Culture remains enduring constant at heart of resistance: Mohamed Salmawy

Daily News Egypt

a day ago

'Palestine is not merely a political cause; it is the mirror in which the Arab self is reflected.' In a candid and incisive conversation, renowned Egyptian writer Mohamed Salmawy reflects on memory, resistance, cultural identity, and the enduring responsibility of the intellectual in turbulent times.
In an era where genuine insight is increasingly drowned out by the clamour of instant commentary and disposable opinion, Mohamed Salmawy remains one of the Arab world's most luminous voices of moral clarity and cultural stewardship.
For decades, Salmawy has occupied a rare position at the confluence of literature, cultural advocacy, and public life. His career is distinguished not only by literary excellence but by an unwavering commitment to intellectual integrity and moral courage.
At a moment when shifting regional dynamics and successive crises have driven the Palestinian question to the margins of political discourse, Salmawy insists that it endures—not merely as a geopolitical concern, but as the moral and existential cornerstone of Arab identity. Despite persistent attempts to sideline it, the Palestinian cause remains deeply embedded in the Arab collective imagination.
In this expansive and contemplative exchange, Salmawy opens both heart and mind, meditating on Palestine's persistent centrality in Arab consciousness, the resilience of a generation once presumed indifferent, and the undimmed ember of solidarity that continues to burn. He speaks of resistance movements that have reshaped history, of the thinker's sacred duty to preserve memory in the face of cultural erasure, and of the enduring necessity of resistance—not solely through arms, but through words, reflection, and cultural guardianship.
Drawing on a rich personal journey, Salmawy explores the concept of a 'culture of resistance,' the Arab world's contemporary crisis of awareness, his relationship with power, and a hopeful vision for the future of Arab culture. The result is a dialogue of rare philosophical depth—one that refuses despair and reaffirms the enduring power of memory, truth, and moral resolve.
You recently explored the concept of a 'culture of resistance.' In light of the ongoing crises sweeping the Arab world, what does this phrase mean to you?
The culture of resistance is far more than a reaction to occupation or political oppression; it is a deeply rooted civilisation force woven into the very fabric of our history. Resistance begins with the word—through ideas, poetry, theatre, storytelling. We inhabit a region in perpetual flux, and so our culture must remain vigilant, engaged, and unyielding in the face of domination or dependence. For the intellectual, the word is a weapon—no less powerful than any firearm.
Do you believe the Arab intellectual today is fulfilling his responsibilities adequately?
The intellectual is the architect of collective awareness—politicians often lag behind or exploit that awareness. But where do intellectuals stand today? There are indeed sincere efforts, but we live in an age marked by confusion and fragmentation. The issue is not a lack of cultural production, but the absence of real influence. Books are published, plays performed—yet how many truly resonate? How many genuinely reach the public? Despite the abundance of output, we are failing to forge meaningful engagement.
And what, in your view, lies at the heart of this issue?
The media bears much of the responsibility. Rather than acting as a bridge between culture and society, it has become a barrier. Superficiality now dominates the airwaves. Serious cultural programming is increasingly rare, often relegated to late-night hours, while trivial entertainment and escapism dominate prime time. This dynamic gravely undermines efforts to cultivate genuine public consciousness.
Let us return to the beginning—when did you first come to realise that writing was your irrevocable destiny?
From a very young age. I was writing and staging plays in school and began composing poetry and short stories around the time of adolescence. My father, although a businessman, was a voracious reader. Our family library housed the works of giants like Taha Hussein, Al-Hakim, and Naguib Mahfouz. Within that intellectually rich environment, I came to see writing not as a diversion but as a calling, a solemn responsibility. Later, I studied English literature and had the privilege of studying at Oxford University—an experience that significantly shaped and deepened my intellectual and creative outlook.
You have held distinguished cultural appointments both within Egypt and internationally. How have these roles shaped your vision of cultural endeavour?
I had the honour of presiding over the Egyptian Writers' Union and subsequently the Union of Arab Writers and Intellectuals. Yet, throughout, I have remained a writer above all else. Titles are fleeting—only the written word endures. These roles revealed to me that the challenges facing culture across the Arab world are largely similar: chronic underfunding, a weak translation infrastructure, and the consistent relegation of culture beneath political and economic concerns. Yet, even in such adversity, I have encountered extraordinary talents—creators with nothing but their art, yet undeterred in their resolve. It is they who keep the flame of hope alive.
And how would you describe your experience with translation?
Translation has long been a personal and professional priority—not simply a tool, but a cultural obligation. Sadly, we fall short both in translating the world into Arabic and in exporting our own intellectual and artistic output. What we need is a strong, permanent national institution dedicated to translation as a vehicle for cross-cultural understanding. I fought hard for this, and it was a personal triumph to witness the creation of the National Centre for Translation. But founding it was just the beginning—it must be properly funded, institutionally empowered, and culturally autonomous to fulfil its mission. Ours is not a quest to mimic the Other, but to understand—and in that understanding, to better know ourselves.
The relationship between the writer and authority has always been fraught. You were at times close to the corridors of power. How did you manage that proximity?
Proximity to power is not inherently problematic; the danger lies in forfeiting independence. Yes, I was close to decision-making circles—I even helped draft significant documents, including Egypt's 2014 Constitution, in which I wrote the chapter on culture. But I was never a follower. I wrote articles critical of the authorities and was removed from a position because of one such piece. An intellectual must guard their freedom of thought; once that is lost, they cease to be a voice of conscience and become an instrument of the state.
Do you consider the present climate conducive to genuine freedom of expression?
No climate is ever perfect. Freedom is not a fixed state—it is an ongoing struggle. A true writer finds ways to speak even in adverse conditions. Today we have tools our predecessors could not imagine—digital platforms, social media—yet these too can mislead as easily as they can enlighten. The challenge is to use them wisely, with ethical conviction. Freedom, after all, is hollow without accountability.
And what final counsel would you impart to the rising generation of writers and artists?
You are the torchbearers of tomorrow. Ignore those who claim culture has lost its relevance. The written word remains mightier than any weapon. Resist the allure of instant fame—pursue meaning, not celebrity. Read widely, think deeply, and fully engage in the moral and intellectual struggles of your time. For it is from life—in all its chaos and beauty—that enduring art is born.
How do you situate the Palestinian question within its wider Arab context?
The Palestinian cause has never been a passing political episode or local conflict. It stands as a powerful symbol of the Arab world's historical dispossession—the stripping away of resources, sovereignty, and cultural identity. It transcends borders and nationalist sentiment. Palestine is the prism through which we see the struggles of the Arab nation. It is not just a land under occupation, but a symbol of every injustice, every silenced voice, and every stolen future. It is the crucible of our collective striving for freedom.
And do you believe the present generation retains a cognisance of this profound connection?
Candidly, I once feared the opposite. There were signs that younger generations were growing distant from the cause—perhaps due to its diminishing presence in public discourse or the pressing distractions of modern life. At times, it felt as though Palestine was being consigned to the margins. And then Gaza erupted, and the narrative shifted dramatically.
What precisely do you mean by 'Gaza erupted'? Are you alluding to the most recent assault?
Precisely. The recent events in Gaza—a defiant stand against inhuman savagery—marked an irreversible rupture. The scale of brutality was staggering, unmatched in recent memory. One might have expected the region to retreat into silence. Yet the opposite occurred. A renewed political consciousness emerged, reclaiming Palestine from the periphery. This awakening did not stem from official declarations but from the people, particularly the youth, who embraced the cause as their own.
Do you discern a substantive transformation in the consciousness of Arab youth towards the Palestinian cause?
Absolutely. The intensity of youth engagement on digital platforms—calls for boycott, cultural campaigns, protest art, slogans, and anthems—has been extraordinary. Arab youth are no longer passive witnesses; they are active agents of change. They didn't wait for leadership—they led. This is no passing moment, but a deeper reawakening of cultural and political awareness. The fire of the cause continues to burn brightly in their hearts.
And how do you assess the role of the Arab intellectual in this milieu? Has the intellectual sphere fulfilled its historic duty?
Without the enduring efforts of Arab intellectuals, the Palestinian cause would not have retained its central place in our consciousness. I, too, contributed with my novel 'Coloured Beads.' Since the Nakba, Arab writers and thinkers—from the Maghreb to the Gulf—have produced an immense and powerful body of work. Palestinian literature, especially, remains vital: Ghassan Kanafani's 'Men in the Sun' and 'Returning to Haifa,' the poetry of Mahmoud Darwish and Samih Al-Qassem—these works form the cultural spine of resistance and remembrance.
What of the representation of the Palestinian cause in the realm of visual arts?
Visual art has proven one of the most evocative mediums for conveying the Palestinian experience. I recently attended an exhibition by Khaled Samahi, where one striking piece showed a masked youth with a gaze that proclaimed: 'I am here… I remain.' I was moved to acquire it. My wife, Nazli Madkour, a prominent visual artist, and I have assembled a collection captured in the book 'Jabal Al-Narjis' (Mount Narcissus), curated by Dr Magda Saad El-Din and photographed by Emad Abdel-Hadi. These works do not merely depict—they bear witness. Art becomes resistance.
Do you perceive a genuine shift in the portrayal of Palestine within the global media landscape following the recent hostilities?
Without question. For the first time in decades, the dominant Zionist narrative appeared visibly shaken. Global media could not ignore the sheer scale of the atrocities. The most powerful images—of children beneath rubble, bombed hospitals, devastated schools—emerged not from major networks but from Arab youth. Alternative media proved that truth, when persistently and fearlessly articulated, cannot be silenced.
In one of your essays, you characterised the Palestinian child as the 'Personality of the Year.' What inspired that poignant declaration?
Because no image this year has been more searing than that of the Palestinian child—dust-covered, traumatised, searching the rubble for a mother or a glimmer of hope. These children, robbed of innocence and safety, have become the living embodiment of a seventy-year struggle. When the world is finally shaken by the bombing of a sleeping child, something in the collective conscience irrevocably shifts.
Lastly, what does Palestine signify to Mohamed Salmawy, both on a personal and symbolic plane?
Palestine is not simply a national cause—it is a matter of existential identity. It is not just a place on the map, but the repository of memory, dignity, and spirit. It is the ultimate measure of one's moral compass. Those who turn their backs on Palestine renounce their very essence. To deny it is to reject our past and betray our future. Palestine is the mirror through which we see ourselves—and if that image is shattered, so too is our reflection.