Jabra Ibrahim Jabra: Ramparts

Twenty years ago last month Jabra Ibrahim Jabra passed away. A Palestinian refugee, Jabra lived an extraordinary life in difficult times. He survived expulsion from his birthplace in Bethlehem, earned a PhD in England, then went on to a polymath career in the arts in Baghdad. As a novelist, Jabra wrote some of the most challenging works of the modern canon, including In Search of Walid Mas'ud, The Boat, and (with Abderrahman Munif), A World without Maps. As a translator, he managed to bring life to Shakespeare and Faulkner in Arabic during the 1950s, in so doing he opened the door for a set of lively conversations about world literature among Arabic modernists. Without Jabra's translation of The Sound and the Fury, it is unlikely that novels like Men in the Sun, Miramar or Voices would have been written. As a painter, Jabra was an ardent champion of experimentation and abstraction, and he was arguably the leading essayist of the Arab world, writing widely on art, literature, history and memory. 

As a poet in the 1950s, Jabra collaborated with other poets—Adunis and Badr Shakir al-Sayyab, especially—who were also experimenting with mythical themes and the ritual dynamics of formal poetic composition. At that moment, for these poets the core truth of aesthetic modernism resided in the possibility that the dead and the old might give birth to the new—and do so in art. This poem appeared in Jabra's 1959 collection, Tammuz in the City, and attests to the poet's ability to imagine the deep, mythical ties connecting his native homeland, Palestine to his adopted homeland, Iraq. 

Ramparts

Beneath the walls, walls.
And beneath them, walls. 
Ur, Jericho, Ninevah, Nimrud—
On the debris where the sighs of lovers went to die
Where chattered then vanished the teeth of captives, stripped bare
There, now are hills that bloom each spring
Now home to crickets and ants, 
Refuge to sparrows in the late morning
Feeling the last traces of the evening dew
Through tattered feathers
Beneath their tails lies a head
Before which millions once kneeled
Which ladies’ hands once anointed with perfume.

Hide the laments of your heart in light song. 
You son has come to stay in the valley. 
Then to wander through the wilderness
Where ladies, wrapped in soil,
Walk along the ramparts
Walls lie beneath them, and walls.

In the wastes are cities into whose halls he enters
Seeing nothing but towering walls
Punctured by blind peepholes
And marble floors stretching out, empty
Beneath the last echoes of singing voices
But nightly go the singers
Behind the walls, where the ants and crickets live
Where not hope, but the deposed kings wait. 
Where donkey manure clothes the history of states,
The memory of conquests, and the letting of blood.

Hide your desire—really, hide it! And hide also the desire of the other sons.
Beneath their feet, the lust of years and years
Chases their flesh as they race
Through the collapsing walls
Collecting the fullness of lips
In ceramic cups
Squeezing arteries and veins
So as to draw in thick blood the appetite of the night
On pages of stone. 
The eagle seizes the sun in its beak
While the viper brings forth the wisdom of its poison. 
Disguise your desire—disguise it well! 
Don bracelets of silver and pure gold, 
Bracelets of thorn and bindweed.

Ur, Nimrud, and the sacred virgins
In the temples of Babel and Byblos
Offering their bodies to strangers
So that the hills might bloom (above the old city ramparts)
So that the fields of grain might tremble with gold,
And the anemones might shiver in the meadows
Beneath the claws of the kites and crows
The lips of the widows and the virgins are parched
(Verily, cover your hunger, cover it well!)
And meanwhile, the night drags on across the walls, 
And beneath them, walls
Beneath them, walls.

— From Tammuz fi-l-madina (Beirut: Dar Majallat Shi‘r, 1959).

Advertising in Poetry

I've been perusing some of the old Beiruti poetry journals of the 1950s and 60s lately and was struck by the advertisements — and how they seem to suggest a style of modernist, petroleum-centered consumption that might go with modernist poetry. These images are from issues 5-11 (1958-9) of Majallat Shi‘r, edited by Yusuf al-Khal and Adonis, and from issues 1-3 (1962-3) of Majallat Hiwar, edited by Tawfiq Sayigh. (Critical side note: Hiwar was funded by the Congress for Cultural Freedom (later renamed the International Association for Cultural Freedom), a CIA sponsored front-group in the culture battles of the Cold War. The CCF also sponsored political and literary conferences in the region, including the famous 1961 Rome Conference, a landmark event in the formulation of Arab modernist poetics.

Iraq Petroleum Company, Ltd (Shi'r, 1958)

Iraq Petroleum Company, Ltd (Shi'r, 1958)

Iraq Petroleum Company, Ltd (Shi'r, 1959)

Iraq Petroleum Company, Ltd (Shi'r, 1959)

Iraq Petroleum Company, Ltd (Shi'r, 1958)

Iraq Petroleum Company, Ltd (Shi'r, 1958)

Iraq Petroleum Company, Ltd (Shi'r, 1959)

Iraq Petroleum Company, Ltd (Shi'r, 1959)

MEDCO Petroleum (Hiwar 1963)

MEDCO Petroleum (Hiwar 1963)

Hillman Cars (Shi'r, 1958)

Hillman Cars (Shi'r, 1958)

Van Heusen Shirts (Shi'r, 1959)

Van Heusen Shirts (Shi'r, 1959)

Esterbrook Pens (Shi'r, 1958)

Esterbrook Pens (Shi'r, 1958)

Middle East Airlines (Shi'r, 1958)

Middle East Airlines (Shi'r, 1958)

Middle East Airlines (Shi'r, 1958)

Middle East Airlines (Shi'r, 1958)

Middle East Airlines (Shi'r, 1959)

Middle East Airlines (Shi'r, 1959)

Middle East Airlines (Hiwar, 1962)

Middle East Airlines (Hiwar, 1962)

Middle East Airlines (Hiwar, 1962)

Middle East Airlines (Hiwar, 1962)

#IAmFamilyGuy: Charlie Hebdo Media Roundup

Last week’s horrible events in Paris have brought out the best in cultural and social commentary. It’s also brought out the worst in liberal and neocon war-mongering (e.g., New Yorker columnist George Packer speaking from his old comfort zone).

We have been called to believe in this equation before. On one side, we are told, stand the allies of freedom. On the other, extremism and intolerance. Or “The West” and “Islam” as Samuel Huntington put it, taking hundreds of years of received orientalist tradition and welding it into many of the policy recommendations that rule our contemporary world.

Given the abstract, wholly undefined character of this magical equation, almost anything can be plugged into it. As if most of our commentators—from Fox News to CNN—were reading from the same Mad-Lib, adding nouns and adjectives, verbs and adverbs in the appropriate spots. Judeo-Christian tradition versus Islam. Moderate Islam versus extremist Islam. Enlightened versus barbaric. Freedom versus tyranny. Peace-loving versus violent. But underneath them all lie the two most basic binaries: us versus them; human versus inhuman.

In Washington, DC, hundreds of Americans marched yesterday in solidarity, although what they were in solidarity with is unclear. Down the street from where I live, the gates of the French Embassy are covered with flowers and signs that say #JeSuisCharlie, whose most accurate (or idiomatic) translation might be #IAmFamilyGuy. In Paris, despots and democrats rushed to be seen as defenders of freedom, even though everyone there knew that they are anything but. The only thing that was missing from the gathering was George W. Bush to remind us that you’re either with us or against us.

I have nothing to say that hasn’t been said better by the handful of brilliant commentators who have been cutting through the fog, shedding light on the attack, its meanings, and its implications. I recommend their essays (in no particular order):

  • Juan Cole soberly observes that the purpose of the attacks was to "sharpen the contradictions" in order to push the French public—and Europe—to take increasingly extremist positions toward Islam. 
  • At the London Review of Books, Adam Shatz writes on the moral logic (and rhetoric) of the moment, and its ties to violence.  
  • On his blog, A Paper Bird, Scott Long critiques the cheap “solidarity” of the media gestures toward the tragedy, and suggests that true solidarity involves something more difficult, like understanding that it is not enough to say (or imagine) that we are all alike.
  • At the Globe and Mail, Nahrain al-Mousawi reminds us that the attacks in France belong to a broader context, which includes a history of attacks on free expression in the Arab world.
  • Cartoonist Joe Sacco shows that in the end, the abstract right to free expression is always tied to particular content.

Baghdad Central Listed Among Top Middle East Novels of 2014

I'm very happy (and honored) to find Baghdad Central has made one list of "year's best." India Stoughton reviews literature over at The Daily Star, and this is what she has to say about the top Mideast novels of the past year:

The problem with a year-in-review summary of fiction is that it leaves busy readers no chance to form their own opinions of the work. Happily, good books don’t age. So here are six of the more interesting works of fiction with a Middle East focus published in 2014. If you didn’t catch them this year, consider putting them on your reading list for 2015.

To see what titles she recommended, take a peek here.

Badr Shakir al-Sayyab: One Crutch in Hell

The great Iraqi poet Badr Shakir al-Sayyab died fifty years ago today, but not before changing poetry. Here is my translation of the last poem he is said to have written shortly before his death:

One Crutch in Hell

I am still turning
Around the mill of my pain
Like a blindfolded bull, like the millstone—never resisting.
People pass by, on their way toward heights.
But I can no longer walk on my feet, damn them.
My bed is my prison, my coffin, my exile into pain
Into nothingness.
And I say: A day will come to me, months from now, 
Or after years of wasting away,
Or eons,
And I will go. On my two feet I will go,
A crutch in my right hand.
One crutch? No—two
Beneath my arms, supporting
A body of aches, a body dying
An abandoned encampment, a ruin, covered by a flood of blood.
I go on, on my two feet I go on.
Even if the road leads to the grave,
And gloom, and hungry, thousand-mouthed worms
Stretch out before me to the furthest reaches of the world, in a river, 
Or pitch-dark valley, or high mountain,
I will go there, either gladly, or riding on my own back
I will travel along the inferno of my path and push the black doors wide open
And I will roar in the face of the caretaker,
Why was the door shut?
Let the devils of Hell
Punish the obscene body
Let them punish the open wound
Let your eagles gouge eyes and devour the heart
Here, in this place, my neighbor does not wish me ill,
And the prostitute who passes by my house at midnight does not sing out, 
“Here is the cripple’s house! They ran out of food and drink
And tomorrow they are going to throw his two daughters and wife out onto the street,
And his infant son too if they cannot pay the mountains of rent they owe!”
Throw me, scattered, uncomposed
Do not shut your door against my misery,
Open it, and feed my body to the fire!

For more Sayyab, visit the tributes over on Jadaliyya.

Multiple Choice

In January 2007, the NYTimes went in search of examples of how professors give exams in the field of Middle East Studies. This is what they got. I like the exam I submitted to them, though I can admit it now: mine is an example of an exam I'd love to give, not an exam I've ever actually administered. And for the record: multiple choice exams have as much place in a literature curriculum as a scantron exam has in your DVD player. 

Ahmed Douma: Two Poems

Like hundreds of other prisoners of conscience now languishing in Sisi's prisons, Ahmed Douma has a long background in activism. One of the founders of Kefaya and the April 6 Youth Movement, Douma was incarcerated eighteen times under Mubarak and SCAF and twice again during Morsi’s brief year of rule. Most recently, Douma was arrested in December 2013 for violating the country's harsh anti-protest laws. Though his health has deteriorated to the point that his life is now at risk, an Egyptian judged recently sentenced him to three years in prison. 

Forgotten in all this is that Ahmed Douma is also a poet with an original voice. His diwan, Sotak tali3 (Your Voice is Rising, Cairo: Dawwan, 2012) is a remarkable document, wholly unknown in English. Here are two poems from it:

1. IF ONE DAY THE PEOPLE

If one day the People wills to live,

Then they can go revolt.

And the echo of their songs can chase away palace dogs

And they can raise their banners whose cloth has been dragged in the dirt

            Dragged through streets, servility and surrender.

And they can turn those banners into a plan of attack

And hang the darkness of their night on the gallows.

            While the dreams of their night tremble

            At a spark flickering in the heart

            At a light…

If one day the People wills to win,

Then decision must dictate

            That silence is no longer an option

And they must create, with their own hands,

Daylight rays for the sun of emancipation!

They must help give birth to a country, as yet unborn

Struggling midwife,

Pulling the country hard and harder,

Shouting out in its ear the call to prayer, “Revolution has risen!”

And “There is no revolution but the Revolution you make yourself!”

Let our country nurse on the many meanings of dignity.

Let it come to know how to break the siege.

If one day the People wills to arrive at its destination,

Then it has no choice but

To gather the ammunition it will need for the journey

To call what lies between us and them

            The length of countries

Saying, “You sons of…”

Its time for the Dog to go.

Enough with the howling.

Enough with the voiceless shrieking.

Enough with death.

The People opens their eyes and finds their guide

            They see that the one who betrayed them

            No longer exists.

In their victory, they cross bridges and borders

Shrieking

            And shrieking,

                        Shrieking and shrieking.

I am now free.

            Without shackles.

Now I am free, without chains.

If one day, the People wills to live,

Then they must learn to break their chains themselves.

(Midan Tahrir, May 2011.)

2. DEMONSTRATION

Police cordon, police cordon

Dog and guard,

Black, black, black

Is your uniform

Street front, war front

En-e-my

This is the youth of our country!

One hundred bosses, one hundred chiefs,

And countless gentlemen, epaulets stuffed with eagles

The stars of their insignias rising

In the middle of the afternoon

Spreading fear in pure hearts,

Spreading insults about my mother and my mother’s mother,

And the person who gave birth to you and me,

And the living and the dead,

Religion too, and that dog unashamed

            (definitely a ranking officer)

Spewing every cussword in the book.

Now, in the middle of the square, the bloodbath begins.

And out, into the light, injustice arrives,

Electric cattle prods,

Tear gas, whose stench creeps toward us.

Beatings all around.

The best and the brightest are there in the fray,

There is no escaping death.

You either die here or there

Or you can die for the country as it slips from our grasp

As it falls into ruin’s embrace

And you, and your country, wherever you run,

Will find nothing but police cordons around you.

            The fighting still going on, uninterrupted

            There is no difference between boys and girls,

They insult her while bashing in her head

            With fists.

While the son of a bitch just stands there, smiling

Saying, “Bring them here. Drag them over.”

            They beat the pulp out of them

            Then send them off in cuffs to get booked.

Go ahead and hurt us,

But don’t forget to cry about it,

Or say, like kids in the playground, “Those bullies hit us,

And kicked us around,

Even though we were there to protect them.”

In the charges they write: The assailants

Had written the word Enough on their clothes

They were waving the flag

Claiming that the country

For twenty-five years has been robbed

Looted, and oppressed.

They insult the dear King,

They claim

He is a despot

And fit to be tried in court.

All rise and be silent.

Only the judge has the right to speak.

The defense rises, the accused, the prosecution.

The press will broadcast the ruling,

When it has been pronounced

            The defense is not allowed to speak,

            The defendant is guilty

And the judge pronounces it loud,

In the name of the magnanimous ruler of this country,

Each of these dishonest demonstrators is to be imprisoned

Justice has died in Egypt.

Those who displease the regime

Receive open-ended sentences

That might go on to the end of time.

Only a revolution against all shackles

Can break them.

Only that can restore Egypt’s glory.

Revolution is coming.

Despite the cordons,

Light will shine.

Despite the blackness

Of their uniforms, of the warfront streets

And the enemy: this country’s youth.

Down with every police cordon.

Down with every cordon

(Qasr al-Nil Jail, May 2010)

Originally posted at Mada Masr

"Ahmed Douma" photomontage, © Johann Rousselot (image from: http://www.loeildelaphotographie.com)

"Ahmed Douma" photomontage, © Johann Rousselot (image from: http://www.loeildelaphotographie.com)