The Village Square

In this chapter, Mourid Barghouti reflects on the inevitable loss of romanticism and the collision of personal nostalgia with the harsh realities of life. His return to Deir Ghassanah, and more specifically to the village square, brings this into sharp focus. Barghouti expresses how time, war, and occupation have destroyed not just physical structures but also the imagination and romanticism of his youth. He writes: “Life pushes us toward the dust of reality. Buildings are not the only things destroyed by time. The imagination of the poet is preordained for destruction”. This sentiment frames his experience as he walks through the village square, a place once full of life, now decayed by time and conflict.

Barghouti draws parallels between his return to Deir Ghassanah and his earlier experience of being allowed to return to Cairo after years of being banned. In both instances, the romantic idea of return clashes with the reality. He describes the anticipation of reuniting with his family: "I do not return to Radwa. I return with her. As though she had taken me by the hand to bring me back to the house they tore me from". This return, however, is bittersweet, as he realizes that joy does not come immediately: "You do not rejoice immediately when life presses a button that turns the wheel of events in your favor". The long years of separation have shaped his family’s lives, and he finds that even in reunion, there is an underlying burden of those lost years.

Barghouti then revisits the village, describing how it has aged and decayed, much like his memories. He mentions the empty guesthouse, which was once a place full of life and conversations. Now, it’s a silent shell of its former self, a symbol of how much has changed. As he stands there, he feels the weight of absence: “There was nothing in the guesthouse except their absence”. This absence signifies not just the physical disappearance of people, but also the collapse of the life he once knew in Deir Ghassanah. The chapter is filled with reflections on the loss of time and place. Barghouti’s memories of the village are vivid, but he realizes that they no longer match the present. He recalls his uncle’s home, Dar Ra’d, the vast olive groves, and the childhood joy of picking fruit. Yet, when he returns, the fig tree that once dominated the courtyard is gone, replaced by a cement block. This loss symbolizes the deeper disconnection between the past and present, between the Barghouti who left and the one who returns.

Barghouti also reflects on the personal transformation that comes with exile: “Your language in conflict and in contentment? They have not watched your hair turn gray”. He acknowledges that he is no longer the child the villagers remember, and they do not know the man he has become. This sense of estrangement from his own roots adds a layer of melancholy to his return. One of the most poignant moments in the chapter is when Barghouti reads his poetry in the village square for the first time. The event is significant not just for him, but for the entire village, which had never hosted such an event. As he steps onto the platform, he is acutely aware of the connection between his past and the present: "Behind me the wall of the guesthouse. To my left Dar Salih. To my right the wall of the mosque. In front of me the wall of our house, Dar Ra’d". This placement is symbolic of his role as a poet, standing at the intersection of memory, history, and reality.

Barghouti chooses to begin his reading with an elegy for his brother Mounif, whose presence haunts the square. He remembers his brother’s dreams of restoring the village, turning it into a place of cultural and artistic growth. These dreams, however, remain unfulfilled, and Barghouti’s elegy becomes a way to honor Mounif’s memory: “I wanted to bring him back here, carried on my language”. Towards the end of the chapter, Barghouti shifts his focus to the broader political reality of the Israeli occupation. The slogans of the Intifada cover the walls of the mosque and the houses, a reminder of the ongoing struggle. Even as he reads his poetry, there is an underlying tension, as he knows that the village, like much of Palestine, remains under occupation. The reality of life under occupation pervades every moment of his return, clouding even the most personal and intimate of experiences. The chapter concludes with Barghouti’s departure from the village. As he leaves, he reflects on the long road ahead and the settlements that now surround the area. He notes how the Israeli occupation has changed the landscape, cutting off villages from one another, and controlling every aspect of movement and life.

In the final lines, Barghouti ties together his reflections on displacement, memory, and the irrevocable passage of time: “Nothing that is absent ever comes back complete. Nothing is recaptured as it was. ‘Ein al-Deir is not a place, it is a time”. This statement encapsulates the central theme of the chapter—time and memory cannot be restored, and places, no matter how cherished, are ultimately transformed by the passage of time and political realities. This chapter serves as a poignant meditation on exile, return, and the personal and collective loss experienced by Palestinians displaced from their homeland. Through his reflections, Barghouti captures the deep emotional complexity of returning to a place that no longer exists as it once did.