Salam ya Darwish..

At the Ramallah Cultural Palace, July first 2008, probably his last public event..

Darwish died on August 9th, 2008 - The ninth of Ab, on the Levantine calendar. Palestinians now have their own Tisha Be’Av, but their Temple had a name. It was Mahmoud Darwish.

I did not know what to expect when I saw Mahmoud Darwish on stage. There was this little man, slightly awkward he seemed from afar, receiving accolades from everyone and whose hand the Prime minister would not let go.

It was a month ago, for the Centennial celebrations of the municipality of Ramallah, and Mahmoud Darwish was of course the ‘clou du spectacle’. Dalia had offered me an invitation, for my birthday. I went alone.

Before arriving to Palestine, I admit I knew little about him.

I now know that Palestine worships him - we have observed three days of mourning. The Cabinet observed a minute of silence, and the Prime Minister called him “the man who, through his humanity, give their humanity back to the Palestinian people”.

I confess: usually, poetry bores me. I would not have gone to that reading if my friends hadn’t - rightfully - made it seem like a big deal.

The only Darwish verses I knew were the über-famous poem he wrote in jail, on a pack of cigarettes, after his mother visited him but the jailer decided to spill the coffee on the floor - which was also sang by Marcel Khalife, and which begins with

أحنّ إلى خبز أمي؛ وقهوة أمي؛ ولمسة أمي..
وتكبر فيَّ الطفولة يومًا على صدر يوم
وأعشَق عمري لأني إذا متّ، أخجل من دمع أمي

I long for my mother's bread, my mother's coffee, her touch
Childhood memories grow up in me
Day after day, I must be worth my life
At the hour of my death
Worth the tears of my mother

Sitting in that ultra-crowded auditorium, we had to suffer a couple of ridiculously long introductory speeches from various officials. People were getting impatient and were close to booing the final speaker -the deputy mayor, I believe.

Then it was Mahmoud Darwish’s turn.

There, among that huge and very diverse crowd which almost held its breath as the man spoke, I understood.

Darwish did not write verses - he spoke verses. Even when he read prose; he spoke verses. It’s a different art, a different gift.

Pre-Islamic art history classes will teach you about two dueling poets, Al-Farazdaq and Jarir. The first was said to ‘carve his verses from stone’ so much they were elaborate and complex; the second ‘scoops his verses from an ocean’ - so easily they seemed to come to him.

Darwish is a bit of both. Sometimes, like in the verses above, a arrangement of simple words creates a meaning so much larger than the mere juxtaposition of these words. In others, you will need to repeat the sentence twice or thrice, in your mind, for the multiple layers of meaning to sink in. And when they do, you will smile.

You will smile, even if he is discussing the most tragic topics of all. Darwish can make your lips smile and your heart ache, all at once.

I will not discuss a favourite poem, for I simply have none. Yet.

But whether you’re a poetry aficionado or, like me, simply curious to know why Darwish is so often called ‘the poet of the Nation’, read him. Read.