Gideon Levy on Mahmoud Darwish (Haaretz – 2002)

I would like to respond to Gideon Levy’s review (“Haaretz Books,” 5.7) of Mahmoud Darwish’s book of poems. This review contains several fundamental points, some of them touching on our approach to literature in general, and I have therefore gone on at somewhat greater length. I would appreciate your publishing this letter.

                                                                                    Miki Abraham, Yeruham 07-6583230

Levy argues that one need not be left-wing in order to be moved by and identify with Darwish. He further asks: why can one not find in his poetry universal values of longing for a homeland, the catastrophe of expulsion, and so forth?

If that is indeed the case—that in practice only left-wingers read Darwish—why is that so? Perhaps because although one “need not be left-wing in order to enjoy him,” it certainly helps. This fact can be interpreted in one of two ways: either the left-wing reader’s enjoyment is grounded in his worldview, or the right-wing reader’s lack of enjoyment is grounded in his own worldview. Gideon Levy chooses, for some reason, the second option.

Levy calls for an examination of a literary work—postmodern in its very essence—solely on its own terms, according to aesthetic-emotional values, without any “objective” examination of the political-moral background on which it rests (it is no wonder that he relies on Said and Raz-Krakotzkin, clear representatives of this position).

It seems to me that the best response to these claims is found in A. B. Yehoshua’s book The Terrible Power of a Small Guilt, which is wholly devoted to attacking such a technical and postmodern reading of literature. Yehoshua calls for examining the moral background of the work as well, and not only the experience it arouses in the reader, and says as follows (p. 24): “There is an essential difference between the way literature creates moral catharsis and the way the media operates. Literature does not ask its addressees to understand, but to identify, and the power of identification lies in this: the moral issue does not remain on the cognitive level, but becomes part of the addressee’s personality and selfhood, and a personal problem of his own…”

One who does not identify with the moral-ideological background of Darwish’s descriptions, one who thinks that the Palestinians are not victims of expulsions or “Nakbas,” but rather a people that massacres and acts without restraint against its own people as well as against others (primarily, though not only, Israelis), will have difficulty identifying with those “universal” values in Darwish’s poetry. Such a person has no wish for that identification of which Yehoshua speaks to be created. Clearly, when one reads about human suffering the heart can be torn, yet the moral stance shaped in the wake of the reading is certainly dependent on ideology.

For example, would Levy recommend that we read the moving (and fictitious, as far as I know) book of poems by Baruch Goldstein’s wife, which heart-rendingly describes the (real) suffering of his family because of his “murder” in the Cave of the Patriarchs tragedy? That too is a “universal experience.” It could even lead us to “understand,” and perhaps even to “identify with,” that family.

Levy, plainly because of his political positions, relates to the Palestinians differently. Why, then, does he maintain that the attitude should not differ between left and right? I, by contrast, because of my own positions, do not wish to base a “moral catharsis” on the condition of the Palestinian people. In my view, the question of who is to blame for this situation is relevant (contrary to what Levy says there), as is the question of how much others have suffered at the hands of those same Palestinians. I am not prepared to form an emotional identification with the families of those who massacred us (and still do so), in the spirit of “Sorry that I won!” I do not accept either artistic postmodernism, which examines every work only on its own terms, or political postmodernism, which examines the justice of any side in the conflict only from within its own world. Apparently it is on both these planes that I disagree with Levy.

Beyond the artistic and political argument—perhaps legitimate in itself—there is also inconsistency and dishonesty here. If Levy has decided to deal with literature and poetry, and wishes to enrich our spiritual world with poetic values beyond those familiar to us, there are many other poets from around the world who are not taught in Israeli schools. His recommendation of Darwish does not appear to stem from a sudden interest in the state of literature, nor from Darwish’s contribution to world poetry. It is clear that he does not intend to detach the political context but rather to conceal it, and thus to bring about the formation of an ideological worldview on the basis of emotional identification (exactly as he does in his articles in the weekend supplements). I would expect him to be honest enough not to cloak his political preaching in a mantle of poetic sanctimony and emotional manipulation.

Poetry may indeed allow itself to be somewhat illogical; arguments, however—even when they concern poetry criticism (unlike Levy’s own arguments, which concern mainly politics)—must certainly be subject to the laws of logic. One cannot speak of universal values that are independent of worldview and at the same time say that the reading will change the worldview of “whoever dares.” One cannot speak of an identification created with the text and its author and claim that this has no connection to political positions. One cannot claim that the goal is only literature and emotion, and specifically propose Darwish, who is so heavily charged. It is indeed true that in the postmodern study hall, the last thing taken into account when constructing an argument is the laws of logic.