To be under occupation, to be under siege, is not a good

Mahmoud Darwish, the great voice of Palestine and one of the most poignant poets of exile, once declared: “To be under occupation, to be under siege, is not a good inspiration for poetry.” These words carry the weight of both confession and warning. For Darwish, who lived much of his life under the shadow of dispossession and conflict, the statement is no dismissal of poetry’s power, but a lament that poetry cannot bloom freely when the soul is crushed by chains. Poetry thrives in the soil of imagination, but occupation seeks to strangle imagination, to reduce a human being to survival, to strip the spirit of the luxury of wonder.

The origin of this wisdom lies in Darwish’s own experience as a Palestinian poet living through exile, war, and displacement. Many expected him to transform suffering into endless streams of verse, to turn every wound into a song. But Darwish knew better: the siege suffocates. When you are deprived of freedom, the heart is not always lifted to lyric; it is broken, silenced, trapped. He understood that though poetry can emerge from suffering, suffering alone is not poetry—it can paralyze, it can steal away the ability to dream, and it can leave only silence where song once lived.

History confirms this paradox. In World War II, countless artists were silenced in concentration camps, their pens broken by hunger, terror, and despair. Some, like Paul Celan, emerged with haunting fragments, but many voices never rose again. Their silence is proof of Darwish’s words: the siege may inspire the will to survive, but it does not always inspire the fullness of creation. The creative spirit requires more than pain—it requires space to breathe, to imagine, to remember beauty alongside sorrow.

Yet Darwish also knew that poetry can still break through the cracks of oppression, though it does so painfully. His own poems often testify to this tension: his words are both resistance and lament, both survival and song. But he cautions against the romantic illusion that occupation naturally produces art. Too often outsiders look to the oppressed and say, “Surely your suffering makes you strong poets.” Darwish rejects this exploitation of pain. True poetry does not feed on wounds alone; it requires freedom, dignity, and hope.

The meaning of his statement, therefore, is deeply humane. It is a call for the recognition that the artist is a human being first, not a mere vessel for political suffering. To demand poetry from the besieged is to forget their humanity, to make of them only symbols. Darwish, with his wisdom, reminds us that a human being under siege longs for bread, water, and peace before he longs to craft verses. Poetry may come, but it cannot be forced from chains—it must rise naturally, when the soul has room to breathe.

The lesson for us is to honor the conditions that allow creativity to flourish. Do not romanticize the suffering of others as though it were fertile soil for art. Instead, strive to create conditions of justice, peace, and freedom, so that poetry and all art can grow from joy as well as from sorrow. Recognize that while pain can give rise to beauty, no one should be condemned to endless pain in the name of inspiration.

Practically, this means supporting the oppressed not by demanding their songs, but by helping remove their shackles. It means nurturing spaces in your own life where imagination can breathe, not only in times of hardship but in times of rest. And when you encounter poetry born from siege, read it with reverence—not as entertainment, but as testimony to endurance.

Thus Mahmoud Darwish’s words stand as both lament and instruction: “To be under occupation, to be under siege, is not a good inspiration for poetry.” Let us not ask the oppressed to bear double burdens, to suffer and also to sing for our enlightenment. Instead, let us work for a world where poetry is born from freedom, not captivity; from love, not siege; from the fullness of life, not merely its wounds. For poetry, like the human soul, blossoms best in light.