Taha Muhammad Ali

You asked me once, on our way back from the midmorning trip to the spring: “What do you hate, and who do you love?” And I answered, from behind the eyelashes of my surprise, my blood rushing like the shadow cast by a cloud of starlings: “I hate departure . . . I love the spring and the path to the spring, and I worship the middle hours of morning.” And you laughed . . . and the almond tree blossomed and the thicket grew loud with nightingales. . . . A question now four decades old: I salute that question’s answer; and an answer as old as your departure; I salute that answer’s question . . . And today, it’s preposterous, here we are at a friendly airport by the slimmest of chances, and we meet. Ah, Lord! we meet. And here you are asking—again, it’s absolutely preposterous— I recognized you but you didn’t recognize me. “Is it you?!” But you wouldn’t believe it. And suddenly you burst out and asked: “If you’re really you, What do you hate and who do you love?!” And I answered— my blood fleeing the hall, rushing in me like the shadow cast by a cloud of starlings: “I hate departure, and I love the spring, and the path to the spring, and I worship the middle hours of morning.” And you wept, and flowers bowed their heads, and doves in the silk of their sorrow stumbled.

The street is empty as a monk’s memory, and faces explode in the flames like acorns— and the dead crowd the horizon and doorways. No vein can bleed more than it already has, no scream will rise higher than it’s already risen. We will not leave! Everyone outside is waiting for the trucks and the cars loaded with honey and hostages. We will not leave! The shields of light are breaking apart before the rout and the siege; outside, everyone wants us to leave. But we will not leave! Ivory white brides behind their veils slowly walk in captivity’s glare, waiting, and everyone outside wants us to leave, but we will not leave! The big guns pound the jujube groves, destroying the dreams of the violets, extinguishing bread, killing the salt, unleashing thirst and parching lips and souls. And everyone outside is saying: “What are we waiting for? Warmth we’re denied, the air itself has been seized! Why aren’t we leaving?” Masks fill the pulpits and brothels, the places of ablution. Masks cross-eyed with utter amazement; they do not believe what is now so clear, and fall, astonished, writhing like worms, or tongues. We will not leave! Are we in the inside only to leave? Leaving is just for the masks, for pulpits and conventions. Leaving is just for the siege-that-comes-from-within, the siege that comes from the Bedouin’s loins, the siege of the brethren tarnished by the taste of the blade and the stink of crows. We will not leave! Outside they’re blocking the exits and offering their blessings to the impostor, praying, petitioning Almighty God for our deaths. 5.11.1983

In his life he neither wrote nor read. In his life he didn’t cut down a single tree, didn’t slit the throat of a single calf. In his life he did not speak of the New York Times behind its back, didn’t raise his voice to a soul except in his saying: “Come in, please, by God, you can’t refuse.” — Nevertheless— his case is hopeless, his situation desperate. His God-given rights are a grain of salt tossed into the sea. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury: about his enemies my client knows not a thing. And I can assure you, were he to encounter the entire crew of the aircraft carrier Enterprise, he’d serve them eggs sunny-side up, and labneh fresh from the bag.