What Is the Truth?

(For Al-Jazeera correspondent, Anas Al-Sharif)

…the truthteller, whether he knows it or not… in the unlikely event that he survives, he has made a start toward changing the world. 

- Hannah Arendt, “Lying and Politics”

Eye of the world
          that wanted to see
                    to glimpse
          a ray of truth
                    in the heart of darkness.
Your voice
          blended with the boom
                    of the blast
with the horror-horror
          of the 2000° Celsius
your voice flowed
          like candle light—
                    soft and vulnerable.

What is the truth?
You walking through
          the rubble of the house
                    fresh from shelling
through the flung furniture
          that will furnish
                    a living room in memory.
You pointing to those
          buried under
                    unburied
around you a spectral world
          of twisted steel.  

What is the truth?
An old woman
          a face
                    of skin and bone
a meager body
          weariness walking
                    gasping for air
two small eyes
                    to cry with.

Your words
          and your hot tears
                    like her own
pulled down
          by the gravity
                    of hunger—
your words of witness
          your tears of “withness.”

Did you know
          you had to perish
                    for us to cherish you?
To talk about you
          about those
                    you talked about
and about those
          who talk about you?
We watched you—
          did we watch you?
You were artless—
          did we con you?
We wanted a messenger
          and a legend in one
to cover
          with a quilt of images
                    a flourish of words.

The truth is a random crowd
          communing in solemn rows
heads slightly bent down
          eyes half-opened
                    fixed to the ground
praying before a white shroud
          with a childhood
                    a homeland—
the worth of life
          wrapped inside.

Your slayers knew
          facts are perilous
                    the truth can be fragile
and they lied
          about what you are
as about guns and gunners
          in the corridors of hospitals
as they lied about the schools
          not being schools
                    and not being shelters.
They lied about what you are
          as about the abundance of food
as about the children
          not being children
                    but human shields. 

They lied in chorus
          in the hate keys
and gave credit
          to their fictions.
They were true only
          to the missiles
                    that shattered the throat
that aired truth.

You wrote your young man’s will
          as if to fend off
the fear of the death
          that won’t appear in your reports.
You wanted to be
          an everyday father
to scaffold your
          son and daughter
                    as they wobble growing up
to hug them just to hug them
and to light the candles
          on their birthdays.
You wanted your eyes
          to cast a look of love
                    on the face of your wife
and see her face turn
          from just a face
                    into smile
you wanted to lean on her
          she who stood
                    unbent
and branched out
          like the trunk of the olive tree.
You wanted to go gentle
          into that good night.
You are
          the lives you left behind
and the truth you scattered
          in a hundred lands.