Sophie Camplejohn, Grade 11
UWC Pearson
My household is one that is not afraid of a pile of books. Reading is simply part of the culture of my family. Perhaps it's because my Mom is a writer as well as a passionate reader. She certainly instilled in both my brother and me a love of the written word. Or maybe it is all the times I fell asleep to the soothing sound of her voice as she read us a bedtime story. Evident by the color-coded shelf of books, in which I have read all of them, I have done my fair share of reading. Many of them, typically fantasy and mystery young adult novels, represents a younger me. It is so easy to stick to your favorite genres or even eras of writing, but I decided it was time for a change. I found a book the most out of my comfort zone that I could think of; I'jaam, an Iraqi rhapsody, by Sinan Antoon. It is Arab prison literature, which shares 'two basic features with most prison literature; muddled memory and writing as resistance.'
To understand the novel, you must understand the origin of the title, I'jaam. The Arabic alphabet contains twenty-eight letters, but many of which contain variations with one, two, or even three dots to represent different phonetic characters. The dots, however, were not always a part of Arabic inscriptions and texts. They were only added later to eliminate ambiguous readings of certain letters, derived from Nabatean Aramaic. This is where the word, 'I'jaam' comes into play, which roughly translates to the "borrowing" of the Nabatean Aramaic script. To break down the word, the root '-j-m means' foreign/non-Arab/barbarous.' Since the addition of dots to the Arabic alphabet helped to clarify and elucidate texts, the word was also connotated with clarity.
Now, despite being only 96 pages, and Antoon's first-ever novel, I can assure you the book had much to share. Once I found the rhythm of Antoon's prose, I was captured with the story of Furat, a prisoner in Iraq, reminiscent of the Ba'athi era. After being given a pen and paper to record his memoirs, out of a burst of mercy from his cruel and torturous captors, he writes a manuscript of his life. For, although death is inevitable, his story and life may carry on through words. The novel opens years after Furat's captivity when his manuscript has been excavated during a general inventory. 'The Ministry of Interior's office in Baghdad issues a classified directive to decipher the text, for it has been written in an Arabic script devoid of dots or diacritical marks.'
So, why is this book special to me? Because it opened my ignorant eyes to a whole new world and it shares a common love of mine; the written word. Not only had I never read anything from the Arab literary scene, but I had also never read any prison literature. Quite literally, I had never experienced anything like I'jaam. Yet, despite lacking an apparent connection to the novel, I'jaam is a novel about writing, whether inspired by nightmares or memories. It touches on how both of them share a fine line that is often blurred in the grueling life of a prisoner. That is what makes this book so beautiful; writing inspired by the juxtaposition between that of memory, which gives us life, and prison, which pushes us toward death.
Although Furat is a fictional character, his story is accurate to many other individuals. Humans can feel trapped in their life, whether physically, emotionally, or spiritually, and struggle to match the quick pace of mankind. Fortunately, writing gives him and many others an escape from their heart-wrenching realities. However, Furat's writing haunts him as much as it frees him. Writing narrows his life down to a pen and piece of paper, belittling other joyful aspects of human nature. Writing, to Furat, is like having foreplay with freedom; "The white pages seduce me to wander with the freedom of isolation." (72). Writing gives a distorted, beautiful, and light-filled version of reality. And who doesn't want that?
To understand the novel, you must understand the origin of the title, I'jaam. The Arabic alphabet contains twenty-eight letters, but many of which contain variations with one, two, or even three dots to represent different phonetic characters. The dots, however, were not always a part of Arabic inscriptions and texts. They were only added later to eliminate ambiguous readings of certain letters, derived from Nabatean Aramaic. This is where the word, 'I'jaam' comes into play, which roughly translates to the "borrowing" of the Nabatean Aramaic script. To break down the word, the root '-j-m means' foreign/non-Arab/barbarous.' Since the addition of dots to the Arabic alphabet helped to clarify and elucidate texts, the word was also connotated with clarity.
Now, despite being only 96 pages, and Antoon's first-ever novel, I can assure you the book had much to share. Once I found the rhythm of Antoon's prose, I was captured with the story of Furat, a prisoner in Iraq, reminiscent of the Ba'athi era. After being given a pen and paper to record his memoirs, out of a burst of mercy from his cruel and torturous captors, he writes a manuscript of his life. For, although death is inevitable, his story and life may carry on through words. The novel opens years after Furat's captivity when his manuscript has been excavated during a general inventory. 'The Ministry of Interior's office in Baghdad issues a classified directive to decipher the text, for it has been written in an Arabic script devoid of dots or diacritical marks.'
So, why is this book special to me? Because it opened my ignorant eyes to a whole new world and it shares a common love of mine; the written word. Not only had I never read anything from the Arab literary scene, but I had also never read any prison literature. Quite literally, I had never experienced anything like I'jaam. Yet, despite lacking an apparent connection to the novel, I'jaam is a novel about writing, whether inspired by nightmares or memories. It touches on how both of them share a fine line that is often blurred in the grueling life of a prisoner. That is what makes this book so beautiful; writing inspired by the juxtaposition between that of memory, which gives us life, and prison, which pushes us toward death.
Although Furat is a fictional character, his story is accurate to many other individuals. Humans can feel trapped in their life, whether physically, emotionally, or spiritually, and struggle to match the quick pace of mankind. Fortunately, writing gives him and many others an escape from their heart-wrenching realities. However, Furat's writing haunts him as much as it frees him. Writing narrows his life down to a pen and piece of paper, belittling other joyful aspects of human nature. Writing, to Furat, is like having foreplay with freedom; "The white pages seduce me to wander with the freedom of isolation." (72). Writing gives a distorted, beautiful, and light-filled version of reality. And who doesn't want that?
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