Spirits Rebellious [al-Arwah al-Mutamarrida] (Khalil Gibran, 1908)

[madali]

Spirits Rebellious [al-Arwah al-Mutamarrida] (Khalil Gibran, 1908)

Some of Gibran’s books are in English while others originally in Arabic. This one was originally Arabic and I have read the translated one, and I wonder if some of the beauty is not lost in the translation.

Not that it is not beautiful, it is just that the similes sometimes get a bit tiring. You read any part of the book and you’ll read a sentence that has “like a”. Such as,

“Rashid Bey Namaan stood shaking like a reed between the north and south wind”

“I was like a woman who is torn from her only child; like a lamenting heart, existing without attachment; like an innocent victim of the severity of human law.”

“I found myself imprisoned by law in the mansion of Rashid Bey Namaan, like a thief stealing his bread and hiding in the dark and friendly corners of the night.”

“walked through his mansion like a caged tiger.”

And so on. The book is three stories, all about victims of Man’s laws. Khalil Gibran is a hippy decades before the idea of flower power ever existed. He believes in Love and Freedom, not about Laws and Rules. He is a very spiritual man, having deep respect and admiration for God and Jesus Christ, but has no tolerance for the hypocrisy of churches and priests.

For the most part, the book is both sad and uplifting, a look at Man’s self-inflicted rules that break down the majority, and discourages them from living fully.

“"I have sustained imprisonment, thirst, and hunger for the sake fo Truth that hurts only the body. I have undergone suffering beyond endurance because I turned your sad sighs into a crying voice that rang and echoed in every corner of the convent. I never felt fear, and my heart never tired, for your painful cry was injecting a new strength into me every day, and my heart was healthy. You may ask yourself now saying, 'When did we ever cry for help, and who dares open his lips?' But I say unto you, your souls are crying every day, and pleading for help every night, but you cannot hear them, for the dying man cannot hear his own heart rattling, while those who are standing by his bedside can surely hear. The slaughtered bird, in spite of his will, dances painfully and unknowingly, but those who witness the dance know what caused it. In what hour of the day do you sigh painfully? Is it in the morning, when love of existence cries at you and tears the veil of slumber off your eyes and leads you like slaves into the fields? Is it at noon, when you wish to sit under a tree to protect yourself from the burning sun? Or at eventide, when you return home hungry, wishing for sustaining food instead of a meagre morsel and impure water? Or at night when fatigue throws you upon your rough bed, and as soon as slumber closes your eyes, you sit up with open eyes, fearing that the Sheik's voice is ringing in your ears?

"In what season of the year do you not lament yourselves? Is it in Spring, when nature puts on her beautiful dress and you go to meet her with tattered raiment? Or in Summer, when you harvest the wheat and gather the sheaves of corn and fill the shelves of your master with the crop, and when the reckoning comes you receive naught but hay and tare? Is it in Autumn, when you pick the fruits and carry the grapes into the wine-press, and in reward for your toil you receive a jar of vinegar and a bushel of acorns? Or in Winter, when you are confined to your huts laden with snow, do you sit by the fire and tremble when the enraged sky urges you to escape from your weak minds?

"This is the life of the poor; this is the perpetual cry I hear. This is what makes my spirit revolt against the oppressors and despise their conduct. When I asked the monks to have mercy upon you, they thought that I was an atheist, and expulsion was my lot. Today I came here to share this miserable life with you, and to mix my tears with yours. Here I am now, in the grip of your worst enemy. Do you realize that this land you are woking like slaves was taken from your fathers when the law was written on the sharp edge of the sword? The monks deceived your ancestors and took all their fields and vineyards when the religious rules were written on the lips of the priests. Which man or woman is not influenced by the lord of the fields to do according to the will of the priests? God said, 'With the sweat of thy brow, thou shall eat thy bread.' But Sheik Abbas is eating his bread baked in the years of your lives and drinking his wine mixed with your tears. Did God distinguish this man from the rest of you while in his mother's womb? Or is it your sin that made you his property? Jesus said, 'Gratis you have taken and gratis you shall give. . . . Do not possess gold, nor silver, neither copper.' Then what teachings allow the clergymen to sell their prayers for pieces of gold and silver? In the silence of the night you pray saying, 'Give us today our daily bread.' God has given you this land from which to draw your daily bread, but what authority has He given the monks to take his land and this bread away from you?

"You curse Judas because he sold his Master for a few pieces of cilver, but you bless those who sell Him every day. Judas repented and hanged himself for his wrongdoing, but these priests walk proudly, dressed with beautiful robes, resplendent with shining crosses hanging over their chest. You teach your children to love Christ and at the same time you instruct them to obey those who oppose His teachings and violate His law.”

4/5

[X.]

Gibran sounds like a guy I could hang out with.

[madali]

When I visited Gibran's museum in Lebanon, I made fun of the musuem and the artist, but a few days later, saw a quote of his in a frame sold by a tourist shop (whithout the shop owner, so I couldnt buy it), which made me fall in love with him:

Woe to the nation that departs from religion to belief, from country lane to city alley, from wisdom to logic.

Woe to the nation that does not weave what it wears, nor plant what it eats, nor press the wine that it drinks.

Woe to the conquered nation that sees the victor's pomp as the perfection of virtue, and in whose eyes the ugliness of the conqueror is beauty.

Woe to the nation that combats injury in its dream but yields to the wrong in its wakefulness.

Woe to the nation that does not raise its voice save in a funeral, that shows esteem only at the grave, that waits to rebel until its neck is under the edge of the sword.

Woe to the nation whose politics is subtlety, whose philosophy is jugglery, whose industry is patching.

Woe to the nation that greets a conqueror with life and drum, then hisses him off to greet another conqueror with trumpet and song.

Woe to the nation whose sage is voiceless, whose champion is blind, whose advocate is prattler.

Woe to the nation in which each tribe claims to be a nation.

[Tomisha]

I have recently recommended Spirits Rebellious to a friend of mine, only to find that the English translation (as you have also verified) has only THREE stories, whereas the Arabic original has four. Would you mind telling me the name of the translator of the copy you read? I'm actually writing my BA thesis on the different translations of Spirits Rebellious...
Thanks!