Five Minute Truce

Brett Amory - "Bob's Donuts"

I've been reading Mahmoud Darwish again.

I often turn to poetry and literature to make sense of the world and of my place in it. Art and creativity are magical, aren't they? Pre-modern people considered creativity, and even thoughts themselves, as something that functioned much like the senses: like smell, taste, and touch. The dominance of naturalism in the West (which was then spread through the colonial projects) invented the assumption that thoughts and ideas are something we generate from a physical mind, located in the material brain.

Ok so, in this conception, if the ears perceive sound waves and the eyes perceive light waves, both external to the human being, and smell perceives particles wafting through the air, what is the external stimulus that the mind is receiving? Most pre-modern people considered it to be the perception of spirit. And it's this unique sense which distinguishes human beings. We are the union between flesh and spirit.

It's a very long conversation. But I think it goes a long way in deepening our understanding of the catharsis we find when we engage with art. Especially art from artists who create in spaces, times, historical epochs, or emotional conditions, close to our own. Whatever unseen forces are speaking to them in that moment, which they then repeat, come and speak to us too.

A couple weeks ago, many people were rejoicing at the MOU signed between Iran and the United States. Many others were, of course, skeptical. And nearly everyone became worried about what the wild card (Israel)  might do. 

I don't usually spend time on this blog going into deep geopolitical analysis. It's not something I like to do, other than in the specific instances where I feel I have a real wealth of knowledge and something to contribute, i.e., Yemen. That said, I do post about the geopolitical situation on an almost daily basis on my Instagram, so if you ever care to see my thoughts on the daily goings-on in the world, you can follow me there for that. What I like to do on this blog, though, is expose people to things I love.

So with all of that, I wanted to take some time on this month's blog to go through some beautiful prose by Mahmoud Darwish and reflect on it. The following was written in 1982, during Lebanon's civil war and Israel's bombardment of Beirut. What follows are excerpts; if you wish to read the passage in its entirety I highly recommend his Memory for Forgetfulness: August, Beirut, 1982 (translated by Ibrahim Muhawi).

He says:

I no longer wonder when the steely howling of the sea will stop. I live on the eighth floor of a building that might tempt any sniper, to say nothing of a fleet now transforming the sea into one of the fountainheads of hell.

He's talking specifically about the apartment he lives in, which overlooks the Mediterranean. There was a time when the sound of the sea perhaps bothered him; now even looking out onto the water is a source of worry. And the sounds he hears aren't the ocean anymore, they're gunfire. When he stares out onto the sea, he sees a fleet transforming it into one of the fountainheads of hell: the battleships firing their fountains of fire.

The north face of the building, made of glass, used to give tenants a pleasing view over the wrinkled roof of the sea. But now it offers no shield against stark slaughter. Why did I choose to live here? What a stupid question! I've lived here for the past ten years without complaining about the scandal of glass.

It's an amazing admission, and an amazing internal dialogue. He's blaming himself; he's blaming the building for this lack of safety he feels. The scandal of glass. He's lived there for ten years and never once questioned the glass, and now, all of a sudden, he's cursing himself for it, as if he should have bought an apartment underground, or invested in a concrete building that could shield him from the violence he's now subjected to. But at the same time, he admits how silly it is to think this.

But how to reach the kitchen?

I want the aroma of coffee. I want nothing more than the aroma of coffee. And I want nothing more from the passing days than the aroma of coffee. The aroma of coffee so I can hold myself together, stand on my feet, and be transformed from something that crawls into a human being. The aroma of coffee so I can stand my share of this dawn up on its feet. So that we can go together, this day and I, down into the street in search of another place.

Modern warfare, by its very essence, strips the humanity of everyone involved. And at this moment, he wants coffee so that he can be a human being again. We can all relate to that feeling of crawling out of bed and desiring the cup of coffee that's going to raise our spirits. But I feel like there's something deeper going on here. It's not just about caffeine, it's not about wanting to wake up. It's about wanting to feel human again.

How can I diffuse the aroma of coffee into my cells, while shells from the sea rain down on the sea-facing kitchen, spreading the stink of gunpowder and the taste of nothingness? I measure the period between two shells. One second. One second: shorter than the time between breathing in and breathing out, between two heartbeats. One second is not long enough for me to stand before the stove by the glass facade that overlooks the sea. One second is not long enough to open the water bottle or pour the water into the coffee pot. One second is not long enough to light a match. But one second is long enough for me to burn.

When I read this, I wonder how somebody can even think about drinking coffee when all they hear is constant gunfire. When the threat of death is literally in every single second. Coffee here, it's not a metaphor, it's not a stand-in for being human, it's not a narrative or poetic device. It's literally what he's experiencing directly, in that moment, and I'm not even sure what to call it.

Coffee, death — like he says, one second isn't enough to light a match, but it's long enough for him to burn.

I want the aroma of coffee. I need five minutes. I want a five-minute truce for the sake of coffee. I have no personal wish other than to make a cup of coffee. With this madness I define my task and my aim. All my senses are on their mark, ready at the call to propel my thirst in the direction of the one and only goal: coffee. Coffee, for an addict like me, is the key to the day. And coffee, for one who knows it as I do, means making it with your own hands and not having it come to you on a tray, because the bringer of the tray is also the bearer of talk, and the first coffee — the virgin of the silent morning — is spoiled by the first words.

Darwish reached for coffee. In my own war, I reached for something far more ridiculous.

I know this feeling not from a book, but from my own life. During some of the worst days I experienced in Yemen, I was in the capital, Sana'a. One night, I wrote this:

At 3:45am I woke to two loud fighter jets firing missiles that hit our neighborhood. The windows shattered and curtains fell. I just sat there and contemplated if a third hit our house. The screams of children and women in and around our house. Where would it enter from? I yelled for everyone to go to the basement and quickly ran into each room to make sure everyone did. My grandmother in the corner holding her Quran and reciting from her heart. My little cousins, eyes so open and full of fear. This strange time in between night and day, between life and death.

I then thought about Bob's donuts. I don't know why but I did. Maybe it was my mind trying to create a distraction, to make me forget the situation? Or maybe I was just craving donuts?

I started to understand that there was a real possibility that I could die tonight. I kept thinking about the last time I had a honey glazed from Bob's Donuts. It was a late 2am run, I was a devotee and following their twitter account, I knew when the fresh batches were being made. My friends and I taking turns roasting each other. Then, that divine pink box appears, the scent of heaven emitting out and my fingers quickly moving in. I took that first bite, always the best bite, and closed my eyes into bliss.

A loud thunder from another airstrike, and then I suddenly came to realize how unaware I was, then, that that could have been my last donut.

With this MOU signed, I, like many others, am cautiously optimistic. But at the very least, I hope that the people of Beirut can brew some coffee in peace, and maybe reach for a donut. And for much, much longer than five minutes.