Libyan Literature: The Impact of Revolution


Many Libyan writers werein the forefront of the Libyan revolution in February 2011. The revolutionopened the door wide for endless possibilities in new creative writing.
Modern Libyan literature often reflected thepolitical and social changes of Libya throughout its modern history. Libyasuffered years of wars, famines and poverty. A small number of Libyan eliteswere able to get educated in Turkey or Egypt, while most of the population wereilliterate or acquired limited literacy through traditional Quranic schoolsspread all over the country.
After the defeat of Italy and Germany in NorthAfrica in WWII by the Allies in 1943, many educated Libyans living in exilereturned back to the country and began a long process of rebuilding Libya. Withthe help of the international community, Libya managed to declare independencein 1951. During the process many newspapers and magazines featured literaryworks by a small number of Libyan writers who in their writings reflectedaspects of a country remerging from the smoke of war, like the late short storywriter Wahbi al-Bouri who is considered the pioneer of modern Libyan shortstory.

Golden Age and Gaddafi

During the late 1950’s a generation of Libyanwriters, who witnessed war and poverty in their childhood, and then thedramatic political and social changes in Libya, began refining their artisticstyle. They were influenced by the Arab literary powerhouse of their age,Egypt, but in the same time they addressed the main issues facing the Libyansociety, mainly, social inequality, women rights and nationalism. Kamelal-Maghour, Khalifa Tekbali, Ahmed Fagih, Yousef al-Sharef, Mohamed Shaltami,Ali al-Rageay and later Ibrahim al-Kouni were major writers of theirgeneration.
This generation of Libyan writers dominated theliterary scene of the 1960’s. The period is considered the golden age of Libyanliterature. Many new emerging writers began to publish their books. With theadvance of education and literacy, the country experienced a gush of creativityin the arts, literature and journalism.
Right after the Gaddafi regime came into power in1970’s, a generation of upcoming and politically motivated young writers begana new wave of Libyan literature. It was characterised by experimentalism,breaking the norms and traditions of Libyan classical literature, influencednot only by classical Arab literature, but also by international literature intranslation. Omar al-Kikili, Mohamed Fagih Saleh, Giuma Bukleb, Idris Ben-Tayeband Ahmed al-Faitouri were among a group of writers that emerged in this periodand adopted the wave of new creativity.
The daring and often confrontational character ofthis generation of Libyan writers caused them to clash with main elements ofthe Gaddafi regime, that established control and domination over all aspects oflife in Libya. Eventually the writers found themselves persecuted andimprisoned for a whole decade, which caused a major scar in the modern Libyanliterature.
Recovery

It wasn’t before the mid 1990’s that Libyanliterature breathed a fresh air and managed to produce new kind of literature.This literature still dominates the current scene in Libya. The impact ofpolitical persecution and lack of freedom of speech in Libya made many Libyanwriters, both from the old and new generations, change their style and findways to escape censorship and above all break the isolation and marginalisationimposed on them.
The political tensions during the 1990’s in Libya,the economic sanctions and air embargo imposed on the country, coupled with therise of unemployment and economic stagnation, reflected on the young generationof Libyans. They comprised more than 60 percent of the society. All these factorsinfluenced directly the new generation of Libyan writers.
Writers like Muftah al-Ammari, Salem al-Okali,Abdulsalam al-Ajaili and Ahmed Yousef Agila reflected themes of daily struggleto secure livelihood, the urge to break taboos and old traditions of society, anew thirst to open up to other cultures, and to rediscover and redefine theLibyan identity, combined with more experimentalism, all became features ofthis new wave of Libyan literature.
Breaking the Isolation

The introduction of the internet in Libya in late1998 had a major impact on new Libyan literature. The internet opened a newhorizon, a wide window towards a vast number of audiences, and also thepossibility of reading and learning about other cultures and to reintroduce theLibyan identity that believes in diversity and inclusiveness.
The internet was a crucial tool for majority of newLibyan writers in developing their skills and styles, as it made it easy forthem to connect with the international literary scene. Especially in other Arabcountries, where Libyan writers were absent expect for a handful of names fromthe earlier generation. The internet also made it possible for young writers topublish works outside Libya and escape the tight grip of state censorship andcontrol.
With the advance of the internet, new tools andapplications became readily available for many new writers to publish theirworks without having to fear being persecuted. Discussion forums, electronicnewspapers and magazines, personal websites, blogs and recently social media,all contributed in getting Libyan literature known outside the reach of aregime that has been trying to control all aspects of society.
Features

The main features of the new Libyan literature thatbecame apparent in the last decade, is the emergence of fiction, short storiesand novels, and prose as major forms of Libyan literature. As in all Arabcountries, poetry is considered the main form of Arab literature in general,but many new writers began producing new works in fiction, especially novels.This is an indication that Libyan writers were looking for a form of literaturethat can describe the daily aspects of ordinary Libyans in their struggle to berecognised as respected citizens.
The other major feature was new styles to avoidcensorship and breaking the societal and religious taboo. In a country whichmany would like to describe as conservative, many works of fiction and poetrybegan challenging the norms and traditions which were partly blamed for thecurrent political and social stagnation, combined with the emergence of a newwave of Islamism and religiosity, a form of escapism from confronting the realproblems of the country, dictatorship, corruption and inequality.
The other main feature that characterised new Libyanliterature, was the heavy use of metaphors and the use of famous Libyanhistorical events. It was a way to rediscover the Libyan identity that sufferedgreatly under the Pan-Arab nationalism policy imposed by the Gaddafi regime.This in turn made new Libyan writers avoid adopting any ideological thoughts intheir writings, especially nationalistic ideas, focusing mainly on presentingtheir personal intimate, and in some cases autobiographical, experience of thekind of life they were living in Libya. Abdallah al-Ghazal, Mohamed al-Asfar,Kahled Darwish, Ramez Enwesri, Saleh Gaderboh, Abduldaim Ukwas, Wejdan Ali, andWafa al-Buissa were among these writers.
Many new Libyan writers published their creativeworks through state owned publishing houses or funds, or worked for state ownednewspapers and magazines. But still they managed to publish other works, whichwere expected to be censored or banned, outside the country, especially inEgypt and Lebanon or through literary websites operating outside Libya. Thisphenomenon made many new writers produce two kinds of creative works: oneself-censored and tamed for local publication and another daring and boundlessfor a wider audience outside the country.
Even with these ways to avoid censorship, Libyanwriters continued to have their works banned and confiscated from thebookshops. Some of them had to leave the country to avoid persecution in theform of being banned to write in local newspapers, detention, or in some casestorture and death. In 2005 the Libyan writer and journalist Daif Al Ghazal wasfound dead in Benghazi with signs of torture after he wrote a series ofarticles in a Libyan website outside Libya criticising the government andGaddafi’s notorious revolutionary committees.
Revolution

Libyan writers were inspired by the wave of Arabrevolutions that engulfed the region. The Tunisian revolution was influentialin shaping a new atmosphere of hope to change the current situation, especiallyin a country that has close ties socially and culturally to Libya.
The issues of human rights, the rule of law, freedomof speech and democracy became the main focus of new literary works in thefirst weeks of this year. The Egyptian revolution paved the way for other Arabcountries to demand the fall of regimes and reform. Libya was most in need forthis long awaited change.
Many Libyan writers from different generations andacross the country were in the forefront of the Libyan revolution when itexploded in 15-17th of February 2011. At least a dozen of them were detainedand tortured by the Gaddafi regime because of their involvement indemonstrations and their reporting about the situation in Libya to the media.Some were detained because of their activities on the social media, likeTwitter and Facebook, and others had to escape the grip of the regime as theyrefused the regime’s pressure to denounce the revolution and support Gaddafiand his brutal campaign on peaceful protesters and civilians.
Idris Musmari, Mohamed Suhaim, Atef Atrash, MoahmedBen Lamin, Elhabeb Alamin, and Rabee Shrair: These are just a few of thewriters and journalists that were targeted and detained by the regime for thetheir activities and writings supporting the popular uprising against theGaddafi regime in Libya.
Freedom to Write

The Libyan revolution opened the door wide forendless possibilities and opportunities in creative writing, arts and thejournalism. As state media and censorship became nearly obsolete in free Libya,many new publications sprang up. Pamphlets, newspapers and magazines begancirculating in different forms and different languages.
It is estimated that of July 2011 more than 120publications of different sizes, forms and languages circulate in free Libya.These give a wider opportunity for new Libyan literature and creative writingto flourish. The literature is expected to grow extensively when the conflictis resolved and with the anticipated liberation of the capital Tripoli.
Since the beginning of the revolution several monthsago, a considerable amount of new Libyan literature has been published in localpublications and other Arab publications across the region. There was also agush of new creative writings published online.
Most of these works were either literary works withheavy revolutionary sentiments, especially revolutionary poetry. Some fictionliterary works appeared to examine the period of oppression in Libya under theGaddafi regime, and others drew on the suffering of Libyan people in refugeecamps and in hospitals, like the works of Mohamed Mesrati, Azza al-Maghour, andNajwa Ben-Shatwan.
Many new Libyan writers found the new reality offreedoms daring and in some cases shocking, especially after decades of selfcensorship and thought control by the regime. Most adapt to the new reality andfight to prevent the emergence of social and political censorship. In the sametime they expose Gaddafi regime’s atrocities and redefine the Libyan identity,celebrating its rich diverse history and stressing on social tolerance andcultural Libyan diversity. This diversity has been oppressed for decades,especially the recognition of other Libyan ethnicities like in the case of theAmazigh, Berber ethnicity with its language and culture.
Beyond Revolution

The Amazigh, Berber culture suffered a lot under theGaddafi rule. Its heritage and language were banned, and activists detained andtortured. After liberating the Nafusa Mountain Region in west Libya fromGaddafi rule, many efforts has focused on reintroducing the Amazigh language tothe wider Libyan culture. Many works of forgotten Amazigh literature are beingtranslated into Arabic and English.
It is expected that more Libyan writers from Amazighbackground will find a place to publish their works in the different Amazighpublications already in circulation in Nafusa and all over Libya.
During the last several years many Libyan writersproduced literary works that focused on the impact of the Gaddafi oppressiveregime on the Libyan society. Some works were so daring that the writers neverpublished them. Others had to leave the country to publish independently orthrough other Libyan and Arab publications outside Libya.
Many of these written works of literature, some of whichare memoirs and autobiographies of known Libyan writers, reveal the reality ofliving under the Gaddafi regime. They are now beginning to be published in freeLibya. Other unpublished works are also expected to be printed in books in thenext few months inside Libya. A few new projects attempt to translate andpublish some of these works in the near future.
After decades of oppression it is expected that newLibyan writers will find their way into literature and creative writing. Theywill enjoy more freedoms than before. The path towards building a tolerantdiverse democratic society in Libya will be hard and marred with obstacles thatwill need all the efforts of Libyan writers and intellectuals to overcome.
Many years might pass before we witness the true andlong lasting impact of the Libyan and Arab revolution on all forms ofcreativity, from literature to the arts. The stakes were never higher than now.Many writers are adamant that whatever outcome of these historical events inthe region, we will witness a dramatic change in all aspects of society and afresh new wave of literature.

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* The essay isoriginally published in Minerva 3-11


رسالة من لندن.. مع جمعة بوكليب (الحلقة الثامنة والثلاثون)


في هذه الحلقة الخاصة من (رسالة من لندن): ندخل إلى قلب السجين السياسي وهو يقضى عشر سنوات وراء القضبان، وكيف يتطور السجن بمعناه المادي والمعنوي في عقل ووجدان الضحية من خلال نص طويل بعنوان (العد البطئ من واحد إلى عشرة) .

للاشتراك في البرنامج 
  


We’ve been liberated from our fear


Over the past six months, I have found myself avoiding the headlines and the sketchy bits of news coming from inside Libya. Because, with the hope brought by the popular uprising, came the terrifying prospect of losing our revolution. As Mohammed Nabbous, the young citizen journalist who brought the world the first images from Benghazi in February, said: “I am not afraid to die, I am afraid to lose the battle.”
As one of a generation that grew up under Gaddafi’s repressive and brutal dictatorship, I know what it feels like when the basic goal of your existence becomes survival. Libyans like me who opposed his regime (whether subtly or overtly) had to develop a dual personality. Learning how to talk and write publicly in code became a vital skill to avoid persecution, not only of yourself but your family and friends.
When opposition forces began their operation to liberate Tripoli a few days ago, one of the first things I noticed, speaking to my family in the capital, was that for the first time they were publicly denouncing Gaddafi, his sons and his regime. Doing that had in itself become an act of liberation; a defiance of the pervasive, self-replicating and sometimes hysterical fear that anyone who has lived under the ever-watchful eyes of the “Brother Leader” has experienced daily.
But it wasn’t only personal fear that began to dissipate inside us during the last six months. We began also actively reclaiming a nation that had been hijacked for more than four decades. The military fight has been accompanied by a liberation of the meaning of what exactly it is to be Libyan, with all the historical and cultural weight which that bears.
In just six months, a generation of young Libyans has begun to learn what it might mean to enjoy a life not ruled by the oppressive terror of falling foul of the rulers. Once they tasted this forbidden fruit, there was no going back.
It is this human or psychological shift that has perhaps not yet been fully grasped by the external world. The names and faces of ordinary Libyans who mobilised have been overshadowed by the political debate, especially over the rights and wrongs of international intervention, as the ghosts of past or ongoing conflicts in the region haunted us all.
I can’t deny that many who suffered in silence during 40 years of the Gaddafi regime have felt let down, not only by the foreign powers who helped sustain his rule. The Western media, too, let us down, always showing more interest in reporting the eccentricities and clownish behaviour of Gaddafi than in how ordinary Libyans were suffering – not just persecution if they dared dissent but, in an oil-rich economy, from a lack of the most basic services in health and education and a completely dilapidated infrastructure.
It was the scenes of thousands of young people taking to the streets, demanding the fall of the regime, that reignited hope, and empowered others to take part in the popular movement. Many highly skilled Libyans living abroad, or others who have been silenced for years inside the country, have helped to fuel a parallel revolution in our journalism, civil society and humanitarian aid effort. From my own experience as a surgeon and writer, I believe that the astounding solidarity and creativity this revolution has unleashed is what will give Libyans the confidence in themselves that they need to rebuild the nation.
There is a long, difficult road ahead, with immense obstacles, not least the divisions and differences in Libyan society. Reconciliation, tolerance and implementing the rule of law, as well as the human cost of this conflict, are the biggest challenges as we move to a stable, unified, democratic and just Libya.
Mohammed Nabbous was killed in Benghazi only a few hours before the UN mandate to protect civilians was implemented. Now, more than ever, his memory offers us a vivid reminder that the fear of losing the battle has to be stronger than the fear of death or tyranny.

ربيع الزاوية (قصة: عزة كامل المقهور)

قصة: عزة كامل المقهور


يتماوج صوته المميز كالعلم عبر اثير إذاعة الزاوية المحلية التي كانت تصدح حتى طرابلس. حنطي البشرة، يسترسل شعره الأسود الفاحم على كتفيه، غالبا ما يرتدي بنطالا من الجينز مع فانيلا أو قميص، فيبدو كثوار امريكا اللاتينية أو الباسك.

يقطع المشوار إلى طرابلس في نصف ساعة، كان دائم الذهاب اليها، يكتب شعره في الزاوية وغالبا ما يلقيه في طرابلس ثم يعود كالفراش.

من أوائل الأصوات التي صدحت بالحرية ونادت بها عبر المحطات التلفزية، وكان أول صوت يطالب “برحيله” مباشرة عبر محطات التلفزيون مخاطبا اياه ” إرحل” !

لم يتخف أو يتخذ هوية زائفه، بل كان يتحدث بإسمه كاملا “ربيع شرير” من مدينة الزاوية.

حل الربيع قبل أوانه في الزاوية، تفتقت براعمه، واخضرت اعواده الطرية، ونما العشب في حديقة الميدان المهملة ولم تشهد الزاوية ربيعا كهذا، خرج السكان من بيوتهم رجالا ونساءً حاملين اطفالهم على أعناقهم… خرجوا فتية وفتيات نحو الميدان الذي يتوسط المدينة. يتجمعون كل مساء، يوقدون النيران في الساحة، يجلسون في حلقات، ينظمون الشعر ويلقونه، يصدحون ” ياشباب الزاوية نبوا ليلة ضاوية”. يهتفون بحناجرهم حتى الصباح  “بالروح بالدم نفديك يابنغازي”، بينما يتلقفون بشفاههم الجافة من حرارة الهتاف قطرات المطر المتساقطة ولا يبرحون الميدان. نصبوا هناك الخيام، وصفوا الكراسي البلاستيكية البيضاء، واشعلوا الكوانين ليتدفئوا بلهيبها ويكركرون على جمراتها الشاي الأحمر. نصبوا مكبرات الصوت، وأقاموا معارض الكاريكاتير والتشكيل. فلا يبرح الشباب الميدان إلا بعد الفجر.

تحلق من فوق رؤوسهم طائرات الهليكوبتر المحملة بالمرتزقة كالغربان تحجب عنهم أشعة الشمس وتغلف آذانهم بهديرها للحظات ، تلفظ حمولتها على مقربة منهم، يرفعون رؤوسهم، يتبعونها بنظراتهم، ولا يأبهون لها

لم يكن  ذاك الميدان يحمل إسما، يحده جامع، وعمارتان عاليتان، وحديقه مقفرة إلا من بعض اشجار الزينة تسقط حبيباتها الصلبة على أجزاء ارضها المبلطه فتدهسها الأقدام، وبركة رخامية جف ماؤها منذ زمن.

شعروا بالأرض تهتز من تحت أقدامهم، وسمعوا هدير الجنازير وهي تقترب شيئا فشيئاَ، ولكنهم لم يبرحوا أماكنهم في الميدان، حتى طوقتهم….. إنضم بعض أفراد القوات المسلحة إليهم وأعلنوا أنهم معهم حماة الديار. وسكن كل شئ  من حولهم إلا هم… يتظاهرون حتى الفجر وهم يغنون.

تنسموا الحرية التي تغلغلت في رئاتهم حتى لم يبق في شعيراتها الرقيقة المتفرعه سوى الأكسجين النقي.

حتى كان ذلك اليوم الذي رفعوا فيه العلم بنجمته وهلاله على طول العمارة الشاهقة  المطلة على الميدان. لم يستفزهم شيء كما استفزهم ذاك القماش الملون بالأخضر والأحمر والأسود.. أمروهم بإنزاله، فلم يأبهوا بهم، انذروهم وأغروهم بالأموال، فرفضوا.. واستمروا في التغني بحب الوطن وحب الزاوية… يستظلون بــ”بو نجمة وهلال” يرفرف فوق رؤوسهم.

استفزهم العلم… فأطلقوا الصواريخ على أهل الزاوية الذين قرروا دفن شهدائهم في حديقة الميدان، وهكذا سمي الميدان بــ “ميدان الشهداء“.

كان العلم يرفرف بينما “ربيع″ يخاطب العالم من ميدان الشهداء ، يراسلهم بصوته الهادئ ولسانه العربي، يزودهم بتغطية يومية عما يجري في الزاوية، ويردد إن عليه “الرحيل“.

حتى كانت تلك اللحظة بعيد الفجر… حين خفت الحركة في الميدان، زمجرت الدبابات المصفحه وسيارات الدفع الرباعي المثبت عليها الرشاشات واقتحمته. اشتبكوا مع اهل الزاوية الذين لم يبرحوا الميدان، وحاول بعضهم صدهم بأسلحة خفيفة، لكن الدبابات قصفت العمارات المحيطة بالميدان والجامع الذي تحول جزء منه إلى مستشفى ميداني، واطاحوا بمئذنته، دخلوا المستشفى واختطفوا المصابين   وجثث الشهداء وقتلوا الأطباء.

استباحوا الزاوية، وعاثوا فيها فسادا، كانوا كالعقبان، ينقضون على مقابر الشهداء بالميدان ينبشونها بأظافرهم ومناقيرهم، ثم يحفرون الحفر ويخفونهم فيها. أما الأحياء من أهل الزاوية فقد أنقض عليهم الضباع  كما ينقضون على الأشبال، وكان من بينهم “ربيع“.

ظهر “ربيع″ بعد أيام على شاشة التلفاز منتفخ الوجه والعين لايعي ما يقول…. كان كالزاوية الحزينة التي حاولوا تغيير ملامحها فغطوا ميدانها بالعشب اللامع وعلقوا  الخرق الخضراء على مبانيها وجلبوا اليها الصحافيين الذين سرقت أنظارهم المأذنة المحطمة والمباني المهدمه.

حل ربيع الزاوية قبل أوانه، لكن هاجمته زوابع القبلي، فقضمت  برياحها براعمه وأزهاره، وامتصت بوهج حرارتها رحيقه، فسقطت طريحة الأرض. ضرب المتفرجون اياديهم كفاً بكفٍ وتحسروا على ذلك الربيع، ولم يكن أحد لينتظر أية ثمار من هذا الموسم.

مضت الأيام ثقيلة مضنية واستبد الحزن بالزاوية وتبعثر اشبالها في الفيافي، فأضحت مدينة أشباح… احدودب ظهرها و أصفر وجهها، اختُطف شبابها وبناتها ورموا بهم في السجون المكتظة والحاويات الحديدية… نفثوا في الزاوية حقد المهزوم ومثلوا بها حتى تكون عبرة لما يجاورها من المدن… كانت تأن أنينا خافتا ولا تنادي أحدا، حتى عاد اليها أشبالها وفكوا عنها اصفادها، فتحررت، وعلت راية النجمة والهلال في ميدان الشهداء ترفرف من جديد..

لم يعد “ربيع″ إلى دياره بعد، مازال مقيدا، وقد لا يعلم بأن الزاوية تحررت وأنها تهتف تناديه ورفاقه… “ياشباب الزاوية …. نبو ليلة ضاوية“.

17. 8. 2011

ليك يا طرابلس (قصيدة غنائية: جمعة بوكليب)


هي امسحي دموعك
دمعة ورا دمعة
هي نوري شموعك
شمعة ورا شمعة
يافاتنه البسمة
يام العيون السود
هي افتحي بابك
طلي على احبابك
وضوي بالفرحة
في ليل غربتنا
ياموردة الخدود
في الهاني تاريخك
يروي حكايتنا
النخل موالك
والصبر شيمتنا
البحر عنوانك
والفل ريحتنا
وشمس وجدانك
تضوي مسالكنا
الطاء طيبتنا
الراء  هلال رايتنا
يضم نجمتنا
الالف نخلتنا  وعزتنا
الباء بحر المحبة فيك
وموجه مودتنا
واللام لعبتنا
والسين سنتنا وسيرتنا
يافاتنة البسمة
يام العيون السود
هي امسحي دموعك
دمعة ورا دمعة
هي نوري شموعك
شمعة ورا شمعة
هي افتحي بابك
طلي على احبابك
وانشري الفرحة
في ليل غربتنا
ياموردة الخدود

The Oranges (Poem: Rabee Shrair)

Poem: Rabee Shrair*

Worthy of love
On the day oranges bloom
Worthy of love
On the day Oranges wither
Worthy of love
On the day oranges are picked
Worthy of love
On the day oranges are eaten
Worthy of love
On the day oranges are planted
On the day oranges are killed
There is a crying girl
In the dry corner of the field
Her tears are oranges
__________
* Rabee Shrair: Libyan poet and journalist from the Libyan city of Zawya, has been detained and tortured by Gaddafi regime since early March 2011.

A Rosy Dream (Short Story)


TRANSLATED BY GHENWA HAYEK
I lean back on the chair, placing my head on the edge of the seat and my legs on the back of the chair that looks like a couch… A cold blast of air comes from behind the glass screen that separates me from the departure area . . . I adjust the collar of my jacket around my neck; in this autumn weather, keeping warm is impossible . . . I glance at Aziz, wrapped up in himself, and stare at his glasses with their thick lenses, one arm of which snapped off two weeks ago.
A third day has gone by, and we’re stuck in Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris. The flight we missed three days ago leaves again tomorrow morning. After our passports had been stamped for departure, we couldn’t return to the city; as soon as the border officer saw our green passports, he waved his hands, muttering: “Non . . . non.”
So we found ourselves living in the airport waiting room, whiling away the time in talk and more talk, and watching the travellers who would sit for a few minutes, then jump up and board their departing flights, while we counted minute after boring minute. Nothing remained of the five hundred francs that had survived our spending spree in Paris except for a few francs that weren’t even enough for breakfast at the airport café.
We had eaten the last remaining can of tuna for our dinner. It was midnight, and there was no one in the airport lounge save a few security guards who had got used to our entrapment in this place. The last flight from Spain had released its passengers into the autumnal Parisian night . . .
***
I found him lying on the bed, and he didn’t show any signs of the rest that he had stayed at home for, despite the fact that we had accomplished what we’d come to do, and were preparing to return. He didn’t feel like going out that night, so I decided to go by myself and meet up with Majed in Saint Germain.
I tried to come back early, and I found him in the dark staring at the television fixed to the wall, holding the remote control, zapping from one channel to the other. He seemed to have given up trying to hold his broken glasses to his face and had just thrown them to one side, although I know that he can’t see well without them. On the small table were breadcrumbs, and a can of tuna was in the rubbish bin.
The narrow room in that two-star hotel looked like a prison cell, and it appeared that those demons from the distant past had returned to haunt him that evening. The moon poured its light in through the curtain covering the small window nearby. He looked at me, trying to make out my features – maybe he thought that I was one of those ancient demons.
I turned the light on, and he shut his eyes against the glare. I threw my bag to one side, and waited for his eyes to reopen. I waited for him to begin talking. He smiled mysteriously and said: “You weren’t late, did you have a good time?” I replied: “I tried. I had to meet up with Majed so that I could help him move his bag from the hotel where they’d asked him to leave, and help him to find a new place to stay . . . ” I paused for a moment, and looked at the TV, showing a football game, and I continued carefully: “And you . . . it looks like you had a fun time!” I knew that I was approaching a minefield, but I was trying to emerge from it with minimal damage . . . He stretched out in the bed, reached for his glasses and put them on. “I don’t know . . . was it fun? Was it even time? And did I even spend it at all? The noise fills the room, despite its smallness.” I answered: “You should have come out with us . . . ” And as he placed his head on the pillow and wrapped the blankets around his body, he muttered: “Maybe tomorrow, maybe tomorrow.” I asked him: “Are you going to sleep?” He nodded his head affirmatively. “So, shall I turn the TV off?” He indicated that he didn’t care, so I left it on and went to change.
I asked him before I went to sleep: “By the way, did you confirm our return flight to Tripoli for the day after tomorrow?” He answered sleepily: “Yes, I did. The plane leaves at 7.30 am, and we’ll have to leave the hotel early so that we’ll make it on time.” The moonlight flooded into the room through the window. “I hope we’ll make it,” I said, as I tried to find the mattress in the dark.
I heard his snoring get louder; he always beat me to sleep, so I concluded that his demons were taking the night off, waiting for dawn. As for me, well, I had a rendez-vous with my own demons that night.
***
The raindrops had cleaned the street we were on, the chestnut trees were trying vainly to hold on to the last bits of green at the start of autumn, and we went out early to enjoy the last day of our trip.
Saint Michel was not crowded. The narrow cobble-stoned streets brought us closer to the old heart of Tripoli. On the sides of the alleyways were shops that sold roasted meat, kebabs, kafta, and shawarma from Turkey, Greece, Cyprus and Lebanon. At the end of the street, we decided to sit in one of the cafés, and ordered a cup of cappuccino, a cup of hot chocolate, and a few pastries.
Majed took out his elegant box of Davidoff cigarettes, placed a cigarette between his lips and lit it. I commented: “Have you really decided to take up smoking?” And he answered as he blew out his first puff: “I don’t smoke . . . This is just for fun.” I answered, smiling slyly: “Yes, fun with a deadly odour . . . ” He smiled at my joke, and said: “You know me, I like being unusual.”
I sipped at my hot chocolate . . . I felt the warmth embrace me, and fiddled with the matchbox. “You don’t need to tell me that.” At that moment, he pointed towards the other side of the street, where a pretty Parisian woman was crossing towards us. He knows that I don’t really care for such things, but I shared his enjoyment of the view . . . After she had passed, he said: “Don’t tell me you didn’t like her . . . ” I said: “She’s nice, but I’m not in the mood to enjoy looking at things I can’t touch.” He answered: “Do you know what Aziz calls our miserable situation?” So I said: “What? I hope it’s not one of your new theories!” He said: “No . . . no, he calls our situation social castration.” I yelled incredulously: “What?” And he went on: “Yes, society has castrated us, so now we’re quasi-men . . . ” I imagined myself castrated, without testicles, and winced in pain at the thought.
I beat the idea out of my mind, and said: “Enough of your foolishness. Now tell me, when’s your flight?” He drew the last drag from his cigarette and put it out in the ashtray: “Two days after yours . . . I’ll spend them idling on the banks of the Seine.”
I gulped down the last of my drink and got up to leave. “Let’s go. I don’t want to be out late tonight, Aziz and I have an early flight tomorrow.” We left the café, and walked towards the other side of the river, towards Notre Dame cathedral, whose square was filled with tourists, perhaps trying to encounter the hunchback who’d killed himself on its steps.
The smell of the rain that had fallen a few hours back had started to lift. “Did I tell you about my new theory?” he offered. I shook my head, either in nonchalance, or wanting to say no . . . I took a deep breath, and said: “No, you haven’t.” He said: “All right . . . so, here goes . . . the rose colour theory. Imagine with me that you wake up one day, and instead of seeing things and the world around you in their true colours, you see them in a rosy colour – the world has become rosy and people have become rosy, and they have taken on the softness and gentleness of that beautiful colour, and all our relationships have become rosy . . . ” The sound of a police siren as a car rushed past us paralysed my remaining senses.
***
The sea was calm that morning . . . The ship approached the harbour and the high towers appeared on the horizon, near the Bab al-Bahr (Seagate) Hotel. Tripoli looked fresh and radiant on that clear autumn morning. Young men went about retrieving the items they had brought with them . . . Our arrival in Malta yesterday was smooth, despite the painstaking search that we had endured before going aboard the ship that was going to take us to Tripoli. After a calm night, and a good sleep on a real bed, following the three nights spent on plastic chairs not designed for human comfort at Charles de Gaulle airport, it was as though we’d never left Tripoli at all. The ship began to manoeuvre into port.
I lifted my suitcase, and Aziz followed me until we both reached the ship’s main gate. Many young men were preparing to exit, carrying their large suitcases filled with goods bought in Malta, Turkey, Thailand and even China. You could hear them massing behind the ship’s door: a large number of them had already unwrapped the imported cigarettes, sweets and clothes, and rearranged them in their bags in a manner that would ease the search of the goods, and so as to distribute a few gifts to their acquaintances in the port and emerge with minimal collateral damage, ensuring they would make a small profit in the market.
As soon as the door opened, dozens of passengers rushed out to the customs booth to try and beat the crowd. We stood in line, waiting our turn to pass the customs officers. Not long after, our turn came. A young man who didn’t look more than seventeen was ahead of me, picking up the scattered contents of his suitcase: shirts and other clothes of different shapes and colours.
Near the officer was a stack of newspapers and magazines that had been confiscated. I knew that would happen, so I had got rid of all the Arabic and English newspapers that had accompanied me during my temporary stay at the Paris airport.
My turn came, and I tried to be smiling and affable . . . But there was no indication that this would work, and he opened my bag and inverted its contents right then and there. When he didn’t find anything valuable enough, he ordered me to open my shoulder bag, which held my study books. He asked me to take them out so he could look through them. I smiled, and said: “They’re course books . . . reading, sir.” He threw them aside, and replied curtly: “All right . . . all right . . . you can go now.” I collected my books and picked up my bags, then went over to the Port Authority window to get an entry stamp. But I had only taken a few steps when I heard a loud voice calling out to me.
“Hey . . . Hey, you there . . . Where are you off to? Stop!” Since no one had called my name, and I wasn’t the only person in the chaotic hall, I kept going . . . Then I felt a hand on my shoulder an turned my head. He said: “What . . . Did you not hear me calling you?” I replied: “What do you mean?” And he answered, as he stretched his hand towards me: “Give me that thing in your pocket . . . ” I put my bags down on the floor, and took out an English novel, answering incredulously: “Yeah, this is just a book . . . it’s a novel.” He snapped: “Let me see . . . ” He held the book upside down, and flipped through its pages nonchalantly, then handed it back to me: “All right, all right, you can go now.”
At that very moment, the ship’s horn blew and paralysed all my remaining, stunted senses . . . I went out on the street near the port’s parking lot, looking at the sky, the sea, the road, people’s faces – a pale rosy colour: the sea smells rosy, and the sun radiates its rosy warmth, even the face of my brother, who came down to meet me, is rosy.
I smiled at him, and said: “Have you heard the latest joke?” But I didn’t get the chance to tell it, before everyone began collapsing in stitches around me . . . I took a deep breath, feeling a rosy bitterness in my throat, but I laughed along with everyone else.
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** To read the original Arabic text click here.

قناديل البحر (قصة: عزة كامل المقهور)

تاجوراء….. تنام كل ليلة على هدير أمواج البحر… وتصحو بسكونه….

تمتد مع امتداد البحر الذي يداعب بِدِعة شواطئها ليل نهار… ورغم أنها لصيقة بــ”طرابلس″ إلا أن شعورا يستيقظ فيك ينبهك وأنت تحاذي ساحلها أنك دخلت “تاجوراء”، بينما البحر ذاته والساحل هو هو….

كانت السيارة تنهب الطريق الساحلي… يتجه نظرنا إلى اليسار صوب البحر، وعلى امتداد البصر..نتفرج بإستمتاع على مشهد من تدرج الالوان… الازوردي، الازرق القاتم، رتوش خضراء فاتحة..رغاوى بيضاء، ثم اللون السماوي المسطح يتوازي معها حتى تلتقي في نقطة الافق… كان البحر يبدو لنا ساكنا في الصيف…. يغمرنا الفرح..ونصرخ..
“البحر… زويتة”…

تنحدر السيارة فجأة إلى اليسار، تنغرس عجلاتها في الرمال البيضاء الناعمة ثم تتملص منها بقوة، ترتفع وتنخفض بين التلال كالسلحفاة وهي تمد رأسها….ثم تتوقف عند حافة المنحدر.

ننزل.. نخلع نعالنا…ندفن اقدامنا الصغيرة في الرمال الناعمة… الحارة.. تغزو حرارتها كالنمل عروقنا وتسري في دمائنا…

نحمل اغراضنا، وننزل ممرات رملية حتى نصل إلى الشاطئ… يكون في انتظارنا الرايس “علي” الصياد المحترف بقامته الفارعة ومنكبيه العريضين وابتسامته الخجولة، يقف أمام “كابينته” البيضاء المتحركة. اعتادت أبصارنا على امتداد شواطئ تاجوراء بلا نهاية.

يدفع عمي “علي” مركبه الخشبي بساعديه القويين حتى ينزلق في المياه، وتغمره لحد منتصفه، نتسلق المركب أو يحملنا والدي أو عمي “علي” اليه…. يضعان عدة الصيد من “شليف” و”صنارات” و”طعوم” السردين المكدس في احواض بلاستيكية زرقاء، نتخذ اماكن متباعدة ويكتسينا شعور بالفرح وتدغدغنا الرغبة في الضحك….يجلس عمي “علي” إلى جوار “الموتور” يجذب الخيط بقوة، فيهدر…. وينطلق المركب نحو الشمال…رافعا مقدمته. نتمسك بحافة المركب….نبتعد عن الشاطئ شيئا فشيئا حتى تصغر “الكابينة” البيضاء وتتحول إلى نقطة صغيرة، ثم تغيب، يتحول الشاطئ بعدها إلى خط أزرق لا يختلف عما يحيط بنا. يهاجمني خوف لا استطيع دفعه… وتتلوى معدتي كالرقطاء، اتخذ مكانا قصيا في المركب، أطرق برأسي خارجه وأفرغ مافي جوفي دون أن يشعر بي أحد…

يعلو المركب ويهبط بقوة… وهو يهاجم الأمواج ويكسرها فتتناثر حباتها كقطع الكريستال البوهيمي. نتوق أن نصل في كل مرة إلى الأفق… وننتظر.. ولا نصله.

وحين تصبح المياه زرقاء تميل إلى اللون الفستقي… بعد اجتياز بقع من المياه الداكنة التي تغطي الصخور او حشائش البحر السوداء الطويلة اللزجة، ويتبين لنا أعماق البحر ورماله البيضاء، نصرخ “بياضة… بياضة”.  يطفئ عمي “علي” “الموتور” ويأمرنا والدي بالقفز في المياه الباردة… نقفز كالحيتان الصغيرة التي لا تساعدها خياشيمها على البقاء سوى ثوان تحت الماء. نحاول اللحاق بالمركب المستسلم لحركة المياه التي خلفها، فلا نستطيع، ويبدو لنا المركب عاليا وواسعا، طافيا ومسترخيا لمداعبة الموج. يقفز أحد ابناء عمي “علي” وينتشلنا الواحد تلو الآخر، يشبك يديه لنقف عليهما ويدفعنا بهما إلى سطح المركب كـالفراريج.

يصطاد الرايس “علي” بطريقة “السرتمة” وهي الرمي بخيوط “الشليف” البلاستيكية المتينة المثبت فيها طعوم السردين بينما المركب يتحرك ويتخاتل في خط مستقيم ببطء، أو بطريقة تغطيس “الشليف” بينما المركب في حالة سكون يهدهده الموج كما تهدهد الأم صغيرها المستلقي على مخدة فوق قدميها. نعود إلى الشاطئ بـ “الشولة” و”البريمة” و”الرزام”، أو “المرجان” و”الباقرو” تتخبط على سطح المركب أو تتحرك وسط الدلو البلاستيكي.. تنتابنا رعشة الخوف كلما انتفضت أحداها أو اقتربت منا رغم علمنا بأنها في طريقها إلى الموت.

نسمع عن “البراريم” أو “البلاعات” في بحر تاجوراء التي تبتلع الناس في جوفها ثم تلفظهم في آخر النهار وتدفعهم بأمواجها نحو الشاطئ وقد انتفخت جثثهم وشوهت ملامحهم ولم نرها أبدا، إلا أننا سمعنا عن قناديل البحر الشفافة وشعرنا بلسعتها الكهربائية ورأينا الطفح الجلدي الذي تطبعه على اجسادنا وتخلف شعور بالحرقان ورغبة في الحك…

تفتح تاجوراء ذراعيها للجميع كل صيف ولا تضيق بأحد، ولا ترى أهلها على الشواطئ التي يغزوها سكان العاصمة نصف العام، يمارسون التجارة الصيفية، ويفضلون البقاء في سوانيهم ومساكنهم التي تمتد إلى الجنوب منها، تقطع أوصالها طرق ضيقة وسط السواني و تتميز بجوامعها المبنية في الأزقة، محافظون حتى النخاع، يفضلون الإنخراط في سلك القضاء، والتبحر في علوم الدين، يقسمون سوانيهم ويبنون فيها مساكنهم ولا يفارقون أرضهم، ويدفنون في مقابرهم. لم تستطع “طرابلس″ التي تمددت في كل الاتجاهات أن تتجاوز “القاعدة”، ورغم الطريق الواسع الرابط بينهما ووحدة البحر والساحل، تمسكت تاجوراء بملامحها الصارمة، تشتم رائحة البحر النفاذة ما أن تصل إلى حدودها اللامرئية ويتغير مشهد البحر بألوانه المتدرجة والتلال البيضاء والشجيرات التي تنبت عليها. 

إلا أن مساحات شاسعة من أراضي تاجوراء المواجهة للبحر تحولت إلى معسكرات، والتهمت بعضها شواطئ البحر وفصلتها بأسوار عالية، والتفت على سطحها الاسلاك الشائكة، ووضعت على مداخلها البوابات الحديدية الملونة بالأبيض والأحمر، يقف امامها جنود يضعون على رؤوسهم قبعات حمراء مائلة.

تاجوراء الوادعة، المستسلمة للبحر يداعبها على مدار العام… تاجوراء التي تمتص رمالها غضب بحرها ولا تتجاوز عربدته التلال التي تحتجزه عن مساكن أهلها… تاجوراء التي يعمل سكانها في القضاء والفقه والتجارة…. تاجوراء التي اثقلت كاهلها المعسكرات وابتلعت اراضيها وشواطئها… وتفجر في بحرها الديناميت…يقضي على الأسماك وبيضها… تاجوراء….خرج رجالها من الأزقة الضيقة، من السواني والجوامع، من ميادينها المتناثرة بدون تخطيط، خرج رجالها المحافظون كيفما كانوا بحواليهم وملابسهم الاعتيادية بنعالهم واحذيتهم الرياضية إلى الطريق الساحلي المحاذي لبحرها. خرجوا كقناديل البحر، يتحركون في ذات الاتجاه غربا، يلوحون بأياديهم في الهواء، ويهتفون “صبرك صبرك… في تاجوراء نحفر قبرك”، ساروا ببطء وثقة متراصين إلى جوار بعضهم البعض، يحفون طريق البحر إلى يمينهم… تدفعهم وقع أمواجه دفعا، حتى وصلوا إلى مشارف “سوق الجمعة” والتحموا بأهله…

خرجت عليهم أفواج من الجنود المعتمرين قبعات حمر صوفية مائلة، والزي العسكري الأخضر، رفعوا الرايات البيضاء وزعموا أنهم منشقون يرغبون في الإنضمام اليهم، تغلغلوا فيما بينهم، مدوا اذرعهم كالأخطبوط واحاطوا بهم، ثم نفثوا حبرهم الاسود، وسحبوا الأقسام وأطلقوا النيران عليهم عن قرب….. انطلقت الرصاصات وثقبت اجساد القناديل الطرية وهي تسبح في بحرها الهادئ لا تنشد سوى الحرية، سالت دماء “التواجير” سخية ، فائرة، حارة، حامية، على اسفلت الشارع الساحلي المحاذي للبحر.

كان يقال لنا ونحن صغار أن قناديل البحر لا تهاجم ولا تقتل لكنها في طريقها تلدغ وتخلف طفحا جلديا، بينما الأخطبوط يهجم و يخنق السباح بسوالفه ويجذبه نحو الأسفل حتى يغرق. وحين كبرنا علمنا أن قناديل البحر تعيش قرب سطحه، تهاجم من يحوم في بحرها، تلدغه وتبعده عن مرابطها، بينما الأخطبوط جبان… يسكن القاع ويفضل الظلام، يهرب ما أن يقترب منه السباح و يطلق حبره الاسود ،ويختبئ في حفر الصخور، يصطادونه بوخزه بسيخ حديدي حتى ينهك أو يموت.
15. 7. 2011

Hidden Libyan Art: Mohammed Bin Lamin

For decades many aspects of Libyan culture has been overshadowed by the images and manifestations of the Gaddafi tyrannical regime. Libyan writers and artists became a rare breed, stricken with oppression, poverty, and above all ignorance and neglect.

I am trying with this series of posts on (Imtidad) to present the hidden face of Libyan art and artists, that began to breath the fresh air of freedom, and are looking forward to enjoy more open, inspirational, creative atmosphere, enabling them to be part of the social, and cultural changes that Libya will be undergoing in the next few years.
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“Today, I call you in and draw upon my colour, love and brandings of the heart canvas; rising at your revelation threshold, pure white on the veil of the other painting.” - Mohammed Bin Lamin
Mohammed Bin Lamin, is a Libyan artist that draws inspiration from his environment and surroundings, born and raised in Misurata, Libya’s third largest city, he embodied a combination of the rural and urban in his paintings and works of art.

Bin Lamin, indulges in the ancient history of Libya, especially the ancient cave paintings in southern Libya, dating back 12,000 years ago, and the depiction of ancient Libyans on the walls of ancient Egyptian tombs and monuments, and also Libyan traditional art and legends.

His interest in bright and subtle colours, which reflect in many ways the natural colours of the Libyan landscape, gives him that unique trademark, distinguishing him from other Libyan modern artists.

His experimentalist surreal sculptures and digital art works can be in some cases very intriguing, but they reflect his quest to experiment with different materials and freedom from restrictions and conformity.

His painted beings, with their deformed, disproportionate, heads and bodies, with their glowing colours of Yellow, green, red, brown and blue, the colours of the Libyan landscape, reflect a torn, sometimes deformed, identity, which tries to mix the different and divers, and conflicting, identities of Libya, a land of desert, and sea, rural and urban, the serious and absurd.

The Beings of Mohammed Bin Lamin, are entombed in their colourful, deformed submissive world. They don’t seem able to escape their mundane reality, surrendering to a life of boredom and frustration, but not for Long…

Mohammed Bin Lamin, was born in Misurata in 1969, artist, painter, and sculptor. His works has been shown in many art exhibitions in Libya, Egypt, Tunisia, UK, and China, his works were reproduced as book covers for many Libyan writers. 

He was arrested by Gaddafi regime at his art studio in Misurata on the 16th Februry 2011 there has been no reports of his condition or whereabouts since. 

For more information of his works visit his official website Assakeefa Art Gallery.

The Accusation (Poem: Moahmed Shaltami)

It is often said that true inspiring poetry transcends time and place, and outlives its creator, and this can be truly said about the epic works of the late Libyan poet Mohamed Shaltami. 


His defiant poetry of resistance, confronting oppression and calling for freedom was ever inspiring to many generations of Libyans throughout the years.

In his poem (The Accusation) possibly written in political prison in the early 1970’s, Shaltami defies time and describes in vividness the fate of the dictator, and oppressor.

It is a testament that despite all the dictators weapons of mass oppression, the people will rise to win their freedom and the words of the poet will outlive the tyrant.

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You issued your verdict,
Thus, the morning will dawn after the night
And despite your vile informant, our great mother the sun rises in glowing red
And let me shout that our great world moves in time
Without your command
The door slams,
And I can feel the morning arriving
As a fist breaking in the night
The walls of despair, as if the laughter of the ages
Threatens to wail
I see your sceptre is your crucifix, and your ending is your beginning
And I see you reaping, in the fields of death, what your hands sowed
There you are now, like me, waiting in horror for the cross
Waking up on the delusion that a force is preparing your annihilation
And your fortress is tumbling and crowding with followers… ending at dawn
With a bullet blowing up your savage head
Forever seeing in the mirror the sombre face of your killer
There you are now, like me, in horror waiting for the cross
Repeating yourself, whenever night falls, the echoes of your broken record
You are a traitor,
O, perhaps the worst thing is treason!
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* Mohamed Shaltami (1945- 2010) Benghazi-Libya: A renowned Libyan poet, his early works of poetry was published in 1960’s and became very popular among university students and political activists in Libya. He was imprisoned for his opinions and political activism during the late years of the monarchy era and again in the early years of the Libyan revolution. He has six collections of poetry.