Mahmoud Darwish on being wise

“You had not reached the age of thirty, yet nearness to death had given you wisdom. And wisdom demands that you not show your feelings in public.”

— Mahmoud Darwish, Journal of Ordinary Grief

I am sure you must’ve stumbled upon this quote somewhere online (especially if you have been following me on Instagram).

It kind of became my ritual to post it again and again on my stories. And each time it just hits differently.

One thing is obvious: Darwish wrote this when he was still in his twenties. The book Journal of Ordinary Grief was published in 1973 (Darwish was 32 then). Here, he’s telling a story about being a citizen without a country after the creation of the state of Israel in 1948, living in exile, and what it is like to be a refugee in his own land.

Context is really crucial to grasp the true meaning of any writing. So in this case, the ‘nearness to death’ means Darwish is constantly living and surviving Israeli attacks.

He feels that he’s still too young to experience all this. And he makes you realise that you become wise when you are near death.

The line ‘nearness to death had given you wisdom’ is so profound. People who come close to death, even just once, start seeing life differently: what matters, what doesn’t, how fragile everything is, and how limited their time is. That’s the kind of wisdom people often don’t gain until much later—if at all.

The conventional thinking implies that you will get wiser as you grow older. Or in other words, you get wiser as you move nearer to death.

But that is not always the case. Certainly not for Darwish and many other Palestinians. Because Israel’s constant aggression meant they felt like they could die any time. Darwish felt he was nearer to death regardless of his age.

When you realise this and try to imagine, you will immediately understand why nearness to death can make anyone wise.

The second part of the quote haunts me more:

“Wisdom demands that you not show your feelings in public.”

That’s not to say wisdom = emotional suppression.

I think maybe it is saying that some feelings are too sacred to be made public property. That grief, heartbreak, trauma—when truly felt—don’t need validation. They need space. And silence. And distance.

Perhaps Darwish has seen how cruel or uncertain life can be, and he learned to protect his inner world. He doesn’t want to spill his emotions carelessly. Not because he doesn’t feel, but because he’s felt too much, and he has learned the cost of vulnerability in a loud, indifferent world.

And there’s something worth learning from this second part of the quote.

Darwish suggests that true wisdom isn't always expressive. It’s not about telling the world how you feel all the time.
It’s about knowing when to speak, when to stay silent, and what to protect.

When you don’t show your feelings in public, it isn’t repression; it’s preservation. A quiet strength. A kind of dignity that doesn’t need an audience.

This applies to the times we are living in now.

We live in a time where vulnerability is encouraged. Ok. That’s not a bad thing.
But we’re also in an age of constant performance: Instagram stories, trauma dumps on TikTok, curated grief, polished outrage, aesthetic sadness. I’m sure you have seen it all.

Everything has become ‘content’. Even pain.

This Darwish line feels like resistance to that.
He's not saying don’t feel. He’s saying: Not every feeling needs a stage.
Some things are too sacred to be shared in public.

Maybe we’ve confused vulnerability with visibility.
Maybe wisdom is knowing the difference.

And maybe we should talk about this more, but quietly.

What do you think of this quote? Do you agree with my reflection and explanation?

Does it resonate with you?

Let me know by replying or in the comments (I respond to each reply/comment).

That’s all for this week.

We will meet again next week.

Until then,

Stay Curious

Zaid

Make sure you subscribe if you haven’t already to receive future editions of this newsletter.