في العام 1854، طلب الرئيس الأميركي فرانكلين بيرس من الهنود الحمر الاستسلام بعد حرب طويلة أدت إلى قتل 70 مليوناً منهم. وفي شمال غرب الولايات المتحدة أُقيمت جلسة الاستسلام، حيث حضر حاكم مقاطعة واشنطن اسحق ستيفنر مع زعيم هنود قبائل دواميش واسكواميش، الذي ألقى خطبة الاستسلام التي اشتُهرت بخطبة “سياتل” المكان الذي أقيمت فيه مدينة سياتل، كما اشتُهرت باسم “خطبة الهندي الأحمر الأخيرة”.
شكلت الخطبة نصّاً استثنائيّاً، للشعراء والكتاب والفنانين الذين استلهموا معانيه وتداعياته. هو نصٌ يؤرخ للحظة إعلان موت شعب وموت دورة حياته. الشاعر الفلسطيني محمود درويش استلهم الخطبة في قصيدة مطوّلة بعنوان: خطبة الهندي الأحمر ما قبل الأخيرة، اعتمدها المغني البريطاني المعروف في إصدار عمل خاص في الذكرى السبعين لنكبة فلسطين (2018).
مقاطع من خطبة الهندي الأحمر الأخيرة:
“زعيم واشنطن الكبير” يقول لي، في رسالته، أنه يريد أن يشتري بلادنا. ويقول لي أنه صديقي وأنه يكنً لي مودة عميقة.
ما ألطف زعيم واشنطن الكبير، ولا سيما أنه في غنى عني وعن صداقتي!
لكننا سننظر في ما يعرضه زعيم واشنطن الكبير، فنحن نعرف أننا إذا لم نبعه بلادنا فسوف يجئنا الرجل الأبيض مدججا بسلاحه وينتزعها.
كيف نستطيع أن نبيع أو نشتري السماء ودفء الأرض؟
ما أغرب هذه الأفكار!!!
كيف نبيع طلاقة الهواء؟
كيف نبيع حباب الماء ونحن لا نملكها؟
كل شبر من تراب هذه البلاد مقدس عند شعبي. كل خيط من ورق الصنوبر، كل شاطئ رملي، كل مدى من الضباب في غياهب الأحراج، كل حشرة تمتص ما تمتص أو تطنّ؛ كله مقدس في ذاكرة شعبي وتجربته مع الحياة.
النسغ الذي يسيل في الأشجار يجري بذكريات الإنسان الأحمر. موتى الإنسان الأبيض ينسون مهدهم عندما يمشون بين النجوم. أما موتانا فأبداً لا ينسون الأرض الطيبة لأنها أم الإنسان الأحمر. نحن منها، وهي منا.
الأزهار العاطرة أخواتنا. الغزال والحصان والنسر العظيم كلهم إخوتنا. القمم الصخرية. ندى المروج ودفء جسد الحصان، كلهم من هذه الأسرة الواحدة.
إذن فحين يقول زعيم واشنطن الكبير أنه يريد أن يشتري بلادنا، إنما يسألنا ما لا يطاق.
زعيم واشنطن الكبير يقول في رسالته أنه يريد أن يشتري بلادنا، وأنه سيهبنا مطرحاً يلمّنا، نعيش فيه سعداء وأنه سيكون لنا أبا وأننا سنكون أبناء له، لذا سننظر في ما يعرضه زعيم واشنطن الكبير حول شراء بلدنا، علماً بأنه عرض لا يطاق، لأن أرضنا مقدسة.
هذه المياه التي تشع وهي تجري في السواقي والأنهار ليست مياها، إنها دماء أجدادنا. وإذا قررنا أن نبيعك بلادنا فاذكر أنها مقدسة. وقل لأبنائك أنها مقدسة. كل طيف يتراءى في صفاء مياه البحيرات ينبئك عن ذكريات شعبنا وتاريخه. وما تهمس به المياه هو صوت جدي. هذه الأنهار أخوتنا. إنها تطفئ ظمأنا، وتحمل مراكبنا، وتطعم أطفالنا. وإذا قررنا أن نبيعك بلادنا فاذكر وعلّم أبناءك أن هذه الأنهار إخوتنا وعليك أن تحبها كما تحب من ولدته أمك.
ينهزم الإنسان الأحمر أمام زحف الإنسان الأبيض مثلما ينقشع ضباب الجبال أمام شمس الصباح. لكننا نرى رماد آبائنا مقدساً، وقبورهم بقيعاً مقدساً. وهكذا نرى الهضاب والأشجار. ونعتبر هذه البلاد قسمتنا. ونعرف أن الرجل الأبيض لا يفهمنا. تستوي هذه الأرض عنده والأرض المجاورة. لأنه الغريب الذي تسلل في ظلمات الليل فنال من هذه الأرض كل ما تمنى. إنه لا يرى الأرض أختاً له، بل عدوا يقهره ثم يمضي. ها هو يهجر قبر أبيه ولا يعبأ، ويتركه وراء ظهره ولا يعبأ. إنه يسرق الأرض من أبنائها ولا يعبأ. هذه قبور آبائه ومهاد أبنائه منسية. وها هو ينظر إلى أمه السماء فلا يراها إلاّ سلعة تسرق أو تباع كالأغنام والخرز. إن جشعه يلتهم الأرض فلا يغادرها إلا صحراء ….
“لا يترك هذا الرجل الأبيض حيث يحل ويرحل شبراً من أرض دون ضجيج. لم يبق لديه مكان لسماع حفيف الأوراق وتفتحها في الربيع، أو لسماع طنين أجنحة الحشرات. ولكن لربما أنني متوحش، لا افهم أن الضوضاء تصم الأذنين. وما يتبقى للحياة حين يعجز الإنسان عن سماع صرخة طائر السبد، أو يصغي في أعماق الليل لنقاش الضفادع حول البركة. لكن لربما أنني إنسان احمر، لا افهم!
“الهنود يفضلون صوت الريح العذب وهي ترمح فوق بركة المياه، ورائحة الريح المعشقة بمطر الظهيرة أو المعطرة برائحة الصنوبر.
“الهواء عند الإنسان الأحمر ثمين، فكل ما على الأرض يتنفس منه. الحيوانات والأشجار والبشر كلهم يتنفسون من نفس واحد أما الإنسان الأبيض فيبدو أنه لا يعرف أنه يتنفس، وكأنه رجل مات منذ أيام. كل ما فيه بليد حتى النتانه. ولكن إذا قررنا أن نبيعك بلادنا فاذكر أن الهواء ثمين عندنا، وأن روح الهواء تتغلغل في كل من يتنفس منه. أن الريح التي وهبت جدنا الأكبر أول شهيق هي التي استردت منه زفيره الأخير. أن على هذه الريح أن تمنح أبنائنا روح الحياة. فإذا بعناك بلادنا فاجعلها حراماً، وقدّسها كأنها مقام يحج إليه الرجل الأبيض ويتذوق فيه الريح المحلاّة بأزهار المروج.
وإذن، فسننظر في عرض شرائك بلادنا، وسيكون لنا شرط واحد إذا قبلنا ببيعها: أن يعامل الرجل الأبيض حيوانات الأرض كما يعامل أخواته.
لربما أنني متوحش ولا أفهم. لكني شاهدت ألف جاموس منتن في البراري قتلها الرجل الأبيض من قطار عابر. لعلّي متوحش ولا أفهم كيف أن هذا الحصان الحديدي المدخن أعظم في عينيه من الجاموس الذي لا نقتلها إلا لكي نبقى على قيد الحياة.
ما الإنسان بدون هذه الحيوانات؟ إذا انقرضت فسوف يموت من توحش روحه. ما يصيب الحيوانات سرعان ما يصيب البشر. فكل الأشياء متمارجة.
لابد أن تعلّم أبنائك أن أديم الأرض تحت أقدامهم من رفات أجدادنا. بذلك يحترمون الأرض. علمهم ما علمنا أولادنا أن هذه الأرض أمنا، وان المكروه الذي يصيبها سوف يصيب أبناء الأرض. إذا بصق إنسان على الأرض فإنما يبصق على نفسه.
هذا ما نعلّم، أن الأرض لا تعود إلى إنسان، بل هو الإنسان يعود إلى الأرض. هذا ما نعلّم: كل الأشياء متمارجة كما الدم الذي يوحد العائلة. كل الأشياء متمارجة. ما يصيب الأرض سوف يصيب أبناء الأرض. الإنسان لا ينسج عنكبوت الحياة، بل هو خيط في هذا النسيج. وما يفعله للنسيج يفعله بنفسه.
لكننا سننظر في عرضك أن نذهب إلى المطرح المخصص لشعبي لنعيش وحدنا بسلام. لم يعد يهم أين نمضي بقية حياتنا. إنها أيام معدودة، بضع ساعات إضافية، بعض شتاءات …ثم لن يكون هناك أطفال من هذه الشعوب العظيمة التي عاشت يوماً على هذه الأرض، وها هي ذي شراذم ضئيلة تتسكع في أعماق الأدغال. لن يكون هناك أطفال يبكون على قبور بشر كانوا ذات يوم مثلكم أقوياء طافحين بالآمال. ولكن لماذا أبكي زوال شعبي؟ إن القبائل لا يصنعها إلا الرجال. أما الرجال فيجيئون ويرحلون مثل أمواج البحر. حتى أنت أيها الرجل الأبيض الذي تمشي مع ربك وتحاكيه صديقاً لصديق لن تنجو من هذا المصير. ولعلنا _في النهاية _إخوة وسوف نرى.
أعلم شيئاً واحداً قد يكتشفه الرجل الأبيض يوماً. أعلم أن إلهي وإلهه واحد. إنكم تعتقدون أنكم تملكون هذا الإله مثلما إنكم تريدون أن تملكوا أرضنا. إنه إله الإنسان وقد وسعت رحمته الإنسان الأحمر والإنسان الأبيض. إن هذه الأرض غالية عنده. وإن إيذاء الأرض لابد أن يثير غضب خالقها. لسوف تمضي أنت أيضاً أيها الإنسان الأبيض. وربما ستمضي قبل غيرك. هيا أمعن في تلويث فراشك ولسوف تختنق يوماً في قمامتك.
لكنك _ ولحكمة لا يعرفها إلا الإله الذي جاء بك إلى هذه البلاد_ أعطاك سلطاناً على الأرض وعلى الإنسان الأحمر. إن هذا المصير ما يزال لغزاً عندنا.
أين الأيكة؟ ولت
أين النسر؟ اختفى
ما معنى أن تقول وداعاً للصيد وللحصان الرشيق؟
أنها نهاية الحياة وبداية مغالبة الموت.
وإذن، سننظر في عرضك أن تشتري بلادنا. فلئن رضينا فلكي نأمن على أنفسنا في ما وعدتنا به من مطرح نعيش فيه. هناك. ربما، سوف نعيش آخر أيامنا. وحين يزول آخر إنسان أحمر فوق الأرض، ولا يبقى منه إلا ظلال سحابة تعبر البراري ستظل هذه الشطآن والغابات مسكونة بروح شعبي.
وإذن، إذا بعناك أرضنا فأحبها كما يحب الوليد خفقان قلب أمه.
وإذن، إذا بعناك أرضنا فأحبها كما أحببناها، واستوص بها خيرا ًكما استوصينا. واحتفظ من أرضنا بصورة لها مثلما كانت يوم أخذتها.
وبكل ما أُعطيت من سلطان، وكل ما فيك من عقل وقلب: استوص بأرضنا وصنها.
أحبها كما يحبنا الله جميعاً.
إنني أعلم أن إلهنا وإلهكم واحد، وأن هذه الأرض غالية عليه. وأعلم أن الرجل الأبيض أيضاً لن يفلت من يد المصير. وفي النهاية…لعلنا أخوان وسوف نرى.
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مصدر النص باللغة العربيّة: لم لا
***
Chief Seattle’s Speech
The Great Chief in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy our land.
The Great Chief also sends us words of friendship and goodwill. This is kind of him, since we know he has little need of our friendship in return. But we will consider your offer. For we know that if we do not sell, the white man may come with guns and take our land.
How can you buy or sell the sky, the warmth of the land? The idea is strange to us.
If we do not own the freshness of the air and the sparkle of the water, how can you buy them from us[?]
We will decide in our time.
What Chief Seattle says, the Great Chief in Washington can count on as truly as our white brothers can count on the return of the seasons. My words are like the stars. They do not set.
Every part of this earth is sacred to my people. Every shining pine needle, every sandy shore, every mist in the dark woods, every clearing, and humming insect is holy in the memory and experience of my people. The sap which courses through the trees carries the memories of the red man.
The white man’s dead forget the country of their birth when they go to walk among the stars. Our dead never forget this beautiful earth, for it is the mother of the red man.
We are part of the earth and it is part of us. The perfumed flowers are our sisters[;] the deer, the horse, the great eagle, these are our brothers. The rocky crests, the juices in the meadows, the body heat of the pony, and man―all belong to the same family.
So, when the Great Chief in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy our land, he asks much of us.
The Great Chief sends word he will reserve us a place so that
we can live comfortable to ourselves. He will be our father and we will be his children.
But can that ever be? God loves your people, but has abandoned his red children. He sends machines to help the white man with his work, and builds great villages for him. He makes your people stronger every day. Soon you will flood the land like the rivers which crash down the canyons after a sudden rain. But my people are an ebbing tide, we will never return.
No, we are separate races. Our children do not play together and our old men tell different stories. God favors you, and we are orphans.
So we will consider your offer to buy our land. But it will not be easy. For this land is sacred to us. We take our pleasure in these woods. I do not know. Our ways are different from your ways.
This shining water that moves in the streams and rivers is not just water but the blood of our ancestors. If we sell you land, you must remember that it is sacred, and that each ghostly reflection in the clear water of the lakes tells of events and memories in the life of my people. The water’s murmur is the voice of my father’s father.
The rivers are our brothers, they quench our thirst. The rivers carry our canoes, and feed our children. If we sell you our land, you must remember, and teach your children, that the rivers are our brothers, and yours, and you must henceforth give rivers the kindness you would give any brother.
The red man has always retreated before the advancing white man, as the mist of the mountain runs before the morning sun. But the ashes of our fathers are sacred. The graves are holy ground, and so these hills, these trees, this portion of the earth is consecrated to us. We know that the white man does not understand our ways. One portion of land is the same to him as the next, for he is a stranger who comes in the night and takes from the land whatever he needs. The earth is not his brother but his enemy, and when he has conquered it, he moves on. He leaves his fathers’ graves behind, and he does not care. He kidnaps the earth from his children. He does not care. His fathers’ graves and his children’s birthright are forgotten. He treats his mother, the earth, and his brother, the sky, as things to be bought, plundered, sold like sheep or bright beads. His appetite will devour the earth and leave behind only a desert.
I do not know. Our ways are different from your ways. The sight of your cities pains the eyes of the red man. But perhaps it is because the red man is a savage and does not understand.
There is no quiet place in the white man’s cities. No place to hear the unfurling of leaves in spring or the rustle of insect’s wings. But perhaps it is because I am a savage and do not understand. The clatter only seems to insult the ears. And what is there to life if a man cannot hear the lonely cry of the whipporwill or the arguments of the frogs around a pond at night? I am a red man and do not understand. The Indian prefers the soft sound of the wind darting over the face of a pond, and the smell of the wind itself, cleansed by a midday rain, or scented with pinon pine.
The air is precious to the red man, for all things share the same breath―the beast, the tree, the man, they all share the same breath. The white man does not seem to notice the air he breathes. Like a many dying for many days, he is numb to the stench. But if we sell our land, you must remember that the air is precious to us, that the air shares its spirit with all the life it supports. The wind that gave our grandfather his first breath also receives his last sigh. And the wind must also give our children the spirit of life. And if we sell you our land, you must keep it apart and sacred, as a place where even the white man can go to taste the wind that is sweetened by the meadow’s flowers.
So we will consider your offer to buy our land. If we decide to accept, I will make one condition: The white man must treat the beasts of this land as his brothers.
I am a savage and I do not understand any other way. I have seen a thousand rotting buffalos on the prairie, left by the white man who shot them from a passing train. I am a savage and I do not understand how the smoking iron horse can be more important than the buffalo that we kill only to stay alive.
What is man without the beasts? If all the beasts were gone, men would die from a great loneliness of spirit. For whatever, happens to the beasts, soon happens to man. All things are connected.
Whatever befalls the earth, befalls the sons of the earth.
You must teach you children that the ground beneath their feet is the ashes of our grandfathers. So that they will respect the land, tell your children that the earth is rich with the lives of our kin. Teach your children what we have taught our children, that
the earth is our mother. Whatever befalls the earth, befalls the sons of the earth. If men spit upon the ground, they spit upon themselves.
This we know. The earth does not belong to man; man belongs to the earth. This we know. All things are connected like the blood which unites one family. All things are connected.
Whatever befalls the earth befalls the sons of the earth. Man did not weave the web of life; he is merely a strand in it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself.
No, day and night cannot live together.
Our dead go to live in the earth’s sweet rivers, they return with the silent footsteps of spring, and it is their spirit, running in the wind, that ripples the surface of the ponds.
We will consider why the white man wishes to buy the land. What is it that the white man wishes to buy, my people ask me. The idea is strange to us. How can you buy or sell the sky, the warmth of the land? [sic] ―the swiftness of the antelope? How can we sell these things to you and how can you buy them? Is the earth yours to do with as you will, merely because the red man signs a piece of paper and gives it to the white man? If we do not own the freshness of the air and the sparkle of the water, how can you buy them from us[?]
Can you buy back the buffalo, once the last one has been killed? But we will consider your offer, for we know that if we do not sell, the white man may come with guns and take our land. But we are primitive, and in his passing moment of strength the white man thinks that he is a god who already owns the earth. How can a man own his mother?
But we will consider your offer to buy our land. Day and night cannot live together. We will consider your offer to go to the reservation you have for my people. We will live apart, and in peace. It matters little where we spend the rest of our days. Our children have seen their fathers humbled in defeat. Our warriors have felt shame, and after defeat they turn their days in idleness and contaminate their bodies with sweet foods and strong drink. It matters little where we pass the rest of our days. They are not many. A few more hours, a few more winters, and none of the children of the great tribes that once lived on this earth or that roam now in small bands in the woods will be left to mourn the graves of a people once as powerful and hopeful as yours.
But why should I mourn the passing of my people? Tribes are made of men, nothing more. Men come and go, like the waves of the sea.
Even the white man, whose God walks and talks with him as friend to friend, cannot be exempt from the common destiny. We may be brothers after all; we shall see. One thing we know, which the white man may one day discover―our God is the same God.
You may think now that you own Him as you wish to own our land; but you cannot. He is the God of man, and His compassion is equal for the red man and the white. This earth is precious to Him, and to harm the earth is to heap contempt on its Creator. The whites too shall pass; perhaps sooner than all other tribes. Continue to contaminate your bed, and you will one night suffocate in your own waste.
But in your perishing you will shine brightly, fired by the strength of the God who brought you to this land and for some special purpose gave you dominion over this land and over the red man. That destiny is a mystery to us, for we do not understand when the buffalo are all slaughtered, the wild horses are tamed, the secret corners of the forest heavy with the scent of many men, and the view of the ripe hills blotted by talking wires. Where is the thicket? Gone. Where is the eagle? Gone. And what is it to say goodbye to the swift pony and the hunt? The end of living and the beginning of survival.
God gave you dominion over the beasts, the woods, and the red man, and for some special purpose, but that destiny is a mystery to the red man. We might understand if we knew what it was that the white man dreams―what hopes he describes to his children on long winter nights―what visions he burns onto their minds so that they will wish for tomorrow. But we are savages. The white man’s dreams are hidden from us. And because they are hidden, we will go our own way. For above all else, we cherish the right of each man to live as he wishes, however different from his brothers. There is little in common between us.
So we will consider your offer to buy our land. If we agree, it will be to secure the reservation you have promised. There, perhaps, we may live out our brief days as we wish.
When the last red man has vanished from this earth, and his memory is only the shade of a cloud moving across the prairie, these
shores and forests will still hold the spirits of my people. For they love this earth as the newborn loves its mother’s heartbeat.
If we sell you our land, love it as we’ve loved it. Care for it as we’ve cared for it. Hold in your mind the memory of the land as it is when you take it. And with all your strength, with all your mind, with all your heart, preserve it for your children, and love it . . . as God loves us all.
One thing we know. Our God is the same God. This earth is precious to Him. Even the white man cannot be exempt from the common destiny. We may be brothers after all. We shall see.
http://www.washington.edu/uwired/outreach/cspn/Website/Classroom%20Materials/Reading%20the%20Region/Texts%20by%20and%20about%20Natives/Texts/8.html
**
CHIEF SEATTLE: 1855
THE GREAT CHIEF in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy our land. The Great Chief also sends us words of friendship and good will. This is kind of him, since we know he has little need of our friendship in return. But we will consider your offer, for we know if we do not so the white man may come with guns and take our land. What Chief Seattle says you can count on as truly as our white brothers can count on the return of the seasons. My words are like the stars – they do not set.
How can you buy or sell the sky – the warmth of the land? The idea is strange to us. Yet we do not own the freshness of the air or the sparkle of the water. How can you buy them from us? We will decide in our time. Every part of this earth is sacred to my people. Every shining pine needle, every sandy shore, every mist in the dark woods, every clearing, and every humming insect is holy in the memory and experience of my people.
We know that the white man does not understand our ways. One portion of land is the same to him as the next, for he is a stranger who comes in the night and takes from the land whatever he needs. The earth is not his brother, but his enemy, and when he has conquered it, he moves on. He leaves his father’s graves and his children’s birthright is forgotten. The sight of your cities pains the eyes of the redman. But perhaps it is because the redman is a savage and does not understand.
There is no quiet place in the white man’s cities. No place to listen to the leaves of spring or the rustle of insect wings. But perhaps because I am a savage and do not understand – the clatter only seems to insult the ears. And what is there to life if a man cannot hear the lovely cry of the whippoorwill or the arguments of the frogs around a pond at night? The Indian prefers the soft sound of the wind itself cleansed by a mid-day rain, or scented by a pinõn pine: The air is precious to the redman. For all things share the same breath – the beasts, the trees, and the man. The white man does not seem to notice the air he breathes. Like a man dying for many days, he is numb to the stench.
If I decide to accept, I will make one condition. The white man must treat the beasts of this land as his brothers. I am a savage and I do not understand any other way. I have seen thousands of rotting buffaloes on the prairie left by the white man who shot them from a passing train. I am a savage and do not understand how the smoking iron horse can be more important than the buffalo that we kill only to stay alive. What is man without the beasts? If all the beasts were gone, men would die from great loneliness of spirit, for whatever happens to the beast also happens to the man.
All things are connected. Whatever befalls the earth befalls the sons of the earth.
Our children have seen their fathers humbled in defeat. Our warriors have felt shame. And after defeat they turn their days in idleness and contaminate their bodies with sweet food and strong drink. It matters little where we pass the rest of our days – they are not many. A few more hours, a few more winters, and none of the children of the great tribes that once lived on this earth, or that roamed in small bands in the woods will remain to mourn the graves of the people once as powerful and hopeful as yours.
One thing we know that the white man may one day discover. Our God is the same God. You may think that you own him as you wish to own our land, but you cannot. He is the Body of man, and his compassion is equal for the redman and the white. This earth is precious to him, and to harm the earth is to heap contempt on its Creator. The whites, too, shall pass – perhaps sooner than other tribes. Continue to contaminate your bed, and you will one night suffocate in your own waste. When the buffalo are all slaughtered, the wild horses all tamed, the secret corners of the forest heavy with the scent of many men, and the view of the ripe hills blotted by the talking wires, where is the thicket? Gone. Where is the eagle? Gone. And what is it to say goodbye to the swift and the hunt? The end of living and the beginning of survival.
We might understand if we knew what it was the white man dreams, what hopes he describes to his children on long winter nights, what visions he burns into their minds, so they will wish for tomorrow. But we are savages. The white man’s dreams are hidden from us. And because they are hidden, we will go our own way. If we agree, it will be to secure your reservation you have promised.
There perhaps we may live out our brief days as we wish. When the last redman has vanished from the earth, and the memory is only the shadow of a cloud passing over the prairie, these shores and forests will still hold the spirits of my people, for they love this earth as the newborn loves its mother’s heartbeat. If we sell you our land, love it as we have loved it. Care for it as we have cared for it. Hold in your memory the way the land is as you take it. And with all your strength, with all your might, and with all your heart – preserve it for your children, and love it as God loves us all. One thing we know – our God is the same. This earth is precious to him. Even the white man cannot escape the common destiny.
http://www.context.org/iclib/ic03/seattle/
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رابط قصيدة الشاعر محمود درويش (فيديو – بصوت الشاعر)
هكذا تماما يفعلون بارضنا وبنا، كما فعلوا في مناطق اهل أرض الحمر عندما هجوا من أرضهم الام … الويل لهم ان ادركنا غايتهم وفعلنا عقولنا…