*Mahmoud Darwish: The Anger,The Longing, The Hope* *By Uri Avnery *
19 August, 2008 *Gush Shalom* *O*ne of the wisest pronouncements I have heard in my life was that of an Egyptian general, a few days after Anwar Sadat's historic visit to Jerusalem. We were the first Israelis to come to Cairo, and one of the things we were very curious about was: how did you manage to surprise us at the beginning of the October 1973 war? The general answered: "Instead of reading the intelligence reports, you should have read our poets." I reflected on these words last Wednesday, at the funeral of Mahmoud Darwish. DURING THE funeral ceremony in Ramallah he was referred to again and again as "the Palestinian National Poet". But he was much more than that. He was the embodiment of the Palestinian destiny. His personal fate coincided with the fate of his people. He was born in al-Birwa, a village on the Acre-Safad road. As early as 900 years ago, a Persian traveler reported that he had visited this village and prostrated himself on the graves of "Esau and Simeon, may they rest in peace". In 1931, ten years before the birth of Mahmoud, the population of the village numbered 996, of whom 92 were Christians and the rest Sunni Muslims. On June 11, 1948, the village was captured by the Jewish forces. Its 224 houses were eradicated soon after the war, together with those of 650 other Palestinian villages. Only some cactus plants and a few ruins still testify to their past existence. The Darwish family fled just before the arrival of the troops, taking 7-year old Mahmoud with them. Somehow, the family made their way back into what was by then Israeli territory. They were accorded the status of "present absentees" - a cunning Israeli invention. It meant that they were legal residents of Israel, but their lands were taken from them under a law that dispossessed every Arab who was not physically present in his village when it was occupied. On their land the kibbutz Yasur (belonging to the left-wing Hashomer Hatzair movement) and the cooperative village Ahihud were set up. Mahmoud's father settled in the next Arab village, Jadeidi, from where he could view his land from afar. That's where Mahmoud grew up and where his family lives to this day. During the first 15 years of the State of Israel, Arab citizens were subject to a "military regime" - a system of severe repression that controlled every aspect of their lives, including all their movements. An Arab was forbidden to leave his village without a special permit. Young Mahmoud Darwish violated this order several times, and whenever he was caught he went to prison. When he started to write poems, he was accused of incitement and put in "administrative detention" without trial. At that time he wrote one of his best known poems, "Identity Card", a poem expressing the anger of a youngster growing up under these humiliating conditions. It opens with the thunderous words: "Record: I am an Arab!" It was during this period that I met him for the first time. He came to me with another young village man with a strong national commitment, the poet Rashid Hussein. I remember a sentence of his: "The Germans killed six million Jews, and barely six years later you made peace with them. But with us, the Jews refuse to make peace." He joined the Communist party, then the only party where a nationalist Arab could be active. He edited their newspapers. The party sent him to Moscow for studies, but expelled him when he decided not to come back to Israel. Instead he joined the PLO and went to Yasser Arafat's headquarters in Beirut. IT WAS there that I met him again, in one of the most exciting episodes of my life, when I crossed the lines in July 1982, at the height of the siege of Beirut, and met with Arafat. The Palestinian leader insisted that Mahmoud Darwish be present at this symbolic event, his first ever meeting with an Israeli. He sent somebody to call him. His description of the siege of Beirut is one of Darwish's most impressive works. These were the days when he became the national poet. He accompanied the Palestinian struggle, and at the sessions of the Palestinian National Council, the institution that united all parts of the Palestinian people, he electrified the hall with readings of his stirring poems. During those years he was very close to Arafat. While Arafat was the political leader of the Palestinian national movement, Darwish was its spiritual leader. It was he who wrote the Palestinian Declaration of Independence, which was adopted by the 1988 session of the National Council on the initiative of Arafat. It is very similar to the Israeli Declaration of Independence, which Darwish had learned at school. He clearly understood its significance: by adopting this document the Palestinian parliament-in-exile accepted in practice the idea of establishing a Palestinian state side-by-side with Israel, in only a part of the homeland, as proposed by Arafat. The alliance between the two broke down when the Oslo agreement was signed. Arafat saw it as "the best agreement in the worst situation". Darwish believed that Arafat had conceded too much. The national heart confronted the national mind. (That historical debate has still not been concluded today, after both of them have died.) Since then Darwish lived in Paris, Amman and Ramallah - the Wandering Palestinian, who has replaced the Wandering Jew. HE DID not want to be the National Poet. He did not want to be a political poet at all, but a lyrical one, a poet of love. But whenever he turned in this direction, the long arm of Palestinian fate dragged him back. I am not qualified to judge his poems or to assess his greatness as a poet. Leading experts on the Arabic language are still bitterly quarreling among themselves about the meaning of his poems, their nuances and layers, images and allusions. He was a master of classical Arabic, and equally at home with Western and Israeli poetry. Many believe that he was the greatest Arab poet, and one of the greatest poets of our time. His poetry enabled him to do what no one had succeeded in doing by other means: to unite all the parts of the fractured and fragmented Palestinian people - in the West Bank, the Gaza Strip, in Israel, in the refugee camps and throughout the Diaspora. He belonged to all of them. The refugees could identify with him because he was a refugee, Israel's Palestinian citizens could identify with him because he was one of them, and so could the inhabitants of the occupied Palestinian territories, because he was a fighter against the occupation. This week some people of the Palestinian Authority tried to exploit him for their struggle with Hamas. I don't think that he would have agreed. In spite of the fact that he was a totally secular Palestinian and very far from the religious world of Hamas, he expressed the feelings of all Palestinians. His poems also resonate with the soul of a member of Hamas in Gaza. HE WAS the poet of anger, of longing, of hope and of peace. These were the strings of his violin. Anger about the injustice done to the Palestinian people and every Palestinian individual. Longing for "my mother's coffee", for his village's olive tree, for the land of his forefathers. Hope that the conflict would come to an end. Support for peace between the two peoples, based on justice and mutual respect. In the documentary by the Israeli-French film-maker Simone Bitton, he pointed at the donkey as a symbol of the Palestinian people - a wise, patient animal that manages to survive. He understood the nature of the conflict better than most Israelis and Palestinians. He called it "a struggle between two memories". The Palestinian historical memory clashes with the Jewish historical memory. Peace can come about only when each side understands the memories of the other - their myths, their secret longings, their hopes and fears. That is the meaning of the Egyptian general's saying: poetry expresses the most profound feelings of a people. And only the understanding of these feelings can open the way for a real peace. A peace between politicians is not worth very much without a peace between the poets and the public they express. That's why Oslo failed, and why the present so-called negotiation for a "shelf agreement" is so worthless. It has no basis in the feelings of the two peoples. Eight years ago, then Minister of Education Yossi Sarid tried to include two poems of Darwish in the Israeli school curriculum. This caused a furor, and the Prime Minister, Ehud Barak, decided that "the Israeli public is not ready for this". This meant, in reality, that "the Israeli public is not ready for peace." This may still be true. Real peace, peace between the peoples, peace between the children born this week, on the day of the funeral, in Tel Aviv and Ramallah, will only come about when Arab pupils learn the immortal poem of Chaim Nachman Bialik "The Valley of Death", about the Kishinev pogrom, and when Israeli pupils learn the poems of Darwish about the Naqba. Yes, also the poems of anger, including the line "Go away, and take your dead with you." Without understanding and courageously facing the flaming anger about the Naqba and its consequences, we shall not understand the roots of the conflict and shall not be able to solve it. And as another great Palestinian man of letters, Edward Said, said: without understanding the impact of the Holocaust upon the Israeli soul, the Palestinians will not be able to deal with the Israelis. The Poets are the marshals of the struggle between the memories, between the myths, between the traumas. We shall need them on the road to peace between the two peoples, between the two states, for building a common future. I was not present at the state funeral arranged by the Palestinian Authority in the Mukata, so orderly, so orchestrated. I was there, two hours later, when his body was buried on a beautiful hill, overlooking the surroundings. I was deeply impressed by the public, which gathered under the blazing sun around the wreath-covered grave and listened to the recorded voice of Mahmoud reading his poems. Those present, people of the elite and simple villagers, connected with the man in silence, in a very private communion. Despite the crowding, they opened a way for us, the Israelis, who came to pay our respects at the grave. We bade our silent farewell to a great Palestinian, a great poet, a great human being. On Tue, Aug 12, 2008 at 12:19 PM, damodar prasad <[EMAIL PROTECTED]>wrote: > *Friends, > > I was resisting writing.. .. but then..... > > Under Siege > > *Here on the slopes of hills, facing the dusk and the cannon of time > Close to the gardens of broken shadows, > We do what prisoners do, > And what the jobless do: > We cultivate hope. > > *** > A country preparing for dawn. We grow less intelligent > For we closely watch the hour of victory: > No night in our night lit up by the shelling > Our enemies are watchful and light the light for us > In the darkness of cellars. > > *** > Here there is no "I". > Here Adam remembers the dust of his clay. > > *** > On the verge of death, he says: > I have no trace left to lose: > Free I am so close to my liberty. My future lies in my own hand. > Soon I shall penetrate my life, > I shall be born free and parentless, > And as my name I shall choose azure letters... > > *** > *You who stand in the doorway, come in, > Drink Arabic coffee with us > And you will sense that you are men like us > You who stand in the doorways of houses > Come out of our morningtimes, > We shall feel reassured to be > Men like you*! > > *** > When the planes disappear, the white, white doves > Fly off and wash the cheeks of heaven > With unbound wings taking radiance back again, taking possession > Of the ether and of play. Higher, higher still, the white, white doves > Fly off. Ah, if only the sky > Were real [a man passing between two bombs said to me]. > > *** > Cypresses behind the soldiers, minarets protecting > The sky from collapse. Behind the hedge of steel > Soldiers piss—under the watchful eye of a tank— > And the autumnal day ends its golden wandering in > A street as wide as a church after Sunday mass... > > *** > [To a killer] If you had contemplated the victim's face > And thought it through, you would have remembered your mother in the > Gas chamber, you would have been freed from the reason for the rifle > And you would have changed your mind: this is not the way > to find one's identity again. > > *** > *The siege is a waiting period > Waiting on the tilted ladder in the middle of the storm. > > *** * > Alone, we are alone as far down as the sediment > Were it not for the visits of the rainbows. > > *** > *We have brothers behind this expanse. > Excellent brothers. They love us. They watch us and weep. > Then, in secret, they tell each other: > "Ah! if this siege had been declared..." They do not finish their sentence: > > "Don't abandon us, don't leave us." * > > *** > Our losses: between two and eight martyrs each day. > And ten wounded. > And twenty homes. > And fifty olive trees... > Added to this the structural flaw that > Will arrive at the poem, the play, and the unfinished canvas. > > *** > A woman told the cloud: cover my beloved > For my clothing is drenched with his blood. > > *** > If you are not rain, my love > Be tree > Sated with fertility, be tree > If you are not tree, my love > Be stone > Saturated with humidity, be stone > If you are not stone, my love > Be moon > In the dream of the beloved woman, be moon > [So spoke a woman > to her son at his funeral] > > *** > Oh watchmen! Are you not weary > Of lying in wait for the light in our salt > And of the incandescence of the rose in our wound > Are you not weary, oh watchmen? > > *** > > A little of this absolute and blue infinity > Would be enough > To lighten the burden of these times > And to cleanse the mire of this place. > > *** > It is up to the soul to come down from its mount > And on its silken feet walk > By my side, hand in hand, like two longtime > Friends who share the ancient bread > And the antique glass of wine > May we walk this road together > And then our days will take different directions: > I, beyond nature, which in turn > Will choose to squat on a high-up rock. > > *** > On my rubble the shadow grows green, > And the wolf is dozing on the skin of my goat > He dreams as I do, as the angel does > That life is here...not over there. > > *** > I*n the state of siege, time becomes space > Transfixed in its eternity > In the state of siege, space becomes time > That has missed its yesterday and its tomorrow. > * > *** > The martyr encircles me every time I live a new day > And questions me: Where were you? Take every word > You have given me back to the dictionaries > And relieve the sleepers from the echo's buzz. > > *** > The martyr enlightens me: beyond the expanse > I did not look > For the virgins of immortality for I love life > On earth, amid fig trees and pines, > But I cannot reach it, and then, too, I took aim at it > With my last possession: the blood in the body of azure. > > *** > The martyr warned me: Do not believe their ululations > Believe my father when, weeping, he looks at my photograph > How did we trade roles, my son, how did you precede me. > I first, I the first one! > > *** > The martyr encircles me: my place and my crude furniture are all that I > have changed. > I put a gazelle on my bed, > And a crescent of moon on my finger > To appease my sorrow. > > *** > The siege will last in order to convince us we must choose an enslavement > that does no harm, in fullest liberty! > > *** > Resisting means assuring oneself of the heart's health, > The health of the testicles and of your tenacious disease: > The disease of hope. > > *** > And in what remains of the dawn, I walk toward my exterior > And in what remains of the night, I hear the sound of footsteps inside me. > > *** > Greetings to the one who shares with me an attention to > The drunkenness of light, the light of the butterfly, in the > Blackness of this tunnel! > > *** > Greetings to the one who shares my glass with me > In the denseness of a night outflanking the two spaces: > Greetings to my apparition. > My friends are always preparing a farewell feast for me, > A soothing grave in the shade of oak trees > A marble epitaph of time > And always I anticipate them at the funeral: > Who then has died...who? > > *** > Writing is a puppy biting nothingness > Writing wounds without a trace of blood. > > *** > Our cups of coffee. Birds green trees > In the blue shade, the sun gambols from one wall > To another like a gazelle > The water in the clouds has the unlimited shape of what is left to us > Of the sky. And other things of suspended memories > Reveal that this morning is powerful and splendid, > And that we are the guests of eternity. > > > Translated by Marjolijn De Jager > > > > > > > > > > --~--~---------~--~----~------------~-------~--~----~ You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google Groups "Green Youth Movement" group. To post to this group, send email to [email protected] To unsubscribe from this group, send email to [EMAIL PROTECTED] For more options, visit this group at http://groups.google.com/group/greenyouth?hl=en-GB -~----------~----~----~----~------~----~------~--~---
