Who Are You Without People?

In the second year of the COVID-19 pandemic, in its carousel of loneliness, longing, and confusion that touches us all in equal and unequal measure, my friend, the writer Golan Haji, sent me this poem as solace. “People,” by the Syrian poet and artist Munther Masri, was collected in Masri’s The Echo that Made a Mistake (2011). People have always asked what poetry is. “People” is a poem that needs no historical occasion to illuminate an answer to this timeless, insatiable question. And yet, in these eventful days, the answer is a poem for the people, of the people, and by them, written in the past by a solitary poet who comes from the future.

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Scroll down for a recording of Fady Joudah reading his translation of Munther Masri’s poem “People.”

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People

“As for them, they curse, and as for you, you bless.”
Psalms

“Thank you, Lord, for creating me as you did other people.”
Muntheryus Masriyam

“People need people to dream of them.”
Munther

Don’t say such foolish things about people.
What are you
if not for people.
And these words I’m about to speak to you
are earrings you wear, no,
are a buzzing insect
in your middle ear:
you’re nothing
without people.

Thousands of years ago

they sharpened their spears and set up traps,

killed and sought refuge

in caves, kindled fire, anointed leaders, submitted to laws,

worshipped deities, made sacrificial offerings,

and each of their men threw himself

over a woman, all of it

so that you may come into this world.

They were the ones who pulled you out

of your mother’s hips,

who bathed you with warm water,

swaddled you,

when at the moment your head popped out

they could have drowned you

in cold water or choked you.

They, who taught you how with your tongue

and palate and lips

air exits your mouth

as letters and words,

who initiated you into names,

and ever since

you learned who you are.

Who sink to their knees in mud

to grow rice, who bear

the anguish of climbing

to the mountaintop

to plant apple orchards,

who bleed their hands picking cotton,

who braid thick ropes

and patiently, diligently

weave rugs,

who seek the corners of the earth

to trade in silk and spice,

who melt sand

and bug out their eyes as they blow glass

for whose sake?

for what?

so that you may have a drink

when your throat is dry

and a quick delectable bite

when hunger hurts your stomach,

and so that you may wear light

airy clothes in summer,

wool and leather in winter,

and who for the sake of your leaving

your house to wherever you choose,

forged shoes for you

and carved a path.

People

who swap anything,

even time,

which for you is worthless,

swap money

for merchandise, anything,

even time, and time

for them is gold,

those people

who accept buying you for free

but their profound faith

in your value

compels them to sell you for a price,

people who wring out their brains

to inform you

of what is good for you,

you the free,

people who forgive your sins

without knowing what they are,

people who can,

as you absentmindedly cross the street,

run you over

but prefer to honk their horns,

people who can pretend

they don’t see you as you stand on a rooftop,

and others who see you and pause

for a moment to determine your identity

on that ledge

and what’s possibly happening

inside your head

before they move on, perhaps

because they sense

that it will take you a long while

to figure out what you really want

as you hesitate to take the leap,

and they’re in a hurry, can’t be late

to work for more than a few minutes,

no matter the circumstance,

though some of them will wait

for you below, no matter what,

wouldn’t deprive you

of being unseen

as you jump, people

who can, if they want,

in restaurant or home,

poison your soup.

People who live

so that you may live,

and just imagine

if all people died

what might remain of you?

People who die so that you may live,

and just imagine if people didn’t die

what might remain

for you? People

who can easily lose you,

live without you

but for various reasons,

most of them trivial,

prefer to keep you alive

and share life with you.

So don’t say such vain things

about people,

don’t parrot what people say

about people,

who are you

if not for people,

if not for the one who greets you back

in the good morning

and adds “how are you?”

and you answer or answer not,

the one you care a lot about,

the one you care to be the first to welcome

but with a hundred excuses

avoid bidding them farewell,

and as you sit alone in your hole

they ring your phone

or knock on your door,

that person to whom you write letters

you later tear

then run to stand panting

facing them, a person you hate

all this hate

and simultaneously love

all this love,

who is your enemy

and object of your tricks

and deception,

and when you triumph over them

you feel sad

and let them triumph back

so that they feel happy, the one

you lose faith in

but revisit then pray to

and ask for their compassion.

Who would you pardon

and on whom

would you take revenge

without people?

Without someone to wait

and wait and wait for,

someone who won’t come,

and eventually comes to your house

to find you with another person,

so who are you without someone

to check on

as if one of your limbs or organs,

whose touch

is your serenity’s only source,

someone for whose sake

you pick the most beautiful pebbles

on the beach,

and they couldn’t care less,

you ask them for a glass of water

and they bring you one of milk,

a person who sings

in your awkward presence,

whose absence makes you cry,

a person for whom you buy flowers

then toss them in their face,

storm off then come back

and kneel to kiss

their hands and knees.

A person whose arm is your pillow

as you’re thinking of someone else,

a person you always see

when your eyes are closed

but when open

is invisible to you

even if in your face.

And this, this,

Al-Hallaj told me:

that when he died

God granted him Heaven

which he found unpeopled

so he said to himself

“And what do I do here all alone?”

before he jumped the fence

and escaped to Hell

which is full of people.

Listen to Fady Joudah read the poem:

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Munther Masri (b. 1949) is an iconic Syrian poet and visual artist. He has published numerous books and lives in Latakia.

Fady Joudah’s fifth and most recent poetry collection, Tethered to Stars, is from Milkweed Editions.

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Photograph by James Gordon.