you ask me to play fairouz on the ride back home
on deciphering arabic songs, after safia elhillo
by Jood AlThukair
i meet mama in the car but she doesn’t see me.
obsidian hair spills down her forehead from before i was born,
a hibiscus flower behind her ear (baba had tucked it in when
nobody was looking).
she picks rice shards from between her teeth,
avoids my grandfather’s gaze in the sepia photo hung by the mirror—
his frown burning the hibiscus & the hair
& the rice between her teeth.
there is no room for lovestruck melodies or ships we know will sail,
our hearts only beat for who we can no longer see.
his presence lingers in the car,
in the seat next to me that cradles a plastic bag
of wax strips & obsidian hair & cotton balls
smelling of nail polish & acetone & hibiscus.
fairouz sings me a secret in an arabic we dream to speak;
gossips about my grandfather & baba’s ship that won’t sail.
mama hides the flower behind the photograph—
my grandfather is not the only cryptic song.
About this poem:
Inspired by Safia Elhillo’s “vocabulary”, I tread around the essence of Arab womanhood and our Arabic’s tendency for homonyms. Although it displays the Arabic’s depth, it also leaves room for mixed signals and, sometimes, misinterpretations. This technique is often used in our music, offering a system of lyricism that is almost labyrinthine in its possibilities. As if gazing through a microscope, any shift in perspective will completely flip the meaning, manifesting a new body altogether. The poem does not stem from personal experiences—this is not my mother’s story—but it delves into the multitudes that life offers through a lens that only speaks Arabic. Whether one would like for love to bring them home, or have the wind to carry them there, Arabic remains a mystery that winks at whoever challenges it.
Jood AlThukair is a writer, founding editor-in-chief of Sumou Mag, and everything in-between. When she's not reading Edward Saïd or moderating her magazine, you can find her on Twitter @joodthu, or Instagram @jusqu.a