Despite your wanderings in numerous countries the setting, content and words of the dream did not change. You were in a dark room with a raised bench where three men in military uniform were seated in red sashes, with ribbons on their chests. Next to each one lay an olive-green military cap decorated with an eagle spreading its wings. In front of them the rows of chairs were empty. To the right stood a metal cage holding a thin young man with long hair, a droopy moustache and shifty eyes. The three military men examined the papers in front of them and then looked up, towards the metal cage. Then the one sitting in the middle, the most severe and inscrutable, would speak these words: ‘Younis al-Khattat. Life imprisonment.’ You would wake up soaked in sweat every time.
You knew there had been change in your country. But you didn’t expect to find Younis al-Khattat’s poems included in an anthology of writings selected under the supervision of official institutions, for several reasons. Younis al-Khattat wrote few poems, and they were published in local newspapers with limited circulation or in underground stencil-copied publications edited by young men who believed that words could be as powerful as bullets. Besides that of course there was the fact of his conviction in absentia. It’s true that the poems did bring him some attention in literary circles, and more than one critic wrote about the advent of a promising poet. But the fact remains that he was not a recognised poet, even though some of his poems on love and politics circulated among young people. One of the three poems in the anthology was called ‘The Lady of the City’ , which was heavy with influences from the Song of Solomon. The lyricism in it is clear. The pastoralism – the hills covered with lilies, the lions and the spikenard – was also evident. But for all that clarity, a question obsessed you when you read the poem. How could a poet less than twenty years old describe how time weighed on his shoulders, how it had left scars on his body, how it made the ground sprout lily after lily and the gazelles give birth to gazelle after gazelle, and the days and nights pass in succession without his love for his beloved diminishing one iota? You told yourself that sometimes one’s words can sing the praises of something you know nothing about or overestimate the permanence of feelings. They can immortalise a moment that soon proves to be transitory, if not pathetic. You also said that it is emotional and intellectual discipline that generally gives words a way out, saves them from the nonsense of their firm promises and makes it possible to read them again with as little disgust as possible.
You were not surprised for long that Younis al-Khattat’s poems had been included in the part of the large anthology that was devoted to your country. While roaming through the galleries of the cultural institution that was hosting the exhibition, you saw your old comrade Mahmoud, whom you all used to call Abu Tawila because of his unusual height. Ever since middle school in Hamiya, Mahmoud had been noticeably taller than the rest of his colleagues. You were considered tall, but not as tall as Mahmoud. Those extra inches of flesh and bone were probably the only advantage he had over you. It didn’t feel like it was ten years or so since your stormy last meeting. He embraced you and spoke warmly. He waved his hands excitedly. More than once he put his hand on your shoulder with disturbing affection. But you couldn’t respond so obligingly. You needed time to cover half the emotional distance he had already crossed when he met you.
It was hard for you to forget what he had done.
He must have read the statement you and your comrades issued, which called him a defeatist who put his personal interests above the common cause. You were the spokesman for the Organisation and the one who drafted the statements it issued abroad. That was about ten years earlier.
You knew there had been change in your country. But you didn’t expect to find Younis al-Khattat’s poems included in an anthology of writings selected under the supervision of official institutions, for several reasons. Younis al-Khattat wrote few poems, and they were published in local newspapers with limited circulation or in underground stencil-copied publications edited by young men who believed that words could be as powerful as bullets. Besides that of course there was the fact of his conviction in absentia. It’s true that the poems did bring him some attention in literary circles, and more than one critic wrote about the advent of a promising poet. But the fact remains that he was not a recognised poet, even though some of his poems on love and politics circulated among young people. One of the three poems in the anthology was called ‘The Lady of the City’ , which was heavy with influences from the Song of Solomon. The lyricism in it is clear. The pastoralism – the hills covered with lilies, the lions and the spikenard – was also evident. But for all that clarity, a question obsessed you when you read the poem. How could a poet less than twenty years old describe how time weighed on his shoulders, how it had left scars on his body, how it made the ground sprout lily after lily and the gazelles give birth to gazelle after gazelle, and the days and nights pass in succession without his love for his beloved diminishing one iota? You told yourself that sometimes one’s words can sing the praises of something you know nothing about or overestimate the permanence of feelings. They can immortalise a moment that soon proves to be transitory, if not pathetic. You also said that it is emotional and intellectual discipline that generally gives words a way out, saves them from the nonsense of their firm promises and makes it possible to read them again with as little disgust as possible.
You were not surprised for long that Younis al-Khattat’s poems had been included in the part of the large anthology that was devoted to your country. While roaming through the galleries of the cultural institution that was hosting the exhibition, you saw your old comrade Mahmoud, whom you all used to call Abu Tawila because of his unusual height. Ever since middle school in Hamiya, Mahmoud had been noticeably taller than the rest of his colleagues. You were considered tall, but not as tall as Mahmoud. Those extra inches of flesh and bone were probably the only advantage he had over you. It didn’t feel like it was ten years or so since your stormy last meeting. He embraced you and spoke warmly. He waved his hands excitedly. More than once he put his hand on your shoulder with disturbing affection. But you couldn’t respond so obligingly. You needed time to cover half the emotional distance he had already crossed when he met you.
It was hard for you to forget what he had done.
He must have read the statement you and your comrades issued, which called him a defeatist who put his personal interests above the common cause. You were the spokesman for the Organisation and the one who drafted the statements it issued abroad. That was about ten years earlier.
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