Reflecting on their personal experiences and the challenges faced by Arab artists and writers, in this conversation with Diana Abbani, Syrian writer Rasha Abbas and Palestinian artist Muhammad Jabali explore how Berlin’s cultural landscape has been influenced by migration, identity politics, and recent political changes, emphasizing the need for both imagination and realistic approaches to create more livable cities.
This conversation was initially held as part of MECAM workshop Cities in the Arab Imagination: Fiction, Reality, and Futurescapes, that took place in May 2024 at the Forum Transregionale Studien in Berlin. It is simultaneously published on Trafo blog.
Diana Abbani: Rasha, reflecting back to your 2019 short story, The Intruders and the City, translated and published in 2022 in The Markaz Review, you explored the complexities Arab writers face in articulating how exile impacts their work, amidst the challenges of personal change and adapting to new environments while reflecting on their past. Starting from that perspective, could you take us back to your initial experiences upon arriving in Berlin? How did these experiences shape your view of the city as a potential “cultural hub” for Arab artists and writers?
Rasha Abbas: When I arrived in Berlin in 2014, the city was different—I was different, and the city was welcoming amidst the influx of Syrian refugees. It truly felt like a free and safe haven, and it was where my work was first translated. That recognition was something big for me; I was genuinely happy about it.
However, as time passed, my perspective changed. Initially, I might have been a bit naive, happily accepting all invitations. However, I soon became more critical, particularly of how I was being represented. Despite there being no shame in being labeled a refugee, I noticed at literary events that our presence was sometimes treated like a charity case, which was unsettling.
Additionally, I observed that the host community’s well-intentioned initiatives did not always align with our literary concerns. At many events, the focus was predominantly on the impact of the refugee wave in Europe—questioning whether we were a risk or a benefit to the community. While these questions are valid, they often overlook the unique issues and narratives that we, as Arab intellectuals in the diaspora, bring to the table.
DA: Muhammad, since you first arrived in Berlin and co-founded the cultural collective of Al.Berlin, you’ve been an active part of the city’s cultural scene. How do you see your place in the city back then and now? How do you see the current political and cultural repressions in Berlin affecting you, your work, Berlin’s cultural scene and the Arab community and its artistic expressions?
Muhammad Jabali: I originally decided not to live in Berlin in 2012, feeling it was not the right place for a Palestinian. That was my stance until fate brought me back. From 2006 to 2012, I engaged in numerous activities in Germany, such as activist exchanges, poetry readings, DJing, and political conferences. By the end of 2012, I was living in Neukölln, after being invited to a municipal festival and a parallel political conference. I left Berlin with two starkly contrasting impressions: the vibrant atmosphere of the Arab street, Sonnenallee, which was strangely more authentic than Jaffa, where I lived, and the stifling experiences at a conference in Mitte, which, as a Palestinian, felt exclusive and impenetrable unless accompanied by an Israeli friend.
These contrasting experiences gave me a sense of schizophrenia, compelling me to decide that I did not want to live in a place that made me feel this way. However, when I returned in 2018, Berlin felt different, largely due to the influx of Syrian refugees which had fostered a welcoming culture. The city seemed to be evolving, with debates on German ethno-nationalism and a noticeable increase in the Arab population contributing to a changed atmosphere.
Nevertheless, conflict reemerged quickly. By 2019, while planning the first Al.Berlin music festival, the anti-BDS resolution passed in parliament. I was in Austria for an exhibition when I heard that the venue we were supposed to use for our festival had canceled one of our performers due to his BDS support. I was outraged—I had not left Tel Aviv for this.
My aim here is to frame these experiences within a broader historical context. The cycles of hope and disillusionment in Berlin have been ongoing for over a decade. This ongoing fluctuation in what Berlin represents isn’t new to me. Thus, it’s essential to view our situations and the city through a long-term lens, acknowledging that while current events influence us, they are not confined to a single moment; they are part of a continuous flow of time, affecting both our past and our future.
DA: Rasha, following your withdrawal from the Frankfurt Book Fair in solidarity with the Palestinian writer Adania Shibli, and considering the broader themes of silence and language in catastrophic times, could you share your thoughts on the absence of words and the role of literature in such periods? Do you see language capable of capturing the tragedy, and what drives the narratives we create in these times?
RA: I have come to understand, and perhaps embrace, the solution of silence, especially after the Frankfurt Book Fair incident. We published a statement, written by Mohammad al-Attar, about our withdrawal. In that context, silence seemed almost a literal necessity. However, I don’t always believe it’s the best solution, but sometimes it feels like the only one we have.
At the Fair, despite suggestions to voice our concerns, I reconsidered our withdrawal after seeing Slavoj Žižek’s speech, even though I don’t share his views on Palestine. This made me wonder about more confrontational approaches. But, at that moment, I didn’t see myself there. Language was a barrier. I don’t fully command German, and I didn’t find the power in me to engage in a heated debate, in English or German, on such a significant platform.
After 10–12 years of being forced to be an activist for the Syrian cause—because even if you don’t want to, it’s not a choice—I’ve learned the challenges of such a role. If you can’t engage, don’t force it; sometimes writing and reflecting from a distance suits better. Circumstances sometimes dictate a slower pace, and not everyone is cut out for public debate.
Though I’m not fully convinced that silence is always the best approach, I see value in all forms of expression. Some thrive in public discussions, while others, including myself, contribute best through quiet reflection, documenting, and creating works that might only be recognized years later.
DA: Muhammad, in your book published last year, The Entrapment of the Place: A Critical Study of Fine Arts in Israel, you critically examine whether art created in a colonial setting like Israel can represent beauty without reinforcing colonial narratives. Is it possible for art to exist within a colonial framework without being complicit in these dynamics? Further, how does Western art influence and reshape societal standards of what is aesthetically considered as “beautiful” and “ugly”, and how might it reflect and perpetuate colonial narratives and power dynamics?
MJ: This is a complex issue without a straightforward answer. Yes, beautiful art can emerge in a colonial context, but beauty does not dictate moral value. Israeli art, for example, includes truly remarkable pieces, yet beauty can also serve darker purposes. The Arabic term رائع، روعة، مريع, akin to the English ‘terrific,’ embodies the dual nature of beauty and fear, illustrating how closely they are intertwined in language.
However, good art isn’t necessarily peaceful. Recent Western art, particularly from the latter half of the 20th century, sometimes misaligns with our experiences and distorts our perceptions.
In moments of catastrophe, victims don’t think about creating beautiful art, victims scream. That’s not art—you need distance from the moment, art is about creating a metaphor, and if you’re not distanced from it, it can barely be art.
This creates a crucial problem with the poetics of tragedy. At the heat of the tragedy, it is hard to be poetic; there is an inherent contradiction in trying to represent tragedies beautifully. Like Adorno said, writing poetry after the Holocaust is barbaric. Sometimes, going back to silence or being silenced is the solution. It is expected that artists lead the way in times of crisis, but actually, most of the time, poetry after catastrophes is “barbarism”.
There is a time for silence, and that makes cultural work really difficult to always be at the front line of confrontation. Either it produces bad art, or needing this distance makes it complex.
DA: Reflecting on your experiences in Berlin and the dual roles imposed on refugee and exiled writers and artists—where on one hand there’s a desire to translate and understand their works better, and on the other, they are categorized into roles that demand testimonial or sociological narratives—how do you both navigate these expectations? Additionally, within the Arab community, do you feel a responsibility to represent them, or do you prioritize individual expression?
RA: Navigating these expectations starts with personal reflection. Often, it seems that my public profile overshadows my actual writing. While part of me resists being pigeonholed as just a ‘Syrian writer,’ wanting instead to explore universal themes like love or science fiction, I inevitably gravitate back to the issues that have shaped me: my Syrian upbringing and the experiences of oppression, war, and displacement. These elements deeply influence what I write, regardless of how I wish to be perceived. In Berlin, despite its challenges, I find it one of the best places for Arab writers and activists to congregate. However, the expectation to represent the Arab community complicates things. The cultural scene can feel imposing, and there are times when you simply want your space. This need isn’t about isolation, but about managing the trauma and complexities that come with diaspora experiences.
MJ: Indeed, Rasha captures the struggle well. The main issue for refugee and exiled artists is exclusion from the collective due to institutional dynamics that do not recognize our experiences as universally human. We often find ourselves fighting for a voice within these structures. A few years back, I was optimistic about our role in shaping a new Berlin collective, but the reality is more complex. Despite this, the Arab community in Berlin is smaller and more fragmented than many realize, with varying desires on how they wish to engage with the city. Events like concerts or art shows play a crucial role, allowing individuals to connect over shared interests without the pressure of collective identity, enriching the cultural landscape of the city.
DA: To conclude and reflect on the future, how can we make the cities we inhabit more livable? What role does imagination play in shaping our perception of these cities? And how can we use it to envision new possibilities for the future?
RA: I believe imagination is crucial to envision what comes tomorrow. What we prepare for today lays the groundwork for tomorrow. But then, there’s the question of making Berlin a more livable city. How crucial is our imagination in this process? Is it really what we need? I believe that while imagination is essential, but alone, it may not be sufficient.
Especially considering recent events and the cruelty witnessed, our challenges are not solely due to a lack of imagination. In fact, I have begun to think that what we really need to address in today’s world is more awareness, a more realistic approach, and fact-gathering—exactly the kind of things we often avoid, like forced activism.
MJ: I’m currently working and studying German intensely because I blame myself for everyday I’ve lived here without mastering the language. There is definitely a communication problem in Germany, which relates to a broader issue in the cultural sector and the lack of communication with Germans. I think part of the blame lies with Arab artists and cultural activists, but it’s not solely their responsibility. The cultural sector often grapples with competing for resources and dealing with issues that clash with German societal norms, such as the sensitive topics of Palestine and Israel.
However, the question remains: should we make Berlin bloom? This ties back to our relationship with our community back home. There is a role here, not just to debate with Germans as fixed entities, but also to revitalize Berlin, leveraging this space to foster a new Arab or Mediterranean influence.
