Summer 2012
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Edited by Barrak Alzaid
Contemporary Literature in Translation Series ArteEast is a leading international arts organization presenting work by contemporary artists from the Middle East, North Africa, and the diaspora. Founded in 2003 as a New York based not-for-profit organization, ArteEast supports and promotes artists by raising awareness of their most significant and groundbreaking work and by bringing this work to the widest possible audience. We do this through public events, art exhibitions, film screenings, international touring programs, a dynamic virtual gallery, and a resource-rich website. Partnering with some of the most prestigious cultural institutions around the world — such as The Museum of Modern Art, Tate Modern, and the Sharjah Art Foundation — ArteEast’s film, visual arts, and literary programs reach thousands of new audiences each year. 2
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Excerpts from Sahar Mandour’s 32 Translated by Rayya Badran 3
Table of Contents
From the Translator
In December of 2011, I sat down for a
her friends’ lives, and her difficulty writing
Translator’s Remarks 5
morning coffee with Sahar Mandour to
about the city and the complex politics of
What’s My Name? 9
talk about 32 and Beirut. Our patchy
daily life. All this without needing to call out
Reading Cleopatra 19
conversation began with evoking the
for a title that might expectedly read like: A
About the Contributors 26
difficulty of writing about Beirut and the
day in the life of contemporary Beirutis.
writer’s own struggle of approaching the city,
The debate on writing about a particular
more specifically Ras Beirut, in a unique way,
conflict-torn environment in fiction is a
in a way that breaks away from locality by
long one. Inscribing the pains and joys of
bringing the reader into an all encompassing
quotidian life is an overarching theme in 32
world. The novel follows a frieze of daily
and the impetus behind a long self-reflexive
events, intermingled between past, present
journey that feels endless and exhausting
and future; images and sounds that inhabit
yet inevitably satisfying in its necessity
the author’s imaginary, not far removed
to be evoked and evacuated. The trap of
from the violence that lurks behind anything
falling into the narrowing of space and
and anyone. Mandour paints textures and
locality to paint places we already know,
atmosphere rather than portraits, types
already ridden with references; fixed places,
and architecture. She manages to deliver,
already open and perpetually renewed
without effacing a sense of locality and
for stories to populate is easy to fall into.
belonging, a sincere account of her own life,
It cannot perhaps be entirely dodged but
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the author never lets on that you might not
generation to be evoked. Just as Ras Beirut
effort from/with the characters that Beirut] but everything else,” which explains
know it already, she sheds light on these
is unique in its relative freedom from social
participate in it; the author unpacks blurbs why, in an effort to summarize her novel to
constraints as if they were obvious, before
norms, there is something fleeting in the
of feedback, critiques, her characters prospective readers, she writes on the back
you even want to question her about them,
sensation of suffocation one feels in Beirut.
eschewing stories and replies as they saw cover of the book that the events unfolding
and indeed you won’t need to. Her Ras
This tension is quite evident in 32 because
them, as they saw Mandour. Even as these in the novel are really just about the practice
Beirut is young; lawless in its seclusion from
it also exists sonically in its interpretation of
characters’ traits and uniqueness intrigue of living in Beirut, day and night. A practice,
hegemonic neighborhoods and quarters.
transformation, destruction, celebration and
they remain blurred not because they are yes, an endless exercise that requires a
Beirut isn’t a backdrop for her characters to
death. All are an accumulation of things that
stereotypical or need to belong to a certain constant undoing of what we already know
occupy, nor is it the center around which the
we cannot express, that we cannot absorb
community, but because their texture and in order to survive the city’s fluctuations.
novel is written. There is no realist imagery
either intellectually or affectively. These
tones are visibly different from predictable
and yet the city is not a mere backdrop. It
things take time to sink in, the immediacy
protagonists; they have different needs,
is never the subject of physical change but
of reaction pinned at our throats, never
they are unabashedly sarcastic and dark in
the generation that now inhabits it has and
fully articulated because it is perpetually
their humor and irony, unwilling to succumb
will continue to change.
outraged. We could become voiceless if we
to the image their readers will want to
were to respond or react to everything and
identify with. There is control from every
As our morning conversation progressed,
anything that shapes or moves the city. She
part as if to consolidate plural efforts in not
the author spoke of a deep-seated
says that there is no room for sublimation of
falling into the trap of ‘recognizability’, as if
anxiety that compelled her to write, an
a time that hasn’t been told yet.
to say: “No. This isn’t what we are. You might think it is.” The two excerpts translated here
acknowledgement that both her life and
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that of her contemporaries’ exist but
Mandour’s novel seems to operate on the
lend insight into the ethos of the novel. Each
scarcely in writing. The weight of that
opposite extreme of Marguerite Duras’s
unpacks, to a different degree, the author’s
anxiety is pulled further down by the feeling
Ecrire, where the author reflects on the
internal conflict and outer struggle to write
of responsibility vis-à-vis the depiction of
necessary isolation for the solitary effort
about her environment.
Beirut. Always wary of failing to represent,
that writing, and only writing, can be
resorting to hyper-individualized story-
exigent of. It transforms places, houses and
By the end of the conversation, she said,
making that commands this urgency and
sanctuaries, while 32 evolves with its plot
by way of sheer obviousness: “Boredom is
allows voices of a politically alienated
not as interior monologue but a collective
out of the question. There is no boredom [in
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ما إسمي؟
اسمك؟. سامانتا فوكس. أقع عن الكريس. عىل خ ّدي، وبكامل قوته،يلقي بكفه اسمك؟. فاتن حاممة. إىل الخلف، والكريس، فأقع. مبارشة إىل أنفي،ً يو ّجه لكمة عنيفة جدا اسمك؟. أم كلثوم.ً ثالثا، مرتني، مرة. حذاؤه يخرتق معديت. أقع.كف عىل خدي ّ اسمك؟. كارولينا هرييرا. أسمع قنبل ًة تدوي يف أعامقي،أشعر باهتزا ٍز يف كل أنحايئ اسمك؟. دايفيد شارل سمحون باإلضافة إىل، وال أسمع منها إال صوتاً خشناً يسألني عن اسمي،ًيخرج من الغرفة التي ال أرى فيها شيئا .الضجيج الصادر عن رضيب . ال بعنف وال بهدوء، وال سمعت صوت إقفال الباب، وال رأيته هو،مل أر باباً يخرج منه أو أعاق دماغي عن تنفيذ أوامر عقيل إىل، كأنه سلبني إراديت. وال أفعل،أحاول أن أفكر بفعل يشء ما .جسمي ماذا أفعل؟ وملاذا أنا هنا؟ 8
What’s My Name? - Your name? -Samantha Fox. He slaps me, as hard as he could muster. I fall off the chair. -Your name? -Faten Hamama. He punches me really hard, aiming at my nose. I fall and the chair is strewn behind me. -Your name? -Oum Koulthoum. A slap on my cheek. I fall. He slams his shoe into my stomach. Once, twice, three times. -Your name? -Carolina Herrera. I feel my inner parts trembling. I hear a bomb detonate in the depths of my body. -Your name? -David Charles Samhoun He leaves the room from which I could see nothing; from which I could only hear a raucous voice asking me my name as well as the noise made by the beating. I didn’t see him exit through a door, I didn’t see him at all nor did I hear a door shut, neither violently nor calmly. I try to think about doing something, but I don’t, as if he stripped my will away from me or prevented my brain from giving orders to my body. What do I do? Why am here?
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أعاين فقط سيل الدماء من. علامً بأين ال أعاين أملا ناتجا من الرضب،سأستمر قليالً بالحال التي تأرسين . كونه يعيق تنفيس،أنفي إىل أسفل وجهي .سأنتظر أين هن؟ هل يحتجز زيزي وزم ّرد وشويكار يف غرف منفصلة؟ حالهن كحايل؟،ترى ومن قال إن األمل ال يختبئ خلف. وبنت بالتايل مبعزل عن األمل،رمبا أعطته كل منهن اسمها الحقيقي يعجزن عن اإلجابة عنه؟،سؤال آخر . ال أعرف..ال أعرف ملاذا ال أعطيه اسمي؟،وأنا . أقرأ اسمي. أتناوله منها. حقيبتي إذا ً معي. وهو يف حقيبتي،ير ّن هاتفي الخلوي .” “أنا: أتاه الجواب.” “مني؟: فسأل،أتصل بنفيس؟ أتذكر نكتة الحشاش الذي سمع قرعاً عىل بابه .” “أنا؟:ً مستغربا،فتساءل .هيي هيي .أنا ما اسمك؟. أنا وأنا؟. أنت إذا ً؟، نحن اثنان. وواحدنا يرضب اآلخر، نعم ملاذا؟. قبلها، ألين رفضت أن أعطيك اسمي وملاذا؟. نسيت اسمي... ألين أين؟ أين ماذا؟ أين نسيته؟-
I’ll remain in my state of captivity for a while seeing that I’m not in pain from the beating. There is only blood streaming down my face, preventing me from breathing properly. I’ll wait. Where are they? Is he keeping Zizi, Zamarrad and Shwikar in a different room? Are they in the same state as I’m in? Maybe each one gave out her real name and was therefore spared the pain. Who says that pain can’t lurk behind another question that they can’t answer? I don’t know, I don’t know. And why didn’t I give him my real name? My cell phone rings, it’s in my handbag, which confirms that it was with me. I snatch it from her. I read my name. I’m calling myself? At this point I remember a joke where a pothead hears his doorbell ringing: “Who is it?” He asks. “It’s me,” the other replies. He retorts: “Me?” Hihi. Me. -What’s your name? -Me -And mine? -You -Is it the two of us then? -Yes, and one is hitting the other. -Why? -Because I refused to give you my name before that -Why is that? -Because…I forgot my name. -Where? -Where what? -Where did you forget it?
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. يف صحوي ومن قال إنك غافية اآلن؟. تسلسل األحداث. وهكذا، هي تقع فجأة، ال تسلسل لألحداث. هناك تسلسل تتبعه األحداث كلها.ً هذا الكالم ليس منطقيا يا أنا؟، وإىل أين يفيض هذا التسلسل. أنا أمتنى الهرب، أنت ترضبني وأنا. إىل هنا! تريدين أن تهريب مني؟. بالطبع! فأنت ترضبني إىل أين تهربني؟. أنا محاطة بالرضب.ً ورضباً مربحا،ً أجد فيه سؤاالً جديدا، فكلام أتخيل مكاناً أقصده. ال أعرف ألنك اعتدت عىل رضيب؟، فتبقني هنا! هذه هي املرة األوىل التي ترضبني فيها هل نسيت ذلك أيضاً؟.. لطاملا رضبتك، ال. نعم وتضعني رضيب لك خارج سياق الرضب،ً تختلقني لنفسك عذرا ً جديدا، يف كل مرة أرضبك. مل تنس، ال.اليومي فأنرصف أنا إليجاد من كل وا ٍد سبب؟، وبال سبب،ً تقصد أنك ترضبني دامئا. مظبوط مظبوط والّ أل؟ عفوا ً؟. هذه عبارة ترددها كوكو... وسأرضبكن رضباً مربحاً حتى. وهن مليك. أنت مليك. لكنها ليست مليك.ً أنا أرضبها أيضا. كوكو، آه-
-While I was awake -Who says you’re sleeping now? -Series of events -There is no sequence of events. It appears suddenly, just like that. -This doesn’t make any sense. There’s a sequence to all events. -Where does this sequence lead to, Me? -Here. You’re beating me up and I…I want to escape. -You want to escape from me?! -Of course! You’re beating me up! -Where are you escaping? -I don’t know. Each time I imagine a place I want to go to a new question pops up and a severe pounding. Beating surrounds me. -So you stay here, because you’re used to my beating? -But this is the first time you beat me up! -No, for as long as I’m beating you up… Did you forget this too? -Yes -No, you didn’t forget. Every time I beat you up, you make up a new excuse for yourself, and you place my beating you outside of the daily beating context. -Do you mean that you always hit me for no reason and I try digging up any reason I can find for it? -Exactly. -Am I right? -Pardon? -Coco always says this expression -Oh! Coco. I hit her too. But she’s not mine. You’re mine and they’re mine and I’ll give you all a mean beating until…
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(بعد لحظة صمت) حتى ماذا؟ ماذا تريدنا أن نفعل؟ . ال أكرث،ً أريد أن أرضبكم وأرضبكن جميعا. ال يشء لكن ملاذا؟. ألين أحب الرضب. هذه حجة واهية! أوهى حتى من تسلسل األحداث. ومامرسة الرضب كرياضة، ال أحد يحب العيش يف خطر. أظن أنها حجة. كالمك مقنع.ً حسنا... وهناك. وهناك من ميارسونه لقناعتهم بجدواه. ألسبابهم الخاصة، هناك من يحبون ذلك، بىل هل تؤيدين حكم اإلعدام؟. كال ملاذا؟ أال تشتهني رؤيتي أتدىل من حبل؟ أنا أؤمن. يؤملني عنقي، وكلام سمعت عن حكم بالشنق، كلام صدفت عملية شنق يف فيلم أو حقيقة أظن أن مشكلة الحرب األهلية يف لبنان. وال يعالجه،بتلك النظرية التي تقول بأن العنف ينتج العنف .تشبه الشنق تتفلسفني؟. نعم وال يروق يل التفكري، ألنه جذري ورسيع، ويروق يل العنف كأسلوب للتخاطب، أنا رسيع االستهالك. ألين سأرضبك يف كل األحوال،يل ّ فأرجو منك أال تتفلسفي ع.بهدوء فأنا أشعر بأن هناك شبهاً بني الشنق والحرب األهلية.يل عناء البحث عن أفكار ّ شكرا ً ألنك وفّرت ع. لكني أعجز عن إيجاد التوصيف املناسب لهذا الشبه، وتحديدا ً مع نهايتها،اللبنانية ملاذا ال تريدين تذكّر اسمك؟، أخربيني، طيب. ال أعرف.ً فكّري قليال. أنت تكره التفكري. لكني أحب اإلجابات. سأفكر.ً حسنا-
(After a moment of silence) Until what? What do you want us to do? -Nothing. I want to beat you all up, nothing more. -But why? -Because I like to hit people. -That’s a flimsy excuse! Flimsier than the sequence of events. -Fine. You convinced me. I think it’s a pretext. No one likes to live in danger or practice hitting as a sport. -Yes, well, there are people who like it for their own reasons. There are also those who practice it because they’re convinced it’s useful. And there are… -Do you support capital punishment? -No. -Why not? Don’t you relish the sight of me hanging from a rope? -Every time I watch a hanging on film or in real life or any time I hear of a hanging, my neck hurts. I believe in the notion that violence results in violence, it won’t solve it. I think the problem of the civil war in Lebanon resembles the act of hanging. -Are you trying to be a wiseass? -Yes -I’m an avid consumer. I like violence as form of communication because it’s pragmatic and quick. I don’t like to think in the midst of calm. So please, quit being a wiseass because I’m going to hit you anyway. -Thank you, because you spared me the trouble of looking for ideas. I feel there’s a parallel to be made between hanging and the civil war, specifically with the way it ended, but I can’t find the proper means to describe it. -All right, tell me, why don’t you want to remember your name? -I don’t know -Think a little -You hate thinking. -But I like answers -Okay, I’ll think
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... ... ما هي النتيجة؟.ً يكفي تفكريا ولن،ً فلن يخرب أحد عني شيئا، فلو بقيت بال اسم. أظن أين نسيت اسمي ألين ال أريد لنفيس قصة.أنوجد . بدليل أين أرضبك، لكنك موجودة، تخرج بال باب، يف غرفة مظلمة ال تعتاد العني ظالمها، أصالً؟ صوت خشن بال وجه، هل أنت موجود! وليس لديك أي سبب لطرح األسئلة، وترضب ألجلها، وتطلب إجابات، وتسأل،وتعود بال سبب أنا. الظالم ال تعتاده العني ألن عينيك مصابتان بالعمى. وهو جميل، من قال لك ذلك؟ لدي وجه. أنا مج ّرد وسيط، أما األسئلة فهي التي تحتاج إىل أجوبة. قبل أن تستيقظي من الخدر،عميتك . مل أصب بالعمى ألين متكنت من قراءة اسمي عىل هاتفي ما اسمك؟. أنا وأنا؟-
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-… -… -Ok enough thinking. What’s the verdict? -I think I forgot my name because I didn’t want a story for myself. If I didn’t have a name, nobody could say anything about me. I wouldn’t exist. -But you do exist; the proof is my beating you. -Are you there anyway? A raucous voice without a face, in a room so dark that your eyes can’t adjust to its obscurity, you get out without a door, come back for no reason, you ask and demand answers, you beat me up for it and there’s absolutely no reason for us to ask questions! -Who told you that? I do have a face and it’s beautiful. You can’t see in the dark because you’re blind. I blinded you before you could wake up from your numb state. As for the questions, they need answers. I’m just the mediator. The interface. -I’m not blind because I could read my name on the phone. -What’s your name? -Me -And mine?
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قراءة كليوباترا
: فقلت،دأت رسد قصتي .أي منكم ّ فلم أكتب عن،بدأت رسد قصتي ماذا لو مل ترق لزم ّرد وجهة. خفت من كل قصة أرسدها. لكني خفت،حاولت أن أكتب عني وعنكم تجلس يف قعر النصف الفارغ،ً أحيانا،نظري يف الرسد؟ أو زيزي؟ ماذا لو كرهت شويكار قويل عنها أنها وتقفل رأسها عىل جسمها؟ ماذا لو مل تكن تعرف، وتغلق أبواب اإلمكانيات كلها من حولها،من الكوب أن إحباطها املوسمي هذا يتكرر؟ ماذا لو كرهتني لقويل ذلك عنها؟ . لو سمحنت، أريد أن أكمل كالمي. ال أريد إجابات رسيعة،ال ، كلام رشعت تروي يل قصة خاصة،ماذا عن كوكو؟ منذ أخربتها بأين سأوردها يف قصتي وهي تحرص وأنا لن أكتب اسمها، كوكو ال تقرأ العربية حتى. وعدم ذكر ذاك،عىل أن تطلب مني عدم ذكر هذا ً وبني ما تراه عاما، وهي تعتني بتحديد الخط الفاصل بني ما تعتربه خاصاً فغري صالح للنرش،الحقيقي .فترتك يل فيه خيار النرش . وبيديها الورد، مل أخربها حتى بأين أكتب قصة ستمر هي بني صفحاتها..تانت نادية .رمبا أبالغ فنادية التي متر يف قصتي بالتأكيد ليست نادية التي مت ّر. وناقشتها مع نفيس،طرحت فرضية املبالغة ولن أعرفها، تلك األخرية ستبقى ملكها. وليس قصتها مع نفسها، سأخرب قصتي معها، وكوكو.يف الشارع .رسيته ّ وسألتزم طبعاً بكل ما تطلب مني أن ألتزم ب.ًيوما
Reading Cleopatra I started telling my story and I said: -I started writing my story so I didn’t write about any of you. I tried writing about you and about me, but I got scared. Every story I told scared me. What if Zamarrad didn’t like my perspective on narrative? Or Zizi? What if Shwikar hates it that I say that she often sits at the bottom of the half empty glass, and shuts the door on all the opportunities around her, and by turn obsesses over her body? What if she didn’t know that her seasonal depression repeats itself? What if she hates me for considering the different reasons why she is depressed as seasonal? No, no I don’t want any quick answers. I want to finish what I’m saying, if you please. What about Coco? Ever since I told her I was going to include her in my story, she insists whenever she felt that she was telling me a personal story - on asking me not mention this or that. Coco doesn’t even read Arabic and I won’t write her real name, she takes great care in drawing the line between what she deems personal, therefore un-publishable and what she considers to be public, therefore giving me the choice to publish it. Auntie Nadia…I didn’t even tell her that I was writing a story in which she will appear, roses in hand. Perhaps I’m exaggerating. I put forward the hypothesis of exaggeration and discussed it with myself. The Nadia who appears in story isn’t the Nadia who appears on the street. And as for Coco, I won’t tell her story but my story with her. Her story will remain hers alone and it will remain unbeknownst to me.
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. أما أننت فعجزت أمامكن،فرضت عىل نفيس االقتناع بهذا املخرج مع كوكو وتانت نادية فمشكلة الرقابة تكمن بيني وبني. لن أكتب،حتى ولو سمعت منكن ما يفيد بأين ح ّرة يف كتابة ما أشاء .نفيس .عدت وب ّيضتها ّ ،ووجدت نفيس صباح أمس أمام ورقة كلام اسودت . وجدت املخرج، ليل أمس،لكني .املخرج هو الخيال
I’m also committed to whatever she asks me to keep secret of course. I thus forced myself to be
. ويبقيكن أصدقاء القصة،الخيال ينأى يب بعيداً عن تفاصيلكن . ثم نحيك، إقرأوا هذه الصفحات،اآلن !خي ّ “ !ًوأخريا .لقد وصلتني منها رسالة .”...يل صديقة تقطن يف باريس . وأنتظر، أمأل الكؤوس التي فرغت، آيت بزجاجة النبيذ من ال ّرباد،أتوجه إىل املطبخ :ألقي نظرة ألحدد الصفحة التي يقرأنها مبارشة من الكومبيوتر .“وذهبت حياة إىل باريس .”كان ذلك منذ ثالث سنوات أغسل يدي. بشكل أدق، فضائحهم. أطيل بقايئ فيه برفقة مجلة تروي أخبار الفنانني.أدخل إىل الحامم : وأقرأ، أقرتب، أجدهن متس ّمرات أمام الشاشة املضاءة،وأعود إىل الصالون .» ما أدراين أنا بقرار شبيه ألق ّيمه؟.ً رأته حال، من حيث تقف. هي احتاجته، مل يصبها املوت،“بالنهاية . وأنتظر،أجلس إىل كنبتي . وأواجه آراءهن،كلامت قليلة .” إىل اللقاء. ال تبيك.“أحبك ويستقمن، يسندن ظهورهن إىل ظهر الكنبة.ً زم ّرد تتأخر قليال.ينتهني من القراءة تقريباً يف وقت واحد . بنت كأنهن جسم واحد.يف جلساتهن
The way out is imagination.
persuaded by this exit strategy with regard to Coco and Auntie Nadia, but when it came to you, I blocked. Even if you had told me that I was a free to write whatever I wanted, I wouldn’t because the problem of censorship lies between me and myself. I found myself in front of a blank paper yesterday morning, every time it blackened with words, I’d erase it and start again. But I found a way out last night. Imagination distances me from your details and it keeps you the friends within the story. Now read these pages and we’ll talk. “Oof! Finally! I got a letter from her. I have a friend who lives in Paris…” I head to the kitchen, take a bottle of wine out of the fridge, fill the glasses that have been emptied, and wait. I take a peek to see which page they’re reading from directly off of the computer: “And Hayat went to Paris. That was years ago” I go to the bathroom. I prolong my staying there with a magazine that publishes artists’ news. Their scandals, to be more precise. I wash my hands and go back to the living room where I find them reading in front of the lit screen; I come closer, and read: “In the end, death did not befall her, she needed it. From where she stood, she saw it as solution. What do I know about a decision like that to judge it?” I sit on my couch and wait. A few more words and I’ll be faced with their opinions. “I love you. Don’t cry. Goodbye.” They finish reading almost at the same time. Zamarrad is a little late. They rest their backs against the couch and sit up as if they were all part of one body.
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. أنتظر، ال أستعجل الكالم،ًال أقول شيئا . أظافرها، باهتامم شديد، أما زم ّرد فرتاقب. ترتشف شويكار النبيذ.تشعل زيزي سيجارة .كأنهن محبطات أو مرتبكات؟ . الصمت يخنقني.سأفرض عليهن الكالم شو؟. سمة غامضة عىل وجه شويكار. ه ّزة رأس بال معنى من زيزي.ابتسامة من زم ّرد إىل هذه الدرجة؟.يتفقن عىل االبتسام . وأشغّل التلفزيون، أتناول الرميوت كونرتول، أخفي حنقي وإحراجي،أصمت بدوري .أراهن من طرف عيني يتبادلن النظرات املعبرّ ة : وتقول، تطفئ التلفزيون. وتسحب الرميوت من يدي،متد زم ّرد يدها إيل ّ . ال أكرث،نحن متفاجئاتمباذا؟ خاصة. لكنها كئيبة، عن جد حلوة كتري، حلوة.ً أنا وجدت أن القصة حزينة جدا:سأتكلم عن نفيس فكّرت أنك مشيت يف.يل وعليك وعلينا جميعنا ّ ع،ًوأين كنت أتوقع من القصة أن تضحكني كثريا ألن الروايات التي أقرأها، أحببت فكرة الحياة اليومية أكرث.املرشوع الذي أخربتنا عنه يف السيارة عادي! كام أين أحببت أن أجدنا.. ألنه، وددت لو أقرأ العادي.تتناول عاد ًة تجارب استثنائية يف الحياة وكنت أثق متاماً بأين لن أكون «أنا» يف. لكنها تلتقط شيئاً ما فينا، بأسامء ليست لنا، تبقى لنا،يف قصة أنا متغرية متبدلة تشبهني. أو حتى كام تحتاجني تطورات القصة، وإمنا «أنا» كام ترينني أنت،القصة قصة. تخليّ عنها، لو أن الكتابة عنا تربكك، لكن. أظن أننا كلنا نعرف ذلك. أنا أعرف ذلك.وال تشبهني انتبهت وأنا أقرأ أين اشتقت لباريس! ال أصدق أنهم.. إيه.. األنرتبول وفلسطني وباريس.حياة حلوة
I don’t say a thing; I don’t rush into talking, and wait. Zizi lights a cigarette, Shwikar sips wine and Zamarrad stares, with great attention, at her nails. As if they’re depressed. Or disconcerted? I’ll force them to talk. This silence is suffocating me. -Well? A smile from Zamarrad. A meaningless headshake from Zizi. A mysterious trait on Shwikar’s face. -That bad? They settle on smiling. I stay silent, I hide my frustration and embarrassment so I take the remote control and turn the television on. I can see them sharing expressive looks from the corner of my eye. Zamarrad reaches her hand out to me, takes the remote control from my hand and turns off the television, she says: -We’re just surprised that’s all. -About what? -I’ll speak for myself: I found the story really sad. It’s beautiful, really beautiful, but it’s depressing especially since I was expecting the story to make me laugh a lot, about me, you, all of us. I thought you had taken on the project you talked about in the car. I liked the idea of daily life much more, because the novels that I read deal with exceptional life experiences. I wanted to read about the ordinary, because…it’s ordinary! I also liked that we were part of a story that will stays ours, but with names that aren’t and yet the story would still capture something that is within us. I also trusted the fact that I wasn’t going to be me in the story, but that it was about how you see me, or even what the developments of the story needs of me. I’m variable, interchangeable; it resembles me yet it doesn’t. I know that. I think we all do. But if writing about us perplexes you then give it up. Hayat’s story is beautiful. Interpol, Palestine and Paris…Yeah… While I was reading, it struck me how much I had missed Paris! I can’t believe
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ما هي آراؤكام ؟.. املهم.رفضوا منحي الفيزا ال، بس. أعرف أن صعوب ًة ما قد تكمن يف الكتابة عن األصدقاء. أنا رأيي من رأيك..(زيزي) إيه ! ولن أتوقع منك أن تجدي يف شخصيتي ما يؤذيني.تعتيل ه ّمنا! نحن بالغات ونتحمل مسؤولياتنا ِ ،ً طبعا، أو يك ّبلك،نصك .امض يف ما ترتاحني إىل كتابته ّ إن كان البحث يف شخصيتي سيؤذي،لكن . أوافق زيزي الرأي، وبالتأكيد. مثلام قالت زم ّرد، صح كئيبة. حلوة قصة حياة..(شويكار) حلو . تح ّمست، إيه. مل أخف منها. راقت يل الفكرة. ألقرأ شخصيتي يف عينيك، يف السابق،وقد تح ّمست . حلوة.. أقصد حزينة.لكن قصة حياة مهضومة ) (صمت...)(أنا !(زيزي) ملاذا تصمتني؟ أنت تكرهني الصمت ) (أبتسم...)(أنا ! ما تزعيل.(شويكار) زعلت؟ زعلت ) (أه ّز رأيس نفياً لوجود زعل...)(أنا !(زيزي) كليوبرتاااااااااااااااا! قويل شيئاً ما )! غبار أبيض تحت الكنبة هناك.. (أثبت نظري عىل أرض بيتي...)(أنا . نرحل،(زم ّرد) إذا استمررت يف الصمت )أبدل جلستي إيحاء ببدء الكالم ّ ثم، (أه ّز رأيس رفضاً لهذا الكالم...)(أنا أبطالها هم، وإمنا منذ قررت أن أكتب قصة، لكنه بالتأكيد مل يصبني باألمس،ال أعرف ما الذي أصابني .أبطال حيايت . وليس حيواتكن،أظن أن املشكلة تكمن يف الكتابة عن حيايت أنا فأنا أحتاج. أنزعج بدالً من أن أتحرر، كلام تقول واحدة منكن يل أنها تود قراءة نفسها يف عيني،واآلن .هروب مربر من حيايت إىل ٍ .) فعىل وجهي تبدو معامل التتامت،(صمت ال يقاطعه أحد . ثم أحجم عن كتابته،أتخيل ما أود كتابته ع ّنا .املشكلة يف حياتنا
they refused my visa. Anyway… what are your thoughts? Zizi: Yeah… I agree with you. I know that it’s difficult to write about friends but don’t worry abut us! We’re grown ups and we can take responsibility for ourselves. I don’t expect you to find something in my personality that could hurt me! But if researching my personality will compromise your text or unnerves you, just write whatever makes you feel comfortable. Shwikar: It’s beautiful…Hayat’s story is very beautiful. Like Zamarrad just said, it’s true that it’s depressing. And of course, I agree with Zizi. I also got enthusiastic earlier about reading my personality through your eyes. I liked the idea. I wasn’t afraid of it. Yeah, I got excited. But Hayat’s story is amazing. I mean sad…Beautiful. Silence Zizi: Why are you silent? You hate silence! I smile Shwikar: Are you upset? She’s upset. Don’t be upset! Me: I shake my head denying of any upset feeling Zizi: Cleopatraaaaaaaaa! Say something! Me… (I stare at the floor in my house…there’s white dust under that couch over there!) Zamarrad: If you’re going to keep quiet, we’re leaving. Me: (I shake my head in refusal to her leaving, so I change my seating position in preparation to talk). -I don’t know what came over me but it certainly didn’t just appear overnight, but ever since I started writing a story, its protagonists were the protagonists in my life. I think the problem lies in writing about my life, and not yours. And now every time I hear one of you telling me that she would like to read herself through my eyes, it bothers me instead of liberating me. I need a justified escape from my life. (A moment of silence that none of them interrupt for my face shows signs of continuations) I imagine what I want to write about us, and then I refrain from doing so. The problem is our lives.
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About the Contributors
Sahar Mandour (Author) was born in 1977 in Beirut to a Lebanese mother and an Egyptian father. She studied psychology at Saint Joseph University in Lebanon. She has been working as a journalist and has been an editor and journalist at Assafir Newspaper since 1998. Her work as a journalist focuses on subjects related to culture, youth issues, human rights and the arts. Many of her articles have been featured in translation in the French weekly Courier International. Mandour also edits Sawt w Soura, a daily media monitoring page, Shabab, a weekly youth supplement and Mihalliyyat, a local non-political news spread for Assafir. Mandours is the author of several novels including 32 (Dar Al Adab Publishers, Beirut, 2010), Hobb Beiruti (A Beiruti Love) (Dar Al Adab Publishers, 2009) and Sa’arsom Najma Aala Jabeen Vienna (I’ll Draw a Star On Vienna’s Forehead) (La Cedetheque and Dar Al-Shorouq Publishers, 2007). Her highly acclaimed novels have been met with positive critical reviews and both 32 and Hobb Beiruti were best selling novels at the Beirut International Arab Book Fair.
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Rayya Badran (Translator) is a writer based in Beirut. Her first publication Radiophonic Voice(s) was published by Ashkal Alwan during Homeworks 5 in 2010. She earned her MA in Aural and Visual Cultures from Goldsmiths College in 2008. Her writing primarily focuses on the intersections between art, music and sound.
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ABOUT SHAHADAT Shahadat is a quarterly online series designed to provide a platform for short-form writing and experimentation in writing by young and underexposed writers from the MENA region (Middle East and North Africa). The series features stories, vignettes, reflections, and chronicles in translation and the original language of Arabic, Farsi, Turkish, or Kurdish. It makes up one quarter of ArteEast’s online programming, the AE Quarterly. For past issues of Shahadat click here.
SPECIAL THANKS TO: Alex Ortiz Rayya El Zein James Rogers-Gahan
ABOUT THIS SERIES Shahadat is proud to run two alternating series, and releases four issues a year. The issue you’ve just perused is part of the “Contemporary Literature in Translation” series which presents contemporary authors in Works are presented in their original language and in translation.. Our other series, “Exploring Popular Literature” challenges traditional understandings of “literature” emerging from the Middle East and North Africa by presenting genres of creative production that rely on words and language but which have not typically been studied as literature. In each issue, we gather texts from a spectrum of writers to challenge the singular status of the artist/author and to encourage a more complex presentation of the Middle Eastern and North African “street” for English-speaking audiences.
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