Buying Books in Cairo

[Tomorrow night, I will be joining a distinguished panel of poets, activists and scholars speaking about poetical and political freedoms at George Mason University's Fall for the Book festival. This is part of an ongoing DC-wide effort to contribute to the Mutanabbi Street Starts Here DC Project. Rather than give "analysis", I thought I would talk about poetical and political freedoms by way of my relationship to the book markets of Cairo. This is what I will read tomorrow night, though more in the style of a slide show. See you there! Here's a version in Italian.]

September 1985. My first year as a student in Cairo. I visit Cairo’s main book market located in the famous area of Ezbekiyya. When Napoleon tried to conquer Egypt, this was the site of a man-made lake surrounded by the ornate palaces of Turkish Pashas and high-ranking officials of the late Mameluke state. A century later, during British rule, the lake had been filled in and the area converted into a vast entertainment district. Bars and theatres, cabarets and brothels catered to Cairo’s elites who met in this border zone located between the medieval casbah and the new colonial downtown. By the time I get to Cairo, most of this history has disappeared under flyovers and Soviet-era concrete projects. Still, a few sordid belly-dance clubs still hold out over near the decrepit old fire station and post office.

The book market is literally fastened to an old black iron fence. Inside the bars, sit the stately gardens of Ezbekiyya Park, completely off-limits to the general public. Outside, the book market stalls cling to a tiny strip between the fence, a chaotic bus depot, and the busy streets of Ataba.

I do not read Arabic in 1985. So, I mostly look around at the posters. During those years, most of them featured the Indian beefcake actor, Amitabh Bhachchan and a woman provocatively fixated on a snake, her full red lips about to kiss it. 

Among the piles of used books, I find heaps of English-language books. Most are those cheap simplified editions of classics—like Wuthering Heights and Great Expectations—that fill the markets of former colonies. I find a scientific treatise entitled, Spontaneous and Habitual Abortion. The seller tells me it costs 25 piastres, maybe about 5 cents. I mumble something in pigeon Arabic and put it back, the bookseller smiles. I go back often that year. 

November 1989. The Berlin Wall has fallen or is falling. Around then, the book market is removed from the fences at Ezbekiyya, during the building of the Midan Opera Metro Station. It is hard to tell whether anyone noticed. It is hard to tell if anyone cares.

Everybody tells me I need to read Naguib Mahfouz’s novel about the death of God. The only problem is that times and mores have changed since Awlad haritna was first published. The novel originally came out in the Friday sections of al-Ahram in the late 1950s. Now it is banned in Egypt, deemed controversial and un-Islamic.

Everybody tells me that I can find the novel if I go to Madbuli's Bookshop in Midan Talaat Harb and ask for it discreetly. I go there and linger suspicious around the various sections of the bookstore. It’s like I’m looking for porn. Different employees come to ask if they can help. Finally, I gather up the courage and say, “They tell me you have copies of Awlad Haritna.” The man doesn’t even look at me. He mutters, “They’re wrong, whoever 'they' are,” and he keeps dusting the pile of books in front of him.

June 1990. The cold war is over, but Saddam Hussein has yet to invade Kuwait. I still want to find a copy of Mahfouz’s novel. I go back to Madbuli’s one afternoon. As soon as I enter, a skinny young man about my age asks if he can help me. I casually mention the title, and say nothing else. He disappears into the back and emerges with a book in a plastic bag. “Anything else?” He smiles at me. For the next 23 years, Ashraf becomes one of the first people I see whenever I return to Cairo. For the last six years, he makes a point of always asking about my daughter, even though he has yet to meet her.

February 1991. The new world order has begun, and three Cairo University students are killed protesting Mubarak’s decision to lend support to American troops. During these months, I have a standing date on Friday afternoons to meet a friend, Ahmad. We meet at the used book stalls just off Midan Sayyida Zeinab. I begin to find lots of books I need for my studies. I find a complete run of the literary magazine Fusul. And lots of old issues of al-Tali‘a. I find classics of literary criticism, 1950s editions when scholarly publishers like Dar al-Ma‘arif had editors. Ahmad and I wander among the stalls for an hour or so, then go off to a café just off the square where we discuss the reading he has assigned me for the week. For months, I have been reading Louis Althusser under Ahmad's tutelage. Later, when I return to graduate seminars in Berkeley, his lessons stand me in good stead.

January 1994. Cairo Book Fair. An annual event when all the publishers of the Arab world, and all the booksellers of the city, bring their wares out to a Soviet-era fairground for hosting industrial expositions in Medinat Nasr. It’s as cold and gray as ever, a day for drinking hot tea. I go out there with a group of leftist friends. We are all proudly wearing the same thick wool overcoats we bought in the outdoor market behind Ramses Station. Before we get there, Ahmed shows off the multiple hidden pockets his sister sewed into the lining. We spend the day wandering around the Moroccan publishers’ tables, where the most interesting stuff is being sold. Ahmed fills his pockets. We visit some of the salons where poets and critics and philosophers debate topics of the day. A group of Egyptian literary critics sit on a panel and discuss the Libyan Brother Leader’s collection of short stories entitled, The Village, the Village! The Land, the Land! We laugh as some critics talk about how sophisticated Qaddafi’s writing is. We wonder how much they were paid. We look around, but Ahmed is not with us. Later on, we learn he has been arrested for shoplifting. He tried to run away when they caught him, but his coat had more than 30 books in it.

June 1995. I find out that the Ezbekiyya book markets had been relocated some time ago back behind al-Azhar University, in the neighborhood of al-Bataniyya. In 1985, hashish was openly sold in the streets of Bataniyya, and was more affordable than beer. The sellers are gone now. To get to the used book market you can either enter from Harat al-Atrak, a small street filled with religious bookstalls, turning right toward the old city walls, now vast piles of medieval rubble. Or you can take a taxi to the end of Azhar Street, getting off at the Benetton, and walking to the right until you find the market. I find a treasure the first time I go there: an incomplete 19th century lithograph edition of al-Maqrizi’s Khitat. But the volume I need for my dissertation research is there. Because it’s incomplete, the seller subsequently negotiates a huge discount for me with the bookbinder.

March 1998. At some point, the Ezbekiyya book market has moved back to a newly renovated space in Ezbekiyya, back by the National Theatre. Friends introduce me to Mustafa Sadeq, a well-regarded book merchant in the market. We sit down and he listens to me as I describe the kinds of books I am interested in for a project on the representation of women and prostitution in Egyptian literature. Each week I come back, he has found a new pile of titles for me to peruse, most not related to what I am working on, but some very much so. He tells me he has a stash of books for me in his storehouse and invites me to come over there. It’s located in an alley in the Hilmiyya neighborhood, not far from where I used to study Althusser on Fridays.

Mustafa Sadek is waiting from me when I arrive. He rolls open the iron door and we step inside. He points to a stack of dusty old magazines and journals. I look at the first magazine and can’t believe it. I thumb through pages of erotic stories that are accompanied by photographs of naked women in suggestive poses. I look at the date on the periodical: 1934. I look at the next, same thing. And then more.  Finally, I look up and find him smiling at me. “I know you are not only researching literature but also some impolite things,” he says with a sly smile.

The trove costs me every thing I had in my wallet, and still I owe Mustafa. On my way home, I go to meet Shehata —an Egyptian poet and novelist—for tea. I pull out all the nudie magazines I’ve just purchased and say, “Can you believe this?!” “I never knew this stuff existed,” he murmurs over and over. “This is an important source. We need to do something serious with this. Can I borrow this and show it to an editor. Together we might figure out a way to republish this as a historical document.” I wrap up the magazines for Shehata. We agree to meet up, as we always do, a couple days later. Shehata doesn’t come, and he stops answering my emails. Years later, when I finally see him again, he apologizes for disappearing. He was in the midst of a messy divorce. When I ask about the magazines, he claims he gave them back to me. I never see them again.

July 2002. Some old classmates from Cairo University have opened a great bookstore— Sindbad—located just behind the Cosmopolitan Hotel in the revitalized Bourse neighborhood. I go there and browse for hours. Despite its tiny size, this bookshop holds more treasures than the bigger stores around the corner. One afternoon, I am sitting with Abdel-Rahman S.—brilliant brother of the brilliant Muhammad S.—who is now not just a professor at Cairo University, but also one of the principal shareholders in Sindbad. He and his wife had just had me over for lunch a couple days earlier, and we’re sitting around talking while waiting for our old professor—Egypt’s leading left literary critic—to meet us there. The subject now, as before, is American imperialism and the efforts of Egyptian intellectuals and artist to boycott Israel. Abdel-Rahman’s rambunctious and precocious eight-year-old son is with us all afternoon, bored out of his mind, entertaining us by asking questions that go beyond his years. At some point, the kid starts referring to me as the “imperialist, colonialist American,” and everyone laughs. He disappears. Minutes later, Abdel-Rahman and I go out to find the boy. We watch him walking down the pedestrian mall pulling on an Egyptian conscript who had been stationed outside the bank on the corner. The boy points at me and calls out, “See! See! Fire! Fire!” The soldier doubles over in laughter, not able to believe his eyes when he sees the boy has produced the Zionist enemy he had promised. By the time we arrive, the boy has grabbed the soldier’s gun and points it at my belly, singing out, “There he is! The imperialist enemy is right here! You have to shoot him.” Everyone who is watching this scene unfold finds it hilarious. The soldier laughs so hard he cries. I get angry and leave right then. I never see or write to Abdel-Rahman again.

In May 2011, I meet this boy and his mother, walking back down Champollion Street from a protest in Tahrir. He is a young man now, and is carrying the red banner of a nascent political party calling itself the Revolutionary Youth. I introduce myself to him, but he has no recollection of ever having met me before. His mother is embarrassed to be seen with me.

July 2006. This was my first summer to get to know Dar Merit, the small, independent publishing house owned by Muhammad Hashem. Unlike other publishers in Egypt, Hashem is not afraid to publish things that might get him in trouble with the censor. Hashem is not interested in control, even though sometimes that means typos, as I found when I translated a bitter and impolite novel by the Nubian writer, Idris Ali, that Dar Merit had published.

When you go into Dar Merit, you will be asked whether you would drink coffee or tea. If you stay long enough two things will happen. First, Muhammad will roll a fat joint and pass it to you. Second, back in those days, the great Egyptian poet Ahmad Fouad Negm would probably come over around nightfall for an impromptu literary salon. I count myself very fortunate that those two things happened to me as often as I wanted that summer.

In January 2011, Dar Merit became something of a forward base of operations for young revolutionaries. Any poet or critic or artist or singer or stagehand who needed tea and a place to rest would find it at Dar Merit. Were it not for Dar Merit, we might not have any serious literary accounts of the 2011 uprising. In recent months, Mohammad Hashem has spoken about moving away from Egypt for good.

November 2012. One of the best places to buy scholarly editions of classical Arabic thought is Mutanabbi Bookshop, located on Shari‘a al-Gomhuriyya. When I go there to ask for a medieval work on jinns and afreet—Muhammad bin Abdallah al-Shibli’s Akam al-marjan fi-ahkam al-jann. The men smile politely. My question embarrasses them. “We don’t carry stuff on khurafat—superstitions,” one of them finally admits. They advise me to go to Harat al-Atrak, in the quarter behind al-Azhar University. “If you want books on superstition, you’ll find them there,” he tells me. It’s already well after dark, but I go. I get to the alley around 9PM and the shops are starting to close. I ask in one shop, and they direct me down the street. The shopkeeper is rolling down the iron door when I arrive. But he knows he has a copy and so he reopens for me. It’s not an old edition, but it is also not cheap.

By 10PM, I am sitting in a café on Champollion Street reading the book while I wait for my old friend Ahmad. He arrives around 11PM. By that time, I have gotten into the subject of jinn, where they live and their special habits and customs. As it turns out, jinn society is as developed and complicated as human society.

I am reading a chapter on how to tell if you are married to a jinn when Ahmad comes in. He is with Sabry, another old friend from the same Marxist-Leninist gang. I read to him a short passage about how jinn like to haunt bathrooms and how they can climb a stream of urine to attack a man’s penis. For the next hour, they tell me about how they knew people who had married jinn.

“Jinn are everywhere,” Ahmed said. “For instance, take ‘Old Sergeant.’ He comes walking down the street in his old wool overcoat, like he’s on patrol. You’re out there playing in the alley with your friends, and you salute him. And when he returns the salute, he accidently knocks his head off and it rolls toward you! This didn’t happen to me, but it did happen to a kid in my neighborhood when I was growing up.”

Sabry jumps in, “Or the woman who knocks on your door late at night, calling your name. She has the most beautiful voice. You crack open the door and see a woman wrapped tightly in a black shroud, her face covered, and she pleads with you with that sweet voice. She is cold and she just wants to come in and get in bed with you so she can warm up. And as soon as you open then door all the way, she rips off her veil and it’s a ghoul who wants to eat you.”

As we’re sitting there, the night drags on. My friends are sick of my questions about “the state of the revolution.” And tonight, they are grateful for the chance to talk about something else. I haven’t seen them in such a good mood for a long time. Ahmad grabs the book and skims it while we take a pause from talking. Down at the end of the street, another demonstration is getting started. Crowds of young people stream toward the Midan, others come running back trying to get away or get home, blood on their faces, tears in their eyes, clothes torn. Some are smiling and laughing, others crying. All are exhausted but somehow invigorated too. Ahmed lifts up the book and says, “Listen to this—this is about the kind of demon who lives in old ruined palaces.” 

Nazik al-Mala'ika: "In the Mountains of the North"

As much as I admire Nazik al-Mala'ika's critical writing, I am not often moved by her poetry. This poem is different. It was composed while the poet was visiting the mountain hamlet of Sarsink, located in northern Dohuk province. I don't know the circumstances of the poet's residence in the village, but this poem speaks to a longing for home that is almost timeless. In Arabic, the verses have a sound pattern that are both experimental and traditional, combining a regular metrical foot ( فاعلن / فاعلن / فعلن ) with intricate and unexpected rhymes (A, B, B, A, C, C, D, D, E, D, E, F, E, F, E, G, G, H, H, H, G, G, G, G…). 

In the Mountains of the North

Bring us home, O Train!

For the darkness here is terrible, and the silence is heavy.

Bring us home—the distance is vast, and the track is long,

And the nights so short.

Bring us back—the winds wail behind the shadows,

And the howling of wolves beyond the mountains,

Is like the shrieking of grief in the hearts of men.

Bring us back, for on the mountain slopes

Walks a wretched dim specter

That has left its footprints on each dawn.

The dawn of each day ends in grief and longing,

The ghost of deadly exile,

Lives in the mountains of the sad north.

The ghost of a lethal lonesomeness haunts the sad north.

Bring us back—we are fed up with wandering,

Wandering across the steep slopes.

And we go on fearing and fearing

That these evenings of absence might stretch on and on

And that the howling of wolves might bury

Our voice and make it difficult for us to come back.

Bring us back to the south,

For there, beyond the mountains, are hearts.

Bring us back to those whom we left in the fog,

Each hand beckoning, tired and despondent

Each hand is a heart.

Bring us home, O Train!—We are tired of wandering, and separation has gone on too long.

Over there is a deep whisper,

Lisping behind each road,

In the deep ravines,

Behind the clouds,

In the tremble of pine, and gaunt village,

In the jackal’s howl, in the setting stars—

There, in the pastures, a restless voice is,

A whisper telling us to return

There, other houses are

And other pastures,

And other hearts,

There, there are eyes that refuse to sleep,

And hands that gather the darkest night in a flame,

And lips that repeat our names in the gloom,

And hearts that call in pain for us to come,

And call out to the stars,

In grief and stillness,

“When, O Stars, will we be remembered by those who have fled?

And when will they come home?”

A moment. We will return.

The darkest moment of the night will not find us here, we will return.

We will return, we will cross the mountains,

And envelope the clouded peaks,

The nights of the north will not see us

Here, in this place, ever again.

The stretching expanse will not sense

The fire of our breath in the terrible night,

In the silence of the terrible night.

Bring us home, O Northern Train!

There, behind the mountains,

Delicate faces are hidden behind the nights,

Bring us home, go back to the embrace of arms,

In the shadows of date palms,

Where our past days,

In long wait,

Halted to wait,

Seeking the return of the train,

So they could travel with the travelers,

So that our days might ask those passing by,

One after another, in longing,

“When will those who fled come back?”

We should go back, for there is an old ballad there,

Around us, a whispering to return,

How I would love to go back,

After all this painful wandering

Through barren mountain ravines,

Where wolves howl.

Let’s go back—for the dark night is cold as ice,

And there, beyond the distant expanse,

Warm arms are.

Let’s return—the mountains are baring their night shadow fangs,

And there, beyond the empty night,

The voices of our loved ones in the bottomless gloom,

Throbbing with deep longing,

Their voices are heavy with the tone of blame,

These voices that the mountain passes echo,

In the silence of the place, their voices

Sing round and around like time.

Let’s go back before the adders condemn us

To a long, long separation

From the shade of the date palms,

From our dear ones behind the muteness of deserts,

Bring us home, O Train!

The nights are so short,

And there, in grief, our loved ones wait.

                                                                         — Sarsink Village, Dohuk Province. 1948.

Home Does Not Exist: A Conversation with English PEN

[The following is from English PEN's series of conversations with translators of their award-winning books. Here, I am speaking with Grace Hetherington about my translation of Raba’i Al-Madhoun’s novel The Lady from Tel Aviv, which won an award in 2013.]

Grace Hetherington: The protagonist’s mother uses highly idiomatic, insulting – and often entertaining – language. How did you go about translating this into English, capturing the same effect?

Elliott Colla: This was not so easy. Walid’s mother is a strong character with a sharp tongue. What she says in Arabic is funny and also heartbreaking. It also sometimes rhymes or trips lightly across the lips. She only appears in a few scenes, so I needed to get this aspect right if I wanted to get her character right, and I needed to do it with economy and grace. The author and I went over and over these passages many times, with him telling me other stories about his mother in the process. It helped in that I have met Palestinian mothers like her. The most loving people, but strong and fierce like no one else I know. The most loving and affectionate women, but you don’t want to cross them. Each time I sat down to translate these passages I had very particular images in my mind. I imagined different friends’ mothers. More than once I felt like I had these mothers looking over my shoulder at what I was writing on the page. I knew if I got it wrong, they’d hit my hand and scowl. But if I got it right, they’d hug me and cook me the most delicious dinner I’d ever tasted.

The protagonist Walid’s story has many similarities to that of the author. Did you feel you were taking on a big responsibility translating Rabai’s personal story? Did you discuss the autobiographical elements during the translation process?

The novel overlaps significantly with the author’s own story. There’s nothing remarkable about that – but it did lead to fascinating conversations with Rabai about his life. It was not always easy to guess which aspects of the novel were autobiographical and which were fictional. The author’s own life is fantastical – if you were to read it in a novel, you would swear it was not true or not realistic. The same is true for many, many other Palestinians I have met.

The English translation of the book is subject to a noticeable editing process from the original Arabic. Is there a different approach to editing in English and Arabic publishing houses? As the translator did you help decide which bits to keep and which to omit?

There used to be a strong editorial culture in the Arab world. You read the novels of Naguib Mahfouz and it’s hard to miss. It’s there in stories of Yusuf Idris or Yusuf Sharouni. The stories are lean: almost every word or sentence is exactly where it needs to be. Unmotivated repetitions or infelicities are not to be found. At some point, this practice fell by the wayside. Nowadays, publishers usually edit for typos or grammar, but even this is not universal. Many publishing houses produce books that we would consider self-published. That does not make them bad, but it does have an impact. It’s rare that you pick up a novel in Arabic and think, every single word and sentence is there for a purpose. There are exceptions to this, and there are authors who know how to edit themselves. Ibrahim Al-Koni comes to mind – he is a perfectionist, and whatever you think about his work, you will not find mistakes in his books. But the overall impact is that a novel commercially published in Arabic is a different literary beast than a novel that has been commercially published in English. As a translator working between these two literary worlds I am very much aware of this, but I am a translator, not an editor. I had long conversations with the authors and the publisher about the editorial changes that were made to The Lady from Tel Aviv, but I was not directly involved. My job was to produce an accurate, compelling and complete translation of the novel, and that’s what I did.

Some critics have said the book’s title is misleading. Do you agree with this? Did you consider other titles? 

There were many editorial changes made after I submitted the translation, which entailed about 30% of the text being removed. The publisher had, I think, perfectly justifiable reasons for making these changes, but this meant that one character and story – that of Dana Ahova – was relegated to the background. In the Arabic, the story is really almost as much about her as it is about Walid.

Describe The Lady from Tel Aviv in three words.

Home doesn’t exist.

(Original interview can be found here.)

Samih al-Qasim: "While I Walk"

One of my favorite songs of Marcel Khalife's is " منتصب قامتي أمشي " -- the words, by Samih al-Qasim, of course. Going back over his work this past week, I am struck by how important death was to his writing and thinking. It's easy to think of this song as a nationalist ballad, glorifying sacrifice, death the redeemer. Yet, listen to this song next to other nationalist songs -- or contemporary jihadist ballads -- and the differences show clear. Also, Khalife arranged this as a duet between a men's chorus and a women's chorus, back and forth. Death here is much sadder than in most songs about revolution, and the struggle for life against death reduced to a set of stark images -- an olive branch, a coffin, a red moon, a garden, rain and fire. 

Here are the words:

آه آه آه آه.... 
منتصبَ القامةِ أمشي مرفوع الهامة أمشي 
في كفي قصفة زيتونٍ وعلى كتفي نعشي 
وأنا أمشي وأنا أمشي.... 
قلبي قمرٌ أحمر قلبي بستان 
فيه فيه العوسج فيه الريحان 
شفتاي سماءٌ تمطر نارًا حينًا حبًا أحيان.... 
في كفي قصفة زيتونٍ وعلى كتفي نعشي 
وأنا أمشي وأنا أمشي

Translated, this falls flat:

Strong of stature, I walk. Head raised high, I walk.

A burst of olive in one hand, and my funeral bier on my shoulder...

The power of the poem/song lies in the repeated refrain "and I walk," whose punch comes the work being done by the letter " و " (waw). As any student of Arabic knows, "waw" means "and" though in this particular construction -- followed by an imperfective verb -- it describes an action that is ongoing, what is called a "hal clause." "Waw" means "and," but here it is better translated as "while." The refrain affirms the action of walking onwards, standing tall, carrying peace and death at the same time. It also suggests that the hero is walking on despite everything else. This sense of "carrying on despite all this" is how the song/poem articulates its unique sense of resistance, contained within the single letter "waw." 

Samih al-Qasim: Two Platform Poems

Two platform poems from Samih al-Qasim.**

“Rafah’s Children” (1971)

To the one who digs his path through the wounds of millions

To he whose tanks crush all the roses in the garden

Who breaks windows in the night

Who sets fire to a garden and museum and sings of freedom.

Who stomps on songbirds in the public square.

Whose planes drop bombs on childhood’s dream.

Who smashes rainbows in the sky.

Tonight, the children of the impossible roots have an announcement for you,

Tonight, the children of Rafah say:

“We have never woven hair braids into coverlets.

We have never spat on corpses, nor yanked their gold teeth.

So why do you take our jewelry and give us bombs?

Why do you prepare orphanhood for Arab children?

Thank you, a thousand times over!

Our sadness has now grown up and become a man.

And now, we must fight.”

“Shalom” (1964)

Let someone else sing about peace,

Sing of friendship, brotherhood and harmony.

Let someone else sing about crows

            Someone who will shriek about the ruins in my verses

            To the dark owl haunting the debris of the pigeon towers.

Let someone else sing about peace

            While the grain in the field brays,

            Longing for the echo of the reapers’ songs.

Let someone else sing for peace.

While over there, behind the barbed fences

            In the heart of darkness,

            Tent cities cower.

Their inhabitants,

Settlements of sadness and anger

And the tuberculosis of memory.

While over there, life is snuffed out,

In our people,

In innocents, who never did any harm to life!

And meanwhile, here,

So many have poured in … so much abundance!

Their forefathers planted so much abundance for them,

            And also, alas, for others.

This inheritance—the sorrows of years—belongs to them now!

So let the hungry eat their fill.

And let the orphans eat leftovers from the banquet of malice.

Let someone else sing peace.

For in my country, on its hills and in its valleys

Peace has been murdered.

------

**  Translator's note:

Much of Samih al-Qasim's poetry can be called "platform poetry," following Salma Khadra al-Jayyusi's term (i.e., poetry meant for live recitation at a contentious political event). The language is direct and at times didactic. The address, though in formal Arabic, is topical and relatively uncomplicated, the images and phrases tied closely to a particular situation. Ambiguity and play, normally hallmarks of poetic discourse, are muted in this genre. Even when accurate and relatively felicitous, translating this kind of poetry into words on the page entails taking them out of that immediate situation and the context of public performance with its feedbacks and improvisations. Which is to say, this kind of poetry -- and indeed, much of al-Qasim's work -- loses much (or most) of its power when rendered into silent words on the written page. Moreover, this poetry is both rhymed and metrical in the original, but not in this translation. In this sense, these translations give a sense of some of the images and phrases of al-Qasim's poetry, but very little of the power they would have had for live audiences. 

The first poem here, "Rafah's Children" ( أطفال رفح ), could have been written this month, in the wake of Israel's latest atrocities. In this way, the poem is a terrifying and uncanny reminder of Israel's violent history and how a single, out-of-date occasional poem -- composed to commemorate a particular moment of violence in the early days of Israel's occupation of Gaza -- becomes topical again when these same events repeat themselves.

I've translated the second poem, " السلام " ('Peace,' in Arabic) as "Shalom," since in this poem al-Qasim speaks to the duplicitous and patronizing idiom of "peace" and "coexistence" -- not to mention the linguistic violence of the colonizer's language, modern Hebrew -- with which Zionists have always addressed Palestinian citizens of Israel. Though the poet uses the Arabic word, al-salam, the Hebrew shalom, looms everywhere in the poem's immediate context.

Samih al-Qasim: The Last Train

The great Palestinian writer Samih al-Qasim has died. While known primarily as a poet, al-Qasim was also a talented essayist, writing regularly in the Arabic-language press of Palestine/Israel. He was also a remarkable public speaker and letter writer. His correspondence with Mahmoud Darwish instantly became a classic of Arabic epistolary literature. Truly unique in the modern canon, they are not just monuments to poetry and language, but also friendship and love.

al-Qasim addressed the following "letter" (from 1990) to the memory of a talented Palestinian poet, Rashid Hussein, whose tragic death in 1977 greatly impacted the poets of that generation. No less than the letters to Darwish, this missive shows al-Qassim at his most profound. 

[Image of Letter from Rashid Hussein to Samih al-Qasim, May 18, 1970]

Rashid, my brother —

Believe it or not, but after all this time separated from one another, you may find it hard to recognize me when you stand there on the station platform, waiting for me to arrive on the last train.

I will see you when I step off that train. You will be the tallest one in the crowd waiting at the station. I will call out your name and you will come running, cigarette in mouth, as always. You will stop and stand off a bit and ask, “Is this really you? What did you do with your mad childhood? From which fire did you inherit this gray ash on your temples?”

I will tell you, “I have made my peace with death. I have swallowed the bitter colocynth of wisdom to its dregs.”

And I will say to you, “I still grieve your death.”

And you, typical of you, will try to comfort me as I mourn your passing.

O Rashid, you unhappy man, you most unlucky brother! On the thirteenth anniversary of the senseless event of your “having had enough,” I went to Musmus to pay you a visit. When you left us, I went to visit your mother. I nearly fainted when I saw her—she looked so much like my own mother! I am not talking about feelings or emotions, but a naked truth, a bare fact. For days, I was haunted by the terrifying fact of that visit.

There is something else, too: I never elegized you. I do not even know how I was supposed compose such a poem. I want you to tell me the truth: would you be angry if I wrote an elegy for you, about you? Would you consider that an unfriendly gesture, and me, the kind of friend who believed in unsubstantiated rumors?

Rashid, my brother—recently, I went through my old files. There among the papers I stumbled across several letters from you. They amazed me, but it pained me to read them. They somehow cast the light of death into my heart. Touching them left your hot ashes on my fingertips.

Your letters said, “I never came back to you. I belong to time.”

Time said, “You belong to me. And also these letters.”

I said, “So let’s belong to Rashid—like a tear in ink, like ink on paper, like paper on the wind.”

Please excuse me, my brother, my friend, my comrade. Forgive me, dear Rashid, when I offer these letters up for all to read, even though they were a part of your life that you meant for me alone.

These letters spoke to me. After you died, they told me, “I belong not to you, but to time and the wind and family.”

Is this a last letter to you? Do these words apply more to me than you? Are they a memory of a friendship that has been knocked senseless, like an olive tree hit by artillery fire?

I dispatch these words to you on two wings—on the ashes of the rose, and on the smoke of song. Can these words speak what is beyond speech?

Questions, my brother. Questions, my friend. How will we—who live in an age indentured to questions—ever become foolish enough to wait for the answers?

After death became a familiar face in my heart and around my home, I made my peace, without mercy and without bargaining.

And it seems to me that in doing this, I have also reconciled myself to life, for now we have an easier time getting along and understanding each other.

What remains of this life is less than what has passed. You and I will see each other again, because we have always chosen to meet. Even as we have been prevented from meeting as life in living, we will meet as a death in living, as a life in dying.

We will meet again. You will be waiting for me on the platform when I take the last train. You will have no trouble recognizing me.

— From Ramad al-warda dukhan al-ughniyya: Kalimat ‘an Rashid Hussein, kalimat minuh, kalimat ilayh, ed. Samih al-Qasim (Haifa: Maktabat Kull Shay’, 1990). 

Grays in the Emerald City (Interview with Henry Peck)

Henry Peck of Guernica: Your novel has many elements of noir fiction—we follow a melancholy sleuth of sorts who comes up against the law, doesn’t always remember how he got home, and may be seduced by a beguiling woman. This plays out against the backdrop of the first months of US occupation in Iraq, in the second half of 2003. Why did you choose this genre of storytelling to depict this moment in Iraq?

Elliott Colla: The novel is really interested in a moment of ambiguity. Setting it in the fall of 2003 is not an accident; this is a moment that is important for us to return to, and this is what the book is asking us to do. To go back to the moment where the clarity of war, and the sharp divisions between us and them, good and evil, lovers of freedom and Baath Party, break down. And they break down precisely because the US has gotten itself into a situation of military occupation where in order to rule and to occupy it has to deal with the people it has just spent all this effort to demonize.

This is why it’s so suitable for the book to be in the noir genre—it has to do with the actual murkiness of a situation. Noir is where the clarity of moral divisions break down, the black and whites turn into grays. So as I was thinking about this particular moment of compromise on the part of the US, where it was learning how to make alliances with all sorts of Shiite groups in order to occupy, and creating all sorts of new divisions that didn’t exist before. Just as certain Cold War binaries were collapsing, new binaries of Sunni versus Shia or Arab versus Kurd were being created by the new occupation force. It’s the corruption of that moment that I am really interested in. (read on here)

Intervention? More like Ceaseless Escalation

After creating Hell once over the last decade, you might think Americans would hesitate before doing it again. But our interventionists have never paused and never blinked.

The term "intervention" implies that an action is discrete rather than ongoing, and that it marks a break in a chain of history, rather than a continuation of an existing routine or an expansion of  an old repertoire.  But that is not what American interventionists call for. A more accurate term for them is escalationist—how else should we refer to people who only ever reach for one blunt tool—military action—when they encounter any of the many vexing problems of the modern world? When it becomes clear, as it always does, that intervention has not resolved the issue (or that it has exacerbated it) the escalationists will always be there to say, “Of course, any military campaign needs to be coordinated with a political/economic/humanitarian strategy.” But by then, it is already too late. Escalationism is the ideological platform for militarizing every policy issue that arises. (read on here)

Guest Phiction: Trailer on a Beach

My friend CBC, creator of the phiction genre, recently received a priceless email from Sophiaa Queen, an heiress in distress. The invitation to create some music together was too good to pass by, and their relationship blossomed in the ether. Particularly poignant and almost eerie is that this rockfordian intercourse took place only days before the untimely death of acclaimed actor James Garner. As usual, the phisher's emails are odd-numbered, CBC's emails even. This one is a slow cooker, but packs more heartbreak than the last novel you read. If you stop reading before 'Taco, Bag of Fries,' you're missing out:

1. Hello,

From: sophiaa queen

Sent: Thursday, June 19, 2014 6:55 AM

To:  CBC

Hi dear, I'm Sophia by name! I saw your email today and i decided to write to you for us to know each other. It's kind of cool 

& interesting to write to you for us to be friends. I we be very happy to know more about you. If you wish to know more about me, reply me . For us to know each other very well as friends. I am waiting keep cool.......

Best Regards Sophia.

2.  RE: Hello,

From: CBC

Sent: Saturday, June 21, 2014 11:54 AM

To:sophiaa queen

Dear Sophia,

I am very lonely. My wife left me two months ago, and she took our dog Nestor with her. I also hurt my back and now I'm convalescing at home watching old episodes of The Rockford Files.

Have you ever watched The Rockford Files? It's a TV series starring James Garner. It starts out with a message on an answering machine, something about Jim Rockford forgetting to pick up his fish from the market or something of that nature. Anyway, Jim Rockford is an ex-con who is a private detective in Los Angeles. He wears tweedy sportcoats, lives in a trailer on the beach with his crusty father. I love this show. I watch two episodes every day, streaming on netflix. It's the only thing --other than hydrocodone-- that numbs my pain over Sarah leaving me, and Nestor's absence. (Nestor is a labradoodle.)

CC

3. Hello Dear, This Is All About Me‏!‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏

From: sophia hareef

Sent: Monday, June 23, 2014 2:29 AM

To: CBC

Hello Dear, I need your help, please!

Dearest, 

I'm happy for your mail, and I have vital reason for contacting you regarding my condition here. I am Miss Sophia Hareef, 22 years old lady from Republic of Rwanda.

I'm the only daughter of late Dr. Fabius Hareef. My late Dad, Dr. Fabius Hareef  was for many years, the Rwandan Government's chief Economist. He later resigned His public appointment and then created His Own Real Estate construction & management firm (ZHUBARI GROUP CO. LTD), Headquartered in Kigali, Capital city of Rwanda.

My late Dad was also The personal Economic adviser to our current President. Soon after the cold blooded assassination of my beloved parents, my step-mom began threatening me, and even plotted to assassinate me; Because She wanted to assume absolute control over all of my late father's Estates, Investments, and other high value properties; hence their sudden assassination.

Meanwhile, I had wanted to immigrate to Europe to studies, but my step mom set my belonging ablaze right under my watch, and burned my international passport and other valuable traveling documents. Luckily for me, my Late Father's personal Files were kept hidden away from our family house, and this is why they weren't also set ablaze by my step mom.

After these, I finally decided to escape into neighboring African nations, and at last I arrived this refugee camp.

Here in Dakar, Republic of Senegal I'm now an asylum seeker & political refugee, under United Nations High Commission for Refugees (UNHCR).

My Dearest, I contacted you for a long-term business relationship and investment assistance in your country.  My late Dad deposited about $5,700,000 (five million and seven hundred thousand dollars) in Standard Bank Plc, UK, and I am the next of kin. However, I can write much about the funds and will also give you vital details of the bank deposit on confirmation of your willingness to assist my claims of the money, and my demand for release, for transfer & investment of the funds in your country.

Besides claims & investment of the money, I'll also like to seek University admission upon arrival to your country, because I was still studying when forced to flee my family home in Kigali.

If we get on successfully well, I shall compensate you with 30% of the money for your assistance, while you keep the balance safe pending my investment capital.

Please, let all communications between us remain confidential; Call me with this phone number (+221772064077). Its not my own phone, I've no phone for now. But the Rev. Father of this Catholic Parish permitted me to use His office phone for daily calls with you, until we complete claims & transfer of the cash.

Once I receive your positive reply to be My Transfer Partner, I will put things to action immediately. I shall appreciate your urgent reply showing willingness/readiness to handle this transaction sincerely and honestly. I am in this Refugees camp's female hostel, and I'm waiting your positive response.

You must keep this secret & to yourself; You must not disclose it to any person whosoever, until the cash is successfully claimed & transferred to your account for me, and I safely arrive your home country. I hope my explanations are very clear, but, if you need further clarification, then send me your questions. I attached my photos so that you know me full well.. Thanks; and reply immediately.

Yours Sophia.

4. RE: Hello Dear, This Is All About Me‏!‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏

From: CBC

Sent: Monday, June 23, 2014 9:05 A.M.

To:sophiaa queen

Dear, dear Sophia,

I am writing you from my gmail account because I'm afraid of being monitored by my bosses. I can get in trouble for using my work email for personal purposes. Sometimes I feel like there's someone watching me at work, specifically a janitor whose blue smock seems too new and unused to be authentic.

I am horrified by the story you tell about the assassination of your parents and the loss of all of your property. I want to help you in some way.

As you already know, I am a fan of The Rockford Files. Jim Rockford is an honorable man, a man who dedicates his life to helping others.

Some people judge me improperly because I am so interested in this old television program. They say I pay too much attention to something that is not real, but I really disagree. It's important to believe in something, in an ideal, and ultimately we all live our lives based on ideals. I understand it's kind of stupid to get your ideals from a fictional character but in the end it's better to have good ideals than have none at all, and how you get them doesn't matter necessarily.

Anyway, I'm sorry to talk so much about this, all I wanted to say is that because I love Jim Rockford, I am willing to try to help you. This is what he would do.

What do you need? Do you need money to get out of the camp? Unfortunately, I only have $6,248.00 in my savings account, although next month I will have another $ 1,000.00. Because I am in the middle of a divorce, this is all the money I can spare at this time. My only concern is that I need a better assurance from you that you will indeed give me 30% of $5,700,000 like you say if I provide you with help. You say that it is based on us getting on reasonably well. I don't mean to be suspicious, but that is a very general statement, and the professional, business-like thing would be for us to draw up a contract over email that specifies what I will do and what you will do in return. When talking about so much money, I assume you would agree it's important to do things legally and correctly. This is as much for your protection as it is for mine.

I eagerly await your reply. I would like to make a difference in your life, you seem like a good person who has had some terrible experiences. Right now, I'm having a very hard time with my back pain, my divorce and with my beloved dog Nestor being gone. He used to sit between my legs when I stretched out on the couch to watch The Rockford Files.

Now I watch the program alone, it's hard, but your email has intrigued me. It is an opportunity for me to do something new in my life, something positive. My dream is to get a trailer, put it on a beach somewhere, and get my father to move in with me.

best

CBC

5. RE: RE: Hello Dear, This Is All About Me‏!‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏

From:sophia hareef

Sent: Tuesday, June 24, 2014 6:40 AM

To: CBC

Sweetly, It was distressing to learn about your recent divorce issues, the loss of your pet Dog, and your ailment with back pains  and your battles for treatment of the ailment. All I pray for in this moment of time is your complete recovery and for your emotional comfort. With hope that you will soon regain your health, strength and usual spirit to enable you help me.

You will Inquire from the bank; If they accept our request, then we'll proceed.. Please kindly call me to this tel phone number 00221772064077; even though I've no personal phone. I'd so much appreciate you, if you'd kindly call me now or at any other time, depending to your personal schedule.

We're suffering here and hoping to meet you soon after this transfer to your account. May God reward and bless you for all you are about to do to help me out of this deplorable condition, as a result of the incarceration of father in jail and his killing.  I deeply appreciate your willingness to help me transfer the money; Like I wrote in my previous letter, I have already informed the Management of Standard Bank Plc my plans to claim and transfer this money. After series of consultations with the Bank's management, and with Reverend Father Henry Yadema, I was finally advised to apply for claims, release, and transfer of this fund through a trusted/trustworthy foreign Partner.

Write a Cash Claims, Release, & Transfer request to Standard Bank UK; state that you're my foreign partner, and is acting on my behalf.  Remember to include your full names, and all other personal information.  Here are the Account Details of my late Father, and the contact of Standard Bank;

Name of Bank: STANDARD BANK PLC, U.K.

Email: standardbankplcsa@financier.com;  standardcharteredbankgroup@financier.com

Original Account Owner: late Dr. Fabius Hareef

Next of Kin: Sophia Hareef (daughter of Fabius Hareef)

Account number: ST74510893346/QB/91/CB.

Swift Number: 0234AC44.

Amount Deposited: USD$5.700.000.00

Person to Contact: Mr. JASPAL BINDRA

Contact them now on how to release and transfer this US$5.700.000.00 million dollars deposited by my late father, to I am next of kin. I'm planning immigration to your country immediately after successful release of the funds to your account for me; and pending onward transfer to your account. When you contact the Bank, Send me feedback from them.

6. RE: RE: RE:Hello Dear, This Is All About Me‏!‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏

From: CBC

Sent: Tuesday, June 24, 2014 5:37 P.M.

To:sophiaa queen

Sophia,

Regrettably, I cannot call you on the phone. My cell phone is under my wife's name, and she can see all the calls I make. More importantly, my AT & T calling plan does not allow me to make international calls. I do not know how I would go about calling you, and don't forget my mobility is limited because of my back problems. But thank you for talking to Standard Bank Plc about our plans. I intend to email them later today or tomorrow morning to make an inquiry on our behalf. I'm very excited about doing this, and beginning this process.

I never imagined that my dream of living on a Los Angeles beach in a trailer might be within reach. If I can accomplish this dream through our transaction, I think I can rebuild my life, start anew. I'm no fool: I understand I can't be Jim Rockford, but if I can approximate my lifestyle to his, it will make me happy. I even plan on buying some sportcoats and an old telephone answering machine so that fishmongers can live me phone messages about my orders for Rockfish and salmon. And then, just sitting in that small trailerish box as the sun goes down over the waves, drinking a mint julep, watching a black and white TV, writing in a composition book journal with a bic pen, and just being glad to be alive.

I want you to know that I think your plan for going back to school is excellent. I recommend the University of California at Los Angeles, that way we can see each other from time to time. You could live on campus in their international house and from time to time we could meet in Westwood, at one of those café's on the main drag there. It's a great place for seeing celebrities.

Once I saw Lou Ferrigno standing in a doorway (he was not so big, I remember thinking), and my best sighting was Barry Manilow. Do you know who Barry Manilow is? He's a brilliant singer and songwriter. You'll so enjoy spending time in Westwood! Rest assured I will not inconvenience you too much once you start your classes at UCLA. You are a very pretty girl, I can see that from your photos, but I can't think about you in a romantic way. I'm older than you, I am a man of honor, you would be like a treasured niece to me.

That is what Jim Rockford would want me to do, and that is what I want to do. It is decided. Please don't insist with me, no matter how much gratitude you feel for me after all of this over and done with.

I must go now. My back is hurting me more than usual. I am going to take some hydrocodone-acetaminophen right now and try to sleep, but I will write to the bank tomorrow or later when I wake up. Please be patient with this broken down man. Sweet dreams to you my cherished girl, please be patient as you sit by that hostel window, don't lose hope. Jim Rockford is on the case.

CC

7. Your love gives me courage to do anything big in life

From: sophiaa queen

Sent: Tuesday, June 24, 2014 6:17 P.M.

To: CBC

Sweetly, Your love gives me courage to do anything big in life.  please contact to Standard Chartered Bank for inquiry today!

I just cannot wait to get married to a good and loving man like you. I am very excited to know that you care for me; But all I like is of our marriage, but even these coming days are like months for me. You should contact to Standard chartered today, so that we'll commence the transfer immediately!

I'm waiting for this day to come. I remember the first time I emailed you and your good reply; I got a feeling that you are the one for me; But I also want to ask you, Do You Love And Cherish Me???.

I am really happy and excited to be your best friend and I am hoping that we'll get on well. You are the reason behind my happiness. You bring happiness and joy in my life. I will never separate from you and will live with you whole life. I am ready to face happy and tough times together with you. Your love gives me courage to do anything big in life.

Darling, you are the best thing ever happened in my life.

7b. Please accept my deep appreciation for your cordiality

From: sophiaa queen

Sent: Wednesday, June 25, 2014 7:40 A.M.

To:CBC

Please, accept my deep appreciation for your cordiality, trust and wholehearted support. With your support, we'll do the Transfer hence you're interested to help me; Complete this request and send to Standard Chartered for consideration. When you contact and receive their response, send me feedback!

STANDARD BANK PLC, U.K.

Email:  standardbankplcsa@financier.com; standardcharteredbankgroup@financier.com

Account Owner: Dr. Fabius Hareef

Next of Kin: Sophia Hareef (daughter of Fabius Hareef)

Account number: ST74510893346/CB/91/B. Swift Number: 0234AC44.

Dear Jaspal Bindra,

I am, -----------, residing at.......... I am resident and citizen of -------------; born on ............; my phone numbers are ..........; and My occupation is .........  My bank account number and name; .........; held in ............. Bank. Sophia Hareef permitted me to claim, demand immediate release and transfer of funds from her late Father's domiciliary account to my local account, to enable her resettlement in my home country. She is living as refugee in Republic of Senegal, I want immediate release and transfer of the funds o my account; And I pledge full cooperation to the best of my ability as her partner.

Yours Sincerely,

8. RE: Your love gives me courage to do anything big in life

From: CBC

Sent: Wednesday, June 25, 2014 9:29 A.M.

To: sophiaa queen

Dear Sophia,

My dear girl, you are such a tender, pretty creature. I'd be lying if I said that your declarations of affection do not affect me. I feel stirrings in me that are unexpected, a firmness comes upon me at the thought of making a life with you, intimately. But you need to understand that the only reason you have feelings for me is because I am being kind to you and I can possibly help you. Your gratitude and expectation have clouded your judgment. A beautiful girl like you would not be satisfied by a middle-aged man like me, prone to melancholy, back strain and television. I accept your praise in the spirit it is given and thank you for your kindness. In my present circumstances, kind words are encouraging and they are gift I thank you for. I shall be your friend, without any fringe benefits other than my trailer on the beach. I shall be your uncle from another family, so to speak, your private Jim Rockford. And I shall give your hand in marriage to whomever you choose, once you are settled here in the United States, but only if you deem me deserving of such an honor.

After writing to the bank in a few moments, I was planning on researching academic programs for you at UCLA. What are you interested in studying? History? Engineering? English literature? Let me know some programs that might interest you and I will at once contact those departments and find out about enrollment requirements for foreign nationals. When I was in college, I was an English major, and I heartily recommend any major related to literature to you. Nothing prepares you better for life and middle age than studying Shakespeare, or reading Flaubert's The Sentimental Education. But I leave it to you to decide. I will support you, and help you, with any course of study you choose. Are you a science minded person? Or are you more inspired by literature and art? Let me know and I will call the college and find out about your prospects.

Again, thank you for the sweet things you said in your last email. They made my eyes a little bit moist and rejuvenated me. Don't you worry. There is a good man in your future, a good younger man, someone strong and vital, who will be your champion. I will help you through this crisis and help you find that man, and if you want, help you marry him. And then I will go back to my trailer and lead my life quietly, as the waves roll outside my windows.

CBC

8b.  I am concerned

From: CBC

Sent: Tuesday, June 25, 2014 4:45 P.M.

To: sophiaa queen

Dear Sweetheart,

I am concerned. I wrote an email to Jaspal Bindra as you instructed. I explained to him that my bank accounts are in my wife's name and that the best thing I could do was open a new bank account in my name alone so that I will be able to do our transaction. I do control a personal savings account that has a few thousand dollars in it and I told him that I'd like to get that money to you immediately so that you can be removed from that hostel, get a visa and come and live near me. (I'll get you an apartment.)  I told him that I could take cash out of my savings without my wife knowing and send it via Western Union or by way of some emmisary. A few hours later, I received an automated reply and then Mrs. Jane Lewise wrote to me with a form for me to fill out. The form does not acknowledge my situation right now or my questions to Mr. Bindra. How does Mrs. Jane Lewise know about our situation? Why didn't she say anything in her email to me? I find the customer service provided by this bank to be lacking in professionalism and helpfulness. Are you certain you want to work with this bank?

I had another idea this afternoon that I wanted to share with you, because I do not trust Mr. Bindra to reply, now that he has passed on our case to Mrs. Lewise, who is a total stranger to me. My idea is that in order to get you out of that refugee camp and to the U.S. as soon as possible, I could send you cash in the mail. I could hide it in a Rockford Files Season 1 DVD case. If I send it urgent mail to Senegal it will only cost me about $88 and you will get it by next Tuesday or Wednesday. Then you can take the money (a few thousand) and get a visa and a ticket to come here. (And it excites me to know that you could start watching the Rockford Files in Senegal, and get to know me better, and in some way, grow closer to me and this dream of mine to own a trailer on the beach. If all goes according to plan, we might find ourselves in that trailer, sitting at a cozy table in its kitchenette, holding warm mugs of coffee in our palms as we talk quietly about your university courses at UCLA.)

I also want you to know that I've called my friend Steve Jesterman to ask him to take me to the bank tomorrow to open up a new bank account in my name alone. Don't worry: he doesn't know about you yet. You asked me not to say anything. But eventually you will meet him and you will love him. My appointment tomorrow is for 11:30 AM central time, which in Dakar, Senegal will be 4:30 PM. I expect that the account will be created by 5:30 PM Senegal time. Then I will have the capability to send my account information to a bank. But we need to talk about this: Are you sure Standard Bank will be a good partner for us? Have you considered HSBC Wales? I've heard good things about it.

I hope you're not upset with me because of my last email. I hope you don't feel rejected by me. Of course I cherish you, that is why I am helping you. I hope you will love me a little, but not as a husband or a lover. We are friends, or my hope is that I can be like family to you. My relationship with you promises to give me a new life.

In terms of our situation, for tomorrow, should I send the form to Standard bank or should I make an inquiry with HSBC Wales in the UK? I assume they provide the same services at Standard Bank and maybe they will be more responsive.

Also, where can I send you some cash so that I can get you out of that refugee camp? Besides buying a plane ticket, you are welcome to buy any nice things you like, like shoes and handbags. You are a pretty young woman, and you deserve to feel beautiful and confident after all of the trauma you've been through. If I can help with that, it will make me feel happy.

CBC

PS please let me know about your academic interests so that I can contact the University of California Los Angeles about potential courses of study and admission requirements. I've decided that I will pay for your courses in the first year. I know you will have a great deal of money, but I think I can afford this and I insist.

9. My Sweetheart, I have read your mail

From: sophiaa queen

Sent: Thursday, June 26, 2014 5:21 P.M.

To: CBC

My Sweetheart, I have read your mail, and I am very very happy for what you've written. Hence you will finance my immigration to USA; I am ready to come any moment, and you will send the money to me tomorrow morning through Western Union to Rev. Henry Yadema. I do not know how much my immigration to USA will cost in money until I make inquiry tomorrow morning. But we'll also do the transfer on arrival and resettlement in USA. In short, I will try to ask Rev. Yadema about the visa and travel requirement now,   Then In the morning, I shall go to make inquiry concerning Travel requirements for my immigration to USA, then I will write back to let you know whatever my findings may be. I know its all about money, with money, I will be able to obtain a visa to USA within few days because everything here in Senegal is about money and about knowing prominent personalities.

10. I am concerned

From: CBC

Sent: Thursday, June 26, 2014 5:49 P.M.

To: sophiaa queen

Dearest Sophia,

Excellent. I understand about corruption in Senegal. What's important is to get you away from there, and over here, where things are not that way. As soon as I hear from you I will call Steve Jesterman and make plans for him to drive me to Western Union. I will let you know what time he can drive me and that way you will know at what time to expect the money. All I ask is that you be sure to bring the Rev. Yadema with you because the idea of you waiting alone at the Western Union office in Dakkar to pick up the money really scares me. I don't want anything to happen to you.

10b. One request?

From: CBC

Sent: Thursday, June 26, 2014 5:58 P.M.

To: sophiaa queen

Sophia,

I'm getting ready for bed now. It's just me alone here in the empty house. I am going to read our emails over again while I lay in bed and plan for the future. I feel like I've shared a lot about me, but there's still so much I don't know about you! Would you find it impertinent of me, or too forward if I asked you to tell me more about who you are? I would imagine that you find it hard to share details about who you are, and what your feelings are with strangers like me, no matter how kind I might seem to be. I wouldn't blame you if that were the case. Our life stories are so different. I come from a comfortable life of privilege and you are a refugee who has lost nearly everything. You have been touched by violence and I have not. You are African and I am American. May I ask you what is your favorite color? (I'd like to get you a present, that's the truth). Here's another question: do you like to wear trainers, like adidas or puma, or do you only wear sandals? Are you a Christian, and if so, what denomination? Anything you tell me, however silly, or small, will be a comfort, because I am not working now and what I do is wait for your emails, and I reread them constantly. Especially the one where you said you found me to be a kind and good person--that was so touching, I thank you again for your trust. Anyway, to know a little bit more about you would make me so happy and help me get through my days and nights. You have taken over my life over the past two days. Helping you is the only thing I think about.

CBC

11. My Love,, this is my bio data, and our camp address;‏‏‏reply me soon

From: sophiaa queen

Sent: Friday, June 27, 2014 6:23 A.M.

To: CBC

My Love,, this is my bio data, and our camp address;‏‏‏‏

N'Dioum UNHCR Refugees' Encampment,

HLM Grande Yoff-GY, Unite 18,  Villa No. 245.

En face Pharmacie Touba Sandaga; Dakar, Republic of Senegal

My name is Sophia Hareef

My age is 22 years old (Born in July 16, 1992).

My home country is The Republic of Rwanda

I'm a Refugee/political asylum seeker here, under the protection of CWS/UNHCR.

My Home town is Butare Province.

Birth place is in Butare, Republic of Rwanda

I am interested in Studying Business Management or Political science!

I love gorgeous dresses, especially Red, Blue, Pink, Orange, and Black colors; My best choice of dresses is Casual Jeans, Mini Skirts, colorful shoes, and many more... I like watching movies, listening to hip hop music; I'm an ardent fan of music. I'm cool, nice, gentle, liberal minded; But I'm also silly at times, I make mistakes too. Play a lot of scrabble, watch movies a lot especially action, sci- fi and comedy thriller. I'm a very focused and highly motivated individual. My friends like me because I'm straight up and candid in all views and discussion that comes up. They also like my honesty and my Devotion to Church activities (I was Born and Baptized a Roman Catholic Christian, and that's my Congregation to date). In short, I'm a sincere, honest, deeply caring and deeply religious person; So all I want is A LIFE LONG SOUL MATE, Dedicated Lover, Best Friend, You will be there for me and I will also be there for.

As for the Transfer, Rev. Yadema advised me that it will be better for us to claim the funds whenever I arrive USA and Meet you live so that we'll be in the position to combine or coordinate our efforts in this regard.

My Dearest, All I need is money for acquisition a new international passport and few other vital Travel permits like Consular card, Police Attestation Report, official Age Declaration, Carte Judicial, and Fitness and Vaccination Certificate; With all these papers, I will become automatically eligible for a USA Immigrant visa or Tourist visa application.  The Travel and Tour agency (Best Class Travels & Tour Sa) we consulted this morning advised us that it will be too costly for me to apply for a student visa; They advised me that Tourist visa can be obtained within 7days from the date we pay them. Cost of the Immigrant or Tourist visa is €2,700 euro;  Then the remaining €1,000 euro is the exact cost estimate for acquisition of all the vital travel papers, including a New International Paspport (which can be issued within 2days if I pay for express service). When the estimated costs are combined, my travel papers and An Immigrant or Tourist via will cost €3,700 euro.  But when you will be sending the money, I like you to kindly add small extra money to the €3,700 euro for me, just for Transportation during the processes and for food. Thanks in advance for it.

Send it through Western Union money transfer, to  REVEREND HENRY YADEMA, see His name and details below;

Name of receiver: HENRY YADEMA

Address of receiver:  HLM Grande Yoff-GY, Unite 18,

City and Country:   Dakar, Republic of Senegal

This is also His mobile number: 00221772064077

Reply me soon.

12. RE: My Love,, this is my bio data, and our camp address;‏‏‏reply me soon

From: CBC

Sent: Thursday, June 26, 2014 11:25 A.M.

To: sophiaa queen

Dear Sophia,

OK, I can send 4,000.00 euros, I hope that will be enough. Please let me know. That leaves me with a few hundred dollars in my savings account to make preparations here, like opening a new bank account in my name. I just printed out your information so that I can send the transfer properly later. In a few minutes, I will call Steve Jesterman to find out about him driving me to Western Union. After the money is wired I will let you know via email.

I am fascinated by the things you tell me about who you are and what you like. You sound so charming. I shudder at your youth. Many innocent 22 year-old-girls like you are looking for soul mates, but please be careful. Sometimes men only use women. You know that, right? Even nice, educated men can be shifty and unreliable.

This reminds me of an episode of the Rockford Files from season 4 (1978), titled "Taco, Bag of Fries." In this episode, Jim is helping Madge Wainwright find her sister Clarice, who disappeared after a date on the Santa Monica pier with a boy called Toni Fumelli. To make a long story short, Clarice was sweet talked by Toni, who is a gangster, and taken off to Topanga Canyon to live behind the prison like walls of a mansion with Toni's shrewish mother Ricarda. Rockford has to sneak in to get her out, pretending to be a bespectacled Ambassador Gold vacuum cleaner salesman in a white smock. Classic.

My favorite part is when the bastard who kidnapped Clarice confronts Jim with a gun and our hero replies: "while you're pointing that at me, could you throw in a taco and a bag of fries?" That's one of my favorite Rockford quotes. So dry, so sardonic, so Garnerian. Anyway, my point is this: Clarice was also an innocent little thing and she was fooled by a handsome bad man and made to go missing. This is what I mean. You need to be on your guard when looking for love. I propose you set your sights lower and simply try to make friends and not rush into anything, ever, with anyone. Don't think about soul mates. Think about being independent and networking and building real relationships for your future.

I found a vintage trailer for a few thousand dollars that I think I could fix up after we sort out the bank transfer business. It's very Rockfordian, it might do the trick. I'm attaching a photo of it, as well as a photo of Jim Rockford and his cantankerous dad, "Rocky" in the background.

Soon,

CBC

13. My love the 4,000 euro is very very okay

From: sophiaa queen

Sent: Friday, June 27, 2014 12:30 P.M.

To: CBC

My love,  the €4,000 euro you're going to send is very very okay by me. Thank you! For your advise to me, thank you too, and I'll try to be careful; Already, I'm never flirtatious, just that i usually love and trust very easily.

I would like to reveal that you have stolen my heart; You now mean everything to me. Though you are struggling with ailment and i am also struggling with difficult living conditions and if we join our hands  for the entire rest of life then we could overcome all the hurdles of life. I love you so much, and I now want you to promise to sincerely help me and Maybe marry me. I'm ready to do it, and I'll shower my love on you. Honey, in future we will have our kids, we will have our beautiful family and there would be peace, love and security in our hearts.

God has sent you to me as a gift of this love. Yes, you are my dream darling that I was praying for. I feel that your entry in my life is going to be a great turning point toward everything good for me; Because I've always desired to live, study and work in the USA. You're now in the process of helping me realize all my beautiful dreams. It would be one of the milestones I've desired to achieve in life. In the wetness of my love I will make you shower to refreshment, that you will forget all the sorrows of your life.

You're my Sweetheart and My SweetDream!

I love your style!

Once more, please Send the €4,000 euro through Western Union money transfer, to  REVEREND HENRY YADEMA, see His name and details below;

Name of receiver: HENRY YADEMA

Address of receiver:  HLM Grande Yoff-GY, Unite 18,

City and Country:   Dakar, Republic of Senegal

This is also His mobile number: 00221772064077

14. (No Subject)

From: CBC

Sent: Thursday, June 26, 2014 3:36 P.M.

To: sophiaa queen

Sophia,

I'm very confused by your email. I wish you would not say those things. You make me question my opinions and feelings, which are honorable. You know I never looked for your love, for that kind of marriage love, I am just trying to be like Jim Rockford. All I wanted was to have a trailer on the beach, and quiet days, drinking a mint julep and writing in my composition book with a bic pen. I want to be close to the waves of the sea, and live a quiet life, take long walks in sandals on the beach to get tacos on the Santa Monica pier, stop to watch the surfers, pick up a seashell, and put it in my pocket as the sun sets on the horizon. But you make me question all of this with your words, because you are very beautiful, and I am alone. How can I not feel anything when you write such strong words? I don't know what to say. I have so many feelings.

But what is urgent now is the money, to get you out of there immediately, we can talk about feelings later.

I opened up a new back account in my name, so progress is made. I have the cash in my pocket to wire to you but when I went to Western Union with Steve Jesterman, they told me the address did not fit in their system. They asked me if I was referring to one of these locations:

ATPS PETIT NGOR Petit Ngor Dakar, +0022-176-5919795

SILICON VALLEY 6 Diamalaye Ii N 6 Dakar, Senegal 221 +221-338208847

UIMCEC 4 Camp Penal Lot N 1 Dakar, Senegal 221 +221-338676109

BIS LIBERTE 6 Rond Point Liberte 6 Dakar, Dakar 0000000 +221-33-8496262

They had more addresses, but these were the ones that came up on their computer first when I gave them the address you gave me. Is one of these the correct one? If you could please resend the address in the correct format, to look like one of these, maybe that will work. Or can Rev. Yadema go to one of the locations listed above? Steve says he can come back and drive me again to Western Union today. Let me know and I will do it.

I'm feeling very anxious and confused, I don't know why.

15. My address is correct: Grande Yoff, Unite 18, Villa N° 245; Dakar, Republic of Senegal

From: sophiaa queen

Sent: Thursday, June 26, 2014 4:53 P.M.

To: CBC

I wasn't referring to any of the locations you listed in your mail.

My address is correct, Send the money to the name of Reverend and address I've written below.

Name of receiver: HENRY YADEMA

City:  Dakar

Country:  Republic of Senegal

This is also His mobile number: 00221772064077

15b. I still appreciate the name of God for Your good effort in my life

From: sophiaa queen

Sent: Thursday, June 26, 2014 5:05 P.M.

To: CBC

Subject: 

I still appreciate the name of God for Your good effort in my life and i keep asking God to continue to keep His Hands over us because i know and have the strong Faith that God is Forever and always able to handle our situation no matter the difficulties, but my God will always bless you for me because you are such a nice and kind person to me and my life now depends on you for survival, even though i don't have the power to reward you for all these effort to save my life out of here but i am sure that my God in heaven will reward you. Please, send the money to this info "My address is correct, Send the money to the name of Reverend and address I've written below.

Name of receiver: HENRY YADEMA

City:  Dakar

Country:  Republic of Senegal

This is also His mobile number: 00221772064077". Thank you in advance and Have a nice day.

I am waiting your reply.

says - Sophia.

16. Re: I still appreciate the name of God for Your good effort in my life

From: CBC

Sent: Thursday, June 26, 2014 10:01 P.M.

To: sophiaa queen

Sophia,

It's OK, you're allowed to be frustrated with me. Don't try to hide it with God. I know you're scared and desperate, and who wants to listen to a lonely middle-aged, suburban, middle-class, overweight white man go on and on about his feelings? There is nothing more boring, or more irrelevant, for a woman who is in your situation. If I were you, I would be impatient with me and my inability to quickly send the money you need. I won't bore you with more dramas about me at this time. I want this email to be factual, and to only contain INFORMATION. I don't want to disappoint you again or make you take that tone with me again.

I need to say a few things because you may not hear from me for a long time.

I went to a different Western Union with Steve Jesterman early this evening, and sent the money. The man who worked there was a Russian fellow and it was difficult to communicate with him because he had a lisp and I wasn't sure what he was saying, plus I was distracted by the fact he was wearing a red Lenin pin on his yellow vest. But I gave him Rev. Yadema's information and the cash and the MTCN number is 5613464654 with serial number 6395-408AK.  Use those numbers to claim the money. That is 4,000 euros.

I called my wife about the divorce and I think we came to a good solution. She will sell our house, where I'm living now (she's living with her new boyfriend), and we will split the money we make on the sale. She believes we can get anywhere between 200 and 300,000 dollars for the house. We are going to divorce amicably, without lawyers or anything like that. I was talking to Steve Jesterman about it after the phone call and he agreed I should just move to California immediately. So that is what I'm doing. I'm leaving tomorrow. Hopefully in a month or two I will have the money from the sale of the house, and the 30% of the money you offered me, and I will be able to buy a trailer on the beach, in addition to many more things. I need to get a gold Pontiac Firebird Esprit with the license plate 853 OKG, just like Jim Rockford. Right now, my plan is to drive out to California, rent a hotel room in Santa Monica and start a new life. I plan to start looking at trailers immediately.

Talking to you has been a very confusing experience, especially the last two messages. I think it best if we had a little more distance, a break from each other. Now you have my money and you can escape Dakkar. I don't care about the rest. My challenges are much less serious than yours, but I am passionate about living like Jim Rockford on the beach in a trailer with mint juleps and a telephone answering machine. These are things a woman like you cannot understand because you don't know how important James Garner is to the cultural history of the United States of America. He is a model man, an icon, a symbol, a person that people my age look up to. Do you know who John Wayne is? Maybe you do. Well, James Garner is like John Wayne, except he is more noble, more gentle and not a racist jerk. He's a famous Democrat and I even forgive him for being friends with the actor James Woods, who is a Tea Party sympathizer. In sum, James Garner is like the father I never had, and the friend that I need the most right now.

You don't understand these things because you've never seen his television program The Rockford Files. You've never seen Rocky (except in the photo I sent you), and you've never seen the trailer they shared. You've never heard the program's musical theme song which is one of the best instrumental pieces of music to be produced in the 1970's. So I'm going to enjoy my long drive and I'm going to think about Jim Rockford and Jim Garner. I need Jim Rockford a lot more than I need a new wife, and that's not because I'm gay, I'm not, but because I've already been married, I've had dreams die and my heart broken before. Sometimes a man needs the companionship of another man, for mentorship, for encouragement, to learn how to be strong. Think of it this way: you have your reverend, and I have my reverend.

You do what you have to do. I will do what I have to do. We will treat this like a friendly business transaction and not be sentimental about this. I follow the Jim Rockford code: I help you because it's the right thing to do and because you are paying me. I will be friendly but I will not be your lover or your husband.

Goodbye for now. I am leaving at 7 AM Central Time to drive to California.

17. MTCN IS NOT CORRECT, SEND THE CORRECT MONEY TRANSFER DETAILS

From: sophiaa queen

Sent: Friday, June 27, 2:07 A.M.

To: CBC

MY LOVE,

I HAVE SEEN YOUR MAIL CONCERNING THE MONEY TRANSFER TO ME BY WESTERN UNION. BUT THE MTCN NUMBER IS NOT CORRECT, SEND ME THE CORRECT WESTERN UNION MONEY TRANSFER DETAILS FOR CONFIRMATION AND RECUPERATION OF THE SENT CASH.

1. SENDER'S NAMES

2. SECRET QUESTION AND SECRET ANSWER

3. MONEY TRANSFER CONTROL NUMBERS (MTCN)

4. MOBILE NUMBER OF SENDER

5. EXACT AMOUNT SENT  AND AMOUNT RECEIVABLE IN SENEGAL.

PLEASE, SCAN THE MONEY TRANSFER RECEIPT AND SEND TO ME IN YOUR NEWT EMAIL; SEND IT AS EMAIL ATTACHMENT. I AM WAITING, PLEASE SEND THE CORRECT DETAILS NOW.

I LOVE YOU, AND I AM THANKFUL TO YOU IN ADVANCE FOR YOUR EFFORT TO HELP ME OUT OF HERE.

The Military-Literary Complex

Not so long ago, American corporate media willingly accepted a set of new conditions and limitations in exchange for the privilege of reporting on the frontlines of Iraq, such as they existed. The military bed was a place of censorship, where reports underwent military review prior to publication. But more importantly, the failures of the bed were ones of sympathy and lack: by focusing on one story—the story of an all-volunteer American army—embedded journalism failed to report on the experiences of the vast majority of people—unarmed Iraqi civilians—conscripted by American policy into a life of violent war and brutal occupation.

The military bed is not a thing of the past, but its home has changed. Over the last few years, the practice of embedding has been moved from the chambers of journalism into those of literature. The story of how it moved involves an unlikely array of governmental, commercial, educational and grass-roots organizations—including the Department of Defense, the Veterans Administration, the National Endowment for the Arts (NEA), the Boeing Corporation, grassroots veterans support groups, MFA programs, publishers and professional and amateur literary associations—that have come together to extend embedded writing into the heart of American letters. (Read More)