Seeking the language of life

The 13 writers chosen by the experts at the Hay Festival bring this region to life. Often viewed from the outside as drab and monotone, the voices represented here are those of young people who bring color, texture and understanding to their homelands. The judges aimed for an ideal mixture of tradition and modernity to truly represent the region as it is today. The poems and prose collected here in this pan-Arab literary movement are translated into English either from their original Arabic or French, the heart language of second-generation immigrants from former French colonies.

The art of the Arab storyteller, as presented here, is compelling. It is an art learned over camp fires in the desert, or over hookah pipes in a modern port city. The talent of generations of ancestors is passed down to modern young people, who apply the skills of description and slowly pacing the revelation of a mystery, honed through the centuries, to stories grounded in the here and now. Young Arab storytellers today have the advantage that through the published media their tales can reach far more than just the ears of a few listeners gathered around them at the end of a hot and busy day. Books, films and the Internet give them an opportunity to speak to their whole generation. And, with translation, this also means they can speak to the whole world.

Speak they do: of living in lands torn apart by war, of the struggle between generations as a traditional way of life rubs against modernity, of love for history and the need to express oneself in a thoroughly new way, of the tensions of living as emigrants and immigrants, of the Arabic strongholds of honor and shame and of the universal concepts of love and betrayal.

In the fascinating first offering of the collection, Abdelaziz Errachidi tells the tale of the changes brought to a Bedouin village as the gossips and village elders seek to make sense of a mysterious night happening: a car accident from which all of the victims had absconded “leaving behind warm, comfortable seats on an autumn night cold enough to make people shiver under their covers.”

More sharp perception comes from Faiza Guene: “Being born is only the start of dying.” These words come as she tells the story of a birth using the voice of the baby. The baby’s grandfather had 15 children, so she was born into a family with many aunts and uncles. She gives us these poignant words: “Grandfather’s wife was fertile, and so was his land -- sadly it was his heart that was arid.”

Many of the writers have lived through turbulent times. Najwan Darwish, in “The Pools and the Piano,” recounts childhood memories of the foreign language book bonfires that happened all over Libya in the 1950s, after the French had been ousted. Subtle language makes it clear where the author’s sympathy lies, in a voice tinged with ironies: “Our school dragged all the foreign books out of the stockroom, along with the hearts of those who loved to read them, and executed them in the school yard, with our whole-hearted participation. Some were delighted by the fires; they had hated foreign languages, finding them difficult to learn -- those who excelled in failing at the language spoken by our enemies.”

Many are still living through conflict. The title “Beirut 39” itself speaks of a civil war the wounds of which have only recently healed, and neighboring Israel and Palestine continue to bring trauma to ordinary civilians. In “Coexistence” Ala Hlehel describes what life is like under this pressure. Islam Samhan’s poem “Who are you carrying that rose for?” may move you to tears. A poem for the martyrs of Gaza, it is a song of civilian casualties. The lovers, the women, sing as they wait, “The rockets will accompany us to our grave.”

Love is the theme of Dima Wannous, as she tells how a woman chooses between her husband and her lover. “Without a doubt, this morning was like all the other Damascene July mornings. But from this moment it was no longer so.” Abdullah Thabit tells of terrorism, and honor: “The man who kills for a word is the same man who will be undone by another word.”

Perhaps the most poignant issue dealt with in some way by all of the writers is that of tradition. Differences between generations of Moroccan immigrants in Holland are described compassionately and intimately by Abdelkader Benali. “In their household tradition was spelt with a capital T.”

The heart of this in-built tension between loving one’s roots and needing to express them in a very personal way is succinctly expounded upon by Abderrazak Boukebba. The children are taught by the elders that tasbih, Muslim prayer beads, are only complete when they are whole -- don’t lose a bead. “These beads are our heritage and it would be treason to lose any one of them. … So it is with the village -- it lasts as long as its people last and perishes with their breaking away from it.” But the author rebels and wants to go to the town for employment and a better life. “The earth belongs to Allah -- why should we deprive ourselves of other places where we are allowed to live?” After a huge internal struggle, he concludes, “Leaving our homeland, we cry over it, remaining loyal to its memory.”

The pain of the emigrant’s life is illustrated by Kasmiri Haneef, a character drawn by Mohammad Hassan Alwan, who had been an immigrant in Riyadh and is now in Glasgow. By telling his story through the voice of the Saudi family that misses him, the sense of never belonging is heightened. “As driver to the rich he had occupied the middle ground between family and servant, unable to cross from one to another.” Now in a third city, he has no idea what it will have in store for him. He is “beginning in Glasgow, the father of three girls, forty years old, making halal hamburgers for university students and waiting for his British naturalization to be completed.”

Perhaps the words of a poem by Abderrahim Elkhassar best sum up both the desire of these vibrant young voices to be heard by the world and the need to discover who they really are as young Muslims at the start of the third millennium.

The first passion he expresses thus:

“Oh world, whatever shall I do with you, when all I own is paper and a pen?

I stay awake at night refining words.”

The second passion finds magnificent expression in a few lines:

“It is the desire of water to know its source

Before the waterfall drags it away

It’s my desire to turn and look behind

So as to reveal my face

That it may be clear, like my reflection in a mirror.”