Sept. 10 2008

Sept. 10 2008 October 6, 2009

Issue: 12

Published on the first Tuesday of the Month

Accountabilities of Creativity and Writing By: Fatema Al-Shidi Translated by: Hammal Al-Bulushi Why do we write? Is writing a value in itself? Is writing against life or vice versa? Does writing ruin life? What is more beautiful; to write about life or to live life outside of writing? Does the value of the writer appear outside of the text? Can a text «spill the beans» of a writer? Is it appropriate to judge the writer through his text? What is the separating space between, creativity and insanity, narcissism and self – respect, and arrogance and confidence? Is the creative necessarily mentally ill? Thus, is creativity the result of trying to fragment Oedipus rooted in self? Does the Arabic creative feel the schizophrenia phenomenon represented in his private and public lives? What level of consciousness one needs in order not to be mixed up between creativity and non-creativity? Are the rituals of the creative connected with creativity? Is the creative ritual adventitious or genuine? Is it variable or fixed? Is creativity against to values? What is more important; creativity or humanistic values? What are the levels of humanistic values for the creative and are they real or assumed? Is commitment to a cause a flaw in the text? Is writing about humanistic values and community issues a defective ideology for the text? Is writing about self more preferable by the reader? Is it enough to advertise the text or the writer must be advertised? What are the criteria of creativity in the era of instability? Who has the standards of evaluating a text or sending it with ovation to the reader? Is the denial of the other a proof of self, its demolition a building of self and its exclusion a special value? Is apprehension a real or artificial state of creativity? Is creative seclusion a real and effective solution? Does the text introduce its creator or vice versa? Is dealing with sensitive issues and breaking the

social taboos a virtue for the text or an attempt by the writer to be under the spot light? Does lie, false, and social suppression result in anticreativity? Is the ovation of friends’ texts even though if they were weak and fragile an ovation of them as well? Is the «textual ego» an applicable evaluating criterion for other texts apart of cognitive qualifications of the writer? Are the certificates a prerequisite to introduce writers? Does who has a certificate have the standards of critiquing and evaluating? Is the soul of creativity is a masculine? Do the masculine and feminine texts have the same evaluating criterion? Is writing an honour or distinction? Is women creativity is lost between the cultures of high-voice and high-heel? Is the rhetoric of poetry in the era of «no-tribune» a virtue? Does the earsplitting delivery add something to the text? Is being charmed by west a genuine contrast? Is creativity restricted in literature only? Is agony and grief an inevitable memory for the text? Are the texts of desire and pleasure part of creativity? Is difference a value? Can we disagree with cordiality? Is there cultural terrorism in the Arabic societies? Does disability encourage creativity or limit its potential? Does the creative receive the proper appreciation that he deserves from the cultural institute? Does the society revere the creative and appreciate his value? Is it the right of the creative to dream for a materialistic gain for what he writes? Can a creative get a little of career appreciation since he represents the bright future of the country? Can a creative, after years of working in a career and producing creative work, dream of «full-time» writing provided with all expenses of life? Do we appreciate the value of questioning as a real access to knowledge and a bet on what should be?

2 The Trap 4 Doors Shut by the Wind 6 A Beautiful Face

Image Courtesy Of: Rahma Al Ghafri

2

October 2009

T h e

T r a p

By Amnna al Rabia Translated by Muna Yahya al Battashi

Editorial Supervision Azza Al Kindi Hammal Al Belushi

Editors Thomas Roche Salim Al Kindi Dalal Al Attabi Muna Al Battashi

In Arabic, the connotations of a trap include meanings relating to hunting and taking something by deception. I personally do not intend to trap you! The different traps that we easily fall into each and every day are as numerous and as they are countless. For example, those who watch the news on specialized or frivolous satellite channels realize that they have been trapped. Similarly, whoever watches those superficial music video-clips that are steeped in silliness and triviality, realize it. And what shall we say regarding those amusing games which are exorbitantly expensive, where you realize that it’s a trapped stupidity or a stupid trap. Also, there are the poorly dubbed series, as well as the recently emerged satellite channels, and the hit by «Ashaloot»*. In conclusion, the viewer is easy prey for the hunter. However the trap that I intend to write about is a very special one, which we encounter by reading the second scene from the third chapter of the Hamlet. The main character, Hamlet, enters with two or three actors. He says: “Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to

Text Selection Badr AL Jahwari Aysha Al Saifi

you, trippingly on the tongue: but if you mouth it,

Graphics Selection Safaa Al Nabhani

too much with your hand, thus, but use all gently;

Public Relations Umayma Al Harthi Ahmed Al Hadhrami

the whirlwind of passion, you must acquire and beget

Design by Mahmoud Al Hosni

periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to

Special Thanks to:

for the most part are capable of nothing but

• Society for Fine Arts at Sultan Qaboos University

as many of your players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air

for in the very torrent, tempest, and, as I may say,

a temperance that may give it smoothness. O, it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious

very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who

inexplicable dumbshows and noise: I would have such a fellow whipped for o’erdoing Termagant; it

• Photography Society at Sultan Qaboos University

out-herods Herod: pray you, avoid it.

• Department of Public Realations & Information

be your tutor: suit the action to the word, the

Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion

word to the action; with this special o’erstep not

touching documentary films, there was a film titled “A Child from Gaza Narrating his Suffering”. No doubt that there were many viewers who watched the movies as a set or parts of a whole. However, what surprised me was dealing with such subjects and promoting it via email under an ugly title: “I Challenge all Gulf Children and Sheikhs”. All wars are not unfairly justified as Ms. Susan Sonntag announced in her anti-American war against Vietnam several times. Thus, who is trapped here through the promotion of a documentary series via an email with the evil-like title? And how are the children of the Gulf related to this issue? And why throw childhood into the barbarian culture of nowadays? The concept of reciprocal criteria had affected everyone, those near far, the sympathizers and the non-sympathizers. What if the child was left to talk, with the turbulent emergence of emotions, without drawling and without those who add a hostile title that can be heard among some of the Arab intellectuals? Would it change the powers that be’s degree of compassion toward this issue or would it ultimately bring justice? Let us read the child’s dialogue which narrated his suffering: “… No bed to sleep on, no food, no water and no electricity. What a wasted life! This is Israel’s biggest blockade. They see how we are thrown in here; we don’t play, laugh, learn or watch kids’ programs. When we turn on the television, we just see funerals, deaths and wars. We don’t watch kids’ programs to entertain ourselves and to learn from them. They don’t show cartoons here. They are keeping us in here like beggars. This blockade has been here for almost two years and we haven’t had any advantage from it…etc.” The above sentences leapt from the child’s tongue leniently. He didn’t drawl like others. As viewers, we fall into many traps. They consider the child’s narration of this daily misery of the blockade, which some of the Arab intellectuals and academics promote under the domination of the reciprocal concepts and contradictions as part of life. The scene revealed some dark sides of human thinking, and stresses the need for enlightenment against the domination of two-sided concepts and contradictory emotions and reactions, without the availability of moderation in judgment, or self-criticism. The child’s scene elaborates for us what is happening today, or will happen later if intelligent destruction persists in its work in bombing the viewers from the inside using the killer’s tools.

the modesty of nature: for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing.” In one of the documentary films that accompanied the invasion of Gaza, a documentary series was presented on Al Jazeera named “Stories from Gaza”. Among those

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*Ashaloot: to kick someone at the rear

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October 2009

A

S o l i t a r y

C O N C E R T

By: Zahran Al Qasmi Translated by: Sara Al Sheyadi

Image Courtesy Of: Majid Al-Rawahi

O, mountains

To the other bank,

And these horizons would be full of you..

Welcome your straying son,

Where warmth and butterflies are,

Perhaps I would not see you then,

Take him to your tender and warm bosom,

And let him bid you a farewell at the first station of travel.

But I beg you,

Grant him a last wish: To become a rock; To stand on your peaks, Mocking the beautiful flowers That bloom on the bottom, Where there is mud and remains of nations. O, mountains Return with him,

Take his shabby things with you,

Even if he is a hermit monster, Who believes your valleys to be The Promised Temple.

To start again; But do not leave him an address or ID, And if you could change his features, do so, Morning is waiting for him there, With its wonderful surprises. O, sun I looked for you everywhere, In the books and in the ancient manuscripts, In the peddlers’ sacks, In the luxurious cars,

O, wind, The wanderer’s amulet, Frivolity urged him not to mess around your nest, But he left the barking of his solicitudes in the middle of the road.. You would not have been the obstacle of survival, When you dwelled in his bag in the past You were eating from whatever he threw of his appealing..

And pray for me…

And hope that he would forget his memory,

“The Heir of the Ibex” Accept him,

Stand for awhile by my remains,

In the stations of a long journey, In death.

O, night Rising from the chest Of a small bird spattered with rain; Its feathers were blown by the wind; Rising from a large heart that fills up imagination with loneliness and fear, Give me a poke at the gate of your misty world: I enjoy seeing them shattered, Walking to their endless absence, And I enjoy collecting their tears like rain, To be carried to countries reposing under the sand’s roots. I would sell you their children with their hearts

When I was exhausted, You almost rose from my buried dream,

That are full of toys, and mornings embroidered with Lapis.

Fearing destitution.

I would feed you their eyes,

Here I am, stumbling in the darkness,

Which I would grill,

And upon my blood, its bats are fed.

And you would drink their tears until you become drunk…

I hear the howling of its wild animals, Echoing in all directions.

O, wind,

No doubt,

Carry the bird you raised in his hands,

O, sun, you would come

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4

October 2009

Doors Shut by

t h e

W i n d

By: Samaa Issa Translated by: Azza Al Kindi

(1) After being diagnosed with leprosy, he was deported from his hometown. He was sent away from among the shimmering green date-palm trees of his home to the isolation of the leper colony, at the yawning mouth of a tired old valley extending through indifferent mountains. Every night before dark, the leper would sneak out to his old house in the midst of the palm trees, linger at a distance and watch his children with tears welling in his eyes. When he saw that they had had their dinner and gone to bed, he would trudge off back to the colony. The lepers had been removed to this new colony under the reign of Imam Sultan bin Saif after a tragedy had befallen the town. The old colony was located along a deep-reaching path penetrating the mountains between Izki and Rustaq. One sweaty day, a leper got up and left the colony and walked to Rustaq. The sweltering heat of the sun dried him out on his march and by the time he reached the first of the farms along the fringes of a settlement his mind was focused only on his thirst. So, he stopped near one of the falajes that were running along the track. He held out a cup, quivering, hoping someone would pass by and help him get some water from the falaj. He was careful that neither he nor his cup would touch the water, he knew if it did that his illness would pass on to people of the town. For a day or two he stayed there waiting patiently for someone to come along. Time flowed by, the hours passed. In the end he died of thirst. When his body was found with the cup clasped in his hand with his desperate eyes looking longingly at the water, Imam Sultan ordered that the colony be relocated to AlGhashab in Rustaq. This leper colony had kept its name until now. (2) When mad Saeed was taken to jail, he was ordered to take off his wizar1 and put on trousers instead. The order had come from Sergeant Abbas. Mad Saeed protested violently, “Go to Hell. What? Do you think I’m a woman who goes around wearing trousers?” Sergeant Abbas: “Shut up, and just do as I tell you.” Mad Saeed: “Look here, I’ll never ever wear your trousers. Not in this lifetime. Next you’ll be

asking me to dance. Mad Saeed come dance with me…Don’t even dream of it.” Sergeant Abbas: “I said, shut up, and do what you’re told!” Mad Saeed: “I don’t give a fig about your orders. I’m wearing my wizar. Got it? These trousers are for you, your soldiers and any other women you can find to order around.” Sergeant Abbas (to his soldiers): “Right. That’s it. Teach him a lesson that he won’t forget for the rest of his life.” Mad Saeed was bashed from one cell to the next until he ended up in a horrid little room with a dank rusting refrigerator in it. He was crammed into it, all legs and elbows, locked in, and it was pushed up against the wall so that he couldn’t even hear the dungeon’s doors being bolted. Sergeant Abbas only meant to keep him there for ten minutes, so that he’d collapse and agree to wear the standard issue inmate trousers. One of the officers returned from Saeed’s cell and gave his boss the key. The Sergeant started yawning, stretched his legs on the table and sank into a deep smug sleep until dawn.

slow death. Where have all these people gone? The stony stairs lead to a small room inhabited by a blind old man. He didn’t ask, “Who are you?» or «Where did you come from?» He called out to a young girl and asked her to bring coffee in small cups and dates. Afterwards, he started speaking sorrowfully: everything in this village was killed; not a palm tree, nor a single plant remained alive. We resorted to living in caves. The bombing had been a senseless act after everything had been destroyed. I watched the pilot chasing something in the village. I tried to find out what it was but I could see nothing. Eventually, I saw a puppy running. The pilot skirted along the main road dropping bombs as he gained on and overtook the dog. He was trying to annihilate the last living thing in the village. The puppy apparently enjoyed the game hiding behind thrown up rubble only to reappear and tempt fate.

He woke up with a start and shouted at his soldiers, “Quickly! Go and release Saeed!” The soldiers hurried and opened all the cells, one after the other. When they finally found and opened the refrigerator, Saeed was an icecube. He was taken out of it and put into a larger refrigerator used for corpses. “Bit of a blunder there Abbas. Could be embarrassing for us all here. I don’t want that sort of thing happening again. Am I making myself clear?” admonished the commissioner. “Sorry sir, I was exhausted.” “Very good Abbas, I can over look it this time.” “Yes sir, I promise I’ll never sleep again when there is someone in the refrigerator.” “Right Abbas” “Right, sir” (3) When you climb the stony stairs leading into the village, you will notice the children’s eyes looking at you. Nothing will surprise you, but the tranquility inspires in you the feeling of a quiet

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Image Courtesy Of: Mohd Al-Raqmi

5

October 2009

The pilot, who had emptied his load, returned to base for another supply. The puppy never appeared again, but the pilot did, only to become furious scattering his bombs over the remains of the village. In our caves, we talked about those bombardiers. Where have all these grudges towards people and nature come from? How do their hearts bear all this hatred that could swallow the earth and the heavens? The pilot left and never came back to our village again. I got out of the cave and looked for the puppy but didn’t find it. He probably realized that the battle in this village was over and he had emerged victorious. So, he disappeared into the lofty mountains and never to return.

Samaa Issa ..

Identity and Authenticity By: Dr. Zakariya Al Mahrami Translated by: Azza Al Kindi

(4) They were walking naked in a desert, individually and in groups. Whips were striking their bloodstained backs. I couldn’t see but could hear them. Women watching from the surrounding mountains were wailing. Children’s eyes were staring at a dismal void. A green tree appeared in front of them. They ran towards it while their whips were running after them, drinking blood from their shredded backs. Beside the tree was a spring from which a fairy emerged. She said to them: “I’ll not stop you from drinking water. Wash your backs and drink. When you leave, don’t walk but crawl on your stomachs so that the whips don’t reach your backs but will beat the air.” They crept away. Yet, the whips still reached them. They found another tree near a spring and again a fairy emerged. She said to them: “Creep on your bellies so that the whips don’t reach your backs.” They continued creeping on their bellies. When they reached the entrance to the town, they tried to stand up and go in. Yet, their bellies were stuck in the sand and there was no way they could get free. They stayed like that until the wind blew up and covered their bodies. No one ever heard of them again. On the mountains, women stopped wailing. The children’s eyes kept staring into the void realizing that nothingness was the master of the desert2 . Footnotes: 1 2

A wrapper worn by Omani men instead of trousers

Editor’s note: I feel myself forced here to quote Nietzsche

who wrote: If you stare long enough into the void, the void stares back at you.

Much has changed through establishing an authentic Omani literary identity. True content and style have been abandoned and replaced by themes. Creativity appears to have disappeared. Unfortunately, Western and Eastern standards have been applied to Arabic and particularly Omani texts. This conflict between modernism and authenticity has resulted in the absence of an Omani identity. We are unable to differentiate between a text from an Omani writer smelling of the warm sea mingled with frankincense and a Western writer describing the North Winds. Only a few works show literary creativity that can identify them as the writer. Samaa Issa’s writings describe the Omani countryside, its geography and natural beauty. He incorporates all a list of features that are truly Omani. By using the familiar tools and instruments from our historic past, a certain intimacy is created with the Omani reader. Authors who use foreign settings in their works alienate the Omani people. His texts retell myths and legends that have been handed down through the generations. His texts incorporate a religious identity, which has some Sufi touches. He speaks about “the mosque’s door, the Imam, the Qura’an school and the village worshiper”. He demonstrates that Islamic rituals are part of his identity. Unlike those who support their texts with western literary and philosophical quotes, Samaa uses quotes from the Holy Qura’an, “And indeed the Hereafter is better for you than the present (life of this world) ** And verily, your Lord will give you (all good) so that you shall be well-pleased”, Suart Ad-Diha: 3-4. In his works we do not find passion discussed but rather the poetry of Iman Sultan bin Saif1and Abu Muslim Al Bahlani2. We also find other references to his purity in his speeches with Baudelaire. In these, he proclaims his commitment to the Omani identity. We are in great need of writers such as Samaa Issa to continue to write and report on the true Omani identity and heritage.

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Footnotes: Imam Sultan bin Saif Al Yarubi is the second Imam of the Ya’aruba Dynasty. He ruled Oman in 1640.

1

Abu Muslim Al Bahlani is Nassir bin Salim Al Bahlani Al Rawahi. He is an Omani scientist and poet

2

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October 2009

face.. By: Lina Al Belushi Translated by: Safaa Al Nabhani «I want another face», the idea lit up a dark corner of her mind, spreading the hope that the sweetness of life was finally dawning. She thanked Allah for creating dreams. «This mine of ideas.. it takes a whole night of digging to find something in the morning», she said to herself. When she realized she would be late, she got up from her ruffled bed and stood in front of a mirror glaring into it. «Ahh», she sighed. «Is this me?» She did not like the idea, «No, it’s not me.» She tilted her head, slapped it and cried «Now I look like my grandma. « In desperation she sat on the ground, and then stood up again in front of the mirror. She looked at her hair, and swiftly hid it under a wig, but alas, she was horrified when Louis the 14th replaced her reflection on the mirror. She felt terrified, but held her screams. Louis felt sympathetic towards her, «Do we know each other?» he said. She was silent for a while, then answered furiously, «Could you tell me how you died?» Aaahhh, she screamed again and fell to the ground. It was as if she had been attacked by a beast. She took the wig off and threw it away. She cursed her nightly dreams. She decided to wash her face. She went into the bathroom, turned on the tap and glanced into the mirror. She suddenly remembered a black singer who sings for her country. She relaxed her eyebrows and noticed that her hair was now wet. She took a deep sigh, «Good. At least it is not like copper foil!» After lunch she went out. She did not care about the distance she traveled. She had a little rest in the cold corridor. She went to him and was warmly welcomed. He has seen a lot but didn’t want to trouble her. And for that she was grateful to him. At last, he asked, «How exactly do you want it to be?» With a light, then serious smile she answered, «I want a face like Laila’s when Qais* fell in love with her at first sight» He burst out laughing, which frustrated her, but she didn’t have to argue. Instead she took a pencil case that she found nearby and threw it at him. She left his house remembering that he had a sarcastic laugh. She expected that from anyone but not from him. Didn’t he tell her that she would be prettier when they added a beauty spot on the left of her upper lip? «Can you imagine how others will imitate you if we made that dot look like a little flower?» Now she knows why he did not fix the strabismus in his eyes. Her suspicions were confirmed when she saw a woman lying down covered in bandages like a mummy. She was horrified; she went home paler than she’d been before. She did not talk to anyone; she collapsed on her bed and slept.

She woke up full of energy as if nothing had happened; she did her best to treat everyone kindly. Her family was pleased that she has changed her mind and nobody dared to ask her where she had been the day before. Seeing her smiling again was enough to please them. She did not want to worry them although her ideas were still roaring in her mind. She worried that if she told them they would yell at her, and she was already sick of their preaching. Last time they told her, «Do whatever you like, we aren’t responsible for what you do.» She heard her mother’s voice calling her for lunch. This time she did not show any anger towards her noisy little brothers. Perhaps nobody, except herself, was surprised by her behavior; her brothers were chasing each other one minute and fighting the next. She wished she could become a child once again and not worry about anything. She asked her parents for permission to go out that evening to visit her friend, while thinking of her secret idea. They talked for a long time. Her friend’s mother was kind enough to give them some food and said «Neither of you have changed». They thought about it for a moment and then laughed. She realized it was time to introduce her idea to her friend. «It’s a piece of cake. I’ll take it to a specialist», her friend said referring to her brother. He welcomed them; she remembered her encounter with him once when she had avoided him. He showed his willingness to help her. She took a photograph from her bag and gave it to him. «But this is you», he said surprisingly. «I heard you are good at computer programming. I want you to make me another face.» He was silent for a while, and then asked, «How can others recognize you?» She could not answer. She was worried that he would ask more questions; she claimed she was late and then left. That night, she could not sleep for she was thinking about how she would look. She was thinking of him as well. Three days later, her friend and her friend’s mother visited. When they were alone in the room, her friend gave her an envelope. She could not wait; hundreds of unconnected ideas filled her mind. She looked at her friend’s eyes and then quickly opened the envelope. She found her original photo unchanged. She scrutinized the picture unable to find any difference. Finally, she realized that it was the face he wanted her to have. * Famous lovers in Arabic literature.

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AT A S L A N T

ANGLE By: Mohamed Al-Harthy Translated by Sargon Boulus

You were not the meanings’ cohort or its opposite, but between two doors you paced with half-words, you scaled the roof of dream with the fabled adventure, stalked the arm and cane that became a road, as evening fell in the elegies and the mirrors. Nor were you alone as you went down the slope of your life where you weren’t alone. your hand lit the candles of air, the dawn’s photograph wove the morning haze with a sleepy needle and a morningless woman’s lock of hair in the immense mirror that reflects the same image with a slanting angle at the end of the slope you never understood was your life itself hung at the entrance to paradise.

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October 2009 In its Final Concert of the Season

ROSO* Plays Mozart And Franck:

COMBINING THE SUBLIME AND THE AVANT-GARDE By: Nasser Al-Taee ROSO’s last concert of the year on 17 June, 2009 was unique and selective. It capped another successful year for ROSO within an intimate and less extravagant setting, marked by unpopular, yet significant, works from outside the canon of Western music. The program included pieces from the 18th, 19th, and 20th century and ranged in its harmonic depth from tonal to romantic to post-modern. The first piece was by the English composer of German/Irish descent Alec Roth’s entitled Fandangle. Influenced by Javanese Gamelan and Eastern music, Roth’s work is written for a large orchestra and featured highly playful, but difficult rhythmic syncopations. Guest conductor Simon Wright has already recorded the piece on a CD in 2004 and it was most likely a piece that was promoted the conductor for his visit to Oman. Overall, the work served as a brief and colorful overture to an evening united by the musical tonal area of D, both major and minor in the works of Mozart and Franck. The next piece was Mozart’s Flute Concerto in D. It is a composition initially conceived as an oboe concerto in C major, K. 314 composed in 1777 for oboist Giuseppe Ferlendis. The next year, Mozart transposed the concerto to D and the concerto became standard in flute repertory. Mozart’s significance in writing concertos lies in his elevation of its dramatic depth and virtuosity at a time he was seeking a permanent position as an opera composer in Vienna. In his more mature and influential piano concerti, Mozart utilized the solo as a powerful rebellious force, voicing its dismay of society’s constraints. In music, this is done through its harmonic role of modulation, challenging the tonal center established by the orchestra in a dramatic defiance. The concerto is also known for its wonderful cadenzas strategically located toward the end of the movement. These were often improvised by Mozart in his piano concerti, but he also wrote them out for his pupils. In the eighteenth century, these improvised segments were meant to showcase the talent of the soloists and their ability to improvise. The arrival at these cadenzas is also significant in delineating the form of the movements as they serve to mark the last statement by the soloist and the final return of the orchestra before closing. In general, this flute concerto is intimate and has a breath of fresh air in its small scale orchestration compared to the opening orchestral number. Since it’s

a work from Mozart’s earlier years prior to his move to Vienna in 1781, it has the feel of ardent youth. Some of Mozart’s new innovations to the concerto include the solo entry in the finale prior to the standard tutti by the orchestra. Soloist William Bennett played flawlessly but at times seemed intrusive to the conductor’s role in dictating the pace and the dramatic unfolding of the work. Additionally, his performance at times struck me as dull and uninspiring, especially in the slow movement as his rendition lacked passion and melodic breadth needed for this lyrical movement. Bennett did not seem to play with a great sense of urgency and his parts sounded rather choppy at times. Many factors can attribute to this, including his repeated performance of this standard piece in the repertory and throughout his lengthy career. Following intermission, the audience was treated to a rare French symphony by the composer, teacher, and organist of Belgian birth César Franck (1822-1890). In the nineteenth-century, the symphony was largely a German genre dominated by Beethoven, Schubert, Mendelssohn, Brahms, Bruckner, and Mahler. In 1830, however, French composer Hector Berlioz caused sensations throughout Europe with the premier of his radical Symphonie fantastique. Considered the first fully explicit programmatic symphony, Berlioz built on Beethoven’s innovations and wrote his massive five movement symphony unified by one single idea that repeated throughout the symphony. Berlioz referred to this motif as the idée fixe, or fixation, which stood for the composer’s obsession with his beloved and future wife Harriett Smithson (see example below). Noted for its length and irregular phrasing, the idée fixe stands in sharp contrasts to Beethoven’s four note theme of his Fifth Symphony. This approach was central to Franck’s symphony, which is also unified, albeit less intrusively, by its opening theme. Influenced by Beethoven, Berlioz, Meyerbeer, Liszt, and Wagner, Franck adopted the idea of cyclicism into his symphony. Franck heard Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde in November 1874 and its influence were very clear in his subsequent organ and orchestral works, espeically in the opening of the fifth Béatitude (1875) and in Les Eolides (1876). Working with cyclical themes as leading ideas in his operas (he called this Leitmotif), Wagner was a master at manipulating themes within a complex harmonic web that created the feelings of suffering, anxiety, and yearning that was

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not resolved in Tristan until the final chord, hundred of pages later. The resolution of the famous “Tristan Chord” in the orchestra matched the unification in death of Tristan and Isolde on stage as the lovers expire in each other’s arms. Franck’s Symphony in D is noted for its sweeping lyricism. The opening theme is not only dissonant but highly organic as it evolves throughout the work as a unifying element in the symphony. Unlike Berlioz’s fantastique, however, Franck’s symphony is in three movement format compared to the standard four movement structure. The second movement combines the traditional slow and dance movements of the inner movements of the symphony framed by faster movements. While the three movement layout remind us of the early emergence of the symphony in the eighteenth century, the cyclical use of his short themes and the manipulation of them through variations are features of the avant-garde of the day. In the clashing of the sound, Franck’s symphony emulates the spiritual sound of the organ with its slithering chromaticism and master control over dynamics through crescendos and decrescendos. Lastly, the swinging lyrical themes of the symphony are balanced with dance tunes that give the symphony a distinct French texture harking back to the operas of Lully that celebrated the glory of Louis XIV and his passion for dance. In its final concert of the 2009 season, ROSO played and inspiring concert where it combined Mozart’s elegance and sublime youth of his flute concerto with Franck’s avant-garde symphony. Despite the symphony’s harsh dissonances, there was excitement and tremendous energy in the concert hall in the second half of the concert. Most impressive was the English horn, who managed to shine through the bombastic sounds of the brass with sensuous lyricism and polished accuracy. ROSO seems more happy and comfortable in its newly renovated hall at the Oman Auditorium where it can project the beauty of these masterful works with greater accuracy, control, and details. While I applaud ROSO’s effort throughout the year, I question the lack of advertising and publicity of the event as most members of the audience I talked to did not read or hear any public announcement in the local venues for the concert. * Royal Oman Symphony Orchestra

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October 2009

Daily Scenes from the Land of Thai By: Said Al Hatmi Translated by: Sumaya Ambu-Saidi

(1) A woman with an expressionless face stood in front of the massage club calling, «Massage, massage» to people walking by. Her flip-flops thumped the pavement. Two brown-skinned men, who were walking by, stopped to listen. They had just arrived in the country. She invited them in and they happily followed. Half an hour later, they come out exhausted, grabbed their bags and headed to a nearby hotel. The woman resumed her advertising. Only an idiot would buy a ticket from the Gulf for this! (2) The privileged lady was still sleeping. Ten floors below, two streets across a tiny woman appeared. She began sweeping away the pools of water that had collected after yesterday’s heavy rain. Then she hung some clothes on the line. (3) When I opened the door to my room (No 1032), a big-bellied tourist from the Gulf entered the opposite room holding a mesbaha* in his hand. To the left, at the end of the corridor was a worn-out prostitute heading towards the lift. (4) Climbing Nang Mai Temple is more like climbing a ladder to the heavens. There is a straight stairway with 1000 steps that lead to the top of the mountain. The young groom, who comes from the desert, kept telling his bride that it was pointless to go on climbing, «You’ll only find another Buddha». At the 100th step, an old European was pushing his wife up the stairs towards Nang Mai Temple. (5) The chin, familiar to the rough fingers of a Pakistani barber in Al-Seeb market, bent this time to a girl’s fingers in the barbershop in Chiang Mai. “How soft she is”, he thought as soon she laid her hand on his shoulder. A woman standing close to him was watching as the tiny fingers worked their way around his chin. When the girl finished, the wife started complaining. She wanted him to wait until they returned to Oman where he could have a “proper” shave. Meanwhile, he was thinking of going on his own the next time. (6) From the balcony of his room at Kata Beach Resort, he could see the fleecy white clouds drift across the blue sky. The green countryside of Phuket stretched as far as his eyes could see. It was a cinematic view before him. Suddenly, the heavens opened and rain poured down. It wasn’t like the desert rain he was used to. For more than an hour, it rained. For more than an hour, he waited. He went out expecting to see puddles and pools of water everywhere. This usually happened in the wealthy town he came from. He was amazed! It had all disappeared. * Muslim prayer beads.

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