Nehad Selaiha enjoys a revival of a theatrical homage to two great poets In Arabic, the word 'jinn' is closely associated with poetry and madness. The root of the word is the verb 'janna', which means to become or make invisible; hence, the plural noun 'jinn' refers to invisible creatures who also can hide things, and 'majnoun' (mad) means literally a person haunted by a jinni (the singular noun of jinn) who causes him/her to see, do and say strange and weird things. Traditionally, persons who utter unusual and fascinating things were regarded as being under the spell of a jinni that inspires them such language. In the Quran, Prophet Mohamed is repeatedly accused by the unbelievers of being under the influence of the jinn, and in the Sura (chapter) called Al-Saffaat (Those Who Set the Ranks), he is described outright by them as "Sha'irun Majnoun", literally, a mad poet. The association of poetry with madness and the jinn, or, rather, its definition as a kind of madness brought upon by the jinn, predates Islam and explains the deep-seated suspicion of poets and the traditional reference to the poetic muse as ' Shaitan El-Shi'r' (the 'devil' or 'fiend' of poetry) -- a variant of Satan, which in Hebrew means adversary. Ahmed Shawqi drew on this tradition in his verse play, Majnoon Layla (literally, 'The Madman of Layla', but available in an English translation by Janette Atiya, published by the Anglo-Egyptian Bookshop in Cairo, under the title Qays wa Layla ), attributing the poetic genius of its hero, Qays, to the inspiration of his guardian jinni, the dandyish, foppish Al-Amawi, who is described in Shawqi's stage directions as 'beautifully dressed in silk from head to toe, with a headband of gold holding two gold-embroidered silk scarves.' Qays meets this gaudy, sophisticated jinni in scene I of act IV, when, in the course of his wanderings, he finds himself in the jinn's 'village' and is forced to acknowledge that without him he can only produce prose. The imaginary setting of this scene in Shawqi's play became the total setting in Yusri El-Guindi's and Samir El-Asfouri's 1983 musical, quasi-documentary theatrical celebration of the talent and poetic prowess of Ahmed Shawqi (1869 - 1932) and Hafiz Ibrahim (1872 - 1932) as Egypt's two most gifted modern poets in the first half of the 20th century. Originally called Wadi Al-Jinn (Valley of the Jinn), this commemorative piece was recently revived by the Cultural Production Sector of the Ministry of Culture in collaboration with the Radio and Television Union of the Ministry of Information under the title Ya Sakini Misr (O, People of Egypt), playing at Al-Salam Theatre during Ramadan from 26 August to 2 September. Though I could find no reason why this piece in particular should be revived now, I was glad to see it, since I had missed the original '83 production, and found it extremely interesting, both artistically and historically. Rather than present his material in the form of a straightforward documentary with narrators, Yusri El-Guindi sought to give it dramatic shape and the semblance of dramatic conflict and found his inspiration in Aristophanes' The Frogs (45 B.C.), which features a contest in Hades, or the underworld, between Aeschylus and Euripides over who is the greater poet, with Dionysus presiding as judge, and involves a prolonged and detailed verbal battle in which the merits and defects of each poet's body of work is weighed. In El-Guindi's text, however, the two poets stand outside the contest, which is exclusively fought between two parties of the jinn (most of them dressed in modern black suits and outlandish, brightly coloured wigs). While the one favouring Shawqi is predictably led by 'Al-Amawi', Qays's guardian jinni in Shawqi's play (here delightfully performed by Ihab Subhi in a flashy, red, satin outfit and a yellow wig), the other party is led by 'Asar', a neutral jinni of marginal significance in the same play, who is here earnestly performed by Khalid El-Dahabi (in black trousers and cloak and white shirt) and made to champion Hafiz. In this respect, El-Guindi was being true to history. Neither of the two poets was involved in the historical controversy over which of them was the greater poet. They were obviously vastly different in terms of upbringing, social status and economic circumstances. Ahmad Shawqi, whose family had Arabian, Turkish, Greek and Janissary origins, grew up in the lap of luxury due to his family's connection to the palace (his grandmother was a lady-in-waiting at the court of Khedive Ismail). Upon graduating from the Law School which he joined in 1885, he was admitted into the entourage of Khedive Tawfiq who subsequently sent him to study in France at his own expense. Back in Egypt, he joined the court of Khedive Abbas Hilmi II and stayed close to him, supporting him with his poetry against the British occupiers until they forcibly removed him from the throne in 1914, sending Shawqi into exile in Barcelona, Spain. During his exile, he wrote many poems extolling the glorious history of Egypt, the Arabs and the Islamic nation and urging his people to fight to recover it. No wonder that he was affectionately dubbed 'the poet of Arabism and Islam' and was greeted like a national hero upon his return in 1920. At the head of those who gathered to greet him and welcome him back was Hafiz Ibrahim. From then on, Shawqi was no longer the 'court poet', as he had been tagged prior to his exile, and in 1927 was unanimously elected the 'Prince of Poets" in a public congregation of Arab poets in Damascus. Unlike Shawqi, Hafiz Ibrahim (born to an Egyptian father and a Turkish mother) had an unhappy childhood. His parents died when he was young, leaving him in the care of an impoverished uncle who could not afford to keep him for long. Hafiz eventually left him, starting a long struggle to find a vocation. After serving as an apprentice to several lawyers, he joined the Military Academy in Cairo in 1888, graduating in 1891 as a second lieutenant in the Egyptian army and was sent to the Sudan with the Egyptian campaign a few years later. His military service in the Sudan, however, ended abruptly in 1901 when he became involved in an army rebellion and was court-martialed and dismissed. Back in Cairo, he was unable to find work and lived in extreme poverty until 1911, when he was appointed head of the literary section of the National Library. During those lean years, however, Hafiz made his name as a poet, producing a lot of poetry that addressed social and political events, gave voice to the common people and denounced both imperialism and social injustice. As a result, he became popular among Egyptian nationalists and was called both the 'people's poet' and the 'poet of the Nile' (the latter an appropriate title since he was born on a houseboat on the Nile near the town of Dayrut in Upper Egypt). Unpredictably, and despite these differences, rather than rivals, Shawqi and Hafiz became close friends and harboured great respect for each other. While Shawqi did his best to help Hafiz when he lost his job in the army and was at a loss how to provide for himself and family, got him the title 'Bey' (or 'Bek') through his connections and influence and took him along on many of his trips abroad, Hafiz, though very proud of his talent, did not hesitate to endorse the election of Shawqi as the 'prince of poets' and recited on this occasion a poem confirming this pledge. The comparison between the two poets that sought to denigrate Shawqi and place Hafiz above him was the product of the 1960s and was prompted by ideological rather than artistic considerations. After the 1952 military coup d'état, the new regime espoused socialism, and under its umbrella, artists were divided into progressives and reactionaries and the commitment of the artist, whatever his art, to the nationalist, socialist cause and the interests of the common people and the underprivileged became the primary yardstick for judging artistic excellence. Artists who were close to the court or the aristocracy in pre-revolutionary Egypt became an easy target for unjust criticism, while those who came from the rank and file of Egyptians, or had suffered poverty and injustice were raised above them. In this atmosphere, Ahmed Shawqi was attacked in favour of Hafiz, just as in the realm of music it became fashionable to compare Mohamed Abdel-Wahab and Sayed Darwish, disparaging the former's achievements because, though he came from a humble background, he was Ahmed Shawqi's protégé and was, for a period, petted by the aristocracy, and elevating the latter's on the plea that his extreme poverty in early life and the many menial jobs he took made him closer to the common people and more sensitive to their suffering. In El-Guindi's Ya Sakini Misr, the dispute over the merits of the two poets which divides the valley of the jinn satirically echoes and sometimes reproduces a lot of the arguments put forward for and against each of them in the 1960s, and is punctuated and linked to the present by the appearance of a humorous historian (Adel Khalaf), holding a thick volume and reading factual information about them, some of which is dramatized and enacted in brief sketches, as well as by two superb singers, Nihad Fathi and Walid Haydar, who accompany some of the scenes either as fictional figures in the episodes dramatizing parts of the poets' lives, or commentators and 'musical echoes' repeating the recited poetry in song. The two poets, superbly acted by Ashraf Abdel-Ghafour, as Hafiz, and Mahmoud El-Hedeini, as Shawqi, also frequently appear (in period costumes) to engage in dialogue with the jinn and recite some of their most memorable poetry against a background of slide projections and documentary footage, on a big screen across the back of the stage, that evoke their time. Besides old photos, portraits and paintings of Shawqi, Hafiz, and other historical figures, like Sheikh Mohamed Abdou, Saad Zaghloul and Khedive Ismail, the screen displayed views of the Nile bank and the countryside at the beginning of the 20th Century, of the desert dotted with palm trees, of peasants drawing water from the river and boatmen sailing over it, of the digging of the Suez Canal and the celebrations that marked its opening, of the 1919 revolution, the poor quarters of old Cairo and its market places and of landscapes of Barcelona where Shawqi was exiled. Apart from this back screen, the stage was left completely free for the jinn's antics and lively frolicking, with only a bench, or a couple of podiums or armchairs occasionally brought in when the scene called for them. Outside the main stage, however, in the forestage areas on both sides, set designer Ulfat Gouda placed two mini realistic sets, facing each other, one representing a corner of an ornate sitting room in a gorgeous palace, alternately occupied by the Khedive and Shawqi, and the other, part of a drab living room in a humble home, alternately occupied by Hafiz and the modern historian. This multi-location stage design, together with the back projections, allowed for the fast flow of the performance and was ideal for accommodating El-Asfouri's directorial conception which relied on the quick transition from the fantastic to the historical and real and from the past to the present. An added advantage was that it left plenty of room for Hassan Afifi's beautifully choreographed and lively dances, which came in a variety of styles -- modern, traditional, Western and oriental -- infusing a lot of vitality and colour into the show. Equally lively and variegated was Salah Mustafa's musical score, which was made up of original music as well as a number of period tunes and songs carefully picked by El-Asfouri himself and performed live under the guidance of maestro Alaa Abdel-Rehim. And while the music framed the whole action in an affectionate, nostalgic aura, the theme of Egypt as the one and only true beloved and guiding star threaded itself through the rich and varied material of the performance from first to last, giving it unity and coherence. It is this theme that unites the two poets, and indeed all true Egyptians, Ya Sakini Misr argues. Though El-Guindi introduces the daughter of the King of the jinn (Yasmin Al-Naggar) in the final scene to arbitrate the dispute, playing judge as Dionysius had done in The Frogs, it is Hafiz who settles it by acknowledging Shawqi (once more) as his superiour and the 'prince of poets' before he dies. The play ends with a deeply poignant recitation by El-Hedeini of Shawqi's elegy to Hafiz, in which he wished that Hafiz, who died only 3 month before he did, had survived him to write his elegy. Rather than the historical dispute over the merits of the two poets, what engages the heart of Ya Sakini Misr is the warm relationship between the two poets which has its roots in their common adoration of Egypt and its Nile. Indeed, the highlight of the performance and its most moving and memorable moment was the scene which focused this meaning. In this scene, Mahmoud El-Hedeini, as Shawqi, walks in with a suitcase, as if coming back from exile, and finds Ashraf Abdel-Ghafour, as Hafiz, waiting to welcome him home, whereupon he recites, looking affectionately at Abdel-Ghafour, as if directing his words at him: "O, my homeland, in meeting you after despairing of such a reunion, / I feel as if in you I meet my youth." These were the lines with which Shawqi greeted his homeland after his long exile. By making El-Hedeini address them to Abdel-Ghafour and end his recitation by embracing him, El-Asfouri identified Hafiz with Egypt, revealed the common passion that united the two men and swept aside the jinn's (and also the 60s') silly controversy.
