Banthology
International Praise for
Banthology: Stories from Banned Nations
“This anthology is a welcome arrival in a time that is unwelcoming in so many needless ways—at least as the US is projecting. The voices, the writing of Rania Mamoun, Zaher Omareen, Fereshteh Molavi, Najwa Binshatwan, Ubah Cristina Ah Farah, Anoud, and Wajdi al-Ahdal, as given us by their estimable translators here, are all voices and writers we should be reading and knowing in any event. May this book help us begin to know these writers, their work, and lead to a deeper, world of reading, to making the larger world a more welcoming and gracious place in more ways.”
—RICK SIMONSON, Elliott Bay Book Company (Seattle, Washington)
“These amazing stories—ranging from satiric to realistic to heartbreaking—prove once again how much we lose when we ignore the voices of other places and likewise, how much we gain when we listen. Writers from so-called ‘banned’ nations speak (and write) with the same voice as you and I: the human voice. This is a hugely vital collection.”
—MARK HABER, Brazos Bookstore (Houston, Texas)
“What this anthology confirms is that bans never work. Every story in these pages is a testament to the impossibility of confining the imagination and the human spirit into a narrow space. What you will read are reminders of what it means to exist in this moment in history. At turns hilarious and tragic, ironic and heartbreaking, Banthology should be read everywhere, at anytime. And in particular, right now.”
—MAAZA MENGISTE, author of Beneath the Lion’s Gaze
“Compelling project … the highlights are potent and sad.”
—JAMES SMART, The Guardian
“Seven fresh, surprising views on boundaries and borders in a collection that combines black humor, islamo-futurism, fantasy, and painful realities.”
—M. LYNX QUALEY, ArabLit
“Banthology aims to give voice to and better understand a set of nations who have been writ off in one sweeping stereotype, and it does so. Those in power try to silence many voices—this is a triumphant refusal to let that happen.”
—HEATHER MCDAID, The Skinny
“Banthology is replete with ambiguities, oddities and surprises, exploring issues as diverse as madness, friendship and loss.”
—ELLA MILBURN, The State of the Arts
“A timely reminder of the ongoing need for creative resistance in turbulent times.”
—The Irish Times
Deep Vellum Publishing
3000 Commerce St., Dallas, Texas 75226
deepvellum.org · @deepvellum
Deep Vellum Publishing is a 501c3
nonprofit literary arts organization founded in 2013.
Co-published in Great Britain by Comma Press
www.commapress.co.uk
First published in the United States in 2018
by Deep Vellum Publishing
This collection copyright © Deep Vellum Publishing, 2018
All rights reserved.
First edition, 2018
ISBN: 978-1-941920-74-9 (ebook)
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CONTROL NUMBER: 2018932062
—
This edition proudly presented by Charles Dee Mitchell
Cover design by Anna Zylicz · annazylicz.com
Typesetting by Kirby Gann · kirbygann.net
Text set in Bembo, a typeface modeled on typefaces cut by Francesco Griffo for Aldo Manuzio’s printing of De Aetna in 1495 in Venice.
Distributed by Consortium Book Sales & Distribution (800) 283-3572 · cbsd.com
CONTENTS
Introduction
Sarah Cleave
SUDAN
Bird of Paradise
Rania Mamoun
Translated by Ruth Ahmedzai Kemp
SYRIA
The Beginner’s Guide to Smuggling
Zaher Omareen
Translated by Perween Richards & Basma Ghalayini
IRAN
Phantom Limb
Fereshteh Molavi
LIBYA
Return Ticket
Najwa Binshatwan
Translated by Sawad Hussain
SOMALIA
Jujube
Ubah Cristina Ali Farah
Translated by Hope Campbell Gustafson
IRAQ
Storyteller
Anoud
YEMEN
The Slow Man
Wajdi al-Ahdal
Translated by William M. Hutchins
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
ABOUT THE TRANSLATORS
INTRODUCTION
Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!
—Emma Lazarus
IN JANUARY 2017, PRESIDENT Trump signed Executive Order 13769, banning people from seven Muslimmajority countries—Iran, Iraq, Syria, Yemen, Somalia, Sudan and Libya—from entering the United States for 90 days. It also halted refugee resettlement for 120 days and banned Syrian refugees indefinitely. Although nationality-based travel bans were nothing new—the 1882 Chinese Exclusion Act stayed on the statute book until 1943—this was the first such piece of legislation in the modern era, and the first that appeared to discriminate along religious lines. The order has since been blocked, challenged, revised, and added to, but the purpose and effect of the ban are obvious, evolving from Trump’s presidential campaign pledge to perform a ‘total and complete shutdown’ of Muslims entering the US. The enforcement of the order—dubbed the ‘Muslim ban’ by those rallying against it—has been both inhumane and unconstitutional, disrupting tens of thousands of lives and tearing families apart.
The idea for this book was born amid the chaos of that first ban, and sought to champion, give voice to, and better understand a set of nations that the White House would like us to believe are populated entirely by terrorists. As publishers, we are acutely aware of the importance of cultural exchange between communities, and have also seen first-hand the damage caused by tightened visa controls and existing travel restrictions, not just on artists, but on their families—that is to say the damage that impacts on all citizens of nations targeted by prejudicial border controls.
Good stories help us to make sense of the world. They invite us to discover what it’s like to be someone else, someone arbitrarily defined as ‘other’ by the new context they find themselves in; they can also help us to explore the uglier moments of history; times of conflict, oppression or censorship. The writers gathered in this collection were asked to develop a fictional response to Trump’s discriminatory ban, exploring themes of exile, travel and restrictions on movement. In doing so, we hoped to provide a space for writers to unpick some of the troubles of the present, and to provide alternative narratives and perspectives. That said, we were concerned not to limit the type of stories that writers from these nations were able to tell. After 9/11, there was an increased interest in writing and culture from the Middle East and North Africa, but a great deal of the narratives commissioned and promoted by publishers had a tendency to essentialise Arab subjects, meaning that the writers themselves had to bear the burden of representing an entire region or country.
The stories collected here have been written by authors from various generations, and offer up a variety of styles. We wanted to showcase as many different experiences as possible, as the travel ban not only affects those living inside the so-called ‘banned nations’, but also those that have sought peace and freedom in exile. One of the authors, Anoud, moved to New York from Iraq just a month before the first travel ban came in to place, and was, like many others, scared to leave in case she wasn’t allowed to return. Her story
is a portrait of a young Iraqi woman separated from her family and haunted by the horrors of her past, from the Bush Administration’s ‘War on Terror’ to Trump’s so-called Muslim ban. Other stories in the collection explore the perils of the immigration system and the personal and emotional impact of restrictions of movement. Ubah Cristina Ali Farah’s story is an evocative, supernatural tale about a young woman’s journey from war-torn Somalia, and her hopes of being reunited with her mother and sister. Fereshteh Molavi’s story ‘Phantom Limb’ explores themes of loss, as well as creative expression, following four refugees trying to make a new life for themselves in North America.
Many of the characters in this collection undertake arduous, and sometimes absurd journeys, like the narrator of Najwa Binshatwan’s story who is stripped, searched and threatened with eternal hellfire while airport-hopping across the planet to reach her husband. Similarly, Zaher Omareen’s protagonist in ‘The Beginners Guide to Smuggling’ must overcome overweight co-passengers, fake passports and snarling dogs in this darkly comic account of one man’s journey from Syria to Sweden via France. Some travellers aren’t quite so lucky, never reaching their destination or fulfilling their promise. Rania Mamoun’s young protagonist dreams of being born in the form of a bird so that she can escape her life and begin again, far away from her overbearing brother. The final story in this collection, ‘The Slow Man’ by Wajdi al-Ahdal reimagines the story of Joseph from the Book of Genesis (also known as Yusuf from the 12th sura of the Qur’an), offering us a stark reminder that we live in an interconnected world in which our actions shape the future.
In some small way, these stories demonstrate the value and responsibility of literature during times of upheaval. Reading can be an escape, something transportative that takes you to different countries, cultures and states of mind. It can take you to all the places that Donald Trump doesn’t want you to go.
Sarah Cleave
Comma Press, Manchester, December 2017
BIRD OF PARADISE
Rania Mamoun
Sudan
THE LITTLE GIRL’S LAUGHTER jars on my ears. I turn to look at her. She dashes through the airport lounge, brandishing her doll with a buoyancy unsuited to the time of day. As she gets closer the girl slows down almost to a stop, glowering at me as if I’d somehow disturbed her precious world order. I give her an apologetic smile and wave. She raises her hand nonchalantly as if to say, ‘Don’t worry—you’re not in the way.’
It is 3am now and the lounge is almost empty. The occasional traveller shuffles through quietly with lowered eyes. The lounge, like the rest of the airport, is a transitory place. But for me, it has become more than that. I’ve been here for over a week now, glued to this seat which I also use as a bed. The good thing about airports is the freedom to sit wherever you like; no one asks you to leave or to move on. I sit here day in, day out, utterly bereft of everything. The few coins I brought with me are already spent and my pockets are now empty. I ate my last biscuit two days ago; half in the morning, half in the evening. All that remains is regret.
I go to the bathroom which welcomes me once or twice a day. I drink from the tap whenever I feel the pinch of hunger. I can probably survive on water for another week or so, then I’ll have to take desperate measures. Last week, I saw a woman grab an entire chicken from the grill at one of the restaurants and run as fast as she could, chased by the manager and waiting staff.
‘I’m not going to starve!’ she shouted, clutching the carcass tightly as they tried to rip it from her grasp. Eventually, the woman let go and fell to the ground, where they left her, covered in dirt. Or perhaps I could try and recite poetry to passers-by like that writer who stood in the middle of a busy forecourt declaiming T. S. Eliot poems until people took pity on him and brought him something to eat.
I have longed to travel ever since I realised that the world’s limits are not those of my city, Wad Madani; that the world expands so much further than the reach of my imagination. I used to love the idea of travelling without a specific destination, just setting off and roaming anywhere and everywhere. Like the little girl in the lounge, I thought of the world as mine for the taking, a precious sweet waiting to be unwrapped and devoured.
When I was a young girl, my eyes were drawn to the sky and I yearned to float up and see what lay behind it. What was hidden behind the clouds and the stars? Where did the sun go at the end of the day? Back then, there were times when the sky hummed with small planes, flying low over the fields. Whenever I heard a rumbling sound, I would run out into our back yard—jumping, screaming and waving my hands—convinced that the passengers would see me and wave back. I would run to every corner of the yard, shielding the sun from my eyes and chanting: ‘Flying free, number three Flying free, number three.’ I didn’t know then, and I still don’t know now, what the connection was between flying and the number three. I’m not sure if I’d heard it from someone else—if it was a nursery rhyme or a song I’d heard about an aeroplane, or if I’d made it up myself—but it lodged in my mind, the beginning of an unfinished melody. On the ground, I fidgeted about, weightless with excitement, completely unaware that these planes weren’t even carrying passengers, they were spraying insecticide.
I used to wish I’d been born in the form of a bird, awash with colour like a bird of paradise, those delicate and beautiful little things. I loved their sublime voices and the way the sun glinted off their brilliant blue feathers. They arrived at certain times of the year, visiting us at dawn and at dusk, lingering for a while in the neem tree in our front yard. I would sit on our doorstep for hours, listening to their joyful song as they flitted from one branch to another. They were a sweet blessing, and there was something so reassuring about their coming and going each year. I genuinely believed they came from paradise, and that the gap between their appearance and disappearance was the distance between the earth and the heavens. I dreamed of becoming a bird of paradise, resplendent with colourful feathers, a beautiful head, black eyes and powerful wings. I hid this wish deep down inside myself, seeking comfort in my imagination whenever I felt sad or lost.
The first time I let it surface was one evening, shortly after my mother passed away, when grief had started to creep into my heart. It was the evening after an autumn day trip spent in a nearby village with other children from my neighbourhood. It wasn’t far, maybe forty-five minutes, but to an 11-year-old girl it had seemed like a great voyage. It was the first time I had left Wad Madani. I was struck by the lush green that carpeted the earth; fields of crops stretched out every which way around us, as we scampered here and there, free as wild cats. I inhaled deeply, savouring the fragrant air. The smell of the earth after the rain reminded me of my mother, relaxing and comforting me. Bursting forth like the dawn, this aroma felt like a fresh start.
I will never forget that day. We walked to the main canal that irrigated the fields and splashed about in the water chasing the birds. The other children ran and jumped through the grass, smearing themselves with mud and eating freshly picked tomatoes with the dirt still clinging to them. We were woozy with happiness, but this joy was to be short-lived. When I got home that evening, my brother Ahmad beat and cursed me for leaving the house without his permission. He hit me so hard that my entire body trembled with pain. Since then, a wound has grown within me, as great as the distance I longed to fly.
I dreamed of leaving Wad Madani to study at the University of Khartoum, like my cousin Ashwaq had done. She would visit and tell me hushed stories about Khartoum, making me realise that another life was possible. When I was accepted by the University, I felt my heart skip a beat. Finally, my prayers had been answered; I could leave home, move to Khartoum and get away from everything that had worn me down. I ran to my brother Ahmad’s house, eager to tell someone the good news. I found him seated in the middle of the floor, playing with his baby son.
‘You’re not going to go gallivanting around in Khartoum or anywhere,’ he said, without even turning his face to look at m
e. ‘You’re staying right here.’
Ahmad had always seen me as a blight on his otherwise perfect life. He forced me to stay in Wad Madani and to study at Gezira University. I made very slow progress, completing one class every two years. In my final year, my classmates and I were due to go on the annual field trip to Port Sudan; it was a trip that I’d looked forward to and dreaded in equal measure. When the day finally came, I was the only one in the entire year group who didn’t get on the bus. As it pulled away, my classmates all waved at me from the windows and burst into excited chatter and song. I couldn’t even raise my hand to wave. I stood there alone, staring at the tracks of the bus tyres on the ground. I was heart-broken; empty like a word without any letters. I decided never to go back to university again.
Now, here I am alone again, rusting away in an airport.
I’m suddenly aware that I’m cold and starving. I drag myself to the tap and lower my head to drink. I wash my face and stare at myself in the mirror. I look exhausted; I’ve lost weight and half of my hair has turned white. I think of Ashwaq, her youthful looks and jet-black hair, as if she’s floated through life without a care in the world. She must have been waiting for my call for days now, and will no doubt be facing the storm of my disappearance.
I don’t really know what happened to me that day. I remember being as happy as that little girl when I set foot in the airport lounge over a week ago. Only Ashwaq was there to see me off; she was the only one who knew about my travel plans. I’d thought that the moment I boarded the plane I would leave everything behind me and start my real life, the life I had dreamed of. Everything was arranged. I would have a seven-hour stopover, then get on another plane to another city, where Ashwaq’s friend would be waiting for me.
Before my flight, I had wandered aimlessly around the airport, visiting the Duty Free and chatting with the staff. I smiled at everyone whose eyes caught mine, and when I went to the bathroom I shared half my money with the cleaning lady. Waiting was a pleasure. I didn’t look at the clock once. I didn’t feel time drag, nor did I sense it racing by. I savoured every moment like someone trying something new for the first time.