A letter arrives from Ain Defla. 1
It tells me
that I was a young shepherd
in one of her villages.
I was born in 1918.
I had a brown cloak
and an embroidered saddlebag
my grandmother had knitted.
My life was short. I was killed
in my youth, before all my peers.
I was 27 when the spray of bullets
tore through my chest,
one of the million martyrs
you’ve immortalized in oblivion.
Don’t wave poems in my face
or show me speeches
from the openings of public institutions—
I’m in the fog now
and I cannot see.
There was a small flute in my bag
that the colonizers broke,
though no one remembered it
or looked for it—
just like my village, Barbouche.
You know what I’m speaking of.
Quick now, give me my flute.
I’m standing in the fog
and I cannot stay.
—
1 Ain Defla is both a city and a province in Algeria. This poem likely refers to the colonial massacres that took place in Algeria in 1945 (often referred to as the Sétif and Guelma massacres), in which up to 30,000 Algerians were killed by the French colonial authorities and by European settler-militias.