Exiled Writers Ink !

Ali Abdolrezaei was born 10 April 1969 in Northern Iran. He completed his primary and secondary education at his city of birth and after receiving his Diploma in mathematics passed the nationwide university entrance exams. He graduated with a Masters degree in Mechanical Engineering from Tehran Technical and Engineering University. He started his professional poetic career in 1986 and became one of the most serious and contentious poets of the new generation of Persian poetry.

Shanta Acharya was born and educated in Orissa, India. In 1979, she came to Oxford where she completed her doctoral thesis. Between 1983-5 she was a Visiting Scholar at Harvard. In 1985, she started her career in investment management with Morgan Stanley in London. She subsequently worked as a Portfolio Manager with various firms, including Baring Asset Management. She is currently Associate Director, Initiative on Foundation and Endowment Asset Management at London Business School.

Bashir Algamar was born in Sudan in 1955. He came to England as a political refugee in 1993 after being imprisoned for his poem: Patience on a beach. Since then he has lived in Brighton.

A child and a doll
For Huda Ghaliya

Aydin Mehmet Ali was born in Cyprus and lives in London. She was educated in Cyprus, USA and Britain. She is an international education consultant, project manager, researcher and writer. As a well-known intellectual community activist and advocate of multiculturalism and multilingualism, she has spoken at international conferences and her work appeared in numerous publications. She has set up and managed many empowerment projects in the UK and in Cyprus. Her work focuses on young people and women. She is a passionate campaigner for peace in Cyprus and amongst Cypriots in the Diaspora. She has been a consultant adviser to the London Mayor and to numerous education and cultural establishments.
She is the author of the acclaimed book, Turkish Speaking Communities & education - no delight (2001) and editor and translator of Turkish Cypriot Identity in Literature (1990). She is an award winning author and her short stories have appeared in the anthologies Diaspora City (2003), Uncut Diamonds (2003,), Index (July 2002), Crossing the Border (2002) and Weeping Island (2000), and in the journals Cadences (2005), Exiled Ink! (2005) and Orient Express (2005).

Mir Mahfuz Ali was born in Dhaka, Bangladesh, Mahfuz is a performance artist, renowned for his extraordinary voice – a rich throaty whisper brought about by a bullet in the throat fired by Bangladeshi policeman trying to silence the singing of anthems during a public anti-war demonstration. He studied at City Literary Institute in London and Essex University.

He dances, acts, has worked as a male model and a tandoori chef. He has given readings and performances at the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden; Bedlam Theatre at the Edinburgh festival; New End Theatre in Hampstead; Tricycle, Arcola in London and at the National Theatre (Cankarjev Dom) of Slovenia in Ljubljana,. His poetry appeared in the anthologies The Silver Throat of the Moon, and Whispering In The Wind, and also in the Index on Censorship magazine and in the magazine Exiled Ink!

His work has appeared in Ambit and the London Magazine. In September 2007 he was amongst the final three poets shortlisted for the New Writing Partnership Literature Awards (see photo).

Tales of Nazism and Deptford market up for writers' award
By Emily Dugan
Published: 01 August 2007, The Independent
A first-hand account of Zimbabwe's deterioration, the story of a lesbian tracing her family to a concentration camp, and a tale inspired by a box of letters found in Deptford market. The subject matter may differ vastly, but the works have one thing in common: they were all written by women.

The shortlist for the coveted New Writing Ventures Award announced today is dominated by women, with an unprecedented eight out of nine places taken by female writers.

In the three categories of fiction, creative non-fiction and poetry, only one man is left in the running, the poet Mir Mahfuz Ali.

Henry Sutton, chairman of judges for fiction, said he was "surprised and saddened" when he realised that no men had made the grade for the category. "I was shocked when I realised that all three were women," he said. "I've never believed in a difference of the sexes when it comes to literary talent, but there does seem to be a broader appeal in what women are writing than men."

Mr Sutton believes that market forces are partly at fault in making it more difficult for male writers to succeed. "I think it's harder for a fledgling male writer to establish themselves than a woman, because market forces are swayed towards women," he said. "But in this case women produced the best writing, so perhaps men just need to wake up."

He advocated a concerted effort to encourage new male authors, akin to the support given to women. "Male writers seem to be under-supported and under-represented, and they need encouragement somewhere along the line," he said. "Maybe we need an Orange Prize for men".

Char March, one of the writers shortlisted for the fiction category, said she was "delighted" to hear of her nomination, and the female-dominated line-up. "I hope it shows that the establishment is opening up to the fact that women write damn good stuff and are not just interested in chick lit," she said. March, whose book follows the lesbian love affair of a woman who traces her family back to an east German concentration camp, believes that part of the reason women were less successful in the past was that they had not mastered the narrative drive.

"Women are trying to write books that are more gripping now. I think in the past, because thrillers were seen as typically male, women didn't have such a grasp on narrative drive as they do now, and that stopped them from being as successful," she said.

Ali said he was "not surprised" that he was the only male poet nominated. "Women have a better feeling for poetry than men because they feel things more deeply," he said. "I don't feel threatened, I think it's wonderful." Ali, 50, who grew up in Bangladesh during the liberation war, puts his own sensitivity as a poet down to the hardships he suffered as a child.

He was shot in the throat by Bangladeshi police while singing a protest song aged just 13, and has taken 30 years to fully recover his voice. It was through poetry that Ali was able to express his feelings about the atrocities he had witnessed.

"Having suffered many setbacks and pain, including near death, I have grown stronger and been able to reflect on the experiences," he said. His poetry gives a vivid eyewitness account of some of the horrendous scenes to which he was privy. "I saw the genocide and the tsunami with my own eyes, and I witnessed the shooting of a baby. I was there when no cameramen were there, so I was the camera, taking pictures with my poetry," he said.

The awards, which are now in their third year, have become a golden ticket to lucrative publishing contracts for emerging authors. Success stories include the 2005 runner-up, Liz Diamond, who has two book deals with Picador, and the 2005 winner Nicholas Hogg, whose novel Show Me The Sky will be published by Canongate next year.

The overall winners will be announced on 11 September.
http://arts.independent.co.uk/books/news/article2823110.ece

Women dominate new writing awards shortlist
Michelle Pauli
Wednesday August 1, 2007, Guardian Unlimited

A Bangladeshi performance poet with an extraordinary voice - the result of a bullet in the throat from riot police attempting to silence a singing protest - is the only man to appear on the New Writing Ventures awards shortlist for emerging literary talent.
Mir Mahfuz Ali arrived in London 20 years ago seeking medical treatment and political refuge and found a new voice through poetry. Part of Exiled Writers Ink, a group of émigré authors who fled war-torn and repressive countries, and a regular reader at literary festivals, he is now in the running for a £3,000 prize with his shortlisting in the poetry category of the New Writing Ventures awards.
Article continues

The Golden Chain that Set Me Free

Samira Al-Mana was born in Basra, Iraq (Self exiled in the UK since 1965).Deputy Editor of the Magazine in Arabic (ALIGHTRAB AL- ADABI ) a quarterly magazine on literature of the exiled, launched in 1985-2003, in London.
Publications including 5 novels:
1. THE FORE RUNNERS AND THE NEWCOMERS (Beirut, 1972)
2. LONDON SEQUEL (London, 1979)
3. THE UMBILICAL CORD (London, 1990)
4. THE OPPRESSORS (Damascus, 1997)
5. JUST LOOK AT ME ( Beirut,2002)
6. A Play, in Arabic entitled ONLY A HALF with the English translation, (London, 1985)
7. A Collection of short stories, THE SINGING, (Baghdad, 1976)
8. A collection of short stories entitled THE SOUL AND OTHERS (Beirut 1999).
9. Some of her short stories translated into Dutch & English were published in various periodicals.

Attended the International Writing Program, Iowa City University, U. S. A, for three months in 1990.
14th October the same year attended International Author Festival in Toronto, Canada, read one of her short stories.
Attended " Women and the Novel", conference in Morocco, 1992 . Organised by Municipality of Fez, the Creative Women Organisation & U N E S C O.

Tropical Jungles ( A Story)

“Thank you for your advice. I have no time for you.
Yours sincerely,
Elaine”

She could, perhaps, write to him a strongly-worded letter, like this, bitter yet with calculating civility, a brief answer of no more than two lines. She could give him up in the same way that gamblers, whose whole fortune hangs on a number above or below the winning number, leave their dream castles without a word of farewell.
She had got to know him before he was sent on business to Uganda. She used to work with him in on of the branches of an Arab bank in London. He was an important official, while she was the English secretary, Elaine.
Once, she had read the biography of Lawrence of Arabia. When she asked him what he had thought of the film, he answered her question with a look of disdain as if she had suddenly changed the subject. So she went back to her chair and resumed her secretarial duties. After that, they each tried to score off the other, while pretending it was the other who was starting an argument or quarrel. He did that in his devious Eastern way, while she went about it with extreme craft and subtlety. Being curious by nature, she insisted on knowing who had been the first to start the argument. But this often made her more involved, and landed her in mysterious world in which the feelings of fear and adventure could not be easily disentangled. It was as if the third world were muddled but innocent world, well equipped with guns and tanks, yet watching her closely like a child.
A soon as he arrived in Uganda he sent her a postcard:
“Dear Mrs. Rogers,( That was her married name) :
Greeting and best wishes to you from Kampala. The beautiful modern city. There is everything one needs here. Life runs smoothly, and the weather is generally pleasant, especially at night. My regards to all our friends. Looking forward to hearing from you at the earliest opportunity.
Yours sincerely,
F. Al-Jadiri
She repeated the phrase “especially at night,” then she took a pen and wrote him a letter. After all there was no harm in friendly relationship between people. She sent him her greetings, and told him how much she admired his style in writing English, and that she liked the postcard, which was a picture of a group of Africans performing a folk-dance during the independence celebrations. She mentioned at the end of the letter that she was prepared to send him books or anything else he needed from London. She ended her letter by complaining of the cold in London and asking him to send her a little sunshine in a bottle. At the end she added:
“I have not given your regards to any of our friends (meaning the bank employees), nor have I told them that I have received a card from you. Who can tell whether the friends of today might not be the enemies of tomorrow?”
She signed the letter “yours sincerely, Elaine”. She wrote her Christian name only, without adding her married name. The letter was speedily sent to Uganda. She waited three weeks for an answer. Finally, his handwriting, next to a stamp on which was a picture of an African young man with milk-white teeth, reached her. It read:
“Dear Elaine,
I can hardly neglect someone like you. Someone who is good and kind. I shall never forget how kind you were to me during my last days in Britain. I’ve kept your letter in my pocket, my left pocket, all this time. I read it several times, although you don’t speak you mind, nor did I do that while I was in London. Your farewell gift to me is with me. It is the only one of the gifts I received from my friends in London which I brought with me.
You said you had decided to go on holiday in August. How about coming to Uganda? I can send you an air ticket and take care of all your expenses. The slogan ‘Africa for the Africans,’ of course, would exclude a sweet, lovely person like you. What do you think of my suggestion? Nights in Uganda are full of stars, but it needed more than one person to count them.

He did not sign his full name, only his initials. And all she needed was a pen to write him a quick answer :
“Dear Mr Al-Jadiri,
I still feel awkward when I call you by your first name. I received your last letter. I had no idea you were sentimental. To tell you the truth, I waited for your letter so long that I thought you were not going to write to me at all. I even began to curse you under my breath.
I was so touched by your invitation to me to visit Uganda. But in my present difficult circumstances I cannot possibly accept. You know very well that I am married and have a child. I sometimes blame myself for writing to you at all. Could your feelings towards me perhaps amount to nothing more than mere passion? Please don’t be angry with me. I want to talk to you frankly about a very important matter. I have had no relations with any other man than my husband. I have no experience of men, having married very young. As I said, my husband has been the only man in my life and I am still only 24 years old. I am not used to brief and casual affairs. I must tell you how I miss you.
Yours ever
Elaine
P.S. Has your car arrived? They told me it would take two months to ship it out to Uganda. If it hasn’t arrived yet, then I’ll get in touch with them to see what has happened.”
Once again she was very diplomatic, something she had inherited from her ancestors. She used to find excuses to keep their relationship going. One of the best excuses was when she rang him up at his flat before he left for Uganda. The call was an official one, or at least she had tired to make it seem so. She had misled him so that he would mislead her. He had wanted to have his car shipped out to Uganda by a well known company. But by a mere coincidence she had come across another company which was more efficient and reasonable. It charged £20.00 less than the well known company. She had his telephone number, and getting in touch with him was a tempting prospect, as if the £20.00 she was going to save would feed the starving people of Africa. She dialled his number:
“Hello. Yes, it’s me.”
“Is it you?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Really you?”
He was delighted to be talking to her. It was evening and he was shaving. He had told her so and she seemed to be pleased by that.
“Where do these Arabs spend their evenings?” She wondered. “Dining? Well, who with? Perhaps it is not important?”
He was a bachelor and had a very seductive voice. The next time she telephoned him he had already shaved and dressed, and was waiting for her call.
“You’re late. I’ve been waiting for your call for over an hour.”
“I couldn’t get through easily to the shipping company. The man in charge is away. In the end I accepted their offer. The difference in the charges of the two companies is £20.00.”
“Great. Wonderful.”
That was how a car with rubber tyres came to play an important part in the development of their relationship. This led to an exchange of questions about the number of her children, whether love survived marriage, what time he got up on Sundays, and if he should not smoke less. Did he drink alcohol , and how long was he going to stay a bachelor ?! She went on to say:
“Until you’ll be 45 perhaps, and then you’ll marry an 18 year old girl.”
“Elaine, you’ve hurt my feelings. Do you think I’m like that?”
“No, but isn’t that the sort of thing done in your country?”
He cut her short with gentle words, saying that he had not met the right girl yet. The girl whom he was ready to love, and to whom he hand over the key to his empty heart. She knew, just as he knew, that his heart had never been empty, and that the key to it, together with the key to his flat, was often on loan, and that the lock was never firm. Once, three months previously, while overcome with emotion, she telephoned him and heard the soft tones of a young woman speaking English. She had guessed that it was his girlfriend who was at that time in his flat. Now that she had a good excuse she decided to get in touch with him. The subject of the car was a good excuse, a big green excuse. The car being green. It had to be sent out to Uganda by a company that did not charge too much. It seemed to be the most reasonable of the British shipping companies that were all in it for a big profit. She wanted to save him £20.00 with which to buy thousands loaves of bread, loaves to feed the poor of the earth. She had been eager to give him the necessary information in the evening, instead of waiting until the following morning. It was a matter of great importance and urgency.
Fortunately, this time she did not hear the young woman’s voice she had heard before. Instead she felt as if she were carried in a dream. She felt happy and light-hearted. She began to sing in the kitchen, contrary to her usual habit. She sang while she washed up, made the beds and swept the stairs. Boring, routine housework became something secondary to the songs which expressed the joys of love and the happy expectations of future meetings. It was amazing how people’s lives could be transformed from the life of a ewe or a sow to the winged life of a dove or a nightingale.
The letters he wrote her were sent to her Scottish neighbour’s address. She put them under the mat in her neighbour’s sitting room, after she had read them. The two women used to read and reread the letters together out of a sense of loyalty and friendship. They used to share a joke and exchange a few pleasantries from time to time, while her neighbour’s husband was not around. Another postcard she received read as follows:
“Dear Elaine
I shall be going to Algeria on a special mission, and then on to Ghana and Cairo. I don’t know where I’ll be staying. I shall be getting in touch with you soon.”
It was a brief note. But, at least, it was better than nothing. She tried, as she put, to read between the lines, and to explain the obvious. But she could not come to grips with the situation. She took the postcard and put it under the mat at the neighbour’s. The card was soon forgotten under the dusty mat.
It was nearly time for her holiday. She was getting ready to leave with her husband and child for Spain. It was not her decision, but her husband’s. Spain was a good idea. After all it was the nearest European country to Africa. They had decided to spend a fortnight there. In her next letter she would write and tell him that she travelled across the seas to be near him. On her return with husband and child she would send him Lawrence Durrell’s Alexandria Quartet. She might even send him a poem she had composed herself. She had started to dabble in poetry. She might very likely say:
“Here is one of my poems:
I have been searching for you since Eternity
In the Scriptures, Moses,
Mohammed, Jesus, Zarathustra,
But the only flame I found was within me.”
The day following her return from Spain she took her handbag and went to work. London seemed to her like a wise old woman staring at her knowingly and maliciously. London was not one of her favourite cities, at any rate. It was not Accra or Kampala, not even Beirut or Baghdad or Cairo or Tunis. She had come to a point of devouring the maps of Asia and Africa, in order to follow step by step the route taken by the postcards and letters which she longed to receive. She remembered appropriate literary quotations from the works of writers who were relatively little known. She would use phrases, which had stuck in her mind, describing palm trees, deserts, tropical jungles, the perfumes of India and exotic delicacies, and she would pretend, without any hesitation, that she had written them herself. For instance, Lawrence Durrell says that a city becomes a complete world if one loved just one of its inhabitants. She wondered why people live in these cold islands. She often asked people that question. She herself wanted to talk about things other than the weather of the British Isles. She also disliked European dress, heavy taxation, eating potatoes every day, blue eyes and classical music. She settled down to the idea of being permanently unsettled.
But then another letter came.
“Dear Elaine,
You stood one day in front of the altar and promised in the presence of your husband and all the congregation to take your husband for better for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health. You gave yourself to your husband unquestioningly. This is precisely what you did when you married him.
As far as you and I concerned, I feel that we have reached a point in our relationship where we have got to come to a decision. I am a bachelor, and so have nothing to lose. I am a man whose life could very well come to an end by a stray bullet, or a car accident, or even a plane crash. Who knows? You, on the other hand, have everything to lose, everything, your husband and your country. I can’t give you anything better in return. I can just see you wanting to strangle me with your beautiful hands for saying what I have just said. But I feel I owe it to you to be honest because I just can’t hurt anyone who has never hurt me, nor can I bear to cause suffering to person who has never wished me any ill. What will your husband say when he finds our letters? You probably think I am mad worrying about mere letters, and that our relationship amounts to nothing more than those letters. What I’d like is to spare you any unnecessary problems and complications. You are beautiful beyond words. You exude beauty from the top of your head to the tip of your toes. You are a Venus without exaggeration. I wish I had been an artist to paint a portrait of you and immortalise you for centuries to come, for generations after generations, just like the Mona Lisa. I have known many beautiful women, but you far outshine them all. You are endowed with far greater beauty and a pleasant disposition and kindness that knows no limits.
You ask me if what I feel towards you does not amount to mere physical attraction. I feel I must answer you with all sincerity. I can’t deny that I am a man. But when I asked you to come to Uganda I only had your interest and well-being at heart. I wanted to make you happy. I could have taken advantage of my position at work in London to make advances to you as I longed to do. But I respect you, and I respect myself. I can’t flirt with a woman who is married and a mother, in other words a woman who belongs to another man. That was why our relationship remained within very strict limits, in spite of my real feelings towards you. Perhaps I felt something more towards you than you did towards me.”
She wondered what had happened to make him say all that. How could he be so cruel? They seemed to get on very well and had a good relationship. What had happened to him? Her Scottish neighbour tried to comfort her, as they read the letter together. No, no, that could not possibly be true. What was it that had happened? “He is mad,” she thought. “I must try to understand his motives.” Elaine read the letter for the fourth time and wondered again what had happened. Why this virtue all of a sudden? Why all this advice? It was the preaching that bothered most. She snatched the letter from her neighbour’s hand. Her neighbour was also astonished by his behaviour. Elaine’s neighbour had thought him sensible and highly sensitive. He had seemed to her almost a child, a handsome Arab, one of the rare treasures of the East. He was someone better than maharajah, carrying all the promises and riches of the East to Elaine and to her as well. Elaine’s neighbour had forgotten all about love, let alone the pleasures of travel. The thought of this man had renewed in her the desire to travel again. She began to read the names of foreign cities, which seemed strange to her. She would exclaim: “Oh, that’s a place I’d like to see.” She came to know, once more, the pangs of love, realising that she too had been in love once. That had been twenty years ago when her husband was still a young man. He had been courageous, loved and respected by all. But that was all before the arrival of their five children, and her husband had become addicted to alcohol, while she herself seemed forever to be looking for the scattered shoes of her children before they went to school each morning. Everything that was worthwhile had come to an end, the longing, the expectations and the tender feelings.
The two women sat down again on the sofa, and the neighbour said: “Calm down, Elaine. I’ll make you a cup of tea in a minute. Just sit down for a while.” But she refused to do so. “No, no, no, it isn’t possible. He simply can’t put an end to our relationship so casually. Why does he complicate things? Everything was running smoothly and naturally between us, so much so that whenever our hands touched in the bank when I handed him the stamps, it was done in the gentlest way. He used to ask me to take down his letters, and I would sit at his desk facing him. He often found a good pretext to call me. He always timed it so that we would keep coming across each other. It was strange how sensitive he was, as if he had feelers all over his body.”
“Thank you for all your good advice, but I have no time for you
Yours sincerely
Elaine ”
She would write to him a letter in this tone, a harsh tone, full of malice and totally indifferent. She looked on both sides of the letter for his address, but she could not find it anywhere. “Look, he hasn’t even left his address, as if I am someone who could rape him.” *
+++++++++++++++++
* Translated by Farida Abu - Haidar

Wafaa Abed Al Razzaq

Nora Armani plays Shakespeare, Shaw, Hammerstein, Molière, Tchekov, Guitry, Labiche, Fatima Gallaire, Tewfik al Hakim, Gunter Grass, and has toured with SOJOURN AT ARARAT internationally in over 20 cities on four continents in its English and French (Le Chant D’Ararat) versions, together with Gerald Papasian. Nora Armani has interpreted lead roles in American, French, Czech, Armenian, Lebanese and Egyptian films on screen and on television. Between March 1991 and December 1993, she represented the Ministry of Culture of Armenia as a spokesperson for the promotion of Armenian cinema world wide. The films she has produced were shown at major film festivals: Cannes 1996 (Official Selection- Un Certain Regard), Montreal, Rotterdam, Cairo, Portland, Washington, D.C., Cambridge, London, Inverness, Cardiff, Birmingham and Lancaster amongst others. She was invited to Cairo to play the lead role of Anna in the musical The King and I opposite Egyptian stage and TV star Mohamed Sobhi, performed at Radio Theatre in Cairo and broadcast on TV and Satellite. Other works: "Nannto Nannto", a stage production of words and music of her co-creation with cellist Aya Sakakibara, which she performed in Paris at the Theatre des Dechargeurs during February 2000. And later in Venice at the Santa Margherita Theatre in August 2000. Nora Armani is the winner of several awards: two BEST ACTRESS awards for Film and Stage Yerevan (Armenia) Festival-1991, the DRAMALOGUE AWARD for performance-1988- Los Angeles, the Encore DRAMALOGUE AWARD for performance-1989- Los Angeles, the CALIFORNIA MOTION PICTURE GOLDEN STAR award-1985-Los Angeles. She is an Honorary Member of the National Theatre of Armenia since 1992. Her most recent award was that of Best Actress for her lead role in Labyrinth at the Siunik Film Festival. She holds an M.Sc. from the University of London and a B.A in Sociology and Theatre Acting and Directing from the American University Cairo and UCLA.
Her most recent work as a playwrigt and performer is On the Couch with Nora Armani and her recent TV appearance is the TV series Freinds in Egypt.

Chinwe Azubuike is a strong female contemporary voice from Africa, born in Lagos-Nigeria. Her origins are from Imo State. Her literary development began whilst attending secondary school. She has constantly viewed myself as a spokeswoman for Nigeria's deprived underclass and recognised within herself a strong sense of social justice. This is reflected in her poetry as her work highlights the complicated issues and beauty of the people of Africa, especially the plight of women and children. The bulk of her work focuses on female issues; of love, life and torture with specific references to ethnic family traditions within West Africa. Her meteoric rise in African literary circles came about when she was invited to give a talk on female circumcision for the BBC World Service in 2004. Following on from that success she gave various readings at the Poetry Society in Betterton Place, London. She has spoken candidly on various radio stations in the Capital and her work has been published in various online publications and offline magazines in London and throughout the world. Presently, she is running a campaign worldwide for women, against the victimisation and deprivation of human rights of "the Widow" in Nigeria. This issue is extremely personal to her as it is borne out of her own bitter experience when her father sadly passed away. She has written extensively on the subject with essays and poetry and intends to create a documentary in Nigeria about "Death of a Husband".

To The Memories Of Homage

I still remember the duty your lips pay
left and right as you walk
down the aisle of people back in motherland

The responses of women
with wrappers wrapped high above their breasts
busy, bustling with wares to be assembled for an early sale
in the glowing warmth of the morning sun
They never forget to respond~
with the chewing sticks stuck in their mouths
They never forget to call out your name
even before a salute leaps out of your lips

I still remember the sequential interference
of greetings that stops you in your track
to enquire the fate of your house-hold
and livestock if you possess any
At times irritating, but all in good faith
by well meaning hearts and acts of brotherliness

I remember the rebukes your unintentional mind attracts
from those who surpass your age when morals evade you
The slogan says ‘it is not love’
yet we engaged in it without ceasing
it gave and earned us respect

So whenever I see familiar faces here
who avert their eyes,
I wonder what they think salutation depicts.

As a teacher in Afghanistan, Hasan Bamyani was attacked by the Taliban for teaching girls. When he fled in 2001 he was forced to leave his family behind in Iran. In 2006 he finally received leave to remain in Britain. He now works long hours in a department store and a cinema, and hopes to be able to bring his wife and children to join him in the not too distant future.

Valbona Bashota a Kosovan Albanian born in Kosovo, arrived in the UK in 1994 due to the Serbian repression in Kosova. She studied psychology and journalism at City University in London gaining her degree in 2002. Her poetry was published in many Albanian newspapers, magazines and publications and she took part in various literature festivals in Kosovo. She won many prizes for poetry, achieving first prize with 'I Am Human' in 2004 in a poetry competition for Albanian emigrants of the world. She regularly participates in poetry festivals of Albanian women poets in Kosovo, her poetry being published in various Albanian anthologies. Her poem "Hope" in English, is being published in the anthology "Best Poets 2005" by the Poetry Society in addition to another poem entitled "Passion" which is being published in a publication called "The Spirit Within". She works as a freelance journalist for various Albanian newspapers and magazines, and has just started her MA in Professional Writing at London Metropolitan University.

Why I write

I write because I live, I breathe, I feel
I write because this is what I'm born to do.
I write because this is who I am
I am the page, the pen, and the ink

I write because I feel
The thunder, sun and rain in a certain way
I write because I live, I cry
I laugh and die
In my own special way

I write and witness the miracles of life
The pain, the misery and children’s laughs
I drink the wine of other people’s blood
I crave the joy of unharmed youth
I live, cry, and rejoice all in one day
I am a writer, a messenger
I cannot be any other way

Amba Bongo was born in Kinshasa in 1962, She studied at the Institut Superieur Pédagogique de la Gombe, Kinshasa, Democratic Republic of Congo, where she graduated in English and African Culture. She then went on to study Psychology at the University of Warocqué, Mons, Belgium. Her first novel was Une Femme en Exil published 2000 (l’Harmattan, Paris). She has completed her second novel Cécilia soon to be published and is currently working on her third novel which recounts the experiences of her trips to Congo. Amba works as project director to Active Women, a refugee community organisation supporting French speaking African women with their claims for asylum.

Nafissa Boudalia is from Algeria and now lives in London. She is both a poet and painter and occasionally returns to her country to paint at great risk to herself. She has worked as a journalist since 1969, originally working for Algerian newspapers 'El Moudjahid' and 'Algerie Actualites'. In 1967, she won the Prix St Germain des Pres in Paris for her poetry. Her collection of poems 'Reflexions sur l'Algerie (1989) focused on the political situation in Algeria, especially the position of women.


THIS REGISTER OF EXILED WRITERS IS CURRENTLY BEING DEVELOPED AND EXPANDED! To see biographies and samples of work click on the writer's name. All the work is the copyright of the author. The work displayed is by both developing and established writers.
Ali Abdolrezaei - Shanta Acharya - Bashir Algamar - Aydin Mehmet Ali - Mir Mahfuz Ali - Tsehay Alemayehu - Samira Al-Mana - Wafaa Abed Al Razzaq - Nora Armani - Chinwe Azubuike - Hassan Bahri - Hasan Bamyani - Valbona Bashota - Nazand Begikhani - Amba Bongo - Nafissa Boudalia - Henry Bran - Sofia Buchuck - Keena-Diid Caynaane - Brian Chikwava - Alfredo Cordal - Samia Dahnaan - Amna Dumpor - Fatma Durmush - Ahmad Ebrahimi - Jaleh Esfahani - Predrag Finci - Abol Froushan - Choman Hardi - Nigar Hasan Zade - Mogib Hassan - Farah Hiwad - Fahriya Hodzic - Hamid Ismailov - Nahida Izzat - Mahmood Jamal - Mohammad Akbar Kargar - Ziba Karbassi - Ghada Karmi - Vida Kashizadeh - Abdulkareem Kasid - Jeton Kelmendi - Fawzi Kerim - Mohammed Khaki -Amadu Wurie Khan - Esmail Khoi - Berang Kohdomani - Yang Lian - Valbona Ismaili Luta - Freddy Macha - Faziry Mafutala - Roohi Majid - Robert Kabemba Mangidi - Pari Mansouri - David Margolis - Abdul Karim Meesaq - Hilton Mendelsohn - Abdul-azeez Mohammed - Sozan Mohamed - Simon Mol - Agim Morina - Nkosana Mpofu - Mirzo Mustovic - Nora Nadjarian - Majid Naficy - Thabo Nkomo - Jean-Louis N’Tadi - Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu - Shereen Pandit - Nazanin Rakhshandeh - Mehrangiz Rassapour - Shirin Razavian - Vesna Ruzicka - Hastie Salih - Yashar Ahad Saremi - Rouhi Shafii - Ruhangiz Sharifian - Richard Sherwin - Darija Stojnic - Edin Suljic - Saeed Tavakkol - Teddy Teddern - Bogdan Tiganov - Tenzin Tsundue - Shadab Vajdi - Bart Wolffe - Haifa Zangana - Floarea Maria Zoltan
Ali Abdolrezaei was born 10 April 1969 in Northern Iran. He completed his primary and secondary education at his city of birth and after receiving his Diploma in mathematics passed the nationwide university entrance exams. He graduated with a Masters degree in Mechanical Engineering from Tehran Technical and Engineering University. He started his professional poetic career in 1986 and became one of the most serious and contentious poets of the new generation of Persian poetry. Ali has had an undeniable effect on many poets of his generation by his artistic concepts of proposals through the medium of his poetry as well as speeches and interviews. And he is one of the few poets who succeeded to express his independent poetic individuality. Publication of eight varied books of poetry: “From Riskdom,” “Shinema,” So Sermon of Society”, “Improvisation”, “This dear cat”, “Paris in Renault”, “You Name this Book”, “Only Iron Men live in the rain”, endorse his poetic creativity and power. Currently he has in publication a poetry collection “La Elaha Ella Love” and a multi-textual “Hermaphrodite” that have been followed by varied critical reviews. Nearly all well known poets and critics of Persian poetry have written about Abdolrezaei’s poems. In September 2002 after his protest against heavy censorship of his latest books such as Society and Shinema, he was banned from teaching and public speaking. He left Iran and after a few months stay in Germany, and two years in France, he’s been living in London for the last three years. At “The Priory” I am writing this letter for the girl who lived lonelier than the moon the girl who one day alighted in the mirror and with a little smile pulled a stone slab off my chest Have you walked in the shoes at the foot of the stairs? Why don’t you saddle the horses’ neighing? It must be your eyes that sometimes sound a few galloping neighs have horses Our last happiness was the wind that’s gone with the wind Even cows don’t lick at the river photo in these newspapers nowadays God’s legs have stuck out of the clouds’ skirts These beds have come through women of old Attack! Row your oars! The sea always has so much more swimming than boat rides We are human again I have heard, from this very line you are hearing, at the end of the poem I am writing, at first dusk descends a little, then it rains and in the end the sound of the unsaddled neighing of a herd of horses, is running in my shoes. The clatter of my feet in the stretch of my shoes by your side dies today I don’t know what wool to pull over I don’t know I don't know? Like a woman who lived two years in my eyes isn’t it a sin to drag me so from bed to bed? How can I command these trembling soldiers facing you, O life to fire? From the shoes at the foot of the stairs comes the sound of galloping horses don’t you believe me? You! Standing there beyond the end of this letter just send me two eyes to cry
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Shanta Acharya was born and educated in Orissa, India. In 1979, she came to Oxford where she completed her doctoral thesis. Between 1983-5 she was a Visiting Scholar at Harvard. In 1985, she started her career in investment management with Morgan Stanley in London. She subsequently worked as a Portfolio Manager with various firms, including Baring Asset Management. She is currently Associate Director, Initiative on Foundation and Endowment Asset Management at London Business School. Her doctoral study, The Influence of Indian Thought on Ralph Waldo Emerson, was published by The Edwin Mellen Press, USA, in 2001. Her three books of poetry are Looking In, Looking Out (Headland Publications, UK; 2005), Numbering Our Days' Illusions (Rockingham Press, UK; 1995) and Not This, Not That (Rupa & Co, India; 1994). She is also the author of books on asset management. For more information, visit her website: www.shantaacharya.com
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Bashir Algamar was born in Sudan in 1955. He came to England as a political refugee in 1993 after being imprisoned for his poem: Patience on a beach. Since then he has lived in Brighton. Bashir is a poet, songwriter and composer. Since 1991 he has written and composed more than 40 poems and songs, mainly in Arabic. Most of them are well known in his home country, Sudan. Some of his songs have been recorded by Sudanese National TV and radio. At present he is working on a new collection of poetry, entitled: “Rhythm and resonance”. He is also planning to perform his poetry in several countries with a Sudanese singer. Bashir has taken part in several art exhibitions and poetry readings in England: in Cardiff, London, Liverpool and Bristol. He is also a well-known proponent of the “Oud”: an oriental musical string instrument. His poetry deals mainly with his homeland, exile, human suffering and love. It is written either in classical Arabic or in Sudanese local dialogue. The poems contain many emotions, images and metaphors; and are written in a musical and rhythmic language.
A child and a doll For Huda Ghaliya Buried in the fields of death it waits. Suddenly the world plunges into darkness and destruction. You look up your father’s voice reaches you a faint moaning wail from the midst of the wreckage. You follow it with eagerness. Your mother and your brothers are lost in the womb of eternal silence they have breathed their last asleep. Alone, you continue to search wondering: Where is your doll? a few moments ago, she was here. The doll lies cast beside an unexploded bomb. You explode! Her head is split open, her limbs mangled into the sand; the doll who gave you endless joy. You combed her hair, talked to her. A bomb plummeting from the sky missed its target. What does it mean? It doesn’t matter Did it kill someone? It doesn’t matter. This you will never understand. Your lifetime is just six years your brother’s bones lie amongst fire, smoke, wreckage, and other bones. You carry your doll’s head, dreaming, You shake off the shrapnel and dust, and you wonder why they carved up her hands and legs yet you don’t understand. Alone in a wasteland the head of the doll cupped in your hands shell-shocked your small head cannot grasp it. You remain bemused: Where is your mother’s head? Where are your father’s remains? The distorted features, the ugly images are etched in an innocent memory. The terrible odour of death chokes you. You scan the scene, taking photographs with your eyes Silence covers the earth. Carrying your doll, you run away. They ask you where the remains of your doll are and you cry. They amputated her hands, her legs only her head remains, witness to a minor tragedy. The tragedy of uprooting - uprooting human beings their memory, and their identity the swallowing of earth the sucking of blood. The past remembers the past joins the present… …and you grow older. The volcano threatens to erupt the shameful images are burnt into the little girl’s memory. Twenty years on, the girl and the doll’s head remain Anger will not surrender. Mother earth, the whole earth belongs to everyone. Love, true love belongs to those who give it. No borders, no passports are needed. Our mother earth gives abundantly of all her wealth of everything, joyfully gratified when we meet our needs angry when we become greedy. Then she is sickened, and throws out lava crying a torrent of tears. Overwhelmed with fear she shakes into an earthquake. Yet we feel no shame you, I, us, them all are responsible. Blinded by our avarice we pushed our mother earth to destruction. Huda Ghaliya: a 7 year-old Palestinian girl who lost her entire family to an Israeli missile while picnicking on the beach.
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Aydin Mehmet Ali was born in Cyprus and lives in London. She was educated in Cyprus, USA and Britain. She is an international education consultant, project manager, researcher and writer. As a well-known intellectual community activist and advocate of multiculturalism and multilingualism, she has spoken at international conferences and her work appeared in numerous publications. She has set up and managed many empowerment projects in the UK and in Cyprus. Her work focuses on young people and women. She is a passionate campaigner for peace in Cyprus and amongst Cypriots in the Diaspora. She has been a consultant adviser to the London Mayor and to numerous education and cultural establishments. She is the author of the acclaimed book, Turkish Speaking Communities & education - no delight (2001) and editor and translator of Turkish Cypriot Identity in Literature (1990). She is an award winning author and her short stories have appeared in the anthologies Diaspora City (2003), Uncut Diamonds (2003,), Index (July 2002), Crossing the Border (2002) and Weeping Island (2000), and in the journals Cadences (2005), Exiled Ink! (2005) and Orient Express (2005).
Her work was part of the art installation, Bedtime Story, at the [IN] visible exhibition, London, 2005. Her poetry translations and articles on literature have appeared in Mother Tongues, Journal of Poetry in Translation (2001), Agenda Poetry Journal (2002), The Silver Throat of the Moon: Writing in Exile (2005), Klandestini website (2004), Negating the Silence (2003), Nicosia (1995), Cadences (2005), Orient Express (2005) and have been performed at numerous international poetry festivals and on radio for over fifteen years. She has done readings in a number of venues including the October Gallery as part of the renowned International Music Village Festival, Soho Theatre, Birkbeck College, Waterstone’s Bookshop, the Fawcett Women’s Library and Deptford Artists Studios, London. She is editing an anthology of Turkish Speaking Women’s writing in London. She has organised Arts and Literature festivals, bilingual creative writing workshops, poetry and short story competitions for Turkish Speaking Women, Cypriot poetry evenings in Turkish, Greek and English, seminars, exhibitions for individual artists, Arts workshops for parents and young people, projects using the Arts to diffuse racial tensions and conflict between different communities. She recently managed four projects, including The way we are, a multicultural and multi-lingual photographic project, in the north and south of Cyprus, with Cypriotturkish, Cypriotgreek, Cypriotroma, settler and mixed heritage children. She took part in numerous documentaries and Arte TV broadcasted a documentary in France and Germany about part of her life (2004). Her first short story collection, Pink Butterflies/Bize Dair was published in October, 2005.
'The policewoman' "Were you in love?" "I was in love with love at that age." They suddenly share intimacies in a large room. "But it was broxenia. Arranged." she adds just in case her friend does not understand the Greek word. But she had. "He had come to ask for me. You know what love is like in those days. He said he couldn't sleep at nights thinking of me. I was so delighted to hear that a young man couldn't sleep at nights thinking of me! I was so flattered to think that a young boy was thinking only of me. Now I sleep very easily at nights. I have no problems with my sleep" She laughs a raucous, deep laugh hiding the blush of the sixteen year old creeping under the skin of forty-one years and moisture in her eyes. Her friend joins in flippantly, "Especially if he is handsome and looks like some film star. Nothing else mattered, did it? As long as a young handsome man couldn't sleep at nights for you, paraded up and down the street in front of the house... you felt you had something special." "He was killed at eighteen. My daughter Maroulla was fourteen months old." She stops talking. Looks at her intensely through her shiny brown small eyes slightly drawn at the corners. Dipping into her memory. Her straw colour curls, tinted, presenting her face as though in a bed of lettuce. Her wheat coloured smooth skin stretches over her broad cheekbones. They stay silent looking at each other. She takes her eyes away and continues, "It was the second mobilization. In 1965. The first had passed. They took lots of young men from the villages. After a while they came back and took away the second batch. And he was amongst them. He had two months to go before he finished his military service." After an imperceptible silence she asks, "When did you leave Cyprus, Pembe?" as though trying to place both of them in their individual histories within the one history which unites and at the same time separates them. "Summer of 1963." "Yes it was after that. After the first conflict. I wanted to go on and finish the gymnasio and then go on to Athens, to university. I really wanted to go on to higher education so much. But I knew my parents wouldn't let me. They didn't see me as a university graduate. Although I wanted to go desperately, I knew in my heart of hearts that they wouldn't let me. So I agreed. I agreed!" She emphasises the I... almost to confirm that she was responsible for whatever happened to her all her life! "But they had ways of getting you to agree. Yes... it was ultimately my decision to get married..." "How did you cope with his death?" Pembe asks. She pauses before she answers. Curls her legs under her on the settee against the huge window framing the violet early evening sky. She wraps her arms around her legs. "You do. You don't think, you just do it. You move about, you are so resilient. You just live the most unliveable situations and you keep going. You don't think about it. As though it was natural to keep going to survive!" Pembe wants to tell her friend that the full moon is rising amongst the arms of the apple tree. A silver haze casting speckles over it. A November moon in London. She keeps watching it emerge waiting for a gap in the conversation to say, "Just look at the moon! So beautiful!" She listens as her eyes catch secret glimpses away from Maria's eyes to the hazy silver moon hiding amongst the dark autumn leaves. Momentarily disappearing behind clouds then emerging as though it was playing a game or giving her a respite from trying to catch an opportune moment, a gap in the conversation to tell Maria. She catches a pause. "What did you do... when you were left on your own?" The moon had no place in the conversation, only in stolen glances. "I wasn't on my own. I had my parents. We grew up in a loving environment. I'd always felt that security and in a sense maybe that helped. My mother helped a lot." "But what about men? You were young barely eighteen and a widow, they must have..." "They tried to take advantage of me," she interjects, "but I wasn't stupid. I was young but not stupid!" My God my Saviour my Lord Almighty Master the most powerful most merciful how could you do this to me? WHY? What did I do to you for you to punish me so? What did I do to deserve such punishment such fate? Left on my own with a young baby in my arms. If you wanted to punish me- do it. I can accept that, but what did my innocent daughter do to deserve such horror? With what wisdom did you decide you needed to punish an innocent baby? Oh where is the magnanimity in that? What sort of justice is that? What a warped sense of justice you must have the most powerful the most just my Lord my Master... " ‘Come to my office tomorrow. I will help you. I've got a job for you. You start at 8.00. Don't worry my dear, you are like a daughter to me, I'll look after you. Just come my dear...’ He was my father's friend, he was so kind. My mother encouraged me to go.” Why was it so important for you men to try to take advantage of me? WHY? Why was it so important to posses me conquer my body tell your lies flatter me get between my legs? WHY? Why did I have to belong to one of you if not to all of you at once? WHY? Why could you not let me be? Why could you not leave me alone? Why did you not treat me as a human being in need of support, encouragement, advice, friends? Why was it important for you to chase me to try to push me down on my back? What twisted satisfaction did you get out of that? Sooner or later she'll need a man sooner or later she'll get an itch between her legs sooner or later she'll want it once a woman tastes it she can't do without it she needs it it's only natural she's young full-blooded passionate she has fire in her still young huge fires of desire burn in her breast between her legs. So what? What's so wrong if we try? She needs it anyway doesn't she? She is only human. What are you telling me that she is different? She is just like any young passionate woman and on top of it all she has already tasted it. It's beautiful- of course she would want it... sooner or later. So what? It's only natural that a man is going to try and get in there first. Only natural. If I don't get in there some other bastard is going to get between those lovely legs those lily-white breasts. So it might as well be me. What difference does it make anyway, whether it's me or someone else? Come on my darling, come on... stop playing hard to get. You want it you want it don't you I'll give it to you I'll give it to you deep and juicy you'll love it better than your old man who didn't have the sense not to get killed and left you in the middle of no where much much better than him I've experience I know how to love a woman I'll love you slowly slowly slowly you haven't tasted anything like me yet my beauty you'll ask for more you'll see... Fuck off... fuck off... fuck off... F-U-C-K--O-F-F! Leave me alone! Imbeciles! I wouldn't lie under you if you were the last man on earth! "And I couldn't tell anyone about it. Telling would have meant I was inviting it. I was the one who was lose chasing a bit of prick. After all decent women don't get chased after or bothered. It's your fault if men are chasing you. And aren't you ashamed to stand there and listen to all this? It just proves you're inviting it, you're at fault you shameless hussy was the reaction and all I wanted to do was to go to the gymnasio and then to university but no one wanted me to no one would let me go..." she pushes her hair away from her face remembering the desperation and frustration of the eighteen year old trying all possible avenues of reaching her goal. "I even took my mother to see Makarios..." she continues. "Why?", Pembe asks puzzled. "I had asked to see him and as I was a widow... a war widow... a widow of a soldier... he agreed to see me. So I took her and my child along. He did see us. I asked him to make a special dispensation to enable me to sit my exams in the gymnasio, graduate and then go to university. By then my dreams of university had re-awakened. But he told me he couldn't do it. He didn't have the power to do so!" "So you were finished educationally at the age of eighteen?" "Yes, that was it! But you know what he said, `As you are a dead soldier's wife, I can offer you something else. I do have the power to do that. I could appoint you as...' and you know in those days they were appointing policewomen, they were not what they were like today. He told me he could offer me a job as a policewoman in Famagusta." "A policewoman!?" "Yes!" she emphasises the words shifting her body and rearranging her legs. "A policewoman!" The Greek barricade on the Famagusta road. Two corrugated iron huts by the side of the road serve as the searching rooms. Tall eucalyptus trees line the road encircling the dried up moat of the Venetian walls of Nicosia. One hut is for the women the other for the men. All cars, taxis, lorries and coaches going into the Turkish enclave of Nicosia are searched. All coming out are searched. What are they looking for? Would anyone be so stupid as to try and smuggle guns, bombs, leaflets? What? No one seems to know what constitutes a forbidden object. "They took all my husband's photographs. All of them!" she meekly objects. Why? What did they want with the photographs of this woman's husband in her 30s? "He was wearing the uniform of the Mucahits! And they questioned me for hours. What could I tell them? I am bringing some of my husband's photographs from Limassol to Nicosia. He can't go anywhere. He can't do anything. He is dead. He is dead..." she wipes the corners of her eyes with her trembling fingertips. "The men can't travel anyway. They have to stay in the enclaves otherwise the Greeks pick them up and they go missing. They never come back. And do you know they didn't believe me when I said he was dead. And they tormented me and they tormented me and made rude suggestions and gestures... such humiliation! But what could I do? What can anyone of us do? Here we are at the mercy of the Greeks, we are in their hands. You just bear it. We can at least travel and see our loved ones." She is searched by the young woman in the police uniform. She had entered the tin hut shown and faced her. She was wearing the brown khakis of the colonial times, redesigned for the birth of the Republic of Cyprus in 1960 which split open at the seams in 1963. The fateful days of 1963. She heard about the war in her country while away on a year's scholarship in the USA. She was walking down the corridor in school when the tannoy system tuned in to the radio announced, "As a result of the death of a Turkish Cypriot two Greek Cypriot policemen have been attacked in Nicosia. Mass demonstrations... street battles... in Nicosia. Law and order... has broken down." The 1963 war had begun. She remembers walking slowly down the corridor with her head lowered finding it hard to swallow when her American friends of sixteen with cheery smiles shouted, "Hey Pembe did you hear that? That's your country! It's on the news! Hey, did'ya hear, there's a war on out there! Hey, where's it anyway?" She had no answers. She nursed an invisible twist in her belly. She heard the same radio again the same year. "The President of the United States of America, J.F. Kennedy has been shot in Dallas, Texas today. He is dead." Sobs had broken out in the classrooms in the corridors. Students were told to go home and mass grief was allowed. She had noticed that the sixteen-year-old Democrat students were crying, the Republican eyes were dry. Did you not cry for a human being if he was not from your party? Was the value of a human life only determined by their political affiliation? She had wondered. Did anyone think she was not a human being because she was a Cypriotturkish of eighteen returning home, being searched by the young Cypriotgreek policewoman? She looked at the neatly combed back hair wrapped up into a bun, at the clean neat expressionless face of the policewoman and smiled at her. She smiled back. So they were both still able to respond to a smile in this war-torn country of theirs. The policewoman's hands touched her shoulders, her fingers went through her curly black shoulder length hair. Moved under her arms, touched her breasts. She shrunk back. No one had touched her breasts... ever! These non-caring, matter-of-fact hands without hesitation had brushed harshly over them, squeezed them slightly. The policewoman looked at the offended eyes with half amusement on her lips. Pembe said nothing but her eyes were angry, annoyed, disbelieving. A wave of humiliation spread all over her and oozed out of her body. She had not even touched her own breasts how could this total stranger do it without any feeling? Had she no shame? The hands moved down her waist, over her belly and before she knew what had happened dived between her legs. She clasped them as an automatic reaction, a reflex, momentarily trapping the policewoman's hand. The hand stayed in place while the eyes met Pembe's. The legs relaxed. The policewoman felt the hard object between her legs. The eyes met inside a moment's silence. The policewoman withdrew her hand. "It's my monthly illness." Pembe offered with embarrassment undetected in a controlled voice. "That's not an illness!" the policewoman responded and smiled. They had spoken in Greek. "OK you can go! Have a good journey and be careful!" She walked out of the tin hut slightly bigger than the space occupied by the two bodies. The space for unwanted intimacies. The warm air hit her face. She took a deep breath and waited outside between the huts for the men and other women to be searched. A young soldier walked up to her. She searched herself for traces of fear, she had none. She had regained her composure, she raised her head, body erect. Fear will not settle anywhere. “I will not allow it,” she whispered, an almost undetectable smile on her lips as she looked up at him. "Open your bag!" An order maybe a request she thought he could probably never put to his mother when he was fascinated with what she had in her bag. A bag he could never go near, forbidden, hit on the hands if he reached out to explore as a child. All those intricate little boxes, tubes, bottles, matches, handkerchiefs, mirrors, combs, all those interesting colourful things. A treasure trove. And the heady unforgettable perfume in the little blue bottle with the Eiffel Tower and the single word Paris, which lingered in the bag and escaped as though from Aladdin’s lamp when the bag was opened... He now could rummage through women's handbags, inspect, smell, empty them on tables, without fear, without reprimand and without excitement. He no longer felt that secret sensation, that slight dizzying perfume as when he used to sneak open his mother's handbag. She opened it. The usual things, lipstick, compact-case, pen, passport, book, note pad, a thick purse. He opened it and looked through. Full of photographs. Photographs of American young people. All healthy, content in life, perfect teeth almost identically posed smiles. A smile breaks on his lips. "Who are they?" He speaks to her in English? She looks into his face much more carefully. "My friends from the USA." The questioning in his eyes continues so she explains who they are, how she knew them, when, their names. "Can I have this one? I can write to her. Can I have it?" Suddenly she becomes apprehensive. "No! She's my friend. She gave me this picture. Look she's written a special message on it! I couldn't give it to you! I could give you..." She notices the driver of the taxi frantically signalling to her not to argue and to let him have the photograph. What's in a photograph - your life is at stake. Are you totally stupid? He interrupts her, "No! No! It's OK Here... she's your friend. She's nice." The last words were said gently. He handed back the photograph. The driver breathed a sigh of relief but was later to accuse her of ignorance and risking the lives of others by her stubbornness. Give him the Damned thing, what the Hell is it anyway just a photograph who the Hell do you think you are to challenge them just shut your mouth and do what ever they say always say yes. But uncle driver I was always taught to say no and tell the truth... She had often thought about him. The young Cypriotgreek soldier on the Famagusta road under the eucalyptus trees. Brown eyes brown hair smooth face with high cheekbones and soft smile. Was he the one who didn't shoot her brother? Was he the one on guard when a seventeen-year-old walked through the Cypriotturkish barricade, with easy calm steps, not looking back at the Cypriotturkish soldier who just followed him with his eyes holding his gun tightly in his hand? He could have shot him. In the back. It would have been over in a second. No mess no fuss very neat. He was trying to escape General, Sir! He was walking into the other side into enemy territory! I had to stop him! He could have shot me but he didn't. Why? Why didn't he? Was I doing something he wasn't bravecrazy enough to do? Did he come with me by allowing me to live, to walk through the barricade? Did he leave with me, walk with me out of that prison, out of that enclave, out of that suffocating inferno? The young Cypriotturkish soldier in 1967 on the Famagusta road as I walked out of my prison into the unknown... who were you? Who were you granting me an extension to this life? You could have ended it without much fuss. At seventeen. And the young Cypriotgreek soldier as scared as trembling as I was, walking towards you. Not knowing if you will shoot me. Not sure if I was armed if I was going to shoot you if I was going to throw a grenade at you... A body, a young man, walking alone on the Famagusta road. Watched from behind by the young Cypriotturkish soldier whose spirit I was taking with me out of a prison, the young Cypriotgreek soldier frightened to death trembling watching the approaching lonely figure on the sizzling asphalt on the Famagusta road. Young Cypriotgreek soldier were you waiting for my brother under the eucalyptus trees on the Famagusta road in 1967? I am glad you didn't shoot him. He has a son now. His son won't be shooting yours. He is blind. "What did you do?" asks Pembe. "I didn't even have a chance to say anything. My mother butted in and said to Makarios, `A policewoman! Never! Never! I am not having my daughter become a policewoman!' That was that! I didn't become a policewoman." © AYDIN MEHMET ALI November 1988 London
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Mir Mahfuz Ali was born in Dhaka, Bangladesh, Mahfuz is a performance artist, renowned for his extraordinary voice – a rich throaty whisper brought about by a bullet in the throat fired by Bangladeshi policeman trying to silence the singing of anthems during a public anti-war demonstration. He studied at City Literary Institute in London and Essex University. He dances, acts, has worked as a male model and a tandoori chef. He has given readings and performances at the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden; Bedlam Theatre at the Edinburgh festival; New End Theatre in Hampstead; Tricycle, Arcola in London and at the National Theatre (Cankarjev Dom) of Slovenia in Ljubljana,. His poetry appeared in the anthologies The Silver Throat of the Moon, and Whispering In The Wind, and also in the Index on Censorship magazine and in the magazine Exiled Ink! His work has appeared in Ambit and the London Magazine. In September 2007 he was amongst the final three poets shortlisted for the New Writing Partnership Literature Awards (see photo). Tales of Nazism and Deptford market up for writers' award By Emily Dugan Published: 01 August 2007, The Independent A first-hand account of Zimbabwe's deterioration, the story of a lesbian tracing her family to a concentration camp, and a tale inspired by a box of letters found in Deptford market. The subject matter may differ vastly, but the works have one thing in common: they were all written by women. The shortlist for the coveted New Writing Ventures Award announced today is dominated by women, with an unprecedented eight out of nine places taken by female writers. In the three categories of fiction, creative non-fiction and poetry, only one man is left in the running, the poet Mir Mahfuz Ali. Henry Sutton, chairman of judges for fiction, said he was "surprised and saddened" when he realised that no men had made the grade for the category. "I was shocked when I realised that all three were women," he said. "I've never believed in a difference of the sexes when it comes to literary talent, but there does seem to be a broader appeal in what women are writing than men." Mr Sutton believes that market forces are partly at fault in making it more difficult for male writers to succeed. "I think it's harder for a fledgling male writer to establish themselves than a woman, because market forces are swayed towards women," he said. "But in this case women produced the best writing, so perhaps men just need to wake up." He advocated a concerted effort to encourage new male authors, akin to the support given to women. "Male writers seem to be under-supported and under-represented, and they need encouragement somewhere along the line," he said. "Maybe we need an Orange Prize for men". Char March, one of the writers shortlisted for the fiction category, said she was "delighted" to hear of her nomination, and the female-dominated line-up. "I hope it shows that the establishment is opening up to the fact that women write damn good stuff and are not just interested in chick lit," she said. March, whose book follows the lesbian love affair of a woman who traces her family back to an east German concentration camp, believes that part of the reason women were less successful in the past was that they had not mastered the narrative drive. "Women are trying to write books that are more gripping now. I think in the past, because thrillers were seen as typically male, women didn't have such a grasp on narrative drive as they do now, and that stopped them from being as successful," she said. Ali said he was "not surprised" that he was the only male poet nominated. "Women have a better feeling for poetry than men because they feel things more deeply," he said. "I don't feel threatened, I think it's wonderful." Ali, 50, who grew up in Bangladesh during the liberation war, puts his own sensitivity as a poet down to the hardships he suffered as a child. He was shot in the throat by Bangladeshi police while singing a protest song aged just 13, and has taken 30 years to fully recover his voice. It was through poetry that Ali was able to express his feelings about the atrocities he had witnessed. "Having suffered many setbacks and pain, including near death, I have grown stronger and been able to reflect on the experiences," he said. His poetry gives a vivid eyewitness account of some of the horrendous scenes to which he was privy. "I saw the genocide and the tsunami with my own eyes, and I witnessed the shooting of a baby. I was there when no cameramen were there, so I was the camera, taking pictures with my poetry," he said. The awards, which are now in their third year, have become a golden ticket to lucrative publishing contracts for emerging authors. Success stories include the 2005 runner-up, Liz Diamond, who has two book deals with Picador, and the 2005 winner Nicholas Hogg, whose novel Show Me The Sky will be published by Canongate next year. The overall winners will be announced on 11 September. http://arts.independent.co.uk/books/news/article2823110.ece *Women dominate new writing awards shortlist* Michelle Pauli Wednesday August 1, 2007, Guardian Unlimited A Bangladeshi performance poet with an extraordinary voice - the result of a bullet in the throat from riot police attempting to silence a singing protest - is the only man to appear on the New Writing Ventures awards shortlist for emerging literary talent. Mir Mahfuz Ali arrived in London 20 years ago seeking medical treatment and political refuge and found a new voice through poetry. Part of Exiled Writers Ink, a group of émigré authors who fled war-torn and repressive countries, and a regular reader at literary festivals, he is now in the running for a £3,000 prize with his shortlisting in the poetry category of the New Writing Ventures awards. Article continues
The Golden Chain that Set Me Free Anna decorated my bare neck with a golden chain for my birthday and confirmed her admiration for me her appreciation of me being in her life. Then she said, in a caveat tongue, if I ever took it off or tried to leave her she would tie me with icy shackles. That is not going to happen, I reassured her with an easing tone, I’d keep the gift where she wanted it to be for good. Promising her with a huge hug and a long, slow kiss. I woke the next day with a swollen neck thick as a banana trunk and scratched myself until I bled. Still I did not snap the frond, my bond with her which proved my honest love that still wrinkles every stream. But she broke the link with me by moving the golden pledge from my neck on to her own declaring she was setting me free.
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Tsehay Alemayehu was born in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, in 1968. She studied at the local government school until junior level and joined St Mary’s private school for girls. She graduated with a Diploma in Administration followed by two years of further education at the Commercial College of Addis Ababa. At the age of thirteen she began to write and later became a member of the Youth Writers’ Group. It was a diificult time in Ethiopia during the Revoloution but she tried to pursue her writing. She emigrated to the U.K in 1991. In London, she published “Ethiopian Messenger”, a magazine aimed at the Ethiopian Community. She has a certificate in Montessori Theory and Methodology. In October 2006 she published a bi-lingual book entitled “Zeraf!” aimed at young exiles with the help of UnLtd Millenium Fund. At present she is working on another book for children.
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Samira Al-Mana was born in Basra, Iraq (Self exiled in the UK since 1965).Deputy Editor of the Magazine in Arabic (ALIGHTRAB AL- ADABI ) a quarterly magazine on literature of the exiled, launched in 1985-2003, in London. Publications including 5 novels: 1. THE FORE RUNNERS AND THE NEWCOMERS (Beirut, 1972) 2. LONDON SEQUEL (London, 1979) 3. THE UMBILICAL CORD (London, 1990) 4. THE OPPRESSORS (Damascus, 1997) 5. JUST LOOK AT ME ( Beirut,2002) 6. A Play, in Arabic entitled ONLY A HALF with the English translation, (London, 1985) 7. A Collection of short stories, THE SINGING, (Baghdad, 1976) 8. A collection of short stories entitled THE SOUL AND OTHERS (Beirut 1999). 9. Some of her short stories translated into Dutch & English were published in various periodicals. Attended the International Writing Program, Iowa City University, U. S. A, for three months in 1990. 14th October the same year attended International Author Festival in Toronto, Canada, read one of her short stories. Attended " Women and the Novel", conference in Morocco, 1992 . Organised by Municipality of Fez, the Creative Women Organisation & U N E S C O.
Tropical Jungles ( A Story) “Thank you for your advice. I have no time for you. Yours sincerely, Elaine” She could, perhaps, write to him a strongly-worded letter, like this, bitter yet with calculating civility, a brief answer of no more than two lines. She could give him up in the same way that gamblers, whose whole fortune hangs on a number above or below the winning number, leave their dream castles without a word of farewell. She had got to know him before he was sent on business to Uganda. She used to work with him in on of the branches of an Arab bank in London. He was an important official, while she was the English secretary, Elaine. Once, she had read the biography of Lawrence of Arabia. When she asked him what he had thought of the film, he answered her question with a look of disdain as if she had suddenly changed the subject. So she went back to her chair and resumed her secretarial duties. After that, they each tried to score off the other, while pretending it was the other who was starting an argument or quarrel. He did that in his devious Eastern way, while she went about it with extreme craft and subtlety. Being curious by nature, she insisted on knowing who had been the first to start the argument. But this often made her more involved, and landed her in mysterious world in which the feelings of fear and adventure could not be easily disentangled. It was as if the third world were muddled but innocent world, well equipped with guns and tanks, yet watching her closely like a child. A soon as he arrived in Uganda he sent her a postcard: “Dear Mrs. Rogers,( That was her married name) : Greeting and best wishes to you from Kampala. The beautiful modern city. There is everything one needs here. Life runs smoothly, and the weather is generally pleasant, especially at night. My regards to all our friends. Looking forward to hearing from you at the earliest opportunity. Yours sincerely, F. Al-Jadiri She repeated the phrase “especially at night,” then she took a pen and wrote him a letter. After all there was no harm in friendly relationship between people. She sent him her greetings, and told him how much she admired his style in writing English, and that she liked the postcard, which was a picture of a group of Africans performing a folk-dance during the independence celebrations. She mentioned at the end of the letter that she was prepared to send him books or anything else he needed from London. She ended her letter by complaining of the cold in London and asking him to send her a little sunshine in a bottle. At the end she added: “I have not given your regards to any of our friends (meaning the bank employees), nor have I told them that I have received a card from you. Who can tell whether the friends of today might not be the enemies of tomorrow?” She signed the letter “yours sincerely, Elaine”. She wrote her Christian name only, without adding her married name. The letter was speedily sent to Uganda. She waited three weeks for an answer. Finally, his handwriting, next to a stamp on which was a picture of an African young man with milk-white teeth, reached her. It read: “Dear Elaine, I can hardly neglect someone like you. Someone who is good and kind. I shall never forget how kind you were to me during my last days in Britain. I’ve kept your letter in my pocket, my left pocket, all this time. I read it several times, although you don’t speak you mind, nor did I do that while I was in London. Your farewell gift to me is with me. It is the only one of the gifts I received from my friends in London which I brought with me. You said you had decided to go on holiday in August. How about coming to Uganda? I can send you an air ticket and take care of all your expenses. The slogan ‘Africa for the Africans,’ of course, would exclude a sweet, lovely person like you. What do you think of my suggestion? Nights in Uganda are full of stars, but it needed more than one person to count them. He did not sign his full name, only his initials. And all she needed was a pen to write him a quick answer : “Dear Mr Al-Jadiri, I still feel awkward when I call you by your first name. I received your last letter. I had no idea you were sentimental. To tell you the truth, I waited for your letter so long that I thought you were not going to write to me at all. I even began to curse you under my breath. I was so touched by your invitation to me to visit Uganda. But in my present difficult circumstances I cannot possibly accept. You know very well that I am married and have a child. I sometimes blame myself for writing to you at all. Could your feelings towards me perhaps amount to nothing more than mere passion? Please don’t be angry with me. I want to talk to you frankly about a very important matter. I have had no relations with any other man than my husband. I have no experience of men, having married very young. As I said, my husband has been the only man in my life and I am still only 24 years old. I am not used to brief and casual affairs. I must tell you how I miss you. Yours ever Elaine P.S. Has your car arrived? They told me it would take two months to ship it out to Uganda. If it hasn’t arrived yet, then I’ll get in touch with them to see what has happened.” Once again she was very diplomatic, something she had inherited from her ancestors. She used to find excuses to keep their relationship going. One of the best excuses was when she rang him up at his flat before he left for Uganda. The call was an official one, or at least she had tired to make it seem so. She had misled him so that he would mislead her. He had wanted to have his car shipped out to Uganda by a well known company. But by a mere coincidence she had come across another company which was more efficient and reasonable. It charged £20.00 less than the well known company. She had his telephone number, and getting in touch with him was a tempting prospect, as if the £20.00 she was going to save would feed the starving people of Africa. She dialled his number: “Hello. Yes, it’s me.” “Is it you?” “Yes, it is.” “Really you?” He was delighted to be talking to her. It was evening and he was shaving. He had told her so and she seemed to be pleased by that. “Where do these Arabs spend their evenings?” She wondered. “Dining? Well, who with? Perhaps it is not important?” He was a bachelor and had a very seductive voice. The next time she telephoned him he had already shaved and dressed, and was waiting for her call. “You’re late. I’ve been waiting for your call for over an hour.” “I couldn’t get through easily to the shipping company. The man in charge is away. In the end I accepted their offer. The difference in the charges of the two companies is £20.00.” “Great. Wonderful.” That was how a car with rubber tyres came to play an important part in the development of their relationship. This led to an exchange of questions about the number of her children, whether love survived marriage, what time he got up on Sundays, and if he should not smoke less. Did he drink alcohol , and how long was he going to stay a bachelor ?! She went on to say: “Until you’ll be 45 perhaps, and then you’ll marry an 18 year old girl.” “Elaine, you’ve hurt my feelings. Do you think I’m like that?” “No, but isn’t that the sort of thing done in your country?” He cut her short with gentle words, saying that he had not met the right girl yet. The girl whom he was ready to love, and to whom he hand over the key to his empty heart. She knew, just as he knew, that his heart had never been empty, and that the key to it, together with the key to his flat, was often on loan, and that the lock was never firm. Once, three months previously, while overcome with emotion, she telephoned him and heard the soft tones of a young woman speaking English. She had guessed that it was his girlfriend who was at that time in his flat. Now that she had a good excuse she decided to get in touch with him. The subject of the car was a good excuse, a big green excuse. The car being green. It had to be sent out to Uganda by a company that did not charge too much. It seemed to be the most reasonable of the British shipping companies that were all in it for a big profit. She wanted to save him £20.00 with which to buy thousands loaves of bread, loaves to feed the poor of the earth. She had been eager to give him the necessary information in the evening, instead of waiting until the following morning. It was a matter of great importance and urgency. Fortunately, this time she did not hear the young woman’s voice she had heard before. Instead she felt as if she were carried in a dream. She felt happy and light-hearted. She began to sing in the kitchen, contrary to her usual habit. She sang while she washed up, made the beds and swept the stairs. Boring, routine housework became something secondary to the songs which expressed the joys of love and the happy expectations of future meetings. It was amazing how people’s lives could be transformed from the life of a ewe or a sow to the winged life of a dove or a nightingale. The letters he wrote her were sent to her Scottish neighbour’s address. She put them under the mat in her neighbour’s sitting room, after she had read them. The two women used to read and reread the letters together out of a sense of loyalty and friendship. They used to share a joke and exchange a few pleasantries from time to time, while her neighbour’s husband was not around. Another postcard she received read as follows: “Dear Elaine I shall be going to Algeria on a special mission, and then on to Ghana and Cairo. I don’t know where I’ll be staying. I shall be getting in touch with you soon.” It was a brief note. But, at least, it was better than nothing. She tried, as she put, to read between the lines, and to explain the obvious. But she could not come to grips with the situation. She took the postcard and put it under the mat at the neighbour’s. The card was soon forgotten under the dusty mat. It was nearly time for her holiday. She was getting ready to leave with her husband and child for Spain. It was not her decision, but her husband’s. Spain was a good idea. After all it was the nearest European country to Africa. They had decided to spend a fortnight there. In her next letter she would write and tell him that she travelled across the seas to be near him. On her return with husband and child she would send him Lawrence Durrell’s Alexandria Quartet. She might even send him a poem she had composed herself. She had started to dabble in poetry. She might very likely say: “Here is one of my poems: I have been searching for you since Eternity In the Scriptures, Moses, Mohammed, Jesus, Zarathustra, But the only flame I found was within me.” The day following her return from Spain she took her handbag and went to work. London seemed to her like a wise old woman staring at her knowingly and maliciously. London was not one of her favourite cities, at any rate. It was not Accra or Kampala, not even Beirut or Baghdad or Cairo or Tunis. She had come to a point of devouring the maps of Asia and Africa, in order to follow step by step the route taken by the postcards and letters which she longed to receive. She remembered appropriate literary quotations from the works of writers who were relatively little known. She would use phrases, which had stuck in her mind, describing palm trees, deserts, tropical jungles, the perfumes of India and exotic delicacies, and she would pretend, without any hesitation, that she had written them herself. For instance, Lawrence Durrell says that a city becomes a complete world if one loved just one of its inhabitants. She wondered why people live in these cold islands. She often asked people that question. She herself wanted to talk about things other than the weather of the British Isles. She also disliked European dress, heavy taxation, eating potatoes every day, blue eyes and classical music. She settled down to the idea of being permanently unsettled. But then another letter came. “Dear Elaine, You stood one day in front of the altar and promised in the presence of your husband and all the congregation to take your husband for better for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health. You gave yourself to your husband unquestioningly. This is precisely what you did when you married him. As far as you and I concerned, I feel that we have reached a point in our relationship where we have got to come to a decision. I am a bachelor, and so have nothing to lose. I am a man whose life could very well come to an end by a stray bullet, or a car accident, or even a plane crash. Who knows? You, on the other hand, have everything to lose, everything, your husband and your country. I can’t give you anything better in return. I can just see you wanting to strangle me with your beautiful hands for saying what I have just said. But I feel I owe it to you to be honest because I just can’t hurt anyone who has never hurt me, nor can I bear to cause suffering to person who has never wished me any ill. What will your husband say when he finds our letters? You probably think I am mad worrying about mere letters, and that our relationship amounts to nothing more than those letters. What I’d like is to spare you any unnecessary problems and complications. You are beautiful beyond words. You exude beauty from the top of your head to the tip of your toes. You are a Venus without exaggeration. I wish I had been an artist to paint a portrait of you and immortalise you for centuries to come, for generations after generations, just like the Mona Lisa. I have known many beautiful women, but you far outshine them all. You are endowed with far greater beauty and a pleasant disposition and kindness that knows no limits. You ask me if what I feel towards you does not amount to mere physical attraction. I feel I must answer you with all sincerity. I can’t deny that I am a man. But when I asked you to come to Uganda I only had your interest and well-being at heart. I wanted to make you happy. I could have taken advantage of my position at work in London to make advances to you as I longed to do. But I respect you, and I respect myself. I can’t flirt with a woman who is married and a mother, in other words a woman who belongs to another man. That was why our relationship remained within very strict limits, in spite of my real feelings towards you. Perhaps I felt something more towards you than you did towards me.” She wondered what had happened to make him say all that. How could he be so cruel? They seemed to get on very well and had a good relationship. What had happened to him? Her Scottish neighbour tried to comfort her, as they read the letter together. No, no, that could not possibly be true. What was it that had happened? “He is mad,” she thought. “I must try to understand his motives.” Elaine read the letter for the fourth time and wondered again what had happened. Why this virtue all of a sudden? Why all this advice? It was the preaching that bothered most. She snatched the letter from her neighbour’s hand. Her neighbour was also astonished by his behaviour. Elaine’s neighbour had thought him sensible and highly sensitive. He had seemed to her almost a child, a handsome Arab, one of the rare treasures of the East. He was someone better than maharajah, carrying all the promises and riches of the East to Elaine and to her as well. Elaine’s neighbour had forgotten all about love, let alone the pleasures of travel. The thought of this man had renewed in her the desire to travel again. She began to read the names of foreign cities, which seemed strange to her. She would exclaim: “Oh, that’s a place I’d like to see.” She came to know, once more, the pangs of love, realising that she too had been in love once. That had been twenty years ago when her husband was still a young man. He had been courageous, loved and respected by all. But that was all before the arrival of their five children, and her husband had become addicted to alcohol, while she herself seemed forever to be looking for the scattered shoes of her children before they went to school each morning. Everything that was worthwhile had come to an end, the longing, the expectations and the tender feelings. The two women sat down again on the sofa, and the neighbour said: “Calm down, Elaine. I’ll make you a cup of tea in a minute. Just sit down for a while.” But she refused to do so. “No, no, no, it isn’t possible. He simply can’t put an end to our relationship so casually. Why does he complicate things? Everything was running smoothly and naturally between us, so much so that whenever our hands touched in the bank when I handed him the stamps, it was done in the gentlest way. He used to ask me to take down his letters, and I would sit at his desk facing him. He often found a good pretext to call me. He always timed it so that we would keep coming across each other. It was strange how sensitive he was, as if he had feelers all over his body.” “Thank you for all your good advice, but I have no time for you Yours sincerely Elaine ” She would write to him a letter in this tone, a harsh tone, full of malice and totally indifferent. She looked on both sides of the letter for his address, but she could not find it anywhere. “Look, he hasn’t even left his address, as if I am someone who could rape him.” * +++++++++++++++++ * Translated by Farida Abu - Haidar
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Wafaa Abed Al Razzaq 1952 – Basrah / Iraq Currently reside in London / UK Bachelor degree in accounting Memberships: • Ambassador of Iraqi Orphan Children in Iraq – London * Foundaiton member at the Hope messenger Association - London • Iraqi Writers Union – Iraq • Exiled Writers Ink – London / UK • Iraqi Association, member of the administration comity, head of cultural comity – auditor of Iraqi association newspaper (AL Muntada) – London / UK • Arabic Union for Internet Writers • Syrian Story Friends Association - Syria • Poesat del Mundo • In addition to may other associations and organizations Publications: • Seven poetry books in traditional Arabic language • Seven poetry books in Iraqi spoken language • Six poetry CD’s in Iraqi spoken language – poetry reading accompanied by music • Two short story books • Three novels • One poetic novel Currently under publication: From the Dairy of the War Chilled A poetry book that carries a message against war and calls for world peace. The book is currently under production for an 80 minutes film against war. • Published in several Arabic magazines and newspapers • Some of the poems were translated into English and Persian • Participated in a lot of poetry festivals The Judge Oh foolish judge Don’t bang with your crude hammer Your slimy impurity Will decide my death Words germinating in three A shirt frolicking In a bed of roses The genuflecting angels Embracing transcendental purity The sky sucking the rain Should you observe the drooping shirt Be cautious Three things on the guillotine Will pursue you Until you metamorphose into a ghost.
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Nora Armani plays Shakespeare, Shaw, Hammerstein, Molière, Tchekov, Guitry, Labiche, Fatima Gallaire, Tewfik al Hakim, Gunter Grass, and has toured with SOJOURN AT ARARAT internationally in over 20 cities on four continents in its English and French (Le Chant D’Ararat) versions, together with Gerald Papasian. Nora Armani has interpreted lead roles in American, French, Czech, Armenian, Lebanese and Egyptian films on screen and on television. Between March 1991 and December 1993, she represented the Ministry of Culture of Armenia as a spokesperson for the promotion of Armenian cinema world wide. The films she has produced were shown at major film festivals: Cannes 1996 (Official Selection- Un Certain Regard), Montreal, Rotterdam, Cairo, Portland, Washington, D.C., Cambridge, London, Inverness, Cardiff, Birmingham and Lancaster amongst others. She was invited to Cairo to play the lead role of Anna in the musical The King and I opposite Egyptian stage and TV star Mohamed Sobhi, performed at Radio Theatre in Cairo and broadcast on TV and Satellite. Other works: "Nannto Nannto", a stage production of words and music of her co-creation with cellist Aya Sakakibara, which she performed in Paris at the Theatre des Dechargeurs during February 2000. And later in Venice at the Santa Margherita Theatre in August 2000. Nora Armani is the winner of several awards: two BEST ACTRESS awards for Film and Stage Yerevan (Armenia) Festival-1991, the DRAMALOGUE AWARD for performance-1988- Los Angeles, the Encore DRAMALOGUE AWARD for performance-1989- Los Angeles, the CALIFORNIA MOTION PICTURE GOLDEN STAR award-1985-Los Angeles. She is an Honorary Member of the National Theatre of Armenia since 1992. Her most recent award was that of Best Actress for her lead role in Labyrinth at the Siunik Film Festival. She holds an M.Sc. from the University of London and a B.A in Sociology and Theatre Acting and Directing from the American University Cairo and UCLA. Her most recent work as a playwrigt and performer is On the Couch with Nora Armani and her recent TV appearance is the TV series Freinds in Egypt.
On the Couch with Nora Armani EXCERPTS My characteristic traits are engraved on my birth certificate and my passport! As far as I know, I'm the only one in this category. A female, born in Egypt of Western Armenian parents, educated in England, having lived primarily in the USA and in France, with shorter visits to a host of countries which we won't go into, fluent in several languages, two of which are mother tongues, plus a host of special physical attributes… I think. I hope! ............ Oh, but maybe I don't have to [wait much longer]…Things have changed dramatically over the past few years. Nowadays ethnic is in! You see it in all the major… supermarket chains. It’s all there, on special shelves. ‘Ethnic Delights’! So, tonight, ethnic delights! This [casting] call is for a romantic, curious, charitable, headstrong, sheltered, kaleidoscopic and exotic, not to say ethnic, brunette 20-25 years of age (ah well, we’ll make an abstraction of that - most casting calls are for under 25’s anyway!) of medium height and build, deep brown eyes and a huge smile with a 'please like me' expression. She must speak several languages though none are really needed. She must have lived in different countries even though the action takes place right here. And most importantly, she must sing and dance well, as it will be needed in the course of the evening's entertainment. It’s incredible. It’s me! Fits like a glove! I can assure you by the end of this evening you’ll have, before you, a very happy and satisfied artiste. If there is such a thing! So, without further ado, let's hold hands and leap into the wonderful world of… Nora Armani! (Recognising someone in the audience). I can't believe it. It's you. I wasn't sure. I thought I was imagining it. The hair, it’s the hair that fooled me for a second. But eyes never lie. It sure is you. (To the audience). Please excuse me. You are witnessing an incredible moment. (To the person) I knew we'd meet one day. But here, tonight...! I'd even imagined all sorts of situations - except this one. How long has it been now? Fifteen years. You haven’t changed at all! ............ (To everyone) Where was I? Ah, yes! So, without further ado, let's hold hands and leap into the wonderful world of… Nora Armani! (Interrupting herself again) A few years ago, I was shooting this labyrinthine film in London. (To everyone) I had the lead role. (To herself) Though I never really understood what the film was about. One of those Eastern European films with no story line, but powerful images of naked light bulbs swinging in sparsely furnished rooms with paint peeling off the walls and water running down them. A Franco-Czecho-Yugoslavo-Moldavian co-production. I think Ch: 4 had given some money too. (To the person) You cannot imagine my state when I'd found out that one of the key locations was right outside your flat. On Bedford Square. (To everyone) I remember my heart leaping each time the door swung open and someone walked out of the building. I kept squinting, and the director kept shouting, "Cut, cut!" Had I only known that he had moved a loooong time ago! I was squinting in vain. Although, admittedly, this added a certain ‘je ne sais quoi’ to the scenes shot that day. The images were fabulous, and considering that there wasn’t much of a story line it helped a lot. (To the individual) I even won an award, "Best Actress", for my squinting interpretation in that role. (To everyone) At the Siunik Film Festival! (Beat) OK! It’s not Cannes! But it is a relatively… unknown…film festival. Completely…unknown. Anyway, an award is an award. Even if the films competing were of the same category, I mean the naked-swinging-light-bulb kind… ............ (To the audience) You know, this woman looked so much like me. The spitting image! It made me want to spit. (To him) Where did you find her? Oh, yes, she found you. (Does a posh accent) Picked you up at a posh party chez… what’s his face! Oh, never mind! Excellent place for that encounter, and quite safe too. (Back to her normal accent) She turned to be my 'replacement'. She had the right family background and all the contacts. Not that you needed them! ............ (To herself) I, on my end, don't know much of my pedigree (to the audience) except that my great-grandfather came from Erzeroum, in Anatolia. It’s Eastern Turkey now. He travelled West as a young man, to Istanbul, in search of fame and fortune. Neither of which he found …until now. He was a jeweller. A diamond setter! A fifth-generation jeweller! Two more generations of jewellers were to succeed him; my grandfather and my uncle. At least there’s some continuity there! (To herself) But who were his ancestors, I don't know. (To him) "The excruciating desire to belong somewhere is a curable disease," I thought to myself and set off to find the remedy. It verged on obsession. At first unconsciously, then on purpose, I looked for the remedy in others; other people. Men. (Glancing over her shoulder to him) Yes, mostly men. They can be a good remedy! My first man, I’ll call him… Adam. The rest will follow alphabetically. Let me see. (Starts reciting the Armenian alphabet) AYP, Pen, Kim, Ta, Yetch…. I think we'd better stick to the Latin alphabet. The Armenian Alphabet has 38 letters, with doubles for each. Twins! The Arabic alphabet is all struck together. Can’t tell where one ends and where the other begins. You’ll have a very bad opinion of me. Hebrew is from right to left. I'd like to think in these matters there's no right or left. Maybe top or bottom. Like Chinese. Oh, no! Chinese has 10,000 characters. Impossible to do in the course of a lifetime, let alone an evening! O, I almost forgot the Hieroglyphs. Then again, maybe not. It can get too graphic!
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Chinwe Azubuike is a strong female contemporary voice from Africa, born in Lagos-Nigeria. Her origins are from Imo State. Her literary development began whilst attending secondary school. She has constantly viewed myself as a spokeswoman for Nigeria's deprived underclass and recognised within herself a strong sense of social justice. This is reflected in her poetry as her work highlights the complicated issues and beauty of the people of Africa, especially the plight of women and children. The bulk of her work focuses on female issues; of love, life and torture with specific references to ethnic family traditions within West Africa. Her meteoric rise in African literary circles came about when she was invited to give a talk on female circumcision for the BBC World Service in 2004. Following on from that success she gave various readings at the Poetry Society in Betterton Place, London. She has spoken candidly on various radio stations in the Capital and her work has been published in various online publications and offline magazines in London and throughout the world. Presently, she is running a campaign worldwide for women, against the victimisation and deprivation of human rights of "the Widow" in Nigeria. This issue is extremely personal to her as it is borne out of her own bitter experience when her father sadly passed away. She has written extensively on the subject with essays and poetry and intends to create a documentary in Nigeria about "Death of a Husband". To The Memories Of Homage I still remember the duty your lips pay left and right as you walk down the aisle of people back in motherland The responses of women with wrappers wrapped high above their breasts busy, bustling with wares to be assembled for an early sale in the glowing warmth of the morning sun They never forget to respond~ with the chewing sticks stuck in their mouths They never forget to call out your name even before a salute leaps out of your lips I still remember the sequential interference of greetings that stops you in your track to enquire the fate of your house-hold and livestock if you possess any At times irritating, but all in good faith by well meaning hearts and acts of brotherliness I remember the rebukes your unintentional mind attracts from those who surpass your age when morals evade you The slogan says ‘it is not love’ yet we engaged in it without ceasing it gave and earned us respect So whenever I see familiar faces here who avert their eyes, I wonder what they think salutation depicts.
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Hassan Bahri – I was born in Syria 1955 and graduated from USSR (Ukraine) as a Mechanical Engineer 1982. I was political activist and detained for more than 8 years in Syria. During this period I learned French and English and started writing short stories in Arabic and translated several books into Arabic. After the prison I qualified as a “Tourist Guide” and worked as a free lance translator, article writer and tourist guide. I came to UK in 2001 and continued working as a free lance translator and article writers for Arabic newspapers then I joined “Write To Life” group through which I published several short stories in English language and gave readings around the UK. In 2007 I joined “Exiled Writers Ink” and published a small collection of short stories “Bread heap and a dreamer” in English.
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As a teacher in Afghanistan, Hasan Bamyani was attacked by the Taliban for teaching girls. When he fled in 2001 he was forced to leave his family behind in Iran. In 2006 he finally received leave to remain in Britain. He now works long hours in a department store and a cinema, and hopes to be able to bring his wife and children to join him in the not too distant future. His work has appeared in Exiled Writers Ink! and in The Story of My Life: Refugees writing in Oxford, published by The Charlbury Press, 2005. (Copies available from www.day-books.com .) Hasan has filled three further notebooks with poetry and continues to write every day. CRY, BAMYÀN Butchers of history, looters of land, Against Buddhas of peace you lifted your hand You treasure the worst that our fathers have sown, Heap death and disaster on the treasures we own Like a bloodthirsty flood you ravage our land, And savage the glory of ancient Bamyàn Haters of beauty, lovers of pain, On the cloth of our country you spread like a stain Owls of the darkness, stay in your barn, Don’t let your night darken our noon You’re Fascists again, behind a new name, So leave us in peace and leave us alone Cry, Bamyàn – cry, Bamyàn – cry blood, O, Bamyàn Peak of the world and crown of our land Let Kowà be our guide, the iron-armed man, Let us stand like a band round ancient Bamyàn Let Zohòg be defied, who was only a man, Like all the assassins of Afghanistan On the brow of our land, Bamyàn is the crown, Of our art it’s the cradle, from the great Buddhas down So fly down from the mountains, gold bird of our land, And sing at the grave of the dead Taliban This poem commemorates the destruction by the Taliban of the famous Buddha statues in the Afghan city of Bamyàn in 2001. Kowà the iron-worker was a hero of ancient times who led an uprising against the cruel king Zohòg INTO MY CELL Into my cell I’ll call her From her honey lips I’ll drink When her golden hair enfolds me I am aflame, I am Aflame I shall knock a hundred times On her wooden gate I shall kiss the stem of her throat I shall blow the dust of sorrow Off her memory like ash And when at last she brings The cup of her lips to me The bowl of her arms to me I shall tear the chain from my door And wait no more O golden-haired sun A thousand tales of you Shine in my window Come to me Come to me
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Valbona Bashota a Kosovan Albanian born in Kosovo, arrived in the UK in 1994 due to the Serbian repression in Kosova. She studied psychology and journalism at City University in London gaining her degree in 2002. Her poetry was published in many Albanian newspapers, magazines and publications and she took part in various literature festivals in Kosovo. She won many prizes for poetry, achieving first prize with 'I Am Human' in 2004 in a poetry competition for Albanian emigrants of the world. She regularly participates in poetry festivals of Albanian women poets in Kosovo, her poetry being published in various Albanian anthologies. Her poem "Hope" in English, is being published in the anthology "Best Poets 2005" by the Poetry Society in addition to another poem entitled "Passion" which is being published in a publication called "The Spirit Within". She works as a freelance journalist for various Albanian newspapers and magazines, and has just started her MA in Professional Writing at London Metropolitan University. Why I write I write because I live, I breathe, I feel I write because this is what I'm born to do. I write because this is who I am I am the page, the pen, and the ink I write because I feel The thunder, sun and rain in a certain way I write because I live, I cry I laugh and die In my own special way I write and witness the miracles of life The pain, the misery and children’s laughs I drink the wine of other people’s blood I crave the joy of unharmed youth I live, cry, and rejoice all in one day I am a writer, a messenger I cannot be any other way
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Nazand Begikhani was born in Iraqi Kurdistan, 1964. Living in exile (Denmark, France and later UK) since 1987. First degree in English language and literature. Then, MA and Ph. D in comparative literature at the Sorbonne University, France. Published her first poetry collection, Yesterday of Tomorrow, in Paris, 1995. Her second collection, Celebrations, Aras publication, came out on April 2004 in Iraqi Kurdistan. Her third collection which is a collaborative work with a famous Kurdish poet Dilawer Qaradaghi and called Colour of Sand will be out in summer 2005 in Iraqi Kurdistan. She is a polyglot and self-translates her poetry into French and English. Many of her poems are published in French, Arabic, Persian and English. She is also a translator from French and English into Kurdish; she translated Baudelaire and Eliot into Kurdish. A part from writing poetry, Nazand is an active researcher and advocate for women’s human rights. She is the founding member and co-ordinator of the network organisation Kurdish Women Action against Honour Killing (KWAHK). Her researches on Kurdish gender are widely published in Kurdish, but also in French and English. She worked as cultural programme organiser at the Kurdish Institute in Paris, then in the Kurdish Cultural Centre in London. Between October 2000 to late 2001, she was the editor of RAM Bulletin (Refugees and Asylum Seekers in the Media) at the Press Wise Trust in Bristol. She is currently sub-editor at BBC Monitoring. Life in a day I was born one morning with the dawn The sun put a necklace of beams around my neck and the stream in front of my birth garden handed me a present of water At noon I immersed myself in the river of my childhood farm Shakhi Mishka Racing down the spring green hills I wore rose water Tied a wanawsha leaf in my hair Towards the afternoon I went with my friend To the shores of the Tigris Kisses, poems Became rowing boats Transporting us towards what some would call The beaches of sin After the sunset Face down We found that we had been pushed To the edge of the Atlantic Ocean Together We built two tombs in the sand And wrote “Time” Royan, 1990 Translated from Kurdish by the author with the help of Richard McKane and Moniza Alvi
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Amba Bongo was born in Kinshasa in 1962, She studied at the Institut Superieur Pédagogique de la Gombe, Kinshasa, Democratic Republic of Congo, where she graduated in English and African Culture. She then went on to study Psychology at the University of Warocqué, Mons, Belgium. Her first novel was Une Femme en Exil published 2000 (l’Harmattan, Paris). She has completed her second novel Cécilia soon to be published and is currently working on her third novel which recounts the experiences of her trips to Congo. Amba works as project director to Active Women, a refugee community organisation supporting French speaking African women with their claims for asylum.
Memory I miss my mum and dad I want to sit close to them and smile Destiny has kept me far away In a country cold and windy I should have stayed home with them Swam in the warmth Of their tender love and care Leant on their welcoming shoulders To seek refuge and grow in peace But for my own sake I had to leave Had to start all over again Somewhere on the other side of the world Now I feel lonely and feverish I feel melancholic and sad And that's because I miss my mum and dad One day, you see, I will go back To my family, my land, my memories I will caress my mum's soft wrinkles And drink banana rum with my dad It's only then that my life will brighten up Profound joy and complete happiness will be mine I miss my mum and dad so much But I have to keep on smiling And pretend that everything is fine Shame you cannot read my mind You would discover how much I really, really miss my mum and dad
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Nafissa Boudalia is from Algeria and now lives in London. She is both a poet and painter and occasionally returns to her country to paint at great risk to herself. She has worked as a journalist since 1969, originally working for Algerian newspapers 'El Moudjahid' and 'Algerie Actualites'. In 1967, she won the Prix St Germain des Pres in Paris for her poetry. Her collection of poems 'Reflexions sur l'Algerie (1989) focused on the political situation in Algeria, especially the position of women.
The Silence of the Living (Translated from French) The silence of the living Is deafening The dead are there They question me again The assassins are there Now, Howl louder They shout again You are a spy...you are a spy Bring hither The pincers Bring here The syringe It's easy to confess You are a spy...you are a spy We found this feather It's all so clear now The nib in the end The spacing of the ink The shapes of the faces And the expression of the eyelids You are a spy...you are a spy We found this frame It's all in the canvas You believe in the spirit Where you dip your brushes Ethereal in different sizes Your blues are threatening Your reds are too deep You are a spy...you are a spy	© Nafissa Boudalia
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Henry Bran from El Salvador, is a singer, songwriter, poet, author, puppeteer, storyteller, mime artist, illustrator, playwright, presenter and artist. He has published a CD of his work. His novel is entitled The Calvary of my People and his book of poems El Salvador and its Cross. He has recently completed a book of short stories, memories and poems. WALKING THE STREETS IN FEAR Henry Bran 1990 I walked the streets in fear. Full of fear When I saw the burnt houses, The slogans on the walls Decorated by bullets. To walked past the soldiers Armed to their teeth and Looking at me As if they were trying to recognise My face and my name in their black list. To hear the thunder of the helicopters Flying above my head Like dragon flies of war. The checkpoints on the streets Asking for IDs and searching my Jean. To see the loneliness of some roads And the many stones on the floor The ones that were thrown at the army Saying: "NO MORE". The hidden secret, The silenced truth, The blind justice Tortured and abused. Yet, in the mist of all that And behind my great fear Something was growing as I got near. The smiles of the people, The children playing on the street, The rain on my face, The joy that said: "I'm staying" The solidarity, The normal life under the storm As if nothing was happening. People carried on Living their lives. Then, I was very surprised That I was not in my country El Salvador Or any other part of the world. This was Belfast in Northern Ireland. (Dedicated to the Birmingham Six, freed on 14th March 1991 after 16 years in prison and their convictions quashed by the Court of Appeal) (This poem was written as I visited Belfast to launch the book that I publish for Richard McIlkenny one of the six. Titled: "Behind the bars I have learned again to pray". He was still in prison at the time of the publication).
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Sofia Buchuck, originally from Cusco- Qosqo- the mystical centre of the world- or otherwise known as the Inca Capital of Peru. She is the only Quechua singer in the UK as well as playing Andean and Amazonian instruments with her energetic band of professional musi