What is homeland? an Iraqi poem

My early education began with poetry recitation. And so goes the answer when people have asked me, so far, what made me interested in poetry. There is a grain of truth in it but that is a whole different story that I need to write later. But now, an Iraqi poem.

I first heard this poem in Farsi, not Arabic, a long time ago. I was attending a poetry gathering when a young Hazara poet stepped up to the podium and said, “Today I’d like to read a poem by an Iraqi poet.” I don’t remember if he mentioned the poet’s name, or whether it was even his own composition, but what he said stayed with me.

I listened intently. The poem deeply resonated with the Hazara people, those who have been driven from their homeland, Hazaristan. It captured the sorrow of exile and the search for a meaningful way to express that longing. The version he read had already been translated into Farsi. As he recited it, something about the rhythm and emotion drew me in more and more, and before long, I had memorized it. That kind of memory fades with time and place; I can no longer hear a poem and commit it to memory so easily. But I repeated this one to myself so often that it became etched in my mind.

I still don’t know the title of the poem, nor the poet’s name, only that it is an Iraqi poem. I hope someday I will find the original Arabic version. So, here is my translation of the poem into English.

One day, my mother said:
Children,
A riddle:
What is it whose inhabitants are made of wood?
And whose shell is a provision
For every passerby?

My sister said:
"A date."

My mother, laughing,
Embraced her.

But I,
I wept and said:
"My homeland."

مادرم روزی گفت

بچه ها

یک معما

آن چیست که ساکنانش چوبند

و پوسته اش توشه ای است

برای هر رهگذری؟

خواهرم گفت

خرماست

مادرم خنده کنان

او را در آغوش گرفت

و من اما

گریستم

و گفتم میهنم