READERS LOOK TO TURN A NEW PAGE IN SUDAN’S LOST CAPITAL OF BOOKS
Bookshop owners in Khartoum are coping with a dramatic loss in profits but still refuse to relinquish the city’s rich literary past
On the corner of an old colonial building in central Khartoum sits the city’s oldest bookstore, Sudan Bookshop. It was established in 1902, three years after Britain established control over Sudan, and for a long time it was a magnet for the city’s civil servants, politicians and intellectuals.
Today, however, it is a ghost of itself. It is dusty, cold and empty of buyers, and it displays books published mostly in the ’70s and ’80s.
Sudan Bookshop’s manager, El Tayeb Abdel-Rahman, 69, still comes to work every morning at 8.30am. Dressed in a chic suit and tie, he awaits customers who rarely come.
‘‘We used to order a shipping container of books every month or two,’’ he recalled sadly. ‘‘But now no one reads anymore.’’
These are hard times for bookstores everywhere, of course. And as in other book-loving corners, Sudanese are quick to lament that technology and the internet have been turning eyes away from pages and toward screens.
But there is more at work here, in a city long famous as a big market for Arabic writers. Books and reading are embedded profoundly in Khartoum’s self-image and the country’s history, and there is growing worry that the collapse of book culture is a direct mirror of the country’s overall decline.
Most Sudanese are more concerned with bread than books, and for good reason. Years of war, drought and economic privation have left deep marks. A once-prestigious education system has crumbled, and the number of bookshops in Khartoum has fallen with it.
That sense of urgency and loss is driving a new wave of activism, with its sights on reviving Khartoum’s reputation as a literary city.
‘‘We want to bring people back to books,’’ said Abdullah al-Zain, 58, who started a project with friends called Mafroush — a Sudanese Arabic word meaning displayed.
In a monthly showcase held every first Tuesday, participating used-book sellers come to central Khartoum’s Etinay Square and lay their books on the ground over cloth sheets or flattened cardboard boxes.
Hundreds of book-lovers, including students, artists and writers, showed up on a recent afternoon, some gazing over the sprawl of covers, some flipping pages attentively. Others arrived with more books for the display.
‘‘You see, we don’t like to call them ‘used’ books — rather, ‘rebated’,’’ Mr al-Zain said.
Hassan al-Mutasim, 25, a graduate student, came searching for philosophy books. ‘‘I think Mafroush is a creative endeavour, and you meet other readers,’’ he said.
Mr Mutasim holds himself apart from others in his generation who think ‘‘Facebook and chat are the only expressions of progress’’.
‘‘I find, however, that when I read a book, I feel alive,’’ he added.
For many who are trying to revive reading here, the internet is turning into an ally.
‘‘The internet is not necessarily an enemy of books,’’ Mr Zain said. ‘‘It is so only for those who want it to be such. We use the internet to promote our programmes.’’
Across town, in Khartoum’s Green Square, another group is also trying to encourage Sudanese to return to books.
Hundreds of Sudanese youths met in the square on another afternoon, each with a book in hand. For the next few hours, they sat on the grass and either individually read books quietly, or joined a discussion circle with others.
‘‘We want to revive the habit of reading in public spaces,’’ said Raghda el-Fatih, 18, a volunteer with Education Without Borders, a group that called for a ‘‘Khartoum Is Reading’’ day.
Education Without Borders grew out of a discussion between two college graduates
The internet is not necessarily an enemy of books . . . it is so only for those who want it to be such. We use the internet to promote our programmes
who wanted to tackle the many problems facing education in Sudan. They started a Facebook page, and now have thousands of members.
‘‘One member suggested organising a day for reading,’’ said Wisal Hassan, 25, one of the group’s founders. So far, the group has organised two reading days, including one that coincided with the UN’s World Book Day.
‘‘It’s been a great success,’’ Mr Hassan added.
A sense of Sudanese tradition infuses the revival efforts, and those of writers trying to fuel them.
‘‘The founders of the nationalist movement were avid readers,’’ said one writer, Kamal el-Gizouli. ‘‘In the ’30s, they established reading groups and they used to exchange books with each other.’’
Back then, Mr Gizouli continued, Khartoum was having a cultural renaissance that included the publication of the first Sudanese magazine, Al-Fajr. The weekly train that arrived from Cairo to the north came with newspapers, magazines and books, both in Arabic and in English, which many Sudanese eagerly awaited.
The generation that followed inherited the love of reading, and built on it. ‘‘The ’60s was a period of optimism, ideological debates, and people were self-motivated,’’ Mr Gizouli said.
That period created an eclectic pantheon of writers revered in Khartoum, where Arabic authors such as the native Sudanese Tayeb Salih, the Egyptian Abbas el-Aqqad and the Syrian Nizar Qabbani became vital inclusions on readers’ lists that also included writers like Chinua Achebe, George Bernard Shaw and Ernest Hemingway.
At the time, Khartoum had nearly 400 bookshops, publishers say, including one, the five-storey Al-Dar Al-Sudaniya for Books that once boasted of being the largest bookshop in the Arab world. It survives. But others are struggling. ‘‘Business has dropped by 90% in the past 20 years,’’ said Fahmi Iskander, 39, the manager of Marawi Bookshop, another historic and family-run shop not far from Al-Dar AlSudaniya.
‘‘There have been days when daily sales were the equivalent of US$10 [310 baht].’’
Still, the stalwarts keep on. Back at Sudan Bookshop, Mr Abdel-Rahman, the dapper manager, said that he had maintained his pride despite tough times. ‘‘I’m working at a loss,’’ he said. ‘‘But it would be shameful to close down such an institution.’’