Lonesome Lebanon Peerzada Salam | Greater Kashmir | February 6, 2007
http://www.greaterkashmir.com/Home/Newsdetails.asp?newsid=3668&Issueid=139&Arch= What is it that makes Lebanon sound like a place full of romantic tragedy? Even if one's never been there, there's some inexplicable affinity that one feels with the country. Is it the beautiful, gregarious people that often find themselves in irreconcilable circumstances? Is it the soulful land? Is it the multicultural, multi-ethnic unity in diversity? Whatever it is, Lebanon has the charm of an ineffably mysterious land. When Israeli forces let loose their relentless attack on Lebanon in August 2006, there would hardly be any conscientious individual in the world who didn't feel the pangs of pain in his/her heart. The world is already sitting on a powder keg, and events like these only fan the flames. One was dying to know whether the events that unfolded in Lebanon, the casualties that were inflicted and the destruction that took place, had snapped sensitive souls out of their slumber. And just when one was about to see the glass half- empty, a book came along Lebanon, Lebanon. It's silly not to hope. Lebanon, Lebanon is a collection of poems, reportage, short stories, essays and illustrations by some of the renowned writers, poets, playwrights and painters of our time, who, as is mentioned in the acknowledgment section of the book, offered their work free of charge and without dithering for a moment. They range from Nobel laureates like Harold Pinter and Orhan Pamuk to celebrated novelists like Hanif Kureshi and Margaret Drabble, and from the poet par excellence Mahmud Darvish to the soul-stirring brush-wielder and cartoonist Mazen Kerbaj. The marked feature of the collection is that even if one's not a bookworm or a voracious reader, one can enjoy and read with unstinted interest most of the pieces that are included in Lebanon, Lebanon. For one doesn't have to be a literary aficionado to understand and identify with the ordeal that the Lebanese people had to undergo in recent times, with echoes of what was unleashed on them in the early '80s. One just has to be a human being, without a jaundiced eye. The book begins with Harold Pinter's highly incisive poem, `American football'. Those who have read Pinter very well know the fuming anger he has against modern imperial powers. He doesn't like them at all, and expresses his detest for them to their face(s). In `American football', the master playwright (and poet) employs a contemporary metaphor to expose the horrors of conflict. In doing so, he lays bare the brutish savagery (despite claims of being civilised) that man has always been associated with. With such a forceful beginning, the book never loses its momentum with prose and poetic pieces by intelligent individuals like John le Carre, Tobias Hill, Zena el-Khalil, Robert Fisk, and Beverly Naidoo. All discuss Lebanon with such feeling as if it were a piece of their souls. But it would be such a gross mistake if one did not share Mahmud Darwish's creative endeavours with readers. The fellow has an enviable imagination and is a consummate artist. Sadly, he is yet to receive his due from literary circles all around the world. The rest of a life If someone said to me: `You're going to die here this evening So what will you do in the time that remains?' I would look at my watch/ I would drink a glass of juice And nibble an apple And stare for a long time at an ant that had found her food for the day Then look at my watch/ There is still time for me to shave And take a long shower/I would have a sudden notion `One should look nice to write/ So I'll wear something blue'/ I would sit until noon active at my desk Not seeing a trace of colour in the words White, white, white I would prepare my last meal Pour wine in two glasses: for me And an unexpected guest Then take a siesta between two dreams/ But the sound of my snoring will wake me Then I would look at my watch: There is still time to read/ I would read a canto of Dante and half a mu'allaqa And see how my life goes away from me Into other people, and not wonder who Will take its place Just like that? Just like that Then what? I would comb my hair, and throw the poem This poem in the rubbish bin Put on my newest shirt from Italy Say my final farewell to myself with a backing of Spanish violins Then walk to the graveyard!
