A Literary Map of Palestinian Writers

By Nathalie Handal

In the early 1990s, while living in Paris, I discovered that Salma Khadra Jayyusi, one of the Arab world's most distinguished literary personalities—widely known for her poetry, literary criticism, and scholarship, and whose work I hold in great esteem—had a visiting research position in Berlin. I decided to write to her and ask advice regarding research on Arab women poets that I wanted to undertake. This was my first everything: my first time conducting research on such a large scale, editing a book, contacting intellectuals, writers, translators, and publishers. I don’t think I really believed she would respond. But she did, with an extensive letter guiding me in multiple ways—books to read, ways to conduct research, as well as a deep emphasis on working on my own poetry and creative pieces. We have been in touch ever since.

Jayyusi is a pioneer and a visionary. The scope of her knowledge, the discipline, dynamism, and determination set forth in every one of her thorough and colossal undertakings has left us with a wide scope of material on Arabic and Palestinian literature and culture. She’s always been ahead of the curve; as founder and director of PROTA, which was founded in 1980, for the translation of the best in Arabic literature into English, and of East-West Nexus, founded in 1991 for the dissemination of the knowledge of Arabic culture and civilization outside the Arab world. She started translating and publishing Arabic literature before it became a trend. She became the canonmaker of Palestinian literature when she published her comprehensiveAnthology of Modern Palestinian Literature in 1992. And on a more personal note, our paths have crossed in endless cities—London, Jerusalem, Amman, Abu Dhabi, Boston.

I dedicate this map to her—a small gesture to show my profound gratitude and admiration for her tireless work of close to six decades disseminating and promoting literature. (More on this initiative here.) These are not maps in the traditional sense. This metaphorical map continues the conversation set forth by Jayyusi, with one distinction: all the pieces take place as their theme, in accord with “The City and the Writer” series; the map is a collection of written texts and visual essays that highlight the best-known and most-read voices today. Each feature also provides readers with reading suggestions that include pioneers of modern Palestinian letters—poets, novelists, short story writers, playwrights and memoirists—who have a body of creative work that has had an impact beyond their time.

We will start with writers from the North (cities such as Acre, Haifa, Jenin, Nablus, Nazareth, Safad, Tiberias and Tulkarem). Acre will be our first stop with Salma Khadra Jayyusi.

To understand the map and modern Palestinian literature, we must have a notion of what it means to be Palestinian today. The endless list of conflicts is daunting, but some dates are essential to chart the trajectory of Palestinians: the Ottoman Empire (Middle Ages to the early nineteenth century); the British occupation, circa 1920 to 1948; the Nakba or Catastrophe, where three-quarters of a million Palestinians were dispossessed and those who remained in what became the State of Israel were isolated from the Palestinians in the West Bank, then under Jordanian control, and the Gaza Strip, under Egyptian control, while the rest were forced out and dispersed throughout the region and beyond; the June War, also known as the Six-Day War or the 1967 War, when Israel occupied the Sinai Peninsula, Gaza Strip, West Bank, and Golan Heights and annexed the Old City of Jerusalem, further displacing Palestinians; the First Intifada or uprising in 1987 against Israeli military occupation; 1988 to the 1993, the Oslo Agreement, and the post-Oslo period, which became defined by restrictions on movement as Palestinians now needed permits to move from one city to the next; the Second Intifada of 2000 and the wall. This past May marked sixty-seven years since 1948, and as the places Palestinians have to create art increasingly shrink, their imaginary spaces expand.

As I mentioned in the essay “The Shape of Time” in Words without Borders's May 2015 issue, wherever Palestinians are scattered in Israel, the West Bank, Gaza, in refugee camps in the Arab world, or displaced around the globe, they are confined to the particularities of whatever boundaries—national or physical, psychological or emotional—they were dealt after 1948. The restrictions on their freedom and movement are interminable: checkpoints, the Green Line, Areas A, B, and C, or whatever identity card or passport they hold. Gazans aren’t permitted into the West Bank or anywhere. West Bank residents can’t go to the 1948 territories unless given a special permit, and those are rare. Palestinians with Israeli citizenship can’t live in the West Bank, and Palestinians in the diaspora are refugees and can’t live in Israel, the West Bank, or Gaza due to Israeli laws. And Jerusalem blue-card holders are under constant threat of losing their residency. 

For nearly seven decades, Palestinian writers’ oeuvres have contributed to Palestinian, Arabic, and other letters, and left notable and cherished poetry collections, novels, plays, and memoirs. Some literary masters include Jabra Ibrahim Jabra, Samih al-Qasim, Ghassan Kanafani, Ibrahim Tuqan, and Mahmoud Darwish. Today, Palestinians write in multiple languages and have different nationalities, cultural influences, and varied aesthetics; many also belong to other literary traditions and nations. Some well-known authors writing in various languages include Amir Nizar Zuabi, living in Jaffa; Raja Shehadeh. living in Ramallah; Palestinian American Naomi Shihab Nye; Palestinian Australian Randa Abdel-Fattah—all write in English; Ramsey Nasr writes in Dutch, and Chilean Diamela Eltit, of Palestinian descent, writes in Spanish. The cultural multiplicity and exilic experience is wide-ranging. Their movement never ceases and their notions of home tend to be transitory. Despite their distinct experiences, their consciousness and mindscapes are marked by place—its memory and its history.

In these text-maps by Palestinian writers, you will find a fusion of voices. Writers were asked to write a portrait of the city or town their families come from—experienced or imagined. They were to draw from family members, stories, dreams, or other channels. The contributors are listed under their city of origin; those who come from two different cities are placed under the city they wrote about.

 

  Copyright 2015 Nathalie Handal

The Shape of Time: New Palestinian Writing

—Are you there?
—Where?
—Here?
—You mean there?
—I mean do you see the sea?
—I see sand.
—But do you see the sea?
—I see time waiting for us.
—You mean you see every ruin in us?
—I see every shore in us.
—So we are lost.
—No, just drawing what shapes us.
—Like the sea does.
—Like the sea has.
—I’ll wait for you by the shore?
—You mean by our longing.
—I mean I don’t know where we are anymore.
Yes, history moves en haste.
—Maybe, but it’s memorized our shape.

I’ve had the same dream twice—once at the start of the Second Intifada in 2000 after a conversation with Mahmoud Darwish in Ramallah, and the other last summer after a conversation with Najwan Darwish in Haifa. I’ve contemplated whether there’s a crueler scenario—not being able to see the sea but constantly dreaming it, or being able to see the sea but being forbidden to reach it? It is amid this paradox that Palestinian lives unfold. To comprehend Palestinian literature, we must have an idea of what it is to be Palestinian today.

This May marks sixty-seven years since the 1948 Nakba, or the catastrophe, and Palestinians continue to exist outside of time. Although they have been wedged into a series of closing frames in which the view of their home narrows, their insistence on existing widens. Just this past year—since May 2014, when I was invited to edit this issue, to now—they’ve lived through the 50-day Israeli-Gaza war; Israel’s annexation of nearly 1,000 acres of West Bank land in a Jewish settlement bloc near Bethlehem, which many in the international press called “the biggest land grab in a generation,” only a few days after the Gaza ceasefire; fiscal challenges as the Israeli government withholds tax revenues it collects on behalf of the Palestinian Authority in retaliation for their move to join the International Criminal Court in the Hague; the continued ethnic cleansing of East Jerusalem, where the choices given Palestinians are to leave or to be what they are not, as laws only defend Jewish Israelis; the steady creation of new laws, approved by Israeli courts despite their violation of international standards and resolutions, that divide and offend the human dignity of Palestinians and Jews. There is also the crisis in Yarmouk, the Palestinian refugee camp on the outskirts of Damascus. What will happen to the 18,000 refugees still entombed there? 

Wherever Palestinians are scattered, be it in Israel, the West Bank, Gaza, in refugee camps in the Arab world, or displaced around the globe, they are confined to the particularities of whatever boundaries—national or physical, psychological or emotional—they were dealt after the Nakba. The restrictions on their freedom and movement are interminable: checkpoints, the green line, Zones A-B-C, or whatever identity card or passport they hold. Gazans aren’t permitted into the West Bank or anywhere. West Bank residents can’t go to the 1948 territories unless given a special permit, and those are rare. Palestinians with Israeli citizenship can’t live in the West Bank, and Palestinians in the diaspora are refugees and can’t live in Israel, the West Bank, or Gaza due to Israeli laws. And Jerusalem blue-card holders are under constant threat of losing their residency. How can art thrive in such wreckage?

For close to seven decades, it has: Palestinians’ rich literary production has contributed to Arabic letters, taken part in all its literary experiments, and left enduring poetry collections, novels, plays, and memoirs. Today, Palestinians write in multiple languages and have different nationalities, cultural influences, and varied aesthetics; many also belong to other literary traditions and nations. Their movements are anything but permanent. Despite their disparate experiences, all stem from a place and a memory that have marked their consciousness and their imagination.  

In this issue, readers will discover eight young writers born between 1978 and 1995. Their biographies provide a striking testament to the Palestinian experience. Some write in Arabic, others in English, Spanish, and Danish. One was born in Nazareth and holds an Israeli passport; another, born in Jerusalem, holds a Jerusalem blue-card. One is from a refugee camp in Gaza and still another from a refugee camp in Lebanon, though he now lives in exile in Iceland. You will find a Palestinian American, Palestinian Dane, Palestinian Australian and Palestinian Bolivian. Palestinian letters today is a composite of vast thematic, stylistic, and linguistic traditions.

Mazen Maarouf was born in Beirut, raised in Shatila refugee camp in Lebanon, and currently resides in Reykjavik. His poem “Solitary Confinement on the Seventh Floor” echoes disappointment with a world constantly at the periphery of justice, and also possibly with the speaker in the poem. Similar to his other poems, it’s short and anchored in uprootedness, its images fragile and violent. Maarouf seems to find a sliver of freedom in each poem.

In "Both Freedom and Constraint,” an interview with best-selling Palestinian Australian young adult author Randa Abdel-Fattah, we get a glimpse of what it means to be Muslim and Palestinian in Australia. She tells of her unwavering fervor for storytelling, and its unequivocal power. Most poignantly, she tells us that her intent is to invite readers “to suspend their judgments and prejudices and enter the life-worlds of the misunderstood, the misrepresented, the mistreated.” The author reminds us, “there is nothing so personal as that.”

There is nothing more powerful than motherhood in “Your Baby” by Gazan short story writer Asmaa Alghoul. Her work is raw and engaging. “Your Baby” is a tale of the guilt that accompanies motherhood in war, and ultimately about how love can defeat the incoherent dark rubbles of history and darkness, can allow even the most desolate to still deeply desire life.

The desire to fill the loss of a mother is explored in the intimate, chilling story “Long Distance,” by one of Granta’s best young Spanish-language novelists, Rodrigo Hasbún, a Bolivian of Palestinian descent. The narrator searches for comfort in a forbidden place. Hasbún’s sensual eloquence and the story’s filmic quality leave the readers in a beautiful suspension. The narrator’s conversations with his father are filled with arresting silences where what is left unsaid speaks loudest.

The uncompromising portrait of a father, and the severed relation the speaker in the poem has with him in“Father my Unborn Son,” by Palestinian Danish poet Yahya Hassan, is poignant. The same theme wove throughout Hassan’s highly popular first book, Yahya Hassan. His work is influenced by the spoken word, a novelty for Danish readers.

The sea is a permanent presence in Najwan Darwish’s poems. The poet comes from the heart of the most contested city in the Arab-Israeli conflict, Jerusalem. His work blends wit and historical perspective; this daring fusion has readers probing for answers. In his piercing poem “Life in Mount Carmel,” he leaves us with a disquieting ricochet: “what should I do among all these devotees, / here, / where time has found its end?”

And, one could add, where imagination has resisted violence, as movingly portrayed in Sousan Hammad’s personal essay “A Map of Jerusalem,” a symphony of rememberings and misrememberings. Her nonfiction pieces are sharp and poignant. This one explores the intertwined nature of memory, place, and time as the writer and her grandmother’s memories wander through the city, until the past steadily blends with the present. She maps a heart and takes us to “a century of grief.” To dream shaping time, she writes: “I don’t know what the dream is supposed to mean, but I dream it every night. I saw her: a city compiled by exiles in exile.”

New Palestinian writing offers readers a voyage into what it means to be human; not one entrenched in rhetoric but in feeling. A literature composed of commanding aesthetic creations, of explorations of place and self, lyrical ruminations and transformative narratives. These works contribute to our universal search for truth while also leaving us spellbound by their exquisite compositions.

© 2015 by Nathalie Handal. All rights reserved.

Celebrating Five Years

By Nathalie Handal

In 2009, Rohan Kamicheril, then an editor at Words without Borders, asked me to be a contributing writer to the magazine—writing reviews, translating. I was very keen on working with WWB but wanted to participate in a different way. Within a year, I proposed the idea of writing the literary travel column “The City and the Writer,” a vibrant and wide-ranging forum for the exploration of cities through the writing of local authors, launched here. The series began on September 24, 2010, with the Dutch writer Ramsey Nasr and has since featured well-known and emerging writers from around the globe.

This September we celebrate our fifth anniversary with the launch of a series of innovative literary maps that serve to journey through the spaces, either physical or imaginative, that writers traverse. These metaphorical maps will chart neighborhoods and diasporas, and take the form of travelogue and mindscape, texts and images.

CW’s literary architects will rethink and re-imagine the shapes maps can take. We will present these maps as construction sites, where readers can watch the maps being built with every feature. Our first will be a map of Palestinian writers to be published on our blog.

A structure, a city, a world built by writers: these maps are architectural metaphors, a space to wander and discover curves and corridors, rooms and ruins, windows and worlds, colors and translucencies. A space to return to because each time you will find something new—an empty cove, a quieter corner, a ghost, a familiar voice, a history untold, a coliseum. 

Copyright 2015 Nathalie Handal