The Levant: Zone of Culture or Conflict
THE LEVANT :
ZONE OF CULTURE OR CONFLICT?
Samir El-Youssef∗
2012
The Levantine Review: The Journal of Near Eastern and Mediterranean Studies at Boston College 1(2) 200-204
Boston College
Boston, Massachusetts, USA
I didn’t read Philip Larkin until the publication of his Selected Letters (1940-1985,) and the heated debate that they provoked. Larkin had been seen as one of the most beloved contemporary English poets, but in 1993, the year of the Letters’ publication, it was revealed that in some of his private correspondence this great poet had expressed views that could only be deemed to be those of a racist. Some insisted that Larkin must be seen as the good poet he’d ever been. Others thought he should be dismissed. The intransigent question about Art and Politics had managed to make its way into the centre of attention again.
My
first
reading
of
Larkin
was
more
like
a
detective
mission;
thorough
text
searching
for
clues,
which
could
link
his
poetry
to
those
few
offending
letters.
Larkin’s
poems
are
riddled
with
signs
of
nostalgic
yearning.
In
themselves
such
signs
would
have
been
deemed
harmless
were
they
not
issuing
from
an
English
writer.
In
them
were
also
hints
of
resentment
towards
anything
modern
or
abroad.
But
there
was
no
real
evidence,
no
proof
as
it
were,
of
a
racist
expression
that
could
be
used
or
brandished
by
way
of
indictment
in
any
serious
debate.
My
mission
to
impeach
Larkin,
I’m
happy
to
report,
was
an
absolute
failure.
-Why
happy?
-Happy
because
as
I
read
Larkin’s
poems
I
came
to
enjoy
quite
a
good
number
of
them.
Indeed
I
enjoyed
more
poems
now
than
when
reading
many
other
poets
whom
I’d
explored
without
the
grudge
of
a
detective-reader.
Enjoying
so
many
poems
in
such
a
small
output
made
me
come
back
to
Larkin
time
and
again,
reading
him
with
open
mindedness
and
with
no
other
purpose
than
the
pleasure
of
reading
poetry.
Repeated
readings
over
the
years
made
Larkin
one
of
my
most
favourite
poets.
Still,
racism
is
a
serious
matter,
and
when
one’s
favourite
poet
is
branded
a
racist,
one
must
explain
how
it
is
possible
to
reconcile
the
irreconcilables.
Some
commentators
and
friends
of
the
late
poet
tried
the
usual
method
of
playing
down
the
issue
of
racism.
Some
insisted
that
art
and
politics,
especially
politics
expressed
in
private
correspondence,
are
two
separate
realms
that
mustn’t
be
confused.
Others
argued
that
those
letters
should
only
been
seen
within
the
historical
and
cultural
context
in
which
they
were
written.
But
none
of
these
arguments
holds
water.
Larkin
is
a
bigot
and
there
is
no
way
of
getting
around
this
disgraceful
fact.
So
how
could
one
read
him
knowing
what
he
is
or
what he was? Larkin’s
poems
are
good,
and
like
all
good
art
they
have
the
ability
to
make
the
audience
forget
the
repugnant
views
of
the
artist
and
bypass
his
personality
too.
Reading
Larkin
poems,
just
like
listening
to
Wagner
music,
one
temporarily
forgets
what
such
artists
might
have
said,
in
either
the
private
or
public
spheres.
The
ability
of
art
to
induce
temporary
forgetfulness
is
what
I
would
like
to
make
use
of
in
answering
the
question
that
is
the
title
of
this
essay:
“Is
the
Levant
a
zone
of
conflict
or
culture?”
When
talking
about
the
Levant,
there
are
two
important
and
closely
connected
issues
one
must
keep
in
mind:
memory
and
the
attitude
of
each
of
the
Levant’s
communities
towards
the
“other.”
Jews,
Palestinians,
Kurds
and
many
other
nations
and
minorities
in
the
Middle
East
have
had
a
past
of
grief
and
a
history
of
suffering,
and
therefore
memory
is
a
very
important
and
popular
term
in
many
Middle
Eastern
quarters.
Indeed
memory
is
so
important
that
it
seemed
to
be
the
major
source
of
informing
and
goading
a
given
community’s
political
attitude
towards
the
“other,”
and
sometimes
towards
the
“self.”
The
trauma
of
the
dark
past
is
generated
in
deep
fear
and
suspicion
verging
on
paranoia.
Accordingly
the
“other”
is
seen
as
someone
who
has
no
other
wish
and
intention
but
that
of
defeating
us,
destroying
us.
Whatever
statement
and
move
the
“other”
makes
is
often
seen
as
part
of
a
wider,
sophisticated,
devious
plot;
an
endless
conspiracy
within
which
whatever
is
prefigured
years
earlier
is
bound
to
take
place.
The
“other’s”
group,
the
opposite
group,
is
usually
given
too
much
credibility,
suspected
of
being
always
cunning,
skilfully
organised
and
highly
co-ordinated,
or
at
least
having
the
benefit
of
unshakable
determination
to
keep
on
fighting
to
the
end.
Willingness
to
negotiate
and
reach
a
peace
agreement
is
often
viewed
with
suspicion
that
even
those
who
participate
seem
to
be
expecting
little
besides
their
suspicions
being
confirmed
and
justified.
The
protracted
and
farcical
Palestinian-Israeli
peace
process
is
a
good
example
of
how
such
two
aspects
manifest
themselves.
In
this
context,
any
concession
made,
no
matter
how
small
and
insignificant,
is
often
considered
the
first
of
many
other
greater
concessions
to
follow,
leading
eventually
to
the
destruction
of
those
surrendering
to
compromise.
Indeed
there
were
times
when
Palestinian
and
Israeli
peace
negotiators
seemed
to
be
waiting
to
see
who
is
going
to
flinch
first,
who
is
going
to
fail
to
keep
their
part
of
the
bargain.
The
desire
to
play
the
role
of
the
tragic
hero
must
have
haunted
the
mind
of
those
peace-makers
and
was
ready
to
be
animated
on
the
world
stage:
“Look,
we
have
tried
everything
to
reach
an
agreement;
we
stretched
out
our
hand
to
them
but
they
turned
it
down!”
I
am
sure
that
such
attitudes
and
such
discourse
were
rehearsed
numerous
times.
With
such
paranoia
left
unchallenged,
no
wonder
peace
remains
illusive
and
very
difficult,
not
to
say
impossible,
to
achieve.
Reconciliation
is
doomed
to
remain
a
distant
hope,
so
long
as
the
“other”
continues
to
be
viewed
with
distrust.
And
so, it
seems
that
the
common
assumption
that
the
Levant
is
evidently
a
zone
of
conflict,
and
worse,
might
remain
so
until
doomsday,
doesn’t
lack
justification.
But
is
there
a
way
to
challenge
such
a
seemingly
fated
and
enduring
assumption?
Let
us
mention
another
term,
which
is
just
as
popular
as
Memory:
Resistance,
or
The Resistance.
This
is
a
sacred
cow
in
many
parts
of
the
Levant.
“No
voice
shall
rise
above
the
voice
of
the
Resistance!”
is
an
oft-repeated
slogan.
Once
a
group
anoints
itself
a
representative
of
the
“resistance,”
or
wraps
itself
in
the
mantle
of
some
“resistance,”
any
“resistance,”
it
will
have
earned
the
right
to
do
pretty
much
as
it
pleases—with
impunity,
as
is
often
the
case
with
many
a
“sacred”
or
“divine
resistance”
in
the
Levant
today!
So
let
us
learn
from
the
practitioners
of
“resistance”
and
establish
our
own
resistance:
The
resistance
against
memory
and
paranoia.
Indeed,
what
better
way
to
resist
unremitting
“resistance”
than
to
encourage
forgetfulness?
But
let
me
first
emphasize
two
points:
First,
that
the
attitude
of
suspicion
vis-à-vis
the
“other”
is
peculiar
to
politics,
or
anything
that
is
determined
through
politics.
Secondly,
that
people
are
not
necessarily
enslaved
to
their
dark
memory.
Indeed,
whenever
they
can,
they
try
to
distract
themselves
from
both
memory
and
politics;
the
act
of
forgetfulness
is
not
so
strange
to
them.
Indeed
these
two
facts
have
encouraged
me
through
the
last
two
decades
to
challenge
the
assumption
that
the
Levant
is,
or
could
only,
be
depicted
as
a
zone
of
conflict.
However,
the
temporary
forgetfulness
that
I
am
talking
about
is
not
the
same
as
seeking
distraction
from
reality,
or
escaping
reality,
or
being
cynical.
Good
art
for
me
is
that
which
combines
pleasure
with
education,
or
simply
an
intelligent
joke
that
makes
one
laugh
and
think
and
then
laugh
again.
The
chance
to
forget
here
is
a
chance
to
think,
to
discover
something
else,
or
something
different,
or
at
least
to
recognise
the
significance
of
something
that
one
might
have
overlooked
or
dismissed.
In
other
words,
forgetfulness
is
a
chance
to
unlearn
an
old
lesson
and
learn
a
new
one.
I
enjoyed
reading
Larkin’s
poems,
but
I
also
learned
a
great
deal
from
them;
they
taught
me
many
things
about
the
English
language
and
post-war
England,
and
how
to
distinguish
between
an
attitude
of
disappointment
and
one
of
hostility,
and
between
expressions
of
solidarity
and
appreciation,
and
hypocrisy
and
conceit.
Within
the
Levant
the
moment
of
temporary
forgetfulness
might
be
a
chance
for
learning
how
to
pave
the
way
for
the
imagination
of
peace.
People
who
followed
the
Peace
Process
through
its
visual
aspect
must
have
noticed
how
hesitant
and
reluctant
participants
in
peace
negotiations
looked.
Starting
from
the
notorious
Arafat-Rabin
handshake
on
the
White
House
lawn,
peace
negotiators
looked
as
if
they
were
doing
a
dirty
job;
something
that
they
were
undertaking
out
of
sheer
necessity
and
desperation.
The
private
argument,
which
was
often
made,
seemed
to
confirm
the
implication
of
the
image
on
the
White
House
lawn;
“we
have
to
be
realistic—we
can
do
nothing
but
negotiate and
reach
a
peaceful
agreement.”
“Nothing”
here
means
“we
couldn’t
get
rid
of
them
or
destroy
them,
so
we
have
to
make
a
deal
with
them.”
No
wonder
the
peace
process
has
always
looked
like
a
half-baked
process.
When
discussing
what
went
wrong
with
the
peace
process
an
annoying
expression
was
repeatedly
used;
“there
is
no
culture
of
peace,”
it
was
often
said.
This
makes
one
imagine
communities
in
the
Middle
East
doing
nothing
all
day
long
except
digging
trenches.
That
is
not
true!
The
Levant
is
no
poorer
a
place
than
any
other
in
the
culture
of
peace.
But
what
has
been
lacking
in
the
Levant
is
actually
the imagination of peace;
people
for
a
long
time
have
been
living
in
one
state
of
conflict
or
another;
or
a
state
of
no peace and no war,
that
they
have
no
idea
how
the
world
might
look
like
without
war
or
the
expectation
of
conflict
and
violence.
Indeed
people
of
the
Levant
seem
to
have
got
used
to
such
assumptions
that
the
alternative
appears
to
them
as
an
unreal
world.
In
a
literary
event
that
brought
together
a
group
of
Palestinian
and
Israeli
writers,
just
before
the
failure
of
Camp
David
Talks
in
2000,
I
remember
the
late
Israeli
writer
Batya
Gur
commencing
her
talk
by
reading
Cavafy’s
famous
poem
Waiting for the Barbarians.
There
had
been
a
moment
of
exaggerated
hope
at
the
time;
a
time
during
which
a
breakthrough
in
the
Israeli-Syrian
peace
talks
was
expected.
Such
a
breakthrough
would
have
meant
that
the
last
major
stumbling
block
before
achieving
total
peace
will
have
been
surmounted.
Yet,
in
spite
of
the
exaggerated
hope,
as
Gur
explained,
one
could
nevertheless
still
sense
the
feeling
expressed
in
the
last
two
lines
of
Cavafy’s
poem:
“Now
what
will
become
of
us
without
barbarians?
/
Those
people
were
some
kind
of
solution.”
Whenever
there
has
been
a
breakthrough,
the
sense
of
“Now
what
will
become
of
us
without
barbarian?”
has
spread.
Why?
Because
imagination
has
failed
to
keep
up
with
reality.
Imagination
is
meant
to
precede
reality
and
to
provide
examples,
models,
and
images
of
how
the
new
reality,
the
world
in
a
state
of
peace,
would
look
like.
Instead,
when
the
time
for
peace
arrived,
imagination
seemed
to
lag
behind,
stuck
within
an
old
world
languishing
in
the
tyranny
of
the
memory
of
a
dark
past
and
an
attitude
of
scepticism
towards
the
“other.”
No
wonder
that
every
time
a
peace
treaty
has
been
signed,
people
felt
that
they
were
venturing
into
the
wilderness
or
at
least,
like
those
who
waited
for
the
never-arriving
barbarians,
that
they
have
been
deprived
from
a
source
of
consolation.
The
question
in
the
title
of
this
essay,
“is
the
Levant
a
zone
of
conflict
or
culture?”
is
an
ironic
one
indeed.
Anyone
with
a
token
knowledge
of
the
Levant
knows
that
the
Levant
is
of
both,
conflict
and
culture;
it
is
only
that
the
people
of
the
Levant
need
to
be
reminded
that
theirs
is
a
land
of
great
culture,
and
that
they
need
pay
more
attention
to
it.
I
was
born
and
brought
up
in
Rashidiyyé—a
Palestinian
refugee
camp
in
Southern
Lebanon.
Rashidiyyé
was,
and
still
is,
as
bad
as
a refugee
camp
could
be.
A
mere
fifteen
minutes
walk
from
the
camp
stood
the
ancient
Phoenician
port-city
of
Tyr;
a
harbour
town
housing
the
awesome
vestiges
of
one
of
the
greatest,
most
pacifist,
most
benevolent
builders
of
civilization.
The
refugee
camp
(in
its
indigence,)
and
the
ancient
city
(in
all
its
glory,)
standing
side
by
side,
is
a
stark
example
of
the
Levant
being
both
a
land
of
conflict
and
culture.
When
Philip
Larkin’s
offensive
letters
were
published
in
1993,
some
people
suggested
his
poetry
be
struck
off
from
school
curricula.
This
reaction
made
me
think
back
to
the
old
school
of
my
boyhood,
back
in
the
Rashidiyyé
refugee
camp.
Our
teachers
then
talked
up
a
storm
about
politics,
the
conflict,
the
hopelessness
and
indigence
of
our
situation.
Yet
I
don’t
remember
any
of
them
suggesting
a
school
tour
to
the
nearby
Phoenician
port-city
of
Tyre,
a
living
testament
as
it
were,
to
the
ancient
Levant;
a
place
where
we
could,
even
for
a
fleeting
moment,
forget
the
misery
of
our
present
days
and
learn
something
new,
something
different,
something
hopeful;
learn
how
when
looking
at
what
lay
outside
the
“prison
walls,”
and
when
considering
that
which
challenges
prevalent
assumptions,
one
might
be
able
to
see
above
the
clouds
of
past
traumas,
and
beyond
the
paranoia
of
present
days.
∗ Samir El-Youssef is a London-based Palestinian novelist. He is the author of several books and novellas, including Illusion of Return and a collection of short-stories, Gaza Blues, co-authored with Israeli novelist Etgar Keret. An essayist and public intellectual, El-Youssef has contributed to various publications in Europe and the Middle East, and was recipient of the 2005 PEN Tucholsky Award in recognition of his commitment to the promotion of peace and freedom of speech in the Middle East. This essay is an adaptation of a November 2012 talk that El- Youssef delivered at Boston College, under the auspices of the Heinz Bluhm Memorial Lectures Series in European Literature.
This work is released under the Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International license, which allows free use, distribution, and creation of derivatives, so long as the license is unchanged and clearly noted, and the original author is attributed.
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