neither here nor there

(written on June 4th)

Today was elections day in the UK. I don’t vote but I’ve been following the build-up in the news, and today found myself going around my flat humming a seasonal adaptation of this song:

I’m neither left or right.. I’m just staying home tonight.. getting lost in Obama’s little speech..

And lost in Obama’s little speech I did get, for today the man who had kept me up all night on November 4th, was addressing the Muslim World (capital, not plural) from my very own hometown. After listening to the full speech, I found the text on the white house website, and sat with it for a couple of hours trying to figure out how I could find it promising, inspiring, irritating and cringe-inducing, all at the same time.

Actually the irritation had started earlier, with the hype leading up to the speech.. Who and what is that muslim world that the US president was going to address? I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Was it a place or an entity or a species or what? In any case, if Cairo is where you go to address the muslim world, then Cairo must be VERY muslim indeed! That’s why when the Guardian reported on some guy complaining about the security clampdown before Obama’s visit (in an article that incidentally also carries the words Muslim World in the title!), they could have him describe what is happening as ‘religiously forbidden’.* The ‘computer shop employee’ goes on.. ‘if they spent a fraction of all this security money here on giving people bread then we’d all be much better off’.. seems to me like a perfectly secular analysis of the situation, if it wasn’t for the translation of haram as ‘religiously forbidden’ that put the whole thing in a framework of piety and zeal.. only fitting for Cairo’s status as the locus of the muslim world I suppose.

.

.

Now the speech itself.. ahem.. features 69 uses of variations on the words Muslim, Islam and Islamic (really, that is the number, I counted) –as opposed to 6 uses of “Arab”, which occur only in the context of Palestine & Israel. It’s clear then which is the prevalent category now. And everyone seems to be buying and liking this idea of Obama –as a powerful representative of a big undifferentiated Western World—reaching out to a big undifferentiated Muslim World. And the people of the Muslim World –so long misunderstood—are happy that finally someone is making an effort to speak what he thinks is their language. This must be why the Cairo University –invited—audience broke into enthusiastic applause every time the president prefaced a paragraph with the words: ‘As the holy Qur’an said’.. (cringe) OK, in all objectivity, this was a nice gesture, one showing that his team have done their research, and at least he’s aware that the Qur’an has some nice bits (and it must be good and educational for Americans back home to hear those bits as well).. but I couldn’t help being reminded of Napoleon “nous sommes les vrais musulmans” Bonaparte, whose leaflets and announcements to Egyptians in 1798 usually started with bism-illah-ilrahman-arahim wa la-ilaha-illa-allah. Granted, the locals seem to like this kind of thing.. and maybe I’m the only who feels patronized by the presumption of flattery.

And I have to say they tried, Obama and his team of researchers and speech writers, but there was really only so much they could do. The clash of civilizations narrative precedes them, and is too deeply ingrained now to be shaken off in the course of a speech. It was in a way necessary to use the existing dichotomy of West and Islam. They had to work with it. But do we (the varied creatures of the different species that inhabit the muslim worldssss) have to take it without questioning too? Can’t we at least wriggle a tiny bit when they try to squeeze us into a pigeonhole with such little legroom? Or do we also find it convenient to fit snugly into a tight category and safely enclose everyone else in the other? I was more annoyed I think by the predictability of audience reaction than by anything in the speech itself.

Anyway… still.. despite the undercurrent of irritation and cringing.. I did find the speech inspiring (yes, life is full of grey areas like that). Not many speeches nowadays would be as nuanced and carefully balanced (let alone speeches by politicians, let alone by an American president addressing.. errm.. the muslim world!). There is a very clever balancing act going on all the time, as Obama tries to address the concerns of his immediate audience, without losing sight of the concerns of others listening elsewhere (including “a small but potent minority” who really believe we’re all terrorists). He manages to mention the history of colonialism and America’s role in Iran’s revolution, acknowledges the moral ambivalence of the invasion of Iraq, expresses disapproval of the continuing building of Israeli settlements, and actually says Palestine (twice! note: not “the Palestinians” but Palestine), and even uses the word “occupation” in talking about ‘the daily humiliations –big and small—that [Palestinians must endure]‘.

All these are nods towards narratives that are not usually openly acknowledged in American politics, showing a sense of history –global history—and a willingness to include more than one side of every story. This is a very very long way –lest we forget—from the “either with us or against us” rhetoric. I think Obama’s speech writers –and this had first hit me during his famous race speech—have a special knack for going for the jugular, making him say things that may be very obvious, but that no one really expects a politician to spell out so clearly. It might sound simple, but in a world where political speak has long stopped even trying to address reality, it kind of verges on the revolutionary.

So I was inspired by the possibility of maybe nothing else but a shift in the dominant narrative. We’re already slightly better off, if all Obama’s oratory prowess achieves is bring into the language of mainstream politics some of the details that are usually glossed over, details like the historical effects of colonialism and the everyday hassles of occupation for instance. Rhetoric is as good a place to start as any I think!

But poor Barack, he .. really .. can .. never win.

. . .

* I checked the Guardian’s article again, and in the online version they’ve actually corrected it. Now the word haram is elaborately explained as ‘carrying a range of meanings from “religiously forbidden” to a more secular “it’s unfair, it’s a shame”..’
What the man is saying sounds to me like: It’s unfair what they’re doing to us.

(حرام اللي بيعملوه فينا ده!)

Ah, Arabic language.. how exotic and complicated thou art!

II من جدارية محمود درويش

From Mahmoud Darwish’s Jidariyya (Mural) – the bit where he has a one-sided chat with death..

وأُريدُ أُن أُحيا …
فلي عَمَلٌ على ظهر السفينة . لا
لأُنقذ طائراً من جوعنا أَو من
دُوَارِ البحر ، بل لأُشاهِدَ الطُوفانَ
عن كَثَبٍ : وماذا بعد ؟ ماذا
يفعَلُ الناجونَ بالأرض العتيقة ؟
هل يُعيدونَ الحكايةَ ؟ ما البدايةُ ؟
ما النهايةُ ؟ لم يعد أَحَدٌ من
الموتى ليخبرنا الحقيقة …

And I want to live…

I have work to do on board a ship. Not

To rescue a bird from our hunger or from

Sea sickness, but to closely

watch the flood: and then what? What

do survivors do with the ancient earth?

Do they repeat the story? From what beginning?

To what end? No one came back from

The dead to tell us the truth…

أَيُّها الموتُ انتظرني خارج الأرض ،
انتظرني في بلادِكَ ، ريثما أُنهي
حديثاً عابراً مَعَ ما تبقَّى من حياتي
قرب خيمتكَ ، انتظِرْني ريثما أُنهي
قراءةَ طَرْفَةَ بنِ العَبْد . يُغْريني
الوجوديّون باستنزاف كُلِّ هُنَيْهَةٍ
حريةً ، وعدالةً ، ونبيذَ آلهةٍ … /
فيا مَوْتُ ! انتظرني ريثما أُنهي
تدابيرَ الجنازة في الربيع الهَشّ ،
حيث وُلدتُ ، حيث سأمنع الخطباء
من تكرار ما قالوا عن البلد الحزين
وعن صُمُود التينِ والزيتونِ في وجه
الزمان وجيشِهِ . سأقول : صُبُّوني
بحرف النون ، حيث تَعُبُّ روحي
سورةُ الرحمن في القرآن . وامشوا
صامتين معي على خطوات أَجدادي
ووقع الناي في أَزلي . ولا
تَضَعُوا على قبري البنفسجَ ، فَهْوَ
زَهْرُ المُحْبَطين يُذَكِّرُ الموتى بموت
الحُبِّ قبل أَوانِهِ . وَضَعُوا على
التابوتِ سَبْعَ سنابلٍ خضراءَ إنْ
وُجِدَتْ ، وبَعْضَ شقائقِ النُعْمانِ إنْ
وُجِدَتْ . وإلاّ ، فاتركوا وَرْدَ
الكنائس للكنائس والعرائس/

Death, wait for me beyond this earth,

Wait for me in your land, while I finish

A passing conversation with what is left of my life

outside your tent, wait for me while I finish

reading Tarfa-bin-elabd. Tempted

by existentialists I want to draw the last drop

in every moment

of freedom, of justice, of the wine of gods…

So death! Wait while I finish

the funeral arrangments in the fragile spring,

Where I was born, and where I will prevent orators

from repeating what they said about the sad land,

About the resistance of olives and figs in the face

of time and its army. I will say: pour me

Into the letter ‘nūn’, where my soul will be

Drunk by Quranic verses of mercy. Walk

Silently with me in the footsteps of my ancestors

to the rhythm of a flute in my eternity. Do not

Place violets on my grave, for it’s

the flower of disillusion reminding the dead of love

dying before its time. Place on

the coffin seven green ears of wheat if

any can be found, and some wind-flowers if

any can be found. Otherwise, leave the flowers

of churches to their churches and weddings..

أَيُّها الموت انتظر ! حتى أُعِدَّ
حقيبتي : فرشاةَ أسناني ، وصابوني
وماكنة الحلاقةِ ، والكولونيا ، والثيابَ .
هل المناخُ هُنَاكَ مُعْتَدِلٌ ؟ وهل
تتبدَّلُ الأحوالُ في الأبدية البيضاء ،
أم تبقى كما هِي في الخريف وفي
الشتاء ؟ وهل كتابٌ واحدٌ يكفي
لِتَسْلِيَتي مع اللاَّ وقتِ ، أمْ أَحتاجُ
مكتبةً ؟ وما لُغَةُ الحديث هناك ،
دارجةٌ لكُلِّ الناس أَم عربيّةٌ
فُصْحى/

Death, wait! Until I pack

My bag: my toothbrush, my soap,

my shaving cream, perfume and clothes.

Is the weather mild over there? Does it

change with the seasons in the white eternity,

or does it stay the same in autumn and in

winter? Is one book enough

to pass the non-time, or do I need

a library? And what language is used over there,

the vernacular of the people or

classical Arabic..

.. ويا مَوْتُ انتظرْ ، ياموتُ ،
حتى أستعيدَ صفاءَ ذِهْني في الربيع
وصحّتي ، لتكون صيَّاداً شريفاً لا
يَصيدُ الظَّبْيَ قرب النبع . فلتكنِ العلاقةُ
بيننا وُدّيَّةً وصريحةً : لَكَ أنَتَ
مالَكَ من حياتي حين أَملأُها ..
ولي منك التأمُّلُ في الكواكب :
لم يَمُتْ أَحَدٌ تماماً ، تلك أَرواحٌ
تغيِّر شَكْلَها ومُقَامَها /

And death, wait, death,

Until I regain my clarity of mind in the spring

And my health,

be a noble hunter, not one who

Shoots a deer by the water. Let the relationship

between us be friendly and honest: I owe you

What I owe you of my life after I have filled it..

And you owe me the contemplation of planets:

No one ever dies completely, these are souls

Changing their shapes and places..

يا موت ! ياظلِّي الذي
سيقودُني ، يا ثالثَ الاثنين ، يا
لَوْنَ التردُّد في الزُمُرُّد والزَّبَرْجَدِ ،
يا دَمَ الطاووس ، يا قَنَّاصَ قلب
الذئب ، يا مَرَض الخيال ! اجلسْ
على الكرسيّ ! ضَعْ أَدواتِ صيدكَ
تحت نافذتي . وعلِّقْ فوق باب البيت
سلسلةَ المفاتيح الثقيلةَ ! لا تُحَدِّقْ
يا قويُّ إلى شراييني لترصُدَ نُقْطَةَ
الضعف الأَخيرةَ . أَنتَ أَقوى من
نظام الطبّ . أَقوى من جهاز
تَنَفُّسي . أَقوى من العَسَلِ القويّ ،
ولَسْتَ محتاجاً – لتقتلني – إلى مَرَضي .
فكُنْ أَسْمَى من الحشرات . كُنْ مَنْ
أَنتَ ، شفَّافاً بريداً واضحاً للغيب .
كن كالحُبِّ عاصفةً على شجر ، ولا
تجلس على العتبات كالشحَّاذ أو جابي
الضرائبِ . لا تكن شُرطيّ سَيْرٍ في
الشوارع . كن قويّاً ، ناصعَ الفولاذ ، واخلَعْ عنك أَقنعةَ
الثعالب . كُنْ
فروسياً ، بهياً ، كامل الضربات . قُلْ
ماشئْتَ : (( من معنى إلى معنى
أَجيءُ . هِيَ الحياةُ سُيُولَةٌ ، وأَنا
أكثِّفُها ، أُعرِّفُها بسُلْطاني وميزاني )) .. /

Oh death! My guiding shadow,

The third of a pair, the colour of hesitation in

Emerald and aquamarine,

blood of the pheasant, capturer

of the wolf’s heart, sickness

of the imagination! Have a seat!

Put down your hunting gear

under my window. Hang the heavy key chain

above the door of the house! Do not stare,

mighty one, at my veins to find the final

weak spot. You are stronger than

medicine, stronger than a respiratory

system. Stronger than strong medicinal honey,

you do not need –in order to kill me– my sickness.

So be higher than the insects. Be who

You are, transparent, immediate and open to the unknown.

Be like love a storm in the trees, do not

Sit on doorsteps like a beggar or a tax

Collector. Do not be a traffic warden in

The streets. Be strong, brilliant like steel, take off the fox’s masks. Be

Knightly, handsome, and complete. Say

What you want: “from meaning to meaning

I come. Life is fluidity, and

with my power, with my balance, I

Bind it, define it”..

ويامَوْتُ انتظرْ ، واجلس على
الكرسيّ . خُذْ كأسَ النبيذ ، ولا
تفاوِضْني ، فمثلُكَ لا يُفاوِضُ أَيَّ
إنسانٍ ، ومثلي لا يعارضُ خادمَ
الغيبِ . استرح … فَلَرُبَّما أُنْهِكْتَ هذا
اليوم من حرب النجوم . فمن أَنا
لتزورني ؟ أَلَدَيْكَ وَقْتٌ لاختبار
قصيدتي . لا . ليس هذا الشأنُ
شأنَكَ . أَنت مسؤولٌ عن الطينيِّ في
البشريِّ ، لا عن فِعْلِهِ أو قَوْلِهِ /
هَزَمَتْكَ يا موتُ الفنونُ جميعُها .
هزمتك يا موتُ الأغاني في بلاد
الرافدين . مِسَلَّةُ المصريّ ، مقبرةُ الفراعنةِ ،
النقوشُ على حجارة معبدٍ هَزَمَتْكَ
وانتصرتْ ، وأِفْلَتَ من كمائنك
الخُلُودُ …
فاصنع بنا ، واصنع بنفسك ما تريدُ

Death, wait, and have

A seat. Take a glass of wine, do not

Negotiate, for one like you does not negotiate

with anyone, and one like me does not contradict the envoy

Of the unknown. Rest… you may be exhausted today

by the war of the stars. Who am I

to deserve your visit? Do you have time to hear my latest

poem? No. This is not your business. You are in charge of

the earthly in the human, not words or deeds.

You were defeated, death, by all the arts.

You were defeated by the songs of Mesopotamia.

The Egyptian’s obelisk, the Pharaoh’s tomb,

The etchings on the walls of a temple,

Defeated you and triumphed.

Immortality escaped you…

So make of us, and make of yourself

What you want.

I من جدارية محمود درويش

From Mahmoud Darwish’s Jidariyya (Mural) –first stanzas

هذا هُوَ اسمُكَ /
قالتِ امرأةٌ ،
وغابتْ في المَمَرِّ اللولبيِّ…
أرى السماءَ هُنَاكَ في مُتَناوَلِ الأَيدي .
ويحملُني جناحُ حمامةٍ بيضاءَ صَوْبَ
طُفُولَةٍ أَخرى . ولم أَحلُمْ بأني
كنتُ أَحلُمُ . كُلُّ شيءٍ واقعيٌّ . كُنْتُ
أَعلَمُ أَنني أُلْقي بنفسي جانباً…
وأَطيرُ . سوف أكونُ ما سأَصيرُ في
الفَلَك الأَخيرِ .

This is your name,

Said a woman,

And vanished into the coiled corridor…

I see there the sky within hand’s reach.

I am carried on the wing of a white dove towards

another childhood. And I dreamt not that

I was dreaming. Everything is real. I knew

I was discarding myself…

And flying. I will be what I become in

The last sky.

وكُلُّ شيء أَبيضُ ،
البحرُ المُعَلَّقُ فوق سقف غمامةٍ
بيضاءَ . والَّلا شيء أَبيضُ في
سماء المُطْلَق البيضاءِ . كُنْتُ ، ولم
أَكُنْ . فأنا وحيدٌ في نواحي هذه
الأَبديَّة البيضاء . جئتُ قُبَيْل ميعادي
فلم يَظْهَرْ ملاكٌ واحدٌ ليقول لي :
(( ماذا فعلتَ ، هناك ، في الدنيا ؟ ))
ولم أَسمع هُتَافَ الطيِّبينَ ، ولا
أَنينَ الخاطئينَ ، أَنا وحيدٌ في البياض ،
أَنا وحيدُ …

And all is white,

The sea hanging over the roof of

a white cloud. A white nothing in

The white sky of the absolute. I was, and I

Was not. I am alone this side of

White eternity. I arrived somewhat early

So there was no angel to say to me:

“what did you do, there, on earth?”

I did not hear the calls of the good, nor

The moans of those who have sinned, I am alone in the whiteness,

Alone.

لاشيء يُوجِعُني على باب القيامةِ .
لا الزمانُ ولا العواطفُ . لا
أُحِسُّ بخفَّةِ الأشياء أَو ثِقَلِ
الهواجس . لم أَجد أَحداً لأسأل :
أَين (( أَيْني )) الآن ؟ أَين مدينةُ
الموتى ، وأَين أَنا ؟ فلا عَدَمٌ
هنا في اللا هنا … في اللازمان ،
ولا وُجُودُ

Nothing hurts me at the door of resurrection.

Not time nor emotion. I do not

Feel the lightness of things nor the weight

Of obsessions. I found no one to ask:

Where is my where now? Where is the city

Of the dead, and where am I? There is no nothingness

here in the non-here… in the non-time, and non-being.

وكأنني قد متُّ قبل الآن …
أَعرفُ هذه الرؤيا ، وأَعرفُ أَنني
أَمضي إلى ما لَسْتُ أَعرفُ . رُبَّما
ما زلتُ حيّاً في مكانٍ ما، وأَعرفُ
ما أُريدُ …
سأصيرُ يوماً ما أُريدُ

As if I had died before…

I know this vision, I know that

I walk to what I do not know. Maybe

Somewhere I live still, and know

What I want…

One day I will become what I want.

سأَصيرُ يوماً فكرةً . لا سَيْفَ يحملُها
إلى الأرضِ اليبابِ ، ولا كتابَ …
كأنَّها مَطَرٌ على جَبَلٍ تَصَدَّعَ من
تَفَتُّح عُشْبَةٍ ،
لا القُوَّةُ انتصرتْ
ولا العَدْلُ الشريدُ

سأَصير يوماً ما أُريدُ

One day I will become an idea, no sword to

carry it to the wasteland, and no book…

Like rain on a mountain split open by

A growing blade of grass,

Neither force has triumphed

Nor the justice of the vagabond.

One day I will become what I want.

سأصير يوماً طائراً ، وأَسُلُّ من عَدَمي
وجودي . كُلَّما احتَرقَ الجناحانِ
اقتربتُ من الحقيقةِ ، وانبعثتُ من
الرمادِ . أَنا حوارُ الحالمين ، عَزَفْتُ
عن جَسَدي وعن نفسي لأُكْمِلَ
رحلتي الأولى إلى المعنى ، فأَحْرَقَني
وغاب . أَنا الغيابُ . أَنا السماويُّ
الطريدُ .

سأَصير يوماً ما أُريدُ

I will become a bird,

And pull out of my nothingness

My being. Every burning of my wings

Brings me closer to the truth, and I rise

From the ashes. I am the dreamer’s speech, I abstained

from my body and my self to complete

My first journey to a meaning that burnt me

And vanished. I am absence. I am heaven’s

Fugitive.

One day I will become what I want.

سأَصير يوماً كرمةً ،
فَلْيَعْتَصِرني الصيفُ منذ الآن ،
وليشربْ نبيذي العابرون على
ثُرَيَّات المكان السُكَّريِّ !
أَنا الرسالةُ والرسولُ
أَنا العناوينُ الصغيرةُ والبريدُ

سأَصير يوماً ما أُريدُ

I will become a grapevine,

Let summer start pressing me now,

Let my wine be drunk by travellers

Passing on their way to the sweet place!

I am the small addresses and the post.

One day I will become what I want.

هذا هُوَ اسمُكَ /
قالتِ امرأةٌ ،
وغابتْ في مَمَرِّ بياضها .
هذا هُوَ اسمُكَ ، فاحفظِ اسْمَكَ جَيِّداً !
لا تختلفْ مَعَهُ على حَرْفٍ
ولا تَعْبَأْ براياتِ القبائلِ ،
كُنْ صديقاً لاسمك الأُفُقِيِّ
جَرِّبْهُ مع الأحياء والموتى
ودَرِّبْهُ على النُطْق الصحيح برفقة الغرباء
واكتُبْهُ على إحدى صُخُور الكهف ،
يااسمي : سوف تكبَرُ حين أَكبَرُ
سوف تحمِلُني وأَحملُكَ
الغريبُ أَخُ الغريب
سنأخُذُ الأُنثى بحرف العِلَّة المنذور للنايات
يا اسمي: أَين نحن الآن ؟
قل : ما الآن ، ما الغَدُ ؟
ما الزمانُ وما المكانُ
وما القديمُ وما الجديدُ ؟

سنكون يوماً ما نريدُ

This is your name,

Said a woman,

And vanished into the corridor of her whiteness.

This is your name, know your name by heart!

Do not disagree over a letter,

And give no notice to tribal flags,

Be a friend for your horizontal name

Practise it on the living and the dead

Train it in the correct pronunciation in the company of strangers

Write it on a rock in the cave,

My name: you will grow when I grow

You will carry me and I will carry you

The stranger a brother for the strange

We will take the feminine by a pronoun that was promised to the flutes

My name: where are we now?

Say: what is now, what is tomorrow?

What is time, what place,

what old, what new?

One day we will be what we want

the immortality of pickles

Salman Rushdie on adaptation, in which he broadly includes adapting films, “translation, migration and metamorphosis”:

In my novel Midnight’s Children the narrator Saleem discusses the making of pickles as this sort of adaptive process: “I reconcile myself,” he says, “to the inevitable distortions of the pickling process. To pickle is to give immortality, after all: fish, vegetables, fruit hang embalmed in spice-and-vinegar; a certain alteration, a slight intensification of taste, is a small matter, surely? The art is to change the flavour in degree, but not in kind; and above all (in my thirty jars and a jar) to give it shape and form – that is to say, meaning.”

The question of essences remains at the heart of the adaptive act: how to make a second version of a first thing, of a book or film or poem or vegetable, or of yourself, that is successfully its own, new thing and yet carries with it the essence, the spirit, the soul of the first thing, the thing that you yourself, or your book or poem or film or your pre-pickle mango or lime, originally were.

Is it impossible? Is the intangible in our arts and our natures, the space between our words, the things seen in between the things shown, inevitably discarded in the remaking process, and if so can it be filled up with other spaces, other visions, that satisfy or even enrich us enough so that we do not mind the loss? To look at adaptation in this broad-spectrum way, to take it beyond the realm of art into the rest of life, is to see that all the meanings of the word deal with the question of what is essential – in a work adapted to another form, in an individual adapting to a new home, in a society adapting to a new age. What do you preserve? What do you jettison? What is changeable, and where must you draw the line? The questions are always the same, and the way we answer them determines the quality of the adaptation, of the book, the poem, or of our own lives.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2009/feb/28/salman-rushdie-novels-film-adaptations