Dr. Aspa Paltoglou

I have been listening to my beloved and recently deceased Dr Michael Mosley’s ‘just one thing’ episodes, including the one that suggested that reading Poetry aloud can make you feel better.  

But what if there is a genocide going on, where thousands of people, including babies and children are being killed? What if one of the thousands of people that was killed was a poet and academic, who wrote a very moving poem about his own imminent death? How can I even allow myself to feel better by reading it out loud?

Dr Michael Mosley died tragically in a Greek island some months ago under the relentless Mediterranean sun while on holiday, increasingly relentless due to climate change. Dr Refaat Alareer died also in the Mediterranean, in Palestine, targeted and bombed by the Israeli army and American bombs. Both Michael and Refaat tried their best to make the world and people’s lives a little better and bring hope.

So, according to Dr Mosley’s podcast, reading rhythmic poetry out loud has been shown to making us feel more hopeful and lift our mood. The thing is, I don’t really want my mood to be lifted, I don’t want reduced anxiety and depression when a genocide is taking place. I feel responsible for it, not just because I’ve heard that Britain is sending military equipment that is used in the genocide, but also because I subscribe to the idea (which I heard from Dr Yannis Varoufakis) that relentless persecution of people of Jewish descent for centuries by Europeans has led to the current genocide of Palestinian people by Israel. I think being depressed and anxious is the right response to a bloody genocide, especially one in which you are responsible for in some way. 

But Refaat’s poem really moved and haunted me. Refaat asked us to do certain things, and I feel I must do something to fulfil these requests. I decided to try and write a poem in reply to Refaat. I initially intended to write it all with a chaotic rhythm, as I have no intention of feeling better.  I don’t want the poem to be beautiful, I want it to be as chaotic as life and death in Palestine (although I must admit this is probably an excuse to cover my amateurism in poetry writing). I have been looking on twitter and seeing all the horrific images and news, and I had to do something with all those horrific images and information.  

Oh Refaat, you were 3 years younger than me. I see you did an MA at UCL in 2007, I did my MA at Sheffield University in 2003. You returned back to Palestine though, while I stayed here in the UK because I didn’t believe I would have enough opportunities in Greece. I mean really, things in Greece were never as bad as in Palestine, even after the economic crisis. I was so self-centred, I didn’t for a moment stop and think about anyone and anything other than myself.  You, on the other hand, went back to the concentration camp to be with your family and compatriots, and set fire to young minds (in a good way), and help build universities in your broken country, the ones that now are rubble. I’m sorry Refaat, I’m so sorry in so many counts.

This is my poetic answer to your poem:

Now you have died

Now you have died,

and if I must live

dearest Refaat,

I will try to fulfil

what you require

in your poetic will

called ‘If I must die’.

Cross my heart.

But I can barely task

any of your ask.

None of your things

are left to sell,

They were bombed to smithereen.

There is no market,

no cloth, no strings,

white or green.

All white cloth is reserved

 to cover the countless dead.

I’ll tell you what else is white, Refaat;

the skeleton of a baby

lying in dirty water

 in some blown-up quarter.

No Palestinian child

dares to look at the sky,

let alone fly a kite.

They know that’s where

firy death

is coming to fry.

That beautiful blue sky…

with clouds white and fluffy,

that would in other days

be advertised for holidays

for rosy-cheeked gentry,

 as in Cyprus,

 Greek Islands and Turkey…

Not that far

from where you burn,  

tourists are leading

a relaxing journ,

in the Med sea

that, despite all the bleeding,

is surprisingly still bright cyan

And is glimm’ring.

The Palestinian kids

 that have not died,

they are shaking,

covered in dust and blood,

crying, starving,

traumatized,

bitten and eaten by dogs and rats,

covered in rash and diseases.

They sleep near garbage,

In plastic tents,

Asking sweetly but flat

for their burned limbs to grow back,

and for dead

orange rescuer dads

 to wake up.

Noone and nothing is spared.

It will take years and years

to even clear the debris

and bury all the dead

and all burned

beloved limbs.

I don’t want to feel better

by reading a poem,

or looking at a tree,

as per dear Dr Mosley.

I want to stay depressed,

 anxious and stressed.

I am ashamed to be human,

to be alive, have food,

 to have all limbs intact

and to my body glued.

Part of me is relieved

you are not here to heed

 the crescendo of the suffer…

 You did see enough, though,

in your fairly short flutter.

From where I’m standing,

 everything is rubble,

inside and out,

barely alive or whole.

There is barely any hope.

Only your poem is spared.

I will read it aloud

every day and night

 and remember your plight.

Although I can’t promise

 I won’t cry every time,

as I think of you

desperately running away

from smart bombs with your name on

to -of course- no avail.

But I will tell your tale.

I can promise you that Refaat,

my dear friend

and fellow academic,

cross my heart.

I suppose there is hope,

 as people round the globe,

are in streets and insist

for free Palestine

and the fire to cease.

There even exists

a cute Refaat library

in Atlanda; so US sent you bombs

and you sent them back tomes.

what a loving legacy.

But that won’t bring you

and all those thousands of kids

and their families back from the slaughter,

including your grandson and daughter.

But at least they will live in this track.

Damn it, I do feel less black…

Twitter’s little burned ghosts,

please come back

And depressingly haunt me…

I don’t deserve to laugh or joke.

I am European you see,

and this genocide is my fault.