Mahmoud Darwish Dies

Today is a sad day.  Mahmoud Darwish has died at the age of 67 after complications following a heart surgery he underwent on Wednesday.  If you do not know who Mahmoud Darwish is, he is only the most profound Palestinian poetic voice to emerge from the Occupation.  Born in the village of al-Birweh in Galilee, Darwish became a refugee at the age of 7 after his village was demolished by Israel.  Indeed, his words were more powerful than any rock, bomb, or rocket launched.  He was once quoted saying, “I thought poetry could change everything, could change history and could humanize …  but now I think that poetry changes only the poet.” However, Darwish’s poetry has changed everything. It embodied the Palestinian identity at a time when its existence was denied, and communicated the Palestinian struggle when the Palestinian voice was silenced.  At a time when Golda Meir was quoted saying, “There is no Palestinian people,” Darwish’s work had served as one of the greatest weapons against Israeli occupation insofar as it reclaimed the negated Palestinian self and conveyed the national identity and struggle. I know this all sounds like an exaggeration, but look at Arab and Palestinian leadership—neither can be attributed with the influence that Darwish has had on the Palestinian people.  

Last time I was in contact with my Arabic professor at Berkeley (which was over a year ago), he was in Galilee and Ramallah conducting research to write a book on Mahmoud Darwish.  In his class, we translated one of Darwish’s notable poems titled “Identity Card” or Betaqat Haweyyah.  I leave you with the English translation, but if you want to read the Arabic original (and it is better in Arabic) and/or more poems in Arabic and English visit Darwish’s official website.   

Identity Card by Mahmoud Darwish

Record !
I am an Arab
And my identity card is number fifty thousand
I have eight children
And the nineth is coming after a summer
Will you be angry?

Record !
I am an Arab
Employed with fellow workers at a quarry
I have eight children
I get them bread
Garments and books
from the rocks…
I do not supplicate charity at your doors
Nor do I belittle myself
at the footsteps of your chamber
So will you be angry?

Record !
I am an Arab
I have a name without a title
Patient in a country
Where people are enraged
My roots
Were entrenched before the birth of time
And before the opening of the eras
Before the pines, and the olive trees
And before the grass grew.

My father..
descends from the family of the plow
Not from a privileged class
And my grandfather..was a farmer
Neither well-bred, nor well-born!
Teaches me the pride of the sun
Before teaching me how to read
And my house
is like a watchman’s hut
Made of branches and cane
Are you satisfied with my status?
I have a name without a title !

Record !
I am an Arab
You have stolen the orchards
of my ancestors
And the land
which I cultivated
Along with my children
And you left nothing for us
Except for these rocks..
So will the State take them
As it has been said?!

Therefore !
Record on the top of the first page:
I do not hate people
Nor do I encroach
But if I become hungry
The usurper’s flesh will be my food
Beware..
Beware..
Of my hunger
And my anger !