Mahmoud Darwish: Literature and the Politics of Palestinian Identity 9781784530716, 9781350987074, 9781786730138

Table of contents :
Front cover
Author biography
Endorsements
Title
Copyright
Dedication
Contents
Introduction
1. On the Role of the Intellectual
2. Displacement and Exile
3. Literature and Nation-Building
4. Speaking Truth to Power
5. Attitudes and Principles
6. On Peace and War
Conclusion
Table 1: Original Arabic Citations
Table 2: Transliteration from Arabic to English
Table 3: Transliteration from Hebrew to English
Notes
Bibliography
Index
Back cover

Citation preview

Muna Abu Eid is a Palestinian academic researcher specializing in Arabic literature, history, and political science. She has published numerous articles in newspapers, popular magazines and scholarly journals and her areas of interest include intellectuals, Palestine and the Palestinian question, nationalism, culture and resistance, national poets and issues of nation-building. She holds a PhD from Bar-Ilan University.

‘This is a riveting and highly original study into the life and days of Mahmoud Darwish, the foremost Palestinian poet, who died in 2008 after four decades of intellectual leadership among Palestinians in Palestine and their diasporas. Muna Abu Eid’s work digests hundreds of documents in Arabic and other languages which have often been neglected by earlier scholars and critics. The argument is well conceived and the style is simple but highly sophisticated, reflecting a great familiarity with sociological and historical theory. The book endeavours to answer several questions so far rarely delved into. Many of Abu Eid’s formulations allow us to reach clearer and sharper replies about the poet and his world.’ Sasson Somekh, Emeritus Professor of Arabic Literature, Tel Aviv University ‘Muna Abu Eid has written an excellent, comprehensive biography of the most important and most influential Palestinian poet, who died in 2008, ahead of his time. The author bases her study on key primary sources, including interviews with Darwish’s fellows. Her book is an original multi-disciplinary contribution to several fields: Arab and Palestinian literature, Palestinian literature and politics, intellectuals and their national struggle, intellectual political criticism and activism.’ Menachem Klein, Professor in the Department of Political Studies, Bar-Ilan University

MAHMOUD DARWISH Literature and the Politics of Palestinian Identity

MUNA ABU EID

Published in 2016 by I.B.Tauris & Co. Ltd London • New York www.ibtauris.com Copyright q 2016 Muna Abu Eid First published in 2013 as Mahmoud Darwish: Poet of the Palestinian Iliad in Hebrew by the Moshe Dayan Center. The right of Muna Abu Eid to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in a review, this book, or any part thereof, may not be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher. References to websites were correct at the time of writing. Written Culture and Identity 4 ISBN: 978 1 78453 071 6 eISBN: 978 1 78672 013 9 ePDF: 978 1 78673 013 8 A full CIP record for this book is available from the British Library A full CIP record is available from the Library of Congress Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: available Typeset in Garamond Three by OKS Prepress Services, Chennai, India Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

To the memory of the Nakba survivors, my parents Yusuf and Najiya Abu Eid, and my uncles Lutfi, Ahmad, and Adnan al-Nabulsi

CONTENTS

Introduction 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6.

On the Role of the Intellectual Displacement and Exile Literature and Nation-Building Speaking Truth to Power Attitudes and Principles On Peace and War

1 7 15 49 93 117 139

Conclusion

157

Table 1: Original Arabic Citations Table 2: Transliteration from Arabic to English Table 3: Transliteration from Hebrew to English Notes Bibliography Index

159 171 173 175 221 237

INTRODUCTION

Over the last two decades many studies have been published about Mahmoud Darwish. Most of these are literary studies, examining the style, themes, and motifs of his poetry.1 Since the end of the 1980s, many of Darwish’s poems and books have been translated from Arabic and published in many languages, including Hebrew. Nevertheless, we have yet to see the publication of a comprehensive study about Darwish as an intellectual in Palestinian politics and society. Many studies have been written about the Palestinian national movement – in Arabic, in Hebrew, and in other languages. The majority of these engaged in the debate about the birth and origins of the Palestinian national movement.2 Some dealt with the reawakening of the Palestinian national movement under the Palestinian Liberation Organization (PLO), and later under the fundamentalist Islamic organizations.3 Despite the fact that Darwish spent more than 30 years in the PLO, was closely associated with Yasir Arafat, and even drafted the Palestinian Declaration of Independence in 1988, none of the writers of these studies have thoroughly examined Darwish’s activities and role in the Palestinian national movement. Time and again, Darwish aroused public controversy in Israel and outside. One such controversy arose in 2000, during the period of Ehud Barak’s government (1999– 2001), when then-Minister of Education and Culture Yosi Sarid proposed introducing Darwish’s poetry into the curricula of the Hebrew schools. Sarid noted at a press conference that Darwish’s poetry should be included in the school curricula not only because he is Palestinian, but because of the literary quality of his work.

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‘These are lyrical, beautiful poems, with no nationalistic tones’, he claimed.4 A different – political and national – line of reasoning was given by journalist Gid‘on Levy: After great delay, school children in Israel – who grew up for generations on a curriculum that is engaged in suppressing information and blatant bias, in which they were taught that Arabs are always the bad guys and we are always the only good guys – will be able to discover that there is another side to this story. Perhaps through the Palestinian poetry of Mahmoud Darwish and Siha¯m Da¯’u¯d they will understand that this land was not empty before their parents’ parents came here, that the just establishment of their state did an awful injustice to the other inhabitants of this land, that this land’s other sons, the Palestinians, love this land at least as much as they do, whether they live in exile like Darwish, or whether they are exiles in their own land, like Da’u¯d. And they will discover, perhaps, for the first time in their lives that ‘Palestinians’ is not a collective code name for a band of terrorists or an inferior people, but a nation like their nation, that gave rise to poetry that is no lesser than the poetry of their own people. These discoveries will only strengthen the generation that is exposed to them. After more than fifty years, and after having become a regional superpower, Israel should and must allow its young generation to know the true history of their land and the dreams and pains of the other inhabitants of it.5 Sarid’s proposal was criticized from the Right, and a vote of no confidence was raised in the Knesset, threatening to create a political crisis. Criticism came not only from the political Right but also from people in the Committee for Literature Instruction, which included academics and Education-Ministry professionals. The proposal to teach Darwish’s works angered members of the committee, who saw it as interference in their political judgment. Chairperson of the Professional Committee for Literature Education, Prof. Ziva Shamir from the Department of Hebrew Literature at Tel Aviv University, said: Sarid has tried to establish a precedent in the Ministry of Education: until now, no politician has dared try to decide what

INTRODUCTION

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the content of school curricula should be. But now, the Minister of Education, who is also the chairman of the Council on Higher Education, does not hesitate to endanger academic freedom and to interfere in professional decisions in the teaching of literature.6 The chairman of the Likkud faction in the Knesset, MK Re’uven Rivlin, characterized as ‘scandalous’ Sarid’s decision ‘to cut poems by Alterman, Bialik, and from the legacy of Sephardic Jewry out of the curriculum, and in their place to insert poems by an anti-Zionist Israel-hating poet who calls for the destruction of the Zionist entity’.7 In response to the political storm, Prime Minister Ehud Barak said that the Israel was ‘not ready’ for a change such as the one Sarid had suggested.8 What is amazing in this whole story is that none of those involved in the dispute even raised the question of whether the Education Ministry had the resources to take on the challenge presented by this proposal. Did the Israeli-Jewish teachers have the tools needed in order to teach Darwish’s poetry? Would such training be given through courses by the Israeli Ministry of Education or through academic courses in the departments of Arabic literature at the universities? Such a discussion did take place, far from the eyes of the media, between Dr Re’uven Snı¯r, head of the Department of Arabic Literature at the Hebrew University, and Dr Shlomo Alon, the supervisor of Arabic instruction in the Education Ministry. Snir claimed that modern Arabic poetry is virtually not studied in the Israeli high schools: One of the blatant weak points of Arabic-studies majors coming out of from the Jewish high schools and entering the departments of Arabic language and literature at the universities is their almost complete ignorance of Arabic poetry, and modern poetry in particular. Most if not all of them have not heard of a single modern Arab poet, and even if they have by chance, they are not familiar with the poetry itself [. . .] Most of these students do exit the gates of the university into the wide world with the yearnedfor degree, but without even a minimal knowledge of modern Arabic poetry. Some of them will become teachers, while their entire knowledge of the existence of modern poetry can be summed up in a grade in their university transcript.9

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In response, Shlomo Alon wrote: Dr. Snir has a point [. . .] Indeed until now modern Arabic poetry has not been included in the curriculum or reading lists of Arabic studies in the Jewish school system [. . .] In order to make the study of modern Arabic poetry more systematic, we must invest great efforts in teacher-training and continuing education. By Dr. Snir’s own testimony, there is no requirement to study modern Arabic poetry in the framework of B.A. studies in the Arabic departments at the various universities. The pool of potential teachers is taken from those same students who have not studied modern Arabic literature. Imposing a new curriculum on teachers who have not been sufficiently trained to teach it is bound to fail.10 An additional controversy occurred years earlier – in January 1988 – around the poem ‘Passers in Passing Words’ (‘A¯biru¯n fı¯ Kala¯m ‘A¯bir), which Darwish wrote after the beginning of the first Intifada.11 Four Hebrew translations of the poem were published, by four different translators and with four different titles.12 The appearance of the poem in Hebrew stirred a grave controversy in Israel at the time – even among those in the peace camp. At the heart of the controversy stood the question: was Darwish calling in this poem to oust the Israeli occupier from the territories it occupied in 1967, or also from the territory of the state of Israel? The answers, for the most part, were no less impassioned than the poem itself. ‘If we don’t live among you, Mahmoud, neither will you live among us. And then, Mahmoud, neither you nor I will be anywhere’, wrote Israeli poet ‘Amos Kenan.13 A debate raged both within and outside of Israel on the eve of Darwish’s visit to Haifa on July 15, 2007. There were those who saw his visit for a poetry evening as an historical event that they had awaited 35 years, while others protested the very fact that he entered Israel with the authorization of the IDF. Israeli journalist Yo’av Stern described the ˙ uproar on the eve of Darwish’s visit to Haifa: A mediatic and political storm has raged in the last week following Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish’s decision to come for a poetry evening in Haifa, which will take place on Sunday, sponsored by Hadash [the Front for Democracy and Equality, ˙

INTRODUCTION

5

successor of the Israeli Communist Party – author’s note] and the newspaper Masha¯rif. On one side of the divide are the Hadash ˙ movement and the Lebanese newspaper, al-Mustaqbal, and on the other side stands Balad [the National Democratic Alliance] and the Lebanese newspaper al-Akhba¯r, identified with the nationalist bloc headed by Hizbulla¯h. In an article by the editor of the culture ˙ section of al-Akhba¯r, Pierre Abu¯ Sa‘b, published simultaneously ˙ in Balad’s newspaper Fasl al-Maqa¯l last Friday, Darwish was ˙ attacked for his decision to appear in Haifa for two reasons: one was that he sought a permit from the Israeli authorities, while the latter refuse entry permits from thousands of families. Another reason is that Hadash chairman Muhammad Baraka called for ˙ ˙ putting [Balad chairman] ‘Azmı¯ Bisha¯ra on trial for visiting the Da¯hiya neighborhood in Beirut (in Hadash, this claim is denied ˙ ˙ ˙ categorically). The claim led to harsh responses in Hadash. ˙ Individuals in the party told Haaretz that Balad is trying to export its internal crisis since Bisha¯ra, chairman of the party, left the country. They are looking for a way to address their constituency, and they think that a confrontation with Hadash can do it. But ˙ why take it out on Darwish?14 None of these were literary debates about Darwish and the content of his poetry, but political debates – intra-Israeli (between the coalition and the opposition in the Israeli government) and intra-Palestinian (between Balad and Hadash) – for which Darwish and his poetry served as fuel. ˙ This book fills a void in the political biography of Mahmoud Darwish and in the study of poets in national movements in general. Its examines Darwish’s status and role as an intellectual in Palestinian politics, examining the lyrical and rhetorical aspects of his poetry and prose, and the background in which his works were written, as well as his public and private statements and deeds in the context of the Palestinian national movement, and his relationship with Yasir Arafat in particular. The book presents the English-language reader with an intellectual biography of Darwish based on primary sources, including extensive citations, primarily from the poet himself. Chapter 1 discusses the role of the intellectual. Chapter 2 offers a personal account and a critical assessment of Darwish’s national and political life. It also situates Darwish’s poetry within the wider context

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of Palestinian struggles inside Israel and in the Palestinian diaspora; from the destruction of his Galilee village and the displacement of his family during the 1948 Nakba, through his return back into the homeland and the struggle for survival inside Israel, to his ‘perpetual’ internal and external exiles in Haifa, Moscow, Cairo, Beirut, Tunisia, Paris, and even Ramallah. While feeling ‘out of place’ and unsettled for much of his life, both as an internal refugee and outside of the homeland, Darwish created a cultural world and a unifying national discourse, not just for himself but one to which all Palestinians belong. Chapter 3 discusses Darwish’s cultural ways of resisting/fighting Zionist colonialism against extinction and obliteration.15 Chapter 4 offers an account of Mahmoud Darwish’s activity within the Palestine Liberation Organization, and his relationship with its leader, Yasir Arafat. Chapter 5 discusses Darwish’s attitudes, outlooks, and values on matters of politics, government, and society, through an examination of the following questions: What was his attitude to women, to the future Palestinian state and government, and to radical Islam? And what was his attitude towards the Arab regimes and to Arab identity and nationalism? Chapter 6 deals with issues of war and peace. This book examines Darwish’s role in Palestinian national politics in light of Edward Said’s writings on the role of the public intellectual.16 In Said’s view, an intellectual must speak truth to power and raise moral issues, while maintaining his independence and his personal ethical standards.17 For this reason he does not flatter the authorities, nor does he look for easy or ready-made solutions. His raison d’eˆtre is ‘to represent all those people and issues that are routinely forgotten or swept under the rug’.18 But, how does one speak the truth? What truth, for whom, when, and in which case? ‘In the case of a political identity that’s being threatened’, culture poses a threat to power. ‘Culture,’ Said writes, ‘is a way of fighting against extinction and obliteration. Culture is a form of memory against effacement [. . .] But, there is another dimension – the power to analyze [. . .] straight out-and-out lies from authority, the questioning of authority, and the search for alternatives.’19 Throughout the book, therefore, the discussion focuses on the political and intellectual biography of Darwish from a holistic/theoretical point of view.

CHAPTER 1 ON THE ROLE OF THE INTELLECTUAL

We have no need of legends, but only to explain the relationship between the moon and the menstrual cycle, between the sun and the seasons, and give magic to speak in long winter’s nights, and train beasts to obey the melody.1 Intellectuals are generally perceived as a major factor in the development of both territorial and ethnic nationalism. Not only because they are seen as being directly responsible for the reconstruction of traditions and myths that are needed for the creation of nationalism, but also because they are perceived as central players in any cultural and ethnic development. According to Benedict Anderson, the activity of intellectuals was a central factor in the formation of the European nations in the nineteenth century. This period in Europe was also a golden age of folklorists, lexicographers, grammarians, philologists, and litterateurs. Anderson attributes this cultural awakening to the intellectuals. Anderson writes: The nineteenth century was, in Europe and its immediate peripheries, a golden age of vernacularizing lexicographers, grammarians, philologists, and litterateurs. The energetic activities of these professional intellectuals were central to the shaping of nineteenthcentury European nationalisms.2

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In the Arabic-speaking countries as well, ‘Maronites and Copts, many of them products of Beirut’s American College (founded in 1866) and the Jesuit College of St Joseph (founded in 1875) were major contributors to the revival of classical Arabic and the spread of Arab nationalism.’3 Additional scholars support Anderson’s approach. According to Shimon Shamir, the Arab revival movement, whose central goal was to cultivate the Arabic language through the revival of hidden treasures of the past and its renewal and adaptation to the demands of the modern age, was one of the primary causes of the gradual cultivation of Arab national consciousness. This awakening was manifested in the nineteenth century in the institutions founded by Christian missionaries – Protestant and Catholic alike – in Syria and Lebanon.4 Dahan and Wasserman write, in the introduction to the anthology To Invent a Nation, that in order to establish an official national culture Zionism strove to create a new national culture that was disconnected from the old, diasporic, Jewish culture. Moreover, Zionism tried to create a sense of national continuity of the Jewish people in Palestine – in other words, to invent a ‘New Jew’ who is also a native of the ancient land. Dahan and Wasserman write: Zionism is a fascinating example of the thesis of the invention of nationalism. Without the invention of tradition it would have been impossible to take such disparate groups of human beings, from different countries and cultures, with so little in common, and to create a political and cultural collective that functions governmentally and militarily and grants its members such strong feelings of belonging and identity. How – without resorting to an abundance of ex nihilo inventions – could one create a single nation from a public that has no common language, no common territory for generations, and no common history?5 Poets in national movements fill various functions: writing anthems, documenting historical events, reconstructing or inventing traditions. At times they extol their leaders, and at other times they observe from the side, and even express criticism of the government and initiate protest movements. The Israeli literary scholar Aharon Komem wrote about the connection between two poets and two political leaders in the Zionist movement:

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poet Hayim Nahman Bialik with the early Zionist thinker and proponent ˙ ˙ of cultural Zionism, Ahad Ha‘am; and Hebrew/Israeli poet Natan ˙ Alterman with the first prime minister of Israel, David Ben-Gurion. According to Komem, the flag of Zionist nationalism was carried by these two poets – Bialik at the beginning of the Zionist national awakening, and Alterman, after the movement came to fruition.6 Aside from a personal connection with national leaders, the two poets stood out in relation to their contemporary Hebrew poets in that they devoted their poetry to historical and national events. Komem writes: Neither of them could stand by and watch the difficult burdens of the people in the twentieth century. Bialik did some encouraging but mostly admonished; Alterman primarily sympathized and supported. Both found themselves connected to the stormy events, as well as to the leaders, Ahad Ha‘am and Ben-Gurion.7 ˙ In an article entitled ‘History according to Alterman’, Ziva Shamir writes: Bialik, in his ‘canonical’ and ‘popular’ poems, in his stories and adapted legends, faithfully expressed the spirit of the nation; he collected national-spiritual assets, arranged and compiled them, and put his time and energy into public events. Contrary to Bialik, Alterman was not so sociable, and did not give interviews in the press. Yet the public, which considered him to be a ‘national poet,’ understood that he was unparalleled in the monumental enterprise that he took on his shoulders, as he followed the fateful events of the people and the State with persistence, insight, and talent, and illuminated them from surprising angles. At the time of their publication, his columns played an immense didactic role, and in hindsight they have been acknowledged as having great documentary value [. . .] Today one can state in no uncertain terms that no oeuvre documents the days of the struggle for independence of Israel and the first years of the state, in all its colors and facets, like the work of Alterman.8 Poets are often torn between their personal world and their national obligations. About this, Bialik wrote: ‘In searching for your penny I lost

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my pound.’9 The people are generally critical towards their ‘prophet’critics, but to Bialik they granted a love that he could not endure, and therefore he had to declare a complete separation between himself and his public. Paradoxically, in Bialik’s time, writes Komem, the literary mainstream was not in line with the national movement. In literature and poetry, personal forces prevailed: love, nature, childhood, and death had pride of place. In other words, there was no mobilization of the individual on behalf of the community. Throughout his lifetime, Bialik thus sought out the personal, intimate core that was ‘his own’. ‘Bialik discovered that the wishful title “national poet” was not a compliment, but a burden too hard to bear’, wrote Komem, adding: Bialik betrayed his destiny, was swept away with the convoys, abandoned his oasis and forest [. . .] Bialik is aware of the price he paid for public engagement, and he portrays this, in all its tragedy, in some of his most important poems.10 Poets not only immortalize and support national leaders, document historical and national processes, or engage in personal and national selfcriticism; sometimes they lead protest movements against the occupier; and sometimes they betray their role or destiny and become a divisive factor in national politics. The Bengali-Indian national poet Rabindranath Tagore (1861– 1941) was the greatest poet of the Indian national movement. He ‘captured the depth of the nation’s feelings,’ writes Pradeep Kumar Gan, scholar of Indian culture.11 His invaluable literary corpus and national spirit breathed into both the leadership and the masses the spirit of struggle against British colonialism and for liberty, freedom, and independence. Tagore contributed to the consolidation of national identity and national unity. He rejected the idea of the ethnic partition of India. Tagore not only wrote articles, but also organized meetings and protest marches, uniting the people against British colonialism and on behalf of independence and freedom. In 1912 he wrote a poem whose text would become India’s national anthem after India attained independence in 1945.12 Thus we see that there is a wide array of relationships that can exist between poets and national movements. Not only do poets document national and historical events in their poems (as did Bialik, Alterman,

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and Mahmoud Darwish), but more than that: sometimes they take an active part in politics – signing petitions or organizing meetings and protest marches (as did Tagore and Alterman). On the one hand, poets can contribute to unity among the people and to the formation of a cultural and national identity (as we will see in what follows in Darwish’s case), and on the other hand they can take a stance that supports one side in an intra-national struggle and turns into a divisive factor (as we see below in the case of Alterman).13 Edward Said (1935–2003) conceives of the ideal intellectual as exiled and marginal, and as the author of a language that tries to speak the truth to power. For this reason the ideal Intellectual does not flatter the authorities, nor does he look for easy or ready-made solutions. His raison d’eˆtre is ‘to represent all those people and issues that are routinely forgotten or swept under the rug’.14 In an article entitled ‘Natan Alterman in the days of the Lavon Affair’, literature scholar Dan La’or writes: At first he made many attempts to strengthen Ben-Gurion’s position in the party and among the public, and finally he sided in practice with the opinion of the minority in Mapai, participated in the founding of the Israeli Workers’ List [Rafi], and even played an active role in this party [. . .] In this period, Alterman’s moral sympathy with Ben-Gurion reached its height: time and time again, Alterman praised Ben-Gurion’s personality, supported his line, and also sided with the ‘youth’ [of the party: Moshe Dayan, Shimon Peres, and Aba Eben], who in this period were [BenGurion’s] primary political supporters. At the same time there developed an open rivalry between him and the Land of Israel Workers’ Party [Mapai], and also between him and the newspaper Davar, to which he belonged for more than a generation. It is not surprising that at the end of the affair, Alterman found himself in a new party, Rafi, and eventually also at a new newspaper: Maariv. The affair also marked a turning point in Alterman’s political lifestyle – from an author who observed and consistently reacted to public life in Israel, Alterman transformed into a ‘businessman’ who was actively involved in party life, and who tried to advance his own political agenda through actual political activity – a step that would gather momentum after the Six Day War. The Lavon

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Affair also marked the end of Alterman’s role as a writer who expressed the national consensus.15 In contrast to Alterman, Darwish was not involved in any specific political struggles – whether in Maki (the Israeli Communist Party), in Rakah (the New Communist List, which split off from Maki in 1965), or ˙ in the PLO. Arafat often cited Darwish’s name in order to keep opposition members out of key positions, as in the case of the 1984 elections for the Union of Palestinian Writers and Journalists. In these elections, Darwish ran against the caricaturist Na¯jı¯ al-‘Alı¯ and won. In those days of rupture within the PLO, only a few people had the trust of a majority of the members of the Writers’ Union. First and foremost of these was Darwish. His agreement to his candidacy for the presidency of the Palestinian Writers’ Union (in April 1984) thus stemmed not from the desire to take part in the deep internal political polarization that had overtaken the PLO, but from fear for the unity and political independence of the organization – so that it would not become a tool in the hands of the rejectionist front, led by Syria and Libya.16 Throughout more than 30 years of activity in the PLO, Darwish wrote more words of criticism than of praise of its leader – both in prose and in poetry – despite the amity and admiration that Arafat felt for Darwish throughout.17 Aharon Kmem mentions no less than six poems written by Natan Alterman specifically in praise of Ben-Gurion, in addition to five prose writings that he dedicated to him.18 ‘The love and thanks preserved for you in the heart of the people from now and until eternity will not be disrupted or destroyed, not by friends and not by enemies, and not by you yourself’, wrote Alterman to Ben-Gurion on the latter’s 75th birthday.19 Komem does not ask whether or not Alterman also wrote criticism of Ben-Gurion. Whatever the case may be, this was a much greater affinity than that between Darwish and Arafat, and may be why some scholars consider Alterman to be Ben-Gurion’s court poet. It could also be that this was more than a case of the poet ‘going blindly after the statesman’. Alterman’s entrance into party politics – from Rafi (the Israel Workers’ List, 1965– 1968), whose platform he helped write, to the movement for Greater Israel (established in 1967), of which he was one of the founders – could have been the kind of lust for power Michel Foucault (1926–1984) experienced after the 1968 student

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demonstrations in France.20 We do not find such a lust for power in Darwish’s case. In comparison with Alterman, Darwish wrote very little in praise of his leader. Moreover, Darwish never wrote clear-cut panegyrics. Even in the moments of crisis and trauma surrounding Arafat’s death, Darwish did not abandon his judgement and his critical sense as an intellectual. In 1983, Darwish wrote in praise of Arafat, an article entitled ‘Yasir Arafat and the sea’ (Yasir Arafat wa-l-bahr) and the long ˙ poem ‘In Praise of the High Shadow’ (Madı¯h al-Zil al-‘A¯lı¯, 1983). After ˙ _ Arafat’s death on November 11, 2004, Darwish wrote two additional pieces, ‘He took us by surprise by not surprising us’ (Fa¯ja’ana¯ bi-annahu lam yufaji’na¯), followed by ‘My sorrow for him was late in coming’ (Ta’akhkhara huznı¯ ‘alayhi kathı¯ra¯). Although these are elegiac texts, ˙ Darwish did not spare his criticism of Arafat. Darwish dedicated almost his entire life’s work, and all of his writing – poetry and prose – to the Palestinian cause. Like Ghassa¯n Kanafa¯nı¯, born on April 9, 1936 in Acre, Darwish experienced the Nakba in his childhood. He not only experienced this, but witnessed and observed the traumatic process his people had gone through since the Nakba. Darwish was an intellectual with a national vision, who dedicated all of his energy to his people’s nation-building (as argued below in Chapter 3). As discussed in the following chapters, Darwish strove to speak truth to power, not first and formost to Israeli authorities and Zionist colonialism. His goal was to prevent those who had colonized the land from ‘colonizing memory’ (muha¯walat istı¯ta¯n al-dha¯kira) as well, i.e., to ˙ ˙ expose the enemy lies, and to prevent him from immortalizing his 21 story. In other words, Darwish strove against effacement and forgetfulness.22 At the same time, he tried to speak truth to the power of the Israeli Communist Party (Rakah) – during his national activity ˙ between 1965–197023 – and to the PLO (1972–1994) as well.24

CHAPTER 2 DISPLACEMENT AND EXILE

If I were to start all over again, I’d choose what I had chosen: the roses on the fence. I’d travel again on the road which may or may not lead to Cordova. I’d hang my shadow on two rocks for the fugitive birds to build a nest on my shadow’s branch.1 Mahmoud Darwish was born into a lower-middle-class Muslim agricultural family. His father, Salı¯m, was a farmer, and his mother, Hu¯riyya, the daughter of Adı¯b al-Buqa¯ʿı¯, the village Mukhtar of al˙ Da¯mu¯n, was a housewife. Of their eight children, four – Ahmad, ˙ Mahmoud, Zakı¯, and Nasu¯hı¯ – were born in the village of al-Birwa, ˙ ˙ which overlooks the Acre Valley from the east. Four more children – a boy, Ramzı¯, and the girls: Ramziyya, Salwa¯, and Siha¯m – were born in the state of Israel. Mahmoud was born on March 13, 1941, before history was interrupted and their home was taken. Then, the nights were not so cold, and ‘the moon had no modern Hebrew songs’.2 But June 11, 1948 would be thoroughly etched into his memory: We left everything as it was – the horse, the lamb, the bull, the open doors, the hot dinner, the call to the evening prayer, the one radio set continuing, perhaps to this day, its broadcast of the news of our victory. We descended the steep valley [. . .] towards a plain that led into the village of Sha‘b, where the relatives of my mother and her family lived [. . .] after a number of days, the members of the nearby villages called out to one another; they had sold their

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wives’ gold and bought French guns in order to liberate al-Birwa, [my village]. They liberated it at nightfall, drank the conqueror’s hot tea, and spent their first night of victory in sleep. The next day the ‘liberation army’ claimed the adjacent village without making an account for anyone, and then the Jews came and reconquered it, destroying it without leaving a single stone in place.3 The village was conquered and destroyed by the IDF (Israel Defense Forces), and the family had to flee, leaving everything behind.4 Some of the inhabitants of al-Birwa left for nearby villages and some left for Syria and/or Lebanon, all becoming refugees, whether inside Israel or in the Arab countries. The Darwish family was the last to go; they left for the neighbouring village of Sha’b, about 5 kilometers from al-Birwa. After several nights they continued on to the village of Bi’r al-Shaykh (today the Israeli city Karmiel); after a rest they took a mountainous route to Dayr al-Asad and from there they ascended to Kisra¯ and Tarshı¯ha¯, and ˙ then on to Lebanon.5 After reaching Lebanon, Darwish would not forget the discovery of the concept of ‘homeland’ (watan), which would become the most significant ˙ concept in his life and poetry. Return became his daily bread: the return to the place, the return to time, the return from the temporary to the permanent, the return from the present to both the past and the future, the return from the unusual to the natural, the return from tin boxes to a house of stone. Thus, Palestine became the opposite of everything else, and became a lost paradise.6 On the line to receive the food that was distributed to the refugees, his ears picked up concepts that opened up a window for him into a new and unfamiliar world: ‘homeland’, ‘war’, ‘news’, ‘refugees’, ‘army’, ‘borders’, and more. There, he knew about the Nakba all that might force him to hate the secound half of his childhood.7 ‘I ceased to be a child once I understood that the refugee camps of Lebanon were reality and that Palestine was imagination’, he wrote.8 Some of the words he learned were insulting and even humiliating for him: ‘One night I was informed about the plan to return home. I was so happy, I remember it well, that night – I couldn’t fall asleep at all. For me the return home meant one thing – no more yellow cheese, no more bullying children humiliating me with the words “hey, refugee”.’9 After about a year of exile, the family decided to return to Israel. They travelled by car from al-Da¯mu¯r to Bint Jbeil in southern Lebanon.

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From there, they continued on foot to Rmı¯sh, a Christian village near the border, and from there to the homeland. ‘I remember crawling on our stomachs so no one would notice us’, the poet recounted.10 The return to the homeland was rife with dangers. Ahmad Darwı¯sh, the poet’s brother, ˙ described the return as follows: We climbed up on a small hill, and a military patrol arrived. After a few failed attempts we returned with the help of a guide, a Palestinian from Acre, who knew the way by heart – both via the slopes and on the mountains – to the homeland. The journey of return was a difficult one: the return was made by night on unpaved paths. The guide directed us in exchange for a hefty sum. In the end we walked all the night [. . .] until we reached Buqei‘a. There we found the priest of al-Birwa, and he welcomed us into his house, despite the risk of being accused of subversive activity against the state’s security. After that we continued on to Dayr alAsad, where we spent three years – as ‘infiltrators’. When we returned to the homeland we did not have papers.11 In 1949, when a census was taken in Israel, the family was in Lebanon. When they returned a short time afterwards, they were considered as ‘infiltrators’ (mutasallilu¯n).12 On top of the physical dangers to the family upon their return was the danger of staying under Arab cover. The constant fear of informers and the anxiety about the possibility of being discovered by the authorities haunted the family for many years. Darwish wrote about the dangers that lurked for those who had returned: And what if you said that you had come from Lebanon? Because you have infiltrated and things have changed so you won’t get an ID. And if the police come and find out our story, they’ll kick us out at the border. Then, months later we will find out that thousands of ‘infiltrators’ were kicked out this way: the trucks come to the village square and the police start their search for the smuggled merchandise. The smuggled merchandise is as follows: you, me, he, and she – everyone who escaped death and returned. They load the trucks and bind your eyes, and at night you find yourself in an area where you cannot get your bearings, because darkness has no bearings. And the moon does not frighten the

18

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babies. Among those deported is the husband of your maternal aunt, whose body does not return; perhaps the body is still missing. You can’t identify his murderer: the army, the bandits, or maybe the wolves. Every week brings a new funeral in the village. Here and there the villagers find the body of one of those same ‘infiltrators’, swallowed by the plains, the cold, and the bullets.13 In an interview given to Hilit Yeshurun in 1996, Darwish said that the story of the returnees had not yet been written. The family was in Lebanon when the Israeli census was taken in 1949, and therefore was not counted in it. Darwish recounts: We reached Dayr al-Asad [. . .] and every time the police came we hid. From that period [. . .] I remember one person, with a beautiful voice, who would come at night to the neighbours’ houses at the edge of the village, play on the rababa and sing his story: how he had left his home and how he crossed the border and how he returned, recounting the night and the moon, a heartrending nostalgia.14 The story of the returnees, or so called ‘infiltrators,’ has been told at length in Benny Morris’s Israel’s Border Wars 1949– 1956, and later in Hillel Cohen’s book, Good Arabs, relying on Israeli intelligence sources. Despite the fact that Palestinian writers Emı¯l Habı¯bı¯ (1929– 1996) and ˙ Hana¯ Ibra¯hı¯m (b. 1927 in the village of al-Bi‘na in the Galilee) had ˙ previously written about this issue, Morris and Cohen somehow ignored their works in their sources.15 Between 1949 and 1956, thousands of Palestinian refugees crossed the border of Israel from Jordan, Egypt, Lebanon, and Syria. 1952 was the peak year of the phenomenon. The borders of the Green Line were breached, and the Israeli military and security forces were not capable of maintaining the borders from every longing.16 Israel’s official policy was that returnees of all kind were a threat to the country’s security; those returning in order to settle were seen as a threat to the demographic balance, while the smugglers were seen as a threat to the country’s sovereignty and the validity of its borders. Israel’s defence from the returnees included military operations beyond the border. The IDF, the Border Patrol, the police, and the military government were mobilized

DISPLACEMENT AND EXILE

19

for this purpose. In the second half of 1948, standing orders were given to the army to shoot any Arab found near their posts or near the front lines, whether during battle or truce. Many of the returnees were killed along the borderlines, and even within Israeli territory.17 According to estimates, between 1949 and 1956, thousands of returnees were killed along the borders due to the lax instructions on opening fire.18 The returnees were divided into a few categories, including those who came in order to fight, though these were a minority. Many of the returnees, former residents of the Palestinian towns and villages, wanted to return to their homes, fields, and families that had remained in Israel. The motive for many of them was the dismal economic situation in the places to where they were deported or fled. There were those who infiltrated in order to harvest their fields, and then there were refugees, primarily young people from the middle classes, who infiltrated for the sake of trade: they identified the commodities that were missing in the Israeli market because of the financial austerity policy, and would cross back and forth across the border trafficking these goods. A vibrant and organized trade took place in at least two locations: in the south, between al-Huzayl (Rahat) and Hebron; and in the centre, between ˙ Tu¯lkarm and the frontier settlements of Bı¯r Bu¯rı¯n (Bierotayim) and, ˙ primarily, Kibbutz Yad Hana. The tight supervision of food products ˙ and importation, bank credit, foreign currencies, and raw materials, led to the development of a black market economy in Israel. Every day, returnees crossed the border in order to furnish what the tightly regulated Israeli market could not offer: saccharine, oil, sheep, tires, and more.19 Israeli public officials gave cover to returnees who traded with them on the black market, and ultimately even aided in their absorption in Israel.20 These ‘good Jews’ were the antithesis of those collaborators, ‘good Arabs’ as Hillel Cohen calls them, who informed the Israeli security forces and handed over refugees and returnees. In ‘The Pessoptimist’ (al-Mutasha¯’il, 1974), which ‘jams together Pessimism and Optimism’ Emı¯l Habı¯bı¯, tells the story of the internal ˙ refugees who were left in the territory of the state of Israel and who wandered from one settlement to another looking for work.21 From this description, we see that the definition of the so-called ‘infiltrators’ as those who crossed the border into Israel is more elusive. Among those were also the internal refugees, who remained in the state of Israel after 1948 and never crossed the border to any neighbouring Arab country.

20

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And yet they were considered ‘infiltrators’ because they travelled around without a permit from the military government: Years and years I had spent waiting for her to come back. They had taken her with other ‘infiltrators’ to Haifa: people from Nazareth, Jaffa, Maalul, Shafa Amr, Iblin and Tamrah. Many an Arab worker who had slipped into the city to feed his family had also been seized. They left them on the Jenin plain, amidst the land mines of the British, the Arabs, and the Jews. Some of them hid in the ruins, others amongst the trees, and did not cross over into Jordan. They moved while it was dark and slept by day, returning whence they had come, only to be expelled again, to return, to be expelled, and then to return once more, night up to the present time.22 The story of the returnees has only begun to be written. There were returns that were not documented at all. For example, members of four families (Abu Eid, Abu¯ Sa‘da, al-Dahnu¯s, and al-Na¯bulsı¯) crossed the ˙ border at Tu¯lkarm into the state of Israel between 1952 and 1954. The ˙ first three families were displaced from the village of Sheikh Mounis (also, al-Shaykh Muwannis, today greater Ramat Aviv), while the fourth family was displaced from al-Manshiyya (the neighborhood of Hasan ˙ Beck mosque) in Jaffa. Another example is the Darwish family, who managed to hide from the authorities or to claim that they had been living with a Bedouin tribe in the north at the time of the 1949 census. After the Darwish family returned to Israel, they passed through the village of Buqei‘a, and settled in Dayr al-Asad. In 1963, they moved to the village of al-Jadı¯da. Darwish wrote about his father and the difficulties in providing for the family: He spent his life struggling fiercely with the rock, in the search for bread, and book – for you and for your brothers. Unlike his father, he tried not to look back at the joyful past that gazed at him through the olive groves and wheat fields – so that the defeated would not have to face that which was stolen. He carried the burden of the present as it was, like a deposed king who cannot look back at his past rule, so he could take you into the future [. . .] Your father is your father. Every time you sat down with him – the conversations were brief. He does not expose his pains

DISPLACEMENT AND EXILE

21

in front of his son. And you cannot hide the crudeness of the pity you feel toward him, and then you inherited the wound from him. One summer on the rooftop of a far-away mud house came the snorting voice of your father, saying: I cannot afford to pay for all three of your educations. I am tired. One of you must volunteer to leave school in order to help me. My back can no longer carry this rock alone. Then you all raced to volunteer. Each of you said: I will. And then your father let a tear flow in front of you, you cried with him and for him, and then suddenly he said: none of you.23 The displacement, exile, and financial loss came as a great blow to the Darwish family. Not only did the family lose all its financial assets and means of livelihood, but it went through a deep psychological crisis. This situation was exacerbated by their legal and political status as absentees. It should be noted that the situation of the Palestinian refugees outside Israel was much more difficult. ‘The Palestinians received the first blow in the destination countries from their Arab brethren’, wrote Anı¯s al-Qa¯sim, chairman of the legal section of the Palestinian National Council, adding: ‘what the Palestinians found after fleeing to the Arab countries was not what they expected from their brothers, and this was a great disappointment. Not a single home was opened to give shelter to a single refugee family. A handful of women’s organizations appeared, but they were short on resources and on the ability to help those in need.’24 Help from the Arab League, writes al-Qa¯sim, was negligible, although in August 1948 the League did establish an aid council that allotted a sum of 300,000 Egyptian Lira – one half lira per refugee – over the course of three months, up to October 30, 1948. ‘In societies in which poverty and suffering are a common sight, people were not moved, nor were their mercies aroused, at the sight of the suffering of the refugees. Another factor contributing to this was the lack of governmental assistance agencies in the Arab countries in those days, and perhaps also socio-cultural factors having to do with the lack of a custom of mutual assistance outside the borders of the family.’25 Ghassa¯n Kanafa¯nı¯ wrote about the bitter fate of the Palestinians in the Arab countries in his novella, ‘Men in the Sun’ (Rija¯l fi al-Shams, 1963). Kanafa¯nı¯ tells the story of three Palestinian refugees who escape from Jordan to Kuwait to find work. Having no papers, they seek the

22

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assistance of smugglers. The three meet a tragic end, suffocating inside a water tanker as they are being smuggled across the desert border between Iraq and Kuwait. Their guide leaves the bodies in a garbage dump on the roadside after searching their bodies and taking the remains of their money and belongings. Before reaching the border crossing, a dialogue takes place between the driver and one of the passengers: I have a cousin who was smuggled over the border once. After a journey of 10 hours, night fell and then the guide pointed to the lights in the distance and said: There is Kuwait. You will reach it after a half-hour walk. Do you know what happened? It was not Kuwait. It was a far-away Iraqi village! I can tell you thousands of such stories, stories of men who turned into dogs while searching for a single drop of water to wet their cracked tongue. And what do you think happened after they saw the Bedouins’ tents? They bought a swallow of water in exchange for all their money or their wedding rights or their watches [. . .] have you ever seen a skeleton strewn in the sand? [. . .] travel with the smugglers and you will see many.26 Despite these stories, some of the refugees in the diaspora were more successful. Most of these were the children of elites who left before May 1948 and managed to rebuild their lives in the diaspora. There were also lower-class families who were taken in immediately following the Nakba by their wider families – in the West Bank, Gaza, and Jordan – and managed to rehabilitate their lives. Among these refugees are those who, when the time comes to realize the Right of Return, would probably settle for monetary compensation. According to Darwish, the state of exile in the homeland is more tormenting and cruel than being a refugee elsewhere. It could be that in comparison with the Palestinians in Arab countries, Darwish and his family suffered less; as refugees they rented a house in Lebanon and did not settle in the refugee camps, and when they returned to the homeland their guide did not suited them, as described in Kanafa¯nı¯’s story. Darwish’s family did ultimately reach its destination – the homeland. But this does not minimize the scope of the disaster that befell the Palestinians in 1948, when they turned overnight from a majority to a minority in the Jewish state. The Arabic language newspaper (of the

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23

Land of Israel Workers’ Party), al-Yawm, which began to be published in Jaffa a short time after the establishment of the state of Israel, tried in vain to make comparisons between the financial and political situation of the refugees outside Israel and that of the Palestinian Arabs inside, with the goal of proving that the state of Israel was treating the Palestinians who remained within its borders well.27 The loss of homeland and property, and the rupture of the family and all that entails, are a tragedy, both personal and national. Displaced and having lost their property and livelihood, the Darwish family could not afford to give Mahmoud the education he desired in painting, for example. As a quarry worker, his father could not fund the materials needed for this. So he turned to poetry, which entails no special expenses: at school Darwish was considered an excellent pupil. He read much Arabic literature. His attraction to poetry began with the influence of rural vocalists who had returned to the homeland. ‘I began to listen to classical Arabic poetry [. . .] I was drawn to this world, and I began to imitate the voices, to create horses and girls for myself and to dream, from a young age, of being a poet.’28 In Israel, Darwish was considered an illegal resident. This fact placed many restrictions on his movement and on the course of his life: ‘I was in the second grade when I returned from Lebanon to Dayr al-Asad [. . .] When the Education Ministry supervisor would come around, the principal of the school would call upon me and let me hide in a small room.’29 He was not allowed to say that he had been in Lebanon. At the time he was taught to say that he had spent time with a Bedouin tribe in the north.30 The behaviour of the teachers and director of the school in Dayr al-Asad went against the policy of control and close supervision that the Israeli education system imposed on the Palestinian schools inside Israel. An additional example of resistance to this policy is provided by the high school in Kafr Ya¯sı¯f, where the poet and his siblings studied from the mid-1950s onwards. An Israeli journalist describes the school and the learning environment there as follows: The high school in Kafr Ya¯sı¯f was a centre of national and political activity. It was no coincidence that this school produced leaders such as Mahmoud Darwish, Sa¯lim Jubra¯n, Muhammad Mı¯‘a¯rı¯ ˙ [. . .] and others. All of these were leaders who came of age influenced by the Communist Party, of which Kafr Ya¯sı¯f was a

24

MAHMOUD DARWISH

stronghold. The Arab journalists of the Party strengthened the national consciousness of their readers, and through them the students also became familiar with modern Arabic literature and poetry. The graduates of the school [. . .] would run away from school to listen on the radio to the speeches of Gamal Abd alNasser, broadcasting from Cairo. National sentiments increased even more after the principal of the school at the time, Mata¯nis ˙ Mata¯nis, was accused by the military government of incitement ˙ and was fired from his job. The students launched a protest strike, an unprecedented step in those days. Many of them were arrested and taken for interrogation at al-Na¯sira police station. Among ˙ those arrested was Ahmad Darwı¯sh, who was suspected of ˙ incitement.31 In their book Sub-tenants: Israeli Arabs, their status and policy, Uzi Benziman and ‘Ata¯lla¯h Mansu¯r wrote: ˙ ˙ The Jewish establishment viewed the Arab education system as central channel for exerting influence on the Arab youth. On one hand, the government sought to exploit this channel to deliver the contents which were positive from its point of view. On the other hand it sought to prevent its exploitation for inculcating values which seem negative in its eyes. The result has been running close supervision of teachers and administrators in Arab schools and dictating curriculum designed to increase their knowledge of Jewish culture.32 A policy of close supervision was exercised by the GSS (General Security Services) and the military government. The GSS interrogators detected suspicious teachers and ensured their dismissal. ‘We wanted to know who are the teachers [. . .] and if they constitute a danger’ testified Rahav‘am Amir, the military governor of Western Galilee (until 1950).33 An example of the way in which the military government intervened in the Arab sector of the education system occurred in 1954, when students were transferred by order of the military governor from al-Tı¯ra high school to Ba¯qa al-Gharbiyya high school.34 Reasons for the ˙ transfer are not known, but it can be assumed that it was a form of punishment by the military government against those students and their

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25

parents. The military government also intervened in Arab schools through local education committees appointed by the Ministry of Education in coordination with the military government. The elementary school in Dayr al-Asad and the high school in Kafr Ya¯sı¯f were expressions of local Palestinian resistance to any manifestation of submission to and collaboration with the authorities. The school system was one of the most important arenas of the struggle between Palestinians and the authorities in Israel. In order to establish an ‘ArabIsraeli’ identity, Israel worked to silence the Palestinian or Arab-national narrative regarding the 1948 Nakba and later events.35 However, the policy of close state supervision and control had only limited success. The elementary school in Dayr al-Asad and the high school in Kafr Ya¯sı¯f are illuminating examples of the ability to resist any form of administration and control aimed at subjugating, intimidating, and moulding the identity of the Palestinian minority in Israel.

The Palestinian Land Movement: al-Ard ˙ ‘In the late 1950s Darwish joined the al-Ard movement and wrote for its ˙ journal’, claimed Habı¯b Qahwajı¯, one of the heads of the movement, in a ˙ 1971 article entitled ‘The complete story of the al-Ard movement.’ The ˙ two met for the first time at a poetry festival in 1958 in Acre, a festival in which Darwish, then a high-school student in Kafr Ya¯sı¯f, also participated. ‘On that evening Mahmoud Darwish read a long poem [. . .] I said to him: your drive [. . .] and your excitement [. . .] will make you the poet of the occupied land – if you can liberate yourself from the structural constraints of classical poetry’, wrote Qahwajı¯.36 According to Qahwajı¯, Darwish joined al-Ard at that time, before joining Maki ˙ (The Israeli Communist Party), the original Israeli Communist Party, at the beginning of the 1960s. Mahmoud Darwish’s name, however, is not documented in any of the stages of the al-Ard movement’s struggle. ˙ In 1959, a handful of Palestinians with pan-Arabist sentiments joined together to establish an Arab nationalist movement. Al-Ard (‘The ˙ Land’) was established that year, and the name reflects devotion to the land through active struggle (as opposed to Sumu¯d, which means ˙ ‘Steadfastness’). Leaders of the movement in 1959 included, among others, Mansu¯r Kardu¯sh (1921– 1998), a 43-year-old Greek Orthodox ˙ Christian cafe´ owner in Nazareth (al-Na¯sira), 33-year-old Habı¯b ˙ ˙

26

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Qahwajı¯, a Maronite Christian born in the village of Fassu¯ta in the ˙ Galilee, who worked as a teacher in the Greek Orthodox school in Haifa and wrote poetry, and Sabrı¯ Jiryis, a 25-year-old Greek-Catholic from ˙ Fassuta, a lawyer and graduate of the Law Faculty at the Hebrew ˙ University in Jerusalem, who was active in representing the group in its legal battles.37 Between 1960 and 1965, the movement waged legal and political battles, including Supreme Court appeals, against the Associations and Political Parties’ Registrar. One of these succeeded, in 1960, when the Israeli Supreme Court allowed the registration of the group as a proprietary limited company. However in two additional instances, the attempt to publish a newspaper and to register as a political party (1964), the efforts of the group were in vain. In 1966, the movement was banned, its leaders were arrested, and some of them were forced into exile.38 The Supreme Court discussed the petition of the al-Ard group against ˙ the Political Parties’ Registrar, and ruled that the movement (according to Justice Alfred Vitkon) denied the very existence of the State of Israel in general, and within the present borders of the state in particular. It raised the Palestinian problem and demanded a solution for it, ‘as an indivisible unit’ and ‘in accordance with the will of the Palestinian people’. They, and no other, ‘have the first right to determine its fate’ and this ‘in accordance with the highest aspirations of the Arab nation.’ Those who support the organization ‘deny the existence of the state and the rights of the Jewish people living there’. Furthermore, according to Justice Moshe Landau, ‘It is the elementary right of every state to preserve its freedom and existence from external and internal enemies who seek to destroy them from within [. . .] No government should be demanded, in the name of freedom of assembly, to give its stamp of approval to the establishment of a fifth column within the borders of its state.’ Therefore the Court unequivocally stated: section 2(a) ‘the organization called the “al-Ard Movement” – which you have presumed, ˙ along with other individuals, to establish – is an organization which was established with the intention of harming the existence and well-being of the State of Israel.’ Therefore, subsection (b) determines that ‘the establishment of the body which calls itself the “al-Ard Movement” is ˙ prohibited’. Further, subsection (c) states ‘if it should become apparent that you decide to function as a body in contradiction to the above, legal

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measures may be taken against you’.39 Two days after the publication of the verdict some of its activists were arrested, and searches were conducted in most of its centres – in al-Na¯sira, in al-Tayba, in Jaffa, in ˙ ˙ Haifa, in Jerusalem, and in villages in the Galilee and the Triangle. A week later, the Minister of Defense announced that, based on the Emergency Regulations (1945), ‘the association known as the al-Ard ˙ group or the al-Ard movement, or whatever its name might be, is ˙ declared an illegal association’.40 Al-Ard was the first and most serious attempt by Arabs in Israel to ˙ organize within the framework of an independent national political party, as opposed to the satellite Arab parties which were dependent on Mapai, the Israel Labor Party. The energy, determination, and devotion to the national cause set forth a serious challenge for all those passive people who clung to the slogans of Sumu¯d. Unlike the Communist Party, ˙ the leaders of al-Ard insisted that their movement should not include ˙ Jewish actors, thus al-Ard was a purely ethnic movement. ˙ There have been claims that Darwish began his career in political activism with the Ard Movement. There is, however, little evidence to ˙ support this. Contrary to Habı¯b Qahwajı¯’s claim in the journal Shu’u¯n ˙ Filastı¯niyya¯ in 1971, Mahmoud Darwish’s name did not appear at any ˙ point in the movement’s struggle. This period in the poet’s life is still covered in a great deal of fog: ‘Mahmoud Darwish was never a member of the al-Ard movement, he never abandoned his role as “poet” and it is ˙ therefore useless to try to put him in any sort of category [. . .] or to label him politically: he is a poet and that’s it’, claimed Sabrı¯ Jiryis.41 Similar ˙ statements were made by the lawyer, Muhammad Mı¯‘a¯rı¯ (b. 1939, from ˙ the cleansed village of Mı¯‘a¯r), who ran in al-Makir village the branch of al-Ard at the time. According to Mi‘a¯ri, Darwish never joined up with ˙ al-Ard and was never one of its members. The name Mahmoud Darwish ˙ did not appear in the movement’s documents – not on the list of members, which was submitted at the time to the Companies Registrar (for the purpose of registering al-Ard as a limited company); not in the ˙ request for a permit to publish a journal for the movement, and not on the list of the 30 members of the party, which was submitted to the Political Parties Registrar. Nor did Darwish participate in any one of the conferences held by the movement. According to Mı¯‘a¯rı¯, ‘Mahmoud Darwish, to the best of my knowledge, was too young, about 18 years old when al-Ard began.’ And yet, Mı¯‘a¯rı¯ insists, ‘Darwish was never ˙

28

MAHMOUD DARWISH

really with the Communist Party – not in his heart and not in his mind. He tended more toward al-Ard.’42 ˙ If that is the case, then why, at the beginning of the 1960s did Darwish join the Israeli communist movement and not al-Ard, towards ˙ which ‘he tended more than to anything else’? Mı¯‘a¯rı¯ attributed the fact that the poet did not join al-Ard to his being too young. But the fact ˙ that Darwish joined Maki two years later after spending two years (1959– 1961) in Acre, where he worked at the printing press of Ibra¯hı¯m al-Zı¯baq, renders Miʿa¯ri’s immaturity argument unlikely. Al-Ard was a ˙ party of people with means, who also invested quite a bit of their private money in funding the legal battles, which were expensive in every sense. For example, in order to maintain their political independence, they had to buy all of the stocks issued by the al-Ard Company at the time. ˙ Mahmoud Darwish was in need of a source of income and not just a political framework, and that was also what attracted him to the city of Haifa. He could not find this in the al-Ard movement, and thus he ˙ turned to the Communist Party. Qahwajı¯ may have made the claim he did because he wanted to give additional national and political credit to the poet, who had already left the homeland for the great wide world. In any case, it seems that the claim in Shuʾu¯n Filastı¯niyya¯ was baseless. ˙

Under the Israeli Communist Party At the beginning of the 1960s, Darwish moved to Haifa to live and work. There he was accepted into the ranks of the Communist Party and worked in the Party’s newspapers, al-Jadı¯d and al-Ittiha¯d, where he also ˙ met the Palestinian heads of the party for the first time. Among them; Emı¯l Tu¯ma¯ (1919– 1985), Tawfı¯q Tu¯bı¯ (b. 1922), Emı¯l Habı¯bı¯ (1922– ˙ ˙ 1996), and others. The Israeli Communist Party (known by the Hebrew acronym Maki), embraced Darwish, helped hone his skills, and catapulted him forwards – politically and nationally. This had begun even earlier, at the high school in Kafr Ya¯sı¯f, where communist teachers such as Nimr Murqus encouraged the poet and nurtured his poetical talents; the school was one of Maki’s strongholds.43 After the establishment of the state of Israel, a large concentration of Palestinian political and cultural leaders found themselves in Haifa. This is not surprising. In the period of the British Mandate as well, Haifa was a locus of political and national activity for the Palestine Communist

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Party, whose Arab section split off into the National Liberation League (NLL) in 1943. Haifa was also the publication headquarters of the League’s newspaper, al-Ittiha¯d (founded in 1944). The fact that the ˙ Soviet Union supported the UN Partition Plan of 1947 and recognized the state of Israel made it possible for the party and its newspaper to continue its activities even after the establishment of the state. Haifa was the city of residence of the founding fathers of the Palestinian communist movement, including Tu¯ma¯, Tu¯bı¯ and Habı¯bı¯. ˙ ˙ At the end of the Ottoman period and during the British Mandate, Haifa underwent remarkable economic, social, and demographic changes. The development of modern industry (the establishment of the refineries at the end of the 1930s, the expansion and deepening of the port between 1929 and 1933 in order to allow the entrance of oil tankers and British naval ships, and the demand for manpower in the British army camps) contributed to a growing working class in the city. At the same time, the city witnessed a population boom – from 3,000 in 1860 to 24,634 in 1922. This fast growth had two central factors: Jewish immigration and economic growth in the Palestinian rural sector. Of the 145,430 inhabitants of the city of Haifa in 1946, 74,230 were Jewish.44 Economic developments in the Arab rural population, in particular in the mountainous regions (Jenin, Nablus, Bethlehem, and Hebron), forced Arab farmers to look for work in the city. Among the reasons for urbanization was the fact that the growth of agricultural lands did not keep pace with the population growth in the villages. The low revenues, which were consumed almost entirely by taxes and debts, did not enable investment and agricultural development. The negligent attitude on the part of the central government made the distress even worse. The worst problem of all was the loss of lands at the disposal of the Arab farmers, due to take-overs by large land owners and sales of lands to Jews. As a result, a stream of refugees, displaced from their lands in the rural areas and suffering from unemployment, flowed to the city.45 These constituted the core of the great rebellion of 1936 to 1939. The Palestinian communist activists were swept up in the wave of nationalism, participated in the armed struggle, and joined the fighting command. This constituted the first connection between the Palestinian communist movement and the Arab nationalist movement. These developments – industrial development, urbanization, and the national rebellion – created the conditions that led to the establishment

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of the NLL (the National Liberation League) in 1943. Tu¯ma¯, Ha¯bı¯bı¯, ˙ and Tu¯bı¯ were among the founders of the NLL. There are differences of ˙ opinion as to whether the NLL was a Palestinian communist party or an Arab national movement. There are those who claim that the fact that the NLL agreed to the Partition Plan of 1947 (following the support of the Soviet Union of the plan), and the fact that it did not affiliate to the Arab Higher Committee, undermine the claims of Palestinian researchers who see the National Liberation League as an Arab nationalist organization.46 Whatever the case may have been, after the establishment of the state of Israel, the activists of the NLL who survived the Nakba, headed by Tu¯ma¯, Habı¯bı¯, and Tu¯bı¯, joined the ranks of the ˙ ˙ Israeli Communist Party. In Haifa, Darwish worked for ten years under the wing of Emı¯l Tu¯ma¯, one of the editors of al-Ittiha¯d, and lived in his house along with Samı¯h al˙ ˙ Qa¯sim. He worked at the newspaper, which provided him with the political framework and path that would push him to the national level. It was there that he ‘learned to march into the future with the selfconfidence of a motivated young person’. And it was there, too, that he learned to be in touch with himself and with the collective. Darwish spent ten years in Haifa, during which he had all sorts of experiences: writing, publication, and journalism; prison, house arrest, and restraining orders. Darwish wrote about his work and training at al-Ittiha¯d, on the occasion of ˙ the newspaper’s sixtieth anniversary (1944–2004): Perhaps it was indeed a school and not a newspaper. It was there that I learned journalistic writing – from news items and investigative reports to features and editorials. There I learned to march towards the future with the self-confidence of a motivated young person, and there also I learned to get in touch with myself and my connection to the group [. . .] al-Ittiha¯d, more than being a ˙ newspaper, was a workshop for breathing hope into those who had emerged from the night of the Nakba. It contributed to the shaping of our consciousness of our national rights, and of our rights as citizens in a state that is not our own. Likewise, al-Ittiha¯d ˙ helped us recognize our cultural identity, which was in danger of being shattered and torn. From here our poetic voices reached the world, and when I look back at al-Ittiha¯d, which is about my age, ˙ I see warm memories that demand of me to be faithful to those

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same giants with whom I worked and from whom I learned: Tawfı¯q Tu¯bı¯, Emı¯l Tu¯ma¯, ‘Alı¯ ‘A¯shu¯r, Emı¯l Habı¯bı¯, Muhammad ˙ ˙ Kha¯s, Salı¯ba Khamı¯s and the workers at al-Ittiha¯d’s old printing ˙ press. Please do not reproach me if I shed a tear.47

Confrontations with the Israeli Authorities Darwish clashed with the authorities of the military government because of his poetry. This happened as early as his eighth school year, when he was asked to write a poem for Israel’s Independence Day. In his poem, Darwish made a comparison between an Arab boy, uprooted and penniless, and a Jewish boy, free and with rights and means. ‘The next day’, said Darwish, ‘I was summoned to the office of the military governor in Majd al-Kuru¯m. He insulted me and [. . .] ended his threat, saying: [. . .] “We will not allow your father to work in the quarry.”’48 Time and again Darwish was arrested in Israel. These were mostly administrative detentions, with no indictment. His first arrest happened about a year after he finished his high school studies at Kafr Ya¯sı¯f and moved to Haifa (1961). He was held for two weeks without trial, along with four other Arab detainees, in a prison in al-Na¯sira area.49 His ˙ second arrest, in 1965, was for traveling to Jerusalem without a permit. At a poetry evening organized in his honour by the Arab Students’ Union in Jerusalem, Darwish read his poem ‘Ode to men’ (Nashı¯d li-l-Rija¯l): ‘we will not surrender/ and we will not lose/ [. . .] we will create out of the hanging poles/ from the crosses of our existence and from our pasts/ ladders to the yearned for tomorrow.’50 He was arrested immediately after reading his poem. The military court sentenced him to two years’ imprisonment in addition to 90 days of suspended sentence. This time he spent his imprisonment in the prison in Ramla, where he wrote most of the poems in his third collection, ‘A Lover from Palestine’ (‘A¯shiq min Filastı¯n, 1966), which ˙ included the poem To my mother (or, Yearning for my mother’s bread). Between 1965 and 1967 he was arrested a third time on suspicion of hostile activity. Lacking evidence to justify his imprisonment, the court settled for a monetary fine of 200 Israeli pounds.51 His fourth arrest happened in 1967, five days after the outbreak of the Six-Day War. There he wrote the poem ‘Counter-reaction’ (Rad fi‘l), which appeared in the collection ‘End of the Night’ (’A¯khir al-Layl, 1967).52

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In 1969 he was arrested for a fifth time, and was held in detention for 20 days. The reason given for this detention was attacks that had occurred in Haifa. Darwish also spent time under house arrest.53 In his book, The Returnee’s Perplexity (Hayrat al-‘A¯’id, 2007), Darwish ˙ wrote about the house arrests he experienced in Israel and their emotional consequences: ‘Little by little I would return, against my will, to the gradual exile’, he wrote.54

Departure In early February 1970 Darwish was sent by Rakah, the New ˙ Communist List (1965), to study in Moscow. At the end of that year, he made the decision not to return to Israel. On the morning of February 9, 1971, the news hour of the Cairo Radio opened with a short news item [. . .]: ‘The poet Mahmoud Darwish’, the report announced, ‘has reached Egypt with the intention of staying in Cairo.’ Most of the listeners to the Cairo broadcast did not need any more details in order to understand the importance of the news [. . .] but those who needed it the least were the Arabs in Israel. For them the news fell like a real bomb.’55 All, it seems, were surprised. The Palestinians inside Israel, the Rakah ˙ party, and the poet’s family – even though the writing was on the wall. Darwish had announced his intention to leave a year earlier, in the poem The curtain falls, which was published in the collection ‘The Birds Die in the Galilee’ (al-‘Asa¯fı¯r Tamu¯t fı¯ al-Jalı¯l, 1970). But it seems that all ˙ those surprised people simply could not or did not want to believe it. Darwish recounted his passage from Moscow to Cairo as follows: I was afraid it would be a kind of suicide. I was afraid I would be sorry. I did not want to live my entire life in regret. I was also afraid of the anger of my family and friends. I was even afraid of the Party [. . .] I was also afraid of the Soviets and also to be disappointed in the Arab world [. . .] Rakah gave me a plane ticket ˙ from Moscow through Prague and Nicosia to Tel Aviv. From Moscow I left for Prague [. . .] I stayed in Prague one day and then I travelled to Cairo.56

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His departure was a subject of criticism among Palestinians and across the Arab world. Darwish stood out as the poet of the national resistance, and his departure was seen as a betrayal of this role. In the Lebanese weekly al-Hawa¯dith it was the prose writer and dramaturge Ghassa¯n Kanafa¯nı¯, under his pseudonym, Rabı¯‘ Matar, who wrote in response ‘We ˙ are in the midst of the stage of Return and Steadfastness, the stage of eternal exile has ended. Let us hope you will return to Israel [. . .] to prison, whatever the price may be.’57 In Israel, Haaretz newspaper wrote on February 18, 1971 that Darwish had had a falling out with the leadership of his party and that they took advantage of his trip in order to remove him from their ranks. The article went on to say that Darwish disagreed with the official line of the party in the matter of Israel’s right to exist. But Rakah denied this ˙ claim.58 According to Eli Reches, Darwish’s departure stemmed from the poet’s personal distress. In the summer of 1968 the International Congress of Democratic Youth had been held in Sofia. Rakah chose two poets, Mahmoud ˙ Darwish and Samı¯h al-Qa¯sim, to head the Arab section of its delegation. ˙ This move, which was meant to increase sympathy for the so-called ‘poets of the resistance’, had the opposite effect. In retrospect, they understood that membership of a party that recognizes Israel was a shame for its Arab members, even if they were among the leaders of the poets of the resistance. Al-Qa¯sim carried the Israeli flag in the opening parade. This sight caused deep disappointment among some of the Arab delegations, especially the Syrians. The Syrian representative from the city of Qunaytira claimed after the event that al-Qa¯sim and Darwish ˙ were tools of Zionist propaganda. A Kuwaiti journalist asked them how they could march with a flag above their head that was the flag of the state that occupied and robbed, while calling themselves poets of the resistance.59 ‘We went there yearning for an embrace’, wrote al-Qa¯sim, ‘and we came back with a bleeding wound in our back. We will forever remember the noble stance taken by our friend, beloved of our people and martyr for our cause, Ghassa¯n Kanafa¯nı¯, who did not wait for details, but caught them with his healthy national instinct when he set out to defend “the two wings of the poetry of the resistance,” as he called it, and for that he is forever due our thanks.’60 The festival in Sofia and the embarrassment caused by the challenges posed by the Arab representatives may well have left a deep mark on

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the poet. At a press conference held on February 11, 1971 in the building of the Radio and Television Broadcasting Authority in Cairo, Darwish cited his reasons for leaving Israel. He gave two explanations for his departure: the first was the national explanation, meaning that he wanted to make a contribution to the Palestinian cause from a free arena of action, due to the oppressive nature of the regime in Israel. The second explanation, about his professional growth, can be seen as part of the national explanation, in that his personal growth would allow him to better contribute to the Palestinian cause.61 Darwish would repeat these two reasons later on as well, but in hindsight he also mentioned the change in the Rakah charter as an additional reason for ˙ his departure: I can identify three factors for which I left. First of all the conditions under which I was living. Ten years trapped in Haifa, of which three I spent imprisoned in my house. Every year one or two times in prison [. . .] In the end, I decided to try and make a change from a different place, but none of this happened in a political vacuum. After ’67 my entire consciousness turned upside down. In Maki we talked about Jewish-Arab fraternity, but this fraternity led to the expansion of the occupation to the Damascus gate.62 So, I began to reassess my belief in Rakah’s platform, and ˙ we also taught others to say that we, the Arabs of Israel, are a minority that belongs to the Palestinian people. And then suddenly in the Rakah assembly in ’69 they changed this ˙ statement. They claimed that Rakah was a party of Israeli patriots. ˙ I did not understand that. What does it mean to be an Israeli patriot? I was not Israeli and I could not be an Israeli patriot. This was the second factor. The third factor was the literary one. I wanted to develop, to fly in the open space. These three factors brought me to think about leaving. It was not easy. It took me a year to decide.63 Haaretz was correct in attributing Darwish’s departure to the crisis within Rakah. Echoes of this crisis can also be found in the poem ˙ ‘The curtain falls’ (Wa-yusdal al-sita¯r, 1970), which Darwish wrote before leaving Israel. The poem is in effect his ‘resignation letter’. He was no longer able to ‘dance’ to the rhythm of the party.

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They taught me everything the producer demanded / [. . .] and now I am tired / [. . .] and therefore I resign / [. . .] Ladies / gentlemen! / I entertained you for twenty years / and today the time has come for me to leave / to run away from this asphyxiation / and to sing in the Galilee / to the birds who live in the nest of absurdity / and for this I am resigning.64 Until 1961, writes Reches, Maki supported the right of PalestinianArab self-determination in Israel until partition. In other words, they believed that the realization of the Partition Plan of November 29, 1947 was possible. The split of 1965 led to a policy change in Rakah. The new ˙ position was expressed by Emı¯l Habı¯bı¯: ‘we by no means recognize what ˙ is known as the right of self-determination for the Arabs in Israel [. . .] We claim that self-determination is a right of nations and not of groups.’65 In Rakah’s view, Israeli citizenship required loyalty to the ˙ state, writes Reches.66 The significance of this stance actually buttresses Darwish’s version, in the matter of the statement in 1969 that ‘Rakah ˙ was a party of Israeli patriots.’ Ian Lustick attributes the party’s change in policy to the fact that, following the split with Maki in 1965, the position of secretary of the party was held by Meir Vilner. In recent years, Jews held the positions of secretary of its central committee and general secretary of the communist youth alliance. The influence of the Jewish communists in Rakah was disproportionate to the negligible percentage ˙ of votes coming from the Jewish sector.67 According to Reches, the party, in its various forms, represented the political line of the USSR. Thus, for example, the support of the Soviet Union for the Partition Plan (1947) influenced the position of the National Liberation League and caused a schism within it: Habı¯bı¯ and Tu¯bı¯ accepted the decision, but ˙ ˙ Emı¯l Tu¯ma¯, Bu¯lus Farah, and Mu¯sa¯ Daja¯nı¯ refused, sticking to their ˙ stance of opposition to the partition.68 The change in the party’s policy after 1967 pushed members of the party to demand that its stance regarding the Palestinian identity of the Palestinians inside Israel be sharpened. At the sixteenth congress, party member Muhammad Kha¯s, ˙ ˙ a veteran communist activist, defied the leadership, claiming: ‘The agenda hardly mentions that the Arab population in Israel is part of the Palestinian-Arab nation, despite the fact that this was emphasized at the previous congresses.’69 Kha¯s’s remarks were taken into consideration ˙ only in 1972, so after Darwish’s departure.

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However, all the above reasons (including the identity crisis and the poet’s desire to grow professionally and to contribute to the Palestinian cause from a free arena) provided background factors for the poet. The fears and anxiety that accompanied Darwish before the flight to Egypt do not indicate that the poet had nothing to lose. Under the title ‘Do not rebuke me for my longing’ (‘la¯ tuwabbikh hanı¯nı¯’), Darwish explained ˙ (in a letter sent to Samı¯h al-Qa¯sim on June 22, 1986) some of Emı¯l ˙ Tu¯ma¯’s contributions: I worked with him at al-Ittiha¯d for ten years. From the very ˙ beginning he said to me: are you sure that you want to continue on this path? Only twenty years old, I said: I am with you on this path until the end – along with Emı¯l Habı¯bı¯ and Tawfı¯q Tu¯bı¯ [. . .] ˙ ˙ When we moved up from Wa¯dı¯ al-Nisna¯s to ‘Abba¯s street, Emı¯l Tu¯ma¯ said to me: young man, what are you doing here? I asked – what do you mean? And he said in a low voice: find for yourself a horizon.70 On another occasion, Darwish stated that ‘only one person knew about the decision to leave: Emı¯l Tu¯ma¯. He encouraged me. He said to me, “You are young. Fly away, find yourself.” Aside from him no one else knew. Not in my family and not in the Party.’71 The catalyst or guide was therefore Emı¯l Tu¯ma¯, who accompanied Darwish on his year of study in Moscow, and suggested to him, before it would be too late, to ‘fly away’ and to find his horizon. In the conditions that reigned at the time, it was possible to find one’s horizon only outside of Israel. The identity crisis that overtook Darwish, in particular after Rakah’s change ˙ of policy in 1969, and the belief in his ability as a poet to contribute to the Palestinian national struggle from an external and sympathetic arena (such as Egypt) – these two factors prepared the ground for his departure. It is possible that the defeat of 1967, and the criminalization of the al-Ard movement some time earlier, heightened his internal crisis; ˙ however, the trigger, the catalyst that brought Darwish to cut loose, to translate the psychological crisis into a clear operative decision, was Emı¯l Tu¯ma¯. Why was it Tu¯ma¯ who accompanied Darwish to Moscow and guided him in contradiction to the policy of his party? And why did he make this suggestion to Darwish and not to another poet? These questions remain open. Tu¯ma¯ was an ideologue and functional

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intellectual who was distanced from key positions in his party because of his opposition to the 1947 Partition Plan, and therefore he was capable of guiding Darwish against the policy of Rakah. It is also possible that, ˙ with his acute vision, he understood the poet’s hidden potential and the frustration and emotional readiness on his part to make fateful decisions; and that may be why he made him that offer.

Out of Place72 Between leaving Israel in 1970 and returning to the Palestinian National Authority in 1995, Darwish went through three important stations in his life and career, each leaving its mark on his life and work. His first stop was Cairo (1971), where he stayed for about a year. In 1972 he left for Beirut, then the PLO’s centre of activity. After the occupation of Beirut by the IDF in 1982 and the PLO evacuation of the city, Darwish chose to stay in Paris, where he spent ten prolific literary years before returning to the homeland in 1995. In Cairo, Darwish worked at the, al-Ahram daily newspaper, in the company of the greats of contemporary Arabic literature, those ‘houseguests of the Newspaper’ who set the bar for literary taste and quality – Naguib Mahfouz, Tawfı¯q al-Hakı¯m, Yu¯suf Idrı¯s, and others. ˙ For him, this was a golden opportunity to make contacts within that literary elite. Darwish was received in Cairo with open arms. A press conference was held in his honour at the Broadcasting and Television Authority building on February 11, 1971. In an article published in the newspaper Roz al-Yusuf on February 22, 1971, the poet Ahmad ‘Abd al-Mu‘tı¯ Hija¯zı¯ warmly welcomed Darwish ˙ ˙ ˙ and made him a number of employment offers at the famous Voice of the Arabs (Sawt al-‘Arab) Radio in Cairo: ‘Cairo is delighted’, announced ˙ Hija¯zı¯, ‘to officially offer you the position that you are worthy of at Radio ˙ Sawt al-‘Arab.’ ‘Because,’ wrote Hija¯zı¯, ‘not only do you speak Hebrew as ˙ ˙ the inhabitants of Israel do, but you also understand their inner workings and know what influences them, what catches their attention and speaks to their reason.’ Furthermore, Hija¯zı¯ proposed to Darwish ˙ that he should begin translating the literature of modern ‘Israel’ from Hebrew to Arabic, since ‘our enemies know us better through writers such as Naguib Mahfouz than they do through their intelligence agencies and spies’.73 He proposed that Darwish focus on those poets

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‘who began their lyrical work in the Russian language and later shifted into writing in Hebrew, in order to understand how a poet can be capable of changing his language in a period of twenty years and nonetheless to continue writing poetry’.74 It is not entirely clear to whom Hija¯zı¯ was referring when he asked Darwish to translate the works ˙ of the poets ‘who began their lyrical work in Russian’. One can only assume he was referring to the poet Hayim Nahman Bialik, despite the ˙ ˙ fact that Bialik’s first poems were not written in Russian.75 There were a few publications that helped prepare Darwish’s warm reception in Cairo. The first was Ghassa¯n Kanafa¯nı¯’s May 2, 1967 article in the Egyptian weekly al-Musawwar entitled ‘Mahmoud Salı¯m Darwish – ˙ poet of the Palestinian resistance.’ In this article, Kanafa¯nı¯ quoted from the poem ‘Write down! I am an Arab’, which Darwish wrote in 1964, and summed up: ‘Mahmoud Darwish is a trailblazer among his peers, the Arab poets in the occupied land. His sharp poetry has placed him in confrontation with the enemy’s authorities. First he struggled for his livelihood, and then also for his freedom. He was distanced from his village, arrested, and from prison he wrote the best and most subversive of his poetry.’76 The second article was written by the Egyptian poet Sala¯h ‘Abd al-Sabu¯r (1931–1981). The article, entitled ‘The fighting ˙ ˙ ˙ saint’ (‘al-Qiddı¯s al-muqa¯til’) was published on May 24, 1968 in the Egyptian weekly al-Musawwar. Two months later, Raja¯’ al-Naqqa¯sh ˙ (1934– 2008) published an article on ‘Nature in the poetry of Mahmoud Darwish’, which eventually became a chapter in his book Mahmoud Darwish – Poet of the Occupied Territory (1969). All these helped ease Darwish’s acclimatisation in Cairo, the heart of the Arab world. About his work at al-Ahram, Darwish recounted: My office was on the sixth floor, which also housed the offices of Tawfı¯q al-Hakim, Naguib Mahfouz, Yu¯suf Idrı¯s, and Bint al-Sha¯tiʾ ˙ ˙ [. . .] I forged deep ties with the two polar opposites: Mahfouz and Idrı¯s [. . .] In Cairo I befriended the poets whom I had admired: Sala¯h ‘Abd al-Sabu¯r, Ahmad Hija¯zı¯, Amal Dunqul, and al-Abnu¯dı¯. ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ I became closer to all the poets and writers whom I liked [. . .] Cairo was therefore one of the most important stations in my life.77 Despite these early accolades, Darwish did not seem to have made a lasting impression on the Egyptian greats. In his diaries (1985), the

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Egyptian writer Yu¯suf Idrı¯s (1927 – 1991) documented his experiences and impressions of political and other subjects. One does not find any mention of Mahmoud Darwish in these, although he did mention, for example, the ‘great’ Niza¯r Qabba¯nı¯.78 In his memoir (1995), Naguib Mahfouz (1922 – 2006) wrote everything that came to his mind – about life and death, about old age, love, friends, and more. Mahfuz did not write about Darwish’s work at al-Ahram and about the literary and political figures he met. In vain we search through books written by Haykal, then editor-in-chief of al-Ahram. Haykal’s interests were focused primarily on strategic matters (wars, regional and international balance of powers), and on Egyptian foreign and domestic policy. Despite these early accolades, Darwish did not seem to have made a lasting impression on the Egyptian greats. Perhaps one year of living and working in Cairo was not enough for Darwish to make his impression on the elite. He was too young, both in age and poetic experience, and Egypt was beaten and self-absorbed following the Six-Day War (1967) and the death of Gamal Abd al-Nasser (1970). Therefore Cairo could not meet the poet’s expectations or let him fulfil the aspirations for which he left Israel, namely, to make an effective contribution to the Palestinian cause from an arena that seemed to him open and freer than the homeland, and which could give him the strength for self-expression and activism. After the warm reception, the euphoria dispersed, and the question ‘Why did you leave the Karmel?’ came to his mind at least twice, as an expression of regret and a gaping feeling of internal and external exile in his soul (an exile he would not feel in Beirut, with the exception of periods of crisis – the civil war of 1975 –1976, and the occupation of Beirut by the IDF in 1982). On a personal and national level his fateful decision in 1972 to move to Beirut, then the focus of Palestinian national activity, was therefore a wise one. In Cairo, Darwish wrote a large part of the collection of poems ‘I Love You or do not Love You’ (Uhibbuk aw la¯ Uhibbuk, 1972). Among these is ˙ ˙ the poem that signified a change in his writing, both in style and theme. This was ‘Sarha¯n drinks coffee in the cafeteria’ (Sarha¯n yashrab al-qahwa fi ˙ ˙ al-kafa¯tirya¯, 1971) about Sarha¯n Bisha¯ra Sarha¯n, the Palestinian Christian ˙ ˙ who was convicted of the assassination of US Senator Robert F. Kennedy and sentenced to death, though later his sentence was commuted to life in prison. ‘Sarha¯n’ is the metaphor, while behind the metaphor is the ˙

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Palestinian-Arab people. The poem, which was published at the time in al-Ahram, mocks the poem ‘Palestine’ (Filastı¯n) by the poet ‘Alı¯ ˙ Mahmu¯d Ta¯ha (1902– 1949), who described the Arab war for the ˙ ˙ liberation of Palestine in 1948 with these words: ‘We went out toward them ready to face / death, and they were like scattering dust and were in vain.’79 In protest against this poem, which distorted the truth, Darwish wrote, ‘We are in vain,’ adding: ‘we were surprised by rain and bullets’ and also ‘a land – its residents have changed’ and then ‘the conquerors gave birth in us, and the oppressors multiplied within us.’80 Similarly, the unique Arabic letters S(Sa¯d), D(da¯d) T(ta¯’), Q(qa¯f), ‘A(‘ayn) – ˙ ˙ ˙ _˙ contained nothing but ‘the roar of the oceans’ (hadı¯r al-muhı¯ta¯t).81 ‘In ˙˙ Cairo I experienced a change in my lyrical experience. This was the beginning of a turning point’, wrote Darwish.82 And indeed, the poem is a self-criticism, both Palestinian and Arab, and it symbolizes a turning point in Darwish’s poetry. The letters S(Sa¯d), D(da¯d), T(ta¯’) are unique ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ _˙ to the Arabic language. Moreover, the letter ‘A(‘ayn) symbolizes the Arabs, and Q(qa¯f) symbolizes the Qur’an. Thus, Darwish ironically directed his frustration about the Nakba and the loss of the homeland at his own people. However, unlike the post-1970 Egyptian writers, Darwish did not direct any criticism at the Egyptian leader Gamal Abd al-Nasser, nor at Nasserism. This comes as no surprise; for him Nasser was a promise for the return of the occupied homeland to its rightful owners, even after the defeat of June 1967, and he remained as such also after his death. He was ‘the man with the green shadow’ (al-Rajul dhu¯ al-zil al-akhdar) – meaning, the man whose memory still lives on – ˙ ˙ Darwish wrote from Moscow upon the death of the pan-Arab leader on September 28, 1970: ‘Do you remember? / how you outlined my facial features / and how you sketched my forehead / and how you made my exile and my death / green / green / green?’83 In 1972 he wrote: Everything would come to a standstill [. . .] Palestine would stand on its legs alertly for the liberation, when Gamal Abd al-Nasser would say ‘Dear citizens’ and when he would begin ‘so’, the residents of the occupied land would imprison their souls, ‘staying inside’ – from the youngest of the young to the oldest of the old – next to the radio. Usually they would push in close to the radio set which carried his voice, kissing it with an indescribable national and human euphoria.84

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The poet’s disappointment was therefore directed at the Arab world as a whole, and not at the Egyptian leader or his ideology. For Darwish and many of his generation, Arabs and Palestinians alike, Nasser and the spirit of Nasserism remains an unforgettable nostalgia. After a year in Cairo, Darwish took up the offer of Anı¯s Sayigh, the ˙ chairman of the Centre for Palestine Studies, and went to Beirut. Right away he became one of the central activists of the PLO, in particular in the field of culture. Beirut, wrote Darwish, ‘was a workshop of ideas, a laboratory for simultaneously competing and collaborating cultural, philosophical and political streams’.85 It was ‘the place where Palestinian political information and expression flourished. Beirut was the birthplace for thousands of Palestinians who knew no other cradle. Beirut was an Island upon which Arab immigrants dreaming of a new world landed. It was the foster mother of a heroic mythology that could offer the Arabs a promise other than that born of June War.’86 Beirut, according to Sha¯kir al-Na¯bulsı¯, was also ‘the city of freedom, the city of culture, the nursemaid of Palestinian activity [. . .], and Palestine’s first front line of defence’.87 In Beirut, Darwish spent ten politically and culturally productive years (1972– 1982). ‘Beirut – no’ (Bayru¯t la¯) wrote Darwish in the long epic poem In Praise of the High Shadow (1983), and then, ‘Beirut – our shelter’ (Bayru¯t khaymatuna¯), ‘Beirut – our fortress’ (Bayru¯t qal‘atuna¯), ‘Beirut – our story’ (Bayru¯t qissatuna¯), and it is ‘the spark of two desires’ (wamdat shahwatayn).88 ˙˙ ˙ Darwish never described an Arab city as he described Beirut. In the collection ‘A Siege to the Eulogies of the Sea’ (Hisa¯r li-Mada¯’ih al-Bahr, ˙˙ ˙ ˙ 1984) he devoted two additional poems: ‘Rapid musings on an old and beautiful city on the Mediterranean coast’ (Ta’ammula¯t Sarı¯‘a fı¯ Madı¯na Qadı¯ma wa-Jamı¯la ’ala¯ Sa¯hil al-Bahr al-Abyad al-Mutawassit) and Beirut: ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Beirut is ‘a lady who with her calves divides the dawn into a pair of beds’ (fata¯t tuqassim al-fajr bi-sa¯qayha¯ sarı¯rayn), and it is ‘a coast that wraps like a snake around the waist of a dancer’ (Sa¯hil yaltaff ka-l-af‘a¯ ‘ala¯ ajra¯s khasr al˙ ˙ ra¯qisa), and it is ‘my first step toward the pair of calves that lit up my body’ ˙ (khutwatı¯ al-u¯la¯ ila¯ awwal sa¯qayn ada¯’a¯ jasadı¯).89 And further, Beirut is the ˙ ˙ ˙ ‘apple of the sea’ (tuffa¯hat al-bahr), and it is ‘the paradise of moments’ ˙ ˙ (firdaws al-daqa¯’iq), ‘a port for the meeting of cities’ (mı¯na¯’ li-tajmı¯‘ almudun), and ‘a seat on the feather of a bird’ (maq‘ad ‘ala¯ rı¯sh ‘usfu¯r).90 ˙ Although Beirut was the ideal place for the poet, in 1982 he had to leave this city, too, a number of weeks after the PLO’s evacuation.

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‘I got out with the help of the Libyan ambassador in Beirut, who transported me from the area of Ashrafiyya, which was under the control of the Phalanges, to Syria.’91 In Tunisia, he added, ‘I saw the entire Palestinian revolution staying in a Salwa hotel on the beach. The scene was very painful and begged the writing of a novel about this end.’92 The atmosphere turned out to be rather discouraging, so he left for Paris. ‘Tunisia’, said Palestinian National Council member Ziya¯d ‘Abd alFatta¯h, ‘was no Beirut – not in the freedom of assembly and movement ˙ and not in the freedom of expression, not in the liveliness and not in terms of the diversity of cultural life.’93 Darwish settled in Paris for a relatively long period (1983– 1995), with pauses as were required by his activities in the PLO. The sojourn in Paris, ‘city of exiles’, allowed Darwish to look at the homeland and the Palestinian cause ‘from light years away’. There he also wrote the best of his poetry, such as the collection ‘Fewer Roses’ (Ward Aqall, 1986), ‘Eleven Planets for the End of the Andalusian Vision’ (Ahad ‘Ashar ˙ Kawkaba¯ ‘Ala¯ al- Mashhad al-Andalusı¯, 1992), and ‘Why did you Leave the Horse Alone’ (Lima¯dha¯ Tarakt al-Hisa¯n Wahı¯da¯, 1995), in addition ˙ ˙ ˙ to the Palestinian Declaration of Independence (1988). Darwish did not like to sit in cafe´s, as is the way of many intellectuals in the City of Lights. ‘He was a sensitive and easily stimulated poet, and for this reason he was not a public relations man’, stated Ziya¯d ‘Abd alFatta¯h.94 And ‘Darwish did not have social contacts [. . .] he devoted ten ˙ hours a day to reading and four hours to writing. In this sense he was more like Jean Genet, the French playwright’, claimed Layla¯ Shahı¯d, Palestine’s representative in the European Union.95 However, Darwish did have many cultural connections abroad, according to Elya¯s Sanbar, the Palestinian ambassador to UNESCO ˙ (United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization) and a friend of Darwish. Among the Arab intellectuals with whom Darwish was in contact, Sanbar mentioned the Syrian poet Adonis, although he ˙ commented that this was a connection of ‘two polar opposites’ (‘ala¯qat qutbayn).96 Darwish also maintained good relations with the leading ˙ intellectuals in France. Intellectuals who heard about him, read his poetry in translation, or heard him at a poetry evening or other occasion, often invited him to a house circle or to a meal. Among these Sanbar ˙ mentioned philosopher Gilles Deleuze (1925– 1995), philosopher Jacques Derrida (1930– 2004), and poet Edouard Glissant (b. 1928).97

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However, according to ‘Abd al-Fatta¯h and Elia¯s Khu¯rı¯, Darwish ˙ spoke very little French and read English but was not fluent in speech.98 Therefore he was always accompanied by a translator. As for world literature, he read primarily what was translated into Arabic or English.99 In English he seems to have read plenty of Seamus Heaney (1939 22013), and Derek Walcott (born 1930). From France he read Louis Aragon (1897–1982), and Rene´ Char (1907– 1988), and from Latin America he read Pablo Neruda (1904–1973).100 Most of Darwish’s reading was focused on history, poetry in general and classical Arabic poetry in particular. In an interview to ‘Abduh Wa¯zin he revealed how much he reads. ‘When I wrote “Eleven Planets [for the End of the Andalusian Vision]”, which is not a long poem, I read nearly fifty books about Muslims Spain. And when I wrote “The Indian [The Red Indian’s Penultimate Speech]”, I read twenty books on the history and literature of the [American] Indians. I also read Indian literary texts and speeches.’ 101 His anger at ‘those who know no boredom, and who are capable [. . .] of judging you for your use of a poetic metaphor or for your freedom of imagination’ – indicates no post-modern influence in the spirit of Roland Barthes’ book The Death of the Author.102

Generating the Meaning of Exile Darwish described his long journey outside of and within the homeland in terms of a ‘gradual exile’ (manfa¯ mutadarrij), meaning that it had its ups and downs, its moments of strength and of weakness.103 Upon more precise examination, however, this term does not reflect the poet’s evolving experience of exile. Darwish’s exile not only was changing rhythm or power, but also its pattern and direction too. This is a different kind of exile that can be defined as a ‘rolling exile’ (manfa¯ mutadahrij), meaning one ˙ that repeats itself and changes form and direction. It is a simultaneously external and internal exile, which ebb and flow together and separately. In Lebanon (1948–1949), Darwish experienced his ‘external’ exile. When he returned in 1949, and did not return to his neighbourhood, his exile changed its direction to ‘internal’. After he left Israel in 1970 and upon his return to the part of his homeland (Ramallah) in 1995, Darwish experienced both: the internal and the external exile as well. This is to say, his exile was changing not only rhythm and power, but its direction too.

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During his period as a refugee in Lebanon (1948–1949), Darwish experienced for the first time his external exile. The Nakba, the displacement, and exile cut his childhood. Firstly, the child Darwish ceased to be a child. The event led to the boy’s early loss of his neighbouring and his innocence. ‘I ceased to be a child once I understood that the refugee camps of Lebanon were reality and that Palestine was imagination. I ceased to be a child once I was touched by the sound of longing [. . .] for a square-shaped house, at its centre a tall strawberry tree, a tense horse, a dovecot, and a well.’104 Second, ‘return’ became his daily bread: ‘The return to the place, the return to time, the return from the temporary to the permanent, the return from the present to both the past and the future, the return from the unusual to the natural, the return from tin boxes to a house from stone. Thus Palestine became the opposite of everything else, and became a lost paradise.’105 Third, his exile was bound up with a feeling of lack, insult, and humiliation; his family lost all its resources and became penniless refugees, and the children would humiliate him with the words ‘hey, refugee’.106 When he returned to the homeland, but not to his house or to the village of his birth, which had been destroyed, Darwish experienced the feeling of internal exile. ‘Then’, he wrote, ‘the exile began to grow within me like wild-grass.’107 Unlike the external exile, Darwish wrote, this exile had no justification.108 Upon his return, Darwish felt like a present absentee, like a half-citizen and a penniless refugee. ‘Ten years,’ wrote Darwish, ‘I was trapped in Haifa’, and after 1967 his mobility was further narrowed, and he had to check in at the police station every day. Under these circumstances, his identity encountered a crisis of exile and return. ‘No one knows which of us is in the exile: me or the homeland.’109 His political status as an infiltrator or present-absentee in Israel, the restraining orders, and the repeated arrests – all these caused him to experience a different kind of exile within the homeland, a powerful and unjustified internal exile. Until 1971, Darwish experienced these kinds of exiles separately: the external exile (1948– 1949), and the internal exile in the homeland (1949–1970). After leaving Israel in 1971, Darwish experienced a different kind of exile that can be defined as a ‘rolling exile’ (manfa¯ mutadahrij), meaning ˙ one that repeats itself and changes form and direction. It is a simultaneously external and internal exile, which ebb and flow together and separately. There were periods of euphoria in which he felt nothing

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but the warmth and the embrace of the Arab world. In Cairo and Beirut he experienced esteem and a feeling of personal and national fulfilment he had felt neither in Lebanon in 1948–1949 nor in Israel between 1949 and 1970. ‘Here I feel the pulse of the Arab earth [. . .] for the reason that I am working among my people in the broad sense and on behalf of my specific people’, Darwish declared upon his arrival in Cairo (1971).110 This euphoria continued on into Beirut, with the exception of moments of personal and national crisis. In Beirut (1972–1982), he did not feel in exile, if only because of his mobilization for the public, cultural, and national cause. In times of crisis (the period of the Lebanese civil war (1975– 1976), the Lebanon War in 1982, the occupation of Beirut and the PLO’s evacuation from the city), Darwish was struck with powerful feelings of longing for the homeland. Unlike in the past, however, this longing was not only for the homeland and the house, but also for his family, for the places where he spent his early adulthood (the Karmel mountain, Haifa), for his friends, and even his first love (Rita). In the poem, ‘Coming down from the Karmel’ (al-Nuzu¯l min al-Karmel) from his collection ‘Attempt Number 7’ (Muha¯wala Raqam 7, 1974), Darwish wrote: ‘A single drop ˙ of water on the feather of a lark in Haifa / is balanced against all of the seas.’111 Meaning, a drop of water in the homeland is equal to the entire Arab sea. This external exile was accompanied by a feeling of an internal one. Unlike the internal exile in Israel, here the feeling of exile is less personal than it is national; the Arab world is perceived as one large prison, and the restraints on the movement of the Palestinians within this world illustrate this. Under the title ‘The Madness of being a Palestinian’, Darwish wrote: ‘Will the western conscience believe [. . .] that the Arab continent, or the great and wide Arab prison, does not constitute an alternative to the Palestinian homeland, and that it does not allow them even a moment of respite from slaughter?’112 In his book, The Presence of Absence, Darwish often raises the question ‘Why did you leave the Karmel?’ The question arose twice in ‘charming’ Cairo, a short time after leaving Israel in 1971, and a third time during the siege of Beirut (1982), when he had to go underground and the PLO began its preparations for the evacuation of Beirut. The question arose another time in Beirut; this time he answered with a monologue: ‘My question arouses you: when will the boats set sail? I answer in irritation [. . .] I will not leave!’113 The question returned for the fifth time after

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the evacuation of the PLO headquarters from Beirut, the entrance of the IDF to the city, and the massacre at Sabra¯ and Shatı¯la¯. All of these ˙ intensified his feeling of regret for not leaving Beirut along with the PLO. The question resurfaced a sixth time on his way to Gaza in 1995: ‘Three decades of absence of self have turned the place into an orphaned entity, [. . .] what will you do when you reach the Karmel aside from asking: Why did you leave the Karmel?’114 The question arises, therefore, primarily in circumstances of personal and national distress and crisis: twice in Cairo, three times in Beirut, and once again upon his return to the Palestinian Authority in 1995; they were an expression of strong feelings of exile (external and internal) and of regret about his 1971 decision to leave Israel. Upon his return to the homeland in 1995, the feeling of external exile shocked him once again. He wrote: ‘He who returns – will return to the place he came from [. . .] There are personal homelands [. . .] This part of homeland [Ramallah] is the homeland of my people [. . .] For me it does not have a reservoir of memories. For this reason I am on part of the homeland and still within my exile.’115 About the pain of longing for his primordial reservoir of memories, Darwish wrote: ‘longing is the exile’s punishment’.116 And, it is ‘an elegy in the heart, and the imprint of a land on a body’.117 It is ‘the pain of the right that cannot be realized, [. . .] the pain of houses that were buried under [Jewish] settlements, which the absentee bequeaths to the absentee, and the present to the absentee with the first drop of milk – in the place of exile and in the [refugee] camps [. . .] It is a longing for a past joy [. . .] and for the way in which we used to put a key into the lock of the door.’118 Upon his first visit to Haifa in 1996, for the filming of a movie about his life, Darwish was excited; he cried and wanted to stay in Israel. A number of years later, this hesitation came to an end. The encounter with the situation in Israel was a learning experience, and he no longer felt any regret for ‘coming down from the Karmel’. Feelings of dissatisfaction made way for a feeling of resolve. The outbreak of the second Intifada sharpened this stance even further. Unlike Sabrı¯ Jiryis, ˙ who returned to become an Israeli citizen in 1994 after 24 years of exile, Darwish was not capable of making his private return to Israel, so long as his people were not afforded such a possibility. As a national symbol, ‘it would only shame me’, he said.119 Jiryis himself has expressed the fact that this aspect of his identity has an almost insulting meaning.

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According to him, his colleagues in Ramallah belittle him for having returned to Israel and not to the Palestinian territories.120 Another important difference between the two, however, is that Jiryis returned to his native village, Fassu¯ta, while Darwish’s village, al-Birwa, was wiped ˙ off the map. Darwish expressed his emotional resolution in these words: ‘Do not apologize for what you have done’ (La¯ ta‘tadhir ‘amma¯ fa‘alt) and/ or ‘apologize to no one but your mother’ (La¯ ta‘tadhir illa¯ li-ummik).121 Thus, the poet came to terms with his external exile, if only as a result of a rude awakening. But he was neither willing nor capable of coming to terms with his internal exile. It reminded him of the first internal exile from which he had escaped by leaving Israel in 1971. However, unlike his internal exile in Israel, which was personal, his internal exile in the Palestinian Authority was, above all, national; the disappointment after his return came from the checkpoints, the occupation, and the war, which turned his life and the life of the Palestinians into one big prison. This exile began with a feeling of great disappointment upon his return to the homeland in 1995, and ended with a pessimistic feeling of loss of his personal and national way. In his poem ‘The direction of the exile’ (Jihat al-manfı¯, 2008), he wrote: ‘The exile looks around him / and lo the words and the memories escape him / What is in front is not before him / what is behind is not behind him.’122 The poet further expressed the feeling of loss in the poem ‘On the train station that fell off the map’ (‘Ala¯ mahattat qita¯r saqata an al-kharı¯ta), ˙ ˙˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ which he wrote in commemoration of the 60th anniversary of the Nakba: ‘grass, dryness, thorns, and the cactus / on the iron track’. And, ‘two homeless doves drop the letters of exile upon my shoulders / and then fly off at a pale height’.123 In his first exile, Darwish experienced the pain of displacement from his familiar environment, the feelings of insult, and a life of material want. Upon his return to the homeland, exile took on another meaning; it became not just a feeling of lack and the uprooting of house and village, but also a feeling of marginalization, rejection, suffocation, and imprisonment. After leaving Israel in 1971, Darwish experienced at times the pain of the physical distance from the homeland. In addition, a different kind of internal exile developed; this was an exile that stems from rejection, from betrayal, and from the restrictions placed by his brothers, the Arab countries, on the Palestinian national movement. Upon his return in 1995, Darwish felt the distance from his childhood

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memories, although his encounter with the harsh reality on the ground helped him come to terms with this exile. His internal exile within the homeland was unbearable. In contrast to his personal internal exile in Israel, this was above all a national exile. Checkpoints and occupation, combined with the lack of a political horizon, made his life and those of his people unbearable. All these extraordinary conditions and events fueled Darwish’s writing, and turned his individual poetic voice into a collective voice. Darwish not only was sha¯hid, namely well informed and aware about all these events, its painfulness and misery, but also he was shahı¯d, namely witnessed. The ordinary and popular meaning of shahı¯d means a martyr, but in the Qur’an it means one who was present and witnessed the events. Darwish was present and witnessed the loss of his home, his homeland, and his nationhood. All the way, he was also present and witnessed the odyssey of his people, and was one of its victims. His writing therefore bears this witness, and became an authentic ‘documentation’ of the issues at the heart of the Palestinian cause.

CHAPTER 3 LITERATURE AND NATION-BUILDING

Remember, my son, Here, the English crucified your father On cactus thorns for two nights, And he never confessed. When you grow older, my son, and Recite to those who inherit rifles An epic of blood on iron.1

Palestine under Foreign Rule With the end of the war of 1948 and the Nakba, the entire Palestinian population remaining in the territory of Mandatory Palestine fell under foreign control – of Jordan, of Egypt, and of the newly established state of Israel. Unlike the Palestinians in Gaza who remained largely autonomous under Egyptian control, the Palestinians who now found themselves under Israeli rule in Israel or under Jordanian rule in the West Bank were subject to policies of administration and control aimed at imposing a new identity upon the Palestinian inhabitants. In Jordan, most of the Palestinians were integrated into the Jordanian State; they were granted Jordanian citizenship and were expected to resolve their issues of daily life and rights within the framework of the organizations and institutions of the Jordanian Kingdom. This led to the suppression of an autonomous Palestinian identity. Formally speaking,

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the Palestinians were granted rights, but this was as Jordanian citizens and not as Palestinians. Notwithstanding this integration, the East Bank was favoured over the West Bank in terms of political representation, economics, and infrastructure projects in the kingdom. Anı¯s al-Qa¯sim, former Chairman of the Legal Committee of the Palestinian National Council, wrote: What happened in Jordan was simultaneously integration and not integration. It was integration – because all Palestinians living on both banks of the Jordan were considered Jordanians by the laws of citizenship and by force of the annexation. The Palestinians became subject to the obligations that applied to their Jordanian brothers. It was not integration – because the West Bank continued to preserve a distinct personality and essence from the East Bank. The seats in the Jordanian House of Representatives and Senate were divided between the West Bank and the East Bank. Each bank sent an equal number of representatives to the two houses, despite the fact that the population in the West Bank was almost one and a half times that of the East Bank. Had there been full integration, the distribution of seats would have been according to the number of inhabitants, and then there would not have been such [discrimination] between the East Bank and the West Bank. One should note that the same was true for the cabinet. Most of the cabinet members were East Bankers, Moreover, after the annexation, only one Palestinian was appointed prime minister, the late Dr. Husayn al-Kha¯lidı¯, and only for a short interim period. All this confirms that the West Bank had a special status and condition within the Jordanian state.2 Unlike in Jordan, where the Palestinians were granted civil rights in exchange for relinquishing the right to express their Palestinian identity, the Palestinians in the Gaza Strip remained autonomous in their Palestinian identity and citizenship. Their numbers were smaller than those in Jordan, and their economic situation was worse, but they were allowed to have their own political party (National Union), and to establish a Palestinian legislative council and government, as well as to build a Palestinian army and guerrilla forces. They were also allowed to establish a workers’ union and a union of Palestinian lawyers, and,

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unlike in Jordan, in the Gaza Strip it was permitted to use the name Palestine (Filastı¯n), wrote al-Qa¯sim.3 Nonetheless, the political and civil ˙ rights of the Palestinians in Gaza were more limited than those of the Palestinians in Jordan; Egypt allowed them to preserve their autonomy primarily because it was not interested in annexing the Strip and granting citizenship to the Palestinian residents of Gaza. In comparison with the Palestinians in the Gaza Strip, the Palestinians in Israel came under close administration and control, whose goal was to create an ‘Israeli-Arab’ identity. The aim of Israel’s policy was not only to subdue the Palestinians by force, but also to construct their collective identity so as to disconnect them from the broader Palestinian society and its national aspirations. Like Jordan in that same period, the political leadership in Israel acted consciously to dissipate the Palestinian identity of the Arabs in Israel. Thus, steps were taken to divide the indigenous population into different ethnic groups: Muslim, Christian, Druze, Circassian, Bedouin, and so forth. Through co-opting local leaders into the establishment, the regime prevented the Palestinian Arabs in Israel from establishing a national political leadership that could contend with the state institutions. The co-option was made possible in large part by the exodus of the urban political, financial, and religious elite during the 1948 war. As a result, the largely rural Palestinian population in Israel remained like a body without a head. The decision-makers in the Israeli educational system hoped that the education the Arab students would receive in the very centralized school system would create a new type of Arab-Israeli with an identity that was distinct from that which developed in the refugee camps and in the Palestinian communities outside Israel, in the West Bank, the Gaza Strip, and the Diaspora. The Palestinians in Israel were held under a sort of cultural siege whose goal was to disconnect them from the Palestinian and Arab heritage beyond the borders of the state. And yet, despite the pressures upon the Palestinian minority within Israel through the policy of administration, control, and segregation, a new Palestinian elite arose in which intellectuals featured prominently, and this provided the foundation for the creation of a collective identity.4 The Israeli Communist Party (Maki) played a central role in the nurturing of these intellectuals and the development of their national worldviews. The Communist Party newspapers al-Ittiha¯d and al-Jadı¯d ˙ often published the poems of the party’s members, and their books were

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published under the auspices of the Party. Poets participated regularly in campaign conventions and at Communist Party rallies.5 Within this group of prominent intellectuals (which included Samı¯h al-Qa¯sim, Emı¯l ˙ Habı¯bı¯, Tawfı¯q Zayya¯d, Sa¯lim Jubra¯n, and others), Darwish stood out. ˙ His poetry was lyric and typified by a strong national motif. Within this elite group, Darwish was the only one with the status of present-absentee (an internal refugee with no civil rights), and thus the only one to have experienced the bitter taste of displacement and exile both outside and inside the homeland. According to literary critic Raja¯’ al-Naqqa¯sh, Darwish’s was the first Arab name to penetrate the walls of Israel at the end of 1966 with his poetry, and he was the first ‘friendly face’ that the author met during the work on his study of the poetry of the Occupied Territories.6 Despite the trauma of turning overnight from a majority to a minority; despite the military government and the policy of control, administration, and segregation imposed by the Israeli authorities in order to prevent the formation of a collective Palestinian leadership and in its place to create a new, Israeli-Arab, identity for the Palestinian minority in Israel – despite all this, there developed a ‘literature of resistance’ that would contribute to the re-formation and strengthening of Palestinian identity. The term ‘literature of resistance’ (adab al-muqa¯wama) in Palestinian and Arab literature, as coined by Palestinian writer and PFLP activist Ghassa¯n Kanafa¯nı¯, refers first and foremost to the literature written by Palestinians within Israel. Kanafa¯nı¯ coined this term in 1966 in his seminal study, Resistance Literature in Occupied Palestine, 1948–1966.7 Among the resistance writers, Kanafa¯nı¯ listed poets, novelists, and playwrights. At the top of the list were the poets Mahmoud Darwish, Samı¯h al-Qa¯sim, Tawfı¯q Zayya¯d, Sa¯lim Jubra¯n (1941–2011), the novelist ˙ Emı¯l Habı¯bı¯, and the playwright Tawfı¯q Fayya¯d. Citing their works as ˙ evidence, Kanafa¯nı¯ wrote that these writers, mostly poets, fought on two fronts: on the resistance front, by challenging the authorities, and in the arena of strengthening the identity and consciousness of their Palestinian brethren in Israel. In ‘A gazelle harbingers an earthquake’ (‘Ghaza¯l yubashshir bi-zilza¯l’), his introduction to the 1998 posthumous collection of Kanafa¯nı¯’s literary studies, Darwish critiqued the use of the term ‘resistance literature’, noting that some of the names that appear in Kanafa¯nı¯’s study ‘have only a marginal place in Arab life there, some even in a negative way that does not concord with his initial admiration’.8

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However, although Kanafa¯nı¯’s work was wanting in that it was not based on sources and references (and for this the author apologized in the beginning of his introduction to the study), he saw it as imperative to convey to the Arab reader, and in particular to the Palestinian in exile, the conditions under which this ‘resistance literature’ blossomed. He also mentioned names of ‘resistance figures’ who, albeit not writers, worked towards the strengthening of Palestinian identity and the culture of resistance and were harmed by the same repressive policies that the writers were subject to. Among these he mentioned Sabrı¯ Jiryis, ˙ who was a member of the al-Ard movement. The fact that Kanafa¯nı¯ ˙ mentioned Muhammad Masa¯rwa, for example, later Consul General of ˙ ˙ Israel in Atlanta, who became in 2004 a judge in a Haifa District Magistrates Court, does not justify Darwish’s criticism of Kanafa¯nı¯.9 Another criticism of the notion of resistance poetry was raised in 1994, after the signing of the Oslo Accords, by Egyptian writer Sa‘ı¯d al-Kafra¯wı¯, who claimed that all the negotiations and agreements had rendered extra-historical the Palestinians’ ideological and creative legacy, written in the shadow of the struggle for identity and presence. The plan for a new Middle East, or of Palestinian autonomy within Greater Israel, would result in the erasure from memory of all those writers of resistance, consciousness, and conscience. According to him, ‘nothing will remain of Mahmoud Darwish’s statement but an empty vision’.10 Kafra¯wı¯’s criticism did not emerge from a vacuum. As early as 1970, the Egyptian literary critic Gha¯lı¯ Shukrı¯ (1935–1998) wrote in his book (similarly titled to Kanafa¯nı¯’s) ‘The Literature of Resistance’ (Adab alMuqa¯wama) that the works of the Palestinian poets in Israel cannot be seen as poetry of resistance, but as poetry of protest or opposition (shi‘r mu‘a¯rada), a new kind of literature with no precedent in modern Arab ˙ literature.11 In his view, only Palestinians living outside Israel, for example, the poetess Fadwa¯ Tu¯qa¯n (Nablus, 1917– 2003) and the Gaza˙ born poet Mu‘ı¯n Bsı¯su¯ (1926– 1984) can be considered poets of resistance, since those who lived in Israel come out of a stance of dialogue with the state and with the enemy.12 Shukrı¯’s statements are rather radical. He did not only reject the ‘nonresistors’ and those who ‘are marginal’ in Palestinian society, as Darwish described, but all Palestinian literary figures in Israel, including Darwish. In Shukrı¯’s opinion, the sole test is that of geography.

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He mistakenly assumed that all the writers who remained in Israel recognized Israel’s right to exist and worked as an opposition within it. Shukrı¯’s claim may hold true for some of the Palestinian writers, such as Emı¯l Habı¯bı¯, who recognized Israel’s existence by accepting the Soviet ˙ Union’s line regarding the acceptance of the UN Partition Plan of 1947, remained in the Israeli New Communist List (Rakah) after the split of ˙ 1965, and expressed its policy (which hardly mentioned that the Arab population in Israel is part of the Palestinian-Arab nation), claiming ‘that self-determination is a right of nations and not of groups’.13 But, it certainly does not apply at least to those poets of the pan-Arab al-Ard ˙ movement (Ra¯shid Husayn, Habı¯b Qahwajı¯, Fawzı¯ al-Asmar), nor to ˙ ˙ Mahmoud Darwish and other poets, who did not accept the establishment of the state of Israel, and joined the Israeli Communist Party (Maki and then Rakah) only because there was no other alternative. ˙ ‘What makes the poet run?’ Israeli Middle-East scholar Yosi Amitai asked himself, after Darwish left the country in 1971: I never quite managed to understand Mahmoud Darwish and his friends’ position in Rakah. Was their absorption there organic, or ˙ did they feel out of place [. . .] Was Rakah’s blind obedience to the ˙ moves of Moscow pleasing to their palate, or did they have an ambivalent attitude towards the USSR, as did the Nasserite and Ba‘thist Arab-nationalist streams?14 Amitai was right in regard to Darwish’s ambivalence. In the same period, Darwish himself noted that the New Communist List was the only political party in Israel to give expression to the national aspirations of the Palestinians in Israel.15 He did not join Rakah out of ideological ˙ sympathy for the party, and certainly not out of acquiescence to the Soviet Union’s position regarding the Partition Plan and the establishment of two states in Palestine. On the contrary, Darwish could hardly come to terms with the loss of the homeland and with the establishment of the State of Israel.16 The poet’s exile in 1971, as well as the arrests and prison sentences he served while still in Israel, also serve to prove the hollowness of Shukrı¯’s claim. Paradoxically, the poetess Fadwa¯ Tu¯qa¯n, whom Shukrı¯ saw as a ˙ resistance poet, participated in dialogue with Israelis, among them Defence Minister Moshe Dayan and his advisor David Farhi. In these ˙

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conversations the poetess displayed not only a lack of resistance but also helplessness in the face of steps that she did not agree with. Moshe Dayan described the meetings with Tu¯qa¯n: ˙ I heard about the poetess from Nablus, Fadwa¯ Tu¯qa¯n. I read her ˙ poems, I was impressed by her personal honesty and her national spirit, and I asked to speak with her [. . .] We met at my home in Tzahala. Although Fadwa¯ was the catalyst for the meeting, she herself spoke less than the others. A young woman nearing forty from what I could tell. She has a pleasant and open demeanour. [. . .] While she spoke or listened intensely, she became serious and a shadow of sadness came over her face. On political subjects, Kan‘a¯n [the Mayor of Nablus] was the main interlocutor, while on the question of the relations between us and the Arabs, there was her uncle, Qadrı¯, who also spoke in her name.17 At the end of the visit Dayan proposed that her uncle Qadrı¯ verify with Egyptian President Abd al-Nasser the possibility of ‘Land for Peace’ with the exception of Jerusalem. Qadrı¯ did not respond, while Tu¯qa¯n begged him to agree to Moshe Dayan’s proposal until ‘her voice ˙ was a mixture of begging and commanding. For a moment I thought she would break down in tears’, Dayan wrote.18 When Kanafa¯nı¯ wrote about resistance literature in 1966, neither Tu¯qa¯n nor Mu‘ı¯n Bsı¯su¯ – Gha¯lı¯ Shukrı¯’s quintessential resistance poets ˙ – were living under Israeli occupation. Bsı¯su¯ began his political path in the Communist Party in Gaza as a teacher and journalist. Most of his activity was aimed against the Egyptian authorities. In 1955 he led a resistance movement in the Gaza Strip against the Egyptian plan to settle the Palestinians in the Sinai. He was arrested twice and spent six years in Egyptian prison (1955– 1957 and 1959– 1963). In 1963, he left Gaza for Beirut, then the bosom of the PLO, and stayed there until 1982. Tu¯qa¯n was born in Nablus and remained there after the Israeli occupation ˙ in 1967. She generally did not or could not resist the Israeli authorities. In her book, ‘Most Difficult Journey: an Autobiography’ (al-Rihla al˙ As‘ab: Sı¯ra Dha¯tiyya, Ramallah, 2007), Tu¯qa¯n wrote, ‘Here I testify that ˙ ˙ many times I got involved in things I don’t like – if only to relieve others from the unpleasantness that I might have caused them.’19 Tu¯qa¯n ˙ met with Israeli cultural and political leaders in the late 1960s,

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sometimes even in her family home in Nablus.20 All in all, there was little point to Gha¯lı¯ Shukrı¯’s comparison between Tu¯qa¯n and Bsı¯su¯, on ˙ the one hand, and the Palestinian poets in Israel, on the other. Furthermore, Shukrı¯ was mistaken when he wrote off all of the Palestinian writers from Kanafa¯nı¯’s list, especially in Darwish’s case. The attempts to categorize Darwish’s poetry (and that of his fellow Palestinian poets in Israel) did not end with Kanafa¯nı¯ and Shukrı¯. Darwish’s first biographer, the Egyptian writer Raja¯’ al-Naqqa¯sh (1934 – 2008), dubbed Darwish in the title of his 1972 book: the Poet of the Occupied Territory. In his 1987 dissertation, Jordanian-American literature scholar Sha¯kir al-Na¯bulsı¯ called Darwish a ‘Lunatic of the Soil’ (Majnu¯n al-Tura¯b).21 There were also those who called him the ‘poet of the occupied territories’. In the farewell cortege with his coffin, at Marika military airport in Jordan on August 13, 2008, Muhammad ˙ Subayh, the PLO representative in the Arab League, called him ‘the ˙ ˙ moon of the Arabs’ (Qamar al-‘Arab). The Iraqi poet Sa’dı¯ Yu¯suf called him ‘the yellow moon of Baghdad’ (Qamar Baghda¯d al-Laymu¯nı¯), meaning, the sun of Baghdad. In his book, ‘Devoured by a Wolf’ (Akalahu al- Dhi’b, 2007), al-Na¯bulsı¯ wrote: Darwish felt uncomfortable when he was called a ‘poet of resistance’ [. . .] or ‘poet of the occupied territory’ [. . .] I visited him in order to give him a copy of my dissertation as a present. It was at the house of the friend Raja¯’ al-Naqqa¯sh in Cairo [. . .] Darwish took the work, looked at its title like a peacock [. . .] and set it aside [. . .] He didn’t even say thank you [. . .] Later I understood that the title had made him uncomfortable.22 In an interview with the Israeli literary editor, Hilit Yeshurun, in 1996, shortly after his return to Palestine, Darwish said: ‘I did not accept us being called “poets of the resistance”. Some of my friends began to use [. . .] the term. I didn’t like it, and it happened early in 1967. “Poet of the occupied land” or “poet of the resistance,” I don’t want to be a poet with a label.’23

Reinforcing National and Cultural Unity Mahmoud Darwish was a symbol of national and cultural unity for his fellow Palestinians. Ziya¯d ‘Abd al-Fatta¯h, of the Fatah movement, a ˙

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member of the Palestinian National Council, tells the following story from the Palestinian National Council (PNC) convention in Algeria in 1983: The winds were raging. Darwish’s surprising ascent to the stage and reading of the long poem In Praise of the High Shadow considerably ameliorated the disagreements between the rival factions in the organization. His appearance was by no means planned; it was a tactical decision to insert it into the programme in order to calm the raging winds in the PNC, and it was also accepted by the president of the PNC at the time, Kha¯lid al-Fa¯hu¯m.24 ‘Abd al-Fatta¯h brings another example from the convention of the Fifth ˙ Congress of the Union of Palestinian Writers and Journalists held in San‘a¯’, the capital of Yemen, in April 1984. The convention was tasked ˙ with the mission of preparing the convention of the PNC that was to be held in Amman in 1984. The internal unrest within Fatah, Arafat’s faction of the PLO, following the evacuation of PLO headquarters from Beirut did not leave the Writers’ Union unscathed, as since 1977 the Union had representatives from the various political streams of the PLO. Among the rebels in the Union were members of the secretariat who represented the rejectionist front (under Syrian and Libyan influence), the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine and the Democratic Front for the Liberation of Palestine. These strove to undermine Arafat’s rule and ability to manoeuvre politically, and included writer Bassa¯m Abu¯ Sharı¯f and sociologist Jamı¯l Hila¯l. Among the rebels within Fatah was Yahya¯ ˙ Yakhlif, General Secretary of the Writers’ Union at the time. Yakhlif lived in Damascus and was influenced by the rejectionists in the PLO. Also among the rebels were historian Na¯jı¯ ‘Allu¯sh, who had been General Secretary of the Writers’ Union from 1972 to 1980, and publisher and author Hanna¯ Muqbil, who was murdered in Nicosia on May 13, 1984, ˙ only weeks after the convention under discussion took place. Darwish’s notification to the Fifth Congress that he would agree to serve as President of the Union alongside the new General Secretary Ahmad ‘Abd al˙ Rahma¯n from Fatah helped calm the winds in the Union.25 ˙ Beyond his contribution to the unity of the ranks on the political level, Darwish worked in the framework of his role in the PLO Executive Council (1987 – 1993) toward the strengthening of cultural

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and national links with Palestinians in Israel. Palestinian literary figures and institutions in Israel, such as al-Ittiha¯d and Arabesque, thus ˙ received financial support from the PLO, aimed at helping them publish books and newspapers. Al-Ittih a¯d, for example, had ˙ encountered financial difficulties more than once and was on the verge of bankruptcy, needing financial support from the outside. Meetings abroad were also organized, in which Palestinian literary figures from the homeland and from the diaspora took part, including Emı¯l Habı¯bı¯, Samı¯h al-Qa¯sim, Muhammad Naffa¯‘ and Darwish. These ˙ ˙ ˙ encounters also included politicians from both sides of the divide: Tawfı¯q Tu¯bı¯, Meir Vilner, and Yasir Arafat.26 ˙ The Nakba had split the Palestinians into different groups which developed distinct narratives, but Darwish was considered a symbol of cultural unity for his fellow Palestinians wherever they were. On the difference between the Palestinian writers in Israel and in the West Bank, Iraqi-born Israeli scholar of modern Arab literature, Sasson Somekh, stated in an interview in the Israeli newspaper Davar in 1994: From 1948 to 1967, there came into being a literature of Palestinian-Arab writers, citizens of the State of Israel, which was fundamentally different from the Palestinian literature that was written in the Diaspora. The difference stemmed also from the geographical detachment of these Palestinian-Arab writers from their colleagues abroad. They created a literature with its own style and thematic emphases [. . .] At the time of the occupation in 1967, there were hardly writers in the West Bank, with the exception of the poetess Fadwa¯ Tu¯qa¯n, who has not been ˙ particularly influential in recent years [. . .] Since the Intifada much literature has been written in the West Bank – fiction and poetry, called ‘poetry of stones’ (from ‘children of the stones’). Both in content and in style these are completely different from the works of the Palestinian writers and poets living in Israel, though the Palestinian cause is central for writers from both sides of the Green Line. The latter tend to focus on the problem of the alienation of the Palestinian-Arab, in the feeling of discrimination that stems from the attitude of the Jewish establishment to him as a second-class citizen, and the constant fear for his future.27

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In 1986, in an interview with Salman Rushdie, which took place at the Congress of PEN (poets, essayists and novelists) in New York, Edward Said discussed the reasons for the lack of a unified Palestinian narrative and argued that the inadequacy of the narrative is due to the discontinuity of Palestinian existence. ‘Is this connected with the problem of writing a history?’ Rushdie asked, and Said replied: There are many different kinds of Palestinian experience, which cannot all be assembled into one. One would therefore have to write parallel histories of the communities in Lebanon, the Occupied Territories, and so on. That is the central problem. It is almost impossible to imagine a single narrative: it would have to be the kind of crazy history that comes out in Midnight’s Children, with all those little strands coming and going in and out.28 Mahmoud Darwish’s writing largely filled this gap. His works gave an expression to the major national distresses and sufferings of his people in the homeland, in the contiguous countries, and in the diaspora. Thus, for example, in the poem In the train station that fell off the map (2008), which he wrote to mark the 60th anniversary of the Nakba (May 15, 2008 – 60 years to the day after the UN voted in favour of the State of Israel), Darwish expressed his personal and national longing for the homeland and for the idyll that existed until the Nakba in 1948. ‘I stood at the station, not to wait for the train [. . .] but to know how the sea went mad and how the place broke like a porcelain jar!’29 Israeli poet and literary critic Yitzhak La’or rightly ˙ observed that rhetoric and metaphor are the answer to a shattered reality, and it is these that must fill in what the fragmented or shattered narrative cannot.30

Commemorating Collective Memory To a large extent, Darwish’s literary work reconstructed Palestine and the Palestinian identity, and immortalized the homeland on all levels – people, landscape, nature, villages, neighbourhoods, and historical events. This is a project of commemoration for generations to come, valuable by any measure. His poetry gives a unique and almost exclusive poetic reading of the history, sociology, and political

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psychology of the Palestinian people. His goal was to prevent those who ‘colonized the land’ from ‘colonizing memory as well’.31 Darwish believed that ‘anyone who writes the story first, will also gain the soil of the story’. ‘However, a commemoration project also needs claws for rock excavation’ (la¯kinna al-kita¯ba tahta¯j ila¯ makha¯lib kay tahfur ˙ ˙ al-athar fı¯ al-sakhr).32 Darwish realized that to win the battle on the ˙ ground, it is necessary to win first the battle against ‘history’s bulldozers’ (jarra¯fa¯t al-ta¯rı¯kh) – forgetting and forgetfulness – in which the winners (the Zionists) systematically work to purge the memory of the defeated (the Palestinians).33 Darwish’s poetry is especially rich in references to the landscape of his childhood, his village, and his house. A good guide to this landscape can be found in his book Why Did You Leave the Horse Alone? He recalls the oak (al-ballu¯t), the terebinth (al-Butum), and the common oak (al˙ ˙ sindiya¯n), which grow in the northern Galilee and which Darwish and his family passed by in 1949, upon their return to the homeland. Likewise he mentions the cactus (al-subba¯r), where the British hung his father for ˙ two nights but could not make him confess; the bees (al-nahl) who toiled ˙ to make the grandfather’s breakfast, the sunflowers (‘abba¯d al-shams) ‘gazing’ out, and the jasmine (al-ya¯samı¯n) that adorned the iron gate of the house.34 Then there were the oranges (al-burtuqa¯l), which symbolize more than anything else the coastal area of the homeland; the horse (alhisa¯n), the donkey (al-hima¯r), and the bull (al-thawr), which are the ˙˙ ˙ symbols of life, of nobility and of steadfastness on the land – those who were left behind at the house to witness the exile and the destruction of the house and the village in the Nakba.35 The owl (al-bu¯m), which was the symbol of the Nakba, of the destruction and exile, which built its ‘eternal tent around us’.36 He also mentions the well (al-bi’r), an identifying mark of the life that was.37 All these are expressions of the fundamentally pastoral Palestinian landscape. Darwish attributed special importance to the carob (al-kharru¯b) tree, the strawberry (altu¯t) tree, and the horse. These were not only part of the landscape of the poet’s homeland, but symbols of his childhood in his house and in his village of al-Birwa.38 In a letter to Samı¯h al-Qa¯sim on June 3, 1986, ˙ Darwish wrote: That carob tree, which guided the foreign ‘innocent’ settler to me and to my forefathers, is itself the cloak of my identity and it is

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also the skin of my spirit, if the spirit has skin. There I was born, and there I want to be buried, and this will be my sole will and testament! The carob tree [. . .] ask how it fares – if it has not yet been cut down. The carob tree – in its giant hollow trunk I took shelter from the rain and from family, when I played with the lizards, cicadas, and reptiles.39 The above are not simple descriptions of nature, like the descriptions by the Arab poets of the Middle Ages, such as al-Buhturı¯ (821– 898) and ˙ Abu¯-Tamma¯m (804–846). Nature and landscape served Darwish as the building blocks for the reconstruction of the lost homeland. These motifs were used by other poets as well. ‘No way’ (mustahı¯l) wrote the ˙ poet Tawfı¯q Zayya¯d in his poem ‘Here we will stay’ (Huna¯ ba¯qu¯n): ‘In Lydda, in Ramla, and in the Galilee / here we stay [. . .] / so go drink the sea.’40 Darwish did this with intensity and consistency. In his poems, Darwish also mentions many villages and areas from the landscape of his childhood. ‘We are exempt from remembering / since the Karmel is within us / and on our eyelashes [grew] the grass of the Galilee’, Darwish wrote in 1970 to the poetess Fadwa¯ Tu¯qa¯n in his poem ˙ Diary of a Palestinian wound.41 In his poem The curtain falls from the collection ‘Birds Die in the Galilee’ (al-‘Asa¯fı¯r Tamu¯t fı¯ al-Jalı¯l, 1970), ˙ he mentions the Galilee (al-Jalı¯l), Lydda (al-Lid), and Jaffa (Ya¯fa¯).42 And upon leaving the Israeli Communist Party and his exile from the country in 1970, he wrote: ‘Magdalena’s eyes / etched in my body / the shape of the Galilee / [. . .] their brushes paint paintings about Lydda / [. . .] Jaffa is none other than the skin of a drum.’43 He also mentions Jerusalem (al-Quds), Nazareth (al-Na¯sira), Hittim ˙ (Hittı¯n) the Jezreel Valley (Marj Ibn ‘A¯mir), and Jericho (Arı¯ha¯) in the ˙ ˙˙ ˙ poem Sarha¯n drinks coffee at the cafeteria, which he wrote in 1971 while ˙ staying in Cairo.44 Darwish also wrote about the massacre in Kafr Qa¯sim and about his own native village, al-Birwa, in the poems ‘Victim number 48’ (al-Qatı¯l raqam 48, 1956) and ‘Victim number 18’ (al-Qatı¯l raqam 18, 1967).45 Darwish was not the only Palestinian writer to commemorate the Palestinian villages. Emı¯l Habı¯bı¯, in his famous novella, ‘The ˙ Pessoptimist’ (al-Mutasha¯’il), mentions a long list of Palestinian villages that still exist in the north of the country, including Haifa, Acre, Sha‘b, Abu¯ Sina¯n, al-Mazra‘a, ‘Amqa¯, as well as those that were destroyed upon

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the establishment of the state of Israel: al-Birwa, al-Manshiyya, alTantu¯ra, al-Rwı¯s, al-Kwı¯ka¯t, al-Da¯mu¯n, al-Bassa, al-Zı¯b, and al-Ka¯brı¯, ˙ ˙ ˙˙ among others.46 Indeed, The Pessoptimist is a seminal work, since it documents the Nakba and its repercussions, especially for Palestinian Israelis. But this work does not necessarily capture the imagination of Palestinians in the diaspora, in the refugee camps, or in the West Bank and Gaza. Moreover, Habı¯bı¯ (and the same can be said for Tawfı¯q Zayya¯d) ˙ dedicated most of his life to politics in the narrow sense, and not to literature or to the broader national cause. Darwish’s poetry documented and commemorated the major events and traumas in the history of the Palestinian people: the events of the Nakba, the displacement, the massacre in Kafr Qa¯sim (1956), and in the Tal alZa‘tar refugee camp (1976), the 1982 war and the siege of Beirut, the first Intifada (1988), the Madrid Peace Talks (1991), the Oslo Accords (1993), the second Intifada (2000), the Hamas (the Islamic resistance movement) take-over of Gaza (June 14, 2007), and more. In the poem Until my end and its end in the collection Why Did You Leave the Horse Alone? (1995), Darwish documented his clandestine return to the homeland in 1949: Will you know the way, my son? / I shall know it my father / east of the carob tree on the main road / a short path with a cactus narrowing its beginning / and afterwards it breaks free / and broadens towards the well, and finally opens out / onto the vineyard of Uncle Jamil, / vendor of cigarettes and sweets [. . .] Will you know the house, my son? – Just as I know the way: / coils of jasmine on the iron of the gate / traces of light on the stone of the steps [. . .] Will you carry me? – As you have carried me before. / I will even carry your longing / until / my beginning and its beginning / and I shall walk the path / until my end, and its.47 In this category are the poems ‘Blood flowers’ (Azha¯r al-dam) in which he provides a historical documentation of the massacre that took place in Kafr Qa¯sim in 1956; Ahmad al-za‘tar, which he wrote following the 1976 ˙ massacre in the Tal al-Za‘tar refugee camp in Lebanon; Passers in passing words which he wrote during the first Intifada (1988); and ‘A nonlinguistic dispute with Imru’ al-Qays’ (Khila¯f ghayr lughawı¯ ma‘ Imru’ al-Qays), which he wrote following the signing of the Oslo Accords and which appeared in the collection Why Did You Leave the Horse Alone (1995).

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The displacement and Nakba were also documented by Emı¯l Habı¯bı¯ in a ˙ short scene in The Pessoptimist: the military governor travels in a jeep with a collaborator. All of a sudden he stops the jeep, gets out, and runs into a sesame field, where he finds a mother and son hiding, trying to return to their village. The military governor threatens them with a gun and banishes them. Habı¯bı¯, speaking in the voice of the collaborator sitting in ˙ the military governor’s jeep, writes: The woman stood up and, gripping her child by the hand, set off toward the east, not once looking back. Her child walked beside her, and he too never looked back. At this point, I observed, the first example of that amazing phenomenon that was to occur again and again until I finally met my friends from outer space. For the further the woman and child went from where we were, the governor standing and I in the jeep, the taller they grew. By the time they merged with their own shadows in the sinking sun they had become bigger than the plain of Acre itself. The governor still stood there awaiting their final disappearance, while I remained huddled in the jeep. Finally he asked in amazement, ‘Will they never disappear?’ this question, however, was not directed at me. Berwah is the village of the poet Mahmoud Darwish, who said [. . .] was he this very child? Had he gone on walking eastward after releasing himself from his mother’s hand, leaving her in the shadows??48 Other writers also documented turning points in the history of the Palestinian people. The massacre in Kafr Qa¯sim, for example, was documented by Tawfı¯q Zayya¯d,49 and the first Intifada was documented by Samı¯h al-Qa¯sim in his famous poem ‘A letter to occupiers who do not ˙ read’ (Risa¯la li-Ghuza¯t la¯ Yaqra’u¯n).50 However, unlike other writers, Darwish’s documentation is systematic, intensive, and includes an entire spectrum of Palestinian experiences in which he took part or of which he was a close witness – within Israel, in the diaspora, and in territories of the Palestinian Authority.51 This is not an oeuvre of political or journalistic documentation like the columns of Natan Alterman, which took a particular interest in his leader (Ben-Gurion) and in trifles and day-to-day matters. Darwish did not write columns to make a living, nor for the sake of political manoeuvring. He made use of

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materials of reality to write poetry and commemoration. He carried in his suitcase, not his leader or party, but the homeland itself: My homeland is my suitcase / and my suitcase is my homeland / [. . .] At night It becomes my bed / [. . .] I sleep within / [. . .] I die within / [. . .] My homeland is a suitcase / made of my dears’ leather / and of my near (adjacent) Andalus / My homeland on my shoulders / remnants of the earth in the body of Arabism.52 ‘In the case of a political identity that’s being threatened, culture is a way of fighting against extinction and obliteration. Culture is a form of memory against effacement’, writes Edward Said.53 Darwish’s work has not restored the Palestinians’ ‘Andalusia’, but it has helped to give their lives meaning, hope, and spiritual succour. He bequeathed them a vast cultural and national oeuvre, so that they should not forget the ‘land of the story’ (‘ard al-qissa’).54 His goal was to prevent ˙ ˙˙ those who had colonized the land from ‘colonizing memory’ (‘muha¯walat ˙ istı¯ta¯n al-dha¯kira’) as well, in other words, to prevent the enemy from ˙ immortalizing his story.55

Expressing the Palestinian Spirit In the poem At the train station that fell off the map, which Darwish wrote on the occasion of the 60th anniversary of the Nakba (May 2008), the poet expressed the mood among his fellow Palestinians, both in the homeland and in the diaspora: a feeling of desperation at the impasse that the peace talks had reached since the signing of the Oslo Accords in 1993, a feeling that had grown stronger since the beginning of the second Intifada in 2000. The poet stands at a train station, remembering his national and personal map, and lamenting days gone by: I stood at the station, not to wait for the train, [. . .] but to know how the sea went mad and how the place broke like a porcelain jar, [. . .] and how birds migrated South or North [. . .] We were kind and naı¨ve. We said: The land, our land / is the heart of the map and will not be afflicted by any external ailment [. . .] so we did not see tomorrow stealing its prey, the past, and departing [. . .] For my eternal wound there is a tribunal without a neutral judge / Tired of truth, the judges tell me: It is just that traffic accidents are

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common / The train fell off the map / and you were burned by past’s ember / It was not an invasion! 56 The lamentation in Darwish’s poetry (al-wuqu¯f ‘ala¯ al-atla¯l) is ˙ different from that in classical Arabic poetry as it was described by Ibn ‘Abd Rabbih (860–939), the Arabic literary figure who lived in Cordoba, in the introduction to his anthology ‘The Rare Necklace’ (al-‘Iqd al-Farı¯d); Darwish’s tears over the remains of a life which is no longer is not a matter of style and taste. It is the story of personal tragedy and national tragedy. He, and only he, did not let a national event pass without expressing his mood and that of his fellow Palestinians, because he is the ‘one who watched over all of the expressions that were omitted from the dictionary of the “language of the Arabs”’.57

Commemorating Palestinian Figures Darwish also commemorated important persons in his eulogies, which he often delivered at funerals or memorials. Among those eulogized by him are many Palestinian poets, writers, and leaders, the first being the writer Ghassa¯n Kanafa¯nı¯, who was killed in 1972 in a car explosion in Beirut, apparently by the Israeli Mossad. Years later he eulogized the important scientist ‘Izz al-Dı¯n al-Qaliq, the PLO representative in Paris. Al-Qaliq, who was born in Haifa, was murdered on August 3, 1978 by Iraqi intelligence forces and the Abu¯ Nida¯l faction (under the leadership ˙ of Sabrı¯ al-Banna¯).58 In 1984 Darwish wrote in his memory a eulogy ˙ entitled ‘The last conversation in Paris’ (al-Hiwa¯r al-akhı¯r fı¯ Ba¯rı¯s).59 ˙ Darwish mourned the death of the writer Ma¯jid Abu¯ Shara¯r (1936–1981) in a combination of poetry and poetic prose in ‘Good morning Ma¯jid’ (Saba¯h al-khayr ya¯ Ma¯jid). Abu¯ Shara¯r, who was born in the village of Du¯ra¯ ˙ ˙ next to Hebron, was killed when a bomb was planted under his bed in the Flora Hotel in Rome, apparently by Mossad.60 In 1984, Darwish wrote in his memory the poem ‘The last meeting in Rome’ (al-Liqa¯’ al-akhı¯r fi Roma¯).61 In memory of the poet Mu‘ı¯n Bsı¯su¯ (1926–1984), he wrote ‘Mu‘ı¯n Bsı¯su¯ is not sitting on the absentee’s chair’ (Mu‘ı¯n Bsı¯su¯ la¯ yajlis ‘ala¯ maq‘ad al-ghiya¯b). Bsı¯su¯ died in a London hotel under mysterious circumstances and was buried in Egypt.62 Darwish also lamented Khalı¯l al-Wazı¯r (Abu¯ Jiha¯d), the head of the military wing of Fatah, who was killed in 1988 in an Israeli commando operation in Tunis, in the text

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‘Khalı¯l al-Wazı¯r and the bitter taste of freedom’ (‘Khalı¯l al-Wazı¯r wa-mara¯rat al-huriyya’).63 Likewise Darwish bemoaned the death of two ˙ Palestinian-Israeli writers and politicians, Tawfı¯q Zayya¯d and Emı¯l Habı¯bı¯. In memory of Zayya¯d, who died in 1994, Darwish wrote from ˙ Paris ‘Letter from one absentee to another’ (‘Risa¯lat al-gha¯’ib ila¯ al-gha¯’ib’).64 He eulogized his friend, habı¯bı¯, at his funeral on May 3, ˙ 1996.65 ‘I did not come to mourn him,’ Darwish wrote, ‘but to visit myself: born together, / grown up together [. . .] Not to mourn anything I came, [. . .] but to tread the old paths / with a friend, and tell him: / we will change nothing of yesterday, / we just hope tomorrow is habitable.’66 Darwish also expressed his lament for the death of the Jerusalemite leader Faysal al-Husaynı¯ (1940–2001), in the editorial of the summer 2001 ˙ ˙ issue of al-Karmel; and the Palestinian intellectual Ibrahim Abu Lughod (b. 1929, Jaffa), at the latter’s funeral on May 17, 2001 in a eulogy which he composed and published at a later date under the title: ‘Knowledge/ Awareness is the way to return’ (‘Tarı¯q al-‘awda hiya tarı¯q al- ma‘rifa’).67 ˙ ˙ With the assistance of ‘Ada¯la, the Legal Centre for Arab Minority Rights in Israel, Abu Lughod posthumously realized his right of return and was buried in the cemetery in Jaffa. After the death of Edward Said (1995– 2003), Darwish wrote the mournful poem ‘Counterpoint’ (Tiba¯q’).68 ˙ About the chairman of the PLO and of the Palestinian National Authority, Yasir Arafat (1929–2004), Darwish gave a eulogy at the funeral, and at the memorial service.

On Yasir Arafat ‘He surprised us by not surprising us’ (‘Fa¯ja’ana¯ bi-annahu lam yufaji’na¯’), wrote the poet on November 11, 2004 about the death of Arafat.69 Forty days later, Darwish wrote another text: ‘My sorrow for him was late in coming’ (‘Ta’akhkhar huznı¯ ‘alayhi kathı¯ra¯’).70 In both ˙ poetic eulogies Darwish expressed his great love for the leader who had turned into a ‘shining national symbol’ (‘Ramz shadı¯d al-lama‘a¯n’): a symbol of revolution, sacrifice, and national unity. However, his eulogies incorporated quite a bit of criticism, testifying to the poet’s change in position vis-a`-vis the leader and his disagreement with some aspects of the national symbol that Arafat embodied. In both texts, Darwish expressed not only the way in which the Palestinians see their leader, the symbol of the Palestinian revolution, but also the way in which Arafat perceived himself, as could be

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understood by his external appearance: the kufiyya on his head and his military uniform. ‘His symbolic status was fashioned around the image of the fighter: the uniform, a gun at his side when he estimated that his life was in danger, and the emphasis on motifs of Jiha¯d, self-sacrifice, and martyrdom in his speeches’, wrote political scientist Menachem Klein.71 Upon Arafat’s death, Darwish wrote that Arafat ‘led a revolution against all odds’ (qa¯d thawra mu‘a¯kisa li’ay hisa¯b). Under the circumstances, this ˙ was like ‘setting a fire to ice’ (ish‘a¯l na¯r fı¯ al-jalı¯d). He added: He did not win military battles, neither in the homeland nor in the diaspora. But he did win the battle of defending our national existence. He placed the Palestinian question squarely on the regional and international political map. He gave shape to the national identity of the Palestinian refugee, lost and forgotten at the edges of oblivion. He caused the Palestinian reality to take root in the human consciousness and succeeded in convincing the world that war begins in Palestine and peace begins in Palestine. Yasir Arafat’s ku¯fiyya, folded and fixed in place with symbolic and folkloric importance, became the moral and political guide to Palestine.72 According to Darwish, Arafat thus transformed the Palestinian question into an icon in the regional and international arena. However, there was a symbiotic relationship between Arafat and Darwish when it came to transforming the Palestinian cause into an icon. Both were national symbols of Palestine, and both embodied the unity of the Palestinian people, each in his own way. Arafat was a symbol of political unity, while Darwish was a symbol of cultural unity. Arafat turned the Palestinian issue into an icon by military and political means, while Darwish did so by poetic and lyrical means, as is the way of great national poets. Thus the Palestinians see them both as personifications of Palestine. Furthermore, Arafat contributed to the symbolization of Darwish, and Darwish contributed to the symbolization of his leader, even though he did not always agree with all aspects of the symbol. Darwish’s eulogy very precisely reflected the change in the symbolization of the leader, not only in the eyes of the poet, but also in the eyes of the people. From a perfect national symbol, Arafat transformed into a fractured symbol, fractured by the guilt of association with the corruption and inefficiency of the institutions of

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the Palestinian National Authority. Upon his death he transformed from a fractured symbol back into a pure national symbol and into a symbol of sacrifice, disconnected or liberated from all negative phenomena. On this, Menachem Klein wrote: The hundreds of thousands who burst into the Muqa¯ta‘a compound and disrupted the funeral are a good expression of this. At the funeral, the masses wanted to physically touch the symbol from the moment the helicopter with his coffin touched the ground. At that moment the symbol was freed from the ills of the institution that he embodied, and Arafat turned into a shahı¯d, one who had sacrificed his life for the nation and continues to struggle from his resting place.73 Darwish, on the other hand, did not describe Arafat as a martyr (shahı¯d) in his eulogy or in any of his later poetry or poetic prose. This is relevant for two reasons. The first is that the Palestinian people saw Arafat as a martyr who had been poisoned and killed by Israel, and thus the description shahı¯d overshadowed every other description. According to Klein, this belief ‘perpetuates the symbol in the public consciousness and in Palestinian discourse, and validates Arafat’s epithet, “the eternal leader”’.74 The second reason is that Darwish himself had foreshadowed that Arafat would be poisoned by Israel when he addressed Arafat as ‘Imru’ al-Qays’ in Why Did You Leave the Horse Alone. In the Arabic tradition, the well-known Arabian poet Imru’ al-Qays (496– 544) was the son of one of the last of the Kindite kings, who was murdered by the Banı¯ Asad tribe. In order to regain the kingdom and avenge his father’s death, Imru’ al-Qays turned to his enemy, the Byzantine emperor (Justinian I) for help in reclaiming his throne. The emperor, also known as ‘The Great’, promised him a kingdom in Palestine, under that of the Banı¯ Asad. But Imru’ al-Qays died on his way to Palestine after donning a poisoned cloak given to him by the emperor. Imru’ al-Qays (the text) was a metaphor for Arafat (the subtext). Upon Arafat’s death, the subtext came to the surface and was like the fulfilment of the prophecy. With the possibility that Arafat had been poisoned by Polonium-210, a toxic radioactive material found on his toothbrush by Swiss scientists, the leader turned into a shahı¯d in the eyes of his people.75 But for Darwish, Arafat’s death did not turn him

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into a shahı¯d, but rather into a ‘shining symbol’ of the revolution and of the homeland, Palestine (Filastı¯n). This image of Arafat appears ˙ consistently in Darwish’s writing at least since 1983. In this, Darwish differed from many of his fellow Palestinians, who had seen Arafat as a symbol of corruption, and only in death saw him as a symbol of martyrdom. In this context, two questions arise: to what degree did Darwish contribute to the symbolization of Arafat? And did he, albeit unwittingly, cause the transformation of Arafat into a symbol of a shahı¯d? In his eulogy, Darwish described Arafat as a symbol of the national unity of the Palestinian people. ‘We love him’, wrote Darwish upon Arafat’s death. The first reason for this was because he is ‘in us and with us’, meaning, just like the Palestinian people, under the siege and distress of the second Intifada. And the second reason, ‘because his enemies were also the enemies of the Palestinian people; the siege of the President is a symbol of a siege against us, his distress is a symbol of our own distress, and he is in us, with us, and like us. We love him because of this, and we love him because we do not love our enemies’, that is, Israel and Syria.76 By contrast, Darwish did not use such an image of unity after the evacuation of Beirut in 1983 and the split in Arafat’s organization. Darwish astutely expressed this split in his article ‘Yasir Arafat and the sea’ (‘Yasir Arafat wa-l-bahr’), in the words ‘some of us ˙ love him’: We love him and want him, because he is a perfect fit for our hearts, which are overflowing with the contradictions of their loves, and which cannot be controlled, because we have never been ruled by our own rulers, not once in history [. . .] And so we chose our leader: Yasir Arafat because some of us love him and most of us don’t love his enemies [. . .] with full freedom we already chose Yasir Arafat to rule us.77 Arafat is described also as one who gave legitimacy to the Palestinian cause and to the existence of the homeland: ‘wherever Arafat was, so was the legitimacy of Palestine’. And, ‘wherever Arafat was, so was the subject, so was Palestine’.78 Darwish wrote his most memorable work, the epic poem ‘In Praise of the High Shadow’ (Madı¯h ˙ al-Zil al-‘A¯lı¯), in 1983, after Israel’s war against the Palestinian _

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presence in Beirut in 1982. He recounts the daily realities of life under shelling and siege in Beirut, the deafening silence of the rest of the world towards the plight of the Palestinians and Lebanese, and the bloodcurdling details of the massacre in Sabra¯ and Shatı¯la¯. Also in this ˙ seminal poem, he wrote in praise of Arafat: ‘What do you want? Sovereignty over ashes?/ While you are the master of our soul, / The master of our ever-changing existence / [. . .] You are the master of the ember, / The master of the flame.’79 And more: ‘You are the freedom of creation/ You are the creator of the ways/ And you are the anti-thesis of this era.’80 In other words, Arafat survived a long series of dangers that lurked in his path. In addition, were it not for Arafat, whose national work was like ‘lighting a flame in the freezing cold’ (‘ish‘a¯l na¯r fı¯ al-jalı¯d’), there would have been no chance for the Palestinian question to receive the world’s attention. In 2006, in an interview published in al-Karmel, Darwish returned to the same images he had used in 1983. He expressed great appreciation for a lost symbol, though not without criticism. Just as he asked of Arafat in 1983 to preserve his life and avoid all danger because ‘he must live’, and ‘we ask him to live!’81 After his death, Darwish asked that he continue to be a symbol: ‘I want to see him as a symbol’ because ‘we are in need of symbols’.82 And also: ‘Either he will be now or we will not be.’83 ‘We miss Arafat,’ he wrote, but ‘we do not want another Arafat.’84 He listed two reasons. The first: ‘it is hard to copy a character like him’; and the second: ‘this figure has completed its historical role.’85 Meaning, he wanted Arafat solely as a national symbol. His authoritative and patriarchal leadership was suited to the revolutionary stage in Palestinian history, but now things had changed and the time had come for a different kind of leadership. Darwish did not say whether or not Mahmoud Abbas (Abu Mazen) was the best choice or a worthy replacement for Arafat, but he noted that the time had come for a different kind of leadership: ‘we [. . .] are in need of good managers’,86 meaning, leaders who will enable a proper and effective administration and not a corrupt one, as the institutions of the Palestinian National Authority are seen by the Palestinian public. And, ‘I want to see him’ explained Darwish ‘as a symbol of change and of the history of the people [. . .] from refugees to fighters and to a national and cultural enterprise, and another symbol of our firm presence on the map of the world.’ 87 And indeed, Arafat was characterized as a symbol in his death (in 2004),

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but after his death he turned into much more than a symbol, as an icon for an entire era that had passed. In his eulogy, Darwish did not forget to express his criticism as well of the leader. He described Arafat as a patriarchal and authoritarian figure. This criticism reflects a drastic change in the poet’s stance toward his leader: ‘He crystallized all of our causes into his person, became so necessary in our lives to the point of danger, like the father of a family who does not allow his sons to grow and to stand on their feet.’88 ‘Arafat was the final arbiter in the PLO on matters great and small, and this style continued also in the Palestinian Authority.’89 Moreover, he was characterized by the ‘complete blurring [of the boundary] between the private and the public’, wrote Darwish.90 In both the PLO and the PA, the personal and the national became one, wrote Klein. The same phenomenon was reflected on the spatial level as well; Arafat’s private home served as a bureau and office for the upper echelons of the PLO.91 According to the historian Yazı¯d Sa¯yigh, this centralization had been a bone of contention among the ˙ leadership of the organization since 1967. Kha¯lid al-Hasan, Sala¯h Khalaf ˙ ˙ ˙ (Abu¯ Iya¯d), Nimr Sa¯lih, and Fathı¯ Arafat – Arafat’s younger brother – ˙ ˙ ˙ protested against Arafat’s one-man rule and the unrestrained use of funds.92 Following the Gaza and Jericho Agreement at a ceremony in Cairo on May 4, 1994 – which led shortly thereafter to the establishment of the Palestinian Authority (PA) – Faysal al-Husaynı¯ and Hana¯n ‘Ashra¯wı¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ threatened to resign their public offices, hoping to convince Arafat that decisions could not be made without consultation. Gaza leaders also expressed harsh criticism of Arafat’s behaviour as a leader, claiming that he made decisions alone.93 By contrast, Elia¯s Khu¯rı¯ claimed that Arafat’s oneman rule was only a latter-day phenomenon. Until the 1990s, Arafat was one in a triumvirate along with Abu¯ Jiha¯d (1935–1988), who was the head of the PLO’s military arm, and Abu¯ Iya¯d (1933–1991), who was head of intelligence. Only when those two were killed did Arafat apparently become the sole source of authority.94 Similarly, in his autobiography Shafı¯q al-Hu¯t claims that since 1992 and the fall of a plane carrying the ˙ chairman of the Palestine Liberation Organization in bad weather over a remote area of the Libyan desert (April 7, 1992), Arafat had believed in Divine Providence and become a highly centralized leader.95 Despite the discontent among some of the upper echelons of the PLO, in particular at the time of the crisis within the organization, Darwish’s earlier texts did not cast criticism on the authoritarian

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leadership of Arafat. On the contrary, in his poem ‘In praise of the high shadow’ (Madı¯h al-Zil al-‘A¯lı¯, 1983), he shows great sympathy for the ˙ _ PLO leader. He expressed this appreciation by addressing Arafat as ‘Oh father’ (‘Ya¯ abı¯’). This epithet, along with the nickname ‘old man’ (‘al-Khitya¯r’), over the years became synonymous with Arafat. Above all, this nickname expressed Arafat’s symbolic status as the father and progenitor of the Palestinian revolution: ‘The universe is your small notebook/ and you are its creator / so write in it the paradise of genesis, oh father.’96 When in the PLO they began to think up the idea of ‘a Palestinian state on part of Palestine’ (in Gaza), an idea that Arafat espoused after the evacuation from Beirut, Darwish opposed the very idea and expressed this in the words: ‘So great is the revolution / So narrow the journey/ So great is the idea, and so small the state.’97 In his article ‘Yasir Arafat and the sea’ (‘Yasir Arafat wa-l-Bahr’, ˙ 1983), Darwish expressed criticism of Arafat’s decision to return from Tunisia to Lebanon to command the Fatah forces in Tripoli, which were under attack by Syrian forces and by the PLO rebels. Darwish also expressed criticism of Arafat’s brinkmanship, to the point of personal risk. He dramatically describes Arafat coming close to the abyss: It could be that Yasir Arafat, in his oceanic journey to Tripoli [. . .] placed himself in danger of death [. . .] I did not conceal my emotional and political opposition to his maritime journey to Tripoli. Since, he could have avoided this temptation [. . .] He was putting his body in the bosom of the tyrant, approaching, touching, hugging, so who would dare to spill the blood of Arafat! [. . .] It was an encounter between the suicidal Arafat and the Arab [Syrian and Libyan] murderer.98 After Arafat’s death, Darwish criticized two national decisions that Arafat had taken, which he considered to be brinkmanship: the signing of the Oslo Accords and the armed Intifada. Darwish did not express such a criticism, for example, of Arafat’s support for Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait in 1990. In his death, Arafat was also described as a leader who knew how to survive: ‘Yasir Arafat was the longest chapter in our lives. His name was one of the names of the new Palestine blossoming from the ashes of the Nakba to the embers of resistance, to the idea of a state.’99 In this

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description, Darwish cast positive light on these two aspects of Arafat’s survivor-image: his survival within the organization and his physical survival. In this text, there was no hint of criticism about the fact that sometimes Arafat sacrificed national aims in order to strengthen his political status within the PLO.100 On Arafat’s physical survival, Darwish wrote: He came out of Sharon’s siege [on Beirut], was rescued from the airplane chase and from the lens of the sniper, and continued on an odyssey [. . .] was rescued from a plane ride-over above his bedroom in Tunisia, and was saved once again from his plane crash in the Libyan desert [1992], and was saved from the repercussions of the first Gulf War, and was redeemed from the figure of the terrorist, which he exchanged for the image of the Nobel Peace Prize laureate. He realized the prophecy that lived in him all his life – the return to Palestine.101 The two eulogies written by Darwish upon Arafat’s death in 2004 faithfully reflected the leader’s personality and the mood of the Palestinians. A comparison between these two eulogies to the two texts that Darwish wrote in 1983, after the evacuation of the PLO headquarters from Beirut and the rebellion in Fatah, reveal a change in the poet’s stance towards his leader, as well as differences between Darwish and the Palestinian public regarding the perception of the leader and his leadership style. Unlike Darwish, who saw Arafat as a secular symbol, most of the Palestinian public saw him as a sacred martyr. Darwish unwittingly contributed to this, as the public drew religious symbolization from an allegory in Why Did You Leave the Horse Alone?

On Ghassa¯n Kanafa¯nı¯ Upon the death of Kanafa¯nı¯, Darwish wrote: My friend Ghassa¯n! We did not eat our last lunch together, and you didn’t even apologize for your lateness. I lifted the telephone to scold you, as usual: ‘It’s two o’clock and you’re not here yet! Please rid yourself of this bad habit.’ But then they told me – he already

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blew up. No man can live as he pleases. But we see you in every place. You live within us and for us, without even knowing it.102 Kanafa¯nı¯ was killed on July 8, 1972, a short time after the Lod Airport massacre on May 30, 1972. In his eulogy, Darwish emphasized Kanafa¯nı¯’s status in the Palestinian national movement. Under the title ‘an attempt to lament a volcano’ (‘Muha¯walat ritha¯’ burka¯n’), Darwish ˙ called for national mobilization in order to fill the void left behind with Kanafa¯nı¯’s death. However, his eulogy was not lacking in criticism of the ‘mistakes’ of the revolution and about the conspiracy between the [Zionist] occupier and the [Arab] exploiter against Kanafa¯nı¯. Selfsacrifice and death, he claimed, are the test of Palestinian identity, and Kanafa¯nı¯’s death was proof of his Palestinian identity and of his love for the homeland. ‘Let us therefore fill the void left by Kanafa¯nı¯ so that he will not be alone, orphaned, and sad.’103 In his eulogy, Darwish highlighted Kanafa¯nı¯’s national revolutionary image. He described him as ‘a volcano’ (burka¯n), as ‘a national symbol’ (ramz), and as the ‘civilization of a wound’ (hada¯rat jurh).104 ˙ ˙ ˙ Nonetheless, the eulogy did not adequately correspond to the scope of the loss for the Palestinians. There is nothing in the eulogy about Kanafa¯nı¯’s contribution to and status within Palestinian and Arab national literature. Until his death, Kanafa¯nı¯ was known primarily as a national activist. His significance in Palestinian national literature was established only after his death, in particular after the collection and publication of his literary works. Kanafa¯nı¯, who was killed five months after Darwish arrived in Beirut, allegedly by the Mossad, published his writings in the Lebanese press (al-Muharrir, al-Anwa¯r, al-Hawa¯dith), and ˙ ˙ above all in the PFLP weekly al-Hadaf, which he founded and edited from 1969. The task of collecting and publishing Kanafa¯nı¯’s cultural legacy was taken on after his death by a private Lebanese association, the Ghassa¯n Kanafa¯nı¯ Cultural Foundation, in collaboration with the Institute for Arab Research in Beirut. Notably neither the Institute for Palestinian Studies, founded in Beirut in 1963, nor the Centre for Palestinian Research, nor the al-Karmel Literary Institute (which was headed by Darwish from 1981 onwards) participated in this task of compiling Kanafa¯nı¯’s works. Kanafa¯nı¯, a leading member of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine, left behind a rich and varied literary legacy as a novelist,

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playwright, journalist, and literary critic. In addition to his literary criticism in the fields of ‘resistance literature’ and ‘Zionist literature’, Kanafa¯nı¯ wrote nine novels, three plays, and many short stories.105 The Egyptian writer Yu¯suf Idrı¯s wrote aptly in the introduction to Kanafa¯nı¯’s collection of stories: ‘Palestine was the theme of [. . .] his writing [. . .], and the theme of his life, and the theme of his death.’106 His entire literary corpus was dedicated to the experience of displacement, exile, and the struggle for self-determination. Two novels stand out: Men in the Sun (Rija¯l fı¯ al-Shams, 1963), describing the bitter fate of the Palestinian refugees outside the homeland, and ‘Returnee to Haifa’ (‘A¯’id ila¯ Haifa, ˙ 1969), about an encounter between Arab Nakba refugees, who returned to their homes in Haifa after the Six-Day War, and an Israeli family of Holocaust survivors now living in their home. His writings are considered foundation stones in the consolidation of the Palestinian national narrative. Nonetheless they were completely overlooked or ignored by Darwish in his eulogy of Kanafa¯nı¯. A significant change occurred in Darwish’s attitude toward Kanafa¯nı¯ years after the latter’s death. Marking 25 years since Kanafa¯nı¯’s death, Darwish wrote in his memory in an editorial in al-Karmel: ‘In order to do justice to Kanafa¯nı¯’s memory we should consider a re-reading of him. [. . .] Kanafa¯nı¯’s return to our discussion is tantamount to restoring meaning to our lives.’107 In an article entitled ‘A gazelle heralding an earthquake’ (‘Ghaza¯l yubashshir bi-zilza¯l’), which was included in the introduction to Kanafa¯nı¯’s collection of essays, ‘The Complete Works: Literary Studies’ (al-’A¯tha¯r al-Ka¯mila: al-Dira¯sa¯t al-‘Adabiyya, 1998), Darwish expressed greater appreciation than in the past for the literary oeuvre of the writer. ‘Modern Palestinian prose begins with Kanafa¯nı¯,’ Darwish declared in his introduction to this collection.108 He emphasized in particular Kanafa¯nı¯’s critical studies of resistance literature and Zionist literature. Notwithstanding his criticism of the term ‘resistance literature’, Darwish acknowledged its historical significance: ‘We were anonymous until Kanafa¯nı¯ declared the existence of the literature of resistance.’109 And also: ‘He wrote the first Arabic study of one of the most important subjects about Zionism’,110 and about ‘Zionist literature and its role in the consolidation of the Zionist consciousness and entity.’111 Nonetheless, claimed Darwish, Kanafa¯nı¯’s work was based on just a few texts from the Zionist literature, which had been published in English.112 Indeed, Kanafa¯nı¯ was the first to write

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about Palestinian literature in Israel despite the iron curtain that divided him and the Palestinian writers in Israel. Darwish wrote: The scandal is well known. We, when we wrote what Ghassa¯n [Kanafa¯nı¯] called ‘the poetry of resistance,’ did not know that we were writing ‘resistance poetry.’ [. . .] Thus Kanafa¯nı¯ broke ‘the siege that had been placed around the status of the Arabs in the occupied land, and highlighted every point of steadfastness by his fellow Palestinians.’ [. . .] Indeed Kanafa¯nı¯ opened up a window for the Arab public into the literature of the occupied land.113

On Fadwa¯ Tu¯qa¯n ˙ Upon the death of the poetess Fadwa¯ Tu¯qa¯n (1917–2003), Darwish wrote: ˙ Fadwa¯ did not carry on the tradition in Palestinian poetry of articulating the collective voice, which is exposed to the danger of displacement. She did not carry on the voice of her brother Ibra¯hı¯m [. . .] She sat in her feminine corner and listened to her heart, to her body, and to the romantic poetry permeating from the outside world, in which she found her personal voice in her search for her personal freedom [. . .] So, she was of the same generation as the poets of the Nakba, but was not one of them; She was of the same generation as the poets of modernity, but was not one of them, and she was of the same generation as the poets of the resistance, but was not one of them.114 These words to a large extent reflected reality. Darwish highlighted the fact of Tu¯qa¯n’s marginality within Palestinian society and its ˙ national movement. He wrote that Tu¯qa¯n ‘sat in her corner’. However ˙ she was not merely ‘sitting in her corner’ for so many years, but was imprisoned in her home. From her early adolescence her conservative family sentenced her to a sort of house arrest that lasted until the mid60s because of a flower that was given to her by a young suitor.115 Tu¯qa¯n ˙ wrote about this in her autobiography, ‘A Mountainous Journey, a Difficult Journey’ (Rihla Jabaliyya, Rihla Sa‘ba): ˙ ˙ When I reached adolescence [. . .] I became aware of my body’s development [. . .] I did not experience love at all [. . .] until the

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spring burst forth [. . .] and felt the beat of my heart for the first time. He was a 16-year-old boy, and the story did not stray beyond the boundaries of everyday courtship. He ran towards me with a jasmine flower [. . .] And then the curse descended upon me, putting an end to everything beautiful. Someone had been following us and passed on the information to my brother Yu¯suf, [. . .] who declared my sentence to house arrest until death [. . .] and went out to set the boy straight.116 For many years this personal trauma accompanied Tu¯qa¯n and ˙ destroyed her, physically and emotionally. It was primarily Israelis, politicians such as Moshe Dayan, and others such as Menachem Milson, who attributed exaggerated influence to the poetess, which did not reflect reality or stand the test of time.

Self-eulogy Darwish eulogized himself as well, in order to spare himself others’ descriptions of him using ‘canned’ and ‘expired’ phrases, as he put it. In his book, In the Presence of Absence, Darwish wrote a farewell speech and eulogy for himself in both the prologue and epilogue.117 After suffering two serious heart attacks, Darwish knew that a ‘festive death’118 was in store for him. The first heart attack happened in Vienna in 1984 and the second one in Belgium in 1998. Ten years later, on August 9, 2008, Darwish hoped that the Iraqi-born cardiologist, Dr ‘Abd al-‘Azı¯z Shiba¯nı¯, at the Houston, Texas hospital where Darwish was hospitalized, would ensure his recovery, but death was victorious. ‘I have a date with death, which I have postponed more than once. I even promised him in one of my poems – a glass of red wine’, wrote the poet.119 Darwish did not want others to eulogize him. ‘You told me’, wrote Darwish (the eulogizer) to Darwish (the eulogized), ‘Keep those canned, long-expired, words away from me.’120 Darwish did not fail to mention those who he felt had ‘betrayed’ him ‘like a tidal wave’ (kha¯nu¯nı¯ ka-lghadı¯r), envying his status, although he had paid for his status with his exile. This was a great insult for him: ‘I have been betrayed by many whom I loved / they betrayed me like a tidal wave / and were jealous of my deep wound.’121 From this he concludes that his enemies are ‘many, both overt and hidden’.122

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In the poem ‘A short holiday’ (Ija¯za qası¯ra) he foreshadowed that his ˙ death would be on a Saturday, and the prophecy indeed came true, on August 9, 2008. Then, he looked for a friend to inform of his death, and found no one.123 ‘I believed I’d died on Saturday / I said: “I must leave something in a will” / but could find nothing / and I said: “I must call a friend / to tell him I’ve died” / but could find no one/’124 In an interview given to Israeli journalist Dalya Karpel in Haaretz newspaper in July 2007, he spoke about the ‘betrayal’ by friends who saw him as a ‘literary threat’. Instead of casting aspersions of hatred and jealousy on him, Darwish suggested that they should express their rivalry through literature. This was a challenge to which his detractors could not stand up: One shouldn’t forget that there are many who detest me – both poets and those who consider themselves to be poets. Jealousy is a human emotion, but when it turns into hatred that is another thing. There are those who see me as a literary threat, but I see them as children needing to rebel against their spiritual father. They have the right to kill me, but they should kill me on a respectable level, meaning with the text.125

Re-assimilating National Narrative Since the 1960s, Palestinian strategy concentrated primarily on how to make the Palestinian issue ‘the primary one for Arabs’ (qadiyyat al-‘Arab ˙ al-u¯la¯). While the leftist organizations in the PLO argued that the Palestinian revolution ‘should be expanded to encompass the whole of Arab society’ (tathwı¯r al-mujtama’ al-madanı¯),126 Kha¯lid al-Hasan, one of ˙ the founding fathers of the Fatah organization, believed that the ‘Palestinian train’ (al-qita¯r al-Filastı¯nı¯) must be led by an ‘Arab engine’ ˙ ˙ (al-qa¯tira al-‘Arabiyya), namely Arab military forces. After the 1973 ˙ war, he perceived this ‘Arab engine’ as consisiting of no more than an Arab international and economic strategy.127 Without the ‘Arab engine’ he claimed, the ‘Palestinian train’ has no chance to travel (although the Palestinian train did travel without an ‘Arab engine’ during the first Intifada, in 1987, and then crawled toward the Oslo Accord in 1993, but he thought this was merely an aberration). All along, Darwish too believed that the Palestinian issue should be transformed into a pan-Arab issue. For Darwish, however, the Arab

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people and Arab culture rather than the Arab leaders were the guarantee for keeping Palestine, Palestinian identity, and the Palestinian question alive. As well as commemorating the Palestinian collective memory in Arabic culture, he had to enhance and re-assimilate the Palestinian national narratives among the Arabs and other communities. Darwish’s poetry evenings, literary journal, and published books were among his most influential socializing strategies. Poetry evenings took place in Arab countries – Morocco, Egypt, Syria, Lebanon, Jordan, and the Gulf States – as well as in Europe, the United States, and the Far East, nearly up to the time of the poet’s death. In his poetry evenings Darwish unusually drew tens of thousands of fans, in particular young people, from the entire social spectrum, including women, into his poetics and the re-assimilation process. In an interview in 1994, Sasson Somekh discussed the decline in the status of poets and poetry in the Arab world. In contrast to the preIslamic era and in the Golden Age of the Muslim Middle Ages, and following the general cultural decline during the Ottoman era, the modern Arab poet was no longer considered a leader. This phenomenon occurred throughout the Arabic literary world, with prose writers taking the place of poets. Darwish was an exception to this rule, writes Somekh. The great prestige he enjoyed and continues to enjoy is unique. This, despite the fact that only few can understand all the levels of his poetry, and that intellectual poetry such as his demands concentration and knowledge of many fields, and is not conducive to reading on public stages.128 Literary critic Yitzhak La’or shares this opinion, recognizing ˙ the important role Mahmoud Darwish’s poetry plays in the lives of 129 Palestinians: I remember one rally in Nazareth, 40 days after the massacre in Sabra¯ ˙ and Shatı¯la¯. I stood among the crowd in the high-school courtyard. Emı¯l Habı¯bı¯ spoke on the stage. Rain poured silently. Habı¯bı¯ cited a ˙ ˙ poem by Tawfı¯q Zayya¯d, which began with ‘I kiss your hands.’130 The large crowd in the courtyard began to sing, very quietly. A cloud of mourning hung over the city; only after the silent singing ended did Habı¯bı¯ return [. . .] to his speech. The speech was a long ˙ and quiet eulogy. Within the large corpus of Palestinian poetry, the poetry of Mahmoud Darwish stood out. His poems have become much more than poems that ‘everybody knows.’131

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Darwish’s poetry evenings drew exceptionally large and varied crowds. He is unparalleled among Palestinian poets and Arab poets in general, in the competition for the heart of the public. Both the poetry itself (theme, rhetoric, meter, and rhyme), and his presence (appearance, voice, and declamatory abilities) drew the audience into his poetry completely, absorbing them in his poetic and enhancing process – tens of thousands of admirers from the entire social spectrum, including young people, and women. Under the title ‘Power of poetry 1’, Hayim Hanegbi wrote in 1987 ˙ about Darwish’s poetry evenings: On the literary evenings for which he wandered regularly from one edge of the Arab world to another – from Rabat to San‘a, and from ˙ Damascus to Cairo – he broke all the taboos. In Rabat, for example, in February this year, some 5,000 people gathered in a theatre hall to listen to him read. The hall was completely full. More than 40,000 people gathered in the street, blocked traffic, listening to loudspeakers. He read Rhymed Speeches of a Dictator – a chapter from a book in progress – proposing a new regime to his subjects. ‘I will be for you a chosen king,’ he said to them, ‘and you will be my chosen people; and just as it is your right to elect me, to fire me, and even expel me, so do I reserve the right to elect you, to fire you, and even to expel you. The freedom of choice is mine as it is yours.’ [. . .] The police officers squirmed, not daring to interfere [. . .] Two and a half hours of exhausting tension, with the crowd applauding, forcing its will on the poet and turning him into an actor in a one-man show. Earlier, in Damascus, a crowd of thousands compelled him to read entire chapters from one of his longest poems ever, Ahmad al-Za‘tar. Not a single law˙ enforcement person lifted a finger. The crowd demanded in chorus, Ah-Mad al-Za‘tar, Ah-Mad al-Za‘tar, and applauded at the ˙ ˙ criticism of the regime. ‘I did not plan on reading,’ he confesses, ‘I didn’t want to make a provocation, but the crowd demanded and I gave in.’ Eyewitnesses tell that the police were on standby. The programme was meant to take place in the university stadium, a while after the massacre of Palestinians in the Tal al-Za‘tar refugee camp, in Beirut. The small stadium was not enough. The people went and grabbed the large sports stadium.132

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At an evening held in 1994 in Tunisia, a send-off for the poet before his return to the homeland (he returned to Gaza in 1995 and went to Ramallah after a year, and would not even visit Israel proper until 1996), there was a crowd of an estimated 16,000. On one poetry evening, which took place after the outbreak of the second Intifada in the large stadium in Beirut, the number of spectators was estimated at 25,000.133 Another poetry evening took place in May 2006 in Damascus. ‘In Syria’, according to Ziya¯d ‘Abd al-Fatta¯h, ‘Darwish was a spiritual guide with ˙ an intense presence, which is why he aroused such reverence’ (ima¯m lahu hudu¯r rahı¯b). ‘When Darwish is invited for a poetry evening in the ˙ ˙ courtyard of Damascus University, the square fills up with seventy thousand people.’134 Darwish drew audiences not only in Tunisia, Damascus, Beirut, and Cairo, but also in Europe and the Far East. A poetry evening was also held in the United States on April 28, 2002 on the occasion of his receipt of the Lannan Cultural Freedom Prize. Edward Said introduced Darwish to the crowd, while Marcel Khalı¯fa, the Lebanese Oud player who composed several of Darwish’s poems and who himself is a symbol of the struggle for freedom for the many who grew up on his songs since the 1960s, participated in the event. The names of Khalı¯fa and Darwish are linked in the public consciousness through the songs Identity Card, Yearning for my mother’s bread, Rita and the Gun, and more.135 A poetry evening was also held in Macedonia, on August 26, 2007, on the occasion of his receipt of the Golden Wreath prize. Carolyn Forche´ describes one of Darwish’s moments a year before his death: We were together at Struga in Macedonia, the oldest poetry festival in the world, and as he stood on a bridge over the River Drim, he read his poems to the thousands who crowded its banks and drew their flotilla of boats as close as they could to him beneath the bridge. During the festival, the sky burst with fireworks in his honour, torches were lit, songs sung, and he was presented with the Golden Wreath Award, one of the highest honours given to a poet.136 There were also some memorable poetry readings in Israel. One such evening took place on September 28, 2002 at the Tawfı¯q Zayya¯d Institution in Nazareth. In a poetry evening in Haifa on July 15, 2007,

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the Palestinian political and cultural elite in Israel took part. In an article entitled ‘Our tears in his poems’, Israeli journalist Merav Yudilevitch documented what took place on that evening: I could barely make my way from the plaza of the auditorium in Haifa to the Cinematheque box office. An hour before the doors to the hall were opened, the plaza was seething. The name ‘Darwish’ was on everybody’s lips. Among the hundreds who came to see the poet Mahmoud Darwish were representatives of the Palestinian intellectual elite, representatives from the political leaderships and from all strata of the population. From a distance you could identify the relieved faces of the lucky people who managed to get their hands on a ticket to the main hall [. . .] Even the politicians in the crowd remained breathless until the end of the evening. ‘It is like floating to heights that we do not often get to visit in the grey routine of our lives,’ said MK Muhammad Baraka, ‘Darwish is ˙ the artist of simple words. For us, members of the Palestinian people, it is a special occasion to see him, who came out of us, returning to us.’ Baraka was also moved by the immense attendance: ‘It is a certificate of honour. [. . .] so many people made the effort to come, desiring to take flight to a world of sublime and singular creation.’137 ‘Abd al-Ba¯rı¯ ‘Atwa¯n, the editor of al-Quds al-‘Arabı¯, wrote about ˙ Darwish after his death, that Arab/ Palestinian poetry will never again have the same strength and the same magic. It will be a different poetry, since ‘when he died, so, too, did the phenomenon of poets who can fill football stadiums with fans – men and women – not [only] in the Arab world, but [also] in the diasporas of Europe’.138 Poetry evenings were one of the poet’s ways of restoring and enhancing the Palestinian national narratives. Drawing tens of thousands of people in the Arab world and beyond, their primary achievement was to carry Palestinian collective memories and longings to the public. However the question arises, was it Darwish’s poetry that conveyed the Palestinian experience to the Arab and the international world, or was it the Palestinian experience that paved the way for him to this world? The literary journal al-Karmel also played an important role in his socializing or re-assimilation strategy. Between 1981 and 2006,

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al-Karmel was the journal of the Palestinian literary community in the diaspora and of the Palestinian Writers and Journalists’ Union, which Darwish headed between 1984 and 1993. In 1996, after a hiatus of three years, Darwish renewed the publication of the journal and published it simultaneously in Ramallah and in Amman, the capital of Jordan. In Ramallah, the journal was published by the al-Karmel Literatary Institute, while the printing took place through al-Ayya¯m. In Amman, on the other hand, the publication, printing, and distribution operated under the auspices Dar al-Shuru¯q Publishing House. In addition to the editorial, which dealt with current events, the journal published works by leading Palestinian writers. On occasion, selected translations from general literature were also published. Thus, al-Karmel became the most important contemporary Arabic literary journal. Darwish saw the journal as a window for the Palestinians to the outside world. All along, Darwish believed that ‘the Palestinian issue should be transformed into a pan-Arab issue’ (‘ala¯ al-qadiyya ˙ al-Filastı¯niyya an tu‘ammam).139 ˙ Al-Karmel was not only a Palestinian journal, but an Arabic journal of literature, culture, and philosophy. Through the establishment of alKarmel, the Palestinian Literary Institute, Darwish managed to establish himself prominently in both the Palestinian national arena and in the Arab literary milieu. The journal he edited dealt not only with problems of language and literature, but also with issues of culture and national identity. Moreover, in publishing the journal he not only realized his drive/dream to enhance Palestinian identity and uniqueness in the Arabic culture. Through the literary journal Darwish could harness the Arabic language for his national objectives and ambitions – ‘to contribute to the establishment of the vision of Palestine’ (an nusa¯him fı¯ ta’sı¯s Filastı¯n al-ru’ya¯), and ‘to cut a track ˙ through the stone road to the mountain’ (an yanhat tarı¯qa¯ fı¯ hajar al˙ ˙ ˙ 140 tarı¯q ila¯ al-jabal). ˙ Poems set to music were another means of socializing and mobilizing among the Arabs. More than 40 of Darwish’s poems have been set to Arabic music, in large part by the Lebanese singer and composer Marcel Khalı¯fa. About 20 of his poems were arranged by Khalı¯fa, including ‘The violins’ (al-Kamanja¯t), from the collection Eleven Planets [for the End of the Andalusian Vision], Rita and the gun, from the collection ‘Olive Leaves’

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(Awra¯q al-Zaytu¯n) which was published in 1966; and To my mother (or, Yearning for my mother’s bread) (Ahin ’ila¯ Khubz Ummı¯’), from the ˙ collection ‘A Lover from Palestine’ (‘A¯shiq min Filastı¯n). ˙ The most popular and requested of Darwish’s poems composed and sung by Khalı¯fa, however, is Identity card (Bitaqat huwiyya), from the ˙ collection Olive Leaves (1964), which opens with the words: ‘Write down! I am an Arab,’ and ‘Beware beware of my hunger / and of my anger!!’141 The poem, which is one of the most requested by Arab audiences at poetry evenings too, was written in protest at the Israeli authorities’ treatment of the Arab minority in Israel. The poem Passers in passing words, which the poet wrote at the height of the first Intifada (1988), was arranged by the Syrian composer and conductor, Tahir Ma¯mullı¯, and sung by the famous Syrian singer Asa¯la ˙ ˙ Nasrı¯. It was used for the opening of a 2002 Syrian television series ˙ about Saladin, the Muslim military leader who defeated the Crusaders in the Battle of Hattin in 1187. It called upon the the Israelies to ‘get out of our land’, and ‘Out of our wound, [. . .] and get out of the terms of memory.’142 ‘The mask has fallen’ (Saqata al-qina¯‘) is one of the most requested ˙ songs at Arab song festivals around the Arab world. It is part of Darwish’s epic poem ‘In Praise of the High Shadow’ (Madı¯h al-Zil al˙ _ ‘A¯lı¯), and describes one horrible day during the Lebanon War of 1982. Here the poet calls upon the Palestinian soldier to fight with all his might, and to cut off the blockade imposed by Israeli forces, because there is no other choice. Lay siege to your siege as there is no way / lift your arm, the arm that fell / and hit the enemy, since there is no way / and lift me, because next to you I fell / and hit your enemy with me, since you are free now / free and voluntary / your dead or your injured are your ammunition / and with it hit. Hit the enemy, as there is no escape.143 Like the poetry evenings and the literary journal, these poems set to music played an important role in Darwish’s process of socialization. All these carried the Palestinian national and collective memories to every listener and every house in the Palestinian world and throughout the Arabic-speaking world. While Darwish’s poetry evenings, literary

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journal, and books reached intellectuals and the elites, his popular songs also reached the common people in Arab society, playing an important role in the poet’s re-assimilation strategy.

Reconstructing an Old Identity Darwish’s writings after 1992 saw an increase in the use of ancient motifs and those related to the Canaanite origins of the Palestinian people. Thus, for example, in the poem ‘A Canaanite stone in the Dead Sea’ (Hajar Kan‘a¯nı¯ fı¯ al-Bahr al-Mayyit, 1992) Darwish referred to the ˙ ˙ Israeli in the following words: ‘Oh stranger, hang up your weapons upon our palm tree so/ I may plant my wheat in the sacred Canaanite field.’144 In 1995, Darwish wrote another poem, ‘Anat’s phases’ (Atwa¯r Anna¯t), ˙ referring to the Canaanite goddess: Oh Anat! / The waters of the well have dried up since you left, the valleys have dried up / and the rivers dried up after your death / [. . .]We have been broken like a fence / since your absence. The desires dried up in us. The prayer became fossilized / Nothing lives after your death / [. . .] Oh, Anat / [. . .] Come back, and restore the land [. . .] the beginning land of Canaan.145 In In the Presence of Absence (2006), Darwish also refers to plants that grow on the land of Palestine as Canaanite motifs: chamomile (ba¯bu¯nij), tripled or medical sage (maryamiyya), basil (al-habaq), anemones (shaqa¯’iq ˙ al-nu‘ma¯n), common daffodil (narjis), and cyclamen (‘asa¯ al-ra¯‘ı¯): The land was fertile with the femininity of Canaanite women [. . .] We were witnesses to the first apples in our departure from one paradise to another, and we were soldiers with no armor except cornstalks and the supreme power of wheat. We saw how a shadow grows green and red under Jericho’s sun [. . .] O Canaanite women, swim in warm light, so that a poet’s poem may overflow with the legacy of pure water before the invasion. A poet who was not born on the road of this departure [. . .] A poet who with his ancestors was not born, but on this land named after you and bloodied with the thorns of flowers you planted.146

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Darwish was not unique in his use of Canaanite motifs. Other Palestinian writers and literary scholars made use of Canaanite motifs already in the 1960s: for example, the collection ‘The Exodus from the Dead Sea’ (al-Khuru¯j Min al-Bahr al-Mayyit), written by the poet ‘Izz al˙ Dı¯n al-Mana¯sra in 1969.147 The journalist and researcher Eli Eshed ˙ identifies claims of Canaanite origin among Lebanese Christian Arabs as early as the beginning of the twentieth century. According to Eshed, these saw themselves as the descendants of the ancient pre-Islamic population. The buds of the claim of Canaanite origin among the Palestinians appeared in Najı¯b ‘Azu¯rı¯’s writing as early as 1902. According to him, the idea of Canaanite origin, which was marginal in Palestinian national thought before 1967 (being completely overshadowed by Pan-Arab ideology) has become stronger and turned into a national text that emphasizes the deep-rootedness of Palestinian society and apparently constitutes a reaction to the Zionist claim to the historical ownership of the land. Canaanite ideas also appear in Palestinian dramaturgy, for example in the play by the Palestinian poet Mu‘ı¯n Bsı¯su¯ ‘Samson and Delilah’ (1970), in which the biblical Samson is equated with the cruel Israeli occupier, and the Philistine Delilah is equated with the Palestinian resistance movement.148 According to the Palestinian myth of Canaanite origins, 4,500 years ago waves of proto-Canaanites known as Amorites came to the area of the Fertile Crescent from the Arabian Peninsula. They spoke a proto-Arabic language and were the creators of the Canaanite culture that developed in the area of the Fertile Crescent. Accordingly, the ancient Ugaritic language is an ancient dialect of the contemporary Arabic language.149 The Palestinians’ perception of their own antiquity is a relatively recent one. In the past, the Arab-Palestinian population tended to see its origins in the Arab conquest of 634, and this remains the dominant perception today. In his book, The Question of Palestine, Edward Said expressed the common national narrative of the Palestinian people concerning its origins and the questions: who are we? And what are our ties and our rights to the disputed land? Said argued that Palestine became a predominantly Arab and Islamic country by the end of the seventh century. Also he spoke about the core of the pastoral Palestinian presence, which constitutes a decisive and proven ethnic (Arab-Muslim) majority – proven in terms of society, culture, economy, and politics – at least until the last century:

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Palestine became a predominantly Arab and Islamic country by the end of the seventh century. Almost immediately thereafter its boundaries and its characteristics – including its name in Arabic, Filastı¯n – became known to the entire Islamic world, as much for ˙ its fertility and beauty as for its religious significance [. . .] In 1516, Palestine became a province of the Ottoman Empire, but this made it no less fertile, no less Arab or Islamic [. . .] Despite the steady arrival in Palestine of Jewish colonists after 1882, it is important to realize that not until the few weeks immediately preceding the establishment of Israel in the spring of 1948 was there ever anything other than a huge Arab majority.150 However, the Nakba and the disillusionment from the Arab world led some Palestinian intellectuals to explore the pre-Islamic past. According to them, part of the Palestinian population descended from the ancient inhabitants of the land, and these adopted the Arabic language and culture, along with the Islamic religion (much as other peoples did, for example, the Egyptians) after the Arab conquest in the seventh century. In other words, not all of the Palestinian population living in Filastı¯n ˙ arrived with the Arab conquest; many descended from the Canaanites, but eventually blended in with the conquerors. According to Eric Hobsbawm, territory alone cannot transform a group of people into a nation. He pointed to the importance of the creation of a myth of origin, a common culture, and a standard language for nation-building. A national group’s preoccupation with historical myths of origin is often evidence of a process of change in its national identity and the need to suit these changing needs. The need for national expression often entails the nurturing of myths, and the reconstruction and emphasis on popular traditions, folklore, and national symbols.151 Here, Eshed is referring to processes of the construction of national identity in the PA: One of the first activities of the Palestinian Authority’s Ministry of Culture in 1996 was to organize a festival centred on the Canaanite god, Baal. The festival, held in the village square of Sabastiya in ˙ the northern West Bank, featured young people dressed in robes with images of ancient Canaanite figures, holding torches, and dancing in the town square. More young people rode in on

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horse-drawn carriages reconstructed from pictures that were found in archaeological excavations in the old Canaanite/Palestinian city, Majiddu¯ (west of Jenin). On the stone stage in the city square a dramatic spectacle unfolded in which Baal, the god of the sky and of fertility in the ancient Canaanite pantheon, struggles bravely against Mot, the god of death. Baal ultimately prevails, with the help of his sister, the goddess Anat. All this gave the host of the show the opportunity to shower praises on the Philistines, the Canaanites, and the Amorites, who fought alongside Baal in the battle against the Hebrew invaders from the other side of the Jordan.152 Despite Eshed’s claims, one should not overstate the importance of using the Canaanite motifs from the pre-Islamic Palestinian past. Both cultures, the Palestinian and the Islamic, are closely tied to Arab culture. In other words, both streams, the Palestinian fundamentalist / Islamic movement, and the Palestinian national movement, hold tightly to the ethnic/Arab element of their national identity. In his eulogy delivered 40 days after Arafat’s death, Darwish was emphatic about the importance of the Arab component in Palestinian identity: ‘We would not be Palestinians if we were not Arabs, and we will not be Arabs if we will not be Palestinians [in our commitment]. This identity cannot be revised or negotiated – whether or not a new Middle East arises.’153 However, at a poetry evening held in Haifa a year before his death, the poet also rebuked the Zionist myth of a ‘land without people for a people without a land’: Even if we were not Canaanites, no historian would have the right to steal this land from its name and to doubt the identity of its original owners. Since the ridiculous search after [the question] – who came first in the building of the myth and who wrote about the stone first – is only the business of archaeologists, who themselves are incapable of providing evidence, since our exclusive right to the homeland does not demand proof. Because we – we are the proof! Because we were not born in any other place and we did not seek to build a nation in a homeland without inhabitants.154

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If he did not intend to supplant the Arab-ethnic component of Palestinian identity, and if he did not intend to confront Zionism’s primordial claims, then what was the purpose of his use of Canaanite motifs? Darwish addressed this question in an interview with the Lebanese television presenter Giselle Khuri in 2001: The purpose of the return to Canaanite motifs is not to signify that we are or are not Canaanites. We do not have to be Canaanites in order to have a right to Palestine. It is an indication of the depth of my historical connection to the place.155 If Darwish believed that the Palestinians need not be Canaanites in order to have a right to the homeland, then why was the poet so insistent upon emphasizing his and his people’s deep historical attachment to the place? As a national poet who was entirely committed to Palestinian nationbuilding and the commemoration of Palestinian national memory, Darwish also had to contend with the Zionist narrative and the question of who was first in settling the land. Then, in order to commemorate Palestine, Darwish also had to summon the ethnic-Arab element in his identity. Without Arabic language and culture, how could he commemorate Palestine as the homeland of the Palestinian-Arab people? And what significance would his national oeuvre have without the Arabs as a national and strategic home front? As far as the poet was concerned, there was no contradiction between the two components of his identity. Arabic is an essential, albeit secondary, component of Palestinian national identity. The ethnic-Arab component does not necessarily contradict the national territorial and primordial component in Palestinian identity, though according to Darwish, the key was this particular and primordial component. In his poem ‘In praise of the high shadow’ (Madı¯h al-Zil al-‘A¯lı¯, 1983), Palestine ˙ _ is depicted as a mother, and a mother never ceases to be such, even if she marries another man. In other words, the identity of the land does not change with its occupation: ‘All of the nations married my mother / and my mother remained always my mother.’156 And furthermore: ‘I was born close to the sea to a Palestinian mother / and an Aramaic Father, to a Palestinian mother and a Moabite father, to a Palestinian mother / and an Assyrian father, to a Palestinian mother and an Arab father.’157 Darwish

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therefore also expressed additional, pre-Islamic identities – Jewish, Assyrian, Aramaic, Christian, Greek, Byzantine – and not only the Canaanite identity. If indeed all of these identities (including Jewish) are part of his identity and that of his people, then what is the national struggle about? This connection between the Canaanite and Jewish identity inherited by the poet might be an expression of the political view of a single binational state. Is this what the poet had in mind? Did Darwish mean to bolster the argument in favour of a bi-national state? Ipek Azime Celik claims that Darwish poems give insight to Said’s conception of an extended identity, and was in favour of a bi-national state.158 In her article ‘Alternative history, expanding Identity: myth reconsidered in Mahmoud Darwish’s poetry’, Celik writes: As a viable alternative to the homogenization of culture in Israel that has radicalized Palestinian culture for years, Darwish like (Edward) Said suggests a novel definition of communal identity, home and belonging in bi-or multi-national lands [. . .] By deconstructing the hegemonic homogeneities in canonical myth, the poet expands identity, homeland, and memory beyond nationalist constrains.159 However, in my article, ‘Between the one and two state solution’160 I argue, that since the Palestinian Declaration of Independence (1988), which he drafted and edited at the request of Arafat, Darwish supported the two states solution. Darwish made a distinction between the Palestinian homeland, which is obvious and well known, and the Palestinian state, which has not realized or establish yet. In the magazine Al-Karmel (1988), he wrote: ‘the Palestinians never wondered what their homeland is, but what is their country’.161 In his poem ‘A confined land’ (Ard al-fadı¯ha) in the collection Athar al-Fara¯sha ˙ ˙ ˙ (2008) he expressed the same, in favour of the two states solution, even it is ‘not big enough for a short meeting’ or ‘no intimacy for a male and female dove to Mate’. And, ‘yet we love it and believe it loves us, living or dead. We love it and know it is not big enough for brazen laughter, or a nun’s prayer, or to hang washing out of reach of the neighbors’ prying eyes, not big enough for the fourteenth line of a translated sonnet.’162

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In an interview to ‘Abd al-Samad Bin Sharı¯f, Darwish expressed the ˙ same position in favour of the two-state solution. Darwish stated: I think it is the right of the Palestinians to make every sacrifice in order to achieve a very simple dream, a Palestinian state. As proposed, this Palestinian state is no more than 22% of the historic Palestine [. . .] But it may meet the thirst of Palestinians to identity [. . .] Palestinian needs to establish their state project, no matter how small, in order to occupy its place among the nations, and in order to preserve the dignity and identity, and their right to live and travel.163 For Mahmoud Darwish a bi-national or multi-national state solution has one pessimistic fate, ‘A ready script’ (Scenario Ja¯hiz), and nothing more. For details, see Chapter 6 (pp. 134, 155).

CHAPTER 4 SPEAKING TRUTH TO POWER

I have no role in my life, Except, when it taught me its hymns I said: Is there no more? And, I lit its lamp then tried to amend it.1

Gate to the World From the moment of his arrival in Beirut in early 1972, Darwish was received with open arms by the PLO leadership, including Chairman Yasir Arafat, who sympathized with Darwish and considered him a symbol of Palestinian resistance and of the Palestinian homeland. Ultimately, this fact would dramatically change the poet’s life and fortune. ‘I have no role in what I was or who I will be. It is luck and luck has no name’, he wrote in his poem ‘The dice player’ (La‘ib alnard, 2008) days before his death.2 This ‘luck’ was none other than Yasir Arafat. The preference demonstrated by the PLO leader for Darwish naturally became a source of envy among other poets. During his Tunis and Paris periods, Darwish was the only poet, not to mention the only PLO minister, to be accompanied by five personal bodyguards; this was following the assassination in London in July 1987 of the Palestinian political cartoonist Na¯jı¯ al-‘Alı¯.3 After the poet’s death, the Iraqi poet Sa‘dı¯ Yu¯suf recalled in writing a conversation he had had with Darwish in Paris, in the late 1980s. ‘I envy you, said Darwish. You travel around as you wish, [. . .] while I am being watched by five guards.’4 Within the

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PLO and the Palestinian Authority (PA), there were some poets who felt discriminated against. ‘Izz al-Dı¯n al-Mana¯sra claimed that Darwish ˙ benefited from his ties with the PA. In 1983, at the PNC conference in Algiers, Darwish was called upon to read his well-known poem In Praise of the High Shadow, honouring the Palestinian military forces, to the zealous cheers of the crowd. Al-Mana¯sra, for his part, was not permitted ˙ by the organizers to read his poem Siege Carthage.5 According to alMana¯sra, the conference organizers rejected his poem on the claim that it ˙ supported the opposition against Arafat and Fatah. According to Ziya¯d ‘Abd al-Fatta¯h, a member of the organizing committee, Darwish’s ˙ reading had not been scheduled. He was called upon to read his poem because they felt he was the only one capable of healing the rift between the various factions during the PNC conference.6 In an interview on al-Jazeera Net on November 18, 2004, during the second Intifada and before Arafat’s death, al-Mana¯sra claimed that the ˙ PA had rejected his requests to fund the translation of his poetry collection into foreign languages, while Darwish’s requests had been answered in the affirmative. This, he claimed, was not a question of who better quenched the Palestinian people’s thirst for national poetry, but rather a matter of connections and status within the PLO. Although it is not clear to which period precisely al-Mana¯sra was referring in the ˙ interview, it is likely that he was referring to the period before the outbreak of the second Intifada in September 2000, when PA resources were available for cultural activities as well. al-Mana¯sra’s claims did not emerge in a vacuum. Darwish was indeed ˙ given priority in the PLO, and later in the PA. Arafat favoured Darwish over other poets. He admired other poets, claimed ‘Abd al-Fatta¯h, but for him Darwish symbolized the Palestinian resistance in the occupied land, and he had become a Palestinian and Arab media icon, even before moving from Cairo to Beirut. ‘Abd al-Fatta¯h added: ˙ Arafat gave Darwish something he gave no other poet. This had nothing to do with money; the PLO did open windows of opportunity for other poets as well, for example, Ahmad Dahbu¯r ˙ ˙ and Mu‘ı¯n Bsı¯su¯. The latter, for example, received more money from the PLO than did Darwish. But, between Arafat and Darwish, there was something in common: high charisma and shared interests. Each needed the other. If he wanted to, Arafat

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could invite thousands of poets to his court who would write in praise of him, but he preferred Darwish, because Darwish was above them all.7 Through his roles within PLO institutions, Darwish managed to establish himself prominently in both the Palestinian national arena and in the Arab literary milieu. His close relationship with the PLO and open access to its leadership granted Darwish status, prestige, and power, and made him intimately aware of the moods, policies, and decisions of the PLO. This closeness nourished the poet’s writing and turned it into an authentic ‘documentation’ of the issues at the heart of the Palestinian cause. Thus, for example, Darwish was able to foresee the fate of the Oslo Accords, even before they were signed, in the collection Eleven Planets for the End of the Andalusian Vision. Moreover, the pluralism in Beirut’s cultural and political life, and the appreciation and preference that Arafat expressed toward Darwish, created unprecedented opportunities for the poet’s professional poetical refinement, as well as enabling his extensive national and public exposure. In his book In the Presence of Absence, Darwish admitted that he had been ‘wingless’ (‘mahı¯d al-Jana¯h’) and that, there, in the bosom of the ˙ ˙ PLO in Beirut, he gradually learned to fly, until he strayed too far from the flock.8 In his collection of poems entitled Mural he wrote, ‘Never has a poet lived like a king and wise man as I have, [. . .] lacking nothing,’ (‘isht kama¯ lam ya‘ish Sha¯‘ir / malika¯ wa-hakı¯ma¯. . . la¯ shay’ ˙ yanqusunı¯).9 ˙

Functions in the PLO Darwish met Chairman Arafat in Cairo in 1971. He was invited to speak at the 8th session of the Palestinian National Council, to be held in Cairo from February 28 to March 5 of that year. Arafat ‘embraced me’, said Darwish. ‘He was very warm. He said: ‘I can smell the fragrance of the homeland on you.’’10 In early 1972, Darwish left Cairo and joined the PLO ranks. He was welcomed with open arms because of the fame he had earned in the Arab world. At once he became a key player in the Centre for Palestinian Research and in Palestinian cultural life. On his relationship with Arafat he said, succinctly: ‘We became close friends in Beirut.’11

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The history of the relationship between the poet and the PLO can be divided into three stages. The first began in 1972, when Darwish left Cairo and joined the PLO in Beirut, where he took ‘part in shaping that experience, watching it grow from the beginning with his personal growth.’12 For the PLO, this was the period of institution-building in West Beirut. For the poet, this was a stage of learning and empowerment, as well as a stage of integration into the Palestinian and Arab national space. In other words, in Beirut Darwish experienced personal growth. At the same time, he witnessed the emergence of the Palestinian national entity in the city. Also during this period, Darwish experienced the Lebanese Civil War (1975– 1976). The second stage began in 1979, with Darwish’s departure from Beirut and arrival in Tunis to work for the Arab League. This period ended with the poet’s resignation from the PLO Executive Committee in 1993, in protest against the signing of the Oslo Accords. This stage was characterized by a tidal relationship between the poet and his leader, and was filled with significant events that had an impact on both players, respectively, and on the relationship between the two; the Lebanon War (1982), the first Gulf War (1990– 1991), the Madrid Conference (1991), and the Oslo Accords (1993). Moreover, this stage witnessed the poet’s entrance into Palestinian politics as a member of the PLO Executive Committee (1987), up until his resignation (in 1993). The third and final phase of the poet’s relationship with the PLO began in 1994 with the establishment of the Palestinian National Authority and his arrival in Gaza (1995) and then in Ramallah (1996). This period came to an end upon Yasir Arafat’s death in 2004, and was ultimately sealed with the poet’s death in 2008. On the personal and national levels, this stage witnessed the poet’s despair, frustration, and helplessness. From June 1972, Darwish worked at the Centre for Palestinian Research in Beirut, as an analyst in the ‘Israeli affairs’ (‘Isra¯’ı¯liyya¯t’) section. In 1974, when the PLO received international recognition, Darwish accompanied Arafat on his first visit to the United Nations and was one of the drafters of Arafat’s speech at the UN General Assembly.13 This gave Darwish unprecedented national exposure and marked his first, yet not his last, leap within the PLO. In May 1977, he was appointed head of the Centre for Palestinian Research and editor-in-chief of its eponymous journal, Shu’u¯n Fila¯stı¯niyya¯ (Palestinian Affairs). ˙

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Darwish actually replaced Dr Anı¯s Sayigh (1931–2009) as the Centre’s ˙ director and the editor-in-chief of its journal after Sayigh resigned due to ˙ political intrigues in the PLO and Arafat’s constant intervention in the Centre’s work.14 Although Darwish ‘didn’t need to hold daily consultations with the political leadership, and didn’t receive immediate orders’, he did suffer from the ‘political burden’.15 Not a day went by that he did not ‘struggle to be released from politics’, and to completely devote himself to literature.16 Still, the Centre granted the poet many opportunities for publicity and renown. In 1972, Darwish was elected a member of the Palestinian Writers and Journalists Union, a role that granted him automatic candidacy for the PNC. The Palestinian Writers and Journalists Union was founded in Gaza in 1966, to promote the PLO’s information goals and political publicity within the Palestinian, Arab, and international arenas. At both the first and the second conferences of the PNC, held in Gaza in 1966 and in Cairo in 1969, Secretary General Khayrı¯ Hamma¯d represented ˙ the Palestinian Writers and Journalists Union.17 Two years after joining the PLO in 1968, Arafat’s organization, Fatah, tried to establish a new Palestinian Writers and Journalists Union, but failed. Following Darwish’s arrival in Beirut in 1972, Arafat attempted to infuse new blood into the Union and to weaken opposition factors such as Na¯jı¯ al-‘Alı¯, Na¯jı¯ ‘Allu¯sh, and others, also by inserting television personalities into the union. And yet, just as Darwish was elected a member of the union, ‘Allu¯sh became secretary general.18 The second and third conferences of the new union, held in 1977 and 1980, respectively, reflected the ‘compromise policy’ (‘al-uslu¯b al-tawfı¯qı¯’) between rival wings in the PLO rather than professional merit, claimed Shafı¯q al-Hu¯t, a leading member of the PLO.19 This policy was doomed ˙ to failure, particularly after the evacuation from Beirut in 1982. The split in the PLO divided and paralyzed the 1,200-member union, which could not come to an agreement as to the agenda for the upcoming PNC conference set to take place in Algeria in 1983. (This situation may well have provided the backdrop for Darwish’s reading of In Praise of the High Shadow at that conference.) The rebellion within Fatah continued to have its effect on the Union, as is seen from the Union conference in Yemen in April 1984.20 ‘The real question on the agenda was neither purely cultural nor solely organizational, but a question of some Arab rulers against the PLO’s very legitimacy’, claimed the poet.21

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Twice, at least, Arafat used Darwish’s literary skills and national prestige to promote political objectives – in 1972, when Darwish was elected a member of the Writers Union, and in 1984, when he agreed to run for secretary general of the Union, against al-‘Alı¯. Since PNC membership was automatic for Writers Union members, the first instance brought Darwish into the Palestinian National Council, while the second brought him to the head of the Union. In this case, his consent to run for the presidency of the Union did not stem from a desire to be part of the deep political rift that had overtaken all of the PLO’s institutions, but out of concern for the unity and political independence of the organization and a wish to prevent its transformation into a tool in the hands of the rejectionist states, Syria and Libya. From 1972, Darwish also served as an independent member of the Palestinian National Council, the PLO’s House of Representatives, along with two Palestinian resistance leaders from Israel, Habı¯b Qahwajı¯ and ˙ Sabrı¯ Jiryis. Together, they represented the ‘Arabs of 1948 Occupied ˙ Palestine’.22 Within the Palestinian Writers and Journalists Union as within the Palestinian National Council, Darwish was profoundly exposed to the PLO’s agenda as well as its political streams, disputes, and intrigues. This and other frameworks and experiences helped forge the poet’s national awareness and standpoints, as we will see. In 1981, after the PLO had completed the establishment of alKarmel, the Palestinian Literary Institute, a dream of Darwish’s finally came true. He became the director of the Institute and the editor-inchief of its journal. Eventually, through al-Karmel, Darwish also established himself in the Arab poetic milieu. ‘I could write anything’, he noted.23 The questions of where and how to publish their works posed a real problem for Palestinian writers in the Arab world. To be sure, these were problems of funding as well as censorship. In Memory for Forgetfulness, Darwish criticized the Arab world for its indifference to the fate of the Palestinians under siege in Beirut in 1982, and its unwillingness to accept those Palestinians who were prepared to evacuate the city. It may well have been for this reason that it took Darwish five years to publish the book, before it was finally published in al-Karmel (1986).24 It was subsequently published in Acre (Da¯r alAswa¯r, 1987), Jerusalem (Da¯r al-Nawras, 1990), and Ramallah (the Palestinian Ministry of Culture, 1997).25

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Through al-Karmel, Darwish could harness the Arabic language for his national objectives and ambitions, ‘to contribute to the establishment of the vision of Palestine’,26 or ‘to cut a track through the stone road to the mountain’.27 ‘It is the role of the weak’, he claimed, ‘to write his own history, with his own hands, to immortalize collective memory in order to prevent the strong side from winning on the level of the literary text as well.’28 ‘You know exactly what you had left behind: a past unwritten lyrically, new Trojans about whom no one tells, except their enemies.’29 This was not merely a literary or cultural task. In the poem ‘On poetry’ (‘An al-shi‘r), published in 1964, Darwish wrote that ‘our poetry would have no color / or taste or voice / if it did not carry a lantern from house to house.’30 This poem is concerned with bestowing national and political identity and consciousness: ‘I lost a beautiful dream [. . .] but I did not lose the way’, wrote the poet.31 Was Darwish trying to tell the history of his people so that the Zionist story would not be the only story told? From early in his life, Darwish believed in poetry’s power to change the fate of the Palestinian people, to create national awareness, and to convey his people’s historical connection to the place.32 In an editorial, years later in al-Karmel, he wrote that the role of the poet was to instill national consciousness, to tell his story in his own words, to write the history of his people, and to deepen the historical connection with Palestine.33 He believed that it is not always the powerful who write history. This may be the case on the official level, but ‘on the level of the [literary] text’ this is the role of the weak.34 ‘Filastı¯n’, so he believed, ‘is Andalusia that can be retrieved.’35 ˙ While in the PNC, Darwish was elected to the PLO Executive Committee (EC) three times: at the 18th conference (held on April 25, 1987), at the 19th conference (held on November 15, 1988), and at the 20th conference (held on September 28, 1991).36 What was Darwish’s role in the PLO Executive Committee? And what kinds of decisions did he make or take part in? ‘He held no official ministerial post and referred to himself as a “minister without portfolio”, with no department to handle and no office to attend.’37 These claims were confirmed during the author’s interviews with knowledgeable PLO members.38 Arafat had wanted the Ministry of Culture portfolio to go to Darwish, but the poet refused, preferring to devote himself to literature. Therefore, it was ‘Abdulla¯h al-Hu¯ra¯nı¯ who became the PLO Minister of Culture. ˙

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Darwish was, however, appointed President of the Higher Council for Culture and Information – a post ‘invented’ by Arafat to circumvent the poet’s opposition to the ministerial appointment while giving him the status and respect he deserved.39 In this capacity, Darwish was often called upon to undertake roles that employed his literary skills. In 1988, for example, he drafted the Palestinian Declaration of Independence, which adopted, for the first time, the UN’s 1949 Partition Plan to divide the land into two countries. This was submitted for approval to the 19th Palestinian National Council during the Algiers conference, held on November 12, 1988.40 Later, Darwish drafted Arafat’s 1996 speech to the UNESCO (United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization) assembly.41 During this period, he continued to edit al-Karmel and also to work with Minister of Culture al-Hu¯ra¯nı¯ to nurture all aspects of Palestinian ˙ culture and heritage – literature, song, dance, theatre, cinema, art, etc. Thus, festivals of Palestinian poetry, music, visual art exhibitions, and documentary films were organized in Arab and other foreign countries. The Ministry of Culture also granted awards, medals, and certificates of appreciation, carrying Chairman Arafat’s signature and the PLO insignia.42 He also worked to preserve and strengthen the relationship with the Palestinians inside Israel. Meetings were held in Eastern Europe with Palestinian literary figures living in Israel, those in the West Bank and Gaza, and those from throughout the Palestinian diaspora. He played an important role in strengthening ties with Palestinian cultural institutions inside Israel. Politicians from both sides took part in the meetings, including Yasir Arafat, Tawfı¯q Tu¯bı¯, and Meir Vilner (the ˙ latter two representing the Israeli Communist Party). After resigning in 1993 from his position on the PLO Executive Committee in the wake of the Oslo Accords,43 and following the establishment of the PA, Arafat suggested once again that he become Minister of Culture, but Darwish again responded that he would rather devote himself to his literary work.

Ethics and criticism Despite all the functions and roles held by the poet after joining the PLO, Darwish did not always follow the party line. Within the PLO he

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was defined as an independent and thus avoided any party affiliation, although he was close to Arafat’s Fatah wing. Darwish did, on occasion, maintain his independence and discretion on matters of principle close to his heart (such as freedom of expression and the fate of the Palestinian refugees from 1948), and was ready to pay the cost for it. Edward Said makes the case that intellectuals should maintain a vigilant scepticism towards all received wisdoms, for, he argues, ‘those gods always fail’.44 Said conceives of the ideal intellectual as amateur, exiled and marginal, and as the author of a language that tries to speak the truth to power. For Said, remaining marginal meant keeping one’s distance from political state-power in order to be able to fulfil the key and sometimes risky duty of speaking the truth to power. Said suggests that universal ‘standards of truth about human misery and oppression were to be held to despite the individual intellectual’s party affiliation, national background, and primeval loyalties’.45 Said argues: Nothing disfigures the intellectual’s public performance as much as trimming, carful silence, patriotic bluster, and retrospective and self-dramatizing apostasy [. . .] The attempt to hold to a universal and single standard as a theme plays an important role in my account of the intellectual [. . .] intellectuals should be the ones to question patriotic nationalism, corporate thinking, and a sense of class, racial or gender privilege [. . .] thus, if we condemn an unprovoked act of aggression by an enemy we should also be able to do the same when our government invades a weaker party.46 In March 2001, after the outbreak of the second Intifada, Darwish, along with several other Palestinian and Arab intellectuals (including Edward Said, Adonis, and Elia¯s Khu¯rı¯) signed a public statement opposing the holding of the annual Revisionism Conference of the Institute for Historical Review, a Western Holocaust-denial organization, in Beirut on March 31, 2001. The 14 signatories demanded that al-Harı¯rı¯’s government in Lebanon prevent the conference from taking ˙ place. After several failed attempts to hold the conference in Beirut and in Amman – following pressure from Western governments and other bodies – the IHR managed to gather under the auspices of the Jordanian Writers Union in Amman on May 3, 2001.

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The organizers of the conference, which was said to be in honour of the liberation of southern Lebanon from Israeli military occupation and the outbreak of the second Intifada, claimed that their goal was not to deny the fact that the Holocaust took place, but to dispel the claims about the systematic murder of Jews. According to them, 45 million people died in World War II, among them ‘a few hundred thousand Jews’, and not six million as the Zionists claimed. This exaggeration in the number of Jewish victims of the Holocaust, they claimed, was done to justify the theft of Palestine, the establishment of the State of Israel, and all of Israel’s crimes against the Palestinians and the Arabs. In addition, it was claimed, there is no connection between Ashkenazi Jewry or the Zionist movement, and the Hebrew people who lived in the land in biblical times. Ashkenazi Jews, originating in Eastern Europe, belong to the Khazar people, and thus have no connection to the people of Israel or the Semitic Hebrew nation that lived in the land in ancient times.47 In an interview on Lebanese television in autumn 2001, Darwish discussed the reasons for his opposition to the conference. In principle, he said, Arab culture cannot take part in the demand for the revision or denial of the Holocaust, since this is likely to harm its image in the international arena. In addition, claimed Darwish, the argument about the number of Jewish victims of the Holocaust – six million or less – does not contribute to the Palestinian cause. The crime took place, and we, the Palestinians, paid the price with our homeland; the Holocaust hastened the establishment of the Jewish state. On the other hand, Darwish admitted that it was perhaps a mistake to ask the Lebanese government to prevent the conference, since this was against the principle of freedom of expression and academic freedom.48 Darwish’s activity against holding the Revisionism Conference in Beirut on March 31, 2001 did not lead to a response, not only because the organizers were able to finally meet under the auspices of the Jordanian Writers Association, but also because it may have been a pointless campaign. During the second Intifada Darwish came out adamantly and dramatically against Hamas’s attempt to impose its ideology on Palestinian cultural life, and condemned the suicide actions aimed at harming civilians. Despite Darwish’s harsh criticism, his attacks remained without response. ‘In all of the West Bank and the Gaza Strip you will not find a writer or journalist of stature willing to wage a written battle

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against the giant of Palestinian poetry, Mahmoud Darwish. This is a lost and pointless war for them’, said Ziya¯d ‘Abd al-Fatta¯h.49 ˙ In 1993, after the signing of the Oslo Accords, Darwish resigned from his position as member of the PLO Executive Committee, because he did not want to be a partner in such a course. The PLO ‘had run its course’ and was now up for auction, Darwish said, adding: We are wantonly ending one stage in history and standing on the threshold of a new one, which we perhaps didn’t intend [. . .] This organization has run its course, and you must admit it [. . .] Now it has nothing left to do but sign an agreement with Israel, which will turn into something else [. . .] We are on the verge of a fateful decision regarding an agreement with the government of Israel regarding Gaza and Jericho, but when will a debate on the matter be held, when? [. . .] Is this deal an inseparable part of a comprehensive peace agreement [. . .] ? Who will run this experiment in autonomy in Gaza and Jericho? What is the goal of the interim stage? [. . .] What if it fails? [. . .] And what kinds of national resistance can we conduct against the Israeli occupation [. . .] ? We are at the opening of an historic adventure and I can only hope that it will succeed. I am fearful of its failure and from its harmful repercussions on the national level, lest it end up in disaster. My conscience does not permit me to take part in this risky decision – so long as it is incapable of answering the pressing questions.50 Darwish criticized the Oslo Accords and did not believe in their viability. ‘What cunning rule or language could formulate an agreement for peace and good neighbourliness between a palace and a hut, between a guard and a prisoner?’ the poet wrote ten years later in his book In the Presence of Absence (2006).51 Following Arafat’s death in 2004, Darwish argued that Arafat actually agreed with him that the Oslo Agreement carried many risks. Arafat signed the agreement while ‘knowing’ that: Palestine was still far away in terms of the issues pending in the final status negotiations – the status of Jerusalem, the right to return, and other thorny questions – and that the road to that

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place did not go through Oslo but through the terms and references of international legitimacy. Yet he knew that those terms and references were no longer valid in the unipolar world, in which Israel had been elevated to sacred heights from where it hands down its divine instructions to the White House. He also knew that to Israeli officials, presidential emblems, identity cards, and passports signified no more than symbolic fast-food meals meant to stave off a national identity’s craving for independence; and that he now resided in a prison furnished only with the illusion of things, and that when granted permission to go from his Ramallah prison to his Gaza prison, his wardens would not object to a red carpet or a national anthem.52 According to another version, Darwish resigned due to the financial crisis in the PLO, and because it had not paid salaries to thousands of its employees and families of victims for some months before the signing of the agreement. According to the same source, Arafat was angered at Darwish’s argument and let slip: ‘these people have no shame’. Darwish answered: ‘So, look for others. What do you think?’53 On the eve of its establishment, Darwish also criticized the new Palestinian regime (in the form of the Palestinian Authority). He called for a division of labour, in which the PLO and PA should restrict themselves to representing the Palestinians in the international arena, while the work of the present peace negotiations would fall upon the local Palestinian leadership living in the territories. His concern that an Israeli–Palestinian peace would leave the 1948 refugees outside Palestine with no chance of returning to their homes and vulnerable to the caprices of the Arab regimes, runs contrary to this call. The issue of the right of return in fact requires that the work of negotiations remain in the hands of the PLO, the representative of the Palestinian people wherever they may be, and not be transferred to the Palestinians living in the territories.54 Darwish announced his resignation and his reasons in the PLO Executive Committee meeting of September 27, 1993.55 Interestingly enough, this was never officially confirmed by the PNC, which spent its next meeting (in Gaza, on April 25, 1996) ratifying the cancellation of some articles of the PLO’s 1968 Charter in order to conform to the spirit of Oslo.56 Even before Oslo, Darwish did not hesitate to criticize the PLO’s conduct, its policy and politics, or its leaders, though this criticism was

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usually literary, and most often after the fact. In his book Memory for Forgetfulness which he wrote after the PLO had evacuated Beirut, he criticized the PLO’s conduct in Lebanon: Perhaps the trial that should be held for the revolution is about the fact that it still lacks procedures to judge the members of its leadership for their thunderous crimes. Even though its judgements were restricted to moral sins made by future martyrs [Palestinian fighters] as they looked for a passing pleasure – a hashish cigarette or a seductive woman.57 In Memory for Forgetfulness Darwish also criticized the PLO leadership. He described one Palestinian leader, whom he identified as ‘B’ as an ‘opportunist’, saying that during the Lebanon War in 1982 he ‘found [. . .] his lost game; Holding the phone in one hand and scattering statements, whether he knew or not.’58 According to Ziya¯d ‘Abd al-Fatta¯h, this criticism was apparently directed at Bassa¯m Abu¯ ˙ Sharı¯f, Arafat’s former political adviser. Among Israeli analysts, Abu¯ Sharı¯f had a reputation as a creative leader. As early as the PNC meeting in Algiers in 1984, and during the first Palestinian Intifada, Abu¯ Sharı¯f had suggested that the PLO’s goal should be a Palestinian state alongside Israel. He also suggested that there be direct negotiations between Palestinians and Israelis in an international peace conference, and stated that the reason for the PLO’s existence ‘is not the elimination of Israel, but the redemption of the Palestinian people and realization of their rights’.59 According to well-informed PLO sources, however, Abu¯ Sharı¯f was known for having unrestrainedly extracted money from Chairman Arafat, and he was not the only one.60 For the sake of the unity of the organization, Arafat also had to buy the loyalty of his people. This was a common phenomenon during the Tunis period (1983–1993). In his autobiography Between the Homeland and Exile: From Jaffa Begins the Journey, Shafı¯q al-Hu¯t speaks about dozens of corruption scandals and ˙ ‘low-lives whose expertise was in robbing the Palestinian people’, primarily within Fatah, Arafat’s organization. Among these, he mentioned one who was known as an ‘advisor’. According to al-Hu¯t, ˙ he, Darwish, and three others, personally witnessed the confession of one of the suspects of embezzling three million dollars.61

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Abu¯ Sharı¯f had been a member of the PFLP, and an editor of its newspaper al-Hadaf. In 1972, he lost an eye after a letter bomb was sent to him by the Mossad. After the PLO evacuation of Beirut in 1982, the split within the PLO, and the rebellion against Arafat, which was also supported by the PFLP, Abu¯ Sharı¯f defected and joined Fatah, Arafat’s organization. This may also have been in protest at the PFLP leader, George Habash, for not keeping past promises to support his candidacy ˙ for Secretary General of the Palestinian Writers Union.62 The question of whether Darwish was indeed referring to Bassa¯m Abu¯ Sharı¯f and, if so, why, has not been supported by other sources. Whatever the case may be, his criticism of B and others was not related to the corruption that plagued the PLO’s institutions and led to wide criticism within and outside the organization.63 Darwish also criticized the Palestinian and Arab view on the necessity to perpetuate the refugee camps in order to preserve Palestinian identity and the cause of right of return to the homeland. In a Palestine Television interview entitled ‘A journey to the world of Mahmoud Darwish,’ (‘Rihla fı¯ ‘a¯lam Mahmoud Darwish’) he said that ‘the ˙ preservation of the refugee camps as a ‘reservoir of misery’ is a blemish on our human conscience.’64 In 1982, Darwish rejected the PLO’s resolution to leave Beirut, and declined Arafat’s exhortations to be evacuated with the PLO headquarters. Darwish expressed this objection in his poem In praise of the high shadow (1983): ‘They departed, and said nothing about the Return;’ and ‘How many times do you leave?’65 But, after the IDF occupied Beirut, Darwish eventually left as well, rationalizing his decision as follows: I didn’t expect the Israelis to conquer Beirut, and I couldn’t find a reason to go with the warriors. I lived in al-Hamra¯’ Street. One ˙ morning I went out to buy bread, and suddenly I saw a big Israeli tank. In fact, Israel entered Beirut even before it was announced. At the time I found myself wandering the streets alone, seeing nothing but tanks, Israeli soldiers, and masked men. Indeed, I spent hard times and didn’t know where to sleep [. . .]. I slept away from home, at a restaurant, [. . .] until the big disaster happened: the massacre in [the] Sabra¯ and Shatı¯la¯ [refugee camps]. ˙ Only then I understood that staying in Beirut was a false kind of stubbornness. I arranged my departure through Libya’s

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ambassador in Beirut. He could get me out from Ashrafiyya, the area under the Phalange control, to Syria.66 In a comprehensive interview in the December 10, 2005 issue of alHaya¯t, published also in al-Karmel (vol. 86, winter 2006), Darwish said, ˙ ‘We erred in Beirut, when we founded a ‘Palestinian’ state within the ‘Lebanese’ state’, adding: ‘I was embarrassed because of the barriers erected by Palestinians on Lebanese soil. [. . .] Of course, they had their reasons and justifications, but I always felt uneasy. I used to ask myself questions concerning these issues even in the presence of zealous friends of the Palestinian cause and its national movement.’67 When in the PLO they began to think up ‘a Palestinian state on part of Palestine’ (in Gaza), an idea that Arafat espoused after the evacuation from Beirut, Darwish opposed the very idea in his poem ‘In Praise of the High Shadow’ (Madı¯h al-Zil al-‘A¯lı¯, 1983), and expressed this in the ˙ _ words: ‘So great is the revolution / So narrow the journey/ So great is the idea, and so small the state.’68 Darwish also criticized the idea initiated by Kha¯lid al-Hasan for a ˙ Jordanian–Palestinian confederation, known as the Amman Accord (1985). This agreement called for total Israeli withdrawal from the territories, Palestinian self-determination in a Jordanian–Palestinian confederation. Although the agreement called for confederation, Jordanian officials argued that the PLO agreed to a federation under Jordanian tutelage.69 In an article published in al-Karmel (1988), Darwish expressed his contempt against the Amman Accord. Darwish writes: It is ridiculous [. . .] we have to commit ourselves, and for ever and ever, to the fact that there is no security for us in this mortal life, but to be tied to the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan by the umbilical cord, and that we are not fighting the Israeli army, but in order to welcome the Jordanian security forces [. . .] We do not make fun of as much as we express how difficult it is to grasp the true meaning of the semi-official Arab consensus to accept the American, and the Israeli, perception of how to resolve the conflict by adopting a single option, the Jordanian option [. . .] The open battle against the Israeli occupation and against any such option does not reflect anything but the ambition of Palestinian Arab people for full national independence.70

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An Intellectual Protest Despite the unique relationship that evolved between Darwish and Arafat, the poet did not spare the PLO chairman his criticism. In 1979, Darwish resigned from his position as chief of the Centre for Palestinian Research and as editor of Shu’u¯n Filastı¯niyya, following his publication of ˙ Ha¯dı¯ al-‘Alawı¯’s article ‘The abrogation of religious law in the Shi‘a heritage’ (‘Naskh al-sharı¯‘a fı¯ al-tura¯th al-Shı¯‘ı¯’). Al-‘Alawı¯ (1933– 1997), an Iraqi Marxist intellectual, claimed that, contrary to the Orthodox Sunni stream of Islam, the Shi‘ite factions (the Imamis, the Zaydis, and the Isma‘ilis) had adopted unorthodox dogma that was not compatible with the foundations of the Islamic religion. The Shi‘a claimed that the committee appointed by the Caliph Uthma¯n Ibn ‘Affa¯n (644– 656) to compile the verses of the Qur’an from Muslims who had remembered them by heart was illegitimate, and thus relieved themselves of any commitment to the provisions of the Qur’an. An example of this was their cancellation of one of the Friday prayer services, and their merging of five into three prayers a day, though without changing the number of times the believer must kneel. There was thus a consensus among Sunni Muslims that the Shi‘i-Isma‘ili stream was a dissident, and even heretical, sect.71 This paper caused an uproar within the Shi‘ite community in Lebanon. According to Palestinian sources, Arafat was angry and summoned Darwish for questioning. ‘Yasir Arafat was personally annoyed because of the independent line of the journal’, claimed Darwish’s deputy, Elia¯s Khu¯rı¯,72 the Lebanese prose writer, who joined the PLO in Jordan in the early 1970s. Darwish, speaking about himself, said that he lacked the proper management skills and that he must submit his resignation immediately.73 According to Ziya¯d ‘Abd al-Fatta¯h, Arafat sent the ˙ Fatah commander ‘Alı¯ Hasan Sala¯ma to arrest Khu¯rı¯, though the latter ˙ managed to hide and avoid arrest. Darwish considered this incident to be a harsh and unacceptable interference on Arafat’s part in his journal, and so he quit his job at the Centre for Palestinian Research in Beirut. He went to Tunis and worked for the Arab League’s Educational, Cultural, and Scientific Organization (ALESCO), taking up a past offer by Dr al-Sha¯dhlı¯ al-Qulaybı¯, the Secretary General of the Arab League. In Tunis, he wrote the poem ‘I am the other’ (Ana¯ al-’A¯khar), which was published in the magazine al-Shira¯‘,

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in Jerusalem (1980), but has not yet been included in any of his collections. The poem levied criticism against Arafat, addressing him by the words ‘Oh the gate’ (Ayyuha¯ al-Ba¯b). ‘Had we to pray for Men and Myths, and to disbelieve from the first Kneeling?’ (Hal ka¯n ‘alayna¯ an nusallı¯ li-rija¯l wa-asa¯tı¯r/ wa-an nakfur mundhu al-rak‘a al-u¯la¯?). ˙ ˙ Then, ‘had we to retrieve our God from exile, so to start our exile?’ (Hal ka¯n ‘alayna¯ an nu‘ı¯d al-la¯h min manfa¯h fawq al-ard kay nadkhul fı¯ ˙ manfa¯na¯).74 As a gesture of goodwill upon his return to Beirut in 1981, Arafat granted Darwish permission to publish al-Karmel magazine, which had been Darwish’s life dream. This reconciliation was initiated by the Palestinian Leader Abu¯ Iya¯d (Sala¯h Khalaf), who found out by ˙ ˙ chance about Darwish’s return.75 Another crisis broke during the Tunis period. In spring 1989, Arafat summoned Salı¯m Baraka¯t, the deputy editor of al-Karmel magazine. Baraka¯t, a Syrian poet of Kurdish origin, who came from Cyprus to Tunis at the request of Arafat, was reproved and put under house arrest for publishing an article by Egyptian sociologist Sayyid al-Qimnı¯ (b. 1947) on the Hashemite Party.76 Dealing with the advent of the Arab Islamic state, al-Qimnı¯ claimed that the struggles for power within Quraysh, the tribe of the Prophet Muhammad (between ‘Abd al-Da¯r, the ˙ founder of the Hashemite dynasty, and his brother ‘Abd Mana¯f, the founder of the Umayyad dynasty), led eventually to the establishment of the first Islamic Arab state. According to this claim, ‘Abd al-Muttalib, the ˙˙ son of ‘Abd al-Da¯r, was worldly a strategist, and a leader who explored the economic and political map of the Arabian Peninsula before the appearance of the Prophet Muhammad and decided to unite the Arab ˙ tribes and establish the rule of the Hashemite dynasty within Quraysh and throughout Arabia. Since these tribes were unwilling to relinquish authority to another tribe, prophecy became his instrument for tribal unification and for the establishment of the first Islamic Arab state under the authority of the Hashemite dynasty.77 Al-Qimnı¯’s claims fundamentally contradicted the idea of Islam, which considers the emergence of the Prophet Muhammad and the establishment of the first ˙ Islamic Arab state to be a purely divine act. The article caused uproar in the Muslim community. Once again, Arafat vented his anger at Darwish’s deputy editor, Salı¯m Baraka¯t. To protest the arrest of Baraka¯t, Darwish stopped his political activities and avoided visiting PLO headquarters in Tunis for some months.78 In both cases, Darwish

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protested against Arafat’s intervention in the magazine’s freedom of expression. After the Madrid Peace Conference (1991), Darwish expressed his criticism of the peace talks Madrid Conference in the collection Eleven Planets [for the End of the Andalusian Vision] (Ahad ‘Ashar Kawkaba¯ ‘Ala¯ ˙ ’A¯khir al-Mashhad al-Andalusı¯, 1992) – and his criticism did not spare 79 the ‘king of dying’, i.e. Yasir Arafat.

Ambivalence and ambiguity Notwithstanding Darwish’s aforementioned criticism, there were instances in which the poet softened his criticism and did not take a stand where a response was in order. He was silent, for example, on the issue of the rampant corruption in the administrative and political leadership of the PA. After the poet’s death on August 9, 2008, Ba¯sim alNabrı¯s, the Palestinian writer from Kha¯n Yu¯nus, wrote: ˙ We would have liked him to fill his role as an intellectual in a befitting way, to have his say in real time, without accounting to anyone. But, [. . .] he failed. In more than one sense, he was a Palestinian Authority poet laureate and one of the former Chairman’s closest associates. Even when the PA became a cruel one [. . .] even then, he held his peace. He would evade, disappear, and his army of intellectuals would zealously compete to defend him every time he was criticized, as if he were a sacred cow.80 Generally, one may agree with this criticism, although there is a great distance between this and the notion that Darwish was a poet laureate. Darwish was never a mouthpiece for the PA, nor did he work in its service, even during Arafat’s presidency. Nevertheless, after his arrival in Palestinian Authority territory in 1995, he continued to receive the salary to which he was entitled as a former member of the PLO Executive Committee. Darwish was closely associated with the heads of the PA, but was distinct from them. For example, unlike the ministers Nabı¯l ‘Amru¯ or Ya¯sir ‘Abd Rabbih, Darwish never possessed a VIP card. To avoid delays and searches of his person or his belongings, Darwish had to be accompanied by a PA minister every time he crossed the Allenby Bridge to and from Jordan. These facts did not turn him into a court

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poet, as al-Nabrı¯s claimed, but they may well have carried with them ˙ constraints on his freedom of expression and increased his dependence on the PA. In the collection of poems Mural (1999), Darwish unequivocally expressed his personal distress and tragic end in the PA: Our dogs kept silent, and [. . .] a stray arrow pierced the face of certainty. I’m tired of my tongue speaking, and saying not [. . .]; What does the past do with Imru’ al-Qays’s days, torn between rhyme and Caesar / [. . .] I am not one of the followers of Rome, [. . .] but I pay / a percentage of my bread’s salt against my will [. . .] Now /, no one says: no.81 Not only in the PA, but also in the PLO there were cases in which Darwish did not protest, and even backed down under pressure from previous stances. In 1992, Darwish published his poetry collection Eleven Planets for the End of the Andalusian Vision, in which he criticized the peace process which had begun in Madrid in 1990 and was progressing toward the Oslo Accords. The poem in this collection entitled The truth has two faces and the snow falls black aroused Arafat’s anger; the Chairman took it as a personal criticism for having responding to the peace initiatives. According to one source, Arafat summoned Darwish from Paris to his seat in Tunis for clarification. Arafat demanded some corrections in the poem, and Darwish acquiesced; the sentence ‘Like a handful of dust this peace will leave us’ was replaced with, ‘Like a handful of dust this journey will leave us.’82 The Iraqi invasion of Kuwait on August 9, 1990, which divided the Arab world, also caused a political, economic, and existential crisis within the PLO, and Darwish had to choose sides. The fact that the PLO did not condemn the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait put all the Palestinians living in Kuwait (about 400,000) at risk of displacement. From the beginning, Arafat tended to support Iraq. Part of the political background of this was Kuwait’s insistence upon transferring its donations directly to the institutions of the Intifada in the Palestinian territories, and not through the PLO. Despite broad support for Iraq among Palestinians (in Jordan, in the West Bank and Gaza, as well as in Israel), Abu¯ Iya¯d (Sala¯h Khalaf), Ha¯nı¯, and Kha¯lid al-Hasan, who had ˙ ˙ ˙ good relations with the rulers of the Gulf States, absolutely opposed the PLO’s support of Iraq against Kuwait. Also, members of the Palestinian

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Political Committee in the West Bank, including Faysal al-Husaynı¯ and ˙ ˙ Hana¯n ‘Ashra¯wı¯, met at PASSIA (Palestinian Academic Society for the ˙ Study of International Affairs) under the direction of Dr Mahdı¯ ‘Abd alHa¯dı¯ in order to formulate a stand against the Iraqi occupation of Kuwait.83 Darwish, on the other hand, hesitated and did not know whom to support. Ziya¯d ‘Abd al-Fatta¯h recounts: ˙ Yasir Arafat’s decision to support Iraq found overwhelming support among the Palestinian poets and writers. Darwish was at my home in Tunis; we watched TV together. I supported the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait, but Darwish was embarrassed. In Kuwait, we had over three hundred thousand Palestinians. We feared the Iraqis might hurt them, if we didn’t support their actions.84 Considering the serious implications of the PLO’s decision to support Iraq for the future and security of the Palestinians in Kuwait, it is interesting that the fear that the Kuwaiti regime might take revenge on that same Palestinian population was not a factor in the PLO’s decision. Therefore, the possibility that the PLO would take a neutral stance in this intra-Arab conflict was also not an option. After Darwish’s death on August 9, 2008, the Iraqi poet Sa‘dı¯ Yu¯suf cited the following conversation from the late 1980s: He said, ‘I must see you today.’ [. . .] The meeting took place at a restaurant, not far from his home [. . .] He said, ‘I need your opinion on an urgent subject [. . .] I received an invitation to appear at the al-Mirbad poetry festival [in Iraq] and receive an award [. . .] I rejected both [. . .] I went to Norway and lived in a remote village. But in the middle of the night I received a phone call from Abu¯ ‘Amma¯r [Yasir Arafat]; ‘Do you want to destroy our house, Mahmoud? You have to go to Baghdad!’85 According to Ziya¯d ‘Abd al-Fatta¯h, Darwish hated the Iraqi regime and ˙ he did not want to participate in the poetry festival in al-Mirbad, because it protected the Abu¯ Nida¯l faction, and together they were ˙ responsible for killing PLO representatives and Fatah founders Abu¯ alHawl (Ha¯yil ‘Abd al-Hamı¯d) and Abu¯ Iya¯d, Fatah’s chiefs of security and ˙ intelligence, on January 14, 1991. But in the end he gave in and went to

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the festival. As the PLO’s cultural representative, he was not free to refuse. Moreover, due to Arafat’s political concerns, Darwish made sure not to deride the Iraqi ruler, among other things for fear that Saddam Hussein might harm the Palestinians living in Iraq, and the PLO representatives abroad. The Iraqi government also gave financial support to the PLO.86 In an article published in the Palestinian daily al-Quds under the title ‘A shining station in the revolution’s history has been written in Darwish’s ink’, the Palestinian Minister of Information, Ya¯sir ‘Abd Rabbih, quoted Darwish, writing about Arafat. The actual context of Darwish’s words, the Madrid peace conference of 1991, and not the late 1980s as ‘Abd Rabbih indicates, are evidence of the poet’s wonderful political and poetic improvisational skills, but also of his desire to flow with and not to defy the leader. Arafat needed to give his trip to Madrid a semblance of national support, so he asked Darwish to accompany him. Although Darwish opposed the peace process, he could not refuse Arafat’s invitation. The circumstances of the trip can shed additional light on the relationship between the poet and his leader. ‘Sometimes I was able to ride the line between Darwish and Arafat in order to spoil’ (Ahya¯na¯ kunt uha¯wil an al‘ab dawr al- musha¯ghib ‘ala¯ al-‘ala¯qa bayn ˙ ˙ Mahmoud Darwish wa- Arafat), wrote ‘Abd Rabbih, adding: At the end of 80s, I believe it was, Mahmoud Darwish composed a short dialogue between him and his leader about Andalusia, and raised the question: ‘Does the leader and commander need a poet on his way to Cordoba [i.e., the Madrid Conference]’? The Leader replied: ‘Yes, definitely.’ The poet responds: ‘How he lies.’ I asked Mahmoud Darwish, in jest and in the presence of Abu¯ ‘Amma¯r [Yasir Arafat] about this matter, and then he recited his dialogue with Arafat [. . .] replacing the words ‘How he lies’ [ma¯ akdhabah] with the words ‘How sweet he is’ [ma¯ a‘dhabah].87 An examination of Darwish’s political stances during the period of his membership of the PLO’s Executive Committee (1987– 1993) testifies to his desire to flow with and not against the organization. There are several stories about Darwish’s election to the PLO Executive Committee on April 25, 1987. According to Hayim Hanegbi’s account, Arafat had ˙ offered Darwish membership of the PLO Executive Committee two years

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earlier, but he had refused. Hanegbi quotes excerpts from a conversation between Darwish and Arafat: Darwish: ‘It is easier to find politicians than poets who serve their people. So, why should I be wasted?’ Arafat: ‘Well there was Andre´ Malraux, a Minister of State in De Gaulle’s [1958 – 1959] government. . .’ Darwish: ‘Still, there are three differences that we should pay attention to. First, you aren’t De Gaulle; Second, I am not Malraux; Third, Palestine is not France.’ Arafat, according to the same story, tried again, but Darwish persisted in his refusal. ‘When we get our own country,’ replied the poet to his leader ‘and you will be De Gaulle, don’t expect me to be Malraux; As far as it depends on me, I prefer to be Sartre.’88 After he was elected to the PLO Executive Committee in 1987, Darwish summed up his reluctance to that appointment in these words: ‘I have been done over.’89 But on another occasion he claimed: ‘I would prefer to work in my field than to take on a role that is contrary to my tendencies as a poet.’ He did not claim that entering into politics was contrary or detrimental to his role as an intellectual. His refusal of the position focused on the politician’s lifestyle and on his desire to have the time for writing literature. Here is an excerpt from his words: I am not made for official and administrative roles that involve long meetings, official visits, and exhausting travels. I was elected in my absence. I heard of the appointment on the radio from my seat in Normandy in France, and then I cried [. . .] But because of the heavy pressure that was put on me, I had to take the incumbency for a limited time [. . .] I used to joke about Oslo’s positive contribution; it presented the opportunity for me to resign from my position in the Executive Committee.90 In contrast to Shafı¯q al-Hu¯t, Darwish did not criticize the decision˙ making process in the PLO Executive Council. Darwish believed that there was no place for criticism.91 In his autobiography, al-Hu¯t cast ˙ harsh criticism on the leadership of Arafat, whose decisions he believed confounded fiction with reality and had a sense of being infallible. Al-Hu¯t also claimed that the PLO Executive Committee had ˙

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turned into nothing more than an ornament while the decision-making ‘kitchen’ was to be found elsewhere, namely, in Arafat’s house.92 AlHu¯t wrote: ˙ Abu¯ ‘Amma¯ r’s attitude towards the members of the Executive Committee had become unbearable. Often he would leave us on our own around the discussion table while he was busy authorizing papers and reading correspondences. Deep inside of me, I felt that we had become insignificant, and that we are nothing more than a de´cor of what is called leadership. One day I spoke about this heatedly and emphatically with Mahmoud Darwish. His response was honest, albeit painful: ‘My brother, Abu¯ al-Ha¯dir, this is a revolution that Abu¯ ‘Amma¯r shaped as he sees fit, therefore you must either accept it or leave.’ [. . .] Our meetings turned into meaningless chapter, with no serious discussions or analysis of the issues at hand, [because] the [political] kitchen was elsewhere.93 Indeed, there were cases in which Darwish took the organization’s needs and those of its leader into consideration (as in the case of alMirbad, in the late 1980s). Although Darwish did not oppose Arafat’s support for Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait, Darwish did not do ‘an aboutface’, as did Arab intellectuals, described by Said: In the immediate aftermath of Iraq’s occupation of Kuwait a dramatic re-alignment of intellectuals took place. It has been suggested that whole departments of Egyptian publishing industry along with many journalists did an about-face. Former Arab nationalists suddenly began to sign the praises of Saudi Arabia and Kuwait, hated enemies of the past, a new friends and patrons now. Lucrative rewards were propably offered to cause the about-face to happen.94 Although Mahmoud Darwish ‘played (always reluctantly) an important political role in the P.L.O, [. . .] first as an adviser and then, from about 1987 on, as a member of the P.L.O. Executive Committee, he never belonged to any political party’.95 Said writes:

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His mordant wit, fierce political independence, and exceptionally refined cultural sensibility kept him at a distance from the frequent coarseness of Palestinian and Arab politics. Yet his immense prestige as a poet made him politically invaluable, and his intimate knowledge of Israeli life and society was also useful to the P.L.O. leadership. But his uneasiness with organized politics never left him and in deed intensified in the late ’80s. [. . .] His vision of politics was at the same time tragic and Swiftian, and it was not surprising that he resigned from the P.L.O.’s Executive Committee to protest the signing of the Oslo Declaration of Principles with Israel in the fall of 1993. His extremely harsh remarks to Arafat and the others were leaked to the press and published throughout Israel and the Arab world: ‘You are dead,’ he effectively told them.96 Despite his involvement with PLO, Darwish did try to speak truth to power. ‘By virtue of his intelligence, his eloquence, and the vast popular audience he commanded, Mahmud Darwish was able to speak directly and as an equal to the Palestinian political leadership (not that they always had the good sense to listen to him, or to others from outside their ranks who tried to reason with them).’97 For the most part, he remained independent and maintained his own judgement, and knew how to insist on his own demands, sometimes even at the risk of endangering his connection with Arafat, as happened in 1979, 1989, and 1993. In contrast to many other members of the organization, he was known as one who never sought personal favours, for himself or for others. From the moment of his arrival in Beirut in 1972, all the doors were opened and the path into politics and the upper echelons of the PLO was paved for him, if he only desired. And yet, while many made ‘pilgrimages’ to Arafat, Darwish chose to keep a degree of political distance, despite his personal closeness with the Palestinian leader.

CHAPTER 5 ATTITUDES AND PRINCIPLES

The earth is closing on us, pushing us through the last passage, and we tear off our limbs to pass through.1

On Women and Love According to Raja¯’ al-Naqqa¯sh, the poets of the resistance did not write love poetry. They fused the image of the woman with that of the homeland. Women, in this poetry, were not lover, but typically either mother or sister of the martyr of the Palestinian cause.2 She is distinguished from men in terms of her gender role, responsible for the private space, home, family, and children. All this within the confines of the norms of patriarchal society, as opposed to the feminist worldview, which views motherhood as just one aspect of women’s identity. However, it was not only the poets of the resistance who fused the image of the homeland with that of the woman. In Kanafa¯nı¯’s writing, for example, the homeland was a mother, not by virtue of giving birth to children, but because she nourishes, heals, and shelters them. This emerges in the novella Umm Sa‘d, from 1969, and even before, Kanafa¯nı¯ novella ‘Men in the Sun’ (Rija¯l fi al-Shams, 1963).3 In his eulogy for Ghassa¯n Kanafa¯nı¯ after the writer’s death in 1972, Darwish described the homeland as ‘a lover, challenging in her beauty and in her ability to betray [. . .] while she sleeps in someone else’s arms’.4 Perhaps in this description of the homeland as an unfaithful woman who does not resist, but submits easily to the enemy’s seduction,

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not as one who is raped, and has physically resisted to the utmost of her powers, for example, Darwish expressed his despair about the possibility that that beloved (the homeland) will return to the arms of her lover (the Palestinians); in particular after the death of the president of Egypt, Gamal Abdel Nasser, in 1970. For, Nasser was a promise for the return of the occupied homeland to its rightful owners, even after the defeat of June 1967.5 The period between Nasser’s death and the 1973 war was full of despair and discontent, mainly among the Palestinians. Note for example Darwish’s poem Sarha¯n drinks coffee ˙ in the cafeteria (1971): ‘We are in vain’ (suda¯ nahn), adding, ‘we were ˙ surprised by rain and bullets’ and ‘a land – its residents have changed’ and then ‘the conquerors gave birth in us, and the oppressors multiplied within us’.6 In the collection ‘A Lover from Palestine’ (‘A¯shiq min Filastı¯n), ˙ published in 1966, Darwish compares the homeland to a lover who captivates the Palestinians with her beauty. This makes her a source of inspiration, love, and torment. The personified homeland is the beloved woman. Her eyes are the eyes of Filastı¯n, her body is the map of Filastı¯n, ˙ ˙ and so on.7 Darwish was not different from his contemporaries, the poets of the resistance. All of them did not write love poetry.8 In an interview for al-Jazeera, Egyptian literary critic Dr Huda¯ al-Sadda of Manchester ˙ University said that the symbolic equivalence created in Palestinian literature between female sexuality and the homeland effectively silences the woman’s voice.9 In his poem ‘A folk melody’ (Mawwa¯l) in the collection ‘At the End of Night’ (’A¯khir al-layl, 1967), the woman and the land are one and the same: ‘The land, or you are with me / or you are a pair of twins [. . .] it is the same, it is the same for me.’10 In the poem On this Earth in the collection Fewer Roses (1986), the homeland is the mother of the universe. For him, the world begins and ends in Filastı¯n; Darwish sees no ˙ other world besides Palestine: We have on this earth what makes life worth living: the final days of September, a woman keeping her apricots ripe after forty [. . .] we have on this earth what makes life worth living: on this earth, the lady of Earth, mother of all beginnings and ends. She was called Palestine. Her name later became Palestin. My lady, because you are my Lady, I deserve life.11

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In his epic poem from 1983, In Praise of the High Shadow, the homeland is a mother. This is a fact that does not change, even if she marries another man. In other words, the occupation does not change the identity of the land: ‘All of the nations married my mother / and my mother remained my mother’ (kul al-shu‘u¯b tazawwajat ummı¯, wa-ummı¯ lam takun illa¯ ummi).12 And so, the woman in Darwish’s poetry is the homeland, and the homeland is a symbol of life, love, and fertility. Both are feminine, since they grant life and their identity does not change even if their husband / owner does.13 However, this analogy bears no relation to the bio-political claim that the Palestinian woman is the wellspring of Palestinian nationalism. Rhoda Canaaneh, a professor of anthropology at New York University, makes the claim that the Palestinian woman, both in Israel and in the Occupied Territories, plays a political, strategic, and national role. According to Canaaneh, natural growth is an expression of Palestinian resistance to Israel’s policy of demographic arithmetic. Among Palestinians in the Galilee and elsewhere, procreation has become a matter of identity and a weapon of resistance against Israel’s policy of occupation. The Palestinian woman’s choice to have many children is not only a product of tradition and indigenous culture. Childbirth has become a national tradition, aimed at preserving Palestinian national identity. In other words, for Palestinian women, bringing children into the world is done not only for the sake of preserving the family line, but primarily in order to safeguard the ethnic group and its national identity.14 On the other hand, should we conclude that in Darwish’s writing, women did not have an autonomous, non-metaphorical, existence? Does every description of love in his works refer to the homeland? How were the poet’s personal experiences manifested in his poems? Yehuda Atlas describes a love story between Darwish and Tamar Berkman (Ben Ami), a young Jewish woman and communist activist: It was not love at first sight. It was Mahmoud who asked about her first [. . .] She was 16 years old at the time, a high-school student, active in the Socialist Youth Alliance, known to be a dancer; and he was the editor of al-Jadı¯d, the [Party’s] literary journal [. . .] he saw her dancing, she heard him reading his poetry, she didn’t understand – the Jewish –Arab solidarity of the movement did not go so far as to necessitate Arabic studies among the Jewish

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members – but she could feel the rhythm, the beat, the melody, the truth. He was also a handsome young man, blue-eyed, slim, always elegantly dressed, sensitive, ascetic, carrying his personal pain and the collective Palestinian pain.15 In an article entitled ‘Farewell to the woman’, Smadar Peri tells the following story: While in Cairo, Darwish published an article that stirred criticism against him: ‘Am I free to marry a woman?’ Darwish wrote that he felt the time had come to take a break from politics and have a home life. The critics, in particular the Lebanese journalists, poured out their wrath and claimed that Darwish was neglecting truly important matters for the sake of ‘trivialities.’ Rumor in Cairo had it that he was having a passionate affair with the singer Naja¯t al-Saghı¯ra, whom he had met at a performance at the ˙ Egyptian Writers’ Club. But ultimately Darwish married Rana¯, an attractive young woman, well-educated and from a good family: her father [. . .] was the Syrian ambassador to the United States and was closely associated with the circles of power in Damascus. He was the brother of the well-known poet, Niza¯r Qabba¯nı¯. But the relationship did not last. Darwish, preoccupied with his affairs, and Rana¯, demanding his attention, separated.16 ‘My first poems were love poems’, said Darwish. ‘I imagined the woman who would read me.’17 In the poem Rita and the rifle, from the collection At the End of Night, Darwish writes: ‘For two years I was lost in Rita / for two years she fell asleep on my arm / And we made our vows over the most beautiful cup, and I was burned in the wine of our lips, and we were born twice.’18 Some said that ‘Rita’ should not be read as a true story, but as a symbol of the possibility of love between Jews, Muslims, and Christians on the land of Palestine.19 In an interview for French Channel 2, Darwish claimed that the name ‘Rita’ is only a metaphoric expression, though it is not entirely free of personal experience. In other words, the story is real, while the name ‘Rita’ is not. After the interviewer’s prodding, Darwish admitted that ‘Rita’ is indeed a true story, one that left a deep emotional scar: ‘In the bedroom we freed ourselves of names and differences of national

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identity.’ ‘Rita’, therefore, is the fictional name of a Jewish woman with whom he had an actual romantic relationship, and not an expression of love of the homeland. ‘Rita’, one can assume, is the fictional name of Tamar Berkman (Ben ‘Ami), whose story was recounted above.20 Why, then, is there a rifle ‘between Rita and my eyes’ (bayn Rita wa-‘uyu¯nı¯ bunduqiyya)? The rifle symbolizes Zionist aggression. According to Darwish, love would be possible were it not for Zionism, or the ‘Zionist rifle’. In contrast to the Syrian poet Niza¯r Qabba¯nı¯, who devoted most of his poetic output to the Arab woman and love, one can find hardly any romantic poetry in Darwish’s work.21 The rare instances of this include the poem ‘The doves fly’ (Yatı¯r al-hama¯m), which he dedicated in 1984 to ˙ his second wife, the Egyptian Haya¯t al-Hı¯ynı¯. ˙

Woman as an Autonomous Figure A thematic change in his poetry occurred after the signing of the Oslo Accords and following his return to the Palestinian Authority in 1995. Darwish’s book, ‘The Stranger’s Bed’ (Sarı¯r al-Gharı¯ba, 1997) marks a turning point in the poet’s writing style. In this poetry, the woman is no longer an archetype or a symbol of Palestine, but one to be waited for ‘with an azure cup’ and ‘with the patience of a horse trained for mountains’ in the spirit of his poem, Lesson from the Kama Sutra.22 All of the poems in this book are surprisingly devoted to the mysteries of woman. According to literary scholar Subhi al-Hadidi, Darwish’s book, The Stranger’s Bed expresses Darwish’s old poetical project, and the Oslo Accord had only made the circumstances better to bring this project to an epic and refined end. Hadidi writes: When Darwish left Israel in 1970 and began to gain greater literary authority, he became aware of the task that was assigned to him and conscious of the problematic position of the poet who is made into a spokesman for the collective. Darwish, not wanting to lose aesthetic control of his poetry, decided to determine for himself his relationship with his public. He did not hesitate to distance himself from the public when it asked for political responses. He insisted that his voice must remain different from that of the public. In order to retain control of his poetry, Darwish

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was forced to innovate, to constantly rethink the material of his poetry, as well as its subject.23 However, by literature scholar Yochai Oppenheimer’s definition, one can see in this book an expression of political protest over the Oslo Accords. According to Oppenheimer, ‘the politicization of the reading is possible and even to be expected when talking about distinctively political writers’.24 Furthermore, ‘the political nature of the poem is not sealed or final, but dependent also on its future and changing readership, which can always redefine it and find in it an expressive tool for its own views’.25 According to Oppenheimer’s criteria, all of Darwish’s poetry is political, if only because of the political identity of the poet. In other words, perhaps the fact that Darwish devoted an entire collection to romantic, and not political, subjects at such a critical turning point in Palestinian history is itself a kind of political protest over Oslo. In the poem, the Damascene Dove’s Necklace or ‘The Damascene collar of the dove’ (Tawq al-Hama¯ma al-Dimashqı¯), he wrote: ‘In Damascus: / ˙ ˙ speech returns to its origin, [. . .] and you say: I won’t leave you / so take me to you / and take me with you.’26 Darwish also devoted a chapter to women and love in his collection Why Did You Leave the Horse Alone? In In the Presence of Absence, he tried to define what love is.27 But, this thematic shift in his writing didn’t necessarily signify any change in his views regarding women’s role and rights in Palestinian society.

Women’s Status in Palestinian Society In December 2004, Darwish was one of 518 signatories of ‘A public letter: what we want from the elected president’, which was presented to the PA President, Mahmoud Abbas. Item 10 of that document calls for putting a stop to gender discrimination and strengthening the status of women in public life through egalitarian legislation that would reflect the democratic legacy of the Palestinian national movement and women’s contribution to the national struggle.28 But, in his book A State of Siege, Darwish indicated that the question in Palestinian society is not about women’s rights, but about their duties. Thus he wrote: ‘We disagree over women’s duties/ [. . .] we disagree over everything. And we have one goal:/to be.’29

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In an article entitled ‘Before the resignation letter’ (1988) Darwish claimed that the role of the intellectual living in a society under occupation is different from that of other intellectuals.30 In other words, the discussion of the improvement of women’s status must wait until after Palestinian independence is achieved. One must first fight the Occupation, and not battle the PA, which is itself under occupation. According to ‘A¯dil al-Usta, many other intellectuals ˙ shared this point of view.31 Isla¯h Ja¯d, a feminist activist and lecturer in political science and ˙ ˙ gender studies at Bir Zeit University, claimed that the postponement of the struggle for women’s rights until after independence did not bode well for Palestinian society. After independence, it will be very difficult to bring about a change in the status of Palestinian women, both because of the strengthening of the Islamic Movement and because it will not be possible to trust the future Palestinian government in this matter.32 Palestinian intellectual Hisham Sharabi (1927–2005) devoted all his energy to examining and advancing the status of women in Arab society, since he believed that this is the way to healing the ‘ills of Arab society, and this is the duty and true test of the intellectual in the Arab countries’.33 By contrast, Darwish was not at all preoccupied with the question of women’s status. The bitter and drawn-out national and existential struggle in Palestinian society had relegated the issue of women to the bottom of the Palestinian agenda, and Darwish’s as well. The following exploration of his positions on state and government may shed additional light on this issue.

State and Government What kind of state did Darwish want Palestine to be? What form of government and what kind of society would it have? Answers to these questions can be found primarily in his book The Butterfly Effect, as well as in two important foundational documents: the Palestinian Declaration of Independence (1988), which he drafted and edited at the request of Arafat, and the aforementioned ‘What we want from the New President’, which was submitted to the President of the PA on December 26, 2004 before the elections for the presidency and the Palestinian National Council.

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According to the Palestinian Declaration of Independence, ‘The Palestinian National Council declares the establishment of a Palestinian state on the land of Palestine.’ This shall be ‘the State of all Palestinians wherever they may be’, and Jerusalem will be its capital. The document goes on to discuss the form of government that will be formed. The Palestinian state will be a parliamentary, constitutional, and liberal democracy that will respect basic civil rights as well as minority rights. There will be full equal rights for all, regardless of race, religion, colour, or sex. The government will uphold freedom of religious practice, freedom of expression, and freedom of assembly for political parties. The document also ensures the independence of the judiciary and the rule of law. Furthermore, it discusses the position of the Palestinian state vis-a`-vis the Arab world, saying that the PLO is the sole legitimate representative of the Palestinian people. The Palestinian state will be an Arab state, an inseparable part of the Arab people, culture, and heritage, which strives for liberation, progress, and unity. The state will honour the Arab League Convention and will work alongside the Arab League to bring about an end to the Israeli occupation. The Declaration of Independence also discusses the place of the Palestinian state in the international arena: it declares the Palestinian state’s adherence to the UN charter and emphasizes that Palestine is a peace-seeking state that seeks coexistence and believes in the solution of problems by peaceful means.34 Since Darwish was the one who drafted and edited the Declaration, at Arafat’s request, one might assume that the values represented in the document necessarily reflected the worldviews and values of the poet. The Declaration was formulated in unique political circumstances, and it therefore may also reflect a sort of compromise between the PLO factions. Moreover, despite the poet’s opposition to the Oslo Accords, this was not the first time that Darwish had answered Arafat’s request to write documents for him. This was in 1974, when the PLO was accepted as the status of a representative at the UN General Assembly. Darwish, who was accompanying Arafat’s entourage at the time, heeded Arafat’s request and participated in the writing of the speech entitled ‘Do not take the olive branch from my hand’ (la¯ tusqitu¯ ghusn al-zaytu¯n ˙ ˙ min yadı¯), which Arafat delivered before the UN General Assembly. Even in 1996 Darwish answered Arafat’s request to draft his speech to UNESCO in spite of his opposition to the Oslo Accords. About this, Darwish said, ‘I was in Paris at the time, Arafat came and asked me to

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write an ideological text around the problems of the world [. . .] the world’s leaders were there, and there were those who quoted from the text, and then he said to me, ‘Do you see how good your speech is?’’35 In ‘A public letter: what we want from the elected president’, submitted to Abu Mazen on December 26, 2004 before the elections for the presidency and the Palestinian National Council, the 518 signatories, among them Darwish, demanded 13 fundamental governmental reforms in the Palestinian Authority regime. They expressed their desire for the PA to be a parliamentary and pluralistic democracy (with free and general elections), and demanded freedom of assembly for the variety of different groups in society (section 5). Moreover, the signatories demanded a separation between the institutions of the PA and the PLO, and that a law should be passed on the subject of funding for political parties, so as to ensure the preservation of democracy (section 8). The document also demanded that there be a free and competitive economy in which private enterprise would be encouraged and monopolies prevented (section 11), along with a policy of welfare and social security (section 13). No less important, the document called for a return to the civilian character of the Intifada: passing legislation that would regulate the activities of the security apparatuses and define their authority, so as not to impinge upon the individual’s right to oppose the Occupation (section 6).36 The signatories were thus asking to lay the foundation stone for a progressive Palestinian state. And yet they overlooked a most important element in liberal democracy, namely, the basic rights of the individual: equality before the law, gender equality, freedom of expression, property rights, and minority rights. In this sense, the document constitutes a regression from the 1988 Palestinian Declaration of Independence.

A Poet in the Opposition In an article entitled ‘A stone from the Galilee’ (‘hajar min al-Jalı¯l’), ˙ Darwish wrote that the homeland is the arena for free human action and individualism, continuing: If I had a homeland, I could declare that I am against the government without being accused of nihilism. If I had a homeland, I would say that the homeland is not a goal, but a tool in service of man. If I had a homeland, I would say that if the

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homeland is not based on democracy and freedom, it becomes a prison. If I had a homeland, I would call for boycotting Coca Cola and opening up parks for lovers.37 In an interview broadcast on Palestinian television on July 23, 2007, Darwish said that the establishment of a Palestinian state is not the be all and end all: I can see the state [on the way], I also see the disappointment [. . .] Where is the free, creative, man? What is our role in this world? We are busy establishing the symbols of the state: government, flag, police, taxes, anthem, prisons, administrative corruption [. . .] Something seemingly small remains – independence. But, there is a fundamental question: to what extent this state is Sovereign? How free is the Palestinian in this state, and how capable is he of living his life without internal and external oppression? [. . .] Can we build a new dream? Build a new person with new mentality and culture, and establish a different kind of dialogue with the world?38 In another place, Darwish declared, without mincing words: ‘If there will be a Palestinian state, I will be in the opposition’, adding: ‘What is a homeland? It is a place that enables people to blossom, and not a place in which people serve the flag. In my poem, Cease-fire with the Mongolians, I say that I am going to make socks out of the flag. My life’s work is not on behalf of a flag.’39 In the poem, ‘If we want to’ (In aradna¯) in the collection The Butterfly Effect (2008), Darwish wrote: We will become a people, if we want to, when we learn that we are not angels, and that evil is not the prerogative of others / We will become a people when we stop reciting a prayer of thanksgiving to the sacred nation every time a poor man finds something to eat for his dinner / We will become a people when we can condemn the sultan’s gatekeeper and the sultan without a trial / We will become a people when a poet writes an erotic description of a dancer’s belly / [. . .] We will become a people when the morality police protect a prostitute from being beaten up in the streets. / We will become a people when the Palestinian only remembers his flag on

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the vast football pitch, at beauty pageant, and on the day of the Nakba. / We will become a people, if we want to, when the singer is allowed to chant a verse of Su¯rat al-Rahma¯n at a mixed wedding ˙ reception. / We will become a people when we respect the right, and the wrong.40 According to Darwish, the state is not only a form of administration, but also a means for establishing a liberal political order that provides individuals with their basic rights, such as freedom, security, and respect. He does not call for anarchism; if anarchy reigned, then how could the singer be ‘allowed to chant a verse of Su¯rat al-Rahma¯n at a ˙ mixed wedding reception’, and know that his personal security is ensured? On the contrary, Darwish does believe in state authority. The state, according to Darwish, is a civilized project that allows the building of ‘a new dream and a new person’.41 With no authority, this project cannot succeed. Although Darwish does not discuss the source of said authority, doubtless he is not referring to the unlimited power of a single leader according to Hobbes’s model, since he mocks this kind of leadership in his unpublished collection, Rhymed Speeches of a Dictator (1987). In the poem, If we want to, Darwish places an emphasis on the freedoms of the individual. In other words, he desires a state in which the government will not be despotic, but secular and liberal; in which freedom of expression and religion is ensured, as well as the rights of minorities. And yet, in order for these freedoms to be ensured, the government must respect the rule of law, not only when it comes to the citizens, but primarily in relation to those who wield power – and to this Darwish does not refer.

Religion and Islamic Fundamentalism Darwish represents the secular side of the Palestinian national movement. Up until the first Intifada (1987), when Hamas began to gain power, the Palestinian national movement, headed by the PLO, reflected an exclusively secular national identity. The Hamas, a fundamentalist Islamic movement that sprouted in Gaza out of the ranks of the Muslim Brotherhood and various Islamic charity organizations, was the first to merge Palestinian national ideology with Islamic ideology. It is interesting to examine Darwish’s positions against radical

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Islam, and, most specifically, on the notion of the shahı¯d (martyr). It is also enlightening to examine Hamas’s attitude towards Darwish.

The ‘Shahı¯d’ In his collection, A State of Siege (2002), Darwish describes the shahı¯d as a despondent individual who chooses the path of martyrdom out of desperation, not because he does not love life on earth or because he strives for the eternal afterlife, but because his access to life has been blocked: The martyr explains: I have not / searched beyond the distance / for eternity’s virgins, I love life / On Earth, among the pines and figs, / But I had no access to it. I’ve searched / for it, using every last thing I own: blood in a body [stone] of azure [. . .] The martyr warns me: ‘Do not believe their ululations. / Believe my father when he looks at my picture, / crying.’42 The image Darwish presented of the shahı¯d was thus different from the accepted image. He shattered the myth about the shahı¯d’s mother’s joy at her child’s death. He believed that the death of any shahı¯d is a tragic event, and that there was no reason for joy or lofty words. Darwish’s poem therefore undermines the myth of the shahı¯d as a hero and as a saint who can expect a long afterlife in paradise. For Darwish, the shahı¯d is not a hero or holy martyr, but simply a miserable and desperate child. Darwish shouldered criticism for this view from al-Da‘wa, the missionary arm of the Islamic movement. Ramada¯n ‘Umar of Burqı¯n, ˙ near Jenin, founder of the Jerusalem Writers’ Union in Nablus (an Islamic union, which sees literature as a tool for missionizing), came out against Darwish’s portrayal of the shahı¯d in A State of Siege. In an article entitled ‘The Shahı¯ds and the formation of Palestinian identity in the poetry of the Intifada’ (2004), ‘Umar wrote that not only was Darwish not interested in that same ‘immense faith that moves the holy heroes to sacrifice the most valuable and important thing’, but that he in fact scorned this point of view. After criticizing the fact that Darwish had not commemorated the symbols of the second Intifada, Sheikh Ahmad ˙ Ya¯sı¯n, ‘Abd al-‘Azı¯z al-Rantı¯sı¯ (heads of Hamas in Gaza), and others, ‘Umar came to the conclusion that Darwish cannot represent the national-religious stream, which he saw as leading the struggle for liberation within the Palestinian national movement.43

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In addition, Darwish was criticized posthumously by Mustafa¯ al˙˙ Sawwa¯f, editor of Filastı¯n, the Gaza-based online newspaper of Hamas. ˙ ˙ In his article, ‘Darwish in the hands of God’, al-Sawwa¯f wrote that ˙ Darwish had taken part in normalization encounters and defended those who supported that process. Al-Sawwa¯f considered this to be treason.44 ˙ Darwish did indeed defend on more than one occasion the existence of normalization talks between Palestinian and Israeli intellectuals, though since 1971 he never took part in this kind of encounter.45 In a eulogy written for the poet Mu‘ı¯n Bsı¯su¯, Darwish talked about the culture of death in Palestinian literature, of which Bsı¯su¯ was a staunch opponent: Therefore I expressed my bewilderment at the tendency in Palestinian writing to praise death, and this explains its weakness, since this widespread phenomenon constitutes a complete abandonment of the source of Palestinian spiritual force, which is the force of life. Mu‘ı¯n Bsı¯su¯ experienced this force and tried to live, tried to break the attempt of others to turn the Palestinian from a human being into a pattern. Thus, he was the son of life, persistently looking in its life for freedom.46 Darwish wrote these words in 1984, well before the appearance of the Islamist streams in the Palestinian national movement. It is not clear, therefore, to which ‘Palestinian writing’ the poet was referring, and who precisely were those ‘others’ who were trying to turn the Palestinian ‘into a pattern’. Perhaps he was referring to the rejectionist states, Syria and Libya. In an interview to the news station al-‘Arabiyya on December 14, 2005, Darwish justified the motivation of the shahı¯ds, but rejected the act. ‘It is the Palestinians’ right to oppose the Occupation in such a way as will serve their goals. But the Palestinians must maintain the victim’s moral stance – to distinguish themselves from the image of the occupier’, claimed Darwish. He disapproved of actions that harm civilians and made a distinction between the shahı¯d and the suicide bomber. Jesus, Muhammad ˙ al-Durra, the Iraqis killed by American smart bombs – all these were shahı¯ds.47 ‘The kamikaze who targets civilians, is sacrificing his life for something that is seemingly just.’ However, the poet stated clearly: ‘I have condemned the suicide actions whose goal is to harm civilians.’48

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The Muslim Brotherhood/Hamas Darwish came out adamantly and dramatically against Hamas in at least two instances. In July 2005 he came out against its attempt to impose its ideology on Palestinian cultural life. This came following Hamas’s disruption of a festival of song in the Palestinian territories, in which young men and women participated together. Armed men raided the festival, which was being held on the campus of al-Najah University in Nablus, and wreaked havoc after the Palestinian singer ‘Amma¯r Hasan ˙ refused to give in to the armed men’s demand not to sing joyful songs. ‘They are like a Taliban in our society, and this is a very dangerous thing’, said Darwish during a reception held in his office in Ramallah in honour of Hasan. He claimed that it is not a question of freedom of artistic ˙ expression, but of the image and future of the Palestinian state – will it be a theocracy or a pluralistic democracy?49 Following Hamas’s takeover of the Gaza Strip on June 14, 2007, Darwish launched an unprecedented attack. In an article entitled ‘From now – you are the other’, Darwish accused Hamas in Gaza of heresy. He saw Isma¯‘ı¯l Haniyya, the leader of Hamas in Gaza, as a symbol of ignorance, and referred to him as ‘Abu¯ Sufya¯n’, the great heretic of the pre-Islamic period: Were it not for the shame and darkness, I would visit Gaza without knowing the way to the new Abu¯ Sufya¯n, or the name of the new prophet [Isma¯‘ı¯l Haniyya]. And were not Muhammad the last of the ˙ prophets, then every band would yield its own prophet, and every companion would submit his own militia [. . .] June [14, 2007] surprised us [for the worse] on the fortieth birthday [of the Israeli occupation]. If we don’t find someone to defeat us again, we defeat ourselves with our own hands [. . .] For what do we need a state [. . .] so long as it, and the days that go by, share the same fate?50 In an interview with the Israeli daily Haaretz on July 11, 2007, Darwish called fundamentalism a disaster for democracy. According to him, the fundamentalists believe in once-only democratic elections, the kind that will bring them into power. Nonetheless, he added: One cannot ignore Hamas as a political force with supporters within Palestinian society. Right now, when the blood is still

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boiling and the wounds are still fresh, it is hard to talk about dialogue, but ultimately only if the Hamas apologizes for what they did in Gaza and rectifies the results of the battle in Gaza, only then will it be possible to talk about dialogue.51 Despite Darwish’s harsh criticism of radical Islam, and above all Hamas, his attacks remained without response, and this was not surprising. ‘Radical Islam does not have its own writers’, wrote Ziya¯d ‘Abd alFatta¯h, member of the Palestinian National Council (Gaza), and Dr ‘A¯dil ˙ al-Usta of al-Najah University. A similar explanation was given by the ˙ scholar of modern Arabic literature, Sasson Somekh: ‘The Islamic fundamentalist ideology rejects literature just as it does any other aesthetic artistic medium. At the very most they can accept poetry that has a straightforward religious or political message.’52 On this Ziya¯d ‘Abd al-Fatta¯h said: ˙ Writing and art require freedom; they cannot develop in an atmosphere of terror. In all of the West Bank and the Gaza Strip you will not find a writer or journalist of stature willing to wage a written battle against the giant of Palestinian poetry, Mahmoud Darwish. This is a lost and pointless war for them. They are aware of his stature among the Palestinian people, and therefore they are not interested, nor do they dare, wage a battle, at least not a written one, in which their chances of victory are virtually none.53

Intifada: Terrorism, or Resistance? Darwish distinguished between ‘resistance’ (muqa¯wama) and ‘terror of the state’ (irha¯b al-dawla): Resistance is not an act of terror. It is a legitimate expression of defiance in the face of state terror, which Israel has imposed on the Palestinians for nearly half a century [. . .] Thus the Palestinian has suffered twice: once due the expropriation of his homeland, and a second time as a result of the expropriation of his image, as the Israeli executioner continues to enjoy the victories of the sword and the victory of the image – being an executioner in victim’s clothing.54

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In this interview, given in 1989, at the height of the first Intifada, Darwish justified resistance, or freedom-fighting, without addressing the question of whether such resistance also permits the targeting of civilians.55 Later, the events of the second Intifada, September 11, 2001, and the global war on terror, would all force Darwish to redefine his stance on this issue, as shall be discussed later. After the death of the head of the military wing of the Fatah, Khalı¯l al-Wazı¯r (Abu¯ Jiha¯d) in 1988, Darwish wrote an article whose title was ‘Khalı¯l al-Wazı¯r and the bitterness of life’: The consciousness of the global spectator needs more time – and more killing – to reshape a new concept of terrorism [. . .] who is a terrorist? Is it the child who stands facing a tank or the state that kills the child with a tank? Who is a terrorist? Is it the people protecting its right to live in the face of a war of destruction, or the state that assassinates Khalı¯l al-Wazı¯r in Tunis?56 Darwish considered the Palestinians to be purely freedom fighters, while Israel was nothing but an occupier state, an executioner state, and a terrorist state waging a war to the finish against the Palestinian people, while also striving to expropriate the image of the victim in the international arena. Thus he saw the popular Intifada as a struggle for liberation, freedom, and independence – an important and necessary stage for the Palestinians.57 In an interview with ‘Aqil al-‘Awı¯t, a ˙ Lebanese writer and scholar, Darwish described the Intifada as an outcome of the endless suffering and boundless endurance of the Palestinians both within and outside the homeland. According to him, the Intifada restored the meaning of basic freedom, which had long been forgotten. ‘Out of the depths of this oblivion came a [Palestinian] thundering voice to remind [the humanity] of a spontaneous or conscious collusion to forget; There, on this small piece of the earth, is a people that is deprived of all rights because it lacks the basic condition for human life: self-determination.’58 In an interview with Hilit Yeshurun, Darwish spoke about the Intifada as an internal political protest about the helplessness of the PLO: I felt that the Intifada is the simple, just, and true response that returned the [Palestinian] cause to the spotlight [. . .] It shook

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the Palestinian people free of the complacency that the PLO allowed them. I saw in the Intifada revenge for laziness and revenge for a long sleep. When the people took matters into their own hands, it began like a children’s game, with simple, symbolic weapons, with a stone, and when they saw this on television [. . .] it encouraged them and turned into a way of life. By the end of the Intifada it became detrimental to Palestinian society. It turned into a profession.59 At the end of this statement we find a criticism of the way in which the Intifada turned into a ‘way of life’ and into a ‘profession’. In other words, in his opinion, the Intifada, which began as a civilian political tactic whose goal was to get rid of the Occupation, dragged on too long until it turned into a routine. On the economic level, for example, damage was done due to the on-going closure and strikes. On the social level, writes Isla¯h Ja¯d, the Intifada had a positive effect on the status of women. For ˙ ˙ the first time in Palestinian national history, women went out to the battleground and confronted the occupying army: Women threw stones, burned tires, piled up stones, put up roadblocks, waved Palestinian flags, and prevented soldiers from carrying out arrests. These actions were especially widespread in the villages, refugee camps, and poor neighbourhoods in the cities. Women even used violence, and they were frequently involved in actual confrontations with the army.60 Indeed, the first Intifada (1987 – 1993) for the first time saw women working and fighting alongside men on the battlefield. But, equality on the battlefield did not bring equality in the division of labour and social life. Palestinian women continued, as in the past, to bear the burden of all the traditional household tasks. Moreover, the gender cooperation seen in the Intifada was ad hoc, having the specific goal of the struggle against the Israeli occupier. The issue of the improvement of women’s position in society was and remains far from the top of the agenda of Palestinian civil society and that of the Palestinian National Authority. The second Intifada witnessed no substantive change in Darwish’s thought regarding the goals of the resistance. This time, too, he believed

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that the popular Palestinian Intifada was the natural and legitimate right of those seeking freedom and independence. He did, however, criticize the use of military means in his eulogy for Arafat in 2004: There is no question about the Palestinians’ right to rise up. The second Intifada is a natural expression of their national aspirations and of their desire to restore hope to their lives – through a true peace that will ensure their freedom and independence. And yet many questions arise regarding the proper means for achieving this goal and how to keep the Palestinians away from the military arena, which is what Sharon wants, in order to launch an all-out war against the nascent Palestinian entity, during the ‘global war on terror’ ever since America erased the border between the concept of uprising and that of terror.61 Thus, the only way for the Palestinian people to reach independence is to resume the civil Intifada. Darwish criticized the high toll that the second Intifada had taken in lives, property, and freedom. In the document ‘What we want from the new president’, he called for the return to the popular and civil character of the Intifada. Later on, however, he understood that this was not a way out of the dead end either. After Hamas’s takeover of Gaza, things only became more complicated. He felt that Israelis and Palestinians alike were on a suicidal path. In the poem ‘A ready script’ (Scenario Ja¯hiz) he paints a very gloomy picture – he, the Palestinian, and the Israeli rival falling into the same hole: He said: Will you negotiate with me now? I said: Over what now / in this hole, this grave? He said: Over your share and mine / [. . .] I said: what for? time has run away from us / [. . .] the murdered and his murderer sleep in this hole, / and another poet must bring this script to its end!62

On the Arab World and Arabness Darwish’s attitude towards Arabs and Arabness (Postcolonial Identity) alternated between enthusiasm, criticism, disappointment, and despair at the ability of the Arab world to solve the problems facing it and, above all, the Palestinian problem.

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Until the Six-Day War (1967), the identity of the Palestinians in Israel was Arab. ‘The Israelis treated us as Arabs [. . .] From here came our awareness of our Arab identity.’63 This was first expressed by Darwish in his poem ‘Write down: I am an Arab’ (Sajjil ana¯ ‘Arabı¯). In an interview given to the Lebanese poet Sa¯mir Abu¯ Hawwa¯sh in 2001, Darwish said: ‘Our Palestinian identity began to blossom after the Arab defeat [. . .] All Palestinians had to come to terms with their Palestinian identity and take their fate into their own hands.’64 Even after the Arab defeat in the 1967 War, the Palestinians’ admiration for Egyptian leader Gamal Abd al-Nasser was not diminished. Darwish attributed this admiration to Nasser’s charisma and his Arab national ideology.65 Darwish arrived in Egypt after the death of the admired leader. In a press conference held on February 11, 1971 in the Egyptian television building, Darwish said: ‘I feel [. . .] the pulse of the earth as I live and work among my people in the broad sense, and as I am able to defend the particular [Palestinian cause] from the position of the general [Arab world].’66

Disappointment, Despair, and Criticism Following the siege of the Syrians on the Palestinian refugee camp Tal al-Za‘tar and the massacre of its inhabitants in 1976, and all the more forcefully following the visit of Egyptian President Anwar Sadat to Israel in 1977 and the signing of the peace accords between Egypt and Israel, Darwish took a hostile stance towards the Arab regimes. In an article entitled ‘Stone from the Galilee’, which he wrote in commemoration of Land Day, Darwish stated: ‘One stone from the Galilee has the weight of a thousand tanks gathering rust in the deserts of Arabia.’67 Following Sadat’s visit to Israel, Darwish launched a harsh attack on the Egyptian president. He accused Sadat of treason, of abandoning the Palestinian cause, and of weakening the Arab front, among other things.68 The Lebanon war (1982), and the evacuation of the PLO headquarters and institutions in Beirut were the last straw for Darwish. From that point on, he would claim that the Arab regimes were responsible for the perpetuation of the Palestinian tragedy. He saw these regimes as cohorts of the Zionists and of Israel in the Palestinian genocide, oppression, and exile. Darwish also believed that any reliance on the Arab world could only end in tragedy, and was tantamount to leaning on water.69 In his acclaimed epic poem In Praise

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of the High Shadow (1983) he wrote: ‘the mask has fallen / the Arabs obeyed their Roman [patrons], sold their souls/ and were lost.’70 Following Syria’s attacks on the Palestinians in Lebanon in 1983, Darwish wrote: No one asked why they do not try the perpetrators of the massacre in Sabra¯ and Shatı¯la¯ Take-Two. Likewise, no one asked to establish ˙ a committee of inquiry, or for the resignation of the Arab defence minister under whose command the massacre took place, since committees of inquiry are a Zionist invention meant to mislead public opinion.71 In the words ‘Sabra¯ and Shatı¯la¯ take-two’, Darwish was referring to the ˙ massacre carried out by Syrian forces and the anti-Arafat rebels in two Palestinian refugee camps in Tripoli in northern Lebanon – Nahr alBa¯rid and al-Badda¯wı¯. Arafat, by returning secretly to Lebanon to personally command the Palestinian fighters in Tripoli, endangered himself, and this Darwish mentions in his article ‘Yasir Arafat and the sea’ (1983).72 And yet, in the circumstances in Lebanon after the evacuation of PLO headquarters from Beirut, Arafat’s return to Tripoli could not prevent these two camps from falling into the hands of the rebels and their Syrian allies. The Nahr al-Ba¯rid refugee camp fell into Syrian hands on November 6, 1982, and al-Badda¯wi followed. In another article, entitled ‘To be or not to be – that is the decision’, the poet wrote: For forty years and counting, the Palestinian has been forced from exile to exile, from sea to desert, and from prison camp to massacre. The blood bee is flying around its first-barn, changing neither its longings nor its path. And yet, the murderers are those who change their costumes, masks, weapons, and language. Israeli occupation and terror mingle with the oppressive Arab regime – Oh, bitter Irony – in an attempt to divert the Palestinians from their dream. And so the Palestinian confronts other questions besides those of freedom and independence, the questions of normal human existence on this earth: where to go? Where to give birth? Where to sleep? Where to work? Where to learn? Where to love? Where to write poems? And where to be buried?73

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In the poem al-Mutanabbı¯’s voyage to Egypt, which he wrote after leaving Beirut in 1979, Darwish expressed his despair at the PLO and the Arab regimes. Since then, his homeland became a poem (watanı¯ qası¯datı¯) ˙ ˙ and/or a suitcase (watanı¯ haqı¯batı¯), and the entire world turned into a ˙ ˙ stranglehold. On Syrian territory the Palestinians felt they were in exile, and in Egypt the silence was suffocating.74 In the poem ‘I am Yu¯suf, oh my father’ (Ana¯ Yu¯suf ya¯ abı¯) in the collection ‘Fewer Roses’ (Ward Aqall, 1986), he wrote: ‘My brothers do not love me [. . .] and they wish my death.’75 The historical-religious story of the biblical Joseph is an allegory for the Arab world. In his interview with Sa¯mir Abu¯ Hawwa¯sh, Darwish said that these are not biological brothers.76 In other words, the Arab brothers in that poem were not behaving like brothers. In the collection Rhymed Speeches of a Dictator (1987), Darwish ridiculed authoritarian rule in the Arab world. He foresaw its decay and even its fall. In the ‘investiture’, ‘peace’, ‘farewell’, and other speeches in this cycle, Darwish tried to sketch the personality of the dictator, portraying him as an isolated person living in his exile. After 1977 and the signing of the peace accords between Egypt and Israel, and following the occupation of Beirut by the IDF in 1982 and the PLO evacuation of the city, the question of democracy and freedom in the Arab world became Darwish’s top interest (Mahmoud Darwish, Shu’u¯n Filastniyya, ˙ 89, 1979:6). ‘I will fight [. . .] for parties’ permission and for the prohibition of one-party and one-family. I will fight [. . .] for the right of people to sleep in the time they want, and their right to dream without fear.’ (Mahmoud Darwish, al-Karmel, 3, 1981:11– 12).77 From the 1990s onwards, Darwish abandoned his critical line on the Arab world – states, regimes, and leaders. Darwish reached the conclusion that criticizing the Arab world was not beneficial to the quality of his poetry. ‘The role of the poet’ he claimed, ‘is to write beautiful poetry in response to the dismal reality of the Arab world.’ Every single day sees new political and national failures in the Arab world, and poetry cannot address all of them.78 And indeed the 1990s witnessed changes in Darwish’s poetry, both in style and in theme – for example, the aforementioned shift to romantic poetry after the signing of the Oslo accords. In comparison with the Palestinian intellectual Hisham Sharabi, who dealt with the issue of democratization in Arab society, Darwish focused exclusively on the Palestinian arena.79 For this reason he abstained

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from taking part in intellectual discussions on the pressing issues in the Arab world, such as globalization. With the exception of issues that touched in one way or another upon the Palestinian problem, among them some Arab intellectuals’ support of Holocaust denial, which Darwish and Edward Said categorically opposed, he did not participate in intellectual debates. There were even issues that he never addressed at all, such as the peace treaty signed between Israel and Jordan in 1994. Darwish, who expressed his rage over the Oslo Accords which the Palestinians signed with Israel in 1993, did not see the need to discuss the agreement signed between Israel and Jordan, if only because its existence did not harm the rights of the Palestinian people. The same was true in regard to issues of Arabic culture, language, and literature. In 2007, a conference was held in Cairo on the subject of ‘Arabness in the global age’, at which some of the speakers warned, for example, that in Egypt there are 250 foreign schools in addition to higher education institutions, where the language of instruction is not Arabic. Likewise the conference was warned of the growth of a social class that does not speak Arabic.80 Was Darwish’s participation necessary in the discussions of the Academy of the Arabic Language? Almost every Arab country has its own academy of Arabic language, which deals with a range of issues, such as the translation of terms from scientific and technological fields into Arabic, the writing of dictionaries, the unification of dialects, and problems in teaching Arabic grammar. ‘A¯dil al-Usta put it this way: ‘Mahmoud Darwish is a poet and not a linguist. ˙ [. . .] if he were to participate in the discussions of the Arabic Language Academy, his participation would take away from his precious time and would be detrimental to his work and to his professional development.’81 This was also the opinion of Ziya¯d ‘Abd al-Fatta¯h: ˙ ‘Indeed, Darwish was creative in his use of language and rhetoric, but no more than that. Darwish is not an expert on linguistic matters.’82 Of course, these estimations do not minimize Darwish’s stature in Arab literature. Issues of language and grammar interested him so long as they served him to realize his cultural oeuvre, whose sole aim was Palestinian nation-building. His status and development within Arabic literature must be seen as an integral part of this oeuvre.

CHAPTER 6 ON PEACE AND WAR

Write down on the top of the first page: I neither hate others nor steal their property, But, when I am hungry, I will eat the flesh of my usurper!1 Until joining the PLO Executive Committee in 1987, Darwish took a hard and uncompromising stance against any peace initiative with Israel. He believed that the way to peace goes through war.2 This was the PLO’s ideology until 1974 (when it adopted the so-called Phased Plan) and it was the backbone of the PLO charter, composed under the leadership of Ahmad al-Shuqayrı¯ (1964), and carried on by Arafat (from 1968) until the ˙ changes following the Oslo Accords in 1993. Darwish’s position on the matter of peace with Israel was in fact inconsistent with that of the PLO, which in 1974 expressed its willingness to accept political steps whose goal was the establishment of a Palestinian state on ‘part of the homeland’. It accorded more closely with the positions of the radical PLO organizations in the Rejectionist Front, and of the al-Ard movement, ˙ which viewed war against Israel as a strategy and not a tactic, and favoured the solution of one state on all of Palestine. Since he was elected to the Executive Committee of the PLO in 1987 Darwish zigzagged between hawkish and less hawkish positions. Were these fluctuations caused by changing circumstances, by political pressures, or did he adopt an attitude of realpolitik? Since the second Intifada (2000), and all the more forcefully since the Hamas take-over of Gaza in 2006, Darwish believed that the two peoples were getting further and further from the path to peace.

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‘Passers in passing words’: Controversy and Commentary In January 1988, following the outbreak of the first Intifada, Darwish wrote his poem, ‘Passers in passing words’ (‘A¯biru¯n fı¯ Kala¯m ‘A¯bir), in which he called upon the Israelis: ‘get out of our land and out of our sea/ Out of our wheat and out of our salt/ Out of our wound out of everything/ And get out of the terms of memory/ Oh passers in passing words.’3 The poem had four different Hebrew translations at the time,4 an indication of the uproar that the poem raised in Israeli society. Many Israelis, on the left as much as on the right, interpreted the poem as a call for the destruction of the state of Israel. ‘Amos Kenan, Natan Zach, Yitzhak Ben Ner, and ˙ others, all of whom advocated negotiations with the PLO, at a time when official Israeli policy was to reject negotiations, joined the condemnation of Darwish.5 At the heart of the debate was the question of the poet’s intentions. Israeli journalist Heda Boshas wrote on the matter: All this nosy quibbling strikes me as strange and ridiculous [. . .] Mahmoud Darwish believes that we [. . .] have no place in this ‘homeland bleeding a people,’ and indeed what could be more clear and blunt than ‘It’s time to go wherever you wish, but don’t stay among us’? If only Darwish understood that this homeland bleeds our blood as well, and that many of us don’t want to live here with him [. . .] Nor can we exonerate Darwish by talking about poetic license [. . .] This time he has written an unequivocally political document – a challenge to our existence here, and given dramatic expression not only to what he truly thinks or feels, but to what the moderates in Palestinian society feel.6 ‘Amos Kenan published a fierce rejoinder to Darwish in Yediot Acharonot: First of all, just like that, between colleagues: a pretty crappy poem. The curse of an enslaved people fighting for their freedom, and then comes another punishment, being punished for being enslaved, substandard nationalist poetry and crappy nationalist literature [. . .] If we don’t live among you, Mahmoud, neither will you live among us, and then, Mahmoud, neither you nor I will be anywhere [. . .] I, personally, remember good times with you, dammit.7

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There were also those who tried to assuage the flared tempers. In an article entitled ‘Mahmoud Darwish, the Poem, and Us’, Re’uven Snir, a professor of Hebrew literature at Haifa University, objected to the attempt to dwell upon one apparently anomalous poem, and to neglect a whole row of poems and articles supporting the existence of the state of Israel alongside a Palestinian state. Snir wrote: I do not want to defend this poem, since it really can’t be defended. The poem is more severe, and uncharacteristic, of all of Darwish’s oeuvre in the last years. And yet, Israeli intransigence and insistence upon Greater Israel also brings the Palestinians, at times, to dreams of a ‘Greater Palestine.’ We are willing to forgive more than half of our representatives in the Knesset who toy with similar aspirations, we are prepared to pardon ministers in our government who talk unabashedly about ‘transfer’ [ethnic cleansing of the Palestinians], and yet we are not willing to show understanding when there are deviations on the other side as well? [. . .] Darwish wrote this poem in difficult times of uprising in the Territories. In other difficult times, Darwish wrote no less harsh words about the Arabs, about the Palestinians, and even about the PLO leadership, that same leadership at whose table he now sits.8 In a letter Darwish sent to the poet Samı¯h al-Qa¯sim on March 22, 1988, ˙ he tried to calm the storm and to claim that in fact he had referred to the territories that Israel occupied in 1967: The Israelis have declared war on my poem, and on a poem that I have not yet written. They dug an ocean in the poem and now they are saying that I want to throw them into it. And I wonder? Have the orientalist intelligence services reached such ignorant lows? Why do they accuse me of dreaming to throw them to the sea while I am calling upon them to leave our occupied land?9 In an interview given to the poet Muhammad Hamza Ghana¯yim in ˙ ˙ 1996, Darwish said: I wrote this poem out of a great anger after seeing on French television how Israeli soldiers were using stones to break young

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Palestinians’ bones [. . .] I wrote the poem as a kind of stone that I was aiming, not against Israeli Jews but against the occupiers. It is a poem of the Intifada, and it does not reflect my private voice, but the voice of the angry nation defying the occupation, and it is only natural for them to ask the occupier to leave.10 Perhaps this interpretation given by Darwish himself for Passers in passing words was consistent with his call, a year earlier, for dialogue between Palestinian and Israeli writers. About this dialogue, he said: The initiative to hold a dialogue was born as a response to an Israeli interviewer. He asked me if I would be willing to meet Israeli writers, and I said to him: It needs to be preconditioned on their recognition of the existence of the Palestinian people, of our right to self-determination, of an independent homeland, and of the PLO as the legitimate representative of the Palestinians.11 And yet the criticism Darwish received, both in the Arab world and from the Palestinian milieu, led him to bury this interview and the ideas expressed in it. Israeli novelist Abraham B. Yehoshua wrote about this in November 1987: A month ago, when I was in Paris, I phoned Darwish, but to my astonishment he had disappeared. It was impossible to find him. I met the editor of the newspaper, al-Yawm al-Sa¯bi‘, where Darwish often published his poems, and I asked what had happened. He invited me to lunch and told me that Darwish’s life was in danger following his call to meet with Israelis. He had been threatened. He had gotten clear messages. So he decided that the safest place for him would be PLO headquarters in Tunis.12 According to Fadwa¯ Tu¯qa¯n, Darwish indeed left Paris, but for a different ˙ reason, namely, the assassination of the caricaturist Na¯jı¯ al-‘Alı¯ on August 29, 1987 and the suspicions that were being directed at the PLO and Arafat, with whom Darwish was associated. He moved to Tunis according to instructions from the PLO’s security apparatus out of fear of retaliation from the PFLP, al-‘Alı¯’s organization.13

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The call for an encounter between Palestinian and Israeli writers was by no means a new idea. Even before leaving Israel in 1971, Darwish participated in meetings between Palestinian and Jewish writers in Israel. He wrote about this: There were two big meetings; the first at the Atzmon Cinema in Haifa, and the second at the Writers’ House in Tel Aviv. Besides myself, representing the Arab side were Samı¯h al-Qa¯sim, Sa¯lim ˙ Jubra¯n, and others [. . .] And on the Jewish side: Hayim Gouri, ˙ Hanoch Bartov, Dalya Rabikovits, and ‘Amos Kenan. I spoke in ˙ ˙ Arabic on behalf of the Arab writers, and Kenan on behalf of the Jews. It was a very important meeting, and a promising one. Some beautiful personal connections were made. We ate at the ‘Thousand and One Nights’ restaurant in Haifa, and I remember that in the midst of drinking a cognac I excused myself in front of everyone and said that I had to go check in at the police. I was under confinement order to Haifa and had to check in twice a day. Dalya Rabikovitz yelled at me: ‘Don’t give us your Arab propaganda! In our country we don’t have people who have to check in at the police twice a day.’ I said to her: ‘Come with me and see.’ [. . .] We walked all the way to the police station and then Dalya, who saw that I really had to go there twice a day, started yelling at the poor policeman who was on shift.14 Perhaps Darwish’s own explanation for his poem Passers in passing words is consistent with his call for meeting with Israeli writers, but it does not accord with positions that he expressed prior to that call. One might accept this interpretation were it not for the poem ‘The land’ (al-Ard), ˙ written in 1976, and for his biting criticism of the peace initiative of Egyptian president Anwar Sadat in 1977. Passers in passing words was no different in spirit than The land, in which Darwish asked to remove the Jews from the ‘flower bowl’, from the ‘laundry line’, and even from the ‘air of the Galilee’.15 His response to Sadat’s peace initiative confirms this stance. There, too, Darwish took a firm stance against peace with Israel so long as the balance of powers was tilted against the Arabs and the Palestinians,16 which explains his criticism of Sadat for his visit to Jerusalem in 1977 and for signing a peace agreement with Israel. In an article entitled ‘The spring of a

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dictator and the autumn of anger’, Darwish portrayed Sadat’s peace initiative as ‘the cheapest surrender’ to the Zionists. He believed that by his very visit, Sadat recognized Jerusalem as the capital of Israel. Because Sadat was the first Arab leader to visit Israel, Darwish claimed that he was also the first Arab Leader to recognize the existence of the state of Israel.17 Moreover, he believed that Sadat was treating Egypt as his own private estate, because ‘the Egyptian guardsmen fell asleep on duty (Nawa¯tı¯r Misrna¯mat ‘an tha‘a¯libiha¯)’.18 This line is taken from a poem ˙ ˙ which the great medieval Arab poet al-Mutanabbı¯ wrote against the Egyptian ruler Ka¯fu¯r al-Ikhshı¯dı¯. With this peace initiative, Sadat, whom Darwish dubbed ‘the little Pharaoh’, paved the way for a third defeat of the Arab states. Darwish, who believed that the seeds of Israel’s defeat in the October 1973 war had been sown in its victory in the SixDay War, did not see a peace agreement as the natural outcome of Egypt’s gains in the 1973 war.19 After Sadat’s murder by an Egyptian soldier during a military march, Darwish claimed that ‘it was necessary for the dictator to fall from the stage in front of his soldiers and facing the television screens that he so sanctified, in order for the writer [Muhammad Hasanayn Haykal] to complete the final chapter of [his ˙ ˙ seminal work], Autumn of Anger’.20 Darwish’s stance on Sadat’s peace initiative stemmed from his general position on war with Israel. In 1973, he wrote: ‘It is impossible to make a significant change within Israeli society without striking a military blow against Israel’, and: ‘Only through war can we proceed to peace.’21 In other words, peace can only be reached through the ‘rifle barrel’, as in the poem ‘One way’ (Tarı¯q wa¯hid), that is, one way ‘leads from the mouth of the rifle’ ˙ ˙ (Yamurr min fuwwahat bunduqiyya), which the Syrian poet Niza¯r Qabba¯nı¯ wrote after the defeat of June 1967.22 Thus, Darwish’s stance was identical to that of the Palestinian National Charter formed in 1964 and 1968, but inconsistent with the changes that occurred therein after 1974.

The Palestinian Declaration of Independence The Palestinian Declaration of Independence apparently symbolizes a turning point in Darwish’s political stance towards Israel. In this document, which was presented before the PNC on November 15, 1988 at the Algiers Conference, the PLO accepted the UN Partition Plan of 1947 as a resolution to the Palestinian problem.23 This document

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reflects a significant political evolution in so far as it constitutes a call on behalf of the highest Palestinian representative body for a two-state solution, instead of one democratic state for two nations in Mandatory Palestine. Thus, Darwish’s drafting of the document and his apparent vote in favour are somewhat puzzling. ‘Abdulla¯h al-Hu¯ra¯nı¯ (1924– 2010), a member of the PLO executive ˙ council from 1987 to 1996, claimed that Darwish drafted the document himself, and that he must therefore have agreed in principle with its content. ‘And why shouldn’t he have?’ asked al-Hu¯ra¯nı¯, ‘when even ˙ George Habash, head of the Popular Front for the Liberation of ˙ 24 Palestine, voted in favour of the document?’ This claim is confirmed by Palestinian sources.25 As for Darwish, al-Hu¯ra¯nı¯ did not recall ˙ whether the poet voted in favour of the document or abstained, but noted that he was confident that he had not voted against. Ziya¯d ‘Abd alFatta¯h also supports al-Hu¯ra¯nı¯’s version.26 ˙ ˙ According to Rashid al-Khalidi, Darwish played a ‘central role, together with Edward Said and several others, in the drafting of the Palestinian Declaration of Independence in 1988’.27 If al-Khalidi’s claim is true, this would have been in complete contradiction to previous stances expressed by Darwish, both in writing and in speech. It was also inconsistent with later stances expressed by the poet, following the Madrid Conference (1991) and the signing of the Oslo Accords (1993). Well before the Palestinian National Council assembly in Algiers (in 1988), Darwish expressed his opposition both to the Arab Peace Plan (the Fez Initiative, 1982), which discussed the establishment of a Palestinian state on the territories that were occupied by Israel in 1967 and granting compensation to all Palestinians who did not want to realize their right of return. He had also expressed his opposition to the UN Partition Plan of 1947. When the PLO in Tunis began to mull over the idea of establishing a Palestinian state alongside Israel on part of historical Palestine, Darwish opposed the very idea. He expressed this position in his epic poem, In praise of the high shadow (1983): ‘So great the revolution / so narrow the journey / so great is the idea, and so small is the state.’28 In an article entitled ‘The stone of consciousness’ (‘Hajar ˙ al-wa‘y’), Darwish wrote: ‘From the Partition Plan [1947] and up to the Arab peace initiative in Fez [1982] – no “just solution” has been found [for the Palestinian problem]: not the dismemberment of the son into two and not compensation for the mother [Palestine] with a small or

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large piece of the son’s body.’29 The question (regarding Darwish’s apparent vote in favour of the Declaration of Independence) is therefore, did Darwish change his stance towards Israel or did he give into pressure from the PLO and agree to take into consideration the distress of the organization, in order to exploit the international momentum that was created by the first Intifada? In other words, did Darwish adopt a practical rather than a principled stance on this matter? According to al-Hu¯ra¯nı¯ and ‘Abd al-Fatta¯h, not everything that ˙ Darwish wrote necessarily expressed his personal position. But this claim does not necessarily explain the change in Darwish’s position. In al-Hu¯ra¯nı¯’s opinion, the lack of documentation of the votes and ˙ decisions of the PLO executive committee enabled Darwish to flow with the pragmatic circles in the PLO while in his poetry, prose and articles he could express a consistently hawkish, uncompromising stance.30 One should thus assume that his writings were a true reflection of his stances and views (rather than a general reflection of the mood of the Palestinian people, as he claimed in his interview with Hamza Ghanayim in 1996).31 The fact that he opposed the idea of establishing a Palestinian state on part of Palestine from the outset, as is evidenced in his poem In praise of the high shadow, strengthens this last claim.32 ‘Poetry does not lie’, Darwish said on May 9, 1996 in a meeting with the literary critic ‘A¯dil al-Usta.33 On the contradiction between literature and ˙ politics, the Palestinian-Israeli writer Emı¯l Habı¯bı¯ said in 1986: ˙ Political considerations sometimes prevent us from saying everything we would like to. I only write when I am prepared to say it all. Sometimes there are political and diplomatic needs that do not allow the person to act as he would like. Sometimes I have to keep my mouth shut and sometimes I have to smile at my enemy [. . .] But in literature this is absolutely impossible [. . .] Literary work must remain true.34 Although he expressed his opposition in 1983, in November 1988, with the change in circumstances, Darwish changed his stance. The first Intifada and the need to find a solution for the distress of the Palestinians in the Occupied Territories led even the radical elements in the PLO, Darwish even more so, to agree to the wording of the Palestinian Declaration of Independence. ‘In terms of the historical

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right’, said Abu¯ ‘Alı¯ Mustafa¯ (Mustafa¯ al-Za¯brı¯), the Secretary General ˙˙ ˙˙ of the PFLP, ‘all of Palestine is the natural right of the Palestinian people.’ However, in light of the circumstances of the first Intifada, and for the sake of national unity, the faction decided to accept the majority decision, meaning, the declaration of the Palestinian state alongside the state of Israel according to UN Resolution 181 from 1947.35

Truce with the Mongols The spirit of the poem Truce with the Mongols by the holm oak forest (1990) seems to be consistent with a pragmatic acceptance of the two-state principle. The poem speaks of a ‘hudna’.36 The meaning of the word hudna in Arabic is ‘cease-fire’ or ‘truce’ (and not ‘reconciliation’ as it had been translated by Dr Matti Peled).37 In this poem, Darwish talks about peace with the enemy, surprisingly even before the end of the first Intifada: We have often desired peace for our lord on high [. . .] / We have often desired peace [. . .] for our enemies’ children in their shelters, for the Mongols / when they would retire to nights filled with their wives, when they would leave / now us, the buds of our flowers, / and the leaves of holm oak.38 Was Darwish using the Mongols, who had passed through the homeland and disappeared, as an allegory for the Israelis? Was this a call for a truce after the first Intifada had reached a dead-end, whose precondition was that the Mongols (i.e. the Israeli occupier) ‘leave us’? And what did he mean by the words ‘leave the buds of our flowers’? Did he mean only a retreat from the territories occupied in 1967, as Darwish argued in his interpretation of Passers in passing words in 1988? The lines/stanza ‘when they would leave the buds of our flowers / and the leaves of holm oak’ in fact seem to suggest a different meaning (closer to the spirit of The land, the poem written in 1976). The oak (al-ballu¯t) and the holm oak (al˙ sindiya¯n) grow in the area of the lower Galilee (Nazareth), in the Carmel and north of it, including in al-Birwa, Darwish’s native village. They also grow in the upper Galilee, while they do not grow at all in the territories occupied by Israel in 1967.

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Nonetheless, literary critic ‘A¯dil al-Usta, who took the poem to be a ˙ call for a truce with Israel, believed it reflected a sharp and inexplicable change in Darwish’s stance. According to al-Usta, nothing – not the ˙ frustration at the results of the first Intifada, not the aspiration to return to the homeland, not the hope of receiving the Nobel peace prize – could explain this contradiction or zigzag in Darwish’s stance.39 Al-Usta ˙ rightly remarked that after this apparent change of direction, Darwish returned to mete harsh criticism on the peace talks in Madrid (1991) and the Oslo Accords (1993), with the arrows of his criticism being aimed this time at Arafat. Does ‘Truce with the Mongols’ reflect a dual position regarding the questions of war and peace with Israel, between a state on ‘all of Palestine’ or one on ‘part of Palestine’? In his first letter to Samı¯h al-Qa¯sim, sent on May 19, 1986, Darwish ˙ addressed the question of whether he regretted having left Israel in 1971. ‘I don’t regret a thing’, he wrote, but then declared: ‘If it makes this easier for you all, then I hereby declare that I regret having left!’40 According to Muhammad Mı¯‘a¯rı¯, Darwish’s deeds did not always ˙ reflect his heart and mind. In the early 1960s he joined the Israeli Communist Party, but he was never wholeheartedly with the Party. According to Mı¯‘a¯rı¯, ‘he tended more toward al-Ard’.41 In his poem ˙ Sequences for the other time (Mutata¯liya¯t li-zman A¯khar) in the collection Why Did You Leave the Horse Alone? (1995), Darwish wrote ‘I see myself split into two’.42 In his introspective account in Mural (1999), he wrote that he was ‘torn between rhyme and Caesar’, meaning, between poetics and politics.43 Moreover, in his book In the Presence of Absence (2006), Darwish appears as two characters: he is both wholeness personified and privation personified (ana¯ al-kama¯l wa-lnuqsa¯n); he is ‘the living’ (al-hay) and he is ‘the dead’ (al-mayyit); he is ˙ ˙ ‘the eulogizer’ (al-ra¯thı¯) and he is ‘the eulogized’ (al-marthi); he is the ‘present’ (al-ha¯dir) and ‘the absent’ (al-gha¯’ib); and he is ‘one in two or ˙ ˙ two in one’ (wa¯hid fı¯ ithnayn aw ithna¯n fı¯ wa¯hid).44 ˙ ˙ According to the Iraqi intellectual Ha¯tif Jana¯bı¯, the Arab intellectual’s fear of reprisal by the regime and from society created a divided mind and sort of dual personality. Apart from Darwish, Jana¯bı¯ mentioned Egyptian writers, including ‘Abba¯s Mahmu¯d al-‘Aqqa¯d, ˙ Ta¯ha¯ Husayn, Naguib Mahfuz, and Tawfı¯q al-Hakı¯m. Among the Iraqi ˙ ˙ ˙ poets, he listed Na¯zik al-Mala¯’ika, Badr Sha¯kir al-Syya¯b, and Muhammad Mahdı¯ al- Jawa¯hirı¯. On Darwish, Jana¯bı¯ wrote: ˙

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If to give an example, the poet Mahmoud Darwish doesn’t need to prove himself on the Arab level; a former Communist, he praised Arafat and flattered Saddam Husayn for his destructive policy. ˙ And still, if only he was satisfied with his great poetic talent without polluting it with his political positions, which later undoubtedly caused him an embarrassment.45 Indeed, as has been mentioned above, Darwish’s attitudes regarding peace and war with Israel were puzzling. During the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait on August 9, 1990, he did not support the Iraqi invasion as did many of his counterparts, but he hesitated and chose not to back the positions of Sala¯h Khalaf (Abu¯ Iya¯d, 1933–1991), Kha¯lid al-Hasan ˙ ˙ ˙ (Abu¯ al-Sa‘ı¯d, 1928– 1994), and Ha¯nı¯ al-Hasan (Abu¯ Ta¯riq, 1938– ˙ ˙ 2012) who absolutely opposed the PLO’s support of Iraq against Kuwait. Like Abu¯ Iya¯d, Darwish loathed and distrusted Saddam Husayn, but he feared the long reach of his state terror. According to ‘Abd al-Fatta¯h, ˙ Saddam’s intelligence services were responsible for killing PLO representatives in Pakistan and other countries. Further, they were responsible together with the Abu¯ Nida¯l faction (under the leadership of ˙ Sabrı¯ al-Banna¯) for the assassination of Abu¯ al-Hawl (Hayil ‘Abd al˙ Hamı¯d) and Abu¯ Iya¯d, Fatah’s chiefs of security and intelligence, on ˙ January 14, 1991, the night before US forces moved into Kuwait. However, his fear in this case is not necessarily related to a duality in his positions, but rather with the inability to fulfil the important and sometimes risky duty of speaking truth to power. When speaking about a split or duality within a single person, one generally refers to oppositions that exist simultaneously between a declared position and behaviour, or to contradictions between various stated positions.46 The change in his metaphor, from ‘My country is not a suitcase, and I am not a traveller’ (1970) to ‘My country is a suitcase [. . .] on my shoulders’47 does not testify to a simultaneous dualism, but to a change over time due to changing political circumstances. Then, should one indeed see ‘Truce with the Mongols’ as an expression of a change of Darwish’s stance towards the Jews? Does ‘peace for our enemies’ children’ refer to peace with Jews and not with Israel as a Zionist state? In an interview he gave to the newspaper al-Safı¯r, Darwish said: ‘I would not feel uncomfortable if I discovered that part of me is Jewish.’48 For Darwish, who saw himself as the heir of all the past cultures on the

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land of Palestine, a lover can also be Jewish (as in the poem Rita and the rifle from 1967 and the poem Rita’s winter from 1992); a Jewish soldier can be a friend (the poem A poet dreams of white liles, 1967); and even mixed marriage is acceptable (as in his collection, State of Siege).49 Darwish, thus, had no problem with Jews, but only with the Israeli/ Zionist state. The lines ‘when they would leave the buds of our flowers / and the leaves of holm oak’ does not mean only a retreat from the territories occupied in 1967; in fact, these may suggest a meaning closer to the spirit of The land, the poem written in 1976 (i.e. on behalf of a state on all of Mandatory Palestine). His position on the Madrid peace process, as is seen below, further bolsters this claim. Darwish’s distinction between Jews as citizens and the state of Israel (as an extension of the Zionist movement) corresponds with the idea of a secular democratic state (which the PLO adopted officially in the eighth convention of the Palestinian Naional Council in 1971) as well as with the idea of a bi-national state, which Na’if Hawa¯tma’s DFLP adopted in the sixth convention of the PNC in Cairo ˙ in 1969. While according to the plan for a secular democratic state (which was conceived by Abu¯ Iya¯d as early as the late 1960s) all of the Jews living on the land of Filastı¯n up to the day of the establishment ˙ of the new democratic and secular Palestine will have the right to full citizenship, Hawa¯tma’s democratic plan also gives the Jews ˙ national rights, on the condition that they relinquish their Zionist ideology. Did Darwish express support for a secular democratic state in the spirit of Abu¯ Iya¯d’s concept, or for a bi-national state in the spirit of Hawa¯tma?50 ˙

The Madrid Peace Conference, 1991 At the Madrid Conference of October 30, 1991, representatives of the Israeli, Egyptian, Syrian, Lebanese, and Jordanian governments met, along with representatives of the European Union, the United States, and the Soviet Union, while the Palestinians were represented as part of the Jordanian delegation. This conference marked the beginning of the peace process between Israel and the PLO, which ended with the Oslo Accords (1993). For the Israelis, this conference appeared to be a turning point in the Israeli– Arab conflict. In an article entitled ‘In Madrid we trusted’, Rami Batish wrote:

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The Madrid Conference met, and our national aspirations received their broadest recognition ever, for the first time since the Nakba [in the context of the Israeli– Palestinian conflict]. This in itself was as historic as the end to the Cold War.51 Darwish, on the other hand, who participated in the Madrid Conference, wrote in 1992 the collection of poems ‘Eleven Planets for the End of the Andalusian Vision’ (Ahad ‘Ashar Kawkaba¯ ‘Ala¯ al Mashhad al-Andalusı¯, ˙ Beirut, 1992) in which he expressed his opposition to the conference and its ramifications for the Palestinian and Arab side. The collection included 11 poems. A review of the names of the poems in the collection, reveals both the mood of the collection and the poet’s point of view: ‘On the last evening on this Earth’ (fı¯ al-masa¯’ al-akhı¯r ‘ala¯ ha¯dhih al-ard), ˙ ‘One day I will sit on the sidewalk’ (dha¯t yawm sa’ajlis fawq al-rası¯f), ˙ ‘I am one of the kings of the end’ (ana¯ wa¯hid min mulu¯k al-niha¯ya), and ˙ more. In the poem, ‘The truth is two-faces and the snow is black’ (li-lhaqı¯qa wajha¯n, wa-l-thalj aswad, 1992), he wrote: ˙ Truth has two faces and the snow is black over our city. / We are no longer capable of despairing more than we have already / [. . .] Who will lower our flags: we, or they? And who / will dictate to us ‘the treaty of despair,’ O king of dying?52 Moreover, Darwish claimed: ‘This peace will leave us like a handful of dust’ (inna ha¯dha¯ al-sala¯m sayatrukuna¯ hufna min ghuba¯r). In later ˙ editions (in the anthology of poetry collections initially published in 1994), Darwish omitted the word ‘peace’ (sala¯m) and replaced it with ‘journey’ (rahı¯l).53 In another poem, Who am I after the night of the strange ˙ woman? Darwish expressed his despair, aggravation, and disappointment at the results of the Madrid conference. Using metaphors taken from classical Arab and Islamic culture, he expressed his concerns and those of Palestinian society about this Night of the strange woman, meaning the Madrid Conference, which he described as a present-day disaster imposed upon the Arabs, since it symbolized the end of the Arab nation.54 In another poem, entitled ‘I am one of the kings of the end’ (Ana¯ wahid mulu¯k ak-niha¯ya), Darwish defiantly states that since the Arab ˙ leaders accepted the peace agreement (mu‘a¯hadat al-sulh) ‘I have no more ˙ ˙ present’. In his opinion, this contract brought an end to Arab autonomy,

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since it was someone else, meaning Israel, who ‘dictates to us’. Darwish called the Arabs who participated in the conference and signed the agreement ‘Gypsies’ (Ghajar).55 In this poem, Darwish expressed his concerns and fears of Arab defeatism as it was expressed in the Madrid conference, and therefore envisioned that the Arab present would disappear after the ‘Night of the strange woman’ (Layl al-gharı¯ba), meaning the Madrid conference itself, and that the Arabs’ place in the world would be taken by others, meaning the Israelis.

The Oslo Accords, 1993 On the eve of the signing of the Oslo Accords between Israel and the Palestinians in 1993, Darwish again expressed his fierce criticism of the peace process, which ‘left us space of time to return to ourselves imperfect’. In the poem ‘A non-linguistic dispute with Imru’ al-Qays’ (Khila¯f ghayr lughawı¯ ma‘ Imru’ al-Qays), in the collection ‘Why Did You Leave the Horse Alone?’ (Lima¯dha¯ Tarakt al-Hisa¯n Wahı¯da¯) Darwish wrote: ˙ ˙ ˙ The scene has been closed / leaving us space to return to the others / imperfect [. . .] The scene has been closed / [the Israelis] won / crossed all our yesterday / [. . .] changed the bell time, and won.[. . .] / Nobody asked Imru’ al-Qays: what did you do / with us and with yourself? [. . .] go on the way / Caesar, alone, alone, alone, / and leave here for us your language!56 Imru’ al-Qays, the Jahili Arab poet, is an allegory for Arafat, who, according to Darwish, had abandoned the glorious Palestinian past, and sent them back to the future empty-handed, by signing the Oslo Accords with Israel in exchange for his leadership.57 In his article ‘Dilemmas of the Poet and the Statesman in Palestinian Literature: Mahmoud Darwish as an Example’, ‘A¯dil al-Usta attributes the use of ˙ the metaphor of Imru’ al-Qays to his fear of harassment by the leadership, specifically Arafat. According to al-Usta, despite the ˙ seemingly excellent relations between Arafat and Darwish, there were 58 many tensions between them. For example, an argument broke out between them following the publication of the collection Eleven Planets for the End of the Andalusian Vision, as was described above. This poem is consistent with those Darwish wrote following the Madrid peace

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conference (1991), and it also accords with his demonstrative resignation from his position as a member of the Executive Committee of the PLO on the eve of the signing of the Oslo Accords.

The Road to Where? Despite his opposition to the peace process of Madrid and Oslo, Darwish himself faced fierce criticism, in particular during the second Intifada (2000– 2005), for not sufficiently praising the Intifada and its martyrs in his poetry. The question arises, following his return to the homeland, did a change occur in his attitude on the issue of peace with Israel? In an interview with Giselle Khuri, Darwish said: As much as the Israelis disappoint us – it is our obligation not to give up on the idea of peace [. . .] Israel’s turning right or left does not absolve the Palestinians of the obligation to keep a channel of communication open with every Israeli movement, and with every Israeli who tends to understand the rights of the Palestinians [. . .] These two societies have been sentenced to live together. It is impossible to see any sort of future for the Palestinian –Israeli conflict without there being some kind of coexistence and dialogue between the two societies [. . .] In principle, we cannot reject any kind of dialogue that may contribute to the other’s consciousness of our rights. This is a principle, but whether I personally am capable of or willing to take part in this dialogue – that is another question.59 In this interview, held almost a full year into the second Intifada, Darwish expressed a positive stance regarding dialogue between Palestinian and Israeli society. This stance, which was understood by many as support for normalization with Israel, sparked an incitement campaign against him by Islamist streams. It should be emphasized that Darwish was speaking about the future of the struggle and not about coexistence per se. He believed that one cannot conduct a struggle without dialogue; part of the Palestinians’ strategy must be to make the Israelis internalize the Palestinians’ right to the homeland. Nonetheless, it is hard not to see some kind of a change, albeit a tactical one, in Darwish’s position here, if only because of his willingness to even discuss

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the achievement of Palestinian rights through dialogue and not through war, as he believed before Oslo. Did this change stem from pragmatism, from despair, or from a change in point of view as happened among many Fatah leaders? This remains an open question. Perhaps, the answer lies in a combination of these factors. Whatever the case may be, such a public statement does seem to indicate a departure from his attitude to the struggle since his fierce opposition to Oslo and Madrid in the early 1990s. In the same 2001 interview, in response to the question of whether he was happy to be in Palestine (meaning, Ramallah), he answered: ‘Palestine is the most beautiful of places, but she shall be more beautiful when there is geographical contiguity’ (‘indama¯ yaku¯n laha¯ qawa¯m jughra¯fı¯ wa¯hid), when the return to the homeland will be collective, and ˙ when the right of return, which is a prerequisite for true peace, will be realized.60 On the right of return, he said: ‘A true peace cannot be achieved without the realization of the right of return, without talking about numbers [. . .] But, the main thing is that the right of return is a sacred right.’61 One of the listeners asked: ‘In the past you demanded all of Palestine from the Jordan to the sea, as the Arabs also demanded. What is your stance today?’ Darwish responded: Who doesn’t want all of Palestine? The question is – is it possible? The problem is not my aspirations but the reality and the balance of power [. . .] there is a plan for saving everything that can be salvaged of what is left of Palestine, and therefore I must be realistic, rational, and wise and not ask for much – which might prevent me from getting even a little.62 Darwish’s answer here testifies to a seemingly pragmatic stance in relation to the Palestinian– Israeli conflict (support for the two-state solution). And yet, how can one explain the internal contradiction between this pragmatic position and the belief in the collective realization of the right of return (haq al-‘awda) of the Palestinians to the ˙ territory of the state of Israel? Is there a shift to the view of Palestine (in its mandatory borders) as a single, secular, and democratic state (in which Palestinians and Jews will live as equal citizens, regardless of race or religion, in accord with Abu¯ Iya¯d’s position) or a bi-national state in the spirit of the vision of Na¯yif Hawa¯tma, leader of the Democratic ˙ Front for the Liberation of Palestine? The accelerated pace of Israeli

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construction in the West Bank, the blurring of the border of the Green Line, and the political stalemate in the peace process since 2000 has led even the most enthusiastic supporters of the two-state solution (proponents of the Oslo accords such as Nabı¯l Sha‘th and Sa’ib ‘Arı¯qa¯t) to raise the possibility of one bi-national state from the river to the sea, in which Jews and Arabs will live together with equal rights.63 Darwish was aware that the two approaches to solving the conflict were not a guarantee of reaching a safe haven, and hence the poet’s pessimism. Unequivocally before his death Darwish expressed both points of view in his poem Perspective in the collection ‘The Butterfly Effect’ (Athar al-Fara¯sha, 2008). The first is like a daffodil, looking at himself in a puddle of water, while the second is like a sunflower, turning towards the sun. However, the gap between the two approaches recedes in difficult circumstances of darkness, when both lose direction.64 ‘Where are we moving?’ (Ila¯ ayn namdı¯?) he asks in his poem ‘The road ˙ to where?’ (al-tarı¯q ila¯ ayn?) His answer is rather pessimistic. ‘We are ˙ residents of the long road to a destination, which still bears a single name: Where?’65 He returned to this pessimism in his poem ‘A ready script’ (Scenario Ja¯hiz) just days before his death. In this poem, both sides, the Palestinian and the Israeli rival, fall into the same hole, and another poet must complete this script. What scenario can be expected from the poet of the next generation? This is an open question. There are those who envisage the end of Zionism in mandatory Palestine, while others see Apartheid, the rule of the Jewish minority over the Palestinian majority.66 But technology and globalization may lead to very different scenarios, different from the bleak picture painted by Darwish.

CONCLUSION

Literature and the Politics of Palestinian Identity lays out the intellectual activity of the Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish. Edward Said’s wellthought-out discussion of the role of the public intellectual provides a relevant mechanism for disentangling the complex persona of Darwish – on the one hand as a poet, and on the other hand as a public figure who tries to speak the truth to power and ‘represent all those people and issues that are routinely forgotten or swept under the rug’.1 Indeed, there were cases in which Darwish took the organization’s needs and those of its leader into consideration (as in the case of al-Mirbad, in the late 1980s). Nevertheless, for the most Darwish’s did not undermine his moral drive, even to oppose Chairman Yasir Arafat; this culminated in his resignation from the executive council of the PLO after the signing of the Oslo Accords in 1993 and his retirement from political life. For many years, Mahmoud Dawrish was the dominant voice of the Palestinian odyssey. As a much-lauded and award-winning poet, he contributed to turning the Palestinian cause into an icon in both the Arab and international arenas. In this project there existed a symbiotic relationship between Darwish and Arafat. Both are national symbols of Palestine, and both embodied the unity of the Palestinian people, each in his own way – Arafat as a symbol of political unity and Darwish as a symbol of cultural unity. Together and separately they contributed to the transformation of the Palestinian cause into an icon. Arafat did so by revolutionary political and military means, and Darwish by poetic and lyrical means. Thus, Darwish became synonymous with Palestine, a symbol of exile and desperation, but also of the hope of the people.

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Darwish devoted almost all his life’s work and literary oeuvre, both poetry and prose, to the Palestinian cause and to Palestinian nationbuilding. He believed, at least at first, in the power of poetry to influence the fate of the Palestinian people. He believed that it was his role to raise consciousness, to create national identity, and to carry the torch of Palestinian collective memory from house to house in order to contribute to the establishment of the Palestinian homeland. He also believed that it was the role of the weak to write their history with their own hands, in order to prevent the strong side from being victorious also on the level of the literary text. Palestine, so he believed, is ‘Andalusia that can be regained’.2 His poetry commemorated Palestine on all its levels – places and villages, events, landscape, flora and fauna. His was a project of commemoration for future generations, a monumental and invaluable national oeuvre by any measure. His poetry enables a unique, intensive, and unprecedented poetic reading of the history, sociology, and political psychology of the Palestinian people. He ‘safeguarded all the expressions that were erased from the dictionary of the “Language of the Arabs”’.3 Darwish did not write for the sake of political or journalistic reportage, as Israeli poet Natan Alterman did in writing his columns, which were concerned with the comings and goings of his leader, BenGurion, and with daily trivialities. Darwish did not write columns for a living, or for the sake of his own political bargaining. He wrote poetry for the sake of commemoration and documentation. He was a poet who carried his homeland, and not any leader or party, in his suitcase. His goal was to prevent those who ‘colonized the land’ from ‘colonizing memory as well’.4 Mahmoud Darwish bequeathed to the Palestinians a vast cultural and national oeuvre, lest they forget ‘the land of the story’ (ard al-qissa¯). His ˙ ˙˙ writings have made it much more difficult ‘to expropriate this land from 5 its name and to doubt the identity of its original owners’. With his death, the Palestinians lost a dominant voice, a guide and an icon.

TABLE 1 ORIGINAL ARABIC CITATIONS

160

MAHMOUD DARWISH

ORIGINAL ARABIC CITATIONS

161

162

MAHMOUD DARWISH

ORIGINAL ARABIC CITATIONS

163

164

MAHMOUD DARWISH

ORIGINAL ARABIC CITATIONS

165

166

MAHMOUD DARWISH

ORIGINAL ARABIC CITATIONS

167

168

MAHMOUD DARWISH

ORIGINAL ARABIC CITATIONS

169

TABLE 2 TRANSLITERATION FROM ARABIC TO ENGLISH

Example ‫ﺀ‬ ‫ﺍ‬

’ a

‫ﺏ‬ ‫ﺕ‬ ‫ﺙ‬ ‫ﺝ‬ ‫ﺡ‬ ‫ﺥ‬ ‫ﺩ‬ ‫ﺫ‬ ‫ﺭ‬ ‫ﺯ‬ ‫ﺱ‬ ‫ﺵ‬ ‫ﺹ‬ ‫ﺽ‬ ‫ﻁ‬ ‫ﻅ‬ ‫ﻉ‬ ‫ﻍ‬

b t th J h kh d dh r z s sh s d ˙ t z ˙ ‘ gh

’ (ordinary apostrophe): al-Sha¯ti’, Shu’u¯n, a, i, u, depending on foll. vowel sound: Arha¯, Irta¯h, Um Kha¯lid ˙ ˙ Bı¯sa¯n Tarshı¯ha¯ ˙ Kifl Ha¯rith ˙ Jimzu¯, Haifa¯ ˙ Kha¯n Yu¯nus al-Da¯mu¯n Dhinna¯ba, Rafah, Ra¯s ‘A¯mir, Yazu¯r ˙ Zakariyya¯ Sakhnı¯n, al-Shajara Safad, Saffu¯riyya ˙ ˙ Dabya ˙ Tabariyya¯, Tu¯lkarm ˙ ˙ al-Za¯hiriyya ˙ (reversed apostrophe) – ‘Amwa¯s, ‘A¯qir, al-Ghabashiyya, Gha¯bat al-Tayba ˙

172 ‫ﻑ‬ ‫ﻕ‬ ‫ﻙ‬ ‫ﻝ‬ ‫ﻡ‬ ‫ﻥ‬ ‫ﻫـ‬ ‫ﺓ‬ ‫ﻭ‬ ‫ﻱ‬ ‫ﻯ‬

MAHMOUD DARWISH f q k l m n h a at w y a

Filast¯ın ˙ Qibya, Qa¯qu¯n, Kafr Qa¯sim al-Ramla, Miska, Masmiyya Na¯blus Rahat ˙ when not linked: al-Ramla, when linked: Khirbat Khiz‘a Wa¯dı¯ Hunayn ˙ Ya¯lu¯, Yibna, Yarmu¯k Kisra¯

TABLE 3 TRANSLITERATION FROM HEBREW TO ENGLISH1 ‫א‬ ‫בּ‬ ‫ב‬ ‫ג‬ ‫ד‬ ‫ה‬ ‫ו‬ ‫וו‬ ‫ז‬ ‫ח‬ ‫ט‬ ‫י‬ ‫כּ‬/‫ךּ‬ ‫כ‬ ֹ /‫ך‬ ‫ל‬ ‫מ‬/‫ם‬ ‫נ‬/‫ן‬ ‫ס‬ ‫ע‬ ‫פ‬/‫ף‬ ‫ץ‬/‫צ‬ ‫ק‬ ‫ר‬ ‫שׁ‬ ‫שׂ‬ ‫ת‬

’ and the vowel (a, e, i, o, u) b v g d h v (only if a consonant) ˙ v (only if a consonant) ˙ z h ˙ t ˙ y or as a vowel i/oe/e k kh l m n (final ¼ N) s ‘ (‘ayin p/f (final ¼ ‫)ף‬ ts k ˙ r sh s´ t

NOTES

Introduction 1. See, for example, Sha¯kir al-Na¯bulsı¯, Sha¯kir, Majnu¯n al-Tura¯b [A Lunatic of the Soil] (Beirut, 1987). Trans. by the Author; Raja¯’ al-Naqqa¯sh, Mahmoud Darwish, Sha’ir al-Ard al-Muhtalla [Poet of the Occupied Territory] (Beirut, ˙ ˙ 1972). Trans. by the Author; Na¯sser ‘Alı¯, Bunyat al-Qası¯da fı¯ Shi‘r Mahmoud ˙ Darwish [Structure of the Poem in the Poetry of Mahmoud Darwish] (Amman, 2002). Trans. by the Author; Anette Mansson, Passage to a New Wor(l)d: Exile and Restoration in Mahmoud Darwish’s Writings 1960– 1995 (Uppsala, 2003). 2. These include: Yehoshua‘ Porat, Tsmihat ha-li’omiyut ha-‘Arvit ha-Falastinit ˙ 1918– 1929 [The Emergence of the Palestinian-Arab National Movement 1918– 1929] (Tel Aviv, 1976). Trans. from Hebrew by the Author; ‘Ami Ayalon, Reading Palestine (Austin, 2004); Rashid Khalidi, Palestinian Identity: The Construction of Modern National Consciousness (New York, 1997); Muhammad ˙ Muslih, The Origins of Palestinian Nationalism (New York, 1988). ˙ 3. These include Moshe ma‘oz and B.Z. Kedar (eds), Ha-Tnu‘a Hali’omit haFalastinit: me-‘Imut l-Hashlamah [The Palestinian National Movement: From ˙ Confrontation to Reonciliation?] (Tel Aviv, 1997). Trans. from Hebrew by the Author; Baruch Kimmerling, and Joel S. Migdal, Falastinim ‘am b-Hivatsruto ˙ [Palestinians: The Making of a People] (Jerusalem, 1999). Trans. from Hebrew by the Author; Yazı¯d Sa¯yigh, al-Haraka al-Wataniyya al-Filastı¯niyya 1949– ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ 1993 [The Palestinian National Movement] (Beirut, 2003). 4. ‘M-dubar b-shirim liriyim yafim bli shum tonim li’omiyim’. Modi Bar-On, ˙ ‘Ben Dawish li- Lvanon’ [‘Between Darwish and Lebanon’] trans from Hebrew by the author. Maariv (March 22, 2000), http://www.4mothers.org.il/articles/ darvish.htm (accessed on December 1, 2011); Rali Sa‘ar ‘B-Va‘adat ha-miktsua‘ ˙ lo mivinim ma Sarid matsa b-Darwish’ [‘The professional committee does not understand what Sarid sees in Darwish’] trans. from Hebrew by the author, Haaretz (March 7, 2000); Yosi Verter, ’Barak neged Sarid: mitnaged l-hora’at

176

5. 6.

7. 8.

9. 10.

11.

12.

13.

14.

15. 16.

NOTES

TO PAGES

2 –6

Darwish’ [‘Barak vs. Sarid: opposes teaching Darwish’s poems’], Haaretz (March 6, 2000). Gid‘on Levy, ‘shi‘ur b-shirat moledet’ [‘A lesson in national poetry’]. Trans, from Hebrew by the author. Haaretz (March 5, 2000). Ziva Shamir, ‘Parashat Darwish: l-hahzir ‘uvdot l-heksheran’ [‘The Darwish ˙ Affair: Restoring Facts to their Proper Context’], Yediot Acharonot Literature and Arts Supplement (March 10, 2000), 26. Trans. by the author; Sa‘ar, ‘The Professional Committee.’ Verter, ‘Barak vs. Sarid.’ [No Author], ‘Benizri: Sarid ‘omed le-hayyev limude ha-Islam ve-ha-Natsrut’ ˙ ˙ [‘Benizri: ‘Sarid requiring studies Islam and Christianity’], Walla News (March 6, 2000), http://news.walla.co.il/?w¼//5582/@@/item/printer (accessed on December 18, 2011). Trans by the author. Reuven Snir, ‘Ha-more ma hu ’omer?’ [‘The teacher, what does he say?’], Bit’on ˙ ha-Morim le-‘Aravit ve-l-Islam, 3 (1988): 15– 18. Trans by the author. _ Shlomo Alon, ‘B-shule rshimato shel Dr. Re’uven Snir’ [‘In the margin of Doctor Reuven Snir’s List’], Bitaon ha-Morim le-‘Arabit u-le-Islam 3 (1988): 19 – 22. Muna Abu Eid, ‘Mahmoud Darwish ve-hashir ha-‘ovrim ba-dibur ha-‘over’ ˙ [‘Mahmoud Darwish and the poem Passers between passing words’] trans. from Hebrew by the Author. Iton 77 Issue 348 (June/July 2010): 23 – 27, http://i ton77.com/348/toc.html (accessed on June 20, 2011). Mahmoud Darwish, Atem ha-‘ovrim ba-yam ha-milim ha-‘ovrot [Ye, the passers in the sea of the fleeting words], trans from Arabic by Shefi Gabbai. Maariv (March 25, 1988), B7. Trans. from Hebrew by the author; ‘Ovrim ba-dibur ha-‘over [Passers between passing words] trans. From Arabic by Siha¯m Da¯’u¯d, Maariv (March 25, 1988), B7. Trans. from Hebrew by the author; ‘Ovrim ’u-betilim [Passers and void], trans. from Hebrew by Aharon Amir, Maariv (March 25, 1988), B7. Trans. from Arabic by the author; Ha-‘ovrim ba-milim ha-‘ovrot [The passerby in passing words] trans. from Arabic by Smadar Peri, Maariv (March 25, 1988), B7. Trans. from Arabic by the author. ‘Amos Kenan, ‘Tshuva l-Mahmoud Darwish’ [‘A Response to Mahmoud Darwish’], Yediot Acharonot (March 25, 1988), 17. Trans. from Hebrew by the author. Yo’av Stern, ‘B-Haifa uv-Beirut, Balad ve-Hadash ravot ‘al Darwish’ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ [‘In Haifa, and Beirut, Balad and Hadash fighting about Darwish’] Haaretz ˙ (July 12, 2007), http://www.haaretz.co.il/hasite/pages/ShArtPE.jhtml?item No¼ 881157&contrassID ¼ 2&subContrassID ¼ 21&sbSubContrassID ¼ 0 (accessed on June 30, 2011). Trans. by the author. Edward W. Said, Culture and Resistance, interviews by David Barsamian (South End, 2003), 159. The phrase refer to Said’s book, Representations of the Intellectual (New York, 1996). The origin of the phrase is commonly ascribed to a 1955 book advocating against the Cold War, it appears to have been coined earlier by civil

NOTES

TO PAGES

6 –10

177

rights leader Bayard Rustin. See, John Green, ‘The Origin of the Phrase “Speaking Truth to Power”’, Demand Media, Available at: http://classroom. synonym.com/origin-phrase-speaking-truth-power-11676.html. 17. Edward Said, Representations of the Intellectual (New York, 1996), 11, 85 – 102, 121. 18. Representations of the Intellectual, 11, 85–102, 121. 19. Culture and Resistance, 159.

Chapter 1

On the Role of the Intellectual

1. ‘Lam takun lana¯ ha¯ja li-l-asa¯tı¯r ‘illa¯ li-tafsı¯r al-‘la¯qa bayn al-qamar wa bayn al˙ ˙ ˙ shams wa-dawrat al-fusu¯l wa-idfa¯’ al-sihr ‘ala¯ al-kala¯m fı¯ laya¯lı¯ al-shita¯’ al˙ ˙ ˙ tawı¯la wa-tadrı¯b al-wuhu¯sh ‘ala¯ ta¯‘at al-nagham’. Mahmoud Darwish, Fı¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ Hadrat al-Ghiya¯b [In the Presence of Absence] (Beirut, 2006), 3. Trans. by the ˙ ˙ author. 2. Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities; Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (London, 1991), 87; Shimon Shamir, History of the Arabs in the Middle East in Modern Times, 208– 218, 269– 271. 3. Anderson, Imagined Communities, 91. 4. Shimon Shamir, Toldot ha-‘Arvim ba-Mizrah ha-Tikhon [History of the Arabs in ˙ the Middle East in Modern Times] (Tel Aviv, 1974), 208– 218, 269 – 271. Trans. from Hebrew by the author. 5. Yosi Dahan and Henry Wasserman, L-Hamtsi ’Umah [To Invent a Nation] (Tel Aviv, 2006), 21. Trans. from Hebrew by the author. 6. Aharon Komem, ‘Ha-mishurer v-manhigo: Byalik vi-Ahad Ha-‘am, Alterman ˙ ˙ ˙ u-Ben Gurion’ [‘The poet and the leader: Bialik and Ahad Ha‘am, Alterman ˙ and Ben Gurion’] in Menachem Dorman and Aharon Komem, Alterman vi_ Yitsirato [Alterman and His Work] (Beer Sheva, 1989), 47–48, 78. Trans. by the author. 7. Ibid., 49 – 51. 8. Ziva Shamir, ‘Ha-historya l-fi Alterman’ [‘History according to Alterman’], Haaretz (May 16, 2007). The article is a review of Mordechai Naor’s book, Ha-Tur ha-Shmini: Masa‘ Histori b-‘Ikvot ha-Torim ha-’Aktu’aliyim Shel Natan ˙ ˙ ˙ _ _˙ Alterman [The Eighth Column: An Historical Journey to the Current Columns of Natan Alterman] (Tel Aviv, 2007), http://www.haaretz.co.il/hasite/spages/ 859397.html (accessed on June 16, 2011). Trans. by the author. 9. For more on Bialik’s attitude towards his national obligations, see Komem, ‘The poet and the leader’, 78. 10. Ibid., 49, 51. 11. Pradeep Kumar Gan, ‘Rabindranath Tagore: the guru of Indian poets’, Orissa Review (January 2006), 23–24, http://www.orissa.gov.in/e-magazine/Orissa review/jan2006/engpdf/Rabindranath_Tagore.pdf (accessed on June 16, 2011). 12. Ibid.

178

NOTES

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11 –16

13. Muna Abu Eid, ‘Shu‘ara¯’ fı¯ hadrat al-ra’ı¯s; Natan Alterman wa-Mahmoud ˙ ˙ Darwish’ [‘Poets in the presence of the President: Natan Alterman and Mahmoud Darwish’], al-Quds al-‘Arabı¯ (April 28, 2011), http://alquds.co.uk/ index.asp?fname¼ today\28qpt897.htm&arc ¼ data\2011\04\04-28 \28qpt897.htm (accessed on June 30, 2011). Trans. from Arabic by the author. 14. Said, Representations of the Intellectual, 11, 85– 102, 121. 15. Dan La’or, ‘Natan Alterman biymee parashat Lavon’ [‘Natan Alterman during ˙ the Lavon affairs’] in Dorman and Aharon Komem, Alterman vi-Yitsirato _ [Alterman and His Work] (Beer Sheva, 1989). Trans. from Hebrew by the Author (Tel Aviv, 1989), 90. Trans. by the author. 16. For an elaboration on this, see Chapter 4. 17. See Chapter 3. 18. Dorman and Komem, 48. 19. Menachem Dorman, Ben Mishurer li-Mdina’i: Ben Gorion ve-Alterman ba-Shir _ v-ba’Igeret [Between the Poet and the Statesman: Ben Gurion and Alterman in Poems _ and Letters] (Tel Aviv, 1986), 52. Trans. from Hebrew by the author. 20. According to Mark Lilla, Foucault abandoned his academic restraint and adopted the anti-intellectual rhetoric of the propagandist, not in order to raise consciousness, but to deplete power, to take power, he argued. Mark Lilla, The Reckless Mind: Intellectuals in Politics (New York, 2001), 143 – 147. 21. Darwish and al-Qa¯sim, al-Rasa¯’il [Messages] (Haifa, 1990), trans. by the author, 44. 22. See Chapters 2, 3 and 6. 23. See the discussion in Chapter 2. 24. See the discussion in Chapter 4.

Chapter 2 Displacement and Exile 1. ‘Idha¯ ka¯n lı¯ an u‘ı¯d al-bida¯ya, aktha¯r ma¯ akhta¯r: ward al-siya¯j. Usa¯fir fı¯ alduru¯b al-latı¯ qad tu’addı¯ ila¯ Qurtuba. U‘alliq zillı¯ ‘ala¯ sakhratayn li-tabnı¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ al-tuyu¯r al-sharı¯da ‘ushsha¯ ‘ala¯ ghusn zillı¯’. Mahmoud Darwish, Samih al˙ ˙ ˙ Qasim, Adonis, Victims of a Map; Mahmoud Darwish, Samih al-Qasim, and Adonis. Translated by Abullah al-Udhari (London, 1984), 13. 2. ‘Lam takun li-l-qamar agha¯n ‘Ibriyya mu‘a¯sira.’ In Mahmoud Darwish and ˙ Samı¯h al-Qa¯sim, al-Rasa¯ʾil [Messages] (Haifa, 1990). 45. Trans. by the author. ˙ 3. ‘Tarakna¯ kul shay’ ‘ala¯ ha¯lih: al-hisa¯n wa-l-kharu¯f wa-l-thawr wa-l-abwa¯b ˙ ˙ ˙ maftu¯ha, wa-l-‘asha¯’ al-sa¯khin, wa-a¯dha¯n al-‘isha¯’ wa-jiha¯z al-ra¯dio al-wahı¯d ˙ ˙ la‘allah zall maftu¯ha¯ li-yudhı¯‘a akhba¯r intisa¯ra¯tina¯ ila¯ al-a¯n. Habatna¯ al-wa¯dı¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ al-ha¯d al-mu’addı¯ ila¯ [. . .] qaryat Sha‘b, hayth yuqı¯m aqa¯rib ummi wa-ahluha¯ ˙ ˙ [. . .] Ba‘d ayya¯m qalı¯la tana¯da¯ falla¯hu¯ al-qarya al-muja¯wira, al-ladhı¯n ba¯‘u¯ ˙ dhahab zawja¯tihim li-yashtaru¯ bana¯diq Faransiyyat al-sun‘ li-tahrı¯r al-Birwa. ˙ ˙ Harraru¯ha¯ fı¯ awwal al-layl, sharibu¯ sha¯y al-muhtallı¯n al-sakhin, wa-ba¯tu¯ laylat ˙ ˙

NOTES

4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9.

10. 11. 12.

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al-nasr al-‘u¯la¯. Wa-fı¯ al- yawm al-ta¯lı¯ tasallamaha¯ ‘jaysh al- inqa¯z bila¯ ı¯sa¯l li˙ ˙ ˙ yu‘ı¯d al-Yahu¯d ihtila¯laha¯ wa-tadmı¯raha¯ hatta¯ a¯khir hajar.’ Mahmoud Darwish ˙ ˙ ˙ and Samı¯h al-Qa¯sim, ibid., 45– 46. ˙ Ibid. Ahmad Darwish, ‘Al-iqtila¯‘’ [‘The displacement’]. Interviewed and trans. by ˙ the author (September 1, 2007). Mahmoud Darwish, Hayrat al-‘A¯’id [The Confusion of the Returnee] (Beirut, ˙ 2007), 41. Trans. by the author. Mahmoud Darwish, Fı¯ Hadrat aL-Ghiya¯b (Beirut, 2006), 45. ˙ ˙ ‘Lam a‘ud tifla¯ mundh adrakt anna mukhayyama¯t Lubna¯n hiya al-wa¯qi’ wa˙ anna Filastı¯n hiya al-khaya¯l.’ Mahmoud Darwish, Hayrat al-‘A¯’id, 40 – 41. ˙ ˙ ‘Ablaghu¯nı¯ dha¯t layla annana¯ sana’u¯d ghada¯ ila¯ al-bayt. Adhkur jayida¯ annı¯ lam anam fı¯ tilk al-layla.min shidat al-farah. Al-’awda ila¯ al-bayt ta‘ni bi-l˙ nisba lı¯ niha¯yat al-jubna al-safra¯’, niha¯yat taharrusha¯t al-awla¯d al˙ ˙ Lubna¯niyyı¯n, al-ladhı¯n ka¯nu¯ yashtumu¯nı¯ bi-kalimat la¯ji’ al-muhı¯na.’ Raja¯ʾ al-Naqqa¯sh, 100. Ibid., 101. Ahmad Darwı¯sh, ‘The displacement’ [‘al-Iqtila¯’’], trans. and interviewed by ˙ the author (September 1, 2007). I have used this term only sometimes using quotation marks. The term ‘infiltrators’ may have a negative connotation, but it is inescapable. First, because Darwish (and Emil Habı¯bı¯) use this term in their original texts, in ˙ Arabic, even without double or single quotation marks. See for example, Mahmoud Darwish, ‘al-Watan bayn al-dha¯kira wa-l-haqı¯ba’ [‘Homeland ˙ ˙ between memory and suitcase’], Shu’u¯n Filastı¯niyya 12 (1972), 47. Trans. by ˙ the author; Emı¯l Habı¯bı¯, Al-Waqa¯’i’ al-Gharı¯ba li-Ikhtifa¯’ Sa’ı¯d Abı¯ al-Nahs al˙ Mutasha¯’il [The Secret Life of Saeed: The Pessoptimist] trans. by Salma¯ Khadra¯ ˙ al-Jayyusı¯ (Cairo, 1985), 109. Originally, published in Haifa, 1974. Next, this term became well known and widely used, that even Jayyusı¯, when translating The Pessoptimist, could not escape. See also: Kha¯led Jarra¯r, (director) ‘ Film screening: Infiltrators’ genre documentary (London, 2012), http://www.palestine campaign.org/events/film-screening-infiltrators/; Fred J. Khouri, The policy of retaliation in Arab-Israeli relations, Middle East Journal, Vol. 20, No. 4 (Autumn, 1966), 435–455; Leora Bilsky, Kufr Qassem, Between Ordinary Politics and Transformative Politics. Available at: http://www.adalah.org/uploads/oldfiles/ Public/files/English/Publications/Review/3/Adalah-Review-v3-Law-and-Vi olence-69-Kufr-Qassem-Ordinary-Politics-Transformative-Politics-LeoraBilsky.pdf; Benny Morris, Israel’s Border Wars 1949–56, Arab Infiltration, Israeli Retaliation and the Countdown to the Suez War (Clarendon Press Oxford 1993); Hillel Cohen, Good Arabs, The Israeli Security Agencies and the Israeli Arabs, 1948– 1967, https://books.google.co.il/books?hl¼iw&lr¼&id¼K7bfI3GUpAMC&oi ¼fnd&pg¼PP12&dq¼%22arabþinfiltrators:þtheþpolicyþofþretaliation þ &ots ¼ KMhBTiLhgB&sig ¼ WaqVUCVtOiD7nf2epSROxmttVr8#v ¼ onepage&q&f ¼ false.

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13. ‘Wa-ma¯dha¯ law qult annı¯ ji’t min Lubna¯n? Li-annaka ‘udt mutasallila¯ wa-ldunya¯ taghayyarat, lan tahsul ‘ala¯ bita¯qat huwiyya. Wa-idha¯ ja¯’ al-bu¯lı¯s ila¯ ˙˙ ˙ balad wa-‘arif qissatana¯ fa-saya’khudhuna¯ ila¯ al-hudu¯d wa-yarmı¯na¯. Wa-sa˙ ˙˙ ta‘rif ba‘d shuhu¯r anna a¯la¯f al-mutasallilı¯n qad turidu¯ bi-ha¯dih al-tarı¯qa. Ta’tı¯ ˙ ˙ al-sha¯hina¯t ila¯ sa¯ha¯t al-qarya wa-yantashir al-bu¯lı¯s bahtha¯ ‘an al-bada¯’i‘ al˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ muharraba. al-bada¯’i‘ al-muharraba hiya anta wa-ana¯, wa-huwa wa-hiya. Kul ˙ man farr min al-mawt wa-‘a¯d; Yamla’u¯n al-sha¯hina¯t wa-ya‘sibu¯n al-‘uyu¯n, ˙ ˙ wa-fı¯ al-layl tajid nafsak fı¯ mantiqa la¯ jiha¯t laha¯, li’anna al-zala¯m bi-la¯ jiha¯t, ˙ ˙ wa-l-qamar la¯ yukhı¯f al-atfa¯l. Wa-min bayn al-ladhı¯n taradu¯hum zawj ˙ ˙ kha¯latik al-ladhı¯ lam ta‘ud juthatah. La¯ ta‘rif qa¯tilah: al-jaysh, am qutta¯’ al˙˙ turuq, am al-dhi’a¯b. Fı¯ kul ausbu¯’ jana¯za fı¯ al-qarya. al-fallahu¯n ya’thuru¯n ’ala¯ ˙ ˙ juthah huna¯ wa-jutha huna¯k min ha¯’ula¯’ al mutasallitı¯n al-ladhı¯n akalathum al-bara¯rı¯ wa-lbard wa-l-rasa¯s.’ Mahmoud Darwish, ‘al-Watan bayn al-dha¯kira ˙ ˙ ˙ wa-l-haqı¯ba’ [‘Homeland between memory and suitcase’], Shu’u¯n Filastı¯niyya ˙ ˙ 12 (1972), 47. Trans. by the author. 14. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Ha-galut kul kakh hazakah b-tukhi, ’ulay ’avi ’utah ’artsah?’ ˙ ˙ [‘Exile is so strong within me, so maybe I’ll bring it to my country’], interview by Hilit Yeshurun, Hadarim, 12, 174. Trans. from Hebrew by the author. ˙ 15. Hanna¯ Ibra¯hı¯m recounts the stories of so called ‘infiltrators’ in Haifa who were ˙ expelled by night to the Jordanian border. In Moshe Hakham (ed.), Sipurim ˙ Falastinim [Palestinian Stories] (Tel Aviv, 1997), 9 – 15. Trans. from Hebrew by ˙ the author. 16. Yitzhak Rabin, Pinkas Shirut [Service Notebook] (Tel Aviv, 1979), 84, 88, 89. ˙ Trans. from Hebrew by the author. 17. Benny Morris, Milhamot ha-Gvul Shel Yisra’el 1949–1956 [Israel’s Border Wars, ˙ 1949–1956] (Tel Aviv, 2003), 44, 132, 136. Trans. from Hebrew by the author; Hillel Cohen, ‘Arvim Tuvim: ha-Modi‘in ha-Yisra’ili v-ha-‘Arvim b-Yisra’el, 1948– ˙ _ 1967 [Good Arabs: The Israeli Security Services and the Israeli Arabs, 1948–1967] (Jerusalem, 2006), 89, 97. Trans. from Hebrew by the author. 18. Cohen, Good Arabs, ibid. 19. ‘Adna¯n al-Na¯bulsı¯,’Al-‘awda’ [‘The return’], interviewed and trans by the author (December 6, 2009). 20. Ibid; Muhammad Abu¯ Sa‘da, ‘Al-‘awda ila¯ al-bayt’ [‘Return home’], ˙ interviewed and trans. by the author (December 10, 2009). 21. ‘Optimist’ is widely known/translated as ‘the Pessoptimist’ (1974). For a brief discussion of the term and the novel, see Edward Said (ed.), Reflections on Exile, and Other Essays (Cambridge, Mass., 2000), 321. 22. Emile Habiby, The Secret Life of Saeed: The Pessoptimist (Interlink World Fiction Series) paperback (September 28, 2001), 63. Trans. by salma¯ khadra¯ al-jayyusı¯ ˙ and Trevor Le Gassick. 23. ‘Qada¯ al-‘umr yabhath lak wa-li ikhwatik ’an khubz wa-kita¯b fı¯ al-sira¯‘ al˙ ˙ ˙ mudnı¯ ma‘ al-sakhr. Lam yutil al-tahdı¯q ka-abı¯h ila¯ madı¯h al-sa‘ı¯d al-muhdiq ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ilayh min kuru¯m al-zaytu¯n wa-huqu¯l al-hinta, kay la¯ yaltaqı¯ al-maghlu¯b ˙ ˙ ˙ bil-manhu¯b.wa-hamal ‘ib’ al-ha¯dir ka-ma¯ huwa ka-malik makhlu¯‘ la¯ yaqwa¯ ˙ ˙ ˙

NOTES

24.

25. 26.

27.

28.

29.

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181

‘ala¯ al-nazar ila¯ ‘arshih li-ya’khudhuk ila¯ al-ghad. . . wa-abu¯k huwa abu¯k. ˙ Kullama¯ jalast ilayh takallamtuma¯ ‘ala¯ ‘ajal, fa-huwa la¯ yakshif ‘an jurhih ˙ ama¯m ibnih. Wa-anta la¯ ta‘rif kayf tukhfı¯ ‘anh qaswat al-shafaqa ‘alayh, fawaritht ‘anh al-jurh. Wa-fı¯ sayf ba‘ı¯d, ‘ala¯ sath bayt tı¯nı¯ ba‘ı¯d, tahashraj sawt ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙˙ ˙ abı¯k wa-huwa yaqu¯l lakum: laqad ta‘ibt; ‘ala¯ wa¯hid minkum an yatatawwa‘ bi˙ ˙ tark al-madrasa li-yu‘ı¯nanı¯, lam ya‘ud zahrı¯ qa¯dira¯ ‘ala¯ haml al-sakhra wahdı¯. ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ fa-taba¯raytum fı¯-al shaha¯ma. Kul wahid qa¯l: ana¯. Fa-sa¯lat dam‘at abı¯k ‘ala¯ ˙ mar’a¯ minkum, wa-bakaytum ma‘ah wa-‘alayh. Wa-faj’a qa¯l: la¯. la¯ ahad.’ ˙ Mahmoud Darwish, Fı¯ Hadrat aL-Ghiya¯b, 162. ˙ ˙ Yehoshafat Harkabi, ‘Ha-Falastinim – mi-tardimah l-hit‘urirut’ [‘The ˙ ˙ Palestinians from quiescence to awakening’], in M. Maoz and B.Z. Kedar (eds), Ha-Tnu‘a Hali’omit ha-Falastinit: mi-‘Imut l-Hashlamah [The Palestinian ˙ National Movement: From Confrontation to Reconciliation?] (Tel Aviv, 1997), 244. Trans. from Hebrew by the author. Ibid., 244. ‘Lı¯ ibn ‘am yud‘a¯ hasanayn, harab marra ‘abr al-hudu¯d, wa-ba‘d ması¯r akthar ˙ ˙ min ‘ashr sa¯‘a¯t hall al-zala¯m. ‘indama¯ asha¯r al-muharrib ila¯ majmu¯‘a min al˙ ˙ adwa¯’ al-ba‘ı¯da wa-qa¯l: tilk hiya al-Kuwayt. tasilu¯naha¯ ba‘d ması¯rat nisf sa¯‘a. ˙ ˙ ˙ atadrı¯ ma al-ladhi hadath? Lam takun tilk al-Kuwayt. Kanat qarya ‘Iraqiyya ˙ na’iya! Astatı¯‘ an arwı¯ lak a¯la¯fa¯ min al-qisas al-musha¯biha. qisas rija¯l ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ tahawwalu¯ ila¯ kila¯b wa-hum yabhathu¯n ‘an nuqtat ma¯’ wahida yaghsilu¯n biha¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ al-sinatahum al-mushaqqaqa. Wa-ma¯dha¯ tahsab annah hadath hı¯n sha¯hadu¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ khiya¯m al-Badw? Laqad ishtaru¯ jur‘at ma¯’ bi-kul ma¯ yamluku¯n min nuqu¯d aw khawa¯tim zawa¯j aw sa¯‘a¯t. . . Hal ra’ayt fı¯ ‘umrik kullih haykala¯ ‘azı¯ma¯ mulqa¯ ˙ fawq al-raml?. . . kunt sa-tra¯ al-kathı¯r minha¯ law mashayt ma‘ al-muharribı¯n.’ Ghassa¯n Kanafa¯nı¯, Rija¯l fı¯ al-Shams. In al-’A¯thar al-Ka¯mila: al-Riwa¯ya¯t [The Complete Collections: Novels] (Beirut, 1994), 111– 113. Originally, published in Beirut, 1963. Trans. by the author. ‘Umar Masa¯lha, ‘Lamha ‘an al-saha¯fa al-‘Arabiyya al-Filastı¯niyya fı¯ Isra’ı¯l’ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ [‘A glimpse of the Palestinian Arab press in Israel’], Bettna (June 22, 2007), http://www.bettna.com/articals2/showArticlen.ASP?aid¼ 484 (accessed on June 16, 2015). Trans. by the author. ‘Akhadht astami‘u ila¯ al-shi‘r al-‘Arabi al-kla¯sikı¯. . . fa-a‘jabanı¯ ha¯dha¯ al-‘alam wa-sirt uqallid al-aswa¯t wa-akhtari‘ li-nafsı¯ khuyu¯la¯ wa-fataya¯t wa ahlum fı¯ sin ˙ ˙ mubakkira an atahawwal ila¯ sha‘ir.’ Mahmoud Darwish, ‘la¯ Qada¯sa li-Jalla¯d’ [‘No ˙ holiness for the hangman’], interview with Mahmoud Darwish, interview by Laure Adler, al-Karmel 52 (1997), 217–223. Trans. by the author. ‘’Indama¯ ‘udt min lubna¯n ila¯ qaryat dayr al-asad., kunt fı¯ al-saf al-thanı¯. . .wa˙ ana¯ adhkur, ‘indama¯ ka¯n yazu¯r al-madrasa mufattish al-ma‘a¯rif, kayf ka¯n al-mudı¯r yastad‘ı¯ni wa-yukhabbi’anı¯ fı¯ ghurfa dayyiqa.’ al-Naqqa¯sh, 102. ˙ See also: Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Ha-galut kul kakh hazakah b-tukhi, ’ulay ’avi ˙ ˙ ’utah ’artsah?’ [‘Exile is so strong within me, so maybe I’ll bring it to my country’], interview by Hilit Yeshurun, Hadarim, 12 (1996), 174. Trans. from ˙ Hebrew by the author.

182

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23 – 30

30. Al-Naqqash., 102. 31. Oren Cohen, ‘Tuldot mishpahat Darwish’ [‘History of the Darwish family’], ˙ Hadashut (June 28, 1991). 24. Trans. from Hebrew by the author. 32. ‘Uzi Benziman and ‘Atalla¯h Mansu¯r, ‘Arviye Yisra’el, Ma‘madam v-ha˙ ˙ Mdiniyut klapehem [Subtenants, the Arabs of Israel: Their Status and the Policies towards Them] (Jerusalem, 1992), 145 – 146. Trans. from Hebrew by the author. 33. Ibid., 146. 34. Ma¯jid, al-Ha¯jj, Hinukh b-Kerv ‘Arvim b-Yisra’el: Slitah v-Shinuy Hivrati ˙ ˙ ˙ [Education among Arabs in Israel: Control and Social Change] (Jerusalem, 1996), 51. Trans. from Hebrew by the author. 35. ‘Uzi Benziman and ‘Ata¯lla¯h Mansu¯r, 145– 146. ˙ ˙ 36. ‘Fı¯ tilk al-layla anshad qası¯da tawı¯la. . . qult: hadha¯ al-zakham al-ka¯fı¯. . . wa˙ ˙ ˙ ha¯dhih al-hra¯ra al-muta’alliqa fı¯ ru¯hiha¯. . . sa-taj‘al minka sha’ir al-ard al˙ ˙ ˙ muhtalla yawm tatakhallas min tikra¯r al-sura wa-l-raka¯ka al-latı¯ yafriduha¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ‘alayk tarkı¯b al -qasida al-klası¯kı¯.’ Habı¯b Qahwajı¯, ‘al-Qissa al-ka¯mila li˙ ˙ ˙˙ harakat al-Ard’ [‘The real story of al-Ard movement’], Shuʾu¯n Filastı¯niyya, ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ 1 (1971), 205. 37. Jacob M. Landau, ‘al-Ard group’, in Jacob M. Landau (ed.), Man, State and Society in the Contemporary Middle East (New York, 1972), 206. 38. High Court of Justice, ‘Sabrı¯ Jiryis against the Haifa district director’, 253/64, ˙ http://www.constitution.org.il/index.php?class¼ 1&id ¼ 544&mytask ¼ vi ew&option ¼ com_consti_comp (accessed on February 16, 2012); Sabrı¯ Jiryis, ˙ ‘Arbim bi-Yisra’el [The Arabs in Israel] (Haifa, 1966). 124. Trans. from Hebrew by the author. 39. Ibid. 40. Sabrı¯ Jiryis, ‘Arbim bi-Yisra’el [The Arabs in Israel] (Haifa, 1966), 124. ˙ 41. Sabrı¯ Jiryis, ‘Mahmoud Darwish and the al-Ard movement’, interviewed and ˙ ˙ trans. by the author (May 5, 2008). 42. Muhammad Mı¯ʿa¯rı¯, ‘The al-Ard movement’, interviewed and trans. by the ˙ ˙ author (May 5, 2008). 43. Cohen, ‘History of the Darwish family’, 24. 44. Gad Gilber, ‘Magamot b-hitpathut ha-dimugrafit shel ha-Falastinim 1870– ˙ 1948’ [‘Trends in the development of Palestinian demography 1870–1948’]. In Moshe Maʿoz (ed.), Ha-Tnu‘a Hali’omit ha-Falastinit: me-‘Imut l-Hashlamah ˙ [The Palestinian National Movement: From Confrontation to Reonciliation?] (Tel Aviv, 1997), 21–22. Trans. from Hebrew by the Author; Baruch Kimmerling and Joel S. Migdal, Falastinim ‘am b-Hivatsruto [Palestinians: The Making of a ˙ People] (Jerusalem, 1999), 97. Trans. from Hebrew by the author. 45. Gad Gilber, ibid. 46. Eli Reches, Ben Kumunizm li-L’omiyut ‘Arvit: Rakah vi-ha-Mi‘ut ha-‘Arvi bi˙ _ ˙ _ Yisra’el 1965– 1973 [Between Communism and Arab Nationality; Rakah and the ˙ Arab Minority in Israel 1973– 1965] (Tel Aviv, 1986), 48 – 50. Trans. from Hebrew by the author.

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47. ‘La‘allı¯ kunt fı¯ madrasa la¯ fı¯ jarı¯da, huna¯k ta‘allamt al-kita¯ba al-sahafiyya, min ˙ ˙ siyaghat al-khabar ila¯ al-taqrı¯r ila¯ al-rı¯pu¯rta¯j, ila¯ al-maqa¯la al- iftita¯hiyya. Wa˙ ˙ huna¯k ta‘allamt al-mashy ‘ala¯ tarı¯q al-mustaqbal bi-thiqat al-shaba¯b al˙ mumtali’ hama¯sa. Wa-huna¯k ayda¯ ta‘allamtu trı¯qat al-ihtida¯’ ila¯ dha¯tı¯ wa-ila¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ ‘ala¯qatiha¯ bi-l-jama¯‘a. . . lam takun al-ı¯ttiha¯d jarı¯da ¯ıkhba¯riyya bi-qadar ma ˙ ka¯nat warshat ‘amal li-ijtira¯‘ al-amal li-l-kha¯rijı¯n min layl al-Nakba. Laqad ashamat fı¯ balwarat wa‘yina¯ bi-huqu¯qina¯ ka-muwatinı¯n fı¯ dawla laysat lana¯! ˙ ˙ Wa-sa‘adatna¯ al-Ittiha¯d fı¯ al-ta‘arruf ‘ala¯ hawiyyatina¯ al-thaqa¯fiyya al-latı¯ ka¯nat ˙ muhaddada bi-l-tashazzı¯ wa-l-tamazzuq. Wa-minha¯ wasalat aswa¯tuna¯ al˙˙ ˙ ˙ shi‘riyya ila¯ al-‘a¯lam, wa-ana¯ idh anzur ila¯ al-wara¯’ ila¯ bint jı¯lı¯, ara¯ dhikraya¯tı¯ ˙ al-hamı¯ma tuta¯libunı¯ bi-l-wafa¯’ li-ula¯ika al-kiba¯r al-ladhı¯n ‘amilt ma‘ahum ˙ ˙ wata‘allamt minhum: Tawfı¯q Tu¯bi, Emı¯l Tu¯ma¯, ‘Alı¯ ‘A¯shu¯r, Emı¯l Habı¯bı¯, ˙ Muhammad Kha¯s, Salı¯ba Khamı¯s wa-l-‘a¯milı¯n fı¯ matba‘at al-Ittiha¯d al ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ qadı¯ma. Wa-in saqatat minnı¯ dam‘a, fa-la¯ talu¯mu¯nı¯.’ ‘al-Sha¯‘ir Mahmoud ˙ Darwish fı¯ hiwa¯r sha¯mil wa-kha¯s bi-l-Ittiha¯d’ [Poet Mahmoud Darwish in a ˙ ˙ ˙ comprehensive and exclusive interview to al-Ittiha¯d], interview by Hisha¯m ˙ Naffa¯‘, Raja¯’ Za‘a¯tra, Bashı¯r Shelsh, and others, al-Ittihad (July 13, 2007), ˙ http://www.aljabha.org/index.asp?i¼28127 (accessed on February 20, 2012). Trans. by the author. 48. ‘Wa-fı¯ al-yawm al-ta¯lı¯ istud‘ı¯t ila¯ maktab al-ha¯kim al-‘askarı¯ fı¯ qaryat Majd al˙ Kuru¯m. Haddadanı¯ wa-shatamanı¯ [. . .] lan nasmah li-abı¯k bi-al-‘amal fı¯ al˙ mahjar’, al-Naqqa¯sh, 106. ˙ 49. Ibid., 110 – 113. 50. ‘Fa-lan nuqhar wa-lan nakhsar . . . sa-nasna‘ min masha¯niqina¯/ wa-min sulba¯n/ ˙ ha¯dirina¯ wa-madı¯na¯/ sala¯lim li-l-ghad al-maw‘u¯d.’ Mahmoud Darwish, al˙ ˙ ˙ ¯ la¯ [The Collection: First Works] Vol. 1 (Beirut, 2009), Dı¯wa¯n: al-A‘ma¯l al-U 157 – 158. Trans. by the author. Originally published in the collection ‘A¯shiq min Filastı¯n (Beirut, 1966). ˙ 51. al-Naqqa¯sh, 112. 52. Darwish, al A‘ma¯l al-U¯la¯ 1: 249– 250. 53. Aryeh Dayan, ‘Ha-mishurer ha-li’omi’ [‘The national poet’], ‘Iton Ha‘ir (June 23, 1989), 11. Trans. from Hebrew by the Author; al-Naqqa¯sh, 112 – 113. 54. ‘Kunt urgham ‘ala¯ al-‘awda ila¯ al-manfa¯ al-tadrı¯jı¯ tadrı¯jiya.’ Mahmoud Darwish, Hayrat al-’A¯’id [The Confusion of the Returnee] (Beirut, 2007), 45 – 46. ˙ Trans by the author. 55. Aryeh Dayan, ‘National poet’, 11. 56. Ibid. 57. ‘Nahn fı¯ marhalat al-‘awda wa-l-isra¯r ‘ala¯ al-baqa¯’, intahat wa-ila¯ al-abad ˙ ˙ ˙ marhalat al-hijra. Fa-laytak ta‘u¯d mahma¯ ka¯n al-thaman al-ladhı¯ satadfa‘uh ˙ min hurriyatik.’ al-Naqqa¯sh, 274. ˙ 58. Eli Reches, 277. 59. Ibid., 277. 60. ‘Kharajna¯ ila¯ Su¯fya¯ muf‘amı¯n bi-shahwat al-‘ina¯q, fa-‘udna¯ wa-fı¯ zahrina¯ ˙ ˙ sikkı¯n min isha¯‘a da¯miya. Wa-ma¯ dumna¯ nadhkur fa-sa-nadhkur da¯’ima¯ tilk

184

61. 62.

63. 64.

65. 66. 67.

68. 69. 70.

71. 72. 73.

74. 75.

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33 – 38

al-wiqfa al-nabı¯la al-latı¯ imtashaqaha¯ a¯n dha¯k rafı¯quna¯ wa-habı¯b sha‘bina¯ ˙ wa-shahı¯d qadiyyatina¯ Ghassa¯n Kanafa¯nı¯, al-ladhı¯ lam yantazir al-tafası¯l, ˙ ˙ ˙ bal adrakaha¯ bi-hissih al-watanı¯ al-salı¯m, fa-habba mashku¯ra¯ mudafi‘a¯ ‘an ˙ ˙ jana¯hay al-shi‘r al-muqa¯wim kama¯ laqqabana¯ mashku¯ra¯ ila¯ dahr al-da¯hirı¯n.’ ˙ Darwish and al-Qa¯sim, al-Rasa¯’il (Haifa, 1990), 96 – 97. Originally published in Haifa, 1989. Raja¯’ al-Naqqa¯sh, 275; Mahmoud Darwish, al-‘Asa¯fı¯r Tamu¯t fı¯ al-Jalı¯l. In al˙ A‘ma¯l al-’U¯la¯ 1: 270– 273. Originally published in Beirut, 1970. The ‘Damascus Gate’ (in Arabic: Bab Al-‘amu¯d, Hebrew: Sha’ar Sh’khem) is one of the main gates of the Old City of Jerusalem, located on the northwest side where the highway leads out to Nablus, and from there, in times past, to the capital of Syria. Dayan, ‘National poet’, 13 ‘Laqqanu¯nı¯ kul ma¯ yatlubuh al-mukhrij/. . . wa-ta‘ibt al-a¯n/. . . wa-liha¯dha¯ ˙ astaqı¯l/. . .sayyida¯tı¯ a¯nisa¯tı¯/ sa¯datı¯/ salaytukum ‘ishrı¯n ‘am/ a¯n lı¯ an arhal al˙ yawm/ wa-an ahrub min ha¯dha¯ al zaha¯m/ wa-ughannı¯ fı¯ al-Jalı¯l/ li-l-;asa¯fr al˙ ˙ latı¯ taskun ‘ush al-mustahı¯l/ wa-li-ha¯dha¯ astaqı¯l/ astaqı¯l / astaqı¯l.’ Mahmoud ˙ Darwish, ‘Wa-yusdal al-sita¯r’, in al-Dı¯wa¯n: al-A‘ma¯l al-U¯la¯ [The Collection: First Works] vol. 3 (Beirut, 2009), 321– 322. Trans. by the author. First published in the collection; al-‘Asa¯fı¯r Tamu¯t fı¯ al-Jalı¯l (Beirut, 1970). ˙ Eli Reches, Between Communism and Arab Nationality, 146. Ibid., 148. Ian Lustick, ‘Arvim bi-mdinah Yehudit [Arabs in the Jewish State: Israel’s Control of a National Minority] (Haifa, 1985) 142, 169 (n. 16). Trans. from Hebrew by the author. Reches, Between Communism and Arab Nationality, 48. Ibid., 67, 93, 95, 97, 147. ‘’Amilt ma‘ahu ‘ashr sinı¯n fı¯ jarı¯dat al-Ittiha¯d. Wa-mundh al-bida¯ya qa¯l lı¯: hal ˙ anta muta’akkid min annak sa-tamdı¯ ‘ala¯ ha¯dha¯ al-tarı¯q? qul wa-ana¯ fı¯ al˙ ˙ ‘ishrı¯n: ma‘ak wa-m‘a Emil Habı¯bı¯ wa-Tawfı¯q tu¯bı¯ sa-amdı¯ fı¯ ha¯dha¯ al-tarı¯q ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ hatta¯ al-niha¯ya. . . inna Emı¯l Tu¯ma¯ qa¯l lı¯ wa-nahn nas‘ad min Wadı¯ al Nisna¯s ˙ ˙ ˙ ila¯ shari‘ ‘Abba¯s: madha¯ taf‘al huna¯ ayyuha¯ al-sha¯b? Fa-sa’altuh ma¯dha¯ ya‘nı¯? fa-radda bi-sawt kha¯fid: ibhath li-nafsik ‘an ufuq.’ Mahmoud Darwish and ˙ ˙ ˙ Samih al-Qa¯sim, 53. Dayan, ‘National poet’, 13. The section title ‘out of place’ drawn from Edward Said’s autobiography, Out of Place: A Memoir (New York, 1999). [No Author], ‘Nasa’ih Ahmad ‘Abd al-Mu‘tı¯ Hija¯zı¯’ [‘Tips of Ahmad ‘Abdel ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Mu‘ti Hija¯zi’], in Roz al-Yusuf (February 22, 1971), http://www.jehat.com/ ˙ ˙ Jehaat/ar/Malafat/albadeel-1.htm (accessed on June 30, 2015). Trans. by the author. Ibid. Despite Hija¯zı¯’s offers, Darwish ultimately opted to work at the al-Ahram ˙ newspaper, close to the elite writers who set literary tastes. It is still unclear

NOTES

76.

77.

78. 79.

80.

81. 82.

83.

84.

TO PAGES

38 – 40

185

who offered him his job at the newspaper, but in Moscow Darwish did meet with a newspaper reporter from al-Ahram, ‘Abd al-Malik Khalı¯l, who probably was the connecting link between the poet and the paper’s editor Muhammad ˙ Hasanayn Haykal. ˙ ‘Abd al-Wahha¯b, ‘Sanawa¯t Mahmoud Darwish fı¯ al-Qa¯hira’ [‘Mahmoud Darwish’s years in Cairo’], al-Kalima 21 (September, 2008), Mu’assasat Mahmoud Darwish, http://www.mahmouddarwish.ps/userfiles/azme-abd.pdf (accessed on February 18, 2012). Trans. from Arabic by the author. ‘Ka¯n maktabı¯ fı¯ al-Ta¯biq al-sa¯dis, wa-huna¯k ka¯n maktab Tawfı¯q al-Hakı¯m ˙ ˙ wa-Najı¯b Mahfu¯z wa-Idrı¯s. . . wa-fı¯ al-qa¯hira sa¯daqt ayda¯ al-shu‘ara¯’ al˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ladhı¯n kunt uhibuhum: Sala¯h ‘Abd al-Sabu¯r, wa-Ahmad Hija¯zı¯, wa-Amal ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Dunqul. Kan ha¯’ula¯’ min al-asdiqa¯’al-qarı¯bı¯n wa-ka-dha¯lik al-Abnu¯dı¯. Al˙ Qahira . . . ka¯nat min aham mahatta¯t haya¯tı¯.’ Cited in: Mahmoud Darwish, ˙ ˙˙ ˙ ‘Wulidtu ‘ala¯ dufa‘a¯t’ [‘Born in batches’], interview by ‘Abduh Wa¯zin, alKarmel 86 (Winter 2006), 59. Trans. by the author. Yu¯suf Idrı¯s, al-Ira¯da [The Will] (Cairo, 1985). Trans. by the author. ‘Tala‘na¯ ‘alayhim tulu¯‘ al-manu¯n/ fa-saru¯ haba’a¯ wa-sa¯ru¯ suda¯.’ ‘Alı¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Mahmu¯d Ta¯ha¯ (1902 – 1942) wrote the famous poem Filastı¯n which begins ˙ with the words: ‘Akhı¯ ja¯waz al-Za¯limu¯n al-Mada¯ / fa-haqq al-Jiha¯d wa˙ ˙ haqq al-Fida¯’’ [‘My brother, the oppressors have gone too far / this is your ˙ hour for Jiha¯d and for sacrifice’], which became popular in the second Palestinian Intifada (2000), as it called for Jiha¯d (‘holy war’) for the sake of Palestine. ‘Faja’ana¯ matar wa-rasa¯s. . . bila¯d taghayyar sukka¯nuha¯. . . wa-tana¯sal fı¯na¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ alghuza¯t taka¯thar fı¯na¯ al-tugha¯t. . . suda¯ nahn’ Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Sarha¯n ˙ ˙ ˙ yashrab al-qahwa,’ in al-Dı¯wa¯n: al-A‘ma¯l al-U¯la¯ [The Collection: First Works] Vol. 2 (Beirut, 2009), 100, 106. Trans. by the author. Originally published in the collection: Uhibbuk aw la¯ Uhibbuk (Beirut, 1972). ˙ ˙ Darwish, ibid. ‘Fı¯ alqa¯hira tammat mla¯mih tahawwul fı¯ tajribatı¯ al-shi‘riyya, wa-ka¯n ˙ ˙ mun‘atafa¯ jadı¯da¯ yabda’.’ Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Wulidtu ʿala¯ dufaʿa¯t’, al-Karmel ˙ 86 (Winter 2006), 59. ‘Atadhkur?/ kayf ja‘alt mala¯mih wajhı¯/ wa-kayf ja‘alt jabı¯nı¯/ wa-kayfa ja’alt ˙ ightira¯bı¯ wa-mawtı¯/ akhdar/ akhdar/ akhdar.’ Mahmoud Darwish, ‘al-Rajul ˙ ˙ ¯ ˙ dhu¯ al-zil al-akhdar’, in al- A‘ma¯l al-U la¯ 1: 376. Originally published in the ˙ ˙ collection Habı¯batı¯ Tanhad Min Nawmiha¯ (Beirut, 1970). ˙ ˙ ‘Ka¯n kul shay’ yatawaqqaf ‘an al-haraka. . . wa-ka¯nt Filastı¯n taqif ‘ala¯ aqda¯miha¯ ˙ ˙ t’ahhuba¯ li-l-tahrı¯r, yawm ka¯n Gama¯l Abd al-Nassir yaqu¯l: ayyuha¯ al˙ muwatinu¯n, wa-yabda’. Ka¯n sukkan al-ard al-muhtalla ya‘taqilu¯n anfusahum, ˙ ˙ ˙ min asghar tifl ila¯ akbar shaykh, qurb ajhizat al-Radio. Wa-kathı¯ra¯ ma¯ ka¯nu¯ ˙ ˙ yandafi‘u¯n ila¯ al-jiha¯z al-ladhi yahmil sawt ‘Abd al-Nasir wa-yuqabbilu¯nah fı¯ ˙ ˙ nashwa wataniyya wa-insaniyya la¯ tu¯saf.’ Mahmoud Darwish, Yawmiyya¯t al˙ ˙ ¯ Huzn al-‘Adı¯ [Diary of an Ordinary Grief] (Beirut, 2007), 114 – 115. Trans. by ˙ the author.

186

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41 – 43

85. ‘Bayru¯t ka¯nt warshat afka¯r wa-mukhtabara¯ li-tayya¯ra¯t adabiyya wa-fikriyya wa-siya¯siyya mutasa¯ri‘a wa-muta‘a¯’isha fı¯ waqt wahid.’ Mahmoud Darwish, ˙ ˙ ‘Wulidtu ʿala¯ dufaʿa¯t’, 59. 86. Mahmoud Darwish, Memory for Forgetfulness (California 1995), 134, introduction and trans. from Arabic by Ibrahim Muhawi. 87. ‘Bayru¯t madı¯nat al-hurriyya, wa- madı¯nat al-thaqa¯fa, wa-ha¯dinat al-‘amal al˙ ˙ ˙ Filastı¯nı¯ al-fikrı¯ wa-l-‘askarı¯, wa-khatt al-difa¯‘ al-awwal ‘an Filastı¯n.’ Sha¯kir al˙ ˙˙ ˙ Na¯bulsı¯, Akalahu al-Dhi’b: al-Sı¯ra al-Fanniyya lil-Rassa¯m Najı¯ al-‘Alı¯ [Devoured by a Wolf: the biographic Art of the artistic painter, Na¯jı¯ al-‘Alı¯] (Beirut, 2007), 321. Trans. by the author. 88. Mahmoud Darwish, Madı¯h al-Zil al-‘A¯lı¯;, In al- A‘ma¯l al-U¯la¯ 2: 334, ˙ _ 336, 353. 89. ‘Fatat tuqassim al-fajr bi-sa¯qayha¯ sarı¯rayn’; ‘Sa¯hil yaltaff ka-l-af‘a¯ ‘ala¯ ajra¯s ˙ khasr al-ra¯qisa’; ‘khutwatı¯ al-u¯la¯ ila¯ awwal sa¯qayn ada¯’a¯ jasadı¯.’ Mahmoud ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Darwish, ‘Taʼammula¯t sari‘a fı¯ madı¯na qadı¯ma wa-jamı¯la ʿala¯ sahil al-Bahr al˙ ˙ Abyad al-Mutawassit,’ in al-A‘ma¯l al-U¯la¯ 2: 462, 466. Originally, published ˙ ˙ ˙ in the collection Hisa¯r li-Mada’ih al-Bahr [A Siege for the Sea Eulogies] (Beirut, ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ 1984). Trans. by the author. 90. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Bayru¯t’, in al- A‘ma¯l al-U¯la¯ 2: 505 – 522. Originally, published in the collection Hisa¯r li-Mada¯’ih al-Bahr [A Siege for the Sea ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Eulogies], (Beirut, 1984). Trans. by the author. 91. ‘Rattabt al-amr m‘a al-safı¯r al-lı¯bı¯ fı¯ Bayru¯t, fa-huwa ka¯n fı¯ maqdu¯rih an ya’khudhanı¯ min mantiqat al-Ashrafiyya al-latı¯ kant al-Kata¯’ib tusautir ˙ ˙ ‘alayha¯, ila¯ Su¯rya¯.’ Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Wulidtu ‘ala¯ dufa‘a¯t’, 62. 92. ‘Ra’ayt kul al-thawra al-Filastı¯niyya tuqı¯m fı¯ funduq ‘ala¯ shati’ al-bahr. Ka¯n ˙ ˙ ˙ al-mashad mu’lima¯ jida¯ wa-yastad‘ı¯ kitabat riwa¯ya ‘an ha¯dha¯ al-ması¯r.’ ˙ ˙ Mahmoud Darwish, ibid. 93. Ziya¯d ‘Abd al-Fatta¯h, interviewed by the author (December 12, 2007). ˙ 94. Ibid. 95. Giselle Khuri, ‘Bi-l-‘Arabı¯’ [in Arabic], al-‘Arabiyya Net (August 14, 2008), Trans. by the author. http://www.alarabiya.net/save_print.php?print¼1& cont_id ¼ 54932. Trans. by the author (accessed on February 20, 2015). 96. Elya¯s Sanbar, ‘Mahmoud Darwish’ (September 12, 2008). interviewed by the ˙ author. 97. Ibid. 98. See also Edward Said, ‘On Mahmoud Darwish’, Grand Street, No. 48, Oblivion (Winter, 1994), pp. 112– 115. 99. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Wulidtu ‘ala¯ dufa‘a¯t’ [‘Born in batches’], interview by ‘Abduh Wa¯zin, al-Karmel 86 (Winter 2006), 37. Trans. by the author. 100. Mahmoud Darwish, ibid. 101. Suliman Jubran, ‘The image of the father in the poetry of Mahmoud Darwish,’ in Hala Khamis Nassar and Najat Rahman (eds), Mahmoud Darwish Exile’s Poet: Critical Essays (Northampton, Mass, c2008), 81. Trans, from Arabic by Suliman Jubran.

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102. ‘Al-ladı¯n la¯ ya‘rifu¯n al-malal wa-yufritu¯n fı¯ al-ta’wı¯l. fa-fı¯ wus‘ihim . . . an ˙ yuha¯kimu¯k ‘ala¯ isti‘a¯ra shi‘riyya wa-‘ala¯ hurriyat khaya¯l.’ Darwish, Fı¯ Hadrat ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ aL-Ghiya¯b, 168; Roland Barthes, La mort de l’auteur, trans. into Hebrew by Dror Mishani (Tel Aviv, 2005). 103. Darwish, Hayrat al-‘A¯’id, 39– 48. ˙ 104. ‘Lam a‘ud tifla¯ mundh adrakt anna mukhayyama¯t Lubna¯n hiya al-waqi‘ wa˙ anna Filastı¯n hiya al-khaya¯l. Lam a‘ud tifla¯ mundh massanı¯ na¯y al-hanı¯n. . . ila¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ da¯r murabba‘at al-shakl tatawassatuha¯ tu¯ta ‘a¯liya wa-hisa¯n mutawattir wa-burj ˙ ˙ ˙ hama¯m wa-bi’r.’ Ibid., 40– 41. ˙ 105. ‘Al-‘awda ila¯ al-maka¯n, al‘awda ila¯ al-zama¯n, al‘awda min al-mu’aqqat ila¯ alda¯’im, al’awda min al-ha¯dir ila¯ al-ma¯dı¯ wa-l-ghad ma‘a¯, al-‘awda min al-sha¯dh ˙ ˙ ˙ ila¯ al-tabı¯‘ı¯, al-‘awda min ‘ulab al-safı¯h ila¯ bayt min hajar. Wa-ha¯kadha¯ sa¯rat ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ hiya al-firdaws al-mafqu¯d. Raja¯’ al-Naqqa¯sh, 100. 106. Ibid., 100; al-Na¯bulsı¯, Majnu¯n al-Tura¯b, 180. 107. ‘Ja‘al al-manfa¯ yanbut marra ukhra¯ ka-l-hasha¯’ish.’ Darwish, Hayrat al˙ ˙ ‘A¯’id, 45. 108. Darwish, Fı¯ Hadrat al-Ghiya¯b, 122. ˙ ˙ 109. ‘Wa-la¯ na‘rif ayyuna¯ huwa al-muha¯jir: nahn, am al-watan.’ Hayrat al-‘A¯’id, ˙ ˙ ˙ 45 – 46. 110. ‘Innanı¯ ash‘ur al-a¯n ka-ma¯ lam ash‘ur min qabl bi-nabd al-turba. . . li-annanı¯ ˙ a‘ı¯sh wa-a‘mal ma‘a sha‘bı¯ al-awsa‘, li-annı¯ uda¯fi‘u ‘an al-kha¯s min mawqi’ al˙ ‘a¯m.’ Raja¯’ al-Naqqa¯sh, 270. 111. ‘Qatrat ma’ ‘ala¯ rı¯sh qubbara fı¯ hija¯rat hayfa¯/ tu‘a¯dil kul al-biha¯r.’ Mahmoud ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ¯ la¯ 2: 125. Darwish, al- A‘ma¯l al-U 112. ‘Hal yusaddiq al-damı¯r al-gharbı¯. . . anna al-qa¯rra al-‘Arabiyya, aw al-sajn al˙ ˙ ‘Arabi al-sha¯si‘, la¯ yushakkil badı¯l ‘an watan al-Filastı¯niyyin, wa-la¯ tuwaffir ˙ ˙ lahum ‘ala¯ al-aqall ija¯za wahida min wazı¯fat al-dhabh?’ Mahmoud Darwish, ˙ ˙ ˙ ‘Junu¯n an taku¯n Filastı¯niyya’, al-Karmel 16 (1985), 5 – 6. ˙ 113. ‘Yu¯qizuk su’a¯lı¯: mata tubhir al-sufun? Fa-tujı¯b bi-‘asabiyya . . . lan akhruj!’ ˙ ˙ ˙ Darwish, Fı¯ Hadrat al-Ghiya¯b (Beirut, 2006) 76. ˙ ˙ 114. ‘Inna thala¯that ‘uqu¯d min ghiya¯b al-dha¯t ‘an maka¯niha¯ taj‘al al-maka¯n dha¯ta¯ yatı¯ma. . . fa-ma¯dha¯ taf‘al hı¯n tasil ila¯ al-karmil ghayr an tas’al: lima¯dha¯ nazalt ˙ ˙ ‘an al-karmil?’ Ibid., 154. 115. ‘Al-‘a¯’id ya‘u¯d li-maka¯n kharaja minh . . . huna¯k awta¯n shakhsiyya. . . bi-ma‘na¯ ˙ ˙ ann ha¯dha¯ al-juz’ min al-watan huwa watan sha‘bı¯.. wa-lays ladayy ayy ˙ ˙ makhzu¯n li-l-dha¯kira, a‘tabir nafsı¯ mawju¯da ila¯ had ma¯ fı¯ ghurba ma¯, fı¯ juz’ ˙ min al-watan.’ Nabı¯l ‘Amr, “Rihla fı¯ ‘a¯lam Mahmoud Darwish”’ [‘A journey ˙ ˙ inside the world of Mahmoud Darwish’], interview by Nabı¯l ‘Amr, Palestine TV (Ramallah, July 16 and July 23, 2007). Available at: https://www.youtube. com/watch?v¼CrqjvxiB3_4, parts 1 – 18. Trans. by the author. 116. ‘Al-hanı¯n qasa¯s al-manfa¯ min al-manfı¯. ’ Darwish, Fı¯ Hadrat al-Ghiya¯b, 122. ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ 117. ‘Al-hanı¯n nudba fi-l-qalb, wa- basmat balad ‘ala¯ jasad.’ Darwish, ibid., 124. ˙ ˙ 118. ‘Anı¯n al-haqq al-‘ajiz ‘an al-itya¯n bi-l-burha¯n. . . anı¯n al-buyu¯t al madfu¯na taht ˙ ˙ al-musta‘mara¯t-, yu¯rithhu al-gha¯’ib li-l-gha¯’ib, wa-l-hadir li-l-gha’ib, ma‘a ˙ ˙

188

119.

120.

121.

122.

123.

NOTES

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qatrat al-halı¯b al-u¯la¯, fı¯ al-maha¯jir wa-l-mukhayyama¯t. . . waja‘ al-bahth ‘an ˙ ˙ ˙ farah sa¯biq. . . wa-ila¯ al-tarı¯qa al-latı¯ tamma bi-ha¯ ı¯la¯j al-mifta¯h fı¯ al-ba¯b.’ ˙ ˙ Ibid., 125. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Ha-’istetikah shel ha-yi’ush’ [‘The aesthetics of despair’]. ˙ ˙ Interview by Dalya Karpel, Haaretz (July 11, 2007), Trans. from Hebrew by the author. http://www.haaretz.co.il/hasite/pages/ShArtPE.jhtml? itemNo¼ 880755&contrassID ¼ 2&subContrassID ¼ 13&sbSubContrassID ¼ 0 (accessed on June 16, 2011). Yair Ettinger, ‘Mimashti ’et zkhut ha-shivah’ [‘I realized my right of return’]. Haaretz (November 17, 2004), http://www.haaretz.co.il/hasite/pages/ShArtPE. jhtml?itemNo¼502710&contrassID ¼ 2&subContrassID ¼2&sbSubContrass ID¼0 (accessed on June 16, 2011). Trans. from Hebrew by the author. La¯ ta‘tadhir ‘amma¯ fa‘alt,’ and ‘la¯ ta‘tadhir ila¯ li-ummik.’ Mahmoud Darwish, Dı¯wa¯n Mahmoud Darwish: al-A‘ma¯l al-Jadı¯da [Mahmoud Darwish Collection: the New Works] (Beirut, 2004), 29– 30. Trans. by the author. Originally, published in the collection La¯ Ta‘tadhir ‘Amma¯ Fa‘alt (Beirut, 2003). ‘Yatalaffat al-manfı¯ nahw jiha¯tih/ wa-tafirr minhu al-mufrada¯t-al-dhikraya¯t, ˙ lays al-ama¯m ama¯mah/ laus al-wara¯’ wara¯’ah.’ Mahmoud Darwish, Athar alFara¯sha [The butterfly effect] (Beirut, 2008), 253. Trans. by the author. ‘’Ushb, hawa¯’ ya¯bis, shawk wa-subba¯r ‘ala¯ silk al-hadı¯d . . . tabı¯d yama¯mta¯n ˙ ˙ ˙ sharı¯data¯n rasa¯’il al-manfa¯ ‘ala¯ katifayy, thumma tuhalliqa¯n ‘ala¯ irtifa¯’ sha¯hib.’ ˙ ˙ Mahmoud Darwish, ‘’Ala¯ mahattat qitar saqat ‘an al-kharı¯ta’ [‘At the station of ˙ ˙˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ a train which fell off the map’], in the collection: La¯ Uriı¯du li-Ha¯dhı¯ al-Qası¯da ˙ An Tantahı¯ [I Don’t Want This Poem to Expire] (Beirut, 2009), 25, 30, 56 – 61. Trans. by the author.

Chapter 3

Literature and Nation-Building

1. ‘Ya¯ bunay tadhakkar! Huna¯ salab al-Injilı¯z/ aba¯k ‘ala¯ shawk subba¯ra laylatayn/ ˙ ˙ wa-lam ya‘tarif abada¯. Sawf takbur ya¯ bunay, wa-tarwı¯ li-man yarithu¯n bana¯diqahum/ sı¯rat al-dam fawq al-hadı¯d.’ Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Cactus ˙ forever’, al-Jadı¯d 3 (January 1997), trans. from Arabic by Nezar Andary. Also, Available at: http://www.aljadid.com/content/cactus-forever (accessed on June 17, 2015). 2. Yehoshafat Harkabi, ‘Ha-Falastinim – mi-tardimah l-hit‘urirut’ [‘The ˙ ˙ Palestinians from quiescence to awakening’], in M. Maoz and B.Z. Kedar (eds), Ha-Tnu‘a Hali’omit ha-Falastinit: mi-‘Imut l-Hashlamah [The Palestinian ˙ National Movement: From Confrontation to Reconciliation?] (Tel Aviv, 1997), 267 – 268. Trans. from Hebrew by the author. Also: Fawwa¯z Turky, The Disinherited: Journal of a Palestinian in Exile (New York, 1972). 3. Harkabi, ‘From quiescence to awakening’, 268– 269. 4. Ian Lustick, Arabs in the Jewish State: Israel’s Control of a National Minority, 16 – 41, 61 –76, 77– 91; Uzi Benziman and ‘Ata¯lla¯h Mansu¯r, ‘Arviye Yisra’el, ˙ Ma‘madam v-ha-Mdiniyut klapehem [Subtenants, the Arabs of Israel: Their Status

NOTES

5. 6. 7. 8.

9.

10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16.

17. 18. 19. 20. 21.

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189

and the Policies towards Them] (Jerusalem, 1992), 145 –146. Trans. from Hebrew by the author.; Baruch Kimmerling and Joel S. Migdal, 149, 151, 154; Ma¯jid al-Ha¯jj, Hinukh b-Kerv ‘Arvim b-Yisra’el: Slitah v-Shinuy Hivrati ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ [Education among Arabs in Israel: Control and Social Change] (Jerusalem, 1996), 51. Trans. from Hebrew by the author. Eli Reches, Between Communism and Arab Nationality, 275 – 276. al-Naqqa¯sh, 5, 8. Ghassa¯n Kanafa¯nı¯, al ’A¯tha¯r al-Ka¯mila: al-Dira¯sa¯t al-Adabiyya [The Complete Collections: Literary Studies] (Beirut, 1998), 25– 655. Trans. by the author. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Ghaza¯l yubashshir bi-zilza¯l’ [‘A gazelle harbingers an earthquake’], in Mahmoud Darwish, Fı¯ Wasf Ha¯latina¯: Maqa¯lat Mukhta¯ra ˙ ˙ 1975– 1985 [In our Case Description: Selected Articles 1975– 1985] (Beirut, 1987), 85; Also in: Ghassa¯n Kanafa¯nı¯, al-A¯tha¯r al-Ka¯mila: al-Dira¯sa¯t alAdabiyya [The Complete Collections: Literary Studies] 21; also in: Shu’u¯n Filastı¯niyya, 56 (1976), 73–79. Trans. by the author. ˙ According to Kanafa¯nı¯, Masa¯rwa had stated that Arab society in Israel was ˙ primitive in its way of thinking and in its fundamental conception of its social, psychological and cultural problems. See: Kanafa¯nı¯, al-’A¯tha¯r al-Ka¯mila: alDira¯sa¯t al-Adabiyya, 244. Nabı¯h al-Qa¯sim, al-Haraka al-Shi ‘riyya al-Filastı¯niyya fı¯ Bila¯dina¯ [Palestinian ˙ ˙ poetic movement in our country] (Kafr Qara‘, 2003), 18–22. Trans. by the author. Gha¯lı¯ Shukrı¯, Adab al-Muqa¯wama [Literature of Resistance] (Cairo, 1970), 391 – 392. Trans. by the author. Ibid., 391 – 430. Reches, Between Communism and Arab Nationality, 146. Ibid., 278. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘A love story between an Arab poet and his land’, interview by Adam Shatz, Journal of Palestine Studies, 31, no. 3 (Spring 2002), 72. See, for example, Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Sha’ir al-qamar wa-l-tı¯n’ [‘Poet of ˙ moon and mud’], in‘A¯biru¯n fı¯ Kala¯m ‘A¯bir, [Passers between Passing Words] (Beirut, 1994), 185 – 190. Trans. by the author; Muna Abu Eid, ‘Bayn aldawla al-wahida wa-hal al-dawlatayn’, al-Quds al-‘Arabi (August 10, 2012), ˙ http://www.alquds.co.uk/index.asp?fname¼ today%5C10qpt898.htm& arc ¼ data%5C2012%5C08%5C08-10%5C10qpt898.htm (accessed on September 2, 2012). Also, see the discussion in Chapter 2 about the Rakah affair. ˙ Moshe Dayan, ‘Avne Derekh [Milestones: An Autobiography]. Trans. from Hebrew by the author (Tel Aviv, 1976), 510. Ibid. Fadwa¯ Tu¯qa¯n, al-Rihla al-As‘ab: Sı¯ra Dha¯tiyyah [Most Difficult Journey: An ˙ ˙ ˙ Autobiography] (Ramallah, 2007), 41. Trans. by the author. Ibid., 135 – 137. Sha¯kir al-Na¯bulsı¯, Majnu¯n al-Tura¯b [A Lunatic of the Soil] (Beirut, 1987). Trans. by the author.

190

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56 – 60

22. ‘Ka¯n yatada¯yaq min an yulsaq bihi laqab sha‘ir al-muqa¯wama wa- sha‘ir al-ard ˙ ˙ ˙ al-muhtalla. . . dhahabt li-uqaddim lah nuskha min ha¯dhih al-dira¯sa ka˙ hadiyya, wa-kan dha¯lik fı¯ hafl ‘asha¯’ fı¯ bayt al-sadı¯q raja¯’ al-naqqa¯sh fı¯ al˙ ˙ Qa¯hira, wa-bi-hudu¯r al-sha¯‘ir Samı¯h al-Qa¯sim. . . akhadh Darwı¯sh ha¯dihi ˙ ˙ ˙ al-dira¯sa wa-nazar ila¯ ‘unwaniha¯ ka-l-ta¯wu¯s. . . thumma wada‘aha¯ ja¯niba¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ muta‘affifa¯. . . wa-lam yaqul lı¯ kalima wa¯hida. . . wa-fahimt ba‘d dha¯lik annahu ˙ ka¯n mutada¯yiqa¯ min al-‘unwa¯n’ Majnu¯n al-Tura¯b.’ Sha¯kir al-Na¯busı¯ (Beirut, ˙ 2007), 79 – 80. 23. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Exile is so strong within me’, 183. 24. Ziya¯d ‘Abd al-Fatta¯h (December 12, 2007). ˙ 25. Ibid. 26. ‘Abdulla¯h al-Hu¯ra¯nı¯, ‘Mahmoud Darwish fi al-lajna al-tanfidhiyya’ ˙ [‘Mahmoud Darwish within the Executive Committee’], interviewed and trans. by the author (August 10, 2007). 27. Sasson Somekh, ‘Politit miguyyeset, ’ixistentsyalit’ [‘Political, committed, ˙ and existential’], interview by Miri Paz, Davar (special supplement) (May 6, 1994), 6 – 9. Trans. from Hebrew by the author. 28. Edward W. Said, ‘On Palestinian identity: a conversation with Salman Rushdie’, New Left Review 160/9 (1986), 72, http://work.colum.edu/ ,zfurness/theories/ said-interviews-rushdie (accessed on February 20, 2012). 29. ‘Waqaft ‘ala¯ al-mahatta, la¯ li-’antazir al-qita¯r,.. bal li-’a‘rif kayf junn al-bahr ˙ ˙˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ wa-inkasar al-maka¯n ka-hujra khazafiyya.’ Mahmoud Darwish, ‘‘Ala¯ mahattat ˙ ˙ ˙˙ qita¯r saqat ‘an al-kharı¯ta’ [‘At the station of a train which fell off the map’], ˙ ˙ ˙ trans. from Arabic by Sinan Antoon, Jadaliyya (August 9, 2012), http://www. jadaliyya.com/pages/index/6788/mahmoud-darwish_at-the-station-of-a-trainwhich-fe (accessed on September 20, 2012). 30. Yitzhak La’or, ‘Ben dukh Landoy l-galut mishorer’ [‘Between the Landoy’s ˙ Report and poet’s exile’], Haaretz (September 18, 1995). Trans. from Hebrew by the author. 31. Darwish and al-Qa¯sim, al-Rasa¯’il, (Haifa, 1990), 44. Originally, published in Haifa, 1989. 32. Darwish, Fı¯ Hadrat aL-Ghiya¯b, 69. ˙ ˙ 33. Ibid., 142. 34. From the poems: Ila a¯khirı¯ wa-ila¯ a¯khirihi [Until my end and its end], and Abad al-subba¯r [The Eternity of Cactus], in the collection Why Did You Leave the Horse Alone? (1995), in al-A‘ma¯l al-Jadı¯da [The New Works] (Beirut, 2004), 298 – 301, 306 –308. Trans. by the author. 35. Mahmoud Darwish, al-A‘ma¯l al-Jadı¯da, 299– 300. 36. From the poem La¯ylat al-bu¯m [The Owl’s Night], ibid., 294 – 297. Trans. by the author 37. Ibid., 335 – 338. 38. ‘The intimate bond with the land and with the pillaged landscape, which began with the longing for specific place’, writes Meron Benvenisti, ‘had come to symbolize the entire nation. The depth of the bond with home and

NOTES

39.

40.

41.

42. 43.

44. 45. 46.

47.

48.

TO PAGES

60 – 63

191

tree is what has given the transformation of the landscape from material object to abstract symbol of identity – to national asset – its power. Thus, the landscape has endowed the Palestinian with a national identity; they have not cast their identity over it – as have their enemies the Jews – but rather moulded their identity from it.’ Meron Benvenisti, Sacred Landscape: The Buried History of the Holy Land since 1948, trans. by Maxine Kaufman-Lacusta (London, 2002), 256. ‘Shajarat al-kharru¯b iyya¯ha¯ al-latı¯ dallat al-mustawtin al-ajnabı¯ al-barı¯’ ‘alayy ˙ wa-‘ala¯ ajda¯dı¯, hiya ghila¯f huwiyyatı¯ wa-hiya ayda jild ru¯hı¯ idha¯ ka¯n li-l-ru¯h ˙ ˙ ˙ jild. Huna¯k wulidt wa-huna¯k urı¯d an udfan. Wa-l-takun tilk wasiyyatı¯ al˙ wahı¯da. Shajarat al-kharru¯b. . . sallim ‘alayha¯ idha¯ ka¯nu¯ lam yajda‘u¯ha¯ ba‘d. ˙ Shajarat al-kharru¯b ikhtaba’t fı¯ jidh‘iha¯ al-‘imla¯q al-mujawwaf min al-matar ˙ wa-min al-ahl ‘indama¯ kunt al‘ab ma‘a al-saha¯lı¯ wa-l-zı¯z wa-l-zawa¯hif.’ ˙ ˙ Darwish and al-Qa¯sim, al-Rasa¯ʾil, 35. ‘Huna¯ ba¯qu¯n. . . fı¯ al-Lid wa-l-Ramla wa-l-Jalı¯l / ina¯ huna¯ ba¯qu¯n fa-l-tashrabu¯ al-bahr.’ Tawfı¯q Zayya¯d, Dı¯wa¯n Tawfı¯q Zayya¯d [The Tawfı¯q Zayya¯d Collection] ˙ (Beirut, 1970), 199. Trans. by the author. ‘Nahn fı¯ hil min al-tidhka¯r, fa-l-Karmil fı¯na¯, wa-‘ala¯ ahda¯bina¯ ‘ushb al-Jalı¯l.’ ˙ ˙ ¯ la¯ 1: 356. Originally, published in the collection Darwish, al-A‘ma¯l al-U Habı¯batı¯ Tanhad min Nawmiha¯, Beirut, 1970. ˙ ˙ Ibid., 320. ‘‘Uyu¯n al-Majdaliyya/ hafarat fı¯ jasadı¯/ shakl al-Jalı¯l. . . fursha¯tihim tarsum ˙ lawha¯t ‘an al-Lid/. . . ma¯ Ya¯fa¯ siwa¯ jild tubu¯l.’ Ibid., 321. Originally, published ˙ ˙ in the collection al-‘Asa¯fı¯r Tamu¯t fı¯ al-Jalı¯l (Beirut, 1970). ˙¯ Darwish, al-A‘ma¯l al-Ula¯ 2: 95 – 110. For example, in the poems Mughannı¯ al-dam; al-Mawt majja¯na¯; al-Qatı¯l raqam 48 in Darwish, al-A‘ma¯l al-U¯la¯ 1: 217 – 219, 222 – 223, 227 – 228. Habı¯bı¯, Suda¯siyyat al-Ayya¯m al-Sitta, al-Waqa¯’i‘ li-’Ikhtifa¯’ Sa‘ı¯d Abı¯ al-Nahs ˙ ˙ al-Mutasha¯’il [The secret life of Sa‘ı¯d, the ill-fated pessoptimist] (Cairo, 1984), 69, 70, 73 – 74. Trans. by Salma¯ Khadra¯ al-Jayyu¯sı¯. ˙ ‘Hal ta‘rif al-darb ya ibnı¯? / na‘am ya¯ abı¯:/ sharq kharrubat al-sha¯ri‘ al-‘a¯m/ darb saghı¯r yadı¯q bi-subba¯rihi/ fı¯ al-bidaya, thumma yası¯r ila¯ al-bi’r/ awsa‘ ˙ ˙ ˙ awsa‘, thumma yutillu ‘ala¯ karm ‘ammı¯ Jamı¯l/ ba¯’i‘ al-tibgh wa-l˙ halwaya¯t. . ./ hal ta‘rif al-bayt, ya¯ waladı¯?/ mithlama¯ a‘rif al-darb a‘rifhu:/ ˙ ya¯samı¯n yutawwiq bawwaba min hadı¯d/ wa-da‘a¯sa¯t du¯’ ‘ala¯ al-daraj al˙ ˙ hajarı¯. . . . Ya¯ abı¯, hal ta‘ibt/ ara¯ ‘araqa¯ fı¯ ‘uyu¯nik?/ya¯ ibnı¯ ta‘ibt . . . ˙ atahmilunı¯?/ mithlama¯ kunt tamilunı¯ ya¯ abı¯/ wa-sa-ahmil ha¯dha¯ al-hanı¯n ˙ ˙ ˙ ila¯/ awwalı¯ wa-ila¯ awwalih/ wa-sa-aqta‘u ha¯dha¯ al-tarı¯q ila¯ a¯khirı¯ . . . wa-ila¯ ˙ ˙ a¯khirih.’ Trans. From Arabic by Maxine Kaufman-Lacusta. In Meron Benvenisti, Sacred Landscape: The Buried History of the Holy Land since 1948 (London, 2002), 258. Emile Habiby, The Secret Life of Saeed: The Pessoptimist (Interlink World Fiction Series) paperback (September 28, 2001), 5 – 6. Trans. by Salma¯ Khadra¯ al˙ Jayyusı¯ and Trevor Le Gassick.

192

NOTES

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63 –66

49. Zayya¯d, Dı¯wa¯n Tawfı¯q Zayya¯d, 306– 327. 50. Samı¯h al-Qa¯sim, Risa¯la ila¯ ghuza¯t la¯ yaqra’u¯n [A message to the invaders who do ˙ not read], in al-Mathna¯, Shaykh ‘Atiyya (ed.), al-I¯qa¯’ al-Shi’rı¯ li-l-Intifa¯da¯ fı¯ ˙ ˙ Qası¯datayn (Acre, 1989), 37– 42. Trans. by the author. 51. See: Muna Abu Eid, ‘Fı¯ al-dhikra¯ al-tha¯litha li-rahı¯lihi: Mahmoud Darwish bayn ˙ al-dhikra¯ wa-l-dha¯kira’ [‘In the third anniversary of his death: Mahmoud Darwish between the anniversary and memory’], trans. by the author; al-Quds al-‘Arabı¯ (August 8, 2011), http://www.alquds.co.uk/index.asp?fname¼data \2011\08\08-08\08qpt899.htm (accessed on April 2, 2012). 52. ‘Watanı¯ haqı¯ba/ wa-haqı¯batı¯ watanı¯/. . . fı¯ al-layl afrishuha¯ sarı¯ra¯/ wa-ana¯m ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ fı¯ha¯/. . . wa-amu¯t fı¯ha¯. . . watanı¯ haqı¯ba/ min jild ahba¯bı¯/ wa-Andalus al˙ ˙ ˙ qariba./ watanı¯ ‘ala¯ katifı¯/ baqa¯ya¯ al-ard fı¯ jasad al-‘uru¯ba.’ Mahmoud Darwish, ˙ ˙ ¯ ¯ Madı¯h al- Zil al-‘Alı¯, in al-A‘ma¯l al-Ula¯ 2: 375–377. Originally, published in ˙ _ 1983. 53. Edward W. Said, Culture and Resistance, interviews by David Barsamian (South End, 2003), 159. 54. Darwish, Fı¯ Hadrat aL-Ghiya¯b, 67. ˙ ˙ 55. Darwish and al-Qa¯sim, 44. 56. ‘Waqaft ‘ala¯ Mahattat al-qita¯r, la¯ li-antazir al-qita¯r. . . bal li-a‘rif, kayf junn al˙ ˙˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ bahr wa-inkasar al-maka¯n ka-hujra khazafiyya, wa-kayf ha¯jarat al-tuyu¯r ila¯ al˙ ˙ ˙ janu¯b aw al-shama¯l. . . kuna¯ tayyibı¯n wa-sudhaja¯. Qulna¯: al-bila¯d bila¯duna¯, qalb ˙ al-kharı¯ta, lan tusa¯b bi-ayy da¯’ kha¯rijı¯. . . fa-lam ara¯ al-ghad yasriq al-ma¯dı¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ tarı¯datah wa-yarhal. . . li-jurhı¯ al-abadı¯ mahkama bi-la¯ qa¯di hiya¯diyy. Yaqu¯l lı¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ al-quda¯t al-manhu¯ku¯n min al-haqı¯qa. . .inna hawa¯dith al- turuqa¯t amr sha’i‘. ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Saqat al-qita¯r ‘an al-kharı¯ta wa-ihtaraqt bi-jamrat al-ma¯dı¯, wa-ha¯dha¯ lam yakun ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ghazwa¯.’ Mahmoud Darwish, ‘At the station of a train which fell off the map’, trans. from Arabic by Sinan Antoon. Jadaliyya (August 9, 2012). 57. ‘Utill ‘ala¯ al-mufrada¯t al-latı¯ inqaradat fı¯ lisa¯n al-‘Arab.’ Darwish, al-A‘ma¯l al˙ ˙ Jadı¯da, 279. Originally, published in the collection Lima¯dha¯ Tarakt al-Hisa¯n ˙ ˙ Wahı¯da¯ (Beirut, 1995) ˙ 58. Yazı¯d Sa¯yigh, al-Haraka al-Wataniyya al-Filastı¯niyya 1949– 1993 (Beirut, ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ 2003), 618. ¯ 59. Darwish, al-A‘mal al-Ula¯ 2: 431– 444. 60. Fı¯ Wasf Ha¯latina¯: Maqalat Mukhtara 1975– 1985 (Beirut, 1987), 4 – 13. ˙ ˙ 61. al-A‘ma¯l al-Ula¯ 2: 445– 454. 62. Idem, Fı¯ Wasf Ha¯latina¯, 97–102. ˙ ˙ 63. ‘A¯biru¯n fı¯ Kala¯m ‘A¯bir, 203– 208. 64. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Risa¯lat al-gha¯’ib ila¯ al-gha¯’ib’ [‘Letter from one absentee to another’] in Hayrat al-‘A¯’id [The Confusion of the Returnee] (Beirut, 2007), ˙ 57 – 63. Trans. by the author. 65. Ibid., 65, 69. 66. Mahmoud Darwish, The stellar streak, trans. by Yusuf Rakha, al-Ahram Weekly Online 546 (August 9– 15, 2001), http://weekly.ahram.org.eg/2001/546/cu7. htm (accessed on February 20, 2012).

NOTES

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193

67. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Tarı¯q al-‘awda hiya tarı¯q al-ma‘rifa’, in Hayrat al-‘A¯’id, ˙ ˙ ˙ 71 – 75. 68. Mahmoud Darwish, Almond Blossoms and Beyond; translated by Mohammad Shaheen (Northampton, 2010), 87– 95; Mahmoud Darwish, Kazahr al-Lawz aw Ab’ad (Beirut, 2005), 179– 197. 69. Darwish, Hayrat al-‘A¯’id, 89– 94. ˙ 70. Ibid., 95 – 100. 71. Menachem Klein, ‘Arafat k-’Aykun Politi’ [‘Arafat as a Political Icon’], ˙ ˙ Alpayim 29 (2005), 179. Trans. from Hebrew by the author. 72. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Farewell Arafat’, trans. by Peter Daniel, al-Ahram Weekly (November 18–24, 2004), http://weekly.ahram.org.eg/2004/717/sc81.htm (accessed on February 20, 2012). 73. Klein, ‘Arafat as a political icon’, 182. 74. Ibid., 182 – 183. 75. Guy Walters, ‘Did Mossad kill Arafat with radioactive poison on his toothbrush? Israeli operatives may have given Palestinian leader lethal radioactive dose’, October 16, 2013, http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article2462132/Did-Mossad-kill-Arafat-radioactive-poison-toothbrush.html. 76. Darwish, Hayrat al-‘A¯’id, 94. ˙ 77. ‘Nuhibbuh wa-nurı¯duh, li-annahu rajul ‘ala¯ miqya¯s qulu¯bina¯, al-latı¯ ta‘ijj bi˙ tana¯qud ‘awa¯tifiha¯, qulu¯bina¯ al-latı¯ la¯ tusa¯s, li-annana¯ lam nuhkam marrah ˙ ˙ ˙ wa¯hida fı¯ ta¯rı¯khina¯. . . wa-qad ikhtarna¯ ha¯kimana¯: Yasir Arafat, li-ann ba‘dana¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ yuhibbuh, wa-li-ann aktharana¯ la¯ yuhibb a‘da¯’ah. . . qad ikhtarna¯ bi-hurriyya ˙ ˙ ˙ ka¯mila an yaku¯n ha¯kimana¯ Yasir Arafat.’ Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Yasir Arafat wa-l˙ bahr’ [“Yasir Arafat and the Sea’], al-Karmel 10 (1983), 6. Trans by the author. ˙ 78. ‘Hayth yaka¯n Arafat, ka¯nat shar‘iyyat Filastı¯n. wa-hayth yaku¯n, yaku¯n al˙ ˙ ˙ mawdu¯‘.’ Darwish, ibid., 7 – 8. ˙ 79. ‘Ma¯dha¯ turı¯d? Siyada fawq al-rama¯d? Wa-anta sayyid ru¯hina¯/ Ya¯ sayyid al˙ kaynu¯na al-mutahawwila/ Ya¯ sayyid al-jamra/ ya¯ sayyid al-shu‘la/. . . ˙ Hurriyat al-takwı¯n anta/ wa-kha¯liq al-turuqa¯t anta/ wa-anta ‘aksu al˙ ˙ marhala.’ Mahmoud Darwish, Madı¯h al-Zil al-‘A¯lı¯ [In Praise of the High ˙ ˙ _ Shadow] (1983) in Mahmoud Darwish, al-Dı¯wa¯n: al-A‘ma¯l al-U¯la¯ [The Collection: First Works] Vol. 2 (Beirut, 2009), 331 – 393. trans. by Saifedean Ammous, ‘Mahmoud Darwish: Palestine’s prophet of humanism’, The Electronic Intifada (August 12, 2008), https://electronicintifada.net/content/ mahmoud-darwish-palestines-prophet-humanism/7665 (accessed on June 30, 2015). 80. ‘Hurriyyat al-takwı¯n ant/ wa-kha¯liq al-turuqa¯t ant, wa-ant ‘aks al-marhala.’ ˙ ˙ ˙ Ibid. 81. ‘‘Alayh an yahya¯, nuta¯libuh an yahya¯.’ Darwish, ‘Yasir Arafat wa-l-bahr’, 6. ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Trans. by the author. 82. ‘Urı¯d an ara¯h ramza¯, wa-nahn muhta¯ju¯n ila¯ al-rumu¯z.’ Mahmoud Darwish, ˙ ˙ ‘Wulidtu ʿala¯ dufaʿa¯t’, 51.

194

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83. ‘Fa-imma¯ an yaku¯n al-a¯n, wa-imma¯ an la¯ yaku¯n al-a¯n.’ Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Yasir Arafat wa-l-bahr’ [‘Yasir Arafat and the Sea’], al-Karmel 10 (1983), 6. ˙ Trans by the author. 84. ‘Urı¯d an ara¯h ramza¯, wa-nahn muhta¯ju¯n ila¯ al-rumu¯z. . . naftaqid ‘Arafat, ˙ ˙ la¯kinnana¯ la¯ nurı¯d Arafat a¯khar,’ ‘Wulidtu ʿala¯ dufaʿa¯t’, 51 85. ‘Min al-sa‘b an nastansikh shakhsiyya mithlah, wa- ha¯dhih al-shakhsiyya anhat ˙ ˙ ˙ dawraha¯ wa-lam ta‘ud qa¯bila li-l-isti‘a¯da.’ Ibid. 86. ‘Nahta¯j ila¯ mudı¯rı¯n jayyidı¯n.’ Ibid. ˙ 87. “Urı¯d an ara¯hu Ramza¯ li-ta¯rı¯kh sha‘b wa-tahawwula¯t sha‘b min al-ghiya¯b al˙ ka¯mil ila¯ la¯ji’ı¯n, fa-ila¯ muqa¯tilı¯n, fa-ila¯ mu’assisı¯ mashru¯‘ watanı¯ wa-thaqa¯fı¯, ˙ thumma ila¯ hudu¯r kathı¯f fı¯ kha¯ritat al-‘a¯lam.’ Ibid. ˙ ˙ ˙ 88. ‘Waqad ikhtazal al-mawdu¯‘a¯t kullaha¯ fı¯ shakhsih, sa¯r daru¯riya¯ li-haya¯tina¯ ila¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ darajat al-khatar, ka-rabb usra la¯ yurı¯d li-awla¯dih an yakbaru¯ li-alla¯ ya‘tamidu¯ ˙ ¯ ‘ala¯ anfusihim.’ Mahmoud Darwish, Hayrat al-‘A’id, 91. ˙ 89. Shaul Kimhi, Shmuel Even, and Jerrold Post, ‘Yasir Arafat – psychological profile and strategic analysis’ (Herzliya, 2001), The International Institute for Counter-Terrorism (ICT), available at: http://www.ict.org.il/ResearchPubli cations/tabid/64/Articlsid/434/currentpage/1/Default.aspx#Decision-Making (accessed on June 30, 2015). 90. ‘Balagh had al-tama¯hi al-ta¯m bayn al-shakhsı¯ wa-l-‘a¯m.’ Mahmoud Darwish, ˙ ˙ ‘Ta’akhkhar huznı¯ ‘alayhi kathı¯ra¯’, in Hayrat al-‘A¯’id, 96. ˙ ˙ 91. Klein, ‘Arafat as a political icon’, 181. 92. Yazı¯d Sa¯yigh, al-Haraka al-Wataniyya al Filastı¯niyya 1949– 1993 (Beirut, ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ 2003), 244. 93. Shaul Kimhi, Shmuel Even and Jerrold Post. 94. Elia¯s Khu¯rı¯, ‘al-Hika¯ya wa-Abwa¯b al-Ghiya¯b’ [‘The story and the gates of ˙ absence’], al-Karmel 82 (2005), 56– 57. Trans. by the author. 95. Shafı¯q al-Hu¯t, Bayn al-Watan wa-l-Manfa¯: Min Ya¯fa¯ Yabda’ al-Mishwa¯r ˙ ˙ [Between Homeland and Exile: The Journey Began in Jaffa] (Beirut, 2007), 456, 458. Trans. by the author. 96. ‘Al-kawn daftaruk al-saghı¯r/ wa-anta kha¯liquh/ fa-dawwin fı¯h firdaws al˙ bida¯ya, ya¯ abı¯.’ Mahmoud Darwish, Madı¯h al-Zil al-‘A¯lı¯ [In Praise of the High ˙ _ Shadow] (1983) in Mahmoud Darwish, al-Dı¯wa¯n: al-A‘ma¯l al-U¯la¯, [The Collection: First Works] Vol. 2 (Beirut, 2009), 389. Trans by the author. 97. ‘Ma¯ awsa’ al-thawra/ ma¯ adyaq al-rihla/ ma¯ akbar al-fikra/ ma¯ asghar al-dawla.’ ˙ ˙ ˙ Mahmoud Darwish, ibid., 392. 98. ‘La‘all Ya¯sir ‘Arafa¯t fı¯ rihlatihi al-bahriyya ila¯ tra¯blis. . . ka¯n yujarrib al˙ ˙ ˙ mawt. . . lam ukhfı¯ i‘tira¯dı¯ al-‘a¯tifı¯ wa-l-siya¯sı¯ ‘ala¯ rihlatih al-bahriyya ila¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ tara¯blis, idh ka¯n bi-wus‘ihi an yatajannab ha¯dha¯ al-istidra¯j. . . ka¯n yada‘ ˙ ˙ juthatah fı¯ ahda¯n al-ta¯ghiya, ka¯n yaqtarib minhu, ka¯n yula¯misuh, ka¯n ˙˙ ˙ yu‘a¯niquh, fa-man yajru’ ‘ala¯ safk dam Ya¯sir ‘Arafa¯t. . . ka¯n ha¯dha¯ al-liqa¯’ liqa¯’ al-qimma bayn al-intiha¯rı¯ ‘Arafa¯t wa-bayn al-qa¯til al-‘Arabı¯.’ ˙ Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Yasir Arafat wa-l-bahr’ [’Yasir Arafat and the Sea’], ˙ al-Karmel 10 (1983), 7. Trans by the author.

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99. ‘Ka¯n ‘Arafa¯t al-fasl al-atwal fı¯ haya¯tina¯, wa-ka¯n ismuh ahad asma¯’ Filastı¯n al˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ jadı¯da al-na¯hida min rama¯d al-Nakba, ila¯ jamrat al-muqa¯wama, ila¯ fikrat al˙ dawla.’ Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Ta’akhkhara huznı¯ ‘alayhi kathı¯ra¯’ [‘My sorrow ˙ for him was late in coming’] in Hayrat al-‘A¯’id [The Confusion of the Returnee] ˙ (Beirut, 2007), 95. Trans, by the author. 100. Ya¯zid Sa¯yigh, al-Haraka al-Wataniyya al-Filastı¯niyya, 642– 646. ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ 101. ‘Ka¯n kha¯rija¯ min hisa¯r Sha¯ru¯n, naja¯ min mula¯haqat al-ta¯’ira¯t wa-min ‘adasat ˙ ˙ ˙ ¯ dı¯siyya. . . naja¯ min˙ gha¯ra ‘ala al-qannas, wa-mada¯ fı¯ rihla U ¯ ghurfat al-nawm fı¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ Tu¯nis, wa-naja¯ marra ukhra¯ min suqu¯t ta’iratih fı¯ al-sahra¯’ al-Lı¯biyya, wa-naja¯ ˙˙ ˙ ˙ min a¯tha¯r harb al-khalı¯j al-u¯la¯, wa-naja¯ min su¯rat al-irha¯bı¯ wa-istabdalaha¯ bi˙ ˙ su¯rat al-ha¯’iz ‘ala¯ ja¯’izat Nu¯bel li-l-sala¯m, wa-haqqaqa nubu¯’atah al-lati ˙ ˙ ˙ sakanathu tu¯l al-‘umr; ‘a¯d ila¯ ard Filastı¯n.’ Darwish, ‘Ta’akhkhara huznı¯ ‘alayhi ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ kathı¯ra¯’, 97. 102. ‘Ya sadı¯qı¯ Ghassa¯n, lam natana¯wal ta‘a¯m al-ghidha¯’ al-akhı¯r, wa-lam ta‘tadhir ˙ ˙ ‘an ta’akhkhurik. Tana¯walt samma¯‘at al-tilifu¯n li-al‘anak ka-l-mu‘ta¯d kuff ‘an ha¯dhih al-‘a¯da al-sayyi’a, wa-la¯kinnahum qa¯lu¯ lı¯: qad infajar! La¯ ahad yahya¯ li˙ ˙ nafsih kama¯ yasha¯’. Wa-lakinnana¯ nara¯k fı¯ kul maka¯n, tahya¯ fı¯na¯ wa-lana¯, wa˙ anta la¯ tadrı¯, wa-la¯ ta‘lam.’ Mahmoud Darwish in the introduction to the collection of Kanafa¯nı¯’s writings, al-’A¯tha¯r al-Ka¯mila: al-Dira¯sa¯t al-Adabiyya (Beirut, 1998), 23 –24. 103. ‘Li-namla’ al-utur al-latı¯ tarakaha¯ Ghassa¯n hatta¯ la¯ yaku¯n wahı¯da¯ wala¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ yatı¯ma¯ wa-la¯ hazı¯na¯.’ Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Muhawalat ritha¯’ burka¯n’ ˙ ˙ [An attempt to lament a volcano], in Wada¯‘an Ayyatuha¯ al-Harb Wada¯‘an ˙ Ayyuha¯ al-Sala¯m [Goodbye, War and Peace, Oh Goodbye] (Acre, 1985), 22. Trans. by the author. 104. Ibid., 17, 22. 105. Ghassa¯n Kanafa¯nı¯, al-A‘ma¯l al-Ka¯mila: al-Dira¯sa¯t al-Adabiyya [The Complete collections: Literary Studies] (Beirut, 1998); al-’A¯tha¯r al-Ka¯mila: al-Masrahiyya¯t ˙ [The Complete collections: Drama] ( Beirut, 1993); al-’A¯tha¯r al-Ka¯mila: al-Qisas ˙ ˙ al-Qası¯ra [The Complete Collections: Short Stories] (Beirut, 1987); al-’A¯tha¯r al˙ Ka¯mila: al-Riwa¯ya¯t [The Complete Collections: Novels] (Beirut, 1994). Trans. by the author. 106. ‘Laqad ka¯nat Filastı¯n . . . mawdu¯‘ kita¯ba¯t Ghassa¯n. . . ka¯nt ayda¯ mawdu¯‘ hya¯tih ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ wa-mawdu¯‘ mma¯tih.’ Ghassa¯n Kanafa¯nı¯, al-’A¯tha¯r al-Ka¯mila: al-Qisas al˙ ˙ ˙ Qası¯ra [The Complete Collections: Short Stories] (Beirut, 1987), 25. Trans. by the ˙ author. 107. ‘Inna afdal ma¯ naf‘aluh li-takrı¯m Ghassa¯n kanafa¯nı¯ huwa an nu’ı¯d qira¯’atah ˙ min jadı¯d. . . inna ‘awdat kanafa¯nı¯ ila¯ niqa¯shina¯ hiya shakl min ashka¯l ‘awdat al-ma’na¯ ila¯ haya¯tina¯ al-latı¯ yuhaddiduha¯ al-kathı¯r al-kathı¯r min al-la¯ ma‘na¯.’ ˙ Mahmoud Darwish, ‘kalimat al-‘adad’ [‘editorial’], al-Karmel 52 (1997). Trans. by the author. 108. ‘Ta¯rı¯kh tabalwur al-nathr al-Filastı¯nı¯ al-jadı¯d yabda’ min Kanfa¯nı¯.’ Ghassa¯n ˙ Kanafa¯nı¯, al-A‘ma¯l al-Ka¯mila: al-Dira¯sa¯t al-Adabiyya [The Complete Collections: Literary Studies] (Beirut, 1998), 13. Trans. by the author.

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109. ‘Wa-baqı¯na¯ majhu¯lı¯n ila¯ an qa¯m Ghassa¯n Kanafa¯nı¯ bi-‘amaliyyatih al-fida¯’iyya al-shahı¯ra: al-i‘la¯n ‘an wuju¯d sh‘r fı¯ al-ard al-muhtalla.’ Ibid., 16. ˙ ˙ 110. ‘Fa-qaddam bi-dha¯lik awwal dira¯sa ‘Arabiyya ‘an wa¯hida min akhtar al˙ ˙ mawdu¯‘at al- Suhyu¯niyya.’ Ibid, 22. ˙ ˙ 111. ‘Al-kita¯ba al-Suhu¯niyya wa-dawriha¯ fı¯ tashkı¯l al-wa‘y wa-l-kiya¯n al˙ Suhyu¯niyya.’ Ibid. ˙ 112. Ibid. 113. ‘Al-fadı¯ha ma‘ru¯fa. . . nahnu al-ladhı¯n kunna¯ naktub ma¯ samma¯h Gassa¯n shi‘r ˙ ˙ ˙ muqa¯wama lam nakun na‘rif annana¯ naktub shi‘r muqa¯wama. . . inna ma¯ fa‘alah Gassa¯n huwa kasr al-hisa¯r al-madru¯b hawl awda¯‘ al-‘Arab fı¯ al-ard al˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ muhtalla, wa-ida¯’at kul mawdi‘ sumu¯d yuma¯risuhu abna¯’ al-sha‘b al-Filastı¯nı¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ huna¯k. . .laqad dalla Gassa¯n Kanafa¯nı¯ al-ra’y al-‘a¯m al-‘Arabı¯ ‘ala¯ adab al-ard ˙ al-muhtalla.’ Ibid., 20 – 21. ˙ 114. ‘Lam tuwa¯sil Fadwa¯ taqa¯lı¯d al-shi‘r al-Filastı¯nı¯ al-munkharit fı¯ siya¯ghat sawt ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ al-jama¯‘a al-mu‘arrada li-khatar al-iqtila¯‘. Lam tukmil sawt akhı¯ha¯ ibra¯hı¯m. . . ˙ ˙ ˙ jalasat fı¯ rukniha¯ al-aunthawı¯ wa-asghat ila¯ qalbiha¯ wa-jasadiha¯, wa-ila¯ ma¯ ˙ yukha¯tibuha¯ min shi‘r ru¯mantı¯kı¯ qa¯dim min al-‘a¯lam al-kha¯rijı¯, wajadat fı¯h ˙ ˙ sawt al-dha¯t al-ba¯hitha ‘an hurriyatiha¯ al-shakhsiyya. . . laqat ‘a¯sarat shu‘ara¯’ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ al-Nakba, wa-lam takun minhum. ‘a¯sarat shu‘ra¯’ al-hada¯tha wa-lam takun ˙ ˙ minhum. wa-‘a¯sarat shu’ara¯’ al-muqa¯wama wa-lam takun minhum.’ ˙ Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Fadwa¯’, in Hayrat al-‘A¯’id, 78 – 79. ˙ 115. Fadwa¯ Tu¯qa¯n, Rihla Jabaliya, Rihla Sa’ba: Sı¯ra Dha¯tiyyah [Mountainous Journey: ˙ ˙ hard trip: Biography] (Ramallah, 2005), 54–55. Trans. by the author. 116. ‘Hı¯n wasalt sin al – bulu¯gh. . . lafat nazarı¯ tafattuh jasadı¯. . . lam akun a‘rif shay’a¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ‘an al-hub ‘ala¯ al-itla¯q. . . wa-ja¯’ al-rabı¯‘, wa-’araft ha¯dha¯ al-shay’ al-musamma¯ ˙ ˙ hubba¯. . . ka¯nat ha¯dhihi awwal marra ahiss fı¯ha¯ bi-daqqa¯t qalbı¯. . . ka¯n ghula¯ma¯ fı¯ ˙ ˙ al-sa¯disa min al-‘umr. Wa-lam tata‘adda¯ al-hikaya hudu¯d al-mutaba‘a al˙ ˙ yawmiyya fı¯ dhiha¯bı¯ wa-iya¯bı¯. . . zahrat full rakad biha¯. . .thumma hallat al-la‘na ˙ ˙ al-latı¯ tada‘ al-niha¯ya li-kul al-ashya¯’ al-jamı¯la. Ka¯n huna¯k man yuraqib al˙ muta¯ba‘a, fa-washa¯ bi-l-amr li-akhı¯ Yu¯suf. . . asdar hukmah al-qa¯dı¯ bi-l-iqa¯ma al˙ ˙ ˙ jabriyya hatta¯ yawm mama¯tı¯. . . wa-kharaj min al-da¯r li-ta’dı¯b al-ghula¯m.’ Ibid. ˙ 117. Darwish, Fı¯ Hadrat al-Ghiya¯b, 9 – 15, 168– 185. ˙ ˙ 118. Darwish, ibid., 10. 119. ‘Wa-ana¯ ila¯ maw‘id arja’tuh akthar min marra, ma‘ mawt wa‘adtuh bi-ka’s nabı¯dh ahmar.’ Ibid. ˙ 120. ‘Fa-idra’ ‘annı¯ al-kalima¯t al-mu‘allaba al-latı¯ inqadat muddat sala¯hiyyatiha¯.’ ˙ ˙ ˙ Ibid., 167. 121. ‘Faqad kha¯nanı¯ al-kathı¯ru¯n mimman ahbabt; kha¯nu¯nı¯ ka-l-ghadı¯r wa˙ hasadu¯nı¯ ‘ala¯ jurhı¯ al-balı¯gh.’ Darwish, ibid., 166. ˙ ˙ 122. ‘A‘da¯’uk kuthr, mar’iyyu¯n wa-siriyyu¯n.’ Ibid., 168. 123. Darwish, Athar al-Fara¯sha, 181. 124. Mahmoud Darwish, A river dies of thirst: journals [Athar al-Fara¯sha Mahmoud Darwish;Yawmiyya¯t], translated from the Arabic by Catherine Cobham (New York, 2009), 93.

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125. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘The aesthetics of despair’. 126. Ha¯nı¯ al-Hasan, ‘Fı¯ al-dhikra¯ al-kha¯misa li-intila¯qat al-thawra al-Filastı¯niyya’ ˙ ˙ ˙ [‘On the fifth anniversary of the start of the Palestinian revolution’], Shu’un Filastı¯niyya, vol. 98 (1980), 23– 24. Trans. by the author. ˙ 127. Kha¯lid al-Hasan, Filastı¯niyyat 5 [Palestinian Affairs 5] (Amman 1994), 55; ˙ ˙ ‘Abqariyyat al-Fashal [A Genius of failure] (Amman, 1986), 91; Wijda¯niyya¯t [Sentiments] (Amman, 1986), 40. Trans. by the author. 128. Sasson Somekh, ‘Political, committed, and existential’, 7 – 9. 129. Yitzhak La’or, ‘Between the Landau Report and the poet’s exile’. ˙ 130. Actually, it is ‘I tighten your hand’ (ashuddu ‘ala¯ aya¯dı¯kum) and not ‘kiss’ (abu¯s). 131. Ibid. 132. Hayim Hanegbi, ‘Kowah ha-shirah 1’ [‘Power of poetry 1’], Yediot Acharonot, 7 ˙ Days (May 29, 1987), 74. Trans. from Hebrew by the author. 133. Maya Jaggi, ‘Poet of the Arab World: Mahmoud Darwish’, The Guardian (June 8, 2002), http://phrconline.org/read.php?ArtID¼658 (accessed on September 16, 2014). 134. ‘Abd al-Fatta¯h (December 12, 2007), interviewed by the author. ˙ 135. Rachel Mizrahi, ‘Marcel Khalı¯fa’ [in Hebrew], in Ha-Maavak ha-mizrahi (April 6, 2005), http://shaultweig.wordpress.com/category/%D7%9B%D7% 9C%D7%9C%D7%99/ (accessed on September 16, 2011). 136. Carolyn Forche´, ‘A poet among us’, Poetry International 13/14 (Special Double Issue, 2009), http://poetryinternational.sdsu.edu/13_14.htm (accessed on February 20, 2012). 137. Merav Yudolevitch, ‘Ha-dma‘ut shelanu ba-shirim shelo’ [‘Our tears in his poems’], Ynet (July 16, 2007), trans. from Hebrew by the Author. http://www. ynet.co.il/Ext/Comp/ArticleLayout/CdaArticlePrintPreview/1,2506,L3426177,00.html (accessed on January 16, 2012). 138. ‘Bi-rahı¯lih rahalat za¯hirat shu‘ara¯’ yamla’u¯n mala¯‘ib kurat al-qadam bi-l-mu‘jabı¯n ˙ ˙ ˙ wa-l-mu‘jaba¯t, lays fı¯ al-watan al-‘Arabi wa-innama¯ fı¯ al-mana¯fı¯ al-U¯ru¯biyya. ˙ ‘Abd al-Ba¯rı¯ ‘Atwa¯n, ‘Mahmoud Darwish al-ladhı¯ ‘araft’ [‘Mahmoud Darwish, ˙ who I knew’] (August 11, 2008), http://www.mahmouddarwish.ps/atemplate. php?id¼163 (accessed on February 16, 2012). Trans. by the author. 139. ‘Abd al-Fatta¯h, Ziya¯d, ‘Mahmoud Darwish’, interviewed by Muna Abu Eid ˙ (December 12, 2007). 140. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Baya¯n al-Karmel: nalummu futa¯t al-du¯’’ [‘Al-Karmel statement: collecting gestures of light’], al-Karmel 1 (1981), 2 – 4. Trans. by the author. 141. ‘Sajjil ana¯ ‘Arabı¯.’, ‘hadha¯rı¯ min ju¯‘ı¯ wa-min ghadabi.’ Mahmoud Darwish, al˙¯ ˙ Dı¯wa¯n; al-A’ma¯l al-U la¯ 1: 83– 84. Originally, published in Awra¯q al-Zaytu¯n (Beirut, 1964). 142. ‘Ukhruju¯ min ardina¯. . . min jurhina¯. . . wa -ukhruju¯ min dhikraya¯t al˙ ˙ dha¯kira.’ Mahmoud Darwish, ‘A¯biru¯n fı¯ Kala¯m ‘A¯bir, 53. 143. ‘Ha¯sir hisa¯rak la¯ mafarru/ saqatat dhira¯‘uk fa-l-taqitha¯/ wa-idrib ‘aduwwak, la¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ mafarru/ wa saqatt qurbik, fa-iltaqitnı¯ wadrib ‘aduwwak bı¯, fa-anta al-a¯n hurr/ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙

198

144.

145.

146.

147.

148.

149. 150. 151.

152. 153.

154.

NOTES TO PAGES 84 –88 hurr/ wa hurr/ qatla¯k aw jarha¯k fı¯k dhakhı¯ra.’ Originally, published in the ˙ ˙ ˙ collection Madı¯h al-Zil al-‘A¯lı¯ (Beirut, 1983). Darwish, al-A‘ma¯l al-U¯la¯ 2: ˙ _ 348 – 349. ‘Ya¯ gharı¯b / ‘alliq sila¯hak fawq nakhlatina¯, li’azra‘ hintatı¯/ fı¯ haql Kan‘a¯n al˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ muqaddas.’ Originally, published in the collection Ahad ‘Ashar Kawkaba¯ ‘Ala¯ ˙ al-Mashhad al-Andalusı¯ (Beirut, 1992). In Darwish, al-A‘ma¯l al-U¯la¯ 3: 315. ‘Ya Anna¯t,/ jaffat miya¯h al-bi’r ba‘dak/ jaffat al-aghwa¯r, wa-l-anha¯r jaffat ba‘d mawtik/. . . inkasarna¯ ka-l-siya¯j ‘ala¯ ghiyabik, jaffat al-raghaba¯t fı¯na¯/ wa-l-salat ˙ takallasat/ la¯ shay’ yahya¯ ba‘d mawtik/. . . fa-l-tarji‘ı¯, wa-l-tarji‘ı¯ ard al-haqı¯qa ˙ ˙ ˙ wa-l-kina¯ya/ ard Kan‘a¯n al-bida¯ya.’ Originally, published in Lima¯dha¯ Tarakt ˙ al-Hisa¯n Wahı¯da¯ (Beirut, 1995). In Darwish, al-A‘ma¯l al-Jadı¯da (Beirut, ˙ ˙ ˙ 2004), 353 – 356. Mahmoud Darwish, In the Presence of Absence (New York, 2011), 20 – 21. Trans. from Arabic by Sinan Antoon. Originally published in Mahmoud Darwish, Fı¯ Hadrat al-Ghiya¯b (Beirut, 2006), 36–38. ˙ ˙ Fa¯ru¯q Mawa¯sı¯, ‘Tajalliya¯t al-kan‘a¯niyya wa-mafhu¯miha¯ lida¯ ’Izz al-Dı¯n alMana¯sra’ [‘Manifestations of the Canaanite and concept of the ‘Izz al-Din al˙ Mana¯sra’], Dı¯wan al-‘Arab (February 18, 2009), 10, 19, http://www.di ˙ wanalarab.com/spip.php?article17261 (accessed on June 30, 2011). Eli Eshed, ‘B-re’shit haytah Filastin’ [‘In the beginning there was Filastin’], ˙ Ha-Ayal Ha-Qoreh, Journal of Culture and Current Events (October 29, 2000), http://www.haayal.co.il/story_344 (accessed on June 16, 2011). Trans. from Hebrew by the author. Ibid. Edward Said, The Question of Palestine (New York, 1992), 10 –11. Yifrah Zilberman, Mitus ha-Motsa ha-Kna‘ani Shel ha-Hivrah ha-‘Arvit [The ˙ Myth of the Canaanite Origin of Palestinian Society], trans. from Hebrew by the author (Jerusalem, 1993), 6. Eshed, ibid. ‘Lan naku¯n Filastı¯niyyı¯n illa¯ idha¯ kunna¯ ‘Araba¯. Wa-lan naku¯n ‘Araba¯ illa¯ idha¯ ˙ kunna¯ Filastı¯niyı¯n, fa-ha¯dhihi al-huwiyya musta‘siya ‘ala¯ al-mura¯ja‘a wa al˙ ˙ tafa¯wud, siwa¯’ qa¯m al-sharq al-awsat al-jadı¯d aw lam yaqum.’ Darwish, Hayrat ˙ ˙ ˙ ¯ al-‘A’id, 99. ‘Hatta¯ law lam nakun kan‘a¯niyı¯n fa-lays min haq al-mu’arrikhı¯n an yaslakhu¯ ˙ ˙ ‘an ha¯dhihi al-ard ismaha¯ wa-an yushakkiku¯ bi-huwiyyat asha¯biha¯ al-asliyı¯n. ˙ ˙˙ ˙ Wa-li’ann al-isra¯f fı¯ al-bahth ‘an man sabaq man fı¯ bina¯’ al-ustu¯ra, wa-man ˙ ˙ katab ‘ala¯ al-hajar qabl al-a¯khar, la¯ yakhuss siwa¯ ‘ulma¯’ al-a¯tha¯r al-‘ajizı¯n ‘an ˙ ˙˙ al-itya¯n bi-l-burha¯n, fa-inn haqqana¯ fı¯ watanina¯ la¯ yansa¯‘ ila¯ sija¯l al-bra¯hı¯n al˙ ˙ ˙ mutraf, idh annana¯ lam nu¯lad fı¯ ghayr ha¯dha¯ al-maka¯n, wa-lam nada‘ ‘ala¯ al˙ waraq mashru¯‘a¯ li-bina’ umma tabhath ‘an ard kha¯liya min al-sukka¯n.’ ˙ ˙ Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Ana¯ fı¯ al-Karmel la¯ atamanna¯ niha¯ya ahla¯ wa-ajmal wa˙ akmal’ [‘I am in Carmel, I do not wish for a better end’], al-Jabha.org (July 17, 2007), http://www.aljabha.org/?i¼28169 (accessed on February 26, 2012). Trans. by the author.

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89 –93

199

155. ‘Al-‘awda ila¯ al-kan‘a¯niyya, la¯ min ajl al-qawl innana¯ kan‘a¯niyu¯n aw ghayr kan‘a¯niyı¯n. La¯ yajib an naku¯n kan‘a¯niyı¯n kay yaku¯n lana¯ haq fı¯ Filastı¯n. Hiya ˙ ˙ min ajl al-tadlı¯l ‘ala¯ ‘umq irtiba¯tı¯ al-tarı¯khı¯ bi-ha¯dha¯ al-maka¯n.’ ‘Mahmoud ˙ ˙ Darwish fı¯ al-siya¯sa wa-l-shi’r wa-tajribat al-mawt’ [‘Darwish in politics, poetry and death experience’], interview by Giselle Khuri, Majallat al-Dira¯sa¯t al-Filastı¯niyya, 48 (2001), 18–19. Trans. by the author. ˙ 156. ‘Kul al-shu‘u¯b tazawwajat ummı¯ wa-ummı¯ lam takun illa¯ ummı¯.’ In Darwish, al-Dı¯wa¯n: al-A‘ma¯l al-U¯la¯ 2 (Beirut, 2009): 385. Originally, published in the collection, Madı¯h al-Zil al-‘A¯lı¯ (Beirut, 1983). ˙ _ 157. ‘Wulidt qurb al-bahr min umm Filastı¯niyya/ wa-abb Arami. Wa- min umm ˙ ˙ Filastı¯niyya wa-abb Mu’a¯bı¯, min umm Filastı¯niyya wa-abb A¯shurı¯, wa- min ˙ ˙ umm Filastı¯niyya wa-abb ‘Auru¯bı¯.’ Ibid., 386. ˙ 158. Ipek Azime Celik, ‘Alternative history,expanding Identity: myth reconsidered in Mahmoud Darwish’s poetry,’ in Hala Khamis Nassar and Najat Rahman (eds), Mahmoud Darwish Exile’s Poet: Critical Essays (Northampton, Mass, c. 2008), 173 – 191. 159. Ipek Azime Celik, ibid., 191. 160. Muna Abu eid, ‘Bayn al-dawla al-wa¯hida wa-hal al-dawlatayn’ [‘Between the ˙ ˙ one and two state solution’], trans. by the author, al-Quds al-‘Arabı¯ (August 10, 2012), http://www.alquds.co.uk/index.asp?fname¼today%5C10qpt898. htm&arc ¼ data%5C2012%5C08%5C08-10%5C10qpt898.htm (accessed on September 2, 2012). 161. ‘ Lam yatasa¯’al al-Filastı¯niyyu¯n abada¯ ma¯ huwa watanuhum, wa-la¯kinnahum ˙ ˙ tasa¯’alu ma¯ hiya dawlatuhum.’ Karmel, 1988, 27: 7. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Hajar al-wa‘y’ [‘The stone of awareness’] (Karmel, 1988, 27: 7), trans. by the ˙ author. 162. A River Dies of Thirst: Journals, trans. by Catherine Cobham (Brooklyn, NY, 2009), 58. 163. ‘A‘taqid ann min haq al-Filastı¯niyyı¯n an yabdhilu¯ kul al-tadhiya¯t min ajl ˙ ˙ ˙˙ tahqı¯q hulum bası¯t jida¯ huwa dawla Filastı¯niyya. Wa-ha¯dhihi al dawla al˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Filastı¯niyya kama¯ huwa matru¯h laysa akthar min 22% min ard Filastı¯n al˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ta¯rı¯khiyya. . . wa-la¯kinnaha¯ tulabbı¯ ‘atash al-Filastı¯niyyı¯n ila¯ huwiyya tash‘ur ˙ ˙ bi-l-‘atash al-shadı¯d. al-Filastı¯nı¯ yahta¯j ila¯ an yunjiz mashru¯‘ dawla ma¯, ˙ ˙ ˙ mahma¯ ka¯nat saghı¯ra, min ajl an yahtall maka¯natah bayn al-umam, wa-min ajl ˙ ˙ an yahfaz kara¯matah wa-huwiyyatah wa-haqqah fı¯ al-‘aysh wa-fı¯ al-safar.’ ˙ ˙ ˙ Mahmoud Darwish, ‘kunt uqa¯wim al-hisa¯r shi‘riyya¯’ [‘I was facing the siege ˙ ˙ poetically’’]. Interviewed by ‘Abd al-Samad bin Sharı¯f (March 22, 2005). ˙ Available at: http://www.minfo.gov.ps/Docs/dialogs.asp.

Chapter 4

Speaking Truth to Power

1. ‘La dawr lı¯ fı¯ haya¯tı¯ / siwa¯ annanı¯ ‘indama¯ ‘allamatnı¯ tara¯tı¯laha¯ / qult: hal ˙ min mazı¯d? / wa-awqadt qindı¯laha¯, thumma ha¯walt ta‘dı¯laha¯’. Mahmoud ˙ Darwish, La¯‘ib al-nard [Dice player] in the collection La¯ Uriı¯du li-Ha¯dhı¯

200

2. 3. 4. 5.

6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14.

15. 16. 17.

18. 19. 20. 21.

22.

23.

NOTES

TO PAGES

93 – 98

al-Qası¯da An Tantahı¯ [I Don’t Want This Poem to Expire] (Beirut, 2009), 41. ˙ Trans. by the Author. Ibid. Fadwa¯ Tu¯qa¯n, al-Rihla al-As‘ab, 177– 178. ˙ ˙ ˙ Sa‘di Yu¯suf, ‘Qamar Baghda¯d al-laymu¯nı¯’ [‘The yellow moon of Baghdad’], alKarmel 90 (2009), 231– 232. Trans. by the Author. ‘Izz al-Dı¯na al-Mana¯sra, ‘al-Shi‘r wa-l-sulta’ [‘Poetry and power’], al-Jazeera ˙ ˙ Net (2004), available at http://www.aljazeera.net/nr/exeres/f83812fd-13bf4b48-99ac-4d9c4003de40.htm (accessed on June 16, 2015). Trans. by the author. Ziya¯d ‘Abd al-Fatta¯h, interviewed by the author (December 12, 2007). ˙ Ibid. Darwish, Fı¯ Hadrat al-Ghiya¯b, 67. ˙ ˙ Mahmoud Darwish, Jida¯riyya [Mural], 2000. In the collection, al-A‘ma¯l alJadı¯da (Bierut, 2004), 521. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘A love story between an Arab poet and his land’, 74. Ibid. Mahmoud Darwish, Memory for Forgetfulness, Introduction and trans. from Arabic by Ibrahim Muhawi (California 1995), 157. Darwish, ‘Wulidtu ʿala¯ dufa‘a¯t’, 54. ‘Abd al-Qa¯dı¯r Ya¯sı¯n, ‘Qiya¯da¯tuna¯ al-siya¯siyya wa-l–thaqa¯fiyya’ [‘Our political and cultural leaders’], Dı¯wa¯n al-‘Arab (November 7, 2007), http://www. Deewanalarab.com/spip.php?article8115 (accessed on February 20, 2012). Trans. by the author. Hayim Hanegbi, ‘Power of poetry 1’, 74– 75. ˙ Ibid., 75. [No Author], ‘al-Itiha¯da¯t wa-l-tanzı¯ma¯t al-sha‘biyya: al-fasl al-Ra¯bi‘’ [‘Unions ˙ and popular organizations: Chapter IV’], Palvoice. Available at: http://www. wafainfo.ps/atemplate.aspx?id¼3742 (accessed on February 20, 2012). Trans. by the author. ‘Abd al-Fatta¯h interviewed by the author (December 12, 2007). ˙ [No Author], ‘al-Ittiha¯da¯t wa-l-tanzı¯ma¯t al-sha‘biyya’. ˙ ˙ ‘Abd al-Fatta¯h (December 12, 2007). ˙ ‘Inna al-su’a¯l al-matru¯h ‘ala¯ wa‘ı¯ al-mu‘taridı¯n, wa-ladhı¯ yuhı¯lu¯nah ila¯ al˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ wa‘i al-‘a¯m, laysa huwa al-su’a¯l al-naqa¯bı¯ aw al-thaqa¯fı¯, wa-la¯kinnah su’a¯l ba‘d al-huka¯m al-‘Arab al-muta‘alliq bi kul shar‘iyyat munazzamat al-tahrı¯r ˙ ˙˙ ˙ ˙ al-Filastı¯niyya.’ In Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Lughat hiwa¯r am lughat ightiya¯l?’ ˙ ˙ [Language of dialogue, or language of assassination?], al-Karmel 12 (1984), 7. Trans. by the author. Eli Reches, Ben Kumunizm li-L’omiyut ‘Arvit: Rakah vi-ha-Mi‘ut ha-‘Arvi bi˙ _ ˙ _ Yisra’el 1965-1973 [Between Communism and Arab Nationality; Rakah and the ˙ Arab Minority in Israel 1973–1965] (Tel Aviv, 1986), 9. Trans. from Hebrew by the author. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘A love story between an Arab poet and his land’, 74.

NOTES

TO PAGES

98 –100

201

24. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘al-Zama¯n: Bayru¯t. al-maka¯n: ’A¯b’, al-Karmel 21/22 (1986), 4– 96. 25. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Dha¯kira li-l-Nisya¯n: al-Zama¯n: Bayru¯t. al-Maka¯n: A¯b’ [‘Time: Beirut, place: August’], Acre, 1987. Trans. by the author. 26. ‘An nusa¯him fı¯ ta’sı¯s Filastı¯n al-ru’ya¯.’ Darwish, ‘Baya¯n al-Karmel; Nalumm ˙ futa¯t al-du’’. al-Karmel 1 (1981), 4. 27. ‘An yanhat trı¯qa¯ fı¯ hajar al-tarı¯q ila¯ al-jabal.’ Darwish, ibid. ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ 28. Fı¯ Hadrat al-Ghiya¯b, 69, 142, 162; Darwish and al-Qa¯sim, 46. ˙ ˙ 29. ‘T‘rif tama¯ma¯ ma¯dha¯ tarakt wara¯’ak, Ma¯diya¯ ghayr mudawwan fı¯ nashı¯d ‘an ˙ Tirwa¯diyı¯n judud la¯ yurwa¯ ‘anhum illa¯ ma¯ yaqu¯l a‘da¯’uhum ‘anhum’. Fı¯ ˙ Hadrat al-Ghiya¯b, 67. ˙ ˙ 30. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘‘An al-shi’r’ [‘On poetry’] in al-Dı¯wa¯n: al-A‘ma¯l al-U¯la¯, [The Collection: First Works] Vol. 1 (Beirut, 2009), 63. Originally, published in Awra¯q al-Zaytu¯n [The Olive Leaves] (Beirut, 1964). Trans. by the author. 31. ‘Khasirt huluma¯ jamı¯la¯ [. . .] wa-ma khasirt al-sabı¯la¯’. In Mahmoud Darwish, ˙ ¯ la¯, Vol. 1 (Beirut 2009), 191. Originally, published in the in al-A‘ma¯l al-U collection A¯khir al-Layl [End of Night], Beirut, 1967. Trans. by the author. 32. ‘Qasa¯’iduna¯ bi-la¯ lawn/ bi-la¯ ta‘m, bi-la¯ sawt/ ’idha¯ lam tahmil al-misba¯h min ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ bayt ila¯ bayt.’ Darwish, ‘‘An al-shi’r’ [‘On poetry’] al- A‘ma¯l al-U¯la¯ 1 (Beirut, 2009), 63. Originally, published in the collection Awra¯q al-Zaytu¯n [The Olive Leaves] (Beirut, 1964). 33. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘kalimat al-‘adad’ [‘editorial’], al-Karmel 50 (1997). Trans. by the author. 34. [No Author], Mahmoud Darwish al-Mukhtalif al-Haqı¯qı¯; Dira¯sa¯t wa-Shaha¯da¯t ˙ [Mahmoud Darwish, Really Different: Studies and Certificates] (Amman, 1999), 349; Mahmoud Darwish, Fı¯ Hadrat al-Ghiya¯b (Beirut, 2006), 34, 67, 92; ˙ ˙ Mahmoud Darwish, Hayrat al-‘A¯’id, 33. ˙ 35. ’Filastı¯n hiya al-Andalus al-qa¯bila li-l-isti‘a¯da.’ Darwish and al-Qa¯sim, 46. ˙ 36. [No Author], ‘al-Niza¯m al-siya¯sı¯ li-Munazzamat al-Tahrı¯r al-Filastı¯niyya’, ˙ ˙˙ ˙ ˙ Palestine National Information Centre, http://www.pnic.gov.ps/arabic/gover/plo. html (accessed on February 20, 2012). 37. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Mahmoud Darwish fı¯ al-siya¯sa wa-l-shi’r wa-tajribat al-mawt’, interview by Giselle Khuri. Majallat al-Dira¯sa¯t al-Filastı¯niyya, ˙ 48 (2001): 10. The reference to himself as ‘minister without portfolio’ was in an interview to the Lebanese TV Network, LBC, on July 15, 2001. 38. ‘Abd al-Fatta¯h, interviewed by the author (December 12, 2007); ‘Abdulla¯h al˙ Hu¯ra¯nı¯, interviewed by the author (August 10, 2007). ˙ 39. Ibid. 40. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Wathı¯qat i‘la¯n al-istiqla¯l al-Filastı¯nı¯’ [‘Document of ˙ Palestinian Declaration of Independence’], Shu’u¯n Filastı¯niyya 188, 1988, 3–5. ˙ Trans. by the author. 41. ‘Abd al-Fatta¯h interviewed by the author (December 12, 2007). ˙ 42. al-Hu¯ra¯nı¯, interviewed by the author (August 10, 2007). ˙ 43. Ibid.

202 44. 45. 46. 47.

48. 49. 50.

51.

52.

53.

NOTES

TO PAGES

101 –104

Said, Representations, 121. Ibid., xii. Ibid., xii – xiv. ‘Mura¯ji‘u¯ al-ta¯rı¯kh wa-tasaqut Adonı¯s, Edward Said, wa-Mahmoud Darwish’ ˙ ˙ [‘History review, and the fall of Adonis, Edward Said, and Mahmoud Darwish’], Freearabvoice (2001), http://www.freearabvoice.org/arabi/kuttab/alMuarakhuna/ muraja3uAlTarikh.htm (accessed on September 16, 2008). Trans. by the author. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Mahmoud Darwish fı¯ al-siya¯sa wa-l-shi’r wa-tajribat almawt’, interview by Giselle Khuri, 69. ‘Abd al-Fatta¯h, interviewed by the author (December 12, 2007). ˙ ‘Innana¯ nuwaddi‘ bishakl fawdawı¯ marhala ta¯rı¯khiyya wa-nadkhul marhala ˙ ˙ ˙ ukhra¯ lam nu‘id laha¯ ‘udatuna¯ ba‘d. . .ha¯dhih al-munazzama qad intahat, wa˙˙ ‘alaykum an ta‘tarifu¯ bi-dha¯lik. . . . Inna dawr al-munazza¯ma al-ba¯qı¯ huwa al˙˙ tawqı¯‘ ‘ala¯ al-ittifa¯q ma‘ Isra’ı¯l. . . wa- fawr al-tawqı¯‘ sa-tatahawwal ila¯ shay’ a¯khar. . . nahn muqbilu¯n ‘ala¯ qara¯r khat¯ır yata‘allaq bi-ittifa¯q washı¯k m‘ al˙ ˙ huku¯ma al-Isra’ı¯liyya hawl Ghazza wa-Ariha¯, fa-mata¯ sa-yatimm bahth hadha¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ al-amr/ mata¯?. . . hal ha¯dhih al-safqa hiya juz’ min ittifa¯q sala¯m sha¯mil. . .? Man ˙ sa-yudı¯r ha¯dha¯ al-hukm al-dha¯tı¯ al-tajrı¯bı¯ fı¯ Ghazza wa-Ariha¯? Ma¯ hiya hudu¯d ˙ ˙ ˙ al-marhala al-intiqa¯liyya al-tajrı¯biyya?. . . wa-ma¯dha¯ law fashilat?. . . ma¯ hiya ˙ ashka¯l al-ta‘bı¯r al-watanı¯ al-masmu¯h bi-ha¯ fı¯ muqa¯wamat al-ihtila¯l al˙ ˙ ˙ Isra¯’ı¯lı¯. . . .? inna mithl ha¯dhih al-as’ila tadfa‘unı¯ ila¯ al-i‘tiqa¯d bi’annana¯ muqbilu¯n ‘ala¯ muja¯jafa ta¯rı¯khiyya, arju¯ laha¯ an tanjah, wa-akhsha¯ ‘alayha¯ min ˙ al-fashal wa-min a¯tha¯riha¯ al-wataniyya al-mudammira, wa-qad tu’addı¯ ila¯ ˙ ka¯ritha. Inna damı¯rı¯ la¯ yahtamil al-musha¯raka fi ha¯dha¯ al-qara¯r al-mugha¯mir ma ˙ ˙ dumt ghayr qadir ‘ala¯ al-ija¯ba ‘an al-as’ila al-matru¯ha.’ Kha¯lid al-Hasan, Hawl ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Ittifa¯q Gaza-Arı¯ha¯ Awwala¯: Watha¯’iq wa- Dira¯sa¯t [On the Gaza-Jericho Agreement ˙ First: Documents and Studies] (Amman, 1994), 329–331. Trans. by the author. ‘Ay da¯hiya qa¯nu¯nı¯ aw lughawı¯ yastatı¯‘ sawgh mu‘a¯hadat sala¯m wa-husn jiwa¯r ˙ ˙ bayn qasr wa-ku¯kh, bayn ha¯ris wa-ası¯r?’ Darwish, Fı¯ Hadrat al-Ghiya¯b (Beirut, ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ 2006), 146. ‘Inna Filastı¯n ma¯ za¯lat huna¯k: fı¯ al-qada¯ya¯ al-mu‘allaqa ‘ala¯ mufa¯wada¯t al-wad‘ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ al-niha¯’ı¯, hawl al-Quds wa-haq al-‘awda wa-ghayriha¯ min al-qada¯ya¯ al-sha¯’ika. ˙ ˙ ˙ Wa-l-tarı¯q ila¯ huna¯k la¯ yamurr min Oslo, bal min marji‘iyya¯t lam ta‘ud sa¯liha ˙ ˙ ˙ tama¯ma¯ fı¯ ‘a¯lam al-qutb al-wa¯hid, al-ladhı¯ rafa‘ al-dawla al-Isra’ı¯liyya ila¯ ˙ ˙ martabat al-muqaddas al-ladhı¯ yulhim al-bayt al-abyad bi-t‘a¯limih al˙ sama¯wiyya! Wa [ka¯n] ya‘rif ayda¯ anna al-mara¯sı¯m al-ri’a¯siyya wa-bita¯qa¯t al˙ ˙ huwiyya wa-jawa¯za¯t al-safar la¯ ta‘nı¯, bi-l-nisba ila¯ al-mas’u¯lı¯n al-Isra¯’ı¯liyyı¯n illa¯ daru¯rat ilha¯’al-mahru¯mı¯n min al-istiqla¯l bi-wajaba¯t ramziyya sarı¯‘a la¯ ˙ ˙ tushbi‘ al-huwiyya al-ja¯’i‘a. wa-ya‘rif ayda¯.. annahu qad intaqal min al-manfa¯ ˙ ila¯ sajn mu’aththath bi-suwar al-ashya¯’ la¯ bi-haqı¯qatiha¯, wa-annah fı¯ ha¯ja ila¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ idhn bi-l-intiqa¯l min sijn fı¯ Ramallah ila¯ sijn fı¯ Ghazza. Wa-la¯ ba’s min sijja¯d ahmar wa-nashı¯d.’ Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Farewell Arafat’, trans. by Peter ˙ Daniel, al-Ahram Weekly (November 18– 24, 2004). al-Na¯bulsı¯, Akalahu al-Dhi’b, 377.

NOTES

TO PAGES

104 –107

203

54. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘My opposition to the term Accord’, interview by Muna Naim, Middle East Journal 19 (1995), 18; Bruce Madi-Weitzman, ’Intiliktu’alim Falastinim vi-Yisra’elim be-Tsel Oslo [Palestinian and Israeli ˙ _˙ ˙ _ Intellectuals in the Shadow of Oslo and the al-Aqsa Intifada] (Tel Aviv, 2003), 31. Trans. from Hebrew by the author. 55. al-Hu¯ra¯nı¯, interviewed by the author (August 10, 2007). ˙ 56. [No Author], ‘The Palestine National Charter’, Jewish Virtual Library (July 17, 1968), available at: http://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/Peace/ PLO_Covenant.html (accessed on July 2, 2015). 57. ‘La‘all al-muha¯kama al-latı¯ tastahiqquha¯ althawra hiya annaha¯ ka¯nat kha¯liya, ˙ ˙ wa-ma¯ za¯lat kha¯liya, min taqa¯lı¯d muhakamat a‘da¯’ al-qiya¯da ‘ala¯ jara¯’imihim ˙ ˙ al-mudawwiya, wa-iqtasarat al-muha¯kama ‘ala¯ tatabbu‘ jina¯ya¯t akhla¯qiyya ˙ ˙ yartakibuha¯ shuhada¯’ al-mustaqbal khila¯l bahthihim ‘an mut‘a ‘a¯bira fı¯ sija¯rat ˙ hashı¯sh aw imra’a taghwı¯, qabl an yatahawwalu¯ ila¯ manassa li-l-khita¯ba.’ ˙ ˙ ˙˙ Mahmoud Darwish, Dha¯kira Li-l-Nisya¯n (al-Quds, 1990), 27. Originally published in al-Karmel, 21–22 (1986): 4 – 96. Then published in Acre, 1987. 58. ‘Wajad fı¯ ha¯dhih al-harb lu‘batah al-da¯’i‘a. ihda¯ yadayh ‘ala¯ al-ha¯tif yasrukh bi˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ma¯ ya‘rif wa-bi-ma¯ la ya‘rif.’ Mahmoud Darwish, ibid., 125 – 126. 59. Barry Rubin and Judith Colp Rubin, Yasir Arafat: Biografyah Politit [Yasir ˙ Arafat: A Political Biography] (Tel Aviv, 2006), 123. Trans. from Hebrew by the author. 60. According to PLO’s member who asked not to mention his name, Abu¯ Sharı¯f even received $400,000 from Mu‘ammar Gaddafi to attribute the Lockerbie Affair (1988) to his previous organization, the PFLP. 61. Shafı¯q al-Hu¯t, Bayn al-Watan wa-l-Manfa¯: Min Ya¯fa¯ Yabda’ al-Mishwa¯r, 462. ˙ ˙ 62. ‘Abd al-Fatta¯h, interviewed by the author (December 12, 2007). ˙ 63. For example, see: Shafı¯q al-Hu¯t, Bayn al-Watan wa-l-Manfa¯, 462; Ya¯zı¯d ˙ ˙ Sa¯yigh, al-Haraka al-Wataniyya al-Filastı¯niyya 1949– 1993, 641 – 646, 783 – ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ 784, 823, 915. 64. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Rihla fı¯ ‘a¯lam Mahmoud Darwish’’ [‘A journey inside the ˙ world of Mahmoud Darwish’], interview by Nabı¯l ‘Amr, Palestine TV (Ramallah, July 16 and July 23, 2007). Available at: https://www.youtube. com/watch?v¼CrqjvxiB3_4, parts 1-18. Trans. by the author. 65. Darwish, al-A‘ma¯l al U¯la¯ 2, 372. 66. ‘Lam atawaqqa‘ ann al-Isra’ı¯liyyı¯n sa-yahtallu¯n Bayru¯t, wa-lam ajid ma‘na¯ li˙ khuru¯jı¯ fı¯ al-sufun ma‘ al-mqa¯tilı¯n. wa-la¯kin fı¯ saba¯h dha¯t yawm, wa-kunt ˙ ˙ askun fı¯ mantiqat al-Hamra¯’, kharajt li-ashtarı¯ khubza¯, wa-idha¯ bı¯ usha¯hid ˙ ˙ dabba¯ba Isra¯’ı¯liyya dakhma. Dakhalat Isra¯’ı¯l Bayru¯t qabl al-i‘la¯n ‘an al-dukhu¯l. ˙ Hı¯nadha¯k wajadt nafsı¯ wahı¯da¯ atajawwal fı¯ al-shawari‘ wa-la¯ ara¯ siwa al˙ ˙ dabba¯ba¯t wa-l-junu¯d al-Isra¯’ı¯liyyı¯n wa-rija¯la¯ mulaththamı¯n. Qadayt fi‘la¯ ayya¯ma¯ ˙ sa‘ba wa-lam a‘rif ayn ana¯m. . . kunt ana¯m kha¯rij al-bayt fı¯ mat‘am. . . ila¯ an ˙ ˙ hasalat al-ka¯ritha al-kubra¯, wa-hiya majzarat Sabra¯ wa-Shatı¯la¯. ‘ind dha¯k ˙ ˙ ˙ tayaqqant min ann baqa¯’ı¯ huna¯k darb min al-‘abath wa-l-taysh. Rattabt al-amr ˙ ˙ ma‘ al-safı¯r al-Lı¯bı¯ fı¯ Bayru¯t hinadha¯k, fa-huwa ka¯n fı¯ maqdu¯rih an ya’khudhanı¯ ˙

204

67.

68. 69. 70.

71.

72. 73. 74. 75. 76.

77. 78. 79.

NOTES

TO PAGES

107 –110

min mantiqat al-Ashrafiyya, al-latı¯ ka¯nt al-Kta’ib tusaytir ‘alayha¯, ila¯ Surya¯.’ ˙ ˙ Darwish, ‘Wulidtu ‘ala¯ dufa‘a¯t’, 61–62. ‘Wa-la¯kinnana¯ akhta’na¯ fı¯ Bayru¯t ‘indama¯ ansha’na¯ ma¯ yushbih al-dawla ˙ da¯khil al-dawla. . . kunt akhjal min al-Lubnaniyyı¯n iza¯’ al-hawa¯jiz al-latı¯ ka¯n ˙ yuqı¯muha¯ al-Filastı¯niyyu¯n fı¯ al-ard al-Lubna¯niyya,. . . tab‘a¯ li-kul ha¯dhih al˙ ˙ ˙ umu¯r tafsı¯ra¯t wa-tabrı¯ra¯t. Wa-la¯kin kunt ash‘ur dawma¯ bi-l-khajal. Wa-kunt atrah ‘ala¯ nafsı¯ as’ila ‘idda hawl ha¯dhih al-umu¯r, hatta¯ ama¯m asdiqa¯’ı¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ al-mutahammisı¯n li-l-qadiyya al-Filastı¯niyya wa-l-haraka al-wataniyya.’ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Ibid., 60. ‘Ma¯ awsa’ al-thawra/ ma¯ adyaq al-rihla/ ma¯ akbar al-fikra/ ma¯ asghar al-dawla.’ ˙ ˙ ˙ Mahmoud Darwish, ibid,. 392. Yehuda Lukacs, Israel, Jordan and the Peace Process (Syracuse, NY, 1996), 163. ‘Wa- ma¯ huwa muthı¯r li-l-sukhriya . . . ‘alayna¯ an nata‘ahhad wa-ila¯ abad al-a¯bidı¯n bi-ann la¯ umniya lana¯ fı¯ ha¯dhih al hayat illa¯ al-irtiba¯t bi-surrat al˙ ˙ ˙ mamlaka al-Urduniyya al-Hashimiyya, wa-bi-annana¯ la¯ niha¯rib al-jaysh al˙ Israı¯lı¯ illa¯ min ajl al-tarhı¯b bi-quwwa¯t al-amn al-Urdunı¯. . . wa-nahn la¯ ˙ ˙ naskhar bi-qadr ma¯ nu‘abbir ‘an su‘u¯bat idra¯k al-ma‘na¯ al-haqı¯qı¯ li-shibh al ˙ ˙ ijma¯‘ al-‘Arabi al-rasmı¯ ‘ala¯ qubu¯l al-tasawwur al-Amrı¯kı¯ wa-l-Israı¯lı¯ ayda, li˙ ˙ hal al-sira¯’ bi-tabanı¯ khiya¯r wahı¯d huwa al-khiya¯r al-Urdunı¯. . . inna¯ al˙ ˙ ˙ ma‘raka maftu¯ha ma‘ al-ihtila¯l al-Isra’ı¯lı¯ wa-ma‘ ay khiya¯r la¯ yu‘abbir ‘an ˙ ˙ tumu¯h al-sha‘b al-‘Arabi al-Filastı¯nı¯ fı¯ al-istiqla¯l al-watanı¯ al-ka¯mil.’ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Hajar al-wa‘y’ [‘The stone of awareness’] (al-Karmel, ˙ 1988, 27: 7), 11 – 12. Trans. by the author. Ha¯di al-‘Alawı¯, ‘Naskh al-sharı¯‘a fı¯ al-tura¯th al-Shı¯‘iı¯’ [‘The abrogation of religious law in the Shi‘a heritage’], trans. by the author; al-Karmel 89 (1979), 69 – 86. Elia¯s Khu¯rı¯, Conversation with the Author (August 25, 2007). Sabrı¯ Jiryis, ‘Mahmoud Darwish and the al-Ard movement’, interviewed by ˙ ˙ the author (May 5, 2008). Mahmoud Darwish, Ana¯ al-A¯khar [I am the other], al-Shira¯‘, 18 (1980), 42 – 43. Trans. by the author. ‘Abd al-Fatta¯h, interviewed by the author (December 12, 2007). ˙ Sayyid al-Qimnı¯,‘al-Hizb al-Ha¯shimı¯ wa-ta’sı¯s al-dawla al-Isla¯miyya’ [‘The ˙ Hashemite Party and the establishment of the Islamic state’], al-Karmel 31 (1989), 38 –59. Trans. by the author. Ibid. ‘Abd al-Fatta¯h, interviewed by the author (December 12, 2007). ˙ Mahmoud Darwish If I Were Another (New York, 2009), 62. Trans, by Fady Joudah. Another translation is available in: Mahmoud Darwish, The Adam of Two Edens, trans. by by Daniel Moore (Syracuse, NY, 2000), 42. Originally published in Ahad ‘Ashara Kawkaba¯ ‘Ala¯ al Mashhad al-Andalusı¯ (Beirut, ˙ 1992); for a critique of the Oslo Accords, see: Antoon Sinan, ‘Mahmoud Darwish’s allegorical critique of OSLO’, Journal of Palestine Studies 31 (2003), 66 – 77.

NOTES

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205

80. ‘Kunna¯ nurı¯d minh an yuma¯ris dawrah ka-muthaqqaf, wa-bi-ma¯ yalı¯q bimaka¯natih: an yaqu¯l kalimatah fı¯ waqtiha¯ tama¯ma¯ wa-du¯n hisa¯ba¯t., ˙ la¯kinnah. . . khadhalana¯. Fa-huwa ka¯n bi-akthar min ma‘na¯ muthaqqaf min muthaqqafı¯ ha¯dhih al-mu’assasa, bal ka¯n ahad ahamm al-muqarrabı¯n min ˙ ra’ı¯siha¯ al-sa¯biq. Wa-hı¯n tahawwalat ha¯dhih al-mu’assasa ila¯ sulta ˙ ˙ ˙ tatasallat. . . . Lam yafih bi-kalima ayda¯. Ka¯n yahrub, wa-ka¯n yatawa¯ra¯, wa˙ ˙ ka¯n jaysha¯ min hurra¯sih al-thaqa¯fiyyı¯n, yataba¯ru¯n fı¯ al-difa¯‘ ‘anh, kullama¯ ˙ intaqadah ahad, wa-ka-annah al-‘ijl al-muqaddas!.’ Ba¯sim al-Nabrı¯s, ˙ ˙ ‘Mahmoud Darwish al-sha‘ir al-ladhı¯ khadashathu al-siya¯sa’ [‘Mahmoud ¯ Darwish the poet who had been clawed by politics’], Ila¯f (2008), trans. by the author. Available at: http://www.elaph.com/Web/ElaphWriter/2008/8/ 355584.htm (accessed on July 20, 2015). Trans. by the author. 81. ‘Kila¯buna¯/ hada’at. Wa-ma¯‘izuna¯ tawashshaha bi-l-daba¯b ‘ala¯ al-tila¯l/ wa-shajja ˙ ˙ sahm ta’ish wajh al-yaqı¯n. ta‘ibt min lughatı¯ taqu¯l wa-la¯/ taqu¯l. . . ma¯dha¯ yasna‘ ˙ ˙ / al-madı¯ bi-ayya¯m Imru al-Qays al-muwazza‘ / bayn qa¯fiya wa-qaysar/. . . last ˙ ˙ min atba¯‘ Roma¯ al-sa¯hirı¯n ‘ala¯ duru¯b al-milh. La¯kinni ausaddid nisbata¯ ˙ mi’awiyya min milh khubzı¯ murghama¯, wa-aqu¯l/ li-l-tarı¯kh: zayyin sha¯hna¯tik ˙ ˙ bi-l-‘abı¯d al-saghirı¯n / wa-murr. La¯ ahad yaqu¯l/ al-a¯n: la¯.’ Mahmoud Darwish, ˙ ˙ the al-A‘ma¯l al-Jadı¯da, (Bierut, 2004), 503, 508. Originally, published in Jida¯riyya [Mural] (Beirut, 2000). 82. ‘A¯dil al-Usta, ‘Mahmoud Darwish, Zawahir salbiyya fi masiratihi al-Shi‘riyya.’ ˙ 83. ‘Eran Sedqiahu, Nasikh Yirushalayim: Faysal al-Husayni v- ha-Manhigut ha˙ ˙ _ Falastinit ba-shtahim [Prince of Jerusalem: Faysal al-Husaynı¯ and the Palestinian ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ National Leadership in the West Bank] (Jerusalem, 2012). Trans. from Hebrew by the author. 84. ‘Abd al-Fatta¯h, interviewed by the author (December 12, 2007). ˙ 85. ‘Qa¯l: yajib an ara¯k al-yawm. . . ka¯n al-liqa¯’ fı¯ mat‘am ghayr ba‘ı¯d ‘an maskanih. . . ˙ urı¯d ra’yak fı¯ amr mulih. . . talaqayt da‘wa li-hudu¯r al-Mirbad wa-li-ja’iza ˙ ˙ ˙ tusallam ilay. . . rafadt al-amrayn kilayhima¯. . . sa¯fart ila¯ al-Narwı¯j, wa-aqamt fı¯ ˙ qarya qasiyya, la¯kinnanı¯ fı¯ muntasaf al-layl talaqqayt mukalama ha¯tifiyya min ˙ ˙ Abu¯ ‘Amma¯r nassaha¯: hal turı¯d an tukharrib baytana¯ ya¯ Mahmoud? Yajib an ˙˙ tadhhab ila¯ Baghda¯d.’ Sa’dı¯ Yu¯suf, ‘Qamar Baghda¯d al-laymu¯nı¯’ [‘The yellow moon of Baghdad’], al-Karmel 90 (2009), 231–232. Trans. by the author. 86. ‘Abd al-Fatta¯h, interviewed by the author (December 12, 2007). ˙ 87. ‘Katab Mahmoud Darwish maqati‘ ‘idda ‘an al-Andalus fı¯ niha¯yat althama¯nı¯na¯t ‘ala¯ ma¯ azun, baynaha¯ maqta‘ yatasa¯’l fı¯h: hal yahtaj al-qa’id ila¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ sha¯‘ir?. . . al-qa¯’id yujı¯b: na‘am bi-l-ta’kı¯d. fa-yarudd al-sha¯‘ir: ma¯ akdhabah. Sa’alt Mahmoud Darwish muda¯‘iba¯ iyya¯h ama¯m Abu¯ ‘Amma¯r ‘an ha¯dha¯ almaqta‘ fa-qara’ah, wa. . . istabdal jumlat ma¯ akdhabah bi-ma¯ a‘dhabah.’ Ya¯sir ˙ ‘Abd Rabbih, ‘al-Mahatta¯t al-mudı¯’a li Arafat wa-l-thawra kutibat bi-hibr ˙ ˙˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Mahmoud Darwish’ [‘The bright stations of Arafat and the revolution written in the ink of Mahmoud Darwish’], al-Quds (November 22, 2008), http://www. alquds.com/print/118478 (accessed on February 20, 2012). Trans. from Arabic by the author.

206

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88. Hayim Hanegbi, ‘Power of poetry 1’, 74– 75. 89. In Hebrew ‘nidfakti.’ Ibid. I would translat this word in spoken Arabic as ‘tkhuzaqit’. 90. ‘I¯nnanı¯ la¯ asluh li-l-‘amal al-rasmı¯ wa-l-ida¯rı¯, wa-l-ijtima¯‘a¯t al-rasmiyya, wa-l˙ ˙ safar al-mudnı¯. Laqad intukhibt wa-ana¯ gha¯’ib, sami‘t al-khabar fı¯ al-radio, ˙ wa-kunt fı¯ al-Nurmandı¯ fı¯ Fransa¯, fa-bakayt. . . la¯kin khudu¯‘ı¯ li-dughu¯t ˙ ˙ ˙ ma‘nawiyya wa-akhla¯qiyya ‘a¯liya¯ ja‘alanı¯ amtathil liha¯dhih al-‘udwiyya li-fatra ˙ muhaddada. . . wa-aqu¯l maziha¯: inn min hasana¯t Oslo annaha¯ ata¯ht lı¯ al-fursa ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ li-l-istiqa¯la min al-lajna al-tanfı¯dhiyya.’ Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Wulidtu ʿala¯ dufaʿa¯t’, 51 – 52. 91. al-Hu¯t, Bayn al-Watan wa-l-Manfa¯, 458. ˙ ˙ 92. Ibid., 456. 93. ‘Asbah sulu¯k Abu¯ ‘Amma¯r fı¯ t‘amulih ma‘ a‘da¯’ al-lajna al-tanfı¯dhiyya la¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ yuhtamal. Fa-kathı¯ra¯ ma¯ kan yatrukuna¯ ja¯lisı¯n hawl ta¯wilat al-ijtima¯‘ ˙ ˙ ˙ baynama¯ huwa yushghil nafsah fı¯ tawqı¯‘ awra¯q wa-qira¯’at rasa¯’il. Baynı¯ wabayn nafsı¯ kunt ash‘ur bi-annana¯ tahawwalna¯ ila¯ asfa¯r, wa-ann la¯ dawr lana¯ ˙ ˙ siwa¯ dı¯ku¯r lishay’ yusamma¯ qiya¯da. Wa-dha¯t yawm kunt atahaddath ma‘ ˙ Mahmoud Darwish ‘an ha¯dha¯ al-mawdu¯‘ bi-shay’ min al-hidda wa-l-infi‘a¯l. ˙ ˙ Wa-ka¯n radd Mahmoud qa¯siya¯ bi-qadr ma¯ ka¯n haqı¯qiya¯. Qa¯l bi-l-harf al˙ ˙ wa¯hid: ya¯ akhı¯ Aba¯ al-Ha¯dir, ha¯dhihi al thawra fassalaha¯ Abu¯ ‘Amma¯r ‘ala¯ ˙ ˙ ˙˙ qiya¯sih, fa-imma¯ an taqbal wa-imma¯ an tarhal. . . ka¯nt ijtima¯‘a¯tuna¯ dardasha¯t ˙ akthar minha¯ jalasa¯t tahlı¯l wa-ta’ammul wa-ghaws fı¯ a‘ma¯q al-masa¯’il al˙ ˙ matru¯ha. Al-matbakh ka¯n fı¯ maka¯n a¯khar.’ Shafı¯q al-Hu¯t, ibid., 458. ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ 94. Edward Said, ‘On Mahmoud Darwish’, Grand Street, No. 48, Oblivion (Winter, 1994), 112. 95. Said, ‘On Mahmoud Darwish’, ibid. 96. Rashid Khalidi, ‘Remembering Mahmoud Darwish’, Journal of Palestine Studies 38 (2007/2008). Also available at: http://www.palestine-studies.org/ jps/fulltext/42080 (accessed on July 4, 2015).

Chapter 5

Attitudes and Principles

1. ‘Tadı¯q bina¯ al-ard, tahshuruna fı¯ al-mamar al-akhı¯r, fa-nakhla‘ ’ada¯’ana¯ kaiy ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ namurr.’ Mahmoud Darwish, Samı¯h al-Qa¯sim, and Adonı¯s, Victims of a Map, ˙ translated by Abullah al- Udhari (London, 1984), 13. 2. al-Naqqa¯sh, 197– 203. 3. Kanafa¯nı¯, al-Riwa¯ya¯t, 287. 4. ‘Al-ma‘shu¯qa qa¯tila bi-jama¯liha¯ wa-nisya¯niha¯ wa-qudratiha¯ ‘ala¯ al-khiya¯na. . . wahiya tana¯m fı¯ adhri‘at al-a¯kharı¯n.’ Darwish, ‘Muhawalat ritha¯’ burka¯n’ [An attempt ˙ to lament a volcano] in: Wada¯‘an Ayyatuha¯ al-Harb Wada¯‘an Ayyuha¯ al-Sala¯m ˙ [Goodbye, War and Peace, Oh Goodbye] (Acre, 1985), 20. Trans. by the Author. 5. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Min dhikraya¯t 5 Huzayra¯n 1967 – al-farah ‘indama¯ ˙ ˙ yakhu¯n’ [‘Memories of 5 June: joy when betrayed’], Shu’u¯n Filastı¯niyy 11 ˙

NOTES

6.

7.

8. 9.

10.

11.

12.

13. 14. 15. 16.

TO PAGES

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207

(1972), 34. Trans. by the author; Aryeh Dayan, ‘The national poet’, Iton Ha’ir (June 23, 1989), 11. ‘Fa¯ja’ana¯ matar wa-rasa¯s. . . bila¯d taghayyar suka¯nuha¯. . . wa-tana¯sal fı¯na¯ al˙ ˙ ˙ ghuzat, takathar fı¯na¯ al-tugha¯t.’ Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Sarha¯n yashrab al˙ ˙ qahwa,’ in al-Dı¯wa¯n: al-A‘ma¯l al-U¯la¯ [The Collection: First Works] Vol. 2 (Beirut, 2009), 100, 106. Trans. by the author. Originally, published in the collection: Uhibbuk aw la¯ Uhibbuk (Beirut, 1972). ˙ ˙ Mahmoud Darwish, ‘A¯shiq min Filastı¯n [A Lover from Palestine], In the ¯ la¯˙ [The Collection: First Works] Vol. 1 collection al-Dı¯wa¯n: al-A‘ma¯l al-U (Beirut, 2009) 87-94. Trans. by the author. Originally published in Beirut, 1966). al-Naqqa¯sh, 197 – 203. Huda¯ al-Sadda and Ya¯sir Sulima¯n, ‘al-Adab wa-l-qawmiyya fı¯ al-Sharq al˙ Awsat’ [‘Literature and nationalism in the Middle East’], interview by Kha¯lid ˙ al-Huru¯b, al-Jazeera Net (July 1, 2006), http://www.aljazeera.net/NR/exeres/ ˙ D7F760FF-D8EF-4FEB-8E84-BA844A78201C.htm (accessed on July 2, 2015). Trans. by the author. ‘Al-ard am anti ‘indı¯ am antuma¯ taw’ama¯n. . . siyya¯n, siyya¯n ‘indı¯.’ Mahmoud ˙ Darwish, ‘Mawwa¯l’ [‘A folk melody’] in al-Dı¯wa¯n: al-A‘ma¯l al-U¯la¯, Vol. 1 (Beirut, 2009), 193. Originally published in the collection A¯khir al-Layl [At the End of Night], Beirut, 1967. Trans. by the author. ‘‘Ala¯ ha¯dhihi al ard ma¯ yastahqq al-hyat: niha¯yat aylu¯l, sayyida tatruk al ˙ ˙ ˙ arba‘ı¯n bika¯mil mishmishiha¯. . .‘ala¯ ha¯dhihi al ard / sayyidat al-ard, um al˙ ˙ bida¯yat, um al-niha¯ya¯t. Ka¯nat tusamma¯ Filastı¯n, sa¯rat tusamma¯ Filastı¯n. ˙ ˙ ˙ sayyidatı¯: astahiqqu li’annaki sayyidati, astahiqqu al-haya¯t.’ Mahmoud ˙ ˙ ˙ Darwish, Unfortunately, It was Paradise: Selected Poems, translated and edited by Munir Akash and Carolyn Forche´ (Berkeley, 2003), 6; Mahmoud Darwish, ‘‘Ala¯ ha¯dihi al-Ard’ [‘On this Earth’] in the collection Ward Aqall [Fewer Roses] ˙ (1986), in Darwish, al-Dı¯wa¯n: al-A‘ma¯l al-U¯la¯, [The Collection: First Works] Vol. 3 (Beirut, 2009), 112. ‘Kul al-shu‘u¯b tazawwajat ummı¯, wa-ummı¯ lam takun illa¯ ummi.’ According to Darwish it is the mother who determines the identity of her children, regardless of the identity of the husband – much like in Judaism. Darwish, in Madı¯h al-Zil al-‘A¯lı¯, [In Praise of the High Shadow] (1983) in Mahmoud ˙ _ Darwish, al-Dı¯wa¯n: al-A‘ma¯l al-U¯la¯ [The Collection: First Works] Vol. 2 (Beirut, 2009), 385. trans. by the author. al-Sadda, Huda¯, and Ya¯sir Sulima¯n, ‘al-Adab wal-qawmiyya fı¯ al-Sharq al˙ Awsat’. Rhoda Canaaneh, Birthing the Nation: Strategies of Palestinian Woman in Israel (Berkeley, 2002), 63, 80, 90, 251. Yehuda Atlas, ‘Shilkha, Mahmoud’ [‘Yours, Mahmoud’], Yediot Acharonot, 7 Days (March 25, 1988), 42. Trans. from Hebrew by the author. Smadar Peri, ‘Pridah mi-’ishah’ [‘Farewell from the woman’], Yediot Acharonot, 7 Days (November 6, 1987), 41. Trans. from Hebrew by the author.

208

NOTES

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120 –123

17. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Exile is so strong within me’, 183. 18. ‘Wa-ana¯ di‘t bi-Rita sanatayn/ wa-hiya na¯mat fawq zindı¯ sanatayn/ wa˙ t‘a¯hadna¯ ‘la¯ ajmal ka’s, wa-ihtaraqna¯/ fı¯ nabı¯dh al-shafatayn/ wa-wulidna¯ ˙ marratayn.’ Darwish, ‘Rita¯ wa-l-bunduqiyya’ [‘Rita and the rifle’], in al-A‘ma¯l ¯ al-Ula¯ Vol. 1, 200– 202. Originally, published in the collection A¯khir al-Layl [At the End of Night], Beirut 1967. Trans. by the author. 19. al-Naqqa¯sh, 205– 207; al-Na¯bulsı¯ (1987), 458– 498. 20. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘la qada¯sa li-jalla¯d’, 221. 21. Qabba¯nı¯ defined himself as follows: ‘The founder of a lyrical republic, most of whose citizens are women.’ Niza¯r Qabba¯nı¯, al-A‘ma¯l al-Nathriyya al-Ka¯mila, [The Complete Prose Works] vol. 8 (Beirut, 1993), 74. Trans. by the author. 22. For an example of the eroticization of Darwish’s style, see the poem, Dars min Kama Sutra [Lesson from the Kama Sutra] in Dı¯wa¯n Mahmoud Darwish: al-A‘ma¯l al-Jadı¯da [Mahmoud Darwish Collection: the New Works] (Beirut, 2004), 661 – 664. Originally published in in Sarı¯r al-Gharı¯ba [The Stranger’s Bed], Beirut, 1997. Trans. by the author. 23. Subhi Hadidi, ‘Mahmoud Darwish’s love poem: history, exile, and the epic call’, in Hala Khamis Nassar, and Najat Rahman (eds), Mahmoud Darwish Exile’s Poet: Critical Essays (Northampton, Mass, c. 2008), translated by Najat Rahman and Rim Bejaoui. 24. Yochai Oppenheimer, Ha-Zkhut ha-Gdolah Lo’mar Lo [The Great Privilege of Saying No: Political Poetry in Israel] (Jerusalem, 2004), 31 – 32, 35, 77. Trans. from Hebrew by the author. 25. Yochai Oppenheimer, ibid., 33. 26. Mahmoud Darwish, Tawq al-hama¯ma al-Dimashqı¯ [The Damascene collar of ˙ ˙ the dove] trans. by Fa¯dı¯ Ju¯da (9, Winter 2007), http://www.drunkenboat. com/db9/mistran_text/joudah/damnscese_collar.html (accessed on April 30, 2013). 27. Darwish, Fı¯ Hadrat aL-Ghiya¯b, 132. ˙ ˙ 28. No Author], ‘Wathı¯qa ila¯ al-ra’y al-‘a¯m; nurı¯du min al-ra’ı¯s al-muntakhab: inha¯’al-ihtila¯l wa-dawla mustaqilla, amn al-watan wa-l-muwa¯tin, al-’isla¯h al˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ dı¯muqra¯tı¯ wa-l-tanmiya’ [‘A public letter: we want from the elected president: ˙ ending the occupation and an independent state, security for the homeland and the citizen, democratic reforms, and development.’] PMC (December 26, 2004), http://www.palestinepmc.com/arabic/inside1.asp?x¼ 1032&cat ¼ 3& opt ¼ 1 (accessed on October 2, 2010). 29. ‘Mukhtalifu¯n ‘ala¯ wa¯jiba¯t al-nisa¯’ . . . mukhtalifu¯n ‘ala¯ kul shay’. Lana¯ hadaf wahid: an naku¯n.’ Mahmoud Darwish, in al-A‘ma¯l al-Jadı¯da, 216. Originally, ˙ published in Halat Hisa¯r [State of Siege] (Beirut 2002). ˙ ˙ ˙ 30. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Qabl kita¯b al-Istiqa¯la’ [‘Before the resignation letter’] in ‘A¯biru¯n fı¯ Kala¯m ‘A¯bir [Passers between Passing Words] (Beirut, 1994), 157. Trans. by the author. 31. ‘A¯dil al-Usta, ‘Dawr al-muthaqaf fı¯ al-Intifa¯da: ma yaqu¯l al-nass, ma taqu¯l ˙ ˙ ˙˙ al-tajriba’ [‘Intellectual role in the Intifada; what the text says, and what

NOTES

32.

33.

34.

35.

36. 37.

38.

39. 40.

TO PAGES

123 –127

209

experience says’], Adabiyyat (2005), al-Najah National University, http://www. najah.edu/node/2846 (accessed on December 18, 2011). Trans. by the author. Isla¯h Ja¯d, ‘m-Salonim l-va‘adot ‘amamiyot: nashim Falastiniyot, 1919-1989’ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ [‘From salons to popular committees: Palestinian women, 1919 –1989’], in Shlomo Svirsky and Ilan Pappe, Ha-Intifada, Mabat m-Bifnim (Tel Aviv, 1992), ˙ [The Intifada: An In Side View], trans. into Hebrew by Revital Sela. Hisham Sharabi, al-Naqd al-Hada¯rı¯ li-Wa¯qi‘ al-Mujtama‘ al-‘Arabı¯ al-Mu‘a¯sir ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ [Cultural Criticism of the Reality of Contemporary Arab Society] (Beirut, 2000). Trans. by the author. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Wathı¯qat i‘la¯n al-istiqla¯l al-Filastı¯nı¯’ [‘Document of ˙ Palestinian Declaration of Independence’], Shu’u¯n Filastı¯niyya 188, 1988, 3–5. ˙ Trans. by the author. ‘Kunt hı¯nadha¯k fı¯ Paris, wa-ja¯’a Arafat wa-talab minı¯ an aktub al-nass wa-ka¯n ˙ ˙ ˙˙ mawdu‘uh fikriyya¯, hawl mushkila¯t al-‘a¯lam. . .wa-fı¯ al-ijtima¯‘ ka¯n ru’asa¯’ al˙ ˙ ‘a¯lam mawju¯dı¯n, wa-istashhad akthar min ra’ı¯s bi-l-nass al-ladhı¯ qara’ahu ˙˙ Arafat, fa-qa¯l lı¯: ara’ayta kam ann khita¯bak jayyid? Fa-qult lah: ha¯dha¯ asbah ˙ ˙ ˙ khita¯buk ant.’ Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Wulidtu ʿala¯ dufaʿa¯t’, al-Karmel, 86, ˙ (2006), 53. ‘Wathiqa ila¯ al-ra’y al-‘aa¯m’, PMC (December 26, 2004). ‘ Law ka¯n lı¯ watan, la’a‘lant annı¯ did al-huku¯ma, du¯n an yattahimanı¯ al-na¯s bi˙ ˙ ˙ l‘adamiyya. Law ka¯n lı¯ watan, la-qult inn al-watan laysa hadafa¯ illa¯ li-khidmat ˙ ˙ al-insa¯n. Law ka¯n lı¯ watan laqult inn al-watan la¯ yata’assas illa¯ bi-l˙ ˙ dı¯muqra¯tiyya wa-l-hurriyya, wa-illa¯ sa¯r sijna¯. Law ka¯n lı¯ watan lana¯dayt bi˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ muqa¯ta‘at al- Coca Cola, wa-bi-fath hada¯’iq li-l-‘ushsha¯q.’ The article was ˙ ˙ ˙ apparently sent to his friend Samı¯h al-Qa¯sim on March 30 (Land Day). As for ˙ the year, it is likely that it was written after Darwish left Beirut in 1979 and before he began to publish the al-Karmel journal in 1981. See: Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Hajar min al-Jalı¯l’ [‘Stone of Galilee’], in Darwish, Fı¯ Wasf ˙ ˙ Ha¯latina¯, (Beirut, 1987), 122. Trans. by the author. ˙ ‘Ana¯ ara¯ al-dawla al-Filastı¯ninyya, wa-la¯kin ara¯ ma¯ wara¯’ al-amal, ara¯ khaybat al˙ amal. . . ayn al-insa¯n al-mutaharrir al-mubdi‘? Ayn dawruna¯ fı¯ al-‘a¯lam? Nahn ˙ ˙ mashghu¯lu¯n al-a¯n bi-takrı¯s tuqu¯siyyat al-dawla: ‘alam, nashı¯d watanı¯, sujja¯d ˙ ˙ ˙ ahmar, suju¯n, shurta, dara’ib, fasa¯d ida¯rı¯,. . . wa yanqusuna¯ an nudı¯f shay’a¯ huwa ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ al-istiqla¯l; al-su’a¯l huwa – ma¯ mada¯ sia¯dat ha¯dhih al-dawla, wa-ma¯ mada¯ naw‘iyyat al-haya¯t fı¯ha¯? Ila¯ ay had al-insa¯n fı¯ha¯ mutaharrir wa-qa¯dir ‘ala¯ an ˙ ˙ yuma¯ris haya¯tah bidu¯n qam‘ siwa¯’ da¯khilı¯ aw kha¯rijı¯?. . . hal lana¯ qudra ‘ala¯ an ˙ nasu¯gh huluma¯ jadı¯da¯? Hal ‘indana¯ qudra ‘ala¯ an nasu¯gh insa¯na¯ jadı¯da¯ bi-‘aqliyya ˙ ˙ ˙ jadı¯da¯ wa-bithaqa¯fa jadı¯da¯, wa-an nuqı¯m hiwa¯ra¯ m‘ al-‘a¯lam bi-shakl naw‘ı¯ wa˙ mukhtalif?’ Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Rihla fi ‘a¯lam Mahmoud Darwish’, interview ˙ by Nabı¯l ‘Amr, Palestinian TV (Ramallah, July 23, 2007). Also available at: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v¼0ps1F_BQ20Q&feature ¼ relmfu. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Exile is so strong within me’, 176, 190. ‘Sanası¯r sha‘ba¯ in aradna¯ hı¯n na‘lam ana¯ lasna¯ mala’ika, wa-ann al-sharr lays ˙ ˙ min ikhtisa¯s al-a¯kharı¯n/ Sanası¯r sha‘ba¯ hı¯n la¯ natlu¯ sala¯t al-shukr li-l-watan ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙

210

41. 42.

43.

44.

45.

46.

47. 48.

NOTES

TO PAGES

127 –129

al-muqaddas, kullama¯ wajad al-faqı¯r ‘asha¯’ah/ Sanası¯r sha‘ba¯ hı¯n nashtumu ˙ ˙ ha¯jib al-sulta¯n wa-l-sulta¯n du¯n muha¯kama/ Sanası¯r sha‘ba¯ hı¯n yaktub sha¯‘ir ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ wasfa¯ iba¯hiyya li-batn al-ra¯qisa/. . . Sanası¯r sha‘ba¯ hı¯n tahmı¯ shurtat al-a¯da¯b ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ gha¯niya wa-za¯niya min al-darb al-mubrih fı¯ al-shawari‘!/ Sanası¯r sha‘ba¯ hı¯n ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ la¯ yatadhakkar al-fard al-Filastı¯nı¯ ra¯yatah siwa¯ fı¯ mal‘ab al-kura al-fası¯h, wa ˙ ˙ fı¯ musa¯baqat al-jama¯l, wa-yawm Nakbatih faqat/ Sanası¯r sha‘ba¯ in aradna¯ hin ˙ ˙ ˙ yu’dhan li-l-mughannı¯ an yurattil a¯ya min su¯rat al-Rahma¯n fı¯ hafl al-zawa¯j ˙ ˙ al-mukhtalat. Sanası¯r sha‘ba¯ hı¯n nahtarim al-sawa¯b, wa-hı¯n nahtarim al˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ghalat.’ Mahmoud Darwish, ‘In aradna¯’ [‘If we want to’] in Mahmoud ˙ Darwish, Athar al-Fara¯sha [The butterfly effect] (Beirut, 2008), 93, 94; in Mahmoud Darwish, A River Dies of Thirst: Journals, trans. by Catherine Cobham (Brooklyn, NY, 2009), 42 – 43. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Rihla fı¯ ‘a¯lam Mahmoud Darwish’ (July 23, 2007). ˙ ‘Al-shahı¯d yuwaddih lı¯: lam aufattish wara¯’ al-mada¯/ ‘an ‘adha¯ra¯ al-khulu¯d, fa˙˙ ˙ innı¯ auhibbu al-haya¯t/ ‘ala¯ al-ard, bayn al-sanawbar wa-l-tı¯n, lakinnanı¯ ma¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ istata‘t ilayha¯ sabı¯la¯/ fa-fattasht ‘anha¯ bi-a¯khir ma¯ amluk: al-dam fı¯ jasad al˙ ˙ la¯zaward. . . al-shahı¯d yuhadhirunı¯: la¯ tusaddiq zagha¯rı¯dahunn/ wa-saddiq abı¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ hı¯n yanzur fı¯ su¯ratı¯ ba¯kiya¯.’ Mahmoud Darwish, ‘State of siege’, translated by ˙ ˙ ˙ Amina Elbendary, al-Ahram Weekly Online, 581 (April 11 – 17, 2002), http:// weekly.ahram.org.eg/2002/581/bo7.htm (accessed on September 17, 2012). Ramada¯n ‘Umar, ‘al-Shuhada¯’ wa-tashkı¯l al-huwiyyah fı¯ shi‘r al-Intifa¯da’ ˙ [‘Martyrs and the formation of identity in the Intifada poetry’], Ra¯bitat Udaba¯’ ˙ ˙ al-Sha¯m (November 6, 2004), http://www.odabasham.org/odaba-a?qaddia-661.htm (accessed on September 16, 2008). Trans. by the author. Mustafa¯ al-Sawwa¯f, ‘Mahmoud Darwish fı¯ dhimat al-la¯h’ [‘Mahmoud Darwish ˙˙ ˙ under the protection of God’] (August 10, 2008), http://sahatalarab.net/asp/ ShowAllReplies.aspx?Art_ID¼ 95531 (accessed on December 1, 2011). Trans. by the author. See on this matter the interview he gave to Giselle Khuri/the Lebanese television station LBC on July 15, 2001, which was also published in the journal Majlat al-Dira¯sa¯t al-Filastı¯niyya 48 (2001), 13. ˙ ‘Min huna¯ uqaddim istighra¯bı¯ za¯hirat insira¯f al-kita¯ba al-Filastı¯niyya ila¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ tamjı¯d al-mawt, al-amr al-ladhı¯ yufassir hasha¯shataha¯, li-ann ha¯dha¯ al-mayl alal-sha¯’i‘ huwa ibti‘a¯d barı¯’ ‘an masdar al-quwwa al-ru¯hiyya al-Filastı¯niyya, wa˙ ˙ ˙ hiya quwwat al-haya¯t. Laqad ‘a¯sh Mu‘ı¯n Bsı¯su¯ fı¯ ha¯dhih al-quwwa, wa-ha¯wal ˙ ˙ an yahya¯, ha¯wal an yaksir muha¯walat al-a¯khar tahwı¯l al-Filastı¯nı¯ min insa¯n ila¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ namat. Wa-ha¯kadha¯ ka¯n ibn haya¯t, tatawattar wa-tabhath ‘an hayatiha¯ fı¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ hurriyya.’ Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Mu‘ı¯n Bsı¯su¯ la yajlis ‘ala¯ maq’ad al-ghiya¯b’ ˙ [‘Mu‘ı¯n Bsı¯su¯, does not sit on the seat of absence’] in Fı¯ Wasf Ha¯latina¯: ˙ ˙ Maqa¯lat Mukhta¯ra 1975– 1985 [In our Case Description: Selected Articles 1975– 1985] (Beirut, 1987), 102. Trans. by the author. From the Palestinian point of view, Jesus is a shahı¯d because he was murdered by Jews. Darwish, ‘Wulidtu ʿala¯ dufaʿa¯t’, 50–51.

NOTES

TO PAGES

130 –134

211

49. Muhammad Dara¯ghma, ‘Palestinian poet lashes out at militants’, Associated ˙ ˙ Press (July 13, 2005), http://jewsandmuslims.tribe.net/thread/ae44aa3a-9e3a42ec-8eaf-e90251960db4 (accessed on June 16, 2011). 50. ‘lawla¯ al-haya¯’ wa-l-zala¯m, lazurt Ghazza, du¯n an a‘rif al-tarı¯q ila¯ bayt Abı¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ Sufya¯n al-jadı¯d, wa-la¯ ism al-nabiy al-jadı¯d! wa-lawla¯ ann Muhammada¯ huwa ˙ kha¯tam al-anbiya¯’, lasa¯r li-kul ‘isa¯ba nabiy wa-li-kul saha¯bı¯ milı¯shya¯. . . a‘jabana¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Huzayra¯n fı¯ dhikra¯h al-arba‘ı¯n: in lam najid man yahzimana¯ tha¯niya hazamna¯ ˙ anfusana¯ bi-aydı¯na¯. . . fa-ma¯ ha¯jatuna¯ li-l-dawla . . . ma¯ da¯mat hiya wa-l-ayya¯m ˙ ila¯ ması¯r wahid?’ Mahmoud Darwish, Athar al-Fara¯sha, 269–275. ˙ ˙ 51. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘The aesthetics of despair’. 52. Sasson Somekh, ‘Political, committed, and existential’. 53. ‘Abd al-Fatta¯h, interviewed by the author (December 12, 2007). ˙ 54. ‘Fi‘l al-muqa¯wama lays fi‘l irha¯b. Innah ta‘bı¯r mashru¯‘ ‘an rafs irha¯b al-dawla ˙ al-ladı¯ yafriduh al-Isra¯’ı¯liyyı¯n ‘ala¯ al-Filastı¯niyyı¯n mudh hwa¯lı¯ nisf qarn. . . wa˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ha¯kadha¯ ka¯bada al-Filastı¯nı¯ marratayn: marra min musa¯darat watanih, wa˙ ˙ ˙ marra min musa¯darat su¯ratih, li-yuwa¯sil al-jalla¯d al-Isra¯’ı¯lı¯ istimta¯‘ah bi-intisa¯r ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ al-sayf wa-bi-intisa¯r su¯rat al-jalla¯d al-mukhtabi’a fı¯ ziy dahiyya.’ Mahmoud ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Darwish, ‘Bayt, thu¯m, basal, ma¯‘iz wa-mafa¯tı¯h’ [‘House, garlic, goat, onions, ˙ ˙ and keys’], interview by ‘Aqil al-‘Awı¯t, al-Karmel 33 (1989), 165–166. Trans. ˙ by the author. 55. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Khalı¯l al-Wazı¯r wa-mara¯rat al-huriyya’ [‘Khalı¯l al-Wazı¯r ˙ and the bitterness of freedom’], in in‘A¯biru¯n fı¯ Kala¯m ‘A¯bir [Passers between Passing Words] (Beirut, 1994), 203– 208. Trans. by the author. 56. ‘Sa-yahta¯j al-wa‘y al-‘a¯lamı¯ al-mutafarrij ila¯ waqt atwal wa-ila¯ ightiya¯l akthar, ˙ ˙ kay yu‘ı¯d siya¯ghat mafhu¯m jadı¯d ‘an al-irha¯b. . . man huwa al-irha¯bi? Hal ˙ huwa al-walad al-ladhı¯ yuqa¯wim al-dabba¯ba bi-hajar, am hiya al-dawla al-latı¯ ˙ taghta¯l al-walad bi-dabba¯ba? Man huwa al-irha¯bı¯? Hal huwa al-sha‘b al-ladhı¯ yuda¯fi‘ ‘an haqih fı¯ al-wuju¯d ama¯m harb al-iba¯da, am hiya al-dawla al-latı¯ ˙ ˙ taghta¯l khalı¯l al-wazı¯r?’ Darwish, ibid. 57. See also his article, ‘al-Kamira¯, wa-l-su¯ra, wa-l-mashad’ [‘Camera, image and scene’], in in‘A¯biru¯n fı¯ Kala¯m ‘A¯bir [Passers between Passing Words] (Beirut, 1994), 29-35. Trans. by the author. 58. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Bayt, thu¯m, basal, ma¯‘iz wa-mafa¯tı¯h’, 164. ˙ ˙ 59. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Exile is so strong within me’, 184. 60. Isla¯h Ja¯d, ‘From salons to popular committees’, 113– 114. ˙ 61. ‘Lam yakhtalif ahad ‘ala¯ haq al-Filastı¯niyyin fı¯ al-muqa¯wama, fa-ka¯nat al˙ ˙ ˙ Intifa¯da al-tha¯niya ta‘bı¯ra¯ ‘an ira¯datihim al-wata¯niyy wa-isra¯rihim ‘ala¯ i‘a¯dat ˙ ˙ ˙ al-haya¯t ila¯ al-amal bi-sala¯m haqı¯qı¯ yuhaqqiq lahum al-huriyya wa-l-istiqla¯l. ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ La¯kin as’ila kathı¯ra turihat hawl al-wasa¯’il al-latı¯ yanbaghı¯ an takhdum ha¯dha¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ al-hadaf, wa-tujannib al-Filastı¯niyyı¯n khatar istidra¯jihim ila¯ al-halaba al˙ ˙ ‘askariyya al-latı¯ tashahha¯ha¯ Sha¯ru¯n, li-yudrija harbah ‘ala¯ al-kiya¯niyya al˙ Filastı¯niyya al-walı¯da fı¯ siya¯q al-harb al-‘a¯lamiyya ‘ala¯ al-irha¯b, mundh ada¯‘at ˙ ˙ ˙ Amrı¯ka¯ al-hudu¯d bayn mafhu¯m al-muqa¯wama wa-mafhu¯m al-irha¯b.’ ˙ ¯ Darwish, Hayrat al-‘A’id (2007), 93. ˙

212

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62. ‘Qa¯l lı¯ hal tufa¯widunı¯ al-a¯n?/ qult: ‘ala¯ ay shay’ tufa¯widunı¯ al-a¯n?/ fı¯ ha¯dih al˙ ˙ hufra al-qabr?/ qa¯l: ‘ala¯ hissatı¯ wa-‘ala¯ hissatik/. . . qult: ma¯ al-fa¯’ida?/ harab al˙ ˙ ˙˙ ˙ ˙˙ waqt minna¯/. . . ha¯huna¯ qa¯til wa-qatı¯l yana¯ma¯n fı¯ hufra wa¯hida/ wa-‘ala¯ sha‘ir ˙ ˙ a¯khar an yuta¯bi‘ ha¯dha¯ al-sina¯ryu¯/ ‘la¯ a¯khirih.’ Mahmoud Darwish, Scenario ja¯hiz [A ready script], in La¯ Uriı¯du li-Ha¯dhı¯ al-Qası¯da An Tantahı¯ [I Don’t Want ˙ This Poem to Expire] (Beirut, 2009), 60. Trans. by the author. 63. ‘Kan al-Isra’ı¯liyyu¯n yu‘amilu¯nana¯ ka-‘Arab. . . ka¯n idra¯kuna¯ idhan li-‘Uru¯batina¯.’ Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Mahmoud Darwish fı¯ hiwa¯r hamı¯m wa-sha¯mil wa˙ ˙ mutawwal li-l-Mustaqbal’ [‘Mahmoud Darwish in an intimate, comprehensive ˙ and lengthy interview to Future’], interview by Sa¯mir Abu¯ Hawwa¯sh, alMustaqbal 1383 (August 16, 2008), 12, http://www.almustaqbal.com/storiesv4. aspx?storyid¼303045 (accessed on February 20, 2012). Trans. by the author. 64. ‘Bada’at al-fikra al-Filastı¯niyya tanmu¯ ba‘d nushu¯’ Munazzamat al-Tahrı¯r al˙ ˙˙ ˙ Filastı¯niyya, wa-‘ala¯ anqa¯d ha¯dhih al-hazı¯ma al-‘Arabiyya [1967]. Ka¯n ‘ala¯ al˙ ˙ Filastı¯nı¯ an yantabih ila¯ Filastı¯niyyatih wa-an ya’khudh amrah bi-yadayh.’ ˙ ˙ Mahmoud Darwish, ibid,. 65. See the discussion in Chapter 3 about Darwish’s second station. 66. ‘Innanı¯ ash‘ur al-a¯n kama¯ lam ash‘ur min qabl bi-nabd al-turba. . . li-annanı¯ ˙ a‘ı¯sh wa-a‘mal ma‘ sha‘bı¯ al-awsa‘, li-annı¯ uda¯fi‘ ‘an al-kha¯s min mawqi‘ al˙ ‘a¯m.’ al-Naqqa¯sh, 270. 67. ‘Hajar wahid min al-jalı¯l yu‘adil alf dabba¯ba y‘lu¯ha¯ al-sada’ fı¯ sahra¯’ al-‘Arab.’ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Mahmoud Darwish, Hajar min al-Jalı¯l’ [Stone from the Galilee], in Fı¯ Wasf ˙ ˙ Ha¯latina¯: Maqa¯lat Mukhta¯ra 1975– 1985 [In our Case Description: Selected ˙ Articles 1975– 1985] (Beirut, 1987), 121. Trans. by the author. 68. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘al-Qafas’ [‘Cage’], Fı¯ Wasf Ha¯latina¯: Maqa¯lat Mukhta¯ra ˙ ˙ ˙ 1975– 1985 (Beirut, 1987), 37. Also, Shu’u¯n Filstı¯niyya 82/81 (1978), 4-6. ˙˙ Trans. by the author. 69. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Ahmad al-Za‘tar’ [Ahmad thyme] in al-Dı¯wa¯n: al-A‘ma¯l ˙ ˙ al-U¯la¯ [The Collection: First Works] Vol. 2 (Beirut, 2009), 264. originally published in the collection A‘ra¯s [Weddings]. Trans. by the author. 70. ‘Saqat al-qina¯‘ ‘Arab ata¯‘u¯ Ru¯mahum/ ‘Arab waba¯‘u¯ ru¯hahum/ ‘Arab wada¯‘u¯.’ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Originally, published in Madı¯h al-Zil al-‘A¯lı¯ (Beirut, 1983). In Mahmoud ˙ _ ¯ Darwish, al- A‘mal al-Ula¯ 2: 348– 349. 71. ‘La¯ ahad yas’al ‘an mu‘a¯qabat abta¯l Sabra¯ wa-Sha¯tiı¯a¯ raqam 2. Wa-lan yuta¯lib ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ahad bitashkı¯l lajnat tahqı¯q, wa-la¯ bi-iqa¯lat wazı¯r al-difa¯‘ al-‘Arabı¯ al-ladhı¯ ˙ ˙ turtakab al-madhbaha fı¯ zil haymanatih, li-ann lija¯n al-tahqı¯q hiya sina¯‘a ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Suhyu¯niyya li-tadlı¯l al-ra’y al-‘a¯m.’ Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Junu¯n an taku¯n ˙ ˙ Filastı¯niyya’ [‘The madness of being a Palestinian’], al-Karmel 16 (1985), 6. ˙ 72. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Yasir Arafat wa-l-bahr’, 4 – 9. ˙ 73. ‘Mundh arba‘ı¯n ‘a¯ma¯ ila¯ al-a¯n, yudfa‘ al-Filastı¯nı¯ min hijra ila¯ manfa¯, wa-min ˙ manfa¯ ila¯ sahra¯’ wa-min mu‘askar i‘tiqa¯l ila¯ madhbaha. Nahlat al-dam ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ tuhawwim hawla jurniha¯ al-awwal, la¯ tughayyir hanı¯naha¯ wa-masa¯riha¯, wa˙ ˙ ˙ la¯kin al-qatala hum al-ladhı¯n yughayyiru¯n azya¯’ahum wa-aqni‘atahum, waaslihatahum, wa-lughatahum. Wa-yatada¯khal al-ihtila¯l wa-l-irha¯b ma‘ niza¯m ˙ ˙ ˙

NOTES

74.

75.

76.

77. 78. 79. 80.

81. 82.

TO PAGES

136 –139

213

al-qam‘ al-‘Arabi- fı¯ mufa¯raqa sakhira- fı¯ muha¯wala taghyyı¯b al-Filastı¯nı¯ ‘an ˙ ˙ hulmih. Wa-ha¯kdha¯ yuwa¯jih al-Filastı¯nı¯ as’ila ukhra¯ muda¯fa ila¯ as’ilat al˙ ˙ ˙ hurriyya wa-l-istiqla¯l, yuwajih su’a¯l al-muku¯th al-insa¯nı¯ al-‘a¯dı¯ ‘ala¯ ard al˙ ˙ bashar: ila¯ ayn yadhab? Ayn yalid? Ayn yana¯m? Ayn ya‘mal? Ayn yata‘allam? Ayn yuhib? Ayn yaktub al-shi‘r? wa-Ayn yudfan?’ Mahmoud Darwish, ˙ ‘Naku¯n aw la naku¯n: ha¯dha huwa al-qara¯r’, al-Karmel 18 (1985), 216. Mahmoud Darwish, Rihlat al-Mutanabbı¯ ila¯-Masr [al-Mutanabbı¯’s voyage to ˙ ˙ Egypt], al-Dı¯wa¯n: al-A‘ma¯l al-U¯la¯ [The Collection: First Works] Vol. 2 (Beirut, 2009), 422 – 423. Originally, published in the collectioin, Hisa¯r li-Mada¯’ih al˙ ˙ ˙ Bahr [A siege for the sea eulogies] Beirut, 1984. Trans. by the author. ˙ Mahmoud Darwish, Ana¯ Yu¯suf ya¯ bı¯ [I am Yu¯suf, oh my father] al-Dı¯wa¯n: al¯ la¯ [The Collection: First Works] Vol. 3 (Beirut, 2009), 159. A‘ma¯l al-U Originally, published in the collection Ward Aqall [Fewer Roses] (Beirut, 1986), trans. by the author. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Mahmoud Darwish fı¯ hiwa¯r hamı¯m wa-sha¯mil wa˙ ˙ mutawwal li-l-Mustaqbal’, interview by Samir Abu¯ Hawwa¯hs, al-Mustaqbal ˙ 1383 (August 16, 2008), 12. Mahmoud Darwish, Khitab al-Dicta¯tu¯r al-Mawzu¯na [Rhymed Speeches of a ˙ Dictator] al-Karmel al-Jadı¯d 1 (Summer 2011), 7 – 47. Trans. by the author. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Mahmoud Darwish fı¯ hiwa¯r hamı¯m wa-sha¯mil’ al˙ ˙ Mustaqbal 1383 (August 16, 2008), 12. Hisha¯m Shara¯bı¯, al-Naqd al-Haydarı¯, 192, 195– 196. ˙ [No Author], ‘Majma‘ al-lugha fı¯ al-Qa¯hira yabkı¯ ması¯r lughat al-da¯d’ ˙ ˙ ˙ [‘Arabic Language Academy in Cairo mourn the fate of the Arabic language’] (May 25, 2007), Deewan al-‘Arab, available at: http://www. Deewanalarab.com/spip.php?article9143 (accessed on September 6, 2008). Trans. by the author. ‘A¯dil al-Usta, ‘Mahmoud Darwish and the issues of Arabic language’, conversation with the author (April 11, 2008). Ziya¯d ‘Abd al-Fatta¯h, interviewed by the author (April 12, 2008). ˙

Chapter 6 On Peace and War 1. Hala Khamis Nassar and Najat Rahman (eds), Mahmoud Darwish, exile’s poet: critical essays (2008), 11. Available at: https://books.google.co.il/books?id¼ xpih1N2HEJEC&pg ¼ PA11&hl ¼ ar&source ¼ gbs_toc_r&cad ¼ 3#v ¼ one page&q&f ¼ true. 2. Like Na¯jı¯ al-‘Alı¯, Darwish fiercely opposed the PLO’s agreement to go along with political steps under the auspices of the United States, claiming that only ‘Greatly destructive wars will yield peace.’ On this, see the following articles: Mahmoud Darwish, ‘al-Ma‘na¯ wa-l-mabna¯’ [‘Meaning and structure’], in Fı¯ Wasf Ha¯latina¯, 26 – 30; ‘Sala¯m sala¯m wa la¯ sala¯m’ [‘Peace, peace, yet no peace’], ˙ ˙ Shu’u¯n Filastı¯niyya 85 (1978), 4 – 5. Trans. by the author; ‘Amrı¯ka¯ huna¯k, ˙ Amrı¯ka¯ huna¯’ [‘America here, America there’], Shu’u¯n Filastı¯niyya 92/93 ˙

214

3.

4. 5. 6. 7.

8. 9.

10.

11. 12. 13.

NOTES

TO PAGES

139 –142

(1979), editorial. Trans. by the author; ‘Ha¯mish’ [‘Margin’], Shu’u¯n Filastı¯niyya 89 (1979), 4 – 6; ‘La¯ atada¯yaq al-batta bi-wuju¯d juz’ Yahu¯dı¯ ˙ ˙ fiyya’ [‘Not at all bothered by the presence of the Jewish part within me’], interview by Libe´ration (July 18, 2001), trans. from French by Muhammad al˙ Mazdı¯wı¯, Mahmoud Darwish Foundation, http://www.mahmouddarwish.ps/ atemplate.php?id¼13 (accessed on April 16, 2012). Trans. by the author. ‘Fa-khruju¯min ardina¯/ min barrina¯/min bahrina¯/ min qamhina¯ min milhna¯, ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ min jurhina¯/ min kul shay’, wa-ukhruju¯ min dhikra¯ya¯t al-dha¯kira/ ayyuha¯ al˙ ¯ ¯ ma¯rru¯n bayn al-kalima¯t al-‘a¯bira.’ Darwish, ‘Abiru¯n fı¯ Kala¯m ‘Abir 53 (Beirut, 1994). Originally published in 1988 in newspapers. For example, Passers between passing words [in Hebrew], trans. by Siha¯m Da¯’u¯d, Maariv (March 5, 1988), B7. For the four Hebrew translations of the poem see Iton 77/348: 23 – 27. About the differences in the versions see the discussion in the Introduction. Dayan, ‘The national poet’, 11. Heda Boshas, ‘Ha-sipur shel ha-shir’ [‘The story of the poem’], Haaretz (March 29, 1988), 13. Trans. from Hebrew by the author. ‘Amos Kenan, ‘Tshuva l-Mahmoud Darwish’ [‘A Response to Mahmoud Darwish’], Yediot Acharonot (March 25, 1988), 17. Trans. from Hebrew by the author. Re’uven Snı¯r, ‘Mahmoud Darwish, ha-shir v-anahnu’ [‘Mahmoud Darwish, the ˙ ˙ Poem, and Us’], Haaretz (April 6, 1988), 13. Trans. from Hebrew by the author. ‘A‘lan al-Isra’ı¯liyyu¯n al-rasmiyyı¯n alharb ‘ala¯ al-qası¯da al-latı¯ lam tuktab ba‘d ˙ ˙ wa-‘ala¯ al-qası¯da al-latı¯ kutibat. laqad hafaru¯ fı¯ha¯ bahra¯ li-yushı¯ru¯ ila¯ annah ˙ ˙ ˙ maqbarat al-Yahu¯d! Fa-hal balagh al-istishra¯q al-mukha¯bara¯tı¯ al-Isra¯’ı¯lı¯ ha¯dha¯ al-mustawa¯ al-‘a¯lı¯ min al-jahl, li-yattahimanı¯ bi-annı¯ ad‘u¯ ila¯ ramy al-Yahu¯d fı¯ al-bahr, ‘indama¯ uTa¯libuhum bi-l-jala¯’ ‘an ardina¯ al-muhtalla?’ Darwish and ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ al-Qa¯sim, al-Rasa¯’il (Haifa, 1990), 167. ‘Ha¯dhih qası¯da lam tuktab ka-qası¯da. Hiya qası¯da kutibat bi-dafi‘ min al˙ ˙ ˙ ghadab al-la¯ muhdu¯d, ‘indama¯ sha¯hadt fi al-tilifizyu¯n al-Faransı¯ kayf yaqu¯m ˙ ˙ junu¯d Isra’ı¯liyyu¯n bi-tahtı¯m ‘iza¯m fitya Filastı¯niyyin bi-l-hija¯ra. . . katabt ˙˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ dha¯lk al-nass ka-ihtija¯j, kama¯ law ka¯nt hajara¯, la¯kinnaha¯ lam tuwajjah did ˙ ˙ ˙˙ ˙ ˙ al-Yahu¯d al-Isra’ı¯liyyı¯n, innaha¯ did al-muhtallı¯n. ha¯dhih qası¯dat Intifada, wa˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ hiya al-sawt al-jama¯‘ı¯ li-sha‘b gha¯dib wa-muqa¯win li-l-ihtila¯l, wa-min al˙ ˙ ˙ tabı¯‘ı¯ an yuta¯lib al-muhtal bi-l-insiraf.’ ‘A¯dil al-Usta¯, ‘Takhlı¯s al-shi‘r mimma¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ lays shi‘ra¯’, Dı¯wa¯n al-‘Arab (2006), http://www.Deewanalarab.com/spip.php? article3208 (accessed on June 30, 2011). ‘Abd al-Barı¯ ‘Atwa¯n, ‘Kesem ha-shivah’ [‘The magic of return’], Yediot ˙ ˙ Acharonot (November 6, 1987), 41. Trans. from Hebrew by the author. Kenan, ‘A response to Mahmoud Darwish’, Yediot Acharonot (March 25, 1988), 17. In her autobiographical book Fadwa¯ Tu¯qa¯n wrote after meeting Darwish in ˙ 1987: ‘I met him [. . .] in Tunisia [. . .] A drama was raging in the PLO, and there were those who blamed the Fatah for the murder of the Palestinian artist, Na¯j al-‘Al. Likewise, there was a threat [from the side of the PFLP] to murder

NOTES TO PAGES 142 –146

14. 15. 16.

17.

18. 19. 20. 21.

22. 23. 24. 25.

26. 27.

28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34.

215

Mahmoud Darwish in revenge. This moved the organization […] to summon him from where he was living in Paris, to Tunisia, where it would be possible to guard him and to preserve his precious life.’ Tu¯qa¯n, al-Riha al-As‘ab, 177–178. ˙ ˙ ˙ Dayan, ‘The national poet’, 13. ¯ Mahmoud Darwish, al-Ard [The land] in al-A‘ma¯l al-Ula¯ 2: 286. Originally ˙ published in A‘ra¯s [Wedding] Beirut 1977, 283–299. Trans. by the author. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Min dhikraya¯t 5 Huzayra¯n 1967 – al-farah ‘indama¯ ˙ ˙ yakhu¯n’ [‘Memories of 5 June: joy when betrayed’], Shu’u¯n Filastı¯niyy 11 (1972), ˙ 27–36. Trans. by the author. In addition, see his article, ‘Qabl al-ziya¯ra waba‘d al-za¯’ir’ [‘Prior to the visit and after visiting’], in the collection Fı¯ Wasf Ha¯latina¯ (1987), 20 – 25. ˙ ˙ Originally published in al-safı¯r, 1977. Trans by the author. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘al-Qafas’, in Fı¯ Wasf Ha¯latina¯, 37; and ‘Rabı¯‘ al-dicta¯tu¯r, ˙ ˙ ˙ kharı¯f al-ghadab’ [‘Spring of a dictator, fall of anger’], al-Karmel 8 (1987), 4–13. ˙ Darwish, Fı¯ Wasf Ha¯latina¯, 30. ˙ ˙ Darwish, ‘Rabı¯‘ al-dicta¯tu¯r, kharı¯f al-ghadab’, 5. ˙ ‘Bidu¯n hazı¯ma ‘askariya talhaq bi-ı¯sra¯’ı¯l la¯ yumkin an tuhdith taghyı¯ra¯t ˙ ˙ jawhariyya da¯khil al-mujtama‘ al-isra¯’ı¯li’. Mahmoud Darwish, Yawmiyya¯t alHuzn al-‘A¯dı¯ (Beirut, 2007), 118. Originally published in 1973. ˙ Niza¯r Qabba¯nı¯, al-A‘ma¯l al-Siya¯siyya al-Ka¯mila, vol. 3 (Beirut, 1993a), 325 – 331. Darwish, ‘Wathı¯qat i‘laa¯ al-istiqla¯l’, 3 – 5. al-Hu¯ra¯nı¯ (August 10, 2007). ˙ The Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine, headed by George Habash, did express reservations. However, in light of the circumstances of the ˙ first Intifada, and for the sake of national unity, the faction decided to accept the majority decision. See: Samı¯h Shbı¯b, ‘al-Dawra al-tasi‘a ‘ashra li-l-majlis al˙ watanı¯ al-Filastı¯nı¯’, Shu’u¯n Filastı¯niyya¯ 188 (November 1988), 92–94. ˙ ˙ ˙ ‘Abd al-Fatta¯h (December 12, 2007). Rashid Khalidi, ‘Remembering Mahmoud Darwish’, Journal of Palestine Studies 38 (2007 – 2008). Also, available at: http://www.palestine-studies.org/ jps/fulltext/42080 (accessed on July 4, 2015). Darwish, al-A‘ma¯l al-U¯la¯ 2: 392. Mahmoud Darwish, ‘Hajar al-wa‘y’, in ‘A¯biru¯n fı¯ Kala¯m ‘A¯bir, 20. ˙ al-Hourani (August 10, 2007). al-Usta, ‘Takhlis al-shi‘r mima laysa shi‘ra’. ¯ la¯ 2: 390– 392. Darwish, al- A‘ma¯l al-U al-U¯sta, ‘Ishka¯liyat al-sha¯‘ir wa-l-siya¯si fı¯l-adab al-Filastı¯nı¯’. ‘Ikhtiya¯ra¯tı¯ al-siyasiyya tamna‘unı¯ ahya¯na¯ min qawl kul shay’. Wa-la¯ aktub ˙ illa¯ hı¯n aku¯n musta‘idda¯ li-an aqu¯l kul shay’. Huna¯lik ahya¯na¯ daru¯ra¯t ˙ ˙ ˙ siya¯siyya¯ wa-mutatallaba¯t dibluma¯siyya la taj‘al al-insa¯n yatasarraf kama¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ yashtahı¯. Adtarr marra¯t an askut, wa-marra¯t ukhra¯ adtarr fı¯ha¯ ila¯ an abtasim ˙˙ ˙˙ fı¯ wajh ‘aduwwı¯ wa-usa¯fihh. wa-ajid marra¯t ukhra¯ tarı¯qa¯ wasata¯ min ajl ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ istimra¯r al-haraka al-siyasiyya, wa-la¯kin fı¯ al-adab fa-inn dha¯lik ghayr ja’iz ˙

216

35. 36.

37. 38.

39.

40. 41.

42. 43. 44. 45.

46.

47. 48.

NOTES

TO PAGES

146 –149

itla¯qa¯. . . ‘ala¯ al-‘amal al-fannı¯ an yaku¯n sa¯diqa¯.’ ‘A¯dil Usta, ‘Mahmoud ˙ ˙ Darwish, zawahir salbiyya fı¯ ması¯ratihi al-shi‘riyya’, al- collectionPalestinians ˙ in the oin title? al-Najah University website (1995), http://www.najah.edu/ node/2846 (accessed on December 18, 2011). Shbı¯b, ‘al-Dawra al-ta¯si‘a ‘ashra li-l-majlis al-watanı¯ al-Filastı¯nı¯’, 92 – 94. ˙ ˙ Anton Shammas also translated hudna as ‘truce’. See: Mahmoud Darwish, Truce with the Mongols against the oak grove [in Hebrew], trans. from Arabic by Anton Shammas, Hadarim 10 (1993), 84–86. Mahmoud Darwish, Reconciliation with the Mongols against the oak grove [in Hebrew], translated from Arabic by Matti Peled, Al Ha-Mishmar (April 26, 1991), 19. ‘Kam aradna¯ al-sala¯m li-sayyidina¯ fı¯ al-a‘alı¯ . . . kam aradna¯ al-sala¯m. . . liawla¯d a‘da¯’ina fı¯ makhabi’ihim, li-l-maghu¯l, ‘indama¯ yadhhabu¯n ila¯ layl zawja¯tihim, / ‘indama¯ yarhalu¯n/ ‘an bara¯‘im azha¯rina¯ al-a¯n, ‘nna¯ wa‘an waraq ˙ al-sindya¯n.’ Mahmoud Darwish, Hudna ma’ al-Maghu¯l ama¯m ghabat al-sindya¯n [Truce with the Mongols by the holm oak forest] in al-A‘ma¯l al-U¯la¯ 3: 207 – 208. Originally published in Beirut, 1990. al-Usta, ‘Mahmoud Darwish, zawa¯hir salbiyyah fı¯ ması¯ratihi al-shi’riyyah’ ˙ [‘Negative phenomena in his poetry’], al-Najah University, 1995, http://www. najah.edu/node/2846 (accessed on 18 December, 2011). Trans. by the author. Darwish and al-Qa¯sim, 38. Muhammad Mı¯‘a¯rı¯, ‘The al-Ard movement’, interview by Muna Abu Eid (May ˙ ˙ 5, 2008). See also the discussion in Chapter 2 about Darwish and the al-Ard ˙ movement. Darwish, Mutata¯liya¯t li-zama¯n ’a¯khar [Sequences to another time] Trans. by the Author, in al-A‘ma¯l al-Jadı¯da, 425. Darwish, al-A‘ma¯l al-Jadı¯da, 503, 508. Darwish, Fı¯ Hadrat aL-Ghiya¯b, 14– 15, 17. ˙ ˙ ‘Wa idha¯ kunna¯ bi-sadad sawq al-amthila fa-mitha¯l al-sha¯‘ir Mahmoud darwish ˙ ‘ala¯ al-sa‘ı¯d al-‘Arabı¯ la¯ yahta¯j ila¯ ithba¯t, fa-huwa al-shuyu¯‘ı¯ sa¯biqa¯, wa-l-ma¯dih ˙ ˙ ˙ li-‘Arafa¯t la¯hiqa¯, wa-l-muma¯li’ li-Sadda¯m Husayn wa-siya¯sa¯tih al-karithiyya ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙˙ fima ba‘d. wa-ya laytah qad iktafa¯ bi-mawhibatih al-shi‘riyya al-kabı¯ra bi-du¯n talwı¯thaha¯ bi-mawaqif siyasiyya ahrajathu fı¯ma¯ ba‘d, bi-du¯n shakk.’ Hatif ˙ Jana¯bı¯, ‘al- ‘Amaliyya al-ibda¯‘iyya bayn istibda¯d al-‘aql wa’izdiwa¯jiyyat almuthaqaf al-‘Arabı¯’, al-Hewar al-Mutamadden (October 19, 2006), http://www. ahewar.org/debat/show.art.asp?aid¼81192 (accessed on January 16, 2012). Ibid. Also: George Tara¯bı¯shı¯, al-Muthaqafu¯n al-‘Arab wa-l-Tura¯th: al-Tahlı¯l ˙ ˙ al-Nafsı¯ li-‘Isa¯b Jama¯‘ı¯ (Beirut, 1991); Nazariyyat al-’Aql (Beirut, 1994); and ˙ ˙ ’Ishka¯liayt al-‘Aql al-‘Arabı¯ (Beirut, 1998) Mahmoud Darwish, Yawmiyya¯t jurh Filastı¯nı¯ [Diary of Palestinian wound], in al˙ ¯ ˙ A‘ma¯l al-U¯la¯ 1: 361; and al-A‘ma¯l al-U la¯ 2: 377; see also: Fı¯ Hadrat al-Ghiya¯b, 90. ˙ ˙ Mahmoud Darwish, ‘La atadayaq al-batta bi-wuju¯d juz’ Yahu¯dı¯ fiyya’, ˙ interview in Libe´ration (July 18, 2001), trans. from French by Muhammad al˙ Mazdı¯wı¯, Mahmoud Darwish Foundation, http://www.mahmouddarwish.ps/ atemplate.php?id¼13 (accessed on April 16, 2012).

NOTES

TO PAGES

150 –153

217

49. Darwish, al-A‘ma¯l al-Jadı¯da, 198. 50. On the development of the PLO’s idea of the one-state-solution, see Ibra¯hı¯m Abra¯sh, al-Dawla al-Filastı¯niyya fı¯ al-Muwa¯thı¯q al-Wataniyya (February 23, ˙ ˙ 2008) http://www.ahewar.org/debat/show.art.asp?aid¼ 125768 (accessed on April 20, 2012). 51. Rami Batish, ‘In Madrid we trusted’, Common Ground News (January 29, 2007), http://www.commongroundnews.org/article.php?id¼20295&lan ¼ he&sid ¼ 0&sp ¼ 0 (accessed on June 16, 2011). 52. Mahmoud Darwish, If I Were Another (New York, 2009), 62. Trans. by Fady Joudah. Another translations are available in: Mahmoud Darwish, The Adam of Two Edens, trans. by Daniel Moore (Syracuse, NY, 2000), 42. Originally, published in Ahad ‘Ashara Kawkaba¯ ‘Ala¯ al Mashhad al-Andalusı¯ (Beirut, 1992). ˙ 53. Mahmoud Darwish, Li-l-haqı¯qa wajha¯n wa-l-thalj aswad [The truth is two-faced ˙ and the snow is black] (1992), in al-Dı¯wa¯n: al-A‘ma¯l al-U¯la¯ [The Collection: First Works] Vol. 3 (Beirut, 2009), 281– 282. 54. Mahmoud Darwish, Man ana¯ ba’d layl al-gharı¯ba [Who am I after the night of the ¯ la¯ [The Collection: First Works] strange woman?] in al-Dı¯wa¯n: al-A‘ma¯l al-U Vol. 3 (Beirut, 2009), 283–284. Originally, published in the collection Ahad ˙ ‘Ashara Kawkaba¯ ‘Ala¯ al-Mashhad al-Andalusı¯ [Eleven Planets for the End of the Andalusian Vision] (Beirut, 1992). Trans. by the author. 55. Mahmoud Darwish, Ana¯ wa¯hid min mulu¯k al-niha¯ya [I am one of the kings of the ˙ end] in al-Dı¯wa¯n: al-A‘ma¯l al-U¯la¯ [The Collection: First Works] Vol. 3 (Beirut, 2009), 277 –278. Originally published in the collection Ahad ‘Ashara ˙ Kawkaba¯ ‘Ala¯ al-Mashhad al-Andalusı¯ [Eleven Planets for the End of the Andalusian Vision] (Beirut, 1992). Trans. by the author. 56. ‘Aghlaqu¯ al-mashad/ ta¯rikı¯n lana¯ fusha li-l-ruju‘ ila¯ ghayrina¯ na¯qisı¯n. . . ˙ ˙ aghlaqu¯ al-mashad/ intasaru¯/ ‘abaru¯ amsana¯ kullah. . . ghayyaru¯ jarasa al-waqt ˙ wa-intasaru¯/. . . lam yaqul ahad li-Imri’ al-Qays: ma¯dha¯ sana‘t bina¯/ wa˙ ˙ ˙ binafsik? Idhhab ‘ala¯ darb/. . . Qaysar, wahdak, wahdak wahdak/ wa-truk lana¯, ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ha¯huna¯ lughatak.’ Mahmoud Darwish, al-A‘ma¯l al-Jadı¯da (Beirut, 2004), 421 – 424. Originally published in Lima¯dha¯ Tarakt al-Hisa¯n Wahı¯da¯ (Beirut, ˙˙ ˙ 1995). Trans. by the author. 57. Sinan Antoon pointed out the political-allegorical meaning of the poem in: Sinan Antoon, ‘al-Naqd al-ramzı¯ li-ittifa¯q OSLO ‘ind Mahmoud Darwish’ [‘Mahmoud Darwish’s allegorical critique of the OSLO Accords’], Majallat alDira¯sa¯t al-Filastı¯niyya 51 (2002), 114– 122. ˙ 58. ‘A¯dil al-Usta, Ishka¯liyyat al-sha¯‘ir wa-l-siya¯sı¯ fı¯ al-adab al-Filastı¯nı¯’ [‘The ˙ ˙ dilemma of the poet and politician in Palestinian literature’], al-Qudslana¯ (2006), http://alqudslana.com/index.php?action¼ article&id ¼ 78 (accessed on June 16, 2011). Trans. by the author. 59. ‘Mahma¯ yukhayyib al-Isra¯’ı¯liyyı¯n amalana¯ bi-him, ‘alayna¯ al-la¯ natakhalla¯ ‘an fikrat al-sala¯m. . . fa-l-tawajuh al-Isra¯’ı¯lı¯ nahw al-yamı¯n aw nahw alwasat la¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ yalghı¯ daru¯rat an yubqı¯ al-filastı¯niyu¯n ‘ala¯ qanat ma‘ ay I¯sra¯’ı¯lı¯ wa-ma‘ ay haraka ˙ ˙ ˙ ¯Isra¯’ı¯liyya taqtarib min fahm al-haq al-Filastı¯nı¯ bi-shakl akbar. . . inn ha¯dhayn ˙ ˙

218

60. 61.

62.

63.

64. 65.

66.

NOTES

TO PAGES

153 –158

huma¯ mujtama‘an la¯ bud lahuma¯ min al-‘aysh ahaduhuma¯ ma‘ al-a¯khar fı¯ ˙ a¯khir al-amr. La¯ yumkin an natasawwar mustaqbala¯ li-l-sira¯‘ al-Filastı¯nı¯ al˙ ˙ ˙ I¯sra¯’ı¯lı¯ min du¯n an yaku¯n huna¯k naw‘ min al-ta‘a¯yush wa-l-hiwa¯r bayn al˙ mujtama‘ayn. . .min hayth al-mabda’ la¯ nastatı¯‘ an narfud ay hiwa¯r yufı¯d tatwı¯r ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ wa‘ı¯ al-a¯khar bi-huqu¯qina¯. Ha¯dha¯ mabda’. Amma¯ law kunt qa¯dira¯ ana¯ shakhsiya¯ ˙ ˙ aw qa¯bila¯ li-l-dukhu¯l fı¯ ha¯dha¯ al-hiwa¯r, ha¯dha¯ su’a¯l a¯khar.’ See also: Mahmoud ˙ Darwish, ‘Mahmoud Darwish fı¯ al-siya¯sa wa-l-shi’r wa-tajribat al-mawt’, interview by Giselle Khuri, 13. Giselle Khuri, ibid., 10, 11, 14, 21. ‘La¯ yumkin an yatimm sala¯m haqı¯qı¯ min du¯n inja¯z haq al-‘awda, min du¯n an ˙ ˙ natahaddath ‘an raqam, ‘an ‘adad. . . lakin al-muhim ann al-‘awda ka-mabda’ ˙ haq muqaddas.’ Ibid., 21. ˙ ‘Man la¯ yurı¯d Filastı¯n kullaha¯? Al-su’a¯l hal ha¯dha¯ mumkin? Al-mushkila ˙ laysat bi-ragha¯ba¯tı¯, al-mushkila hiya fı¯ al-waqi‘ wa-‘ala¯qa¯tı¯ bi-mawa¯zı¯n alquwa¯. . . huna¯k mashru¯‘ inqa¯dh ma¯ yumkin inqa¯dhuh mima¯ tabaqqa¯ min Filastı¯n, wa-bi-l-ta¯lı¯ yajib an aku¯n ‘a¯qila¯ wa-‘aqla¯niyya¯ wa-hakı¯ma¯ wa-la¯ ˙ ˙ uta¯lib bi-kathı¯r yamna‘unı¯ min al-qalı¯l.’ Giselle Khuri, ibid. ˙ This view, which sees the solution to the Palestinian – Israeli conflict in the framework of one state, gained many proponents among political activists and academics in Israel. See, for example, Salma¯n Natu¯r and As’ad Ghanim, et al. (eds), Majalat al-Adab 11/12 (2009), http://www.safsaf.org/11-2009/adab/ dawreyat/aladab-lb.htm (accessed on December 1, 2011); Muhammad Mı¯‘a¯rı¯, ˙ ‘Narfud hal dawlatayn li-sha‘bayn’, Kul al-‘Arab (February 4, 2009), http:// ˙ ˙ www.alarab.net/Article/115404 (accessed on July 1, 2015); Sa’eb ‘Ariqa¯t: Ahad khiya¯ra¯tina¯ al-takhallı¯ ‘an muta¯ba‘at hal al-dawlatayn wa-l-‘amal badal ˙ ˙ minh li-qiya¯m dawla thuna¯’iyyat al-qawmiyya ‘ala¯ ard Filastı¯n al-ta¯rı¯khiyya’, ˙ ˙ al-Quds (February 26, 2010), http://www.alquds.com/news/article/view/id/ 154873 (accessed on December 1, 2011). Mahmoud Darwish, Athar al-Fara¯sha, 171. ‘Nahn sukka¯n ha¯dha¯/ al-tarı¯q al-tawı¯l ila¯ hadaf yahmil isma¯ / wahı¯da¯: ila¯ ayn’? ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Darwish, Darwish, al-Tarı¯q ila¯ ayn [The road to where?], in Athar al-Fara¯sha ˙ (Beirut, 2008), 141– 142. See: Asher Susser, Israel, Jordan, and Palestine: The Two-State Imperative (Waltham, MA, 2012), Ch. 4; Zayya¯d Abu¯ Zayya¯d, ‘Nakba and independence: two sides of the same coin’, Palestine– Israel Journal, vol. 15 nos 1 & 2 (2008), http://www.pij.org/details.php?id¼ 1155.

Conclusion 1. Said, Representations, 11, 85-102, 121. 2. ‘Filast¯ın hiya Andalus qa¯bila li-l-isti‘a¯da.’ Darwish and al-Qa¯sim, 46. ˙ 3. ‘Autillu ‘ala¯ al-mufrada¯t allatı¯ inqaradat fı¯ lisa¯n al-‘Arab.’ Mahmoud Darwish, ˙ ˙ Ara¯ shabahı¯ qa¯dima min ba’ı¯d, published in the collection lima¯dha¯ Tarakt al Hisa¯n Wahı¯da¯ (Beirut, 1995), in al-A‘ma¯l al-Jadı¯da (Beirut, 2004), 279. ˙˙ ˙

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219

4. Darwish and al-Qa¯sim, 44. 5. ‘An yaslakhu¯ ‘an ha¯dhih al-ard ismaha¯ wa-an yushakkiku¯ bi-huwiyyat asha¯biha¯ ˙ ˙˙ al-asliyyı¯n.’ Darwish, ‘Ana¯ fı¯ al-Karmel la¯ atamanna¯ niha¯ya¯ ahla¯ wa-ajmal ˙ ˙ wa-akmal’, al-Jabha.org (July 17, 2007), http://www.aljabha.org/?i¼28169 (accessed on February 26, 2012).

Table 3

Transliteration from Hebrew to English

1. http://www.loc.gov/catdir/cpso/romanization/hebrew.pdf; http://library.princeton.edu/departments/tsd/katmandu/hebrew/trheb.html.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

All English translations of titles from Arabic and Hebrew (provided in square brackets) are by the author.

Arabic Sources ‘Abd al-Wahha¯b, ‘Azmı¯, ‘Sanawa¯t Mahmoud Darwish fı¯ al-Qa¯hira’ [‘Mahmoud Darwish’s years in Cairo’], al-Kalima 21 (September, 2008), Mu’assasat Mahmoud Darwish, http://www.mahmouddarwish.ps/userfiles/azme-abd.pdf (accessed on February 18, 2012). ‘Abd Rabbih Ya¯sir, ‘al-Mahatta¯t al-mudı¯’a li Arafat wa-l-thawra kutibat bi-hibr ˙ ˙bright ˙ ˙ ˙ in ˙ Mahmoud Darwish’ [‘The stations of Arafat and the revolution written the ink of Mahmoud Darwish’], al-Quds (November 22, 2008), http://www. alquds.com/print/118478 (accessed on February 20, 2012). Abu Eid, Muna, ‘Shu‘ara¯’ fı¯ hadrat al-ra’ı¯s; Natan Alterman wa-Mahmoud Darwish’ ˙ the President: Natan Alterman and Mahmoud [‘Poets in the presence˙ of Darwish’], al-Quds al-‘Arabı¯ (April 28, 2011), http://alquds.co.uk/index.asp? fname¼today\28qpt897.htm&arc¼data\2011\04\04 – 28\28qpt897.htm (accessed on June 30, 2011). —— ‘Fı¯ al-dhikra¯ al-tha¯litha li-rahı¯lihi: Mahmoud Darwish bayn al-dhikra¯ wa-l˙ dha¯kira’ [‘On the third anniversary of his death: Mahmoud Darwish between anniversary and memory’], al-Quds al-‘Arabı¯ (August 8, 2011), http://www. alquds.co.uk/index.asp?fname¼data\2011\08\08– 08\08qpt899.htm (accessed on April 2, 2012). —— ‘As’ilat al-thaqa¯fa al-Filastı¯niyya; ‘Ala¯ ha¯mish al-maqa¯l: ‘indama¯ tazu¯l al-furu¯q ˙ ya siya¯dat al-ra’ı¯s’ [‘The Questions of Palestinian culture: on the sidelines of the article ‘When differences disappear, Mr. President’’], al-Ayya¯m (December 1, 2011), http://www.alayyam.com/article.aspx?did¼163224&date¼4/11/2011 (accessed on April 2, 2012). —— ‘Bayn al-dawla al-wa¯hida wa-hal al-dawlatayn’ [‘Between the one and two state ˙ ¯ (August ˙ solution’], al-Quds al-‘Arabı 10, 2012), http://www.alquds.co.uk/index. asp?fname¼today%5C10qpt898.htm&arc¼data%5C2012%5C08%5C08 – 10%5C10qpt898.htm (accessed on September 2, 2012).

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al-‘Alawı¯, Ha¯dı¯, ‘Naskh al-sharı¯‘a fı¯ al-tura¯th al-Shı¯‘iı¯’ [‘The abrogation of religious law in the Shi‘a heritage’], al-Karmel 89 (1979), 69 –86. ‘Allu¯sh, Ibra¯hı¯m, ‘Mura¯ji‘u¯ al-ta¯rı¯kh wa-tasaqut Adonis, Edward Said, wa˙ of Adonis, Edward Said, and ˙ fall Mahmoud Darwish’ [‘History review, and the Mahmoud Darwish’], Startimes (August 26, 2006), http://www.startimes.com/f. aspx?t=2304550 (accessed February 11, 2016). Antoon, Sinan, ‘al-Naqd al-ramzı¯ li ittifa¯q OSLO ‘ind Mahmoud Darwish’ [‘Mahmoud Darwish’s allegorical critique of the OSLO Accord’], Majallat alDira¯sa¯t al-Filastı¯niyya 51 (2002), 114– 122. ‘Ariqa¯t, Sa’ib, ‘Ahad˙ khia¯ratina¯ al-takhallı¯ ‘an mutaba‘at hal al-dawlatayn wa-l-‘amal ˙ badal minh ˙ li-qiya¯m dawla thuna¯’iyyat al-qawmiyya ‘ala¯ ard Filastı¯n al˙ ˙ solution’], tarı¯khiyya’ [‘One of our choices to abandon the follow-up of two-state al-Quds (February 26, 2010). Available at: http://www.alquds.com/news/article/ view/id/154873 (accessed on December 1, 2011). ‘Atwa¯n, ‘Abd al-Ba¯rı¯, ‘Mahmoud Darwish al-ladhı¯ ‘araft’ [‘Mahmoud Darwish, who ˙ I knew’], Mahmoud Darwish Foundation (August 11, 2008), http://www. mahmouddarwish.ps/atemplate.php?id¼163 (accessed on February 16, 2012). Darwish, Mahmoud, ‘‘An al-Shi’r’ [‘On poetry’], in Mahmoud Darwish, al-Dı¯wa¯n: al-A‘ma¯l al-U¯la¯ [The Collection: First Works] Vol. 1 (Beirut, 2009), 63. Originally published in Mahmoud Darwish, Awra¯q al-Zaytu¯n [The Olive Leaves] (Beirut, 1964). —— A¯shiq min Filastı¯n [A lover from Palestine], in Mahmoud Darwish, al-Dı¯wa¯n: ˙ al-A‘ma¯l al-U¯la¯ [The Collection: First Works] Vol. 1 (Beirut, 2009) 85 – 172. Originally published in Beirut, 1966. ¯ la¯ —— Mawwa¯l [A folk melody], in Mahmoud Darwish, al-Dı¯wa¯n: al-A‘ma¯l al-U [The Collection: First Works] Vol. 1 (Beirut, 2009), 191– 194. Originally published in Mahmoud Darwish, A¯khir al-Layl [At the End of Night] (Beirut, 1967). —— ‘Min dhikraya¯t 5 Huzayra¯n 1967—al-farah ‘indama¯ yakhu¯n’ [‘Memories of 5 ˙ ı¯niyy 11 (1972), 27 – 36. June 1967: joy when˙ betrayed’], Shu’u¯n Filast ˙ a¯n drinks coffee in the cafeteria], —— Sarha¯n yashrab al-qahwa fi al-kafa¯tirya¯ [Sarh ˙ ˙¯ la, [The Collection: First Works] in Mahmoud Darwish, al-Dı¯wa¯n: al-A‘ma¯l al-U ¯ Vol. 2 (Beirut, 2009), 95 – 110. Originally published in Mahmoud Darwish, Uhibbuk aw la¯ Uhibbuk [I Love You or do not Love You] (Beirut, 1972). —— ˙‘al-Watan bayn˙ al-dha¯kira wa-l-haqı¯ba’ [‘Homeland between memory and ˙ suitcase’],˙ Shu’u¯n Filastı¯niyya 12 (1972), 45 – 54. ˙ ¯ la¯ [The —— al-Ard [The land], in Mahmoud Darwish, al-Dı¯wa¯n: al-A‘ma¯l al-U ˙ First Works] Vol. 2 (Beirut, 2009), 286. Originally published in Collection: Mahmoud Darwish, A‘ra¯s [Wedding] (Beirut 1977), 283–299. —— Ana¯ al-A¯khar [I am the other], al-Shira¯‘, 18 (1980), 42 –43. —— Hisa¯r li-Mada¯’ih al-Bahr [A siege for the sea eulogies], in Mahmoud Darwish, ˙ ˙ ¯wan: al-A‘ma ˙ l al-U¯˙la [The Collection: First Works] Vol. 2 (Beirut, 2009). al-Dı ¯ ¯ ¯ Originally published in Beirut, 1984. —— Ta’ammula¯t sarı¯‘a fı¯ madı¯na qadı¯ma wa-jamı¯la ‘ala¯ sahil al-Bahr al-Abyad ˙ ˙ al-Mutawassit [Rapid musings on an old and beautiful city˙ on the Mediterranean ˙ coast], in Mahmoud Darwish, al-Dı¯wa¯n: al-A‘ma¯l al-U¯la¯ [The Collection: First Works] Vol. 2 (Beirut, 2009), 462, 466. Originally published in Mahmoud Darwish, Hisa¯r li-Mada’ih al-Bahr [A Siege for the Sea Eulogies] ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ (Beirut, 1984).

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—— Dha¯kira li-l-Nisya¯n [Memory for Forgetfulness] (al-Quds, 1990), 125. Originally published in ‘al-Zama¯n: Bayru¯t. al-maka¯n: A¯b’ [‘Time: Beirut, place: August’], alKarmel 21/22 (1986), 4–96. —— ‘al-Qafas’ [‘Cage’], in Mahmoud Darwish, Fı¯ Wasf Ha¯latina¯: Maqa¯la¯t Mukhta¯ra ˙ ˙ 1975–1985] ˙ [In our Case Description: Selected Articles 1975–1985 (Beirut, 1987), 36–39. Originally published in Shu’u¯n Filstı¯niyya 82/81 (1978), 4–6. —— ‘Qabl al-ziya¯ra waba‘d al-za¯’ir’ [‘Prior ˙˙to the visit and after visiting’], in Mahmoud Darwish, Fı¯ Wasf Ha¯latina¯ 1975 –1985 (Beirut 1987), 20 – 25. ˙ ¯r,˙ 1977. Originally published in al-safı —— ‘Ghaza¯l yubashshir bi-zilza¯l’ [‘A gazelle harbingers an earthquake’], in Mahmoud Darwish, Fı¯ Wasf Ha¯latina¯: Maqa¯lat Mukhta¯ra 1975– 1985 [In our ˙ ˙ 1975– 1985] (Beirut, 1987), 78 – 87. Case Description: Selected Articles —— ‘Mu‘ı¯n Bsı¯su¯ la¯ yajlis ‘ala¯ maq’ad al-ghiya¯b’ [‘Mu‘ı¯n Bsı¯su¯ does not sit on the seat of absence’], in Mahmoud Darwish, Fı¯ Wasf Ha¯latina¯: Maqa¯lat ˙ Mukhta¯ra 1975– 1985 [In our Case Description: Selected˙ Articles 1975– 1985] (Beirut, 1987), 97 – 102. —— ‘Hajar min al-Jalı¯l’ [‘Stone from the Galilee’], in Mahmoud Darwish, Fı¯ Wasf ˙ Ha¯˙latina¯: Maqa¯lat Mukhta¯ra 1975– 1985 [In our Case Description: Selected Articles ˙1975– 1985] (Beirut, 1987), 117– 123. —— ‘al-Ma‘na¯ wa-l-mabna¯’ [‘Meaning and structure’], in Mahmoud Darwish, Fı¯ Wasf Ha¯latina¯: Maqa¯lat Mukhta¯ra 1975 –1985 [In our Case Description: Selected ˙ ˙ 1975– 1985] (Beirut, 1987), 26 – 30. Articles —— ‘Wathı¯qat i‘la¯n al-istiqla¯l al-Filastı¯nı¯’ [‘Document of Palestinian Declaration ˙ 188 (1988), 3 – 5. of Independence’], Shu’u¯n Filastı¯niyya ˙ —— ‘Hajar al-wa‘y’ [‘The stone of awareness’], al-Karmel 27 (1988), 4 – 12. ˙ —— ‘Bayt, thu¯m, basal, ma¯‘iz wa-mafa¯tı¯h’ [‘House, garlic, goat, onions, and keys’]. ˙ 33 (1989), 162–168. ˙ al-‘Awı¯t, al-Karmel Interview by ‘Aqil ˙ ¯ al-Mashhad al-Andalusy [Eleven Planets for the End —— Ahad ‘Ashara Kawkaba¯ ‘Ala ˙ Andalusian Vision] (Beirut, 1992). of the —— Fı¯ al-masa¯’ al-akhı¯r ’ala¯ ha¯dhih al-ard [At the last evening on this land], in ¯ la¯ [The Collection: First Works] Mahmoud Darwish, al-Dı¯wa¯n: al-A‘ma¯˙ l al-U Vol. 3 (Beirut, 2009), 271– 272. Originally published in Mahmoud Darwish, Ahad ‘Ashara Kawkaba¯ ‘Ala¯ al-Mashhad al-Andalusy [Eleven Planets for the End of the˙ Andalusian Vision] (Beirut, 1992). —— Dha¯t yawm sa’ajlis fawq al-rası¯f [One day I will sit on the edge of the platform], in Mahmoud Darwish, al-Dı¯wa¯n:˙ al-A‘ma¯l al-U¯la¯ [The Collection: First Works] Vol. 3 (Beirut, 2009), 279– 280. Originally published in Mahmoud Darwish, Ahad ‘Ashara Kawkaba¯ ‘Ala¯ al-Mashhad al-Andalusy [Eleven Planets for the End of˙ the Andalusian Vision] (Beirut, 1992). —— Ana¯ wa¯hid min mulu¯k al-niha¯ya [I am one of the kings of the end], in Mahmoud Darwish,˙al-Dı¯wa¯n: al-A‘ma¯l al-U¯la¯ [The Collection: First Works] Vol. 3 (Beirut, 2009), 277–278. Originally published in Mahmoud Darwish, Ahad ‘Ashara Kawkaba¯ ‘Ala¯ al-Mashhad al-Andalusy [Eleven Planets for the ˙ End of the Andalusian Vision] (Beirut, 1992). —— Li-l-haqı¯qa wajha¯n wa-l-thalj aswad [The truth is two-faced and the snow is black] ˙ in Mahmoud Darwish, al-Dı¯wan: al-A‘mal al-U¯la [The Collection: First (1992), ¯ ¯ ¯ Works] Vol. 3 (Beirut, 2009), 281– 282. Originally published in Mahmoud Darwish, Ahad ‘Ashara Kawkaba¯ ‘Ala¯ al-Mashhad al-Andalusy [Eleven Planets for ˙ Andalusian Vision] (Beirut, 1992). the End of the

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INDEX

‘Abd al-Ha¯dı¯, Mahdı¯, 112 ‘Abd al-Hamı¯d, Ha¯yil (Abu¯ al-Hawl), ˙ 112, 149 ‘Abd al-Rahma¯n, Ahmad, 57 ˙ ˙ ‘Abd al-Sabu¯r, Sala¯h, 38 ˙ ˙ ˙ ‘Abd Rabbih, Ya¯sir, 107, 110, 113 ‘Allu¯sh, Na¯jı¯, 57, 97 ‘Amqa¯, 61 ‘Amru¯, Nabı¯l, 110 ‘Arafa¯t, Fath¯ı, 71, ˙ ‘Arı¯qa¯t, Sa¯’ib, 155 ˙ ‘Ashra¯wı¯, Hana¯n, 71, 112 ˙ ‘Atwa¯n, ‘Abd al-Ba¯rı¯, 82 ˙ ‘Azu¯rı¯, Najı¯b, 86 Abbas, Mahmoud, 70, 122 Abdel Nasser, Gamal, 24, 39, 40, 41, 55, 118, 135 absentees, 21, 44, 46, 52, 65, 66 Abu¯ al-Ha¯dir, see al-Hu¯t, Shafı¯q ˙ Abu¯ al-Hawl, see ‘Abd al-Hamı¯d, Ha¯yil ˙ Abu¯ al-Sa‘ı¯d, see al-Hasan, Kha¯lid Abu¯ ‘Amma¯r, see Arafat, Yasir Abu¯ Iya¯d, see Khalaf, Sala¯h ˙ ˙ Abu¯ Jiha¯d, see al-Wazı¯r, Khalı¯l Abu¯ Lughod, Ibra¯hı¯m, 66 Abu Mazen, see ‘Abbas, Mahmoud Abu¯ Nida¯l, see al-Banna¯, Sabrı¯ ˙ ˙ Abu¯ Shara¯r, Ma¯jid, 65, 105, 106 Abu¯ Sharı¯f, Bassa¯m, 57, 105– 6

Abu¯-Tamma¯m, 61 Acre, 25, 28, 61, 63, 98 Adonı¯s, see Sa‘ı¯d, ‘Alı¯ Ahmad ˙ Ahad Ha‘am, 9 ˙ al-Abnu¯dı¯, ‘Abd al-Rahma¯n, 38 ˙ al-‘Alawı¯, Ha¯dı¯, 108 al-‘Alı¯, Na¯jı¯, 12, 93, 97 – 8, 142 al-Ard Movement, 25, 28, 36, 53, 54, ˙ 139, 148 al-Asmar, Fawzı¯, 54 al-Badda¯wı¯, 136 al-Banna¯, Sabrı¯, 65, 149 ˙ al-Bi‘na, 18 al-Birwa, 15 – 17, 47, 60 – 2, 147 al-Dahnu¯s, 20 ˙ al-Da¯mu¯n, 15 al-Da¯mu¯r, 16 al-Durra, Muhammad, 129 ˙ Al-Fa¯hu¯m, Khalid, 57 al-Hakı¯m, Tawfı¯q, 37, 38 ˙ al-Hasan, Ha¯nı¯, 111, 149 ˙ al-Hasan, Kha¯lid, 71, 78, 107, 111, 149 ˙ al-Hu¯ra¯nı¯, ‘Abdulla¯h, 99, 145 al-Husaynı¯, Faysal, 66, 71, 112 ˙ ˙ al-Hu¯t, Shafı¯q, 71, 105, 114, 115, 196 ˙ al-Huzayl (Rahat), 19 ˙ al-Jadı¯da, 20 al-Kafra¯wı¯, Sa‘ı¯d, 53 al-Lid, see Lydda

238

MAHMOUD DARWISH

al-Makir, 27 al-Ma¯na¯sra, ‘Izz al-Dı¯n, 86, 94 ˙ al-Manshiyya, 20 al-Mutanabbı¯, Abu¯ al-Tayyib, 137, ˙ 144 al-Qaliq, ‘Izz al-Dı¯n, 65 al-Qa¯sim, Anı¯s, 21 –2, 50 – 1 al-Qa¯sim, Samı¯h, 30, 33, 36, 52, 58, ˙ 60, 63, 141, 143, 148 al-Qimnı¯, Sayyid, 109 al-Qulaybı¯, al-Sha¯dhlı¯, 108 al-Ramla, see Ramla al-Rantı¯sı¯, ‘Abd al-‘Azı¯z, 128 al-Sadda, Huda¯, 118 ˙ al-Sawwa¯f, Mustafa¯, 129 ˙ ˙˙ al-Shuqayrı¯, Ahmad, 139 ˙ al-Wazı¯r, Khalı¯l, 65 – 6, 132 al-Za¯brı¯, Mustafa¯ (Abu¯ ‘Alı¯ Mustafa¯), ˙˙ ˙˙ 147 al-Zibaq, Ibra¯hı¯m, 28 al-Zı¯b, 62 Alon, Shlomo, 3, 4 Alterman, Natan, 3, 9 – 13, 63, 158 Amitai, Yosi, 54 Anderson, Benedict, 7, 8 Arafat, Yasir, 1, 5, 6, 12, 13, 57, 58, 66 – 73, 88, 90, 93 – 7, 99 – 101, 103– 16, 123– 4, 134, 136, 139, 142, 148– 9, 152, 157 Balad (National Democratic Alliance), 5 Barak, Ehud, 3 Baraka, Muhammad, 5, 82 ˙ Baraka¯t, Salı¯m, 109 Barthes, Roland, 43 Ben-Gurion, David, 9 Berkman, Tamar (Ben ‘Ami), 119 bi-national state, 90 – 1, 150, 154– 5 Bi’r al-Shaykh, 16 Bialik, Hayim Nahman, 3, 9, 10, 38 ˙ ˙ Bint al-Sha¯ti’, 38 Bı¯r Bu¯rı¯n (Bierotayim), 19 Bisha¯ra, ‘Azmı¯, 5 Boshas, Heda, 140 British Mandate, 28 – 9

Bsı¯su¯, Mu‘ı¯n, 53, 55 – 6, 65, 86, 94, 129 Bu¯lus, Farah, 35 ˙ Burqı¯n, 128 Canaaneh, Rhoda, 119 Canaanite, 85 – 90 colonialism, 6, 10, 13 Dahbu¯r, Ahmad, 94 ˙ ˙ Daja¯nı¯, Mu¯sa¯, 35 Damascus (Dimashq), 57, 80 – 1, 120, 122 Darwı¯sh, Ahmad, 15, 17, 24 ˙ Dayan, Moshe, 54, 55, 77 Dayr al-Asad, 16, 17, 18, 20, 23, 25 Deleuze, Gilles, 42 Derrida, Jacques, 42 Dunqul, Amal, 38 Eshed, Eli, 86 – 8 exile, 2, 6, 11, 16, 17, 21 – 2, 26, 32 – 3, 39, 48, 54, 60 – 1, 75, 77, 101, 109, 136, 137 Farah, Bu¯lus, 35 ˙ Fassu¯ta, 26, 47 ˙ Fatah (Palestinian Liberation Movement), 56 –7, 65, 72– 3, 78, 94, 97, 101, 105, 106, 112, 138, 149, 154 Fayya¯d, Tawfı¯q, 52 ˙ Foucault, Michel, 12 Galilee (al-Jalı¯l), 6, 18, 24, 26 – 7, 32, 35, 60 –1, 125 Gana¯yim, Muhammad hamza, 141 ˙ ˙ Gaza, 22, 46, 49 – 51, 53, 55, 62, 71 – 2, 81, 96, 97, 102– 4, 107, 111, 127–31 Genet, Jean, 42 Glissant, Edouard, 42 Ha‘am, Ahad, 9 ˙ Habash, George, 106, 145, 217 ˙

INDEX Habı¯bı¯, Emı¯l, 18, 19, 28, 31, 35 – 6, ˙ 52, 54, 58, 61, 63, 66, 79, 146, 181 Hamas, 62, 102, 127– 31, 134, 139 Hamma¯d, Khayrı¯, 97 ˙ Hanegbi, Hayim, 80, 113– 14 ˙ Haniyya, Isma¯‘ı¯l, 130 Hasan Beck mosque, 20 ˙ Hawa¯tma, Na’if, 150, 154 ˙ Haykal, Muhammad Hasanayn, ˙ ˙ 39, 144 Hijazı¯, ‘Abd al-Mu‘t¯ı, 37 ˙ ˙ Hila¯l, Jamı¯l, 57 Husayn, Ra¯shid, 54 ˙ Hussein, Saddam, 113, 149 Ibn ‘Abd Rabbih, 65 Ibra¯hı¯m, Hanna¯, 18, 182 ˙ Idrı¯s, Yu¯suf, 37, 38, 39, 75 Imru’ al-Qays, 62, 68, 111, 152 infiltrators, 17, 18, 20, 44, 181 Jaffa (Ya¯fa¯), 20, 23, 27, 61, 66, 105 Jana¯bı¯, Ha¯tif, 148 Jenin, 20, 29, 88, 128 Jiryis, Sabrı¯, 26, 27, 46, 47, 53, 98 ˙ Jubra¯n, Sa¯lim, 23, 52, 143 Kafr Ya¯sı¯f, 23, 25, 28, 31 Kama Sutra, 121 Kanafa¯nı¯, Ghassa¯n, 13, 21 – 2, 33, 38, 52 – 3, 55 – 6, 65, 73 – 6, 117 Kardu¯sh, Mansu¯r, 25 ˙ Kenan, ‘Amos, 4, 140, 143 Khalaf, Sala¯h, 71, 109, 111, 149 ˙ ˙ Khalı¯fa, Marcel, 81, 83 Khamı¯s, Salı¯ba, 31 ˙ Kha¯s, Muhammad, 31, 35 ˙ ˙ Khu¯rı¯, Elia¯s, 43, 71, 101 Kisra¯, 16 Klein, Menachem, 67, 68 La’or, Dan, 11 La’or, Yitzhak, 79 ˙ Lydda, 61

239

Maki Party (the Israeli Communist Party), 12, 25, 28, 34, 35, 51, 54 Malraux, Andre´, 114 Mahfouz, Nagib, 37 – 9, 148 Masa¯rwa, Muhammad, 53 ˙ ˙ Mata¯nis, Mata¯nis, 24 ˙ ˙ Mı¯‘a¯rı¯, Muhammad, 23, 27, 148 ˙ Milson, Menachem, 77 Morris, Benny, 18 Muhammad, Naja¯t (al-Saghı¯ra, Naja¯t), ˙ ˙ 120 Muqbil, Hanna¯, 57 ˙ Murqus, Nimr, 28 Nablus, 29, 53, 55, 128, 130 Naffa¯‘, Muhammad, 58 ˙ Nahr al-Ba¯rid, 136 Nakba, 6, 13, 16, 22, 25, 30, 40, 44, 47, 49, 58 – 60, 62 –4, 72, 75 –6, 87, 127, 151 Nasrı¯, Asa¯la, 84 ˙ ˙ Nasserism, 40, 41 Oppenheimer, Yochai, 122 Oslo Accords, 53, 62, 64, 72, 78, 95, 96, 100, 103, 104, 111, 121, 124, 137, 138, 139, 145, 148, 150, 152–5, 157 Palestinian Declaration of Independence (PDI), 1, 42, 90, 100, 116, 123–5, 144– 7 Peled, Matti, 147 Peres, Shimon, 11 PLO (Palestinian Liberation Organization), 1, 6, 12, 13, 37, 41, 42, 45, 46, 55 – 8, 65, 71 – 3,78, 93 – 100, 116, 124– 5, 127, 132– 3, 136– 7, 139, 140– 2, 144–6, 149–50, 153, 157 Qabba¯nı¯, Niza¯r, 39, 120, 121, 144 Qabba¯nı¯, Rana¯, 120 Qahwajı¯, Habı¯b, 25 – 6, 98 ˙

240

MAHMOUD DARWISH

Rahat (al-Huzayl), 19 ˙ Rakah party (the New Communist ˙ List), 12–13, 32 – 7, 54 Ramallah, 6, 43, 46 – 7, 81, 83, 96, 98, 104, 130, 154 Ramla, 31, 61 Reches, Eli, 33, 35 Rivlin, Re’uven, 3 Rmı¯sh, 17 Rushdie, Salman, 59 Sa‘ı¯d, ‘Alı¯ Ahmad, 42, 101 ˙ Sabastiya, 87 ˙˙ Sabra¯, 46, 70, 79, 106, 136 ˙ Sadat, Anwar, 135, 143– 4 Said, Edward, 6, 11, 59, 64, 66, 81, 86, 90, 101, 115, 138, 145, 157 Sa¯lih, Nimr, 71 ˙ ˙ Sanbar, Elia¯s, 42 ˙ Sarha¯n, Bisha¯ra, 39 ˙ Sarid, Yosi, 1, 2, 3 Sawt al-‘Arab, 37 ˙ ˙ Sha‘b, 15 – 16 Sha‘th, Nabı¯l, 155 shahı¯d (martyr), 48, 68, 69, 128– 9 Shahı¯d, Layla¯, 42 Shamir, Shimon, 8 Sharabi, Hisham, 123, 137 Shatı¯la¯, 46, 70, 79, 106, 136 Sheikh Mounis, see al-Shaykh Muwa¯nnis

Shukrı¯, Gha¯lı¯, 53 – 4, 56 Snir, Reuven, 3, 141 Somekh, Sasson, 58, 79, 131 Subayh, Muhammad, 56 ˙ ˙ Sumu¯d, 27 ˙ Tagore, Rabindranath, 10, 11 Ta¯ha, ‘Alı¯ Mahmu¯d ˙ ˙ Tamrah, 20 Tarshı¯ha¯, 16 ˙ terrorism, 131, 132 Tu¯bı¯, Tawfı¯q, 28, 31, 36, 58, 100 ˙ Tu¯lkarm, 19, 20 ˙ Tu¯ma¯, Emı¯l, 28 – 9, 30 – 1, 35 – 6 Tunis, 65, 93, 96, 105, 108–9, 111–12, 132, 142 Tunisia, 6, 42, 72, 73, 81 Tu¯qa¯n, Fadwa¯, 53– 5, 58, 61, 76, 142 ˙ Tu¯qa¯n, Qadrı¯, 55 ˙ Vilner, Meir, 35, 58, 100 Yad Hana, 19 ˙ Yakhlif, Yahya¯, 57 ˙ Yehoshua, Abraham B., 122 Yu¯suf, Sa‘dı¯, 56 Zach, Natan, 140 Zayya¯d, Tawfı¯q, 52, 61 – 3, 66, 79, 81 Zionism, 8, 9, 75, 89, 121, 155