Beirut 39 Read online

  Contents

  Preface

  Judges’ Announcement

  Introduction

  Editor’s Note

  Abdelaziz Errachidi

  from the novel Bedouins on the Edge

  Abdelkader Benali

  from the novel The Trip to the Slaughterhouse

  Abdellah Taia

  The Wounded Man

  Abderrahim Elkhassar

  Amazigh

  Abderrazak Boukebba

  from the novel Skin of Shadow

  Abdullah Thabit

  from the novel The Twentieth Terrorist

  Adania Shibli

  At the Post Office

  Ahmad Saadawi

  from the novel Frankenstein in Baghdad

  Ahmad Yamani

  eight poems from The Utopia of Cemeteries

  Ala Hlehel

  Coexistence

  Bassim al Ansar

  Three Poems

  Dima Wannous

  Two Stories

  Faïza Guène

  Mimouna

  Hala Kawtharani

  Three Stories

  Hamdy el Gazzar

  from the novel Secret Pleasures

  Hussein al Abri

  from the novel The Last Hanging Poem

  Hussein Jelaad

  Three Poems

  Hyam Yared

  Layla’s Belly

  Islam Samhan

  Who Are You Carrying That Rose For?

  Joumana Haddad

  from the poem ‘The Geology of the I’

  Kamel Riahi

  from the novel The Scalpel

  Mansour El Souwaim

  from the novel The Threshold of Ashes

  Mansoura Ez Eldin

  The Path to Madness

  Mohammad Hassan Alwan

  Haneef from Glasgow

  Mohammad Salah al Azab

  A Boat That Dislikes the Riverbank

  Nagat Ali

  four poems from Like the Blade of a Knife

  Najwa Binshatwan

  The Pools and the Piano

  Najwan Darwish

  Six Poems

  Nazem El Sayed

  Thirteen Poems

  Rabee Jaber

  from the novel America

  Randa Jarrar

  The Story of My Building

  Rosa Yassin Hassan

  Guardians of the Air

  Samar Yezbek

  from the novel The Scent of Cinnamon

  Samer Abou Hawwash

  Nine Poems

  Wajdi al Ahdal

  A Crime in Mataeem Street

  Yahya Amqassim

  from the novel Raven’s Leg

  Yassin Adnan

  Two Stories

  Youssef Rakha

  Suicide 20, or The Hakimi Maqama

  Zaki Baydoun

  Nine Poems

  Notes on the Text

  Notes on the Authors

  Notes on the Translators

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright Page

  Preface

  These thirty-nine Arab writers are all under the age of forty. They have flung open the doors on Arabic culture, inviting the reader to transcend cultural boundaries and land in a region known as the ‘Arab World’.

  The reader touches, feels, hears, tastes and sees the Middle East and North Africa as it really is: cosmopolitan cities, villages, towns, desolate mountains and deserts. And soon these complex places in a foreign culture become recognisable and familiar as they are revealed in poems, short stories and extracts from novels. We experience the aches and pains of imprisoned freedom like birds in a cage; stifling societies, sexual frustration, corrupt regimes, poverty and illiteracy. And mapping the soil in which the seeds of fanaticism flourish, good women are driven to madness by injustice and oppression. The subject of war, of course, is never far away: between East and West, civil war and the occupation of the West Bank. This writing offers a fresh, often ingenious perspective – a world away from headlines and news stories. Finally, there is the bliss of love and passion, the wisdom of ancient culture, the piety of true believers, the sheer beauty of life on earth to experience, regardless of race and class.

  Hanan al-Shaykh

  London, January 2010

  Judges’ Announcement

  The abundance of young entrants in the competition is especially noteworthy: more than 450 young authors from across the Arab world, and from the Arab Diaspora in Europe and America, submitted work.

  The members of the committee, headed by Egyptian critic Gaber Asfour, and which includes the Lebanese novelist Alawiya Sobh, Omani poet Saif al-Rahbi and Lebanese poet and critic Abdo Wazen, pored over the multitude of work sent in by authors and publishers in order to make their selection. The committee worked by elimination: it first picked 100 names, then brought the list down to 60, then, after long discussions and much debate, to the 39 finalists. On more than one occasion, the debates stretched for hours at a time, since there were so many wonderful books that deserved to win. Arriving at the final selection was a difficult, demanding and meticulous process.

  The 39 names that have been chosen were selected for the superior quality of their work, whether as novels, short stories or poems. They represent an ideal mixture of tradition and modernity, and display high literary and critical standards. These are the voices of young ingénues who have managed to form their personalities and impose their experiences and views, in addition to sharing an exemplary use of language, technique and vision.

  The final choice of the 39 names does not detract from the worthiness of many other, important, contributors. Many entrants were eligible to be shortlisted in the competition, but the Hay Festival’s commitment to the 39-name rule proved to be unlucky for some.

  In conclusion, we would like to pay tribute to young Arab writing, which is emerging as an idiosyncratic and unique literary genre. Perhaps this generation of young writers will forge the future for Arabic literature.

  The winners, followed by their country of origin and year of birth, are: Abdelaziz Errachidi (Morocco, 1978), Abdelkader Benali (Morocco/The Netherlands, 1975), Abdellah Taia (Morocco, 1973), Abderrahim Elkhassar (Morocco, 1975), Abderrazak Boukebba (Algeria, 1977), Abdullah Thabit (Saudi Arabia, 1973), Adania Shibli (Palestine, 1974), Ahmad Saadawi (Iraq, 1973), Ahmad Yamani (Egypt, 1970), Ala Hlehel (Palestine, 1974), Bassim al Ansar (Iraq, 1970), Dima Wannous (Syria, 1982), Faïza Guène (Algeria/France, 1985), Hala Kawtharani (Lebanon, 1977), Hamdy el Gazzar (Egypt, 1970), Hussain al Abri (Oman, 1972), Hussein Jelaad (Jordan, 1970), Hyam Yared (Lebanon, 1975), Islam Samhan (Jordan, 1982), Joumana Haddad (Lebanon, 1970), Kamel Riahi (Tunisia, 1974), Mansour El Souwaim (Sudan, 1970), Mansoura Ez Eldin (Egypt, 1976), Mohammad Hassan Alwan (Saudi Arabia, 1979), Mohamad Salah al Azab (Egypt, 1981), Nagat Ali (Egypt, 1975), Najwa Binshatwan (Lybia, 1975), Najwan Darwish (Palestine, 1978), Nazem El Sayed (Lebanon, 1975), Rabee Jaber (Lebanon, 1972), Randa Jarrar (Palestine/Egypt/USA, 1978), Rosa Yassin Hassan (Syria, 1974), Samar Yezbek (Syria, 1970), Samer Abou Hawwash (Palestine, 1972), Wajdi al Ahdal (Yemen, 1973), Yahya Amqassim (Saudi Arabia, 1971), Yassin Adnan (Morocco, 1970), Youssef Rakha (Egypt, 1976) and Zaki Baydoun (Lebanon, 1981).

  Introduction

  ‘Beirut39’ is a unique initiative that aims to identify and highlight contemporary literary movements among Arab youth, and to gather young faces and names and provide them with an opportunity to meet, exchange expertise and ideas, and work together in literary workshops.

  Young Arab writers have transcended geography and local identity in their creative work, aligning themselves with – and inspired by – global literary currents and movements. It is obvious, for example, that many novelists from all over the Arab world, Mashriq and Maghreb, belong to the same literary cur
rent across regional barriers. Through their work, they communicate and bond with each other despite geographical distance, such that one can easily speak of the youthful realist novel, or neo-realist novel, or fantastic novel or post-modern novel that young writers from all the Arab countries have contributed to. The literature of young Arab writers has invaded the Arab literary market, making it difficult to speak of the young Lebanese novel, or the young Egyptian novel, or Syrian, or Saudi, etc. A youthful pan-Arab literary movement currently dominates, bringing together novelists from all the Arab countries, and aiming to break down regional boundaries. This definition also applies to poetry: there is no longer a youthful Lebanese poetry that is different from a youthful Egyptian poetry, or a Saudi, Iraqi or Palestinian one. Poets are collaborating to establish new styles and a new poetic language, in addition to their unique visions. The internet age has certainly helped them to overcome the obstacles posed by the difficulty of meeting and communicating in person.

  What brings together most young Arab writers is their tone of protest, and their rebellion against traditional literary culture. They have announced their disobedience against the ideological bent that exhausted Arabic literature during the 1960s and 1970s. They have also risen above the idea of commitment so prominent a few decades ago, which was imposed by a political-party and communal way of thinking. Instead, they strive towards individualism, focusing on the individual, the human being living and struggling and dreaming and aiming for absolute freedom. Many young writers have declared their disdain for what they describe as contrived, ‘proper’ language. Often, they aim to express their personal concerns as they see fit, freely and spontaneously. And it is important that they protest and reject and announce their frustration with language itself, this language that differs between writing and speech. They want to write as they speak, absolutely spontaneously, unbounded by the censorship imposed upon them firstly by the language itself, and then by religious or moral apparatuses.

  These writers believe that the new era, the information age, the computer and internet age does not leave them with enough time to decipher the mysteries of grammar and rhetoric. They seek the language of life. These writers are not afraid to make grammatical errors. Some purposefully don’t finish their sentences, others are fond of slang and street talk and dialect.

  This book contains selections from novels, short stories and poems by 39 young Arab writers, and presents the reader with a panoramic glimpse of Arab youth literature. It aims to engage the reader in a conversation, and to help illuminate this scene.

  Abdo Wazen

  Beirut, February 2010

  Editor’s Note

  Once the judges had made their selection, I was able to contact the 39 authors who live in twenty cities in the Middle East and North Africa, as well as in Europe and the USA. As the reader may imagine, I blessed the internet and email frequently, because, despite the short time available, it meant that I could work closely with each author to select the pieces that would best represent their work. It was relief to know that they were happy with my choices.

  A word or two about the arrangement of the book: after the Preface, Judges’ Announcement and Introduction, the pieces are published in alphabetical order by author, and the translator is acknowledged at the end of each piece. I have only noted the language from which a piece has been translated when it is not Arabic. At the back of the book are Notes on the Text, as an aid to the reader who may be unfamiliar with various aspects of life in the Arab world, and Notes on the Authors and the Translators.

  Beirut39 is, of course, only a first step to discovering the extraordinary talents of Arab writers, and it is hoped that readers who enjoy the work in this book will explore further and so encourage the all-important work of translation.

  Samuel Shimon

  Bleibtrau Hotel, Berlin, February 2010

  from the novel

  Bedouins on the Edge

  Abdelaziz Errachidi

  Policemen, arriving from the nearby precinct and annoyed by the cold and insignificance of the place, recorded the details of an accident that night: an elegant white car without a licence plate had hit a wooden electric pole. A snarl of wires from the pole lay beside it. No passengers were to be found at the site despite the fact that the car was new. The damage was minimal, and there didn’t appear to be any victims.

  The policeman ordered the onlookers from the town to leave. Leaving nothing unturned, the police recorded their observations: the number of miles on the car; how much it had sunk into the thin layer of mud; the estimated power of the impact that had caused a petrol leak, preventing them from continuing; the approximate time of the crash; and other details no one but the obsessed would bother with. And despite the weight of their tired eyes, they didn’t forget to question witnesses, although no one had actually seen the accident at the time.

  Everything was there in front of them: the new car whose hefty tyres had woken them up in the dark of night. Yet there were no passengers. Where had they gone, leaving their car and their belongings behind? Leaving behind warm comfortable seats on an autumn night cold enough to make people shiver under their covers?

  Opening up the boot, they found a seed bag, an axe and an odd-shaped hoe. There was also some food and shreds of paper.

  A long time had passed and not one person from the town could claim they knew what had happened. But there were those who would narrate the event endlessly, their faces expressing surprise and their eyes ablaze as they scrutinised the details with the mastery of someone with too much time on his hands. With each new telling, their passion was rekindled anew, proof that desert dwellers compose the music of lies. They mulled over it with profound conviction: Was it the fog that caused the accident? Was it the darkness or booze? Or maybe it was speed? Finally they agreed – after all other possibilities had been exhausted – on the power of the impact, since they had sensed its tremble in their sleep, its echo resonating in their dreams.

  The storytellers found the incident entertaining, a pastime to fill their empty, repetitive days. They had become virtuosos in their retellings. One would say, ‘Some tourists from Europe came here, they were injured in the accident, but then went back home to their country. They will, no doubt, come back to pick up the car.’ And someone would interrupt him, claiming confidently that ‘Europeans don’t pay attention to money and material goods; it’s silly to think they’ll come back.’ He’d explain it this way: ‘They’re thieves who came here at peak harvest time for dates. They didn’t find the secret spot and they failed to get the people’s consent, so they must have been cursed by trying to hide from the law.’

  People went on and on talking and asking questions: Where did the strangers come from? What did they want and what was their story? Were they overwhelmed by the serenity of the area as they passed through? And was the accident the price they paid for their stupor? Why did they run away, leaving behind such an expensive car? What were they afraid of? Were they thieves? Who was their leader? Did they treat their own injuries or did someone help them get away? Or was the accident part of their plan, a ruse to divert attention? Maybe they wanted to hide something?

  The townspeople speculated endlessly, spending their empty days chatting and arguing about it wherever they happened to be: in fields that had been parched for a long time, taking the opportunity to tie their donkeys to small date palms and sit about, either squatting or stretched out while arguments heated up between them; or dangling their feet above the muddy irrigation ditch, moving carelessly from one topic to another, from the lack of water, the effect of which was making them so crazy they would stare out into space absentmindedly, to temptations – like leaving this place, or women; or close to the mud-brick mosque, in front of the clashing tall cement minaret, where they would sit at the end of every prayer. At other times, at nightfall, some of them – the real night owls – would hurry to the lone grocer to carry on talking and arguing. They’d explain the accident according to their own reasoning, conflati
ng the details of it with their anxieties, some of them garnering encouragement and interest the more they got into it, though this could be interpreted as having a dubious relationship with the strangers. In kitchens, women spiced the pot with possibilities, their eyes huge with excitement, the timbre of their arguments ringing out as the wind carried their words away.

  Explaining the accident had become a competitive game among the people. Then al-Mahjub, ‘the covered one’, spoke. He had only recently arrived in the town from the desert and hadn’t quite integrated into the rhythm of their lives. An outcast, he triggered the most extreme dismay in them. They themselves were surprised by how they could have overlooked the most likely possibility; but now that they were alerted to the danger, they carefully hid their children. When the kids got wind of this, they trembled together and quickly began comparing their hands, reading their palms like fortune-tellers do. Some of the townspeople gloated that the strangers had failed in their efforts. The hash smokers, though, didn’t buy into the man’s story, and held fast to the one that the strangers had brought the stuff with them. They had got used to them taking a shortcut, walking from north to south and bringing what they needed to help ease the journey, which they and their friends could get from most of those living in that well-to-do oasis. So they searched tirelessly for chunks of hash near the car and in the trunk, and some found a bit, the talk having given them confidence. Meanwhile others were only interested in the seed sack, the old, odd-shaped hoe and the axe.