Growing up, my Dad tried to show me as many forms of Middle Eastern literature as my linguistic understanding would permit. On road trips, Dad would play Fairuz, Sabah, Umm Kulthum or Wadih El Safi — iconic and internationally praised vocalists in the Arab world. He would pause every few lines to translate the lyrics to English to show my brother and I how elegant and poetic the Arabic language is. Even today, these are some of my most cherished memories of celebrating my Lebanese heritage.
On many occasions, my Dad would remind me to never forget the literary classics. ‘One thousand and one nights’: a collection of Middle Eastern folktales compiled in the Arabic language from the Islamic Golden Age (also recognised as Arabian Nights), ‘The Prophet’: a compilation of poetry fables by Lebanese-American poet, Gibran Khalil Gibran or works by Rafeef Ziadah: a Palestinian-Canadian poet and performer renowned for her compelling writings on war, exile, gender and activism.
One such literary poet that continues to stand out and remain pertinent to me and millions around the world is Palestinian poet, author and symbolic activist, Mahmoud Darwish. Specifically, A River Dies of Thirst (2006), a collection of poetry that muses on loss, the inseparable relationship of mythology and dreams and the evocation of Palestinian consciousness. It is also the last collection of his to be published in Arabic before his death in 2008.
Darwish, born in 1941, lived during the frictions of the Palestinian struggle through the Nakba, and subsequent displacement,war and political exile. Through it all, Darwish possessed a formidable talent to not only preserve but bellow the voice of Palestine through language.
His works often borrow from many universal texts across Abrahamic religions, leaning into Sufism and mythological reimagination to personify and metaphorise Palestine. Within A River Dies of Thirst, broken meditations, journal entries, fragmented poetry and illustrious descriptions of junctures work to represent Darwish’s life.
‘I am jealous of everything around you’, is a fragment of prose that describes in purple detail the kind of atmospheric longing that brings about a rhythmic profession of complete and utter submission. Referencing “foliage on rugs”, “bookshops” and “the movement of a spoon in your teacup”, Darwish indulges in the fantasy of a landscape curated for and enlivened by his lover.
“I am jealous of the painting staring greedily at you: look longer at me, so I too can have my fill of lakes and cherry orchards” unravels a synaesthetic desire to immerse himself in his lover. The persona deifies everything his lover does, says, touches, demands and yearns for through a desperate and faithful dedication.
Existing only a few pages later is the guttural free-verse musings of ‘Iraq’s Night is long’ on the Iraqi war of the early 2000s personified through the omniscient “murdered Iraqi”. The persona navigates constrasing scenes of “open graveyard like schools” and “Caliph’s palace”, the site of many historic Muslim reigns in history.
“Victims are fragments on roads and in words. Their names are tufts of letters disfigured like their bodies”, conjures imagery of immense and prolonged loss from the devastation of occupation. Darwish steps in and walks amongst Iraqi suffering, calling on their nationhood whilst grieving their wavering endurance.
‘The essence of the poem’ metaphorises Palestine and the power of poetry through a simple yet aphoristic tone. The poet “becomes a postman” and “the imagination a bicycle” — crafting a metaphor where expression has the power to move and endure while navigating “the poet’s journey”.
Darwish describes the poet’s journey to be one of suffering and introspection but does not let the suffering define him. In “Suffering is not a talent”…”it either defeats talent or is defeated by talent”, he creates a fascinating interpolation about the glorification or pitying of suffering, alluding to the strength and testament of Palestinian fortitude.
His manipulation of language and consciousness lifts the letters off the page through the sentiment, “All beautiful poetry is an act of resistance.” Perhaps this is Darwish’s most powerful demonstration of dedication to his craft and his country — the idea that poetry has the universal power to seek resistance through reflection.
Darwish yearned for the old men without old age and the mothers stripped of their motherhood. Darwish yearned for his lovers and for his homeland, refusing to let shrapnels thrown from foreign hands fracture his dedication to Palestine. Despite this, there is no jingoism to be found on these pages or an admission of misery.
What appeals to me most about this specific oeuvre, and Darwish’s writing, is that he doesn’t explore grief as the permanent or primary flavour of Palestinian identity. Even in translation from Arabic to English, his writings demonstrate a voice of wry and vivid Palestinian consciousness made absurdly loud in a landscape of colonial devastation and occupation. For Darwish, Palestine will always be alive in spite of its perils and aggressors — a continuum of resistance that ignites many in the ongoing battle for Palestinian liberation.
And so, Darwish shows us that to stand with Palestine and all oppressed peoples is to celebrate Palestine and her flowingly rich tapestry of liberation, landscape and literature.
