
By Ahdaf Soueif
From the bestselling writer of the Booker Prize finalist The Map of Love–an incisive choice of essays on Arab identification, artwork, and politics that seeks to find the mezzaterra, or universal floor, in an more and more globalized world.
The twenty-five years’ worthy of feedback and remark gathered the following have earned Ahdaf Soueif a spot between our such a lot fashionable Arab intellectuals. Clear-eyed and passionate, and syndicated during the global, they're the direct results of Soueif’s personal situations of being “like millions of others: individuals with an Arab or a Muslim history doing day-by-day double-takes while confronted with their mirrored image in a western mirror.” no matter if an account of vacationing Palestine and getting into the Noble Sanctuary for the 1st time, an interpretation of ladies who decide to put on the veil, or her post—September eleven reflections, Soueif’s clever, fearless, deeply proficient essays include the fashionable look for id and group.
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Extra resources for Mezzaterra: Fragments from the Common Ground
Sample text
There is another way and that is to inhabit and broaden the common ground. This is the ground where everybody is welcome, the ground we need to defend and to expand. It is to Mezzaterra that every responsible person on this planet now needs to migrate. And it is there that we need to make our stand. February, 2005 POLITICAL ESSAYS Mystery surrounds rules of engagement The rules of engagement used by the Israeli Defense Force and the border police have always been something of a mystery … Since the intifada, Israeli security forces have frequently used live ammunition against demonstrators despite the absence of firearms on the Palestinian side, producing a steady stream of deaths.
The main square of the modern part is teeming with people. Vegetable and fruit stalls teeter on the edges of pavements and on traffic islands. The Israelis have expropriated the old marketplace and bulldozed it. Raise your eyes from the bustle and you see the evidence of shells and mortars on the buildings surrounding the square. A gaping hole where the offices of al-Ayyam5 newspaper used to be. Doctors’ clinics, toy shops, a hairdresser: rubble, soot, shattered glass and pockmarks. Raise your eyes further and you see Israeli soldiers sandbagged on people’s rooftops, their guns trained on the throng below.
Jerusalem, apparently, is open. I know nothing of this woman except that the small daughter on the seat next to her is called ‘Malak’, Angel. An orthodox priest in black robes and his hair in a long grey braid comes out of the building and takes a taxi back to Amman. We go to another part of the terminal. Buses are waiting, loaded with people. Angel’s mother decides to go VIP for the sake of the child. I walk along behind her. We hand over our passports and are ushered into a large room with sofas and Arabic newspapers.