The House of the Spirits

Two authors across time zones-Naveen Kishore, founder of the independent Indian publishing house Seagull Books, and Palestinian poet and author Ghassan Zaqtan-write to each other about the human cost of war

Dear Ghassan, Dear Fatin, You are both constantly on my mind. I hope you are as well as is possible in these terrible times.

I'm about to begin to reach out to friends for the annual Seagull Books catalogue, and I wanted to start with you. In hope. But not in stress. I completely understand if this is not the time.

Unlike the previous years when I used to share a single 'provocation' with our community of affection, this year I've decided to write specific texts for the 12 individuals I am inviting to contribute. Sometimes I may share more than one text as a possible choice.

So, here is a text I've chosen for you:

I

She was five then. When. She first stumbled. Tripped, actually. Stubbed her toe. Would be even more precise.

Accurate. The stumbling. A blessing. The tripping a revelation. Only the toe hurt. For weeks. In pain after this accident. Of fate. This I think is an accurate description of what befell the child. The point being that if she hadn't.

Fallen. Tripped. Stumbled would be more apt. Yes. She may not have discovered the rainbow. To be more accurate.

Precise even. She may eventually have stumbled upon it.

But not so early. In life. Had the initial stumbling not taken place. The revelation would not have happened. As it turned out she accidentally stepped on a landmine. In a field full of rainbows. Shortly after the war. The one that had drifted into ceasing. Out of sheer exhaustion. Or to be precise. And accurate. The war had stumbled into a roadblock. Yes. The warring nations had run out of their young. The young had all tiptoed into the field. The one with the landmines.

And been reincarnated. As rainbows. For it is said that children who die young. Are reborn. Almost immediately. As rainbows. I confess this may not be accurate. Or precise. But it is what I have heard.

II

A Dream for Our Times