burdens of the past and the pains of the present, which stretches – thirsty, hungry and humiliated – between the ocean and the gulf, does not exist on the map. Credit for this sudden interest in the world you came from must go to the suicide bombers that have given the people and the government such nightmares since the explosions of that bloody summer. It was the terrifying sequence of bombings, carried out by young men who paralysed a large city in broad daylight and amazed its inhabitants with their remarkable willingness to die, that made the elite take an interest in the principles and beliefs that inspired people to blow themselves up, along with other strangers. The bombings also gave the general public a phobia about people coming from a world wrapped in danger and mystery. Because life is dear in the City of Red and Grey, or at least it was before the plague broke out. In a way you find difficult to understand, it is cherished by those dying in hospital, by the blind with their sticks to guide them, and even by the destitute who call the streets their home. The inhabitants were terrified by what the prophet of the bombers said in his message to them: ‘We embrace death as you embrace life.’
The week-long exhibition was a mixture of older literature and arts, interspersed with some rather more contemporary culture. You heard of it by chance. You were living in a remote neighbourhood crowded with the poor – locals, immigrants and unemployed – and you seldom went to the city centre, which was noisy and busy. On one of your trips downtown, you saw a poster on a billboard in the main square, which was covered in the droppings of grey pigeons. The poster, inviting people to attend the exhibition, also appeared in the underground tunnels with their eerie lighting. It featured famous landmarks such as the Pyramids, the Pillars of Hercules and the Kaaba, alongside less well-known ones such as the place where Jesus was baptised, the Jalali and Mirani castles and the ruins of Mari, as well as fantastical drawings of men in large white turbans: perhaps distant ancestors such as Averroes, al-Hallaj or Haroun al-Rashid. The slogan on the poster was a saying current in the city: ‘It’s never too late.’ As you read the poster you said to yourself, ‘Perhaps it’s an attempt to make up for the past, or recognition that the world extends beyond the clock tower that marks the birth of time from the clammy womb of misty grey.’ But you were sorry that this sudden awareness of your world should have sprung from that apocalyptic summer, rather than from genuine curiosity or from an openness to find common ground, even common interests, without inhibitions or preconceptions. An awakening of that kind, if it had come about earlier, could perhaps have prevented the deep chasm that had now started to separate the two worlds. As you passed the poster, the words of which suggested a belated correction, you recalled a saying you had been surprised to hear from a politician rather than a poet or an acrobat: ‘The most dangerous strategy is to jump a chasm in two leaps.’
The exhibition was indeed diverse and ambitious: amazing archaeological finds owned by the city’s museums, recordings by prominent musicians, films from the black-and-white era, dances by men in white gowns and conical hats who whirled for ever, anthologies of poetry, a short story and chapters of a novel in both languages, and so on. In the anthology of poetry were three poems by Younis al-Khattat.
The name sent a shiver down your spine.
The large anthology contained poems by six or seven poets from your country, including a poet who was killed in a mysterious car accident. In the middle of them was the name Younis al-Khattat, with a short confused biography that suggested he also had another name. For ages you hadn’t read the name in any newspaper or book, or heard anyone utter it. You had a recurring dream in which Younis al-Khattat appeared.
The week-long exhibition was a mixture of older literature and arts, interspersed with some rather more contemporary culture. You heard of it by chance. You were living in a remote neighbourhood crowded with the poor – locals, immigrants and unemployed – and you seldom went to the city centre, which was noisy and busy. On one of your trips downtown, you saw a poster on a billboard in the main square, which was covered in the droppings of grey pigeons. The poster, inviting people to attend the exhibition, also appeared in the underground tunnels with their eerie lighting. It featured famous landmarks such as the Pyramids, the Pillars of Hercules and the Kaaba, alongside less well-known ones such as the place where Jesus was baptised, the Jalali and Mirani castles and the ruins of Mari, as well as fantastical drawings of men in large white turbans: perhaps distant ancestors such as Averroes, al-Hallaj or Haroun al-Rashid. The slogan on the poster was a saying current in the city: ‘It’s never too late.’ As you read the poster you said to yourself, ‘Perhaps it’s an attempt to make up for the past, or recognition that the world extends beyond the clock tower that marks the birth of time from the clammy womb of misty grey.’ But you were sorry that this sudden awareness of your world should have sprung from that apocalyptic summer, rather than from genuine curiosity or from an openness to find common ground, even common interests, without inhibitions or preconceptions. An awakening of that kind, if it had come about earlier, could perhaps have prevented the deep chasm that had now started to separate the two worlds. As you passed the poster, the words of which suggested a belated correction, you recalled a saying you had been surprised to hear from a politician rather than a poet or an acrobat: ‘The most dangerous strategy is to jump a chasm in two leaps.’
The exhibition was indeed diverse and ambitious: amazing archaeological finds owned by the city’s museums, recordings by prominent musicians, films from the black-and-white era, dances by men in white gowns and conical hats who whirled for ever, anthologies of poetry, a short story and chapters of a novel in both languages, and so on. In the anthology of poetry were three poems by Younis al-Khattat.
The name sent a shiver down your spine.
The large anthology contained poems by six or seven poets from your country, including a poet who was killed in a mysterious car accident. In the middle of them was the name Younis al-Khattat, with a short confused biography that suggested he also had another name. For ages you hadn’t read the name in any newspaper or book, or heard anyone utter it. You had a recurring dream in which Younis al-Khattat appeared.
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