readers & writers #2: the light of the lights

8/3/2019 Readers & Writers #2: The Light of the Lights

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R e a d e R S & W R i t e R S

theLight

f

the

LightS

V OLU M e ON e


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English PENReaders & Writers Volume 01

02

t h e L i g h t O f t h e L i g ht S


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the

Light

f

the

LightS

R e a d e R S & W R i t e R S

V O L U M e O N e


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Writers Introduction Mark Guven, Helmut Ogbeni,

Nadia Ibrahim, Nidhal Al Jibouri & Yaya Yoso

Finding Your Voice Daljit Nagra

Setting Foot in Words Miriam Halahmy

Duty is Not an Exact Science. Now Lets Laugh at a Swiss

Chicken Over a Beer, Dad Alessandra Pirovano

Narciso Desnudo Ennio Bollici (Part 1 o 2)

Pay Day Ennio Bollici

This Is A Poem About A Country I Love Nidhal Al Jibouri

My Name Jojo Nganga

We Temples Build Emily* Said Alessandra Pirovano

Remember Then Sarah Bopape

Paradise Lost Ennio Bollici

Kwenadi Sarah Bopape

My Name Esther Freud

Oh Father Ibreem Yaya Yoso

Far Away From Native Shores Mark Guven

The Blue Dress Enrico Sibour

My Rose, My Cause of Pain Nadia Ibrahim

The Light of the Lights Yaya Yoso

7:37am Mark GuvenStainless Watch Enrico Sibour

Narciso Desnudo Ennio Bollici (Part 2 o 2)

Fly to Dubai Yaya Yoso

Istanbul Mark Guven

Alone & Quiet Enrico Sibour

A Bat & A Hat Mark Guven

The Bridge on Blue River Nile in Khartoum Yaya Yoso

Literature & Mind Nidhal Al Jibouri

This is From My Life Nidhal Al Jibouri

My Name Sarah Bopape

The Rainforest Helmut Ogbeni

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Contents

First published in Great Britain in 2010 by

English PEN, Free Word, 60 Farringdon Road,

London EC1R 3GA

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Collection copyright English PEN, 2010

The moral right o the authors has been asserted. The views

expressed in this book are those o the individual authors,

and do not necessarily represent the opinions o the editors,

publishers, or English PEN.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under

copyright reserved above, no part o this publication may

be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system,

or transmitted, in any orm or by any means (electronic,

mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without

the prior written permission o both the copyright owner

and the publisher o the book.

A CIP catalogue record or this book is available rom

the British Library.

ISBN 978-0-9564806-0-6

Typeaces used. Headers set in 10/13pt Neuzeit S. Published

by Linotype, 1966. Text set in 9/13pt Archer. Published by

Hoeer & Frere-Jones, 2001.

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Aldgate Press,

Units 5&6, Gunthorpe Street Workshops, 3 Gunthorpe

Street, London E1 7RQ www.aldgatepress.co.uk

Designed by here, Temple Works, Brett Road,

London E8 1JR www.heredesign.co.uk


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The Light of the Lights

07

Writers Introduction

Mark Guven, Helmut Ogbeni, Nadia Ibrahim,

Nidhal Al Jibouri & Yaya Yosof

Welcome to The Light of the Lights a little book of writing from our

English PEN creative writing and reading workshops at the Migrants

Resource Centre in London.

This is the delivery o our backgrounds. We wanted to show you

what its like or us. The immigrant experience has been pigeonholed

or a long time. We hope this is a welcome contribution because we

have things to give.

Ater eight weeks o writing at the Migrants Resource Centre,

we have been challenged to write by Miriam Halahmy and her guests,

Daljit Nagra and Esther Freud. This project has brought out, in dierent

ways, the dierent sides o us. Each person has been able to express

themselves. Creativity. The Hidden Intention. Capabilities to write have been

triggered. Stimulated. Skilulness. We have told o dierent backgrounds,

using words in dierent ways.

Workshops like this can unite the divided. We came rom dierent

backgrounds, dierent religions, dierent societies, and we wrote together.

We hope this project can reach more and more people.

This little book is ull o birds and lizards. It is a rainorest. A city

o many aces. It is a collection o poems, short stories, the beginning o

a screenplay. Esther Freud asked us to write about our name. This isthe book o our names. Esther showed us to be truthul and ruthless.

As Alessandra writes in her poem: I am teaching you to disobey/

Whispering with you/ I do believe in airies, I do / We do.

Who will listen to me? This is sometimes in our minds. The workshop

group listened. One person wrote a poem about not liking her name.

Now, she likes her name again. The lights disappeared in the city,

but they came together in one voice. This, then, is our voice or now.

Finding Your Voice

Daljit Nagra

I think one o the most important outcomes o creative writing is to give

yoursel a voice that nds crated expression on the page. As someone

rom a minority community, I elt it even more urgent to speak about

mysel coming rom a distinct, little known community that resides in

some pocket o England. I hope other new writers will consider their

work as news or a despatch rom a particular world. This does not mean

they carry the burden o representing their world because although they

will be seen as being part o a background, the peculiarity o their creative

act can help them transcend the conining labels.


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09

Setting Foot in Words

Miriam Halahmy

Running workshops with writers rom dierent countries brings a special

depth and range o richness to the work. In our workshops at the Migrants

Resource Centre in Westminster (MRC) we have been given an insight into

other worlds rom a village beside a desert river to a home on the edge

o the Arican rain orest. All o our writers have experienced something

o lie in London but their writing in our workshops has gone ar beyond

Londons vibrant streets, to physical and emotional landscapes reected

in the writing in this booklet. Ultimately the writing is about exploring

themselves as Chesterton comments opposite.

It is always a challenge to begin working with a new group, learning

names, encouraging the shy to speak up/read out their work, providing

the right level o inspiration and eedback. Working with this group at the

MRC has been truly inspirational. We have covered poetry, lie writing and

ction; we have discussed the meaning o landscape, told anecdotes which

will be rich seams to mine in the uture, heard Arabic sayings and helped

to translate work rom French.

Our group o writers settled in so quickly that by the third week

everyone was writing original work and reading back with condence, in a

language which was not their mother tongue: English. It was clear that this

was a group who wanted to take every advantage o the opportunity our

workshops provided. The participants also had to read and discuss two

published works in preparation or meeting our guest authors and theyrose to the challenge beautiully.

It has been my privilege to lead these workshops. I have learnt a great

deal about the lives and struggles o our participants and I eel I have had

a real opportunity to engage with their work. I wish all o the participants

every success in the uture and Happy Writing!

The wholeobjecT of

wriTing is noTTo seT fooTon foreignland; iT is aTlasT To seT

fooT on onesown self asforeign landG.K. Chesterton


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Narciso Desnudo

Ennio Bollici

A sample taken from Narciso Desnudo (Part 1 o 2)

Rome searont. End o summer. A stunning girls body laid on the

sand, next to the shore. Dawn light. Her lips are bleeding, her mouth is

wounded, her eyes hal-shut: she seems to be sleeping. Opera Theatre,

Rome. More than twenty years beore. Actors are on stage, greeting the

audience ater perorming King Oedipus. The audience is giving them

a well deserved tribute. The most applauded among them all is a young

actress, Laura, playing Giocasta, Oedipuss mother. Lauras amily is

sitting on the rst line. Her husband, Carlo, army major general, looks

at her, annoyed. Andrea, their ve year old son, happily greets Laura

even though he does not have a clue about what is happening. It is the

last perormance o Lauras career. Ater a violent argument with her

despotic husband, she has been reluctantly orced to quit acting, in order

to give into Carlos selsh desire to look ater Andrea. Carlo has already

orecasted a rich and successul lie or his son. He educates Andrea

on a strictly regime, as i he was one o his soldiers rather than his son.

Andreas childhood is spent ollowing a severe discipline, dividing his

days between school and gym with almost no social gathering at all, in

order to accomplish Carlos design o Andreas lie. Laura simply eeds

him, taking no part in his education and growing, careully avoiding topass on her passion or acting in order not to argue with Carlo.

Continues on page 32

Duty is Not an Exact Science. Now, Lets Laugh

at Swiss Chicken Over a Beer, Dad.

Alessandra Pirovano

Was a meek clown

Begging my daily prayer

Tell me Father your dreams.

Please tell me how they aded

On the terrace o your lie.

Tell me the cold days

O your disheartened childhood,

The stove o your imagination

Warming your Elsewheres.

Saw the blade o your white bones,

Saw the water o a puddle in your cup,

Humiliated mirror o your rail mutiny.

Open your eyes on your demure talent,

Cry now your discontent i you want.

As a good mother, I am teaching you to disobey,

Whispering with youI do believe in Fairies, I do,

We do.


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13

This is a Poem About a Country I Love

Nidhal Al Jibouri

This is a poem about a country I love

I write as i I look at the stars above

Homes, people and love they destroyed

The children, the sun, and the scenery they all enjoyed.

They killed, they ght. People suered, they did not care.

Children sitting there,

Not knowing what to do, holding hands in ear

Looking away, my eyes begin to tear

We are all going mad.

About this country we all loved.. . Baghdad

My dear Baghdad try your best to heal

Can we make this deal?

My hope, my dream is to see my country beautiul again

Even i Baghdad does not heal

You will always be in my heart,

Children playing, people laughing,

Again it will start.

Pay Day

Ennio Bollici

The opening extract from a screenplay

London, Somewhere in the City

A normal Friday morning, rainy day. A tall building. Through one o

its numerous windows a man can be seen working in his ofce. The room

is small, rather cluttered, nancial newspapers and books are all over the

oor. His secretary, Kelly, a blonde lady with green eyes and dressed in a

grey suit, is typing a letter sitting just behind him.

His name is Peter, 40 years old, a tall man with dark hair and dark

eyes. He works as a broker or a nancial company. He is very busy,

sitting at his desk working on his computer while he dials a number

on the phone. He is trading stock options and unds as usual.

Calcutta, India

Same day, the sky is cloudy and the air is muggy. The streets are

crowded and dusty. Bicycles and old, hal destroyed cars can be seen

around. Nearby there is a street market, merchants are shouting to

promote their products ruits, meats, clothes.

Behind the market, there is a ruined building. A part o the wall is

allen down. Above the ront door there is a label almost unreadable

which says Du Lawrence LTD. It is a company which has a actory in

the building to produce elegant shirts to sell in shops all over the world. Inside the actory it is rather dark, the machines are not well-maintained,

everything is untidy. There are around 20 people working in there, most o

which are children, like Iqbal.

He is only 10 years old, very thin, almost skeletal, his bones appear

to be seen through his olive skin.

He works 6 days a week, 10 hours a day. His very poor amily needs

him to work in order to be able to survive.

He cuts and sews abric all day long, and does the same repetitive job

day by day, only with hal an hour break or lunch. He does not know what

sick pay and paid holidays are, i he knows what holidays are at all.


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15

My Name

Jojo Nganga

My name is Jojo and my amily name is Nganga. Everyone says that

they like my name because it sounds good. In my country the name that

starts with a letter J means something good jolie, it means beautiul.

A ew weeks ago I read the meaning o my name in the dictionary

and it said that Jojo is something bad a little Horror or monster. But I

remember when I was a child I asked my Mum, why did they give me this

name Jojo, and what did it mean and she told me they gave me this name

because I was born in a happy time and I was special too. Also in my

amily they say my name means happiness and beauty. And Jojo is

an abbreviation o Jonathan.

The meaning o the name Jonathan is: Jehovah has given. In the

Bible, Jonathan son o King Saul was noted or manliness, generosity

and unselshness. He saved Davids lie when Saul would have killed

him. My amily name in my country means someone who does magic.

This name was originally the name o my Dad and the name o his Dad.

My grandather was in medicine.

i reTurn froma disTanT

journey Tosee/ you areno more /i siT on Thegrass and feel

The empTinessThe Rainforest Helmut Ogbeni (p.46)


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17

We Temples Build Emily* Said

Alessandra Pirovano

My name is Calvero.

That old, reaky, sentimental clown you believed was dead.

Old days in alcoholic ire, burnt case lie.

Cest Moi! The awed piece, the disobedience virus.

You vile all around the swamp,

So close I can smell the ormaldehyde in your spittle.

Hey you, accid brains,

Yellow eyes in your KKK hoods,

Rosaries in your hands, every bead a clotted blood drop.

You never reached me on your Old Testament pick ups,

My legs and brain toned and promiscuous.

Innocence bores you, unbearable is the canto.

Silence can paralyse you.

Voracious you devour the time and the man,

Burping proudly your atal and rancorous ignorance.

Your arrogant carcasses will precipitate into the ault

With the stink o your vomit.

I stopped running in a quiet dusk o a hellish day,

Began to build my temple.

* Emily Dickinson

Remember Then

Sarah Bopape

I remember now

My rst day at University

With dad by my side

Now I know

Its a day never to be orgotten

I remember now

Walking to church every Friday night and Sunday morning

As new days unolded

Now I know

God saw me through

I remember now

Being part o dierent cultures, races and languages

Beyond my village

Now I know

My todays are

I remember now

The green, owery, Sunnyside garden

My wonderul riends

Now I knowWill always be a special part o me

I remember now

It eels so much like now

Now I know

Hence I say

I remember then.


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19

Paradise Lost

Ennio Bollici

An excerpt from Paradise Lost

On thicker sands, many years later / we sealed our uncertain love

Our shy hands hesitate at rst / running closer yet ar rom each other

Your ivory ngers moved towards mine / one inch only let our

hearts disjointed

For moments and minutes and then endlessly innite hours

Beore a sun blessed kiss gave us birth / Paradise was June

whispering your name

Then a storm came, washing the summer away, the wind howled

and cried your arewell

My soul a vessel, sank into abyss o ear and deception / desert mantled

my speechless heart

Cold waters river-ood my veins

Autumn leaves ell as curtains over pain and regrets / obsession guided

me blind

across snowakes and peach trees in bloom / ading into shiny sunowers

A new Fall showed me the road to Oblivion / heading towards the rainy island

Thousands o miles away rom blue skies and olive trees

Thousands o miles away rom your cherry lips / sheltered by oaks

and primroses

Moonlight shines on the green grass

carpet or squirrels and oxes night dances

A tender rain sprinkles the silent cloudy night

the dim street light calls me / I step outside, hush all over

Paradise is a soaked coat / Paradise is rain walking with me to the dawn

Paradise is your smile vanished and dissolved into darkness.

Kwenadi

Sarah Bopape

She is a work o art

A smile she possesses

Lights up a room

She is, most say genius

We know

Hard work, endurance and determination is she

She is a dove

Peace she leaves

Love she is.


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21

Tell me Thecold days/

of yourdishearTenedchildhood,/The sToveof your

imaginaTion/warming yourelsewheresDuty is Not an Exact Science Alessandra Pirovano (p.10)

My Name

Esther Freud

My name is bigger than me. It travels ahead. Freud. So serious. But in act

the meaning o it is joy. When I was a child visiting my ather in London,

or lack o any childish things to do, wed look up other Freuds in the phone

book and wed call them, at least my ather would, ask i they were related

to Lucian, the painter. The other Freuds were shocked. Absolutely not,

theyd say, and wed giggle, naughty, anarchic and then wed walk down

to the shop where wed buy cheese and chocolate and peaches and make

a picnic tea.

Freud makes a strong brown shape, like a soa. Its a solid name.

Full o history. Ive never been able to say the r o it clearly, even ater

years o drama school exercises, so that sometimes people mishear me,

and the name being so unamiliar to most British ears they cant catch

it not on its own. Forehead? Someone once asked. And so I spell it,

and they say it back. Frood. I dont usually bother to correct them.

But its dierent in Europe. As soon as I step o the Eurostar my

name is recognised. Passport ofcials want to chat. A dry cleaner in

Rome spilled out all his problems.

My mother could have given us her own name, but she took my

athers or us and hersel too and wears it lightly or sometimes not

at all, so that it still looks new and glamorous on an envelope, whereas

mine is as old as the hills.


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23

Oh Father Ibreem

Yaya Yosof

I remember you when you open the door

In the early morning,

The smell o Jasmines, Amreyhanis,

Foul and mixed ollowers

Rushed out the door

To wash my ace

With their resh and gorgeous smell

That ever explained

I remember when you when Tiwraat Jannee bird

Knocked on my door

With lovely songs

Songs o prayers

I learned to pray

From your prayers

I remember when you with your Jalabiyaa

Imamaa

Syrwaal

Markoob

and Sybhaa Loloob

on your mat

For Jumma.

I remember when you when you open the door

In the early morning,

The smell o Jasmines, Amreyhanis,

Foul and mixed ollowers

Rushed the door out

To wash my ace

With their resh and gorgeous smell

That ever explained

I remember you Dad.

I remember you Abbooy.

The fruiT ofThe flowers

goes To Thosewho neverplanTed ThemMy Rose, My Cause of Pain Nadia Ibrahim(p.27)


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25

The Blue Dress

Enrico Sibour

The sunny light comes in with me

and shuts outside when I close the door,

like the ar waves roar under the wind.

I stay, shoulders against the wall,

rom the window only the eucalyptis

silver shadow in the courtyard.

White grey walls and in the middle you,

still proud and demanding, possibly more

now when you lay above the marble

table, already wearing your last,

as usual, beautiul dress, now only covering your tall body.

My back still glued to the glossy cold paint,

I stare at your sot curly white hair: Maria

told us you just went to Carlo il parrucchiere two days ago.

There is some mould in the corner and

I notice the humid air and some

drop on the marbles moulding edge.

Far Away From Native Shores

Mark Guven

She is the truest spirit o nature

Giver, lover, carer, thinker a woman,

Beacon o purity, she shines with brilliance

Clear as rain, airer than wind, happiest o all.

He is a traveller, must explore urther

Eyes rm on horizon, charging in even deeper,

Dignity intact, embracing grave uncertainties

Adventurous and perilous are his turbulent seas.

He is gone now or good, she knows not why

Died at sea whisper ghosts, her with a cry

Try oh why must we try when souls are so ar apart

Such is the nature o love, no rules or borders behind.


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27

My Rose, My Cause of Pain

Nadia Ibrahim

The ace is creased

The back is bent

The breath is slow

The heart is broken

To her coat she seeks reuge

Looking or warmth

From the cold weather

And the coldness o ungrateulness

The burning tears ell

On her rozen cheeks

The tears dug canals o pain

The more the pain increases

The uller the canals become

Oh! Lord! She asked

What have I done?

In my garden I planted roses

I watered them rom my heart

I bore the pains in my thumbs

The roses now took their ull beauty

Catching the eyes and the sense

by their stunning look and amazing smell.

I stretched my neck to smell their odourBut they sent me a spike in the eye

Oh! What is the matter with you my lovely roses?

They answered me: Dont you know

The ruit o the owers goes to those who never planted them?

To her coat she returned seeking reuge

Looking or warmth

From the cold weather and the coldness o ungrateulness.

I dedicate this poem to all those lovely elderly people who are

forgotten by their beloved ones.

The bridgeon river blue

in KharToumKnows allThe peoplewalKing on iTeveryday by

Their namesThe Bridge on Blue River Nile Yaya Yosof (p.40)


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29


Yaya Yosof

I adhere the light, and the light o all lights

One day o 17th o July

The moon was ull

Complete

The clouds washing the moon ace

I sat on the balcony watching,

Wondering

I adhere the light and the light o all lights

A ace coming rom, in between the moon

It is the light behind the moon

Covering

the moon

the sky

coming to worth me

it is the touch I ever love

it is the drink I ever had

honey mixed ruit juice

that ever explained

paradise river drink

I adhere the light and the light o all lights

the light rom the heart o all lights

I adhere that light

O all lights

On that night

And all nights

Oh that light o original light

My aim is the light

My soul is the light

Shoo Shoo Shoo

I tell you the secret o lie

My son

I you want to see that light

O all lights

dont sleep all night

Wait or the light

All lie

Soon come the light

You drink a cup o your...

o your lie

I adhere the light and the light o all lights.


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31

Stainless Watch

Enrico Sibour

I have to remember, i not it stops.

It recalls me, the old shop

with the noisy tram passing by,

the shiny creamy windows

ull with bright watches and necklaces.

I dont have to remember, it doesnt ear water.

It recalls me, him, young, coming back

to his old work place,

to buy the rst proper one or the sons.

Coming back with the memories.

I have to remember, under the sun ater some time is hurt.

It recalls me, the narrow severe street

every morning, the sense o pride when

the day ater I came back to school,

I eel the wrist, heavier than usual.

7:37am

Mark Guven

No, they arent stingy slivers these. Am talking extra-thick, juicy slices o

mature cheddar eagerly awaiting their turn to be placed in-between ham

and bread. Toaster coughs up its our slices impatiently, under-done as usual

but at least its not complaining this morning. Tabasco, Worcestershire,

Lemon and no booze, all go into a large glass o tomato juice, resh oregano

on top and stirred gently with innocent excitement. Like kids sliding down

a waterslide on a perect, sunny day...where did they go, what has become o

them? Ones a doctor, ones a patient and the other? How easy it was to just

pop out or no rhyme or reason. Need another glass o this juice now, I think.


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33

Narciso Desnudo

Ennio Bollici

A sample taken from Narciso Desnudo (Part 2 o 2)

The man is Andreas ather. That vision distresses and shocks Andrea

more and more. He leaves the villa straight away, he gets into his car and

drives it aster and aster. Childhood memories come to his devastated

mind while riding the car. Ater a long stroll around the whole city he

stops in an elegant bar. He sits next to the bar, drinking many shots

o whiskey.

A blonde girl approaches him; she is very attractive and even though

he is almost drunk and wasted, Andrea is attracted by her. He invites her

to have a ride in his car, towards the seaside. They arrive there and go to

the beach. Andreas expression is crazy and insane but the girl does not

pay attention to his state o mind, thinking that he is just drunk as she is

not aware o what is going on in his mind. Andrea takes out some cocaine,

handing her a sni ater he has some. She takes it too and they seem to

have un and enjoy their time together but, all at a sudden, Andrea, in a

hallucinatory delirium sees in that girls ace his athers. He tries to kill

her by strangling her but she manages to deend hersel rom his attack,

beating him with a stone on his orehead. Andrea reacts, punching her

ace. She collapses on the sand bleeding all over the ace. Andrea realises

he has killed her. He stands up; he is desperate and mad. He keeps

walking on the shore, crying and shouting his athers name, then healls down exhausted on the sand. He will wake a while ater in a bed o a

mental hospital in which he has been secluded ater being claimed guilty

or the girls death. Actually, the autopsy revealed that the girl died due to

a cardiovascular stroke caused by the cocaine but that does not change

Andreas ate at all. Laura, Andreas mother, kills hersel as she could not

stand what happened to Andrea. Carlo, ater having let the army, is used

to spending time secluded in his house, dwelling over and regretting the

past, about the good times they all had beore tragedy came to their lie.

such is ThenaTure of

love, no rulesor bordersbehindFar Away From Native Shores Mark Guven (p.24)


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35

Fly to Dubai

Yaya Yosof

I remember that you told them,

You are ying to Dubai tonight

I dont remember that you told me,

Darling, Why?

But you can go

I remember when you wake up that morning,

Let me without hope, cold, colourless and old

Just you let the bed early like the bird needs the sky

I dont remember you nishing your morning tea,

That is your Cup, cakes and...

I guess youre in a hurry

I remember you let without a arewell

I dont remember where and when

The tickets being booked?

The decisions being made?

It is not air!

But you can go

You can go to DubaiEven i you dont say

I remember the colour o the lovely eye

I dont remember when the plan let

I remember you wearing blue in black

Your suitcase hidden in the corner

And the tie

Tell me.. . tell me why

I remember your sot and pink touch on my shoulder

I love your quick turn and the blink eye

Next touch and I will die

I dont remember that you said to me

Youre coming back

When, where and what plan?

Just come!

Dry my river eye.


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39

un than staying in and also cramming in, I thought. With every single

hit, I was lighter, closer and certainly reer. Once again, brought back

down by the small cheering crowd, amiliar aces, my numbed senses...

One moment in time that was, enjoying little glimpses o limitless

joy among tall apartment blocks in that ast urbanising city o

eighties Istanbul.

A Bat & A Hat

Mark Guven

Vast majority o my childhood memories took place in the city where

I played, won, lost, tried to share, and not even once elt like the un

was enough! So it was always pitch-black when I went home to eat and

rest. As children, I nd theres a constant battle in our minds between

homework and play, and I wouldnt be surprised at all i the roots o

my current procrastination lie there.

It was a ne day in May. Arrived home and got changed with

lightning-speed. Mum was at work as usual, let stued peppers in

the ridge. How classic! I thought, and had them cold in a ed-up

state. Key around my neck, trainers on and slam! Outside so peaceul,

suns up still, gentle breeze, wondering where all the other boys were.. .

They were in constant competition these two grocery shops nearby

my apartment block. Muhtar and Seer. Something about Muhtar was

putting me o though so I was always nding mysel in Seers place.

He had a normal moustache, bald head, small black eyes, and his belly

was always hanging out. I remember trying to climb up onto his counter

to catch a glimpse o his ace. He always wore a white sleeveless vest and

some brownish trousers. Everything about him was hugely intriguing:

the puzzling, glib conversations between adults in his shop, the strong

oaky smell, messy display, dim parts at the back. And most importantly,

he always sold new plastic balls! Was such a pleasure to down endless bottles

o pasteurised milk in ront o his shop ater a game. Mostly, younger kidswould start playing immediately when we let the street or the parking

lot as theyd been waiting in anticipation. Hard not to miss that chaos.

Up or a dierent game? I asked. Well, I knew none o my boys would

ever turn down an oer like that so it was a no-brainer. Couple o them

went yay!, and bang!, the ball was away again. Was kind o similar to

baseball this simple game but without the running around, yet still very

ostentatious and no longer than hal an hour at a time. A kid standing

about twenty metres away was kicking a ball towards me and I was hitting

it really hard with a thick wooden stick, using mostly a dead branch o a

tree. The ball would travel higher than some buildings up in the sky and

was ollowed by a wow! rom other kids and adults alike. Much more

wiTh everysingle hiT,i was lighTer,closer and

cerTainlyfreer


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40


41

The Bridge on Blue River Nile in Khartoum

Yaya Yosof

The bridge on River Blue in Khartoum

Knows all the people walking on it everyday

By their names.

I walked on it everyday on my way to school

To teach

People walk on it everyday

Going to work

Going to market

Children going to school

Laughing and talking

But no one thinks about the bridge.

When the river overows

In harvest time

And oods the bridge

With torrents o water

Everybody runs away

Looking or places to take shelter

The bridge faces the danger alone.

The last time I crossed the bridge

When I was running away

From my land orever

With my riends

At night, in darkness

All very rightened

But with hope in our hearts

For a sae world

Leaving behind my bridge on the Blue River Nile in Khartoum

Danger was everywhere

It settled there or a long, long time.

Run... run... run...

Come, come, pass quickly... shouted one man

shshshshshsh...

They will hear you

Quiet, quiet, be very quiet

Whispered the bridge

Every thing is quiet...suddenly

A Fireyy bird iii iir rrrr ying

Frogs stop crying

Al vidah, Al vidah.


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42


43

Literature & Mind

Nidhal Al Jibouri

My experience as English teacher together with a degree in English

literature rom my country made me eel that literature is very important

in peoples lives. This is because it develops enjoyment and commitment

to learning as a means o encouraging an attainment or all. It expands

their essential learning skills o literacy and inormation. Most o us know

literature is important to building personality. I will never orget what I

learnt rom Shakespeare and his plays and the proverbs and wisdoms,

or Jane Eyre, the great novel or Charlotte Bront. Scientists believe that

writing at a young age builds the childs mind and character. I remember

one day my brother was teasing that his job is much more important than

mine because he is an engineer and I am only an English teacher. My ather

overheard the conversation, so he was the one that answered my brother by

saying i you develop buildings, she develops human minds. I respect my

ather or this idea that means I am not alone in my opinion about literature.

Writing a poem or a story enables us to crat a lot rom our lie and our

suering. When I wrote a poem about my name which showed how I

suered rom my name I put my suering in a poem to express what had

happened in my lie and how I struggled. Or when I wrote a poem about

Baghdad my capital that means I know Baghdad passed in bad days rom

killing and kidnapping, which made me eel sad about what is going on

there. By writing you also reject what has happened to the innocent people,

and this gives you rest because you express this in writing and take a deepbreath. So carry on writing. It may be that while you are writing you will nd

a solution to your problems or you will get rid o your worries. Writing also

gives you inspiration to write more. Writing is not just my avourite hobby

but it is also an important actor in every persons lie. Where the world is

now, is because o reading and writing and the discoveries yet to come also

through reading and writing.

Writing is vital to communicating with others in the wider world,

and is a undamental way to learn how to participate in society and

employment. Any one can learn to express themselves creatively and

imaginatively and communicate with others condently and eectively.

Literature in English is rich and inuential. It reects the experiences o

people rom many countries and times and contributes to our sense o

cultural identity. We learn to become enthusiastic and critical readers

o stories, poetry and drama as well as non-ction, gaining access to the

pleasure and world o knowledge that reading oers.

wriTinggives youinspiraTionTo wriTe

more


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45

This is From My life

Nidhal Al Jibouri

Struggle is the meaning o my name

This lie is what I call a game

We all have to go through pain

As the world chases to nothing but ame

I have been through a lot to get to this place

I put on smile to hide my sad ace

There are plenty o bad memories I want to erase

And have them gone without a trace.

My Name

Sarah Bopape

Sarah, what a boring and common name; I used to think. Worst o

all, as simple and common as it is, its almost always mispelled and

mispronounced. My one is an English name not whatever language,

I always have to say.

I kinda hate the name but still nd mysel using it. I guess cause

its easier or everyone or maybe the meaning behind it. Or maybe its

because with my Arican name I have to spell it in all occasions and

everyone will ask me the meaning and i I tell them it doesnt have

one, which is true, theyd all say Im lying cause all Arican names have

meanings why wouldnt mine have. To spare me all that Ill use my

almost always mispelled and mispronounced, simple and common name.

It has so much in it though. Its kinda bright, joyous, motherly, holy, royal,

strong and lie itsel. My mum took so much pride in the name. It could

be because it was her adorable aunts. Never asked her why. Perhaps it

doesnt really matter but I wouldnt dare call any o my children Sarah.


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47

The Rainforest

Helmut Ogbeni

The thoughts still remain with me

The rainorest o yesteryears

I remember the sun rising above the trees

And casting a pattern on the orest oor

Which resembles a green sea

Stinging plants and butteries all around me

The sweet smell o wild ruits guava, mango,

Palm nuts, all mixed with those o owers,

Haliconia, wild roses and orchids

The gentle breeze triggers a rustle through the orest

Colourul birds and agama lizards on tree trunks

I return rom a distant journey to see

You are no more

I sit on the grass and eel the emptiness o the peace

And space thats been

Hiding inside o you

I scatter your seeds all around me while I make a wish or you

As owls, cicadas and crickets welcome the coming night.

i remembernow, The ciTy

of many facesIstanbul Mark Guven (p.36)


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From Readers & Writers the literature development

programme o English PEN.

Edited by Mark Guven, Yaya Yosof, Nadia Ibrahim,

Nadhal Al Jibouri, Helmut Ogbeni, Enrico Sibour,

Ennio Bollici and Philip Cowell.

The English Centre o International PEN, the worldwideassociation o writers, exists to uphold the values o literature,

literacy and reedom o expression. The frst PEN club was

ounded in London in 1921 to promote intellectual co-operation

and understanding among writers, to create a world community

o writers that would emphasise the central role o literature

in the development o world culture, and to deend literature

against the modern worlds threats to its survival. Readers &

Writers is English PENs literature development programme

which brings these international values home to London in

the orm o creative writing workshops or reugees, asylum

seekers and migrants.

The programme o workshops, out o which this book comes,

was supported through the 2012 London Cultural Skills Fund,

unded by the London Development Agency and managed by

Arts Council England.

English PEN is a company limited by guarantee, number

5747142, and a registered charity, number 1125610


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readers & writers #2: the light of the lights

Documents