Last night, I read the book’s “overture.” In Tageldin’s reading, Edward Said’s Orientalism gives us a purely oppositional relationship between (colonial) domination and (colonized) resistance, whereas she is particularly interested in the come-hither, the eros of the dominator’s discourse: the “translational seduction.” (She also writes about Mustafa Lutfi al-Manfaluti’s underwear, which is fun.)
It has recently become a common trope that Arab societies don’t translate “enough”; Tageldin cites Umberto Eco’s 2001 call to “counter the assaults of Islamic ‘fundamentalism’ on the West by bringing Arab and Muslim students to the West to ‘study [its] customs and practices.'” She also rolls her eyes at the 2003 Arab Human Development Report, which spuriously claims that Arabs have translated one book for every million translated by a (very overworked) Spaniard, or something like that.
Her conclusion, she says, “examines a 1929 exchange between the Egyptian literati Taha Husayn and ‘Abbas Mahmud al-‘Aqqad that centers on two interrelated questions. First, between conquerors and the conquered, who translates whom more, and why? Second, is cross-cultural translation motivated by love or war?”
This is rich ground, and I look forward to reading the whole book. Of course, it’s outside of Tageldin’s scope, but it makes me reflect immediately on the world of children’s books in Egypt. I asked people, recently, to help me estimate what percentage of Arabic children’s books sold in Egypt are translations from English, French, and other languages. I got answers ranging from 20% (surely much too low) to 99 percent (I don’t think this was serious). Whereas the number of children’s books translated into English each year is surely less than a percentage.
There are a myriad of reasons for this: a push and a pull from Western commercial characters (Barney! Dora!), translation subsidies, high-quality literary productions coming out of rich nations. The end result is a stifling of local children’s-lit production. There are a good number of children’s books available in Arabic, and that’s great. But how many were written by Arabs, reflecting local sensibilities? No, that’s not the important question: How many of them build a local reality, an Egyptian understanding of the world, a true Egyptian self?
Certainly there are authors, like Rania Hussein Amin and Walid Taher, who work hard to do this.
Also in the mailbag (or under the DHL guy’s arm):
Habibi, Craig Thompson. Reading this 1,001 Nights-inspired onslaught of rich calligraphy and Orientalist imagery was a bit like eating 10 chocolate cakes at a sitting. I believe it was Manan Ahmed who pointed me in the direction of asking how much Arabic Thompson had learned for the project (he told Mother Jones “just enough”) and the book does have some “just-enough” understanding of the cliches and tropes it’s trying to play with. Unfortunately, most Egyptians probably won’t be able to judge for themselves. Thompson has said part of his project is “playing” with the Qur’an, much as he played with Christianity in his previous graphic novel, Blankets. For this reason and others, I’m going to guess that the censorship office is not going to give this one a green light.
Bye Bye Babylone Beyrouth 1975-1979, Lamia Ziadé. Haven’t opened it up yet, other than to flip through, but the drawings look pretty cool.
The Arrogant Years, Lucette Lagnado. King Farouk’s era as a “lost Golden Age”? Hunh. How do we define a “golden age”? One in which some few very wealthy people had very nice lives? (And do “the arrogant years” really end?) I’m just a few chapters in, but feeling skeptical. Looking to pair this with reading Andre Aciman’s Alibis, two books by Jews who spent time in Egypt.