Professional Documents
Culture Documents
“This volume brings together scholars from Peru, Europe and the United States
whose well-researched and lucid essays situate Peruvian film production within a
global context of funding and circulation while also paying attention to salient
aspects of this national cinema such as regional films and the examination of recent
Peruvian history. The breadth of this collective volume makes it an essential reading
for those interested in Latin American cinema as well as those who specialize in
Peruvian culture.”
—Carolina Rocha, Professor of Spanish, Southern Illinois University
Edwardsville, USA, author of Masculinities in Contemporary Popular
Argentine Cinema (2012)
“Peruvian Cinema of the Twenty-First Century offers a rich account and makes
a convincing case for seeing the Peruvian films of the 21st century as a distinct
body of work. The conditions for a more diverse, more regionalized, but also more
globalized Peruvian cinema are convincingly sought in the emergence of a neo-
liberal agenda in Peru, itself enabled by the ending of a twenty-year-long civil war.
It usefully charts the changing landscape of Peru’s film legislation while offering
a cogent grouping of the films, the aim being to clarify the different aspirations
of contemporary Peruvian filmmakers and the diversity of their approaches to film
production and audience building. With its powerful evocation of the significance
and achievements of the new Peruvian cinema, along with the serious challenges it
faces, this fine collection makes a most welcome contribution to the study of ‘small’
national cinemas.”
—Mette Hjort, Professor of Humanities and Dean of Arts, Hong Kong Baptist
University, HK, author of The Cinema of Small Nations (2007)
Cynthia Vich · Sarah Barrow
Editors
Peruvian Cinema
of the Twenty-First
Century
Dynamic and Unstable Grounds
Editors
Cynthia Vich Sarah Barrow
Department of Modern Languages School of Art, Media and American
and Literatures Studies
Fordham University University of East Anglia
New York, NY, USA Norwich, UK
© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer
Nature Switzerland AG 2020
This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the
Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights
of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on
microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and
retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology
now known or hereafter developed.
The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc.
in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such
names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for
general use.
The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and informa-
tion in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither
the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with
respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been
made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps
and institutional affiliations.
Cover credit: Still image from the film A punto de despegar (2015), directed by Lorena
Best and Robinson Díaz. Used with permission
This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature
Switzerland AG
The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland
Acknowledgments
We wish to thank all the people who have made this volume possible.
First and foremost, our thanks go to our fourteen fellow contributors,
for their remarkable scholarly contributions and the precise work they put
into their chapters, from the initial abstracts to the careful scrutiny of
their drafts. We really appreciated the robust and rigorous conversations
we were able to have with them.
We would also like to express our gratitude to all colleagues who
provided kind support or recognition, not least our peer reviewers, for
writing very helpful feedback on our proposal, kick-starting the project in
an auspicious manner. We want to acknowledge the financial support from
our institutions: Fordham University’s Office of Research and Univer-
sity of East Anglia’s Arts and Humanities research grants scheme, for
supporting the editorial processes. We particularly want to acknowledge
the crucial role played by Carolina Sitnisky in the conceptualization of
this project. In addition, our thanks go to Carl Fischer who was such a
generous source of advice and support.
At Palgrave, we are grateful for the support of all involved in making
the book a reality, from editors to typesetters to graphic designers. In
particular, our thanks go to Shaun Vigil for his support for our book
proposal, as well as Glenn Ramírez and Liam McLean, for their editorial
guidance, and Preetha Kuttiappan for overseeing the production phase.
We also wish to thank Victoria Jara, for copy-editing the manuscript in
a precise and thorough manner; and Arthur Dixon for all the translation
v
vi ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
1 Introduction 1
Cynthia Vich and Sarah Barrow
vii
viii CONTENTS
Epilogue 343
Index 347
Notes on Contributors
xi
xii NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS
EHESS, Paris, France. He contributed to film studies with his book Imag-
inarios sociales e imaginarios cinematográficos (2009), among other publi-
cations. He is the author of Espacio-tiempo y movilidad. Narrativas del
viaje y la lejanía (2014), Lima imaginada (2010), and Procesos Inter-
culturales (2006). He was Chairman of CONACINE, the National Film
Board of Peru (2002–2006) and Vice-President for Latin America of the
World Communication Association (2011–2017).
María Helena Rueda is Associate Professor of Spanish and Latin Amer-
ican Studies at Smith College. Her book La violencia y sus huellas: una
mirada desde la narrativa colombiana (2011), analyzes the treatment of
violence in Colombian literature since the 1920s. She is also the co-editor
of Meanings of Violence in Contemporary Latin America (2011), which
addresses the proliferation of increasingly complex forms of violence in
the region, and the representation of such violence. She has published
various articles and chapters on film and literature in contemporary Latin
America. Her current research focuses on how cinema deals with the lega-
cies of repressive regimes and civil wars in present-day Latin America,
particularly in Chile, Peru, and Colombia.
Isabel Seguí is a feminist film historian specializing in the politics and
practices of Peruvian and Bolivian women’s filmmaking. In 2019, she
completed her Ph.D. at the University of St Andrews (Scotland), and,
in 2020, was granted a three-year Leverhulme Early Career Fellowship
to develop the project ‘Women’s Nonfiction Filmmaking in Peru (1970-
2020)’ at the University of Edinburgh. Her research has been published in
various journals in Europe and the Americas, and awarded by the British
Association of Film, Television, and Screen Studies. She co-organized the
first two editions of the Latin American Women’s Filmmaking Interna-
tional Conference (London 2017, and Madrid 2019) and facilitates the
research network ‘Mujeres en el Cine Latinoamericano’.
Carolina Sitnisky is an independent scholar with extensive work expe-
rience in entertainment. She taught at the University of California, the
University of Southern California, and Pomona College. Her research
focuses on connections between cultural politics and historical readings
in twentieth- and twenty-first-century Latin American cinema and liter-
ature, with emphasis on the Andean region. She is the co-editor with
Constanza Burucúa of the volume The Precarious in the Cinemas of the
NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS xv
Americas (2018) and with Gabriela Copertari, El estado de las cosas: cine
latinoamericano del nuevo milenio (2015).
María Eugenia Ulfe is currently Senior Professor/Lecturer in Anthro-
pology at the Department of Social Sciences and Director of the M.A.
Programs in Anthropology and Visual Anthropology at the Pontificia
Universidad Católica del Perú. She also directs the Interdisciplinary
Research Group on Memory and Democracy. Her research focuses on
memory, creative culture, violence, and visual anthropology. Her publi-
cations include Cajones de la memoria: la historia reciente del Perú en los
retablos andinos (PUCP, 2011) and ¿Y después de la violencia qué queda?
Víctimas, ciudadanos y reparaciones en el contexto post-CVR en el Perú
(CLACSO, 2013).
Cynthia Vich is Associate Professor of Latin American Literature and
Cinema at Fordham University in New York City. She is the author
of Indigenismo de vanguardia en el Perú: un estudio sobre el “Boletín
Titikaka” (2000) as well as of articles on Peruvian indigenista writers,
Salazar Bondy’s Lima la horrible, and Daniel Alarcón’s Ciudad de payasos.
Her most recent publications discuss the cinematic representations of
urban spatiality in the films La teta asustada, Paraíso and Magallanes.
She is currently expanding further upon this topic in a book project about
Lima on screen, where she discusses other recent Peruvian films such as
El limpiador, Octubre, Rosa Chumbe, and A punto de despegar.
Daniella Wurst is an independent scholar. She holds a Ph.D. in Latin
American and Iberian Cultures from Columbia University. Her research
is focused on the intersections between aesthetics, memory practices, and
temporality. She is currently preparing her book Breaking the Frames of
the Past: Photography and Literature in Contemporary Latin America.
List of Figures
xvii
xviii LIST OF FIGURES
Introduction
C. Vich (B)
Fordham University,
New York, NY, USA
e-mail: vich@fordham.edu
S. Barrow
University of East Anglia, Norwich, UK
e-mail: sarah.barrow@uea.ac.uk
many Peruvian films are achieving global visibility on the festival and
art cinema circuits as well as via online platforms, such that the concept
of Peruvian cinema has become part of a broader conversation within
the field of Latin American film studies to do with interdisciplinarity
and transnationality. In the context of film production, Peruvian direc-
tors such as Claudia Llosa, Melina León, and Alvaro Delgado Aparicio
have become increasingly visible on the global stage. Furthermore, as
evidence that this dynamism is not restricted to market-oriented products
and processes, regional, community-based, and experimental filmmaking
has significantly expanded within the last twenty years with directors like
Palito Ortega Matute, Eduardo Quispe Alarcón, and Lorena Best chal-
lenging and expanding traditional cinematic practices. In sharp contrast
with the state of the field only a couple of decades ago, nowadays Peruvian
cinema is marked by its ample diversity.
This book, the first English-language collection of essays on Peruvian
cinema, takes as its starting point the growth of cinematic produc-
tion in the country during the first two decades of the twenty-first
century. We wish to tie this significant upsurge to the conclusion of the
twenty-year war (1980–2000) between the state and the insurgent group
Sendero Luminoso [Shining Path], which gave way to the reinvention
of the country within a neoliberal agenda and deliberately and promi-
nently inserted Peru into the global marketplace. This process included
changes across the whole landscape of Peruvian society—economic, polit-
ical, cultural, and technological. Economically, a significant rise in the
number of people who belong to the middle classes occurred, with the
poverty rate falling from 52.2% in 2005 to 26.1% in 2013.2 During the
century’s first decade, what has been called the “Peruvian miracle” refers
to an extraordinary economic performance which displayed an annual
growth of 6.1% of its GDP between 2003 and 2013, a period then
followed by a slowdown to an annual average rate of 3.2% between 2014
and 2018, mainly as a result of the lowering of international commodity
prices. Nevertheless, even the unprecedented macroeconomic surge, espe-
cially during the first decade, was in many ways divorced from the general
welfare of Peruvians at the micro level of everyday life, and was also
accompanied by one of neoliberalism’s systemic features: the persistence
of high levels of inequality. In addition, the vulnerabiity and fragility
of the emerging middle classes has been made dramatically evident in
the economic crisis resulting from the COVID-19 pandemic, which has
also revealed that, in spite of solid economic reserves, urgently needed
investment in key sectors like health was scandalously neglected.
1 INTRODUCTION 3
Neoliberalism in Peru
In our desire to contextualize twenty-first-century Peruvian cinema within
the transformations brought about by neoliberalism, we acknowledge that
1 INTRODUCTION 5
since the 1990s, Peru has been one of the several Latin American sites
of experimentation for neoliberal reforms propelled “from above” (Gago
2017, p. 2). However, as Gago has pointed out, Foucault’s concept
of governmentality allows us to understand neoliberalism as a set of
skills, technologies, and practices which reveal a rationality that cannot
be thought of only from above, but need to be considered as also coming
from below (2017, p. 2). As “a variety of ways of doing, being and
thinking that organize the social machinery’s calculations and effects,”
the way that neoliberalism has unfolded in Peru provides quite a concrete
example of how this rationality “is not purely abstract nor macropo-
litical but rather arises from the encounter with forces at work and is
embodied in various ways by the subjectivities and tactics of everyday
life” (Gago 2017, p. 2). In that sense, beyond its political implementation
by the government, the ways in which neoliberalism has become rooted
in popular subjectivities in places like Peru attests to a complex, imma-
nent, and nonlinear functioning where it is “simultaneously contemporary
and contested, reinterpreted and innovated” as well as “appropriated,
destroyed, relaunched, and altered by those who, it assumes, are only
its victims” (Gago 2017, p. 234).
As an example of the multiple ways through which neoliberal tech-
nologies of power operate, the ideology of entrepreneurship normalized
in the country at the macro and micro levels since 1990 presents itself as
an opportunity for everyone, reinforcing what since the early twentieth
century has been a heroic narrative that understands migration as the
first path for economic prosperity. As a “vitalist pragmatic,” the social,
cultural, and economic transformations brought by migration can then
be understood as one of the ways in which neoliberalism from below
reveals itself as “a powerful popular economy that combines community
skills of self-management and intimate know-how as a technology of mass
self-entrepreneurship” (Gago 2017, p. 6). In Peru, the intense process of
urbanization that has continued into the twenty-first century has resulted
in a sprawling growth of cities, mostly along the coast but also else-
where throughout the country, where the emblematic mall-plus-multiplex
phenomenon has become the familiar site of an urban consumer culture
shaped by the neoliberal expectations and specific habits of the growing
middle classes. Indeed, as García Canclini pointed out back in 1995, since
the early 1990s citizenship and the act of political participation in Latin
America became reconfigured by the practices of consumption. With a
degree of agency that operates mainly at the level of affect, the overriding
6 C. VICH AND S. BARROW
Cinema Regulation
Within the cinematic milieu, the structural forces underlying the tension
between dynamism and instability arise in large part from the repeated
attempts at creating an overarching legal framework. The nation’s film
legislation (Ley de la Cinematografía Peruana 26370), in place from
1994 until December 2019, had already proven obsolete given that it
was created before the impact of the digital revolution on all aspects of
film production, distribution, exhibition, and culture. After many years
of heated debate, a controversial proposal for new legislation (Proyecto de
Ley 3304/2018) was drafted and presented to Congress in early 2019,
resulting in preliminary approval, but its progress was then stalled due to
the dissolution of Congress in September of that year. Unexpectedly, and
without public discussion, President Martín Vizcarra issued an emergency
decree (Decreto de Urgencia 022-2019) in December 2019 which—at
the time of publication—still needed approval by the new Congress that
was reinstated in March 2020.7 This situation further underlines our
hypothesis that in Peru, the relationship between political, economic,and
cinematic developments is inextricable.
The most notable strength of the new cinema decree is the tripling
of the funding available for film, between thirty and forty percent of
which has now been ring-fenced exclusively for regional productions.8
8 C. VICH AND S. BARROW
production (something that has recently been partly reversed by new and
cheaper technologies), producing cinema has been limited to members
of that same elite, with their work often criticized for not resonating
with audiences of different social backgrounds. Since this has slowly been
changing in the last twenty years, our selection of films aims to highlight
some of the range of new voices that are coming through from different
cultural, gender, and socio-economic identities. From the perspective of
reception, this has triggered a degree of audience expansion which is
evident through the alternative spaces for film-viewing that have devel-
oped throughout the country in recent years. Small, producer-led festivals
(such as the Festival de Cine Hecho por Mujeres , the Transcinema Festival
Internacional de Cine, the Festival de Cine de Trujillo (FECIT) and the
Festival de Cine Peruano en Lenguas Originarias ), as well as cineclubs and
independent showcases led by film critics (such as the former Cine Club
de la Universidad de Ciencias y Humanidades , El Galpón Transcinema
in Lima, and the Cine Club Amaru in Ayacucho) have been crucial in
reaching out to wider spectatorships. In addition, initiatives such as the
Grupo Chaski’s Microcines project, the work of Docuperú, and the prolif-
eration of online platforms such as Cineaparte, have given opportunities
for many more people to experience film culture beyond the space of
the multiplex theater. While these alternative exhibition spaces work tire-
lessly to enhance the appreciation of Peruvian and international cinema
by local audiences, and to bridge the gap between critically engaged and
artistically sophisticated films and the general public, the fact remains that
the exclusion of most national art and independent films from reasonable
access to mainstream theaters continues to perpetuate the marginalization
of Peruvian cinema as a legitimate site for national identification and sense
of belonging.
in the art markets, and those that have not had this imperative as their
primary objective. Informed by the elasticity, porosity, and the different
levels of precariousness that characterize the Peruvian filmmaking milieu,
our aim is not to provide a rigid taxonomy, but a useful and ample set
of tools to address the complex functioning of the nation’s current film-
making and consumption. We believe that despite the problematics of any
categorization, it is productive to think about how cinema aligns with but
also transcends clear-cut boundaries, and to acknowledge there are slip-
pages between categories. These happen when the originality of hybrid
forms disrupts intended classifications and reveals new perspectives despite
the tendency of market logics to label products in a way that orients them
toward specific audiences. For this reason, rather than understanding our
categories as fixed, we want to use them as a strategic approach that recog-
nizes that several of the films discussed in this volume could easily be
placed in more than one group.
and genre, signal in that direction. The new habits and tastes of emerging
consumers of these films have resulted in a considerable rise in attendance
at mall-based multiplexes as part of a broader entertainment experience
(Bedoya 2015, pp. 26–27). By adopting some of the most classic thematic
approaches of the commercial industry system (such as depoliticization,
historical simplification, romantic storylines, recognizable casting, and
predictable content), these films emulate those produced by Hollywood
majors (Ortner in Castro 2017, p. 20). In terms of distribution, these
projects are linked at an early stage of production to a distributor, usually
a representative of a Hollywood firm for Peru, who guarantees that they
will receive a similar treatment to that enjoyed by Hollywood films in local
theaters. Essentially, this entails screenings in accessible and well-equipped
theaters at popular times, and payment directly to the producer (Bedoya
2015, p. 69). This relatively sophisticated and more robust distribution
infrastructure has obvious positive effects on achieving high audience
numbers and greater visibility for these films as compared with the other
types discussed in this book.
The first chapter in this section, by Carolina Sitnisky, takes the
romantic comedy genre as a strategy for commercial success and analyzes
four films by Frank Pérez-Garland. Within the bounds of film as enter-
tainment, she argues for the substantial advances that this genre has
made toward developing a national audience by establishing an affective
connection with the spectators grounded in nostalgia and locally recog-
nizable features. Jeffrey Middents continues the discussion on nostalgia
in relation to audience development with his chapter on the relationship
between ¡Asu Mare! (2013), Peru’s biggest commercial filmic success
with three million spectators, and the nation branding campaign Marca
Perú. Concerned with the internal and external framing of Peru on
screen, Middents discusses Peruvian national cinema’s historical neglect
of the comedy genre and emphasizes how ¡Asu Mare! fulfills some of the
goals of Marca Perú: to brand the country by identifying its competi-
tive identity in the global market, and to provide an example, through its
protagonist, of how to be a twenty-first-century Peruvian.
The second section, “Regional low budget drama,” presents analyses
of films made by individual directors as part of small independent produc-
tion companies whose films are shown mostly in local venues outside Lima
and where profit, albeit low, is one of the main guiding forces. Regional
film in general has been acknowledged as the most significant develop-
ment in Peruvian cinema since the late 1990s (Bustamante and Luna
Victoria 2017, p. 17; Bustamante 2018, p. 443) and in this section we
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pflegte seinen Untertanen Empfehlungsbriefe an den Erzengel
Gabriel mitzugeben, um ihnen einen guten Platz im Paradies zu
sichern, und wenn auch der Sohn, dank seiner englischen Erziehung
und seiner Bekanntschaft mit englischer Denkungsart, sich dieses
Vorrechtes nicht mehr bedient, so ist er doch in der Meinung seiner
Anhänger noch immer der Hüter der Schlüssel zum Himmelreich. Ihr
Glaube an ihn findet seinen sehr konkreten Ausdruck in dem
Einkommen, das sie durch Subskription für ihn in Asien und Afrika
aufbringen, und das jährlich in die Zehntausende geht.
Ungefähr eine Stunde ritten wir durch Gärten dahin. Scharen von
Arabern der niedersten Klasse begegneten uns. Auf ihren mit Milch
und Quark beladenen Eseln trotteten sie zum Markt nach Homs.
Endlich gelangten wir in die jenseits des Orontes liegende Ebene,
wo diese Araber zu Hause sind. Diese Steppe bot einen vertrauten
Anblick: sie ähnelte der Landschaft im Drusengebirge und war gleich
dem Haurān mit schwarzem, vulkanischem Gestein bedeckt. Sie ist
der Steinlieferant für die Stadt Homs. Alle zum Bauen benötigten
Steine werden auf Eseln jenseits vom Flusse hereingebracht. Sie
gelten in der Stadt einen Metallik (es ist eine so kleine Münze, daß
sie kein europäisches Gegenstück besitzt), und ein Mann mit einem
guten Gespann kann bis zu 10 Piaster pro Tag verdienen. Im
Frühjahr ist Wa'r Homs, die steinige Steppe von Homs, nur von den
verachtetsten Arabern bewohnt, die die Stadt mit Lebensmitteln
versorgen, — wohlgemerkt, kein Beduine würde seinen
Lebensunterhalt durch Quarkhandel oder durch irgend etwas
anderes als durch Kampf erwerben — im Sommer aber lassen sich
große Stämme, wie z. B. die Haseneh, auf einige Monate hier
nieder, und nach der Ernte folgen ihnen gewisse Familien der
'Anazeh, die ihre Kamele die Stoppeln abweiden lassen. Diese
großen Völkerschaften sind dem Lachs zu vergleichen, der aus dem
offenen Meere in den Forellenbach eindringt und die kleineren
Fische in Angst und Schrecken versetzt. Jetzt, im März, stand die
Steppe zum Teil unter Wasser, und zwischen den Steinen sproßten
Gras und Blumen; als wir aber, weiter westwärts ziehend, ein
allmählich ansteigendes Terrain erreichten, bot die Landschaft das
Bild eines wahren Blumengartens. Lichtblaue Hyazinthen erhoben
ihre dichtgedrängten Glöckchen über die Lavablöcke, Schwertlilien,
rote Anemonen, gelbes Habichtskraut und die prächtige
purpurfarbene Nieswurz schmückten das Gras — kurz, die ganze
Fülle des syrischen Frühlings lag an diesem glücklichen Tage unter
unseren Füßen ausgebreitet. Während der ersten fünf Stunden
folgten wir der Fahrstraße nach Tripoli, passierten die die letzte
Station vor Homs bildende Karawanserei und überschritten die
Grenzlinie zwischen Damaskus und Beirut. Dann wandten wir uns
zur Rechten und betraten einen Saumpfad, der eine wellige
Grasfläche durchschnitt, die zum Teil angebaut war und einen noch
reicheren Blumenflor zeigte als die Ränder der Fahrstraße.
Anemonen vom lichtesten Weiß bis zum dunkelsten Purpur und
kleine blaue Iris säumten den Pfad, gelbe Krokus drängten einander
an den Ufern des Stromes. Für uns aber, die wir vor kurzem
Südsyrien durchzogen, bot das Gras eine noch größere Augenweide
als die Blumen. Tragen doch selbst die höchsten Gipfel des Djebel
Nosairijjeh ein so saftiggrünes Gewand, daß sich sogar die
fruchtbarsten Hänge Judäas und Samarias keines solchen rühmen
können. Nachdem wir einen niederen Höhenzug überschritten,
senkte sich der Pfad nach einem kurdischen Dorfe, dessen
Wohnungen teils aus Zelten, teils aus Erdhütten bestanden. Sicher
lebten die Einwohner schon lange in Syrien, denn sie hatten ihre
heimische Sprache vergessen und konnten nur Arabisch, das sie,
ebenso wie unsre beiden Zaptiehs, mit dem abgehackten Akzent der
Kurden aussprachen. Über dem Dorfe drüben erstreckte sich eine
ungefähr drei Meilen breite Steppe, die Bkei'a, bis an den Fuß des
steilen Abfalls des Nosairijjehgebirges, von dessen höchstem Gipfel
die große Festung aus der Zeit der Kreuzzüge herniederdräute, die
unser nächstes Ziel war. Noch lag sie von der Sonne beschienen da,
hinter ihren Türmen aber kroch bereits ein schwarzes Wetter empor;
schon hörten wir den Donner in den Bergen grollen, und zackige
Blitze durchzuckten den schwarzen Hintergrund der Burg. Leider war
der direkte Weg durch die Bkei'a dem Berittenen unzugänglich dank
der schwammigen Sümpfe, die nach Aussage der Dörfler tief genug
waren, um ein Maultier samt seiner Ladung zu verschlingen; wir
wandten uns deshalb, zwar widerwillig nur, nach rechts und umritten
den Fuß des Gebirges. Noch waren wir nicht weit gekommen, als
uns zwei Reiter begegneten, die der Kāimakām von Kal'at el Husn
zu unsrer Begrüßung ausgeschickt; kaum hatten sie sich uns
zugesellt, als das Wetter losbrach und uns in Ströme von Regen
hüllte. Durch Pfützen und Schlamm plätschernd, gelangten wir
gegen 5 Uhr vom Regen durchweicht an den Fuß des Berges. Hier
ließ ich meine Karawane die Hauptstraße weiter verfolgen und
erklomm mit einem von des Kāimakāms Reitern den Gipfel auf
einem steilen, schmalen, gerade hinaufführenden Pfade.
Sonnenuntergang brachte uns an den »Schwarzen Turm«. Durch
ein prächtiges arabisches Tor ritten wir in einen gewölbten Gang,
durch den eine Wendeltreppe aufwärtsführte. Es war fast Nacht
darin; einige Schießscharten gewährten der grauen Dämmerung von
draußen Eingang und verbreiteten kaum einen Schimmer von
Tageslicht. Hin und wieder ritten wir an Türen vorüber, hinter denen
tiefste Finsternis lag. Die Steinstufen waren flach und breit, aber
vielfach zerbrochen; unsre Pferde stolperten und klapperten höher
und höher hinauf, bogen um eine Ecke nach der anderen, ritten
durch Tor um Tor, bis das letzte uns endlich in den innern Hof der
Festung brachte. Mir war, als ritt ich an der Seite eines Ritters aus
dem Feenreich, und ich wäre nicht überrascht gewesen, wenn mir
wie in Spencers Dichtung von dem Torbogen Worte wie »Sei kühn!«
»Sei kühn!« »Sei nicht zu kühn!« entgegengeleuchtet hätten. Es
befand sich jedoch kein Zauberer im Innern der Burg — nichts als
eine Schar Dörfler reckten ihre Hälse, um uns zu sehen, und der
Kāimakām versicherte mir lächelnd und freundlich, daß er nicht
daran denken könnte, mich in dieser nassen, stürmischen Nacht ein
Lager aufschlagen zu lassen. Er hatte bereits für ein Nachtquartier in
der Burg gesorgt.
Kaffee am Wegrande.
Nach dem Frühstück stieg ich den schlüpfrigen Berg hinab in das
Dorf und stattete der Sitt Ferīdeh und ihrem Manne einen Besuch
ab. Ich fand ein zweites christliches Paar dort; der Mann war der
Sāhib es Sanduk, wohl eine Art Schatzmeister. Die beiden Männer
sprachen über die Lage der syrischen Armen. Nach der Meinung
des Feldmessers brauchte keiner Hungers zu sterben, wie das von
ihm aufgestellte Budget des Durchschnittsbauern bestätigte. Selbst
der ärmste Fellahīn kann im Jahre 1000–1500 Piaster verdienen
(140–220 Mark), hat aber außer der Kopfsteuer und der
Entschädigungssumme für seinen militärischen Ersatzmann keinen
Pfennig Geld auszugeben. Fleisch ist ein unbekannter Luxus; ein
Faß Semen (ranzige Butter) kostet höchstens 8–10 Mark und genügt
auf Monate hinaus, um den Burghul und andre Mehlgerichte
schmackhaft zu machen. Werden die Körnerfrüchte und der Semen
knapp beim Bauer, so braucht er nur in das Gebirge oder in das
flache Land hinabzugehen, das noch herrenloses Gebiet ist, und
sich eßbare Kräuter zu sammeln oder nach Wurzeln zu graben. Sein
Haus baut er sich eigenhändig, den Platz, auf dem es steht, hat er
umsonst, Geräte und Möbel braucht er nicht hinein. Und Kleidung?
Da ist ihm wenig genug vonnöten: einige Leinenhemden, alle 2–3
Jahre ein wollenes Gewand und ein Baumwollentuch um den Kopf.
Selten nur bleiben die Alten und Kranken ohne Pflege; haben sie
noch eine Familie, so sorgt diese für sie, sind sie aber ganz ohne
Angehörige, so können sie ihr Leben leicht durch Betteln fristen,
denn kein Orientale weist die Bitte um eine kleine Gabe zurück,
wenn der Arme auch nur selten Geld geben kann. Wenige Fellahīn
besitzen eigenes Land, sondern sie arbeiten um Tagelohn auf den
Gütern der Reicheren. Die Hauptgrundbesitzer um Kal'at el Husn
gehören der aus Tripoli stammenden Familie der Danādischeh an.
Noch bis vor kurzem war die Burg nicht Eigentum der Regierung,
sondern gehörte dem Geschlecht der Zabieh, in deren Besitz sie
zwei Jahrhunderte gewesen, und deren Nachkommen noch jetzt
eine Wohnung am äußeren Wall innehaben. Hier fiel der
Schatzmeister mit der Bemerkung ein, daß selbst der
mohammedanischen Bevölkerung die ottomanische Herrschaft
verhaßt wäre, und daß sie sich viel lieber von einem Fremden
regieren lassen würden — möge er immerhin ein Ungläubiger sein
— am liebsten von den Engländern, denn Ägyptens Wohlfahrt hätte
einen tiefen Eindruck auf die Syrer gemacht.
An diesem Abend ließ mich der Kāimakām fragen, ob ich allein
zu speisen wünschte, oder ob ich ihm und seiner Frau die Ehre
geben wollte. Ich bat um den letzteren Vorzug. Trotz seines wahrhaft
rührenden Bemühens, mir ein guter Wirt zu sein, war er doch still
und traurig zu Beginn des Diners, bis wir endlich ein Thema
anschnitten, das ihn seinem Kummer einigermaßen entzog. Die
großen Toten kamen uns zu Hilfe und trugen Worte auf ihren Lippen,
die schon Menschengeschlecht um Menschengeschlecht Balsam ins
sinkende Herz geträufelt haben. Der Kāimakām war wohlvertraut mit
der arabischen Literatur; er kannte die Meister der Wüstendichtung
auswendig und trug Lied um Lied vor, sobald er erfahren, daß ich sie
zwar hochschätzte, aber nur wenig von ihnen kannte. Sein eigner
Geschmack freilich neigte sich mehr modernerer Dichtung zu; einer
seiner Lieblingsdichter schien der dem zehnten Jahrhundert
angehörende Mutanabbi zu sein. Noch glüht etwas vom Feuer der
Alten in Mutanabbis Zeilen, und hell lohte es wieder auf, als der
Kāimakām die berühmte Ode zitierte, in der der Dichter Abschied
von den Freuden der Jugend nimmt: