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| Wadi Qelt, Jericho. Photo by Ramzi Hazboun. |
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http://www.thisweekinpalestine.com/details.php?id=4116&ed=223&edid=223Contemporary Palestinian Literature In Search of Joy
By Tala Abu Rahmeh
“…there is no rain
anywhere, soft
enough for you.” Michael S. Harper
I used to have this recurring dream that I was wearing a red dress and walking down the steps to a jazz parlour in Harlem. It would take me a second to see through the smoke but then I would see him, John Coltrane, holding the saxophone and taunting gods with Naima. He would sway and I would wake up to the realisation that he’s been dead a while, and I no longer knew what my story was.
I always thought I knew what I would write about. My life has been cluttered with images of bombs and the small details of debris. I knew how to construct the perfect phrase about the exact sound of a shell escaping the tank and landing in the middle of my heart. The geography of my first book had the thick lines of the Apartheid Wall and the graves of all my grandparents, dead on the way and in exile.
Then, as destiny willed it, my mother died from cancer. As I tried to hold myself through grief it hit me, what if Palestine is no longer my story? What if this loud whimper matters more than all the other big bangs? I was slowly losing footing into my poems that suddenly became all about morphine and infested limbs.
Through my exploratory journey into modern Palestinian literature, I found myself to be an ever-found alien. The Pessoptimist by Emile Habibi defined my loneliness, Men in the Sun by Ghassan Kanafani unravelled a multi-faceted anger, and Madih Adh-Dhill Al-‘Ali by Mahmoud Darwish dusted the pieces of all that was broken in me and forced me to look at them, one by one. Nevertheless, I was still an alien. My pain over the loss of my mother had never transformed into a metaphor for a lost country. As much as I tried to reshape it, it still nudged me awake in one simple statement, “Your mother is dead.”
What is it about this country that made us feel guilty for being our particular selves? Why is it that in the past 60 years we have only accepted literature that held together the collective narrative, but never our own? Our modern history is built on singular stories of lost children and destroyed villages, so why do we matter less today? In the past 15 years, authors have tried to drag their details into the bigger picture, but even those novels were mostly written in English, with the Westerner being the target audience. Even this article is written in English (obviously).
Is it the Palestinian literary scene or the reader that needs an overhaul? I’m thinking both. You might wonder who I am to think that I can gather years of Palestinian literature and relay a statement, and you might be right to ask if it weren’t for the simple fact that I have not read one Palestinian book written during the past period that ignited the fire of my soul. Well, maybe I’m expecting too many particularities, but why is it that it’s easier for me to relate to a writer in Kansas that it is to one in the West Bank?
The stark reality is that we are hungry for personal stories, but not when they are written as part of our wider notion of representation. When the story is printed for the public to read, we always need it to look, feel, and sound a certain way, even if that obliterates it. Palestinian writers are always daunted by the potential of straying from their national identity, whatever that may mean. Every time I read a new Palestinian book, I feel the struggle to try to prove a commitment to the “cause” in the veins of the pages.
The individual, especially in the complex layers of literature, does not erase the collective, nor does it threaten the struggle for freedom. Moreover, it is not a selfish concept, simply because our entire existence is an individual endeavour. At the end of each day we are alone, and if that story is not worth telling, nothing is.
Maybe my contemporary argument is that we have lost our capacity for joy. The first time I had this epiphany was when I looked at a portrait taken of all the major jazz and blues artists in Harlem in 1958. During that time, Harlem was barely pulling through under the weight of oppression and brutality, and yet, those beautiful men and women stood around and took a picture that contained one thing more than any other, pure joy. Maybe it was because it was a good day, or maybe because each one of them played their instruments with such individuality that it helped them wade through that water.
Joy in Palestine is a modernist idea that we do not buy. Dancing at weddings or right through a checkpoint might make us happy, but happiness is fleeting, whereas joy is there to stay. Joy is not communal, but incredibly specific. It is the feeling of wonderment over what we are able to create with pens, hands, vocal chords, fingers, and minds. It is the quiet corner in our spirit that, when found, can never be lost or taken away. So let us put the narrative of injustice away and find the joy, if it’s the last thing we ever do.
Tala
Abu Rahmeh is a Ramallah-based young writer and professor of literature
and creative writing. She holds an MFA in poetry from American
University in Washington, DC. She is a regular contributor to Mashallah News Magazine, and her poems have been published in a number of magazines and books. She is also the cofounder of the blog The Big Olive: the Tales of Two Professors in Palestine, http://thebigolive.tumblr.com/. Tala can be reached at tala.ar@gmail.com.
***
Palestinian poet and writer
Originally from Yaffa, she was born in Amman in 1984.
After moving to Ramallah, living through the second intifada,
and
graduating from Birzeit University, Tala moved to Washington
DC to study for a Masters of Fine Arts at American University.
DC to study for a Masters of Fine Arts at American University.
Tala's work has earned recognition from Palestine to the US and she
has received the Eliav-Sirtawi Middle East Journalism Award and the
Expressions of Nakba Competition 2008
Best Written Work Award.
She will also be featured in the upcoming
anthology 25 under 25, which is edited by
Naomi Shihab Nye, and published by HarperCollins.
Naomi Shihab Nye, and published by HarperCollins.
She has been a featured performer at the American Poetry Museum, Black Church Maraca, the Peace
Mural, Katzen Arts Center at American University, and readings ranging from Mahmoud Darwish
commemorations to Gaza events.
She is currently working on her first book poetry
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