantly recreates the emotional maelstrom of such a cataclysmic event. However, where the poem is at its most fascinating is with the constant references to the experiences from an Arab-American perspective.
“please god, after the second plane, please, don’t let it be anyone who looks like my brothers.
one more person ask me if i knew the hijackers…
one more person assume no arabs or muslims were killed.”
The rage she feels by the end, in the face of ignorance and prejudice, betraysthe double tragedy of the event’s consequences – that life at home, both in New York and Palestine, will never be the same again for her and the countless other Arab Americans at once cursed to be both victim and perpetrator.
While politics plays an integral part in Hammad’s poetry, there is far more to her than simply heated rhetoric. Her aesthetic style, spoken with her distinctive voice, is often playful and full of the rhythms associated with New York and hip hop, as well as Arab poets, particularly when dealing with issues such as love and longing.
She confesses to being a fan of Adonis, particularly with the way he has “serious fun” with his poetry, and the African-American poet June Jordan, who famously wrote in the wake of the 1982 Sabra and Shatila massacres in Lebanon:
“I was born a Black woman
and now
I am become a Palestinian”
In one Hammad poem, Mama’s Sweet Baklava, the delicately flaky sweet becomes an appropriate metaphor for Arab women throughout time:
“she is baklava
back bone strong foundation
layers thousand layers
upon each other like
refugees fleeing or cold
children warming each other
holding each other against
stiff hungry winds”
The vivid use of contrasting imagery between the warm, soothing pastry and the cold, hungry figures adds a resonance to the verse and allows the elemental essence of humanity and compassion, both common traits throughout Hammad’s poetry, to shine through. Nor is she averse to writing simply romantic odes to her lover, as the following excerpt from Talisman reveals.
“may you walk ever
loved and in love
know the sun
for warmth the moon
for direction”
Hammad has become an increasingly popular figure in America. As part of the Def Poetry Jam show, she was the first Palestinian to ever receive a Tony Award on Broadway. She also reveals how she cried with joy when she found out that fellow Arab American Tony Shalhoub had recently won an Emmy Award for his performance in the US TV show Monk.
These figures of the Arab diaspora need to be celebrated both in their lands of residence and ancestry. While she regularly receives emails and poems from Arab Americans and other diaspora Arabs, she admits that unfortunately she does not have anywhere near the same profile in the Middle East itself. When asked about the number of Palestinian-American figures at large in the US media, she laughs. “As far as Palestinians in America go, it’s basically Edward Said then me.”
She agrees that there is a need for Arabs in the diaspora to make themselves more visible, and believes that poetry is “a good avenue for young people to express themselves, to their families, their communities and society at large.”
She is positive about the next generation of Palestinian Americans, particularly drawing attention to “a movement of young kids in California who rap, sing and dance. We’re going to see a whole new school of people that grew up together.”
While she admits that it has been increasingly hard to find things to smile about both at home and abroad – the flooding of New Orleans and the ongoing violence in Iraq has affected her deeply – it may be best to leave the last word to Hammad’s poetry and find hope instead in the fertile landscape of her lyrics.
“there is life here. anyone reading this is breathing, maybe hurting,
but breathing for sure. and if there is any light to come, it will
shine from the eyes of those who look for peace and justice after the
rubble and rhetoric are cleared and the phoenix has risen.”
