these tourism posters refer to your country, but they don’t mention the name. Although you doubt that camels and bedouin encampments exist in the way the adverts show, the basis for your guess that the posters refer to your country is the wall of volcanic rock that appears in shots of the oases. But there are similar volcanic rocks in neighbouring countries too.
* * *
Hamiya has an embassy in the City of Red and Grey, but it doesn’t do anything worth mentioning. It might as well not exist. Once, you remember, the embassy came out of its eternal slumber for the occasion of the historic visit of the Commander. It was because of his historic visit that you found out the embassy existed. You also found out that for many years it had done nothing but prepare for the visit, which was wrapped in secrecy until it was announced on his arrival at the airport. The Commander, by the way, was called ‘the Grandson’ for short, because his predecessors in the military dynasty were the Commander the Founder and then the Commander the Son, and the title ‘the Grandson’ never referred to anyone else in your country. He left his headquarters in Hamiya mainly for tours of inspection in the countryside or on the borders, and he rarely made trips abroad. The person who did that, when necessary, was his prime minister. It is said that the Grandson stuck to his office because he was frightened there might be a military coup against him, and also because he was a reclusive man uncomfortable mixing with others. But the prevalent view as to why he didn’t travel abroad was that he was too engrossed in working for security and stability. This entrenched idea about the Grandson and his devotion to your security annoyed you, especially when you became interested in public affairs. Once, in the presence of your father, you criticised the feeble terms ‘security’ and ‘stability’ – which the official press carried straight from the mouth of the Grandson – as being ‘imported ideas’, and even your father replied that the man dedicated his life to work and was not known to have any inclination towards luxury or leisure. ‘What’s not to like about that?’ he asked.
Then one day in the City of Red and Grey you suddenly found yourself face to face with Younis al-Khattat. The surprise almost undid twenty years of exile, with all the hardship and the homesickness, and restored things to how they were in the beginning.
With the passage of time and your wanderings overseas, you had almost forgotten Younis al-Khattat. You had forgotten his few poems, which were sometimes musical and sometimes grating, and you had completely forgotten the modernist metrical poetry of which he favoured the softest varieties. It’s true that he visited you in your dreams from time to time, but dreaming isn’t reality, as they say. Then, from beyond the walls of time and space, he popped up in front of you somewhere you didn’t expect a messenger or good news from your country. It wasn’t Younis al-Khattat in person that you met. That would not have been possible, because he never went beyond the borders of Hamiya. The one who crossed the border and left for other countries bore another name and was destined for other things. It wasn’t Younis himself but his works, or more precisely some of his poems. A prestigious cultural institution in the City of Red and Grey had organised an exhibition of the arts and literature of your region. It included contributions of variable quality and importance from various countries. It was an event that was unprecedented, as far as you know. The world you came from does not usually arouse such interest in a large and ancient conurbation whose secret life is dominated by money, sex, questions of security and fading imperial dreams. It’s the oil that gushes out of the region’s deserts that monopolises its attention. That’s the crux of the matter, as they say. Otherwise the region, which staggers under the
* * *
Hamiya has an embassy in the City of Red and Grey, but it doesn’t do anything worth mentioning. It might as well not exist. Once, you remember, the embassy came out of its eternal slumber for the occasion of the historic visit of the Commander. It was because of his historic visit that you found out the embassy existed. You also found out that for many years it had done nothing but prepare for the visit, which was wrapped in secrecy until it was announced on his arrival at the airport. The Commander, by the way, was called ‘the Grandson’ for short, because his predecessors in the military dynasty were the Commander the Founder and then the Commander the Son, and the title ‘the Grandson’ never referred to anyone else in your country. He left his headquarters in Hamiya mainly for tours of inspection in the countryside or on the borders, and he rarely made trips abroad. The person who did that, when necessary, was his prime minister. It is said that the Grandson stuck to his office because he was frightened there might be a military coup against him, and also because he was a reclusive man uncomfortable mixing with others. But the prevalent view as to why he didn’t travel abroad was that he was too engrossed in working for security and stability. This entrenched idea about the Grandson and his devotion to your security annoyed you, especially when you became interested in public affairs. Once, in the presence of your father, you criticised the feeble terms ‘security’ and ‘stability’ – which the official press carried straight from the mouth of the Grandson – as being ‘imported ideas’, and even your father replied that the man dedicated his life to work and was not known to have any inclination towards luxury or leisure. ‘What’s not to like about that?’ he asked.
Then one day in the City of Red and Grey you suddenly found yourself face to face with Younis al-Khattat. The surprise almost undid twenty years of exile, with all the hardship and the homesickness, and restored things to how they were in the beginning.
With the passage of time and your wanderings overseas, you had almost forgotten Younis al-Khattat. You had forgotten his few poems, which were sometimes musical and sometimes grating, and you had completely forgotten the modernist metrical poetry of which he favoured the softest varieties. It’s true that he visited you in your dreams from time to time, but dreaming isn’t reality, as they say. Then, from beyond the walls of time and space, he popped up in front of you somewhere you didn’t expect a messenger or good news from your country. It wasn’t Younis al-Khattat in person that you met. That would not have been possible, because he never went beyond the borders of Hamiya. The one who crossed the border and left for other countries bore another name and was destined for other things. It wasn’t Younis himself but his works, or more precisely some of his poems. A prestigious cultural institution in the City of Red and Grey had organised an exhibition of the arts and literature of your region. It included contributions of variable quality and importance from various countries. It was an event that was unprecedented, as far as you know. The world you came from does not usually arouse such interest in a large and ancient conurbation whose secret life is dominated by money, sex, questions of security and fading imperial dreams. It’s the oil that gushes out of the region’s deserts that monopolises its attention. That’s the crux of the matter, as they say. Otherwise the region, which staggers under the
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