Years ago, I received a query from a prominent editor about a line in Mahmoud Darwish’s long poem, “The ‘Red Indian’s’ Penultimate Speech to the White Man,” (If I Were Another). The poem channels Chief Seattle’s voice and spirit. In the poem’s second section, the line in question follows an address to Columbus, “the free [who] has the right to find India in any sea, / and the right to name our ghosts as pepper or Indian.”
The line in question is this: “You have burst seventy million hearts…enough, / enough for you to return from our death as monarch of the new time”:
isn’t it time we met, stranger, as two strangers of one time
and one land, the way strangers meet by a chasm?
We have what is ours…and we have what is yours of sky.
You have what is yours…and what is ours of air and water.
“I just don’t get where he got the seventy million from?” the editor asked.
I didn’t reply. I didn’t wonder about the accuracy of Darwish’s claim. Maybe he included all the Natives annihilated in the Americas over the centuries. The only thought I had in my head was, “Is this really what’s bothering you about the poem?”
Years later, in a daydream, a marginalia of my soul visited me, and it spoke thus: “Do you remember those seventy million punctured hearts in Darwish’s poem? If you’re ever asked again, if the person who asks you says that historical studies show the number is not possible or whatever, remember the buffalos.”
The buffalo hearts are also native hearts.
Who will count the donkeys, dogs, and cats in Gaza?
The birds will return.
— Fady Joudah, in his essay “A Palestinian Meditation in a Time of Annihilation”