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( )

( )
220

Selected Texts
Come: A Novel by Janne
Teller
The snows falling heavily and she has
already vanished from sight. He stands
in
the
doorway
contemplating
her
footprints, three steps down, across
the street to the left and away.
Snow flakes drift in. They hit his
shirt and the shelves behind him, but
he doesnt budge. The air has a faint
smell of moist soil even if it cant
be possible: the narrow cobbled street
is enveloped by the tarmac density of
the old city centre. It has snowed all
day and the snow reaches well beyond
the curb which can be discerned only
in the one drive way that has been
cleared.
In front of his shoes the carpet is
wet through and a small bank of snow
is stealing up the wall to the right.
Still, he is hesitating. She wore
boots with thick rubber soles. He can
make out the rhombus grooves in the
nearest footprints. Soundlessly, the
snow flakes pour into the prints, his
glasses mist up and his hand on the
door knob is turning white with cold.
221

He pulls the door towards him, but

just before it closes he pushes it
open again. Across the street the
footprints are less distinct, as if
she was no longer able to lift her
boots free of the surface or, as if
she dragged one leg behind. A shallow
furrow leads from one step to the
next.
The building is quiet. Everyone else
has gone home hours ago. He slowly
shuts the door, turns the key and
returns to his office. Sits down at
the desk. He pulls a thick manuscript
closer. Its damp. The first couple of
pages stick together, and top left
its so moist that the smothered text
can be read through the cover page.
The corners curl upwards and theres a
smear of red wine below the title, but
he isnt sure whether it was always
there.
He takes off his glasses, hides his
face in his hands, closes his eyes.
She hadnt needed bring it back.
Nowadays, one can just print another
copy.
For several minutes he sits without
stirring.
Then,
abruptly
he
straightens himself up and bangs his
fist down onto the manuscript.
222

Who the hell does she think she is?

II
Its your choice, shed said, before
she got up and left.
Of course its his choice. Who elses
would it be?
He looks at the manuscript. Abruptly
jumps up and strides over to the coat
rack, pulls his jacket off the hanger
and on. The blue print has just been
cleared. Production must send it to
the printers tomorrow for the book to
be launched on May sixth as planned.
He shudders slightly, the shirt is
cold and damp where the jacket presses
it against his skin. It has been
written by a young man, one of the
best selling authors in the country,
his fifth novel. Marketing has been
busy for months.
He goes to the window, pushes the
curtain
aside.
The
snow
keeps
streaming down, veiling the outside
world in a quivering whiteness. Its
the authors best novel by far. About
subject matters hes never before
touched upon, with an insight hes
never before revealed. It will sell in
the hundred thousands.
223

He returns to his desk and sits down.

Worldwide, perhaps millions.
Its my story, shed said.
He had given her the manuscript only
because
shed
lived
there:
in
Morenzao, during the peace process.
Thought she would be interested. It
was already five pm when she entered
his office. She placed the soaked pile
of papers on his desk.
Its my story, she said.
First he hadnt responded. They just
sat looking at each other. He ought
never have given it to her. It wasnt
only because shed lived there that
hed done so. It didnt matter. There
were too many of those kind of
problems.
You cant own a story, he said at
last.
Arent any stories so personal that
no one else ought publicize them?
-Her eyes are transparent. Odd that
hes never before noticed.

224

You cant have experienced this ...

He said it kindly, not as a question,
but as something she could concur with
and thereby end the discussion, or as
something she could contradict by
offering a series of details he knew
wouldnt
correspond
with
reality,
except within her own mind. It was
always like that.
One can see right into her, he
thought. She didnt reply. Just kept
peering into his eyes. It enfuriated
him. He didnt know why. All he saw
was her seeing him.
He picks up the phone and calls home.
Ill be late, he explains.
Not again, says his wife.
Dont wait for me.
Ill pick you up on the way.
No, I dont want you to drive into
the city in this weather. It isnt
safe. He speaks sincerely and he
savors the sincerity in his own voice.
Ill take a cab.

225

The kitchen staff always leave a few

lunch left overs in the directorate
fridge.
His wife mentions something about the
Minister for Social Affairs and a
proposal for integration of immigrants
that
undermines
the
proposal
she
herself has just put forward. He gets
up and walks over to the window, gazes
out. He doesnt listen. The snow
flakes flutter ceaselessly through the
darkness
and
the
skewed
light
figurines drawn up by the street lamps
and the windows opposite. Its his
world, but suddenly it is as if its
not. He has a lecture to prepare. Does
the universe hold different rules for
different people? Its something hes
read somewhere. It wasnt what she
said.
Ill be there in time, he says.
When hes hung up, he goes to the
kitchen and opens the fridge, but the
fridge is empty. It doesnt matter. He
isnt hungry.

226

III
Before he called his wife, hed read
the first three chapters.
Its fiction. Fascinating. No
experiences this kind of thing.

one

The book begins with the pummeling to

death of an elections observer. With
the blood melding with the dust on the
African linoleum. A young woman is the
aide of the head of the United
Nations peace keeping mission in
Morenzao. The pages are damp and the
text smudged, but the words are still
readable.
She
stares
at
the
desiccating blood without knowing that
her life is about to become another.
This is when he called his wife.
Five thirtyfive.
People
often
think
they
have
experienced something they havent.
She didnt answer when he asked her:
Did someone hurt you in Morenzao?
Its the kind of story only written in
novels. She merely gazed at him. Made
him feel like a fool, even though
227

shed said nothing, nor had any

expression in her eyes that could
explain the feeling he got when
looking into them: fool. As if it were
solely his own fault that her gaze
made him feel like a fool.
Its what is said to follow further
into the novel thatd made him ask
her.
He
flicks
through
the
pages,
attempting to locate the scene, gets
annoyed with the dampness which glues
the pages together.
She wouldnt
would she?

think

him

fool.

Or

Hurt. Maybe it was the word. You dont

speak about hurt when talking about
war and rape in Africa? But it wasnt
her. Where is it? In the middle of the
novel? Further back?
Yes, she lived there, he knows.
Everyone does. What was her job? She
never speaks about it. Or she does,
but in these oddly detached phrases.
Those
two
years
shed
lived
in
Morenzao. Thats all. Those eyes as
from far off, as two years taken out
of her life. Then this peculiar
undertone. What is it?
228

Yes, of joy. Not dread.

He skims through the middle chapters,
but still doesnt find what hes
looking for.
A country Ive seen go from war to
peace, he overheard her say a few
years back. Thats exactly it, no
horror. Now he remembers: it was at
the dinner for the Albert prize.
Weve all got to do our part. Thats
what she said. And smiled, eyes far
away. As if it was her doing.
Thats what is so ridiculous!
He gives up searching for the scene
and instead puts the two heaps of
paper back into one. He tears a blue
note off the pad and sticks it onto
the cover page.
As if shed personally saved Morenzao!
He has a speech to write and places
the manuscript in the outbox, the note
reading: To the printers.

229

VII

All stories belong to someone else, he

writes. Not even the story of our own
life can be told without narrating the
story of other peoples lives.
He examines the photo of his youngest
daughter.
What will she write about him one day?
Africa is far away, hed said.
I am here.
We belong to the same world, he hears
her voice continue, but its not what
he recalls. No, she just said her Im
here, as if it said it all.
Lulad say it does.

We are obligated to the people before

us, he writes.
Corrects it:

The degree to which we are obligated

to the people before us, depends on
whether we are stronger or weaker. The
one
who
commands
the
might
to

230

influence the life of the other, also

bears the obligation.
Yes, thats how it is.
He deletes the passage.
Of all people he ought to know. He
walks the edge. Between outside and
inside. Does he command might or is he
prey to the might?
Youre
say.

one

of

us,

his

wife

would

Shes bound to say so, Lulad say.

Because she knows that in truth
youre
one
of
us,
shed
have
continued.
To him its of no consequence. Its
all about practicality.
Its practical to be married into.
Of course hes in command.
Much
selling
literature
pays
for
little selling literature. Thats the
way its always been. Always will be.
Also Petra vinter ought to appreciate
it: the authors novels pay for her
mathematical poetry collections.
231

He retypes the last four lines. Is

about to delete them once more, when
instead he places them in brackets.
Proceeds:

In the execution of his art, the

artist abdicates all the obligations
human beings otherwise bear in real
life, exactly because art is not
reality. It is for art to explore and
challenge
the
boundaries
of
our
answerability to reality, and this can
only be done by the casting aside of
all restrictions existing within the
real world.
It isnt that were working with test
animals,
toxins,
weapons
of
mass
destruction, or the like.
How can you expect that the people
who do will feel obliged to theirs if
you dont to yours?
Its literature.
Contradicting
practical.

Petra

vinter

is

So much the easier. Will the world be

better off because of that book?
Its literature.
232

Will the world be worse off for want

of that book?
Art cant be measured that way. You
know very well yourself.
Is it art?
Its literature.
Some of it is reality. My reality.
But the names are fictitious. No one
will know.
I know.
Did she say I? Or did she say:
You know.
I kept quiet in consideration of
something beyond me. No one should
enrich themselves on that account.
Did she say that, or did she say:
Itll be damaging if this story be
publicized.
Damaging
to
Morenzao.
Damaging to me.
Its practical to be practical:
Thats life. Thats real life.

233

Is it?
Or did she say:
Is it how you want it?
He isnt certain which parts of this
dialogue theyve had, or which parts
are merely forming in his head here
and now.
Speaking
with
impractical.

Petra

vinter

is

He can see her mouth shape the words:

I kept quiet in consideration of
.... But did she really say so?
Nor did she say that she was dying.
Did she?
Its the woman
dying of AIDS.

in

the

novel

whos

What if none of it is true?

He cant be the judge of a trial that
doesnt take place. She looks healthy
enough to him, lacking nothing but a
part of one ear.

234

If she believes she has a case she

must sue the author. Yes, thats the
way it is.
I cant sue him cause theres no law
against appropriating other peoples
stories, she says.
There you go, he says.
Where?
He cannot stand Petra vinter!

235

236

Poems by Rafeef Ziyadeh

Today
Today, my body was a TVd massacre.
Today, my body was a TVd massacre
that had to fit into sound-bites and
word limits.
Today, my body was a TVd massacre
that had to fit into sound-bites and
word limits
filled enough with statistics to
counter measured response.
So I perfected my English and I
learned my UN resolutions.
But still, he asked me, Ms. Ziadah,
dont you think that everything would
be resolved if you would just stop
teaching so much hatred to your
children?
Pause.
I look inside of me for strength to be
patient, but patience is not at the
tip of my tongue
as the bombs drop over Gaza.
237

Patience has just escaped me.

Pause. Smile.
We teach life, sir.
Rafeef, youre on camera, remember to
smile.
Pause.
We teach life, sir.
We Palestinians teach life after they
have occupied the last sky.
We teach life after they have built
their settlements and apartheid walls,
after the last skies.
We teach life, sir.
But today, my body was a TVd massacre
made to fit into sound-bites and word
limits.
Just give us a story, a human story.
Every journalist needs a hook you
see.
Its not political.

238

We just want to tell people a human

story.
Dont mention that word apartheid
and occupation.
This is not political.
Today, my body was a TVd massacre.
How about you give us a story of a
woman in Gaza who needs medication?
How about you?
Do you have enough bone-broken limbs
to cover the sun?
Hand me over your dead.
Give me the list of their names, but
make sure its in one thousand two
hundred word limits.
Today, my body was a TVd massacre
that had to fit into sound-bites and
word limits to move those that are
desensitized to terrorist blood.
But they felt sorry.
They felt sorry for the cattle over
Gaza.
239

So, I give them UN resolutions and

statistics and we condemn and we
deplore and we reject.
These are not two equal sides:
occupier and occupied.
a hundred dead, two hundred dead, and
a thousand dead.
between that, war crime and massacre,
I vent out words and smile not
exotic, not terrorist.
And I recount, I recount a hundred
dead, a thousand dead.
Is anyone out there?
Will anyone listen?
I wish I could wail over their bodies.
I wish I could just run barefoot in
every refugee camp
hold every child, cover their ears
so they wouldnt have to hear the
sound of bombing for the rest of their
life
the way that I do.
240

Let me just tell you, theres nothing

your UN resolutions have ever done
about this.
And no sound-bite, no sound-bite I
come up with,
no matter how good my English gets,
no sound-bite, no sound-bite, no
sound-bite, no sound-bite
will bring them back to life. No
sound-bite will fix this.
We teach life, sir.
We teach life, sir.
We Palestinians wake up every morning
to teach the rest of the world life,
sir.

241

Chronologies
Chronologies
with no purpose
just dates upon dates and dates
to remind us we once existed over
There.
Years are only names for massacres
48, 67, 20something and waiting
the dead are numbered listed, graphed,
mapped
and clustered in phosphorus
wrapped neatly in statistic for the
evening news
2014 and waiting
long enough in visa lines
to carve out a home of fake smiles and
documents
to know I am from There and unwanted
anywhere else.
The There they accuse us of
The There of stories told in shelters
in Beirut
by grandparents
voices trembling

242

not knowing if they will see There

again.
2014 and waiting
to negotiate or not negotiate
to apologize for our own Nakba
accept exile and pray forgetfulness
and "be practical" child
be "pragmatic" child
"the refugees are the last stumbling
block"
so they negotiate us away
"they will never let you return" child
as if we need permission to be from
There
or had a choice to be from somewhere
else.

2014 and waiting

for another boat to break another
siege
for mothers to make miracles raising
children
243

only on water and lentils and no shoes

for school
for some to let us be human and work
others to just let us be.
Palestinian and return.
There will be more boats
I will sit in one - curled up in a
memory
that still smells of lead and concrete
my children will learn to play
by a beach in Yafa, they will tell
stories
of how long we waited
to come back There.
2014 and waiting.

244

Brigid Keenan
An Article Extract
Hebron has been a terrible shock to
all of us. This city, which used to be
the busiest on the West Bank, where
160,000 Palestinians live and where
there was once a huge market serving
the surrounding area, is like a ghost
town. There are only five hundred
Israeli settlers here, but with two
thousand soldiers to guard them. The
market is closed, the shops are
closed, the roads are mostly closed to
Palestinians, and on rooftops you can
see Israeli soldiers with their guns
pointing down at you. We walked along
one
of
the
few
streets
that
Palestinians are allowed to use, but
even here they have to keep behind a
barrier at the side, while macho
Israeli settlers jog down the centre
of the road carrying guns. One of the
settlements in Hebron is above a
narrow street in the old part of town
still used by Palestinians. They have
had to put wire netting over the top
of the street to catch the missiles
that the settlers throw down on them:
you can see the big things caught in
the net: bricks, bottles, rubbish
but of course it doesnt prevent poo
or pee or acid coming through. We
245

walked through, slightly warily, on

our way to the Mosque of Abraham,
which was once accessible to everyone,
until in 1994 an armed settler walked
into it, and shot dead twenty-nine
Muslims at prayer, and injured over a
hundred. Now it is divided in two,
with a synagogue in the second half.
We joined Muslims going to pray in the
mosque: we had to pass through three
checkpoints in the space of a hundred
yards before we could enter. Once
there, the women in our party were
given hooded gowns that looked a bit
like Ku Klux Klan outfits, and then we
were free to wander round this holy of
holies, some of us moved to tears.
None of us had experienced anything
like Hebron before, and we grew more
and more appalled and uncomfortable as
the day went on because we were
witnessing the deliberate humbling of
a people. Tonight in Bethlehem we
watched a local dance group leaping
about on stage full of energy and good
humour and we sat there wondering how
on earth the Palestinians keep their
spirits up. We are all impressed and
admiring. I was telling someone we met
that I couldnt bear the arrogance of
the settlers in Hebron and the way
they strut around, and I inadvertently
coined a new word, struttler, a rather
better
description
than
settler.
246

Bethlehem, 10 May This morning we were

taken on a bus tour to see the wall
that nearly surrounds Bethlehem now.
We were as shocked as we had been in
Hebron. Bethlehem is on a hill with
carefully
tended
olive
groves
on
terraces down the sides. The route of
the wall is not at the bottom of the
hill no, it presses against the last
houses in the town, it is the view at
the end of the street, its watchtowers
loom over the houses. When it is
complete it will cut the land off from
its owners, and here is the catch:
there is an Israeli law which says
that if land lies untended for seven
years it can be confiscated by the
Israeli government. Everyone knows in
advance their land will be taken
because, when the wall is finished, no
one will be able to get through it. We
passed an old monastery where, for
centuries, monks have been making
communion wine from their vineyards
for
the
Christian
churches
of
Bethlehem; when the wall is finished
it will lie on the Israeli side, what
will happen to them? Jerusalem, 11 May
We had a few free hours today so I
begged
Ana
(the
ex-Tupamaros
guerrilla), who is an IT wizard, to
let me talk to AW on her mobile
because my Jordanian SIM card doesnt
work here and I am desperate to tell
247

him that all is well. Then Hanan alShaykh and Esther and I visited the
Church of the Holy Sepulchre with one
of our Palestinian volunteer guides,
Hamada, who is a theatrical costume
designer. As we went into the church I
said to Hamada, I feel so moved that
I am going to pray by the body of
Jesus. He gave me a funny look, and
said, What do you mean? Of course it
isnt here! I had just forgotten the
whole central tenet of my Catholic
faith which is the Resurrection . . .
Hamada led us through crowds of
pilgrims carrying crosses (he says
theres a roaring trade in renting out
crosses) and on to the most famous
pastry maker in Jerusalem. The small
shop was tucked away in a corner
against the Holy Sepulchre building
and didnt look at all promising, just
a couple of Formica tables and plastic
chairs, no food to be seen. But the
cook took a small lump of dough (one
hed prepared earlier) from a fridge
and flung it around in his hands until
it became paper thin (tissue paper
thin) and then folded it round some
cheese, then he did the same with some
nuts, then he poured a few drops of
rosewater and syrup over the top of
the pastries, baked them for a few
minutes and then we ate them, sweet
and crisp and light. Possibly the most
248

delicious things Ive ever tasted.

Tottenham Hotspur beat Chelsea in the
English Premier League yesterday
Roddy Doyle told us that he was woken
in the middle of the night by a call
from a distraught friend in Ireland
saying, Chelsea lost for Gods sake
get to the Wailing Wall. This evening
was
our
last
event.
There
were
speeches of thanks and then the
writers read out passages from their
favourite books. I read from the love
story Ali and Nino. Then we all went
to dinner in a nearby restaurant and
danced.
Arabs
are
genetically
programmed to be able to shimmy their
hips; Brits are definitely not I was
so aware of looking like a cartoon of
an English person doing Arabic dancing
that I gave up. But it was a great
evening and to think that only a few
days ago we were all at the Allenby
Bridge full of fear and trepidation
and worrying about all the things that
could go wrong and none have. I came
up to my room last night, opened the
door (which wasnt locked), turned the
light on, threw my bag on to the spare
bed in my room and only then to my
absolute horror I saw that there was a
man in the other bed. I was in the
wrong room. Worst of all I could see
the back of his head and it was shaved
like Roddy Doyles and I thought Oh
249

God, please, please dont let him wake

up because he will think I have crept
into his room on purpose. I could
hardly breathe with fear, but I
managed to pick up my stuff, and
tiptoe to my own room next door, also
not locked. (I later realised it
couldnt have been Roddy in the bed as
I had seen him downstairs at the bar
before I came up.)

250


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251


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Winners Have Yet to be Announced: A
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& Paraph of Bone

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Crossroads
Modernism:
Descent
and
Emergence in African American Literary
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National Poetry Series Open

Competition

.


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Winners Have Yet
to be Announced .

252




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Damascus Houses: Hidden in Kashmir
Treasures of the Old City
Diplomatic Baggage:
Adventures of a Trailing Spouse
Packing Up
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255

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Poets & Writers

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American Dreams
Black Wings & Blind Angels
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258


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261

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262

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264


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271