Yara​
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Sa‘id ‘Aql​​​​
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And if the wind stirs,
to please the sun,
I will close around you –
cradling you in this world.’
Born in the hill town of Zahle, Lebanon in 1912, Sa‘id ‘Aql emerged from a milieu where Christian tradition and Arabic literary heritage coexisted with remarkable intensity. Perched on the eastern slopes of Mount Lebanon overlooking the Biqa‘a Valley, Zahle is a place both historically and culturally rich – a stronghold of Maronite Christian identity set amidst a broader, more diverse religious landscape. In this crucible of cultural convergence, ‘Aql’s sense of self and nationhood began to take shape. Zahle was not merely his birthplace; it was the wellspring of his poetic imagination and spiritual fervour. Even as he drew inspiration from European sources – particularly the French Symbolists and Paul Valéry – he never abandoned his rootedness in Lebanese soil.
Equally formative to his worldview was the village of Bikfaya, his mother’s hometown, where he later composed his poetic drama Cadmus. Bikfaya, with its enduring Maronite heritage and prominent role in the Lebanese nationalist movement, deepened ‘Aql’s association with a Christian-inflected Lebanese identity. Yet, despite the Christian idiom that permeates his thought, ‘Aql consistently insisted that Lebanon belonged to all its people, regardless of faith. His nationalism, while unabashedly rooted in a Christian historical consciousness, aspired to transcend sectarian lines in pursuit of a unified cultural ethos.
This ethos reached a crescendo with the publication of Yara in 1961 – a watershed moment in modern Lebanese literature. Yara was not simply a collection of poems; it was the embodiment of a dream long nurtured by ‘Aql: to forge a literary and national identity independent of both classical Arabic formalism and European linguistic hegemony. Written in the Lebanese vernacular, Yara was the first book of poetry to use an original alphabet invented by ‘Aql himself. This 36-letter script, inspired by the Latin alphabet but adapted with distinctive diacritical marks, was intended to codify the spoken Lebanese language and elevate it to literary stature. Writing in vernacular Lebanese was a bold, even radical, move. While colloquial poetry had existed before, it had never been formalised in quite this way.
That Yara did not spark a widespread linguistic revolution does not diminish its significance. A planned literary journal titled Melkart – meant to further the project – was shelved due to the outbreak of civil war. But the symbolic power of Yara endured. It marked the apex of ‘Aql’s cultural vision: a Lebanon sovereign in language, sovereign in myth, sovereign in memory. In its pages, Lebanon was not merely a republic formed by colonial decree but a living civilisation with roots deep in antiquity. The mythological framework that animated earlier works such as Cadmus lingers.
What ‘Aql accomplished with Yara was not only a literary experiment but an act of cultural archaeology. He excavated a voice he believed had been buried beneath centuries of conquest, colonisation, and cultural homogenisation. His rejection of classical Arabic was not a renunciation of Arab identity, but a re-centring of Lebanese singularity. In his view, Lebanon was not a subset of the Arab world, but its antecedent – its spiritual and civilisational progenitor. That belief, however controversial, underpins every line in Yara.
Looking back, one can see Yara as the poetic culmination of a lifelong quest: to find a voice for Lebanon that was unmediated, unborrowed, and unmistakably its own. In this regard, Sa‘id ‘Aql diverged notably from contemporaries like Charles Corm and Michel Chiha, whose contributions to Lebanese identity were primarily articulated through prose, political theory, and historical narrative. If their work constructed the intellectual and institutional scaffolding of modern Lebanon, ‘Aql’s intervention was aesthetic and symbolic.
This edition of Yara is the first published edition of the work translated into English – and our intent, far from disturbing the work’s legacy by (mis)representing it in an unintended language, is to introduce the work in all its curiosity and uniqueness. Granted, its legacy lies not in the widespread adoption of his alphabet or dialectal script, but in the provocation it posed: that cultural sovereignty might require not only political independence but a distinct mode of expression. Yara endures, then, less as indicative of a popular literary movement than as a landmark in the history of Lebanese cultural self-definition – a project that remains unresolved, but to which ‘Aql gave compelling and original voice.
By casting off the confines of classical Arabic – a language ‘Aql regarded as weighed down by centuries of rigid canonisation – he sought to liberate the Lebanese voice. For him, fusha was a relic; majestic, yes, but distant. In contrast, the spoken dialect resonated with immediacy, texture, and musicality. In a time when Arab nationalism sought to unify identity through language and culture, Yara represented a daring departure. It was, in effect, a poetic secession. This act of cultural defiance must be understood within the broader context of mid-twentieth-century politics.
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The 1950s and ‘60s witnessed the rise of Nasserism and the fervent belief in Arab unity, which extended beyond politics into language, literature and art. The Arabic language was seen as the cornerstone of this pan-Arab vision. By choosing to write in a script and dialect that diverged from the standardised Arabic norm, ‘Aql positioned himself at odds with prevailing intellectual currents. His critics accused him of cultural betrayal and capitulation to Western influence. But ‘Aql saw himself not as a renegade, but as a prophet of authenticity. To him, Lebanese identity was not a branch of Arabness, but a unique civilisational stream – older, resilient, and irreducible.
In the verses of Yara, one finds not only a lyrical celebration of the Lebanese landscape but a meditation on the nation’s soul. The titular character, Yara, is less a person than an ideal – a symbol of purity, rootedness, and existential grace. She walks through the hills and cedars of Mount Lebanon like a spirit of the land, her voice echoing the dreams and sorrows of a people long searching for their own tongue. Through Yara, ‘Aql reinvents Lebanon as a poetic entity, one that speaks in its own idiom, its own rhythm. Even the aesthetic of Yara – its typography, its phonetic transcription, its visual form – was meticulously curated to express this vision. The pages of the book defy the reader to approach Lebanese not as a dialect inferior to Arabic, but as a legitimate language of culture and creation. ‘Aql believed that to write poetry in Lebanese was not to diminish it, but to restore it to its rightful stature. In this way, Yara becomes not just a book but a national artefact – a testament to the possibility of speaking one’s truth in one’s own voice.
The literary establishment, particularly among Christian intellectuals, received Yara with a mix of admiration and apprehension. Maronite historian Jawad Boulos praised the work as a valiant assertion of Lebanese individuality. Others, less enthusiastic, warned of the divisive potential of departing from the Arabic language. Still, Yara resonated deeply with a segment of Lebanese society that felt increasingly alienated by the sweeping currents of Arab nationalism. It gave voice to a quieter, more local patriotism – one that revered Lebanon’s mountains, saints, and soil as much as its modern statehood.
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July 2025
Japanese Hand-Sewn Paperback
148.5 x 210 mm – 52pp
+ Insert – 105 x 148.5mm – 8pp
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