And a house with many windows,
I have brothers, friends,
And a prison cell with a cold window.
Mine is the wave, snatched by sea-gulls,
I have my own view,
And an extra blade of grass.
Mine is the moon at the far edge of the words,
And the bounty of birds,
And the immortal olive tree.
I walked this land before the swords
Turned its living body into a laden table.
I come from there. I render the sky unto her mother
When the sky weeps for her mother.
And I weep to make myself known
To a returning cloud.
I learnt all the words worthy of the court of blood
So that I could break the rule.
I learnt all the words and broke them up
To make a single word: Homeland..

Mahmoud Darwish: The Voice of Exile, Resistance, and Hope

Born in the village of al-Birwa in Galilee, Mahmoud Darwish’s life was forever marked by displacement. His homeland was occupied and later erased by the Israeli army, leaving his family classified as “present-absent aliens”—a haunting paradox that would shape his poetry. Despite exile, Darwish transformed his longing and defiance into over 30 volumes of verse and eight books of prose, earning global acclaim, including the Lannan Cultural Freedom Prize, the Lenin Peace Prize, and France’s Knight of Arts and Belles Lettres Medal.

Darwish was more than a poet—he was a symbol of resistance. In the 1960s, he was imprisoned for reciting his work and traveling without a permit. His iconic poem “Identity Card” became a protest anthem, leading to his house arrest. Yet, his voice only grew louder. After studying in Moscow, he worked at Al-Ahram in Cairo, then moved to Beirut, where he edited Palestinian Affairs and later founded Al-Karmel. His leadership extended to politics as a member of the PLO’s executive committee, yet his greatest power remained his pen.

Exile never severed his connection to Palestine. In 1996, he was finally permitted to return, reuniting with loved ones in a land forever etched in his soul. His early works pulse with the pain of occupation, while later collections, like Mural, weave classical Arabic forms with modern brilliance. As Carolyn Forché noted, Darwish was not just the voice of the Palestinian diaspora but of “the fragmented soul”—a poet who turned loss into timeless art.

Though he passed away in Houston in 2008, Darwish’s words endure—a testament to resilience, a call for justice, and an unyielding ode to homeland.