Alf Layla wa Laylah – the Arabian Nights and Orientalism

How do you see my country? Dusky maidens in desert tents offering dates on golden plates? 
Algerian secret agent Mohammed Ibn Khaldun to Tom Quinn, Spooks, 2,Ep 2

How often have we heard the exclamation “it’s like something out of the Arabian Nights”? We’ve said it ourselves as we walked down the Suq al Hamadiyya in Old Damascus and al Wad and Daoud Street in Old Jerusalem, in an ersatz Bedouin tent-restaurant just down the road from Palmyra and a similar night out near Petra. It’s as if the local tourist industry folk expect us westerners to enjoy, nay, expect this kind of entertainment. 

But whereas since the translation of The Arabian Nights, we have loved the tales, we have also taken from them a distorted impression of the Middle East, a pastiche of palm trees, minarets and camels like the illustrations of the old boxes of figs and of Fry’s Turkish Delight. 

So, how did we get here?

From a historical European perspective, the East or Orient has long been perceived as an unknown, alien, and, therefore, alluring world, that has existed for centuries, even millennia. It’s spell persists to this day, enchanting, seducing, and seducing soldiers, adventurers, travelers, troublemakers, writers, artists, and musicians.

This enduring fascination with the East gave rise to the descriptor Orientalism. In art history, literature, and cultural studies it described the imitation or depiction of aspects of the Eastern world largely by writers, designers, and artists from the Western world. Since the publication Palestinian America academic Edward Said’s seminal work Orientalism (1978) much of academic discourse has begun to use the term to refer to the generally nurturing though patronizing  Western attitude toward societies in the Middle East, Asia, and North Africa.

But more on Orientalism and Edward Said later. First, we’ll take look at one of the most popular manifestations of western culture’s relationship with the East. 

One Thousand and One Nights (أَلْفُ لَيْلَةٍ وَلَيْلَةٌ‎, Alf Laylah wa-Laylah) is a collection of folk tales compiled in Arabic during medieval times in what is recognized as the Islamic Golden Age, a period of scientific, economic and cultural flourishing in the history of Islam, traditionally dated from the 8th century to the 13th century.  It known in English as The Arabian Nights – from the first English-language edition in the early eighteenth century entitled The Arabian Nights’ Entertainment. Many European translations followed, but none more racy and picaresque that of English explorer, polymath and enfant terrible Richard Burton in 1885; it was an abridged version of this, purchased from a budget book store in King Street, Sydney, that I read the first time i got to meet Mademoiselle Scheherazade. The featured image is from that book’s dust cover. 

It has been acknowledged that Burton’s gaudy and bawdy English bears little relation to the Arabic of the Nights, which tends to be plain, conversational, and even a little threadbare – in other words, the idiom of folk literature. Some would dismiss it as Orientalist camp. Others would say it was just what would be expected from the infamous translator of The Kama Sutra. His translation included virtually every tale he could find a manuscript for – as well as some that he made up, such as my personal favourite How Abu Hasan Broke Wind.  

The stories were gathered over many centuries by various authors, translators, and scholars across the Middle East and South Asia, and North Africa. They originated in ancient and medieval Arabic, Egyptian, Indian, Persian, and even Mesopotamian folklore and literature. Many were originally folk stories from the Abbasid and Mamluk eras, while others, especially the central story of Scheherazade are most likely drawn from the Pahlavi Persian work Hezār Afsān (Persian: هزار افسان‎, A Thousand Tales), which in turn contained Indian elements.  

Charting the timeline, English scholar, author and Sufi adept Robert Irwin has written: “In the 1880s and 1890s a lot of work was done on the Nights by Zotenberg and others, in the course of which a consensus view of the history of the text emerged. Most scholars agreed that the Nights was a composite work and that the earliest tales in it came from India and Persia. At some time, probably in the early 8th century, these tales were translated into Arabic under the title Alf Layla, or ‘The Thousand Nights’. This collection then formed the basis of The Thousand and One Nights. The original core of stories was quite small. Then, in Iraq in the 9th or 10th century, this original core had Arab stories added to it—among them some tales about the Caliph Harun al-Rashid. Also, perhaps from the 10th century onwards, previously independent sagas and story cycles were added to the compilation … Then, from the 13th century onwards, a further layer of stories was added in Syria and Egypt, many of these showing a preoccupation with sex, magic or low life. In the early modern period, yet more stories were added to the Egyptian collections so as to swell the bulk of the text sufficiently to bring its length up to the full 1,001 nights of storytelling promised by the book’s title”.

Sheherazade (Fine Art Images/Heritage Images via Getty Images)

The Thousand And One Arabian Nights has been so appropriated by our culture that it is a de facto member of our so-called Western Canon. It is the source of so many of our fairy tales and boy’s own adventures with its magic lamps and genies, giant birds and winged horses, flying carpets and gorgeous girls in rich silks and ethereal damask. In our pubescent days, did we not “dream of Jeannie”? 

Harem pants and turbans, belly dancers and serpentine melodies, and a “nudge, nudge, wink, wink” of vicarious naughtiness (itself a word of Indian origin) – an exotic, “orientalist” retro-zeitgeist that drew artists, poets, writers and composers to this inexhaustible source of narrative, inspiration and titillation. Recall, back in those thankfully long gone more repressed days, the risqué, soft porn imaginings of European artists, including the Pre-Raphaelites and Orientalists who also elided into similar fever dreams of Babylonian and Roman erotica. 

Musicians too got in on the act. In 1782, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart premiered Entführung aus dem Serail, The Abduction from the Seraglio, and Gioachino Rossini presented his L’italiana in Algeri or An Italian Girl in Algiers in 1813. These lightweight comic operas featured many of the tropes that entered the cinematic lexicon in the twentieth century, and whilst musically endearing and entertaining, their Orient was a mix of slapstick and exotic, and by today’s standards, condescending in their portrayal of lascivious sultans and their flunkies so easily outwitted by occidental heroes and heroines. Much grander and imposing is Russian composer Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov’s splendid Scheherazade suite, otherwise known as “the Sultan is coming”. There’s an orchestral rendering of this masterpiece below.

The stories rattle through English pantomimes, Hollywood fantasias, Walt Disney, and even the avant-garde Pier Paulo Pasolini: Alāʼu d-Dīn and Sindibādu l-Bahriyy (these were indeed their original names), Ali Baba and those bandits in huge pots – the inspiration and the storylines for all those boy gets girl cosplay, rom-com, adventure and fantasy films like The Thief of Baghdad and Prince of Persia, and musicals like Kismet – and many more besides, most of them ordinary and many, bad (go Google!). Baubles, bangles and beads indeed (see, below, the Clio from the film). It was a pleasant, picturesque oriental world, the Middle East as Hollywood imagined it before it hit the headlines with its oil, its tyrants, and it internecine wars, a world sans Hamas, Hezbollah, the Taliban, Da’ish and the Al Quds Brigade. 

To illustrate the potential for satire, smut and downright silliness – a veritable “Carry on In The Casbah”. The nearest the famous British comedy series came to anything like this was the one film that didn’t have “Carry on” in its title: Follow That Camel in 1967. Though based on the French Foreign Legion adventures of Beau Geste, it doesn’t waste time getting to the suq and, predictably, the generic harem and the usual, well, carry on. Apropos this, there’s a clip below from the BBC production of British playwright Denis Potter’s excellent faux-musical Lipstick on Your Collar, set during the Suez Crisis of 1956, replete with orientalist imaginings and straight-out smut. 

The Blue Sultana by Léon Bakst

The spell of the orient also lured adventurers and chancers to the canyons and the castles, the deserts and the oases of the Levant, Mesopotamia, Persia, Afghanistan and India. And, I have to declare, yours truly – not without incident but no match for derring-do of Brits who went before. Like Irwin himself, I was of a generation with no more deserts to conquer, no fabled cities to administer. See Song of the Road (2) – The Accidental Traveller. 

It’s a part of the world that has captivated much of my intellectual life for I too like many others before me was lured by the spell of the Orient.

I wrote before, in East, “I was drawn to the Middle East in another age, when it was the land of myth and magic, of dreamers and adventurers, of quixotic tilters at windmills, of pioneers who would make the deserts bloom, of dissemblers and deceivers bearing false promises. The ancient lands of the bible, the fabled realm of A Thousand and One Nights, and the restless quests of Richard Burton, Charles Doughty, and TE Lawrence. The pulp fiction fantasies of Frank Herbert, James Michener and Leon Uris, and the celluloid myths of Peter O’Toole, Omar Sharif, and Paul Newman”.

Middle East folk have taken to the stories too, and as in the West, it has inspired books, poems, plays and movies. Lebanese diva Fairuz played Scheherazade in a Beiruti musical back in the seventies, and Umm Kulthum, dead nearly five decades and still indisputably the Arab world’s most renowned and beloved singer, sang about the lass for forty minutes, which was not unusual for her, without saying too much about the story. There is a statue of Scheherazade  and the sultan on the banks of the Tigris in Baghdad. 


And yet, the whole glittering, fairytale artifice was built upon dubious foundations of misogyny and murder. 

Scrumptious Scheherazade’s “cunning plan” was nothing more or less than that of distracting Shahriya, a randy psychopath of a sultan, from dispatching her (and her sister) – as he had done with his many short-lived exes. The premise is that his former missus cheated on him with a cavalcade of lovers, including slaves and persons of colour. To use the words of an old song by latter day philosopher Hal David and his sidekick Burt Bacharach,, he resolved that he was “never gonna love again”. And no doubt, in true oriental fashion, he was fearful of rival claimants and suspicious of all, including his paramours conspiring against him. Yet, he nonetheless constantly needs to get his end in. So whomsoever he selects to join him in his boudoir – and no one says no to the sultan – gets the chop the morning after. When Schezza gets the royal nod, she is determined not to go the way of her predecessors, and to preserve the lives of future bedmates. Accordingly, she keeps his lascivious lordship so distracted with her storytelling that he will refrain from slayage because he wants to hear how her tale ends. And yes, indeed, he forswears his murderous ways and settles into connubial bliss. 

© Paul Hemphill 2024. All rights reserved

See also in In That Howling Infinite, A Middle East Miscellany

The Scribe. Ludwig Deutsche 1911

East is east and west is west

Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,
Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God’s great Judgment Seat
Rudyard Kipling, The Ballad of East and West

The term Orientalism gained its modern definition through the writing of the Palestinian academic and cultural critic Edward Said, especially his famous book Orientalism, published in 1978, which sparked controversy among scholars of Oriental studies, philosophy, and literature. It was a critique of cultural perceptions of how the Western world – primarily the white and Judeo-Christian world – perceives the East – or specifically lands and cultures that lie outside the borders of southern and southwestern Europe.

From a historical European perspective, the East has long been perceived as an unknown, alien, and, therefore, alluring world, that has existed for centuries, even millennia. The Greeks and Romans longed for the silk and spices of the East. To satisfy our human craving for the good things of life, busy trade routes stretched from China and Java to present-day Russia, Scandinavia, the Iberian Peninsula and the British Isles.

The term orient is derived from Latin, oriens meaning “east” (literally “sunrise”, from aurior, rising, and its geographical use of the word “rising” to refer to the east, where the sun rises). The term Levant is in turn derived from Old French, and Italian in origin, to refer to the lands of the rising sun – specifically the historical lands of Syria (in Roman times, specifically’ that included the modern states of Lebanon, Syria, Jordan, Israel, Palestine and most of Turkey. In its broad historical sense, it came to include Greece, the islands of the eastern Mediterranean, modern Egypt and North Africa. And with the emergence of European empires in the east, Persia, Afghanistan, India, China, and the East Indies.

Along with east, west, or west, derived, again, from Old French, via Latin, Occidentem, west, or “sky where the sun goes down”, as in occido, to go down or set, was originally synonymous with Christianity which in the Middle Ages were the states that followed the Roman Catholic faith and which for various centuries considered themselves superior to the Eastern Orthodox faith of the Byzantine Empire and the lands of Russia.

The Levant was widely used after the fifteenth century. During the two hundred years of the Crusades, during which the French knights and their retinue took control, the lands that became the crusader kingdoms were referred to as Outremer, meaning the lands beyond the sea. And through the Crusades, the love affair of Christian Europe with the East began. And it was to continue to this day, enchanting, seducing, and seducing soldiers, adventurers, travelers, troublemakers, writers, artists, and musicians.

Edward Said and Orientalism

Original cover art of Orientalism, Jean Leon Gerome’s Le charmeur de serpents, 1870

Edward Wadih Said Edward Wadih Said (November 1935 – September 24, 2003) was a Professor of Literature at Columbia University, a public intellectual, and a founder of the academic field of Postcolonial Studies. A Palestinian-American born in Mandatory Palestine, he was a citizen of the United States through his father, a US Army veteran.

Educated in British and American schools, Said applied his pedagogical and cultural perspective to highlight the gaps of cultural and political understanding between the Western world and the Eastern world, especially with regard to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict in the Middle East.

As a public intellectual Said  was a controversial member of the Palestinian National Council, due to his public criticism of Israel and Arab countries, especially the political and cultural policies of Islamic regimes that work against the national interests of their people. He called for the establishment of a Palestinian state to guarantee equal political and human rights for Palestinians in Israel, including the right to return to the homeland.

Orientalism in art history, literature, and cultural studies is the imitation or depiction of aspects of the Eastern world. These drawings are usually made by writers, designers, and artists from the Western world. In particular, Orientalist painting, more specifically depicting the ‘Middle East’, was one of the many disciplines of academic art in the nineteenth century, and the literature of Western countries showed a similar interest in Eastern themes.

Since the publication of Orientalism, much of academic discourse has begun to use the term “Orientalism” to refer to the generally nurturing Western attitude toward societies in the Middle East, Asia, and North Africa. In Said’s analysis, the West classifies these societies as static and undeveloped, thus creating a vision of Eastern culture that can be studied, photographed, and reproduced in the service of imperial power. Implicit in this is the idea that Western society is sophisticated, rational, flexible, and superior, Said writes.

His book redefines the term Orientalism to describe the Western tradition – academic and artistic – of biased interpretations of the Eastern world shaped by the cultural attitudes of European imperialism in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.

Said said that Orientalism as “the idea of ​​representation is a theoretical idea: the Orient is a stage in which the whole of the Orient is confined” to make the Eastern world “less intimidating to the West.” And that the developed world, and the West in the first place, is the cause of colonialism, and that Western countries and their empires arose by exploiting backward countries and extracting wealth and labor from one country to another. Academically, the book has become a foundational text for postcolonial cultural studies.

While Said’s analysis relates to Orientalism in European literature, especially French literature, the historical view identified and described can also be applied to representations of the Orient in other art forms, including visual art – most notably in Orientalist painting, which was popular among artists And with galleries during the nineteenth century, which modern scholars see as depicting myth and fantasy that has little connection with reality, and also in other art forms that come like music and film.

Such representations drew criticism as much as before and after World War II, they perpetuated the imagined trend, giving generations of Westerners a distorted impression of the Middle East adorned with palm trees, minarets, and camels like illustrations of old chests of figs and boxes of Turkish delight and serpentine melodies. Such images directly connected in Western minds with the trappings of orientalists.  

Fun, romantic and fascinating, this Middle East as imagined by artists and Hollywood – to quote from above, “harem pants and turbans, belly dancers and serpentine melodies, and a “nudge, nudge, wink, wink” of vicarious naughtiness (itself a word of Indian origin) an exotic, “orientalist” retro- zeitgeist that drew artists, poets, writers and composers to this inexhaustible source of narrative, inspiration and titillation”.

Inevitably, a backlash arose in the developing world, both in the Islamic world, and in Asian and African countries in general, and the term Western is now often used to refer to the negative views of the Western world found in Eastern societies, and is based on the nationalism that spread as a response to colonialism. Furthermore, Edward Said himself has been accused of Westernizing the West in his critique of Orientalism. He is guilty of falsely describing the West in the same way that Western scholars are accused of falsely describing the East. Said is said to have encouraged a homogenous picture of the West, which no longer consisted not only of Europe, but also of the United States, Canada and Australia which became more culturally influential over the years.

[This profile of Edward Said and Orientalistism is drawn largely from Wikipedia. For an interesting account of Robert Irwin’s take down of Said’s opus, see The man who defeated Orientalism The man who defended Orientalism]

The Magic of Dylan Thomas

2013 was the sixtieth anniversary of the death peerless Welsh poet Dylan Thomas, one of the many famous artists who departed this planet in New York’s Chelsea Hotel.  The following piece by Peter Craven is a beautiful tribute, illustrating the magic of Dylan Thomas’ poetry. And listen, pray, to the man himself reciting his poems.

Welsh poet Dylan Thomas did not go gentle into that good night
Peter Craven, Weekend Australian, 29 November, 2014

ACCORDING to legend, Bob Dylan took his name from him and he was a kind of rock star: Dylan Thomas, the Welsh poet who gave to the people of Wales — and to that part of the world that reveres what they stand for — a poetry of such reverberating bardic magnificence that he became a popular poet long after the age of popular poetry was over.

Thomas, who died, reportedly of alcohol poisoning, in New York at 39 in 1953, has his centenary this year and for the Welsh there has been no ­tomorrow.

Michael Sheen (the Welsh actor who played Tony Blair and David Frost) has been doing Under Milk Wood, Thomas’s great dreamscape of a radio play, in New York with Kate Burton — daughter of Richard Burton, who first did it on the BBC and even made a film of it with Elizabeth Taylor as Rosie Probert and Peter O’Toole as Captain Cat.

And in Wales they’ve been reading every jot of verse that Thomas ever penned. Distinguished Welsh actors such as Jonathan Pryce have been part of the mass recital and even that northerner, Ian McKellen, old Gandalf himself, has been dragooned into the celebration as if that rhapsodic sense of wizardry could encompass an entire world.

And he was a wizard, Thomas. I remember a lifetime ago lying in the dark of my parents’ bungalow as a young teenager listening to the black graven voice of Burton as he recited:

In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms …

It was a poetry made out of mouthfuls of air, as poetry must be, and it was also full of a rich kaleidoscope of imagery, and that seemed to make perfect sense because the emotional thrust was clear from the power of the rhetoric that sustained it.

This was a poetry that was deeply traditional in its sound patterns. It had a romantic grandiloquence and an alliterative richness, a reckless audacity of effects that was a bit like that priestly poet who had anticipated modernism, Gerard Manley Hopkins.

And, of course, it’s that lassoing effect of poetry as a language of the gods that can encompass a universe of feeling and imagining. It can intoxicate itself with language but see the world with a radiant clarity as a consequence of the intoxication. That makes people surrender to Thomas, the way when they are young they surrender to the first stirring of ­desire, that strange sense of body and soul coming together at the prospect of love.

If that sounds a bit much for mere poetry to achieve, listen to the lilting lyricism of Fern Hill:

Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
The night above the dingle starry,
Time let me hail and climb
Golden in the heydays of his eyes …

It’s poetry of almost total sensuous suggestion and it is saturated with the feeling of sap and possibility. In one way, it’s a poetry that seems to embody the idea of youth even though it is constantly talking about shadows and spectres of mortality. Indeed, Fern Hill ends with a great splash of verbal colour, and an intimation of how the erotic glory of the world, the sense of it as a many-shaped thing of wonder, is inseparable from the pang of transience.

Thomas led an irregular life and before he died in New York’s Chelsea Hotel he told someone he had had 18 consecutive whiskies in a bar. It couldn’t have been quite true but it had a poetic truth because Thomas and his wife Caitlin hit the bottle like a destiny.

Part of Thomas’s fame came from the fact he had a tremendous histrionic gift as a reader of poetry. He read in a very posh-sounding voice with a kind of conscious grandeur that gives a less sinewy sense of his music than Burton does, but has a majestical quality that many people find mesmerising. His reading style tilts towards the preacherly with its Welsh undertone as part of the incantatory quality. But, then, some of his greatest poetry projects a religious vision, which is why Thomas’s poems have become hymns for a modern world that may not know what it believes but has a deep sense of the resonance and the ­afterglow of belief.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

The language is magical in the way it creates, with a fierce flaming elegiac power, the refusal to accept the fact of death. And the fact the perspective is not Christian — we know the darkness does overcome — makes the poem a tremendous affirmation of the heroism of life in the face of death. It’s a poem with a reckless bravery and that urging to “rage” — that impossible, nearly preposterous imperative — sits in such tension with “the dying of the light” that the effect is very poignant.

Some people sneer at Thomas, sometimes in reaction to their own earlier infatuation with him. His poetry enthrals the mind (and heart) long before you know ­exactly what is being said or meant. Is that a disqualification for greatness? Isn’t it a version of what TS Eliot meant when he said that poetry communicates before it’s understood?

If you want the organ notes of elegy, the sombre power that comes from the breath of death on the backs of our necks, and at the same time the sense of the resurrection as always now, try this:

You can, if you like, say the trick is all in the one great line, the line Thomas uses as his refrain, and that he creates a decorative web around it.

And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost
love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.

But that’s not quite the effect of the poem when it is read aloud. If you listen to Burton recite it, for instance, you get a sense of rushing soliloquy, of confusion and conflict and spectacular profusion, resolving itself in the refrain, which becomes like a religious affirmation, a faith in what seems impossible, a refusal to be conquered by something that cannot fail to conquer.

This is compatible with a believer’s position or an atheist’s, because when it comes to poetry we all suspend disbelief. And Thomas’s poetry is such a headlong act of faith in the act of creating poetry that it presents this spectacle — it, in fact, dramatises it — with a sort of breathtaking self-confidence that goes a long way to explain why his poems seem so genuinely bardic, why the Welsh have taken to them like anthems. And also perhaps, commandeering the tragic fact of his early death, why it makes a kind of sense that Thomas died so young.

If your schtick is to give your audience another piece of your heart over and over, you will burn yourself out or you’ll have to change your art.

God knows what Thomas would have done if he had lived. “It was my 30th year to heaven,” he wrote in Poem in October, which with its wonderful sense of the self roaming like a god is one of the greatest lyrical poems of the 20th century.

My birthday began with the water
Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name
Above the farms and the white horses And I rose
In a rainy autumn
And walked abroad in shower of all my days.

It was his 30th year to heaven and he already wrote like an angel and he was already talking as if he were in the presence of his own tombstone.

It’s the hugeness of the gift that makes people back away from Thomas and makes them deny his achievement, partly because the mesmerism of his ­manner can create fear of the highest claims.

It makes sense, of course, that there was reaction against the rhetoric of poetry associated with the “New Apocalyptics”, as Thomas’s admirers called themselves and that was partly a reaction against the battering ram of rhetoric the world had suffered with Hitler and Churchill and World War II.

People were sceptical of majesty in poetry. They remembered that the “terrible beauty” of Yeats had been a landing field for a fascist politics. But how unfair to mix Thomas up with this.

Under Milk Wood is the most successful piece of poetic drama of a postwar period haunted by the idea. It has extraordinary brio, and the way Thomas manages to create this surrealist brew of poetic hocus-pocus with choruses of schoolkids and scolding old women and blind, mad Captain Cat and dead lovers, all within a circumambient poetic idiom that is at once rich and grounded in earth, is pretty stunning when you remember that it is also a credible evocation of a village in Wales.

It’s no wonder the Welsh have taken Thomas as their red dragon and their prize dreamer. He was an incomparable poet. He did not go gentle into that good night; he lived hard.

But when it comes to the kingdom of poetry, death shall have no dominion.