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The Ballad of Skandar
--Dayr al-Qamar, Lebanon Unframed by any photograph, diminished by history,
rehearsed in no song,
embalmed by oral memory, great-grandfather
where have you gone? Under the waning moon, in the valley
of Dayr al-Qamar,
Skandar ibn Mitri—Arab,
Christian, soldier for the occupier. In the far margins of the Ottoman Empire,
above a little town,
a Muslim diverted the living stream,
the story passes down, to irrigate his crops. The Christians below
sent up soldier after soldier:
they couldn't capture the unnamed
wily Muslim. Until Skandar, courageous warrior, brought down
the Muslim in cuffs.
In the village below, gunshots. Skandar
fell, a bullet in his calf. The bound Muslim dragged him
safe behind a cedar.
Skandar gave the man his key,
changed his fate forever. What would Skandar choose:
Jail or exile? Exile,
at least, is freedom. But where is freedom?
Beyond the far walls of the Ottoman empire, a house without
iron bars on windows,
where water flows from every spout—
or so the story goes.
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