If we allow ourselves to peel off assumptions, biases, “moral lessons,” the sins of ideology, and the lie of the triumph of good and truth over evil and injustice, we will be surprised by the turn of the narrative.
“The project brings together ten poets from the Arab world, Spain and Catalonia, selected by a committee of experts from the Arab world and Spain, and invites them to compose works on a specified theme. These are then translated by a team of professional translators in a workshop that is held in Barcelona.”
“Massacre is a dead metaphor that is eating my friends, eating them without salt.”
“In an Arabic cultural scene that’s full of novels about political and societal issues, Maarouf gives us a chance to breathe and taste something different[.]”
“This award reminds Fayadh, his family, his supporters, and most importantly, his jailers, that his colleagues will continue advocate for his right to freedom of expression until he is released.”
“You cross the bridge suspended over the canal. Colored ships slowly glide across the surface of blue waters below. Now and then, from beyond the hills of fine sand, a date palm emerges, a village, some people. Fish dart across the lake and a swarthy, dusty child poses for the camera, stick in hand.”
Like the anger of the waves.
I broken my silence,
Only for bitterness to build a settlement in my heart!
The grant has allowed Smokestack to pay a small contributors’ fee of £10 a page, but the crowdfunding campaign seeks to “increase this fee to a more professional rate; to cover design and printing costs for the book; and to raise money toward the legal fees of Ashraf Fayadh and Dareen Tatour, both currently imprisoned, respectively in Saudi Arabia and Israel, on charges related to their poetry.”
“And the translator is once again invisible, almost incidental. Not only is s/he anonymous but, because the lyrics are not even presented as the translation that they – for the most part – are, their creative labour is totally brushed aside.”
As every year, ArabLit revisits.
Desire builds a nest
Between the branches of my love.
It sings like a bulbul, night and day
And sweeps through me like fire through straw.
I am Me…
A storm of angry waves at sunset,
Its breathing strangled in the grip of the winds.
But as I draw near the question pulls away,
And I keep on asking: “Who am I?”