The Most Sacred of Missions

Men of letters are the glowing lamps that burn to give light to those on the road; and the place of literature in society is the place of the great reformers, for it breathes its spirit into society, prepares it to receive its views and embrace its principles, renews in it what has flagged of its energies, revives in it what has died down of its resolves, teaches people the refined manners, and reveals to us, with its keen sensibility, its blazing intelligence, and its overflowing heart, the faults of the society in which it lives, and treats many a social ailment and affliction. Literature, then, is not confined to the stringing together of ornate words or the composing of labored verses; true literature is that which fulfills a high aim and a lofty purpose.

Let us look at the Arab world in its present condition: we find it a fertile ground in which the hand of the foreigner has planted strange varieties of inclinations and tendencies, scattered the seeds of hatred and discord, and spread abroad many destructive ideas. Does it befit men of letters, then, to remain shut up in their ivory towers, looking upon what surrounds them with the gaze of a musing spectator? No: men of letters were created to lighten the pains of tormented humanity, and to guide those lost in the trackless wilds of this life of thorny paths toward the safe roads that lead them to a happy and contented life.

Literature must therefore come down from its heaven and plunge into the depths of this life along with those who plunge; and by the fine art its thought pours forth, it stirs the frozen feelings, rouses the stagnant sensibilities, and impels souls to defend their right, their honor, and their dignity. Thus literature becomes the nation's heard voice and its beating heart, feeling with its feeling, rejoicing at its joy and suffering at its pain.

And here is Palestine, the throbbing heart of the Arab nation, suffering what she suffers of humiliation. Can it be right for men of letters to keep silent instead of rousing men's energies on her behalf? Nothing but literature, with its stirring anthems, can inflame the people with zeal and patriotism, awaken strength and hope in hearts, and summon souls to join hands to rescue this Arab land from the claws of Zionism.

The literature that is aware, that understands the depth and breadth of its message, its gravity and its responsibility, enlists its thought and its pen for its homeland; it exposes the plots and maneuvers being woven around it; to its people it is faithful in picturing the nation; and for the whole world it struggles for a firm peace to spread over it, a complete freedom to embrace it, and a happy life to put forth leaves throughout its expanses, to blossom, and to bear fruit.

And this mission of literature is the most sacred of missions, at a time when literature has split into two halves and men of letters have divided into two camps:

A literature far from the people and a stranger to reality, breathing its last in its ivory tower, on a pillow of illusion and in a worn-out bed of fantasy; its men are writers of the old reactionary shade, from whom the masses have turned away now that they have become clowns on the stage of literature.

And a living literature whose springs burst from the very heart of the people, in whose veins runs new blood, rich in strength and heat. It stands on its feet like a giant, in its right hand the banner of struggle, and on its brow

the watchwords: the People, Peace, Freedom.

Its men are the writers of the second camp, the writers of today, the writers of light and freedom; they take hold of the helm of literature and steer it along the straight road:

the road of the people, which begins with man and ends with man;

the road of freedom, which begins with struggle and ends in nothing but struggle;

the road of democracy, which begins with the pen and ends with the cannon.

In the heart of this camp works the writer of today: he opens his eyes upon people's pains, their needs, and their hopes; he opens his ears to the storms of freedom thundering through the corners of the universe; he opens his arms to the waves of light and liberation; and he gives his feet free rein in the caravan that speeds like sound. He works in it with his brain, his pen, and his tongue, as others work in it with pickaxe and plow. A writer such as this is the beloved of all, the mirror of their hopes, and a trumpet for their shouts and their cries.

If he writes — woe to the magnates of oppression and tyranny and the lords of monopoly.

If he cries out — woe to the gods of colonialism, the enemies of the peoples, the preachers of wars, and the merchants of blood.

And if he speaks — woe to the enemies of humanity and the sellers of consciences, so true is what he says.

That is the writer of today and tomorrow: a politician of the first order, a writer of a new kind, and a leader in the first line of the front that defends the world's most precious capital: Man;

and the most sacred thing on earth: Freedom;

and the world's dearest hope: Peace...