Live Encounters Poetry & Writing August 2025
Going to War, poems by Hussein Jelaad.
Translated from Arabic by Dr. Salwa Gouda.
Going to War
1
We go to war
As we go to love:
In full elegance,
With passion,
With cheers,
And pomegranates.
Mothers await us to kiss our fingertips
And place henna in our pockets and long hair.
Fathers recite Surah Al-Baqarah, Al-Imran, and Al-Ahzab from the Holy Quran.
Children drag behind the coffin:
A photo of their father,
His kuffiyeh,
And his military belt.
2
Ali loved drawing and blank papers,
And I loved walking
And praying in the Umari Mosque.
At night’s end, planes passed over us.
I was at the edge of the camp, seeking water for ablution.
A cloud of dust touched the eighth heaven.
I ran barefoot—
Tents vaporized.
Only a deep pit bore through to the seventh earth.
In the morgue, they handed me a bag: 18 kilos of flesh.
“This is your son,” they told me.
3
War is painful,
But helplessness is more agonizing—
When we see mothers’ clothes beneath the rubble.
I recognized my mother by her witness finger,
The hand that glorifies God beneath the chinaberry trees.
That same finger waves at me when I neglect prayer or school duties.
“You are your father’s shadow,” she’d say,
“And your mother’s father—O light of my eyes.”
I support the house at ten years old,
While she, the grapevine over our home.
“Lean on me when weary,” she’d say on olive-and-oil errands.
We fed five children and an old grandmother
With what harvesters left behind,
Praying to God for protection and well-being.
“When I grow up, I’ll go to the Gulf,” I’d tell her.
Her eyes would smile as she pinched my cheek:
“When you grow up, the Gulf will come to you.”
Thirty years—and the key remains with the jailer.
“Don’t approach the fence,” she tells me,
“Don’t make me bereaved twice—
Your father’s shirt still keeps the house company.”
I began brewing her bitter coffee
After diabetes worsened and her eyes turned blue.
She laughs: “Return to your children, master of this house.”
Next year, we’ll visit Mecca and the Ancient House.
But the key is held by the jailer’s son.
Here I am, removing my bloodstained shirt
To cover my mother’s arm
Raised like a flag beneath the rubble.
© Hussein Jelaad
Hussein Jelaad is a Jordanian poet and journalist who serves as the Alternate Editor-in-Chief of Al Jazeera Net. He also holds the position of Jordan’s Poetry Ambassador to the World Poets Movement. Further recognizing his literary talent, he was selected by the Hay Festival in collaboration with UNESCO as one of the best 39 young writers in the Arab world and diaspora.
Translated by Dr. Salwa Gouda, who is an accomplished Egyptian literary translator, critic, and academic affiliated with the English Language and Literature Department at Ain Shams University. Holding a PhD in English literature and criticism, Dr. Gouda pursued her education at both Ain Shams University and California State University, San Bernardino.
She has authored several academic works, including Lectures in English Poetry and Introduction to Modern Literary Criticism, among others. Dr. Gouda also played a significant role in translating The Arab Encyclopedia for Pioneers, a comprehensive project featuring poets, philosophers, historians, and literary figures, conducted under the auspices of UNESCO. Recently, her poetry translations have been featured in a poetry anthology published by Alien Buddha Press in Arizona, USA. Her work has also appeared in numerous international literary magazines, further solidifying her contributions to the field of literary translation and criticism.