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This is an imagined prison memoir, not, as far as we are told, the true story of any one Iraqi detained by Saddam’s apparatus.Yet the jerking contrasts between past ‘normality’ and the gathering nightmares of the isolation cell are done with such conviction that I’jaam reads as a miniature of Iraqi suffering from the Baathists to Bush. This year (2015), the IFI hosted the Dublin Arabic Film Festival, or DAFF, from November the 13th to November the 15th. I’ve spent many a blissful hour here, watching some of my best-loved old films as well as plenty of thought-provoking new stuff.
Yet we are the final ‘I’jaam’, we understand Furat’s writing. If writing is meaning, then ‘I’jaam’ is the metaphor as well as the method of meaning.
An unknown prisoner, a student raped and left to rot, is suddenly given paper and pen by his gaolers.
Mockingly he is told: We hear you are a writer, so write.
For ‘Furat’ – apparently the prisoner’s name – uses these sheets to write for his life, to remake meaning through memory.
Later on, we gather, a dusty manuscript is ‘discovered’; it is edited, then filed away by a bored security official. The unknown writer, says the official’s disdainful report, wrote his jumbled text in letters minus their ‘dotting’, they lacked ‘I’jaam’ – the changing dots to the characters which lend written Arabic its elucidation, its contexts, its ‘clarification’.
In the last memory he takes Areej to a great national football match. Can a character who doesn’t exist wring one’s heart?