Dr Salwa Gouda The Nile River: A Literary Lifeline Through Time
The Nile River, a meandering lifeline that carves through Africa’s deserts, has long transcended its role as a geographical marvel in Arabic literature. It stands as a symbol of life, a silent witness to history, and a mirror reflecting the soul of a civilization. From ancient hymns to contemporary novels, the Nile has carried the hopes, struggles, and dreams of countless generations. My own bond with the river runs deep, as I spent my early years in a family home perched on its banks. Back then, the Nile flowed with a tranquil grace, not only in its journey from south to north but also in the hearts and veins of the Egyptians who revere it. It has long been a cradle of civilization, a muse for poets, and a testament to nature’s enduring generosity. For millennia, its waters have nurtured cultures, inspired mythologies, and sustained ecosystems, creating a tapestry of human and natural grandeur that remains unmatched. This editorial delves into the river’s evolving portrayal across Arabic literary traditions, revealing how it has both shaped and been shaped by the cultural and political tides of the region.
In ancient Egyptian poetry, the Nile was often depicted as a divine gift, embodying the gods’ benevolence and the pharaohs’ might. The river was not merely a source of water but a sacred entity that sustained life and symbolized the cyclical nature of existence. In the Hymn to the Nile, attributed to Pharaoh Akhenaten, the river is celebrated as a source of fertility and abundance:
“Oh Nile, you rise in the heavens, And your waters flow to the sea. You bring forth the lotus flowers, And the fish swim in your streams.”
Dr Salwa Gouda
This hymn captures the reverence ancient Egyptians held for the Nile, viewing it as a celestial force that connected the earthly realm to the divine. The river’s annual flooding, which deposited rich silt onto its banks, was seen as a manifestation of the gods’ favor, ensuring bountiful harvests and prosperity. The Nile was not just a physical entity but a spiritual one, deeply intertwined with the identity and survival of civilization.
The ancient Egyptians also personified the Nile as a god, Hapi, who was believed to control its waters. Hapi was often depicted as a figure with a potbelly, symbolizing abundance, and carrying offerings of food and water. This personification underscores the Nile’s centrality to Egyptian life, not just as a natural resource but as a divine presence that demanded reverence and gratitude.
Early Egyptian poets, influenced by Pharaonic reverence, wove the river into their verses as a sacred blessing. With the advent of Islam, the Nile’s symbolism deepened. The Abbasid poet Al-Mutanabbi, during his visit to Egypt in the 10th century, immortalized it as a manifestation of cosmic justice:
“Egypt—a land where all good flows, Its Nile runs with the essence of justice.”
Also, the river’s literary presence flourished during the Islamic Golden Age. The Andalusian scholar Ibn Hazm, in his treatise The Dove’s Neckring, likened the Nile’s constancy to enduring love. Travel writers like Ibn Battuta marveled at its role in sustaining Cairo’s vibrant markets and intellectual hubs. In chivalric romances, such as The Adventures of Sayf ibn Dhi Yazan, the Nile became a stage for epic quests, symbolizing both abundance and danger. Its dual nature—nurturer and destroyer— resonated in folk tales, where floods could signify divine wrath or mercy. The Nile’s duality is particularly evident in Islamic folklore, where it is often portrayed as both a giver and taker of life. In one tale, a flood is sent as punishment for human arrogance, only to recede when the people repent. This narrative reflects the river’s unpredictable nature and its role as a moral arbiter in the collective imagination.
The 19th-century Arab Renaissance reimagined the Nile as a symbol of Egyptian identity and a national icon amid colonial rules. Ahmed Shawqi, the “Prince of Poets,” blended Pharaonic pride with anti-colonial sentiment:
“The virgin Nile, ransom of ancestral land, Flows with our glories, as time itself marvels.”
Similarly, the poet Hafez Ibrahim portrayed the river as a silent ally in the struggle for independence. Prose writers like Rifāʿa al-Ṭahṭāwī linked the Nile’s fertility to Egypt’s intellectual revival, arguing that its waters nourished both fields and minds. This period marked a significant shift in the Nile’s literary portrayal. No longer just a divine or natural entity, the river became a political symbol, embodying the nation’s resistance to foreign domination and its aspirations for self-determination. The Nile was no longer just a source of life but a source of pride, a testament to Egypt’s enduring legacy and its capacity for renewal. Also, the Nile’s annual flooding, which brought nutrient-rich silt to the land, was seen as a symbol of renewal and rebirth. The poet Salah Abdel Sabour wrote:
“The Nile’s floodwaters bring us life, And the land is reborn with the coming of the rain. The river’s bounty is a gift from the gods, And we are grateful for its life-giving waters.”
The 19th century also saw the rise of travel literature, where European and Arab writers alike marveled at the Nile’s grandeur. For European travelers, the river was often exoticized, a symbol of the “mysterious East.” For Arab writers, however, it was a reminder of their heritage and a call to reclaim their narrative from colonial distortions. Following the 1952 Egyptian Revolution, the Nile emerged as a voice for the marginalized. The vernacular poetry of Abd al-Rahman al-Abnudi infused the river with a proletarian spirit, narrating the hardships of farmers:
“The Nile laughs at dawn, shouts at oppression, Waters palaces and waters the shacks.”
Further, Nobel laureate Naguib Mahfouz set his novel Miramar (1967) in an Alexandrian pension overlooking the Nile, using the river to reflect Egypt’s class divisions. The contrast between luxury hotels and fishermen’s huts along its banks underscored the nation’s social inequalities.
Moreover, Sudanese literature offers a unique perspective, capturing the Nile’s role in both unity and conflict. Tayeb Salih’s Season of Migration to the North (1966) juxtaposes the river’s serenity with postcolonial upheaval, symbolizing the tension between tradition and modernity. The Nile, in this context, becomes a metaphor for the nation’s struggle to reconcile its past with its present, to navigate the complexities of identity in a rapidly changing world. In the 21st century, the Nile’s literary identity grapples with environmental crises and globalization. Sudanese poet Al-Saddiq al-Raddi laments the river’s exploitation:
“They shackle your flow with cement and iron, But who can shackle dreams or love?”
The Nile’s journey through modern Arabic literature reveals its remarkable adaptability. From a nationalist emblem during the renaissance to a voice for the oppressed in social realism, and now a rallying cry for ecological justice, the river remains a mirror to the region’s soul. As Sudanese American poet Emtithal Mahmoud writes:
“The Nile does not forget— It carves its path through stone, A testament to what persists.”
The river’s journey through Arabic literature is a testament to its enduring resonance. It has been a divine gift, a nationalist symbol, a witness to oppression, and a casualty of modernity. Yet, its essence remains unchanged: a symbol of resilience. As Mahmoud Darwish once wrote,
“The Nile flows within us... Not above, It is the story, and the story remains.”
Darwish also wrote:
“The Nile is the artery of Egypt’s heart, And its waters flow through our veins. We are children of the Nile, And its legacy is our heritage.”
In every era, the Nile has mirrored the Arab world’s triumphs and trials, proving that literature, like the river itself, is a force of perpetual renewal. Its waters, once sung by pharaohs, now inspire tweets and treaties, ensuring that the Nile’s story flows endlessly.
Ahmed Nabawi
Ahmed Nabawi is an Egyptian poet and academic renowned for his exploration of humanitarian themes in his poetry. He embarked on his poetic journey in the early 1990s and has since published five collections: Testimony of Love, Wounds Have Tributaries, Flames of Questions, Scenes from the Refugee Camp, The Flourishment of Colors and two forthcoming works titled An Ant Said and The Doors. Beyond his poetry, Nabawi has authored several critical books, including The Poet’s Culture and the Production of Significance, The Poetics of Small Details, The Contemplative Tendency in Andalusian Poetry, and The Heritage Tributaries in Andalusian Poetry.
The Stranger
He used to think —and dreaming is a right— That he owned the world
That dreams were in his pocket
Unfolding before him the map of the world
He believed his solid will
Was stronger than any barriers or walls
He kept running, panting, from one racecourse
That stretched into another
But after his innocence faded
He realized that the vast homeland
Is not for the dreamers
The house is for the wealthy
And the sultan’s entourage And victory is for the supporters.
He gathered his dreams in his hand And set out, wandering its slopes, hope clinging to him
He searched for a land
Wide enough for his stride
And a clear sky
Where his stature could expand.
continued overleaf...
In exile
You are a stranger
So walk gently along the edges of space If they sit
Sit at the end of the gathering If they walk Walk behind things
And tread on the sides of the street Lest you wound the silence of the lights Be cautious
So you don’t collide with their flow Or the incoming one collides with you For error follows you
As you are a stranger crowding their street.
When some passersby gathered around the corpse As it oozed And bled dreams onto the asphalt—
“Who is this?”
“This is a stranger He collided with a passing car He was muttering and raving Pointing with his finger.”
In a worn-out notebook —found in the pocket of his bundle—
We found nothing after searching
No address No map No names
We found nothing but a dream and a hope A longing Wounds And a prayer.
Ashraf Aboul-Yazid
Ashraf Aboul-Yazid (1963) is an Egyptian novelist, translator and poet who has published five poetry collections. He is also a journalist in national and international institutions. His books have been translated into several languages, including English, Spanish, Persian, German, Sindhi and Russian. In addition, He won many local and international awards.
A Woman of Rain
In the desolate journey
We lean on a mountain
Hiding in its cave hearts that await revelation
Long is our wilderness
And the women hide in the clouds: We plead with prayers for rain.
I wrap myself in a face that emerges from the mirage’s pool
A wave of salt and absence overwhelms me Dancing, smiling in the palm of the scorching heat.
I dream of a woman of rain
I dry my mirage in her gardens
And she pours her oasis into the sand of my chest.
The caravan passes through imaginary gates
We draw maps on the sand, and the wind is our compass... And the cameleer never stops singing.
A song of awakening for the caravan until it moves on
A song of stumbling until it halts
A song of slumber until it sleeps.
A song for the merchant
And for the leading camel
A thousand songs and one for the prince.
continued overleaf...
With us,
A Bedouin who lost his mother at the well
Asks mountains and sorcerers about her
He wants to quench his thirst.
And an old woman selling with us
In her basket
Two withered pomegranates
Their color was red a thousand wars ago.
A vagabond dreaming of kingship
Sold his armor and horses
He remembers nothing but the name of the maiden and the shape of the palace.
A blind astrologer feels for stars in the trousers of dreams
Before a dancer who hides pimps in a checkbook...
And the caravan moves on.
And the ascetic prays devoutly:
With me is the key to the house and the mosque’s beads
So why can’t I find them?
The cameleer said:
Do not dream of a woman of rain in summer
A flock of rocs will soon take flight
So hide in the tent of the captives.
Whenever the shadow draws near Pillars of fire precede it:
The desert devours both soul and body
The merchant sold the dancer (or married her, I don’t remember)
And as the fire consumed the tent
The desert of night opened its arms to us.
Al-Bahaa Hussein
Al-Bahaa Hussein, born in 1969 in Sohag, Upper Egypt, is an acclaimed Egyptian poet and journalist. With a prolific career, he has authored 14 books and poetry collections. He holds a doctorate in Arabic literature and is an active member of Egypt’s Writers and Journalists Syndicate. His work reflects deep engagement with language, culture, and human experience.
He Speaks to His Balcony with Anguish
I said to the cross on your chest
And in your car
What passersby say to each other with a glance
When they exchange nothing but a look
That satisfies curiosity
Then each goes their own way
I said to your chest, as it jiggled over speed bumps
Everything
To your cheek
All that fingers could say to the cheek of a dying lover
But you treated death with good faith
As if it were your spoiled cat:
Oh, you impulsive woman
Who gave a single cat the three rooms of the house
The glimpse of your breasts, her entire embrace
And left me the balcony.
Every day
I ask those who pass beneath me
About a silver cross, swaying in the car’s mirror
Like a child clapping
Every time it escapes a pothole
I ask about you, the earth’s soil
The cats
All the stray dogs
You would scratch your skin and shoo away flies that didn’t exist
Whenever you saw a mangy dog gnawing at the wall
How you suffered for the dogs, as if you were one of them
As if they were “your only way to understand yourself,”
As if they were your little children.
continued overleaf...
I ask about your fifty years, why you left them as a trust in my care
Along with your white album
Perhaps you want me to wander through your sad features
To adjust your appearance in the shots you don’t like
To guard you from the wrinkles that began creeping into your pictures
Perhaps you want me to update the smile the flashes forced upon you
At the wedding party
Perhaps you wanted me to keep your children away from the edges of the frames
Fearing they might fall
Or to pour milk for your little cat, “Maryam,”
Into the empty bowl in the picture
Or maybe you want to sleep on your other side
Who knows, oh sister of my soul
What do the dead think about?
Still, the dogs bark on the balcony empty of you
To show me your desire
Dogs reveal their owners’ desires through barking
Longing reveals itself
In the wag of a tail.
How often I’ve asked about the rainbow
About the clouds colliding in the sky
Without a sound
About the single color of the dresses
In your closet
Oh, how I’ve asked about a grave worthy of your bones
A grave where we could take turns
Whenever I feel like dying
And I find nothing better than the balcony
How often I’ve asked about the rainbow
About the clouds colliding in the sky
Without a sound
About the single color of the dresses
In your closet
Oh, how I’ve asked about a grave worthy of your bones
A grave where we could take turns
Whenever I feel like dying
And I find nothing better than the balcony
Ali Al-Hazmi
Ali Al-Hazmi (born 1970) is a renowned Saudi poet who earned his bachelor’s degree in Arabic Language from Umm Al-Qura University in Mecca. His poetry has been widely published in Arab newspapers, magazines, and various specialized cultural periodicals. Al-Hazmi has actively contributed to the literary scene by participating in and enlivening numerous poetry evenings at local literary clubs, as well as at literary festivals and forums across several countries worldwide. He has authored nearly seven poetry collections, which have been translated into multiple languages, including French, English, Turkish, Romanian, German, and Spanish. Al-Hazmi’s literary excellence has been recognized with several prestigious national and international awards, including: Poetry Prize at the Uruguayan Poetry Festival (2015) The Grand International Prize at the International Poetry Nights Festival in Romania (2017)“Verbumlandi” International Poetry Prize in Italy (2017) “Best International Poet of 2018” award from the International Poetry Translation and Research Center (IPTRC) in China.
I Am Abundant in the Absence of My Loved Ones
I am with myself
Nothing is missing—I say to my solitude—
For a beloved who left and did not fully heed the broken echo
In my final string, for a dove that flew far behind its desire
And left no trace of love’s shawl floating in the horizon of its near meaning
For a gazelle that leaped over the fence’s roses and did not heed
The lump of affection that quickly grew in the palms of the spring after her Departure.
I am with myself
A meager spark of the beginning was enough for me to see
From the height of my questioning, a certain path in the fog
Neither luck grants me an answer in its glance
Nor my long passion for truth can pierce the distant meaning
With a white rose in every season.
I am with myself
I step toward my wandering dream, led by the eye of emptiness
To the wilderness of my desire, clinging to the wing of a song from the past
I ascended to a glow in the galaxies of longing, illuminating me
So I remain bound to my fate with the endings, in the shawl of absence.
I am with myself
I am the pride of wandering in the desert
I open my soul’s arms in the open expanse to embrace those I love
My slender shadow dissipated in the echo over its wounds
And no throne of temptation shook in my blood
Neither the wind disrupts my first step
Nor do the “no’s” close their high door to my obsessions.
continued overleaf...
I am with myself
Nothing overwhelms me to feel, in its absence, the emotional void and its embers
Nothing from its past resides in me to know, without it
That life, like a shout, has scattered
And that my dream is no longer enough to create spring from its gardens in the Mirage.
I am with myself
A metaphorical tree of yearning lulls my desire in the poem
To reconcile with the distant past and its people
They left me when the story exiled me into the depths of its silence
They passed through my night and did not cast peace upon my weariness
They drove the sheep of clouds from my dream to the desert in the twilight of Barrenness
But they did not realize my exile far beyond meaning and beyond my wheat
When I turned to a morning of truth without them, I saw a sun of beginning That will bloom from the hymns of absence.
I am with myself
And this memory, with all its soil, palm trees, air, and first sky, is with me
With me are the suns of my childhood, the shadows of our ancient sidra tree
The path of our old home, and the specter of those who passed by its edges
With me is my youth and my mother’s fear when I stepped far away, bidding farewell
The girl of my dreams, who tattooed the heart of the gazelle with henna in the heat of the day, is with me
With me, in all her presence, her perfumes, her audacity, and her lofty pride, she is with me
With me are those whose hopes were shattered yesterday
Who walked long toward the sidra tree of their dawn, thirsty, and did not arrive. My distant dream is with me, and the dream of my father and mother
And those whose smiles I inherited before the world’s wounds, are with me.
I am with myself
Two in meaning and in the mirror when we wake from two stolen dreams
We become one, fragmented within ourselves
Two united by an obscure bias for the resurrection of near resemblance and its opposite
We met in the lament of the oratorio, silent, distracted, and dreaming
The violin began to free memory from the past and mend the patch of sorrow
That widened over our pupils
But there is something that provokes the flute of our desire to live together
And to be more for truth than a wandering impossibility between eyelids.
Aziz Azrhai
Aziz Azrhai (born 1965) is a renowned Moroccan poet and visual artist. He has authored eight poetry collections and has showcased his artwork in numerous exhibitions both within Morocco and internationally. A prominent figure in the literary and artistic community, Azrhai is an active member of the House of Poetry in Morocco and has previously served on its executive board.
Dead Time
1
Take a deep breath
From that laughing cloud
Before it descends into the earth’s pond
Take all your caution As a form of pleasure And don’t forget to keep your knives Shining at night. Life is a machine of recklessness And your appearance suggests A rare hunt.
2
You’ve become so fluid Boneless. To this extent You can still Be the bridge. The wagons of the displaced have passed To where pain ends And you remain stretched out Under this mocking sun.
3
Give me your hand
So I can pull you from this tumor Years have passed, And you’ve been nurturing the same losses With a faithful heart. Years
And no one has tossed a handful of dirt At your corpse.
continued overleaf...
4
In a past life
You were the cloud
With more than one hole In the air
Countless winds and ships
Passed through you
Yet you kept laughing At the same bullets
With a careless nature.
5
You have the right to be a man of miracles
You also have the right To sleep in the bed of language
With all your kind mistakes In the end
You’re the one who will guide the pirates’ dreams
To the fishermen’s spoils.
6
I wish I could place your feet On a different rhythm
But you’re still frolicking
With the delight of an ostrich
In the pottery museum
Just a beast turning over the soil of the past
With a knife carefully planted In its back.
7
The blue dose of hope That you hid In a black vessel Is all your ammunition For dead time. But now you own a sugar mine And color blindness.
Essam Khalifa
Essam Khalifa (1971) is an Egyptian Canadian poet who obtained his first degree in Medicine in 1994 and his M.A. in Business Administration in 2011.He has published more than five poetry anthologies, two of them have been translated and published in Spanish, in addition to a book in the field of human resources development. He attended and participated in many poetry festivals around the world and his books have been circulated around the Arab area. He won the second position in Prince of Poet competition reward - Emirate – 2015.
The Orchid Flower
Be at ease...
Do not fear me today
They may pass by in a fleeting glance
Like a flash of lightning seen by my eyes
They do not carry the pulse of my heart in their veins
They have not shed tears in my sorrow
They have not danced upon the madness of my melodies
They have not taken root in the depths of my memory or my art.
So be at ease...
I am no longer a bird seeking refuge in flowers
That mimic their shape in every corner
The resemblance to jasmine blossoms stirs my rejection
And imitation has become my problem and my prison
How many flowers have adorned the bosom of spring when it blooms
From afar, hinting that beauty has arrived.
Yet up close...
In their monotony, beauty dies, exiled and defenseless
I scream into their mirrors and ask:
Who will revive the revolution of renewal?
Who will come to carry
In her hands the rarity of the orchid or the charm of the carnation?
I wandered in search of legends of imagination
For women who wear the attire of honesty, not pretense
For a conversation unlike what was said yesterday or the day before
For a spring that is sincere, free, and unshackled,
For flowers that do not repeat me, suffocate me, kill me, and kill.
continued overleaf...
Then I met you...
When I found the beauty of the orchid weaving From the threads of dawn a vision That makes the sunrise more beautiful Then I realized that my longed-for spring has arrived To melt the snow away from me.
Orchid flower, embrace me And rest upon my branch And wear my security in your fear And grow between me and myself
And be at ease...
No flower is like you No plant, no sprout That grew in the field of imagined irrigation Or the gardens of wishful thinking.
O girl who has pained my heart and mind In my question about the intent of the mobile phone toward me Every time I taught her not to assume That some assumptions are sins, she followed me This assumption is love, do not let me Burn from the fire of my feelings and my assumptions.
O my peace amidst my worries
O my tranquility in a noise that could not contain me
O a conversation that came as a whisper
Like a lute serenading the silence of the night
Like a flute when it hums a melody
That gathers the moons around me
Like a brush that mimics the vision of the painter about me
She traveled from his palms
And chose my color from the palette of colors.
O a feeling molded from me
O an intelligence that did not betray me
My words have faded when describing love
Be my aid in expression and singing
Be my rhyme and meter in creativity
And save me from letters that did not describe me
From seas that drowned me
From harbors that did not sail me
From meanings that were written, yet I do not know
What they will mean in the concepts of love
Flow like a flood in the desert of my embrace
Break down the walls of my fortress
And enter without my permission.
I lived my life like a train
Hating the time of my waiting
Rejecting the feeling of my cowardice
Fleeing from every patience
That might sweeten with wishful thinking, Crying out, “O my God, help me
On a path toward fire or paradise that did not quench me.”
I cannot bear patience alone, thus has my affair become. A liar is he who claims that safety lies in deliberation.
Be at ease...
They have not read my poetry before my ink touched it
They have not shone on the night of my solitude like the prayer of my dawn
They have not tasted the bitterness of my fluctuations and the exhaustion of my patience,
They have not accepted my excuse despite the sin.
So, settle
And drink from the water of my feelings and be content
Here I have housed my heart
Here I have entrusted my secret
Here I will live from my cradle to my grave
So be still and reside in the warmth of my chest
Be at ease...
I am no longer a bee that quenches its honey from the nectar of flowers
I am not accustomed to feeding on my rejection, and with me
Thus I have pledged my covenant
Thus has my affair become.
O tranquility of the sea, O river of silver
O girl, whenever I burdened her with a load, she replied “O beloved of my heart, from my eye and my eye.”
Do not fear or hesitate
In my land, you will not be lost
That is my compass, and that path is my path, so aim for it
And remember my words if you walk it:
That heart of mine, purify it
From the remnants of its inhabitants
Adorn it with your color taken from me
And dance in it and sing.
Fawzia Alawi Alawi
Fawzia Alawi Alawi is a Tunisian poet, novelist and essayist who has published nine poetry and short story collections, in addition to a novel entitled “Faces for One Woman” (2020). She also won several national and regional awards.
A Lost Feast
I still doubt my body
Is it mine
Or is it among the tribe’s possessions?
In pain
They push my body
To wrestle me down, and I wrestle it back.
In pleasure, they surround me
Planting reeds and thorns
So no dragonfly can reach me
Multiple parties intervene
To issue verdicts on the nature of my genes
The color of my eyes, and my kidneys—
Will they suffer aphasia
If I overindulge in pomegranate juice?
And this cursed heart of mine, why does it flutter
More than the nature of things demands?
In sickness, I curl into myself, an old cat
Alone, I melt in fever
Alone, I taste the sweat of defeat
I feel my ribs, one by one
All crooked
The curse of Adam follows me
My mad head spins with dizziness
Like the turban of the village elder
I rave from the intensity of the fever
They place lemon and salt on my head
Any pitying woman tries to heal me
continued overleaf...
They lock the door on me
No one bears the burden of my fever
Or shares in drinking my sighs
My lips, dipped in bitterness
Turn into two forgotten dry branches
On a hollow trunk
In the darkness of night
I forget the names of the stars and the daughters of the bier
A voice comes from the end of the courtyard
Surely guilty, and now purifying itself.
In dance,
The eyes of the tribe fix on my waist...
My cursed, trembling chest
My arms turn into the wings of a dove
Just freed from a hunter’s trap.
An old woman scowls at the daughters of Eve
As she dances within herself
Tall youth
Drawing my waist on the trunk of a mulberry tree
My cheeks on the evening moon
My hair on the night serpent
But if I whisper to myself about a feast of love
All the sticks, pens, and glories of the tribe rise
Along with sealed papers, secret and public books
To forcibly marry me to the village mayor “Father, I don’t want him!”
My mother bites her fingers and winks
“No, she does want him, she’s just delirious.”
“Mother, my heart refuses him, and my body— Take it, let love descend on you on the night of marriage Mother, I am the one who chooses my love I am the one who dissolves in what I choose Mother, leave my body to me just once Don’t exhaust my soul
Don’t wither the peach trees in my orchards
Soon, this companion will decompose, and forgetfulness will consume it Leave it to me just once, in a season of solid joy If I die, throw it into the sea, let the fish devour it
So it becomes a fierce wave in the storms.”
Hassan Najmi
Hassan Najmi (born 1960 in Ibn Ahmed, Settat Province) is a distinguished Moroccan poet, author, and journalist. He served as the President of the Union of Writers of Morocco from 1998 to 2005 and was the former head of the House of Poetry in Morocco. Additionally, he holds the position of President at the Moroccan Center for the International PEN Club and serves as the Secretary General of the Argana Prize for Poetry. Najmi played a pivotal role in establishing the House of Poetry in Morocco in December 1995, alongside a group of fellow Moroccan poets. He was elected as its vice-president and spokesperson, contributing significantly to the promotion of poetry and literary culture in Morocco. His literary achievements have been recognized with numerous Arab and international awards, and his works have been translated into more than ten languages, reaching a global audience. Beyond his own writing, Najmi has also translated the poetic works of several renowned world poets into Arabic.
Now we see you
To Asiya Alwadie, the last of mothers
Suddenly—you have moved to another dwelling
On the left bank of the night
The mirror no longer reflects your face
Are there black mirrors that reflect faces?
Your face that gazed into the clouds of estrangement
The face of innocence, translucent as a beam of light
You who touched the wall of the guards
So that every wounded soul, limping through the earth, could lean on it
How many times I saw the little birds quench their thirst from your palm!
And now I see your final body fluttering like a glimmer
And from the abundance of love and orphanhood you stored—
The tribes divided your heart
And because you preferred the shade, we seldom saw your white hands
And here you are, dying so that we may see you.
continued overleaf...
© Hassan Najmi
Take me
Take me to the nearest night I want the windows, delayed by insomnia, not to see me
Take me to war (there must be some war in the corners). I want to be an unknown soldier Cloaked in failure, gifted with the inability to find solutions
Take me to the slightest madness
To experience absence
Perhaps it is closer to me than my sobriety!
I left my identification papers in the realm of reason I stretch my fingers to my face to touch the mask of the unknown I am the other who stumbles in my steps at the shadows of the fence And in the dead words I walk, afraid to step on the shadow of the person I once was. Take me to my absence Take me to myself How often has my other face become more radiant than my own!
Photograph by Mark Ulyseas.
©Mark Ulyseas
Ibrahim Abdel Meguid
Ibrahim Abdel Meguid is a renowned contemporary Egyptian novelist and writer, born in 1946 in Alexandria. He has authored numerous novels, short stories, and critical works, celebrated for their artistic and social depth, as well as their exploration of diverse human and national themes. Among his many accolades are the Naguib Mahfouz Medal for Literature, presented by the American University in Cairo; the Egyptian State Appreciation Award in Literature; the Katara Prize for Arabic Novel in the Published Novels category for his work “Adagio” in 2015; and the prestigious Nile Prize in 2022. His works have been translated into multiple languages, solidifying his reputation as one of the leading figures who have significantly enriched modern Arabic literature.
The Road and the River
“He does not know if the river he sees on his right is the Nile or a small branch of the river that suddenly appeared in this place. But as happens every time, he continues driving his car, knowing that he will return to the same spot he has returned to now, and he will feel the same unease...
Why does a person often rush into making a mistake at the very moment they think about what is right and realize it? This is what happens to him every time he visits his friend who lives in ‘Al-Matariyyah.’ As soon as he leaves his house and thinks about returning to ‘Imbaba,’ cutting through Cairo from the middle, he deviates and takes a long detour around Cairo, taking the long and fast Corniche Road. At this point, he discovers that he cannot finish it, as he passes under this low tunnel to go over this small bridge, only to return shortly to the same tunnel...”
“He crosses it to see the same bridge... No one meets him on the road to stop and ask, no traffic police, the time is past midnight, the weather is cold. His young son, who always accompanies him, is asleep on the adjacent seat. A calm, decisive certainty seeps into his soul that he will spend the rest of his life lost on this road. He stops the car near the river, which he does not know if it is the Nile or a new branch that suddenly emerged. He left the car and headed towards the water to look. He saw white smoke above the water and distant lights on the other shore, familiar lights, he knows them but does not know how to reach them. And he saw nearby a person approaching, a person who was sitting on a stone near the water, wrapped in darkness and fog. A moment of confusion, but the person advanced further and appeared to be a young man smiling gently, and his smile increased as he got closer... continued overleaf...
-Good evening.
-Good evening. Please, can you tell me how to get from here to Imbaba? The young man smiled and said:”
-”There is no transportation now.”
-”I have a car.”
The young man hesitated for a moment and said: -”I will ride with you; I am going there.”
They left the shore and headed to the car. His young son was asleep in the front seat, and this young man would sit behind him. What would happen if he killed him? It would be very easy to stab him from behind, but he couldn’t get rid of the young man. They got in, and silence rode with them.
He drove slowly, unable to stop glancing at the rearview mirror, which he had adjusted to reveal the young man behind him. He found the road easy after that, although he couldn’t quite understand how the young man had guided him out of the hellish spot he had been circling. He now sees the Imbaba Bridge, and a sense of security spreads through his soul.
Like someone returning home after a long period of being lost, he crossed the bridge happily. But when he looked to his left to see the rising mist over the wide Nile River, he saw only the dark, black land. He shook his head to dispel any possible illusions, but he heard a faint laugh coming...”
“From behind him, he looked in the mirror and found the young man laughing, his eyes strangely wide and his face elongated into lines. He was also surprised by the end of the bridge and that he had entered a long road surrounded by endless sand. On both sides and directly in front of him were tall trees that he couldn’t reach, but they seemed to jump in front of him, chasing him. His son started screaming in fear of wild animals he saw, but he himself didn’t see them. He had no choice but to shout at the boy to be quiet, and he quieted down, shrinking in his seat. In the mirror, he saw the young man’s face elongating and heard his laughter growing louder. He tried to stop the car, but it wouldn’t stop. He tried to turn it, but it wouldn’t turn. He began to jump in his seat, his jumps matching the speed of the trees in front of him, which seemed with each jump to be about to collide with him. His soul yearned for the light of morning, and he pleaded desperately, ‘Please...’ but all he heard were faint laughs like knives...
Maha Alautoom
Maha Alautoom is a poet and academic, holding a PhD in Arabic Literature and Modern Criticism. She is a member of the Jordanian Writers Association and has authored several poetic works, including Circles of Mud (1999), Half of It is Lilac (2006), More like Her Dreams (2010), Down the River (2013), and Upper Rooms (2019). In recognition of her contributions, she was honored with the Jordanian State Appreciation Award in 2017.
Tears of Women
The tears that The oyster gathered
In its depths
One tear
Two tears
Three Became a pearl And the women who wore tears
Danced in the dance floor
The light of the oyster inflamed
Their bodies
And the sorrow of the oyster sobbed
Over the fingers
They listen to the wave within them
Sometimes a sea flows from the living body
And sometimes the women return to the sea:
When they return
As they were: Water And salt And light And sorrow
To gather their blueness
And the distant oyster sheds them
And at night,
At the end of the night
They hide their precious tears
In boxes of dreams
They open the door of sleep to a new sea...
...
The oyster
Is the happy past
Of women.
A
poetess
passed through here
I knew And I know that path
Where I got lost And I still walk it and lose my way I pass through it at night Alone
I forget the bullets that Pierced sleep I forget the winter That turns lovers Into prophets or poets And I remember only the letters of the alphabet.
I will draw a line pointing to the house
My house is speech
In which I lived like its trees
I entertain myself and rise And the noon sun drowsed within it And I slept on its doorstep
Like a swing
My house will become my speech And it will empty when I die And strangers will inhabit it.
I will draw two lines
Between which life passes
Like a river
A thin thread of water
In which I gather pebbles And it becomes a path
For a poetess who passed through here: The pebbles are my footsteps And those lines on the water What remains of me
And of my words.
Photograph by Mark Ulyseas.
©Mark Ulyseas
Mostafa Abada
Mostafa Ebada (born 1965) is an acclaimed Egyptian journalist, poet, essayist, and literary critic. He currently serves as the Deputy Editor-in-Chief of Al-Ahram Al Arabi Magazine and holds the position of cultural advisor for several prominent Egyptian publishing houses, including The Egyptian Lebanese House, Al-Mahrousa Center, and Dar Batana. With a prolific career spanning multiple creative fields, Ebada has authored over 10 books encompassing poetry collections, cultural studies, and literary critiques, solidifying his reputation as a versatile and influential figure in contemporary Arabic literature.
Secret Poems
1
Instead of closing the door and crying I wander through forgotten alleys and lanes
And I always come across a lonely café
Where two or three people sit: A sad husband, a cleaner, and his friend
When silence breaks at the sight of a stranger
Memories pour over us
The husband hums along to Najat the singer : “And in the middle of the road, we stopped and bid farewell, my heart.”
The cleaner complains with pleasure and dreams: “I sweep everything, and sorrow sweeps me.”
And I, along with the friend who bears a scar Await the mermaid
Struggling to hold back tears.
I always chatter with strangers
Instead of closing the door and crying.
continued overleaf...
2
I envy the rooftops of houses. I love them even if they’re disorganized
Spacious and crowded
Holding remnants of people
Traces of souls and scents
They fear neither the sun nor the rain
They give the air meaning And lovers fleeting pleasures
Safe even for scorpions
They reject no one and nothing Everything remains as it is Until the whole house collapses
Then the place returns to its original state Forever open to the sun, the air And the whims of Adam I contemplate the rooftops and sing Instead of closing the door and crying.
3
All this filth—
The beautiful, easy, defiant ones
And the ugly ones who treated me
As if they were the beauty queens of the earth
Waiting for my gratitude for every touch
And I am grateful anyway
I never stop being grateful
Despite my history filled with mistakes and disappointments
I have flaws that rank me among the angels
A drop of blood falls from my nose in the evening
And I cry in my sleep
Until I wake up clean
My limbs tremble in the morning
Rejoicing at a new chapter of filth
I’ve fought many battles and won
I curse myself in secret
And chatter with any passerby
Instead of closing the door and crying.
Rasha Abada
Rasha Abada is an Egyptian writer and journalist who has published six literary books. She won first place in the short story category at the Central Competition of the Cultural Palaces in 2019 for her collection What the Poor Did to the Miserable. Her articles have been published in numerous magazines and newspapers.
The Marvelous Creatures of Nothingness
Dear Arthur, I hope you’re doing well there. I just wish your soul has found enough peace in the sudden departure from this occupied world. The “Tik tokers” have indeed taken over our planet; I almost hit our foolish neighbor, Umm Harry, with a slipper on her face as she flaunted the rapid details of their invasion on her phone screen, mockingly calling me a “cavewoman” and claiming I’m not living in the real world!
The TikTokers, my dear, are not extraterrestrial beings, nor are they merely the offspring of evil gangs birthed by Earth in its great sin with Mercury. They don’t live in those parallel worlds we read about as kids in the series of “The Future File and The Impossible Man.” They don’t bother searching for a specific world; instead, they seep and sneak through intertwined curves between worlds. They wrap their arms around Venus’s waist, stretch their legs to Neptune, lounge on Mars, and sleep on Jupiter. They defecate on Earth and urinate on Saturn. They resemble the alien creatures from sci-fi movies—a shiny human-like exterior of makeup and blowouts, with white blood tinged with orange inside, and three split tongues in their mouths.
They are as soft as egg yolk and as sticky as egg white, yet they are not easy to cook. They are, in essence, the remnants of what the “Takeaway Society” consumed and then vomited back onto us and those who brought us into this world.
What if, my dear, you discovered that the meatballs you love, made by my hands, are nothing but acidic gastric secretions, recycled with breadcrumbs to resemble meatballs? The TikTokers do just that—they turn syrup into fermented fish, and the fermented fish into something even more foul. continued overleaf...
At the tenth glance of observing them, they appear as members of an irregularly rotating association, where the longest tongue and the thickest skin win. In this association, “information” is passed around like a basketball among teammates; the tallest player knows when to pass the ball to a shorter player, when to nudge them to retrieve it, and when to smile and hand it over willingly. In the short journey of exchanging information—be it money, fame, the thrill of humiliation, women, or traps for grooms—you’ll find “Nothingness” with gel in its hair, mocking in a short video another “Nothingness” that calls itself the Fourth Pyramid of Egypt. Then, another “Nothingness,” puffed up with arrogance, scolds them, trying to soothe the wounds, only for “Nothingness with a Rifle” to erupt in everyone’s face, making a sound through its nose while uttering nonsense. Soon, hundreds of “Nothings” appear to weigh in on the “Nothing” that caused nothing to happen!
As for us, my dear, we are the spectators, who think we stand atop seven thousand years of civilization, looking down on them with disdain as they multiply around us, among us, and within us. We question their identity, then toss our phones away, feeling superior and transcendent, thanking God for sparing us from the affliction of these seemingly alive creatures.
How foolish we are, my dear. The “TikTokers” invasion is inevitable. It wouldn’t be surprising if you suddenly opened the door to find your thirteen-year-old sister, dancing to the song “My Lover’s Chest is a Bathroom Floor” in front of thousands of followers—some hating, some mocking, some cursing, some loving, some cheering, and some devoted. And perhaps tomorrow we’ll wake up to find that we are nothing but cowardly bullies, hiding in the caves of the past. I read you a story by Yusuf Idris, and you praise Naguib Mahfouz, the Nobel laureate, while I hide my opinion for the millionth time that Idris deserved it more. Just as I hum to you, “Send him my regards,” you sip your dawn coffee and reply, “Give me the flute and sing.”
At night, you try to convince me that the magical realism of Al-Makhzanji is of a special kind, while I tempt you to read me the passages from “The Mischievous Boy’s Diaries” that make me laugh. Then, as usual, you disagree with me about the supremacy of the novel, while I remain convinced that short stories better showcase a writer’s talent and abilities. You argue with me about the extent of science’s conviction in faith according to Mustafa Mahmoud, so I ask you about the impact of faith on what we do not know and may never know, and you fall silent, ready to respond tomorrow.
All this while your mother, the coquettish in her room, posts her third video in two hours, explaining to the followers of “Nothingness” how the god of emptiness suffered from emptiness, so he played in the mud and created the marvelous creatures of TikTok to fill the earth with absurdity and madness...
And nothingness... nothingness at all!
Sherif Kandil
Sherif Kandil (born 1960) is an acclaimed Egyptian journalist and a distinguished member of both the British and Egyptian Journalists Syndicates. Renowned for his exceptional work in journalism, he was honored with the Arab Journalism Award for Best Journalistic Interviews. Beyond his journalistic achievements, Kandil is also a prolific author, having penned several notable books, including: On the Chairs of Tyrants, Evidence of Beauty in the Travel Notebook, A Letter to My Grandson Zain, Shadow, Departure, and the Nile, The Story of a Boy in the Gardens of Letters. Through his writings and interviews, Kandil has made significant contributions to Arab journalism and literature, earning a reputation for his insightful perspectives and eloquent storytelling.
There are two palm trees, one of which resides in the heart!
Inside our home stands a palm tree that is now taller than me and my older siblings... My father passed away while it stood tall, offering solace, and my mother passed away while it wept... Perhaps its tears were for the beauty of its tenderness, patience, and grace! In front of that large palm tree, about ten meters to the south, stands our smaller palm tree. The difference between them is that the first is perhaps the only one in Egypt that stands inside a modern house in the architectural sense, while the second stands outside! Because of this, we have always treated the large palm tree with great affection and even greater respect. No one would pick up a stone or a brick to throw at it, as children often do when they crave a date or two neither from inside the house nor from outside! Moreover, none of us ever attempted to climb it using the internal staircase of the house to the second floor, then stand on the wall it leans against, and complete the rest of the task to reach the cluster filled with dates!
The palm tree, with its roots deep in the annals of history, leans against the wall of the house, yet we have never seen or heard of any cracks or fissures, nor have we ever felt any danger to us or the house, no matter how strong the winds! On the contrary, it distributes its dense fronds during the rain, so that only a little falls on the floor of the area it occupies in the “stairwell” adjacent to the kitchen!
I had learned to climb palm trees, practiced it, and done it with the small palm tree, which is no longer small. It surprised us and grew to about thirty meters tall, yet it never became arrogant or haughty. Its fronds continued to cast pollen toward the large palm tree! I would feel ashamed and think a thousand times before declaring my preference for the dates of the small palm tree over the large one, especially when wasps swarm around it, turning it into dates! And my mother never ceased to talk about the beauty and taste of the dates from the large palm tree, which fell from it and land willingly on the marble path leading to the kitchen.
continued overleaf...
My mother’s talk about the large palm tree reminded me of my teacher Abdel Fattah El-Gamal’s words when he declared that nothing in a palm tree goes to waste. It knows no futility; it has made its cheek a step for people, its heart a source of food and drink, its body a shelter, clothing, passage, fuel, and warmth, its extremities tools and ornaments adorned with the shade of decorations from its day illuminated by brilliant light, and its fronds a refuge, rituals, shade, song, and a protective veil!
Now, whenever the topic of rebuilding our large house comes up, I am overwhelmed by confusion and anxiety for our large palm tree. How will the architect or builder deal with it?! We learned from it and with it the meaning of generosity, kindness, and beauty, even before we stepped into the expanse of life! As we grew a little older, we learned through it the value of the palm frond and young palms. It quenches the heart of the traveler among us and revives with us the beloved who returns... It bends in sorrow for the departure of our mother and father, and leans to express joy, delight, and happiness with every newborn!
The palm tree, which has become a living entity in our lives, taught us the meaning of ascent, without it being on the shoulders of others! And that on your path upward, you must remain humble, exercise caution, and after completing your task on the ground, you must avoid falling into pits! Imagination and the beauty of visual images thought and mental movement, majestic existence, polished fronds, joy in expression, and deliberation in what you say and what you do not say!
In truth, because of my proximity to them, even though they are in our house and not on the Nile shore, I almost heard what the wind says to the palms! Our large palm tree bends during a storm, leaning tenderly against the wall, absorbing its sorrow, shielding us from its fear, and hiding it in the sound of its fronds! Meanwhile, the small palm tree stands to reflect the morning sunlight on the faces of the girls and boys, and at night, it becomes a balcony for the moon and the stars that never sleep! Childhood memories reside in the heart of its dates, the secrets of our home in the heart of its core, the breeze of our longing in its blossoms, and our allegiance to truth and pride in its formation... Glory to the One who placed it in our home and made it rise, soar, and retain its love for us! A rising frond and a beautiful imprint, and dates that no seller has ever bought or sold!
I began to contemplate the beauty of our small palm tree, which used to carry me and my big dreams to a higher horizon, so I would climb and fly as if I were holding the birds of paradise! And when I turned to its big sister, I remembered how it was and still is, refusing to play on ropes, hating “fas” (splitting) and all “half-half” solutions! It is the large palm tree in everything... the warmth of familiarity, the abundance of joy, and a beauty I have never seen the likes of!
artist Emma Barone
