A beautiful, moving collection of short stories that affected my heart. I'm not usually a fan of short stories but this collection made me think I might become one. The inspired title 'Banthology' is elucidated in the back cover blurb:
"In January 2017, President Trump signed an executive order banning people from seven Muslim majority countries ... from entering the United States ... Banthology brings together specially commissioned stories from the original seven "banned nations" ... and offers a platform to voices the White House would rather remained silent."
The stories are diverse but I encountered some commonalities. Each one (except for the last one) thematised being a refugee and seeking asylum in some shape and form, of fleeing, of getting away. Each one (except the last one) is told in the first person. Three of them feature dogs as creatures that inspire paralyising fear. Four of them make powerful use of the present tense. Five of them make powerful use of fantastical elements, not quite magical realism but dream-like, fairy-tale-like, fantasy-like irruptions into reality. These fantasy elements clothe painful and horrible realities, they speak of violence, they are expressions of suppression and projection because the actuality is too hard to bear. Four of them feature children, three of them girls whose girlhoods, dreams, verve and family connections get achingly disrupted. I think all of them feature transitional spaces; all of them address troubled travels and uprootedness.
Sudan. Woman author. Rania Mamoun, Bird of Paradise. Translated from the Arabic by Ruth Ahmedzai Kemp. A girl who dreams of flight like a bird; a woman stranded at an airport. "When I was a young girl, my eyes were drawn to the sky and I yearned to float up and see what lay behind it." A strange resonant twist at the end.
Syria. Man author. Zaher Omareen, The Beginner's Guide to Smuggling. Translated from the Arabic by Perween Richards and Basma Ghalayini. A stunning report of one man's flight as a refugee. The transits, the repeated tries, the false passports, the anxiety, and the energy behind the impetus to keep going. The prose is raw. And at times funny. "'Vagyok Magyarorszarol .... I'm from Hungary,' I replied, in a terrible Hungarian accent. He laughed heartily. The son of a bitch was on to me. He inspected my passport with painful slowness. A flock of pigeons flapped in my stomach." A punch to the gut twist at the end.
Iran. Woman author. Fereshteh Molavi, Phantom Limb. A sad story about exiles floating about in an in-between world in Toronto. A metaphor of strange beauty provides the red thread. "I grudgingly picked up the phone. It was Farhad's father. Long distance. ... I recognised his broken Farsi with a heavy Kurdish accent. 'Let him know that his mother's right leg was cut off last week.' I tried to dig a sound out of my larynx, but nothing came."
Libya. Woman author. Najwa Binshatwan, Return Ticket. Translated from the Arabic by Sawad Hussain. Wow, such a strange conceit, of a village called Schrödinger that straddles realities, is there and isn't there, and of the humiliating and terrible trip that the old woman narrating it to her grandson undertook. "Fortunately, I passed the test at the airport and was granted entry into this angular world. My admittance was on the condition that I removed my striped headscarf and changed into something more 'triangular'. I was forced to remove my coat, glasses, watch, shoes, even my underwear before going through the detectors. The hardest part was hiding my shame from the guard; especially as the country had recently passed a law making it a crime to feel embarrassed."
Somalia. Woman author. Ubah Cristina Ali Farah, Jujube. Translated from the Italian by Hope Campbell Gustafson. A heartbreaking tale of a little girl, her young sister and her mother in times of upheaval and war. The girl is an unreliable narrator with her memories of her hair growing like the jujube's spiky branches, sprouting leaves and flowers. Italicised 'interpreter's notes' are interpolated and tell us of another, grimmer reality. Beautifully told and very, very sad. "When I think about Mama before the war, I see her sitting on her heels in the courtyard, hair wrapped in a green net, her face yellow with turmeric and butter, the precious ingredients of her beauty mask."
Iraq. Woman author. Anoud, Storyteller. Riveting, painful, grim. A blow-by-blow account of a young girl's experience of air raids, murder and war, at first with her parents and sister, after a few years with also her baby brother, then at her first job, her first love... it is frightening how the years and decades keep piling up and yet there is no end in sight. A powerful shift to another country. A terrible descent. "'I want a pink gas mask,' I told my sister. ... But when the first night of bombing began, I was petrified, crying hysterically and shaking so violently I had to clench my fists to regain some control of my fingers."
Yemen. Man author. Wajdi al-Ahdal, The Slow Man. Translated from the Arabic by William M. Hutchins. A strange story that starts out as historical tale from the deep past and features Egypt, a pharao, Babylonians, Ishmaelites, Canaanites, portents, a possible assassination, and then a trot through the millennia until we get spat out at the other end in a thrill of science fiction. Strangely resonant. "After centuries of massive engineering efforts that employed the manpower of millions of slaves, the waters of the Nile finally reached the Senegal River and flowed into the Atlantic Ocean." Extraordinary.
Format: Lovely little paperback (the book is very short). Crisp pages; clear font. Co-published by Comma Press (Britain) and Deep Vellum Press (US). I now want to read more from Comma Press. I loved getting an insight into the literatures from countries from whom we hear so little. And kudos to them for translating and commissioning. Supported by Arts Council England (kudos to them, too).
A wonderful, refreshing, surprising and moving read.