Farah Chamma is a Dubai-born Palestinian spoken word poet. She started performing at the age of 15. She enjoys multilingual performances. She performs in 6 different languages, but mostly writes in English, French and Arabic. In 2015, Farah and a group of friends started a spoken word and music band in Abu Dhabi that they named Parea (شلّة الفرح in Arabic).
فرح شما شاعرة الكلمة المنطوقة. فلسطينية ولدت في دبي. بدأت مسيرتها الشعرية في سن الخامسة عشر. تكتب وتتحدث بست لغات. ا
.ألقت معظم قصائدها باللغة العربية والإنجليزية والفرنسية
في عام 2015 مزجت فرح الشعر بالموسيقى فشكّلت فرقة موسيقية أطلقت عليها شلّة الفرح.ا
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Parea is a spoken-word and music band that formed in 2015 in Abu Dhabi. Maruan Betawi (oud and guitar), Eleftheria Togia (viola), Farah Chamma (spoken word poetry), and Molham Makki (electronic music) met for the first time in a jam session and felt that they immediately clicked. What characterizes their work is improvisation. When Farah performs her pieces in English, Arabic, French, or Spanish, the musicians start playing to accompany her without always knowing what the texts are about, in hopes that at the end, they would all synchronize. During 2016, two more members joined the band: Danai Marinou (keyboard) and Myriam Nehmeh (cajón).
Photo credit: Hakim El Haj
pH
By Farah Chamma
Sometimes,
moments of sheer bitterness
come back to me
like an acid reflux.
I find it all so difficult to digest.
One memory clings to my chest,
another lingers and floats in different
places: my gut, my throat, my back—
I have urges to cry, and so
begin to distract myself with more alkaline thoughts, such as my mother listening to Abdel Wahab, humming along as she puts on her mascara. Or, your neroli scent filling a corridor. I worry that these too, become acidic,
that this heartburn becomes a habit, another void-filler, here to teach me how to live with my ability to remember;
here to remind me that not everything I swallow is good for me.
And it always kills me to think that I am suffering from indigestion.
Dead Cats and Plastic Bags
By Farah Chamma
Remember when we picked up that dead cat with a plastic bag?
You stopped your car, and I got out to carry her away from the road.
“Ana kteer bkhaf.”
“I get really scared.”
This is what it all comes to.
Love in the form of dead cats and plastic bags.
Fear and nausea could be key constituents of love.
I wouldn’t have done it with as much spontaneity
If you hadn’t stopped your car so quickly, so naturally
As if picking up dead cats with plastic bags was something you did
From time to time.
I love you.
Photo credit: Myriam Nehmeh
Ether
By Farah Chamma
I imagine you there,
behind your cold desk.
Your glasses, your hair,
your dry lips, your stare.
All floating in space.
You breathe a day in.
You breathe a day out.
She is under your skin.
Your certainty and doubt,
all floating in space.
I like to look at you—
see the world
filled with your color.
I like to smell your
sorrow—
see your smile
hide behind thin air.
You are like ether.
I like to look at you—
just like the times I
look at the heavens.
I like to smell your
sorrow—
just like the times
I smell the wind.
(Enjoy the soothing performance of this poem by Dima Lababidi by clicking here)
الشيشة
الشاعرة فرح شمّا
في المقهى
نرى الشباب في أحسن حال
.لا يفعلون إلّا ما يريح البال
.لا يهمهم لا قمعٌ و لا حربٌ و لا احتلال
ينتظرونَ عروساً
نحيلةً، طويلةَ الهامةِ، رأسُها مرفوعٌ
.فاخرٌ، تفّاحتان و عنبٌ و برتقال
في المقهى
نرى الشباب في أحسن حال
.لا يفعلون إلّا ما يريح البال
أحاديثهم برابيشٌ تمتد من أفواههم
.لا موضوعٌ يطرحُ و لا سؤال
تقرقر الشِيَشُ بدلاً عنهم
.و تضيء وجوههم شاشات الجوّال
،تشتعل رؤوس الشيشة ناراً
.أمّا رؤوسهم فكالجليدِ مضاضةً للاشتعال
فقد يكونوا قد سئموا الحديث عن البطالة و ارتفاع الأسعار و المال
،و سئموا السياية و الثورات، و فقدوا فيها كلّ اللآمال
.فمن الطبيعي أن يفضلوا الحديث عن البرشا و الريال
في المقهى
نرى الشباب في أحسن حال
.لا يفعلون إلّا ما يريح البال
لِمَ يقرؤون الكتبَ
إن كان هناك مجال
للجلوس لساعاتٍ
في مقهى االموّال
نراهم على هواهم
وسط الدخّانِ جالسين
كالغمامِ يعمي أبصارهم
.فهم لأحلامهم و طموحاتهم لغافلين
،كالشيشة هم
يخنق الدخّان مائهم
فمن يأتيهم بماءٍ معين؟
وكّلوا أمرهم على الله، فهو المستعان المعين
.و قاموا الليل على أوراق الشدّةِ ساجدين
،فيا شباب اليوم
فالنشيش معاً
.ما دمنا جالسين
،فالنشيش للوطن
.و فالنشيش للمظلومين
،و فالنشيش للطغاتِ
.و فالنشيش للمستعمرين
.و فالنشيش للعلمِ و الثقافةِ و الدين
،و فالنشيش
و نبقى في المقهى جالسين
لعلّنا في يومٍ نشيشُ
.في فلسطين
(إذا أردت مشاهدة إلقاء الشاعرة فرح شمّا لهذه القصيدة اضغة هنا)
I Am No Palestinian
By Farah Chamma
I am no Palestinian
I am no courageous, fearless, valorous, gallant,
proud, adventurous, selfless patriot.
I am a soul in exile
expressing my thoughts
in all languages but mine;
“Hi, I am Palestinian”
“Salut, je suis Palestinien”
“Oi, eu sou Palestina”
I cut my mother tongue in half
نصبت المبتدء و لعنت أبو الخبر
كسرتُ الضمّة الّتي ضمّة ما بيننا
Palestinian poet Rafeef Ziadeh was right when she said:
“Allow me to speak my Arab tongue before they occupy my language as well”
Well,
to that I must add;
allow me to be the “Arab” that I am
allow me my right to learn, to travel, to pray
allow me to walk through any foreign street without having to feel this shame
without having to think twice about my clothes, my face, my name, or the visa.
The god damn visa
I had to work day and night for to claim,
because at the end of the day
I am not the one to blame.
I am not the one to blame for “Bin Laden” or “9/11”
or all your other schemes and games.
I am just a soul in exile
I am in no hall of fame
I have to ought to be someone I am not
just to fit in your frame.
Despite the agony I went through
despite the struggles I overcame
despite the diplomas, the degrees, the awards I acclaim
I am still no Palestinian.
I am still no Palestinian,
no matter how many “I love Palestine” stickers I stick on my car
no matter how many times I cry over Gaza
and argue over the Israeli settlements
no matter how many times I curse the Zionists, blame the media and swear at all the Arab leaders
I am no Palestinian.
Even if I memorize the names of all the Palestinian cities
even if I recite Mahmoud Darwish’s poetry
and draw Handala on my walls
and even as I stand here today
in front of you all
I am no Palestinian
أنا مش فلسطينية
and I might never ever be
and that is exactly what makes the Palestinian in me.
(Click here to watch Farah’s amazing performance of this poem – Video by Ihab Mokayed)
Photo credit: Rima Al Sammarae
Caixas (Boxes)
By Farah Chamma
Não venho daqui
I don’t come from here
Não venho de là
I don’t come from there
Não preciso “vir”
I don’t have to “come”
Só preciso ser, estar
I just have to be
Eu falo Árabe,
I speak Arabic
Mas prefiro o idioma do mar
But prefer the language of the sea
E as vezes no silencio
And sometimes in silence
Nem preciso falar
I need not even speak
Eu sou ninguém,
I am no one,
Sou um pensamento passageiro,
I am a fleeting thought,
Sou a forma do ar
I am the form of air
O mundo tenta me definir,
The world defines me
Me colocar nessas caixas
Puts me in these boxes
Ele quer me encaixar:
It wants to box me in
“Muçulmana, ela tem grana, ela vem do Oriente Médio.. E a Burca, ela deve usar.”
“Muslim, rich, Middle Eastern. She must wear the burqa”
“Ela é mulher, árabe, oprimida, ela veio pro Brasil para se liberar.”
“She’s a woman. Arab. Oppressed. She came to Brazil to be liberated.”
Eu sou ninguém, eu sou você
I am no one, I am you
Você é eu
You are me
Mas eles me ensinaram julgar
But they taught me to judge
“Brasileiro, farofeiro, só joga futebol, dança samba, mora nas favelas, fuma maconha, é perigoso, é corrupto”
“Brazilian. Rugged. Only plays football. Dances Samba. Lives in favelas. Smokes weed. Dangerous. Corrupt.”
“Não vá para esse lugar!”
“Don’t go there!”
Mas hoje estou aqui,
But today I am here
com vocês
With you
Eu me descobri, de novo
I discovered myself, once again
Nesse olhar, e nesse olhar
In your eyes, and yours
Eu tento entender
I try to understand
No lugar de criticar
Instead of criticizing
Tento entender tudo
I try to understand everything
Até os cabelos do Neymar!
Even Neymar’s hair!
Eu sou ninguém,
I am no one,
Apenas um ser humano,
Barely a human being
Nesse mundo tão grande,
In this vast world
Tão pequeno
Small world
Tento me achar.
I try to find myself
Não procuro no Globo News,
I don’t look in Globo News,
Procuro acima, procuro no céu,
I look beyond, in the sky
Nas árvores, nos mendigos, nas ruas
In the trees, in the beggars, in the streets
nos livros, na poesia,
In books, in poetry
Para no final, me achar em vocês.
To find myself, at the end, in you.
