The scandalous and long-standing lack of attention for Arab writer and thinker Ghalib Halasa (1932–1989) may finally be letting up. New interest, like explorations of his village origins near Madaba, Jordan or that follow his extended exile-stays in Cairo, Baghdad, Beirut and Damascus, is growing. Take this late 2017 in-depth tribute from Amman-based Arabic language e-zine, 7iber (“Between Capitals and Prisons”) as one example.
To add fuel to this fire, I offer this brief excerpt from his 1984 novel “Three Faces of Baghdad” that addresses themes he returned to — from different angles and geographies — again and again: dreams, friendship and the critical Arab Left Ghalib was so dedicated to. With so much to explore in his 7 novels, dozens of short stories, and scads of genre - crossing nonfiction that feels so relevant to our present day hopes and wars, the door is there, we need simply to walk through it. (For another Halasa translation of note see this “Sultana” excerpt in Jadaliyya)
He fell asleep for a second. Then woke up with the feeling that he’d overslept and was late for an important meeting. He remembered the fight he never had with the hotel owner, and how he now had to stay in this place until the morning. It felt a lot like choking: the coarse blanket, the thick stench . . . Between sleep and wakefulness, he remembered that night in deport prison, the khalifa division, like he was remembering a deep shame.
He didn’t remember it in the chronological order that we’re narrating now. Rather he recalled it as scenes. Scenes he would look at, and keep playing back until he couldn’t take it anymore. Those scenes would dissolve into that mixture that comes upon remembering waking dreams, at the moments that separate sleep from wakefulness.
The room the chief of police put him in was large — it seemed to him very large — and almost empty. It had a high ceiling and muddy walls that gave it the air of an abandoned place. Along the length of each wall there was a three foot high cement bench surrounding the floor of the naked room, stopping at the plumbing at the other side of the room facing the door. A few kids were sitting on the bench near the door and to the left. Silent and staring.
The Chief said as he stopped near the door:
- Some of your gang is over there.
- Are they political?
The Chief laughed and said:
- Political! Palestinian! Call them whatever you want.
He was in a good mood. He had snatched from Ghalib an Egyptian pound while they were in the car, and here he was offering a service in return.
The place the Chief had pointed to was a nook at the far end of the room between the plumbing and the corner. It was special in that it had a mat laid out on the floor and folded blankets put up against the wall. Five people were sitting there, and one of them was looking at him closely as soon as he came in. When Ghalib approached he got up and said:
-Hello Ghalib.
He reached out his hand so Ghalib shook it. He was happy to see someone he knew. Ghalib greeted the others. After he sat down, the guy that had welcomed him said:
- You don’t know me. I was at the conference and I heard when they locked you up. My name’s Sami.
Now, Ghalib recalled them sitting. Not like he saw them at the time, but like he remembers them now: the other Palestinian, with his head hanging low, and who would slowly raise his eyes to look at Ghalib. He would listen closely with a neutral expression and a grave look. He said little.
The Palestinians had made room for him so he sat down. He found out later that they worked in Kuwait. Egyptian military intelligence had taken them in about a week ago. They interrogated them on the charge of being with a Palestinian fida’ee organization.
Intelligence wasn’t convinced they’d come for a vacation, and orders for their deportation were issued. Minutes after he arrived, they treated Ghalib like one of their own. In food, sleep, and the cause. Talk passed between the three in that mystified language — half phrases, meaningful looks, silence — that people of one political mind are fluent in.
