Sept.
10 2008
October 6, 2009 Issue: 12
Published on the first Tuesday of the Month
Accountabilities of Creativity and Writing
By: Fatema Al-Shidi
Translated by: Hammal Al-Bulushi
Why do we write?
Is writing a value in itself?
Is writing against life or vice versa?
Does writing ruin life?
What is more beautiful; to write about life or to live
life outside of writing?
Does the value of the writer appear outside of the
text?
Can a text «spill the beans» of a writer?
Is it appropriate to judge the writer through his text?
What is the separating space between, creativity and
insanity, narcissism and self – respect, and arrogance
and confidence?
Is the creative necessarily mentally ill? Thus, is
creativity the result of trying to fragment Oedipus
rooted in self?
Does the Arabic creative feel the schizophrenia
phenomenon represented in his private and public
lives?
What level of consciousness one needs in order not to
be mixed up between creativity and non-creativity?
Are the rituals of the creative connected with
creativity?
Is the creative ritual adventitious or genuine? Is it
variable or fixed?
Is creativity against to values?
What is more important; creativity or humanistic
values?
What are the levels of humanistic values for the
creative and are they real or assumed?
Is commitment to a cause a flaw in the text?
Is writing about humanistic values and community
issues a defective ideology for the text?
Is writing about self more preferable by the reader?
Is it enough to advertise the text or the writer must
be advertised?
What are the criteria of creativity in the era of
instability? Who has the standards of evaluating a
text or sending it with ovation to the reader?
Is the denial of the other a proof of self, its demolition
a building of self and its exclusion a special value?
Is apprehension a real or artificial state of
creativity?
Is creative seclusion a real and effective solution?
Does the text introduce its creator or vice versa?
Is dealing with sensitive issues and breaking the
2 The Trap
4 Doors Shut by the Wind
6 A Beautiful Face
social taboos a virtue for the text or an attempt by
the writer to be under the spot light?
Does lie, false, and social suppression result in anti-
creativity?
Is the ovation of friends’ texts even though if they
were weak and fragile an ovation of them as well?
Is the «textual ego» an applicable evaluating criterion
for other texts apart of cognitive qualifications of the
writer?
Are the certificates a prerequisite to introduce
writers?
Does who has a certificate have the standards of
critiquing and evaluating?
Is the soul of creativity is a masculine?
Do the masculine and feminine texts have the same
evaluating criterion?
Is writing an honour or distinction?
Is women creativity is lost between the cultures of
high-voice and high-heel?
Is the rhetoric of poetry in the era of «no-tribune»
a virtue?
Does the earsplitting delivery add something to the
text?
Is being charmed by west a genuine contrast?
Is creativity restricted in literature only?
Is agony and grief an inevitable memory for the
text?
Are the texts of desire and pleasure part of
creativity?
Is difference a value? Can we disagree with
cordiality?
Is there cultural terrorism in the Arabic societies?
Does disability encourage creativity or limit its
potential?
Does the creative receive the proper appreciation
that he deserves from the cultural institute?
Does the society revere the creative and appreciate
his value?
Is it the right of the creative to dream for a
materialistic gain for what he writes?
Can a creative get a little of career appreciation since
he represents the bright future of the country?
Can a creative, after years of working in a career
and producing creative work, dream of «full-time»
writing provided with all expenses of life?
Image Courtesy Of: Rahma Al Ghafri
Do we appreciate the value of questioning as a real
access to knowledge and a bet on what should be?
 2 October 2009
T h e T r a p
By Amnna al Rabia
Translated by Muna Yahya al Battashi
In Arabic, the connotations of a trap include meanings
relating to hunting and taking something by deception. I
personally do not intend to trap you! The different traps
that we easily fall into each and every day are as numerous
and as they are countless. For example, those who watch
the news on specialized or frivolous satellite channels
realize that they have been trapped. Similarly, whoever
watches those superficial music video-clips that are steeped
in silliness and triviality, realize it. And what shall we say
regarding those amusing games which are exorbitantly
Editorial Supervision expensive, where you realize that it’s a trapped stupidity
Azza Al Kindi or a stupid trap. Also, there are the poorly dubbed series,
Hammal Al Belushi as well as the recently emerged satellite channels, and the
hit by «Ashaloot»*. In conclusion, the viewer is easy prey
for the hunter.
Editors
However the trap that I intend to write about is a very special
Thomas Roche
one, which we encounter by reading the second scene
Salim Al Kindi
from the third chapter of the Hamlet. The main character,
Dalal Al Attabi
Hamlet, enters with two or three actors. He says:
Muna Al Battashi
“Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to
Text Selection you, trippingly on the tongue: but if you mouth it,
Badr AL Jahwari
as many of your players do, I had as lief the
Aysha Al Saifi
town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air
Graphics Selection too much with your hand, thus, but use all gently;
Safaa Al Nabhani
for in the very torrent, tempest, and, as I may say,
Public Relations the whirlwind of passion, you must acquire and beget
Umayma Al Harthi
a temperance that may give it smoothness. O, it
Ahmed Al Hadhrami
offends me to the soul to hear a robustious
Design by
periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to
Mahmoud Al Hosni
very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who
Special Thanks to: for the most part are capable of nothing but
inexplicable dumbshows and noise: I would have such
• Society for Fine Arts at Sultan
a fellow whipped for o’erdoing Termagant; it
Qaboos University
• Photography Society at Sultan out-herods Herod: pray you, avoid it.
Qaboos University Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion
• Department of Public Realations be your tutor: suit the action to the word, the
& Information word to the action; with this special o’erstep not
the modesty of nature: for anything so overdone is
from the purpose of playing.”
In one of the documentary films that accompanied the
invasion of Gaza, a documentary series was presented
on Al Jazeera named “Stories from Gaza”. Among those
omani_beacon@hotmail.com
touching documentary films, there was a film titled “A
Child from Gaza Narrating his Suffering”. No doubt that
there were many viewers who watched the movies as a
set or parts of a whole. However, what surprised me was
dealing with such subjects and promoting it via email under
an ugly title: “I Challenge all Gulf Children and Sheikhs”.
All wars are not unfairly justified as Ms. Susan Sonntag
announced in her anti-American war against Vietnam
several times. Thus, who is trapped here through the
promotion of a documentary series via an email with the
evil-like title? And how are the children of the Gulf related
to this issue? And why throw childhood into the barbarian
culture of nowadays? The concept of reciprocal criteria had
affected everyone, those near far, the sympathizers and the
non-sympathizers. What if the child was left to talk, with
the turbulent emergence of emotions, without drawling
and without those who add a hostile title that can be heard
among some of the Arab intellectuals? Would it change the
powers that be’s degree of compassion toward this issue
or would it ultimately bring justice? Let us read the child’s
dialogue which narrated his suffering:
“… No bed to sleep on, no food, no water and no electricity.
What a wasted life! This is Israel’s biggest blockade. They
see how we are thrown in here; we don’t play, laugh, learn
or watch kids’ programs. When we turn on the television,
we just see funerals, deaths and wars. We don’t watch kids’
programs to entertain ourselves and to learn from them.
They don’t show cartoons here. They are keeping us in here
like beggars. This blockade has been here for almost two
years and we haven’t had any advantage from it…etc.”
The above sentences leapt from the child’s tongue
leniently. He didn’t drawl like others. As viewers, we fall
into many traps. They consider the child’s narration of
this daily misery of the blockade, which some of the Arab
intellectuals and academics promote under the domination
of the reciprocal concepts and contradictions as part of life.
The scene revealed some dark sides of human thinking, and
stresses the need for enlightenment against the domination
of two-sided concepts and contradictory emotions and
reactions, without the availability of moderation in
judgment, or self-criticism. The child’s scene elaborates
for us what is happening today, or will happen later if
intelligent destruction persists in its work in bombing the
viewers from the inside using the killer’s tools.
*Ashaloot: to kick someone at the rear
 October 2009
3
A S o l i t a r y C O N C E R T
By: Zahran Al Qasmi
Translated by: Sara Al Sheyadi

Image Courtesy Of: Majid Al-Rawahi

O, mountains To the other bank, And these horizons would be full of you..
Welcome your straying son, Where warmth and butterflies are, Perhaps I would not see you then,
Take him to your tender and warm bosom, And let him bid you a farewell at the first But I beg you,
station of travel.
Grant him a last wish: Stand for awhile by my remains,
Take his shabby things with you,
To become a rock; And pray for me…
And hope that he would forget his memory,
To stand on your peaks,
To start again;
Mocking the beautiful flowers O, night
But do not leave him an address or ID,
That bloom on the bottom, Rising from the chest
And if you could change his features, do so,
Where there is mud and remains of nations. Of a small bird spattered with rain;
Morning is waiting for him there,
O, mountains Its feathers were blown by the wind;
With its wonderful surprises.
Return with him, Rising from a large heart that fills up
imagination with loneliness and fear,
“The Heir of the Ibex”
O, sun Give me a poke at the gate of your misty
Accept him,
world:
I looked for you everywhere,
Even if he is a hermit monster,
I enjoy seeing them shattered,
In the books and in the ancient manuscripts,
Who believes your valleys to be
Walking to their endless absence,
In the peddlers’ sacks,
The Promised Temple.
And I enjoy collecting their tears like rain,
In the luxurious cars,
To be carried to countries reposing under the
In the stations of a long journey,
O, wind, sand’s roots.
In death.
The wanderer’s amulet, I would sell you their children with their
Frivolity urged him not to mess around your hearts
nest, When I was exhausted, That are full of toys, and mornings
But he left the barking of his solicitudes in the You almost rose from my buried dream, embroidered with Lapis.
middle of the road.. I would feed you their eyes,
Fearing destitution.
You would not have been the obstacle of Which I would grill,
Here I am, stumbling in the darkness,
survival,
And upon my blood, its bats are fed. And you would drink their tears until you
When you dwelled in his bag in the past become drunk…
I hear the howling of its wild animals,
You were eating from whatever he threw of
his appealing.. Echoing in all directions.

O, wind, No doubt,

Carry the bird you raised in his hands, O, sun, you would come

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 4 October 2009
Doors Shut by
t h e
By: Samaa Issa
Translated by: Azza Al Kindi
(1)
After being diagnosed with leprosy, he was
deported from his hometown. He was sent away
from among the shimmering green date-palm
trees of his home to the isolation of the leper
colony, at the yawning mouth of a tired old valley
extending through indifferent mountains. Every
night before dark, the leper would sneak out to
his old house in the midst of the palm trees, linger
at a distance and watch his children with tears
welling in his eyes. When he saw that they had
had their dinner and gone to bed, he would trudge
off back to the colony.
The lepers had been removed to this new colony
under the reign of Imam Sultan bin Saif after a
tragedy had befallen the town. The old colony was
located along a deep-reaching path penetrating
the mountains between Izki and Rustaq. One
sweaty day, a leper got up and left the colony and
walked to Rustaq. The sweltering heat of the sun
dried him out on his march and by the time he
reached the first of the farms along the fringes
of a settlement his mind was focused only on his
thirst. So, he stopped near one of the falajes that
were running along the track. He held out a cup,
quivering, hoping someone would pass by and
help him get some water from the falaj. He was
careful that neither he nor his cup would touch
the water, he knew if it did that his illness would
pass on to people of the town. For a day or two
he stayed there waiting patiently for someone to
come along. Time flowed by, the hours passed. In
the end he died of thirst.
When his body was found with the cup clasped in
his hand with his desperate eyes looking longingly
at the water, Imam Sultan ordered that the colony
be relocated to AlGhashab in Rustaq. This leper
colony had kept its name until now.
(2)
When mad Saeed was taken to jail, he was ordered
to take off his wizar1 and put on trousers instead.
The order had come from Sergeant Abbas.
Mad Saeed protested violently, “Go to Hell.
What? Do you think I’m a woman who goes
around wearing trousers?”
Sergeant Abbas: “Shut up, and just do as I tell
you.”
Mad Saeed: “Look here, I’ll never ever wear
your trousers. Not in this lifetime. Next you’ll be
W i n d
asking me to dance. Mad Saeed come dance with slow death.
me…Don’t even dream of it.”
Where have all these people gone? The stony
Sergeant Abbas: “I said, shut up, and do what stairs lead to a small room inhabited by a blind
you’re told!” old man. He didn’t ask, “Who are you?» or
«Where did you come from?» He called out to a
Mad Saeed: “I don’t give a fig about your orders.
young girl and asked her to bring coffee in small
I’m wearing my wizar. Got it? These trousers are
cups and dates. Afterwards, he started speaking
for you, your soldiers and any other women you
sorrowfully: everything in this village was killed;
can find to order around.”
not a palm tree, nor a single plant remained alive.
Sergeant Abbas (to his soldiers): “Right. That’s We resorted to living in caves. The bombing had
it. Teach him a lesson that he won’t forget for the been a senseless act after everything had been
rest of his life.” destroyed. I watched the pilot chasing something
Mad Saeed was bashed from one cell to the next in the village. I tried to find out what it was but
until he ended up in a horrid little room with a I could see nothing. Eventually, I saw a puppy
dank rusting refrigerator in it. He was crammed running. The pilot skirted along the main road
into it, all legs and elbows, locked in, and it was dropping bombs as he gained on and overtook
pushed up against the wall so that he couldn’t the dog. He was trying to annihilate the last
even hear the dungeon’s doors being bolted. living thing in the village. The puppy apparently
enjoyed the game hiding behind thrown up rubble
Sergeant Abbas only meant to keep him there for only to reappear and tempt fate.
ten minutes, so that he’d collapse and agree to
wear the standard issue inmate trousers. One of
the officers returned from Saeed’s cell and gave
his boss the key. The Sergeant started yawning,
stretched his legs on the table and sank into a
deep smug sleep until dawn.
He woke up with a start and shouted at his soldiers,
“Quickly! Go and release Saeed!”
The soldiers hurried and opened all the cells,
one after the other. When they finally found
and opened the refrigerator, Saeed was an ice-
cube. He was taken out of it and put into a larger
refrigerator used for corpses.
“Bit of a blunder there Abbas. Could be
embarrassing for us all here. I don’t want that sort
of thing happening again. Am I making myself
clear?” admonished the commissioner.
“Sorry sir, I was exhausted.”
“Very good Abbas, I can over look it this time.”
“Yes sir, I promise I’ll never sleep again when
there is someone in the refrigerator.”
“Right Abbas”
“Right, sir”
(3)
When you climb the stony stairs leading into
the village, you will notice the children’s eyes
looking at you. Nothing will surprise you, but the Image Courtesy Of: Mohd Al-Raqmi
tranquility inspires in you the feeling of a quiet
omani_beacon@hotmail.com
 October 2009
The pilot, who had emptied his load, returned
to base for another supply. The puppy never
appeared again, but the pilot did, only to become
furious scattering his bombs over the remains of
the village. In our caves, we talked about those
bombardiers. Where have all these grudges
towards people and nature come from? How do
their hearts bear all this hatred that could swallow
the earth and the heavens? The pilot left and never
came back to our village again.
I got out of the cave and looked for the puppy
but didn’t find it. He probably realized that the
battle in this village was over and he had emerged
victorious. So, he disappeared into the lofty
mountains and never to return.
(4)
They were walking naked in a desert, individually
and in groups. Whips were striking their
bloodstained backs. I couldn’t see but could hear
them. Women watching from the surrounding
mountains were wailing. Children’s eyes were
staring at a dismal void.
A green tree appeared in front of them. They ran
towards it while their whips were running after
them, drinking blood from their shredded backs.
Beside the tree was a spring from which a fairy
emerged. She said to them: “I’ll not stop you from
drinking water. Wash your backs and drink. When
you leave, don’t walk but crawl on your stomachs
so that the whips don’t reach your backs but will
beat the air.”
They crept away. Yet, the whips still reached
them. They found another tree near a spring and
again a fairy emerged. She said to them: “Creep
on your bellies so that the whips don’t reach your
backs.” They continued creeping on their bellies.
When they reached the entrance to the town, they
tried to stand up and go in. Yet, their bellies were
stuck in the sand and there was no way they could
get free. They stayed like that until the wind blew
up and covered their bodies. No one ever heard
of them again. On the mountains, women stopped
wailing. The children’s eyes kept staring into the
void realizing that nothingness was the master of
the desert2 .
Footnotes:
1
A wrapper worn by Omani men instead of trousers
2
Editor’s note: I feel myself forced here to quote Nietzsche
who wrote: If you stare long enough into the void, the void
stares back at you.
5
Samaa Issa ..
Identity and
Authenticity
By: Dr. Zakariya Al Mahrami
Translated by: Azza Al Kindi
Much has changed through establishing an authentic
Omani literary identity. True content and style have
been abandoned and replaced by themes. Creativity
appears to have disappeared. Unfortunately, Western
and Eastern standards have been applied to Arabic and
particularly Omani texts.
This conflict between modernism and authenticity
has resulted in the absence of an Omani identity. We
are unable to differentiate between a text from an
Omani writer smelling of the warm sea mingled with
frankincense and a Western writer describing the North
Winds.
Only a few works show literary creativity that can
identify them as the writer. Samaa Issa’s writings
describe the Omani countryside, its geography and
natural beauty. He incorporates all a list of features
that are truly Omani. By using the familiar tools and
instruments from our historic past, a certain intimacy
is created with the Omani reader. Authors who use
foreign settings in their works alienate the Omani
people.
His texts retell myths and legends that have been
handed down through the generations.
His texts incorporate a religious identity, which has
some Sufi touches. He speaks about “the mosque’s
door, the Imam, the Qura’an school and the village
worshiper”. He demonstrates that Islamic rituals are
part of his identity. Unlike those who support their
texts with western literary and philosophical quotes,
Samaa uses quotes from the Holy Qura’an, “And
indeed the Hereafter is better for you than the present
(life of this world) ** And verily, your Lord will give
you (all good) so that you shall be well-pleased”, Suart
Footnotes:
Ad-Diha: 3-4.
1
Imam Sultan bin Saif Al Yarubi is the second Imam of
In his works we do not find passion discussed but rather
the Ya’aruba Dynasty. He ruled Oman in 1640.
the poetry of Iman Sultan bin Saif1and Abu Muslim Al
Bahlani2. We also find other references to his purity in 2
Abu Muslim Al Bahlani is Nassir bin Salim Al
his speeches with Baudelaire. In these, he proclaims Bahlani Al Rawahi. He is an Omani scientist and poet
his commitment to the Omani identity.
We are in great need of writers such as Samaa Issa to
continue to write and report on the true Omani identity
and heritage.
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 6 October 2009
By: Lina Al Belushi
Translated by: Safaa Al Nabhani
«I want another face», the idea lit up a dark corner of
her mind, spreading the hope that the sweetness of life
was finally dawning. She thanked Allah for creating
dreams. «This mine of ideas.. it takes a whole night
of digging to find something in the morning», she said
to herself.
When she realized she would be late, she got up from
her ruffled bed and stood in front of a mirror glaring
into it. «Ahh», she sighed. «Is this me?» She did not
like the idea, «No, it’s not me.» She tilted her head,
slapped it and cried «Now I look like my grandma.
« In desperation she sat on the ground, and then
stood up again in front of the mirror. She looked
at her hair, and swiftly hid it under a wig, but alas,
she was horrified when Louis the 14th replaced her
reflection on the mirror. She felt terrified, but held her
screams. Louis felt sympathetic towards her, «Do we
know each other?» he said. She was silent for a while,
then answered furiously, «Could you tell me how you
died?» Aaahhh, she screamed again and fell to the
ground. It was as if she had been attacked by a beast.
She took the wig off and threw it away.
She cursed her nightly dreams. She decided to wash
her face. She went into the bathroom, turned on the tap
and glanced into the mirror. She suddenly remembered
a black singer who sings for her country. She relaxed
her eyebrows and noticed that her hair was now wet.
She took a deep sigh, «Good. At least it is not like
copper foil!»
After lunch she went out. She did not care about the
distance she traveled. She had a little rest in the cold
corridor. She went to him and was warmly welcomed.
He has seen a lot but didn’t want to trouble her. And
for that she was grateful to him. At last, he asked,
«How exactly do you want it to be?» With a light, then
serious smile she answered, «I want a face like Laila’s
when Qais* fell in love with her at first sight» He burst
out laughing, which frustrated her, but she didn’t have
to argue. Instead she took a pencil case that she found
nearby and threw it at him.
She left his house remembering that he had a sarcastic
laugh. She expected that from anyone but not from
him. Didn’t he tell her that she would be prettier when
they added a beauty spot on the left of her upper lip?
«Can you imagine how others will imitate you if we
made that dot look like a little flower?» Now she
knows why he did not fix the strabismus in his eyes.
Her suspicions were confirmed when she saw a woman
lying down covered in bandages like a mummy. She
was horrified; she went home paler than she’d been
before. She did not talk to anyone; she collapsed on
her bed and slept.
face..
She woke up full of energy as if nothing had happened;
she did her best to treat everyone kindly. Her family
AT A S L A N T
ANGLE
was pleased that she has changed her mind and
nobody dared to ask her where she had been the day
before. Seeing her smiling again was enough to please
them. She did not want to worry them although her
ideas were still roaring in her mind. She worried that By: Mohamed Al-Harthy
if she told them they would yell at her, and she was Translated by Sargon Boulus
already sick of their preaching. Last time they told her,
«Do whatever you like, we aren’t responsible for what
you do.» She heard her mother’s voice calling her for You were not
lunch. This time she did not show any anger towards
her noisy little brothers. Perhaps nobody, except
the meanings’ cohort
herself, was surprised by her behavior; her brothers or its opposite,
were chasing each other one minute and fighting the
next. She wished she could become a child once again
but between two doors
and not worry about anything. you paced with half-words,
She asked her parents for permission to go out that you scaled the roof of dream
evening to visit her friend, while thinking of her secret
with the fabled
idea. They talked for a long time. Her friend’s mother
was kind enough to give them some food and said adventure, stalked the arm
«Neither of you have changed». They thought about and cane that became
it for a moment and then laughed. She realized it was
a road, as evening fell
time to introduce her idea to her friend. «It’s a piece
of cake. I’ll take it to a specialist», her friend said in the elegies and
referring to her brother.
the mirrors.
He welcomed them; she remembered her encounter
with him once when she had avoided him. He showed Nor were you alone
his willingness to help her. She took a photograph as you went down the slope
from her bag and gave it to him. «But this is you», he
of your life where
said surprisingly. «I heard you are good at computer
programming. I want you to make me another face.» you weren’t alone.
He was silent for a while, and then asked, «How can
your hand lit the candles
others recognize you?» She could not answer. She was
worried that he would ask more questions; she claimed of air, the dawn’s photograph
she was late and then left. That night, she could not
sleep for she was thinking about how she would look. wove the morning haze
She was thinking of him as well. with a sleepy needle
Three days later, her friend and her friend’s mother and a morningless woman’s
visited. When they were alone in the room, her friend
gave her an envelope. She could not wait; hundreds of lock of hair
unconnected ideas filled her mind. She looked at her in the immense mirror
friend’s eyes and then quickly opened the envelope. She
found her original photo unchanged. She scrutinized
that reflects the same image
the picture unable to find any difference. Finally, she with a slanting angle
realized that it was the face he wanted her to have.
at the end of the slope
you never understood
* Famous lovers in Arabic literature.
was your life itself
hung at the entrance
to paradise.
omani_beacon@hotmail.com
 October 2009
In its Final Concert of the Season
ROSO* Plays Mozart And Franck:
COMBINING THE SUBLIME AND THE AVANT-GARDE
By: Nasser Al-Taee
ROSO’s last concert of the year on 17 June, 2009 was
unique and selective. It capped another successful year
for ROSO within an intimate and less extravagant
setting, marked by unpopular, yet significant, works
from outside the canon of Western music. The
program included pieces from the 18th, 19th, and 20th
century and ranged in its harmonic depth from tonal to
romantic to post-modern.
The first piece was by the English composer of
German/Irish descent Alec Roth’s entitled Fandangle.
Influenced by Javanese Gamelan and Eastern music,
Roth’s work is written for a large orchestra and featured
highly playful, but difficult rhythmic syncopations.
Guest conductor Simon Wright has already recorded
the piece on a CD in 2004 and it was most likely a
piece that was promoted the conductor for his visit to
Oman. Overall, the work served as a brief and colorful
overture to an evening united by the musical tonal area
of D, both major and minor in the works of Mozart
and Franck.
The next piece was Mozart’s Flute Concerto in D. It is
a composition initially conceived as an oboe concerto
in C major, K. 314 composed in 1777 for oboist
Giuseppe Ferlendis. The next year, Mozart transposed
the concerto to D and the concerto became standard
in flute repertory. Mozart’s significance in writing
concertos lies in his elevation of its dramatic depth
and virtuosity at a time he was seeking a permanent
position as an opera composer in Vienna. In his more
mature and influential piano concerti, Mozart utilized
the solo as a powerful rebellious force, voicing its
dismay of society’s constraints. In music, this is done
through its harmonic role of modulation, challenging
the tonal center established by the orchestra in a
dramatic defiance. The concerto is also known for its
wonderful cadenzas strategically located toward the
end of the movement. These were often improvised
by Mozart in his piano concerti, but he also wrote
them out for his pupils. In the eighteenth century,
these improvised segments were meant to showcase
the talent of the soloists and their ability to improvise.
The arrival at these cadenzas is also significant in
delineating the form of the movements as they serve
to mark the last statement by the soloist and the final
return of the orchestra before closing.
In general, this flute concerto is intimate and has a
breath of fresh air in its small scale orchestration
compared to the opening orchestral number. Since it’s
a work from Mozart’s earlier years prior to his move to
Vienna in 1781, it has the feel of ardent youth. Some of
Mozart’s new innovations to the concerto include the
solo entry in the finale prior to the standard tutti by the
orchestra. Soloist William Bennett played flawlessly
but at times seemed intrusive to the conductor’s role
in dictating the pace and the dramatic unfolding of the
work. Additionally, his performance at times struck
me as dull and uninspiring, especially in the slow
movement as his rendition lacked passion and melodic
breadth needed for this lyrical movement. Bennett did
not seem to play with a great sense of urgency and his
parts sounded rather choppy at times. Many factors can
attribute to this, including his repeated performance of
this standard piece in the repertory and throughout his
lengthy career.
Following intermission, the audience was treated to a
rare French symphony by the composer, teacher, and
organist of Belgian birth César Franck (1822-1890).
In the nineteenth-century, the symphony was largely
a German genre dominated by Beethoven, Schubert,
Mendelssohn, Brahms, Bruckner, and Mahler. In 1830,
however, French composer Hector Berlioz caused
sensations throughout Europe with the premier of his
radical Symphonie fantastique. Considered the first
fully explicit programmatic symphony, Berlioz built
on Beethoven’s innovations and wrote his massive five
movement symphony unified by one single idea that
repeated throughout the symphony. Berlioz referred to
this motif as the idée fixe, or fixation, which stood for
the composer’s obsession with his beloved and future
wife Harriett Smithson (see example below). Noted for
its length and irregular phrasing, the idée fixe stands
in sharp contrasts to Beethoven’s four note theme of
his Fifth Symphony. This approach was central to
Franck’s symphony, which is also unified, albeit less
intrusively, by its opening theme.
Influenced by Beethoven, Berlioz, Meyerbeer, Liszt,
and Wagner, Franck adopted the idea of cyclicism into
his symphony. Franck heard Wagner’s Tristan und
Isolde in November 1874 and its influence were very
clear in his subsequent organ and orchestral works,
espeically in the opening of the fifth Béatitude (1875)
and in Les Eolides (1876). Working with cyclical
themes as leading ideas in his operas (he called this
Leitmotif), Wagner was a master at manipulating
themes within a complex harmonic web that created
the feelings of suffering, anxiety, and yearning that was
omani_beacon@hotmail.com
7
not resolved in Tristan until the final chord, hundred
of pages later. The resolution of the famous “Tristan
Chord” in the orchestra matched the unification in
death of Tristan and Isolde on stage as the lovers
expire in each other’s arms.
Franck’s Symphony in D is noted for its sweeping
lyricism. The opening theme is not only dissonant but
highly organic as it evolves throughout the work as a
unifying element in the symphony. Unlike Berlioz’s
fantastique, however, Franck’s symphony is in three
movement format compared to the standard four
movement structure. The second movement combines
the traditional slow and dance movements of the
inner movements of the symphony framed by faster
movements. While the three movement layout remind
us of the early emergence of the symphony in the
eighteenth century, the cyclical use of his short themes
and the manipulation of them through variations are
features of the avant-garde of the day. In the clashing
of the sound, Franck’s symphony emulates the spiritual
sound of the organ with its slithering chromaticism
and master control over dynamics through crescendos
and decrescendos.
Lastly, the swinging lyrical themes of the symphony
are balanced with dance tunes that give the symphony
a distinct French texture harking back to the operas of
Lully that celebrated the glory of Louis XIV and his
passion for dance.
In its final concert of the 2009 season, ROSO played
and inspiring concert where it combined Mozart’s
elegance and sublime youth of his flute concerto
with Franck’s avant-garde symphony. Despite the
symphony’s harsh dissonances, there was excitement
and tremendous energy in the concert hall in the
second half of the concert. Most impressive was the
English horn, who managed to shine through the
bombastic sounds of the brass with sensuous lyricism
and polished accuracy. ROSO seems more happy and
comfortable in its newly renovated hall at the Oman
Auditorium where it can project the beauty of these
masterful works with greater accuracy, control, and
details. While I applaud ROSO’s effort throughout the
year, I question the lack of advertising and publicity of
the event as most members of the audience I talked to
did not read or hear any public announcement in the
local venues for the concert.
* Royal Oman Symphony Orchestra
 8 October 2009

Daily Scenes from the Land of Thai

By: Said Al Hatmi
Translated by: Sumaya Ambu-Saidi

(1)
A woman with an expressionless face stood in front of the massage
club calling, «Massage, massage» to people walking by. Her flip-flops
thumped the pavement. Two brown-skinned men, who were walking by,
stopped to listen. They had just arrived in the country.
She invited them in and they happily followed. Half an hour later, they
come out exhausted, grabbed their bags and headed to a nearby hotel. The
woman resumed her advertising. Only an idiot would buy a ticket from
the Gulf for this!
(2)
The privileged lady was still sleeping. Ten floors below, two streets across
a tiny woman appeared. She began sweeping away the pools of water that
had collected after yesterday’s heavy rain. Then she hung some clothes
on the line.
(3)
When I opened the door to my room (No 1032), a big-bellied tourist
from the Gulf entered the opposite room holding a mesbaha* in his hand.
To the left, at the end of the corridor was a worn-out prostitute heading
towards the lift.
(4)
Climbing Nang Mai Temple is more like climbing a ladder to the heavens.
There is a straight stairway with 1000 steps that lead to the top of the
mountain. The young groom, who comes from the desert, kept telling his
bride that it was pointless to go on climbing, «You’ll only find another
Buddha».
At the 100th step, an old European was pushing his wife up the stairs
towards Nang Mai Temple.

(5)

The chin, familiar to the rough fingers of a Pakistani barber in Al-Seeb

market, bent this time to a girl’s fingers in the barbershop in Chiang Mai.
“How soft she is”, he thought as soon she laid her hand on his shoulder.
A woman standing close to him was watching as the tiny fingers worked
their way around his chin. When the girl finished, the wife started
complaining. She wanted him to wait until they returned to Oman where
he could have a “proper” shave. Meanwhile, he was thinking of going on
his own the next time.

(6)

From the balcony of his room at Kata Beach Resort, he could see the fleecy
white clouds drift across the blue sky. The green countryside of Phuket
stretched as far as his eyes could see. It was a cinematic view before him.
Suddenly, the heavens opened and rain poured down. It wasn’t like the
desert rain he was used to. For more than an hour, it rained. For more than
an hour, he waited.

He went out expecting to see puddles and pools of water everywhere. This
usually happened in the wealthy town he came from. He was amazed! It
had all disappeared.

* Muslim prayer beads.

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