Mahmoud Darwish and The Other

BACHELORARBEIT
Titel der Bachelorarbeit
Mahmoud Darwish and the “other”
Motives of alterity in selected poems
Verfasser
Moritz Zimmermann
angestrebter akademischer Grad

Bachelor of Arts (BA)
Wien, 2017
Studienkennzahl lt. Studienblatt:

A 066 673
Fachrichtung:
Orientalistik
Betreuerin / Betreuer:
Univ. Prof. Dr. Stephan Prochazka
Bachelorarbeit Moritz Zimmermann 9671360
Table of Contents
Table of Contents 2
Abstract 3
1. Introduction 3
1.1 Current state of research, methodology and scope of this work 4
2. Mahmoud Darwish: biography 6
2.1 Modern Arabic poetry and Darwish’s work 7
3. Identity and Alterity: the motive of “the other” 9
4. Selected poems 11
4.1 Those who pass between fleeting words 11
4.2 Rita’s long winter 14
4.3 A ready-made scenario 21
5. Conclusion 24
6. Bibliography 24
2
Abstract
This paper explores late Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish’s treatment of the Jewish “alterity” on the
Palestinian/Israeli land in a few selected pieces of his work. The goal is to highlight the nuanced and fair
depiction of the “other” as a fallible human entity, at times worthy of sharp criticism and hatred, at times
taking on the form of a lover, a friend, or a mother. The selection of poems along a broad temporal and
thematic spectrum intends to subject Darwish’s work to a critical and honest analysis that mentions his
sharpest and most controversial treatments of Jews (i.e. Holocaust-comparisons, threats) as well as his most
intimate portrayals of his first love, a Jewish woman named Rita, and ending with a sober middle ground
poem that was among the very last things he wrote before passing away.
Keywords: Mahmoud Darwish, Jewish, alterity, Rita, Those who pass between fleeting words, Ready-made
scenario, middle-east conflict, poetry
1. Introduction
When one contemplates to write about Mahmoud Darwish, a few things must be considered. First, the
Palestinian poet is arguably one of the most famous figures in the Arab world and much has been written
about him, mostly his poetry but lately also his political work.1 While there are considerable differences in
the quality of these texts, it is not altogether very easy to find a topic that yet merits close examination it has
not yet received. But secondly and, as I will argue, more importantly, interpreting the poet’s work in a way
that does justice to his sophistication, his complexity, the nuance of his messages — this is the much harder
task.
This paper wants to explore a topic of great importance, as I believe, as much in the past as in today’s times
of difficulty and turmoil in the middle east and beyond.
Mahmoud Darwish, the lyric genius who touched the hearts of millions and inspired generations of Arabs
and indeed people from all denominations and dominions around the world, as his life’s widely proliferated
works suggests, has spent considerable time and effort to try and distance himself—and especially his
poems—from the responsibility of being the political champion of the Palestinians people’s effort in regaining
a nation for themselves. He rejected the notion that his poems should primarily be seen as political messages
to continuously fuel, incite and inspire or guide the Palestinian national movement, and tirelessly pointed
out that the beauty and the value of poetry stems from precisely its mysteriousness, its ambiguity and the
richness of possible interpretations. Although many of his writings, most notably the infamous early poem
Biṭāqat huwiyya (identity card), did wind up serving as some sort of rallying cry2 for Palestine resistance,
Darwish was extraordinarily subtle and talented in making sure that his writings in their majority couldn’t be
broken down to oversimplified, polemic political messages and thus abused and misrepresented to slander
the “political enemy”.
It is precisely this civility, fairness, erudition, this graciousness towards the enemy, or as Darwish himself
called it many a time and as I shall thus call it henceforth, the “other”, that this paper will try to elaborate on.
In times when barely anybody seems to lack a clear and pronounced opinion about the Israeli-Palestinian
conflict, a position like that of Mahmoud Darwish becomes invaluable. This highly polemicized issue has
ramifications beyond the core of what is modern Israel and the wider Levantine region, and indeed ostensibly
divides political movements left3 and right all around the world. For example, in Germany and Austria, two
1 See the recently published English edition of Abu Eid’s monography (2016): Mahmoud Darwish. Literature and the
Politics of Palestinian Identity
2 The poem’s first line “Write down, I am an Arab!” (saǧǧil ‘ana ˤarabī) has transcended ethnic and cultural circles and
is now the title of a film about Darwish as well as modern Arab trap music that the keen listener can enjoy here:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z--vtttq5cI
3 The so-called Antideutsche (Anti-Germans) for example, are a well-established part of the left in Germany. One of
their most important ideological principles is an unconditional support for Israel, which manifests itself in their eager
strong centers for leftist political thought, the movement now seems irrevocably at odds; one side
unconditionally supports Zionism, the other defining itself through solidarity with the Palestinian struggle.
The deeper the rifts between two groups, the harder it is to reconcile a conflict. Long before the events of
1948 and what became the triumphant victory of the Jews and the founding of their state on one hand, and
a harrowing disaster the Arabs remember as nakba (catastrophe) on the other hand, tensions between the
two groups existed in what was then British mandate Palestine. These tensions have erupted in armed
conflict, civil and proper war, violence, uprisings and terrorism multiple times and a sustainable, peaceful
situation seems unlikely for the immediate future. The role (popular) culture plays in the Israeli-Arab conflict
is under investigation by scholars worldwide; The propagation of stereotypes, a (constructed) identity of the
enemy, images to shape consciousness in film, television, internet culture, music and poetry are believed to
add to the perpetration of conflict. Narratives of great injustice, falling victim to a brutal and unforgiving
enemy and the longing for the homeland (waṭan) that was unrightfully taken away have arisen and become
widespread in the Arab world after 1948, with many poets unabashedly portraying images of “the Jew” as a
biological, natural enemy who must be ultimately defeated if Arab prosperity is to be achieved.
Mahmoud Darwish was not one of these poets. Although suffering immense violence and oppression by the
state of Israel throughout his life, I will argue that he never slipped off his nuanced path of righteous criticism
without openly anti-Semitic fallacies, neither in his political actions, his writings or indeed his private life (as
far as latter can be reasonably judged). That is not to claim, of course, that he never used extreme or
provocative imagery and comparisons; Darwish did not shy away from invoking even the Holocaust, as in the
poem Ilā qātil (To a murderer) in his 2006 collection Ḥālat ḥiṣār (State of Siege):4
[To a murderer] If only you had looked the victim in ‫الضحية‬ ‫وجه‬ ‫تأملت‬ ‫لو‬ :)‫قاتل‬ ‫(إلى‬
the face and reflected
You would have remembered your mother in the […]‫ كنت تذكرت أمك في غرفة الغاز‬،‫وفكرت‬
gas chamber […]
Nevertheless, he was a celebrated humanist who never forgot that his enemies were human beings just like
him. As Saifedean Ammous writes in an obituary published shortly after the Palestinian poet’s death:
For me, the most striking and admirable thing about Darwish’s poetry is how it remained so resolutely
humanist and universalist in its message. Never did Darwish succumb to cheap nationalism and chauvinism;
never did he resort to vilification of his oppressors or the usual jingoism so common in political art and
literature. Never did he forget that his oppressor too is human, just like him. The magnanimity, forgiveness
and humanism he exhibited in his work remain the ultimate credit to this great author.5
“It is essential to understand,” writes Stephan Milich, “that Palestinian identity has been formed largely in
dissociation with the ‘enemy’, the Israeli society and its Jewish population.”6 Examining the way in which
Darwish portrays the “other”, i.e. the “enemy” of himself, the Palestinian people, Arabs in general or a
specific group in a certain context, is the scope of this paper.
1.1 Current state of research, methodology and scope of this work

The image of the “other” in Mahmoud Darwish’s poetry, referring to the Jewish alterity in Israel/Palestine,
has been touched upon before by some western authors, although no comprehensive monography on the
topic exists at this point as far as I am aware. Perhaps the closest comparable work on the topic is Milich’s
display of the Israeli flag at any and all occasions. An interesting glimpse into that conflict is provided by AMJAHID
(2017) for Die Zeit, an article that swiftly prompted a rebuttal by leading Anti-German comedian and politician Leo
FISCHER (2017).
4 DARWISH (2006), S. 44-45
5 AMMOUS (2008)
6 MILICH (2005), p. 13
4
(2005) book Fremd meinem namen und fremd meiner Zeit: Identität und Exil in der Dichtung von Mahmud
Darwish, which deals with the topics of alterity and the “Jewish stranger” in two chapters.7 He later on wrote
a very interesting analysis of some other Arab poets’ exile lyricism where he uses some theories developed
in his 2005 work.8Milich draws on French philosopher Maurice Halbwachs’ theory on collective memory,
describing it as being generated through social interactions and a selection of a number of incidents
witnessed by a group.9 Another pair of authors who wrote in great depth on the topic of collective memory,
also drawing on Halbwachs, and whose work both Milich and I draw from, are Jan and Aleida Assmann.
Damir-Geilsdorf (2008) uses their classification of ‘collective – cultural – social memory’ to elucidate the
impact of the Nakba on Palestinian collective memory and identity. 10 Other authors focus on different
aspects of Darwish’s life and work, such as Abu Eid (2016), who writes about the poet’s political work and
impact11 and Nassar/Rahman12, Månsson13 and others who focus more on the exile-aspect.
At the beginning of my research for this paper, I originally wanted to write about aspects of identity, exile
and home in Darwish’s poetry, but found myself more and more interested in his treatment of the “enemy”.
How could a man who had to endure so much at the hands of what can only be seen as Jewish invaders
through his eyes, how could such a man not succumb to the temptations of anger, rage and despair and write
tirades and sermons using anti-Semitic tropes and motifs pointing to how the Jews are biologically evil? Or if
not this extreme, at least avoid granting them any humane characteristic in his poetry, perpetrating a
narrative of cold, egotistic invaders without any compassion.
As I will try to show, Darwish masterfully managed to balance on the thin line between righteous anger and
justified outrage and criticism of the Israelis and seeing them as potential brothers to share a space with.
Seeing them as humans, as people, as lovers, as equals, and proliferating this narrative of hope for the end
of the conflict.
My methodology was aligned with the requirement of translating a certain amount of original Arabic writing.
I have read and translated privately poems by Darwish before, and for this paper consciously chosen poems
that I didn’t work on before, didn’t find a (good) translation into English or German for and that were
interesting in their treatment of the ‘Jewish alterity’ motive. I read a great deal of (auto-)biographical material
and interviews to get a feeling for the poet’s personal character and history, and to corroborate findings in
my interpretation with Darwish’s own words, so as to not reach unreasonable conclusions (as in the case of
acknowledging that he did not always use Rita as a metaphor for Jews/Israel or his mother for Palestine14).
The scope of this work is very limited. It is by no means a comprehensive analysis of the topic “alterity” in
Darwish’s work but rather an introductory treatment of the motif in a few selected poems. The poems were
chosen subjectively and no quantitative analysis of words was conducted. The methodology focused on
context, choice of words, philology and in some cases comparative elements and grammar; these categories
were given emphasis based on the author’s subjective preference. That is to say, no completely unified
approach was undertaken that analysed every stanza of every poem in the same way, but instead things that
seemed more interesting were given more room for analysis.
7 MILICH (2005), p. 32-48 and 67-84

8 MILICH (2009)
9 ibid., p. 35
10 DAMIR-GEILSDORF (2008)
11 ABU EID (2016)
12 NASSER/RAHMAN (2008)
13 MÅNSSON (2003)
14 SHATZ (2001): “’Sometimes I feel as if I am read before I write,’ [Darwish] added, clearly frustrated. ‘When I write a
poem about my mother, Palestinians think my mother is a symbol for Palestine. But I write as a poet, and my mother
is my mother. She's not a symbol.’”
5
2. Mahmoud Darwish: biography

In order to properly understand his poetry, it is perhaps more important to know at least the fundamental
aspects of Mahmoud Darwish’s biography than it is to have such knowledge in the case of other authors. This
may generally be true for most Palestinian writers, since they tend to possess the rather unique feature of
collective exile identity; “as long as there is no proper Palestinian state, the whole of Palestinian literature
can be considered exile literature.”15 Darwish himself considers his biography inseparably entwined with the
story of his homeland: “In my situation, there are no essential differences between the story of my childhood
and the story of my homeland. The rupture that occurred in my personal life also befell my homeland.”16
Mahmoud Darwish was born into a “lower-middle-class Muslim agricultural family” 17 in the Palestinian
village of Birwa in 1941. At the age of seven, precisely on June 11, 1948, the normalcy of his childhood came
to an abrupt and irrevocable end when his family had to leave everything without preparation, “the horse,
the lamb, the bull, the open doors, the hot dinner […]” to flee their hometown as a consequence of what has
become engraved into Palestinian collective identity as the nakba (catastrophe). Young Mahmoud and his
three siblings were taken by their parents to Lebanon, where he „ceased to be a child once I understood that
the refugee camps of Lebanon were reality and that Palestine was imagination.”18 It is in a Lebanese refugee
camp that Darwish’s life in exile (manfan) begins—an exile he will never truly overcome, even after returning
to his homeland, now called Israel, illegally one year later. After encountering their village completely
eradicated, the family settles in the village of Dair al-Assād, where they are supported by other Palestinian
families and the children can attend primary school. Despite the traumatic experience invoked upon him by
the Israelis, Darwish quickly learns fluent Hebrew that allows him to read foreign literature, and even fondly
recalls a Jewish woman as his “best teacher”19. The beginning of his life as a poet is marked by the recitation
of his first poem during his last year of primary school, on the day of the celebrations for the establishment
of Israel.20 After graduating from high school and becoming more interested in politics, the young poet moves
first to Acre and then to Haifa, writing for the Israeli communist party’s newspaper al-Ittiḥād and its cultural
supplement al-Jadīd.21 In his ten years of living in Haifa, he joins the Israeli communist party Rakah, takes
part in protests and gets arrested, jailed and put under house arrest several times.
In 1970, he leaves Israel to seize the opportunity to study in Moscow. Few suspect at the time that he should
not return to his homeland for twenty-five years.
Darwish is disillusioned with the political system and studying opportunities in Moscow and decides to cut
short his stay there, but instead of returning to Haifa, he diverges on the return-leg of his trip, and moves to
Cairo. Many interpret this evasion of coming back to Israel as some sort of treason (tenor among the Arabic
press at the time was that he should have returned to undermine the Jewish state as a subversive guerilla
[fidā’ī] like in his most engaging time in Haifa)22, but the intellectual elite in Egypt warmly welcomes the by
now reasonably well-known poet. Darwish starts working for the al-Ahram newspaper alongside some of the
greats of contemporary Arabic literature (Mahfouz, Tawfīq al-Ḥakīm, Yūsuf Idrīs), these and more
acquaintances enabling him to learn and develop his literary knowledge and style. Although Darwish himself
describes his time in Cairo as one of the most important stations in his life, he only stays there for one year
and does not initially seem to have made a lasting impression among literary circles there.23
His next step is Beirut, where he spends ten very productive years as a central activist for the Palestine
Liberation Organization (PLO) as director of its research center and editor of the scientific journal Šu’ūn
15 MILICH (2009), p. 4
16 YESHURUN (2012), p. 48
17 ABU EID (2016), p. 15
18 ibid, p. 16
19 DARWISH (1998), p. 22-23
20 MÅNSSON (2003), p. 15
21 ibid.
22 MÅNSSON (2003), p. 15
23 ABU EID (2016), p. 37-39
6
Filasṭīnīa (Palestinian Affairs).24 He further develops his literary excellence and engages in political thought,
activism and network-building for the Palestinian cause, describing Beirut as a ‘workshop of ideas […] the
place where Palestinian political information and expression flourished.’25 In 1981, he founds the literary
journal al-Karmel.
This flourishing and productive period—for Darwish personally and the Palestinian national movement in
general—ended abruptly when Darwish was forced to flee a second time, lest he should fall victim to Israeli
military offensive, this time laying siege to Beirut (1982).26 Disturbed and disillusioned, he moves to Paris via
a disheartening short stay in Tunis, where he ‘saw the entire Palestinian revolution staying in a Salwa hotel
on the beach’27. In Paris, worlds away from Palestine physically he continues his poetic output and writes one
of his very few prose texts, Memory for Forgetfulness, in which he narrates the traumatic experience of
witnessing the siege of Beirut. He spends most of his time reading but still engages in political affairs for the
PLO, requiring him to travel to Tunis frequently. He becomes a member of the Palestinian Parliament in 1986,
is voted into the PLO’s executive committee 1987, and writes the Palestinian declaration of independence in
1988.2829
After negotiating with Israel, Darwish is allowed to return to Palestine in 1995, where he installs himself in
Ramallah, continuing to be editor of al-Karmel, but not having left the PLO earlier in 1993 as a protest to the
Oslo accords. Ramallah becomes the third place where he witnesses Israeli siege, prompting him to proffer
his experience in the collection Ḥālat Ḥiṣāra (State of Siege).30 In 2008, Mahmoud Darwish died in Houston,
Texas of complications after heart surgery. Robert Creswell poetically puts it: “He died of a broken heart, far
from home.”31
He received numerous international awards and prizes, and Palestinian president Mahmoud Abbas declared
a three-day mourning period; Darwish received a state-funeral which was attended by many thousands.32
2.1 Modern Arabic poetry and Darwish’s work

In pre-Islamic times (al-Jāhiliya, literally “ignorance”), poets were already highly regarded among their tribes
and not just responsible for entertainment, but fulfilment of their role as narrators of history and traditions,
wars and heroic exploits. The radical modernist Syrian writer and intellectual Adonis (1930- ) also emphasizes
the strong ties early Arabic poetry had with song.33 He cites ancient scholars who describe the Jahiliyya-
poetry as simple, pure and intuitively rhythmical and rhymed, not because of prescriptive rules but because
of ‘feeling’: The meaning of the root šīn – ˤayn – rā’ ( ‫ ش‬-‫ع‬- ‫)ر‬, from which the Arabic word for poetry derives,
literally means „to learn or understand intuitively [...] to perceive, feel, sense [...] to be conscious, to be aware
of”, additional to the meaning of “to compose poetry”.34
With the introduction of Islam to Arab society, and especially the emergence of the Quran, written Arabic
was proliferated into the expanding Muslim caliphate. With the absorption of different cultures and
languages into the Islamic empire came the difficulty of keeping the ‘proper Arabic’ in canonical texts,
traditions and the religious practices free from too much foreign language influence, and grammatical and
linguistic rules were codified, most notably in the cities of Baṣra and Kūfa (modern day Iraq). Although literacy
and education significantly increased and schools, institute for research and literary output as well as for
theology and Islamic law were established, this infrastructure remained accessible largely for urban elites
24 MILICH (2005), p. 26
25 ABU EID (2016), p. 41
26 MILICH (2005), p. 26
27 ABU EID (2016), p.42
28 ibid
29 MILICH (2005), p.26
30 DARWISH (2006)
31 CRESWELL (2009), p. 69
32 ASSADI (2008)
33 ADONIS ([1988] 2003), p. 14
34 WEHR (1979), p. 353
7
and clergy, and oral poetry remained unabashedly popular among the people. The effect of the general
climate of intellectualization contributed to the creation of rather rigid rules of metre and rhyme.35
The peak of Classical Arabic literature is considered to have been during the “golden ages” of Islam, around
the tenth and eleventh centuries AD, when the Abbasid Caliphate stretched from North Africa all the way to
Iran. Adonis proposes that the roots of modern Arabic poetry lie within this period, too.36After a period of
relative decline, Arabic literature experienced a revival in the nineteenth century, deriving in large parts from
contact with the West through the reality of European colonization. Elad-Bouskila identifies a threefold split
among the Arab intellectual elite to this Western influence: Those who ‘advocated an enthusiastic borrowing
from the West’, those who ‘totally rejected Western culture’ and ‘those who advocated an integration of the
two cultures, attempting to synthesize the best of both worlds’.37 Adonis himself was a fervent advocate of
the third group.38
Modern Arabic poetry started as an emancipatory movement that sought to radically ‘peel off the crust’ of
the Classical period with its strict rhythmic, metric and prosodic rules and norms and tune in with the new
times of upheaval and social change. Apart from the aforementioned Western influence to take as
benchmark, a number of poets were influenced by Russian literature and Marxism, as well as Socialism and
Arab nationalism of the Nasser-brand.39 Poets like the Iraqis ˤAbd al-Wahhāb al-Bayātī (1926-99) and Badr
Šākir as-Sayyāb (1926-64) turned from Romanticism to more socio-political themes, criticizing the many
injustices and shortcomings of Arab societies at that time. In the 1950s, a new, critical literary movement
that embraced social realism called ‘adab al-iltizām (literature of commitment) emerged, and with it new
forms of poetry; the traditional bayt-structure, consisting of two hemistichs with a single rhyme at the end
of each, was traded in for more liberal schemes of single lines called tafˤīla that often did not rhyme and
were of unequal length. Though still relying on euphony, rhythm and imagery, this “free verse” (aš-šiˤr al-
ḥurr) did not otherwise have much in common with the poetry of the classical era anymore.40
Palestinian poetry after World War II and the nakba was understandably very critical of Arab societies at
large and focused mainly on raising awareness about the injustice at the hands of the newly founded state
of Israel. Especially after the Arab countries’ defeat in the Six-day-war of 1967, an event that is remembered
by Arabs as naksa (“setback”), a very active and engaged generation of young Palestinian poets both inside
of Israel and outside (in the occupied territories of Gaza and the West Bank as well as in the diaspora in
Lebanon, Europe and the US) started to form. Palestinian writer and critic Ġassān Kanafānī (1936-72) called
this literary movement ‘adab al-muqāwama (literature of resistance), and as I will argue below, especially
the work of Mahmoud Darwish within this movement is one of the fundamentally important sources of a
collectively shared Palestinian national identity.41
Darwish’s first volume of poems ˤAṣāfīr bi-lā aǧnihā (Birds without Wings) was released in 1960 and is
dominated by romantic and classical-period style. He distanced himself from it completely later.42 1964 he
released Awrāq az-zaytūn (Olive-tree leaves) which featured strong Marxist, idealistic elements and made
him popular throughout the Arab world. The motif of Palestine as a lover or mother has its origins in this
period and culminates in the 1966 dīwān (volume) ˤĀšiq min Filasṭīn (A lover from Palestine), where he starts
moving to a more quiet, refined and personal style of poetry. In 1970, he releases two dīwāns called Ḥabībatī
tanhaḍu min nawmihā (My beloved awakes from her sleep) and Al-ˤaṣāfīr tamūtu fī l-Ǧalīl (The birds die in
35 ADONIS ([1988] 2003) p. 20, p. 32

36 ibid. p. 75ff.
37 ELAD-BOUSKILA (1999), p. 4. Interestingly, this three-way split of intellectuals and the subsequent development of
theory to justify it seem to be a phenomenon that has occurred in other cultures around the same time as well, e.g. in
China, where Writer and Philosopher Lu Xun (1881-1936) developed his theory of “Take-ism” (拿来主义). See
BANDURSKI (2015).
38 BADAWI (1983), p. 75f
39 ibid., p. 53f
40 ibid. p. 58
41 although Darwish himself criticized the term ‚literature of resistance’, see YESHURUN (1996).
42 This section is an abbreviated version of MILICH’s (2005:27ff) description of Darwish’s work until 2005.
8
the Galilee), considered by many to be among his very finest work. The 1967 volume Āḫīr al-layl (The end of
the night) engages with the Jewish society and is one of the few such works of that time that depicts it with
a human face. (In three volumes released in 1972, ’75 and ’77 respectively, he merges different literary styles:
Uḥibbuki aw lā uḥibbuki (I love you or I don’t love you) and Tilka ṣūratuhā wa hāḏā intiḥār al-ˤāšiq (That is
her image and this is the suicide of the lover) and ˤArās (Weddings). The two dīwāns Hīya uġniya, hīya uġniya
(It’s just a song) and Ward aqall (Fewer roses) of 1984 and ’86, Darwish returns to his Beirut years of trying
to reinvent and further develop his poetic style.
In the nineties, the poet embarks upon a journey through ancient, far away and mystical motifs such as North
American Indians, Moorish Spain or the Greek/Trojan legends (e.g Arā mā urīd [I see what I want] from 1990
and Aḥada ˤāšara kawkab [Eleven planets] from 1992). Having spent ten years mainly in Paris, Darwish was
able to look at the situation in Palestine with more distance, thus enriching and deepening his style as well
as gaining new perspectives.43 Many critics see yet another stylistic reinvention in the 1995 Līmāḏā tarakta
al-ḥiṣān waḥīdan? (Why did you leave the horse alone?), a claim which Darwish corroborates in the foreword
to his 2000 anthology. This volume features autobiographical elements. Four years later, the dīwān of love
poems Sarīr al-ġarība (Bed of the stranger) is explores the creative potential of the ‘exile within’. In 2000,
Darwish tackles the topic of death in the volume Ǧudārīya (Mural), after suffering heart attacks and requiring
heart surgery. Experiencing yet another siege by the IDF, he processes his experience in the 2002 dīwān Ḥālat
ḥisār (State of Siege), dominated by very short and succinct poems that invoke the image of shelling or
bullets. The year 2004 marks the release of La taˤtaḏir ˤammā faˤalta (Don’t apologize for what you did).
3. Identity and Alterity: the motive of “the other”

Write down! !‫سجل‬
I am an Arab ‫أنا عربي‬
I have a name without a title
Patient in a country ‫أنا إسم بال لقب‬
Where people are enraged ‫صبور في بالد كل ما فيها‬
My roots ‫يعيش بفورة الغضب‬
Were entrenched before the birth of time ‫جذوري‬
And before the opening of the eras
‫قبل ميالد الزمان رست‬
Before the pines, and the olive trees
And before the grass grew ‫وقبل تفتح الحقب‬
‫وقبل السرو و الزيتون‬
‫وقبل ترعرع العشب‬
Palestine’s very special situation today means that being born in Gaza or the West Bank brings with it several
disadvantages when it comes to citizenship, passports and mobility. Although this situation was worse for
Palestinians in the past, where “every area of civilian life from registering a birth to traveling outside the
locale required a document signed by the military governor”44 from 1948 until 1966, it remains grave until
today. The formal governing body, the Palestinian Authority (PA) does issue passports to its citizens—
unfortunately, they cannot really be used to travel anywhere, since few countries accept the document and
routinely reject visa applications filed by holders.45 Furthermore, many commuting Palestinians have to go
through several checkpoints and roadblocks every day, severely restricting their freedom of movement.46
43 Two quotes from his 1996 interview that underline this development: „Distance permitted me to observe myself, to
observe the occupation, the landscape, the prison.” and “I searched for the otherness of men everywhere.” in
YESHURUN (2012)
44 EDEN (2016)
45 ATALLAH (2013)
46 B’TSELEM (2017)
9
These are some of the ramifications associated with the bureaucratic identity; other dimensions like the
psycho-social identity of a person have other implications. As Stephan Milich writes,
Psycho-social identity emerges in large parts from interaction with other people whose actions one can imitate
or reject. The individual’s relationship between “me” and “the other” is indeed entwined so closely, that a
holistic and complete examination of identity is attained through analysis of its interrelation with its
“alterity”.47
Additional to several layers of individual identity, there are also higher levels of identity such as collective
identities. It is possible and indeed normal to identify along several distinctive lines: nationality, ethnic group,
religion, gender, language group etc., to name only a few. All of these identities respectively are constructed
and produced in exclusion of other identities, or more precisely, their alterities. The identities most relevant
to our analysis of Mahmoud Darwish’s poetry are national and ethnic identities.
For an individual or a group to possess a national or ethnic, or indeed any kind of identity, memory is
necessarily needed. Jan and Aleida Assmann distinguish in their comprehensive work about collective
identities and memories between a communicative memory, the kind that is perpetuated orally between
individuals in everyday life among smaller societal units such as family and friends, and a cultural memory
that is constructed and (re-)produced by professionals, institutions and places in a society such as historians,
museums, monuments etc. 48 Aleida Assmann further distinguishes between storage- and functional
memory, both of which she describes as having emerged only after the invention of scripture as a ‘body-
external’ storage-medium which made possible the transcendence of an oral-only memory tradition.49
These theoretic contemplations of memory are relevant to the topic because of the asymmetry in the
infrastructure of remembrance between Palestinians and Israelis. While the latter have established a solid
state structure with all necessary institutions in regard to cultivating memory, history and national identity,
the Palestinians have long lacked any serious attempt at establishing and fostering such institutions. Damir-
Geilsdorf describes the difficulties the Palestinians faced: Until the founding of the PLO in the 1960s, there
was indeed no real political representation at all. 50 It was also only around that time that research and
documentation centres like the PLO’s Palestine Research Center (PRC) and the independent Institute for
Palestine Studies (IPS) were established for the purpose of archiving and creating storage-media and
cultivating a national narrative. Even then, a lack of experience, raids on the IPS archives in Lebanon by the
IDF and unstable political conditions and permissions (Palestinian schoolbooks, for example, have only been
allowed after the 1993 Oslo accords) have led to a rather weak and fragmented national narrative
infrastructure.
To fill this gap and obtain a satisfactory degree of Palestinian identity (re-)production and re-membrance51,
literature and especially poetry hold a comparatively more important role in Arab and especially Palestinian
society than elsewhere. As Ted Swedenburg notes: “When the nation remains a vision, not a territorial-
institutional reality, remembering a unified national past is an urgent task.”52
Mahmoud Darwish has created different scenarios including the “other” in his poetry. The Jewish alterity
takes on the form of soldiers, passers-by, passive non-actors who are addressed directly but remain
unspecified, very active figures such as lovers and friends, enemies and just normal human beings. One of his
most heavily criticized poems will be the first one subject to analysis in this paper.
47 MILICH (2005), p. 33 (translated by the author)

48 DAMIR-GEILSDORF (2008), p. 48ff. provides an excellently succinct overview of Jan and Aleida Assmann’s work in
the field that is summarized in a very simplistic way here.
49 ibid. p. 50
50 ibid. p. 18
51 Astrid Erll has pointed out this very interesting semantic: “Erinnern ist eine sich in der Gegenwart vollziehende
Operation des Zusammenstellens (re-member) verfügbarer Daten“, cited in: DAMIR-GEILSDORF (2008), p. 59
52 SWEDENBURG (1991), cited in: DAMIR-GEILSDORF (2008), p.12
10
4. Selected poems
4.1 Those who pass between fleeting words
4.1.1 Context
The poem first appeared in the Parisian Arabic language weekly The Seventh Day53 and was later printed in
the Israeli daily newspaper Maariv in 1988 in Hebrew and later in the Jerusalem Post in English. At the time
of its writing, Darwish was living between Paris and Tunis and in charge of the PLO executive committee’s
cultural affairs. When it came out, the poem sent shockwaves through Israel/Palestine. Many comments and
editorials were written and Israeli Prime Minister Yitzhak Shamir even brought it up in the Knesset. The
general sermon among conservative Israelis at the time was that the poem supposedly demonstrated that
even moderate Palestinians like Darwish were secretly opposed to the existence of a Jewish state on “their”
homeland. It is unclear which specific event it was that triggered the poet to write such stark words; certainly,
the poem reflects the agitated mood of the Palestinian people during the first Intifada (1987-1993).
4.1.2 Analysis
Hey you passers between the fleeting words/ ‫أيها المارون بين الكلمات العابرة‬
Take your names and get lost/ Withdraw your hours ‫احملوا أسماءكم وانصرفوا‬
from our time, and get lost/ Take what you want
from the blue of the sea and the sand of the ‫و انصرفوا‬، ‫واسحبوا ساعاتكم من وقتنا‬
memory/ Take what you want from the images, so ‫وخذوا ما شئتم من زرقة البحر و رمل الذاكرة‬
that you know/ that you will not know/ How a stone ‫ كي تعرفوا‬،‫و خذوا ما شئتم من صور‬
from our earth builds the roof of the heaven/ ‫انكم لن تعرفوا‬
‫كيف يبني حجر من أرضنا سقف السماء‬
Hey you passers between the fleeting words/
With you is the sword — with us our blood/
With you is the steel and the fire — with us our ‫أيها المارون بين الكلمات العابرة‬
flesh/ With you is yet another tank — with us a ‫ ومنا دمنا‬- ‫منكم السيف‬
stone/ With you tear gas — with us the rain/ Above ‫ ومنا لحمنا‬-‫منكم الفوالذ والنار‬
us is what’s above you, sky and air/ Take your share, ‫ ومنا حجر‬-‫منكم دبابة أخرى‬
then, of our blood and be gone/ Go to a dancing
‫ ومنا المطر‬- ‫منكم قنبلة الغاز‬
soirée … and get lost/ It is on us, we must water the
martyrs’ flowers/ It is on us, we must live as we ‫وعلينا ما عليكم من سماء وهواء‬
want/ ‫فخذوا حصتكم من دمنا وانصرفوا‬
‫ و انصرفوا‬.. ‫وادخلوا حفل عشاء راقص‬
Hey you passers between the fleeting words/ Move ‫ أن نحرس ورد الشهداء‬، ‫ نحن‬، ‫وعلينا‬
along, like the bitter dust, to wherever you want to, ‫ أن نحيا كما نحن نشاء‬،‫ نحن‬، ‫و علينا‬
but/ do not move through between us like the flying
vermin/ For there is work to do for us on our land/
We have wheat that we grow and water with our ‫أيها المارون بين الكلمات العابرة‬
bodies’ dew/ And we have what does not please ‫كالغبار المر مروا أينما شئتم ولكن‬
you/ a stone .. or shame/ ‫ال تمروا بيننا كالحشرات الطائرة‬
And take the past, if you want, to the antiques ‫قلنا في أرضنا ما نعمل‬
market/ And return the skeleton to the hoopoe, if
you want/ On a clay platter/
‫و لنا قمح نربيه و نسقيه ندى أجسادنا‬
We have what does not please you, we have the ‫و لنا ما ليس يرضيكم هنا‬
future and we have work to do on our land/ ‫ أو خجل‬..‫حجر‬
‫ إذا شئتم إلى سوق التحف‬، ‫فخذوا الماضي‬
53 NYTimes (1988)
11
Hey you passers between the fleeting words/Gather ‫ إن شئتم‬، ‫وأعيدوا الهيكل العظمي للهدهد‬
your specters in a deserted pit and be gone/And ‫على صحن خزف‬
return the hands of the clock to the lawfulness of
the holy calf/ Or to the schedule of the revolver’s ‫ لنا المستقبل ولنا في أرضنا ما‬، ‫لنا ما ليس يرضيكم‬
music/ For we have what does not please you here, ‫نعمل‬
be gone/ And we have what is not among you: a
homeland bleeding people bleeding a homeland/ ‫أيها المارون بين الكلمات العابرة‬
Good to forget or to remember ‫ وانصرفوا‬، ‫كدسوا أوهامكم في حفرة مهجورة‬
Hey you passers between the fleeting words/ ‫وأعيدوا عقرب الوقت إلى شرعية العجل المقدس‬
It is time now to be gone/ ‫أو إلى توقيت موسيقى مسدس‬
And live wherever you want to live but among us/ It ‫ فانصرفوا‬، ‫فلنا ما ليس يرضيكم هنا‬
is time to/ Die wherever you want to die but among ‫ وطن ينزف شعبا ينزف وطنا‬: ‫ولنا ما ليس فيكم‬
us/ ‫يصلح للنسيان أو للذاكرة‬
For we have work to do on our land/
We have history here/
We have the first sound of life/
We have the present, the present and the future/ ‫أيها المارون بين الكلمات العابرة‬
We have the world here … and the other/ ‫آن أن تنصرفوا‬
So move away from our earth/ ‫وتقيموا أينما شئتم ولكن ال تقيموا بيننا‬
From our land … from our sea/
From our wheat … from our salt … from our wound/ ‫آن أن تنصرفوا‬
From everything, move out of the memories of the ‫ولتموتوا أينما شئتم ولكن ال تموتوا بيننا‬
memories/ Hey you passers between the fleeting ‫فلنا في أرضنا ما نعمل‬
words! ‫ولنا الماضي هنا‬
‫ولنا صوت الحياة األول‬
‫ والمستقبل‬، ‫ والحاضر‬، ‫ولنا الحاضر‬
‫ واآلخرة‬.. ‫ولنا الدنيا هنا‬
‫فاخرجوا من أرضنا‬
‫ من بحرنا‬.. ‫من برنا‬
‫ من جرحنا‬.. ‫ من ملحنا‬.. ‫من قمحنا‬
‫ واخرجوا من ذكريات الذاكرة‬، ‫من كل شيء‬
! ‫أيها المارون بين الكلمات العابرة‬
Those who pass between fleeting words is an example of a clear characterization of the “other” as an enemy.
The poem creates a powerful dichotomy between two groups; the “us”-group of the narrator and the “you”
group of the adversary. It directly addresses the other side in almost every single line of the poem and gives
clear commands: “get lost”, “withdraw”, “move along” etc. The “us”-group has blood, flesh and stones:
symbols of rootedness, of connectedness to the land and of desperate resistance against an overly powerful,
sword-yielding oppressor who is in possession of tanks, tear gas and fire.
All five stanzas of the poem begin with the same address to “passers between the fleeting words”, which
could mean Israelis settling in the “country of words”, a common image of Palestine evoked by Darwish.
Categorizing the addressees as “passers” implies that they haven’t come to stay but are in fact on their way
somewhere else. Anywhere. The short staccato of lines shows irreconcilable anger, the speaker even calls
the other side “vermin”. There is very common imagery to be found: Earth, air, the sea, the sky, a roof. Wheat,
sweat, and dew and flowers. Some mystical parts are embedded, like when the narrator talks about returning
“the skeleton to the hoopoe on a clay platter”, which is also the most linguistically ambiguous part of the
poem: ‘aˤūdū l-haykala l-ˤuẓmī li-l-hudhud. The hoopoe (hudhud) is a bird native to the Levante which occurs
frequently in Mahmoud Darwish s poems. In Eleven Planets (1992), there is a whole poem named after the
bird, of which Fady Joudah writes:
12
“The Hoopoe” is based on the twelfth-century Sufi narrative epic poem Conference of the Birds, by Farid Addin
al-Attar of Nishapur. In it a hoopoe leads all birds to the One, who turns out to be all the birds who managed
to complete the journey and reach attainment. There are seven wadis on the path to attainment, the last of
which is the Wadi of Vanishing, whose essence is Forgetfulness (a visible theme in Darwish’s “late” poems).
Darwish transforms this Sufi doctrine about God as an internal and not an external reality, a self inseparable
from its other, to address exile and the (meta)physicality of identity in a work that is nothing short of a
masterpiece.54
In that poem, the bird leads a people to a coveted but uncertain destination. Khaled Mattawa interprets it
differently:
In the poem “Al-hudhud” (“The Hoopoe”), Darwish mixes a variety of biblical and Quranic narratives to com-
pose a myth (or perhaps a very large metaphor) of Palestinian existence and the state of suspension in which
they find themselves. The poem combines the story of the biblical King Solomon (or Suleiman, considered a
prophet in Islam), the story of Noah and the flood (narrated in the Bible and the Quran), and to a lesser extent,
the Israelites’ years of wandering in the Sinai Desert after the Exodus.55
Furthermore, interestingly, the hoopoe is “detested and considered unclean in the Hebrew Bible,” but “is
considered an intelligent, dutiful believer in God” in the Quranic narrative.56 Haykal can take on two main
meanings in Arabic: one along the lines of “temple, large structure, altar” and the other meaning “skeleton”.
The addition “bony” here points to it being used as skeleton, but it remains ambiguous. In the spiteful spirit
of the “passers” poem, this line could be interpreted as a command to the Israelites to return their skeletons,
their temple, (their essence) to the hoopoe, a symbol detested by their religion but revered in the
Palestinians’ majority religion, Islam: surrendering the land back to its rightful owners.
Even though, as has been shown, this poem seems to convey an unambiguous message of conflict and
quarrel, it includes elements of reconciliation as well: “Above us is what’s above you, sky and air.” Finding
the common ground, emphasizing the similarities rather than the differences, has always been a major effort
in Mahmoud Darwish’s work. Even so, the author has not added this poem to any of his collections and later
on apologized for unintended interpretations of it, stressing that he never intended it as a demand for the
Jews to leave Palestine altogether but rather to withdraw from the occupied territories after 1967.57 In most
instances where he read the poem publicly, he would exclude the stanza with the hoopoe and the skeleton.
4.2 Rita’s long winter
4.2.1 Context
They say that every love poem of mine is about the land. That “Rita” in Eleven Planets is Palestine. “Rita” is an
erotic poem, but no one believes me.
Who is Rita?
Rita is a pseudonym, but it alludes to a particular woman. The name carries within it a strong desire as well as
power and weakness and distance.
Nevertheless, in the poem “Rita’s Long Winter” you write: “There is no land for two bodies in one body, and
there is no exile for an exile in these small rooms . . . in vain we sing between two abysses.” Rita is the one
speaking in this verse; it sounds like a political saying.
Why not a humanistic or tragic saying? If I were to tell you that she is a Jewish woman, would it still sound
political? Perhaps this is an expression of a conflict, when national difference prevents the body from making
love or continuing a love story. Rita in my poems is a Jewish woman. Is that a secret? A secret that I am
revealing?58
54 JOUDAH (2009), p. 11
55 MATTAWA (2014), p. 112
56 ibid. p. 113
57 New York Times (1988)
58 YESHURUN (2012), p. 55
13
Rita’s long winter appeared in the Eleven Planets collection of 1992, a diwan clearly located in the later stage
of Mahmoud Darwish’s literary development. In it, the poet moves away from most direct and unambiguous
political messages altogether and makes use of mythical, religious, historic and legendary elements and
narratives. Poetry for the sake of poetry. Still, no piece of literary work should ever be analysed completely
outside of its historic context, and Darwish remained a political actor at the time of writing. As becomes clear
in the interview cited above, the figure of Rita represents a beloved of the poet, a Jewish woman at that. The
alterity is thus represented as a loved one instead of an enemy, or both things at the same time, as we will
see in the analysis of the poem.
The figure of Rita first appeared in the highly acclaimed poem Rītā wa-l-bunduqīya (Rita and the gun) from
1967, where Darwish referenced a love affair he had had with a Jewish woman at the age of 22. Musician
Marcel Khalifa turned the poem into a song that became famous throughout the Arab world. The earlier
literary “poetry of resistance” period in which the verses were written becomes apparent in the first words
of Rita and the gun: “Between Rita and my eyes… a gun”. It illustrates straight away the poem’s political
implications in regard to a transcultural love affair between an Arab man and a Jewish woman: a gun blocks
their path. In Eleven Planets, the setting is somewhat different. There are no clear allusions to weaponry or
political powers. Although some authors claim that the poem in itself clearly alludes to the Palestinian/Israeli
relationship59, it isn’t clear that that is the case. Mahmoud Darwish himself has rejected the notion that all
his poems should necessarily relate to the Palestinian conflict numerous times.
4.2.2 Analysis
The atmosphere of the poem is bittersweet like a Sunday afternoon in summer; the prospect of the future is
cloudy, melancholic. A sense of departure looms over the two lovers, their time together is not meant to be
forever. The language varies between simplicity and complexity, clear and very cryptic meanings and
between anodyne objects and metaphors. There are no clear and uniform rhyme structures, verses or metres
although some passages feature such structural elements. The five stanzas differ in images, atmosphere,
setting and metaphors used. Seeing that Rita’s long winter was created in a period where Mahmoud Darwish
was trying to reinvent himself yet once more as a poet and to that end vocally rejecting the notion of being
a political poet, clear political messages that could be subjected to an analysis of the alterity motive are scarce
in the poem. However, it is full of metaphors, references and hidden meanings up for discovery and
interpretation.
Rita prepares the night in our room: not much wine ‫ قليل هذا النبيذ‬:‫ريتا ترتب ليل غرفتنا‬
left/ And these flowers are bigger than my bed/ And
she opens the window so the beautiful night can ‫وهذه األزهار أكبر من سريري‬
perfume itself/ Put, there, a moon on the chair/ Put ‫فافتح لها الشباك كي يتعطر الليل الجميل‬
the lake above/ ‫ قمرا على الكرسي‬،‫ هنا‬،‫ضع‬
Around my handkerchief so that the palm trees
elevate themselves/ ‫ضع فوق البحيرة‬
Higher and higher/ Have you enveloped someone ‫حول منديلي ليرتفع النخيل‬
else? Has a woman inhabited you/ that you sob
،‫أعلى وأعلى‬
whenever your branches envelop my trunk?/
Rub my feet for me, rub my blood so we get to know ‫هل لبست سواي؟ هل سكنتك امرأة‬
what/ the tempests and torrents have left/ from me ‫لتجهش كلما التفت على جذعي فروعك؟‬
and you
‫ وحك دمي لنعرف ما‬،‫حك لي قدمي‬
‫تخلفه العواصف والسيول‬
‫مني ومنك‬
The poem begins in a quiet, romantic atmosphere in a room with Rita and the narrator (which can be assumed
to be the poet). Rita seems to be the only active figure, preparing the room, commanding him to arrange
59 see ABD AL-HADI ATIQ (2013), p. 2

14
things, asking if he has been with someone else. A number of natural objects occur in this first stanza: flowers,
palm trees, branches, a trunk, a moon, tempests and torrents. Immediately, the surrealism of the poem
strikes the reader: “put a moon on the chair, put the lake above”. There is a surprising amount of spatial
movement: up, around, envelop. Rita asks her lover to do the impossible, then settles for a foot massage.
Indeed, let us “get to know what the tempests and torrents have left” in the following sections.
Rita sleeps in the garden of her body/ ‫تنام ريتا في حديقة جسمها‬
Blackberries on her nails illuminate the salt on/ my ‫توت السياج على أظافرها يضيء‬
body. I love you./
Two birds sleep under my hands/ ‫ أحبك‬.‫الملح في جسدي‬
The noble wheat’s wave sleeps on her slow breath/ ‫نام عصفوران تحت يدي‬
And a red rose sleeps on the corridor/ ‫نامت موجة القمح النبيل على تنفسها البطيء‬
And the short night sleeps/ And the sea sleeps ‫ووردة حمراء نامت في الممر‬
before my window in Rita’s rhythm/ ‫ونام ليل ال يطول‬
Ascending and descending in the beams of her bare
chest/ Sleep between me and between you/ And
‫والبحر نام أمام نافذتي على إيقاع ريتا‬
don’t cover the gold’s deep darkness between us/ ‫يعلو ويهبط في أشعة صدرها العاري‬
Sleep with one hand around the echo/ and one ‫فنامي بيني وبينك‬
hand scattering the privacy of the woods/ ‫ال تغطي عتمة الذهب العميقة بيننا‬
Sleep between the pistachio shirt and the lemon ‫نامي يدا حول الصدى‬
chair/ Sleep as a horse on the flag of her wedding
night./ The neighing ceases/
‫ويدا تبعثر عزلة الغابات‬
And the beehive in our blood ceases, ‫نامي بين القميص الفستقي ومقعد الليمون‬
But was Rita there?/ .‫نامي فرسا على رايات ليلة عرسها‬
Were we together? ‫هدأ الصهيل‬
‫هدأت خاليا النحل في دمنا‬
‫فهل كانت هنا ريتا‬
‫وهل كنا معا؟‬
After the evening together comes the night, and with it the sleep. Images of nature continue in the second
stanza, this time including food: blackberries, salt, wheat, pistachio, lemon; birds, a red rose, the sea, woods,
a horse, a beehive… An interesting metaphor is embedded in the first line: “Rita sleeps in the garden of her
body”. Her body as the ground on which luscious flowers grow; the naturalization of flora and fauna within
the body of the lover show a deep connection with the land. This could be interpreted as an acknowledgment
of the “others’” right to exist on the shared land. Other instances underline this connection between Rita and
the land: The “sea sleeps […] in Rita’s rhythm” and “the noble wheat’s wave sleeps on her slow breath”.
Spatial signals include objects placed between the lovers, perhaps separating them from one another.
Towards the end of the stanza it gets even more quiet as the horse’s neighing ceases and the beehive stops
buzzing.
Rita will leave in a few hours and leave her shadow/ ‫ريتا سترحل بعد ساعات وتترك ِظلها‬
A white prison cell. Where will we meet?/ She asked ‫ أين سنلتقي؟‬.‫زنزانة بيضاء‬
her hands, and I look into the distance/ The sea
comes after the door and the desert after the sea/ ‫ فالتفت الى البعيد‬،‫سألت يديها‬
kiss me on the lips, she said/ I said: Oh Rita, do I ‫ والصحراء خلف البحر‬،‫البحر خلف الباب‬
leave again/ As long as I have grapes and a memory, ‫ قالت‬- ‫قبلني على شفتي‬
and the seasons leave me/ between the reference ‫ أأرحل من جديد‬،‫ يا ريتا‬:‫قلت‬
and the phrase mumbling to myself?/ ‫ وتتركني الفصول‬،‫ما دام لي عنب وذاكرة‬
What do you say?/ Nothing, Rita, I imitate a hero in
a song about the curse of love surrounded by ‫بين اإلشارة والعبارة هاجسا؟‬
mirrors/ About me?/ And about two dreams on a ‫ماذا تقول؟‬
pillow that intersect and flee from each other, and ‫ أقلد فارسا في أغنية‬،‫ال شيء يا ريتا‬
15
one/ pulls out a knife, and the other entrusts the ‫عن لعنة الحب المحاصر بالمرايا‬
flute with the commandments/ I don’t understand ‫عني؟‬
the meaning, she says/ Neither I, my language is
shrapnel/ like the withdrawal of a woman from the ‫ فواحد‬،‫وعن حلمين فوق وسادة يتقاطعان ويهربان‬
meaning/ ‫ وآخر يودع الناي الوصايا‬،‫يستل سكينا‬
and the horses commit suicide at the end of the ‫ تقول‬،‫ال أدرك المعنى‬
hippodrome … ‫ لغتي شظايا‬،‫وال أنا‬
‫كغياب امرأة عن المعنى‬
‫وتنتحر الخيول في آخر الميدان‬
In this stanza, the cosy, warm atmosphere of the first two has all but vanished and made room for a new
sentiment of tristesse and looming separation. The two lovers’ incoherent dialogue is ripe with talk about
leaving. Contradictions occur where Rita’s shadow (dark) is left like a white prison cell and when first it is Rita
who is supposed to leave (line 1) and then it’s the narrator who asks her if he has to leave. He seems to
mumble something poetic about grapes, memories and seasons leaving him, but Rita doesn’t understand
and asks him to specify: he replies that he is imitating a “hero in a song about the curse of love surrounded
by mirrors”. This very interesting line could imply the difficulty of upholding a mixed Palestinian/Israeli
relationship 60 , where the mirrors never cease to reflect to them their difference and the reality of the
conflicted situation of mixed-faith couples in Israel. A second reference to this is presented by “two dreams
on a pillow that intersect and flee (from each other)” signifying the perceived alienation from a peaceful
coexistence that Darwish might have felt when he wrote this poem. This interpretation is further supported
by the continuation: “one pulls out a knife [could be the Israelis who possess almost a monopoly on arms and
weaponry] and the other entrusts the flute with the commandments”, the flute being a traditional
instrument for Arab music. Abd al-Hadi Atiq even describes this line as “the Jewish dream kills the Palestinian
dream with a knife”61. Schneider interprets the line “the other entrusts the flute with the commandments”
as an evocation of a “juxtaposition of religious law and music”. Here, “commandments” and “flute” are
synecdoches, highlighting the ritualistic power of both in the Arab/Israeli societies.62
The arch of the poem’s narrative reaches a low point in this third stanza: Beginning with fertility, warmth and
love over to the not entirely comfortable deep sleep of the second stanza over to death and despair in the
third. It fittingly concludes with the horses’ suicide at the end of the hippodrome: Self-killing as an act of
despair for the lack of a better solution to the conflict. Perhaps the horse (ḫayl) can be seen as a synecdoche
for the Arabs, since it is their proudest national animal, and the hippodrome the land they had to forfeit.
Dialectically, the dialogue diverges from a classic you-me back and forth and at times it is unclear who the
speaker of an utterance is: neither they nor the addressee understand the meaning: “My language is
shrapnel”.
Rita drinks the morning tea/ And peels the first ‫ريتا تحتسي شاي الصباح‬
apple with ten lilies/ And says to me/ ‫وتقشر التفاحة األولى بعشر زنابق‬
Don’t read the paper now, the drums are the
drums/ and the war is not my profession. I am me, ‫وتقول لي‬
are you you?/ I am him,/ ‫ فالطبول هي الطبول‬، ‫ال تقرأ اآلن الجريدة‬
He who sees you as a gazelle throwing on her ‫ هل أنت أن‬،‫ وأنا أنا‬.‫ت؟ والحرب ليست مهنتي‬
pearls/ He who sees his wish run after you like a ،‫أنا هو‬
torrent/ He who sees us lost in oneness on the bed/ ‫هو من رآك غزالة ترمي آللئها عليه‬
And in estrangement like the greeting of the
strangers in the harbor/ The exile takes us with its
‫هو من رأى شهواته تجري وراءك كالغدير‬
60 On the difficult situation for mixed-faith couples in Israel see GOLDSCHEIDER (2002), p. 203ff.; SANCHEZ (2016);
FERBER (2014); MALTZ (2014);
61 ABD AL-HADI ATIQ (2013), p. 9: „fa-l-ḥulmu l-yahūdī yaqtulu l-ḥulma l-filasṭīnī bi-sakīn”
62 SCHNEIDER (2012), p. 206
16
wind like a leaf/ and throws us before the hotels of ‫هو من رآنا تائهين توحدا فوق السرير‬
strangers/ Like letters read hastily/ ‫وتباعدا كتحية الغرباء في الميناء‬
Will you take me with you? I will be the ring of your
naked heart, will you take me with you?/ I will be ‫يأخذنا الرحيل في ريحه ورقا‬
your suit in countries that have born you … to take ‫ويرمينا أمام فنادق الغرباء‬
you down/ I will be a box of peppermint that carries ،‫مثل رسائل قرئت على عجل‬
your death/ ‫أتأخذني معك؟‬
And you will be mine, alive and dead./ ‫ أتأخذني معك‬،‫فأكون خاتم قلبك الحافي‬
The guide is lost, Rita,/ And love, like death, is a
promise without repayment … or expiration. ‫ لتصرعك‬... ‫فأكون ثوبك في بالد أنجبتك‬
‫وأكون تابوتا من النعناع يحمل مصرعك‬
،‫وتكون لي حيا وميتا‬
‫ضاع يا ريتا الدليل‬
‫ وال يزول‬... ‫والحب مثل الموت وعد ال يرد‬
The fourth stanza brings with it an escalation of events, leading the narration to a violent passage. The new
day has come after the night and the early morning of anticipating separation. The dissatisfaction of the
lovers caused by the impending goodbye can be seen in the aggressive tone of their dialogue: “Don’t read
the paper now!” The drums of war sound another day.
Nowhere in the poem is the influence of Federico García Lorca (1898-1936), whose poetic style inspired much
of Darwish’s own style, more visible than in the following question: “I am me, are you you?”. This playful
deconstruction of strict speaker identity occurs throughout the poem. Perhaps the line can be seen as an
answer to “Pero yo ya no soy yo/ ni mi casa es ya mi casa” in Lorca’s Romance Sonámbulo.63 A clear separation
of “you” and “me” seems as impossible as a clear distinction of identities of the people living in
Israel/Palestine. Are you Jewish? Muslim? Atheist? Arab? Israeli? Palestinian? Mixed? Darwish has written
many poems around this topic in the ‘90s, moving from clearly embracing a singular Palestinian-Arab identity
like in Identity Card (1964) over to shared identities among cultures that dwelled in the Levante64, and even
further to a semantic entanglement of the “you” and “I” personae, the duality of identity and alterity.65 The
emancipation of the narrator from himself is also visible when he says: “I am he […] who sees us lost in
oneness on the bed”. This last sentence and the following line “and in estrangement like the greeting of the
strangers in the harbour” bring us back to the conflicted relationship of the two lovers. The word used for
“estrangement” is the interesting and uncommon word tabāˤud, a maṣdar (verbal noun) of the 6th form of
baˤuda, which is the root for most distance-related meanings.
This stanza is also the most beautifully rhymed of the poem. (Similar) word repetitions at the beginning and
end create an almost meditative, mantra-like atmosphere when read out loud. A-vowels like long alifs at the
end of 1st person plural affixed pronouns (ra’ānā, ya’ḫuḏunā, yarmīnā etc.), as verbal dual forms (tawaḥḥadā,
tabāˤadā) and tanwīns (nunated short vowels, in this case double fatḥas) in the case of metaphorical
accusative objects (ra’āki ġazālatan, ya’ḫuḏunā al-raḥīlu fī riḥlihi waraqan) or as circumstantial accusative
cases (takūna lī ḥayyan wa-maytan) dominate the phonetic stage.
At the end of the stanza, the “guide” is declared as lost, signalling the ultimate feeling of despair and
hopelessness… or is it? In the last line, a feeling of endurance is yet again evoked through “love [as a] promise
without expiration”
Rita prepares the day for me/ A partridge flocks ‫ريتا تعد لي النهار‬
around her high heels/ ‫حجال تجمع حول كعب حذائها العالي‬
Good morning, Rita/
،‫صباح الخير يا ريتا‬
63 https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/romance-sonambulo#spanish
64 As he writes in Palestine as a metaphor (1998), p. 41: „This land belongs to me, together with its many cultures: the
Canaanite, Hebrew, Greek, Roman, Persian, Egyptian, Arab, Osman, English and French culture. I want to live all those
cultures. I have the right to identify with all these voices, that have sounded on this earth”
65 For a more detailed perspective on this issue see MILICH (2005), p. 116-127
17
And blue clouds for the jasmines under her arms/ ‫وغيما أزرقا للياسمينة تحت إبطيها‬
Good morning, Rita/ and fruit for the light of dawn: ،‫صباح الخير يا ريتا‬
Rita, good morning/
Rita, return me to my body so the pine needles rest ‫ يا ريتا صباح الخير‬:‫وفاكهة لضوء الفجر‬
a moment in my blood, abandoned after you/ ‫يا ريتا أعيديني إلى جسدي لتهدأ لحظة‬
Whenever I embrace the ivory tower, two doves .‫إبر الصنوبر في دمي المهجور بعدك‬
flee from my hands/ She says: I will return when the ‫كلما عانقت برج العاج فرت من يدي يمامتان‬
days and dreams change/ Oh Rita… this winter is ‫ سأرجع عندما تتبدل األيام واألحالم‬:‫قالت‬
long/ and we are us, and don’t say that I said it’s me
who saw you hanging over the fence, who took you ‫ طويل هذا الشتاء‬... ‫يا ريتا‬
down and bandaged you/ And washed you with her ‫ فال تقولي ما أقول أنا هي‬،‫ونحن نحن‬
tears, before spreading her lilies upon you/ And you ‫ فأنزلتك وضمدتك‬،‫هي من رأتك معلقا فوق السياج‬
passed between the swords of her brothers and her ‫ وانتشرت بسوسنها عليك‬،‫وبدمعها غسلتك‬
mother’s curse. I’m her./ Are you you? ‫ومررت بين سيوف إخوتها ولعنة أمها وأنا هي‬
‫هل أنت أنت؟‬
The rhythmical structure of the fourth stanza continues in the fifth, this time Rita’s name is repeated five
times, three of them with a “good morning” attached. The longing of the beloved is evident by this; she seems
to be present but absent at the same time.
Immediately, the accusative case of partridge (ḥaǧalan), cloud (ġayman) and fruit (fākihatan) springs to the
eye. Although such an accusative most frequently marks the object of a transitive verb (al-mafˤūl bihi), it is
not clear here. If this were the case, then Rita would prepare a partridge flocking around her high heels (not
very fitting), she would prepare blue clouds (not very fitting) and a piece of fruit (fitting).
Another explanation for the accusative case here could be a simple metaphor, or more precisely, as Al-Salem
(2014) calls it, an “eloquent simile” (tašbīh balīġ). 66 This would mean that she prepares the day like a
partridge, flocking around (in?) her high heels.
Blue clouds for the jasmines under her arms may refer to Rita applying deodorant, but her armpits are already
fragrant like beautiful flowers. The request to be returned to his body implies yet once more that the poem’s
identity is split. It could also be interpreted as the longing for the homeland (body) in the poet’s exilic state.
The rest of the stanza appears ever more cryptic; now the narrating voice asks Rita to not say that he said
“I’m her (who did this and that)”. His tone of voice seems to be sulking, accusing her of things she may have
claimed. It sounds like the quarrel of an old married couple. The reference to her brother’s swords may yet
again hint at the conflict dimension, where the Jewish party in a struggle always has the IDF’s strong arms to
back them up, but is cursed at the same time to be confronted with antagonism based on that very
Jewishness – which is passed on from Jewish mothers only, according to Jewish law (hence laˤnatu ‘ummihā,
her mother’s curse).
Rita gets up from my knees/ visits her ‫تقوم ريتا عن ركبتي‬

adornments and fixes her hair with a silver ‫ وتربط شعرها بفراشة فضية‬،‫تزور زينتها‬
butterfly/ The horsetail caresses the freckles,
dispersed like blobs of light on the feminine
‫ذيل الحصان يداعب النمش المبعثر‬
marble/ Rita sews the button onto the mustard ‫كرذاذ ضوء فوق الرخام األنثوي‬
shirt… Are you mine?/I’m yours, if you leave the ‫ أأنت لي؟‬... ‫تعيد ريتا زر القميص إلى القميص الخردلي‬
door open about my past/ I have a past that I see ،‫ لو تركت الباب مفتوحا على ماضي‬،‫ل ِك‬
now being born of your absence/ Of the ‫لي ماض أراه اآلن يولد في غيابك‬
squeaking of time from the key of this door/ I
have a past that I see now sitting near us at the ‫من صرير الوقت في مفتاح هذا الباب‬
table/ I have soapy foam/ And the salty honey/ ‫لي ماض أراه اآلن يجلس قربنا كالطاولة‬
The dew/ And the ginger/ For you the deer, if you ‫لي رغوة الصابون‬
want, for you the deer and the plains/ And the ‫والعسل المملح‬
66 AL-SALEM (2014), p. 87
18
songs, if you want, for you the songs and the ‫والندى‬
surprises/ I was born to love you/ Horse that ‫والزنجبيل‬
makes a forest dance and in the coral plows your
absence./ I was born a lady for her gentleman, ‫ لك األيائل والسهول‬،‫ إن أردت‬،‫ولك األيائل‬
take me so I can pour you/ ultimate liquor, so I ‫ لك األغاني والذهول‬،‫ إن أردت‬،‫ولك األغاني‬
heal from you in you, give me your heart/ Oh, I ‫إني ولدت لكي أحبك‬
was born to love you./I left my mother in the old ‫ وتشق في المرجان غيابك‬،‫فرسا ترقِص غابة‬
psalms cursing the world and your people/ And I ‫ فخذني كي أصبك‬،‫وولدت سيدة لسيدها‬
have found the guardians of the city giving your
love to the fire/ I was born to love you. ‫ وهات قلبك‬،‫خمرا نهائيا ألشفي منك فيك‬
‫إني ولدت لكي أحبك‬
‫وتركت أمي في المزامير القديمة تلعن الدنيا وشعبك‬
‫ووجدت حراس المدينة يطعمون النار حبك‬
‫وإني ولدت لكي أحبك‬
Seemingly unfazed by the narrator’s outburst in the previous part, Rita calmly gets up and freshens herself
up at the beginning of the sixth stanza. The poet admires her beauty from behind. Suddenly she asks him
“Are you mine?” to which he responds with a new assurance of his commitment: I’m yours if you
acknowledge my past! This past (māḍī) is of inestimable importance in the conflict between Israel and
Palestine. As mentioned above (chapter 4), the power dynamics between the Israeli and the Palestine
national narratives was and still is severely askew in big parts precisely because the Palestinian past, its
people’s claim to the land, was both poorly developed and maintained by the Palestinians themselves and
systematically erased/overwritten by the Israelis after ’48, or like Siddiq (2010) puts it:
The systematic destruction of Arab towns and villages during and after the 1948 war and the subsequent
expropriation of Arab lands for exclusively Jewish settlements; the official policy of yehud (“Judaization”) of
predominantly Arab parts of the state of Israel, such as Galilee and the Negev; the ongoing annexation of East
Jerusalem and large parts of the occupied West Bank, also for exclusively Jewish settlements, since 1967; and
the currently unfolding policy of “Hebraizing” all Arabic place names in Israel—these instances and numerous
others attest to a methodical intention to obliterate the record of Palestinian identity off the land.67
By asking the Jewish lover to “leave the door open” for his past, the narrator directly proffers a common
ground on which reconciliation with the “other” can be founded.
Naming things that are his, like the past, the narrator mentions among others the “soapy foam” (raġwatu aṣ-
ṣabūn), which Abd al-Hadi Atiq believes to be a wordplay on his native village of al-Birwa68 (or al-Barwa, as
some transliterate it), although this theory does not seem to be substantiated when one listens to audio
recordings of Darwish reciting the poem.69
Rita peels the nuts of my days and the fields ‫ فتتسع الحقول‬،‫ريتا تكسر جوز أيامي‬
widen/ It is for me, this small land in a room on a ‫لي هذه األرض الصغيرة في غرفة في شارع‬
street/ On the ground floor of a building in the
mountains/ Which overlooks the sea breeze. I ‫في الطابق األرضي من مبنى على جبل‬
have a wine-colored moon, a polished stone/ A ‫ لي قمر نبيذي ولي حجر صقيل‬.‫يطل على هواء البحر‬
part of the spectacle of the waves traveling ‫ وحصة‬،‫لي حصة من مشهد الموج المسافر في الغيوم‬
through the clouds, a part/ of the book of Genesis, ‫ ومن‬،‫فر أيوب‬ ِ ‫فر تكوين البداية وحصة من ِس‬
ِ ‫من ِس‬
the book of Job, and of the feast of the harvest/ A ‫عيد الحصاد‬
part of what I acquired and of my mother's bread./
I have a part of the lily of the valley in the verses of ‫ وحصة من خبز أمي‬،‫وحصة مما ملكت‬
the old lovers/ I have my share of the wisdom of ‫لي حصة من سوسن الوديان في أشعارعشاق قدامى‬
lovers: the victim loves the face of his murderer./ ‫ يعشق وجه قاتل ِه القتيل‬:‫لي حصة من حكمة العشاق‬
67 SIDDIQ (2010), p. 489

68 ABD AL-HADI ATIQ (2013), p. 15
69 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SYIItnhky9w
19
If you cross the river, Rita/ And where is the river, ‫لو تعبرين النهر يا ريتا‬
she says/ In you and in me there is only one river, I ‫ قالت‬،‫ وأين النهر‬...
answer/ And from me flow blood and memory/
The guards did not leave me a door to enter. I ‫فيك وفي نهر واحد‬ ِ ‫قلت‬
leaned on the horizon/And looked down/ and I ‫وأنا أسيل دما وذاكرة أسيل‬
looked upwards/ and I looked around/ But I didn’t ‫لم يترك الحراس لي بابا ألدخل فاتكأت على األفق‬
find/ a horizon to look at,/ I find in the light but my ‫ونظرت تحت‬
glance/ turning to me. I say: come back to me one ‫نظرت فوق‬
more time, and I may see/ someone trying to see a
horizon that a messenger restores/ With a letter of ‫نظرت حول‬
two brief words: you and I/ A small joy in a narrow ‫فلم أجد‬
bed… a minimum joy/ They still have not killed us, ‫ لم أجد في الضوء إال نظرتي‬،‫أفقا ألنظر‬
Rita. Oh Rita, how heavy/ this winter is, and how ‫ فقد أرى‬،‫ قلت عودي مرة أخرى إلي‬.‫ترتد نحوي‬
cold/ ‫أحدا يحاول أن يرى أفقا يرممه رسول‬
‫ت‬
ِ ‫ وأن‬،‫ أنا‬:‫برسالة من لفظتين صغيرتين‬
‫ فرح ضئيل‬... ‫فرح صغير في سرير ضيق‬
‫ ثقيل‬..‫ ويا ريتا‬،‫ يا ريتا‬،‫لم يقتلونا بعد‬
‫هذا الشتاء وبارد‬
The beginning of the seventh stanza seems to draw a parallel with the fifth: there she prepares the day for
him, here she peels the nuts of his days. That remains her only action in the whole stanza, as the rest is a
monologue of the narrator.
If we read a political subtext into the poem, this part would be a substantiation to the Palestinian’s claim to
the co-inhabited land mentioned above. In continuation with the last stanza, the narrator keeps mentioning
things that are his, things that connect him to the land. Analogous to an ‘ecopostcolonial’ reading of his
poetry,70 the interconnectedness of land and identity is a tool frequently used by Darwish to superimpose
the claim to the land and resistance to occupation on the poems through images of fauna, flora and man-
made structures like houses, fields, wells etc. The very specific nature of the description of the land claimed
is supposed to show familiarity with the surroundings, the kind that only the true inhabitants could offer.
The spatial markers continue with the narrator looking up, down, around, searching for answers or perhaps
a solution to the conflict. Within the two lovers flows the same river (of blood?) that needs to be recognized
(crossed) in order to be on the same side. Otherwise, blood and memory continue flowing from the
Palestinians; lives and the past are fading away.
In the last lines of the stanza, the parable and the literal meaning intersect once more: The horizon can be
restored with a letter of two words: “you and I”. Accepting the two people on the same land is the
reconciliation of the two lovers. “They still haven’t killed us” distances the two lovers from their society at
the same time to highlight a cleavage between the two unequal and thus unacceptable lovers and the archaic
state they live in; now the river is not between them any more (second stanza), but between the lovers and
“them”.
… Rita sings alone/ to the letters of her distant ‫ريتا تغني وحدها‬...
Nordic exile: I left my mother alone/ by the lake, ‫ تركت أمي وحدها‬:‫لبريد غربتها الشمالي البعيد‬
alone, crying for my childhood far behind her/
And every night she sleeps with my little braid/ ‫ تبكي طفولتي البعيدة بعدها‬،‫قرب البحيرة وحدها‬
Mother, I have broken my childhood and became a ‫في كل أمسية تنام ضفيرتي الصغيرة عندها‬
woman who nurses her breast/ on the lips of the ‫ كسرت طفولتي وخرجت إمرأة تربِي نهدها‬،‫أمي‬
70See for example AHMED and HASHIM (2014) and a number of papers by those two authors that seem to a certain
degree recycled if not self-plagiarized, although other authors have cited their work in reputable journals, e.g. BALL
(2014)
20
beloved. Rita turns around Rita alone:/ There is no ‫ تدور ريتا حول ريتا وحدها‬.‫بفم الحبيب‬
land for the two bodies in one body and there is no ‫ وال منفى لمنفى‬،‫ال أرض للجسدين في جسد‬
exile for exile/ in these small rooms. The exit is the
entrance./ In vain we sing between two abysses. ‫ والخروج هو الدخول‬،‫في هذه الغرف الصغيرة‬
Let's set out to show the way/ I can’t, and neither ‫ فلنرحل ليتضح السبيل‬،‫عبثا نغني بين هاويتين‬
can I, she says and doesn’t say./ And calm the horses ‫ كانت تقول وال تقول‬،‫ وال أنا‬،‫ال أستطيع‬
in her blood: Will from a distant land/ the swallow ‫ أمن أرض بعيدة‬:‫وتهدئ األفراس في دمها‬
come, oh strange and beloved, to your solitary ‫ إلى حديقتك‬،‫ يا غريب ويا حبيب‬،‫تأتي السنونو‬
garden?/ Take me to a distant land./ Take me to the
distant land, sobs Rita/ ‫الوحيدة؟‬
How long is this winter! ‫خذني إلى أرض البعيدة‬
:‫ أجهشت ريتا‬،‫خذني إلى األرض البعيدة‬
!‫طويل هذا الشتاء‬
The narrating voice was the sole actor in stanza seven, Rita is the sole actor in stanza eight. We find out more
about her: perhaps her family immigrated into Israel from a northern country? Did she leave her mother
there? Is the nursing of the Palestinian beloved an act of treason that broke the innocent purity of her
childhood?
“There is no land for the two bodies in one body.”
Contrary to other interpretations of this stanza,71 it appears to me as a rejection of the offered solutions and
hopes expressed by the narrating voice in preceding stanzas. Rita turns around Rita alone: the underlying
message being that the Jewish “other” is prioritizing its own people before any other and will continue doing
so at all cost. This interpretation is also highlighted by the repetition of “alone/one person” (waḥdahā,
feminine) and subsequent rhymes on that word.
“The exit is the entrance.”
The exit of one people from the land is the entrance of the other to live in peace? “In vain we sing between
two abysses”, there is no easy solution even though we are trying our best, “let’s set out to show the way”
(fa-la-narḥal li-yartaḍiḥa as-sabīl). “I can’t!” The two lovers cannot even contribute to a better climate by
leading the way in showing that people from different backgrounds can be lovers in this society. No solution
in this land, so “take me to a distant land, sobs Rita”.
And she breaks the porcelain of the day on the strut ‫وكسرت خزف النهار على حديد النافذة‬
of the window/ And she puts her little revolver in ‫وضعت مسدسها الصغيرعلى مسودة القصيدة‬
the draft of the poem/ And she throws her stockings
on the chair and the coo subsides/ And she leaves, ‫ورمت جواربها على الكرسي فانكسر الهديل‬
barefoot, towards the unknown, and the hour of my ‫ وأدركني الرحيل‬،‫ومضت إلى المجهول حافية‬
departure arrives.
In the end, the two lovers part ways. Rita leaves first, without saying goodbye. She leaves barefoot, the
narrator does not know where she is going. It is a quiet, still, melancholic atmosphere. All parties seem to
have accepted the situation as is, the fight is over (fa-nkasara l-hadīl, “the coo subsides”).
4.3 A ready-made scenario
71Abd al-Hadi Atiq (2013), p. 22, interprets this stanza as an admission of defeat by the Israeli at the hands of the
unbreakable Palestinian spirit.
21
4.3.1 Context
Also called “A ready script” by Fady Joudah, who translated many of Darwish’s works, this poem is a powerful
example of how Darwish stayed sharp, political, motivated and hopeful until the end of his career and
unfortunately, his life. The poem was probably written in 2008 and published posthumously in the 2009
collection La urīdu li-haḏihi l-qasīda an tantahī (“I don’t want this poem to end”) in Beirut. The collection also
includes poems with autobiographic elements like Lāˤib an-nard (“The dice player”), a piece of art that is
moving because it is honest, does not embellish, and paints a picture of the writer as a frail human being who
remembers being shy when talking to his parents.72
At the time of the writing of “A ready-made scenario”, Darwish had already suffered through two heart
attacks and undoubtedly considered the possibility of his looming demise.
4.3.2 Analysis
A ready-made scenario is special because it unites some sort of late-stage, sober view of the conflict with a
sharpness and conciseness that is unlike some of his other later work. Not many metaphors, allegories or
other veiled language are needed, the poem speaks a clear language from beginning to end. Was it intended
to be a last, loud and clear message to be understood by all, young and old? A final appeal to both sides’
rationality, commonality and shared interest in a peaceful coexistence?
In sharp contrast to more mystical, at times almost opaquely written poems such as the above analysed
“Rita’s long winter”, this one does not require a line-to-line interpretation and the reader is free to read
through original or translation and consider it a part of the conclusion of this paper.
Let’s suppose now that we fell, ،‫لنفترض اآلن أنا سقطنا‬

ِ
Me and the enemy, ،‫أنا والعدو‬
We fall from the air
Into a pit … ‫الجو‬
ِ ‫سقطنا من‬
What would happen? ... ‫في حفرة‬
A ready-made scenario: ‫فماذا سيحدث ؟‬
First, we would wait for luck… : ‫سيناريو جاهز‬
Maybe a saviour will find us here ... ‫في البداية ننتظر الحظ‬
To extend a lifeline to us
And he says: Me first
‫قد يعثر المنقذون علينا هنا‬
And I say: Me first ‫ويمدون حبل النجاة لنا‬
He would scold me, then I’d scold him, ‫ أنا أوال‬: ‫فيقول‬
To no avail, ‫ أنا أوال‬: ‫وأقول‬
No lifeline has arrived yet … ‫ويشتمني ثم أشتمه‬
The scenario says:
I will mumble to myself:
،‫دون جدوى‬
This is called the selfishness of the optimist ... ‫فلم يصل الحبل بعد‬
Without wondering whether he says “my enemy” : ‫يقول السيناريو‬
Me and him, :‫سأهمس في السر‬
Two partners in a single trap. ِ ‫تلك تسمي أنانية المتفائل‬
Two partners in a game of chance
Waiting for luck … and a lifeline.
‫دون التساؤل عما يقول عد ِوي‬
Let’s proceed separately ،‫أنا وهو‬
On the edge of the whole – the abyss ‫شريكان في شرك واحد‬
To what is left for us in life ِ ‫وشريكان في لعبة االحتماالت‬
And war … ‫ حبل النجاة‬... ‫ننتظر الحبل‬
If only we could survive!
‫لنمضي على ِحدة‬
72 ALSHAER (2011) has written an equally moving and interesting essay about it, where he utilizes Nietzsche’s concept
of a dialectical dichotomy between Apollonian and Dionysian elements in poetry to approach Darwish’s poem.
22
Me and him, ‫ الهاوية‬- ِ ‫وعلى حافة الحفرة‬

Afraid of each other ‫إلي ما تبقى لنا من حياة‬
And we don’t share any information
About our fear … or anything ... ‫وحرب‬
For we are enemies … ! ‫إذا ما استطعنا النجاة‬
What would happen if a snake ،‫أنا وهو‬
Showed up there with us ‫خائفان معا‬
From what is visible of this scenario, ‫وال نتبادل أي حديث‬
And she hisses that she will swallow the cowards
together/ Me and him? ‫غير ِه‬
ِ ‫ أو‬... ‫عن الخوف‬
The scenario says: ... ‫ان‬
ِ ‫فنحن عدو‬
Me and him ‫ماذا سيحدث لو أن أفعى‬
We will be partners in the killing of the snake ‫أطلت علينا هنا‬
Let’s survive together ‫من مشاهد هذا السيناريو‬
Or separately …
We will not express thankfulness or felicitations ‫وفحت لتبتلع الخائِفين ِ معا‬
For what we did together ‫أنا وهو ؟‬
Because the instinct, not us, : ‫يقول السيناريو‬
Has defended itself alone ‫أنا وهو‬
And the instinct does not know any ideology… ‫سنكون شريكين في قتل أفعى‬
We have not carried on talking,
I remembered the idea of dialogue ‫لننجو معا‬
In the collective futility ... ‫أو على ِحدة‬
When he said to me before: ‫ولكننا لن نقول عبارة شكـر وتهنئة‬
All that has become mine is mine ‫على ما فعلنا معا‬
And what is yours ،‫ ال نحن‬، ‫ألن الغريزة‬
Is mine
And yours!
‫كانت تدافع عن نفسها وحدها‬
And with time, and time is sand and soapy foam ... ‫والغريزة ليست لها أيديولوجيا‬
He breaks the silence between us and the ennui ،‫ولم نتحاور‬
And says: What’s there to do? ‫تذكرت فِقه الحوارات‬
I say: Nothing… we have exhausted the chances ‫في العبث ِ المـشترك‬
He says: Where does hope come from?
I say: It comes from the air
: ‫عندما قال لي سابقا‬
He says: Haven’t you forgotten that I buried you in ‫كل ما صار لي هو لي‬
a hole?/ Like this one? ‫وما هو لك‬
And I told him: I almost forgot, because the cloudy ‫هو لي‬
tomorrow/ has pulled me up by my hand… and he ! ‫ولك‬
went on tired/ He said to me: Are you negotiating
me now?/ I said: About what are you negotiating
‫ والوقت رمل ورغوة صابونة‬، ِ ‫ومع الوقت‬
now?/ In this tomb hole? ‫كسر الصمت ما بيننا والملل‬
He said: About my share and your share ‫ ما العمل؟‬: ‫قال لي‬
Of our futility and our shared grave ‫ نستنزف االحتماالت‬... ‫ ال شيء‬: ‫قلت‬
I said: What’s the point? ‫ من أين يأتي األمل ؟‬: ‫قال‬
Time escaped us
And destiny stands out from the exception
‫ يأتي من الجو‬: ‫قلت‬
Here, the killer and the killed sleep in the same ‫ ألم تنس أني دفنتك في حفرة‬: ‫قال‬
hole/ And it is another poet’s task to continue this ‫مثل هذى ؟‬
scenario until the end. ‫ ِكدت أنسى ألن غدا خـلبـا‬: ‫فقلت له‬
‫ ومضى متعبا‬... ‫شدني من يدي‬
‫ هل تفاوضني اآلن ؟‬: ‫قال لي‬
‫ على أي شيء تفاوضني اآلن‬: ‫قلت‬
‫في هذه الحفرةِ القبر ِ ؟‬
23
‫ على حصتي وعلى حصتك‬: ‫قال‬

‫من سدانا ومن قبرنا المشترك‬
‫ ما الفائدة ؟‬: ‫قلت‬
‫هرب الوقت منا‬
‫وشذ المصير عن القاعدة‬
‫ههنا قاتل وقتيل ينامان في حفرة واحدة‬
‫ وعلي شاعر آخر أن يتابع هذا السيناريو‬..
‫إلى آخره‬
5. Conclusion
This paper tried to provide an insight into the Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish’s depiction of the Jewish
alterity, the “other” on their shared land, in some of his selected poems.
In summary, the aforementioned poem is as clear an example of Darwish’s nuanced message, and especially
his profound depiction of the “other”, as any. The alterity is not painted with simple strokes of the brush, and
neither is the conflicted relationship he has with it presented in a superficial way. Expressions of deep love
but also anger at the other party occur together. Much like in the famous poem “A Soldier Dreams of White
Lilies” (1967), where the soldier turns out to be a friend of Darwish,73 the Jewish “other” is not just described
as a simple, one dimensional character (enemy) who is by definition opposed to the Palestinians: They are
children of their time, shaped and socialized by their respective communities to be antagonists… or lovers.
Or friends. Darwish engages in a “tireless search for an alternative, less xenophobic, and more inclusive mode
of national identity that might, conceivably, move the rival contenders for historical Palestine beyond the
deadly impasse they [have] reached.”74
I see Mahmoud Darwish’s invaluable contribution to the Palestinian cause consisting of three main
accomplishments: the way in which he invokes connections between the Palestinian people and their country
through 1) images of the past (re-establishing and re-membeing75 history and memory to strengthen the
dwindling national narrative), 2) nature (interconnectedness of the inhabitants with flora, fauna, landscape
and man-made structures) and 3) the relationship with Jewish people (conflicted but reconcilable).
Unlike many other originally Marxist and committed (multazim) poets, the early poets of resistance
(muqāwama) like As-Sayyab or Adonis, who turned to some form of pessimistic mysticism in their later years,
abandoning all hope for a solution to the conflict, Darwish never did so. In one of his last poems, “A ready-
made scenario” (sīnārīū jāhiz), he returns once more to the political stage as a wise arbiter calmly explaining
the warring parties their situation and only solution; escaping the abyss and their shared predicament
together through acknowledging the other as human and worthy of dialogue and brotherhood. This is truly
one of Mahmoud Darwish’s greatest contributions as a poet.
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75 See above, p. 11
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BACHELORARBEIT

Titel der Bachelorarbeit

Mahmoud Darwish and the “other”

Motives of alterity in selected poems

angestrebter akademischer Grad

Studienkennzahl lt. Studienblatt:

1.1 Current state of research, methodology and scope of this work

7 MILICH (2005), p. 32-48 and 67-84

2. Mahmoud Darwish: biography

2.1 Modern Arabic poetry and Darwish’s work

35 ADONIS ([1988] 2003) p. 20, p. 32

3. Identity and Alterity: the motive of “the other”

47 MILICH (2005), p. 33 (translated by the author)

4.2 Rita’s long winter

59 see ABD AL-HADI ATIQ (2013), p. 2

Rita gets up from my knees/ visits her ‫تقوم ريتا عن ركبتي‬

67 SIDDIQ (2010), p. 489

“There is no land for the two bodies in one body.”

“The exit is the entrance.”

4.3 A ready-made scenario

Let’s suppose now that we fell, ،‫لنفترض اآلن أنا سقطنا‬

Me and him, ‫ الهاوية‬- ِ ‫وعلى حافة الحفرة‬

‫ على حصتي وعلى حصتك‬: ‫قال‬

73 SIDDIQ (2010), p. 496

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