By Olivia Snaije, with Publishing Perspectives.

On September 3, the University of Edinburgh held an event to celebrate the arrival of award-winning Palestinian writer and human rights lawyer Raja Shehadeh’s personal archive to the university’s Centre for Research Collections, with digital copies of the archive being stored at the Digital Archive of the Middle East (DAME), based at the Institute for Arab and Islamic Studies at the University of Exeter.

Shehadeh began to keep a journal in 1967, at age 15. Today, five million words fill his diaries, chronicling his life as a Palestinian, including his struggle for justice. His diaries, which include copies of military orders issued following the Israeli occupation of the West Bank in 1967, and legal and diplomatic papers, many from the 1940s belonging to his father (also a lawyer), recently arrived in the United Kingdom, box by box, for safekeeping.

Shehadeh’s archive had been stored in Ramallah, in the West Bank, but it had become clear the archive was at risk following Israeli military operations in Gaza that had seen the destruction of libraries, museums and other cultural institutions, and the spread of violence to the West Bank.

The international coordination required for the two-year operation to get the archives to the U.K. could be the narrative of a cultural thriller, and, in fact, a documentary called Journey of an Archive is forthcoming directed by Francesco Amoruso, Yazeed Abu Khdeir and Hannah Papacek Harper.

The team on the ground in Palestine was run by Jerusalem’s Educational Bookshop co-owner Mahmoud Muna, working with the Universities of Edinburgh and Exeter, and coordinated by author and journalist Matthew Teller.

At the event, Muna recounted, via video from Jerusalem, how the archives were transported from Ramallah to a designated studio in a secret location in Jerusalem, along with digitizing equipment. Tens of thousands of documents were photographed, scanned, and backed up by Muna, photographer Yazeed Abu Khdeir, and others.

The process sometimes seemed “endless,” said Muna, who also praised Shehadeh for his behind the scenes work in encouraging agents and publishers to publish Palestinian writers. After completing the first few thousand scans, “we would put the archives into boxes, secure the packages, and send them by courier to the University of Edinburgh,” he said. When a box arrived safely after a week-long journey, the next box would be shipped.

“Preserving and digitizing Raja Shehadeh’s archive has been one of the most complicated and rewarding projects we have ever undertaken as the Educational Bookshop,” said Muna, who with his nephew was arrested and detained by Israeli forces 2025, when his bookshop was raided.

‘An Important Resource for Scholars and Researchers’

Matthew Teller met Shehadeh in 2021 when he was working on his book Nine Quarters of Jerusalem. He had suggested to Shehadeh that they work on his biography together, but soon realized that it was more urgent to preserve Shehadeh’s archive.

Teller contacted James Downs, archivist at the University of Exeter’s Middle East collections and Tom Lea, who runs the Alwaleed Centre for the Study of Islam in the Contemporary World at the University of Edinburgh. Both responded postively. “An archive is one of the last bastions against total erasure,” said Teller.

Shehadeh’s publisher Andrew Franklin, founder and owner of U.K. independent publisher Profile Books, was among the audience in Edinburgh.

“It has been an extraordinary pleasure and privilege to have been Raja’s editor for more than 25 years,” Franklin told Publishing Perspectives. “He is Palestine’s most important prose writer, and a man of exceptional courage. I published a volume of his diaries about the occupation of Ramallah in 2002. That book, When the Bulbul Stopped Singing, was so powerful that it was turned into a play by the Scottish playwright David Greig. So I know how significant the diaries are. It is a huge relief that they are now safe and stored in archival conditions in Edinburgh where they will be an important resource for scholars and researchers.”

The Raja Shehadeh archive at the University of Edinburgh will be free and available to all researchers, scholars and members of the public. Given the vast number of materials in the archives, the project team is looking for additional funding so that the entire collection to be catalogued.

Meanwhile, about 4,000 pages from the archive are now available to the public as PDFs on the University of Exeter site. The archivists have organized them into groups for clarity rather than leaving them as individual pages. Besides legal and political documents, some dating back to the 1930s, there is, for example, a typed English-language draft of a chapter of a book or an article, written by Shehadeh’s father, Aziz, in 1973, analyzing the state of Israeli-Palestinian relations six years after the 1967 Six-Day War. And there are, of course pages from the famous diaries, including the two typed pages that mark the beginning of Shehadeh’s practice of journaling, written in 1967.

Because Shehadeh’s diaries also have personal elements to them, Shehadeh made sure he could approve all private aspects before publication. But anything else “was important to make public,” he said. “I’m 75 and didn’t want to leave without having a place for these diaries.”

Shehadeh said that he hoped another book would come out of the diaries. Certainly the archives will allow for reflection and will be inspirational to scholars, reseachers, writers, and the general public, which may produce further books.

His diaries are an important contribution to the pursuit of justice in Palestine, he said. “I began following the practices of occupation. I described my legal practice and the changing geography. At the time, the world was not ready to believe a Palestinian. All this is available now to see how the disastrous state of affairs has come about.”

Both Matthew Teller and Mahmoud Muna will be on tour in Germany and at the Frankfurt Buchmesse October 11 for the German translation of their book Daybreak in Gaza.

Olivia Snaije is a journalist and editor based in Paris and Barcelona who writes about translation, literature, the Middle East, and the African continent. She is the author of three books and has contributed to anthologies, newspapers and magazines including The Guardian, New Lines Magazine, and The Africa Report.

This first appeared in Publishing Perspectives.

As a way of marking #WorldKidLitMonth (which you can follow at @worldkidlit and worldkidlit.org), we are refreshing this profile from 2023 of 10 publishers that have a focus on children’s literature in Arabic. While some have been around since the 1980s and 90s, most are more recent.

Indeed, it’s been in the last quarter century that the landscape of Arabic literature written intentionally for young readers has been booming. Although there have long been comics, magazines, and genre writing that children enjoyed, the Arabic books popular with children before 2000 were largely written with adults — or broad audiences — in mind. Now, however, there is a vibrant and sometimes chaotic landscape of literature for young readers with dozens of literary prizes, hundreds of publishers, and thousands of authors and illustrators.

This is just a glimpse of a few publishers across the region. More of note include Kalila w Dimna Publishing, Noon Books, Jabal Amman, and Aseer al-Kotob, among others.

For those interested in more about Arabic literature for young readers, this month’s Newsletter for Publishing Professionals will focus on literature aimed at readers 17 and under.

One more thing: Back in 2023, we were remiss in not starting the list with a tribute to Dar al-Fata al-Arabi (founded in Beirut in 1974), which set the tone for a lot of Arabic literature for young readers. The rest are in no particular order.

1. Tamer Institute (Palestine)

Tamer Institute (tamerinst.org, founded 1989) is one of only two institutions to have won the biggest prize in children’s literature, the Astrid Lindgren Memorial Award, which they were given in 2009 for their tireless work promoting reading. As part of that, they run a publishing house. Renad Qubbaj, who has served as Tamer’s General Director of Tamer Institute for Community Education since 2006, was profiled as part of our series featuring women in Arabic publishing. In response to a question about what brings her joy, as a publisher, she said:

“The source of my happiness lies in the spaces provided by Tamer Institute to produce thought-provoking books. These books go beyond the familiar realms of our daily experiences, offering a fresh perspective on self, environment, and the world. They enable us to connect emotionally and intellectually with diverse characters and transport us to a safe and engaging place that transcends physical boundaries. These literary works have a lasting impact, penetrating our hearts and minds, and ushering us into a more expansive realm that shapes our evolving human identity in a world characterized by freedom and liberation.”

A few Tamer books we love: Ayman and His Butterflies, by Mohammed Al Nabulsi, Hooda Shawa’s Dragon of Bethlehem; Sherif Kanaana’s Stories from Palestinian Folklore; and Ahlam Bsharat’s Trees for the Absentees. You can explore more at their website: tamerinst.org.

A few more we love that you can read in translation: Hooda Shawa’s Necklace of Seven Souls, translated by Nour Jaljouli and Sawad Hussain; MG and YA novels from Sonia Nimr (her Thunderbird books and Wondrous Journeys); and Ahlam Bsharat’s Trees for the Absentees, tr. Ruth Ahmedzai Kemp and Sue Copeland.

Forthcoming in translation (also love): Sonia Nimr’s The Blue Door, ill. Raouf Karray and translated by Yasmeen Hanoosh.

2. Al Salwa Books (Jordan)

Al Salwa Books (alsalwabooks.com, founded in 1996) is another stalwart of the Arabic children’s literature scene. Founded in 1996, Al Salwa has published hundreds of books and has won awards in Jordan, regionally, and internationally.

Publisher Taghreed Najjar, who is also an award-winning author, was also profiled as part of our series on women in Arabic publishing. About her time in publishing, she said: “In the last few decades, we have made big strides in terms of content and the quality of books available for children. This is due to the growing awareness among today’s young parents of the importance of reading from a very early age. These parents are savvy and expect quality books for their children. Many schools have also come to realize that reading for fun in Arabic is important for the learning process. This has brought more demand for children’s books. When book sales improve, then more good books can be published.”

A few Al Salwa books we love: Taghreed Najjar’s YA novels The Mystery of the Falcon’s Eye. Against the Tide; her chapter books What Happened to My Brother Ramez?, and Mrs. Jawaher and Her Cats; Yazan Al-Masarwah & Burcu Yilmaz’s clever Black Line; Maria Daadouche & Celeste Aires’ funny My Pants are too Short; Anastasia Qarawani & Maja Kastelic’s tender Koozy; and Taghreed Najjar & Maya Fidawi’s classic The Watermelon (translated as Watermelon Madness).

A few you can read in translation: Picture books Watermelon Madness, What Shall We Play Now, and The Ghoul, among others, and chapter book My Brother & Me, by Taghreed Najjar, ill. Maya Fidawi, tr. Michelle Hartman.

Note: Against the Tide is finally forthcoming in Elisabeth Jaquette’s translation.

3. Al Yasmine Publishing House (Jordan)

Al Yasmine Publishing House  (alyasminebooks.com), founded in 2010 by author Abeer Taher (whose Naughty Kitty we love!) has a goal of making child-friendly books for readers age 0-16, with “the ultimate goal of making reading a part of their lifestyle.” Al Yasmine has published more than 90 children’s and young adult books by authors from across the Maghreb and Mashreq and by illustrators from around the world.

A few Dar al-Yasmine books we love: Their YA novels The Heart is Right Behind the Rib, by Maria Daadouche, and Wild Poppies, by Haya Saleh; picture books That Fish in My Stomach by Maria Daadouche & Amanda Paschal; Don’t Let Judy Go Without a Coat, by Maria Daadouche and Walid Taher; and of course the classic Naughty Kitty, by Abeer Taher and Maya Fidawi.

One you can read in translation: Haya Saleh’s Wild Poppies. We hope to see more soon.

4. Kalimat (UAE)

Since their founding in 2007, Kalimat (kalimatgroup.ae) has been a force to be reckoned with in children’s publishing, with high-quality books produced originally in Arabic and translated into Arabic. They have some particularly charming series, such as the Yasmina series written by Fatima Sharafeddine and illustrated by Lena Merhej.

Kalimat has a partnership with Bloomsbury, which has brought several of their books into English translation.

A few Kalimat books we love: Fatima Sharafeddine & Hanane Kai’s Auntie Osha; Obada Talka & Alessandra Santelli’s Areej ;and Rania Zbib Daher & Debora Guidi’s Sound of the Sea.

A few you can read in translation: Fatima Sharafeddine & Hassan Zahreddine’s Tweet Quack Moo and Fatima Sharafeddine’s Mimi books, ill. Rasha Mounib Al Hakim.

5. Balsam Books (Egypt)

Balsam Books (al-balsam.com) — an extension of Egypt’s leading children’s bookshop — is an award-winning publisher and cornerstone of the Egyptian kid-lit scene. Founded by Balsam Saad, was founded in 2005. The house “specializes in books for children and young adults and aims to provide reading materials of outstanding content and design that will inspire, give hope and educate. Our aim is to revive our culture, language and values both through locally developed materials as well as through materials translated to and from around the world.”

A few Balsam books we love: Middle grade reads Shahrazizi’s Nights, by Hadil Ghoneim & Sahar Abdallah; picture book I Feel As If, written by Sohier Abaza and illustrated by Walid Taher; Teta and Babcia, by Miranda Beshara & Heba Khalifa; and everything by author-illustrator Alaa Mortada, but if we had to pick one: Damascus.

In translation: Teta and Babcia is (finally!) forthcoming in translation.

6. Dar al-Saqi (Lebanon)

Dar al Saqi (daralsaqi.com) is a publisher of long standing, but they only started up a children’s and young adult list, Saqi Kids, in 2012, and they have been doing a lot of path-breaking of late, releasing about 15 titles a year. In the last few years, they have published some of our favorite children’s books, with laugh-and-cry stories and bold illustrations, like our beloved Where Do I Put You?, written by Fatima Sharafeddine and illustrated by Najaf Farashte and the incredible I’m Not Alone, by Rami Tawil, ill Sandra Calvi, which makes us laugh and cry just thinking about it.

A few Dar al-Saqi books we love: Where Do I Put You?, written by Fatima Sharafeddine and illustrated by Najaf Farashte and I’m Not Alone, by Rami Tawil, ill Sandra Calvi.

A few you can read in translation: Fatima Sharafeddine and Samar Mahfouz Barraj’s MG novel Ghady & Rawan, tr. Sawad Hussain and M Lynx Qualey; you can also read an excerpt of Fatima Sharafeddine’s Cappuccino, tr. same.

7. Liblib Publishing (UK)

The UK-based Liblib (liblibpublishing.co.uk) is one of a handful of publishers bringing out books in colloquial Arabics. They write: “LibLib aims to be a world-class publishing house for children’s books written in spoken Arabic; instilling a love of reading by providing inspiring, inclusive, accessible and diverse stories for Arabic-speaking children everywhere.”

Right now, their focus is board books, and they’ve got a number of charming ones.

A few Liblib books we love: Board books The Weather, illustrated by Omar Hossain and the Touch & Feel book, illustrated by Aya Marzouk.

Also note: Liblib’s latest project, called “It’s Our Art Too! — Rehla“ will happen between London and Cairo, in cooperation with the built environment collective Megawra. The aim is to bring together young people in Cairo and London, ages eight to sixteen, for a series of workshops that will explore ” the stories, patterns, objects and ideas that connect cultures through Islamic art.” Through a series of workshops, children and young adults will begin as researchers, and then transition to storytellers and creators, engaging with Islamic art and responding through writing, drawing and discussion.

Their ideas will be developed into Rehla, or Journey, an “activity book and museum treasure hunt” that will be created by young people for young people. The idea is “to make Islamic art more accessible, engaging and relevant to wider audiences, while celebrating the diverse communities connected to this shared heritage.”

8. Dar El Shorouk (Egypt)

As they write over at CairoBookStop, the house was “founded in 1948 by Mohamed el-Moallem under the name Dar al-Qalam, the house was nationalized in 1961 along with Dar al-Ma‘arif and following the government’s acquisition of al-Ahram, Dar al-Hilal, Ruz al-Yusuf, and al-Akhbar in 1960. Two years after the government buyout, el-Moallem tried again to open a private house, this time succeeding with Dar El Shorouk. Following his success in Cairo, el-Moallem opened a second branch in Beirut the following year, then later added a printing division to each branch. After el-Moallem’s death in 1995, leadership passed to his son Ibrahim el-Moallem,” who currently runs the publishing house.

Children’s books are an important part of what they do at Dar El Shorouk (shorouk.com), and they have been the publisher, for instance, of the charming “Alam Simsim” (Sesame World) picture books, featuring the characters from the TV show, and Walid Taher’s charming Fizo series.

A few Dar El Shorouk books we love: The whole Fizo series of picture books, by Walid Taher; It’s a Chick, Not a Dog, by Jar al-Nabi al-Hilw & Hilmi al-Tuni; Walid Taher’s The Black Dot, and Walid Taher’s sweet alphabet book, My Beautiful Letters.

A few you can read in translation: You can read the text of It’s a Chick, Not a Dog on Words Without Borders, in Marilyn Booth’s translation, and although Walid Taher’s The Black Dot isn’t available in English, it is available in French translation.

9. Alia Publishing (Egypt)

Al-Alia’s (reachalia.com) tagline is “reviving the passion of reading in a world of technology.” They add that “not only does the child enjoy the new experience of reading that Alia presents, but so does everyone else.” And it’s true — Alia books are a favorite among parents and caregivers as well.

You can see a number of their books on their Frankfurt Rights mini-site; like everyone else, we particularly love Akkkkkhhhh! by Manar Hazza, illustrated by Soheir Khaled.

A few Alia books we love: Akkkkkhhhh! by Manar Hazza, illustrated by Soheir Khaled and Simple by Manar Hazza, illustrated by Basma Hosam.

We hope to see books by Alia in translation soon.

10. Yanbow al-Kitab (Morocco)

Yanbow al-Kitab (facebook.com/yanbowalkitab) is a Moroccan children’s publishing house founded in 2006 by author Amina Hachimi Alaoui. There are now more than 100 titles in their catalog, published in Arabic, French, and Tamazight. When it was created in 2006, it aimed to fill a void in Morocco, namely the publication of books that were relevant to Moroccan culture and young Moroccan readers.

And their books definitely take the reader to Morocco. Some of our favorites are the award-winning and tender Seventh Day Sheep, by Amina Hachimi Alaoui & Maya Fidawi, and Alya and the Three Cats, by Amina Hachimi Alaoui & Maya Fidawi.

One you can read in translation: Alya and the Three Cats, by Amina Hachimi Alaoui & Maya Fidawi, translated by Mehdi Retnani.

On Music, Memory, and Damascus

Alaa Rashidi in Conversation with Fifi Bat-hef

The Book of Damascus, ed. Zaher Omareen, is a new anthology in the Comma Press “Reading the City” series. Here, contributor Alaa Rashidi talks with Fifi Bat-hef about his short story, “Marvellous Music Memory,” translated by Majd Abu Shawish.

You can also read Haseeb Al-Zainy’s “The Blacklist” here on ArabLit, yesterday’s conversation with The Book of Damascus editor Zaher Omareen, and get the whole collection from the Comma Press website.

Each of the four sections in your story, “Marvellous Music Memory,” is built around an attempt to reconcile opposing musical worlds: western and eastern classics, romance and social justice, spirituality and sensuality, obedience and protest. How do these particular pairings allow you to explore the Syrian experience?

Alaa Rashidi: The story is told through the memory of Samee’ Raneen, who possesses an almost otherworldly ability to summon musical memories, particularly of 1990s Damascus. However, he also tells us his memory was damaged during the war, which allows him to exaggerate, claiming that he invented musical works that combine the contradictions inherent to the music mentioned in your question. He claims to have composed a piece that blends the Arab maqam with Western music scales, an almost impossible task that lends the story a touch of comedy.

Whenever he tells us about his experience with music in Damascus in the 90s, he claims to have crafted some impossible musical work: for example, a song that blends political commitment and romance. As to how this expresses the Syrian experience, the four issues—Eastern and Western classics, romance and social justice songs, spirituality and sensuality, and finally, an anthem that combines obedience and revolution—are questions that have interested composers throughout history, and likewise they were themes and issues present in Syria — a country influenced by both East and the West, by Sufism and sexual freedom, and so on. All these musical genres were present in the Syrian music of the nineties. Should songs spread stability or call for rebellion? Do we play the European symphony or the Eastern ensemble? All of that was present at the time.

Do you see Samee’ Raneen primarily as a man struggling with real cognitive loss, or as an unreliable narrator whose exaggerations are enabled by that loss? How important was it for you that the reader feel both the sadness and the comedy in that unreliability?

AR: On a literary level, I wanted to capture everything  you mentioned. From cognitive loss and exaggeration, to invoking feelings of sadness and comedy in the reader. But I also wanted to reflect on the music of Damascus in the nineties, and on musical arts as a whole.

In your story, the repeated refrain “I had two completely contradictory tastes in music, and all my efforts were focused on reconciling them” becomes almost like a musical motif. How intentional was this rhythmic repetition and what were you hoping it would do for the reader by the final section?

AR: I wrote the story with the structure of a musical piece, and it contains many repeating motifs, which some readers and translators advised me to tone down. The story reached the English translation with a few repeating motifs to suggest to the reader that they are listening to a string quartet. But the truth is, the repeating motifs are not only to suggest the musicality of the story; rather, it poses the deepest question for any Syrian composer or music researcher: Do I follow European scales or Arab maqams? Am I with Sufi music and thought, or do I follow European carnality and materialism? Do I compose against tyranny, or for passion and tenderness? The motif here focuses on the deepest questions of Syrian thought and music.

The name of the protagonist, Samee’ Raneen, translates to something like “Listener of Sonority.” In a story where he continually claims to invent and reconcile impossible musical worlds, what drew you to a name that emphasises listening rather than composing?

AR: That is an excellent question. First, the logic behind the name is that it should be somewhat allusive and indirect. Second, the name reflects the care his father took to nurture his musical talent. And third, just as a writer must possess the gift of extensive reading to become a writer, any musician must listen attentively to become a composer.

The story if full of specific Damascus locations’ sights and sounds. You mentioned Al Azem Palace, the Damascus Opera House, nightclubs and bars, Umayyad Mosque courtyards, and resistance gatherings on the rural outskirts. How does music define the identity and geography of Damascus differently than a visual landmark would?

AR: Music is one of the arts most connected to place, as it is a physical vibration in a space. In this, I fully agree with what you suggest in the question. All cities possess musical places and cultural places. When choosing the locations in the story, I tried to reflect the diverse cultural, social, and political currents in Damascus: heritage spaces and avant-garde spaces, places of authority and places of revolution, and religious spaces alongside secular ones, meaning bars and nightclubs.

Despite the tragedy of the gaps in Samee’ Raneen’s memory, there is an enduring, almost obsessive, love for music that survives the war. Do you view “Marvellous Music Memory” as a tragic story about loss, or a resilient celebration of artistic survival?

AR: I truly believe that, in the face of the tragedy, there is nothing but the arts—such as music for Samee’ and  writing for me—to create beauty in the face of harshness and depth in contrast to the profound emotional impact. Since 2011, I have worked as a researcher and critic of Syrian arts and music during the revolution, which was followed by civil conflict, and then by the ensuing international war. In Syria, catastrophe and artistic creativity are inseparable, and I felt a need to highlight the artistic creativity accompanying this political and social experience.

As both an art critic and a storyteller, what can fiction do to capture the catastrophe and creativity in Syria that research and criticism cannot?

AR: Literature and criticism each have their own distinct nature. Fictional works like The Book of Damascus need creativity to illuminate them, but also research and criticism. Research can therefore inspire creative literature. A great literary work must rest on a solid intellectual and critical foundation, which provides the substance and depth needed to carry profound themes. To apply this to my own work, I conducted extensive historical, musical, and spatial research to write “Marvellous Music Memory.”

“Marvellous Music Memory” is the final story in Book of Damascus, and unlike the other stories, it turns inwards towards cognitive erasure. Do you see memory as the last frontier of resistance in Syria? And how does it feel to provide the final “note” for this collection?

AR: I do not believe in a straightforward concept of resistance. Instead, I lean toward innovation, criticism, artistic illumination, and the intellectual accountability made possible through literature and the arts. Memory is not an action but a result. I do not see it as a tool of resistance; rather, its role is to embody the entire artistic, literary, political, and cultural output of a society during a specific historical era. The main action must always be creativity and innovation. For example, instead of music that incites violence, let us create music that fosters connection. And instead of writing ideological or totalitarian literature, let us create a literature rooted in existential questions and human values.

As for where my story sits in the collection, I cannot yet say anything about that. I am waiting for my copy of The Book of Damascus so I can discover the other stories featured in it. Perhaps after reading all the stories I might have an answer.

Finally, if “Marvellous Music Memory” had a soundtrack, one piece of music that captures the essence of the story, what would it be, and why?

AR: It would be the music of Samee’ Raneen laughing at us, for believing that a musical piece could express a literary story.

Also read: “Every Alley, a Different Damascus” and “A Life not Defined by Death: A critical reading of The Book of Damascus”

Alaa Rashidi is a narrator, art critic and cultural journalist. He writes art and literary critique in a number of research centres, newspapers and websites. His fictions include Last Game before the Grammar Homework (Dar Mamdouh Adwan, 2014), Fantasies of Magic and Other Stories (Dar Al-Mouwaten, 2017) and Mirror Seduction through Music and Other Stories (2021). Find more on his books here.

Fifi Bat-hef is a literature enthusiast from Mombasa who revels in literary fiction and short stories, with a bias for postcolonial African and Arab narratives. Her reviews have appeared in Lolwe, The New Arab, Red Pepper Magazine, and Middle East Eye.

On Shaping ‘The Book of Damascus’

Zaher Omareen in Conversation with Fifi Bat-hef

The Book of Damascus, ed. Zaher Omareen, is a new anthology in their “Reading the City” series. Here, editor Zaher Omareen talks with Fifi Bat-hef about selecting ten stories to represent a city as complex and storied as Damascus.

You can also read Haseeb Al-Zainy’s “The Blacklist” here on ArabLit, and get the whole collection from the Comma Press website. Tomorrow, we’ll have another talk with contributor Alaa Rashidi.

As both editor and contributor, how did you approach selecting the ten stories? What made these particular voices essential for capturing Damascus?

Zaher Omareen: I think these stories largely reflect the personal experiences of the writers themselves, whether as witnesses to a particular period or event in the life of the city, or simply as people who belong to Damascus and have experienced its everyday life through living there.

Each story offers a different perspective on Damascus. It is almost as if we are looking at a single great beam of light refracted through a prism into different colours, languages, events, rhythms and voices. These elements diverge and sometimes clash, yet they also intertwine to create the portrait of one city, an immensely fascinating and complex one.

Your introduction looks back from 2026, while the stories were written before the fall of Assad. Did the collapse of the regime change the way you curated/arranged/framed these stories?

ZO: These stories had already been written and completed months before the fall of the regime, and the book had been on its way to publication since then. In fact, both the publishers and I were committed to remaining faithful to the moment in which these stories were written—that is, before the fall of Syria’s dictatorship, because altering them in light of what happened afterwards would have produced an entirely different book.

In my introduction to the collection, however, I tried to provide a broader post-regime context through which these stories could be understood, both politically and on a human level.

As a war correspondent, filmmaker, and writer, how has your multifaceted background influenced your editorial approach to balancing humor, dignity, absurdity and grief in this collection?

ZO: All of these experiences have certainly left their mark on the stories I write, but my relationship with creative documentary filmmaking has probably had the greatest influence.

I believe deeply that any literary work can, in some sense, be understood through that early definition of documentary: the “creative treatment of actuality.” Humor, absurdity and grief, then, are simply different aspects of my own artistic treatment of a reality I have lived through or witnessed. They are ways of re-presenting people I have known, or of reweaving images I have seen or imagined.

You’re not just applying that “creative treatment of actuality” to your own story, but also shaping how other contributors’ experiences of Syria come together on the page. How do you navigate the space between creative treatment and responsibility to the people and events behind their writing? Are there particular editorial instincts or boundaries you find yourself holding onto in that process?

ZO: I think there is a fundamental difference between the creative treatment of reality and reshaping it to fit a preconceived idea. That distinction becomes even more important when the story is not your own, but an experience lived by someone else.

As an editor, it was important to me that the different texts did not become a single voice or a homogeneous narrative about Damascus. Each writer has their own city, shaped by their memories, their relationship to it, and their perspective on it. I think part of the value of the book lies precisely in placing these different versions of the city alongside one another, with all their intersections and contradictions. So I saw my role as finding a form that allowed these voices to coexist and interact, rather than making them conform.

Of course, there are editorial interventions concerning structure, rhythm, clarity, and the relationship of each piece to the book as a whole. But the boundary I try to hold onto is that the editorial decision should never become more present than the person whose experience is being told. This is particularly important when writing about Syria, where even a small personal detail can carry behind it a history of violence, loss, or exile, and therefore cannot be treated simply as a literary matter.

This is why I understand the “creative treatment of actuality” as a search for the form best able to convey an experience, rather than the form that makes it most dramatic. Creativity here does not mean moving away from the truth, but finding the language and structure that allow a deeply personal experience to reach someone who has not lived it.

The Book of Damascus opens with a preface by the late Khaled Khalifa. What felt essential about ensuring his voice served as the collection’s threshold?

ZO: He really is the threshold through which the reader first looks onto Damascus. This has to do with the richness of Khaled Khalifa’s language and imagination, and with his extraordinary ability to condense so many events and realities into intensely concentrated pulses.

It also has to do with his place in contemporary Syrian literature: he was one of the very few writers and novelists who chose to remain in Damascus and write about its devastation throughout the harsh, lean years of Assad’s rule.

For these stories, his voice felt like the principal musical theme, the note that sets the rhythm for the stories that follow and prepares their path towards the reader’s heart.

In your introduction, you described the euphoria of December 2024 as “walking on water,” an impossible lightness that was followed by heavy grief. How do you see the individual stories anticipate the tension between joy and despair?

ZO: That is something I would rather leave to the reader to judge. But the relationship with Damascus has always been a tense one, even before the years of the revolution. That is simply the nature of this city: it weaves its spirit out of contradictions. Even when its face is smiling, it cannot help but carry deep scars.

So despite the very different backgrounds, styles and experiences of the writers in this collection, I think there is one thread running through all of the stories: an underlying tension, and questions that remain suspended without answers.

Your own story, “What Only the Chickens and Donkey Know about Abdulwahab,” is rich in tragicomedy irony – food and desire weighed down by the security state, the absurd death while laughing. How consciously did you weave in that “walking on water” paradox, pleasure followed by tragedy, while writing this?

ZO: When I began writing the story, the final image of its protagonist, Abdulwahab, was almost the only thing I could see. Everything else the contradictions and ironies the story creates or explores seeped out of that image.

In many ways, Abdulwahab reflects the relationship that many Syrians had with their own private lives under the rule of the two Assads. There were very few choices available to them. It was as though they were moving towards an inescapable fate already drawn for them by the dictator and his security apparatus. There was little room to maneuver and few alternative paths.

That is why Abdulwahab appears naïve and almost stripped of agency. And when he finally tries to escape his reality, even for a few moments, luck is not particularly kind to him.

At least, that is how I see him. I do not know whether the reader will come away with an entirely different impression of the story. I hope so. After all, what use is literature if it does not leave us with questions?

Some of the featured writers, (and your own protagonist, Abdulwahab) carry regional backgrounds and traumas from outside Damascus. How did you balance capturing the magnetism of the capital without erasing the deep regional fractures that exist across Syria?

ZO: For anyone who has lived in Damascus, creating that contradiction is not particularly difficult. It is already part of everyday reality; there is very little need to invent it. All you have to do is hold up a mirror to the streets of the city and you will see endless reflections of those contradictions.

Especially these days, I like to call Damascus “Disneyland for writers.” All a writer really needs to do is sit, watch, and record what they see honestly, with their eyes wide open. Its reality has always been, and will probably remain stranger than fiction itself.

And finally, what do you hope readers outside Syria take away from The Book of Damascus?

ZO: I hope the reader comes away with some impression of Damascus. Like the great ancient cities that fill our part of the world, it has its contradictions, its magic, its wounds and its complicated history.

And if Damascus has one quality that distinguishes it from other cities, it is this: the more you drink from its water, the thirstier you become. So I would not be surprised if readers finish this collection with a long list of questions about Damascus. And why not? Curiosity has never killed anyone.

Also read: “Every Alley, a Different Damascus” and “A Life not Defined by Death: A critical reading of The Book of Damascus”

Fifi Bat-hef is a literature enthusiast from Mombasa who revels in literary fiction and short stories, with a bias for postcolonial African and Arab narratives. Her reviews have appeared in Lolwe, The New Arab, Red Pepper Magazine, and Middle East Eye.

SEPTEMBER 4, 2026 — Only one title translated from Arabic was on the longlists for the 2026 National Translation Awards in Poetry and Prose, announced yesterday: I Have Brought You a Severed Hand by Ghayath Almadhoun, translated by Catherine Cobham and published by Action Books.

This year’s prose judges are Addie Leak, Eva Apelqvist, Hanna Leliv, N Kalyan Raman, and Priscilla Layne. This year’s judges for poetry are Karen Kovacik, Karen Leeder, and Robyn Creswell.

The award shortlists are set to be announced on October 6, and the winners on October 23, at an awards ceremony at the American Literary Translators Association’s annual conference.

Of Madhoun’s book, the judges said:

Ghayath Almadhoun’s I Have Brought You a Severed Hand are war poems for the twentieth-first century, full of rage and wit and terrible truths. He writes of the violence in Syria from the frontlines of immigration in Europe—from self-satisfied Stockholm and the artsy precincts of Berlin—and he brings the news that no one wants to hear. “I have brought you cities destroyed on top of their inhabitants so you can reconstruct them,” “I have brought you sarin gas so you can breathe deeply.” The translations of Catherine Cobham move fluidly among the many registers of the Arabic: argument and aphorism, surreal imagery and searing analysis.

The complete longlists:

The National Translation Award in Poetry longlist (in alphabetical order by title):

The Figure Outward by Jean Daive, translated from French by Kevin Holden, published by Black Square Editions

Girl with a Bullet: Selected Poems by Anna Malihon, translated from Ukrainian by Olena Jennings, published by World Poetry Books

I Have Brought You a Severed Hand by Ghayath Almadhoun, translated from Arabic by Catherine Cobham, published by Action Book

If Only For A Moment (I’ll Never Be Young Again) by Jaime Gil de Biedma, translated from Spanish by James Nolan, published by Fonograf Editions

[Incognita Flora Cuscatlanica] by Elena Salamanca, translated from Spanish by Ryan Greene, published by La Impresora

The Minotaur’s Daughter: Selected Poems by Eva Luka, translated from Slovak by James Sutherland-Smith, published by Seagull Books

Ovid Void by Maria Stepanova and Eugene Ostashevsky, translated from Russian by Eugene Ostashevksy, published by World Poetry Books

Poet in the New World by Czesław Miłosz, translated from Polish by Robert Hass and David Frick, published by Ecco

The Ruins by Ye Hui, translated from Chinese by Dong Li, published by Phoneme (Deep Vellum)

Touché by Pascalle Monnier, translated from French by Cole Swensen, published by Green Linden Press

Unnameable by Anna Gual, translated from Catalan by AKaiser, published by Zephyr Press

The National Translation Award in Prose longlist (in alphabetical order by title):

Back in the Day by Oliver Lovrenski, translated from Norwegian by Nichola Smalley, published by Hamish Hamilton

The Calf by Leif Høghaug, translated from Norwegian by David M. Smith, published by Fum d’Estampa

Cécé by Emmelie Prophète, translated from French by Aidan Rooney, published by Archipelago Books

The Front by Edimilson de Almeida Pereira, translated from Portuguese by Johnny Lorenz, published by Sundial House

Hunter by Shuang Zuetao, translated from Chinese by Jeremy Tiang, published by Granta Magazine Editions

I Gave You Eyes and You Looked Toward Darkness by Irene Solà, translated from Catalan by Mara Faye Lethem, published by Graywolf Press

Into the Sun by C.F. Ramuz, translated from French by Emma Ramadan and Olivia Baes, published by New Directions

Mending Bodies by Hon Lai Chu, translated from Chinese by Jacqueline Leung, published by Two Lines Press

Mothers by Brenda Lozano, translated from Spanish by Heather Cleary, published by Catapult Book Group

Small Boat by Vincent Delecroix, translated from French by Helen Stevenson, published by HopeRoad

Visions and Temptations by Harald Voetmann, translated from Danish by Johanne Sorgenfri Ottosen, published by New Directions

When You Listen to This Song by Lola Lafon, translated from French by Laura Elkin, published by Yale University Press

SEPTEMBER 3, 2026 — Egyptian author-translator Yasmine Zohdi is one of five writers shortlisted for this year’s Caine Prize, which celebrates short stories by African authors.

The five shortlistees were chosen from among four hundred submissions. All five are available online:

Yasmine Zohdi: The Absence of Stains

Gladwell Pamba: The Last Shop

This poem originally appeared in our 2021 SONG issue of ArabLit Quarterly.

Song for Bassam Saba

By Walid Daou

Translated by Suneela Mubayi

Translator’s note:

Bassam Saba (1958-2020) was the founder of the New York Arabic Orchestra and head of the National Higher Conservatory of Music in Lebanon from 2018 until his passing due to complications of Covid-19.

Walid Daou, born in 1981 in Mount Lebanon, is a blogger, schoolteacher, and poet based in Beirut. Of this poem, he writes: “While walking from my home to Mar Yousef Church in Beirut’s Monot district, where the Conservatory would hold a recital every Friday evening, I would consider the paradox: By taking this long walk, I was shedding the fatigue that was piling up on top of me, but as a result, also adding new fatigue. At the end of my walk, inside the church, there would be Bassam Saba to greet me with his smile. That smile sufficed as my own special ‘Si se puede,’ as if with his smile he was telling me: Yes, you can make all that fatigue go away.”

Bassam means “ever smiles” in Arabic. It comes from the same trilateral root as Basim, “smiling”; Bassem Chit, a revolutionary socialist organizer and close friend of the author, tragically died of a heart attack at the age of 34 in 2014; he is alluded to in the poem. The references to salt suggest the Gospel of Matthew 5:13, where Christ calls his disciples the salt of the earth. – Suneela Mubayi.

For Bassam Saba

Where do tears come from, Bassam?

Where does the salt in tears come from?

Was it left over from the spray of the waves

that clung to my eyes

But which sea, Bassam,

when you departed in the winter,

or was it autumn,

the autumn of the land,

the autumn of our days…

Where does the salt come from, Bassam?

Does it come from bread we did not eat

when you with your hands and your breath

left all the bread for us?

You stood there

at the center of the church

smiling

just like your name—Bassam

hunching slightly forward

just like our backs hunch

ever so gradually

under a load that does not relent

that never has

and never will….

You, the one who knew all the burdens

as you let out that breath

from your northern plain

you called out

the call of the children of the land

the children of the factories

Calling out, you crossed the oceans

flying with the seagulls and swallows

to Beirut

You bore

the blows of all the knives

And so the breaths of air

your breaths

softly caressed

their wounds

as much as they could

But when you departed

you were a wound to all wounds

What balm then, Bassam, is there for Beirut?

Each one of you departs

one after the other

leaving your shadows

in the cramped crevices of the land

You leave your many cups

on their own

You leave your plates

You leave your breaths

to struggle against the winds by themselves

You leave the thorns

to weep and yearn

(thorns are more loving,

more tender

and dearer to us)

What country is this, Bassam?

If we ever smile

we are stabbed in the back

many times over

Never mind, Bassam

we will befriend only

crows

foxes

owls

spiders

hyenas

mongoose

and moles

for they too, weep and yearn,

they too

are gentler

more tender

and dearer to us.

Bassam! This evening

I am mixing up names

and meanings.

Doubtless,

with your death, a part of me dies

Yet there is born in me

a new sorrow.

The back will be hunched completely

A tear will cling to

the corner of my eyes

The moon will carry whatever it can

of your melody

It will send it to the sun once

and another time, to the wheat planted

so its stalks will grow

and turn green

rise high

become golden

The flour sprinkled with salt

kneaded into dough

fermented

and baked

And so there will be bread

There will be a table

There will be a cup

There will be wine

There will be dancing

There will be a flute

and there will be

you.

You can read the Arabic original online here.

Walid Daou, born in 1981 in Mount Lebanon, is a writer  and poet based in Beirut. He blogs at nidalat.wordpress.com, where, in his words, “there is more about me than any bio can say.”

Suneela Mubayi earned her PhD in Arabic literature at NYU and translates literature between Arabic, English, and Urdu, and has published in Banipal, Beirut39, Jadaliyya, Words Without Borders, and elsewhere.

An Autumn Vision

By Muhammad Khudayyir

Translated by Nazim Mizhir

Autumn arrived with a new vision, different from those of autumns past. It wasn’t like the visions of the riverbank: “The Severed Head,” “The Stopped Clocks of Town Squares,” “The Island of Statues,” and “The Hanged Flies”—a series of visions wet with the dew of dawn, pulsing like the heart of the great river.

Every face in this autumn vision is shrouded in fog and panic, except for a single clear visage. It’s that of an older woman who is moving ahead: maternal, calm, and resigned to her fate. A throng of people, each of them carrying only a few belongings, pours from a bridge or ferry on the river’s opposite bank. As soon as they reach the shore, they scatter in every direction, leaving behind the deliberate old woman, walking as slow as a turtle.

The vision returned later, to be examined slowly, contemplatively, and with a searching gaze, now enriched with additional details. The scene unfolds, sometimes pausing on a small fragment that is its focal point: the woman’s ancient face as it emerges from the mist behind the dispersing crowd. Other details freeze within the frame of vision, intertwined with her face: the rippling surface of the river, the boats, the wooden stakes of an old bridge, and the braided iron wires that dangle in the water. Other elements remain indistinct—perhaps a squadron of aircraft, perhaps a cloud of fear. Hours later, the crowd surges and disperses again, along with other details, and the same ancient face, as if emerging from nowhere, makes her way like a river turtle toward the ferry landing.

I went out before sunset to investigate the source of this new vision. Stillness gripped the ships that were anchored on the murky water, where fleeting breezes stirred withered yellow leaves, creating a faint rustling sound beneath my feet. I arrived at the landing that carries people from this bank to the opposite one—the very place that has appeared, again and again, in the vision of this autumn: the remains of the bridge’s wooden pillars, the braided wires fallen among the rocks from which the water has receded, a wrecked iron ship eroded by the waves, and tethered boats gently swaying.

I waited for a long time, but nothing happened. Not even the faintest warning flashed by. The last ferry returning from the far bank stopped, and a few passengers disembarked. Darkness descended, shrouding the giant trees along the shore, and the lights of scattered ships flickered on. The ferry landing was empty. A few birds’ wings swept across the river’s sky one final time. The recurring vision sharpened the image of the old woman, who resembled the original grandmother of long ago—the midwife of hundreds of births, the turtle grandmother—with her slow, swaying gait and her smooth, dark-green face. Forty years later, the face remained the same, unmarred by a single crack or furrow.

* * *

That day in the spring of 1941, when British ships landed their Indian soldiers from the island of al-Karka to occupy al-Ashar, my family sent me, along with my midwife, to my relatives in the village of Nahr Khuz, near Abu al-Khasib. The midwife took me to a house built of river mud. We had arrived at night. The next day, I realized how large that house was, with its five rooms and the long wall that surrounded it, separating the house from a river that ran alongside it, amid a dense palm grove. The following day, to my surprise, I discovered that I was not alone in that house. In addition to two elderly relatives who were living in one of the rooms, I was surprised by ten boys evacuated from the local orphanage by the city’s security committee and placed in the custody of the elderly midwife, after the residents’ resistance to the occupation forces had intensified. The city workers and police withdrew from the city and chaos spread, followed by the looting of homes and the theft of property.

That morning, the midwife invited us all to breakfast. We sat on the floor around a long, low table, raised a foot or so off the ground. It was a quick introductory meal, and my eyes, from the rim of the metal cup, darted between the quiet faces, all intent on sipping their milk. We were all thin, dark-skinned boys; the oldest of us was no more than ten. After breakfast, we went out to the river through one of the house’s three doors. It led to a sloping stone staircase, the last rungs of which were covered by the river’s waters, shaded by the trees on its banks. The river was not wide, but its clear water tricked our eyes with its depth and the tiny fish that teemed within it. The orchard’s stillness pressed down on us, forcing us to bend our heads. In the evening, we returned to the low table and watched the midwife move slowly behind us as she distributed bowls of hot soup and pieces of fresh bread. We were to drink water from clay jugs and cups. We heard one of us say, “She’s as slow as a turtle.”

In that place, in that solitude, this simile clung to our imaginations like the clear, sticky sap of the jujube fruit, more than any real turtle we saw leaving the river that morning. And when she sat at the head of the table, the dim light of the lantern illuminated part of her green face, as she gazed at us, her small eyes beneath faint eyebrows. She seemed like a deeply rooted tree, her peaceful turtle-like face concealing her long life and her arduous journey between bellies and births, until the ferry cast her ashore on this autumn vision. Nothing about her had changed.

* * *

I returned to the apartment late in the evening. None of my friends had arrived yet. I gazed out through the window that overlooked the bus station, watching the scattered movements of the people returning home. The slow boarding of the buses, followed by their sluggish departure, left bus shelters, like solitary hats, scattered along the sidewalks, pressed down by the hot autumn humidity and framed by the dim light that filtered from lampposts and hotel facades. From this elevated vantage point, something was perpetually descending. I didn’t know.

It wasn’t exactly something I knew, but I felt it come close to my eyes as an inaudible ringing assaulted my ears and a brush stroked my skin up and down. The room was sparsely furnished, its most important feature a long table that didn’t rise far off the floor. I sat at the edge of the table and sketched the face of Turtle Grandma, as I remembered it from forty years ago. I had made several sketches by the time I heard my friends’ footsteps creeping into the room. They were three of my nightly companions. They passed the sketches around as I asked if they knew this woman with her charcoal-brown complexion. “One of you will finally remember who she is,” I said. “We used to call her Turtle Grandma. That was many years ago.” The memory didn’t shock any of them. Then the others arrived with a flurry of noise and laughter, and one of my friends blurted out, “Guess who said: ‘A battle of your soul against the spectre of fidelity, of mine against the spectre of friendship.’”

“I don’t know. Victor Hugo?” I said.

“James Joyce,” he said.

The group, the same group we had every night, settled down, all ten of us, on the floor around the low table. I went to the other room, took their favorite bottles of wine out of the refrigerator, and placed them in front of them. “It’s a surprise,” I said. “Tonight you’ll be drinking from earthenware glasses.”

I took out a set of brown ceramic glasses. We raised our glasses, and one of the friends said, “To the clay!”

We filled the glasses, and I raised mine: “To the lost turtle!”

Leaning slightly forward, they quickly drank down the wine. I watched them from the rim of my glass. They came every night and gathered at my place, sometimes bringing their own wine and food. At the end of the night, they dispersed, and the apartment was empty of them, leaving me alone. I might have been the only solitary one among them, as they had their own homes to which they returned, their wives and children about whom I know little, since they did not speak of their families. They came alone, and they left alone. They departed swiftly, leaving no trace or sign of their presence. Their presence here was, as always, a fleeting visit or a once-in-a-lifetime encounter. Their names slipped from my memory, and I knew nothing of their addresses or where they lived. Before they came to the apartment, I wasn’t sure they would return. Their uncertain gathering at the beginning of the night ended in a ghostly dispersal. They came from a place that was far, far away, and then they dispersed.

I went to the window and looked out at the square. A few people moved among the bus shelters or sat beneath them. The last bus was preparing to leave. And that mysterious thing kept pouring down. Someone was saying, “Homelands are the framework for great friendships,” and I hadn’t been following the conversation. They were drunk, and the movements of their hands holding glasses or cigarettes slowed. They seemed like ghosts burdened by loyalty, huddled together and withdrawn.

There was the table and their shadows mingling on the walls, pressed together for ages, motionless. The ceiling fan whirred slowly, dispersing the damp, drunken breaths and cigarette smoke, its hum mingling with the low, heavy tones of the last, rough words.

They had grown old, and, for the first time, I glimpsed the early furrows carving into their faces every time they straightened or leaned back. The fingers of scorching years had passed over their faces, etching profound marks over forty long years. Before tonight, they had never watched the pasts of their tranquil days resting in the shade, the shade of the roads, the palm trees, and the dreams. But tonight, they grasped their ages, feeling their movement beneath their fingers, on the smooth surface of the earthenware cups. They were less vigorous, less inclined to speak, less noisy, and calmer, gazing from this place at a valley shimmering beneath their wavering eyes, or bidding farewell to a ship leaving the harbor waters for the sea. And though I had cared little for the passing of years, I too clutched the barrier of the see-sawing journey, peering at the vision that had occupied me through countless nights.

Ah, I realized, in that moment, that they too were part of this vision: the weary, aged, quiet, drunken friends, the close-knit group… there… here… everywhere. Their conversation, their voices, their disparate words coming from a place that was far, far away.

Night was advancing. I must have fallen asleep, for I found the room empty of my companions when I woke. The glasses lay overturned on the table beside the empty bottles, and among them lay the turtle-faced grandmother, covered in a dried pink liquid.

* * *

I left the apartment at dawn and hurried to the ferry dock. I felt the river’s dewy breeze as I drew ever closer. In the same spot, a pontoon bridge appeared, stretching to the opposite bank. A long convoy of military trucks was crossing it, heading toward the eastern side of the river. A long convoy, laden with soldiers and equipment, weighed down the pontoon, dragging pieces of corrugated iron across the bridge, causing them to rub against each other and sway.

The day passed, and I returned to the river at night. The bridge was still standing, and the convoy of trucks continued to cross.

None of my friends came to the apartment that night. They didn’t appear the following night, either.

September 1983

Muhammad Khudayyir is an Iraqi author from Basra, where he still lives. He was trained as a teacher of Arabic and worked in that capacity in southern Iraq for thirty years. His first short stories appeared in Al Adeeb Al Iraqi in 1962. In 2004, he received the Sultan Bin Ali Al Owais Cultural Award for his contribution to literature. Several of his short stories, as well as his 1996 novel Basrayatha, have been translated into English, among other languages.

Nazim Mizhir is a short-story writer, novelist, and literary translator. Born in Diwaniya in 1955, he graduated from the Department of European Languages at the University of Basra in 1978. He received the Sharjah Award for his first book, The Soul’s Garden (1999), and the Katara Award for his novel Wings of Fire (2020). His other works include the short-story collection Night Railway Station (2010), The Old Faithful and Other Translated Science-Fiction Stories, and an Arabic translation of Ray Bradbury’s Mars Is Heaven. A volume of his translations featuring selected works by Iraqi short-story writers is forthcoming.

This month, we have books and events coming in September 2026, as well as one we missed from the end of August.

Title Missed from the End of August:

The Life and Memoirs of Fakhri al-Barudi: The Renaissance Man of Syria, 1887–1966, by Fakhri al-Barudi, edited and translated by Sami Moubayed (American University in Cairo Press, August 25 2026)

From the publisher:

Born into an aristocratic Damascene family in about 1887, Fakhri al-Barudi was a household name in Syria, universally acclaimed as one of the country’s founding fathers and a leading figure in the country’s struggle for independence from French rule during the 1920s. A politician, he grew up in a world of privilege but also witnessed the decline of Ottoman rule and the rise of Arab nationalism.

His memoirs, originally published in Arabic in 1951, provide a vivid account of social life in Ottoman Damascus during the early twentieth century, offering a unique perspective onto the city’s cultural, political, and intellectual landscape. They capture the complexities of Damascus society, from the rigid class structures and Ottoman influence to the burgeoning nationalist movements that sought to redefine Arab identity. They also delve into the political upheavals of the time, particularly the 1908 Young Turk Revolution, which restored the Ottoman constitution and briefly promised reform and equality. Al-Barudi recounts the excitement and uncertainty that followed the coup, as well as the growing tensions between Arab nationalists and Ottoman authorities.

Drawing on both private papers and published sources, Sami Moubayed’s authoritative epilogue takes up al-Barudi’s life in Syrian politics from where the memoirs leave off, through to al-Barudi’s death in 1966. Here again al-Barudi is a central figure in the political history of Syria, and his biography sheds fascinating light on the social and political dynamics that continue to shape Syria to this day, especially following the fall of the Assad regime in 2024.

September: 

The Necklace of Seven Souls, by Hooda Shawa, ill. Nada Esmaeel, tr. Sawad Hussain and Nour Jaljuli (September 1, 2026 Yonder)

From the publisher:

Two Palestinian teenagers discover secrets that change all they thought they knew about their family histories—and their own futures.

Farida is a talented young painter who recreates European masterpieces under the patronizing eye of a Parisian art dealer. Mazen just arrived in France to hunt for a lost family heirloom. When the two meet during a chance encounter at the Louvre, they discover that both their grandmothers fled Palestine during the Nakba in 1948. Drawn to one another, Mazen and Farida begin to piece together their past, but a shadowy ring of art forgers has other plans for Farida. Will she discover the truth before it’s too late?

Exploring what it means to live in diaspora, Hooda Shawa’s US debut moves from Paris to Haifa, from Aleppo to Tangier, conjuring the jewel tones of the Mediterranean and the bittersweet taste of memory.

Also read: Palestinian Sittis and the Inheritance of Memories, a conversation with Hooda Shawa

The Garden We Carry, by Bushra Khalfan, Luke Leafgren (Dar Arab, September 7, 2026)

From the publisher:

A brother and sister leave their mountain village carrying little more than memory, hope, and each other.

When Rashid and Rayya journey from the rugged highlands of Oman to the bustling port city of Muscat, they leave behind everything they have ever known. Far from home, they must navigate a world shaped by labour, power, and survival, while holding on to the land, traditions, and memories that continue to define them.

Winner of the 2025 Bait Alghasham DarArab International Translation Prize, The Garden We Carry is a luminous translated Arabic novel by acclaimed Omani writer Bushra Khalfan. Through the story of two ordinary lives, Khalfan explores migration, belonging, family, and the enduring bond between people and place.

Rich in atmosphere and emotional depth, this unforgettable novel captures a changing Oman while asking timeless questions about home, identity, and what we carry with us when we leave everything behind.

Beautifully translated by Luke Leafgren, The Garden We Carry introduces English-language readers to one of the most compelling voices in contemporary Omani literature.

The Foreigners’ Quarter, by Hassanine Ben Ammou, tr. William Granara (Interlink Books, September 22, 2026)

From the publisher:

When young Venetian ne’er-do-well Antonio is stricken with love at first sight of the aristocratic Maria, his schemes to win her affections are met with disdainful rejection. Days later, the two are kidnapped by pirates during Carnival celebrations and hauled onto a ship headed to the coast of Tunisia and sold to slave traders. Thus begins their new life as foreign captives (‘iluj) in mid-15th century Tunisia, but on drastically divergent trajectories.

With her natural beauty and noble breeding, Maria finds herself in the royal harem where she will rise as queen consort and mother to two sultans. Antonio drifts from prison to vagabondage, surviving through the kindness of friends and patrons despite his obsessive and delusory love for Maria that leads to failures in business, addiction, and eventual madness.

Hasanein Ben Ammou’s The Foreigners’ Quarter is the saga of a new quarter of late-medieval Tunis medina as site of a European migration of captives, political and religious exiles, pirates, soldiers, diplomats and merchants who navigate their way to a new world that juggles religious and ethnic tolerance, financial opportunities, and the Hafsid dynasty’s battles with rival kinsmen, rebellious tribesmen, and external enemies.

Against the pairing of Antonio and Maria as would-be lovers in the vein of the Arabian romantic legend of Majnun Layla, The Foreigners’ Quarter is a novel that draws from the real-life history of the Mediterranean world rocked by the Spanish Reconquest and the expulsion of Muslims and Jews from the Iberian Peninsula on the one hand, and the subsequent rise of Christian-Ottoman rivalries on the other.

By evoking actual events, places and characters, Ben Amou crafts a novel cast in the shadow of the Andalusian “myth of inter-faith utopia” to tell the story of hostility and the sharing of a common life that foresees a modern, multi-ethnic Mediterranean Tunisian identity and nation.

International Translation Day 2026: Translators, and…? (September 30, 2026: London)

In the first of three conversations, translator Sawad Hussain and bookseller Alison Henry discuss what they see as the biggest successes and positive shifts in the sector in recent years, and what has driven them. They’ll ask: how have developments in literary translation changed the way booksellers buy and sell books? How have transformations in the way books are promoted and consumed impacted what and how translators translate? And what would translators and booksellers need to do over the coming years to create sustainable growth in sales of literary translation? 

There’s also a translation slam chaired by Nashwa Nasreldin.

AUGUST 31, 2026 — Yesterday evening, American University in Cairo Press announced the shortlist for the 2026 Naguib Mahfouz Medal for Literature. The prize, now in its twentieth year, only recently began announcing a shortlist ahead of its annual winner.

This year’s shortlist includes titles from Saudi Arabia, Egypt, Iraq, and Palestine:

According to organizers, this year’s six shortlisted titles were chosen from 143 novels submitted from 23 countries. This year’s panel of judges is chaired by literary scholar Hoda Elsadda,

Several of the books on this year’s shortlist have been celebrated by other prizes, including Inaam Kachachi’s A Swiss Summer (which made the Sheikh Zayed Book Award’s 2026 longlist) and Ahmad Abdulatif’s The Origin of the Species (which made the International Prize for Arabic Fiction’s 2026 shortlist).

The annual winner — who earns $5000 and a contract to be published by AUC Press — is typically announced on December 11, the day Egypt’s Nobel laureate for literature was born.

Readers can find more about the six shortlisted novels at the AUC Press website.