Horses of God

On May 16, 2003, fourteen suicide bombers launched a series of attacks throughout Casablanca. It was the deadliest attack in Morocco’s history. The bombers came from the shantytowns of Sidi Moumen, a poor suburb on the edge of a dump whose impoverished residents rarely if ever set foot in the cosmopolitan city at their doorstep. Mahi Binebine’s novel Horses of God follows four childhood friends growing up in Sidi Moumen as they make the life-changing decisions that will lead them to become Islamist martyrs. 

The seeds of fundamentalist martyrdom are sown in the dirt-poor lives of Yachine, Nabil, Fuad, and Ali, all raised in Sidi Moumen. The boys’ soccer team, The Stars of Sidi Moumen, is their main escape from the poverty, violence, and absence of hope that pervade their lives. When Yachine’s older brother Hamid falls under the spell of fundamentalist leader Abu Zoubeir, the attraction of a religion that offers discipline, purpose, and guidance to young men who have none of these things becomes too seductive to ignore. 

Narrated by Yachine from the afterlife, Horses of God portrays the sweet innocence of childhood and friendship as well as the challenges facing those with few opportunities for a better life. Binebine navigates the controversial situation with compassion, creating empathy for the boys, who believe they have no choice but to follow the path offered them.

 

Horses of God named by World Literature Today among the most important translations of 2013!

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  • Page Count: 168
  • Direct Price: 12.00
  • List Price: 14.95
  • April 2013
  • 9781935639275
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Mahi Binebine was born in Marrakech in 1959. He studied in Paris and taught mathematics, until he became recognized first as a painter, then as a novelist. Binebine lived in New York in the late 1990s, when his paintings began to be acquired by the Guggenheim Museum.

*Long listed for the 2015 International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award

*Horses of God named by World Literature Today among the most important translations of 2013

*Winner of the 2010 Prix du Roman Arabe and Prix Littéraire Mamounia

 


"The novel provides context and perspective to often little-explored issues, offering incredible insight into the complex lives of poor boys who are groomed to kill themselves for a cause and commit violent acts in the name of religion. Binebine portrays these young men as supremely human, victims of powers much larger than themselves, and like any Kafkaesque anti-hero, cogs in an incomprehensible and monstrous machine."
Starred Publishers Weekly

"Moroccan painter, novelist, and former math teacher Binebine (Welcome to Paradise) writes with humor and pathos amid the novel’s grinding tragedy but never allows the narrative to veer into self-pity or cheap sentimentality. The book is based on the 2004 suicide bombings in Casablanca, and Binebine’s unblinking eye for detail makes this a haunting tale."
Library Journal

"This is a heart-stopping, heart-breaking narrative—the story of a group of young men trying to make lives for themselves in one of Casablanca's poorest slums. It captures the intersection of politics, poverty, religion, and youth. It is a story as beautiful as it is disturbing, as sober-minded as it is astonishingly wild and expansive."
—Pauls Toutonghi, author of Evil Knievel Days

"Like Paulo Lins’s sweeping Brazilian saga City of God, Binebine’s Horses of God is the story of a violent, maze-like city-within-a-city—Casablanca’s Sidi Moumen shantytown—its anonymous dreams and scavenger dumps, campfires and soccer matches and 'hashish-scented sky.' But, above all, it’s about Sidi Moumen’s soul and the 'living dead' yearning to escape, to be reborn, to grow wings and soar above its crumbling walls. Binebine writes living, breathing history, vividly capturing our incendiary daily world from the inside out."
—Anderson Tepper, editor, Vanity Fair


You might walk right past our part of town without ever suspecting it was there. A high, crenellated adobe wall separates it from the boulevard, where an uninterrupted stream of cars makes an unholy din. In this wall we’d hollowed clefts like arrow slits so we could freely contemplate the other world. When I was a kid our favorite game was to pour bowls of piss on to rich passersby, biting our lips as they cursed, yelled insults, and looked up at the sky. My brother Hamid was our leader; he rarely missed his target. We’d watch him do his stuff, stifling our laughter, which, seconds after the golden shower, would burst out uncontrollably. We’d be jubilant, rolling around in the dust like puppies. Ever since the day a stone thrown by a furious victim struck my head, I was never quite the same. At least that’s what everyone around me thought; that’s what had been drummed into me nonstop since I was little. I ended up accepting it and, eventually, quite liking it. All my escapades were half forgiven on account of that handicap. But I was no stupider than anyone else. In soccer, everyone will tell you, I was the slum’s best goalie. My idol’s name was Yachine. The legendary Yachine. I never saw him in action but there were so many stories . . . Some claimed he could stop a ball fired from a Krupp cannon, others that his body defied the laws of gravity. People even said that his premature death had been plotted by international strikers, put to shame by his talent. Whatever the truth, I wanted to be Yachine or nothing. So I changed my name to his. Yemma didn’t like it, but since I refused to answer to the name for which a lamb had been sacrificed in front of our shack, she’d had to get used to it. Only my father, who’d always been old and stubborn, kept on with the outdated “Moh.” A guy wouldn’t get very far with a name like that.
In any case, I didn’t hang around in life too long because there wasn’t a lot to do. And I have to say right now: I’m not sorry to be done with it. I don’t have the slightest nostalgia for the eighteen or so years of misery that were my lot. Although at first, in the days straight after my death, I’d have found it hard to say no to those biscuits my mother used to make with salty butter, her honey cakes or spiced coffee. Still, those earthly needs gradually faded and even the memory of them eventually vanished too, eroded by my new status as a ghost. If in the odd moment of weakness I still think of Yemma stroking me as she rooted around in my hair, getting rid of the nits, I say to myself: “Get a grip, Yachine, your head’s been blown to smithereens. Where could the nits go burrowing if you no longer have any hair?” No, I’m glad to be a long way from the corrugated iron, the cold, the sewers spilling their guts, and all the putrid stench of my childhood. I won’t describe where I am now because I don’t know myself. All I can say is that I’m reduced to an entity that, to use the language of down below, I’ll call consciousness: that is to say, the restful outcome of myriad lucid thoughts. Not the dark, narrow ones that dogged my brief existence, but thoughts with aspects that are infinite, iridescent, sometimes dazzling.


Horses of God is your second translation of Mahi Binebine’s work. How did this collaboration come about?


I work with Banipal, the journal of modern Arab literature, as a writer, translator (and now editorial assistant), and they happened to send me an extract from a book called Cannibales to translate (later published in English as Welcome to Paradise). It hit me like a punch in the stomach. I felt an instant identification with the style of writing and, because I’ve spent a lot of time in Morocco, with its universe. It’s about a group of Africans waiting on a beach in Tangier to make the crossing to Spain, and spools back into each of their stories to tell how they came to be there. It’s simple, dramatic, and political, with the kind of black humor I love. Given the level of the discourse on immigration, illegal or not, in the UK at the time, it also felt like a shot across the bows. When I finished the translation I sent it to a couple of publishers who both immediately wanted to buy it.

 

What’s the first step in translating a book?


I think it’s that identification, perhaps. It’s good (or makes it easier) if you and the writer share a sensibility and love of language. I only really want to do books that are linguistically challenging or interesting. And if, while reading it, you find the sentences jumping into English it’s a good sign too, just that you’re excited. Because really the first thing is to read and read and try to not translate at first, but immerse yourself in the book and its world. 

 

How involved was the author in the translation process?


Possibly too much for his liking! Because I know Mahi a little now, I have no qualms about sending him a lot of questions, some of which I’m sure he finds bemusing and pedantic, and which can go on and on, in some detail. This time too, as I neared the end, I went to spend a week with him in Marrakesh to go over any questions or problems more deeply, which was wonderful, as a lot of nuance is lost via e-mail. And then I sent more questions… He made himself totally available and was extremely generous.

 

How long did the process take?


It was long. Because the release date was so far away the publishers gave me an unusually long time, nine months, which the work certainly expanded to fill. I have never gone over a translation so many, many times. And also, because it was being published simultaneously in the U.S., there were two versions to get right at the same time.

 

The book is set in an Arab country and is about suicide bombers. In his portrayal of their lives, which are filled with poverty and violence, Binebine shows great compassion for his young characters, who eventually commit horrific acts of violence themselves. Did you worry that that compassion would be difficult to convey to a Western reader, who is probably less familiar with the world the boys come from and may have certain prejudices about who commits acts of terrorism and why?


I don’t think Western readers think terrorists do what they do for no reason, even if the crime seems entirely senseless and is abhorrent to us. The whole book is attempting to ask the questions “What kind of person can be a suicide bomber?” “How can that happen?” and acquaint the reader with a world they probably don’t know. Mahi spent a lot of time in Sidi Moumen, the slum the 2003 Casablanca bombers came from, and did a lot of research into how long and what it takes to make a terrorist or “turn” a young boy. The boys are vulnerable kids; it’s the sheikhs who are the shadowy creatures in the book, and they are left pretty opaque.

I also think compassion and curiosity are stronger than prejudice, and prejudice in any case is a dead end, and what all art tends to topple. We can, after all, judge something monstrous and also attempt to understand it.

 

Were there any other challenges specific to working on this book?


The book is narrated by one of the bombers, from the afterlife. The challenges were to do with making his voice believable as the illiterate street kid he was in the past, but also have the depth, education, and all-seeing eye that he somehow gains in death. If that makes sense. And also I was keen to make the religious passages not feel too smooth or neutral and substantially less exciting than the wild and violent life that precedes them, which has so much more incident.

 

Obviously, rhythm and tone are important to capture in a translation, as well as accuracy in terms of meaning. Do you have any tricks for doing this?


If there are any tricks I don’t know them. The only thing that’s really important is to read it out loud. Then you immediately know what’s not working. 

 

Binebine’s work is written in French and published first in France, then in Morocco, where he lives. How have his books been received in Morocco?


Very well, I understand, although with this one he did receive threats.

 

What are you working on now?


I am doing my own writing and I am about to translate a great Algerian writer called Mustapha Benfodil, who wrote a book about the Iraq war called The Last Six Days of Baghdad. Though I’ve read a fair bit about the war, recently and while it was in full spate, by fantastic writers like Patrick Cockburn, I realized I’d never read one that really gives an account of what it’s like to be in a city at war, under fire, or to what extent normal life does or doesn’t go on, what people are saying on the street and how they are living it, what they believe, etc. Mostly there’s a veil of exoticism when Western writers or reporters cover a war or it’s very measured, reverent, and elegiac. This doesn’t feel like that at all.