Contraband poetry: My visit to the Cairo Art Book Fair

In Scratching on Things I Could Disavow (2012) — an artwork and performance on the history of art in the Arab world — Lebanese artist Walid Raad clarifies to his audience where works of art go during times of war. He observes that works of contemporary art find refuge in unlikely spaces. They appear to masquerade as letters, price lists, academic papers and catalogues — at times even hiding in budgets and diagrams.

The muted transformation of Egypt's art and culture scene in recent years has often left me — and others — wondering where art (not its gentrified counterfeit) and its audiences are quietly lingering. As a first-time visitor to the three-year-old Cairo Art Book Fair, I was pleased, as well as surprised, to find that artworks and their publics seemed to have sublimated into artists’ books of all types and genres, hailing from everywhere. 

The fair was held in the storybook setting of the early 20th century Granada building, which blends Islamic and European architecture. Over three days, a bustling and diverse public buzzed around zines, poems, artist’s books and posters from everywhere — engaging in lively conversation with publishers, editors, artists, writers and other readers. The ground floor hummed with the energy of a souk-cum-market hall, with buyers huddling and bustling amid the grandeur of the architecture. Symmetrical arches along the depth of the hall led toward a staircase and onto the second floor, where more books — and more people — were to be found. 

Compelled by a sense of camaraderie and adventure, I stepped into the story and decided to smuggle a banned book into the fair. Stashing eight books at a time in my oversized coat pockets, I would walk up to an unsuspecting person and ask, هل حضرتك مهتم بقراءة الشعر بالعامية المصرية؟ Some were bemused and asked why, while others shrugged in disinterest, ambivalent about colloquial Egyptian poetry. Then I’d point to the book poking out of my vestment, the author’s name peeking slyly from its roomy pocket. لو تحب تطلع، أنا بوزع الكتاب … من جيبي. A brief exchange of knowing looks, a shared understanding, a few terse words, a chuckle and a swift cash transaction would ensue.

On one occasion, I approached a group of young women on the terrace. هل مهتمين بالشعر؟  The question broke the group into giggles; two leaned in, three leaned out. One of them admitted, حاولت أقرأ شعر قبل كدا بس ما عرّفتش  Encouragingly, I pulled the poetry book out of my coat and let her leaf through it. She closed her eyes and flipped to a random page, then she stuttered through the poem she landed on: 

“…طب ما تخلينا صحاب أحسن / بيقرب خطو الجملة دي / من باب قولك”
social anxiety كفاية كدا.. أنا عندي أصلي…

I circled the floor a few more times and approached a friend, a bilingual poet. “Have you bought his book?” I asked, pointing to my hip. Perhaps she was curious, or perhaps I embarrassed her into buying it. She did. A while later, scanning the space for my next buyer, a friend pointed to a tall man standing with his wife and daughter. I approached him with a beaming smile and asked, هل تحب تطلع على الديوان؟  Horrified, his eyes darted in all directions. Solemnly, he looked at me:

أنا كنت محبوس سنتين ونص. إحنا حبايب ونعرف بعض، بس لو حد سأل هقول إنك كنتي بتسألي الساعة كام … هي سابعة وتلت على العموم.

I excused myself. At the other end of the floor, I spotted an old friend and immediately strode toward him. I explained the deal in a few words, and we pursued the speedy transaction. He looked at his friend and said, “that’s the poet who was imprisoned,” handing me exact change. “It’s good doing business with you.” We both laughed and quickly parted ways.

Outside the fair, it was dark. I interrupted two young men in conversation and introduced the book. "على فكرة rapper أنا," one of them eagerly presented himself as he leafed through the book I handed him, while the other rushed off. The rapper, too, opened the book on a random page and started reading. Everyone who read stammered.

There is something exhilarating about smuggling books. 

Resorting to a reverse fugitive act, I purposefully strode through the fair a few hours before its closing, culling phrases from thirty books — plundering something from each: snapping photos with my phone, copying down sentences at random, surreptitiously transcribing lines into my notes. Perhaps, instead of recounting it literally, I could compose a chance poem from words I stole:

تزور العواقب متربصة من زمن آخر.
هل تتسع كلمة واحدة من ثلاث أحرف لكل المحتويات؟
ما القيود التي يفرضها سياقك المحلي على ممارستك؟

تشكيل وزاري مصري بالزي الفرعوني في فترة من الفترات.
ماما خايفة على شجرة الزمالك.
أنا خايفة على شجرة المعادي.
يمكن المفروض الشجر هو اللي يقتل البشر.

من قال بأن الأشجار تقتلع نفسها بنفسها؟
كيان واحد موحد من الخشب المقذوف يتقدم، ولا يتحدث نفس اللغة: انفصال.

هنا يموت شعب لا يدري مات لماذا!
فكر في طريقة مناسبة ليك للحداد. خد وقتك.
تقبل العقبات ومعالجتها هي وسوء التفاهم والفشل.

الإنسان لا يستطيع أن يطل من النافذة ليرى نفسه سائراً في الطريق.

This poem
In another language
Would be a different poem.
And now that’s that.

I touch your cheeks, like flowers.
The daring attempt to envision the future —
And where was the phosphorus stored?
In his opinion: in the dead.

English has become a language devoid of meaning.
While I don’t feel a prevailing sense of hope, I do feel —
These ideas intrigue me, though I don’t know what the future will bring.

What does it mean to experience life
When much of our modern existence is mediated by technology?
What is your idea around dance?
What can cinema give you that real life cannot?

If we build onto this foundational education of sex,
One can already trace where sexual repression may have its seeds.
The branches of the oleander tree are filled with poison
That no tears can revive.

The silence that was once there has turned into a siren,
As the limbs of the toxic tree twist and turn into a web of violence.

I wanted to plant a cacao tree,
But this tree needs more than a pot filled with soil.

I wish my life pace would be as slow as I want.
I envy sloths in Costa Rica.
With time, we will become trees.

American breakfast in Seoul.
One day, I woke up and couldn’t find myself.

لكن الحبكة ومواعظها الأبوية تستخدمها كمجرد أداة.