1

Summer 2012

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ArteEast is a leading international arts organization presenting work by contemporary artists from the Middle East, North Africa, and the diaspora. Founded in 2003 as a New York based not-for-profit organization, ArteEast supports and promotes artists by raising awareness of their most significant and groundbreaking work and by bringing this work to the widest possible audience. We do this through public events, art exhibitions, film screenings, international touring programs, a dynamic virtual gallery, and a resource-rich website. Partnering with some of the most prestigious cultural institutions around the world — such as The Museum of Modern Art, Tate Modern, and the Sharjah Art Foundation — ArteEast’s film, visual arts, and literary programs reach thousands of new audiences each year.

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www.arteeast.org

July, 2012. New York.

Contemporary Literature in Translation Series

Excerpts from Sahar Mandour’s 32Translated by Rayya Badran

Edited by Barrak Alzaid

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Table of Contents

In December of 2011, I sat down for a morning coffee with Sahar Mandour to talk about 32 and Beirut. Our patchy conversation began with evoking the difficulty of writing about Beirut and the writer’s own struggle of approaching the city, more specifically Ras Beirut, in a unique way, in a way that breaks away from locality by bringing the reader into an all encompassing world. The novel follows a frieze of daily events, intermingled between past, present and future; images and sounds that inhabit the author’s imaginary, not far removed from the violence that lurks behind anything and anyone. Mandour paints textures and atmosphere rather than portraits, types and architecture. She manages to deliver, without effacing a sense of locality and belonging, a sincere account of her own life,

her friends’ lives, and her difficulty writing about the city and the complex politics of daily life. All this without needing to call out for a title that might expectedly read like: A day in the life of contemporary Beirutis. The debate on writing about a particular conflict-torn environment in fiction is a long one. Inscribing the pains and joys of quotidian life is an overarching theme in 32 and the impetus behind a long self-reflexive journey that feels endless and exhausting yet inevitably satisfying in its necessity to be evoked and evacuated. The trap of falling into the narrowing of space and locality to paint places we already know, already ridden with references; fixed places, already open and perpetually renewed for stories to populate is easy to fall into. It cannot perhaps be entirely dodged but

From the Translator

Translator’s Remarks 5What’s My Name? 9Reading Cleopatra 19About the Contributors 26

76

effort from/with the characters that participate in it; the author unpacks blurbs of feedback, critiques, her characters eschewing stories and replies as they saw them, as they saw Mandour. Even as these characters’ traits and uniqueness intrigue they remain blurred not because they are stereotypical or need to belong to a certain community, but because their texture and tones are visibly different from predictable protagonists; they have different needs, they are unabashedly sarcastic and dark in their humor and irony, unwilling to succumb to the image their readers will want to identify with. There is control from every part as if to consolidate plural efforts in not falling into the trap of ‘recognizability’, as if to say: “No. This isn’t what we are. You might think it is.” The two excerpts translated here lend insight into the ethos of the novel. Each unpacks, to a different degree, the author’s internal conflict and outer struggle to write about her environment.

By the end of the conversation, she said, by way of sheer obviousness: “Boredom is out of the question. There is no boredom [in

Beirut] but everything else,” which explains why, in an effort to summarize her novel to prospective readers, she writes on the back cover of the book that the events unfolding in the novel are really just about the practice of living in Beirut, day and night. A practice, yes, an endless exercise that requires a constant undoing of what we already know in order to survive the city’s fluctuations.

the author never lets on that you might not know it already, she sheds light on these constraints as if they were obvious, before you even want to question her about them, and indeed you won’t need to. Her Ras Beirut is young; lawless in its seclusion from hegemonic neighborhoods and quarters. Beirut isn’t a backdrop for her characters to occupy, nor is it the center around which the novel is written. There is no realist imagery and yet the city is not a mere backdrop. It is never the subject of physical change but the generation that now inhabits it has and will continue to change.

As our morning conversation progressed, the author spoke of a deep-seated anxiety that compelled her to write, an acknowledgement that both her life and that of her contemporaries’ exist but scarcely in writing. The weight of that anxiety is pulled further down by the feeling of responsibility vis-à-vis the depiction of Beirut. Always wary of failing to represent, resorting to hyper-individualized story-making that commands this urgency and allows voices of a politically alienated

generation to be evoked. Just as Ras Beirut is unique in its relative freedom from social norms, there is something fleeting in the sensation of suffocation one feels in Beirut. This tension is quite evident in 32 because it also exists sonically in its interpretation of transformation, destruction, celebration and death. All are an accumulation of things that we cannot express, that we cannot absorb either intellectually or affectively. These things take time to sink in, the immediacy of reaction pinned at our throats, never fully articulated because it is perpetually outraged. We could become voiceless if we were to respond or react to everything and anything that shapes or moves the city. She says that there is no room for sublimation of a time that hasn’t been told yet.

Mandour’s novel seems to operate on the opposite extreme of Marguerite Duras’s Ecrire, where the author reflects on the necessary isolation for the solitary effort that writing, and only writing, can be exigent of. It transforms places, houses and sanctuaries, while 32 evolves with its plot not as interior monologue but a collective

98

ما إسمي؟ - اسمك؟

- سامانتا فوكس. يلقي بكفه، وبكامل قوته، عىل خّدي. أقع عن الكريس.

- اسمك؟ - فاتن حاممة.

يوّجه لكمة عنيفة جداً، مبارشة إىل أنفي. فأقع، والكريس، إىل الخلف. - اسمك؟

- أم كلثوم. كّف عىل خدي. أقع. حذاؤه يخرتق معديت. مرة، مرتني، ثالثاً.

- اسمك؟ - كارولينا هرييرا.

أشعر باهتزاٍز يف كل أنحايئ، أسمع قنبلًة تدوي يف أعامقي. - اسمك؟

- دايفيد شارل سمحون. يخرج من الغرفة التي ال أرى فيها شيئاً، وال أسمع منها إال صوتاً خشناً يسألني عن اسمي، باإلضافة إىل

الضجيج الصادر عن رضيب. مل أر باباً يخرج منه، وال رأيته هو، وال سمعت صوت إقفال الباب، ال بعنف وال بهدوء.

أحاول أن أفكر بفعل يشء ما، وال أفعل. كأنه سلبني إراديت، أو أعاق دماغي عن تنفيذ أوامر عقيل إىل جسمي.

ماذا أفعل؟ وملاذا أنا هنا؟

What’s My Name?

- Your name?

-Samantha Fox.

He slaps me, as hard as he could muster. I fall off the chair.

-Your name?

-Faten Hamama.

He punches me really hard, aiming at my nose. I fall and the chair is strewn behind me.

-Your name?

-Oum Koulthoum.

A slap on my cheek. I fall. He slams his shoe into my stomach. Once, twice, three times.

-Your name?

-Carolina Herrera.

I feel my inner parts trembling. I hear a bomb detonate in the depths of my body.

-Your name?

-David Charles Samhoun

He leaves the room from which I could see nothing; from which I could only hear a raucous

voice asking me my name as well as the noise made by the beating. I didn’t see him exit through

a door, I didn’t see him at all nor did I hear a door shut, neither violently nor calmly. I try to think

about doing something, but I don’t, as if he stripped my will away from me or prevented my

brain from giving orders to my body.

What do I do? Why am here?

1110

سأستمر قليالً بالحال التي تأرسين، علامً بأين ال أعاين أملا ناتجا من الرضب. أعاين فقط سيل الدماء من أنفي إىل أسفل وجهي، كونه يعيق تنفيس.

سأنتظر. ترى، أين هن؟ هل يحتجز زيزي وزمرّد وشويكار يف غرف منفصلة؟ حالهن كحايل؟

رمبا أعطته كل منهن اسمها الحقيقي، وبنت بالتايل مبعزل عن األمل. ومن قال إن األمل ال يختبئ خلف سؤال آخر، يعجزن عن اإلجابة عنه؟

ال أعرف.. ال أعرف. وأنا، ملاذا ال أعطيه اسمي؟

يرّن هاتفي الخلوي، وهو يف حقيبتي. حقيبتي إذاً معي. أتناوله منها. أقرأ اسمي. أتصل بنفيس؟ أتذكر نكتة الحشاش الذي سمع قرعاً عىل بابه، فسأل: “مني؟”. أتاه الجواب: “أنا”.

فتساءل، مستغرباً: “أنا؟”. هيي هيي.

أنا. - ما اسمك؟

- أنا. - وأنا؟ - أنت.

- نحن اثنان، إذاً؟ - نعم، وواحدنا يرضب اآلخر.

- ملاذا؟ - ألين رفضت أن أعطيك اسمي، قبلها.

- وملاذا؟ - ألين... نسيت اسمي.

- أين؟ - أين ماذا؟

- أين نسيته؟

I’ll remain in my state of captivity for a while seeing that I’m not in pain from the beating. There

is only blood streaming down my face, preventing me from breathing properly.

I’ll wait.

Where are they? Is he keeping Zizi, Zamarrad and Shwikar in a different room? Are they in the

same state as I’m in? Maybe each one gave out her real name and was therefore spared the pain.

Who says that pain can’t lurk behind another question that they can’t answer?

I don’t know, I don’t know.

And why didn’t I give him my real name?

My cell phone rings, it’s in my handbag, which confirms that it was with me. I snatch it from

her. I read my name. I’m calling myself? At this point I remember a joke where a pothead hears

his doorbell ringing: ”Who is it?“ He asks.

”It’s me,“ the other replies.

He retorts: ”Me?“

Hihi.

Me.

-What’s your name?

-Me

-And mine?

-You

-Is it the two of us then?

-Yes, and one is hitting the other.

-Why?

-Because I refused to give you my name before that

-Why is that?

-Because…I forgot my name.

-Where?

-Where what?

-Where did you forget it?

1312

- يف صحوي. - ومن قال إنك غافية اآلن؟

- تسلسل األحداث. - ال تسلسل لألحداث، هي تقع فجأة، وهكذا.

- هذا الكالم ليس منطقياً. هناك تسلسل تتبعه األحداث كلها. - وإىل أين يفيض هذا التسلسل، يا أنا؟

- إىل هنا. أنت ترضبني وأنا، أنا أمتنى الهرب. - تريدين أن تهريب مني؟! - بالطبع! فأنت ترضبني.

- إىل أين تهربني؟ - ال أعرف. فكلام أتخيل مكاناً أقصده، أجد فيه سؤاالً جديداً، ورضباً مربحاً. أنا محاطة بالرضب.

- فتبقني هنا، ألنك اعتدت عىل رضيب؟ - هذه هي املرة األوىل التي ترضبني فيها!

- ال، لطاملا رضبتك.. هل نسيت ذلك أيضاً؟ - نعم.

- ال، مل تنس. يف كل مرة أرضبك، تختلقني لنفسك عذراً جديداً، وتضعني رضيب لك خارج سياق الرضب اليومي.

- تقصد أنك ترضبني دامئاً، وبال سبب، فأنرصف أنا إليجاد من كل واٍد سبب؟ - مظبوط.

- مظبوط والّ أل؟ - عفواً؟

- هذه عبارة ترددها كوكو. - آه، كوكو. أنا أرضبها أيضاً. لكنها ليست مليك. أنت مليك. وهن مليك. وسأرضبكن رضباً مربحاً حتى...

-While I was awake

-Who says you’re sleeping now?

-Series of events

-There is no sequence of events. It appears suddenly, just like that.

-This doesn’t make any sense. There’s a sequence to all events.

-Where does this sequence lead to, Me?

-Here. You’re beating me up and I…I want to escape.

-You want to escape from me?!

-Of course! You’re beating me up!

-Where are you escaping?

-I don’t know. Each time I imagine a place I want to go to a new question pops up and a severe

pounding. Beating surrounds me.

-So you stay here, because you’re used to my beating?

-But this is the first time you beat me up!

-No, for as long as I’m beating you up… Did you forget this too?

-Yes

-No, you didn’t forget. Every time I beat you up, you make up a new excuse for yourself, and you

place my beating you outside of the daily beating context.

-Do you mean that you always hit me for no reason and I try digging up any reason I can find

for it?

-Exactly.

-Am I right?

-Pardon?

-Coco always says this expression

-Oh! Coco. I hit her too. But she’s not mine. You’re mine and they’re mine and I’ll give you all a

mean beating until…

1514

(After a moment of silence) Until what? What do you want us to do?

-Nothing. I want to beat you all up, nothing more.

-But why?

-Because I like to hit people.

-That’s a flimsy excuse! Flimsier than the sequence of events.

-Fine. You convinced me. I think it’s a pretext. No one likes to live in danger or practice hitting

as a sport.

-Yes, well, there are people who like it for their own reasons. There are also those who practice it

because they’re convinced it’s useful. And there are…

-Do you support capital punishment?

-No.

-Why not? Don’t you relish the sight of me hanging from a rope?

-Every time I watch a hanging on film or in real life or any time I hear of a hanging, my neck

hurts. I believe in the notion that violence results in violence, it won’t solve it. I think the problem

of the civil war in Lebanon resembles the act of hanging.

-Are you trying to be a wiseass?

-Yes

-I’m an avid consumer. I like violence as form of communication because it’s pragmatic and

quick. I don’t like to think in the midst of calm. So please, quit being a wiseass because I’m going

to hit you anyway.

-Thank you, because you spared me the trouble of looking for ideas. I feel there’s a parallel to be

made between hanging and the civil war, specifically with the way it ended, but I can’t find the

proper means to describe it.

-All right, tell me, why don’t you want to remember your name?

-I don’t know

-Think a little

-You hate thinking.

-But I like answers

-Okay, I’ll think

)بعد لحظة صمت( حتى ماذا؟ ماذا تريدنا أن نفعل؟ - ال يشء. أريد أن أرضبكم وأرضبكن جميعاً، ال أكرث.

- لكن ملاذا؟ - ألين أحب الرضب.

- هذه حجة واهية! أوهى حتى من تسلسل األحداث. - حسناً. كالمك مقنع. أظن أنها حجة. ال أحد يحب العيش يف خطر، ومامرسة الرضب كرياضة.

- بىل، هناك من يحبون ذلك، ألسبابهم الخاصة. وهناك من ميارسونه لقناعتهم بجدواه. وهناك... - هل تؤيدين حكم اإلعدام؟

- كال. - ملاذا؟ أال تشتهني رؤيتي أتدىل من حبل؟

- كلام صدفت عملية شنق يف فيلم أو حقيقة، وكلام سمعت عن حكم بالشنق، يؤملني عنقي. أنا أؤمن بتلك النظرية التي تقول بأن العنف ينتج العنف، وال يعالجه. أظن أن مشكلة الحرب األهلية يف لبنان

تشبه الشنق. - تتفلسفني؟

- نعم. - أنا رسيع االستهالك، ويروق يل العنف كأسلوب للتخاطب، ألنه جذري ورسيع، وال يروق يل التفكري

بهدوء. فأرجو منك أال تتفلسفي عيّل، ألين سأرضبك يف كل األحوال. - شكراً ألنك وفّرت عيّل عناء البحث عن أفكار. فأنا أشعر بأن هناك شبهاً بني الشنق والحرب األهلية

اللبنانية، وتحديداً مع نهايتها، لكني أعجز عن إيجاد التوصيف املناسب لهذا الشبه. - طيب، أخربيني، ملاذا ال تريدين تذكّر اسمك؟

- ال أعرف. - فّكري قليالً.

- أنت تكره التفكري. - لكني أحب اإلجابات.

- حسناً. سأفكر.

1716

... - ... -

- يكفي تفكرياً. ما هي النتيجة؟ - أظن أين نسيت اسمي ألين ال أريد لنفيس قصة. فلو بقيت بال اسم، فلن يخرب أحد عني شيئاً، ولن

أنوجد. - لكنك موجودة، بدليل أين أرضبك.

- هل أنت موجود، أصالً؟ صوت خشن بال وجه، يف غرفة مظلمة ال تعتاد العني ظالمها، تخرج بال باب، وتعود بال سبب، وتسأل، وتطلب إجابات، وترضب ألجلها، وليس لديك أي سبب لطرح األسئلة!

- من قال لك ذلك؟ لدي وجه، وهو جميل. الظالم ال تعتاده العني ألن عينيك مصابتان بالعمى. أنا عميتك، قبل أن تستيقظي من الخدر. أما األسئلة فهي التي تحتاج إىل أجوبة، أنا مجرّد وسيط.

- مل أصب بالعمى ألين متكنت من قراءة اسمي عىل هاتفي.

- ما اسمك؟ - أنا.

- وأنا؟

-…

-…

-Ok enough thinking. What’s the verdict?

-I think I forgot my name because I didn’t want a story for myself. If I didn’t have a name,

nobody could say anything about me. I wouldn’t exist.

-But you do exist; the proof is my beating you.

-Are you there anyway? A raucous voice without a face, in a room so dark that your eyes can’t

adjust to its obscurity, you get out without a door, come back for no reason, you ask and demand

answers, you beat me up for it and there’s absolutely no reason for us to ask questions!

-Who told you that? I do have a face and it’s beautiful. You can’t see in the dark because you’re

blind. I blinded you before you could wake up from your numb state. As for the questions, they

need answers. I’m just the mediator. The interface.

-I’m not blind because I could read my name on the phone.

-What’s your name?

-Me

-And mine?

1918

قراءة كليوباترادأت رسد قصتي، فقلت:

بدأت رسد قصتي، فلم أكتب عن أّي منكم.حاولت أن أكتب عني وعنكم، لكني خفت. خفت من كل قصة أرسدها. ماذا لو مل ترق لزمرّد وجهة

نظري يف الرسد؟ أو زيزي؟ ماذا لو كرهت شويكار قويل عنها أنها، أحياناً، تجلس يف قعر النصف الفارغ من الكوب، وتغلق أبواب اإلمكانيات كلها من حولها، وتقفل رأسها عىل جسمها؟ ماذا لو مل تكن تعرف

أن إحباطها املوسمي هذا يتكرر؟ ماذا لو كرهتني لقويل ذلك عنها؟ال، ال أريد إجابات رسيعة. أريد أن أكمل كالمي، لو سمحنت.

ماذا عن كوكو؟ منذ أخربتها بأين سأوردها يف قصتي وهي تحرص، كلام رشعت تروي يل قصة خاصة، عىل أن تطلب مني عدم ذكر هذا، وعدم ذكر ذاك. كوكو ال تقرأ العربية حتى، وأنا لن أكتب اسمها

الحقيقي، وهي تعتني بتحديد الخط الفاصل بني ما تعتربه خاصاً فغري صالح للنرش، وبني ما تراه عاماً فترتك يل فيه خيار النرش.

تانت نادية.. مل أخربها حتى بأين أكتب قصة ستمر هي بني صفحاتها، وبيديها الورد.رمبا أبالغ.

طرحت فرضية املبالغة، وناقشتها مع نفيس. فنادية التي متر يف قصتي بالتأكيد ليست نادية التي متّر يف الشارع. وكوكو، سأخرب قصتي معها، وليس قصتها مع نفسها. تلك األخرية ستبقى ملكها، ولن أعرفها

يوماً. وسألتزم طبعاً بكل ما تطلب مني أن ألتزم برّسيته.

Reading Cleopatra

I started telling my story and I said:

-I started writing my story so I didn’t write about any of you.

I tried writing about you and about me, but I got scared. Every story I told scared me. What

if Zamarrad didn’t like my perspective on narrative? Or Zizi? What if Shwikar hates it that

I say that she often sits at the bottom of the half empty glass, and shuts the door on all the

opportunities around her, and by turn obsesses over her body? What if she didn’t know that her

seasonal depression repeats itself? What if she hates me for considering the different reasons

why she is depressed as seasonal?

No, no I don’t want any quick answers. I want to finish what I’m saying, if you please.

What about Coco? Ever since I told her I was going to include her in my story, she insists -

whenever she felt that she was telling me a personal story - on asking me not mention this or

that. Coco doesn’t even read Arabic and I won’t write her real name, she takes great care in

drawing the line between what she deems personal, therefore un-publishable and what she

considers to be public, therefore giving me the choice to publish it.

Auntie Nadia…I didn’t even tell her that I was writing a story in which she will appear, roses in

hand.

Perhaps I’m exaggerating.

I put forward the hypothesis of exaggeration and discussed it with myself. The Nadia who

appears in story isn’t the Nadia who appears on the street. And as for Coco, I won’t tell her story

but my story with her. Her story will remain hers alone and it will remain unbeknownst to me.

2120

فرضت عىل نفيس االقتناع بهذا املخرج مع كوكو وتانت نادية، أما أننت فعجزت أمامكن.حتى ولو سمعت منكن ما يفيد بأين حرّة يف كتابة ما أشاء، لن أكتب. فمشكلة الرقابة تكمن بيني وبني

نفيس.ووجدت نفيس صباح أمس أمام ورقة كلام اسودت، عّدت وبّيضتها.

لكني، ليل أمس، وجدت املخرج.املخرج هو الخيال.

الخيال ينأى يب بعيداً عن تفاصيلكن، ويبقيكن أصدقاء القصة.اآلن، إقرأوا هذه الصفحات، ثم نحيك.

“خّي!

وأخرياً!لقد وصلتني منها رسالة.

يل صديقة تقطن يف باريس...”.أتوجه إىل املطبخ، آيت بزجاجة النبيذ من الربّاد، أمأل الكؤوس التي فرغت، وأنتظر.

ألقي نظرة ألحدد الصفحة التي يقرأنها مبارشة من الكومبيوتر:“وذهبت حياة إىل باريس.

كان ذلك منذ ثالث سنوات”.أدخل إىل الحامم. أطيل بقايئ فيه برفقة مجلة تروي أخبار الفنانني. فضائحهم، بشكل أدق. أغسل يدي

وأعود إىل الصالون، أجدهن متسّمرات أمام الشاشة املضاءة، أقرتب، وأقرأ:“بالنهاية، مل يصبها املوت، هي احتاجته. من حيث تقف، رأته حالً. ما أدراين أنا بقرار شبيه ألقّيمه؟«.

أجلس إىل كنبتي، وأنتظر.كلامت قليلة، وأواجه آراءهن.

“أحبك. ال تبيك. إىل اللقاء”.ينتهني من القراءة تقريباً يف وقت واحد. زمرّد تتأخر قليالً. يسندن ظهورهن إىل ظهر الكنبة، ويستقمن

يف جلساتهن. بنت كأنهن جسم واحد.

I’m also committed to whatever she asks me to keep secret of course. I thus forced myself to be

persuaded by this exit strategy with regard to Coco and Auntie Nadia, but when it came to you,

I blocked.

Even if you had told me that I was a free to write whatever I wanted, I wouldn’t because the

problem of censorship lies between me and myself. I found myself in front of a blank paper

yesterday morning, every time it blackened with words, I’d erase it and start again.

But I found a way out last night.

The way out is imagination.

Imagination distances me from your details and it keeps you the friends within the story.

Now read these pages and we’ll talk.

”Oof!

Finally!

I got a letter from her.

I have a friend who lives in Paris…“

I head to the kitchen, take a bottle of wine out of the fridge, fill the glasses that have been

emptied, and wait.

I take a peek to see which page they’re reading from directly off of the computer:

”And Hayat went to Paris. That was years ago“

I go to the bathroom. I prolong my staying there with a magazine that publishes artists’ news.

Their scandals, to be more precise. I wash my hands and go back to the living room where I

find them reading in front of the lit screen; I come closer, and read:

”In the end, death did not befall her, she needed it. From where she stood, she saw it as solution.

What do I know about a decision like that to judge it?“

I sit on my couch and wait.

A few more words and I’ll be faced with their opinions.

”I love you. Don’t cry. Goodbye.“

They finish reading almost at the same time. Zamarrad is a little late. They rest their backs

against the couch and sit up as if they were all part of one body.

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ال أقول شيئاً، ال أستعجل الكالم، أنتظر.تشعل زيزي سيجارة. ترتشف شويكار النبيذ. أما زمرّد فرتاقب، باهتامم شديد، أظافرها.

كأنهن محبطات.أو مرتبكات؟

سأفرض عليهن الكالم. الصمت يخنقني.- شو؟

ابتسامة من زمرّد. هزّة رأس بال معنى من زيزي. سمة غامضة عىل وجه شويكار.- إىل هذه الدرجة؟

يتفقن عىل االبتسام.أصمت بدوري، أخفي حنقي وإحراجي، أتناول الرميوت كونرتول، وأشّغل التلفزيون.

أراهن من طرف عيني يتبادلن النظرات املعرّبة.متّد زمرّد يدها إيل، وتسحب الرميوت من يدي. تطفئ التلفزيون، وتقول:

- نحن متفاجئات، ال أكرث. - مباذا؟

- سأتكلم عن نفيس: أنا وجدت أن القصة حزينة جداً. حلوة، عن جد حلوة كتري، لكنها كئيبة. خاصة وأين كنت أتوقع من القصة أن تضحكني كثرياً، عيّل وعليك وعلينا جميعنا. فكّرت أنك مشيت يف

املرشوع الذي أخربتنا عنه يف السيارة. أحببت فكرة الحياة اليومية أكرث، ألن الروايات التي أقرأها تتناول عادًة تجارب استثنائية يف الحياة. وددت لو أقرأ العادي، ألنه.. عادي! كام أين أحببت أن أجدنا يف قصة، تبقى لنا، بأسامء ليست لنا، لكنها تلتقط شيئاً ما فينا. وكنت أثق متاماً بأين لن أكون »أنا« يف القصة، وإمنا »أنا« كام ترينني أنت، أو حتى كام تحتاجني تطورات القصة. أنا متغرية متبدلة تشبهني

وال تشبهني. أنا أعرف ذلك. أظن أننا كلنا نعرف ذلك. لكن، لو أن الكتابة عنا تربكك، تخيّل عنها. قصة حياة حلوة. األنرتبول وفلسطني وباريس.. إيه.. انتبهت وأنا أقرأ أين اشتقت لباريس! ال أصدق أنهم

I don’t say a thing; I don’t rush into talking, and wait. Zizi lights a cigarette, Shwikar sips wine

and Zamarrad stares, with great attention, at her nails.

As if they’re depressed.

Or disconcerted?

I’ll force them to talk. This silence is suffocating me.

-Well?

A smile from Zamarrad. A meaningless headshake from Zizi.

A mysterious trait on Shwikar’s face.

-That bad?

They settle on smiling.

I stay silent, I hide my frustration and embarrassment so I take the remote control and turn the

television on.

I can see them sharing expressive looks from the corner of my eye.

Zamarrad reaches her hand out to me, takes the remote control from my hand and turns off

the television, she says:

-We’re just surprised that’s all.

-About what?

-I’ll speak for myself: I found the story really sad. It’s beautiful, really beautiful, but it’s

depressing especially since I was expecting the story to make me laugh a lot, about me, you,

all of us. I thought you had taken on the project you talked about in the car. I liked the idea

of daily life much more, because the novels that I read deal with exceptional life experiences.

I wanted to read about the ordinary, because…it’s ordinary! I also liked that we were part of

a story that will stays ours, but with names that aren’t and yet the story would still capture

something that is within us. I also trusted the fact that I wasn’t going to be me in the story, but

that it was about how you see me, or even what the developments of the story needs of me. I’m

variable, interchangeable; it resembles me yet it doesn’t. I know that. I think we all do. But if

writing about us perplexes you then give it up. Hayat’s story is beautiful. Interpol, Palestine and

Paris…Yeah… While I was reading, it struck me how much I had missed Paris! I can’t believe

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رفضوا منحي الفيزا. املهم.. ما هي آراؤكام؟ - )زيزي( إيه.. أنا رأيي من رأيك. أعرف أن صعوبًة ما قد تكمن يف الكتابة عن األصدقاء. بس، ال

تعتيل هّمنا! نحن بالغات ونتحمل مسؤولياتنا. ولن أتوقع منك أن تجدي يف شخصيتي ما يؤذيني! لكن، إن كان البحث يف شخصيتي سيؤذي نّصك، أو يكّبلك، طبعاً، امِض يف ما ترتاحني إىل كتابته.

- )شويكار( حلو.. حلوة قصة حياة. صح كئيبة، مثلام قالت زمرّد. وبالتأكيد، أوافق زيزي الرأي. وقد تحّمست، يف السابق، ألقرأ شخصيتي يف عينيك. راقت يل الفكرة. مل أخف منها. إيه، تحّمست.

لكن قصة حياة مهضومة. أقصد حزينة.. حلوة. - )أنا(... )صمت(

- )زيزي( ملاذا تصمتني؟ أنت تكرهني الصمت! - )أنا(... )أبتسم(

- )شويكار( زعلت؟ زعلت. ما تزعيل! - )أنا(... )أهّز رأيس نفياً لوجود زعل(

- )زيزي( كليوبرتاااااااااااااااا! قويل شيئاً ما! - )أنا(... )أثبت نظري عىل أرض بيتي.. غبار أبيض تحت الكنبة هناك!(

- )زمرّد( إذا استمررت يف الصمت، نرحل. - )أنا(... )أهّز رأيس رفضاً لهذا الكالم، ثم أبّدل جلستي إيحاء ببدء الكالم(

ال أعرف ما الذي أصابني، لكنه بالتأكيد مل يصبني باألمس، وإمنا منذ قررت أن أكتب قصة، أبطالها هم أبطال حيايت.

أظن أن املشكلة تكمن يف الكتابة عن حيايت أنا، وليس حيواتكن.واآلن، كلام تقول واحدة منكن يل أنها تود قراءة نفسها يف عيني، أنزعج بدالً من أن أتحرر. فأنا أحتاج

إىل هروٍب مربر من حيايت.)صمت ال يقاطعه أحد، فعىل وجهي تبدو معامل التتامت(.

أتخيل ما أود كتابته عّنا، ثم أحجم عن كتابته.املشكلة يف حياتنا.

they refused my visa. Anyway… what are your thoughts?

Zizi: Yeah… I agree with you. I know that it’s difficult to write about friends but don’t worry

abut us! We’re grown ups and we can take responsibility for ourselves. I don’t expect you to

find something in my personality that could hurt me! But if researching my personality will

compromise your text or unnerves you, just write whatever makes you feel comfortable.

Shwikar: It’s beautiful…Hayat’s story is very beautiful. Like Zamarrad just said, it’s true that

it’s depressing. And of course, I agree with Zizi. I also got enthusiastic earlier about reading

my personality through your eyes. I liked the idea. I wasn’t afraid of it. Yeah, I got excited. But

Hayat’s story is amazing. I mean sad…Beautiful.

Silence

Zizi: Why are you silent? You hate silence!

I smile

Shwikar: Are you upset? She’s upset. Don’t be upset!

Me: I shake my head denying of any upset feeling

Zizi: Cleopatraaaaaaaaa! Say something!

Me… (I stare at the floor in my house…there’s white dust under that couch over there!)

Zamarrad: If you’re going to keep quiet, we’re leaving.

Me: (I shake my head in refusal to her leaving, so I change my seating position in preparation

to talk).

-I don’t know what came over me but it certainly didn’t just appear overnight, but ever since I

started writing a story, its protagonists were the protagonists in my life.

I think the problem lies in writing about my life, and not yours. And now every time I hear one

of you telling me that she would like to read herself through my eyes, it bothers me instead of

liberating me. I need a justified escape from my life.

(A moment of silence that none of them interrupt for my face shows signs of continuations)

I imagine what I want to write about us, and then I refrain from doing so.

The problem is our lives.

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About the Contributors

Rayya Badran (Translator) is a writer based in Beirut. Her first publication Radiophonic Voice(s) was published by Ashkal Alwan during Homeworks 5 in 2010. She earned her MA in Aural and Visual Cultures from Goldsmiths College in 2008. Her writing primarily focuses on the intersections between art, music and sound.

Sahar Mandour (Author) was born in 1977 in Beirut to a Lebanese mother and an Egyptian father. She studied psychology at Saint Joseph University in Lebanon. She has been working as a journalist and has been an editor and journalist at Assafir Newspaper since 1998. Her work as a journalist focuses on subjects related to culture, youth issues, human rights and the arts. Many of her articles have been featured in translation in the French weekly Courier International. Mandour also edits Sawt w Soura, a daily media monitoring page, Shabab, a weekly youth supplement and Mihalliyyat, a local non-political news spread for Assafir. Mandours is the author of several novels including 32 (Dar Al Adab Publishers, Beirut, 2010), Hobb Beiruti (A Beiruti Love) (Dar Al Adab Publishers, 2009) and Sa’arsom Najma Aala Jabeen Vienna (I’ll Draw a Star On Vienna’s Forehead) (La Cedetheque and Dar Al-Shorouq Publishers, 2007). Her highly acclaimed novels have been met with positive critical reviews and both 32 and Hobb Beiruti were best selling novels at the Beirut International Arab Book Fair.

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ABOUT SHAHADATShahadat is a quarterly online series designed to provide a platform for short-form writing and experimentation in writing by young and underexposed writers from the MENA region (Middle East and North Africa). The series features stories, vignettes, reflections, and chronicles in translation and the original language of Arabic, Farsi, Turkish, or Kurdish. It makes up one quarter of ArteEast’s online programming, the AE Quarterly. For past issues of Shahadat click here.

ABOUT THIS SERIES Shahadat is proud to run two alternating series, and releases four issues a year. The issue you’ve just perused is part of the “Contemporary Literature in Translation” series which presents contemporary authors in Works are presented in their original language and in translation.. Our other series, “Exploring Popular Literature” challenges traditional understandings of “literature” emerging from the Middle East and North Africa by presenting genres of creative production that rely on words and language but which have not typically been studied as literature.

In each issue, we gather texts from a spectrum of writers to challenge the singular status of the artist/author and to encourage a more complex presentation of the Middle Eastern and North African “street” for English-speaking audiences.

SPECIAL THANKS TO:Alex OrtizRayya El ZeinJames Rogers-Gahan

Shahadat logo design by Rima Farouki

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