Señor Gabber

Jalil Gibran

Mister Gabber

I am bored with gabbers and their gab; my soul abhors them.

When I wake up in the morning to peruse the letters and magazines placed by my bedside, I find them full of gab; all I see is loose talk empty of meaning but stuffed with hypocrisy.

When I sit by the window to lower the veil of slumber from my eyes and sip my Turkish coffee, Mister Gabber appears before me, hopping, crying, and grumbling. He condescends to sip my coffee and smoke my cigarettes.

When I go to work Mister Gabber follows, whispering in my ears and tickling my sensitive brain. When I try to get rid of him he giggles and is soon midstream again, in his flood of meaningless talk.

When I go to the market, Mister Gabber stands at the door of every shop passing judgment on people. I see him even upon the faces of the silent for he accompanies them too. They are unaware of his presence, yet he disturbs them.

If I sit down with a friend Mister Gabber, uninvited, makes a third. If I elude him, he manages to remain so close that the echo of his voice irritates me and upsets my stomach like spoiled meat.

When I visit the courts and the institutions of learning, I find him and his father and mother dressing falsehood in silky garments and Hypocrisy in a magnificent cloak and a beautiful turban.

When I call at factory offices, there too, to my surprise, I find Mister Gabber, in the midst of his mother, aunt, and grandfather chattering and flapping his thick lips. And his kinfolks applaud him and mock me.

On my visit to the temples and other places of worship, there he is , seated on a throne, his head crowned and gleaming sceptre in his hand.

Returning home at eventide, I find him there, too. From the ceiling he hangs like a snake; or crawls like a boa in the four corners of my house.

In short, Mister Gabber is found everywhere; within and beyond the skies, on land and underground, on the wings of the ether and upon the waves of the sea, in the forests, in the caves, and on the mountaintops.

Where can a lover of silence and tranquillity find rest from him? Will God ever have mercy on my soul and great me the grace of dumbness so I may reside in the paradise of Silence?

Is there any place where there is no traffic in empty talk? Is there on this earth one who does not worship himself talking?

Is there any person among all persons whose mouth is not a hiding place for the knavish Mister Gabber?

If there were but one kind of gabber, I would be resigned. But gabbers are innumerable. They can be divided into clans and tribes:

There are those who live in marshes all day long, but when night comes, they move to the banks and raise their heads out of the water and the slime, and fill the silent night with horrible croaking that bursts the eardrums.

There are those who belong to the family of gnats. It is they who hover around our heads and make tiny devilish noises out of spite and hatred.

There is the clan whose members swill brandy and beer and stand at the street corners and fill the ether with a bellowing thicker than a buffalo’s wallow.

We see also a queer tribe of people who pass their time at the tombs of Life converting silence into a sort of wailing more lugubrious than the screeching of the owl.

Then there is the gang of gabbers who imagine life as a piece of lumber from which they try to shape something for themselves, raising as they do so, a screeching sound uglier than the din of a sawmill.

Following this gang is a denomination of creatures who pound themselves with mallets to produce hollow tones more awful than the tom toms of jungle savages.

Supporting these creatures is a sect whose members have nothing to do save to sit down, whenever a seat is available, and there chew words instead of uttering them.

Once in a while we find a party of gabbers who weave air from air, but remain without a garment.

Oftentimes we run across a unique order of gabbers whose representatives are like starlings but deem themselves eagles when they soar in the currents of their words.

And what of those gabbers who are like ringing bells calling the people to worship but who never enter the church.

There are still more tribes and clans of gabbers, but they are too many to enumerate. Of these the strangest, in my opinion, is a sleeping denomination hose members trouble the universe with their snoring and awaken themselves, from time to time, to say, “how erudite we are!”

Having expressed my abhorrence of Mister Gabber and his comrades, I find myself like the doctor who cannot heal himself, or like a convict preaching to his cellmates. I have satirized Miser Gabber and his gabbing friends- with my own gabbing. I have fled from gabbers but I am one of them.

Will God ever forgive my sins before He blesses me and places me in the world of Thought, Truth, and Affection, where gabbers do not exist?

Martha

Jalil Gibran

Martha

Her father died when she was in the cradle, and she lost her mother before reaching the age of ten. As an orphan, Martha was left in the care of a poor peasant hose servant she became. They lived in an obscure hamlet on a slope of the beautiful mountains of North Lebanon.

At his death, her father had left his family only his good name and a hut standing amidst willow and walnut trees. It was the death of her mother which truly orphaned her. It left emptiness in her heart which could not be filled. She became a stranger in her birthplace. Every day she walked barefoot leading a cow to pasture. While the cow grazed she sat under a tree, singing with the birds, weeping with the stream, envying the cow her serenity, and gazing at the blowers over which the butterflies hovered.

At night she returned home to a simple dinner of bread, olives, and dried fruit. She slept in a bed of straw; with her arms for a pillow; and it war her prayer that her whole life might be uninterrupted slumber. At dawn her master would wake her so that she would get the housework done before she led the cow to pasture. She trembled and did as she was ordered

Thus the gloomy and puzzling years passed, and Martha grew like a sapling. In her heart there developed a quiet affection of which she herself was unaware…like fragrance born in the heart of a flower.

She followed her fancy as sheep follow a stream to quench their thirst. Her mind was like virgin land where knowledge had sown no seed and upon which no feet had trod.

We who live amid the excitements of the city know nothing of the life of the mountain villagers. We are swept into the current of urban existence, until we forget the peaceful rhythms of simple country life, which smiles in the spring, toils in summer, reaps in autumn, rests in winter, imitating nature in all her cycles, we are wealthier than the villagers in silver or gold, but they are richer in spirit, what we sow we reap not; they reap what they sow. We are slaves of gain, and they the children of contentment. Our draught from the cup of life is mixed with bitterness and despair, fear and weariness, but they drink the pure nectar of life’s fulfilment.

At sixteen, Martha’s soul was like a clear mirror that reflects a beautiful landscape; her heart like a primeval valley that echoes all voices.

One day in autumn he sat by the spring, gazing at the falling yellow leaves, striped from the trees by the breeze that moved between the branches as death moves into a man’s soul. She looked at the withering flowers whose hearts were dry and whose seeds sought shelter in earth’s bosom like refugees seeking a new life.

While this engrossed, she heard hoof beats upon the ground, turning, she observed a horseman approaching. As he reached the spring he dismounted a greeted her with kind words, such as she had no heard from a man before. Then he went on to say, “Young lady, I have lost my way. Will you please direct me to the road to the coast?”

Looking like a tender branch, there by the spring, she replied, “I regret, sir, that I am unable to direct you, never having been away from home; but if you will ask my master I am sure he can help you.” Her flushed face, as she spoke, made her look more gentle and beautiful. As she started away he stopped her. His expression became soft as he said, “Please do not go.”

And a strange power in the man’s voice held her immobile. When she stole a glance at his face she found him gazing at her steadily. She could not understand his silent adoration.

He eyed her lovely bare feet, her graceful arms and smooth neck and shining hair. Lovingly and wonderingly he regarded her sun-warmed cheeks and her chiselled features. She could not utter a single word or move a muscle.

The cow returned alone to the barn that evening. Martha’s master searched all through the valley but could not find her. His wife wept all that night. She said the next morning, “I saw Martha in my dream last night, and she was between the paws of a wild beast who lured her; the beast was about to kill Martha, but she smiled.”

II

In the autumn of 1900, after a vacation in North Lebanon, I returned to Beyrouth, before re-entering school I spent a week roaming the city with my classmates. We were like births whose cage-door is unlocked, and who come and go as they please.

Youth is a beautiful dream, on whose brightness books shed a blinding dust. Will ever the day come when the wise link the joy of knowledge to youth’s dream? Will ever the day come when Nature becomes the teacher of man, humanity his book and life his school? Youth’s joyous purpose cannot be fulfilled until that day comes. Too slow is our march toward spiritual elevation, because we make so little use of youth’s ardour.

One evening, as I was contemplating the jostling street crowds of Beyrouth, and feeling deafened by the shouts of the street vendors, I noticed a ragged boy about five carrying some flowers on a tray, in a dispirited voice he asked me, “Will you buy some flowers, sir?”

His mouth was half-open, resembling and echoing a deep wound in the soul. His arms were thin and bare, and his frail body was bent over his flower tray like a branch of withering roses.

In my reply I tried to keep from my voice any intrusive edge of charity. I bought some of his flowers but my chief purpose was to converse with him. I felt that his heart was a stage upon which a continuous drama of misery was being enacted.

At my careful, tactful words he began to feel secure and a smile brightened his face. He was surprised to hear words of kindness, for like all the poor he was accustomed to harshness. I asked his name, which was Fu’ad, and then, “Whose son are you?”  He replied, “I am the son of Martha.” “And who is your father?” I inquired. He shook his head, puzzled, as if unaware of the meaning of the word. I continued, “Where is your mother now, Fu’ad?” He replied, weeping, “She is at home, sick.”

Suddenly remembrance formed in my mind. Martha, whose unfinished story I had heard from an old villager, was ill nearby. That young woman who yesterday safely roamed the valley and enjoyed the beauty of nature was now suffering the anguish of destitution; that orphan who spent her early life in the haven of Nature was undergoing the tortures that city sophistication inflict upon the innocent.

As the boy started to leave, I took hold of his hand saying, “take me to your mother, I would like to see her.” He led the way silently, looking back now and then to see if I followed.

Through narrow, dirty streets with an odour of death in the air, and between houses of ill-fame, raucous with the sounds of sin, I walked behind Fu’ad, admiring the courage in his stride. It took courage to walk in these slums, where violence, crime and plague mocked the glory of this city, called “The Bride of Syria” and “The Pearl of the Sultan’s Crown.”

As we entered a particularly squalid quarter, the boy pointed to a hovel shoes walls appeared to be collapsing. My heartbeats quickened and I followed Fu’ad into a sunless, airless room, unfurnished except for an oil lamp and a hard bed upon which Martha was lying, her face to the wall as if to hide from the oppression of the city. Fu’ad touched her shoulder an said, “Mama.” As she turned painfully, he pointed at me. She moved her weak body under the ragged quilt, and with a despairing voice said, “What brings you here, stranger? What do you want? Did you come here to buy the last remnant of my soul and pollute it with your desire? Go away from here; the streets are full of women who sell themselves. What is left of my broken soul death shall soon buy. Go away from me and may boy.”

Those few word completed her tragic story. I said, “Fear me not, Martha; I come her not as a devourer, but as a fellow sufferer. I am a Lebanese who lived near your valley by the cedars of Lebanon, do not be frightened.”

Realizing then that my words came from a feeling soul, she shook like a thin branch before a strong wind, and placed her hands upon her face, trying to hide away the terrible and beautiful memory whose sweetness was ravaged by bitterness.

Then in a strangely strong yet hopeless voice she said, “You have come here as a benefactor, and my God reward you; but I beg you to leave, for your presence here will bring disgrace upon you, avoid being recognized. Your merciful heart does not restore my virtue; it neither effaces my shame nor protects me from the hands of death. My own sin brought this misery upon me; do not let your mercy bring you into shame. I am like a leper who must be avoided. Go, lest you be polluted! Do not mention my name in North Lebanon. The lamb with the mange is destroyed by the shepherd for fear he will infect the other lambs. If you speak of me, say I am dead.”

Then she embraced her little boy and said: “People will taunt my son, saying he is the fruit of sin; the son of Martha the adulteress; Martha the prostitute. For they are blind and do not see that his mother gave him life through misery. I shall die and leave him as an orphan among other children, and his remembrance of me will bring him shame. But when he becomes a man, he will help heaven to end that which brought sin upon me; and when he dies in the trap of time, he will find me waiting for him in Eternity, where light and peace abide.”

With a desolate heart I said, “Martha, you are not a leper, you live in a grave yet you are clean. The filth of the body cannot reach a pure soul.”

Hearing my heartfelt words, Martha’s face brightened, but it was plain that her death was near. Yesterday she had roamed the valleys of Lebanon; Today, weak and sorrowful, she awaited release from the shackles of life. Gathering her last fragments of strength she whispered, “I am everything you say, although my own weakness brought my agony… the horseman came…he spoke politely and cleverly…he kissed me… I knew nothing and relied on his words. He took me away and his fine words and smiles masked his ugly desires, after accomplishing my disgrace, he abandoned me. He split my life in two parts my helpless self, and my baby. We were cold…we suffered….for the sake of my child I took gold from men who bought my body. Many times I was close to taking my life. Now, at last, the hour has come and beloved death has arrived to enfold me under his sheltering wings.”

Suddenly in a strong but calm voice she said, “Oh Justice, hidden behind those terrible images, hear the shrieking of my departing soul and the call of my broken heart! Have mercy on me by saving my child and taking me away!”

Her breathing became weak. She looked sorrowfully and sweetly at her son and then whispered, “Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven….Forgive us our sins as we…”

Her voice gave out but her lips still moved. Then she breathed her last on earth. Her eyes remained open as if seeing the invisible.

As dawn came, the body of Martha was carried in a rough casket to a graveyard by two poor men; far out from the City of Beyrouth they carried her. The priests refused to pray for her, and prohibited her interment in hallowed ground. And no one accompanied Martha to her resting place except her little son Fu’ad a youth to whom life had taught mercy and kindness.

------------------------------------------------------From Gibran’s Thoughts and Meditations

En la obscura noche

Jalil Gibran

In the Dark Night

Written in World War I during the famine in Lebanon, it acquire a deep meaning in our time

In the dark night we call to one another and cry for help, while the ghost of Death stands in our midst stretching his black wings over us and, with his iron hands, pushes our souls into the abyss.

In the dark night Death strides on and we follow him frightened and moaning. Not one of us is capable of halting the fateful procession or even nourishing a hope of its end.

In the dark night Death walks and we walk behind him, and when he looks backward, hundreds of souls fall down on both sides of the road, and he who falls, sleeps and never awakens, and he who keeps his footing marches on fearfully in the dread certainty of falling later and joining those who have yielded to Death and entered the eternal sleep. But Death marches on, gazing at the distant Evening Twilight.

In the dark night the brother calls his brother, the father his son, and the mother her children; but the pangs and torments of hunger afflict us equally.

But Death does not hunger or thirst. He devours our souls and bodies, drinks our blood and tears and is never sated.

During the first part of the night the child calls his mother saying, “I am hungry, mother,” and the mother replies, “Wait a while, my child.”

In the second part of the night the child repeats, “I am hungry, mother, give me some bread,” and the mother answers him, saying, “I have no bread, my beloved child”.

In the third part of the night Death arrives and smites both the mother and the child with his wings and them both sleep eternally by the side of the road. And Death marches on, gazing at the distant Evening Twilight.

In the morn the husband goes to the field in search of nourishment, but he finds naught in it save dust and stones.

At noontide he returns to his wife and children pale, weak, and empty-handed.

And at eventide Death arrives and the husband, his wife, and children lie in eternal sleep. And he laughs and marches on toward the distant Evening Twilight.

In the morn the farmer leaves his hut for the city, carrying in his pocket his mother’s and sister’s jewellery to exchange for bread. At eventide he returns without bread and without jewels, to find his mother and sisters sunk into eternal sleep, their eyes staring at nothingness. Whereupon he lifts his arms toward heaven and drops like a bird shot by a merciless hunter.

And Death, seeing the farmer, his mother and sisters beguiled to eternal sleep by the evil angel, laughs again and marches on toward the distant Evening Twilight.

Oh, you who walk in the light of the day, we call you from the endless dark of the night. Do you hear our cries?

We have sent to you the spirits of our dead as our apostles. Have you heeded the apostles’ word?

We have burdened the east Wind with our gasps. Has the Wind reached your distant shores to unload his burden in your hands? Are you aware of our misery? Have you thought of coming to our rescue? Or have you hugged to yourselves your peace and comfort, saying, “what can the sons of the light do for the sons of the dark? Let the dead bury their dead and God’s will be done.”

Yes, let God’s will be done, but you not raise ourselves above yourselves so that God may make your instruments of His will and use you for our aid?

  In the dark night we call one another.

The brother calls his brother, the mother her daughter, the man his wife, and the lover his beloved.

And when our voices mingle together and reach the heart of heaven, Death pauses and laughs, then mocks us and marches on, gazing at the distant Evening Twilight.

----------------------------------------------------From Gibran’s Thoughts and Meditations

Comunión de espíritus

Communion of Spirits

Jalil Gibran’s Thoughts and Meditations

Awake, my love, awake! For my spirit hails you from beyond the seas, and offers you her wings above the raging waves.

Awake, for silence has halted the clamour of the horses’ hoofs and the tramp of the passers-by.

Slumber has embraced the spirits of men, while I alone remain awake; longing lifts me out of enveloping sleep.

Love brings me close to you but then, anxiety takes me far away.

I have left my bed, my love, for fear of the ghost of forgetfulness hiding in the quilts.

I have thrown my book aside, for my sighs silenced the words and left the pages blank before my eyes!

Awake, awake, my love, and hear me.

I hear you, my beloved! I heard your call from beyond the seas and felt the soft touch of your wings. I have left my bed and walked upon the grass and the night dew has wet my feet and the hem of my garment.

Here I stand under the blossoms of the almond tree, heeding the call of your spirit.

Speak to me, my love, and let your breath mount the breeze that comes towards me from the valleys of Lebanon. Speak. No one bears but me. Night has taken all others to their resting places.

Heaven has woven a veil of moonlight and drawn it over all Lebanon, my beloved.

Heaven has fashioned from the shadows of night a thick cloak lined with the fumes of workshops and the breath of Death, and laid it over the frame of the city, my love.

The villagers have surrendered to Slumber in their huts in the midst of the willow and walnut trees. Their spirits have sped towards the land of dreams, my beloved.

Men are bent under the burden of gold, and the steep road of green weakens their knees. Their eyes are heavy with trouble and weariness, and they drop on their beds as a haven, my love, from the Ghosts of Fear and Despair.

The ghosts of past ages walk in the valleys, and the spirits of the kings and prophets hover over the knolls and the hills. And my thoughts, fashioned by memory, show me the might of the Chaldeans, the splendour of the Assyrians, and the nobility of the Arabs.

In the sinister alleys walk the grim spirits of the thieves; the heads of the vipers of lust appear from the crevices of the ramparts; and the ague of sickness, mingled with the agony of Death, shudders through the streets, memory has removed the veil of forgetfulness from my eyes and shows me the loathsomeness of Sodom and the sins of Gomorrah.

The branches sway, my beloved, and their rustling joins the murmur of the rivulet in the valley, repeating to our ears the canticles of Solomon, the strains of David’s harp, and the songs of Ishak al-Mausili.

The souls of the hungry children in the lodgings tremble; and the sighs of the mothers tossing upon the beds of misery and despair have reached the sky; and anxious dreams afflict the hearts of the infirm. I hear their bitter lamentations.

The fragrance of flowers has mingled with the pungent breath of the cedars. Brought by the frolicsome breeze over the hills, it fills the soul with affection and inspires longing for flight.

But the miasmas from the marshes also rise, steaming with disease. Like sharp secret arrows they have penetrated the senses and poisoned the air.

The morning has come, my beloved, and the soft fingers of wakefulness fondle the eyes of the dreamers.

Rays of light force open the shutters and reveal Life’s resolution and glory, the villages, reposing in peace and tranquillity upon the shoulders of the valley, rise from their slumber; church bells fill the air with their pleasing summons to Morning Prayer, and from the caves echo the chimes as if all Nature joins in reverent prayer. The calves have left their stalls, and the sheep and the goats their sheds, to graze upon the glittering, dewy grass. The shepherds walk before them, piping on their reeds; and behind them walk the damsels singing like the birds welcoming the morn.

And now the heavy hand of the Day lies upon the city. The curtains have been drawn from the windows and the doors are open. The fatigued eyes and drawn faces of toilers appear in the workshops. They feel death encroaching upon their lives, and on their shrivelled countenances appear Fear and Despair. The streets are congested with hurrying greedy souls; and everywhere are heard the clanking of iron, the rattling of wheels, and whistling of steam. The city has turned into a battlefield where the strong wrestle down the weak and the rich exploit and tyrannize over the poor.

How beautiful is life, my beloved; it is like the poet’s heart, filled with light and tenderness.

And how cruel is life, my love, it is like a criminal’s heart, throbbing with vice and fear.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------