Zena Takieddine in conversation with Adib Rahhal
June 2021
The Little Bookshop lives up to its name and shines as a hidden jewel amidst Beirut's chaos. Its signature mustard-yellow steel-gates and honey wooden furniture offer a touch of optimism and warmth in these challenging times. Stinking garbage does tend to pile up along the sidewalks of Hamra neighborhood and electricity cuts are rampant, pollution levels are rising, financial collapse is crippling and street protestors are raging against a criminal government to no avail. It seems there is little to hope for in these deplorable circumstances. Yet, The Little Bookshop is there, quietly tucked in a side-street with its traces of war, reconstruction, graffiti, hopefulness and trauma.
Like a lone ranger for human dignity, Adib Rahhal, the founder of the Little Bookshop, parks his bike against the vitrine and turns on the light for passers-by to know, the shop is here, through thick and thin, where fellow seekers of meaning amidst the crises might find each other over a poem, a mind-altering piece of fiction, or even, a Dance Mag.
Hi Adib! You've always had an appreciation for books, literature and the arts. What is it that attracts you to these fields?
Hello Zena! Well, let’s see… books and literature and music have always been safe havens for me, ever since childhood. I suppose you could say they offered alternate modes of existence and other dreamscapes, amidst hindered or troubling realities. As I grew older, the discord between the two dimensions didn’t only not decrease, but on the contrary, it became more pronounced. That is the psychological aspect, but more importantly, there is the aesthetic aspect about the arts which nothing else can parallel; a good book or a piece of music can transport you to realms that touch upon the potentiality of there being some kind of meaning to it all… Which says a lot!
How has it been for you to set up this small enterprise during these difficult times, especially since the uprisings and then the lockdowns. Are people still coming by? To chat or browse or purchase? I know you keep odd hours and it must be a godsend for some people to see your little shop open when all else is dark. But I also know the lockdown has restricted that very much as well...
Definitely! These are challenging times. I would say that, for the most part now, the purpose of the bookshop is to offer a space where one can take a break from the madness without and catch a moment of quiet from within.
It was always my intention to have that kind of inviting atmosphere, but it was also my intention to sell a few books (laugh). Don’t get me wrong, I still get customers whenever we have a chance to open, but far less than before, for obvious reasons.
The refuge aspect of the bookshop has taken a more important role now, where both strangers and friends can drop by for a chat and have a coffee or tea and share random meanderings of thoughts and occasionally more serious discussions… all the time with the accompaniment of music, of course. Looking at the way it is now, I would say that I’m glad with the way it has become. In these most stressful of times, I do believe that this kind of welcoming quiet is sought after by many.
You've stocked a Dance Mag since our first issue in 2018, 'Transcendence', and then 'Furor' in 2019 and now 'Touch' in 2020. What strikes you about this publication and its evolution? I'm curious about your impression.
The most striking thing about ‘a Dance Mag,’ at first glance, is its elongated and elegant format. Content-wise, it is a special magazine in that the articles can be revisited over and again, all the while being relevant and timely. Transcendence, the first issue, is maybe the most optimistic; in hindsight, it came out at a time when things were certainly not ideal in Lebanon and the world, but far more promising than they are today, with so much more possibilities in the air. There was yet the upheaval in Lebanon; the corona pandemic was unheard of… Indeed, we almost seemed naïve back then.
Furor, the second issue, is more passionate than the first issue, a little less idealistic maybe, whereas the Touch issue is more melancholically-tinged and darker in voice, born out of a state of forced isolation for millions upon millions, where lives have been irrevocably changed, for better or for worse…and I think the issue focuses more on the ‘better’ part.
The evolution of the moods of the magazine is also apparent in the colors of the cover…from a floating, quiet, curvaceous, light orange tone with splashes of white with the first issue, to a more intense red and green geometric duality for issue number two, and finally a black, grey, and white pandemonium clothing the Touch issue. Needless to say, I’m extremely happy to stock a Dance Mag in my bookshop, it fits perfectly. It is an independent publication, produced with love, written by beautiful souls, with care and kindness and hope.
If you were to pick just one of the stories in a Dance Mag, which one would it be that surprised you most and left a mark?
That’s an easy one; naturally, the answer would have to be ‘The Spiraling Nature of Things’ in the Transcendence issue. The song ‘The Windmills of Your Mind’ has always had a special place in my heart; it was lovely seeing it put to such eloquent use in your article!
What makes you feel happy these days, challenging as they are... And how does it feel like, when you catch yourself happy? Is there a certain movement or quality in that feeling that you can express as an experience?
The things that make me happy these days are the same things that made me happier in earlier times…except that now they hold more poignancy than before. What I am referring to is quality human encounters. Everything else that we appreciate truly is inextricably linked to those encounters in some way. Going back to your first question, books and literature and the arts are only truly appreciated with the backdrop of being in connection to other human beings. Isolated and alone and without love and emotionality in our lives, the arts would be utterly devoid of meaning. Otherwise, how could a passage in a book move us, or a verse in poetry, or a melody? Impossible. They must dwell in the heart, these transcendental flights, in the same way that they waft upon the windmills of the mind.
If you are in Beirut, don't forget to pass by The Little Bookshop, here.
