Between drama and melodrama in ‘The Palm House’

Tarek Eltayeb’s “The Palm House” has the beginnings of a strong and important novel.

For the first 160 pages, the Sudanese author’s second book goes roaring along. The novel, published in Arabic in 2006 and now available in English through the AUC Press, presents a sharp, witty look at an African emigrant’s life in Vienna. The drama of Hamza’s chilly existence is heightened by flashbacks to the horrors of Sudan’s civil war, a terrifying flight to Egypt, and a departure for Austria.

The novel by and large unfolds as Hamza narrates his life story to his new Viennese girlfriend. The action begins on a winter’s day in the late 1990s as he rides a tram to escape his cold apartment. Hamza describes his fellow passengers in an internal monologue gamely translated by Kareem James Abu-Zeid:

“Their morose faces instantly light up if there’s a single dog on the tram, a sight that practically turns them into children: they start talking to the animal and smiling at it and petting it, and sometimes they even let it lick their hands. Yet as soon as these people — the very same people who have just shown the animal all of this kindness and affection — sit up in their seats again, the stern features return to their faces, faces that seem revolted by the world and so many of its people.”

Happily for Hamza, not all Viennese are repelled by him. On page 20, Hamza drops his groceries and is assisted by the lovely Sandra, who quickly becomes his beloved. It is she who sparks most of Hamza’s flashbacks. She asks questions, and, Hamza says, “The words flowed out of me.”

Indeed, for part of the book, the story flows: Hamza’s mother and sisters die when his village is destroyed by famine and drought. He moves to Khartoum and sees the city change in ways that alarm him. In the most vivid section of the novel, Hamza is forced to join the north-Sudanese army, where he fights in a war he neither supports nor understands. He is captured by opposing forces, freed by them, re-captured by “his” side, and jailed.

As Hamza relays all this to Sandra, few things happen in the story’s Austrian foreground. He and Sandra sit around her apartment and occasionally eat. She can’t wait to hear the next installment of her lover’s tale. For the first 160 pages, the reader can’t, either.

Some flaws are evident in the first half of the book. While most of the characters are given both good and bad traits, Sandra’s flawlessness makes her seem like a china doll. And while most historical information is well-integrated into the story’s action, a wise old south Sudanese man stops the narrative to lecture at great length.

But during the book’s muscular, witty first half, the reader is willing to forgive these lapses: So what if Sandra suffers from doll-like perfection? So what if an old guy just nattered on for five pages about the good old days? We want to hear more of Hamza’s story: How did he escape from military prison? And then what? How did he get to Cairo? “I tell this whole story without stopping, and without Sandra asking any questions. Her hand is in mine, and her face is pressed against my face.”

But once Hamza is no longer in peril, the novel changes. He and Sandra keep eating together and sharing little stories: We hear that Sandra’s mother abandoned her. Sandra wanted to be a ballet dancer, but someone put glass in one of her slippers. Hamza worked as a groom, and he likes to sing. These sorts of stories might grip the attention of a new lover, but they don’t have the same effect on a reader.

With Hamza no longer in danger, the sharpness and specificity that marked the book’s opening disappears. Hamza’s flashbacks now take him to a relatively safe Egypt, and meanwhile in Vienna Hamza is comforted, warmed and assisted by Sandra. With his main character in a better place, Eltayeb seems unsure what to do with his novel. The narrative meanders.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, Hamza says, “I remind Sandra that she needs to take her medical tests.” Suddenly, this perfect Viennese beloved is dying of cancer. (Cue thunder! Cue the music!) And so, from the very vivid dramas of freezing-cold Vienna and overheated Sudan, we end up rolling to an end with a flawless lover dying, flawlessly.

In so doing, Sandra cuts short what could’ve been an ideal relationship. She also blights what should’ve been a very good book.

Blog: Sing for the factories

During late President Gamal Abdel Nasser’s reign, Egypt was generally seen as a site for booming industry, with factories erected all across the country and workers, according to the 23 July 1952 revolution’s new laws, becoming a major and empowered force in society.

The cultural production of the time reinforced these emerging notions.

For one, the Aswan High Dam, a national project erected to generate electricity in the country’s deep south, was regarded as one of the reasons to hail the 23 July regime.

Take for example Sonallah Ibrahim’s 1966 "Insan al-Sad al-Ali" (Man of the High Dam), which he co-authored with Kamal al-Qilish and Rauf Mossad. The book simply reads as propaganda for the Nasser regime, in which building the High Dam is shown as an epic undertaking by Egypt’s workers.

Colloquial poet Abdel Rahman al-Abnoudi also rode the wave by featuring the transformations of an Upper Egyptian worker at the High Dam project in “Letters of Heragy al-Qot.” In this series of colloquial poems, Heragy, an Upper Egyptian farmer, takes pride in recounting his experience as a casual laborer in the High Dam project. The poems show the immense transformation he goes through by being part of a colossal construction project, which he perceived, like many Egyptians, as a sign of the new, modern and independent Egypt.

This narrative on the High Damn represented the peak of a wider state-crafted notion that Egypt would not achieve its truly recognized independence unless it moved forward to be a modern industrial space. In this space, every Egyptian was portrayed as an active producer.

My late father, however, had a different story.

Long ago, he told me that Upper Egyptians in the Nasser era generally perceived the High Dam project, as well as the preceding huge sugar factories built all around Qena and Aswan, with suspicion.

Farmers in our hometown refused to leave their villages and limited agricultural land to go work in nearby towns in these sugar factories. They also refused to leave and work on the construction of the High Dam despite financial incentives to do so.

These new industrial complexes were erected on the very agricultural lands that farmers wished to appropriate and cultivate. The move to the High Dam construction site represented a threat to the perceived stability and attachment to one’s land alongside the aspiration to cultivate and groom one’s extended family.

Hence, many opted to sideline themselves from this state-sponsored hype, letting the Egyptians of the cities and the Delta come and rejoice in their new “worker” identities.

Nasser’s regime seemed aware of farmers' opposition to these industrialization schemes and thus tried hard to make factories more appealing to the public. One tactic was using popular songs to speak favorably of factories and workers; and indeed those years witnessed an unprecedented torrent of songs praising factory work.

What follows is a selection of songs, popular at the time, praising a strong nation built by its expanding labor force. While these songs were heavy in advocating for this industrial project, they didn’t touch on always contentious issues of labor rights.  

One of the most famous labor songs inaugurating this trend — of using art to attract people to the merits of industrialization — is “Dour Ya Motor” (Run, O Engine), written by Beyram al-Tunsi and sung by Laila Mourad. In the song, Tunsi deployed a simple anti-colonial tone to attract people to his message: industrialization is a patriotic duty. 

Mourad sang:

Run, O engine, play the greatest role / As you please, weave your wool / Free from monitors and control / Egypt’s now free, even if it goes naked / Never wear [clothes] from oversees / Neither pink silk, nor castor / Run, O engine

Come my brother, take from me / Products made craftily / Hell with London and Bristol / Run, O engine

Iconic filmmaker Youssef Shahin featured this song in his 1952 film “Sayedat al-Qetar” (Lady on the Train). What’s striking about the song’s clip is that Mourad walks through the factories among female workers. Inside the factory, the camera focused on scores of female workers in an attempt to portray women’s role in factories, although their contribution to the workforce was limited at the time and they suffered from unequal pay vis-a-vis their male counterparts.

Another song about workers is “Mahlaha al-Eid al-Shaghala” (How Great Are the Working Hands) sung by Sherifa Fadel. It goes:

How great are singing hands / Show us your spirits, farmers / Engines, for long, yearning / Sing the prettiest songs / Go, engines, we’re listening / To your meaningful songs / By our love to you we swear / Your favors in the heart we bear / From now on the factory is home / On the boys we pin our hopes / For high spirits will sing / And say the best words

Fadel's soothing voice and the song's intimate lyrics made this Egypt’s most famous song about workers.

Legendary singer Abdel Halim Hafez also sang for the factories. “Badlety al-Zar’a” (My Blue Overalls), however, didn’t achieve much success, probably because Hafez’s tender tone didn't match the perceived masculinity associated with factory work. The exaggerated tone of the lyrics might be another reason it did not become popular.

Hafez sang:

My blue overalls fit me / Their beautiful color tells / Who I am, what I do / My blue overalls I wove / Wearing them makes me handsome / Even on my birthday / They don’t leave me / They keep my prestige day and night / Look prettier when I work

Another popular song in workers’ circles was Abdel Aziz Mahmoud's "Million Salam" (A Million Salutes).

He sang:

Many salutes for men / Who with hope beat fear / With labor beat sleeping / With hands break rocks / From toil I see the foreheads sweat / The more engines turn / More fortune they return / The more the nation earns / My sweet country, your hug is a wonder / Here are the girls / Out early to reap grapes / And to your call, mother Egypt / We shall respond

However, many intellectuals following the 1967 defeat int he war with Israel, began a process of questioning the Nasser-era legacy of Egypt as a unified nation based on strong industry.

Ibrahim himself mocked “Insan al-Sad al-Ali” in his 1974 novel “Nigmit Oghostos” (The Star of August), in which he tried to take the sacredness out of the legacy of the High Dam.

Today, what perhaps remains of this legacy are the songs recalled on May Day of each year, not necessarily for their sheer artistic value, but to ponder over the changing significance of the labor movement across different political landscapes.

Brazil men to open against Egypt

WEMBLEY, England -- Brazil will start its bid for a first men's Olympic gold medal against Egypt.

Brazil will face the Egyptians at Cardiff's Millennium Stadium on July 26, a day before the official opening of the London Games. The team also plays Belarus and New Zealand in Group C.

CONCACAF qualifying tournament champions Mexico were drawn in Group B, along with South Korea, Gabon and Switzerland.

In Group D, World Cup champion Spain was drawn with Honduras, Japan and Morocco.

Britain will start against Senegal. The hosts will also play the United Arab Emirates and Uruguay in Group A.

"Uruguay will be tough but I wouldn't dismiss anyone," Great Britain coach Stuart Pearce said of his team's draw, according to FIFA's website.

"The addition of three overage players can contribute to a really strong side. It will be tough, tournament football always is. Everyone in the squad will have star quality but I'll pick the squad on merit," Pearce said.

Album review: Otaak Band’s ‘Bejawiya’

There’s something infuriating about Otaak Band. Their CD release party at the Cairo Jazz Club — which saw six musicians huddled in a corner stage, surrounded by more than twice their number in instruments — resulted in a performance that was both lively and hypnotic, and constantly engaging.

Sudden handclaps and chants, repetitive rhythms escalating in intensity, and mid-performance role-swapping all gave an improvised feel to the show, as did frontman Ahmed Said Abuamna’s decision to treat the audience to some traditional Beja dance moves.

Seen live, Otaak Band radiate an intoxicating energy that simultaneously fogs your brain and tugs at your feet. Unfortunately, somewhere between the Jazz Club and my iPod, that energy completely dissipated. And, no, it’s not the settings on my iPod. It’s just that Otaak Band are one of those few bands that sound better live than they do in the controlled confines of a recording studio.

That’s not to say their debut, "Bejawiya," isn’t a good album. It’s just not what it could have been, or even what it claims to be. For an album that promises to fuse tribal Sudanese music with elements of the blues, "Bejawiya" is a lot softer than either of its supposed influences would suggest. The ruggedness of desert life, the yearning and melancholy that form the backbone of the blues genre — none of these are even remotely sensed in Otaak Band’s debut which, while pretty, suffers from mostly sounding like one of those world music compilations you can pick up at a Starbucks cafe — bland, and about as ‘exotic’ as a shiny package of imported coffee.

The story behind the band, at least according to the CD booklet, is as follows: While visiting Egypt, American musician Miguel Merino was introduced to themassankop, an ancient African lyre similar to the modern Egyptian semsemiya, which “has been the instrument of the Beja peoples since time immemorial.”

The same Sudanese musicians who introduced Merino to the massankopalso introduced him to Ahmed Said Abuamna, a prominent singer from the Hadandawa, the largest of the Beja clans, who collectively live along the Red Sea coast, from southeastern Egypt to Eritrea. Merino and Abuamna soon began working on the album, with Abuamna providing lyrics to Merino’s Beja-inspired compositions. A little under three years later, their album comes to life.

The main problem with "Bejawiya" isn’t that it’s overproduced as much as it is overworked. While the album’s slick sound may be somewhat at odds with the earthiness it seeks to depict, the real flaw is how cluttered the tracks feel, as if the musicians involved were obligated to meet a quota of instruments. It’s hard to tell exactly how many members make up Otaak Band. There are 11 musicians listed in the album’s liner notes, but only two of them — Abuamna and Merino — appear in the booklet’s photos.

Whether or not this is meant to indicate that whoever makes up the core of the band is irrelevant; for most of its running time, "Bejawiya" sounds as if it could have been performed by an entire tribe. The rambunctious approach worked well at the Jazz Club, but it’s glossed over on the actual album, removing whatever edge — and, to a large extent, spirit — the compositions might have held.

Heard live, "Ogna" is an urgent call, its latter half setting Abuamna’s lovelorn pleas against what sounds like a raging firestorm of despair. On the album, that fire might as well be a single candle, filmed in soft focus. The result is a CD that — despite Merino’s cymbal-smashing percussion, a scattering of zaghroutas and a wide ensemble of instruments — still sounds frustratingly flat.

Which is as much a shame as it is a mystery, considering the album’s only stars are Abuamna’s rousing vocals, wisely brought to the forefront in the production, even if at times at the expense of all other components, and the band’s instrument of choice, the massankop.

Consequently, "Bejawiya" is at its best when it keeps things simple. The traditional pieces, like "Tehabay 1," "Bebop" and particularly "Terbal," offer enticing examples of how entrancing a stripped-down version of this album could be. Well-judged embellishments, such as the saxophone breezing through "Kwaal/W’afirhasa" or the ominous bass line backing up "W’annaafi," help bring out some texture, as do the instruments that eventually fill out "Ogbil," another definite highlight that features the album’s strongest writing and a truly remarkable performance by Abuamna.

The more intricate tracks, however, just don’t work. There are some nice flourishes, such as the abrupt bursts of handclaps and chanting, and the drum roll that interrupts "Daleeb," but the disjointed drum solo that leads out that same track feels forced and unfocused, and lays waste to an otherwise compelling composition.

Meanwhile, "Three Years," despite featuring one of Abuamna’s more stirring performances, is just plain awful. The lyrics are fine, but the music sounds like what you’d get if you mixed a deodorant commercial with a 1980s breakup montage. But those are all minor flaws considering "Ifaarsa" includes a spoken word verse — which, even in the hands of the most accomplished musicians, barely ever works, especially if, as in this case, it includes phrases like “those who cherish their tribe more than their souls are not afraid of death when the battle happens,” delivered in a clear American accent.

Otaak Band claim to be a fusion of sounds, but they’re definitely more Beja than blues, and based on the evidence presented in "Bejawiya," should probably stay that way. And until they figure out whether they want to amp it up or tone it down in the studio, you’d be better off catching a live performance than listening to "Bejawiya."

The Alexandrian fisherman

Photographed by Virginie Nguyen

In the purple sunset light of the the Bahari port of Alexandria, fishermen start to walk around the big boats and feluccas moored next to the fish market. Nets and other fishing gear are scattered everywhere while other smaller crafts start to arrive on the beach. If the place seems peaceful, it’s not the case for the fishermen who are struggling to make a living.

On this fresh late winter morning, we can tell from the faces of the men who have been fishing for years that the catch wasn’t satisfying. “There are some good and bad days ... we depend on the sea and when we throw our nets the numbers of fish that we will catch is in God’s hands,” says Ahmed Ibrahim, a 49-year-old fisherman who has been fishing for 10 years in Alexandria.

“Before, I was working on a liner as a captain traveling around Qatar and Dubai, but in 2008 the economic situation became too hard and I decided to live and work in Alexandria with my family.”

The fish catch has decreased in the last few years due to the increasing pollution caused by industrial and domestic waste dumped into the sea. Added to this, the boatmen have to compete with bigger boats, which increase the number of fishermen without licenses or who just fish as a hobby.

“We have the pollution that killed our fish, but next to this, as fishermen with small boats, we have to deal with bigger boats that take everything on their way. Nowadays, there is also a lack of control; everybody can go off the shores and fish. We miss control here and the government is not doing anything for our situation, especially after the revolution,” adds Abdel Salam, a boatman for 15 years.

Fishermen have been among the hardest hit by the 18-day uprising in early 2011, which has impaired Egypt’s tourist industry. Indeed, they used to live off tourists, as hotels bought their catches, and some of their incomes were reliant on fish market and restaurant purchases.

“Life has become more expensive and people don’t have money to buy fish, especially after the revolution. It becomes too hard to buy it now. Last year was easier,” says fish seller Suad, who declined to offer his last name.

Over the last year, the price of fruit and vegetables has doubled, while beef, chicken and fish have become a privilege of the rich.

The prices of fishing nets have also increased, raising the cost of a kilo of fish to between LE15 and LE100. Without any intervention from the new government, reduced tourism and inflation in the food market is putting fishermen’s economic livelihoods at risk.

Ahmed, who declined to give his last name, is from Qusayr, he came to Alexandria five years ago in order to fish. Every day at around 2 pm, he throws his nets in the sea, then comes back at 4 am to fetch the fish.

“I have five children and I didn’t want them to be fishermen,” he says. “Unfortunately I didn’t have enough money to pay for their studies, so the boys became fishermen.”

Abdel Salam would also prefer his children not become fishermen.

“We are tough and courageous, but for my children, it has become too hard. I would prefer that they become engineers. I want them to have beautiful lives.”

Ahmed Ibrahim, on the other hand, has been able to pay for his children’s studies.

“Most of them are still in secondary and primary school, while one of them is studying commerce. Anyway, they prefer to dive rather than fish.”

Like the decreasing fish population, the world of boatmen might soon die out. Ibrahim, though, sees an alternative route to make more money.

“Some fishermen find relics in the sea and sell them to individuals or to the Egyptian Museum,” he says. “If I find one someday, I don’t think I will be here fishing to make a living.”