Mobile dialogues
This year's book fair provides for a variety of not exclusively literary pursuits, finds Youssef Rakha
Afternoon at the fair grounds. The chilly air, rather than generating the motivation to walk briskly to the venues in mind, instills a desire to sit quietly in an enclosed space, sipping coffee. By the main gate, opposite the Lotus Pavilion, which seems to be overtaken by some official Kuwaiti function, a series of large constructions bear the signs of popular commercial culture. Qur'anic recitations, manuals of religious conduct, mystery series aimed at adolescents, food and drink: the book fair's indubitable marks. State security guards come and go; children play; adults carry bagfulls of books and arrange little picnics on the benches.
Rather than the homely feeling the latter sight might otherwise generate it is a sense of dereliction that prevails, induced no doubt by the vast stretches of empty asphalt that wind about in every direction, overtaking the lone journalist.
With the vain promise of a gorgeous winter sunset, one covers the unreasonably long distance to the fringe tents, peeping at the schedule while doing so. On the way a group of security officers have abandoned their stationing and improvised their own picnic on a narrow stretch of grass. A group of adolescents seem to be having a fight; one of the officers calls for them to stop. At the crossroads a hefty man, bearded and intellectual looking, fiddles with his mobile phone and munches on a huge shawerma sandwich.
The time-honoured Culture Café is the site of an ongoing discussion of something called Al-Ma'kouka (Muddle), a humorous magazine by the look of it. The process is interspersed with the annual instalment of book-based seminars that, while catering to very few of the fair's regular devotees, tend to act as more or less accurate indicators of the state of literature now.
Present at the one I attend are poets Helmi Salem and Ahmed El- Shahawi (the latter also acts as coordinator), critic Mohamed Abdel- Mutteleb and poet Hind El-Qadi, whose debut collection of poems, Baqeyet Dhell (Remains of a Shadow), is under discussion. Both male poets have commended El-Qadi's work, with El-Shahawi contending that, rather than her first, the collection reads like the author's 10th book. El-Qadi herself seems remarkably composed, restricting her contribution to a brief reading towards the end of the seminar. Lighting a cigarette, she listens to Abdel-Mutteleb's extended commentary, whispering the occasional observation to one of the two poets. An experiment in the use of colloquial Arabic to produce contemporary poetry, the book proves an adequate stimulus.
What defines the whole text, Abdel-Mutteleb explains, is a pattern of repetition that emphasises the glaring heat of the sun at the expense of the possibility of cool shade. Repetition is present not simply as a literary tool but as a defining facet of the human condition. When the poet registers the routine of an old woman at a cafeteria, for example -- every day the woman walks in, sits in the same spot, orders a beer, fails to drink it, pays her bill and walks out again -- it is the future state of the self that she depicts.
The self is caught up in the stifling heat of an ever present moment and like the Sisyphus she imagines -- his tragedy, we are given to understand, is less in the obligation to bear the stone than in the endless continuation of the task -- El-Qadi's sole redemption resides in the possibility of a renewed sense of innocence, a virgin existence that would make surprise, curiosity and the desire to continue bearing the brunt of consciousness more forthcoming.
"I am like you," El-Qadi writes. "I go to sleep in the morning/ And watch people's faces/ Fighting a terrible feeling/ That I'm fed up..." The images are refreshing even as their relevance is broad, El-Qadi says, testifying to an individual orientation that is nonetheless aware of the historical moment.
Boredom rears its head in the course of Abdel-Mutelleb's even more extended discussion of the language of the text. Employing "my own statistical analysis", Abdel-Mutteleb has concluded that while the poems would appear to be written in colloquial, their diction is so overwhelmingly standard (80 per cent of the words) that the book is more appropriately described as "a standard Arabic text flavoured with colloquial". The problem we are then presented with, the critic goes on to indicate, approaching the issue backwards, as it were, is the absence of syntax, the use of certain functional letters that exist in colloquial but not in standard, the omission of necessary conjunctions and several other "peculiarities"...
One's impression is that, while this approach persists in the academic dogma of refusing to recognise colloquial Arabic as a language in its own right, Abdel-Mutteleb's way of stating the painfully obvious may be benefiting an otherwise clueless public accustomed to (academic) spoon-feeding. For the present writer, however, the coziness of the tent proves increasingly stifling and the end of the seminar is a welcome development even if it means having to walk once again in the cold, through the fair's labyrinthine expanses.
A stroll through the fair's annual recreation of the Ezbekiya fence confirms the feeling of being at the heart of a popular event, Egyptian- style. There aren't as many food stalls here but the impromptu constructions, the density of the public and the booksellers' cries all impart a sense of being in the middle of a souq. Walking back and forth several times one notices that, except for the two Okaz tents (open venues where deservedly unknown poets exert themselves to recite, as loudly as possible, correspondingly uninteresting verses), none of the fringe venues have yet started.
The sky is a monotonous grey, moreover, rendering any hope of a winter sunset less viable. And when the Ibda'at Jadida (New Creations) tent resumes its activities at last -- the subject of the discussion, to be attended by Magdi Tawfiq and Salah El-Serouri, is Reda El- Arabi's collection of poetry Sallat Al-Ahlam Mali'a bil-Buka' (The Dream Basket Is Full of Weeping) -- it turns out that, of two panelists, the critic has failed to show up; a rather restrictive turn of events.
Explaining that while he could have responded in a less civil way, the poet, "for the sake of the public", of whom, sadly, there are only a handful, is content to read out of his book. In stark contrast to the work of El-Qadi, El-Arabi's work, recited in the by-now outdated rhetorical style of classic versifiers, is staunchly classical (or regressive?) in its outlook, slow-paced, self-centred in the most monotonous way.
Towards the end of the recitation -- only audience interaction could have invested the event with excitement -- the mainstream seminar on the young writer and activist Hani Labib's Christian-Muslim Dialogue: A New Vision is due to start. A breath of fresh air and a quick coffee facilitate the transition, but when one arrives at the Writers' (Taki) Pavilion, the seminar has not started. There seems to be an overabundance of children, several bearded religious zealots sit upright, seemingly intent on overtaking the proceedings. The seminar, in fact, turns out to be remarkably popular. By the time the panelists have assumed their positions in front, several people are determinedly taking seats out of an abandoned pile at the back of the auditorium and placing them in every available space.
Invited by writer Mustafa Abdel-Ghani, Labib gives a 15-minute summary of his book, a stimulating if extremely slim volume that calls for informed dialogue between Egyptian adherents of the two religions in the light of recent world developments, the agendas of Western powers neither being concerned with, nor propitious to, either party. They have too many interests in common; they are, not to put too fine a point on it, in the same boat. The first Arab casualty of 11 September, Labib points out, was Adel Karras, an Egyptian Christian, killed on 15 September.
In the course of the author's talk several interesting propositions are made: the term akhar (other), used by a Muslim to refer to a Christian or vice versa, needs to be replaced with the less laden term thani (second); similarly the Crusades are referred to as huroub al-firinja (the foreigners' wars), removing the religious connotation from a reference to what was essentially a conflict of economic and political interests; the concept of "a new vision" is essential for understanding what is implied by the dialogue being called for, which takes for granted a number of assumptions about mutual tolerance and respect, rejecting the notion that Christians of the East might act as mediators between Muslims and the West.
The state to which such a dialogue aspires, moreover, is not one of "shared life" but of "one life", since in the vast majority of cases, including, perhaps most importantly, their position as political agents vis-à-vis post-11 September agendas of the West, Muslims and Christians are indistinguishable.
Commentaries by Gamal El-Banna (senior writer and member of the Muslim Brothers), Esam El-Eryan, physician and writer, and Ramzi Zuqluma, member of the Wafd Party, highlighted issues in Labib's argument, indicating both strong and weak points. While El-Banna rejected the term "dialogue", preferring the more obvious compulsion to liqa' (encounter), El-Eryan pointed out that the latter could not be conducted on a large enough scale or with sufficient success without the former. And while El-Banna emphasised tolerance and understanding, telling ancient tales gleaned from the holy books and Prophet Mohamed's life, El- Eryan adopted a more inclusive perspective, taking into account Labib's most interesting argument: that, regardless of the humane principles that might inform such a dialogue, it is politically necessary for confronting the West's agenda for demonising Arabs and achieving political and economic hegemony regardless of the interests of others.
Zuqluma assumed a more critical stance, recounting anecdotes and promising to mercilessly critique Labib if he does not pursue the project he outlines in the current volume. When he finished, there was not enough time for audience interaction. Outside the sun had set. Nothing gorgeous to be had.
