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Literature & Literary Criticism |
| Reprinted from the Middle East Studies
Association Bulletin, Winter 2001 (with changes in orthography to HTML standards). Copyright 2001 by the Middle East Studies Association of North America |
This Side of Innocence, by Rashid al-Daif. Translated by Paula Haydar. 152 pages. New York, NY: Interlink Books, 2001. $12.95 (Paper) ISBN 1-56656-383-6 “Who tore the picture?” With this question the narrator begins his surreal (or perhaps it would be more correct to say, ultra-real) experience of police interrogation and torture in an unnamed place and time, for a crime of seemingly little importance. On the surface, this opening question appears straightforward and innocent enough. There should be no confusion or uncertainty. Nevertheless, in this newly translated novel by al-Daif (originally published in Arabic in 1997 as Nah)iyat al-Bara’a), the narrator quickly learns that nothing is so simple or rational. From the definition of innocence and guilt, to the cognizance and importance of time, to the very ability to control one’s own thoughts and actions, the narrator comes to realize that the ‘truths’ that he once took for granted are anything but fixed. This is not an ‘easy’ novel to read. Rather than being divided into chapters that would allow the reader to absorb the events in sections of manageable length and pause after each one, the narrative is presented as a single, unbroken event. There is no clear distinction between any given episode, nor are there any clear markers of the simple linear passage of time. We are forced to accompany the narrator through his confusing and painful ordeals without a chance to take a breath. Just when we think we are approaching some sort of denouement, something else occurs and the narrative simply continues. We want to put the book down for a moment to reflect or temporarily remove ourselves from the situation that grows increasingly more difficult. However, the reader is compelled to continue in the hopes of arriving at the conclusion to any given scene, or learning the answer to the initial inquiry about the picture, or, at the very least, seeing what happens in the end. We never do reach any sort of resolution though, nor do we feel that we are any closer to understanding what has happened at the end of the book than we were at the beginning. This is not to say that the author has failed us. How else is one to feel in a situation of such complete hopelessness and lack of power? The author, through his narrative style and keen attention to detail, has effectively communicated the feeling of a political and social system in which the arbiters of truth and justice use intimidation and torture to extract, or create, the truth. Within such a system, is it possible to follow the logic of a secret police interrogation and feel anything but confused and defeated? Al-Daif counts ten novels in his oeuvre, three of which have already been translated into French and English, among other European languages. With this new translation, Haydar provides the English reader with yet another opportunity to enjoy and follow the work of this modern Lebanese novelist. Alexander E. Elinson Columbia University The Open Door, by Latifa Al-Zayyat. Translated by Marilyn Booth. 364 pages. Cairo: American University of Cairo Press, 2000. $24.50 (Cloth) ISBN 977-424-603-9. This courageous and insightful novel is an excellent introduction to both the Arabic novel and the problems of modern Egyptian society. Although The Open Door is set in the 1940s and 1950s, few of the conventions against which the main character struggles to define herself have changed a great deal in the last fifty years. The engaging protagonist, Layla Sulayman, is a middle-class Egyptian girl who must learn to deal with the rigid rules of feminine decorum that undermine her sense of authenticity and with a society which gives lip service to the idea of marrying for love while demanding that both men and women marry to enhance the social status of their families. Just as she is seemingly free but controlled by invisible rules, her country is nominally independent but in fact ruled by a British-controlled puppet government that suppresses popular will. Al-Zayyat’s structure parallels Layla’s battles for personal autonomy with her country’s fight for political autonomy. In both cases, the fight is against what Al-Zayyat terms “the fundamentals.” These fundamentals mean accepting the status quo, avoiding personal risks, and doing whatever those in power expect. The rewards, both personal and political, are supposed to be peace, prosperity, and respectability, but the cost is the stifling of personality and the corruption of character. Throughout much of the novel, Layla realistically vacillates between rebellion and conformity because resistance is so very difficult and conformity seems to be rewarded so well. The plot is too complex to recount here, but throughout the novel, Al-Zayyat explores the reasons why seemingly entitled young Egyptian women are unfree. Discussing the status of women in their society has long been a problem for Arab writers, since criticizing women’s lack of personal freedom can be interpreted as confirming Western stereotypes about Arab misogyny and the repressiveness of Islam. As one female academic told me, one takes her choice of being a traitor to her sex or to her culture. Al-Zayyat has avoided this trap by making it clear that Layla’s oppressor is a bourgeois system of values that equates human worth with wealth and social position. Moreover, she shows that this corrupt system also oppresses men, although not to the same degree, and she depicts admirable male characters who reject these dominant values at considerable personal cost. The novel has the added advantage of being accessible to Western readers and is thus an excellent choice for inclusion in undergraduate courses in contemporary world literature and women’s studies. Booth’s excellent translation makes it read like a novel written in English, and her introduction provides a cultural and political context. This powerful novel does have flaws, at least to Western tastes. It is sometimes too didactic, and the ending seems rather falsely optimistic. Artistically, Al-Zayyat is probably not as accomplished as the Najib Mahfouz of The Cairo Trilogy, but what she lacks in novelistic smoothness, she more than makes up for in the originality, intensity, and timelessness of her thought. The Open Door is an important book. Judith Caesar The American University of Sharjah Hayati: My Life, by Miriam Cooke. 152 pages. Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 2000. $22.95 (Cloth) ISBN 0-8156-0671-0 The ultimate test, I suppose, for the success of any literary work is the degree to which it throws us back to life, the degree to which it manages, in its own unique way, to make a statement about the world in which we all live, and about the kind of life we live or ought to live. If this contention implies an unfashionable realist esthetic in these postmodern times, it is still one that we remain particularly in need of nowadays. As writers, as intellectuals, and as plain common readers, we need to know our world and the determining patterns of our lives as accurately and as comprehensively as we can. We need it in order to be able to communicate fully with each other and to be in touch with the still, sad music of humanity everywhere. Cooke’s Hayati succeeds in giving life to some seventy years of Palestinian history by embodying it in the voices of representatives of three generations of women in a Palestinian family, from the 1920s to the 1990s, from the British Mandate to the second Gulf War. The monologues of Assia, Maryam, Afaf, and Hibba (supplemented by those of the two male characters, Aziz and Karim) create a human, personal world that gives meaning, often horrifying meaning, to the world of historical events outside. Events like the creation of Israel, the June War, and the Gulf War are translated in such personal and family terms as the death of an infant son, exile from the homeland, and rape. Hayati re-creates a pattern of life for Middle Eastern people that has unfortunately been subsequently generalized to encompass, in a variety of ways, the Lebanese, the Iraqis, the Kurds, the Algerians, among others, as well as the Palestinians, a pattern of exile and diaspora, and all that that entails in terms of separation and alienation. The ultimate question raised by this novel is: why does the rest of the world accept that a segment of humanity should live in these conditions of almost permanent war and social turmoil? Such a question becomes timely and pressing every time warmongering becomes official policy once again. Why should the peoples of this region be subjected to a life of intermittent warfare for more than half a century? The quiet affirmation of the decision to go on with the business of living in spite of all the wars and the upheavals is the great challenge of Hayati. It is a message to the rest of the world and an appeal to our common humanity. It is a uniquely feminine triumph in this book, but it is, ultimately, also a human triumph in the face of such life‑threatening situations and traumatic experiences. The title of the book, in its two senses, subtly combines the resolve to live and to continue living through several generations. Abdulla Al-Dabbagh United Arab Emirates University, Al-Ain Nasir Khusraw, The Ruby of Badakhshan: A Portrait of the Persian Poet, Traveller and Philosopher, by Alice C. Hunsberger. (The Institute of Ismaili Studies) 292 pages, illustrations, bibliography, index. London: I. B. Tauris, 2000. $39.50 (Cloth) ISBN 1-85043-919-2 Nasir-i Khusraw (1004-77 CE), the Persian poet, traveler, philosopher, and religious propagandist, “strides along the pages of many kinds of books” (preface). His philosophical works have only recently come to attention, but he seems to have little chance of being remembered as a philosopher; and as religious propagandist, though once appointed by the Fatimid Caliph-Imam of Cairo as his Hujjat (head of the Isma’ili mission) for the vast province of Khurasan, his influence remains limited to the adherents of the faith—Isma’ili Islam. His Safar-nama (“Book of Travels”), that had initially attracted attention as a source of information, is now being increasingly acclaimed as one the finest examples of early Persian prose. It is, however, with his Divan and as a poet that he has managed to impose himself, as one of the very best, upon a literature that—at its peak during Nasir’s lifetime and for many centuries to follow—had had every reason to ignore him. This truth becomes even more important when we consider that Nasir wrote no love poems or mystical odes, but composed mainly ethical and moralizing qasidas. As a comprehensive introduction to this fascinating figure of Persian literature, covering all his ‘strides’ along different paths, Hunsberger’s book maintains the balance between being highly informative and pleasantly readable―an interesting account of Nasir-i Khusraw’s life, time, and ideas as well as his work. It is not the purpose of Nasir Khusraw: The Ruby of Badakhshan to tackle issues that are still subject to scholarly debates or diverse interpretations in order to find answers to yet unsolved problems. The author is successful, however, in presenting the first comprehensive study of Nasir-i Khusraw in English, manifesting the unity between his life and writings, and writing a book that will appeal to a wide and diverse readership—even to those interested in world religions, oriental poetry, or early travel writing. As for the poetry selections (mostly translated by the author), Hunsberger has tried “to give a faithful approximation of the meaning of the verses, but [has] not attempted to create new poetry” (p. xviii). What constitutes the main strength of Nasir-i Khusraw, then, and justifies his being counted among the very best of the Persian poets, is exactly what is most weakly treated here. It is not through rendering meaning that a poet’s greatness can be shown. What does particular harm here, especially to the images, is the tendency to ‘paraphrase’ and explain the meaning instead of simply translating the verses. Compare, for instance, the lines “Very often I had to spend nights sleeping on hard stones,/ With no roof or cover over my head except clouds” (p. 60) with Annemarie Schimmel’s more ‘faithful’ translation: “I often made from stones my bed and pillow,/ I often made from clouds my tent and blanket.”[55] And in some cases the translations are not accurate enough. It is to be hoped that the author finds ways to overcome these problems in her next project, an English translation of Nasir-i Khusraw’s Divan. Saeed Yousef University of Michigan I, translated by Vera Basch Moreen. (Yale Judaica Series, Vol. 30) 392 pages, bibliography, index. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2000. $45.00 (Cloth) ISBN 0-300-07905-2 In Queen Esther’s Garden is a handsome volume, with the requisite Persian miniature gracing the cover, the caption here in Judeo-Persian (JP). It opens up an otherwise obscure body of literature to readers of English, and makes a strong case that this literature should be of special interest to Persianists. The language is not a distinct dialect, but rather Persian in Hebrew letters, with some grammatical modifications and colloquialisms. It may be of special interest to linguists because of the preservation of Pahlavi terms. Moreen offers a thorough overview of Persian Jewry, its language, and its literature. Her historical synopsis ends in 1925 when the Pahlavi dynasty ushered in modernization, secularization, and increased integration for Jews, thus effectively ending the production and consumption of an archaic, somewhat religious and inclusive literature. The JP texts are introduced and organized by classifications based, in turn, on source material, content, and genre. After suggesting that the JP tradition of tafsīr blurs the borders between biblical translation, versification, elaboration, and commentary, Moreen attempts to impose distinctions. Her categories play against the historical context so capably summarized in the introduction; poets are presented by works scattered in different chapters. Yet the overall effect is the stunning range and richness of the literature. Translations are graceful and even witty. While maintaining a distinctive Jewish identity, the oeuvre illustrates the influence of the surrounding Muslim culture. Writers of JP literature, such as Shahin and `Imrani, composed epics in the classical Persian style. They fleshed out biblical stories with Persian sensibility, imbuing the biblical figures with qualities of Persian epic heroes, detailing the landscape, and adding didactic asides. The language used also reflects the position of the Jews in the larger community. Local terms were adopted for some Jewish concepts and characters (mullah for rabbi, although the Hebrew term nasi is kept for governor). So too, the Persian calendar edges out its Jewish counterpart: Nowruz not Rosh HaShanah brings the new year. Most likely in response to Muhammad’s revered position, the figure of Moses is given a prominent presence in the literature. Yet it is Esther who proves the most popular character. Her story is expanded well beyond the biblical version. With her cousin Mordechai, she is included in the Ezra-namah, and, in Shahin’s Ardashir-namah, gives birth to the great Cyrus. The ambivalence inherent in Esther’s story is a recurring motif. For example, poems are included both for and against Sufism. The former offers the refrain: “Godly and radiant like roses/The Sufis are, the Sufis,/Whose carnal soul is dead/Doused their desires, the Sufis.” The latter expresses an anxiety of conversion, paradoxically using Sufi vocabulary (for example, yar) and imagery. In addition, the historic texts, including eyewitness accounts of seventeenth-century persecutions in Isfahan and in Yazd, forced conversions and close escapes, and even a tale from one of the anusim, help provide context for this anxiety. Moreen’s background material and rich translations form a picture of a minority community negotiating its sometimes tenuous existence. Overall, the anthology is a testament to the successful acculturation of a community able to maintain its Jewish identity while allowing its culture to be enriched by outside influence. Nancy E. Berg Washington University in St. Louis Marginal Voices in Literature and Society: Individual and Society in the Mediterranean Muslim World, edited by Robin Ostle. 214 pages, endnotes, bibliographies. Strasbourg, France: European Science Foundation, 2000. 130 FF (Paper) ISBN 2-9512731-1-8 Resulting from a series of joint seminars held at the Universities of Oxford and Leiden in 1996-97, Marginal Voices in Literature and Society contains fourteen papers, some by established scholars and most by young ones including three doctoral students. The level of erudition is high throughout, even in working papers that suggest lines of future investigation. The main interest of the volume is the study of literary works or topics usually considered outside the mainstream. It succeeds in shedding light on such works and topics, and in illuminating the individual and the society of the Mediterranean Muslim world. The volume has an excellent study by James L. Montgomery on the marginal voice of Abu Nuwas with regard to his homoerotic courtly love poems, and a masterly one by Geert Jan van Gelder on al-Shirbini’s Hazz al-Qu’uf, seen by him as a marginal genre, being a mock commentary on the poem of fictitious Abu Shaduf that highlights marginalized rural Egypt for the urban literate classes. Andrew Lane’s article on cAbd al-Ghani al-Nabulsi as a Sufi shaykh secluded from Damascene society during his khalwa is a good example of a person marginalized on account of his beliefs despite his valuable Sufi contributions. Rudolph Peters finds in a nineteenth-century fisherman’s petitions to the Egyptian authorities a successful resistance to being marginalized by the legal system when the fisherman finally, despite initial failure, receives justice in the case of his dead daughter raped by the cumda. The volume ends with four good studies on twentieth-century literature and society. Debbie Cox writes on Rachid Boujedra’s novel, Layliyyat Imra’a Ariq, and identifies tensions in it related to the duality of his being a male writing as a woman, a duality exacerbated in the later French translation, La Pluie, done with his collaboration and including extensive intended differences of cultural coding. Michelle Hartman writes on Ahl al-Hawa of Huda Barakat, a female novelist voicing a male protagonist’s ambiguities about gender, and considers Barakat’s novel more than a mere exploration of the chaos of war, but rather “a detailed challenge to normative notions of gender and gender identity” (p. 184). Emma Westney writes about Zakariyyā Tāmir, not really a marginal short-story writer, but one who deals with marginalized and oppressed characters in Arab society in order, as she explains, to subvert the authority of the status quo based on one vision of reality and truth. Layla Dasmal writes on the short stories of Muhammad al-Murr of the United Arab Emirates who has a limited readership but who, as she demonstrates, uses what she calls literary veiling devices in order to address certain taboo themes and, without controversy, administer an indictment of his society’s “social and cultural entropy, parochial concerns, trivial and ineffective lifestyles, empty consumerism and bourgeois philistinism” (p. 211). All in all, Marginal Voices proves to be a useful volume for students of literature and society. Issa J. Boullata McGill University |
| [55] Make a Shield from Wisdom: Selected Verses from Nasir-i Khusraw’s Divan (I. B. Taurus, 1993), p. 47. |
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