Trans-Journal

بعضٌ مما كان ويكون...

2011-12-01T12:20:00.001-08:00

الرجال على السطح يصنعون الحروب ويقيمون الحواجز بين الدول. والنساء تحت الأرض يحفرن الجسور لتتصل البلدان ببعضها وتنتقل المؤونة. بعض الحروب التي يصنعها الرجال، تفضي إلى مستقبلٍ مشرق. والجسور تحت الأرضية التي حفرتها النسوة كفعلٍ معاكس للموت أحيانًا تفضي إلى انهياراتٍ على السطح. ما يهمّني هنا، أن عددَ النساء لن يزيد فقط لكي يتزوج كل رجلٍ بأربع، ولكنه سيبقى كبيرًا لأن العالم بحاجةٍ لأن يتذكر محاولة الحياة، ومحاولة التسامي الإنساني، حتى لو كان ذلك خلال النزول عميقًا في باطن الطين!ـ

...

الدُّبّ الذي وراء السياج، والطفل الذي وراء السياج:ـ

أيهما يراقب الآخر؟

وأيهما يرى أكثر؟

...

في حين أننا نظن بأننا نعيب على "الآخر" غياب منطقيته، وفعله الخاطئ، نكون نعيب عليه "أخرويته" واختلاف مخرجات منطقه عنا. هذه الإعابة غالبًا ما تعبر عن صغر السن أو محدودية التجربة. ففي الحالتين ثمة استنادٍ إلى رأس واحدٍ وتعميم نتائجه على أنها المنطق المُطلق. مع الوقت، أو مع التجربة، أو كلاهما معًا، نجرب حالات عديدة من المنطق، ونسمع مبررات الآخرين تجاه أفعالهم، بما يسمح لأن نفهم أن منطقهم ليس غائبًا ولكنه يحمل معادلة حياتية مختلفة. بمعنى آخر: أن المنطق هو الآلة الحاسبة البشرية المشتركة، في حين تختلف المدخلات والمخرجات.ـ

...

الدين الذي نستدل بجزئياته الصغيرة من أفواه محوّطة بالشَّعر، هل يا ترى كان سيختلف لو أنه نُقِل عن خطّ طويلٍ من النساء؟ هل كان بعد هذه الأعوام الطوييييلة من الناقل والمنقول عنه والناقل والمنقول والناقل والمنقول سيبدو بهذه اللاعدالة للمرأة، وشبيهًا بإصبع كبييير يقول: افعلي ولا تفعلي؟

...

عندما يتنكر الرجل امرأة، فيلجأ إلى أحمر شفاه شديد، وعيار ثقيل من الكحل. عندما يبالغ في مضادة الذكورة، بالتطرف في إظهار الأنوثة. وعندما يغسل عرقه المذكر بزجاجة عطر نسائية كاملة. النتائج الفادحة لهذا الافتعال تكرر نفسها عندما تتنكر كتابةُ رجل بالتأنيث.ـ

2006

البعير السارح

2011-11-15T17:50:00.001-08:00

صباح السبت ذهبت إلى حجرة أبي لطلب المصروف، لكنه لم يكن موجودا. منذ أن عدنا من البرّ يوم الأربعاء وأبي ليس على فراشه في الصباح. لقد مر يومان كاملان، وأبي ليس له أثر في البيت. عندما دق بوق حافلة المدرسة، شعرت أن قلبي ليس في مكانه الصحيح.

في الحافلة نهرتني زوج السائق لأني لم أشترِ عباءة بعد. أخبرتها أن أبي لم يصحبني إلى السوق لأشتري عباءة، وأنه منعني من ارتداء عباءة أمي لأن عباءة الأموات تجلب الحظ السيء. قالت زوج السائق أنها لن تدعني أركب الحافلة دون عباءة بعد اليوم. جلست في مقعدي وأنا أفكر في هذه الورطة.

في البرّ سألني أبي عما قد يحصل لو أننا لم نتحرك؟ لو أننا جلسنا على الرمل وانتظرنا. قلت له أننا سنتجمد من البرد. اعترض بأننا سندفأ من جديد حينما تخرج الشمس. ذكرته بما حصل لأمي عندما تشمست في البرّ المرة الماضية، وتقشر جلدها. نظر والدي إلى الأرض ولا أدري هل كان الليل، أو مخاوفي، ما قلب عينيه إلى حفرتين مظلمتين.

في المدرسة طلبت مني الوكيلة أن أنتظر في مكتبها، حتى تصعد الطوابير إلى الفصول. اتجهت إلى مكتبها وأنا أقضم أظافري يقينا بأنها هي السبب في عقابي اليوم. في مكتب الوكيلة انتبهت إلى أني أرتدي حذائي اللامع، والوكيلة تكره الأحذية اللامعة. كان يجب علي أن أجهز اعتذارا لا يجعل الوكيلة تتصل بأبي، لكن رأسي كان خفيفا ويوشك على الطيران. أقفلت المكتب من الداخل، وألصقت رأسي بالأرض.

في البرّ قال لي أبي أنه ولد دون أن يختار. لم يسأله أحد إن كن يرغب أن يكون إنسانا أو حيوانا. في طفولته كان يتمنى أن يكون ضبًّا. لكنه كبر على ذلك، و يريد أن يصبح بعيرا سارحا. يمكنك الآن أن تختاري، ابتسم بفرح مفاجئ. من الآن، يمكنك أن تصبحي أي حيوان تشائين. عاودني الخوف، ودخل البرد إلى عظامي. شعرت بأن الليل يجلس على صدري. قلت لأبي أني أخاف من الحيوانات، وأريد فقط أن أعود إلى البيت. اختفت الابتسامة من وجه أبي، وغرس ذراعيه في الرمل. أجاب بصوت مبحوح أن البيت هو المكان الذي يخرج منه الإنسان ويعود إليه.

استيقظتُ ويد الوكيلة تتحسس جبيني. سارعتُ إلى الجلوس. رأيتُ مفتاح المكتب معلقا على رقبتها. تشممتْ الوكيلة ملابسي وسألتني عن آخر مرة رأيت فيها أبي. قلتُ لها أني آسفة على إغلاق الباب. مسحتْ على شعري وأخبرتني أن عمتي قادمة من المطار لتأخذني. اعتذرتُ لها عن ارتداء حذاء لامع. وضعتْ يدها على فمها. قلتُ لها أني سأقص أظافري حال عودتي إلى البيت. ضمتني إلى صدرها. وعدتُها بأنه لو لم يصحبني أبي إلى السوق، سأرتدي عباءة أمي.

أحسستُ بقلب الوكيلة يدق على صدري. بأنفاسها تتكاثف على عنقي. بشعرها يظلل رأسي. بأن قلبي يتحرك، ويضخ الماء في عيني.

المسرح الآخر

2011-11-15T17:46:00.001-08:00

توقفتْ عن العزف فجأة ونزلت من المسرح. الرجل الذي يعبث بأنفه، المرأة التي تعدل حمّالتها، الحارس الذي يراقب ساعته، المراهق الذي يفرغ غاز بطنه، كلهم تجمدوا بينما هِيَ تشق طريقها عبر المدرج باتجاه باب الخروج. الضوء الذي انكشف على مقاعدهم فجأة شغلهم عن سؤالها: لماذا توقفتْ عن العزف، ولماذا اختارت أن تعبر بـ مقاعدهم بدلا عن الكواليس. الأم التي لاحظت أن ابنتها تسحب منديلا من تحت إبطها وتشمه ضربتها على رأسها، والعازفة التي وصلت إلى المخرج لوحتْ بيديها تودع جمهورًا كان يشاهد للمرة الأولى ما كانت تشاهده لأعوام.

Not my Friend

2008-06-20T18:06:00.000-07:00

If I met me, one day

in the workplace

the street

or a party

I wouldn't want to be friends

we are saved from befriending

such complicated creatures

by being them.

A Teacher So Rare!

2008-06-11T15:52:00.000-07:00

Thesis defense was fab! In short, it was like getting valuable time and attention from three intellectuals, one calling in from Florida. I was not well informed about defenses or what happens in them, part of it because I always avoid the type of "knowing" that forms an "expectation". No thanx to my wild imagination, expectation more often than not sets me up for disappointment.

The great part of thesis defense was when the committe kicked me into the hall and shut the door. Confused and wonderous, they suddenly reappeared and approached me with beaming faces. One after another they shook my hands congratulating me on success. Time stood still. While an imaginary director hid behind one of the doors. I wanted so bad to shout at him, "dude, the audience is totally not gonna to swallow this!"

I was purring, tightly wrapping myself in white feather coat and licking my cheeks from generous remains of vanilla ice-cream. But life does seem to go wild one way or the other, doesn't it? As if professor Charles Deemer did not do enough by me, converting me from novel-writing to screenwriting, starting me on the right track and providing me with strong training in the craft, following me closely in the process of writing and rewriting my first feature, he suggested that the screenplay is in fact marketable! He then followed me through the actual marketing process, up until I received emails of interest from a couple of producers and insured that I send out my first package ever according to standard!

http://cdeemer2007.blogspot.com/2008/06/end-game-mine.html

You can hardly ever find teachers like him now a days. Ones that are excited for their students just as they are for themselves. Ones who teach the craft because they believe in the craft. Those to which learning is breathing and teaching a matter of circulating the air...

How can we ever thank them if not by excelling as well as "paying it forward"?

Letting Go

2008-05-27T00:40:00.000-07:00

Never completed a lengthy piece, thus never experienced the post-delivery symptoms of a project to which I've been attached for so long. Last night, as I submitted my 96 page thesis/screenplay I felt incredibly depressed. Maybe I am anxious as to what the thesis defense committee will say on June 6th, but I think it mostly has to do with letting go of a child right after birth... Hormonal imbalance!

Tomorrow I'll be part of a reading night, haven't done such things in a LONG TIME.

باردٌ يا حبيبي؟

2008-05-24T01:00:00.000-07:00

بردك ليس كسائر

برد المدينة

كعكعة الثلج فوق الرصيف

هاربةٌ كما أنت يا روحَ هذي الأصابعُ

لست تذوب سوى في حناني

انزل قليلا..

(هنا، في اليمين.)

(تريد الشمال؟)

(ماذا؟ معًا؟ـ)

كفى وجسًا..!ـ

تنزززل عنيفًا

قرقعة الثلج عند النوافذ

ليست كـ بردك

يجعلها قبةً للصلاة:ـ

(هذي اليدين)

وينزل بي فأذوب

Pulling up da Sleeves!

2008-05-11T20:57:00.000-07:00

Got the critique back yesterday. Sharpening my fingers while waiting for the week to start. Monday, will drop E at school and off to Ava. Library and Ava cafe have been great pals throughout my thesis. Ava, with the strongly aromatic espresso that lasts in my skin up until I shower, has been especially tactful in setting my head in the right mood!

Gotta mail script to advisor on May 16, to committee on May 20, Student Reading on May 27, thesis defense on June 6. Lots of dates to keep track of.

Fade Out

2008-05-06T17:11:00.000-07:00

Just sent off the first completed draft to prf. After his critique, will start the re-write process. I can't believe I just wrote my first "FADE OUT" ever!
It is a day to celebrate, but why do I feel disoriented all of a sudden?

عواء

2008-05-06T04:15:00.000-07:00

أيها الذئبة في دمي

ريثما أسلب النابَ

فمي

اعوي قليلا

لا أضمن نفسي وإياك معًا

اعوي عسى أستل أنيابي

تباعًا

الغيم أحمر

والبدر أبطأ

ودم الذئبة يشتاق إلى الدم.

Struggling with an End

2008-05-01T01:18:00.000-07:00

I HATE ENDINGS. I HATE ENDINGS. I HATE ENDINGS. I HATE ENDINGS. I HATE ENDINGS. I HATE ENGDINGS. I HATE ENDINGS. I HATE ENDINGS. I HATE ENDINGS. SO WOULD SOMEONE FINISH OFF THE DMANED SCRIPT FOR ME?

حبة..حبة

2008-04-26T01:49:00.000-07:00

أصادق..حبة حبة

أنجب..حبة حبة

أحب..حبة حبة

البشر يدخلون إلى حياتي بالحبة. لا أعرف الجملة. الجملة شاقة على طبيعتي المتحفظة جدا تجاه الآخرين..

قوليلي يا سماء إنت كنتِ ستسرقين مني بنظام الحبة أيضًا. قوليلي مبكرًا، لعلي أغير خططي..

فأتبنى نظام الجملة من الآن.

I Can't Breathe

2008-04-25T14:39:00.000-07:00

I'm totally cross today. But of course, I cannot explain it to anybody but myself: that I can't breathe. I haven't been able to breathe since yesterday. Why the only proof of it would be to die. So I await in silence...

In the Beginning was the Blah

2008-04-25T01:39:00.000-07:00

At the end of Act II. That's about page 70. The character is supposed to be sloping to the lowest of the low. Loss coming at it from out and with in. No complaints. Perfectly correlates with my mood. It took me a while to step out of the blah-state and write. I thought of it this way: do not escape the sadness, infect your characters with it. I did. I got the father into a coma :(
Now I won't revise until the prf responds back. He has that esteem boost quality that won't make me re-read my script feeling that it is a bunch of abstract incidents...

Stuck at 50!

2008-04-12T00:04:00.000-07:00

I just hate the number 50 now. Since I've arrived there with my script, I can't seem to move forward, or at least, can't seem to find the old passion for knowing what will happen next.
Maybe the characters are boring me because they're already bored and need to be taken somewhere really exciting.
Blah.
Enough with that.
I should probably quit on the excuses and bore the characters some more until they come up with their own escape plan!
Yeah!!
How about that?

The Piano Teacher

2008-03-31T01:31:00.000-07:00

If only I could get Isabelle Huppert's stare out of my head! Though brilliantly acted and directed, The Piano Teacher is very disturbing. What else could you say about scenes of sniffing tissues from the garbage of an adult store, playing classical piano, hardcore porn, teaching classical piano, urinating and bleeding for pleasure-occurring in abrupt sequences- creaing the possibility of romance no sooner than choking it!

Ah, the Places they Go!

2008-03-19T14:36:00.000-07:00

Though I wanted him to be a good guy, Talal went to the extreme and was taken to jail for it. These are times when I don’t know whether to step in and change things, or to wait the situation out.

After this twist, I planned on taking Talal out of the picture completely, but Prf. thought we’ve gone a long way with Talal befriending Reem, the main character, and that he makes an intriguing guy. My only option if I still want him to be there, is to tone down the scene where Talal commits a biggie.

Maybe it’s a chance for me to play around the cliché of a “bad character”, and definalize the line of “no way back”. Maybe Reem shouldn’t drop Talal after finding out his truth. Do we really drop people in real life? And do people easily yield to their “ill will”?

The Child

2008-03-17T14:42:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I watched The Child. Second movie in a row to get me thinking about dialogue in my script. I hate it when characters have to "talk about things". I like it when characters look like they want to f****g talk!

That was The Child case. Lines delievered throughout the entire thing, would hardly fill up quarter a page...

Thou Shall not Kill a Poem

2008-03-11T23:29:00.000-07:00

In the odd moment, chosen out of all others, a poem is born. Why now: not yesterday, or tomorrow? Why does it die when it does: somewhere in the middle, or at a decent moment when it fulfills its destiny?

Humans and poetry are conceived and born in the odd moments, the moments chosen out of all others. They each come to and out of mysterious cycles. Why wouldn’t we, then, say a poem has a soul?!

History: a Novel

2008-03-10T21:24:00.000-07:00

6th Journal

First to catch my attention was the “I” that pops up occasionally in History: a Novel. For instance, the narrator says “as far as I know” (27), “I don’t know Calabria well” (28), despite the novel being delivered in third person point of view. Who is the narrator? What is the use of saying “I know”, “I see”, if it comes only occasionally and without deliberate consistency? These questions remain unanswered even as I reach page 380. Dominant narrators who seem to show off their knowledge of all characters and what goes on in their life are phony in my opinion, more so in a novel which extends to three generations and brings in unrelated characters.

Second to catch my attention was how invested Elsa Morante is, in psychological sketch and analysis of her characters. She does a wonderful job with that, and remains consistent especially with Ida and Nora.

Nora is introduced as a character with depression. “A little later, she would remember these scenes of hers as a frightful dream, of a split personality. It was not she, but a kind of leechlike creature, her enemy, who clung to her inside, forcing her to play mad and incomprehensive role. She wanted to die, but rather than reveal her remorse, she was capable of maintaining, for the rest of the day, a grim and acid silence, almost accusatory.” (23) The writer takes it further in accuracy to reveal to us Nora’s family history-their alcoholism. (24).

Ida on the other hand is introduced from the beginning as a person who remained a little girl “because her chief attitude towards the world had always been and still was (consciously or not) one of frightened awe.” (21)

Could this be an explanation as to why Ida was later in favor of her Giuseppe, who grew in her womb by means of force (rape)? It really remained a mystery to me why Ida’s feelings towards Nino were faltering, though he is the son she acquired through the comfort boundaries of marriage and a loving husband.

Not only was Ida impregnated with Giuseppe by force, she was actually raped by a German soldier, German as in the people who eventually wipe out the Jews. But even still, Ida’s life for the most of the story becomes about saving, sheltering and providing for Giuseppe. There’s a warm instance, when we see Giuseppe clinging to his mother’s breast at night, after her milk had long dried. His touch melt her heart, and she head out to find him more food.

Such intimacy and connection was never established between Ida and Nino. We mostly see her in disconnect with Nino or arguing with him. When Nino is outside the home, Ida does not know where he is nor when will he return. As Nino head in, we never see Ida concerned about what he is doing at home. The rape took place while he was out, and she had no clue when Nino would return.

Instances of argument between Ida and Nino are money. “Five lousy lire won’t ruin you. Come on, cough it up, will you?! You’re getting to be worse than a Jew!” (111)

That argument and sense of disconnect is also sensed in Nino’s attitude towards his mom. Nino “(to the dog) I’ll take care of you; me and my friends…we don’t need anybody else’s shit. (to his mom) No, I’m leaving you here.” (115)

Elsa Morante seems quite an intentional writer to me. She is very deliberate and subtle. That is why I think the dual she established in (Nino - Mom – Giuseppe) has a lot of subtle messages. What could Morante mean by the Jewish mother (who is not so Jewish) leaning more towards her German enemy (who is a poor young soldier who left her a souvenir just like he would have done a mistress)? What could she mean by the mother feeding the enemy on her own flesh and blood? Did Ida truly have no choice in giving birth to the baby, or could she have gotten an abortion, thus voluntarily agreeing to raising the son of the enemy in secrecy (and love?).

And what could it mean, that Nino is the first of her children to die?...

The Greed Cliche

2008-03-10T21:15:00.000-07:00

7th Journal

I shall use Nino’s line from History: a Novel as a starting point of this journal.

“Five lousy lire won’t ruin you. Come on, cough it up, will you? You’re getting to be worse than a Jew!” (111)

How ironic that this cliché would be used by a partial Jew, ignorant of his heritage, to a mom that is only twice as Jewish as he is. The whole situation made this cliché sound to the ears like the fall of metal upon metal.

From this point, I took off in my thoughts to a land that suffers less religious diversity which might be causal to the breed of clichés and stereotyping; a land more homogenous than Rome: Saudi Arabia.

Growing up in the Central Region of Saudi, Riyadh, people often referred to Southerners as greedy people. They are people who “forbade their families money that they owned, and who lived for the coin.” Surprisingly, I ended up marrying an amazingly generous Southerner!

During our first year of marriage, and in one of those tease nights, my husband recited to me a cliché about my people (from a little town called Shagra). He said, my people are known to be very “economical”, a polite term for “greedy”. It can’t be, I thought to myself that night. Bad people are not supposed to have duplicates. Where is the original copy? Who are the greedy people, us (Shagrawi’s) or them (Southerners)?

So I took the matter to the old and wise, my father. I told him, can you believe the greedy Southerners are calling us greedy? So, he started telling me a long story-which begins by admitting that we are occasionally referred to as greedy.

The story is summarized by some Shagrawis being merchants, who left Saudi during the years of drought seeking refuge elsewhere, and returning to Saudi once things got better. Their life abroad taught them the art of trade, and to value money. Unlike people who remained restricted to their traditions and surrounding, if they had one guest, they’d make food enough for that one guest. Traditions of other groups and regions, however, demanded even the poorest of the poor to slaughter for one guest sheep that would feed an entire village. To them, it was a pride issue.

Greed is often used not to signify a quality of its own, but in its relativity to another quality; group A is greedy because group B is generous. As societies grow sophisticated, and let go of some of their inconvenient traditions (such as slaughtering a sheep for one guest), people do not update their clichés of one another. The generous B might have gradually reached the same “greedy” level as A without realizing it. Generosity would be defined under a new light, such as offering coffee to the guest, offering snacks, or simply inviting them in to the house. Greediness, on the other hand would be defined by the absence of the previous offerings.

Many Saudi Southerners, on the other hand, who were labeled as greedy-they lived the poorest of poor conditions. They had yet to invent economical system that is suitable for their situation before and after hardships of the drought, or how else would they survive? But people who lean on cliché’s and promote them are never concerned with investigating or understanding. They like a quickie of news before heading back to their comfort zone (ignorance).

No wonder the Jews were labeled as such, without tracing their history, hardships, economical situations, etc. What was their life like in the past? Were they settlers? Travelers? A majority? A minority?

Neither is it a wonder that as societies became various versions of the old Jews (splitting the bill, paying the children to work at home, establishing large debt systems and collection agencies,) no wonder it is that the Jew cliché remains unchanged.

Toothless

2008-03-05T02:10:00.000-08:00

Neighbor Ramóndo will not open the door. His wife, an aging pumpkin, the folds of her face not making a grimace any different from a grin, came shouting through my windows, banging on her chest.

“Gabriel,” she wept like a fountain. “Not only did I loose the water of my flesh on that man, he now wants me to sleep in the street along with the shitting mules.”

I tried to be polite, allowing her in, but I had no mind in my head this morning. When I woke up, a second tooth was missing from my mouth. Along the years, I’ve gotten into the habit of wiping my teeth in the morning with my tongue. Yesterday, I found a tooth missing. Today, a second. I looked under the pillow, under the bunk, in the yard, but there were no teeth to be seen.

Neighbor Ramóndo’s wife was now fiercer. She started clinging to my shirt like a mammal about to be slaughtered. “Gabriel, for the soul of my daughter you have to help me.”

I had no choice. For five years, since her daughter Rosa died in my arm just a new bride, I was cursed with her soul. I have not even touched her bosom when she left, leaving me responsible for her death though it is not I that caused her poor health. I was rather victim of the generous offer of Rosa’s mother and father, if I were to marry her: a mule. The mule has not died. And maybe because of what I earn from it, bringing merchandise into and out of the town’s market, I lend an ear to the old pumpkin who always has something to swear on her daughter’s soul for. The wicked woman raised children by the dozen and still blames me for the one that died.

Together with aging pumpkin I headed to Neighbor’s house. Neighbor Ramóndo shouted that the cursed witch must eat all the shit in the street before he would open for her. Her crying turned fiercer. I have not seen her weep this much since Rosa’s death. I remember it well; because it has made the cursing of my luck seem selfish and even happy in comparison to her mourn. No woman agreed to be my bride since then.

“Sweet aunt, go away, I will deal with this insane man.” I told aging pumpkin, and her crying turned to little hiccups.
“A man. You are a man. My poor Rosa, aw, my poor, poor Rosa, if she only lived enough to see the heart of you.”
“Come on, sweet aunt, run along.”

She ran, so child like in her stride, her figure lost underneath a dark tent of clothing. Neighbor Ramóndo was known for his extreme jealousy, he always insisted she wears clothes triple her size, and wrap her head so tight that her eyes barely showed. He was so jealous, that neighbors often joked when his wife’s legs showed from underneath the pool of fabric. The poor soul, they would gossip, Ramóndo is so jealous she only has a hairy leg to show off.

I knocked on Ramóndo’s door again, feeling the shingles of the house jiggle. Before I knocked a third time Neighbor Ramóndo’s lips peeked through a door opening asking me if the “mad woman” is gone.

He let me in, locking the door behind me in desperate immediacy. Before I could speak, he collapsed to the floor and started weeping worse than his wife. I noticed blood stains all over the ground. Looking up at Ramóndo to determine the origin of the stains, I find him peeling off the flesh of his cheeks, arms and thighs. He was peeling his own flesh like a mad man that I jumped to the floor without consideration for my new shirt.

“Come, come, Ramóndo,” I gripped him tight to my chest like a mother would do a child. From where I did what I did, said what I sad, I do not know. A calling has asked me to do this and do that. My own voice flowed without my knowing.

“Come, my little papa, come.” The more I said it, the more Ramóndo surrendered to my grip. As I held him tight, his weeping went down like a wild horse, until he became silent. His chest heaved rapidly, and warm sticky fluids dripped on my shirt.

“My pride. My manliness. What use is a man to a wife is he has none?” Ramóndo, so broken in the voice, said.
“You have all, my little papa, you have all. What else would make your wife knock your door like a woman mad in love.”
“Oh, she don’t care. She only wants to see the last drop of her man dry up.”
“Your wife? The wife who came with eyes of a girl in love begging that you let her to your house again?”
“My teeth, Neighbor Gabriel. My teeth are falling!”
“You too?” I asked, the hair of my body rising.
“What ya mean?!” the old man sat up, awake all of a sudden.

In the dark, we found each staring at an empty spot in the other’s mouth. Both, the young and old, were loosing teeth. I blacked out for a minute, and woke up to the old man chuckling and rushing off to the door. “Ha, ha, ha!” he rushed to the street shouting. “My lamb, my darling lamb!”

Was the falling of my teeth as well as the old man’s merely a coincidence? Will I wake up tomorrow and have a third tooth missing? If the old man had a lamb to chase, I had none. What woman in the world will take me after I had lost all?

I ran outside, like an arrow, with an ear open to the rumors of the town. I didn’t go much further when I noticed the awful silence that enfolded everything: the market, the houses, and the streets. It was the silence before an enemy was to attack.

After many turns, I found a little boy playing by himself. Santiago. “Where’s papa?” I ask him. He looked down, at his deflated ball, and then pulled me down.

“Papa is so mad, he hit mama and Nola, but I run away.” He whispered.
“Why is he mad?”

The little boy opened his mouth, and pointed to three missing teeth in his mouth. “Papa is missing only two, but he says mama stole them at night.”
“Do you think mama stole them?”
“No.” the boy’s face looked frightened. “I think I swallowed them.”

I wanted to leave, but I could not. The boy’s body was beginning to shiver, as if overtaken by fever.

“I think so too,” I told him. “I have no mother, you see, and no wife, but my teeth are missing.”
“My grandma says all the men are losing teeth.” The boy whispers again. “That’s why they are all hiding.”
“They are roosters.” I crowed in mockery. “Are you a rooster?”
Erect with pride, the boy shouted, “No!”

He then kicked the ball to my feet, initiating play. I kicked the ball back. We started kicking back and forth, the sun setting, and my heart full of fear for what tomorrow may bring to the men who are losing teeth, and the women who are paying for it.

Survival in Auschwitz

2008-02-09T23:52:00.000-08:00

I am writing a journal for my Italian Lit class, on Primo Levi's novel "Survival in Auschwitz". It'll be on this paragraph which I found incredibly universaly relevant despite being written to describe the death camp condition and people.

“If we were logical, we would resign ourselves to the evidence that our fate is beyond knowledge, that every conjecture is arbitrary and demonstrably devoid of foundation. But men are rarely logical when their own fate is at stake; on every occasion, they prefer the extreme positions. According to our character, some of us are immediately convinced that all is lost, that one cannot live here, that the end is near and sure; others are convinced that however hard the present life may be, salvation is probable and not far off, and if we have faith and strength, we will se our houses and our dear ones again. The two classes of pessimists and optimists are not so clearly defined, however, not because there are many agnostics, but because the majority, without memory or coherence, drift between the two extremes, according to the moment and the mood of the person they happen to meet.”

البدويَةُ

2008-02-04T03:31:00.000-08:00

تخرف غيم السموات

البدوية

تخرفه في الليل وفي الصبح

وآناء الصلوات

علمها الشيخ وبنوها

أن تفعل هذا -مذ غاب النخل

وغاب الرمل

وغاب سبيل العابر-

"مدي يدك للأعلى."

"هذا السقف المثلوم؟"

"أعلى من هذا."

"ما بعد السقف سوى الغيمة."

"الـ أعلى منه، هو الله."

ومنذ الله، يحيك الصوف

ثياب البدوية، عينيها،

أطراف أصابعها

شفتيها.

"الله؟

يا الله؟

هل عندك مطر؟"

فيهش بنوها

"يا أمَ، ليس بهذا الشك

يجاوبنا الله."

"الله.

يا الله.

ارزقنا مطرًا..الآن.."

"يا أم، ما حقٌَ نطلب،

بل عطفٌ."

البدوية فهمت

أن الله كـ بُعد الحاضرة

عن الصحراء

بعيدٌ مذ بات له اسمٌ

البدوية

تخرف غيم السموات

علمها الشيخ وبنوها

أن الله بعيدٌ.

ضد الآلة الإعلامية

2008-01-20T22:32:00.000-08:00

الإعلام العالميّ: هل حانت مقاطعته؟

هل كان التاريخ سيتغير لو أن الإعلام في الحرب العالمية الأولى أو الثانية كان ناشطًا كما هو الآن؟ لو أن الحدث الذي يقع في الشرق يهتزّ له الغربُ فورًا والعكس؟ وهل كان مسار الأحداث سيتحول لو أن التركيز على بلورة وتغيير وسَوْقِ رأي الفرد كان وقتها كما هو عليه حاليا؟ في خضمّ هذا الزخم الإعلاميّ من صحف ومجلات وقنوات إخبارية وسياسية وإلكترونية، هل أصبح العالم أكثرَ أمانًا ووعيًا أم العكس؟

لمتابع القنوات الإلكترونية من منتدياتٍ ومدوَنات و(قروبات) أن يجس ارتفاع تدافع الرأي العام، وأن يلاحظ كيف أن التدافع ليس مسببه الرئيسي تقابل التيارات بقدر ما هو التضخم الحاصل في رأي الفرد ووقوفه –كلا على حده- كما لو كان صفًّا بأكمله.

النمط الإعلامي الحديث ليس بريئًا من ذلك. والأنماط الإعلامية ذات (المصداقية العالية) التي تطرح الحدث من خلال رأي الفرد في الشارع: الشخص الذي يوافق، والشخص الذي يعارض، والشخص الذي يقف موقفَ الوسط، تؤكد على (الفردانية)، وتقدم الفرد على أنه المقياس النموذجي والصادق، مُخِلّة بدورها في عرض الرأي العام للمجتمع الكبير، ومحدثة لدى المشاهد تصورًا غير واقعيًّا عن النسب الفعلية للمؤيدين والمعارضين، والثقل، والدوافع المحركة لهم.

إبان شنق الرئيس العراقي السابق صدام حسين، على سبيل المثال، كان للمتابع أن يقرأ آراءًا فردية من نمط "رحمك الله يا صدام،" "تقرير خطير: توبة صدام حسين ومراحل حياته الأخيرة التي عاد فيها إلى الله،" "مُعلّقة لمشنقة صدام،" "لاااا" بالبنط العريض، "نعم وألف نعم،" بالبنط العريض أيضًا. أصواتٌ ناعمة وخشنة على حدٍّ سواء، انفعالية في أغلب الأحوال، تنشط جميعها للتعبير عن قضية لا تُعدّ الأولى فمن قبلها العراق ولبنان وفلسطين، لكن الأفراد مع كل حدثٍ جديد يغدون أكثر انشغالا بالسياسة ورفعًا للرأي تجاه القضايا العالمية بالذات.

هذه الآراء الفردية التي ارتأت في متابعتها للصحف وللقنوات وللمواقع الإلكترونية مبرّرًا لوضوح الرؤية التي توصلت له أو انكشاف (الحقائق) لا بدّ أنها في النهاية تخبرك بأفضلية قناةٍ عن أخرى. هواةُ الجزيرة مثلا مقابل هواة العربية. هواةُ البيبي سي مقابل السي إن إن. هواة مفكرة الإسلام مقابل الساحات ومقابل إيلاف. ولكن حيال القضايا العالمية والكبيرة، هل تملك عدسةً قدرةً على النفاذ إلى المواقع الصعبة أكثر من أخرى، أم أنهم ينتهون جميعًا إلى التقاط ما يمكن التقاطه وما يُسمح بالتقاطه، ويكتفون بطرح الأسئلة؟

يطرح الإعلام الأسئلة والأفراد من وراءِ الشاشات يرفعون أصابعهم ويهتفون بالإجابات. والإعلام الذي بيدِ الحكوماتِ والأحزاب والأغراض الأخرى تكبر (مُعلّميّته) ومكاسبه. تكبُر (مُعَلّميّةُ) الإعلام فيزداد التلاميذ. ولا يعودُ ممكنًا للفردِ رجلا كان أو امرأة أو شابًّا أن يخوض المجالس من غير أن تكون لديه وجهة نظرٍ ما تجاه الأحداث العالمية. ووجهة النظر هي كثيرًا ما تكون رأيَا مكتملا وواضحًا، وتزداد قيمته بالقوة التي يستطيع فيها أن يغاير الآراء الأخرى وأن يقلب الطاولة.

القادرُ على الفرار مبكرًا من فخّ الإعلام، ومن فخّ السياسة العالميّة، سيكتشف أن جاره في المكتب ومحاوره في المجلس وزملاءه في المقهى لا يزالون يجلسون في الأماكن نفسها. وأنه لم يتقدم أو يتأخر في قدرته على تغيير سير الأحداث العالمية. قد لا يكون استهلاكه للمسكنات أقل منهم، لكن هرجه سينخفض في مقابل قدرته على تأمل ملامحهم والاستماع إلى (حقائقهم) المدهشة. تقلبه ذات اليمين وذات الشمال سيتناقص. سيكون لديه وقتًا كثيرًا لمتابعة الأخبار المحلية، وماذا أعجبه أو لم يعجبه في الخطة التطويرية الفائتة والقادمة. فواتيره اليومية سينتبه لارتفاعها وانخفاضها بشكلٍ أدق، وأبناءه وهواجسهم اليومية ستبدو ملحوظة وأكثر تهديدًا لأمنه من أي شيء آخر في الدنيا.

فردُ اليوم، المنفعل حول ما يحدث في الشرق والغرب والشمال والجنوب. المتعصب لرأيه وما تكشف له من حقائق لا تحتمل التكذيب، يتحول إلى عسكريٍّ صغير في ظل أوامر مواربة، أوامر تقنعه آلة الإعلام الذكية أنه هو من اختار اعتناقها وهو من اختار حمل لوائها. والخشية هاهنا هي من الانتقال التدريجي الذي سيحصل في دور الآلة الإعلامية (العالمية) إلا أن ينتبه الأفراد وينهض نضال الأفراد. فالآلة التي كانت تنقل خبرَ الموتِ قد تؤول بهم تدريجيًّا إلى صناعة الموت بأنفسهم.

Christ Stopped at Eboli

2008-01-20T17:18:00.000-08:00

Journal #2

Reading for Carlo Levi, I am growing aware of the great leap that literature has taken since 1945. Both fiction and nonfiction have become less about style, and more about plot. Language is not fabric, or color, that decorates the writing, but rather the flesh. Purpose is a major reason for why things should or should not be included in the writing, and just the fact that something is “pretty” or “artistic” is not enough excuse to keep it.

In “Christ Stopped at Eboli” there are many instances where imagery is used not to give information, or drive the story forward. Long passages are dedicated to describing places, people, and events, slowing the pacing in the process. An example:

Mayor Luigi Magalone “An overgrown, corpulent young man, with a lock of oily black hair tumbling over his forehead, a yellowish beardless face and darting black eyes both insincere and self satisfied in expression. He work high boots, checked riding breeches, and a short jacket, and his hands were toying with a small whip.” (p. 12)

Other examples are (p. 11, chap. 3) where eleven lines are dedicated to describing landscape. (p. 6) and (p. 8)

A further stylistic excessiveness is quoting the thoughts of the narrator, despite the narration being in first person point of view. For example:

“But the flickering, baleful light of conscience in Lieutenant Decunto,” I thought to myself while I waited in the widow’s kitchen for my supper, “is something rare…” (p. 30)

“So the people of this village are decent people!” I thought to myself while I waited in the widow’s house for my supper. (p. 21)

Not only is it excessive and meaningless to be quoting one’s thought, and following it with “I thought to myself”, but it also breaks the spontaneity of the thought. It sets the narrator apart from the readers and on the side of other characters who are distant and alien.

Besides time being a factor in why the memoir is written not as tightly as a 2007 reader would hope, the writer being primarily a painter is another. Artists develop an acute awareness of colors, visions, and imagery that it transcends into their writing. The papers become yet another mean of pleasuring the senses and the eye, that the struggle between art and purpose continues to be evident.

Note:
Carol Levi seems not to be judgmental or critical over fascism. Since he was in exile because of his antifascist activities, I expected a clearer sense of his ideology and politics through the memoir. Is he being subtle? I'm still in page 40, but will keep an eye for that…

Wall

2008-01-16T04:34:00.000-08:00

Windows,

they don't send in

the sun

forever.

Sometimes,

there's the rain,

the dust storm,

drunken curses,

and bottle trashing

of late...

Close.

Open.

Close.

Open.

Windows

are designed

that way.

And those which

have no light to show,

hope to give,

or joy which upon

the dying heart

is kindled-

do they not occupy

the space

of a wall?

Little Novels of Sicily

2008-01-11T01:38:00.000-08:00

Journal #1

It is not easy, reading a novel that takes place in an 1860’s Italy. Not for me at least, since my area of interest has always been postmodern and contemporary world literature. That is why when I started Giovanni Verga’s “Little Novels of Sicily” I struggled quite a bit.

However, as I moved into his fourth story, I nailed it-I mean his voice. I became aware of his hidden messages; his sarcasm and irony. I have also adapted to his dominant narration style, which seems to fall back and forth between third person omniscient and universal.

But why would a strong writer alternate between two p.o.v’s within the single story? Why would he have to play God about his characters? Strong writers, as we are taught today, are more subtle, and do not make use of separate bits of information, background, and characters with the obvious intention of reinforcing a message.

This doubt lead me to research the writer some more. That is when I came to learn about the Verismo movement. “During the era of Verga’s mature genius he was the leading voice of verismo, an Italian movement of literary realism roughly corresponding to the school of Naturalism originated by French novelist Emile Zola. Verga employed a unique style in which the story is told completely through direct and indirect speech of the characters. The form, diction, and tone of the story mirror the attitudes and consciousness of its characters, both individually and collectively.[1]”

Upon learning this, I became intrigued by Verga’s style. When I develop a liking for something that was outside my area of interest I am always amused. I ponder on how people mention “taste” so matter-of-a-factly. How they can say they like pop music, hate romance novels, and adore abstract paintings as a mean of self introduction. Is taste ever purely a fact? Is it a choice? Or is it an accumulation of things we have come to know through our day to day experience. Is taste simply a liking? Or is it our area of comfort, surrounded by what seems familiar and unthreatening?

Before heading back to Verga’s fourth story, I should mention that he –on some level- reminds me of a Syrian writer named Zakaria Tamer, born in 1931. Zakaria is one of my favorite Arab writers; sarcastic, ironic and mocking. He writes as if he were slitting corrupted societies with his pen. “His volumes of short stories, are often reminiscent of folktales, however they have a sharp edge and are often a surrealistic protest against political or social oppression and exploitation. Most of his stories deal with man's inhumanity to man, likewise to woman, the oppression of the poor by the rich and of the weak by the strong.[2]”

[1] Verga, Giovanni Introduction, www.enotes.com
[2] Zakaria Tamer, Wikipedia

Pamuk: Turkish or Artist?

2007-12-14T16:03:00.000-08:00

When Susan Reese, a faculty member in the Writing Department at PSU, casually mentioned that Orhan Pamuk, last year’s noble prize winner, will be present in flesh and blood the night of October 17th at the Schnitzer, she turned Portland into heaven that allowed me, the Saudi Arabian girl to share the same roof with my favorite Turkish writer-a writer whom I have adored since “My Name is Red”, the fifth of internationally published and translated novels. “Snow” which came as sixth was America’s favorite as Orhan said later in the evening.

I was seated by 7:15 p.m., still in school clothing, underdressed unlike most of the attendees. My senses were sensitized to everything as I took-in the fascinating architecture, handsomely dressed receptionists, beautiful carpet and stair maze with the awe of a first timer. Except for meeting with Ahmad Abu-Dahman I had never before attended an event for an international author.

“I could have brought my binoculars,” a lady seated behind me said to her friend. “But I don’t care much to see this guy.” She started talking about how she is more interested in Diane Ackerman, the next writer in line, whom she had met in a coffee literary group long ago. “Diane is very crafty,” she said.

As I tuned in on the rear conversation, a man who seemed to have come straight from work squeezed past me to join his wife. “Let me tell you,” he took off his coat, “most of them are here to agree or disagree on his politics.” Probably referring to an interview that appeared in the Tagesanzeiger 2005, in which Pamuk said “Thirty thousand Kurds and a million Armenians were killed in Turkey. Almost no one dares speak but me, and the nationalists hate me for that.”

Just then, I grew aware of the existing intentions amongst the crowd. I scanned all four directions, stacked with people, wondering what they are here for. A writer whose words have already reached far and wide, what more will he have to say as he catches up with the words?

For an hour Orhan Pamuk spoke no politics. Just the personal. He introduced his latest book “Other Colors”, reading articles and stories about his daughter, watch, writing life, and his fascination with barbers and whoever wrote about barbers. However, the crowd seemed to want more. And as the time of questions arrived, Orhan flipped through the cards chuckling, “They are most about politics.”

As he answered two, it became clear how politics raised heads amongst the mellow crowd. It seemed to interest people far more than his little daughter or the jokes which tangle up with his strong accent. When Pamuk spoke of Turkey’s "genocide", or how Turkey’s struggle is an inner concern not related to outer politics, silence fell intensely like the game was taking a wild turn. A group of people stood and clapped.

CNN was hanging in the air, like the smell of sweat, dirt, and blood. A screen that separates America from the world just when it seems to be connecting them together. Who needs binoculars when there are maps laid on the tables?

Stepping aside from professing at a university, to the foreign artist, comes down to this: become a material for amusement and scrutiny. Why bring the Turkish writer away from his home land, onto a foreign stage, asking little about art, and largely about his version of politics? Is civilization ever deeper than skin? And is the bringing of a writer onto a stage any different from capturing the lion away from the wild to the circus where he would perform?

On April 7, 2008, it will be Marjane Satrapi, the Persian graphic novelist’s turn to speak at the Schnitzer. Part of me is keen on attending her night, and another part is afraid that it would be yet another event where the U.S subconsciously defines what’s local according to its artistic value, and what’s foreign according to its cultural and political map.

أشياء صغيرة

2007-12-11T15:34:00.000-08:00

أشياء صغيرة جدا
تجعلني أفرح
الشامبانيا في الأمسيات العادية
الرشفة الثالثة من السيجار
السير للبقالة –وحيدة- ربع ساعة قبل الإغلاق
...

...
أشياء صغيرة
تجعلني أحن إلى حبيبي
الرائحة التي بين جبينه ومنابت الشعر
إبطيه
خده الذي نسيته وقتًا طويلا
فتكور على شكل حُمى
ظهره
الطويل
(نهايته)
إذ تقطفها يداي ثمرتين
سرته حتى عظمة الكاحل
الأصبع الكبير
لقدميه.
...

...
لكنه في أوقات الحزن
تتشابه الأشياء
تتشابه هي والريالات الصغيرة
أشياء لم تعن شيئًا حتى صرفتها
ثم اتكأتُ على الرصيف
بلا باقٍ.

Caged

2007-12-01T17:31:00.000-08:00

There’s safety to being in a group
Snickering over butt & boob jokes
Eating while asking about everybody’s grades,
Classes and professor names
Hanging with a group is as easy as this:
When plates are empty, glasses back
To their transparent color you dig
Your umbrella right through the cage
And fly where the wind may take you.

Awake

2007-11-20T03:15:00.000-08:00

How do you do it-Squeeze nights in your eyes
Two drops to the left
Two drops to the right?

How do you do it-
Shave a jaw so angular
With waters of the ocean
Pat it dry with the sand?

How do you do it-
Your chest and abdomens firm
Against the waves like a dolphin
Glistening under the moonlight?

How do you do it-
Breathe so gently that the world
Cuddles in your eyes
And huddles underneath your lids?

How do you do it-That when you sleep I wish to unbutton
Your eyes, your lips, your chest,
Your abdomen with every lip I’ve got?

How do you do it-
So I'd keep you too awake
At nights like this...

فقاعة

2007-11-14T17:18:00.000-08:00

في الحُب، مثل الفقاعة أنبلج

فقاعة صابونِ خرجت من باب الحمام

نزلت في القطن، ولم تزل

عامٌ مر ولم أزل

عامين-

ثلاثة-

ياربَ خذ خوفي مني

اجعلني ما شئت

فأنا مذ فوق القطن نزلتُ

-قطن حبيبي المندوف-

وحبيبي ..يخشى

أن ينزل في النوم الملكي

فيؤلمني

وأنا مذ فوق القطن نزلتُ

خائفة

خائفةٌ من هذا العالم يا ربي

من هذا التدوير الحاصل

كالفجأة

الفجأة تشغلني: النوم،

الصحو، النوم

الصحو

والخوف: هواءِ أقبضه

في صدري

نفخة حُب أحبسها:

لا تدخل

لا تغدو

لو يحصل يومًا أن تخرج؟

لو ينعس حُبي؟

أو يصحو؟

لو يشهد كرتي اللامعة

تنفجر؟

آه يا ربي

العالم من حولي

أبيض

مندوف جدا

وحبيبي الواقف

عشبته البرية أحناها التعب

أغمض عيني إلهي

خذ خوفي مني

وبعيدًا عن نظر العالم مزقني

لا تجعل أحدًا يبصره:

الحب..وخوفي

كم صار هواءًا

في الصدر

فأنا لو أفنى

في عشبة حبي البرية

العالم ـ هذا المصطف بـ عينيه ـ

يقرؤني

دمعة صابون

انسلخت عن جلد الماء

وما عادت شيئًا

Wine

2007-10-25T01:43:00.000-07:00

After it has ripened/before it falls is a night crucial to every fruit. I am no fruit. I am the tree; blossoming. My fruits are falling when you are not looking. Feet walk over them. Where are your hands? Next year, you will be drinking my bottled sadness, and my fruits will be falling again.

How Many States are There?

2007-10-24T15:46:00.000-07:00

You say there are fifty states
In America, to me, the eye
Of the expat, there are only two:
The State of University, and...the Street

The State of the Street by far
Is the greatest, it is where
The media wakes and lies to
Wake again, the soldiers, the
Moneyless and the rich, the kids
The adults and politicians, even
The university people go there
From time to time, it is where
They are born and put to rest
Once again. So open is the State
Of Street, no doors, no grades,
No exception letters, no
Double sided windows.

The S of U –State of University-
Is by far the least in financials
And support and votes and people
With a count of hands, how many TV’s
Are there? Radios? How many wake and
Die in there? Besides the public speeches,
Grins, grims and books, what have they-
Them who teach the fifty states? Them
Who remember history enough so it is
Repeated in fashionable patterns? Them
Who know where politicians –the bastards!-
Went or are apt to go.
So small in numbers, salary, power
And light they are. When night is falling
University folks can be seen, still locked
In their dimly lighted windows, lined
In repetitive squares, one above the other.
When no one’s looking, they seep down
The stairs, elevators, and gates, like gas
That in open space explodes to silence
To passing air-air that irritates the single
Sense-that gives the warning but not
The consequence. Just as soon they vanish.
And when the light of the world
Awakens, they are all
Away, asleep, in the popular state
Of the street.

The States of America, the fifty
the two- whatever- to the eye of the
expat are often one.

Eating in School

2007-10-13T17:31:00.000-07:00

A school canteen is a badly imitated
Cattle ranch, where the wind is stale
The grass is brown, the furs randomly
Colored and brushed in all directions
Mouths pull at the food in the plates
The voices -rather than loosing themselves
To the open distance where the rain
Meets the grain- their bleats echo
So that the few cobwebs left
Shake with the memory of spiders
Who have left them.

Locked Out

2007-10-04T20:14:00.000-07:00

You grow, and there are more places
to go to, keys in your palms
The more doors there are,

the more you are an outsider
As you grow, it seems sometimes
That no place on earth is home

America

2007-10-04T20:08:00.000-07:00

Ordering pizza at 5 a.m. is
a good idea for someone who complains
about the American readiness
to serve what money buys
at 5 this morning I tire the phones
from ringing. My visa cards
are out. But no delivery guy is picking.

Leadership

2007-09-30T15:32:00.000-07:00

My dad –bless his heart- has always

been a driver. My brothers young as

they are try it too. “A driver leads,”

they say. But from the rear passenger

seat I’ve known for twenty years,

A driver mostly follows.

Polygamy

2007-09-30T05:34:00.000-07:00

Those men who double, triple
and four times marry
what does their God fear do
a woman -their social
and political score- if her own

is quarter a man in bed?

Dirty Looking

2007-09-29T23:21:00.000-07:00

Somedays you're in the mood for dirty
looking. Not lack of sex. A note
maybe, "Please check me back,"
A dirty look is the nudge of Gods
to the world:
"O children of mine,
where goes your purpose?"

Should Literature Cause Change?

2007-09-28T17:57:00.000-07:00

In Saudi Arabia there’s constant struggle between the conservative and liberal parties over who owns literature. The conservatives think that the liberals are overly irresponsible towards the society, writing a so called literature that has no noble messages, goals, morals, ethics, or religious references that serve the society’s best interest.

Liberals on the other hand believe the conservative to have no understanding of art. Art, they respond, is a goal of its own, and should not be manipulated or turned into a tool. Art is the voice of the individual, and her attempt to reveal truth about herself as a human, and about her society which has its share of falseness, hypocrisy and undergrounds.

Accordingly, art is hardly read as a piece of its own. The writer’s name, background, and the party he/she belongs to is an elemental key to evaluating it.

Since both parties disagree over ideologies and religious beliefs, the debates between the two about art are endless. They often swerve from discussing art, to discussing core beliefs, and pressing hot buttons. It is believed that these ongoing debates, and hot tempered arguments, are the reason why both parties instead of working on art and developing their craft, lost energy in useless battles.

In Stafford’s response to this question “What is the potential for motivating people towards change through writing? I’m interested in reform and acting against problems, things like that. What’s the actual impact of writing?”

And this question “When you dive into the language you somehow know that you’re going to produce response from a person. You have to know that somewhere, or you wouldn’t write, would you?”

I like how he tackled a similar debate to the one we have in Saudi. He tackled it in the least offensive way possible, which I believe is important to avoid turning debates into upsetting arguments.

Stafford wonders why people make “it” sound like everything we write is for the purpose of persuasion or change. He claims writing to be the act of “nowness.” Meaning, the spur of the moment. The attempt to hear our thoughts more closely and clearly. It is like his description of a poem “Writing a poem is not to be considered a problem. A poem is a solution for a problem before the problem occurs.”

By comparing the act of writing to hearing one’s own thoughts, he proceeds to an excellent example. He says, it is like when we meet a friend. And we are happy to meet him, and we are talking about things, and cut each other half way through sentences, and having a splendid time. Wouldn’t it be eerie if while doing that there’s a voice in our head, like, what am I going to change about my friend today? How can I transform him? What shall I do with him? Do we go to parties with the design of changing people we meet there? “I wouldn’t want that kind of people in my party,” he says.

However, Stafford is aware of how the society is structured to persuade and change. Children since primary schools study how to write essays and controlled topics. Large universities are constructed to teach just the same.

If one is paid to persuade people into buying a certain shoe, but what if he is not paid? What if he eventually finds out that this shoe is not the best. That there’s a better one. Then his persuasion turns into an honesty issue.

The same goes for people who write for causes and believes. What if they eventually find out some dark sides to the believe they are promoting, or the cause they stand by. They might end up suppressing that dark side, and thus loose the good well they started off with.

An identical scenario has taken place along the years between the liberals and conservatives in Saudi. The became submissive of the faults of their parties, remaining faithful to the title rather than the good well that ignited their belief in the party to begin with.