Disappearance of Harry Potter
When I opened the Wikipedia page for the British author Joanne Rowling (born July 31, 1965), a small phrase caught my attention: “Novelist and philanthropist.” The description is deceptively simple, yet it harbors a profound question worthy of reflection: Can literary creativity and acts of charity converge in a single person? Is there a single Arab novelist known to the masses by this dual description? The world knows Rowling as the creator of the “Harry Potter” children’s book series, seven volumes in which a single fictional character came to life, yet she managed to move the world. The release of each new installment in the series was an event on the scale of a festival: entire families braving the cold and rain, spending long hours in queues stretching outside bookstores, not merely to buy a book, but to secure the author’s signature. The books were then adapted into films, the films into an industry, and the industry into billions, all sprouting from the imagination of a woman who began her life in poverty, writing in the cold Edinburgh cafés while her infant daughter slept beside her.
A spontaneous question prompted me to delve into Rowling’s world: “Why has the magic of Harry Potter faded?” The available answer is ready and blunt: “The story concluded with the publication of the seventh book.” However, this answer opens a genuine literary wound: How can a book series that filled the world and captivated the earth’s children and youth cease to matter simply because its pages ended? How can interest in it wane when the media and cinematic machinery stops turning? Is this not an admission that what made Harry Potter endure was not literature alone, but the media noise that surrounded it? Critical studies have often pointed out that the worlds of Harry Potter drew from an ancient and deep spring: “One Thousand and One Nights,” that wondrous book that time could not bury and which still burns brightly in the imagination of readers and writers around the world today. So, what distinguishes a book that fades from one that endures? What is the secret that allows a text to outlive its author? The answer, far from academic theorizing, lies in conditions without which true literary survival is impossible: the book must be expansive in imagination, tightly structured, and must intelligently touch upon humanity’s enduring concerns and timeless questions. It must offer the reader something more precious than information: pleasure, that hidden ability to snatch them from their monotonous moment and transport them to worlds they experience as real, returning them enriched with moments that did not previously exist in their lives.
Many novels have topped bestseller lists and been crowned with prestigious awards, only to quietly retreat to the shelves of oblivion. In contrast, certain texts have managed to transcend generations as if they were not written in a specific era, remaining a human commonality resistant to abandonment and neglect. I return to where I began: the novelist and philanthropist. Why is no Arab novelist referred to by this description? Through my intimate knowledge of the Arab creative scene, I say unequivocally: The Arab writer still suffers under the misery of the publishing market and the injustice of its contracts. Some authors even pay out of their own pockets for the printing of their books, as if paying a ransom for their dream. Their silent, bitter plea is: “I need a philanthropist to cover the cost of publishing my book.” This alone, in my view, is sufficient to explain the plight of the Arab writer: a talent burning fiercely, and words born orphaned in a merciless publishing market.
Taleb Al-Rifai
