I. Rida Mahmood's Blog, page 3
August 10, 2023
9 Short Stories by Jordanian Women, in Translation
By: ArabLit.Org Staff
This year’s first curated collection is of short stories by Kuwaiti women writers, and our second is short stories by Jordanian women. For more Jordanian writing in translation, check out Snow in Amman: An Anthology of Short Stories from Jordan, edited and translated by I. Rida Mahmood and Alexander Haddad. The anthology includes works by Basma el-Nsour, Magdalene Abu el-Rub, Asmaa al Mallah, Manal Hamdi, and Julnar Zain, among others.
Read the full article here.
This year’s first curated collection is of short stories by Kuwaiti women writers, and our second is short stories by Jordanian women. For more Jordanian writing in translation, check out Snow in Amman: An Anthology of Short Stories from Jordan, edited and translated by I. Rida Mahmood and Alexander Haddad. The anthology includes works by Basma el-Nsour, Magdalene Abu el-Rub, Asmaa al Mallah, Manal Hamdi, and Julnar Zain, among others.
Read the full article here.
April 24, 2023
The Red Suns, Purple Moons, and Gun-Carrying Mice of Syrian Poet Da’ad Haddad
By I. Rida Mahmood
In her poetry world, the sun is red. The moon is purple. Snow is ubiquitous. Winter is eternal. Childhood is made too ephemeral. Love is a tattered draft. Lonely women have mastered the game of waiting. Everyone is watching everyone through stained glass—sometimes through shattered glass. A khaki sweater is a poor woman’s fluffy mattress. There’s a guard at every place worth the trip. Mice carry guns. Monsters steal love, not money or Solomon’s mines. Silent poets destroy the world. Books open their mouths, hungry for freedom. A flower blooms in the throat at the break of silence. Death dries up.
Read the full article here:
https://arablit.org/2023/04/24/the-re...
أنا التي تبكي من شدة الشعر
In her poetry world, the sun is red. The moon is purple. Snow is ubiquitous. Winter is eternal. Childhood is made too ephemeral. Love is a tattered draft. Lonely women have mastered the game of waiting. Everyone is watching everyone through stained glass—sometimes through shattered glass. A khaki sweater is a poor woman’s fluffy mattress. There’s a guard at every place worth the trip. Mice carry guns. Monsters steal love, not money or Solomon’s mines. Silent poets destroy the world. Books open their mouths, hungry for freedom. A flower blooms in the throat at the break of silence. Death dries up.
Read the full article here:
https://arablit.org/2023/04/24/the-re...
أنا التي تبكي من شدة الشعر
April 10, 2023
[THIS CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS IS NOW CLOSED]
As the editor of an upcoming anthology, I am looking for personal essays by women who identify as Arab or Muslim (or both) involved in an intercultural, interreligious romantic relationship or marriage.
Submission Guidelines
- I am looking for personal essays (nonfiction) by Arab and/or Muslim women who married or got romantically involved with someone from another religion and/or ethnicity. Those involved with someone from a different denomination (sect) within the same religion are also welcome to submit their personal stories.
- Contributions can be made from anywhere in the world. Women living in their countries of origin, first and second-generation immigrant women, are all strongly encouraged to share their personal narratives.
- Submissions can be made in either English or Arabic; the editor will take care of the translation into English.
- Pieces must be previously unpublished. Simultaneous submissions are allowed but discouraged. If your piece is accepted elsewhere, please let me know immediately.
- Given the sensitivity of the topic, contributors can request to publish their pieces anonymously. But please identify yourself when submitting your work and indicate your desire for anonymity – and provide your preferred pseudonym.
- Submissions must be emailed as an attachment in the form of a Word document, with your name and contact information on the first page. Requests for anonymity must be indicated in the body of your email message.
- Length: Anywhere between 750 – 4000 words.
- Email your queries and submissions to: submissions.alantologia@gmail.com. Please allow 4-6 weeks to hear back; I will make every effort to respond promptly.
- Deadline: July 1st, 2023.
Submission Guidelines
- I am looking for personal essays (nonfiction) by Arab and/or Muslim women who married or got romantically involved with someone from another religion and/or ethnicity. Those involved with someone from a different denomination (sect) within the same religion are also welcome to submit their personal stories.
- Contributions can be made from anywhere in the world. Women living in their countries of origin, first and second-generation immigrant women, are all strongly encouraged to share their personal narratives.
- Submissions can be made in either English or Arabic; the editor will take care of the translation into English.
- Pieces must be previously unpublished. Simultaneous submissions are allowed but discouraged. If your piece is accepted elsewhere, please let me know immediately.
- Given the sensitivity of the topic, contributors can request to publish their pieces anonymously. But please identify yourself when submitting your work and indicate your desire for anonymity – and provide your preferred pseudonym.
- Submissions must be emailed as an attachment in the form of a Word document, with your name and contact information on the first page. Requests for anonymity must be indicated in the body of your email message.
- Length: Anywhere between 750 – 4000 words.
- Email your queries and submissions to: submissions.alantologia@gmail.com. Please allow 4-6 weeks to hear back; I will make every effort to respond promptly.
- Deadline: July 1st, 2023.
November 3, 2022
New Fiction by Basma El-Nsour: ‘The Scorpion’
By Basma El-Nsour
Translated by I. Rida Mahmood and Marcia Lynx Qualey
He squirmed a bit, feeling heavy all over, and opened his eyes. They were full of wrath, and it was with great difficulty that he raised his palm and brushed off the layers of dust that had gathered on his eyelids, struggling to move his stiff body. It wasn’t easy. When he stretched out an arm in search of his pack of cigarettes, he glimpsed his naked body, just the remnants of a thick white cloth that had been wrapped around him. He looked around with contempt.
“Damn!” he muttered indignantly. “What did I get up for?”
Read the full story here:
https://arablit.org/2022/11/03/new-fi...
Translated by I. Rida Mahmood and Marcia Lynx Qualey
He squirmed a bit, feeling heavy all over, and opened his eyes. They were full of wrath, and it was with great difficulty that he raised his palm and brushed off the layers of dust that had gathered on his eyelids, struggling to move his stiff body. It wasn’t easy. When he stretched out an arm in search of his pack of cigarettes, he glimpsed his naked body, just the remnants of a thick white cloth that had been wrapped around him. He looked around with contempt.
“Damn!” he muttered indignantly. “What did I get up for?”
Read the full story here:
https://arablit.org/2022/11/03/new-fi...
October 24, 2022
Fragile Freedom, Fragile States in the Muslim World
by: I. Rida Mahmood
As uncomfortable as it may be, the above allegations emphasize an urgent need to address a deep-seated lack of trust, stemming from transgenerational traumas, daily observations of global inequality, and a prevalent sense of indignity and disappointment.
Read the full article here:
https://themarkaz.org/fragile-freedom...
As uncomfortable as it may be, the above allegations emphasize an urgent need to address a deep-seated lack of trust, stemming from transgenerational traumas, daily observations of global inequality, and a prevalent sense of indignity and disappointment.
Read the full article here:
https://themarkaz.org/fragile-freedom...
August 19, 2022
The Long Way to Joseph Anton
by I. Rida Mahmood
Fall, 1993 – Amman, Jordan
We sat at our desks as we succeeded one another into the classroom after the morning assembly. Most of us huddled with their neighbor; some sat in an awkward, contorted position in their seat, with their torso facing forward and their head turned back. Small mouths chattered incessantly, giggled occasionally, exchanging the latest jokes, or filling each other in with highlights of the latest episode of their favorite anime show – or that late night drama, for those whose parents were more lenient about bedtime. Many heads wore a ponytail; others wore a long, tight braid; some wore a stylish headband to keep their hair away from their eyes. Few heads were covered with a white headscarf.
The teacher walked in. Silence prevailed. All up on their feet.
After the usual exchange of greetings, we sat down. Time to begin the first class of the day: Islamic Studies.
The teacher’s eyes widened, her hand on her chest.
“Girls, have you watched the news last night?” Her veiled head oscillated, scouting out volunteers. It couldn’t be me, as I was among those who were sent to bed every night at 8:00 p.m. sharp, right when the news broadcast began.
“About the Indian writer?” asked a girl in the middle row. My envious eyes almost pierced the back of her head.
“Yes!” said the teacher, her tone a mix of relief and excitement. “That horrible Indian writer! Did you hear the title of his book? He named it Ayat Shaytaniyah!”
The whole class let out a loud gasp. What? Satanic Verses? The horror!
The teacher went on a tirade against the author, whose name she couldn’t recall. As she vented her frustration and contempt, she gloated over Khomeini’s fatwa, calling for the author’s death. “He will spend the rest of his life on the run!”
The author’s name, of course, was Salman Rushdie. And I guarantee that, to this day, our revered teacher hasn’t bothered to read his “Satanic” work – or any of his works for that matter.
I can’t say for sure what prompted Jordan’s national TV to report on Rushdie in 1993. Perhaps it was in objection to awarding him the Booker of Bookers that year; a gesture that the religious entities most likely saw as an affront to the Muslim World. After all, I didn’t watch the news. But it was thanks to this report that the work of Salman Rushdie found its way into my psyche, at the age of 10, all despite my parents’ strict bedtime rules.
* * *
Few years into the new millennium – Amman, Jordan
Intrigued by a slew of online – and thankfully unsuccessful – petitions to extradite Rushdie to Pakistani authorities, I got my hands on a copy of the notorious work, with the help of a few kindred spirits. It began:
To say I was mesmerized is an understatement.
This was the voice of Orpheus emanating from the pages and I was serenaded, lured into a magical interstice between the realms of poetry and prose. I say this as an English major who spent a great chunk of her life in the company of the greats, from Shakespeare to John Milton to George Bernard Shaw to Charles Dickens to Oscar Wilde to James Joyce to William Faulkner to F. Scott Fitzgerald to T. S. Elliot to E. E. Cummings to…
I searched for an offensive passage, but to no avail. And even if I did stumble upon it, nothing a writer may possibly pen down could warrant a death sentence or threat.
Nothing.
* * *
October 7, 2013 – The Other Side of the World
I arrived on Olive Way. The evening was rainless, my favorite city still walkable as ever. Ten minutes of brisk walking and I was in front of Town Hall Seattle. The lines were so long they looped around three sides of the building. Somehow, I still managed to find my friend Nick. We hugged. My enthusiasm must’ve seeped through him.
“You look a little excited,” he said. We laughed.
We managed to find good seats. Many people had to attend standing in the back of the hall. After the presentation and the Q&A, I met the man in the flesh, the man I was taught to hate, only to end up asking for his autograph on my copy of Joseph Anton two decades later.
“Mahmood!” said Rushdie, looking at my name card. “Is that from Pakistan or…?”
“Jordan!” I responded, barely able to contain myself.
“Ah!” he said, as he signed the book with his usual elegance.
How I wished I had more time to let him in on a journey that began in sixth grade, a story that he must’ve heard thousands of times before, with minor differences each time. I looked behind me at a long line of fans waiting for their turn, so I settled for a smile of gratitude and a heartfelt “thank you!”
Fall, 1993 – Amman, Jordan
We sat at our desks as we succeeded one another into the classroom after the morning assembly. Most of us huddled with their neighbor; some sat in an awkward, contorted position in their seat, with their torso facing forward and their head turned back. Small mouths chattered incessantly, giggled occasionally, exchanging the latest jokes, or filling each other in with highlights of the latest episode of their favorite anime show – or that late night drama, for those whose parents were more lenient about bedtime. Many heads wore a ponytail; others wore a long, tight braid; some wore a stylish headband to keep their hair away from their eyes. Few heads were covered with a white headscarf.
The teacher walked in. Silence prevailed. All up on their feet.
After the usual exchange of greetings, we sat down. Time to begin the first class of the day: Islamic Studies.
The teacher’s eyes widened, her hand on her chest.
“Girls, have you watched the news last night?” Her veiled head oscillated, scouting out volunteers. It couldn’t be me, as I was among those who were sent to bed every night at 8:00 p.m. sharp, right when the news broadcast began.
“About the Indian writer?” asked a girl in the middle row. My envious eyes almost pierced the back of her head.
“Yes!” said the teacher, her tone a mix of relief and excitement. “That horrible Indian writer! Did you hear the title of his book? He named it Ayat Shaytaniyah!”
The whole class let out a loud gasp. What? Satanic Verses? The horror!
The teacher went on a tirade against the author, whose name she couldn’t recall. As she vented her frustration and contempt, she gloated over Khomeini’s fatwa, calling for the author’s death. “He will spend the rest of his life on the run!”
The author’s name, of course, was Salman Rushdie. And I guarantee that, to this day, our revered teacher hasn’t bothered to read his “Satanic” work – or any of his works for that matter.
I can’t say for sure what prompted Jordan’s national TV to report on Rushdie in 1993. Perhaps it was in objection to awarding him the Booker of Bookers that year; a gesture that the religious entities most likely saw as an affront to the Muslim World. After all, I didn’t watch the news. But it was thanks to this report that the work of Salman Rushdie found its way into my psyche, at the age of 10, all despite my parents’ strict bedtime rules.
* * *
Few years into the new millennium – Amman, Jordan
Intrigued by a slew of online – and thankfully unsuccessful – petitions to extradite Rushdie to Pakistani authorities, I got my hands on a copy of the notorious work, with the help of a few kindred spirits. It began:
‘To be born again,’ sang Gibreel Farishta tumbling from the heavens, ‘first you have to die. Ho ji! Ho ji! To land upon the bosomy earth, first one needs to fly. Tat-taa! Taka-thun! How to ever smile again, if first you won’t cry? How to win the darling’s love, mister, without a sigh? Baba, if you want to get born again …’ Just before dawn one winter’s morning, New Year’s Day or thereabouts, two real, full-grown, living men fell from a great height, twenty-nine thousand and two feet, towards the English Channel, without benefit of parachutes or wings, out of a clear sky.
To say I was mesmerized is an understatement.
This was the voice of Orpheus emanating from the pages and I was serenaded, lured into a magical interstice between the realms of poetry and prose. I say this as an English major who spent a great chunk of her life in the company of the greats, from Shakespeare to John Milton to George Bernard Shaw to Charles Dickens to Oscar Wilde to James Joyce to William Faulkner to F. Scott Fitzgerald to T. S. Elliot to E. E. Cummings to…
I searched for an offensive passage, but to no avail. And even if I did stumble upon it, nothing a writer may possibly pen down could warrant a death sentence or threat.
Nothing.
* * *
October 7, 2013 – The Other Side of the World
I arrived on Olive Way. The evening was rainless, my favorite city still walkable as ever. Ten minutes of brisk walking and I was in front of Town Hall Seattle. The lines were so long they looped around three sides of the building. Somehow, I still managed to find my friend Nick. We hugged. My enthusiasm must’ve seeped through him.
“You look a little excited,” he said. We laughed.
We managed to find good seats. Many people had to attend standing in the back of the hall. After the presentation and the Q&A, I met the man in the flesh, the man I was taught to hate, only to end up asking for his autograph on my copy of Joseph Anton two decades later.
“Mahmood!” said Rushdie, looking at my name card. “Is that from Pakistan or…?”
“Jordan!” I responded, barely able to contain myself.
“Ah!” he said, as he signed the book with his usual elegance.
How I wished I had more time to let him in on a journey that began in sixth grade, a story that he must’ve heard thousands of times before, with minor differences each time. I looked behind me at a long line of fans waiting for their turn, so I settled for a smile of gratitude and a heartfelt “thank you!”
May 16, 2022
Theocracy Looms in Anti-Abortion Opinions of the Supreme Court
by: I. Rida Mahmood
Subjugating American women is another job that good old conservatives do not want to outsource to immigrants.
Sharia-phobic conservatives, while donning their favorite superhero capes and flying to rescue Afghan and Iraqi women from religious authoritarianism, have been working diligently to formulate and promote homemade policies that are equally authoritarian, misogynistic, and intrusive, with unmistakable religious underpinnings. The leaked US Supreme Court’s initial draft majority opinion targets American women in a way that would thrill the ghosts of Mullah Omar and Ayatollah Khomeini.
Read the full article:
https://themarkaz.org/theocracy-looms...
Subjugating American women is another job that good old conservatives do not want to outsource to immigrants.
Sharia-phobic conservatives, while donning their favorite superhero capes and flying to rescue Afghan and Iraqi women from religious authoritarianism, have been working diligently to formulate and promote homemade policies that are equally authoritarian, misogynistic, and intrusive, with unmistakable religious underpinnings. The leaked US Supreme Court’s initial draft majority opinion targets American women in a way that would thrill the ghosts of Mullah Omar and Ayatollah Khomeini.
Read the full article:
https://themarkaz.org/theocracy-looms...
February 21, 2022
New in Translation: Three Poems by Riyad al-Saleh al-Hussein
Nearly four decades after his death at the age of 28, Riyad al-Saleh al-Hussein’s work remains a vibrant part of the poetic and imaginative landscape of Syria and beyond.
ArabLit contributor Ibtihal Mahmood wrote of his brief life:
Read the full article here.
ArabLit contributor Ibtihal Mahmood wrote of his brief life:
Read the full article here.
January 3, 2022
America’s Freedom Hinges on the Survival of its Democracy
by: I. Rida Mahmood
The whole nation tuned in as he stood at the White House Ellipse on January 6th, 2021, marshalling an angry mob of “Stop the Steal” members, in the final act of throttling democracy. “And we fight,” he said. “We fight like hell, and if you don’t fight like hell, you’re not going to have a country anymore.”
Read the full article here:
https://themarkaz.org/americas-freedo...
The whole nation tuned in as he stood at the White House Ellipse on January 6th, 2021, marshalling an angry mob of “Stop the Steal” members, in the final act of throttling democracy. “And we fight,” he said. “We fight like hell, and if you don’t fight like hell, you’re not going to have a country anymore.”
Read the full article here:
https://themarkaz.org/americas-freedo...
March 26, 2021
Valentine by George Sand: A Review
by: I. Rida Mahmood
Had it not been for picking up a copy of Impromptu, a 1991 British-American film that highlighted the dreamy, fragile musician’s love affair with the powerful woman novelist, I might have never gotten the chance to experience the genius of her work or relish in the details of her vibrant being – her multiple love affairs, her unlawful s’habiller en homme (donning men’s clothing) and smoking in public, to name a few.
Read the full review here.
Had it not been for picking up a copy of Impromptu, a 1991 British-American film that highlighted the dreamy, fragile musician’s love affair with the powerful woman novelist, I might have never gotten the chance to experience the genius of her work or relish in the details of her vibrant being – her multiple love affairs, her unlawful s’habiller en homme (donning men’s clothing) and smoking in public, to name a few.
Read the full review here.
