Arabic classes? Naturally. Documentary film festivals, Arab Feminist conferences? Of course. Impromptu Oriental orchestras, Byzantine cloth dolls, Asian films subtitled in French, installations and exhibitions in bombed-out Modernist cinemas, book festivals, German talks on Ottoman governance? Yes to all.
No one can say that I am not trying. And in the thick evening air, as the minibuses boy race up the autostrade and service drivers play puppets with your homebound fortunes in a series of clicks and jerks of the head, you lean gratefully into the side of your rescuing vehicle and let Fairuz or Nancy Ajram, jazz classics remixed in Arabic, forgotten nineties hits or dabke music wash over you, and let your dreams and others' dance their technicolour footsteps across the inside lids of your tired, tired eyes.
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