Books – Karema

2025-2026, Blog, Books, Reading, Reflection

Rebecca Fortnum Talk-26th May

Posted on May 26, 2026 by KM

I thought I wouldn’t need to post anything this week… but who knows what you might hear or see that you simply can’t resist writing about.

“No Knowing” is a topic that feels complicated and confusing to me unless I break it down for myself. There are things I have experienced and felt, but there are also moments that make me stop and think: hang on, I need to understand this more, at least for myself! Because it’s also difficult to know whether you are right or wrong.

Rebecca Fortnum spoke about the unknown and the idea of “not knowing” within artistic practice, about allowing “the other” to become part of the process that helps you understand what you don’t yet know in your work. She mentioned an artist who brought oak trees to Tate, explaining how they didn’t choose where to place them and wished they could move them around and experiment more, but practicality meant the trees had to remain where they were installed. I missed the artist’s name, so I need to watch the recording again and read On Not Knowing: How Artists Think by Elizabeth Fisher and Rebecca Fortnum.

But if she was referring to Ackroyd & Harvey’s installation of 100 oak trees outside Tate Modern, celebrating Joseph Beuys, then the context becomes important. Entitled Beuys’ Acorns, the project began in 2007 and marked 100 years since the birth of Joseph Beuys. The work was inspired by Beuys’ 7000 Oaks. Knowing this information changes things for me. It becomes clear that the artists and organisers did, in fact, know what they wanted. There was intention, research, and historical context behind the project.

Another interesting example mentioned in the session was Bruce Nauman’s Fat Chance John Cage. For me, this work represents a healthier interpretation of “not knowing” and of relying on chance. an acceptance of imperfect and limited knowledge without necessarily becoming vulnerable or directionless. Even the inclusion of “John Cage” in the title, much like Beuys’ Acorns, offers information and context. It shows where the artist is coming from. There is still knowledge present.

So what happens when I do not know? And when I interact with someone else who also does not know what I really want or need? Sometimes that uncertainty can create chances, accidents, and unexpected discoveries, some beautiful, some uncomfortable. But completely removing knowledge can place artists in vulnerable situations.

If I’m playing with chance through repetition, as seen in Rebecca Fortnum’s drawings of children with closed eyes or the unknown death mask, then I understand that as an openness to what technical or practical processes might allow to happen. But there is still an underlying knowledge of intention. For example, if I decide to draw faces, I already know what I want to engage with. Through chance, I might then discover something beautiful or unexpected that leads me towards new research and new knowledge. To me, this feels like another healthy form of “not knowing”.

So what worries me is when “not knowing” becomes a comfort zone, something that leaves me vulnerable to gaslighting, manipulation, or losing my sense of direction altogether. It was difficult to express this during the session because I worried it could be misunderstood. But one of the great things about this course is that we have a blog for documentation and reflection.

2025-2026, Books, collaboration, Moon, Reading, Social Sculpture, Writing

Second Edition- MA Show and Future plan

Posted on May 23, 2026May 24, 2026 by KM

Holding the second edition feels incredibly special and precious. I can see years of effort gathered within its pages. Looking through the photographs and reading people’s letters has been deeply emotional, and it also makes me long for the years when we sent personal handwritten letters instead of quick text messages.

Perhaps this is why I still treasure the letters from my own childhood, safely kept in a small box. They are funny, emotional, and incredibly valuable to me, especially when I think about where everyone has ended up in life and how relationships shift and change over time. Handwritten letters hold traces of people that digital communication often loses.

Mixed of letters from 90s and early 2000-2003

As an artist with hyperactivity, and as someone who uses art as a survival tool, I made two interconnected bodies of work: a book and a tea set. I feel there’s something comforting and timeless about reading books while drinking a cup of tea.

Dear Moon is the main work I have developed over the last two years, and I believe it should be the piece I present in the final exhibition. More than a book, it has become a form of social sculpture, a collective artwork shaped through care, participation, and exchange. It includes the names of 57 participants alongside anonymous contributions and my own letters woven throughout the pages. I eventually removed my name from each individual page because it felt unnecessary to repeat it so many times, especially when my presence already exists throughout the project as its organiser, editor, and contributor.

The book is 184 pages long, rich with different stories, voices, languages, and histories. Some texts date back to 1974, while others were written as recently as May 2026. Several contributors chose to write in their home languages, which adds another layer of intimacy and authenticity to the work. People continue to engage with the project and send new letters whenever I exhibit the letter box, allowing the project to remain alive rather than fixed or complete.

This year, I also spent much more time refining my moon photography, both while taking the photographs and later through editing, especially in relation to light and colour. The images feel more resolved and intentional now, and together with the letters they create a stronger emotional atmosphere. For these reasons, I feel Dear Moon deserves to be shown at Central Saint Martins. I’ll display two copies of the book on two different stands at different heights, one lower for accessibility and one at a standard height. I’ll also include the black letter box with paper and pens.

Copies of the book will also be available to borrow through Sefton Libraries in Crosby, Bootle, and Netherton. I also have a digital version prepared, although I’m still undecided about uploading it to my website. Part of me feels I should wait until every participant has received their physical copy first.

I’m also planning a shared reading session at Bootle Library this summer, where contributors from Liverpool will be invited to read and celebrate their work together. I hope Chris Day, the eldest participant, will attend and share the beautiful story she wrote about the moon in 1974. Another participant I would love to attend is Belinda Ludlow, another mature participant who studied English Literature some time ago. She told me she has always found it difficult to publish her writing because she tends to approach it from a highly analytical perspective. Hopefully, her letter to the moon will become the first step towards restarting her writing journey.

What I love most about Dear Moon is that it carries a genuine sense of community, care, and mutual respect. It reminds me that art can hold people together across generations, languages, and experiences.

Next month, I’ll deliver a Dear Moon workshop as part of the come back programme, in collaboration with the Arab British Centre and Longsight Art Space in Manchester. This will be the first Dear Moon workshop outside Liverpool.

https://www.arabbritishcentre.org.uk/whatson/as-we-are-creative-exchange-day-the-comeback/

The programme supports adults who have taken long breaks from creative practice, or who always wished they had the opportunity to study art. My workshop will focus on building connections, encouraging confidence, and demonstrating that art does not require expensive materials or complicated equipment. Art begins with stories, and every person carries a story worth telling.

Another meaningful part of this experience was being asked by the Arab British Centre to create a very short 30 seconds video for social media. Their request was inspired by something I had spoken about previously: how, after having children, I rediscovered creativity by making art personal rather than treating it as a chore, something meaningful that didn’t depend on money or expensive materials.

At first, I thought, “This is even harder than the 3 minute video Jonathan asked us to make” I asked a filmmaker friend whether 30 seconds could truly hold a story, and she replied “Plenty of time!”

So, the first thing I did was write my words and record my voice so I could understand the rhythm and timing. I removed unnecessary sentences and focused only on the essence of what I wanted to communicate. Afterwards, I asked a friend to help me film footage at St George’s Hall.

I made the video in Arabic because the programme hopes to reach Arab participants, but I also included English subtitles so everyone could feel welcome and included. The process felt surprisingly natural, and I realised how much the short film assignments from the course had prepared me for this experience. It showed me how learning within an educational structure can become a practical tool in the real world.

Also, in July, I’ll be running a family creative session as part of the Liverpool Arab Arts Festival 2026.

Looking ahead, I can already see Dear Moon continuing to grow through more workshops, new letters, exchanges, and future collaborations. In particular, I’m planning to publish Dear Friend in 2027, a book that will carry replies from the moon.

I’ll also be co-producing Turkish Day at the library in December 2026 and helping organise a Community Iftar at the library in February 2027.

So rather than feeling like the end of the MA, it feels like the beginning of a much longer conversation, where all this knowledge can continue to grow and live within my work and everyday life.

With lots of gratitude,

karema 😊

2025-2026, collaboration, Exhibitions, Moon

Home and Away

Posted on May 13, 2026May 21, 2026 by KM

Home and Away exhibition is open to the public until the end of this month. It was a great opportunity to collaborate with women who share similar experiences of migration and displacement. The artists came from different countries, including the Philippines, Venezuela, Poland, Croatia, Sudan, and Argentina.

The process felt empowering for all of us, creating space for conversations, shared memories, and reflection. We also spoke about how the exhibition could continue to develop and potentially be shown in other places in the future.

This experience became an important reflection for my MA and good practice before the final show. It also opened doors for future collaborations with both the artists and the venue.

I also received more moon letters, which made me realise that the project has the potential to continue for as long as the letter box remains part of the exhibition. People still feel drawn to writing and sending physical letters, even without expecting a reply. The project reflects a sense of trust and connection between people, which feels especially meaningful today. This experience also encouraged me to think about how the project could keep evolving over time through future collections and publications.

Another important thing I learned was how I can present pages from the book in different formats. The book itself can exist as one form, but larger pieces can also work well and catch the viewer’s attention.

Home and Away is open to the public until the end of this month, and it has already attracted attention from Liverpool’s websites. Promotion was not something I initially wanted to focus on, but one of the fellow artists was very enthusiastic about spreading the word, and she did a great job. It was also a valuable opportunity to observe and learn from other artists, and to recognise how we might use and support each other’s skills in future collaborations.

https://explore-liverpool.com/home-and-away-art-exhibition-at-st-georges-hall/

https://liverpoolcityhalls.co.uk/events/event/home-away-exhibition-one-belonging-place-and-memory/

https://liverpoolnoise.com/arts-and-culture/home-and-away-workshops-exhibition-st-georges-hall/

2025-2026, Books, collaboration, Exhibitions, Moon, Reading, Tutorials 2025-26, Writing

1-1 Tutorial 22nd April

Posted on May 3, 2026 by KM

Last week I had my final 1–1 tutorial, and it was a very valuable conversation in which I was able to reflect on my work and plan for the coming months, thinking about challenges and what matters most right now. Having this discussion at this stage feels important, because I believe I need Jonathan’s insight and guidance while I’m still in the process of making.

The tutorial gave me a great deal of confidence, and the next day I began designing the bone-dry tea set. I made 21 pieces for the tea set, alongside over 20 small crescent forms, which I will use to make bookmarks for our MA Digital class. Each ceramic piece carrying a story from colonial history. I find that I can’t add anything to the work unless I’m sure it’s relevant and contributes to the overall narrative, and this does slow me down slightly. However, this has been one of the most important lessons during my MA: taking the time to build a cohesive body of work, without unnecessary additions or distractions. I can easily feel overwhelmed and distracted but I have learned to recognise that moment. When it happens, I stop adding and instead spend time reading around the theme or taking a break. This is how my ceramics project develops through slow reading, while the Moon Book has developed through slow writing.

I spent the week working with clay, while also setting up the new show at Liverpool St George’s Hall, where I will be showing Moon Book pages on silk (factory print). I made these last year for The Right Map 2025 but did not have the right opportunity to present them. Now they feel more suited to the theme (Home and Away) and to the space at St George’s Hall. I installed them over a long black heater, where the warm air creates a gentle movement in the work, subtly animating the delicate sheets.

At the core of my social sculpture practice is care and the intention to make a meaningful difference. The Moon Book demonstrates this clearly by connecting people and creating space for shared vulnerability. After the last workshop, some participants began sending me letters in response to others letters. I feel a deep sense of gratitude towards this project and the people involved. Writing letters feels especially meaningful, and I’m excited about the next book Dear Friend (2027). What I find particularly beautiful is that some children are growing up through this process, and some participants who have never met are writing to each other with genuine care and intimacy. It shows how powerful and delicate these connections are. I feel I owe a great deal to everyone who has taken part.

The tea set also functions as a form of social sculpture. It consists of multiple pieces that invite interaction, through storytelling, through history, and through use. Sharing stories from the past is itself a way of engaging with people who are no longer here. In this sense, the work becomes a way to educate, to encourage questions, and to create opportunities for participation.

For example, discussing the Opium War came up in my tutorial with Jonathan. We began asking: how many “opium wars” exist today? How many forms of addiction are being created, and how will these stories be told in the future? Simply bringing these questions to the table is part of the work. It opens up dialogue and that is where social sculpture begins to happen.

2025-2026, Books, Ceramic, Reading, Research, Uncategorized

Teapot #1

Posted on April 21, 2026 by KM

The bone-dry teapot and cups still waiting, as if holding a story yet to be told. The tea set idea emerged from the story of a Yemeni translator, Omar Bahabri, which led me to delve deeper into the history of beverages, particularly tea. I was already familiar with the history of coffee, its origins in Ethiopia, its early cultivation and consumption in Yemen, and its spread along pilgrimage routes to Mecca, then through Muslim traders to Turkey, and onward to Italy and the rest of Europe. However, tea carries a different, more complex, and more painful history.

In Yemen, tea exists in multiple forms: Adeni tea, influenced by Indian chai, and red/ black tea in the Turkish style. This diversity reflects Yemen’s social fabric, shaped by non Arab communities of Indian, African, and Turkish origin who have both contributed to and been shaped by Yemeni culture, particularly its cuisine. Yet, despite this richness, my focus is not on tea in Yemen. Although the idea began with Omar’s story, I instead return to tea’s original homeland, China, where the narrative unfolds differently.

In its early history, tea in China was a simple drink associated with medicine and daily ritual. By the 17th century, however, it had transformed into a globally desired commodity, particularly after being embraced by Britain, where it became central to social life. As demand grew rapidly, Britain faced a significant economic imbalance. It was importing vast quantities of tea from China without having sufficient goods to offer in return.

To resolve this imbalance, Britain turned to the opium trade, cultivating opium in India and exporting it to China on a massive scale. Opium became a tool of domination. Its spread led to widespread addiction across Chinese society, causing profound social and economic harm. In response, the Chinese state attempted to halt the crisis. The official Lin Zexu confiscated and destroyed large quantities of opium in an effort to protect the population. This act became the spark that ignited the First Opium War from 1839 to 1842. Britain with its superior naval and military defeated China and imposed the Treaty of Nanking. This marked the beginning of a period of political and economic subjugation. Chinese ports were forcibly opened to foreign trade, heavy reparations were imposed and Hong Kong was ceded to Britain.

In the Second Opium War from 1856 to 1860, Britain and France launched another campaign against China, advancing as far as Beijing and burning the Old Summer Palace, one of the country’s most significant cultural landmarks. China was then forced into further agreements that expanded foreign influence, legalised the opium trade, and granted extensive privileges to foreigners within its borders. These events deepened the weakening of the state, eroded economic control, and contributed to the eventual fall of the Qing dynasty.

This era is known in Chinese history as the Century of Humiliation, a period marked by repeated foreign intervention, internal fragmentation, and a profound loss of sovereignty. The impact of these wars was not only immediate but long lasting, shaping modern China’s political consciousness and its complex relationship with the West. In this context, tea is no longer just a drink. It becomes an entry point into a layered history of colonialism and coerced trade. A simple cup of tea conceals networks of power, economics, and violence, where demand alone was enough to ignite wars and reshape nations.

For this reason, I chose opium as the motif to be carried on the teapot and cups, so I experimented with pen and watercolour, searching for a visual language capable of expressing this narrative.

Then I realised that my project required a deeper level of research, which led me to visit the Victoria Gallery and Museum. As a space I’m already familiar with, particularly for its ceramics and china collection, it offered both a point of return and a site for re-reading objects through a more critical lens.

Upon entering the gallery, I experienced an immediate sense of recognition, I was drawn to the Willow pattern. Its storytelling operates as a form of visual fiction circulated, repeated, and widely accepted, yet detached from its cultural origins. The blue and white aesthetic, often perceived as timeless and decorative, began to reveal itself instead as a coded visual language shaped by histories of translation, imitation, and appropriation.

This encounter also sharpened my awareness of Liverpool’s historical entanglement with colonial trade. The city’s material culture cannot be separated from these conditions.. I became particularly interested in the development of transfer printing the process that enabled the mass reproduction of ceramic which was pioneered locally at the Herculaneum Pottery.

Extending this research, I visited few antique shops, observing ceramic objects more closely in terms of form, surface, and wear. These encounters grounded my understanding of how such objects exist not only as historical artefacts but also as carriers of layered narratives. I documented these visits through photographs and began a series of blue pen drawings as an initial visual response, testing how line, repetition, and colour might translate into my own practice.

I’m drawn to the seed capsule as a central motif, the origin of opium, and a form that holds both fragility and consequence. Its presence operates quietly, yet it carries a dense network of associations: trade, addiction, control, and empire… It functions as a more precise and restrained symbol, resisting overt representation while still holding critical weight. The decision to work with blue and white visual language reinforces this tension between surface beauty and underlying histories.

At this stage, I feel prepared to begin planning my final design. What feels significant is how this research, which initially seemed distant and external, has gradually folded back into both local history and my own practice. During my BA, I used a teapot for assembled sculpture featuring a Willow pattern titled Gossip. Revisiting this work now, it reads differently, less as a formal exploration and more as an early, intuitive engagement with themes of narrative, circulation, and miscommunication.

This process has also deepened my awareness of the responsibility embedded in design choices. Selecting what imagery appears on the tea set is not merely aesthetic, it’s conceptual and political. The act of placing an image becomes an act of framing meaning. I think of this as similar to cutting beetroot: the more carefully and precisely it’s handled, the more it stains.. The mark is unavoidable, just as histories do!

2025-2026, Books, collaboration, Exhibitions, Moon, Social Sculpture, Writing

Dear Moon,

Posted on April 20, 2026 by KM

When I arrived in the UK, everything felt strange and new, but your face was the only one that remained old and familiar…

Today, I led a moon workshop at St George’s Hall, after weeks of preparing for the upcoming exhibition Home and Away, organised by artist Mariana Sequera. The project explores ideas of home, displacement, and migration. It’s a concepts that seem simple at first, but quickly unfold into something more complex the moment you invite others in.

Recently, images from Artemis II showing the Moon’s far side, pulled me back to the letters. I found myself rereading them, and with that came a quiet but firm feeling: it’s time to finish the book, and to stop collecting more.

While sharing the open call for Home and Away and encouraging people to participate, I noticed how easily themes like displacement are interpreted in narrow ways. There is often an assumption that such experiences belong only to certain groups, and not to others. This made me reflect on how art spaces frame experience, and how belonging is often defined, sometimes invisibly within those frames.

Since last year, I’ve chosen not to rush the second Dear Moon book. I’ve learned that timing is not separate from the work. Showing something in the wrong moment or context can mean it’s overlooked, or misunderstood. This awareness is shaped by my position as a woman, a mother, and a Muslim, identities that are often underestimated, even by those close to me.

I’m learning to resist two opposing pressures: the demand to remain constantly visible, and the quiet acceptance of being marginalised. Somewhere between these, Dear Moon has become a space of its own. Writing to the Moon creates a particular kind of room, it allows for distance, but also intimacy. The letters themselves hold so much. They open memory, reflection, and connection. There is something therapeutic in that, but I try not to reduce it to therapy alone. Each contribution carries its own layers.

C, a retired nurse, shared a story she wrote in the 1970s, along with a receipt showing she was paid £8 when it was broadcast on Miri Mawar, a programme on Welsh HTV. Including her work now brings different times into conversation with each other, raising questions about value, recognition, and whose voices are remembered. In contrast, A’s drawing of the Moon’s phases offers another way of understanding participation. As a child with severe physical and learning difficulties, his contribution gently disrupts expectations of what artistic expression should look like. The Moon’s cycles, appearing and disappearing feel like a quiet reflection on resilience and change.

Through all of this, I’ve started to think of trust as a material within the work. People are not just contributing content..they are offering something personal. That comes with responsibility: to hold these contributions with care. As the book nears completion, I feel both excited and uncertain. I want to hold it, but Im still thinking about how to share it. In previous exhibitions, Dear Moon often felt unresolved, shaped by time pressure, or by divided attention.

2025-2026, Books, Reading, Translation, Writing

Wanderer (2009)

Posted on March 6, 2026March 17, 2026 by KM

Wanderer (2009) by Rory Macbeth is an English translation of Kafka’s The Metamorphosis, produced without knowledge of the German language. To understand the context of this post, it’s helpful to read the previous one.

German capitalises all nouns. When Kafka writes “den Augen” “the eyes”, Macbeth’s translation becomes “towards Augen”, as if Augen were a geographical location. This is not a mistranslation in the traditional sense; rather, it is a relocation of meaning. The work does not simply translate German into English. Instead, it appears to misread or mishear it, treating certain German nouns as destinations and following sound rather than semantic fidelity. In doing so, it produces something that feels both derivative and entirely new.

This method continues throughout. Kafka’s “sein Zimmer, ein richtiges”, translated into English as “his room, a proper human room”, becomes in Macbeth’s version “since summer, the rich man”, an apparent phonetic drift. At several points, Gregor’s sister’s name, Grete, is also translated as “great”. For example, Kafka’s “Komm, Grete” appears in Macbeth’s version as “Commandant! Great!” while the standard English translation reads “Grete, come”. These shifts suggest that Macbeth is not translating through grammar but by ear, treating German as sound material to be sculpted into English.

As the text progresses, one can sense a shift from guessing through sound to asserting narrative intention. At first, the work reads like a linguistic experiment, a kind of phonetic dérive. Gradually, however, something changes. The more one reads, the more an independent narrative begins to solidify; it begins to feel like the writer claiming territory. Wanderer begins to detach itself from The Metamorphosis. Betty starts to echo, but not duplicate, Grete. Threads remain visible, yet they no longer bind the text to its origin. By the end of the story, the authorial voice becomes unmistakable, and Wanderer tests how far transformation can go before it becomes authorship. Macbeth’s restrained conclusion expands into something vast, and the writer steps forward!

This raises the question of where translation ends and authorship begins. In Translation by Sophie J. Williamson (p. 43), a selected passage from Walter Benjamin’s essay The Task of the Translator states that “a translation issues from the original — not so much from its life as from its afterlife”. Benjamin’s idea of translation as a text’s afterlife helps illuminate what is at stake here, yet Macbeth also seems to exceed this model. Benjamin suggests that translation renews the original by revealing the hidden kinship between languages, allowing the text to unfold further in time. Translation, for him, is not reproduction but continuation, a stage in the original’s ongoing life.

2025-2026, Books, Reading, Reflection, Social Sculpture, Writing

Gogol, Kafka and Macbeth

Posted on March 5, 2026 by KM

This post introduces the next, which will focus on Wanderer (2009) by Rory Macbeth, an English translation of The Metamorphosis produced without knowledge of the German language. Instead of translating through grammar or meaning, Macbeth works by visually and phonetically interpreting the German text and reconstructing it into English. The result is a work that exists somewhere between translation and authorship.

It’s important to briefly touch on The Metamorphosis (1915) by Franz Kafka before writing about Wanderer, and I’ll also use this opportunity to mention The Overcoat (1842) by Nikolai Gogol. I referred to Gogol’s story in our session when we discussed avoiding direct expressions of trauma during Zoe’s presentation. For me, Kafka and Gogol employ absurdity and a kind of quiet defeatism as narrative strategies through which trauma is expressed indirectly.

The Metamorphosis is a small text, yet incredibly heavy in its existential weight. The narrative begins with an unexplained event, Gregor Samsa’s transformation into a giant insect, presented without cause or preamble. Instead of questioning the transformation itself, the narrative quickly shifts to the practical consequences of his condition. His family who once depended entirely on his income, gradually begin to see him less as a son or brother and more as a burden. One gradually senses that the true transformation is not merely physical but human and moral. The story is existential in its questioning, absurd in its world, surreal in its structure, and deeply social in its critique…

Akaky Akakievich, the protagonist of The Overcoat, lives a lonely, repetitive life and struggles to make even minor changes. It takes him a long time to save enough money to buy a new coat, but when he finally does, the simple act of wearing something new gives him confidence and a glimpse of happiness. This joy is short lived… The coat is stolen on his way home! He desperately tries to retrieve it, fails, falls ill, and dies shortly afterwards. In the end, his ghost wanders the city stealing coats from others. The story oscillates between the real and the surreal, it’s sad, absurd, brief, yet emotionally expansive. It’s often seen as an early example of the absurd bureaucratic protagonist and is believed to have influenced many writers. For me, it’s enough to recall Dostoevsky’s saying “We all came out from Gogol’s The Overcoat”.

The Overcoat and The Metamorphosis are both essential reading for lovers of short fiction. They present deliberately ordinary protagonists, characters who almost disappear rather than dominate the plot, humans positioned at a humble level far removed from heroic or supernatural figures. These are stories that sometimes make you want to step inside the page and shake the character awake. In Gogol’s story, the narrator also seems strangely unconcerned with certain details or histories of events. A similar feeling emerges in Kafka.. What happened to Gregor Samsa is, in some sense, not important. Although he lives believing he is essential to his family, they ultimately continue without him, and his perceived importance dissolves.

This becomes significant for me when thinking about Wanderer. I sense something familiar here, perhaps one leading to the other, at least in my perception. Just as the lives of Akaky and Gregor seem strangely insignificant within their own stories, the linguistic accuracy of the text also becomes strangely insignificant in Macbeth’s work. Regardless of the original context or linguistic accuracy, the act of translation itself becomes conceptually aligned with the story. This also resonates with my own interest in communication and miscommunication as a form of social sculpture, where meaning is shaped collectively rather than fixed.. It raises questions about what is essential and what is not. What carries meaning? What survives translation? What do we choose to care about, and who decides this?

2025-2026, Books, Reading, Reflection, Research, Translation, Writing

Translation #2

Posted on January 6, 2026 by KM

After reading Translation, I found myself asking what I would add if I were given the chance to contribute more pages to the book. Three came to mind: Omar Bahabri the translator, Arnaud Balard’s Deaf Flag, Adriano Celentano’s Prisencolinensinainciusol, and Wanderer by Rory Macbeth particularly after What Is a Minor Literature?//1986 by Deleuze and Guattari page.

The first story is a Yemeni tale set during the period of British occupation in southern Yemen. Omar Bahabri was a Yemeni tea merchant who spoke English through his work with foreign traders. At a time when the British struggled to communicate with the local population due to the lack of Arabic translators, Omar was called upon to help. The British asked him to translate pamphlets intended to win the trust and loyalty of the Yemeni people. Omar translated their demands into Arabic, and pamphlets were printed and distributed by aircraft across the country.

Some time later, a British general visited Aden to inspect the situation. He was familiar with Arabic, so he picked up a handful of the pamphlets and read them. He asked the officer in charge about their purpose and was told they were meant to encourage public support for British rule. The officer explained that the pamphlets called on people to join the Allies and support them. The general replied that the pamphlets read “Buy the finest tea from Omar Bahabri” . And here only reference I found in English: https://www.jstor.org/stable/48752006

Whether the story is true or not is hardly important here. What matters is how brilliantly it portrays the fate of outsiders who believe they can exploit local language and people for their own ends, only to find those intentions quietly undermined in favour of distinctly Yemeni interests. It also led me to reflect on the fact that the British occupied Aden for 128 years, from 1839 to 1967, yet hardly any of them learned Arabic. From this, it becomes easier to understand why the French aggressively imposed their language in colonised territories, and how English was forced upon Indigenous populations in North America, Australia, and New Zealand. This reinforces my belief that language is essential to the survival of culture and heritage.

Photos credit: https://www.gettyimages.co.uk/photos/aden-colony

Thinking about this story alongside Translation, I realised that what draws me in is not accuracy, but refusal. Translation here is not a neutral act. It becomes a space of misalignment, humour, survival, and agency. Language appears to serve power, while quietly redirecting it elsewhere.

So yes, I already know what my next ceramic piece will be.. A tea set! A familiar site of hospitality, negotiation, and politeness. Cups that sit between people, holding conversation, holding silence or things that are never quite said…

2025-2026, Reading, Reflection, Writing

Translation by Sophie J. Williamsons

Posted on January 6, 2026January 10, 2026 by KM

Jonathan recommended this book to me twice. Before I ordered it, I assumed it might be similar to Against Expression by Kenneth Goldsmith and Craig Dworkin, a great book in its own right on conceptual writing. But I found myself loving Williamson’s Translation much more. It feels like a fruit salad, a wide variety of flavours, each sweet or sour in its own way, yet deeply enjoyable together. While Against Expression is larger in size, Translation feels more balanced and brings together a broader range of international voices.

Before even reading the Translation introduction, I couldn’t resist starting with Frantz Fanon and James Baldwin. I love both of their styles, it’s heavy, yet smooth in motion and settling deep in the soul. The anthology brings together an impressive mix of writers and artists, including Shirin Neshat, Jess Darling, Yinka Shonibare, Stephen Morton, Susan Hiller, Walid Raad, Walter Benjamin, and many others.

There were several moments where I had to pause, wanting to comment or reflect. Although the contributors come from very different backgrounds and perspectives, you still feel that they share something. Language is not just words or signs; it reflects how far the human mind can reach in understanding its surroundings what is seen and unseen. It is about comprehension, and about noticing what might otherwise remain incomprehensible.

Shirin Neshat’s page took me back to my childhood in Dubai. Growing up across different cultures, I’ve come to see communication as a vast ocean. It can feel overwhelming and frightening at times, but it also has a magical quality: moments where connection happens without you fully understanding how.

Where I grew up, our neighbours formed a small, diverse world. To the right was an Iranian Shia family; to the left, a Yemeni one. After our Emirati neighbours moved away, we had Palestinian, Pakistani and Omani neighbours opposite us. They were all kind and friendly, with children who played together on the sandy street before the area became very posh and built up. Our relationships were friendly, formal, and respectful, shaped by care and sharing.

I formed a close bond with our Iranian neighbours, and their daughter became my best friend. We grew into each other’s families, spending time playing and eating together, getting into trouble, being told off, and sharing fun (she’s the one I mentioned in the Dear Moon preface). Her parents did not speak Arabic well, and in their home they spoke Farsi. I loved listening to them, I couldn’t understand but I relied on facial expressions and tone of voice, especially when we were in trouble and her translations were completely inaccurate..

I didn’t learn about Sunni and Shia differences until middle school. I once asked my friend to join my prayer, She refused, because I was Sunni and she was Shia..terms I had never heard before, and which were never discussed in my family. When I asked my father, he simply said: they are Shia, we are Sunni, and their prayer is slightly different. My response was simple “i thought we are just Muslims”.

I became more curious.. my religion teacher with patience and care became the target of my endless questions, until I moved to secondary school, where I continued my research. So did my library teachers, who would quietly prepare books for me to borrow. Reading history gave me joy and deeper understanding. I began to realise how many of our problems come from judging events without understanding their roots or contexts.

Prayer might seem like a diversion here, but it still feels connected to languages. I began practising prayer at around 11 or 12 years old, not through parental guidance but after being dared by a cousin, I was the youngest in my extended family to do so and he mocked my attempts.

What I’ll never forget, my very very first attempt. I was almost 5 years old. My second sister had been born ill, and when she was one month old, my father took her to hospital one evening while my mother was unwell. No one explained anything to me.. and I was scared seeing my mum crying… I took a prayer mat, faced a random direction, put one of my mother’s headscarves on and stood there silently. I didn’t know what to say.. No one had taught me how to speak to God. I only knew that we believe in Allah our creator (Allah is the Arabic word for God, used by Arab Christians too)… So I just cried and simply said “please don’t let my baby sister die”. She came home the next day and grew up to become my moody sister!

Later, I understood why my parents were soo panicked. Back in Yemen, they had lost their first child, a baby boy… I was born after him, small and sick. My grandmother took responsibility for caring for me, and five women from her family and circle breastfed me until my mother recovered. I grew up with five “milk mothers” and milk siblings. In my village, some babies had one or two. I had five! Perhaps that explains why I grew up with the smallest body, it might have been that extra dose😂

This came back to me while reading Gayatri Spivak’s The Politics of Translation page. She mentioned Mahasweta Devi’s story Stanadayini’s translations. One English translation is titled Breast-Giver, another The Wet Nurse. Spivak notes that when you read both translations side by side, the loss of rhetorical silence from one translation to the other becomes clear. This reminded me of Rory Macbeth’s Wanderer the translation of Kafka’s Metamorphosis translated from German into English without him being able to read or speak German. Years ago, he told me: “I don’t believe there is such a thing as an accurate translation”.

This thought led me to the Qur’an. As Muslims, we believe the Arabic Qur’an to be the direct word of God, linguistically, structurally, and even mathematically unique. No Arabic writer has ever matched its form. Translations exist, but they are treated as interpretations, not replacements. The Arabic text itself is carried and protected by Muslims across languages and cultures, unchanged and only recited in Arabic.

Perhaps that, is part of what this anthology keeps circling back to: the beauty, limits, and responsibility of language and everything that slips through when we try to carry meaning from one place to another. I do believe that a translator can’t separate their life experience and feelings from their work; these inevitably shape their understanding. In this way, the translator and the original writer become new collaborators.