Double Blind - War in Lebanon 2006 by Paolo Pellegrin. Song by Patti Smith
Patti Smith - Qana (London, 2006)
To translate is always to betray
I present to you again (lucky you!) my little column of free and unfaithful translations (interpretations more than translations), language - even when it is the one you were born with by pure chance - is a barrier and communication is only a utopian desire; so take this stuff, which we only call translation out of convenience, with the necessary grains of salt.
I always approach the texts of the inhabitants of the other half of the sky with caution; to the linguistic barrier is added my inadequacy towards them, and Patti Smith is, for me, in this sense a real challenge because, on top of everything else, her writing is rich in assonances and literary references that, evidently, I am not able to "mimic." A challenge, however, that I have always faced with brazen reverence. The text I offer you is from 2006 but - cursed times! - it could have been written today. The first video is subject to restrictions imposed by YouTube but it’s worth trying to watch it; if you don’t want to bother with access, then listen to this live version of the track from video no. 2.

Patti Smith - Qana
Israel’s practice of collective punishment is a war crime under the Geneva Convention; why has it been allowed to do this? Why do we allow it? Every year we send Israel 4 billion dollars in aid and weapons; we are paying for this devastation; the death of children, the country in ruins; Bush refused to impose a truce and now this massacre in Qana falls on us; Qana is considered by some to be the place of Jesus’ first miracle where he turned water into wine; there is no more wine flowing in Qana, only blood, blood.
Patti Smith
August 12, 2006
(Presentation of the piece by Smith herself)

In the village there is no one left, neither human beings nor stones. There is no one in the village, the children have left and a mother rocks herself trying to sleep. Bring it all down, make her cry.
The dead were curled up in strange poses.
Some had burial, others crawl outside. These screaming ruins are not the work of a child and a mother rocks herself trying to sleep. Bring it all down, make her cry.
The dead were curled up in strange poses.
Slumped dolls covered in mud, small, too small hands in the street and their chatter, a target of war. So much talking while the bombs fall, the Americans have created the new Middle East and meanwhile, that one, Rice, squawks.
The dead were curled up in strange poses.
Small bodies, small, too small bodies tied hands and feet and wrapped in plastic, arranged in the street
it is the new Middle East and meanwhile, that one, Rice, squawks.
The dead were curled up in strange poses.
Water into wine, wine into blood, ah, Qana, the miracle is love.