Granted a rare interview with the legendary Iranian film-maker, Arsalan Mohammad heads to Tehran to see what makes Kiarostami tick
In a dusty villa near Tehran’s diplomatic quarter, I pace a living room cluttered with knick-knacks and antique curios. I am waiting to meet Abbas Kiarostami, the veteran Iranian film-maker and one of the most influential and celebrated directors of the last 30 years. Kiarostami is notoriously guarded about his private life, which may explain why we’re meeting in a house hired for the occasion rather than his own. A team of attentive staff and a small Scottie dog wait with me.
Eventually he arrives, grumpy and out-of-sorts following a battle with Tehran’s notorious traffic jams. He sits down clutching a carrier bag, calls for coffee and ibuprofen and glares sharply at the dog. I make my presence known by asking him about the Venice Film Festival, where his latest film, Shirin, was panned by critics. “It was a mess, an uncontrollable mess,” the director sighs, settling back in his chair and lighting up a cigarette. “The reaction in Venice was very predictable, actually. But what was not predictable was the bad quality of the projection and the general organisation. The subtitles were going on and off, which also made it totally impossible for the audience to know what was going on.”
The organisation may have been poor, but Shirin is hardly an easy film to watch. It features little more than his camera panning across the faces of 137 women in a theatre, watching them watching a classical Persian play. All his films throw up such a tangled jumble of questions and theories it can be argued that, in a rather Zen manner, he is saying nothing at all. But Shirin is so abstract and so impenetrable that members of the audience walked out during the Venice screening.
It may not please everyone, but the 68-year-old director of acclaimed films such as A Taste of Cherry, Ten and Close-Up is making the most confrontational and unconventional cinema of his long and distinguished career. His every undertaking, be it film, photography or poetry, continues to be obsessively deconstructed and analysed by his legions of followers worldwide, although few can claim to understand the meaning behind his work.
Today he’s been shooting material that may or may not form part of his next film. Pressed for details, he fiddles with a coffee cup, looks tired and slowly considers his answer. Meanwhile, the dog swallows one of the ibuprofen pills Kiarostami had been worrying in his fingers, and falls asleep. “It’s like I’m having a baby,” he says with a sudden and unexpected grin. “But I don’t know how it will turn out – a boy, a girl, big or little. But what I know for sure is that it is going to be as real as possible, no paraphernalia, no extras, nothing. It is going to be as real to what I am thinking as possible… You can see what you can see.”
Spend a couple of hours in Kiarostami’s company and these gnomic utterances become commonplace. His worldview seems set to a misanthropic default; his patience with audiences, critics and journalists limited. Asked what he does while he’s not making films, he shrugs and says: “I write poetry.” He describes himself as a “restless, lonely person”, although at this point his personal assistant interjects and asserts that he has plenty of friends and an active social life. But he’s at his most eloquent when speaking about loneliness, solitude and depression, especially when discussing his landscape photography, shot on sorties in the surrounding countryside. It’s a lucrative sideline: a Kiarostami print recently sold for US$130,000 in a Christie’s auction.
Since his early shorts to the weightier features made from the 1980s onwards, Kiarostami has developed a style that owes as much to chance and spontaneity as to his recurring pet topics – life, death, nature and spirituality. His films enrich our knowledge of the world in small, significant ways. Yet for all his international awards and critical acclaim, he doesn’t compete at the box office – at home or abroad – with mainstream movies. “Competing with the ‘official’ cinema is, at this time, very difficult,” he explains. “I do not want to use the same means [as most other directors]. Audiences are too lazy to find out what is going on. I just show nature and ask them to understand it as it is. It is very difficult. The majority of audiences are going the other way. I understand that. I respect that. I might get a few viewers, which is enough for me.”
I ask Kiarostami about how being Iranian and filming in his home country affects his work. He feels he is not particularly politically engaged. He tends to critique individuals, not political ideologies. Yet there is a deep sense of place to much of his work that belies an easy answer. “I have no sense of nationalism or patriotism,” he replies. “I am a citizen of the world. I never decided to be born here, so there is no honour to be living here. It wasn’t my decision to be Iranian. To stay after the Revolution was my choice. I was happier here, I had a better life. I belong somewhere, and that is the most important thing.”
And with that, his personal assistant says we’re out of time. The dog’s eyes open, the assistants pack up, and Kiarostami rejoins his traffic-jammed compatriots on a crawl through a city as complex and misunderstood as the film-maker and his work.
Is that the Batmobile? No, it’s the Arab world’s first car. Matthew Lee goes to Beirut to hear the amazing story of the student who built it
When David Frem announced he was going to build a car for his university senior project, his plans were rejected. It wasn’t only because his tutors didn’t take the design student seriously. Nobody in Lebanon had built a car before. Nobody was qualified to instruct him, supervise him or mark his work.
Three years later, in a garage below the American University of Science and Technology in Beirut, people gather as the 26 year old removes the dust sheets covering the Arab world’s first car, the Frem F1. Its creator opens its doors, shows our photographer its stark, rudimentary interior and turns on the headlights. They flash perniciously; narrow, devious eyes on either side of a pointy snout and a harsh, square jaw. A more masculine design would be hard to imagine. “It’s inspired by the wolf,” Frem explains. “It’s a fast, aggressive animal. You look in the wolf’s face and there’s something mysterious about it.”
In January, Frem travels to the Detroit Motor Show to enter the Michelin Challenge Design competition. There he will present early designs for a follow-up model. “The Frem F1 was only introducing David,” he says, switching to the third-person as we head towards the university gardens. “The Frem F2 will show the world what David is capable of. It’s going to surprise everybody. It’s very important. I didn’t even believe myself when I drew the design for this car.”
At the start of his project, nobody would have foreseen Frem being invited to Detroit as the first Lebanese carmaker. The wheels of his project began rolling when a scale model impressed a local sponsor so much that he chipped in US$10,000. The university, seemingly swung by its student’s unflappable self-belief, paid 70% of the final bill, which exceeded US$90,000. With no formal training or experience, Frem relied on the internet for research and worked day and night to realise his dream.
It was tougher than the average student assignment. “Everything is hand made and we didn’t have any equipment. We didn’t have anything. Our workshop was very basic.” Frem persevered through the Israeli bombardment of 2006. “I believed in my dream, believed in myself and believed in my God. I faced a lot of obstacles – when there’s conflict in Lebanon the financial support stops automatically – but my dream was bigger than those obstacles.” On one occasion a bomb exploded 30 metres from where the F1 was parked.
I ask him if he’s getting used to his celebrity status. “In Lebanon everybody now knows me… A lot of people like the car and support me. But a lot of people came against me.” Frem doesn’t reveal the identity of his foes, although it’s fair to say that the reaction to his car hasn’t been entirely positive. The website Autoblog. com wrote: “If you think the exterior is bad, the foam and wood interior, complete with offset steering wheel held in place by a bent metal bracket, is even worse.” Ouch.
“People are jealous,” Frem says. “And they haven’t done anything in their lives to make them satisfied apart from criticising people. When they criticise they think they are gaining something for themselves.”
Is he nervous about the reception a rookie from Lebanon will receive from the experts of Detroit? “It’ll be difficult for me because all the other designers are professional. In the United States there is lots of research and development, centres where they study cars. In Lebanon you do not have anything. Hopefully the Americans will see my potential, see my dream and see David. After that, they will see Lebanon.”
He tells me how he’d love to build a factory in Lebanon. He wants to emulate Pagani Zonda and build limited-edition cars that can be enjoyed by deep-pocketed motorists anywhere in the world. In the short term, however, he doesn’t rule out a move to the States. “I’d like to stay here but we don’t have the support. The Lebanese talk more than they act.” But what about inspiring other Lebanese to follow their dreams? “We can do anything in Lebanon,” he replies. “In the media, many people say we can’t build a factory here. I say they are losers. Nothing is impossible in life… I did not have anything and I made a car. We have to believe in ourselves and in God and everything will go smoothly.”
Armed with a new logo (the wolf, naturally), David heads to Detroit to launch Frem Motors as a business, not just a student project. “Money is like fuel. I need to put fuel in my dream so I can drive it.” He dreams of competing with Ferrari and Lamborghini. It’s a long journey to the top, but Frem has a tankload of hunger and self-belief. You wouldn’t bet against him.
The amazing success of Noor made Serdar Orcin a star in Arab countries. The Turkish soap opera, also known as Gumus, became the highest-rated programme in recent Arab TV history. Known to the show’s fans as Anwar, the Istanbul-based actor spoke to J Magazine in London.
01/How did you get your break in acting?
I started theatre during high school and then studied acting for four years. My cinema debut was in a film called Yazgi, an adaptation of the Albert Camus novel The Stranger. The film screened at Cannes and won awards.
02/What was it like working on the set of Noor?
It was a beautiful experience. We were working six days a week so we felt like a family. None of us would have guessed it would last so long.
03/Were you surprised by the show’s unprecedented success in the Arab world?
I was surprised to discover I’m more famous in Arab countries than in Turkey. Noor is only one of many dramas in Turkey, but in Arab countries it was huge. On my first day in London two Arab girls chased me down the road shouting “Anwar, Anwar, is that you?” I didn’t ever imagine it would become so popular.
04/Why was it so popular in Arab countries?
In terms of culture and heritage, there are many similarities between Turks and Arabs. Both societies have similar big issues: Turkish society is conservative and Noor is a woman who wants to prove herself in a male-dominated society. The show speaks about a family with strong bonds – just like in the Arab world.
05/What’s next for you?
When I get back to Turkey I’m acting in a new play about three Palestinian brothers and the conflict in the region. I wonder how it’ll be received by the audience.
Joe Laurence meets the entrepreneurs taking a stand against Kuwait’s chain café culture
Reham Al-Samerai, Mukan
After stints working in Dubai, Denmark and the UK, Reham Al-Samerai (left) observed a need for a café in Kuwait that wasn’t part of what she calls the “copy-paste culture”.
“I wanted to create an intimate place where people knew each other, which was also a platform for the arts and film,” she begins. “It’s easy to complain and talk about change, so my business partner and I said ‘let’s stop talking and start doing’.”
Inspired by her travels, Reham came up with Mukan, which means “the place” in Arabic. It’s warm and inviting, with red bricks, pillowy sofas, wooden furniture and edgy works by local artists.
Mukan is best known for its movie nights. “We show documentaries, foreign films, films you can’t see in the cinema. People usually stick around afterwards, talking about what they saw.” And so Mukan has become something of a local cultural institution.
Abdullah Al-Awahdi & Jassim Al-Qames, Munch Abdullah and Jassim craved a different kind of café for their homeland. “We didn’t have any experience in the food and beverage industry,” says Abdullah, “so we invited our friend Dana Al-Salem, whose family is famous for food.” As the plan gained momentum, the trio were joined by Ali Hayat, a business graduate, and planned Munch.
To publicise the new café, the team set up a blog to report on their progress. “We wanted to share our personalities,” says Abdullah. “It became like a reality TV show. We reported all the funny stories – people always come in and say they know us!”
An arty space of white and neon green, the café, which the team financed themselves, offers a varied menu of fresh salads, sandwiches, soups and fruit juices.
They are already plotting further outlets. “Kuwait always was the hub of creativity in the Middle East,” Jassim says. “In general, the food here isn’t healthy. But Kuwaitis travel and we didn’t need to educate them about good food. It was only a matter of time before something like Munch opened up.” B1 Dar Al Awadi, Sharq, Kuwait, +965 232 2747, www.themunchblog.blogspot.com
The Bedouin Jerry Can Band play their traditional music on something old, something new, and some things that blew. Simon Broughton met them
Touring the Bedouin Jerry Can Band isn’t an easy option. A small collective of Bedouin musicians from the Sinai desert in Egypt, one of them couldn’t join a UK tour. Some of the older members don’t have birth certificates and had to have their age verified in Egypt by a state dentist; the veteran poet and storyteller, Soliman Agmaan, who has no teeth left after a lifetime drinking sugary coffee and tea, didn’t get his ID or visa, so he wasn’t allowed into the UK.
The Bedouin Jerry Can Band, as their name suggests, use jerry can percussion – specifically, metal oil cans and ammunition boxes found in the desert from the 1967 six-day war and the subsequent Israeli occupation of Sinai. They use these found instruments in Bedouin songs – about love, coffee and camels – along with the magroona double flute and the shimmering simsimiyya, the traditional lyre that is found throughout the Red Sea and Suez Canal region. Before playing at a party in Sinai, Ayman Hassanne, the jerry can player, shows me how the jerkan (as it’s called in Arabic) is played just like a drum, getting the deeper, more resonant sounds from the edge and a deader sound in the centre.
Airlines are understandably nervous about transporting metal petrol cans and ammunition boxes, so the band’s UK manager, Michael Whitewood, bought a set of Nato jerry cans at an army surplus store in London for the group to play at their last UK tour. But they didn’t quite have the resonant, booming quality of the 40 year-old, Sinai-sand-blasted model that the band was used to. So for their recent UK tour, Whitewood decided to risk the band bringing over a real Sinai jerry can, which involved screwing the cap off, upending it and insisting: “No gasoline! Musical instrument!” to the x-ray security team at Cairo airport. It was worth it – its clanging, desert-distressed tone went down a treat.
Another instrument is a black ammo box that’s hit with two wooden drumsticks. It bears the Dutch words Losse patronen voor wapens (Loose bullets for weapons). During performances, one of the musicians holds it up and says, reassuringly: “Don’t worry, it’s empty!” Alongside these military cast-offs being played on stage are a clay pot and a lyre that dates back thousands of years. Sinai has been a crossroads for centuries.
Once, the Bedouin were nomads, but few remain so today. Most of the members of BJB live in El-Arish, a characterless concrete resort on the Mediterranean coast of Sinai – nothing like the resorts popular with holidaymakers along the Red Sea coast. But Goma Ghanaeim, the lead singer and driving force behind the BJB, chooses not to live in town – to keep some physical contact with the desert environment. He has had running water since 1990, but before that it was a 6km walk to get water from a well. “This makes life much better,” he admits, “but it doesn’t mean we have to forget the songs of our fathers and grandfathers. They tell us about ourselves.”
After a communal dinner of goat, rice and salad, a few band members come to make final arrangements for the party that night to celebrate the birth of Goma’s first-born son. After evening prayers, the poet Soliman Agmaan starts playing his rababa, a home-made wolf-skin fiddle – a traditional instrument that is getting harder to find. He supports the fiddle against his bare foot, and as he bows repeated phrases intones a song about the campfire – how a big fire shows everyone that it’s a good party.
Then Moussa, another band member, picks up his simsimiyya and starts strumming. It’s a sound that has enlivened palm huts like these for thousands of years. The simsimiyya is an ancient lyre – originally with five strings, although nowadays usually with 10 or more, strung on a wooden frame. It brings a bright, zinging sound to the music and everyone starts clapping.
Goma has been married for 20 years and has four daughters. Did he have a party like this to celebrate their births? “When I had a daughter, I killed a goat, but when I got a son, I killed two goats!” he says. “I am Bedouin. For sure, I love my daughters very much. But in the end my daughters will get married and belong to another family, or another tribe. My son will keep my name – keeping the family name alive is very important.”
Goma earns his living as a full-time musician, singing at weddings in the region. The other band members have day jobs in El-Arish – one has an electrical shop, another is a teacher, another works for the government. The band has been going since 2003 and was created by Zakaria Ibrahim, who runs the Mastaba centre for traditional music in Cairo. He is a rare figure on the music scene, as most Egyptians have little interest in their local music. “Everybody wants to copy the west,” he complains. “They want to appear educated and modern, and don’t appreciate the value of what they have.”
Zakaria says his Mastaba Centre is trying to forge a third way by reviving traditional music, which imitates neither glossy commercial music nor the government-run folk groups. These groups exist in most of the big towns and perform choreographed music and dances in a so-called palace of culture. “These Ministry of Culture bands have funding and glossy posters,” fumes Zakaria, “but it’s a hierarchy: the musicians are at the bottom and get no respect. They turn the music into a show and what’s sad is that people start to think that this is the tradition.” What makes the Bedouin Jerry Can Band special is its local character. The music and the songs are distinctively Bedouin; you can’t find a magroona (reed pipe) player in Cairo like the Jerry Can band’s. “It’s not just about preserving the music,” says Zakaria, “but connecting it to the local area. That’s the most important thing.”
The party for Goma’s son takes place in a tent brightly decorated with swirling cloths of red and blue. In the centre there’s a fire in the sand, and the band are at one end on a carpet. There are perhaps 60 people, and it doesn’t take long for the Jerry Can Band to get everyone dancing. The men – it’s an all-male event – form two lines shoulder to shoulder facing each other, bowing forward as they dance and clap hands. Through the woodsmoke, the double pipe squeals and the thumping jerry can pushes up the pace of the dancing.
Remarkably, the Bedouin Jerry Can Band seem able to recreate the Sinai party atmosphere thousands of miles from home – even better now with their authentic jerry can. “It’s the real spirit of this music that we mustn’t lose,” says Goma after their London concert as Whitewood sticks a Bedouin Jerry Can Band sticker over the more threatening-looking words on the ammunition box. “Just in case it causes problems at the music festivals,” he says.
William Shakespeare, believe it or not, didn’t write about Kuwait. But thanks to this renowned playwright and director, one of the Bard’s tragedies has been given an Arabic twist Words_Joe Laurence Photography_Mario K
“It’s a turbulent and messy space,” says Sulayman Al-Bassam, nodding his head over tea in a Kuwaiti hotel lobby. The actor, director and writer is talking about his bold reinterpretations of Shakespeare plays; political, inquisitive and often controversial work – not the easiest territory for an artist to inhabit in this region. “Shakespeare deals with power,” he continues in his cut-glass English accent. “Oligarchies, potentates, the relation of religion and power… Pick up a newspaper. These are all major issues of contention in the Arab world.”
Al-Bassam has been a busy man since his days studying literature in Edinburgh. He formed the Zaoum Theatre in 1996, followed in 2002 by the Sulayman Al-Bassam Theatre, a group of theatre practitioners, musicians and visual artists dedicated to the production of challenging and innovative theatre. His most recent project is a reworking of Richard III – commissioned by the Royal Shakespeare Company and performed in Arabic with English subtitles projected onto the stage. “It’s a process of adaptation and free variation,” he says of the interpretation process. “We utilise Shakespearean themes and the raw material of the plays, but translate it back to English and not all of it would be familiar.”
“It’s been extraordinary,” Al-Bassam says of Richard III – An Arab Tragedy’s success. “When we played in Kuwait it marked a real watershed. Political columnists were writing about the event; women in furs and diamonds, standing at the back because there were no seats, were weeping with emotion. In Damascus, the President showed up unannounced – this tells you the thirst people have here for debate.” His play had clearly struck a chord. “It’s more about the relations and tensions in this region than it is about Shakespeare,” he says.
For any artist operating in the Middle East, there are limits on what can be said. Yet Al-Bassam manages to speak with a true voice. “Kuwait remains one of the freest places to speak,” he says. “The keys to all the major theatres in the Arab world are held by the state, one way or another. I’m an individual theatremaker, without associations with state bodies… so I get less distribution in the Arab world.”
The conversation turns to Kuwait itself. Al-Bassam is patriotic, choosing to devote his time to furthering artistic progress in his home country rather than move somewhere with a greater theatrical tradition. His reasons for this are clear. “The inspiration for my work is derived from the issues facing this region,” he asserts. “I have an idealistic belief in the power of theatre to change reality, however we measure that. There’s an urgency to the work – this is politically engaged and contemporary stuff.”
“Kuwait has long been a significant trading post, and was the leading Gulf country of the last century,” he continues. “We had the first written constitution in 1962, an independent judiciary, high levels of freedom of speech and huge publishing and translation projects.” He is, however, concerned about the future. “There’s a loss of a sense of a national project – the ambitions that define what kind of country we are striving to be. Because this national project is no longer evident, society is open to all sorts of currents prevalent in the region.”
Is there a need to reassert national identity? “The question is which national identity?” he replies. “Kuwait’s national identity has always been both diverse and tolerant – the tradespeople, the seafarers, the Bedouins, the merchants passing through with music, gold, spices and languages – pluralism, openness and tolerance: this is the identity that needs reasserting. National identity – as you can see from the extreme right in Europe – is a double-edged sword and some in our society want to use their narrow understanding of our religion, traditions and morals to turn us into a closed and intolerant society.” Which brings him back to his specialist subject. “Working with texts like Shakespeare, you have all these questions of identity,” he explains.
Al-Bassam’s long-term aim is to create a national theatre in Kuwait. “I’ve been trying to get this national theatre off the ground for six years and that inertia is frustrating. You can’t make a national theatre alone. There needs to be political will for it to happen.” With his success at home and abroad, the case for developing and supporting the performing arts in Kuwait grows ever stronger.
With his first two albums, Generous Peace and This Life Of Mine, Kareem Salama has made waves in a genre unaccustomed to immigrant voices. The devout Muslim now lives in Texas, but was raised by Egyptian parents in Oklahoma. He spoke to us after returning home from a successful European tour.
01/So how did an Egyptian boy get into country music? In Oklahoma you hear country music everywhere. I remember hearing it as a child and as I got older I began to appreciate that it’s a genre where great stories and great lyrics are important. Country music is deep and light, sad and funny, real and make-believe, all at the same time.
02/Have your studies of Arabic poetry influenced the way you write songs?
I sometimes find inspiration in old Arabic poems. But more importantly, I started writing music as a way to memorise Western poetry, which was a technique I learned from Arabic poetry and maqamat – a type of melody found in traditional Arabic music.
03/ Have you come across any prejudice in the music industry as a result of your religion?
I’ve been met with a warm reception. I never assume people are going to be prejudiced so even if I am mistreated I don’t assume it is prejudice. If it is, I pardon it.
04/Do Middle America and the Middle East have much in common?
Absolutely. People from both parts of the world are warm and hospitable. They place a lot of importance on family and traditional values. They are noble, but down to earth.
05/Which one album would be the perfect introduction to country music?
Buy Kareem Salama’s album! Just kidding. Garth Brooks’ self-titled debut is a good introduction to the genre. www.kareemsalama.com
J Magazine meets Ghiath Machnok, whose part-hotel, part-gallery venture has revolutionised Damascus’ cultural scene
Art House’s setting, a 600-year old stone Ottoman-era mill on a country lane off the busy road to Beirut, initially seemed an odd choice for a hotel. Travellers to Damascus have traditionally checked into modern hotels in the new town centre or hotels in historic houses within the old city walls. To most investors, Art House would have been a business risk. Yet to its energetic manager and curator Ghiath Machnok, it made perfect sense.
Since opening a year ago, Art House has not only given visitors to Damascus a stylish place to sleep, it has also been responsible for establishing a lively arts scene like no other the city has seen before. “Profits are strong, occupancy is very high, and we have reservations to the end of 2009,” Machnok says.
Its location, on a hillside overlooking a trickling creek, with the lights of Damascus twinkling below, provided a tranquil setting ideal for a creative retreat. Its location on the edge of upmarket suburb Mezzeh meant the city’s cultural elite and moneyed set wouldn’t have far to go to attend Art House’s exhibition openings and music recitals.
With the Assad House of Culture and Arts, home to Syria’s National Symphony Orchestra and Opera, just down the hill, Machnok was confident performers would call in. Indeed, the first day we visited, Missak Baghboudarian, the conductor of Syria’s National Symphony Orchestra, dropped by the hotel, while a Lebanese pop star could be heard recording an album in the rooftop suite he’d temporarily converted into a music studio. When we returned another night for a saz performance, it was standing room only, with all seats taken by a colourful crowd of bohemian music students and musicians. The place buzzed.
Art House was financed by businessman Nader Kalai. Kalai invested US$5m into the property’s development, while Machnok invested eight years – five to design and reconstruct the dilapidated building and three to source the fittings and furnishings, to create the space.
Damascus-born Machnok has lived and worked in cities all over the world, from Cairo to Detroit, designing private homes for wealthy clients, yet Art House, his first hotel, is the project he’s most proud of. Rather than move onto another project, he’s stayed on to manage the place and curate its vibrant program of exhibitions and performances.
The creative vibe permeates through the hotel. The rooms (some featuring rare Arab art deco furniture), are inspired by and dedicated to Syrian artists and writers. Contemporary art hangs on the sandstone walls and striking sculptures dominate the public spaces.
Machnok’s open-door policy means that while you might be mingling with Syria’s cultural elite on one night, you could be listening to a young pianist practising scales on the hotel’s baby grand the next. Anything here, it seems, is possible. www.arthousedamascus.com
Abbas Kiarostami
The organisation may have been poor, but Shirin is hardly an easy film to watch. It features little more than his camera panning across the faces of 137 women in a theatre, watching them watching a classical Persian play. All his films throw up such a tangled jumble of questions and theories it can be argued that, in a rather Zen manner, he is saying nothing at all. But Shirin is so abstract and so impenetrable that members of the audience walked out during the Venice screening.
Is that the Batmobile? No, it’s the Arab world’s first car. Matthew Lee goes to Beirut to hear the amazing story of the student who built it
In January, Frem travels to the Detroit Motor Show to enter the Michelin Challenge Design competition. There he will present early designs for a follow-up model. “The Frem F1 was only introducing David,” he says, switching to the third-person as we head towards the university gardens. “The Frem F2 will show the world what David is capable of. It’s going to surprise everybody. It’s very important. I didn’t even believe myself when I drew the design for this car.”
It was tougher than the average student assignment. “Everything is hand made and we didn’t have any equipment. We didn’t have anything. Our workshop was very basic.” Frem persevered through the Israeli bombardment of 2006. “I believed in my dream, believed in myself and believed in my God. I faced a lot of obstacles – when there’s conflict in Lebanon the financial support stops automatically – but my dream was bigger than those obstacles.” On one occasion a bomb exploded 30 metres from where the F1 was parked.
“People are jealous,” Frem says. “And they haven’t done anything in their lives to make them satisfied apart from criticising people. When they criticise they think they are gaining something for themselves.”
Serdar Orcin
Joe Laurence meets the entrepreneurs taking a stand against Kuwait’s chain café culture
Inspired by her travels, Reham came up with Mukan, which means “the place” in Arabic. It’s warm and inviting, with red bricks, pillowy sofas, wooden furniture and edgy works by local artists.
Abdullah and Jassim craved a different kind of café for their homeland. “We didn’t have any experience in the food and beverage industry,” says Abdullah, “so we invited our friend Dana Al-Salem, whose family is famous for food.” As the plan gained momentum, the trio were joined by Ali Hayat, a business graduate, and planned Munch.
Bedouin Jerry Can Band
Airlines are understandably nervous about transporting metal petrol cans and ammunition boxes, so the band’s UK manager, Michael Whitewood, bought a set of Nato jerry cans at an army surplus store in London for the group to play at their last UK tour. But they didn’t quite have the resonant, booming quality of the 40 year-old, Sinai-sand-blasted model that the band was used to. So for their recent UK tour, Whitewood decided to risk the band bringing over a real Sinai jerry can, which involved screwing the cap off, upending it and insisting: “No gasoline! Musical instrument!” to the x-ray security team at Cairo airport. It was worth it – its clanging, desert-distressed tone went down a treat.
After a communal dinner of goat, rice and salad, a few band members come to make final arrangements for the party that night to celebrate the birth of Goma’s first-born son. After evening prayers, the poet Soliman Agmaan starts playing his rababa, a home-made wolf-skin fiddle – a traditional instrument that is getting harder to find. He supports the fiddle against his bare foot, and as he bows repeated phrases intones a song about the campfire – how a big fire shows everyone that it’s a good party.
Zakaria says his Mastaba Centre is trying to forge a third way by reviving traditional music, which imitates neither glossy commercial music nor the government-run folk groups. These groups exist in most of the big towns and perform choreographed music and dances in a so-called palace of culture. “These Ministry of Culture bands have funding and glossy posters,” fumes Zakaria, “but it’s a hierarchy: the musicians are at the bottom and get no respect. They turn the music into a show and what’s sad is that people start to think that this is the tradition.” What makes the Bedouin Jerry Can Band special is its local character. The music and the songs are distinctively Bedouin; you can’t find a magroona (reed pipe) player in Cairo like the Jerry Can band’s. “It’s not just about preserving the music,” says Zakaria, “but connecting it to the local area. That’s the most important thing.”
Sulayman Al-Bassam
Is there a need to reassert national identity? “The question is which national identity?” he replies. “Kuwait’s national identity has always been both diverse and tolerant – the tradespeople, the seafarers, the Bedouins, the merchants passing through with music, gold, spices and languages – pluralism, openness and tolerance: this is the identity that needs reasserting. National identity – as you can see from the extreme right in Europe – is a double-edged sword and some in our society want to use their narrow understanding of our religion, traditions and morals to turn us into a closed and intolerant society.” Which brings him back to his specialist subject. “Working with texts like Shakespeare, you have all these questions of identity,” he explains.
Kareem Salama
J Magazine meets Ghiath Machnok, whose part-hotel, part-gallery venture has revolutionised Damascus’ cultural scene 
Art House was financed by businessman Nader Kalai. Kalai invested US$5m into the property’s development, while Machnok invested eight years – five to design and reconstruct the dilapidated building and three to source the fittings and furnishings, to create the space.