Sensibilities of the Islamic Mediterranean: Self-Expression in a Muslim Culture from Post-Classical Times to the Present Day

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Sensibilities of the Islamic Mediterranean

The Islamic Mediterranean Programme Chair Robert Ilbert Series Editor Randi Deguilhem Published and forthcoming 1. Writing the Feminine: Women in Arab Sources Edited by Manuela Marín and Randi Deguilhem 2. Money, Land and Trade: An Economic History of the Muslim Mediterranean Edited by Nelly Hanna 3. Outside In: On the Margins of the Modern Middle East Edited by Eugene Rogan 4. Crafts and Craftsmen of the Middle East: Fashioning the Individual in the Muslim Mediterranean Edited by Suraiya Faroqhi and Randi Deguilhem 5. Constituting Modernity: Private Property in the East and West Edited by Huri İslamoğlu 6. Standing Trial: Law and Person in the Modern Middle East Edited by Baudouin Dupret 7. Sensibilities of the Islamic Mediterranean Edited by Robin Ostle 8. Shattering Tradition: Custom, Law and the Individual in the Muslim Mediterranean Edited by Walter Dostal and Wolfgang Kraus

SENSIBILITIES OF THE ISLAMIC MEDITERRANEAN Self-Expression in a Muslim Culture from Post-Classical Times to the Present Day Edited by

Robin Ostle

Published in 2008 by I.B.Tauris & Co Ltd 6 Salem Road, London W2 4BU 175 Fifth Avenue, New York NY 10010 www.ibtauris.com in association with The European Science Foundation, Strasbourg, France In the United States and Canada distributed by Palgrave Macmillan, a division of St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York NY 10010 Copyright © 2008 I.B.Tauris and Co Ltd, European Science Foundation and Robin Ostle All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in a review, this book, or any part thereof, may not be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher. ISBN 978 1 84511 650 7 A full CIP record for this book is available from the British Library A full CIP record for this book is available from the Library of Congress Library of Congress catalog card: available Typeset in Baskerville by Dexter Haven Associates Ltd, London Printed and bound in Great Britain by T.J. International, Padstow, Cornwall

Contents List of Contributors

xi

Introduction: Persons and Passions Robin Ostle

1

Part One: Subversive Strategies 1

Challenging Symbols of Power: Palaces and Castles in the Thousand and One Nights Richard van Leeuwen

13

2

Fools and Rogues in Discourse and Disguise: Two Studies Geert Jan van Gelder

27

3

Ibrahim Pasha and Sculpture as Subversion in Art Filiz Yenişhirlioğlu

59

Part Two: Self and Journey Preface: The Journey as Metaphor Richard van Leeuwen

81

4

Myths and Signs of Alienation Between 19th-Century Rihlat and Europe Daniel Newman

85

5

Portrait of the Traveller as a Young Man: Mustafa Sâmi Efendi and his Essay on Europe Laurent Mignon

103

6

Voyages of Self-definition: The Case of [Ahmad] Faris al-Shidyaq Paul Starkey

118

7

The Journey in Two Arabic Novels Richard van Leeuwen

133

Part Three: Individual, Novel and Nation 8

Bildungsroman, Individual and Society Boutros Hallaq

149

9

Individual Sentiment and National Ideology Robin Ostle

163

10 Mapping Arab Womanhood: Subject, Subjectivity and Identity Politics in the Biographies of Malak Hifni Nasif Wen-chin Ouyang

174

11 Male Author, Female Protagonist: Aspects of Literary Representation in Reşat Nuri Güntekin’s Çalikuşu Stephan Guth

195

Part Four: Individual and Community 12 Marginalities in Palestinian Literature Two Case Studies: Imil Habibi and Tawfiq Fayyad Anna Zambelli-Sessona

211

13 The Representation of the Coptic Christians of Alexandria in Turabuha Za‘ƒaran and Ya Banat Iskandariya by Idwar al-Kharrat Emma Westney

245

14 Marginalised Communities, Marginalised Individuals in the Short Stories of Yusuf al-Sharuni Kate Daniels

260

15 Language, Individual and Community in Lebanese Women’s Literature Written in French Michelle Hartman

275

Part Five: Individual, Space, Text 16 Redefining Urban Spaces in Cairo at the Turn of the 19th and 20th Centuries Jean-Luc Arnaud and Jean-Charles Depaule

295

17 Imagining Beirut’s Reconstructed City Centre Michael F. Davie

313

18 Text, Space and the Individual in the Poetry of Badr Shakir al-Sayyab: Nationalism, Revolution and Subjectivity Wen-chin Ouyang

330

19 Urban Change and Literary Transformation: The Egyptian Novel in the 1990s Sabry Hafez

343

Index

385

This is for Robert Ilbert

List of Contributors JEAN-LUC ARNAUD is a Director of Research in the Maison Méditerranéenne des Sciences de l’Homme, University of Aix-Marseille. KATE DANIELS is a Lecturer in modern Arabic literature in the University of Cambridge. MICHAEL F. DAVIE is Professor in the Department of Geography, University of Tours. JEAN-CHARLES DEPAULE is a Director of Research in the Laboratory of Urban Anthropology in the CNRS at Ivry. GEERT JAN VAN GELDER is the Laudian Professor of Arabic in the University of Oxford. STEPHAN GUTH is Associate Professor of Arabic in the University of Oslo. SABRY HAFEZ is a Research Professor in the School of Oriental and African Studies in the University of London. BOUTROS HALLAQ is Professor of Arabic Literature in the University of Paris III. MICHELLE HARTMAN is Associate Professor in the Institute of Islamic Studies, McGill University. RICHARD VAN LEEUWEN is Assistant Professor of Islamic Studies in the University of Amsterdam. LAURENT MIGNON is Assistant Professor of Turkish Literature, Bilkent University, Ankara. DANIEL NEWMAN is Reader in Arabic in the University of Durham. xi

SENSIBILITIES OF THE ISLAMIC MEDITERRANEAN

ROBIN OSTLE is Official Fellow in Oriental Studies, St. John’s College, Oxford. WEN-CHIN OUYANG is Reader in Arabic in the School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London. PAUL STARKEY is Professor of Arabic in the University of Durham. EMMA WESTNEY completed her doctorate in modern Arabic literature at the University of Oxford. FILIZ YENIŞHIRLIOĞLU is Professor in the Department of Fine Arts, Baskent University, Ankara. ANNA ZAMBELLI-SESSONA completed her doctorate in modern Arabic literature at the University of Oxford.

xii

Introduction: Persons and Passions

It is unsurprising that this volume should be primarily concerned with literary narrative, in prose and in poetry, throughout its chapters which span a period roughly speaking from Mamluk times (13th century CE) to the present day. Unsurprising, because narrative, whether in its modern or its pre-modern forms, is a significant form of empowerment on the part of individuals, both the individuals who narrate and those who are narrated in the imagined forms of their representations. If one thinks of narrative and Arabic, it is difficult not to pause at the most archetypal narrator of them all: Shahrazad whose narrative confronted head on the absolute power of the ruler, a power sanctioned by divine authority and traditional acceptance of the fusion of this divine authority and temporal might. Significantly this archetypal narrator is also a woman, and obviously her gender adds an additional dimension to the struggle with the power structures which she confronts. There are other reasons to pause at Shahrazad and Alf layla wa layla : the oldest surviving manuscripts of this work date from the 13th century CE and its stories belong to the heritage of oral narrative reaching back into the mists of time. In the course of the 20th century it was finally and belatedly accepted as part of the Arabic literary canon, and as such it creates a bridge between the pre-modern and modern ages over which this volume itself ranges. When the Egyptian Nobel laureate Naguib Mahfouz published his novel Layali alf layla (Nights of a Thousand Nights) in 1979, he re-integrated the medieval narrative tradition into the contemporary, as other modern authors such as Gamal al-Ghitani in Egypt or Zakariyya Tamir in Syria have done. In the case of Mahfouz, he has the preoccupation, not unlike that of Shahrazad, of empowering individuals via narrative in the face of repressive political authority. It is worth remaining a while longer with Alf layla wa layla, for in many ways it has the characteristics of an Ur-text replete with fertile examples of the themes which dominate the chapters of this book, themes which revolve around persons and passions. This may be illustrated by reference to the chapter by 1


Richard van Leeuwen entitled: ‘Challenging Symbols of Power: Palaces and Castles in the Thousand and One Nights’ (13 ff.). It would be difficult to imagine more concrete challenges to individuals than the palaces and castles which feature in the majority of the tales in Alf layla wa layla: they emphasise the power of the rulers over the ruled, and are constant reminders of the relative powerlessness of the poor and the deprived. And yet it is this very contrast which opens the way to subversive activities on the part of individuals, activities which do not ultimately challenge the system and the bases on which it rests, but which suggest that all systems of power, however autocratic, have to allow for the rich variety of human existence, and for individuals and their emotions. Hence van Leeuwen takes us through a rich sequence of challenges to these fortified symbols of authority, the most frequent challenge being that of actually entering the palace or the castle, almost always in a disguise which will deceive the guards, and ultimately the ruler himself. These acts of illicit entering are usually assisted from the inside, sometimes by an old nurse or a eunuch, thus laying bare the contradictions and the ambiguities of the system which is being challenged. It is also striking that many of these acts of entering the inner spaces of power are episodes in stories of journeys, in the course of which the hero will abandon his home in order to seek out his beloved. It is clear that the process of travelling away from a context in which the traveller is familiar and known, helps to blur the identity of the one who will then resort to disguise in order to gain entry to the palace or the castle. Such are the themes which will recur throughout this volume: the challenges presented to a social order through romantic love; journeys both physical and spiritual through which individuals grow and define their identities; marginality as a position from which to appropriate or re-appropriate the centre. Although humour is not a central feature of these particular tales from Alf layla wa layla, the jocular or the ludic tradition as represented in the persons of fools, jesters and buffoons has always been a classic strategy to relieve tension or to assuage social frustration by portraying social orders in reverse to their situation in reality. This is at the centre of the chapter by Geert Jan van Gelder (27 ff.) who stresses how buffoons, high and low, practised qalb alashya’ , the reversal of the natural order of things, whether they 2

INTRODUCTION

are modes of dress, social rank, or moral and aesthetic standards. Such jesters were marginal in that they were outside the class system, the court hierarchy, or that of the civil administration. Yet the paradox is that although they were in that sense marginals, their field of activity was the most central in the whole medieval body politic – the court of the ruler. But what in the end do we learn from this pre-modern pageantry of persons and passions: the guise and disguise, the cross dressing, the defiance of convention through love, the appropriation of the centre by the margins, the jocular, the journey and the general phenomenon of qalb al-ashya’ ? Is this subversion? No, except in a very temporary sense. Social orders are subverted, but only until the status quo ante is restored. According to van Gelder: The buffoon and the court jester are allowed briefly to break down the customary correlation between high social rank and high moral or aesthetic standards, and to break down the barrier between high and low status. This does not mean that they subvert the structure of society or reigning modes of thought: on the contrary, they confirm existing structures and conventions, just as the periphery circumscribes and defines the centre, or just as margins, fringes and edges delineate the middle.(p36)

What then is the point? Certainly, catharsis, the process by which individuals experience a sense of purification through feeling a range of passions or emotions, and such experiences can be vicarious or direct. Through the benefits of catharsis individuals may become reconciled to their lot, to the status quo. But catharsis is not the only lesson to be drawn from these tales of persons and passions, many of which can not be linked to any specific geographical space or chronological moment, as these are constructs of the creative imagination. One of the main conclusions to be drawn is that the most rigid of social systems and hierarchies still has to allow for individual aspirations, for the interruption of social patterns, however temporary, and for the growth of self-awareness. Not only does the system have to allow for this, but through this it will be strengthened, invigorated, and it will ensure its continuity. Let us return for a moment to Richard van Leeuwen, Alf layla wa layla and the overarching frame story of Shahrazad and 3


Shahriyar. The King Shahriyar is trapped in a vicious circle of sexuality and violence, and it is this vicious circle of destruction which Shahrazad sets out to break through the power of narrative: she challenges her own position of marginality as a woman, and as the next female victim in the endless cycle of sex and death. This she does by presenting Shahriyar with one of the most extraordinary processions of persons and passions in world literature. In other words, Shahriyar has to learn that his own view of the world is much too rigid and monodimensional. All systems have to allow for the complexity of human existence, for the possibility of choice in different circumstances for individuals and their emotions. The ultimate conclusion has to be that the salvation of the system itself lies in the interaction and reconciliation between the margin and the centre, between the Princess and the King, between the system of authority and the positive forces of individuality. The principal link which this volume establishes between its pre-modern and modern chapters is that of the journey, both spiritual and physical. The chapter by Daniel Newman on 19thcentury travelogues (85 ff.) shows clearly how these accounts were an integral extension of the classical rihla genre as written by Ibn Battuta, Ibn Jubayr, or Ibn Fadlan. They demonstrate a clear linear narrative of what is identifiably personal observation as the traveller intervenes in a variety of ways as an individual. The overall motif of mobility is divided into distinct stages: The preparation for the journey and an outline of the purpose and the justification for the travel; The journey itself with its attendant hardships and adventures; Arrival at the destination and the description of the stay there; The return, which often extends to the arrival back in the author’s home town, the attendant celebrations, and the giving of thanks for a safe completion of the journey.

But of all these voyagers in search of self-definition, the example that bridges the modern and the pre-modern in a variety of ways is Ahmad Faris al-Shidyaq, the subject of the study by Paul Starkey (118 ff.): al-Shidyaq was certainly an individual for whom liminality was a way of life. His extraordinary career 4

INTRODUCTION

spanned three continents; he was a member of a Christian minority working in a predominantly Muslim culture, but, estranged as he was from his own Maronite background and from his Western mentors, he ultimately only seems to have found reconciliation towards the end of his life as a Muslim convert in the service of the Ottoman Sultan. But it is his masterpiece al-Saq ‘ala’l-saq fima huwa al-faryaq which provides us with an extraordinary texture of generic margins: at one and the same time it is a rihla, it is an autobiography, and undoubtedly it is one of the earliest examples in Arabic of that quintessential literary form of self-definition, the Bildungsroman . Passions have their history, just like persons. Of course the forms and styles through which passions are represented evolve constantly throughout the ages, but there is more to it than the stylistic and formal evolutions that see the qasida begetting the ghazal or the khamriyya, or the manner in which the maqama and the pre-modern story cycles eventually culminate in the short story or the novel. Certainly, as long as there have been individuals in whatever social context, there has always been a basic range of human emotions, but the ways in which these emotions are emphasised or ordered do change and evolve, they have their histories just as institutions have their histories. Raymond Williams would describe these evolutions as changes in the ‘structures of feeling’. (Culture and Society: Coleridge to Orwell. Hogarth Press, London, 1987, pp 87–109). The late 19th and early 20th centuries was a time when significant changes in the structures of feeling did take place in certain sectors of the Islamic societies around the Mediterranean. There were two dominant ideas from the perceived wisdom of European liberal thought which affected these regions of what had been the Arab provinces of the Ottoman Empire: one was the concept of national emancipation, whether from the Ottoman system or from the sway of British or French imperialism. The other dominant idea amongst avant-garde intellectuals in Turkey, Iran, Greater Syria or Egypt was the increasing significance – almost sanctity – of the individual. In circles of scholars, writers, intellectuals and politicians, it becomes commonplace to imagine that the individual, humble or great, male or female, could and should expect to play a part in the destiny of the community as a whole. These were intoxicating ideas which generated great excitements 5


and ecstasies, but also confusion, bewilderment, and ultimately not a little disillusion. Also at this time, something remarkable happens to Arabic literature: it becomes increasingly pre-occupied with the Individual Being, who is less of a social being governed by the ancestral heritage of tradition and its dominant culture, and more of an individual of will and sensibility. Increasingly literature is a textual space of individual passions and emotions which challenges those texts which are related to the traditional means of social control, be they theological, legal, philosophical or political. In the early years of the 20th century, Arabic literature becomes more obsessively and deliberately ontological than it had been previously in its history. As the chapter by Boutros Hallaq makes clear (pp 149 ff.), two names in particular stand out in this context: the Lebanese Jibran Khalil Jibran (1883–1931) and the Egyptian Mustafa Lutfi al-Manfaluti(1876–1924). Jibran had an iconic status throughout the 20th century because of the manner in which he endowed the individual of passion and sensibility with a legitimacy which challenged the centuriesold controlling processes of established religion and temporal power. The basis of this legitimacy is based on the heart rather than the mind. Much of Jibran’s early Arabic literary style has an intertextuality which relates to the Bible, one of the three scriptures of the Judaeo-Christian-Muslim tradition from which so many of the controlling mechanisms were derived. In the literary world of Jibran, the quasi-prophetic individual performs a secular hijra: he withdraws from society and castigates its most sophisticated creation, the city. Solitude rather than communion is pursued, and this solitude in non-urban environments is the source of purification and spiritual re-generation. Social outcasts such as Marta al-Baniyya or John the Madman are redeemed through the power and virtue of their emotions and spiritual strength, in spite of the ostracism and repression to which society has subjected them. This Jibranian paradigm was to retain a powerful hold amongst creative writers of the 20th century. In its most extreme form it is represented by the prose poet Unsi al-Hajj, the enfant terrible of the poetic movement of the Shi‘r Journal who proclaimed: ‘To be free, a poete maudit shatters every rule and norm. He is a prophet, a god!’ These words come from the introduction to his first iconoclastic work entitled Lan (1959), 6

INTRODUCTION

the particle which in Arabic produces meanings such as ‘not at all, never.’ Subversion is too mild a word for the mission of Unsi alHajj. His is an absolute negation of all norms and taboos, both social and aesthetic. Mustafa Lutfi al-Manfaluti had an impact out of all proportion to the value of the literature which he produced: for al-Manfaluti, the individual is first and foremost a being of feeling, of rahma (compassion rather than passion), and this rahma is the basis for identification with other individuals, and the basis from which the individual confronts society – which is essentially a community of shared sadness. This former student of al-Azhar coined the slogan: sultan al-wijdan wa la’l-adyan ‘Let Passion and not Religion dominate!’. Writers who were much more gifted than al-Manfaluti – including Taha Husayn – could not resist the overwhelming seduction of the emotional outpourings of the florid lines of al-Nazarat and al-‘Abarat , in which the heart – as opposed to reason – is the driving force of all human existence. Jibran and al-Manfaluti were central figures in the rise of the Romantic Imagination in the countries around the Mediterranean region. On the one hand this unleashed waves of emotional liberation on the part of writers, artists and intellectuals, but of course one must be cautious about the extent to which such emotional liberations extended significantly beyond the rather limited circles of the urban bourgeoisies. On the other hand, individual emotional liberations which encouraged an intense concentration on individual sensibilities were not accompanied by widespread liberalising tendencies in societies as a whole. Thus there was little or no organic relationship between passions which were felt and imagined, and passions which could be fulfilled in actual social situations. In this situation of frequent dislocation between aspiration and reality, where and into what do persons direct their passions? One dominant direction is certainly towards the communities with which individuals identify in their imaginations and in their creative works. The rise of the romantic imagination around the Mediterranean coincided with the rise of the modern nation state. Hence romantic nationalism abounds in Turkish literature and in Arabic – especially Egyptian – literature in the first half of the 20th century. The theories on nations and nationalism expounded by Benedict Anderson, Anthony D. Smith and Ernest 7


Gellner amongst numerous others, find ample demonstration in the novels of Muhammad Husayn Haykal, Tawfiq al-Hakim, and Naguib Mahfouz. It is significant that a number of the female characters in these works can be seen as metaphors for the national community rather than individual soul mates for their male counterparts. A second direction is identification on the part of individuals with those communities which lead precarious, marginal or threatened existences within the new nation states. These communities may be ethnic or they may be confessional as demonstrated by the chapters in which individual voices and passions are engaged with Copts and Palestinians (211 ff.; 245 ff.; 260 ff.) Looking back over the chapters of this book which treat an extraordinary procession of individual representations and images, one is struck by a number of themes which have permanent and continuing relevance to these persons and their passions: the journey – physical, intellectual and spiritual – remains as relevant today for self-definition and self-discovery as it has ever been. The poetics of the physical spaces within which individual destinies are played out are as important as the representations of the individuals themselves: these may be the castles and palaces of Alf layla wa layla, the countryside of modern literature or the cities which may be monuments to individual opportunity or urban jungles which lead individuals to despair and destruction. But there is a profound difference between the ancient and the modern: for persons and their passions, things could never be the same again after the watershed of the late 19th and early 20th centuries when individuals cultivated emotional liberations and were encouraged to believe that these might have resonance in their societies at large. The message from the texts of ancient Arabic literature such as Alf layla wa layla or the Maqamat is that individuals subvert the social order temporarily, to achieve reconciliation and a strengthening of the status quo. While the object is not to overturn the social order, the cathartic effects of the subversion are presented positively. But once individuals in the modern period have been given to believe that they have a part to play in shaping the destiny of their society, then the age of innocence is lost. There can be no going back to some divinely sanctioned social hierarchy. When modern writers, artists and intellectuals feel 8

INTRODUCTION

that their emotional longings are out of joint with their lived realities, their sense of deception leaves them in a tangled web of confusion, despair and disillusion. In spite of this, passion has continued to flow strongly through Arabic literature and art in the 20th century, and never more powerfully than in the work of Idwar al-Kharrat (see chapter 13, pp 245–258) where love and fantasy transport the individual out of historical time into the surreal realms of collective memory. This writer has contributed much to the metaphysics of sex in contemporary Arabic literature. Time and again in his voluminous works, there are ardent struggles to unite the finite with the infinite through the mystical/physical experiences of sexual union. His art is an existential mission to conquer time. It is unsurprising that significant areas of his language and imagery derive from classical Sufi texts. But by contrast, too many of the representations of individuals in Arabic literature in the 20th century are locked within closed horizons (see pp 343–384), and their passions are more directed to despair than to hope. Under these lowering perspectives, there is little sense of reconciliation or redemption for individuals in their communities. Although they are impotent in their enclosed suffocating spaces, they know very well that the world does not have to be like this. Robin Ostle

9

Part One SUBVERSIVE STRATEGIES

CHAPTER 1

Challenging Symbols of Power: Palaces and Castles in the Thousand and One Nights Richard van Leeuwen

Subversive behaviour is inseparably linked to power and authority, or, more precisely, to the manifestations and symbols of power in society. Subversion is not synonymous with revolt or the direct challenging of power systems but is aimed, rather, at the gradual or temporary undermining of power systems by attacking their weak spots, especially those symbols with which claims to authority are boastfully expressed and which magnify the grandeur of the powerful and accentuate the lowliness of the weak and powerless, poor and deprived. It is this contrast, with which power symbols are by nature vested, that creates opportunities for subversive activities and which likely provokes them. Subversion is therefore, largely an abstract struggle fought with symbols directed at symbols. Subversion seeks to expose the outward appearance of power, in order to show the contradictions which they are meant to hide. Subversion treats symbols of power as a form of disguise, which hides the true identity and true situation of those in power. It is this dichotomy between appearance and reality which explains the effectiveness of subversive strategies. Among the most visible and quintessential symbols of power are palaces, castles and similar physical strongholds. Palaces and castles are at the core of the spatial organisation of societies. They embody the boundaries which divide the society into hierarchical components and visualise the diversification of domains. They are either massive or sumptuous, firmly enclosed or symbolically set apart from the surrounding space, provided with guards, 13


weaponry and fortifications and invested with decorum, authority and sacredness. They symbolise the boundaries between the dominant and the dominated and the inaccessibility of the powerful elite. They are, as it were, containers of power in the spatial and the symbolic sense, impregnable domains in which power in all its aspects is concentrated. They defy any conquest by force and are protected by the awe they impose on both enemies and subjects. They embody the boundaries of a territory and of a domain of authority over land, people, resources, and values. In this chapter I shall discuss the representation and significance of palaces and castles in a specific selection of texts: a number of fictional narratives which are part of the collection of Alf layla wa layla, the tales of the Thousand and One Nights. I will argue that palaces and castles have a very distinct function in the structure and meaning of stories, as symbols of power and, consequently, as the objects of subversion. This subversion is perhaps not always the purpose of the heroes of the stories; one should rather say that the aim and function of the stories themselves are marked by a sense of subversion, or at least by a form of challenge to the system of power. It will be shown that the essential aim of the stories is to show the relationship between the individuals, of various categories, and the system of power, by portraying successful challenges to the system, thus revealing the inner weaknesses of the system and its true nature behind the facades. Of course I am aware of the philological difficulties involved in analysing stories of Alf layla wa layla and the uncertainty concerning the history and composition of the various extant texts. It is not my aim to go into this discussion here. Let it suffice to say that I do not intend to treat the compilation of stories as an integrated whole, but rather as a collection of narrative texts from different places and different periods, which can be compared to each other but which should not be seen as a homogeneous composition with a clear inner coherence. Thus, the distinction between the stories from the Thousand and One Nights that are treated here and similar stories preserved in other sources is artificial. It is only for the sake of convenience that the material is selected from one compilation only, the socalled Bulaq edition.1 14

CHALLENGING SYMBOLS OF POWER

Palaces and castles as symbols of power The first question we should ask with regard to the issues outlined above is whether palaces and castles are indeed represented as symbols of authority in the stories under consideration. Are the castles used to exercise authority and to express and demarcate spheres of power? Are they only depicted as physical strongholds, or do they also represent the more ideological and symbolic aspects of power? If we consider these questions, we can discern various types of palaces and castles. The most prominent palaces figuring in many tales, of different genres, are the palaces of the caliphs in Baghdad, both their official residences and their recreational resorts. These palaces are usually described as luxurious and beautiful, and as the place which contains the centre of authority of the empire. Whoever enters these palaces is subjecting himself to the absolute power of the caliph, who can at his own discretion decide over life and death. It is this combination of wealth and absolute power that determines the connotations of the palaces in these stories and that establish them as models for the symbolic meaning of palaces, as impregnable enclosures in which the material and moral riches of a society are concentrated. In the story of ‘Qamar al-Zaman’2 the positive and negative connotations and functions of palaces are contrasted. The father of Budur, the king of the Ghayur Islands, promises to build seven palaces for his daughter, if she will agree to marry one of her princely suitors. The princess refuses, however, and is imprisoned in one of the king’s castles. Here the palace is associated with the process of dynastic reproduction, the continuation of the power system through the regular pattern of procreation and succession. The seven palaces symbolise the successful realisation of this process and the power that it requires. The failure to secure this reproduction also results in an act of power in which the castle plays a crucial role, since imprisonment is one of the most important spatial functions of palaces and castles, which, after all, are strictly closed off from the outside world, not only to exclude trespassers, but also to isolate their inhabitants from the society. Imprisonment is a radical exploitation of this function, robbing a person of the ability to fulfil his destiny in life. Thus, in the story of ‘Qamar al-Zaman’, two manifestations of authority are 15


portrayed, projected on the physical and metaphorical function of palaces and castles. A clear example of a palace presented as a symbol of power can be found in the story of the ‘City of Brass’.3 Here, the palace, a place of wonders and wealth, contains the remnants of a society that once prospered, but was ultimately doomed to perish. It is the palace that contains the essential components of this society: its riches, its queen, whose body is still sitting on the throne with the paraphernalia of her power around her, and the message which comprises the fate of the city: that material wealth is not able to ward off the vicissitudes of fate and that earthly possessions are transitory. The power of the queen stretches beyond her death, however, since she is still protected by a curse which kills one of the members of the expedition. Here again the palace, with its stereotypical form, is used as a physical and symbolic manifestation of power. Castles inhabited only by women represent a special category. Examples of such castles are the ‘monastery’ of princess Abriza, in the story of ‘Umar al-Nu‘man’,4 and the castle of the jinnprincesses on the Mountain of the Clouds in the story of ‘Hasan of Basra’.5 The first of these two castles is provided with stereotypical features: it is a stronghold in which a small community of women live, under the absolute leadership of Abriza. The authority of Abriza is based not only on her being a princess, but also on her Amazon-like martial character, which is protected and isolated by the castle. The castle of the jinn-princesses resembles Abriza’s castle insofar as it encloses a small female community and is virtually inaccessible to either human or jinn. The castle, however, is not meant to function as a stronghold, but as a place of exile and segregation. The princesses are imprisoned in the castle by their father, who will not allow them to marry and take their natural place in society. The castle is here a symbol of patriarchal authority, which defines both physical and gender boundaries. Many of the characteristics of palaces and castles mentioned above apply more broadly to palaces belonging to the realm of the jinn. These palaces are centres of authority filled with wonders, strangely and magnificently built places of exile, inaccessible strongholds, so forth. Their physical descriptions are sometimes derived from the fabulous castles which can be found in traditional accounts. The best examples of castles of this type are 16


to be found in the story of ‘ ‘Ajib and Gharib’,6 in the episode describing Gharib’s struggle against the Jinn kings.7 If we were to summarise the findings from our brief inventory, we might say that the close relationship between castles and authority not only concerns the direct, physical exercise of power, but also the more abstract symbols of power associated with a king, a queen, a princess or a community. The physical characteristics of palaces and castles are enclosure from the outside world, fortification and luxuriance; the symbolic assets are the concentration of absolute power, imprisonment and the embodiment of physical and social boundaries. These are the dimensions which turn enclosed spaces into containers of power, as focal points in the organisation of space. This is perhaps best illustrated by the remark of King ‘Umar al-Nu‘man, after Abriza has escaped from his palace: ‘If everyone can just walk out of my palace, this means that there is no order in the empire.’ Now that we have discussed the function of palaces and castles as symbols and manifestations of authority in the stories of the Thousand and One Nights, we can proceed to the next question: how can these symbols be affected by acts of subversion? How can their symbolic and physical strength be overcome and its inner contradictions exposed? The obvious answer is: by entering them.

The art of entering palaces and castles It is remarkable that in the stories of the Thousand and One Nights only on rare occasions are castles taken by force. Usually a ruse is found to sneak in. In several stories a king suggests sending a military expedition against another king who has refused his daughter in marriage to a prince. Usually the prince himself rejects this solution, since what he wants to achieve – a harmonious union with his beloved – cannot be realised by coercion and the use of force. Since the refusal is based on an act of power, obstructing the natural course of things, the use of force would simply perpetuate an anomalous situation, replacing one form of oppressive authority by another. Only a ruse can unravel the intricacies of the network of power that surrounds the princess and makes her unattainable. This is the material that fictional tales and romances are made of. 17


How does the hero proceed? The most obvious way to sneak into a palace or a castle is to assume a disguise. Especially well known are the scenes where an anxious lover is smuggled into the palace in a trunk or dressed as a woman, to deceive the guards, the eunuchs and the caliph himself. These disguises can only succeed with the help of persons inside the palace, usually an old wetnurse or a eunuch, who can leave and enter the palace as he or she likes. The destination of the expedition is always the women’s compound. The harem is the quintessential power symbol of the caliph, but it is also a self-contained space which the caliph cannot control completely. It is not only connected with the complexities of love and gender relations but has its own hierarchical organisation as a female domain, which is only in a very specific way subjected to male authority. Thus, once the lover has safely reached the harem, he can sometimes stay there for a long period without being noticed by the caliph or the eunuchs. Other disguises that are frequently used are those of physicians (claiming to be able to cure the ailing princess), of merchants, and, for old ladies, of pious saints. Sometimes magic means are used, such as a cap of invisibility, or a magic flying horse. At this point it is important to note that most of the stories in which palaces and castles are penetrated by artful means are stories of journeys, in which the hero has to abandon his home to go in search of his beloved. Evidently, the process of travelling facilitates the change of identity, especially if one wants to pose as an itinerant healer or merchant. The journey makes the role switching possible, since it takes the hero away from his social environment and places him into another set of social codes. The possibilities provided by the process of travelling are usually fully exploited for the structure of the narrative, to give the hero the opportunity to choose his identity and define his relation with the spatial environment of his beloved. The device of disguise is often combined with the exploitation of the social functions and relationships of closed and public spaces. It appears that, in spite of their essential impregnability, castles and palaces are never completely shut off from their environment, but are at best only semi-permeable. The most explicit example of the resourceful manipulation of disguises and spatial statuses can be found in the story of ‘Ardashir and Hayat al-Nufus’.8 The story is as follows: after princess Hayat al-Nufus 18


refuses to marry Ardashir, his father proposes to send an army to destroy her father’s kingdom. Ardashir prefers to conquer her by ruse, however, and departs with his father’s vizier to the city of his beloved. There he disguises himself as a merchant and hires a shop in the souk. After a while the wet-nurse of the princess visits the shop. Ardashir gives her presents for the princess and convinces her to act as a courier between the two, bringing love poems from Ardashir to Hayat al-Nufus, and threats and warnings from the latter. When this correspondence fails to bring about the desired result, another ruse is devised; there is a garden which the princess visits when the fruit is ripe. Ardashir hides in this garden on a day when the princess is expected and jumps unexpectedly before her. She is overwhelmed by his radiant beauty and falls in love. Subsequently, Ardashir is smuggled into the palace, disguised as a slave-girl, and hidden in Hayat al-Nufus’ chambers, where their love is consummated. The motif of disguise is important in this story, although, paradoxically, it makes the realisation of Ardashir’s wish more difficult, at least at first sight, since a merchant is of course no suitable match for a princess. There is also a certain contrast, however, between Ardashir’s humble role and his wealth, which incites the curiosity of the princess. Moreover, in his role as a prince he has already failed to achieve his aim. His real identity is only revealed at the end of the story, when love has torn down the boundaries of social status. Of course, the merchant disguise is deliberately chosen: not only does it allow a lavish display of wealth, but it is connected with the most public of spaces, where, it is stated in the story, ‘everyone, high or low, has to go’. Thus, it is only a question of time before someone from the palace will arrive, enabling Ardashir to get in touch with the princess. The contrast between the souk and the palace is accentuated when the wet-nurse tries to placate the wrath of the princess, by saying that she has nothing to fear from her suitor, since she lives in a ‘high and securely fortified’ castle. The third space which is involved in the scheme of Ardashir, as in several other, similar, stories, is the garden. This is not the place to go into the many erotic connotations of the garden in literature, although these connotations are quite obvious in the story (for example, the princess only visits the garden when the fruit is ripe). What we are interested in here is that the garden is 19


a kind of intermediate space sealed off from both the outside world and the palace. It is apparently not part of the domain of the princess’ father’s authority. It is a place free of convention, where the heart overrules the irrational and obsessive. In some stories containing similar episodes, the meeting of the prince and the princess is prepared by the princess upon seeing a painting in the garden pavilion, designed by the prince, which refutes her prejudice about the untruthfulness of men. Ardashir thus succeeds in entering the palace by making use of the functions of various spaces for the different phases of his approach. For some time he lives hidden in Hayat al-Nufus’ rooms until he is discovered by a eunuch and brought before the king. Just when he is about to be decapitated, his father arrives with a huge army. The resistance of Hayat al-Nufus’ father, already compromised by the behaviour of his daughter, collapses and the normal situation is restored. A variation on this type of interaction between spaces is found in the story of ‘ ‘Ali Shar and Zumurrud’.9 Here the heroine, fleeing in the uniform of a soldier, after she has been abducted, becomes king of a city and tries to find a way to recuperate her lost lover. Of course, her disguise, her new status, and her new enclosed abode, would prevent ‘Ali Shar from finding her, so she decides to create a public space in front of the palace where she holds large festive banquets for the whole population of the town. This public space functions as a point of attraction, or net, drawing people into the sphere of Zumurrud’s control. Zumurrud’s kidnappers show up and are duly punished. ‘Ali Shar shows up and is taken into the palace, where normal roles and identities are restored and the heroes transformed into a royal couple. The story of Zumurrud is a good example of how space is manipulated by the heroes to achieve certain aims. As elsewhere, the utilisation of the status of spaces is combined with disguises and the inversion of roles. Zumurrud is not herself, but because she is not herself she can make use of the possibilities that her position and the specific qualities of the palace offer. She is in control of the boundaries separating her true identity from her new role, symbolised by the sanctity of the palace, and she herself decides whom she allows to cross these boundaries thus creating a channel to the outside world. 20


The status and function of space are often connected with persons and roles. Boundaries in space indicate boundaries between persons, and intermediate spaces indicate marginal roles and disguises, phases of transition between marginal and regular roles or between disguises and true identities. The presence of a person, therefore, can change the nature of a given space just as the status of a space can determine the role of the hero. A nice example of this kind of interaction is given in the story of ‘Umar al-Nu‘man’, when the meeting between Sharrkan and Abriza is described. Sharrkan ventures with his army into the territory of the Christians, crossing a boundary which, at least in the story, is not clearly marked. He strays off from his army in the forest and finds a group of young women who are wrestling, separated from him by a stream. Sharrkan, hiding his true identity, challenges the lady who is clearly the mistress of the group and sets in motion a kind of ritual trial of strength. First, the two wrestle, then Sharrkan is admitted to the palace as a guest where the struggle continues metaphorically, through poetry recitals and chess. In the meantime, Abriza begins to suspect his true identity and falls in love with him. Obviously, the trial of strength is meant only as a means to eliminate the boundaries separating Sharrkan and Abriza’s hearts and their true identities. After all, Sharrkan has not revealed his name, and Abriza is seemingly unattainable, since she is not only the leader of an Amazon community, but also a Christian princess and a potential enemy of the True Faith. From the perspective of the stories these are unnatural roles, which are finally put straight by the arrival of Sharrkan. Because of her love for him, Abriza enters the Muslim camp and eventually travels with him to the Muslim capital. This makes it possible for her, at least theoretically, to assume a normal woman’s role, that of wife and mother. The transition of Abriza from one status to the other is reflected in the status of spaces. By entering the castle and by her acceptance of him as guest and lover, Sharrkan transforms the status of the castle and the boundary which separates it from the outside world. This is explicitly shown when a group of Christian warriors enter the castle to capture Sharrkan. Abriza angrily asks the commander who has given him permission to enter. The commander answers that it was not their custom to ask permission, whereupon Abriza declares the custom invalid. There follows a 21


skirmish in which Sharrkan kills the Christian soldiers. The transformation of the castle symbolises the transformation of the heroine, both effected by Sharrkan’s crossing of the symbolic and physical boundaries embodied by the castle. It was noted above that once a hero has succeeded in entering a palace, it is not always easy to find a way out without being harmed. In fact, sometimes it is much easier to get in than to get out. This is especially true when the hero or heroine is imprisoned in a castle. The obvious means to escape is to find help from outside, possibly combined with some form of disguise. Qamar al-Zaman, for instance, is delivered from captivity by Marzuwan, the brother of his beloved. To deceive their pursuers they leave behind some bones and bloodstained clothes on the road, to make them believe that he has been eaten by a lion. Pretending to be dead is of course, the ultimate disguise and final escape from the imprisonment of identity. Later, Qamar al-Zaman rescues Budur by posing as a physician who can cure her illness. In another story, ‘Uns al-Wujud and al-Ward fi al-Akmam’,10 the beloved manages to climb out of the window of her castle/prison, to which she has been exiled to prevent her from seeing Uns alWujud. However, she needs the help of a fisherman to escape from the island on which the castle is situated. Ardashir, as we have seen, is brought to the verge of death, after his discovery, and is only saved by the arrival of his father’s army. Paradoxically, it may also be difficult on certain occasions for sultans and kings to leave their palaces as themselves. The quintessential example is of course Harun al-Rashid, who dresses as a merchant or a fisherman to go about the city unnoticed. For women this is less difficult, since they can hide behind their veil. Another possibility would be for women to leave the confinement of the harem to visit the bathhouse, a semi-public space that allows some interaction with the outside world. Sometimes magical means are the only way to escape from a castle. In the story of ‘Jullanar’,11 Badr Basim is captured by a Jinn-queen, a sorceress who abducts young men to her castle, makes love to them, and finally turns them into a horse or a donkey. Badr Basim manages to escape this fate only by using counter-magic and performing a complicated form of sorcery by which he turns the queen into a donkey. In most of the stories under consideration here, magic is an exception, and the problem 22


of escaping palaces is solved by a final twist in the plot. The regular outcome of the story is that the normal state of things is re-established, so that the need for hiding and subterfuge is eliminated.

Palaces and love We can now turn to the final question, which is to ask why heroes would wish to enter a palace. It is no coincidence that the majority of the stories cited above are love stories, or at least episodes of love. Evidently, at least in fictional narratives, love is one of the most powerful motives for acts of subversion. Normally, love is securely surrounded by the fortifications of convention, authority and moral codes, which contrast sharply with the conception of love as an individual experience and an uncontrollable passion. The social and moral impediments to the consummation of love cannot be removed by force, since it is not only the physical possession of the beloved which is required; it is her heart that the hero wants to possess. The lover then is forced to circumvent the social restrictions which prevent him from convincing his beloved of his sincerity and penetrate the social structure of which she is a part. As we can see from our examples, palaces and castles are suitable as symbols representing these themes and motifs. In the case of the caliphal palaces it is the unpredictable behaviour of slave-girls in the harem who, by admitting a stranger into the Caliph’s domain, undermines and challenges accepted authority. Passion and beauty can overcome the strictest boundaries, since they are governed by laws other than those on which the authority of the caliph is founded. This discrepancy is exploited by the storyteller to show that the world is not ruled by a onedimensional system of authority, but equally by underlying forces which escape the normal mechanisms of control. If the hero’s love is true and he is able to show it to his beloved, by bestowing lavish gifts upon her, for instance, and if he is brave enough to put his life in danger for his love, then there is a chance that he will successfully challenge the social barriers and reach his aim. Then he will secure the help of others and, eventually, the mercy of the caliph. 23


In the case of Ardashir the dual metaphorical function of the castle is quite clear. The castle represents the virtue of the princess and her refusal to let anyone into her heart. Moreover, it symbolises the authority of her father and the domain of his omnipotent will. This combination epitomises the patriarchal system of authority and the system of conventions associated with it. The twofold impregnability of the stronghold is contrasted with the dynamic forces of individual love. It is emphasised in the story that love and individuality are linked: the hero does not want any other girl than Hayat al-Nufus, in spite of the seemingly insurmountable difficulties. His love is of the realm of beauty, passion, poetry and nature, as opposed to social convention and dynastic consideration. He does not conquer his beloved in his role as a prince, but in his disguise as a commoner, without the paraphernalia of his position. In this disguise the hero has to prove his love and show his ingenuity in assessing the personality of his beloved. Their love is a purely emotional experience, and not a part of the cycle of dynastic continuity. The contrast between individual experience and social inflexibility in the story of Ardashir provides the condition for the strategy of subversion. After all, the incongruity of the two forces makes the palace into a mere symbol of power, shielding a situation which is clearly anomalous as far as the princess is concerned. It is a stronghold preventing the princess from reaching her true destiny by secluding her from the outside world and holding her captive to a system of moral and patriarchal codes. It is the physical manifestation of her father’s authority, which upholds the facade and hides the blatant wrong. Through the hero’s efforts the impregnable stronghold is pierced step by step and the princess detached from her father’s influence. The hero subverts the physical and social boundaries surrounding her and discloses the truth about her situation, namely, that authority has been misused to preserve her cruel isolation and prevent her life from taking its destined course. As soon as the hero has reached the princess’s heart, the ban is broken and the power symbol has lost its effectiveness. The power of the king is not broken, however; it is only seriously undermined, in order to set things straight. The raison d’être of this type of romance is usually to convey how an individual breaks loose from the system of conventions, 24


threatening the regular cycles of social continuity. Then, by force of determination and thanks to the transformations that he and/or others have undergone, he is reincorporated into the system, reinforcing it with new vigour by his individual exploits. The story illustrates how systems of conventions become rigid and stagnant and how they can be revitalised by individual initiatives and acts of defiance. To achieve this, the hero has to dissociate himself from his regular role and adopt a marginal role, usually combined with a form of disguise. In the end, the original situation is restored; the hero assumes his normal role, continuation of the dynasty is assured and true love has triumphed. This pattern can be discerned in these stories, too, because the central theme is not only love as an individual passion, but also the integration of love into the system of conventions and the necessity of love to prevent the social system from stagnating. Abnormal practices, due to the obsessions of fathers and the obstinacy of princesses should be abolished and replaced by a balance between individual feelings and social requirements. The palace symbolises the forces of stability, but also those of stagnancy, if it isolates a social domain from the world outside. Conquest is no remedy here; what is needed is personal resourcefulness and courage, the ability to see through the contradictions hidden inside the system of power symbols, to be able to take on various roles, and undermine it by taking hold of their true core. Thus, in our examples, the acts of subversion have a function in the cycle of social reproduction, turning an anomalous circumstance, through a transitional phase, into a legally and socially accepted situation. After all, the stories normally end in the marriage of the hero and the heroine. After having sneaked into the palace disguised as a slave-girl, the hero normally walks out of the palace with his head held high, as a lawfully married man, and sometimes even as the successor to the throne.

Conclusion In the stories discussed above the essential elements of subversive strategies are clearly present; a dichotomy is established between the manifestations of power and the true nature of relationships: there is contrast between the powerful and the powerless, a 25


challenge to the system of power by individual determination and the use of deception to remove contradictions through exposure than by force and coercion. In some stories, acts of subversion are used to show that there are forces that disrupt the normal social patterns and that enable humble heroes to penetrate into the domain of those in power. Other stories explain how the misuse of power can be corrected not by outright confrontation, but by slow and deliberate manipulation. Subversion is presented as a force challenging the established order, but also reinvigorating it. As such, subversion is associated with the struggle between generations and the system of dynastic succession. Of course, subversion is also associated with the strategies of lovers and with the strategies of young generations to force their way into the social structure. It seems reasonable to conclude, that a form of subversion is at the very core of the stories that we have discussed here, and that the intention of the storyteller may well have been to show the audience that there is more in life than the regular order of things and that individual determination can sometimes bring salvation. After all, a story is a lesson for those who seek to be taught.

Notes 1

For a more elaborate discussion of the philological aspects of the Thousand and One Nights, see U. Marzolph/ R. Van Leeuwen, The Arabian Nights; an encyclopedia, Abc-Clio, 2004; the Bulaq edition: Alf layla wa layla, ed. A. al-Sharqawi, Bulaq 1835. 2 Marzolph/Van Leeuwen (2004), no. 61; nights 170–217. 3 Ibid., (2004), no. 180; nights 566–578. 4 Ibid., (2004), no. 39; nights 43–145. 5 Ibid., (2004), no. 227; nights 738–759. (2004), no. 230; nights 778–831. 6 Ibid., (2004), no. 227; nights 738–759. (2004), no. 210; nights 624–680. 7 For a description of these palaces, see: M.J. Rubiera, La arquitectura en la literatura árabe: datos para una estética del placer, Madrid, 1988; see also ‘Pre-modern Islamic Palaces’, Ars orientalis, vol. 23 (1993). 8 Ibid., (2004), no. 226; nights 719–738. 9 Marzolph/Van Leeuwen (2004), no. 82; nights 308–327. 10 Ibid., (2004), no. 104; nights 371–381. 11 Ibid., (2004), no. 227; nights 738–759.

26

CHAPTER 2

Fools and Rogues in Discourse and Disguise: Two Studies Geert Jan van Gelder

Suppose one were forced to choose (God forbid!) between being either a rogue or fool. One imagines that many decent people, perhaps after considerable hesitation, would opt for the latter. The temptation for the alternative however, should not be underrated, for the respect inspired by a nasty but clever character could override the shame of affable foolishness; it may be worse to lose one’s face than to risk losing one’s soul. The two types are opposites; both are marginal. Rogues will disguise themselves as good fellows in order to deceive; clever people may disguise themselves as fools, perhaps to earn a living as court jesters, for instance. The first part of the following contribution deals with a fictional rogue in the picaresque stories or maqamat, not of the founder of the genre, Badi‘ al-Zaman al-Hamadhani (d. 398/1008) or of its most famous practitioner, al-Hariri (d. 516/1122), but of the less-studied Ibn Naqiya, who was born a few years after the former’s death and died some thirty years before the latter. The study focuses on the disguise motif. The second part deals with the less fictional figure of the court jester and buffoon as portrayed in medieval Arabic texts.

Buffoons high and low, or marginal people at the centre In The Book of the Crown (Kitab al-Taj), so-called Pseudo-Jahiz,1 the ninth-century author, describes, or rather prescribes, the conduct 27


of kings and courtiers. He is particularly impressed with Sassanid protocol and etiquette as ideals to be emulated. He says that the Persian kings literally kept their distance from their subjects – twenty cubits – with a screen in between.2 Early Islamic Arab rulers kept up this habit, according to the author, until the time of Yazid Ibn ‘Abd al-Malik (r. 720–724): He made the higher and lower classes (al-tabaqa al-‘ulya wa-l-sufla) equal, he corrupted the division of ranks, he was dominated by pleasure (lahw), he made light of the prescribed kingly conduct (ayin al-mamlaka), and he allowed boon-companions to talk, to laugh and to jest in his presence, and to answer back (or: to argue with him, alradd ‘alayh). He was the first caliph to let himself be scolded in his face by way of jest and foolishness (or scurrility, sukhf).3

Elsewhere we find anecdotes that may have prompted this remark, as in the Aghani, where Hababa, the caliph’s concubine and his great love, quarrels with him.4 In al-Taj, the Sassanid King Ardashir is quoted as having said that ‘nothing is more harmful to a king than being on intimate terms with a foolish person or being addressed by a lowly person (mu‘asharat sakhif aw mukhatabat wadi‘).5 In the text, ‘The Testament of Ardashir Ibn Babak’ the king warns against jesters (mudhikun) and says that playing or jesting is unseemly for a king, although he seems to take it for granted that these persons are part of the royal entourage, for he mentions them together with other sources of concern, such as wives, children, friends and counsellors.6 In spite of the allegedly dignified behaviour of the pre-Islamic Persian kings, the author of al-Taj tells a story about a king who was fooled by a fool and did not mind. The passage is worth quoting in full: It once happened to one of the nightly companions (summar) of the Persian kings that he became aware of an aversion towards him from the king, caused by boredom. When he noticed this, he taught himself to bark like a dog, to howl like a wolf, to bray (nahiq) like a donkey, to crow like a cock, to heehaw (shahij) like a mule, and to neigh like a horse. Having hidden in a place near the king’s throne or bed, he started to bark like a dog. The king did not doubt that there was a real dog around and said, ‘See what that is!’ Then he howled like a wolf, and the king descended from his throne. Then he brayed like a donkey; the king fled, his servants followed the sound. Each time they got close to him, he produced another sound, upon 28

FOOLS AND ROGUES IN DISCOURSE AND DISGUISE

which they would flinch from him. At last they attacked him together and brought him out, naked, from his hiding-place. When they saw him they said to the king, ‘It is Mazyar, the jester (mudhik)!’ The king laughed unrestrainedly (dahika…hatta tabassat)7 and said, ‘Damn you, why did you do that?’ He answered, ‘God has changed me into a dog, a wolf and a donkey, since the king was angry with me!’ Then the king ordered him to be given a robe of honour, and he was restored to his former position. —— Now this should only be done by people of the lower class. Nobles have other stratagems, which befit their station. Rawh Ibn Zinba‘, one of the shrewd Arabs (min duhat al-‘Arab),8 once noticed some displeasure and aversion on the part of ‘Abd al-Malik Ibn Marwan. So he said to al-Walid [son of the caliph], ‘Can’t you see that the Commander of the Believers turns his face away from me so that now the wild beasts open their mouths wide towards me, about to pounce with their claws in my face?’ Al-Walid replied, ‘Think of some story that will make him laugh’. Rawh said, ‘When we are quietly sitting together, then ask me about ‘Abd Allah Ibn ‘Umar, if he ever made jokes or listened to jokes!’ Al-Walid said, ‘I will do that.’9

The story continues as planned by Rawh Ibn Zinba‘, who tells a funny and slightly scabrous anecdote about Ibn Abi ‘Atiq who plays a joke upon the pious Ibn ‘Umar. The caliph laughs ‘until he scratched the floor with his foot’10 and Rawh is restored to his position of favour.11 The stories of Mazyar and Rawh Ibn Zinba‘ are also quoted by al-Mas ‘udi,12 in a slightly different arrangement, for here Rawh is introduced first, who hears about the ruse of Mazyar from alWalid, so that there is a nice telescoping or embedding of the three pairs of amusers and amused: the first pair being the Sassanid king (identified as Sabur Ibn Sabur in al-Mas‘udi’s version) and Mazyar; the second, ‘Abd al-Malik and Rawh; and finally Ibn ‘Umar and Ibn Abi ‘Atiq. While al-Mas‘udi stresses the parallels, the author of al-Taj emphasises the difference between high (or Rawh, leader of the tribe Judham and an important figure in his day), and low (Mazyar the jester). The difference is obvious: the low jester acts like a fool, the tribal leader tells a funny story. It is possible that al-Mas‘udi is suggesting here implicitly that the Arab story is more dignified than the Sassanian; at any rate it is obvious that the pro-Sassanian author of al-Taj somehow feels uneasy about the association of the ruler with a low buffoon. 29


Authors of later Mirrors-for-Princes narratives voice similar sentiments. Al-Tha‘alibi, in his Adab al-muluk, says that the boon companions (nudama’) of princes or rulers should belong to the upper strata of society, min ‘ilyat al-nas, and be well-versed in both jest and earnest;13 princes must not favour the lower classes or associate with them.14 On the other hand, he should not be excessive in wronging jesters and slapstick actors (al-mudhikun wa-l-safa’ina), like alMu‘tazz Billah did, who once made them eat fried snakes, pretending that they were eels;15 they ate them and died, all of them.16

In this gruesome story the ruler himself plays a joke in the worst of tastes on the joker; it appears such lowly buffoons (safa’ina) did perform at court. There are numerous treatises and passages on the nadim, the ‘boon companion’, from Kitab al-Taj to late medieval works such as al-Ghuzuli’s Matali’ al-budur and al-Nawaji’s Halbat al-kumayt, all of which describe the ideal nadim as a person of refined manners and culture, someone who might tell funny and silly stories but who could not himself be described as a buffoon. The nadim must combine contradictory characteristics, it is true: ‘he should possess the nobility of princes together with the lowliness of slaves, the chastity of the pious together with the bawdiness of the licentious (mujun al-futtak),17 the dignity of old men together with the mirth18 of young men.’19 But it is implied, I believe, that only a truly refined person qualifies for the post, for he must be able to stoop from the high to the low whenever appropriate, whereas a true clown cannot aspire to ascend from baseness to nobility. The lowly buffoon does not appear as a regular figure like the nadim in the mostly prescriptive Mirrors-for-Princes literature of the works on the nadim.20 But even from these works, and more so from other works, we learn that lowly buffoons were not uncommon at court.21 Even the author of al-Taj finds it necessary that the companions of princes be of a different class, the high and the low: a prince needs a lowly person (al-wadi‘) for his amusement (lahw), or a jester (mudhik) for telling stories.22 A few pages later he seems to contradict himself. Ardashir is said to have classified people at court into three classes.23 The boon companion (nadim) belongs to the second class; the third class comprises jesters and buffoons (al30


mudhikun wa-ahl al-hazl wa-l-bitala or ashab al-fukahat wa-l-mudhikun), yet in this third class there was not one of base or lowly origin (khasis al-asl wadi‘uhu), nobody missing a limb, or excessively tall or short, diseased, accused of passive homosexuality, of unknown parentage, or any low trade such as a weaver or cupper.24

In short, jesters ought to be lowly and not-lowly at the same time. This is paradoxical, but not impossible, least of all in the case of buffoons whose existence is intimately linked with paradox. Some caliphs did not stop at being amused by buffoons but acted themselves wholeheartedly like buffoons, like al-Walid Ibn Yazid25 and al-Amin,26 if the stories are to be believed (they may be antiUmayyad propaganda, of course). The author of al-Taj quotes Ishaq Ibn Ibrahim (al-Mawsili), who says that several Umayyad caliphs did not feel above dancing or prancing around in the nude in the presence of drinking companions or singers, and none more so than Yazid Ibn ‘Abd al-Malik and al-Walid Ibn Yazid.27 In short, the ambiguous concepts ‘high’ and ‘low’ are to be used with caution, for people in the high places might indulge in the lowest buffoonery. Some of the best-known buffoons belonged to the upper classes. The well-known wit Ibn Abi ‘Atiq, mentioned earlier as the teller of a risqué joke, was a greatgrandson of the caliph Abu Bakr. The famous nonsense poet Abu l-‘Ibar28 (d. 252/866), the one who began adding a letter to his name each year, until he called himself Abu l-‘Ibar Tarad Tayal Taliri Bak Bak Bak, or something like it, was descended from ‘Abd Allah Ibn ‘Abbas and therefore a member of the ruling family, the Abbasid dynasty; al-Suli has a chapter on him in his anthology Poems of Caliphs’ Children.29 Ibn al-Jassas, fool and jester, was a ‘very wealthy jeweler with important connections among the allpowerful wazîrs of early tenth-century Baghdad’.30 Ibn al-Hajjaj (d. 391/1001), perhaps the most obscene poet in Arabic literary history, came from a very decent family of government officials and secretaries in Baghdad; he was an influential and wealthy man himself, who owned estates and was appointed muhtasib in Baghdad, and was thus responsible for the supervision of moral standards in public life. In the dictionary of the trades and professions of Damascus, Qamus al-sina‘at al-Shamiyya, completed at the beginning of the 31


20th century, the buffoon (mudhik, muharrij or musakhkhin) is said to be popular with ‘important people and those who have nothing better to do, the wealthy and the opulent who waste their time with foolishness’; ‘it is a livelihood for low people (aladniya’; the term denotes both social and moral inferiority) who may enjoy thereby some hospitality or eat their bellyful’.31 While this may have been correct on the eve of modern times, the time of writing, it is certainly not correct for Abbasid times where we find jesters and buffoons who were rich enough not to have to debase themselves for the sake of a full stomach. Obviously, Ibn al-Jassas, Ibn al-Hajjaj and others must actually have liked to act as buffoons, or they had specific reasons other than economic for doing so. There is, of course, the possibility that some buffoons could not help themselves: the ‘natural fool’, as distinct from the ‘artificial fool’, or ‘self-made fool’. The medieval literature on jesters, buffoons and intelligent fools (to be distinguished from wise fools) is closely related to and, indeed, inextricably mixed with the literature on stupid people, madmen and idiots.32 Ibn al-Jassas, for instance, is conspicuously present in Ibn al-Jawzi’s monograph on stupid people and idiots, Akhbar al-hamqa wa-lmughaffalin.33 After a number of anecdotes on his stupidity, Ibn al-Jawzi adds: ‘Some reports about Ibn al-Jassas indicate that he intentionally pretended [to be stupid] without actually being so.’34 He quotes a story reported by al-Tanukhi, in which it is explained that ‘he loved to represent himself in their company [viz. of viziers] as an idiot, so that these viziers felt they had nothing to fear from someone who often had intimate encounters with caliphs.’35 Similarly, someone said of Abu l-‘Ibar, ‘He was in fact an erudite and virtuous man, but when he observed that stupidity was more lucrative and more useful, he pretended to be stupid.’36 We are told that Abu l-‘Ibar used to compose serious poetry, until the accession of al-Mutawakkil, when he left it for stupidity, which earned him far more fame and money.37 Also, a certain Abu l-‘Ijl,38 destitute in spite of his learning in language, literature and falsafa, decided to play stupid (ista‘mala l-ghafla wa-l-rataza); before a year had passed, he had earned a pretty sum. He acted as a clown when al-Mutawakkil visited Damascus. We are told that, having been generously rewarded by the caliph, he engraved on his ring the words hamuqtu fa32


nabultu: ‘I was stupid; then (or, so) I became noble.’39 One may compare al-Nisaburi’s ‘Uqala’ al-majanin (Intelligent madmen or wise fools), which contains a passage on people feigning stupidity in order to get rich. Thus a certain ‘Amir, a poor but erudite man who was reported to have become mad, told a friend, in verse: ‘I made myself mad in order to gain riches’, and the poverty of an unsuccessful poet called ‘Ali Ibn Salit al-Qasiri disappeared when he pretended to be stupid and ‘became popular with princes and nobles’.40 The more one reads about jesters and buffoons, the harder it becomes to make neat distinctions between the various categories. There are stupid fools, clever fools and wise fools, mad fools and sane fools, boring fools and amusing fools, low fools and high fools, scurrilous fools and chaste fools, intentional fools and unintentional fools, perhaps even marginal fools, eccentric fools and central fools, to say nothing of the list of 207 kinds of fools enumerated antiphonally by Pantagruel and Panurge (III, ch. 38). Moreover, in all Arabic anecdotal literature there is a high but uncertain proportion of fiction presented as fact, and this is surely higher than average in the case of jokes and anecdotes on jesters. Even if the related sayings were in fact uttered and the reported acts actually took place, it is very likely that names were freely attached to them without much concern for truth – especially names that became almost legendary, like Harun al-Rashid and Buhlul,41 or Abu Nuwas, who in popular fictional literature developed from a poet into Harun al-Rashid’s court jester. Another difficulty is the fact that the literary sources about jesters and buffoons are biased towards the oral, the verbal and literary, rather than drama, acting, mime, slapstick and other forms of non-verbal foolery. The two forms are often complementary, but the non-verbal elements can only be preserved when transformed into a verbal form, in an anecdote – as in the story of Mazyar quoted earlier, whereas a verbal joke remains verbal throughout the history of its transmission. That a verbal joke should change from the oral stage to a written one is immaterial and does not much affect its status: written texts such as the collections of al-Abi or Ibn al-Jawzi served as reservoirs and repertories for oral delivery. The transition of the non-verbal elements into the verbal, however, does to some extent affect their 33


status: I have suggested, in connection with the story of Mazyar, Rawh Ibn Zinba‘ and their sovereigns, that the telling of buffoonery has a higher status than the acting of it. It is not unrelated to the well-known attitude of the udaba’, beginning with al-Jahiz42 and Ibn Qutayba,43 of making a sharp (some would say too strict a) distinction between obscenities committed and obscenities related, or between human sexual organs, which are obscene, and the Arabic words for these objects, which, they argue, are not themselves obscene. The verbal buffoonery of alFadl Ibn Hashim,44 a precursor of Abu l-‘Ibar who specialised in making poems about filth and excrement, was about to be turned into practice by the caliph al-Wathiq, who intended or pretended to take the poet’s feigned craving for revolting substances literally, and suggested that the poet should swallow some. Al-Fadl replied with a poem in which he said, I may have made some original speech and poetry, but I am not practising it: Blood and pus, how could I eat them? Maggots and lice, how could I have them as snacks?45

The distinction between ‘acting buffoons’ and ‘verbal buffoons’ is not always very strict. As far as I am aware, Ibn alHajjaj’s obscene and scatological buffoonery was purely verbal; mainly verbal too were the pranks of the typical ‘low’ court jester, the famous Abu Dulama, son of a black slave, who was also a competent poet. But Abu l-‘Ibar, for instance, was a poet who also acted as a clown, dressing up in peculiar ways (wearing a fur hat in midsummer,46 or appearing at court dressed with a slipper on his head, two hoods on his feet, a shirt by way of trousers and trousers by way of shirt).47 Abu l-‘Ibar claimed to have learnt hazl as a boy from a teacher who ran a school to that purpose, telling his pupils, ‘The first thing you will want to do is to reverse things (qalb al-ashya’)’.48 The caliph al-Mutawakkil, during whose reign there was more drollery at court than usual,49 had Abu l-‘Ibar propelled into a pond by means of a slide or mangonel, while the poet shouted ‘Make way!’ (al-tariq, al-tariq), to be retrieved in a net like a fish.50 It seems that Abu l-‘Ibar was himself active in recording his own and other people’s buffoonery, for Ibn al-Nadim51 credits him with the authorship of a few works, including The Collection of 34


Stupidities and the Refuge of Follies,52 a work entitled Booncompanionship and the Character of Caliphs,53 and ‘the book of his reports and poems’, which may of course have been compiled by someone else. Al-Kutanji, who succeeded Abu l-‘Ibar as alMutawakkil’s court-jester, is also mentioned as the author of several books, such as The Book of Pleasantries and Stupid People, The Book of Slapstick Actors and The Book of Charlatanry.54 This al-Kutanji is a rather shadowy figure and even his name is uncertain; I adopt the version ‘al-Kutanji’ from Shmuel Moreh,55 but in al-Abi’s Nathr al-durr he appears as al-Muktanji, or al-Maktanji, however one should read it.56 In al-Aghani we come across a certain al-Kanji, or, in a variant, al-Katanbaji, or, in the index al-Katanji: obviously the same person.57 It seems as if, like Abu l-‘Ibar, he added letters to his name. Another court jester of al-Mutawakkil, Abu l-‘Anbas alSaymari,58 wrote numerous works (Pellat lists 41 titles) on a variety of subjects, many of them of obvious relevance to his activities as a jester, judging by their titles. In any case, the great majority of the typical buffoons and jesters that we find in the sources are of the literate and literary type: erudite wits and poets. The court jesters generally are ‘artificial fools’ rather than madman-fools like Buhlul al-Majnun, who in later literature appears as Harun alRashid’s court jester, but whose relationship with the caliph is historically extremely tenuous. All these court fools, the stupid and the pretending ones, the high-born and low-born ones, together with the typical nudama’, drinking companions of the ruler, have in common that they occupy places that may be called marginal, although paradoxically they are active in the most central place of the realm, close to the ruler. In spite of the attempts of the Sassanid king Ardashir and others to incorporate them in a system of classes, tabaqat, they are essentially outside the class system. The typical nadim or buffoon has no official function which would make him part of the hierarchy of the court or that of civil administration. Such hierarchical relationships would strain the more or less relaxed and informal atmosphere in which the boon companion or buffoon is supposed to function. This was already clearly stated by Nizam al-Mulk in his Persian Siyasatnama:59 the drinkingcompanions and other intimates (nazdikan) of the prince must not be recruited from among those holding an office, nor should they be given one afterwards; they should not talk about politics 35


and state affairs nor about financial, administrative or military matters. In a telling anecdote, the Tahirid governor of Baghdad, Muhammad Ibn ‘Abd Allah, wants to unwind in the company of his vizier Ibn Talut, a personal and intimate friend (akhass al-nas bihi wa-ahdaruhum li-khalwatihi). Yet he finds it necessary to invite a third person for the sake of a properly relaxed ambience (la budd lana l-yawm min thalith tatibu lana bihi l-mu‘ashara, wa-taladhdhu bimunadamatihi al-mu’anasa). The governor applauds the vizier’s suggestion: it is to be Mani al-Muwaswis, Mani the Maniac, a typical madman-poet, someone who went around naked with a hobby horse. Mani’s performance is appreciated and the upshot is that he is employed by the governor for the rest of his life.60 Buffoons like Abu l-‘Ibar can only be called subversive in the sense that they practise qalb al-ashya’ and temporarily subvert things, be they modes of dress or poetic genres. The buffoon and the court jester are allowed briefly to break down the customary correlation between high social rank and high moral or aesthetic standards as well as the barriers between high and low status. This does not mean that they subvert the structure of society or dominant modes of thought. On the contrary, they confirm existing structures and conventions, just as the periphery circumscribes and defines the centre, or just as margins, fringes and edges delineate the middle.61 Jesters and buffoons fulfil the same role in society as do chapters on hazl and mujun in works that are predominantly serious, obvious examples being anthologies such as ‘Uyun al-akhbar, al-‘Iqd al-farid, al-Raghib al-Isfahani’s Muhadarat al-udaba’; or al-Tawhidi’s al-Imta‘ wa-l-mu’anasa and alSafadi’s al-Ghayth al-musajjam. We should not be surprised that such a high proportion of court jesters known from the sources are poets. The four functionaries that Nizami ‘Arudi deemed indispensable for princes in his Persian Four Discourses include neither the nadim nor the court jester, although the poet can easily fill the latter’s place, judging by the author’s definition of poetry, the function of which is, as it were, qalb al-ashya’: Poetry is that art whereby the poet arranges imaginary propositions and blends fruitful analogies, in such wise that he can make a little thing appear great and a great thing small, or cause good to appear in the garb of evil and evil in the garb of good.62 36


Disguises in the maqamat of Ibn Naqiya (410–485/1020–1092) That disguise is a central topic in the genre of the Hamadhanian and Haririan maqama is obvious; the two collections have often been studied from various angles and are known to every student of Arabic. The maqamas by Ibn Naqiya have received far less attention, even though they are relatively early, coming as they do before al-Hariri.63 They, too, offer rewarding material for the theme of disguise and dissimulation; I would argue that they are in fact more interesting, at least in this respect, than al-Hamadhani’s maqamas. Unlike al-Hamadhani, his model,64 Ibn Naqiya has a different and anonymous narrator in each maqama, which eliminates a powerful cohesive element that is present in the other collections: the recognition scene, in which the narrator becomes yet again aware of the identity of the deceitful vagabond who unifies the series of maqamat.65 The listener or reader of al-Hamadhani’s maqamat, who naturally has already grasped this long before the narrator, anticipates with a certain feeling of superiority the moment at which the narrator will at last be undeceived as to Abu l-Fath al-Iskandari’s identity. This Abu l-Fath is a protean figure: now young, now old, sometimes mad, usually eloquent. We cannot therefore blame the narrator if, on many occasions, he seems to have difficulty recognising him even when Abu l-Fath is not wearing a veil or is not otherwise disguised. In Ibn Naqiya’s maqamas the listener or reader recognises the character, here called al-Yashkuri, at an early stage, although there is no recognition scene in the text itself, and one merely awaits the moment chosen to reveal al-Yashkuri’s name. Even though there seems to be less of a motive for disguise than in alHamadhani’s series, the motif of disguising is more clearly present in that of Ibn Naqiya. Since the central character, alYashkuri, seems to be present in each maqama, the series is more unified than al-Hamadhani’s, for in the latter Abu l-Fath is absent from a substantial number of maqamas. Moreover, all of Ibn Naqiya’s maqamas are situated in or around one town, Baghdad, whereas al-Hamadhani’s personages seem to make an extensive and haphazard tour of the Middle East from Syria to Balkh. It is not clear why Ibn Naqiya should have chosen the nisba alYashkuri, apparently from the tribe Yashkur Ibn Bakr Wa’il, for 37


his anti-hero. In the first maqama, he appears to the bedouin narrator as a lizard-hunting character who introduces himself as belonging to Yashkur. However, when he is pressed by his bedouin interlocutor, he is unable to say whether he is descended from the branch al-‘Atik Ibn Ka‘b (Ibn Yashkur)66 or Ghanm (Ibn Hubayyib Ibn Ka‘b Ibn Yashkur), which casts some doubt on his claim.67 Unlike al-Hamadhani’s Abu l-Fath al-Iskandari or al-Hariri’s Abu Zayd al-Saruji, who are both by their nisbas related to a particular place,68 al-Yashkuri only refers to an Arab tribe and not to a locality. Among the relatively few prominent Yashkuris in literary history, the best known are perhaps al-Harith Ibn Hilliza, author of one of the Mu‘allaqat, and the mukhadram poet Suwayd Ibn Abi Kahil, author of a famous long poem.69 I see no particular reason why either should have given their nisba to Ibn Naqiya’s vagabond, although the last line of Suwayd’s poem, in which he describes himself, could be applied to the later character: ‘Is Suwaid aught else but a lion lurking in his lair? When a land is too damp for him, he moves elsewhere in search of prey.’70

The first maqama In the opening maqama, told by a bedouin, the eloquent alYashkuri presents himself as a true Bedouin lover of lizards, although, as we have seen, he is probably posing as a Bedouin and falsely claiming true Arab descent. In some respects, he thus conforms to the typical vagabond in the maqama; he is, in all likelihood, not what he appears to be but, in fact, a marginal figure. In most maqamas in which such a vagabond appears, he uses his disguise to better himself in some way, by persuading others to part with their money or food. Here, on the other hand, it is al-Yashkuri who gives food to the narrator in exchange for companionship. Although the latter seems to disbelieve him, there is no denunciation or unmasking. The text does not tell us for how long the two stay together. In the Hamadhanian or Haririan maqama it is taken for granted that the narrator is on the whole reliable, even though he may be gullible and to some extent biased. In Ibn Naqiya’s first maqama there is an indication that the narrator is equally unreliable as al-Yashkuri. He tells us that it was al-Yashkuri who 38


first inquires after his identity: ‘From which people are you?’ Instead of giving a straightforward answer, he continues, ‘Then I was slow in answering his question. I put off his inquiry and said, ‘I am a man from the desert’’. There may be good reasons for not revealing one’s affiliation to strangers in the desert, but even though he shares the other’s food, neither al-Yashkuri nor the reader comes to know his name. Perhaps his descent is as little Arab as is Ibn Naqiya’s, whose ancestor seems to have had an Aramaic name or title.71 Why should the author himself not have posed as the narrator, or as most or all of the narrators? Some of the brief descriptions given could apply to Ibn Naqiya: ‘a speculative theologian’ (ba‘d al-mutakallimin) (no. 6; he wrote a book on the comparisons in the Qur’an), ‘a man of erudition’ (ba‘d ahl al-adab) (no. 8), ‘a civil servant (ba‘d al-kuttab)’ (no.9). Another narrator (no.4) is called ‘a friend’, which is a common and simple way of referring to oneself without naming oneself. All these narrators sound more or less trustworthy. The second maqama is exceptional in having a rather disreputable narrator, which undermines the truth of the story from the outset.

The second maqama The second maqama begins: Haddathani ba‘d al-futtak ‘Some cutthroat (or “rogue”) told me’.72 The narrator tells that one night, near the road along which he was travelling, he heard a sound and saw a shape scuffling about, more like an animal than a human being, with a long-haired skin, at times jumping up like a devil, then on all fours like a wolf, but with two hands or paws made of iron. With these it proceeded to desecrate a grave and to rob a recently deceased person of his shroud. Having filled up the grave again, it eluded the approaching night-watchmen by going up a nearby minaret. From there, it burst out in pious admonitions, reminding his unsuspecting audience, the watchmen, of the brevity of earthly life, of the impending Judgment and the Hereafter in hell or heaven. The narrator, who almost believes it to be a dream, is shocked by these devious deeds, hardened criminal though he is himself. When the mysterious figure descends he calls out to him, while the other recites a few lines of verse, such as ‘The perfection of a perfect man is not impaired / if he be of use to those that depend on 39


him’. The narrator follows him and expresses his surprise at finding him so erudite. The man further justifies himself: ‘Each man looks after himself; cover up so that God will cover you (fastur yasturi llahu ‘alayka). Do not find strange what you have seen: it is easy booty.’ The following words of the man are somewhat enigmatic: ‘He who presents himself as someone who strikes the neck (mustaqfiyan) is equal to him who goes out in disguise (mukhtafiyan)’. Both words call for some commentary; both are ambiguous. The editor glosses mustaqfi as ‘someone who hits people in the neck with a stick (viz. a policeman)’ and mukhtafi as ‘someone who violates graves’ (nabbash). It may well be that mustaqfi is an apt description for a policeman in many countries and periods, yet I believe that here it refers to the narrator, our assassin. If he was indeed heavily armed, this was probably not hidden from view. The word mustaqfi has an alternative interpretation as ‘availing oneself of the absence of someone’; one might argue that the shroud-robber avails himself of the fact that the shroud’s owner is dead and gone, absent indeed. That mukhtafi means ‘digging up, or violating, a grave’ is affirmed by the brief commentary that follows the maqama, and which may be the author’s or the lexicographer’s. Al-Jahiz mentions that ‘the people of the Hejaz call a violator of graves mukhtafi, because he digs up a shroud from a grave and brings it to light’.73 Al-Hariri also used the ambiguity of the word mukhtafi, in the course of a string of ambiguous questions in his thirtysecond maqama.74 Yet I believe that in Ibn Naqiya’s text the first intended meaning is simply ‘being in disguise’ or ‘hiding oneself’, and that the speaker contrasts and equates his interlocutor with himself. It is true that mukhtafi is an ambiguous word, for it may also mean (quoting Hava’s dictionary al-Fara’id) ‘To make a. th. apparent’, ‘To kill a. o. (in secret)’, and ‘To dig (a well)’, the first and third of which somehow apply to the gravedigger, and the second to the assassin. To conclude the story: the shroud-robber justifies himself with the words of the Prophet: ‘Seek sustenance hidden in the earth!’ When the assassin replies that this refers to plants rather than the dead, the other says, ‘You are not more entitled to interpretation (ta’wil) than I.’75 He identifies himself as ‘al-Yashkuri’ and departs, while reciting four rajaz lines about himself: 40


I’m night’s paternal and maternal cousin: As soon as it is dark, I don its shirt. Whatever terrors night may show to me, I am not one to dread its phantoms (khayal).76

‘Night’s son’ (ibn al-layl) is an expression with various meanings,77 including ‘a nightly traveller unafraid of the terrors of the night’, and this interpretation is reinforced by the poem. However, it may also mean ‘robber’ or ‘thief’, a meaning that alYashkuri hides, not only by alluding to the more innocent meaning but also by calling himself not night’s son but its cousin. The story must have rung a bell for those familiar with alTanukhi’s remarkable story in al-Faraj ba‘d al-shidda, which is also the subject of an article by Andras Hamori.78 In this story, which is no maqama and pretends to be factual, a traveller shelters one night in a cemetery near al-Ramla in Palestine. He sees a strange animal-like shape, ‘like a wolf’, digging up a grave and confronts it. When the creature threatens him, he attacks it and with his sword cuts off one of its hands. The creature flees. The man finds a beautiful female hand with an iron claw and notes the house into which the figure disappeared. The following day he finds that the culprit is the unmarried daughter of a respected cadi, who has a strange passion for stealing shrouds. She has already collected a great number of these, going out at night with her iron claw and covering herself with a goatskin. The story is by no means finished with this discovery and readers might like to read it on their own. For our purposes however, the remainder of the story is not relevant to the present theme. It is obvious that Ibn Naqiya knew the story of al-Tanukhi or some version of it; he was, after all, a pupil of al-Tanukhi’s son, ‘Ali Ibn al-Muhassin.79 We can only guess why Ibn Naqiya would steal al-Tanukhi’s shroud, so to speak, and change the story by shortening it and changing the identity of the two main characters. Although his brief narrative is far less interesting as a story, he has certainly succeeded, if that was his purpose, in condensing it by concentrating on the theme of disguise and hiding. Let us sum up the various manifestations of this theme. The events take place at night, the covering darkness of which is pictured at the very beginning with some display of rhetoric. When the narrator hears something, he hides himself (tawaraytu minhu kaminan), a double hiding. But the night is no longer pitch-black, and he is able to 41


see a shape clothed in a hide, with sparks of fire flying from its mouth (this, incidentally, is not properly explained; perhaps its teeth reflect what little light there is). This hide-covered being, under cover of night, uncovers those who ought to remain covered by the earth. Even worse, it then robs those bodies of their remaining covering, and covers the traces of its crime by once more covering up the bodies. The supreme cover-up is, of course, the shroud-robber’s subsequent posing as a pious preacher and his blatant selfjustification by means of the Prophet’s words. Finally, after all this covering and posing, he reveals himself; He is ‘the man of (the tribe of) Yashkur you have heard of’. A single nisba, even if not a common one in the eleventh century, is hardly a sufficiently clear identification, and his identity is even obscured by the mockgenealogy supplied in verse (‘night’s paternal and maternal cousin’), in which he clothes himself in his ‘night-shirt’, thus letting the maqama end where it began: with the night. The last word is khayal, phantom, apparition or fantasy, which suggests that everything that happened that night was a figment of the imagination, just as the story of these two marginal figures is itself fictional. Ibn Naqiya provides a final sense of covering by his elaborate, recondite and often ambiguous language, which differs markedly from al-Tanukhi’’s plain narrative. In the beginning, after the relatively straightforward metaphorical description of the night (‘darkness had dispersed its herd, the day had expired’), we find a slightly baffling phrase: al-khalla da‘iya ila l-salla. It is a proverb, quoted in more than one collection of proverbial sayings,80 and is explained as ‘poverty calls for theft’, obviously a relevant saying here. But both khalla and salla have multiple meanings. As alMaydani says, salla may refer to the unsheathing of a sword, no less relevant in the case of the fatik. Since khalla could also be read as khilla, ‘scabbard, or sheath’, the saying could be interpreted ‘the scabbard called for (the sword) to be unsheathed’, an interpretation that reinforces the opposite themes of hiding and exposing.

The third maqama The narrator is an unnamed Syrian trying to make a living in Baghdad: another marginal figure. At a dilapidated mosque he 42


encounters a person ‘stripped of clothes and of shame’ who is obviously in need of food, having beside him merely ‘a single plus a couple of peeled sesame-seeds’ – the author seems to suggest that this person is as insignificant and naked as these seeds. When the narrator, overcome by homesickness, talks lovingly about his own country, the other joins in with an even greater show of longing for Syria. The commiserating narrator proposes that they travel back home together, and offers to share his food. Avidly devouring most of the food and leaving little for his benefactor, the other seems to have forgotten his country and kin. When the imam and others enter the mosque for the midday prayer, the man picks up his rags and flees. ‘And see, it was al-Yashkuri’, says the narrator, although it is not clear whether he has ever seen him before; perhaps it is implied that the people in the mosque, who attempt to catch al-Yashkuri, have recognised the Syrian. The importunate beggar is not caught, and the Syrian thanks God for being rid of the man. The pun (al-Yashkuri being derived from yashkur ‘he thanks’) points to the paradox of the name, for alYashkuri’s sin is precisely that of not being thankful. A more important paradox in this maqama is the fact that al-Yashkuri, by being uncovered, is able effectively to hide his identity. Thus, without telling distinctions of dress, it is all the easier for him to pose as a Syrian.

The fourth maqama After the broad daylight of the previous maqama, it is night again. The narrator is ‘a friend’ who lives on the East bank in Baghdad. While he and his family are eating dinner, a beggar comes to the door who speaks the language of the Bedouin, with correct vowel endings and all, including unusual and archaic vocabulary, ‘mixing his begging with exhortation’. When his actual words are given, the general drift of his speech turns out to be perfectly understandable, in spite of a few ancient idioms such as ‘imu masa’an ‘Good evening!’ and a number of obscure words (e.g. thufruq ‘date-stalk’). He says that he suffers from leprosy81 and is blind, and describes himself as ‘naked in a tattered shirt’. He comes from the West bank of Baghdad, which seems not very far away, yet he conveys the impression that he is an expatriate. In spite of his entreaties the company does not respond for a while. 43


A young boy says, ‘May you be blessed!’ (burika fika), equivalent of the modern Ya‘tik Allah (‘May God give to you’) used to dismiss a beggar, and the man bursts out in anger. The narrator is about to intervene, when the beggar quotes a few appropriate Qur’anic verses (‘And as for the beggar, scold not!’ 93:10) and identifies himself, as ‘your servant, al-Yashkuri’. The narrator is not convinced of the beggar’s sincerity; he has apparently noticed (we are not told how) that the man is by no means leprous or blind, and tells him so. The beggar suddenly changes register and replies, ‘It ought to be enough for you that my heart is blind and my arse82 afflicted’. This odd collocation of the lofty (janan, a rather poetical word) and the obscene (‘ijan) breaks the ice and the man gets some food. Having eaten his fill, he departs. This is in a sense a reversal of the usual procedure of the maqama vagabond who deceives people and gets what money or food he needs by posing as a pious and virtuous man or, at any rate, by disguising himself. Here he attains the desired food only by implicitly confessing that he is no ailing invalid and by showing himself to be the importunate and foul-mouthed beggar that he is. Paradoxically, he is fed when he mentions an allegedly diseased part of his anatomy which would make him distinctly unattractive as a table companion: the poet Labid, in a well-known anecdote, said in a poem to a pre-Islamic king, about a man suspected of having a leprous fundament, ‘Do not eat with him!’83

The fifth maqama The narrator of the fifth maqama, someone ‘living under the protection of the Banu Sawwar’ (a clan or family that I have not been able to identify), is on his way home after prayer. It is a very dark and cold winter night. He reaches ‘the palace of Ibn al-Walid’ – perhaps a desolate Umayyad castle in Syria? –where he notices a lone individual in the courtyard who seems agitated, ‘now standing up, now sitting down’. The narrator sits down himself, not making his presence known, while uttering Qur’anic verses as if to protect himself from impending evil. Evil arrives presently, in the shape of a blackness ‘like a big rain cloud or a Satan’. The man in the palace is apparently delighted to see him, kisses him and calls him ‘dearest Abu l-Misk’; he turns out to be his black lover 44


and master. One of them is said to be of Yashkur and Thaqif, which is strange, because one cannot belong to both at the same time. It is not wholly clear what goes on between the two, but it is not something that ought to be done in public. The narrator is unable to distinguish ‘the fa‘il (doer, subject) from the maf‘ul (done, object)’. Finally the narrator hears one of them recite a couple of obscene verses; judging by the content it is the active partner. Only then does the narrator find it necessary to come forward in order to put him to shame and says, ‘Will you allow me to recite these lines to others, if you are the one who has composed them?’ The other is unabashed and replies, Da‘huma min alMursalati ‘urfa! ‘Don’t let them get mixed up with ‘the Loosed Ones Successively’!’, with reference to the beginning of Sura 77. Unconcerned, he leaves while reciting a well-known line by Bashshar Ibn Burd: ‘He who (merely) watches people will not attain what he needs; but someone who yearns and acts rashly wins pleasant things’.84 The word ‘who acts rashly’ is in fact al-fatik, which links this maqama with the second. There is no disguising in this maqama, but much hiding in darkness. It is the narrator who uncovers himself, but his professed aim is thwarted as his sarcastic request falls flat, and we are left with the impression that he is somehow to blame for having been sitting in the dark, piously muttering but at the same time vicariously peering at the goings-on.

The sixth maqama85 A theologian (mutakallim) tells how, in an orchard (ba‘d al-basatin) on a hot day, he finds a man sitting in the shade with a wine jug in front of him, merrily singing poetry. The narrator suppresses his irritation because he, too, is in need of a bit of shade. He refuses the wine he is offered, explaining that he is a theologian. The stranger then embarks on a physico-philosophical monologue on the mixing of water and wine and whether the components remain unchanged in the process, mentioning Aristotle and his Categories as well as quoting poetry, winding up with a verse of Abu Nuwas which flatly denies resurrection after death.86 The narrator rebukes him, quoting verses from the Qur’an. The drinker questions another verse (36:40), ‘It does not befit the sun to overtake the moon’, arguing that overtaking does seem to take 45


place at a solar eclipse. Here the narrator in his turn quotes Abu Nuwas (‘You have memorized something but many things have eluded you’). The following discussion, on the meaning of the following Qur’anic words, ‘Nor does the night outstrip the day’ and related verses, hark back to the theme of mixing water and wine. Finally the stranger has enough of what he calls ‘the stupid tales of the theologians’ (khurafat al-mutakallimin) and falls asleep, farting loudly. His identity is revealed when the gardener arrives and asks, ‘What has al-Yashkuri been up to now?’. The narrator replies that he had thought him to be of the tribe of ‘Abd alQays, an allusion which is explained in the commentary: they were notorious for their flatulence. There is not much in the way of disguise or revelation here; the two main characters do not seem to be interested in each other’s identity. The point of the maqama is apparently the theme of ‘mixing’ and the contact between opposites or complements: water and wine, sun and moon, day and night, sunshine and shade, a theologian and an unbeliever, the lofty and the lowly; and the question is to what extent this contact or mixing affects either. Does the jesting tone of the maqama become serious on account of the underlying theme, or is the serious theme contaminated by the jesting? We have here a good example of a mixture of jidd and hazl, as promised by the author in his introduction.87

The eighth maqama A man of adab narrates the next maqama, called the eighth in the edition used for this study, from which the seventh is lacking. His adab is obviously of a lighter variety, for he is associated with tarab and la‘ib, music and play. It is autumn. In a garden (hadiqa) outside an unnamed town – perhaps Baghdad – he and his companions find a typical locus amoenus: palm trees, flowers, sweet smells, singing birds, a brook, which they complement with food, wine, singing and pleasant and erudite conversation. They are happy and feel as if they are outside time, la nahsabu l-dahra yash‘uru bi-makanina, until (hatta is the operator of the reversal) a figure appears ‘like a piece of stone, with heavy tread’. He is described with several more unfavourable adjectives: slouching, moving like a crab, stooping and crawling, leaning on his elbows, looking down towards the ground. He comes toward them ‘like a 46


torrent brought by the night’ and joins them, much against their liking. He recites a line of poetry in which he reveals himself as al-Yashkuri; it is a line that is blatantly defective, being unmetrical and suggesting a faulty rhyme;88 We are told the rest of his poem is equally imperfect. The picnickers are horrified and leave, reciting lines by al-Akhtal that appropriately state that the arrival of an unpleasant person is worse than something like a fly falling into the wine.89 There is no evidence that the revellers knew the identity of the newcomer before he addressed them in verse, although alYashkuri does this while saying ‘You pretended not to know the poet from Yashkur’. Another oddity of this maqama lies in the fact that by the very line that supposedly reveals his identity, he hides one of his most conspicuous attributes: his eloquence and ability to produce correct verse, attested on several occasions in the preceding maqamas.

The ninth maqama Another drinking scene here, but indoors, it seems. It is attended by some high-ranking people (ru’asa’). The narrator is a katib, who expatiates on the lovely qualities of a singing-girl. The sun is setting, night approaches. A voice is heard that recites a line by al-‘Abbas Ibn al-Ahnaf: ‘Will you allow a lover to visit you? For with you are the pleasures of hearing and sight!’90 The narrator apparently recognises the newcomer immediately, for he says, ‘And see, there was al-Yashkuri!’. This time there is nothing in his appearance that repels the others and he joins them, drinking through the night. He greatly admires the singer, to whom he suggests a number of songs. A number of the guests have in the meantime fallen asleep. The strange thing about this maqama is that there is no further mention of al-Yashkuri. Instead the story shifts to an unnamed young man of the company (fata minhum), who induces the singing-girl to perform specially for him, whetting her appetite with his beautiful signet ring; this, we are told, ‘in an attempt to overcome his stinginess and baseness, to cheat his avarice and wretchedness’. At his request the girl sings songs by famous musicians of the past such as Ibn Surayj and Ma‘bad, which drives him to rapture. After a while, believing him to be in love not 47


merely with her music but with herself as well, she thinks the moment has come to make him part with his ring. However, he shows himself reluctant, ‘moaning like a bereaved mother and groaning like a she-camel having lost her young’. She insists, reaching towards his hand in order to pull the ring off his finger; he faints. The girl is frightened, believing he may have given up the ghost. But he comes to after a while and says to the girl, ‘Begone! I will have nothing to do with banter, nor banter with me!’, echoing a well-known saying of the Prophet (lastu min dad wa-la dad minni breaking; his stinginess has won the day. The inescapable conclusion that we must draw is that the unnamed young man is none other than al-Yashkuri, who has been able to don the cloak of anonymity in the dark of night, it seems, so that even the narrator did not recognise him, although it remains odd that even in the light of the morning, when he departs, his identity is still not revealed. Al-Yashkuri, apparently known to the narrator before the evening in question, is even better known to the readers of the previous maqamas, who would realise that the behaviour and even the eloquence of the young man tallies very well with what they know about al-Yashkuri. As an additional corroboration the reader might remember that in the third maqama al-Yashkuri is said to ‘groan like a bereaved she-camel’, like the fata in the present story. It is a nice trick of Ibn Naqiya: to leave the recognition in this maqama to the reader’s imagination.

The tenth maqama The edition used for this study ends with the ninth maqama. A tenth maqama, found in the modern edition by Hasan ‘Abbas, has been translated admirably (into German rhymed prose) and discussed by Stefan Wild, and published together with some pertinent general remarks on Ibn Naqiya. He describes it as ‘a burlesque from Baghdad’91 (eine Burleske aus Baghdad). As Wild says, this maqama must have contributed to the bad reputation of Ibn Naqiya in orthodox circles, as is clear from al-Safadi’s Wafi: ‘He was discredited as to his religion and his beliefs; … he was a fault-finding, slanderous man who attacked the Revealed Law and adhered to the opinions of the ancients (i.e. the ancient Greeks).’92 He was thought to be a heretic, someone who denied 48


God’s attributes (kana yunsabu ila l-ta‘til), as al-Qifti and Ibn Khallikan tell us.93 ‘The truth of the following story is guaranteed,’ it is said at the beginning, ‘by a mocker and good-for nothing.’ He is sauntering through the town, looking for pleasant company for himself and his friends. He sees a wretch being pestered by children, while eloquently comparing himself to a prophet who is rejected by his own people. The narrator has found his man and invites him to visit him and his friends, quoting the description of Paradise from Sura 56. Having arrived, the man recites a somewhat blasphemous poem, introducing himself in the first line, ‘I am al-Yashkuri the prophet, from the tribe of Jusham or of Ghubar.’94 He goes on to put himself on the level of the Prophet Muhammad, to the extent of promising intercession on the Day of Judgment. The narrator and his friends, humouring him, ask about the commandments that he might be able to bring them. He replies with words attributed to Imru’ al-Qays: ‘Wine today, business tomorrow!’95 Subsequently they ask him to perform a miracle as behoves a prophet. When he tells them that he will reveal their innermost thought, they think they have cornered him; but he tells them what they think: that he is an impostor, and quickly absconds. Laughing, they realise that he has tricked them. As Wild has shown, the joke was not newly invented; it is found in one of the many stories about ‘false prophets’.96 In this final maqama there is again an interesting sequence of disguises and revealings. Al-Yashkuri poses as a prophet persecuted by children, a latter-day Elisha (see II Kings 2), and ‘reveals’ himself to the narrator and his friends, although in reality he is shamming; while they, in turn, pretend to believe in him. It is al-Yashkuri who ultimately reveals not only the thoughts of the company but also himself as the trickster that he is. It seems that it was his last appearance, as the final sentence suggests (‘no eye has ever seen him again’). Perhaps Ibn Naqiya wrote no more maqamas and so committed his hero to his definitive hidingplace: non-existence. It is difficult to decide to what extent Ibn Naqiya’s ill repute was based on his maqamas, and on his contemporaries’ identifying, or ‘revealing’, their hero as his creator. For this, of course, is the eternal trick of disguise and discovery that authors and their readers play with each other: either an author hides himself in a fictional character, or the 49


reader finds the author in his creation. We know however, that such projections are generally wrong-headed, but we do it nonetheless, especially when we temporarily forget our lessons. Unlike al-Hamadhani, both Ibn Naqiya and al-Hariri provide an introduction to their Maqamat in which they allude to the fictional nature of their characters. Al-Hariri speaks of tales ‘put in the mouth of dumb animals and lifeless objects (al-mawdu‘at ‘an al-‘ajmawat wa-l-jamadat)’, obviously referring to animal fables such as Kalila wa-Dimna.97 Ibn Naqiya also likens his method to that of ‘the sages who put wisdom into the mouth of beasts’ ([‘adat]…al-hukama’ fi wad‘al-hikma fi alsinat al-baha’im); moreover, he says of his tales: ‘I have stamped them with a borrowed name (wasamtuha bi-ism musta‘ar), after the custom of poets in the amorous introduction of someone making a qasida (fi tashbib alqasid).’98 It is not wholly clear what he means by this comparison. Ibn Naqiya’s ‘borrowed name’ seems to be that of al-Yashkuri, but poets rarely borrow names for themselves in the same fashion: rather, they may use fictional names for their beloved, or, more often, the amorous theme in the nasib is itself fictional. Ibn Naqiya says, apparently, that the opinions and sayings of al-Yashkuri should not be imputed to the author, just as a poet’s declaration of love must not be taken at face value. It is perhaps appropriate that Ibn Naqiya’s personality managed to remain clothed in confusion after his death. Al-Qifti, in his biographical encyclopaedia of philologians Inbah al-ruwah, has two separate entries for him. In the first99 he is called ‘Abd Allah Ibn Muhammad, in the second100 ‘Abd al-Baqi Ibn Muhammad (alQifti is aware of the fact that the different names refer to the same person). In the former he is called ‘an excellent man’ (kana fadilan), the author of works on adab. In the latter he is accused of heresy and atheism, as we have seen; he has ‘little religion’ and ‘much licentiousness’ (qalil al-din and kathir al-mujun), even though he transmitted Hadith. It should be mentioned here that his work on Qur’anic similes, al-Juman fi tashbihat al-Qur’an, has been edited.101 In the former entry a few lines of his are quoted in which he presents himself as a pious and sober man: ‘… Never has my hand touched a wine-glass…’; in the second entry a very different, bacchic poem is quoted: ‘… Many were the pleasures I enjoyed, drinking glasses of pure cooled wine in the company of young men…’ This entry concludes with the familiar motif of a deathbed 50


conversion: the man who washes Ibn Naqiya’s corpse pries open the stiffened clenched fingers of the deceased’s left hand. He finds a distich in which Ibn Naqiya, though fearful, trusts in the mercy of the Heavenly ‘Host’ who will not disappoint his guest but protect him, as he hopes, from hell.102 Was Ibn Naqiya serious, or did he think he could disguise himself in this manner both for posterity and for God? Only the latter knows.

Notes v See Gregor Schoeler, ‘Verfasser und Titel des dem Ga- hi z. zugeschriebenen sog. Kitab at-Taj ’, ZDMG 130 (1980) 217–225 who shows that the author may well have been a certain Muhammad Ibn al-Harith al-Taghlibi (or al-Tha‘labi), and its original title (Kitab) Akhlaq al-muluk. 2 (Ps.-)Jahiz, al-Taj fi akhlaq al-muluk, ed. Ahmad Zaki, Cairo, 1914, 28; translation by Charles Pellat, Le livre de la couronne, Paris, 1954, p. 56. See also al-Mas‘udi, Muruj al-dhahab, ed. Charles Pellat, Beirut, 1966– 1979, i, 288 and Ali Ibn Razin al-Katib (6th/12th century), Adab almuluk, ed. Jalil al-‘Atiyya, Beirut, 2001, 124–125. 3 Ibid., 30. 4 Abu l-Faraj al-Isfahani, al-Aghani, Cairo, 1927–1974, xv, 131–132. 5 al-Taj, 24, tr. Pellat, 52; also in Ibn Razin, Adab al-muluk, 124. 6 See Mario Grignaschi, ‘Quelques spécimens de la littérature sassanide dans les bibliothèques d’Istanbul’, Journal Asiatique 254 (1966) 1–142, see 48, 58 (Arabic text; French translation 69, 77); also in al-Abi, Nathr al-durr, Cairo, 1980–1990, vii, 86, 97; see also Ludwig Ammann, Vorbild und Vernunft: Die Regelung von Lachen und Scherzen im mittelalterlichen Islam, Hildesheim, 1993, 180. 7 For this idiom see Kathrin Müller, ‘Und der Kalif lachte, bis er auf den Rücken fiel’, München, 1993, 160–161. 8 On him see G.R. Hawting, art. ‘Rawh. b. Zinba-‘’, in EI2, Isaac Hasson, ‘Le chef judhamite Rawh. ibn Zinba-‘’, Studia Islamica 77 (1993), 95–122. 9 al-Taj, 129–130, tr. Pellat, 149–151; also in Ibn Razin, Adab al-muluk, 136–137. 10 On this idiom, see Müller, ‘Und der Kalif lachte’, 334–342. 11 Taj, 130–132, tr. Pellat, 151–152, Ibn Razin, Adab al-muluk, 137–139. Ibn Abi ‘Atiq’s joke is also found in al-Abi, Nathr al-durr, vii, 333, alHusri Jam‘ al-jawahir, ed. ‘Ali Muhammad al-Bajawi, Beirut, 1987, 31.

1

51


12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21

22 23 24 25 26 27 28

al-Mas‘udi, Muruj al-dhahab, iii, 326–328. al-Tha‘alibi, Adab al-muluk, ed. Jalil al-‘Atiyya, Beirut, 1990, 146. Ibid., 225. The edition has maz-may; the obvious reading is mar-mahi. al-Tha‘alibi, Adab al-muluk, 225; cf. Abu Bakr Muhammad al-Suli, al-Awraq, ed. V.I. Belyayev and A.B. Khalidov, St Petersburg, 1998, 403. Here futtak does not literally mean ‘killers’; R. Dozy, Supplément aux dictionnaires arabes s.v. gives ‘Homme voluptueux’. muzah/mizah; J. Sadan, art. ‘Nadi m’ in EI 2, vii, 851, gives the variant mirah. al-Mas‘udi, Murij, i, 287, Kushajim, Adab al-nadim, Bulaq, AH 1298, p. 7, more references in Sadan, art. ‘Nadi m’. On the nadim, see J. Sadan in EI 2, s.v. On buffoons, see especially Shmuel Moreh, Live Theatre and Dramatic Literature in the Medieval Arabic World, Edinburgh, 1992, esp. chapters 2–4 (19–83); also Abdelfattah Kilito, Les Séances, Paris, 1983, 36–54; Andras Hamori, On the Art of Medieval Arabic Literature, Princeton, 1974, 31–77 (‘Ghazal and Khamri ya: The Poet as a Ritual Clown’); Ismail El Outmani, ‘Anatomies of Subversion in Arabic and Spanish Literatures: Towards a Redefinition of the Picaresque’, Ph. Diss. Amsterdam, 1995, 13–21 (‘The poet as clown’, ‘The poet as fool’); Franz Rosenthal, Humor in Early Islam, Philadelphia, 1956, esp. 6–15; Geo Widengren, ‘Harlekintracht und Mönchskutte, Clownhut und Derwischmütze: Eine gesellschafts-, religions- und trachtgeschichtliche Studie’, Orientalia Suecana 2 (1953), 41–111. (Ps.-)Jahiz, al-Taj, 21. (Ps.-)Jahiz, al-Taj, 23–26, cf. al-Mas‘udi, Muruj, i, 286–287. al-Taj, 24, al-Mas‘udi, Muruj, i, 286. See, for instance, the story with Ash‘ab told in al-Aghani, vii, 46–47, 59, translated in Rosenthal, Humor in Early Islam, 89–90. See, for instance, the story related in al-Aghani, xviii, 71–72 (for kirh read kurraj, ‘hobby horse’, see Moreh, Live Theatre, index s.v.). (Ps.-)Jahiz, al-Taj, 32. The main sources on him are Ibn al-Mu‘tazz, Tabaqat al-shu‘ara’, ed. ‘Abd al-Sattar Ahmad Farraj, Cairo, 1968, 342–344, 453–454; al-Suli, Ash‘ar awlad al-khulafa’, ed. J. Heyworth Dunne, London, 1936, 323–333; Aghani, xxiii, 196–204; al-Khatib al-Baghdadi, Tarikh Baghdad, Cairo, 1931, v, 40; Yaqut, Mu‘jam al-udaba’, Cairo, 1936– 1938, xvii, 122–127; al-Abi, Nathr al-durr, vii, 291–297; Ibn al-Nadim, Fihrist, Leipzig, 1871–1872, 152–153; al-Husri, Jam‘ al-jawahir, 14–15, 81–83, 181, 229, Ibn Shakir; Fawat al-Wafayat, ed. Ihsan ‘Abbas, Beirut, 1973–1974, iii, 298–301; al-Safadi, al-Wafi, Wiesbaden, 1962–,ii, 52


29

30 31

32

33 34 35 36

37 38 39 40 41

42 43 44

45 46 47

41–42; modern studies: J.E. Bencheikh, art. ‘Abu l-‘Ibar’ in EI2, Supplement, idem, ‘Le cénacle poétique du calife al-Mutawakkil (…)’, Bulletin d’Et. Or. 29 (1977) 33–52, see 48–50; Ismail El Outmani, ‘Anatomies of Subversion in Arabic and Spanish Literatures’, 13–16, Moreh, Live Theatre, see index. See the previous note; Abu l-‘Ibar was in fact not a direct descendant of a caliph: his great-grandfather was the grandfather of the first two Abbasid caliphs, al-Saffah and al-Mansur. Rosenthal, Humor, 13. Muhammad Sa‘id al-Qasimi, Jamal al-Din al-Qasimi & Khalil al-‘Azm, Qamus al-sina‘at al-Shamiyya, ed. Zafir al-Qasimi, Paris, 1960, (ii,) 449–450. The important works on these varieties are Ulrich Marzolph, Der weise Narr Buhl ¯ul, Wiesbaden, 1983, and Michael W. Dols, Majnu ¯ n: The Madman in Medieval Islamic Society, Oxford, 1992. Ibn al-Jawzi, Akhbar al-hamqa’ wa-l-mughaffalin, Beirut, 1988, 50–58 and passim; see also al-Abi, Nathr al-durr, vii, 385–392, etc. Akhbar al-hamqa’ wa-l-mughaffalin, 53. cf. al-Tanukhi, Nishwar al-muhadara, ed. ‘Abbud al-Shalji, [Beirut,] 1971–1973, i, 30. al-Suli, al-Awraq (Qism ash‘ar awlad al-khulafa’), 330; Abu l-Faraj alIsfahani, al-Aghani, xxiii, 203 and cf. 197; Ibn al-Mu’tazz, Tabaqat, 342; Yaqut, Mu‘jam al-udaba’, xvii, 123. al-Suli, al-Awraq (Qism ash‘ar awlad al-khulafa’ ), 323; al-Isfahani, alAghani, xxiii, 197; cf. Yaqut, Mu‘jam al-udaba’, xvii, 123. On him see Ibn al-Mu‘tazz, Tabaqat, 340–341, 452. Ibn al-Mu‘tazz, Tabaqat, 452. The ambiguity of the conjunction famay be intentional. Abu l-Qasim al-Hasan Ibn Muhammad Ibn Habib al-Nisaburi, ‘Uqala’ al-majanin, ed. ‘Umar al-As‘ad, Beirut, 1987, 69–70. See the works of Ulrich Marzolph, Der Weise Narr Buhlu ¯ l, and Arabia Ridens: Die humoristische Kurzprosa der frühen adab-Literatur im internationalen Traditionsgeflecht, Frankfurt am Main, 1992. Mufakharat al-jawari wa-l-ghilman, in Rasa’il al-Jahiz, ed. ‘Abd al-Salam Muhammad Harun, Cairo, [1964]–1979, ii, 92 ff. ‘Uyun al-akhbar, Cairo, 1925–1930, i, lam-mim. Ibn al-Jarrah, al-Waraqa, ed. ‘Abd al-Wahhab ‘Azzam & ‘Abd al-Sattar Ahmad Farraj, Cairo, n.d., 128–131; al-Marzubani, Mu‘jam al-shu‘ara’, ed. ‘Abd al-Sattar Ahmad Farraj, Cairo, 1960, 184. Ibn al-Jarrah, Waraqa, 129–130. Ibn al-Mu‘tazz, Tabaqat al-shu‘ara’, 342–343. al-Husri, Jam‘ al-jawahir, 82. 53


48 al-Husri, Jam‘ al-jawahir, 81, al-Abi, Nathr al-durr, vii, 297. 49 cf. al-Mas‘udi, Muruj, v, 6 on his fondness of ‘abath, hazl and madahik. 50 al-Suli, Ash‘ar awlad al-khulafa’, 328–329; Abu l-Faraj al-Isfahani, alAghani, xxiii, 201. See also Julia Bray, ‘Samarra in Ninth-Century Arabic Letters’, in Chase F. Robinson (ed.), A Medieval Islamic City reconsidered: An Interdisciplinary Approach to Samarra, Oxford, 2001, 23–24. 51 Ibn al-Nadim, al-Fihrist, 153. 52 Jami‘ al-hamaqat wa-ma’wa l-raqa‘at (a work with a very similar title is ascribed ibid. to Abu l-‘Ibar’s ‘successor’, al-Kutanji). 53 al-Munadama wa-akhlaq al-khulafa’. 54 Kitab al-Mulah wa-l-muhammaqin, al-Safa‘ina, and al-Makhraqa, respectively, Ibn al-Nadim, Fihrist, 153. 55 Live Theatre, 66–67. 56 Nathr al-durr, vii, 370; the same version also in the edition of Part Seven of Nathr al-durr by ‘Uthman Bu Ghanimi (Boughanmi), Tunis, 1983, 235. 57 Abu l-Faraj al-Isfahani, al-Aghani, xxiii, 55 and 290 (index); the edition Beirut 1955–1961 (xxii, 476) has al-K.t.nji. 58 See Charles Pellat, ‘Un curieux amuseur Bagdadien: Abu¯ l-‘Anbas as. -S. aymari’, in Manfred Fleischhammer (hrsg.), Studia orientalia in memoriam Caroli Brockelmann, Halle, 1968, 133–137. 59 Ed. Hubert Darke, Tehran, 1968, 120–122, 161–162; cf. Nizamulmulk, Siyasatnama, übertr. und eingel. von Karl Emil Schabinger, Freiherr von Schowingen, Freiburg/München, 1960, 189–191, 219–220. 60 al-Mas‘udi, Muruj, v, 83–86; cf. Aghani, xxiii, 183–186. On Mani alMuwaswis (d. 245/859) see F. Sezgin, Geschichte des Arabischen Schrifttums, ii, Leiden, 1975, 558–559. For the hobby horse see Ibn al-Mu‘tazz, Tabaqat, 382 (on qasaba see Moreh, Live Theatre, 32, 34). 61 Much has been written on this aspect of fools. See, for instance, William Willeford, The Fool and his Scepter: A Study in Clowns and Jesters and Their Audience, n. pl.: Northwestern University Press, 1977, 128–173 (ch. 8: ‘The Fool, the Boundary, and the Center’, ch. 9: ‘The King, the Hero, and the Fool’); ‘If the fool is “the spirit of disorder”, he is necessarily “the enemy of boundaries”. But since the disorder of which he is the spirit is largely contained in his show, he serves the boundary of which he is the enemy’ (133). ‘The fact that the rebellion is allowed and even encouraged implies that the social institutions and the persons in power are strong enough to tolerate it; thus it serves the interests of authority and of social cohesion’ (155). 62 Chahár Maqála (Four Discourses) of Nidhámí-i-Arúdí of Samarqand, Revised translation by Edward G. Browne, London, 1921, 27, Persian 54


63

64 65

66

67 68

text ed. Muhammad b. ‘Abd al-Wahhab Qazwini, London, 1927, 30. On this function of poetry, see my article ‘Beautifying the Ugly and Uglifying the Beautiful: The Paradox in Classical Arabic Literature’, J. of Semitic Studies, 48 (2003) 93–123. The first maqama is imperfectly preserved; see Cl. Huart, ‘Les séances d’Ibn Naquiya’, Journal Asiatique, 10ème série, t. 12 (1908) 435–454. I base myself on the edition of Istanbul AH 1330 (preface dated 1331), Maqamat al-Hanafi wa-Ibn Naqiya wa-ghayrihima (the edition is by Oskar Rescher, repr. in his Beitäge zur Maqaman-Literatur, in his Gesammelte Werken, Abt. II: Schriften zur Adab-Literatur, 1, Fasc. 4–8, Osnabrück, 1980), see 123–153. I was unable, unfortunately, to lay hands on the critical editions by Hasan ‘Abbas, Alexandria, 1988; see Stefan Wild’s review in JAL 23:1 (1992) 76–78 and his article ‘Die zehnte Maqama des Ibn Na¯qiya¯. Eine Burleske aus Baghdad’, Festschrift Ewald Wagner, Band 2: Studien zur arabischen Dichtung, BeirutWiesbaden, 1994, 427–438. The subversive nature of Ibn Naqiya’s maqamas is discussed in Ismail El Outmani, ‘Anatomies of Subversion in Arabic and Spanish Literatures: Towards a Redefinition of the Picaresque’, Ph.D. thesis, Amsterdam, 1995, 94–100. It ought to be mentioned here that in his article ‘Ibn Na¯k.iya¯’ in The Encyclopaedia of Islam, New Edition, J.-C. Vadet confuses Ibn Naqiya’s maqamas with those of al-Hanafi. Recent studies on Ibn Naqiya include Abdelfattah Kilito, Les Séances, Paris, 1983, 155–169; Philip F. Kennedy, ‘Reason and Revelation, or a Philosopher’s Squib (The Sixth Maqama of Ibn Naqiya)’, J. of Arabic and Islamic Studies 3 (2000), 84–113; and Jaakko Hämeen-Anttila, Maqama: A History of a Genre, Wiesbaden, 2002, 133–140. See the author’s introduction (123), where he speaks of a ‘predecessor’ (ba‘d al-mutaqaddamin). Philip Kennedy’s forthcoming monograph on the recognition of anagnorisis in classical Arabic literature is certain to be very relevant for the present topic. Huart, ‘Les séances’, 447, 453–454. For the genealogies, see Werner ˘ amharat an-Nasab: Das genealogische Werk des His˘ ¯a m Ibn Caskel, G Muh.ammad al-Kalbi , Leiden, 1966, I, Table 162. On the various genealogies claimed by al-Yashkuri, see Wild, ‘Die zehnte Maqama’, 435–436. There even was a real Abu Zayd al-Saruji, the grammarian alMutahhar Ibn Sallar al-Basri, identified by al-Qifti as al-Hariri’s hero (Inbah al-ruwah, ed. Muhammad Abu l-Fadl Ibrahim, Beirut, 1986, iii, 276: ansha’a [al-Hariri] al-Maqamat ‘ala lisanihi). The ‘identification’ should not be taken too seriously; this Abu Zayd 55


69 70 71 72

73

74

75

76 77

the grammarian was a pupil of al-Hariri, who may have used the name as a joke. Alternatively, Abu Zayd al-Basri was jestingly called Abu Zayd al-Saruji after the picaresque hero. Mufaddaliyyat, no. 40. Ch. J. Lyall’s translation, in Mufad. d. ali ya¯ t: An Anthology of Ancient Arabian Odes. II: Translation and Notes, Oxford, 1918, 146. On the etymology of Naqiya, see Huart, ‘Les séances’, 438. fatik does not always mean ‘killer’ or ‘assassin’ (see Dozy, Supplément aux dictionnaires arabes), but this sense is strengthened when the narrator begins: ‘I went out heavily armed’. al-Jahiz, al-Hayawan, ed. ‘Abd al-Salam Muhammad Harun, Cairo, 1967, vi, 130. See also e.g. al-Sukkari, Sharh ash‘ar al-Hudhaliyyin, ed. ‘Abd al-Sattar Ahmad Farraj, 553: ‘ikhtafaytu l-shay’a: istakhrajtuhu, waminhu summiya l-nabbashu mukhtafiyan’, cf. 1129: ‘wa-ahl al-Madinati yusammuna l-nabbasha ‘al-mukhtafi’’; also in Abu ‘Ubayda, Naqa’id Jarir wa-l-Farazdaq, ed. A.A. Bevan, 513; al-Firuzabadi, al-Qamus al-muhit: ‘al-mukhtafi: al-nabbash’; al-Zamakhshari, Asas al-balagha, s.v. kh-f-y: ‘ikhtafa l-nabbash al-kafan’. Robbing shrouds remained popular. The historian Ibn Iyas (Bada’i‘ al-zuhur, iii, Cairo-Wiesbaden, 1963, 391) mentions the case of a shroud-robber who is apprehended in Cairo in 903/1497–1498 and punished by having his face flayed and being strung up on Bab al-Nasr until he died. al-Hariri, Maqamat, ed. De Sacy, 417: ‘Ma yajibu ‘ala l-mukhtafi fi lshar‘?’, ‘How must the grave-robber be punished according to the Law?’. The answer (amputation as a deterring example) differs from what al-Tawhidi had already quoted as a maxim: ‘It is said that no amputation is prescribed for the mukhtafi, i.e. the grave-robber’ (al-Basa’ir wa-l-dhakha’ir, ed. Wadad al-Qadi, Beirut, 1988, ii, 92). Al-Mawardi, al-Ahkam al-sultaniyya, Cairo, 1973, 227, gives two opinions (Abu Hanifa being against amputation). An early occurrence of mukhtafi is found in Malik, al-Muwatta’, ed. Ahmad Ratib ‘Amrush, Beirut, 1971, 158 (ch. al-Jana’iz): ‘La‘ana rasul Allah sl‘m al-mukhtafi wa-l-mukhtafiya (ya‘ni nabbash al-qubur)’; see also Majd al-Din Ibn al-Athir, al-Nihaya fi gharib al-Hadith, Cairo, 1311, s.v. kh-f-w/y. The hadith is quoted e.g. in Ibn Manzur, Lisan al-‘Arab, s.v. kh-b-’. Ibn al-Athir, al-Nihaya, s.v. kh-b-’, explains the khabaya as plants whose seeds were hidden in the earth, or possibly as minerals. The lines have the same metre and rhyme as the two lines quoted before, on the ‘perfect man’. See e.g. Majd al-Din Ibn al-Athir, al-Murassa‘ (Ibn el At- îr’s KunyaWörterbuch), ed. C.F. Seybold, Weimar, 1896, 194; or Ibn Manzur, Lisan al-‘arab, s.v. ibn (b-n-y). 56


78 al-Tanukhi, al-Faraj ba‘d al-shidda, ed. ‘Abbud al-Shalji, Beirut, 1978, iii, 378–385, ed. Cairo, 1961, 261–265; also in al-Tanukhi, Nishwar al-muhadara, n. pl., 1971–1973, iii, 236–243; ‘summary’ in al-Safadi, al-Ghayth al-musajjam, Beirut, 1975, i, 413 and al-‘Amili, al-Kashkul, Beirut, 1983, 325. See Andras Hamori, ‘Folklore in Tanukhi: The Collector of Ramlah’, Studia Islamica 71 (1990), 65–75. 79 See Wild’s review mentioned in note 1, 78. 80 e.g. al-Maydani, Majma‘ al-amthal, ed. Husayn Nu‘aym Zarzur, Beirut, 1988, i, 310, al-Abi, Nathr al-durr, ed. ‘Ali Qurna et al., Cairo, 1980–1990, vi, 272, 880. 81 mubtala, literally ‘afflicted’; cf. Dozy, Supplement. 82 Literally, ‘perineum’. 83 Ibn Qutayba, ‘Uyun al-akhbar, Cairo, 1925–1930, iv, 65, Abu l-Faraj al-Isfahani, al-Aghani, ed. Dar al-Kutub, xv, 365, xvii, 185. 84 Bashshar Ibn Burd, Diwan, ed. Muhammad al-Tahir Ibn ‘Ashur, Algiers, 1976, ii, 56. 85 A long and penetrating analysis of this maqama is offered by Kennedy, ‘Reason and Revelation’ (see note 63); it includes an annotated translation (88–96). 86 Ibn Hiffan, Akhbar Abu Nuwas, Cairo, 1954, 21; al-qadi ‘Ali Ibn ‘Abd al-‘Aziz al-Jurjani, al-Wasata, Cairo, n.d., 63–64; Muhalhil Ibn Yamut Ibn al-Muzarra’, Sariqat Abi Nuwas, Cairo, 1957 (date of preface) 145. 87 123, 124. 88 Tajahaltumu l-sha‘ira l-Yashkuriyya/fa-qad radadtumuhu ila l-dhakaya ‘You pretended not to know the poet from Yashkur; now you have brought him to that’ (?). I assume that the last word is a demonstrative, unusually connected with the article. Compare forms in Arabic dialects given in W. Fischer, Die demonstrativen Bildungen der neuarabische Dialekte, ‘s-Gravenhage, 1959, such as hadakajä, 99. Or should one read l-dhakiya, which would rhyme better (as if that mattered here) with ‘Ibn Naqiya’? 89 Not found in the Diwan ed. Mahdi Muhammad Nasir al-Din; cf. alAghani, viii, 313–314. The substitution, in the maqama, of khamr (‘wine’) for the original ina’ (‘bowl/cup’) turns the lines into a neat epigram with internal rhyme in its first line. 90 Diwan, Beirut, 1965, p. 172, al-Isfahani, al-Aghani, viii, 356–357. 91 See above, note 1. 92 al-Safadi, al-Wafi, xviii, ed. Ayman Fu’ad Sayyid, Wiesbaden, 1988, 17; see Wild, ‘Die zehnte Maqama’, 428. 93 al-Qifti, Inbah al-ruwah, ed. Muhammad Abu l-Fadl Ibrahim, repr. Beirut, 1986, ii, 156, Ibn Khallikan, Wafayat al-a‘yan, ed. Ihsan ‘Abbas, Beirut, 1968–1972, iii, 99. Al-Qifti calls him ‘of little religion’, yet in 57


a second biography (on account of a confusion about his name, either ‘Abd Allah or ‘Abd al-Baqi) he is ‘an excellent man, fadil.’ (ii, 133). 94 That is, probably either from Jusham b. Ghanm b. Hubayyib b. Ka‘b b. Yashkur, or from Ghubar b. Ghanm b. Hubayyib b. Ka‘b b. Yashkur, see Caskel, Ğamharat an-nasab, I, Tafel 162 (but there are several other lines of Yashkur that have a Jusham). 95 See e.g. al-Isfahani, Aghani, ix, 88, al-Maydani, Majma‘ al-amthal, ii, 495–496. 96 Ibn ‘Abd Rabbih, al-‘Iqd al-farid, Cairo, 1948–1953, vi, 147; see Wild, ‘Die zehnte Maqama’, 432; many more references in Ulrich Marzolph, Arabia ridens, Frankfurt am Main, 1992, ii, 97–98. 97 al-Hariri, Maqamat/Les séances de Hariri, ed. Antoine Isaac Silvestre de Sacy, 2me éd. par Joseph Reinaud et Joseph Derenbourg, Paris, 1847–1853, i, 13. 98 123. 99 al-Qifti, Inbah al-ruwah, ii, 133. 100 Ibid., ii, 156–157. 101 ed. Ahmad Matlub & Khadija al-Hadithi, Baghdad, 1968, and ed. Mustafa al-Sawi al-Juwayni, Alexandria, [1974]. In the introduction of the former edition, the maqama of the grave-robber is given. The editors find it difficult to believe that the author of this work on Qur’anic similes could be an irreligious or heretical person (11). The versatile Ibn Naqiya also wrote a book on songs (Kitab al-muhdath fi l-aghani), see Hilary Kilpatrick, ‘The Transmission of Songs in Mediaeval Arabic Literature’, in U. Vermeulen and D. de Smet (eds), Philosophy and Arts in the Islamic World, Leuven, 1998, 79. 102 al-Qifti, Inbah al-ruwah, ii, 157; also Ibn al-Jawzi, al-Muntazam, ed. Muhammad ‘Abd al-Qadir ‘Ata, Mustafa ‘Abd al-Qadir ‘Ata & Nu‘aym Zarzur, Beirut, 1992, xvi, 308; Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, Beirut, 1965– 1967, x, 218; Ibn Khallikan, Wafayat, iii, 99; al-Safadi, Wafi, xviii, 19–20; Ibn Kathir, al-Bidaya wa-l-nihaya, repr. Beirut, 1982, xii, 141; Ibn Hajar al-‘Asqalani, Lisan al-mizan, Hyderabad, 1329–1331 AH, iii, 385; al-Suyuti, Bughyat al-wu‘ah, ed. Muhammad Abu l-Fadl Ibrahim, repr. Beirut, 1979, ii, 67; al-‘Amili, al-Kashkul, 644. Al-Safadi (Wafi, xviii, 21) gives the same distich in yet another entry, that of a certain ‘licentious’ poet called ‘Abd al-Baqi Ibn Muhammad al-‘Abarta’i, in whose shroud they were allegedly found. ‘God knows best who made these lines’, says al-Safadi. Obviously, this al-‘Abarta’i is yet another disguise of Ibn Naqiya. See on this anecdote also Abdelfattah Kilito, L’auteur et ses doubles: essai sur la culture arabe classique, Paris, 1985, ch. 8 (‘Écrit d’outre-tombe’, 83–94), where much is made of the fact that the verses are found in Ibn Naqiya’s left hand. 58

CHAPTER 3

Ibrahim Pasha and Sculpture as Subversion in Art Filiz Yenişhirlioğlu

Peçevi (1574–1650?), an important Ottoman historiographer narrated the events that took place during Sultan Süleyman’s campaign in 1526 to Budin (Buda) in Hungary and mentions an interesting story which seems unique in Ottoman history. In his chronicle, Peçevi gives information on how Budin was captured without pillage, yet he notes that the Ottomans seized the rich treasury of the King together with precious objects found in the city.1 Then he continues: Among the objects of art, there were three bronze sculptures that were strange (garip) and bizarre (acaip) erected outside the entrance to the fortress of Budin. I think the big one was the statue of a king who governed over all the infidels and the others, smaller in size but similar in form, were the sculptures of the sons of this king who reigned after him. Since they were so strange and so bizarre they were transported to Istanbul by boat. Each was erected on a stone pedestal at the Hippodrome for the public to see and those who saw them found them admirable. The verse written in Persian by Figanî, a poet of the time who was executed because of his verses, were composed because of these statues: ‘Two Abrahams came into this church called the world, one destroyed the icons whereas the other erected them’. Besides these statues, two very big and ornate chandeliers with inscriptions were also brought to Istanbul. They were placed on the left and right side of the mihrab of the Ayasofya mosque.

The first Abraham mentioned by Peçevi is of course the prophet Abraham, who according to a (tradition) menkibe narrated 59


in the Qur’an (XXI, 59–67 ), destroyed various totemic sculptures in order to prove that they did not possess any miraculous and religious power. The latter Abraham mentioned in this verse was the grand-vizier, Ibrahim Pasha. Ibrahim Pasha (1493?–1536), born into a christian family of Epirus2 in the Balkans, was taken as a slave when he was six years old and brought to the Ottoman Palace where he was educated according to Ottoman culture and traditions. He was given as a companion to young Süleyman when he was a Şehza ˆ de (prince) in Manisa and this friendship continued until he was beheaded in 1536.3 Ibrahim Pasha was Makbul (liked) because of his close friendship with Sultan Süleyman and became Maktul (murdered) when he was decapitated. According to historians, Ibrahim Pasha was an intelligent man, a brilliant person and extremely self-centred as an individual. It was in fact he who brought back these statues and exhibited them in front of his palace overlooking the Hippodrome4 (Figure 3.1). The statues remained there for almost ten years and must have been removed subsequently following Ibrahim Pasha’s decapitation. There remains no archaeological record of these sculptures.

Figure 3.1: The Hippodrome, Nasuhû’s Silahî, Beyâni Menâzil-i Sefer-i

‘Irakeyn-i Sultan Süleyman Han (Dominique Halbout du Tanney, Istanbul Seen by Matrakçi, Dost Yayinlar, Istanbul, 1996, fig.40, p.60) 60

IBRAHIM PASHA AND SCULPTURE AS SUBVERSION IN ART

The statues brought to Istanbul by Ibrahim Pasha had originally been commissioned of Giovani Dalmate, a sculptor trained in Italy, by King Matthias Corvinus of Hungary (1458– 1490). They represented Hercules, Diana and Apollo.5 Ottoman sources at the beginning of the 16th century do not describe these statues although European travellers mention on various occasions that they were placed on columns in the Hippodrome. In many cases however, the documentation is contradictory.6 One cannot determine whether the statues were placed separately on each column or whether they formed a group. Sometimes they mention only one statue (mainly Hercules) and do not write about the others. Stephan Yerasimos7 has mentioned that the sculptures brought from Hungary were represented in situ at the Hippodrome in an engraving by Pierre Coeck8 dating from 1533. (Figure 3.2) Peçevi’s description of the statues does not agree with the mythological description of these figures and he may have relied on contemporary oral sources from the second half of the 16th century. His description in fact, resembles the three male figures of another group of statues described at Ibrahim Pasha’s palace

Figure 3.2: Pierre Coeck, Vue de Constantinople à Partir de l’Hippodrome (Soliman le Magnifique, Catalogue de l’exposition aux Galéries nationales du Grand Palais, Paris, 1990, p.286, fig. 311) 61


at the Hippodrome and described three times in the Hünernâme manuscript [Topkapı Sarayı Museum Library H. 1524, fols.122b– 123a (Figure 3.3) and 119b–120a, 112b–113a.]9 Written by the court historian Lokman and illustrated in two volumes by Nakkaş Osman and his group of painters,10 the second volume (1588) depicts scenes from the life of Sultan Süleyman. Among the miniatures representing the circumcision ceremony for the sons of Sultan Süleyman, the sculpture from Hungary, as described by Peçevi, is represented at the Atmeydanı (Hippodrome) in front of Ibrahim Pasha’s palace. All three representations are depicted on double pages: in the background one can see the palace of Ibrahim Pasha with the Sultan’s loge and the Sultan watching the festivities, the harem quarters and the palace itself. In the foreground the Hippodrome is represented with its ancient trophies like the obelisk, the three serpent-headed column and the Hungarian statues as described by Peçevi. Various activities take place among them; acrobats perform on ropes while the Şehzâdes arrive on their horses. In the last miniature, (Figure 3.3) the background represents two rooms from the interior of the palace where the Sultan meets the learned men while the foreground depicts the Hippodrome with its trophies, including the statues. Thus the theatrical setting of the site and the various performances continue visually from one page to another, following the sequence of events. The statue of three men on a marble column is represented each time (Figure 3.3). One of these figures, dressed in military costume with helmet (having the characteristic form of Hungarian military helmets from the 16th century), is represented standing in profile; the other two are by his knees and the one on his right is a black figure. It is evident that this statue is different from that of Giovani Dalmate. A recent study by Selçuk Mülayim11 magnified from Pierre Coeck’s engraving of these sculptures, showed that in fact the two groups of statues, the one with the mythological theme, the other with three male figures, were completely different from each other and argued that there were different groups of sculptures. Yet the statues representing Apollo, Hercules and Diana have never been depicted in Ottoman visual sources whereas the statues of a king and two men were considered important enough to have been represented three times in the same manuscript in relation to the Palace of Ibrahim 62

Figure 3.3: Hünernâme, vol II. Topkap Palace Museum Library H. 1524, folio 123a (Metin And, Osmanl Şeliklerinde Türk Sanatlari, Kültür ve Turizm Bakanlğ Yayinlari. Ankara, 1982. fig. 21)

Figure 3.4: The representation of an angel from the walls of the Konya fortress dating from the Seljuk period. Konya Taş Eserleri Müzesi. (Konya Museum of Stone Works – İnce Minareli Medrese.)


Pasha. Neither the description of Peçevi nor the miniatures of Hünernâme are contemporary with the sculptures, whereas the engraving of Pierre Coeck can be considered as contemporary evidence for the existence of the statues. Whether Peçevi could have seen the Hünernâme miniatures cannot be said, although it seems that by the end of the 16th century, the statues of the three mythological figures had been transformed into that of a king and two slaves, and preserved as such in public memory. Peçevi’s observations are important in showing how the sculptures were received by the public in Istanbul at the beginning of the 17th century. Even though his remarks are not contemporary with the period when the statues stood at the Hippodrome, they introduce to the reader their controversial acceptance by the citizens of Istanbul and also their importance, since it was a story that survived as late as the end of the 16th century, nearly 70 years after their removal. Peçevi seems to support Ibrahim Pasha in his action and appears to legitimise his audacious behaviour by explaining that the sculptures were brought to Istanbul because they were strange (garib) and bizarre (acaib),12 meaning different and interesting, something not found in everyday life.13 Peçevi however, narrates the other side of the story as well, and tells how some, as reflected in the cynical couplet by Figanî, considered these sculptures icons. In fact, the couplet was attributed to Figanî as a malediction in order to discredit him in the eyes of Ibrahim Pasha.14 Born in Trabzon as Ramazan Çelebi (1505? –1532), Figanî was a well-known poet at the beginning of the reign of Sultan Süleyman. Abdulkadir Karahan considers him as having an original personality and as someone who in his poetry tried to attack the rigid forms of classical poetry writing.15 He was independent of character and spent his time with friends drinking and enjoying himself around the Atmeydanı. He must have amused himself in observing the sculptures while his revolutionary character became evident in that he dared write such a couplet to Ibrahim Pasha, to whom he had already dedicated two qasidas, but who nevertheless ordered his execution. While the couplet might not have been written by Figanî, it nonetheless reflects the unease of certain social groups with regard to the presence of the sculptures in the Hippodrome, even though almost six years seem to have passed since they were erected in 1526. 65


In Islamic societies, sculpture more than painting was the main target of the iconoclastic approach to representational art. According to Islamic tradition, when Muhammad entered the Ka‘ba, he ordered the removal of all pagan idols and paintings inside the holy shrine, except for an image of the Virgin Mary and the Christ Child.16 Thus, the verses attributed to Figanî refer in fact to restrictions on art forms imposed by Muhammad. They also play on the name ‘Abraham’ (İbrahim) by praising the prophet Abraham implying criticism of the grand-vizier Ibrahim. It was only in the 19th century, following the changes issued by the Tanzimat in Ottoman society, that Sultan Abdülaziz had his statue made in 1871 by a sculptor named C.F.Fuller.17 The statue, representing the Sultan on horseback was placed in the Beylerbeyi palace, which is to say, in a private rather than public place. In a society that rejected sculpture as an art form because of its religious culture, did Ibrahim Pasha, the grand-vizier, transgress the accepted norms and customs by exhibiting these sculptures at the Hippodrome, one of the main public spaces in the city? Was his political power sufficient to flaunt the norms and satisfy a personal whim, or was this provocative act an act of subversion? In order to better understand what might have happened, and how these sculptures were perceived, one has to look for other types of sculpture or relief in the city that could encourage the visual imagery of the citizens, and at the same time, consider carefully the location where they were exhibited. According to Peçevi’s passage, the sculptures from Budin were exhibited at the Hippodrome, the main gathering place during the Byzantine period and main square of the city through the 16th century.18 Russian pilgrims to Istanbul before the Ottoman conquest (1453), left detailed descriptions19 and noted that the city had many statues. The Latins removed some of these to Italy, the others were removed by the Byzantines themselves prior to the capture of the city by Sultan Mehmet II. The Hippodrome, or Atmeydanı, during the Ottoman period continued to serve as a promenade20 area where the citizens could admire ancient trophies. In the text of Hünernâme, Atmeydan is described as an historical promenade for Kings and Sultans.21 Among others, the obelisk on a pedestal (Dikilitaş 66


in Ottoman sources) and the column with the three serpent heads (Burmalı and/or Yılanlı Sütun in Ottoman sources) were the two main attractions. They were frequently represented in miniatures dating from the 16th century and Matrakçı Nasuh’s map of Istanbul from 1534 is the earliest representation of these trophies in Ottoman visual sources.22 Their representations have become synonymous with the Hippodrome itself, defining a specific part of the city. As such, representations of these columns were also common in the engravings and paintings of European travellers to Istanbul.23 The obelisk was brought to Istanbul from Egypt by Theodosius and was used to decorate the Hippodrome.24 The representation in relief from the Roman period on the stone pedestal shows the emperor crowning the winner of the race that has just taken place on the site, thus combining the image and function of the Hippodrome.25 The column with the three serpent heads was brought as a trophy from Delphi by Constantine and erected at the Hippodrome. When first erected at Delphi, the monument represented three snakes whose intertwined bodies formed the column and whose three heads with grasping jaws, branched out to make a triangular support for a golden tripod. The tripod did not long survive but the bronze column with the three heads remained until the end of the 17th century.26 The column without the heads can still be seen at the Hippodrome. Both of these columns can be considered monumental sculptures appropriated from earlier cultures. Yet, the serpentheaded column was ascribed with talismanic powers in the eyes of people. Ménage and Arif Müfid Mansel discuss the formation of this mystical story as follows: Thevenot in the 19th century narrated the story that Mehmet II on his triumphal entry into the city, as a trial of strength, shattered the lower jaw of one of these dragons with his iron mace or battle axe. Miniature representations of the column represent one jaw as clearly missing. The second volume of Hünernâme, shows the scene when Mehmet II struck the jaw with his mace. During restoration work undertaken at Ayasofya by the architect Fossati in 1848, the lower jaw was found and given to the Asar-ı Atika Müzesi (The Museum of Ancient Works) then newly installed in Saint Irene. The text accompanying the miniature in Hünernâme explains that when 67


Mehmet II threw his mace, Genadious, the Patriarch of Istanbul, informed Mehmet II through an interpreter that this column was a talisman against serpents and that if anything happened to it the city would be invaded by snakes. Sixteenth-century European travellers in Istanbul, like Leunclavius in 1519, and Schweigger between 1578–1591, repeat the same story. The Ottoman historian Kemalpaşazâde had already mentioned it in 1512, in his book on the history of the Ottoman Sultans. A different version of the same story is however attributed to Selim II in Evliya Çelebi’s account of Istanbul, and expanded by adding that snails appeared in certain parts of Istanbul when the jaw was struck off. The serpent column was thus considered a benevolent talisman in Turkish eyes and necessary to safeguard the city from snakes. This was probably one of the reasons why it is represented more frequently in Ottoman sources than the obelisk, becoming in the process a metonym not only for the Hippodrome but for the city of Istanbul itself. It is represented on every page of miniatures of Surnâme-i Hümayûn (Topkapı Sarayı Museum Library, H.1344), the book of festivities that both commemorates and describes the 1582 circumcision ceremony organised at the Atmeydanı (Hippodrome) by order of Sultan Murat III for his son Mehmet III.27 One ancient statue that did not survive to the 16th century and was removed in the early days of the Ottoman conquest was that of the Byzantine Rider of Augusteion. In 543–544, the Emperor Justinian rebuilt the Augusteion, the arcaded square near Saint Sophie damaged in the Nike riot of 532, and erected a 35-metre column on which he placed a statue of himself on horseback.28 By the 14th century it was believed the statue represented Constantine and had been named Augusteion in honour of the square. Müller-Wiener mentions that the statue had come to symbolise Byzantine dominion and was a talisman for the city. It was believed the statue represented the triumph of Christianity over the world as symbolised by the globe in the rider’s left hand. With his extended right hand, the rider points towards the eastern enemy – Sassanians, Arabs and Turks – as if directing them to stay beyond Byzantine borders. Dukas mentions that at the time of the Ottoman conquest, the statue on the column was that of the last Byzantine Emperor.29 The statue was soon broken and the column pulled down between 1510 and 1525.30 Yet one finds 68


representations of this statue in two copies of Tercüme-i Cifru’l Câmi, (Ottoman translation of an Arabic text on the Signs of the Apocalypse) prepared during the reigns of Mehmet III and Ahmet I, respectively. Julian Raby, on the other hand, discusses both Ottoman and Italian sources in reference to this monumental statue and suggests that the statue was not removed immediately after the conquest of the city but soon thereafter.31 He explains that Mehmet II as a collector of Christian relics had a rich collection of Byzantine sculpture but that, under pressure from Turkish iconoclasts who saw the sculpture as a Christian threat to the city, he had the Augusteion removed from the column. According to Aşıkpaşazâde, Mehmet had the copper horse cast with crosses and church bells as ordnance for the siege of Belgrade in 1456. He concludes that the Augusteion was probably removed between 1453 and 1456.32 Thus, a sculpture of considerable political significance for the Christian population of Istanbul could not be preserved while another sculpture considered a talisman serving popular beliefs was easily preserved. Evliya Çelebi prepared a list of all the talismans in Istanbul in the mid-17th century. The obelisk at the Hippodrome is included on the list as well as the column with the serpent heads listed as ‘tılsımat-ı ibret-numa’. Among the 366 talismans, according to Evliya, the majority seem to be of stone reliefs with human figures. The 14th talisman listed is ‘tılsımatı acibe’ near Ayasofya, and is significant in that Evliya interprets these figures as representations (timsal) of the archangel Cebrail (Gabriel), Israfil (Raphael), Mikail (Michael) and Azrail (the angel of death). According to Evliya, the talismans for fishermen and those working on boats were also numerous and included a ship made of copper, a dragon with three heads and representations of sea monsters. Unfortunately, we do not have further information on these talismans. The belief that a figurative representation, a classical rondeboss monumental sculpture, could have the metaphysical power of a talisman was already present in Anatolia before the 16th century. During the Seljuk period (1061–1299), representations of wild animals, angels and mythical animals were considered talismans to protect cities, travellers and buildings (Figure 3.4). The outer fortress of Konya and Diyarbakır were decorated with 69


such representations and were preserved during the Ottoman period as well.33 The classical ronde-boss sculpture of a nude male torso on the walls of Konya, as represented in a 19th-century engraving, did not disturb its citizens, just as the Roman figural sarcophagi used as stones on the walls of the Ankara fortress or the two monumental classical theatre masks placed on the right and left side of one of the entrance gates of İznik, another fortified city, did not. The representation in relief of human faces was also part of the medieval decorative vocabulary as depicted at the Darüşifa (Hospital) building in Divriği from the Seljuk period. The full-scale representation of tombstones, representing animals or human figures were also not uncommon in 13th-and 14th-century Anatolia where shamanist traditions continued to survive or were even reinforced by the immigration of new tribes arriving from the east under threat from the Mongols.34 Apart from sculptural forms used as talismans, there was another category of sculptural images then current in Istanbul. The Surnâme-i Humayûn miniatures already mentioned constitute an important source of visual documentation for these forms. The manuscript represents the parade of all guilds and craftsmen and artisans then working in Istanbul. Each group paraded before the Sultan, the guests and the citizens. Generally they performed their skills in small shops constructed for the occasion and placed on wheels. Ephemeral architectural works and constructed models of ships, fortresses and mosques were also made for the occasion, complementing the theatrical procession of guilds. There are scenes of horses constructed to represent a merry-go-round or scarecrows made in human forms. Constructed in wood, cotton or textiles, these forms could afterwards be disassembled. Among these, the production of two guilds is important for their sculptural forms. The first is the sugar makers’ guild that created three-dimensional figures in sugar. Some are carried on trays like fish, in a way reminiscent of how fresh fish is still sold in Istanbul. Other forms were much larger and had to be carried individually by one of the guild members (Figure 3.5). These include different types of bird and animal such as the goose, the elephant, duck, giraffe or such mythical animals as the simurg (phoenix) or harpies of human face and the body of a bird. The last two forms are represented in traditional iconographic interpretations 70


dating from Seljuk times. However, it is also interesting to note that the simurg moulded in sugar is very much like the simurg represented on the Egyptian obelisk, associating the imagination of the painter with pharaonic times. The second guild of interest is that of the textile merchants. In the manuscript they are shown parading with textiles hung as flags on poles supporting a very large bird made from textiles and stuffed with cotton (Figure 3.6). Thus, even if certain forms would have been produced only for the occasion, they introduce the reader to the popular imagery of its citizens in the 16th century. What about then the sculptures brought to Istanbul by Ibrahim Pasha and exhibited at the Atmeydanı (Hippodrome)? The importance of the Hippodrome as a public space in the 16th century has already been discussed. The place itself had already lost its importance towards the end of the Byzantine period when the imperial Palace was moved to Blachernai, near the Golden Horn. After the Ottoman conquest, the Hippodrome was the only ancient forum preserved from pre-Ottoman times. The construction by Sultan Mehmet II of a new palace nearby must have been decisive for its conservation even though there was no royal patronage of the site during the reign of Mehmet II. The square was probably then used for cirit (jereed) plays. It is however, difficult to determine at what point the Hippodrome began to be used for royal patronage ceremonies. Looking at the description of the site by Matrakçı Nasuh in 1534 (Figure 3.1), not many buildings or monuments seem to mark the place.35 Ayasofya and Firuz Ağa Caˆ mi (1491) mark the limits to the north; the arcades of the ancient Hippodrome are represented to the south. The buildings on the east side are not represented in detail and the Palace of İbrahim Pasha occupies almost the entire western end of the Atmeydanı. The core of this palace was probably a kiosk built during the period of Bayezid II36 which Sultan Süleyman ordered restored for Ibrahim Pasha in 1521 from the royal treasury.37 Later, when Ïbrahim Pasha became Grand Vizier and married Sultan Süleyman’s sister Hatice Sultan in 1523, the wedding ceremony was held in his palace at the Hippodrome and lasted for 15 days. This ceremony might have been the starting point for other festivities held at the Hippodrome since the circumcision ceremonies for Sultan Süleyman’s sons were held in the same place 71

Figure 3.5: Surnâme-i Hümayûn, Topkap Palace Museum Library, H. 1344, 24b Şekerişleri (Nurhan Atasoy, 1582 Surnaˆme-i Hümayuˆn, Koç Bank Yayn, Istanbul, 1997, p.34)

Figure 3.6: Surnâme-i Hümayûn, Topkap Palace Museum Library, H.1344, 338b Pestemalcilar; (Nurhan Atasoy, 1582 Surnaˆme-i Hümayu ˆ n, Koç Bank Yayn, Istanbul, 1997, p.78)


in 1530.38 The palace was consequently used for royal ceremonies, thus combining, in a way, the royal presence with that of the Hippodrome just as it had been represented on the pedestal of the obelisk some centuries previously. The transfer of the Harem to Topkapı during Sultan Süleyman’s reign, thus completing the royal palace and its institutions, might also have initiated a wave of new Atmeydani construction at the Vizier’s behest. The construction by Sinan of nearby palaces became a feature of this new urban construction towards the mid-16th century. In fact, Antoine Galland, the secretary of the French Embassy in the 17th century, describes the vizier palaces near the Hippodrome, located near Topkapı Palace, the centre of Ottoman political power. The palace of Ibrahim Pasha must have been an important representation of political power at the beginning of the 16th century and a reflection of the Topkapı Palace accessible to the people. It also provided a stage for the Sultan’s public appearance on festive occasions, thus conveying new social relations and meanings to the use of the site. Thus, when Ïbrahim Pasha brought back trophies from Hungary to be exhibited in a public place, the best place was the Hippodrome, this box of memories for the city. It was at the Hippodrome, in view of his palace, where he himself could add successive trophies to the history of the site.39 Ibrahim Pasha, a well-educated man, speaking several languages who read history, geography and the wars of Alexander,40 must have been conscious of the quality of the sculptures and what they represented. Erected in 1526 the statues remained almost ten years until the death of Ïbrahim Pasha in 1536. As the miniatures of the Hünernâme show, they were metaphorically added in the same linear setting with the other ancient trophies. So, was Ibrahim Pasha a heretic, or was he trying to transcend the established order? Could it be that he wanted to introduce the statues as works of art created in another culture and encourage the public to accept them as a contemporary trophy among the more ancient ones? Such an understanding must have been accepted at the Palace and the religious bureaucracy of the state since the sculptures were conserved for almost ten years. İbrahim Pasha’s close relation to Sultan Süleyman must also have been decisive in erecting the statues. We do not know the exact circumstances in which they were removed. They could have been 74


removed following the decapitation of Ibrahim Pasha since all of his estates and belongings were sold publicly. It seems the sculptures of Diana, Apollo and Hercules were not appropriated by the public or considered as trophies. Rather, they were quickly forgotten, consigned to oblivion and replaced by other iconographic representations, to wit, a group of sculptures representing a king and two other figures chosen for public memorial. Their existence however, had been preserved in the miniatures of Hünernâme and in the written descriptions of Ottoman historians writing at the end of the 17th century. The transformation of the subject from a mythological to an historical theme may have been the result of the Süleyman revival and the writing of the Hünernâme manuscript describing the deeds of Sultan Süleyman. Or, it could have been rendered by an artist striving for historical accuracy as a depiction of the ceremonies occurring in the 1530s. The appropriation of Hungarian military figures could be the interpretation of an oral history that substituted the original story with one constructed to suit the tastes of Ottoman culture and collective memory. We have to consider that in 16th-century Istanbul, the making and exhibition of statues would have been considered subversive of the public order, and that Ibrahim Pasha must have been subversive in transgressing the common public values even if this transgression was veiled in form of a trophy. His act however, viewed from another angle, left a definite mark in public memory since, as a detail, it was considered of sufficient importance to be represented in royal manuscripts at the end of the 16th century.

Notes 1 2 3 4

Peçevi İbrahim Efendi, Peçevi Tarihi, (haz. Bekir Sıtkı Baykal), 2 cilt, T.C. Kültür Bakanlığı Yayınları no.467, (Ankara, 1992) 76–77. A region in between contemporary Greece and Albania. The origins of İbrahim Pasha however, are unknown. Tayyip Gökbilgin, ‘İbrahim Paşa (Pargali, Frenk, Makbûl, Maktûl)’, . I slam Ansiklopedisi, 50. cüz, (İstanbul, 1977) 908–915. For a historical and archeological study of the palace see Nurhan Atasoy, İbrahim Paşa Sarayı, İstanbul Üniversitesi Yayınları, no.1725, (İstanbul, 1972). The building has been restored and is actually used as the Turkish and Islamic Museum in Istanbul. 75


5 6

7 8

9 10 11

12

13

14 15 16

17

18

Julian Raby, ‘Mehmed the Conqueror and the Byzantine Rider of the Augustaion’, Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi, Yıllık-2 (İstanbul, 1987), 148. Frédéric Tinguely, L’écriture du Levant à la Renaissance, enquête sur les voyageurs Français dans l’Empire de Soliman le Magnifique, Librairie Droz (Genève, 2000) 125–131; Necdet Sakaoğlu, ‘Atmeydanı’, Dünden Bugüne İstanbul Ansiklopedisi (İstanbul, 1993) cilt I, 414–415. Soliman le Magnifique, Catalogue–Galéries Nationales du Grand Palais (Paris 1990), 286. Ibid: Pierre Coeck of Aelst was sent to Istanbul by the van der Moeyen tapistery manufacturer in Flanders where he produced seven wood engravings. The engravings were published after his death, although they had most probably been published in his lifetime. Hünerna ˆ me, vol.II, TKSM Ktp. H.1524 122b–123a, Atasoy, op.cit. 20, 23. Nurhan Atasoy, Filiz Çağman, Turkish Miniature Painting (İstanbul, 1974) 44–48. Selçuk Mülayim, ‘İbrahim Paşa ve Heykelleri’, Uluslar arası Sanat Tarihi Sempozyumu, Gönül Öney’e Armağan, Ege Üniversitesi, (manuscript). ‘Garip’ and ‘acaip’ are two adjectives commonly used in Ottoman texts when the author, instead of trying to give a description of the object, cannot find the right words to explain and thus points to the ‘otherness’ of the object by classifying it as strange and bizarre. Evliya Çelebi uses these words constantly. Solakzade, another Ottoman historian describes the same statues as ol üç suret-i garibeyi (cf. Sakaoğlu) meaning, the representation of three strange things. Abdülkadir Karahan, Figanî ve Divançesi, İstanbul Üniversitesi Yayınları (İstanbul, 1966). Ibid., 2. The origins of the iconoclastic approach to art and its relation with the Koran and the Hadiths have been discussed by Sir Thomas Arnold, Painting in Islam, A study of the Place of Pictorial Art in Muslim Culture (NewYork, 1965). Mustafa Cezzar, Sanatta Batıya Açılış ve Osman Hamdi (İstanbul, 1971) 95; See also a recent study by Klaus Kreiser, ‘Public Monuments in Turkey and Egypt’, Muqarnas, vol. XIV, 1997, 103–117. For a general history and description of the Byzantine and Ottoman sites in İstanbul see: Wolfgang Müller-Wiener, Bildlexikon zur Topographie Istanbuls: Byzantion-Konstantinupolis-Ïstanbul bis zum Beginn des 17. Jahrhunderts, Deuthches Archäologisches Institut, (Tübingen, 76


19 20

21

22 23

24

25 26

27 28 29

1977); Doğan Kuban – Yegan Kahta, ‘Hippodrome’, Dünden Bugüne İstanbul Ansiklopedisi (İstanbul,1994) 75–77. J. Ebersolt, Constantinople byzantine et les voyageurs du Levant, (1918); B. De Khitrowo, Itinéraires russes en Orient (Geneva,1889). We have already mentioned that the poet Figanˆ would walk around the Atmeydanı with his friends; 16th-and-17th century European engravings show various activities at the Atmeydanı; Evliya Çelebi mentions Atmeydanı in a list of the promenade itineraries of Istanbul in the 17th century. cf. Robert Mantran, Ïstanbul, dans la seconde moitié du XVII ème siècle (Paris, 1962), 40. Zekariya Eroğlu, Sehnâmeci Lokmân’m Hünernâme’si (İkinci cilt-1-154 varak), İnceleme-Metin-Sözlük; İstanbul Üniversitesi Basilmamş Yüsek Lisans Tezi, (Ïstanbul, 1998). Hüseyin Yurdaydın, Nasuh’s Silahi Menazil-i Sefer-i Irakeyn-i Sultan Süleyman Han, Ankara, Türk Tarih Kurumu Yayınları, 1976. For some of these engravings and panoramas of Istanbul completed in the 16th century see the catalogue of the exhibition Soliman le Magnifique, op.cit. pp 284–303. Semavi Eyice, ‘Dikilitaş’, Dünden Bugüne İstanbul Ansiklopedisi, (İstanbul, 1994), vol.3, pp.51–52; Erik Ïversen, Obelisks in Exile IIThe Obelisks of İstanbul and England (Copenhagen, 1972). Sezer Tansuğ, Şenliknaˆ me Düzeni, De Yayınevi, (İstanbul, 1961). The serpent column in Ottoman sources had been studied in an article by Ménage. Arif Müfid Mansel published a comparative study of the sources with archeological evidence. V.L. Ménage, ‘The Serpent Column in Ottoman Sources,’ Anatolian Studies, no.14, 1964, 169–173; Arif Müfid Mansel, ‘İstanbul’daki Burmalı Sütün’, Belleten, vol. XXXIV, no.134, April,1970, s.189–209. Mansel also gives an explanation of how the serpent heads were broken: The three heads were neither destroyed by Turks nor by a Polish delegation as suggested by certain historians. Fındıklılı Mehmet Silahdar in his Nusretnâme which is a detailed day by day record of events particularly in Istanbul for the years 1687 and 1721 notes that on 12 November 1700 at the time of the night prayer all three bronze serpents in the Hippodrome which stood for 1500 years broke all together at their necks and fell to the ground, yet there is no question of their being struck and smashed for there was not even anyone nearby. As an archaeologist and a classicist, Mansel explains the technical reasons how the bronze heads could have fallen apart. Nurhan Atasoy, Surnâme-i Hümayûn, Istanbul, 2000. Müller- Wierner, op.cit. 248–249. Ibid. 77


30 31 32 33

34

35

36 37 38 39

40

Ibid. Julian Raby, op.cit. Ibid. A. Gabriel, Voyages Archéologiques dans la Turquie Orientale, (Paris, 1940); Leon de Laborde, Voyage en Asie Mineure, (Paris, 1837); M. van Berchem-J. Strzygowski, Amida (Heidelberg, 1910); J.P. Roux, ‘La sculpture figurative de l’Anatolie musulmane’, Turcica, XXIV (1992), 27–90; J. Gierlichs, Mittelalterliche Tierreliefs in Anatolien und Nordmesopotamien (Heidelberg, 1996). M. Önder, ‘Konya Kal’asi Figürlü Eserleri’, VI. Türk Tarih Kongresi (Ankara 1967) 145–169; G. Öney, ‘Anadolu Selçukluları’nda Heykel, Figürlü Kabartma ve Kaynakları Hakkında Notlar’, Selçuklu Araştırmaları Dergisi, I (1969), 187–191; Y. Önge-Ï. Ateş-S. Bayram (haz.), Divriği Ulu Caˆmi ve Darüşşifası (Ankara, 1978); B. Karamağaralı, ‘Sivas ve Tokat’taki Figürlü Mezar Taşlarının Mahiyeti Hakkında’, Selçuklu Araştırmaları Dergisi, II (1970), 75–109; Ahlat Mezar Taşları, 2. baskı (Ankara, 1992); K. Otto-Dorn, ‘Türkische Grabsteine mit Figurenreliefs aus Kleinasien’, Ars Orientalis, III (1959), 63–76. For details of Matrakçı’s map of Istanbul see: Walter Denney, ‘A Sixteenth Century Architectural Map of Istanbul’, Ars Orientalis, VIII, 1970; Dominique Halbout du Tanney, İstanbul seen by Matrakçı, Dost Yayınları (İstanbul, 1996). Atasoy, Ibrahim Paşa Sarayı, op. cit. Tayyip Gökbilgin, op. cit. 908. Ibid. The Ottoman Pashas commonly brought back trophies. They even brought back architectural elements. Kapudan-ı Derya Piyale Pasha, the head of the navy, for example brought with him marble columns from Italy that were used in his mosque at the Okmeydanı. Tayyip Gökbilgin, op.cit. 909.

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Part Two SELF AND JOURNEY

Preface: The Journey as Metaphor

Journeys belong to the most deep-rooted and fruitful metaphorical concepts in most literary and cultural traditions. Accounts of heroic quests have acquired legendary status as myths of origin, or tales of the ascendancy of nations and peoples. Pilgrimages are at the core of the symbolic systems of several religions and the reports of pilgrims have contributed to the fusion of geography and spirituality: while geographical space became imbued with spiritual values, journeys became metaphors for spiritual purification and the quest for salvation. This convergence of the physical and spiritual dimensions of the journey became the quintessence of travelling as a metaphorical concept and thus found its way into literature and art. The journey became an individual experience, shaping the soul and the personality, through the hardships felt on the way, the influence of the sacred physical environment and the wonders observed in strange and exotic worlds. The exploration of the world became synonymous with the exploration of the self and the incorporation of new experiences into the personality of the hero. This is why real or fictional travel accounts belong to the dynamic components of literature, not only from its beginnings, but also in decisive phases of its development. Throughout literary history, in various cultures, the paradigm of the journey has remained an important means of bringing order to a seemingly chaotic world. In Arabic literature journeys have always been an important leitmotif. This is hardly surprising, since Arabic literature can be traced back to the oral traditions of the nomadic Bedouins who roamed the deserts of the Arabian peninsula. Their metaphors of lost love, departed caravans, traces of the camp of the beloved, exiled lovers in the desert and tribal struggles have endured in the literature of the classical period, which belonged, of course, to the domain of urban culture. But not only in the qasida does the journey in its various forms provide the main theme; in later romances and tales of chivalry, too, travelling was crucial, either to rescue the beloved or to win barbaric lands for the true Faith. In the latter case, the journey acquired a religious 81


dimension which pervades the various genres of Muslim literature. One of these genres, the travel account, was centred as a rule, around the pilgrimage to Mecca, an essential component of religious life. Before long, the wandering Sufis developed this spiritual dimension of the journey into a metaphorical concept structuring their ideas of the path towards awareness and salvation. In the culture of Islam, therefore, the travel metaphor is omnipresent, both in its secular and religious forms.

Concepts of the journey In general, we can discern two conceptual models for the process of travelling of interest for the student of literature. The first concerns the journey as a quest and a rite of passage; the second focuses on the experience of wonder and confrontation with the unknown. The concept of the quest is well-known in literary studies, especially those regarding medieval romances, such as the quest for the Holy Grail and other, similar, tales. Love romances, too, generally conform to this type, since the hero has to find his way through a hostile world to find his beloved. In this type of story the spatial dimension often provides the backbone of the narrative. The various environments, the obstacles – forests, deserts, mountains – the confrontation with strange peoples, all determine the sequence of the episodes and the build-up and denouement. Spatial boundaries separate the hero both from his home and from his goal and often symbolise the dilemma: the hero must not only endure trials of several kinds but he must also make the right choices. The obstacles, boundaries and choices represent the various stages in the development of the hero’s personality and reparations for final bliss. The hero not only traverses a physical space, he also transforms his soul, thus enabling him to marry his beloved and to return to his home as a new, better and complete person. This model of the journey as a literary device resembles the more anthropologically inspired general model of travelling developed by Eric Leed, in his book The Mind of the Traveler.1 Leed divides the process of travelling into three distinct phases: the departure, by which the traveller dissociates himself from his social environment and assumes a new, individual status; the 82

PREFACE

phase of movement, which endows the traveller with an ambiguous, indefinable role; and finally, arrival or return of the traveller and integration into a new social environment, or reintegration into a previous environment. Each phase is marked by ritual and ceremony, whether for a farewell party, a hospitality or initiation rite or a welcoming party. The most interesting phase, at least from a literary point of view, is probably the travelling itself. As the hero moves from one place to another he has no clear identity. Since he is unknown to the persons he meets, he can assume different identities, either true or false, and change his persona at will. To counter such chicanery, all societies have formalities to determine the status of travellers, either by asking their identification or by temporary confinement where they can be kept under control. Travellers are treated as guests, spies, thieves or gods, but never as a member of the society to which they aspire. Conversely, a traveller may never freely enter into a strange society and assume normal relationships. He will always preserve his ambiguous status as a traveller, who may be a threat or a blessing, but who is, nevertheless simply passing through. Finally, the experiences of the traveller and the things gathered along the way – money, wife, stories, insight – transform him into a new person; he is enriched in a material or spiritual sense and re-integration implies new status and a suitable identity befitting his new relations and his elevated social environment. This model of the journey as a structural process resembles the anthropological concept of the rite of passage, with its phases of dissociation, isolation, liminal status and re-integration.2 The second approach to the travel narrative is based on the experience of wonder as a fundamental form of cognition. In this model, the journey represents a quintessential confrontation with strange and exotic peoples, objects and surroundings, all of which are alien to the world-view of the hero. From the moment the hero enters the unfamiliar lands, a process of assimilation is launched, aimed at assimilating the exotic into the familiar and adapting both to forge a harmonious whole. To achieve this, a frame of reference is needed which enables the hero to preserve a former identity, as a member of a community or a group. This frame of reference, usually inherent in the generic conventions of the travel account, structure the narrative, then becomes a symbolic means for assimilating an unfamiliar subject to familiar categories and 83


patterns. This process can be illustrated by tales of conquest of barbaric lands and the exploration of unknown territories. Here, geographical notions are used, first to draw a contrast between civilised and ‘uncivilised’ domains; secondly, to organise physical space and finally, as a metaphorical mechanism to shape mental perceptions of strange peoples and lands.3 These two models can be seen as a basic framework for the literary treatment of journeys and their significance in fictional narratives. The combination of structural and metaphorical functions derives from the components mentioned above: the convergence of representations of physical space and spiritual values, of real spaces and imaginary spaces. More often than not, the domain of the sacred is projected into physical space, as a world that can be discovered by travelling, and which, as a result the experience of the traveller, is linked to the collective experience of the sacred. Such shared associations with regard to the journey metaphor provide a framework which can be utilised for all kinds of quests, rites of passage or explorations of the unknown. It is above all related to questions of identity, since the journey is a manifestation of movement, dynamism, transformation, re-definition and metamorphosis. Richard van Leeuwen

Notes 1 2

3

Eric Leed, The Mind of the Traveler; from Gilgamesh to Global Tourism, New York, 1991. For a description of the ‘rite of passage’ see Arnold van Gennep, The Rites of Passage, London, 1977; and Victor Turner, The Ritual Process; Structure and Anti-Structure, New York, 1995. Claire Colebrook, New Literary Histories; New Historicism and Contemporary Criticism, 198 ff.

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CHAPTER 4

Myths and Signs of Alienation Between 19th-Century Rihlat and Europe Daniel Newman

Qu’est–ce que voyager? Rencontrer. Le seul lexique important est celui du rendez–vous. R. Barthes, L’empire des signes (1970)

Travel and the mythical destination Depending on the object of the journey, classical rihla literature, which spans a period between the 9th and 17th centuries, may be divided into a number of categories or subgenres, the most important of which were those related to a quest for instruction (talab al–‘ilm), the pilgrimage (rihlat Hijaziyya) and official embassies (rihlat sifariyya).1 The same subgenres are found in the 19th century which saw the birth of another one, i.e. the rihla siyahiyya or tourist travelogue. Below we shall examine some aspects of the rihla genre as it manifested itself in the 19th century with regard to journeys to Europe. From the start, however, it will be crucial to delimit the topic in two respects. First, in so far as the journey destination is concerned, the rather general ‘Europe’ is taken to refer to Northwestern Europe. Secondly, in terms of the format it is worth bearing in mind that of the 42-odd works based (directly or indirectly) on a visit to Europe, 11 deviate from the classical rihla format (see infra), although the overwhelming majority contained travelogue elements.2 85


The rihla involves a number of movements – some consecutive, others concurrent – in which the traveller variously appears as ‘agent’ or as mere ‘referent’. In addition to a geographical, spatial movement, the traveller embarks on an inner journey, whereby one may draw a number of parallels with the way Roland Barthes explained the travel experience. He divided it into three graduated phases of dépaysement, i.e. alienation: the journey, the stay, and ‘naturalisation’. For many of our travellers, the dépaysement started the minute they left their native countries since, like their medieval predecessors, they tended to travel to Europe on European vessels.3 For most travellers, it was the very first time they spent any length of time in the close company not just of Europeans, but also of Christians. The second stage, the stay, is far more interesting since it catches the traveller straddling two worlds: his own and that of the new environment. Barthes adds that the most salient characteristic of this dichotomy is that the traveller ‘fait du pays residentiel … espace composite ou se condense la substance de plusieurs grandes villes, un élément dans lequel le sujet peut plonger…’4 It is within this ‘composite space’ that old and new myths intermingle and interact with signs of alienation and impact on the traveller’s perception of the new environment. It is this space which will be examined next through semiological, or to be more precise, Barthesian glasses. The Europe of the 19th–century Arab travellers was a multi–layered metonymical construct: the first stratum was that of a (semi-) mythical Europe of progress, industry and science, as exemplified by the inventions and innovations of the Industrial Age, with the machine occupying a central place. Second, and to some extent predicated upon the previous stratum, there was the Europe of the strange, exotic and alien – unknown and threatening – and a proxy for locations or experiences in the traveller’s native country, or even in other Islamic countries (e.g. Paris/Damascus, Seine/Nile) as described by, for instance, classical poets where the collective Islamic consciousness and heritage intermixed with the real world the traveller left behind. This approach was pushed to the limits by the Egyptian Muhammad al-Bakri in whose work the sights of Paris are reduced to mere facsimiles or simulacra of a distant 86

MYTHS AND SIGNS OF ALIENATION

Islamic past: the Eiffel tower becomes the Tower of Babel lighted at night ‘by the star Suhayl’,5 reception halls (bahw) become Chosroes’ iwan,6 high buildings the castle of Ghumdan in Yemen,7 gardens and parks become the Shi‘b Bawwan of Persia8 and every wall the dam of Gog and Magog9 and road the pass between them;10 bridges become the Khurrazadh of Samarcand or the Baradan in Baghdad,11 every castle or palace is the Fatimid alMushtaha,12 every church that of al-Ruha,13 every statue that of the pre-Islamic Ya‘uq;14 and Paris squares evocations of the great poetess al-Khansa’ mourning her brother Sakhr.15 Indirectly, there was a connection with the third Europe, i.e. that of generality – a mono-dimensional Europe, wherein the specific was elevated to the universal. One may distinguish two levels within this synecdochic view. On a supranational level, Europe as a continent becomes a macrocosm of the country or even city of residence. For instance, France, through its capital, was often an epithet for the modern West, epitomising all that was admired in Europe. For Levantine Christians it also symbolised the power of the religion they shared with their European ‘brethren’.16 On a lower, national level, the country of residence tended to blend in with individual cities variously perceived as representative compounds of the nation, or indeed, as the only tangible expression of the latter, thus reduced to an abstract. Most of the details on France and the French of the early authors are extrapolations of their experiences in the capital. As the paradise on earth,17 the centre of civilisation,18 the source of all science and pleasure,19 the house of peace, of justice and truth,20 Paris blended with France and by extension, with Europe as a whole. That is not to say that the above can be applied equally to all 19th-century travel literature. As both direct and indirect knowledge of Europe and of its constituent components improved, the picture became clearer and the representations changed, as can be seen in the works of, say, al-Tahtawi (1834) and Ibn al-Khuja (1900). Finally, there was the Europe reduced to an underlying ‘objective’ reality, reified by quantifiable statistical data. It cannot be overstressed that the importance of the travel accounts lies not just in how 19th-century Arabs saw Europe, viz. the perception of the other, but also in the way Europe saw itself and the image it 87


conveyed of itself to the outside world, i.e. the perception and projection of the self. As a result, Europe became, to use Barthes’ expression, a ‘total myth … both myth of expression and myth of projection; realistic and utopic at the same time.’21 There are various interactive processes at work here. The first stage in the travel experience is that of contact between the subject and Europe. This gives rise to a conflict of cultural codes and prejudices in which these elements vie with each other. One may note a growing tension made up, on the one hand, of the coreferential or objective truth of the traveller’s observations, and, on the other hand, his group identity and loyalty. The conflictual space leads to interference in both the transference and interpretation of the information provided, the signifié. The traveller’s observations are filtered and contextualised as symbols (SYM), which, in turn, are elements within a specific type of signifié, which we may call semes (SEM), which are recombinant products (produits combinatoires).22 Continuing with the Barthesian vocabulary, albeit with some permutations, we can then say that the SYM and SEM merge into connotation,23 which forms the essence of the construct Europe, and which is subsequently transferred to the traveller, after again being subject to interference and filtering. A similar conclusion may be reached by another approach. In the classical Saussurian semiological sense, SIGN constitutes the relationship between the signifié (concept or referent) and the signifiant (word, image) – the ‘associative total’ of the two.24 In Barthes’ mythology, however, the myth arrogates SIGN as an empty form (signifiant) and integrates it into its own system, thus connecting it to a new concept (signifié), from which its new (mythical) meaning (signe) is derived. For instance, a description of a museum in Europe by a traveller is emptied, stripped of its primary sense/meaning inasmuch as it is taken as a form, (signifiant) as a ‘mythical’ metalanguage, (i.e. a ‘secondary language’ by which we speak of language as a linguistic object)25 and linked to a new concept of mythical signifié, viz. a mixture of Europeanness, culture and civilisation. As a result, it becomes endowed with mythological meaning,26 whereby one may draw a parallel with C. LéviStrauss’ ‘mythème’.27 88


In more ways than one, Europe, or to paraphrase Barthes’ stock phrase in ‘L’Empire des Signes’, ‘the country the travellers called Europe’ was an abstract serving as a spectrum through which the various SEMs converged. At another level, the antithesis of ‘Europe’ with the traveller’s own society is inextricably bound up in the above process, a process with which it competes in its own right. Like Europe, Muslim society is also made up of polysemic SEMs and emerges as a construct whose components (connotation) are diametrically opposite of Europe’s. The polarisation process is linear rather than ‘chiasmic’. Contrasting ‘signifiés’ appear in pairs (cf. diagram), in which one is defined by the other, through mutually exclusive, immanent qualities. Each element in the sets appears to exist only by virtue of its opposite. The stratum of antithesis also consists of two levels. The distinctive features of Europe may be either inducive, i.e. perceived as being worthy of emulation, or detractive, with the balance shifting in favour of the traveller’s native society. Although the antithesis stratum is present in all Arabic travel literature on Europe, the picture varies somewhat in the case of Christian travellers, in whose works the detractive strand, which is almost exclusively Islamic, is largely absent.

The rihla: structure and themes That the 19th-century rihlat formed an integral part of an established genre becomes clear from the high degree of commonality not only among works of the period but also with classical examples (e.g. Ibn Battuta, Ibn Jubayr, Ibn Fadlan). One of the most prominent features is the coherence within the surface text, i.e. a clear linear narrative continuity. The rihla is based on identifiably personal observation, with the traveller intervening in a variety of ways as an individual, thus combining a ‘collection of observation…<with> a record of private experience, an autobiographical account of a man pursuing an adventure.’28 This in turn, is a prerequisite for another text-specific linguistic criterion, viz. acceptability. The egocentric narrative exposition enhances the reader’s identification with the traveller. This is not to say that this kind of introspective narrative is common in 89


modern travel writing; it was non-existent in classical rihlat and remained rare in 19th-century works. In this genre the author appears as the sole actor, even if the first person plural is employed, which can variously refer to the author and his fellow travellers, or, occasionally, to the traveller-narrator and his scribe, as is the case in Ibn Battuta’s travelogue recorded by Ibn Juzay. The presence of company is almost always implicit and they do not generally form a meaningful part of the travel experience. Indeed, in many cases travel companions remain anonymous as is the case, for instance, in both classical (Ibn Fadlan) and 19thcentury works (e.g. Muhammad Bayram V). The author communicates a completed set of events, in which he has been directly involved from start to finish. Another crucial element of the rihla genre is mobility along a linear temporal and spatial continuum, with clearly marked stages, viz. departures and arrivals. All rihlat comprise a number of distinct divisions. The first component is the introduction, which includes the preparation for the journey, an outline of purpose, and sometimes, mention of other participants. Occasionally, there is another component of interest in accounts of visits to non-Muslim territories, namely the justification for the journey, with emphasis on the religious reasons for travel and prayers for sustenance from God and deliverance from the ‘wickedness’ the traveller would encounter.29 Then comes the actual journey, of which the first leg is often described in great detail. The third component involves arrival at the destination and a description of the stay there. Finally, there is the journey home, which often extends to the actual arrival back in the author’s home town, the celebrations and the giving of thanks for a safe return. The importance of itineraries is, of course, linked to the travellers themselves and to awareness of possible future use for their books as manuals. Medieval pilgrimage accounts, whether produced by (European) Christians or Muslims, were first and foremost written as practical manuals for coreligionists embarking on the same journey. It is only natural then that the itinerary should impose the structure and rhythm of the travelogue; the traveller recounts his experiences from day to day; from place to place, without any interruptions in the account.30 There are a number of recurrent themes which cut across various levels. In terms of nature and man’s environment, one of 90


the elements to receive a lot of attention is water, with travellers mentioning rivers they came across, whereas they stressed the beneficial influence of water as the source of life, crops, etc. Other ‘emblematic’ themes included the various modes of transport (see infra), trade and commerce, women, sexual mores and relationships between the sexes, natural resources, taxes, entertainment and architecture. Themes like science and technology, education, the press and theatre emerged in 19th-century works, in which other more traditional themes (e.g. politics, foreign customs and traditions) received much greater focus. Another element shared by both the classical and modern rihlat is their linear non-poetic style, which, starting with al-Tahtawi, dominated 19th-century Arabic travel literature. In the case of the classical and Moroccan embassy rihlat (17–18th centuries) this was a continuation of a tradition set by geographers. As far as the 19th-century works are concerned, this ‘new’ linguistic style and register may be considered a symbol of modernity, with the factual and informative superseding the ornate and superficial of contemporary belles-lettres and its vain attempts to relive the Golden era of ‘Abbasid literature. In other words, the classical Arabic as bearer of tradition and conservatism was refashioned into a medium fit for the new world. Within this process the new syntax can in a way be regarded as a manifestation of the authors’ ‘naturalisation’. Indeed, it is no coincidence that authors like al-Muwaylihi and al-Bakri, who most clearly expressed their opposition to Western influence on Muslim societies, chose to infuse their works with saj‘, which thus became a metaphor of an escape into a secure unchanging past and away from the new. In the case of alMuwaylihi, it is worth adding that he was one of the few to fictionalise a journey to Europe, thus mythologising it not just in content, sign or meaning, but also in structure or code. The main distinguishing factor between the earlier Muslim travellers and those of the 19th century was, of course, the purpose. For the most part, the latter group may be considered pilgrims talab al-‘ilm, on a quest for modernity. They were attracted by the Europe of new technologies and sciences, of wondrous novelties epitomised by France, or, more precisely, by Paris, which became a metaphor for the shrine in the rihlat Hijaziyya. An entirely new set of reference points was constructed, and just as 91


the Hajj journey included a number of obligatory stops, so this modern pilgrimage also had its own itinerary, its own sights and destinations. The notables whose company the travellers sought were no longer faqihs, but European scholars and politicians. The pilgrimage metaphor can be taken even further, since very soon a European stay (preferably with some education) became the sole criterion or credentials for the modern Muslim.31 As ‘agents’ of modernity, travellers are the carriers of the SEMs of the new continent. As ‘referents’ of modernity, they themselves were subsumed into it by dint of their participation, or physical presence and observation. The authors’ perception of this is exemplified by phrases like ‘but this is something one must see for oneself.’32 At the same time, this process of association (with the West) resulted in a degree of dissociation (from Muslim society).

Signs of alienation European entertainment After the myths regarding Europe as a whole, it is time we considered myths regarding certain aspects of the new world and which, in themselves, represent signs of alienation. In his semiotic investigation of Ibn Jubayr’ s Rihla, I. Netton identified a number of signs of alienation in those sections of the book dealing with the author’s encounters with and views of Christians: the Christian cross; the Christian ship; Christian regal power; Christian taxation; and Christian chivalry.33 To a large extent, the first three signs were also valid for the Moroccan ambassadorial accounts of the 16–18th centuries and reveal the presence of others, like the Christian church, Christian science, or Christian entertainment.34 In the 19th century a number of signs may be observed: e.g. entertainments; the Christian religion; European morals; European sciences; European justice; European food. Some of these will be discussed below. It must be pointed out that, like in the past, the most potent signs of alienation were those seen in some way to impugn Islam. The SEMs underlying the European construct or myth, whether social, technical, or cultural were almost invariably interpreted from a religious perspective and then, almost exclusively out of 92


concern for their religious implications and/or threat, whereas the accusation of tafarnuj always loomed large over the authors. Further, it is against this background that one should interpret Muslim travellers’ animosity towards priests, whose xenophobia and intolerance are often referenced.35 European entertainment may be considered a case in point. Whereas in the works of 17th-and 18th-century Muslim travellers European musical instruments like the harp or the guitar were Christianised by the their use, for instance, in mass, or at improper gatherings where women danced with men,36 their 19th-century coreligionists for the most part saw European entertainment as symbols of the advance of European civilisation. The mythical Europe reigned supreme as centre of the arts and intellect, with style and substance, structure (code) and signifié becoming the quintessence of the modern civilised man, in a sense, a natural complement to ‘the technological man’. The theatre was a particular favourite and like European technology and science, it held up a mirror for the travellers to see their preconceptions and cultural background. It was through the theatre that they were forced to confront issues of their own culture, such as the mixing of men and women, the function and role of artistic creation. The theatre was inherently ‘di-semic’ inasmuch as it was representative of a set of contrasting signifiés (or SEMs), i.e. moral/immoral, while at the same time symbolising European culture, progress, etc. As a symbol of the mythical Europe and as the centre of culture, the theatre was regarded as a ‘school of morals’, (e.g. R. al--Tahtawi,37 Ahmad Zaki,38 Faris al-Shidyaq,39 Ahmad Ibn Abi ’l-Diyaf,40 ‘Ali Mubarak,41 Muhammad Bayram V42), with Islam being used to transform a potentially ‘detractive’ symbol into an ‘inducive’ one through implicit reference to Qur. IX:112: ‘alamirun bi ’l-ma‘ruf wa ’l-nahun ‘an al-munkar’ (Those who bid to honour and forbid evil),43 or by tracing the art to the qasidas of Imru’ al-Qays44 or the poetry recitals at ‘Ukaz.45 Although some travellers like Muhammad Amin Fikri and Faris al--Shidyaq attempted to examine the theatre from an intra-European, ‘naturalised’ perspective by concentrating on its artistic, rather than moral merits (or demerits), the exercise becomes enmeshed in mythemic Europe of not only 93


the cultural and the intellectual, but also of the strange and wonderful.46 The theatre as a symbol subsumed in the SEM of European immorality was largely predicated on the religiously unlawful role of women both as performers and spectators.47 This view for instance, was eloquently expressed by the Tunisian travelling shaykh, Muhammad al-Sanusi: ‘If we look at it (sc. the theatre) as a meeting place only for women and youths as players and spectators, and we see that it is a pagan activity in origin and a Christian one at present, then our religious law forbids it beyond dispute!’48 Moreover, there was the generally bad reputation of the performing arts in Islam,49 to which one should add the problem of ‘representation’, which in itself causes a number of religious problems within Islam. By showing events and characters, the theatre was seen to ‘fictionalise’, and thus debase history. In alMuwaylihi’s Hadith ‘Isa b. Hisham the opposition to the theatre at this level appears in the following terms: ‘Muslim literature does not have a tradition of representing events of Islamic history, caliphs or virtuous ancestors through love scenes and singing: what would you say of Abu Ja‘far in love, Abu Muslim a singer, and Abu al--Fawaris a dancer? This is in fact what the people of this art have the nerve to do today. It is the biggest humiliation for our ancestors and the most howling twaddle in history.’50 It is in the same work that the ambiguity surrounding the theatre is best summed up through a lengthy exchange among fictional protagonists, viz. the Pasha, ‘Isa, and the Friend.51 The opposing view is given by the first (the symbol of traditional values), for whom the theatre is a den of iniquity. The eponymous hero (who represents modernity) vigorously defends the theatre, which for Europeans is a natural accompaniment of newspapers; ‘it is a source of virtue because it imposes that which is good and forbids what is objectionable’.52 ‘Isa stresses the wholesome features of drama, which ‘shows you laudable deeds and qualities’.53 Al-Muwaylihi’s sympathies probably lay with the Friend, who points out that ‘it is not because something is beneficial to Westerners that it will be so for Easterners’, and might actually cause real harm. But even in Western society, the theatre causes more problems than it solves: ‘(…) vices and desires are depicted in front of those who are already subject to them…, 94


as a result of which they sink deeper into their depravity as they are strengthened in their conviction that these things are good.’54 There was a similar bipolarity with regard to European belleslettres, as witnessed, for instance, by Muhammad ‘Abduh’s comments on another European ‘frivolity’, viz. novels (kutub alrumaniyat) as original tales with a higher aim (maqsid jalil), which is to say, to teach (adab), to reveal the conditions of nations and drive people toward virtue and away from vice.55 Some time before, the inherently ‘inducive’ character had also been stressed in the Tunisian Government Gazette, al-Ra’id al--Tunisi,56 where novels (ruman) were distinguished from Arabic stories in that they had a laudable aim, viz. to improve morals and reform behaviour.

European sciences and advance: the age of mobility It has already been mentioned that the Christian ship was one of the signs of alienation in classical rihlat. The Mediterranean marked the first border crossing into Europe for Muslim travellers from both East and West. As we have seen, for many travellers, the crossing on European vessels was the first occasion on which they came into direct contact with Europeans. Travellers thus established a direct link between European domination of shipping and trade, and European prosperity.57 The relationship between the Mediterranean and the travellers was, to say the least, as ambiguous as that with the Europe that lay ahead, with the predominant feeling being one of fear and anxiety.58 The ship was as much a ‘symbol of departure’, as it was of closing,59 or of return, in that for many it also marked the end of their travel adventures. As such, the sea journey may be considered a metaphor both for the entry point to the new and exotic and as a gateway to the familiar and reassuring, which becomes apparent, for instance, in the differences in the ways in which journeys to and from Europe are described. In the course of the century, there was one particular invention which did more than any other to imbue travellers from the East with the modernity of the European continent and civilisation, i.e. the railways. The train came to be seen as the ultimate symbol of the advance of the West, whereas a journey 95


by train – usually one of the first modes of transport taken by travellers upon landing on European soil – became the first step towards ‘naturalisation’. The train as metaphor of mobility, of unity and modernity thus became the vehicle by which travellers entered the new environment: The traveller remained an observer looking in from without, from the relative safety of the carriage and vantage point from which to observe his new world. The train thus became a halfway house, the point where the traveller first came to grips with his new environment. The train as signifiant (and SYM) was inherently polysemic, and representative of several signifiés: modernity, progress, technology, dynamism.60 The theme of mobility both as a cause and inherent feature of modern civilisation is prominent in the works of several travellers.61 Muhammad Bayram’s picture of London and Paris as bustling metropolises, for instance, was largely predicated on the sense of mobility, the movement of people by means of a multitude of modes of transport.62 The train as a metaphor of mobility constituted a powerful sign of alienation, whereby the pace of European society was contrasted with the slowness and inertia of the travellers’ own society. Rail networks, stations, tunnels, bridges and new rail-based inventions like the omnibus, or tramway received a great deal of attention in the travellers’ accounts.63 The Tunisians al-Wardani and Muhammad al-Sanusi both established a clear causal link between the modern means of transport, which ‘link all corners of the world’ and ‘human civilization’.64 Indeed, in the modern age ‘the railways are the most important reason for the continuity (tawasul) of countries.65 In addition, ‘anyone seeing the telegraph and the railways stretching across the world, knows that these two things have become the main channels within society.’66 In al–Sanusi’s long qasida eulogising modern inventions, entitled al-Farida fi ’l-mukhtarat aljadida (‘The precious pearl in the new inventions’), rail occupies a core position.67 In the poem al-Sanusi explains the economic importance of railways since they attract civilisation to places that would otherwise be deprived of it; ‘if they reached the desert, there too a great civilization would emerge.’68 In view of the above it is hardly surprising to find that when the first Egyptian railway (between Cairo and Alexandria) was 96


opened in 1855,69 al-Tahtawi, whose stay in Europe predated the use of the new invention, expressed his admiration in a eulogy on the steam engine.70 And so, in less than two decades the railways evolved from myth to sign of alienation, to one of the key symbols of naturalisation.

The Muslim legacy: alienation vs. disalienation All Muslim visitors were confronted with issues related to the technological and scientific achievements and advances of Western nations, and, by implication, the backwardness of their own Muslim states. Muslim authors from both East and West found solace in Islam and Muslim history and physical proof thereof. Thus, the presence of Arab books and manuscripts in European libraries became a sign of ‘disalienation’, and ‘recovery’. As such, the books, and, especially, art and architecture (as was the case for visitors to Spain) were explicit symbols not only of past Muslim greatness but also, by their very location, of Europe’s Muslim legacy. It also allowed a shift, or, ‘counter-polarisation’ of the previously mentioned antithesis, with travellers deconstructing and appropriating some of Europe’s SEMs, from which there also resulted a shift in connotation. Such apprehension of the symbols of the Muslim past as signs of ‘disalienation’ was quite new. Previously, the mere location of the Muslim symbols made them signs of alienation to Muslim visitors since they had, in effect, been stripped of their meaning, or signifié, if you will. Let us consider two examples. Despite the physical existence of certain mosques, the absence of their quintessential, irreducible ‘Muslim’ character (e.g. as a result of conversion into a church) turned them into highly powerful symbols of European power. Another example is the presence of Qur’ans in European libraries (which often elicited a violent reaction from travellers).71 As the property of infidels, they too became subsumed into mythemic Europe as a vanquishing power and symbol of the loss of Muslim greatness. Conversely, 19th-century Muslim travellers for the most part ‘reappropriated’ these symbols by, in a way, turning them against 97


Europe. Remnants of Muslim architecture, by their very existence, became symbols not of the defeat of Islam, but of its continuing might and glory as the visible origins of modern civilisation. The Arabic manuscript holdings in European libraries thus ceased to be symbols of alienation and loss, but powerful SEMs for the greatness of Muslims and an integral part of the European mythology, thus becoming signs of ‘disalienation’, through which the visitors were able to reclaim their own past.72

Notes 1

2

3

4

For instance, of the 150 rihlat listed by the Moroccan historian, ‘Ali Ibn Suda (Dalil mu’arrikh al-Maghrib al-Aqsa, Tetuan, 1950) for the 14th–19th c., forty are rihlat Hijaziyya, whereas Muhammad al-Manuni (al-Masdir al-‘Arabiyya li-Ta’rikh al-Maghrib, Rabat, 1983) identifies 17 out of a total of 22 for the period 1660–1790. For the rihlat sifariyya, Ibn Suda lists seven titles, al-Manuni, two, while, for travel within the country, Ibn Suda lists 27 titles, and al-Manuni three. For the period 1517–1798, C. Brockelmann (Geschichte der arabischen Literatur, Leiden, 1937– 1949, II & Sup. II) lists some 10 travelogues which may be considered talab al-‘ilm, and 14 rihlat Hijaziyya written by Levantines. The total figure includes travelogues that were part of other works (see, for instance, the works of Ahmad Ibn Abi’l-Diyaf), fictionalised accounts of journeys (e.g. Muhammad al-Muwaylili, ‘Ali Mubarak, Faris al-Shidyaq), as well as historical-geographical encyclopaedias on Europe (Khayr al-Din al-Tunisi, Muhammad Bayram V) . For a complete list of all known accounts of journeys to Europe in the 19th century, see D. L. Newman, 19th–century Tunisian Travel Literature on Europe: Vistas of a New World, unpublished PhD thesis, SOAS, 1998, 415ff. (Appendix). In the past it was also common, for instance, for Maghribi pilgrims to travel East on board European vessels; cf. A. Raymond, ‘Tunisiens et maghrebains au Caire au XVIIIe siècle’, Cahiers de Tunisie, 26–27, 1959, 338; E. Plantet, Correspondance des beys de Tunis et des consuls de France avec la cour (1577–1830), Paris, 1893–1899, II, 56, 107, 485, 535, III, 357, 600. Le Degré Zéro de l’Ecriture Suivi de Nouveaux Essais Critiques, Paris, 1972, 183. 98


5

6

7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16

17 18

19 20 21 22

23 24

Saharij al-lu’lu’, Cairo, 1906, 304. Cf. al-Muwaylihi, Hadith ‘Isa b. Hisham, Cairo, n.d., 213. Also see The Encyclopedia of Islam, s.v. ‘alSuhail’ (C. Schoy). Ibid., 305. Cf. al-Muwaylihi, ibid. This is most probably a reference to al-Buhturi’s qasida on it (Diwan al-Buhturi, ed. Hasan K. al-Sirafi, II, Cairo, 1977, 1152). Muhammad al-Bakri, ibid. Also see The Encyclopedia of Islam, s.v. ‘Ghumdan’ (Fr. Buhl.) Ibid., 306. Ibid. Ibid., 306–307; cf. Qur. XVIII: 96. Ibid., 307. Ibid., 308. Ibid., 307. Ibid., 310. Ibid., 310; cf. The Encyclopedia of Islam, s.v. ‘al-Khansa’’11 (F. Krenkow). See e.g. F. Marrash, Rihla ila Baris, Beirut, 1867, 21. Cf. comments by Adib Ishaq; S. al-Dahhan, Qudama’ wa mu‘asirun, Cairo, 1961, 207 (quoted in H. Sharabi, Arab intellectuals and the West: the formative Years, 1875–1914, Baltimore/London, 1970, 15 n. 14). Also see H. Sharabi, ibid., 59ff. S. Bustrus, al-Nuzha al-Shahiyya fi ’l-rihla al-Salimiyya, Beirut, 1856, 54. M. al-Sanusi, al-Istitla‘at al-Barisiyya fi ma‘rad sanat 1889, Tunis, 1309/ 1891–1892, 10; A. Ilyas, Kitab mashahid ‘Urubba wa Amrika, Cairo, 1900, 267. F. al-Shidyaq, al-Wasita fi ma‘rifat ahwal Malta/Kashf al-mukhabba’ fi funun Urubba, Constantinople, 1881, 249. al-Muwaylihi, op. cit., 213. Mythologies, Paris, 1957, 133 (‘Le Tour de France comme épopée’). The meaning in which this concept is used here deviates from that given by Barthes, who explained it as an ‘unité de signifié’, ‘signifié de connotation’, or ‘une corrélation immanente au texte’ (Eléments de sémiologie in Le degré zéro de 1’écriture, 2nd ed., Paris, 1964, 111; S/Z. Essais, Paris, 1970, 15, 68ff. et passim). In his text, analysis represents the ‘Voix de la Personne’ and is equivalent to ‘personnage’. Interestingly enough, this is not as alien to our discussion as it may appear since through a semantic shift, Europe took on this role within the 19th-century rihla literature. This term first appeared in R. Barthes’ E1éments de sémiologie (ibid.) and re-emerged in S/Z (24ff.). R. Barthes, Mythologies, 219ff. Cf. F. de Saussure, Cours de linguistique générale, ed. T. de Mauro, Paris, 1983, 98ff. 99


25 26 27 28 29

30

31

32 33 34 35

36 37

38 39 40 41 42 43

Ibid., 222. Cf . ibid., 223ff. Cf. Anthropologie structurale, Paris, 1958, 233. R. Dunn in I. Netton (ed.), Golden Roads. Migration, Pilgrimage and Travel in Mediaeval and Modern Islam, London, 1993, 75. See, e.g., R. al-Tahtawi, Takhlis al-ibriz ila talkhis Bariz, Cairo/Beirut, n.d. [1982], 8, 17; M. Bayram V, Safwat al-i‘tibar bi-mustawda‘ al-amsar wa ’l-aqtar, Cairo, 1884–1893, I, 4ff.; M. al-Sanusi, Istitla‘at, 4; idem, al-Rihla al-Hijaziyya, ed. A. al-Shannufi, Tunis, 1976, I, 39–58; M. alSaffar, ed./trans. S. Gilson Miller, Disorienting Encounters: Travels of a Moroccan scholar in France in 1845–1846, Berkeley/Los Angeles, 1992, 53–54, 74, 76. Cf. S. Pavillard, ‘L’Ailleurs et l’autre: informations données par le voyageur’, in idem (coord.), Les Cahiers du C.R.E.L.E.F., 1988–2, 45–61. In this respect one may refer to the first level of I. R. Netton’s ‘pilgrim paradigm’ in classical rihlat, i.e. ‘a focal search or journeying to a shrine’; Seek knowledge: Thought and Travel in the House of Islam, Richmond, 1996, 120. See e.g. S. Ibn Siyam, Kitab al-rihlat ila bilad Faransa, Algiers, 1852, passim, R. al-Tahtawi, op. cit., passim; M. al-Sanusi, Istitla‘at, passim. Ibid., 135ff. (Golden Roads, 65ff). See D. Newman, op. cit., 31ff. E.g. S. al-Wardani, al-Rihla al-Andalusiyya, in al-Hadira, no. 91, 22 April 1890, 4; M. Bayram V, op.cit., IV, 5, 19. This was also prominent in many of the Moroccan ambassadorial accounts of the 16th–18th centuries; e.g. A. al-Hajari Nasir al-din ‘ala ’l-gawm al-kafirin, ed. M. Razuq, Casablanca, 1987, 53ff; al-Ghassani, Rihlat al-azir fi iftikak alasir, Fr. trans. H. Sauvaire, Voyage en Espagne d’un ambassadeur marocain (1690–1691), Paris, 1884, 211–213, 218, 221. al-Ghassini, op.cit., 64–65; M. al-Miknasi, Iksir fi fikak al-asir, ed. Muhammad al-Fasi, Rabat, 1965, 69–70, 99–100. op.cit., 134. Al-Tahtawi’s comments on the theatre in the Takhlis are also extracted in M. Hijazi, Usul al-fikr al-‘Arabi al-hadith, Cairo, 1974, 256-262. Al-Safar ila l-mu’tamar, Cairo, 1893, 391. 1881: 308. Ithaf ahl al-zaman bi akhbar muluk Tunis wa ‘ahd al-aman, Tunis, 1963–1965, IV, 102. op. et loc. cit. op. cit., 111, 82. Also see Qur. IX:67. 100


44 45 46 47

48 49

50 51 52

53 54 55

56 57 58

59 60

61 62 63

1881: 306, 307. Ibid., 310. Cf. ibid., 308, 309. A. Zaki, op.cit., chap.11; idem, al-Dunya fi Baris, Cairo, 1900, 97; M. Amin Fikri, Irshad al-alibba’ ila mahasin Urubba’, Cairo, 1892, 251–252; M. al--Muwaylihi, op. cit., 203–204 (English trans. R. Allen, A Period Of Time, Reading, 1992, 371). See also A. Louca, Voyageurs et écrivains égyptiens en France au XIXème siècle, Paris, 1970, 213. Rihla, I, 159. Cf. S. Moreh, ‘The background of the medieval Arabic theatre: Hellenistic, Roman and Persian influences’, Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam, 13, 1990, 329. M. al-Muwaylihi, ibid., 204 (trans. 373–374). 201ff. (trans., 370ff.) Ibid., 201. The use of this phrase by both al-Tahtawi and al-Muwaylihi does not necessarily denote an influence by the former on the latter; rather, it reflects the strong religious bias of the phrase, with variants being found in the Qur’an (e.g. V:100, VIII:37). Ibid. (trans., 371). Interestingly enough, a similar explanation is given with regard to newspapers (ibid., 28; trans., 136–137). Ibid., 204 (trans. 374). M. ‘Abduh, al-A‘mal al-kamila li ’l-Imam Muhammad ‘Abduh, ed. M. ‘Ammara, Beirut, 1979–1980, III, 49–52 (R. Rida, Tarikh al-ustadh alimam al-shaykh Muhammad ‘Abduh, Cairo, 1931, 11, 155ff.). ‘Kutub jadida’, XII:14, 21/06/1871. S. al-Wardani, al-Hadira, no. 4, 22/08/1888, p. 4; no. 5, 30 August 1808, p. 4. M. al–Sanusi, Istitla‘at, 7; M. b. al-Khuja, Suluk al-ibriz fi masalik Bariz, Tunis, 1900, 8; M. Bayram V, op. cit., 111, 3. Also see I. Netton, Seek Knowledge, 96–98. Cf. R. Barthes, Mythologies, 90ff. (92–93). See also R. Barthes, Introduction à l’analyse structurale des récits (1966) in E. Marty, ed., Roland Barthes: Oeuvres complètes II, 1966–1973, Paris, 1994, 99ff. E.g., A. Ibn Abi ’l-Diyaf, op. cit., IV, 99; S. Ibn Siyam, op. cit., passim; M. al-Sanusi, Istitla‘at, passim; idem, Rihla, passim. Op. cit. , III, 87, IV, 25. E.g. M. Bayram V, ibid., I, 12, III, 23, 24, 26, 28, 71; M. al-Sanusi, Istitla‘at 8, 9, 11, 35, 90, 263; idem, Rihla, I, 8, 51, 82, 86, 92; R. alTahtawi, op. cit., 181; M. Amin Fikri, op. cit., 119 et passim; M. b. alKhuja, op. cit., 43; S. Ibn Siyam, op. cit., passim; A. Ilyas, op. cit., 63 et passim; M. Amin Fikri, op. cit., 119 et passim; S. al-Wardani, al-hadira, 101


64 65 66 67 68 69

70 71

72

no. 33 (p. 4); M. al-Saffar, op. cit., passim; Khayr al-Din, Aqwam almasalik fi ma‘rifat ahwal ah-mamalik, Tunis, 1867, passim. M. al-Sanusi, Rihla, I, 51–52. M. al-Sanusi, Istitla‘at, 19. M. al-Sanusi, Rihla, I, 52. Cf. the opening line: ‘a ra’yta kayfa taqaraba al-buldan/bi ’l-muzjiya jarat ‘ala al-qudban (Rihla, I, 196). Ibid., I, 197. See EI2, s.v. ‘sikkat al-hadid’ (W. C. Brice); J. Tagher, ‘Le centenaire de la construction des chemins de fer en Egypte’, Cahiers d’Histoire égyptienne, 5, 1953, 256–265; L. Wener, L’Égypte et ses chemins de fer, Brussels, 1932. Manahij al-albab al–Misriyya fi mabahij al-adab al-‘asriyya, Cairo, 1869, 123–128. See, for instance, al-Hajari, op. cit., 50; al-Miknasi, op. cit., 126. The 19th-century Moroccan traveller al–Saffar took a similar view (op. cit., 188). M. al-Sanusi, Istitla‘at, 133 ff.; M. b. al-Khuja, op. cit., 24ff. Also see Khayr al-Din, op. cit, 69–72.

102

CHAPTER 5

Portrait of the Traveller as a Young Man: Mustafa Sâmi Efendi and his Essay on Europe Laurent Mignon

In May 1841, Mustafa Sâmi Efendi, a talented Ottoman poet and writer, was dismissed from the office of superintendent of the state-press. The chroniclers of the period indicate that the reasons for his dismissal were his attachment to Mustafa Reşit Paşa (1800–1858), the architect of the Tanzimat reforms, as well as his extreme praise of European habits and his outspoken criticism of Ottoman customs and traditions. For five years Mustafa Sâmi Efendi was persona non grata for the Ottoman establishment. Little biographical information is available and it is far from flattering:1 He was a rather short man with a slight hunchback. Even though he is said to have been well-spoken, well-read and polite, most writers agree that he was also arrogant, irritable and greedy, a characteristic often attributed to advocates of a western way of life. His preference for European clothes was probably the cause of those anonymous satirical verses directed at him : How can an ambassador possibly dress like this? Did he go there to be a buffoon? People in Vienna, Berlin, Paris and Tehran Saw him and were shocked. (quoted in İnal 1970: 1617)

The famous Ottoman satirist Ismail Paşazaˆde Üsküdarlı İbrahim Hakkı (1823–1895) too joined the chorus of Mustafa Sâmi’s 103


critics. He launched a vicious attack on the writer’s physical appearance and questioned his religious beliefs: A blasphemous unbeliever protecting Zoroastrians and Christians! A polytheist parasite, a gypsy who dresses like Europeans! Since the loss of the two worlds has been announced to him, Unbelief has firmly settled in his mind. If pigs were shown the grossness of his appearance, They would cry with despair in both valleys and mountains. Dissolute, heretical compeer of demons and of fire-worshippers! O you elephant-faced impious incarnation of ugliness on earth! Indeed an adorer of a demon of stone, of Nimrod the infidel, Sâmi is an unbeliever who associates with hell. (quoted in İnal 1970: 1617)

Mehmed Süreyya’s Sicill-i Osmânî, the Who’s Who of the Ottoman Empire, gives more objective information about this little known Ottoman bureaucrat: Mustafa Sâmi Efendi was born in Istanbul. The date of his birth is unknown. His career looks like that of a typical Ottoman bureaucrat. He was a protégé of the reformist minister Mustafa Reşit Paşa. He was employed for some time in the office of the chief secretary of the Ministry of Finance. After working in the Office of the Public Bath, the Office of the Superintendent of the Guilds and Markets and a number of different ministries, he was finally appointed as a scribe to the Ottoman Embassy in Vienna. Upon his return to Istanbul he worked for a while at the Office of Correspondence of the Grand-Vizier. In 1838, he was appointed as the chief-secretary to the Ottoman Embassy in France. Afterwards, he worked in the Ministry of Post and in the Ministry of the State Press, the official printing office of the statenewspaper ‘Takvîm-i Vakayi’ (1840). He was removed from office in 1841 and remained unemployed until 1846. Vak`anüvis Ahmet Lütfi Efendi, the officially appointed scribe and historian, indicates that Mustafa Sâmi suffered from poverty and isolation during the five years of unemployment. After a brief membership in the Agricultural Commission, he worked in embassies in Vienna (1846) , Berlin (1846) and Tehran (1850). In 1852, he returned to Istanbul. He died in the capital of the Ottoman Empire in 1855 and was buried in Haydarpaşa cemetery. Most sources agree that he was a promising writer and poet, author of lyrical works that included na´t-ı şerîf an eulogy of (the 104

PORTRAIT OF THE TRAVELLER AS A YOUNG MAN

Prophet), of various articles on current affairs and of an interesting travel report entitled Avrupa Risâlesi (The Essay on Europe). In this short travel report consisting of the author’s observations during his travels in Europe, Mustafa Sâmi Efendi explores the reasons for what he sees as the high degree of civilisation achieved by the West. He concludes that the dissemination of knowledge and science by way of schools and other educational institutions is the major cause of progress in western Europe. Hence he advocates the adoption of similar educational policies in the Ottoman realms in order to free the empire of its dependence on Europe. It is important to note that even though he admires European civilisation he never encourages blind westernisation. Throughout his essay he gives examples of the Ottoman and wider Islamic past in order to legitimise any innovation. Mustafa Sâmi Efendi’s Essay on Europe is one of the major works written by an Ottoman intellectual during the period. Most publications dealing with 19th-century Ottoman cultural history mention the Risâle. Bernard Lewis, for instance, describes him in The Emergence of Modern Turkey as a writer who spoke, ‘with admiration of the European form of government, of freedom of religion, of equality and security before the law, of liberty and progress. He stressed the importance of science in creating prosperity and he was aware of a connection between science and freedom.’ (Lewis 1961: 130) It is a work that is not without its weaknesses, though, as is shown by Ahmet Hamit Tanpınar in his groundbreaking study of nineteenth century Turkish literature Ondokuzuncu Asır Türk Edebiyatı Tarihi: It is imperative to include Mustafa Sâmi in the first rank of those who speculated on Europe (in Ottoman Turkey). It is true that, in his work, neither intellectual Europe nor the fundamental differences between Europe and our own world can be found. No moral or spiritual problem is brought to light. The things mentioned are things which can be observed by anybody who does not know a foreign language and who remains unfamiliar with the cultural movements of the places he visits. Despite this, his attention does not remain on the surface of things. He goes deeper to some extent. Because, even if he does not know the West, he knows us and our weaknesses well. (Tanpınar 1997:126)

Tanpınar’s last remark implies that Mustafa Sâmi Efendi’s travel report might be more revealing of the state of the Ottoman 105


Empire than of the countries that he visited. Norman Izkowitz and Max Mote argue a similar point in the introduction of MubadeleAn Ottoman-Russian Exchange of Ambassadors: Sefâretnâmes present a unique view of pre-Tanzimat Ottoman officials as they came in contact with Europe and various material aspects of its civilisation. The glimpses of Ottomans reacting to complex and unfamiliar situations are a welcome supplement to the all too lifeless leaves in chronicles. These reports remind us that the Ottomans were human beings and not just peculiar names frozen on the pages of antiquated annals. (Itzkowitz & Mote 1970: 4–5).

A travel report entitled Essay on Europe is deemed a very impersonal work. Nonetheless it does reveal the human being behind the author. It divulges much more about the young man, the traveller, than about the places he visits. It might even be possible to find an explanation in between the lines of Mustafa Sâmi’s travel report for the discrepancy between his fear of the bid’at, the religiously illicit innovation, and the reports of his very westernised way of life. In any case the Essay on Europe paints a portrait of its author that is certainly less flawed than the virulent verses of the satirists. The Avrupa Risâlesi is Mustafa Sâmi Efendi’s only published book – or at least the only one we know about. It was published for the first time in 1840 in Istanbul. A lithography of the original work was printed in 1851.2 The work consists of a recollection of the writer’s observations during his journey from Istanbul to Paris and his stay in the French capital. Mustafa Sâmi Efendi left Istanbul on 27 April 1838 ( 2 Safer 1254) and arrived in Paris on 22 September 1838 (3 Receb-i şerîf 1254), after visiting and staying in the following countries and towns: Malta, Syracuse, Messina, Naples, Terracina, Rome, the Vatican, Sienna, Florence, Bologna, Milan, Venice, Trieste, Vienna, Prague, Dresden, Berlin, Frankfurt, Brussels and London. This short book of 40 pages can be divided into two parts. From pages 1 to 25, the author discusses the places that he visited during the journey. Pages 23 to 25 focus more particularly on Paris. The second part from page 25 onwards deals with the general conditions of Europe. Here the author makes what Tanpınar calls secret propositions for the reformation of the Ottoman state. Mustafa Sâmi explains how Europe gained its strength and 106


how the Ottomans could do the same by adopting European ways that are not in contradiction with Islamic law and tradition. The places described by Mustafa Sâmi in the first part of his essay were those which could have been visited by any traveller: museums, libraries, theatres, famous buildings and monuments. Like his predecessors he gave statistical information about the armed forces and the navy of the various countries he travelled to. But the reasons that led Mustafa Sâmi to write were different: I, your humble servant, one of the representatives of the Office of Ministerial Correspondence, Seyyid Mustafa Sâmi, am very distanced from matters related to money and to the treasures of arts. I have understood that I am neither able to build charitable foundations like bridges and mosques, nor to write edifying books. That is why I decided to write about the countries and places as well as about certain important conditions which the Europeans, as a consequence of their type of civilisation, managed to establish successfully. I witnessed all of this during my travels in Europe, where I stayed as the chief-secretary of the Ottoman Embassy in Paris. By doing so I wish to render a service to ordinary people. (p.1–2)

As seen in the above excerpt, Mustafa Sâmi Efendi pointed to his own financial hardships and his desire to serve ordinary people and thus combined both personal and social concerns right at the beginning of his essay. Moreover the author introduced completely new values to the Ottoman readership: He considered the act of writing to be equivalent to the building of charitable foundations and he addressed the book to the avâm-ı millet, an expression that he coined and that could be translated into a modern idiom as ‘ordinary people’. It remains unclear whom he meant by ordinary people. The level of literacy among the avâm-ı millet was relatively low at the time. However Ahmet Hamdi Tanpınar provides some interesting information about the reading habits of the people in his study of 19thcentury Turkish literature: Since literacy was low, people would gather at home around a person who could read and they would listen to him or more rarely to her. (Tanpınar 1997:461) Ahmet Hamdi Tanpınar was actually writing about the late 19th century but it is conceivable that similar scenes took place in Mustafa Sâmi’s day. The fact that Mustafa Sâmi addressed ordinary people and not his fellow bureaucrats was of considerable importance and influenced the language he used. Having praised 107


God, the prophet and the Sultan in the introduction, he wrote that ‘this humble slave, conscious of the kind of jeering and mocking it will cause, confessing and admitting his lack of ability and of eloquence, decided to compose with the help of God, taking into consideration his own modest capacity, this treatise for ordinary people and to name it Avrupa Risâlesi.’ (p.4) In order to achieve his aim – to deliver a message of civilisation to ordinary people – the author had to give particular attention to the language of his report. Indeed, Mustafa Sâmi Efendi used a relatively simple language when compared to other Ottoman travel reports. With the modesty befitting Ottoman authors, Mustafa Sâmi characterised the simplicity of his style as a lack of ability and eloquence. Tanpınar underlines that although, in general, Sâmi’s style did not greatly differ from the traditional Ottoman style, he used a lot of simple and straightforward words. (Tanpınar 1997: 126) Mustafa Sâmi tried to give simple definitions of the foreign terms he used in his essay. Dictionarylike phrases such as the following abound in the narration of his journey: môzâyık ta‘bîr eyledikleri hurde hurde rengâmiz taşlar (p. 10) (fine small coloured stones they call mosaic) müze ta‘bîr eyledikleri tasvîrhâne (p. 11) (houses exhibiting pictures which are called museums) ôtel ta‘bîr olunan hanlar (p. 33) (inns which are called hotels)

The introduction of new words into the language is an important aspect of the Avrupa Risâlesi. Several of the terms that Mustafa Sâmi Efendi tried to define for his readership were to settle in the Turkish language and to become part of everyday life, namely müze, ôtel, gardiyan, tiyatro, gaz and telgraf. Some of those words had already been used and explained by Yirmisekiz Mehmed Çelebi, the Ottoman ambassador to Louis XV of France, in his famous ambassadorial report Fransa Sefâretnâmesi. He provided new definitions to familiar terms too. In Mustafa Sâmi’s essay, as well as in his contemporary Sadık Rifat Paşa’s (1807–1856) works, the key words and expressions of the Tanzimat reforms could be found: medeniyet (civilisation), hukûk (law), ta‘ssûb (zeal), terakkî (progress), hubb-ı vatan ve millet, (love of the country and of the people), ulûm ve fünûn (knowledge and science), hüner ve ma‘ârif 108


(skills and education), devlet-i meşrûta (constitutional state), nizâm (order, organisation). Language was an issue very dear to Mustafa Sâmi. He mentioned the abundance of books on every possible subject in Europe and praised the fact that the language of the books was simple and understandable by most people: ‘By linking their languages to a system, they (the Europeans) have eliminated or limited the use of several unnecessary words and expressions.’ (p.36) These thoughts were going to be developed by the following generation of intellectuals for whom the simplification of Ottoman prose and poetry was a continuous concern. Namık Kemal (1840–1888), the herald of Ottoman constitutionalism, asked: ‘Why should forcing people to check the dictionary eighty times in order to read two pages be considered an expression of talent?’ (Timurtaş 1965:21) Mustafa Sâmi Efendi’s ability to assess the level of difficulty of a foreign language is doubtful since he himself conceded in his essay that he had not learned any European language. This is precisely why he was able to appraise the need for literature on Europe written in Turkish. According to him, books written on Europe in Ottoman Turkish were a rarity at the time: ‘Nobody apart from the late Kâtip Çelebi and the regretted former chief Mahmud Efendi has written books in Turkish on these matters.’ (p.39) Mustafa Sâmi wrote for ordinary people and throughout his essay he focused on their needs, whether educational or medical. The supposed generalisation of literacy in Western Europe was of great interest for him. Focusing on France he wrote about an idyllic continent where,‘men and women, all the people of Europe are able to read and write. This is especially true in France where even a simple porter or a shepherd is able to write or read his own letter at least. In short, the Europeans have stretched the frontiers of knowledge and skills and made education and tuition easier.’ (p.26) Education was another of his concerns and he argued that ‘the people of Europe reached such a level of perfection through the voluntary dispersion of science and excellence throughout their lands.’(p.35) Likewise, had the Europeans understood that ‘ignorance is the greatest shame and embarrassment on earth’. (p.35) 109


He also underlined that the medical needs of every social class was taken care of and was not dismayed by the fact that social distinctions existed in medical treatment too: As a result of the abundance of skilled doctors, men and women are treated in well-organised hospitals that exist in every city, town and sometimes even in villages. There are separate hospitals for people from different social classes, for those with contagious diseases, for the old, for the soldiers and for the retired. Patients are easily cured and are healed in a short period of time since there are always doctors on duty and pharmacies with every kind of drugs in every hospital. I can testify that I was amazed by the size and the soundness of the buildings of some of the hospitals as well as by the actual neatness of the clothing of the patients, by the cleanliness of the beds and of the rooms and by the carefully prepared food that tasted so good. (p.27,28)

However Mustafa Sâmi Efendi was unaware of the social effects of the industrial revolution and of the dreadful living and working conditions of the working class in London or Paris. Later Ottoman authors, whether visiting or living in Europe, were appalled by the living conditions of the labouring population, as exemplified in this paragraph taken from Ismail Gaspirinsky’s (1851–1914) major work A Comparative View of European Civilisation (Avrupa Medeniyetine bir Nazâr-ı Muvâzene), published in Istanbul in 1886: The rooms are full of people. The windows are just under the roof. The walls are damp and dampness comes also from the floor. It seems that there is no air at all. You cannot breathe because of the smell, because of human sweat … Your ears get deaf because of the noise. You are shocked by the dirtiness you see and by the shameful words you hear. A tiny room, 8 to 10 people, as if imprisoned, women and girls, the young and the elderly, the ill, the crying, the laughing … All are together and try to live ignoring one another. They do not even own a room, speak a house. They are only renting a sleeping spot inside a room. The bed too is not theirs. They rent the place they sit on as well as the place they sleep in. They do not own a cauldron or a pan. These are owned by the restaurants they eat in or by the taverns and pubs they drink in. These are the people who do not even possess a mat, which would burn the day the world is on flame. (Gaspirinsky 1886:12) 110


Inspired by similar writings of slavophile authors in the Russian Empire, the Tatar Gaspirinsky, one of the early ideologues of Pan-Turkism, was actually echoing the words of John Hollinghead’s Ragged London (published in 1861), Reverend Mearn’s The Bitter Cry of Outcast London (published in 1883) and similar standard works on poverty in London and other large urban agglomerations. But Mustafa Sâmi’s ignorance of the ills of industrialisation was not really unusual for an Ottoman traveller in 1840. It was his interest in the plight and need of ordinary people which was truly exceptional. His concern was not only for the ordinary man but also for those who not so long ago were still outcasts in the societies they lived in. He described how progress in medicine and pedagogy led to the amelioration of the living conditions of physically and mentally disabled people: There are separate schools and teachers for blind and mute children in most places. These children develop their skills and knowledge during eight or ten years with the help of books and signs which have been specially designed for them. Thanks to these skills and knowledge, they are able to live independently and in prosperity just like healthy people. There are several savants among the deaf, mute and blind people who have written books about philosophy and mathematics. There are even nine- or ten- year-old boys and girls who have a very deep knowledge of geometry, geography as well as of other branches of science. (p.26)

Mustafa Sâmi had a personal interest in psychiatric institutions and devoted not less than two pages of his 40-page travel report to lunatic asylums and to the way mental diseases were treated: Patients afflicted with mental diseases recover just like the rich or poor patients who heal in a relatively little time because of the above-mentioned reasons and facilities, thanks to the perfection and professionalism of the doctors and the good organisation of lunatic asylums in Europe. Asylums are only built in regions where the air is light and clean. They have well-decorated and well-kept gardens with water-jets and fountains. The rooms too are well ordered. They all have stoves for winter days and chandeliers and oil-lamps which can be lit during the night. Every ten patients have a separate nurse who checks their dresses, clothes, food and drinks with appropriate attention. There are doctors on duty who examine and check each patient twice a day. The patients are treated according to the nature of their illness. For instance, certain women 111


became mad because of the pain engendered by the loss of a child and were brought to the hospital. They are treated by showing them representations of children made in wax. Those who are possessed with the fancy of accumulating possessions, gold and money are quietened by giving them things made of tin and lead that look like coins. The doctors try to heal everyone by going right to the source of the illness. This is why very few do no heal. Moreover the patients are not enchained and are free to walk and wander around the hospital and the above mentioned gardens. But it should be said that, whenever they are disobedient, they are made to wear a heavy shirt made of resistant cloth. Then, they are unable to harm anyone since their hands have been tied behind their back. If this is not enough they are imprisoned in a room without windows that has a glass roof. The room is full of hay. Thus they are unable to harm anybody and if the person were able to tear up his shirt, he would be saved from staying on bare wood or stone since, to the contrary of the bed and the shirt, he could not tear up the hay. (p.28,29)

His attention for sanatoriums and psychiatric institutions gets a special relevance, when we take into consideration that he was mentally ill at the time of his death. (Tanpınar 1997:125 ) Towards the end of his essay Mustafa Sâmi actually admitted that he had been ill most of the modest time he spent in Europe because of his bad luck. (p.40) He did not give any information regarding the nature of his illness, but his very detailed description of the sanatorium shows more than mere theoretical knowledge of this kind of institutions. His premonitory interest in psychiatric hospitals and the contemporary attitude towards people with mental problems is quite moving: ‘Having made great progress in medicine, the Europeans have reached the conclusion that the remedy for those suffering of mental diseases was to look after them in a pleasing manner. Hence one realises the utter foolishness of the saying current in our lands – the madman becomes sensible when he is beaten.’ (p.30) The character hiding behind the lines of the Avrupa Risâlesi appears to be a rather compassionate man who gave particular significance to the way the educational and the medical needs of the lower social classes and the disabled were taken care of. His human aspect also surfaces in his interest for the arts, his love of books, his passion for science and last but not least his thorough interest in European women, more particularly Sicilian, German 112


and English. This scholarly interest permitted him to claim that, ‘the beautiful women of London with their fairy-like faces and their elegant manners have not been seen in any other European land.’ (p.21) It will be of no surprise that he concentrated on nurses and celebrated their dedication: Moreover I was stunned when I witnessed that the women who work in the hospitals and take care of the patients do not do it because they are poor. Most of them are the daughters of respected and rich families. With a desire for self-sacrifice, they offer the wealth they inherited from their ancestors or the money their parents consented to give them to the hospitals. Moreover it is with joy that throughout their life they dedicate their own bodies to the service of injured and ill patients. (p.28)

Mustafa Sâmi Efendi was fascinated by Europe. He criticised nothing but the food which could not be swallowed unless you are used to it (p.34) and the dreadful climatic conditions. He was in favour of the adoption of European inventions, practices and sciences but he did not merely want to copy the marvels he saw in the lands of the infidels. The fear of illicit innovations made him research the Islamic past in order to find similar practices and attitudes. He wrote that European superiority was engendered by the power of science and knowledge. If science and perfection, which were invented by Muslims and hence are our true heritage, could be spread among the people in the Islamic lands just like in past times, then, since the Islamic lands are the most outstanding places on earth and more particularly since our soils are fertile because God, out of respect to the prophet Muhammad, whose community we are proud to be members of, has decreed that our lands and climate should be abundant and prosperous and moreover since our people are intelligent and wise from birth, all the industry and the organisation, which the Europeans founded using a lot of time and work, could be spread among our people in very little time. This situation would be advantageous in every respect because we would not need any goods or provisions produced in foreign lands anymore. The money usually spent for those imports would remain in our country and our country and people would become prosperous. (p.37,38)

Mustafa Sâmi Efendi’s aim was to liberate the Empire from the dependence on goods produced in the West and to lead it to a new golden age, by using methods and techniques that were developed 113


by the Europeans. The author believed that the origin of European sciences was preponderantly Islamic: The sciences, the Europeans are said to show, day and night, much attention and care to, have not originated from their faith or creed. Mathematics and philosophy as well as other branches of sciences and other skills such as logic, astronomy, medicine, geometry, mechanics, arithmetic, chemistry, history, poetry and prose were discovered by ancient Muslim Arabs. The Europeans brought them to their own lands and continued to develop them. Beside the above mentioned branches of science, there are other branches such as geography, physics and the remaining sciences that had already been studied by European scholars to a certain degree. (p.36, 37)

Mustafa Sâmi propounded the re-appropriation of knowledge that was originally Islamic so that the Ottomans could reach an even higher degree of civilisation and consequently be delivered from the Western yoke. This discourse was typical for the thinkers of the Tanzimat period. The westernisation process engendered by the Tanzimat reforms aimed at recovering the spirit of innovation of Islam’s classical age and at adopting and adapting Europe’s inventions by, in the words of İbrahim Şinâsi (1826–1871), one of the leading intellectuals of the period,‘marrying the virginity of the ideas of Europe to the ancient wisdom of Asia’ (in Parla 1990:15). Like the above-mentioned author, but several years before him, Mustafa Sâmi was aware of the decline and weaknesses of the Islamic world and deplored that ‘for some time all too much has been abandoned and neglected in the Islamic lands.’ (p.4) Mustafa Sâmi Efendi gave numerous examples of attitudes and interests that he witnessed in Europe and that he believed to be of use for the regeneration of Ottoman power. He showed a distinct interest for antiquities and expressed his belief in the need for preservation of artefacts of the past because ‘European inventions, whose necessity are universally recognised and the facilities and industries that are constantly developed and that make work easier were created by studying and copying works of the past and then by spreading them in their new form.’ (p.12) He referred to Sultan Muhammed Fatih, the conqueror of Constantinople, and his love of the arts in order to legitimise the preservation and study of antiquities: ‘Two pictures of winged angels and other paintings were conserved in the noble Saint Sophia mosque. Obelisks and similar monuments in other 114


parts of Istanbul were not destroyed, even though they were relics of a distant past. They were preserved in their original condition by Sultan Muhammed Han the Conqueror, which proves that such subtleties and interest for antiquities used to exist in Islamic society.’ (p.13) Mustafa Sâmi’s analysis of European societies remained restricted to education and the ways of disseminating science and knowledge. Unlike his contemporary Sadık Rifat Paşa who wrote another influential essay called Avrupa Ahvâline dâir Risâle (Concerning the Conditions of Europe), Mustafa Sâmi was not concerned with the debates on liberalism, constitutionalism and freedom of conscience, who were shaping the political, social and intellectual developments in Europe. Nonetheless he wrote that Belgium was a constitutional state (devlet-i meşrûta) and that it was promised a great future. (p.20) He did not attempt to describe the workings of the constitutional state. Neither did he explain whether his predictions for Belgium were based on the fundamental principles of its constitution. The relative freedom of religion that he heard about during his journey is another important characteristic of European societies that he mentioned but did not analyse: All countries in Europe are of the Christian religion. The people of five of those countries, that is the people of Great Britain, Prussia, Holland, Sweden and Denmark are Protestants. Russia is of Orthodox Christian faith and the remaining France, Austria, Spain and other well-known states and governments are of the Catholic faith. But a lot of Catholics live in Protestant countries and likewise there are a lot of Protestants in Catholic countries. However since nobody is being pressured in matters of religion and faith, anybody who has the suitable skills can be employed in a state duty regardless of his religion, even if he is a Jew. (p.25,26)

Even though Mustafa Sâmi ignored the political developments and the intellectual debates of his day in his travel report, he was conscious of the need for reform and modernisation in the Ottoman Empire. He admired the achievements of the West and he undeniably failed to identify its shortcomings. But he never promoted blind westernisation in the Avrupa Risâlesi. He argued that it would be possible to adopt certain attitudes and inventions that were not in contradiction with Islamic law, since the Ottoman and 115


Muslim forefathers had been more daring than his contemporaries. He believed that such changes would lead the Ottoman State to economic independence. On a more personal level the Essay on Europe exposes a wellread, compassionate, patriotic, naive but also unhealthy young man full of contradictions. His continuous concern for the educational and medical needs of people on the lower echelons of the class system and of the disabled reveals a rather benevolent man. His very detailed description of psychiatric institutions and of the compassion shown by nurses and doctors to the mentally ill is poignant knowing that he died mentally disturbed, deeply depressed and abandoned in Istanbul in 1855. During his lifetime Mustafa Sâmi Efendi had continuously been the victim of hostile criticism by his contemporaries. These attacks were probably caused by his loyalty to Mustafa Reşit Paşa as well as by his loose tongue and his unorthodox westernised lifestyle, which are aspects of his personality that we know mostly from his detractors. His travel report does certainly not depict him in such a light. Later novelists such as Ahmet Mithat Efendi (1844–1912) and Recâizade Mahmut Ekrem (1847–1914) were to build their didactic novels on the confrontation between a westernised dandy and a rational, progressive bureaucrat who was able to merge the positive aspects of western civilisation with his own cultural heritage. It may well be that there was a bit of both these fictional characters in Mustafa Sâmi. His pain however, expressed in the opening couplet of his only surviving ghazal, was not fictional at all: I am afflicted with an illness that has no cure, The pain of solitude that finds no comfort. (İnal 1970: 1618)

Notes 1

The following reference works give information about Mustafa Sâmi Efendi: Fatin Efendi, (1855), Hâtimetü’l-Eş‘âr, Istanbul, 186–187. İnal, İ. M. K., (1970), Son Asır Türk Şairleri (Vol. 9), Istanbul: Milli Eğitim, 1116–1118. İnal, İ. M. K., (1955), Osmanlı Devrinde Son Sadrazamlar, Istanbul, 652. Süreyya, Mehmet, (1893), Sicill-i Osmâni 116


2

(Vol. 7), Istanbul, 7. Unat, F.R., (1968), Osmanlı Sefirleri ve Sefaretnameleri., Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 214. Vak`anüvis Ahmet Lütfi Efendi, (1884), Târîh-i Devlet-i Aliyye-i Osmâniye (Vol. 4), Istanbul, 112. (Vol. 7/8. Vol. 6/100, 124. Vol. 8/186). All the excerpts are taken from the 1851 lithography.

Bibliography Andı, M. Fatih. (1996). Bir Osmanlı Bürokratının Avrupa İzlenimleri. Istanbul: Kitabevi. Gaspirinsky, İsmail. (1886). Avrupa Medeniyetine Bir Nazar-ı Muvâzene. Istanbul. İnal, İ. M. K. (1970). Son Asır Türk Şairleri (Vol. 9). Istanbul: Milli Eg˘itim. Itzkowitz, N. and Mote, M. (1970). Mubadele- An Ottoman-Russian Exchange of Ambassadors. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Lewis, Bernard. (1961). The Emergence of Modern Turkey. London: O.U.P. Mustafa Sâmi Efendi. (1851). Avrupa Risâlesi. Istanbul. Parla, Jale. (1990). Babalar ve Og ˘ ullar. Istanbul: İletişim. Süreyya, Mehmed. (1893). Sicill-i Osmâni (Vol.3). Istanbul. Tanpınar, A.H. (1997). 19’uncu Asır Türk Edebiyatı Tarihi. Istanbul: Çag ˘ layan. Unat, F.R. (1968). Osmanlı Sefirleri ve Sefaretnameleri. Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu. Vak’anüvis Ahmet Lütfi Efendi. (1884). Târîh-i Devlet-i Aliyye-i Osmâniye (Vol. 4, 6, 7, 8). Istanbul.

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CHAPTER 6

Voyages of Self-definition: The Case of [Ahmad] Faris al-Shidyaq Paul Starkey

The inclusion of a study on Faris al-Shidyaq in the present volume seems particularly appropriate since his life, career and literary output are of relevance not just to one, but to several of the sub-themes with which we are concerned. Voyages of selfdefinition; rihla texts; marginalised individuals; marginalised communities – it would be possible to classify a contribution on al-Shidyaq under any of these categories. I have chosen however, to entitle the contribution ‘Voyages of Self-Definition’, because there is a sense in which it is possible to regard not only the travels, but indeed, the whole of al-Shidyaq’s life as a ‘voyage of self-definition’ – to which, it might be added, that for alShidyaq, as for many other writers, the definition of the ‘Self’ is frequently, and most obviously accomplished indirectly, through the definition of the ‘Other’. The name ‘Ahmad’ is deliberately bracketed in the title to indicate there is some confusion of identity, for, of all the 19th-century writers of Arabic, or Arab, nahda al-Shidyaq is undoubtedly the most creative, and, for a variety of reasons, the most difficult to situate. Not only does his literary output stand at a number of crossroads, drawing as it does on Arabic and Western literary traditions, but, its publication marks a pivotal point in the transition from ‘classical’ to ‘modern’ Arabic literature. In addition, the man himself, both through his travels and through his acquaintance with, and adherence to, different religious and social communities, epitomises the tensions and choices faced by many 19th-century 118

VOYAGES OF SELF-DEFINITION

Middle Eastern intellectuals, confronted with the growing influence of the West. A brief account of the main events of al-Shidyaq’s life will illustrate this point.1 Born in 1804 in ‘Ashqut (Lebanon),2 Faris al-Shidyaq attended the school of ‘Ayn Waraqa, following which he worked as a copyist, an occupation in which his family had traditionally been engaged. He found employment with the Amir Haydar al-Shihabi, and appears to have supplemented his income with teaching and trading. Meanwhile, his elder brother As‘ad had begun working as a teacher for the American Protestant missionaries in Beirut. This association led to As‘ad’s conversion to Protestant Christianity in 1825. He was subsequently handed over by his family to the Maronite Patriarch and imprisoned in the monastery of Qannubin, where he died in 1830 – an event that made a deep and lasting impression on his brother. Meanwhile, Faris, who greatly admired his brother’s ideas and who had also begun an association with the American missionaries, decided to flee Lebanon for his own safety. He sailed from Tyre to Alexandria in 1826, and from there travelled to Malta, where he worked for the missionaries as a translator. From Malta he returned to Egypt, although by this time he had tired of the missionaries. In Cairo he came under the influence of Muslim scholars at al-Azhar, who undoubtedly influenced his subsequent conversion to Islam. In Cairo he married into a Syrian émigré family. In 1848, after a further spell in Malta, he and his wife travelled to England to work (mainly in and around Cambridge) on the translation of the New Testament into Arabic. His travels over the next few years saw him travelling frequently between London and Paris, where he published his most original literary work, al-Saq ‘ala al-Saq fi ma huwa al-Fariyaq, in 1855. During that time he also returned to Malta for a short period and visited Tunis, where he probably converted to Islam, adding the name Ahmad to his original name. While in England, he visited both Oxford and Cambridge, and is said to have aspired to the chair of Arabic in one or both of those universities.3 In the course of his career al-Shidyaq had addressed poems to a number of dignitaries, including both Queen Victoria and the Sultan Abdulmecid (‘Abd al-Majid). The latter, impressed not only with al-Shidyaq’s poem but also with his general reputation, invited him to Constantinople, where in 1861 he launched the 119


periodical al-Jawa’ib, to which he devoted much of the rest of his life. After his death in 1887, his body was returned to the family plot at al-Hadath, Lebanon, for burial, though the story repeated by Hourani (among others)4 that he reconverted to Catholicism on his deathbed is almost certainly false, for his tombstone bears a Muslim symbol. Muslim and Christian at different periods of his life; resident at different times, not only in Lebanon and Egypt, but also in England, France and Malta, al-Shidyaq is remarkable for his prodigious and varied literary output, parts of which might fairly be described as ‘modern’, if not ‘modernist’.5 His work has also been the subject of spirited and fiercely argued debates about the relative extent of his indebtedness to Arabic and European literary traditions.6 No less important is the contribution that he made to the development of Arab intellectual life through alJawa’ib (described by Hourani as ‘the first really important Arabic newspaper to be published’) with its extraordinarily wide circulation, with readers as far as central Arabia and India. In addition to his enormous output of essays, poems, translations and articles (many of them published in his own newspaper, alJawa’ib), he left three substantial works in which his experience of and views on the West play an important part: al-Wasita fi ma‘rifat ahwal Malita (1st ed., Malta, 1836); al-Saq ‘ala al-Saq fi ma huwa alFariyaq (first published in Paris in 1855); and Kashf al-mukhabba’ ‘an funun Urubba (1st ed., Tunis, 1866). The first of these works provides a description of the history, geography and customs of the island where al-Shidyaq spent much of his early working life and is more limited both in its geographical and intellectual scope and accordingly, of less interest. For the remainder of this chapter however, I propose to focus chiefly on Kashf al-Mukhabba’ and al-Saq ‘ala al-Saq, before returning to a few more general observations. Let us begin with Kashf al-Mukhabba’, which, although later in terms of its publication date, is both easier to categorise, and easier to place on what one might call the ‘evolutionary curve’ of modern Arabic literature and thought. A common device among Arabic novelists and short-story writers has been to place a protagonist in the West and describe his behaviour. At times Arabic writers have placed their protagonists in their homelands, thus enabling the author to incorporate a description or discussion 120


of the effect of exposure to Western civilisation. In many cases, these works contain autobiographical, or pseudo-autobiographical, elements deriving from the authors’ own experiences in the West, most often as students.7 In Tawfiq al-Hakim’s ‘Usfur min al-Sharq (1938), for example, an Egyptian student, Muhsin (clearly modelled on al-Hakim himself) has an unsatisfactory love-affair with a French girl, Suzy, but finds consolation and intellectual satisfaction in his discussions with a Russian exile, Ivanovitch, who shares his revulsion at the materialism of the West.8 In Yahya Haqqi’s Qindil Umm Hashim (1944), the protagonist Isma‘il passes through a number of personal crises (including something that, in modern medical terminology, we might describe as a ‘breakdown’) before reconciling within himself the conflicting values of East and West.9 The theme has not, of course, been confined to Egyptian novelists or short-story writers. Well-known examples from other parts of the Arab world include the Lebanese writer Suhayl Idris’s al-Hayy al-Latini (1954), or, more recently, the Sudanese writer al-Tayyib Salih’s Mawsim al-hijra ila al-shimal (1967).10 There is general agreement that the set of themes exemplified by Tawfiq al Hakim’s ‘Usfur min al-Sharq and Yahya Haqqi’s Qindil Umm Hashim has its origins in the account of the visit to Europe by the Egyptian scholar Rifa‘a Rafi‘ al-Tahtawi entitled Takhlis al-ibriz ila talkhis Bariz first published in Bulaq (Cairo) in 1834.11 The structure of this work, with its mixture of autobiography and description, sets the tone for many subsequent writers. After describing his voyage to France and journey to Paris, al-Tahtawi gives a detailed description of the city and some of the characteristics of its inhabitants; subsequent chapters deal with the French machinery of government, the history of the French Revolution and various facets of life in contemporary France, including French eating habits and dress and the educational and cultural experiences of the French education mission of which al-Tahtawi was a member. The work also includes comments on relations between French scholars and Orientalists. Although, on one level, Kashf al-Mukhabba’ clearly stands in a direct line of descent from al-Tahtawi’s pioneering work, two general points may be worth making at this stage. The first is that, by comparison with most other 19th-century Egyptian (and other Middle Eastern) travellers to Europe, al-Shidyaq’s experience of 121


the West was both longer and more complex. Unlike most members of educational ‘missions’, he had experience of living in more than one European country, and for this reason, unlike most of his contemporaries (the other main exception being Khayr al-Din al-Tunisi),12 he was able to write about Britain and France, for example, in differentiated terms. Moreover, unlike many Middle Eastern students, whose experience of Western life was (and often remained) entirely confined to the capital or some other large city, al-Shidyaq – because of the circumstances of his employment – spent a considerable time in the English countryside. The second point to be made is that, even before travelling to France and England, he had considerable acquaintance with Westerners in the form of Western Protestant missionaries, both American and English – a species of humanity of whom the sceptic al-Shidyaq quickly tired. His general attitude towards them, at least in retrospect, may perhaps be most vividly illustrated by his gleefully satirical account of the European Christian missionary whose nerve failed him when required to give a sermon and who accordingly commissioned the local ‘ulama’ to compose one for him. Having learned the sermon by heart, the missionary proceeded to deliver it to the local congregation in execrable Arabic – realising, only after he had begun with the words ‘bismi ’llah al-rahman al-rahim’ that he was using the terminology of the wrong religion.13 Kashf al-mukhabba’, then, is of considerable interest for the comparative picture it presents of al-Shidyaq’s views of Britain and France – a comparison lacking in most other accounts of the period. The work is of historical importance on another level as well, in that it became for a time, a standard reference work of the Arab world. An interesting feature of the text is the frequent appearance of statistics – a habit, it has been suggested, that alShidyaq may well have acquired from Arab merchants for whom he had worked, and which mirrors, on another level, his liking for synonyms and word-play of various kinds that form such a conspicuous feature of al-Saq.14 Indeed, al-Shidyaq’s interest in odd information appears to have been almost as great as that of his interest in arcane vocabulary – Kashf al-mukhabba’ includes, among other things, translations of advertisements by fortune tellers, reports of infanticide, homicide and poisoning (material 122


that demonstrates, incidentally, that his interest in the daily press considerably predates the journalistic activities that occupied the end of his working life).15 As with al-Tahtawi, it is difficult to give a definitive judgement on whether al-Shidyaq ever succeeded in formulating a coherent view of the West, or indeed, whether his overall view of the Western civilisation to which he had been exposed in so many different contexts was favourable or unfavourable; one may arrive at different conclusions, according to the relative emphasis to be placed on different passages of his works. There can be little doubt not only that his thoughts and feelings about Europe evolved over the course of his life, or that he was capable of expressing seemingly contradictory views according to his mood of the moment. On the one hand, he genuinely admired (perhaps more than anything else) the philanthropic institutions – hospitals and the like – that he saw in England. He also admired at least some aspects of the European system of education and was impressed by the number of Arabic manuscripts that he saw in the libraries of Oxford, Cambridge, London and Paris. Like many other 19thcentury Arab travellers to Europe – among them, the educator and reformer ‘Ali Mubarak16 – he admired Western scientific discoveries and developments. Kashf al-Mukhabba’ contains many descriptions of a number of recent inventions including the barometer, the printing press, the postal system, and the use of the telegraph system for sending and receiving messages. Conscious of the advantages that modern Western typographical techniques might have for the Arab world, he was also – as Geoffrey Roper recently demonstrated – an enthusiastic innovator in this field.17 Some passages of Kashf al-Mukhabba’, moreover, seem to suggest a fondness for certain English traits: What I like about the English … is that they have no special affectations or intrusiveness with regard to the stranger… They will only visit him during visiting hours. They will not borrow from him or object to what he does. If they saw him lying down in the middle of the road, for example, they would not ask him ‘what are you doing that for?’ but would probably assume that everyone in his country lay down like that, and that there was some benefit for them in doing so. If someone visited you and saw that you had a woman or women in your house, it would not occur to him to ask you the reason for their visit as it would in our country. Likewise, if they saw 123


you walking with a woman in the street or embracing her. They are all preoccupied with their own business, and busy with their own preoccupations.18

Against these seemingly favourable comments on the virtues of the English, however, we may cite other passages which present a less sympathetic view, including barbed comments on the British class system, the lack of enthusiasm for learning in British universities (to which we may add his poor opinion of Orientalists generally), the excessive power of the clergy, and some other characteristically English traits – not least, the aloofness of the aristocracy. In accordance with his earthy, ‘Rabelaisian’ attitude towards life, however, it seems to have been, above all, English food that raised the greatest objections – the picture of England emerging from some passages of Kashf al-Mukhabba’ is that of a country inhabited by beer-drinking, potato-eating peasants. A similar ambiguity of attitude, and interpretation, is apparent when we come to examine the question of al-Shidyaq’s preference for either the French or English over the other. Trevor LeGassick, for example, describes al-Shidyaq (with obvious exaggeration) as regarding the philanthropic societies in Britain as ‘almost the sole area of British life he found commendable’.19 Another commentator however, Alwan Mohammed Bakir, describes al-Shidyaq as being ‘highly impressed by both France and England’, adding, ‘yet his bias for England is quite clear’.20 Despite his many negative comments on British life, al-Shidyaq’s apparent preference for British over French institutions, at one stage prompted an accusation that he was a British spy. While the accusation can almost certainly be dismissed as unfounded, it is easy to see how suspicion might fall on a man with such a network of unconventional contacts and interests as al-Shidyaq’s.21 Kashf al-mukhabba’ ‘an funun Urubba is a work that seems to fall squarely into the tradition established by al-Tahtawi of travel accounts that are both autobiographical and educational – an important means of conveying information about contemporary Europe and European institutions to the growing reading public in the Arab world, but hardly a major work of imaginative literature. Al-Saq ‘ala al-saq, on the other hand, clearly is a major work of imaginative literature – ‘the first real approach to fiction in modern Arabic literature’, as it has been described.22 If Kashf can be regarded as a mixture of autobiography and education, 124


then al-Saq is clearly a mixture of autobiography and fiction. The work, moreover, stands at the crossroads between the Arabic and Western literary traditions, and occupies a pivotal position between ‘classical’ and ‘modern’ Arabic literature. In this wider context, the fact that al-Shidyaq’s main experience of Europe had been of English rather than French language and culture, is perhaps of comparatively little importance. However, the indebtedness of al-Saq ‘ala al-saq to English literary tradition, especially to Lawrence Sterne’s Tristram Shandy, will be obvious to many readers. Al-Saq ‘ala al-Saq fi ma huwa al-Fariyaq, to give the work its full title in Arabic, was first published in Paris in 1855. The title – cast, after the fashion of the time, in two short rhyming phrases23 – is itself deliberately enigmatic. As frequently pointed out,24 an autobiographical element is immediately suggested by the name ‘Fariyaq’ (an obvious amalgamation of Faris and Shidyaq), an aspect of the work which is even more pronounced in the French title which appeared on the original title-page: La vie et les aventures de Fariac: relation de ses voyages avec ses observations critiques sur les arabes et sur les autres peuples. The other half of the work’s title (alSaq ‘ala al-saq) has received less attention, however. ‘Cross-legged’ is one possible translation;25 and in an article written in the 1930s Henri Pérès suggested that the title evoked ‘the familiar attitude adopted by a storyteller who, comfortably installed in an armchair, is about to narrate a long story of wonderful adventures’.26 Unfortunately, the homely scene evoked by Pérès entirely misses the sexual innuendo implicit in the title – for the phrase later recurs in the text, in the middle of a long list of suggestions made to a girl by her potential lover.27 Shidyaq’s title, then, already suggests a work in which little, if anything, can be taken at face value, for already, while adopting the conventional rhyming title form, he has succeeded in introducing a hint of parody. His own brief introduction to the work also suggests a dichotomy of aims. His book, he says, has two purposes: the first is ‘to reveal peculiarities and rarities of language’, the second ‘to show the laudable and blameworthy qualities of women’.28 As for the first of these declared aims, al-Shidyaq – whose greatest expertise arguably lay in the field of lexicography – reveals a facet of his literary skill which is perhaps little to modern taste, 125


his work being studded with lists of synonyms and near-synonyms on subjects as varied as jewellery, items of clothing, foodstuffs and aphrodisiacs. This concern for the minutiae of the Arabic language is of course far from peculiar to al-Shidyaq among 19thcentury Arab writers; indeed, al-Shidyaq’s later literary career was punctuated by a series of furious quarrels with other pillars of the nahda over matters as seemingly trivial as whether Nasif alYaziji really wrote fitahal rather than fitahl in his famous work Majma‘ al-Bahrayn.29 At the same time we may note that, typographically, al-Shidyaq’s lists almost certainly demonstrate European influence – vertically printed lists of the sort employed in al-Saq ‘ala al-saq, for example, are seldom if ever found in Arabic works before this date, though not uncommon in books by European writers such as Rabelais, with whose works al-Shidyaq was certainly acquainted.30 So far as the second of the author’s declared aims is concerned, it is clear that whatever he may say in the introduction, the ‘laudable and blameworthy qualities of women’ represent only a part of the author’s intellectual purpose in writing the book. Although women and sex are omnipresent in al-Saq, his preoccupation with them by no means excludes a concern with other issues of sociological, and indeed, political interest. Of particular interest, perhaps, in the context of a discussion of the individual’s relation to society are the author’s criticisms of the religious hierarchy (particularly, though not exclusively, that of the Maronites) – a heartfelt expression of the estrangement from his own community that must have played a major part in driving al-Shidyaq to a life of wandering. This attitude – which is probably responsible for al-Shidayaq’s ‘anti-clerical’ label31 – manifests itself in the book on several levels: In its most direct form, it is to be found in al-Shidyaq’s eloquent complaint to the Patriarch of the Maronites32 about the treatment of his brother As‘ad, on another level, it may be seen in his frequent humorous and satirical stories about priests. Although the author reserves his bitterest attacks for the Maronites, the Protestants by no means escape the attentions of his pen – reflecting, no doubt, the frustrations of the author, who by the time of the composition of al-Saq ‘ala al-saq had certainly begun to tire of the American missionaries, and probably of Christianity in general. 126


The autobiographical elements in the work can be fairly succinctly summarised. The first section begins with a description of Fariyaq’s genealogy and ill-starred horoscope, from whence we move to an account of the hero’s childhood where, like Taha Husayn at a later date, we find him suffering at the hands of his local schoolmaster. The religious context, however, is of course quite different, for Shidyaq’s upbringing was Christian not Muslim, and his schoolmaster’s ignorance manifests itself in his failure to have read anything but the Book of Psalms (the only thing children in his village ever learn); though ‘saying that they learn it doesn’t imply that they understand it. God forbid! With the passing of the years, this book has become impossible for man to understand; and it’s been made even more obscure by dreadful translation into Arabic!’ There follows a direct and passionate challenge to the Maronite hierarchy, whom he accuses of neglecting the community’s education, despite having the financial means to advance it. Succeeding sections of the book find Fariyaq working as a copyist, falling in love, composing poetry, and trying his hand at trading and teaching. His conversion to Protestantism is described in allusive terms and we then find him sailing the Mediterranean between Malta and Alexandria, and visiting Cairo, where he falls in love and marries. Meanwhile, he has for some time been trying to escape the clutches of the missionaries. In later sections of the work, Fariyaq, who by is now married, visits England and France, where he comments – among other things – on the merits of women and on the comparative virtues of European and Arabic literatures, such as they are. It may be helpful at this point to consider a few of the main features of al-Shidyaq’s narrative technique in al-Saq. First, unlike his practice in Kashf al-Mukhabba‘ where he employs a first-person narrative, in al-Saq he adopts a distancing device by referring to Fariyaq in the third person – a technique that is frequently used in later, more conventional autobiographies such as Taha Husayn’s al-Ayyam. Second, we may note al-Shidyaq’s humour which – by turns mocking, sarcastic and sometimes, merely flippant – is invariably based on a close observation of the linguistic and social foibles of his fellow human beings. Third, we may note that the tone of the narrative varies so much that at times the reader is uncertain of the precise relationship between 127


fact and fiction. When Fariyaq is described as having worked as a copyist for a while, we can be fairly certain that we are being presented with a statement of pure historical fact; with Fariyaq’s wooing of his future wife, however, in which the playing of the tanbur plays a significant part, it is clear that we have entered a narrative world of a different order.33 Not only is it difficult to imagine a courtship taking place in the terms described, but it is also clear from other passages in the work that al-Shidyaq is using the tanbur as a symbol of art, of freedom, almost of life itself – a life which at one point he perceived as threatened by the Western missionaries. Between these two extremes, there are several other instances where it is difficult to decide whether alShidyaq is attempting to describe an actual event (however imperfectly recollected) or indulging in pure fabrication. Was he really seasick on a particular Mediterranean voyage, as the text might suggest? We have no means of knowing; nor, in the context of an artistic work such as al-Saq ‘ala al-saq, is it probably very important.34 Amidst all this vigorous artistry, however, there are many indications that we are here confronted by a work that contains at least the seeds of a new literary sensibility – a sensibility where the genuine expression of personal emotion has begun to make its way into the narrative, and where the awareness of the ‘feminine’ side of human nature is evident. This awareness is most apparent in the latter part of the work, through extensive conversations Fariyaq’s wife with whom he shares the experience and emotion of, among other things, the death of their young son Fa’iz in England. In the section entitled ‘Fi ritha’ walad’, he speaks with emotion of his inability to find a proper doctor in the English countryside, of his consultations with the mutatabbibin (‘quacks’), and of his eventual despair, wishing his son to die rather than prolong his suffering: His parents consulted a so-called doctor, who advised them to treat him by bathing him in warm water, except for his head. They followed his advice for some days, but the boy only grew worse. Eventually, when he was put into the water, he lost consciousness, and a red blotch, like blood, could be seen over his heart. Then the illness got worse … for six days and nights he hovered between life and death, moaning softly and looking at his parents as if he were complaining to them of his suffering … Meanwhile, Fariyaq was 128


shedding tears and praying fervently to God, saying: ‘Lord, let me suffer instead of my son, if that be your will … But if he must die, take him to you now.’35

Again, when the author launches a vicious attack on the British ‘fallah’, whose life revolves like a machine in a monotonous, mechanical way, it is in the first instance his wife’s boredom and depression in the English countryside that sparks off his cynical comment: ‘When Sunday comes, which is a day for joy and amusement in any other country, the English countryman can find nothing to do but to go to church, where he stays for a couple of hours like a statue, yawning for a bit and sleeping for a bit, before going home.’36 ***** Why, then, is al-Shidyaq important, and what contribution can a consideration of his life and writings make to the more general themes discussed in this volume? First, it is clear that in many respects his work stands not only at a transitional point between classical and modern Arabic literature, but also at a crossroads between the Arabic and Western literary traditions. To take just one example of this aspect of his work, involving a conscious and obviously deliberate reappraisal of the Arabic literary tradition on the part of the author, one may note his use of the classical maqama form within al-Saq while simultaneously ‘sending the form up’ – satirising the literary convention of ‘Virtues and Vices’ (mahasin wa-masawi), for example, in the context of a work which itself purports to be an example of the genre.37 Secondly, al-Shidyaq not only stands at the crossroads of literary traditions, but as a member of a Christian minority working in a predominantly Muslim culture, also exemplifies another set of tensions inherent in the 19th-century nahda and in much contemporary Middle Eastern intellectual activity. Viewed in this context, he may indeed appear as something of an enigma. Estranged alike from his own Maronite background and from his Western mentors, he seems to have found stability only towards the end of his life, and then as a Muslim in the service of the Ottoman Sultan. Should we regard him as a cynic, a complete egoist, or did such a course in fact represent the only effective way by which a Christian intellectual with al-Shidyaq’s varied and 129


outstanding talents could find fulfilment in the social context of the time? Thirdly, and more generally, the extraordinary and colourful career of its creator serves as a useful reminder that the channels by which Arabs ‘rediscovered’ Europe in the 19th century (and through the process of defining their relationship to the West, attempted to redefine themselves), were considerably more complex than some conventional accounts of the process would suggest. Al-Shidyaq’s life fits neatly into none of the conventional stereotypes of the pioneers of the nahda; marginalised as he was for much of his career, he may perhaps also be regarded as a striking example of the power of an individual personality both to transcend and to reflect the circumstances of his time. As a voyage of ‘self-definition’ that embraced three continents and at least two faiths, he presents us with one of the most fascinating life stories of the 19th century – and one that is overdue for further study.

Notes 1

2 3 4 5

6

7

For a fuller account of al-Shidyaq’s life, see Mohammed Bakir Alwan, ‘Ahmad Faris al-Shidyaq and the West’, unpublished Ph.D. thesis, Indiana University, 1970, 1–73. The date and place of al-Shidyaq’s birth have been disputed. See, for example, EI2, s.v. ‘Faris al-Shidyak’. See Arberry, A.J., ‘Fresh Light on Ahmad Faris al-Shidyaq’, Islamic Culture, XXVI (1952), 155–168. See Hourani, Albert, Arabic Thought in the Liberal Age, London: Oxford University Press, 1970, 98. See, for example, Paul Starkey, ‘Fact and Fiction in al-Saq ‘ala al-Saq’ in Autobiographical Writing in Modern Arabic Literature, ed. by Robin Ostle, Ed de Moor and Stefan Wild, London: Saqi, 1998, 30–38. See, for example, Alwan, op. cit.; H. Pérès, ‘La renaissance littéraire en Orient’, Annales de l’Institut d’Études Orientales, I (1934–1935), 232–256. For a discussion of this theme, see Issa J. Boullata, ‘Encounter Between East and West: A Theme in Contemporary Arabic Novels’, in Critical Perspectives on Modern Arabic Literature 1945–1980, ed. by Issa. J. Boullata, Washington, D.C.: Three Continents Press, 1980, 47–60. 130


8 9

10 11

12 13 14 15 16 17

18 19 20 21 22

23

24 25 26 27 28 29 30

For a discussion, see Paul Starkey, From the Ivory Tower: A Critical Study of Tawfiq al-Hakim, London: Ithaca Press, 1987, 108–118. For a useful discussion, see M.M. Badawi, ‘The Lamp of Umm Hashim: the Egyptian Intellectual Between East and West’, Journal of Arabic Literature, I 1970, 145–161. Discussed in M.T. Amyuni (ed.), Tayeb Salih’s Season of Migration to the North: A Casebook, Beirut: American University of Beirut, 1985, passim. For a discussion, see Crabbs, J.A., The Writing of History in Nineteenth-Century Egypt, Detroit, 1984, 67–86. This work is available in a French translation by A. Louca, entitled L’Or de Paris, Paris, 1988. Regarding whom, see Hourani, op. cit., 84–88. Al-Saq ‘ala al-Saq, Beirut: Dar al-Ra’id al-‘Arabi, 5th printing, 1982, 160 ff. See, for example, Kashf al-Mukhabba‘ ‘an Funun Urubba, Tunis, 1866, 227, 336, etc. Cf. Alwan, op. cit., 80. On whom, see Crabbs, op. cit., 109–119. See G. Roper, ‘Faris al-Shidyaq and the Transition from Scribal to Print Culture’, in G.N. Atiyeh (ed.), The Book in the Islamic World, Albany: SUNY Press, 1995, 209–232. Kashf, 144. The last sentence is an attempt to mirror the wordplay of the original. T. LeGassick, Major Themes in Modern Arabic Thought, Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1979, 15. Bakir, op. cit., 105. Ibid., 106 ff. Boutros Hallaq, ‘Love and the Birth of Modern Arabic Literature’, in R. Allen, H. Kilpatrick & E. de Moor (eds), Love and Sexuality in Modern Arabic Literature, London, Saqi, 1995, 17. For other examples, cf. al-Shidyaq’s two other works referred to above, Rifa‘a Rafi‘ al-Tahtawi’s Takhlis al-ibriz ila talkhis Bariz, Cairo, 1834, etc. For example, by Roger Allen in A Period of Time, London: Ithaca Press, 1991, 19; also EI2, loc. cit., etc. See Boutros Hallaq, op. cit., 17. H. Pérès, loc. cit. [my translation from the French]. al-Saq, 275; see also Starkey, op. cit., 32. al-Saq, introd., 8–10. On this, cf. Alwan, op. cit., 67ff. In the edition of al-Shidyaq’s work edited by ‘Imad al-Sulh, many of these lists of synonyms have been omitted. For al-Shidyaq’s 131


31 32 33 34 35 36 37

innovations in the field of Arabic typography, and his other contributions to what Geoffrey Roper has described as a ‘communications revolution’, see Roper, op. cit., passim. See, for example, Badawi, M.M., A Short History of Modern Arabic Literature, Oxford, Clarendon Press, 7. al-Saq, Part I, chapter 19, 133ff. Ibid., p.254. See also Starkey, ‘Fact and Fiction’, 37. Ibid., 130ff. al-Saq ‘ala al-saq, 458 ff. Ibid., 445 ff. Ibid., 328 ff.

132

CHAPTER 7

The Journey in Two Arabic Novels Richard van Leeuwen

In this section I shall analyse two Arabic novels in which the journey fulfils a crucial role, and examine how the authors have used the concept of the journey to shape their narrative and to strengthen its metaphorical dimension. We shall also study the manner in which the two novels reflect themes and motifs related to journeys developed within the Arabic literary tradition, and to what extent they conform to general models of the journey as a concept described on pages 81–84. The two novels to be discussed were both written in the 1960s: ‘Abd al-Hakim Qasim’s The Seven Days of Man (Cairo, 1969); and Naguib Mahfouz’s The Search (Cairo, 1964).1

The Seven Days of Man In ‘Abd al-Hakim Qasim’s novel The Seven Days of Man, the story is told of the growth to adulthood of ‘Abd al-‘Aziz, the son of Hagg Karim, the village elder of one of the villages in the Nile Delta. Hagg Karim is the leader of the local Sufi group, which comes together in the evening after work to recite sacred texts, tell stories, exchange news, and perform the dhikr. For this small group of men life is centred on the yearly mawlid of Sayyid Ahmad al-Badawi, when they venture the journey to Tanta to visit the shrine of the saint. The mawlid provides the occasion for massive festivities and celebrations, which form the core of life of the 133


poor peasants. The young ‘Abd al-‘Aziz is fascinated by the gatherings of the group and the mawlid, but in the course of time, distances himself from the group and his father, as he develops his own, individual personality. In the meantime Egyptian society has changed, and the position of Hagg Karim, as the focal point of social cohesion, has become more and more obsolete. It is this annual pilgrimage to Tanta which forms the framework of the story, since the seven days of the mawlid represent seven phases of the development of ‘Abd al-‘Aziz, from a small child, steeped in the fascinating realm of fantasy, to the sensual adolescent and the disillusioned adult taking his place in a de-mystified modern society. Seven days mark the cycle of the journey: preparations, departure, the journey itself, the destination, the apogee, and the return home. It is these phases of the journey which provide the narrative with its formal cohesion and development towards dénouement. The significance of the travel paradigm is strengthened by numerous topical expressions and similes describing life as merely a passage to the hereafter; people lead their lives as a journey, as ‘weak, heavily loaded sailing ships on the river of life.’2 A typical motif in this respect is the well built alongside the road by an unknown benefactor.3 These formal elements combine to strengthen the image of the journey as the central metaphor structuring ‘Abd al-‘Aziz’s psychological evolution. The significance of the journey is further stressed by the geographical setting of the story, alternately in the small village in the Delta, and in Tanta, the provincial town. The two locations are on the one hand portrayed as opposites, but on the other hand as complementary. The town is the ‘tree that has its roots in the countryside,’4 and during the mawlid ‘the countryside clings to the body of the town with thousands of arms, embraces it and lets its breath flow in its lungs, in a long convincing kiss.’5 The countryside and the town are inseparable, but only thanks to the differences and the fact that the town harbours the shrine of Sayyid Ahmad al-Badawi, which, for the peasants, represents the ‘centre of the world’. The peasants are irresistibly drawn towards the town and the shrine is the focus of a longing that ‘branches off into the far surroundings and flows pulsating into the veins of the countryside, to all the separate houses.’6 When after their hike through the fields they suddenly see the green dome of the 134

THE JOURNEY IN TWO ARABIC NOVELS

Sayyid, they greet it with jubilation: ‘It was this enthusiasm, this devotion, this sincerity, these pious hands that built these domes, the pillars and the halls, that carved the temples out of the heart of the rock; cool shadow was created from the blaze of the desert.’7 The two poles of the journey, the village and the shrine, give life its meaning and endow the physical world with a soul: ‘an enormous world, deserts and sand, seas and rivers, trees, clouds, the most insignificant particles, in the breast of everything that was created, even the particles of dust floating in the beams of the sun, is a warm, throbbing heart, that praises God’s name and asks for blessings for the most fortunate of God’s creatures, during their miraculous journey to the corners of the universe.’8 The contrast between the village and the town is overcome by the spiritual values which bind the two together; physical space is subjected to imaginary space. For Hagg Karim life derives its flavour from the annual pilgrimage. In his eyes there shimmers a mysterious longing, and he waits for the messenger from afar who announces the time has come to make travel preparations. Only the journey can bring joy and happiness. When the preparations are completed, Hagg Karim clothes himself for the departure, ‘like Abu Zayd, al-Hilali girds himself with his weapons for the journey to Tunis.’9 He leaves the village in a solemn procession, accompanied by the brothers, spreading baraka among the women and children. Camels carry chests with food, the contents of Hagg Karim’s pantry, for the great gathering of Sufi brethren from al-Sharqiyya. These, too, have waited impatiently for the day of departure and long intensely for the meeting. The brethren are companions on the short road of life. ‘Without them the world would have tasted like dust.’10 The journey to Tanta is an event of great social significance. Hagg Karim longs, not only for his visit to Sayyid Ahmad alBadawi, but also for the conversations on the road, the stories exchanged among villagers, the meeting with Hagga Shawq, with whom he once made the pilgrimage to Mecca, and the gathering with the other brothers of the Order. The mawlid is the yearly confirmation and strengthening of the social ties which bind them to the other villages, the centre of a network of relationships that supports Hagg Karim’s position within the community and the cohesion of the community itself. The unity is symbolised by 135


the celebration in the shrine, when the ‘chaotic yelling of the peasants is transformed into a majestic, impressive sound, that touches the heart.’11 The same sense of belonging, which is created every evening when the brethren come together in the duwar, is now consummated euphorically with the others, who form one great mass of flesh, like a gigantic creature with innumerable heads. Inevitably, the euphoria of the mawlid ends after the salute to the tomb of the saint. The brothers sadly say goodbye to the shrine and their friends, leaving these ‘beloved places’ hoping to return next year. Everywhere people will come together and talk about the blessings of the mawlid, thus sowing the seeds of the next journey and the longing for future mawlids. Thus, the cycle is completed: the journey has produced the energy and dynamism which enables the peasantry to endure their hardships and preserve their communal harmony until they can replenish their spirits again by resuming the journey. Hagg Karim and his brotherhood symbolise this combination of suffering and hope, which creates unity and defeats the tyrannical forces of nature and everyday labour, revitalising the community by offering new horizons.

‘Abd al-‘Aziz For the young ‘Abd al-‘Aziz life is divided into two realms: the hardships of the day, when his father relentlessly harasses the soil under a blazing sun; and the tranquillity of evening gatherings, when his father speaks gently with the brethren and when the mysteries of another world are disclosed. Such conversations lead him to other times and faraway lands, friends and stories about meetings, wondrous places and impressive shrines, worth the long journey, the tombs of pious men in large cities. During evening gatherings a new, wonderful and limitless world is created behind the limited everyday life, a world which lets desires flare up and fills the hearts with passion […] Every evening is a journey through a miraculous world, with Hagg Karim, a leader, who has experienced so many journeys.12

In the evening ‘Abd al-‘Aziz becomes acquainted with strange men ‘from the four corners of the world, who walk with gigantic 136


steps and who live among the people without being recognised. When they die, the people build domes where they bring provisions for the mawlid.’13 These saints can travel from Iraq to Egypt in an instant and have ‘hands as landmarks indicating the destinies of mankind.’14 Simultaneously, ‘Abd al-‘Aziz discovers books with mysterious, incomprehensible script, which evokes a world of spells and magic. The magic of the books gives man power over the realm of the invisible and enables him to subject the jinn to his will. The contrast between day and evening is a contrast between opposite worlds: the world of reality, monotony, stagnation and ‘confinement in the day’ and the world of fantasy, movement, dynamism and metamorphosis. The interaction between these two worlds is represented by the journey, both in the spiritual sense, as an inner journey to a world of wonders hidden in everyday reality, and in the physical sense of the pilgrimage to Tanta. From the beginning ‘Abd al-‘Aziz is fascinated by the mawlid of Sayyid Ahmad al-Badawi and the mysterious longing in the eyes of his father. For him, too, the journey personifies love for his father and everything that all that he represents, as the epitome of the world of spirituality and social solidarity. During the mawlid he feels at one with the frenzied crowd reacting to the strange forces of the combined spiritual and physical journey, purifying and revitalising the soul, just as books give access to a magical world governed by the forces of movement and transformation. ‘Abd al-‘Aziz participates in a cycle of cosmic dimensions, which remains hidden and only incidentally interferes with earthly life, in the persons of saints and jinn. The journey is thus linked not only to meetings and celebrations, but also to words, books and dreams. It is this multiple fascination which secures ‘Abd al-‘Aziz’ inner harmony. In the course of time, when ‘Abd al-‘Aziz grows up and goes to school in Tanta, it is this same nexus of books and journey which causes the breakdown of this harmony. He continues to be enslaved by the power of words, but now they lead him into labyrinths from which he cannot escape. Words are his illness and his cure, and his growing knowledge gradually destroys the fantasies of childhood. This loss of harmony affects his longing for the annual journey, because he feels unfit to take part in such a sacred undertaking. ‘Abd al-‘Aziz ‘wished he could roam through 137


the land, without asking himself whereto or why. But a human being could only travel with a cane, barefoot, after having performed the ritual ablution. He was unclean, his head was heavy with indomitable questions, his heart was heavy with continual worries’.15 Where he used to walk beside his father upon departing the village, now he walks at the end of the procession. The collapse of ‘Abd al-‘Aziz’s identification with the spiritual dimension of the journey erodes his sense of belonging to the community for which the mawlid represents the ultimate symbol of unity. ‘Abd al-‘Aziz had been a member of the huge body of pilgrims, now he feels detached and isolated. Still, he cannot easily overcome the forces binding him to the others: He was drawn to the shrine of the Sayyid by an irresistible force. The shrine was immersed in a white light and around it people were sitting so close to each other that there was no space to put your foot. He was carried along by the gushing river that consisted of thousands of bodies, on their way to the shrine of the Sultan. But a question imposed itself on ‘Abd al-‘Aziz: Where was he going? Why? Was it because of the brown eyes of Hagg Karim, that floated away filled with longing? Had they created this urge in him to see the shrine of the Sultan? Were they the reason why he could not refuse radically, could not stand still and say no definitively, could not dissociate himself from the crowd?16

It is this same dilemma which tortures ‘Abd al-‘Aziz in his relations with the brotherhood. He cannot help his feelings of affection for them, but it seems that they belong more and more to a world other than his own. He despises them for their superstitions, their fear and their poverty. He abhors the filth and wretchedness of the village and identifies with the clean and well-ordered town. At the meeting in Tanta, during the mawlid, he is appalled by the stench, the noise, the disgusting food, and he finally has to admit that he is no longer one of them. He is a Fremdkörper among them and is finally also rejected by them. He can no longer bridge the distance between the worlds of fantasy and reality, and between himself and his brothers. For ‘Abd al-‘Aziz the villagers are mindless people who do not know where they are going and from whence they have come. They are governed by mechanisms in which he can no longer believe, since the spell of words representing the mysterious world, has been broken. Nothing has replaced this belief, leaving an emptiness inside him 138


that ultimately forces him to come to terms with a new, harsh and demystified reality. ‘Abd al-‘Aziz experiences the same process of estrangement towards his father, the powerful, gentle and much admired Hagg Karim. Whereas Hagg Karim once represented the unity of ‘Abd al-‘Aziz’s worlds – spiritual, social and physical – more and more, he comes to represent an anachronistic world-view. Hagg Karim’s world is losing its spell and its relevance, while society is changing and ‘Abd al-‘Aziz’s personality is reaching its maturity. At the end of the novel Hagg Karim is old and sick. He is no longer able to ensure unity and harmony among the brothers. He is impoverished and no longer enjoys a status as village leader. A world has collapsed so rapidly that ‘Abd al-‘Aziz has hardly had sufficient time to realise it. When ‘Abd al-‘Aziz finally returns to the village it is because his father is on his deathbed. He has to cope with the material aspects of life and is confronted with the transitoriness of life. In his final days, his father walks to the station every day, repeating that he wants to go on a journey. ‘Abd al-‘Aziz, too, cannot suppress his urge, his certainty, that he too must go somewhere: ‘He has to go on a journey, but whereto? Only a journey can relieve him of this scorching thirst.’17 It is as if this longing represented the lost knowledge of a hidden world, a world that shimmers in his heart and in which space is subject to the forces of spirituality; a world whose essence is a continual, blissful journey. In The Seven Days of Man the traces of familiar concepts of the journey can be found. It is clear from the form of the narrative and the substructure of metaphorical allusions that not only is life represented as a journey, but also, that the journey stands for a process of transformation. The transformation of ‘Abd al-‘Aziz is described as moving from a condition of harmony with his social environment, to one of detachment, and finally, to his return to the village as a different person. The novel is an account of a journey wherein the phases represent the stages of youthful hope and anticipation, a period of doubt and ambiguity and the sadness of departure and estrangement. Indeed, the narrative may consist of several journeys: ‘Abd al-‘Aziz’s journey from the village to the town, from the world of fantasy and belief to the world of knowledge and scepticism, from his adherence to a closely knit community to individuality, from a world steeped in magic and 139


wonder to a harsh and one-dimensional reality, and, above all, from his father as an ideal to himself as an independent adult. Through linkages between ‘Abd al-‘Aziz’s ‘journey’ and the pilgrimage to Tanta, the metaphorical concept is supplemented by a prominent spiritual, even mystical, component. The pilgrimage is, after all, represented as a dynamic force in life, a path to spiritual purification and healing. Although ‘Abd al‘Aziz gradually dissociates himself from the pilgrimage as a superstitious, even barbaric ritual, his journey, too, is a form of purification and healing. He undergoes a transformation which liberates him, at least partly, from the anachronistic burden of his past. He sheds off everything that does not fit into his awakening vision of the world and exorcises the habits that bind him to a society which has lost its relevance. The society of his father, dominated by popular religion, is dying and being replaced by a new, modern society requiring new outlooks and new rituals. The contrast between ‘Abd al-‘Aziz and his father therefore, is not so much the result of antagonistic personalities, but rather of opposing societies competing with each other. While Hagg Karim is portrayed in the end as a pathetic figure anxiously trying to preserve an anachronistic world, ‘Abd al-‘Aziz has intuited that his world would be different, even though he realised it too late.

The Search The journey of Sabir, the hero of Naguib Mahfouz’s novel al-Tariq (The Search), had started before his birth. His mother was a prostitute and separated from her husband, Sabir’s father, before he was born. With her child she built a new life in Alexandria where Sabir grew up in a world of crime, violence and shame. Following the death of his mother, it becomes clear that Sabir considered his life in Alexandria as a temporary phase; he has not developed any ties with the city, which is more a place of exile than a home; he has not developed an independent life, since his mother had always provided for his livelihood; and he never acquired a sense of dignity and self-esteem, because he never knew his father. His mother tells him on her deathbed that his father may still be alive. After the burial of his mother he decides to take his life in hand and to replace his homelessness with a 140


stable life of virtue, freedom and peace of mind. Paradoxically, he embarks upon a journey and restless quest for his father, and, ultimately, a quest for an identity necessary for shelter, stability and respectability. The hotel where Sabir stays in Cairo seems ill-starred. It looks shabby and morose, and has a facade like a weeping face. Yet, Sabir feels drawn to it as if drawn there by the hand of fate. It is at the hotel that he meets Karima, the young wife of the decrepit owner of the hotel. He is immediately attracted to her and they soon begin a passionate relationship. Karima wakes the memory in him of a girl he once met in Alexandria, many years earlier. The memory of this girl mingles with images of Karima and of his father; he is confident that, if Karima is this same girl, he will succeed in finding his father. The search for his father is thus related to erotic fantasy but also to one of the few authentic experiences of his life, a passing love affair, which for a brief moment brought him in touch with his true identity and proved that there is in him some essence of true self, a harmony with his surroundings and a stable focus in life. This essence is alternately identified as Karima and his father. If only he can find it and transform it into the foundation of his new life, will he be able to say, ‘I am Sabir, the son of Sayyid al-Rahimi.’18 During his indefatigable search for his father Sabir also meets Ilham, a sensible, somewhat naive girl, who is as a ‘cool breeze’ compared to the scorching fire of Karima. Ilham gives him a glimmering of new hope to find his father, and discloses in him a second nature, a personality that will sacrifice passion and sex for stability, tranquillity and love. Metaphorically, Ilham is a shady place where he can rest from his exhausting search and passionate desires. She warns him that he should not let emptiness take hold of his life, since it is the greatest enemy of man. Sabir is fascinated by her and sometimes thinks that he came to Cairo to find her, not his father. He is no less obsessed with Karima, although there is no hope the women will somehow merge and solve his dilemma. Confronted with the virtue and sincerity of Ilham, Sabir lies about his past, his aims and his true identity, hoping that she will not despise him. The effect is rather the opposite, however, since his lies make all her positive words senseless, as he is not the person to whom she addresses her words; she speaks as if to another, non-existent person. This makes the search for his father 141


his only hope. If he fails, or if his father should refuse to recognise him, life will be without meaning. In the meantime his obsession with Karima is such that he allows himself to be convinced to murder her husband. It seems this murder will solve his problems with one stroke; to commit the crime will be easier than loving Ilham, and will free him from his problems with her. Also, the murder will secure the love of Karima and provide him with a livelihood. The murder would be a victory, releasing him from his suffering, his hopeless waiting and his fruitless search. Instead of releasing him, however, the crime turns the hotel into a prison until he is finally found out and arrested. It is now that Sabir’s journey has ended and that he finally reaches his aim. He is informed, ironically, that his father is a wealthy man, who travels around the world and has numerous women everywhere. He relishes life and his motto is: ‘Consider yourself a living creature only when you have made love in all corners of the world.’19 Of course Sabir mourns the contrast between his imprisonment and the liberty of a father, who abandoned him for the joys of life without material or moral constraints. While Sabir has travelled in search of his identity, his father’s identity is bound up in travel itself; whereas Sabir travelled in search of freedom, for his father travelling is itself the ultimate form of freedom. While Sabir used his life to search for another life, his father has lived his life without any compromise. As a result, Sabir is spending his life in prison, while his father has the whole world as his domicile. For his father travelling is his identity. As in The Seven Days of Man, in The Search the metaphor of the journey is the main structuring concept of the story. We can see the hero becoming detached from his surroundings and his social identity, entering the transitional phase of the traveller. His situation emphasises the emptiness of his personality. He lives in a temporary abode, he has no links with his spatial environment, and all relationships with the people he meets have to be defined. Conversely, the people he meets in Cairo have to define a status for him, which would provide him with an identity that is suitable for their own purposes. They can do so, since he is a stranger, lacking a clear status and identity and outside of the network of social relations. In fact, Sabir uses his ambiguous status to invent a false identity for himself; he is on the run from a life 142


without identity, but paradoxically, takes refuge in a false identity in the hope of constructing a new life and escaping from his previous existence. The two women, Karima and Ilham, fill the emptiness in his soul and project their own personalities onto him, hoping to manipulate him and to draw him into their lives. They behave in opposite ways; Karima utilising Sabir’s obsessive passion and insecurity to have him murder her husband, while Ilham plans a stable and blissful future for them together. Sabir cannot respond to the sincerity of Ilham, since he is not himself a real person but merely a passer-by incapable of commitment. This is exactly what Karima needs to realise her plan: a stranger who is not protected by social relationships, with whom she can deny any acquaintance, who has no status. At one point Sabir seems to be aware of the paradox created by his lack of personality, when he says to himself: ‘More than one woman finds in you immediately what she is looking for, while you exhaust yourself vainly in your search.’20 However, instead of being awakened to his situation, awareness only adds to his paralysis, since he realises that the two sides of his nature that tear him apart can never be reconciled. Apart from the need to define relations with other persons whom he meets, Sabir’s ambivalent status as a traveller is reflected also in his own vision of the environment. The realm in which he lives lacks the depth that is offered by stable social relations, by a harmonious passage from childhood to adulthood, or by secure relations with spatial surroundings rooted in the past. His environment is governed rather by superficial glances and impressions, by accidental resemblances and incidents, and by a lack of understanding for the complexities of his situation. In spite of several warnings to be patient, he is always in a hurry and as a consequence his world becomes narrow and distorted. In his desperation he invents a logic that does not conform to reality, by linking persons, places and memories to each other in an irrational and haphazard way. Karima, the girl in Alexandria, and Ilham are both linked to the image of his father, of whom he finds traces everywhere. Due to his obsession, his world is narrowed to a microcosm in which everything that he experiences is linked, in an effort to create order in a chaotic environment and to find patterns and indications to facilitate his search. The efforts fail, however, and lead only to a claustrophobic, nightmarish vision of 143


the world, accentuating Sabir’s sense of imprisonment. It is the outlook of a traveller in a strange and hostile environment, who attempts desperately to understand the logic of his environment, but cannot find the right person inside himself to respond to it in an adequate way. As a traveller he is free, yet he remains a prisoner of his own freedom; he cannot enter the domain of regular social relations. The story of The Search in some ways shares the model of the journey as a quest. Throughout the narrative the vision of his father spurs Sabir to continue his ‘journey’. He is determined not only to find his father, but to find a new life, and become a new person. He aspires to a decent existence and peace of mind by virtue of the blissful origin in which he thinks his real personality is rooted. He looks for a point of reference to provide himself with a psychological ‘structure’, ordering the chaos in his soul. During his quest he is continually confronted by dilemmas and choices. When he inevitably takes the wrong decisions, he must remain a transitory figure and traveller. He does not reach his goal and is not re-incorporated into the social framework as a returning hero. On the contrary, he is excluded from this reincorporation, since he is unable to overcome the trials on the way and so define his new role. He allows himself be led astray by illusions and enticements which, in turn, prevent him from finding his ‘Grail’. In the end it becomes clear, of course, that his quest was useless from the beginning and that his father would always abandon him. For Sabir however, the image of his father was always metaphorical for a new identity and life. It is his failure to realise that his quest was not for a future life but for a present life that led to his final ‘home’ in prison. Like most stories of quests, The Search has a distinct mystical component. The vision of the father, Sayyid al-Rahimi, is a clear symbol and godlike figure of a father who is able to bring about a change when real social circumstances cannot. Moreover, Sabir sets out on a path of self-purification, hoping to exorcise his former, sinful life and become a new person. At the outset Sabir consults a Sufi shaykh, who urges him to be patient (sabir), since his aims can only be realised by a careful and painful process. By telling him this, he also summons him to be ‘himself’ (Sabir) and not look to others for a purpose in life. He should be true to himself and realise that his identity is hidden in his soul, rather 144


than in images of other persons. The blind beggar, who sings near Sabir’s hotel and who continually irritates Sabir, gives another sign. He represents the transitoriness of earthly life and humility. Of course Sabir does not heed these warnings. He stubbornly pursues his illusions and refuses to search for the essence of his own personality in his own soul. His identity is merely a reflection of persons encountered along the way. Sabir does not succeed in reaching the final stage of his quest, the stage of inner awareness and tranquillity, since he lacks the required patience and determination.

Conclusion Our two examples show that the metaphor of the journey remains alive and vigorous in modern Arabic literature. Both authors not only follow familiar concepts of the journey as a means to structure their narratives, they also use them to enhance the metaphorical dimension of the story. The journey is first of all associated with forces of dynamism and metamorphosis, produced either by the quest of the hero for a new identity or by the various phases in a rite of passage. The aspect of ‘wonder’ is also prominently featured, since in both cases the protagonists enter upon unknown territory and are fundamentally reshaped by their experiences. The classical association of the journey with a quest followed by transformation and appropriation remains relevant and fulfils a central function. This observation confirms the supposition that the modern novel, and perhaps the Arabic novel in particular, primarily deals with questions of identity and the position of individuals vis-à-vis of society, a theme that can very adequately be illustrated by using the metaphorical concept of the journey. As for the legacy of classical Arabic literature, we can see that the very specific motifs of the spiritual, mystical journey have not lost their force. In the two novels allusions to self-purification, redemption and the Sufi path can be found, although in both cases the heroes fail to achieve their aims. In The Search the hero strays from the path and is unable to proceed; one can say that in The Seven Days of Man an inverted path is followed, with purification tantamount to the de-mystification of the world, leaving the hero 145


in a sterile, materialistic society from which the imaginary, fantastic dimension has been removed. In the end there remains a mysterious longing and awareness that not everything can be explained rationally by modern methods of ordering the world. Perhaps ‘Abd al-Hakim Qasim used his novel as a way to recapture the spiritual dimension of the world of his childhood, to find an essence and point of reference, a core by which to relieve him of his doubts. But, as in the case of Sabir, this original state is lost irretrievably.

Notes 1

2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20

The editions used here are: ‘Abd al-Hakim Qasim, Ayyam al-insan al-sab‘a, al-Qahira, Dar al-Katib al-‘Arabi, 1969; Nagib Mahfuz, alTariq, al-Qahira, Dar Masr li-al-Tiba‘a, (no date). Qasim’s novel has been translated into French and Dutch, Mahfuz’s novel into various languages. The English quotations are taken from: Naguib Mahfouz, The Search, Cairo 1987. Qasim, 52. Ibid., 104. Ibid., 120. Ibid., 168. Ibid., 166. Ibid., 191. Ibid., 40. Ibid., 85. Ibid., 44. Ibid., 190. Ibid., 13. Ibid., 8. Ibid., 22. Ibid., 91. Ibid., 165. Ibid., 111. Mahfuz, 33. Ibid., 193. Ibid., 97.

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Part Three INDIVIDUAL, NOVEL AND NATION

CHAPTER 8

Bildungsroman, Individual and Society Boutros Hallaq

When, following in the footsteps of their orientalist counterparts, Arab critics decided to hold the new Arab novel to a single standard of ‘realism’, to whit, 19th-century French realism, as represented by Balzac, they drastically cut away from the Arab romantic discourse the critical traditions essential to comprehending the genesis of modern Arab literature and the emergence of the individual in the Arab cultural sphere, two related processes. Indeed, and well before the publication of Zaynab – an event considered by some critics as the ‘birth’ of the ‘true’ (realistic, of course) novel – these processes were already at work in literary creation, particularly since the 1850s. They were part of a trend which I would call ‘novels of formative education’ to differentiate them from the more traditional Bildungsroman. Two variants could be identified in this trend: the first, relating to the individual, was more specifically tied to the Western tradition of Bildungsroman which developed in the 18th century and found expression in such writers as Fielding (Pamela or Virtue Rewarded, 1740 and Clarissa, 1747) and Richardson (Joseph Andrews, 1742 and Tom Jones, 1749), and was enriched by works from French authors Jean-Jacques Rousseau (La Nouvelle Héloïse, 1761) and Diderot (Jacques le Fataliste, 1773) before reaching a pinnacle – and probably a final codex – with Goethe (Wilhelm Meister’s Apprenticeship,1796).1 This variant is well represented in such major works as Al-saq ‘ala ’l-saq fima huwa ’l-fariyaq by Shidyaq2 (published in Paris in 1855, henceforth Al-saq) and Al-ajnihat al149


mutakassira by Gibran3 (published in 1912, henceforth Al-ajniha), although it can be observed in many other novels. The ‘formative education’ trend in Arabic literature goes beyond the individual experience of the Western Bildungsroman to include the collective or social levels. This second variant of the ‘novel of formative education’ trend seems close to yet another Western tradition: that of utopian literature, initiated by Thomas More (Utopia, 1516) and widely imitated in Europe until the 19th century.4 Even so, the form remains part of a ‘formative’ process insofar as it does not merely imagine the institutions of an ‘ideal City’ and describe their operation, as Utopian literature frequently does, but focuses rather on representing a process of formative development applicable, beyond the individual, to society as a whole, even to all societies. Examples of this variant are a number of major works such as Ghabat al-haqq by Fransis Marrash (1865, henceforth Ghaba) or Al-mudun al-thalath, al-‘ilm wa’l-mal wa’l-din by Farah Antun (1903, henceforth Al-mudun) and, undoubtedly, a number of lesser known works. In this study, we will attempt to present in a few words the two variants of the formative novel trend and shed light on the role played by romantic fiction in representations of the individuation process, whether in relation to the people or to the city. A new taxonomy of literary genres subsequently appeared with the Nahda and determined another approach to this literature’s history. For terminological purposes, we propose to call the first variant ‘the novel of individual formative education’ (which echoes the time-honoured expression Bildungsroman) and the second, ‘the novel of collective formative education’ an expression which has something in common with the concepts of growth and evolution, which were in vogue at the time, particularly amongst certain pioneers of this trend who were supporters of Darwin’s theory of evolution. In order to relate this to the whole of the fictional production of the period, we should finally mention that, without supporting one or the other of the variants in question, a significant part of the remaining fiction was, in the end, part of an educational process aimed at the individual as well as society. Indeed, 19thcentury intellectuals (among whom the novelist is quintessential) wanted above all to instruct their audiences with works of ‘committed’ literature. Works by Salim al-Bustani, ‘Ali Mubarak, 150

BILDUNGSROMAN, INDIVIDUAL AND SOCIETY

Muhammad al-Muwaylihi or Gurgi Zaydan are examples among others.

The trend of individual formative education Shidyaq’s work – only just becoming recognised as central to Arabic literary modernity – can definitely be read as the account of an atypical formative education. Indeed, Faryaq, the hero of Al-saq, is haunted by a dual quest; on the one hand, he wants to position himself in relation to two seemingly antagonistic societies, each with good and bad qualities: through a subtle balancing game, keeping his distance while remaining engaged, he finds a way to affirm his individuality in a perpetually unstable balance. On the other hand, he pursues an alternative, if parallel quest: how to become a ‘creator’ or a writer? His discovery of Western culture brings him back to his own culture and forces him into a voyage of personal discovery to discover his personal literary course. The same applies to Zaynab, which, far from being a realistic novel, appears as the itinerary of a ‘complex human being’5 striving painfully and often without success, to take hold of his own body, to integrate his affections, his natural environment (the Egyptian countryside) and society, and to find a personal solution to the metaphysical question. Zaynab is above all a novel about formative education. Al-ajniha by Khalil Gibran however, represents the first completed attempt at a formative education novel. We will examine it in more detail. When seen from the angle of realism (a traditional viewpoint among most Gibranians), Al-ajniha is reduced to a revolt against the socio-religious love-killing institution, symbolised by the bishop of Beirut who holds both levers of political power: religious authority and money. What is more, the analysis of the causes for the revolt is oversimplified and consequently not very convincing. The description of hierarchical and social relations implies that society is set in its ways. This approach however, eliminates all ‘realism’ and contradicts the historical reality which it claims to describe. Indeed, society experienced, among other events, the first social revolt in the Arab East, the ‘Antélias Commune’ (1858)6 which came close to bringing down the feudal and religious institutions on which it was based. As for the characters, they 151


seem to be reduced to ‘functions’ (as used in Propp), without psychological or social depth. How can we not be surprised by the attitude of Salma’s father, who, in spite of his devotion to his only daughter, fails to defend her against the bishop’s dictate? How can we be anything but puzzled by the lethargy and resigned attitude of the lovers who accept their destiny without struggle and seem even to find joy in submission? The excessive importance of chance in the course of events and the disproportionate role given to narrative speech in its least elaborate forms, among other elements, are sufficient reason to invalidate a realistic reading of the novel. On the other hand, and seen from the angle of formative education, Al-ajniha acquires a clear inner coherence. In this light, Al-ajniha as a work describing the path of a life built on overcoming its determining factors and harmonising its dreams with ‘the reality’ of existence, not only by combining ‘the poetry of the heart’ with ‘the prose of social relations’, as Hegel put it, but by understanding the meaning of the universe and the place man must occupy in it. At the beginning of his itinerary, the hero’s inner world is a chaotic and violent place,7 characterised by the combination of two elements: an exacerbated sensitivity and ignorance. He appears to be in a state of ‘melancholy’ described by the narrator as ‘mute’. Such chaos in the narrative speech is reminiscent of the ‘primitive chaos’ of biblical mythology that existed before the Creation8 and is indeed a beginning, a matrix. At the end of his itinerary, the situation is reversed, sentiments have replaced exaggerated sensitivity, and knowledge replaced ignorance. To some extent, sentiment has reconstructed the hero’s once torn up psychic ‘Self’; knowledge has enabled him to find his place in society and in the universe.9 Chaos is replaced by a ‘rebirth’10 and, while melancholy persists, it is no longer ‘mute’ but ‘spoken’. The hero’s enduring melancholy in a euphoric form is undoubtedly a major characteristic of Gibranian formative education nurtured by Arabo-Semitic values which thus differentiate it from Western traditional formative education. Somewhere between the beginning and the end of his itinerary a major event occurs: he meets Salma and falls in love, struck by her beauty as if by lightning. Now tied together, love and beauty emerge as Platonic concepts of absolute Love and Beauty. 152


The process of formative education follows a parallel development, that of the heart (the sentiments) and that of reason (of knowledge), gradually extending to cover the whole of human reality. Starting with his private circle, the hero meets the father, albeit a proxy represented by Salma’s father. As a result of this meeting, he accepts his status of son and the concept of generation itself (i.e., he resolves his Oedipal complex), but then uses his father as a reference that serves both as a model to emulate and as a standard to surpass. Then comes the maternal figure whom he honours not because he wants to possess her (the mother is always portrayed as absent) but in order to internalise his maternal feelings; this opens the circle of brotherhood for him and he is recognised as a family member, as a link in a chain. He is then ready to accept his condition of sexual man and assimilates his feeling of love to the reproductive behaviour. We must insist on the fact that the celebration of the body is essential to understanding Gibran’s universe, because it is omnipresent in the text even if hidden under a thick metaphorical layer and led Gibranians to see the author as merely an ethereal romantic.11 The second circle, the natural and social environment, is then evoked. Nature appears to the hero as a sublime and privileged partner for the human condition. He discovers the social institution, not only as it emerges under his eyes – a place governed by money, fixed dogmas and backward-looking traditions – but also as it should become one day. By forcefully denouncing these institutions he announces the advent of other, more human institutions. Symbolically, the institution of marriage is no longer an act of coercion but ‘a sacrament ordered by nature’, according to Julius, the hero of Lucinde.12 The new world is symbolised by gold which, on the rubble of a society fashioned by money, rebuilds another society as pure as ‘alchemist’s gold’ praised by Novalis’ hero, Henry von Ofterdingen.13 The cultural dimension then emerges. In the heritage of the civilisations that marked his geographical space, the hero finds the impulse for a new order of ‘living together’, if not to say for a new ‘national sentiment’. The third circle, the cosmic circle which determines the human condition is finally created. In it, man emerges as a microcosm who obeys the Law [nomos] that rules the macrocosm, in other words Love.14 Through the importance attributed to love, 153


maternity becomes the fundamental principle of being.15 God himself loses his paternal quality, acknowledged by Christianity, and acquires a mother figure. The human condition takes on a large and tragic dimension; Love can only reign after and through death; life is condemned to remain a transitory stage. Therefore it is not surprising that the two lovers cannot fulfil their love during that life. This brief analysis shows that Gibran’s novels become coherent when they are considered as novels of formative education, even with possible reservations about their narrative technique. Therefore they can easily be regarded as part of a wider trend which includes major works of this type, such as Goethe’s Wilhelm Meister’s Apprenticeship, while maintaining a culturally specific, Arab or Semitic vision of the world. Such specificity is somewhat similar to the distinction between the formative education novels of the Jena School16 and other Western novels. Indeed, Al-ajniha shares two major characteristics with F. Schlegel’s Lucinde and Novalis’ Henry von Ofterdingen: the role of the feminine archetype in the educational process and stature of the hero once his education is completed. To Goethe, the feminine is a mandatory although transitory passage: Wilhelm leaves his ‘gypsy woman’ to re-enter his own world. Among the Jena novelists and for Gibran, woman appears as a identifiable figure for whom there is no possible substitute; she is that someone special. Like Mathilda and Lucinde, Salma is the woman who ‘educates’ her lover in a ‘long night of love’ and remains his partner in fact and symbol, his ‘other half’ and source of fulfilment, even beyond death. Woman has a divine quality. She appears as a naturally accomplished, already educated being. Essentially indestructible,17 her nature resolves opposites (power and weakness, submission and revolt, self-fulfilment and sacrifice…) and only she can transform the man she loves. She is Ishtar bringing Tammuz back to life; she is ‘the fire of transformation’,18 to use Bachelard’s expression. She is even ‘the mediator’, in the religious sense of the term, between the man and his ego described by Novalis. According to the great mystic poet Al-Rumi, ‘Woman is not only the lover, she is the shadow of God on earth.’ How could then a man, lucky enough to meet her, forsake her and return to his world and his everyday ‘business’, as Wilhelm did 154


when he reached the end of his education process? Such a man is destined to devote himself to her (or to her memory) forever and lead in this world a life unlike any other. This is the way Henri chooses when he devotes himself to poetry (a synonym for love) and Julius chooses when he devotes himself to art and friendship (two realities which relate to poetry). As for al-Ajniha’s hero, he becomes a poet. In spite of its similarities with the Jena School, al-Ajniha retains some specificity. When his formative education is completed, the Jena school hero emerges as an accomplished man, an artist or a poet; he lives the happiness brought on by his creativity and knowledge. When he reflects upon death, it is as if it were merely a continuation of present-day life. In other words, to him, the ‘Kingdom of God’ has already begun. Gibran’s hero however cannot achieve self-fulfilment in the here and now. While he acquires ‘knowledge’ and ‘feeling’, his transformation remains incomplete. He knows by experience that he can only be fulfilled through and beyond death, where true love blossoms. In this respect, Salma’s death was necessary. This gives death a specific meaning: true death remains for the living and those who refuse ‘knowledge and feeling’, whereas the natural death of those who follow this course represents true life, a duality characteristic of the whole of Gibran’s vision. It is the meaning of the Gibranian hero’s persistent despair, although it is no longer ‘mute’ but ‘speaks’. One could say that, to the Jena School, formative education leads to a lifestyle based on welldefined ethics, whereas, to Gibran, it leads to a prophetic attitude based on metaphysics; their visions are divergent, like ethics and metaphysics.19

The trend of collective formative education The novel which initiated this trend is undoubtedly Ghabat al-haqq by a young doctor from Aleppo, Francis Marrash, who died at the age of 38. Published in 1865, ten years after Al-Saq, it is worth noting the project matured significantly in Paris where Shidyaq’s work had been published. Both authors explore issues of formative education with Marrash portraying the ideal city in the great utopian tradition with its instantly allegorical characters 155


embodying the great principles that govern society: the King of Freedom, the Queen of Wisdom, the Vizier of Peace and Fraternal Love, the Commander of the Army of Civilisation … Such society must unite the natural state or ‘jungle’, with the state of reason, ‘law’. The same applies to the long philosophical pronouncements spoken by his characters as they explain how these principles must inform the social body. However, while it is related to the utopian vision, Marrash’s work has different dynamics. The author does not describe the functioning of an ideal city as it would appear in a prime virgin state (Bernardin de Saint-Pierre’s Arcadia) or under an absolute new form (Thomas More). Instead he focuses on showing the path that could lead to such a city. It is truly about becoming. In this way, he fits into the scheme of the cosmic dynamics espoused by the novelists of Jena regarding formative education, and more specifically, the history of the human being divided into three phases or ‘ages’: the age of primary harmony followed by the present age of discord, which is followed inevitably by a new era of universal harmony, a new Golden Age.20 This vision, which finds its roots in Greek philosophy and biblical mythology, also inspired Gibran’s approach.21 In building upon this tradition, Marrash clearly embraces a formative education perspective based on legal concepts inherited from the Enlightenment or moral concepts inspired by the Semitic-Arabic tradition, whereas Gibran’s perspective as well as that of the Jena protagonists was based on poetry alone, a poetry which encompassed both love and freedom. This vision is expressed even more clearly in Farah Antun’s work. Literary critics have long neglected his work, and considered it as no more than a philosophical jumble of more or less elaborate reflections on social issues of the day.22 The fact that the author was a positivist and convinced secularist, dedicated to the popularisation of Darwin’s theories of evolution and 19th-century socialist ideas, undoubtedly helped to reinforce this image. This is perhaps why philosophical historians regard Farah Antun essentially as representative of the social philosophy of this Nahda period. A thorough analysis of his work however, reveals an obvious epic dimension, both from the angle of formative education at the individual level and at the collective level. This does not however, take away the aesthetic quality of the work. 156


By identifying in this work two ‘Model-Readers’ (according to Umberto Eco’s definition)23 addressed by the protagonist, Luc Deheuvels succeeded in showing how the dynamics of fiction end up ‘co-opting’ the initial project (organised around a ‘ModelReader’ interested in purely intellectual pursuits) to a ‘higher purpose’, the dynamics of which imply ‘a second Model-Reader, who alone is able to reconcile and arrange in a globally coherent manner the story and narrative throughout the work’.24 This approach however, is based on an individual process of becoming, related to formative education. Admittedly, the hero, Halim, has nothing to do with the ‘chaotic’ twenty-year-old young man who starts on the path of formative education in al-Ajniha; he is a mature man, a renowned artist and intellectual wondering about the relationship between religion, science and wealth. What is more, he limits his journey of investigation to these ‘three cities’ to a limited amount of time: ‘three weeks’. He does not yet know that he will get caught in a logic of formative education extending from ‘knowledge’ to ‘sentiment’, both closely related and based on the heart. On the one hand, Halim is about to embark on a scenario reminiscent of an ‘initiation quest’. He begins his journey by ‘entering’ a place suitably called al-dukhul. He meets a first Shaykh who reveals to him ‘the memory’ of the founder of the city of the Golden Age, Sulayman, a name with an obvious mythical connotation. A second Shaykh, the President of the Republic,25 introduces him to the mysteries of power and the relationship of the ruler and the ruled. The third, the Shaykh of the Wise, presents the ‘model’ of the ideal city of the future. Knowledge thus acquired surpasses the strictly intellectual, and the heart is elevated to equal status with reason. On the other hand, Halim falls in love with a young ‘rider’ barely seen in the distance who captures his heart the moment he lays eyes on her. His sensitivity as an artist-painter becomes a feeling of love and leads to marriage; the path to knowledge is one with the path to sentiment. Two elements in the story support this point: first the Shaykh from whom he acquired the memory of the city suggests that meeting this young woman should be part of his quest, and second, this young woman is none other than the daughter of the second Shaykh who gives him ‘knowhow’. Knowledge and love are intertwined in the final meeting 157


where the beloved fully plays her part of formative educator: she introduces her lover to the world of love and also to the world of ‘knowledge’ inherited from her father. She brings him the legitimacy of power, which points to the other dimension of formative education: the collective dimension. As the hero takes the stage, the process of social formation is already in progress; the hero’s task is to collect the heritage and lay the foundation for a future more stable than the current social structure about to collapse before his eyes. The heritage is somehow mythical: a golden age characterised by harmony and unity, dominated from on high by this prophetic, quasi-divine, Solomonic figure. The phase in progress reflects division, conflicts of interest and confusion; it will – because of the greed of some, the misguided values of others (represented by religious conflict arising from the political manipulations of the powerful) and the impatience of yet others who, not unlike our modern times, expect the imminent collapse of the world and a ‘divine’ wind (‘mother nature’) to obliterate all trace of it. A third phase can finally begin: the classic phase in perfect harmony with the vision of the Jena School, Gibran and part of 19th-century utopian literature.26 This third phase wherein society will be recreated based on original harmony (without recreating the first model), is the mission assigned to Halim alone, who is educated by events, supported by his beautiful ‘rider’ and strengthened by the skills acquired from the successors and witnesses of the founder’s work. Indeed, Halim receives a special gift from each of the sheiks: from the Wise One he received memory, from the Learned One, knowledge, and from the President, power which Halim inherits symbolically by marrying his only daughter. The organisational institutions and mechanisms of this new society are not explicit, as they are in some utopian works, even though they may be anticipated through the Shaykh’s words and the hero’s comments. On this point the text is different from most western utopian conceptions.27 The story suggests that the quest should not be for a timeless vision of the ideal city, but for a formative development process and enlightenment. It is not merely coincidental that the story ends with a building process, but should we see in this fact further proof of the formative dynamic? In actual fact we may see in the story and its articulation a reflection of the issues of the Nahda reformers: an opening to 158


the universal by eclectic borrowing from European cultures, styles and symbolic and metaphorical approaches, without minimising the weight of cultural differences or indulging simplistic treatments. The question marks, ellipses, suggestions of possible alternatives show more than ever that the process is ongoing; no final form is or can be announced. Thus, as far as the relationship between individual and society is concerned, these trends of formative education play a determining role. As for the ‘novel of individual formative education’, this signals the emergence of the individual. Here, as in the Western world, newly introduced literary sensitivities relate to a vision of man as an individual, a vision based on induced knowledge and empirical experience, in other words, on the individual’s experience of his environment. Ian Watt28 has showed that this approach, based on the English novel (and indistinguishable from the formative education novels of Fielding, Richardson, Defoe…) is a trend which he called ‘literary realism’ to differentiate it from the ‘realistic’ trend which he tentatively called ‘formal realism’. According to Watt, this former trend stems from the ‘philosophical realism’ whose origins go back to Descartes and Locke. The Arab novel of formative education is part of this same trend and induced by representations of a world based on the individual. The second alternative however, that of a novel of ‘collective formative education’, signals and promotes the emergence of a specific social ‘individuality’ or, perhaps, of a new social identity. It is thus reminiscent of the great romantic utopias which began to invade the Western literary scene in the 16th century. It is however, first and foremost part of a ‘national’ wave that hit Europe at the beginning of the 19th century, following the French Revolution and the saga of Napoleon, and that went on to find expression in the Arab world a little later. A foundation stone for the emergence both of the individual and of society ( and even of the nation), this trend of formative education is all the more significant since it is also fundamental in the field of literature. Indeed, it led to the birth of the modern Arab novel and ipso facto to the restructuring of the general literary framework on which the novel was based. Beyond ‘formal realism’, it is reminiscent of the ‘realist trend’ of the novel to which Watt referred and which determined the evolution of the 159


novel in the entire Western world. Not only was the ‘formative’ current of Arab works cited here revealed before Zaynab and the ‘realistic’ trend allegedly represented by Zaynab, but what is more, it continued to exist in major works written until the middle of the 20th century at least, particularly as part of the trend relating to the individual. A closer look shows that the significance of these major works can only be judged from this angle. Such works include of course al-Ayyam (1929 and 1939) by Taha Husayn, and also primarily Tawfiq al-Hakim’s two main novels, ‘Awdat al-ruh and ‘Usfur min al-sharq (published respectively in 1933 and 1938), and the well-known novel by Yahya Haqqi29 Qindil Umm hashim (1944) and many more.30 The development of the collective variant was less significant – perhaps because it was quickly replaced by struggles for independence and later by the establishment of the nation-state. It would appear however, in filigree form in some leading works by authors such as Mahmud al-Mas‘adi (Hadatha Abu Hurayra, qal) , or ‘Abd al-Rahman Munif (whose work is driven by the obsession of founding a democratic society) or even in Naguib Mahfouz’s later productions such as Rihlat Ibn Fattuma.

Notes 1

2 3

4

5

Among the many studies on the subject see F. Bancaud-Maenen, Le roman de formation au XVIII° siècle en Europe, Paris, Nathan, 1989; Franco Moretti, The Way of the World, the Bildungsroman in European Culture, (translated from Italian), 1987. Alain Montandon, Le roman au XVIII° siècle en Europe, Paris, PUF, 1999. Published in French under the title: La Jambe sur la jambe, (translated by René Khawam), Paris, Phébus, 1991. First translated in the 1940s, it was recently published following a new translation Les Ailes Brisées, (translated into French by Joël Colin), Paris, Sindbad-Actes Sud, 2001. Among the best known are works by Francis Bacon, The New Atlantis, 1627, Campanella, The City of the Sun, Fénélon (Les aventures de Télémaque, 1699), Bernardin de Saint-Pierre, Arcadie, 1781. Also see Georges Jean, Voyages en Utopie, Paris, Découvertes Gallimard n°2000, 1994. According to G. Lukacs’ expression, in La théorie du roman (The Theory of the Novel), Paris, Editions Gonthier,1975. 160


6

7 8 9 10 11

12 13 14

15 16

Cf., Kamal Salibi, Histoire du Liban du XVII° siècle à nos jours, (translated by Sylvie Besse), Naufal, Paris, 1988, Ch. V; Dominique Chevallier, La société du Mont-Liban à l’époque de la révolution industrielle en Europe, Paris, Geuthner, 1971. The narrator says: ‘Hidden, mute pains raged like storms and multiplied … and found no means of escape’. ‘Like the fluttering of the spirit on the face of the flood before the beginning of time.’ ‘He began to float in the space of knowledge and love.’ ‘In that year it was born again’. Considering Gibran a philosopher, a mentor and role model, a number of readers, shocked by the mostly discreet revelations of Mikhail Nu‘ayma (Jibran Khalil Jibran: hayatuh, mawtuh, adabuh, fannuh, 1934) had to rethink their opinion of the author’s love life. See also T. Sayigh, Adwa’ jadida ‘ala Jibran, 1966. Indeed, the account of Gibran’s numerous and sometimes scandalous love affairs revealed an attitude far from ascetic or mystical. The only novel by F. Schlegel (1799). Henry von Ofterdingen (Novalis, 1802) is one of the most outstanding formative education novels of the School of Jena. ‘Is not this emotion (love) part of the universal law which drives the moon around the earth, the earth around the sun, and the sun and what surrounds it, around God?’ ‘Everything in nature symbolizes and speaks of motherhood.’ This is the German Romantic Movement referred to by German critics as Früromantik, ‘early romanticism’. The group formed around a small circle of writers in Jena and lasted only a short while at the turn of the 19th century. The writers lived a life of ‘fraternization of knowledge and talents’ (a ‘sympoetry’, to quote their theorist F. Schlegel) bordering on community life, and practised collective writing (see The Fragments). Members included in particular Friedrich Schlegel, the group’s theorist, his brother August Wilhelm, Novalis, Tieck, Schelling and Schleiermacher. The movement was a decisive factor in understanding literature. Their program, Todorov said, ‘was so significant that somehow all artistic or aesthetic movements which existed since, including those that claimed to follow romanticism as well as those that were against it, did little more than complete the more or less important segments of the initial program.’ (Foreword to Jean-Marie Schaeffer, La naissance de la littérature, La théorie esthétique du romantisme allemand, 9). For further reading on the subject one might consult L’absolu littéraire , Théorie de la littérature du romantisme allemand (1978) de Philippe 161


17 18 19

20 21 22 23 24

25 26 27

28

29

30

Lacoue-Labarthe et Jean-Luc Nancy and Theories of the Symbol by Tzvetan Todorov. ‘The heart of a mother does not change with time nor with the seasons.’ Cf., Gaston Bachelard, La psychanalyse du feu, Paris, Gallimard, 1949,184 (‘NRF’). For further analysis of this novel, see Boutros Hallaq, ‘La refondation littéraire arabe, Gibran et Manfaluti’, (Part II: ‘Roman de Formation’) unpublished doctoral thesis, Université de la Sorbonne Nouvelle-Paris III, 2001. Cf. foreword by Marcel Camus to Henry Von Ofterdingen by Novalis, Paris, GF-Flammarion, 1992. Cf. Boutros Hallaq (2001) op. cit. (part III, chapter I). Farah Antun’s social thinking has been for the past ten years regarded as more subtle and less hostile. In his book Lector in fabula (translated from Italian by Myriem Bouzaher), Paris, Grasset, 1985. Cf., Luc-Willy Deheuvels, ‘Le Livre des trois cités de Farah Antun: une utopie au cœur de la littérature arabe moderne’, in Arabica, Vol. XLVI, fasc. 99, 433–434. We invite our readers to explore this detailed and exhaustive article which we have used extensively throughout this study. This neologism is interesting for its anticipative value. L. Deheuvels recalls that this three-phased series is reminiscent of the three stages in Masonic initiations. On this point we are somewhat reserved as to Luc Deheuvels’ generic identification of the story as ‘a Utopia’. While we agree the story describes a Utopia, the narrative invokes other genres. In The Rise of the Novel, Chatto and Windus, London, 1957, translated into French under the title Réalisme et forme romanesque (cf., Barthes et al., Littérature et réalité, Seuil, coll. ‘Points’, 1982). About the formative aspect of these three works, see the conclusion of our our doctoral thesis, op cit. For further analysis of Qindil Umm Hashim, see our article Qindil ‘Umm Hashim, by Y. Haqqi, (‘The intellectual saved by the artist’), in Arabica Vol. XLVI, fasc. 3–4, July–October, 1999, 482–509. Should we not perhaps read Najmat Aghustus by Sun‘allah Ibrahim from this perspective?

162

CHAPTER 9

Individual Sentiment and National Ideology Robin Ostle

In the present state of our national society, young people in Egypt are subject to great hope and great despair, and both of these are deeply and permanently rooted in their souls. It is the state of our society that incites such powerful hope and powerful despair, for I find a firm and constant link between the social condition of the nation and the souls of its individual citizens. Young people in Egypt have an exceedingly low opinion of themselves, this being a marked characteristic of the Egyptians; the reason for that lies in the long ages of tyrannical rule to which Egypt has been subject and which has left this heritage in people’s souls, for tyranny breeds a lack of self-respect. Young people in Egypt are weak-willed, prone to dreams, ambitions and desires; they pass their time in dreaming instead of actually doing things. They are timid; their courage is halting and spasmodic, it is a courage which is afraid of itself, while timidity is the general rule. Young people in Egypt have a powerful desire to accomplish great and glorious deeds, but they fall short of carrying them out; they are in the grip of violent emotions, but do not measure up to them. They are full of illusions because they are full of dreams and desires. They are completely lacking in self-confidence. They are extremely sensitive, but weep when they laugh and laugh when they weep. They are full of complaints and exasperation, but short on patience. In spite of their illusions, they live in confusion and doubt, and neglect what should concern them for things that don’t concern them. They don’t know which old concepts and customs are harmful superstitions, nor which new concepts are genuine truths. Therefore 163


they are harmed both by the new and the old. It is as if they are drowning between the depths of the old and the new, or they are like a ball kicked around haphazardly by fate.

This extract comes from The Book of Confessions published by the Egyptian poet ‘Abd al-Rahman Shukri in Alexandria in 1916.1 He and his family were closely involved in the early stages of the struggle for national emancipation: his father was a civil servant in Alexandria at the time of the ‘Urabi Revolution (1881–1882), and after the British Occupation the father was arrested and imprisoned on suspicion of involvement in the Revolution, and especially because of his known contacts with certain ‘Urabi circles, in particular the fiery orator, journalist and writer ‘Abdullah al-Nadim.2 Thanks to the intervention of influential friends, Shukri’s father was eventually released and managed to gain another position in Port Sa‘id where the future poet was born in 1886. As a child Shukri was deeply impressed by the visits which ‘Abdullah al-Nadim made to his father’s house in Port Sa‘id before Nadim was finally expelled from the country in 1893. Something of the potent example of the militant nationalist certainly remained with Shukri in his formative years: he followed what had become the classic path of educational progress for the new Egyptian meritocracy, from the government secular schools to the Khedivial Law School in Cairo, where he was a contemporary of the novelist Muhammad Husayn Haykal. However, in 1906 he was dismissed from the School: it was a time when national emotions were at a high pitch in the wake of the Dinshaway atrocity, and when some of Shukri’s patriotic verses were recited by one of his colleagues at a mass meeting in the Azbakiyya Gardens, this was sufficient to incur the wrath of the authorities. Acting on the advice of the nationalist leader Mustafa Kamil, Shukri enrolled in the Cairo Teachers’ Training College, from which he graduated with distinction in 1909. Thereafter he was sent to Sheffield University College in England, from which he gained a BA in 1912. Thus far Shukri’s career had followed a pattern which was familiar amongst a significant number of the intellectuals and budding politicians who were to form the cadres of independent Egypt in the 1920s. But the extract from The Book of Confessions displays none of the confident rhetoric of the ardent nationalist whose country was within a few years of gaining political independence. Such are the scathing comments about the 164

INDIVIDUAL SENTIMENT AND NATIONAL IDEOLOGY

qualities of Egyptian youth that they might well have been written by one of the more patrician officials of the British administration which had declared Egypt a protectorate in 1914. It is clear that The Book of Confessions is largely autobiographical and therefore an extension of Shukri’s own complex and problematical personality: it is a moving document in which he bares his soul and indulges in self-analysis with a commendable degree of honesty. But equally, as well as being self-referential, Shukri is also making general statements about the spirit of his age and in particular how this affected his generation. Given that Egypt was de facto a colony in all but name, much of the discourse of nationalist politics was expressed in black and white terms. The slogans which were the rallying cries of the 1919 Revolution and which accompanied Sa‘ad Zaghlul and his delegation to London and Paris to negotiate independence for Egypt, had no room for self-doubt or ambiguity; and yet the human, intellectual and emotional realities behind such revolutionary situations are never so simple and clear-cut. The themes which Shukri stresses throughout this brief extract are emotions, aspirations, contradictions, self-doubt and profound uncertainty. Along with all the social, economic and political transformations affecting Egypt in the late 19th century, powerful changes had also been taking place in ‘structures of feeling’.3 The concept of national freedom, whether from the Ottoman Empire or from the British Occupation, was a profoundly exciting notion at all levels of the population. Equally dramatic was the idea of the significance, almost the sanctity, of the individual and his or her importance both in terms of the self and in terms of the role which s/he might play in state and society. But while such ideas were undoubtedly exciting if not intoxicating, they also created bewilderment and disillusion. When Shukri published The Book of Confessions in 1916, the long campaign for national emancipation which had been waged sporadically since the 1880s was still in progress and independence still very much an aspiration. In the course of his studies at the Teachers’ Training College and even more so in Sheffield, Shukri read widely in the thought and literature of English Romanticism. Like many of his generation, he developed personal, emotional and artistic ideals which were difficult to fulfil in his own society. While nationalist politicians might look to the future in terms of rosy, one-dimensional optimism, to sensitive individuals like Shukri fell the ultimately 165


impossible tasks of reconciling dream and aspiration with cognitive human experience and stubborn lived reality. The powerful new structures of feeling which accompanied the birth of the new nation state had dramatic effects on literary and artistic creation. The pre-modern literary forms and conventions could no longer encompass all the new ranges of theme and experience, and one result was the rise of the novel. Another was the development of romantic poetry, and it is not accidental that this style of verse saw its most impressive achievements in Egypt in the 1920s and 1930s. ‘Abd al-Rahman Shukri played an important pioneering role in this new literary movement, along with his two colleagues Ibrahim ‘Abd al-Qadir al-Mazini (1890– 1949) and ‘Abbas Mahmud al-‘Aqqad (1889– 1964). But it was the group of poets who gathered around Ahmad Zaki Abu Shadi (1892–1955) who developed romantic poetry to its fullest. The journal Apollo which Abu Shadi founded and edited from 1932–1934 was an inspirational publication to young writers and artists in Egypt and other Arab countries, and these romantic poets became known as the ‘Apollo’ group. Of all the themes treated by these poets, none was more dominant than that of amatory poetry. When Abu Shadi returned to Egypt after years of medical study spent in England (1912–1922), the first collection of poetry which he published was Zaynab (1924), the same title as Haykal’s novel which had been published in 1913. The collection is subtitled ‘breaths of lyrical poetry chosen from the verse of youth’ and through a number of its poems illustrates the extent to which Abu Shadi was making major contributions to the poetry of romantic love in Arabic. The female persona and relations between the sexes were certainly among the more problematical areas of artistic representation in Egypt in the first three decades of the 20th century. When the novel was first introduced into modern Arabic, the treatment of romantic love was an awkward traditional feature of the genre which faced the early Arab novelists: one of the more extraordinary aspects of Haykal’s Zaynab is the insubstantial nature of the contact between the hero Hamid and his fiancée ‘Aziza, and that between Hamid and the peasant girl Zaynab, to say nothing of the blocked relationship between Zaynab and Ibrahim, the peasant overseer whom Zaynab loved. The problem was that since the late 19th century, and especially since the writings of Qasim Amin, (1865–1908), liberal-minded intellectuals of the 166


generation of Haykal, Abu Shadi or Shukri preached messages of greater equality and emancipation for women, and yet the lived reality of the vast majority of Egyptian society offered little or no scope for such emancipation. These writers and intellectuals absorbed with enthusiasm much of the emotional liberation and spirit of rebellion against convention which were the hallmarks of European Romanticism, and yet the social and sexual mores of their society did not accord easily with such imagined freedoms. While the theme of female emancipation had been one of the causes célèbres espoused by liberal reformers in Egypt ever since the 19th century, it was only as the 20th century advanced into its second and third decades that women themselves actually became involved in any significant way: the neo-classical poet Hafiz Ibrahim wrote a poem on the occasion when women demonstrated in Cairo against the arrest and exile of Sa‘ad Zaghlul in 1919.4 The periodical al-Sufur (‘Unveiling’) was founded during the First World War and feminist issues were naturally one of its most frequent topics. Huda Sha‘rawi created the first Women’s Union in the country in 1923, and on 15 March 1924 with the opening of the first Wafd parliament, among the delegations who flocked to honour the occasion were women demanding the right to vote.5 Throughout the 1920s legal measures were introduced to protect women from some of the worse abuses of traditional shari‘a law and in the 1930s women were admitted to Cairo University. While polygamy could in no sense be abolished, its practice became more and more restricted. And yet, welcome as all these measures were, their effects were limited to only a small number of Egyptian womanhood in the period between the two world wars. It was not until the 1950s that women gained significant rights such as those of suffrage and the holding of elected office. Thus there were contradictions between ideology and reality in the context of the emancipation of women, and in the context of the personal and emotional liberation for which creative and sensitive individuals yearned but only rarely achieved. One frequent response to this contradiction on the part of writers and artists was expressed via a process of idealisation which derived from the European tendency to confuse the human and the divine in the transmuting experience of love. In the preface to his fourth collection of poetry, ‘Abd al-Rahman Shukri seeks to explain the dominance of his theme in his work: 167


By love poetry I do not mean the poetry of lust or sexual passion, but that of spiritual love which rises above all descriptions of the body except those which reveal the workings of the soul … The love poetry I have in mind is caused by the passion which enables man to feel keenly Beauty in all its manifestations alike in a beautiful face, or a body, a flower or a river, in the beauty of lightning in the clouds, the beauty of night and stars, morning and its breeze, or the beauty of the soul or character, an attribute or an event, or the beauty of the images created by the human mind. The love of one human being for another is only one aspect of this extensive passion which embraces all visible beauty in life.6

In the light of such remarks, it is hardly surprising that much of Shukri’s love poetry is suffused with powerful strains which are both spiritual and pantheistic, but for all his thirsting after the romantic ideal of love, he himself ultimately became obsessed by what he perceived as the constant conflict between physical and spiritual needs. It is instructive to consider one response of the fine arts to the problem of representing the female persona in the context of the rise of the romantic imagination which accompanied the emergence of the new nation state. The sculptor Mahmud Mukhtar (1891–1934) like Shukri and Abu Shadi had completed his higher education in Europe, in his case in Paris, and in the 1920s he was the principal creator of much of the iconography of newly independent Egypt, some of which still graces the cities of Cairo and Alexandria. One of the dominant themes which he explored in his all too brief creative life was that of the peasant woman, but his representations have little to do with the harsh daily grind of her existence in rural Egypt. Rather his statues are the product of his dream-like visions of romantic nationalism, and have much in common with the ethereal images of the female persona which were adored and celebrated in romantic poetry written by Abu Shadi and other poets of the ‘Apollo’ group. A number of his statuettes on display in the Mukhtar Museum in Cairo illustrate these features. ‘Beside the Nile’ (Figure 9.1) and ‘Towards the River’ (Figure 9.2) both portray peasant women engaged in that most common of all their occupations, carrying water from the Nile, but in their general demeanour there is little to suggest the drudgery and effort of this constant manual labour. On the contrary, they are both highly idealised Madonna-type 168


figures, and the sense of movement in both statuettes suggests a less than tenuous attachment to the harsh reality of the peasant woman’s lot. In both works, the physical features of the female form are suggested through their hijab more visibly than would ever be the case in real life, but the effect is hardly erotic. Rather they remind one of the nude goddess figures which illustrate the poetry collections of Abu Shadi, usually depicting some personality or event from Ancient Greek or Egyptian mythology.7 One can perceive similar qualities of serene statuesque formality in Mukhtar’s sculptures ‘Peasant Woman’ (Figure 9.3), ‘On the Canal Bank’ (Figure 9.4) and ‘The Cheese Seller’ (Figure 9.5), while the statuette of a peasant woman at rest entitled ‘Repose’ (Figure 9.6) seems to be enjoying more the sleep of heavenly peace than that of earthly exhaustion, such is her air of perfectly balanced tranquillity. What we read and witness in these texts and in these works of art is the interplay of complex triangular relationships between individuals, their communities or their society, and the dominant ideologies with which these individuals identify and from which they construct perceived or imagined identities for themselves and for their fellow citizens. In the case of Egypt between 1910 and 1930, the dominant ideology was one of emergent nationalism fuelled by the Romantic Imagination, just as a generation later,

Figure 9.2: ‘Towards the River’ (Mahmud Mukhtar)

Figure 9.1: ‘Beside the Nile’ (Mahmud Mukhtar) 169


in the 1950s, it became Arab Socialism both at a national and an international level. The statues by Mukhtar are the sculptor’s version of the novelist Muhammad Husayn Haykal’s romantic pastoral visions of the Egyptian countryside and those who lived and worked there. These visions created ethereal, idealised representations of female figures such as were celebrated in the new romantic verse of Shukri and Abu Shadi. Relations between the sexes prior to marriage had more to do with the often tortured flights of the imagination than with any tangible physical

From left to right, top to bottom: Figure 9.3: ‘Peasant Woman’ Figure 9.4: ‘On the Canal Bank’ Figure 9.5: ‘The Cheese Seller’ Figure 9.6: ‘Repose’ (all by Mahmud Mukhtar) 170


contact. As was the case with Hamid, the hero of the novel Zaynab, romantic love is played out in the realm of fantasy whether blissful or anguished. So Abu Shadi composed the poem ‘Oh My God’8 in which it is clear that the woman who is the object of his adoration has a divine, unattainable quality which makes it impossible for him to win her in his lifetime, while Mukhtar’s statues ‘Whispers of Love’ (Figure 9.7) and ‘Towards the Beloved’ (Figure 9.8) would be apt illustrations of certain of the more romantic scenes in Haykal’s novel. But, while the pastoral idyll is certainly the dominant tone in Zaynab, the novel is not devoid of elements of satire which expose the harsh existence of the peasants and the lack of freedom for individuals, women in particular, to control their own emotional destinies. Similarly, in at least two of Mukhtar’s sculptures, ‘Peasant Woman Drawing Water’ (Figure 9.9) and ‘On Meeting a Man’ (Figure 9.10), the images are derived more directly from the hard physical effort of manual labour, and the rigorously controlled contacts between men and women which was the rule outside marriage or the circle of the immediate family. The decade of the 1920s in which Egypt became a newly independent state was, quite naturally, an age of powerful idealism and excited aspiration, when people allowed themselves, and were encouraged, to dream the ‘great and glorious deeds’ referred to by Shukri in the opening quotation of this chapter. Yet the excitements were also accompanied by profound malaise which sprang from the fact that the gaps were often unbridgeable between aspiration and reality, or between aspects of the dominant ideology and the lives of individuals who believed in them and identified with them. Even the much longed-for political independence remained powerfully circumscribed by Imperial Britain. Reformers and intellectuals preached the necessity for a revolution in attitudes and practices towards women, but as so often is the case, liberal theory did not coincide with lived reality. There Figure 9.7: ‘Whispers of Love’ (Mahmud Mukhtar) seemed to be no organic relationship 171


between theory and practice, or between proclaimed ideals and the cognitive realities prevailing amongst the population at large. The country was now independent, and yet certain persistent facts of British imperial power and influence inside Egypt called into question the very basis of that independence; democratic processes were supposed to apply, but the monarchy and the lack of good faith of politicians themselves conspired constantly to undermine these processes; leaders of society, both men and women, called for Figure 9.8: ‘Towards the Beloved’ (Mahmud greater equality and emancipation Mukhtar) for women, but the number who genuinely benefited remained small and insignificant; the romantic imagination which arose with the birth of the nation-state encouraged an intense concentration on individual sensibility, yet the individual emotional liberation which this fostered was not accompanied by widespread liberalising tendencies in society as a whole. Poets such as Shukri and Abu Shadi, and the sculptor Mukhtar, reacted to these contradictions by creating spiritual representations of women and love such as had been characteristic of European literature and art in its more intensely romantic phases. It was indeed a time to dream and to aspire, but the process was not without its price for sensitive individuals. The following lines were written by ‘Abd al-Rahman Figure 9.9: ‘Peasant Woman Shukri after his return from Drawing Water’ (Mahmud England in 1913. They are taken Mukhtar) 172


from the poem ‘The Poet and the Vision of Perfection’, and are an ironical commentary on the unrealised hopes of so many of his generation:9 There once was a gifted poet, a noble craftsman and skilled in his art. He loved not maidens but fell under the spell of a virgin daughter of his imagination. A vision of beauty that he formed in his mind, and she alone was perfection. Like a child who glimpses the lightning’s flash, he yearned for the impossible. Figure 9.10: ‘On Meeting a He stretched out his hand to the Man’ (Mahmud Mukhtar) stars, thinking that they were within his grasp … May God have mercy on a poet, who perished a victim to lofty desires.

Notes 1 2 3

4 5 6 7 8 9

‘Abd al-Rahman Shukri: Kitab al-I‘tiraf, Alexandria 1916, 4–6. These biographical details are taken from Diwan ‘Abd al-Rahman Shukri edited by Niqula Yusif, Alexandria, 1960, 2–12. The phrase is taken from Raymond Williams. See for example his chapter ‘The Industrial Novels’ in Culture and Society, London, Hogarth Press, 1987, 87–109. The poem is included in M.M. Badawi: An Anthology of Modern Arabic Verse, OUP, 1969, 21–22. P.J. Vatikiotis: The Modern History of Egypt, Weidenfeld and Nicholson, London 1969, 306–307. Diwan ‘Abd al-Rahman Shukri, 290. The translation is M.M.Badawi’s in A Critical Introduction to Modern Arabic Poetry CUP, 1975, 99–100. See for example the illustrations in the original editions of Abu Shadi’s collections al-Shu‘la (1933), Atyaf al-Rabi‘ (1933), al-Yanbu‘ (1934). Ahmad Zaki Abu Shadi: Zaynab, Cairo 1924, 38–40. Diwan ‘Abd al-Rahman Shukri, 130–131.

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CHAPTER 10

Mapping Arab Womanhood: Subject, Subjectivity and Identity Politics in the Biographies of Malak Hifni Nasif Wen-chin Ouyang

In 1914 a book with the title of The Women of Egypt was published in London. Its American author, Elizabeth Cooper, who was widely travelled in the ‘Orient’ and author of books on ‘Eastern’ women,1 begins her book with a chapter she calls ‘Egypt’s Hope and Egypt’s Handicap’, and states in no uncertain terms that ‘As go the women of Egypt, so goes Egypt’, (21) linking women to the modernisation of the Egyptian nation (21–22). Cooper, although she may not have realised it, was repeating the British colonial discourse on Egypt. ‘The position of women in Egypt’, wrote Lord Cromer, is ‘a fatal obstacle to the attainment of that elevation of thought and character which should accompany the introduction of European civilisation’. This civilisation would not succeed, he argued, if ‘the position which women occupy in Europe (were) abstracted from the general plan.’ The ‘position’ the Britton had in mind was that of modern motherhood; the political and economic transformation of Egypt required a transformation of the household (quoted in Mitchell, 111–112). Whatever strategies the colonial administration considered for the transformation of Egypt and its assimilation into ‘European civilisation’ – thus integrating it into the British Empire – a link was made between the country’s ‘moral inferiority’ and the status of its women. The retarded development of the nation, Mitchell points out in Colonising Egypt, corresponded to the arrested growth of the Egyptian woman (111). Women ‘were isolated as the locus of the country’s backwardness’ because ‘they were the holders of a 174

MAPPING ARAB WOMANHOOD

power that was to be broken up by the new policies of the state and transformed into a means of social and political discipline’ (113). The household – the instrument of this power – was to be organised as a house of discipline to produce along with schools and the military, the practices appropriate to a proper Egyptian ‘mentality’ – a mentality upon which it was understood, depended the very idea of social order. (113) Despite her claim that she had looked in vain ‘for information concerning the woman’ and that what she learned was based on personal experience (‘Preface’, 9–10), Cooper seemed to have internalised the colonial discourse on Egyptian Woman, perhaps subliminally from the books she had read on the ‘country of the Nile’ prior to her visit to Egypt. Cooper’s discourse on the women of Egypt betrays a number of issues that have become staples in any discussion of Woman in the Arabic-Islamic world. At the outset, there is the paradox of the self and the other. Self is identified as the modern, liberal, worldly and superior Western outsider (Cooper), the Other, as the traditional, conservative, isolated and inferior Oriental insider (Egyptian Woman). There is also identification of the areas where Egyptian women needed help, ‘moral and religious development’, and agents that were actively providing this assistance, ‘girls’ schools, missions and hospitals’. (9–10) The discourse also reveals Cooper’s awareness of the class structure of Egyptian society and its role in shaping Egyptian women’s lives and conduct. More important, she identifies herself with the Western middle class, post-industrial revolution ideology of both American and European Woman, who advocate the necessity for women to play an active role in the public space, above and beyond her role in the designated ‘private space’ of the home. ‘The Westerner’s attention is early attracted, in Alexandria and Cairo especially’, she begins the story of her encounter with Egyptian women, ‘to the womanless mosques, the womanless cafés, and the womanless public assemblies. The first question naturally arising is, “Where are the women?”’ (23). The absence of women in the public places she names serves as sufficient evidence for Cooper to assert that Egyptian women were ‘domestic prisoners’, and that their ‘progress toward modern ideas’ was ‘slow’. (23) Although she dedicated her book to El Bassel and wrote in the dedication ‘through whose friendship and guidance I was 175


enabled to see the woman of Egypt from behind the mourshabeah’ (23), it seems Cooper learned very little about Arab women through her Egyptian friend or her own lived experiences. In fact, she seemed to know very little about her friend. Malak El Bassel was in fact, Malak Hifni Nasif, a pioneer advocate of women’s rights and a staunch defender of ‘Eastern women’ against ‘Western attacks’. She was not the weak, isolated woman Cooper depicts in her book, ‘happy in her seclusion, (and who) did not believe it was yet time for Egyptian women to come out from the harem’. (282) Even in Cooper’s skewed recollection of her discussion of the conditions of ‘Eastern woman’ with Nasif, the disagreement between these two women is clear. While Cooper insists here, and throughout the book, that a woman’s participation in public life and her physical presence in the public space, is a sign of progress and that all women must play such a role, Nasif argues that a woman’s role does not have to spill over into the public space, at least not physically or in accordance with Occidental precepts, and that Oriental women, even in Cooper’s representation of Nasif’s views, can live a fulfilling life at home. (282) The identification of Woman’s progress with her role in the public space, however, curiously links womanhood to notions of space and landscape. Cooper, for example, sets Nasif’s world, the shut off ‘harem’ and the desolate desert, against ‘all the breath of the outside world’, a world from which Nasif cannot be excluded. (283) If Nasif comes across as a helpless, hapless and lonely Bedouin woman forced by circumstance and driven by convictions to remain silent and cut off from the world, it is because Cooper’s narrative imposes upon us this interpretation of her protagonist. Cooper’s narrative reconstructs Nasif and the space she inhabits in such a way that the textual landscape corresponds only to Nasif’s physical world and bears little resemblance to the interior landscape of her identity and notions of her own womanhood. Cooper’s narrative is a discourse on womanhood, legitimating her own definition by setting it against Nasif’s ‘inferior’ version. Moreover, she legitimates the Western version of modernisation and the culture that produced it. But Nasif is not the silent victim of her own unfathomable, perhaps even inferior mind, or of Egyptian, Arab or Islamic cultural circumstances inhospitable to women. Her narrative 176


obscures many details of Nasif’s life and notions of ‘Oriental’ womanhood. At the outset, she was not even Bedouin! In reality, Nasif belonged to the renowned Nasif family, an elite family that produced many important members in the modernising Egyptian society. Her father, Hifni Nasif (1855–1919), an Azhar graduate, was one of the key figures in the modernisation movement initiated by Muhammad ‘Ali in the latter part of the 20th century, and was, to say the least, instrumental in founding the Egyptian University. Her sister Hanifah (1898–1973) was an educator and eventually became an inspector in the Ministry of Education. Her other sister Kawkab (b. 1905) was sent by the Government to study medicine in England in 1922 and returned ten years later to work in the Kitchener Hospital of which she became the director. Her brothers, Jalal al-Din (1889–1960) was a lawyer then a judge, Majd al-Din, a professor of literature at the Fu’ad I University, ‘Isam al-Din an agricultural engineer, and Salah al-Din a deputy minister at the Ministry of Health. Malak was born in Cairo in 1886 and educated as a schoolteacher. She completed her studies in 1903 and taught until she married in 1907. She was well read in French and in English and regularly published op-ed articles in Al-jarida, a newspaper then published by Ahmad Lutfi al-Sayyid. She gave public lectures both at the headquarters of Al-jarida as well as the Egyptian University and travelled in Central Asia and Western Turkey. More importantly, she participated in the debates on the conditions of Egyptian women. Her choice in remaining with her husband, an elder in a remote desert tribe, did not diminish or deter her participation in what Cooper would call the ‘public space’. Her brother Majd al-Din in his biography suggests that had she not died prematurely of Spanish Fever in 1918, she would certainly have played a pivotal role in the Egyptian feminist movement, perhaps even providing an alternative to Huda al-Sha‘rawi’s ‘more liberal’ discourse. The differences between Cooper’s protagonist and the Nasif of other biographers should not surprise us. By the time Cooper’s book was written, in the second decade of the 20th century, there had been a two-century-old tradition of ‘Western’ women writing about ‘Eastern’ women. Billie Melman and Lisa Lowe researched perspectives embodied in the writings of French and British women who travelled and worked in the Middle East as 177


missionaries or later scholars of antiquity and biblical archaeology. As ‘discursive formation’ produced in a specific culture, such discourses necessarily abstract the ‘Other’ even as they reveal the multiplicity of ‘Self.’ In other words, Western women’s writings on Eastern women reveal more about ‘Self’ than ‘Other.’ Cooper’s brief biographical sketch of Nasif then, speaks of herself to a Western audience and articulates notions of womanhood produced in her culture, perhaps even celebrating the ‘progress’ Western women made only in the preceding century, especially the liberation of middle-class women from the strict Victorian, gendered, binary division of space into ‘private’ and ‘public.’ This preoccupation seems to run through the narrative as she belabours her points on the drawbacks of the veil as well as the division of space into selamlik and haremlik. She seems to internalise missionary Woman’s ideology as well, and harps on the need for women to lead an active life in the ‘public’ arena. Cooper’s portrayal of Egyptian women – despite her evident sympathy, empathy, attempt at understanding and occasional sense of solidarity – is essentialist and obscures what women in Egypt and elsewhere in the Middle East have said and have been saying about and for themselves. Women of the Middle East have been active participants in the various indigenous debates on their womanhood. With postindustrial revolution European economic expansion into the Middle East, then under Ottoman suzerainty, the accompanying cultural encounters initiated debates about the validity of the frameworks, which produced and continued to sustain the seemingly worlds-apart civilisations, the irreconcilable Orient and Occident, East and West. As Edward Said points out in Orientalism, ‘Western’ discourse produced through processes of cultural exchange before and during the expansion of British and French empires, sometimes wilfully and at other times unwittingly betray the will to dominate, for narration is entangled in a triangular relationship with knowledge and power.2 Dominance in this case, if I may modify Said’s proposition, does not necessarily mean subjection; rather, it could mean legitimation through integration and self-appropriation of the dominant discourse. Womanhood, by which I mean Woman, as perceived individually, in relation to society and as a cultural symbol, may be looked upon as a battleground upon which various narratives 178


compete for rights of dominance, as the legitimate, defining discourse of womanhood. ‘Oriental’ womanhood, as a locus for a debate on culture, arose as a result of European penetration into the Middle East, economically at first, then militarily. The ‘Western’ discourse necessarily reflected the values, priorities and aspirations as well as changing backgrounds of post-industrial revolution European men and women. Whether or not considered dominant discourses on ‘Eastern’ women, such ‘Western’ discourse provoked diverse and divergent ‘Eastern’ responses, which, like Lowe and Melman’s ‘Orientalist’ discourse, defy abstract characterisation. How then is a subject like ‘Arab womanhood’ to be tackled? In the past few decades, scholarly and journalistic writing on Middle Eastern women have become locked in debate on the status of women in Islam and the symbol of this status, the veil. The positions taken in such debates are often polarised. Orientalists attribute women’s oppression to Islam and counterorientalists defend Islam and its contribution to the relative improvement of women’s status in comparison with pre-Islamic times. Feminists attack the misogyny of what is characterised as patriarchy and anti-feminists argue the inferiority of women on the basis of her relative physical frailty. Religious discourse defines the public position of women on the basis of the teachings of the Qur’an and Hadith, while the practices of early Muslims and secularist discourses assign to women roles in an imagined secularised modern nation modelled on the Western nationstate. Marxist historians liken the changes in women’s status to socio-political transformations especially of the conditions of various classes of society, and ‘mentality’– proponents blame the Islamic or Arab mentality for the oppression of Middle Eastern women. Those who define power in terms of participation in politics insist that Woman’s absence from political office is proof of her victimisation, even at home, while those who think public influence emanates from the home, argue that despite Woman’s seeming marginalisation, she, in fact, wields considerable power in society.3 Whatever! These descriptions, and conclusions, are derived from theoretical as well as ideological frameworks devised to read culture and literature based on ‘articulated categories’ of knowledge, such as race, class and gender, and when looking at 179


matters Islamic and Arabic, ‘Orientalism.’ In each framework a cultural or literary text is usually examined through paradoxical juxtapositions of categories: black v. white, upper-class v. lowerclass or middle-class v. other classes, male v. female, East v. West, Islam v. Christianity, liberal v. conservative, progressive v. reactionary, self v. other, centre v. margin, powerful v. powerless, and the list goes on. Without denying the obvious benefits of setting a notion against what is perceived as its opposite in highlighting the distinct characteristics of a text and in identifying the discourse in which it engages and is engaged as well as performs, these frameworks can distort the text as well, just as my ‘Orientalism’-inspired reading of Cooper’s text does. Cooper, insofar as she essentialises the eastern woman, defies the ‘stereotypical’ Orientalist in that she is sympathetic to Islam and to the East in general. If however, one considers Nasif from perspectives developed in alternate texts, Cooper’s ‘Orientalist’ narrative does in fact misconstrue Nasif. There seems to be an intellectual impasse: how must one apprehend a text if its very apprehension entails the use of categories even more restrictive than the original categories? It would appear that any reading of any text by definition distorts the objective perceived. Is there a way out of this intellectual impasse? Must such ‘articulated categories’ of necessity, remain obstacles? In her book on South Africa, Imperial Leather: Race, Gender and Sexuality in the Colonial Contest, Anne McClintock demonstrates that each of these articulated categories is alone insufficient as a framework of inquiry. More importantly, she suggests that greater allowance be made for the collusion of boundaries among various articulated categories of knowledge. She further proposes that psychoanalysis should be more seriously considered. For our purposes in investigating Arab womanhood, I propose that we consider the author’s subjectivity, by which I mean the author’s sense of Self as an individual in relation to society, as central to the narrative treatment of Arab women. To demonstrate the important role subjectivity plays in driving narrative, we shall consider the various biographies of Malak Hifni Nasif. My choice of biography requires an explanation. As a narrative genre, biography operates on the premise that the subject of the genre, the person whose biography is being written, is the object of a narrative that attempts to reconstruct 180


the personality and life of its subject. The genre presupposes that the narrator is able to take an objective view of the subject and that there is a clear distinction between the narrator and the narrated; the narrative is more revealing of the narrated than of the narrator. The operative ‘articulated category’ in our understanding of biography is the distance that must be maintained between subject and object, between subjectivity and objectivity, a space wherein object and objectivity are of greater value than subjectivity. Subjectivity and objectivity in assessing the success or failure of a particular genre are ‘articulated categories’ to be evaluated against each other. Where subjectivity should be absent, such as in biography, the narrative subject and object appear synonymous. I will argue that contrary to appearances, notions of objectivity and subjectivity in biographical writings are not the same, but are intertwined and need to be placed in the context of the triangular relationship of knowledge, power and narration. The apparent neutrality of narrative, as may be seen in the biographies of Nasif, is but a veil behind which subjectivity lurks. The choice to focus on Nasif for this inquiry is accidental, although hardly random. In my investigation of definitions of Arab womanhood, I have sought to uncover relevant notions in the narratives of Arab women who have written about themselves as individuals and as members of society who aspire to play an active role. I would then examine these notions against those derived from works by Arab men writing about Arab women. It soon became clear that in addition to the diversity of both female and male discourses on Arab womanhood, with which I was already familiar, narratives of Arab women even by Arab women exhibited symptoms of conflicting tendencies. The tensions manifest in these narratives are clearly expressions of competing views of Arab women, even though the sources of such tensions are not always obvious and, more importantly, seem to go beyond the boundaries of gender, class, geography, language, culture and ideology. What, then, was driving these narratives? It became clear that the tensions displayed must be understood in context before we could delineate Arab womanhood. The first step towards any definition of Arab womanhood would be to understand what impels its narratives. The divergent points of departure as well as paths taken by the 181


narratives must have an axis otherwise their differences and the significance of these differences cannot be articulated or made meaningful. The choice, therefore, must fall on a subject around which there is rich debate and which produced its own discourse. Nasif is ideal for our purposes. As a pioneer woman and public writer and speaker, she poignantly expounded the position of Arab-Muslim Woman in society and the role she must play, and has herself been the subject of considerable discussion. Her essays and speeches were first collected, edited published in two volumes as Al-nisa’iyat in 1910. Later, in 1962, her brother, Majd al-Din, published another version entitled Athar bahithat al-badiya. In 1998, Al-nisa’iyat was edited in one volume by Huda al-Saddah. Since then, her life and work have been the subject of critical discussion and numerous biographical narratives. At the outset, there is Cooper’s biographical sketch of Nasif. There is also May Ziyada’s Bahithat al-badiya (1918), the first of a series of three biographies Ziyada wrote on the first generation of women writers of Arabic, including ‘A’isha Taymur and Warda al-Yaziji. Then there are three biographies written by men: Majd al-Din’s preface to Al-nisa’iyat, Khayr al-Din al-Ziriklis’ A‘lam (1927–1928), and ‘Umar Rida Kahhala’s A‘lam al-nisa’ (1958– 1959). Finally, there is the biography written by the Egyptian feminist Huda al-Saddah as an introduction to the 1998 edition of Al-nisa’iyat. Otherwise, Nasif’s works are the subject of critical attention in Sahir al-Qalamawi’s introduction to Athar bahithat al-badiya (1962) and Ahmad Lutfi al-Sayyid’s article, included as introduction to Al-nisa’iyat. I propose to read these works as adjacent discourses on Arab womanhood and explore where they – women’s and men’s reconstruction(s) of the history of Arab women – collude, collide and diverge. We shall begin with an analysis of biographies written by men which we shall follow by a reading of biographies written by women, and finally, focus on Ziyada’s work. Even though Ziyada’s work is the earliest, it is the most problematic, in that it encapsulates the identity politics implicit in all biographical writings. In his 1910 introduction to the first edition of Al-nisa’iyat, Ahmad Lutfi al-Sayyid, places Nasif’s works in the context of the movement for the liberation of women started by Qasim Amin (44), emphasising the subordination of women’s discourse on Woman to that of men and reiterating that women’s rights could 182


not be absolutely equal to those of men (42–43). He then identifies five areas of cultural debates in which Nasif made contributions: education, religion, western women as role models, marriage and writing (44–45). This current in the critical thinking about Nasif’s generation of pioneer women seems to run through the writings of men about women. In the very brief biographical note concerning Nasif in al-Zirikli’s Al-a’lam, the subject is defined as a well-educated, well-known, multilingual writer (katiba), poet (sha‘ira), public speaker (khatiba), good Muslim (ashhar fudlayat al-muslimat) who left indelible marks on the renaissance of women and home (217–218). In Kahhala’s A‘lam al-nisa’, Nasif is given fuller treatment. The emphasis however, remains her role advocating women’s education, domestic responsibility, support for their husbands and charity work (74–77), even though mention is made of her involvement in politics, and in particular, of her support for Libyan nationalist sentiments in the opposed to Italian colonisation (77). Her speech on the differences between Western and Egyptian women (fi l-muqarana bayn al-mar’a al-misriyya wa l-mar’a l-gharbiyya) and her defence of the veil in response to Ziyada, as well as excerpts on the conditions of women in Egypt are included as samples of her writing (77–96). Majd al-Din Nasif’s assessment of his sister’s life and works does not depart from this general line of discourse. He too emphasises her liberal upbringing and background, her education, and her efforts, accomplishments and writings on behalf of women’s education (al-Nisa’iyat 1962, 37–68). What is suppressed in these writings is the discourse on gender, or gender politics, and culture, or cultural politics, that are so much part of Nasif’s writings about the conditions of women in Egypt, as al-Qalamawi implies in her reading of Nasif’s struggles with her husband’s polygamy and its effect on her writings (al-Nisa’iyat 1962, 16–19). More important, al-Qalamawi points out that the Egyptian woman comes across as ‘half a human being, a creature created to compliment man’s role in life, not to play a role side by side with him’ (nisfu insanin, makhluqun khuliqa li-yukammila dawra r-rajuli fi l-hayati, la li-yakuna laha dawrun ila janib r-rajuli) in men’s portrayal of her, such as that of Rifa‘a Rafi‘ al-Tahtawi (9). Biographies of Nasif written by men may be seen as a masculine discourse on gender and culture. By incorporating 183


Nasif into the liberal movement for national revival, by allying and subordinating her voice to that of Qasim Amin, and by obscuring her opinions on issues of public displays of modesty and her criticism of polygamy, her role is confined to the limited sphere of domesticity, the ‘private space’. The dominance of this ideology of male superiority, disguised as it is by the historical approach of all the above-mentioned works, is especially visible in the works of the prolific Kahhala, who is in fact a champion of Woman’s cause. Author of many books on women and their status at home and in society,4 he seems able to de-politicise women’s discourse in all his works. Al-mar’a fi l-qadim wa l-hadith (1979), for example, purports to give a history of women in a global perspective. Its liberal agenda, to inscribe women’s active role in history into our consciousness, is paradoxically informed by a conventional male perspective. Al-mar’a fi l-qadim wa l-hadith begins with a discussion of the physiological differences between men and women. It then presents a survey of women’s societal status in ancient times (vol. 1) and of the role of European women in bringing about a women’s renaissance and finally, the role of contemporary women in politics (vol. 2), war and peace, work, charity, education, sciences, travel, tourism, aviation, sports, fine arts and literature (vol. 3). The coverage of Arab and Muslim women is understandably sparse given that in 1958–1959, two volumes on al-Mar’a fi ‘alamay al-‘arab wa l-islam had preceded the publication of these three volumes. There is also, however, a gap in the survey of women in politics and what he would call the Women’s Renaissance; Arab and Muslim women are excluded. Al-mar’a fi l-qadim wa l-hadith does deal with the role of Assyrian and Egyptian women in politics although the coverage is confined to the classical periods. Al-mar’a fi ‘alamay al-‘arab wa l-islam does not address this gap; rather, it obfuscates Arab and Muslim women’s historical role in politics5 as well as their participation in the 19th-century Arab Renaissance. It confines pre-modern Muslim women’s activities to the transmission of Islamic sciences (Hadith and Fiqh) and to devout religious practices (al-tasawwuf wa l-‘ibada and al-wa‘z wa l-irshad), and those of contemporary Arab-Muslim women to charity, education, journalism, debates about public modesty, Arabic literature and music. In the author’s selection of women of letters worthy of mention, Nasif is 184


poignantly absent. His biography of Nasif in A‘lam al-nisa’, read against the background of his general works, reveals the same male-driven ideological suppression of gender and cultural politics represented by Nasif in her own writings and women’s writings about her. Al-Qalamawi’s biography of Nasif is an attempt to restore to her subject a proper role in gender-centred cultural politics. At the outset, al-Qalamawi equates Nasif with Qasim Amin as leaders of the women’s movement in Egypt. Writing in the second half of the 20th century, she acknowledges that revisiting Nasif is part of a re-evaluation of earlier generations of reformers (‘li-nara ila ayyi haddin aflahat da‘wat Qasim Amin wa Bahithat al-Badiyah fi taghyiri l-hal’ (6). More importantly, she focuses on Nasif’s dissenting voice in the debates on the liberation of women which she called ‘The Movement’ and the idea of ‘liberation’ as advocated by Amin (‘wa kana laha fiha ra’yun’, for which alQalamawi used the term ‘taharrur al-mar’a’, reform (islah) rather than Amin’s liberation (tahrir) (10). She underscores Nasif’s leadership in three issues since co-opted in men’s writings: Nasif’s preference for the nationalist movement over women’s education if circumstances had allowed (15); her advocacy for the reform of marital practices so as to eliminate oppression of women even at home, allowing women a choice in husbands and advocating restrictions on divorce and polygamy (30); and her uniquely independent position in the conservative-reform debate on the use of the veil in which Nasif takes a moderate position, calling for reform while defending the veil (31). Here, gender politics are especially highlighted, as excerpts from her writings show. In the first instance, her criticism of women’s oppression by men is quoted. Men’s rationale in reforming the nation and women is challenged on the grounds of tyranny (al-istibdad) with this retort: ‘if they want to reform us, then let them reform themselves or look at what they do’ (23). In the second instance, she expresses annoyance at men’s patronising attitude towards women and states that women deserve respect not pity; for pity implies that the subject is sound (salim) and the object defective (‘alil), or that the subject is of higher status (jalil) and the object of lower status (haqir), and women are neither defective nor of lower status (24). In the final excerpt, she criticises men’s arrogance, and argues that if men were to acknowledge their 185


equality with women and treat them as equals, or at least as guardians (with respect to orphans), not as masters (with respect to slaves), they would receive the respect they crave (24). In alQalamawi’s writings, Nasif’s advocacy of gender equality and leadership in Arab and Muslim women’s movements are restored (35). Interestingly, there is an unprecedented emphasis on Nasif’s Egyptianness (10), and on placing her in the context of Egypt’s pioneering role in the modernisation movement led by alTahtawi (6). In her introduction to the 1998 edition of al-Nisa’iyat, Huda al-Saddah draws our attention to these two features of alQalamawi’s writing about Nasif: the subordination of Nasif’s role in the Egyptian women’s movement to that of Amin (17) and the containment of Nasif’s discourse on gender to the private space of home. Al-Saddah places Nasif’s discourse on gender within the broader context of cultural politics surrounding the process of modernisation at the turn of the century, a process in which gender was an integral, albeit contentious, part (20). In this context, Nasif’s writings about veiling and western women may be more readily understood as a response to those who equated modernisation with westernisation and to those who rejected the West completely and turned to religious fundamentalism (20–21). Nasif’s criticism of men is then not simply a discourse on gender but also a statement on the national culture of her time. In this culture, women were identified as the cause of backwardness in the nation, and the path to reform defined as imitation of Western women, including unveiling. She responded to the nationalist discourse by exposing the myth of the perfect Western woman with its inherent contradictions as well as Western men’s attitudes towards women (21–31). In al-Saddah’s writing, Nasif comes across as an independent, contentious and controversial leading figure of the turn of the century Nahda, public intellectual, who not only expressed her opinions openly and assertively but rejected imitation of any kind, whether of tradition or of the West. Clearly, al-Saddah’s portrayal of Nasif reflects the concerns of the last decade of the 20th century when discourses on the future are even more sharply polarised between secularists, who derive their traditions from the early enlightenment period, Tanwir, and Muslim fundamentalists, who call for the return to an imagined community modelled on the City of the Prophet, 186


Medina, of the first century of Islam. Women’s discourse can and should question the prevalent polarities and contribute to more complex and nuanced alternatives. In the elevation of Nasif to the status of role model for public, active and independent-thinking feminists, gender politics and cultural politics intersect.6 Gender issues are simultaneously overshadowed and spotlighted by the immediate concerns of culture and its future. This preoccupation is absent in the writings of al-Qalamawi, who belongs to an earlier generation of women scholars and public intellectuals. Her take on gender politics seems informed by a 1960s nationalist discourse antedating later radical religious discourses. Even as she champions a kind of gender equality, she shares the nationalistic view that women would be most effective at home, reforming the private sphere in a way that would support men’s struggles in the public sphere. The dominant male assessment of Nasif, in addition to male superiority, seems informed by surrounding cultural politics. Al-Saddah herself points out that two books on Nasif by male authors produced radically different images of her: one, ‘Abd al-Salam al-‘Ashri’s 1958 Bahithat al-Badiya, portrayed a pioneer in women’s education, the other, ‘Abd al-Muta’al Muhammad al-Jabri’s 1976 Al-muslima al-‘asriyya ‘inda Bahithat alBadiya, that of a Muslim fundamentalist (18). What seems to drive these biographical narratives, each projecting a different image of its subject, is a politics of identity in which both gender and culture are implicated. All of the narratives considered tackle questions relevant to the role of men and women in public space, the balance of power between men and women and, more importantly, the culture that will accommodate their envisioned place in their newly imagined community. Identity politics, less visible in men’s writings and in later generations of women writers, takes centre stage in Ziyada’s biography of Nasif. Ziyada was a contemporary of Nasif. They were the same age, both born in 1886. Both were acquaintances and perhaps even co-protegés of Ahmad Lutfi al-Sayyid, who influenced their thinking and through his newspaper, al-Jarida, provided a platform for public expression. In addition, both are considered pioneers in women’s awakening in Egypt at the turn of the century. They were, however, very different. While Nasif was born in Cairo to a Muslim family, married an Arab and moved to al-Fayyum Oasis, Ziyada was born in Nazareth to a Lebanese 187


Christian family and immigrated to and settled in Cairo where she died in 1936. Although both played active ‘public roles’, they defined themselves quite differently. Nasif considered herself first and foremost wife, then ‘social worker’ and devoted much of her time to the reform of women’s education both at home and in the public schools. Ziyada, on the other hand, saw herself and was seen as an artist whose material was language, adiba. In fact, she consciously distanced herself from feminist movements even in writing about Nasif’s feminist activities. She devoted her life to ‘literary’ pursuits, writing her own works in Arabic or French or translating into Arabic works written in French or German. Both ran ‘public gatherings’ out of their homes. While Nasif’s gatherings were for women alone, both Western and Eastern, and where conditions of women in general and Egyptian women in particular were discussed, Ziyada’s gatherings were part of an ‘international’ literary Salon where ‘intellectuals’, both men and women, gathered to discuss the current literary and cultural issues. Their apparent similarities were perhaps the impetus for Ya‘qub Sarruf to invite Ziyada to write about Nasif shortly after Nasif’s death in 1918 and to compare her views on the ‘liberation of women’ to those of Qasim Amin, author of Tahrir al-mar’a (‘Liberation of Women’ 1899) and al-Mar’a al-jadida (‘The New Woman’ 1900). Responding positively to Sarruf, Ziyada wrote a ‘biography’ of Nasif, which she called Bahithat al-badiya, a pen name Nasif used in her publications, and which Sarruf published serially in al-Muqtataf. Ziyada chose to write about Nasif in the form of a ‘biography’, at least according to scholars of Egyptian women in the modern period and Egyptian feminists. Marylin Booth, in her 1991 article ‘Biography and Feminist Rhetoric in Early Twentieth Century Egypt: May Ziyada’s Studies of Three Women’s Lives’ for Journal of Women’s History, for example, traces Ziyada’s works generally to the women’s biographical genre prevalent in women’s journals of the 19th century and early 20th century, and to Maryam Nahhas’ (1856–1888) Ma‘rid alhasna’ fi tarajim mashahir al-nisa’ (1879) and Zaynab Fawwaz’s (1860–1914) al-Durr al-manthur fi tabaqat rabbat al-khudur (1894) in particular.7 Booth’s criteria for constructing such a genesis for Ziyada’s three works include, among others, notions of genre and gender: she places a work she considers ‘biographical’ in the 188


historical context of women’s writing about women and then delineates the feminist agenda in these works. I have no problem with her reading of these texts and, on the contrary, agree with it. I would however, question the two ‘articulated categories’ used in her analysis. Ziyada’s ‘biography’ of Nasif differs from contemporary ‘biographies’ in more ways than it resembles them. Although she begins with a synopsis of Nasif’s life and ends with a synthesised assessment of her works, Ziyada does not follow the conventions of written biography as she did in Warda al-Yaziji and ‘A’isha Taymur. There is no section on Nasif’s life, on the environment which influenced her thinking or on how her life and social milieu informed her works. Rather, she begins with her first meeting with Nasif (Kayfa ‘araftuha), then goes into seven layers of her subject’s identity: Nasif as woman, as Muslim, as Egyptian, as writer, as critic and, finally, as reformer, and ends with a comparison and contrasting of Nasif’s ideas on the ‘modernisation of Egyptian women’ with those of Qasim Amin. What sets this work apart is the author’s personal tone and explicit engagement in dialogue with Nasif throughout her narrative, attributes that remain uncommon even today. The boundaries of ‘biography’ are extended. Although Bahithat al-badiya belongs to the genre ‘women writing about women’, a genre in which gender solidarity provides an important basis for Ziyada’s discussion of Nasif; she is, after all, interested in her subject’s views on Woman’s role in reforming women’s condition. This solidarity is undermined, however, by Ziyada’s ideological ‘loyalty’ to Qasim Amin’s agenda. She concludes in the final two chapters that despite apparent differences – Amin being labelled as ‘secularist liberal’ and Nasif as ‘Muslim conservative’ – they operate out of the same ‘ideological’ framework where Eastern women are concerned, to the extent that Ziyada insists that Nasif is Amin’s daughter in thought and courage, and his disciple in calling for improvement in women’s conditions (135). Unlike most feminists, who link the emergence of feminists’ consciousness and movement to women, such as Zaynab Fawwaz, Ziyada attributes the beginning of the women’s reform movement to a man, Qasim Amin. By asserting that Amin is the ‘master’, Ziyada expresses her preference for Amin’s version of the ‘feminist agenda’ to that of Nasif’s, even 189


though the only important difference was that of mandatory unveiling, which Nasif opposed. If the difference is so ‘superficial’, as Ziyada herself states, why does Ziyada identify with Amin? In each of the seven ‘chapters’ of the biography, Ziyada questions and occasionally undermines Nasif. In Chapter 1 ‘Nasif the Woman’ while Ziyada lauds Nasif’s criticism of ‘Islamic’ polygamy and divorce, she also describes her as ‘content with the room in which she lives, the quarter among whose houses she walks, and the environment of which she is part’ (32). Despite Nasif’s claim that she was tired of men patronising women, she concerned herself with the three stages of her life: a daughter (to her father), a wife and mother. In Chapter 2, ‘Nasif the Muslim’, Ziyada takes Nasif to task for Nasif’s criticism of ‘dancing’ and how that can taint a woman’s honour. Ziyada identifies herself as a westernised woman, modern and unveiled, and refutes that dancing had anything to do with honour. She defends missionary schools against Nasif’s attack ‘that they produced frivolous pupils who knew not their own history and culture, but European affectation and music.’ Here Ziyada, identifying herself as a product of missionary schools, asserts that despite her educational background, she knows more than just playing the piano. In Chapter 3, ‘Nasif the Egyptian’, she questions Nasif’s inhospitable attitude towards non-Egyptian, Europeanised women, who, even though married to the best Egyptian men were of doubtful loyalty to Egypt. Ziyada later asserts that Amin was an Egyptian patriot despite his Kurdish origin and stakes claim for herself as a naturalised Egyptian. It seems clear then that Ziyada’s biography of Nasif contextualises the identity politics in which Ziyada was herself engaged. As a Western-educated, westernised Levantine Syrian and middle-class Christian woman living in turn-of-the-century Cairo, at a time when anti-Syrian sentiments were at an all-time high,8 Ziyada in fact, negotiates the legitimacy of her own identity and by extension, her role in Egyptian public life. The source of this legitimacy is the prevalence of Amin’s ideology, translated into a political and social agenda by Ahmad Lutfi al-Sayyid and his entourage in al-Jarida: an agenda that called for reform within a Western framework and was inclusive of non-Egyptians. This is not a problem faced by Nasif’s other, Egyptian biographers. As a woman, Ziyada is sympathetic to Nasif’s causes, as an immigrant 190


she must claim Egypt as home. As a Christian, she must defend her faith and as a westernised individual, she has no choice but to argue for the superiority of the West. Ziyada’s narrative conveys ambivalent messages and transcends many of the paradoxes critics and theorists have devised. If we apply the paradox of subjectivity, ‘self’ and ‘other’, along gender lines, we see that she identifies with Nasif as woman only when ‘ideology’ permits, and defines Nasif as ‘other’ when religion and ‘nationality’ become an issue. Similarly, she sets men as ‘other’ where women’s oppression is concerned but as ‘self’ when a woman’s feminist agenda excludes her as a possible participant. We see the same when we examine the paradox of ‘East’ and ‘West’: she obviously defines herself as ‘Eastern’ and as such is more closely identified with Nasif than with Cooper, but when her westernised way of life is criticised, East suddenly becomes ‘other’ and Nasif is reduced to conservative, even fanatic, Muslim woman. Articulated categories such as gender and ‘Orientalism’ and their inherent paradoxes – male and female, East and West – in this example, collide, collude and diverge; as discourse on gender, the narrative advances a feminist agenda, as discourse on East–West encounter, the text betrays traces of ‘Orientalism’, and as discourse on political ‘ideology’, this biography legitimates Amin’s secular liberal framework for political and social action. Ziyada expands on her own subjectivity and distorts Nasif in favour of own womanhood. Her ‘biography’ of Nasif is selfrevealing but reductive of her subject, thus objectifying Nasif. In other words, we learn more about Ziyada than about Nasif. It is thus not surprising that limiting Ziyada’s work on Nasif to a genre becomes arbitrary: is it ‘biography’ or ‘autobiography’? The same may be said of all biographical writings on Nasif; these are, to varying degrees, more revealing of the subjectivity of the narrator than of the subject of the narrative, or the narrated, even though the urgency of this kind of identity politics – a rhetoric of you or me – is softened by their historical distance from the subject of their discourse – a luxury the contemporaries of Nasif, Cooper and Ziyada, could ill afford. This finding has important consequences on our understanding of Arab womanhood. For one thing, it is contested territory. The shape of this territory depends on who is mapping it and on what his or her discourse on identity involves. Despite 191


the complexities involved in reading narratives of Arab womanhood, it remains possible to construct pretty complex and multiple maps of this womanhood. This explains somewhat the title of this paper – mapping Arab womanhood. Arab womanhood is landscape upon which various narratives (sic) vie to provide contour and colour. The gerund form, mapping, is used intentionally to show the process of defining Arab womanhood is ongoing. More importantly, if reading and writing are nothing more than random discourse on subjectivity, it is all the more critical that we be aware of what is involved in both processes and so lessen the tyranny of subjectivity, whether reading or writing, over our own narratives.

Notes 1

2

3

Such as, The Harim and the Purdah: Studies of Oriental Women (1915), The Love Letters of a Chinese Lady (1919), My Lady of the Chinese Courtyard (1920). Edward Said, Orientalism, New York: Pantheon Books, 1978. See also, Edward Said, Beginnings: Intention and Method, New York: Basic Books, 1975; The World, the Text and the Critic, Harvard University Press, 1983; and Culture and Imperialism, New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1993. There is an abundance of material on the subject of women and gender in the Middle East. See, e.g., Lila Abu Lughd, Veiled Sentiments: Honor and Poetry in a Bedouin Society, University of California Press, 1986; Writing Women’s Worlds: Bedouin Stories, University of California Press, 1993; Lila Abu Lughd, ed., Remaking Women: Feminism and Modernity in the Middle East, Princeton University Press, 1998; Evelyne Accad, Sexuality and War: Literary Masks of the Middle East, New York University Press, 1990; Leila Ahmed, Women and Gender in Islam, Yale University Press, 1992; M. E. Combs-Schilling, Sacred Performances: Islam, Sexuality, and Sacrifice, Columbia University Press, 1989; Saddeka Arebi, Women and Words in Saudi Arabia: The Politics of Literary Discourse, Columbia University Press, 1994; Margot Badran, Feminists, Islam, and Nation: Gender and the Making of Modern Egypt, Princeton University Press, 1995; Beth Baron, The Women’s Awakening in Egypt, Yale University Press, 1994; Beth Baron and Nikki R. Keddie, eds., Women in Middle Eastern History: Shifting Boundaries in Sex and Gender, Yale University Press, 1992; Lois Beck and Nikki Keddie, eds.; Women in the Muslim World, Harvard University Press, 1978; Elizabeth 192


4

5 6

W. Fernea, ed., Women and the Family in the Middle East: New Voices of Change, Austin: Texas University Press,1985; Fatma Müge Göçek and Shiva Balaghi, eds., Reconstructing Gender in the Middle East: Tradition, Identity and Power, Columbia University Press, 1994; Shahla Haeri, Law of Desire: Temporary Marriage in Shi‘i Islam, Syracuse University Press, 1989; Fatima Mernissi, Beyond the Veil: Male-Female Dynamics in Modern Muslim Society, Indiana University Press, 1987, and The Veil and the Male Elite: A Feminist Interpretation of Women’s Rights in Islam, AddisonWesley Publishing Company, 1987; Fedwa Malti-Douglas, Woman’s Body, Woman’s Word: Gender and Discourse in Arabo-Islamic Writing, Princeton University Press, 1991 and Men, Women and God(s): Nawal El Saadawi and Arab Feminist Poetics, University of California Press, 1995; Karin van Nieuwkerk, ‘A Trade Like Any Other’: Female Singers and Dancers in Egypt, Austin: Texas University Press, 1995; Leslie P. Peirce, The Imperial Harem: Women and Sovereignty in the Ottoman Empire, Oxford University Press, 1993; Julie M. Peteet, Gender in Crisis: Women and the Palestinian Resistance Movement, Columbia University Press, 1991; Bouthaina Shaaban, Both Right and Left Handed: Arab Women Talk about Their Lives, Indiana University Press, 1991; Elizabeth Thompson, Colonial Citizens, Columbia University Press, 2001; Judith Tucker, In the House of the Law: Gender and Islamic Law in Ottoman Syria and Palestine, University of California Press, 1980, Women in Nineteenth Century Egypt, Cambridge University Press, 1985; Judith Tucker and Nashat Guity, eds., Arab Women: Old Boundaries, New Frontiers, Indiana University Press, 1993; Judith Tucker and Margaret L. Meriwether, eds., Social History of Women and Gender in the Modern Middle East, Boulder: Westview Press, 1999; Wiebke Walther, Women in Islam from Medieval to Modern Times, Princeton & New York: Markus Weiner Publishing, 1993; Unni Wikan, Behind the Veil in Arabia: Women in Oman, The University of Chicago Press, 1991. Such as, al-Awaj, 2 vols. Beirut: Mu’assasat al-Risala, 1977, al-Talaq, 2 vols. Beirut: Mu’assast al-Risala, 1977; al-Hubb, Beirut: Mu’assasat alRisala, 1978; al-Mar’a fi ‘alamay al-’Arab wa l-islam, 2 vols. Beirut: Mu’assasat al-Risala, 1978–1979, and al-Mar’a fi l-qadim wa l-hadith, 3 vols Beirut: Mu’assasat al-Risala, 1979. These are respectively the first ten volumes of a series by the same publisher called Silsilat albuhuth al-ijtima‘iyya. See, e.g., Fatima Mernissi, The Forgotten Queens of Islam, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1993. See also Huda al-Saddah, Sumayya Ramadan and Umayma Abu Bakr, eds., Zaman al-nisa’ wa l-dhakira al-badila, Cairo: Multaqa al-Mar’a wa l-Dhakira, 1998. 193


7 8

See also Marilyn Booth, May Her Likes Be Multiplied: Biography and Gender Politics in Egypt, University of California Press, 2001. See Zachary Lockman, ‘The Egyptian Nationalist Movement and the Syrians in Egypt’, Immigrants and Minorities, 1984, 233–251.

Bibliography Booth, Marilyn. ‘Biography and Feminist Rhetoric in Early Twentieth Century Egypt. Mayy Ziyada’s Studies of Three Women’s Lives,’ Journal of Women’s History 3, Spring 1991, 38–64. Cooper, Elizabeth. The Women of Egypt, London: Hurst & Blackett, 1914. Kahhala, ‘Umar Rida. ‘Malak Hifni Nasif,’ A‘lam al-nisa’, Damascus: alMatba‘a al Hashimiyya, 1959, 5: 74–101. _________ Al-mar’a fi ‘alamay al-‘arab wa l-islam, 2 vols, Beirut: Mu’assasat al-Risala, 1978–1979. __________ Al-mar’a fi l-qadim wa l-hadith, 3 vols, Beirut: Mu’assasat alRisala, 1979. Lochman, Zachary. ‘The Egyptian Nationalist Movement and the Syrians in Egypt,’ Immigrants and Minorities 3, 1984, 233–251. Lowe, Lisa. Critical Terrains: French and British Orientalisms, Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1991. McClintock, Anne. Imperial Leather: Race, Gender and Sexuality in the Colonial Context, Newark, London: Routledge, 1995. Melman, Billie. Women’s Orients: English Women and the Middle East, 1718–1918, Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 1992. Mitchell, Timothy. Colonising Egypt, University of California Press, 1991. Nasif, Majd al-Din. ‘Bahithat al-Badiya,’ Athar Bahithat al-Badiya, Cairo: Wizarat al-Thaqafa wa l-Irshad al-Qawmi, 1962, 37–68. Al-Qalamawi, Sahir. ‘Malak Hifni Nasif,’ Athar Bahithat al-Badiya, Cairo: Wizarat al-Thaqafa wa l-Irshad al-Qawmi, 1962, 6–36. Al-Saddah, Huda. ‘Bahithat al-Badiya,’ Al-nisa’iyat, Cairo: Multaqa alMar’a wa l- Dhakira, 1998, 6–33. Al-Sayyid, Ahmad Lutfi. ‘Muqaddima,’ Al-nisa’iyat, Cairo: Multaqa alMar’a wa l- Dhakira, 1998, 42–46. Al-Zirikli, Khayr al-Din. ‘Bahithat al-Badiya,’ Al-a‘lam, Cairo: al-Mu’allif, 1954–1959, 8: 217–218. Ziyada, Mayy. Bahithat al-Badiya: dirasa naqdiyya, Al-mu’allafat al-kamila, Beirut: Mu’assasat Nawafal, 1975, Vol. 1, 9–230. Originally published as Bahithat al Badiya: bahth intiqadi, Cairo: 1920.

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CHAPTER 11

Male Author, Female Protagonist: Aspects of Literary Representation in Reşat Nuri Güntekin’s Çalkuşu Stephan Guth

The novel Çalkuşu (‘The Wren’) by Reşat Nuri Güntekin (1889–1956), is not generally counted among literary works of high aesthetic quality, not even by native critics. Histories of modern Turkish literature neverth-less, give it quite a prominent place1 because of its enormous popularity.2 Its publication in 1922 was a sweeping success and ensured the author’s breakthrough, even though he had already written a number of short stories, two other novels and two plays.3 Çalkuşu was first serialised in Vakit and published immediately following in book form. The 450-page volume went through several editions within only a few years, becoming something of a ‘cult book’ for the youth in the early years of the Turkish Republic.4 Atatürk himself is said to have read it with fascination while at the front during the Kurtuluş Savaşi, the ‘War of Liberation’5 that would peak that very same year. Çalkuşu is then a document whose importance lies in the fact that it was able to offer the readers of the early 1920s a story through which many could see themselves represented in literature. As a novel it is worth considering not so much for its doubtful literary merit, but as a literary representation of a more general discourse that extends beyond the work as literature. Before considering the process of literary representation, a short glance at the events of Reşat Nuri’s novel would be useful to understand the imagery used in that work. 195


Contents Çalkuşu is known to have been written as a play to be performed, under the title, Istanbul Kz (‘A Girl from Istanbul’), at the Darulbedayi’ theatre; it was rejected however as ‘unstageable,’ whereupon Reşat Nuri rewrote it as a novel.6 Its rejection by the theatre was due mainly to the fact that the principal events take place not in the late Ottoman Empire high-society world of decadent luxury and pomp which, at that time, was so much favoured by the theatre directors and the Darülbedayi’ public alike,7 but in far away Anatolian villages and provincial towns, where the novel’s heroine, Feride seeks refuge after suffering a serious crisis. Feride is the daughter of a military officer and an Istanbul lady. Early in life she is orphaned. Nevertheless, she is brought up in the comfortable environment of her relatives, the well-todo Istanbul circles of governors, beys and paşas living in köşks and noble yals. On holiday from school, the prestigious Notre Dame de Sion8 directed by French nuns, she and her cousin Kâmuran fall in love and get engaged. Marriage is however postponed – Feride is still only fifteen years old, and Kâmuran is first made to seize the opportunity of receiving training for a job as a diplomat in Europe. He stays there for several years. On his return – Feride is now in her early twenties – the wedding day is fixed. Three days before this ‘ultimatum’, however, Feride is told by a mysterious ‘lady in black’ that Kâmuran, during a stay in Switzerland, promised marriage to another woman. Feride is shocked and runs away. The narrative now switches (in the earlier editions at least) from the third to the first person,9 the second (and main) part of the novel consisting of the diary entries in which Feride records what she experiences when, after her flight, she has to fight her way through and survive as an individual in contemporary society: a woman and an orphan who has broken off all connections with her relatives, without family support and fending for herself. The diploma of Notre Dame de Sion qualifies her to work as a teacher. In order to do so she must overcome many obstacles. The first obstacle involves, bureaucracy: for an inexperienced, naive girl, it is not difficult to get lost in the labyrinth of school administration and the maze of different sections of the Ma’arif 196

MALE AUTHOR, FEMALE PROTAGONIST

Nezâreti, the Ministry of Education, where she must apply for work and later when she is forced to leave one school to find a job in another. The obstacles present themselves in the form of corruption in the civil service, of arrogance among public officials and from the fact that, to get what you want, you need good contacts (which Feride does not have). Difficulties also emerge from Feride’s being a woman, moving around and trying to get established in a male-dominated system, which is, in itself, part of an overall patriarchal social system. The second set of obstacles with which Feride has to cope arise from the countryside itself. The bureaucrats send her, the Western-educated young Turkish upper-class woman raised in an environment of modern urbanity, to a remote and backward village in Anatolia, a far-away region known to most Istanbulites as a place of exile,10 where kuş uçmaz, kervan geçmez ‘neither a bird would fly nor a caravan pass by’.11 There, she has to adjust to both a miserable standard of living and the mentality of the poor and tradition-bound inhabitants. Eventually she is forced to do pioneering work with regard to the village children’s education. The third type of problem she encounters is rooted again in the patriarchal nature of society: since Feride is beautiful, men fall in love with her wherever she goes, even though she does nothing to encourage this. In her naivety, she does not even notice when men are courting her. Although she is herself decent and remains chaste, the mere fact that she becomes an object of male desire makes her a subject for gossip. Eventually she is repeatedly forced by circumstances, to flee those places where gossip and rumours label her a seductress of men and where she is no longer accepted as a teacher. In spite of such obstacles, Feride never loses her patience, her cheerfulness and merry outlook on life as well as her courage, love of liberty and desire for independence, innate qualities which have earned her, since she was at school, the nickname of Çalkuşu, the ‘Wren’ bird. In Kuşadasi she meets an elderly military doctor who, despite his coarse manners and crude language, is good-natured and sensitive and adopts Feride as his protégée. Society, however, starts gossiping again, and in order to end all those false accusations and relieve Feride from all the continued attacks on her honour, he convinces her that the only solution is to marry him – a 197


marriage on paper only, which does not change in any way the purely asexual father-daughter relationship between them. With the marriage, although it is only formal, Feride ends her diary because she feels that her life as a single individual has now come to an end. The rest of the story is quickly told: Feride’s husband Hayrullah Bey dies not long after the marriage, leaving all his fortune – which is quite considerable – to his wife, in this way ensuring that she will not be forced to earn her living again as an unprotected individual. Since he had noticed from the beginning that Feride in reality has never stopped loving her cousin Kâmuran despite all that she felt she had suffered from him, Hayrullah arranges that, after his death, Feride will meet Kâmuran and the young man will read her diary and know that she still loves him and that her virginity has not been compromised. After further delays, Kâmuran and Feride are united, Kâmuran’s lips finally find Feride’s and marriage follows – a real happy end!

Analysis and interpretation Feride, the New Woman At first reading, Reşat Nuri’s novel might be taken for a literary contribution to a period debate on the emancipation of women.12 After the first steps in the 19th century, the 1908 Young Turks’ Revolution initiated a number of new efforts in this field, a society for women’s rights had been founded before World War I, magazines designed especially for women (like Kadnlar Dünyas, ‘Women’s World’) had begun to appear, during the Balkan Wars women had started to work in the Red Crescent’s military hospitals and later also in the field of telecommunications and in factories of different kinds, in 1917 matrimonial law had been amended in favour of women. In fact, Feride represents exactly that type of New Woman which was being promoted by the social reformers of the age, including those of the Arab world like Qasim Amin: a woman must not be excluded from education or secluded within the home, a woman should know what life really means so she can perform her duties all the 198


better – duties that essentially remain unchanged, namely to serve in a male-dominated society, as wife, subservient companion, loving mother to her husband’s children, perhaps even as a loving teacher to other people’s children, or any number of other professions traditionally labelled ‘feminine’ because of the factor of ‘love’.13 Thus, the two occupations carried out by Feride, our novel’s idealised protagonist, are those of a teacher and a nurse, with the ultimate outcome of her experience of the outside world being voluntary and conscious surrender of her independence to enter her husband Kâmuran’s service. A reading focused on the question of feminine emancipation is also supported by a statement the author himself made in 1937 looking back at what he had had in mind fifteen years earlier: ‘At that time, cheerfulness and love of independence were not looked upon as good points in women.’ One was afraid that such women would become bad mothers and wives. ‘I wanted to show,’ he continues, ‘that a bit of education, a bit of merriness, lightness and love of independence are nothing to be worried about in a girl, and that such girls will prove, if necessary, that they are much more qualified to master difficult situations than all those dignified and virtuous ones.’14

Feride and personal/national identity The interpretation of the novel as a literary argument for a new feminine model hardly explains its vast popularity. There must be more to it than a set of problems that occupied the minds of a rather small, educated elite. Indeed, Sibel Erol has shown that the novel is concerned with a much more general problem; ‘the search for personal identity,’ she writes, ‘is pushed into a larger question of social and national identity.’15 This is done, she argues, by a number of powerful allusions to contemporary Turkey, such as the shifting of the scene – for the first time in a Turkish novel16 – to Anatolia, the mention of the War of Liberation (Feride for some time works as a nurse in a military hospital looking after wounded soldiers), or the blue eyes of Feride’s adoptive father, Dr Hayrullah, a clear allusion to the blue eyes of that other great ‘father’, Atatürk, himself a kind of ‘doctor’ for the so-called ‘Sick Man of the Bosphorus’. The novel’s high potential for personal identification also derives from the ‘dynamics of the narrative’ 199


which consists in a ‘crumbling and reconstitution of family’ as well as from the centrality of family itself through which ‘identity is defined’, as convincingly shown by Sibel Erol; in the course of the novel’s events, Feride’s adoptive family is replaced by a new family, one which is not simply given, but consciously chosen, based not on genetic or kinship relations but on spiritual and emotional affinity. The appeal of Güntekin’s work may also be appreciated in terms of the simplicity of its plot. The Encyclopaedia of Turkish Language and Literature, for instance, notices that the story is clearly derived from traditional love stories known from Divan literature (like Leyla and Mecnun or Ferhad and Şirin) as well as from folk literature (e.g., Kerem and Asl),17 archetypical stories of separated lovers, endured hardships and personal trials only to be re-united for a happy ending. Closer examination may even show that the plot structure of Çalkuşu follows exactly the scheme drawn up by Vladimir Propp for fairytales!18

Feride as the intellectual individual The novel’s attractiveness to a broad reading public has diverted the attention of earlier researchers, and until now our own, from the personality of the author, which is unfortunate, since I believe the novel’s great success is largely a matter of coincidence, especially since its major themes are neither woman’s liberation nor a search for collective identity, but mainly the author’s own very personal problems and self-glorification of the intellectual. If we consider for a moment the way in which the process of Feride’s emancipation is depicted, we notice that stress is laid not so much on her being a woman, but on her individuality. This is expressed clearly in her name, ‘Feride’ which in Arabic, farida, means ‘the unique, the exceptional one’. While she may be seen as a prototype for the New Woman, she is first and foremost an individual.19 Apparently, Reşat Nuri conceived women’s emancipation as a struggle of individuals against a hostile environment, which becomes evident from yet other elements of the text: Everything in the novel is centred around Feride, she is the narrative’s single pole and only focus.20 200


The author is interested in the way the individual subject experiences society as is evident from his decision to have the events told in form of a diary. The heroine is not an average girl but one who is different from the very beginning – different from the girls in her family, from her classmates and from her female fellow teachers. While the obstacles she must overcome are complicated by her being a woman, most of them are not gender-based (e.g., the inflated bureaucracy, the backwardness of the Anatolian hinterland, or the practice of social control through gossip). Feride’s most characteristic features all imply a tendency to differ from social norms: from the beginning, innate traits such as the child’s ‘uselessness/naughtiness’ (yaramazlk) and ‘unruliness’ (afacanlk) are underlined. Throughout the novel her childlike naturalness serves as a metaphor for her opting out of society, for her nonconformity and her disregard for taboos.21 The heroine’s exemplary nature not only derives from her patience, virtue, and courage, but also from her individual taste and creativity (she loves to paint,22 designs and sews her own clothes23 and she is hardly conventional, making rational decisions on a case-by-case basis.

We may therefore assume that Feride represents not only the new woman but also a class of Western-educated intellectuals estranged from society and struggling as individuals, somewhere in a ‘vacuum’ between the upper classes, from which most of them derived but from which they felt estranged (cf. the metaphor of Feride’s flight and break with her upper-class relatives), and ordinary people from whom they were separated through education (but upon whom they counted despite the social gap).24 We may also assume that Feride is representative of the author, who is himself a member of that intellectual class who considered themselves the nation’s teachers. They, like Feride, were convinced they had a mission to spread, since only they possessed the right knowledge that would lead the country into a better future. That the novel should be read, in the first place, as a clash between individual and society is also suggested by what I would like to call the ‘Arabian analogy’, i.e. the fact that the heroes of 201


Arabic novels of the same period mostly display the very same central problem (individual vs. society) as well as very similar narrative features.25

Male author – female protagonist The fact these early Arabic novels almost all have strong autobiographical traits leads one to look for such traits in Çalkuşu, and here too there is much to be noted:26 Güntekin’s father was a military doctor (like Hayrullah Bey, Feride’s spiritual father);27 The father’s appointments led the Güntekin family to move from place to place in Anatolia just as the child Feride and her mother followed the appointments of their father/husband in the Ottoman provinces; Reşat Nuri received part of his secondary education in the Izmir Frère’ler Okulu, a school run by Christian monks (Feride’s Notre Dame de Sion, we recall, is a Christian school run by French nuns); Following completion of his education, the author, exactly like his heroine, worked as a teacher all over Anatolia. Thus, the places abbreviated in the novel as ‘B.’ or ‘C.’ are very likely to be identified with Bursa and Çanakkale both of which Reşat Nuri knew very well;28 The state of affairs that Feride encounters in the educational bureaucracy is the same as the state the author himself had faced as a teacher;29 Most significantly, Reşat Nuri kept a journal of his experiences in Anatolia, as Feride does. (The author’s diary was published in two volumes much later, together with notes and reflections on Anatolia. The first volume appeared in 1936, the other in 1966, under the title, Anadolu Notlar, ‘Notes from Anatolia’.)

If the novel is basically a narrative dealing with the conflict between individual and society in general and, in particular, between the author himself and his environment, why then did Güntekin choose his protagonist to be female? Arab authors of that time, just like Reşat Nuri, tended to avoid ‘real’ autobiography 202


and transformed themselves instead into heroes of autobiographical novels; such transformations frequently appear to be motivated by an author’s fear of exposure as an antiheroic failure. They are unable to present stories of success, and the winner is more often society than the individual, just like in real life.30 One might imagine that this kind of situation had some affinity to the situation of women and that the choice of a female protagonist suggested itself. Arab authors however, appear unwilling to slip into the role of a woman; in order to dramatise the individual’s suffering in society, for them it may seem sufficient to simply stylise themselves as heroes of a novel. To project oneself as the hero of a novel one needs not change one’s sex. Why then would Reşat Nuri, who resists making the novel autobiographical – at least in the early stage – decide to adopt a woman’s role to express his concerns? The reason for this kind of ‘cross-dressing’ in literary representation is, without doubt, that the author found a female heroine more appropriate than a male hero to symbolise his own and his social group’s situation. What then led him to identify with the feminine cause? Sibel Erol has already pointed out that in Çalkuşu, masculinity, as inherited from traditional society, is associated with brutality and brutal male characters in the novel are connected in one way or another with the oppressive regime and legacy of ‘Abdülhamid.31 It is very likely therefore that the author saw himself and intellectuals like him as innocent victims of that patriarchal regime, a situation obviously more similar to that of women in traditional society than that of men.32 Intellectuals like Reşat Nuri, I suggest, see themselves as powerless and underprivileged, in a situation best rendered through the condition of a woman who, like Feride, suffers constantly the blows of quasi-fatal circumstances. Perhaps Feride’s naivety33 has its parallel in a kind of naivety, conceived of as ‘unmanly,’ among intellectuals unfamiliar with the mythical Anatolia in which they see the country’s future. Their suffering is an inner reality that seeks to reveal itself through storytelling; it is however a very private, intimate reality suitable for an intimate journal – a literary form traditionally classified as specifically female (as opposed to other forms belonging more to the ‘male’ or public sphere). In spite of all the suffering and the feeling of powerlessness, intellectuals like Reşat Nuri did not surrender themselves to 203


their fate; on the contrary, they offered a way out and sketched alternatives. In order to place themselves in opposition to a past rife with treachery and a present content to marginalise the educated individual, they make themselves advocates of honesty, tolerance, compassion and humanity and they draw the picture of a new society that integrates outsiders, a society based not on power, kinship or nepotism, but on love, mutual understanding and feelings of sympathy. It is for this reason, too, that a female protagonist must have seemed a more appropriate literary representation than a male character. Indeed, Feride’s character displays all of these qualities; she suffers heroically because she is sensitive, she is all feeling, interiority and self-sacrifice for the sake of others.34 Her virtues are absolute moral integrity and a personal humanity that reveals itself in her modest behaviour towards ordinary people (this is the uniting force between the intellectual and the uneducated, whether urban or Anatolian). She is compassionate and caring. Yakup Kadri, another famous author and social critic, even praised and thanked Reşat Nuri for having given the Turkish people a Turkish ‘Iphigenia’ or ‘Chimène’.35 Feride is the one who cares about children, especially marginalised children, the disfigured and poor. And she cares about orphans, a critical element in the story because it mirrors her own orphanhood and social abandonment, the very image the author chooses to represent the intellectual’s isolation. The qualities needed to build up and hold together a new society and its quintessential literary expression as the new family, are stressed over and over throughout the novel. These qualities are best expressed through Munise a poor village girl who Feride adopts and saves from life as an outcast. She and Munise form the nucleus of the new family, the girl profiting of course from this kind of integration, but also fulfilling the purpose of becoming Feride’s munise (Ar. Mu’nisa), i.e., ‘one who entertains with her company’. In this way Munise helps Feride overcome her own isolation bringing her into the society by assigning her the role of motherly leader. The intellectual then tries to overcome his isolation by reaching out. First he reaches out to ordinary people, the masses (Feride is shown breaking with her own social background, replacing it with a network of helpers from the lower layers of society, such as the elderly Armenian hotel servant, Hac Kalfa, and his ridiculously uneducated family, or the black nurse 204


Gülmisal, a former slave in a pasha’s household). The intellectual then turns to spiritual values to create a community of spiritual kinship, epitomised by Feride’s relationship with a colleague who is not only a music teacher but a composer and practising Sufi; the harmony between the two, the ‘secret spiritual bond’36 is so complete that they need no words to communicate: understanding comes about non-verbally, through silent glances, listening to music, or weeping together. The final reason for interpreting Feride’s character as the personification of the intellectual may be found in the following features of the novel: 1) Feride is adopted by the old blue-eyed military doctor Hayrullah Bey, and 2) she marries Kâmuran. On the surface, these acts of subordination to men can be interpreted as manifestations of the belief in an essential subordination of the female vis-à-vis the male (see above). We might however, ‘interpret’ this image to mean that the intellectual, too, longs to hand over responsibility to a superior leader and spiritual father, and only afterwards to a younger, chaste ‘cousin’, i.e. to Atatürk first and then to his heirs in the same way Kâmuran takes over from Hayrullah and assumes the latter’s legacy. ‘Yes,’ Feride the independent intellectual and feminine incarnation of Reşat Nuri Güntekin, says, ‘Yes, I almost enjoy paying obedience’.37

Notes 1

2

Cf., e.g., Türk Dili ve Edebiyat Ansiklopedisi [TDEA], vol. ii, Istanbul: Dergah, 1977, 111–113; Atilla Özkrml, Türk Edebiyat Ansiklopedisi [TEA], vol. ii, Istanbul: Cem Yaynevi, 1987, 311–312; Cevdet Kudret, Türk Edebiyatnda Hikâye ve Roman [TEHR], vol. ii: Meşrutiyet’ten Cumhuriyet’e Kadar (1911–1922), Istanbul: İnkilâp Kitabevi, 1987, esp. 313–330; Behçet Necatigil, Edebiyatmzda Eserler Sözlüğü, Istanbul: Varlk, 1989, 99; Mahir Ünlü / Ömer Özcan, 20. Yüzyil Türk Edebiyat, vol. ii, Istanbul: İnklâp Kitabevi, 1988, 88–89; cf. also Otto Spies, Die turkische Prosaliteratur der Gegenwart, Leipzig: Harrassowitz, 1943, esp. 64–65. The book’s popularity can be seen from the fact that not only was the book adapted for staging (Istanbul Şehir Tiyatrosu, 1962, 1963) but made into a film (in two parts, by Osman F. Seden, 1966). The book continues to be used as a schoolbook text. Cf. Kindlers Neues Literatur 205


Lexikon [KnLL], vol. vii, Munich: Kindler, 1988, 16, where additional references on both the author and his novels may be found. 3 Cf. Şükran Kurdakul, Şairler ve Yazarlar Sözlüğü, Istanbul: İnkilâp Kitabevi, 5th ed., 1989, 294. 4 Cf. TDEA, vol. iii, p. 419: ‘gençliğin ellerinden düşmeyen bir eser’ (a work the youth would not part with). 5 Cf. Seyit Kemal Karaalioğlu, Resimli-motifli Türk Edebiyat Tarihi, vol. iv, Istanbul: İnkilâp ve Aka Kitabevleri, 1982, 177. 6 Cf. TDEA, vol. ii, 113 (s.v. ‘Çalkuşu’). 7 Cf. TDEA, ibid. 8 This school was founded in 1856. Initially only Christian and Jewish girls were admitted, but from the beginning of the 20th century it was open also to Muslim girls. Turkish lessons were obligatory. The other subjects were taught in French, from 1918 onwards even in accordance with the syllabus effective in France. The boarding school was regarded as highly prestigious; it continued to be the educational institution preferred by higher officials and well-to-do circles for their daughters even in the Republican period. For this and similar schools, cf. the entry ‘Notre Dame de Sion Fransiz Kz Lisesi’ in (Dünden Bugüne) Istanbul Ansiklopedisi [IstAns], vol. vi, Istanbul: Kültür Bakanlğ ve Tarih Vakfi, 1994, 94–95. 9 In the first four editions, Feride’s diary (central part with the heroine herself as the first-person narrator) is framed between sections narrated in the third-person. For the 5th edition (serialised 1937–1939 in Yedigün magazine) Reşat Nuri rewrote the initial section as the protagonist’s first-person narrative. From the 6th edition onward the whole book took the form of a personal diary. Cf. Kudret, TEHR, vol. ii, 317. Unless stated otherwise, my references are to the 3rd edition (Der-i Sa’adet: Ikbal Kutubhanesi, 1343/1925) which is still more or less identical with the first. For the shape the novel took after the 6th edition I have consulted a modern ‘Turkified’ print (Istanbul: İnklâp Kitabevi, 37th ed., 1992). – TDEA, vol. iii, p. 420, lists translations into Serbo-Croatian (1925), Bulgarian (1931), and English (1949). I have seen only the translation into German by Max Schultz under the title Zaunkönig: der Roman eines turkischen Mädchens, Leipzig: A.H. Payne, 1942, which is based mainly on the second edition of the novel (Der-i Sa’adet: Ikbal Kutubhanesi, 1922). 10 Cf. Olcay Önertoy, Cumhuriyet Dönemi Türk Roman ve Öyküsü, Ankara: Türkiye Iş Bankas, 1984, 18. 11 Çalkuşu, 149. 12 Cf. Klaus Kreiser, Kleines Turkei-Lexikon: Wissenswertes uber Land und Leute, Munich: Beck, 1991 (Beck’sche Reihe BsR; 838, Aktuelle 206


13

14 15

16 17

18 19

20

21

22 23 24

Länderkunden), 67. For more detailed information cf. also, e.g., IstAns, vol. iv, s.v. ‘Kadn Dergileri,’ ‘Kadn Hareketi,’ ‘Kadn Örgütleri,’ ‘Kadn Yaşami,’ ‘Kadinlar Dünyas’. For Qasim Amin see, e.g., EI2, vol. iv, s.v. ‘Kasim Amin’ (U. Rizzitano); his theories are summarised by, e.g., Albert Hourani, Arabic Thought in the Liberal Age, 1798–1939, London: Oxford Univ. Press, 1962, 164–166. Interview in Yedi Gün, 24/12/1937, quoted in Önertoy, Cumhuriyet Dönemi Türk Roman, 20–21. Sibel Erol, ‘Güntekin’s Çalkuşu [sic!]: a search for personal and national identity,’ in: The Turkish Studies Association Bulletin 15, 1 (March 1991), 65–82. Cf. Erol, op. cit., 80. Cf. TDEA, vol. ii, 113: ‘Romanda konu bakmndan da bizdeki belli bir geleneğin sürdürüldüğünü görürüz’ (We see that thematically, too, a clear tradition of ours is continued in the novel.) Kudret calls Çalkuşu ‘a modern Kerem ile Asl,’ cf. TEHR, vol. ii, 314. Cf. Vladimir Propp, Morphologie des Märchens, ed. Karl Eimermacher, Frankfurt/M.: Suhrkamp, 1975. Cf. TDEA, vol. iii, 419: ‘Reşat Nuri, cemiyet içinde yaşayan ferdi ve ferdin iç dünyasn gözden kaçrmaz’ (R.N. does not fail to show the individual living in society and in the individual’s inner world.) Cf. M. (or N.?) Ziya Bakrcoğlu, Başlangcndan Günümüze Türk Roman. Yillara ve yazarlara göre romanmzn tarihi. Özet ve değerlendirme, Istanbul: Ötüken, 21986 [11983], 116: ‘Feride, baştan sona kadar olaylarn merkezindedir’ (Feride is at the centre of events from the beginning to the end), and 117: Çalkuşu ‘[…] yalnzca Feride’nin roman [dr]…Çalkuşu’nda bir’karş taraf’ yoktur denilebilir’ (…is only Feride’s novel … It can be said that there is no ‘counterpart’ in Çalkuşu). Clearly Güntekin is influenced here by Rousseau (natural vs. social state). The importance of this philosopher is evidenced within the novel by the fact that Dr Hayrullah loves reading his books and takes them with him even when moving to his country estate (çiftlik) (cf. Çalkuşu, 385, 449). Çalkuşu, 140, 249. Çalkuşu, 247. Still a child, Feride’s best friend is an ordinary soldier in her father’s service (cf. Çalkuşu, 15 f.). Later she admires, e.g., the women of the garrison town ‘C.’ because ‘they are faithful, diligent, sociable and simple-natured people, content with their life.’ (vefakâr, çalşkan, Hayatlarndan memnün, münis ve sâde: 281). Such people may be a 207


25 26

27 28

29

30

31

32 33

34

35

36 37

bit unpolished (kaba Òaba: e.g., 141, 351), but what matters is they are all good-hearted (iyi rühlu: passim). Cf., e.g., Hilary Kilpatrick, The Modern Egyptian Novel: a study in social criticism, London, Ithaca Pr., 1974, ch. 2 ‘The Pioneers’ (19–58). For biographical information on Reşat Nuri see – unless otherwise specified, always s.v. ‘Güntekin’ – Behçet Necatigil, Edebiyatmzda Isimler Sözlüğü, Istanbul: Varlk, 15th ed., 1993; Kurdakul, Şairler ve Yazarlar Sözlüğü (see fn. 3); Kudret, TEHR, vol. ii, 306–307; TDEA, vol. iii; Özkrml, TEA, vol. ii; İhsan Işik, Yazarlar Sözlüğü, Istanbul: Risale, 1990; Ünlü/Özcan, 20. Yüzyl Türk Edebiyat, vol. ii, 83–87. Further references are given in KnLL (see note 2). Spies in Die turkische Prosaliteratur, 65, thinks that Dr. Hayrullah was modelled on a close friend of the father’s. Cf. Erol, ‘Güntekin’s Çalkuşu’, 69, fn.3 (referring to N. Ziya Bakrcoğlu, Baslangcndan Günümüze Türk Roman, Istanbul: Ötüken, 1983, 112–113). Cf. TDEA, vol. ii, 113: ‘yazar, […] çok iyi tandğ eğitim ve Öğretim teşkilatn gözler önüne serer’ (the writer… shows the organisations of education and teaching which he knew very well). Cf. Stephan Guth ‘Why Novels – Not Autobiographies? An essay in the analysis of a historical development,’ in Writing the Self: autobiographical writing in modern Arabic literature, ed. Robin Ostle, E. de Moor, S. Wild, London: Saqi Books, 1998, 139–147. Cf. Erol, op. cit., 72. – The despotism of the period before the Second Constitution (II. Meşrutiyet) is a theme Güntekin also dealt with in other novels, cf. Önertoy, op. cit., 20. Cf. Erol, op. cit., 66–67. Cf. TDEA, vol. ii, p. 113: ‘Eser, romantik ve hayatn gerçeklerini hiç bilmeyen bir genç kzn macerasdr’ (The work is the adventure of a young romantic girl who does not know at all life’s realities.) For similar ways in which the educated middle-classes seek to express themselves through Arabic literature see my ‘Fa-ghawraqat ‘uyunuhum bi-d-dumu‘ – Some notes on the flood of tears in early modern Arabic prose literature’, in Encounters of Words and Texts: intercultural studies in honor of Stefan Wild …, ed. by Lutz Edzard and Christian Szyska, Hildesheim [etc.]: Olms, 1997, 111–123. Cf. Kudret, TEHR, vol. ii, 316, quoting Yakup Kadri (Karaosmanoğlu)’s obituary on Reşat Nuri: ‘Edebiyatmzn Büyük Kayb,’ in Tercüman, 14 December 1956). Çalkuşu, 348: ‘gizli ruh ‘alakas’. Çalkuşu, 385: ‘bu itâ‘at ‘âdeta hoşuma gidiyor…’

208

Part Four INDIVIDUAL AND COMMUNITY

CHAPTER 12

Marginalities in Palestinian Literature Two Case Studies: Imil Habibi and Tawfiq Fayyad Anna Zambelli-Sessona

I have lived that moment of the scattering of the people that in other times and other places, in the notions of others, becomes a time of gathering. Gatherings of exiles and émigrés and refugees, gathering on the edge of unlike cultures; gatherings at the frontiers; gathering without the margins; gathering in the ghettos or cafes of city centres; gathering in the half-life, half-light of foreign tongues, or in the uncanny fluency of another’s language; gathering the signs of approval and acceptance … gathering the memories of underdevelopment, of other worlds lived retroactively; gathering the past in a ritual of revival; gathering the present. Homi K. Bhabha, Nation and Narration, quoted in Richard Laurent Barnett ‘Transgressing Boundaries: The Poetics of Marginality’, L’Esprit créateur, Spring 1998, 38/1, 3

Introduction The phenomenon of marginality in literature has received everincreasing attention in the last few decades.1 Scholars have directed their attention to literatures either written at the margins of society2 – what Richard-Laurent Barnett calls ‘poetique des marges’3 – or written about marginal (or marginalised) characters.4 This chapter focuses solely on the latter element, marginal figures in literature, and analyses the complex phenomenon of marginality as developed in Palestinian 211


literature. It also considers how various Palestinian authors in different times and places use marginal characters to comment upon their people’s status and relative problematic issues. The chapter will focus on two specific writers, Imil Habibi5 and Tawfiq Fayyad.6 These authors have been chosen as representative of different situations and phases in Palestinian literature. Habibi is the best known writer of Palestinian literature produced in Israel, and belongs to its oldest generation. On the other hand, Fayyad is a more modest author, whose writings are mainly unexplored. His literary production is nonetheless a good example of the themes and the style for much of Palestinian literature. His personal history however, makes this author a good example of Palestinian literature produced within the Israeli context and in exile, where Fayyad has been living since deportation in 1974. From the writings of these authors, I have selected Habibi’s play Umm al-Rubabika (The Rag and Bone Woman) and two of Fayyad’s short stories, ‘Umm al-Khayr’ (‘The mother of Goodness’)7 and ‘al-Bahlul’ (‘The Idiot’).8 These works have been chosen for their content as they deal with characters that could be labelled, though for different reasons, as marginal. In the three works to be discussed, the marginality of the characters is used as a metaphor for the Palestinian experience. Habibi deals mainly with Palestinians in Israel. Fayyad treats the Palestinian tragedy in general terms, in ‘Umm al-Khayr’ and in ‘al-Bahlul’, the situation of West Bank Palestinians following the June War in 1967. The works chosen portray characters that are easily identifiable as literary types. World literature is brimming with characters marginalised because they are old, poor, diseased (as is the protagonist of ‘Umm al-Khayr’), and it is likewise full of fools and idiots (like the main protagonist in ‘al-Bahlul’).9 However, the specific nuance of marginality that one encounters in these works is that of a marginality brought about by one’s own community, which, in the case of Umm al-Rubabika and ‘al-Bahlul’, is itself a marginalised community. These characters are what Fiona PittKethley would describe as ‘low life’, an expression that should not be considered generically as ‘life among the lowest classes’, but as someone whom even ‘lowest classes’ would pity:10 a person whose marginality and lowliness mirror its own source equating 212

MARGINALITIES IN PALESTINIAN LITERATURE TWO CASE STUDIES

marginality as an outcome of social tension and marginalised people as the victims of such tensions. This is particularly evident in Umm al-Rubabika and in ‘alBahlul’, where the characters’ status conceals multiple layers of marginality. The first level of the characters’ marginality is being Palestinian under Israeli rule – one is a Palestinian in Israel, the other a Palestinian in a refugee camp on the West Bank. The second level of marginality arises from the characters’ existence as marginals among marginals – a Palestinian among Palestinians – marginalised by other Palestinians.11 In the case of Umm alRubabika a further layer is added in that the rag and bone woman is from ‘inside Palestine’12 as opposed to being a Palestinian in exile. In other words she is one among Palestinians who decided to ‘stay put’ after the foundation of the State of Israel and who consequently lived in physical and psychological isolation, cut off from the rest of the Arab world. Like most Palestinian literary production, the works analysed here stem from and stand for the Palestinian experience. I will try however, to consider Habibi’s and Fayyad’s writings as literary texts as well as documents of the Palestinian tragedy. The theme of marginality therefore will be treated not only for what it is metaphorically, but also and mainly for its textual transcriptions.

Solitary voices: the figure of Umm al-Rubabika13 This first section examines Imil Habibi’s play, Umm al-Rubabika, and discusses representations of its protagonist, Umm alRubabika, as a marginal character. Umm al-Rubabika is a theatrical adaptation of the homonymous short story ‘Umm alRubabika’, which is part of the collection/short story cycle Sudasiyyat al-ayyam al-sitta (Six Stories of the Six Days) published in 1968.14 Unlike the narrative version, the play has an uncertain editorial history and very few critics include it among Habibi’s works.15 The version of the play I use here is a typed manuscript dated 1992.16 I have divided my analysis into two parts. The first part deals with the character Umm al-Rubabika as she is portrayed in the play and investigates the thematic and formal attributes that describe Umm al-Rubabika. The second part considers differences 213


between the narrative and the theatrical versions and the impact of structure and discourse on representations of Umm alRubabika’s marginality. In this final part I borrow notions and terminology from the semiotics of theatre and from studies on intertextuality17 relevant in the context of my study. I decided to focus on the theatrical version of the story of Umm al-Rubabika, rather than the short story, because the former is a later work, and, besides being more detailed, includes the main narrative and thematic lines of the short-story text.

The reconstruction of contents Following the main lines of the short story, the play narrates the story of Hind, an elderly lady nicknamed Umm al-Rubabika. As her nickname suggests, the play’s character earns her living by buying and selling old things, especially objects left behind by Palestinians in 1948. Although active in helping people in difficulties, she is not well-liked by her community. This is because of her occupation, but also because she decided to stay in Israel after 1948 with her paralysed old mother and not follow her husband and children in the Diaspora. Her community does not understand her obstinacy in remaining, and assumes that there must be a secret love story behind it. As for its form, Umm al-Rubabika is a one-act monodrama. Hind/Umm al-Rubabika is the only character on stage. The action is set in a room located in the Wadi al-Nasnas, an Arab neighbourhood in Haifa. Inside the room, there are few objects: a wooden bench, an iron bed, some chairs, a mattress, some books on a shelf and two musical instruments — a daff and a dirbakka. The room has also a window that opens on to the street and an exit that leads to the stairs. The action consists entirely in the woman’s movements inside the room, from the window to the door, and her talking to herself and to some imaginary character. Many other sounds, however, can be distinguished in the background. The protagonist’s monologue, as a matter of fact, is often interrupted by noises coming from outside: a knocking on a door, steps on the stairs, indistinct murmuring. As for the protagonist, her voice often turns into sobbing, crying, screaming, or zagharid. 214


The time of the play’s action is not explicit. Nonetheless, indirect references given by the protagonist indicate that the events probably take place some time after the June War in 1967. As for the characters with whom the protagonist has imaginary dialogues, these can be divided into two different groups, according to their relationship with the protagonist. The first group comprises those characters who play or have played an important role in Hind’s personal life, such as her three children Husni, Hasan and Husniyya, the lover of her youth ‘Abdallah, and Zunuba the gypsy.18 The second group includes all those undefined characters to whom Hind/Umm al-Rubabika gives voice in her fictional conversations.

Umm al-Rubabika as a marginal character: formal and thematic strategies As mentioned above, the play is structured as a monologue. Hind/Umm al-Rubabika is the only speaking voice on stage. Except for the protagonist’s voice, only noises are heard. This monologue has many similarities with what could be described as an interior monologue or a stream of consciousness. In other words, it is more similar to the representation of the character’s inner thoughts, impressions and memories than to an articulated speech. Hind/Umm al-Rubabika’s monologue does not consist of arguments logically linked together, but rather of ideas connected in an apparently disorganised way. The protagonist jumps with no apparent order from recalling past memories, to singing popular songs,19 to quoting lines of poetry,20 to conversing with ghosts of the past or imaginary characters or even performing past conversations and events as if they were happening at present. Moreover, the discontinuous nature of her way of speaking is reinforced by her frequent use of proverbs and children’s nursery rhymes. This use of the monologue is the first sign of Umm alRubabika’s marginality and isolation. The protagonist is forced to speak alone because she has nobody else to speak to. Her community dislikes her and consequently isolates her. In addition, her solitary speech seems so rambling because this is one of the psychological implications of marginalisation and isolation. 215


Besides the use of a monologue as the play’s structure, many other contextual elements indicate the protagonist’s state of marginality and isolation from the very beginning. Most of these can be derived directly from the protagonist’s words and from the themes dealt with in the play. For example, she addresses those defined as al-Hadirin (‘those who are present’) and accuses them of having forgotten her. The protagonist says, I won’t stand up! My house has no doors and I don’t blame those who are absent. I blame those who are present and who have forgotten me (2).

The negative attitude that part of the community takes towards Umm al-Rubabika is also rendered in the text by the protagonist’s obsession with being spied upon. The old woman repeatedly refers to someone controlling her actions and her movements. For example, she expresses her paranoia by repeating things many times and throughout the play, such as in the following passages, I see you You keep watching me. They sit and wait. They sit and control my movements and my pauses (6).

and: I cannot raise my voice. They keep watching me (5).

The feeling of living under constant control and the consequent isolation are reinforced by the accusations made against the protagonist by her own people. For example they call her a traitor and someone mad for love. They have stopped calling her ‘the uncrowned queen of the valley’ and instead use the disparaging ‘rag and bone woman’. Social marginalisation also means social isolation for Hind/ Umm al-Rubabika, and consequently, loneliness. Her solitary condition however, is not only the simple direct consequence of being socially marginalised. Her loneliness in fact began with the Palestinian Diaspora in 1948. The state of abandonment in which she lives thus has numerous causes, both direct and indirect. On the one hand, she is alone because most of her family and friends have left. On the other, she is alone because the world with which 216


she was familiar disappeared with those who left in 1948. Seen within this perspective, loneliness and isolation are not just physical but mainly psychological conditions. The protagonist’s psychological condition is expressed in the text in two different ways. The first one is explicit and is constituted by the protagonist’s words on her condition and by her stating that ‘there is nobody left’. She says for example, [I am] like the forgotten well. I collect water from the roofs But there is no one to drink it (3,4). I was left alone. Myself, my treasures And the patience of Job (6, 9). There is nobody left. There is nothing but Hind, her treasures, and her memories (25).

As previously mentioned, Umm al-Rubabika’s isolation and loneliness is directly connected to the disappearance of a safe and familiar world as a consequence of the Palestinian Diaspora of 1948. This is particularly evident in the themes developed in the play. The protagonist, for example, often portrays exile and ‘returnees’. From her window she witnesses a strange phenomenon – the appearance of roving spirits.21 She describes one of these returnees as follows, A door shut in his face. He stands up and doesn’t give up Like a stubborn donkey. A man in the prime of his manhood Trim and dressed up He comes from afar as visitor. Across the bridge from Amman. Or perhaps even further. Where do you come from, son of our alley? From Kuwait or further? He stands still and bends his head. Who frightens you? You are not the dispossessor but the dispossessed (4).

Exile is also strictly connected to the memory of a positive past. This is a period that is linked to the joy of childhood and the 217


thoughtlessness of youth in the protagonist’s mind. For example, the loss of past serenity is symbolised by the protagonist’s appeal to her lost beauty, Come back beauty! Because these fires have burnt my hair, And made them look old (16).

The joyfulness of the past is even more striking if one considers the changes which have occurred in the present time and which seem to be decidedly negative. Umm al-Rubabika reveals how popular imagination and myths have changed as a consequence of the present state of continuous war, and makes the following comments when recalling the figures of Abu Jamila, a kind of jester, and Umm Ra’ida, a sort of Arab ‘bogey-person’, We loved Abu Jamila and his scaly cloth We loved Umm Ra’ida and her rain showers, But now, what’s left? If we had to hear the noise of the scales, we would think of a tank. If we had to hear a thunder we would say a cannon-shot (13).

At other times, the juxtaposition of a positive past with a negative present is expressed by the protagonist’s indication of the evils of her society. The protagonist describes a present characterised by physical and physiological abuse, and serious economic hardship. Moreover, there is no real way out. The future, in fact, will probably lead to a worsening of the situation. As clearly indicated by the protagonist’s words, Tomorrow morning, there’ll be a curfew And the bullets will pour down like heavy rain The morning of the day after tomorrow, there will be a strike And the bullets will pour down like heavy rain (30).

Literary continuities/discontinuities between Umm al-Rubabika the play and ‘Umm al-Rubabika’ the short story Although the play Umm al-Rubabika is based on the homonymous short story published in 1968, it is not merely a theatrical adaptation of the narrative version, but rather evolves and amplifies it. 218


There are two elements in the short story that foreshadow a possible future development of the story as told. The first one is constituted by Umm al-Rubabika giving the narrator a bundle of old papers that could solve the mystery behind her decision to stay in the valley and thus in Israel. The second is the narrator recalling an episode of his childhood. The narrator remembers how his grandmother used to tell him stories at bedtime. He never got to listen to the end of the stories, however, because he would fall asleep before they were finished. As a consequence of this, he started calling them ‘tales without a tail’ — stories without an end. Although the character of Umm al-Rubabika shares many of the same elements in both the short story and the play and is portrayed as ‘marginal’ in both texts, the two texts represent the woman’s marginality in very different ways. The first element is focalisation,22 the point of view from which the story is told and the elements on which it focuses. In the short story the events are not recalled by Umm al-Rubabika herself, but by an external narrator. This person tells the story of the ‘rag and bone woman’ to defend her from the malicious gossiping tongues of the community, as stated in the opening lines of the short story: ‘Why are you muttering now about Umm al-Rubabika, in the street of the Valley in Haifa […]? It’s absurd!’ (81). The description of the elements that define the character as marginal are thus filtered through the sympathetic attitude that the narrator has towards the old woman. The short story focuses more on the description of the good qualities of the character and less on the implications that marginality and isolation may have in her life. In a way, there is no psychological introspection. The narrator addresses the community as if it were saying: ‘You are wrong as far as Umm al-Rubabika is concerned because instead of being that which you accuse her, she is so and so’. Her marginality is then mentioned when it can be counterbalanced by one of her positive qualities. The following extract shows this very clearly: She used to live on whatever money she made from selling furniture. She’d offer you coffee and refuse all your gifts. If you broached the subject of poetry, she’d enter into the discussion. You used to rush to finish a line if she could only remember the first half of it, and when she recited a whole line and broke the meter, you all murmured malicious compliments. If 219


you started talking about politics, no one was quicker than she to show her keenness or want to do something useful. If one of you were put in prison, she’d be in there visiting you before your own mother got there, bringing in food and washing your shirts (83).

By contrast, in the play there is no narrator and thus no external sympathetic intermediary. Umm al-Rubabika does not try to defend herself. She even admits that among the reasons for staying in Israel was the love she felt for one of her childhood friends. In order to define the second element that distinguishes the play from the short story, I refer to a notion used in theatre semiotics and known as ostension. I use here the definition given by Keir Elam in his The Semiotics of Theatre and Drama, which is very useful in this context especially because it is based on the differences between theatre/drama and narrative in general. Elam defines the notion of ostension as follows: One final observation may be made about theatrical semiosis which further distinguishes it from the signifying modes of most other arts, particularly literature. Theatre is able to draw upon the most ‘primitive’ form of signification, known in philosophy as ostension. In order to refer to, indicate, or define a given object, one simply picks it up and shows it to the receiver of the message in question.23

In the play, Hind/Umm al-Rubabika’s marginality and isolation are not narrated and described, as happens in the short story,24 but rather are acted out on stage. The protagonist’s marginal state is not simply informed by what she says about her condition. It is also represented by non-verbal signs, such as the protagonist’s behaviour, body language, gestures and movements as described in the stage directions. Umm al-Rubabika never simply speaks, she either cries, shouts, screams, or laughs. Her behaviour is described as hysterical, painful or sad. Her actions consist of her constantly moving from one side of the room to the other, from the window to the door. These movements are either excessively slow or fast. The third element of literary continuity/discontinuity presented here is the name of the protagonist. In the short story the central character is simply referred to as ‘Umm al-Rubabika’, while in the play she is defined in the introductory description of the stage as ‘Hind, Umm al-Rubabika’. Naming the play’s 220


character as ‘Hind’ creates an immediate intertextual link between this work and another short story by Imil Habibi. Hind, in fact, is also a character in the short story ‘al-Nuriyya, unshuda fi thalatha maqati‘’ (‘The Gypsy, Song in Three Movements’). The intertextual relation between these two works is reinforced by re-using other characters of the short story and by reproducing some of its passages. It is by means of one of these quotations that Hind/Umm al-Rubabika defines herself, and highlights the contrasts of what she used to be — what I defined above as ‘positive past’ — and what she is now — the ‘negative present’. She says, I’m Hind! Hind the dark one, the daughter of the baker. Even Zunuba the gypsy used to envy my beauty. I used to collect round me more young men than Zunuba used to do with her tambourine (5).25

Re-using or ‘borrowing’ the name ‘Hind’ as a first name for the play’s character also means transposing the features of that character into the new work.26 This concept is particularly important if one considers that the condition of the ‘original’ Hind is very similar to the one described by Hind/Umm alRubabika, as may be inferred from the following extract of ‘alNuriyya, unshuda fi thalatha maqati‘’, I am Hind, the elderly wild herbs seller: – I am Hind, Zanuba, Hind the dark one, who used to work in the bakery. I used to collect more young man round me than your tambourine used to do. What mother, Zanuba, did not wonder about their son’s passion for taking the dough to the bakery?! I was that secret, Zanuba. As for now, my herbs only collect un-pierced piastres (43).27

Besides transposing Hind’s features and characteristics on stage, the intertextual links between the two works discussed here also transfer to the play the themes and motifs developed in the pre-text, and which mainly deal with exile, the negativity of the present juxtaposed to the positive past, the importance of memory that allows one to look positively at the future fully aware of the past. This transposition reinforces those elements that characterise Hind/Umm al-Rubabika’s condition as marginal, 221


by blending two characters and, consequently, two fictional worlds together. Giving the play’s protagonist two names can also have other functions, however. The name Hind – the real name – is the expression mainly used by the protagonist when referring to herself, often with positive connotations. By contrast, her nickname – Umm al-Rubabika – is the expression people use to address her and has negative connotations. The contrastive metaphorical value of the two names is often expressed in the play, by juxtaposing them and their connotations. The protagonist for example says, I am Hind the daughter of the baker! I am the destination [of the pilgrimage]! I am the sanctuary (al-mazar). […] After being the uncrowned queen of the Valley I became Umm al-Rubabika The vendor of old clothes God curse your father! (7) […] Haven’t you heard of the uncrowned queen of the Valley? Silence! The silence of the graves. So that there is calm that follows the tempest? So that there is remorse? God curse such times! You started to mutter against me and to call me Umm al-Rubabika. (She shouts) Old clothes for sale. Old saucepans for sale. Rusty coins for sale! I buy old, abandoned or stolen furniture. I mend them, paint them white and sell them. But I don’t sell my treasures. I am Hind, people! I am Hind, idiots! (15)

The juxtaposition between the significations of the name ‘Hind’ and those of the nickname ‘Umm al-Rubabika’ is particularly important when considering the final element of literary discontinuity that I discuss in this chapter, which is the difference between the short story’s ending and that of the play. 222


Although in both the short story and the play there is no real change in Umm al-Rubabika’s marginal status, the play has an unexpectedly positive conclusion, which is a surprising about-face. In the short story, the reader hopes for a positive development in Umm al-Rubabika’s condition, but there are no elements to indicate whether the narrator’s sympathetic stance will bring this about. In contrast, the play has a clear and positive turnaround, which corresponds to the protagonist’s change of attitude. Hind/Umm al-Rubabika stops complaining and acting out her marginality, and directs her attention to the positive elements in her life. The play ends with the following words: Ya ahl al-balad, ya ahl al-balad! My story is not finished! And there is still relish for life And I still have my treasure And I have my memories. I have my children And I have stories My beloved ones! Just pass on my greetings to him Do pass on my greetings to him And say to him: ‘Hind, the precious Guards with pride and sits on thorny paths Like our high mountains’ Whether they come or not I’ll be seated Here I’m sitting down (31).

Hind/Umm al-Rubabika sits down with complete acceptance of her condition. She distances herself from such this however, by addressing herself as ‘Hind’ and by adding to it the adjective ‘precious’. Moreover, she realises that her life is still worth living and the future still holds many opportunities. Nobody, in fact, can take away her pride, her memories, her hope, and her joy of living, and most of all, nobody can take her away from where she is, her country. The positive stance of Hind/Umm al-Rubabika’s final words is further amplified by the intertextual link that connects them 223


to another work by Habibi. Very similar words, in fact, are used in the short story ‘al-Kharaza al-zarqa’ wa ‘awdat Jubayna’, the fifth narrative piece of the collection Sudasiyyat al-ayyam al-sitta. The folktale protagonist, Jubayna, sings as follows, Oh birds that fly Over mountains high Tell my mother and father The precious Jubayna Tends geese And walks on thorny paths On mountains high And weeps. (102)

Although both Jubayna and Hind/Umm al-Rubabika walk on thorny paths – that is to say, they live in very difficult conditions – Hind/Umm al-Rubabika does not weep, or ‘tend geese’ subjugated by wicked masters as Jubayna does.28 On the contrary she guards with pride/honour or she guards the pride/honour of her country.29 Like Palestinian high mountains, the old woman is firmly ‘seated’ on her motherland.

Conclusions Several techniques relevant to the protagonist’s portrayal as a marginal character are employed in the play Umm al-Rubabika. Above, I discussed formal techniques – the use of the monologue as the play’s structure – and examined some of the themes and motifs – exile, a negative present juxtaposed to a positive past, etc. – all of which highlight the marginality of the play’s protagonist. In addition, I analysed the intertextual links between the play and the homonymous short story upon which it is based, and compared the play and the short story, ‘al-Nuriyya, unshuda fi thalatha maqati‘’. Furthermore, I pointed out how the literary continuities/discontinuities between the play Umm al-Rubabika and the short story ‘Umm al-Rubabika’ reinforce the marginal stance of the play’s protagonist and its positive about-face. Many critics have described the figure of Umm al-Rubabika as having a highly symbolic value. For instance, Ahmad Abu Matar highlights the character’s importance to the symbolic value of the short story as a whole by stating that ‘the symbolic thread in this 224


chapter [of Sudasiyyat al-ayyam al-sitta] is clear. After twenty years this mother […] still represents, on one hand, the firmness and the refusal to renounce one’s own country, and on the other, she is the country itself’.30 Shimon Ballas on the other hand, sees in Umm al-Rubabika as a symbol of the lost past, ‘Umm al-Robabeika [sic] symbolyse en quelque sorte l’attachement au passé irrevocable.’31 Although in different ways, both critics recognise the importance of the symbolic/metaphorical value inherent in the name ‘Umm al-Rubabika’. On the one hand, Abu Matar is concerned with the metaphorical significance of ‘Umm’, mother, and its implied reference to one’s motherland. On the other, Ballas examines the symbolic value of the name ‘Umm alRubabika’ and the working role it refers to. Hind/Umm alRubabika earns her living by buying and selling old things, but also collects objects in order to return them to their lawful owners, thus being the ‘guardian’ of her country, ‘Cette misérable gardienne de souvenirs représente, si l’on veut, la patrie qui souhaite que les souvenirs d’enfance poussent un jour les éloignés à rentrer.’32 The symbolic value of the double role hidden in Hind/ Umm al-Rubabika’s occupation, buying and selling old things and collecting souvenirs, could be further amplified. It could symbolise, on the one hand, the situation lived by the Palestinians who stayed in Israel after 1948 and refer to the fact that they had to live on what was left behind in order to survive, including not only material things, but also memories and tradition.33 On the other hand, it could suggest that their role, like that of Hind/ Umm al-Rubabika, was that of guardians. In other words, they functioned as human repositories of memories and traditions and at the same time guardians of their land. The symbolic identification of Hind/Umm al-Rubabika to the Palestinian community of Israel opens up a further reading, a metaphorical reading beyond the literary interpretation discussed above. Metaphorically, it is possible to see in the marginality of an individual, the marginality of a whole community, with the elements characterising the individual reflected on a more general level. Hind/Umm al-Rubabika’s marginalisation, for example, may represent the condition experienced by Israeli-Palestinians who are considered second- or even third-class citizens, while her 225


isolation echoes the Israeli policy of social segmentation and separation. The Israeli authorities tried, especially between 1948 and 1967, to limit contacts and connections between members of the various Palestinian communities. The use of the monologue may represent the inadequacy or the absence of a constructive dialogue between Israel and the Palestinians. Hind/Umm al-Rubabika’s obsession with spying and control suggests the policy of oppression exerted by the Israeli government over the Palestinian community in general. The character’s longing for her childhood and youth corresponds to the longing of the Palestinians for a period when Israel did not exist. Her reference to a continual state of war, suggests the ongoing Israeli–Arab conflict, while her being called a traitor could refer to the accusations that members of the Arab community in general and of the Palestinian community in exile in particular, made against those who remained in Israel. Her love for a man, one of the reasons for her staying in Israel, stands for the love of the country, a metaphor often used in Palestinian literature. Within the Palestinian context, therefore, the work discussed here acquires a specific political significance and carries a clear political message. In the play, the protagonist’s concluding words could be read as an appeal to her community. It is an appeal of hope – there are still many things that are worth living and fighting for. Palestinians have still their pride and their future. Considered in this light, the short story upon which the play Umm al-Rubabika is based, could also be interpreted metaphorically. However, if the message of the play is hope, in the short story the narrator refers to ‘active solidarity’. The short story ends with the following narrator’s remark, ‘And so this story will remain “without a tail” till you and I can write one for it together’ (86). Nobody can give a definitive end to a story except its own protagonists. In other words, together, Palestinians could write a different history.

Marginalities in Tawfiq Fayyad’s ‘Umm Al-Khayr’ and ‘Al-Bahlul’34 This second section deals with the two short stories ‘Umm alKhayr’ and ‘al-Bahlul’ by Fayyad, and is structured in three parts. 226


The first two parts deal separately with the short stories selected. In the third part I try to contextualise them and consider their position within the more general framework of Fayyad’s literary production and Palestinian literature. The two stories belong to two different collections published at a ten-year interval and can therefore give a more thorough insight into the writings of Tawfiq Fayyad. Moreover they can help us to understand the changes undergone in Fayyad’s style, and the themes he deals with, both of which changed substantially after he left Israel in 1974.

‘Umm al-Khayr’ ‘Umm al-Khayr’ narrates the story of an old woman of the same name which translates as ‘Mother of Goodness’. She was respected and loved by all the inhabitants of her village until one day a catastrophe befell her house. The snake, who many years before had killed her young husband, poisoned to death the rest of her family and infected Umm al-Khayr herself with a mysterious disease. Her limbs started swelling and her body was covered in blisters and festering sores. The village inhabitants, afraid of catching the disease, left their houses and sought refuge in the distant olive groves. Only old Hassan, the man to whom Umm al-Khayr’s father entrusted her when still a little girl, and who had always loved her, remained despite being himself infected by the disease. One day, while he was out in search of the medical herbs which he used to treat Umm al-Khayr, the old woman got up from her bed and ventured outside looking for Hassan; she was conscious and certain of death. When she saw the man walking towards her, two tears appeared from her eyes and she was magically transformed into an ancient gnarled trunk. The next morning two buds appeared from the trunk, and with the passing of time the trunk began to sprout branches. Each morning two tears would drop on to Hassan’s sores and two of his sores would heal. The story ends with the description of how Umm al-Khayr’s tree grew so much so that all the houses in the village were surrounded and contained by its branches. It is apparent from the brief summary I have given, that the short story ‘Umm al-Khayr’ is pervaded by an atmosphere of surrealism. The character of Umm al-Khayr is portrayed as a sort of supernatural entity and embodies the positive aspects of nature. 227


From the very beginning the figure of Umm al-Khayr is established as belonging to the legendary and ideal. When describing her physical appearance, the narrator compares the gleaming white scarf draped over her silver hair and falling squarely on her shoulders to ‘the pedestal supporting the head of a statue in eternal contemplation’ (52/208). Umm al-Khayr is described as a supernatural entity in whose presence ‘time stood still, and letters ceased to circulate’ (52/208). The magical nature of Umm al-Khayr is also associated with the idea of the earth. The narrator describes her using adjectives and expressions that semantically refer to nature/earth/land. Her face is round and has the colour of wheat (52), her smile is al-basma al-rabi‘iyya – ‘a spring smile’ (52). Hassan’s love for Umm al-Khayr is of the same nature as his feelings for the land. The parallel between Umm al-Khayr and the land progressively moves toward associating the woman to the idea of the country (baladuna). The equivalence between the two notions is first prefigured by statements such as faqad kulluna ma ladayha lana (52) (everything she owned belonged to us). And it is finally revealed in the following passage, where Umm al-Khayr’s house is described as containing both land and country: And on winter days and their cruel nights, when there was no meeting with the land for our fathers or grandfathers, then our good land and all its news would move to the house of Um (sic) al-Khayr. There the land met with the people around the fire. And despite the narrowness of its arches, the house of Um al-Khayr embraced all the land and hills of the village. Sometimes the house would grow around her warmth and then its arches would expand to contain our whole country…its summer and autumn, its winter and spring, an ever-young maiden, just like Um al-Khayr herself … night after night, and day after day (53/209).

The end of the idyllic union between Umm al-Khayr and the land/country coincides with her being lowered from a position of maximum respect/veneration to that of marginality and abandonment. The harmonious union between Umm al-Khayr and the land/country is abruptly interrupted by the appearance of a destabilising element symbolised by the snake. The snake infects Umm al-Khayr’s body with its poison and condemns her to a slow and terrible death. She succumbs to the snake because she and her friends have not been able to understand nature’s 228


warnings and follow their instincts. For example, we are told that shortly before the catastrophe befell Umm al-Khayr’s house the pigeons had stopped cooing and instead would spend all day hovering over the woman’s roof; the swallows had left their nests under the eves and had flown away. Umm al-Khayr, in spite of having noticed some bubbles floating on the surface of the milk jug, a detail that could have revealed the presence of the snake’s poison in the jug, decided to use the milk and thus caused the death of her relatives and infected herself. Marginalisation followed by final abandonment is a threestage process represented by the three words disease/fear/panic. Umm al-Khayr’s marginalisation starts with her being irremediably ill, is consolidated when the villagers experience feelings of fear and finally reaches its climax when fear turns into uncontrollable panic. The narrator describes how Umm al-Khayr’s fellow-villagers gradually abandon her, ‘day by day her gatherings became deserted apart from the woman who looked after her’ (56/211). The village children, who were the preferred targets of her love, were warned away from her house and started fantasising about her terrifying face or her blackened teeth with which she would eat them. Fear of getting infected leads the village inhabitants to light fires in front of their houses and in spite of the summer heat to ward off the disease. When the villagers’ fears turn into panic, they seek refuge in the olive groves where they stay until Umm al-Khayr’s death. The only exception is Hassan, her silent lover, who risks his life to care for Umm al-Khayr, and who is eventually rewarded and cured. The harmony between village and nature is re-established through the death of Umm al-Khayr. By offering the village her ultimate sign of devotion and affection, her life and humanity, she frees her people from the menace of the disease and re-establishes herself as a benign element of nature to whom the village’s protection is entrusted. Death as ultimate sacrifice and the snake as destabilising element are clearly biblical echoes. In Genesis, the break with initial perfect harmony, between humans represented by Adam, Eve, and God, is marked by a snake which tempts Eve and Adam and condemns them to carry the burden of ‘original sin’. In ‘Umm al-Khayr’ the harmony pervading the village comes to an end when Umm al-Khayr is bitten by a snake. 229


In the New Testament, the reconciliation, or at least the partial reconciliation, between God and human beings is achieved through the death of Jesus, who sacrifices himself in order to save people from their sins. Jesus’ death, like Umm al-Khayr’s death corresponds however to a rebirth; Jesus is resurrected and becomes immortal at the side of his father. As for Umm alKhayr, her death results in rebirth as an ever-growing tree, which in a way re-establishes her role in the village as a link with/ manifestation of nature. Besides the biblical echoes, the short story ‘Umm al-Khayr’ also evokes Arab folklore. The figures Umm al-Khayr and Hassan are for instance modelled on the folk Arab version of the legend of Ayub (Job) and his cousin and beloved wife Khadra. The intertextual link between the short story and the folktale is revealed in the narrative by Hassan’s use of the term ‘Khadra’ (the green) to address Umm al-Khayr and by his explicit reference to the similarities between Job’s story and Umm al-Khayr’s condition, as the following passage clearly shows, ‘Have all the people deserted the village, Hassan?’ Hassan smiled at her comfortingly, ‘As long as Hassan is with you, Khadra, no one has deserted it.’ ‘It is difficult to die, Hassan, when the people my heart loves are so far away. Do you think I’ll live, Hassan, and see them around me once again?’ ‘Easily Khadra … easily. Job almost died and got well, Khadra! After every suffering comes release … God is great!’ (57/212)

In the short Umm al-Khayr the theme of marginality is employed in connection with other traditional/recurrent themes in Palestinian literature, to comment allusively upon the tragedy that befell the Palestinian people in 1948. Furthermore, it strengthens and emphasises the theme of the land, the Paradise lost, and the idealised/mythical communion with the land/ country achieved through sacrifice and death.

‘al-Bahlul’ The story takes place in the Jenin refugee camp, and is set several months after Israel’s invasion of the West Bank in 1967. 230


The narration concentrates on the character of Salim al-Bahlul, the fool of the camp and portrays the incidents that lead Salim to rebel against the other men in the camp and the Israeli soldiers patrolling the camp. The relationship between Salim and the men in the camp is described in terms of mutual hatred and disparagement. Salim disparages the other men in the camp because of their passive attitude towards the Israeli occupation and because they never help rescue him when the soldiers beat him after he has spat on them or has insulted them. As for the men, the reasons for their hatred are diverse. The shaykh ‘Abd al-Rahman, for example, despises him because he is convinced that Salim’s madness is just a cover-up for his wanton playfulness. The shaykh moreover, is convinced that Salim is an atheist and communist who should be immediately expelled from the camp. Mahmud Abu Shanab (the Moustache) instead believes that Salim is a spy for the Jews. However, Salim is convinced that the men hate him because of the ‘privileged’ position he has among the women of the camp, and especially because of the close relationship he has with Fatmeh. The relationship between Fatmeh and Salim is described as shrouded in mystery. Some people think they are sister and brother, because of their resemblance. Others say Fatmeh was Salim’s childhood sweetheart and that he has followed her to the camp after the first exodus, in spite of her marrying another man. The tense relationship between Salim and the men in the camp comes to a breaking point when Salim decides to urinate on the backgammon players sitting in a camp café and one of them, Sa‘id Zar‘ini known as Abu Kirsh (Paunchy), chases him across the café roof with kicks and blows. Salim, after spending few days planning his revenge, finally decides to set an ambush for the Israeli soldiers, leading them to believe that Abu Kirsh has organised it. Salim hides behind the café and as soon as he sees the Israeli patrol appear, he throws a stone hitting one soldier on the head. The patrol car instantly comes to a halt. The soldiers leap from it and without questioning begin to beat the café’s customers. A few days after the incident at the café, Salim mysteriously disappears. Even Fatmeh, who blames herself for abandoning him after being ostracised by the refugee community, does not know where he is. Three nights after the discovery of Salim’s disappearance, the camp is awakened by the ricochet of bullets. 231


The soldiers are searching for the men who killed one of their number with an axe. Everybody in the camp thinks that Mahmud the Moustache, who had been arrested for the café ambush, has joined the fedayeen and killed the soldier. However in spite of Mahmud’s arrest, the camp is awakened again by the ricochet of bullets. Before the camp inhabitants can get out of bed, they hear a cry echoed through the camp, a voice calling ‘Fattuma’. Different versions of what happened are offered. Some say that Salim the Fool ‘had been bouncing like a tiger from one alley to the next, shooting the soldiers, striking them down’. Others said it was not Salim but Mahmud, who must have escaped en route to prison and returned to fight them. Still others insisted that it was neither of the two, but a trio of young men who moved like panthers, and could not be recognised because of the chequered scarves masking their faces, and with clothes the colour of sand and stone, they passed as noiselessly as the wind, some said (113/452). Another story is told by the Shaykh ‘Abd al-Rahman, however. The morning after the mysterious incident he was asked to go to the camp graveyard to recognise the martyr. When he got there he saw the face of Salim the Fool, ‘smiling, with a great halo of light shining from his forehead’. The short story ends with the narrator recalling what happened to Fatmeh after Salim’s death –the soldiers dragged her away by her unbound hair, after she came out from her house in response to Salim calling her name as he fell dying at her doorstep. In this short story, Fayyad employs the figure of the fool to comment upon the situation lived by Palestinians in the West Bank after the 1967 Israeli occupation. Emphasis is put mainly on two issues —the passive attitude of Palestinians towards the occupation and the oppressive presence of Israeli soldiers in the camp. The Palestinians living in the camp are described as passive figures that have adapted to the Israeli occupation. They spend their time at the camp café playing cards and backgammon and smoking the water pipe (All they did was play cards, instead of fighting the Jews, 443). Their concern for the Palestinians’ fate and for what happens outside the camp’s borders is superficial, and their behaviour reflects a complete lack of political consciousness, ‘Between the tumbling dice and the dealing of 232


cards, the Egyptian army was clashing with heavy cannons and machine guns along the Suez Canal […] The numbers of dead and wounded got all mixed up with the numbers of cards and dice’ (94/442–443). As for Salim’s attitude towards the Israeli soldiers, this is ambivalent. He seems unable to comprehend the significance of the Israeli presence in the camp generally and his feelings of hatred towards the Israeli soldiers are mainly personal – they disrupt his peaceful and happy life, To tell the truth, Salim never really thought about the problem of the occupation of the West Bank by the Jews and their refusal to withdraw from it. Only when the patrol drove wildly through the camp frightening children and startling chickens, did the whole confusion occur to him. The soldiers’ laughter and their pointed rifles filled his heart with fear. […] And had the soldiers maintained their familiar level of provocation, Salim might have been content to spit and curse at them every time they passed. He might even have forgotten the whole story of the occupation eventually, had not the soldiers come up with a new story which would never have occurred to him (96/446).

The new story to which Salim refers is the story of curfews introduced by the Israelis, which prevent Salim from going to the camp water taps to meet his beloved Fatmeh. Salim’s rebellion against the Israeli soldiers is not directly aimed at the Israelis, but rather an act of personal revenge against the passive men sitting at the camp café. Salim’s feelings for the Israeli soldiers consist mainly of fear; his hatred is almost totally addressed to the other men in the camp. Besides the passive attitude of Palestinians and the frightening omnipresence of the Israeli soldiers, another theme is treated in the short story. The figure of the fida’i, the Palestinian freedom fighter, becomes central in the last part of the story. The fida’i is portrayed as sort of a magical/mythical figure dressed in clothes the colour of sand and stone, covered by a chequered scarf, and moving as silently as the wind. Nonetheless, the figure remains distant from the daily camp life. Stories about fedayeen are heard by camp inhabitants because they are relayed by the radio not because of the villagers’ real involvement in the matter. Even Salim the Fool, who eventually becomes a fida’i, or at least is seen 233


as such, is unaware of the significance of his gesture, which is motivated not by conscious political commitment but by his great love for Fatmeh. Salim dies with the name of his beloved on his lips, his hand clutching a bracelet of amber hair, the colour of Fatmeh’s hair, that encircled his wrist. Salim, freedom fighter by chance, is finally retrieved from his marginal position and becomes, although only for some people, a hero surrounded by a magical aura (Salim is smiling and from his forehead a great halo of light is shining, 452).

Conclusions As indicated for the two short stories discussed here, Fayyad’s style and themes have changed considerably over the years. The year 1974, which corresponds to Fayyad’s deportation from the State of Israel, seems to represent a watershed in the author’s writings. Prior to 1974, Fayyad’s texts could be labelled as surrealist, as exemplified by the short story ‘Umm al-Khayr’ and by the play Bayt al-junun. The symbolism and allusive character of Fayyad’s early writing is a common feature in Palestinian literature produced in Israel. This was mainly due to rigid censorship and the oppressive policies of the Israeli authorities toward the Palestinian community, especially between 1948 and 1967.35 Many Palestinians writers, as Ballas suggests, resorted to the ‘language of allusion’ in order to elude censorship and escape Israeli repression.36 Further, as Nur Elmessiri points out, ‘writers living inside occupied Palestine had to contend with an oppressive occupying authority which literally restricted the movement of the writers and hounded any whose works manifested a hint of political involvement.’37 The Palestinian poet Mahmud Darwish, for instance, suffered constant harassment from the Israeli authorities, including prison and house arrest, which in 1971 led to his decision to live outside Israel. In the post-1974 period, the surrealist allusive style characteristic of Fayyad’s previous works is replaced by a more direct and realist approach. In ‘al-Bahlul’, for example, some of the more important issues concerning the Palestinian situation post-1967 are treated directly. As we have seen, the short story deals mainly with the themes of the Israeli occupation of the 234


West Bank, Palestinians’ attitudes towards the occupation, their political consciousness, and the figure of the fida’i. In a similar fashion, the novel al-Majmu‘a 778 deals with Palestinians’ situation in the post-occupation West Bank. And it does so in an almost documentary way. It is not a coincidence that the novel’s subtitle is ‘documentary novel’ (riwaya tasjiliyya). Similarly, Fayyad’s post-1974 work also tends to be more openly political. These works deal directly with ‘hot’ current issues of the Palestinian question – the Israeli presence in the occupied territories, the Palestinian resistance – rather than with the Palestinian traditional themes of the land, the tree, the fruits borne of trees (the olives, the orange), the wandering Palestinian in exile, the lost country/Paradise lost, the family home – which were instead the themes around which ‘Umm al-Khayr’ revolved. The new trend in Fayyad’s writings, in my opinion, is not merely due to the fact that after 1974 Fayyad was relatively free to address the Palestinian question more directly because he was outside of Israeli borders. The period following the Six-Day War in 1967, which more or less corresponds to Fayyad’s deportation, witnessed a change in Palestinian literature, which since 1967 has been more and more politically overt. Notwithstanding the stylistic and thematic differences, both short stories propose the same escape from a situation of negativity and marginality. Death is the only possible means of escape for both Umm al-Khayr and Salim al-Bahlul. By dying and transforming herself into an ever-growing tree, Umm al-Khayr re-establishes the lost link between nature and the village, becoming once again the protector of her people. Similarly Salim, by rebelling against the Israeli soldiers and thus dying as a martyr, is transformed from fool into hero. The theme of death as a way out of negativity is employed by many other Palestinian writers (see for example Ghassan Kanafani and Jabra Ibrahim Jabra).38 In ‘al-Bahlul’, Fayyad’s approach to the theme of death also mirrors the general approach of the Palestinian literature of resistance which is centred mainly on the figure of the martyr, and self-sacrifice for a common cause. This approach is well represented in Mahmud Darwish’s early poetry of resistance, which revolves around the figure of the martyr, sometimes identified with a fida’i who is able to achieve a mythical communion with his beloved homeland through suffering and death.39 235


Nevertheless, Fayyad’s representation of the freedom fighter is not a blind, or complacent acceptance of the myth of martyrdom as portrayed in Palestinian literature. The figure of the fida’i seems rather an excuse to comment upon the underdevelopment of Palestinian’s political consciousness. Salim is nothing but a fool who, unintentionally, becomes a hero. As we have seen, both Fayyad and Habibi use marginality in connection with other traditional/recurrent themes in Palestinian literature in order to comment upon the situation lived by Palestinians after the 1948 nakba and the 1967 naksa. Fayyad and Habibi however propose very different ‘ways out’ of marginality. To make this clearer, I would like to compare Umm al-Khayr’s and Umm al-Rubabika’s path into and out of marginality. Both women start from a position of non-marginality – Umm al-Rubabika used to be called ‘the uncrowned queen of the valley’ as a sign of admiration from the side of her community; Umm al-Khayr is described as a sort of supernatural figure dispensing love and capable of healing. They both move to a position of marginality due to some particular event – Hind becomes the odds-and-ends woman because of her job (which is the outcome of the 1948 exodus following the foundation of Israel) and Umm al-Khayr is abandoned by her fellow-villagers because she is diseased (the accident of the snake bite, which, defined as a catastrophe, clearly stands for the nakba in 1948). Both characters eventually overcome their marginality. Umm alRubabika does so by changing her attitude and by looking at the positive things in her life – her pride, her memories, her hope, her joy of living. Umm al-Khayr overcomes her marginality by offering her community the ultimate sign of her love, her life. In Habibi’s Umm al-Rubabika the myth of death as the ultimate solution to the tragedy of the Palestinian people is abandoned in favour of a more positive approach. Awareness of one’s own identity seems to be the key to overcoming marginality. My research so far, suggests that the theme of marginality in Palestinian literature is used as a means to express Palestinians’ own marginality. The theme of marginality has evolved and changed in accordance with the authors’ artistic development, and more importantly, in accordance with historical circumstances. ‘Umm al-Khayr’ belongs to the allusive symbolic phase of IsraeliPalestinian literature, and revolves around the themes of the 236


land and of a paradise lost. ‘Al-Bahlul’ corresponds to post-1967 disillusionment. Habibi’s Umm al-Rubabika, written in 1995, represents, among other things, the more confident and positive outlook of recent Palestinian literature.

Notes 1

2

3

4 5

See for example Ada Neiger ed. (1995), Letteratura e Marginalità Trento, Italy: New Magazine Edizioni and the issue ‘Transgressing Boundaries: the Poetics of Marginality’ of the journal L’esprit créateur, 38/1, Spring 1998. The above-mentioned issue of L’esprit créateur considers for example literatures produced by minority groups — North African writers in French, francophone Lebanese writers. Barnett says ‘textes à l’écart et de l’écart, épreuves ou ‘expériences’, décentrées, distancées, minoritaires, hors des limites, reflets de l’autre: poétique.’ The excerpt is quoted in Barnett (1998) ‘Transgressing boundaries: The Poetics of Marginality’ L’esprit créateur 38/1, 3. Neiger (1995). Imil Habibi (1921–1996) was one of foremost writers of the Palestinian people in Israel as a journalist, a novelist and a shortstory writer. He was one of the founders of the Israeli Communist Party which he represented at the Knesset for almost 20 years. Apart from his political writings he wrote many acclaimed fictional and dramatic works amongst which, the better known Sudasiyyat al-ayyam al-sitta (1968), al-Waqa’i‘ al-ghariba fi ikhtifa’ Sa‘id Abi al-Nahs alMutasha’il (1974), Luka‘ bin Luka‘ (1980), Ikhtayya (1986), Khurafiyyat Saraya bint al-Ghul (1991). See Roger Allen (1995) The Arabic Novel: An Historical and Critical Introduction, Syracuse, New York: Syracuse University Press; Isabella Camera d’Afflitto (1985) ‘La vita di un arabo in Israele: il Pessottimista di Emil Habibi’ Studi Araboislamici in onore di R. Rubinacci, Vol. I, Napoli: Istituto Orientale 119–126; Peter Heath (2000) ‘Creativity in the Novels of Emile Habibi, with Special Reference to Sa‘id the Pessoptimist’ in Kamal Abdel-Malek & Wael Hallaq eds. Tradition, Modernity, and Postmodernity in Arabic Literature Leiden; Boston; Köln: Brill, 158–172; Hanon Hever (1996), ‘Emile Habiby: A Palestinian Writer in the Context of Israeli Culture’ Palestine-Israel Journal III, 3/4, 161–169; Akram F. Khater (1993), ‘Emile Habiby: the Mirror of Irony in Palestinian Literature’, Journal of Arabic Literature XXIV/ 1, 75–94; Trevor Le Gassick (1980), ‘The 237


Luckless Palestinian’ Middle East Journal XXXIV/ 2, 215–223; Angelika Neuwirth (1994), ‘Israelisch-Palästinensische Paradoxien: Emil Habibi Roman Der Peptimist als Versuch einer entymythisierung von Geschichte’ Quaderni di Studi Arabi 12, pp. 95–128; Srouji Saleh (1993), Emil Habibi. Ein arabischer Literat aus Israel; die Suche des Palästinensers nach dem Selbst unter verschärften Bedingungen, reflektiert in seinem Schaffen bis 1985, Augsburg: Wissner. 6 Tawfiq Fayyad (1939) was born in the village of Muqeibila, near Jenin. He studied in Nazareth and at the Hebrew University where he graduated in communication science. Due to his engagement as an activist, he was detained by the Israeli authorities from 1969– 1970 to 1974. In 1974 he was deported across the Sinai desert to Egypt. He then went to Beirut where he founded and directed Dar al-Nawras, a progressive publishing house dedicated to children’s literature. He left Beirut in 1982, when PLO members where evacuated from the city and moved to Tunis. He published three novels al-Mushawwahun (The Deformed Ones, 1964), al-Majmu‘a 778. (Group No. 778, 1974), and Habibati Milishiyya (My Beloved Militia, 1976); and two collections of short stories – al-Shari‘ al-asfar (The Yellow Road) and al-Bahlul, thalatha qisas (The Fool: Three Stories), respectively in 1968 and 1978. He also wrote a play, Bayt al-junun (The House of Madness) in 1965. His writings mainly deal with Palestinians’ multifaceted struggle and search for justice and dignity. There are no critical studies that focus on Fayyad. For a brief introduction on his life and literary production see Nur & Abdelwahhab Elmessiri eds. (1996) A Land of Stone and Thyme: an anthology of Palestinian short stories, London: Quartet Books; Salma Khadra Jayyiusi, ed. (1992) Anthology of Modern Palestinian Literature, New York: Columbia University Press. 7 This short story is part of the collection al-Shari‘ al-asfar. 8 This is the story title of the collection al-Bahlul, thalatha qisas. 9 See for example the works of Charles Dickens, Victor Marie Hugo’s The Hunchback of Notre Dame (Notre Dame de Paris, 1831) and Les Misérables (1862), or Jaroslav Hasek’s The Good Soldier Shweik (Osudy dobréha rojàka Suejka), for the figure of the fool. 10 Fiona Pitt-Kethley (1995) The literary Companion to Low Life: an Anthology of Prose and Poetry, London: Sinclair-Stevenson, ix. 11 As it will be discussed later, both characters are marginal within their own Palestinian community. 12 This is also one of the many expressions that have been used to define Imil Habibi. Cf. Jean-Patrick Guillaume (1988), 49. ‘Emile Habibi’, in ‘Écrivains arabes’, Magazines Littéraires 251 (1988), 49. 238


13 All translations of Habibi’s works are mine. Those belonging to the short story ‘Umm al-Rubabika’ are based on the translation by Roger Allen and Christopher Tingley in Jayyusi (1992). 14 Sudasiyyat al-ayyam al-sitta was first published in the Journal al-Jadid in 1968. It was then republished in the Lebanese Journal al-Tariq in December 1968, and finally appeared in book form in 1969, by the publishing house al-Hilal in Cairo. The work consists of six short stories or parts dealing with the consequences of the Six-Day War in June 1967, and particularly with the theme of the encounters between those Palestinians that remained in Israel in 1948 and those of the Diaspora. Since its first appearance, the very unusual structure of this work has triggered debates about its genre, in both Arab and Western literary circles. For Sudasiyyat al-ayyam al-sitta see Ahmad Muhammad ‘Attiyya (1977), Ahmad Abu Matar (1980), Shimon Ballas (1980), and Mahmud Husni (n.d.). 15 Cf. ‘Izz al-Din al-Munasira (1996), 8. 16 The version used in this paper is a typed manuscript dated 7 September 1992, which was given to me by the author in Haifa, in April 1995. 17 For an outline on the different uses and definitions of the term intertextuality see Thaïs E. Morgan (1985) ‘Is There an Intertext in this Text?: Literary and Interdisciplinary approaches to Intertextuality’ American Journal of Semiotics, 314, 1–40; Michael Worton and Judith Still (1990) Intertextuality: Theories and Practices, Manchester: Manchester UP; Heinrich F. Plett, ed. (1991) Intertextuality, Berlin/ New York: Walter de Gruyter. 18 The character of Zunuba, the gypsy, is one of the main characters of another work by Imil Habibi, the short story ‘Zunuba, unshuda fi thalatha maqati‘’. This work was published in the journal al-Jadid in 1963 and later included in the collection Sudasiyyat al-ayyam alsitta wa qisas ukhra. The short story recounts the return of a gypsy named Zunuba, after a thirty-year absence, to one of the Arab neighbourhoods in Haifa, Wadi al-Nasnas. Her unexpected homecoming causes the inhabitants of the neighbourhood both joy and grief. Zunuba evokes the past and drowsy memories of a reality that no longer exists or, perhaps, whose existence was nearly forgotten. This short story has been translated into English as ‘The Gipsy (a song in three movements)’, Edebiyat 1:2, (1989), 77–88. 19 The protagonist intones several popular tunes, ‘Fi al-barr lam fattakum’ by the Egyptian singer ‘Abd al-Wahhab, ‘Watani’ by the Lebanese Harun Hashim Rashid, ‘Ghaba nahar akhir’ by Siham 239


20

21

22 23 24

25

26

27 28

29

Shammas, and ‘Zuruni kulla sanatin marratan’ by the Lebanese singer Fayruz. The verses quoted are taken from A la, ya Sakhru, in abayta ‘ayni by the pre-Islamic poetess al-Khansa’, and from Risalat al-Ghufran by Abu al-‘Ala’ al-Ma‘arri. The same theme is developed in a very similar way in the short story, where the ‘roving spirits’ are described as ‘Men and women, from the Gaza Strip, the West Bank, Amman, even as far as Kuwait. They cross the bridge, then they walk through our alleys without saying anything, staring up at the balconies and windows. Some of them knock on doors and ask, politely, if they can come in, look around and have a drink of water. Then they go away without a word. The places they ask to go into were once their homes.’ (85). See Bal (1999), especially 142–161. Keir Elam (1980), 29. Other critics have used this notion. See for example Eco (1977). In the play, Umm al-Rubabika mentions two other characters present in ‘al-Nuriyya, unshuda fî thalatha maqati‘’. For instance Zunuba the gypsy, and her father, the jester Abu Jamila. The quotation has been slightly modified. In the original, Hind addresses Zunuba directly, using the second person, while in the play Hind refers to the gypsy using the third person. Interfigurality, the name given to the intertextual practice of using characters taken from pre-texts is analysed in Wolfgang G. Müller, (1991) ‘Interfigurality: A Study on the Interdependence of Literary Characters’, Intertextuality, ed. Heinrich Plett, 101–121. The author is here referring to the coins used during the British mandate that had a hole in the centre. The folktale of Jubayna, as retold in ‘al-Kharaza al-zarqa’ wa ‘awdat Jubayna’, narrates the story of a childless woman to whom God sends a daughter ‘who could tell the moon “rise so that I may sit in your place”’. The woman names the girl Jubayna and attaches a blue bead to her wrist in order to protect her from evil. Unfortunately, Jubayna is kidnapped by the gypsies and transferred from one master to another until a Prince hears her sing, rescues and marries her. After two years with the Prince and the birth of one son, Jubayna decides to visit her mother. Her return gives joy and prosperity to the village – the spring that had ceased flowing when she disappeared begins flowing again and her mother regains the sight lost with all the tears shed. The short story ends with the woman’s arrival at her former home and reunion with her mother. The Arabic expression could be translated both ways. 240


30 31 32 33

34

35

36

37 38

39

Abu Matar (1980), 296. Ballas (1980), 68. Ballas (1980), 69. Seen from this perspective, the presence in both texts of quotations taken from Arabic classical literary heritage can be interpreted as a form of preserving and perpetuating tradition. The translations of Fayyad’s text are taken from ‘The idiot’ in Jayyusi (1992), 442–443 and ‘Umm al-Khayr’ in Elmessiri (1996). The Arab versions used are respectively taken from al-Shari‘ al-asfar, Beirut: Dar al-‘Auda, 1970, 52–60 and al-Bahlul: Thalatha qisas Beirut 1978, 91–114. When quoting the text, I refer to both the original version and to the translation, in this order. A propos of censorship in Israel, see Glenda Abramson, (1997) ‘Theatre Censorship in Israel’, Israel Studies 2:1, 111–135; Phillip Gillon ‘Israel: Blunting the Blue Pencil’, first published by the Jerusalem Post Weekly on 20 April 1976, reprinted in Index on Censorship 5: 4 (1976), 72–75; Gary J. Jacobsohn ‘Censorship in Israel’, in Peleg I. (ed.), Censorship in the Middle East: the Case of Arabic Literature, Boulder: Westview Press, 1993; The Committee to Protect Journalists (1998) Journalism Under Occupation: Israel’s Regulation of the Palestinian Press, New York; Christopher Walker (1980), ‘Israel: Forbidden Books’, first published by The Times 17 July 1980, reprinted in Index on censorship 9:6, (November 1980), 63. Georges Tarabishi said about the language of allusion, ‘L’évolution de la langue de l’allusion a pour origine la crise de liberté politique qui prend, de temps à autre, là ou ailleurs, l’aspect de terreur avouée ou dissimulée. La langue de l’allusion est la mode d’expression de celui qui ne veut, n’ose ou ne peut dire la vérité tout entière’. Cf., Shimon Ballas (1980) La littérature arabe et le conflit au Proche-Orient (1948–1973), Paris: Éditions Anthropos, 10. See also Shimon Ballas (1978), ‘Le courant expressionniste dans la nouvelle arabe contemporaine’, Arabica 15/2, 113–127. Elmessiri (1996), 3. See for example Jabra Ibrahim Jabra’s al-Safina, Beirut: Dar al-Nahar, 1970. The Ship, English translation by Adnan Haydar and Roger Allen, Washington, D.C.: Three Continents Press, 1985, and Ghassan Kanafani’s Rijal fi al-Shams, Beirut: Dar al-Tali‘a, 1963, ‘Men in the Sun’ in, Men in the Sun, and other Palestinian stories, Translated by Hilary Kilpatrick, London: Washington, D.C.: Heinemann Education; Three Continents Press, 1978. A propos of Darwish and Palestinian poetry in general see John Mikhail Asfour ed. (1988) When the Words Burn. An Anthology of 241


Modern Arab Poetry: 1945–1987, Dunvegan, Canada: Cormorant Books; Khalid A. Sulaiman (1984), Palestine and Modern Arab Poetry, London: Zed Books, especially Chapters 4, 5, and 6; Jayyusi’s introduction to Jayyusi (1992), 1–80; Denys Johnson-Devis ed. (1980), The Music of Human Flesh London: Heinemann; Washington D.C.: Three Continents Press; Nabulusi Shakir (1987) Majnun al-turab: Dirasa fi shi‘r wa fikr Mahmud Darwish, Beirut: al-Mu’assasa al-‘Arabiyya li aldirasat wa al-nashr; Aruri Naseer & Edmund Ghareeb (1970), Enemy of the Sun: Poetry of Palestinian Resistance, Washington/ Dar Es Salaam: Drum and Spear Press.

Bibliography ‘Attiyya, Ahmad Muhammad (1977), ‘Imil Habibi’, in Afaq ‘arabiyya 6, 10–15. ‘Transgressing Boundaries: the Poetics of Marginality’ in the journal L’esprit créateur, 38/1, Lexington, KY: University of Kentucky, 1998. Husni, Mahmud (n.d.), Imil Habibi wa al-qissa al-qasira. Al-Zarqa’, Jordan: al-Wakala al-‘Arabiyya li-al-Tawzi‘ wa al-Nashr. Abu Matar, Ahmad (1980), al-Riwaya fi al-adab al-filastini 1950–1975, Baghdad: Dar al-Huriyya li-al-Tiba‘a. Abramson, Glenda (1997), ‘Theatre Censorship in Israel’ Israel Studies 2:1, pp. 111–135. Allen, Roger (1995), The Arabic Novel: An Historical and Critical Introduction, Syracuse, New York: Syracuse University Press. al-Munasira, ‘Izz al-Din (1996), ‘Juwani fi al-adab, barrani fi al-siyasa!’, in al-Quds 2202 (7 June), 8. Asfour, John Mikhail ed. (1988), When the Words Burn: An Anthology of Modern Arab Poetry 1945–1987, Dunvegan, Canada: Cormorant Books. Bal, Mieke (1999), Narratology, Toronto: Buffalo: London: University of Toronto Press. Ballas, Shimon (1980), La Littérature arabe et le conflit au Proche-Orient (1948–1973), Paris: Editions Anthropos. Ballas, Shimon (1978), ‘Le courant expressionniste dans la nouvelle arabe contemporaine’, Arabica 15/2, p.113–127. Camera d’Afflitto, Isabella (1985), ‘La vita di un arabo in Israele: il Pessottimista di Emil Habibi’, Studi Araboislamici in onore di R. Rubinacci, vol. I Napoli: Istituto Orientale, pp.119–126. Eco, Umberto (1977), ‘Semiotics of Theatrical Performance’ The Drama Review 21, pp.107–117. Elam, Keir (1980), The Semiotics of Theatre and Drama, London-New York: Methuen. 242


Elmessiri, Nur and Abdel, Wahhab eds (1996), A Land of Stone and Thyme: an anthology of Palestinian short stories, London: Quartet Books. Fayyad, Tawfiq (1970), al-Shari‘ al-asfar, Beirut: Dar al-‘Auda. —————— (1978), al-Bahlul: Thalatha qisas, Beirut: 1978. Ghassan, Kanafani (1963), Rijal fi al-Shams, Beirut: Dar al-Tali‘a —————— (1978), ‘Men in the Sun’ in Men in the Sun, and other Palestinian stories, Trans. Hilary Kilpatrick, London: Washington, D.C.: Heinemann Education: Three Continents Press. Gillon, Phillip, ‘Israel: Blunting the Blue Pencil’, first published by the Jerusalem Post Weekly on 20 April 1976, reprinted in Index on Censorship 5: 4 (1976), 72–75. Guillaume, Jean-Patrick (1988), ‘Emile Habibi’, in ‘Écrivains Arabe’, Magazines Littéraires 251, 49. Habibi, Imil (1970), Sudasiyyat al-ayyam al-sitta wa qisas ukhra. Da’irat alA‘lam al-Thaqafa. ————— (1992), Umm al-Rubabika. Unpublished manuscript, Haifa. Habibi, Emile (1989) ‘The Gipsy’ (a song in three movements) Edebiyat 1/2, 77–88. Heath, Peter (2000), ‘Creativity in the Novels of Emile Habibi, with Special Reference to Sa‘id the Pessoptimist’ in Kamal Abdel-Malek & Wael Hallaq eds. Tradition, Modernity, and Postmodernity in Arabic Literature, Leiden: Boston: Köln: Brill, 158–172. Hever, Hanon (1996), ‘Emile Habibi: A Palestinian Writer in the Context of Israeli Culture’ Palestine-Israel Journal III, 3/4, 161–169. Jabra, Ibrahim Jabra (1970), al-Safina, Beirut: Dar al-Nahar ——————— (1985) The Ship, trans. by Adnan Haydar and Roger Allen, Washington, D.C.: Three Continents Press. Jacobsohn, Gary J. (1993), ‘Censorship in Israel’, in Peleg I. (ed.), Censorship in the Middle East: the Case of Arabic Literature, Boulder: Westview Press. Jayyusi, Salma Khadra (1992), Anthology of Modern Palestinian Literature, New York: Columbia University Press. Johnson-Devis, Denys ed. (1980), The Music of Human Flesh, London: Heinemann. Khater, Akram F. (1993), ‘Emile Habibi: the Mirror of Irony in Palestinian Literature’ Journal of Arabic Literature XXIV/ 1, pp. 75–94. Le Gassick, Trevor (1980), ‘The Luckless Palestine’, Middle East Journal XXXIV/2, 215–223. Morgan, Thaïs E. (1985), ‘Is There an Intertext in this Text?: Literary and Interdisciplinary approaches to Intertextuality’, American Journal of Semiotics 3/4, 1–40. 243


Müller, Wolfgang G. (1991), ‘Interfigurality: A Study on the Interdependence of Literary Characters’ in Intertextuality, ed. Heinrich Plett, 101–121. Nabulusi, Shakir (1987), Majnun al-turab: Dirasa fi shi‘r wa fikr Mahmud Darwish, Beirut: al-Mu’assasa al-‘Arabiyya li al-dirasat wa al-nashr. Naseer, Aruri and Ghareeb, Edmund (1970) Enemy of the Sun. Poetry of Palestinian Resistance Washington/Dar Es Salaam: Drum and Spear Press. Neiger, Ada ed. (1995), Letteratura e Marginalità, Trento, Italy: New Magazine Edizioni. Neuwirth, Angelika (1994), ‘Israelisch-Palästinensische Paradoxien: Emil Habibi Roman Der Peptimist als Versuch einer entymythisierung von Geschichte’ in Quaderni di Studi Arabi 12, 95–128. Pitt-Kethley, Fiona (1995), The literary Companion to Low Life: an Anthology of Prose and Poetry, London: Sinclair-Stevenson. Plett, Heinrich F. ed. (1991), Intertextuality, Berlin/New York: Walter de Gruyter. Saleh, Srouji (1993), Emil Habibi Ein arabischer Literat aus Israel: die Suche des Palästinensers nach dem Selbst unter verschärften Bedingungen, reflektiert in seinem Schaffen bis 1985, Augsburg: Wissner. Sulaiman, Khalid A. (1984), Palestine and Modern Arab Poetry, London: Zed Books. The Committee to Protect Journalists (1998), ‘Journalism under Occupation: Israel’s Regulation of the Palestinian Press’, New York. Walker, Christopher (1980) ‘Israel: Forbidden Books’, first published by The Times 17 July 1980, reprinted in Index on censorship 9:6 (November 1980), p. 63. Worton, Michael and Still, Judith (1990), Intertextuality: Theories and Practices, Manchester: Manchester University Press.

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CHAPTER 13

The Representation of the Coptic Christians of Alexandria in Turabuha Za‘ƒaran and Ya Banat Iskandariya by Idwar Al-Kharrat Emma Westney

Idwar al-Kharrat, born in 1926 to a Coptic family in Alexandria, holds a leading position in modern Egyptian literature as a prolific advocate and exponent of literary modernism. The two works discussed in this paper Turabuha Za‘faran (Cairo, 1985) and its quasi-sequel, Ya Banat Iskandariya (Beirut, 1990)1 each consist of a series of nine narrative sequences focalised through an elderly narrator-protagonist, Mikha’il, looking back over his life, from his earliest memories up to the present day, revisiting events that have not ceased to puzzle, please or haunt him. The narratives are full of unanswered questions and puzzles, and jump from one image and event straight into the middle of another, possibly from a totally different time in the narrator’s life. The linking thread between episodes and images can range from the sound of rain pattering down on closed shutters to one of the typically modernist themes of loss, death, alienation, thwarted desire and the fall of man from innocence. The narrator will sometimes suggest answers to his puzzles, but seldom gives definitive statements, remaining allusive and vague. Events are narrated from the vantage-point of retrospection and often given significance within the context of his later life. There are frequent asides and comments such as ‘and I still didn’t remember’, ‘he still didn’t realize’, or ‘it was only later I found out’, creating an almost Proustian effect, a narrating of events ‘the significance of which I only realized later’. The narrative is speckled with lyrical, abstract, often erotic passages in which the 245


narrator pontificates about his own condition, and how he is haunted and tortured by memories of a lost past. The structure is complex and often confusing, with past and present intermingled in an exploration of how the child he was stands in relation to the man he is. It pivots on the interaction between the two main temporal levels, the then of the narrator’s childhood, youth and early adolescence – the remembered, narrated time, and the now, the time of the act of narrating,2 where Mikha’il now sits and ponders his life. Al-Kharrat’s own life3 is often regarded as providing the material for these two works. There is no doubt that the life of the fictional Mikha’il reflects many of the biographical details known about al-Kharrat’s life. Mikha’il, like al-Kharrat, was born into an Alexandrian Coptic family with descendants on the mother’s side from Tarrana and on the father’s side from Akhmin. The death of his father in 1943 left al-Kharrat, like his protagonist, to care for his mother and sisters, and both author and protagonist were imprisoned for political activity between 1948 and 1950. However, the author distances himself from his protagonist in a foreword to City of Saffron (COS) writing that it is not an autobiography, instead referring to ‘illusions’ and ‘the clouds of memories which should have taken place, but never did’.4 I will throughout this paper treat Mikha’il as a fictional creation, rather than as the fictional representation of al-Kharrat himself. The Copts in Egypt are linked by the fact that as Christians they form a minority in the predominantly Muslim society of Egypt. However, when discussing them, it is vital to bear in mind that they are not a homogeneous group. They inhabit no specific territory but live scattered throughout the country. In some Upper Egyptian villages and towns they form more than 50% of the population. Few academic studies have been devoted to them and much of the information available is based on anecdotal evidence. Reliable and up-to-date figures are hard to come by, figures given by the government tending to be lower than unofficial estimates by members of the Coptic community. The first official census produced by the Nasser regime in 1960 showed 6,014 of the 6,020 inhabitants of the Upper Egyptian town of Dayr Abu-Hinnas to be Copts, in Asyut 38,048 Christians to 80,434 Muslims were recorded, in Luxor 13,032 Christians to 22,042 Muslims. They also form a substantial minority in the major cities. In Cairo, the 246

THE REPRESENTATION OF THE COPTIC CHRISTIANS OF ALEXANDRIA

percentage recorded in 1960 was 12.2% (as compared to 15.7% in 1940),5 in Alexandria 10.1% (18.2% in 1940). There is little consensus as to how many Copts there are. Figures from the 1960s range from 1.5 million to about 4 million. Presumably a more reasonable estimate would lie somewhere in between. Copts are present at all levels of Egyptian society, and many a divergence in outlook, lifestyle and interest can be discerned. Village Copts often have little in common with their wealthier co-religionists in urban centres or even within villages and towns. Some Coptic fallahin, for example, share more similarities, interests and pre-occupations with their Muslim social peers. Doctrinal schisms among the various Christian groups are an additional source of diversity among Copts. Western missionaries, prevented from converting Muslims by Ottoman edict, turned their attention to the Coptic community. The outcome is a variety of Christian faiths with different loyalties and doctrines. Roman Catholic Copts, for example, have a link to Rome not shared by their Orthodox countrymen; the Orthodox Copts practise Monophysitism, the belief that Jesus Christ is one person from two persons, God and man, and has one nature without ‘commingling’ of his human and divine natures, stands in contrast to the Roman Catholic dogma of one person with two natures. To some extent the confessional status of a Copt can be linked to his social status: for example, the Protestant Copts tend to be of the wealthier upper classes. The critic Ghali Shukri, in his article ‘al-Aqbat wa’l-Riwa’i al-Muslim fi Misr’,6 expresses surprise that the role and position of Copts as an intrinsic part of Egyptian society should not be reflected in modern Egyptian literature. This conspicuous absence of ‘contemporary’ Coptic characters in anything but secondary roles is not helped by the fact that, in his opinion, Coptic writers writing about Coptic characters (and he here quotes al-Kharrat as an example) can find themselves accused of sectarianism and of being ‘too’ Coptic.7 On the other hand, a Coptic writer will not necessarily choose to write about Coptic characters. The works of Yusuf al-Sharuni, al-Kharrat’s compatriot and contemporary, display few signs of being particularly Coptic or of dealing with specifically Coptic themes. The fact that two leading modernist writers are of Coptic background supports the assumption that modernist literature 247


constitutes a particularly suitable vehicle for the expression of minority feelings. The focus on the individual and his internal development, and the collapse of the solid, understandable character, allow for the presentation of the various forces that can pull minority, and by extension, marginal personalities in different, often contradictory directions. In the case of al-Kharrat and his overtly Coptic protagonist Mikha’il, one should be cautious in linking his feelings of loss and alienation solely to his Coptic identity. In the narrative there are few explicit statements linking his Coptic identity to the narrative. Mikha’il’s experience can also be read as that of modern man wherever he may be, irrespective of religious affiliation, class or nationality and minority or majority group membership. Al-Kharrat himself regards the term Coptic writer as a misnomer. Coptic writers, he argues, are fundamentally Egyptian writers who are born into a Coptic environment.8 In his essays he emphatically rejects a monolithic definition of Egyptian culture, pointing instead to the diversity of cultures and influences from which it draws its components, of which the Coptic heritage is but one.9 However, he is praised by the critic Husni Hasan, who regards al-Kharrat’s main achievement as having ‘succeeded…for the first time in the history of (our) modern and contemporary Egyptian literature, in polarising and crystallising the personal attributes – social and cultural – of the Coptic personality…’10 The narratives of COS and Girls Of Alexandria (GOA) are speckled with Christian imagery, allusions, characters and events. The Coptic rituals of the household of the young Mikha’il feature vividly in his memory, such as the preparations for the important days in the Coptic calendar, and Christian imagery features strongly in his imagination. An example of this can be found in the story ‘The Green Bronze Sword’ in COS. Mikha’il, after hearing his father tell a story he only half comprehends about Nahhas Pasha11 being attacked by British soldiers, sees him, in a dream, as a Christ-figure, bare-chested, his hands bearing stigmata, his tarboosh a crown of thorns. The British soldiers have metamorphosed into Roman soldiers. Thus Nahhas Pasha, regarded by the child’s father as the leader of the Egyptian people merges in the child’s mind with the Christ figure. Here a precautionary remark: the use of Christian imagery is in no way confined to Christian experience: much use has been made of it, 248


particularly by the Tammuzi poets, who frequently used the figure of Christ, dying for the salvation of humanity. The Iraqi Muslim poet Badr Shakir al-Sayyab, for example, in his poem alMasih ba‘d al-Salb uses the image of the crucifixion of Christ for the sake of mankind to symbolise the renewal sought in the Arab world at mid-century. This study focuses on three points of identity: name, nationality and language. Each of these relates directly to how an identity is constructed, both by the self and by society: name is the external manifestation, nationality the cultural and ethnic affiliation and language the means of communication. Husni Hasan writes of Mikha’il that within the context of his time he stands as ‘a classic prototype, clear and focused to a degree that make him one of the pioneers of those Coptic social classes searching for their identity on a personal, national, ethnic, religious and generally cultural level.’12 Taking Mikha’il as a representative young Copt, I will examine how his relationship to these three points of identification could reflect the typical dilemmas and contradictions faced by Copts in the predominantly Muslim society of Egypt in the first half of the 20th century. For a Copt in Egypt, name can be the external manifestation of his religion and thus a means of immediate identification. Robert Brenton Betts writes of the Christians in Egypt that ‘the great majority were immediately identifiable as Christians by virtue of their name, the one means by which a person raised in the culture could, with rare exception, recognize the broad religious background of his neighbour.’13 This is echoed by Edward Wakin, who states that ‘in about nine cases out of ten, the label is as reliable as the five-pound cross of al-Hakim’.14 Names from the New and Old Testament (Michael, David), names of Saints (Mitri, Dimitri), names of Roman and Byzantine derivation (Iskandar, Rumi), from the Crusader influence (Salibi, the Crusader, or Ashqar, the blond one), and European names such as Antoine or George were commonly given to Christian children. Surnames with Christian connotations (al-Mutran, the archbishop, al-Khuri, the priest), or denoting certain trades or positions where the Christians had traditionally been prominent (Haddad, smith, Najjar, carpenter, Hallaq, barber, Khazin, treasurer). The importance of names as a means of immediate identification is also a factor in the political sphere. B. L. Carter 249


describes how two Coptic Wafdists dropped overtly Christian parts of their names: ‘Early on in his political career, Makram Ubaid dropped his first name, William … Years later, Ibrahim Faraj Masiha dropped his last name, which means “Christ” … Muslims unacquainted with Wafdist personalities could have been excused for thinking both Muslim.’15 Mikha’il’s name links him immediately to the Christian community. As a child his attitude towards his own name is matter-of-fact, he engraves it on the family dresser and thinks of his namesake, St. Michael, with pride. He remembers being ‘happy about the feast of the Archangel, after whom I was named. I knew that it was he who had rolled away the great stone from the entrance to the tomb of Christ, Who rose from the dead’ (COS, 18–19). The natural, happy relationship of the young Mikha’il to his name stands in contrast to his later ambivalence towards it. This can be seen in two encounters with different women, the Muslim Susu and the Copt Sitt Nagiya. The adolescent Mikha’il’s encounter and budding love affair with Susu is brought to an immediate end when he reveals his name and, in doing so, his religious affiliation. Implicitly this relates to the common knowledge that marriage between a Muslim woman and a Christian man is forbidden under Islamic law. She turned to me and for the first time she asked me my name. There on the covered echoing veranda I told her, and my unmistakably Coptic name sounded odd even to my ears – odd and somehow unjustifiable, as it has all my life. Has it been so, in another way, with my whole existence? She said nothing. Her expression did not change. It was still a coppery mask shining with longing and frustration, a mask with a fresh bloom to it. […] I never saw her again. What did you take away with you, wise little girl, from the adventures of this battered and reckless heart which used to wince at its own pain, which together with you followed a story which had to cut short? (GOA, 30)

The narrator’s feelings of strangeness vis-à-vis his own name become apparent here: he calls it ‘odd and somehow unjustifiable’. 250


From the vantage point of retrospection this alienation is symptomatic of a general condition in his life. The scene involving Susu thus takes on an illustrative function. His unanswered questions bring the narrative to the present to the act of narrating. This functions to distance himself from his own past, turning himself into the object of examination in his own narrative. A similar distancing technique can be found in the second encounter (GOA, ‘The Serpent and the Perfidious Bosom’), this time with the Copt Sitt Nagiya, an inverted mirror-image to Susu. He meets her in the stairwell of the house in which he has rented a room under a false name for his political activities. He identifies her as a Copt immediately when he falls in the corridor and she exclaims, ‘In the name of the Cross!’ The narrative of their encounter is interrupted by questions, which distance the narrator from his narrated self and brings the narrative to the time of the act of narration. He becomes the object of discussion as well as the discussant: (1) I must have told her, mustn’t I? My name, my real name. (2) Do I have a real name? Do I have a name at all? Did I forget the ‘safety rules’, the precautions we took against discovery? (3) For she was chatting away as secure and trusting as a sister, perhaps, or a special companion. As if there were a natural assumption, arising from the discovery of our shared names, that we had something in common. (4) Or perhaps it was that immediate physical communion, that attraction between man and woman which is primal and spontaneous no matter how different their inclinations or manners, how conflicting their class background or cultural roots (GOA, 115–116).

Here the narrator is giving retrospective meaning to an event. He is offering a possible reason (1) for the state of affairs that he recalls (3), but, typically, immediately adding on another possible interpretation (4). He suggests rather than claims: these are possible interpretations, not definite ones. His relationship to his name in the time of the act of narrating can be seen in (2): here he is questioning a fundamental pillar of his identity, his name, echoing the sentiments of the previous quote. While in the 251


encounter with Susu his name symbolises an invisible barrier, in the case of Nagiya it symbolises a possible link. The second point discussed here touches on the complex relationship between Egyptian identity and religious identity. This involves the issue of how the Copts, as non-Muslims, stand vis-à-vis of a state that has often used a common religious identity as part of its raison d’être. The narrator is an avid nationalist in his youth. The following quote recalls a demonstration he was instrumental in organising: The streets were deserted now. Empty suddenly of the small groups of people who had been roaming the quarter since the early hours, chanting, ‘My country, my country! Forward, forward, soldiers of sacrifice! Onward to victory under the flag!’ Nor did they stop at that: ‘Peace to our country!’ they cried, and ‘Long live the people!’ instead of ‘Long live the king!’, which back then was so reckless in its disregard of the consequences as to be tantamount to revolution. […] Even so, some of the group were shouting, ‘God is great! The Qur’an is our constitution and the Prophet our leader!’ (GOA, 87–88, my underlining)

The linking of state and Islam was not untypical and creates a highly problematic situation for any minority which does not share the dominant religion,16 leaving the minority with an ambivalent attitude towards questions of national identity. According to Carter, the Coptic community in the twenties and thirties generally felt that the Constitution of 1923 protected their religious rights; the constitution was regarded as a move towards equality and unity. The Coptic community tended to prefer the separation of Islam and politics but were not totally adverse to Islam as a state religion. Carter describes how, ‘in 1930 Salama Musa rather curiously declared that he, as an Egyptian, was obliged to defend Islam because it was the religion of his country. Makram Ubaid, in a similar but typically glib statement, announced on several occasions that he was “a Muslim in country and a Christian in religion”.’ These sentiments are echoed by alKharrat in his essays when he writes that he belongs to an Egyptian Coptic culture that forms an intrinsic part of the prevailing Egyptian Arab Islamic culture.17 252


Political events in the 20th-century left their mark on relations between Egyptian Muslims and Christians. During the occupation the Copts often found themselves walking the political tightrope between linking their fates to the Muslim majority and the patronage of their European co-religionists. The establishment of the State of Israel and the Suez crises fuelled the exodus of non-Egyptians and non-Muslims, changing the demographic set-up of Alexandria. For Mikha’il, the loss of the idyll of his childhood Alexandria is not merely a spiritual loss but also a physical feeling of isolation, marked by the departure of many of his friends. ‘After 1956 they all left, nearly all of them, for Athens, Rome or Marseilles.’ Thus he is in permanent exile, from his name, his identity and his friends: ‘My enduring Ni‘ma my homeland, my refuge in my permanent exile my one diamond in Athonios-shari ‘ Fu’ad.’ (GOA, 102) The narrator emphasises the history and nature of Alexandria as a cosmopolitan city with roots in the Islamic, Christian, Pharaonic and Hellenistic traditions. This can be seen in his perception of what constitutes a ‘true’ Alexandrian. He refers to the young Jewish boy Zaki, who works with him distributing nationalist political pamphlets as ‘a Jewish boy who was Egyptian born and bred, a pure Alexandrian … He wore a gown under a traditional Egyptian overcoat. He could just about write his name in Arabic, and knew not a word of any other language.’ (GOA, 151) In 1949 Zaki is deported to Israel, despite being ‘a fervent antiZionist’. In official terms, Zaki has become an outsider with a different home and identity. Inversely, he emphasises the Hellenic heritage of Alexandria in the poetic language he uses to describe the Muslim Amina, presumably a reference to Keats’ ‘Ode to a Grecian Urn’ from which he quotes in the same narrative sequence: ‘“A Hellenic, Alexandrian urn,” I would say later. “A real daughter of the country”.’ (GOA, 40) The two narratives pay homage to the cosmopolitan Alexandria of the first half of the 20th century, a time portrayed as a Garden of Eden, part remembered, part mythical. Mikha’il recalls it as a time of happy co-existence between Christians and Muslims. He describes, for example, the Ramadan of his childhood: I used to go around with him [his cousin Witwat] and other children, Copts and Muslims together, to the neighbours’ houses during the 253


nights of Ramadan. We all carried Ramadan lanterns […] We listened enthralled, hearts beating, to the stories about the demon which had appeared to the eldest boy in the ring of children, and which had barred his way; and how the only one who was able to rescue this boy was a great knight, St. George himself, who had a long lance in his hand, and who was crowned with a shining light which dazzled the eyes, and on whose breastplate there glowed a great cross … (GOA, 120–121).

Here the religions are totally confused. The Christian boys join in Ramadan celebrations, while the story that holds them all enthralled is the story of St. George and the dragon. He also talks of how ‘the voice of the Sheikh was lifted up in the Ramadan of my childhood’, and he describes the Sheikh as ‘another Patriarch’ (GOA, 112). As the child of two traditions, the narrator has his symbolic counterpart in baby Mikha’il, son of Sitt Nagiya. She tells him the story of the baby’s impromptu christening on board a train using a razor borrowed from a Muslim Sheikh, which he gives her ‘with God’s blessing’ (GOA, 117) to cut her breast and christen her child with her own blood. This is a symbolic merging of Islam and Christianity. Harmonious relations between Christians and Muslims are also recalled among the neighbours and friends of the family. For example, his mother counted Muslims among her close friends, neighbours and acquaintances. ‘The Muslims among her neighbours and bosom-friends would return the compliment at Ashura with special Ashura dishes; and at Ramadan, they sent round jugs of khushaf. We exchanged plates of ka‘k and biscuits and ghurrayiba and crisp milk crackers, at the feasts of Easter and Adha and Christmas and Fitr […]’ (COS, 87). However, this portrayal of harmonious co-existence could, the narrator seems to imply, be partly attributable to his childish ignorance. The boy was running to Umm Toto’s house, Umm Toto ‘that Greek woman’, […] He did not, then, fully understand the import if the word grigiya – Greek woman. For him, back then, differences between people were part of the natural course of things. 254


He bought foul from ‘the Turk’, back then […] he felt a certain awe when he entered the houses of Muslim neighbours; and the Maltese constable, who roared down shari‘ Tramway on his motorcycle, used to stop the gharries and carts […] ‘Amm Hasan the Tunisian, the milkman […]. All these people made the world a rich place, a place changing colour; a bit frightening, but fascinating […] (COS, 153–154, my underlining)

In this passage he establishes a time in the past (then) which he implicitly compares with a later time (now). The distance between the two is emphasised by the narrator using the third person (‘the boy’) to denote himself/his former self. He hints at a subsequent change in his perception of the significance of words and events. This displays elements of the Bildungsroman, which traces the slow development of the protagonist to enlightenment and understanding of the world. He leaves the later perception vague and open, thus creating a vacuum to be filled by a yearning for the lost past and a cosmopolitan Alexandria not so much as it was but rather as he perceived it. His dream for the past thus becomes one with his desire to regain his childish innocence. The third point discussed here looks at how nationalist strivings and Egyptian identity are linked to Islam and how these are reflected in the linking of the Arabic language to Islam. Carter comments on how pan-Arabism, Islam and Arabic were connected in the mind of the ‘common man’: ‘The Arabs, after all, only had a common history because of Islam, and the connection between the language and the religion could only be ignored by the most obtuse.’18 He regards this as the reason why Copts were barred from training as language instructors at the Dar al-‘Ulum and from teaching Arabic in schools. Bans of this type are reflected in the narrative of GOA, in one of the few overt comments Mikha’il makes about the impact that being a Copt has had on him. He recalls the day when he and his classmates collected their exam results: Our hopes were young; they were still rising, hair streaming, from the sea. I told the others how I was going to study Arabic literature and go to Paris like Rifa‘a Rafi‘ el-Tahtawi. I went to the Faculty of Engineering in the end, ostensibly because my father wanted me to be a famous engineer like Uthman Muharram Pasha, but in fact 255


because at that time the Department of Arabic did not admit Copts. (GOA, 17–18)

The question of religious education in schools came to be a point of some contention for both Muslim and Christian parents. This was a problem new to the 20th century; before this, education was largely private. The state came increasingly to provide a modern education and dictate what should be taught. Islamic education played a substantial role on the curriculum, while the Christian community called for more funds and provision for the training of Christian teachers. In 1933, a bill was passed exempting Christians from Islam classes. However, according to Carter, Christian children ‘would still have been exposed to Islam in their Arabic lessons’ and that ‘social pressure apparently made it difficult for Christian parents to withdraw their children from Islamic instruction’.19 In 1937 the Wafd agreed to an exemption for non-Muslims from the Qur’anic examination made mandatory for all students in the first two years of secondary school. This decision caused some objection among Azharis and those of similar ilk. The following petition from the Central Committee of Young Muslim Societies is a typical example of the sentiments expressed: The Arabic Language is the official language of the state and the Qur’an is the noblest expression of this language. It is truly astonishing that a group of the sons of the nation is to be deprived from tasting the literature of the official language of the country… Unity of language is the foundation of the unity of the nation. We cannot have one set of students taught one thing and another set of students something else.

This relationship between language, religion and nationalist strivings had some rather bizarre consequences for the Christian communities. For example, the linking of Arabic to Islam resulted in Coptic children studying Qur’anic suras in their Arabic classes at school. To turn to the narratives under discussion, the narrator recalls exactly such an episode from an Arabic class at his secondary school: The bell rang, and we rushed off up the marble staircase to our Arabic class. […] 256


Khalifa Effendi asked me to recite the Qur’an lesson. The Sura of the Night and the Sura of the Noon had been set for us to learn; I was good at learning by heart, so I recited them off one after the other, enthralled by the rhythm of the phrases. Complete silence reigned over the whole classroom as I chanted the short musical verses, and Khalifa Effendi looked at me with a fixed, profound expression until I had finished. […] And then Khalifa Effendi said, ‘Good Lord! That recitation was like chains of gold – may God make you prosper, my son!’ (COS, 50–51)

Furthermore, Mikha’il, as a child who excels in Arabic, finds himself asked by a Muslim schoolmate ‘to explain the meaning of certain verse in the Qur’an Sura we had been set to learn’ (COS, 52). The narrator, incidentally, doesn’t make any adverse comments on the connection between Arabic and Islam. On the contrary, the sentiments he recalls virtually echo in part sections of the petition from the Central Committee of Young Muslim Societies quoted above. He feels a deep aesthetic love for the Arabic language, recalling how he would hear his Muslim schoolmates through the window, reciting the Qur’an together during their religion classes: ‘in a sonorous rhythm which filled my heart with awe and envy; I would have preferred to be with them’ (COS, 57). The link between language and religion is further reflected in the distribution of language teachers. Islam is taught by Khalifa Effendi, the Arabic teacher, while the Christian boys are taught Scripture by Girgis Effendi, the English teacher. It is difficult to read Mikha’il’s experience of alienation as the result of his being an Egyptian Copt. As a young Copt in a particular historical context, Mikha’il’s experiences are representative of the paradoxes and contradictions faced by a minority in regard to such fundamental pillars of identity as name, nationality and language. The situation can be particularly complex when society as a whole is in the throes of change as Egypt was in the first half of the 20th century, when the nationbuilding enterprise made a common identity essential to existence. A common religion and language are potent forces for unity and resulted, in Egypt, in linking Islam and the Arabic 257


language to the national identity. In a period of heightened nationalism such unity can be a source of alienation for minorities of differing faiths, as it was for many Copts.

Notes 1

The English quotes are taken from the English translations by the translator and novelist Frances Liardet, City of Saffron, Quartet Books, London, 1989; and Girls of Alexandria, Quartet Books, London, 1993. For the sake of convenience I refer to these works hereafter as COS and GOA respectively. 2 I am using this term from Gérard Genette to denote the temporal level in which the act of narrating is taking place, in contrast to the time narrated, where the actual ‘action’ of the narrative is taking place. 3 Husni Hasan, for example, traces a whole series of biographical similarities in his work Yaqin al-Kitaba: Idwar al-Kharrat wa Marayahu al-Mutakassira, Cairo: al-Majlis al-A‘la li’l-Thaqafa, 1996. He adds that Mikha’il’s family name, Qaldas, is created out of bits of al-Kharrat’s own name. 4 These lines can also be read as making a more statement about the illusive, subjective, creative and almost random powers of human memory and the nature of autobiography. Thus, he could be suggesting that autobiography, rather than being rooted in reality, is itself an act of fiction. Tetz Rooke, in his study of Arabic autobiography, ‘In my Childhood’: A Study of Arabic Autobiography, Stockholm University, 1997, calls COS an autobiographical novel. 5 All statistics are taken from data given by Robert Brenton Betts in Christians in the Arab East, Athens: Lycabettus Press, 1975. 6 Ghali Shukri, ‘al-Aqbat wa’l-Riwa’i al-Muslim fi Misr’, al-Naqid, No. 5 November 1988, 37. 7 For al-Kharrat’s comments about these accusations see Muhajamat al-Mustahil: Maqati‘ min Sira Dhatiya li’l-Kitaba, Nicosia: Dar al-Mada li’l-Thaqafah wa’l-Nashr, 1996, 91–97. 8 Idwar al-Kharrat, Kuttab ‘Aqbat’ wa Mawdu‘at ‘Masihiya’ in Unshuda li’l-Kathafa. Cairo: Dar al-Mustaqbal al-‘Arabi, 1995. 9 See Idwar al-Kharrat, al-Asala al-Thaqafiya wa’l- Huwiya al-Qawmiya in Unshuda li’l-Kathafa, Cairo: Dar al-Mustaqbal al-‘Arabi, 1995. 10 Husni Hasan, 1996, 159. 11 The Coptic Wafdist Nahhas Pasha was elected leader of the party in 1927 after the death of Sa‘d Zahglul. 258


12 Husni Hasan, 1996, 152. Note also that al-Kharrat uses the name Mikha’il for his protagonist in most of his work, therefore Hasan is here not referring specifically to the Mikha’il of COS and GOA. 13 Robert Brenton Betts, 1975, 113. 14 Edward Wakin, A Lonely Minority: The Modern Story of Egypt’s Copts, New York: William Morrow & Company, 1963, 43. The reference here is to the 10th-century Caliph al-Hakim, who, despite being of a Christian mother himself, is reported to have carried out one of the most severe persecutions against the Copts, by ordering them to wear around their neck a heavy wooden cross. 15 B. L. Carter, The Copts in Egyptian Politics, London: Croom Helm, 1986, 257. 16 Carter 1986, 131. 17 Idwar al-Kharrat, al-Asala al-Thaqafiya wa’l- Huwiya al-Qawmiya in Unshuda li’l-Kathafa, Cairo: Dar al-Mustaqbal al-‘Arabi, 1995, 105. 18 Carter 1986, 105. 19 Carter 1986, 226.

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CHAPTER 14

Marginalised Communities, Marginalised Individuals in the Short Stories of Yusuf al-Sharuni Kate Daniels

The theme of marginality, whether in the context of individuals or communities, is a defining characteristic of the short stories of Yusuf al-Sharuni. Al-Sharuni himself might even be defined as a marginal writer: most significantly, he is a Copt, a term used generically here (as indeed it is in Egypt) to signify an Egyptianborn, rather than a foreign-born, Christian.1 More precisely, alSharuni belongs to Egypt’s tiny Protestant community and is thus a member of a religious denomination which is itself at the margin of dominant Coptic orthodoxy. For much of his career, al-Sharuni may also be described as having been marginalised professionally, to the extent that he never really attained the status and renown of other writers of his generation. The reasons behind this are many and are, to some extent, of the author’s own making. In particular, he has been reluctant to attach himself to prevailing literary trends and movements, most notably the socialist realist trend which predominated in Egyptian literature during the 1950s and early 1960s. As a result, many of his earlier short stories were overlooked, in spite of their significant influence on later practitioners of the genre. Finally, al-Sharuni has suffered from his distaste for facile publicity and refusal to participate in the co-opted literary circles of the political establishment. Al-Sharuni’s texts focus on universal themes, such as love, death, and the fulfilment of ambitions and dreams, while plots revolve around aspects of human experience that generally border on the mundane. Yet, his narratives draw heavily on philosophy 260

MARGINALISED COMMUNITIES, MARGINALISED INDIVIDUALS

and psychology, offering penetrating insight into the psychic lives of his characters. This dimension of his writing is sustained in the way he exploits the short-story form, particularly its tendency to focus narrative point of view on just one main character and his favouring of what Frank O’Connor describes as ‘submerged population groups’,2 such as wanderers, dreamers, outlaws and misfits. Al-Sharuni locates a number of his texts among Egypt’s many marginalised communities, such as its urban or rural poor, its women, its alienated intellectuals, and of course, its largest religious minority, the Copts. Many of his short stories portray the isolation of marginalised individuals including madmen, the sick and diseased, the imprisoned and the socially excluded in a world of alienation, delinquency, deviance and criminality. This study will consider marginality as the defining existential condition of al-Sharuni’s narrative subject, examine his treatment of Egypt’s Copts and describe the emergence of an archetypal, marginalised protagonist, notably in the wake of the 1967 war against Israel. Our study will also link the experience of marginality to an evolving nationalist discourse that peaked following the coup of 1952.

Marginalised communities: the case of Egypt’s Copts Interestingly, in reviewing al-Sharuni’s entire body of fiction (a collection of more than 70 stories), Copts are noted more for their absence than their presence. Indeed, we can identify only four texts which contain explicitly Coptic existence, although there are others which may be described as having a Christian ‘ethos’, or which use Christian themes, motifs or secondary characters. In fact, al-Sharuni appears to have purposefully determined not to feature Copts in his writing and more generally constructs characters of indeterminate faith, with generic Arabic names and no obvious indicators of religious identity. Ironically, and perhaps inevitably, it is through this silence that Coptic differences makes themselves heard; certainly, for those readers with knowledge of the author’s religious identity, the absence of a Coptic presence in his stories serves to bring them more forcibly into the foreground. 261


Al-Sharuni’s motivation for excluding the Copts from his texts might be explained, in part, by his own self-perception and selfdefinition. He takes a diplomatic and somewhat guarded view of his personal identity, stating: ‘My identity stems from my nationality, my class, my religion and my politics. I am a bit of everything. I am a liberal Christian; I am neither an extremist nor a fundamentalist.’3 In fact, he tends to diminish the significance of his Coptic identity, and minimises its influence on his writing, asserting: ‘I do not see myself as part of a minority. In terms of artistic expression, yes, but from a religious point of view, no.’4 His reluctance to portray Copts in his texts might also be explained by certain political or ideological attitudes. Al-Sharuni claims to be committed to national issues, and argues: ‘I do not write about minority issues nor do I write about specifically Christian issues. Only Idwar al-Kharrat does this. He is a minority writer, and this is what he is known for.’5 Rather, he describes himself as a ‘protest writer’, an ‘idealist’ and ‘liberal humanist’, and cites democracy, rationalism and secularism as his guiding principles.6 In truth, it is probably because of his own marginal social status that al-Sharuni’s texts favour a nationalist ideal of a single, unified Egyptian consciousness. Indeed, it may be argued that al-Sharuni’s decision not to deal with the Coptic identity but to focus instead on national identity is a means of protecting himself as a minority. There is nothing unusual in this as Middle Eastern Christian minorities have often sought refuge in Arab nationalist ideologies, precisely because such ideology superseded sectarian differences and inequalities. Nor should al-Sharuni’s nationalist ideal be dismissed out of hand; Egypt does have a relatively homogeneous national identity, thanks to its history, geography and centralised political unity. The first thing that should be remarked about the way alSharuni represents Copts in his texts is that they can be a positive, negative or neutral social force. In spite of their marginal status, they are never portrayed as being totally powerless or even as a persecuted or oppressed minority. Their marginality is expressed rather as a matter of inclusion in or exclusion from national life, as determined by the dominant culture or power. Marginality is thus a fluid and evolving condition, as characters move between the periphery and the centre. Such movement however, suggests social precarity; al-Sharuni’s Copts are vulnerable, on occasions, 262


to social, political or economic disadvantage. With these points in mind, the analyses that follow will consider al-Sharuni’s texts within the prism of power relations and, where appropriate, as allegorical representations of competing discourses, one hegemonic and the other marginal. The first text to be considered here is also al-Sharuni’s first short story, published in 1946. Entitled ‘Jasad min Tin’ (‘Body of Clay’),7 it portrays the relationship between Liza, a devout young Coptic woman, and Muhyi, her Muslim neighbour. Both are unmarried and both are sexually frustrated. Following a protracted flirtation they share a brief sexual liaison. Essentially, Liza and Muhyi share the same needs and desires, but the way in which each responds to the sexual act is radically different: Liza is overcome by guilt and shame, and eventually commits suicide by throwing herself from her bedroom window, while Muhyi feels no guilt at their adulterous deed and no sense of responsibility for Liza’s suicide. A lonely and isolated protagonist, Liza’s marginalised condition is largely negative in its implications. She is condemned to the life of a spinster, her face is badly pock-marked, and she is subject to the dictates and control of her church and family. She functions synecdochically as a symbol for the Coptic community and for Egyptian women in general, who are also to be found at this time on the periphery of public life. This is apparent from the fact that her potential for action is limited, and is restricted either to the mind or to the domestic space of her room. This is not to suggest, however, that Liza lacks the will or capacity for agency, but that her marginalised condition, as determined by society, is at the root of her frustrated desire to live a full life. Indeed, the text highlights the dynamism of Liza’s inner self, exposes the rich possibilities of her libidinous imagination and shows how Liza’s sexuality threatens social norms, ideals and values. Her sexuality is thus characterised as deviant, as destabilising of the public order both of the Coptic community and society at large, leading inevitably to exclusion and ultimately death.8 To take the relationship between Liza and Muhyi as an allegory for relations between Egypt’s Muslims and Copts, it should be acknowledged that these communities are not represented in the text as discrete entities. Indeed, the fact that Liza and Muhyi live in such close spatial proximity reminds us that, for the greater part, these communities interact in almost every area of life. Copts 263


thus are by no means ‘outside’ of society but very much a part of broader Egyptian culture. We should also note however, that there are tensions between these two communities and that their relations are marked by imbalance and instability. If we consider this in the light of the social and political context of the story’s setting, we will see that 1946 marked the beginning of intense, but divided nationalist fervour in Egypt, with outbreaks of violence and new restrictions on personal and political freedoms. Most notably, sectarian sentiment was on the rise, unnerving the Coptic community who were already conscious of Muslim numerical superiority and social privilege. Thus, while Copts frequently participated in the struggle for national independence, their concerns were often marginal and even at odds with other groups’ concerns, due to their desire to safeguard their community’s interests. The second story, ‘Anisa’,9 first published in 1954, takes its title from the name of its Coptic protagonist. The story is an identifiably Coptic narrative whose text contains entirely Coptic characters, references and settings, and provides a detailed picture of ‘a family of Egyptian Copts who held firmly and devotedly to the teachings of the faith’.10 In this way we see the little girl Anisa and her family at prayer, discussing scripture and observing religious duties. We are also given a glimpse of Anisa’s religious instruction at school. Like Liza before her, Anisa struggles to contain her inner impulses and desires, rebelling, on occasions, against the dictates of her family and culture. Also like Liza, Anisa commits a ‘crime’: she accidentally kills two dove chicks that had been nesting in her kitchen and plots to have the servant boy take the blame for the deaths. Like Liza, she is almost destroyed by guilt and shame at her deed, and lives in constant fear and anxiety that her deception might be uncovered. Despite the fact that ‘Anisa’ has much in common with ‘Jasad min Tin’, the marginalised status of Copts is shown in a much more positive light. In particular, by detailing and defining Coptic rituals and religious practice, al-Sharuni reveals how Copts have sought to maintain their minority identity and consciously assert their distinctiveness from the (Muslim) mainstream. Produced after the 1952 coup, which was announced on behalf of all Egypt’s citizens, ‘Anisa’ is a reflection on post-revolutionary nationalist discourse. Since Egyptian nationalism proclaimed that all Egyptians were equal, irrespective of ethnic origin or religious affiliation, 264


many minority writers, al-Sharuni among them, expressed confidence embarking on an exploration of their own cultures through their texts. Thus, while ‘Anisa’ is a marginal discourse par excellence, it is not an exclusivist narrative, but a self-confident celebration of Egypt’s social and cultural diversity, bringing Coptic literary discourse into the ‘canon’ of national literature. Less positive, however, is the way al-Sharuni questions certain Coptic institutions and values. Notably, he appears to condemn some of the methods used in Anisa’s moral instruction, such as when her mother tells her that, if she lies, she will go to hell, ‘where the maggots will eat her’.11 In fact, if we take Anisa’s family as a sort of Coptic collectivity in miniature, al-Sharuni appears to present us with a rather rigid, stratified community, where dissent from the norm is not tolerated and usually punished. Thus, al-Sharuni appears to champion Anisa’s innocent (and possibly, unconscious) challenging of her elders, as a reflection of the fact that, at this time of social change, former modes of discourse have been rendered obsolete, while new modes of discourse and action are being sought. Our third short story, ‘Ra’san fi’l-Halal’ (‘Two in Holy Matrimony’),12 was published in 1955, only one year after ‘Anisa’. Replete with the energy and optimism surrounding the process of nation-building, it has a utopian confidence which proves rare in al-Sharuni’s repertoire. Further, it contains both Coptic and Muslim characters who for once enjoy a harmonious and thoroughly equitable relationship, and portrays Coptic characters as firmly established at the heart of public and national life. Thus, while still a minority, the marginality of the Copts is effectively ‘neutral’ in this text, and bears no negative implications or associations. The two main characters in the narrative are Muslim and Coptic neighbours. The Copt, Basita, never married, and instead raised her two younger brothers. Conscious of the sacrifice she made for her family, Habib, the elder of the brothers, proposes a marriage of ‘exchange’, whereby he and Basita marry another brother-sister couple. Their Muslim neighbour, Siddiqa, is elated at the news, assisting eagerly in preparing for this long-awaited event. But tragedy strikes when Habib dies suddenly, and the wedding is cancelled as the family goes into mourning. When it appears that Basita’s fiancé will renege on the arrangement, 265


Siddiqa does all that she can to bring the wedding to its conclusion. Exceptionally (for al-Sharuni), the story closes with a firmly resolved, happy ending. ‘Ra’san fi’l-Halal’ is the embodiment of the author’s nationalist vision of a society founded on mutual respect and tolerance, shared goals and equality. A principle of egalitarianism informs the text and shapes its discourse; rather than present Copts and Muslims as distinct and irreconcilable opposites, alSharuni shows how they form a complementary whole. Thus, Copts are no longer even on the margins of society, but are situated firmly at its centre. To this end, al-Sharuni sets out to demonstrate how much his characters have in common, emphasising the shared beliefs and traditions of the ‘People of the Book’, amongst other things. In all, rather than highlighting differences, this text emphasises a common identity and spirit of co-operation, a world in which actors exist as one happy and united family. By doing so, al-Sharuni demonstrates how the Copts are necessary to the vitality of the larger national community, and to its understanding of its sense of national identity. Albeit subtle, there are nonetheless elements in the narrative which expose the reality of the Copts’ status in society. First, it is a Muslim narrator who gives voice to the Coptic minority, reminding us that, even after the revolution, the discourse of domination was still profoundly Muslim. Second, as with Muhyi and Liza, the Muslim character is more assertive and capable of agency than the Copt. Yet al-Sharuni does not present this as Muslim ‘superiority’, but shows the Muslim woman as a side of her Coptic friend that has not, as yet, found its own expression. The text builds on newfound confidence among Egyptian Copts and suggests no real desire to subvert the status quo. Ostensibly, Copts are represented as equal and essential parts of the system; they are not ‘dominated’ by the Muslim majority, but contend and interact with it in an equal and stable relationship. If one theme lingers from ‘Ra’san fi’l-Halal’, it is the theme of sacrifice, whether to the primary group, the common good or the nationalist ideal. This theme is also central to our last text here, ‘al-Lahm wa’l-Sikkin’13 (‘Flesh and Knife’), published in 1961. The story concerns two brothers: Milad, a veterinary in Cairo, and Shafiq, who manages the family’s land in al-Minya. Although the brothers are close, they begin to clash following the death of their 266


father, when Shafiq, the younger son, demands a larger share of the inheritance. Their arguments continue, until one day Shafiq shoots Milad, wounding him slightly. Their mother, a sickly woman suffering from diabetes and high blood pressure, is rushed to hospital where she later dies. Only then do her sons recognise the harm their feud has caused and accept that they must be reconciled, if only for the sake of their family’s future. Another exclusively Coptic narrative, ‘al-Lahm wa’l-Sikkin’ alludes heavily to the Old Testament, notably its stories of sibling rivalry and inheritance disputes, such as Cain and Abel, Jacob and Esau and Isaac and Ishmael. It also draws extensively on the New Testament, with al-Sharuni making numerous parallels between the mother and Christ. Highly polysemous, the text is frought with symbol, metaphor, allusion and allegory. Its allegorical dimension is especially significant, since this disguises its critical political comment. Most importantly, the dramatic conflict between the brothers, while an allegory for emergent CopticMuslim tensions, reveals how, after a brief spell at the heart of Egypt’s national life, the Copts have once more been remanded to the margins of society. Such a reading is supported if we consider the metaphorical function of the two brothers: Milad is a metaphor for the older, Coptic community (since he is the first-born of the two),14 while Shafiq, the younger, is a metaphor for the Muslims.15 The commonly recurring themes of first-born and birthright, particularly in respect of the matter of land, also support the argument for a Copt-Muslim tension. As we may see from the text, the distinction between the first-born son, who has the right of primogeniture, and the younger brother who usurps this right, is evident in both the fabula and its allusions to Biblical stories. Bearing in mind that the dispute between Milad and Shafiq centres on issues of land and the loss of rights, we may also assume that these are the causes behind the Copts’ remarginalisation. This argument becomes all the more compelling when we consider the effects of agrarian reform and nationalisation on the Copts,16 along with their political exclusion, as a result of the creation of the single-party system. In some respects, ‘al-Lahm wa’l-Sikkin’ marks the end of a period in al-Sharuni’s writing. It is the last story he wrote with Coptic characters or settings, prompting a return to a generic, 267


religiously-indeterminate existence. In fact, for the next twenty years, al-Sharuni wrote very little fiction at all; the numerous negative developments of the Sixties, such as Nasser’s growing authoritarianism, the political purges, the empty sloganeering and superficial conformity, not to mention the war of 1967, had a profound effect on both the author and his output. Thus, from the end of 1961 to 1970, the year of Nasser’s death, al-Sharuni produced only three short stories, couched in the esoteric safety of the symbol and the dream. By this time however, the myth of national unity had been definitively exploded and the gap between reality and dream exposed, as society refragmented into myriad groups, each with opposing ideology and interests. As many Copts reclaimed and re-asserted their minority identity, alSharuni, who had for so long nurtured the dream of an integrated, ‘Egyptian’ consciousness, retreated into an introspective world, producing texts marked by paranoia and loss of confidence. These characteristics are most evident in his third collection, alZiham (The Crowd), in whose short stories we find the emergence of an archetypal, marginalised protagonist.

The emergence of an archetypal, marginalised protagonist Al-Ziham was published in the wake of the naksa (‘setback’), Egypt’s defeat in the 1967 war against Israel, an event which had a salient effect on the artistic and intellectual output of the period. Since Egypt had long been considered the Arab world’s leading political and cultural centre, its writers experienced feelings of bewilderment, self-doubt and wounded pride along with a confused sense of national and regional identity. Whether as a matter of shock or denial, many intellectuals ceased writing altogether. Others sought solace and re-affirmation through an investigation of the classical heritage (turath) of the Arabs and of the bases of cultural authenticity (asalah).17 Still others, inspired by anti-government riots in 1968, began to vent their anger publicly at the political establishment, in line with the growing perception that, although individuals and the state were bound inextricably under Nasser’s regime, the individual had been excluded from national life. Thus, the individual became 268


subordinate to the state, and no longer a participant in the state. This theme of individual marginalisation is most discernible in the texts ‘al-Ziham’18 and ‘Lamahat min Hayat Mawjud ‘Abd alMawjud’ (‘Glimpses from the Life of Mawjud ‘Abd al-Mawjud’),19 both of which will be considered here. Again, in both narratives, the marginalised condition of the individual is also an ideologicallyoriented discourse on national unity and national identity. The marginalised individual as constructed in these texts is a type of narrative identity particular to al-Sharuni: emotionally damaged and socially excluded, this is a powerless individual, crushed within by an oppressive and coercive society. In ‘alZiham’, the marginalised individual takes form in its dramatised narrator, Fathi ‘Abd al-Rasul. After a happy childhood in a small village community, Fathi migrates with his family to Cairo, where his father hopes to find work. Insecure and overweight, Fathi finds it hard to fit (literally, as well as socially) into the overcrowded streets of the bustling, hostile city. Friendless and alone, he is tortured by his deficient self-image and is bullied by his critical, overbearing father. Through his rambling and often delusional narrative, we watch Fathi progress from simple inferiority complex to psychosis and schizophrenia. By the end of the text, we discover that Fathi is now middle-aged, and that he has been locked away in a mental institution. As we have seen from al-Sharuni’s post-revolutionary short stories, Egyptian society was a homogeneous, harmonious collectivity, united under a vision of solidarity and shared identity. In ‘al-Ziham’ however, this imagined, national community is a menacing, hostile crowd, in the midst of which is the isolated, marginalised individual. Taking our cue from the word ziham in the story’s title (which, besides ‘crowd’, may be interpreted as a ‘crush’, ‘jam’ or ‘throng’), we might describe this particular, marginalised self as ‘crushed’, a condition first expressed in Fathi’s opening scene, where he tries to board an overcrowded bus on a street in Cairo. As he attempts to push his considerable bulk into the bus, he is ejected forcefully by the other passengers and is sent hurtling to the ground. Beyond underscoring Fathi’s alienation and marginalisation, this image is also a generic metaphor for the relationship of the individual to society. The marginalised individual is a minority, peripheral figure, excluded from all economic, political and social systems. Such an 269


individual is incapable of taking control of or of shaping his own destiny, nor can it contribute to national life in any meaningful way. Such an individual is anonymous and lost amidst a desperate, grasping mass, while his modest goals and dreams are systematically denied him. Perhaps the strongest indication of the individual’s marginalisation is that the imagined, national community to which the individual once aspired, has now become the individual’s Other. The national community is no longer perceived as a site of inclusion and association (as it was during the nation-building phase), but as an alien, pervasive, strange and malevolent mob, which mistreats, punishes and finally, suppresses the individual. It is the expression of what Northrop Frye defines as a demonic human world, ‘a society held together by a kind of molecular tension of egos, a loyalty to the group or leader which diminishes the individual or, at best, contrasts his pleasure with his duty or honour’.20 Other defining characteristics of the marginalised individual are fear, anxiety and loneliness, all of which are seen to be symptoms of a specifically metropolitan existence.21 Such an individual inhabits a world where there are no boundaries between the public and private and where crowding is a condition from which everybody suffers. Another, significant characteristic is the protagonist’s ambivalence towards his feelings of isolation and social exclusion; in fact, we may even say that this isolation is self-generated. In the case of Fathi, he is aggrieved that society excludes him on account of his obesity, yet he also welcomes this, since he is disillusioned with society and feels no desire to be a part of it. Hence, he withdraws behind psychological boundaries: first, because society can or will not accommodate him physically, and second, as a coping strategy. One final characteristic of the archetypal, marginalised individual is madness, which functions as a sort of nihilistic defence mechanism, giving the individual the freedom to live in a world of its own construction. It might be suggested here that al-Sharuni’s preoccupation with the marginalised individual in ‘al-Ziham’ draws on his own reality as a Copt and an intellectual, for, while many Egyptians expressed feelings of impotence and alienation at this time, this was especially true of both these minorities. While most Copts, as we have seen, had welcomed the revolutionary regime, with time they began to question the moral authority of Nasser’s government, 270


since it appeared neither to express the will of the Coptic minority, nor to serve its interests in the wider community. Their grievances were strengthened further by claims of disproportionate representation in national life, the introduction of policies which suggested the inter-dependence of the state and religion and the growing appeal of political Islam. The same can also be said of Egypt’s (predominantly left-leaning) intellectuals – once among the revolution’s most eloquent supporters — who had seen the state come to dominate the bulk of their activities, while subjecting them to censorship and, in certain cases, imprisonment. ‘Lamahat min Hayat Mawjud ‘Abd al-Mawjud’22 is also dominated by the voice of an archetypal, marginalised protagonist. Its first-person narrator, Mawjud ‘Abd al-Mawjud, is of similar construction to Fathi in ‘al-Ziham’ indeed the two are interchangeable in a great many ways.23 Mawjud ‘Abd al-Mawjud is a teacher of philosophy, who rents a small room in Cairo from a middle-aged widow, Madiha. An inhibited young man who tends to shrink from social contact, Mawjud longs nonetheless for the comfort of companionship (thus we find the repeated theme of an isolated individual living a paradoxical existence). Madiha seduces Mawjud, after which she offers him her daughter, Zaynab, in marriage, so that she can take him as her son-in-law and lover. Before long, Zaynab discovers her husband and mother together, and commits suicide. During an altercation after Zaynab’s death, Mawjud hits Madiha and leaves her unconscious, learning later – to his horror – that she too is dead. Although accused by the police of being party to Madiha’s death, Mawjud denies this and is freed. Uneasy and suspicious, Mawjud retreats back into his room, imprisoning himself in his fear and paranoia, renouncing his personal freedom and, eventually, losing his sanity. In ‘Lamahat’, the marginalised individual is a self under siege, severed from society by both choice and necessity. It is a fearful self, with fear as a basis for the construction of its identity; thus Mawjud remarks that dictum is: ‘I fear, therefore I am’.24 The allpervasiveness of fear may be noted from the opening sentence of the text, which alludes to the Gospel of St. John: ‘In the beginning was fear. All things were with it, and without it nothing came into being.’25 Fear is also fundamental to the structure and form of society, which is evoked, rather than described explicitly, assuming characteristics similar to those of the crowd in ‘al-Ziham’.26 271


On account of fear, the life of the individual becomes a riddle or enigma, filled with double-meanings, doubts, illusions and distortions. Inhabiting a world of uncertainty, ambiguity and contradictions, the individual’s attempts at self-preservation lead only to its self-annihilation, while its denial of the world around it both protects it and destroys it at once. In Mawjud’s case, fear is also self-eradicating: he destroys his personal documents and memories and thereby destroys his own personal history; he denies his very existence by pretending that he is dead; he even destroys his own identity by taking an assumed name and profession. In sum, fear is the cause and consequence of death within life itself. For this reason, at the end of his narration, Mawjud revises his earlier dictum, saying: ‘I fear, therefore I am not.’27 The fear and paranoia that infect the narrative discourse are consistent with a life lived under surveillance and intimidation, yet this is suitably concealed by the use of symbols and the absurd. In this way, ‘Lamahat’ tells us as much about the marginalised condition of its author, as it does about the life of its marginalised protagonist. Notably, the reflexive nature and self-awareness of the text is a mirror of the condition of the minority writer. Selfconscious, duplicitous and frequently self-contradicting, this text exposes the omniscience and omnipresence of the censor (whether external or internal), in that all traces of the author’s voice are submerged or, at the very least, masked behind a narrative persona. As with many of his texts, ‘al-Ziham’ and ‘Lamahat’ are visibly products of the era within which al-Sharuni wrote them. In particular, both are informed by anti-ideological and antiauthoritarian ideas; they expose the emptiness behind nationalist discourse and how it secures the loyalty of the population by becoming totalitarian in character. The individual represented in these texts is not only marginalised, but has been sacrificed to the myth of an imagined national community, as the values which had formerly unified its citizen’s collapse around it.

Notes 1

See E. J. Chitham, The Coptic Community in Egypt: Spatial and Social Change, Durham: Centre for Middle Eastern and Islamic Studies, University of Durham, 1986, 1. 272


2 3 4 5 6 7

8

9 10 11 12

13

14 15

16

17

Frank O’Connor, The Lonely Voice: A Study of the Short Story, London: Macmillan, 1963, 27. Yusuf al-Sharuni, personal interview, 12 September 1998. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid. First published in the magazine al-Sinima, Cairo, August 1946. The story was omitted from the first edition of al-Sharuni’s first collection, al-‘Ushshaq al-Khamsa (The Five Lovers), al-Kitab al-Dhahabi, Cairo: Ruz al-Yusuf, 1954, but appeared in the second edition, Cairo: Dar al-Qawmiyya li’l-Tiba‘a wa’l-Nashr, 1961, 173–176. It is on account of the dangers of Liza’s sexuality that she is imprisoned within her room, which functions similarly to the ‘attic’ metaphor detailed in Sandra M. Gilbert and Susan Gubar in The Madwoman in the Attic, New Haven: Yale University Press, 1979. First published in al-Adab, Beirut, October 1954. Reprinted in al‘Ushshaq al-Khamsa, 69–77. Ibid., 70. Ibid., 71. First published in Akhbar al-Yawm, Cairo, 16 October 1955. Reprinted in al-Sharuni’s second collection, Risala ila Imra’a (A Letter to a Woman), al-Kitab al-Dhahabi, Cairo: Ruz al-Yusuf, 1960, 98–111. First published in Akhbar al-Yawm, Cairo, 2 December 1961. Reprinted in al-Sharuni’s third collection, al-Ziham [The Crowd], Beirut: Dar al-Adab, 1969, 81–99. Furthermore, Milad is a name used exclusively by Christians, and refers to the birth of Christ. The name Shafiq is used by both Muslims and Christians, but is significant here since it is a synonym for ‘the compassionate’, one of the names of Allah. The Minority Rights Group International writes that ‘the nationalization process […] affected Copts more than Muslims, because it abolished many of the skilled jobs which Copts excelled in. In general, Copts lost 75 per cent of their work and property.’ Saad Eddin Ibrahim et al., The Copts of Egypt, Minority Rights Group International Report 95/6, Cairo: Ibn Khaldoun Centre for Development Studies, 1996, 16. Roger Allen, The Arabic Literary Heritage: The Development of its Genres and Criticism, Cambridge: C.U.P., 1998, 79. 273


18 First published in the daily al-Ahram, Cairo, 15 February 1963. Reprinted in al-Ziham, 5–23. 19 First published in al-Majalla, Cairo, July 1969. Reprinted in al-Ziham, 25–42. A significantly modified version of the story also appeared in Galiri 68, Cairo, February 1971, 48–57. 20 Northrop Frye, Anatomy of Criticism: Four Essays, 3rd. ed., Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1973, 147. 21 Fathi suffers principally from the solitude of metropolitan life, which causes him to long for the community spirit of the village. As he complains: ‘Here you know no-one, and no-one knows you.’ Ibid., 7. 22 Hereafter cited as ‘Lamahat’. 23 They are both male, of a similar age, of the same class and rural origins, and on arriving in the city they experience the same social stigmas and sense of culture shock. 24 ‘Lamahat’, 25. 25 Ibid. 26 Once again, fear is represented in this text as a symptom of life in the modern metropolis; corrupt and oppressive, the city is seen to have an ‘inferior’ set of values to the countryside. 27 ‘Lamahat’, 42.

Bibliography Allen, R. (1998) The Arabic Literary Heritage: The Development of its Genres and Criticism, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Chitham, E. J. (1986) The Coptic Community in Egypt: Spatial and Social Change, Durham: Centre for Middle Eastern and Islamic Studies. Frye, Northrop (1973) Anatomy of Criticism: Four Essays, 3rd. ed., Princeton: Princeton University Press. Gilbert, S. M. and Gubar, S. (1979) The Madwoman in the Attic, New Haven: Yale University Press. Ibrahim, Saad Eddin, et al. (1996) The Copts of Egypt, Minority Rights Group International Report 95/6, Cairo: Ibn Khaldoun Center for Development Studies. O’Connor, F. (1963) The Lonely Voice: A Study of the Short Story, London: Macmillan. Sharuni Yusuf, al- (1954) Al-‘Ushshaq al-Khamsa, al-Kitab al-Dhahabi Cairo: Ruz al-Yusuf. —————. (1961) Al-‘Ushshaq al-Khamsa, 2nd. ed., Cairo: Dar al-Qawmiyya li’l-Tiba‘a wa’l-Nashr. —————. (1960) Risala ila Imra’a, al-Kitab al-Dhahabi Cairo: Ruz al-Yusuf. —————. (1969) al-Ziham, Beirut: Dar al-Adab. 274

CHAPTER 15

Language, Individual and Community in Lebanese Women’s Literature Written in French Michelle Hartman

Like many ‘francophone’ authors, Lebanese female authors’ literary texts frequently mix languages in complex and creative ways.1 This chapter explores how two authors use the Arabic language in French texts to address issues related to the formulation of a woman’s identity both as an individual and as a member of a Lebanese or Arab community. The politics of identity and affiliation are crucial to French-language literature produced in Lebanon, partly because of stereotypes that hold that French-speaking (and thus French writing and reading) Lebanese people are all Christian, wealthy, particularist, not politically committed as Arabs and estranged from the questions and issues that engage their Arabic speaking and reading compatriots. This is a vast generalisation and recent research has shown that the Lebanese francophone community is considerably more diverse than it is usually imagined to be.2 A closer look at the writings of francophone authors, and especially of francophone women authors, shows that assumptions concerning their political sympathies, in particular, are often erroneous.3 Nonetheless, the peculiar position that the French language holds within Lebanon and the Arab world presents complications for authors who use it as their language of literary expression. In Lebanon, as in other parts of the Arab world, authors who write in European or ‘outsider’ languages are often considered suspect and ‘nonauthentic’ because these languages are identified with the colonial powers that controlled the region. Lebanese authors writing in 275


French thus always interact with assumptions about their political leanings and social affiliations, no matter what their position or politics. I believe that it is precisely because of their precarious position as both ‘insiders’ and ‘outsiders’ that French-language authors are particularly well-placed to explore questions related to language use and identity formation. The focus here then, is how women authors negotiate questions of identity and politics within the context of their French literary production and more specifically, how they use language to articulate identities as both individual women and as Lebanese Arabs. Our study will focus on two Lebanese writers working in French, Évelyne Accad and Éveline Bustros, both of whom ‘write back’ to answer assumptions about francophone Lebanese and thus engage a politics of identity by incorporating Arabic words and expressions into texts otherwise written in French. It is my belief that the moments where Arabic and French languages meet in these novels are locations where the complexities of articulating individual and community identities as women are explored and that this is where the potentially transformative power of their works resides. The expression of women’s gender-related feelings of alienation from culture and community is famously expressed by Virginia Woolf in Three Guineas. An English woman writing about events in Europe in the 1930s, Woolf argues against both war and patriotism, showing how the two are linked. She argues that women do not support war and must work against both of these phenomena, stating, ‘For, in fact, as a woman, I have no country. As a woman I want no country. As a woman my country is the whole world’ (Woolf 197). Later feminists critiqued Woolf’s somewhat evasive and universalising declaration noting how it is linked to privileges afforded by race and class.4 The critical work of many women-of-colour theorists provides a more complex insight into the understanding of how women in diverse locations balance the competing demands of an individual identity as a woman, with a group affiliation in a culture of limited tolerance. Gloria Anzaldúa states, for example, Though I’ll defend my race and culture, when they are attacked by non-mexicanos, cognosco el malestar de mi cultura. I abhor some of my culture’s ways, how it cripples its women … I abhor how my culture makes macho caricatures of its men. No I do not buy all of the myths 276

LANGUAGE, INDIVIDUAL AND COMMUNITY

of the tribe into which I was born … But I will not glorify those aspects of my culture which have injured me and which have injured me in the name of protecting me. (Anzaldúa 21–22).

This tension between women and community is complicated for women writers who are often expected to ‘defend their race’ in public and put in the position of choosing to support either a feminist standpoint or a local and thus ‘indigenous’ or ‘authentic’ one. Trinh Minh-ha articulates this problem for women writers as a ‘triple bind’: ‘To write well, we must either espouse his cause or transcend our borderlines. We must forget ourselves. We are therefore triply jeopardised: as a writer, as a woman, and as a woman of color’ (Trinh 28). Anzaldúa’s and Trinh’s formulations propose ways in which to understand women’s assertions of individual and community identities by linking the struggle for individual identity with reconciliation to a community identity. This does not mean that all women share the same concerns: intersections of gender, race and class in Lebanon are significantly different from those of Anzaldúa’s ‘borderlands’. The class divide between Anglos and Chicanos that relegates Spanish to an inferior status in the Texas-Mexico borderlands, for example, does not apply to the use of the French language in Lebanon. The opposite is true, as the French language enjoys a high status and most French-language authors are of relatively privileged and educated backgrounds. The way in which Anzaldúa and Trinh show the complications faced by women writers as ‘insiders’ in communities that do not accept them, and as ‘outsiders’ in the dominant community, is directly relevant to the case of Lebanese women writers. Éveline Bustros for example, highlights Lebanese village social customs and traditions that are harmful to women and the dilemma this poses to one woman, Anissa, through her layering of the Arabic and French languages in Sous la Baguette du Coudrier. Rather than simply accept or reject French or Arab systems of social organisation or the French or Arabic languages, her manipulation of language weaves into her narratives a more complex and subtle message about women’s roles and position in society. Évelyne Accad is more explicit in her comments on how the use of language affects women through her analysis of certain Arabic curse words in Coquelicot du Massacre. Writing in French, she directs her comments to Arabs chastising them for not being 277


aware enough of how the way that they speak influences society. In Blessures des Mots, Accad also forges bonds between Arab women who speak and read French and those who speak and read Arabic, by writing a novel in French with intertextual links to Arabic novels and even more importantly, by repeating Arabic words. Neither author advocates rejection of the French or Arabic languages, but rather, a means of expression that incorporates both. These situations recall both Anzaldúa’s proposal of the borderlands as a potentially creative space where many elements meet as well as Trinh’s concerns for the ‘triple bind’. Thus, the questions and problems raised by Anzaldúa and Trinh inform my readings of the three literary texts below, even though my readings remain grounded in the specificity of Accad’s and Bustros’ locations within the Lebanese, and Lebanese francophone, communities.

Writing Arabic into French: relexification Many francophone writers in Lebanon have expressed the opinion that there is something ‘Arab’ or ‘Arabic’ about their writings in French. For example, in an interview on Radio Liban in 1975, Nadia Tuéni stated: ‘…dans la construction de ma phrase, très souvent, on retrouve le rythme et la musicalité de la phrase arabe’.5 Few writers or critics, however, have suggested any concrete ways in which to understand these claims. Part of the project of this paper, and related research, is to understand how these claims can be meaningfully substantiated.6 How can and does a francophone author use Arabic? What are the techniques and strategies available? Chantal Zabus uses the term ‘relexification’ to describe one common technique that is used to insert language into a text ostensibly written in another language, especially a ‘colonial’ language like English or French.7 Relexification involves the literal translation of a word or phrase from a different language into the main language of the text. The object of the translation is not necessarily to make the phrase understood easily but quite the contrary. Because it is a literal and not an idiomatic translation, a relexified phrase indicates difference; it jars the reader’s ear, and clearly marks the passage as something ‘foreign’ within the text. Zabus proposes that this 278


process ‘indigenises’ the text and also the European language in which it is written. Like Zabus, Ashcroft, Griffith, and Tiffin have suggested reasons for the use of linguistic relexification in novels written in diverse post-colonial locations in Africa. In The Empire Writes Back, they suggest that these relexifications are markers of difference, highlighting to the reader that there is something strange about the language used in the text. They argue that this has the effect of underlining and accenting text that is not merely a product of a hegemonic European language and thus challenges from within the text, both the language and what it represents.8 Such relexifications can be used to varying degrees of complexity and though they can be used to inscribe additional meanings and/or to make important political and social statements, they do not always do so. Lebanese authors writing in French, for example, tend to use many relexified expressions that relate to food and drink. They also often relexify polite and formulaic expressions that are common in Arabic such as greetings, ways of saying thank-you, and so on. Most often relexification is used to lend a certain atmosphere and feeling to the text and does not necessarily inscribe layered and additional meanings with a hidden message. In this chapter, I will show how the relexification of Arabic expressions can, however, inscribe additional and often subtle messages through more complex linguistic layering.9 The example of relexification here is Éveline Bustros’ repeated use of one expression in her novel, Sous la Baguette du Coudrier, and how it relates to the formulation of a woman’s individual and community identity through its focus on the position and status of women in a traditional, Lebanese mountain village society.

‘I hope that you bury me’ The expression used by Éveline Bustros in Sous la Baguette du Coudrier (1958) translates into English as ‘may you bury me’ and is relexified from the Arabic expression Yasha’ Allah an taqbarani which is abbreviated in Lebanese colloquial Arabic as taqbarni (also tuqburni, with the qaf’ pronounced or not depending on the speaker’s accent, and the appropriate variation for the feminine 279


form). This is a common expression in Lebanese colloquial Arabic and is used as an affectionate term of address especially by a parent addressing a child.10 One notable feature of how this expression is used here is Bustros’ word choice in French for the relexification of the Arabic original. Rather than using a more literal translation such as, Dieu veuille que vous m’enterriez, Bustros uses a slightly more formal verb and writes, puisses-tu m’ensevelir.11 The way in which this relexification works is interesting, particularly given that there is a somewhat similar expression used in French, puisses-tu m’enterrer, that has the same connotation, namely that the person being addressed should outlive the speaker. It is clear in several ways that the words expressed here in French do not refer to the French expression but to the idiomatic expression as it is employed in Arabic.12 A detailed examination of the use of the relexification of the Arabic expression, taqbarni can help elucidate the way in which Bustros addresses a complex series of questions related to individual and group identity, Arab traditions and the French mandate power, and the position of women in relation to both. Éveline Bustros’ relexification of the common expression taqbarni is connected to how an individual, particularly a woman, must come to terms with defining an identity for herself within the limits of traditions established by her community. In Sous la Baguette du Coudrier this relexification is used six times. The character who constantly uses this expression is Anissa, or Oum Nehmé, who employs it most often with her favourite child, Nehmé, her first-born son. The relationship between Anissa and her son, however, has become strained even before the major elements of the plot unfold. The novel is built around the love story and illicit relationship that develops between the married Anissa and Sami, her son Nehmé’s friend. Their affair leads to the complete breakdown of the mother-son relationship as well as to a major scandal within Rachmaya, the small struggling, Lebanese mountain village in which this novel is set in the year 1890. Anissa’s use of this expression is thus fitting in the context of the novel, as mentioned above it is commonly used in mountain villages and in particular as a way for a parent to speak to a child. The story of Anissa’s affair with Sami is the main preoccupation of most of the work though the details of family life and the adulterous relationship unfold against the backdrop of the 280


politics of the era including the involvement of the French and the appalling conditions in which the poverty-stricken villagers live. More important here, however, is how the love story is used to explore a few of the ways in which social customs and traditions are stifling, especially for women. Politics are intertwined with stories involving the family, including Anissa’s illicit relationship, and though many of the characters seek to expel the French and other foreigners from Lebanon, there is clearly some degree of respect for France and French laws. It is noted explicitly that the mountain tradition most affecting this family, the killing of a woman who sullies the honour of the family, is considered savage by the French mandate authorities: Le meurtre d’une femme par son frère, commis au nom de l’honneur familial, leur parut surprenant et sauvage … On comprenait moins encore que l’honneur d’une famille, celui d’un clergé et d’un village entier dépendissent de l’égarement d’une femme (325).13

Bustros uses many other relexified words and expressions in Sous la Baguette du Coudrier, although the repeated use of the relexified phrase, puisses-tu m’ensevelir sets it apart as important within the text. This phrase builds in importance and meaning every time it is used until finally it is invoked specifically in relation to the family’s honour. Anissa uses this phrase four times, three times to address Nehmé (169, 254, 255) and once near the end of the work, to her adoring son Fadel, as she prepares to die (316). When Bustros uses the phrase the first three times, it is simply to reflect the way a common Arabic expression is used and to give the sense that the mother is speaking in Arabic. Bustros does not provide an explanation of the meaning of the phrase or provide an idiomatic translation, as many authors do, rather, she simply lets the reader understand what it means from context. For example, Anissa ponders why her son Nehmé is so quiet, Anissa, remarquant son air absorbé, s’inquiétait: Puisses-tu m’ensevelir mon fils! De quoi souffres-tu? (169). In another instance Anissa notices that Nehmé is about to go out without dressing properly: Fils, puisses-tu m’ensevelir! Couvre-toi, dit Anissa (255). The phrase stands out within the French text, not only because its literal meaning is quite the opposite of the intended meaning, but also because this rather cumbersome phrase blocks the flow 281


of the French text and sounds artificial rather than like the affectionate appellation it is meant to be. The two most interesting instances of the use of this relexified Arabic phrase are the last two: when Anissa reflects on it to herself (254), and when Nehmé contemplates how his mother says this to him (262). Moreover, in these last two instances it adds layers of meaning to the text and is directly related to some of the most crucial and interesting parts of the plot. For example, on page 254 Anissa addresses Nehmé with this phrase and then reflects herself on how she has used it. At this point, it has already been suggested that news of her affair with Nehmé’s friend Sami has become known and that she will have to suffer the consequences of her actions. She is so overcome with joy at Nehmé’s return to the village, however, that she seems to be unaware of the ill that will befall her as she thinks of her beloved son: Tous les quelques coups elle s’interrompait, tournait ses yeux rayonnants vers l’intérieur, regardait Nehmé plongé sans le sommeil en murmurant: Allah béni, puisse-t-il m’ensevelir! Le retour de son fils comblait son coeur. Elle oublia tout ce qui n’était pas lui (254).

Although in the context of her speech the use of the expression may simply be a mother’s wish for the best for her child, there is an ironic foreshadowing of the fate that awaits her, as Nehmé will be chosen as the son who should avenge his family’s honour by murdering his mother. Ten pages later, this idea is made explicit when Nehmé himself reflects on his mother and how she always uses this affectionate expression to address him. Nehmé’s ironic reflection on the literal and idiomatic meanings of this expression not only underlines the way in which Bustros uses language to make a subtle and ironic comment on customs and traditions in Lebanese society that harm women, but also to relate a larger conception of individual and community identity within Lebanon. Just before Nehmé reflects on the phrase ‘may you bury me’, there is an explicit discussion of the way in which the ‘honour code’ relating to women works, En cette manière, le code oriental conciliât toutes ses communautés dans un onzième commandement: “L’adultère tu lapideras/ sans faiblesse, ni atermoiements” (262). Nehmé realises that his 282


community expects him to kill his mother in order for him and the rest of his family to remain a part of it. In this passage, Lebanon is explicitly identified as a multi-confessional community in which group identity must be tied to some notion of diverse communities living together. Bustros’ critical commentary, however, notes that one of the bonds that links people within this society is the harsh treatment of women who indulge in sexual relations outside of marriage. Though Bustros’ work does not glorify Anissa as a heroine in her adultery, she certainly underlines the cruelty of a traditional system which would oblige her own beloved son to murder her. Thus, the specific manipulations of the Arabic language in a literary text written in French are tied to a commentary about how women are treated in traditional Lebanese village communities and the dilemma this poses to a woman like Anissa who has no way out of her predicament. Though she wants to remain a good mother and wife, she is fulfilled as an individual only when she engages in her extra-marital relationship with Sami. She loves her children and even her husband. It is worth remarking that her husband is never presented as a cruel man but simply as one who does not understand her, perhaps partly due to the twenty-year age gap between them. The breakdown of the marriage and Anissa’s affair are thus not linked to the cruelty of one man, but explicitly to the customs and traditions of a society in which arranged marriages are the norm. The conflict that arises within this system then, is that Anissa’s fulfilment and happiness as an individual are opposed to the functioning of the community. She eventually must die in order for her family to be able to live with dignity in their society. The harsh ending of the tale further reinforces Bustros’ message about how change and reform are needed in order to ensure that the individual and the community are mutually successful. Bustros’ relexified use of the Arabic language in her French text thus underlines several of the themes stressed throughout the work. The French language, like the French presence in Lebanon, is helpful and has brought certain positive things to Lebanon, but has its limitations. Just as standard French cannot adequately express all of Bustros’ ideas, as may be inferred from her copious use of relexifications and transliterated Arabic words, French customs and traditions should not be haphazardly 283


accommodated. Nor should they be rejected out of hand. Bustros shows ways in which French laws, especially those related to women, are superior to local customs and traditions. Her view of France and the French language is nuanced and neither simply accommodationist nor rejectionist. Through Sous la Baguette du Coudrier, Bustros demonstrates that Lebanon should examine the positive and negative contributions of France and integrate the desirable elements of each into the fabric of Lebanese society. In this way, although in the end the novel is tragic, Bustros’ reflection on the literal and figurative meaning of a common Arabic expression highlights the complexity of conflict between women as individuals and their communities. Bustros does not advocate a simplistic solution to this conflict, but rather questions notions of pure and ‘authentic’ identity in this case for a woman in a traditional, Lebanese, mountain village community.

Writing Arabic into French: transliteration While Bustros’ expression of a woman’s struggle is ultimately tragic – Anissa dies in the end because of the demands placed upon her by a traditional, village community – Accad’s novels deal with similar issues by presenting a positive and, even idealistic, feminist vision. Written more than 30 years later, Coquelicot du Massacre (1988) and Blessures des Mots: journal de Tunisie (1993) explore the dilemmas faced by women who cannot accept certain oppressive aspects of their traditional societies and cultures but nevertheless wish to remain a part of them. Both novels explore alternatives that would allow this sort of integration and express these ideas using Arabic words. Accad, however, does not use relexifications in these novels but rather simply transliterates the words and phrases and incorporates them directly into the body of the texts written in standard French. Transliteration is another common technique used by Lebanese writers of French to integrate the Arabic language into their texts. Like relexification, transliteration also has the effect of alienating the reader of French by making an even more distinct break in the flow of a text by using an odd-sounding, foreign word. Accad’s particular way of employing this technique to integrate Arabic in her works serves a didactic purpose. The Arabic word is 284


highlighted because it breaks the flow of the French text and she then offers long explanations for this word and investigates in detail the way in which words and the ideas behind them affect women in Lebanese and Arab society. One specific problem addressed in both Coquelicot du Massacre and Blessures des Mots is how a woman can be true to herself as an individual and formulate this independent identity, without shunning (or being shunned by) her community and culture. This relates to the main preoccupation of these two pieces, which is common to all of Accad’s creative and critical work — the role and position of women in Arab society and how feminism can be integrated into the life and work of Arab women. Though the two pieces are considerably different in their plot and setting, they both deal with this vexing question of how women can feel free and fulfilled as individuals and yet remain active members of their traditional communities.

‘I am alive’ Arabic words surface in Blessures in a discussion the narrator Hayate has with her new friend and colleague, Nayla. Hayate is a Lebanese woman living and working in America who has come to Tunisia to work with Tunisian feminists on several projects including the establishment of a women’s magazine and organising a conference, Quel feminisme pour le maghreb?. Nayla is one of the Tunisian feminists involved in the project and, like Hayate, is a writer. Nayla shows some of her writing to Hayate and their later interactions revolve around discussions of what one should include in one’s writing (in particular in published works) and how much one should self-censor, especially in relation to private, personal, and/or family matters. The passage that moves Hayate deeply from Nayla’s writing contains the Arabic transliteration, Le cri de Leïla Baalabakki [sic]: ‘je vis’! et la résonance du mot arabe ana ahya! ont éveillé en moi des sensations, des passions longtemps enfouies dans mes profondeurs … j’ai vécu ma vie en m’étouffant pour ne plus vivre …’ (31).

In this passage, Nayla’s cry for recognition and, more specifically, for her liberation as a woman in a traditional society 285


are marked by an intertextual reference to Layla Ba’albaki’s well-known work, Ana ahya (1958). Written in Arabic, this novel traces the story of a young woman, Lina, as she breaks free of her father’s patriarchal authority, and attempts to create a new and independent life for herself. Nayla’s citation of this text is relevant in more ways than mere story content. In her extremely personal and secretive contemplation of life and her role in society as a woman, Nayla highlights that certain words have had an effect on her. In these lines it is clear that it is not only the French words je vis (I am alive) that moved her but more specifically, the Arabic words meaning the same thing, ana ahya. Nayla identifies her community affiliation by pointing out her bond with the Arabic language. Blessures des Mots devotes considerable space to the question of which larger community one should affiliate with as an Arab woman and a feminist, and investigates in great detail the tension between what is considered ‘authentically Arab’ and what ‘imported, Western feminism’. It is significant that Nayla identifies most strongly with a novel written by an Arab woman in Arabic, as she herself is francophone and does not read Arabic at all. As language is so central to identity formation within the Arab world and is often associated with political affiliation and/or engagement, Nayla’s comments and reflection are all the more significant. Arabic words are what touch Nayla the most deeply and confirms that she can be a feminist, francophone and at the same time, feel that she is a part of an Arab community. The work also shows how women from diverse backgrounds within the Arab world can forge bonds; whether literate in French, Arabic, or both, women can read the same books and be affected by the same words. Moreover, the francophone Nayla and Hayate share a pan-Arab bond across the borders of Tunisia and Lebanon which is partly reinforced by their shared knowledge of this pioneering, feminist novel written in Arabic. Some of the same issues arise in Accad’s earlier work, Coquelicot du Massacre, though in extremely different context and circumstances. In this case, the discussion of an Arabic expression used textually in the original, albeit transliterated, Arabic, occurs in the last section of the work entitled ‘epilogue’. In this passage, a group of unnamed people, including Lebanese men and women, one French and one American man, are discussing aspects of the 286


war that is raging around them—different factions, how the politics are played out and what hope there is for the future. Here, the Arabic words are not italicised as is the case with ‘ana ahya’ above, but are highlighted by capital letters though they occur in the middle of a sentence. In this passage, the American man makes the observation that the Palestinians are espousing an ethnocentrism similar to that of the Phalangists whom all of the people in their left-leaning circle despise. The Lebanese man agrees with him and replies, Oui, exactement […] Ce sont des Phalangistes palestiniens! Après dix ans de lutte pour leur cause, j’ai le droit de dire ça. Et je dirais même plus: Kiss Oukhtoum! (151). At this point, the Lebanese woman who has shyly resisted entering the conversation ponders whether or not she should speak her mind and eventually decides that she can no longer hold herself back. Although she fears she will be teased or even ridiculed she interjects, Ce juron mérite d’être relevé et analysé. Il exprime un fonctionnement de pensées cachées et inavouées. Dans toute parole se cache l’inconscient, lui-même lié à la sexualité—ce n’est pas moi qui l’ai dit, mais Freud, l’un des pères de vos discours. La sexualité est un sujet tabou dans notre société. Mais pour aller à la racine des problèmes, il faudra bien que nous l’abordions. Kiss Oukhtoum— con, vagin de ta soeur, baise ta soeur ou mère du clitoris—souligne les maux cachés de notre société, les humiliations de la femme. Cette expression, utilisée par rapport à la résistance palestinienne, est frappante. Elle marque deux tutelles: le peuple palestinien et la femme (152).

She continues on in this vein further deconstructing the use of this expression in relation to power dynamics in Lebanese society and culture and the links between love and hate. The same Lebanese man who spoke earlier listens to her and answers her commentary with his own analysis about the militarisation of Lebanese society using another transliterated Arabic word without translation, ‘askari. As the conversation continues, however, the woman feels increasingly nervous about fully continuing her engagement. She is intensely aware that she is the lone female voice. Eventually the conversation turns to an explicit discussion of Lebanese identity and once again she feels she can no longer hold her opinions back. After she avows that she feels ‘very Lebanese’, she is asked what exactly this means. Before preparing the coffee for the group, she answers: 287


C’est tant, tant de choses … Je ne peux pas les résumer si vite. Je vais vous donner une réponse spontanée, car je trouve les longues définitions, souvent stériles: le Liban, c’est le pluralisme, l’acceptation des différences, dans la tolérance. Le Liban c’est le soleil de demain. (154)

When she is then confronted with the suggestion that this is an idealistic definition, especially as the country is witnessing the opposite, she claims that these features of Lebanon and Lebanese society will resurface after the specific conditions that have led to this series of wars have ceased to exist. The book then ends on the following page with a poem in the form of a prayer for the country to end its wars and remember what love truly means. In Accad’s works, the tension between the ‘individual’ as a woman and ‘community identity’ as an Arab and/or Lebanese is articulated through the mixing of languages in her literary texts and more specifically in her exploration of Arabic words and expressions. Although her two novels are written in French, Accad shows her characters’ commitments to their community affiliation and identity, Nayla as an Arab and the unnamed woman in the epilogue as Lebanese. It is through Nayla’s embrace of an Arabic expression and the questioning of another by the unnamed woman in Coquelicot, that these women make sense of their individual identities as women in society. By mixing the Arabic language into texts written in standard French, the colonial or ‘mandate’ language, Accad’s characters undermine the symbolic hegemonic power of the French language while questioning acceptance of what are seen to be ‘traditional’ Arab and/or Lebanese ideas and values. It is thus, through linguistic experiment, that Accad ‘responds’ to notions of pure and authentic language, and embraces a multicultural conscious in order to contextualise the ‘triple bind’.

Conclusions This brief investigation of several literary works by two Lebanese female authors writing in French brings to light the conflicts women face in asserting an individual identity in conjunction with or in opposition to referent communities, whether local, as in the mountain village, national in the sense of the Lebanese nation, or 288


more broadly national in a political sense, as in the larger Arab community. The conflictual issues raised by language used in the texts carry their own messages for change. For one, the relexification of an Arabic expression serves as a point of meditation, as in Éveline Bustros’ novel, where the expression’s literal as well as figurative meanings are explored with irony to expose a community’s outdated traditions and conventions and how these interfere with one woman’s expression of individuality. Bustros’ tragic vision contrasts sharply with Accad’s more idealistic project, which attempts to deconstruct the use of the Arabic language in order to highlight the importance and power of language. By owning, discussing, and exploring both the power and possibility of Arabic words and expressions, Accad suggests a possible way by which women might enter and participate in Lebanese and Arab civil society more generally. Both authors challenge accepted notions of identity and explore ranges of nuance and possibility through the multiple and layered language of the texts. I suggested above that the potentially transformative power of these works resides within points of linguistic tension and conflict. One message inscribed within the linguistic tension created by interposing Arabic and French texts, is the rejection of stereotypes about francophone Lebanon. By including Arabic in their novels, Accad and Bustros highlight their commitment to writing within the Lebanese Arab context and ‘write back’ to assumptions that all francophone Lebanese are Francophiles and indifferent to Arabs and to Arabic causes and issues. Moreover, these female authors undermine the very notion of ‘pure and authentic’ language and identity by mixing languages. Such linguistic eclecticism asserts a political position by refusing simple categorisations and labels and by supporting a broadly-defined notion of a ‘pluralistic’ and tolerant Lebanon (and Arab world). As the conversation at the end of Coquelicot du Massacre shows, it is not only the Lebanese woman who must feel comfortable with her identity, but Lebanese and Arabs who must come to terms with language and community representations. It is thus not only important for women to be able to express themselves fully using multiple languages and means of expression, but the larger communities must accept that these are valid and ‘authentic’ means of expression. 289


In addition to expressing messages about individual women and their struggles to come to terms with their own identities, all three works also treat the identity formation of the community. Each of these texts, in its own way, seeks to articulate not only how women can adapt themselves as individuals in a community, but also how communities must reformulate themselves to include greater diversity. Thus, in addition to their challenge to generalisations about francophone Lebanese, or the commitment of French speakers to Lebanese and Arabic issues and society, or even advocacy for women as individuals and members of the community, these writers’ incorporation of Arabic into the crafting of French-language novels calls for a careful re-evaluation of what the Lebanese and Arab communities are and can be. Intersections of gender, language and individual and community identities in these three literary texts suggest a re-visioning of Lebanese and Arab society to benefit not only women as individuals but their communities as well.

Notes 1

2

3

For the contextualisation of the word ‘francophone’ with all that it implies, see Belinda Jack, Francophone Literatures: An Introductory Survey, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996. See also Abdelkebir Khatibi, Du Bilinguisme, Paris: DeNoel, 1985, and Anne Judge’s introduction to African Francophone Writing: a Critical Introduction, Laïla Ibnlfassi and Nicki Hitchcott, eds., Oxford: Berg, 1996. While many Lebanese francophones are educated, Christian and wealthy, this is not an accurate description of everyone who speaks and writes French in Lebanon. See for example: Sélim Abou Choghig Kasparian and Katia Haddad, Anatomie de la francophonie libanaise, Beirut: FMA, 1996. Nicole Gueunier ‘Les francophones du Liban “fous des langues”’ in Les français dans l’espace francophone: description linguistique et sociolinguistique de la francophonie, de Robillard and Beniamino, eds., Paris: Champion, 267; and Albert Hourani, A History of the Arab Peoples, Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1991, 327 and 303. To give only a few prominent examples: Nadia Tuéni shows a proArab stance in solidarity with Palestinians in Juin et les mécréants; Évelyne Accad’s creative works all display an explicitly anti-colonial and feminist position (L’éxcisée, Coquelicot du massacre, Blessure des mots); 290


Leïla Barakat’s works treat conditions in Iraq, Yemen and Palestine (Pourquoi pleure l’Euphrate …?, Le chagrin de l’Arabie heureuse, Les hommes damnés de la Terre sainte). Etel Adnan’s political engagement is also explicitly anti-colonial and pro-Palestinian in her poetry as well as prose works (Jebu, Apocalypse arabe, Sitt Marie Rose). See male writers like Georges Corm and Ghassan Fawwaz for more examples. 4 See Rosi Braidotti, Nomadic Subjects: Embodiment and Sexual difference in Contemporary Feminist Thought, New York: Columbia University Press, 1994, 21. In it she notes her debt to Alice Walker’s In Search of our Mother’s Gardens, New York: Harcourt, Brace, Jovanovich, 1984. 5 Nadia Tuéni La Prose oeuvre complète,Beirut: Dar al-Nahar 1986, 68. Also see the discussion of Vénus Khoury-Ghata’s novel in the special supplement titled ‘Poètes et romanciers du Liban’ in Magazine littéraire No. 359, Novembre, 1997, 111. 6 I am currently preparing the manuscript of a book on this subject based on my doctoral thesis. Michelle Hartman, Écrire l’arabe en français: Language and Identity in Francophone Women’s Literature in Lebanon, London: Centre for Lebanese Studies/IB Tauris, forthcoming. 7 Chantal Zabus, The African Palimpsest: Indigenization of Language in the West African Europhone Novel, Amsterdam/Atlanta GA: Rodopi, 1991, 102. See chapter 4 in her work for a detailed study of this process in West African literature. 8 Bill Ashcroft, Gareth Griffith and Helen Tiffin, The Empire Writes Back: Theory and Practice in Post-colonial Literatures, London: Routledge, 1989. 9 Examples of this are found in the creative works of many Lebanese women authors. For a discussion of this in the works of Andrée Chedid see, for example, Michelle Hartman ‘Interlinguistic Scramblings in Three Works of Andrée Chedid’, Edebiyât, NS 9:2, fall 1998, 199–214. 10 For a discussion of this phrase see Ghada Alshamma’ ‘A Sociolinguistic Study of Some Basic Characteristics of Expression in the Syrian Arab Personality’ Anthropological Linguistics 28, 1, 107. 11 It is interesting to note here that this expression is relexified by Dominique Eddé in this way in her novel, Lettre posthume, Gallimard, 1989. 12 The use of this expression is somewhat different in French than in Arabic though it has the same implied meaning. It is not as widespread and is not widely known or used in all parts of France or in other French speaking countries. It is also used on fewer occasions and in particular not with young children. The verb used in the French is always ‘enterrer’. 291


13 For a more complete discussion of the debate around these issues see the relevant passages in Éveline Bustros Romans et écrits divers, Beirut: Dar an-Nahar, 1988, 324–325.

Works Cited Accad, Évelyne, Blessures des Mots: journal de Tunisie. Paris: Indigo/des femmes, 1993. — Coquelicot du Massacre. Paris, L’Harmattan, 1988. Anzaldúa, Gloria, Borderlands/La Frontera: the New Mestiza. San Francisco: Aunt Lute, 1989. Bustros, Éveline, Romans et écrits divers. Beirut: Dar an-Nahar, 1988. Trinh T. Minh-ha, Woman, Native, Other: Writings on Postcoloniality and Feminism. Bloomington: University of Indiana Press, 1989. Woolf, Virginia, Three Guineas. London: Hogarth Press, 1947.

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Part Five INDIVIDUAL, SPACE, TEXT

CHAPTER 16

Redefining Urban Spaces in Cairo at the Turn of the 19th and 20th Centuries Jean-Luc Arnaud and Jean-Charles Depaule

We shall begin our study by pointing out a rather odd characteristic of Cairo’s urban vocabulary. In the old section of Cairo, known as ‘medieval’, ‘Islamic’ or ‘Fatimid’, depending on the more or less academic or technical expressions in use today, six terms (shari‘, sikka, hara, darb, ‘atfa, zuqaq), including two practically synonymous, hara and darb, are used to rank four categories of lanes according to size, width and traffic density (whether they are through streets or dead-ends), and according to their importance and their location on the network. On the other hand, extensions completed since the mid-19th century are labelled shari‘, to designate what the French might call indifferently, ‘street’, ‘avenue’ or even ‘boulevard’ and mamarr, or ‘passage’, a term not used in the old city, where such passageways occur as covered or uncovered pedestrian passageways. The use of the word midan, or maydan in written Arabic, in any section of the city, for any kind of place, from a small square to an esplanade, is the other ‘exception’ in the language of Cairo. Modern Cairo: a city of shari‘ and midan?

Two Cairo exceptions Since they appeared only recently – in the 19th century – these two characteristics are contemporary and indeed exceptional in comparison with other cities of the Arab world, both close by or 295


far away. Both follow the same mechanism: a word which formerly applied to a quasi-unique and remarkable object and has now come to designate indistinctly a whole field of morphological and functional phenomena well beyond its initial definition. Though it may seem somewhat brutal to historians, we shall begin by jumping back through centuries in order to emphasise or rather play up disparity rather than continuity. In Cairo and elsewhere in the Arab world, the word shari‘ has nearly always referred to a major highway. This so-called type of thoroughfare was so rare however that the term has acted as a true toponym: when used alone, it indicates, according to the 10thcentury geographer Ibn Rustah, the road dividing Sanaa into two equal parts and ‘it is, as N. Elisseeff wrote, Straight Street, Damascus’ main street par excellence’ in Ibn ‘Asakir’s 12th-century description. When used with the qualifier al-’azham (‘major’) the term designates the central avenue in Abbasid Samarra or Cairo’s qasaba, the thousand-year-old North-South road, and critical structural element for the structural development of the city, as described in Maqrizi’s Khitat, an extensive, 15th-century study of historical topography. The word shari‘, formed from the present participle ‘opening onto …’, or ‘leading to …’, clearly points to the specificity of this type of road: an open and busy street. More exactly, it expresses its legal status. Indeed, in addition to factors of width, length, shape or function, Moslem lawyers have traditionally classified roads according to two opposite criteria, nafidh (or salik)/ghayr nafidh, ‘opening onto’ or ‘not opening onto’. A shari‘ is necessarily nafidh. As Robert Brunschvig, a writer specialising in Islamic law wrote, ‘it is the true street, opening at both ends … , a public way where all may pass’ and whose integrity must be protected, or, according to more contemporary usage and by definition, a public space. While the Description of Egypt depicts the state of the country in the late 18th century and mentions only some very rare, and what’s more, outlying instances of such thoroughfares, ‘Ali Pasha Mubarak’s late 19th century Khitat includes more than two hundred mentions of the word, as opposed to only three mentions in Maqrizi’s medieval masterwork. Such profusion appears to illustrate a change in habits as revealed by an Arabic inventory of Cairo’s streets (shari‘), squares (maydan) and hara established by 296

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the postal service in 1893. Moreover, during the same period, shari‘ describes one of the categories used in the documents of certification of highways as public works. With regard to maydan-midan, we will likewise jump back through times and observe an equally obvious change. The word, which meant originally ‘large wide open space, delimited, level and generally quadrangular and intended for all equestrian exercises’, also meant a place which, even if one of several in a capital city, was out of the ordinary because of its size or popularity, such as a hippodrome, an arena, a field for polo or jerid, a kind of horse tournament, a walkway where one could watch riders perform and which could accommodate huge demonstrations or group gatherings, royal and diplomatic processions, military troops or caravans. In Cairo this type of space could only be created, symbolically and functionally, under the reign of the horse-crazy Mamluk sultans, and remain, through time, deeply engraved in representations. Some of the city’s maydan -– esplanades reserved for equestrian exercises – are at least as old as the 9th century, the most famous being the huge Citadel plaza, Qaramaydan, which can still be identified in the urban network. However, in today’s Egypt, none of the terms used elsewhere such as saha or rahba, or batha (Tunisian), or sarha used in Sanaa, Yemen, are used to talk of plazas, large or small; in Damascus the word maydan is only found today in the toponym of a suburb located in the southern part of the city, ‘Midan’, whose name comes from the Maydan Al-Hasa area dating back to the 12th century. When the change took place, the equestrian reference and essence of the original definition, disappeared, leaving other, less significant elements of the original definition, especially reference to size, as we will observe in a noteworthy example of terminology issues arising in the 19th century, from Rifa’a al-Tahtawi description of Paris in Arabic. Confronted with problems of translation and lexical innovation, Sheikh Tahtawi, who was inspired, as a result of a meeting with orientalist philologists, Sylvestre de Sacy and Caussin de Perceval, to create a School for the study of language, reflected at length on the respective advantages and disadvantages of neologisms, revived traditional expressions and dialectical borrowings. In Takhlis al-ibriz fi talkhis bariz (The Extraction of Gold: An Overview of Paris), is a narration of his stay in France between 297


1826–1831, when he escorted as Imam (chaplain, one might say) the first forty-member study mission sent by Muhammad Ali. In Takhlis he used the word maydan (pl. mayadin), or more specifically, mawadi’, to describe for Egyptian readers Parisian public squares citing as an example, al-Rumayliyya (square and not maydan which derives from ‘located at the foot of the citadel’ not to be confused with Qaramaydan, previously mentioned) which he defined as fasahat ‘azima or ‘large open spaces’. On the other hand, he transferred the word ‘boulevard’ into Arabic with specific details on the correct pronunciation: bulwar, pl. bulwarat, and distinguished between outer and inner boulevards. Indeed, Tahtawi did not use the word shari‘, as might be expected. One explanation may be that, while a comparison with Parisian squares was possible, French boulevards and Cairo’s time-honoured thoroughfares – even the most important ones – were incommensurable. There may be another explanation however, in that the word shari‘, by the early 19th century, had become archaic; it was no longer in use by the author and had not yet become part of the modern city vocabulary. This interpretation is confirmed by the absence of shari‘ among the terms used by Jomard in his Description of Egypt, who mentions as 300 ‘major’ roads, mostly sikka and darb, all of which branch into ‘atfa. On the other hand, Tahtawi’s spontaneous use of maydan, without inventing or borrowing a foreign word, may be sufficient reason not to rely on the inventory completed by the scientists in Bonaparte’s expedition of only thirty years earlier. Indeed, their list did not include the word maydan. They used only wasa’a, ‘widening’, along with birka, ‘easily flooded square’, ‘pond’. The former may be an equivalent term used as an a posteriori comment or a commonplace name actually heard on the field during the survey (the Dictionary of Egyptian Arabic by Badawi and Hinds mentions the current use of wasa‘aya, ‘capacious space’, with the example of the vast esplanade located in front of the Abdine Palace). We may also assume that, as is often the case for squares or avenues and more generally for places of exception in cities, a maydan in the late 18th century was usually identified in Cairo by its proper name, with no need of an additional common noun to specify that it was a ‘square’. As for shari‘ the transformation of the word maydan in Cairo seems to be rather ‘unnatural’ and essentially the result of a 298


modernisation strategy. During the 19th century, the urban nomenclature was subjected to an overall restructuring, with successive readjustments not unlike by trial and error method (but, apparently, without ever applying the word shari‘ to a dead end). Nawal Al-Messiri Nadim rightly emphasised the continuity of street names, by mentioning the use, even today in the old districts of Cairo, of terms whose ‘meaning … has not changed significantly since medieval times’. The hierarchical junction system that she describes is remarkably clear in the urban network, but we cannot be sure this clarity and the coherence which lies beneath it are a legacy of the past , unaffected by clearings, encroachments and obstructions. Rather, they may be the result of a reform process, which, by redistributing old categories, ‘re-ordered’ these (such is the meaning of the word tanzim – an Egyptian peculiarity – used to designate the Highway Department set up in stages since 1882), and identified clearly the various types of roads. This seems to be the case for a number of variants in the names of roads (more often common names than toponyms) used in the course of the 19th century: most changes having taken place between Bonaparte’s Expedition and modern Egypt’s first census (1848). In the Darb al-Ahmar district where in the 1850s 25–30% of the roads were shari‘, in 1848 darb Sa‘ada was known as shari‘ al-Majalat, a name that remained unchanged. On the other hand, darb Shoghlan after being categorised as a shari‘ for a time, reverted to its original status and sikka al-Ansari became shari‘ al-Ghandûr then later, ‘atfa Bashtak before becoming again shari‘ al-Ghandûr. We also observed that, beginning in 1848, the few roads identified until then by toponym (such as the Canebière in Marseilles), were now identified by the common noun shari‘, a probable sign of higher status.

Redefining public spaces These variations and adjustments in terminology are part of a redefinition of the status of urban space. André Raymond showed how in Muslim legal texts public spaces in traditional cities were a low standard issue, even negative to some extent, whereas dwellings and family space generally, had a positive image. This representation was often understood schematically inferring a 299


negative quality from the legalistic arguments that in Muslim cities, if public spaces existed at all, they existed as residual spaces. André Raymond also showed how, during the Ottoman period, in residential districts, outside the private domestic sphere, spaces located in close proximity, likely to be a source of conflict, negotiation, covetousness and arrangement – especially the fina’, which borders houses – was ‘managed’ by neighbouring families, and beyond such spaces, by larger groups, even by communities. In Cairo as elsewhere, ‘de facto solidarity’ was established,

Figure 16.1: Cairo’s old town, an intricate urban system where dead ends (shown in gray) occupy most of the street network. 300


sometimes independently of ethnic, religious, family or even professional bonds and more formal regulations. Among mediators acting out various roles, whether official or not, the shaykh al-hara or district leader, an individual (‘an interface’, as one would say today) stood out as a double-faced and ambivalent representative of both the residents and the civil authority. Whether in private or general contexts, between the public collective what might be considered civil authority, André Raymond observed instances of intermingling, noting: ‘There are indeed public and private spaces as well as intermediate categories such as the fina’ which lend themselves to privatization.’ In Cairo during the 19th century, the notable development of shari‘ and to a lesser extent of maydan could be attributed to the official organisation and redefinition of public thoroughfares and spaces. This means that this type of space was no longer, to use André Raymond’s clever expression, a ‘threatened category’ but truly shari‘, which is to say, guaranteed open to public traffic by civil authority and free of individual or community control. Such ‘proliferating’ systematisation, leading as it does to the homogenisation of urban spaces, at least in the modern section of the city, has been observed elsewhere in the Arab world although applied more selectively to a single type of road. Maydan, for their part, emerged as places for visibility: for advertising. Far from yesterday’s equestrian performances, the maydan not only lost their image of wide open spaces (the word now applied to modestsized squares) but they also their dimension as exhibition spaces. Defence and illustration of public spaces, an 1864 circular addressed to the consuls of Alexandria, and applicable in Cairo, recalled the accepted fact that ‘in theory and in all countries, public roads cannot be monopolized or used exclusively by any business or private operation, likely to interrupt or even simply obstruct traffic’; the letter then mentioned cases of encroachment, infringement or abuse as well as a number of measures ‘of public interest to be taken by the Police Administration’. Among such measures, the destruction of mastabehs (sidewalks) had been, at least since the French occupation, a recurrent theme in speeches on good urban organisation. The September 1889 decree, which set up the Tanzim Council and organised delegations to major Egyptian cities, specified the rules of alignment and again ordered the suppression of mastabehs ‘existing outside constructions’, 301


except for ‘historic, religious or art buildings, until their façades had been rebuilt on the line’. Article 9 of the 13 July decree of the same year offered some definitions: ‘private individuals cannot open public streets without prior authorization and without first, as a rule, surrendering to the State free of charge the land covered by these streets… No authorization is necessary to open a private street, if it is closed at both ends by a fence, gate or chains.’ Such texts represent an invaluable reference for the observer of 19th-century Cairo. The succession of measures and regulations over the years reflects not only the will of a civil authority to interfere in allocations of urban space for the ‘general interest’, but reveal the practical intelligence of a reforming philosophy, which, when faced with behaviours it wished to restrict, took into account the weight of traditional urban sociability. Indeed, while throwing objects from windows, unrestrained garbage disposal or inconsiderately beating carpets were purely and simply prohibited, the old tradition of setting up tents in the street at the time of festivals and ceremonies (in the 17th century J. Thévenot wrote of ‘streets decorated with beautiful tents and beautiful cloths and other fabrics’) was regulated by rules which varied according to the occasion, weddings, mourning, illuminations, carnivals, charity performances … Thus, ‘occupying public streets on the occasion of a death was still permitted free of charge and did not require prior authorization, although the surface occupied could not, in any event, exceed one third of the total width of the street.’ Underlying such legal texts is a vivid portrayal of city practices, whose timeliness and creativity are revealed by the measures provided to contain them. Between infringements – especially in the persistence of public cafés to expand, a practice which successive administrations have never quite managed to curtail – as well as practices arising from generally tolerated urban traditions, and regulated public spaces which allowed for occasional collective and individual appropriations, civil authority has been able to reaffirm control over an extremely full and vibrant urban space. At the same time, drawing on these same legal sources, Nelly Hanna pointed at the concept of maslaha ‘amma used by the religious courts until the 19th century to define ‘acceptable or unacceptable behaviours, activities authorized in specific parts of the city and those not allowed’, and observed a shift from the 302


notion of common interest to that of public interest, which, by the end of the 19th century, the State was supposed to represent. That ‘State’ excluded vagrants, and later, based on the more restrictive legislation which followed the English occupation, rejected ‘such individuals who attempted to earn a living by playing games of chance or fortune-tellers doing business on public roads, publicly-owned establishments or any place within public view’. The State also divided city businesses into a number of selected categories (cabarets, cafés, refreshment bars, breweries, theatres, circuses or clubs), in this way contributing to the heterogeneity evident in the asymmetry existing between the modern centre and other parts of the city.

New tools to master space Based on an attempt to better control the organisation and use of urban spaces, the transformation of street names became part of a re-qualification process by which the administration gained increasingly precise and effective means of control. While the change in street names seems to have begun in the early part of the century, it is only at the time of the English occupation – at the end of 1882 – that the administration systematically created new tools for the control of Egyptian public spaces. The issue then became one of ensuring that effective control of the reality of public spaces was consistent with the means of ensuring its administration. Beginning in 1882 and for the first time in Egypt, English administrators developed pursued their municipal activities within the framework of annual budgets associated with work programs. The administration was centralised and employees made interchangeable. The hierarchical system of public services imposed a standard for summary reporting at all decision levels. In this context, knowledge of specific actions ceased to be tributary to the memory of civil servants. The administration undertook the production of inventories, censuses and cartographic documents. Streets, canals, land parcels, factories and individuals were drawn up, tallied and classified in order to make the work operational. Functional categories were designed to conform to the organisation of public services and objectives. 303


One of the most extensive projects completed in this context was the establishment of a land registry for agricultural zones: each parcel of land was measured, charted and classified according to access to irrigation and fertility in order to determine the applicable tax base. More generally, the competence of each administrative service was established in close connection with the categories set up to account for land use practices. To be efficient, administrative services could not overlap – each classified object could belong to only one category – and each must occupy the entire space – all objects were recorded. The nomenclature created according to these rules led to a reclassification of people, things and places, not always in line with the previous organisation. While the English Occupation accelerated and generalised the production of nomenclature, the first sign of interest in Cairo’s road system had had a similar perspective; indeed the same context of Occupation had inspired the members of the French Expedition to Egypt to draw up a detailed map of Cairo, a list of roads with more than 6,000 entries and to divide neighbourhoods according to new limits. It was indeed a recategorisation achieved by the central power to increase their competence, and counteract land appropriation by communities of residents (hara – in Cairo, this term means a neighbourhood unit as well as the road that leads to it) and, by extension, restrict the individualisation of the residents’ status and the personalisation of their respective roles. Two examples will illustrate how, by the end of the 19th century, the Occupation public services were motivated by similar objectives.

Declaration of public utility and alignment Beginning in 1876, Egyptian finances were placed under the control of a national debt office whose principal objective was to promote cotton and sugar exports, investments served primarily to increase land productivity and cities and municipal projects were then minor issues in public finance. However, at the beginning of the English Occupation, the Public Works Department reformed the municipal administration services (there was no municipal authority then) by creating a system for 304


the management of public roads. The service, named ‘Tanzim service’, perfectly suited their task. Their role was to draw a layout of alignments, classify streets, name them and establish their widths … They did not intervene directly in the organisation of urban spaces, but were responsible for handling building permit applications and providing tools for the control and management of alignments. The first task of the Tanzim engineers was to draw up maps as a reference for all future projects. For each street they established a listing, a drawing, a proposed alignment and in the end, a declaration of public utility for ministerial decree. Once approved and declared of public utility the maps were used to oppose those residents with plans for construction. In this way, each road made up an independent unit for intervention, which had to have its limits set and be given a name before any action could be taken; all sections of public space were designated with names recognised by the administration who established a numbered list. Then, each land parcel front was assigned to one street and one street only. Such preliminary operation meant a complete ‘re-assessment’ of Cairene urban space. The city was now divided into squares and subject to the surveyors’ measures; work projects could now be evaluated. This first phase of the Tanzim activities required several months since the declarations of public utility did not begin before spring 1883. Then, the greatest portion of the Cairo street network was subjected to the new procedure, but ten years were necessary to reach the most remote dead ends. The number of streets declared of public utility by then had reached 1,125. The service spent most of several years designing alignment maps; they were drawn up, street by street, on long paper tapes. This type of representation prohibited any possibility of broadspectrum visualisation of the city (and require assemblage of hundreds of documents) as well as any assessment of the organisation and hierarchy of the traffic network, which shows that the administration’s primary objective was to control space on a very fine scale, that of streets and real property. Contrary to what one may expect from a highway department, the main objective of the service created at the end of 1882 was not to improve the traffic of goods and people. The alignment maps did not specify the allotment of parcels (what’s more, they were unusable as cadastral or pre-cadastral maps), but they mentioned 305


along the streets the start of the divisions and the names of each owner. With this procedure, the State came to individualise responsibilities which previously, had been mostly collective. The practice of fina’ which was one of agreement between neighbours – not necessarily owners – became strictly prohibited.

Figure 16.2: Cairo’s neighbourhoods in 1798 by E. Jomard,. E. Jomard, ‘A Description of the town and citadel of Cairo’, in A Description of Egypt, Paris, Panckoucke, 1829, Vol. XVIII, part 2, 137–288 306


The administration seemed obsessed with their plan to separate the public domain from private properties. Initially, they were only in charge of public thoroughfares; roads passing through private property, did not concern them. The distinction between the two categories was established by law, but it was not enough for them, they imposed material distinctions between the two types of roads; private roads, as we mentioned earlier, had to be closed. Also in keeping with their will to separate the two types of property, the roadway system regulations provided with the original Tanzim text stipulated that all plots bounded by squares and streets should be enclosed and that the fences should be built on the property lines. Finally, if a building located inside the alignment were to be rebuilt, the owner had to set the new construction in front of the old one, so that it would follow the alignment. These rules did not provide for a widening of streets to a set minimum width and their objective was more ideological than functional. The real issue was not so much to improve traffic as it was to ensure that the ‘abstract’ line on the map coincided with the ‘concrete’ line of street space, which became in this way an exclusively public space. Located between two rectilinear layouts, it no longer included places with unclear statuses, i.e. that the administration could not categorise, or places likely to be appropriated by residents. Once the limits were set, the Tanzim could manage each square metre of surface in need of sweeping, lighting or macadamising… Cairo’s municipal employees, English at first, French later on, were experts at such accounting exercises. As mentioned earlier, the mode of representation selected and the scale of the project prohibited any assessment of the city as a whole. The geographical distribution of roads declared of public utility, which Tanzim spent ten years developing, confirmed the deficiency. The priority of works projects was determined by their proximity to the seat of the government rather than by the hierarchy of the traffic network, a practice which led to discrepancies between the centre and other parts of the city and was highlighted by Nelly Hanna. Indeed, one third of the streets declared of public utility during the first year of the project were located in the Abdine district, around the government palace whereas there were none in the districts of Bab al-Sha‘riyya (northside), Muski (centre of economic activities) and Khalifa 307


(southern border). Five years went by before the service showed an interest in the industrial district of Bulaq which did not have the good fortune of including government buildings. The maps included the name of each landowner. While the individuation of responsibilities resulting from this process could put an end to a user’s rights in the residential and/or neighbourhood communities, the way of designating owners showed that public services identified other groups. Waqfs and, more generally, properties belonging to religious communities, were also mentioned on the maps with the names of their administrators. The form of the designations varied according to the nature of the property and of the group in question. Each waqf was generally identified by the name of its administrator. Remarkably they were exclusively Muslim, no Christian or Jewish waqf appeared to be under the responsibility of a single individual. When waqfs were managed by administrations or communities, their names were cited instead of individuals’ patronymics. In keeping with this system, each land parcel on the alignment maps was named after an individual or institutional administrator, and in all cases, a representative designated for dealings with the administration in matters of expropriations, demolition orders for buildings threatening to go to ruin, and when necessary, tax collection. This method may explain why the maps made no mention of the Christians’ mortmain property; community properties were all referred to as waqfs. Waqfs and mortmain properties have very different legal statuses but, the municipal services were only concerned with identifying the land assignees. In ten years, most of Cairo’s thoroughfares were categorised; alignments for the main roads as well as for the more remote dead ends were drawn on a detailed map and declared of public utility. Many owners however, asked the administration to provide the streets in the new subdivisions with mains services as compensation for the encumbrances imposed upon them. These claims were so frequent and financially impossible to satisfy that the services were forced to re-examine the classifications completed a few years earlier. Between 1885 and 1900, no less than thirty subdivisions were downgraded on the pretext that their streets were not adapted for through traffic. Thus, at the beginning, alignment maps seemed to be a pretext to draw up a list of streets and property owners. A few years later, when it was 308


forced to develop the streets acquired from owners free of charge, the administration refused to take responsibility on the grounds that there was a change of policy with respect to traffic management. By acting this way, the administration indirectly validated the excuse used to justify several years of study, drafting and cartography for thoroughfares, down to the most remote and intricate dead ends.

Sub-division of neighbourhoods On a scale just above that of the traffic network and by dividing the city into Account Units for census management, the public services also redefined categories. At the beginning of the 19th century, the city of Cairo was divided into administrative units based on two scales. The first was the thumn, literally the ‘eighth’; this division, created by the administration of the Expedition to Egypt, divided Cairo into eight sections plus two districts at the periphery: Bulaq and Old Cairo. The city therefore included ten thumn; each under the authority of a sheikh. These units were then subdivided into hara, which, like the thumn, were under the responsibility of a sheikh. The definition of neighbourhoods proposed by Jomard at the end of the 18th century was ambiguous. First of all, he identified 53 neighbourhoods (harah or harat) in a rather vague and incomplete list. Among the neighbourhoods he identified about 20 ‘main’ districts. Then, in the index of names of places, he used three different terms to identify neighbourhoods: ‘hart’ (53 units), ‘khott’ (13 units) and ‘quartier’ (quarter) (6 units). Based on the above definition, one would think that the 53 hart covered the entire city. Yet, their rather heterogeneous geographical distribution showed this was not at all the case (cf Figure 16.2). The hart listed in the index occupied less than half of the residential area while the khott and the ‘quartiers’ did not fill in the areas ignored by the distribution. It may be the discrepancy between the text supposed to cover the whole area and the actual distribution of space units stemmed from a twofold definition: an administrative definition of the city, divided into about 20 as opposed to 53 units on one hand, and on the other hand, a practical definition applying to many more 309


smaller roads and/or neighbourhoods not recognised by the government services. In order to organise the 1848 population census with, perhaps, the need to give a full and continuous picture of the city, Mohammed Ali’s administration introduced a new degree of division: the shiyakha. It was an intermediate unit. For example, the thumn of Bulaq was divided into 25 shiyakha that each included several hara and other Account Units such as hawsh and échèches or parts of tariq (road) or shari‘. The shiyakha were also placed under the authority of a shaykh and usually named after him. A comparison of the 1848 and 1868 censuses showed that, as a result, these designations were subject to change with each new administrator. For the last census of the century, in 1897, the shiyakha were again used. The 13 qism (sectors, new name for thumn) which made up the city of Cairo now included 207 shiyakha. The decision to return to a system of municipal divisions, abandoned for the census of 1882, was accidental. This decision made it possible to break down the data more precisely. A return to the previous units was not an automatic process, and indeed posed many technical problems whose solutions entailed a true re-appropriation of the former ‘traditional’ structure by the administration. A quick comparison of the 1848, 1868 and 1897 shiyakha does not reveal important modifications as the same broad lines generally continued to divide the Account Units. A closer examination shows that in the 1897 census, each unit’s perimeter was adjusted. The 1897 shiyakha were delimited to include each land parcel and roads passing through several units were split into sections which sometimes included only one house. To better manage the new division, the administration assigned individual administrative names to each shiyakha. Here again, the changes do not seem very significant, with the new names generally being the same as the old ones with one major difference, they were no longer subject to change with the change of shaykh; patronymics became toponyms. Designations no longer eluded the administration and instead, became part of administrative decisions and publications. And so began, with the 1897 census – unlike previous censuses) – the imposition of complete administrative control of municipal perimeters and their designations. 310


Beyond a merely technical interest, these changes can be interpreted in the same manner as the street alignment operation. Whereas in 1848 the name of the shaykh was that of the person in charge of the neighbouring community (he countersigned each census document), in 1897 it became a simple historical record. As for neighbourhood communities, they became geographical units: perimeters on a chart rather than the territory of a social group.

Bibliography Arnaud, J.-L. Le Caire: Mise en place d’une ville moderne 1867–1907. Des intérêts du prince aux sociétés privées, Arles: Actes Sud,1998. Badawi, El-S. and Hinds M., A Dictionary of Egyptian Arabic, Beirut: Librairie du Liban, 1986. Al-Messiri, Nadim N., ‘The concept of the hara, a historical and sociological study of al-Sukkariyya’, Annales Islamologiques, XV, 1979, 313–348. Al-Sayyed, Muhammad M. K., Asma’ wa musamiyyat min takhir misr alqahira, Cairo: al-Hay’a al-misriyya al-‘amma li-l-kitab, 1986. Brunschvig, R., Etudes d’islamologie, Vol. II, Paris: Maisonneuve et Larose, 1976. David, J.-C., ‘Les territoires des groupes à Alep à l’époque ottomane. Cohésion urbaine et formes d’exclusion’, Revue des mondes musulmans et de la Méditerranée, 79–80, 1997, 225–254. Delanoue, G., Moralistes et politiques musulmans dans l’Egypte du XIXe siècle (1798–1882), 2 vols, Cairo: IFAO, 1982. Depaule, J.-C., ‘Shari‘’, Encyclopédie de l’Islam, Paris-Leyde: BrillMaisonneuve et Larose, 1996, 330. Depaule, J.-C., ‘Passages aux toponymes’, in J.-C. Bouvier et J.-M. Guillon (dir.), Toponymie urbaine - Significations et enjeux, Paris: L’Harmattan, 2001, 229–237. Elisseeff, N., La description de Damas d’Ibn ‘Asakir, Damascus: Institut français, 1959. Gelat, P., Répertoire général annoté de la législation et de l’administration égyptiennes, Alexandria: Lagoudakis, 1906 à 1911, 6 vol. Hanna, N., ‘Les mots et l’espace du Caire au tournant du XIXe siècle’, in H. Rivière d’Arc (dir.), Nommer les nouveaux territoires urbains, Paris: UNESCO-MSH, 2001, 135–146. Jacotin (dir.), ‘Le Kaire – Plan particulier de la ville ‘, s.l.n.d. [vers 1800], in Description de l’Egypte, Paris: Imprimerie impériale, E.M., Vol. I, 1809, pl. 26. 311


Jomard E., ‘Description de la ville et de la citadelle du Kaire’, in Description de l’Egypte, Second ed., Paris: Panckoucke, 1829, Vol. XVIII, Part 2,113–538. Lamba H., Code administratif égyptien, Paris: Sirey, 1911. Makrizi, Khitat, Beirut: n.d. Marino B., Le faubourg du Midan à Damas à l’époque ottomane. Espace urbain société et habitat (1742–1830),Damascus: IFEAD, 1997. Mubarak ‘A. Pacha, Al-khitat al-tawfiqiyya al-jadida li-misr al-qahira, Cairo: al-Hay’a al-misriyya al-‘amma li-l-kitab, 1980–1987, 6 vols. Raymond, A., ‘Espaces publics et espaces privés dans les villes arabes traditionnelles’, Maghreb-Machrek, 123, janvier-mars 1989, 194–201. Raymond, A., ‘Le Caire traditionnel – une ville administrée par ses communautés ?’ Maghreb-Machrek, 143, 1994, 9–16. Sawaie, M., ‘Rifa‘a Rafi‘ al Tahtawi and Modern Literary Arabic’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 32, 2000, 395–410. Serjeant, R. B. and Lewcock R. (dir.), San‘a’ an Arabian Islamic City, London: The World of Islam Festival Trust, 1983. al-Tahtawi, R. R., Takhlis al-ibriz fi talkhis bariz, new edition, Cairo: alHay’a al-misriyya al-‘amma li-l-kitab, 1993 (1834). Translation and introduction into French A. Louca: L’or de Paris, Paris: Sindbad, 1988. Thevenot, J., Voyage du Levant, choice of texts by S. Yérasimos, Paris: Maspero, 1980 (1st edition 1664). Toledano, E. R., State and Society in Mid-century Egypt, Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1990. Vire, F., ‘Maydan’, Encyclopédie de l’Islam, Paris-Leiden: Brill-Maisonneuve et Larose, 1991, 904.

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CHAPTER 17

Imagining Beirut’s Reconstructed City Centre Michael F. Davie

The question of the reconstruction of Beirut’s city centre has produced a considerable amount of literature, both in the local and international press and in scholarly articles and books (Beyhum, N., Salam, A., & Tabet, J., no date.; Davie, M. F., 1997; Gavin, A. & Maluf, R., 1996; Kabbani, O., 1992; Rowe, P. G. & Sarkis, H., 1998; Somma, P., 2000). Rebuilding a city centre in an Arab capital is in itself a rare occasion and the case of Beirut was of such uncommon scale, that it became central to the discourse and action of Lebanese politicians, urbanists, architects and economists even while mobilising scholars interested in questions of the social representations of space. This rebuilding project was not, of course, imagined ex nihilo. Ever since the many ceasefires of the civil war, from 1975 onwards, plans were drawn up to either rehabilitate or to rebuild the city centre (Beyhum, N., 1991; Conseil du Développement et de la Reconstruction, 1991; Khoury, P., Raad, A. A., & Khouri, K., 1978; Ragette, F., 1983). In all cases, the aim was to restore all the scales of that area’s centrality: from the local level (the city centre and its place in the city as a whole), to the national level (the nexus of control and management for the country), and finally, to the regional level (Beirut as an irreplaceable interface between Arab and Western economies) (Comité fondateur SOLIDÈRE, 1994; Davie, M. F., 1994, 1999). All these scales fitted neatly together, guaranteeing the future prosperity and thus, survival of the city, the country, and the political system. 313


The very last project posited neither rehabilitation nor construction, but a complete refounding of the city centre as a symbol of the reborn Lebanon and a central place in the regional Arab economies, including the Gulf’s. The project as conceived would create a space perfectly adapted to the role of public space par excellence, a space where all Lebanese would once again meet on a consensual basis, free of confessional or religious identities ultimately comprising the unique locus for the newly invented Homo Libanicus. It would be the first truly modern space with which the country’s population would identify itself, thus creating a collective representation of a specific identity and of Beirut’s urban uniqueness in the Middle East. From the start, the Lebanese saw the rebuilding of Beirut as proof that the war was really over, that the country could now return to its normal state with a modernised capital. Economic actors welcomed the movement as it would redirect flows back to Beirut and away from cities that had benefited from the exodus of Lebanese capital and know-how. Political actors saw in it a consolidation of State power and the end of the influence of the militias. Democracy would thrive as an example for other countries in the area, confessionalism would decline, social rights would be affirmed and Lebanon would once again be a beacon to the Arab World. However, opposition to the project was also expressed (Awada Jalu, S., 1993; Beyhum, N., 1992, no date; Davie, M. F., 1992, 1995; Eddé, H., 1997; Ghoussainy, N., 1999; Saliba, R., 1999; Tabet, J., 1995, 1996). Intellectuals questioned the postulates behind the project: did Beirut really need such a grandiose project in the context of an insecure Middle East and the reality of efficient worldwide competitors? Could Beirut with its white-collar workforce survive in the cut-throat atmosphere of international business? Would the fragile Lebanese economy be able to sustain the cost of such massive restructuring of the city’s centre? What would be the lot of the rest of the capital, those parts not affected by the reconstruction plan? Would war-induced parallel centralities survive in the city’s suburbs, or would they be completely marginalised? (Harb El-Kak, M., 2000). Would democracy – whatever definition one might give the concept in Lebanon – thrive in a privatised urban environment? Could one really take seriously promises of reconstruction of public spaces 314

IMAGINING BEIRUT’S RECONSTRUCTED CITY CENTRE

in Beirut, especially as new urban morphologies and functions signalled an end of earlier Levantine modes of urban sociability? (Davie, M. F., 1996; Tabet, J., 1996). With a post-war power structure dominated by entrepreneurs and financiers, what credibility could be given to promises that public spaces in the city’s centre would be used as real and effective loci for airing and discussing questions of national importance? The debate centred in effect around the question of representations of the value of space. One might argue that the reconstruction project was the materialisation of the spatial representations of a limited social group, the end product of complex perceptions and experiences, coupled with existing relations between the different political and economic spheres within the country and abroad. These representations were not necessarily the same as those arising in the general population. The aim of this paper is to examine the different images of the same physical space — the Beirut city centre — produced by the various groups according to their own particular trajectories in time and space over the last 50 years. This paper will argue that the different representations are not of the same scale, nor do they converge towards a consensual central idea, creating reciprocal incomprehensions around the future of the city’s centre.

The city centre: a complex urban space The end of the civil war in 1990 brought to power new decisionmakers, an internationally minded group of entrepreneurs and financiers, familiar with the dynamics of international and regional economies. These actors were central in redefining the role of the city centre in the avowed aim of integrating it into the global economy thanks to their own strategic position at the heart of the country’s power structure. Their idea was to recreate Beirut as the core-area of Lebanon and so, put an end to dispersion, and to the profusion of centralities based on religious affiliations. For the first time in over 50 years, the interests of the group in power took into account the city as a central element of its economic strategy: Beirut, as an urban space, would be the relay-point between the financial, economic and decision-making cities of 315


the North (the US, Europe, Japan), the Gulf States and the Asian success economies. By exploiting its strategic geographic location, the advantages of a liberal economy and a docile white-collar workforce, the city centre would produce enough jobs and economic surpluses to launch a new cycle of economic prosperity for all the country. This representation of the value of urban space mirrored in part current thinking on the global economy (Anderson, J., Brook, C., & Cochrane, A., 1995; Clark, D., 1996; Harvey, D., 1999; Knox, P. L. & Taylor, P. J., 1995). A clear spatial slate was required, and Solidère, an investment company, was awarded a monopoly to rebuild the central city. Financial and political power were in the hands of one group through the complex relations that linked political elites, investors and entrepreneurs. The third component, space, was also brought under government control through a series of laws passed by a compliant Parliament. This convergence of power, capital and space guaranteed unhindered freedom to enact a policy of tabula rasa, whereby most of the city centre’s 120 ha would be torn down and a new, modern city built in its place. The project would capitalise on Beirut’s pre-existing advantages and mix cultural, recreational and financial services into a new, easily accessible central place (SOLIDÈRE, 1993). However, The Beirut Central District however, had come under fire from all sides throughout most of the 16 years of fighting. At the end of the war, that area of the city was afflicted with overwhelming destruction, total devastation of the infrastructure, the presence of squatters in several areas and extreme fragmentation and entanglement of property rights involving owners, tenants and lease-holders (SOLIDÈRE, 1995b). In the pre-war years the area was presented as congested, polluted and dirty, occupied by the lower classes and by the informal economy, with prostitution the main activity of one side of the Place des Canons. The new city would physically and metaphorically cleanse the heart of the city, confirming the end of the old urban order. Three distinct — and contradictory — representations were produced in the process. On one hand, the city centre was seen by the population and the previous residents as ‘Solidère’s area’ a sort of no-go space, rebuilt for the rich and powerful on land dispossessed from their rightful owners. Solidère strove to give the space meaning through media campaigns designed to encourage 316


the population to invest and ‘return’ to its roots by highlighting its own contribution to preserving the city’s architectural heritage, by modernising the area’s infrastructure and by having a longterm vision for the city’s future. Finally, investors and potential clients represented this space as a clear departure from the rest of Beirut, a sort of modern ghetto in an otherwise mainly uninteresting and unprofitable city, a space to recoup losses incurred during the war (Boudisseau, G., 2001) and as an icon celebrating the rise to power of a new class. These representations all concerned the same space, the city centre. Up until 1975, it had a complex morphology, mixing Arab souks with late-Ottoman, French-mandate and international-style buildings. The purely ‘Arab’ souks consisted of a limited number of city blocks and narrow streets that had somehow survived Ottoman and French plans to remodel the city. Although decried as anachronistic and taken over by the poorer social categories of the city (Direction Générale de l’Urbanisme, 1980), they were however perceived by the population as central to the city’s everyday functioning, especially as each trade or merchandise had its own distinct portion of street. In the immediate vicinity, Sahat al Bourj was an example of Ottoman urban planning that contrasted with the spontaneous urbanism of the souks. Up to the 1930s, the Square was an administrative, economic and cultural centre as well as a strategic crossroads; it boasted important buildings and a central garden used for military and official parades and meetings. It had once been a multifunctional collective space attracting all strata of the population and a central place where decisions relating to the city’s organisation were taken (Tuéni, G. & Sassine, F., 2000). At one time the interface between industrial Europe and the Middle East, the Square suffered from the breakdown of municipal services, one of the many consequences of the decline of the confessional system adopted by the independent state from the late 1940s. By the early 1960s, it had changed into a lower-class square, a space mainly occupied by transport activities, garages, cheap coffee shops and whorehouses. Its aesthetic value suffered from the demolition of many of the Ottoman-period buildings and their replacement by architecturally insignificant complexes, by the transformation of the central garden into a parking lot and erection of a statue in honour of the nation’s martyrs. Having 317


lost its urban hierarchical supremacy as well as its social and political role, it was no longer perceived as being the main public space of the city, nor did the new bourgeoisie and the ruling elites see it as central to the functioning of their interests or their identity. Further to the West of the old souks, French Army officers and engineers had reshaped Beirut’s centre during the 1920s and 30s in an effort to build a capital for the newly invented country, Grand-Liban (Davie, M., 1999b, 2001). The central element of this operation was the Place de l’Etoile, built over the demolished souk. From the late 1930s onwards, the Parliament building, international banks, maritime industry, insurance occupied the space and import-export companies’ offices were opened. The elites had turned their backs to the old Bourj/Place des Canons, preferring the new ‘modern’, French Moresque-style quarter of the Place de l’Etoile and the Allenby-Foch avenues. Being part of the new political and economic set-up, this new space was better adapted to the designs of the new elites than the Ottoman space had been. Indeed, the majority of these elites had now adopted the idea of a Republic, which guaranteed their control and preservation of the political and economic system. At the beginning of the war, in 1975, the Place des Canons had lost all urban sense, as it had lost the competition with both the (now seedy) Place de l’Étoile and with Hamra, the newly-built modern and dynamic space to the West of the city (Boudisseau, G., 1997, 2001). Hamra, the first ‘modern’ quarter of the city built in the early 1950s, could be described as part of the network of strategic loci that enabled the US and European economies to monopolise the markets of the area, especially those of the oilproducing states of the Gulf. Hamra was the banking, residential and recreational centre for these foreign companies and their expatriate workers; it was perceived and iconised as the ‘real’ heart of the city of the young, educated elites (Boudisseau, G., 2001). The American University of Beirut was instrumental, to a point, in inducing new perceptions of space in this social category. Hamra was represented as the epitome of modernity, the ideal space to express new — and often radical — ideas, ideals and mores and to link up with the economies and cultures of Europe and the US. The war years inflicted the final blows to the city centre. Demarcation lines between the opposing forces separated the 318


Place des Canons into two opposing spaces; the souks and the Place de l’Étoile were looted and burned, as was the port quarter. Various forms of spontaneous or brutal exchanges of population and ethnic cleansing, together with the influx of refugees from the mountains or from South Lebanon produced new centralities in the city itself or in its suburbs, now divided into two distinct parts. While the city centre had been perceived as a downgraded and archaic space, it retained great symbolic centrality anchored in its long history, even well after cessation of hostilities. The Place des Canons with its statue, the souks, and especially the three mosques, together with the Greek-Orthodox, the GreekCatholic and Maronite cathedrals instilled a strong sense of urban community and highlighted the pre-war urban culture of the centre. On one hand, the city centre was the expression of an urban heritage linked to the port and to previous urban political systems which had brought prosperity and created well defined public spaces like the public squares. On the other hand, the city centre vividly expressed the non-interventionist position of the State in all things spatial and ideological, the product of a liberal economic system considered to be at the core of its slow material decline. More importantly, as the demographically densest area of the city — apart from the refugee camps and slums on the outskirts — land prices were among the highest in Beirut. These two variables confirmed that the city centre occupied, even before the war, the uppermost position of the country’s urban hierarchy and this fact was central in the post-war reconstruction master plan.

The aims and the representations of the reconstruction project It was for the reconstruction of this particular space that Solidère was created; it was also towards this same space that the city’s population looked to reconstruct its own war-shattered identity. Beirut’s population however, had learned to live without a city centre, a nostalgic space frozen in time, war-damaged to be sure, but easily reappropriated. The establishment of Solidère by a politically active group and the subsequent razing of most of the centre destroyed this middle-class vision and representation of a group that had lost all of its political and social power. 319


Various plans were drawn up and presented to the public with artists’ renderings published in the local press, in books and in the company’s glossy magazines (Gavin, A. & Maluf, R., 1996; Rowe, P. G. & Sarkis, H., 1995; SOLIDÈRE, 1994, 1995a, 1996, 1997). A World Trade Centre, international-class office blocks, a luxury marina and hotels and wide tree-lined thoroughfares were regularly produced icons. The French Mandate sector was to be rehabilitated, together with the quarter’s mosques and churches; new, modern souks would be built in place of the now-levelled old ones (Anon., 1994; Moneo, R., 2001; SOLIDÈRE, 1993, 1995b; Union Internationale des Architectes & Ordre des Ingénieurs et Architectes du Liban, 1994). Finally, part of the archaeological excavations would be open to the public. Investor and political representations of this project posited that space had value only in so far as it met client needs, regardless of geographic hierarchy or the political opinions of its inhabitants. Urban efficiency was to be translated into economic profitability, which required docile, white-collar, trained and cheap labour working in a normalised, modern setting, from which all political activity would be excluded. It was hardly surprising then that this new situation was guaranteed through political and security control, with the Army being given new responsibilities in this respect. These simple representations of power and space were projected by the new elites who equated investment with economic growth and stability, as the only solution for rebuilding a war-torn country. The fact that the city centre had once been the locus of national life underscored the fact that the new Beirut could only be built in the exact location of the old one. In order to initiate this project, the role of the State itself was redefined: it disengaged itself from any remaining social responsibilities through the privatisation of the country’s services and functioned mainly to protect and consolidate the profit-making capabilities of its members, without, in return, addressing social and political questions. The new entrepreneurs and project managers represented Beirut as a regional relay for a world economy in which they would be active players, at the same time, using the State as a lever for their individual, local, political and economic ambitions. Their strategic location both geographically and within the national system ensured profitability. As Beirut’s centre 320


was handed over to private capital, spatial functionality became a matter of profitability as distinct from its role in promoting an urban social construct. This repositioning of Beirut was not accomplished without loss to its social and symbolic identities. In-as-much as the central city was no longer the focal point of the city’s urban identity or the symbolic meeting-place for all Lebanese, the centre became simply another space, and not the public space par excellence. Reduced to its lowest common denominator, a physical space awaiting buildings destined for the reproduction of capital for and by one social group, the city’s centre could not expect recognition by the country’s other inhabitants, nor be part of any urban identity construct. Belatedly, and in the face of criticism (Tabet, J., 1997), Solidère invented and projected new representations for the city centre, ‘aiming to transform spaces into places’ (Khalaf, S., 1998). The company played on one of its slogans ‘Beirut, an Ancient City of the Future’ (El-Dahdah, F., 1998; Loret, S., 1999) to elicit new representations of the historical and archaeological importance of the centre. It rehabilitated the Mandate buildings in the ‘Conservation Area’ (Gavin, A. & Maluf, R., 1996) around the Place de l’Étoile, stressing architectural values and urban heritage (Davie, M., 1999a). Even though built during the French occupation, this area was paradoxically identified as the historic core of the city. This, in turn, projected a rich and desirable image for the new business centre; the representations produced by the company matched those produced by the new entrepreneurs, who saw themselves working or living in a modern, enhanced setting, rich in ‘traditional’ Levantine conviviality and tolerance, albeit totally imagined. Solidère also planned the rebuilding of the city’s souks (Union Internationale des Architectes & Ordre des Ingénieurs et Architectes du Liban, 1994) — reinvented to accommodate escalators, air-conditioning and underground parking covering over 60,000m2 (SOLIDÈRE, 1995b) — as proof that the rebuilt city centre could function as a link between the past and the present, through new urban, social and political mechanisms. These souks would give an ‘Arab’ character to the heart of the city, underlining its cultural networks as well as its links with a reinvented, rich past. 321


Close by, ‘Saifi village’, a residential complex built in the Lebanese revival style (Ariss, C., 2001) with ‘restored Levantine vernacular buildings’ (Gavin, A. & Maluf, R., 1996) was built in the vicinity of the now-disappeared Place des Canons. Here, the company projected an image of tradition — and thus of historical continuity — through the use of ‘traditional Lebanese’ architectural motifs, such as three-arched façades, tiled roofs and pastel colours. The representations projected by these models were effective albeit in a pastiche context: a time-honoured urban lifestyle reborn as an ‘urban village’ located in the very heart of the city. Not only would the material city be rebuilt, but its society as well, even though only one selected category would be allowed to use it. Needless to say, the representations of the other population strata were quite different: the city centre, reappropriated by a privileged few, was seen as a material and metaphorical island in an unstable and socially and spatially fragmented city. It can be argued that the city centre was, in fact, seen as an extra-territorial space created and built exclusively for foreign capital. It would function as a ghetto whose accesses and use would be controlled by means of physical or social exclusion mechanisms. While the globalised economy assumes the permeability of national borders, at least in so far as capital flows are concerned, it nevertheless retains ‘useful’ elements such as fiscal laws and some strategically located geographic spaces (Wai-Chung Yeung, H., 1998). The city centre was thus represented by those excluded, as a marginalised fragment, to be used only by a small group of ‘globalised’ Lebanese, of a much wider conurbation whose real centralities were now on its edges (Davie, M. F., 1999, 2001b). The closure of debate and the limitations on freedom of expression, justified as necessary to consolidate the post-war reconciliation processes, made the population realise that only a privileged few would profit from the reconstruction programme and that the population at large would be excluded from the debate over its future. Space was now to be understood as primarily useful for the reproduction of capital, not for the betterment of local governance, for public enjoyment or for the consolidation of urban values and identities. The city centre would thus not be the prototype of a re-invented public space in the city or in the country. 322


At another level, the question of the heritage value of the centre provoked varied representations: it was the centrepiece of Solidère’s efforts to gain legitimacy for its programme. UNESCO and the Directorate General of Archaeology had sanctioned the organisation of the archaeological excavations and the field methodologies used. From a purely archaeological site opened to visitors, named ‘The paths of History’ (Beirut Central District & The Directorate General of Antiquities, no date [1997?]) the area was transformed into a ‘Garden of Forgiveness’ (Hadiqat as-Samah), a public space and a symbol for ‘social cohesion’ (al-Nahar, 14 March 2000: 15). Through the intensive use of symbols (not necessarily understood by the population or ex-militias) and landscaping, the country’s population would neutralise its war traumas and hatreds. Elsewhere, the French mandate buildings as well as some selected survivors of the tabula rasa policy of the company in the Wadi Abou Jamil area were projected as being objects to be shared by all Lebanese, in view of their architectural importance. These representations were curiously in contradiction with the material reality in Beirut: ‘traditional Lebanese houses’ were being pulled down everywhere and decried as uninhabitable and not adapted to modern society or to market forces. The population was puzzled by this sudden ‘invention’ of architectural heritage. A sizeable proportion of the city’s population was now of rural origin and had sociologically ‘countrified’ the city during the war years, especially in the peri-central areas. Not being Beirutis, neither possessing an urban culture, their representations of the city were simple: their space in town, used to survive in a new environment, was not really ‘theirs’, as they had neither reference points nor any particular attachment to the city itself. Beirut was represented as merely a sum of small ‘villages’ sociologically linked by personal relations, and for whom urban heritage questions were irrelevant. The other residents of the city had to recompose their own representations of the urban space: their quarters were now ‘occupied’ by ‘strangers’, the whole city being neatly divided into ‘them’ and ‘us’ (Gebrane, E. 1997). More urgent questions than the aesthetics of old buildings or the symbolism of gardens had to be addressed, such as everyday survival in a moribund economy. 323


The fact that restored areas were accessible only to the upper classes or to businesses linked to regional or global economies further distanced the population from this space. The centre of town, remembered as being the space of souks, small businesses, run-down cinemas, seedy hotels and cheap restaurants (Direction Générale de l’Urbanisme, 1980), had suddenly been chosen by the upper-classes for residence. The rich and upwardly-mobile categories of the city’s population now saw themselves in the physical centre of the city, and thus in the strategic centre of Lebanon, itself represented as a relay-point between East and West, as the ‘real’, material, financial hub in the Middle East. In the process, they had rid the centre of undesirable populations and activities and added capital gain to that space in a classic process of gentrification. This redefinition of the centre and the representations advanced by the entrepreneurs were quite foreign to the rest of the population, which had hoped for a ‘normal’ city centre in which various forms of public spaces served as sociological and economic integrators. Instead, public space, where it existed, was reduced to its bare elements: open space with no symbolic value, which the elites neither used, nor identified with, especially as the political system did not require space for its existence or for its reproduction. Public space (such as the vast open area that was once the Bourj and adjacent souks, now razed) was used only briefly for cultural activities such as open-air concerts, and was never appropriated by the State in it’s own national representations through the production of relevant symbols. Economically, this space was not intended to generate employment or informal activities: only white collar workers and necessary maintenance staff would work in this secured area once the building process terminated. This space could thus never become the locus of social interaction and exchange, reflecting the country’s rich mix of religions, social classes, culture, tolerance and hospitality in a politically ‘free’ atmosphere. As for the ‘Garden of forgiveness’, no debate was initiated about who should forgive what and how such a garden might contribute to reconciling combatants and populations. In all, there was divergence of representations for the same physical space. On one hand, promoters of massive reconstruction projected images of a modern, capitalist-oriented city in phase with a global economy for which space was merely a necessary 324


component of the profit-making equation. The value of this space would be enhanced through instrumentalisation of heritage values. On the other hand, with the levelling of the city centre, the population had lost all of its symbols and reference-points; it failed to understand the visions of the value of space that it was asked to accept without debate. In reply, it simply maintained its recently built social and economic centralities on the outskirts of the city and recomposed other identities elsewhere.

Conclusion Further analysis reveals a far more complex situation. The appropriation of the city’s centre, albeit by a private company, signalled a wider ‘Lebanese’ representation of the use of the city centre for the reinvention of Lebanon as a State. Nationalist symbols and expressions were encouraged there, with the aim of consolidating a collective representation of a sovereign nationstate within frontiers that could be reappropriated, symbolically, metaphorically and mentally (Davie, M. F., 2001a), with the disappearance of any other form of internal division. Through the reconstruction process, the resurrected Republic would function as a national space, protecting individual and collective interests through recognised and legitimate action. This very same space however, would be used also to anchor wider identities: the globalisation process in a worldwide liberal economy requiring private competitive space in order to maximise both profits and freedom of capital movement. Thus, two contradictory logics are at work in the construction of social representations: on the one hand, the new city centre contributed to national and urban identities, albeit reinterpreted through urban morphologies and architectures, while on the other hand, it highlighted the effects of globalisation on the economy and the end of State control — and thus the end of national identities.

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Tabet, J. 1997. ‘Trois plans pour une ville : lectures d’un projet pour la reconstruction du centre-ville de Beyrouth (1991)’. In Davie, M. F. [ed.], Beyrouth, regards croisés. UMR 6592 ‘URBAMA’, Tours, 273–304. Tuéni, G., Sassine, F. 2000. El Bourj. Place de la Liberté et porte du Levant. Éditions Dar an-Nahar, Beyrouth. Union Internationale des Architectes, Ordre des Ingénieurs et Architectes du Liban. 1994. La reconstruction des souks de Beyrouth. Un concours d’idées international. Conditions générales & dossier de présentation. No editor. Beyrouth. Wai-Chung Yeung, H. 1998. ‘Capital, State and Space: Contesting the Borderless World’. Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers New Series, 23:3, 291–309.

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CHAPTER 18

Text, Space and the Individual in the Poetry of Badr Shakir al-Sayyab: Nationalism, Revolution and Subjectivity Wen-chin Ouyang

Text Since the publication of ‘Unshudat al-matar’ in 1954 (1953?) in the Beiruti Avant-garde literary magazine, al-Adab, this poem by Badr Shakir al-Sayyab (1926–1964) has attracted the attention of critics and scholars of Arabic poetry in both the Arab world and the West. It is considered by many a work representative not only of al-Sayyab but of modernist free verse – al-shi‘r al-hurr. It is regarded as a landmark of the maturity of both the poet and the poetry he pioneered, the all too well-known Tammuzi poetry, pervasive on the poetic scene in the middle of the 20th century. No history of modern Arabic poetry can ignore this title poem of one of the volumes of al-Sayyab’s poetry. In Dirasat fi naqd al-shi‘r, Ilyas Khuri, in one sentence, sums up the importance of this poem for the development of modern Arabic poetry and the diwan form: ‘With the poetry of al-Sayyab begins an entire era of transformation in Arabic qasida’ (28). The accomplishment of the poet lies in his ability to lift Arabic poetry above the deep defeat of Arabic culture and construct a complex, complete qasida, which, while remaining grounded in the language of the past, transcends the boundaries of its own classical conventions to embrace the pre-Islamic mythology of the region as well as Western influence. ‘Unshudat al-matar,’ an exemplary new poem, ushers in a new epoch for modern Arabic poetry; it integrates the poet into poetry, lyricism into symbolism, symbolism into realism, 330

TEXT, SPACE AND THE INDIVIDUAL

political into literary and rhythm into imagery in such a way that ‘the qasida is now a complex world composed of images, but is defined by the rhythm which imposes on images components which shape these images’ (28–31). Although Khuri makes no reference to other studies of ‘Unshudat al-matar’, whether as a single poem or as a collection of poems published between 1950 and 1960, he in fact summarises not only the conclusions thus far reached about al-Sayyab and his poetry but anticipates those who followed. Regardless of their theoretical frameworks, critics seem to agree that both the poem and the ‘Unshudat al-matar’ diwan, signalled the transformation of the poet, his poetry and modern Arabic poetry from individualistic expression to group aspirations, or from lyricism to realism (Iliyya Hawi 173, Hafez 108), and the transformation of Arabic poetry from classicism to modernism [‘Abbas, Hawi, Hafez, Hasan Tawfiq (1979) and Terri DeYoung (1994 and 1998)]. The nature of this transformation depends on where emphasis is placed. ‘Abbas, in his literary biography of al-Sayyab, considers this poem within the context of the poet’s development, traces the thread of alienation that links the poems written in the period of al-Sayyab’s exile in al-Kuwait and regards the use of the myth of Ishtar as the symbol of both the poet’s rejuvenation as well as Iraq’s revival (206–213). Khuri, on the other hand, discusses extensively the composition of the poem, such as the myth and its transmutations, the associations, the imagery, the paradoxes and the rhythm derived from single units of language or complex compositions (27–59). Hafez looks at the ways the form of the classical Arabic qasida is transformed in the post-colonial context, paying special attention to the dialectical relationships between ‘self’ and ‘other’ and past and present (99–120). As for DeYoung (1994), she traces the rain imagery to mainly pre-Islamic qasida and to a lesser extent to what she calls ‘scripture’ (Qur’an and Hadith) and examines the paradoxical effects of rain, especially the mythical motif of creation and destruction (39–58). Scholarship on ‘Unshudat al-matar’ has given much attention to what historians of literary criticism would term explication de texte. The focus is understandably on the ways ‘Unshudat al-matar,’ and thus modern Arabic poetry, achieved modernity by simultaneously internalising and transcending classical Arabic and European traditions during the process of decolonisation. 331


It is difficult to disagree with such a reading, which is after all quite salutary. Indeed, there is an implied context to which we might add our own reading of the ‘Unshudat al-matar’ as an epic narrative of the will to nationhood and national identity, as Benedict Anderson suggests. Thus, we might read the poem not merely as modern Arabic poetry within a literary context, but as a more ambitious work reflecting the emergence of a national consciousness and of Iraqi identity in the first half of the 20th century. At the outset, there is the question of genre. Can we regard ‘Unshudat al-matar’ as epic narrative? Critics allude to a series of ‘long poems’ al-Sayyab wrote between 1950–1954, including ‘Fajr al-salam’, 1950, ‘Haffar al-qubur’, 1950(?), ‘Al-mumis al- ‘amya’’, 1953, ‘Al-asliha wa al-atfal’, 1953, ‘Gharib ‘ala al-khalij’, 1953. These have been called qasa’id mutawwala or tawila and are described as attempts at composing malhama by ‘Abbas (149– 150, 149–213); The word malhama is the Arabic for epic. DeYoung devotes a chapter of her book to these poems (DeYoung 1998, pp 221– 254) and focuses on tracing the precursors of primarily two poems: ‘Al-mumis al-‘amya’’ and ‘Haffar al-qubur’. She excludes ‘Unshudat al-matar’ from the corpus of ‘long poems’ which she considers to have married free verse and narrative to produce a ‘truly innovative work in the epic/narrative vein’ (233). ‘The fact remains,’ she says, ‘that the rest of the poems from the period during and immediately following his Kuwaiti exile eschew the narrative paradigm entirely and, with the partial exception of “Hymn of the Rain”, reach back for their models into earlier periods of his own work.’ (252) ‘Unshudat al-matar’ is located at the crossroad of al-Sayyab’s transformation poetically, politically and ideologically, a transformation brought on by discomfort with the narrative form (DeYoung 251) and frustration with national Iraqi conditions of the period. It also marked the poet’s return to lyricism (DeYoung 253) and to shorter poetic forms (‘Abbas 181, DeYoung 252), and his turn ideologically from communist universalism to the more regional Arab nationalism (‘Abbas 217– 266). ‘Abbas, although he provides no detailed analysis of this poem, notes that despite its relative shortness it is constructed along the same lines, both structurally and thematically, as those of the longer poems already mentioned (206–213). Let us then, take up where ‘Abbas left off, and reread this poem as epic narrative. 332


Nation First, let us situate this poem in the post-colonial context of the development of modern Arabic poetry. Like other new genres of modern Arabic literature (novel, drama and short story), poetry exhibits similar ‘identity politics’, which, in post-colonial theories, are often characterised terms of the tension and dialectical relation between ‘self’ and ‘other’. These theories operate on the assumption that the colonised subjects are not silent or silenced objects, especially on the textual level. On the contrary, they produce their own discourse, a counter discourse and form of resistance to the wilfully hegemonic colonial discourse that willynilly makes its objective the assimilation of the colonised subjects. Analyses of various discourses, defined in the Foucauldian sense, reveal to us the identity politics of the parties to these discourses and the underlying strategies of conquest and resistance. Self is the outcome of a process of negotiation as ‘self’ and ‘other’ collide, collude and diverge. As Hafez points out, the postcolonial Arab ‘self’ is often grounded in the past, which then becomes the crux of its authenticity (103). ‘Unshudat al-matar’ exhibits a similar tendency in its appropriation of pre-Islamic myths, especially the pre-Islamic and Islamic qasida myths and the Babylonian myth of Ishtar-Tammuz. The use of the past as the hallmark of authenticity is problematic in that it tends to undermine the foundations of modernity, itself predicated upon a break with the past, and exacerbate tension between the modern and the classical. Modernity in the post-colonial Arab context is quite complex. Concepts of ‘self’ and ‘other’, modern and classic are not parallel but intersect. Depending upon where one locates ‘self’ within the debate, the past may represent authentic ‘self’ or traditional ‘other’; ‘other’ may represent traditional past or Western modernity, and ‘self’, the authentic past or modern present. The challenge for Arab creative writers (of poetry, novel, drama and short story) is to formulate the variables in such a way as to simultaneously convey authenticity and modernity. The past, therefore, becomes subject to redefinition with a shape determined largely by the imaginary space it inhabits and defines. Put differently, delineating the contours of this imaginary space can help to identify the 333


impulses that went into reshaping its past, and therefore, the redefinition of its heritage. In the early part of the 20th century, the politics of identity were negotiated not only at the individual level, but were pervasive of community definitions as well. The tensions between ‘self’ and ‘other,’ ‘past’ and ‘present’ in Arabic poetry collude with ‘imagining a community’ in which the individual plays a key role in its formation, and occupies a central place in its maintenance. Text and space shape and are shaped by each other. More importantly, the individual who imagines his community draws the shape of both text and space as he narrates the nation. This impulse in narrative, therefore in text, is often spoken of as ‘mapping’ or ‘territorialisation’, or as ‘deterritorialisation’ and ‘reterritorialisation’ in post-colonial theories. ‘Unshudat al-matar’, as text, may be considered a ‘narrative of nation’, where the text delineates the space and space defines the text. The text is framed by a narrative voice (located within the text) whose point of view delineates the space, Iraq. (The narrator is in fact situated in a physical space at some remove, looking in from the outside.) The subtext thus becomes the external delineation of the national space, and interior and exterior landscapes merge. The merging of these landscapes places both the individual and his community on a path to a shared destiny: the transformation through death and resurrection implied by the use of Ishtar-Tammuz myth and the rite of passage inherent in the classical Arabic qasida. The opening lines evoke both traditions. The first two lines remind us of the opening lines of the love prelude in any mu‘allaqa or classical Arabic qasida. The third line evokes Ishtar, goddess of fertility in Babylonian myth. It very quickly becomes clear that the ‘beloved’ in this poem, is not the ‘beloved’ of the classical qasida, but a Mother figure, both Ishtar and the narrator’s mother (lines 23–25). These two mothers, objects of desire in the narrative, are later personified as Iraq (line 44). Iraq, as the narrator stands gazing from the shores of Kuwait, becomes the object of desire. The Iraq that is desired however, is not any Iraq but an Iraq with a specific history. The poem gives it this history. The Iraq to which the poem alludes did not exit as a space with definitive borders prior to the 1920s. It emerged with arbitrarily drawn borders at the end of the colonial period. As a nation-state, 334


Iraq is heir to the British colonial state of the region. By the time ‘Unshudat al-matar’ came out Iraq as a nation-state was about a quarter of a century old. Yet, in ‘Unshudat al-matar’, Iraq is imagined as ‘sovereign’ having a history extending to an ‘immemorial past’ (Anderson), and a ‘limitless future’. Integrating the Ishtar-Tammuz myth and classical Arabic qasida (structure, meter and motifs) into the story of contemporary desolation gives Iraq the history it needs as an ‘imagined community’ a history that is both continuous and layered (pre-Islamic, Islamic and contemporary). The cyclical movement of time inherent in the Ishtar-Tammuz myth suggests a limitless future for this newly imagined community. More importantly, the embrace of a preIslamic conceptualisation of time marks a departure from the more linear religious notion of time (birth, death, resurrection and paradise or hell). It also signals erosion in the certainty of the discourse that embodied this vision, and adoption what Anderson calls the notion of ‘harmonious, empty time’ where co-existence of competing religious discourses is possible. In addition to the tacit acceptance of the world-views expressed in Babylonian myth, in pre-Islamic and Islamic qasidas and secularised Western long poems, there is also the integration of Christianity into this vision. Elsewhere, such as in ‘Jaykur and the City,’ the story of Jesus is synonymous with that of Tammuz. The effect is seemingly the secularisation of religious discourse thus making universality possible. The desired nation-state is the imagined community that possesses a unique history (authenticity); this history does not ‘alienate’ the nation-state from a world comprised of other, uniquely imagined (contemporaneous) communities. Elsewhere, the Ishtar-Tammuz cycle is integrated into Greek, Roman and Chinese myths, as well as modern European literary motifs. The effect is that the ‘present’ is in a continuous relation with the ‘past’, not severed from it, and that the newly established nation is imagined as an integral part of the world not isolated from it. More importantly, the individual is given a central role in the formation and formulation of this imagined community.

Revolution In his book, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, Benedict Anderson describes the ways 335


nation-states have imagined themselves into existence worldwide, and the features of these imagined communities. Anderson however, does not focus on practical strategies for realising such imagined communities even though he does allude to the French revolution as an early, unsuccessful model. In ‘Unshudat al-matar’, the aspiration to revolution is explicit; in fact, revolution is the mechanism of transformation for both individual and community. The poem is constructed around what ‘Abbas calls duality (206) based on the key figures of the ancient Babylonian myth: Ishtar and Tammuz. Ishtar is clearly mother-goddess and mother, and Tammuz, the son-god and narrator-orphan. Iraq, like the text of the poem, straddles this structural duality. As the object of desire in the narrative, Iraq is both mother and son: the orphan’s long-lost mother and Ishtar’s lost-to-the-netherworld son, Tammuz. Iraq is to serve a dual purpose; it must first transform itself from death to resurrection and then transform the narrator from observer to actor, from stateless exile to engaged participant. The mechanism for this transformation is revolution as evoked in lines 53–57. These few lines mark the transition in the poem from what DeYoung describes as ‘apocalyptic’ vision to more ‘optimistic’ vision (DeYoung 1994, 49). Lines 1–52 describe the interconnected conditions and states of Iraq and the narrator. Iraq’s destitution is a form of exile that corresponds to the Marxist notion of alienation and is similar to that of the exiled narrator: displaced, alienated and gazing across the Gulf. Lines 58–95, repeat the familiar sense of desolation but insist that Iraq will be revived (lines 88–89 and 95). Lines 96–120 are a refrain and a condensed version of lines 1–95. The return of the exile is predicated on the revival of Iraq. Both are possible, however, by means of revolution, as suggested in lines 53–57 : I can almost hear Iraq husbanding the thunder, Storing lightning in the mountains and plains, So that if the seal were broken by men The winds would leave in the valley not a trace of Thamud.1

The reference to revolution may be found in the images associated with the ‘thunder’ and ‘lightning’ to be unleashed by men (al-rijal), in this case, heroes. When that happens corrupt, unjust, and ungrateful Thamud-like people as portrayed in the Qur’an, will be ‘erased’ from the face of the earth, Iraq. Seen from 336


the perspective of these lines, the rest of the poem becomes a statement that desolation in Iraq is not necessarily natural but rather man-made. Behind the hunger, pain, exile and death are Thamud-like people, the thousand snakes in line 107. Their reign however, will not last. Like the cycles of death and resurrection, creation and destruction, the power of these people will inevitably wane. More positively, men can rectify man-made desolation. If rain is the agent of transforming nature, what will transform space into this imagined community? Blood! Rain and blood are practically interchangeable in the poem. In lines 42–46 we see the merging of rain and blood. As the narrator’s gaze follows the rain – tears shed by the Goddess’ eyes – to Iraq, a sheet of blood is drawn over the shores of Iraq. In lines 82–95, and again in lines 111–120, rain, tears and blood become synonymous. The last line of this part of the poem (l. 95) rain could be replaced with either ‘tear’ or ‘blood’. Tears are a symbol of pain, and blood of sacrifice. The istisqa’, the rain motif in classical Arabic qasida, becomes a prayer for and call to revolution. The last line of the poem, which stands poignantly alone, may be read either as ‘it is pouring rain,’ ‘let it pour rain’ or ‘it is pouring blood,’ ‘let it pour blood’! Whose blood though? Let us begin with the contrast between the destitute émigré observing helplessly as a thousand snakes consume the wealth of Iraq (lines 96–120), the refrain and final lines of the poem. As suggested earlier, these lines represent a condensed version of the poem. They are not however, mere repetition. Additional details are given in lines 102–108, and again, in line 110, such that the unspecified and vague identity of the speaker in lines 47 and 96 comes into focus. The ba’is and ghariq of line 104 may be understood as the speaker in lines 47 and 96, who might also be the al-wahid who feels lost in line 39 and whose blood is spilled in line 40. It seems clear that ‘the thousand snakes’ of line 107 are the personification of Thamud in line 56? Line 110 yarinnu fi lkhalij is perhaps a reprise of lines 53–57. If so, the pouring blood in lines 88 and 117 would be that of the narrator, of the modern Thamud of Iraq, as well as explicitly stated, of their subjects (dam al-‘abid). The blood then is everybody’s: the trampled-upon citizens, the oppressors and the individual. The narrative here is prophetic: injustice will lead to revolt in which the individual victim of this oppression, will sacrifice himself to seek justice and shed the 337


blood of the oppressors. We are reminded of the revolutionary slogan, bi’r-ruh, bi’d-dam nafdika ya (and fill in the blank). Other poems by al-Sayyab, whether we consider the long poems alone, the diwan, ‘Unshudat al-matar’ as a whole, or the entire corpus of al-Sayyab’s poetry, support this reading. In other words, in addition to a narrative of nation, there is also a revolutionary discourse. In his introduction to ‘Al-asliha wa ’l-atfal’, al-Sayyab practically advocates mass insurrection, bloody as they may be, to bring about world peace. In his important study of nationalism and the emergence of nation-states, Anderson places a great deal of emphasis on the role of what he calls ‘print-capitalism’ in facilitating the process. He alludes to the idea of revolution, but without emphasis, as an important part of narratives of nation. Furthermore, he identifies these narratives as patriotic but not racist. As examples, he speaks of the wars between China and Vietnam and the armed conflicts in Indo-China. The wars he refers to are concerned with establishment of national boundaries. Recent examples would be the Gulf War (Iraq and Kuwait) and the on-going struggle between Israelis and Palestinians. ‘Unshudat al-matar’ as narrative of nation, raises several questions: What are the implications of locating within a single narrative simultaneous nationalist and revolutionary discourse? Similarly, how can one include diametrically opposed constructive and destructive impulses? How does one make sense of these co-existing impulses? What does patriotism mean? Is the loyalty implied in the word necessarily directed toward the nation-state or to the imagined community? Does ‘racism’ have to mean racism in its literal sense? Or can racism, in certain cases, be equated with some kind of ideology? ‘Unshudat al-matar’ is perhaps a good place for us to begin to think about these questions. When Anderson speaks of ‘printcapitalism’ and its role in imagining communities, he is alluding not to a single text, but to a body of texts which, put together, make up some sort of a collective text, what we may call meta-text. There is not necessarily a correlation of text and space, as we see in ‘Unshudat al-matar’. This text is then unique in that it is not only a microcosm of al-Sayyab’s poetry, but of the corpus of texts that Anderson would consider the product of ‘print-capitalism’. What may we infer then, from this text? Are such impulses implicit in the epic genre? Is the will to ‘nationhood’ and revolution 338


explicable in terms of genre? Probably not. Epic narratives, although concerned with the bloody process of nation building, do not advocate bloodshed. Are such impulses then, relevant to gender? Are men more prone to bloody violence than women? This is not necessarily the case either; we find as many bloody images in the poetry of Nazik al-Mala’ika. Is it then, a reflection on the author? Perhaps, in the case of al-Sayyab, although he is not alone in the use of bloody images; Al-Jawahiri’s poetry, for example, is just as bloody and he alone, explicitly calls for a bloody revolution. Perhaps then, we should look more closely at the impulses that led to the formation of this individual and his subjectivity.

Subjectivity Perhaps we should return to where we started and re-examine identity politics. Identity politics in post-colonial theories are about subjectivity and attendant rights which is to say, powers and processes. As there is between text and space, there is a synergy of relationship between subjectivity and text; subjectivity and text shape and are shaped by each other and comprise what Foucault terms ‘discursive formations’. In so far as ‘Unshudat al-matar’ is concerned, the answer to a question such as, ‘What compelled al-Sayyab to be simultaneously constructive in the way his narratives imagine community, and destructive in its call to bloodshed?’ may be found in the formation and formulation of subjectivity. There are two tiers to the examination of this particular subjectivity, one grounded in a psycho-analytical approach to literature, the other in the all too well-known Foucauldian notion of the way subjectivity is caught in a triangle of narrative, knowledge and power. In the first instance, we seek answers to the following questions. Did al-Sayyab’s personal predicament contribute to the intensity of his discourse, whether constructive or destructive? What role did the loss of his mother and difficulties with his stepmother play in shaping his personality? Did his lack of romantic fulfilment have an effect? In what ways did persecution as a communist and subsequent short exile in Kuwait affect his views of the world? Did his later falling out 339


with the communists and consequent isolation influence his violent revolutionary rhetoric? Did his eventual, fatal illness critically aggravate his life-long sense of abandonment? How did such experiences of alienation, found throughout his poetry, shape his subjectivity and lead him to yearn for an ideal community to which he could belong and for which he was willing to sacrifice himself? An answer grounded in psychoanalysis would no doubt affirm that the experience of persecution exacerbated his rage and his need to radically change the world; the violence advocated was equal to violence meted out on him. In the second instance, we may locate his political activism and ideology in the political and cultural context of the Arab world in transition from colonial to post-colonial, including the discourses of power, a major impulse of which was the narration of nation. If we use Foucault’s formula, subjectivity as discursive formation, then all discourses are implicated, as manifest in the text, including the pre-Islamic, Islamic and colonial discourse as well as the emerging anti-colonial ideologies. The period in which al-Sayyab lived was perhaps one of the most turbulent eras of Iraq’s history. In addition to the anti-colonial discourses that called for the expulsion of the colonisers by force if necessary, there existed competing sectarian, ethnic and ideological discourses, which often led to bloody conflicts on the ground. Al-Sayyab, who witnessed and experienced the harrowing events of this period, internalised the accompanying discourses, only to later externalise them as his own texts. Text which expresses subjectivity is itself discursive and may be subjectively internalised. The relationships between text and subjectivity and text and space are similar and define a paradigm of space and subjectivity, wherein spaces previously internalised are mapped subjectively and externalised as text. Put differently, textual constructs of space are fundamentally narratives of subjectivity. A narrative of nationhood is thus inevitably an expression of identity politics, and the space in which the nation is imagined becomes a space of conflicting narratives, shaped by narrative texts and subjectively internalised and externalised. The nation imagined in text mirrors the subjectivity of its author. 340


Space Jacqueline Rose in her book on nationalist discourses in Israel and South Africa, States of Fantasy, points out parallel movements in the loss of Eden and the emergence of utopia in modern European literatures. Is it possible, in this case, to think of the nation, the imagined community as a re-articulation of Eden, one expression among many modern expressions of the actualisation of Utopia? Utopia thus compensates for the loss of Eden, the certainty of which is lost when religious discourse becomes secularised although paradoxically, the certainty of the religious discourse is internalised as a ‘crusader logic of colonisation’. In a case where subjectivity is intricately bound to notions of space, it is not difficult to imagine what the individual would do to defend the longed for, though imagined, Utopia. Let us quickly return to the critical paradigms post-colonial theories have devised for the interpretation of post-colonial discourses: the paradoxes of ‘self’ and ‘other’, and of ‘centre’ and ‘margin’. If we imagine that one narrative of nation is ‘self’ willing itself towards the centre, then any competing narrative is inevitably looked upon as ‘other’ that threatens to push the ‘self’ towards the ‘margin’. War, it seems, may be waged between any two or three communities imagined in the same space. The competition for space is not simply a territorial contest but a contest of subjectivities and foundation of public identity. Identity politics thus are meaningless unless subjectivity is at stake as subjectivities collide amongst each other as they compete to occupy the imagined space. The definition and redefinition of space can be effected only on the basis of changes in subjectivity. At the same time, the loss of space, however one understands ‘loss’, is a threat to subjectivity and explains how it is that contests over space can become violent battles. Reading ‘Unshudat al-matar’ as a narrative of nationhood exposes the interconnectedness of individual subjectivity and communal identity. Al-Sayyab’s narrative of nation and imagined community may be seen as the expression of his subjectivity. This subjectivity shapes and is shaped in turn by this imagined community. To put it simply, individual and community fates are intertwined; it is impossible to imagine the individual in contradistinction to community. 341


Note 1

Translation by Lena Jayyusi and Christopher Middleton in ‘Rain Song’, Modern Arabic Poetry: An Anthology, ed. Salam Khadra Jayyusi Columbia University Press, 1987, 427–430, 429.

Bibliography ‘Abbas, Ihsan, Badr Shakir al-Sayyab: dirasa fi hayatihi wa shi‘rihi, Beirut: Dar al Thaqafa, 1969. Anderson, Benedict. Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, London: Verso, 1983. DeYoung, Terri. ‘A New Reading of Badr Shakir al-Sayyab’s “Hymn of the Rain”,’ Journal of Arabic Literature 22, 1984, 40–61. ____________. Placing the Poet: Badr Shakir al-Sayyab and Postcolonial Iraq, Albany: State University of New York Press, 1998. Hafez, Sabry. ‘The Transformation of the Qasida Form in Modern Arabic Poetry,’ Qasida Poetry in Islamic Asia and Africa, ed. Stefan Sperl and Christopher Shackle, Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1996, 1: 99–120. Hawi, Iliyya. Badr Shakir al-Sayyab, Vol 2, Beirut: Dar al-Kitab alLubnani, 1973. Khuri, Ilyas. Dirasat fi naqd al-shi‘r, Beirut: Dar Ibn Rushd, 1979. Rose, Jacqueline. States of Fantasy, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996. Al-Sayyab, Badr Shakir, ‘Unshudat al-matar,’ Diwan Badr Shakir al-Sayyab, Vol. 1, Beirut: Dar al-’Awda, 1971, 474–481. Tawfiq, Hasan. Shi‘r Badr Shakir al-Sayyab: dirasa faniyyh wa fikriyya, Beirut: al Mua’ssasat al-‘Arabiyya li l-Dirasat wa l-Nashr, 1979.

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CHAPTER 19

Urban Change and Literary Transformation: The Egyptian Novel in the 1990s Sabry Hafez

The Arabic novel has undergone major changes in the last two decades, not only in terms of theme, setting, characterisation and literary technique, but also for the range of authors, the variety of represented outlooks, the social and cultural backgrounds of these writers and their distinct understandings of reality and narrative. These changes constitute a radical departure from the established norms and conventions of narrative discourse and present an alarming insight into Arabic culture and psyche, even if they have yet to be subjected to detailed critical scrutiny. The aims of this chapter are first to introduce the work of the new wave of young Arab novelists who started publishing in the 1990s and have subsequently become widely known among Arab literary circles as the 1990s generation. Secondly, this paper will introduce their work to the reading public, outline narrative contexts, articulate their vision and consider the changes their cumulative work has introduced into Arabic narrative discourse. Finally, we will identify whether these young writers represent an epistemological, narrative or an aesthetic break with previous traditional narrative discourse, and if so, locate this break within the socio-cultural context from which it emerged. The rooting of these changes in their native context requires that our study confine itself to the Egyptian dimension of this development, despite our awareness that the phenomenon is pan-Arabic, impacting the narrative forms of other Arabic speaking countries, such as Lebanon, Syria, Iraq, Tunisia and 343


Morocco. We take this approach because, in order to describe the poetics of the new novel and investigate the impact of its form, we must present a detailed picture of the reality from which it emerged and demonstrate how aesthetics and textual innovations reflect the new reality. Since it is impossible to provide such an analysis for the whole of the Arabic speaking world, this study will focus on Egyptian forms while acknowledging that our limited review is at best an indication of what is taking place in other parts of the Arab world. The first question to confront any student of the Arabic novel when evaluating new phenomena or dealing with an aesthetic or cultural break, is the justification for such a claim; does the object of study in fact constitute a break, or is it merely an exception, even a set of exceptional texts? Frequently exceptional texts will appear before their time and announce a break with prevalent aesthetics without however, meriting the term ‘literary phenomenon’. Laurence Sterne’s Tristram Shandy (1760-67) is a clear example of this, an eccentrically whimsical and bawdy novel, and it was long before other writers took up any of its insights and innovations. Similarly, ‘Adil Kamil’s novel, Millim al-Akbar (Millim the Great, 1944), was an exceptionally innovative and modernist text before its time in its use of language, structure and themes and appeared even before the modernistic vision and realism of Naguib Mahfouz, which were themselves twenty years in entering the mainstream. Such works remain exceptional texts worthy of study and analysis. They do not however, constitute a literary phenomenon indicative of major cultural change let alone sociological or cultural change on any significant scale.

A New Phenomenon Unlike other exceptional texts, the writings of the 1990s generation constitute a new literary and sociological phenomenon characterised by a number of factors. First, there is a growing body of work defining a set of characteristics in a harmonious and consistent manner. Second, the new texts clearly affirm their differences in tone, style and narrative strategies in a manner that suggests new poetics and distinct aesthetics. Third, the new poetics pose a certain challenge, even danger, to established 344

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conventions and tastes, and provoke the literary establishment out of its apathy. The aesthetic of the 1990s generation begins by promoting a style and break with traditional forms, either directly, through literary manifestos, or indirectly, through sheer persistence, provocation and animosity. In the early nineties, with the first appearance of this generation, the literary establishment in Egypt was unanimous in condemning these works, accusing their authors of bad writing, weak grammar, bawdy and ribald taste, inability to narrate a simple story and writing incomprehensible texts.1 The fourth reason to consider these writers a movement is that the writings of this generation constitute a virtually inexhaustible wave of texts distinctive both with respect to the work of earlier generations and to the work of contemporaries producing similar literary output. Finally, the innovations brought about by these new works involve a transformation of the rules of reference, namely, the rules by which a text incorporates and represents the outside world. Such changes in the rules of reference have slowed the acceptance of these works, which suffer from a lack of familiarity with the encoding used and from the texts’ inability to respond to the prevalent tastes. Such distancing from the norm has provoked charges of ambiguity and bad writing, alienating the new texts from both the reading public and the traditional literary establishment. Reader alienation and deliberate marginalisation by the literary establishment place a heavy burden on the critical movement to articulate the new rules of reference and to build a bridge between these works and the reader. Criticism needs to decode these works and to accustom the reader to the new rules of reference, allowing the reader, in this way, to better apprehend the reading experience and appreciate their links with contemporary society. All of these factors are present with respect to the new novel of the 1990s, and make its study imperative for its innovations and original contribution to Arabic narrative discourse. It is necessary however, to approach this phenomenon with an open mind, free of preconceptions and rigid criteria, including the usual claims that such works are new and by definition, undeserving of critical attention. 345


It is easy for criticism to deal with established schools, accomplished writers and well-known narrative strategies as these provide critics with an opportunity to effortlessly ruminate familiar hypotheses and clichés. It is however, considerably more difficult to fathom an embryonic new phenomenon, to uncover its fresh rules of reference and unfamiliar codes, facilitate a correct reading and frame serious debate about its contribution to literature’s ability to probe the present and elucidate the future. In an attempt to comprehend the new narrative of the 1990s generation, some critics endeavoured to free it from the limitation of genre classification and suggest a trans-generic, free-floating textual space,2 in which texts are lost in their own labyrinth. This approach does not help the cause of new writing and in fact, marginalises it by setting it outside the genre altogether. What is needed is not to free these texts from the useful conventions of reception of narrative texts, but to demonstrate how these conventions are modified and transformed to sharpen the text’s ability to embrace an everchanging reality. The changes of these texts reflect the many other changes which have taken place in the country from which they emerged and about which they are written. In this respect there are four interconnected processes which simultaneously occurred and interacted with one another: the transformation of reality, the emergence of a third city, the retreat from the modern and the literary break of the 1990s novel. Although these processes are interconnected and to a certain extent inseparable, they can be seen as aspects or different versions of each other, or even different forms of perception of the same phenomenon, the same moment in historical time. I shall take them one by one, if only for the sake of clarity and the purpose of the study.

Transformations of Reality In the last ten years or so, the most common charge levelled against the new novel was its nihilistic approach to reality and its indifference to social and political issues and problems. In a previous study it was demonstrated how the transformation of narrative poetics and literary aesthetics is homologous to similar 346


transformations in reality and that the novel’s response to the changes in reality is generally subtle, complex and indirect.3 This study of the novels of the 1990s and the reality that produced them confirms the pattern developed in my earlier study, namely, that the transformation of the text is not unconnected to that of the reality that produced it. The term reality here includes not only the social, geographical, political and economic dimensions, but the demographic, urban, cultural, textual, and psychological as well. The psychological dimension is particularly important, for most if not all the publishing writers of this generation were born after 1967, and their consciousness shaped by defeat and a gloomy, post-1967 atmosphere. They would have spent their formative years in the post-Nasser period and witnessed the demise of the pan-Arab dream and more importantly, of Nasser’s modernist independent ideal of progress and social justice. From an early age, these writers would have been nourished on a diet of self-doubt and recrimination: brought up on the aborted project of social welfare: dazzled and simultaneously crushed by the infitah, open door policy of Sadat, which enabled a few to get excessively rich and left the majority to suffer dire poverty. Upon graduation, they would have lived the glaring contradictions of an absurd economic and social situation, where a belly-dancer4 makes five million pounds a year while five million university graduates are unemployed, where the price of some flats in Cairo exceeded one million pounds, and over a million inhabitants lived in the City of the Dead and several million others lived in ‘ashwa’iyyat, shanty towns. The Muslim fundamentalist groups whose rise under Sadat in the 1970s coincided with the birth of this generation were by the 1990s issuing fatwas of istihlal, making the lives and money of the rich, the Copts in Upper Egypt, the banks, and jewellery shops lawful booty for Muslims. The istihlal of the fundamentalists, bizarre as it may have been, was as grotesque as the practices of the corrupt political establishment under the name of privatisation. The large and often successful public sector, built up in the long, austere years of Nasser, was looted and offered at bargainbasement prices to the wealthy who became even richer. The increasing overlap between wealth and the kleptocratic political establishment only exacerbated the lack of legitimacy for either group. The result was a distorted social pyramid whose base 347


increased in the 1980s while at its apex wealth became even more concentrated in the hands of an ever smaller elite. The old social pyramid was replaced by a dinosaur-like shape, whose tiny head was incapable of managing the ever-growing body of poverty, despair and discontent. The impact of this social structure led to a segmentation of the Egyptian market in which 60% of the population live below the poverty line, and the importation of luxury goods, particularly food items consumed only by the very wealthy, increased every year until it exceeded eleven billion pounds in 1999.5 It is impossible to ignore the link between the despondency, loss and gloom that pervades the texts of the 1990s with the social and economic depression in which they were formed and under which the authors were given to build their future. During such formative years, the writers of this generation witnessed the constant increase in Egypt’s population – between 1980-2000 the population increased by 23 million – without an equivalent increase in state investment in education or housing. By the time these authors were of school age, the schools were deteriorating, starved of funds and overcrowded. Illiteracy rates that had decreased in previous decades (1950-70) increased, as did unemployment among the young and educated. They completed their education in overcrowded universities in which underpaid teaching-staff supplemented incomes by requiring students to pay for additional lessons and better marks, in short, a university system languishing in a moral vacuum, devoid of academic and moral integrity and co-opted by the establishment. The collapse of the educational system was emblematic of what was happening to other public services: health, social security, public works, communication and transportation. By the time the new generation entered the labour market the temporary expedient of working in the oil-rich Arab countries available to the previous generation was no longer possible, these markets were saturated with Asian labour and their oil boom faltered. In addition, the Gulf war of 1991 brought back over two million Egyptians who worked in the Gulf and particularly in Iraq to compete for available work which only made matters worse for the 90s generation. Unemployment of these decades had a new face: 78% of the unemployed are under 30 years of age and 75% of them educated. In addition, those who worked suffered from 348


deteriorating work conditions and an uncertain future. The only realm left for the youth is their body upon which they wreaked destructive activities, equating destruction with satisfaction. The strong sense of wasted youth was palpable and the ‘creative destructiveness’ of globalisation and growing digital divide only exacerbated the sense of loss and worthlessness. This effectively closed the horizon to self-fulfilment. It eliminated all exit routes and drove unemployment to unprecedented levels, all of which aggravated by rampant inflation and continuous devaluation of the local currency. Politically, the period of their cultural maturity (the 1980s) and of their entry into the public world (the 1990s) were not any better. Emergency laws had been in place since the assassination of Sadat in 1981 and were renewed by a comic and widely corrupt National Assembly. The period was marked by legal battles and a diminished National Assembly, stripped of its legitimacy and laughing stock of the nation, thus accentuating the precarious nature of the political establishment as a whole. The absence of social, political and even legal legitimacy, created a public space largely governed by the laws of the jungle, a space in which the old scale of social and ethical values faltered and were finally replaced by an inverted scale of values. Traditional values of honour, honesty, hard work, independence and patriotism were replaced by their opposites, hence the inverted scale. The period also witnessed a widening gulf between the structures of a predominantly pan-Arab popular sentiment with respect to the American and Zionist policies in the region and a servile political establishment, with its unpopular policies. This and the state of emergency laws led to an increase in sporadic armed violence by the Islamists and the counter violence of the state. This was accompanied by increasing pressure from the International Monetary Fund and the World Bank to diminish or eliminate public subsidies or investments in major services, leading in turn to a widening of the gulf between the people and their political establishment. In addition, the period witnessed a number of wars, including the 1982 invasion of Lebanon, the two Palestinian intifadas, the 1990 invasion of Kuwait, Operation Desert Storm and finally, the 2003 invasion of Iraq. In all of these wars, the position of the political establishment has run counter to popular opinion and sentiments, even further accentuating its 349


lack of legitimacy. The marginalisation of the whole area in world affairs added insult to injury and the dominant mode became one of despondency and loss.

The Homology of Urban and Literary Structures The situation described extends beyond the social, economic and political dimensions of being, to the geography of the city and to the sense of place. Man’s perception of him or herself is closely linked to his or her understanding of time and place and to the complex interactions between these, as evidenced in the documents of this understanding, especially literary texts. Interactions between time and place are closely linked to the production of social values and to their historical and geographical transformation; time and place are the two vital dimensions of man and his/her social existence and national identity. This interaction is often inscribed in patriotic songs and national anthems and Egypt is no exception; Egyptians sing of the beauty of their country and its strategic location at the meeting of three continents. Over the past three decades, this pride of country and of its place in the world has suffered devastating blows as a result of successive defeats and of political blunders. It lost its privileged place in the Arab world as a result of Sadat’s unilateral peace with Israel in 1979 and became increasingly insignificant in world affairs, to where it is perceived as a mere lackey to the United States of America. Egypt’s powerlessness before Israeli arrogance, the nation’s inability to oppose the invasion of Lebanon or stop atrocities committed against Palestinians during the two intifadas, its participation in Desert Storm only increased the country’s marginalisation and the young generation’s disaffection and growing sense of humiliation and despondency. Cairo, a city considered to be both the cultural and political beacon of the Arab world became alienated from its old, hopeful self of the mid-twentieth century and became increasingly a divided and troubled city. It developed what some urban sociologists call ‘urban, human and social disorders… its people suffer from social asphyxia because they live in an urban condition of unacceptable density where buildings haphazardly congregate 350


Map 1: Cairo 600–1800

without any green spaces. It is overcrowded and devoid of vital services.’6 For a long time, Cairo used to be divided into two cities: one, the traditional old city and medina or, oriental city, was built over the last thirteen centuries and falls to the east of the old Khalij al-Misry street (see Map 1). This is the city begun in the seventh century following the Arab conquest of Egypt, and developed slowly on a traditional pattern, until the advent of the French Expedition in 1798. The nature and characteristics of this old traditional city are well known and the impact of its architecture and layout on the life and ‘world view’ of its inhabitants amply studied.7 It is organised on a principle of urban life which is deeply traditional in its orientation. In fact, this traditional or first city remained largely unaltered until the 351


accession of Khedive Isma‘il (1863–79), ‘the first ruler in nine centuries to make an overall plan for the city’s development’. Inevitably his plan echoed Western models, as Europe’s ascendancy in political and economic matters was then spreading to urban planning as well.’8 In fact, Isma‘il’s sojourn in Paris as a student during Haussmann’s grand project of restructuring Paris left a lasting impression on him and was highly inspirational for his modernising project which resulted in, or rather launched construction of the second, or new city. André Raymond suggested that Isma‘il’s plan was foreshadowed by his grandfather, Muhammad Ali’s plan for Cairo and incorporated into Alexandria.9 This second city is thus a western city and extends from the west of the old city to the river Nile and the island of Zamalik. It continued to grow with major expansions such as Ma‘adi, Heliopolis during the following fifty years, when the population of Cairo rose from 374,000 in 1882 to 1,312,000 in 1937, (see Map 2). This was by any measure a period of rapid growth, outstripping even the growth of the Egyptian population. Over this period, Cairo grew at an annual rate of 2%. Accelerated population growth however, when the city grew by more than 4 percent each year compared to an overall population growth of 1.5%, did not start until the 1936 treaty of independence and the ensuing urban and national euphoria that followed.10 By 1952 Cairo’s population had risen to 2,400,000 accounting for 12.5% of the country’s population. Following 18 years under Nasser and expansion into Madinat Nasr, Muhandiseen, Dukki, the older part of Haram district, and other planned districts, Cairo’s growth exceeded even this rate and by 1970 reached a population of 5,200,000 (See Map 3). It is important to note that despite some densification of the old city and its relative stability with respect to the dynamic growth of the new city, the metropolitan region’s growth brought about an overall decrease in the population ratio of the old city to the new. ‘The eastern, or traditional city, despite an absolute increase in population numbers (from 574,000 to 773,053), declined in relative size with respect to the metropolitan area; The old city represented 34% of Cairo’s population in 1937, 22.2% in 1960 and 14.3% in 1976.’11 The long 352


Map 2: Showing expansion of Cairo 1800–1930.

term decline of the traditional city corresponds to the decline of the traditional ‘world-view’ and reached its lowest point in the 1960s when rational secularism prevailed in Egypt both intellectually and politically. Each of the two cities represents a distinct and culturally homogenous unit, each with its own worldview and mode of operation, each living peaceably next to the other for over a century. For the inhabitants of one a move to the other was not without cost however, and this is clearly illustrated by Mahfouz in Midaqq Alley (1947), a story in which Hamida moves from the protective haven of the traditional city to the cruel world of the modern one and becomes a prostitute. We must not forget however, that the novel form itself is a product of this second and modern city. Without the transition from traditional to modern 353


Map 3: Showing expansion of Cairo 1930–1970.

culture, the new narrative genres would not have developed in Arabic literature. In fact, one may draw a parallel between the urban structure of the second city with its wide thoroughfares (as opposed to the narrow crooked allies of the Medina) with the linear structure of the modern novel and the short story in their realistic and pre-realistic phases. The second city extending from ‘Ataba to Garden City and Zamalik was built to fulfil Khedive Isma‘il’s dream of modernity, to make Egypt a part of Europe, as the slogan of his epoch proclaimed. Its conception was motivated by a rational vision of progress and its linear plan, open boulevards, central park of Azbakiyya, and modern Opera House reflect and embody this vision. As Robin Ostle aptly puts it ‘the New City in the Near and Middle East in the nineteenth century and beyond was a proud 354


symbol of belief in the type of progress and modernity enjoyed by more privileged areas of the world.’12 This was the same vision that impelled the intellectual projects of Rifa‘a al-Tahtawi and his students down to the pioneers of narrative fiction in Egypt from Muhammad al-Muwailihi, Muhammad Husain Haykal and Tawfiq al-Hakim to Yahya Haqqi, Naguib Mahfouz, and Yusuf Idris. Many of those writers, such as Muwailihi, Hakim, Haqqi and Mahfouz, were brought up in the first city and developed their literary talent in the second, and are thus a product of its world, vision and rhythm. It is therefore to be expected that the structures of their narratives, like those of their city (see Map 4) would be linear, logical and open to ideas of modernity and progress. The narrative plots reflect these structures with linear development and sub-plots enriching the main plot, like the side streets that contribute to the significance of the main thoroughfares of Isma‘il’s city.

The Third City Over the last three decades, between 1970 and 2000, a ‘third city’ has emerged and mushroomed out of control as a result of, and in response to, major social and economic changes, as argued by Rajih in his seminal study.13 Over this period, Cairo’s population rose from five million in 1970 to more than 14.8 million in 2000, 40% of which, about six million, lives in this third city, more than the combined population of the first two cities in 1970. This third city is neither an expansion of the first nor a development of the second, but a totally different city which radically altered Cairo’s physiognomy. This is the city that housed the poor of the last three decades and was created by them. What is this third city? It is a city that one cannot yet imagine or comprehend, because – as Fredric Jameson argues – our conceptual habits and cognitive maps were shaped and formulated through a different relationship of time and space.14 It is a city that emerged in absence of normal rules of town planning, when the state abandoned its role as guardian and provider of affordable housing for the urban poor and suspended its involvement in urban planning. It left the housing market to the private sector and the dictates of the market, which tended 355


Map 4: Cairo, The Modern City.

to build middle and upper-middle class accommodation that the poor cannot afford. In 1996 Egypt had over two million unoccupied flats, nearly one million of which were located in greater Cairo. Six million Egyptian young people were unable to get married because of their inability to find affordable housing.15 In Cairo ‘the proportion of empty apartments in the poor districts of the central city is low (7.2%), but high (18%) in the first and second concentric rings, with Heliopolis and Madinat Nasr having record vacancies of 29.5%. The dysfunctional real-estate market is the reflection of a dysfunctional society in which 5% of the population shares 54% of the aggregate income, while at the other end of the social scale, 56% make do with only 12 percent of it.16 The poor took matters into their hands and naturally did it poorly. They established whole quarters of informal dwellings, and inhabited areas such as the City of the Dead cemetery, old mosques, ruins, garages, and makeshift housing. The accumulation of these different kinds of dwellings changed the 356


nature of the relationship between man and space, because it radically changed the geography of the place itself. It created al-madina al-‘ashwa’iyyah, what is rendered in French as ville champignon, the mushrooming city or what Rajih simply calls ‘the third city’. Although this phenomenon of informal dwelling spread across the country, it reached an unprecedented dimension in Cairo, making for massive spatial concentration of population on a scale hitherto regarded as inconceivable. In present-day Cairo, the third city has become the place of habitation for half the city’s population, over six million people, the majority of whom come from the country in search of a better living. ‘The third city encircled Cairo like a bracelet to the extent that one can say that the city is besieged from all direction with a belt of these ‘ashwa’iyyat. The quarters of Imbabah, Munirah, Nahya, Bulaq al-Dakrur, al-Haram and al-Qasabji represent the western bow of this siege. While the areas of Dar al-Salam, Istabl ‘Antar, al-Duwayqa, and Manshat Nasir represent its eastern bow.’17 (see Map 5). This city was developed ‘without the help of any planning in agricultural areas that one would wish to preserve. Except in the relatively rare cases in which expansion occurs on state lands.’18 The absence of any urban planning gives the city a distinct characteristic based on random juxtaposition of units, and scarcity of land leads to much narrower streets even than the ones in the first or traditional city with its narrow crooked lanes. In addition to the narrow crooked lanes of these random dwellings, the very principle of randomness resulted in the proliferation of cul-de-sacs in the structure of this third city, a reflection of the closed horizon in which they developed and the trapped mentality that developed them. Despite the lack of urban planning or infrastructure, and because of their development at an accelerated speed, al-madun al-‘ashwa’iyyah represent 60% of Egypt’s urban expansion in the last thirty years. They lack most basic services such as running water and sewage, not to mention health and education facilities or even police stations, and their streets are not wide enough to take ambulances or fire engines. There is almost a deliberate exclusion of the state and formal institutions of authority from these areas, which has resulted in a power vacuum that has been filled by the futuwwa and/or the active Islamist. The lack of planning and the scarcity of land in these areas have led to narrow, 357


Map 5: Cairo, The ‘Third City”.

crooked non-linear streets, many cul-de-sacs, and a complete lack of public space or squares. The population densities in these areas are beyond any acceptable norms: in some parts of inner city Cairo, the old quarter of Sukkariyyah, for instance, the average number of people per room is seven. ‘In north Jiza, in the quarter of western Munira six-hundred thousand live in two square kilometres, while in west Jiza, in Bulaq al-Dakrur and Shurbaji, nine-hundred thousand live in three square kilometres. This means that the share of each person is three square meters, while the acceptable norm is thirty square meters per person.’ 19 Naturally there are no green spaces in these quarters and no entertainment or recreational facilities. The streets are narrow and crooked which only accentuates social and spatial asphyxia. 358


The removal of boundaries and squeezing of people into narrow spaces, seven per room in certain areas, resulted in the collapse of social and ethical boundaries and the violation of many social taboos. Such urban conditions foster social and even physical ills and increase inhabitants’ sense of humiliation and aggressiveness. It provides a breeding space for crime and fundamentalism and nourishes moral decay and self-destructive tendencies. The promiscuity of such living conditions has led to situations in which previously taboo activities are practised openly; incest, a crime unknown before the 1970s became widespread, or even normal, as a character in one of the 1990s novels says.20 Many of the previously eradicated diseases, such as tuberculosis, smallpox and other dermatological conditions are now endemic. More importantly, the lack of any linearity in the planning of these areas, their over-crowded space, the absence of any institutional authority, and the rural background of most of its inhabitants led to what some urbanists call the ruralisation of the city. See Map 6 representing a section of the third city, and contrast it to the linear planning of Map 4 which shows part of the second. The urban condition in the third city is similar to what JeanFrançois Lyotard calls ‘the zone, it means a belt, neither country nor city, but another site, one not mentioned in the registry of places.’21 It is a site in which the metropolis is extended beyond its limits, and beyond our conventional conceptual habits. ‘The megalopolis of today and tomorrow at first seems only to extend the metropolises beyond their limits, to add a new belt of residential outskirts to the zone of the suburbs, and thus to aggregate fatigue, uncertainty and insecurity. But below this mere extension there are glimmers of a philosophy of being-in-theworld wholly other than the metaphysics of metropolises. … If the zone becomes a whole city, then the megalopolis has no outside, and consequently no inside. … It does not have an exterior and interior, being both one and the other together like a zone.’22 It is a liminal space which neither country nor city, and its precarious nature has devastating consequences for its inhabitants. Some call this phenomenon conurbanisation for its lack of any urbane dimension.23 The Urban sociologist Robert Park once wrote, ‘the city and the urban environment represent man’s most consistent and, on the whole, his most successful attempt to remake the world he 359


Map 6: Section of the ‘Third City’.

lives in more after his heart’s desire. But if the city is the world which man created, it is the world in which he is henceforth condemned to live. Thus, indirectly, and without any clear sense of the nature of his task, in making the city man has remade himself.’24 The question is then, what kind of self does the making of the strange third city in Cairo remake? In order to answer this question, it is necessary to investigate the document of this self, and its literary or artistic self-expression. The comprehension of the urban scene from which the novel of the 1990s emerged is thus vital for the understanding of this novel.

From Alienation to Fragmentation The study of the 1990s novel reveals an analogy between urban change, its structure, and new geography on the one hand, and 360


the changes in textual space, narrative structure and strategy and characterisation on the other. One of the ways to demonstrate this change is to contrast the urban conditions of the third city and its narrative to the urban textual situation that prevailed before it and resulted from the interaction between the second or modern western city and its literature. As explained earlier, the structure of the second city was reflected in that of the narrative strategies of an earlier generation of Egyptian narrative fiction. By the time the second city acquired a slightly labyrinthine nature with the British occupation, the depressing contradictions of the colonial experience, and attempts to stifle the openness of the new city (see Map 7), the early generation of Egyptian narrative writers almost ignored this. The new feature of the modern city did not find its literary expression until the advent of the 1960s generation,25 whose writing gave clear expression to this new dimension of the city. In the early decades of the twentieth century, Garden City with its maze-like urban typology was created to the west of Qasr al-Dubarah to act as a buffer between the British residence, which extended at the time to banks of the river Nile, and the angry middle classes of the new city, who were constantly demanding the departure of the British. This space of alienation did not find its literary expression until the post-independence contradictions started to emerge, to create their unique form of alienation, and to dictate a more complex and metaphoric expression of their subtle paradoxes. This in turn led to the emergence of modernist narrative with its reflexive nature, circular structure and concern with the inner contradictions, anxieties, trials and tribulations of the individual. Despite its labyrinthine nature, the urban plan of Garden City above, though non-linear and lacking in thoroughfares, is still rational, logical and based on principles of urban planning. Its labyrinthine circularity corresponds to the circular narrative of the 1960s generation of writers and to their complex plots. The narrative of the 1960s generation,26 though highly critical of the reality from which it emerged, was still a narrative of rational enlightenment: logical, syllogistic and based on a general belief in the idea of progress.27 This logical and rational dimension receded with the writers of the 1990s generation, who are products of the third city. Thus it was natural that they abandon the linear structure of beginning-middle-end and replace it with sets of 361


Map 7: Cairo showing circular streets of Garden City.

juxtapositions. Unlike the modern/western city, the third developed randomly and without rational plan, it was motivated by despair at the impossibility of finding suitable lodging, and its recklessness is a shortsighted reaction to the housing crisis. Its inception was a reaction to the loss of faith in the servile state and its ability to provide citizens with basic needs. It is born of a situation in which short-term expediency overrules rational far-sightedness. Hence the haphazardness of this city and the ‘ashwa’iyyah of urban structures devoid of rational or scientific planning, full of impasses and dead-ends (see Map 6), are not mere conditions of its emergence but the very ethos of its existence. Every thing in this city is random and fortuitous to the core. At one level, the third city with its encircling eastern and western belts is but a reflection of the besieged rational and modern project of the second city. The two belts of semi-rural dwellings contain the regressive steps leading from the modern to something more primitive and rural lacking the bucolic character of the rural scene. The third city involves an aimless return to the pre-modern both in terms of lodging and social and political structures, and 362


goes hand in hand with the recoil from modernity and return to traditional, even fundamentalist attitudes. Such irrational withdrawal into the past with its ideological vacuum is not unrelated to the deterioration of ethics and morality and the emergence of an inverted scale of social and ethical values. In the absence of state authority and even the presence of a police station, the traditional futuwwa, strong man, returned to the third city. Instead of the old futuwwa who practised an ethics based on magnanimity and gallantry, patriotism and justice, the new futuwwa is a mere thug characterised by foolish aggression and motivated by selfish gain and blind personal interests, or even motivated by religious intolerance.28 The individual violence is often the natural reflection of the spatial violence inscribed in the very geography and architecture of the third city as Mahmud Hamid’s novel, Ahlam Muharrama (Forbidden Dreams, 2000)29 demonstrates. In this novel, violence is endemic, when ‘Uways, the futuwwa of Kafr al-Tamma‘in, rapes Farhah during the country’s involvement with the signing of Camp David Accords, it appears as an accompanying and echoing local event to the national one, or as simply a local variation on a national theme. What adds to significance of events and demonstrates the acute state of paralysis, is the fact that the family, who wishes to retaliate for its violated honour, does not dare confront ‘Uways, instead it kills the victim, Farhah, as an act of cleansing for its contaminated honour. Naturally, such a city reshapes man in its image, and it is not surprising that the product of this city is aware of what Lyotard observed in a similar situation in French cities, ‘those who live in the zone count for nothing.’30 The zone dweller is aware of society’s new social hierarchies and resents, at the same time, its injustices and lack of legitimacy. Such neo-hierarchies are not a natural product of historical accumulation, but of an illogical leap that created in a few years a reckless class of millionaires and multimillionaires that did not exist in Egypt before 1975. In a few years, and during the life of the new generation, this class was formed and increased in number and wealth. These few years witnessed what the economist, Joseph Shumpeter, called the process ‘creative destructiveness’, which he identified as the product of negative externalities from rapid economic and technological change, including global communications and the emergence of cyber-space as a factor contributing to the 363


marginalization and disaffection of the youth of the South.31 The Annual Report of the United Nations Development Programme (2004) emphasised the negative impact of globalisation on the youth of Egypt and the rest of the Arab world. But more importantly they show how most Arab countries, particularly Egypt, are slipping in the world of development according to a sophisticated mixture of indicators that take into account income, education, health, longevity, potable water and so on. They not only feel marginalised and insignificant, but perceive their country and region to be insignificant and worthless, constantly regressing on the world chart, and excluded from any say in its own affairs, let alone of those of the rest of the world. On the cultural front, the situation was not better. Instead of being the cultural capital of the Arab world, Egypt suffered a number of cultural blows to its prestige, cultural role and intellectual vitality. The ostracism of Egypt following Sadat’s fatal visit to Jerusalem and dismissal from the Arab League following the Camp David Accords marginalised the country and gradually stripped its political regime of its legitimacy. It seems that Sadat had been planning his unpopular move for a long time and had systematically eliminated the base for a healthy cultural movement capable of mounting serious opposition to his move. Since his rise to power, he was aware of the social role of culture and the potential for the literary and intellectual movement to oppose his plans. Although he paid lip-service to the cause of freedom of expression to win the support of the West, he made it impossible for any independent voice to thrive, and subtly orchestrated the exodus of the Egyptian intellectuals to empty the country of its dissenting consciousness. He created what is known in Arabic literature as manakh tarid, an atmosphere unpropitious to independent cultural action, or an atmosphere that chases free thinkers out of the country. By the mid-1970s all opposition intellectuals were out of the country, working in the oil-rich countries, in Lebanon, or even in Europe, with the sole exception of Yusuf Idris.32 Since his rise to power in 1970, Sadat withdrew state support for culture, closing ten cultural and literary periodicals in 1972, changing the activities of the state’s publishing house to print cigarette packaging for profit, instead of loss-making books or periodicals. He starved the theatre and cinema for funds until 364


both had declined by the end of his era. The decline continued throughout the 1980s and 1990s and coincided with the oil boom of the mid-1970s. The 1980s thus witnessed a move from the oilrich countries and Saudi Arabia in particular, to occupy the empty cultural centre. They launched several glossy and aimless cultural magazines, which failed to appeal to the readers of the magazines closed under Sadat’s regime, or even, to engender any alternative cultural movement. The collapse of communism and widespread talk of the death of ideology exacerbated this situation. Coupled with the absence of any unifying vision, the death of ideology and the end of grand narratives made a cultural vacuum look more like an abyss. In this abyss, the shift from the verbal to the visual coupled with the persuasive power of the media, turned the latter into weapons of mass distraction, and intensified the state of loss and aimlessness, particularly amongst young people.

The Retreat from the Modern All of these manifestations of cultural decline, and the loss of the country’s central position, were accompanied by a loss of another centrality, that of man and the value of the individual. The assumptions of modernity upon which Egypt built its project of modernisation from the time of Muhammad Ali (1805-48) to that of Nasser (1952-70), were based on the centrality of man, the rule of reason and secular government. These were also the cultural backbones of Arabic thought since the time of Rifa‘ah al-Tahtawi (1801-73), Faris al-Shidyaq (1809-87) and Taha Husain (18891973) to that of Naguib Mahfouz (1911-), Yusuf Idris (1927-91) and the 1960s generation. The assumption of the centrality of man is deeply rooted in European thought since publication in 1486 of Giovanni Pico della Mirandola’s Oration on the Dignity of Man. In his Oration, Mirandola emphasises the axiom on which humanist rock was to be forged; ‘we can become what we will… God tells Adam that he has been given no fixed place in the universe, he can literally, therefore, become what he will.’33 The religious foundation of the free will of man and his ability to be what he will provide the centrality of man with a divine dimension in Western thought without creating any contradictions between religion and man’s free will. ‘This emphasis, the emphasis 365


on the human ability to will what he or she might become, becomes the linchpin of European culture in what we can call the age of high humanism.’34 Thus the centrality of man and his/her will, which became increasingly a rational will, free of all material and metaphysical constraints, became the major common denominator in all the endeavours of Western thought in the last four centuries. The tendency towards the consecration of this centrality continued to gain momentum until it reached its zenith in the age of the French revolution and in the documents of its philosophers which shaped the age of high humanism. This has been encapsulated in Baron Condorcet’s Essay on the Progress of the Human Spirit (1794), four years before the French Expedition to Egypt. ‘The faith of the mainstream enlightenment in this fundamental aspect of humanism: the claim that we can become what we will. One day, Condorcet claims, the sun will shine only on the freemen on this earth, on men who will recognize no master but their reason, when tyrants and slaves, priests and their stupid and hypocritical instruments will exist only in history as on the stage.’35 Hence the project of European modernity, particularly in its French manifestation which in turn strongly influenced its Arab counterpart, was based on the separation between the Church and the State. This is not, as is often misunderstood in Arabic, a call for atheism or the rejection of religion, rather, it calls for the isolation of institutions, that subjugate man to a transcendental divine will, from those that aim to express and embody the human will, in other words, a call to separate the celestial from the human will. Such ideas of reason, progress and free will were widely embraced by the early Arab reformers, even if their apprehension of the separation between Church and State as an anti-religious rather than anticlerical stance burdened their project from the outset with serious problems. They tried to marry modernity with Islam, from the outset, and to offer a more rational interpretation of its tenets, making it conducive to modernity. Hence their project continued to suffer from an identity crisis as well as a mild form of schizophrenia. The humanism inherent in modernity led Tahtawi to incorporate the rational thought of the French Renaissance in his interpretation of Islam, and led Muhammad ‘Abduh (1849-1905) to say: ‘in Europe I found true Islam without Muslims, in Egypt, Muslims without true Islam.’ 366


It seems that the association of modernity, humanism and rationality with ‘true’ Islam relieved the pioneers of modern Arabic thought from the more demanding and complex task of the ‘reformation’ of Islam. In addition to this identity crisis, from Muhammad Ali to Isma’il to Nasser, Egyptian modernity suffered from another ailment, namely the imposition of the vision or will of a strong leader on a people whose will was often crushed in the process. Yet, despite the tyrannical dimension of their projects, the very fact that they had a project which they willed for their people, led to their admiration and popularity. In literature, humanism and the need to become what one will are from the beginning at the heart of the modern Arabic novel. The reason behind the readers’ sympathy with Zaynab (1912) of Muhammad Husain Haykal (1888-1956) is her failure to be ‘what she wanted to be’. This is also the secret of the success of Naguib Mahfouz’s Zuqaq al-Middaq (Middaq Alley, 1947) and the symbolism of its heroine, Hamidah, who also failed to be the modern woman that ‘she willed’. In addition, this novel illustrates the dramatic polarity between the medina and the new city and their tragic interaction. ‘The medina in the form of the alley is the refuge of traditional values where change does not come quickly enough for those with material and social aspirations. Its antithesis is New Cairo, so different in architectural form, manners, customs and morality.’36 The inability of Hamidah to fulfil herself in the New City is highly symbolic of the problems of Egyptian modernity in a colonial context. In fact ‘the heroes and heroines of most of Mahfouz’s works dating from the 1940s and 1950s all strive to transform their destinies, but usually end either at the original point of departure or in a situation somewhat worse, than the original point of departure, having suffered in the meantime the disappointment and frustration of their hope.’37 Yet they continued to wish to be what they wanted to be, and strive to achieve it, since this is the engine of their trajectory, no matter what the outcome. The success of Mahfouz’s Cairo Trilogy (1956– 1957) is in some part due to its hero Kamal’s rational drive to be what he wanted to be, rather than what his father wished him to be. Understanding the inherent assumptions of modernity in this novel enables us to interpret it insightfully as a novel of the decline of patriarchal authority, the birth of the independent son and 367


the free choice of the grandsons with their individual yet opposing ideologies. Such assumptions of modernity continued to direct the trajectory of the Arabic novel following Mahfouz’s generation through the work of Yusuf Idris, ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Sharqawi (1920-87), Fathi Ghanim (1922-99), and Latifa al-Zayyat (1925-96) and to the 1960s generation. It reached its zenith with the 1960s generation whose cultural maturity came about during the rise of rationalism and the ascendence of Nasser’s secular era with its concern for achieving the will of the greatest number of Egyptians in freedom, independence and progress. Although the 1960s generation’s sharp awareness of the contradictions of Nasser’s project led them to struggle against them, and develop certain narrative strategies to fight his control, this awareness strengthened their belief in their need to be what they wanted to be rather than weakened it. Their work’s point of departure is the belief in the centrality of man, his ability to understand the surrounding reality and his desire to change it. This provided their work with its critical edge and its implicit rejection of the present, strengthening their quest for an alternative reality and better future. Their quest is an epistemological one, one which asserts that the world is knowable and changeable, and that man, being at the centre of this world, is capable of doing both. This situation changed radically with the advent of the 1990s generation, since everything in their reality ran counter to the very concept of rational logic and the centrality of man. They were marginalised from the outset, unable to rationalise the rapid changes and illogical contradictions around them, and deprived of even the luxury of willing a different alternative. Daily life in 1990s Egypt had become, for the deprived youth of this generation, a constant act of humiliation and symbolic of the violence that eroded their ability to dream a different alternative. The long period of unemployment created among them a sense that they are unwanted, that their youth was wasted, which in turn helped to breed in them a sense of gratuitous guilt, an absurd kind of guilt. They were forced to abandon any naive hope of a better future and started with frustration and cynicism, since from the beginning they were keenly aware of closed horizons, socially, economically and politically. It was natural then that they should also abandon the assumptions of high humanism, and weary of 368


its tendency to envelop human experience in an idealising and totalising framework fostering hopes of progress. Since their reality, a reality in which the law of the jungle dominates every aspect of their life, was not conducive to hope or progress, they lived the cynicism of despair and destructive hedonism. There is a prevalent awareness among the writers of this generation that the unifying experience, in which previous generations believed, has dwindled or been totally lost, and that corruption, had become the rule rather than the exception, and penetrated the very core of their culture and society. They are also aware that they have to start from the ‘degree zero’ of being, as the title of one of their novels indicates, al-Sifr al-Hadi wa-l-‘Ishrun (Twenty-First Zero, 1997).38 When the hero attains the age of reason he becomes aware that he is a mere zero, counting for nothing. Fear grips his soul as another title announces [al-Khawf Ya’kul al-Ruh (Fear Eats the Soul, 1998)],39 a novel in which unexplained fears chase the hero and deprive him of sleep and of a normal quiet life. The choice is either to live in an air bubble as Wa’il Rajab prescribed, Dakhil Nuqta Hawa’iyya (In an Air Bubble, 1996),40 or to indulge in a bizarre and macabre city of pleasure, Madinat al-Ladhdha (City of Pleasure, 1997).41 The woman of this peculiar world also dwells in Qamis Wardi Farigh (An Empty Rose Dress, 1997),42 in an inimical world which seems to push her back to al-Khiba’ (The Tent, 1997)43 from which she thought she had been emancipated. This existential loss is aptly summed up in Ahmad al-‘Ayidi’s novel An Takun ‘Abbas al-‘Abd (To Be Abbas al-Abd, 2003), in which the confused identity of the protagonist is further complicated by his split into two different characters whose following dialogue is highly significant. – Wake up before you suddenly discover one day, perhaps on your fortieth birthday, that you fear death like hell, because you resent dying before you have actually lived. This is your life and not a rehearsal or a sketch. – But I have nothing to lose! – Nonsense, don’t believe what you say to the others. In Egypt there was the generation of the naksa (1967 defeat); we belong to the following generation, the generation that has nothing to lose, a generation of loners who live under the same roof with strangers who have similar names to themselves. This is my father, this is my mother and those certainly are my brothers and sisters, but I move between them as a foreigner meets other lodgers in the same hotel.’44 369


The Textual Reflections Both the protagonists of the 1990s novel and their world are radically different from those of the previous novels. Therefore it was not possible to resort to the well-connected plot, the coherent structure and linear progression of narrative as was the case with the novels of the previous generations with their implicit epistemological assumptions. These assumptions have been challenged, even shattered, by the very structure of the third city, whose structural similarities with the novels of the 1990s is both complex and highly mimetic. The reality of the city and its people was neither linear nor logical and connected, and the private was no longer a reflection of the public; when harmony was no longer possible, there resulted constant conflict. Such conflict required the emergence of a new tendency, a rebellious rejection in which the private asserts its negation of the public, or at least its refusal to conform to its corrupt rules or to accept its authority. Ironically the narrative of this third city, characterised as it is by its overcrowding, fragments space rather than helps its coherence. The more squeezed the individual in its narrow space the less s/he feels bonds with others. Hence, instead of the old narrative structure with its ‘beginning, middle and end’ the new narrative eliminated the middle in a manner that disturbs the equilibrium of the narrative world and brings its ontological problems to the fore. Yet the foregrounding of the ontological is not a deliberate tendency, nor a planned rational programme. It is rather, an intuitive response to the loss of any epistemological concerns and death of grand narratives. The new writer found him/herself facing so many rival narratives, each seeking to represent, assimilate or control the world in a melee of competing representations, such that the only solution was to organise by juxtaposition, a narrative strategy in which objects, devoid of logic or order are strung together and coexist without hierarchy or controlling plot. The narrative self or ‘I’ is no longer the omnipresent or omniscient force controlling the text, it is rather a problematic ‘I’ full of doubt and indecision. His/her questions are no longer those of the central man who wills his/her own future, but those of a lost individual who cannot make sense of the surrounding world. The driving questions are no longer the epistemological 370


questions of how to comprehend this world and what should be one’s stance vis-à-vis of its contradictions, but, ontological questions asking: What is this world? How is it made, and which of my divided selves can operate in it? Why is it made in this form? What makes it different from other worlds, and what happens when these worlds clash? How can the text capture the contradictions of these worlds and move beyond its borders? Is it possible to establish boundaries between the textual and the real? What are the consequences of violating these boundaries? Is there a narrative context and how is it different from reality? How does the text create its existence, autonomy and dynamics? What are the modes of existence envisaged by the narrative? Such questions are not a priori points of departure, posited in advance by the author. Rather, they are topics of textual concern, often debated intuitively within the narrative. Such questions in fact, drive the narrative; they motivate its progression, structure its inner cohesion and shape its world. The new narrative of the 1990s puts everything sous rature in Jacques Derrida’s sense, as well as in the sense of displacement, erasure and expurgation of all established and solid things, to start afresh without the shackles of convention and consecrated rules. The new narrative, in fact, celebrates this erasure and offers a sense of hope in that everything can be erased, although erasure in the new narratives is not motivated by any perception of alternative possibilities, but by a strong desire to strip reality of its legitimacy and solidity. The new writer has lost the desire to rebel and with it any hope of heroism. Heroic deliverance is a false hope resulting from the death of ideology, the loss of conviction and failure to re-examine the emptiness of the vocabulary of daily exchange. This process of erasure is the necessary beginning for any new narrative. It is a point of departure for a new vocabulary building from the ruins of these obliterations. In fact, this new, narrative world is formed from the fragments of these smashed, erased, obliterated and fractured elements. These fractured elements, which extend to the language itself, are often misinterpreted as a failure to master the traditional literary language with its rhetorical tropes of cohesion and monotony. Yet, if one approaches this fractured language with a fresh outlook, one realises that it is, in fact, an aesthetic of fragmentation based on the semantics of mosaic structure. 371


The fractured language and fragmented, discontinuous structure are closely linked to the epistemological maze and world devoid of certainty in which the protagonists of the new narrative find themselves. This is an introduction to the more acute, ontological state of disorientation, in which protagonists suffer in a duplicitous world of ambiguity and haziness that only intensifies the sense of loss and complexity, and ultimately leads them to a neutral stance vis-à-vis of both the subjective and objective elements of their reality. Hence, we find the juxtaposition of subjective, contemplative with historical, realistic elements, without any attempt to emphasise one at the expense of the other,45 and even apathy towards both. This approach provides the new narrative with a certain arbitrariness, which is not devoid of random freshness and significance, and more importantly which is free of old hierarchies with their intrinsic injustices. Details of the new narrative appear as if they emerged without any preconceived plan, as if randomly shot by disinterested passerby with a free-moving camera. Juxtaposition emerges as the only organising principle of these arbitrary shots, even if its ostensible neutrality is not free of ideological or intellectual bias and given its implicit rejection of all forms of certitude and hierarchical structure; the hierarchies of the new reality lack legitimacy and are based on false gains, repressive advantage and an inverted scale of social and moral values. Paradoxically the randomness of this narrative world is accompanied by a pronounced narrative reflexivity in which the narrative is aware of its narrativity more than its preferentiality. Such a feature is not a mere textual strategy of innovative technique but a clear reflection of the loss of certitude and the inability of the narrating ‘I’ to pretend to be the central consciousness controlling the text and responsible for its legitimacy. Narrative reflexivity is also the form of the new power relation within the text and results from the changing reality in that it extends the ontological quest to the formal core of the text. On one level, the new narrative is aware of its existence in a jungle of paradoxical and contradictory narratives each vying for legitimacy and casting doubt on the other’s validity and authenticity. It is also aware that its very existence is not separate from this jungle but immersed in its negative matrix. The new novel thus, is occupied with its own textual deconstruction and 372


inner dynamics of the creative process which it seeks to expose. This is not a stylistic concern or a narrative game, but the textual manifestations of the loss of centrality for the narrative ‘I’, on the one hand, and its failure to be the omniscient conscience controlling the text on the other. This resulted in one of the major shifts in this new form, from the transitive to intransitive narrative. As an extension of the grammatical definition of verbs, the narrative of the previous generation was a transitive narrative aspiring to extend its effect to more than one object, and even to change the reality from which it emerged. The 1990s narrative, by contrast, is strictly intransitive despite, or often because of, its reflexivity. The intransitive nature of this narrative is not driven by a Flaubertian or Mallarmian search for an ‘immaculate discourse’ free of all external references, but by a renunciation of any declared or hidden agenda. It is a random narrative that has no claim to change the world or influence the reader outside its text. It is content with and within itself; its decoding is thus more difficult, for it cannot benefit from any extrinsic factors or any of its non-existent objects. Reading the intransitive narrative requires one of two paradoxical approaches: either one must distance oneself from the narrative and scrutinise its details with caution and doubt, or immerse oneself totally and without reservation to probe its significations and discover its implicit assumptions. The contradictions between these approaches are necessary to eliminate any possible identification with the narrated events or characters, and for the search for new types of literary reception of these texts. The lack of representation in these texts and the absence of clearly identifiable character types demonstrate these texts’ awareness of the need to bring to the novel new worlds which are radically different from that presented by previous generations. The use of the plural for the former and the singular for the latter is intentional, since the 1990s novel is aware that the experiences, characters and moods of its narrative are totally different from the unitary world of its predecessors, and primarily pluralistic. Plurality and polyphony are the answer to the crisis in which the 1990s novel found itself vis-à-vis of the shocking world it had to express. It also enables submerged groups and powerless people full of anger and frustration to have equal voice and share space with those who occupy the centre of power and attention 373


for so long. One major difference between the plurality and polyphony of the 1990s novel and those of the modernistic narrative of the previous generation which also used these narrative strategies, is the fact that the latter adopted the assumptions of modernity and high humanism while the former abandoned them, or at least treated them with great misgivings. It subjects them to scrutiny and doubt and seeks to question their convictions and conventions. Yet the 1990s novel does not debate these issues as themes but disseminates them in the structure of its texts and the texture of its narrative.

Ontological Concerns Franco Moretti emphasises the fact that ‘Geography is not an inert container, is not a box where cultural history happens, but an active force that pervades the literary field and shapes it in depth.’46 When it comes to the third city, it is impossible to imagine that its literature is not shaped by its dynamic forces and by the special and temporal experience of its individuals, for it is an established fact that ‘street urchins, wayward girls, the children of the zone come to the centre to sing their disjointed ditties. They recite prose poem. They upset the ars poetica’.47 Indeed, the first of the many characteristics which create the analogy between structure of the new texts and the deep structure of the conditions of Arab humiliation and the chaotic third city is paradoxicality. The novels of the 1990s are steeped in self-contradiction. They abandon all aesthetic and generic criteria, yet ask the reader to treat them as novels without reference to their drive for innovation. This marks the new texts with tension between adherence to the rules and convictions of narrative and their desire to respond to their feelings and intuitions which lead them in turn to subvert these rules and invert established hierarchy. Hence, these texts’ awareness of their existence on the thin critical line between the need to assert their autonomy and independence as literary products with unique linguistic codes and textual inimitability, and, the paradoxical, but equally important desire to assert the effectiveness of literature in its troubled social context. The paradoxicality of the text involves an implicit awareness of the contradictory cultural and social situation from which 374


it emerged, and a refusal to waste any energy in solving its contradictions. The retreat from the humanistic assumptions of the previous generation leads the new text to wallow in nothingness and to treat any attempt to resolve the contradictions with reality as a waste of time. This becomes the source of a tragic sense of crisis and meaninglessness, which prevails in these texts. The elements of the text usually lack the intentional cohesive force that brings them together. They also eschew any attempt to symbolise, metaphorise or turn into concepts, and this leaves them in a state of limbo or purgatory, casting doubts on its significance and identity. The new text does not posit paradoxicality as a topic for treatment, but rather as an ontological state of being which pervades all its aspects. Its very structure is homologous to the structure of the reality from which it emerged, where authority, following the loss of legitimacy, appears not as a real power, with its free will and independent project, as was the case in the past, but as a travesty of power, a scarecrow. It is aware of its lack of legitimacy and constantly attempts to gloss over this fact by exaggeration of its authority, oscillating between an illusion of power and a sense of inferiority to the point where exaggeration becomes one of the features of the new text. Over the last three decades, Egyptian political reality has experienced the counter violence of the state to an unprecedented extent, while its political establishment became submissive and obsequious to the dictates of the Americans, without even enjoying the respect of its external masters. This paradoxical situation has its textual equivalent where the narrative ‘I’ becomes acutely aware of its helplessness and lack of control, of the closed horizon before it, and of being trapped in the present. Its way out of the trap is by establishing the textual world on the thin line between the fictive, imaginary world, which can be read on paper and the real world outside the text in a manner that makes the narrative world ontologically similar to, and at the same time different from, the real world. The ‘I’ of the text is more concerned with its ontological difference than with any similarity, not to mention identification, with the outside world. It is keen to constitute its rupture and have a dialogical rather than a replicating interaction with that world. It refuses to establish its assumptions on the known rules of external reality, though it is keen to cognitively encounter these assumptions, 375


even oppose them, not by posing a counter logic or different alternative set of rules, but by interrupting its cohesion and creating gaps for the reader to fill. Discontinuity and gaps are features of the new text which require an effort from the reader in his reception of its narrative as is the case with a number of works from ‘Adil ‘Ismat,48 Husni Hasan,49 ‘Atif Sulayman50 and Ahmad Gharib. 51 The 1990s novel has its unique perception of the ‘world’ as a collection of things randomly juxtaposed the whole of which is equal to the sum of its parts. It is a locus or space for human beings among other things without privileging one over the others, with such assumptions that one can only act practically, without glossing things as voraciously egocentric or socially central. This extends to the aesthetic principles as well, for unlike the narrative of modernity with its awareness of the aesthetic structure of the artistic work and its attempt to fashion the work in a manner that develops multiple hermeneutic possibilities, the 1990s novel shows a clear disinterest in these aesthetic dimensions. Its main concern is its randomness and the juxtaposition of spontaneous elements and details. This is clear in ‘Abd al-Hakim Haydar’s Ward al-Ahlam (Dream Roses, 1997).52 The novel starts by playing a game of several possibilities with its reader, and continues to develop a narrative that sheds doubt on its details and entertains gaps, to the extent that is appears as fragments of frustrated narrative projects, or as an alternative to texts that were not written or that have been expunged. A corollary trait to this is the voluntary abandonment of claims of heroism or acts of social interaction or of any tones of social confrontation or political struggle, such as was prevalent in the writings of the previous generations of Egyptian writers. Instead, there is the desire to return to an original innocence or a return to a primary world, particularly in the novels that deal with the world of the countryside such as: al-Sanam (The Idol, 1999)53 by Ashraf alKhamayisi, Naj‘ al-Sala’awwa (The Hamlet of the Hyena, 2000)54 by Ahmad Abu-Khunayjir, and Mawsim al-Riyah (The Season of Winds, 1998)55 by Samir al-Manzalawi. Another corollary feature to the above is what I would like to call, the glass divide between consciousness and the subconscious, between the cognitive and the imaginary which separates and links them at the same time. The new narrative 376


moves freely between its reporting of visual or cognitive detail and what used to be called stream of consciousness or free association of retrieved memories, without the use of the normal textual separators to help the reader differentiate between the two. Although the glass divide is transparent it is nonetheless capable of separating the two, while allowing each to be viewed, perceived and comprehended in the presence of the other without ever merging. Such a glass divide shapes the narrative plot in a manner that changes its structure. Instead of the traditional plot with a beginning, middle and end, the new text eliminates the middle, normally the centre of the drama in the action, and allows the plot to proceed from the beginning to the end without passing through any transitory middle. Thus it becomes a minimal plot that intentionally blurs the syllogistic progression of the action and smudges the flow of the plot to the extent of engendering ambiguity. Hence, the narrative does not progress according to an immediately discernible logic, such as chronological arrangement or even the free association of a unitary narrator. For the challenge to plot linearity is coupled with a challenge to another convention, the centrality of the character, and this in turn led to an acute sense of crisis resulting from the impasse of the closed horizon, the absence of soothing humanistic assumptions, and the death of grand narratives. The new narrative is gripped by a strong sense of crisis, of dealing with a world on the verge of an inevitable collapse which the characters are unable to stop. This enhances the narrative characters’ sense of powerlessness and inimitable loss that in turn accentuates their sense of marginalisation, insignificance and entrapment in the present. To accentuate this collapse in slowmotion which surrounds the characters, Wa’il Rajab’s novel, Dakhil Nuqta Hawa’iyyah (In an Air Bubble, 1996), resorts to a slow painstaking recording of details, that is, at the same time, keen to purge its narrative from any identification with the traditional realistic narrative of the previous generations. Its ostensible mimetic nature is its means to domesticate and comprehend a reality in crisis by using representation as reclamation, as a means of salvaging what may be recovered from both memory and external reality. Yet the ostensible neutrality of ‘representation as reclamation’ is always interlaced in the novel with implicit sarcasm even mockery of, objection to, and reconsideration of 377


the objectivity of the heap of details recorded, almost submerging everything in its accumulation. Hence this ‘representation as reclamation’ endeavours to reveal through its mimetic narrative the contradictions of both reality and any artistic representation of it. Parody is one of the strategies of the new narrative, and to enhance its impact the narrative of Rajab, ‘Abd al-Hakim Haydar, Ahmad Gharib, Mustapha Zikri56 and Muntasir al-Qaffash,57 structures its works along what may be called parallel worlds, which by the logic of parallelism never meet or converge, a feature that further accentuates the sense of crisis. This is so because their narrative aspires to construct a unique sense of a nightmare by, as in the case of Wa’il Rajab, intermingling three narrative times and two geographies, urban and rural, together in one narrative time and space without any sense of contradiction. The eradication of the boundaries between different times and spaces required the emergence of a process of re-educating the reader to the new rules of reception of these texts. Such attention to the reader within the text is a direct result of the author’s disavowal of authority through the text, as well as his awareness that the new text depends on its reader as much as its author for meaning and significance. The new text is conditioned by the categories of its reception, and this enhances its awareness of the need to develop new strategies of reception. The dwindling authorial role in the text, and the inability of the writing ‘I’ to secure a position of power outside the text as the controlling consciousness, lead to the fragmentation of the text and denial that any external power of cohesion can come from it. This was intensified by the reliance on fallible memories and the resort to ruses with respect to the rules of cruel external reality, and the neutral account of events. Memory becomes a means of linking fragmented details into a certain cohesiveness and of constructing an alternative to the deteriorating reality. The writing ‘I’ thus becomes immersed in the text and inseparable from its details, which leads to the transfer of responsibility from the author to the reader. This was accompanied by denial of the validity of the testimony of the narrating ‘I’ and emergence of the fallible narrator in a world in which facts are indistinguishable from lies and where the legitimacy of discourse, political establishment and grand narratives was shattered. The narrator is no longer under the 378


control of the author, and both have become variations of the subaltern-self, inhabiting a subaltern country, which has lost its independence, sense of dignity and role in the region, let alone in the wider world. Loss of control thus leads to the ambiguity of identity, where the ‘I’ is unable to identify with itself, let alone with an ‘other’ or a cause. This disturbs the narrative world and disrupts the reader’s guiding compass in a manner that enhances the reader’s ontological dilemma. This is the case in the two excellent novels of Samir Gharib ‘Ali: al-Saqqar (The Hawk Trainer, 1998)58 and Fir‘awn (The Pharaoh, 2000),59 Yasir Sha‘ban’s novel, Abna’ al-Khata’ al-Rumansi (The Children of the Romantic Error, 2000),60 and to a lesser extent in Huda Husain’s Dars al-Amiba (The Lesson of the Amoeba, 1998).61 In these novels the epistemological maze gives way to an ontological one in which the protagonists negotiate their inner feelings and personal existence at every step in the text. Their sense of loss is intensified by a clear state of siege and entrapment in a closed horizon which becomes even more closed by the introduction of death and the loss of the only anchor for the character, as in the death of the brother in Fir‘awn and the father in Nora Amin’s alWafah al-Thaniya li-Rajul al-Sa‘at (The Second Death of the Watch Collector, 2000).62 The problematic reliance on fallible memories pervades the novels of ‘Atif Sulayman, Isti‘rad al-Babiliyya, Mayy al-Tilmisani, Dunyazad (Dunyazad, 1997),63 Miral al-Tahawi, al-Khiba’ (The Tent, 1997) and Naqarat al-Ziba’ (Traces of Gazelles, 2001),64 Sahar al-Muji‘, Dariyah (1999),65 and Najwa Sha‘ban, al-Ghirr (The Inexperienced, 1999) 66 and Nuwwat al-Karam (The Storm of Generosity, 2001).67 It is not a coincidence that these novels are full of gaps and interrupted narratives resulting not only from fallible memories, but also from the avoidance of any traditional narrative rules and conventions. The new text is aware that these conventions are a product of a different world and different assumptions, and that all forms of certitude – in a world suffering from the certitude of the Fundamentalists who claim to possess the ultimate truth and make a travesty of it – are mere charades and pretensions, dissipated with the death of grand narratives. Yet, its disregard for them is devoid of any desire to challenge their validity, or claim that it has an alternative. It merely ignores them and gives them no attention, for it is concerned with its 379


difference from, and to a lesser extent with its complete disregard for, the reality that produced them. Yet it is not a text concerned with achieving a shock, though it is often shocking, particularly in its blatant disregard for social taboos and moral conventions. Its shock is often gratuitous, for it is not concerned with any ideological rejection of reality or detailed criticism of its categories, but with the inability of its protagonist to accept its inhuman condition, coupled with a clear awareness of his impotence. In addition, the new text offers its reader the narrative of the decentred-self capable of seeing external reality both from inside as if he were an integral part of it, and from the outside, as if he were completely insignificant, marginalised and alien to it. This sharpens his insights and creates a radically different relationship between it and reality based on rules of reference that are more metaphoric then mimetic. However, the new text is also engrossed in external reality and immersed in its minute details, yet it is unable to accept them and this creates the text’s impasse and fills it with a sense of crisis. The inability to accept external reality fills the text with anguish and frustration because of its illustration of an individual unable to achieve the minimum conditions of his individuation or fulfil his simplest aspirations. This leads him to wallow in nothingness and to be condemned to a meaningless individualism which enhances his sense of orphanhood, marginality and insignificance, an unwanted extra in a closed horizon.

Notes 1

2

In the mid-1990s, the influential newspaper, Al-Akhbar and its literary weekly, Akhbar al-Adab, led a sustained campaign against the new writers for a number of years, accusing them of bad education, loss of direction, lack of interest in public issues, and insular concentration on writing about their bodies in the text, or even pornography. In addition, Ibda‘, the leading literary monthly, refrained from publishing the work of this new generation for a long time. This was the approach of Edward al-Kharrat in his term, ‘al-kitaba ‘abr al-naw‘iyya,’ (trans-generic writing) which further alienated it and freed its reception from the useful conventions of narrative and the rules of the novel. 380


3

4

5

6

7

8 9 10

11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21

Sabry Hafez, ‘The Transformation of Reality and the Arabic Novel’s Aesthetic Response’, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, vol. LVII, Part 1, 1994, pp. 93-112. This, five million Egyptian pounds (1.6 million US Dollar at the time), was the average annual income of the famous belly dancer, Fifi ‘Abduh, in the 1990s. Mahmud ‘Abd al-F ‘Adil, ‘al-Taqaddum al-Tiknuluji wa-l-Tanaqudat al-Jadida’ (‘Technological Progress and new Contradictions’), AlMusawwar, No. 3883, Cairo, 12 March 1999, p. 65. Abu-Zaid Rajih, ‘al-Insan wa-l-Makan: al-Qahirah Namudhaja’ (Man and Space: A study of Cairo) in Misr: Nazarat Nahwa alMustaqbal (Egypt: Future Perspectives), ed. Shukri Muhammad ‘Ayyad (Cairo, 1999), p. 111-133. See for example André Raymond, Cairo, trans. Willard Wood (Cambridge, Massachusetts, Harvard University Press, 2000), particularly parts II and III. As for more theoretical work on the relationship between urban space and identity see Erica Carter, James Donald & Judith Squires, Spaces and Places: Theories of Identity and Location (London, Lawrence & Wishart, 1993) and Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space, trans. Maria Jolas (Boston, Beacon Press, 1969). André Raymond, op. cit., p. 309. Ibid. The population of Cairo doubled between 1882 and 1917 (thirtyfive years), doubled again between 1917 and 1942 (twenty-five years) then more than doubled between 1947 and 1966 (nineteen years). André Raymond, op. cit., p.345. R. C. Ostle, ‘The City in Modern Arabic Literature’, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, vol. XLIX, Part 1, 1986, p. 202. Abu-Zaid Rajih, op. cit., p. 114. For more details see David Harvey, The Condition of Postmodernity (Oxford, 1989), p. 204. Abu-Zaid Rajih, op. cit., p. 121. André Raymond, op. cit., p. 348. Abu-Zaid Rajih, op. cit., 122. André Raymond, op. cit., p. 351, and see also Jalila al-Kadi, L’urbanisation spontanée au Caire (Tour, 1987). Ibid, 123 See Ra’uf Mus‘ad, Baydat al-Na‘ama (The Ostrich Egg), Beirut, 1994, p. 202. Jean-François Lyotard, Postmodern Fables, tran George Van Den Abbeele (Minneapolis, University of Minnesota Press, 1997, p. 18. 381


22 Ibid, 22 and 24. 23 Ibid, p.21. 24 Robert Park, On the Collective Control of Social Behavior (Chicago, 1967), p. 3. Quoted in David Harvey, Spaces of Capital: Towards a Critical Geography (Edinburgh, 2001), p. 204. 25 Such as Abd al-Hakim Qasim, Yahya al-Tahir ‘Abdulla, Baha Tahir, Muhammad al-Bisati, Sun‘alla Ibrahim, Jamal al-Ghitani, Ibrahim Aslan and Khayri Shalabi. 26 This is the generation of writers who started publishing their work in the 1960s. They are numerous but the most outstanding of them are: ‘Abd al-Hakim Qasim, Amal Dunqul, Yahya al-Tahir ‘Abdullah, Sun‘allah Ibrahim, Baha’ Tahir, Muhammad al-Bisati, Muhammad ‘Afifi Matar, Ibrahim Aslan, Radwa ‘Ashur, Khayri Shalabi, and Jamal al-Ghitani. 27 For a study of the interaction between the changing realities of post independence and the emergence of the narrative of alienation see, Sabry Hafez, ‘The Egyptian Novel of the Sixties’, Journal of Arabic Literature, VII (1976), pp. 68-84. 28 Such as the attack on the tourists in Luxor in Upper Egypt in 2000. 29 See the second part of this novel entitled ‘Farhah: Sunday 17 September 1978’, the novel was published in Aswat Adabiyyah, a series published by Qusur al-Thaqafa, Cairo, pp. 91-130. 30 J. F. Lyotard, op. cit., p. 18. 31 See Mahmud ‘Abd al-F ‘Adil. Op. cit, p. 65. 32 During this period, Idris was suspended from his work in Al-Ahram more than once, and even attacked openly by Sadat in public speeches. 33 N. J. Rengger, Retreat from the Modern: Humanism, Postmodernism and the Flight from Modernist Culture (London, Bowerdean, 1988), p. 14. 34 Ibid, p. 15. 35 Ibid, p. 16. 36 R. C. Ostle, op. cit., p. 201. 37 Ibid, p. 199. 38 Mahmud Hamid, al-Sifr al-hadi wa-l-‘Ishrun, (The 21st Zero), (Cairo, Qusur al-Thaqafa, 1997). 39 Mustafa Zikri, al-Khawf ya’kul al-Ruh (Fear Eats the Soul), (Cairo, Dar Sharqiyyat, 1998). 40 Wa’il Rajab, Dakhil Nuqta Hawa’iyya (Inside an Air Bubble), (Cairo, Dar Sharqiyyat, 1996). 41 ‘Izzat al-Qamhawi, Madinat al-Ladhdha (City of Pleasure), Cairo, Qusur al-Thaqafa, 1997). 382


42 Nura Amin, Qamis Wardi Farigh, (An Empty Rose Dress), (Cairo, Dar Sharqiyyat, 1997). 43 Miral al-Tahawi, al-Khiba’, (The Tent), (Cairo, Dar Sharqiyyat, 1997). 44 Ahmad al-‘Ayidi, An Takun ‘Abbas al-‘Abd (In Order to Be Abbas al‘Abd), (Cairo, Mirit Publications, 2003) p. 41. 45 As the realistic narrative did in its emphasis on the objective at the expense of the subjective, so the modernist narrative reversed the realistic equation. 46 Franco Moretti, Atlas of the European Novel: 1800-1900 (London, 1998), p. 3. 47 J. F. Lyotard, op. cit., p. 18. 48 In Hajis Mawt (A Premonition of Death), (Cairo, Dar Sharqiyyat, 1995), al-Rajul al-‘Ari (The Naked Man), (Cairo, Dar Sharqiyyat, 1998) and Hayat Mustaqirra (A Settled Life), (Cairo, Dar Sharqiyyat, 2003). 49 In Ism Akhar li-l-Zill (Another Name for the Shadow), (Cairo, Dar Sharqiyyat, 1995) and al-Mustanamun (The Sleepy Ones), (Cairo, Dar Sharqiyyat, 1998). 50 In his collection of short stories, Sahra’ ‘ala Hida (A Desert on its Own), (Cairo, Al-Majlis al-A’la li-l-Thaqafa, 1995) and his novel Isti‘rad al-Babiliyya (The Spectacle of the Babylonian) (Cairo, Dar alNahr, 1998). 51 In Sadmat al-Daw’ ‘ind al-Khuruj min al-Nafaq (The Shock of Light upon Emerging from the Tunnel) (Cairo, Nawwarah, 1996). 52 A. Haydar, Ward al-Ahlam (Cairo, Dar Sarqiyyat, 1997). 53 Published by Silsilat Aswat Adabiyya of Qusur al-Thaqafa, Cairo. 54 Published by Silsilat Aswat Adabiyya of Qusur al-Thaqafa, Cairo. 55 Published by Silsilat Aswat Adabiyya of Qusur al-Thaqafa, Cairo. 56 Particularly in his Hura’ Mataha Qutiyya (Nonsense of a Baroque Labyrinth), (Cairo, Dar Sharqiyyat, 1997), al-Khawf Ya’kul al-Ruh (Fear Eats the Soul), (Cairo, Dar Sharqiyyat, 1998). 57 Particularly in his two novels: Tasrih bi-l-Ghiyab (A Permission to Leave) (Cairo, Dar Sharqiyyat, 1997), An Tara al-An (To See Now), (Cairo, Dar Sharqiyyat, 2002), and in his three collections of short stories: Nasij al-Asma’ (Texture of Names), (Cairo, Dar al-Ghad, 1989), al-Sara’ir (Secret Inner Thoughts), (Cairo, Dar Sharqiyyat, 1993), Shakhs Ghayr Maqsud (An Unintended Person), (Cairo, Silsilat Aswat Adabiyya of Qusur al-Thaqafa, 1999). 58 Published by al-Hay’a al-Misriyya al-‘Amma li-l-Kitab, Cairo. 59 Published by Dar al-Jamal, Cologne, Germany. 60 Published by Silsilat Aswat Adabiyya of Qusur al-Thaqafa, in Cairo. 61 Published by al-Hay’a al-Misriyyah al-‘Amma li-l-Kitab, Cairo. 62 Published by Silsilat Aswat Adabiyya of Qusur al-Thaqafa, in Cairo. 383


63 64 65 66 67

Published in Cairo, Dar Sharqiyyat, 1997. Both published in Cairo by Dar Sharqiyyat. Published in Cairo by al-Dar al-Misriyyah al-Lubnaniyyah. Published in Cairo by al-Dar al-Misriyyah al-Lubnaniyya. Published in Cairo by Dar Mirit.

384

Index

Abu Shadi, Ahmad Zaki 166–172 Accad, Evelyne 276–278, 284–286, 288, 289 al-Hajj, Unsi 6, 7 al Hajj (see ‘Journey’) al-‘Aqqad, ‘Abbas Mahmud 166 al-Bakri, Muhammad 86, 91 Alf Layla wa layla (see also Thousand and One Nights) 1, 2, 3, 8, 14, 26 al-Ghitani, Gamal 1 al-Hakim, Tawfiq 8, 121, 355 al-Hamadhani, Badi‘ al-Zaman 27, 37, 38, 50 al-Hariri 27, 37, 38, 40, 50 Ali, Muhammad 298 al-Jahiz 34, 40 al-Kharrat, Idwar 9, 245–248, 252, 262 al-Khuja, Ibn 87 al-Manfaluti, Mustafa Lutfi 6, 7 al-Mazini, Ibrahim ‘Abd al-Qadir 166 al-Muhassin, ‘Ali Ibn 41 al-Muji‘, Sahar 379 al-Muwaylihi, Muhammad 91, 94, 151, 355 al-Nadim, ‘Abdullah 164 al-Sayyab, Badr Shakir 249, 330–332, 338–341 al-Sharuni, Yusuf 247, 260–270, 272 al-Shidyaq, Ahmad Faris 4, 93, 118–130, 151, 156, 352 al-Tahawi, Miral 379 al-Tahtawi, Rifa ‘a Rafi‘ 87, 91, 97, 121, 123, 124, 186, 186, 297, 355, 365 al-Tanukhi 32, 41, 42, al-Tilmisani, Mayy 379 al-Zayyat, Latifa 368 Antun, Farah 150, 156 Apollo Group 166, 168

Arab Literary Forms – diwan (also divan) literature 200, 330, 331, 338 – ghazal 5, 116 – maqama(t) 5, 8, 27, 37–50, 129 – qasida 5, 50, 65, 81, 93, 96, 330, 331, 333–335, 337 – rajaz 1 – rihla(t) 4, 5, 85, 86, 89–92, 95, 118, 160 Arabic Literature (see also 'literature') 6, 8, 9, 81, 91, 118, 120, 124, 125, 127, 129, 145, 150, 184, 255, 333 Arabic literary modernity 151 Arabic literary tradition 1, 6, 31, 129, 133 Arabic novel 120, 145, 202, 278, 343, 344, 367, 368 Archetype, archetypal, archetypical 1, 154, 200, 261, 268, 270, 271 Baghdad – a fool for a companion of the governor 35–36 – in Ibn Naqiya's maqamas 37, 42, 43, 46, 48 – likened to Paris 87 – palaces of the caliphs 15 Barthes, Roland 85 (quoted) 86, 88, 89, 99 Bedouin character in Ibn Naqiya's maqamas 38, 43 Bedouin 81

385


Bildungsroman (see literature) Bustros, Eveline 276–284, 289 Cairo – as setting for Nagib Mahfouz' novel alTariq 140–142 – Coptic population 246 – female emancipation 164, 175, 177, 187, 188, 190 – first Egyptian railway 96 – in the literature of marginalisation 266, 269, 271 – Medieval Cairo 295, 296, 299 – Medina 351, 354, 367 – origins of the modern city 298 – representations in the Arab world 350 – struggle for national (Egyptian) emancipation 164–168 – Tanzim 299, 301, 305, 307 – urban spaces 295–302, 304–310, 351–358, 360, 362, 367 Canon (literary) 1, 265 Colonial discourse 174, 175, 333, 340, 341 colonial language 278 Colonial powers 275 Convention (literary) 82–84, 129, 166, 330–331 Convention (social) 3, 20, 23–25, 36, 167, 189, 289, 380 Cooper, Elizabeth 174–178, 180, 182, 191

– colonial and hegemonic 174, 175, 333, 340, 341 – competing modes 263, 265 – Coptic literary 265 – egalitarianism and domination 266 – fear and paranoia in narrative 272 – Islamic and colonial 340 – marginality 214, 261, 265 – narrative – national and nationalist 165, 186, 187, 261, 264, 269, 272, 341 – of reform and modernisation 114 – on women 175–184, 186–187, 191, 192 – political 313 – religious 179, 187, 335, 341 – revolutionary and transformational 338, 340 – romantic 149

Darwish, Mahmud 234, 235 Derrida, Jacques 371 Discourse – as literary representation 195, 265

Efendi, Mustafa Sâmi 103–110, 113, 114, 116 Egypt and Egyptian (various) – artistic representations and emancipation of women 167, 168, 172 – British colonial discourse 174, 175 – colonial experience 361 – Copts 8, 246–253, 255–258, 264 – countryside 151 – cultural and political centre of the Arab world 304 – English occupation 268 epistemology in modern literature 343, 368, 370, 372, 379

386

INDEX

– European Civilisation 174 – French Expedition 304, 309 – ideology of emergent nationalism 169 – individuality 5 – modern literature 245 – modernisation movement 174, 177, 186, 189 – modernisation project 365 – modernity and modernisation 174, 176, 177 – nationalist fervour 264 – nationalist ideal of a single identity 262 – ontology in modern literature 370–372, 375, 379 – poetics of the new novel 343 – Political independence 171, 172 – post-revolutionary nationalist discourse 264 – post-revolutionary short stories 269 – protectorate 165 – public spaces 255, 298, 299, 301, 303, 304, 349, 358 – railway 96 – Romantic Imagination 169, 172 – Romantic nationalism 7 – social and cultural diversity 265 – social, economic and political transformations 165 – society 134, 120, 255 – travellers 121

– war against Israel (1967) 268 – womanhood 167, 174, 175–178, 182–184, 186, 188–190 Egyptian literature – absence of Coptic representations 247 – alienation and marginalisation 261, 345, 350, 361, 364 – Coptic represented 245, 261 – critical acclaim for alKharrat 248 – social realism 260 Egyptian Women, womanhood – a woman's role 183, 184 – and polygamous practices 167 – feminist movement 177, 186 – in public space 177 – in the modern period 188 – reform of the household 174–175, 263 – westernising, colonial discourse 175 European modernity 95 Fayyad, Tawfiq 212, 213, 226, 227, 232, 234–236 Foucault 339, 340 French realism as a critical standard among Arab critics 149 French Renaissance 367 Garden of Eden 253, 341 Gardens in literature 19–20, 87 Gardens, public uses 317, 323–324 Gender – boundary 16, 181 – discourse on gender and culture 183, 185, 186, 191

387


– equality 186 – politics and issues 183, 185, 187 – relations 18 German Romantic Movement 161 Gharib, Ahmad 376, 378, 379 Gibran, Gibran Khalil (also, Jibran) 6, 7, 151, 154, 155, 158 Güntekin, Nuri 195, 200, 202, 205

– Lebanese 287 – minority 264, 268 – narrative 269 – national 199, 252, 258, 262, 266, 269, 332 – Politics 174, 182, 187, 190, 191, 333, 339–341 – Politics of identity 187, 275, 276, 334 – regional 268 – religious 252, 261 – textual identity 375 – the quest/Search for 141, 142, 145 – transformation 18 – true 6, 20, 21, 141 – urban 314, 318, 319, 321 – woman 176, 275, 280, 284, 285 Idris, Yusuf 355, 364, 365, 368 Intertextuality 221, 223, 224, 230, 278, 286 – in the work of Imil Habibi 278, 286 – in the work of Khalil Gibran 213, 221, 223, 224, 230 – links to Arabic literature in the work of Evelyne Accad 6, 214 Iraq 334–338, 343, 348, 349 Ishtar 154 Ishtar and Tammuz as a metaphor for exile and redemption 331, 333–336 Ismat, ‘Adil 376

Habibi, Imil 212, 213, 221, 224, 236, 237 Hamid, Mahmud 363 Hamori, Andras 41 Haqqi, Yahya 355 Hasan, Husni 376 Haydar, ‘Abd al-Hakim 376, 378 Haykal, Muhammad Husayn 8, 164, 166, 170, 171, 355, 367 Humanism 262, Husain, Huda 379 Husain, Taha 365 Ibn Naqiya 27, 37, 39, 41, 42, 48–51 Ibrahim Pasha 65 Ibrahim, Hafiz 167 Identity – common 257, 266 – communal and/or community 187, 277, 279, 282, 286, 288, 341 – construction 249, 271, 286, – Coptic 248, 262, – crisis or confusion 118 – Egyptian 252, 255 – group 88, 280, 283 – individual 276, 277, 288 – language and 286, 288, 289

Jena School, the 154–156, 158, 161 Jibran (see Gibran, Khalil) Journey, the (see also Literary Forms: rihla(t)) 388

INDEX

– as a quest for selfdefinition and discovery 8, 81–83, 134, 144 – as a spiritual and physical experience 4, 8, 81–82 – as a structural literary device 81–84, 133, 145 – as pilgrimage 81, 82, 85, 90, 92, 134, 135, 137, 140, 222 – as transformation 18, 139, 145 – in Arabic literature 81–82, 85–86, 145 Kamil, ‘Adil 344 Kamil, Mustafa 164 Khedive Isma ‘il 352, 354, 367 Language – and religion 255, 257 – appropriation into Turkish of new words 108, 109 – Arabic 126, 127, 275, 276, 283, 284, 289 – as a linguistic object 88 – as a vector of experience 125, 197 – as an element of identity 249, 256–258, 276, 286, 290 – as creative material 188 – as limitation 181, 255, 256 – choice of language 107, 108, 275–278 – colonial 278, 288 – contribution to lexicography 125 – efficiency of European 109 – English 125 – European 279

– French 125, 275–277, 284, 290 – instruction 257 – language in narrative 277 – language of the past 330 – power of 289 – relexification (see 'relexification and linguistic layering') – structure and themes 344, 372 – style 91 – Sufi influence 9 – tension and conflict 289 – usages 42, 234, 275, 276, 277, 282, 289, 297 Lebanese modernity 318 Lebanon – Beirut 314–323, 325 – birthplace of al-Shidyaq 119 – conception of individual and community 282, 283, 289 – French language literature 275, 277, 278, 281, 283, 284, 286, 288, 289 Literature – 19th century travel 87, – Abbasid 91 – ancient (Arabic) 8, 81 – as ‘textual space’ 6, 346, 361 – bildungsroman (see also 'Utopia' and 'formative education') 5, 149, 150, 255 – buffoons and jesters in (Arabic) 2, 3, 27, 29–36, 228 – committed 150 – contemporary (Arabic) 9

389


– Coptic 265 – Egyptian 245, 247, 248, 260 – English 125, 159 – European 172, 341 – formative education (see also ‘bildungsroman’) 149–159 – French-language 275 – mandate 288, – marginality in 211–213 – Medieval 32, 82, – Mirrors-for-Princes 30 – modernist 247, 330, – Muslim 82, 94 – nationalism in 7, 168, 169, 264, 332, 338 – ontological trends 6 – Palestinian 211–214, 216, 217, 220, 226, 227, 230, 232–237 – popular, folk 33, 35, 200 – Psycho-analytical approach 339 – rihla (see Arab literary forms) – Subjectivity in 180, 181, 191, 192, 339–341 – Turkish 7, 105, 107, 109, 195 – Utopian 150, 155, 156, 158, 265 – world 4, 212 Lyotard, Jean-François 359, 363 Mahfouz, Naguib 1, 8, 133, 140, 160, 344, 353, 355, 365, 367, 368 Mamluk 1, 297 maqama(t) (see ‘Arab literary forms’) Medieval Arabic texts 27 Medieval decorative vocabulary 70 Medieval narrative tradition 1 Medieval romance 90 Mediterranean 5, 7, 95, 127, 128 Modernity 91, 92, 94–96, 151, 318, 331, 333

Monophysitism 96 Mubarak, ‘Ali Pasha 296 Mukhtar, Mahmud 168–173 Mythology – Ancient Greek or Egyptian 169 – and signs of alientation 88, 98 – Biblical 152, 156 – pre-Islamic 330 Nahda (al-nahda) 118, 126, 129, 160, 150, 156, 158, 186 Napoleon Bonaparte 298, 299 Narrative – choice of language (see ‘language’) – Coptic 248, 264, 267 – discourse 272, 343, 345 – epic 332 – fiction in Egypt 355, 361, 365 – first-person 127 – form 139, 332, 343 – genre 180, 354 – linear 4, 89, 370 – literary 1 – of modernity 377 – of the city 370 – nationhood 332, 334, 338, 340, 341 – new (in Egyptian literature) 346, 354, 370–374, 376–378 – medieval 1, 27 – oral 1, 33, 81 – poetics 346 – strategy 2, 278, 344, 346, 361, 368, 370, 374 – structure 18, 82, 83, 355, 361, 370 – Subject and subjectivity 181, 261 – technique 127, 154 – travel 83

390

INDEX

– treatment of Arabic women 180 – voice 334 Nasif, Malak Hifni 176–178, 180–191 Nasser, Gamal Abdel 246, 347, 352, 365, 367, 368 Nationalist discourse 186, 187, 261, 264, 272, 341 Nihilism 270, 346

– Tanzimat and Tanzimat reforms (see also 'Cairo, Tanzim') 66, 103, 106, 108, 114 – westernisation 105

Ottoman – appropriation of western values 114 – conquest 66, 68, 69, 71 – contact with missionaries 247 – criticism of 103 – culture and traditions 60, 75, 105 – educational policy 105 – history, historiography and sources 59, 61, 62, 67, 68, 75, 105 – independence from 165 – influence on urban spaces 300, 317, 318 – language in literature, prose and poetry 108, 109 – literature (see 'Literature, Turkish') – political power 74 – provinces and administration 5, 83 – reform and modernisation 115, 116 – self-awareness 104, 105, 107 – social commentary on European living conditions 110, 111 – society 66, 196

Palestine and Palestinian – authors 212 – community 8, 225, 226, 234 – diaspora 216, 217 – experience 212, 213, 225, 232 – intifada 349, 350 – Israeli-Palestinians 225, 338 – literature & literary production (see literature) – Perceived in Lebanese literature 287 – political consciousness 235, 236, 260 – themes in 230, 233, 234–236 – writers 235 Paradise 49, 87, 230, 235, 236, 235 Patriarchal system of authority and related codes 16, 24, 179, 197, 203, 286 Picaresque 27 Pilgrimage (see Journey) post-colonial critical paradigm 331, 333 post-colonial novels 341 post-colonial theory 333 qalb al-ashya’ 3, 34, 36 Qasim, ‘Abd al-Hakim 133, 146 quest for modernity 91 Qur’an – Sura 21:59–67 60 – Sura 36:40 45 – Sura 93:10 44

391


Realism 149, 151, 159, 330, 331 relexification – as markers of difference 279 – defined 278 – in the work of Eveline Bustros 279–284 – linguistic layering 279 religious discourse and women 179, 187 Representations – of Europe 87 – of marginality 214–215, 219, 262 – of space 313, 315–317, 319–325 Romanticism and the romantic imagination – English Romanticism 165 – European Romanticism 167 – romantic discourse 149 – romantic fiction 150 – romantic love 2, 171, – romantic movement (Germany) 161 – romantic nationalism 7, 168 – romantic utopia 159 – Romantic vision of the Egyptian countryside 170 – the romantic ideal 168 Sadat, Muhamad Anwar 347, 349, 350, 364, 365 secularisation of religious discourse 335 Shahrazad 1, 3, 4 Sha ‘ban, Najwa 379 Sha ‘ban, Yasir 379 Sha‘rawi, Huda 167, 177 Shukri, ‘Abd al-Rahman 164–168, 170–172 Sterne, Laurence (Tristram Shandy) 125, 344 Sufi 9, 82, 133, 135, 144, 145, 205

Sulayman, ‘Atif 376, 379 Symbolism 234, 323, 330, Symbols of Power 2, 13–17, 19 Syria – as setting for classical Maqamat 37 – importance of the individual 5 – narrative tradition 1 Tamir, Zakariyya 1 Tammuzi Poetry 330 territorialisation of narrative 334 Thousand and One Nights 2, 14, 17 Transformations (social, political & economic) 165, 174, 179, 303, 317, 336 Transliteration – defined 284 – in the work of Evelyne Accad 284–288 travellers as agents of modernity 91 True Faith 21, 81 Utopia (see ‘Literature’) 160, 341 West and western – admiration for 87, 105, 123 – conflicting values 92, 94, 121 – domination 114 – humanism (influence on Egyptian literary representation) 365–368 – in literature 113, 114, 116, 118, 120, 125, 129 – influences 91, 105, 109, 114, 119, 125, 128, 352 – representations 95, 97, 103 Women's renaissance 183, 184, Woolf, Virginia 276 Ziyada, May 182, 183, 187–191

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