Transcriber: Serena Zhang Reviewer: sultana idris
Before I begin, I’d like to acknowledge that I’m on stolen land, Gadigal Land,
and that this tower was not nullius, sovereignty was never ceded,
and that this is, was, and always will be Aboriginal land.
This piece is inspired by poet Angelo Gaiter,
and dedicated to one of the greatest to ever do it:
Palestinian-American poet Suyan Hamed.
I give thanks.
I give thanks to the night that did not betray a country,
its abandoned theaters, and abandoned citizens.
I give thanks to the dark that showed up for it’s sheeps,
held us tightly in its grip, and summoned first light.
I give thanks to each particle of light,
put my forehead to the ground in submission
how something so infinite made room for our shadows.
I give thanks to the shadow and the spectrum of color
that became a camera the soldier gives.
I give thanks to the soldier’s rifle that was not loaded.
Thanks to the missile strikes that did not fracture the sky.
Thanks to each grain of sand
that did not make a burial out of these bones.
Thanks to the sea that did not become a cemetery.
Thanks to the flames that did not burn this flesh.
Thanks to the tides that did not drown a body today.
Thanks to the body
that is still limb, and language, and breath, and not remains.
Thanks to breath for being breath and not goodbye,
for being breath and not sorry.
Forgive me for being breath and not collateral damage.
They will defend
and not another tragic incident they will help mine,
and not another statistic they will report in resolution.
I give thanks to the ache of our mother’s melodies
that put our children to sleep.
To the liberation chants and,
“ya salam’s” we thought had been exiled from our mouths.
Thanks to the mouth for being fluent in
“Ahlan! Please stay, have a bite! Here, more rice?”
And the poems of my people.
Thanks to my people.
Thanks to their hands that drum pots and pans,
and roll cabbage,
and rebuild a home each time it has been demolished.
Thanks to their minds for knowing the difference
between sight and vision.
Thanks to the visions
for the eyes that glow like coals guiding us
when the world refuses to see.
The eyes that weep, yet remain witness
to every word of every eulogy, so we are not forgotten.
Thanks to the heart for not mistaking this apartheid wall for skin,
for not mistaking gunpowder for ink,
for knowing what it knows and still hoping.
Thanks to the ancestors whose only heirlooms
are hope and tradition.
Thanks to tradition, the trees, patterns, and lines
that cannot be pulled apart, or colonized, or occupied.
Thanks to thanks,
how their throat thrums with worship, each trill, each syllable,
and instruction, permission to narrate yourself.
Give thanks to yourself, for being able to give thanks,
for insisting on living when only death would let you in.
Thank you.
(Applause)
(Music)