The Anxiety of Waiting in Basma Abdel Aziz’s THE QUEUE

For this, I’m reading Chapter 19 of James L. Gelvin’s The Modern Middle East: A history (fourth edition from Oxford Univ. Press) and Basma Abdel Aziz’s The Queue published in 2013 and then translated by Elizabeth Jaquette and published in 2016 by Melville House. Photo from https://media.npr.org/assets/img/2016/04/29/the-queue-cover-final2_wide-cc4b1914da37ce4ca9181d8e6ced2ac4c05793be.jpg?s=1400.

  1. “[Ines] wouldn’t leave her place for more than a moment, and Um Mabrouk began to send Mabrouk to bring her breakfast every day” 130
  2. “Yehya was distraught for days” 154
  3. “For several weeks [Amani] hadn’t seen or spoken to anyone but Yehya” 174
  4. “For weeks before she’d left her job, Amani hadn’t made any sales” 204
  5. “[Amani] didn’t know how she’d arrived in this emptiness, how time was passing, or whether it was passing at all.” 152

At the end of the Gelvin chapter on the Arab Uprisings, he annotates the historical use of the “spring” metaphor from “Arab Spring” and its first use, “Springtime of Nations,” which ultimately led to the incorporation of liberal ideals into society and government in the greater European area – “even if the realization of those alternatives [to autocratic government] might take a century and a half or so” (346). Thus, he comes to, at the very end of the chapter, a notion of waiting. That perhaps the Arab Uprisings are still in their beginnings or middles and the more liberal governments of the region are in the future. While of course this may be so – that is to say of course time in its most fundamental understanding moves linearly and forward – I wonder if the very question The Queue seems to take up is what that waiting may look like on the ground. In other words, while one might say the region is bound to fully realize the revolutions’ ideals in due time, that due time may in fact complicate that realization and its process.

Above, I’ve chosen several quotes from The Queue that outline, in the first four (from pp 130, 154, 174, and 204), moments when characters experience the anxiety of waiting. To an intentionally absurd extent, the characters spend their time waiting – that is to say all of this waiting occurs in “weeks” or “more than a moment,” both which blur the notion of time as a definable set of moments. In other words, we might experience time as a definable set of points, each moment passing its previous equal. What The Queue’s characters seem to experience via the anxiety of waiting is time not as a set of definable points but time which has begun to itself seem so long, it has become indefinable. I think we all feel this in a colloquial setting – the way we use “five more minutes” or “a few more minutes” interchangeably, each of them undefined when we use them in their own specific (with “five”) or unspecific (with “few”) means. The point is not that we wait exactly five minutes nor that we define how long a few minutes might be. It is the act of waiting that is the point. And in that act of waiting, the specific amount of time, again, does not seem to be what is relevant, which is to say time goes from being undefined to being indefinable, experienced in The Queue as hyperbole or absurdity – or, as I call it, irrelevant. The point, again, is waiting. Not necessarily time.

I digress now because I feel like I’m beginning to sound pedantic.

As I spoke about earlier, this creates anxiety for the characters who have to wait. Ines has to be brought breakfast, Yehya is distraught, Amani speaks to no one and loses her job. Ultimately, then, the anxiety of waiting accumulates and seems to affect the characters’ goings-on in their daily lives. So what does it mean for interference or deviation to seem to cause anxiety? For Gelvin’s piece, it seems to be anger and need for interference and deviation manifests in revolution and where The Queue places itself is after a revolution. The Queue then seems to be making the argument that despite revolution, the afterlives of revolution are weighed down in anxiety and waiting.

This brings me to the final passage above: “[Amani] didn’t know how she’d arrived in this emptiness, how time was passing, or whether it was passing at all.” 152

Time seems to collapse or at least become blurred – that is, felt as time/waiting itself rather than any incremental or specific ordering of time – in the novel due to the sheer amount of waiting. Waiting seems to be the cause of much of the anxiety – for Gelvin’s subjects it seems to be about waiting for the realization of liberal ideals whereas for those characters in The Queue it seems to be that and the fear of the new government and the ways that new government can and does exploit its people. I think a paper is to be written on the ways neoliberal, militarized capitalism functions in The Queue as a means of causing fear and anxiety via waiting.

Trump is President but the fight isn’t over

While I know this isn’t a literary-motivated post, I just needed a place to sort through some of the feelings about what happened last night.

 

Donald J. Trump will be the President of the United States come January 2017. It’s something I never thought would happen, something I am still stunned is going to happen, something I don’t know if I am ready to witness. Despite the popular vote going to Hillary Rodham Clinton, the electoral threshold was surpassed by Mr. Trump at around 2:30 a.m. EST late last night.

I have a lot of feelings.

I don’t quite know what to say. Fear, Pain, Shock, Disappointment, Anger. All of these are some things I’m feeling. I’m mostly upset and I want to be really angry but I somehow cannot find it in me to yell and yell and yell any longer.

Today, I hurt. I’m confused because I don’t know what happens next for me — whether I try and seek refuge elsewhere for graduate studies, whether I just try and teach abroad after graduation, or whether I stay here and bite the bullet and do what I can to help.

Love. That’s what I think we can do.

No, this isn’t a post about how we should come together and unite for unity’s sake or for some American nationalist whatever, no. As my professor put it, I think the division in our country comes down to a very fundamental difference in the way we view humanity.

Do we think people are naturally flawed, naturally horrible people (in which case Trump is just a more openly truthful human)? Or do we think people are capable of miraculous strength, love, compassion, and empathy (in which case Trump is indeed a horrible manipulative sociopath)?

These questions have haunted us for a long time — and if you believe the former, you truly have a long historical and theological tradition to support your case. But I belong to the latter: I think we are capable of such beautiful love. And so I try to hold onto that, yea?

So where do we go from here?

I feel like growing up in a predominantly conservative community and family, I’ve heard a lot “Oh you’re just too young to be conservative. All young people are liberal. Then, you grow up and you see that conservatives have it right.” So what changes? It would appear this mantra has some truth to it, given the exit polls data. I think where we go from here is trying to pursue some change in the midterms.

Millennials, we are the future. We have to make sure our future is ours. That means in 2018, we have to take back congress. In 2020, we have to make sure President Trump is a one-term president. And we cannot lose sight of this goal, folks.

In the mean time, we have to be there for our fellow Americans. As a queer person, I’m afraid — of course I am. But I also recognize my own privilege as a white male. We have to be there for each other, our fellow peoples — women, queer people, people of color, and people of all different faiths. Unity not as a token, a check off the list of to-dos. A real, loving, compassionate, human unity.

Donald J. Trump is the president-elect. But the fight for equity, justice, and peace isn’t over. A lot of shit is about to go down. We have to be strong and we have to stay woke af. Read. Do your research. Vote. Love.

 

-ptstone

Perception and Performance Inherently Bonded To Action

For this post, I am reading Hassan Blasim’s story “The Reality and the Record” from his collection The Corpse Exhibition and Other Stories of Iraq, which was translated by Jonathan Wright and published with Penguin Books. “The Reality and the Record” was first published by Comma Press in 2008 in Madinah: City Stories from the Middle East, edited by Joumana Haddad.

“We called him the Professor; my other colleagues hated him and called him mad.”

p 156, “The Reality and the Record”

“I don’t know exactly what details of my story matter to you for me to get the right of asylum”

p 161, “The Reality and the Record”

 

For some reason, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how laws are called “acts” — as in the Affordable Care Act or the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act. Questions surrounding the way that laws are inherently actions, they operate not only philosophically or legally or in some abstract realm, but in the most fundamental, semantic way, they are actions. And while I recognize that, unlike Remy and Laura, I’m not versed in law or legal language, I think this is still something that we, as connoisseurs of words, can discuss.

Now obviously each story has action — in fact, what is a story without it? (A tract? a theory?) The very form of narrative requires it. In other ways, the very form of our lives is narrative, and thus requires action. So I don’t want this to be too immersed in the notion of how “action” happens in the story (and out of the story) — of course it does. I want to instead focus on the ways perception and performance are inherently bonded to action.

Take the first quote above, “We called him the Professor; my other colleagues hated him and called him mad” (156). Perception begets action. The Professor is known as the professor — but then he is also mad because they hate him. He is both called professor and called mad. This is to say, again, that action derives from perception. This, too, gets us to a “so what?” question. So perception begets action. What does that do for us that we know it? Or Of course it does. Duh.

But take the second quote above, “I don’t know exactly what details of my story matter to you for me to get the right of asylum” (161). This complicates the notion of asylum because it is the very act of story-telling that gains one access to a “right.” It is the details of the narrator’s story that will allow him/her to receive “the right of asylum.” I want to pause here, too, on the word “right.” To (very) loosely quote Rachel Maddow (political correspondent/academic/badass), “[the point of having rights is that you don’t have to qualify them with any sort of voting or action. That’s why they’re rights!]” And yet, within this story we see the complications of seeking asylum — itself only realized if one does something to prove they deserve it (which by the way, does not make it a right — it makes it a privilege, a reward and as we all either know and/or must accept, those who have money or access to the higher tiers, or the people who run the higher tiers) of the hierarchical structure get their privileges first and foremost).

Access to one’s “right” to seeking asylum is itself tied to action. It is the performance of one’s story — in other words “what matters…is the horror” (167).

As we have also briefly discussed the work of Hannah Arendt, I think it relevant to mention that Arendt’s point that human rights do not exist in a vat — that guaranteeing human rights is dependent on the existence of a state that guarantees and protects those rights — is imperative to our understanding of this text and of the refugee crisis itself. Gaining access to an asylum from authoritarian governments that commit countless (with the aid of other governments — like the US, Russia, Saudi Arabia, China) human rights violations itself involves the admission of one’s own state’s inability or disinterest in preserving one’s human rights and seeking the preservation of those rights by another state. Thus, we have again come up to the inextricable link between action and law, between what is perceived to be true and what becomes so, between what can be done and what is done.