Behar and Abou Shmeiss Deploy Multilingual Verse to Confront Conflict
University of Michigan
Poetry exposes the deep linguistic fractures and political realities dividing Israelis and Palestinians as writers grapple with the ongoing violence of war.
The Raoul Wallenberg Institute hosted poets Almog Behar and Ayat Abou Shmeiss on the eve of October 7 to investigate whether Israelis and Palestinians can bridge divides and express trauma through poetry. (0:09)
Ayat Abou Shmeiss addressed the complexities of writing in Hebrew as a Palestinian from Jaffa, sharing works that confront the devastation of Gaza, family grief, and the psychological alienation of daily life in Israeli society. (25:11)
Almog Behar highlighted the systemic institutional erasure of Arabic among Mizrahi Jews in Israel, tracing how second- and third-generation descendants must often reconnect with their ancestral heritage through Palestinian Arabic and literature. (40:56)
Both writers argued that authentic literary dialogue after October 7 cannot rely on superficial politeness, requiring authors to confront unvarnished truths, state violence, and deep-seated fears directly. (90:38)
Detailed notes
## Background
Published on YouTube by the University of Michigan on October 12, 2026, this video records an October 6, 2026 panel at the Rackham Amphitheater held as part of the Samantha Woll Dialogues. Moderated by Raoul Wallenberg Institute Fellow Stephanie Kraver, the conversation brings together Jerusalem-born writer Almog Behar, who explores his Iraqi and Turkish Jewish heritage to restore Arabic to Jewish culture, and Jaffa-born poet and human rights advocate Ayat Abou Shmeiss, who examines her dual reality as a Muslim-Palestinian and an Israeli citizen.
## TL;DR
Opening with memorials for Holocaust survivor Irene Butter and interfaith leader Samantha Woll, the event pairs trilingual poetry readings with an intimate conversation about language, identity, and war. Ayat Abou Shmeiss explains how growing up in Jaffa led her to write in Hebrew as a tool of survival and political expression while mourning family members killed in Gaza and working to amplify Gazan poets through her publishing house. Almog Behar traces the state-driven erasure of his family's Baghdadi Arabic and Ladino roots, reflecting on his journey to reclaim Arabic and his shifting, more sober view on whether shared language alone can heal deep political divides. In the second half, both poets read visceral recent works confronting the trauma and devastation of the war in Gaza before answering audience questions on the mechanics of translation, audience reception, and the necessity of unvarnished artistic honesty.
## Atmosphere & style
The atmosphere moves from warm, self-deprecating camaraderie and gentle humor over microphone logistics and multilingual childhoods to a space of raw, piercing grief. As the poets read verses about family members killed in Gaza, the terror of awaiting bombardment, and the ancient liturgical mourning of Jerusalem intertwined with modern ruin, the room becomes heavy and intensely quiet. Despite the painful weight of the subject matter, the rapport among Abou Shmeiss, Behar, and Kraver remains deeply respectful and candid, insisting on confronting agonizing truths and fears directly rather than retreating into superficial politeness.
## Bulletin
- [00:09](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=9s) The Raoul Wallenberg Institute hosted poets Almog Behar and Ayat Abou Shmeiss on the eve of October 7 to investigate whether Israelis and Palestinians can bridge divides and express trauma through poetry.
- [25:11](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=1511s) Ayat Abou Shmeiss addressed the complexities of writing in Hebrew as a Palestinian from Jaffa, sharing works that confront the devastation of Gaza, family grief, and the psychological alienation of daily life in Israeli society.
- [40:56](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=2456s) Almog Behar highlighted the systemic institutional erasure of Arabic among Mizrahi Jews in Israel, tracing how second- and third-generation descendants must often reconnect with their ancestral heritage through Palestinian Arabic and literature.
- [01:30:38](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=5438s) Both writers argued that authentic literary dialogue after October 7 cannot rely on superficial politeness, requiring authors to confront unvarnished truths, state violence, and deep-seated fears directly.
## Key takeaways
- [00:09](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=9s) Jeffrey Veidlinger opened the Samantha Woll Dialogues by honoring the memory of Irene Butter, an activist and Holocaust survivor who co-founded the Jewish-Palestinian dialogue group Zeitouna.
- [04:34](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=274s) Almog Behar's poem 'My Arabic' portrays the inner alienation between an ancestral Arabic forced into muteness and a vocal, public Hebrew.
- [12:34](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=754s) Ayat Abou Shmeiss's debut poetry collection, 'A Basket Filled with Mute Tongues', explores the physical struggle of expression and identity across linguistic divides.
- [25:11](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=1511s) Abou Shmeiss embraced writing in Hebrew as an everyday dialect of Jaffa, but later faced intense criticism and political scrutiny for using the language of the state occupying Palestinians.
- [29:45](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=1785s) State-driven assimilation in Israel severed immigrant families from their native languages, a reality Behar only fully recognized when his Baghdadi grandmother reverted entirely to Arabic during dementia.
- [40:56](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=2456s) More than one million Jews spoke Arabic natively before 1948, but state assimilation policies caused near-total linguistic loss within two decades, leaving descendants to rediscover Arabic via Palestinian writing.
- [45:30](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=2730s) Abou Shmeiss's family history of displacement in the Nakba led her mother to prioritize survival literacy, sending her to a French-curriculum school that inadvertently estranged her from literary Arabic.
- [50:56](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=3056s) Behar's lyric 'Amal is Hope' builds on the Baghdadi pronunciation of Hebrew and Egyptian singer Umm Kulthum, aiming for a bilingual poetic texture that resists standard translation.
- [54:13](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=3253s) Abou Shmeiss's poem 'Eyes on the Road' captures the dissociation of driving through routine Israeli traffic while mourning family members killed in Khan Yunis and Shuja'iyya.
- [01:05:18](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=3918s) In 'Tisha B'Av 2025', Behar reinterprets the traditional Jewish fast of lamentation, intertwining ancient mourning with the contemporary destruction of Gaza and Jerusalem.
- [01:12:37](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=4357s) Behar's poem 'A Woman Awaits the Bombardment' dedicates itself to Gazan writer Manal Miqdad, depicting the quiet cataloging of personal books while awaiting airstrikes.
- [01:24:12](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=5052s) Translating Behar's prose for Cairo readers required rendering Judeo-Arabic dialects explicitly and drawing upon classical Sufi terminology to mirror rabbinic Hebrew.
- [01:30:38](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=5438s) Abou Shmeiss emphasized that true mutual dialogue demands laying bare mutual terror and military violence without wrapping them in comforting euphemisms.
- [01:30:38](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=5438s) Paralyzed by trauma in the months following October 7, Behar broke his silence by composing a collage poem composed exclusively of biblical verses containing the word for war.
## Detailed walkthrough
### [00:09](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=9s) Welcome, Institute Mission, and Honoring Irene Butter
Opening the afternoon at the Rackham Amphitheater, Jeffrey Veidlinger, director of the Raoul Wallenberg Institute at the University of Michigan, welcomes the audience and addresses students in attendance. He reminds those enrolled in the course ALA 259 to return to their regular classroom following the event for continuing discussion, while extending an open invitation to all other students to head next door to the East Conference Room, where free food and a moderated discussion will be waiting. Before proceeding, Veidlinger thanks Institute staff members Miriam Mora, Eleanor Camp, Alexis Gideon, and Joe Johnston for bringing the event together.
Veidlinger turns to a somber local note: the passing on the preceding Friday of Irene Butter, a revered Ann Arbor Holocaust survivor, educator, author, and social activist whose funeral several attendees had been at just hours earlier. Butter had been a central figure in community building, co-founding Zeitouna—a dialogue group bringing local Jewish and Palestinian women together for decades to share their humanity—as well as the Raoul Wallenberg Medal and Endowment, which honors humanitarians demonstrating how one person can effect profound change. Despite surviving childhood horrors, Butter maintained a relentless optimism that she shared in university classrooms for years, and she had addressed the Raoul Wallenberg Institute at its inaugural event.
Explaining the institutional context, Veidlinger notes that the Raoul Wallenberg Institute was established in December 2023 as part of a university-wide effort across all three campuses to combat antisemitism and foster religious diversity and inclusion, with an expansive remit to study and combat ethnic and religious hatred globally. Its namesake, Raoul Wallenberg, was a 1935 Michigan architecture alumnus who coordinated with Swedish and U.S. authorities in wartime Budapest to rescue thousands of Jews from Auschwitz before being detained by the Red Army and dying in Soviet captivity. The event itself forms part of the Samantha Woll Dialogues, dedicated to the memory of Samantha Woll, an interfaith leader and grassroots organizer tragically murdered in Detroit in 2023 at age 40. Veidlinger expresses gratitude to Woll's family—Margo and Doug Woll, and Monica and Ben Rosen—for supporting the dialogue series. Observing that the gathering takes place on the eve of October 7, Veidlinger frames the guiding question: "Can Israelis and Palestinians talk through poetry?"
- **Logistics**: Post-event discussions held in the ALA 259 classroom for enrolled students, and in the East Conference Room with free food for other attendees.
- **Key Memorials**: Irene Butter (survivor, activist, co-founder of Zeitouna and the Wallenberg Medal) and Samantha Woll (community organizer, honored through the dialogue series funded with support from the Woll and Rosen families).
- **Format**: Individual poetry readings by each guest, followed by a moderated conversation with Stephanie Kraver and audience Q&A via distributed index cards.
[04:34](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=274s) Almog Behar: "My Arabic" and Umm Kulthum's Song
Veidlinger introduces Almog Behar, born in Netanya in 1978 and now living in Jerusalem. A poet, novelist, translator, and literary scholar teaching in the Department of Literature at Tel Aviv University, Behar studies the intertwinings of Hebrew and Arabic literatures, Jewish liturgical poetry (piyyut), modern Mizrahi literature, Judeo-Arabic, and the ways Jewish writers have engaged with Islamic traditions across history. Behar has authored four poetry volumes, a short-story collection, and a novel examining Middle Eastern Jewish heritage. After brief banter regarding microphone placement ("Hold this the old-fashioned way"), Behar steps to the lectern, reads his work in Hebrew, and shares English versions.
Behar recites his landmark poem "My Arabic" (translated into English by Dimi Reider and into Arabic by Rima Jaber), dramatizing the inner schism between his ancestral Arabic and his public Hebrew:
> "My Arabic is mute
> Strangled at the throat
> Cursing itself without uttering a word
> Sleeps in the earliest shelters of my soul
> Hiding from relatives behind the Hebrew blinds
> And my Hebrew is raging
> Running between rooms and neighbor's balconies
> Making its voice heard in public
> Prophesying the coming of God and of bulldozers..."
The poem continues, capturing the vulnerability of language as Hebrew "curls up into the armchair / And begs itself for forgiveness," while his Arabic remains petrified, pretending to be Hebrew, whispering *"Ahlan, Ahlan"* behind closed doors, yet hastily producing an identity card to flash its protective clause whenever confronted by police in the street: "And my Hebrew is deaf / Sometimes very deaf." Behar follows this with a shorter lyric that he translated into Arabic himself, translated into English by Shoshana Olidort. The poem meditates on *"Amal Hayati"* ("Hope of My Life"), the iconic composition immortalized by Egyptian singer Umm Kulthum: "Amal is hope / Hayati is my life / And when they meet / Between the lips of Umm Kulthum and my own ears / A great many longings will dig wells in my heart."
[12:34](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=754s) Ayat Abou Shmeiss: Mute Tongues and the Silk-Wrapped Rock
Veidlinger returns to introduce Jaffa-born poet and human rights activist Ayat Abou Shmeiss (born 1984), author of two bilingual Hebrew-Arabic collections, *A Basket Filled with Mute Tongues* (2013) and *I Am Two* (2018), as well as a forthcoming English collection, *An Unmothered Tongue*. In addition to exploring duality, language, and everyday women's lives in her poetry, Abou Shmeiss directs the independent publishing house Mi'tan and curates cultural initiatives dedicated to Palestinian women's history.
Taking the stage with warmth and palpable nervousness, Abou Shmeiss greets the audience with *"Marhaba"* and asks for understanding regarding her speech: "My English is not my first language. Neither my second, neither my third. It's my fourth language. And sometimes I mix between languages." She reads her poetry across Hebrew, Arabic, and English, beginning with the title work from her debut collection (English translation by Lisa Katz). The poem evokes the raw physical struggle of expression across fractured cultural terrain:
> "I dragged the words I haven't learned yet
> My language drown
> My teeth storming like the sea in a wintry day
> I can't snare a single word with my palate
> Raise my voice like a fishing rod
> And bear a basket filled with mute tongues
> Mute as fish
> That I place
> On the counter
> In your kitchen."
Admitting with a brief chuckle that she is still "too excited," Abou Shmeiss presents her second poem, "A rock in the feminine form" (also translated into English by Lisa Katz). The piece portrays a burdensome, mysterious weight carried upon the body—a stone resting on the back of the neck, carefully wrapped in silk so "it would at least look nice." Strangers look on without comment, assuming she desires the load simply because she dressed it up, oblivious to how it has traveled with her ever since it was merely a pebble.
[19:34](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=1174s) Stephanie Kraver Takes the Moderating Seat
Noting the arresting thematic resonance between both poets—the imagery of muteness, dual tongues, and shared domestic weight—Veidlinger invites moderator Stephanie Kraver onto the stage alongside Behar and Abou Shmeiss. Kraver, a fellow at the Raoul Wallenberg Institute and scholar of modern Arabic and Hebrew literatures, focuses on transcultural literary exchange, mourning, trauma theory, and translation.
Veidlinger mentions Kraver's current book project, *Writing Past Difference*, which interrogates the sociopolitical and linguistic cleavages surrounding Arab Jewish writing and identity politics. Amid a quick shuffle over hand-held versus lapel microphones, Kraver settles into the moderator's chair, opening the panel discussion by expressing that it is an immense honor and privilege to share the stage with both poets.
[20:50](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=1250s) Backgrounds and Finding Poetry as Artistic Expression
Moderator Stephanie Kraver opens the dialogue by thanking Almog Behar and Ayat Abou Shmeiss for starting the event with their words in Hebrew, Arabic, and English. Before diving into their specific poems, she asks both writers to share a bit about their personal backgrounds and how they originally found their way to poetry as their chosen form of artistic expression. After a brief, lighthearted moment figuring out who will go first—with Almog pointing out that Ayat is already holding the microphone and Ayat checking if her mic is working—Ayat begins.
Ayat explains that she actually did not come from a literary background at all; her childhood home did not have shelves lined with poetry books, and she never opened a book by Fadwa Tuqan or any other famous poet thinking, "I want to be like Fadwa Tuqan." Instead, her writing grew out of personal tensions and "very foolish" arguments with her mother. Writing became an outlet for self-expression where she simply felt free to write whatever she wanted, however she wanted. This sense of freedom was also something she sorely lacked at the very tough school she attended, so discovering how liberating writing felt, she embraced it.
Almog jokes that Stephanie started with "the hardest question" and wonders aloud, "Where are we going from here?" For him, writing began as far back as he can remember at a very young age, functioning as a "personal secret" where one writes "to the drawer for decades." He describes his early writing as "an act of envy" of what he read, initially following in the footsteps and models of other writers. It remained a secretive practice until his early twenties, when poetry transformed into a way to negotiate directly with the world rather than hiding as a secret. Because he began writing in Hebrew, entering into a public conversation with the world also marked the exact moment when thinking about different languages became a central question in his work.
[25:11](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=1511s) Ayat Abou Shmeiss on Writing in Hebrew as a Palestinian in Jaffa
Building on the theme of language, Stephanie asks the panelists about their experiences writing in Israel—specifically Ayat as a Palestinian who writes in Hebrew, and Almog as a Jewish Israeli who champions the importance of Arabic in his work—and how their verses are received in Israel and abroad.
Ayat admits that when she first started writing, she did not consciously think of herself as "a Palestinian who writes in Hebrew." Having grown up in the mixed city of Jaffa, she lived alongside Jews from the moment she opened her eyes. Hebrew was everywhere—not as a military language, but as a simple, everyday language that she knew well, was surrounded by, and loved. It was the language of shopping, visiting the doctor at the clinic, and going to the post office; in fact, she notes that no single person in Jaffa uses or even knows the Arabic word for post office, as everyone simply uses the Hebrew word, *Doar*, illustrating just how deeply Hebrew was ingrained inside them.
She only realized her language choice was considered an issue after publishing her first book, when a journalist interviewed her and asked if writing in Hebrew was like "sleeping with the enemy." Taken aback, Ayat began to grapple with the heavy political reality of her situation: she is a Palestinian writing in the official language of Israel, the Jewish state—a state that occupies Palestinians, that she describes emphatically as racist, and that dictates where and how she can go, including whether or not she is allowed to meet her own relatives in Gaza or the West Bank. Although this realization was deeply painful and difficult, when she tried to write in another language, she found the results were not as good. Ultimately, she recognized that Israeli society inevitably views Palestinians through a political lens—putting them in a "political frame, in a political box" based on their appearance, language, or ID before they even open their mouths. Because of this, she decided to embrace Hebrew as a set of tools she already possessed to reach the Israeli audience directly and speak whatever she wanted.
[29:45](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=1785s) Almog Behar's Multilingual Family History and Reclaiming Arabic
For Almog, the question of language existed inside his home long before he encountered it on the street, rooted in a complex, multilingual family history that was actively reshaped by state assimilation policies:
| Family Branch | Origin | Heritage Language(s) | Generational Shift & State Impact |
|:--- |:--- |:--- |:--- |
| **Maternal Family** | Baghdad, Iraq | Iraqi Arabic | Mother immigrated at age 5; name changed from **Samira** to **Mirabella**. At age 10 (in the 1950s), a school educator visited the home and asked her parents to stop speaking Arabic to her. She became passive in Arabic, hearing it from her parents and aunts but answering only in Hebrew. |
| **Paternal Grandfather** | Istanbul, Turkey | Judeo-Spanish (Ladino) | Spoken at home by his father's father's family, but treated as a private home language not to be spoken on the street. |
| **Paternal Grandmother** | Einbeck, Germany (fled to Copenhagen, Denmark in 1939) | German & Danish | Grandmother spoke German; after fleeing to Denmark in 1939, Almog's father spoke both Danish and German with his parents. |
Growing up, Almog understood that while Arabic, Ladino, German, and Danish were the languages of his home, it was preferred not to hear or speak them on the street, and his parents expected their children to learn only Hebrew and English. As a child, he assumed this linguistic divide was completely natural—thinking grandparents simply spoke with different accents than their grandchildren, and joking to himself that perhaps his own grandchildren would one day speak Albanian and he wouldn't know their language either. When he was 12 or 13, he told his parents it felt like a waste not to learn one of the family languages. Rather than agreeing immediately, his parents thought about it for an entire week before telling him, "You can study Danish." Almog found the hierarchy darkly funny—his family had spoken Arabic for 1,000 years, Judeo-Spanish for 500 years, German for 200 years, and Danish for only 10 years—and although he now regrets not learning Danish then, he passed on the offer.
The true turning point came when Almog was 17 and his Baghdadi grandmother, Louise, developed dementia, forgot all of her Hebrew, and reverted to speaking exclusively in Arabic. Watching his older cousins converse with her in Iraqi Arabic while he could not, Almog suddenly realized that this linguistic severance was not natural at all: "someone from outside the family, that the state decided that we wouldn't be able to talk with her in the last month of her life." He resolved at age 17 to study Arabic, though he jokes that because he was lazy, he didn't actually start until age 23. Referring back to his famous poem "My Arabic is Mute" (*Aravit Sheli Ilemet*), which he had read earlier, he shares that it took him a few months after writing it to realize the significance of opening with the words "My Arabic"—marking the very first time he could relate to Arabic as belonging to him, or to himself as belonging to Arabic. He knew that if he did not actually learn to read and write the language, he would simply spend his life knocking on that closed door and writing endless variations of that exact same poem.
[35:57](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=2157s) Literary Spaces, Solidarity After October 7, and Voices from Gaza
Continuing the thread of the private versus the public, Stephanie asks the poets about the current literary scene in Israel, questioning whether spaces still exist where Palestinians and Jews can share work, build community, and attend protests together, and what the landscape for solidarity and activism looks like after October 7.
Taking a sip of water, Ayat notes that she is currently in her second year living away in London, but acknowledges that the scene back home is very hard. As the head of the publishing house Mi'tan, her primary focus and mission has been to provide space and amplify Palestinian voices from Gaza. She recounts how about two years ago, she and her friend Dr. Rahel Korazim decided to organize a literary and poetry event centered on voices from Gaza. Ayat began reaching out directly via messages to poets inside Gaza—a process she notes was unimaginably difficult given the circumstances—to ask permission to feature their poems.
While several Gazan poets agreed, some specifically requested, "please don't translate it to Hebrew. We don't want Hebrew right now." Respecting their wishes, the organizers presented the works in Arabic and Hebrew as permitted and hosted a major event at Theater Jaffa. Ayat describes the gathering as deeply moving and exciting, marking the first time during the genocide that she witnessed Israelis and Palestinians coming together in a shared space through poetry. Inspired by the turnout, she wanted to do more with the project despite having very little money, and began speaking further with a poet from Gaza.
[38:45](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=2325s) Literary Responses to the War and Bilingual Publishing
Ayat Abou Shmeiss describes a recent collaboration with an author who approached her wanting to publish a poetry collection through her publishing house. Initially, he asked to translate his poems into Hebrew; when she asked which language pair he envisioned, he replied, "like your book, bilingual," clarifying that he meant both Arabic and Hebrew. Surprised, she asked, "Are you sure?" When he confirmed, they moved forward, hosting powerful public events around the book's release.
Beyond that specific initiative, however, Abou Shmeiss found the broader Israeli literary landscape during this period rather disappointing. She had expected to see far more organized literary readings and publications speaking out against the ongoing violence and devastation in Gaza. Amid this relative silence, she recalls one deeply meaningful event organized by Israeli friends in Tel Aviv. The gathering brought together numerous Israeli poets who read works condemning war crimes and state violence. Experiencing that reading showed her that dissent and solidarity are still possible within the literary scene, even if one must deliberately seek them out.
[40:56](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=2456s) The Broken Promise of Shared Language and the Loss of Judeo-Arabic
Almog Behar reflects on the limits of literary optimism. He admits that on optimistic days he believes poetry possesses the power to effect change, and that the historic and linguistic bridge between Hebrew and Arabic carries transformative potential. Yet on pessimistic days, he recognizes that while poetry fundamentally changed him personally, that personal transformation does not guarantee poetry can alter the external world or political realities.
Turning to the linguistic history of Mizrahi Jews, Behar addresses the systemic erasure of Arabic among Jewish communities originating from Arab lands. Prior to 1948, approximately one million Jews spoke Arabic as their native tongue, a linguistic presence that diminished dramatically within two decades due to social and institutional pressures to assimilate into modern Hebrew. For second- and third-generation descendants of these immigrants, the only accessible path to recover Arabic was through Palestinian Arabic and Palestinian literature, rather than the ancestral Judeo-Arabic of cities like Baghdad. Reflecting on this cultural loss, Behar acknowledges a profound shift in his outlook: twenty years ago, he believed that increasing mutual knowledge and exposing people to alternative perspectives would resolve societal conflicts. Today, he views human and societal animosities as far deeper and harder to heal, noting that while he used to envision Hebrew and Arabic merging within fifty years, he no longer knows how to offer an optimistic conclusion.
```mermaid
flowchart TD
accTitle: Loss and Recovery of Arabic Among Mizrahi Jews
accDescr: Diagram tracing the historical trajectory of Arabic among Arab Jews from pre-1948 fluency to state-era erasure and subsequent reconnection through Palestinian Arabic.
subgraph Pre1948["Pre-1948 Heritage"]
A["Over 1 Million Arabic-Speaking Jews\n(e.g., Baghdadi Judeo-Arabic)"]
end
subgraph Erasure["Statehood & Assimilation"]
B["Pressures to Assimilate into Modern Hebrew"]
C["Dramatic Loss of Native Arabic\nwithin 20–25 Years"]
end
subgraph Reclamation["Generational Return"]
D["Second & Third Generations\nSeek Linguistic Roots"]
E["Return via Palestinian Arabic &\nPalestinian Literature"]
end
A --> B
B --> C
C --> D
D --> E
```
[45:30](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=2730s) Gender, Literacy, and Surviving Through Language
Moderator Stephanie Kraver introduces a discussion of specific poems, inviting Abou Shmeiss to elaborate on her poem *A Rock in the Feminine Form*—which notes that the word for rock or stone is masculine in Hebrew (*sela*) but feminine in Arabic (*sakhra*)—and asking Behar about the interplay between Hebrew and Arabic in his poem *Amal is Hope*.
Abou Shmeiss contextualizes her choice to write in Hebrew by recounting her family's history in Jaffa. Her mother, a member of the second generation of the Nakba, remained illiterate because she lacked educational opportunities during a period of displacement and poverty. When Abou Shmeiss was growing up, her mother insisted her children receive an education—not out of an ambition for university degrees or literary fame, but out of basic survival, so they could read official bureaucratic letters sent by the state. Dissatisfied with underfunded local Arab schools, her mother enrolled them in a private French school in Jaffa, requiring her father to work grueling overtime. In that school, Hebrew was taught as a primary language using the Jewish curriculum rather than the simplified "Hebrew for Arabs" syllabus, while instruction was in French. As an unintended consequence of this survival strategy, Abou Shmeiss became estranged from formal Arabic.
When she began writing poetry in Hebrew as a native Palestinian Arab, she looked for ways to embed her political and personal identity on the page:
- Evoking the historical memory of pre-Nakba Jaffa as a Palestinian cultural capital.
- Inserting everyday Arabic terms and greetings, such as *salamu alaykum*, into domestic scenes.
- Leveraging the differing grammatical genders of Semitic languages to construct *A Rock in the Feminine Form*, highlighting her identity as an Arab woman through the contrasting gender of the stone in Arabic and Hebrew.
[50:56](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=3056s) The Sound of Ancestral Hebrew and Writing for an Audience of One
Almog Behar explains the bilingual genesis of his poem *Amal is Hope*. Earlier in his career, his poem *My Arabic is Mute* had combined Hebrew and Arabic phrases, but when translator Rima Abu Jaber rendered it into Arabic, the translation collapsed into a monolingual text: the Hebrew turned into Arabic while the Arabic phrases stayed as they were. This realization prompted Behar to seek a new poetic practice where he would draft simultaneously in Hebrew and Arabic.
Listening to the classic recordings of Egyptian singer Umm Kulthum, Behar composed *Amal is Hope*. He reflects that the Arabic language provides him a portal to hear Hebrew differently, specifically the Iraqi-accented Hebrew spoken by his grandparents, who pronounced the Hebrew word for hope (*tikvah*) through their Baghdadi cadence (*tikwah*). This linguistic interplay led him to write subsequent, intentionally untranslatable poems in which each line is split between Hebrew and Arabic. He jokes that such work abandons conventional translation entirely, aiming for an intimate linguistic space where "only Ayat will understand me."
[54:13](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=3253s) Mourning Gaza: A Reading on the Highway to Work
After pausing to retrieve her reading glasses, Abou Shmeiss introduces a poem written during the war, calling it an intensely difficult piece to read. Before reciting the verse, she reads aloud the ages of several family members killed in Gaza, ranging from toddlers to young adults:
- Children aged 3, 4, 5, 6, and 13
- Young adults aged 22, 25, 26, and 28
She recites the poem in Arabic before offering an English reading. The poem captures the psychological dissociation of driving to work through everyday Israeli traffic while carrying the reality of slaughter in Khan Yunis and Shuja'iyya:
> "Eyes on the road / Hands on the wheel / Foot on the gas / Or the brakes / And the head and heart in Khan Yunis / And the blood that flows in Shuja'iyya / We are human being, human being / We are human being / In the rearview mirror I see my face / With eyes, nose, cheeks / Everything points to / I swear I look like a human being / We look like this / We are human beings / But they are slaughtering us / Slaughtering us / Slaughtering..."
The poem describes the poet wiping away tears so she can see the highway, struggling to quiet her rising panic and fury, and arriving at her workplace feeling bitter, enraged, and ashamed amidst people carrying on with ordinary life.
[01:02:41](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=3761s) Ayat Abou Shmeiss: Poems on War, Complicity, and Motherhood
Ayat Abou Shmeiss delivers two deeply personal, searing poems addressing the current war and its immediate human toll. In the first poem, she wrestles with agonizing questions of guilt and proximity while looking at the everyday faces around her in Israeli society. She wonders who among the people she passes daily was deployed in Gaza: who pulled the trigger that released the bomb that leveled a seven-story residential building filled with living families. She names her loved ones—Rania the granddaughter, along with Haron, Hind, Julia, and Rania the grandmother, recalling sitting with her at her own grandmother’s home before the war broke out. Looking at people around her, her mind fractures into paranoia and grief: "Perhaps it's he / Or that one / Or that one / Or this one's husband / Or that one's brother / Or he / Perhaps his nephew / They they they."
Overwhelmed, she describes losing her mind for an instant before stepping into a restroom to splash cold tap water across her face, whispering, "We are human beings." She then recalls entering a classroom to teach Arabic to Hebrew-speaking Jewish Israelis. Right after class, the school principal convened an urgent pedagogical meeting. As the formal discussion wrapped up, a colleague called for a round of applause for a returning reservist—referred to pseudonymously as "Moshe"—celebrating him as "our hero" after months of military duty, and the entire room erupted in clapping. In contrast to that celebration, Abou Shmeiss describes sitting frozen behind the steering wheel of her car: eyes locked on the road, feet hovering between the accelerator and the brake, while her spirit remains shattered in Gaza. Her thoughts bleed into the neighborhood of Shuja'iyya, her grandmother's birthplace, where Haron, Hind, and little Rania were martyred: "And ever since, my eyes remained wide open / And it burns, ya rabby / It burns."
Without pause, she moves into an intensely evocative, compact second piece that imagines maternal resistance across national lines:
> "If I were a Jewish mother
> And I had to send
> My son to the army
> I would fight
> I would tie his tongue to his ears
> I would glue my hands to his legs
> I would hang my heart on his eyes
> So he would not go."
Almog Behar takes the podium, announcing that he has shifted the order of his readings. He begins by reciting a major Hebrew poem before providing the context and the English translation rendered by Vivian Eden. He explains that Tisha B'Av (the Ninth of Av) is the traditional Jewish fast day commemorating the destruction of the First and Second Temples in Jerusalem by the Babylonians and Romans. In his poem, titled *"Tisha B'Av 2025"*, Behar reinterprets this ancient liturgical mourning through the prism of contemporary catastrophe.
The poem unfolds in three parts. In the first section, Behar reflects on past observances of the fast, when he would wander through the historic ruins of Jerusalem chanting the Book of Lamentations. Customarily refraining from exchanging the greeting of *"shalom"* on his walk out, he would look at the modern, rebuilt city encircling the ruins, deliberately sleeping with a stone beneath his head so as not to slip into easy solace. By midday, he would venture out into the streets seeking other pursuers of peace who might exchange greetings of *shalom* once more.
In the second and third sections, the tone turns raw and immediate. The destruction is no longer an abstract memory from two millennia ago; rather, "The destruction is a hungry newborn babe / And a book is speaking in the present tense." The liturgical language chokes him—no saliva remains on his tongue to articulate the words as citizens desperately seek bread that feels like gravel in the mouth. Both soul and physical flesh are torn to shreds, raising the impossible question of how one can lament past ruins during an ongoing, living catastrophe. Reversing biblical psalms of praise, the poem concludes with an inescapable entanglement between two suffering places:
> "And the destruction of Jerusalem
> Is amid the ruin of Gaza
> And the destruction of Gaza
> Is amid the ruin of Jerusalem
> Amid the already dead
> And the soon to be dead."
---
[01:12:37](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=4357s) Almog Behar: "A Woman Awaits the Bombardment"
Behar presents a second poem, translated by Vivian Eden and dedicated to Manal Miqdad, a writer living under fire in Gaza, titled *"A Woman Awaits the Bombardment"*. After reading the original Hebrew verse, Behar recites the English version, capturing the domestic, quiet horror of someone trying to fall asleep while anticipating an airstrike.
Lying in bed during the night, the protagonist catalogs her personal library to decide how her books should be distributed if she does not survive the coming blast:
- **Travel and nature books:** Bequeathed to her closest school friend who dreams of exploring distant streams and deserts the coming summer.
- **Children's books:** Set aside for the orphanage that the current war will inevitably produce.
- **Personal diaries:** Marked for her father—or perhaps the neighbors—to burn, assuming the bomb blast does not incinerate them first.
- **Unread English volumes:** Given to a cousin who once shared his aspirations for life.
- **Borrowed books:** Left in the hands of friends, provided they promise never to dog-ear the corners or write in the margins, leaving them to pass the volumes forward during future bombardments.
The poem strips away romantic notions of heroism. Her bed is flanked by no heroes, only nocturnal terror and mute books completely unaware of who will inherit them. She lies awake hoping only for a dreamless sleep that remains unbroken by falling bombs—interrupted instead only by the everyday noise of neighboring children playing, even as their bellies churn with panic.
---
[01:16:45](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=4605s) Q&A: What Is Lost and Gained in Translation
Moderator Stephanie Kraver opens the floor for the final fifteen minutes of audience questions, starting with an inquiry about the act of translation: How much personal truth is lost in the process, and what does the translation experience feel like for each poet?
Ayat Abou Shmeiss explains that for her, having a translator step into her work feels like inviting a third person into an intensely private, intimate sanctuary that previously existed only between herself and her readers. She admits that this presence can feel challenging because nuanced meanings inevitably shift: while a message is rarely completely erased, it is often transformed by the mechanics of another language or the subtle emotional weight of the verses. Nevertheless, she appreciates how translation extends her poetry to audiences who cannot read her original words. Abou Shmeiss notes with pragmatic acceptance that once a poem is published, it ceases to belong solely to the author: she cannot hoard it, and readers—along with translators—inevitably take possession of it.
```mermaid
flowchart LR
accTitle: Translation and Meaning Flow
accDescr: Diagram illustrating how poems move from the author's intimate space to the reader through translation.
A["Poet's Intimate Space<br/>(Abou Shmeiss / Behar)"] --> B["Translator's Intervention<br/>(Shifts tone & unlocks audience)"]
B --> C["Transformation<br/>(Gains new life like musical score)"]
C --> D["Public Domain & Readers<br/>(Shared ownership)"]
```
Almog Behar echoes this sentiment, quoting Kahlil Gibran’s famous line that children do not belong to their parents, applying it directly to poetry: once poems leave the writer, they belong to the world. However, Behar balances the cliché of "what is lost in translation" by invoking Salman Rushdie’s counter-concept of what is *gained* in translation. Recalling his earliest collaborative projects with Palestinian translators rendering works between Hebrew and Arabic, Behar describes the thrill of dialoguing over choices and discovering unexpected nuances that enriched the text. He likens translation to musical composition: a writer drafts the lyrics, but a composer scores an entirely new arrangement, granting the piece an expanded second life that he thoroughly enjoys.
---
[01:20:54](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=4854s) Q&A: Navigating Arabic and Audience Reactions
Kraver follows up with an audience question concerning the mechanics and reception of writing in Arabic: what specific barriers do both authors encounter when composing in the language, and how have Arabic-speaking audiences reacted to their published works?
Abou Shmeiss jokes about the difficulty of the question before speaking candidly about her internal battles with language. Her struggle is not merely technical—navigating intricate grammar rules and the divide between dialect (*ammiyya*) and standard literary Arabic (*fusha*)—but an ongoing emotional tug-of-war where she finds herself wrestling with both Arabic and Hebrew, though fighting Hebrew more fiercely. Addressing audience reception, she draws a clear distinction within the Palestinian community:
- **Jaffa Palestinians:** Fellow residents of Jaffa welcomed her writing with open arms, embracing her alongside her Hebrew-language output without hesitation.
- **Wider Palestinian readership:** Others initially reacted with skepticism and confusion, demanding to know what she was doing and accusing her of trying to "be Israeli." Yet, Abou Shmeiss notes with satisfaction, once skeptical readers actually opened the books and engaged with the verses, their criticism gave way to understanding, recognizing that she was staying true to her authentic reality rather than posturing.
Almog Behar concludes by addressing the question through family history and prose. He recounts that when he first began returning to Arabic, his parents were bewildered and unsettled by his choice, remarking that they would have felt far more comfortable had he chosen to write bilingually in Albanian or any other foreign language. From their perspective, the family had spent decades stripping away Arabic to integrate into Israeli society, leaving them to ask: *"It took us years to get rid of this Arabic. Why to go back?"*
That skepticism only broke when Behar's short story *"Ana Min Al-Yahoud"* ("I Am of the Jews")—which had sprouted directly from his earlier breakthrough poem—was translated and published in Cairo. For his parents' generation, Cairo still represented the cultural capital of the Arab world; seeing their son's work acknowledged there legitimized his path, convincing them that his stubborn obsession held genuine literary weight.
[01:24:12](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=5052s) Translating Judeo-Arabic and Rabbinic Hebrew for Cairo
Almog Behar reflects on what it meant for his writing to cross borders through translation. Publishing a translation in a local Israeli newspaper still operated within domestic boundaries, but having work translated into Arabic outside Israel—specifically in Cairo, Egypt—represented a genuine step outside the local framework into a completely different audience. When an Egyptian translator took on his novel, the two engaged in extensive, detailed conversations about how to handle the book's complex linguistic layers, which featured both Judeo-Arabic dialects and rabbinical Hebrew phrasing.
Behar insisted that the Judeo-Arabic presence be preserved inside the Arabic edition rather than flattened. To prevent it from confusing readers, the translator formatted the dialect distinctively—placing notes or letters on the side so it was immediately legible as an unfamiliar dialect. For the rabbinical Hebrew passages, they searched for an Arabic equivalent, turning to the language of classical Sufi texts to capture a resonant spiritual and devotional tone. This collaborative process felt like rewriting and re-editing the book anew, compelling Behar to reconsider how he wanted his novel to fundamentally look and sound in Arabic.
[01:26:40](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=5200s) Advice for Aspiring Poets: Inner Truth and Opening the Door
Moderator Stephanie Kraver poses an audience question asking for advice for young poets looking to tackle controversial subjects or address broader audiences. Behar answers first, suggesting that poetry does not begin with an "issue" or political topic; rather, it grows out of personal experiences that happen to intersect with larger themes. For him, writing—especially poetry over prose—serves as a necessary tool when an internal impasse makes it difficult to confront oneself or speak one's own truth. He considers a poem a success if it manages to reveal something honest within that inner dialogue: "if I feel that I succeeded in dialogue with myself... I'm happy with that poem," regardless of whether the subject matter turns out to be controversial.
Ayat Abou Shmeiss approaches the question with practical, urgent advice: write when you are angry, write constantly, and resist the temptation to delete anything. She encourages poets to invent new words and welcome unconventional language whenever inspiration strikes. She recalls a time when verses would flood her mind during her fifteen-minute motorbike commute to work. Her primary rule is to never block that sudden creative flow: "I had opened the door. So please open the door to all the words and all the poems. That's it."
[01:30:38](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=5438s) Facing Fear and Finding Words After October 7
Kraver asks both poets to reflect on the raw, powerful poems they shared earlier in the session, addressing an audience question regarding the intensity and directness of the language. Abou Shmeiss explains that her poetry is deliberately unvarnished and resists easy explanation. Pointing to her poem "Eyes on the Road," she recounts writing it out of deep anger. She observes that Israeli Jews frequently voice their visceral fear of Arabs and the Arabic language due to accumulated trauma—feelings she does not argue with, noting that "fear is a feeling." However, she demands that her own fears be acknowledged with the same honesty.
She explains that seeing soldiers in uniform and carrying guns does not evoke safety or bravery for her; instead, it evokes bloodshed, violence, and danger for her family. Recalling her amazement upon arriving in London and seeing public spaces free of military uniforms and weapons, she argues that genuine dialogue cannot happen through superficial politeness:
> "This way we can talk if we just put things not very nice cutey. No, we have to put the things as they are in front of the face of each other and also to remember to look ourselves also."
Behar follows by discussing the paralysis that can overtake a writer during catastrophic times. In the three months immediately following October 7, 2023, he found himself entirely unable to write original poetry. To break the silence, he gathered every single biblical verse containing the word "war" (*milchama*) and assembled them into a montage poem without adding a single word of his own. Borrowing the ancient text was his only way "to return to writing without writing," serving as a bridge through trauma until he could locate his own voice and write directly again.
[01:35:50](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=5750s) Concluding Remarks and Upcoming Events
Kraver brings the session to a close, prompting enthusiastic applause from the audience. Host Jeffrey Veidlinger steps up to thank Kraver, Behar, and Abou Shmeiss for the conversation. He directs undergraduate students enrolled in ALA 259 to proceed to their regular class and invites other attendees to join the post-event discussion in Conference Room East. Veidlinger concludes by previewing the next event in the series, scheduled for October 27, which will address the question "Should universities strive to bridge division?" featuring three former higher education leaders:
- Mary Sue Coleman (former President, University of Michigan)
- Brian Rosenberg (former President, Macalester College)
- Teresa Sullivan (former President, University of Virginia)
## Notable quotes
> [04:34](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=274s) My Arabic is mute / Strangled at the throat / Cursing itself without uttering a word / Sleeps in the earliest shelters of my soul / Hiding from relatives behind the Hebrew blinds / And my Hebrew is raging / Running between rooms and neighbor's balconies / Making its voice heard in public / Prophesying the coming of God and of bulldozers... — Almog Behar
> [04:34](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=274s) Amal is hope / Hayati is my life / And when they meet / Between the lips of Umm Kulthum and my own ears / A great many longings will dig wells in my heart. — Almog Behar
> [12:34](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=754s) My English is not my first language. Neither my second, neither my third. It's my fourth language. And sometimes I mix between languages. — Ayat Abou Shmeiss
> [12:34](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=754s) I dragged the words I haven't learned yet / My language drown / My teeth storming like the sea in a wintry day / I can't snare a single word with my palate / Raise my voice like a fishing rod / And bear a basket filled with mute tongues / Mute as fish / That I place / On the counter / In your kitchen. — Ayat Abou Shmeiss
> [29:45](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=1785s) someone from outside the family, that the state decided that we wouldn't be able to talk with her in the last month of her life. — Almog Behar
> [35:57](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=2157s) please don't translate it to Hebrew. We don't want Hebrew right now. — Ayat Abou Shmeiss
> [54:13](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=3253s) Eyes on the road / Hands on the wheel / Foot on the gas / Or the brakes / And the head and heart in Khan Yunis / And the blood that flows in Shuja'iyya / We are human being, human being / We are human being / In the rearview mirror I see my face / With eyes, nose, cheeks / Everything points to / I swear I look like a human being / We look like this / We are human beings / But they are slaughtering us / Slaughtering us / Slaughtering... — Ayat Abou Shmeiss
> [01:02:41](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=3761s) If I were a Jewish mother / And I had to send / My son to the army / I would fight / I would tie his tongue to his ears / I would glue my hands to his legs / I would hang my heart on his eyes / So he would not go. — Ayat Abou Shmeiss
> [01:05:18](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=3918s) And the destruction of Jerusalem / Is amid the ruin of Gaza / And the destruction of Gaza / Is amid the ruin of Jerusalem / Amid the already dead / And the soon to be dead. — Almog Behar
> [01:20:54](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=4854s) It took us years to get rid of this Arabic. Why to go back? — Almog Behar
> [01:26:40](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=5200s) I had opened the door. So please open the door to all the words and all the poems. That's it. — Ayat Abou Shmeiss
> [01:30:38](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2x6VSWnIiYI&t=5438s) This way we can talk if we just put things not very nice cutey. No, we have to put the things as they are in front of the face of each other and also to remember to look ourselves also. — Ayat Abou Shmeiss
## Mentioned
Almog Behar, Ayat Abou Shmeiss, Stephanie Kraver, Jeffrey Veidlinger, Irene Butter, Samantha Woll, Raoul Wallenberg, Raoul Wallenberg Institute, University of Michigan, Rackham Amphitheater, Zeitouna, Umm Kulthum, Fadwa Tuqan, Dr. Rahel Korazim, Manal Miqdad, Salman Rushdie, Kahlil Gibran, Mary Sue Coleman, Brian Rosenberg, Teresa Sullivan, Dimi Reider, Rima Jaber, Shoshana Olidort, Lisa Katz, Vivian Eden, Mi'tan, Theater Jaffa, A Basket Filled with Mute Tongues, I Am Two, An Unmothered Tongue, My Arabic, Amal Hayati, A rock in the feminine form, Tisha B'Av 2025, A Woman Awaits the Bombardment, Ana Min Al-Yahoud, Writing Past Difference
## Video description
Can Israelis and Palestinians Talk Through Poetry?
This conversation, part of the Samantha Woll Dialogues, brings together two writers, Almog Behar and Ayat Abou Shmeiss, both of whom use the language of poetry to explore their own identities: Jerusalem-born Behar looks to his family roots in Iraq and Turkey to advocate for the restoration of Arabic to its place in Jewish culture, and Jaffa-born Abou Shmeiss expresses her dual identity as a Muslim-Palestinian and as an Israeli citizen in her award-winning poetry and human rights advocacy. The panel will be moderated by Raoul Wallenberg Institute Fellow Stephanie Kraver, a scholar of modern Arabic and Hebrew literature who specializes in transcultural exchange, expressions of mourning, trauma theory, and translation.
October 6, 2026
Rackham Amphitheater
A version of this video without audio descriptions is available here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GF-98iEuHfI
In a dialogue hosted by the University of Michigan's Raoul Wallenberg Institute, poets Almog Behar and Ayat Abou Shmeiss examined whether poetry can bridge Israeli and Palestinian experiences, arguing that genuine literary encounter requires confronting political complicity, historical dispossession, and unvarnished grief rather than seeking easy reconciliation.
Linguistic Duality and Heritage Reclamation (25:11)
Both writers operate across Hebrew and Arabic, navigating identities reshaped by state policies and displacement. For Abou Shmeiss, a Palestinian from Jaffa, Hebrew was the everyday language of neighborhood clinics and post offices rather than a purely militarized idiom. Although her mother enrolled her in a private French school using the Jewish Hebrew curriculum out of basic survival—ensuring her children could comprehend state bureaucracy after being denied literacy during the Nakba—critics later questioned whether writing in Hebrew equated to aligning with the state. Abou Shmeiss framed Hebrew as an existing tool to challenge Israeli audiences directly while embedding Palestinian identity through cultural markers and the grammatical gender contrasts between Arabic and Hebrew.
In contrast, Behar recounted how his Baghdadi Jewish family was pressured into shedding Iraqi Arabic in the 1950s under Israeli assimilation directives that privileged modern Hebrew and European languages like Danish. This severance became stark when his grandmother developed dementia and reverted exclusively to Arabic, exposing a manufactured generational silence. Behar argued that second- and third-generation Mizrahi Jews seeking their ancestral tongue could only do so through Palestinian Arabic and Palestinian literature, leading him to treat Arabic not as foreign, but as an intimate, reclaimed part of his heritage.
Poetic Witness and the Immediate Ruin of War (54:13)
The ongoing war and the destruction in Gaza cast an unavoidable shadow over the poets' creative work. Abou Shmeiss read poems capturing the dissociation of commuting to work through regular Israeli traffic while knowing family members—ranging from toddlers aged three to adults in their twenties—had been killed in Khan Yunis and Shuja'iyya. Her poetry interrogates daily complicity, watching ordinary citizens and returning soldiers while grappling with the agonizing suspicion of who participated in the airstrikes that flattened residential buildings. In another poem, she imagined maternal resistance across national lines, stating that if she were a Jewish mother, she would physically bind her son's limbs and senses to prevent him from serving in the military.
Behar addressed catastrophe by reframing Jewish liturgical mourning. In "Tisha B'Av 2025," he transformed the traditional fast day commemorating the ancient destruction of the Jerusalem Temples into a lament for contemporary bloodshed, declaring that the ruin of Jerusalem is inextricably entangled with the ongoing destruction of Gaza. In another piece dedicated to Gazan writer Manal Miqdad, "A Woman Awaits the Bombardment," Behar cataloged the domestic terror of an individual preparing for an airstrike by deciding how to bequeath her personal library, stripping away heroic rhetoric to expose nocturnal panic.
Translation, Cross-Border Reception, and Linguistic Friction (76:45)
Translation operates for both authors as both a site of tension and an avenue for new meaning. Abou Shmeiss described having a translator enter her work as admitting a third person into an intimate sanctuary, acknowledging that while nuances shift, publication relinquishes an author's exclusive ownership. Her work encountered skepticism among some broader Palestinian readers who initially suspected assimilation, though she noted this suspicion abated once readers engaged with her authentic verses.
Behar, referencing Salman Rushdie's notion of what is gained in translation, compared the process to a musical re-scoring. He described working with an Egyptian translator to publish his novel in Cairo, where they preserved Judeo-Arabic dialects with side notations and adapted rabbinical Hebrew phrasing using the register of classical Sufi texts. While his parents initially questioned his return to Arabic after decades spent assimilating, seeing his prose recognized in Cairo legitimized his literary pursuit.
The Fragility of Literary Solidarity (40:56)
Both poets expressed sober realism regarding poetry's capacity to alter geopolitical realities. Behar reflected on the shift in his outlook over two decades: while he once believed that mutual linguistic exposure would bridge communal divides within fifty years, he now acknowledges that personal transformation through verse does not guarantee external societal change, viewing communal animosities as far deeper than he previously thought. Following October 7, 2023, he experienced three months of poetic paralysis, broken only by compiling biblical verses containing the word for war.
Abou Shmeiss similarly rejected superficial politeness as a foundation for dialogue. While acknowledging Israeli Jewish fears rooted in trauma, she insisted that her own terror—represented by armed soldiers and state violence against her family—must be met with equal candor. Effective communication, she argued, cannot rely on comforting compromises, but requires placing painful realities directly in front of one another.
The discussion leaves unresolved whether cultural dialogue can withstand ongoing military destruction and societal hardening. While both poets demonstrated that Hebrew and Arabic can intertwine within literature, they cautioned that poetry cannot substitute for political justice or dismantle entrenched animosities without an unsparing confrontation with real-world violence.
Source quotes
[4:34] Almog Behar: My Arabic is mute / Strangled at the throat / Cursing itself without uttering a word / Sleeps in the earliest shelters of my soul / Hiding from relatives behind the Hebrew blinds / And my Hebrew is raging / Running between rooms and neighbor's balconies / Making its voice heard in public / Prophesying the coming of God and of bulldozers...
[4:34] Almog Behar: Amal is hope / Hayati is my life / And when they meet / Between the lips of Umm Kulthum and my own ears / A great many longings will dig wells in my heart.
[12:34] Ayat Abou Shmeiss: My English is not my first language. Neither my second, neither my third. It's my fourth language. And sometimes I mix between languages.
[12:34] Ayat Abou Shmeiss: I dragged the words I haven't learned yet / My language drown / My teeth storming like the sea in a wintry day / I can't snare a single word with my palate / Raise my voice like a fishing rod / And bear a basket filled with mute tongues / Mute as fish / That I place / On the counter / In your kitchen.
[29:45] Almog Behar: someone from outside the family, that the state decided that we wouldn't be able to talk with her in the last month of her life.
[35:57] Ayat Abou Shmeiss: please don't translate it to Hebrew. We don't want Hebrew right now.
[54:13] Ayat Abou Shmeiss: Eyes on the road / Hands on the wheel / Foot on the gas / Or the brakes / And the head and heart in Khan Yunis / And the blood that flows in Shuja'iyya / We are human being, human being / We are human being / In the rearview mirror I see my face / With eyes, nose, cheeks / Everything points to / I swear I look like a human being / We look like this / We are human beings / But they are slaughtering us / Slaughtering us / Slaughtering...
[62:41] Ayat Abou Shmeiss: If I were a Jewish mother / And I had to send / My son to the army / I would fight / I would tie his tongue to his ears / I would glue my hands to his legs / I would hang my heart on his eyes / So he would not go.
[65:18] Almog Behar: And the destruction of Jerusalem / Is amid the ruin of Gaza / And the destruction of Gaza / Is amid the ruin of Jerusalem / Amid the already dead / And the soon to be dead.
[80:54] Almog Behar: It took us years to get rid of this Arabic. Why to go back?
[86:40] Ayat Abou Shmeiss: I had opened the door. So please open the door to all the words and all the poems. That's it.
[90:38] Ayat Abou Shmeiss: This way we can talk if we just put things not very nice cutey. No, we have to put the things as they are in front of the face of each other and also to remember to look ourselves also.
Original transcript
[0:09] JEFFREY VEIDLINGER:
Hello, everybody.
[0:10] Welcome My name is
Jeffrey Veidlinger,
[0:13] and I'm the director of the
Raoul Wallenberg Institute
[0:16] here at the University
of Michigan.
[0:21] Thank you all for joining
us this afternoon.
[0:24] Thank you in particular to
the students who are with us.
[0:28] I want to remind all the
students, those of you who
[0:30] are in ALA259, in the class
that it revolves around these,
[0:34] to go to your usual classroom
afterwards for continuing
[0:37] discussion.
[0:38] And if there are
students here who
[0:40] are not enrolled in
that class and would
[0:42] like to continue the discussion
afterwards with free food,
[0:46] you can do so next door in the
East Conference room over there.
[0:53] There will be free food for
students and the opportunity
[0:56] to have moderated discussion
about what we're seeing here
[0:59] on the stage afterwards.
[1:04] So again, thank you, and
I encourage you to come.
[1:07] Thank you as well to the staff
of the Wallenberg Institute,
[1:10] Miriam Mora, Eleanor Camp,
Alexis Gideon, and Joe Johnston,
[1:15] for helping make
this event possible.
[1:18] I want to begin today by
noting the passing on Friday
[1:23] of Irene Bader, a local
Holocaust survivor, educator,
[1:27] social activist, and inspiration
for so much good in the world.
[1:32] And some of us in this
room attended her funeral
[1:35] just a few hours ago today.
[1:37] She was one of the
founders of détenu,
[1:39] a group of local Jewish
and Palestinian women
[1:42] who have been meeting together
for decades to foster dialogue
[1:46] and to share in each
other's humanity.
[1:50] She was also one of the founders
of the Raoul Wallenberg Medal
[1:52] and Endowment, which
each year recognizes
[1:55] an outstanding humanitarian who
has shown how one person can
[2:00] make a difference.
[2:01] Irene regularly spoke to
classes around the university
[2:05] and shared her
optimism in humanity,
[2:07] despite the horrors that
she had endured as a child.
[2:11] She will be missed and leaves
behind a remarkable legacy.
[2:15] We were very pleased
to have her speak
[2:18] at the very first
one of these events
[2:19] that we did at our
inaugural event
[2:21] for the Raoul
Wallenberg Institute,
[2:23] and grateful for her support
in the last two years
[2:27] since we've been in existence.
[2:29] The Raoul Wallenberg
Institute was established
[2:32] by the University
in December 2023
[2:35] as part of a
university-wide effort
[2:38] to combat anti-Semitism and
advance religious diversity
[2:41] and inclusion on
all three campuses.
[2:44] Over the years, our
mission has come
[2:47] to embrace fighting,
combating, and studying
[2:50] ethnic and religious hatred
of all kinds around the globe.
[2:54] Raoul Wallenberg, the
institute's namesake,
[2:56] was in 1935 Michigan alum who
worked with the United States
[3:01] and Swedish
governments in Budapest
[3:03] to save thousands of Jews from
deportation to the Auschwitz
[3:06] death camp.
[3:07] After the war, he was
detained by the Red Army
[3:10] and died in a Soviet prison.
[3:13] The Samantha Wall dialogues
are an important part
[3:15] of our mission.
[3:17] This series of conversations
on contemporary issues
[3:20] of consequence was
established to honor
[3:23] the memory of Samantha
Wall, a passionate community
[3:26] leader, committed grassroots
organizer, and advocate
[3:29] for interfaith conversations
who was tragically murdered
[3:32] in 2023 at the age of 40.
[3:35] Thank you to her family,
Margo and Doug Wall,
[3:38] and Monica and Ben Rosen
for helping us realize
[3:41] the vision of this series.
[3:44] This afternoon, on
the Eve of October 7,
[3:48] we've brought together
three individuals committed
[3:51] to the principles of dialogue
and intergroup understanding
[3:54] through poetry in order
to help us address
[3:57] the fundamental question of can
Israelis and Palestinians talk
[4:01] through poetry.
[4:05] What we're going to do is we're
going to have each of the poets
[4:08] or two poets come up and
read some poetry first,
[4:13] and then I'll invite Stephanie
up to engage in dialogue,
[4:17] to have a conversation, to
ask them some questions.
[4:20] And after she's done, after
she has asked a few questions,
[4:24] we will be distributing
index cards in which you
[4:26] can write your own questions
that Stephanie will then
[4:30] ask our ask our guests.
[4:34] So first I'll invite
up Almog Behar.
[4:38] Almog was born in
Netanya in 1978.
[4:41] He is a poet.
[4:43] He is a poet, novelist,
translator, researcher
[4:46] and scholar.
[4:47] Bahat lives in
Jerusalem and teaches
[4:49] in the Department of literature
at Tel Aviv University
[4:52] about the connections between
Hebrew and Arabic literatures,
[4:56] the connections between the
Jewish liturgical poetry
[4:58] traditions and modern Mizrahi
literature, Jewish writing,
[5:02] and Judeo-Arabic, and
literary Arabic, and the way
[5:05] Jewish writers negotiate
with Islamic traditions.
[5:08] He has published four poetry
collections, a collection
[5:11] of short stories, and
a novel, many of which
[5:13] explore his relationship with
Arabic and his own Middle
[5:17] Eastern roots.
[5:18] So, Almog, I'll invite you up.
[5:19] ALMOG BEHAR: Thank you.
[5:20] [AUDIENCE APPLAUDING]
[5:27] JEFFREY VEIDLINGER:
You have your own?
[5:33] ALMOG BEHAR: Yeah.
[5:38] Thanks a lot, and
I'm happy to be here.
[5:44] And I will read first in Hebrew.
[5:49] JEFFREY VEIDLINGER: Do
you have a microphone?
[5:52] Are you wearing the microphone?
[5:53] ALMOG BEHAR: Yeah, as well.
[5:54] I think it works.
[5:55] JEFFREY VEIDLINGER:
You can hear?
[5:57] AUDIENCE: No.
[5:59] JEFFREY VEIDLINGER: Hold
this the old fashioned way.
[6:06] ALMOG BEHAR: [SPEAKING HEBREW]
[9:25] My Arabic
[9:28] My Arabic is mute
[9:30] Strangled at the throat
[9:32] Cursing itself without
uttering a word
[9:36] Sleeps in the earliest
shelters of my soul
[9:40] Hiding from relatives
behind the Hebrew blinds
[9:45] And my Hebrew is raging
[9:47] Running between rooms
and neighbor's balconies
[9:50] Making its voice heard in public
[9:53] Prophesying the coming
of God and of bulldozers
[9:58] And then it holds up
in the living room
[10:01] Thinking itself so open in
the language of its skin
[10:06] So hidden between the
pages of its flesh
[10:10] A moment naked
[10:12] A moment later dressed
[10:14] It curls up into the armchair
[10:17] And begs itself for forgiveness
[10:21] My Arabic is petrified
[10:23] It quietly pretends to be Hebrew
[10:26] And whispers to friends
[10:28] Whenever somebody
knocks at her gate
[10:32] Ahlan Ahlan
[10:33] And whenever a policeman
passes it in the street
[10:37] It produces an ID card and
points out the protective clause
[10:42] [SPEAKING HEBREW]
[10:45] And my Hebrew is deaf
[10:48] Sometimes very deaf
[10:51] The translator into
English was Dimi Reider
[10:56] and into Arabic Rima Jaber.
[11:11] And the first poem I
translated myself into Arabic.
[11:18] [SPEAKING ARABIC]
[11:56] And it's translated into English
by Shoshana Olidort and "Amal
[12:02] Hayati" is one of the
famous songs of Umm Kulthum
[12:06] and my favorite.
[12:08] Amal is hope
[12:10] Hayati is my life
[12:13] And when they meet
[12:14] Between the lips of Umm
kulthum and my own ears
[12:19] A great many longings will
dig wells in my heart.
[12:24] Thank you.
[12:26] [AUDIENCE APPLAUDING]
[12:34] JEFFREY VEIDLINGER:
Thank you, Almog.
[12:35] That's really lovely and
great to hear the languages
[12:38] and how they play off each
other is really beautiful.
[12:43] Our next speaker will
be Ayat Abou Smeiss.
[12:47] Ayat Abou Shmeiss was
born in Jaffa in 1984.
[12:51] She's a poet and an activist.
[12:53] She's the author of two
bilingual Hebrew Arabic poetry
[12:56] collections, A Basket Filled
with Mute Tongues from 2013
[13:01] and I am Two from 2018.
[13:04] Her third poetry collection,
An Unmothered Tongue,
[13:08] is her first book in English
and was just published,
[13:11] I understand.
[13:11] Just came out or is not yet.
[13:13] Is soon coming out, is
on its way out very soon,
[13:17] and brings together poems
from her previously published
[13:19] two books alongside
previously unpublished work.
[13:28] Her poetry explores issues of
identity, language, silence,
[13:33] everyday life and duality, with
a focus on women's experiences.
[13:38] Alongside her literary work,
she develops cultural projects
[13:41] on Palestinian women, both
contemporary and historical.
[13:46] She heads the independent
publishing house Mi'tan, and her
[13:49] work has received recognition
through awards for both her
[13:52] literary writing and her
feminist cultural activism.
[13:56] So please welcome Ayat.
[13:58] [AUDIENCE APPLAUDING]
[14:06] AYAT ABOU SHMEISS:
Well, marhaba.
[14:08] Hello.
[14:10] OK.
[14:10] I'm so excited.
[14:13] First, really thank
you for inviting me.
[14:18] Second, I just
want to say that--
[14:21] I'm so excited-- that my English
is not my first language.
[14:26] Neither my second,
neither my third.
[14:28] It's my fourth language.
[14:30] And sometimes I mix
between languages.
[14:34] So just be aware.
[14:37] That's it.
[14:38] I'm going to read two poems.
[14:40] I'm going to read in Hebrew,
Arabic and in English.
[14:42] The Arabic, I just today
decided to read it.
[14:50] [NON-ENGLISH SPEECH]
[15:29] From Arabic, it was
translated by [INAUDIBLE].
[15:34] [NON-ENGLISH SPEECH]
[16:06] The English was
translated by Lisa Katz.
[16:12] I dragged the words
I haven't learned yet
[16:15] My language drown
[16:17] My teeth storming like
the sea in a wintry day
[16:22] I can't snare a single
word with my palate
[16:25] Raise my voice
like a fishing rod
[16:28] And bear a basket
filled with mute tongues
[16:31] Mute as fish
[16:33] That I place
[16:35] On the counter
[16:36] In your kitchen.
[16:38] Thank you.
[16:39] [AUDIENCE APPLAUDING]
[16:44] JEFFREY VEIDLINGER: Thank you.
[16:53] AYAT ABOU SHMEISS: I told
you that I too excited.
[16:58] [NON-ENGLISH SPEECH]
[18:44] Again, the English
translated by Lisa Katz.
[18:48] A rock in the feminine form
[18:50] I have a rock on
the back of my neck,
[18:54] Encased in silk
[18:55] I don't remember
who put it there
[18:57] But I remember that
I wrapped it myself
[18:59] So it would at least look nice
[19:02] I go everywhere with it
[19:04] Disabled, but imagine
without a wheelchair
[19:07] People around me stare
but don't comment
[19:11] Apparently they think
[19:14] That I like it or
it's good for me
[19:16] Perhaps because I wrapped it
[19:19] I remember that it's been there
[19:23] Since it was just a pebble
[19:25] Thank you.
[19:26] [AUDIENCE APPLAUDING]
[19:34] JEFFREY VEIDLINGER: Lovely.
[19:35] Thank you so much.
[19:36] And we can see the similarity
in style, similarity
[19:39] in themes a little
bit and differences
[19:40] that we'll talk about I'm
sure, in the next segment
[19:43] of our program.
[19:44] So at this point, I'll
introduce Stephanie Kraver.
[19:48] Stephanie is a fellow at the
Raoul Wallenberg Institute
[19:51] and a scholar of modern
Arabic and Hebrew literature
[19:54] who specializes in transcultural
exchange, expressions
[19:58] of mourning, trauma
theory, and translation.
[20:01] Her current project,
Writing Past Difference,
[20:04] challenges the linguistic
and sociopolitical cleavages
[20:08] that characterize Arab Jewish
writing and identity politics.
[20:12] And so I'll call up
Stephanie and Almog and Ayat,
[20:16] and I'll turn things
over to Stephanie.
[20:19] And maybe use the
microphones just in--
[20:25] We can see how--
[20:27] we can start with those and
see if there's two of these.
[20:40] STEPHANIE KRAVER:
Whichever you prefer.
[20:45] OK.
[20:45] Wow, I want to
start off by saying
[20:47] that it's such an immense
honor and privilege to be
[20:50] in conversation
with you both today,
[20:52] and I'm so glad we could
start with your words,
[20:55] your words in Hebrew,
Arabic and English, no less.
[21:02] Before we delve into
discussing your poems,
[21:05] I thought we could commence
our dialogue with you both,
[21:07] talking a bit about
your backgrounds
[21:10] and how you found your
way to writing poetry.
[21:20] How did you each come
to poetry as your form
[21:23] of artistic expression?
[21:29] Whoever wants to go first.
[21:30] ALMOG BEHAR: You
hold the microphone.
[21:33] AYAT ABOU SHMEISS: OK, so.
[21:37] Here?
[21:40] No?
[21:42] STEPHANIE KRAVER: Yes, yeah.
[21:43] That's OK.
[21:45] AYAT ABOU SHMEISS:
So my background.
[21:49] Actually, I don't have
a lot of background.
[21:52] Like in my house at home, we
didn't have shelves or poetry
[21:57] books.
[21:58] I didn't open a Fadwa Tuqan
books or any other and read it
[22:04] and say, OK, I'm going
I want to be like Fadwa
[22:08] Tuqan or any other poet.
[22:10] Actually, it was because
I have some tensions
[22:15] and some arguments, very
foolish, with my mom
[22:19] and to write it was just
kind of a expression
[22:25] and it just felt free.
[22:28] I had the freedom to write
whatever I want in the way
[22:32] that I wanted.
[22:34] And this freedom was something
that it was missing a bit also
[22:39] at my school because I went
like to a very tough school.
[22:43] And just in writing, it
was kind of very free.
[22:48] So I took it.
[22:51] Thank you.
[22:55] ALMOG BEHAR: Thank you.
[22:57] So you started from
the hardest question.
[23:01] Where are we going from here?
[23:08] I think I started to write
from whenever I remember myself
[23:18] from a very young age in a
way of a personal secret.
[23:35] You write to the drawer
for decades, in a sense.
[23:42] And in I think, for me, writing
was an act of envy what you read
[23:58] and you start to write,
maybe also in the beginning,
[24:05] in the footsteps of others or
in the other models that you
[24:12] see there.
[24:18] But it was very secretive in
that sense until much later
[24:28] in my early 20s, when it
became a way to negotiate with
[24:37] the world directly
and not as a secret.
[24:43] And that was also the
moment in which, of course,
[24:49] I started to write in Hebrew and
when it became in conversation
[24:56] with the world, it
was also the time
[24:59] when thinking about
the different languages
[25:06] became a central
question for me.
[25:11] STEPHANIE KRAVER:
Thank you both so much.
[25:13] On this topic of writing
in different languages,
[25:16] can you share more about your
experiences writing in Israel?
[25:20] Ayat as a Palestinian
who writes in Hebrew,
[25:23] and Almog as a
Jewish Israeli who
[25:25] upholds the importance
of Arabic in his works.
[25:28] What is the reception of your
verses in Israel and elsewhere?
[25:38] AYAT ABOU SHMEISS: You know
that when I started to write,
[25:41] I didn't thought about
it that it was in Hebrew,
[25:44] or that I'm Palestinian
who writes in Hebrew.
[25:47] So for me, it was this is the
language that I know very well.
[25:54] I was surrounded
by this language.
[25:57] I love this language.
[25:59] And I just started
from very action
[26:03] that it was normal
for me, very nature.
[26:10] But when I published
my first book,
[26:13] I realized that it was
an issue that mean,
[26:19] I remember after like publishing
my book, the first one,
[26:24] a journalist made an interview
with me, and she asked me,
[26:29] is writing in Hebrew like
sleeping with the enemy
[26:32] or something like that?
[26:33] I don't know what the question
was, but something like that.
[26:36] And me like what?
[26:39] Really, I didn't realize
that this is an issue.
[26:44] So I live in Jaffa, and,
Jaffa it's a mixed city.
[26:48] And from, I opened my
eyes-- from the moment
[26:53] that I opened my eyes,
I were living with Jews.
[26:57] Hebrew was everywhere.
[26:59] The language was like
everyday language were simple.
[27:05] It wasn't kind of military
language or something like that.
[27:08] Doing shoppings in Hebrew,
going to my doctor,
[27:12] it was in Hebrew, to the
clinic to the post office.
[27:16] Now, if I remember, there
is no single person in Jaffa
[27:20] that know or use the word
post office in Arabic.
[27:24] We all use Doha in Hebrew.
[27:27] You just need to understand
how much the Hebrew was inside
[27:31] of us.
[27:33] But there is one more reason
that maybe later I'll share it.
[27:38] So I didn't realize
at the first.
[27:43] So when she asked me, I
say, OK, this is an issue.
[27:47] I'm Palestinian and
I write in Hebrew,
[27:51] and Hebrew is a language of,
the official language of Israel,
[27:57] the state of the Jewish.
[27:59] And this is a state
that occupies us.
[28:02] This is a state that is racist.
[28:06] It is racist.
[28:07] This is a state that actually
tells me where to go, how to go.
[28:14] If I can meet my relatives in
Gaza on the West Bank or not.
[28:19] So I just understand it that it
was very, very difficult for me.
[28:29] But I couldn't not try
write in other language.
[28:41] I try to it wasn't so good.
[28:46] So I say OK, because usually
the Israeli society, when
[28:52] they look at us,
the Palestinian,
[28:54] they looked at us
through political lens.
[28:58] Even before I write
something, even
[29:00] before I say something
that opened my mouth,
[29:04] they put us in a
political frame,
[29:08] in a political box, just
the way I maybe look
[29:11] or my language or my ID.
[29:15] And I say, OK, I
have here some tools
[29:22] that I can use to just
reach to the audience,
[29:29] to just reach to Israeli side
and to speak whatever I want.
[29:33] I just can use these
tools that I really have.
[29:38] That's it.
[29:40] Welcome.
[29:45] ALMOG BEHAR: Thank you.
[29:47] So for me, the
question of language
[29:52] was there at home
before the street,
[29:57] meaning that in my family,
my mom was born in Baghdad
[30:05] and came when she
was five years old.
[30:10] And I heard the Arabic of
my grandparents speaking
[30:14] with her and the aunts.
[30:19] My mother would answer her
grandpa, her parents in Hebrew,
[30:25] as she was born in
the name Samira.
[30:31] Today she is Mirabella.
[30:33] So names change identity.
[30:36] When she was 10
years old at school,
[30:40] the educator came to the
house and asked her parents
[30:45] to stop speaking
with her in Arabic.
[30:48] That was the policy in the '50s.
[30:51] In a way like changing the
languages of the people
[30:56] through the children,
through schools.
[30:59] Her parents, of
course, didn't stop
[31:01] speaking with her in Arabic.
[31:03] They didn't have
another language.
[31:05] But from that day, she stopped
answering them in Arabic.
[31:09] She became passive in Arabic.
[31:11] She heard it, but
answered in Hebrew.
[31:15] So Arabic was one language
that I heard at home,
[31:20] and there were three
other languages.
[31:26] My father's father
family came from Istanbul
[31:32] and Judeo-Spanish
Ladino was his language.
[31:37] And my grandmother,
my father's mother,
[31:40] was born in Einbeck in
Germany and spoke German.
[31:46] And my grandparents fled at
39 to Denmark, to Copenhagen.
[31:52] So my father spoke with his
parents, Danish and German.
[31:59] And what was clear for me
was that those are languages
[32:04] of home, but that
it's preferred not
[32:08] to hear them on the street
or not to speak in them.
[32:13] And anyways, it was very
clear, like my parents expected
[32:19] us to learn Hebrew and English,
not any of the other languages
[32:25] at home.
[32:26] And in that sense, as a child,
everything you meet is normal.
[32:32] So you think that grandparents
talk in different accents
[32:37] than their grandchildren.
[32:39] And, maybe my grandchildren will
speak Albanian and I wouldn't
[32:43] know their language.
[32:46] There was a moment
a bit later, when
[32:49] I was 12 or 13, that I did
tell my parents it's a waste.
[32:56] Like, maybe I should learn
one of the languages.
[33:02] And they took the time.
[33:06] They didn't answer
me immediately.
[33:08] Yeah, it's a great idea.
[33:10] They thought for a week and then
they said, you can study Danish.
[33:18] And it was clear to me, the
family spoke 1,000 years Arabic,
[33:24] 500 years Judeo-Spanish, 200
years German, 10 years Danish.
[33:31] it was clear to me
that it's funny.
[33:34] Now I regret it that I didn't
study Danish at that stage,
[33:38] but I didn't do it.
[33:40] When I was 17, my grandmother
from Baghdad, Louise,
[33:47] was dementing and
she forgot Hebrew,
[33:51] and she went back to
speaking only Arabic.
[33:55] And that was the moment for me
that I understood that it's not
[34:00] natural, like my older cousins
could speak with her in Iraqi
[34:08] Arabic and I couldn't.
[34:12] And that was the moment that
I understood that someone
[34:16] from outside the family,
that the state decided
[34:21] that we wouldn't be
able to talk with her
[34:24] in the last month of her life.
[34:28] And that was when I
decided to study Arabic,
[34:32] but of course I was
lazy, so it took me then,
[34:35] like I decided at the age of
17, but I started when I was 23,
[34:40] so it wasn't immediate, but it
was clear to me to sum it up
[34:50] in a sense that
from that moment,
[34:58] that as a writing person,
like the poem I read,
[35:06] [NON-ENGLISH SPEECH],
My Arabic is Mute,
[35:08] like only a few months
after I wrote it,
[35:13] I understood that it starts
with the words my Arabic,
[35:18] that it's the first time that I
could relate to Arabic as mine,
[35:23] or to myself, as
belonging to Arabic.
[35:30] And I understood that if
I wouldn't study Arabic,
[35:34] if I wouldn't read
or write, I would
[35:37] continue to knock on this door.
[35:45] I will continue to write
variations on this poem.
[35:52] So I didn't want to
continue writing variations.
[35:57] STEPHANIE KRAVER:
Thank you so much.
[35:59] And to continue on this thread
of the private and the public,
[36:04] I'm wondering if
you can talk a bit
[36:07] about the current
literary scene in Israel.
[36:16] Are there still spaces
where Palestinians and Jews
[36:19] can share works,
be in community,
[36:22] and attend protests together?
[36:25] What do the landscapes for
solidarity and activism
[36:28] look like after October 7?
[36:34] AYAT ABOU SHMEISS:
Again, I guess.
[36:36] Yeah, of course.
[36:37] So comfortable to
drink right now.
[36:43] OK, so it's my second year that
I'm away, that I'm in London.
[36:51] But I can say that it's hard.
[36:55] It's a hard scene.
[36:58] As a head of the
publishing house,
[37:01] Mi'tan, I think what I wanted to
do and what we wanted to do is
[37:07] to give space and voice
from Palestinian from Gaza.
[37:15] And we was in this
publishing house,
[37:17] like, truly in this
focused on these voices.
[37:21] So I think a year or two years
ago, I think it's two years ago,
[37:29] I was me and my friend
Rahel, Dr. Rahel Korazim,
[37:35] we just made we
were thinking about
[37:37] made a kind of event, a
literature event like poetry
[37:41] event like voices from Gaza.
[37:45] And I started to just send some
messages to poets from Gaza.
[37:51] And you can imagine how
much it was difficult.
[37:55] And just to ask them if
we can show their poems.
[38:02] So some of them say yes,
but some of them just say,
[38:06] but please don't
translate it to Hebrew.
[38:08] We don't want Hebrew right now.
[38:10] And we put it in
Arabic and Hebrew.
[38:12] And we make a very big event
in Jaffa, in Teatrot, Jaffa.
[38:19] And it was like the first time
when I saw during the genocide,
[38:25] like Israeli and
Palestinian together,
[38:28] like gathering through poetry.
[38:31] It was very excited.
[38:33] Then I said, OK, maybe I'm
going to do something with it,
[38:36] but I didn't have
so much money to do.
[38:39] After had a poet from Gaza, we
spoke about a couple of things
[38:45] and he told me that he wanted
to publish a poetry book
[38:53] and to translate
his poems to Hebrew.
[38:57] Firstly, of course,
he didn't tell me.
[38:59] I want to translate
my points to Hebrew.
[39:01] He say, I want to translate it
and that it will be published
[39:04] in your publishing house.
[39:05] I say, yeah, of course.
[39:07] And then I ask him,
which language.
[39:10] He told me, like your book.
[39:12] bilingual.
[39:12] I say, yeah, but which language?
[39:15] He say Arabic and Hebrew.
[39:17] I say, are you sure?
[39:19] He say yes.
[39:20] It was very strong thing
and yes, we did it.
[39:26] And through this we made
a lot of events for him
[39:30] and it was really
very powerful events.
[39:36] But accept this that we made
in this publishing house.
[39:45] The scene was a little
bit like disappointing.
[39:51] I expected that it would be
more organizing events and more
[39:55] publishing about against
the genocide in Gaza.
[40:00] It wasn't so much,
but it was one event
[40:02] that it was really important
from my Israeli friends that
[40:06] made it.
[40:07] And it was in Tel Aviv
and all the events.
[40:11] They just invited a lot of
poets, Israeli poets mainly,
[40:17] and it was really
exciting because they
[40:21] were reading against all this
crimes and all these actions.
[40:28] And I felt that of
course it could be.
[40:32] So maybe we need a little bit
to look for and to search.
[40:35] But it's definitely can be.
[40:39] So this is my own experience
with the literature scene
[40:44] in Israel in during
this horrible days.
[40:49] STEPHANIE KRAVER:
Thank you so much.
[40:56] JEFFREY VEIDLINGER: I would
say, when I'm optimistic,
[41:01] I think that poetry can change.
[41:06] And I think that the connection
between Hebrew and Arabic
[41:12] is the potential for changing.
[41:20] When I'm pessimistic, I
know that poetry changed me.
[41:27] But it doesn't matter.
[41:29] It doesn't mean that
it can change the world
[41:35] and the connection
between Hebrew and Arabic
[41:39] changed me and is
transformative to many people.
[41:48] But maybe not as optimistically.
[41:58] I would say in a different way.
[42:05] For Jews from the
Arab world, there
[42:13] was a lot of pressure
to forget Arabic,
[42:18] to erase Arabic in that sense.
[42:23] If 1 million Jews spoke
Arabic before '48,
[42:29] it became dramatically
less 20, 25 years later.
[42:39] So when I'm thinking about
the Jewish Arab culture,
[42:47] the only way that was
to return to Arabic
[42:55] as a second and third
generation to immigration
[43:00] was through the Arabic
of the Palestinians.
[43:05] For us, the only way
to learn, to return,
[43:17] to communicating to thinking
about creation in Arabic
[43:24] was through Palestinian
literature, Palestinian Arabic,
[43:31] in a sense.
[43:32] I didn't return to speak
in Baghdadi Judeo-Arabic,
[43:38] but speaking Palestinian Arabic.
[43:43] So in that sense,
it is something
[43:50] that was very important
to me and to many others.
[43:56] And there is still
potential with it.
[44:01] Because I'm not
everyday optimistic,
[44:09] it's harder than that.
[44:13] I think that for me,
like 20 years ago,
[44:21] I could say that if
only the knowledge will
[44:27] solve our problems.
[44:29] I think that many of
us across the world
[44:32] see that the problem
is not only knowledge.
[44:37] It's not only that you open
yourself and open others
[44:43] to another perspective, and
then the situation is resolved.
[44:49] It's in a much
deeper place in us
[44:56] as humans or as societies,
which is hard to solve.
[45:03] So I didn't leave poetry
because of all of that.
[45:10] But if you would
if I had answered
[45:14] this question 10 years ago,
I would end optimistically.
[45:18] Like in 50 years, Hebrew and
Arabic will merge and people--
[45:25] now, I don't know
how to end my answer.
[45:30] STEPHANIE KRAVER:
Thank you so much
[45:32] for those very thoughtful
words and reflections.
[45:37] I wanted to give
you an opportunity
[45:41] to answer a couple questions
about the poems you shared,
[45:45] and then I'll give
you the chance
[45:47] to share a couple
more poems, and then
[45:49] we'll open up to the
audience for questions.
[45:56] So, Ayat, in your poem, A
Rock in the Feminine Form,
[46:00] you specify in your footnote
that [NON-ENGLISH SPEECH],
[46:03] the word for rock
or stone in Hebrew,
[46:06] is masculine and the
Arabic is feminine.
[46:09] I'd love for you to share
more about this poem
[46:12] and the diverse
ways in which you're
[46:13] thinking about gender here.
[46:16] And Almog, I'll ask
you a question as well.
[46:19] In your poem, Amal is Hope, you
play with language quite a bit.
[46:23] Can you speak to how you
decided to construct the poem
[46:26] with both Hebrew and Arabic?
[46:28] And also, what are the
great many longings
[46:31] that you describe in the work?
[46:38] AYAT ABOU SHMEISS: OK,
so I think before that,
[46:42] I need to say why I didn't
have another option except
[46:47] like to write in Hebrew.
[46:52] So my mom, she's second
generation of Nakba,
[46:57] so she had a very hard time.
[47:02] She couldn't study.
[47:05] She's illiterate.
[47:07] And when she became
a mom, she say,
[47:11] I want that my children will
have the best education.
[47:15] But you know why?
[47:16] Because she wanted
us to know to read.
[47:19] And what she wanted us to read?
[47:22] She wanted us to read the
letters that the state sometimes
[47:26] may send.
[47:28] That means she never
imagined about university.
[47:31] She never imagined about
poetry, literature or anything.
[47:36] She just imagined
about something
[47:37] that is kind of
terrifying and surviving.
[47:42] So she was looking for a
good school for us in Jaffa.
[47:47] And at that time, that
school was not so good
[47:51] because there wasn't
like, good-funded
[47:53] and there were
very few resources.
[47:57] So she sent us to
a French school.
[48:01] And French school, of
course, it's French.
[48:06] It's a private school.
[48:07] My dad had to work
an extra hours.
[48:10] And the Hebrew that they
teach in this school,
[48:14] they teach Hebrew for
Jewish as first language,
[48:17] as not in the Arab school, as
Hebrew for Arabs, they call it,
[48:23] or second language.
[48:25] So in this school, I
lost a little bit more
[48:29] than a little bit my Arabic.
[48:31] Maybe those who are
Arabs and know Arabs
[48:35] could a little bit see how I
read a little bit the Arabic.
[48:42] So sometimes I have mistakes
and it wasn't my fault
[48:46] and it wasn't my mom
fault. Like mistake.
[48:52] Fault it's in French, I think.
[48:55] So it just kind my mom,
she forced to do this
[49:02] as an act of surviving.
[49:08] So that is it.
[49:10] So when I started
to write in Hebrew
[49:13] and realize these
issues about me,
[49:17] Palestinian and Arab natives,
that speaks in Arabic
[49:22] but write in Hebrew, I wanted
to put my ID also in the poetry,
[49:28] and not only by using
the Arabic words.
[49:32] For example, I use
Jaffa sometimes
[49:35] in my poems as an expression of
Jaffa, the Palestinian city that
[49:41] were before the Nakba.
[49:44] And sometimes I use, for
example, other words in Arabic
[49:50] in a very kind of
maybe situation
[49:54] that it's like everyday
thing, for example,
[49:57] having lunch with my husband.
[49:59] But I put this
thing, for example,
[50:01] [NON-ENGLISH SPEECH] or for
example, salamu alaykum,
[50:03] something like that.
[50:04] But I wanted something more.
[50:06] I wanted something
that it is, or it
[50:09] could put a zoom about the
gender, my gender, and luckily
[50:17] that Arabic and Hebrew
are gendered language.
[50:22] So I just thought that I
can write the word rock,
[50:28] that it in Arabic,
[NON-ENGLISH SPEECH]
[50:30] it's in feminine form, and in
Hebrew it's an masculine form.
[50:36] So I just wrote it A Rock
in the Feminine Form.
[50:41] And that's what this
poem just was born.
[50:49] I hope that I answered.
[50:50] OK, thank you.
[50:56] ALMOG BEHAR: So the poem,
[NON-ENGLISH SPEECH] Amal is
[51:03] Hope, was written in a way like
in Hebrew and in Arabic about
[51:12] the same time.
[51:15] And in a sense, like
the poem I read,
[51:20] My Arabic is Mute,
that was translated
[51:24] by Rima Abu Jaber in Hebrew.
[51:28] It has Hebrew and Arabic in.
[51:32] It when it was translated
into Arabic, it's monolingual.
[51:38] It's only Arabic
because the Hebrew
[51:40] was translated into Arabic and
the Arabic stayed in Arabic.
[51:46] And when I saw
this, I understood
[51:53] that it's not only that I want
to write Hebrew differently.
[51:58] I want to write
Arabic differently.
[52:02] So I decided to translate
myself or to write
[52:07] at the same time in
Hebrew and in Arabic.
[52:10] And I was listening
to Umm Kulthum.
[52:15] And here, the poem in Hebrew.
[52:24] [NON-ENGLISH SPEECH]
[52:28] In Arabic, when I read it, by
the way [NON-ENGLISH SPEECH]
[52:34] So [NON-ENGLISH SPEECH] the
word in Hebrew for hope,
[52:40] when my grandparents used it,
they said [NON-ENGLISH SPEECH],
[52:46] Iraqi pronunciation of Hebrew.
[52:49] Like in a sense, like
the Arabic allows
[52:52] me also to hear or to sound
a different kind of Hebrew,
[53:00] the Hebrew that I
heard from them.
[53:05] So that was, in a sense,
like a stage for me
[53:09] from translation, which is
done outside of me, in a sense
[53:17] and I accept it.
[53:19] In a poem later on that I wrote
it half in Hebrew and half
[53:26] in Arabic.
[53:26] I didn't bring it because it's
untranslatable, but in a sense,
[53:34] it was like for
a second, maybe I
[53:38] don't want to translate myself.
[53:41] I want to write a poem in which
each line will be half in Hebrew
[53:47] and half in Arabic, and only
Ayat will understand me.
[53:54] STEPHANIE KRAVER: Wonderful.
[53:55] Thank you both so much.
[53:56] And I'll give you
the opportunity
[53:58] to share a couple more poems.
[54:01] ALMOG BEHAR: OK, go ahead.
[54:13] AYAT ABOU SHMEISS: OK.
[54:14] I realized that I don't have
my [NON-ENGLISH SPEECH].
[54:18] My glasses.
[54:23] Just a moment.
[54:26] Sorry.
[54:33] Thank you.
[54:51] A long poem and I need to
see it well, but before that.
[55:00] It's a very difficult
poem, and before
[55:03] that it's like the
newest poem that I have.
[55:06] I wrote it maybe a year
ago or something like that.
[55:10] Before that, I want to read
out names of my family members
[55:18] that were killed in Gaza
range in age from 3 until 28.
[55:27] [MENTIONING NAMES, AGES]
28, 25, 5, 3, 26, 6, 4, 13,
[55:56] 22 years old.
[55:59] [NON-ENGLISH SPEECH]
[61:15] I'll try to do it in English.
[61:18] Eyes on the road.
[61:20] Eyes on the road
[61:22] Hands on the wheel
[61:23] Foot on the gas
[61:25] Or the brakes
[61:26] And the head and
heart in Khan Yunis
[61:28] And the blood that
flows in Shuja''yya
[61:32] [NON-ENGLISH SPEECH]
[61:34] We are human being, human being
[61:37] We are human being
[61:40] In the rearview
mirror I see my face
[61:44] With eyes, nose, cheeks
[61:46] Everything points to
[61:49] I swear I look
like a human being
[61:54] We look like this
[61:55] We are human beings
[61:58] But they are slaughtering us
[61:59] Slaughtering us
[62:00] Slaughtering
[62:01] My voice became louder
[62:04] I repeated this
[62:05] My eyes filled with tears
[62:07] And my anger rose
higher and higher
[62:10] I tried to catch my breath
[62:12] My tears fell
[62:13] And I wiped them with my hand
[62:16] I must see
[62:18] I am driving
[62:20] I'm on the road
[62:21] Where there are people
[62:23] There are human beings
[62:27] I took a breath
[62:28] I tried with all
my trust to dismiss
[62:31] This feeling that
had taken over me
[62:33] I got to work
[62:35] Filled with anger,
[62:37] Bitter
[62:37] Ashamed
[62:38] Here they are
[62:40] Here they are
[62:41] I'd like to know who was in Gaza
[62:45] Who pulled the trigger
[62:47] The trigger that set off a bomb
[62:49] That felled a seven
story building
[62:51] In which human beings lived
[62:53] Rania, the granddaughter,
[62:55] Haron, Hind, Julia and
Rania, their grandmother,
[62:58] With whom I said before the war
[63:00] At my own grandmother's home
[63:03] Perhaps it's he
[63:05] Or that one
[63:07] Or that one
[63:09] Or this one's husband
[63:11] Or that one's brother
[63:12] Or he
[63:13] Perhaps his nephew
[63:16] They they they
[63:17] I lost my mind for a moment
[63:20] Went to the restroom
to rinse my face
[63:22] In running water
[63:23] I washed my face
[63:26] We are human beings
[63:28] [NON-ENGLISH SPEECH]
[63:30] I entered the classroom to teach
[63:32] Arabic
[63:33] I taught Arabic to Jews,
[63:35] To Israeli, Hebrew speakers
[63:37] I finished.
[63:38] The principal called
an urgent meeting
[63:40] Spoke about pedagogy
[63:42] He finished
[63:43] Went out
[63:45] One person said
[63:46] Let's give round of
applause to Moshe--
[63:49] not his real name
[63:51] His return from
months of serve duty
[63:54] Our hero
[63:56] And everyone clapped
[63:59] Me, my hands still on the wheel
[64:02] My eyes on the road
[64:03] And my feet on the gas
[64:05] Or the brakes
[64:06] My head remains in Gaza
[64:08] My blood flows in Shuja''yya
[64:10] Where my grandmother
was born in Gaza
[64:12] Where Haron Hind and
little Rania were martyred
[64:16] [NON-ENGLISH SPEECH]
[64:17] And ever since, my
eyes remained wide open
[64:26] And it burns, ya rabby
[64:30] It burns
[64:31] Shukran.
[64:33] [AUDIENCE APPLAUDING]
[64:46] If I were a Jewish mother
[64:49] And I had to send
[64:50] My son to the army
[64:53] I would fight
[64:55] I would tie his
tongue to his ears
[64:57] I would glue my
hands to his legs
[65:00] I would hang my
heart on his eyes
[65:04] So he would not go.
[65:08] Shukran.
[65:09] Thank you.
[65:10] [AUDIENCE APPLAUDING]
[65:18] ALMOG BEHAR: I
changed the order.
[65:27] Tisha B'Av.
[65:28] [NON-ENGLISH SPEECH]
[69:14] It was translated into
English by Vivian Eden.
[69:19] Tisha B'Av is a day
of fasting in memory
[69:23] of the destruction of
the Temple in Jerusalem
[69:26] by Babylon, and
then by the Romans.
[69:30] Tisha B'Av 2025
[69:33] One
[69:35] On prior eves of the 9th of Av
[69:39] I would recite the
book of lamentations
[69:43] At one of the ruins of Jerusalem
[69:46] And walking there.
[69:47] I'd never greet
[69:49] Anyone with shalom good day
[69:53] Nor greet with
shalom on my way back
[69:57] But see all around
me Jerusalem built up
[70:01] All around surrounding my ruins
[70:05] I would place a stone
under my pillow at bedtime
[70:11] So as not to doze off
in a Jerusalem destroyed
[70:16] And then awaken into
seeing the city rebuilt
[70:21] But rather to open my
eyes entitled to grieve
[70:27] And dreams of messiahs
born and murdered
[70:31] Would accompany
me during my sleep
[70:35] And at noontime on the
day of the 9th of Av
[70:40] I would look for seekers
of peace in the streets
[70:45] Who would meet me
with shalom and greet
[70:48] Them back with Shalom peace
[70:52] Two
[70:54] In this year, this
Tisha B'Av today
[70:59] The destruction
isn't 2000 years old
[71:03] The destruction is a
hungry newborn babe
[71:08] And a book is speaking
in the present tense
[71:13] But no spit remains on my
tongue to grind its words
[71:19] All the cities people sigh
[71:22] They seek bread
[71:24] And the bread is
gravel in my mouth
[71:29] As now not only is
the soul in shreds
[71:33] But the flesh is also in shreds
[71:37] And how shall we
lament the destruction
[71:41] In the time of destruction
[71:44] Three
[71:46] And the dead won't die again
[71:50] But how shall the
living praise the Lord
[71:54] The skies are the heavens
[71:58] But is this land the Earth
[72:01] The dead do not praise the Lord
[72:05] Nor do any that go
down into silence
[72:10] And the destruction of Jerusalem
[72:13] Is amid the ruin of Gaza
[72:16] And the Destruction of Gaza
[72:18] Is amid the ruin of Jerusalem
[72:21] Amid the already dead
[72:24] And the soon to be dead.
[72:30] [AUDIENCE APPLAUDING]
[72:37] [NON-ENGLISH SPEECH]
[72:40] A Woman Awaits the Bombardment
[72:46] To Manal Miqdad, a Gazan
writer, translated from Hebrew
[72:52] by Vivian Eden.
[72:55] [NON-ENGLISH SPEECH]
[74:39] A Woman Awaits the Bombardment
[74:44] Lying in bed at night in the
long attempt to fall asleep
[74:50] She thinks about the books
she's taken into her library
[74:55] The travel books
and the nature books
[74:59] should go to her
best school friend
[75:02] Who dreams about seeing
streams and deserts next summer
[75:08] The children's book
still on her shelves
[75:11] Should be taken to the
orphanage the war will engender
[75:17] The diaries she should
ask for her father to burn
[75:22] If the blast
doesn't destroy them
[75:25] And maybe also ask the neighbors
[75:28] The books she bought in
English and hasn't yet read
[75:33] should go to her cousin
[75:36] Who told her about
his dream of living
[75:40] The books she has lent to
friends should remain with them
[75:45] If they promise not to dog
ear or write on their pages
[75:51] And they'll choose to
whom to bequeath them
[75:55] in case of another bombardment
[75:58] Here is her bed
[76:01] No heroes surround it
[76:03] Just fear in the nights
[76:06] The books are mute,
oblivious of to whom
[76:11] they'll want to go after her
[76:14] And she hopes to manage to fall
into dreamless sleep this time
[76:21] Undisturbed by the
noise of the bombings
[76:25] And disturbed by the noise of
the games of the neighbor's
[76:29] kids,
[76:30] Whose tummies are wholly panic.
[76:34] Thank you.
[76:35] [AUDIENCE APPLAUDING]
[76:45] STEPHANIE KRAVER:
Thank you both so much
[76:47] for those extremely
powerful and moving verses.
[76:53] I want to turn now to
questions from the audience
[76:57] for the last 15
minutes that we have.
[77:02] There are a couple of
questions about translation.
[77:05] How much of your truth
is lost in translation?
[77:09] And can you speak a bit about
the translation process?
[77:24] AYAT ABOU SHMEISS: For
me, the translation,
[77:26] it's another person
enter and share
[77:30] this space that I have me with
the audience with the readers,
[77:36] by writing.
[77:38] So usually it's very intimate,
me and the readers and there's
[77:43] another person and
it's difficult to me
[77:46] a little bit because
sometimes there
[77:49] are meanings I'm not sure that
it can last, totally lost,
[77:52] but a little bit change.
[77:55] So this is kind of thing that
I feel that it always happen.
[78:01] Some translators try
really hard not to do this,
[78:06] but sometimes it's
just a language.
[78:08] Sometimes it's just like
the emotions of the poems.
[78:10] So sometimes it happens.
[78:14] But also like it's the
opportunity that other people
[78:18] that I cannot reach my own
language that I write in to read
[78:25] it and to think about it.
[78:28] But usually, after I read
a poem and from the moment
[78:33] that I publish it, it's
not so much mine anymore.
[78:38] I can say it's mine, it's mine.
[78:39] I can just hold it.
[78:41] But everybody can took it and
so also in the translation.
[78:45] Thank you.
[78:49] ALMOG BEHAR: Yes.
[78:50] So I identify also with the fact
that Gibran Khalil Gibran said,
[78:58] our kids are not our
kids or not our own.
[79:02] Our poems are not our own
after they go from us.
[79:10] But also, in a sense,
we talk many times
[79:15] about what's lost
in translation.
[79:17] There is the quote
of Salman Rushdie,
[79:20] of what is gained
in translation.
[79:23] And I think that for me,
the first experiences
[79:27] of translation of
working together
[79:31] with the Palestinian
translators in translating
[79:36] into Hebrew, into Arabic.
[79:38] And I did feel this thing that
is gained through translation,
[79:45] that is gained through
the dialogue with them
[79:49] like the options
of how to translate
[79:54] and what new meanings
are gained by the poem
[79:59] and I like sometimes
those new meanings.
[80:05] So I can tell that
each of the times
[80:07] that my poems were translated,
I liked the translations.
[80:14] It's like I see
it, but in music.
[80:19] Like someone writes
and then someone else,
[80:25] Malkin, writes the music for
it or there is another version.
[80:33] So the poem or
song in that case,
[80:38] gains another life in a sense.
[80:41] It's not exactly the same.
[80:45] Until now, most of the time
I enjoyed the difference.
[80:52] STEPHANIE KRAVER: Thank you.
[80:54] Another question about
writing in Arabic.
[80:57] You both mentioned
trying to write in Arabic
[81:00] but finding it difficult.
Can you talk more
[81:02] about the obstacles and also
how are your poems received
[81:07] by Arabic reading audiences?
[81:16] AYAT ABOU SHMEISS: He's
not making my life easy.
[81:27] Oh, my God, I
forget the question.
[81:29] Please, again?
[81:30] STEPHANIE KRAVER: Yes.
[81:31] How are your poems received
by Arabic reading audiences
[81:35] and also the difficulties
of writing in Arabic.
[81:38] AYAT ABOU SHMEISS:
So difficulty, I
[81:39] think I spoke about
it, but also it's
[81:42] something like not only
language the dialect
[81:45] and the grammar and
all of this, but also
[81:47] something that I sometimes
fight with myself with.
[81:52] You know I fight
with both languages,
[81:54] but more with the Hebrew.
[81:57] And for example,
how they receive it.
[82:02] I think firstly the Palestinian,
for example, from Jaffa,
[82:07] they didn't so much mind.
[82:09] That mean they opened
their arms and just
[82:11] have me as I am with my
Hebrew, with my everything.
[82:15] Other Palestinians, they
just what is she doing?
[82:19] Why?
[82:21] What she's trying to do, she's
trying to do to be Israeli.
[82:25] What she's trying to be what?
[82:26] But then when they
open the book,
[82:28] they say, OK, wait a minute,
there's something here.
[82:33] She's not trying to boost
something else that she is like.
[82:36] So at first, it was a little
bit of critics and something
[82:40] very weird what you're doing.
[82:42] But then they understand it.
[82:46] So I'm glad that they
open actually the book
[82:49] and read the poems to
reach and to understand.
[82:56] ALMOG BEHAR: So I
will answer maybe
[82:58] not through poetry, but prose
to continue, in a sense,
[83:07] like the family story.
[83:09] When I returned to Arabic,
my parents I think,
[83:15] would have felt better if I
would go and write bilingually
[83:19] with Albanian or
another language.
[83:24] So for them, it was, what
is this obsession like.
[83:28] It took us years to
get rid of this Arabic.
[83:31] Why to go back?
[83:34] And the first moment that their
perspective about that changed
[83:41] was when a story of
mine called Ana Min Al
[83:44] Yahoud, it was born
from the poem I read,
[83:48] was published in Cairo
in Arabic translation.
[83:53] And at that moment, Cairo is
still the capital of the world
[84:01] and it was still something.
[84:06] OK, so this obsession
means something.
[84:12] So that translation first for me
was like the first translation
[84:20] into Arabic outside
Israel, because it's also
[84:25] a question of translation.
[84:28] Is a mode of going or
opening to another audience,
[84:36] but there are still borders.
[84:38] So translation in a
local newspaper or so on
[84:44] is not really open
to other audiences.
[84:50] And in Cairo, Egypt, was
stepping outside the local.
[85:00] Later on when I worked
with a translator
[85:04] from Egypt, translated
my novel and in the novel
[85:11] there is a Judeo-Arabic, and
there are parts in Hebrew
[85:18] that are in rabbinical Hebrew.
[85:23] So we had a long
conversations about that.
[85:27] Like, it was important
for me to keep
[85:31] the Judeo-Arabic inside
the book in Arabic as well.
[85:36] And he did like so it wouldn't
look weird to the readers.
[85:44] The letters are like on the
side that it will be clear
[85:49] that it's a different
dialect that they are not
[85:52] supposed to completely know.
[85:56] And we spoke about
the rabbinical sources
[86:00] and we spoke about the kind
of Arabic of Sufi sources
[86:06] that can relate to them
and be the equivalent
[86:12] translation to them.
[86:13] So again, it was in a sense,
working anew, in a sense,
[86:23] in the book, like editing
some of the senses in it
[86:28] in order for the
translation to make sense
[86:32] or even how do I want my
book in Arabic to look like
[86:37] or to sound like.
[86:40] STEPHANIE KRAVER: Fascinating.
[86:42] Thank you.
[86:43] This is a question
that's asking for advice.
[86:49] What advice do you have
for young poets who
[86:52] want to write on
controversial topics
[86:55] and what advice do you have for
writing to a wider audience?
[87:00] AYAT ABOU SHMEISS: Please.
[87:06] ALMOG BEHAR: For advice.
[87:08] I'm not sure which advice.
[87:16] I will give one.
[87:17] And so I'll do the first half.
[87:25] I think that when we write--
[87:33] the main sense is
not like I find it
[87:38] at least like it's not
that I have an issue
[87:43] and then I write
about the issue.
[87:46] It's like writing is
more connected for me
[87:52] to the experiences I have that
some of them relate to issues.
[88:02] And then write as
close as, in a sense,
[88:09] I think I sometimes, in a
sense, when it's hard for you
[88:19] to speak with yourself, like to
tell yourself the truth about.
[88:25] I don't know if it's a shared
experience or only mine.
[88:29] But sometimes, there
is a gap or there
[88:33] are things that are hard
for you to put into words.
[88:39] And in a sense,
those are many times
[88:42] that I go to writing
specifically more to poetry tree
[88:48] than to prose.
[88:50] And in that sense,
I feel that if I
[88:56] feel that I succeeded
to tell myself
[89:00] something new about something,
I'm happy with that poem.
[89:08] So it can be controversial
or not controversial,
[89:15] but if I feel that I succeeded
in dialogue with myself
[89:22] because most of the time, I
don't succeed with dialogue
[89:25] with myself, now you are
about the wide audience.
[89:30] You answer.
[89:30] Let's see.
[89:37] AYAT ABOU SHMEISS:
Really, I try to see,
[89:40] just maybe when you're angry.
[89:43] Write a lot.
[89:43] Don't erase anything
that you write.
[89:46] This is a question like just
to give an advice on this.
[89:54] Try to create new words from
other things, maybe something
[90:02] that it's not usual.
[90:05] And when you have words and
poems that knock in your mind,
[90:10] just write it down.
[90:12] Because I remember that I
have this period of time when
[90:17] I was just on my way to work and
I was driving in a motorbike.
[90:23] And exactly in this minutes
it was only maybe 15 minutes,
[90:27] all the poems came here.
[90:29] I had opened the door.
[90:30] So please open the door to all
the words and all the poems.
[90:34] That's it.
[90:34] Don't have anything else to say.
[90:36] STEPHANIE KRAVER: Thank you.
[90:38] Before we end, I just
wanted to turn back
[90:40] to the very powerful poems that
you just read and invite you
[90:44] to share anything
about these poems
[90:48] and what it meant for
you to read them today.
[90:52] And there was a question
about the strong language that
[90:56] was used and perhaps you could
say more about the poems.
[91:05] AYAT ABOU SHMEISS:
I think the poems,
[91:08] like maybe the two like what I
read, there were very direct.
[91:18] I don't feel and I cannot try
to explain them because it was
[91:26] really, really direct.
[91:28] But I can say that,
for example, I
[91:30] don't know if they refer to
the poem Eyes on the Road.
[91:34] So this poem, I wrote it
when I was really, really,
[91:39] really angry.
[91:41] And I always hear from
Israelis that they
[91:45] say that they are
scared from Arabs,
[91:51] or they are scared
from the Arab language,
[91:53] or they are scared
from us because there
[91:56] are a lot of traumas,
a lot of things.
[91:58] And I can understand this.
[92:00] I never argue with a person
who is in front of me
[92:04] and say he's scared
because it's a feeling.
[92:06] What you're doing with this is
something else we can argue,
[92:09] but I wanted just to put all
my fears in a very direct way.
[92:16] I scare, too, I scare when I
see people with the uniforms.
[92:22] The first day when
I came to London,
[92:25] I just was like, wow,
there's no uniforms, really.
[92:30] There's no guns.
[92:32] These things, like with people,
with uniform, always take me
[92:40] to killing, always
take me to blood.
[92:43] And if it's my
family, so of course.
[92:46] So I wanted to put this.
[92:47] So the Israelis that they
always, for example, they
[92:51] say the soldier is a
brave, brave for you.
[92:55] But for me, I have another very
different opposite reality.
[93:02] So I wanted to put it in a
way not to educate a person,
[93:07] just to put it.
[93:09] We are human beings.
[93:10] You are afraid from something.
[93:12] I am afraid also.
[93:13] It's a fear.
[93:15] We just put it here
and thus we can talk.
[93:17] This way we can talk if we just
put things not very nice cutey.
[93:22] No, we have to put
the things as they
[93:26] are in front of the
face of each other
[93:30] and also to remember
to look ourselves also.
[93:34] That's it.
[93:35] Thank you.
[93:43] ALMOG BEHAR: I would
say that first I
[93:48] don't write poetry of the time.
[93:52] And we don't-- now, I say we.
[93:57] We don't write poetry
about everything.
[94:03] And, and sometimes it
is hard to write poetry.
[94:09] Sometimes, it's very easy.
[94:11] But sometimes it's hard.
[94:14] So I can tell about
before the period
[94:19] before I wrote the first poem
I read, like in the first three
[94:29] months after October 7,
2023, I didn't write poems.
[94:35] And then I looked for all
the verses in the Bible
[94:43] with the word war in
them and wrote them
[94:49] and the first poem that
I wrote at that period
[94:55] was like with no
word of my own, it
[94:59] was mingling together all
those verses with the word war.
[95:08] And in that sense,
it was a way for me
[95:12] to return to writing
without writing.
[95:16] So sometimes, it's very hard
to put yourself into words.
[95:26] And this was like
the process and then
[95:29] I could write more directly.
[95:32] STEPHANIE KRAVER:
Thank you both so much.
[95:34] And please join me in
thanking our esteemed guests.
[95:37] [AUDIENCE APPLAUDING]
[95:50] JEFFREY VEIDLINGER:
Thanks, everybody.
[95:52] And thank you,
Stephanie, as well
[95:53] for leading such a
great discussion.
[95:56] And thank you both for coming.
[95:57] And I just want to remind
the students, again, those
[96:00] in ALA.259 to go to
your regular class
[96:02] and those who want
to participate
[96:04] in the after discussion in
the conference room East.
[96:10] And our next event, I'll--
[96:13] whoops, I think there
should be a slide here.
[96:15] We'll on October 26--
[96:18] somewhere here.
[96:20] I don't know which
way the end is.
[96:23] There we go.
[96:31] On October 27, we will
be having a Mary Sue
[96:34] Coleman, the former
president of the University
[96:36] of Michigan, together with Brian
Rosenberg, former President
[96:39] of Macalester College,
and Teresa Sullivan,
[96:41] former President of
University of Virginia.
[96:44] Talking about
should universities
[96:45] strive to bridge division.
[96:46] So hope to see you
all again there.
[96:47] And again, thank you to both
of our visitors and Stephanie.
[96:56] Thank you, all.