Among the ruins of the city of Karame (Jordan), a little girl from the Fatah recites a poem by Mahmoud Darwish: "I shall resist..."
He wrote this for a friend:
"Diary of a Palestinian Wound: For Fadwa Tuqan"
We do not need to be reminded: Mount Carmel is in us and on our eyelashes the grass of Galilee. Do not say: If we could run to her like a river. Do not say it: We and our country are one flesh and bone. Before June we were not fledgeling doves so our love did not wither in bondage. Sister, these twenty years our work was not to write poems but to be fighting. The shadow that descends over your eyes -demon of a God who came out of the month of June to wrap around our heads the sun- his color is martyrdom the taste of prayer. How well he kills, how well he resurrects! The night that began in your eyes- in my soul it was a long night's end: Here and now we keep company on the road of our return from the age of drought. And we came to know what makes the voice of the nightingale a dagger shining in the face of the invaders. We came to know what makes the silence of the graveyard a festival...orchards of life. You sang your poems, I saw the balconies desert their walls the city square extending to the midriff of the mountain: It was not music we heard. It was not the color of words we saw: A million heroes were in the room. This land absorbs the skins of martyrs. This land promises wheat and stars. Worship it! We are its salt and its water. We are its wound, but a wound that fights. Sister, there are tears in my throat and there is fire in my eyes: I am free. No more shall I protest at the Sultan's Gate. All who have died, all who shall die at the Gate of Day have embraced me, have made of me a weapon. Ah my intractable wound! My country is not a suitcase I am not a traveler I am the lover and the land is the beloved. The archaeologist is busy analyzing stones. In the rubble of legends he searches for his own eyes to show that I am a sightless vagrant on the road with not one letter in civilization's alphabet. Meanwhile in my own time I plant my trees. I sing of my love. It is time for me to exchange the word for the deed Time to prove my love for the land and for the nightingale: For in this age the weapon devours the guitar And in the mirror I have been fading more and more Since at my back a tree began to grow.