Mohmoud Darwish, a Tribute

Poets are linked by a call, akin to faith
Hope, the pillars of this universal goal
Aspirations activate, spirits elevate.

Justice's the cup
The peak's in the poet's eye
Oh, wrongdoer!
His pen's not to blame
This thirst's for what's right
His keenness' for goodness' sake
His pen's not to blame.

As rain's to soil what color's to dye
Without sight, meaningless is eye.

In between the bulldozer and the wall
Pen is to poet a weapon
And with pen he wrote.

He was Palestine
In the coffins of Palestine, he was Palestine.
He was Palestine
In the prisons of Palestine, he was Palestine.

Between the rift and the heavy chest
Between the deep and the high peak
In the hearts of Palestine, he is Palestine.

His words, their tears wrote
His hunger, their anger wrote
His life, their sufferings wore
The wounds of Palestine, he wore.

(c) Safi Abdi, 2008

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On August 9 Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish had breathed his last after an open heart surgery in the US. From reading his works, you will note, Mahmoud Darwish was not just a poet, he was a voice for the displaced, a voice for the oppressed, a voice for the caged, a voice for all grieving hearts.

Through the power of words he kept the Palestinian cause alive in the hearts and minds of the world, and illustrated with brilliance, and painstaking accuracy, the many ugly facets of suppression and injustice.

He was six years old when in 1948 Zionist forces evicted him and his family from their home and the Zionist entity razed his village to the ground. http://www.palestineremembered.com/Acre/al-Birwa/
Mahmoud was a Palestinian, he was Arab, a brilliant poet who put a human face on the plights of his people. On the ruins of his homeland now illegal Jewish children are raised to hate Arabs. In one of his poems: Identity Card, he wrote:

Record! I am an Arab
And my identity card is number fifty thousand
I have eight children
And the ninth is coming after a summer
Will you be angry?
Record!
I am an Arab
Employed with fellow workers at a quarry
I have eight children
I get them bread
Garments and books
from the rocks..
I do not supplicate charity at your doors
Nor do I belittle myself at the footsteps of your chamber
So will you be angry?
Record!
I am an Arab
I have a name without a title
Patient in a country
Where people are enraged
My roots
Were entrenched before the birth of time
And before the opening of the eras
Before the pines, and the olive trees
And before the grass grew
My father.. descends from the family of the plow
Not from a privileged class
And my grandfather was a farmer
Neither well-bred, nor well-born!
Teaches me the pride of the sun
Before teaching me how to read
And my house is like a watchman's hut
Made of branches and cane
Are you satisfied with my status?
I have a name without a title!
Record!
I am an Arab
You have stolen the orchards of my ancestors
And the land which I cultivated
Along with my children
And you left nothing for us
Except for these rocks..
So will the State take them
As it has been said?!
Therefore!
Record on the top of the first page:
I do not hate people
Nor do I encroach
But if I become hungry
The usurper's flesh will be my food
Beware..
Beware..
Of my hunger
And my anger!

I was introduced to Mahmoud Darwish's poetry in 2006 at a poetry reading ceremony in Amman, Jordan. The place was packed and it was not easy to talk to him. But I was struck with the warmth and admiration the crowd, many of them young, felt for this man. From a distance, I could see he looked frail and tired, yet, as the evening wore on, he kept on signing, book after book, all the while making sure he included owner's names as well, which was quite taxing. The following 3 poems are extracted from one of the books he signed for me, The State of Siege. This is an attractive book, in Arabic, it is slim and easy to carry around, poems are short and crispy. I hope you will enjoy the translated excerpts as I have.

1.
If you are not rain, o dear one,
then be a tree,
fertile and verdant. Be a tree.
And if not a tree, o dear one
be a stone
laden with dew. Be a stone.
And if not a stone, o dear one,
be the moon itself
in the dreams of she who loves you. Be the moon itself.
[thus a woman said
to her son, in his funeral]

2.
A woman said to a cloud: cover my dear one,
for my clothes are wet with his blood.

3.

My friends are ever preparing a party for me-
a farewell party, and a comfortable grave in the shadow of the oak
together with a marble witness from the tombstone of time
But I seem to be first in attending their funerals.
Who has died today?