ADONIS' WARNING TO INTELLECTUALS:

Western & Arab

By Elie Chalala
In past wars and crises, Arab culture has become an issue, if not by inviting stereotypical
characterizations, then in the debates and controversies among its most celebrated
thinkers. During the war on Iraq, this was nowhere more apparent than in the Arab world,
though still visible to a lesser extent in the United States, namely among Arab-American
intellectuals and academics.
In the Arab world, two groups emerged on the eve of the war, the first opposed both to
war and dictatorship, while the second opposed war but declined to address dictatorship,
as this could be construed as implied support for the U.S. case against Iraq. These two
positions in the Arab world would remain confined to academic and journalistic circles.
The same occurred in the U.S., although the discourse fell short of being as significant
qualitatively and quantitatively as in the Arab world. It involved on one hand Kanan
Makiyya, author of "Republic of Fear" and a figure in the Pentagon-sponsored Iraqi
opposition coalition, and on the other, a long list of detractors who attacked him in print
and online. Although Makiyya's support of the war took him as far as to describe the
bombs falling on Baghdad as "music to his ears," in a series of war diaries written for the
online edition of New Republic magazine, some of his opponents reached an opposite
extreme by transforming a legitimate debate--against war and dictatorship vs. anti-war
positions-- into a personal vendetta. Because this topic deserves attention and provides
for lively debate, we are devoting sizable space to an important school of Arab
intellectuals who have not been, as have some Arab-American intellectuals, willing to
remain silent on dictatorship and the disaster it brought upon the Arab world and the Iraqi
people.
Adonis writes, that it (Iraq) was
transformed into a private "garden,"
where almost everything became
privatized or personalized, including
property, guards, the army, and even the
"people." The land of Iraq "changed
into prisons for citizens who viewed
things differently than the regime,
changed into weapons to destroy the
nation and the nations of others,
unleashed the hands of the state to kill
whoever it wished, how it wished, and
when it wished, destroying law, order,
and the whole foundation of justice."

We are still waiting to read about "mass graves" in the discourse of some Arab-American
intellectuals. Instead, we are reading and hearing more about the atrocities of dictatorship
from voices within the Arab world. These voices are worthy of our attention, for they
enrich Arab culture, primarily in its diversity. Poet and critic Abbas Beydoun, novelist
Mahmoud Saeed, and author and art critic Shakir Luabi speak for themselves in this
issue, and noted late Iraqi poet Abdul Wahab al-Bayyati speaks from the grave with his
timeless poem, "The Dragon," translated for this issue.
Another important voice is Ali Ahmad Said, who writes under the pen name Adonis. He
is perhaps the Arab world's most distinguished living creative literary figure. He makes
no mistake that Saddam Hussein's regime was authoritarian and repressive, but wonders
if Western intellectuals who support the war and who base their position on "fighting
fascism and forms of totalitarianism" forget, or choose to forget, that "their position at the
practical level is nothing except preaching a totalitarianism that transcends regionalism to
globalism," according to a column titled "Sieges," which appeared in Al Hayat (April 3,
2003). War for Adonis is unquestionably "evil" in a non-religious sense. Unlike Kanan
Makiyya, who is almost certain of war's results, Adonis has serious doubts, even when
war is aimed at one of the most repressive dictators in the Arab world. He is afraid it may
lead to the replacement of a "regional" or "partial" evil with a global one, or replacing a
"limited danger" with an "unlimited one." These intellectuals end up bestowing
"intellectual" and "cultural legitimacy" on evil, adopting a position that is "contrary to the
principles of peace, progress, justice," a position that "encourages military invasion and
creates a cultural atmosphere for continuous wars."
Western intellectuals' acceptance of war as a vision of the world or as a means of change
is "a human tragedy," continues Adonis. "Wars destroy human accomplishments and
destroy man from inside, emptying him of his humanistic meaning and viewing him as
merely a thing of things, releasing instincts to practice killing for the sake of killing."
These intellectuals "forget that this signals the end of man." In attempting to remove one
criminal, the war is "visiting its hell upon the people of Iraq," with "only the innocents"
being destroyed.
Iraq was not an obscure or perplexing situation. Its record lies open to whoever cares, a
record that chills the spirit. Adonis has been one of a few Arab intellectuals who dared to
clamor against Arab dictatorships, particularly in Iraq. His warnings to fellow Arab
intellectuals are likely to get him into trouble, although not for the first time nor likely the
last. In the same article, he warns Arab intellectuals not to be swayed by the "Arab
street," which opposes war and volunteers to fight on the side of the Iraqi people, though
probably "its great majority rejects Saddam and his regime." Arab intellectuals need not
be influenced by what Adonis calls the "amazingly muddled thinking" which could
"nullify the thinking process and the obsession with freedom." He urges them to recall the
Arab political experiment in the second half of the last century, precisely the
"'revolution'" of 1952 in Cairo and the "revolution" of 1958 in Baghdad. That he places
revolution in quotation marks aims to question the popularized claim that these military
coups are in fact revolutions. These intellectuals are also urged by Adonis to re-examine
the experience of the "Arab street," to probe the old, deep and widespread "disease"
which "plagues the Arab political body in its entirety."

Adonis attempts to explain why

Baghdad fell easily to the
invading forces. "A country is
not a real country unless it
embraces its children as they
embrace it. And unless it
defends them, they will not
defend it: a nation that does not
love its children is a nation that
does not love." Although he
does not mention Iraq by name,
that nation is unmistakably
implied.
Adonis challenges these intellectuals to ask themselves a simple question: "What did
Saddam Hussein do throughout the past 30 years with the immense wealth of the Iraqi
people...and what did he do to his people?" Adonis believes that Iraq's national wealth
should have been invested to develop Iraq and improve the well-being of its citizens; Iraq
should have been fully employed, poverty free, enjoying full literacy, without millions of
its citizens being forced into exile. Adonis goes on to list a number of accomplishments
Iraq could have enjoyed were it not for the Saddam Hussein regime.
But Iraq under Saddam Hussein descended into hell. Adonis writes, that it was
transformed into a private "garden," where almost everything became privatized or
personalized, including property, guards, the army, and even the "people." The land of
Iraq "changed into prisons for citizens who viewed things differently than the regime,
changed into weapons to destroy the nation and the nations of others, unleashed the hands
of the state to kill whoever it wished, how it wished, and when it wished, destroying law,
order, and the whole foundation of justice."
Under the title "Fading Nationalism and Green Terror" (Al Hayat, June 12, 2003), Adonis
attempts to explain why Baghdad fell easily to the invading forces. "A country is not a
real country unless it embraces its children as they embrace it. And unless it defends
them, they will not defend it: a nation that does not love its children is a nation that does
not love." Although he does not mention Iraq by name, that nation is unmistakably
implied.
Though it is not the first time Adonis has gotten himself in trouble with fellow Arab
intellectuals, especially the ardent nationalists, his relentless criticism of the Iraqi regime
has unleashed new attacks upon him. Responding to these attacks, he published in Al
Hayat (May 15, 2003) a text he wrote in 1969 during his only visit to Iraq. We conclude
with these translated excerpts, which testify against those who accuse Adonis of
inconsistency:
I think the time has come to say to Gilgamesh, that you deluded some of us into thinking
that life in Baghdad had a secret we were still waiting for you to discover for us.
Everything practically confirms that this life is nothing except continuous death. Look at
how the tyrant's sword unsheathed, and how the throats are prepared to be slashed.

 Now, at this moment, I imagine that I see only two in Baghdad: Al-Halaj, crucified,
and Al-Tawhidi, throwing his books into the waters of the Tigris.

Addressing Baghdad,
In the past, those who lived on its two banks were non-monotheistic people, but
regardless, they were more humane and more creative than their grandchildren who are
besieging you today.
I love this moment. I say: Baghdad--half of it is forest, the other half is desert.
And I love to ask my friend, whispering: What is the difference between Baghdad 1258
and 1969?
-The first was ravaged by the Tartars
-The second by its own children
-Baghdad is heaven!
-Man is heaven, not the place
I saw how language transformed itself into a huge army of ferocious animals. And I
was, until that moment of 1969, tired of distinguishing between people, devils, and gods
when I looked at those in charge of state in Iraq. Perhaps because of this I felt
perpetually cold in Baghdad, even when I was in the embrace of the sun.
This essay appeared in Al Jadid Magazine, Vol. 9, Nos. 42/43 (Winter/Spring 2003)
Copyright (c) 2003 by Al Jadid

Al Jadid on Adonis -- A Poet Responds

Some Further Remarks on Arabic Poetry
By Etel Adnan
Al Jadid's feature paper on Adonis' views on Arab poetry was most interesting and thus calls for some
further debate. As an Arab-American poet and one familiar with the works of most contemporary Arab
poets I would both agree and disagree with what was said.
It is true that "tarab" is intrinsic to Arabic poetry's past and present, as it is intrinsic to Adonis' own poetry.
"Tarab" being, at its best, the sort of ecstasy reached when the musicality of the verse coincides with the
visionary quality of the thought expressed.
There has been a major shift from the "beauty" of the poem to the realization of other qualities, or values,
which were present in classical poetry but were subservient to the necessities of formal values such as
meter, rhythm, rhyme, etc.
Since the surrealist revolution, poetry tends to be more analytical, more explosive, and less predictable; its
subject matter is more varied, moving from what could have appeared to be trite, common, ugly, even
pornographic, to the more familiar themes of passion, loves, and longing themes which, by the way, could
never become "old fashioned," given that they are part of the human condition and experienced over and
over again by every human being.
Let us not oversimplify traditional Arab poetry. Adonis himself has written a remarkable work on Arab
poetics showing that traditional poetry was infinitely richer and inventive in both meaning and aesthetics
than is usually known. It is true that meter and rhyme were poetic tools which made poems easier to

memorize while also creating a mesmerizing effect that we call "song", an effect that is still considered
desirable in contemporary literature and music. Contemporary poetry is often considered "obscure,"
difficult, and, for many people, altogether non-poetic.
First, let us bring out the fact that many Arab poets do write contemporary poetry; I mean the kind of poetry
that Adonis seems to admire and thinks to be non existent among Arab poets. These poets are usually
young, and, most importantly, are dispersed, most of them exiled either in Europe or in the Americas. They
don't need to look for models only in Western or non-Arab poets, as they have read poets who broke with
tradition such as Mahmoud Darwiche, Fadel el Azzawi, Sargon Bulos, and a few others. And younger poets
in Lebanon, Bahrain, the Yemen, etc. are branching out in poetics of their own.
There is also the question of the audience of poetry, of the societies in which poets live. Poetry "which is
unrhymed, nonmusical, based on contemplation and examination of inner worlds" does not "lie outside
Arabic poetic taste," exclusively, as Elie Chalala's quote from Adonis says bluntly. This is a problematic
situation faced by poets all over the world. After all, most contemporary poets choose to be difficult,
elliptic, allusive, and philosophical, thus reducing knowingly their audience. To give an example: the
editors of the best American, English or French poets that I know publish editions which go between 300
and 500 copies!
This is not an exclusive Arab situation but one which is inbuilt in the very nature of the poetry which is
being written. Very few have the luck to reach a broad audience while following the aesthetics of the time.
But they know it; we can say that very few physicists or mathematicians are read by the public at large,
their field of knowledge being by definition reserved to specialists. Contemporary poetry has become a
highly specialized field and poets seem to be only read by other poets. Society is not to blame. Poetry was
an essentially tribal art, an oral art form even when it was written down. But we have new modes of
expressions for a world so broken down that we can say that each man or woman is a tribe to him or
herself. Poetry, music, and visual arts keep changing at the pace of the world. There are no absolutes in
these domains and the poetics of today can probably not last any longer than the generation that produced
them, regardless of their merits.
I would like to make one more point. There is a growing number of Arab poets who write in "foreign"
languages, especially English, German, or French. They are neglected by the Arab poets who write in
Arabic: their works are not included in Arab universities' curricula, they are not taught in contemporary
Arab literature classes, and they are not seriously studied by the critics in Arab countries. Until this is done
no judgment of any worth can be passed on contemporary Arab poetry.
Etel Adnan, a Lebanese-American poet and novelist, is the author of many works, among which are Sitt
Marie Rose, Of Cities and Women (Letters to Fawaz), Paris, When It's Naked, The Indian Never Had a
Horse & Other Poems, The Spring Flowers Own & The Manifestations of the Voyage, The Arab
Apocalypse, and Journey to Mount Tamalpais, all by The Post-Apollo Press, California.
Those interested in having some information on Arab-American writers and poets can contact a small but
lively organization called R.A.W.I. which has a good newsletter c/o Barbara Aziz, 160 6th Avenue, New
York, NY 10013
This article appeared in Vol. 2, No. 4 (February 1996).

Poet's Palestine as a Metaphor

By Adam Shatz
In the Arab imagination, Palestine is not simply a plot of land, any more than Israel is a
plot of land in the Jewish imagination. As the Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish has
observed, Palestine is also a metaphor "for the loss of Eden, for the sorrows of
dispossession and exile, for the declining power of the Arab world in its dealings with the
West."
Mr. Darwish, 59, who is widely considered the Palestinian national poet, has developed
this metaphor to richly lyrical effect. Born in a village destroyed by Israeli soldiers in the

1948 Arab-Israeli war, he has evoked the loss of his homeland in more than two dozen
books of poetry and prose, which have sold millions of copies and made him the most
celebrated writer of verse in the Arab world.
"Many people in the Arab world feel their language is in crisis," the Syrian poetry critic
Subhi Hadidi said.
"And it is no exaggeration to say that Mahmoud is considered a savior of the Arab
language."
A Darwish reading in Cairo or Damascus draws thousands of people, from college
professors to taxi drivers. Despite his scathing criticisms of Arab governments "prison
cells" he calls them he has met privately with virtually every leader in the Arab world.
He cannot go to a cafe in an Arab city without being noticed, which is why he studiously
avoids public places.
"I like being in the shadows, not in the light," Mr. Darwish said recently while sitting in
the lobby of the Madison Hotel in the heart of the Latin Quarter here.
In Paris for a reading, he seemed happy to be in the place where he lived for several years
in the 1980s. Back home in Ramallah, in the West Bank, where the peace process has
exploded, he says he finds it difficult to write. "Poetry requires a margin, a siesta," he
said. "The situation in Ramallah doesnt give me this luxury. To be under occupation, to
be under siege, is not a good inspiration for poetry. Still, I cant choose my reality. And
this is the whole problem of Palestinian literature: we cant free ourselves of the historical
moment."
Dressed fastidiously in a blue blazer, gray slacks and tortoiseshell glasses, Mr. Darwish
looks like a diplomat and speaks in the same measured, gracious tones. Weakened by a
serious heart condition, he says he has been contemplating something far more
frightening than exile: eternity.
Mr. Darwish is virtually unknown in the United States, where only a few of his books
have been translated. But his American profile may soon be raised. In November he won
the Lannan Foundation Prize for Cultural Freedom, which carries a $350,000 award.
"Darwishs poems are searing, precise and beautiful," said Janet Vorhees, the foundations
executive director for programs. "He has been a voice for people who would not
otherwise be heard." The foundation, based in Santa Fe, N.M., is financing a major
translation of Mr. Darwishs work, which the University of California Press is to publish
in the fall.
"The award has a special value, coming from the United States," Mr. Darwish said,
sounding surprised and pleased. "I also read the prize at a political level, as perhaps
representing a better understanding of the role I have played in my country."
Mr. Darwish has been at the center of Palestinian politics since the 1970s, when he ran
the P.L.O. research center in Beirut, Lebanon. He wrote the 1988 Algiers declaration, in
which the Palestine Liberation Organization announced its support of a two-state
solution. In the literary journal he edits, Al Karmel, he has introduced Arab readers to the
work of Israeli writers, a rare gesture in the Arab world.
Known for his independent, often acerbic views, Mr. Darwish has clashed on many
occasions with the Palestinian leadership. He was a harsh critic of the P.L.O.s
involvement in the Lebanese civil war. When Yasir Arafat, the Palestinian leader,
complained that the Palestinians were "an ungrateful people," Mr. Darwish fired back,
"Find yourself another people then."

In 1993 Mr. Darwish resigned from the P.L.O. executive committee to protest the Oslo
accords, not because he rejected peace with Israel but because, he said: "there was no
clear link between the interim period and the final status, and no clear commitment to
withdraw from the occupied territories. I felt Oslo would pave the way for escalation. I
hoped I was wrong. Im very sad that I was right."
It was, however, the Oslo accords that permitted Mr. Darwishs banned from entering
Israel because of his P.L.O. membership to settle in the West Bank in 1996, after 25 years
in exile. He lived in the Soviet Union, Cairo, Beirut, Tunis and Paris. His poetry came to
mirror his own journey, likening the Palestinian experience abroad to an epic voyage of
the damned.
Like Yehuda Amichai, the Israeli poet he read in Hebrew as a young man, Mr. Darwish
has given expression to his peoples ordinary longings and desires. He writes, he said,
with "an eye toward the beautiful," and would like his poetry to be read for its literary
attributes."
"Sometimes I feel as if I am read before I write," he added, clearly frustrated. "When I
write a poem about my mother, Palestinians think my mother is a symbol for Palestine.
But I write as a poet, and my mother is my mother. Shes not a symbol."
He has written some fairly militant poems, and they have not gone unnoticed. His 1988
poem "Those Who Pass Between Fleeting Words," published in the early days of the first
Intifada, provoked an outcry among Israelis, including some of the poets left-wing
friends. Although Mr. Darwish insisted that he was addressing Israeli soldiers ("Live
wherever you like, but do not live among us"), many Israelis interpreted the poem as a
call for them to evacuate the region altogether.
"I said what every human being living under occupation would say, Get out of my land,"
Mr. Darwish said. "I dont consider it a good poem, and I have never included it in any of
my anthologies."
In March 2000 Yossi Sarid, who was then the education minister of Israel, suggested
including a few of Mr. Darwishs poems in the Israeli high school curriculum. After rightwing members of President Ehud Baraks coalition government threatened a vote of no
confidence, Mr. Barak declared that "Israel is not ready" for Mr. Darwishs work.
"The Israelis do not want to teach students that there is a love story between an Arab poet
and this land," Mr. Darwish said. "I just wish theyd read me to enjoy my poetry, not as a
representative of the enemy."
The son of a middle-class farmer, Mr. Darwish fled with his family to Lebanon during the
1948 Arab-Israeli war. By the time the Darwishes stole back into the country a year later,
their village had been razed. "We were defined, and rejected, as refugees," he said. "This
gave me a very strong bitterness, and I dont know that Im free of it today."
As a Palestinian citizen of Israel, he was forbidden to travel from his village without
military permission. A member of the Communist Party from age 19, he was repeatedly
jailed and was under house arrest from 1968 to 1971. Mr. Darwish drew on those
experiences in his youthful resistance poetry. At 22, he electrified the Arab world with
"Identity Card," a defiant poem based on an encounter with an Israeli police officer who
stopped him for his papers.
Mr. Darwish could have easily made a career for himself churning out protest poems, but
he chose not to. He speaks fluent Hebrew his window, he said, onto the worlds of the
Bible and foreign poetry. His jailors in Israel were Jewish, but so were many of his

closest friends. "I have multiple images of the Israeli other," he

said.
Some of Mr. Darwishs most memorable poems offer tender,
nuanced portraits of the "Israeli other" the poets Jewish friends
and lovers. In "A Soldier Dreaming of White Lilies," written just
after the 1967 war, Mr. Darwish tells of an Israeli friend who
decided to leave the country after returning home from the front.
I want a good heart
Not the weight of a guns magazine.
I refuse to die
Turning my gun my love
On women and children.
The poem elicited ferociously polarized reactions, Mr. Darwish said: "The secretary
general of the Israeli Communist Party said: How come Darwish writes such a poem?
Is he asking us to leave the country to become peace lovers? And Arabs said, How dare
you humanize the Israeli soldier."
In recent years, Mr. Darwishs poetry has grown increasingly dreamy and introspective,
borrowing freely from Greek, Persian, Roman and biblical myths. "The importance of
poetry is not measured, finally, by what the poet says but by how he says it," he said. "I
believe the poet today must write the unseen.
"When I move closer to pure poetry, Palestinians say go back to what you were. But I
have learned from experience that I can take my reader with me if he trusts me. I can
make my modernity, and I can play my games if I am sincere."
Although he now lives under the Palestinian Authority, Mr. Darwish said he still sees
himself as an exile. "I had never been in the West Bank before," he said. "Its not my
private homeland. Without memories you have no real relationship to a place."
Meanwhile, he said, "Ive built my homeland, and Ive even founded my state in my
language."
He said he had been to Israel only once since 1971. Five years ago the Israeli Arab writer
Emile Habiby secured permission for him to visit his former home in Haifa. An Israeli
camera crew planned to film a conversation between the two men, the one who left and
the one who stayed behind. The night before Mr. Darwish arrived, Mr. Habiby died.
"Emile is leaving the stage and cracking his last joke," Mr. Darwish said in his eulogy for
Mr. Habiby, who was noted for his irony. "Maybe theres no place for both of us here, and
his absence has given me the possibility to be present. But whos really absent now, me or
him?"
Over the years, Mr. Darwish said he had come to view exile in philosophical terms.
"Exile is more than a geographical concept," he said. "You can be an exile in your
homeland, in your own house, in a room. Its not simply a Palestinian question. Can I say
Im addicted to exile? Maybe."
It has been both cruel and kind, depriving him of his home but nourishing his art, he said.
"Isnt exile one of the sources of literary creation throughout history?" he said. "The man
who is in harmony with his society, his culture, with himself, cannot be a creator."
"And that would be true," he added. "Even if our country were Eden itself."Thee New York Times