Babelmed | 23/06/2005
At Tel Aviv airport it took me a while to accept that my flight had been cancelled, just like that. My Alitalia plane to Rome wasn’t there, but my friend Jack Arbib was. A couple of hours later my name was transferred to an El Al flight and Jack and I sat for a coffee and continued a conversation we had started at the Voci del Mediterraneo Poetry Festival in Catania in March 2004.
Jack Arbib describes himself as an “ingénieur sans frontières” who peddles his merchandise in the ports of call of the Levant, trying to understand the idioms of the Mediterranean. He was born in Tripoli and now lives in Jaffa but he is often on the move. In the first part of this interview, we talk about the Jews and the Maltese in Libya, the Mediterranean Sea as “the common denominator of all people living on its shores,” the blood bath of a mattanza, and translating poetry.
You were born and brought up in North Africa. Can you tell us about the Jewish community in Tripoli and your relationship with the other communities.
The Jewish community in Libya was a microcosm reflecting components and themes of a larger galaxy. So, within a relatively sparse population, there were those living in the old Jewish quarter (the Hara), Arab in garb and language, and those who had emancipated to European customs and language and lived in modern European houses in the new city. And in this very group you would find Italian, English, French, Greek, Ladino and even Maltese speakers (all these as mother tongues) and also Sephardim from Turkey and Sephardim from Spain and Gibraltar. Add to these some unexplained Ashkenazi presence and the existence of troglodyte Jews, living in the Garian caves and you get an idea of what a cultural and ethnic mosaic that was.
And then the other communities: the Italian population, where you would find the archetypal fascist side by side with the antifascist who had tried to escape attention in the colony away from the mainland, the Englishmen fighting the ghibli [Libyan name for the wind Sirocco, a warm and dry desert wind] with gin tonics, the U.S. military, the Maltese fishermen, the Armenian tanners, the Greek tavernas, the omnipresent Indian emporiums, the scions of ancient Turkish princely families, the rising Senussite ruling class, the Tuareghs, the black labourers from Fezzan, the Slavs, the German brewer.
A cosmopolitan milieu that would have made Durrell happy.
The Jewish writer Aline P’nina Tayar who was born in Malta and spent her early years as a girl there talks about how both the Maltese and the Jews “cross-cross the Mediterranean generally.”(1) Her “forebears lived in a tiny Jewish community [in Malta] that had ties all around the Mediterranean basin, to Italy, France, Libya and Egypt […].” Would you describe yourself as “a Mediterranean Jew”?
Definitely, a Mediterranean and a Jew. Ms.Tayar defines this human condition so precisely and affectingly, that I would not attempt to add more.
What does the Mediterranean mean to you? Is it just a geographical entity? Is it possible to talk about culture in the Mediterranean without slipping into stereotypes?
The Mediterranean Sea is the common denominator of all people living on its shores. It is our essential pictorial and emotional background, bearer of fear and hope, receptacle of our polluting waste and of mega-gallons of blood shed in endless conflicts.
It meant Sea People from afar landing unexpectedly on terrified populations, but it also meant Phoenician, Spanish or Venetian ships unloading hoards of marvellous goods on the piers. Today it is the cradle and the tomb of desperate migrations on makeshift boats and rafts. I realize that I’m not answering your question and slipping into easy stereotypes…
From my childhood, I have a strong visual recollection, which might serve as a metaphor: my family had a financial interest in the tuna fisheries. As a homage, we had been invited to attend a “mattanza” in the gulf of Syrt. That meant getting up in the middle of the night and boarding boats to be at the site by daylight.
When we got there we saw the fishermen boats arranged in a square pattern around the net. The men started hauling the net accompanied by a primordial litany that in its crescendo mesmerized all of us. When the nets began to surface, we saw the silvery bodies of the tuna fish squirting and agonizing. All of a sudden there were terrible cries: sharks were seen among the tuna, they could cut the net, the tuna could escape and the catch would be lost!
At this point some men, encouraged by their fellows, jumped into the net brandishing knives to kill the sharks. The bodies of the sharks and the men were undistinguishable, the water got coloured by blood of man and beast…
I felt sick and threw up…The chant was at its peak…
Many of your classmates and friends in Tripoli were Maltese. How did you get on with them? Were they a tightly knit community or were they open to the various cultures and religions they came into contact with?
The Maltese were a tightly knit community, so were the Jews for that matter.
Before moving to the Italian High School, I attended the St. George’s British School, established after the war, for children of British subjects. Apart from a small group of Jewish children, and a few Indians, all the students (and teachers) were Maltese.
Prejudice, bigotry, if not downright hostility, were part of the parcel, so I personally had some unpleasant experiences. On the other hand, I have fond memories of the Principal, who I know by no other name than Sir, and of some festive events at the Malta House.
As a footnote, I must mention the beneficial distortion of the prism of memory: on an occasional encounter between “survivors” we all wax elegies to the old days, so clearly some bond had been forged.
I remember you telling me once that the Maltese were more likely to marry Italians rather than Greeks, Jews or Arabs. Why is that? Do you remember any Maltese families in particular?
I think that had to do with religion, mainly the Catholic Church. Maltese and Italians shared the Catholic faith, but were poles apart from the Greek Orthodox or the Armenians. Intermarriages with Muslims or Jews were unthinkable.
Besides my experience in elementary school, I later had Maltese friends attending the Italian school, and they came from well-to-do families, like the Debonos, the Mallias, the Aquilinas, the Carabots….
You have another Maltese connection. Your maternal grandfather, Nissim Nahum, was born in Malta on 16 September 1860. A more recent copy of his certificate dated 1 January, 1968, was signed by Mr.Tayar, Secretary of the Jewish Community of Malta. Does your family talk about this connection?
I did not have the fortune of knowing my grandfather. He passed away long before my birth. Mother used to recall “nonno Nissim” from time to time. I understand he was some character. I have a picture of him and he looks imposing and authoritative. I know he spoke (and swore in) Maltese. My mother also spoke fluent Maltese, but that did not rub on me.
As far as I remember from the stories, he was in the shipping trade, owned vessels (one was called The Two Brothers).
Like many other Europeans, you left Libya and moved to Italy. Why Italy?
Italian was the language we spoke at home. My parents too had been educated in Italian schools, although they used Arabic (and the Judeo-Arab dialect) for conversations that excluded us children. I attended the Italian high school in Tripoli and then it was just natural that I would enrol in an Italian University, in my case the Politecnico di Milano. I departed from Libya in 1958 on my own volition. On the contrary, my family had to leave Libya in 1967 under duress, and my mother never recovered from the loss of her motherland.
In December 2001, Il Rosso Catalogo della Parola Tramonto, a limited edition of a book with eight poems in Hebrew by Ronny Someck translated into Italian by Lina Angioletti and yourself, and five watercolours and aquatint by Fausta Squatriti, was published by in Naples by Il Laboratorio di Nola. I know that at present you are working on translations into Italian of Ronny Someck’s new book of poetry, which has a stronger social dimension than its predecessors. What attracts you to his poetry? What kind of challenges do these translations pose?
That was a beautiful and I would say ecumenical experience. This project
is the brainchild of multi-talented Fausta (herself a poet, writer and plastic artist).
Lina brought in her vast translating experience, and two wonderful individuals, Tonino Sgambati and Vittorio Avella printed and published the book. One has to spend only a short time with these two to be infected by their genial and exuberant folly. Just imagine that we have been working for almost two years on a book of poems by the late Mohammed Ghanayem and what is holding us now is their perfectionist quest for a hand-made paper that should have the right hue of that particular sulphur yellow of the Etna’s lava…
Oh, but I almost missed the question about Ronny Someck. I have the privilege of having him as a friend, so my role as translator is just part of the picture.
I find Ronny’s Hebrew very modern and stimulating (that is why his books are loved by young people) and at the same time very challenging to a translator. Ronny is also committed to a number of social causes – recently we did some readings for inmates in jails – and his latest book has a more focused social perspective. The title is “The milk underground.”
It often takes a (perhaps hidden) poet to translate poetry? Do you yourself write poetry?
No, you won’t find a crypto-poet here. I love written words and am elated when I rarely succeed in finding the right one. Translation is a gratifying experience, particularly when it applies to poetry.
I think that Freud said that wherever he got, he found that poets had been there before. So let it be with me: whatever I would want to say has already been written before, and much better, and I am perfectly happy to usher it in another culture and share it with other people unimpeded by a language barrier.
(1) Rachael Kohn, “Spiritual Journeys,” An Interview with Aline P’nina Tayar and Michael McGirr,” (8/10/00 Radio National, Australia) See also Gillian Bartolo, “A Jewish Family in Malta,” An interview with Aline P’nina Tayar,”
Bread and Peace in East Jerusalem
Babelmed | 23/06/2005
You have been living in Israel since 1967. Can you tell us about your experience as an Israeli Jew in a culturally and ethnically rich city like Jaffa?
My initial motive for moving to Jaffa was essentially architectonic. I was fascinated by the vernacular and the texture of the place. Shortly after, I joined the struggle against indiscriminate destruction of the heritage of these old crumbling houses and against galloping gentrification. I cannot say that my friends and I were particularly successful as custodians of these universal memories.
Talking of the social fabric of the place, I have been witnessing a constant degradation, as a result of neglect of an already deprived population on the one side and of encroaching criminality and fanaticism on the other. These factors feed each other.
You are involved in a host of social and cultural initiatives. Can you tell us more about them? Where does the drive (the inspiration and energy) to do all this come from?
My age. At this stage in life (the third and last horse, as Erri De Luca puts it), with the consciousness of my physical friability, the remainder of time cries for some meaningful content. This might sound futile. I will try to quote Italo Calvino quoting Cioran [French philosopher Emile M. Cioran, 1911-1995]: While the hemlock was being prepared, Socrates was learning a tune on the flute. “What purpose will this serve?” he was asked. “To know this tune before dying.”
You were very much involved in the “Bread for Peace Day” (www.breadforpeace.org – http://www.maskoff.org) on 1 June 2005, during which 50 Israeli women passed the checkpoint to meet 50 Palestinian women in front of the bakery of Samar Sahhar of Bethany, East Jerusalem, Palestine, to bake bread and share it. At the same time, in different Italian cities, bread was also baked by mothers in schools and passersby in the streets. What was the aim of this initiative taken by the Bereshit LaShalom Foundation? How did it go?
This was an unforgettable day for me and for all those who participated. I’ll say a few words on Samar Sahhar and Angelica Edna Calò. These two doting and courageous women have been walking the paths of peace together, facing ostracism and even threats from their own communities. These two beautiful mothers are active in innumerable initiatives.
In addition to their everyday commitment as educators, Samar has created and runs a shelter for battered Palestinian women (The Lazarus Home in Bethania) and an orphanage for 70 Palestinian children (Jeel el Amal); Angelica has created a theatre group (Arcobaleno) of Jewish and Arab kids pledging a message of tolerance, mutual respect and love. Together with her husband Yehuda, she struggles to organize every year a summer camp for Israeli children hit and maimed (physically and psychologically) by terror.
She also raises four children of her own and managed to write two books in her “spare” time.
Samar and Angelica will respond to any call to appear before audiences anywhere with their message of sisterhood. When confronted with scepticism about their Sisyphean efforts, Samar answers with a little story:
“A man saw a little bird laying on its back. “Why are you laying so?” he asked.
The birdie: “I heard that today the heavens will fall on the earth, and I want to
protect it.” The man laughed: “ Really? You are trying to save the earth with
your tiny legs?” The bird answered: “I am trying my best.”
Some time ago, in order to provide jobs and food to an impoverished population in Bethany, Samar managed to raise funds to buy equipment and install a bakery on the ground floor of the Lazarus Home. To inaugurate it, this dynamic duo thought of putting together a group of Palestinian and Israeli women (and a few male escorts) to knead the dough, bake it and break bread together. After dealing with the inevitable red tape and a few other problems, on June 1, the Israeli group boarded a bus to Bethany. We weren’t done with red tape and shared with others the communion of the checkpost experience.
There is a whole new culture developed around this. While waiting, I noticed a Palestinian taxi by us. The driver was sitting patiently in the car. The sticker on his window read: “It’s nice to be important, but it’s more important to be nice.”
One more thing: When we discussed the name of the initiative, that came out very well in Hebrew and Arabic – “Shalom ve Lehem” (bread) anagrammatically could be “Shalom Halom” (dream), “Hobz” (bread) contains “Hob” (love), in Italian “Pane e Pace,” in French “Pain et Paix” are only one letter apart – for English I had proposed “A Peace of Bread,” but my friends found the pun out of place and sent it to the recycle bin.
Bread is the quintessential staple. As my waistline testifies, I adore bread: our environment, our culture are shaped by this food. I remember, in my student’s days, friends taking the journey to the East, coming back and relating – this was eons before the Big Mac equalizer – the infinite pleasure of finally finding bread rolls in Laos – this after months of rice diet – and polishing dishes with it. My favourite lunch is bread out of the oven with a ripe “bandoora” crushed on it, salt and oil – a Mediterranean feast fit for the gods.
Another heavenly menu would be the one dictated by “Malta hanina, hobza u sardina.”
Voyagers from distant lands were greeted at the city gate with offerings of bread and salt.
“In the spirit of international solidarity, moral consistency and resistance to injustice and oppression,” Palestinian civil society, supported by some Israelis, and inspired by a similar boycott of South Africa at the time of apartheid, has called for a comprehensive and consistent boycott of “all Israeli academic and cultural institutions as a contribution to the struggle to end Israel’s occupation, colonization and system of apartheid” (my emphasis). Do you think that this boycott call can move respectable Israeli academic and cultural institutions to take an unequivocal position against the occupation of the Palestinian territories?
To me, this episode is one more example of how well-meaning and decent individuals can be misguided in their actions. In a world and a time, when culture and learning are constantly and globally threatened, I resent attacks to academic and cultural institutions, namely universities, wherever they might be located. Also, the attempt to boycott Haifa University does a grievous injustice to its multi-ethnic academic staff and student population. This university is one struggling example of co-existence that should be nurtured and not lashed with blind censorship. Doing that would mean destroying the breeding ground of progressive and constructive intellectual debate.
No wonder then that somebody like Sari Nusseibeh has taken a critical stand against this ill-conceived boycott. In any case, this is now water under the bridge, and opposition to the occupation should be articulated in different and less ludicrous ways.
Short biographies in Italian of Samar Sahhar and Angelica Yehuda Calò Livnè appear here: http://www.sinistraperisraele.it/home2.asp?idtesto=289&idkunta=185&idutente=. There are many references to their work on various internet sites.
“Palestinian Academics Call for International Academic Boycott of Israel.” Statement, Palestinian Campaign for the Academic and Cultural Boycott of Israel , 7 July 2004, http://right2edu.birzeit.edu/news/article178.