Last update - 17:50 07/02/2008
My French boycott
By Sayed Kashua
Something's gone awry. I can't quite put my finger on it, but I have this absolute feeling that something is wrong. I feel more constrained than ever, more hesitant than I can ever remember. Now when I sit down at the computer to write after prolonged procrastination, I'm gripped with anxiety and the oppressive feeling that I need to cautiously weigh my words.
"Who's your target audience?" is the question people always want to ask me. Implying that the target audience would affect the style of writing. Is this really true? Does a writer really think about a certain audience, characterize it and picture it in his mind and only then direct his words toward it accordingly? How do you characterize a target anyway? I was never in the army and can't say I've ever really had any targets or goals. Or, in my case, are people who pose this question really just using a politically correct way to ask: "So, do you write for Arabs or for Jews?"
So whom do I really write for? Does the fact that Hebrew and I chose each other automatically attest to a certain target audience?
What does one write for Jews? Am I supposed to be a PR department for the affairs of Israel's Arab minority, or am I supposed to be aggressive and threatening, and make the target audience ashamed and want to change its ways? What does one write for Arabs? Expressions of condolences, words that will reinforce the sense of victimhood - or promises for a better future that's full of hope?
In any case, I lately find myself having to complete assignments that are too weighty, tasks that I'm not convinced have anything to do with writing. It's already gone beyond the sense of persecution I've always felt. It's a fact: They're after me. Right at this very moment as I'm trying to carefully choose my words, I'm aiming to please the two strangers wearing sunglasses who are peeking in the window, as well as the two guys who are armed with pistols and think I don't notice them, hiding there behind the door to the study.
Where exactly does the boundary lie that separates writing from a political viewpoint? Where does the boundary really lie between Palestine and Israel, and where exactly does the Palestinian end and the Israeli begin?
Excuse me for a second, I'm just getting a phone call that I have to take; it's a number from abroad that contains a lot of zeroes. "Abroad" stirs hope - there, far from the unclear boundary, seems to be a more promising haven for freedom of thought.
"Bonjour, Monsieur Kashua?" asks the faraway voice.
"Speaking," I replied, overjoyed. France. I love France. They give artists residency right away, they don't make it difficult at all. I checked into it.
"Hello," the voice switches into heavily accented English. "I wanted to ask if you're coming to the book fair in Paris this year?"
"Of course," I answered happily. "I was invited do a few readings and interviews and this is a wonderful opportunity for me to get better known in France, and I really want to thank my publisher in France and the French cultural ministry ..." I launched into a speech that was cut off with another question.
"Did you know that several writers are boycotting the book fair because Israel is one of the host countries?"
"No, I didn't know that," I started to sweat.
"Yes," said the French journalist. "I wanted to ask: What is your opinion of the boycott?"
"The boycott is welcome. May there be many more boycotts against the Zionist entity. In fact, I say they should lock all the Israeli writers in a hotel, put them under curfew, closure, the works ... Put them in the worst wing of the shabbiest hotel in the city, don't let them out of their rooms. And their electricity should be cut off, too. Then maybe they'll know what it feels like to be in Gaza."
"But you're coming, right? That's what you said."
"No way. I didn't know there was a boycott. I love to boycott. Just ask my kids. I'm the go-to guy for this. If you tell me there's a boycott, I immediately join in, no matter what it's about, and when it's a literary boycott, then all the more so."
"I see," said the Frenchman. "So you don't think that an event like this could actually be a good platform from which to speak about the problems in the Middle East, and that perhaps these encounters could help promote cooperation in the region?"
"Yes, you're absolutely right," I said in a perfect French accent. "Especially authors and writers from the two peoples who can influence the citizens and readers back in their homeland. The discourse among writers is much preferable to the discourse among politicians. Of course, I'm trying to be optimistic here, but these meetings are definitely important."
"Wait a second, I'm not sure I understand," I could hear the Frenchman scratching his forehead. "So you are coming?"
"Certainly."
"But a second ago you said that the boycott of the writers was important."
"Yes. To boycott these jerks who only fan the flames of racism and nationalism in their countries. The book fair in France is a golden opportunity for the enlightened intellectuals to demonstrate their contempt for Israeli apartheid."
"Merci, monsieur."
"You're welcome."