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The brave people of Egypt the courageous demonstrators the organizers, the children, the kids
the women, the men, the unknown and known the collective poetry
o f a people to come has whose time has come and that is arriving hourly ~
Their poetry their voice collective and single ~ __________________
Darb al-habib zayy akl
The beloved's fist is as sweet as raisins.
"It is truly inspiring to see the bravery of Egyptians as they rise up to end the criminal rule of Hosni Mubarak. It is especially inspiring to remember that what is happening is the culmination of years of work by activists from a spectrum of pro-democracy movements, human rights groups, labor unions, and civil society organizations
. In 2004, when Kefaya began their first public demonstrations, the protesters were usually outnumbered 30 to one by Central Security Forces. Now the number has reversed—and multiplied.
No less astonishing is the poetry of this moment. I don’t mean “poetry” as a metaphor, but the actual poetry that has played a prominent role in the outset of the events.
The slogans the protesters are chanting are couplets—and they are as loud as they are sharp. The diwan of this revolt began to be written as soon as Ben Ali fled Tunis, in pithy lines like "Yâ Mubârak! Yâ Mubârak! Is-Sa‘ûdiyya fi-ntizârak!," ("Mubarak, O Mabarak, Saudi Arabia awaits!").
In the streets themselves, there are scores of other verses, ranging from the caustic "Shurtat Masr, yâ shurtat Masr, intû
ba’aytû kilâb al-’asr" ("Egypt's Police, Egypt's Police, You've become nothing but Palace dogs"), to the defiant "Idrab idrab yâ
Habîb, mahma tadrab mish hansîb!" (Hit us, beat us, O Habib [al-Adly, now-former Minister of the Interior], hit all you want—we're not going to leave!).
This last couplet is particularly clever, since it plays on the old Egyptian colloquial saying, "Darb al-habib zayy akl al-zabib"
(The beloved's fist is as sweet as raisins). This poetry is not an ornament to the uprising—it is its soundtrack and also composes a significant part of the action itself."
Excerpted from The Poetry of Revolt by Elliot Colla
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