Living in Time

In this chapter, Mourid Barghouti deeply explores the nature of exile and how it has shaped his identity and relationship with place, time, and belongings. The chapter begins with Barghouti recounting a pivotal moment when he was deported from Egypt. He recalls being taken to the Passport Department in the Tahrir Building in Cairo, where he was detained and later sent to the Deportation Center at Khalifa. As he was taken from his home, Barghouti contemplated the unpredictability of his future and the weight of his young family’s uncertain fate: “What will the days bring for this five-month-old child, for Radwa and me, for us?”.

This deportation was not based on any wrongdoing on Barghouti’s part but was a result of political accusations made by a colleague in the Union of Palestinian Writers. He reflects on how life is often complicated by forces beyond personal control, stating, “Life will not be simplified”. This event, along with other instances of displacement, epitomizes the complexities of living as an exile, where one’s fate is frequently decided by political and external forces.

Barghouti delves into the broader experience of displacement, noting that he has lived in many places, from Baghdad to Beirut, Budapest, and Amman, but he could never truly claim any of them as his own. He observes that in these places, he was merely passing through, never able to fully settle. He expresses this sentiment by stating, “It was impossible to hold on to a particular location... I do not live in a place. I live in a time”. This reflects the transient nature of his existence, where the essence of belonging is not rooted in physical places but in the psychological and emotional dimensions of time.

Throughout the chapter, Barghouti discusses how displacement has influenced his relationship with material objects and spaces. He shares a poignant reflection on his inability to create a permanent home, noting how even simple objects like coffee cups, cooking pots, and bed linens never truly belong to him. They are often left behind, rented, or borrowed. He writes, “I have moved between houses and furnished apartments, and become used to the passing and the temporary”. This constant uprooting has taught him not to become attached to material things, and even small acts, such as breaking a coffee cup, carry a deeper meaning in his transient life.

One of the more symbolic reflections in this chapter revolves around Barghouti’s love for houseplants. He describes how, despite his temporary existence, he found solace in tending to his plants: yuccas, dracaenas, and ferns. He meticulously cared for them, cleaning their leaves with beer to bring out their natural shine and ensuring they received the proper sunlight. In these moments, Barghouti found a sense of order and calm amidst the chaos of his constantly shifting life. He explains how music would play for his plants while he was away, and upon returning, he would continue caring for them with great tenderness: “I move them from their places to let them turn their shaded side to the sunlight”. Yet, even with his plants, there is an inevitable moment of separation when he has to leave them behind, a routine he performs without emotion.

Barghouti’s experiences of hotels and airports are a constant in his life as an exile. He describes how, over time, he has learned to appreciate the impermanence that hotels offer. Rather than resenting the temporary nature of hotel life, he has found comfort in the freedom it provides: “Hotels absolve you from immortalizing the moment but at the same time provide a theater for short acts and surprises”. In a hotel, he is not burdened by responsibilities, social obligations, or material attachments. Instead, it offers a space where he can exist without permanence, free from the expectations of owning or committing to anything.

Barghouti then contrasts his transient life with the memories of his ancestral village, Deir Ghassanah, and its guesthouse, which once served as the center of social and communal life. He recalls the faces and voices of the men who gathered there, recounting their stories and humor, vividly bringing them back to life in his imagination. “This is my first place,” he says, reflecting on the significance of the guesthouse. Through these memories, Barghouti captures the warmth, camaraderie, and traditions of village life, where everyone had a place in the community. These men, including his uncles and neighbors, represent a stable past, in contrast to the instability of Barghouti’s current life.

Barghouti recounts the anecdotes and humor of these men, like Abu ‘Ouda, who once joked, “If Abu ‘Ouda speaks pearls you say you didn’t hear, and if the headman farts, you say the scent of musk!”. These stories, often filled with exaggerations and humor, formed the foundation of the village’s oral tradition, passed down through generations. However, Barghouti also acknowledges the darker side of these stories, such as the societal pressures and conservative views that dictated the lives of women in the village. He shares the story of his mother, Sakina, who was denied the chance to continue her education beyond primary school because she was fatherless. The village elders deemed that girls should remain at home once they reached a certain age, a decision that shaped his mother’s life profoundly.

Barghouti’s mother’s life was filled with hardship, yet she demonstrated immense strength and determination. After being widowed at a young age, she raised her children alone and later sought education as an adult to satisfy her desire for knowledge. Barghouti reflects on her dedication to her family and her unyielding belief in the value of education: “She taught us her biggest lesson, which was that the most important value in life is knowledge and that it deserves every sacrifice”. Despite the limitations imposed on her, she remained a powerful figure in Barghouti’s life, influencing his values and aspirations.

In reflecting on his mother’s life, Barghouti contrasts her quiet, everyday revolution with the more performative acts of political commitment he observed in others. He admires the way she embodied resilience and strength through her daily actions, whether it was managing the household or making practical changes to their living space: “She does not stop working in the house and in its little garden... She has green fingers: anything she plants in the garden or in a pot lives and grows and blossoms”. Her steadfastness and care become metaphors for survival and growth in the face of adversity.

As Barghouti concludes this chapter, he returns to the theme of time versus place, reflecting on how his mother’s struggles, the village’s history, and his own experiences all exist within a continuum of time rather than fixed locations. He realizes that the connection to a homeland is not solely about physical presence but about the memories and emotions tied to it. The past remains alive in these memories, even though the present has irrevocably changed. Ultimately, the chapter captures Barghouti’s complex relationship with displacement, illustrating how exile is not just a matter of geography but of living in time—where memories, experiences, and fleeting moments shape one’s identity. His reflections on impermanence, family, and memory highlight the emotional depth of a life lived in transit, where the notion of “home” is more of a temporal construct than a physical one.