be a tree sated with fertility, be a tree.

And if you are not a tree, my love, 

be stone saturated with humidity, be stone.

And if you are not a stone, my love, 

be a moon in the dream of your beloved one, be a moon.

(So spoke a woman to her son at his funeral.)

 Mahmoud Darwish, State of Siege (2002)

Mahmoud Darwish

To sit with these lines for five years is to realise that Mahmoud Darwish was not writing a poem. He was drafting an ontology of indestructibility. Written during the 2002 Siege of Ramallah, when Israeli forces confined him to his apartment under tanks and demolition orders, these verses are not an elegy. They are a war manual for the soul. A mother at her son’s funeral refuses to grieve as the world expects. Instead, she issues commands. She transforms her dead son into a landscape that cannot be evicted. This is the purest expression of “Sumud” (refusing to be erased or to leave one’s home), the Palestinian art of remaining, not as an act of passivity but as a furious, creative, and elemental refusal to vanish. The Arabic word “Sumud” is a crucial concept in Palestinian identity and resistance. It is often simply translated as “resilience”; it carries a much deeper meaning that bridges the gap between endurance and political defiance. At its core, “Sumud” is the act of maintaining a normal life under abnormal conditions, and refusing to be erased.

The repetition of “be” (the Arabic imperative kun) is not just a request; it is a command of creation. In the Quran, God creates the universe with the phrase “Kun fa-yakun” (“Be, and it is”).

By having a mother use this imperative at a funeral, Darwish is portraying a subversive act of creation. She is refusing to let her son vanish into nothingness. If he cannot exist as a human, his soul will be refashioned into the landscape by the power of language.

The Anatomy of a Siege: Beyond the Blockade

A siege is not merely a military act or tactic. It is a slow erasure of a people’s future. In Palestine, the “plight” is concrete. In the Palestinian context, this “plight” manifests as the systematic and brutal killing of children and young people, the uprooting of ancient olive groves, the restriction of water (the “rain” of the poem), the fragmentation of families by concrete walls, and the fragmentation of bodies by checkpoints. But Darwish teaches us that a siege is also metaphysical. It aims to reduce the human being to bare life, a hungry, terrified, statistically invisible creature stripped of history, name, and narrative.

For the Iranian people, the siege wears a different mask: economic sanctions and diplomatic strangulation. It is a blockade of medicine, knowledge, and global conversation. Yet the Zionist logic is identical: isolate, impoverish, and make the people beg for their own humanity. In both cases, the besieged are told they are temporary. Darwish’s mother replies: You have confused death with disappearance.

Global Sumud Flotilla For Palestine

The Alchemy of Elements: Resistance as Metamorphosis

When the human form is rendered illegal, when a son can be shot and his name erased from a registry, the mother refuses nothingness. She performs alchemy. She reincarnates her son into three elemental forms, each a higher degree of defiance.

The Tree (Rootedness as Land Title):

When the Zionist regime uproots ancient groves to plant Jewish settlements, the mother says: Be a tree. Not just any tree, but one “sated with fertility”, heavy with olives, with memory, with the sweat of ancestors. This is the ultimate rebellion. The tree does not hold a deed; it is the deed. Its roots argue with the bulldozer in a language that predates all modern borders. To become a tree is to say: You cannot deport geography.

The Stone (The Pulse Beneath the Weapon):

The stone is the icon of the Intifada. But Darwish does something extraordinary. He adds, “saturated with humidity.” Humidity is the breath of the living earth, the sweat of the farmer, the moisture that turns dust into clay. This is not the dry, dead stone of a ruin. It is the wet, resistant stone that grows moss and holds the coolness of the morning. For the Palestinian youth facing a military tank, or the Iranian student enduring a morality squad, the stone is the hard reality they throw back at power. But the humidity is their poetry, their cinema, their whispered jokes in the back of a taxi, the life that persists within the hardness.

The Moon (The Unreachable Sovereignty):

If the tree is cut and the stone shattered, the mother sends her son to the moon. Not the moon of astronomy, but a moon in the dream of your beloved one. This is the interior fortress. You can occupy a city, but not a dream. You can sanction a country, but not a lover’s memory. The moon represents a light that requires no passport, no fuel, no permission. It is the sovereignty of the inner life, the space where a displaced family still sings the old songs, where a Tehran artist paints in a basement, and where a refugee draws the key to a house that exists only in the mind.

Aftermath of a bombed area in Palestine

From Ramallah to Tehran: The Shared Geography of the Soul

What unites the Palestinian and Iranian resistance is not a shared history but a shared architecture of survival. Both people have learned that when the external world is blocked, you build inward and downward.

For Palestine, “Sumud” is literal: staying on the land, harvesting the olives under a military curfew, planting a sapling where a home was demolished. It is the insistence that even if the map is redrawn by force, the poetry remembers the original names.

For Iran, resilience takes the form of a cultural fortress. Facing decades of sanctions and ideological isolation, Iranians have turned to a deep well: Rumi, Hafez, and the cinema of Kiarostami and Panahi. They produce art that does not seek Western validation. They prove that their humanity is not a commodity to be granted or withheld by embassies, but a historical fact, an unbroken civilisation that has outlasted every invader, from Alexander to the narcissist Trump.

In both cases, the besieged become metamorphic. They change shape faster than the siege can adapt.

Image from the 2026 Protests in Iran

Art as the Final Frontier: The Ghazal as a Weapon

Darwish weaponises the traditional ghazal, a form of love poetry, for a funeral. He addresses a dead son as “my love”. This is not sentimentality. It is a radical humanisation. The occupier wants the dead son to be a number, a martyr statistic, a security threat even in the grave. The mother says: No. He was the rain I waited for. He was the moon in someone’s dream.

By using the intimate, erotic language of the ghazal, Darwish smuggles tenderness into a war zone. He reminds the world that every political casualty is first a beloved person. The siege cannot calculate grief, and that is its fatal weakness.

The Invincible Landscape

The final reveal: (So spoke a woman to her son at his funeral)- is the most devastating line. It reframes the entire poem as a whisper over a grave. But it is also the ultimate act of defiance. The mother tells the occupier: You have killed a man, but you have given birth to a landscape.

The son is no longer a body that can be buried. He is a tree that will keep fruiting, a stone that will keep striking, a moon that will keep haunting every dream. The siege, for all its military tanks and sanctions, cannot kill what can become something else.

Whether it is the farmer in Gaza planting saplings under drone surveillance, or the student in Tehran memorising Hafez in a blacked-out apartment, they are all following the mother’s command. They are becoming the rain, the tree, the stone, the moon. They are proving that the architecture of survival is not made of concrete and steel. It is made of metamorphosis. And that is why they are impossible to ignore and even more impossible to conquer. The mother in the poem is not just a mourner; she is the custodian of a history the occupier can’t erase. She is the pillar of strength and the stream of the nation’s collective sorrow. The poem is ultimately about refusing the silence of death. In a “State of Siege”, where people are threatened with erasure, the mother performs a ritual of metamorphosis. She ensures her son is never gone, but simply translated into the rain, the trees, and the stone of the home they are defending.

Courtesy: The AIDEM

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