Sprouting geysers in Iceland, where the venting ground is a dormant giant whale when not a volcano.

Travel offers an appreciation of nature’s marvels.

***

The ancient city engraved in pink stone— Petra, symbols and tombs the size of mountains— the Pyramids, a lover’s eulogy— Taj Mahal, an art collection’s most reveled sanctuary– Hermitage, and a once despised entrance arch—Le Tour Eiffel.

Travel gives an appreciation of Man’s marvels.

Travel is pilgrimage to holy places, Jerusalem, Lourdes, Mecca, Varanasi, catering to the mystical, the spiritual; magnificent temples immersed in gardens on precipices, often combining both nature’s and man’s marvels with a revered historical reference.

Travel enriches.

Travel is adventure, a suspension of reality, an escape to an unknown place, sharing an intimate moment with a complete stranger that feels familiar, under a clear night sky on a Greek Island, skinny dipping, fearless and daring.

Travel reminds us that we are born free.

Travel with someone reveals truths, exposes other sides, tests relationships.

Travel adds to a life’s experience.

Auschwitz, Hiroshima.

Travel reminds us of the horror and madness that man is capable of inducing.

But that is not the travel I wish to talk about today.

***

Working for a multinational consulting company in San Francisco some years ago, I was assigned a two week project in Ramallah, West Bank, Palestinian Occupied Territories.

Landing in Ben Gurion airport, Tel Aviv, I proceeded to immigration and security, feeling secure with my Canadian passport.

“First time in Israel?” the young girl behind the counter said. She must have been in her early twenties.

“Yes.”

“You were born in Jordan?” She leafed through my passport.

“Yes.”

After a few customary questions about the length and purpose of my visit, and after checking documents by my employer validating my assignment, she asked,

“Where are your parents from?”

“Here.”

Her eyebrows flinched.

“Where exactly?”

“My father is from Ramleh [not Ramallah] and my mother is from Jafa.”

“Please go to the office over there.”

She kept my passport and uttered something in Hebrew into her transceiver. I had arranged with my colleagues to meet at the airport, their flights having arrived before mine, and was anxious not to miss our connection. I had no experience navigating this terrain and my cell phone did not function.

After an hour’s wait with other Arabs, I finally got my turn.

“Are these your bags?” an officer said.

“Yes.”

He proceeded to ask me more questions, went through every boring detail in my bag, then took in his hands a book with music scores and flipped through its pages.

“So you play music huh?” he said with belittling amusement. I was reminded of the story of the Palestinian violinist, who was forced to play his violin before the guards at one of the check points in the West Bank. Luckily, piano is not a portable instrument.

Having found nothing suspicious, the officer ushered me to another check point where my bags and I passed through two X-ray machines. After being cleared by the machines, he had the chutzpah to ask,

“Do you have any bombs on you?”

I wasn’t sure of the purpose of the question.

***

Graffiti in Palestine. Photo: iStock

Up until then, I’d only met Palestinians in Diaspora. My first encounter with Palestinians in their homeland was in Ramallah, a run-down place that, compared to Gaza, I was told, is considered the San Francisco of the Occupied Territories. I felt a sense of belonging with the people and the land. It was a strange feeling that I could only approximate to what I imagined to be the feeling of an orphan meeting his biological parents for the first time. After completing my work assignment, I spent a couple of days traveling around Palestine-Israel. I made sure to get a taxi with a license plate that allows it to travel in and out of Israel.

We headed to Ramleh, which became part of Israel proper – not the occupied territories – in 1948. We asked people to point us to City Hall. That was easy to find.

An unmistakable edifice, looking more like an overgrown house, sat in a vast plot of green against the backdrop of olive trees. The taxi stopped and I stepped out. Green grass, well kempt, covered the spacious porch before the entrance.

The façade had pink undertones and was beautified by arches and columns wrapping around a large balcony. As I drew closer, the immense edifice towered over me, making me feel very little. Perhaps it wasn’t really that immense but it did make me feel little. There was no one else but the structure and I.

Security cameras plastered high on the walls gave me the sense that I was being watched, made me feel like a trespasser. I must have looked suspicious for I really had no business being there, walking around this municipal government building.

Except that this house and this land, covering an area of 29.34 dunams (7.25 acres,) belongs to Shukri Rizk, my late grandfather. He had built it in 1947 and had no time or chance to enjoy it or bequeath it to my father.

1948. Forced expulsion. Compensation: nil.

I was defeated by a combination of pain and helplessness. I quickly extricated myself and walked away, re-entered the taxi and took off, never looking back.

My father still preserves the property’s proof of ownership. Many other Palestinians still hold on to such documents, for what they’re worth, for mine is a world governed by the rule of power not the rule of law, and what is history but a fable agreed upon, as Napoleon once said. Except, it is not agreed upon.

Travel nostalgia— you ask?

Exile— I say.

Travel enriches and travel impoverishes the heart as well.

(Today, there are over four and a half million Palestinian refugees registered with the U.N.)

Originally published in JO.

IN 2008, Zeina Daccache made headlines by doing the impossible: she got access to one of Lebanon’s toughest men’s prisons and staged a play there, starring the inmates. After months of work, she brought the great and good of Beirut society, from the Prosecutor General to the Minister of Interior, to sit in a makeshift theater and watch a group of convicted murderers, rapists and drug dealers act out a parable about the failure of criminal justice.

The play was Daccache and the inmates’ own adaptation of Twelve Angry Men, by Reginald Rose. The original is an American classic in which a jury debates the fate of a young man accused of murder. Eleven men agree on a guilty verdict, but one dissents; by analyzing the evidence he slowly wins the others over. Adapted to a Lebanese environment, the drama cuts back and forth between the arguments of the fictional jury and real-life stories told by the prison inmates.

One prisoner, the diminutive Youssef Chankar, plays a narrator, whose comments help bridge the different sections of the play. In his opening monologue he points out that, although called 12 Angry Lebanese, the cast also includes a Bangladeshi, a Palestinian, a Nigerian and a Syrian.

“We all came to Lebanon to be angry,” he says.

The production generated a huge amount of attention, and was followed up in 2009 with the release of a documentary film, “12 Angry Lebanese.” The movie tells the story behind the production, and examines the effects of this “drama therapy” on the 45 inmates involved, and the enclosed world of prison society itself. At the 2009 Dubai International Film Festival it won both the People’s Choice award and the Muhr award for best Arab documentary. It screened in Amman at the end of January.

So how exactly did Daccache manage to walk into a prison and get nearly 50 mostly violent offenders to do something requiring so much dedication and cooperation?

In one surprising scene in the film, viewers get to see Daccache taking her actors to task quite harshly.

“All I ever hear is ‘I want,’ or ‘I need,’” she says. “This is the language of children.” Shockingly, there’s no riot. The inmates bow their heads?one even agrees. What the audience may not quite appreciate is that such minor miracles represent years of work.

Daccache has lived in Paris, Italy and the United States, as well as Lebanon. She speaks four languages, and stars as the clownish character Iso in the popular Lebanese political satire show “Bassmat Watan.” In 2000 she studied clowning with Phillippe Gaulier, a French physical theater guru in London. Shortly thereafter she assisted in a drama therapy project in an Italian prison. The following six years were spent working in rehab centers, until 2007, when she studied drama therapy at Kansas State University; she’s also earned an MA in Clinical Psychology.

Of course none of this would have been much use without a sense of humor.

“You need to be confident, a gentleman,” she says at another point in the film, gesturing in an exaggerated fashion as she teaches Bangladeshi inmate Hussein Al Mawla how to walk without slouching. “Haven’t you seen those people who are like: ‘How are you darling, so good to see you,’” she continues, prancing around the room and playfully shaking the hands of the inmates. “Trust me, these people are everywhere in Beirut.”

It’s one of the more light-hearted scenes, but perhaps also one of the more telling. What exactly made Daccache abandon a world of coffee-shop boulevards for Roumieh prison, or the Beirut in-set for society’s outcasts?

“I don’t believe in art for art’s sake,” says the sprightly young director, dismissing the question as a distraction. “Why do you write, or why does a singer sing? I work with people like this because it’s right for me and because I think it’s important.”

It’s only when pressed that Daccache reveals the insight that seems to drive the work behind the 12 Angry Lebanese project, and Catharsis, the drama-therapy company she runs.

“People like this are naked,” she explains. “We know their sin, we know what they have done, and they can’t hide?they’ve been caught. But [for us] on the outside, our wrongs are hidden and we can fake so many things.”

Neither the play nor the documentary is arguing the rapists and murderers in Roumieh are innocent, or that they should not be held to account. What these works question is the presumed innocence of those outside the prison walls, and their readiness to sit in judgment on those within.

The more explicit aim of the documentary, however, was to chart and champion the effects of drama therapy on the inmates involved. Perhaps the most convincing case for a therapeutic effect is Majdi Sirjani, a murderer sentenced to death in a country where the death penalty, although not implemented, remains on the statute books. Sirjani describes his “psychological crisis,” and his overwhelming and constant preoccupation with death, but by the end of the film his features seem somehow lighter, his eyes less hollow. Another inmate, called simply “Haweelo,” who was convicted of drug dealing, learned to read and write for the play with the help of his cellmates.

The residents of Roumieh aren’t much given to artifice (or else they’re very good at it) but their reflections on prison life and the drama project don’t seem scripted.

12 Angry Lebanese shows that in some ways prison life is a microcosm of the world outside.

“Inside I’m a servant, and outside I’m a servant,” says Al Mawla, the Bangladeshi inmate.

“You’ll find exactly the same prejudices inside a prison as outside,” explains Daccache—mentioning how at first, some of the inmates at first didn’t like taking direction from a woman. “They call me Abu Ali,” she recounts. In the documentary itself, she quips that she “can never procreate with such a nickname.”

Then there’s Chankar, the play’s narrator, who was given a life sentence for murder. In Lebanon a life sentence means just what its name implies—it’s of indeterminate length. With nothing to look forward to, Chankar can only look back. He counts up the 18 years he’s spent in prison in days, hours, minutes and seconds.

Rateb Al Jibawi, imprisoned for rape, will be released one day—but he regards the prospect of freedom with ambivalence. “Another prison awaits me,” he tells audience, “a prison without walls.” He fears the censure of the society, the life of a pariah in the crowd.

Technically, “12 Angry Lebanese” is neither filmed, edited or scripted particularly well. Footage of the play is incorporated rather awkwardly into scenes from the rehearsals, and interviews with the prisoners’ in which they describe the process. More background—for example, on how Daccache found herself at Roumieh, or the struggle to launch the project in the first place—might have helped the narrative along.

But such criticisms are very minor. In fact, it’s in large part by avoiding the structure of a “journey story,” and instead focusing on what the inmates have to say for themselves, that makes the documentary at once so compelling and so different.

John Lillywhite is an Oxford History graduate with a law diploma he’s determined to never use, a Walmart laptop that remains the bane of his life, and a tongue so irreverent its best kept closed.

He has experience in Film, Talent, New Media and Book Publishing, and currently works as Art’s Editor for JO. John is a ‘culture vulture’ who’s loves creative things and creative people.

You can contact John by sending him an E-mail at john[at]jo[dot]jo. You can also add him on Facebook and follow him on Twitter.

Every time I think of 9/11

I see burning flesh

Dripping off the bones

Of Iraqi children in Fallujah

Now Gaza

I tend to memorialize the forgotten

The collateral damage

Eclipsing our unpunished crimes

Maybe it’s because I’m a numbers guy?

Kanazi speaks and performs with an urgency that commands your attention; his voice is forceful, lawyer-like in the way he pleads for justice. His conviction of opinion may offend the faint-hearted. Needless to say, Kanazi is never at a loss for words.

“I write a lot of angry pieces,” he confesses. “All you gotta do is turn on CNN to write a poem. Thanks to our government and media, I’m never devoid of creativity.”

While Kanazi uses his past growing up as the “the brownest thing going in a small western Massachusetts white Catholic town,” for inspiration, he wasn’t always so comfortable talking about his Palestinian heritage.

“Look, Arab Americans usually go two routes,” he says. “It’s either I am Arab hear me roar, or I want nothing to do with you people.” Remi was the latter. “I wanted McDonald’s, I wanted Coke, I was the fat kid who didn’t care and I rejected my Palestinian ancestry.”

Remi began singing another tune when he connected with Arabs in college. “When I talked to some of these people, there was an enormous feeling of embarrassment, of not knowing where I came from, and that pushed me to find out.”

After a brief stint as a business major at the University of Massachusetts, Remi moved to New York. He didn’t begin writing until about four months before 9/11. Following 9/11, his creative output only intensified:

“The backlash against Arabs, the mischaracterizations, the vitriol, it made me want to write,” he says.

Kanazi, who grew up politically conservative, began independently reading and researching, delving in progressive politics, Edward Said and “anything I could get my hand son.” He saw Def Jam poetry on Broadway and was drawn to Suheir Hammad and Carlos Andres Gomez. “It blew my mind how spoken word was so progressive and interlinked with socially conscious hip hop; it moved me in a way I wanted to emulate,” he says.

Activism drives his work. “I used to write op-eds, but I felt the youth was yearning for voices, for artists to say ‘this is me, and I’ not afraid.’”

In 2005 Remi started his poetry website PoeticInjustice.net and began booking shows.

“The first show I ever did was at a Palestinian Relief Fundraiser at St. Georges church in New Jersey. Natalie Hundall and Maysoon Zayid were reading that night.” The event organizer-Remi’s brother’s friend’s mom- read some of his poems off PoeticInjustice and asked him to perform.

“They said I would perform for ten min, and I was so mad at myself for agreeing, thinking I was gonna make an ass of myself. I was shaking like crazy but then I did it and it was the best feeling ever.”

Six months later, the idea for Poets for Palestine started. An anthology of poems edited by Kanazi, it unites poets, spoken word artists, and hip-hop artists calling for humanity. Remi relied on open-call submissions and help from within the Arab American artistic community, eventually personally asking writers to submit their work. Networking within the Arab American community was key.

“There was and continues to be an immense amount of support from the Arab artistic community, which I know sounds funny because Arabs are so well known for their dividedness.” He laughs. “Everyone gave their time for free or did it for dirt cheap. If it wasn’t for the Arab American community I don’t think I’d still be a poet.”

Remi’s maternal grandparents are from Yafeh, his paternal relatives are from Haifa. They all fled to Lebanon in 1948, during Al- Nakba, the creation of Israel.

In 2007, Remi went back to Palestine for the first time, visiting the land his ancestors dreamed of returning to. “You can read as much as you want but nothing can replace the experience of being in Palestine, feeling it, and connecting with people on the ground.” When he says that, you get the sense his mind is wandering back to a specific encounter and image.

Remi’s grandmother passed away in the summer. He credits her for influencing him as an adult, and for the love and pride she instilled in him. “She was always talking abut Yafeh and wanting to return,” he says. “When I look back [at my younger self], I constantly feel, like, what the hell was wrong with me? The more you reject your roots when you’re younger, the more you actually come back to them when you’re older.”

Remi finished his fall U.S. tour last month. During performances, he talks about how PoetsforPalestine came together, but focuses more on his own poetry, performing ten to twelve poems per show.

“I tackle double standards, war and politics, but my main focus is Palestine, so I talk about what coexistence means, what justice means,” he says.

In the spring, Remi will head back to Palestine to teach a course as part of the Palestine Writing Workshop and will be participating in Palfest, a yearly literature festival in Palestine.

“I’m a little afraid because Israel has been jailing Palestinians-especially non violent outspoken ones,” he says with a nervous chuckle. “But I’m looking forward to it.”

I ask Remi if, like many Palestinians, he prays to God for freedom from oppression. His answer is, not surprisingly, political:

“In a post 9-11 world people want to say, ‘Oh it’s fundamentalist or religious zealousm, but when you look at Palestine, it’s occupier vs occupied, colonzier vs colonized. The problem is disposition, apartheid.”

I’ve touched a nerve.

“It’s ridiculous when people say Jews and Arabs can’t live together because of Hamas,” he says. “Israel didn’t reject Hamas because it was religious- before Hamas there was Fatah, the PLO, secularism, the problem clearly isn’t religion.”

Remi’s poem “Coexist” is a tribute to Palestinian resistance, as the only thing that keeps the people from becoming extinct.

I don’t want to coexist
Not like good guys and bad guys in True Lies and propaganda
Put on blackface as cab drivers or deli owners in racist comedies
Not bomb Dunkin Donuts with my Kuffiyeh
Fist pound Fox News
Or let you steal my food and call it Israeli salad
I won’t Mess with the Zohan
Or let him turn the rocks of Palestinian children into balloon animals
While Israeli soldiers snipe our children’s heads, shoulders, knees, and stomachs
Hollywood snipes ears of young ones with lovable tales of blue and white heroes
I am not looking for your approval

The last lines read:

I don’t want to coexist!
I want to exist as a human being
And justice will take care of the rest!

Abu Dhabi is a cosmopolitan metropolis. With its burgeoning economy that has made it a popular destination for expats, as well as its cultural initiatives, it is no surprise that it recently played host to the first international nadwa (workshop) for Arab fiction.

The initiative was launched by The International Prize For Arabic Fiction (equivalent to the Man Booker Prize for the Arab world). The IPAF aims to champion excellence in contemporary Arabic literature and works in association with the Booker Prize Foundation.

The nadwa is modelled on other international writing workshops. One must wonder as to why it has taken such a long time to recognise one is needed on the international literary landscape. However, it is also fair to acknowledge the efforts being made to redress the gulf between the Arab world’s efforts and such institutions as the ‘Caine Prize’ writing workshop for African Writers, as well as the numerous writing workshops in the UK and US. These workshops, including the likes of the ‘Asian American Writers’ Workshop,’ help emerging writers develop their skills and give them a visible platform to be seen, heard and get better.

Peter Clark is an IPAF trustee and the nadwa’s coordinator. He explains, “The workshop brings together promising writers, from different Arab countries to discuss their work and creativity with experienced writers and the ultimate aim is to encourage good writing and bring it to the attention of the rest of the world.”

The eight writers picked for this inaugural workshop are described by the judges who chose them as ‘some of the most gifted and promising writers of the emerging generation.’ Five of them have also been selected to be part of Beirut 39, an elite group of Arab writers under the age of 40.

The workshop, which took place over a nine day period, was conducted in Arabic and the writers wrote in Arabic. However, there are plans for the final work of each writer to be part of an anthology, which will be translated and published in both Arabic and English. The opportunity also gave writers access to established authors who served as mentors and worked closely with them in one-to-one sessions.

Mansoura Ezz Eldin, who has been shortlisted for the 2010 International Prize for Arabic Fiction, and Mohammed Hassan Alwan, were two of the nine participants. They admit this is the first time they have participated in a workshop of this sort and agree that these kinds of gatherings are not common in the Arab world. Alwan said:

“A lot of money has been spent to fund art and literature events in the Arab World. However, most of this money goes to prizes and festivals. If you agree with me, both types of events have a public relations element that encourages funders to buy some good publicity which writers’ retreats, apparently, don’t generate enough of it. Find a funder who recognizes the real essence of non-for-profit projects and you’ll see more workshops as this one in the Arab world.”

While Eldin says the trend is changing with the inception of writing workshops like the nadwa and others in Lebanon and Cairo, but that this “Workshop is totally different, because the participants are well known young writers, not beginners.”

Mansoura Ezz Eldin. Photo: IPAF

Alwan has published two novels and a collection of short stories, while Eldin has a novel and a collection of short stories under her belt. Eldin runs the review section of the renowned Egyptian literary magazine, Akhbar al-Adab (Literature News.) Both say the workshop has helped them, though in different ways.

Alwan said, “Joining eight accomplished writers in a quest for refining our in-progress short stories and novels was as valuable as taking eight consecutive classes of creative writing.” Eldin admits to doing something she is not familiar by treading in new territory with her work. “It was a fruitful experience, it was also an adventure because as a writer, I was not used to letting anyone read my work while writing but this workshop helped to change that habit,” she says. Hence, she says the most important gain from the workshop was being able to “See her work through the eyes of other writers and to be more flexible.”

So, what does a writing workshop of this nature do for a body of work or literature from a different part of the world? Surely the aim is to open the minds of people to the fact that Arab writing is alive and flourishing and that the literary world and readers alike need to embrace it and stay open minded, in spite of the grim picture often painted of the region. Clark says he hopes “It gives recognition to emerging talented writers, encourages readers and instils awareness that the future of Arab literary creativity looks good.”

For the writers involved, Alwan says he would like to believe that the workshop will help Arab fiction and writers “Overcome the shortcomings of their writings that the after-publishing critique often fails to do since it is either usually too late or too harsh.” He adds that this triggers a level of defensiveness from the writer and prevents him or her from understanding why his or her work is being criticised by the critics. So, “providing such critique while the text is in development is much more acceptable and is received as an opportunity to improve the text rather than undermine it,” he adds.

Mohammed Hassan Alwan. Photo: IPAF

Both authors are adamant about the biggest challenge faced by Arab writers which they say is the issue of translation. The lack of translation has meant some of best works from Arab writers, fiction and non-fiction, are yet to cross over into the mainstream literary scene despite the fact that Arab writing keeps evolving. Eldin believes that translating the work which comes out of the workshop into English would be one of the most important and positive results of it all. Alwan says he would like to see a change in the number of works translated across the Arab literary landscape. “There is still not enough funding for massive translation projects. Only a little fraction of what’s being produced in the Arab world gets translated to other languages,” he says. This could be an opportunity for Western publishers, if they are bold enough to take a chance.

Clark points out there are plans to develop the workshop further, while Eldin and Alwan express their hope of it becoming a more frequent event with broader scope and more diverse participants. They also would not mind being involved in future workshops. Eldin says she actually fancies the opportunity of being a mentor, while Alwan is quick to point out the fact that having mentors for this year’s workshop was a blessing. It is important to keep that aspect of the project because “At the end, Arab mentors can be more effective in communicating with the participants. It’s not only because of the shared spoken language but also the cultural backgrounds that play significant roles in shaping the ideas behind the stories and novels being developed.”

On the subject of censorship within the Arab world, both writers have different points of view. Alwan said,

“Since the participants are from different countries in the Arab world and experience different levels and types of censorship; they share the condemnation of it but not the extents of which they can challenge it, the experiences they had with it, nor the techniques they use to minimize its negative effect on their writings. Hence by mixing them together, they inspire each other and share their experiences in regards to dealing with censorship.”

However, Eldin said, “Any workshop cannot help writers to express themselves freely. The writer should express himself freely whatever the price is. Freedom is the most important thing for a writer.”

They’re wrinkles
On the face of history.
History is a tired woman.
History stands by the side of the road,
Her cheap necklaces toll for you.

These old scars,
Rock against people,
Time against more time,
Cannot be kissed away.

After my body
Has stopped complaining
At the end of the rope,
After your feet enter the slippers
Brought to you by another woman,
The rock will still be telling
The same story to itself.
The ending never changes.

Implacable but steady,
The city never stops blushing,
As if it has an amusing secret.

I think it’s adding footsteps
To its scrapbook of desecrations.

No one righteous,
And no one to blame.
We have forgotten its loves
And big and little deaths,
And it “forgets” to bless us on our way.

Then I washed my hair,
Made myself prettier than even Fadi can,
Lay across our bed with my feet pointing east,
Hands across the body
Where everything began.

We made them up inside our heads,
Inside this bed.

Now you’re walking down the road,
Your top buttons unbuttoned,
Your tie and face askew.

Now you can’t enter.
Now.

Forgive me my cowardice,
My poppy mouth,
That bent down
Searching out a kiss.
I’ve been rewarded richly for this.
I have the freedom
Only loneliness can affix
Like a medal to breasts run dry.

Tablecloth violated
By sweet little drops
And spills.

Until the moment
Of no more,
No more.

A simmering,
Singing tongue
Resting behind the teeth.

Then it goes,
And the lights
Are dimmed in the restaurant.

The waitress
Slides out out of her pump
And inspects her tired toes.

The cook rubs his forehead
Where the hairnet
Hugged him too tightly.

The sleeping dumpster
Quietly digests
The remains of the night.

The way back is long,
Through puddles and cobblestone.
The way back is so long.

You know what? Just get over here.

I’ve been thinking… Remember those days? When we moved seamlessly through life, often asking ourselves if it could possibly be any better? If the passersby, the colossal statue we shared with them and the same one we fought over, were true to reality? Was it merely an attempt of evading a series of conventional bores? Or did we really come across love in its most infant form?

And just about…here! I usually trip over one of two magnets in my head. Crossing field lines I jerk irregularly in a bind set by gravity. Rest assured that this is only a metaphor describing the deformation of my train of thought; call it a train wreck. For some reason I cannot describe it otherwise. The allegories we subscribe to as dreamers… do they restrain us from arriving at the ultimate epiphany? Train wreck. Ha. Was it merely an attempt of evading a series of conventional bores? I hope not, I’ve given into that particular allegory long ago.

Train wreck.

Have we based this value on nothing? Train wreck.

The allegories we subscribe to as dreamers… do they restrain us from arriving at the ultimate epiphany? The generosity of your existence is unbreakable. Lay out in front of me only what you can provide and only what I desire.

A walkway. A pendulum of skin and bones, fueled by anticipation. Another metaphor, sorry. Train wreck.

A life that’s a feast fit for a troll,
A grain of sand that’s bursting with the world,
- All the things you say you want.

Don’t hurry, love, to claim the throne,
The last son always gets it anyway.
Don’t eat the apple with too-shiny skin,
Or strain to see a glimpse of goddess-flesh.

Some joys we need protection from and more.

Jonathan Mok: Why and when did you get interested in the life of King Hussein?

Nigel Ashton: I’ve been interested in King Hussein ever since I was a PhD student back in the 1980s working on British and American policy in the Middle East during the Suez crisis. I was fascinated from an early stage by the way the King successfully negotiated a series of dangerous challenges to his position and the way in which he managed his relations with other powers in the region.

After King Hussein died in February 1999, I felt it was a good time to start researching a biography of him. Up to that point there had been no full biography written with the benefit of access to his papers and interviews with his close friends, family members, and confidants. Thereafter I made more than a dozen trips to Jordan between 1999 and 2007, carrying out a range of interviews with former political leaders and his close family members, including his wife Queen Noor and his eldest son, King Abdullah of Jordan.

Jonathan: King Hussein seemed never to employ anti-Semitic rhetoric to condemn the Israeli occupation and Jewish lobby in the United States. In fact, he was believed to be good terms with leaders such as Golda Meir and Yitzhak Rabin. How did the King view Jews and the Jewish state?

Nigel: As far as King Hussein was concerned, the first crucial step that had to be made before one could contemplate making peace was to empathize with those on the other side of the conflict. He felt that he had to show that he understood and appreciated the historical tragedy of the Jewish people in all its parts before peace would be possible. His strategy to achieve this goal involved the offering of endless reassurance to Israelis

Perhaps the best example of this came in March 1997 when, after a Jordanian soldier had gone mad and killed several Israeli schoolgirls on a field trip at Baqoura on the border between Israel and Jordan, the King flew to Israel and personally visited the bereaved families. His gesture of kneeling before them and offering his personal condolences had a profound effect in Israel, turning a tragedy into an event which helped cement relations between the two states. So, King Hussein was aware of the hopes and fears of Israelis and did his best to reassure them.

Jonathan: How did King Hussein influence his son, King Abdullah?

Nigel: I would say that [King Abdullah] has inherited much of his father’s shrewd grasp as to how to navigate in troubled political waters. He has built on his father’s close relations with the United States, but made sure that he has also remained close to the Arab middle ground on key issues such as the peace process with Israel.

King Abdullah has also improved relations with Saudi Arabia, which had been strained during the final years of King Hussein’s reign. He has been more inclined to focus his attention on key domestic problems as well, especially economic and administrative development, which his father tended to delegate to others. So, while the two monarchs have much in common, King Abdullah has inevitably brought a fresh perspective to some key issues.

Jonathan: While King Hussein was well-recognized for his diplomatic successes, he was also criticized for failing to modernize the country. Can we talk more about that?

Nigel: Hussein himself would have seen the achievement of peace with Israel as his greatest achievement. But, in the final three years of his life, he was already becoming frustrated at what he saw as the failure to translate this into a broader peace in the region. Although he blamed all parties for the failure, he was particularly critical of the role of the then Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu whom he believed had allowed the chance for a comprehensive peace, pursued by Yitzhak Rabin, to slip away.

From 1989 onwards the King pursued a program of domestic liberalization which opened the political system up to the opposition. However, this process had largely halted by the mid-1990s. The irony was that the making of peace with Israel, which was domestically unpopular, contributed to the slow down in domestic political reform. Despite this, King Hussein was certainly the most benevolent, open and fair-minded Arab leader of his generation. He dealt with opposition more by trying to co-opt it, or channel it, rather than by simply repressing it.

Jonathan: Finally, in your opinion, what lessons Arab leaders can take from the late King Hussein?

Nigel: I think the key lesson is the need for dialogue. Across the decades from the early 1960s when the King began to talk covertly to Israeli representatives he sought to resolve the problems of the region through debate, discussion and dialogue. Of course, this approach involved inevitable frustrations. In the aftermath of the 1967 war, when the King pressed hard for a broader peace settlement, his approach did not find a receptive audience in the region. But he persisted in his efforts which eventually bore fruit in the shape of the Jordanian-Israeli peace Treaty in the 1994.

The second lesson is how to deal with political opponents. For sure, the King’s regime had authoritarian aspects, but he was notoriously lenient in his treatment of political opponents, even those who had plotted against his person and his throne.

The final lesson concerns the exercise of power. Hussein understood that Jordan was a weak state in terms of its military and economic resources. But he consistently exercised disproportionate influence both through his moral authority and his subtle grasp of the hopes and fears of others. Empathy was ultimately his most useful tool in regional politics.