I will bring people out of the locked boxes of my expectations,
But how will I face the world with a barren heart..?
Latifa Harbaoui
Latifa Harbaoui is a poet, writer and journalist from Algeria, the land of one and a half million martyrs, a proud North African nation known for its rich history, ancient civilizations, vast Sahara Desert, and vibrant cultural heritage. Algeria is the largest country in Africa, a land of freedom, dignity, and deep-rooted traditions. She graduated in Philosophy from the University of Bouzaréah and continued her studies at the University of Mohamed Khider in Biskra. She is widely recognized as one of Algeria’s distinguished contemporary literary voices, having published extensively in leading Algerian and Arab newspapers and magazines, where she authored influential literary and cultural columns. Her published works include the poetry collections A Sun Tailored to My Size, Fragments of Anxiety, and Close to the Front with a Kick, winner of the Dar Motoun Prize for Creativity (2023), while her forthcoming collection, Proof, is currently in press. She also published the literary epistolary collection Letters of the Blond Bat, wrote for children’s theatre, and authored the children’s book My Golden Steps in Smart Reading, published under the supervision of the Algerian Ministry of Culture and Arts in 2025. She is also working on her debut novel, Yet He Sees Me.
Harbaoui has served as Algeria’s representative of the Arab Writers League, President of the House of Poetry Biskra Branch, and a member of the Cultural Advisory Council of Biskra Province. She founded the children’s artistic troupe Shadou El Djazaïr in 1995 and produced several literary and radio programs.
Her writings have been the subject of extensive academic research at Algerian universities and translated into English, Turkish, Albanian, and other languages. She has received numerous national, Arab, and international distinctions, including the First of November Medal, two honorary doctorates, recognition among the 100 Most Influential Personalities for three consecutive years, and recent honors from the Governor of Biskra Province and Barcelona Magazine, reflecting her outstanding contribution to contemporary Arabic literature.
Fine!
I will bring people out of the locked boxes of my expectations,
But how will I face the world with a barren heart..?
How can I explain, through noise,
That the great machine
Which ran over the garden’s guard
Is innocent of the rose’s blood?!
Fine!
I will re-formulate the map’s awareness,
And draw the forest at the center
In the shape of an anaconda.
I cling to a felled tree,
To a spoiled perfume
Poured over corpses
Too many for the graves to hold,
And I wave a branch of a deformed poem!
I am the sole witness
To the massacres of language.
Isn’t that so?
They said:
The seasoned wolf
Is greater in poetry and conscience,
And that angels have claws and pockets.
Fine!
I will apologize to poetry,
Because I am the only one accused —
The one who left his fingerprint on hearts
And died…
Of love…!
You, my father, must shatter more doors,
Restore to the same threshold
What remains of the names.
Perhaps we will become a family
In a wilderness yet to come.
You must pull me by the ear
From an abyss of utter emptiness,
Where someone keeps repeating
More than once,
A stumble,
A rehearsal,
A rehearsal,
Then turns your coffin with my hands
To find your child’s leg beneath the stage,
And crosses over you,
Moving on without regret.
You, my father, must reassure
The corpse that has finally become a bridge
That I have not died yet.
It is not curiosity, my father,
That makes me now search for my complete death,
Nor the deficiency hidden within revelation.
It is language.
While the fragments were wandering here and there,
I forgot the crutch of mourning,
So we all fell
From the saliva of the poisonous pretender.
And we waited for you,
And we are still waiting,
Even though you have not returned.
You, my father, must find in the abyss
The measure of a merciful absence.
The garment of the journey is loose,
And in the jars of time
There are not enough shoulders
To water the distance.
For those present,
A hump that thirst has deceived into believing
That the neighbor who howls from bending
Has rescued whatever shadows had piled up.
But the neighbor who howls
Is a wolf!
A wolf that ruined the courtyard.
While a cloud was bartering with a roof,
And a scrap dealer
Was stripping the paint from an old door
So it would become more beautiful
For a mourning ceremony,
And more.
You, my father, must raise the gasp
High enough for the fly to pass without hypocrisy.
And these stale words
No longer suit our sky.
And the sea
That draws from your child’s tear
Lies too.
Do not tell it, “Well done.”
Tell it, “I do not love you.”
They must, my father,
Look upon the zero of the beginning
With an eye of mercy.
Before they close the circle,
They must make sure
That emotion behind the fence
Is mute,
Mute,
Mute.
___________________
