“For Morocco, June 1967 will be a second August 1953.”
Abraham Serfaty
“This literature [of Israel’s Palestinians] which has so far remained unfamiliar to us throughout our years of exile … is the brightest ray of [our] people’s struggle.”
Ghassan Kanafani
“Rien ne l’arrête [la poésie] ni la cruauté des hommes ni celle des dieux ni les rodomontades des puissants ni les verdicts irrévocables de la mort.”
Abdellatif Laâbi
In the spring of 1966, mere months after the disappearance of Mehdi Ben Barka and the suppression of countrywide student protests by the freshly-enthroned Hassan II (r. 1961–99), Souffles’ first issue saw light. The literary-political magazine, from its modest office in Rabat, aimed for nothing less than the overthrow of the “Casablanca-based cultural hegemony” (Laâbi, 1966a; Harrison and Villa-Ignacio, 2015).[1] Yet, just when Souffles’ editor, Abdellatif Laâbi, and his coconspirators began plotting their rebellion against Moroccan letters, Ghassan Kanafani—thousands of miles away in Beirut—had already been closing in on his nation’s literary landscape. Through his theory of resistance literature (adab al-muqāwamah), the Palestinian novelist and journalist was about to upend Palestinian writing, reconstitute its priorities, and recast it into an integral part of world literature. The June War of 1967 would not only embolden these literary projects and radicalize their aims, but, significantly, it would thrust them into conversation and translation.
To put Morocco and Palestine in dialogue, as this essay does, is not exactly a new move. Their connections are dense, manifold, and go beyond the long 1960s—the essay’s historical canvas.[2] Moreover, the stream of studies on Souffles’ and its Arabic arm, Anfas, have adequately pointed to the centrality of Palestine—both as national struggle and notional reservoir—for the magazine and its crew.[3] This essay, however, threads Morocco and Palestine through the needle of literary theory. In it, I delve into the entangled intellectual projects of Laâbi and Kanafani as reflected in their respective platforms: Rabat’s Souffles and Beirut’s Filasṭīn. Their mutual preoccupation with the question of national literature, their theoretical bedrocks, and the Third-Worldist moment that beckoned them from either end of the Arab world—before the ghastly fate they shared in 1972, with Laâbi incarcerated by a cruel postcolonial state and Kanafani assassinated by a settler colonial state—is the story this essay retells.[4]
The Scene in Rabat
In 1966, creators, critics, and consumers inhabited an Arab world in a state of literary maelstrom: cleaved by generation and cohort; strewn athwart an axis of commitment (iltizām) and modernism (ḥadāthah); and variably inspired by existentialism, socialism, Arab nationalism, Islamism, and liberalism—not to mention each’s permutations and their inexhaustible mashups.[5] Morocco’s literary domain—haunted by the long shadow of French colonial rule and compressed by a rapidly-absolutizing monarchy—shared much of these divides, if not at a higher intensity given the country’s linguistic, ethnic, and religious diversity. Laâbi and the cofounders of Souffles—Mustafa Nissabouri, Mohammad Khaïr-Eddine, Mohammad Melihi, and Mohammad Fatha—could not have birthed their magazine at more exhilarating a moment. But the moment was not entirely Souffles’ own. Its appearance overlapped with what would prove to be an equally foundational Moroccan intellectual forum: Lamalif. Launched in Casablanca by Mohamed Loghlam and Zakya Daoud “only days apart” from Souffles in Rabat, Lamalif would not only outlast its coeval—whose life was brutally cut short in 1972—but it would survive Morocco’s years of lead, publishing 200 issues over a lifespan of twenty-two years (El Guabli and Alalou, 2023). Ironically, it seems then that Casablanca ultimately had the final word on Moroccan letters despite Souffles’ protestations and the challenge it posed to its “cultural hegemony”—to borrow Laâbi’s (1966a) phrase once more.
Souffles didn’t equivocate, however. From the outset, the magazine boldly declared its mission and named its adversaries. In the inaugural issue’s Prologue, Laâbi (1966b) denounced Morocco’s “current state of literary affairs” and demanded a double departure from “French models” as well as from “Arabic canons” (Harrison and Villa-Ignacio, 2015).[6] For Laâbi, metropole-oriented Moroccan literature has outlived its utility. Time is more than nigh for the composition of poetry pulsating with the anxieties, discrepancies, and inspirations of the (Maghrebi) self. After all, poetry is the means by which the ex-colonized could “voice their dignity” and assert their individuality without “sinking into the numbers” (Ibid.; Laâbi 1966b). In the following issue, Laâbi (1966a) beefed up his blows and decreed a schism between Souffles and the intellectual types of Le Petit Marocain, whom he cast as nothing more than the “fetid offshoots of the former regime” (Harrison and Villa-Ignacio, 2015). He stressed that Souffles was a free and open “cultural domain,” wherein writing is only measured in terms of its quality and “contribution to … national literature”—the construction and fortification of which constituted the core of Laâbi’s intellectual quest (Ibid.). Between Laâbi’s fiery editorials in the first and second issues, Souffles framed itself as an outcry in the face of a listless Moroccan literary scene. Its poets “too anchored, too pure” (Ibid.). Their biting verse and caustic critique the only way out of the doldrums of contemporary Maghrebi letters. And their decolonial method the only recipe for a revitalized national literature, which transforms the act of writing into a revolutionary métier whose priorities spring from the mud of Moroccan reality. But what comprised this national literature as Laâbi theorized it?
In a two-part essay in Souffles’ fourth and sixth issue, Laâbi (1966c) reappraised the Fanonian thesis on national literature and culture, gauging its fit vis-à-vis his Moroccan, Maghrebi context. Laâbi, in what he designates as a much-needed afterword to Les damnés de la terre, largely endorses Frantz Fanon’s clinical prognosis of the Third World intellectual in the wake of decolonization (Ibid.; Harrison and Villa-Ignacio, 2015). An intellectual who’s able to recite every Shakespearean sonnet, quote Marx and Diderot, and tell apart Haydn from Mozart; yet he can’t escape the fact that he’s “overdetermined from without” (Fanon 1963; 2002). A “cultural monster” lacking anchor and unable to resolve the antinomies afflicting his grotesque psyche (Laâbi, 1966c; Harrison and Villa-Ignacio, 2015). Laâbi, further echoing Fanon, proceeds to dissect the predicament of the Third World intellectual ‘going native.’ She reattaches herself to her people’s past, resuscitates the ghosts of her defeated heritage, and wields her newly discovered culture “before the eyes of the oppressor as an object of pride” (Ibid.; Fanon, 1963). But it is in this last regard that the Fanonian thesis loses its hermeneutic bearing for Laâbi, arguing that the process of cultural rediscovery and the struggle against colonial epistemology played out differently north and south of the Sahara—a border he buttresses à la Léopold Senghor. And it is precisely in the arena of language where this divergence manifests itself:
The multiplicity of autochthonous dialects in each country of Black Africa as well as the lack of unified and transcribed vernacular languages have prompted writers to resign themselves to the use of foreign languages. In the Maghreb, where the language of culture has for centuries been Arabic [sic], the issue is much more complex (Harrison and Villa-Ignacio, 2015).
For Laâbi, the specter of (Arabic) language aggravates the Maghrebi intellectual’s cultural neurosis and exacerbates his/her alienation. To write in French is, thus, a symptom of the Maghrebi intellectual’s semantic dislocation; a mark of his/her maimed being and “turbulent coexistence;” and a torturous struggle to communicate “Arab thoughts”—and, I’d add, Amazigh thoughts—in an incongruent, never-yielding “French vocabulary” (Laâbi in Babana-Hampton, 2016; Haddad in Laâbi, 1970). Still, “one does not decolonize with words” (Harrison and Villa-Ignacio, 2015). Laâbi, at least at this stage of his career, cares less in what language the Maghrebi intellectual articulates her/himself.[7] The task of decolonization lies elsewhere. Not in language as expression, but in language as execution. As long the Maghrebi intellectual mangles and mutilates language—French or otherwise—and bends it to her/his idiosyncrasies then the task of decolonization has been actualized. Ultimately, for Laâbi, the question of national literature cannot be reduced to the choice of linguistic expression. Rather, national literature constitutes the decolonization of all and any linguistic expression (Ibid.). National literature subverts language, pidginizes it, terrorizes it, and detonates it (colonial) logic. And it is from this rubble of language that national literature erects a (decolonial) syntax, grammar, and morphology of its own.
The Scene in Beirut
The theory of national literature cogently devised by Laâbi during his stint as Souffles’ editor held as its main adversary the colonial episteme and its postcolonial mimes. And, despite its global filiations and affiliations, it took the post-1956 Moroccan state as its grounds and milieu. Kanafani, tucked away in his Achrafieh apartment, may have not shared Laâbi’s linguistic schizophrenia, but he did share his confidence in the decolonizing, executionary import of national literature.[8] Kanafani, however, had to craft a notion of national literature for a diasporic people denied self-determination. The fixity of a sovereign state—even a state as multitudinal, ill-defined, and brutal as Morocco—arguably afforded Laâbi a slight advantage that Kanafani altogether lacked. Kanafani, moreover, needed to expand the definition of the colonial to encompass the Zionism that banished him and his co-nationals into an uncompromising Arab world, where their knocks, as Palestinian refugees, often went unheard.[9] While this may seem like a formidable theoretical task to pull off, Kanafani would manage to do so in the lead to the Six Day War.
After the removal of his family from Acre during the 1947–9 Nakba, Kanafani shuffled between Damascus and Kuwait before putting down roots in Beirut, where he eventually gained literary renown. He was a prolific author, whose writings spanned genres and included fiction, satire, children’s literature, history, and, for our sake, literary theory (‘Abd al-Qādir 2015). But Kanafani was an impatient man who could not countenance the artifice of Beirut’s literati crowd and the ostentations of his day’s poetry. “Most poetry we read today,” he wrote in a satirical article, sounded like “the nightmares of a feverish, repressed adolescent” (Kanafani, 1996). He found modernist poetry unintelligible: nothing but a delirium of verses packed with phantastic myths. This kind of poetic absurdity distracted Kanafani from his explicit aim of putting his people and their cause at the center of the Arab literary agenda. A grueling chore he had to fulfill desperately, since he lived at the mercy of the insulin shots he pierced his arms with from day to day. Although Kanafani fell under the spell of President Nasser at his height in the late fifties, his admiration for the man was measured for his frailty and prideful arrogance precluded him from idolizing yet another mortal. Indeed, his 1962 novella, Men in the Sun, could be read as an early rebuke of Arab nationalism’s apathy to the Palestinian cause. Such cynicism injected Kanafani’s theorizations with an unease for the overtly nationalist, exclusivist discourses of his day because the Palestinian cause, in his understanding, merited a more universal, more translatable form of solidarity. In effect, Kanafani’s obsessive dedication, hājis so to speak, was for Palestinians to break free from the violence of representation they are subjected to by their Arab peers and for their cause to be wrested from Arab ideologues of all shades.[10]
Kanafani’s theorizations on national literature appeared in Filasṭīn, a Palestine-centered, biweekly cultural supplement he edited between 1964 and 1967. [11] His critical essays in Filasṭīn would culminate in two towering texts of Palestinian literary theory: Adab al-muqāwamah fī al-arḍ al-muḥtalah (Resistance Literature in the Occupied Land, 1966) and Fī al-adab aṣ-ṣahyūnī (On Zionist Literature, 1967). For Kanafani, Filasṭīn represented an open forum devoted to Palestine, its national struggle, and its culture and literature (Kanafani, 1964a). In Filasṭīn’s first number, Kanafani introduced readers to the then-overlooked struggles of Israel’s Palestinians. Kanafani (1964b) elucidated how Palestinians there lived behind an “iron curtain” segregating them from literary developments in Beirut and Cairo. In the face of Israel’s “cultural siege,” Palestinians persevered and found respite in the poem—a pithy, diffusible literary form that captured the “quotidian pulses of Palestinian dispossession” (Ibid.; Furani, 2012). Kanafani (1964b) described further the “ritualistic practices” surrounding the recitation circles of Palestinian poets in Israel, which often evolved into nerve centers of political protest. Palestinian poetry in the occupied land, thus, constituted a means of resistance and communal solidarity; so much so that the Israeli state outlawed poetry recitals in a fruitless attempt to counter their political effects—resistance in verse and in act. By drawing attention to the poetry of Israel’s Palestinians, Kanafani was responding to the poetic polemics of his day to showcase the extent of Palestinian creativity and to redeem poetry’s political tenor from the abuses of mythological abstraction. Indeed, his bid to reinvent modern Arab poetics would strike gold with the publication of ‘Āshiq min Filasṭīn (Lover from Palestine) in 1966—a graceful set of free-verse poems Mahmoud Darwish had penned behind Israeli bars, and which, for Kanafani, underscored poetry’s wherewithal as a concrete form of resistance (Nassar, 2017).
On the pages of Filasṭīn, between 1964 and 1966, Kanafani scrutinized different novels from the Zionist and Israeli canons. He surveyed how Palestinians figured within Jewish literary imaginaries and endeavored to discern the relation fixing literature to politics in Zionist writing. With his articles in Filasṭīn and his ensuing 1967 book, Kanafani anticipated Edward Said’s description of Orientalism as a project of control unfolding in literary discourse and comparably defined Zionism as a colonizing, literary-political system, which, at best, portrayed Palestinians as a people in need of saving at the hands of a Jewish modernity. His scathing assessment of Zionist literature notwithstanding, Kanafani saw in its example a nostrum to the discordant literary scene of the Palestinian diaspora. For instance, he saw in Leon Uris’s Exodus (1958)—which propagated a fable of Israeli heroism to the American public—a model of how literature could advance a national cause and garner it sympathy (Kanafani, 1967).[12] Kanafani saw in Zionism not only a tormentor and an oppressor but, equally, as well “a mentor and a point of reference” (Darrāj 2002). Toward this purpose, Kanafani advanced resistance literature—Zionist literature’s decolonial inverse—as a three-fold response. Firstly, to the mythological abstractions of exilic Palestinian poets, especially those of the Tammūzī variation like Jabra Ibrahim Jabra.[13] And, secondly, to a trend of literary commitment (iltizām) that was increasingly binding itself and its aims to a repressive Arab state.[14] And, thirdly and most deliberately, to Zionism and the state it birthed in their reckless insistence to dehumanize Palestinians in word, discourse, and deed.[15] With resistance literature, Kanafani (1966) ultimately crafted a literary theory of not just Palestinian provenance and global horizon, but one that analyzed (world) literature in terms of its reflection of the “commitments and tasks of the Palestinian cause.”
Laâbi (1966b) opened Souffles with the claim that poets were “witnesses,” whose “eyes of peace” keenly perceive social ills and “mutations.” Their verses “fierce alarms,” cutting through the chaos of language and society’s chorus of legends. Le manifeste du 5 juin 1967 of Syrian poet Adonis (1967; 1968), translated by Laâbi in Souffles’ ninth issue, similarly posited the poet as the “creative, active, and prodigious” force of society. Such prophetic arrogance coming from those who labored to transform the Arab literary tradition did not appeal to Kanafani. He saw beyond the Elysian claims of Laâbi, Adonis, and their likes. And advanced, instead, an antithesis to poetic prophetism. In Kanafani’s project of resistance literature, the poet was grounded and desacralized; remade from the nation’s clairvoyant sage to its lively pulse. The poet was no longer the austere harbinger of celestial futures, rather, the poet reflected on national crisis and offered the people poetic relief through penetrating verse. That is why Kanafani pointed to the poetry of Israel’s Palestinians—the poets of the occupied land from Mahmoud Darwish to Samih al-Qassim and Tawfiq Zayyad—as a model to be emulated by future writers of the Arab and Third worlds.
Figure 1 Sketches of Mahmoud Darwish and Samih al-Qassim by M. Chebaa in Souffles (no. 20/21, 1971).Defeat and the Refashioning of National Literature
Before 1967, Laâbi’s theory of national literature, though well-articulated, largely remained as such: theory. Concurrently, however, Kanafani—in adopting the Galilee triad of Darwish, al-Qassim, and Zayyad and enjoining them under the banner of resistance literature—succeeded in pushing theory to its ever-seductive, ever-elusive corollary: praxis.[16] After 1967, Kanafani’s theory of resistance literature permeated the region’s intellectual atmosphere and his poets soared into household names, featured in many a periodical in many a language. An island of hope in an ocean of defeat, Palestinian poetry would likewise come to enchant Laâbi and absorb his intellectual energies. Beyond his commitment to the Palestinian cause as the centerpiece of Third Worldist decolonization and his deep-seated conviction in its justice, Laâbi saw in the poetry of the Galilee triad a practicable model of national literature, which, if creatively appropriated and refashioned, could reinvigorate Moroccan letters and steer it out of its “current doldrums” (Harrison and Villa-Ignacio, 2015).[17] Palestinian poetry, for Laâbi (1971), as a “form of expression in motion,” evinced the possibility of “liberating, popularizing, and revolutionizing” not just national literature, but “national language and culture” writ large.
Figure 2: Artwork by Ali Noury from Souffles’ special issue on Palestine (no. 15, 1969).In a statement cosigned by Abdelkebir Khatibi, Tahar Ben Jelloun, and Mostafa Nissabouri in Souffles’ special issue on Palestine from late 1969, Laâbi further spelled out the national-literary implications of Palestinian resistance—in words and arms—for Moroccan and Maghrebi letters. Laâbi called upon North African writers to do away with “bastard literary currents” divorced from “daily praxis” and to give up their “complacent mimicry of imported literary modes.” The writers and artists of the Maghreb must, instead, reorient their intellectual compass eastwards—in the direction of Palestine—and devote their literary facilities in the service of the “Palestinian revolution.” Only then, from the dust of “ossified contents and forms,” will a “radically new literature” come to rise across the Maghreb (Souffles 1969; Harrison and Villa-Ignacio, 2015). Shortly after this special issue, Laâbi immersed himself in the poetry of the Galilee triad, picked through it, and translated it with a trenchant preface for a French audience.[18] Laâbi, in Fanonian spirit and in the garb of the “poet-translator,” renders Darwish’s Sajjil anā ‘arabī into Inscris, je suis arabe, taking a French “racialized epithet” and altering into a “positive marker of identity” (Harrison, 2013, 2015). Yet, what Laâbi (1971) sees as the “subversive character” of Palestinian poetry is what would eventually collapse both the Moroccan and Palestinian projects of national literature: namely, the role of poetry as a weapon “in the frontline of struggle against the multiple enemies of the Arab peoples.”
Before 1967, Laâbi, through his sustained focus on the question of national literature, bespoke a belief that “un autre Maroc est possible” (Sefrioui, 2013). After 1967, Palestine, its poets, and its struggle widened Laâbi’s radius of possibility and emboldened his imaginary. Palestine signaled that not only another Morocco is possible, but, perhaps, another Maghreb, another Mashriq, and another world. Isn’t the point, after all, to “create TWO … THREE … FIFTEEN PALESTINES”—in poetics as well as in politics; in theory as well as in praxis (Laâbi, 1970)?
Yet little of that was to be.
Poetics were soon taken over by politics in the Palestinian case with the rise of what would in due course prove to be a corruptible Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO) where the word was to be subservient to the bullet.[19] And the militant-leftist turn that Palestine and its resistance literature catalyzed across much the Third World would soon make its way to Rabat, with Abraham Serfaty commandeering Souffles by 1969 and imposing on it an unbending Maoism-Leninism, which attacked individuality in no uncertain terms, choking, thus, the magazine’s early, idiosyncratic spirit and bankrupting its early investment on the creative, liberating potential of poetry.[20] But to be fair to Serfaty, he rather despaired into militancy as an impossible panacea to the torments he, like other members of his generation, smarted from in the wake of the 1967 defeat. That was why, for him, June 1967 was as laden with pitfalls and possibilities as August 1953 was. Ultimately, in Morocco as much as in Palestine, the logic of weaponization and militancy devoured the word.
What the trajectories of Souffles and adab al-muqāwamah—before and after 1967—demonstrate is that the disproportionate politicization of literature vitiates it. Past literary forms, in Morocco as well as Palestine, were treated by Laâbi and Kanafani as rotten and unmoored from everyday realities. They called, instead, for a literature forged in the fire of the battlefront and for a poetry whose verses propel like shells from the barrel of a gun. Poetry, however, is not a weapon, even if it burns deeper in actuality. It is a “note of hope,” as Laâbi (2022) would come to realize.
Yet, if there’s anything that one could depart with from the imbricated plots of Kanafani and Laâbi and their common quest for national literature in Palestine and Morocco is that, even from the pits of the US-Israeli genocide in Gaza, poetry—much like the will of the Palestinian people—is invincible.[21] It is one of the few things capable of extricating hope, however forcibly, from the midst of horror. It represents one of the last and lasting proofs of our humanity. Refaat Alareer, Hiba Abū Nada, Salīm an-Naffār, and dozens of Gazan poets have already proven as much through their searing verse and have paid the ultimate price with their incinerated flesh (Sheehan, 2023). And Laâbi, after a lifelong engagement with Palestinian poetry, certainly knew as much when he addressed the Paris Poetry Market to protest their cancelling of a guest spot for Palestine in their 2025 edition: “Knowing Palestinian poets well, I can say with all tranquility that they are more humanistic than you and me. Their voices are indispensable to us” (Zine, 2024).
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