Mourid Barghouti won the award for crossing that small wooden bridge, as if by crossing it he managed to stand before his days, and made his days stand before him. He touches some details without reason, neglecting others without reason, reminiscing to himself a whole lifetime. On the day of his return, those around him thot he silently crossed the forbidden bridge after thirty years. Suddenly, he bent down to gather his scattered pieces, like a man gathering the sides of his coat on a day of frost and longing. Or like a student gathering the papers scattered by the field's wind as he returns from afar.
And on his pillow that nite, the nite of return, he gathered the days and nites of laughter, of anger, of tears, of futility, and of marble monuments that one lifetime is not enough to visit them all, to offer silence and respect. Amidst all that, the spirit is pale, and the soul is withered, and a question leaps forth: What robs the spirit of its colors and the soul of its melodies?!! And what, other than the invaders' bombardment, has struck the bridge? Mourid Barghouti gathered all of that to tell in this book the journey of Palestine's torment thru a wonderful poetic narrative style, embodying his tortured and beautiful human truth.
