Nora Lester Murad - The View From My Window in Palestine

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Through the Window of Juwahir’s Old, Gray Chevy

January 1, 2017 by Nora Lester Murad

This story is about my sister-in-law, Juwahir. No, it’s about her car. No, let’s be honest. It’s about me.

It was a struggle to write it.

This Week in Palestine asked for a “positive” story about Palestine for their January issue themed, “The Common Good.” I could not for the life of me think of a single positive thing about Palestine. I went to sleep sure I’d miss the deadline, but I woke up with this fully formed story. It is one of my favorite stories of all time.

You can find the original here on pages 56-60.

**********

Through the Window of Juwahir’s Old, Gray Chevy

My sister-in-law died at the age of 40 leaving four beautiful children. Breast cancer moved to her lungs, then to her brain, and stole one of the kindest and most humble human beings I’ve ever known. Five years on, there is still a hole in the village in the shape of her life-force.

Her husband gave me Juwahir’s old, gray Chevy and told me to donate payment for it to people in need. I sent it to Syrian refugees in Jordan. I still try to do good in her memory every day. When it’s very hot, my daughters and I pick up old ladies who are burdened by kilos of vegetables balanced in baskets on their heads, or old ladies dragging bushels of wild thyme they harvested in the mountains. We drive them home and they bless us and we feel we’ve honored Juwahir.

But driving Juwahir’s old, gray Chevy through Palestine isn’t always easy. Through her window, I have seen a lot of stupidity.

Just last week I pulled into a parking space marked with the logo of the beauty salon where I had an appointment for an expensive procedure. The doorman came out to tell me to move — it was the private parking space of the owner of the salon. I looked up and down the block and there was no other place to park. I remembered my uncle in the US who had owned a jewelry store where excellent customer service wasn’t a matter of greed, it was a demonstration of integrity. “Are you really sending away a paying customer so you can keep a spot empty for the owner?” I asked incredulous. The man smiled as if to say it wasn’t his fault, but I was tired and stressed and I left in a huff. Yes, I have seen a lot of stupidity through the window of Juwahir’s old, grey Chevy.

But I have also seen decency.

There was a time I stopped at an intersection then inched forward right into a car that was soaring by. The only damage was to the guy’s hub cap, but if I’d hit the body of his car, he might have flipped over. That experience scared the hell out of me and I couldn’t bring myself to drive for weeks. My husband and I often walked passed the guy’s house, and he waved whole-heartedly and invited us in for coffee.

When the car died on my way to an important meeting just before the busy Sharafa Junction in Ramallah, I leaned out of the window and summoned a small group of young men on the sidewalk. They pushed me into a space in front of the bookstore before there was even time for a traffic jam to form. I hailed a taxi and phoned my landlord to ask him to have a mechanic meet me at the car two hours later. But in just 15 minutes he walked into my meeting, took my car keys, supervised the mechanic, and it was all fixed before my meeting finished.

When the car died between two Israeli settlements as I left my friend’s house in Susya in the South Hebron Hills, a man and his wife with what seemed like ten kids in the backseat stopped and filled my radiator with water. They followed me for more than one hour, refilling the radiator every couple of miles, until we reached a military checkpoint they couldn’t cross with their Palestinian license plate. Although I didn’t have his name or mobile number, I believe he was genuine when he yelled from his window, “Call if you need any more help!”

When the car died in Beit Hanina, I went into Ja’afar Supermarket to ask for help and ran into a friend who offered to deliver me to work – on his bicycle! I found a nearby service station, but the mechanic wasn’t yet at work. A neighborhood boy went to wake him up. He arrived soon, coffee in hand, without complaint.

Juwahir’s old, gray Chevy is a piece of junk but I can’t say goodbye to it because I can’t say goodbye to her.

Last week I had one terrible day after another. It seemed everyone around me was ignorant and incompetent and selfish and I just wanted to be alone. I dropped my daughter at her circus class and parked in front of Zaman Café where I could sit in the car and use the wifi. I guess I stayed too long because when I turned the key to pick up my kid, the car battery was dead. I collected my daughter in a taxi and brought her back to the old, gray Chevy where we tried to figure out what to do.

Within minutes, the shabab who work at Zaman and the shabab who work at Shishapresso across the street were in competition to see who could find jumper cables first. They accosted every single customer in their respective cafes, and when the cables were found, a small mob gathered around my car debating which bolt was positive and which was negative – it was a community affair.

For years one of Juwahir’s hijab pins remained stuck in the soft ceiling above the rearview mirror and I’d rub the white plastic tip when I needed strength and perspective. I’d imagine her fixing her scarf before she went to the health clinic where she worked or before she led a religion meeting for women, or before she popped into her mother’s living room to greet me warmly with her slightly lopsided smile. The pin got lost at a car wash years ago but I still touch the place it used to be.

Through the window of Juwahir’s old, gray Chevy, I have seen shooting and teargas and arrests and home demolitions. I have seen children sent by drug-addicted parents to beg at military checkpoints and women and children abandoned in poverty by cheating husbands. I have seen students disrespect teachers and teachers disrespect students and I myself have endured periods when I felt that nothing I did mattered in the slightest.

Then I remember Juwahir. I get into her car and go out into the world to do the work that has to be done. If I need anything, I just look at the world through the window of her old, gray Chevy, and I see good people like Juwahir. Ordinary decent people.

 

Palestine chapter on global commitments to aid effectiveness

November 15, 2016 by Nora Lester Murad

 

It was my honor to write the Palestine chapter assessing the implementation of global commitments to aid effectiveness. It was originally published here from page 127-134.

It’s a pretty harsh critique. In it, I say:

“Global commitments to international aid reform, including the Rome Declaration on Harmonization (2003) through the Busan Partnership for Effective Development Cooperation (2011), have in no way challenged the donor community’s politicized approach to Palestinian development. The Oslo Accords (1993) and the Paris Protocol (1994) established a hegemonic paradigm within which all “development” takes place. Western donors fund only work that advances or is consistent with the two-state solution: the ends justify the means. Western and west-affiliated governments use their aid programs to entrench their political objectives, even when there is blatant contradiction with principles like local ownership and mutual accountability that are enshrined in global commitments. There is still essentially no space for engagement with alternative paradigms even in 2016, fully seventeen years after the planned expiration of the Oslo peace process and despite overwhelming evidence of its failure. These observations are consistent with the 2015 Palestine report that noted the historical importance of civil society and the increasing constrained space in which it operates (CSO Partnership, 2015).

Aid is a significant variable in the Palestinian economy representing up to 46 percent of GDP in some years. Dependency on aid controlled by politically-motivated donors decreases Palestinian control of development in ways not unlike the Israeli occupation itself. In fact, Palestinian aid critics say that international aid actually undermines genuine Palestinian development — directly, by controlling development resources; and indirectly, by enabling Israel to maintain its occupation, colonization and dispossession of Palestinians. This not only contradicts normative global commitments on aid and development effectiveness but, it can be argued, contradict the far stronger obligations these donors have to comply with customary international law enshrined in the Geneva Conventions and strong global instruments designed to promote peace and human rights. One danger of relying on normative commitments is that principles may be reframed as best practices (e.g., transparency) rather than as rights (e.g., Right to Information), thus making rights claiming more difficult.

On the other hand, to the extent that the global aid reform commitments suggest a new political will to change relationships between donor and recipient countries, they represent a valuable opportunity: context-sensitive aid; ending policy conditionality; addressing predictability of aid flows; stronger transparency and accountability; and more inclusive involvement of civil society. In Palestine, however, the actual impact of these global commitments appears cosmetic at best. In many cases, local experts note regression in key areas. Global commitments to aid reform are not visible in the discourse of donors or the Palestinian Authority (PA). Palestinian civil society also does not leverage the global commitments in any strategic or concerted way to demand accountability.”

I invite you to read the full report and share your comments here.

When Nurredin calls me at 5am, it means something bad is happening

June 10, 2016 by Nora Lester Murad

When my phone rang before 5am on May 17 and Nurredin’s name flashed on the screen of my cell phone, I knew it was something bad.

“The bulldozers are here!” he said. “For your house?” I asked, suddenly wide awake. His home was partially demolished on March 31, 2015. “No. They are demolishing the Tutanji and Totah homes. Right now! They are demolishing right now!”

A few of the Tutanjis
A few of the Tutanjis

I had visited the Tutanjis before, when they expected a demolition and called for internationals to help them protect their home. When nothing happened and weeks went by, they thought they were safe. They were wrong.

Of course there was nothing I could do except cry and spread the word. Then I got in my car and went to visit. I took some film clips and Institute for Middle East Understanding put them into a very nice little video.

Later that week I went back to visit and Hoda Tutanji insisted on making me coffee, despite not having a kitchen! I wanted the world to see what it means to demolish the home of a family, so I made another little video.

That same week, three other homes in the neighborhood went under demolition order.

On Translation: Shadi Rohana on the Joys and Disasters of Spanish-Arabic Translation

May 25, 2016 by Nora Lester Murad

This article first appeared here in Arabic Literature in English.

On May 15, Nakba Day, Shadi Rohana, a Mexico-based literary translator, attracted a devoted group of literary enthusiasts to the historic Khalil Sakakini Cultural Center in Ramallah. They came to discuss José Emilio Pacheco’s Las batallas en el desierto [Battles in the Desert/معارك الصحراء]].

Shadi Rohana with Budour Hassan
Shadi Rohana with Budour Hassan

Shadi has introduced and translated a number of Latin American authors from Spanish into Arabic, including Rodolfo Walsh, Yolanda Oreamuno, David Huerta, Eduardo Galeano and José Emilio Pacheco, as well as speeches and declarations from the EZLN in Chiapas, but Las batallas en el desierto  is his first novel-length work.

To be honest, while I had always realized the relevance of translating Arabic literature into other languages to get Arab perspectives into the global consciousness, I had not previously taken the time to consider the importance – and politics – of translating literature from other languages into Arabic.

Curious, I spoke to Shadi, the translator, and the moderator of the session, Budour Hassan, a well-known political commentator with extensive knowledge about literature. She blogs in several languages.

Nora: What attracted you to learn Spanish, your fourth language after Arabic, Hebrew and English?

Shadi: I started learning Spanish when I found myself as a college student in the United States. I knew one of the good things US colleges offer is study abroad programs and I wanted to go to Cuba. But it was during the rule of Bush II and the embargo was tightened, so I couldn’t go through my college. But in the meantime I was learning Spanish from professors from Mexico, Venezuela, and El Salvador, and I discovered there is a whole continent I really knew nothing of. So, in the process of learning a new language there was also a process of opening up to the region of Latin America, which to me at the time was something totally new, intriguing and attractive. It was like being a little child and growing all over again.

Does the experience of translation, or your attraction to it, have anything to do with being Palestinian?

Shadi: I’m not sure. It is true that Palestinians speak many languages. To find a Palestinian who speaks only Arabic is practically impossible. Everyone I know has had to work as a translator at some point for some NGO or agency, when they were short of money. Also, given Israel’s position in the world, we are always expected to explain “the situation” to others, whether at home or abroad. This can be considered a kind of translation. But literary translation is something else and it requires, first and foremost, personal initiative, learning, and love for literature, not only the ability to explain one world to people from another.

How does your knowledge of so many languages affect your translation from Spanish to Arabic? Do you mediate through other languages?

Shadi: When I translate between Spanish and Arabic I am very self-conscious about avoiding reading or consulting other translations (English or Hebrew). One of the disasters in the Arab and Spanish-language literary worlds is that you can still find translations that are not direct, which go through other languages first (usually either English or French). This, today, is unacceptable since there are people who are capable of working between Arabic and Spanish without any other “mediating” language.

Budour: Shadi is definitely one of the few translators who translates directly from Spanish to Arabic, which is rare not just among Palestinians but among Arabs as a whole. Unfortunately, most Spanish-language novels available in Arabic were translated through English, i.e., translation of a translation. Sadly, the main criteria for translating into Arabic today has more to do with market than quality. So if a non-English-speaking author has sold record copies and has won a prestigious award and is famous in the English-speaking world, that makes it easier to translate him or her to Arabic. So what we eventually end up getting in Arabic is a mirror image of what the mainstream US and European publishers have deemed profitable and “successful” enough to merit translating into English. Even overrated authors who are not highly regarded in the Spanish-language literary scene but who are popular in the US through the translation of their work are more likely to be translated into Arabic. Isabel Allende, for instance, is a kind of literary celeb in the US, which is not the case in her native Chile; Allende’s works have not only been translated into Arabic but even adapted to Arab TV drama. So eventually the shreds we get to read in Arabic are determined by the dictates of foreign publishers. People like Shadi have a project to break those shackles, but unless there are courageous Arab publishers ready to support them, we will remain in this desperate situation where the literature accessible to us in Arabic is selected by global market considerations.

Why did you choose to  translate this specific novel?

Shadi: It’s the first novel I was able to fully read in Spanish. When I read it as a college student, before having gone to Latin America, what struck me most was how “normal” the story is. It tells the story of Carlos, a child from the rising Mexican middle-class in the Colonia Roma in Mexico City, and what happens when Carlos falls in love. The novel is written in simple language that I was able to read, even while I was learning. I could relate a lot to the story because in my encounter with Spanish, I too really feel like a child.

Years later I found myself in Mexico City and living in Colonia Roma, where the novel takes place. This, of course, made me reread the novel. Rereading Las batallas through its translation made me realize the depth of the story it tells and what lies underneath the apparent simplicity of its language; that the narrator registers a moment in Mexican history not only through the political and social context of the story, but also through the language itself and how things are narrated.

I had a lot of support for the translation project in both Mexico and in Palestine, and because of this generosity the book is now available through Qadita Books in Palestine and the Ahliyya in Amman, who will bringing the book to book fairs and bookstores in Arab countries.

Khalil Sakakini Cultural Center, Ramallah
Khalil Sakakini Cultural Center, Ramallah

Budour: I think Shadi’s translation of the novel is important, not just for Palestinians, but for all lovers of literature. J.E. Pacheco, as far as I know, has hardly been translated into Arabic — even though he is one of Latin America’s most important authors from the second half of the last century. Having this novel translated into Arabic will, hopefully, introduce a larger Arabic-speaking audience to Pacheco’s writings.

Was it meaningful to you to discuss the book with Palestinians in Ramallah? At the Khalil Sakakini Cultural Center? Why?

Shadi: Certainly it was. I was also able to discuss the book in my city, Haifa. Even though the participants in both events had not had the chance to read the novel first, we were able to discuss issues related to translation and literature, and of course the politics and history of both Mexico and Palestine – simply by reading aloud from the novel. Arabs in general today are introspective about who we are and who we used to be. So, despite the horrors that are going on politically, there are also a lot of interesting discussions happening, and I’m grateful to have had the chance to engage in them, and especially to do so in Arabic.

Budour: There is definitely significant interest among Palestinians in poetry that comes from Latin America, although novels reflecting magical realism are even more popular, and in this sense las batallas en el desierto is completely different. Obviously, we would have loved to have had the honor of hosting Pacheco, the author, in Palestine (and he would probably have been happy to know that his novel was translated into Arabic, in such solid way), but having Shadi speak about his experience as a translator also added value. We didn’t just discuss the novel; we talked about a wide range of issues, including the crisis of translations in the Arab world, the lack of direct translations from Spanish to Arabic, and the limitations that Shadi faced as a translator, particularly the difficulty of finding a publisher.

Apart from going deep into the novel its social and political context, we discussed Latin American literature in general challenging certain common portrayals of Latin American societies, and also the scarcity of Arabic literature translated into Spanish (again apart from award-winning authors).

When you mentioned to me that you’d be selling the book at the Palestinian International Book Fair, you said that you were “only” the translator. Do you feel that the contributions of translators are understood and valued by the general public? By the publishing industry?

Shadi: From my personal experience with Las batallas, I do feel that my work has been valued in both Mexico and Palestine, not only as a translator, but also because of the work I did to get the project going (e.g., securing funding, insisting on publishing the book in Palestine, working directly from Spanish to Arabic). It was also great to have Saleh Almani, veteran Spanish to Arabic translator from Syria (and the grandson of the village of Tarshiha in the Galilee), present at the book fair His name is well known among Arabic readers for his accomplishments translating authors like García Márquez.

As for publishing, honestly I’m a newcomer and I’m still trying to get a sense of what the industry is really like. My experience with the publishers Qadita and Ahliyya is very positive.

But what I do think is missing in the Arabic publishing industry, and the Arabic-reading public in general, is an understanding of and value for the artists who design and illustrate books. I feel most Arabic books are published with very little care for the appearance of the book, and as much as we would like not to judge a book by its cover, sometimes you can’t really help it.

For Las batallas in Arabic we had the contribution of Mexican artist Adriana Ronquillo, who made linocut printmaking especially for the Arabic edition, illustrating the cover and each chapter of the novel. The printmaking she did for the cover, illustrating Mexico City, is very inviting in my opinion.

What do you hope to accomplish by working as a translator of Mexican literature into Arabic? What projects are you working on now?

Shadi: I presented and discussed the book here in Palestine with old and new friends, so there is really nothing more I can ask for at the moment. Regardless of whether people like the book or not, I hope it will be an invitation to Arab readers to read more and dig deeper into Latin American and Spanish-language literature. For me, good books are those that call you to read other books. They send you to places you never thought of or imagined before.

Buy this book!
Buy this book!

Update: Shadi Rohana is contributing to an Arabic-Spanish translation of Instructions Within by Ashraf Fayad. Ashraf is currently imprisoned in Saudi Arabia serving an eight-year sentence for blasphemy. To show solidarity for Ashraf Fayad, you can purchase Palabras para Ashraf and write letters on his behalf or sign a petition in Spanish.

 

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