Basman Aldirawi

Dabka

Dance in the middle of the street, 

Move inside storms of adrenaline. 

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In a caged city, but never a caged soul. 

You stole my land but not my identity. 

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Dabka is in our blood.  

You will never steal it. 

 

Step right, step left, jump up. 

Move to the tabla and timbrel. 

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Hand in hand across the floor, 

Kofia shakes at every lifted shoulder. 

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Sweat is the fruit of joy,

watering our roots in Palestine. 

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Let olive leaves rustle and, hands clap.

Let us dance, then fly free as canaries. 

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Published on Falastin Magazine

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