The current self-isolation is in no way comparable to being a refugee or immigrant says Walid Nabhan, Maltese author of Palestinian origin. 

Let’s start at the beginning: what made you put pen to paper for a reason, or for no reason at all?

I was born in a region full of deliriums and cultural gossip, though, there was a strict hierarchy in who should open his mouth first. Embryologists report that a foetus can hear everything. Perhaps I was already listening to the prattle of the region – however writing remains a complicated act of creativity. All I can say is, that all began, like when playing with matches, until I was noticed by my Arabic language teacher, who sent me directly to the fire.

Since then the ink has never dried off my fingers. Through writing I found a tongue in a patriarchal society which dictates the length of each tongue; a society which stares at you all the time yet never sees you. A society where the preacher robs the philosopher, and the oblivious takes the responsibility of preaching the surplus of ignorance, and those who remain in the shackles of truth are described as quixotic and incapable of anything.

What setting gives you your creative edge?

I do not have any setting except the guillotine of time. I’m constantly under the threat of writing, depending on the chemistry of the moment, though poetry in and of itself requires some peculiar moods. 

I know of many writers who barely leave home, but they still wake up early in the morning, dress up elegantly, wear perfume, as if they are going to a certain ceremony. Palestinian national poet Mahmoud Darwish was that type of writer. Once he wrote that he could not dare to approach language without being fully dressed up in the same way as if he were going on a romantic date. 

On the other hand, I know of some superb writers, who barely shave or even change their clothes, yet they still produce terrific literature. In some respect, writing does not need a unique mood but rather a wilful mind, and a vigilant memory. Exile is a recurrent theme in your life and works.

You were born to a family of refugees in Jordan, and your National Book Prize winning L-Eżodu taċ-Ċikonji (Exodus of Storks) revolves around migration. Is the current self-isolation another form of exile?

L-Eżodu taċ-Ċikonji

What was written in L-Eżodu taċ-Ċikonji (Klabb Kotba Maltin) about exile was mostly unrehearsed. Writing this novel was not technically strenuous – rather, it flowed out spontaneously. It was a multiple exile in terms of geographical displacement. The last migration to Malta was not enforced, so it falls under self-inflicted exile. 

I do not feel that the current self-isolation has to do with being a refugee or immigrant. Perhaps it rather resembles a curfew, a benign one I would say. On the other hand, being an immigrant or a refugee might include that you have no roof, no food, no water, no dignity, nothing whatsoever. Especially if we are talking about displaced people in times of armed conflicts.

Worse than all coronavirus nightmares is when people are caught between multiple fires, and have nowhere to go, like what happened to the inhabitants of Yarmouk Refugee Camp in Damascus, who had to eat dogs, cats and poisonous herbages.

How has self-isolation during the COVID-19 pandemic affected your research, reading and writing?

Almost in no way. I was in self-quarantine anyway. Any writer who claims to have been affected by the disease might not be a good writer. Even those who wrote their greatest novels in the middle of people, such as Nobel Prize Winner Najib Mahfouz, admitted that they were in complete isolation, even though surrounded by the characters which they were writing about. 

Poetry, short stories, novels and translations – what does each form or medium give you?

Poetry requires more intensity of sensitivity than narrative or fiction, although short stories and novels also require cautious observation. Poetry is a pulse that requires certain psychological states and high emotional levels with a certain aroma. It requires a higher expression level and emotive layout than the narrative, such as overwhelming joy, overwhelming sadness, extreme anger, and other subtle mental conditions. 

Short stories and novels also have rhythm but their world is much wider and open, particularly the novel. 

Translation is the most challenging among them all. It feels like you are in captivity, and the author is your jailer, dictating to you what to say and not to say. The creative solution for this confinement is to make the work yours during the process of translation. Translation is all about reproducing creativity without losing one drop of it. 

You have won the Maltese National Prize for Literature (2014) and the European Prize for Literature (2017). What do these points of recognition mean to you?

It means that I had an anecdote to communicate and the people have listened to what I had to say and appreciated it. The story in the first place was about the fragmentation of self-identity of an Arab character due to multiple migrations. Ironically enough, when Arabs were less wealthy, less educated, and less dependent on international powers, the number of refugees was limited and within the traditional proportion of all nations, except for Palestinians who had been uprooted from their land.

But what happened a few decades later, the number of refugees in neighbouring Arab countries surpassed Palestinians and multiplied beyond any demographic census, not to mention Syria and Iraq.  There are Arab countries whose immigrants reached two thirds of the population, scattered in at least 90 countries. Most of those Arabs do not knock the gates and walls of Europe on their raving horses but rather beg behind doors often closed in their faces.

What book do you currently have on your bedside table?

Usually I do not read one book at a time, I alternate between two or more. Most probably in three different languages: Arabic, Maltese and English. The reason is to keep these languages alive in my head, because if you abandon language, it will abandon you too.

Currently in Arabic I am reading Letters from Egypt by Lady Lucie Duff Gordon (1865). The book was translated and narrated by Ibrahim Abdel Majid, one of my favorite Egyptian authors. It happened that this noble lady was sent to Egypt for clean air after she had contracted tuberculosis. 

In Maltese I am re-reading Rokit by Loranne Vella since I am about to translate it into Arabic, after having just completed Is-Sriep Reġgħu Saru Velenużi by Alex Vella Gera.

During your writing residency in Okinawa, Japan, were there any experiences that could leave us hopeful for some new literature? 

It was my first time in the Far East. Every corner was intriguing, sensational and inspiring. I had the opportunity to meet the locals but above all the well-known sculptor of Okinawa and Japan, Minoru Kinjo who represents the historical conscience of the island. I immediately fell in love with his shocking work and captivating personality. I shall never forget his hospitality and overwhelming sense of humour and the taste of his 15-year old homemade habushu.

Walid Nabhan with Japanese sculptor Minoru Kinjo.

Another enthralling part of the trip was the island of Kudaka and its heavenly beaches. I was welcomed by an old Shamanic lady priest who guided me to the most ancient praying sites on the island where the inhabitants believe that their first ancestors had emerged. She even accompanied me to a mysterious place where they claim they could communicate with sea turtles. Amazingly enough, soon after the lady priest began to sing some of their spiritual rituals, sea turtles appeared out of nowhere and came close to the shore, as if they were in an eternal surreptitious contact with the locals of the island. I am still under that magic. 

Perhaps my upcoming work is oriental – it is almost impossible to reach those shores and come back empty-hearted.

This interview is part of a series of interviews with local authors, supported by the National Book Council. Read an interview with Alex Vella Gera, here and with Clare Azzopardi, here.