This is the poem Claar wrote, about the little girl Raghda who was shot in her classroom and died. Dutch version follows.
a small song for raghda
while you learn to write
‘I go to school’
the grown-ups fight
and write their lines
sleep, raghda, sleep
while you get your notebook
a nice new notebook
intending to keep it clean
the grown-ups
accuse each other
sleep, raghda, sleep
while you write
apple is tufaaha
to play is bal’ab
the grown-ups
accuse you
right through your head
dream, raghda, dream
while you write
blood is damm
a child is walad
a rose is ward
a bus is bas
my apple is red
the grown-ups
never give up
while you write in blood
in your new notebook
the grown-ups
give up
on you
klein liedje voor raghda
terwijl jij leert schrijven
‘I go to school’
geven de grote mensen
elkaar strafwerk
slaap, raghda, slaap
terwijl jij je schrift pakt
een lekker nieuw schrift
dit schrift blijft netjes
geven de grote mensen
elkaar de schuld
slaap, raghda, slaap
terwijl jij schrijft
apple is appel
to play is spelen
geven de grote mensen
door jouw hoofd heen
jou de schuld
droom, raghda, droom
terwijl jij schrijft
blood is bloed
a child is een kind
a rose is een roos
a bus is een bus
my apple is rood
geven de grote mensen
het nooit op
terwijl jij met bloed schrijft
in jouw nieuwe schrift
geven de grote mensen
jou op
Roses of Palestine;
Roses of Palestine are red
All roses are red
roses of Palestine bleed
have you seen a rose bleeding?
Roses of Palestine do smill nice
Roses of Palestine do look beautiful
and if you touch them you feel their pain
but they bleed
have you seen a rose bleeding?
Roses of Palestine carry all the pain of the little children
Roses of Palestine refuse to be captured into pictures
they hate being locked into a frame
they are like all Palestinians: love freedom
but they bleed
Have you seen a rose bleeding?
Yes Anja, Yes Amir;
I know anja that you are Palestinian hearted and what we still do not know amir is that did not the world know that there are palestinians who are to be called human being and they are the only occupied nation in the recent history.
ja, Anja, yes, we manage to exchange poems. Poems born from anger and powerlessness.
Ramadan, know that at least we try to listen to what happens.That it is not unnoticed.
Beslan, Palestina, Darfur, Iraque. Children, murdered. Victims of the present and the past, cut off from their future and their ways to find a better solution. It makes me furious.
Thanks for your poem, Ramadan. And Amirs questions make sense.
Heb eerst gedicht gelezen daarna verder gekeken en vooral de foto’s. Dat is nu een aantal uren geleden en ben nog steeds
zeer getroffen. Dit is zo persoonlijk, zo intens en vooral de
foto van het bebloede schrift.