The Ghost of Coexistence: On a Narrative of Jewish-Muslim Kinship

A Land Like You is a historical rendition . . . but it is also, much more, a testament of a multicultural homeland that no longer exists.

On May 12, Egypt joined South Africa in its International Court of Justice case accusing Israel of genocide. As one of the first countries to recognize the Palestinian Declaration of Independence in 1988, Egypt has continually occupied a close position in this ongoing catastrophe; the nation opposed Zionism in the 1930s and accepted tens of thousands of Palestinian refugees in the aftermath of the Nakba but, in more recent decades, the government has worked to covertly “normalize” relations with Israel. This seeming contradiction culminates from the complex, multi-cultural, and syncretic history of the region, in which Jewish and Muslim peoples lived with intertwined fates, and it is that increasingly implausible reality which the French writer and psychologist Tobie Nathan explores in A Land Like You, an absorbing, panoramic narrative of Egypt in the twentieth century. In the following essay, Moumita Ghosh looks at how the nation of Egypt formed out of an overarching Ottoman unity, and how Nathan’s stirring novel of this tumultuous period can inform our understanding of the region today.

We live beside the Arabs the way a man might live beside his innards. Our tales fill their Qur’an, their tongue fills our mouth. Why aren’t they us? Why aren’t we them?

—Tobie Nathan, from A Land Like You (translated by Joyce Zonana)

In Ottoman Brothers, Michele U. Campos writes about how objective distinctions between empires and nations are often murky, especially as demonstrated in the late Ottoman context. In the years before the First World War, the rise of ethno-nationalist sentiments such as Zionism and Arabism were essentially in negotiation with the responsibilities of imperial citizenship in a multi-ethnic and multi-religious Muslim empire. Rather than separating from the Ottoman empire, there were attempts to preserve its existence. As familiar calls for a two-state solution re-emerge in Palestine, now undergoing a second Nakba, this history of collective identity and a shared homeland in the Middle East—though short-lived, incomplete, and within the context of imperialism—has gained a new relevancy.

In the wake of the 1908 Young Turk Revolution and the collapse of the old Hamidian absolutist state, the new epoch of democracy linked the individual Ottoman citizen—irrespective of ethnicity, religion, or mother tongue—to the reforming constitutional state, and citizenship to the “Ottoman-nation” became a distinct socio-political identity. Palestine, even under rule, somewhat differed from the other Ottoman provinces in terms of being a site of worldwide religious devotion, as its daily life involved a mutuality whereby local Muslims, Christians, and Jews came together—especially in Jerusalem—to execute the vision of a “modern” urban city.

Sephardi Jews in particular were grateful to the Ottoman Empire for being their historical saviors, and were consistently mediating between the ideological commitments of multicultural, civic Ottomanism and the European import of particularistic Zionism in the years following the 1908 revolution. Shaped by cultural Hebraism, the Sephardi Jews of Palestine believed in the compatibility of Ottomanism and Zionism; they thought that the socio-cultural and economic rebirth of the Jewish community would be enriching for the Ottoman Empire and, most importantly, that such a revival would be taking place within the Ottoman body-politic. However, such views were not free of contentions—especially due to the continual forces of territorial colonialism. READ MORE…

Weekly Dispatches From the Frontlines of World Literature

The latest in world literature from the Philippines, Bulgaria, and the United States!

This week, our Editors-at-Large bring us around the world for updates on literary workshops, readings, and conferences! From a workshop dedicated to Kapampangan literature in the Philippines, to the thriving Mahala Bookstore in Bulgaria, to ALTA’s online Write the World panels, read on to learn more!

Alton Melvar M Dapanas, Editor-at-Large, Reporting from the Philippines

Tomorrow, May 18, marks the deadline of the call for workshop participants for Pamiyabe, the regional creative writing workshop for young writers who hail from the northern Philippine region of Central Luzon. Across Central Luzon and Metro Manila, the Kapampangan language (also alternatively named Pampangan, Pampango, and Pampagueno) is the native tongue to over 3.2 million Filipinos. 

Now in its 21st year, the Pamiyabe writing workshop is aimed at contributing towards the flourishing of Kapampangan literature and organised by The Angelite, the official student publication of Holy Angel University in Angeles City, Pampanga. This year’s theme is “Pamaglugug queng regalu ning milabasan, pamagkaul queng progreso ning kasalungsungan” (Nurturing the gift of the past, embracing the progress of the present).

READ MORE…

Glimpses of Kashmir: On For Now, It Is Night by Hari Krishna Kaul

[For Now, It Is Night] is a collection that represents Kaul as a chronicler of his times, mapping memory and history.

For Now, It Is Night by Hari Krishna Kaul, translated from the Kashmiri by Kalpana Raina, Tanveer Ajsi, Gowhar Fazili, and Gowhar Yaqoob, Archipelago Books, 2024

Hari Krishna Kaul (1934-2009) was a Kashmiri writer dedicated to inscribing the quotidian lives of people in the valley, releasing their stories in both fiction and dramatic works throughout his life. Some of these pieces have now been collected in For Now, It Is Night, which features seventeen stories picked from the four collections spanning Kaul’s career—two written and published before the watershed year of 1989, while the writer still lived in Kashmir; and two published after he and his family had migrated—just like many other Hindu families—in the Kashmiri Pandit exodus, which occurred upon the onset of militancy and rise in communal tensions after India’s Independence in 1947. As Kalpana Raina, Kaul’s niece and one of four translators in this volume, writes:

There are no grand themes in Kaul’s work, but an exploration and an acceptance of human limitations. He used his personal experiences to explore universal themes of isolation, individual and collective alienation, and the shifting circumstances of a community that went on to experience a significant loss of homeland, culture, and ultimately language.

One would assume that Kaul would become prejudiced after his exile, but that could not be farther from the truth. As Gowhar Fazili, another translator, states: “Unlike a partisan trend in contemporary Kashmiri writing—particularly in English—that victimises a community, demonising the other while valorising the self, Kaul subverts the binaries of good and evil, friend and enemy, self and other.” As exemplified in this selection, Kaul does not create reductive caricatures in the guise of characters, whether Muslim or Hindu. Moreover, neither the exodus, nor the events surrounding it, make up the sole focus of his narratives; he is not interested in the incidents themselves so much as the rootlessness and unbelonging they engendered. Tanveer Ajsi elaborates: “Not assuming the inclusive character of Kashmiri society, he excavated the strengths that bound it together, while also exposing the fault lines that lurked behind its cultural veneer.” As such, Kaul’s work can also be seen as a questioning of Kashmiriyat, the much-romanticised idea of communal harmony and religious syncretism in the Kashmir valley, which—despite its gradual erosion—still sees people swearing by its steadfastness.

READ MORE…

Among the Drift Ice: Larissa Kyzer on Modern Icelandic Literature in Translation

A lot of the best outlets for Icelandic literature in English translation are actually based in Iceland.

Larissa Kyzer translates from the Icelandic works in a wide range of genres, including novels, short stories, and poetry; microplays and film scripts; picture books, chapter books for young readers, and YA fantasies; essays and nonfiction; daily news, and more. Her recent projects include the Impostor Poets’ Manifesto; “A Radio Operator Goes Hunting,” a stand-alone excerpt from art curator-turned-author Steinunn G. Helgadóttir’s first, as-yet-available in English novel; Bookworm in a Chrysalis,” an essay reflecting on immigration, language-learning, and a lifelong love of books by Natasha S.; and “On the Edge,” a special issue of new and timely writing from Iceland, which she curated for Words Without Borders in 2021. She’s also a writer herself, and has published book reviews (mostly focusing on contemporary Nordic and Icelandic literature), travel writing, personal essays, and articles (most while working as the staff journalist for The Reykjavík Grapevine). 

In this interview, I conversed with Larissa about the changing landscape of contemporary literature and literary translation in Iceland, her translation process, and her work to build a more inclusive literary world. 

Alton Melvar M Dapanas (AMMD): Before the First World War, translations of Icelandic writings were mostly into German, English, and Scandinavian languages. Eventually, the translations expanded to other languages such as Chinese, Georgian, Gaelic, Esperanto, Slovenian, Macedonian, Uzbek, and even French, Dutch, and Japanese. But this was the landscape of literary translation until the mid-70s through the early 90s, according to Cornell University Press’ Bibliography of Modern Icelandic Literature in Translation. What’s the scene of literary translation in Iceland these days like? 

Larissa Kyzer (LK): Thanks to Iceland’s fabulous landscapes and nature (not least its volcanic eruptions, which the country has had four of in the last four months), its perennial popularity as a tourist destination, and its status as a small, European island nation of many listacle-able quirks, there is always at least some demand for Icelandic literature in translation, although the scales still tilt towards crime fiction, as they do for most, if not all, of the Nordic countries. Per the Publishers Weekly Translation Database, which covers first-time English translations “distributed through conventional means” in the United States, there have been 93 Icelandic books translated into English since 2008, when the folks at Open Letter Books started collecting this data. 44 of them (that is, nearly half) are crime novels. Consider that in 2019 (the most recent year data was collected), 1,712 books were published in Iceland, whereas in 2008, at the height of the country’s boom years, we saw the publication of 2,125 books—in a single year. For a country with a population currently hovering around just under 400,000, that’s pretty impressive. But we’re only getting a fraction of this wealth in English.

A sidenote, because I think it’s interesting, and also worth highlighting: the figures for Icelandic literature in English translation are still way more heartening than you see for many so-called minority languages, including ones that have far more speakers. For example, there are about 5.4 million speakers of Finnish worldwide; according to the Translation Database, only 88 Finnish books have been published in English translation since 2008. Thirteen million people speak Greek; only 70 Greek books have been published in English in the same time period. Almost 40 million people speak Thai worldwide; only 3 English-language translations of Thai titles are listed in the database. Hindi has over 600 million speakers; only 14 Hindi-language books have been translated into English in the last 16 years. There’s a lot that can be inferred from these numbers—not least that there is obviously a significant Eurocentricity in English-language publishing—but the baseline point is that as English-language readers, we’re only ever getting access to a tiny sliver of the literature that exists in the world.

READ MORE…

Translation Tuesday: From “Cardboard Lovers” by Víctor Hugo Ortega

Falling out of love / is meeting each other six years later / in a lift / and we’re just strangers.

For this week’s Translation Tuesday, we bring you two poems by the Chilean writer Víctor Hugo Ortega C. Rendered here in plain but powerful English by Georgina Fooks, the poems are striking in their restraint; the first is blunt, almost disinterested, and the second is so sparing in its references to emotion that what little appears—a look of surprise recalled on a lover’s face, a mocking word spoken long ago—is almost unbearable. The collection from which these poems are taken is in fact named for a line in the second poem: the Amantes de cartón, or Cardboard Lovers, of the final stanza—an image suggesting not only the futility of the lovers to understand each other, but of literature to capture the narrator’s loss.

The eye of Santiago

The eye of Santiago
gazes with polluted indifference
at the romance of lovers polluted
by high rates
of heartbreak.

Two thousand one hundred and ninety

I’ll see you and you won’t see me
I’ll speak to you and you won’t hear me
we’ll breathe in the same enclosed space
and maybe you won’t realise,
look where we happened to meet
you’re going to the 49th floor
me to the 45th,
50 secondsis this how long this journey will last?
It’ll depend on if someone gets in,
although I don’t think so,
we always used to get lucky.

READ MORE…

What’s New in Translation: May 2024

New titles from Italy and Colombia!

In a fecund month of new translations, our editors select two phenomenal titles: a collection of the later poems by the acclaimed Eugenio Montale, and an intimate epistolary fiction leading readers to a seldom-seen region of Colombia. 

Late Montale – New York Review Books

Late Montale by Eugenio Montale, translated from the Italian by George Bradley, New York Review Books, 2024

Review by Danielle Pieratti, Poetry Editor

“The world exists,” declared Eugenio Montale in the poem “Wind and Flags” from his first book, Cuttlefish Bones, published in 1925 (translated by Jonathan Galassi). Given the frank, existential agnosticism that governs the poet’s later work, it feels a little like whiplash to return to this otherwise characteristically subtle poem after reading Late Montale. Translated from the Italian by George Bradley, this collection comprises Montale’s published and unpublished poems from the second half of his life, offering glimpses of the poet first in the period of his Nobel win and later, as an increasingly reflective and skeptical widower. Yet ultimately, Montale seems to arrive where he began. “Unarguably / something must exist,” he writes in an unpublished poem at the end of his life,

But with [regard to] this,
science, philosophy, theology (red or black)
have all misfired.

If this isn’t faith,
O men of the altar or the microscope,
then go f. yourselves.

Given that these works range from the 1960s to his death in 1981, the fact that Montale circles back to this revelation bears noting. While his underlying ironies and symbolism persist, there’s a definitive “shift from formality to intimacy and self-revelation,” Bradley writes in his introduction, which “parallels the course of twentieth century poetry as a whole”. In poems taken from Satura, first published eight years after the 1963 death of his wife Drusilla Tanzi, Montale retains his characteristic imagery and density, but his focus has drifted from the tangible nature symbolism of his earlier works to more abstract questions of grief befitting an older poet experiencing loss. Many of the poems speak to memory and to individuals from Montale’s past, including several from two long sequences addressed to Tanzi. Others allude frequently to Montale’s former life as an opera singer. Indeed, the tension between then and now pervades Late Montale, and the poet’s apparent scorn for the passing of time lends a hint of tragedy to poems increasingly pensive and raw. “We were two lives too young to be old but too old to feel we were young,” he writes to Tanzi in “Lake Sorapis, 40 Years Ago”, which ends:

That’s when we learned what aging is.
Nothing to do with time, it’s something that tells us,
that makes us tell ourselves: “Here we are,
it’s a miracle and won’t come again.” By comparison
youth is the most contemptible of illusions.

READ MORE…

May 2024: Upcoming Opportunities in Translation

From poetry readings to translation workshops—check out our compilation of some of this summer's latest opportunities in world literature.

SUBMISSIONS

THE VIEW FROM GAZA

The Massachusetts Review is calling for submissions for a special issue, The View From Gaza. Palestinian writers are encouraged to send their workwhether it be poetry, prose, essays, or artfor this special issue, which will commemorate those who have been lost in the genocide and celebrate the ongoing resistance and resilience in Gaza.

As Israel’s violence against Gaza continues, the Review “hope[s] to amplify the work of Palestinian writers that contributes to the theory and critique of Empire and settler colonialism.” Submissions in English, Arabic, and other languages are all eligible.

The deadline for submissions is June 15th. Submissions should be sent to themassreview@gmail.com.

EVENTS

2024 GRIFFIN POETRY PRIZE READINGS

On June 5th, 2024, the Griffin Poetry Prize invites you to join them for an evening of poetry and translation!

Awarded annually, the Griffin Poetry Prize is the world’s largest international prize for a book of poetry written (or translated into) English. At this celebratory event, this year’s shortlisted poets will read from their works at the Royal Conservatory of Music in Toronto before this year’s winner is revealed. Readings will also be performed by the Lifetime Recognition Award recipient and the 2024 Canadian First Book Prize winner.

Tune in to the the Griffin Poetry Prize’s Youtube channel to watch a livestream of the readings on June 5th at 7pm ET.

GRANTS & FUNDING

GLOBAL AFRICA TRANSLATION FELLOWSHIP

The Africa Institute is welcoming applications for their fourth annual Global Africa Translation Fellowship!

This fellowship aims to celebrate works from the African continent, as well as from the African diaspora. Translators from across the Global South can submit their works-in-progress or potential projects to be considered for a grant of up to $5,000. Translations of previously untranslated poetry, prose, and critical theory works, as well as retranslations of older texts, are eligible. Submissions should be translated into English or Arabic, although translations into some other languages may also be considered.

The deadline for applications is June 1st, 2024. Find more information on eligibility and how to apply here.

RESIDENCIES & WORKSHOPS

BCLT ADVANCED TRANSLATION WORKSHOPS

Since 2021, the British Centre for Literary Translation has run annual advanced translation workshops to support the craft of literary translators and to bring together those with common language pairs. This year’s workshop will center on translators of Taiwanese literature.

Workshop participants will have the opportunity to work with other attendees to hone a sample translation for their chosen project. By the end of the program, participants will have a polished sample, as well as a pitch, that is ready to send off to potential publishers. Accepted applicants will need to choose a book from the Taiwan Literature Awards for Books longlists and obtain permission to translate the work.

The deadline for applications is June 2nd, 2024, while the event itself will run online during the 7th, 22nd, and 23rd of November. Read more here.

***

Our mission here at Asymptote is to elevate the incredible work that translators do to to share literature from around the world. Our “Upcoming Opportunities” initiative aims to provide those translators with the opportunity to improve their craft and share the projects they’ve put their hearts into. Have an opportunity that you’d like us to share in this monthly column? Check out our rates here, then drop us a line.

We’re working hard on our upcoming 52nd issue. If you’ve enjoyed the work we do—from our social media channels and blog to our newsletters and, of course, our quarterly issues—please consider supporting us as we continue to celebrate world literature and those that bring it to life. Any and all donations to support us on our mission are greatly appreciated. Thank you!

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Weekly Dispatches From the Frontlines of World Literature

News from Hong Kong, Kenya, and the International Prize for Arab Fiction!

This week, we hear of a moving Palestinian work, written from Israeli prisons and recently awarded the prestigious International Prize for Arabic Fiction; newly translated short stories exploring the psychic and physical disturbances of pre- and post-handover Hong Kong; and events bringing literature to their communities in Kenya.

Ibrahim Fawzy, Editor-at-Large, reporting from Egypt

For the first time since its launch in 2007, the announcement of the International Prize for Arabic Fiction (IPAF) winning novel did not bring controversy, but rather warmed the hearts of those who read Palestinian prisoner Basim Khandaqji’s A Mask, the Color of the Sky (قناع بلون السماء).

Since the announcement on April 28, during the annual award ceremony in Abu Dhabi, UAE, I’ve pondered: has Khandaqji, who is serving three consecutive life sentences in an Israeli prison, realized the profound impact of his voice? Has he realized that the light he is seeking within the confines of his cell is now illuminating countless hearts? For two decades, Khandaqji has steadfastly honed his literary voice while incarcerated, as a form of resistance and a means to combat isolation. His only solace in the absence of nature’s beauty and freedom is the limitless expanse of his imagination. Khandaqji chose to walk on the fiery coals of writing, engaging in battles of resilience. Stubborn and preserving, he began his journey with literature by writing poetry (a natural start for a prisoner, as poetry is an act of freedom and a potent resistance to captivity), believing that the occupation can imprison his body, but not his free imagination or resistant literature.

Khandaqji’s family recounts the arduous journey he has undertaken, moving from one prison to another because of the arbitrary measures taken by the administration. Yet, despite these difficult and complicated circumstances, Khandaqji and his fellow prisoners managed to smuggle their literary works beyond the towering walls of their confinement, a testament to their unwavering commitment to their craft. The owner of his Lebanon-based publishing house, Dar al-Adab, shared in an interview that the novel was recorded on a pen-like device, and his brother, who accepted the prize on his behalf, was the one who painstakingly transcribed the text. Some might think that Khandaqji’s role as a writer ends only with the act of recording, but his family insists that they are keen on sending all the manuscripts to him so he can ensure that every word is in its proper place, that the events and characters haven’t been altered. READ MORE…

Room of Mirrors: On Ángel Bonomini’s The Novices of Lerna

It is a testament to this collection’s dizzying, wandering nature that the reader is left to consider: what if this story is true?

The Novices of Lerna by Ángel Bonomini, translated from the Spanish by Jordan Landsman, Transit Books, 2024

Ángel Bonomini is one of those extraordinary literary figures who—despite having been lauded for his singular, masterful inventions—has somehow fallen into oblivion. In addition to being a cultural critic and prolific translator, the poems and stories published throughout Argentina in his lifetime represented a vital contribution to the nation’s phenomenon of fantastic narrative. While he remained largely unknown to international readers in his lifetime, such work earned him multiple distinguished accomplishments in his home country—including two Premio Konex awards and personal accolades from Jorge Luis Borges. In 1994, at the age of sixty-four, Bonomini passed away, and sadly, his writing seemed to disappear with him.

Now, in The Novices of Lerna, Jordan Landsman has captured the author’s wistful and pensive voice in a stirring collection of sixteen previously untranslated stories, spreading the magic to a new generation of readers. With candles melted “as if light had been slit from their veins,” theories “woven like black thread in the dead of night,” and people “like books with transparent pages where the lines don’t match up,” Bonomini glides vividly and lyrically into worlds where time warps, people live and die and live again, doppelgängers are plentiful, sentences disappear into amorphous paragraphs, and Buenos Aires isn’t quite the same urban sprawl that one might see in Argentina. While the pieces in this collection have no crossover in plot or character, some subterranean power connects them, with favored symbols and images appearing and reappearing—figs, trees, fires, death, and the landscape of the city.  READ MORE…

English Words are Strewn All Over the Floor of My Brain: An Interview with Ági Bori

Living away from my motherland deepens my gratitude for my culture, which automatically deepens my appreciation for Hungarian literature. . .

A giant of contemporary Hungarian literature, Miklós Vámos melds vast existential questions with bread-and-butter concerns in his spellbinding short story, “Electric Train.” Published in Asymptote’s Winter 2024 issue, “Electric Train” approaches the traditional family drama at a slant, discarding the tropes of dramatic realism in favor of a jester-like narratorial voice that boldly announces, “In literature it is practically mandatory to see inside people’s heads,” before plunging headlong into the tattered lives of a family of four. Questions and answers rebound like so many jokes told at a party, but even as the humor attempts to efface the tragedy, what defines this story is a warm, humane glow that emanates from everywhere. Bringing years of expertise in working with Vámos, Ági Bori’s artful translation rises to the experimentalism of the story and crystalizes it into an English that is fresh, magnetic, and strange. In this interview, Ági and I discuss the art of translating a living author, the political history that subtly underpins “Electric Train,” her own circuitous path to becoming a literary translator, and much more. 

Willem Marx (WM): By my count, you’ve translated over a dozen of Miklós Vámos’ stories and essays, as well as conducted interviews with him and written essays on his oeuvre. Can you describe the experience of becoming so embedded—as a translator—in the work of a single writer? Are there ways this prolonged focus on one body of work has informed your approach to translation in general?

Ági Bori (ÁB): I have had a lifelong fascination with not only Hungarian, but also translated literature in general, so it seems only natural that over the last decade, I have metamorphosed into a literary translator—perhaps one of a small number of niche translators who, like you said, is embedded in the work of a single writer. The actual moment when something awakened in me was when, shortly after having fallen in love with Miklós’s books and writing style (particularly his unending gallows humor), I wanted to share this experience with my literary friends and discovered that only one of his books, The Book of Fathers, had been translated into English. I sensed that I was at an unprecedented crossroads in my life—and it turns out that I was. I reached out to Miklós and asked him if I could translate an excerpt, and he agreed. I still vividly remember choosing that excerpt, taking a deep breath, and saying to myself—perhaps somewhat naively—that it was time to listen to my inner voice, no matter how intimidating the craft of translating seemed. From that day on, I just kept going and never stopped. As my translation skills blossomed, so did our professional relationship, and it soon became clear that Miklós had an endless supply of materials I could work on, not to mention that as time went by, I became very comfortable with his writing style—by now it feels like a second skin. We work together like a well-oiled machine, one that runs on very little sleep and frequent communication via our transcontinental subway.

This prolonged focus on one body of work has certainly been a rewarding experience. It taught me how important it is to seek out the work you want to translate, and how immensely helpful it is mentally—and even emotionally—when you love the original text that you are about to render into your target language. I feel fortunate to have embarked on a writer’s work with which I was able to connect from the start. Lucky for me, Miklós’s writing style varies greatly within his oeuvre, including stream of consciousness and classic prose. At times I feel like a kid in a candy store. READ MORE…

Translation Tuesday: Three Poems by Dzmitry Rubin

Teach me how to breathe / Without / Taking away air from others

A trio of untitled poems from the Belarusian poet Dzmitry Rubin is this week’s Translation Tuesday feature. Under the threat of repression and the menace of war, the poems, translated from the Belarusian by Jenya Mironava, are skeletal and whisper-quiet, written as if to be conveyed by the shallowest of breaths. The first murmurs of Belarus’s rich literary legacy, unmourned and un-remembered; the second and third, more plaintive, contain the poet’s hushed appeals to be fairer and braver—proscribed virtues in the Belarusian state.

In the graves
Of Belarusian writers
Lie
Human bones
But where
The writers themselves lie
Is a Soviet secret

*

And when/if tomorrow war begins
And when/if tomorrow begins
And when/if tomorrow
And when/if
And
Lord
Teach me how to breathe
Without
Taking away air from others

*

By the house a street light
Will shine all night
If only I had its courage

Translated from the Belarusian by Jenya Mironava

Dzmitry Rubin was born in the village of Sachaniaty in western Belarus. After graduating from Rechytsa Pedagogical College, he went on to teach Belarusian language and literature. He did not graduate from Belarusian State University with a degree in philosophy and social sciences. Dzmitry established himself as a poet and prose writer, as well as a former literary columnist and editor of the literary magazine Maładosć (Youth). He is also the author of a series of essays on the topic of suicide for a platform providing mental health education and support. Together with literary scholar Alena Lepishava, he co-founded the Rubinavy horad (Rubin City) project, a public venue for literary gatherings, courses, and lectures. Dzmitry’s work has been featured in numerous collections. His debut volume of poetry, titled Vypadak (Accident), was published in 2023.

Jenya Mironava is a native of Minsk, Belarus and a long-time resident of Cambridge, MA. She holds a PhD in Slavic Languages and Literatures from Harvard University, where she is currently teaching Russian and Belarusian.

*****

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Spring 2024: Highlights from the Team

More entrypoints into the glorious Spring Asymptote, courtesy of our generous team!

Aigerim Tazhi’s “Following the Breath of the Earth” is a refreshing reminder of another way of life through Kazakh spirituality—one that treasures the interconnectedness of nature and all of the species in it, where nature stands for truth in an undivided and nonhierarchical ecosystem. The ancestral belief in the gods of the sky (Tengri) and earth (Umai) echos the current calls for decolonial approaches to climate justice. And yet, the critique of the tourists who contaminate glacier lakes in Tibet, or the rise of yurts for camping trips North America, or the odd questions asked of the poet in Rotterdam, gently caution against the performative gestures that appropriate Indigenous beliefs. The story’s motif of nomadic travel and breath fits well in this conception of an interconnected world.

This theme of nature and the interconnected ecosystem for alternative worldbuilding is carried out in several other articles, including Jang Okgwan’s poems (tr. Susan K), with motifs of water and moonlight; and Leeladhar Jagoori’s poems (tr. Matt Reeck), of mountains and terrain.

I also appreciated the attention on language, the limits of the written word, and the rebelliousness of vernacular expression in this issue, especially in Sebastián Sánchez’s interview with Chilean author Diamela Eltit (tr. Fionn Petch) and in the poetry of German-Turkish Ozan Zakariya Keskinkılıç (tr. Özgecan Kesici). Each provides glimpses into the capacity of language play and hybrid rule-bending for community-building, political resistance, and memorialization.

 —Vuslat D. Katsanis, Assistant Editor (Poetry)

Chen Yuhong’s poem “Buddhist Pine” opened my eyes to different ways of being still/degrees of stillness. The way the poem successively transposes metaphors of animal, seasonal, granitic, and athletic stillness on the motionless pine made me understand that things can be still in different ways. That the pine might have a willed, disciplined stillness, or that it might be coiled, or frozen, or at rest, or somehow all at once.

 —Matthew Redman, Digital Editor READ MORE…

Weekly Dispatches From the Frontlines of World Literature

The latest literary news from North Macedonia, Mexico, and Greece!

This week, our Editors-at-Large celebrate writers of children’s literature, experimental postmodern novels, and memoirs of oppression. From a celebration of a beloved poet in Mexico to a new novel by a novelist and comics scholar in North Macedonia, to a recently republished chronicle of Greece’s years under dictatorship, read on to learn more!

Sofija Popovska, Editor-at-Large, reporting from North Macedonia

“Forgetting is a modern phenomenon that goes beyond the usual individual, medical frameworks,… because it is already an instrument for political and wide(r) scale manipulation, embedded in… almost the whole society”, writes literary critic Gligor Stojkovski in the preface to the latest novel by the author Tomislav Osmanli. Known for diving deep into the problems of history and modernity, Osmanli zeroes in on collective forgetting as a pathological social force in Zaborav (Forgetting), his fifth novel.

Osmanli (b.1956 in Bitola) is a media critic, poet, screenplay writer, dramatist, and author of multiple prose works. His first novel won the Best Macedonian Novel Award and was shortlisted for the Balkanica Literary Prize and his scholarly work, Comics: Scripture of the Human Image, was the first example of comics studies published in Yugoslavia. With a father of Macedonian and a mother of Greek descent, Osmanli grew up trilingual—speaking Macedonian and Greek, and having been taught Aromanian by his paternal uncle. His work as an independent editor and member of the editing board of his nation’s oldest daily newspaper, Nova Makedonija, from 1991 to 1998, as well as his theoretical studies in political cinema, are visible in the themes of his fiction. His scholarly interests blend with his mixed cultural heritage and find expression in Zaborav, a postmodern tapestry of lives and languages.

Told almost entirely in present tense to illustrate the loss of connection between past and present, Zaborav renders a bleak social landscape where values and freedoms previously achieved are being obscured by false spectacle and slipping into oblivion. The novel’s characters, increasingly egotistical and politically repressed, are unable to resist hypercapitalism. To capture both the fragmentation and diversity of modern society, Osmanli weaves his text from documentary citations, fictional scientific language, multilingual speech, dialects, web-addresses, footnotes, and QR codes leading to musical pieces which complete the atmosphere of the passages where they are found. The philosopher Ferid Muhić, speaking at the novel’s launch, notes that Osmanli’s “suggestive, …original…, and deeply humanistic” novel creates awareness which acts as an antidote against the “pandemic” of “collective forgetting.”

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Translating Humberto Ak’abal: An Interview with Michael Bazzett

[Humberto Ak’abal’s] poetry lives in the silences around the work, in the emptiness of the page, like the hollow of a bell.

In January 2019, Maya K’iche’ poet Humberto Ak’abal passed away, thus transcending into the eternal silence—perhaps the same silence inhabited by his seismic poems. He was sixty-six.

In life, Humberto published more than thirty books, and his work has been translated into more than twenty languages—including English, French, German, Italian, Portuguese, and Arabic. He remains a towering figure for indigenous and Maya literature, as well as one of Latin America’s most beloved and inventive poets. Humberto wrote extensively about family, time, colonialism, men’s relationship with animals and nature, indigeneity, the plight of the indigenous people in Guatemala, and the Guatemalan genocide. He used onomatopoeia and cacophony to describe his surroundings, and his poems are imbued with devastating political commentary and subtle humor. Carlos Montemayor and Antonio Gamoneda admitted to being fans of Humberto’s poetry, and in 2006, he became a Guggenheim fellow.

One cannot overstate the importance, quality, originality, and poetic sensibility of Humberto Ak’abal. Though his work has been previously translated into English, a new translation shines a new light on Humberto’s devastating poems. This June, Milkweed Editions will publish If Today Were Tomorrow, a book of poems written by Humberto Ak’abal and translated by Michael Bazzett, the author of The Echo Chamber. If Today Were Tomorrow is a beautifully crafted, comprehensive, and faithful approximation and representation of Humberto’s work. I had the opportunity to interview Michael Bazzett on Humberto’s legacy, the experience working between K’iche’, Spanish, and English, and the translation of silence.

José García Escobar (JGE): In 2018, you famously put out your translation of the Maya’s creation myth, The Popol Vuh. Naturally, we find many references and similarities between The Popol Vuh and the poetry of Humberto Ak’abal. Can you describe how translating The Popol Vuh prepared you or helped you translate Humberto’s poetry? Or maybe it was the other way around. I know you’ve worked on If Today Were Tomorrow for many years.

Michael Bazzett (MB): In the opening of The Popol Vuh, when it came time for the gods to create the world, “it only took a word. / To make earth they said, ‘Earth’ / and there it was: sudden / as a cloud or mist unfolds / from the face of a mountain, / so earth was there.”

I’ve always sensed an entire theory of language swirling inside this moment—one that continues, of course, throughout the entirety of the myth—where words are energy, tethered intrinsically to what they call forth. As such, they are not imposed by humans upon the landscape, like labels or sticky notes, but instead uncovered through careful listening and observation of the world around us. If Humberto’s work is built on anything, it is careful listening and observation. One learns very quickly by reading his poems. For instance, in K’iche’, the call of a bird is synonymous with its name, including the little orange & brown plumed bird, “Ch’ik,” who hops “happily / among the fresh shoots”:

Ch’ik is her song,
Ch’ik is her name.

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