The Clutha Bar, Glasgow, 14th January 2016
Written by Jean Rafferty. You can visit her website here and follower her on Twitter at @fireopal19. Jean is the author of “The Four Marys”, published by Saraband Books, which was longlisted for the 2015 Jerwood Prize.
The power of words… as kids we used to chant, Sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me. It wasn’t true. The chant was a magic ritual of defence, a vain attempt to negate the power of the word. Names can hurt, words can hurt. Words can be incendiary, lighting off a touch paper and setting off explosions in many people’s minds. That’s why words are so feared by governments, totalitarian and the so-called democratic ones alike.
In November 2015, Ashraf Fayadh was sentenced to death by the Saudi government for ‘apostasy.’ He’s a poet, forfuckssake.
Scottish PEN’s Writers at Risk Committee had already done an event in support of Saudi blogger, Raif Badawi, sentenced to 1000 lashes and ten years in prison for opposing fundamentalist Islam. So when the international literature festival Berlin told us there would be a worldwide reading for Ashraf Fayadh on January 14th, we were keen to take part.
We ended up holding three events for Ashraf – one in Glasgow, one in Edinburgh and one in Aberdeen, where they had a Poemathon for him, organised by Ian Crockatt, poet and pamphleteer extraordinaire. The power of poetry…
Edinburgh’s event was held in the Scottish Poetry Library and was chaired by Sarah Irving, author and editor of four books on Palestine. The Edinburgh Makar, Christine de Luca, took part, as did Jenni Calder, Jenny Lindsay and Rachel McCrum. Abla Oudeh, a copy editor on A Bird Is Not a Stone (anthology of contemporary Palestinian poetry) read one of Ashraf’s poems in the original Arabic.
In Glasgow we held our event in the Clutha Bar, under its new vaulted glass roof. As soon as events manager Ashley Crossan was told about Ashraf’s situation, she said, It’s yours. It was one of the first literary events to take place there since the helicopter crash of 2013, and fittingly, drew together the poetic community just as ordinary Glaswegians had been drawn together by the tragedy. This was largely due to the unstoppable Finola Scott of the Federation of Writers, who did the impossible and chivvied, commanded and cajoled poets into taking part. Herding cats would be easy in comparison.
Finola and the poets A.C.Clarke and Iyad Hayatleh read from Ashraf Fayadh’s poems, while novelist Carl MacDougall read a prose piece from the website, Middle East Eye, about the New Year’s Day executions in Saudi. In PEN we often feel as if we’re sending messages into some strange limbo. We often wonder if there’s any point in writing at all, but it was clear from the article Carl read that in Saudi they mattered. Ali Mohammed al-Nimr, the young man sentenced to death by beheading for a protest he took part in as a teenager, was not included in the executions. Commentators put that down to protest from the West. The power of words – in this case the difference between life and death.
Glasgow South MP Stewart McDonald joined us and made a heartfelt speech off the cuff, telling people to get in touch with their MPs, and saying that many of them really cared about freedom of expression.
Our headliner was American poet, Katie Ailes, one of the Loud Poets, with a powerful and dramatic set. Her letter for the daughter she might have in the future was intensely moving.
It was more than an evening of poetry. It was an evening of humanity, an evening of solidarity, and the poets who took part all felt the responsibility of it keenly. Below are some of the poems which were read out on the night, in some cases written specially for the event.
COLIN CHRISTOPHER CAIRNS: THE FORTITUDE OF POETRY
Brother, what must I do
to remind you of my
innocence? All I did was raise
some questions and warn
you of a storm coming in
from the edge of Arabia.
But now you accuse me
of subversion! Yet I recall
that day precisely, you and I
sitting by the cafe in Abha,
drinking coffee laced
with cardamon.
The winter sun had settled
in the crease of your brow –
the light gradually softening
that hard glance you aimed at me
like a dart. And if I may say,
your judgement of me was harsh,
for if I am walking on the road
and I see a man, half naked,
being nailed to a cross –
I cannot restrain my tongue,
and although I cannot undo
what has already been done,
I can remember! How the light
glowed in the folds of his flesh –
how it stretched
and tugged
at ruptured limbs, how his skin
turned blue and peeled
like paper. Remember?
His right foot was lashed
tightly against the left.
The wrought iron nails
were driven in
with quiet purpose
and his cries soared above
the crowded square –
strangling the gasps,
the sighs of doves – the holy
call to prayer which rose
uneasily in the distance.
And still you admonished me.
Be silent, Ashraf! Your poems
and lyrics won’t shield you
from the lash
of the Mutaween –
so do not incur their wrath.
Brother, my answer
is simple. I sing to fill
the silence rising in
you! A silence
that stones to death
the voice of the nations,
the peoples of Arabia,
a silence that renders
mute arbiters of law,
of justice so-called,
a silence that condones,
by the edge of a sword –
the slicing of hands
and slicing of heads.
Brother, I will sing in this silence!
I will break this lineage
of fear, ring in the new paradigm,
animate the wings of doves –
disarm the universal
soldier, take back by force
of words all that truly belongs
to us, the people, the light
so beloved of Rumi,
the eternal song.
It will fill this crushing silence.
It will prevail in the courts
of kings. Conscience
will not be reduced to a cult –
or a pathology of the mind!
And know this, brother,
my voice will resonate
in the throat of the zealot,
my song will draw the poison
from life’s bitter root,
it will nourish the will
of the people, it will mend
the human heart,
sing long into the night,
outlast the sword
of executioners
and soar above
the venal stench
of money,
it will soar beyond
the terror –
high above
the bloody square
of totalitarian kings.
RAY EVANS: THE SHIPPING NEWS
Here is the weather forecast
for shipping issued by the met office on behalf of the maritime and coastguard
agency at 0505 on ………… the …th of ——–.
Allepo and Cyprus.
Immigrants 10,029, slow-moving, drowning 1018 by
midnight
Westerley 8 or 10,000 Occasionally 12,000
Falling slowly into the sea
Vikings they are not.
Westerley veering off
course 50-60,000 displaced
Rough, becoming desperate.
Cyclonic, mainly southerly or southwesterly 5 to
7,
Russian planes imminant.
Pharoahs Descendents
Drowning West North West
Weak possibly 3 or 5, becoming variable 8 or 9 .
Cyclonic, reminiscant of Europe 1942
losing identity, dissipating ,
falling slowly into the sea
Lesbos
West or northwest 5-600 in each rubber dingy,
becoming variable leaving 2-300 alive by morning
Falling slowly into the sea
Mediteranian waters
imploding North North West
5 or 6 year old child
washed up on beach.
Unsettling with morning
tea and full English
Poor becoming poorer,
falling slowly into the sea
German Bight
State of play
In south, welcominggood. 6 or 7
Moderate becoming kind
occasionally very welcoming. 8 or 9000
Dover and Calais
ill Wind 6 or 7 possibly
10 by morning
Northeast 4 or 5000, occasionally 6000 at first,
becoming variable
moderate becoming hostile
Fog and dark flags by morning
Falling slowly into the sea
Thames and Trafalgar.
Chilly becoming hostile.
Numbers reducing by morning
”
Not welcoming 3 or 4000 at a time.
Backing extreme right 8 or 9 to gale 9 or 10
Fascist State
Strong becoming more powerful over five years.
DisplacementCyclonic
becoming predictable
mainly easterly or southeasterly every 5 to 7
years,
depending on availabilty of oil
Losing identity
Falling slowly into the sea
Falling slowly into the sea
falling slowly into the sea.
PAUL JOHN McCAFFERTY: A SIN
When we hear a bird sing,
It is pleasure just to hear it sing
In the tales passed down
From all old generations
They said, it is a sin
To kill a mockingbird
Everything is divine,
Everything is sacred
Does it matter what a bird believes?
No, it simply sings.
The bird, as far as we know
Believes only in its song
And that, to me, is sacred.
No-one, no person or thing
Should be harmed for simply being.
I believe in God.
And whether he does or not
Should not matter.
PAUL JOHN McCAFFERTY: A PLEA
We all find ourselves singing at times,
the tune to the one infinitely
variable song. No matter where we live
we all wake to some wee bird singing.
Like
Laaahhh lalaa ahhhh ahhla lalalaaahh.
Or
Red is the Rose in yonder garden grows
fair is the lily of the valley.*
Under domes, Holy chants rise.
Beneath village spires, Church bells ring.
All things sweeten as all songs fly
up beneath this same ONE sky.
I plead ye, set that cage bird free.
It sings for all divinity.
*From Red Is The Rose, Clancy and Makem
The post Jean Rafferty: Worldwide Reading for Ashraf Fayadh appeared first on Scottish Pen.