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Algerians Chronicles

18 Feb

‘Algerian Chronicles,’ by Albert Camus
Albert Camus’s writing on Algeria reveals both hope and dread.
Algerian Chronicles

Second Time Around, in search for lost time

It chances that a friend of mine had lately sent  me an email shared with me a link on an article above, from New York Times issue about Albert Camus”Algerian Chronicles”, a book review, then again my son asked me when I had a chance to go to the library , to look on the shelves if I can found the  book  (“The Myth of Sisyphus.” There was nowhere on online BPL  site to find it, He said  he had it an urgent need as assignment on  major philosophical works of Albert  Camus, but  chance actually does ring trice, and it is by pure coincidence that I got it, like if it was on hold expressly for me. So, it was mouth watering that I read it from first line to the last period. It kept me in an unsatisfied hunger state, like for more want of  water after that you drenched until quench your thirst, or linger for a little bit of chocolate or a crack of nut in your mouth. The carob, little lozenges  of peppermint it brought me  back memories when rereading   (“The Myth of Sisyphus”), the  passages _Summer in Algiers, and return to Tipasa, in a split of an eye blink it sand me back to an epoch a revolued. For, to whom it never occurred to visit Algeria, and Algiers precisely, there is nowhere you can find a guide or a brochure of such an aboundance and generosity of expression, of meanings in to short passages that discribs authentically, a narrator of equal density as the voice you hear though reading these passages. So, anwithout further do, just go get a copy, then when you read it, come back to me and you tell me about what means nostalgia for you;  a longing for home.

Now, forget about global approach and new  review and stuff like that, there is sometimes a cumul of things that one treasures since childhood, or yong-manhood, but then we forget get about it, them things stay dormants until a tiny beat a tinkle of ice in a glass of wine or a snap of finger then it triggers those memories, and they emerge like someone gasping for breath after a deep dive in a pool.

Wish you there’s

For the lovers  of Algiers

thanks to God I was born at that epoch, and lived the same moments and places for being there and  still cary something deep in my heart

The tagline alone is enough to draw you in: “You pass through places and places pass through you, but you carry ’em with you on the souls of your travellin’ shoes.”_Molly Layde


About|How to escape the claws of the grammar-police

26 Feb

About|or How to escape the claws of the grammar-police:

Confessions of a Comma Queen-The New Yorker
Holy Writ!
Learning to love the house style.

In my first years, when I came to the States _and certainly  be cause of my broken English affected, with my  French-oui-oui! accent _ and it was almost unspeakably often; there was an unavoidable question that came often around  within  a conversation, after the preliminary   of the usual mundanities, and it was so evidently, or sort of, that the person would ask you:

“where are you from?

“…Algeria,” I have said. Then she went on, or he would say: “Ah! _Morocco?

“Nope.” I said, avoiding nonchalantly the eye-contact.

“_Where?” She persisted, as in a dialog between two deft people, (excuse my analogy)

“North Africa.” And so on it went,

“…so you speak French, ah!oui oui!” she would say in laughers, no offends, and signed.

Pass on that atoll, the small talk would follow its train of chi-chats, without hiccups.

Because Algeria is mostly unknown to people, and /or probably that for, they confound its name easily, for most of the time with Nigeria.

So I articulate its name: “A, Al_ Algeria.” In that, geographically speaking, culture and all the folks stuff; forget about it, History: yes,  besides The Geography Chanel, that it is neither  their cup of tea to most of the people, nor their cupcake, here.

So, for that reason, and  perhaps for many others, entre-autres, it  remained titillating my  alter ego for a while.  Still, I  felt like there is some unjust ideas about Algeria, in that I was in a want to write some thing about it, something that matters, not about me_definitely not, I am not interested, neither by chauvinism,  but mostly for the love of words. Then this blog came on hand like to say, and to say it in plain English and not in another mother tongue-language I use to speak.

That is, if you will  not find too much information about me, so please, understand my apology, and if you come across of some debris of words  that we call meanings, don’t shot on the pianist! Please, be indulgent in finding some dusts ( my pet peeves,) on my own words, pardon for my site appearance, I am still tidying up so that it shines. English is enough forgiving, so without further do.

My aim is  to let my readers who  honored visiting  this page, they surely find something different, that they would like to know a little more about Algeria.

So if you want to read more, here is a link:

Thank you for reading



The most delicate moment

6 Jan


  A long time devoted to small details exalts us and increases our strength.

—Hermann Hesse, Journey to the East

Courtesy to Alec Nevale-Lee

The most delicate moment for a writer is  in the beginnings of a sentence, for a maestro in the opening of an opus, and for you in taking  a sip from a  glass of champagne Dom Perignion, a milissime year, while a cigar burns low at the tip of your fingers,  sitting back and indulge this special moment,  to finally see  the day of accomplishment of your goals.

All the above is about taste. And you may say :

_” Tastes, and colors, it is a matter of personal appreciation, and can not be arguable.”

And I give you that, save  that these are sensorial organs that can be educated, and with some knowledge  acquired, can be developed, while others are innate. So, a mother is the first teacher to her baby; from her he learned the meaning of  sounds of the mother tongue,  and along  she taught him to put names on things of life, the feel of the sun on his skin as  she played with shadows of her fingers, and the taste of lemon zest. Other teachers took the baton-relay on our education path, we learned aesthetics, semantics, aside arithmetic, language and Arts.

“A long time devoted to small details exalts us and increases our strength.”

Until the day when you graduated from the school of life, from street talk, and passing by walker humming his song, to begin thrusting you self, and making decision. Then comes along the delicate moment when you say ” wow” in front of a masterpiece, a tiny piece of cheese cake, or simply the fact that an anonymous street artist can from banal object  make it like with magic to a work of Art of genius.

This is a ulogie to all the teachers that had contributed in  all my life to perfect my sense of aesthetic, and from the poets and writers the sense of the balance and the turn of a sentence.

A particular thanks to Mr. Alec Nevala-Lee

The Chaabi hours

2 Dec

I was delighted lately, when browsing YouTube, I came across a video of “ El Gusto”, on the Chaabi Music of Algiers .

After I  watched the clip, it’s averred to be the most greatest  event  of all times, in the history of the Andalusian Jewish-Arab music common heritage. They were still alive those talented artists from all the communities that still exist in Algiers of the pre-war era, it was an event by its own, and there they were reunified in an orchestra for a unique Concert given for the first time in the history of the Chaabi music. In that, it will make history for the next generations of fans for the years yet to come, for sure.

There were a golden time for the Algerian Chaabi music, a Blues Genre in the Algerian music repertoires, in the 40’s and 50’s, after WWII,  and then just after the Independence of Algeria , when it reconciled itself once more time, the Algiers public with the evenings recitals of Chaabi of the pre-war epoch. It was after the long nights of curfews and fears that the French colonies rulers had imposed the blackout on all the cultural, and music events, during the years of the Algerian revolution war.

A small talk about it, for instance, and it is necessary I presume, to introduce the Chaabi, on its own the genre of music, to the readers. The Chaabi music and lyrics, are Cassidates, meaning stories that are reflections of the Zeitgeist–the spirit of a particular moment, and the soul of a place,  revealing how a culture sees itself.

The name of Chaabi was given by its master himself, El hadj El Anka to a popular genre of music, that distinguished itself in the 30’s and 40’s from the Medheh, a religious music, and after the trove of a style that differs,  from the classic schools of the typical Moorish music of Andalusia, that usually was reserved for the ” aristocratic classes”, the wealthy people and the Serail. The Chaabi draws it sources from the Andalusia Heritage Arab-Moorish music culture, and a proper Algerian poetry from the terroire background.

Before the fall of the cities of Granada, and Seville in Spain, during the Reconquista epoch, those cities were the last îlots of peace , and the poles of attraction for all the refugees of Muslim’s and Jew communities, coming from all over the places in Spain, fleeing the persecuting Spaniards. After the fall of the cities in Spain, the inhabitants evaluated to North Africa Muslim countries were they found more dear and cognate welcome.

Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to__Charles Dickens

Three schools of Andalusian music formed and established respectively domicile in Tlemcen, with the Granada genre,  Algiers, where the Haouzi dwelled , and Constantine, the House of the eternal Maloof. We might say that the Chaabi genre was born in tragedy times, and it tell the story of a tragedy, . As we may say the melancholy longing for a lost home, could be found in the same way in listening to Federico Garcia Lorca’ poems, and  when  Louis Aragon narrate it. Nevertheless, now and then, the Chaabi regenerates itself from the its ashes, like the Sphinx. In the beginnings, the Arabic word “El Anka” is a name of rare bird, the mythical rock picked from the Arabian nights Sindbad tales, and given from a master of olden times, El haj Nador, to his young disciple of a rare talent, when the latest excelled to the point of surpassing the teacher.

There is the Delta Blues, the Fado in Lisboa, the flamenco in Spain, and the Chaabi as well in North-Africa; all of them sing a state of mind, the lament and separation of the beloved ones, the exile and longing for a remote home, a place lost forever. But also it celebrates the gathering and reunion of the two lovers. Fifty years later, a joyful band members celebrating a dream that comes a true, though an event after a tantalizing test of success for  awaiting too long, to play one more time on stage together in Paris, at the Opera,_S’il vouz plait.! Brussels, London, and lately in New York , at the Rockefeller Center, and above all things  within an orchestra exhibition. In some sort, the Chaabi took revenge on the odds, after an exile of more the half a millennium; an off-spring of the Arab-Moorish music is rising in apotheosis on the other side of the Mediterranean, and beyond.

Shall you visit Web and  and NPR: Shall you visit Web and and NPR:
In memories of all the Olden and new masters of Chaabi. thank you for reading In memories of all the Olden and new masters of Chaabi. thank you for reading
To contribute to this marvelous dream to come true, Please check this link below To contribute to this marvelous dream to come true, Please check this link below
kamal kamal



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