Esther Phillips
THE TRUTHFUL BONES
DE BOTTEN DER WAARHEID
Er zal een moment zijn waarop wij
de begraafplaatsen vinden van onze voorouders.
Laat ons, op die dagen, zwijgen –
De botten der waarheid zullen spreken.
Verminkt, gescheurd, versplinterd, gebroken,
deze botten zullen ons meer vertellen dan geschiedenis-
boeken of archieven geschreven voor de duisternis.
Zie hier, de pijpbenen, nog niet samengesmolten –
hier liggen de jonkies, aan hoop gekluisterd
bezweken aan de dagenlange zon van gezwoeg
dat hun kracht te boven ging,
rottend voordat ze rijp waren.
Hier liggen vingerbeentjes, verminkt door zware arbeid
van machete, scherp gerand suikerriet
harde grond en kalksteen.
Waren dit ooit de handen van vakmannen
bedreven in het bewerken van fijn goud, zilver, brons, die
oeroude kennis, voorgoed verloren rituelen?
Hier liggen de botten van onze grootmoeders
onze grote, grote grootmoeders, lichamen verkocht
als je reinste handelswaar.
Zie hier de kaakbenen, de doorgebroken tanden
die zich vastbeten in pijn
van verkrachting, de slag van de zweep,
in de keel gevangen kreten!
En hier, de bekkenbotten
schaambeen opgerekt tot breekpunt
niets dan machines om zielen uit te pompen
slaafgemaakt van buik tot graf!
Nadat de botten hebben gesproken – deze botten
ooit omhuld door ons eigen vlees en bloed –
laat dan de niet-vergetende wind afstand doen
van het opgekropte verdriet:
gesteun, gezucht, tranen, woede –
tot de wind, uitgeput van het eeuwenlange dragen
van pijn, zijn last naast zich neerlegt.
Zeg in de stilte die volgt tegen deze droge botten:
‘Jullie leven was niet vergeefs. Wij danken jullie voor de geschenken
van ziel en geest die jullie overdroegen op onze kinderen:
griottenoren om het ongeschreven woord mee te horen,
liederen die de diepe oceaan niet voor zich kan houden,
ledematen om de lokroep mee te voelen van de drums, de dans
die elk gebroken stukje bij de kringloop van het leven schaart.
Wij danken jullie voor de plekken van jullie verzet
die ons vertellen van jullie moed, jullie veerkracht.’
Geliefde Voorouders, jullie hebben gesproken
en wij hebben geluisterd, na al die jaren.
Moge jullie zielen in vrede rusten. Moge jullie in vrede rusten.
THE TRUTHFUL BONES
The time will come when we shall find
the burial grounds of our ancestors.
On those days, let us be silent—
The truthful bones will speak.
Scarred, fractured, splintered, broken,
these bones will tell us more than history
books or archives written for obscurity.
See over here, the long bones not yet fused—
here lie the young ones, hope-shackled
broken from day-long sun of toil
beyond their strength to bear,
rotting before they ripened.
Here are finger-bones scarred by hard labour
of machete, sharp-bladed sugar cane
rough soil and limestone.
Were these once the hands of craftsmen
skilled in the shaping of fine gold, silver, bronzethe
ancient knowledge, rituals lost forever?
Here are the bones of our grandmothers
our great, great grandmothers, bodies sold
as mere commodities.
See the jawbones, teeth erupted
biting down on pain
of rape, the lash of the whip,
screams locked in the throat!
Over here, the pelvic bones
pubis stretched to breaking,
mere mills for churning out souls
enslaved from womb to grave!
After the bones have spoken - these bones
once covered by our own flesh and blood-
let the long-memoried wind release
the pent-up griefs:
groans, sighs, tears, rage—
until the wind, weary of its centuries’ weight
of suffering, lays its burden down.
In the ensuing silence, say to these dry bones
“You have not lived in vain. We thank you for the gifts
of mind and spirit you have passed on to our children:
the griot’s ear to hear the word while still unwritten,
songs that the ocean depths could not hold back,
limbs to intuit the call of the drum, the dance
that draws each broken shard into the circle of life.
We thank you for the sites of your resistance
that tell us of your courage, your resilience.”
Beloved Ancestors, you have spoken
and we have listened after these long years.
May your souls rest in peace. May you rest in peace.
THE TRUTHFUL BONES
The time will come when we shall find
the burial grounds of our ancestors.
On those days, let us be silent—
The truthful bones will speak.
Scarred, fractured, splintered, broken,
these bones will tell us more than history
books or archives written for obscurity.
See over here, the long bones not yet fused—
here lie the young ones, hope-shackled
broken from day-long sun of toil
beyond their strength to bear,
rotting before they ripened.
Here are finger-bones scarred by hard labour
of machete, sharp-bladed sugar cane
rough soil and limestone.
Were these once the hands of craftsmen
skilled in the shaping of fine gold, silver, bronzethe
ancient knowledge, rituals lost forever?
Here are the bones of our grandmothers
our great, great grandmothers, bodies sold
as mere commodities.
See the jawbones, teeth erupted
biting down on pain
of rape, the lash of the whip,
screams locked in the throat!
Over here, the pelvic bones
pubis stretched to breaking,
mere mills for churning out souls
enslaved from womb to grave!
After the bones have spoken - these bones
once covered by our own flesh and blood-
let the long-memoried wind release
the pent-up griefs:
groans, sighs, tears, rage—
until the wind, weary of its centuries’ weight
of suffering, lays its burden down.
In the ensuing silence, say to these dry bones
“You have not lived in vain. We thank you for the gifts
of mind and spirit you have passed on to our children:
the griot’s ear to hear the word while still unwritten,
songs that the ocean depths could not hold back,
limbs to intuit the call of the drum, the dance
that draws each broken shard into the circle of life.
We thank you for the sites of your resistance
that tell us of your courage, your resilience.”
Beloved Ancestors, you have spoken
and we have listened after these long years.
May your souls rest in peace. May you rest in peace.
THE TRUTHFUL BONES
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