RAWI, A Personalized History by Barbara
Nimri Aziz
RAWI began in radio. It was at Pacifica-Radio in NY:-- I was a volunteer
activist, working with genuine, truth-telling people, advancing alternative
ideas and ideals. Not a crisis in the Middle East. Not a heart wrenching "we
must do something" gathering of bourgeois Arab Americans. Most of all,
not a defense.
From early in my life, literature and radio were closely associated. I grew
up in Canada where, some of you may know, a vibrant, creative radio culture
exists. Or it did. That was 50 years ago!
My earliest experience with literature was through the radio receiver. Later
when in college, I joined CFRC, my Queen’s University radio station.
I hosted two weekly programs. Doubtless some of my Arab sensibilities were
embedded in that effort. Simmering. Very slowly. Too deep to be recognizable
for years to come.
In my post graduate research in India and Nepal, I gradually, understood
how orientalism worked on the world and, more significantly, on me. Literature,
politics, Arab voice, and activism began to emerge, and merge.
Working as an anthropologist in those parts of Asia, my recording machine
was a close companion. And I used it all the time. I was a good listener.
So when I turned to journalism in 1988, although I eschewed the academy,
I kept my tape recorder. Most writers I meet are talkers too. In Damascus,
Beirut, Baghdad, Kuwait, Jerusalem, Cairo, Algiers, I seemed to meet a great
many writers: Daisy Amir, Lamea Abbas Amara, Galib Halasa, Khairy Al-Zahaby,
Fawzia Rachid, Nawal El-Saadawi, Rashid Bujadra. All of them liked to read
their work, and they spoke powerfully. They had a great deal to offer about
their society, and their own lives and struggles, about writing and publishing.
So I listened, with the recorder on.
In the US, with a war brewing—the Gulf War of 1991 that time, I was
working overseas and at home at Pacifica-WBAI Radio in New York. American
writers of Arab heritage who opposed the war came to my attention, among them
DH Melhem, Habeeb Salloum, Etel Adnan, Ron David. I already knew the work
of Naomi Shihab Nye, Greg Orfalea, Lawrence Joseph and Edward Said. I said
to myself, “Look here, we are a community. Not only are writers so abundant
in El-Belad. We are many here too!”
As a radio producer with Pacifica –a real hub of peace and justice
activism-- I saw the power of coalitions and network building among so many
people striving for justice. African Americans welcomed me. During that time,
I was also a privileged visitor to John O. Killins’ creative writing
workshop. Every week I traveled into Medgar Evers College in Brooklyn to hear
aspiring writers, most of them women, read work in process and help move each
other forward. John O. possessed an extraordinary power to inspire and encourage.
The support of these African American writers was something I had never,
ever experienced in 20 years of academic dialogue in British and US universities.
When Killins died, the workshop changed. I missed the comradeship.
I thought, “I know a lot of Arab writers live in this country; perhaps
many like me need support of our peers, of other Arabs struggling with the
same issues of craft. Perhaps they want to try out still-tender ideas in an
atmosphere that is free of racist innuendo and a hostile agenda, free of curious
eyes and patronizing remarks.”
Living in Damascus in 1990, I learned that a Pan-Arab writers organization
exists in the homelands. Why not in the US as well, I asked myself?
Initially I hoped we might constitute a small group of aspiring writers in
New York City. Nothing emerged. So, on a visit to DC at the time of the annual
ADC convention, I posted a note. ‘Arab Writers: meeting in room 201.’
Six showed up. We signed our names and agreed to keep in touch. Only Laila
Diab from Chicago followed up. With her help, I assembled a list of 15 or
so writers. I wrote a two-page newsletter in May 1992 and we sent it out to
that list. I think it was at the next ADC meeting when we again posted an
invitation to writers. Among those who joined us in one of the rooms were
Lisa Majaj, Salma K Jayyusi, Marti Farah Ammar, David Williams, Nathalie Handal.
If there was any founding meeting of RAWI, that was it. The name RAWI, a brilliant
creation of Mohja Kahf; the inspired logo (from Nihad Dukhan’s magic
pen) came later. We agreed to pay $15. as a membership fee to support further
newsletters. The list grew. The rest is history, recorded in RAWI newsletters,
articles, and so on.
We still have no Arab writers’ workshop similar to John Killins’
in the New York area. Nothing like the Asian American Writers Workshop, a
vibrant cultural center on East 34th St. where we rented a corner room for
a few months, hoping that could become a proper RAWI office. (Surprisingly
it didn’t work. don’t know why. We did try.)
Maybe we never will be a workshop. Although in the NY-NJ area alone, there
now must be more than 100 writers of Arab heritage—comedy writers, script
writes, playwrights, writers of children’s books, poets and editors
and essayists, novelists and more. Various of these ‘professions’
have their group. I am pleased. These networks are critical to our careers.
Still, I still wonder why we do not come together to discuss craft, as we
toil away at ‘work-in-progress’, the way African Americans did
under John O. Killins’ guidance.
Today preference seems to be increasingly for public performance, and RAWI
has had a founding role to play here too you can be sure. In 1997, with the
publication of Joanna Kadi’s collection Food for Our Grandmothers, it
was easy to bring a group of us together for a reading. The first in NYC was
at the Nuyorican Café and Ryme Katkhouda helped with that.
One of our early NY members was Sakeena Shaban. She worked in “Kush”,
an east village café. “The proprietors are Moroccan; they usually
have musicians on weekends; I think they would give us a Sunday afternoon
for readings.” We jumped at it. Hayan Charara was in NY at the time
and he put a lot of energy into that. Mohja Kahf came into NY along with Daniel
AbdalHayy Moore early in that program. They drew a big, big crowd at Kush
one Sunday. Suheir Hammad dazzled and inspired Arab Americans at Kush who
had not known her and never heard poetry like that from any Arab. Sekeena
was a natural host for the readings and she built in ‘open mike’
time.
Sometimes, only the family of an invited reader was our audience, along with
Sekeena and me. The best crowds came when readers ‘brought their own
crowd.’ It wasn’t a sign of RAWI’s limits. That is the nature
of New York, whether for off-off Broadway shows or in Fifth Avenue or Soho
galleries. I knew that from years of work in the artistic community. You bring
your own crowd. A small audience means it might be more intimate.
In any case, our list gradually expanded. Ramsey and Nada joined RAWI and
took over the readings. Hayan secured the Cornelia Street Café. I had
by then moved out of Manhattan and needed to concentrate on RAWI’s nationwide
growth. Those Cornelia Cafe readings evolved into Ziriyab Club, with musicians
and other writers along with Arab authors. It continues today and is an exciting,
critical forum for our literary community.
Two months into our gatherings at Kush, I had remarked to Hayan, “Do
you think we can possibly identify enough writers to keep this going monthly?”
Today our (Arab) folks operate two regular –and successful-- literary
forums in the city for Arab artists/writers. There may be more.
Another RAWI endeavor which although not yet institutionalized but could
be, are book tables. Book tables are part of our history and helped us grow.
Any community activist knows about the importance of book tables, and we have
oh so many conferences to set up shop. Not for T-shirts and buttons. For books.
I always liked to prepare a RAWI table at a book fair or other conference,
and many members donated their books. Selling books is easy. It’s a
natural to reach potential members, publishers, journalists, teachers, READERS.
These offer so many opportunities. We had a superb banner made; Leila Diab
liked tables. And Linda Sawaya does a really professional job at this. Always
women, hmmm.
Yes, it’s a lot of work. But it is part of any public organization’s
success. And, yes, I think, although it is a hardly known feature, those displays
and sales tables are part of our growth.
I know writing a book and putting a book together is hard work. I think of
a book as a gift. And we always need to say thank you. I expressed that in
running RAWI. But it also takes our leading writers like Etel Adnan, Naomi
Shihab Nye, DH Melhem, Salma K. Jayyusi and Lisa Majaj, Suheir Hammad who
did so much for me and RAWI. It is really an honor for me but perhaps more
an honor to RAWI that such eminent writers devoted their support to RAWI and
Steven Salaita came in to work with us. The best known writers are important
in ways that perhaps do not show. We, I, really needed them. And still do.
Back to radio. Most public radio stations feature writers and highlight new
books. Writers and publishers too seem to recognize the importance of radio
to reach buyers and to offer engaging conversation. “Tahrir”,
the name of my weekly program helped me reach many, many writers and it helped
them find me over the years. I unashamedly tried to draw every writer I interview
for radio into RAWI. Thus, during my tenure with RAWI, the organization and
Tahrir were intertwined. Our Tahrir archive is as much a reflection of the
richness of RAWI as it is the dynamism of our wider literary community.
As long as our writers produce new poems, scripts, books, plays and festivals,
I want to be around to record that. Our new www.RadioTahrir.org
web page will now expand our possibilities. Stay tuned.
