It seems harder with each passing day, to keep intact the sacredness of our humanity, to keep at bay the intrusions of a ravenous, greedy, disturbed world and its obsessed and cowardly leaders. The space between the world's madness and the importance to keep our individual and communal lives intact, is becoming a daily struggle. For those who are deeply anchored in families that have managed to keep a closeness and continuity over several generations, that have managed to keep to their cultural roots and traditions, whether in their own homeland or with any luck, abroad, there is that haven, of camaraderie and empathy through the sharing of the mother tongue, of shared memories, of shared lineage, history, social habits, cuisine, humour and yes, tragedy. Not to have those connections, to live in a sort of lingering, unresolved exile of the heart and soul, can be very taxing and challenging. For me, the coastal and mountain region of Northern Algerie, Kabylia, has become over the last 7 years, a home for my poet's soul that for so long felt mute and very much alone in its efforts to belong here, in the US, a country that never made me feel at home. Kabylia is far away, and its political system wrought with contradictions and rigid laws surrounding visas, even for visiting tourists. It now has been 5 years since my first visit to Kabylia, and it breaks my heart not to know when or how I can return without complications. The closest I got was last year, when I met my Kabyle colleague and photographer, Nacer Amari, in Tunis, Tunisia, who joined myself, my husband and son and his friend there, together with the photographer's cousin, Mounir Amari, for a chance to finally meet in person, after my having published 4 books inspired by Nacer Amari's photography, and a 5th book, after my return to Olympia, Washington, where I live. A 6th and 7th book are in the making, the 6th one before the end of this summer. It was amazing to meet my colleague in this Flemish - Kabyle joint artistic and literary adventure, and very difficult to continue to have to overcome the big, across 3 continents, distance that separates this unique and thriving cooperation. This poem came to me this morning, in a moment of stiffling, overwhelming sadness to realize how strange destiny can be, when creativity and unique connections can be put to extreme tests, when all around us we see tyrants and scrooges devour the planet, with endless bloodshed and baffling impunity. Why must the free spirit and its heart and soul, who just want to celebrate diversity, hope, the right to freedom, identity, to freely express them, suffer so much? This poem I dedicate to this struggle of the artist's and poet's heart and soul, and to my colleague, Nacer Amari, who I pray I will be able to see again, so we can continue this unique journey that celebrates this wonderful and unique bond our joint creative efforts allow and give life and space to:
Go ahead, Try to Break my Soul
Go ahead, try to break my soul, try, you fiends of all that is true and bold, to break my resistance, my defiance. Go ahead, you soulless ghouls, and see if you can break this will of my poet's visions, held so long, adrift on merciless shores.
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Try, you toothless vampires, to see if you succeed, to ravage hope, and how that makes you feel, to be among the hordes that take pleasure in destruction, in despair, in the leaden silence of death unfair. Try, with your filthy fangs, your empty strength, to turn to darkness where light flew free, a mighty bird.
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But beware, when you think, you have succeeded, and laid bare the brightness and its fire of the poet's and artist's eternal soul, for you will wither at the touch of its glowing embers, its deep, searing voice, its haunting sound, its fearless cry that will deafen the void of yours.
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Try, you hapless, spineless fools, to break the seal of that which is my own, and you will find a soul, that will tower, over the dust of your own that will howl its failure, like the midday wolves, when they are vanquished by the sacred forest that they thought they would from then on, own.
Trudi Ralston
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