I’ve brought every single writer home with me. Honestly. Sometimes you meet people who leave an indelible impression and whose presence continues to be felt, even when they’re not physically near. That’s why, on the festival’s closing night in the Arenbergschouwburg in Antwerp, I bought a book by all of the authors who fascinated me, in some cases even two. Curious about the work of my Chronicles colleagues, I bought each of their novels, but when I tried to find them for an autograph, they were nowhere to be found. Swallowed up by the crowd, no doubt enjoying the last night of the Crossing Border Festival. It was raining cats and dogs outside, but inside the warmth was more than just scientifically measurable warmth. We all wanted to catch some more acts, lose ourselves in that one special show, chat to the person we might never see again.

Since the opening debate on freedom of expression with Sandro Veronesi I had been curious about the work of this Italian author, who is regarded as one of the most important contemporary writers. At the De Groene Waterman stand I bought the widely praised novels Caos Calmo and Brucia Troia.Timidly, I waited for an opportunity to ask Veronesi to sign my copy ofCaos Calmo. I kept staring at him, none too subtle, and just before he was about to open the door to the backstage area, I asked him. ‘Naima, ciao. Sandro Veronesi’, he scribbled in it, throwing me the smile of a weary but contented man. I have since read the novel and it inspires me. Not just as a reader, but also as a writer. It has rekindled my interest in studying the techniques of others, analysing them at different levels and perhaps applying them in my own writing. His eye for detail and those unsettling, analytical powers of observation are things I would like to master too. I don’t know if I can do it like him, but that’s okay, because I want to do it my way.

Crossing Border seems a long time ago. Now that life is back to normal with all its day-to-day commitments, I look back and feel as if we were briefly allowed to lose ourselves in the arts, cut off from the outside world for a few days to enjoy each other’s work. I’m convinced that without Crossing Border I would never have met people like Jim White, Andrew Leland and Sandro Veronesi. It’s not that I never bump into artists. I’ve met quite a few and have had plenty of fascinating conversations with fellow authors, but few actually touch your heart. During the coach ride from The Hague to Antwerp, I had a deep conversation with country singer Jim White about life in Georgia, music, politics and religion. I was so wrapped up in what he said that I didn’t even realize that the trip lasted an hour-and-a-half. There is tangible evidence of this conversation. Hester Tollenaar took quite a few snapshots with her digital camera and sent them to us after the festival. The smile on my face and the intensely emotional look in my eyes were genuine, the real thing. I would like to thank everybody for this unique experience and I hope to be there again one day. Hand on my heart.

Love,
Naima

Every Friday he invites children, the eldest of which are twelve, to his house in Souani, a district in Tangier, offers them tea and biscuits and starts telling his stories. Mrabet is a taciturn man, only opening his mouth when he has a story worth telling. And telling stories is what he does best.

He found friends in Paul Bowles and his wife Jane, who discovered his divine gift and committed it to paper, for publication. However, after Bowles died, vultures and unscrupulous individuals, artists devoid of any inspiration or talent, came up to the illiterate storyteller and ran off with the recordings of his stories, while publishers abused his illiteracy to bamboozle him with percentages in contracts. After all, an illiterate person getting his work published and exhibited in galleries – it’s the world upside-down and needs to be put right.

Mrabet doesn’t see the point of being translated into Arabic, because his work has never received due credit in Morocco; he has never felt recognized or appreciated in his own country. I can imagine Mrabet’s surprise when Hassan Bahara and Asis Aynan came to see him in Tangier during the summer of 2008 for the documentary Pilgrimage to Tangier and approached him with their boyish enthusiasm and this real sense of deference. Because their love for Mrabet is immense, I‘ve noticed. I was touched to see them in the hotel lobby, ready to do some shopping for Mrabet. The way I used to go shopping for my late grandfather, with the kind of respect boys reserve for their father. So sweet to see them look after this elderly man, who will be forever young at heart.

There was a great deal of confusion prior to Mrabet’s visit to The Hague. He’s afraid of flying, so a flight to The Hague was the last resort. In fact, he even tried to talk Louis Behre into arranging a taxi from Tangier to The Hague – anything except flying.

With the help of an interpreter, Wim Brands and Jeroen Van Kan from the De Avonden radio show asked him about his work, about his trip to The Hague. Sitting next to Simon-Pierre Hamelin, he seemed to marvel at the crowd that had come to listen to him, that was interested in him. He speaks as only people from Tangier can speak. I can’t really explain it in writing – I love our language, the turns of phrase, the words, the dry humour and the stories, oh so many stories that the people have for you if you’re prepared to sit cross-legged and listen to what they have to say. Mrabet prefers to tell stories to children, because they are the only ones who listen carefully and who, when they talk, can still take you by surprise. “When grown-up people, adults, talk their words tastebaslin fhal zlafa dyel baysar.” Those who understood the Moroccan Arabic burst out laughing. As bland as a bowl of … pea soup?

How can you translate this phrase so that it retains the same connotations, so that people will laugh whatever their language?Manaraf may well be Mohamed Mrabet’s final publication. He’s getting on a bit and he’s not a well man. But he has seen Tangier’s glory days, has had a turbulent and rich life, has lived life to the full. In the eyes of many he’s just an old man, someone who certainly doesn’t stand out in Tangier. A man who has stopped going places, including bars and other people’s homes, and usually stays at home in Souani. And yet he came to see us, came all the way to the Crossing Border festival. The very least we can do now, in response to this latest novel, is to give him the recognition and respect he deserves. That’s why I’ll be both humble and proud to be reading from his work on stage in Antwerp tonight.

The combination of music and literature at a festival isn’t such an outlandish or peculiar phenomenon. Far from it. I for one am somebody who can’t write without music booming in my ears. The visual arts, paintings, and above all music and cinema are necessary for me to write the way I want to write. The stimuli provided by other branches of art sharpen my pen, create the right vibes, get me in just the mood for describing a scene. That’s why I’m taking advantage of being here at Crossing Border by wandering from stage to stage, presenting my wrist with its backstage pass to the broad-shouldered Security guys when they give me funny looks.

Gliding (the floors of some of the Royal Theatre corridors are dangerously slippery), sliding and sauntering I ventured among the crowd backstage a couple of hours before the festival kicked off. Stage managers, soundcheckers, caterers, rockers, writers, TV personalities and radio makers crossed my path and nobody stopped me. I briefly lost my cool when I was busting to go to the toilet, where I met a blonde girl doing her make-up. While washing my hands I casually struck up a conversation. She was one of the girls doing backing vocals for Reinout met Nevenwerking, the only band not to have been assigned their own dressing room. Poor thing. With the likes of Reinout Verbeke, a gifted poet, she’s trying to bridge the gap between pop and poetry, a combination that’s bound to produce fireworks on stage.

I wished her luck and walked over to another stage, where Yo La Tengo were doing their soundcheck. Drums, bass and electronic sounds that give you goose bumps, music that you can actually feel. ‘More bass, more bass’, the female drummer yelled at the guy behind the table with illuminated controls (yeah yeah, I’m an ignoramus when it comes to equipment). You go, girl, shout it out!

And the bass, it wasn’t exactly in short supply listening to the promising Belgian band Kartasan, who produce a fascinating mix of jazz and rock. Squatting down, with my back against the black wall, I enjoyed the private gig that their soundcheck was to me. I saw Jan Vandecasteele stare at me (I was the only one in the room aside from the guys who were supposed to be there), but I kept my cool. He may well have wondered what that high-heeled chick was doing there, but with my paper wristband I felt obliged to enjoy the backstage atmosphere to the max.

And it was there in abundance. Excitement filled the air we breathed, all on a natural high brought on by the copious, often boisterous energy of these creative souls who have one thing in common. They – we – put our heart and soul into creating something that will live on, long after our sojourns here on earth. Something universal, something that unites us all. Music brings us together. And so it does again this year at this unique festival. My heartfelt thanks for this. I bow and nod my head in appreciation and respect for all.

These words echoed through my head again yesterday: Traduttore traditore… This phrase has been used to suggest that the translator is, by nature, a traitor. Two-faced, hiding behind the writer, a character-free zone, a traitor or turncoat, but one with the power to erase certain connotations or even entire levels of meaning when translating from source to target language. It enables him to create his own text, which is either slightly or blatantly different. Wars have broken out over wrongly translated statements. No kidding. But translations are unavoidable. And so are translators. Especially for the writer who goes unheard in his own language.

Words are not worth the paper they are printed on when they do not find a hearing. On Thursday Roberto Saviano, author of the widely praised Gomorrah, was conspicuous by his glaring absence from the Crossing Border festival. Since his novel about the mafia was published, the man has been at the receiving end of death threats. Translations have greatly boosted his readership and his star has risen to the extent that he has become a big target for gunmen. This serves to remind us that the battle is not nearly over yet, that the fundamental right to expression is often mere rhetoric, likely to be blown away by a November gale if we are not allowed to make the most of it. Allowed is a deliberate choice here, given that it implies a need for permission from the invisible yet ubiquitous spy who watches over the writer’s hunched shoulders and who, while shaking his head, frowning, clacking his tongue, and heckling and harassing, pronounces his judgment. Rapped over the knuckles like a child who has coloured outside the lines. Put your finger to your lips, yes, that’s it, be quiet now, sst, shut up if you want to be my friend. But a writer needs this false friendship, this pretend comradeship like a hole in the head, because he is always in search of readers, allies in critical spirit, minds where his words are safe. And free.

I remember an interview a few months ago with Rafik Lahlou, one of Morocco’s most powerful and wealthiest journalists. He asked me which Moroccan author I thought was worth reading. Without beating about the bush and with the naivety and enthusiasm of a child I replied: “Ben Jelloun. Obviously.” He froze instantly, his mouth narrowed to a disapproving, thin line, he looked about him in exasperation and muttered incoherently and with fluttering eyelids: “You think so? Really? But he’s so controversial.” Still smiling, I replied that I like a bit of controversy. Before I knew it, he had walked through the hotel’s revolving doors and disappeared down the whirling mass of Casa’s streets. That Ben Jelloun has more political enemies than friends and that many officials fear his sharp pen, I already knew. That he could not care less about their antagonism – likewise.

When a word moves beyond mere rhetoric and turns into an opinion which, when aired, acquires a certain power, it begins to take on a life of its own. Literature is powerful, part of our culture and capable of reflecting our own or some other society. Revolutions that have altered the course of history have always sprung from an idea, a thought in somebody’s mind, which found its way out because imprisonment in that head could have lead to explosions and short circuits. When Writers with an Opinion present a Book (yup – all capitals), then I suggest you keep silent and listen or read. We are neither deaf nor illiterate. The last thing we should do is pretend that we are.

Boundaries are pushed back, bars raised, the threshold lowered, souls bared on stage, words spoken. Sung, exhibited, recited, presented. In my mind I unscrew the constraints of time, hurl the bolts into the black hole of ignorance, saunter through the past few years, meet the writers who preceded me as Chronicles participants, pump the hands of the authors and artists with whom I would have liked a chat, quickly withdrawing my sweaty palms. I catch Salman Rushdie’s attention, peek at Abdellah Taia in the corner while he is followed around by a cameraman who captures his every move on film, wave at Hassan Bahara. The Crossing Border Festival is Europe’s biggest literature and performing arts festival. And they asked me to be a Chronicles writer? Over the next few days it will be my job to be conspicuously inconspicuous and to register, feel and experience, in the knowledge that my words will be read by different audiences, in different languages. As a writer, I understand the difficulty of this task. Not for me, but for the translators. I’m a qualified translator, but because I couldn’t stop changing texts to suit my own style, it wasn’t long before I stopped pursuing a translation career.
November. The Hague 2009. It’s getting awfully close now. I take a look at the guests and catch myself ignoring the Belgian writers. ‘Surely there’s no point in going to The Hague to listen to writers I can just as easily see in Antwerp or Ghent? Right?’ Mohammed Mrabet – he is somebody I would like to meet. He lives and works in Tangier, can neither read nor write and yet his stories continue to be published. I regret that I’m 27 in 2009 and not in 1958. A couple of decades ago Mrabet met Paul Bowles in Tangier, who recognized in the young Moroccan a talent for writing that would never see the light, because the man was illiterate. Illiterate – not to be confused with barbarian. Not nearly. Perhaps not literate, but exceptionally cultured. Or did you think that that was impossible? Mrabet is one of the greats. I hope for his sake that he knows it. And if he doesn’t, I will tell him. Manaraf is the title of his latest publication, which boils down to ‘I don’t know’. Dear Mrabet, I don’t know either. Nothing can ever be known for certain. That is the power of literature. The creation of a new world, the recreation of a reality, absolute freedom. A freedom that is as good as unknown to us in the real world. Opening and crossing borders, interweaving different artistic disciplines that appeal to all of your senses. Words come to life, abandon their creators and nestle in the hands of translators, before going in search of readers’ laps; voices are heard, sounds seen, installations and films savoured. You don’t need an education to appreciate art, music and literature. Look, listen, feel, experience. I will enjoy my role as a Chronicles writer. A foreign woman who doesn’t have to appear on stage, but whose sole job it is to attend all the performances and to let herself, either from the sidelines or amid all the excitement, be moved by the other. Les autres can do the work; I shall do mine and at the end of the day hand it to another. A jumble of words, judicious in one language – mine; hopefully equivalent in another – perhaps yours. Let’s be lost in translation together, because a human being with words is never completely lost.

Love,
Naima Albdiouni