In Translation: An Interview with Diaa Jubeili
Nuance and narrative with Arabic literature’s Lion of Basra
In 2016, I was fortunate enough to translate Diaa Jubeili’s short story, “The Worker,” for the Comma Press anthology Iraq +100, a collection of short stories by Iraqi writers imaging their country 100 years after the US-led invasion in 2003. In the wake of the executive order — now tied up in the court system — restricting immigration from seven countries (among them Iraq), I caught up with Diaa to ask about life and literary production in Basra, Iraq (his native city).
How did you start out writing fiction? What was your life like prior to the American-led invasion and the British occupation of Basra?
Before I started writing prose I used to write poetry. I started when I was young, reading the lines of poetry inscribed on the tombstones of British soldiers in the English cemetery — the one that dates back to the first British occupation of Basra, during the First World War.
Still, I came to find myself more and more in short stories and novels, especially after I had the chance to read Anton Chekov and Edgar Allen Poe, William Faulkner and O Henry. I wrote my first story about a young Iraqi boy afflicted with Leukemia due to the effects of American depleted-uranium munitions used in the 1991 Gulf War, who dies before the right treatment can be delivered. During that time, I wrote several stories on hunger, want, war and children.
I tried writing a novel before the Saddam regime fell, but when I was carrying the manuscript on me I left it on a bus and lost it. I cried over it at the time, and felt incredible frustrated, but went back to write it again and wound up with a very different manuscript. That eventually became The Curse of Marquez, my first novel (published in 2007).
I didn’t publish anything before the American-British invasion of Iraq. Most writers resorted to symbolism or allegory in order to escape the censor, but I wanted to be realistic in my writings — and so I would hide my writings and save my thoughts for a more appropriate time.
What was writing like under the Saddam regime?
As I mentioned, I didn’t risk publishing anything back then, out of concern that my thoughts might lead the regime to hunt me down. Saddam’s rule was dictatorial to the point that a number of Iraqi writers were subjected to torture, taken to prison, or brought to the hangman’s noose. Still, I would send some of what I wrote to newspapers and magazines outside of Iraq for publication, which was one safe venue at a time when the regime would hold writers to account for the slightest word of criticism.
What role does the city of Basra play in your writings, as it is the setting for several of your short stories and novels?
Basra is a city of stories — the first modern and ancient fiction in Iraq came from here. It is a city open to the desert, the sea, and green pastures alike. The events of most of my stories and novels take place here, not just because it’s where I was born, or because I know its people and places, but because it is tied to so many historical events — from the time when Alexander the Great arrived on Her shores, on through to the Zanj rebellion and the Battle of the Camel. In the last three wars (Translator: the Iraq-Iran war, the Gulf War, and the American-led invasion) Basra has been the first city bombed, the first to see its buildings destroyed, the first to see its people left homeless.
Somebody once tallied up that Basra has been visited by some 32 plagues over the centuries, to say nothing of the various wars and invasions and raids that have hit the place. No wonder the name of the place has become a watchword for destruction. Starting with the words “After the destruction of Basr…”, you can follow up by mentioning Sinbad’s journeys, or the Mu‘tazilites, or the Brethren of Purity writing their Epistles, or the Basra school in Arabic grammar. Basra has and continues to play a large role in my writings, and I do not leave Her in my stories except to return to her.
How have the years of instability and violence in Iraq (and Basra in particular) affected the literary output of the country?
There are certainly shared themes among Iraqi writers, with war being perhaps the most prominent example. That’s why the majority of Iraqi novels seem to resemble each other. The instability as well as the ongoing fighting in the region — much of it sectarian — means that war is always on the minds of Iraqi writers. That’s why you see so much repetition in spite of the different styles each writer employs.
Likewise, you’ll see a lot of very emotional writing that barely makes use of the most important features of modern Arabic style, so you’ll find much of vocabulary fairly weak and infused with a large number of colloquialisms, with little thought for non-Iraqi readers (even among Arab audiences).
How does it feel to be the only writer in the Iraq +100 project to still live in Iraq proper?
I don’t think of this as anything special in relation to the other authors on that project. Yet it’s a difficult thing to write about the fires burning you up from within. I did feel, as I wrote my story, like somebody searching for something deep within a forest, surrounded by wild beasts and dense foliage and unknown dangers. I imagine that’s a struggle that would be much different if you were gazing down on the forest from atop a mountain rather than wandering within it.
What do you see as in store for the future of literary production in Iraq? Do you think the large number of intellectuals living abroad will tend to fragment this output, or allow for greater connection with broader Arab and non-Arab audiences?
There is an idea one commentator coined after the 2003 war, that there is an internal literature and an external literature for Iraq — the former written inside Iraq by those still living there, and the latter written by emigres. Some have started to separate these works into their own categories, as if these were two separate literatures, not one single expression of a common identity.
I strongly doubt that there is an “internal” literature or an “external” literature. If there are writers here working from the heart of the swamps, that doesn’t mean writers abroad are working from within an ivory tower, even if each certainly brings different experiences to their work. Personally, I think there is a bright future for the Iraqi novel and short story, yet those of us living here still lack the most basic means of getting published. It is next to impossible to get in touch with a foreign audience.
What is your opinion of the recent executive order issued by President Trump, which would bar you and other Iraqis from entering the United States for some time?
When I was researching for my latest novel, I went through the biographies of all those who plotted to destroy the Twin Towers in New York, killing five thousand humans. Most of them came from countries not on Mr. Trump’s list, if I recall, yet the list somehow included Iraq — the country presently facing the greatest direct danger from the forces of darkness and extremism, and fighting the same radicalism that America claims to want to be rid of.
I think this is a foolish decision, and one that will put American interests in Iraq in danger — especially given that there are massive American oil companies at work in Iraq. Iraqis are not terrorists, while a great number of them are accomplished Americans with advanced technical training, or served America with their knowledge and skills.
We do not hold the American people accountable for a bloody and violent siege that lasted thirteen years as much as we hold the Bush family and Clinton accountable, and we likewise do not hold the American people accountable for this decision. This crime falls at the feet of Mr. Trump and his administration.
Andrew Leber is a Ph.D. student at Harvard University’s Department of Government. He’s based in Boston.
