Transcript
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Turul Mende (1:27)
Welcome to the New Books Network. Hello everybody, and welcome back to New Book Network. I'm Turul Mende, the host of the channel. Today we'll be talking to Professor Michelle Hartman about her work on Iman Humaydounis novel Songs for Darkness, which is forthcoming at Interlink Books this spring. Welcome to the podcast, Michelle hi.
Michelle Hartman (1:50)
Thanks for inviting me.
Turul Mende (1:52)
Michelle Hartman is a literary translator and professor of Arabic Literature at McGill University, and she has translated various novels from Arabic to English, including other novels by Iman Humaydoun as well. And we are very happy to have you here today. And maybe we can start with that. You read one passage or two from the novel so that the listeners can get a sense on which what the style of the novel is about.
Michelle Hartman (2:21)
Sure, that would be great. So the novel Songs for Darkness by Iman Hamadan is framed by a letter. So the person who's writing the letter is named Asmahan. And I'm going to start off by reading the beginning of the opening letter and then I'm going to pause and I'm going to read a piece from the end of the novel. And I'll let you know when I'm switching. So the very first part is called the letter. New York, December 18, 1982. Dearest Wea, you know that you've been my best friend since childhood. You were there all throughout my teen years. And now it's my turn to pack. I'll pack up my clothes and my daughter's clothes in a suitcase and leave. It was really difficult to get everything together in just a few days walk. Walk all the way to East Beirut and get on a boat to Larnaca. But the most difficult thing was getting over my fear. And not just that, but also pursuing the desire I'd suppressed for so long out of that fear. Fear of doing something, anything. Fear that Mazen would be able to stop me from traveling with Lama at the last minute. Fear of confrontation. Fear of making decisions to move, to travel, to live in exile. On the day of my son's seventh birthday, I began to feel I was a stranger in my own country. Maazin came and ripped him from my arms that day. And there was nothing to protect me. Not my family, not my education, not the law, not all my knowledge of the way the world works. None of those things could protect me from male privilege, supported by religion, enforced by law. Nothing at all could protect me or defend me. As a mother in Beirut, I feel both nostalgic and estranged. I'm afraid to leave the city, but I don't know how to live anywhere else. At the same time, I know all too well I'm not protected. There conflicting emotions. Perhaps there is subconscious coping mechanism to keep me from going mad. They'll help me adapt to this place which is so changed that I no longer recognize it. Loss structures my life now. Every moment is loss. Loss informs everything. The roads filled with militiamen who prevent me from moving freely. Lonely children, hungry cats. Houses destroyed by bombardment. Desiccated trees, mountains with their guts spilling out. Dark streets, deadly news reports. Corpses displayed heartlessly on television screens. Pictures of martyred teenagers, their bodies used to fuel the fires of war, line the walls of Beirut streets. Despite all of this, I stayed in Beirut. And every morning I search for a reason to get out of bed, only to say, good morning world. Good morning, misery. I found comfort in writing. I did what my mother couldn't. And then I'm going to read a little bit more. A piece from the end of the novel, which is titled as Mahan 1982 and she's still writing and reflecting on some of the same issues that we see in the opening. I'll write about myself in the first person. I don't know how to write about myself in the third person. Like I wrote about Shahira, Yasmin and Laila. My writing will thus come full circle. I started sharing stories about my family in a letter I wrote to Wedda. But I'll end here with some longer stories, larger than the dreams of the women in my family. This story won't end, though I wish it would. I'm sick of the past. I'm sick of disappointments, despair and false hope. I'm also tired of repetition, violence, hope, war, violence again. It's a loop, an endless loop that we can never escape. I don't want to stop questioning and asking why, because I'm afraid of dying. I'm afraid to die, feeling that I haven't been born, that I've not yet been born. I was born, though I was born in 1944, on an ordinary July morning.
