‘I want to counter Western stereotypes about Middle Eastern women, while highlighting issues for Saudis that aren’t spoken about in Saudi society.’

Past issues of Jahanamiya

Ahd Niazy tells me she is having a tough week; it’s her final semester at Emory University, where she is a double major in Creative Writing and Interdisciplinary Studies in Culture and Society, and the senior crunch is well underway. As we speak via FaceTime, she is sitting in a computer room on campus and in the background I occasionally see flustered students walk by.

Ahd is the creator and editor-in-chief of Jahanamiya, Saudi Arabia’s first feminist literary magazine. In just three issues, the magazine has pushed the boundaries of the Saudi literary establishment with startlingly intimate pieces of fiction, essay, and poetry.

Jahanamiya denotes the bougainvillea plant in Arabic — a carefully chosen word. The bougainvillea grows easily in Saudi Arabia, can look after itself (it hardly needs any tending), and is very hardy and colorful — so it adds something beautiful and vibrant to the world, Ahd explains to me. It’s a metaphor for the voices of Saudi women, she adds.

Since 2011, when Raja Alem became the first woman to win the International Prize for Arabic Fiction for her book The Dove’s Necklace, the international literary community has become increasingly interested in Saudi writers. With Jahanamiya, Ahd is bringing the diverse voices of Saudi women into this spotlight.

In just three issues, the magazine has pushed the boundaries of the Saudi literary establishment with startlingly intimate pieces of fiction, essay, and poetry.

Even through my computer screen, it is clear that Ahd is a warm and thoughtful speaker who brims with a contagious enthusiasm. After spending many of her childhood years in Alabama, and the last four years studying in Georgia, she laughingly refers to herself as a “Southern Saudi girl.”

We find ourselves careening off on multiple tangents during our conversation. We laugh at the mirrored image we make — an American in Saudi Arabia interviewing a Saudi in America. We’re both adult-third-culture-kids so we also spend a lot of time exploring the complex notions of “home” we wrestle with.

Ahd was born in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, but her family moved to Birmingham, Alabama when she was only a few months old. After spending her formative years there, her family moved back to Jeddah when she was 11. Ahd recalls this return to Saudi Arabia as a pivotal event in her life.

“It was a hard time because my father wanted my younger sister and I to get acclimated to Saudi culture very quickly. He wanted us to completely shift and that wasn’t really possible for me,” she tells me.

This experience galvanized Ahd. From then on she has had a fierce resistance to being labeled or pressured into doing something just because it is what is expected, she says. It was at this time that she also became interested in women’s rights and began questioning societal values and cultural norms, habits that continued through to the start of her academic career at Emory, where the idea for Jahanamiya first took hold:

“It was during my sophomore year when I took the class ‘Orientalism’ that I first became interested in questions of representation. Why did so many works of art and literature historically present Arabs and Middle Easterners as hyper-spiritual or hyper-sexual or savage? Looking at the media today, I realized it had only gotten worse. I wondered: why do they get to represent us? Why don’t we get to represent ourselves?”

Jahanamiya is Ahd’s answer to those questions. Launched in the summer of 2015, publishing work exclusively by Saudi women, Jahanamiya seeks to counter stereotypes about Middle Eastern women and provide a platform for Saudi women to express themselves in their own voices.

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The first issue took Ahd a year to put together as she taught herself the ins and outs of creating and editing a literary magazine. A solo operation, she orchestrates everything, from soliciting art from regional artists to editing submissions from contributors. “It remains a major learning curve,” she says with a laugh.

From the beginning, Jahanamiya has targeted two audiences, which Ahd admits can be challenging. “I want to counter Western stereotypes about Middle Eastern women, while at the same time highlighting issues for Saudis that aren’t spoken about in Saudi society.”

The first issue, Arabic Coffee — al-gahwa al-arabia, was named for the omnipresent staple of Saudi society where the dallah (Arabic coffee pot) and fenjan (traditional coffee cups) are always on hand to greet guests. Through the portal of this custom, contributors explored issues of memory, social obligation, societal critique, and nostalgia.

Majda Gama’s poem, ‘Why My Coffee is Green’, ends with these lines:

“Wind off our Red Sea / shoreline stung us / with salt, nights / at the beach house / in winter meant coffee / in finajeen with ginger / grated in. Zenjibeel / I said, tasting the word, / the spice travelling / through my body.”

Saudi society can be intensely private and finding contributors to Jahanamiya can sometimes be difficult, but Ahd is passionate about amplifying women’s voices and celebrating the diversity of Saudi culture. Most of Jahanamiya’s contributors are not professional writers, but businesswomen, entrepreneurs, artists, and stay-at-home moms.

“What I do behind the scenes with the contributors is basically one-on-one writing workshops, and we build the pieces together in a nurturing, collaborative way. This helps them be brave with telling their stories,” she adds. The magazine includes artwork from regional artists — both original and previously created––in an effort to showcase stories not only through text but through visual art as well.

Ahd is vehement that she wants to avoid publishing pieces anonymously.

“For too long our culture has disconnected women from owning their identities and stories because of fear of public shame and worries about ‘summa’a’ — your reputation. With Jahanamiya, I want women to share their experiences, own their names, and be proud of who they are.”

The second issue, Ismik, centers on the subject of Saudi women’s names, something that for many is still considered taboo to share publicly. Ismik includes an essay from Ahd herself, “Arabic Tongues and English Ears,” about the cultural weight of names and the complex power dynamics of language.

She writes:

“The Arabic language has been accused by the western world of committing a gross crime. And in adhering to this biased narrative, we deny all the beauty and strength that the language has to offer — all that it’s given in the past. We forget the music of Um Kalthoom, Fairuz, and Abdelhaleem. We forget the writings of Gibran and Darwish. We forget the waves of succulent words — of poetic tenses and meanings that simply cannot be translated into any other tongue. The poetry living within the Arabic language is undeniable. And poets (generally speaking) don’t kill people; they kill fantasies.”

The third issue, Awlad, examines the relationship between the sexes within the Kingdom. One of the standout pieces in this stunning collection is the short story, “Burdensome Boys,” by Layal Niazy, Ahd’s younger sister, in which the traditional gender roles of Saudi society are flipped.

Layal writes:

“Mafloot roughly translate to free, or uninhibited and in motion. And saye’e is sort of a party boy — a wild and untamed mess of a man. I explicitly remember Mama telling me that no ‘respectable woman’ would ever consider taking me as a husband if I picked up that kind of reputation and kept up the “wild” behavior I’d exhibited that night.”

Ahd and I segue into a discussion of the hijab and how it can send different messages depending upon the setting in which it is worn. “Hijab in Saudi is very different than hijab in the U.S.,” she says. “It’s a big issue and I don’t think it’s discussed enough in the Muslim world and the Arab world. We need more narratives about it. But then again, we’re still talking about controlling and regulating women’s bodies. We still cannot fathom that a women can choose what she wears. It’s a hard line to navigate.”

We still cannot fathom that a women can choose what she wears. It’s a hard line to navigate.

I ask Ahd: If what is relevant and impactful in one place is not effective in another, to what extent must we view our feminist praxis as flexible?

“As someone who navigates a mixed identity and balances two cultures at once, I would say that the practice of feminism must differ from place to place.” She adds:

“My beliefs remain the same, but the ways I express them and to whom differs based on where I am and what my primary goal at hand is. Feminism, to me, is about women fighting for their rights to equality — not only economically and politically, but socially and through the questioning and changing of cultural practices that are detrimental to women and girls — whether we’re able to consciously see this or not. Some of these practices may also be detrimental to boys and men’s expectations of women or notions of gender performance. I really do believe that a feminist society is better and healthier for everyone — not just for the women!”

Growing up between the United States and Saudi Arabia, Ahd has spent her life navigating the complex relationship between these two countries, and it is tempting to see Jahanamiya as an effort to build a bridge between them.

“If I could tell the people of these countries about the other, I would say you are more alike than you realize,” she says. “We need to look beyond the stereotypes so we can meet the actual people behind them.”

Jahanamiya’s upcoming issue revolves around the idea of movement, opening up conversations about women’s bodily autonomy, self-determination, and freedom of expression. Looking beyond this, Ahd has big plans: “I hope Jahanamiya continues to grow and to become a known platform for gendered cultural exchange — a platform for storytelling, sharing, and growth. It would be nice to have a full time staff and a steady source of funding to ensure sustainable growth is possible.”

I’m reluctant to finish our conversation but I know that Ahd has the typical senior’s mountain of papers to work on and exams to study for, and a literary magazine to edit on top of that. So, I ask her one last question: “Who are some of your inspirations?”

She replies with a list of names — all female: Mona Eltahawy, Leila Ahmed, Fatima Mernissi, and Nawal El Saadawi. “I find these women inspiring because they are unapologetically themselves and they share themselves with the world. That is a radical thing for a woman to do.”

After we say goodbye, Ahd’s answer lingers in my mind. Her vision of Jahanamiya as a platform to explore the unexplored and change the world through the radical power of personal narrative, feels electrifying and necessary in a world saturated with stereotypes and narrow-minded beliefs.

I bet that if I ask this same question to globally-minded feminists in 10 years’ time, Ahd’s name would be high up on that list.

Ahd invites readers to connect with her via email (ahd@jahanamiya.com) and Twitter.

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]]> https://theestablishment.co/meet-the-trailblazing-female-artists-of-bahrain-894d78219b2b/ Thu, 08 Dec 2016 08:00:00 +0000 https://theestablishment.co/?p=5247 Read more]]> ‘You have to be brave to make it in this industry.’

I’m rushing down the winding alleyways of Adliya, the Kingdom of Bahrain’s funkiest district, on my way to the album launch party for the island’s only homegrown baroque’n’roll band. It’s November, but the evening is warm and jasmine-scented. Groups of people wander streets crowded with cafes, shawarma stands, and bougainvillea-draped villas that look grandiose in the moonlight.

I’m halfway through a whirlwind 24-hour exploration of Bahrain’s dynamic art scene, as seen through the eyes of some of the country’s most talked about young, female creators. Bahrain is the smallest nation in the Middle East — you’ll need to squint at the map and look for the islands off the eastern coast of Saudi Arabia to find it — but its influence on history has been tremendous. As the heart of the ancient Dilmun civilization, Bahrain spent millennia as a trade hub, saturated by the ebb and flow of cultures, which left the nation with an eclectic feel unique in the Arabian Gulf.

There were no stepping stones for me as a woman in the industry.
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The Gulf region has made waves in the art world recently, with Qatar building a collection of international masterpieces at such an impressive rate that it has become the world’s largest buyer of contemporary art, and Art Dubai and the Sharjah Biennial making the region a key stop on the international art fair circuit. In the midst of this, Bahrain marches to the beat of its own drummer by balancing an embrace of international arts culture with a celebration of homegrown creative talent — the latter of which has made the country an epicenter of a new art movement.

I began my exploration earlier that afternoon in the lobby of a plush hotel where I met with Sarah Nabil, the region’s first female hip-hop producer and composer. Sarah works with Outlaw Productions, a pioneering hip-hop label in the Middle East that’s behind hits like “Ee Laa” and “Samboosa.”

In contrast to the glitz of the lobby, Sarah was the epitome of effortless cool as she explained the nuances of what is still “a music scene, not yet an industry.” Sarah’s foray into music production started when she met her mentor DJ Outlaw at 17. She knew instantly this was the career for her. “At the time there were no other women doing this; there were no stepping stones for me as a woman in the industry.”

In the seven years Sarah has been with Outlaw Productions, she has seen the local music field evolve significantly. “It’s an exciting time because artists are trying new things and the public is starting to appreciate local talent more. People used to say that if you want to make it in music, you have to leave Bahrain. We want to change that. We want to build this industry from the ground up and in 30 years look back and say we were a part of that.”

Outlaw Productions is keen to nurture young talent, which makes Sarah’s work as the music curator at Malja, the region’s first community art hub, so important. Malja, which means “shelter” in Arabic, was launched by Red Bull in 2015 to provide a collaborative space for artists of all mediums. The space holds regular open mic nights, and Sarah teaches workshops in music production and song structure.

“Malja is the only place in Bahrain with a free recording studio,” Sarah says. “It’s an amazing resource that has encouraged artists to be braver, and you have to be brave to make it in this industry. Young girls have told me they find what I’m doing inspiring. That gives me a responsibility to continue.”

You have to be brave to make it in this industry.
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That evening I met another Malja collaborator, Ramah Al Husseini, at a café on the beach where we watched the twinkling lights of dhows bobbing on the distant horizon. After earning a degree in studio art in Canada, Ramah returned to Bahrain five years ago and spotted something missing. “There were no open call exhibitions. Everything revolved around the same galleries and the same people so it was tough for emerging artists. Malja played a part in changing that.”

Tapped by the team behind Malja to be their art curator, Ramah quickly established herself as a linchpin of the art scene, curating exhibitions, teaching workshops, and cultivating fans of her dazzling paintings. At the core of her creative practice is a drive to reveal the connective tissue between ideas, which she says springs from her own background. She is a Saudi citizen of Palestinian descent, with family ties to Jordan and Dubai, who calls Bahrain home.

“When people ask where I’m from, I like to say that I’m Arab,” she says.” I’m not from a particular place; I’m from every place.”

Ramah echoed something I’ve heard expressed before by local artists: a desire to be viewed as individuals, rather than as symbols of an entire region. Stereotypes about the Middle East often mean regional artists find themselves viewed through a politicized lens on the international scene, which obscures their individuality and leads to one-note interpretations of their work. These nuanced considerations take center stage in Ramah’s pieces, which explore concepts of identity, culture, and tradition. “I don’t want to dictate to people what is right or wrong. I want to raise issues and ask questions.”

Ramah cited social media as one factor in the changing nature of the local art scene:

“Social media allows anyone to share their art; you don’t have to wait for a gallery or have the right connections. If you make something, you can post it. There used to be the belief that imported art had more cache but that is starting to change. First we need awareness, then appreciation, and then investment.”

After leaving Ramah, I jumped in a taxi and sped toward tonight’s Belly of Paris gig. The self-described “Anglo-Indo-Argentine-Palestinian-Hungarian” group is the epitome of the island’s au courant eclectic vibe. Their “doom-pop” sound is reminiscent of a louche, decrepit aristocrat, and tonight is the launch of their first album, Peste, as well as a send-off as they begin their first Middle Eastern tour.

Yasmin Sharabi, the band’s backing vocalist and keyboardist, greets me at the door of the packed venue. In addition to her role in Belly of Paris, Yasmin is also an artist and curator who has been a central force in the changing landscape of the local art scene. The opening band takes the stage as we find a place at the bar. With a soft-spoken brilliance, Yasmin dissects the challenges and opportunities faced by local artists.

“Art is ingrained in the culture of Bahrain,” she begins. “It’s an ideal place to lead the regional art scene because it’s open-minded but has the weight of history to draw upon. There’s always been a dialogue between cultures here, which shows in the creativity we are seeing now. As institutional support grows, artists will have greater resources and the scene will develop even more.”

Yasmin describes a series of exhibitions she co-curated with Frances Stafford, “Double Tap,” which explored how social media builds bridges between people and cultures. “Through social media, connections can be made between artists who would have never otherwise met. It’s fascinating to see what can come of that.”

This urge to make connections is a cornerstone of Yasmin’s artistic philosophy. She is one of those indefinable creative types who turn their life into an embodied expression of their art. “I think of life as my art. Bringing people together to create an artistic community, that is my work.”

Yasmin is summoned to the stage, where Belly of Paris launches into a performance that leaves the crowd hollering for more. As I watch the fans singing along, I get the sense that something utterly new is taking shape between the throaty chords and the clamor of drums. As Yasmin said, the local music scene is embryonic, but that makes it all the more exhilarating.

The next morning, I make my way to the Manama souq. A tumult of shops, restaurants, and people, this is the beating heart of Bahrain’s history as a trade hub. In the store windows, bright paint lists the wares in a variety of languages — Arabic, English, Hindi, Farsi, and sometimes German and Japanese.

From the moment I meet Frances Stafford at a coffee shop, she crackles with energy. “I’m not a fashion designer,” she insists, even though I’m meeting with her, in part, to discuss Black Anaar, the fashion line she is launching later this month. She sees herself as more of a curator, almost a producer, tugging together threads of fabric, design, and people, to bring her stunning creations to life.

Frances, an art history major, first came to know Bahrain as a curator and exhibition specialist. While on holiday in Paris, she missed her flight home to Vancouver, which led her, on a whim, to visit Bahrain. In one of those serendipitous bits of synchronicity that seem so abundant here, she instantly fell in love with the island and its “kaleidoscopic” blend of cultures. “I was blown away by the talent and creativity and I knew I wanted to stay. I was made to feel so welcome it immediately felt like home.”

The fashion label Black Anaar is a love letter to Bahrain.
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As director of the Little India and Bab Market events, held by the Bahrain Authority for Culture and Antiquities (the former Ministry of Culture), to breathe life into the historic souq district, Frances was tasked with a huge role. “More than 20,000 people visited these events. We had pop-up art galleries, vendors, workshops, and dance and musical performances. We wanted to commemorate Bahrain’s long history as a cultural hub and encourage the exchange of ideas. These events marked a jumping-off point for the current surge of creativity we see now.”

Her fashion label Black Anaar is her love letter to Bahrain. Anaar is an Arabic girls’ name meaning “radiant,” and it also means pomegranate in Farsi, Urdu, and Hindi, in reference to Bahrain’s longstanding cultivation of the fruit. Frances, who now divides her time between Berlin and Bahrain — “Bahrain calls you back, you can never really leave it” — finds fabric in the souqs and works with local tailors to create exquisite unisex kaftans and robes, paying homage to the traditional designs of the Gulf. “I go on treasure hunts through the souq until I find a fabric that inspires me. I learn from the tailors, I learn from the way my friends and models wear the pieces, and Black Anaar’s vision is continually evolving.”

Frances is passionate about sharing Black Anaar with the world — when I admire the flowing cover up she is wearing, she plucks at the sleeve and asks if she should take it off so I can have it — in part to break down stereotypes about the region. “Bahrain is a magical place but because of the misperceptions a lot of the world has about the Middle East, that story doesn’t get told enough. Synthesis and the blending of cultures that are at the heart of Bahrain and fashion is a way of communicating that idea.”

In her time here, Frances has seen a seismic shift in the art scene:

“There have always been a lot of ‘bedroom artists’ in Bahrain, people with amazing talent but no venue for collaboration. Now people are expressing their individuality and exploring the differences between us rather than pretending they don’t exist. There is energy in the margins and something exciting is happening.”

After saying goodbye to Frances, I wander through the buzzing streets of the souq, past the shops selling halwa and karak chai, past mountains of Persian rugs and towers of gleaming samovars.

My frenetic journey through Bahrain’s creative scene has made it clear that a new homegrown artistic spirit is breathing life into time-honored customs and igniting something never before seen in Bahrain, or the Gulf region. This blossoming creative movement is sincere; it unabashedly wears its heart on its sleeve and it has utterly captured mine.

Like I keep hearing, there’s something magnetic about this place. There is, most definitely, magic on the horizon.