Athens Welcomes
Human pleasures change with age. The law of life dictates that a person’s joys and delights diminish as they grow older. For someone who has bet their life on reading and writing, aging will not lead them anywhere but to deeper solitude with those they love, and nowhere but to where the books are. To be in Athens is to be in the heart of the history of philosophy, theater, and human thought; it is also a living city that blends antiquity with modernity. This is what made me pause and reflect upon the generous invitation extended to me by the Greek poet and publisher Konstantinos Katsikeas, owner of Irini Publications, which his activist father, Vassilios Katsikeas, founded in 1973 to become a pioneering Greek publishing house dedicated to humanistic literature.
Although I arrived at the hotel early in the morning, I found the man waiting for me, a welcoming smile on his face: “I had to be at our meeting. You are my guest, the house’s guest, and Greece’s guest—the first Arab writer from the Gulf region whose novel has been translated into Greek.”
Moving through a place is necessarily a movement in thought and human experience. The following day, the publisher came to take my wife and me to his family home. This hospitality touched my soul deeply. When I met his parents, I felt as though we were among a family of friends, in a house whose corners we knew by scent. It is a heartfelt greeting to enter a home and feel that it belongs to you, that you are part of the family. This was especially true because the translator, Rony Abu Saba, was present. Given the father’s vast human and activist experience, one could not help but feel like one of his own children.
I arrived at the Athens Book Fair during its 54th edition, an hour before my lecture, to familiarize myself with the venue. I was impressed by the idea of holding the fair in the capital’s largest public park, in the square named after Ares, the god of war, surrounded by ancient trees and the natural symphony of cicadas that formed the backdrop for the entire scene. Small booths were set up for each publisher, with books spread across tables and faces of all ages. Breezes scented the air as they passed among the people. I found the lecture hall prepared, but when I looked at my wife, I noticed that few people had attended and most chairs were empty. I whispered to myself, comforting myself: “The audience for books and culture is small everywhere.”
However, I was soon greeted by Dr. Yorgos Kenteros, the poet, novelist, and translator—one of the most significant creative and academic figures, who had prepared a critical study of my novel. The publisher introduced me, and after listening to Dr. Kenteros’s remarks, the translator, Rony, spoke about his journey translating the novel. Finally, it was my turn. When I looked at the seats, I noticed they were completely full, with more people standing than sitting.
I began by greeting the audience in English, explaining that my presence among them was due to the Arabic language, and therefore I could not abandon it. Thus, I spoke in Arabic, touching briefly on my writing journey and some aspects of the novel’s worlds. I noted that the era we live in has severed many bridges between people, yet the table of creativity and culture remains vibrant, still capable of gathering loved ones around it.
My speech in Arabic received appreciation and praise I had not expected. I was told that the language carries its own music in its tones and pauses. The lecture passed quickly, followed by a book signing, and then an evening banquet in my honor and in celebration of the novel’s publication. I returned to the hotel, dazed by the appreciation and kindness that had enveloped me and the echoes of the novel. Athens did not celebrate me as much as it celebrated the Arabic language that brought me there; the writer ages and passes on, but the word remains young, crossing seas on his behalf and greeting readers he will never meet.
Talib Al-Rifai
