Excerpt:
"๐๐ง๐๐ฆ๐ข๐๐ฌ ๐ฆ๐ข๐ ๐ก๐ญ ๐ญ๐ซ๐ข๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ฉ๐ก ๐จ๐ฏ๐๐ซ ๐๐๐ณ๐ (๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐ฌ๐ญ๐จ๐ซ๐ฆ๐ข๐ง๐ ๐ฌ๐๐ ๐ฆ๐ข๐ ๐ก๐ญ ๐ญ๐ซ๐ข๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ฉ๐ก ๐จ๐ฏ๐๐ซ ๐๐ง ๐ข๐ฌ๐ฅ๐๐ง๐. . . ๐ญ๐ก๐๐ฒ ๐ฆ๐ข๐ ๐ก๐ญ ๐๐ก๐จ๐ฉ ๐๐จ๐ฐ๐ง ๐๐ฅ๐ฅ ๐ข๐ญ๐ฌ ๐ญ๐ซ๐๐๐ฌ).
๐๐ก๐๐ฒ ๐ฆ๐ข๐ ๐ก๐ญ ๐๐ซ๐๐๐ค ๐ข๐ญ๐ฌ ๐๐จ๐ง๐๐ฌ.
๐๐ก๐๐ฒ ๐ฆ๐ข๐ ๐ก๐ญ ๐ข๐ฆ๐ฉ๐ฅ๐๐ง๐ญ ๐ญ๐๐ง๐ค๐ฌ ๐จ๐ง ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐ข๐ง๐ฌ๐ข๐๐๐ฌ ๐จ๐ ๐ข๐ญ๐ฌ ๐๐ก๐ข๐ฅ๐๐ซ๐๐ง ๐๐ง๐ ๐ฐ๐จ๐ฆ๐๐ง.
๐๐ก๐๐ฒ ๐ฆ๐ข๐ ๐ก๐ญ ๐ญ๐ก๐ซ๐จ๐ฐ ๐ข๐ญ ๐ข๐ง๐ญ๐จ ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐ฌ๐๐, ๐ฌ๐๐ง๐, ๐จ๐ซ ๐๐ฅ๐จ๐จ๐.
๐๐ฎ๐ญ ๐ข๐ญ ๐ฐ๐ข๐ฅ๐ฅ ๐ง๐จ๐ญ ๐ซ๐๐ฉ๐๐๐ญ ๐ฅ๐ข๐๐ฌ ๐๐ง๐ ๐ฌ๐๐ฒ โ๐๐๐ฌโ ๐ญ๐จ ๐ข๐ง๐ฏ๐๐๐๐ซ๐ฌ.
๐๐ญ ๐ฐ๐ข๐ฅ๐ฅ ๐๐จ๐ง๐ญ๐ข๐ง๐ฎ๐ ๐ญ๐จ ๐๐ฑ๐ฉ๐ฅ๐จ๐๐.
๐๐ญ ๐ข๐ฌ ๐ง๐๐ข๐ญ๐ก๐๐ซ ๐๐๐๐ญ๐ก, ๐ง๐จ๐ซ ๐ฌ๐ฎ๐ข๐๐ข๐๐. ๐๐ญ ๐ข๐ฌ ๐๐๐ณ๐โ๐ฌ ๐ฐ๐๐ฒ ๐จ๐ ๐๐๐๐ฅ๐๐ซ๐ข๐ง๐ ๐ญ๐ก๐๐ญ ๐ข๐ญ ๐๐๐ฌ๐๐ซ๐ฏ๐๐ฌ ๐ญ๐จ ๐ฅ๐ข๐ฏ๐.
๐๐ญ ๐ฐ๐ข๐ฅ๐ฅ ๐๐จ๐ง๐ญ๐ข๐ง๐ฎ๐ ๐ญ๐จ ๐๐ฑ๐ฉ๐ฅ๐จ๐๐.
๐๐ญ ๐ข๐ฌ ๐ง๐๐ข๐ญ๐ก๐๐ซ ๐๐๐๐ญ๐ก, ๐ง๐จ๐ซ ๐ฌ๐ฎ๐ข๐๐ข๐๐. ๐๐ญ ๐ข๐ฌ ๐๐๐ณ๐โ๐ฌ ๐ฐ๐๐ฒ ๐จ๐ ๐๐๐๐ฅ๐๐ซ๐ข๐ง๐ ๐ญ๐ก๐๐ญ ๐ข๐ญ ๐๐๐ฌ๐๐ซ๐ฏ๐๐ฌ ๐ญ๐จ ๐ฅ๐ข๐ฏ๐."
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In full:
Gaza is far from its relatives and close to its enemies, because whenever Gaza explodes, it becomes an island and it never stops exploding. It scratched the enemyโs face, broke his dreams and stopped his satisfaction with time.
Because in Gaza time is something different.
Because in Gaza time is not a neutral element.
It does not compel people to cool contemplation, but rather to explosion and a collision with reality.
Time there does not take children from childhood to old age, but rather makes them men in their first confrontation with the enemy.
Time in Gaza is not relaxation, but storming the burning noon. Because in Gaza values are different, different, different.
The only value for the occupied is the extent of his resistance to occupation. That is the only competition there. Gaza has been addicted to knowing this cruel, noble value. It did not learn it from books, hasty school seminars, loud propaganda megaphones, or songs. It learned it through experience alone and through work that is not done for advertisement and image.
Gaza has no throat. Its pores are the ones that speak in sweat, blood, and fires. Hence the enemy hates it to death and fears it to criminality, and tries to sink it into the sea, the desert, or blood. And hence its relatives and friends love it with a coyness that amounts to jealousy and fear at times, because Gaza is the brutal lesson and the shining example for enemies and friends alike.
Gaza is not the most beautiful city.
Its shore is not bluer than the shores of Arab cities.
Its oranges are not the most beautiful in the Mediterranean basin.
Gaza is not the richest city.
It is not the most elegant or the biggest, but it equals the history of an entire homeland, because it is more ugly, impoverished, miserable, and vicious in the eyes of enemies. Because it is the most capable, among us, of disturbing the enemyโs mood and his comfort. Because it is his nightmare. Because it is mined oranges, children without a childhood, old men without old age and women without desires. Because of all this it is the most beautiful, the purest and richest among us and the one most worthy of love.
We do injustice to Gaza when we look for its poems, so let us not disfigure Gazaโs beauty. What is most beautiful in it is that it is devoid of poetry at a time when we tried to triumph over the enemy with poems, so we believed ourselves and were overjoyed to see the enemy letting us sing. We let him triumph, then when we dried our lips of poems we saw that the enemy had finished building cities, forts and streets. We do injustice to Gaza when we turn it into a myth, because we will hate it when we discover that it is no more than a small poor city that resists.
We do injustice when we wonder: What made it into a myth? If we had dignity, we would break all our mirrors and cry or curse it if we refuse to revolt against ourselves. We do injustice to Gaza if we glorify it, because being enchanted by it will take us to the edge of waiting and Gaza doesnโt come to us. Gaza does not liberate us. Gaza has no horses, airplanes, magic wands, or offices in capital cities. Gaza liberates itself from our attributes and liberates our language from its Gazas at the same time. When we meet it - in a dream - perhaps it wonโt recognize us, because Gaza was born out of fire, while we were born out of waiting and crying over abandoned homes.
It is true that Gaza has its special circumstances and its own revolutionary traditions. But its secret is not a mystery: Its resistance is popular and firmly joined together and knows what it wants (it wants to expel the enemy out of its clothes). The relationship of resistance to the people is that of skin to bones and not a teacher to students. Resistance in Gaza did not turn into a profession or an institution.
It did not accept anyoneโs tutelage and did not leave its fate hinging on anyoneโs signature or stamp.
It does not care that much if we know its name, picture, or eloquence. It did not believe that it was material for media. It did not prepare for cameras and did not put smiling paste on its face.
Neither does it want that, nor we.
Hence, Gaza is bad business for merchants and hence it is an incomparable moral treasure for Arabs.
What is beautiful about Gaza is that our voices do not reach it. Nothing distracts it; nothing takes its fist away from the enemyโs face. Not the forms of the Palestinian state we will establish whether on the eastern side of the moon, or the western side of Mars when it is explored. Gaza is devoted to rejection. . . hunger and rejection, thirst and rejection, displacement and rejection, torture and rejection, siege and rejection, death and rejection.
Enemies might triumph over Gaza (the storming sea might triumph over an island. . . they might chop down all its trees).
They might break its bones.
They might implant tanks on the insides of its children and women. They might throw it into the sea, sand, or blood.
But it will not repeat lies and say โYesโ to invaders.
It will continue to explode.
It is neither death, nor suicide. It is Gazaโs way of declaring that it deserves to live.
It will continue to explode.
It is neither death, nor suicide. It is Gazaโs way of declaring that it deserves to live.
Mahmoud Darwish
1973