The Iraqi author masterfully depicts the devastation of conflict in his searing debut novel, GOD 99.
By Ben East
It has been billed as award-winning Iraqi writer Hassan Blasim’s debut novel, but in truth God 99 is so much more than that. A stark commentary on the violence of displacement, an important record of refugee life, and an autobiographical reflection on the value of writing as a salve, God 99 is also confirmation that Arabic literature in translation can be irreverent, blunt and starkly, fearlessly modern. It feels like the next step in the journey of contemporary Arab writing, reflecting current concerns and in part rejecting classical Arabic, that began with Saud Alsanousi’s The Bamboo Stalk and continued with Ahmed Saadawi’s Frankenstein in Baghdad.
It’s no coincidence that all three books were translated by Jonathan Wright, who was also entrusted with Blasim’s short story collections The Madman of Freedom Square and The Iraqi Christ. There’s a sense he “gets” not just the subject matter—in Blasim’s work the battle to survive both in Baghdad and abroad—but the importance that it’s conveyed in an accessible style. This is vital, crucial writing for English- language audiences.
And writing—“a bastion against wind and waves,” as Blasim’s protagonist puts it—is at the heart of God 99. Hassan Owl is (like Blasim) an exiled Iraqi living in Finland, who is inspired to blog about people who have had their lives “disrupted” in some way. Owl only gets a grant to finance his project, he notes cynically, because of the “miracle” of the humanitarian disaster, when vast numbers of migrants and refugees flooded into Europe. “They might have voices, faces, and stories to tell,” he surmises.
So he goes to meet these disparate characters. A female DJ in Berlin finds refuge in techno after witnessing a Daesh sniper pick off her partner in Syria; an Iraqi baker changes career to make masks for those disfigured by suicide bomb attacks; a Finnish video game designer who escaped an assassination attempt as a baby works on a new title, which can only be completed if the character gets to a country and convinces the authorities he has a good reason to stay. Blasim’s use of profanity and street Arabic further accentuate the brutality of survivors’ stories.
If these people feel achingly real then that’s because they mostly are. But Blasim also has an ability to write about desire, identity and trauma in an eye-openingly matter-of-fact way. Which brings us back to whether this is a novel at all. Really, it’s a short story collection of post-war Iraq and migrant life, conveyed with the overarching device of Hassan Owl’s interviews. That does mean some of the blog posts work better than others; the layering effect of God 99’s structure is powerful, but there are some scrappy moments in this collage.
Interspersed with the interviews is email correspondence Hassan has with a mysterious character called Alia, in which they discuss literary theory, translation and the power (or lack of it) of writing to effect change. In fact, they are taken from dozens of emails the late Iraqi writer Adnan al-Mubarak sent to Blasim over a period of 12 years. Blasim notes in the dedication that al-Mubarak was “saintly in a human sense and demonic in a creative one”—which is certainly a guiding principle of God 99.
Ultimately, the strength of this novel is to be found in standout lines, rather than memorable narrative. Like those from Mi, who escapes sexual persecution in Iraq via a mountain pass full of other trafficked people. What does he think of his new home in Finland? “For me, home is people: to have a few friends and loved ones around me…whether they live in the lovely fridge of Finland or in the lovely furnace of Iraq.”
Maybe that’s the great achievement of God 99; it puts words into the mouths of the alienated, the marginalised and the forgotten.
Photo: MARKUS PENTIKÄINEN
