J and I re-watched the cultural critic, academic and writer, Edward Said's last interview over three nights this week. It's nearly 3 hours long, and although just a one-on-one interview with no other visuals than the two people talking - is completely engaging. It goes to show how if the content is gripping, you really don't need fancy images to keep your attention - just like good radio which still has to be the best, and least cheat-able medium.
It's about 10 years since we last watched the film, yet everything he says seems even more current now. In the way that he seems to predict the Arab Spring, and the fact that, blessed with a huge brain and after a lifetime of intellectual study, Said seems only to add rational and carefully considered observations to the Palestine dialogue, rather than angry ones. Because he was interviewed only a year before his death, from leukaemia, from which he suffered for the last decade of his life, there is also an intriguing contrast between his drawn and sallow complexion and this vital spark that seems to come from deep within his eyes and soul - unhindered by the disease. Perhaps even spurred on by it.
Edward Said was born in 1935, and tragically died a decade ago.
This week I had the privilege of interviewing two other Palestinians from around this vintage.
The first was Abdul, a soldier/activist/artist, born in 1933, in Dawaymeh, near Hebron on the West Bank, who has lived between Lebanon, Syria and Jordan since 1948.
One of the drivers from the gallery escorted me up the hill, which overlooks the Citadel, to his house. Abdul emerged, in a black wooly hat, tracksuit bottoms and thick glasses and welcomed me in. His place is perched among a stack of brown box-shaped houses that cover the whole of the hill. It's the kind of mud house you see all over the world. The type that never survives a landslide or earthquake, yet when viewed from afar, or from up close, has a certain appeal - at least to look at. This one was no different, and he has fashioned his studio, office and living quarters from three little box houses on the slope in his walled compound, slung with washing lines and vines.
Abdul started making art when he was 37, when he was still working for the Jordanian air force as an electrical engineer. His work is all made entirely from sawdust and glue, and although he hasn't been able to work for the past year due to ill health, he has produced an enormous amount of painted reliefs of the Palestinian struggle and much else, during the 45 years he has worked. One of his main muses has been the Palestinian woman, and the role she has played in the cultural survival of his homeland. 'She is earth, she is everything. Without her, the man is nothing,' he said. And looking around at the painted curves of bodies and breasts crammed into the tiny rooms, I could see he had created much to prove this point. Were it not for a rather unruly, elderly pair of hands, I might have stayed in his company a little longer. But as I made for the exit after a couple of hours, I forgave him for the fact that perhaps, having not been able to work for the past year, he had a severe case of itchy hands. And despite this, his collection was an impressive feat for an untrained artist: all of it created out of material he knew he'd be able to find anywhere. 'When I wanted to start creating my art, he said, I had a flashback to my youth when I watched a furniture restorer fill holes with sawdust and glue. I knew I'd be able to find sawdust and glue anywhere - even in refugee camps - so I'd found my material. For me, my art has been my gun.'
Later this week, I interviewed a 91 year old, born in Jerusalem, now a resident of Amman. I was faintly nervous and roped J into preparing some questions with me since his extensive and impressive career includes: Chief newscaster of the Palestine Broadcasting Service; Jordanian Minister of Foreign Relations; Jordanian Ambassador to Egypt, Italy, Austria and and Switzerland; Political advisor to King Hussein of Jordan; President of the UN Security Council and Permanent Representative to the United Nations. Gulp.
I arrived at his apartement block with all my camera and sound kit and went up in the lift to the sixth floor. The door opened to a cosily scruffy apartment with interesting books, rugs and furniture, with plate glass windows looking out east to the very edge of the city. Hazem sprung from his chair and shook me warmly by the hand, introducing his wife and son to me who were sitting with him. Had I seen him on the street I'd have believed he was 75, at the most. 'Last time I was interviewed, it was by the BBC and it took a crew of 10. Now look at what technology has enabled!' he marvelled, looking at my small pile of kit.
In perfect English with only a slight accent, he began his tale and what a tale it was. He spoke about his schooling at Victoria College in Alexandria and The American University in Beirut. He would have gone to Cambridge had World War Two not broken out the week he was due to start. He told me about his first job in Jerusalem with the Palestine Broadcasting Service and how he narrowly escaped death as he fled with a colleague from Jerusalem to Ramallah in 1948, when both the car ahead and behind, were shot at and the drivers killed.
Not only has his own life been notable, he happens to come from a family that in the 7th century were nominated as the guardians of the key to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. It was thought that if a Muslim family held the key, it would prevent clashes among rival Christian sects for control of the church. The system must have worked, and his family still holds the key - a symbol of tolerance, which has given his family a substantial role in Christian activities in Jerusalem.
After 2 hours, his wife came back into the room with lentil soup, bread and beetroot drizzled with olive oil, on a tray. She is a mere 84, and still a beautiful woman with warm blue eyes and a graceful stature. She apologised that her maid was away, although admitted she liked the house being entirely her domain once more.
They chatted a bit between themselves, Hazem having to raise his voice a little bit for his wife who is hard of hearing. The love between them still visible, the sense of humour and positive spirit one apparent reason for their spiritual and physical survival.
'I swim twice a week, and I have always been an optimist,' Hazem chuckled. 'That's probably why I'm still alive.'
No comments:
Post a Comment