Poems by Penina Meghnagi Solomon¹

Mama e Papa

Where is My Home?

I am white, but my soul is

black…

in respect to Amerika

I am Arab for you

actually, I am a

Jew

I really…belong in Afrika

To tell the truth, I am not alone

They took my

land

and stole my

home

and then razed the cemeteries

The pain is great each season

when I think ohh! where

my dad was buried

NO RETRIBUTION

I JUST WANT RESTITUTION !!

---

Refugee

Refugee: a term that’s used by peers

to refer to the one who has been displaced.

A fleeing by choice or by force from one’s country

This is how I introduce myself to the world

This is what I the Libyan Jew

of the last generation

to be born on a soil,

the shore of the most beautiful blue sea

and the arid golden sand of the Sahara Desert

two opposites, and yet the same

how one people and three religions

lived together, and how

ONE

decides, out you go! but I remain!

the flag is green red & black

Greed blood & oppression

Islam is the ONE

my presence erased of centuries past

On the outside, looking in

will teach you, the world at large

a past we had, the present we have

still, I contend, even contest of being a

Libyan refugee a citizen free to own

My PEACE

my Prayers, Customs & Food

8 November 2021

---

Tra la Persiana & il Portone

Between the shutters & the Front Door

1967 It was, because of the WAR

the shutters were closed

That June summer morning

In another country.

Fear was the reason,

Outside a Jeep drove

We peered through the fissures

Tilted to keep the sun out,

Uniformed men

descended like Gestapo

Still fresh in remembrance,

with the news was, they said

We, Jews, had a choice:

A camp was for our protection set

without convincing promise,

risk all by staying at home,

leave the country that was best of all.

We were Jews

that was our transgression

we had to go without possessions.

Wide open, long before my birth

Those windows

let the sun in my house,

belonging then to

my great-grandparents

Up that window

we climbed, perched selves,

hoping neighbors' kids would

come outside to play on the street

Other times with sign language

would talk,

when school was out

I exited the tall solid wood

front door secured by solid hinges

Bolted to the walls

We were the kids

that little is known of:

Jews, Italian, Maltese, Muslim

American, Armenian, Indian, and English

we all played, friendly simple games,

Jump rope, hide and go seek,

Hop-scotch, Four corners, hula-hoops

Jumping-jack, pogo sticks

a great vogue then

We were an intertwined clan of Tripoli

Where people lived in believed harmony

---

Slaughter

Today

Yesterday

In History

all the same, acts of never-changing hate

thirst for the blood pouring out of their veins

a knife, scimitar, a machete

all one

HATE

Hate for Jews

Hate from the cowards

Hate in masks today

Hate in your face then

I did not know him, Gabriel my uncle

My father's brother

Giora's son

to whom you

gave his fatal fate by your blade

For no reason

between the fifth and the sixth

of 1945 then

November unrest

A British blessing, from

the fourth to the eighth

Along with another 132 in time

Their bloodshed

away from home

In dark alleys

In front of their home

In front of loved ones

In front of the world

Hate was and is accepted

All the same today, yesterday

EDBAH … (slaughter)

is the Arabic/Islamic word

common word toward not animals

but humans

The hated cousins human Infidels

The common gesture

a descriptive slice to the neck

the index finger running over the throat

Slow as a knife on hand

What I remember of bygone

time in my past

As we looked for an escape

on the building rooftop as a young girl

That morning of 1967

---

The Champion

A Champion

My papa who

Died July 6, 1963, at 4:10

he was an Open sea swimmer

In the fluid Mediterranean

aquamarine azure his eyes

With a twinkle & smile

heart-shaped forehead

Thick eyebrow across

That never frowned.

Skin fair as the white

Golden sand he walked

As the sea murmured

With its waves washing ashore

“come be with me”

Lean & muscular built

Yet not imposing

Small stature with

A tall personality

He embraced the oil calm

Water with long strokes

There in the silent high waters

That is where he found serenity

Under the blazing sun

Searing winds, or roaring waves

It was his harmony

Friday & holidays for purity

As a youth, it was his refuge

Mundane……….

Nonna Giora despaired & knew

For that, she would pray for his safe return

Competitive times in 1920 and 1930

Medals, cups, and diplomas came

During the occupation, colonization

1911 till 1943

Principe Umberto of Savoia

Bestowed on him a personal tiepin

Imagine! The Prince of Italy

Later years for leisure

Simple gratification

Quickly darted through the water

No CAP no GOGGLES

Just him and the sea

Hluma Vittorio Meghnagi

His spirit lives forever

Across the shores of Tripoli

---

LOOK FAMILIAR?

Buenos Dias!

Look familiar, what do you know!

You think I am Hispanic? I thought so!

Where are you from?

Try again, you might find

The Spanish blood

Runs through my veins

Four centuries ago!

When fleeing Castilla

La Vieja or la Nueva

For sure I don’t know

Close to Madrid

Remember the Inquisition?

Then Maria the English lady

from Gibraltar

that’s why I am here

Ask me again where am I from?

The sandy dunes of the Sahara

the Berber in me, shows through

My skin is dark my eyes green

not at all what it might seem

Again you try

I might respond to you

in Italian Buon Giorno!

Or better yet

in Arabic Sbah L’k-Her!

That’s what is left of my sojourns

From Tripoli where I was born

Sweet memories of no return

keep in my heart

and share with you

A swerved infusion of old and new

---

Jasmine

Yasmine scent emanating

an evening, family outing

late May early June

My Africa, my Libya

Fragments of the life I had

In Tripoli of no more

Images in the essence

so powerful forward

even a glimpse could bring

a dreamy smile today

that is what counts

so we can recount

a story

lasting for eternity

from spice a plant

Growing blooming

Even elsewhere

---

Garlic

Aglio

In water, the garlic was soaked

to soften and later peeled

smashed/crushed/peeled

a jar of it for that matter

lots of garlic at any time

to make an Italian dish

or a local Sephardic

Libyan Berber all one

thin line, invisible boundary

transverse the myriads of so

many cultures of past and present

Romans, Berbers, Spanish

Turks, Italians, and Arabs

We lived through

In the same place

Oh yes garlic, that dainty bulb

my mother kept in long braided bunches

seasonally bought, hung in the kitchen

for yearly usage

lots of it for that matter

When adding paste from tomatoes

a pinch of salt, cumin and cayenne

Over the fish, and a lemon squirt or much more

“CHRAIMI” we call it, that saucy dish

Hot or cold for Friday night

It was a red sight

At celebrations like Bar Mitzvah, Brit Milah

Savory dish, always to add delight.

Pasta al forno, Pizza o Lasagna

was our food too

for lunch or dinner, it matters not

But don’t assume, that now I am here

And things have changed, because

My migratory habits I take with me

My home cooking is a delicacy

Please come to taste & do evoke with me

My nostalgia

Because garlic

is sanity

---

Bread & Sauce

It is not for Poor or Rich

it’s for Delicious

it is for Saucy scale

of upper and lower

food was good

I mean really good

Taste and don’t waste

T’becha bel Cammun

Selkq, Lubia or Tmatem

all winners

As the Italians do the spaghetti

the remaining, sauce stuck to the plate

Nothing better than

A piece of bread or maybe two

wipe

I say actually clean

The plate

Not for hunger, but mostly pleasure

To some cultures a testament to the

Great meal

Some might burp and get a smile

My home and my friends

Taught us, you eat all

Because food is to thank God

your mother, wife, grandma

If you have.

from the pot

put on your plate

what you need

and Waste not

For there are people who

might not have or have not

so Respect for others

and earth for what it gives us

TBecha is a STEW same base

Brown the meat

after Sauté Onions, Garlic & Tomatoes

different flavors & different dish

Selkq Spinach

Lubia Beans

Cammun Cumin

Carwiya Caraway

Tmatem Tomatoes

Bamya Okra

Mlokhya Jute Leaves

Betenjal Eggplants

Hams Garbanzos

Bizilli Sweet Peas (fresh or dry)

Note: 12/27/2006
The chicken was tasty , and the sauce left in the pot had to be wiped clean with bread

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1 Penina Meghnagi Solomon: Born in Tripoli, Libya, the eldest of four children. Grew up loving reading, art, writing, and languages. Dreamed of working for the UN or airlines. Her balanced strength was instilled by her remarkable parents rooted in their faith, charity, honor and hospitality. Father, Vittorio Hluma Meghnagi, was a celebrated swimming champion, thus her love for the sea. Tragedy struck in 1963 when he passed away, leaving a void in her life. He was buried in the Jewish cemetery of Tripoli, today vanished under buildings and roads. Giulia Saadia, her mother, a progressive woman, ran a house in harmony and creative talents. As a widow she dedicated her life to her four children, Denis, Tzuri, Teddy, and Penina, reinforcing math and studies skills with an unbreakable bond between them. In Penina’s small rubric (diary) are written the traumatic events of 1967, the expulsion from an Arab Land, that her trauma erased. Her family was airlifted to safety with only £20 and one suitcase each. The stay at a refugee camp in Latina, Italy, her work being cleaning showers and harvesting grapes as a laborer, to buy a first filigree Magen David and finish her English studies. After four years she moved to Israel and worked for El Al. In 1973 she settled in Los Angeles, and with her family went to college. As a Graphic Designer she worked for Disney as an Inker. She overcame challenges, embraced opportunities with joy, fought for Refuseniks, Ethiopian Jews. Today she is an advocate for Bnei Anusim internationally. She speaks for JIMENA.org (Jews Indigenous to the Middle East and North Africa) and more, sharing Libya’s history and cooking. She has built a website, www.jewishlibya.com, and sings in www.KolSephardicChoir.com . Most of her Poetry reflects the way of life, events, flavor, and scent of Tripoli.