Migrant Tales Literary: Yaseen Ghaleb – Execution celebration, Teloitusjuhla

by , under Yassen Ghaleb

Migrant Tales insight: A couple of days ago with got a message from Yaseen Ghaleb, who wants to share his poetry with us. He published a novel, which will be in the Cairo book fair in January and called +15, which highlights how migrants and Finns can find common ground. The book will be present at the Cairo Book Fair. “In the collection of my poems,” he stated, “I mention the homelessness, [two] homelands, being an outsider, my fears and worries in Finland since I came here in 2015. The poems help me to confront and challenge the many issues I have suffered and still do.”

Ghaleb is a member of Finnish Pen, an organization that promotes freedom of expression in Finland and globally.

Yassen Ghaleb

Execution celebration

An hour ago garden´s locusts

chirped blood to the grass.

It was a playground for little kids.

Later three men,

were there to arrange

their slounched shoulders in line,

Such as breast of slumped dog,

their names alphabetically

in disorder.

It was a coincidence,

that death had no options.

How weak he was ?

despite of his strength.

The hand of life was better

if it protected from bullets.

But in the garden was an event

with grasshoppers.

They played the party of blood,

their skinny legs as violin and bow.

It was no coincidence

that with men

came lumps of flesh

that had died even before

swallowing all the bullets…

at once, without respect of

the doctor/God.

“Emigrant” by Fadhel Dabbagh.


Runo  Yassen Ghaleb

Suom.  Lauri Vanhala

Tunti sitten puutarhan heinäsirkat

sirittivät verta nurmikolle.

Se oli pienten lasten leikkipaikka.

Myöhemmin kolme miestä

oli siellä järjestelemässä

retkottavia olkapäitään linjaan

romahtaneen koiran rinnalle, nimensä aakkostamattomina   epäjärjestyksessä.

Oli sattuma, ettei kuolemalla

ollut vaihtoehtoja.

Kuinka heikko hän olikaan

huolimatta vahvuudestaan.

Elämän käsi oli parempi

jos se suojasi luoteilta.

Mutta puutarhassa oli tapahtuma

heinäsirkkojen kanssa.

Ne soittivat veren juhlan,

laihat jalkansa viuluna ja jousena.

Ei ollut sattuma,

että miesten mukana

tuli lihan riekaleita,

jotka olivat kuolleet jo aiemmin,

nielaisten kaikki luodit…

kerralla, kunnioittamatta

Jumalten lääkäriä.

I told them once:

I sweared by my honor,

          I didn´t betrayed my homeland.

          I sweared by the dough of dust

          and sweat on my military uniform,

          with I waived bloody and folded.

          Over my smoke and armor-oil

          tainted khaki-shirt,

          which formed a drawn map  

          and lost it´s prestige in defeats,

          I assured.

          I sweared by the Lord of wars, 

          the president, the Prophet,

          the Messenger, the guardian,

          through deity and Mars. 

          And through the one,

          who used to perform

          with his mustaches with Berry…

          loaded with heavy medals

          like thugs I sweared that;

          but bullets were gone.

Sanoin heille kerran:

Vannoin kunniani kautta,

etten pettänyt kotimaatani.

Vannoin savipölytahtaan kautta,

ja hikisen sotilasuniformuni kautta,

jonka luovutin verisenä ja viikattuna.

Yli savun ja panssariöljyn

tahraaman khaki-paitani,

joka muodosti piirretyn kartan

ja menetti arvonsa tappioissa,

minä vakuutin.

Vannoin sotien Herran nimeen,

presidentin, profeetan,

lähettilään, suojelijan,

kautta jumaluuden ja Marsin.

Ja sen yhden kautta,

jolla oli tapana esiintyä

viiksiensä kera Berryn kanssa…

varustautuneena raskailla mitaleilla kuten roistot, minä vannoin sen;

mutta luodit olivat poissa.


Poets love only themselves

2019  Poem by Yassen Ghaleb

Finnsh.  Lauri Vanhala


Do you compose poems?

At least you read them… and if you do

you are a human being.

Trees try to do so in autumn as well

when dropping yellow leaves.

Or that certain summer did it before 

in its green breath sea, 

when saw the wavy blueblooded Stanza

whenever it was murdering

migrants children and dreams

God himself tried it already before

and still we read his poems in Holy places.

Even generals do poetry in battlefields,

or behind the screens and keyboards

by khaki and blood, using the rhymes of death

Businessmen write poems too.

Don´t you believe it?

They sell best, 

they sell their poems well to us.

It was the evolution of man

that did his first poem,

Darwin just didn´t notice.

that the whole univers, butterflies,

waterfalls, ants, bees,

air, birds and even streets,

they all composed poems,

in which politicians always fails.

Runoilijat rakastavat vain itseään