Literary responses to crises in the Arab world

The theme of the debate in the Centre for Politics, Literature and Translation - Weltempfang - of the Frankfurt Book was ambitious: Are the ongoing Crises in the Arab world good for creativity? And what responses do authors have?

The event, well attended with more than 60 listeners on Friday October 13, had been organized by the ICORN and the Magazine of Modern Arab Literature BANIPAL, which this year is celebrating its 20 years of promoting Arab literature in translation. It was chaired by former ICORN chairman Peter Ripken.

All three participating authors are living in temporary exile. They are adamant that this situation does not have a bearing on what they write and how they write. They do not accept the strong view of the South African writer Andre Brink „For them, history froze when they left the country“, amounting to an assessment that writing in exile became somewhat „stale“. Their temporary exile, living and working in ICORN cities, has given them new opportunities to continue their literary work. Unlike Abdul Moula and Etwebi, Samuel Shimon, Iraqi writer of Assyrian origin, only started writing after he had left Iraq, merely 20 years of age.   

There has been a general view, especially in Eastern Europe, that crises, situations of injustice, oppression etc. have been good material for literature. Also in Latin America, military dictatorships have inspired many writers to produce excellent – and often critical – prose, poetry and plays. The three writers in the panel believe that crises contribute to a greater awareness for what stories must be told, what poems should be written. Ashur Etwebi gave an interesting example of young writers in Libya who produce relevant texts and are not at all afraid of the fundamentalists or the militias currently ravaging the country.

The question came up whether there are disagreements between Arab writers living in temporary exile and those who continue to live in their home countries. According to the panel, good and decent Arab writers everywhere are aware of the great tradition of Arab creative writing and continue to struggle against the odds and continue to write as best as they can, in exile and at home. There are necessarily conflicts between those in exile and those at home, especially in Iraq and Syria, often between supporters and opposition to the regimes or religious groups.

Many Arab writers have challenges getting published at home, and are often published on the mercy of publishers who might not honour the creative work, or do not pay them. Abdul Moula once had to pay his publisher to see a collection of his own poems in print. In many cases authors get a few copies of their books, but no royalties.

In contact or not with your readers (wherever they are), creativity is hard work, and generates its own rewards. And the special space in ICORN cities that is offered to writers with great difficulties to live and work in their home countries, also is an important aspect of encouraging creativity in times of distress. BANIPAL is a magazine where Arab writers can get published in English translations and thus get international exposure.

Readings

In a break of the debate all three authors read some texts to show the public what they are writing.

Mohamad Alaaedin Abdul Moula read his poem Dreams in Arabic, and Peter Ripken read the translation by Paul Starkey, published in BANIPAL 57 (Winter 2016):

Dreams

I made a collection of dreams beside my bed

I cleansed them oft he places that had aged

I carefully dressed them in delicate women’s clothes

And forbade them even the sound of a war drum

 

In my sleep I saw only a smashed door knob at the entrance to our house

and the black dress of a woman carrying a silent god on her back

as she descended the staircase propelled by children whose bones rattled

under their flesh.

 

Tomorrow night I will give the woman a white dress

and lower the god from her back

then break the staircase with a rock I have hidden for the black day.

 

Ashur Etwebi  read a poem in Arabic and Peter Ripken read the English translation by Ashur Etwebi and James Byrne

 

Jailor and prisoner

What are the jailor and prisoner doing?

Gazing into the gallows

 

What are the jailer and prisoner doing?

Feeding birds in a dusty courtyard

 

What are the jailor and prisoner doing?

Pissing under the portrait of the president

 

What are the jailor and prisoner doing?

Discussing love letters and cheese burgers

 

What are the jailor and prisoner doing?

Facing each other in silence

 

What are the jailor and prisoner doing?

Arguing over who will die first

 

What are the jailor and prisoner doing?

Laughing at the strangeness of their epitaphs

 

Samuel Shimon read an excerpt of his novel An Iraqi in Paris (when the narrator learns about the death of his father):

That night I stayed in Uncle Salih’s until two o’clock. I drank a lot and ate a nice couscous, and I cried a lot and wrote a poem to my father.

Bonjour, Jean Valjean, bonjour, Jean Valjean. He opened his eyes and felt only the pain of a monstrous hangover. The darkness of the early hours of the morning still lingered over the fifth arrondissement of Paris. He glanced at the doors of the Panthéon and saw a tall spectre with a thick beard enter and close the doors behind him. He had been too tired the night before to make his usual journey from Place de Panthéon, down the Rue de la Montagne Sainte-Geneviève, to Rue des Ecoles, to Rue du Cardinal Lemoine and after onto Quai de la Tournelle and Quai Saint-Bernard to end up at Austerlitz Station, where he slept most nights. He noticed a police car approaching the Panthéon and was immediately awake and leaning back against the cemetery railings, shuffling through his folder of papers, his pillow. He was afraid of the police, as refugees like him were not permitted to sleep on the streets. The policemen glanced at him as they passed by in their car. He thanked the voice that had woken him from his sleep, ‘Bonjour, Jean Valjean’, and said to himself, who else can take pity on the homeless at dawn but the enemy of the police, that giant Victor Hugo? That early morning, as the leaves of autumn covered Boulevard Saint-Germain, he saw an empty cigarette packet. He kicked it with the toe of his trainer and the packet began to roll, getting bigger and bigger until it arrived at the Odéon very near the statue of Danton. By then the packet was the same size as the statue. He snatched at the wind with his hand and grabbed hold of an invisible staircase. He climbed to the top and when he opened the huge packet, he found his father asleep inside, smiling.