Embracing Contradictions with Nayrouz Qarmout.

Nayrouz Qarmout was born in a Palestinian refugee camp in Damascus in 1984 and later ‘returned’ to Gaza in 1994 as part of the Oslo Peace Accord, where she continues to live and write. An author, journalist, and female rights activist, she has worked in the Ministry of Women’s Affairs and is now running for a position in parliament (she says ‘it is not easy for a free woman to enter election in an occupied country’), and works tirelessly in raising awareness surrounding the position of women in society. Her anthology of 14 short stories, The Sea Cloak, won several awards at the Edinburgh Book Festival in 2019, which Nayrouz attended despite two visa rejections and countless hurdles. This was the first time she had been able to leave Gaza since arriving in 1994. The collection provides a keyhole into life as a woman in the ‘world’s largest prison’, and follows very human experiences of living in one of the least understood cities in the middle east. Her aim is to humanise Palestinians, so they are no longer seen as just victims but as people.

Pairing everyday life with the trauma of living in a war zone, Qarmout’s short stories and lyrical prose in The Sea Cloak illuminate the lives of Palestinians in a poetic yet impartial narrative. In Breastfeeding, 13yr old Sara is diligently studying in the hope of leaving her family’s mud-walled hut for university, but has her hopes dashed when she is forced to marry her cousin. In White Lilies, a drone operator looks idly on after pressing a button detonating a bomb near a school. In The Long Braid, a young schoolgirl argues brazenly with a teacher who denounces all emancipated women as ‘sluts’. The themes that these three stories touch upon including feminism, war, love, resilience, and of being human are embodied by Nayrouz, giving strength, clarity and realism to her work. 

What is something about your background that is important for people to know to understand your writing?

I’d spent my life displaced between different places. I was always searching for an identity, looking to belong to whatever group. What did “belonging” mean? Why did we feel so constantly unstable? How did we define ourselves in relation to groups around us when we didn’t have the opportunity to live in close proximity for as long as we did?

I read that you have a degree in economics. That’s quite a jump to writing - how did you start writing?

It’s actually a little more complicated than that. I originally went into the science stream in high school, not the literary one, and when that was done, I did pharmaceuticals for three and a half years. I chose to leave that and studied economics for a bunch of reasons, the first of which was that I wanted to study outside of universities in Gaza but had no ID or passport for a long time. The other thing was that, for reasons unknown to me, the sciences in our country, like medicine, engineering, and pharmaceuticals, are full of deeply religious and even puritanical people. I’m more socially progressive, and other colleges were easier on that. The third reason was that I wanted to study things that were simply not available to us. As for the switch to writing, perhaps social and political circumstances set that off inside me. It started with political writing and wound up in stories. But I’ve always expressed myself in writing, illustrating things in Arabic, taking in the world as any creative person would but previously not actually putting pen to paper. I think it’s a talent more than anything.

Growing up in Syrian refugee camp Al-Yarmouk in Damascus - could you tell me a little about this?

I was a very imaginative child. I remember those times fondly, even though they were really difficult on a family. I grew up in a politically conscientious, private family. This made us different to a lot of people living in the camp. My mother was born in Damascus and my grandma lived in Rif-Dimashq, in the country. It was a long but beautiful road when I came home from a school for Palestinian refugees to visit my grandmas with the rest of the family on weekends.

Do you have literary influences & who are they?

I try not to be too affected by anyone. My imagination runs off of my own senses and the contradictions I see in daily life. But I loved the poetry of Mahmoud Darwish and the stories of Ghassan Kanafani. When I wrote my first story, I wasn't reading literature, instead being glued to politics. The articles I’d write were entirely political. After I wrote my first story, “The Sea Cloak,” I began to read more literature, more stories and novels.

Where do you get the inspiration for the short stories? Are they your own (personal) stories, ones you have heard, historical, or fictional?

Stories are like a tune you hear. They come from everything: your experiences, your imagination, your history. Some stories are entirely fictive but which readers think are real. Even if I hear a story from history or recycle one of my own experiences, I don’t keep them intact. I work in some imagination and even characterisation, even into the character readers mistake for an author surrogate.

What drives you to write about the challenging issues that you write about, and do you ever have any concerns, for example that people might take what your words in the wrong way?

When I write, I do so confidently, because whatever value I’m reflecting in my story at that moment will be the result of interrogating all contradictory viewpoints that people hold and complexities at the heart of an issue, including context. Writing that doesn’t challenge an issue at the heart of life is useless. A trivial detail dismissed by most could hold depth that recontextualises social behaviour. Writing has two missions: one, which is artistic, is a form of creative illustration. The other is ethical, concerned with what it means to be a human being. To build a strong society, we need creative revolution. We must ignore voices that seek to dishearten and be fully courageous in presenting our opinions. I hope to see my community in a light that befits its sacrifices.

You said in an interview that you did in 2018 that you were sick of the stereotypes that media outlets propagate about Gaza. Can you elaborate on that? Do you use your writing to try and counter those narratives?

Of course I’d like to combat the stereotyped image of Gaza, which perpetuates a particular view of the place and marginalises others, building a fantasy version of the city and its residents, as if they’d ever had the opportunity to try a different life. I have tried through my stories to fight this image. I’ve spent a not inconsiderable amount of time writing stories that attempt to objectively capture reality, the objective reality of a situation and portrayal of people, removed from my own interpretation of them.

Do you find that you have a Palestinian audience for your work? Is there a wider audience and support for literature and culture?

I have a sizable audience that enjoys my work. They’re looking for something new, and I think there’s a contradiction where I’ve tried taking both external forces and Palestinian society to task that I’ve striven for that people have enjoyed. After the long siege of Gaza, there has been a yearning for art, literature, and culture in changing their lives for the better. People are tired of isolation and soul and hope-withering dogmatism.

Tell me about the translation of your work – did/do you have any concerns in handing over your text to someone else (are they an outsider or do you know the translator)?

On the contrary: at the beginning, I had no issue sending my work to anyone to translate, even if I hadn’t the faintest idea who the translator was. But after long experience, I’ve become wary of a translator’s ability to comprehend a text. Translation necessitates understanding the culture being translated from, especially for literary or philosophical text. It requires an artistic eye for interpretation. More than that, it requires respecting the text, ensuring it does not deviate from its ideas nor uses its platform to promote another idea that removed from to the writer's mind or direction. A single world could completely change meaning. Arabic is eloquent, and a language heavy with connotation. Maintaining that is difficult. Other languages are peculiar in their own ways, and translating them requires a lot of work and imaginative reading.

One translator I worked with on my first story was absolutely astounding. We’d discuss a single sentence for its allusions and connotations so that she could get to the heart of the matter, with me explaining my exact intended meaning, allowing her to write the sentence exactly as it was intended.

I read that you had quite a journey and several hurdles getting to the Edinburgh book festival in 2018. Could you explain why it is so difficult to enter/exit Gaza, and has it changed at all in the few years since?

After the 2000 Al-Aqsa Intifada on Palestinian lands and the destruction of the Yasser Arafat International Airport in Rafah built after the Oslo Accords, it became very difficult to cross at the Rafah Border Crossing into Egypt, as the occupation was squatted at the bridge. After the 2005 deal and the Israeli withdrawal from Gaza—or, more accurately, its reorganisation just outside the Strip—the Palestinians directly controlled the crossing. But after Hamas won the 2006 Palestinian legislative election and its refusal to recognise the Quartet on the Middle East, we lost Palestinian control of the crossing, especially after internal fighting and the Palestinian Authority’s collapse in the Gaza Strip. We need difficult coordination with the Egyptian side to agree to the passage of travellers, and most of the time the crossing is closed and when it opens it suffers from overcrowding. The crossing is for those with priority, whether those with residency abroad, or people who are sick, or students.

Yes, my journey was very difficult and haphazard. The road was long and the barriers in the desert numerous. It was very hot. I ought to again point out that I did not possess a Palestinian ID or passport to travel until 2009. Prior to that, as a Palestinian refugee, I was not given any official identification after my return to Gaza in 1994. My trip to Edinburgh was the first time I had travelled from Gaza to the rest of the world.

What is it like at the moment being a woman in Gaza?

A woman who does not adhere to traditional ideas but can command respect from different social sects…well, this can be a heavy burden to bear, and could take much from you. Being able to affirm your existence without compromising your independence or something fundamental to you but nonetheless having to compromise…it’s a sacrifice made for the sake of all women in our society.

You said you’re running for a position in parliament. This is really impressive. Do you have any opinions on change for your country?

Well, the simple act of running for office is in itself an attempt at renewal and imposing a different structure that embraces intellectual and political diversity and plurality, as well as the possibility of working towards a permanent solution to the Palestinian-Israeli conflict from various directions and structures of Palestinian society, which is still amorphous and does not have a clear vision for a possible solution after the occupation thwarted any political solution, including that of two-states, on the occupied territories of 1967. I hope to contribute even a small part to helping my people survive and develop under the circumstances and pressures they are subjected to.