Out of Africa

"I had a farm in Africa at the foot of the Ngong Hills..."

With these simple words begins "Out of Africa", the memoirs written by Isak Dinesen, the pen name used by the Danish author Baroness Karen Blixen (1886-1962). The book, published in 1937, recounts the 17 years of her life from 1914 to 1931 that she spent in British East Africa (modern day Kenya) on her coffee plantation and gives a vivid picture of Colonial Africa during the closing decades of the British Empire.

Her life in Kenya begins when she moved there to marry a distant cousin, Baron Bror von Blixen-Finecke. Together they established a coffee plantation on their farm located in the highlands, six thousand feet in altitude. "The geographical position and the height of the land combined to create a landscape that had not its like in all the world….it was Africa distilled up through six thousand feet, like the strong and refined essence of the continent." However, differences between them and her husband's infidelity led to their separation in 1921 and ultimate divorce in 1925. Maybe for this reason, it is no surprise that he is not mentioned in her 389 page book, except for a passing reference to "my husband" in one of the pages. Karen Blixen, an independent, courageous and capable woman, continued to manage the farm until poor crop yields and falling coffee prices during the Great depression pushed her more into debt and having to sell out in 1931.

One of the most moving things about this book is how the author conveys her strong feelings and love for Africa , its land, animals, nature and most of all, its people. Although she uses language that today may be judged as having racist or colonial undertones, she viewed the Africans with respect and affection, and unlike her colonial and European contemporaries who perceived them as savages or simpletons, she saw them as a people who, although different in culture and traditions, had dignity, nobility and beauty. She was a colonial settler, owning 6000 acres of land, but in certain parts of the book you can sense her awareness that this land truly belonged to the Kikuyu tribespeople who lived and worked on her land and who were termed "squatters" by the colonial establishment. "My squatters…were born on the farm and their fathers before them and they very likely regarded me as a sort of superior squatter on their estates". Near the end of the book, she sadly reflects on the fate of the Kikuyu after her farm is being sold off and they are forced to move elsewhere by the new owners: "It is more than their land that you take away from the people, whose Native land you take. It is their past as well, their roots and their identity. If you take away the things they have been used to see and will be expecting to see, you may as well take their eyes."

Isak Dinesen or Karen Blixen was a story teller and maybe for this reason her book is written like a combination of stories about the many people who touched her life and the many events that marked her stay in Africa. She tells of the culture and customs of the Kikuyu who worked on her farm and their big Chief Kinanjui “a crafty old man, with a fine manner, and much real greatness to him.” She talks of the Masai, a proud semi-nomadic cattle-owning nation with a warrior culture, who lived across the river from her farm on a tribal reservation after having been forced to leave their lands to make way for white settlers. She laments their fate: "They were fighters who had been stopped fighting, a dying lion with his claws clipped, a castrated nation". She speaks of the Somali Muslims who worked in Kenya, such as Farah Aden, her close and loyal assistant who helped her on the farm and remained faithfully at her side till the end. She contrasts the differences in perception about death, fate, time, justice and other issues between the African and the European: "A white man who wanted to say a pretty thing to you would write: I can never forget you. The African says: We do not think of you, that you can ever forget us."

She also writes about the Europeans who were near to her heart and who were regular visitors to her farm. They were mostly people who were close friends with the Africans, who were one with nature and who were non-conformists like herself. Foremost of these was Denys Finch Hatton, a hunter and the man she loved for many years. Although she never explicitly mentions in her book the nature of their relationship, her affection and adoration of him show through her words: "“When he came back to the farm, it gave out what was in it – it spoke… When I heard his car coming up the drive, I heard, at the same time, all the things of the farm telling what they really were." She flew with him over Africa in his airplane, in what she described as one of the greatest "and most transporting pleasure of my life on the farm." But it is while flying his plane that he crashed and lost his life in 1931. It is very moving to read her account of his death and burial on a ridge in the Ngong Hills according to his wishes. Just as he had taken in Africa through his eyes and mind and made it part of himself, "now Africa would receive him…and make him one with herself."

The last part of the book is heart wrenching as she describes the failure of the farm and its sale and her state of denial and inability to grasp the fact that she had lost everything and would have to leave the land and way of life she had come to love so dearly. "It was not I who was going away, I did not have it in my power to leave Africa , but it was the country that was slowly and gravely withdrawing from me, like the sea in ebb-tide."

Karen Blixen returned to her family's estate in Denmark at the age of 46. She dedicated her time to writing and was nominated twice for the Nobel prize but never won it. Some of her other works include Seven Gothic Tales, The Angelic Avengers, Babett's Feast, and Shadows on the Grass. Out of Africa was her most widely known work and inspired the Academy Award winning 1985 film of the same name. She died in 1962, never having returned to her beloved Africa again.

"If I know a song of Africa, of the Giraffe, and the African new moon lying on her back, of the ploughs in the fields, and the sweaty faces of the coffee-pickers, does Africa know a song of me?"

Little Moments

She lay beside him on the bed, watching him as he slept. His breathing was soft and gentle as he lay on his back, his right hand on his chest and his head turned towards her. She loved these quiet little moments when they were all alone, when she could simply rest for a while as they lay side by side, and watch him sleeping peacefully. She looked at him with loving eyes. Her hands softly touched his forehead, moved down to his nose, then to his lips. He was gorgeous!

Six months ago she would have never believed she would be so consumed by a love like this…a love she had never known before and never imagined to exist. It's true it had brought her restless nights and days of anxiety …but it was at moments like this one that she could sense the depth of an emotion that sometimes overwhelmed her and brought tears to her eyes.

An afternoon breeze floated softly into the room from the window behind them, gliding gently over the two bodies stretched out on the bed. She caressed his light brown hair, feeling it’s softness on her fingers. “I love you my sweetest”, she whispered as she slowly bent over him and placed a small kiss on his forehead. She smiled as his scent filled her nostrils…a delicate perfume that made her heart flutter with emotion.

She gave a deep sigh as she gazed at him. Would she ever be strong enough to watch him walk away one day…it was bound to happen wasn’t it? She knew that. But she quickly brushed the thought aside…it was silly to think of that now when life offered them plenty of time to share and so many things still to come.

He began to move. He never napped more than an hour. He opened his eyes, rubbing them with both his hands.
“Hi there tiger”, she said giving him a big smile. He glanced back, his face showing the familiar signs she knew all too well. His hands reached out for her…she knew what he wanted…she took him in her arms….

She looked at him tenderly as he suckled at her breast. Her little angel was always hungry when he woke up. He had such an appetite! He paused for a moment, milk on his mouth, looking upwards at his mother. She gazed down into his soft brown eyes…and for a brief little moment…she saw the world.

On Alexandria: Capital of Memory...Land of Saffron

What is it in Alexandria that grasps the soul and the imagination? What is it about this city that triggers so much passion and emotions? Is it the scent of its glorious past? Its cosmopolitan history etched in its buildings and streets? The whisper of its sea? The warmth of its cafés?


"Capital of Memory"..."City of the Soul"... “Land of Saffron”... these are some of the words with which Alexandria has been described by some of its native sons and by some of those who have lived in it for short periods of time, only to have the memory of their stay in this ancient city deeply carved in their minds.

It is interesting to compare and contrast how Alexandria was seen and perceived by two different authors and how both expressed their distinct thoughts, feelings and impressions on this city in their literary works. Lawrence Durell (1912-1990) and Edward Al-Kharrat (1926- ) are two prominent literary figures who were deeply touched by Alexandria. For both of them, this city was the main setting and central character for some of their major works of fiction. However, Alexandria signified very different things to each of them.

Durell spent 4 years in Alexandria during WWII. That stay inspired his foremost literary achievement and magnum opus, The Alexandria Quartet, first published in 1957 with Justin, which was soon followed by Balthazar, Mountolive, and Clea, the last to appear in early 1960. The first three novels are three versions of the same story set in Alexandria on the eve of World War II, and the fourth is a look back at events of the first three. Durell was more infatuated with Alexandria’s “Hellenic” past , the roots of Western civilization, more than he was with the Alexandria he saw with his eye and which he described as “ a big sordid city haunted by its past”. Thus in the Alexandria Quartet he evokes the city’s wonderful past , describing it as: “Alexandria, princess and whore. The royal city and the anus mundi.” Alexandria: “the Capital of Memory.” Moreover, Durrell focused in his novel on the city’s cosmopolitan upper class community and the many foreigners that crowded wartime Alexandria but largely left out Egyptians and their culture and society, only depicting them in a mystical and exotic form. For this reason Edward Said saw the Alexandria Quartet as an Orientalist text in that it portrays a mystical Muslim/Arab world that exists primarily in the Western mind.

On the other hand, Edward Al-Kharrat, an Egyptian novelist born in Alexandria to a Coptic Christian family, depicts his native city in a much more poetic and intimate manner, labeling it “City of Saffron” (“Turabuha Za’faran”) the title of one of his three novels on Alexandria, the other two being Girls of Alexandria (“Banat Iskendereya”) and My Alexandria (“Isanderiyati”) which were largely semi-autobiographic al novels. Al-Kharrat was active in the Egyptian national movement and was imprisoned for two years in 1948 for his nationalist and revolutionary activities. He was deeply influenced by the Arab literary heritage such as The Thousand and One Nights and other classical texts, and by Coptic and Christian readings as well as by Russian novelsists and English Romantic poets. All these influences combined to produce Al-Kharrat’s unique poetic language that was rich with symbols, metaphors and myth. And it is with this language that he described his beloved Alexandria, a city which he saw, unlike Durrell, in it’s entirety: in its ancient past and modern present, in its diverse cultural heritage, in its richness and beauty, in its Egyptian heart and soul as well as in the multitude of its diverse ethnic and faith communities. I leave you with some of his beautiful words on his Alexandria…Land of Saffron:
إسكندريتي...مدينتي التي أعرفها و أصونها في عمق قلبي، و أعشقها حتى التدله، و التي ترابها زعفران، حلم و تراث عميق و ساحة حب، و الكد، و مساءلة للمجهول وفي وقت معا. الأسكندرية شط يقع على حافة بحر الأبد، حافة المطلق. الأسكندرية هي هذا المحيط السحري اليانع النضرة على حافة كون ملحي شاسع بل غير محدود. الأسكندرية عالم ساطع و نقي و نظيف و حي، متقلب بروائح خصوبة جديدة دائمة التجدد، و لكنه هش- - يقع على حرف هوة لا قرار لها، متلاطمة، خادعة في لحظات هدوئها ، فيها سحر جذاب لا يقاوم، و جمال لا يمكن أبدا الإحاطة به و الانتهاء من تملي مفاتنه، قوية الأذرع ممدودة الي تدعوني دعاء لا أكاد أعرف كيف أصده، دعاء في الاستجابة له وقوع القضاء الذي لا مرد منه على هذه الحافة الهشة القلقة. بين الحياة و العدم ، بيتي و وطني. إسكندريتي هي الست وهيبة و حسنية و تلميذات مدرسة نبوية موسى و حسين افندي مراقب الكبري بين غيط العنب و راغب باشا و فتاة باب الكراستة التي أنقذتني من الشرطة العسكرية، و المعلم عوض صاحب سيرجة الزيت. إسكندرية رفلة أفندي و أخوالي ناتان و يونان و سوريال، أسكندرية شارع 12 و وابور الدقيق و أصطبل عربات الحنطور جنب ترعة المحمودية، أسكندرية أصدقائي من جابر إلى المردني، و البنات اللتي أحببتهن: مصريات و شاميات و يونانيات ، كلهن من بنات أسكندرية حقا و لسن أجنبيات أو غربيات أو غرائبيات. أسكندرية الريس نونو و بيوت الفراهدة وعمال مخازن من عم على و الأسطى مرسي النجار إلى أبو شنب العجوز و حميدو شورتي. و أسنكندرية سيدى المرسي أبو العباس و الكنيسة المرقسية، لها أبعادها الأسطورية حقا و لكن لها صخرها الواقعي و تراب أرضها في أن معا.

Side by Side

I watch them as they lie side by side, four beautiful little children. The eldest is surely not older than six years of age, the youngest…maybe six months or a little more. Three girls and a boy. Their little faces carry similar features: small pointed noses, hazel shaped eyes, and a freckled complexion. The eldest girl has long beautiful chestnut hair tied in a pony tail…how attractive she would be as a young woman. The second girl has a cute dimple on her chin, and the boy has heavy dark brown hair with curls covering his forehead. As for the little one…the youngest of the four, she has an angelic smile that no madness in the world could ever erase.

They lie there side by side, three sisters and a brother, so quiet and peaceful. I stare at the small red flowers on the little ones pink pajamas. She must have stared and wondered at them as she raised her arms in the air like she does every night before dozing off to sleep. I smile at the funny cartoon figures on the boy’s green pajamas… and remember the similar ones I bought for my own son not that long ago. I can imagine how much commotion these four little children could create, how much they could fill the world with laughter and shouting, with childish pranks and teasing, with wonder and questions, with life and love.

But now they lie quietly, side by side…on a thin blanket on the hospital floor. I worry that the bitter winter cold will seep into their frail little bodies from the dampness beneath them. But then I remember that they don’t feel anything anymore…neither cold nor warmth, pain nor relief, love nor hatred. They lie silent and lifeless. The fires of hatred have reaped their lives and that of many others, descending upon them with a vicious wrath in the early hours of the morning.

I watch as they lie on the floor, their pale faces covered with dust from the debris of their demolished home. Stains of blood deck their pajamas matching the color of the small red flowers. I watch in silence, numbed by sadness and helplessness. What barbaric mind could have wrought such destruction? What monstrous hand could rain showers of death on these innocent ones? In what deep dark pit of hatred and injustice has humanity sunk to?

I stand there motionless and speechless as silent tears of anger and despair stream down my face. I wonder if their little hearts pounded with fear as they heard the screaming fighter jets and missiles over their heads…or did it all happen while they were sound asleep…dreaming of an innocent world filled with red flowers and funny cartoons?

I stare at the floor of the Gaza hospital and watch the four of them as they lie in silence…while behind them stretch rows…and rows....and rows.... of lifeless little children…lying quietly… side by side.

Reflections on Azazeel by Youssef Ziedan

The novel Azazeel by Yousif Ziedan is one of six Arab literary works short listed for the second Arab Booker Prize to be announced next March 2009. When it was first published this year (2008), Azazeel caused a stir, mainly in religious circles in Egypt. It was seen by some as a critique of the Egyptian Coptic Orthodox Church and an attack on the Christian faith. However, a closer reading of Azazeel indicates a different intention. The novel, by shedding light on a historical period in Egypt and the Middle East and on the 5th century theological differences regarding the nature of Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary, underlines how religions - all religions - are often manipulated for wordly purposes/interests and how countless injustices and cruelties have been committed in the name of God. It is a message relevant to all religions whether Christianity, Islam, Judaism or other faiths and it is relevant to our present times as much as it was 16 centuries ago. History is evidence enough that no religion/faith can claim the upper moral ground when it comes to what its followers have sadly perpetuated in its name throughout the centuries. And it is the average man/humanity at the end that has paid a high price for this.

The novel also highlights how history is often distorted by those who write it-especially if they are those in positions of power and authority - and how weaknesses, failures, defeats and the credibility of opposing ideas are often obscured or undermined to present us with a different version of reality that is more fitting to the interests of the powers that be.

The novel also dwells on the dichotomy between reason and religious dogma, between science and faith. Hypa, a monk and the main protagonist of the novel is a symbol of the constant tension between these elements. His name itself is derived from that of Hypatia, a 5th century Greek scholar from Alexandria, considered the first notable woman in mathematics, who also taught philosophy and astronomy and whom he witnessed being killed at the hands of a Coptic Christian mob in the streets of Alexandria. Hypa is a man of science and medicine, a poet and avid reader traveling with a baggage of books (including religiously forbidden books), but also a monk and a man of religion. That is why throughout the novel he is haunted by doubts and questions. He is a man with a sincere and genuine conviction in the humane and compassionate principles of his faith but is disillusioned and torn by the violence and repression condoned by the religious establishment of which he is a part. He goes through a lifetime journey of questioning and discovery, and at the end can only make the choice that leaves him one with himself and his convictions.

Azazeel is a novel that invites us to reflect and re-think many of our established beliefs/world views and "taboo" subjects. It is an invitation to re-read and re-discover history, to understand the real forces, interests and issues at play, and from that understand more our reality today, and how to build a future that is more inclusive, just and free of prejudice.

His Laughter

She loved the feeling of fresh sea air blowing against her face as she cycled along the beach road. On her right side were the soft sands of the beach stretching out into the beautiful turquoise sea. On her left side stood rows of elegant summer houses with brightly colored gardens. Every day, just before sunset, she cycled four laps along the beach road. She loved the sense of freedom, of movement and of speed that cycling gave her…of being in control. Day after day she felt her strength growing and the muscles in her legs getting firmer as she peddled longer and faster.

She was nearing the bend at the end of the beach road and going on into her second lap when she saw him there like she did every day, standing behind a car parked in front of one of the summer houses. As usual, he was leaning his arms on the top of the car, gazing at the sea or chatting with people or just staring at those strolling or cycling by. He always had sun glasses on but she could tell that he was in his mid or late thirties. He seemed pretty good looking with an attractive tanned face. But what attracted her the most was his amazing laughter. Many times she could hear it long before she saw him. It was that kind of warm gregarious laughter that seemed to send ripples of joy out into the air, touching and uplifting everything that came in its way. The laughter of a caring and kindred spirit. It always made her smile somehow…inside out. One thing though that made her feel a bit uncomfortable was how he sometimes seemed to stare at people. At times she could almost feel his intense gaze on her as she cycled past him.

As she started her third lap she could see him still standing there. But this time she heard him shouting out. There was a little girl on a tricycle in the middle of the road. As she turned the bend she saw him come out from behind the car towards the girl. She was shocked the moment she saw him and almost slammed into the sidewalk. He came out walking on two crutches. He only had one leg. His right leg was amputated from above the knee. He slowly moved towards the little girl and stood in the middle of the road as she cycled back to safety onto the side walk.

She didn’t know why she suddenly seemed out of breath…why she felt so much weight in her legs as she struggled through her third lap …why she had a lump in her throat. Even though she didn't know him personally, she had developed a kind of affinity towards him, the kind that grows between perfect strangers who somehow become a part of each others lives and daily routine. His captivating laughter had deepened this feeling even more so.

Coming back for her last lap she noticed that he wasn’t there any more. But as she slowly turned the bend the echo of his familiar laughter reached her ears from somewhere. She could almost feel it rippling past her unto the beach, floating softly over the sea and vanishing into the golden red disc gently descending into the sea. For a fleeting moment she could have sworn that the sun was smiling just before it disappeared into the turquoise waters.

Old

He walked into the restaurant. It was crowded. He found an empty table at the back near the window. He took his seat and looked at his watch. He was glad he had come a bit early to reserve a table before his family came. On weekends the place was always full. He ordered a lemon juice as he waited.

“My back hurts a lot these days…” he heard someone talking behind him.
“I underwent a sonar the other day….” came the reply.

From their voices he could tell they were elderly. He had just caught a glimpse of two men sitting in the table behind him when he had taken his seat. They were both talking in loud voices as most older people do…probably because they couldn’t hear so well.

“Did you hear about the new hospital ? It has an excellent cardiac unit…” the conversation went on.
“Yes, I visited a friend there the other day. His daughter was with him. He’s lucky…if ever I get hospitalized I won’t have anyone with me….” came the answer in a tone of regret.
“Do you know that my daughter calls me only once a week??? They have no time for us anymore!” exclaimed the other
“What I worry most about is dying at home alone and nobody finding out except after many days….”
“I think about that too. But if you’re gone so what!? Why worry about something if you’re dead and gone!!”

Oh a typical conversation between old people he thought to himself as he overheard them talking....and how depressing it was!! Illness…loneliness…death… ungrateful kids…and the list goes on! He’d heard it so many times before. In the future he’d make a point never to sit near elderly people…no point in spoiling an outing with this type of dispiriting talk!
He looked at his watch again…they were late.

“Did I tell you I bought a plot in the new cemetery...”
“No you didn’t…but good for you. When my time comes I’ll have to be taken to the family cemetery in my hometown…it’s a long way. I just hope it won’t be a hot summer day when I go!!!”

There they go again he thought to himself. The conversation was starting to irritate him. If the restaurant hadn’t been so crowded he would have changed tables. He was hoping the family would hurry up and come. He glanced at the doorway…His eyes brightened up…there they were at last.

He waved to his daughter. She came towards him and gave him a big hug.
”Really missed you sweet heart” he said in an emotional voice as he held her tightly, “It’s been ages”.
Then came her husband…his grandson…his wife…and their twin girls. The two little ones jumped into their great-grandfathers' arms. He tried picking them up as he stood but that was too great a feat for his aging back and weak legs. He almost lost his balance and slumped back into his chair.

“It’s not easy being old my sweeties” he said with a chuckle as they both clambered up his lap and kissed him, "It’s not easy being old...”