Mourid Barghouti, the Palestinian Poet

Mourid Barghouti: I accompanied my son to introduce him to Palestine and to introduce Palestine to him. And this experience, the father and the son going together to their birthplace, the birthplace of the father, and the Palestine of the news bulletins, the Palestine of anecdotes, and stories of the elderly of the family being concretized in the eyes of the boy. I found this experience important to me and important to Tamim, my son. And I just decided to discover the voices, the remains, the memories that stayed in me after this visit with him. And you did. And I started the first lines, and I couldn't stop, because I always feel that a good book is the— is an unstoppable process. So, I stumbled into another book after I Saw Ramallah. It was difficult, of course, to write about his feelings in that moment.

Speaker 2: Mm-hmm.

Mourid Barghouti: For him, he was just beginning from zero to build a memory of the place, to know it for the first time. So, I mean, to him, he was just initiating a relation. To me, it was a comparative meditation of what I thought of Palestine in my years of exile and what I saw of it In this trip. And at the same time, what happened during this visit ended in Tamim becoming very much attached, very much attached to the place, as if he's this It has discovered a whole country ready-made, and as if the country discovered a son who was ready-made outside. I think every Palestinian has a unique story that is similar to none of the stories of others. But in the same time, each story of the Palestinians will find a shared element With the other stories. So, our stories are really different and unique, but at the same time they are one, because what is shared is huge. I mean, we share the sense of loss, the sense of exile, being misplaced, of being oppressed, of being voiceless, of being— of a negated history, negated geography. But the personal details of each one of us in our personal lives are really unique and totally different from one person to another. But at the same time, they are, as a whole, one narration that struggles to be expressed. And that's why, I mean, Writing a poem, a novel, a memoir, creating any work of art for the Palestinians is a way of finding a voice and owning the narration. And when you own your narration, you own your history. This is not a political statement or political treatise or political lecturing, and this is not a book about any idea under the camouflage of art. No, this is a work of art. It should be written as a work of art, and I hope it will be received as a work of art. Regardless of your theme, you have to be read with pleasure. Even if you are writing about a tragedy, it should be pleasurable to read, enjoyable to read. Otherwise, you are giving, I mean, a political speech and not a work of art. And this is— I tried all through my works and my life to avoid. The poem's title is It's Also Fine.

Speaker 3: It's also fine to die in our beds.

Mourid Barghouti: In a clean pillow and among our friends. It's fine to die once, our hands crossed on our chests, empty and pale, with no scratches, no chains, and no banners. It's fine to have a clean death with no holes In our shirts, and no evidence in our ribs. It's fine to die with a white pillow, not the pavement, under our cheeks, with our hands resting in those of our loved ones, surrounded by desperate doctors and nurses, with nothing left but a graceful farewell. Paying no attention to history, leaving this world as it is, hoping that someday someone else will change it. The next one is very short. It's called Interpretations.

Speaker 3: A poet sits in the coffee shop Writing. The old lady thinks he is writing a letter to his mother.

Mourid Barghouti: The young woman thinks that he is writing a letter to his girlfriend. The child thinks he is drawing.

Speaker 3: The businessman thinks he is considering a deal.

Mourid Barghouti: The tourist thinks he is writing a postcard. The employee thinks he is calculating his debts. The secret policeman walks slowly towards him.

Speaker 4: Thank you for being with us, Murid.

Mourid Barghouti: Grateful to you. Thank you for having me.

Speaker 4: Murid, I thought that we will get to the poetry in stages, but I actually wanted to talk to you about the memoirs, which are no ordinary memoirs, as a context. Both for your work and your life. So let me begin with the simple but extremely difficult question: What does it mean to be Palestinian?

Mourid Barghouti: It means a lot of lost meanings, starting from the loss of the meaning of Palestine, The loss of homeland, the loss of independence, the loss of identity, the loss of geography, and disappearance from history. But in the same time, being a Palestinian is being a person who, in spite of all this, Refuses to turn himself or herself into a problem. We are not a problem. We have problems. But when we are treated as a problem, this is the real tragedy. And this is what we are trying to explain and to avoid and to preach against. We have problems, but we are not problem.

Speaker 4: Yes, in fact, what struck me powerfully in your books is the desire for normalcy, you know, that the ultimate dream is not just some large abstract at a kind of state level, but also looking at the details of day-to-day life, the personal griefs, And desires. And I think, in a way, you show the absence of freedom very powerfully in that way. So, would you talk about this personal level? You yourself, your family have experienced levels of exile.

Speaker 2: Yes.

Mourid Barghouti: The absence of freedom actually is meaningless if not perceived in the context of details. The minute details, I mean. Why occupation is bad? Why dictatorship is bad? Because they prevent you from practicing the small details of your life. They restrict the movement, the language, the expression. The traveling, residence, development.

Speaker 3: Yes.

Mourid Barghouti: And when you are deprived of these details, this is the aggression against freedom. Freedom, I mean, is not an abstract word that Either you get it or you lose it. No, it's scattered in the details of our 24 hours. That's why by living properly, by writing properly, by loving properly, by socializing properly, by moving in the world, we are resisting.

Speaker 4: Yes.

Mourid Barghouti: That's why, I mean, love becomes resistance. Decency becomes resistance. Beauty becomes resistance, because you are attacked in order to lose your ability as a human being and to be turned into a problem, as I said. And a problem is good for no one.

Speaker 4: Yes. Well, it seems to me that this is a special thing that a writer has, and a writer like you, Who's talking about freedom, about politics, but not in either an abstract way or in terms of propaganda. But you've said that a line that struck me in I Saw Ramallah, that politics is the family at breakfast.

Speaker 5: Yes.

Speaker 4: So you humanize it. And I wanted to ask you about the way in which you, as a writer, How do you address politics, resistance to any form of authoritarian discourse, including the occupation, through your work?

Mourid Barghouti: First and almost, the attempt to perfect what you are doing or to do it with the maximum ascetic perfection is, in itself, an answer to injustice, is, in itself, refusing to be a failure, refusing to be ugly, refusing to be mediocre. By doing this, you are resisting.

Speaker 4: Refusing to be what the occupier sees you as.

Mourid Barghouti: That you are a failure, you are good for nothing, you are just a case. No, I'm not. I can fall in love. I can write poetry. I can have my choices, in spite of all the restrictions. That's why, I mean, a bad poem is not serving any good cause. And a great poem is serving the most difficult of political issues. So Palestine does not need, I mean, a bad poem.

Speaker 4: Well, there's an interesting dilemma here for readers and writers, because some people try to present poetry as a difficult, inaccessible form for the people, whoever they may be. But yet, we all know through history that poems have inspired freedom struggles, whether in India in the past or Palestine in the present. So, would you talk about this, this interesting connection with the people that the poet as a question-asker has?

Speaker 5: Yeah.

Mourid Barghouti: You know, when you write a poem, you don't know who is going to read it. Sometimes it is influential and felt immediately. Sometimes, after 100 years, you will find somebody carrying a line of your poem and going to the streets, making it A leading line for a revolution. This happened in Tunis and Egypt.

Speaker 5: Yes.

Mourid Barghouti: Abul Qasim Ash-Shabbi is a Tunisian poet who lived in the beginning of the 20th century, and he died when he was 20 years old. And he left one book. In this book, there is a poem. Which starts, if people decide to live, then destiny will obey. The boy wrote this poem and died in 1921 or something. This line traveled from his tongue Through borders, and you found Tahrir Square in Egypt—

Speaker 4: Resounding with the poem.

Mourid Barghouti: Resounding with this poem. And new generations who never heard of the poet himself, but they know the poem. So, I mean, beauty travels. Poem travels, not only literary theory travels as Edward Said said, I mean, and the role of poetry is really a great thing as I witnessed it in the Tahrir Square in Egypt and in Tunisia. So a poem, if not If it is not, I mean, important this Sunday, it might be the most important thing another Monday.

Speaker 4: Another Monday. I think that's the perfect point when I can ask you to read a poem for us, because your poem must travel to our viewers.

Mourid Barghouti: Yeah. I will choose this one. It's called I Have No Problem.

Speaker 2: Yes.

Mourid Barghouti: I look at myself. I have no problem. I look all right. And to some girls, my gray hair might even be attractive. My eyeglasses are well made. My body temperature is precisely 37. My shirt is ironed and my shoes do not hurt. I have no problem. My hands are not cuffed. My tongue has not been silenced yet. I have not so far been sentenced to death. And I have not been fired from my work. I am allowed to visit my relatives in jail. I am allowed to visit some of their graves in some countries. I have no problem. I am not shocked that my friend has grown a horn on his head. I like his cleverness in hiding the obvious tail. under his clothes. I like his calm pose. He might kill me, but I shall forgive him, for he is my friend, and he can hurt me every now and then. I have no problem. The smile of the TV anchor does not make me ill anymore, and I've got used to the khaki stopping my colors night and day. This is why I keep my Identification papers on me, even at the swimming pool. I have no problem. Yesterday, my dreams took the night train, and I did not know how to say goodbye to them. I heard the train has crashed, as in a barren valley. Only the driver survived. I thank God, and I took it easy, for I have small nightmares that I hope will develop into great dreams, and I have no problem. I look at myself, from the day I was born till now. In my despair, I remember that there is life after death. There is life after death, and I have no problem. But I ask, oh, my God!

Speaker 3: Why?

Mourid Barghouti: Is there life before death?

Speaker 4: Thank you so much, Mourid.

Mourid Barghouti: My story actually is not representative of the Palestinian tragedy, because my share of the tragedy is still bearable and relatively small. I can manage. But you have to know that we have behind me now, I mean, 11,000 Palestinians in Israeli jails, and tens of thousands lost their lives in decades of the struggle. My share of the tragedy was the destruction of my family life. Because I was born in Ramallah. I lived there. I studied there. And then I had to go to a university. I chose to go to the University of Cairo. I went there in 1963. 1967, the war broke out. And then, as I said in my memoir, I was in Cairo. You were in Cairo. I got my university certificate, but I didn't have any wall to hang it on it. I was told by the radio that Ramallah stopped to be my hometown, and I will not be allowed to go there, because the Israelis, when they occupied the West Bank and Gaza, they decided that any person who happened to be outside the Palestinian territory for medication, for education, for tourism, for visit, for any reason on earth, he is not Palestinian. And I was denied my Palestinianship because I was studying in Cairo. And then, my last visit to Ramallah was 1966. 1966. And after that, I had to wait for 30 years to see Ramallah again. I saw Ramallah again in 1997, after 30 years. And this book that was published and translated, as I— you have projected some photos, to many languages, is the story of 30 years without Ramallah. And the story of the reunification, for a short period of time, with your village, your relatives. And my publisher wanted me to give the title Return to Ramallah, and I refused, because this is not true. This is not a return. And in the book, it is— A dilemma I was asking myself on the borders, on the River Jordan, when I was trying to cross the bridge. The world was behind me. My world was in front of me. But I couldn't really put a definition to my status. Am I a citizen? A visitor? A refugee?

Speaker 3: A refugee.

Mourid Barghouti: A guest, a tourist. I didn't know. And the result was a prose book. And this was my first prose book after 12 collections of poetry. But the experience gave itself this expression in a book form. And now the second part of it, the sequel of it, is my trip to take my only son.

Speaker 5: Oh, wow.

Mourid Barghouti: To Palestine to introduce him to the country again, because he was born in Cairo. He never saw it. Palestine to him was the curriculum, the news, the CNN, the Al Jazeera, and the memories of his parents. My wife is Egyptian, and I'm Palestinian.

Speaker 2: And you're Egyptian?

Mourid Barghouti: So, I saw it again through the eyes of my son. And the new book has just come out last week. Its title is I Was Born There, I Was Born Here, because in the Palestinian story, the word here and the word Now, there have very complex meanings. 30 years I am calling my place here. And when I was asked, where were you born? I would say, I was born there, in Palestine. And then when I took my son, he told me— I took him to the room where I was Born. And he asked me where— I took him to the house. It's a big house. And moving in the rooms of the house that has been built, I mean, 480 years ago, very ancient house in the village. And he told me, where is the room that you were born in, Dad? I took him to the room. And I told him, I was born here. For the first time, I'm using the word here. I had to live 30 years without having the ability to use the word here. This is not tragic. It's bearable. But the other price that is being paid and still to be paid by the Palestinians is higher. I don't complain. And I don't feel a victim. I don't feel as a victim at all. I feel as a human being, strong, capable of coping with life. I can deal with all the others that I meet. I can deal with my history. And maybe writing was some sort of support. I think it's important to remember that In this difficult life, I never felt a victim.

Speaker 5: In speaking about poetry earlier, I think maybe all of us would use the word where. Where. If I utter this word, what do you feel? What comes to you with the word where? Yes.

Mourid Barghouti: Everywhere is where to me. I mean, when I started about talking of Prague, something happened to me, and this is really existential. I stopped to be passionate about places, because I always had to leave. I was obliged always to leave. So, I live really in my memories. I live in time.

Speaker 2: Right.

Mourid Barghouti: I don't live in places, and I feel afraid to cling to a place, because I lived in 30 flats, in 30 houses, in 3 continents, in 30 years. And every time, I was the one who was forced to leave. Either you are in a familiar exile, and then they don't like you, then you are deported, or you are renting a flat, and then the owner would—

Speaker 3: Expel you.

Mourid Barghouti: like you to move. And then you work in politics, and then the governments don't like you because you work in politics, because you are a poet, because you are not a yes-man, and then you are also kicked around. So the word where to me was always problematic. And I always feel that I'm living in my time framework.

Speaker 2: Right.

Mourid Barghouti: Not in places. The paradox is that the struggle in Palestine is about the place. The whole story is about the place. And now I fail to cling to places. And this is philosophical retreat, and I'm resisting it. That's why I'm telling you I never felt as a victim, and I always feel that I have to be—

Speaker 3: A fighter.

Mourid Barghouti: with a straight backbone, trying to make the best of a worse situation. And I feel strong.

Speaker 5: You know, Heidegger says— who was actually an absolutely terrible poet and a very good philosopher, a very controversial life— but he said poetry is a way of thinking So, if you're living in time, you feel young or old?

Mourid Barghouti: I felt old when I came back to see Ramallah again, because all my childhood friends were grandfathers. And this was shocking. I mean, yes, my hair grew white, and I never dye it like the Arab presidents and kings. They always— They live eternally, and they have good hairdressers who make them very young. I never tried to do that. Maybe I'll try to do it. Maybe I'll be a president someday. So, the— yeah, they won't like that.

Speaker 5: You know, Hans Magnus Enzensberger, talking about poetry, said that the poet says no. Camus says, what is a rebel? A man who says no. No. But then Enzensberger says, well, the no is an eternal yes to life.

Mourid Barghouti: Of course. I do associate myself with this, because A no to the wrong is a yes to the correctness. I mean, a no to ugliness is a yes to beauty. A no to hatred is a yes to love. A no to war is a yes to peace. And when I say peace, I have to just to put small brackets. I love peace, and I hate— I do hate—

Speaker 2: War.

Mourid Barghouti: The peace process.

Speaker 5: Piece by piece. The other question is this. We were talking about the dreaded Ministry of Culture, sort of the undertakers of the modern world, sort of frustrated morticians.

Mourid Barghouti: You mentioned ministers of culture.

Speaker 5: And institutions. They hate poetry.

Mourid Barghouti: Yes, they do.

Speaker 5: Why is that?

Mourid Barghouti: Well, what I'm going to say might be shocking to some of our dear audience. My experience is the following. I hate to generalize, but sometimes you have to.

Speaker 5: It's a good story.

Mourid Barghouti: Yeah. No, I mean, all governments— I mean, if there is one or two exceptions, this does not deny the rule. I mean, all governments feel that culture is as excess luggage, something heavy that they have to pay for and they don't know what to do with it. But they would be barbarians without culture, and they know that. And then they make a Ministry of Culture.

Speaker 4: Right.

Mourid Barghouti: And they build infrastructure, and sometimes they pay some money for projects or artists, and sometimes they stage festivals, but just for the show of it, nothing genuine. But this is not only the problem. The problem is that the revolutionary parties, the liberation movements, the opposition parties Left, right and center, they do the same. They don't like culture genuinely. They fake it. They want the show of it. If they like a poet, they like the propaganda side of him. And this is a very troubling experience to me. From one country to another, there are so many cultural events.

Speaker 2: Right.

Mourid Barghouti: But no real discussion, no real confrontation of serious questions. And sometimes they grow wide and bring hundreds of people to say that every writer is coming to our country, to our capital. We are the center of culture in the region.

Speaker 3: Mm-hmm.

Mourid Barghouti: But because when you— in culture, when you go wide, you lose. There's no serious discussion. In large numbers. And then, genuinely, they don't want it. And the Palestinian leadership is not an exception. I mean, we have so many ministers of cultures that came and went through the peace process. We didn't feel the trace of anything positive that they have done to the nation. And even if they choose a writer to be a minister, then only one thing that we get: he stops to write, and he is a bad minister.

Speaker 5: So, the poet must live outside the circle.

Mourid Barghouti: And also, how have you lived I won't say that I was pushed outside of the circle. I chose to be outside the circle. I mean, it's easy to be part of the whole, if you choose. But some people would pay the price. Some people would resent that. I always chose to be independent. I never joined any political party. I mean, I was a student at the time. I never withdrew from any political party. I never occupied an executive post in politics. And I'm a critical creature. Actually, this is funny. My first poem, that I wrote when I was just a child, was a poem criticizing the ladies of the Barghouti family in the winter of Ramallah, which is a severe winter.

Speaker 5: Right.

Mourid Barghouti: It's a mountainous place. They used to knit pullovers. And this is productive and good. And we liked it as children. We would have a pullover. We would have something nice and handmade and everything from your mom. But, for instance, in every visit, if it is to congratulate a newlywed couple or to give condolences to a dead friend or to visit somebody in the hospital, they never abandon these 2 needles, and regardless of the occasion. And I didn't like that. I felt that something wrong in the inner feelings. If you are sympathetic to this man in the hospital bed, you don't have the time To give to your pullover. Put the pullover for 20 minutes, for 5 minutes, for 10 minutes. And then I wrote a scandalous poem against my aunts and my relatives, and I was scandalized. And from that moment, they would say that, well, don't talk to Murid. I mean, he will scandalize you. I was a child. And then I received life. Critically. I don't take a given fact, a given sentence, a given statement, a given speech, and this ability to scrutinize a given fact is fearful to others. I mean, it's not easy to tell me what the situation is because I have my own tools to fathom it, to conclude, to take my own conclusions. That's why I don't I don't believe in obedience. And every political party, the first thing they need from members is obedience. I believe in selectivity. I can support you Sunday or Monday, but I might criticize you Thursday if you make a mistake. And you are entitled to do this with me. You wouldn't say that Murid is a great poet or a good I might write a bad poem. I might do something ugly— no, not ugly, something wrong. Because to me, life is not right or wrong, religiously halal or haram. To me, it is ugly or beautiful. There are rights, but I can't take them if it is ugly.

Speaker 3: And—

Mourid Barghouti: There are mistakes, and I go happily doing them, because they are beautiful mistakes.

Speaker 5: Well, I must make a confession that I always believe my grandmother.

Mourid Barghouti: Yes.

Speaker 5: One last question before you read. I'm told that your name, Mourid—

Mourid Barghouti: Mourid.

Speaker 5: —means a man who wants.

Speaker 3: A man who wants, yes.

Speaker 5: What do you want?

Mourid Barghouti: Well, I want to be murad, to be loved, to be wanted.

Speaker 5: You're wanted.

Mourid Barghouti: I'm wanted.

Speaker 3: Yeah.

Mourid Barghouti: Well, I will start with a poem in Arabic for our respectable Thank you. Members of the audience who are Arabic and expect me to, to read for them. Now, this poem is not in the translated ones. It's short, and it's about a wedding party in the village that lived with me 30 years, and in memory, I wrote it. It speaks about the village square, and there is a wedding party, and there is this troupe of dancers. Their leader, who carries this white handkerchief and leads the troupe in the square of the village, was all the time concentrating on the row of women, the women of the village who were on the other side. And one of them just winked her eye to him in admiration. And the poem starts from this moment. A wink from her eye and the boy went crazy. I will read this in Arabic, but you can imagine the rest. I'm sorry.

Speaker 3: غمزة من عينها في العرس وانجن الولد وكأن الاهل والليلة واكتاف الشباب المستعيذين من الاحزان بالدبكة والعمات والخالات والمختارة صاروا لا احد وحده اللويح في منديله يرتج كل الليل والبنت التي خصته بالضوء المصفى أصبحت كل البلد مد يمناه على آخرها نفض المنديل مثناً وثلاثاً ركب الجن على ركبته ثم رماهم وانحنى ركب الجن على أكتافه ثم رماهم واعتدل قدم ثبتها في الأرض لمحاً ورمى الأخرى إلى الأعلى كشاكوش وأرساها وتد كلما أوشك أن يهوي على سحجة كف جاءه من سحبة ناي سند يلقف العتمة كالشهوة من أعلى بروج الليل حتى ضوء عينيها تماماً يعرق الصدر وشعر الصدر من ميلاته يمنى ويسرى ثم يسري عرق الظهر عموديا تماما وحياء القلب خلى كل ما في القلب يخفى والقميص الأبيض المبتل من أكتافه حتى حزام الجلد خلى فقرات الظهر تحصى بالعدد غمزة أخرى ولو ميت هنا غمزة أخرى ولو طال انتظاري للأبد This poem is a very short one.

Mourid Barghouti: I will read it in Arabic and in English, and the translation in Czech is available with the technicians. It's also fine. This is in English. I will read it in Arabic first.

Speaker 3: لا بأس لا بأس أن نموت في فراشنا على مخدة نظيفة وبين أصدقائنا لا بأس أن نموت مرة وناقد اليدين فوق الصدر ليس فيهما سوى الشحوب لا خدوش فيهما ولا قيود لا راية ولا عريضة احتجاج لا بأس ان نموت ميتة بلا غبار وليس في قمصاننا ثقوب وليس في ضلوعنا ادلة لا بأس ان نموت والمخدة البيضاء لا الرصيف تحت خدنا وكفنا في كف من نحب يحيطنا يأس الطبيب والممرضات وما لنا سوى رشاقة الوداع غير عابئين بالأيام تاركين هذا الكون في أحواله لعل غيرنا يغيرونها This poem in English, It's Also Fine.

Mourid Barghouti: It's also fine to die in our beds, on a clean pillow and among our friends. It's fine to die once, our hands crossed on our chests, empty and pale, with no scratches, no chains, no banners and no petitions. It's fine to have a clean death, with no holes in our shirts and no evidence in our ribs. It's also fine to die with a white pillow, not the pavement under our cheek, with our hands resting in those of our loved ones, surrounded by desperate doctors and nurses, with nothing left but a graceful farewell, paying no attention to history, leaving this world as it is. Hoping that someday someone else will change it.

Speaker 6: Czy pokusim zaręcie to wate w czesztynie? Nema mżadne problemy. Dziwam sen a se be, nema mżadne problemy. W param roczala opstojnie. Ani jak terym givka, mam przypadajimoje się diewe wlasi do konce za imawe. No siem kwalitnie bryle, moje ciele znate plotaje przestnie sedumatrycze. Kośeli mam wizjehleno a boty mnie net laczy. Niemand zjad nie problemy. Naroko unemand powuta. Nie gromnie jesteśmy umelczele. Dosut mnie ne otsoudzeli a ne wychodzeli spracze. Jemy dovolen onawstěovat, přibusné ve vjezěni, jemy dovolen onawstěovat, že je robé vruzný zami. Nemám žáně problemy. Nešo kujem je, že me mu psitele ve rostonahla vyroch. Libysame jak chítře se mu dáží skrivat potoblecení, jen jako očí vidnou ohaniku. リビスめえホロズバージネープラツケモジナムネザベエアリアムトオットポスティム。プラトジェエトムイプリタル。タケミエムージェトアタムニエアクズランニット。ネマムジャドネプロブレミ。スウスニエブグダラベズニヒモデラートルウセメウスネズウェダージャルデック。アウセムセズウィクルジェフシェクネムイエバルベプセクリバアドネムエノツィカケ。 Apropos mam, pożaad u sebe swoje dokumenty, dokonse i ubazeno. Nie mam żadne problemy.

Speaker 2: It is my. I'm sorry, we have not switched the channel. I have no problem. My dreams took the night train and I did not know how to say goodbye to them. I heard the train has crashed in a barren valley. Only the driver survived. I thank God and took it easy, for I have small nightmares that I hope will develop into great dreams. I have no problem. I look at myself from the day I was born till now. In my despair, I remember that there is life after death. I have no problem. But I ask, oh my God, is there life before death?

Mourid Barghouti: Thank you. Well, he read another poem, as you must have realized. Now, could you kindly read It's All So Fine?

Speaker 6: Yes. Yeah. To takine nišpatne, to takine nišpatne zem rite vesve posteli, stjisti poštar nem podhalavou amezi pratele. Nišpatne um rite. Projednou, zroku mas križeni mana presou. Praždni a sina li bez šramu natjele, bez retjezou, bez vlaek a bez petec. Ne niš patneje mit čisto smrt, fkošele ne prodiravjele kulkame bez polamanig žeber. Nęgitoś patnej zemryt, za halawowna bilę polstare, nikolestwary na lehalowna chodnik, surkamas pochiwa i cima wdlanić swigdrahić, opklopen skliczeni medoktorej asestryczkami, riuszne zbiwać niecneśien dustojne serozlouchit. Prestacje zajmat o historii. Opustit svjetstakovi jakie prawie je adofat, że ho jedno odne, że mienia niegdoyenie.

Mourid Barghouti: Well, these are very few lines in Arabic. This is— I wrote a very long poem in memoriam of my dear friend and great poet Mahmoud Darwish, whom we lost last August. And I'll just read the opening of this poem in Arabic for our guests and— Thank you. I apologize for not having it translated.

Speaker 3: محمود درويش كشرفة سقطت بكل زهورها في هالة تحمي حياء كاملا وبكبرياء خطاه في المنفى وأرض عذابه. تسري مودة قلبه قمراً يضيء بغير إلحاح على أحبابه وبه اندهاش يوقظ المألوف من إغمائه وكأنه يخفي طفولته وراء شبابه العقل فيه مغامر والقلب هياب يفر من التمادي في الهوى وصفاء عينيه الصباحي احتفاء بالقصائد والقصائد لا ترد ببابه خذنا الى الكحلية بحر البلاد وطف بنا في العالم المفتوح اسمعه ارتعاشتنا وقصتنا المقيمة في دفاتر شاعر مذ غيابته الارض صدقت العيون بما رأت وقلوبنا لم تعترف بضيابه وكأنه اذ مات اخلف ما وعد وكأننا لمناه بعض الشيء يوم رحيله وكأننا كنا اتفقنا ان يعيش الى الابد محمود ابن الكل قالت امه وتراجعت عن عشبه خفراً لتندفع البلد يا ويحها حرية هل أدركت أن البلاد لتوهى قد ودعت من كل عائلة ولد.

Mourid Barghouti: I leave to my colleague to read a collection of. Poems in Czech language without my interference.

Speaker 6: Please. Thank you. Poleskáš. Povidá polskáš na koncidlou hej hodné.

Speaker 2: The pillow. The pillow said, at the end of the long day, only I know the confident man's confusion, the nun's desire, the slight quiver in the tyrant's eyelash. The preacher's obscenity, the soul's longing for a warm body where flying sparks become a glowing coal. Only I know the grandeur of unnoticed little things. Only I know the loser's dignity, the winner's loneliness, and the stupid coldness one feels when a wish has been granted.

Mourid Barghouti: Thank you.

Speaker 2: I don't know. Shall I read another poet? Yes, okay. So if I may, set to yesterday's all day.

Speaker 6: Whiskey to ease.

Speaker 2: Old age. There are some inventions that do not exist. Old age is one of them. Those who go there take childhood with them, hold its dimpled little fingers in their hands and tell it their stories. They take with them their silly little habits, their tricks to get around restrictions, their sly meaningful glances, the way they blame a Their impressions of the last conference or of the coming elections. I have seen many of them on their deathbeds. They want us to play with them. They fight against an enemy of a sort. They doubt ideas. They doubt people. Their hands, when they hear the name of a cherished person, joyfully snatch the telephone or with lazy cinematic gestures, shake their heads. I have seen them gestures, draw their instructions in the air, say, I'm asleep. They issue their familiar orders. They steal a cigarette from their visitors and hide it under the pillow. They discuss with you their future plans. They misunderstand you, keep arguing until you are dismissed from the room. They take with them the way they pronounce Their hours, their desire to be, their style of interrupting sentences. They take with them their slippers, their loved ones, their razors, their makeup, and all the things they don't need on their last journey. Even we, we who love them, we who since birth have thought. In short, life was made up of them just as it is of water, air, fire, and earth. We, who at that particular moment want to accompany them just as we once did to the funfair, are left behind. For they gently, cleverly, and for reasons only they know, refuse to take us. Thank you.

Mourid Barghouti: Thank you. I would end by a very short poem. It might cause you to smile, in Arabic and in English.

Speaker 3: تفسير شاعر يكتب في المقهى العجوز ظنته يكتب رسالة لوالدته المراهقة ظنته يكتب رسالة لحبيبته الطفل ظنه يرسم التاجر ظنه يتدبر صفقة السائح ظنه يكتب بطاقة بريدية الموظف ظنه يحصي ديونه رجل البوليس السري ماشى نحو هو ببطء فقط. This is the poem in English interpretations. So many interpretations. A poet sits in the coffee shop writing. The old lady.

Mourid Barghouti: The young man thinks he is writing a letter to his mother. The young woman thinks he is writing a letter to his girlfriend. The child thinks he is drawing. The businessman thinks he is considering a deal. The tourist thinks he is writing a postcard. The employee thinks he is calculating his debts. The secret policeman walks slowly towards him. Thank you.