>>> When I met him he was carrying the years of Christ and the beauty of a movie star. 1982, the Palestinians were defeated in Lebanon, abandoned Beirut and surrendered their weapons – bitter summer, just as every summer of the war.
But here, at first, they were not wanted. They wakened in our souls the nightmares of our civil war, our ‘Nakba’ of yesterday and its wounds that still tortured us.
Mahmoud Darwish entered the theater in his well-tailored French suit (I believe he lived in Paris at the time, perhaps not, memory is fickle…) and I saw with my eyes Palestinians weep in his presence. Yannis Ritsos followed. They came to read their poems. It was a sweet autumn night in Athens, which made the exile even more unbearable…
The Greek poet began, with a gesture of hospitality. He read, if I recall correctly, the “Five Moments of Lebanon,” written in the heat of the events. A rain of applause and love ensued. He was reassuring their faith in the possibility of return. He helped them stand up, and they were thanking him.
Afterwards, Darwish rose from his seat. Women were wiping their eyes. Men were clutching tissues and tightening their fists. The crowd, yelling his verses, drowned out the recitation. I learned the Arabic word for “no” in the crowd that yelled “la” and again “la,” whenever the poet asked them if they would yield, if they would cease their resistance for an independent Palestine, if they would forget.
Everyone was galvanized by his words. I have never seen another poet inspire such enthusiasm from hundreds, thousands, his words felt like the syntax of a revolution.