Darwish in Music, Classics of Palestinian Resistance

The words are from a poem by Mahmoud Darwish. I first heard this song performed live by the group, Sabreen:



Here is Sabreen again with translation of the poem into English:



Nai Barghouti has her own version of this powerful song:


I was privileged to be able to experience the art of Sabreen firsthand twice. Another poem by Darwish that they set to music is 'On Wishes':



On Wishes
Don't say to me:
Would I were a seller of bread in Algiers
That I might sing with a rebel.
Don't say to me:
Would I were a herdsman in the Yemen
That I might sing to the shudderings of time.
Don't say to me:
Would I were a cafe waiter in Havana
That I might sing the victories of sorrowing women.
Don't say to me:
Would I worked as a young labourer in Aswan
That I might sing to the rocks.
My friend,
The Nile will not flow into the Volga,
Nor the Congo or the Jordan into the Euphrates.
Each river has its source, its course, its life.
My friend, our land is not barren.
Each land has its time for being born.
Each dawn a date with a rebel.

Translation by Denys Johnson-Davies


I treasured my cassettes of the music of George Qurmuz for many years, but they no longer play properly. YouTube once again demonstrates that the great music of the Palestinian people will live on and on:




Record!
I am an Arab
And my identity card is number fifty thousand
I have eight children
And the nineth is coming after a summer
Will you be angry?
Record!
I am an Arab
Employed with fellow workers at a quarry
I have eight children
I get them bread
Garments and books
from the rocks..
I do not supplicate charity at your doors
Nor do I belittle myself at the footsteps of your chamber
So will you be angry?
Record!
I am an Arab
I have a name without a title
Patient in a country
Where people are enraged
My roots
Were entrenched before the birth of time
And before the opening of the eras
Before the pines, and the olive trees
And before the grass grew
My father.. descends from the family of the plow
Not from a privileged class
And my grandfather..was a farmer
Neither well-bred, nor well-born!
Teaches me the pride of the sun
Before teaching me how to read
And my house is like a watchman's hut
Made of branches and cane
Are you satisfied with my status?
I have a name without a title!
Record!
I am an Arab
You have stolen the orchards of my ancestors
And the land which I cultivated
Along with my children
And you left nothing for us
Except for these rocks..
So will the State take them
As it has been said?!
Therefore!
Record on the top of the first page:
I do not hate poeple
Nor do I encroach
But if I become hungry
The usurper's flesh will be my food
Beware..
Beware..
Of my hunger
And my anger!