LITERATURE AND NATION IN THE MIDDLE EAST

LITERATUREAND NATION INTHE MIDDLE EASTEdited by Yasir Suleimanand Ibrahim Muhawi

contents10 The Predicament of In-Betweenness in the Contemporary LebaneseExilic Novel in EnglishSyrine C. Hout 19011 The Nation Speaks: On the Poetics of Nationalist LiteratureYasir Suleiman 208Bibliography 232Index 257— iv —

Notes on the ContributorsDr Hannah Amit-Kochavi teaches at Bar Ilan University and Beit Berl Collegein Israel. She received her PhD in translation from Tel Aviv University in 2000.Her teaching interests include Arabic-Hebrew translation history, Arabic-Hebrew translator and interpreter training, and classical and modern Arabicliterature. Her research interests include Arabic-Hebrew translation history andArabic teaching to Hebrew speakers in Israel.Peter Clark worked for the British Council for thirty years, mostly in the MiddleEast. He is an independent consultant and translator and has translated eightbooks from Arabic – history and fiction – as well as short stories and plays. He iscurrently translating Ard al-Sawad by Abdel-Rahman Munif.Shai Ginsburg is an Assistant Professor of Hebrew and the Jess SchwartzProfessor of Modern Hebrew Literature at Arizona State University. He haspublished articles on Hebrew literature, cultural criticism and historiography,and on modern Jewish ideological practices.Syrine C. Hout is Associate Professor of English and Comparative Literature atthe American University of Beirut. She is the author of Viewing Europe from theOutside and numerous studies of travel narratives. Her interest in contemporaryLebanese writings produced in exile has resulted in journal articles on RabihAlameddine, Tony Hanania, Hani Hammoud, Nada Awar Jarrar, EmilyNasrallah, Nadia Tueni and Hanan al-Shaykh.Ibrahim Muhawi was born 1937 in Ramallah, Palestine, and received his educationat the University of California. He has taught at a number of universitiesaround the world, and is currently Allianz Visiting Professor of Islamic Studiesat the University of Munich. His major publications include Speak, Bird, SpeakAgain: Palestinian Arab Folktales and a translation of Mahmoud Darwish’sMemory for Forgetfulness.Jeff Shalan is an Assistant Professor of English and Director of Honors Studiesat Union County College in Cranford, New Jersey. He recently completed hisPhD in Comparative Literature at the University of Wisconsin-Madison and is— v —

notes on the contributorscurrently working on a book manuscript, Writing the Nation and its others:Fictions of Community and Exile in the North African Novel.Heather J. Sharkey is an Assistant Professor of Middle Eastern Studies in theDepartment of Near Eastern Languages and Civilizations at the University ofPennsylvania. She is the author of Living with Colonialism: Nationalism andCulture in the Anglo-Egyptian Sudan (University of California Press, 2003). Herarticles have appeared in the International Journal of Middle East Studies, theJournal of African History, Islam and Christian-Muslim Relations, and in manyother journals and edited volumes.Yasir Suleiman is Professor of Arabic and Islamic Studies, Director of theEdinburgh Institute for the Study of the Arab World and Islam, and Head of theSchool of Languages, Literatures and Cultures at the University of Edinburgh.He has lectured nationally and internationally on various aspects of the MiddleEast. His numerous publications include The Arabic Grammatical Tradition(Edinburgh University Press, 1999), The Arabic Language and National Identity:A Study in Ideology (Edinburgh University Press and Georgetown UniversityPress, 2003) and A War of Words: Language and Conflict in the Middle East(Cambridge University Press, 2004).Dr J. Kristen Urban has publishing and research interests in Middle East politicsand conflict resolution. She has undertaken work in Gaza and the West Bankand has recently returned from Bahrain as a Senior Fulbright Scholar. Sheholds an MS in Biology, a PhD in Political Science, and teaches InternationalStudies at Mount St Mary’s University in Emmitsburg, MD, USA.Nadia Yaqub is Assistant Professor of Arabic Language and Culture at the Universityof North Carolina in Chapel Hill. Her research interests include intertextuality,identity, nationalism and trans-nationalism in the areas of oralArabic literature, the novel and film.Amy Zalman received her doctorate in Middle Eastern Studies from New YorkUniversity in 2003. Her articles, reviews and literary translation have appearedin Arab Studies Journal, International Journal of Middle Eastern Studies, Middle EastReport, Paintbrush: A Journal of Poetry and Translation, Women’s Review of Booksand elsewhere. She is at present a founding partner of a consultancy, OryxCommunications.— vi —

AcknowledgementsWe would like to thank the contributors to this book for their patience andunderstanding. Thanks are also due to Shahla Suleiman and Jane Muhawi whohave helped in many important ways, to Sarah Artt who helped in preparingthe manuscript, and to Nicola Ramsey, our EUP editor, for her patience, perseveranceand understanding. Needless to say, all the errors in this book are ourresponsibility.We would also like to add that the views and terminologies of the contributorsdo not necessarily reflect those of the editors.Yasir Suleiman and Ibrahim MuhawiEdinburgh and MunichJune 2005— vii —

For Shahla and Janewww.taq.ir

Introduction 1Literature and Nation in the Middle East:An OverviewYasir SuleimanAldous Huxley writes that ‘nations are to a very large extent invented by theirpoets and novelists’ (1959: 50). Although by talking about ‘invention’ Huxleymay have exaggerated the nature of the link between nation building andliterature, this book subscribes to the broad thrust of his statement by examiningthe role literature plays in constructing, articulating or challenging interpretationsof national identities in the Middle East. Thus, most of the chapters inthis book are devoted to Arabic literature – here broadly defined as literature inArabic by Arab writers – owing to the demographic dominance of the Arabs inthis part of the world. The remaining chapters delve into Hebrew literature,Arabic literature in translation and Arab literature in its trans-national mode asexpressed in a language other than Arabic, in this case English. In terms ofgenre, the book covers poetry and the novel in their capacity as the primeexamples of high culture, as well as oral or ‘folk literature’ in the modern periodas an expression of the localisation of the lived socio-political experience of anational group in a ‘here’ and ‘now’ that invokes the heroism of the past. Interms of provenance, a few chapters deal with the literary expression ofPalestinian nationalism as the enunciation of a ‘stateless’ or ‘refugee’ nation,while other chapters cover the construction of national identity in Egypt,Sudan, Lebanon and Israel, thus providing an array of geographies and sociopoliticalcontexts that can add to our understanding of the interaction betweenliterature and the nation in the Middle East. Drama is not dealt with in thisvolume because of its marginal position in the national cultures of the region,although a study of such playwrights as the Egyptian Tawfiq al-Hakim andAhmad Bakathir, and the Syrian SaÆdallah Wannus would be revealing incharting the literary expression of the nation in the Arab context. In addition,the volume does not cover the short story or North Africa because of considerationsof space.This book subscribes to a constructivist view of the nation, although itrecognises that nation building cannot be an exercise in ‘invention’, if byinvention is meant the fabrication of nations and national identities out of avoid. Construction is not necessarily a form of ‘myth-making’, as it is sometimesmade out to be in the literature on nationalism (see Gerber 2004). Construction— 1 —www.taq.ir

yasir suleimanis a purposeful activity that requires the identification and selection of existingcultural and experiential material that is reshaped, worked and reworked toadvance the cause of the nation as the site of collective identification, allegianceand patriotism. Such material must answer to the criterion of resonance, inthat it must ‘strike a chord’ with those at whom it is directed. Material that failsto do this cannot, ipso facto, belong to the realm of the national, regardless ofhow this is defined. Furthermore, the construction of national identities is anelite-mediated activity in which considerations of power and hegemony areimplicated in the selection, valorisation and consecration of the canon ofnational literature which, as Corse writes, ‘is a product of human choice andcontestation, not a natural choice’ (1997: 16).Academics, publishers, critics and those in control of the various channels ofcommunication partake in this process of canon formation which, by its verynature, is always in a state of becoming. Men and women of letters participate inthis cultural-cum-political process as members of the elite or counter-elite intheir own communities, but the nature of their participation is contingent onthe historical contexts and the political trajectories in which they findthemselves. In some cases, they play a role that is confirming of the nation as apolitical or cultural entity, its uniqueness and its right to a state of its own. Thisis the case with the early pronouncements of pan-Arab nationalism which, inrecent times, has confined itself to expressions of cultural nationalism. In othercases, for example in East and West Germany before re/unification in 1990,literature played a multiplicity of national roles, one of which was discreditingthe cause of unity of the two parts of Germany as members of a single Kulturnationthat is deserving of a single nation-state of its own (Brockmann 1999: 10). Inyet other cases, literature can be used to deconstruct, or even subvert, a nationalproject in favour of an alternative, typically irredentist, view of a putative‘nation’ and its destiny. Literary expressions of state-nationalism in the Arabicspeakingworld, for example Egyptian and Lebanese nationalism, have playedthis role vis-à-vis pan-Arab nationalism. This explains the references toEgyptian, Lebanese and Sudanese literatures as individualities in Arab culturaland political discourse, wherein the state takes on itself the task of promoting itsown national identity through a set of unique symbols, motifs, anniversaries andcultural products, including having a literature that carries its name.National identities are complex phenomena that relate to national literaturesin complex and myriad ways. This book gives expression to this multifariouslink of nation to literature through a variety of perspectives. As a starting point,it does not assume that this link is unidirectional; rather, the book is based onan assumption of reciprocity, whereby the nation shapes its literature and isshaped by it in a shuttling mode of interaction. The chapters of this book reflectthis reciprocity by sometimes approaching their subject matter through the— 2 —www.taq.ir

introductionliterary lens, while at other times they do so through the nationalist perspective,but at no point do they decouple the two sides of the relationship from eachother. Furthermore, one feature of this book is worth highlighting: we do notsubscribe to the ‘reflection’ theory of literature in which, as cultural material,literature is said to ‘reflect’, ‘mirror’ or ‘capture’ the national character of apeople. Reflection, which is popular in the media and dominates in the ethnicand cultural conceptualisations of the nation in modern Arab thought, smacksof naïve realism and of the reductive reliance on stereotypes. It additionallyassumes that the nation predates its cultural expression in literature as the nonpoliticalsite of the political. Furthermore, reflection assumes the existence of aninherent and pre-existing meaning in the text which captures essential featuresof the national culture; it additionally assumes that this meaning is accessible tothe members of the nation who can recover it with a high degree of intersubjectivevalidity. Arabic writings on the connection between nation andliterature tend to favour this outmoded perspective.Popular in the Marxist tradition, reflection is a defective theory of therelationship between nation and literature as categories of the social world andcultural production respectively (see Albrecht 1954). Not only does reflectiondeny the multiplicity of meanings – some of it may be hugely discordant – thatthe readers of a text can derive from it, but it further denies their role as activecreators of meaning who can interpret and reinterpret the text concerned inways that defy its initial or canonical reception. Put differently, reflectionsubjugates and tethers the reader to the text in an unwarranted fashion. It viewsthe text as a closed semantic unit whose meaning is to a very large extentdetermined in advance of reading and is invariant both synchronically anddiachronically. Furthermore, as Noble points out, the proponents of this theorynever adequately explain ‘how the “optics” of reflection work’ (1976: 213). As aresult, ‘reflection remains an image’ and ‘does not become a concept’ (ibid.). Asa metaphor, reflection invites further modifications (for an expansion of themodel, see Griswold 1981), such as refraction and distortion, to make it moreviable as an instrument of explanation, but these modifications compound themetaphor by further accretions that render reflection even more problematic.Finally, reflection is based on the false premise that the national and the literaryare ontologically separable. The constructivist view of the nation, to which thiswork is a contribution, rejects this premise in favour of an understanding ofculture and social reality in which literature and the nation co-exist symbiotically.As Brockmann notes in his study of the role of literature in German re/unification, ‘in the world of social constructions the boundary between the realand the fictional is not impermeable’ (1999: 19).Adopting a constructivist view of the nation implies a modernist understandingof the relationship between it and literature, although this relationship— 3 —www.taq.ir

yasir suleimaninvariably invokes the symbols and motifs of pre-modernity insofar as theseanswer to the criterion of resonance mentioned above. Early pronouncementson nationalism in Western Europe in the late eighteenth century and earlynineteenth century established the connection between nation and literature asa cornerstone of nation building. The German Romantics gave currency to thisconcept, although their ideas on the formation of national identities have astrong essentialist flavour. Giving literatures national names and treating themas discrete units were an expression of this mode of thinking in which theuniqueness of the nation and the ‘exceptionalism’ of its literature had to beproclaimed, affirmed and constantly cultivated. This trend gathered momentumin the twentieth century, wherein literatures came to be identified and studiedin national units in a way that overrides the linguistic medium through whichthese literatures are expressed. This explains why, as literary categories, English,Scottish and Irish literatures, for example, are thought to have identities of theirown, in spite of the fact that they are – albeit not universally in Scottish andIrish literature – expressed through varieties of the same language. The sameapplies to American and to Canadian literature in English in spite of theirdifferent histories and political trajectories (Corse 1995, 1997). It is thereforenot surprising that the notion of ‘literary devolution’ (see Crawford 1992) hadbeen utilised as the counterpoint of political devolution in the British Isles atleast half a decade before the latter became a legal reality in Scotland in 1999.A minority of scholars deplore this effect of nationalism. Elie Kedouri condemnsnationalism for disrupting ‘whatever equilibrium had been reached between thedifferent groups [in a community], [by] reopen[ing] settled questions and …renewing strife’ (1966: 115). Kedouri further condemns nationalism for beingthe invention of ‘literary men who had never exercised power, and appreciatedlittle the necessities and obligations incidental to intercourse between states’(ibid.: 70–1). This one-sided view of nationalism remains the exception not therule. Commenting on the role of poetry in nation building, Aberbach writes(2003: 271):Nationalism, though exposed in its potential for destruction, remains a majorpolitical force in civilisation. National poetry is not marginal but expresses much ofwhat ordinary people feel. It tends to be vindicated by history, if not in its call forviolent upheaval or revenge, then in its hope for national renewal, both political andspiritual. Poetry continues as a midwife to nationalism, though rarely with theundiluted violence and idealism of the past.— 4 —Rather than being on the wane under the onslaught of globalisation andpost-modernity, the nation is entrenching itself as a fact of our social andpolitical worlds. This is particularly true of the Middle East, wherein nationalliteratures act as markers of the nation regionally and in the international arena.Although the concept of the nation-state is culturally, politically and sociowww.taq.ir

introductionlogically ‘brittle’ in the Arab Middle East, and although it has to compete withalternative pan- or, to a lesser extent, regional models of the nation, thedevelopment of a national literature – regardless of how this is understood – istreated as a sign of cultural independence. As Corse points out, ‘nationalliteratures have become identified within both the national and internationalcommunities as an essential characteristic of nation-states’ (1997: 24). Thefunctionality of literature as a ‘central resource in the process of creating thenecessary unity, loyalty and patriotism of national populations’ (ibid.: 25) istherefore pivotal in national task-orientation and mobilisation. Literacy and themass media are the linchpins in this process because they enable the members ofthe nation to create bonds of allegiance and identity with each other acrosssynchronic space. Conceptualising the nation as an ‘imagined community’therefore is partially dependent on literature, which can create an experience of‘unisonality’ between members of the nation. In the Arab context, the schoolcurriculum is the major incubator of this ‘unisonality’ which, more often thannot, is expressed through poetry rather than prose literature. This variation inthe relative national merits of poetry and prose literature in the Arab arena callsfor a revision of Benedict Anderson’s view of the novel as the prime carrier ofnationalist meaning in the literary field (1991). In addition, this variation drawsattention to the fact that literary form is as important as nationalist content inpromoting the cause of the nation. Being associated with orality-cum-auralitythrough public performance in Arab culture, Arabic nationalist poetry enhancesthe experience of ‘unisonality’ which national literature aims to promote amongthe members of the nation. In this respect, poetry steals a march on the novel.The link between nation and literature in the Arab Middle East assumesgreat importance because of the tug of war between the nation-state and pan-Arab nationalism. Each form of nationalism strives for authenticity and seeks toinscribe this in a literature that it calls its own. For pan-Arabists, statenationalismis a centrifugal force of political and cultural fragmentation that isat odds with the centripetal pull of pan-Arabism. Because it lacks politicalexpression in a nation-state, pan-Arabism emphasises culture as a paramountattribute of the nation. As Brockmann observes, ‘culture is the primary way inwhich nations without political boundaries locate and identify themselves’(1999: 10). Muhammad Husayn Haykal* expresses a similar view in his advocacyof the role of literature in Egyptian territorial nationalism: ‘Literature is theforce which nothing else can vanquish or overcome as easily as an armed forcecan suppress political revolution’ (Gershoni and Jankowski 1986: 88).* Full transliteration is not used in the body of the text unless deemed necessary.Names and other terms will, therefore, be given the the form nearest to their fulltransliteration.— 5 —www.taq.ir

yasir suleimanAs we shall see below, this is also true of ‘refugee’ nations, of whom thePalestinians are a prime example. For culture and refugee nations, nationalidentity is most strongly located in what the German Romantics have called the‘republic of letters’. Thomas Mann captured this feature of the culture of dividednation when he declared during the Goethe celebrations of 1949: ‘Who shouldguarantee the unity of Germany if not an independent writer, whose real home… is the free German language, untouched by zones of occupation’ (quoted inBrockmann, ibid.: 9). Although Thomas Mann here refers to language, itcannot be lost on the reader that he does so from the position of an eminentman of letters. Günter Grass reiterated the same position in 1980 when hedeclared that the ‘only thing in the two German states that can be proven to bepan-German is literature’ (ibid.: 32). What Thomas Mann and Günter Grasshave said about Germany is true of pan-Arabism which attributes the sense ofdifference promoted by the Arab nation-states to the strong similarities thatexist between them. A similar tendency at differentiation existed in thedeliberate process to fashion an American literature that is distinct from Englishliterature. Joe Cleary raises this strategy of differentiation to the status of ageneral principle when he says that the anxiety ‘to distinguish a national culturemay be most acute precisely where the substantive cultural differences betweennational Self and significant Other are least obvious’ (2002: 54). Cleary has inmind the Irish national literary experience vis-à-vis English literature, but hispoint has wider validity. The drive to establish nation-state cultures, includingliteratures, in the Arab world is surely motivated by the socio-political dynamicsinherent in this principle.The similarities between the Arab and German situations vis-à-vis the role ofliterature in nation building are such that they do deserve a comparative studyof their own. In the German Democratic Republic, which lacked a public spacefor free expression in the national domain, literature emerged as a surrogatechannel for the promulgation, promotion and exchange of views that wouldotherwise have been subject to brutal censorship. This is true of literature in theArab nation-state which, that is the state, tends to be intolerant of alternativenational ideologies and their expression in literature. Commenting on theGerman Democratic Republic, Brockmann states that ‘where other avenues ofdiscourse were blocked because of the Communist regime’s repression of openpolitical dialogue, literature assumed a privileged role in enabling a more obliqueform of communication’ (ibid.: 2). This is true of the situation in the Arabnation-state, as Hasan (2002) points out, where literature plays a counterhegemonicrole often in favour of pan-Arabism. It is also true of the Palestiniansin Israel who, in pursuit of their national claims through cultural modes ofexpression, do resort to various forms of self-censorship and ‘oblique means ofcommunication’. As in the German Democratic Republic, allegory is used in— 6 —www.taq.ir

introductionArabic and Palestinian literature as a preferred mode of articulating thisobliqueness. Examples of this will be found in this work.Before re/unification Germany exemplified the position of literature in asituation of national partition. As we have pointed out above, the situation ofGermany shares some important features with the position of the Palestinians asmembers of a refugee nation, in spite of the major objective differences thatexist between the German and Palestinian cases. Living in the diaspora in astate of exile, the Palestinians too have relied on literature to fashion a nationalidentity that can override their geographical dispersal and political fragmentation.Creating a public sphere in which being Palestinian can be givenexpression, literature has been instrumental in fostering a sense of nationalidentity among Palestinians. In his illuminating study of literature, partitionand the nation-state, Joe Cleary offers the following astute comment on the linkbetween nation and literature in the Palestinian case (2002: 86):In the absence of an available nation-state, the development of a national literaturehas enabled the Palestinians to reinforce their sense of themselves as a distinct peopleand to express solidarity across the disjunctive locales of Palestinian existence in theface of repeated political reversals and calamities. Literature, that is, is one of theways in which the scattered sectors of the Palestinian people can be imaginativelyconnected in the here and now even if actual statehood remains constantly deferred.As a dispossessed and ‘de-territorialised’ community, the Palestinians embodythe exilic experience of what Ibrahim Muhawi in this volume calls the ‘presentabsent’or the ‘absent-present’. Edward Said captures this experience in the titleof his autobiography Out of Place. As a nation in exile, or a refugee nation, thePalestinians, even when they live on their historical land, are ‘out of place’ as apolitical entity and as a community in which its present is so tragically out ofkilter with its past. Nadia Yaqub gives an illuminating discussion of how thisruptured relationship between the ‘absent’ and the ‘present’ is reconstructed andenacted in the public performance of the oral Palestinian poetry duel in theGalilee in northern Israel. The context for this poetry, and its ‘unisonality’ inpublic performance, is the wedding eve party, the sahrah, in which Palestiniansfrom different localities in Israel meet and interact in mock verbal duels that, onthe surface, seem to be tied to the exigencies of the ‘here’ and ‘now’. Invokingthe events, characters and place names of a heroic past, the oral poetry duelcontrasts this past with the un-heroic present of the Palestinians in Israel whoselives are characterised by political, economic and cultural subordination to ahegemonic Hebrew-Zionist culture and political ideology.As an exercise in ‘phatic communion’, much of this poetry performs arestorative and therapeutic role in national terms, allowing the Palestinians inIsrael to construct a positive vision of the national self and to cope with thetrauma of their dispossession, de-territorialisation and dispersal. Nadia Yaqub— 7 —www.taq.ir

yasir suleimanexpresses this with great precision when she writes that ‘Palestinian poetry iscommemorative of an anterior time invested with a “Truth” that is absent fromthe present’ (p. 24). As performance, the oral Palestinian poetry duel extols theheroic qualities of the audience and invites them into a zone of signification inwhich ‘military imagery and epithets … run through the evening entertainment’(p. 23). More importantly, however, this zone of signification is articulatedthrough a Palestinian dialect that is free from Hebrew borrowings, althoughthese borrowings do exist in ordinary Palestinian speech in Israel. The absenceof these borrowings is all the more significant because Palestinian oral poetryoccasionally embodies some English words, and similar borrowings are found inthe neighbouring oral poetry of Lebanon. The absence of Hebrew words cannottherefore be read as the application of a general rule which disallows the use offoreign words in the oral poetry duel.Naming places and localities is a primary feature of the national semantics ofthe oral Palestinian poetry duel. The act of piling name upon name in thispoetry may, from a critical point of view, be viewed as an exercise in listing; thisis far from being the case. Naming helps tie the audience to locality and aims atasserting its claims of ownership over it. The fact that the names of the townsand villages in the poetry are paraded in Arabic constitutes a rejection ofHebrew semantic and cartographic hegemony, of the attempt to lay claim to theland by attaching alternative names to it (see Suleiman 2004).Dealing with the absent-present relationship as a case of hyphenated identityin the Palestinian national experience, Ibrahim Muhawi correlates identitywith the structure of irony, which is a feature of some of the recent and mostseminal writings by Palestinians. To effect this correlation, Ibrahim Muhawimoves away ‘from a purely semantic notion of … opposite meaning [in irony] tothat of an absent meaning’ (p. 32). Understood in this way, irony becomes‘metonymic’ of all situations of exile, of which the Palestinian national experienceis a paradigm example in modern times in that it manifests the followingconditions: ‘being literally out of place, needing to be elsewhere and not havingthat “elsewhere” where one would rather be’ (p. 198). But irony in thePalestinian context performs a lot more than just acting as a trope for thePalestinian national experience. It allows the writer to establish a communionwith his readers by pretending that he is ‘revealing secrets that only they willunderstand’ (p. 37). In addition, this communion, as an act in construction,allows the writer to be critical of the national self without causing psychologicalinjury or national offence. By appearing to take the readers into his confidence,the writer can surreptitiously blur the difference between the two poles of thetextual relationship, especially when irony is laced with fantasy or elements ofstereotypical humour that can engross the reader in the machinations of thewriter. In Palestinian literature, irony creates a ‘community of sympathy’ in such— 8 —www.taq.ir

introductiona way that, ‘when [irony] ignites, all meanings are present, and the one that wasabsent before may acquire the greater significance’ (p. 40). In addition, irony inPalestinian literature accentuates both the sense of national failure and thepossibility of repair through ‘negating negation’ and the therapy that humour sopoignantly generates in the audience.Allegory offers another mode of narration in which the national as a categoryof the social world can come into being through the fictional in its capacity as acultural artefact. Investigating the role of gender, particularly masculinity, intwo canonical texts by Ghassan Kanafani, Amy Zalman emphasises theconstructed nature of national and masculine identity in relation to the twopreoccupations of national loss and national return. In Palestinian nationalism,the two tropes of loss and return are linked to the female figure as the symbol ofa feminised land. This connection between nation and the land through thefemale figure reconciles male love to political resistance, thus allowing the studentof nationalism to investigate the political content of emotional relations. InMen in the Sun, Ghassan Kanafani expresses in allegorical form the military,political and historical failure of the masculine figure through the protagonistAbul Khaizaran whose ‘body has been castrated’. However, what makes GhassanKanafani’s use of allegory so interesting in this novel is that he undermines thefoundations upon which allegory is based: its presumption of ‘obviousness’owing to the ‘shared set of terms’ holding the writer and reader, and the beliefamong readers that the reality ‘to which the fictional text affixes is a stable one’(p. 55). Ghassan Kanafani challenges this assumption of stability by suggestingthat, contrary to the traditional poetics of loss and return, national identity inthe Palestinian context is not isomorphic with masculinity. This rupture impliesa view of Palestinian national identity and destiny that is ‘always shifting,always-in-the-process’ (p. 56). In All That’s Left to You, Ghassan Kanafani doesnot disrupt the structure of male virility he so perceptively depicts in Men in theSun, but offers a vision of the national Self that ‘shifts the focus to the femalebody’ in a new poetics of return (p. 7). In this poetics, women shed theirconstructed negative uni-dimensionality and are characterised as being both‘aggressive and passive, sexually voracious and sexually submissive, redemptiveand shameful, threateningly present and positively absent’ (p. 72).In its most neutral form as an activity in inter-cultural communication,translation acts as a bridge between cultures by making the literature of onenation available to another. In situations of conflict and nation building,literature can create empathy in a secondary audience by locking into its mythsand motifs in ways that make this audience uncomfortable and, consequently,more amenable to explore itself as other or to construct the other as Self.Through translation, literature can creatively blur the boundaries betweennations by creating a space for understanding and empathy that may be absent— 9 —www.taq.ir

yasir suleimanfrom the murky arena of public politics in which national interests dominate. Inher contribution, Kirsten Urban explores how these themes are articulatedthrough the encounter of American international politics students withMahmoud Darwish’s poem ‘Indian Speech’ in translation. Using the NativeAmerican experience with the white man – represented by Columbus – as ametaphor, Mahmoud Darwish, the foremost Palestinian poet, injects thePalestinian national trauma into the North American sphere to render membersof the secondary audience more able to understand and empathise with what itmeans, and how it feels, to be a Palestinian coming face to face with Zionistnational ideology. In doing this, Mahmoud Darwish appeals to the humanity ofthe secondary audience whom he enlists, through translation, as members of his‘extended tribe’, a tribe that rejects injustice and accepts the responsibility ofhelping to put an end to it.The interaction between nation and literature in the Middle East is playedout through translation in another way. Hannah Amit-Kochavi explores this byreference to how the translation of Arabic literature into Hebrew was used,paradoxically, to construct, consolidate and promote a Jewish national identityin Palestine before and after the establishment of the state of Israel. In the earlystages of Jewish immigration to and settlement in Palestine, Zionist Jewishnation building, which was in the main an East European creation, soughtinspiration and authenticity for itself in the native Arab as a ‘practical model’that can replace ‘the miserable diaspora Jew with a brave one’ (p. 103). Literaturewas thought to provide access to this model, hence the early translations ofsome pre-modern Arabic literature to Hebrew. Translations of Palestinianliterature into Hebrew after the establishment of Israel were initially made forgovernment organisations to understand how and what the enemy within thinks.Later, translations were made for the literary market. Hannah Amit-Kochaviexamines the complex reception of these translations in the host Hebrew culture,which looked with surprise at the very existence of this literature and its highquality, a response that underlines the gulf between Israel and its neighbours. Inone case, Anton Shammas’ translation of Imil Habibi’s The Pessoptomist, thereception of the novel revealed ‘covert prejudice, as wonder was expressed at anIsraeli Arab’s (the translator) perfect mastery of Hebrew style’ (p. 106), theassumption being that only a Jew can achieve such mastery of Hebrew as theJewish language. To avoid giving credence to the suffering of the Palestinians,or at least to stunt its credibility, Israeli critics assimilated and compared thissuffering to that of the Jews. In this way, Palestinian suffering was, to use acommon expression, ‘lost in translation’.The point was made above that canon formation is always in a state ofbecoming. This opens up the possibility of reinterpreting canonical nationaltexts in a way that challenges and undermines their received or sanctioned— 10 —www.taq.ir

introductionreadings. Shai Ginsburg does that in his interrogation of Moshe Shamir’s novelHe Walked in the Fields, which is often read as a founding expression of thestruggle of the native Hebrew youth in Palestine to ‘realise Jewish nationality’through the creation of the state of Israel. This consecrated reading of the novelwas in fact read into it by overriding the history of the events that unfold in thenarrative in favour of a defining historical moment – the creation of Israel in1948 – that postdates the events in question. In addition, the consecratedmeaning of the novel and its canonical status do override the mixed reception ithad when it was first published in 1948. Shai Ginsburg’s exploration of these‘infringements’ in the history and reception of the text shows the constructednature of the nation and how literature can be pressed to serve in thisconstruction. By ignoring these ‘infringements’ and by going back to the textitself, Shai Ginsburg reassesses the ascribed heroism of the protagonist and showsit to be bogus. The protagonist does not die in action and he does not sacrificehimself in the defence of his nation. Rather, his death seems like a ‘wish fulfilmentdesigned to overcome personal distress and [not] an outcome of ideologicalconviction or [an] altruistic act of bravery’ (p. 116). Nation building invites‘mythification’ in the literary arena, and the hegemonic reading of He Walked inthe Fields is an element in this mythification.We have pointed out above that, in the Arab milieu, poetry is an importantinstrument in nation building, and that the popularity of poetry in this projectcalls for revising the assumption in nationalism studies that favours the novel asthat literary instrument par excellence. The contribution of literature in thearticulation of national identity varies from context to context and from periodto period within the same context. In Sudan at the beginning of the twentiethcentury, poetry was the main carrier of national meanings in the literary arena.More precisely, this task was in fact the domain of poetry in its oral, not written,mode owing to the low level of literacy in the country. The oral nature of thispoetry meant that both men and women were able to contribute to it and thatthe promulgation of this poetry in public performance was instrumental inenhancing the feeling of ‘unisonality’ between members of the putative nation.During this period, poetry was used for educational purposes, for spreading thenotions of material progress and social development, for helping to imagineSudan in its colonial borders as a free and independent nation, for cleansing theterm ‘Sudanese’ as a national appellation from some of its most negativeconnotations, for making the concept of the Sudanese nation the subject ofpride and heroism, for spreading anti-colonial feeling and, finally, for gettingaround the censorship imposed by the colonial authority. In addition, being themost venerable of all verbal art forms in Arabic, poetry was instrumental incasting an identity for Sudan that was Arab, although the non-Arab among theSudanese population later challenged this Arab hegemony. The musicality and— 11 —www.taq.ir

yasir suleimanrhythmic nature of this poetry enhanced its effectiveness as a tool of nationalmobilisation. However, the rise of journalism and the increasing popularity ofprose writing conspired to sideline poetry later, or at least to reduce its importancein the emerging Sudanese national culture. This was to some extentoccasioned by a move in this culture from oral, dialect-inspired poetry to poetryin the fusha (Standard Arabic), which was seen as the preserve of a smallconstituency of educated Sudanese.Pan-Arab nationalism benefited greatly from the power of poetry. In particular,poetry was used to connect the past with the present for reinforcement,legitimation and inspiration in the nationalist project. This is reflected in theuse George Antonius makes of the first hemistich of Ibrahim al-Yaziji’s (1847–1906) famous ode tanabbahu wa-stafiqu ayyuha al-Æarabu (‘Arise, ye Arabs, andAwake!’) as an epigraph, in beautiful Arabic calligraphy, on the title page of hisclassic study The Arab Awakening: The Story of the Arab National Movement(1938). Using poetry as an instrument of political mobilisation, poets with pannationalistleanings developed a poetics of literary expression in which intertextuality,repetition and the dynamism of the ‘verb’ as a category ofsignification were exploited. Yasir Suleiman investigates these stylistic practicesin relation to the poetry of the Iraqi Nazik al-Mala’ika, who chronicled some ofthe most important themes in the life of the Arabs in the second part of thetwentieth century. This study also considers how the religious and the nationalimpulses in this poetry fuse together to create a tapestry of national spiritualitythat exploits the position of Jerusalem as a potent symbol in the nationalendeavour. This ‘national spirituality’ replaces the earlier secularism of the poetin a way that presages the ascendance of Islam as a primary source of politicalorganisation in the Arab world in the second half of the twentieth century.In The Arab Awakening: The Story of the Arab National Movement, GeorgeAntonius stresses the role culture played in stirring an Arab nationalistconsciousness in the second half of the nineteenth century and the early part ofthe twentieth century, the age of the nahda (modern Arab renaissance). Highlightingthe role of literature during this critical period of modern Arab history,Antonius argues that the ‘Arab awakening’, as he calls it, was ‘borne slowlytowards its destiny on the wings of a nascent literature’ (Antonius 1938: 60).Schools and the press were instrumental in disseminating the Arab nationalistidea during this period. But so was the novel as a new genre of literaryexpression. Albert Hourani highlights the role of the novel in creating an Arabnational consciousness when he comments on the contribution Jurji Zaydan(1861–1914) made in this regard: ‘Jurji Zaydan … did more than any other[writer of the nahda] to create a consciousness of the Arab past, by his historiesand still more by his series of historical novels, modelled on those of Scott andcreating a romantic image of the past as Scott’s had done’ (1983: 277). In spite— 12 —www.taq.ir

introductionof this, critical discussions of how the novel promoted the nationalist idea in theArab Middle East are sketchy. This is partly because of the lack of data on the‘circulation’ of the novel, the ‘constitution of reading publics’ (p. 130) and theway literary expressions of the nationalist idea, whether cultural or territorial incharacter, are interpreted and internalised by individuals as socio-politicalagents.These difficulties notwithstanding, Jeff Shalan investigates how MuhammadHusayn Haykal’s Zainab and Tawfiq al-Hakim’s ÆAwdat al-ruh (Return of theSpirit), two of the most important novels in the canon of Egyptian nationalliterature, offered a vision of Egypt in which the participation of the peasantryin constructing the nation is problematised at the level of national discourse. InZainab, this participation is circumscribed in two ways. On the one hand, thepeasantry are said to be able to contribute to constructing the nation to theextent that their contribution responds to the needs of the community. On theother hand, the peasantry can do this only if they yield their agency to an eliteclass whose ethos is definitely male-oriented. This analysis in the novel applieswith equal force to the participation of women in nation building, who are saidto be ‘doomed to tradition’, and therefore pre-modernity, ‘without the leadershipof a male intellectual elite’ (p. 143). In ÆAwdat al-ruh, Tawfiq al-Hakimtackles the concepts of solidarity and national unity and focuses them aroundthe notion of an Egyptian territorial nationalism that is rooted in the ancientpast, with the peasantry as its objectified symbol: ‘If the towns and cities ofEgypt are to unite in the name of a single nation, they must seek to reclaim that“pure heart”, the ancient Egyptian spirit of solidarity that resides … with thepeasantry’ (p. 152). Tawfiq al-Hakim further believes that for national unity tobe realised, the Egyptians must oppose ‘the remnants of Ottomanism, theencroachment of European values, and deleterious effects of wealth on thecommunity’ (p. 150). Clearly, al-Hakim offers a more optimistic, albeit morepopulist, vision of the Egyptian nation than does Haykal. Jeff Shalan concludeshis consideration of Zainab and ÆAwdat al-ruh by saying that ‘these two texts notonly represent the dominant focus and trajectory of the nationalist thought ofthe period; they also provide valuable insight into the rhetorical appeal as wellas the ideological limits and contradictions, of the territorialists’ nation buildingproject’ (see Suleiman 2003 for a discussion of Egyptian nationalism).Nationalism is based on ideas of solidarity and unity. By the same token,nationalism does not encourage diversity and heterogeneity. These impulses innationalism operate in politics as they do in the cultural arena. In the MiddleEast, the rise of Arab nationalism in the nineteenth and twentieth centurieshad an ecological impact on existing cultures and their expressions in literature.Thus, the diversity that once existed in the Ottoman and Mediterranean worlds,with their rich tapestries of languages and ethnicities, gave way to homogenising— 13 —www.taq.ir

yasir suleimanpressures which grew less and less tolerant of cultural expressions that werejudged schismatic. Peter Clark deals with this aspect of Arab nationalism,pointing out that it marginalises cultural voices that in the past had their ownlegitimate niche in society. However, the picture is not all negative accordingto Peter Clark. Post-colonialism and post-modernity have stepped into thebreach, as it were, and created conditions that promoted the emergence of newecologies of cultural diversity in the Arab body-politic. Literature by ‘Arab’writers in languages other than Arabic, particularly literature in the metropolitanlanguages of France and the Anglo-Saxon worlds, has created new zones ofmarginality and diversity. It has also created new categories of cultural productthat defy the imposition of a monochromic taxonomy based on language. It is asthough, by developing in this way, the ecology of diversity started to reassertitself.To capture this new diversity, some critics make a distinction between Arabicliterature as literature composed in Arabic, and Arab literature as literaturecomposed by ‘Arabs’ about Arab themes in a language other than Arabic. Thelatter description may be applied to what Syrine Hout calls the ‘Lebanese exilicnovel’ in this volume. As a category of definition, this novel simultaneouslyexpresses belonging to the nation as a source of ‘stability and centrality’ andalienation from it as a condition of the ‘anxiety and marginality’ of the exile (p.192). As a statement of cultural and national in-betweenness, the exilic novelis, at some deep level, an attempt to reconcile nation and exile psychologicallywithout, however, eliminating the existential difference between them.Memory, particularly nostalgic memory, plays an important part in this reconciliation,as do peculiarities of speech which the exile preserves to express hisattachment to the originary point of departure. Syrine Hout expresses this bysaying that ‘while it may be [physically] easy to extricate oneself from one’shome-country, it is a lot harder to expunge one’s national traits from one’sappearance or psyche’ (p. 197). Exilic nostalgia is not a yearning for a place perse, but for the intense personal relationship that the exile has with that placewhich others call ‘home’ or ‘national homeland’. Thus, the two novels SyrineHout studies, Koolaids by Rabih Alameddine and Unreal City by Tony Hanania,do not portray nation and exile as two antithetical realities, but as ‘realitiescoexisting within the individual, the nation and the host country’ (p. 206).The above discussion, and the chapters that follow, show the rich pickings tobe had from understanding how literature helps construct the nation and howthe nation can shape literature. We offer this volume as an initial step on theroad to developing this understanding in Middle Eastern studies. The volumeexamines poetry and the novel, but does not cover other genres. It delves intohow translation can extend the role of literature in nation building intosecondary settings which may be beyond the intended horizon of the text in its— 14 —www.taq.ir

introductionoriginal language. The volume also shows how cultural diversity can be injectedinto the ecology of nation and literature through emerging forms of expressionwhose hybridity is one of their chief hallmarks. In particular, a comparativeorientation is necessary to extend and refine our understanding of literature andnation. The participation in this of sociologists, political scientists, anthropologists,literary critics and students of nationalism, in disciplinary and crossdisciplinaryactivity, would help yield further insights.— 15 —www.taq.ir

1The Production of Locality in the OralPalestinian Poetry DuelNadia YaqubAt the end of his introduction to Nation and Narration, Homi Bhabha regretsthat he has not included the voices of those who, and I quote, ‘have not yetfound their nation: amongst them the Palestinians.’ Their voices, he goes on tosay, ‘remind us of important questions: When did we become “a people”? Whendid we stop being one? Or are we in the process of becoming one? What do thesebig questions have to do with our intimate relationships with each other andwith others?’ (1990: 7)These questions are, of course, too broad to be addressed in the present article,especially for Palestinians whose varied experience, as a minority group whetherin Israel, under occupation or in diaspora, means that any serious treatment oftheir national identity will be especially complex. Moreover, individual Palestinians,like other people, belong to different groups, enjoy diverse relationshipswith various ethnic, cultural and political entities, and at different times andplaces may express and, indeed, feel differently vis-à-vis their Palestinian-ness.We cannot hope, then, to answer Bhabha’s questions for Palestinians (Whendid they become ‘a people’? When did they stop being one? Are they in theprocess of becoming one, and so on) in any definitive or complete way. Rather,to understand the ‘people-hood’ of Palestinians generally we must begin byconsidering how that notion is engendered locally, among discrete groups ofPalestinians. Towards this end, I will explore how some Palestinians use atraditional poetic genre, namely the oral Palestinian poetry duel, continually tocreate and maintain their Palestinian-ness and to define it, at least amongthemselves, on their own terms.Intimately related to the question of national identity is that of locality, theprocess of locating the subject, a concept discussed at length by ArjunAppadurai in Modernity at Large (1996). Because he is concerned with globalcultural flows and the production of locality on the part of the dispossessed, thede-territorialised and the transient, he is careful to distinguish between locationin a given place which may or may not be coincidental with locality, but whichis not a necessary component of it, and a relationship with place which is a vitalelement of locality (1996: 199). People may define themselves in relation toplaces in which they do not reside, have never resided, and may never reside.— 16 —www.taq.ir

the production of locality in the oral palestinian poetry duelAppadurai describes locality as ‘a complex phenomenological quality, constitutedby a series of links between the sense of social immediacy, the technologies ofinteractivity, and the relativity of contexts.’ What is of interest here isAppadurai’s notion of the fragility of locality. Locality, he says, is ‘ephemeralunless hard and regular work is undertaken to produce and maintain itsmateriality’ (1996: 180). I will be arguing that Palestinians, living and performingin the Galilee, the Triangle and parts of the West Bank are using theirtraditional oral poetic genres as both a tool in that ‘hard and regular work’ and amedium through which their locality can be defined and communicated.I will begin by describing in very general terms the poetry in question. ThePalestinian poetry duel consists of two or more poets who compose and sing inturn, each following strict rules of rhyme, metre, form and musical melody.There are various types of poetry duelling associated with Palestinian weddings.The poetry studied here is typically performed in northern Palestine (TheGalilee, parts of the Triangle, and northern areas of the West Bank). 1 The duelcan be performed in a number of contexts, but is generally associated withpublic celebrations, most often village weddings where it is performed at thegroom’s celebration on the eve of the wedding (the sahrah) as well as on thewedding day itself in conjunction with the wedding procession. The poetry istraditionally a rural phenomenon and is performed by and for men, althoughincreasingly one finds it performed at folk festivals, rallies and other gatheringsthat may include women as well. Performances take place outdoors in a largeopen space. The poets stand facing each other, surrounded by the saff, a ring ofmen usually numbering in the hundreds. The poetry is sung, usually withoutmusical accompaniment.Several types of poetry are performed on any given occasion, and there is noset pattern for their performance. The duel is usually preceded by music anddance. The poetry session will often begin with qusdan (s. qasid), long sung odeswhich are formally similar to the classical Arabic qasidah. This introduction willbe followed by duelling in shorter poetic genres (usually four hemistiches)which the poets trade for anywhere from one to over 100 turns. One form, thefarÆawi, which is always performed extensively at weddings, does not consist of aduel between two poets. Rather, one poet recites to the audience who respondto each line by singing a refrain. Audience participation, in the form ofclapping, dancing, and singing refrains, is an important part of the entireperformance. Indeed, several poets have told me that they could not composewithout an audience. The poets move periodically from one genre to the next,usually spending no more than twenty minutes on any one form. A performanceends as it began, with the recitation of a qasid or other more sombre versesfollowed by music, dancing and the ritual of dressing and shaving the groom.One of the most striking features of the oral Palestinian poetry duel are the— 17 —www.taq.ir

nadia yaqublong stretches of praise and greeting of hosts, guests and their families andvillages. The greetings can occur in any genre and at any time during theperformance. A typical wedding will include a long greeting section during thefirst half of the evening. If there is a debate, insult and boast exchange, orcomposition contest to the performance, this will usually occur during thesecond half of the duel, after a great deal of praise and greeting. However, a lesselaborate greeting section will also occur towards the end of the evening. It isnot uncommon for a performance to consist almost solely of praise and greeting,or for greetings to be interspersed with boasting, description and platitudes.These lengthy passages are generally viewed by both poets and audience as theleast ‘poetic’ sections of a given performance. They generally lack entextuality,that is, they are completely context-dependent in that they are not quotedoutside of the performance context as other, more memorable, lines may be(Bauman and Briggs 1990). Most striking is that many of the lines in thesesections are borrowed directly from the most mundane of phatic exchanges fromPalestinian daily speech. However, as we shall see later, it is within these sectionsof the performance, at least in part as a result of their phaticity, that theproduction of a distinctly Palestinian locality takes place.During the praise and greeting sections, poets may mention a specific eventor accomplishment, but generally the praise and greeting will be generic innature. Often, nothing specific is said about a given family or village. Rather, itis simply welcomed by the poet. Thus, what is said about a particular village orfamily is much less important than the mentioning of the village itself. As aresult, the poetry takes on the character of a list, a list of proper names.Consider, for example, the following excerpt:The youths of the town are around meHere are my family and friendsTo ÆAyn Mahil, my brothersTo al-ÆUzayr and RummanahI came riding my horseLong live Bayt JannWhere did the residents of Maghar go?And all the people of al-MashhadI want to send my greetingsShafa ÆAmr, I callAnd Shafa Hamadah, we greetOur party is a party of entertainmentAnd the Zaynah’s are with us and the Sarur’sWe have light, good lightAnd to Farad and SakhninGod grant a long life to people of JininWe came to the party, we cameAnd the people of the town are around us— 18 —www.taq.ir

the production of locality in the oral palestinian poetry duelAbu ÆAmar, [as dear to us as] our eyesTo Taha I send greetingsGod preserve you, [Kafr] Manda residentsI count on the MercifulOh Ramzi, light of my eyesOh ÆAlam family, strongTo Salih al-ÆAlam, [as dear as] my eyesWhere are you now?Long live the people of Nazareth, the strongAbu Fakhri, [you are] a righteous swordWhere are the TurÆan residents the good peopleThe houses of al-Farash we greetAnd the houses of ÆAtur we greetDayr Hanna and its buildingsAnd ÆArrabah, we come to itNazareth and its peopleWelcome in ÆAylabunThe Dayr al-Asad residents and the QublanThe SaÆad family are well defendedAnd the Hammud family, my brothersWelcome, Bayt Jann.In this excerpt, which in performance lasts approximately three minutes, thepoet mentions twenty-seven Palestinian village and family names. Listing ofPalestinian villages and families is more than just a way of mentioning Palestinianproper names. Appadurai reminds us that naming is a complex and importantact: ‘The large body of literature on techniques for naming places … issubstantially literature documenting the socialization of space and time. Moreprecisely, it is a record of the spatiotemporal production of locality’ (1996: 180).To give a name to a person, object or place is to lay claim to it, to assert one’sright to do so. We name things and places which we own or which we in someway control. Once a name has been given, its repeated use becomes important.A name, like any other word, develops associations and connotations with use.In the case of place names, their continued use over time can give rise tohistorical associations embedded with special meanings for those who use them.Thus, Hittin is for Palestinians irrevocably associated with the famous victory ofSalah al-Din over the Crusaders which took place there. Dayr Yasin brings tomind the massacre of its Palestinian residents in 1948. To utter the Palestiniannames of Palestinian villages in the course of a sahrah, then, is to assert Palestinianpresence in the areas in which wedding participants live and to lay claim totheir right to reside there and make their mark on the landscape. 2To understand fully the import of the Palestinian phenomenon, it must bejuxtaposed against the Israeli policy of renaming Palestinian towns and villagesafter the creation of the state of Israel, a process known in Israel as ‘redeeming— 19 —www.taq.ir

nadia yaqubthe names’ (Swedenburg 1995: 50). 3 Thus, the destroyed town of Al-Saffuriyabecomes Zippori on Israeli maps. æAyn Hawd, which was not destroyed butoccupied and turned into an artists’ colony, has become Ein Hod. 4 Many townsand villages although still populated largely, or even solely, by Palestinians havebeen given new names by the state of Israel as a mark of historical claim to thesites in question. One might have difficulty locating the Palestinian West Banktown of Nablus, for example, unless one knows that the Israeli occupationauthorities have renamed it Shekhem and identify it as such on tourist mapsand road signs. Likewise, the Palestinian town of al-Khalil is given its biblicalname Hebron. Shafa ÆAmr, which contains an old synagogue but has not hadJewish residents since the 1920s, is identified as Shefar Am. For the Israeli state,the attachment to local towns and geographic areas of Hebrew place names,names that resonate with Jewish history in the region, has been a conspicuouspart of its appropriation of the territory identified by these names, and historicaljustification for that appropriation. For Palestinians, the continued use of Palestiniannames rather than Hebrew ones for their villages constitutes a denial ofthis appropriation. Their Palestinian place names are important preciselybecause they resonate with a Palestinian Arab, rather than a Jewish, history ofthe area.Significantly, neither Jewish Israelis nor Palestinians are interested in imposingnames on sites that have no connection with their own history. Manyvillages in the Galilee have neither Jewish residents nor ruins and as a resulthave been allowed to keep their Palestinian names. Similarly, Palestinians donot give names to the Jewish settlements that have been built in the Galileesince 1948. The use by Palestinians of Palestinian place names, then, must notbe seen merely in negative terms as a rejection of the Israeli state or of theJewish presence. Rather, it is most accurately interpreted as an affirmation ofPalestinian history and presence on the land.In this social and political context, the listing of Palestinian place names inthe poetry duels carries a special significance, reminding wedding participants ofthe Palestinian character of the region, of local Palestinian history, and of theirown legitimacy as Palestinian residents on the land. However, just as importantas the presence of the names in the poetry is the way in which they are listed.Listing is a near universal, and unfortunately understudied, phenomenon in oralpoetic traditions. Places and people are listed in the wedding praise songs of theGriots. We find it in Irish ballads and various Polynesian traditions. Perhaps thelists best known in the West are the catalogues in Homer’s epics. Atchitymentions some of the ways in which these catalogues, most notably the catalogueof Achaian ships in Book Two of the Iliad, have been analysed, notingthat the latter serves as a dramatis personae, that it presents a microcosm andprefigure of the Trojan War, and, most importantly, serves to memorialise a— 20 —www.taq.ir

the production of locality in the oral palestinian poetry duel— 21 —period anterior to both the narrating and narrated present whose world of socialupheaval differed markedly from Homer’s. ‘It [that is, the catalogue] mayrepresent Homer’s attempt to define the synthesization of society in a world,unlike his own, which had not yet accomplished it completely’ (1978: 277). 5As fellow bearers of a shared Palestinian identity, participants are alsodefined as a community. In this regard, the Palestinian poetry duel is similar toother folklore genres which serve culturally to bind members of a society. Thephatic nature of many lines is relevant here. Discussion of phaticity is complicatedby a terminological confusion that has existed since Malinowski firstcoined the term in 1923. As Muhawi has pointed out, Malinowski uses the term‘phatic communion’ to refer to both a type of meaningless small talk employedsolely to keep conversation going and to all types of utterances in which ‘ties ofunion are created by a mere exchange of words’ (quoted in Muhawi 1999: 268).Whereas most subsequent research on phaticity has focused on the ‘small talk’,Muhawi, interested primarily in the ‘ties of union’, seeks to divorce the conceptof phatic communion from small talk in his exploration of the phaticity of anexpressive genre, the proverb. The division is necessary to reconcile a contradictionin Malinowski’s own description of phatic communion as ‘a speechevent which does and does not have the ability to act upon the world bycreating and not creating bonds of sympathy and union …’ (Muhawi 1999:268). What is interesting about the Palestinian poetry is that it inserts ‘smalltalk’ within an expressive genre precisely, I would argue, as a means ofexploiting its phaticity. In one performance, for instance, the poet chooses as arefrain the phrase ‘Greet the guest, Abu Ibrahim (hayy al-dayf yabu brahim).’ Inperformance, the saff’s chanting of the refrain alternates with the poet’s offeringof greeting to various guests. By extending greetings to guests, families andvillages, by employing the formulas that are used by Palestinians on a daily basisto greet each other, poets invoke the phaticity that is inherent in thosegreetings, thereby strengthening the bonds of community (and producing thelocality) that emerge from the sahrah.The sense of community that emerges from performance will affect anyonewho attends or participates in the event. Atchity’s analysis of the Homericcatalogues is also relevant here. For Atchity, the catalogue of ships is also aboutsubordinating the individual to the communal in a time of social crisis. ‘Fromthe largest group to the smallest collective … the poet’s emphasis is uponcommunity’ (1978: 277). Moreover, Atchity says, individuals are named asgeneric representatives, usually of the troops that they bring with them.Similarly, the listing of Palestinian villages and family names defines sahrahparticipants as a group, one that is obliquely described in the performance asPalestinian. Furthermore, like the individuals in the Homeric catalogue ofAchaian ships, the mention of Palestinian sahrah participants in the performwww.taq.ir

nadia yaqubance bears a metonymic relationship with the social groups (that is, their familiesand villages) to which they belong. As a result, the list of personal andgeographical names which is the hallmark of the praise sections of the poetryduel serves to extend the Palestinian community created in the performancewell beyond the few hundred men who attend the wedding to all members ofthe families mentioned in the poetry and to residents of all named villages. Thehost village, both as host village and as the home of the largest number of guests,is praised most extensively. Villages and towns in the immediate vicinity of thehost village will also be mentioned repeatedly. As one moves farther away fromthe host village, the pattern of mentioned villages becomes more scattered. Thenaming of villages, then, defines a specific geographic area.Because the lists of names follow the pattern of attendance at the wedding,the place names mentioned are those most closely connected with weddingparticipants. The space created in the poetry is not merely a Palestinian one,but one most intimately tied to their concepts of home, family and belonging.The area defined by a given performance is usually relatively small (for example,the north-central Galilee). However, it is not uncommon for poets to mentionother regions (the Negev, the Triangle, the West Bank and Gaza) in a clearattempt to extend the boundaries of the Arab Palestinian space created in theperformance to include all of historical Palestine. At least some poets, then,seem to be aware of the political significance of their practice, even as theyavoid direct references to Palestinian nationalist sentiments. 6Conspicuously absent from the Palestinian wedding poetry is any mention orallusion to Israel or Israeli culture and society. In his discussion of neighbourhoods,Appadurai notes that every neighbourhood is created against an Other. 7‘… [N]eighborhoods’, he says, ‘are inherently what they are because they areopposed to something else and derived from other, already produced neighborhoods’(1996: 183). The Galilee Palestinian’s Other, the larger (non-Palestinian)Israeli presence, is conspicuously absent from the Palestinian poetry duel. Thecities and settlements which Palestinians see and interact with on a regularbasis, the Hebrew words borrowed into the Palestinian dialect never occur inthe poetry. 8 One might suspect that the art form itself would be resistant to theuse of foreign words, but such is not the case, generally. English words occuroccasionally in the poetry, and the closely related Lebanese poetry duel can alsoinclude English, and more commonly French. Oral poetry from other parts ofthe Arab world also exhibits a great deal of flexibility which allows for theinclusion of foreign borrowings (albeit in an Arabised form). There also seemsto be little resistance to incorporating modern elements into oral Arabic dialectpoetry. 9 Palestinian poets will talk frankly about loudspeakers, bombs, cars andtape recorders in their poetry duels. Current events may arise, although oftenrather obliquely. One cannot argue, then, that the absence from the poetry duel— 22 —www.taq.ir

the production of locality in the oral palestinian poetry duelof Hebrew and of any mention of the Israeli non-Palestinian presence thatsurrounds Galilee residents is due to any generic restrictions.In performance, then, Palestinian poets create an imaginary Palestine, onedefined through both the language of performance (the Palestinian dialect) andthe abundance of Palestinian family and village names as distinctly and purelyPalestinian. But the poetry performance does more than delineate a Palestinianspace; it also connects that space and wedding participants who are locatedwithin it to a larger cultural construct.In most performances there is a distinct thread of military imagery and epithetsthat runs through the evening entertainment. We find that the space which thesaff creates by and for the performance is called al-maydan or al-sahah, termswhich alone mean plaza or square, but which can also refer to the arena of war.The performance space may also be referred to as al-maÆrakah (the battle). Thesahrah itself is called yawm al-maÆrakah (the day of battle) or hima al-haflah (thedefence of the party), while the reciting of poetry is compared with thebrandishing of swords and the piercing of spears. The town in which thewedding celebration occurs may be described as an Arab fortress and great city,the glory of the nation and a protector of virgins. Not surprisingly, a good part ofthe poetry treats the audience’s heroic qualities; they are described as gloriousArabs who have travelled a great distance to attend the celebration. They arereferred to alternatively as carriers of swords or pact-making men, as victorious,loyal knights and horsemen who defeat the aggressor. Known for their generosity,fidelity and trustworthiness, they are protectors in the service of their nation,resolute riflemen, people of honour and fierceness. They are described as bothlions and hunters of lions, men of zeal and firmness, noble freemen and princes,the bearers of banners and flags. Their actions are described as militarymanoeuvre. In a word, they are men of chivalry. Poets describe themselves inmuch the same terms, although they may be even less reserved in their praise.They are the knights of speech with voices like cannons. They comparefavourably to heroic poet warriors and military leaders of the past. They are theleaders of the cavalry, an inspiration to various military heroes, rulers, able toram mountains of rock with their heads. The performance space, then, is abattleground, the saff its heroic Arab warriors who are led by the poets. Thepoetry is their weapon. From the performance, an Arab heroic construct emerges.To understand the importance of this imagery, I turn to Eugene Vance’s workon the Chanson de Roland. Vance describes an identity between the hero of theepic and the jongleur who gives the epic life: 10We know nothing definite about what we commonly call the historical origins of thepoem, but we may be fairly certain that the Roland as we possess it is a coagulation ofdisparate narrative materials that once perpetuated themselves in oral performancesduring which the poet and his heroes would be simultaneously reborn together,— 23 —www.taq.ir

nadia yaqubthanks to the memory and voice of the poet. Thus the heroes of the Roland, like thoseof the Iliad and the Odyssey, speak in the same metrical formulas as the poet; theyemploy the same epithets, the same lists, and they even share the same foreknowledgeof events. The fact that these heroes live only by the memory and thevoice of the poet ensures, in other words, a strong cognitive identification betweenthem, and this is evident in the motivation imputed by the poet to the heroesthemselves. For if it is the antique glory of the hero that animates the voice of thepoet, inversely, it is the commemorative posterity of the singer that inspires the epicblows of the hero. (1993: 380)Vance describes not merely the expression of the poet’s identity through thesong, but the possession of his identity by the actions of the heroes about whomhe sings (1993: 380). The operative factor for Vance is commemoration, whichhe describes as:any gesture, ritualised or not, whose end is to recover, in the name of a collectivity,some being or event either anterior in time or outside of time in order to fecundate,animate or make meaningful a moment in the present. Commemoration is theconquest of whatever in society or in the self is perceived as habitual, factual, static,mechanical, corporeal, inert, worldly, vacant, and so forth. (1993: 374–5)I would like to argue that, like the Chansons de Roland of France in theMiddle Ages, the Palestinian poetry is commemorative of an anterior timeinvested with a ‘Truth’ that is absent from the present (Vance 1993: 375).Vance quotes Vernant on this point:The activity of the poet is oriented almost exclusively toward the past. Not hisindividual past, nor a past generalized as if it were an empty framework independentof the events that have occurred there, but ‘ancient times’ with its own contents andqualities: a heroic age, or still further, a primordial age, the origin of time. (1993:377) 11The poetry not only reflects or relates the events, characters and characteristicsof ‘ancient times’, but has a transforming, revitalising effect on thepresent, the moment of performance, which is characterised by deficiency andlack (1993: 382).How is this transformation realised in the Palestinian context? We havealready seen how the poetic performance is characterised by an overarchingheroic construct. We note that the heroic construct created in the performanceis defined as explicitly Arab and bedouin, harking back to an age in whichwarfare was conducted with horses, swords and lances, when battles occurred onthe more human level of single combat, when heroism was clearly defined andhence attainable. An idealised ‘ancient time’, whether it be the semi-historicaltimes of the pre-Islamic hero-poet ÆAntara, that of the Bani Hilal of the Arabconquests in Africa, or a more generic, mythical past is clearly evoked throughthe performance.— 24 —www.taq.ir

the production of locality in the oral palestinian poetry duelThis heroic time evoked in the performance contrasts starkly with thepresent in which most Palestinians in Israel lead their lives, a present characterisedby loss of honour and land, by cultural marginalisation in a society whosedominant culture is not Arab, by political and economic disempowerment.Their lives unfold in a distinctly un-heroic context, their present characterisedby Vance’s deficiency and lack. There is a disjuncture, then, between the presentof the performance, what I will call the signifying context, and the signifiedcontext created mimetically within the performance.Not only do participants in the wedding sahrah face the wide gap thatseparates the two contexts of the performance, but through the speech acts ofthe poets they are prevented from forgetting for any length of time the existenceof both contexts. Herein lies the transforming nature of the poetry. It is notmerely the evocation of an ideal Arab, mythic past, but its intimate linkage ona number of linguistic levels with the un-heroic present which effects thetransformation. To begin with, the Palestinian wedding eve performance ischaracterised by an inordinate amount of commentary that is in some waymetacommunicative. 12 In any given performance, approximately 25 per cent ofall lines will be ‘meta-poetic’. That is, they are explicitly about the poets aspoets, their poetry or the performance. Poets boast of their fame and compositionalskill, of the beauty and force of their verses, of the distance they havetravelled to attend the celebration, and of the excellence of the sahrah itself.Another 30 per cent are meta-performative, meaning they include specificmention of the guests at the sahrah and their home villages, calls to the saff, andpraise for the excellence of the sahrah itself. A significant percentage of theselines are greetings and as such are, at least in their use in their quotidiancontext, phatic. Thus, more than half of the lines of a typical performance referto the signifying context.Other oral poetic traditions in the Arab world also contain a high frequencyof metacommunicative or phatic utterances. Both Reynolds, writing about theoral epic in Egypt, and Caton, describing oral poetry in Yemen, also note thephenomenon in the oral poetry they study. Reynolds describes the way in whichthe mood of the evening affects the performance’s text:Part of the dynamic of the sahrah context is the weaving of elements from theperformance situation first into the performance text and then back into the sahrahsetting. Over and over again an evening gathering develops around an idea or a moodthat is reiterated in different forms. To some extent this quality is found in anyhuman dialogue or conversation, but the sahrah context seems to invite suchparticipation in a more formalized, more performance-oriented manner. (1993: 185)Caton expresses the same idea in terms of the speech acts inherent to thepoetry’s verbal formulas:— 25 —www.taq.ir

nadia yaqubBesides its [that is, the formula’s] poetic function of building a regular metre, itperforms various speech acts whose primary relevance is for the wedding celebration.These are quintessentially social speech acts, among them the greeting of members ofthe audience; thus, social interaction becomes poeticized … (1990: 99) 13On the surface, these direct references to the performance context are similarto the metanarrative discourse that can occur in storytelling (Bauman andBriggs 1990: 69). There are a number of such devices at the disposal of a skillednarrator. Tellers may, for example, interject into their narration commentsabout the credibility of the tale (‘Now you may not believe this, but …’) ormake deliberate comparisons between elements in the tale and their counterpartsin the performance situation (‘It was about as tall as that tree over there’).Such commentary draws the audience members’ attention to the here and now,transporting them momentarily from the mimetic world into which they havebeen psychologically drawn by the narration, back to the present of theperformance. One can argue that such language operates as a trope similar toliterary allusion in that it results in the coexistence of two contexts for a singleutterance (Conte 1986: 38–9; Riffaterre 1983: 120). 14 In the Palestinian poetryperformance, however, in which more than half the lines explicitly mentionelements of the performance context, something very different is happening.The poetry performance does not transport the audience psychologically to afictional world and then jerk them back to the present through metacommunicativecommentary. Indeed, to a large extent, we can argue that theperformance itself becomes a central theme of the performance. There is somuch ‘meta’ discourse in the poetry that the audience is never permitted toforget exactly where they are (at a wedding sahrah) and what they are doing(celebrating the approaching nuptials of their friend or kinsman, the groom).The performance context is never allowed to slip into the background, butforced to be present in the minds of participants even as an Arab heroic contextis constantly evoked through the language of chivalry.Here, too, phaticity has a role to play. Muhawi, following Babcock, has notedthe phatic function of ‘meta’ discourse. Like the greetings mentioned above(and, indeed, as we have already noted in the context of performance, thegreetings are themselves metacommunicative) the ‘meta’ discourse that permeatesthe poetry not only binds the sahrah participants to the poetry in performance,but also serves to bind them psychologically to one another. The simultaneity ofthe two contexts is in part created through the equation between performanceand battle that is explicitly enunciated in the poetry itself. In a number of lines,poetry and performance are specifically linked to battle. The poets are the‘knights of speech’, their poetry is a weapon – ‘the sword of Æataba’ – whichserves as ‘a support on the day of battle’. Through the performance an identity iscreated between laylat kayf (a night of enjoyment) and yawm al-maÆrakah (the— 26 —www.taq.ir

the production of locality in the oral palestinian poetry duelday of battle), both of which are formulaic epithets for the wedding sahrah.The nature of the speech acts employed in the poetic performance also helpsto create this identity. The typical Palestinian wedding poetry performanceincludes a great deal of what Jacobson calls conative language, and what Hymesdefines as directive language, that is, language directed at the audience(Jacobson 1960: 355; Hymes 1974: 23). Some lines consist of instructions to thesaff or the audience as a whole, and others of explicit performatives. I have beenusing the term participant to refer to audience members, not only because of theactive role that the saff plays in the performance, but also because so much ofthe typical performance consists of this type of direct address. In this sense, thePalestinian wedding poetry duel differs markedly from a theatrical performancein which audience members stand outside of the interaction that makes up theperformance. As the addressees of so many lines, they are drawn directly intothe context created by the poetry, that is, into the heroic Arab construct.The creation of this heroic Arab construct in performance and its relationshipto the transforming nature of that construct add a complexity to the notionof locality which Appadurai does not address. Appadurai discusses the contextsof locality primarily in terms of the relationships that can exist betweenmultiple neighbourhoods in a non-hierarchical setting and the limitations onlocality production that can occur when a nation-state imposes itself ontoneighbourhoods. Speaking of the Yanomami villages of Brazil, for example, hesays that ‘while they are still in a position to generate contexts as they produceand reproduce their own neighbourhoods, they are increasingly prisoners in thecontext-producing activities of the nation-state, which makes their own effortsto produce locality seem feeble, even doomed’ (1996: 186). Palestinianresidents of Israel find their locality similarly challenged by the activities of thestate of Israel, but what of the wider context of the Arab world? Throughcreation of the Arab heroic construct, we find Palestinians voluntarily definingtheir locality to a larger cultural entity – the Arab nation. In the process, it isIsrael, a non-Arab society, which is marginalised, at least for the duration of theperformance.Most important is the way that sahrah participants are drawn into thesignified context. They are not made temporarily to forget their presence at thesahrah and identify with characters in a fictional world created by the poetry.Indeed, the poets through the use of conative language and relentless referencesto the performance context prevent anything of the sort from happening.Rather, the fictional world of chivalry created by the overarching heroic Arabconstruct that characterises the poetry is brought squarely into the present ofthe performance. The wedding sahrah itself is transformed into a heroic, Arabevent, and the participation of poet and audience is redefined as a heroic, Arabact. We are reminded of Genette who, in discussing a very different sort of— 27 —www.taq.ir

nadia yaqubverbal art, says, ‘to keep his thoughts fixed on two moments at the same time isalmost always, for the Proustian creature, to consider them identical and tomerge them …’ (1980: 143). Like Marcel in The Remembrance of Things Past,Palestinians at the wedding sahrah are asked to keep their thoughts fixed on twocontexts, and like Marcel, they succeed in doing so by rendering them identical.The distance between the signifying context and the signified context in thePalestinian case – between the present of performance and the mythic pastcreated mimetically within the performance – is psychologically removed.Situated squarely within the heroic Arab construct, the sahrah itself becomesa heroic context, and to participate in the sahrah becomes a heroic deed. If thelists of Palestinian family and village names create an imaginary Palestinianspace, the heroic construct created in performance defines that space as Arab.By defining the scope and nature of their locality through the poetry, Palestinianscan, at least for the duration of the performance, reject their marginalposition within Israeli society and situate themselves and their Palestinian-nessat the core of an Arab cultural centre.Myerhoff describes a similar transformation in her discussion of ritual:… The invisible referents or realities to which ritual symbols point become ourexperience and the subject may have the sense of glimpsing, or more accurately,knowing the essential, accurate patterns of human life, in relation to the natural andcosmic order. (1990: 246)This reminds us of Geertz’s comment that rituals have the effect of fusing thedreamed-of and the lived-in order. Thus transformation is a multidimensionalalteration of the ordinary state of mind, overcoming barriers between thought,action, knowledge and emotion. The invisible world referred to in ritual is mademanifest and the subject placed within it.Indeed, it is within the ritual nature of the Palestinian poetry duel that therelationship between locality and phaticity lies. The Palestinian poetry duelitself displays many of the features of ritual as defined by Schechner, includingefficacy, link to an absent Other, symbolic time, audience participation andcollective creativity (Beeman 1993: 378). At the same time, the greeting sectionsof the performance borrow heavily from another set of rituals from Palestiniansociety, that is, the rituals of phatic ‘small talk’, and most particularly the ritualsof phatic greetings (Coupland et al. 1992: 212). In other words, embedded withinthe larger ritual of the wedding eve performance are the small rituals ofphaticity. And it is precisely within ritual that Appadurai finds the ‘hard andregular work’ that must be carried out to produce locality. ‘[S]pace and time arethemselves socialized and localized through complex and deliberate practices ofperformance, representation, and action’ (1996: 180). Phaticity, then, works toproduce locality.It is no accident that an increased popularity for the Palestinian oral poetry— 28 —www.taq.ir

the production of locality in the oral palestinian poetry duelin the 1990s has coincided with more active participation on the part ofPalestinians in Israeli politics. But the poetry performance is not essentiallyabout politics. In part through the work of producing locality in their weddingeve celebrations, Palestinians are in a continual process of becoming. WhenJews begin to attend Palestinian weddings, then the lists of names that are socentral to the poetry will include Hebrew names as well.notes1. Poetry duelling of one sort or another is widespread throughout the Arab world,especially in the context of weddings. See Caton for a detailed description of poetryduelling among the Khawlani tribe of Yemen. The Galilee and the Triangle arewithin the geographical borders of the present state of Israel.2. Bowman (p. 33) recognises the importance of place names in Palestinian identityformation, although he does not discuss the relationship between the act of namingand the affirmation of a cultural or political identity.3. Swedenburg notes that in 1990, Israeli government-run television and radio bannedthe use of Palestinian names for towns and villages in the Occupied Territories,replacing them with their biblical equivalents (p. 74).4. See Slyomovics for a discussion of the renaming of this village and subsequentrelationship between the original village (now Ein Hod) and the new ÆAyn Hawdwhere original inhabitants of the Palestinian village now live.5. Atchity also draws an interesting comparison between the catalogue and genealogy.Since the Palestinian lists include not only village names, but also families, thesuggestion of genealogy is also strongly present here. Palestinians are praised withinthe context of their ancestral and familial affiliations: sons of Palestinian families,who are also sons of ÆAdnan, IsmaÆil, and Ibrahim.6. That Palestinian Israelis are aware of the political implications of the village lists canbe seen from the following incident. At one duel performed shortly after theestablishment of the Palestinian Authority in Jericho, a poet included that city inhis listing of Palestinian towns, inciting considerable excitement among the audience.‘Jericho, did he say Jericho?’, ‘Jericho? We’ll spend tonight in prison!’ were some ofthe comments the mention elicited.7. Appadurai defines neighbourhoods as the existing social forms in which locality isrealised (p. 179).8. My corpus of sixty hours of recordings includes one mention of the city of Haifa, amixed Arab/Jewish city. Israel and the Jewish settlement town of Karmiel are eachmentioned once, both times by a poet who, during his interview with me, expressedgreat satisfaction as a citizen of the State of Israel.9. See, for instance, the vocabulary of the poetry cited in Caton (1990), Bailey (1974)and Sowayan (1985).10. Atchity makes a similar point about Homer and his relationship with Agamemnonin the Iliad. ‘By drawing attention to the role of the poet of memory, finally, Homerequates himself with Agamemnon. As the king protects and serves the communityin time, the poet assures the interests of human continuity’ (p. 278). Reynolds makes— 29 —www.taq.ir

nadia yaquba similar argument in his study of the relationship between poet and text in the oralArabic epic, sirat bani hilal.11. Atchity’s interpretation of Homer’s Iliad also rests in part on the notion that thethematic continuity of the work relies at least in part on the importance of theevents as remembered.12. In studying the poetry duels of the Gayo in the highlands of Sumatra, Bowen notes asimilar use of metacommunicative discourse (p. 36).13. Interestingly, Caton attributes what he perceives to be a marked linguistic differencebetween the baah and the epic genres like that studied by Reynolds at least in part tothe narrative nature of the latter. However, as Reynolds’ study shows, a narrativegenre can also be characterised by a significant amount of metacommunicativelanguage.14. In fact, any meta-level commentary can be seen as allusive since by definition itintroduces into a given discourse elements from a context at one level removed fromthat discourse.— 30 —www.taq.ir

12Irony and the Poetics of Palestinian ExileIbrahim MuhawiNo, I do not have an exileTo say that I have a homeland– Mahmoud Darwish 1The subject of this study was inspired by the seemingly unanswerable questionasked by a colleague at a conference. ‘Where is Palestine, then?’ she wanted toknow. The more thought I gave it, the more I realised Palestine has remained aquestion whose answer was like the Hindu meditational practice called ‘neti,neti’. Whenever a thought comes into the mind, you negate it by saying toyourself ‘neti, neti’, meaning ‘not this, not this’. Thus Palestine is not the WestBank, and it is not Gaza; and it is not the West Bank and Gaza combined. It isnot the Palestinian Authority; and it is not Israel. It is not even historicPalestine except as a dream. Palestine exists in exile as a signifier whose signifieddoes not match its shape or magnitude. To a large extent then, this nation existsin the dream of signification projected on it by its members because thehistorical process that would create a correspondence between signifier andsignified seems to be endlessly postponed. Like the Buddhist Self, it is somethingthat is, and is not; it is both present and absent. More than anything else, it isperhaps a metaphysical condition resembling Hamlet’s dilemma. ‘Nothing is leftfor us,’ says Mahmoud Darwish, ‘except the weapon of madness [al-junun]. Tobe, or not to be. To be, or to be. Not to be, or not to be. Nothing is left exceptmadness’ (1995: 118). The difference is that Hamlet faced only the firstquestion, while the Palestinians, as we shall see in the course of this chapter, arefaced with all possible combinations of being and not being. Homeland is notthis, or that; not the negation of this, or that; or, ultimately, the negation of thatnegation – as we can see from the epigraph to this chapter.The Palestinian people entered European history through the event that ledto the establishment of the state of Israel on the land of Palestine in 1948. Thisact of negation, referred to by the Palestinians as the nakba (catastrophe), resultedin their fragmentation, dispersal and exile. The consciousness of exile is anintense awareness of absence, of being present where one does not necessarilywant to be. Edward Said encapsulates this state in the ironic double-entendre ofhis autobiography’s title, Out of Place. An exile is a present-absent, or an absent-— 31 —www.taq.ir

ibrahim muhawipresent, person. He is out of place regardless where he finds himself, and he nolonger has a place he can call his own. In other words, an exile by definitionlives in a state of existential irony, where the lived present is characterised by alonging for an absent meaning. The exiled Palestinians who populate therefugee camps of Gaza, the West Bank, Lebanon, Jordan and Syria exemplifythe state of the present-absent par excellence. UN General Assembly Resolution194 gives them the right of return to the part of Palestine that has now becomeIsrael, and to the extent that they live in that expectation they remain presentwhere they are but absent from their homeland. 2Whether or not the negation of the negation of Palestine will amount tosomething historically positive remains to be seen, but it does point to a heightenedsense of irony in Palestinian literature. ‘Time has taught me wisdom,’Darwish declares in a recent publication, ‘and history has taught me irony’(2000: 12). The rupture in the middle of this expression makes room for aninterpretive balance between the two parts such that one elucidates the other.We can draw this equation out by rephrasing the expression thus: ‘Wisdom is totime, as irony is to history.’ In other words, irony is a form of historical wisdom.If history has made an exile of you, then a poetics based on irony is a suitablestrategy for coping with that exile, for it allows you to reinterpret your exile increative ways, transforming it back into history as literature.Needless to say, the literature on irony is immense, and there are almost asmany theories of irony as there are theories of literature. To some extent, themodern movement in literary criticism which began with the rise of NewCriticism early in the twentieth century saw a vital connection between ironyand literature: for this criticism irony was at the heart of practically all literaryexperience. And, as Wilde (1981) argues, irony is one of the shaping principlesof post-modern literary theory and practice as well. It is perfectly understandablewhy Darwish should say that history has taught him irony, for the verystructure of irony resembles the condition of exile in that it embodies a rhetoricof presence and absence. In an ironic text an absent meaning is waiting to risefrom a present one. Booth (1974), Muecke (1969) and S’hiri (1992) and otherstudies clearly demonstrate that the classical rhetorical definition which sawirony as a form of semantic antiphrasis, or conveying ‘the opposite of what oneactually says’ (Perelman and Olbrechts-Tyteca 1969: 207), has long been shownas too narrow. In moving away from the purely semantic notion of an oppositemeaning to that of an absent one, my understanding of irony construes antiphrasisin the widest possible sense as a condition of existential contradiction.This connection between irony and the Palestinian condition is the mostconcise expression of a Palestinian poetics of exile that I know of, and it willprovide an existential/historical basis for my analysis of irony in threePalestinian writers: Samih al-Qasim, Nasri Hajjaj and Imil Habibi.— 32 —www.taq.ir

irony and the poetics of palestinian exileAs Hutcheon notes, there is ‘little disagreement among critics that theinterpretation of irony does involve going beyond the text itself … to decodingthe ironic intent of the coding agent’ (1985: 52–3). Beyond that, criticalperspectives diverge. Studies of irony tend to fall into broad categories, such asthe philosophical/existential (Kierkegaard), the taxonomic (Muecke), therhetorical (Booth), the pragmatic (Hutcheon, Sperber and Wilson), the stylistic(S’hiri), the phenomenological (Wilde), and the perspective that sees irony as aprinciple of structure in literature (Frye, Brooks). These differ widely in approachas well as in the understanding of irony, and (Wilde excepted) tend to disengageirony from specific historical contexts, though several have commented on thegeneral irony of existence. Frye, for example, notes that the ‘archetype of theinevitably ironic is Adam, human nature under sentence of Death’ (1957: 42);similarly Booth, ‘If the universe is ultimately an absurd multiuniverse, then allpropositions about or portraits of any part of it are absurd …’ (1974: 267); andMuecke, ‘We do not need to imagine either a malignant or an indifferent deityin order to see the world as in an ironic predicament …’ (1969: 150). Mueckeaptly distinguishes between verbal irony and what he calls ‘situational irony’ inthe one book (1970: 28) and the ‘irony of events’ in the other (1969: 102). ‘It isironic’, he notes, ‘when we meet what we set out to avoid, especially when themeans we take to avoid something turn out to be the very means of bringingabout what we sought to avoid’ (1969: 28). Certainly the Palestinian people didnot choose to be exiled. The loss of the land and subsequent dispersal cameabout in spite of all Palestinian efforts to avoid them. The harder the Palestinianpeople have worked to get back to their homeland, the farther away it seemsto get. With Palestine seen as the desired centre of resolution for conflicts inEurope that had nothing to do with the Palestinian people, and world powerslike the British Empire and the United States ranged against them, it is notdifficult to see why Palestinian writers might see, not the universe but historyitself as absurd. As Said notes, ‘What to many Palestinians is either an incomprehensiblecruelty of fate or a measure of how appalling are the prospects forsettling their claim can be clarified by seeing irony as a constitutive factor intheir lives’ (1991: 5).I have already touched on the subject of irony in Palestinian literature in myintroduction to Memory for Forgetfulness (pp. xii–xiii). This is a more extensivetreatment of the subject, and its purpose is to focus on irony as a practice thatunites literary form with historical experience – in this case the exilic presenceabsenceexperience of the Palestinian people. This approach highlights theimportance of specific contexts to the study of irony because to a large extentthe absent meaning depends on, and arises from, them. Following Hutcheon(pp. 52–3) and others, I also insist on the pragmatic dimension of irony. Thefirst official designation of Palestinians as ‘present-absent’ was used by the— 33 —www.taq.ir

ibrahim muhawinascent state of Israel to refer to that segment of the population who ended upaway from their villages when the fighting stopped, and whose lands it wantedto confiscate. They were absent from their property, but were still present in thecountry. Not having been allowed to return to their homes these groups ofPalestinians thus constitute an internal diaspora, just as the refugees who liveoutside the homeland constitute an external one. The ‘present-absent’ labelapplies to all Palestinian Arab citizens of Israel as well, whether or not they formpart of that internal diaspora. They live in an internal exile, caught on thehorns of a dilemma (to which I will return in my discussion of Habibi). The landon which they live is their homeland, but the dominant culture is not theirculture and the country is not their country. Their civic status as citizens iscompromised by the fact of their not being Jews. Referring to his ambiguousstatus in the country, Darwish describes this state of affairs thus: ‘Here, I’m nota citizen, and I’m not a resident. Then where, and who am I?’ Later in the samepassage, he asks, ‘Am I here, or am I absent? Give me an expert in philosophy sothat I can prove to him I exist’ (1973: 94).The present-absent contradiction has been a dominant feature of Westerndiscourse about Palestine since at least the middle of the nineteenth century. Ithas been used to de-legitimise the national rights of the Palestinian people bymaking them absent when and where they should be seen as being present. Thefirst such example in modern times was the manifesto of the First ZionistCongress (1897) in Basel: ‘The aim of Zionism is to create for the Jewish peoplea home in Eretz-Israel secured under public law.’ Here, though the reference isto Palestine, the country and its indigenous people have been made totallyabsent. The Balfour Declaration issued by the British Government in 1917adopted a modified version of this manifesto in favouring ‘the establishment inPalestine of a national home for the Jewish people.’ 3 In referring to the Arabmajority in negative terms as the ‘existing non-Jewish communities’, theDeclaration defines them as a minority consisting of disparate groupings, andnot as a people. And, in identifying them negatively as non-Jews, the Declarationadopts the rhetorical strategy of making them absent while they are stillpresent, thus turning them into a diasporic people while they are still livingin their homeland and long before the establishment of the state of Israel in1948.Absentification, of course, is a common strategy used by colonisers intentupon dispossessing indigenous people of their land. As Rundstrom et al. note inrelation to the experience of Native American tribes:Dispossession is more than a physical act, for it occurs in rhetorical strategies thatanticipate the action. Randy Bertolas (1998: 98–111) examined such a strategy inthe redefinition of Cree places as ‘wilderness.’ He argued that imagining a place asempty of humans, although only a dream, allows the coloniser-dreamer to then— 34 —www.taq.ir

irony and the poetics of palestinian exileseparate people from their own socially constructed landscapes, causing seeminglyless pain for the coloniser. (2000: 91)In this light then, the Basel Programme and the Balfour Declaration arecomprehensible as rhetorical strategies that anticipate actual dispossession. 4Even before Balfour this formation was helped along by religious travellerswho came to Palestine in the nineteenth century, armed with the Bible andintent on equating the historical present with a mythical past. In innumerablebooks and pamphlets, these travellers opened a discursive space for the laterconquest of Palestine. A typical example in this respect is William Thompson’sThe Land and the Book (1886). In this book the relationship between historicalreality and myth is turned upside down, or inside out. As the author trudgesthrough the land, meticulously describing the scenery, he translates the actuallandscape unfolding before him into the mythico-historical perspective of theBible. Standing before the gates of Jaffa, for example, the author calls upon OldTestament past to validate the present: ‘I remember that righteous Lot,’ he saysin one instance, ‘intent on deeds of hospitality, sat in the gate of Sodom towardsthe close of the day, somewhat as these Arabs are now seated’ (Vol. 1: 28). Heremyth and legend take the place of history. Between the book and the land thepeople – ‘these Arabs’ – disappear, or at best are turned into curious anthropologicalspecimens.Irony in Palestinian literature redresses the imbalance in the equation ofpresence and absence in a number of ways, most of which are based on some sortof reversal – reversal of course being the condition that creates the presentabsentstate of affairs in the first place. The simplest reversal is to negate thenegation by means of a heroic or mock-heroic affirmation. Thus Samih al-Qasim’s ‘Persona Non Grata’ (shakhs ghayr marghuub fihi), the poem whose name(in English and Arabic) is also the title of the collection in which it occurs,assumes an ironic heroic tone to reflect the Palestinian dilemma. The poet isproud to be a persona non grata. In this poem, the poet’s persona is a heroic figurereferred to only in the first person pronoun, which we assume to be the collectivevoice, or the figure, of the Palestinian people – a figure which stretches acrossthe expanse of the Arab world, with its head in one place and the different partsof the body in other places: ‘My head is here and my hands are there/Betweenme and me, nations have passed.’ This figure suspended in place and time is anembodiment of the present-absent paradox, as we can see from the followinglines:There is no solution in the solution, peace or warI am the riddleI am the songs, the ears of wheatI am the rocket throwers I am the shellsNo good other than me— 35 —www.taq.ir

ibrahim muhawiNo evil other than meI am the possible impossible the ugly the beautiful the short the tall the outsiderenemy the honourable friend I am the muddy brook the strong the abject therogue the true the gross the heavy the fat the thin the sands the palm treethe lightning the floods the deserts the ruinsI am the skyscrapers the clouds the absence the solution the ascentThe descentI am the possible impossible. (1986: 117)The possible-impossible, the riddle, is another version of the present-absentand the successful failure. The irony comes from the heroic tone, the assumptionof god-like qualities by the heroic figure – qualities that enable him toembrace both sides of a contradiction at once. Muecke notes that ‘overstatementplays a very large part in ironic writing’ (1981: 81). The ironic reversalhere consists in the heroic, or mock-heroic, affirmation that the weak is thestrong. We can also find strains of this magnification of the Palestinian self inother work by al-Qasim as well as in many of Darwish’s poems. There is anironic reversal here as well, though it is easy to miss if one were not paying closeattention, and that reversal consists in equating the book (Persona Non Grata)with a person. Samih al-Qasim makes us painfully aware of this synecdochicreplacement of the person by the text, a replacement that expresses itself in atextual state of hyphenated identity. It is as if he is saying, ‘this book is a texthyphen-person’,and by the very fact that you are reading it you are sharing inthe experience of its contradiction and redeeming its non-grata status.While al-Qasim embraces both sides of the presence-absence equation,glorying in embodying a riddle with mythical dimensions, an opposite type ofironic reversal is manifest in the work of Nasri Hajjaj, who was born in thediaspora at Ain el-Hilwe refugee camp in southern Lebanon. The Hajjaj self ismore tenuous than that portrayed by Darwish or al-Qasim; more often than notit is devoured by the idea of a nation that has eaten so many young men withoutbeing born. In a series of very short stories that clearly reflect the influence ofZakaria Tamer and Franz Kafka, Hajjaj employs fantasy ironically to re-enactthat annihilation. Here is the complete text of a story called ‘A Hungry Orange’.I am a martyr. I was killed in a small war for the sake of the homeland. Before enemieskilled me, I used to love many-coloured butterflies – friends of red, yellow, white, andpurple flowers. I loved birds that sang in open skies. And I loved oranges. After lifeleft me I started to dream in death. I climbed an orange tree to reach for the sky andgather a star, but a hungry orange saw me and devoured me.In front of a crowd of people a grim-looking man stood up and said, ‘The martyrwas a hero.’ Then he drank a glass of orange juice.In al-Qasim the Palestinian ego is ironically magnified to such an extent thatdeath becomes heroic, but in Hajjaj there is no hero. If we were to attach a— 36 —www.taq.ir

irony and the poetics of palestinian exilelabel, we would have to describe him as an anti-hero. Even that seems to besomething of an exaggeration, for he is not left in peace, even in death. Hajjaj’sstory exemplifies another side of the reversal, which forms the basis for irony;the eater is eaten, not only once but three times, first by the struggle for thehomeland when he was alive, then by the orange after his death and finally bythe man drinking the orange juice. He is consumed by what he loves; he hasbeen made triply absent. The irony lies in the fact that the present is madeabsent by the homeland (al-watan) – the very thing that was supposed to bringabout a change in the equation from present-absent to present-present.The issue of martyrdom is certainly a sensitive one, especially in a societythat values children so highly, and one cannot deal with it directly withoutoffending. The indirect path of irony is essential here. The phatic dimension ofirony allows writers to establish a community of harmony with readers, takingthem into their confidence and pretending they are revealing secrets that onlythey will understand. I think al-Qasim’s ironic exaggeration is meant to servethis purpose. Its communicative force is to challenge the readers to a duel inhyperbolic speech, or boasting. The phatic element in irony also allows thewriter to criticise without seeming to do so, especially when the element offantasy is added, as in the work of Hajjaj. The ironic translation of the almostsacred notion of martyrdom in terms of the atavistic activity of devourmentlends Hajjaj’s fiction a psychoanalytical significance that connects it with thedomain of the dream and the unconscious. 5 In another story, the writer introducesa variation on the theme of devouring that amounts to cannibalism. Inthe story, called ‘Soup for the Children’, the writer’s persona goes before dawnto the Martyr’s cemetery on the Day of the Martyr in order to wash his brother’sgrave and lay flowers on it, only to find that thousands of others are alreadythere waiting by the locked gate to do exactly the same thing. Then dawnbreaks, bringing birdsong and butterflies. We have already encountered thisironic constrast between the freedom of the butterflies and the silence of thegrave in the story I cited above. In ‘Soup for the Children’, when the sun comesup the restless crowd rush into the cemetery, smash up the graves and dig up thebones of the dead. Then they walk out in a huge procession, each carrying thebones of their dead martyr in the black plastic bags that are used for the disposalof rubbish. The crowd then walk down Martyr Street first, and from there intoLiberty Avenue, until they reach Independence Square. There they halt, notknowing what to do. Then the voice of a man rises above the crowd, and hespeaks out in stentorian tones: ‘Today, you have carried out one of the mostglorious deeds for the sake of the homeland. You have gotten rid of thegraveyard. He who has died is dead, and the homeland is in need of everysquare inch of land for housing the living and planting their food so that we canbe in a position to build a free and independent economy. Bless you, and bless— 37 —www.taq.ir

ibrahim muhawiyour hands!’ (We note here in passing the ironic equation between thecemetery and the homeland.) Everyone cheers, but they wonder what they areto do with the bones. ‘Grind them,’ says the wise man in a calm, confidentvoice, ‘and make them into soup for your children.’ The story ends with a simplestatement of fact: ‘And that’s exactly what we did.’Undoubtedly, there is a Palestinian cult of the shahid, or martyr, and Palestinianshave paid a terrible price in human life. Hajjaj’s younger brother was a‘martyr.’ The Palestine Liberation Organisation maintains a fund for the familiesof martyrs. Many PLO functionaries are children of martyrs. One is frequentlyintroduced to someone as the son or daughter of such and such a martyr. InMemory for Forgetfulness, Darwish ironically refers to the rivalry among PLOfactions (fasa’il) to sacrifice fighters as the ‘martyr trade’. There is a cemetery formartyrs in Beirut which was repeatedly shelled by the Israeli air force during theinvasion of 1982. Darwish wryly notes in Memory that it was not enough killingthe living, it seemed as if it was necessary also to kill the dead again. As Kanaanahas demonstrated (1993), a considerable number of martyr legends sprang upduring the Palestinian intifada. When a youth was killed by the Israeli army, hebecame a ‘martyr’ and his family did not show outward signs of mourning.People did not come to pay condolences, but to offer congratulations. Theexistential irony implied in this behaviour is deeply rooted in Palestinian culture.Palestinians traditionally held a wedding celebration instead of a wake when ayoung man died before he had the chance to get married and have children.The body of the dead young man was given a traditional zaffe, or weddingprocession, with dabke dancing and singing, on the way to church or mosque. 6The gap in an ironic text between present and absent meaning is a space ofphatic communion in which the writer calls upon the reader to draw out theabsent meaning(s). As noted earlier, irony always functions with reference to aspecific context, and an ironic text represents an appeal to the reader to supplythe context and share in the experience of the victim. The pragmatic functionof irony, then, resides in its social purpose of creating community betweenwriter and reader in the hope of raising awareness about a situation. The Arabicproverb says, ‘An intelligent person, from a mere nod will get the point’ (allabibumin al-isharati yafham) and so with irony – a secret sharing between writerand reader (S’hiri 1992). Booth emphasises this point as well: ‘Often thepredominant motion when reading stable ironies is that of joining, of findingand communing with kindred spirits’ (1974: 28). This particular connection, orbond, between reader and writer is more important in an ironic text than in anordinary one. As practically all writers on this subject have noted, irony isdeeply implicated in the aesthetics of reception, bringing the reader to theforeground of the critical act. Its critical significance arises from the challenge itposes to the New Critical doctrine which goes by the name of the ‘intentional— 38 —www.taq.ir

irony and the poetics of palestinian exilefallacy’, promulgated by Wimsatt and Beardsley initially in Shipley (1964) andlater elaborated into a full article which has been reprinted frequently inliterary-critical anthologies. ‘We argued’, they say in this essay, summarising theentry in Shipley, ‘that the design or intention of the author is neither availablenor desirable as a standard for judging the success of a literary work of art’(Adams 1971: 1014). New Criticism is far from being dead; it remains the mostuseful heuristic tool in the teaching of literature, especially as a healthy antidoteto the rampant subjectivism (this time involving the reader’s subjectivity ratherthan the author’s) which has found room in the post-modern space. It istherefore ‘ironic’ that New Criticism should banish the author’s intention whileat the same time focusing on irony as one of the shaping structures of literature. 7To the extent that irony is a mode, the form itself assumes the function ofironic deixis if there are no other obvious indicators. Readers who are notparticularly attuned to irony may not consider Hajjaj’s work ironic, but if weconsider it from the perspective of Frye’s theory of modes, the manner in whichthe irony works here becomes immediately obvious. Frye observes that if ‘inferiorin power or intelligence to ourselves, so that we have the sense of looking downon a scene of bondage, frustration, or absurdity, the hero belongs to the ironicmode’ (1957: 34). The death of the character in the story renders him inferior inpower, but not necessarily in intelligence, to the living author and to us asreaders. The other three elements, though, are present in Hajjaj’s fiction:bondage to the idea of the nation, frustration at not being able to achieve it, andthe absurdity of dying for it. Still following Frye’s argument, we can refine ourview of the writer’s method a bit further by seeing it as a form of tragic irony.According to Frye, the ‘central principle of tragic irony is that whateverexceptional happens to the hero should be causally out of line with hischaracter’ (1957: 41). The character in ‘A Hungry Orange’ is sketched with veryfew strokes, but we have enough information to feel some identification with hisromanticism and innocence. These are the very qualities that set him apart fromhis environment. Dying prematurely as a martyr for one’s homeland (in a smallwar, no less) is absurd, but if his first death made some sense, his second andthird certainly did not. Frye’s perceptive remarks about the significance of tragicirony are most appropriate here: ‘Irony isolates from the tragic situation thesense of arbitrariness, of the victim’s having been unlucky, selected at random orby lot, and no more deserving of what happens to him than anyone else would be.If there is a reason for choosing him for catastrophe, it is an inadequate reason,and raises more questions than it answers’ (1957: 41).If we agree that the pragmatic purpose of irony is to create a community ofsympathy, then clearly the reader must, as Hutcheon notes in the quotationgiven earlier, be able to perceive an ironic intention on the part of the authorfor that communion to take place. The intention acts as a deictic device— 39 —www.taq.ir

ibrahim muhawipointing to the absent meaning, or context, or both. The deictic element, thesignal, is necessary for the secret communion to take place. When Said, theprotagonist in Habibi’s The Pessoptomist, says at the beginning of the novel that,as a result of a donkey having been shot in his place during the events of 1948,his life in Israel was fadlat that poor beast, we understand he wants us to thinkhe is saying he owes his life to (fadlat) the donkey, and that is the way it isinterpreted in the available translation of this novel. But we are also aware thata pun is intended here, and puns serve the purpose of irony very well becausethey too create a gap between a present and an absent meaning. As Redfernnotes, ‘Though often classified with tongue twisters, acrostics and other verbalsports, their [the puns’] natural place lies with metaphor, irony: the veryfoundations of all rhetoric’ (1984: 178). The ironic intention is triggered by theword fadlat, which can also mean remains and excrement; hence what Said sayscould mean that his life in Israel was equivalent to donkey’s excrement, or equallylikely, that he himself became the remains of the donkey – that he assumed thecharacteristics of the donkey – himar, which is used in Arabic with exactly thesame connotations as the word jackass in English. When the irony ignites, allmeanings are present, and the one that was absent before may acquire thegreater significance.Imil Habibi’s satirical novel The Amazing Events Leading to the Disappearanceof the Hapless Said, the Pessoptomist is a much more extended ironic work thanthose we have dealt with so far, and we will not be able to deal with it at lengthhere. What I therefore intend to do is to explore in greater detail, and withreference to it, the major issues we have so far encountered, focusing on phaticcommunion – what is traditionally called ‘identification’ with the character –deixis and reversal, closing the discussion with an analysis of the all-importantproblem of identity for an Israeli Palestinian. 8Habibi’s novel has enjoyed tremendous popularity among Palestinian readersin particular and Arab readers in general. Though published (in three parts)between 1972 and 1974, its popularity has not waned, and it continues to stirdebate. It would be safe to say that it has achieved the status of an Arabic classic.Its popularity, I believe, stems not only from the importance of its subject, whichis the vexed question of Palestinian identity in Israel, but also from thecharacter of its hero, Said, and the humorous manner in which Habibi presentshim. There is probably no communicative strategy more conducive to phaticcommunion than humour, and Habibi captures readers by making them laugh atand with Said. In reading the novel they see a picture which is not necessarilyflattering, but one in which we all see a bit of ourselves. But in laughing at Said,Palestinian readers in particular will also be laughing at themselves and at theimpossibility of their situation. An Arabic proverb says, ‘The worst disaster isthe one that makes you laugh’ (sharr al-baliyyat ma yudhik).— 40 —www.taq.ir

irony and the poetics of palestinian exileHowever, the kind of humour we are dealing with in this novel is notnecessarily the type one finds in jokes. Rather, it is a humour based on Said’scharacterisation (who, as we shall see, is not so much a hero as an archetype ofthe traditional Palestinian), on the author’s use of language, and on a sustainedironic vision that sometimes engages the reader in double ironies from whichthere is no exit. The title tells us a great deal about Habibi’s method. Weobserve first the standard Palestinian contradictions that apply to this archetypalhero. His name is Said, which ordinarily means ‘happy,’ but which whencoupled with abu al-nahs alerts us to another meaning for this word: Said alsomeans one who is possessed of sa’d (good omen), which is the contradictory ofnahs (bad omen). So now we have a character who exists in a state of completecontradiction. The translation of abu al-nahs as ‘ill-fated’ does not convey thefull cultural impact of the notion of nahs, or unremitting bad luck. There isbehind this name the weight of Arab belief in destiny, exemplified in thePalestinian proverb, il-manhus manhus, walaw Æallaqu Æa-dhahro Æishrin fanus (‘Theone dogged by bad luck is destined to remain unlucky even if twenty lanternsare hung from his back’). Further, the Arabic word rendered as ‘opti-pessimist’(or ‘pess[i]-optimist’), al-mutasha’il, is a neologism that creatively combines partsof the two words, mutafa’il (optimistic) and mutasha’im (pessimistic). Neither ofthe English renderings is an exact morphological equivalent since they do notcombine the lexical items or parts of them in the same way. There is no sense ofa hyphen in the Arabic word; it does not sound as if it is composed of parts oftwo words, but as one word in which the states of pessimism and optimism areperfectly intertwined. 9Turning now to the ‘hero’ of the novel, the simplest way to explain Said is tosay that Habibi made him a folk character (shakhsiyya sha’biyya) whose behaviourcan be easily associated with that of the traditional Palestinian villager. In herintroduction to the translation of the novel, Salma Khadra Jayyusi rightlycompares Said (1982: xiv–xv) to the folk hero Juha (Khodja, Mulla Nasreddin),but her comparison of him with the clever trickster aspect of Juha, or the ‘wisefool’, as she calls him (who can extricate himself from difficult situations throughwit) is not quite apt. Said is not witty, or heroic; he is more often the object ofthe irony rather than its subject. He is more properly compared to the selfseekinganti-heroic aspect of the Juha of the story in which he is first informedthat a battle is raging in his country, and he answers, ‘As long as my village issafe, let the battle rage.’ The story then proceeds to narrow down the scope ofthe battle to the village (‘As long as my quarter is safe, let the battle rage’), thenhis quarter (‘As long as my house is safe …’), then his house (‘As long as I amsafe …’). This is exactly the character of Said, who is proud to have been savedby a donkey while the rest of his family were gunned down as they were escapingduring the events of 1948. Said’s association with Juha is also made explicit— 41 —www.taq.ir

ibrahim muhawiiconographically through the donkey, which figures in many Juha stories andwhose image (with Juha riding backwards) appears on the covers of books orbooklets containing them. Throughout the first part of the book Said is constantlyassociated with a donkey. First he ‘owes his life’ to one, then immediately afterthe establishment of the state (of Israel) he makes his way to the offices of themilitary governor Juha-wise, riding his donkey. Also, as I hinted earlier concerningthe meaning of fadlat as remainder, and judging from Said’s subsequentjackass-like behaviour, the author leads us to believe that the donkey, in dying,may have been reincarnated in Said.From the very first page of the novel, where Said describes himself as a nadl,Habibi emphasises the cowardly aspect of Said’s personality. The word nadl isaccompanied by an ironically (mis)leading footnote that explains its meaning as‘waiter.’ This is not exactly true, for the correct Arabic word for a waiter is nadil,not nadl, which means ‘coward’ in the urban dialects of Palestine. There isabsolutely no reason for the writer to insert a footnote here, as there is nothingobscure about the word nadil (waiter); the only way this footnote can be read isironically, for its purpose is precisely to draw attention to the absent secondmeaning – ‘coward’. The kind of cowardice and self-justifying resignation thatSaid exhibits are exemplified by his Panglossian acceptance of any catastrophebecause things could be worse. There are innumerable other instances of theseironic double-entendres in the work, but I shall single out only one other suchinstance where the author uses humour to engage the reader into the work bymaking him laugh at Said. In Chapter 2, entitled ‘Said Traces His Descent’ (saidyantasib), Said traces his genealogy to the Tweisat Arab tribes (Æarab al-tweisat).The humour here and the double-entendre will be entirely missed if the readeris not familiar with the Palestinian dialect, where tweisat is the plural of thediminutive of tes – literally ‘goat’ but used in ordinary speech to mean ‘thickheaded’.(There is added humour here touching on the names of actual Arabtribes, but it lies outside our area of inquiry.) Later in the novel (Chapter 16,Part One), after Said is beaten and verbally abused for having gone to check onthe house his family evacuated but which is now occupied by Jewish immigrants,he berates himself thus, ‘ana teis! ana teis!’ (‘I’m a jackass! I’m a jackass!’), whosecommunicative meaning here is ‘How stupid of me!’ but which humorouslybrings us back to his genealogy.We see Said’s cowardice on many occasions in the novel – aside from histurning informer for the Israelis – where action is required but all he does is tofind an excuse for doing nothing. An outstanding example occurs in Chapter 6of Book One, where the Israeli officer he was travelling with forces a womanand her two children from the village of Birwe (significantly, the birthplace ofMahmoud Darwish and one of the four hundred or so villages to be destroyed bythe new state) to flee east to Jordan at gunpoint. Here Said feels anger at the— 42 —www.taq.ir

irony and the poetics of palestinian exilescene of the Jewish officer with his gun at the woman’s head, and wants to jumpto her rescue, but then he remembers his parents’ advice and does nothing:At this I tensed, ready to spring at him, come what may. After all, the blood of youthsurged hot within me, at my age then of twenty-four. And not even a stone couldhave been unmoved at this sight. However, I recalled my father’s final counsel andmy mother’s blessing and then said to myself, ‘I certainly shall attack him if he fireshis gun. But so far he is merely threatening her.’ I remained at the ready. (Jayyusi andLe Gassick 1992: 15)In this example we see at work the double irony I referred to earlier. If Saidwaits to act till the Jewish officer fires his gun, then it will have been too late forthe woman and her two children. Yet in this incident we also see the other sideof the equation. It is perhaps equally cowardly of the officer with the gun to holdit against the head of a helpless Palestinian refugee, and thereby force her toleave her village and flee her country. But then in nation building it is not themoral equation that counts, but the political, for in the end the country wasemptied and the gun was the victor. Of course, from his perspective the Jewishofficer is also faced with a dilemma. The Palestinian woman being a persona nongrata in the state that is being established, he too faces a difficult moral choice,so he makes the choice that relieves his conscience by saving her life but forcingher to flee her country. We see here a refugee problem being created, and somethingelse that is not to the officer’s liking. True, he has forced the woman toleave and emerged the winner in this situation, yet ‘the race is not always to theswift’. As the woman and her child walk east towards Jordan, Said observes anamazing event:At this point I observed the first example of that amazing phenomenon that was tooccur again and again until I finally met my friends from outer space. For the furtherthe woman and child went from where we were, the governor standing and I in thejeep, the taller she grew. By the time they merged with their own shadows in thesinking sun they had become bigger than the plain of Acre itself. The governor stoodstill there awaiting their final disappearance, while I remained huddled in the jeep.Finally he asked in amazement, ‘Will they never disappear?’ (Jayyusi and Le Gassick1992: 16)The ironies multiply. This woman has been made absent, but she is not absentcompletely; she is still present even if only as a tall shadow. She is present-absentin her shadow.The hyphenated identity we encountered in al-Qasim is not necessarily a badstate of affairs, except when the terms on either side of the hyphen representmutually contrary, or contradictory, states. The hyphen is a generative boundary;one can add any term to the left of or to the right, and each addition is anaccretion in identity; for example, it is possible to be a Palestinian Arab-American, a Scottish Palestinian Arab, or even a Palestinian Arab-American— 43 —www.taq.ir

ibrahim muhawiCanadian. One can share in all the subjectivities on both sides of the hyphenwithout contradiction. This situation holds true for countries that do not defineidentity in terms of ethnicity, or religion, or both, as does Israel, which GershonShafir and Yoav Peled define as an ethnic democracy. 10 The pressing questionhere is this: ‘Is it possible to bridge the gap across the hyphen of identity forPalestinian Israelis?’ Darwish wrestled with this question in his autobiographicalmemoir, Journal of an Ordinary Grief. Darwish’s family had escaped to Lebanonin 1948, and sneaked back into the homeland after the establishment of thestate of Israel, too late to be included in the census of Palestinian Arabs. He wastherefore never given official papers, and was constantly hounded by the police.In his reflection on the question of his identity, he arrives at the conclusion thatits most characteristic feature is ambiguity:Once at Le Bourget Airport in France, and again in one of the streets of Sophia.Your destiny was insisting on being defined. And your identity, ambiguous onpaper but shining clearly in the heart, was demanding that you put yourself inharmony with it. As if you had to arrive in one single movement from the beginningof your life to this question: ‘Who are you?’The French police could not understand something which the Israeli police itselfdid not understand. Your travel document says you are of ambiguous nationality. Andin vain you try to explain to the French police the meaning of this ambiguity, for yourclarification does not help him absorb the added ambiguity imposed by his colleaguein Tel Aviv. Where were you born? In Palestine. And where do you live? In Israel.Therefore you are ambiguous. (1973: 9)This state of existential ambiguity is, I think, the best explanation for theimpulse towards irony in Palestinian literature. To some extent, irony itself is anambiguous mode. It is not always obviously there; some may see an ironicintention in a text while others may not. It may also be that irony arises out ofextreme conditions where there is a negation of identity, or where it is threatened.Habibi’s Said, the Palestinian-Israeli hero, or anti-hero, is characterised by adouble ambiguity; having become a citizen of Israel, he is no longer a Palestinian,but he cannot be a genuine Israeli for all his informing. In this novel, thehyphen of identity becomes a generative metaphor, a trope, which conflatesidentity and boundary, acting as a marker not only of a geographical boundarybetween Israel and Palestine but a psychological one as well. In using the wordPalestine here I am not referring to the West Bank, but to the Palestine thatexists underneath and side by side with Israel and within Israel. (The bestliterary entrée to Palestine-Israel as palimpsest is Anton Shammas’s Arabesques,particularly the opening section, the most lyrical in the novel, where the authorre-creates his childhood in the Galilee.)The terms on both sides of our notional hyphen constitute the basis ofidentity in the novel. We thus have Palestinian subjectivity on one side, and— 44 —www.taq.ir

irony and the poetics of palestinian exileIsraeli citizenship on the other. The strange, or amazing, events leading to Said’sdisappearance are those that bridge the gap across the identity hyphen, themovement from being a Palestinian to being an Israeli. They are nothing morethan repeated encounters with the Israeli state system. To Said, they appearamazing, sometimes stranger than the strangest fiction, such as the ArabianNights, or Voltaire’s Candide, both of which are cited as models for the type ofthings that happen to Palestinians in Israel. As there is not enough space todiscuss the novel in more detail, I shall restrict my comments here to a discussionof its overall structure. Commentators have already drawn attention tosimilarities between Voltaire’s Candide and The Pessoptomist, but what has notbeen observed is Habibi’s ironic parodying of Voltaire’s novel. We only have tocompare chapter headings for both works to see the extent of Habibi’s relianceon Voltaire’s method. Here are some examples from Candide: ‘How CandideEscaped from the Bulgarians and What Befell Him Afterward’; ‘Candide andHis Valet Arrive in the Country of El Dorado – What They Saw There’; ‘TheHistory of the Old Woman’; ‘Candide’s Voyage to Constantinople’. Comparethese with the following examples from The Pessoptomist: ‘How Said Becomes aLeader in the Union of Palestinian Workers’; ‘Said Becomes Possessed of TwoSecrets’; ‘The Story of the Golden Fish’; ‘Said Relates How Crocodiles OnceLived in the Zarqa River’: ‘Said at the Court of a King’. Here we see clearly asimilarity in the manner in which the novel is presented.Habibi himself draws attention to this similarity in the chapter entitled ‘TheAmazing Similarity Between Candide and Said’. Said is a more complexcharacter than Candide because there is a gap in the two parts of his identitythat do not fit together so well. That hyphen across the Palestine-Israel orIsrael-Palestine line is extremely unstable. The chapter on the similarity betweenthe two novels strikes me as being disingenuous; it could only have been writtenby a master ironist whose purpose was to acknowledge a debt to Voltaire andalso to show he was not plagiarising Candide but putting it to his own use. WhatHabibi has produced is, I believe, an ironic parody of Voltaire. First there is themanner of presentation, as we can see from the chapter headings; and secondly,the connection between the two works highlights a fact which I think theauthor wanted to emphasise, namely, that the events that befall Said are just asamazing as those that befall Candide. In both novels, the adventures aredescribed in a similar manner. Clearly, Voltaire also was a master ironist, theirony in Candide consisting in the comparison between a Utopian way of life ina place like the legendary country, El Dorado, and the way life is lived inEurope. Voltaire’s irony arises from the disparity between what is and what isdesirable. To parody an ironic work successfully is to produce a doubly ironicone. The irony in Habibi incorporates Voltaire’s irony, adding another level toit by means of inter-textual reference. Habibi’s irony, like Voltaire’s, also arises— 45 —www.taq.ir

ibrahim muhawifrom the difference between what is and what is desirable, between the Utopianimplications of the establishment of Israel for Jews and its dystopian effect onPalestine and Palestinians. We know that the ironic inter-textual echoing ofCandide was part of Habibi’s purpose because in the chapter heading alreadycited he refers to the similarity between the two books as amazing. Here againwe are faced with a double irony. What is amazing about this similarity is that itis part of the narrative structure of the novel, as if it too was one of the strangeevents leading to the disappearance of Said. However, when we compare theevents in Candide with those in Said, we do not note a similarity but a contrast:while everything that befalls Candide is fictional, all that befalls Said is fact.From this perspective, the fact appears stranger than fiction, and that, I think,was the entire purpose behind Habibi’s use of Candide.Said, the Palestinian-Israeli, is a doubly ironic character. As a bungling idiot,he bears the brunt of the irony on the Palestinian side. We look down on himfor all his efforts to bridge the identity gap, his zealousness in conforming to therequirements of citizenship, including becoming an informer, so that he canshare in Israeli subjectivity. At the same time, his very simplicity and incomprehensionallow the novelist to portray Israeli state practices and attitudes towardsPalestinians from the Palestinian viewpoint. The magnitude of Israel’s failure toinclude its Palestinian citizens in its polity is portrayed very graphically at theend of the novel, where Said, having decided that he can no longer be a truesubject of Israel but not being able to construct a separate identity for himself,finds himself sitting on a khazuq (roughly, a pointed fence post), from which noone can rescue him except the creatures from outer space who take him undertheir wing. To the extent that Said is an emblematic figure representing allPalestinian citizens of Israel, his khazuq, I believe, is also emblematic of theposition of the whole Palestinian community in the country.notes1. These lines occur towards the end of the long poem, madih al-zill al-’ali (‘In Praise ofthe Tall Shadow’). See Darwish 1984: 161. Unless otherwise indicated, all translationsin this paper are by me.2. General Assembly Resolution 194 (1948) is available on a number of websites, suchas . It stipulates, among other things,that refugees wishing to return to their homes ‘should be permitted to do so at theearliest practical date, and that compensation should be paid for the property ofthose choosing not to return and for loss of or damage to property …’3. The Balfour Declaration is available on a number of websites, including

irony and the poetics of palestinian exilereligious rights of existing non-Jewish communities in Palestine, or the rights andpolitical status enjoyed by Jews in any other country.’4. After the failure of the Palestinian-Israeli summit at Camp David in July 2000,another antithesis term entered the Palestinian political lexicon: success-failure.Thus, for example, Elias Khoury calls his first first weekly column for al-Quds al-Arabi after the summit (August 2000. Vol. 12, Issue 3491, p. 20) ‘The Success ofFailure’ (Najah al-Fashal). Another variant which occurs in the article is ‘successfulfailure’ (al-fashal al-najih).5. In Hajjaj’s fiction, the fantasy mediates the irony. On ‘fantasy-theme’ criticism andthe connection of irony and fantasy, see Foss and Littlejohn.6. The mystique of ‘martyrdom’ cannot be overestimated. It can turn up at unexpectedand in unexpected places. Thus in answer to a question about her career, thePalestinian singer Abeer Sansour says in an interview: ‘Don’t forget that I am aPalestinian young woman and the Palestinian woman is distinguished from otherArab women and women in all parts of the world, for she has proved herself in allareas – political, cultural, and social. She is the mother of martyrs, the sister ofheroes, the wife of [political] prisoners … She is the only woman in the world whowalks in the funeral procession of her martyr while trilling out ululations of joy(tamshi fi janazat shahidiha w-hiya tuzaghrid). (Al-Quds Al-Arabi, 29/30 July 2000,Issue 3489, p. 12).7. Booth also addresses the question of the intentional fallacy in a long footnote on p.156.8. For a more thorough analysis of the concept of phatic communion from asociolinguistic perspective, see Muhawi 1999.9. Actually, there is in American usage which is an exact equivalent for abu al-nahs,the Yiddish word schlimazel, defined in the Unabridged Edition of the Random HouseDictionary as ‘an inept bungling person who suffers from unremitting bad luck’. So,perhaps our proverb may be put thus: ‘Once a schlimazel, always a schlimazel.’10. It should be noted that in their clearly argued article concerning theories ofcitizenship and their possible application to Israeli society, Shafir and Peled dealonly with the question of citizenship but do not touch on the thorny issue of identity.Thus it is possible for them to discuss the stratification of Israeli citizens into variousstrata, without touching on the inherent contradiction between Israel being anethno-religious democracy (that is, a Jewish state) and Palestinian Arab identitywithin that framework.— 47 —www.taq.ir

13Gender and the Palestinian Narrative ofReturn in Two Novels by Ghassan Kanafani*Amy ZalmanLate twentieth-century Palestinian literature is generally divided into twoperiods, that between 1948 and 1967, and that after 1967. Within these twomajor divisions, however, the period of the early 1960s stands out. It is in thisextended moment that the idea of returning to Palestine is given narrative form:in the first visible stirrings of broad political organisation and armed struggle,through the establishment of the Palestine Liberation Organisation, and inliterature. The exemplary literary expression of this narrative may be found intwo novels by Ghassan Kanafani, Rijal fi al-Shams (Men in the Sun), published in1962, and Ma Tabaqqa Lakum (All That’s Left to You), which appeared in 1966.Kanafani was arguably the key Palestinian literary intellectual of the 1960s andhis literature played a significant role in shaping how the post-1948 Palestinianexperience has been understood. This chapter argues that gender is intrinsic tothe narratives established in these novels, and that in them new forms ofmasculinity are constructed in relation to national loss and national restoration.Moreover, a fuller analysis of the mutual construction of masculine and nationalidentity reveals a dynamic and historically specific symbolism at work in thewell-known association between land and woman.Born in Acre in 1936, Kanafani left with his family for Lebanon in 1948.Following his attendance at Damascus University, he went to teach in Kuwait.He returned to Lebanon in 1960 and worked for several newspapers. WhenGeorge Habash founded the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestinefollowing the 1967 war, Kanafani became its spokesman and the editor of itsnewspaper, al-Hadaf. Despite Kanafani’s lifelong activity as a journalist, he wasequally prominent if not more so as a novelist, short story writer and literarycritic. In all of these endeavours, he considered his literary effort indissolublefrom his political goals; indeed, when asked of their relative priority in his life,he stated that literature had shaped his politics (as quoted in Wild 1975: 13). In1972, he was killed in Beirut by a car bomb for which Mossad claimedresponsibility.* This chapter is reprinted with the permission of Arab Studies Journal 10/11 (2002/2003): 17–43, in which it first appeared.— 48 —www.taq.ir

gender and the palestinian narrative of returnKanafani’s first novel established the idea that national loss is a particularlymale trial, his second that return to the land is a male endeavour. The masculinequalities of loss and return are underlined in a well-noted trope within Palestinianliterary expressions of nationalism in which women are associated withan enduring and feminine land, and fused in expressions of yearning for afeminine beloved. Images that feminise the land of Palestine establish the ideathat women, like the land itself, have never left but await male return. One ofthe first chroniclers of the beloved’s role in nationalist literature was Kanafani.As a journalist and a literary critic he was active in bringing Palestinianliterature to the attention of the rest of the Arab world in the late 1960s. At theThird Conference of Afro-Asian Writers in 1967, speaking on the topic of‘Resistance Literature in Occupied Palestine’, he observed that the apparentlycontradictory themes of romantic love and political resistance are mutuallyconsistent. Using Mahmoud Darwish’s poetry as an example, Kanafani tracedthe increasing incorporation of national themes in love poetry of the late 1950sand early 1960s. 1 Spoken in a romantic lexicon, Darwish’s lyric return narrativesmanipulated feminine objects to achieve masculine return. Such manipulationis visible, for example, in the eponymous poem of Darwish’s third collection ALover from Palestine, published in 1966. In it, the speaker’s return to Palestine isenabled by a dynamic to which the beloved is crucial, but from which she isincreasingly distant and finally absent. As the speaker narrates his pursuit of abeloved first experienced as a thorn in his heart, then a song on his lips, then atraveller in a port, the distance of the beloved also comes to signify the vastnessof her presence. He sees her everywhere, ‘in the stones and the streets’(Elmessiri 1982: 121–7) and ‘in the salt of the sea and in the sand’ (ibid.). Thespeaker admits the beloved’s presence by naming her ‘Palestine’ (ibid.). Buthaving named her, his own presence becomes more tenuous. Finally, he acknowledgeshis own absence: ‘I am the exiled one behind wall and door’ (ibid.). Atthe moment of his admission of absence, an exchange of their positions occurs.By the end of the lyric narrative, the speaker has taken on not only thebeloved’s power, but her beauty – ‘I know/that I am the flower of youth andknight of knights’ (ibid.) – while mention of the beloved named Palestine hasdisappeared. While the political theme of return can be expressed in the voiceof a lover yearning for his beloved, the terms of this return appear to require thedismissal of the feminine beloved herself.In recent feminist analyses, the role of femininity as a passive symbol of land,or active only as a redeemer or mother of men, has been contrasted with theactive, public roles of actual women in the struggle to achieve national selfdetermination.2 Clearly, the image of women as passive land or as a willingmother attempts to construct femininity in a particular way with respect to apolitical order. Just as clearly, the ideals of femininity put forward in such— 49 —www.taq.ir

amy zalmanimages are often at odds with the roles that women actually play. Given thisdissonance between literature and reality, produced by a predominantly maleliterary establishment, against the background of a preponderantly male-lednationalist movement, it seems worth asking how these idealised images ofwomen serve to construct a particular conception of masculinity. If a dominantimage of women has outlasted, or never reflected, a truth about women’s lives ordesires, then why has it remained such a preoccupation among male Palestinianwriters?Fantasies of femininity (as well as masculinity) mediate desire. Projected intothe realm of symbol, they instruct people not only whom to want, but how towant by directing desire towards its object through circumscribed routes. As thedominant image of woman-as-land suggests, these images exist firmly in thepublic domain as aspects of what R. W. Connell has called ‘the gender order’(2000: 24–5). Like other institutions that shape and are shaped by gender, suchas relations of production, emotional relations can also be investigated for theirpolitical content. In the context of Palestine after 1948, collective rituals thatformerly organised desire, as well as conventional relations of power andproduction, were in disarray. In such periods, the circuits through whichemotional relations flow, and which in part structure gender, may flood with anintensified political meaning. It is these circuits that most interested Kanafanias a fiction writer, and through which he articulated a return in terms at onceerotic and political.A map precedes the 1995 Three Continents Press English edition of Kanafani’s1962 novel Men in the Sun. There, drawn accurately to scale above the caption,‘the route traveled by the men in the sun’, is the wriggly black line of the H4highway. It extends eastwards from Amman across a wide expanse of desert toIraq, then winds southwards beside the Tigris river to Basra before finallylooping slightly westwards again to its endpoint in Kuwait. By this route, thenovel’s Palestinian characters hope to travel from their respective homes inJaffa, Ramleh and a refugee camp to Kuwait, and thus from displacement andpoverty to new status and employment. Presumably, the map has been put inthe English-language edition to help the reader unfamiliar with the regionorient him or herself to the geographical context of the tale. The route depictedon it, however, does not strictly correspond to the tale that follows; it is not theroute travelled by the men in the sun, who never reach the highway’s markedendpoint in Kuwait but die trapped in a water-transport truck’s empty tank atthe Iraq–Kuwait border. The scene in which this takes place is a famous one inmodern Palestinian letters. The novel as a whole sealed Kanafani’s reputation asa talented fiction writer, and was given renewed life when it was made into afilm by Egyptian director Tawfiq Salih in 1972. Today the novel is a canonicalwork in the Palestinian oeuvre.— 50 —www.taq.ir

gender and the palestinian narrative of returnThe map preceding the translation could as easily appear in a geographytextbook of the period. The view is aerial and there are careful shadings todistinguish the Mediterranean Sea from the land it borders, Israel drawn to itspre-1967 boundaries. The map encourages the reader to think of the imaginarynarrative in reference to the geopolitical reality it graphically elaborates. Thiswould not be an exceptional reading; since its publication, Men in the Sun hasheld meaning for its readers because of its artful representation of the social,political and historical crisis of a nation. Nevertheless, the incongruous relationof the map to a story it purports to tell, but does not quite, helps pose thequestion of how the narrative inside the fictional tale and the national narrativebeyond it relate. It reminds us with its forthright claim to reality how powerfullya dominant extra-literary narrative (loosely termed political reality) can shapethe terms of literary interpretation. In order to read an old work in a new way,readers must therefore return not only to the narrative inside it, but to theexisting maps outside it.The plot of Men in the Sun is relatively simple. It is set in 1958, ten years afterthe establishment of the state of Israel. Economically and socially dislocated inthe wake of national dispossession, three Palestinian men decide to go toKuwait where they hope they will find work. Strangers to one another at theoutset, Abu Qais, Assad and Marwan find their way independently to Basra,where the novel begins (with flashbacks telling us how each arrived there). InBasra they begin their search for a driver who will take them the last part oftheir trip by illegally smuggling them over the Iraq–Kuwait border. They meetthrough their search. Within a few days they jointly decide to travel with AbulKhaizuran, who is not a professional smuggler but a fellow Palestinian whodrives a truck that transports water, and who has been detained in Basra fortruck repairs. When Abul Khaizuran learns that Marwan, Assad and Abu Qaisare looking for a way to Kuwait, he offers them his services for less money thana professional smuggler.Abul Khaizuran has few compunctions about profiting from the desperationof his fellow Palestinians. He is a cynical and disillusioned man, traumatised byhis surgical castration following his injury fighting in the 1948 war. The memoryhaunts him, and he relates it to himself in a compulsively reiterated internalmonologue about how he lost his country and his manhood in one blow: ‘Whatgood did patriotism do you? You spend your life in an adventure, and now youare incapable of sleeping with a woman! Let the dead bury their dead. I onlywant more money now, more money’ (Kanafani 1995/1994: 47/131). 3 His firststrategy for making extra money is to use his truck when its water tank is emptyas a vehicle to smuggle Palestinians over the Iraq–Kuwait border.The scheme he offers Abu Qais, Assad and Marwan in exchange for his cutratedeal is dangerous. At both of the two border checkpoints, they will have to— 51 —www.taq.ir

amy zalmanhide in the empty metal water tank of his truck, which at midday is so hot thata man inside it can only survive for six or seven minutes before suffocating.Desperate, the men agree to the offer. The first checkpoint is passed withoutcomplication. At the second, a bored Iraqi official detains Abul Khaizuran withribald joking about an alleged affair with a prostitute. Flustered by the impossiblestory of his own racy antics, Abul Khaizuran hedges. Finally, trapped in theweb of the official’s elaborate joking, he pretends that he has been having anaffair, asserting a virility that he, and we, know he cannot enact. Nevertheless,by the time he does, he has been detained so long that the men have died in theairless tank.In the years since its publication, Men in the Sun has gained its status as aclassic of modern Palestinian literature for having lyrically dramatised thenational mood of failure in and following the war of 1948. 4 The stark story andliterary quality of Men in the Sun struck a forceful chord among readers when thenovel was published. The narrative itself was given an extended life whenSalih’s filmed production, The Betrayed (al-Makhdu’un), was released in Syria in1972. The tragic end at which the novel arrives has often been seen as anillustration of ‘the futility of the effort by the uprooted Palestinian refugees tolook for a new home, a new future, and ultimately a new identity by movingaway from Palestine’ (Siddiq 1984: xiv) after 1948. The characters appear to belost as they travel the route of an uncertain national identity in an extendedmoment of displacement and despair. It is unsurprising that along this routetheir effort culminates in failure. (A contemporary reader of the novel, FadlNaqib, noted as much when he remarked that readers knew from the openingpages that the characters’ attempt to flee would fail, and that the outcome of thetale surprised no one.) 5I would like to suggest that the journey taken by the men in the sun isstructured by a crisis related to prevailing notions of manliness in the samedegree that it is by the sense of national crisis. The men are guided by two maps,not one; their failure to reach their predicted endpoint occurs when thedirections of these two maps diverge. The tragic outcome of the tale results notonly from the general problem of Palestinian refugees, as they are represented inKanafani’s prose, but from the specific attempt of Palestinian men, disorientedon the post-1948 landscape, to rely on cultural conventions of masculinebehaviour to guide their actions. As they set forth uncertainly on a new geopoliticallandscape, the characters rely on habits of masculine behaviour toguide their movements. The narrative is flooded with commentary aboutdisruptions in the travellers’ sexual, familial and work lives – those places wheregender makes itself most visible. In Kanafani’s hands, these disruptions in theirpersonal lives are rendered as functions of the national crisis that do not havetheir own trajectory. Nevertheless, the narrative journey grinds to a halt when— 52 —www.taq.ir

gender and the palestinian narrative of returnit is discovered that the customary habits of manly behaviour are not necessarilyuseful guides to resurrecting a national identity and that gender identity is notautomatically a function of national identity. Without appearing to intend it,the novel proposes that gender identity must be constructed in relation tonational identity. Moreover, it suggests that the relationship between genderand national identity must be constructed anew on the post-1948 landscape.With this map in hand, the schema of a particularly male journey becomesevident. The narrative operation of the text implies the masculine theme: thelinear trajectory, the sudden interruption, the unproductive and despondentend. Metaphorical relations are established between the castrated male bodyand the forestalled national story. The land of Palestine, an always presentbackdrop to the men’s movement away from it, is predominantly represented inthe novel as a castrated space whose productive population – the men who farmedthe land and supported their women and children – has been literally cut offfrom it, and forcibly compelled to seek productive connections to other lands.The Palestine-as-castrated-man image finds its parallel in the man-as-nationembodied by Abul Khaizuran. The only Palestinian character to survive theevents of the narrative, his body disfigured as the result of a lost war, AbulKhaizuran is a map in miniature of the nation itself at a formative juncture,marked with loss, shame and impotence.When the writer’s society arrives at a historical crossroads as it gropes for aviable definition of its identity and destination, the serious writer can ill affordto remain uninvolved and merely watch history march by from his aestheticivory tower (Siddiq 1984: xi). Writing with specific reference to Kanafani,Muhammad Siddiq remarks on the impulse to political commitment that inspireswriters at moments of historical transition. In the process, he also comments onthe retrospective fiction that history marches on its own independent path. Butin the moment of Men in the Sun’s publication, the author does not appear to bestepping down to join an inevitable march, but rather to be actively shapinghistory’s direction. Kanafani’s incision into history seemed so prescient to somereaders that they perceived Men in the Sun as having spliced reality and representationinto a borderless continuity, as if the symbolic language of fiction werea word-for-word translation of the historical moment. Many were thereforequick to identify allegorical overtones in Abul Khaizuran’s impotence and tointerpret its function in determining the events of the novel.Fadl Naqib noted in 1972 that the plot in which ‘the truck driver who issuspected of sexual hijinks even though he’s sexually impotent symbolizes theArab armies suspected of a passion for war and ravishing Israel even though theywere militarily impotent’, was so much like reality that it verged on being artless,for ‘this vulgar symbolism didn’t surprise anyone. Facts that everyone knew didn’tarouse interest when they appeared newly veiled in symbolism’ (Naqib 1972:— 53 —www.taq.ir

amy zalman198). Rather, in his view, the novel was considered extraordinary for how well itcaptured the Palestinian mood of exhaustion in the early 1960s. Anothercontemporary of Kanafani’s, Ihsan Abbas, found a similar meaning in AbulKhaizuran’s impotence, but thought the character’s weakness represented thefrailty of Palestinian leadership (1972: 17). This view has been replicated morerecently by Barbara Harlow, who observed that Men in the Sun can be read as apure allegory, in which ‘Abul Khaizuran … represents Palestinian leadership atthe time, emasculated and impotent, having “lost his manhood” in 1948 in thefirst Arab–Israeli war surrounding the creation of the State of Israel’ (1996: 48–9). The Lebanese writer Elias Khoury suggested that the tragic dimensions ofthe tale lay in how easily Abul Khaizuran was distracted from his goal by thetrivial matter of his virility. In this allegory, Khoury added, ‘[the] symbols areclear and evident. The Palestinian people die every day in the tank withoutcrying out; it falls upon the land to cry out now’ (1972: 174). In Radwa ÆAshur’ssubtle reading, Abul Khaizuran is a nuanced character who is difficult to reduceto purely symbolic terms, and serves multiple allegorical uses:Abul Khaizuran has good intentions, but he leads those dependent on him to theirdeaths anyway. As a leader, he does not keep his promises or fulfill his responsibilities.He is a symbol of the insufficiency of the Palestinian leadership during thenakba and immediately afterward in assuming responsibility. There is also symbolismhere with respect to the Arab leadership – the kings and Arab heads [of state] in the1948 period. It’s also certain that Abul Khaizuran is one of the people whom hedrives to their doomed end. He is criminal and victim, and we commiserate with himto the same extent that we judge and reject him. His richness as a character andGhassan’s success in creating a meaningful portrait in him make it difficult for us tolimit him to a political signifier with a unitary meaning. (1977: 69–70)As these variant interpretations of the novel suggest, the allegorical trends inthe novel did not accord strictly with a particular historical event, but moregenerally to the ineluctable sense of an overdetermined failure in 1948 and itsaftermath. What the reading public could agree on, however, was the idea thatthe novel translated a failure – whether military, political or historical – into theeasily legible figure of a man whose body is a failure because it has been castrated.Northrop Frye has pointed out that allegory, as a ‘structural principle infiction’ requires a ‘narrative basis’, for ‘we have allegory when the events of anarrative obviously and continuously refer to another simultaneous structure ofevents or ideas, whether historical events, moral or philosophical ideas, ornatural phenomena’ (1974:12). 6 As usual with the things that seem most obvious,allegory’s obviousness is a function of a collective presumption that its terms arenatural. This presumption is necessarily invisible; it is its invisibility that createsthe sense of perfect structural sympathy between a fictional literary narrativeand another, and that bridges two narrative worlds. When writer and reader— 54 —www.taq.ir

gender and the palestinian narrative of returnshare a set of terms, the passage across the border of the novel, from inside tooutside, and vice versa, can seem effortless. With respect to Men in the Sun, thebridge term that makes Abul Khaizuran so ‘obvious’ as an allegorical referenceto political and historical failure is a presumption that the exemplary expressionof masculinity is the virile male body, and that the castrated male body signals acompromised self. These views extend across the border between the novel andthe world in an apparently seamless way, making physical castration a naturalsign of political impotence.In order to function, allegory must be obvious in another way, which relatesto the ‘narrative basis’ on which it rests. Of the two narratives bound by sharedassumptions that together produce an allegorical text, one is always presumablyfixed, or ‘obvious’. Allegory functions for a community of readers because thecommunity can agree that the event to which the fictional text affixes inallegorical relationship is a stable one. 7 This is a situation that does not entirelyobtain with respect to Men in the Sun, for the very situation of national identitythat Kanafani allegorises is in the process of becoming in a new way. Siddiq’simage of the writer stepping into a moment of national uncertainty fruitfullyillustrates the writer’s role in projecting, as well as reflecting, the terms of nationalidentity in the realm of culture. Another way of saying this is that Kanafaniinverts common sense about the relationship that is supposed to obtain betweenthe inside and outside of a novel: in the case of Men in the Sun, the more stablenarrative exists inside the novel. At the moment of its writing, the extra-literaryground (that accurate-looking map of the region), the ground beneath thePalestinian reader in Lebanon, or Jordan or Syria, or on his way to Kuwait, musthave felt literally in flux.It is into this murky moment that Kanafani inserted his narrative. Thehistorian Rashid Khalidi has depicted these as the ‘lost years’ of twentiethcenturyPalestinian identity, sandwiched between a discrete period of expressionduring the British Mandate that ended with the loss of the first Israeli–Arabwar, and its visible re-emergence with the establishment of the Palestine LiberationOrganisation (PLO) in 1964. In the period in between, from 1948 to 1964,‘the Palestinians seemed to many to have disappeared from the map as anindependent actor, and indeed as a people’ (Khalidi 1997: 178). Men in the Sunwas of course conceived without the benefit of hindsight. In hindsight, nationalidentity could be viewed as momentarily submerged, and predating a renewednational consciousness primarily focused through the PLO, which promoted aunified national identity both to Palestinians and to others. Khalidi lists some ofthe problems that contributed to the view from outside, and the sense frominside, that Palestinian identity was on an uncertain path. By 1948, the Palestinianeffort to resist Zionism had failed; the attempt of the combined forces ofthe Syrian, Egyptian and Iraqi armies to launch a war against Israel had also— 55 —www.taq.ir

amy zalmanfailed, and was riddled by complex objectives related to the regional balance ofpower; in the process of these losses and as their result, half of the Palestinianpopulation had left their homes and landed in Lebanon, Jordan, Egypt andGaza, where they were assigned new nationalities 8 or given refugee status;although underground resistance movements existed, they were small andscattered; finally, the ideology of pan-Arabism promoted with great success byEgyptian president Gamal ÆAbd al-Nasir muffled the articulation of aspecifically Palestinian identity until the mass disillusionment of the 1967 war.Men in the Sun appeared in the midst of these ‘lost years’, although Kanafanihimself had already arrived at the belief that Palestinian nationalism wouldhave to be a crucial component of anti-colonial struggle, and more specificallyat the ‘unshakeable conviction … that the only way for the humiliated andexploited Palestinians in the camps to achieve dignity and a life worth livingwas a return to their homeland, Palestine’ (Wild 1975: 16). The tragic force ofan inevitable failure that limns the events in Men in the Sun emerges from thisauthorial stance: Kanafani appears to stand not so much behind his characters,or to hover omnipotently above them, as to be in front of them, pulling themalong a narrative he unfurls before them, but on which they will inevitablyfumble. Kanafani’s work appeared prophetic because he wrote into it not onlythe content but the terms of national allegory. In order to fix one narrative, theimagined one, in an obvious relation to a second in transition, an identity cominginto being, Kanafani’s novel projects virility and masculine self-conception ascrucial and stable aspects not only of male, but national character. When AbulKhaizuran affirms his masculinity instead of his national loyalty, the choiceappears less as a frivolous preoccupation than as a grasping to assert selfhood ina public context, before the Iraqi border officials (and, it could be said, beforethe implied reader of the text).The precise failure in the narrative is the failure of masculine and nationalidentity to cohere. In order to make his national identity a priority, AbulKhaizuran would have to abandon his masculine identity, a move that he is notprepared to make. Abul Khaizuran’s moment of hesitation seems to reflect asimilar hesitation on the part of his author, who is not yet prepared to establishnew terms of masculinity (but will be in his next novel). Men in the Sun marksthe fact that the old terms will no longer do. This breach between gender andnational identity makes visible an instance of what Homi Bhabha calls ‘theambivalent margin of the nation-space,’(1990: 4), an always shifting, always inprocess,border at which the terms of national identity are negotiated, andwhere it is determined what kinds of bodies will be permitted into the nationalenclosure. Cultural discourse plays a part in policing this border, sometimes inaccordance with dominant political discourse, often in opposition to thedominant terms that establish the boundaries of ‘nation-space’. Men in the Sun— 56 —www.taq.ir

gender and the palestinian narrative of returnbrings its readers to the edge of this space at a particular historical momentwhen so many of the terms of national identity are abraded that no seamlessborder is possible. Here, masculinity and national identity should meet up tomutually constitute each other and create a seamless stretch on the contours ofPalestinian identity, but they do not. Each falls away from the other leaving, forthe reader, the revealed gap between them. National identity and masculineidentity, both under reconstruction as they are portrayed in Men in the Sun,intertwine in the character of Abul Khaizuran, whose failure comes of self-doubtthat he can perform a masculinity to which he feels his body does not attest, andfor whom that identity is more primary than a national affiliation. This characterliteralises the simultaneous instability of national and masculine identity, andthe drastic effects of such instability. 9Abul Khaizuran’s difficulty performing normative masculinity is always‘explained’ in critical rewriting in allegorical terms. Abul Khaizuran’s difficulty,in the allegorical retelling, is really a political problem, not a gender problem.Castration is transformed into a symbolic rather than a historical event in thenarrative. At the core of these readings is the belief that masculinity’s exemplaryexpression is virility, a belief so self-evident, apparently, that it completelyunderwrites the construction of Men in the Sun as a national allegory, whileremaining invisible itself. However, as a reading strategy, allegorical commentaryis not a neutral lens helping magnify the nature of the text in question, but aprosthetic device that may help minimise a collective sense of injury to thecollective (masculine) national body. R. W. Connell points out with respect tophysical disability and gender that ‘the construction of masculinity throughbodily performance means that gender is vulnerable when the performancecannot be sustained, for instance, as a result of physical disability’ (2000: 54).Citing a study in which physically disabled men attempted to accommodatetheir compromised sense of masculinity in a range of ways, Connell observesthat despite the different routes of accommodation men took, they were consistentin their inability to ignore the insult to their bodily sense of masculinity.One might conclude that there is an analogy to be made to this process ofaccommodation in collective cultural expression; in this instance it is a criticalmove that allows the absorption (and thus disappearance) of Abul Khaizuran’scastration into allegory in critical texts.With a now retrospective glance at Kanafani’s next novel, All That’s Left toYou (1965), it would appear that in the period between the first and secondnovel Kanafani recognised the centrality of masculine identity to the constructionof national identity, as well as the irreversibility of the national castrationhe posited in Men in the Sun. All That’s Left to You takes place in Gaza and theNegev Desert. In it, Kanafani not only offers his characters a return to the landof Palestine, but adjusts the problematic split between masculinity and national— 57 —www.taq.ir

amy zalmanidentity that plagued his characters in Men in the Sun by wholesale transformationof the male deficiency (castration) that was associated with the land, andits men, in his first novel, into female potential (fertility). Fertility isemphatically yoked to both land and the female protagonist of the novel. Thatnovel emerged shortly after the issuance of the PLO’s founding documents, theNational Charter and the Nationalist Charter. In his analysis of these documentsand PLO communiqués, Joseph Massad demonstrated the degree to which preexistingvalues of masculinity and the emergent articulation of national identitywere fused by declaring Palestinian identity in terms of paternity. 10 Thesedocuments rhetorically displace the evidence of national virility onto the fertilefemale body, while leaving the relationship between national and male identityintact. The National Charter included the rhetorical flourish that Zionistvictory constituted a rape of the land, and thus emphatically affixed nationalistintentions to the male prerogative and duty to protect female honour. InMassad’s terminology, these documents establish the way in which ‘masculinityis nationalized’ (Massad 1995: 469), a process that courses in the same timeperiod through Kanafani’s literary works.To expose the fugitive moment in Men in the Sun in which gender andnational identity do not cohere need not mean the important history of thebook as a political allegory must be abandoned, but rather that gender should beincorporated as a political term into the allegorical reading. Xeuping Dongusefully suggests with respect to recent Chinese literature that this meansputting ‘men as gendered individuals back into the scheme of allegory, thusexpanding an allegorical reading of … literature by including, rather thandisplacing, such an equally important (and political) approach as a genderedone’ (2000: 9). To this end, Kanafani’s novel must also be read as a tale of menwho must forge new understandings of what their bodies signify and do whentheir privileges and duties as men are in flux.The actors that Kanafani animates in fiction exemplify the dilemma of asociety at a crossroads: for the men in the sun, there is no discernable futurepath. The terrain of ‘hard patches of brown rocks like splinters’ and ‘low hillswith flattened tops of soft yellow earth like flour’ become landmarks on a roadonly by the travellers’ own ‘firm decision to go forward, doggedly’ (Kanafani1995/1994: 18/59). The past has left arrows and signs, and patterns of behaviourso ingrained that the body follows them instinctively. But formerly understoodsigns do not function, as Abu Qais’s hands do not, left idle without his grove often olive trees. Other signs are disappeared entirely; Abul Khaizuran’s bodymarks just such a loss. In 1958, the year of the events in Men in the Sun, asKanafani writes it, incipient signs marked ‘nation’ begin to appear. The men intheir dogged forward motion try to follow the directions that would lead themto conscious self-determination. The problem in the novel is that the signs of— 58 —www.taq.ir

gender and the palestinian narrative of returnmasculinity and the signs of nationalism do not all point in the same direction.The narrative implodes at the crossroads.The paradoxical situation in which the men find themselves can be describedby way of Benedict Anderson’s well-known diction. While the signs of the ‘deep,horizontal comradeship’ (1991: 7) that characterises nationalism are immanentin them, they are more immediately attuned to recently lost affiliations on ahierarchical matrix of categories. They calibrated their status and their directionwith regard to class, generation, membership in a trans-national Arab community,and gender. Their physical move away from Palestine testifies to the tensionthat obtains. The men are literally driven in contradictory directions, suspendedtemporally between disappeared and impendent forms of affiliation. Whatdrives them from behind – from unemployment, from the land – are knownsigns which gave their lives not simply existential or communal, but specificallymasculine meaning. The men move with nearly bodily instinct to fulfil duty,even though behind each lies ‘broken or disrupted family tradition’ (Harlow1996: 51). Their urge to support and protect family is charged with an idea thatis national, in the basic sense that their families constitute the nation, but it isnot ideologically nationalist. Abu Qais, frail and old, goes to Kuwait as adesperate measure of his male duty to care for his wife and their children, andonly then after prodding by his wife, perpetually pregnant and tired by hisnostalgic dream of his former dominion of olive trees. For the younger Assad,the trip to Kuwait and the 50 dinars he accepts from his uncle to fund itconstitute a reluctant acceptance of his father’s promise to marry him to a cousinto whom he’s been betrothed since birth. Marwan, the youngest of the three men,inherits masculine duty prematurely after his older brother already in Kuwaitmarries and stops sending money, and his father abandons the family for ayounger, wealthier woman in order to leave the refugee camp. 11 Abul Khaizuran,estranged from the familial order (but not from the masculine order, as assertedby his fury that he can’t sleep with a woman), pursues status by way of money.For all of the men, implicit notions of masculine honour infuse their beliefsabout what their bodies mean and should do. Their attempt to fulfil obligationpropels them into movement, even though masculine privilege within thefamily, and the tacit ideals of honour that bound Arab men across nation andclass lines have fallen away. (You could question whether these ideals were everfulfilled in reality, but they are primarily presented in the novel as formerlyfunctioning social mechanisms now broken.) In this new world, the signpoststhat tell them how to act as men no longer correspond to what their bodies areable to achieve. Thus they move. Abul Khaizuran, if he signals the extreme limitof male loss, also indicates potential, the possibility of moving forward into anew history, as a man, in a body that does not signify in conventional terms asmale.— 59 —www.taq.ir

amy zalmanThe penultimate chapter of Men in the Sun is marked by the crisis that willunfold within it from the beginning. The apparent contrast of the chapter’stitle, ‘Sun and Shade’, is misleading, since, while the sun is hot, shade will beeven hotter for the characters. The dislocation of language from its everydayassociations signals the displacement between language and action to follow.The men are silent as the truck heads for the second checkpoint:The huge lorry was carrying them along the road, together with their dreams, theirfamilies, their hopes and ambitions, their misery and despair, their strength andweakness, their past and future, as if it were pushing against the immense door to anew, unknown destiny, and all eyes were fixed on the door’s surface as though boundto it by invisible threads. (Kanafani 1995/1994: 6/129)Despite the catalogue of what stands to be lost, the moment offers apotentially hopeful narrative. History, a dimension that encompasses time andspace, seems imminent. If the men can penetrate the closed door of destiny,they will embody its essence and thereby control it with their own movements.Lighting a cigarette as he stops the truck, Abul Khaizuran suggests that they all‘rest a little before we begin the performance again’ (Kanafani 1995/1994: 48/132). The remark is peculiarly inappropriate to the scene. Abu Qais, Assad andMarwan do not feel like performers, and their stage will be an enclosed andisolated space. Abul Khaizuran, in contrast, reveals the degree to which for himbeing is a continuous performance of normality in defence against the moment,ten years earlier, ‘since they took his manhood from him’ (Kanafani 1995/1994:37/109), and after which he has ‘lived that humiliation, day after day and hourafter hour’ (Kanafani 1995/1994: 38/109).Abul Khaizuran enters the compound in a rush, but instead of the brisk interactionhe anticipates, he gets a leisurely greeting. ‘“Aha! Abu Khaizurana!”shouted the official, as he slid the papers to one side with deliberate carelessness,and crossed his arms on the metal desk. “Where have you been all thistime?”’ (Kanafani 1995/1994: 49/135). Having addressed Abul Khaizuran usinga feminine form of his name, the Iraqi official Abu Baqir and his cronies quizAbul Khaizuran about why he was detained in Basra, tell him that his boss, HajRida, has asked after him six times, and suggest that he sit down and have a cupof tea. Abul Khaizuran, increasingly distraught, simply pushes the pen towardsAbu Baqir. Finally, a story emerges – the officials all believe that AbulKhaizuran has spent his days in Basra with a prostitute named Kawkab. ‘“AbuKhaizurana, you devil. Why do not you tell us what you get up to in Basra? Youmake out to us that you are a decent, well-behaved fellow, and then you go toBasra and commit mortal sins with that dancer, Kawkab … Tell us about thisdancer. The Haj knows the whole story and he’s told it to us. Come on.”’(Kanafani 1995/1994: 51/137–8).The other men feminise Abul Khaizuran in ways that extend beyond their— 60 —www.taq.ir

gender and the palestinian narrative of returnderisive modification of his name. The affair itself, as they recount withsalacious zeal, has made Abul Khaizuran a feminine figure. They report thatthey have heard that Kawkab loves Abul Khaizuran so much that she writes himcheques for the pleasure of his company. In other words, Abul Khaizuran is thereal prostitute. The (not very) veiled challenge to his manhood reveals theminuteness of the conceptual economy in which sexuality can be expressed for,in this scene, if a man is not a man he is by definition – in the matrix of socialrelations, and in language – a woman. The competitive play of the jockeyingbetween men is reminiscent of the verbal jousting Michael Gilsenan observedof the North Lebanese community he studied in the 1970s where, as in manyparts of the Arab world, manhood was composed as importantly of word as ofdeed: ‘A “real man” was always alive to the occasions he might seize to provokea contest; looking for opportunities to develop an argument, to close offanother’s rhetorical alternatives and to drive him … to the broken, incoherentlanguage that signified helpless exasperation and loss of self-control’ (Gilsenan1996: 206). Abu Baqir’s apparently giddy celebration of virility, and his requestthat Abul Khaizuran ‘tell … how she has shown her love’ masks a hostile verbalchallenge. Abul Khaizuran participates because he knows the rules of theconventional challenge. That he loses the game is less significant than the factthat ultimately he decides he must play it.Finally, testily, with no time to waste, Abul Khaizuran replies to Abu Baqir’schallenge in a straightforward way: ‘Idha rawaha al-hajj lakum … fa-limadhaturiduni Æan arwiha marra ukhra?’ [If the Haj told it to you, why do you want meto tell it again?] The narrative fragments exactly here, exposing several faultlines at once. The more time Abul Khaizuran spends talking, the more likely itis the men in the tank will die. This emergency in the plot, related to time,artfully embeds a narrative crisis, related to History. Haj Rida has told a storyabout Abul Khaizuran that celebrates virility and prowess among men. It is notthe story’s truth (it isn’t true, as we and Abul Khaizuran know), but its repetitionthat gives it currency. Indeed, it has already been several times repeated. AbuBaqir ‘had thought about it day and night, endowing it with all the obscenitycreated by his long, tormenting deprivation’ (Kanafani 1995: 51). AbulKhaizuran asks the right question when he inquires with irritation why he shouldtell it again; he acknowledges with a nascent consciousness that to repeat thenarrative as it has already been told would not acknowledge the historical shiftsthat gave it meaning, because the world has changed. There has been a war, andan injury, and a loss to which Abul Khaizuran’s body irrevocably testifies.But Abul Khaizuran does not have a new story to tell yet. The rhetoricalperformance of masculinity as it exists does not admit his tale of nationalcommunity and national suffering. To borrow Massad’s terminology, the rhetoricof masculinity is not nationalised. Rather, masculinity is entirely severed from— 61 —www.taq.ir

amy zalmanthe nation, whose actors are Abul Khaizuran, shifting from foot to foot in theuncomfortable moment, and the three men in the tank. Abul Khaizuran knowshe does not want to repeat the story that has already been told, and we can guessthat he would like to move forward into the story that awaits him outside into aself-determined history he’ll author himself. But when Abu Baqir, holding AbulKhaizuran’s passage papers behind his back, asks him to introduce him toKawkab on his next trip to Basra, Abul Khaizuran gives in. Defeated, he tells alie, and says he will. ‘On your honour?’ ‘On my honour.’Abul Khaizuran’s failure at this moment extends beyond an incompetence ofcharacter, or even of the political will he represents. His rejoinder – ‘If Haj Ridahas already told you the story, why do you want me to tell it again?’ – offers alinguistically precise representation of the cleavage between gender and nationalidentity. Abul Khaizuran’s attempt at rejoinder splits, almost too easily, intoequal halves divorced by a comma. On one side of the cleaved phrase (‘If HajRida has already told you the story’) is repetition without alteration, possiblytold by a rich Kuwaiti businessman to a bored Iraqi official (although that toomight be a fabrication), about masculinity that expresses itself by sex withprostitutes. On the other side of the comma (‘Why do you want me to tell itagain?’) lies potential: a question, an attempted refusal to repeat the repetitivenarrative, an inchoate attempt by Abul Khaizuran to speak masculinity as helives it, in relation to his history.In the few seconds it takes to utter the sentence, the mechanics of narrativehistory are revealed, as is the structural rupture, that space between the phrases,that would permit the admission of a new kind of story about what hashappened to this Palestinian man. Jean Luc Nancy points out that the seamlessnesswith which historical narrative typically presents itself is itself a giveawaythat it is not seamless, for ‘history, fulfilled, enclosed within its own closure,indicates by itself that the closure has to “give” in one point … and that in thispoint, consequently, meaning does not link up with its own presence. To be themeaning that “is,” it defers itself and differs from itself’ (1990: 104–5). Thispermeable enclosure out of which history’s meaning is always seeping, in excessof the story History proposes to tell, is structurally akin to Bhabha’s vision of thenation-space edged by a pervious, negotiable border. But Abul Khaizuran,almost embodying a new history, almost telling a new story, or in the mosthopeful scenario, almost leaving the compound for the men outside, does notmake it across the border, or even across the sentence. When he gives in to AbuBaqir and agrees to tell the story again, he also refuses the historical possibilityhe has just posited. But nor is everything as it was before. In the split secondbetween the two clauses he creates a breach that will not be closed up again.When he attempts to step back into the tired story of masculinity defined byclaims to virility, the men outside in the truck have already died. In his moment— 62 —www.taq.ir

gender and the palestinian narrative of returnof failure he slides as if down the comma itself, into the unexpected abyss. Werehe to have crossed it, he would have had to take his body, unquestionably malebut marked by historical loss, with him.That leap, and the acknowledgement that masculinity is implicated innational identity, is not taken by Kanafani’s protagonist, whose attempt tocounter his sense of loss as a man through bravado leads to a tragedy he cannotfully understand. As a sort of retrospective footnote to what cannot be said inthe context of the early 1960s, Yahya Yakhlif’s 1991 novel A Lake Beyond theWind, about the life of a village on the edge of Lake Tiberias (often referred to asthe Sea of Galilee in English), presents a nuanced portrait of male bravadocomprised of fear, idealism and anxiety. Set in the muddled months of theBritish withdrawal from Palestine and the first Arab–Israeli war, the novelexplores the feelings of young men from Iraq, Syria and Palestine who join thevolunteer army in 1948. They are all poorly armed and manipulated by theircommanders’ own political objectives.Yakhlif returns to the scene to critique these internal politics, and in theprocess he portrays the flimsy construction of masculinity in the context of thefirst Arab-Israeli war. He does this in large part through stories of objects whosepower lies in their symbolism. Like the heroic but fruitless dreams of the novel’smost powerless characters, these objects appear to promise victory, but do not.The novel’s several narratives are threaded by the story of a bulletproof vestpurchased by one of Samakh’s residents from a passing British. The vest ispassed on as a gift to a local army commander, and eventually plays a large rolein constructing a lie: the local commander tells someone higher up that thebulletproof vest was war booty, when in fact the battle to which he refers hadbeen a definitive defeat. When Najib, a young soldier from Samakh, is orderedto give the vest to the inspector general, he chooses instead to walk away fromthe camp with it. In much the same way, the most prominent romance in thenovel, between a Syrian volunteer and a neighbour of his family in Damascus, ismarked by objects, most prominently an amulet that she has made up for himand which he draws out periodically to look at. Both the bulletproof vest andthe amulet have an equivalent use in the novel: each has a nearly magicalreference to an unrealisable dream, military victory and romantic union with afar-away woman. The novel appropriately ends with the contemplations of ademobilised Iraqi soldier walking, with Najib, to the north end of Lake Tiberiasas refugees stream northwards and eastwards from the region: ‘I realized thenthat everything had been lost, and that all paths led to exile and dispersion.Such a melancholy prospect. Such a lonely road’ (214). This is the road thatAbul Khaizuran travels, too.By 1966, when All That’s Left to You was published, the concept of return wasemerging as the dominant motif in nationalist thought in conjunction with— 63 —www.taq.ir

amy zalmancalls to armed struggle. The concept of return, although framed in terms of theentire nation of Palestinians, was primarily and most publicly enacted by menand in activities that resonated with masculine notions of bravery and honour.The necessity of return as a condition for liberation steered the political goals ofthe most visible Palestinian organisation of the early 1960s, Fatah. 12 Formed inKuwait in the late 1950s by a group of men who met as students in Cairo, Fatahwas, by the mid-1960s, prepared to enact that return, and in January 1965 thegroup’s military wing al-Asifa (the storm) made its first armed incursion intoIsraeli territory. Kanafani was himself affiliated with the Arab NationalistMovement, a pan-Arabist association closely tied to Egyptian president ÆAbd al-Nasir’s politics. In 1964, it too created a Palestinian wing (National Front for theLiberation of Palestine) whose own military sector began armed raids into Israelaround the same time as Fatah, near the end of 1964 (Cobban 1984: 142–3).Although there are a few notable women, such as Leila Khaled, who participatedin military action, guerrilla activity was primarily made up of maleparticipants. Women were considered important participants in national rejuvenation,but they were not necessarily encouraged to participate in enactingreturn to Palestine. In her 1973 autobiography, Khaled described her attempt tojoin the military wing of Fatah in Kuwait, where she was living in 1965. Afterjoining, she chafed at the fundraising goal she had been given, and Fatahmembers suggested that she assist by helping mothers in the camps and visitingfamilies of Palestinians considered martyrs for having died fighting. This wasnot satisfactory, as Khaled observed drily: ‘Social work … is not social revolution.I want to participate fully in the revolution’ (1973: 106). The situation shedescribed illustrates how the roles of women, even in exile, could be constructedin terms of political nationalism, but not related specifically to the concept ofreturn, or to actions directly related to return.Organisations such as Fatah and the NFLP’s military wing transformed maleabsence into male presence through force. They thus brought to a culminationin action a characteristic of twentieth-century Palestinian historiography whichRashid Khalidi has called ‘the narrative of failure as triumph’ (1997: 195). But ifmilitary action commutes failure into triumph by dint of stealth and force, thesesame strategies can be treacherous on literary geography, whose roads andlandmarks are often unconscious desire and its symbols. Attempts to cross legalboundaries, or flout established paths, lead to unmarked territories of taboo andrepression. As Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari argued persuasively in Anti-Oedipus, the unconscious is a dynamic, productive machine whose capacities aremore multi-vocal and less determined than the Freudian elaboration of Oedipaldrives would have them. But the idea of the Oedipal scenario, and theconstricted pathways for desire it predicts, draws its persuasive force in large partfrom its historical collision, and collusion, with the organisation of social— 64 —www.taq.ir

gender and the palestinian narrative of returnproduction in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. In thatscenario, every set of relations – familial, economic and political – is characterizedby a tripartite division on which desire, an object of desire, and the law thatgoverns the interaction of desire and its object are distributed.In the familial triangulation which is the basis for all other patterns ofrelationship, the not-yet-sexed child desires the mother but restrains fromenacting that desire by agreeing to abide by the father’s law. Through thealliances children make, they become sexed bodies: boys fear castration and allythemselves with the father’s law, while girls, peering down hopelessly, realisethat it is too late for them, and appropriately shift their desires to the father.Oedipalised relationships, replicated across a range of institutions beyond thefamily, function when the legitimacy of the father’s law, or the legitimacy of afather-like authority such as the state, is not in question. When structures thatfacilitate Oedipal socialisation are either absent or perceived as illegitimate, asin conditions of exile or occupation, those processes of socialisation grind to ahalt. The result for children of such a situation is a tangled confusion ofimpulses ungirded by structures that legitimate them, and a suspended existencein an unresolved castration complex. If there is a psycho-sexual component tothe political narrative of return it lies in the promise to condense normal avenuesof socialisation and desire. Instead, as the narrative of failure-as-triumph conveys,the terror of absence (and its peculiar resonance for men in Freudian terms) canbe countered by connecting masculine desire to revolutionary ends. Masculinedesire is given a positive character as it is transformed from a futile gesture thatreminds men of what is not there into the serious pleasures of return and liberationof the land. But, with its close attention to desire’s pathways, Kanafani’snovel reveals the near impossibility of achieving that transformation when thefamily, and male authority within it, is devastated. Femininity emerges as themechanism that negotiates male return. Understood from a male perspective,feminine presence is viewed competitively as having supplanted male presence,which in turn can only be achieved by converting feminine presence intofeminine absence.Given that Kanafani’s first formulation of exile was as a specifically malecondition, and that his representation of the male nation was as one unableeither to express desire or admit impotence, it is perhaps not surprising thatKanafani’s return narrative reconstructs masculinity so that the expression ofmale desire can have effect. One of the ways in which absence from the landwas demarcated as emphatically masculine in Men in the Sun was by opposing itto presence on the land, and correlating such presence to women left behind.All That’s Left to You provides an excellent illustration of how representationsof femininity are used to construct masculine, as well as feminine, desire inthe context of a burgeoning nationalist movement. The novel, which begins as— 65 —www.taq.ir

amy zalmana narrative of exile, concludes with the triumphant return of a young manpoised at its end to liberate his homeland. In the process of telling this story,Kanafani rendered both the female body and Palestine as interchangeablemetaphors of a ‘fertile land’, whose fecundity must be yoked to the nationalcause. In proffering the female body as a national symbol, Kanafani dramaticallyshifted the meaning he attached to bodies in Men in the Sun, which emphasisedthe castrated male body as the sign of permanent national loss.The formal complexity of Kanafani’s novel makes extracting its plot a trickymatter. Only a few events happen in the narrative time of the novel, which isabout a brother and sister living in Gaza. Maryam, the sister, becomes pregnantby and marries Zakaria, a traitor twice over. Zakaria already has a wife and fivechildren, and also once betrayed an underground resistance member to theIsraeli army, causing the man’s death. Hamid, furious at the shame his sister hasbrought on their family, decides to walk across the Negev Desert to his motherin Jordan. Maryam sits anxiously in her house in Gaza, listening to the repetitiveticking of Hamid’s wall clock, hearing in them his footsteps. Hamid in theDesert throws his watch away, a gesture which may be read as a step out ofcalendar time. In keeping with the consistent characterisation of the Desert as amaternal and eroticised female character (who has a speaking part) and Hamid’sstated goal of reaching his mother, the tossing of his watch suggests a step intosomething like fetal time, from which he will be reborn. 13 Like Jonson’s braveinfant of Saguntum, so horrified by a world under siege that he refuses to beborn, Hamid too nurses the hope that he can simply turn around and go back.Events take a turn for both brother and sister simultaneously. Hamid comesupon an Israeli soldier who has lost his own way in the Desert and lit flares toannounce his presence. Hamid does not know who it is that lights the flares, buthe treats him as an intruder. A struggle involving all three actors – Desert,soldier and Hamid – ensues: ‘Suddenly he was on me; I felt the ground hurl meup towards him and we fell together … and at once I was sure I was the strongerof the two. Carefully and precisely I raised my knee and put it between histhighs. He began moaning faintly and said something I couldn’t understand’(Kanafani 1990: 32/205). 14 The land takes sides, or at least Hamid perceives theland as actively assisting his struggle. Hamid relieves the soldier of his flare gunand machine gun, and takes the soldier’s long knife. The soldier leaps up toattack Hamid. Hamid, in possession of the knife, holds it against the soldier’sstomach and the man retreats. But the cycle of psychic combat is not yet over.The soldier tries to crawl on his backside towards a water flask, but Hamidthrows the flask even further away, underlining the infantile position of thesoldier, who is now dependent on him.At the same time, in Gaza, Maryam senses that her brother is in danger andwakes up from a fitful sleep. Shortly afterwards, Zakaria awakens as well, and in— 66 —www.taq.ir

gender and the palestinian narrative of returntheir ensuing argument threatens Maryam with the choice of either divorce orabortion of the baby Maryam has already decided to name Hamid. In thekitchen, as in the Desert, the survival of someone named Hamid hangs in thebalance. At exactly the moment that Zakaria demands that Maryam abort herchild, Maryam hears another voice, ‘welling up in my body, echoing there,screaming into my head … “We can’t dispose of him now, we can’t get rid ofhim now.”’ The voice, coming from inside her but not quite her own, suggeststhe impulses for survival of the fetus itself, but refers ambiguously to both thefetus and Zakaria. In both scenes, the female figure – the Desert and Maryam,respectively – mediates a male contest, and holds the power to decide thevictor. Maryam, having betrayed her brother once by having become pregnantby Zakaria, redeems herself and her brother by making the choice to kill Zakariaand save the unborn Hamid. Separated, but sharing the same consciousness,Maryam and Hamid finally act in harmonious tandem to throw off enemiesfrom within and without, while a formerly threatening incestuous link betweenbrother and sister is now expressed as one between mother and son. What is left,in Kanafani’s novel, is Hamid lost in the belly of a feminine Desert, andMaryam, in her kitchen in Gaza, pregnant with a child she has already decidedto name Hamid. The novel closes with the image of the clock on the wall,beating out the same cyclical time it always has, and beneath which Maryam sitsover the corpse of her husband. Hamid may have thrown his watch away, but hewill be reborn into a new time, the time of return. But while it is Maryam’smilitant decisiveness that ensures Hamid’s return, she is not offered rebirth orthe chance to toss away the clock that ticks out her waiting. Rather, her statusand her body are newly yoked to the cyclical time of reproduction. The vignettethat closes the novel, of Maryam between murder and reproductive labour, ormore starkly as a figure with power over both death and life, displays theambivalent position she will occupy for the foreseeable future. Her power overmen is tremendous, and it is constructed in equally tremendous terms, for sheboth imperils and delivers life itself. The dull repetitiousness of the clock takeson an ideological force; it sounds a refusal to admit Maryam’s presence intohistory.The few events of the novel are related through a complex structure veinedby flashback and repetition. The causal logic that normally drives a chronologicalnarrative ceases to operate at moments of historical trauma. In additionto the human characters, Maryam, Hamid and Zakaria, there are two metaphoricalones, Time and Space (in the figure of the Desert) who also narrate.As the author explains to the reader in an introduction to the formalcharacteristics of his novel: ‘the five characters in this novel, Hamid, Maryam,Zakaria, Time and the Desert, do not move along parallel or conflicting lines’(Kanafani 1990: xxi/159). 15 Rather, as Kanafani clarifies, the novel progresses— 67 —www.taq.ir

amy zalmanby a series of disconnected lines which fuse in different combinations. Speakingin turns (shifts in the speaking voice are indicated by different typefaces) thevoices of the five characters interdependently weave a narrative from whichnone can be extracted if the narrative as a whole is to make sense. Voicesinterrupt one another, finish each others’ sentences and thoughts, and extendverbal images sown in the text by characters far away in time or space. Not onlyare there no clear distinctions between places and times, there are not alwaysdistinctions between Maryam and Hamid as speaking subjects, who share andinterpenetrate each other’s consciousness. In overall effect, the novel’s formalcharacteristics highlight the collective and interdependent relations betweenpeople, and how time and space can seem to be themselves agents in creating acollective reality.Kanafani explains in his introduction that the reason for writing the novel inthis way is so that its story can be told ‘in a single burst’. That ‘single burst’ is themoment in which the murder of Zakaria by Maryam, in hearing distance of thewall clock, and the confrontation in the Desert between the soldier and Hamidsimultaneously occur, thereby drawing on all the characters at once. AsKanafani renders them, these are not merely parallel events, each made moreemphatic by its structural likeness to the other. It is actually one event – Maryam’sdecisive act recovers Hamid, lost in the womblike Desert, and ensures him arebirth as her future child. Whether or not this is seen as a real event in theworld of the novel, or a metaphor, the point is that Maryam’s shame is absolvedby her wilful and partisan violence, in which she herself de-emphasises hervarious roles as a woman to highlight, at the end, her heroic role as a mother.Both the tangled interweave of language and the knotted structures of desirewhich are resolved through the odd resurrection of Maryam’s brother as her sonultimately refer to the traumatic moment in 1948 in which they were forged.Edward Said has contended that the construction of a scene is the definingproblem of Arabic literature after 1948. Unable to draw on an establishedpresent as the backdrop against which the mutable human personality expressesitself, the writer is constrained to construct a new present. As he puts it withspecific regard to Kanafani’s style: ‘The paradox of contemporaneity for thePalestinian is very sharp indeed … If the present cannot be “given” simply (thatis, if time will not allow him either to differentiate clearly between the past andhis present or to connect them because the 1948 disaster, unmentioned exceptas an episode hidden within episodes, prevents continuity), it is intelligible onlyas achievement’ (1980: 153). Like Said’s own expository framing of ‘the 1948disaster’, as a parenthetical linguistic event around which a sentence distends inorder to achieve continuous sense, All That’s Left to You lays out the lives Hamidand Maryam as repetitive circlings of a parenthesised trauma. The bracketedepisode in which the children’s parents – the representatives of law and object— 68 —www.taq.ir

gender and the palestinian narrative of returnnecessary for Oedipal socialisation – were lost, and around which the novel’sevents implode, gives the novel its particular form as much as its story.Maryam and Hamid were in effect orphaned in 1948. Their father died fightingfor the national cause, and the children were separated from their mother onthe evening of their flight from their hometown of Jaffa. Maryam and Hamidwent with their aging aunt to Gaza, while their mother ended up in Jordan incircumstances that remain unelaborated. Separated from their mother by twonational borders, Maryam and Hamid raise each other. Hamid spends his youthhell-bent on trying to enforce his father’s last dictate, ‘Do not talk about marriagebefore our national cause has been decided’ (Kanafani 1990: 19/189), by avoidingromantic interests himself, and hoping to steer Maryam clear of erotic entanglementtoo. Maryam, aware of the prohibition’s import, nevertheless finds herselfplagued by its implications, since she knows she faces ‘a trivial world unpreparedto accommodate another spinster’ (Kanafani 1990: 18/187). Beset by yearningfor their mother, and prohibited by their father from pursuing relationshipsbeyond the family, the brother and sister have little choice but to coerce theiradolescent desires onto the circumscribed circuit of their relationship with eachother. In the absence of parents behind them, or a known future before them,they flood the small space of the family with substitute longings for each other,both as parents and as symbolic lovers.Like Hamid, who sees Maryam as a substitute mother/lover, 16 Maryam lovesher brother with a longing that borders on the illicit. For Maryam, however, itstops at that border as she matures. The elder of the two siblings, Maryam findsthe paradox of their relationship increasingly difficult to bear: ‘How can Hamidpossibly understand? For all his wonderful manhood, he was my brother’(Kanafani 1990: 18/187). Maryam eventually breaks the family rule when shegets involved with Zakaria, but every time she gets into bed (the bed itself isHamid’s) with Zakaria, she is overcome by the memory of her brother. UntilMaryam’s disobedient act, there seems to be no way out of this constraint for thechildren, suspended in the liminal space of their father’s until, the undecidednational cause before which there can be no marriage. But the consequence ofMaryam’s entanglement with the traitor Zakaria has the tinge of miscegenationabout it, highlighting the particular nature of the crisis into which her father’slogic pitches her. Ungoverned by father or nation, Maryam’s desire is dangerousbecause it may lead her to reproduce for an enemy, whether internal or external.At the same time, if there will be no marriage in the absence of a state, therewill soon be no nation if there is no marriage, or reproduction, at least.The claustrophobic psychic constraints under which Maryam and Hamid growup are mimicked by the similarly confined verbal operations permitted in thenovel. Events and their narration are not so much caused in All That’s Left toYou as triggered by their structural similitude to something else. Words and— 69 —www.taq.ir

amy zalmanimages beget their own likenesses in other contexts. Thought is never productivebut circular. Hamid’s recollection of his father’s arm, hanging limply by hisside in death, recalls the memory of his father’s arm around his mother inlovemaking. The unachievable condition embedded in the phrase, ‘if only ourmother were here’ structures both every disappointment and every celebrationin the lives of Hamid and Maryam. Their repertoire of words and images is asmall one; with a whirlpool’s force, they always return the narrative to 1948, themoment at which national and family disaster intersected, and the worldcontracted for Hamid and Maryam into one traumatic reference point ofungraspable loss to which all experiences and utterances repetitiously refer. Ifphysical space has been colonised, so has inner life; each time Hamid orMaryam want to think a new thought, they find they have no language for it,and that there is nowhere to go but the limited vocabulary of childhood and itsunrealisable desires. In both their verbal and erotic exchanges, then, brotherand sister recycle a finite amount of psychic and linguistic material whichalways returns them to their father’s condition: there will be no licit expressionsof desire until the national cause is decided. Hamid’s decision to leave Gaza andwalk the Desert to his mother, far from being a step out of this cycle, is a stepinto it. Not only does he return to the geographic site of national loss, but to thepsychic moment of desire’s contraction into a tangled family romance fromwhich there seems to be no exit.Another way of saying this is that the novel as a whole distorts linguisticstructures, if lyrically, to accommodate the prohibition of marriage: the pairingof terms never produces a third term. Instead, the novel contains dizzyingrepetitions of the same triangulated relationship in which three terms are alwaysreduced to an unproductive and in some way illicit pairing. The evocation ofthe prohibition in the text is itself arrived at via a jagged, but almost schematic,movement through triangulated relationships reduced to pairings. Maryam andZakaria lie in bed together on their first night of marriage. The couple lie inHamid’s old bed, establishing a triangular relationship between Maryam, Hamidand Zakaria. Maryam asks Zakaria to tell her the name of his first wife (to whomhe is still married, and with whom he has five children), which reminds thereader of a second triangulated relationship, Zakaria’s with Maryam and his firstwife, Fathiyya. The mention of the name leads Maryam to recall her childhoodfriend of the same name. This girlfriend, Fathiyya, had always joked withMaryam that one day she would marry her off to her brother, Fathi. WhileMaryam’s mother found the idea of the match amusing, its mention made herfather shout instead, ‘Do not talk about marriage before our national cause hasbeen decided!’ (Kanafani 1990: 19/189).While Maryam’s train of thought leads her to her father’s pronouncement,the dizzying multiples of names and roles can also be seen as resulting from it.— 70 —www.taq.ir

gender and the palestinian narrative of return(Fathiyya and her brother Fathi share the same name; Fathiyya is the sister of aman meant to become her friend’s wife, but in her offer to give her brotheraway, Fathiyya also acts the parent to her own brother; and in a third instance,Fathiyya is the wife of a man to whom Maryam is also married.) In the compressedspace of the post-1948 world, it makes little difference which comes first: allrelationships collapse into structural similarity in which sisters, wives andmothers, and brothers, husbands and fathers play substituting roles, making anyerotic pairing a potentially polluted one. In the end, Maryam in her kitchen,and Hamid in the Desert (and inside the Desert) will combine forces to excise athird party who threatens their existence, and in that moment gender roles willcongeal for the foreseeable future. With the Desert and Maryam already interchangeablyfixed as ‘fertile land’, Hamid is reborn as a son of the motherlandwhen Maryam kills Zakaria. Through rebirth on the land, Hamid is given a wayout of the inverted terms of the castration complex with which his father lefthim. For, if the desire for incest is resolved by the fear of certain punishment inthe form of castration, Hamid finds that the punishment for national castrationis illicit desire. Hamid’s illegitimate yearning for his mother and his sister ispurified by its transformation into revolutionary desire to return to the land.However, unlike Maryam’s capacity to effect her desire by giving birth, Hamidcannot achieve revolutionary return by himself.All That’s Left to You leaves the focus on male virility intact by going aroundit; since nothing is to be done, at least yet, about the male shame of nationalcastration, focus shifts to the female body. As a primarily maternal geographywhich in its own fertile potential lacks nothing, the female body becomes thesign of an imminent male virility, which will be achieved through return to, andcontrol of, the land. Motherhood itself was held in high esteem by Kanafani,who when asked by a friend to name his highest ideal, replied (in a letter) thatit was his mother, who although semi-literate, was highly intelligent, taughthim in indirect ways, and was a ‘genuine person – ethical … and withoutpretension’ (Habib 1990: 13). He would go on to write Um Saad (1969), a novelwhich celebrates just such a mother.At the same time, the problem of female desire posed by Kawkab, flickeringin the distance in Men in the Sun, is brought into sharp focus in All That’s Left toYou. Feminine desire, constructed as inherently indiscriminate, voracious andgoverned by passion more than reason, must be curtailed and brought into linewith the contours of the masculine return. Femininity must be trained to wait, itmust be re-domesticated and reminded that its objective is partisan and reproductive.It must not assert desire independently, as Kawkab appeared to, lest itthreaten the extremely tenuous, only imminent, assertion of masculine presence.In All That’s Left to You, the degree to which, from a male perspective, femininepresence appears to threaten the possibility of masculine presence is demonstrated— 71 —www.taq.ir

amy zalmanby Hamid’s encounter with the Desert, who is arguably the most powerfulcharacter in the novel.The Desert is powerful because she belongs to no nation, and because shetranscends the historical sequence of male claims to her vast territory, whetherPalestinian or Israeli, by rendering all men helpless. She threatens ‘death, night’ssolitary song that parades my body’ (Kanafani 1990: 8/172) and offers ‘a breastthat … holds nothing but terror’ (Kanafani 1990: 8/172), but upon whichHamid has no choice but to throw himself when he hears a car passing in thedesert. Indiscriminate in her appetites, the Desert’s threat lies in her capacity toassimilate any man who wanders into her. As Hamid ruminates:There isn’t a steel blade in the world which wouldn’t be shattered if it were to grazeyour naked yellow breast … Mine and theirs … All the steel blades of the worldcould never hack down one root of your surface, but would shatter … in the face ofyour firm harvest which grows bigger and bigger as a man strides further and furtherinto your depth, step-by-step, until he himself turns into a nameless, deep-rootedstem that thrives erect on your juices. (Kanafani 1990: 14/179–80)From the perspective of Hamid, the potency of the Desert is paradoxical. TheDesert’s presence guarantees his survival, because it can nourish him, but in theprocess of nourishing she also threatens to erase his own autonomy, making hisreturn also a form of subjugation to her. It is here, in the space between theopposing values placed on feminine desire, that the mechanics of masculinereturn are enacted. As Hamid struggles with the Israeli soldier, he begins toproject nationalist sentiment onto the Desert. He subjugates the threat that hervoraciousness and presence embody by imagining them as directed against thesoldier. He emerges victorious over the Israeli soldier by re-ascribing the Desert’scapacity to nourish in relation to himself only.When it is viewed from within the specific contours of the return narrative,the paradoxical characterisation of femininity in the trope of land-as-womanappears much more dynamic than it might otherwise. Women are often characterisedas both aggressive and passive, sexually voracious and sexually submissive,redemptive and shameful, threateningly present and positively absent as a figureof maternal potential (an emptiness that signifies future presence). But, althoughthese contradictory attributions may coexist, they can also be seen as traces of anarrative process in which different projections of femininity as dominating andsubjugated are used as levers to facilitate masculine return. Masculine return isinstigated through an encounter with a dominating feminine presence, andachieved by fantasising its subjugation to masculine desire. In the process of thisnarrative, masculine absence is exchanged for presence, and feminine presencecommuted to feminine assistance in the task of masculine return.One of the striking characteristics of All That’s Left to You is the author’sattentiveness to the consequences of this process for its female protagonist,— 72 —www.taq.ir

gender and the palestinian narrative of returnMaryam. We are reminded that Maryam, like her brother, is also trying tofollow the example of a parent in their absence, and to provide for herself therole for which she was prepared, and to which her desires lead her. Like Hamidin his quasi-erotic encounter with the Desert, Maryam too experiences apotential loss of autonomy in her own erotic encounters. Her experience ofsexual intercourse is depicted as the mirror-image of Hamid’s fears on enteringthe Desert. For her, the sensation of being ‘squeezed, kneaded, and soaked inwater in a terrifying mélange of heat and cold’ (Kanafani 1990: 16/185) – is asfearful as Hamid’s sensation of being swallowed by the Desert. Shaking underZakaria’s hands, Maryam is reminded of Hamid’s hands in childhood, shakingher shoulders in a small boat off the Jaffa shore, and explaining that theirmother will follow them later. But, shaped by historical circumstance and thenecessity of male return, it is Maryam’s desires that are ultimately designated asdangerous. All That’s Left to You leaves off not only with a renewed sense ofnational consciousness for Hamid, but with a renewed value attached to thedomestication of female desire.Kanafani’s novels suggest that the association of woman with land, althoughit may be an old one, is also mobilised in specific ways depending on the socialand political context. The construction of territorial loss in masculine termsafter 1948 sets the stage for the enactment of masculine return in the early1960s. Both the narrative of loss and that of return indicate the interdependenceof masculine and feminine symbols in structuring national narratives. Ananalysis of masculine narratives may help produce new answers about whyassociations between land and woman have such enduring and powerful resonance,both within and beyond literature. Such analysis requires recognition, inthe first place, that gender refers to men and masculinity as much as it does towomen and femininity, as well as to the relations between them. At the sametime, recognising that the relationship between masculine and nationalidentity is constructed in specific historical contexts raises new questions aboutthe mutual exclusivity of masculinity and femininity in shaping nationalidentity.Kanafani’s novels are good places to explore these questions. His influentialnarratives provide answers that are relevant to both the specific circumstancesof Palestinian national identity after 1948, and to the broader circumstances outof which territorial nationalism emerged. The struggles of men in his novels toassert national identity are played out on other Arab and on Israeli nationalterritories, and in the presence of the political and military might of other men.Yet the implicit context in which dominant and subordinate masculinities vieto assert presence are explicitly displaced onto interactions between men andwomen in which women and femininity are perceived as powerful, threateningand in need of subordination. The assumptions about feminine desire and— 73 —www.taq.ir

amy zalmansexuality that give these interactions credence play important roles in constructinga viable Palestinian masculine identity.Kanafani’s novels are also usefully read in light of the recognition unfoldingacross the social sciences and humanities that nations are gendered, and thatgender shapes politics ‘through men and their interests, their notions of manliness,and masculine micro and macro cultures’ (Nagel 1998: 243). InKanafani’s literary elaboration of national identity, the limited economy of thenation is given expression on both a geographical and a psychic landscape.Conscious action and unconscious desires are mutually constituted. A close lookat the interactions in Men in the Sun and All That’s Left to You reveals stories ofcharacters whose humanity is given concrete physical expression in time andplace, as men and women, and as members of national communities. Theyusefully elaborate the insight that the ‘discovery’ of the boundaries of the modernnation and the modern unconscious, History and psychoanalysis, unfolded intandem, 17 and of the particular resonance of these nineteenth-century claims inspecific national settings.The 1967 war decisively ended the triumphal masculine return proposed byAll That’s Left to You. It also punctured the romantic vision of women whosedangerous desires could be subordinated to a masculine national will. In post-1967 literature, women as authors and heroes critiqued the masculine narrativeof return for its failure to achieve results, and carved out narrative spaces thatpermitted the entry of feminine narratives as nationalist narratives. 18 Nearly ageneration after the men in the sun first set off for Kuwait, another fictionalscene at the crossroads of masculinity and national identity takes place. Thistime, in Sahar Khalifeh’s 1974 novel, Wild Thorns, their paths cross at theborder between Jordan and the West Bank occupied by Israel in 1967. A youngPalestinian man, Usama, is returning from his work as a translator in anunnamed ‘oil country’ of the Gulf region to his family home in Jerusalem. Enroute to the border he chats with an older man, Abu Muhammad, who displaysan expensive watch with pride to Usama, explaining that several of his sons aresuccessfully working in Kuwait. The gift, he tells Usama, is a present for hisyoungest son, Khalid, ‘the last of the line’ (Khalifeh 1994: 7). Khalid, his fatherreports, is ‘the only one who’s been a problem. He got out of prison on bail.They’d tortured him in every part of his body, even down there. 19 They loosed adog on him that went for his genitals. He may be infertile [Æaqir, a term thatusually refers to a woman].’ Usama corrects the older man: ‘You mean impotent[Æaqim, which usually refers to a man].’ 20 Abu Muhammad shrugs at the differenceand says he’s an uneducated man.The linguistic correction, if slight, is nevertheless telling. It enfolds a narrativerelating masculinity to national identity that spans the uncertain generation ofAbul Khaizuran and Abu Muhammad to their descendants in the next— 74 —www.taq.ir

gender and the palestinian narrative of returngeneration. Their national sons, men like Khalid and Usama, are educated,imbued with national consciousness, and clear in their certainty that althoughthey may be described as impotent, they are without question men. For Usama,the bodily condition of his fellow national requires no glossing over or ignoring.Instead, it is language itself that must be recut from its existing fabric (and itspre-existing associations with gender) to fit the new reality of how men’s bodiesare. Khalifeh’s realignment of masculinity bears significantly on the terms offemininity. At once, her recasting forecloses the option of derogating masculinityas a kind of femininity, and opens a space in which the particularities of thefemale body, and its forms of potency and impotence, might claim a uniquelinguistic and nationalist space. The scene in Khalifeh’s novel questions thefinite terms in which territorial and psychic presence have been formulated, andsuggests that to constrain desire’s potential to shape human reality is, at theleast, a failure of imagination.notes1. Ghassan Kanafani, ‘La Littérature de la Resistance en Palestine Occupée’, in OeuvresAfro-Asiatiques 2–3 (1968), pp. 65–81.2. See Ilham Abu Ghazaleh, ‘Gender in the Poetry of the Intifada’, in PalestinianWomen of Gaza and the West Bank, Suha Sabbagh (ed.), (Bloomington: IndianaUniversity Press, 1998), pp. 91–113. See also Mary Layoun, ‘Telling Spaces: PalestinianWomen and the Engendering of National Narratives’, in Nationalisms andSexualities, Andrew Parker et al. (eds) (New York: Routledge, 1992), pp. 407–23;and Suha Sabbagh, ‘Palestinian Women Writers and the Intifada’, in Social Text 22(1989), pp. 62–78. For a contemporary account of the roles of women, see Ghazi Al-Khalili, Al-Mar’a Al-Filatiniyya wa-al-Thawra: Dirasa Ijtima’iya Maydaniya Tahliliya(Beirut: PLO Research Center, 1977).3. The first page number refers to Kilpatrick’s translation of Men in the Sun, from whichquotations are taken. I have also used the transliterations of character names as theyare spelled in the English translation. The second page number refers to the Arabic,which can be found in Ghassan Kanafani’s Al-Athar al-kamila: Al-Ruwayat (Mu’assasatAl-Abhath Al-Arabiyya, 1994).4. In broad strokes, the chronology of failures against which Men in the Sun is generallyread spans the period between the war of 1948 and the decade or so following it. On29 November 1947, the General Assembly of the United Nations proposed thepartition of Palestine into two states, one Jewish and one Arab. Neither group foundthe proposal ensconced in Resolution 181 satisfactory, and Jewish-Arab militaryconfrontations ensued over the next six months. These resulted in unequivocallosses for the Palestinian fighters. At the same time, Palestinian civilians left villagesand cities in significant numbers, either through forcible expulsion or propelled byan accurate sense of the danger war held for non-combatants. Immediately followingthe declaration of an Israeli state on 14 May 1948, the armies of several Arab statesentered the conflict, but they did not pose a successful military challenge to the— 75 —www.taq.ir

amy zalmannascent but well-organised Israeli army. At the same time, Palestinian civilianscontinued to leave the country until 1949, when armistices between Israel and theArab countries who had sent troops were signed.5. Fadl Naqib, ‘ÆAlam Ghassan Kanafani’, in Shu’un Filastiniyya 13 (1972), pp. 198,200.6. Kanafani’s novel would appear at first glance to be a historical allegory, since it isunmistakably in some way ‘about’ the period around the 1948 war. But thatreference is in fact not strict, as the multiple interpretations of the terms of theallegory suggest. Kanafani’s novel is more like philosophical or moral allegory thanhistorical, designed to warn and urge his readers to consider the state of Palestiniannational identity. Abul Khaizuran’s final address to the men whose corpses lay at thebottom of his truck, ‘Why didn’t you knock on the walls of the tank?’, may be takenas an appeal from the novelist, who had already arrived at the conclusion that armedresistance would be necessary in the assertion of national identity.7. Both issues related to allegory were at the root of Frederic Jameson’s proposal thatWestern readers approach all Third World novels as national allegories (in SocialText 15, Fall 1986, pp. 65–88). Addressing an American audience, and using theterminology of First and Third worlds, he urged readers to reappraise the apparentlynaive or simplistic ‘socially realistic Third World novel’ (66). What makes thisdismissive reading possible, Jameson charged, is our privileged (first worldly) distancefrom politics. Because we can take national and economic stability for granted, andhave been able to do so for some time, we have the luxury of reading fiction as a keyto our private, psychological status. First World readers therefore do not share thesame assumptions, in Jameson’s view, as a Third World reading community. Heoffered – as a way of building that bridge between fiction and world across which thereader must travel for a meaningful reading experience – the suggestion that aconscious link between the economic and political assumptions that underwrite theFirst World reader’s encounter with literature constitute an interpretive strategy.Jameson went beyond proposing an interpretive method, however, but alsoaddressed the problem of having a stable, target narrative (an extra-literary text,‘reality’) that allegory, to be legible, requires. He offered one: Third World culture isdominated by the collective struggle for political and economic autonomy, organisedprimarily through the expression and experience of nationalism. He thereforesuggested not only that privileged readers read Third World novels as allegories, butthat Third World novels actually are national allegories, always written in necessaryrelation to a one public issue, ‘the experience of the collectivity’ (86). Jameson’sbroadly stated proposal engaged a number of problematic assumptions, among themthe idea of the essential unity of and essential difference between what he calls the‘First’ and ‘Third’ worlds. These problems, and others, are treated eloquently in AijazAhmad’s reply, ‘Jameson’s Rhetoric of Otherness and the “National Allegory”’ inSocial Text 17 (1987), pp. 3–27.At the same time, Jameson’s intervention was a provocative challenge to theinsistent transformation of non-Western fiction into ‘universal’ tales in order tomake them palatable to an English-speaking audience. This is precisely the tactic ofthe English introduction to Men in the Sun, which proposes that:Such a close involvement as we know to have been Kanafani’s in his struggle for— 76 —www.taq.ir

gender and the palestinian narrative of returnthe recognition and restitution of Palestinian rights might lead us to expect thathis novels and short stories would be no more than a vehicle for the preaching ofthese principles, albeit in an indirect form. Part of Kanafani’s achievement lies inthe fact that he avoided this pitfall, for rather than transfer experience directly tothe page he reworked it to give it a profounder, universal meaning. (HilaryKilpatrick, p. 2)Notwithstanding its excellent intentions, this kind of preface has a bleachingfunction. It promises the reader a clean, safe reading experience by assuring him/herno unsettling or difficult-to-digest specifics about a different culture appear in thepages to follow, and that the work is in effect safe to consume.8. In Jordan, Palestinians were given Jordanian citizenship. Palestinians in Israel weregiven Israeli citizenship.9. For a variety of treatments of the relationship between gender and national identity,see the collection Nationalisms and Sexualities, Andrew Parker et al. (eds), (NewYork: Routledge, 1992). For specific discussions of the construction of masculinity inMiddle Eastern communities, see Imagined Masculinities: Male Identity and Culture inthe Modern Middle East, Mai Ghoussoub and Emma Sinclair-Webb (eds), (London:Saqi Books, 2000). Almost all of the essays in Imagined Masculinities deal directly ortouch significantly on the relationship of gender to nationalism.10. Joseph Massad, ‘Conceiving the Masculine: Gender and Palestinian Nationalism’,in Middle East Journal 49 (1995), pp. 468–83.11. The woman that the errant father marries makes a striking female counterpoint toAbul Khaizuran, as she lost a leg at the thigh when Jaffa was bombed. The injurymakes her an unappealing marriage partner to most men; Marwan’s father acceptsthe marriage in order to secure the house that comes with her. In Tawfiq Salih’sfilmed version of the narrative, the woman’s prosthetic leg is shown as an eeriesilhouette on a wall as she undresses for her wedding night, making the associationbetween her injury and presumably compromised sexual function as unmistakable asAbul Khaizuran’s. The rather unsubtle rendition of specifically male castrationimagined onto a female body suggests the depth at which the image of the intactmale body serves as a template for imagining the communal body. At the same time,the ease with which this template is relayed in female terms and references the waya national crisis rebounds on women (by disrupting marriage) indicates how flexibleand essentially indeterminate the collective psychic imagination is in relation to thebodies on which it is projected.12. For further discussion, see Helena Cobban, The Palestinian Liberation Organization:People, Power, Politics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984).13. Muhammad Siddiq’s reading takes account of these same characteristics of Hamid’strek, and fruitfully suggests that these ‘illustrate the transfer of Hamid’s sexual energyfrom the images of his real sister and mother to the Desert.’ Siddiq sees the throwingaway of the watch as the beginning of an initiation rite, in which the initiate mustbe isolated from the world of normal time (Siddiq, p. 32). Radwa ÆAshur viewsHamid’s disposal of his watch as an act which frees him from the past, and allowshim to begin to confront the present.14. All quotations are from Jayyusi and Reed’s translation, All That’s Left to You: ANovella and Other Stories (Austin: Center for Middle Eastern Studies, University of— 77 —www.taq.ir

amy zalmanTexas at Austin, 1990). The first page number references their translation, and thesecond the Arabic text throughout.15. Quotations from the introduction are translated by Roger Allen.16. For further comments on this point, see Muhammad Siddiq’s Man is A Cause, pp.25–31; and Nedjma Khalil Habib’s al-Namudhaj al-insani fi adab Ghassan Kanafani(Beirut: Bisan li-Nashr wa-li-Tawzi’ wa-li-Tawzi’ wa-li-I’lam, 1999), pp. 51–2.17. This insight is forcefully explored in Anne McClintock’s Imperial leather: Race,Gender and Sexuality in the Colonial Context (New York: Routledge, 1991).18. Leila Khaled’s autobiography offers one such critical voice. Others can be found inImtithal Juwaydi’s Shajarat al-Subbar (Beirut: Dar Al-Tali’a, 1972), Egyptian authorAbd Al-Rahman Sharqawi’s lyric play Watani Akka (Cairo: Dar Al-Shuruq, 1970),and Syrian writer Layla Usayran’s ÆAsafir al-Fajr (Beirut: Dar al-Tali’a, 1968).19. For an anthropological account of how the bodily signs of torture function in theconstruction of masculinity among Palestinians, see Julie Peteet’s ‘Male Gender andthe Rituals of Resistance in the Palestinian Intifada’ in Imagined Masculinities, op. cit.20. From LeGassick’s and Fernea’s translation. The Arabic can be found in Al-Subbar(Damascus: Dar Al-Jalil, 1984), p. 9.— 78 —www.taq.ir

14Darwish’s ‘Indian Speech’ as DramaticPerformance: Sacred Space andTransformationJ. Kristen UrbanThe paradox underlying national movements based on ethnic-religious-culturalclaims is that, short of a distinctly zero-sum outcome in which one groupsurvives at the expense of the other, there is a need both for clear boundariesand for coexistence. At the level of geographic identity, concern for physicalboundaries makes political sense: physically separating populations can enhancethe reality of self-determination, as was the logic of the Dayton Accords inBosnia. However, at the level of psychic and cultural identity, the drawing ofclear boundaries – boundaries which distinguish us from them, and which promotegroup solidarity, giving it political momentum – also makes coexistence of suchclearly delimited groups more difficult. Self and other become brittle constructs.It is of interest then, that a ‘national’ poet of the status of Mahmoud Darwishwrites poetry that both galvanises Palestinians around the Palestinian nationalenterprise and provides a means by which the boundaries can be bridged,making coexistence between Palestinians and Israelis imaginable. As well, his isa poetry that reaches beyond the frontiers of Palestinian nationalism. It speaksnot only to a broad literary audience, but in translation, to an audience of peaceeducators whose focus (in effecting peace) is on the possibilities resident withinblurred boundaries.Mahmoud Darwish, the national poet of Palestine, whose people ‘chant hisodes in their fields, in their schools, on their marches, and in their miserable tinshanty-towns’ (Darwish 2000: 19), taps universal concerns with identity whenhe explores the paradox of being Palestinian. The Palestinian question itself isriddled with paradox, the paradox of being and not-being. The British of 1917officially defined Palestinians in negative terms when they issued the BalfourDeclaration affirming that Palestine (under a future British mandate) wouldbecome a ‘national home’ for the Jewish people among the existing ‘non-Jewishcommunities’ – despite the fact that such communities at the time comprised 90per cent of the population of Palestine. Negating the Palestinian presencecontinued with Israel’s early Zionists, whose slogan for the new state was ‘a landwithout a people for a people without a land’. More recently, the Peace Process,— 79 —www.taq.ir

j. kristen urbanframed by the Oslo Accords, has required Palestinians still under militaryoccupation and without the trappings or legitimacy of statehood, to play therole of a nation-state as a means towards achieving that very reality, whilesharing the stage with an Israeli state which has spent half a century honing itsskills in statecraft. Thus, in the last century, Palestinians have had to repeatedlyassert the fact of their physical and political identity, living with the paradox ofexisting while remaining officially unrecognised.For Palestinians residing within Israel, the question of identity and theparadox surrounding it has been even more acute. What does it mean to bePalestinian if you are Israeli? Conversely, to be Israeli if you are Palestinian?Ethnocultural considerations aside, there are few answers from official politicalquarters to help unscramble the paradox: Israeli passports read tellingly, ‘Arab’or ‘Jew’. Like Shammas, Mahmoud Darwish has also lived with this paradox.Born in 1942 in the Galileean village of Birweh, he fled with his mother toLebanon in 1948 as Israeli forces closed in on the village, which they laterdestroyed. As Muhawi recounts in his Introduction to Memory for Forgetfulness,the family ‘stole back into the homeland, but too late to be included in thecensus of the Palestinian Arabs who had remained in the country’ (1995: xii).Darwish then lacked the necessary identity papers even to travel within thecountry, and for the decade of the 1960s he was repeatedly imprisoned and/orplaced under house arrest. As the poet observed in 1974 from the vantage ofexile, living with the daily consequences of this paradox had its own ironies, forat some point ‘you realize that philosophically you exist, but legally you do not’(1995: xiii). The dialectics of this ‘present-absence’ is dealt with more fully byMuhawi in Chapter 2 of this book.Of course it is impossible to separate the poet from the man, but the fact ofDarwish’s experience in living the Palestinian paradox – and, significantly, hisrecognition of that fact – has impacted his writing in a number of ways thatreflect a blurring of boundaries. That he has been influenced by Israeli poetssuch as Hayim Bialik or Yehuda Amichai should not be surprising: this is part ofthe paradox of the Palestinian identity, and the genius of this poet. Like Bialik(Carmi 1981: 40–8), who wrote in Palestine, but before the reality of the Israelistate, Darwish has also sought to find a modern voice for the people of a statein-the-making.As with Amichai (ibid.), Darwish draws on the tensions ofeveryday life, juxtaposing them with memories of a shared historico-culturalheritage. Darwish reflects upon his Palestinian-Israeli identity in a documentaryby Israeli film-maker Simone Bitton:The military judge who punished me for my poetry was Jewish; the woman teacherwho taught me Hebrew and inspired my love for literature was Jewish; my Englishteacher, a stern man, was Jewish; the woman who presided over my first trial wasJewish; my first lover was Jewish, my next door neighbour was Jewish, and my political— 80 —www.taq.ir

darwish’s ‘indian speech’ as dramatic performancecomrades were Jewish. I did not look on Jews as a separate entity. From the beginning,for me, coexistence has seemed possible both psychologically and culturally. The mainproblem is political. (Darwish 2000: 45) [Emphasis added]Where others might be overwhelmed by the cognitive dissonance in aPalestinian-Israeli identity, Darwish has drawn upon this to enrich his style, hislanguage, his imagery, and the myths and symbols he employs, many of whichalso reside in modern Hebrew poetry: ‘What is ironic and inexplicable’, writesMunir Akash in his Introduction to The Adam of Two Edens, ‘is that Darwish’senthusiastic Arab audience accepted these Israeli symbols and myths as anintegral part of Palestinian Resistance Poetry itself!’ (Darwish 2000: 21). Perhapsnot so inexplicable when the pains of the Palestinian national experience arecompared with those of Jewish national history: loss of lands, culture, familyand identity are shared historical realities for both.While the political has been ever-present in Darwish’s writings throughoutthe past thirty years, he has often (as Akash notes) drawn on ‘myths’ and otherliterary and cultural traditions to expand the range of his own expression. Fluentin French and English as well as his native Arabic and Hebrew, he readsconstantly, fully engaged in new literary trends and movements. As well, he dipsinto the past, drawing uponEpic, mythic, historic, ritualistic, hymnal, divinely radiant and prophetic [traditions],as found in The Epic of Gilgamesh, Inanna, Dumuzi’s Dream, The Descent of Ishtarto the Nether World, The Egyptian Book of the Dead, and the Biblical Book ofJeremiah … [Hence, while hailed by Palestinians as a resistance poet], it often seemsthat his work stands out best when read in the context of Yeats, Saint-John Perse, theSurrealists, the Greeks, or the Hebrews. (Darwish 2000: 39)His is a coherent eclecticism. Whether consciously or not, Darwish exploresthe dimensions of Palestinian identity through the incorporation of myth andtradition which speak metaphorically. Myths of lost realms, such as Adam’sexpulsion from Eden, speak for the Palestinian experience – as do myths whichembody life’s possibilities such as those of the Sumerian and Canaanite Moongoddesses. More recently, the American continent has provided a mythology forDarwish’s metaphors when he encountered Native American spirituality. This,coupled with the historical record of the Native American experience with the‘West’, led him to contemplate the extent of their loss. Reflections on themeaning of historicity within this context, ‘enabled the exiled poet’s imaginationto respiritualize the Palestinian universe in a healing way …’ (ibid.: 40).The narrative poem ‘Indian Speech’ (Darwish 1993: 59–84) is one outcome ofthis creative cross-cultural reflection. Published in 1992, it speaks not only tothe universal condition of man, but metaphorically to the particular concerns ofthe Palestinians, concerns which reflect the reality of life under an occupation— 81 —www.taq.ir

j. kristen urbanwhich is becoming ever more permanent, threatening the historic reality of thePalestinian people.Harshly governed by military occupiers after 1967, Palestinians saw themselvesliving in a history being increasingly narrated by the West. 1 For many,hopes raised during the first years of the intifada in the late 1980s were dashedwith Yasir Arafat’s acceptance of the 1993 Oslo Accords. In response to thequincentennial commemoration of Columbus’s voyage to the New World, andin protest of the Oslo negotiations, Darwish wrote two narrative poems in 1992,‘Eleven Planets Over Andalusia’ 2 and ‘Indian Speech’. This discussion will focusfirst on an English translation 3 of the poem ‘Indian Speech’ which, within anarrative format, operates as a dramatic performance. 4 In so doing, the performancecreates empathy with two audiences through the blurring of boundariesand within the sacred space reserved for the rituals of the performance. It willargue that the poem, which employs a metaphor of the Native Americanexperience for that of Palestinians, not only resonates with Palestinians, but isaccessible to a broader audience, that of American college students who canappreciate concerns for social justice raised by this metaphor. The second partof this chapter explores the pedagogical rationale for using literature as a meansto build empathy. In ‘Indian Speech’, for example, the poet is able to establishempathic connections between both his primary and secondary audiences. Inthe process of achieving such empathy, the boundaries between self and otherbecome blurred, enhancing possibilities for creating understanding.Ciardi (1959) understood this in the same way that Darwish understands it,and ‘Indian Speech’ is dramatic performance at its best, for it establishes conflictin universal terms; it addresses itself to an audience, inviting participation, andit recognises the concept of ‘sacred space’, within which such conversation canoccur and through which levels of empathy are created, depending upon theboundaries between poet and audience. It is a script Darwish’s audienceunderstands. In this it must be recognised that there are, in fact, two audiences:the first (and most immediate, from the poet’s perspective) will be an audienceplaced within the Palestinian – and larger Arab – world; the second, and one atissue for the present purposes of pedagogy, will be from the Western world ofacademics. This chapter will argue that meaning for the second audience derivesfrom their ability to understand and empathise with the meanings evokedamong the poet’s more immediate audience.The conflict around which this poetic discourse devolves is universal in thatit calls upon the Promethean dilemma of alienation. The ontological state ofman derives from two sources: one is the spiritual essence from which hesprings, and the other relates to the terrestrial domain wherein he resides.Durand (1979) describes these as the vertical or synchronic dimension, whichhighlights man’s metaphysical (celestial?) connections, and the horizontal or— 82 —www.taq.ir

darwish’s ‘indian speech’ as dramatic performancediachronic dimension, which catalogues man’s historicity as homo sapiens, biologicaland social man. Prometheus, in appropriating fire from the heavens tobring life and new possibilities to mankind, found himself alienated across bothdimensions. Condemned by Zeus to leave the realm of the gods and chained tothe rock at Mount Caucasus, he was separated from both his celestial originsand from mankind, to whom he had bequeathed material gains and ‘progress’.Alone against the rock, his liver consumed daily by predatory birds, the pain ofhis double alienation was excruciating – and enduring.For Darwish, this conflict between the spiritual truth (the synchronicdimension) and that of the material world (the diachronic dimension) is playedout by means of a metaphor which places the spirit-centred culture of theAmerican Indian against the dominating materialist culture of the white man.In the larger global historical setting, this is a confrontation between thecolonised and the coloniser; and as a subtext, in the particularist setting, it is theconfrontation between the displaced Palestinians and the West. Consider thenarrator’s opening:So we are who we areas the Mississippi flows. Ours stillwhat remains of yesterdaybut the color of the skyhas changed, the sea to the East has changed.What is it that you want, then, white master, Lordof the horses, from those on their wayto the woods of night?Sacred our pastures, our spirits high, the starsluminous words in which you can read our tale entireif you’d only lift up your eyes and gaze:Here, between water and fire we were born.And, in clouds, on the azure shoreas the Judgement Day comes to passwe are reborn. Don’t slaughter the grassmuch, too much more, for it possessesA soul in us, that could shelter the soul of the earth. [Section 1]From the beginning of the discourse, the imagery associated with theAmerican Indian is that of essences: ‘sacred our pastures’, ‘spirits’, ‘stars’,‘luminous words’, ‘here between water and fire we were born’, ‘clouds’, ‘azureshore’. Imagery associated with the white man (read: the West) on the other handinvokes (later in the poem) terrestrial images, images of plunder, dominance,material gain: ‘horse-master’, ‘your’s the iron’, 5 ‘take all the gold’, ‘flaming horses’,‘clash of steel’, ‘English guns, French wine, and Influenza’, ‘this is the iron age’,‘here the strangers triumphed’.The wholeness of man (alternatively, the integrity of the ontological status— 83 —www.taq.ir

j. kristen urbanof man) is not beyond possibility. Integration along both the synchronic and thediachronic axes can be trans-individual and trans-cultural:… but he [Columbus] can’t seem to believethat all men are born equal, like air and water,outside the domain of his map!That they are born the sameas people in Barcelona are born, exceptthat they happen to worship naturein everything, not only gold. [Section 2]Yet because the white man has chosen the course of materialism and conquest,abandoning his synchronic, or essential nature, the possibility of wholenessseems at this point, remote. Further, since as human beings we are interconnected(from the point of view of the American Indian, who for Darwish lives metaphysicallyalong the synchronic dimension), the self-destructive path of thewhite man spells destruction for the rest of humanity as well:Isn’t it time, stranger, for us to meetin the same age, same land strangers bothwho happen to meet at the tipof an abyss? We havewhat is ours, what you have of sky. [Section 2]Where, white master, O where are you takingmy people, and yours?Into what abyssis this robot bristling with aircraft-carriers and jetscarrying the earth? To what fathomless pit will you ascend? [Section 6]This is the tragedy, the enduring pain. Resigned, the drama closes with:Have it your way.A new Rome, a technological Sparta andideology for the insane.But we’d rather depart an ageWe have not made our minds to accept. [Section 6]This is not a concern for vengeance but a recognition of historical facts – apreservation of the memories – surrounding the way in which the AmericanIndian (and any colonised people) view their pain. It lays itself out as a bridgebetween the two cultures in an historical paradigm, prophesying what thedestructive orientation of the West’s ‘progress’ will ultimately mean, if itcontinues to move forward in this fashion. The irony is that progress has notbrought understanding: the achievements along the diachronic axis have not ledto comparable achievements in the realm of the synchronic.Audience and Participation. 6 While a contemporary Arab poet who integratesa wide variety of poetical forms, Darwish also writes for an audience still— 84 —www.taq.ir

darwish’s ‘indian speech’ as dramatic performanceaware of its oral culture, echoing the drama of the pre-Islamic qasida. EdwardSaid writes:In Darwish, the personal and the public are always in an uneasy relationship, theforce and passion of the former ill-suited to the tests of political correctness andpolicy required by the latter. But careful writer and craftsman that he is, Darwish isalso very much a performing poet of a type with few equivalents in the West. He hasa fiery and yet also strangely intimate style that is designed for the immediateresponse of a live audience … Darwish is also a wonderful technician, using theincomparably rich Arabic prosodic tradition in innovative, constantly new ways.This allows him something quite rare in modern Arabic poetry: great stylisticvirtuosity combined with a chiseled and finally simple (because so refined) sense ofpoetic statement. (1995: 114)His audience, then, knows what he is about. 7 As the narrator of ‘IndianSpeech’ is telling a story – the history of the clash of two cultures – so theaudience of the poem understands this to be their story: the qasida was used torelate the history of the tribe, to recount its glories and triumphs, and it wasperformed with a momentum which built on the excesses of its imagery,repetitions and language. 8In ‘Indian Speech’, the images carry meaning that is understood in terms of acommunity that has also suffered injustice. The initial use of imagery organiseddenotationally around nature: ‘as the Mississippi flows’, ‘color of the sky’, ‘sacredpastures’, ‘our spirits’, ‘stars’, ‘water and fire’, works in conjunction with theconnotational imagery. The total sensory suggestion of the opening passage,therefore, is one of ‘essential’ spirituality – a quality transcending the trivialityof daily experience and which resists fragmentation. Set within this passage,however, are other nature images which carry a different connotational meaning:‘Lord of the horses’, ‘don’t slaughter the grass’, ‘horse-master’, and in jarring theaudience’s sensibilities, prepares them for the conflictual drama about to unfold.Other images draw on past meanings, common understandings and experiences.Columbus, in discovering the New World (like Prometheus deliveringthe gift of fire) also delivers destruction, as progress and change overtake cultureswhich once existed in balance with one another. For the Palestinian (and thelarger Arabic) audience, the beginning of the end was first the Crusades andsecondly Napoleon’s short-lived invasion of Egypt in 1798. Progress and technologyoffered by France and Great Britain (later Germany, Russia and others)led to economic exploitation and the displacement of Arabic/Islamic values andway of life (from the point of view of the colonised, here, the primary‘audience’). Further betrayals of trust rest with the Sykes-Picot Agreement andthe imposition of the Mandatory System following World War I; theimplementation of the Balfour Declaration; the creation of the state of Israel in1948 on Arab lands; Western acceptance of the outcome of the 1967 Israeli— 85 —www.taq.ir

j. kristen urbanattack on front-line Arab states (which brought about the acquisition andoccupation of Gaza, the West Bank and the Golan Heights); and the doublestandard evidenced in the West’s position towards Iraq and Israel in the 1990s.Repetition, utilised frequently in ‘Indian Speech’ as it is in the oral traditiongenerally, serves both for emphasis and to move the poem forward. 9 These linesare from Section 2:1 Take what you need of night2 but leave us a couple of stars to bury3 our celestial dead.4 Take what you want of the sea5 but leave us a few waves to catch some fish.6 Take all the gold of earth and sun7 but leave us the land of our names.8 Then go back, stranger, to resume your search9 for India once more.The repetition in the first seven lines establishes the motion with amomentum that is continued through line 7; but the motion stops with line 8 (afulcrum is positioned here), and reverses itself in the resolution of this section.Repetition also takes a more elaborate form, as in Section 3:You may sleep in the shade of our willowsand like a dove begin to fly:this is what our forbearers did after allwhen they flew away in peace, when theyreturned in peace. You will lack the memoryof leaving the Mediterranean, eternity’s solitudein a forest, not on the edge of a cliff;the wisdom of defeat, losing at war, a rock unbendingto the rush of time’s fast river – an hour of reveriefor a necessary sky of dust to ripen inside:an hour of hesitationbetween one path and another,this is what you lack.Here we find the repetition and interplay of both images and ideas in acontrapuntal form that not only moves forward but in its enhanced complexitydevelops the intensity of the poem emotionally. The momentum and energybuild as the passage continues with, ‘You will lack the memory’ and a series ofphrases are appended, one against the next, and so on, until the motion stopsabruptly (a fulcrum) and a prophetic voice intones:an hour of hesitationbetween one path and another,this is what you lack.— 86 —www.taq.ir

darwish’s ‘indian speech’ as dramatic performanceA countermotion takes over, affirming the falseness and self-destructive pathof the West, which is ‘going the wrong way’, and again repetition and parallelstructures accelerate the movement – with a fulcrum halting the motion beforethe delivery of the final line:Euripides, one day, will be lackingand also the hymns of Canaan and Babylon.Solomon’s Song of Songs for Shulamithlily of the valley that yearns: you will lacka memory, white men, to tame the horseof madness, a heart polished by rock in a flurry of violinsthis, and a hesitant gun, you lack.If you must kill, don’t slay other creaturesthat befriend us. Don’t slaughter our past.You will lack a treaty with our ghostson sterile winter nights, a less bright sun, less full moon,for the crime to appear less glamorous on the screen.So take your time as you dismember god. [Section 3]And finally, participation is enhanced in this performance because of thepoet’s traditional role in preserving the values and ideals of his age. 10 ‘You willlack a memory’ (above) is prophesying, you will no longer exist – even ashistorical artefact, because the memory of the past also ensures that there is apresent and a future. Darwish’s audience understand this. Words have meaningand power; words outline the collective memory. He develops this notionfurther in Section 4 with:Winds will recite our beginning and endalthough our present bleeds, our days are buriedin ashes of legend. We know Athens is not oursand know the color of your daysfrom the rising smoke: Athens is not yours.Not only are the values of the poet and his audience different from those ofthe white man and his progressive materialism, but an actual inversion of valueshas occurred for those living as the colonised:What the stranger says, is strange;he digs a well into the earth in order to bury the sky.Strange is what the stranger says!He hunts down our children, and butterflies as well.What promises to our garden, stranger,can you make? Brass flowers prettier than our own?As you wish. But do you knowa deer will not approach grass that has been stainedwith our blood? [Section 4]— 87 —www.taq.ir

j. kristen urbanIn fact, so convoluted has the set of operative values become that, to preservethemselves, the audience of ‘Indian Speech’ are faced with the dilemma ofreconciling themselves to the contradiction that their noble past has somehowlived beyond itself. What then, is the point of memory?In order for us to live through out timethen leave, and return: return the spirits, one by one, to her.We keep the memory of our loved onesin jars, like oil and salt – whose nameswe tied to the wings of waterbirds.We were the first, no ceiling to separateour blue doors from the sky, no horses to grazewhere our deer used to graze.No strangers to intrude on the night of our wives.Let the wind have the flute to weep for the peopleof this wounded place, and tomorrow weep for you.And tomorrow, weep for you. [Section 4]In order for this drama to become a participatory dialogue between the poetand his audience, it must be understood that there is a public space dedicated tosuch conversation. 11 The anthropological principle of sacred space suggests thatfrom early historical times, human communities have understood the importanceof ritualised performance through which, as participants, they experienced ashared power of community, the effects of which transcended time and place.At the particularist level, the meaning of this experience would rest with thedegree to which empathic exchange has occurred. Levels of empathy, in turn,depend upon the perceived distance between the performer and his audience,which is also reflective of the extent to which boundaries between the two aredrawn.In the present instance, the space is sacred precisely because it invites anarration of stories, stories which define the meaning of the tribe – and here,the tribe is the audience. Thus the boundaries between the performer and hisaudience are blurred, the level of empathy is high, and the experience resonateswith a transcendent power of community. Darwish is a member of the tribe. Hespeaks not only with empirical credibility – having shared the Palestinian experienceof suffering – but with the force of a visionary, sensitive to the universalswhich exist through time.In this sacred space, the one in which the poet narrates his story, theaudience understands what this means. He writes in Section 5:Tending our last fires, we neglect to acknowledgeyour greetings: don’t write the commandmentsof your new god, the steely one, for us.Don’t demand a peace treaty from those— 88 —www.taq.ir

darwish’s ‘indian speech’ as dramatic performancewho are dead, none left to greet you in peace,which is nowhere to be found.Here we flourished before the onslaughtof English guns, French wine, and Influenzaliving as we should, side by side with the people of the deer,learning our oral history by heart.We brought you tidings of innocenceand daisies, but you have your godand we have ours.The audience, knowing what has gone before – having experienced forthemselves the legacy of the French and the British – are challenged, as in suchrecitation centuries before, to complete the poem, to transform the story of thenarrator and give meaning to it for themselves. The future is in fact all but written.These seem to be men of a different race, a different ordering of humanity:boundaries are starkly drawn. Both saddened and exasperated, the narratorasks:Don’t you memorize a few linesof poetry, perhaps to make you refrain from massacre?Weren’t you of woman born?Didn’t you suckle the milk of longingto a certain mother like us? Didn’t you everput on wings to chase the swallows as we did? [Section 5]What is required, then, is an assessment of the present in terms of the past.For the Native American this means – within the dimensions of this story –safeguarding what is precious, what is celestial, the synchronic dimension of life:A long time will pass for our presentto become past, like us.We shall goon our way, but firstwe will defend the treesthat we wear; a bell of night, the moonwe venerate over our shacks. We will defendour cavorting deer, we will defend the clayof our jars, our feathers in the wing of last songs. [Section 6]It is in the metaphysical reality that this people will be reborn, the brashmaterialism of the white man ultimately destroying not only itself, but themeaning of humanity as well. In the end, Time will judge the Ends:Let’s give earth enough time to say the truth, thewhole truth about you and us …about usand about you! [Section 6]— 89 —www.taq.ir

j. kristen urbanBut there is an inversion in the final chapter of this story. Section 7 stands asan Epitaph, reflecting a present beyond time. The poet, ‘venerated as the protectorand guarantor of honour of the tribe and a potent weapon against its enemies’ (Gibb:29), is left – finally, it would seem – with nothing to defend. In its entirety, thissection reads:In rooms you will build, the deadalready sleep. Over bridges you shall construct,the dead are already passing. There are thosedead who light up the nightof butterflies, the deadwho come at dawn to drink your tea, tranquilas on the day they were mowed downby your guns.You who are guestsin this place, leave a few chairsfor your hosts to read you the conditions for peacein a treaty with … the dead.A paradox exists in this time beyond being, for it is the dead who are the onlybeings retaining an ontological integrity – the only beings to re-emerge from thecelestial sphere, the synchronic dimension. The survivors in the diachronicdimension, lost spiritually (as in Section 2), and ‘in the shadow’s reign’,condemned to life without meaning across ‘sterile winter nights [highlighted by]a less bright sun, less full moon’ (Section 3), theirs is an existence withoutmeaning.So in what respect is the poet here, the ‘protector and guarantor of honour ofthe tribe’? This performance turns on a second inversion – a fulcrum at the endof line 8 splits the final section abruptly. What follows, the final four lines, laysout what can be understood as a bleak agenda:You who are guestsin this place, leave a few chairsfor your hosts to read you their conditions for peacein a treaty with … the dead.In the final scene of this historic drama, the guests are the acting hosts; butthese new hosts were never guests, coming as horse-masters to command and tosubdue. Caught in their Lethean slumber – a slumber from which they will neverawaken – these acting hosts will have no ‘memory’, leave no trace of meaningattached to their existence. It is here, then, that the poet offers resurrection,acts as guarantor of the honour of the tribe, for by ritualising the drama in hisperformance, he has posited within the sacred space meaning for his tribe: ‘Ourdays are buried in ashes of legend,’ he says in Section 4. Theirs has been anexistence that will continue to elicit meaning throughout the millennia ahead.— 90 —www.taq.ir

darwish’s ‘indian speech’ as dramatic performanceFor Columbus in 1492, the irony was that his explorations took him aroundthe world, yet he failed to understand the meaning of his discoveries. Thisaudience – Palestinians five hundred years later – face an exploratory agenda oftheir own, as they undertake to discover Palestine within the boundaries ofOslo. 12 Darwish, having begun the story, twists the ending back on them,requiring them to define its meaning in terms of a future. As the spirit-hosts,that is, the diachronically ‘dead’ (lacking an historical dimension), butspiritually awakened synchronicity, in what sense do Palestinians today haverelevance? What is the meaning of their future? In closing the drama by openingit, the poet has left his audience with a paradox that almost – but not quite –circles back onto itself. It is a story that his audience must complete for itself.One of the most troubling dimensions of the Palestinian struggle has been theapparent absence of good will among Western – especially American – policymakers on the question of Israel and Palestine. This chapter now turns to adiscussion of how Western educators might use literature coming out of nationalstruggles to build understanding among their students, themselves perhaps futurepolicy makers. It is grounded in the belief that the resolution of ‘intransigent’conflicts can be aided through the creative imaginings of the artist, whichpromote alternative ways of conceiving solutions. Such an approach has beenadvanced by Martha Nussbaum, who asserts in her book Poetic Justice: TheLiterary Imagination and Public Life that literature serves an essential role in itsrelation to politics:I make two claims, then, for the reader’s experience: first, that it provides insightsthat should play a role … in the construction of an adequate moral and politicaltheory; second, that it develops moral capacities without which citizens will notsucceed in making reality out of the normative conclusions of any moral or politicaltheory, however excellent … novel-reading [for example] will not give us the wholestory about social justice, but it can be a bridge both to a vision of justice and to thesocial enactment of that vision (1995: 12).In bolstering these claims, she argues that literature enables readers ‘toacknowledge their own world and to choose more reflectively in it’ (31). Moreover,literature reflects the complexity of the lives it presents to its reader,reinforcing the necessity of exploring the non-commensurability of ‘goods’.Such insistencediscourages simple utopian political solutions and suggests an approach that bothfocuses on freedom and leaves much room for diversity. But it is aware that freedomhas material conditions and can be strangled by material inequality. In its insistentfocus on these facts, it inspires compassion and the passion for justice (34).The effect of such exploration is to conceive of the cultural other both asanother (that is, as one with whom we share commonality) and as an other (that— 91 —www.taq.ir

j. kristen urbanis, as a contextualised human being). Literature facilitates this exploration byimaginatively varying different aspects of human beings and through itsnarrative, in drawing its readers into the decision-making processes of day-todaylives. The reader finds herself engaged in a dialectic between self and other,wherein the sensibilities of self are subject to redefinition as she is exposed toalternative ways of understanding. Possibilities for self-understanding as well asunderstanding the cultural other are thus expanded through the creativeimagination of the artist.Nussbaum’s goal is, among other things, to affect approaches to problemsolvingat the level of public policy and to broaden options for governments inaddressing questions of social justice. 13 Rooted in Aristotelian definitions of ‘thegood’, her own concern is to promote an agenda which locates ‘human flourishing’near the top of the list of policy concerns. What is puzzling for a politicalscientist in this, is that the project is to be undertaken by means of re-perceivingalone, and relies wholly upon fostering a generosity of spirit among those in keydecision-making capacities. This is in fact a criticism Elaine Scarry makes whenshe argues that the complexity of lives presented to us within novels or poemsenhances difficulties in imagining the other as a contextualised human being:Presented with the huge number of characters one finds in Dickens or in Tolstoi, onemust constantly strain to keep them sorted out; and of course their numbers are stilltiny when compared with the number of persons to whom we are responsible inpolitical life. (1996: 104)It is challenging enough generously to imagine friends, let alone enemies orfaceless ‘others’. Scarry asserts that, ‘The action of injuring occurs preciselybecause we have trouble believing in the reality of other persons’ (102). Suchscepticism can be applied to peace-making approaches at the internationallevel, like the Harvard Negotiation Project of Herbert Kelman, which has seenmisperceptions and misunderstandings between Palestinians and Israelis ascentral to the maintenance of their conflict; 14 likewise, the techniques used byLeonard Doob in Northern Ireland and Africa focused on the need to reimaginethe other. 15 But the generous imaginings required to promote solutionsresonant with the values of social justice have been largely absent from thisapproach even at the scholarly level – let alone in the practical arena of politicsitself. As Scarry observes, Nussbaum’s ‘cosmopolitan largesse [which] relies onthe population to spontaneously and generously “imagine” other persons, and todo so on a day-by-day basis’ is incomplete, in that it ignores the overtly politicalaspects of the conflict, elements often themselves maintained through structuralrealities. Scarry’s solution is to ‘solve the problem of human “otherness” throughconstitutional design [which itself seeks to] eliminate altogether the inherentlyaversive structural position of “foreignness”’ (98), since under democratic— 92 —www.taq.ir

darwish’s ‘indian speech’ as dramatic performanceassumptions of the rule of law, all individuals stand equally before its precepts.Indeed, her concluding statement, that ‘the work accomplished by a structure oflaws cannot be accomplished by a structure of sentiment: constitutions areneeded to uphold cosmopolitan values’ (110), is a compelling statement for apolitical scientist. But who writes constitutions? Who drafts the treaties ofpeace? In the process of drafting the documents which lay out the precepts of apeople, whose values prevail? It would seem that the one solution – Scarry’slegalism – requires the other – Nussbaum’s generous understandings.This was the dilemma addressed by the 1999 Five College Program in Peaceand World Security Studies (PAWSS) at Amherst College in Massachusetts. 16Kevin P. Clements, Secretary of International Alert (and the Vernon andMinnie Lynch Chair of Conflict Resolution at the Institution of ConflictAnalysis and Resolution at George Mason University), argued that it is criticalfor students to come away from their classrooms both energised and carryingvisions of themselves as peacemakers, ‘integrated beings in a world capable ofintegration’. His ‘Radical Pedagogy’ highlighted four challenges to Americanprofessors. First we – and by extension, our students – must become aware ofwhat affects our world-view. To understand our own realities and what definesus as Americans in an interdependent world requires that we ‘immerse ourselvesin other realities … we must engage in empathy. [For example], what does itmean to be a Palestinian now, isolated in peace and identified by fragmentation?’Second, it is essential to develop a radical empathy in our students toensure that new policies reflecting new visions will arise. Third, fulfilling (1)and (2) requires a creative estrangement: that is, we must ourselves becomediscontent – alienated – to find the motivation for the implementation of atransformative process. It is only in the throes of alienation that we are forced tore-think, re-frame, and to become genuinely creative problem-solvers. Fourth(and finally), we and our students must engage in what Clements calls‘prophetic poem-making’: we need to develop new metaphors to express ouridentities – and thence, behaviours – within the global commons. If the UnitedStates is to assume a leadership role globally, ‘it must place itself in the shoes ofthose who have no hope of ever becoming a global leader, and to examine whatis therefore required to build a sustainable peace’, beginning with the examinationof how situations today characterised by violence and fear can bereconciled with principles of social justice while participatory democracy (itselfdestabilising!) takes root. As educators of our future policy makers (changeagents),we must undertake this project at all levels: within our towns, ourstates, and finally, throughout the world.Darwish’s ‘Indian Speech’ is exemplary of how an engagement with poetrycan work towards these ends. It is important to realise that for this particularpoem there are two audiences to the poetic performance – Darwish’s primary— 93 —www.taq.ir

j. kristen urban(Palestinian and Arab) audience and a secondary (Western, principallyacademic) audience – and that meaning for the secondary audience will rest withits ability to understand and empathise with the meanings evoked among thepoet’s primary audience. This necessitates the reader’s willingness to view thenarration through alternate lenses and to begin to reflect upon new understandingsof both self and other, a feat which will ultimately require the reader toview self-as-other, if Clements’ call to ‘prophetic poem-making’ is taken seriously.It also necessitates an acknowledgement of the poet’s role in facilitating possibilitiesfor transformation within his audience. For the remainder of this analysisI will acknowledge (in the first person) that I belong to Darwish’s secondaryaudience (Western, academic), and that my comments reflect the way I woulduse ‘Indian Speech’ pedagogically. My students are generally American PoliticalScience/International Studies majors.In the manner of Nussbaum’s cosmopolitanism (and at the risk of fulfillingScarry’s objections that literature often further complicates our understandingof reality!), this poet presents his secondary audience with a nest of lenses thatcall up a number of others. First, he speaks with the voice of a Native American(albeit, a generalised, romanticised voice), providing us with his view of thatother, a view with which many in this (Western) audience will likely haveempathy from the outset of the narration. Second, in this voice he presents theother responsible for the demise of the Native American culture/identity, that‘other’ being Columbus, the West – indeed, ourselves. So the initial dialogue ofthis performance between the poet and his secondary audience (us) is one thatmakes us uncomfortable: viewing self-as-other is no less disturbing than beingasked to understand other-as-self. But this particular story is one we have heardbefore, and does not at this point qualify as engendering the ‘creative estrangement’called for by Clements, an estrangement necessary to provoke radicalchange. Besides, this story happened in the ‘past’, and therefore requires no realeffort from us now; moreover, the poet himself is – for us – an other talking abouta story alien to himself (in part, our story), so while we feel genuine sadness(even empathy) by this accounting of our past, we can afford to be somewhatdismissive as we read at this level. We realise there can be few – if any – overtpolicy implications for us here.But a second dialogue in this performance takes over when the reader becomesaware that the Native American-Columbus narrative is a metaphor for theplight of Palestinians, a people whose culture and identity have been challengedsince the turn of this century. In this dialogue, the secondary audience (again,ourselves) find themselves more culpable: in the first place, the Peace Process(the Oslo Accords) is occurring in the present, so there is the possibility ofacting meaningfully to write a new ending to the story; in the second place, theUnited States bears significant responsibility for its role as less-than-honest— 94 —www.taq.ir

darwish’s ‘indian speech’ as dramatic performancebroker in designing such a peace. Finally, the poet’s ‘legitimacy’ to speak to thisissue is greatly strengthened, since this is his story.For us then – American students of international politics – this does becomea traumatic encounter. We find ourselves not only discontent, but alienatedfrom values we formerly espoused. In Clements’ radical pedagogy, by ‘immersingourselves in other realities’ we have begun the process of understanding ourworld-view, which itself opens the way for replacing such a view with thenecessity of developing a new vision. This is no small step: coming to acknowledgethat justice is a crucial – yet absent – part of the Palestinian-Israeli peaceunder negotiation is an extraordinary admission. Policy implications here areimmanent.Such a transformation rests with the abilities of the poet-as-performer tonarrate his story compellingly, and with his ability to utilise the space dedicatedto such performance in ways that diminish boundaries between himself and hisaudience, thereby enhancing possibilities for empathy. In the present instance,and with regard to Darwish’s secondary audience (ourselves), this was achievedin part through the use of the Native American-Columbus narrative. Our ownreflections upon such actions in our past predispose us to an empathic responseand an acceptance of blurred boundaries.But in the tradition of the qasida, the poet is ‘venerated as the protector andguarantor of honour of the tribe and a potent weapon against its enemies’(Gibb: 29). It is through his stories, ritualised in performance, that tribal historydefines meaning for the tribe; it is within the sacred space dedicated to suchconversation that the audience – his tribe – is challenged to complete the poemfor themselves, transforming his story in ways that bring meaning to themselves.Put another way, the question arises, how does the poet/performer diminish theboundaries between himself and us (his Western audience) to such an extentthat we also come to complete the story for ourselves, in transformative ways? Itis clear that we are not of his tribe.Part of the answer lies with the universality of the conflict he presents. Onone level, this involves the question of national identity, which resonates loudlywith any audience. But Darwish goes beyond this to explore the material andspiritual elements that define each of us, individually, as well as along our‘national’ dimensions. In this exploration, we understand that justice in anysetting will address needs beyond the physical/material definitions of a people:that identity itself is surely grounded in the metaphysical. Elements of cosmopolitanism?Perhaps, but also a respect for the other as an other, having a distincthistoricity, and recognising the dialectic inherent in describing the question ofhuman identity.It is in fact by appealing to our shared humanity that Darwish is successful indrawing outsiders into this sacred space with him: indeed, it is here that we— 95 —www.taq.ir

j. kristen urbanbecome part of his tribe. Yes, we do understand that ‘all men are born equal, likeair and water,/ outside the domain of this map’ [Section 2]; we have allmemorised ‘a few lines of poetry’, and find art to be transformative in our lives;we are all ‘of woman born’; and we too can recall that we have chased swallowswith abandon [all from Section 5]. We are swept into the acknowledgementthat in the recounting of this history, we – both the poet’s audiences – have lostenormously through the pursuit of our narrowly defined identities, ourpredilections with either the material or the spiritual, our inadvertent retreatfrom an appreciation for the holistic. Hence, we find in the end that we share inDarwish’s deep sadness for the way the story unfolds – and we want to somehowact in ways to change its ending. Through his performance, the poet hasempowered us to become ‘prophetic poem-makers’, and by means of theexperience we are becoming – in Clements’ words – ‘integrated beings in aworld capable of integration’,notes1. For discussions of other Palestinian and Arab writers addressing the question ofPalestine, see: Salma Khadra Jayyusi (ed.), Anthology of Modern Palestinian Literature(New York: Columbia University Press, 1992); M. M. Badawi (ed.), Modern ArabicLiterature (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993); Denys Johnson-Davies(trans.), Modern Arabic Short Stories (London: Oxford University Press, 1967.Reprint, London: Heinemann, 1978); Mohammad Shaheen (ed.), The ModernArabic Short Story (London: Macmillan Press, 1989); Issa J. Boullata (ed.), ModernArabic Poets, 1950–1975 (Washington, DC: Three Continents Press, 1976); IssaBoullata (ed.), Critical Perspectives in Modern Arabic Literature (Colorado Springs,CO: Three Continents Press, 1980); Issa Boullata (ed.), Tradition and Modernity inArabic Literature (Fayetteville, AR: University of Arkansas Press, 1997); RogerAllen, The Arabic Novel: An Historical and Critical Introduction (Contemporary Issuesin the Middle East) (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 1994); Roger Allen, ModernArabic Literature (New York: F. Ungar Books, 1987); Abdelwahab M. Elmessiri andKamal Boullata (eds), A Land of Stone and Thyme: An Anthology of Palestinian ShortStories (North Hampton, MA: Interlink Publishing Group, 1998).2. Edward Said, ‘On Mahmoud Darwish’, Grand Street 48, pp. 112–15. See Said’s‘Introduction’ for a brief discussion of ‘Eleven Stars Over Andalusia’.3. This author realises that working with translations is operating in a literaryminefield. It is for that reason that in discussing the English translation of this poem,I have focused principally on ideas and imagery in an effort to minimise themethodological ‘damage’, though certainly distortions resulting from ‘voice’ areconcerns to which I cannot speak.4. The assumption here is that all poetry is at its heart performative, part of the powerresident within poetry being the tension between the written and the oral. AsCharlotte I. Lee and Timothy Gura explain in their hallmark text on performance,Oral Interpretation: Sixth Edition (Boston, MA: Houghton Mifflin, 1982), ‘one may— 96 —www.taq.ir

darwish’s ‘indian speech’ as dramatic performancesay that poetry is the particular province of the oral interpreter, because it reaches itsultimate objective only when it is read aloud’ (323).5. Recall Prometheus: he brings fire, which in turn fosters growth, development andprogress, here symbolised by ‘iron’.6. One need not go back to the tradition of the qasida to understand the dynamicrelationship between poet and audience. Indeed, as Ronald J. Pelias writes inPerformance Studies: The Interpretation of Aesthetic Texts (New York: St Martin’sPress, 1982), ‘performance, like all communication events, is a complex processcalling upon the participants’ interpretive and behavioural skills’ (15). Performance,understood more generally, also requires that members of the audience ‘fill in,complete, or put flesh upon utterances as they create meaning’ (145); in this, itbuilds upon ‘a shared understanding of how language typically functions as [membersof the audience] construct the meaning of events’ (144).7. Originally panegyrics, the complex odes or qasidas which appeared suddenly around550 ce across north Arabia, pitted tribe against tribe in poetic tournaments whichtook on the aura of battle. The ultimate objective of the tribal poet in such contestswas, within the confines of a strict poetic form, to recast exploits of the tribe,lavishing the narration with embellishments which were woven around a specifictheme, and to deliver this ‘history’ in so grandiose a manner as to surpass allcompetitors (Reynold A. Nicholson, A History of the Arabs (Cambridge: CambridgeUniversity Press, 1907), 76ff). It is obvious that the poet’s delivery and personalitywere not insignificant factors. Such performance, relying as it does upon hyperbole,represents the heights of an oral tradition. Indeed, ‘the whole [art of the qasida] liesin the untranslatable manner of saying it’ (H. A. R. Gibb, Arabic Literature: AnIntroduction (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1963), 21). Darwish, a distinctlymodern Arab poet, utilises the modern free verse form, ignoring the rigid rules ofrhyme, meter and form imposed on the pre-Islamic odes, but (whether purposively orinstinctively) he draws upon a tradition of orality inherent in the older form.8. The manner of the telling, as in oral tradition generally, involved repetition ofthemes and ideas, the idealisation of portrayals both in content and expression, andthe drawing of vivid and concrete images which carried with them the values andideas of the age itself. In the truest sense of the word, the ancient ode was aperformance, and as such the poet was engaged in a dialogue with his audience. If hewere successful, he would stimulate the audience to grasp the ‘hints and illusions’which he supplied during his performance, therein enabling them ‘to complete hisportrait of thought for themselves’ [Gibb: 26]. The poet thus offered his audience thepower of transformation: to begin with a given reality and then to complete the story– or to transform the telling of the events – in ways that would deliver meaning forthemselves.9. Admittedly, some of the poet’s power came from the belief that words had power.The pre-Islamic Arabs, believing that stories arose under the inspiration of the jinn,heavenly beings, concluded that words in and of themselves retained ancientmystical and magical powers. Words in oral cultures in general have power becausethey are associated with motion. Words are accompanied by breath, by movement ofair, by a physicality that is absent in understandings of text-based cultures. For oralpeoples, sound implies the presence of a living, moving being – or some natural force— 97 —www.taq.ir

j. kristen urban– and understanding of words distinctly different for text-based cultures, whereinwords are static symbols printed upon a page. (See Walter J. Ong, Orality andLiteracy: The Technologizing of the Word (London: Routledge, 1982.))10. Orality itself is by nature conservative, upholding traditional values and aestheticstandards because it relies so heavily upon repetition and stylisation: structures thatare easy to remember and re-tell in the absence of written ‘cues’. In upholdingtraditional values and aesthetic standards of his culture, however, the poet-asperformerwas also in the unique position of transmitting these values and standardsto the next generation, and in so doing, he gave them contextual meaning. Theprocess of narration being a process of naming (a thing, an event, an experience),the narrator posits meaning; in preserving these ‘tribal memories’, he is preservingthe collective memory of the past. Moreover, in defining the past, he is givingmeaning to the present and bringing a sense of continuity to what otherwise wouldhave been an inevitable present. (Again, see Ong, note 7 above, for a richerdiscussion of oral tradition.)11. Again, as in note 3 above, see Pelias for discussions of the relationship betweenaudience and performer. Of particular interest here would be the sections relating to‘Exploring the Aesthetic Communication of Others’ (47–99) and ‘The Performativeand Evaluative Roles of the Audience’ (141–67)12. See, for example, publications from the Center for Policy Analysis on Palestine(Washington, DC), especially ‘The Palestine National Authority: A CriticalAppraisal’ (May 1995); ‘Beyond Rhetoric: Perspectives on a Negotiated Settlementin Palestine’ (June 1996); ‘Honest Broker? US Policy and the Middle East PeaceProcess’ (April 1997); ‘The Legitimacy of Resistance: Options for PalestinianSurvival’ (December 1998); and ‘May 4, 1999: Implications of Declaring the State’(March 1999).13. Nussbaum has addressed such questions in numerous venues: the Alexander RosenthalLectures for 1991 at Northwestern University Law School; the Hanna Lectures atHamline University; the Arthur Leff Fellow’s Lectures at the Yale University LawSchool; and the Donnelan Lectures at Trinity College in Dublin. In 1994 she wasvisiting professor for a course, Law and Literature, at the law school of the Universityof Chicago. Finally, from 1986–93, she was a consultant at the World Institute forDevelopment Economics Research in Helsinki. As co-director with economistAmartya Sen, she helped direct ‘a project on quality of life assessment in developingcountries. Our project was to show how debates in philosophy – about culturalrelativism and anti-relativism, about utilitarianism and its strengths and weaknesses– were relevant to the work of policy makers as they attempt to find ways ofmeasuring and comparing that elusive thing, “the quality of life,” in a nation’[Nussbaum: xv].14. I am thinking here especially of work undertaken by Herbert C. Kelman indiscussions between Palestinians and Israelis, and exemplified through articles suchas: ‘Creating Conditions for Israeli-Palestinian Negotiations’, Journal of ConflictResolution (1986) 26: 39–75; ‘Overcoming Barriers to Negotiation of the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict,’ Journal of Palestine Studies (1986) 16: 13–28; and‘Acknowledging the Other’s Nationhood: How to Create a Momentum for theIsraeli-Palestinian Negotiations’, Journal of Palestine Studies (1992) 22: 18–38.— 98 —www.taq.ir

darwish’s ‘indian speech’ as dramatic performance15. For example, Leonard W. Doob, ‘The Belfast Workshop: An Application of GroupTechniques to a Destructive Conflict’, Journal of Conflict Resolution (1989) 33: 676–99; and earlier work by Doob and William J. Foltz, Resolving Conflict in Africa: TheFermeda Workshop (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1970).16. The 1999 Summer Faculty Institute, ‘Violent Conflict in the 21st Century: Causes,Dynamics, and Prevention’, was held on 14–18 June at Amherst College, and wassponsored by the Carnegie Commission on Preventing Deadly Conflict Five CollegeProgram in Peace and World Security Studies. In addition to disseminatinginformation and stimulating interest in interdisciplinary research approaches moresensitive to peace making, it was a primary concern of this institute (which broughttogether some fifty academics – and a wide range of global policy makers as speakers)to conclude with commitments to address pedagogy. This concern is perhaps bestreflected in the question, ‘How do we as scholars and teachers in the field ofinternational relations (and related disciplines), facilitate the exploration of valuesrelated to peace amongst our students and thereby participate in fostering ageneration of policy makers more responsive to creating a sustainable global peace?’— 99 —www.taq.ir

15Israeli Jewish Nation Building and HebrewTranslations of Arabic LiteratureHannah Amit-KochaviLiterature is a highly effective vehicle of expressing national energies, conflictsand aspirations. Literary translation may help to get them across to anothernation where they will be received and interpreted according to the state ofpolitical and inter-cultural contacts between source and target literatures at thetime when a particular translation is made and published. In fact, it is preciselythe nature of these contacts that rules two complementary elements critical toboth the creation and reception of literary translations. It is responsible foranswering, first the question of whether a particular text is to be translated at all,and if so – why, by whom, where it will be published – and next, the question ofhow it will be received by target readers – whether ignored, praised or rejected.The present chapter will try to answer these questions with regard to twoimportant segments of translation, of both classical and modern Arabic literatureinto Hebrew, representing two opposite poles from the advent of Zionism inPalestine to the present day (1868–2005). The first pole demonstrates the waytranslations from Arabic into Hebrew were used to help consolidate Jewishidentity during the earliest stage of Jewish nation building in Palestine (latenineteenth and early twentieth centuries). The second demonstrates the earlieststage of recognition of the Palestinian national identity by Israeli Jewish culture(1970). Thus the two politically opposed sides of the Jewish (later Israeli)-Arabconflict in Palestine found within the same literary system some support fortheir respective national claims of their right to exist, though separated byalmost a century and under completely different political circumstances. Mydata draw on a comprehensive bibliography (collected by me) comprising overseven thousand translated items, as well as book reviews of translations of Arabicliterature published in literary supplements of Hebrew dailies and weeklies, aswell as literary magazines.The theory applied here is a modified combination of the work of two Israelitranslation scholars, Itamar Even Zohar and Gideon Toury, both of Tel AvivUniversity. Even Zohar’s polysystem theory (Even Zohar 1990, 1997) may beused to describe the constant struggle of foreign literatures, among other culturalpowers, to enter recipient cultures through translation. The target literature isdescribed by Even Zohar as one of many systems (or, metaphorically speaking,— 100 —www.taq.ir

israeli jewish nation buildingcircles) that combine together to form a cultural polysystem. Each of thesesystems, as well as the polysystem itself, has a centre, where more prestigiousactivity takes place and where cultural influence may be exerted, and aperiphery, from which people, institutions and powers active within the systemconstantly try to advance towards the centre. At the same time similar elementsare constantly pushed away from the centre. All of this incessant activity iseffected through the influence of cultural, political and financial powers thatmay act separately or jointly. Translation, according to Even Zohar, is oftenused to fill generic, stylistic and intellectual voids within the recipient system.Thus the recipient or target culture may use translation for its own ends,absorbing foreign literature or even feeding upon it where it cannot provide foritself out of its own resources. In the present chapter Hebrew culture serves asthe polysystem, Hebrew literature is one of its systems, literary translation is asub-system of Hebrew literature, while literary translation from Arabic intoHebrew is an independent segment of that sub-system, namely the smallestcircle of all.Even Zohar, then, draws a rather Darwinistic picture of survival of the fittestand, to use Theo Hermans’ term (1985), the manipulation of literature throughtranslation. Whereas polysystem theory draws a picture of the playground andthe rules of the game of literary translation, Toury’s norm theory (1980, 1995,1998) describes the way this game is played. He defines two kinds of translationnorms – preliminary norms and operational norms. The first kind, dealing withtranslation policy and directness of translation (Toury 1995: 58), will be appliedand elaborated in my discussion of why and how translated Arabic texts wereused to uphold both Jewish and Palestinian nation building. The second kind,operational norms (ibid.: 58–60), dealing with actual translation performancein terms of text segmentation, textlinguistic properties and source text–targettext equivalence, are beyond the scope of the present chapter that looks atliterary translations as agents acting within a system, describing the way theyhave acted within the target culture rather than how they were performed aslinguistic and textual entities. In order to make the final part of my discussionpossible, I suggest that I add a third new translation norm category which I call‘reaction norms’ to Toury’s first two. Reaction norms reflect the ways translationsare either accepted or rejected by the target culture and may be deducedout of the only overt expression of target culture reaction as reflected by writtenreviews of the translations published in the journalistic slots allotted to them bythe target culture.Any discussion of literature and nationalism in the context of translations ofArabic literature into Hebrew must take into consideration that Jews and Arabsin the Middle East each have their own national identity opposed to the other’s.Thus the national aspirations of the Jews in Palestine as represented by early— 101 —www.taq.ir

hannah amit-kochaviofficial Zionism saw Palestine as the once historical, now revived homeland ofthe Jewish people exclusively allocated by the biblical God to the sons ofAbraham’s younger son Isaac. This view completely excluded the Arabs, sons ofAbraham’s older son Ishmael, whose presence as natives of the land was eitherignored by the Jews, romantically idealised or described as an imminent physicaland psychological threat to them. Later separation between the two communitiesas the result of wars and the mass evacuation of most Palestinian Arabsfrom their homeland in 1948 turned the Arabs as a whole, for most Israelis, intoremote enemies. Numerous studies in such fields as history (Gorny 1985; Morris1991), sociology (Horrowitz and Lisak 1986), psychology (Lieblich 1982),history of literature (Shaqed 1977, 1983a, 1983b, 1988, 1993), art (Zalmonaand Manor-Friedman 1998), the theatre (Orian 1996) and cinema (Shohat 1991)amply support this sad picture.Arab nationalism, in turn, totally rejected the Jewish (later, Israeli) presenceas foreign and alien in the Middle East. Only in recent years, most notably sincethe Oslo Agreement in 1993, have both sides begun to realise that mutualrecognition and consequent peace making may contribute to the respectivewell-being and prosperity of both. This harsh political background raises anumber of grave questions – why, then, would Israeli Jewish culture consider thetranslation of Arabic literature, representing an enemy nation’s life andaspirations, at all, and how would it receive the translated works? Why shouldthat culture, dedicated to its own nation building and its own grave problems ofever-changing national identity, spend effort, time and money on recognising,perhaps promoting, the nationality of its gravest enemies through the translationof their literature?The answer to these questions is extremely complex and seemingly selfcontradictory.In fact, the very same political forces that have made translationsof Arabic literature into Hebrew scant and marginal (so far thirty-three novels,thirty-three plays and fifty-seven anthologies out of over seven thousand translatedtitles) have simultaneously worked in the opposite direction. It was thosefew institutions and individuals that thought that Israeli Jewish nationalismmust and can include the Arab presence to some extent that strove to translateArabic literature as a depiction of the unrecognised and unfamiliar neighbourand out of their ardent wish for peace and coexistence.Translations from Arabic into Hebrew were by and large not felt by therecipient Hebrew culture to fulfil a ‘real’ need, unlike texts from other modernliteratures such as those from Russian and American cultures that have served itas models for imitation (Even Zohar 1990). We may therefore say that Hebrewculture had to be lured into accepting translations from Arabic. This partiallyaccounts for the first preliminary norm of choosing Arabic texts of high literaryquality by writers occupying prestigious positions in the source literature.— 102 —www.taq.ir

israeli jewish nation buildingTranslators and anthologists thus often presented their own translations inprefaces, afterwords and media interviews as ‘the best possible choice’ out oftexts written during a certain literary period. This predominant norm is followedby two others – an academic one and a political-national one. All three wereoften applied together, particularly since the few main figures active in Arabic-Hebrew literary translation were often involved in the Israeli academic systemwhere the high quality norm has prevailed. At university level this norm hasbeen applied in the choice of texts to be taught and researched since theestablishment of the Oriental Studies Institute at the Hebrew University ofJerusalem in 1926 up to the present. The academic norm has dictated thetranslation of both classical and modern Arabic works either taught as part ofthe academic curriculum or serving as the object of study by academic scholars.This, for example, combined with the source-language quality norm, mainlyaccounts for the fact that eleven Arabic novels out of a total of thirty-threetranslated into Hebrew have been novels by Naguib Mahfuz. 1 The last preliminarynorm, the political-national norm that sometimes contradicts the formerones, has dictated preference for particular Arabic literatures. Later discussionin the present chapter will demonstrate the interaction of all preliminary normsas applied to two prominent cases.During the earliest phase of Zionist Jewish nation building in Palestine,Zionism sought to build up a new Jewish identity replacing the miserablediaspora Jew with a brave new one. This objective was surprisingly promotedthrough selective translations of classical Arabic poetry with clear preferencefor the Hamasah [bravery] genre that depicts such personal qualities as valour,courage and undaunted devotion to one’s tribe. Thus the ancient brave Arabdepicted by that poetry was chosen as a model to be imitated by the modernbrave Jew. Most of these translations were published in Luah Eretz Yisrael [ThePalestine Almanac], a periodical published in Jerusalem (1896–1916) bypublisher-scholar Avraham Moshe Lunz (1854–1918). It included variousscholarly texts and reports for the small Hebrew readership in Palestine andEastern Europe that served, at the time, as the cultural centre of the young revivedHebrew culture as well as that of Zionist activity. The Luah was intended toencourage Jewish national aspirations through reports of current Zionist achievements,articles reporting archeological and historical discoveries, with anemphasis on the old-new connection between the Jewish nation and its landand literary texts. These included ancient Jewish legends about holy sites inPalestine as well as Arabic texts, both folk tales and Jahili poetry. Strange as itmay seem, the same practice was followed in daily life where Russian Jewishimmigrants used the native Arabs as a practical model (Even Zohar 1986),adapting Arab clothes (such as the kufiyyah gown and Æabah cloak), food (suchas Arab bread and coffee, olive oil and olives), work instruments (such as the— 103 —www.taq.ir

hannah amit-kochaviwooden plough), weapons (such as the gun, the sword and the shibriyyah dagger)and social values (such as courage and hospitality). Avraham Shalom YehezkelYahuda (1877–1951), a Jerusalem-born scholar of ancient Arabic poetry, wrotein his preface to Nedivei ve Giborei ÆArav [Arab noblemen and heroes], acollection of translated ancient Arabic poetry he published in the Luah:Hebrew readers are sure to enjoy learning the ways of the Arab people, their customsand habits since they became a single people upon the earth … for they were muchlike those of our ancestors in manner, habit and generosity, feeding the hungry andfaithfully defending their neighbour and those seeking shelter in their tents … at thetime when they were still peacefully sitting upon their land. Hebrew readers mayfurther rejoice to learn that many of our brethren, the children of Israel, thenpeacefully lived among the Arabs … and that they, too, were no inferior to theArabs, for like them they begot such great noblemen as ÆAdayah and Shmuel [al-Samaw’al] 2 his son who dedicated their entire lives to do good to their neighbours aswell as to the people amongst whom they were living, that out of them, too, sprangup some heroes, and that they too made themselves a great name in the history of theArabs though their ventures, faith, bravery and poetry. (Luah 1986: 89–90)This sentimental elaboration of the figure of the single known pre-IslamicJewish Arabic poet overtly advocates the Arab model to be imitated whilecovertly propagating coexistence between the two nations on the basis of apresumed shared glorious past.Arabic literatures, to use Ami Elad-Bouskila’s definition (1999: 3–8), arehierarchically graded both chronologically and by quality. Egyptian literature isthe earliest and most prolific Arabic literature, while Palestinian literature is theyoungest and weakest in all genres except poetry. The Hebrew translated inventory,however, while retaining quantitive Egyptian priority, also demonstratespreference for Palestinian literature from both the Occupied Territories andIsrael, in clear contrast to its relative scantness and weakness. This has been truesince the 1970s, which marked a change in the attitude of Israeli Jews towardsthe Palestinian people. Between 1948 and 1967 Palestinians were the absent‘other’ and Arab refugees were referred to by Israeli Jewish press, radio andofficial authorities as ‘infiltrators’, and later as ‘terrorists’. Israeli Arabs weremetaphorically seen as present-absentees (Grossmann 1992) or subtenantsrather than fully fledged citizens (Benziman and Mansour 1992), since Israelkept its Arab population under confining military government (1948–64). Allmarks of Palestinian national identity, including literature, were labelled as‘dangerous’ and ‘a threat to state security’. The earliest translations of poems byMahmoud Darwish and Samih al-Qasim were therefore made by and forgovernmental bodies in charge of so-called ‘Arab affairs’. Some of these‘dangerous’ materials were later published as part of studies of Israeli Arabliterature in Hamizrah he-Hadash [New Orient], an academic publication of the— 104 —www.taq.ir

israeli jewish nation buildingHebrew University of Jerusalem, since the closed academic milieu wasconsidered as trustworthy of such materials that the general readership couldnot be exposed to. It took more than thirty years for two collections of Darwish’spoetry to be translated, published and received as normal literary texts. By thistime translations of more than six hundred of his poems had been individuallypublished in literary newspaper sections and magazines, and yet a number ofpublishing houses still considered the publication of a collection of them asunsuitable, due to Darwish’s affiliation with PLO cultural institutions. The 1967war partially changed this attitude – the euphoria that followed Israeli victoryover the armies of Egypt, Syria and Jordan was eventually followed by a slow butsteady realisation that those Palestinian Arabs who had conveniently turnedsince 1948 into the abstract ‘refugee problem’ were, in fact, real people living inthe now Israeli Occupied Territories. This aroused a growing interest in bothnewly occupied Palestinians and their Israeli Arab counterparts largely ignoredso far.The earliest fruit of this changed attitude was the publication by ShimonBallas, 3 Hebrew writer and scholar, of two complementary volumes in the sameyear, 1970 – an anthology of Palestinian Stories and a Hebrew version of hisdoctoral thesis, Arabic Literature under the Shadow of War, that included hundredsof translated fragments of literary works. In the preface to his anthology Ballasexpressed his political opinions, extremely brave at the time, as follows:Through the present collection I have attempted to draw a representative picture ofPalestinian literature. I did not seek solely to find the best of what there is but also[sought to include here] the best of the representative short stories. I was thereforeforced to include some stories of mediocre quality or even much less. I wish to makeHebrew readers familiar with the mind, life and thought of the Palestinian who,although still separated from us by walls of estrangement and enmity, is our partner over thisland and under the blue sky above. (Ballas 1970: 18) [Emphasis mine]Preliminary norms, then, served to promote the two conflicting nationalitiesat two different points in time. Reaction norms can only be studied with regardto the second phase since there were no literary reviews in the Luah, as at thetime it was published Hebrew cultural activity in Palestine was at its initial stageand did not possess the full inventory of the instruments necessary for fullyfledged literary activity.Reviews of translations from Arabic into Hebrew have been common sincethe publication of the first translations from modern Arabic literature. 4 Althoughthey usually refer to full-length texts such as novels, anthologies, collectionsand plays, all of which constitute only about two per cent of the translatedinventory, they are important as the only available tool for studying readers’reactions to the translations. Like preliminary norms, reaction norms, too, mayvary. In spite of the gradual accumulation of a certain body of translations, some— 105 —www.taq.ir

hannah amit-kochaviof which was easily available to readers, Israeli Hebrew culture has by and largeremained ignorant of Arabic culture and literature. The most current reactionto the translations expressed in reviews has therefore consistently been surprise,almost always at the very existence of Arabic literature, and sometimes also atits unexpected high quality. It should be noted that critics had obviouslyinternalised the preliminary norm stating that translations of Arabic literatureinto Hebrew ought to be made for political and ideological reasons. Reactionnorms therefore include a seeming contradiction – requiring high quality of thetranslations and waiving this demand. The latter was justified by the claim thatthe introduction of Arabic literary works into Hebrew culture was notnecessarily a beneficial reading experience but should be seen as a moral duty. Itwas meant to relieve Israeli Jewish conscience of its guilt of ignorance of theArabs, in the naive belief that literature directly reflected real life and that socalledArab nature and ways of life could be learnt through reading translatedliterature.The contradiction between the call for quality and its rejection representsthe opposition between two Israeli Jewish cultural points of view – seeing Arabsand their culture as equal to other nations’ and fit to compete with Hebrewreaders’ time and money, or seeing them as an inferior oriental culture. Thelatter view was often expressed in well-intentioned but condescending terms.The quality requirement was made mostly by those personally active in the fieldof Arabic-Hebrew translation as translators, initiators and editors, while thecondescending view was mostly expressed by critics unfamiliar with Arabic,who also invariably wrote reviews of original Hebrew literary works as well astranslations from other languages. A typical example is Heda Boshes, a minorHebrew writer and journalist, who repeatedly admitted her total ignorance ofArabic language and literature in her reviews, all the while heartily apologisingfor it. Thus in a review of a short story anthology translated from Arabic (1971)she commented:Reading this collection is extremely disappointing from the literary point of view.This is literature in the most superficial sense of the word. And yet it is a collectionworth reading, despite the limitations demonstrated by its writers and its unexcitinglevel, in order to at least partially understand Arab writers’ mentality. (Haaretz, 16January 1972)Surprise and admiration were expressed at the few cases judged to be goodliterary texts and/or translations. Hebrew translations made by Israeli Arabs(most notably Anton Shammas’ translations of Imil Habibi’s novels in generaland The Pessoptimist in particular) met with special acclaim. This too revealscovert prejudice, as wonder was expressed at an (Israeli) Arab’s perfect masteryof Hebrew style, as if this were some sort of extraordinary miracle.Finally, an overtly political parameter was used in reviews of translations— 106 —www.taq.ir

israeli jewish nation buildingfrom Arabic to an extent unequalled in reviews of translations from any otherlanguage, due to the special nature of the political background and Jewish-Arabcontacts elaborated earlier. Since the vast majority of the critics were keen ongetting to know Arabic literature and culture despite their professed ignoranceof it, and as most of the reviews were published by newspapers and magazinesthat favoured peace and mutual understanding, most of those reviews thatdemonstrated a political overtone were positive rather than negative withregard to the political aspects of the translated texts.Israeli Jewish critics often expressed extreme sensitivity to the depiction ofIsrael and Jews by Arabic literature, consequently exaggerating the importanceof that element in the works under discussion. This was equally true of thenegative depiction of Israeli and Jewish figures (like the unfavourable descriptionof a fat Jewish woman in the novel I will Live by the Lebanese writer LaylahBa’albaki where that character is only mentioned in passing) and of its positiveopposite. The most prominent positive example is the expression of a favourableview of Israelis in Palestinian writer Sahar Khaleefah’s novel The Sunflower.This happens on two different occasions – first a Palestinian woman journalistexpresses her wish to meet and talk with Israeli Jewish intellectuals, then asuggestion of Arab-Jewish cooperation in publishing a journal is made at aJerusalem editorial board meeting in the same novel. What reviews of thatnovel completely ignored was its end, where Sa’adiyyah, a Palestinian woman ofNablus whose long dreamed of house was demolished by Israeli soldiers,encourages her young son to throw stones at them by way of protest.An even more obvious example of Israeli Jewish self-centredness is thereaction of Israeli critics to literary works that depict the plight and suffering ofthe Palestinians by assimilating and comparing it to the suffering of the Jews.Reactions to Imil Habibi’s The Pessoptimist in Hebrew and to its performance onthe stage by Muhammad Bakri are a case in point. Thus theatre critic HavahNovak wrote after watching the Hebrew version:Paradoxical as this may seem, both the play and its characters reminded me ofSholem Aleichem [Jewish writer]’s characters, those pessoptimists who accept theirfate with one eye crying and the other laughing, those who must survive anycatastrophe since a worse one may soon follow. It is precisely this parallelism thatmade watching this play an extremely heavy and ambivalent experience for me.After referring to the political dilemma of the double right of Palestinians andJews, she concluded by saying that ‘The last word will be said by history. Meanwhilewe’ll try to go on living with our conscience and truth as well as we can.Watching this play may prove helpful’ (Davar, 12 December 1986).Israeli paranoia vis-à-vis the Arabs (another typical Israeli emotional reaction)is openly reflected in a review by Shimon Zandbank, professor of comparativeliterature at the Hebrew University and acclaimed translator of the Hebrew— 107 —www.taq.ir

hannah amit-kochaviversion of Palestinian writer and political leader Ghassan Kanafani’s novellaMen in the Sun (see Amy Zalman’s chapter in this collection). This famous shortpiece of prose describes the desperation and tragic fate of Palestinian refugeeswho seek work in Kuwait and die when they have almost reached their aim.Zandbank was appalled by Kanafani’s strong metaphor of the cruel sun andended his review with an emotional outburst. He expressed a combination ofprofound shock at the anti-Israeli content of the novella, his fear at the despairand violence it advocated, and his doubt with regard to the possibility of Israeli-Palestinian dialogue. Interpreting the literary images of the novella as expressingstrong erotic attachment to the land, he compared this to the extremism ofthe Jewish settlers in the Occupied Territories. He ended his review by denyingthe possibility of any dialogue between Israelis and Palestinians, giving thepolitical background and content of the work priority over its artistic andaesthetic qualities (Davar, 10 November 1978).Both preliminary and reaction norms then reflect the brave struggle of thosewho try to promote translations of Arabic literature in the Israeli Hebrewcultural polysystem against all cultural odds directly affected by a negativepolitical situation. With the Middle Eastern peace process now reaching one ofits decisive peaks, it may prove both useful and interesting to go back in tenyears’ time and study the state of Arabic-Hebrew literary translation, to try tofind out whether (and how) the new balance between the Jewish and Arabnations has helped this literature to get closer to the centre of Hebrew culture.To see whether, and to what extent, Palestinian nation building has beenfurther promoted through Hebrew translation of Arabic texts, and whetherboth preliminary and reaction norms in this field have consequently changed.notes1. Such researcher-translators have included Professors Menachem Milson, SassonSomekh and Mati Peled, as well as Dr Ami Elad-Bouskila.2. Al-Samawal, a Jahili Jewish poet and Sayyid [tribe leader], is considered by Arabicculture to be the epitomy of faithfulness. This goes back to an ancient story reflectedby the saying ‘awfa min al-Samawal’ [more faithful than al-Samawal]. He is said tohave kept his faith to his friend, prince-poet Imru al-Qais, when the latter, fleeinghis enemies, left his family, weapons and money in his keep. Al-Samawal refused tohand them over to his friend’s enemies even when they killed a son of his whomthey had captured (Diwan al-Hamaasah, vol. 1, p. 36).3. Ballas (1930– ), an Iraqi-born Jew, immigrated to Israel in 1951 and became both awriter of Hebrew novels and a professor of modern Arabic literature. Like a numberof Iraqi Jewish immigrants, and unlike immigrants from other Arab countries whosubmitted to the Zionist ‘melting pot’ ideal that made them give up their originalArab culture, he too managed both to preserve his Arab linguistic and culturalidentity and occupy a respectable position in Israeli Hebrew culture.— 108 —www.taq.ir

israeli jewish nation building4. The first modern novel translated into Hebrew was the first volume (of two) of TahaHussein’s al-Ayyam [Childhood memoires], translated in 1931 by MenahemKapeliouk (1901–75), a journalist specialising in so-called Arab affairs who hadimmigrated to Palestine from Russia. He had read the novel (first published in 1929)as a student of Arabic in Beirut.— 109 —www.taq.ir

16Between Myth and History: Moshe Shamir’sHe Walked in the Fields 1Shai Ginsburg— 110 —‘History’ has been a stumbling block for recent attempts to give a theoreticalaccount of the rise of nationalism in modern times. Questions – such as howtheory could coherently address divergent historical experiences without effacingthe historical particularity of each experience, how the North African and theIndian national experiences compare, or what the relation between ‘first-world,’‘second-world’ and ‘third-world’ nation-building is – continue to haunt attemptsto ‘theorise’ nationalism. While such attempts underscore the historicity of theprocesses that gave rise to nationalism as well as national consciousness itself,one region often remains outside the realm of history, that of literary meaning.In the 1960s and early 1970s, theoreticians such as Hans-Georg Gadamer(1993) and Hans Robert Jauss (1986) explored the historical operations thatproduce meaning. 2 Still, their insights appear all but forgotten by more contemporaryattempts to discuss literature in the context of modern nationalism. Majorfigures such as Edward Said, Frederic Jameson, Stephen Greenblatt, HomiBhabha or Benedict Anderson, who in every other aspect of their work introducehistory into the reading of a text, read the literary text as if its meaning is alwaysalready set and determined, beyond history. 3 In this chapter, I would like toaddress the question of history and theory by examining one case study from thehistory of modern Hebrew literature in the context of Zionist nationalism.In Israeli cultural memory, Moshe Shamir’s novel He Walked in the Fieldsoccupies a prominent place. The novel was first published in February 1948, andit gained an immediate commercial success. 4 Within just a few months, thenovel sold some 3000 hardcover copies and 20,000 paperback copies. 5 Toappreciate fully its extraordinary popularity, the reader should bear in mind thatthe Jewish population in Palestine at the time was about 650,000, many ofwhom were recent immigrants and could not read a Hebrew novel. In thesecond part of this chapter I shall address the critical reception of this novel indetail. At this point, I shall treat the critical response to the novel in generalterms only.Many read the novel as an attempt to portray the Hebrew youth, the nativesof Palestine, during the decisive moment in the Zionist struggle to realise Jewishnationality in Palestine. In particular, readers saw in the novel’s male protawww.taq.ir

etween myth and historygonist Uri a symbol of that youth, which – according to the formative Israelimyth – bore the burden of the military campaign during the Israeli War ofIndependence. 6 Indeed, Uri became a synonym for the archetypal sabra warrior,who in his life, and particularly in his death, paved the way for a renewed Jewishindependence. 7 The novel as a whole was thus perceived as an expression of ahegemonic Zionist ideology and culture, which the novel’s characters do notonly fully accept, but also attempt at realising in their lives as well as in theirdeaths.Approaching the novel today, however, leaves the reader uneasy. Examiningit from the perspective of the present exposes a gap between the idyllic image ofthe novel and a complex, often unflattering image of Uri in the novel. One mayask, then, what determined the idealising reception of the novel and itsprotagonist, and what the functions of such a reception of the novel were. Thediscussion addresses this question within two poles. First, I explore the novel asquestioning, rather than reaffirming, the Zionist myth of the native Hebrew. Iargue that it examines the tension between myth and history that structures theimage of the New Hebrew Man; given that tension, the novel’s protagonist isdoomed to fail, as he indeed does. Second, I juxtapose the critical reception ofthe novel with the public reading of death and mourning in the young state ofIsrael. I argue, moreover, that one can understand the reception history of thenovel as informed by the same tension between myth and history so crucial tothe novel itself.He Walked in the Fields takes place towards the end of World War II. 8 Itsprotagonist Uri is the first-born son of a kibbutz in the Jezreel Valley. Returningto the kibbutz after having spent two years in an agricultural school, Uri comesacross Mika, a young refugee from occupied Europe. As a result of their loveaffair, Mika becomes pregnant. Before she herself learns of her pregnancy,however, Uri is summoned to a training camp of the newly formed Palma’h –shock troops that were to serve as the core of the Jewish military force in theanticipated armed conflict with the Palestinian-Arabs and with Arab armies.Uri’s absorption in the Palma’h convinces Mika that she cannot tell him abouther pregnancy and that she has to undergo an abortion. While a note from hismother makes Uri aware of the matter, he fails to act upon it. Preoccupied withhis personal affairs, he commands a live ammunition training session duringwhich one of the soldiers drops a hand-grenade. Uri jumps on it and dies of hiswounds the same day Mika goes to the abortion clinic and decides neverthelessto have the child.From his physical appearance as a young, tanned and muscular man to thedetails of his biography, Uri seems like an archetypal realisation of the NewHebrew, the ideal of Social-Zionist discourses. Not only is he a native of theland, but he is also one of its firstlings: the first-born child (and son) of a kibbutz— 111 —www.taq.ir

shai ginsburgin the Jezreel Valley. Both the kibbutz in general and the geographical locationof this particular kibbutz were symbols of the success of Social-Zionist ideology,the success of transforming both land and man and creating an organic relationshipbetween them. Uri’s name is likewise saturated as one of the names mostidentified with Zionist discourses. Over and against the popular image of thepassive and detached exiled Jew, Uri seems to embody the Zionist ideal of thenative Hebrew: an instinctive farmer, an instinctive scout, a natural fighter andcommander.Moreover, many critics saw in Uri more than just an individual character.Shamir describes Uri as follows, leading his subordinates on a training session:Leading a company or a platoon, Uri was as if walking alone. The more of a commanderhe was – the more egotistical he was. […] He was a continuous-move of couples ofstrikes on a line that previously was incidental – and following them, a new path inthe mountains. He was hips that divided bushes and slaughtered their dry stems, hewas for women here and there, the unknown wives of his subordinates, an objectivenecessity, a part of what is called in life independent circumstances, interference,external factors. […] He was a vintager. And maybe, one day, he would return to this.Then he would be alone with his vine, making sure not to hurt its clusters. He wasthe one who would force a polished French-wrench to fix in their place stubbornscrews in a ‘corn-lister’ and leave the stamp of a lying body behind him on theground. […] He was a tanned, young Jew on the Majdal–Kurum road for a Britishpolice-car passing quickly, for Arab gasoline-drivers. He was a mischievous thief whopenetrated a few yards in the Banias village, untied donkeys from their knots, andafterwards left plucked-feather-marks all the way to Mansura. (Shamir 1947: 169–70) 9This quote is but a segment of a longer section that displays a tight rhetoricalstructure with the repetition of the anaphora ‘he was’ that appears more thantwenty times within the span of three pages. Reading this paragraph, Dan Mironargues that Uri ‘is not [only] a private individual, a soul with a particularexperience and development, but also the essence of the phenomenon of Uri,the new historical factor […]. At the moment he is nothing but a force,movement, action. In fact, “he is a hundred young men, if not more,” the NewHebrew youth’ (Miron 1975: 447). Indeed, the paragraph reads like a paean toUri. The repetition of the existential ‘he was’ inculcates Uri’s presence assomething transcending the merely human. The rhythm of these sentences,added to the accumulative effect of the anaphora, transfers Uri’s figure from thehistorical realm to a mythological one. Ultimately, Uri emerges as a mythologicalhero, a native god of the land.Uri’s death was seen primarily as the decisive moment of his mythical biography.Critics commonly perceived this death not as a personal one, but rather as representingthe willingness of the Hebrew natives of Palestine to take upon themselves thenational struggle for independence and even to sacrifice their lives heroically for the— 112 —www.taq.ir

etween myth and historysake of that struggle. In fact, they often read the whole plot of the novel from theperspective of Uri’s death; from this perspective, the character’s tribulations andconflicts are rendered insignificant. Such sentiments on the part of the critics are notsurprising considering the time of the novel’s publication, during the first months ofthe armed conflict between Palestinian Jews and Arabs when the outcome of theconflict was still uncertain. What is surprising, however, is that Uri’s death in thenovel is much more ambiguous than the heroic death that so many critics perceived.Uri’s death cannot be dissociated from the Palma’h, the elite unit of theJewish military force in Palestine. The Palma’h was associated mainly with theyoung Hebrew natives, children of the Zionist agricultural settlements, althoughits recruits represented a wider range of the Jewish population in Palestine of thetime. Following its participation in the 1948 War, which was often underscoredat the expense of other military units, and the heavy casualties it suffered (morethan one-sixth of its men), it was commonly identified with the Israeli victoryin that war as well as with the price of blood paid for it. Consequently, a nexuswas established between the native Hebrew, the Jewish military force, victory,the dead of the 1948 War, and Israeli independence. 10 Shamir’s novel itselfplayed an important role in forming and circulating the Palma’h myth. Asmentioned above, Uri joins the Palma’h, becomes an officer, and ultimately getskilled while commanding his men. Indeed, as the Israeli critic Gershon Shakednotes, more than anything else ‘the novel was conceived […] as a portrait of thefighter as a young man’ (Shaked 1993: 248). Uri’s association with the Palma’h,then, serves as yet another sign for his symbolic status that ends with hisapotheosis as the national dead soldier. 11Early in the novel, however, the reader finds out that for Uri the life of thePalma’h is not one of hardship required for the realisation of national ideals butrather something like a boy-scout summer camp. Life in the Palma’h, as it isdescribed in the novel, lacks all of its more unpleasant aspects: hard labour,financial shortage, physical difficulty, and especially battle, death and bereavement.As a young platoon commander, Uri enjoys commanding other people,idling in bed, and flirting with the women while his subordinates are working:Dina’le is a hot woman, and what a concentrated joy is awoken within you whenyou’re late because of her, first in the common-tent and later among the pineavenues, in the orange-groves, alone – that is, coupled! And in your heart theparasitic contentment of the one who knows that he doesn’t have to wake up earlythe following morning, since the men work, and we – meaning the ‘riders’ – ride hardand sleep as much as the heat allows […] (Shamir 1947: 272–3)— 113 —It should be noted here that descriptions such as this were not only commonin ‘high’ and ‘popular’ literature of the time, but they were also instrumental increating the popular myth surrounding the life of the Palma’h. In the popularimagination, the life of the Palma’h fused together everyday personal carelesswww.taq.ir

shai ginsburgness and dependability, reliability, and self-sacrifice whenever circumstancesrequired it. Yet, in the context of the novel, I would argue that such momentshave a double signification and also serve to undermine the very same myth inwhich they participate. Such moments both belong to the genre of the Palma’hmyth that they helped to establish and also question it. The Palma’h providesUri, then, with the opportunity not to struggle for national goals but rather todelight himself with the pleasures of sex and authority. Moreover, his pleasurescome at the expense of his community, represented here by his subordinates,and undermine a sense of mutual responsibility. He thus fully enjoys his parasiticstate of being – an aspect of his life that most critics of the novel suppressed,underscoring instead his final self-sacrifice as confirmed by his death. Ultimately,the Palma’h allows Uri to celebrate his egotism and escape responsibility.The clash between Uri’s joyful life of the Palma’h and his responsibilitytowards others comes into relief in the novel’s last chapter, which juxtaposesUri’s death and the pregnancy of his lover Mika. As mentioned before, towardsthe end of the novel, Uri realises that Mika is pregnant with his baby. He nowfaces a difficult decision. He may leave the Palma’h and return to the kibbutz;however, an abortion would solve his problems, enabling him to continue hislife in the Palma’h. Here is how he first thinks of the matter:This affair, misfortune – no, this is vulgar. This thing of Mika, the thing – well, hedoesn’t want this thing. Every time it crosses his mind […] he panics. He would notask himself what is the nature of this panic. No, he doesn’t want it and that’s it. Thething is clear, clear in the light of this distress, in the light of some insipid and sadguilt-feeling. He does not want. It’s bad, bad and bitter, it’s a disaster. It’s disgrace!Maybe that is where his hatred for this thing lies. The disgrace, the shame in it.This doesn’t suit him. What does it mean ‘doesn’t suit him’? This meagre word is amockery. What is the reason? Mika – a mother? And he himself? Isn’t it enough thatit’s bad and bitter and even worse. (Shamir 1947: 326–7)The possibility of having a child disrupts Uri’s life and tarnishes his selfimage.The ‘vulgar’ affair breaks into his ‘genteel’ life of leisure. From hisdignified position, he is unable to name Mika’s pregnancy, and he repeatedlyrefers to it as the thing or as it. Throughout, he remains alienated from Mika’spregnancy and treats it as an external force, hostile to his own essence and will.Yet what kind of external force is it? The pregnant female body threatens Uri’sfreedom. It threatens to expel him from the Garden of Eden of his life in thePalma’h, and like the biblical story, guilt and shame accompany the expulsion.The pregnant female body thus signifies a fall from grace, which Uri identifieswith being chained to the kibbutz and to a family.Throughout the story, Uri expresses anxiety precisely about such a life. Withinthe kibbutz Uri feels compelled to prove that he can successfully rival his father,one of the founding fathers of the kibbutz. It is not the singular, revolutionary,— 114 —www.taq.ir

etween myth and historyheroic act of the creation of the kibbutz as a social community, ex nihilo as itwere, that terrifies Uri. 12 Rather, he is alarmed by the realisation that a kibbutzmeans a mundane, everyday, continued struggle to maintain a life of agriculturallabour as the foundation of family and communal life. In short, the kibbutzmakes Uri anxious because it marks quotidian historical time. Whereas Uri couldimagine himself performing the heroic acts of the mythical hero, he fears thathe is not up to the task of participating in the everyday struggle that the kibbutzrepresents. In this context, Uri sees the pregnant female body as signifying thehistorical time of the kibbutz and identifies in it the demand to enter historicallife: a life of toil, responsibility, and death at an old age. And Uri rebels againstsuch a destiny. Only a radical solution would undo this radical disruption of hislife. Abortion, Mika’s death or his own would undo the demands of humanhistory, and Uri considers all three.Uri first considers abortion and Mika’s death, but he immediately realisesthat in these fantasies he exempts himself from responsibility for their affair andits outcome. Thus, these fantasies are soon transformed into the fantasy of Uri’sown death:He must take part in her suffering. It’s not possible that she’d suffer alone. You mustsuffer, must, in some way or another, be as miserable as she is, more than she is, morethan her – to be the victim of something horrible, of something that will make peopleforget all of her things, so they’d say – who would say? – so they’d say: – well, poorMika – but Uri, see, – Uri fell. […] And everybody would look at Mika and indicatewith great interest and she would be so bereaved and proud. […] There you have it,how a strong, sturdy fellow fell. (Shamir 1947: 331)Uri abandons himself to the fantasy of his death, for it would solve severalproblems simultaneously: First, it would exempt him from the need to give upthe life of the Palma’h and return to the kibbutz. Second, as he imagines, itwould compensate for Mika’s suffering as well as for his irresponsibility.Ultimately, his death would save Uri from the shameful circumstances withinwhich he finds himself, relieve him from the impending threat of historicaltime, and transfigure him into a mythical hero.Uri’s death would accomplish this only if it were not just a ‘simple death’;rather, it must be a heroic one, realising the myth of the fallen hero. That is,Uri’s death would satisfy his desire only if he indeed fell while defendingPalestine as the Jewish homeland. His actual death, however, is ambivalent: atraining accident in the best of cases, suicide in the worst. Uri commands handgrenadetraining. After he presents his subordinates with ‘the most wonderfulthrow he had ever seen’ (Shamir 1947: 338) of a live grenade, Uri summons theworst soldier in the platoon for the first throw. The soldier personifies a reversalof Uri’s image: a new immigrant from Germany, untidy and ridiculous. When hedrops the ignited grenade two steps away from the trench, Uri jumps, catches— 115 —www.taq.ir

shai ginsburgthe grenade, and throws it. The exploding grenade kills him. Within the mythof the war hero, Uri’s death appears to be straightforward; nevertheless, it isoverdetermined.While it is true that in his death Uri saves his subordinates, including thenew immigrant who caused the tragedy, the overdetermination of his deathtriply compromises it and thus removes it from the heroic death he imagines forhimself. First, it should be noted that Uri does not die fighting those who opposethe Zionist struggle for Jewish independence, Arab or British. He does not fall inbattle but rather in training, in the unreal semblance of battle, which turns outto be all too real. Second, the accident results from Uri’s own error of discretion.After hazing his soldiers, and despite objections from his non-commissionedofficer, he picks the worst soldier of the platoon for the first throw and thenverbally abuses him. The soldier is so frantic that he drops the grenade two stepsfrom the trench where the other soldiers are lying. Last, textually andtemporally, the accident occurs shortly after Uri dwells at length on the imageof his own death as a solution to his qualms of conscience and his unwillingnessto give up the free life of the Palma’h for the kibbutz and Mika. Hence, his deathmay be seen as a wish fulfilment designed to overcome personal distress ratherthan as an outcome of ideological conviction or altruist act of bravery.He Walked in the Fields exposes, then, a tension between two grids ofsignification. 13 On the one hand, the reader finds Uri to be a mythological godor the ‘new historical factor’ in Palestine. On the other hand, there is Uri as aparticular protagonist, subject to the indeterminacy and ambiguity of everydaylife. While in Uri’s imagination his death would mythically fix him as the fallensoldier, the overdetermination of his death interrupts the apotheosis of hisdeath and undermines its fixation. Nevertheless, Uri’s death does not solve thattension but rather underscores it. The troubling question of the relation betweenthe two aspects of Uri’s character remains.The novel does not end with Uri’s death; rather, it ends with Uri’s father andMika. Uri dies on the same day Mika is to have her abortion. Upon learning ofUri’s death, Uri’s father rushes to the abortion clinic in an attempt to stop Mika:tell her about Uri, beg, tell her that she must bear this to the end, because she’s ours,us all, all the living […] the main thing is that she will be their [Uri’s parents’]daughter, their daughter. […] Your hair wouldn’t turn completely white before acedar son of cedars will stand in our yards, Uri’s son. There would still be theirmatters, they would take him again for their matters? Life would stand forever. Justdon’t murder them with your own hands. Uri is an only child. And he will leavebehind him an only child. (Shamir 1947: 346)Like the double grid structuring Uri’s character, this scene plays two signifyingframeworks against each other. As Uri’s father notes, his son’s deathrepresents a destructive force, opposing the creative power of succeeding— 116 —www.taq.ir

etween myth and historygenerations. How, then, could Uri and his death be incorporated and co-optedinto the context of life? In the name of continuity and procreation, Uri’s fatherexpropriates Mika herself and her fate from her own hands and takes them over.In the name of historical life as it is realised in the kibbutz, he demands that shegive herself and her child to them – that is, to Uri’s parents. It is telling, ofcourse, that historical life, as the life of continuity and procreation, depends notupon the native Hebrew man as its agent but rather upon the refugee womanfrom Europe. The perpetuation of the whole system depends on her: without herchild, there would not be another Uri, and without Uri, ‘they’ – presumablyrepresenting the historical circumstances of Jewish life in Palestine that requirehuman sacrifice – would not have the material upon which to feed. Finally,appropriating Mika and her unborn child, Uri’s father fulfils and complementsUri’s fantasy. The woman is left behind to mourn the dead warrior, therebyreaffirming the male fantasy of heroism within history. What, then, is the statusof this fantasy in the light of Uri’s dubious death?In the above, I describe He Walked in the Fields in terms of its criticalreception. I show the latter to be short-sighted, for it overlooks the complexitiesthat Uri’s character presents. The critical reception I refer to, however, deservesmore attention. In fact, many critics did identify a tension in the novel centredon the character of Uri. In order to draw out the intricacies of the novel’sreception history, I will now examine the relation between ‘history’ in thereception history and the novel’s struggle with myth and history. I would like toset my own discussion against two possible critical reactions to the novel. Onthe one hand, it could be argued that critics failed to notice the tension at thecentre of the novel. In contrast, it could be argued that critics did recognise sucha tension but chose for whatever reasons to silence it. In both cases, critics areultimately blamed for consciously or unconsciously producing a hegemonicreading of the literary text that conceals the tensions within the text as well aswithin the social and political reality of the time.Nevertheless, as the public debate surrounding the publication of the novelshows, quite a few critics of the time observed the disparity between Uri’scharacter and the ideal of the new Hebrew man. Still, rather than locating thetension within the novel, they explained it away by asserting that the frictionlies between the novel and reality, between the fictive character and thehistorical young Hebrew man. By examining the reception history of the novel, Iargue, in fact, against two reductive readings: first, of the novel and its charactersas one-dimensional, and second, of the critical scene as uniform and univocal.Hence, in this section, after reviewing the range of critical reactions to thenovel, I juxtapose them with one of the historical sources to the myth of thenew Hebrew – the figure of Joseph Trumpeldor. I suggest that the interpretativemechanisms that were formed through the circulation of the myth of— 117 —www.taq.ir

shai ginsburgTrumpeldor informed the interpretation of Shamir’s novel. Finally, I argue thataddressing the reception history of the novel opens a space that allows us toexamine the formation of literary meaning itself as mythical.Many critics saw Shamir’s He Walked in the Fields as an exemplary expressionof hegemonic Zionist ideology and culture, which its characters not only fullyaccept but also attempt to realise in life and death. Such an ideological commitmentwas applauded as a necessary component of the Jewish struggle for independence.14 A few critics, however, censured the novel for precisely this reason.They denounced what they identified as the characters’ unreflective acceptanceof both Social-Zionist ideology and the historical circumstances in which thecharacters find themselves. Baruch Kurzweil, for instance, sees in Uri ‘a goodfellow, primitive, willing for self-sacrifice’ and argues that ‘Shamir raises theprimitive young man to a level of an ideal. In this he, together with all thosethat approve of the work, participates consciously or unconsciously in a certainspiritual process that succeeded in destroying a considerable portion of thevalues of culture’ (Kurzweil 1982: 143). Overall, Kurzweil blames Shamir forfailing to create an epic plot that would transform the immediate reality that hedescribes into an aesthetic work that would affirm cultural values.For my purposes here, however, another group of critics is of greater intereststill. Shamir’s He Walked in the Fields was harshly attacked by critics who wereidentified with the cultural establishment of the left. 15 In fact, criticism wasraised against the novel even before its actual publication. Shamir wrote thenovel when he was a member of a kibbutz belonging to Ha-Shomer Ha-Tsa’ir, aMarxist Social-Zionist movement, and he was to print and distribute his novelthrough the publishing house of the movement. 16 However, Meir Yaari andYaakov Hazan, two of the most prominent leaders of the movement, refused toauthorise its publication, since, among other reasons, they felt that the novelrepresented the kibbutz and its life in a negative light. As a result, the novel wasshelved for some four months before its printing was finally allowed. 17Following the publication of the novel, critics further blamed the novel forfailing to represent accurately the social processes that led to the establishmentof the State and for misrepresenting the Hebrew youth. Sh. J. Pnueli complains,for instance, that Shamir:exposes Uri and empties him of every human dignity. He has eyes, but he does not seeman’s sorrow; he has a heart, and he does not know love; he has a brain, but he isenslaved to his own egotism. He is a kind of an ancient-modern man, who knows theart of war […] and the rest of his qualities are but like the rooster’s male feathers […].Is this the truth of man in the kibbutz, […] is this our youth and is this its face?(Pnueli 1950: 76)Pnueli goes on to affirm that, despite its rough appearance, the Hebrew-Israeli youth is full of hidden virtues: ‘devotion, love, grace, kindness, God’s— 118 —www.taq.ir

etween myth and historyimprint, and human yearnings’ (Pnueli 1950: 76). Shamir’s novel, Pnueliargues, fails to penetrate beneath the misleading appearance of the Hebrewyouth to expose its inner truth and so does it injustice. Following the sameargument, another critic asks worriedly: ‘How could [the reader] comprehendthe existence of the [Zionist] project […] how could he believe in its future,facing such a young generation?’ (Aran 1952). 18 The novel was thus criticisednot only for perverting the image of the Hebrew youth but also for discreditingthe Zionist national project as a whole.I would like to note that later critics mainly adopted Kurzweil’s attitudetowards the novel. Indeed, critics pulled away from the debate of whether or notUri represents an ideal Hebrew man; recognising a tension at the centre of thenovel, critics often identified it as the conflict between individual and collectivevalues, which the characters struggle to reconcile. Nevertheless, most acceptedunquestionably that ‘for all the assumptions of Jewish patriotism and the singlemindednessof the necessary struggle, there is no attempt made […] at a ratiocinationof the ideology. Neither by the narrator […] nor by the characters.They live their lives in this way as though there is no choice, and so noselection of options’ (Yudkin 1977b: 3). Furthermore, later critics interpretedwhat they perceived as the characters’ ideological one-dimensionality as areductive characterisation and condemned it for standing in the way of‘aesthetic fullness’. While conflicting critical reviews of the novel at the time ofits publication called into question Uri’s character, very little of this tension hasremained in later discussions, even for those critics who examined the receptionhistory of the novel. 19 Generally, in later decades the novel and its protagonistwere perceived as the stereotypical and idealising symbols of the 1948generation. 20Two implications of the above discussion should be noted. First, in the earlyyears following the publication of He Walked in the Fields Uri’s symbolic andmythic value was not determined and set. On the contrary, the public debatefocused on the question of whether or not Uri stands as a symbol for or as amythical embodiment of the Hebrew youth during the 1948 war. It seems, then,that the myth of Uri was not fully established until after the debate followingthe initial reception of the novel had subsided, probably towards the end of the1950s. In this respect, later critics were more instrumental in disseminating themyth than earlier ones. Second, on a more theoretical level, the above discussionunderscores the fact that the attempt to idealise Uri cannot be located in HeWalked in the Fields itself. Instead, such an idealisation appears to result from aninteraction between the novel and its readers and between the different readersof the novel. The discussion thus questions the tendency of literary interpretations(my own included) to locate the meaning they present within the literarytext itself. Introducing the reception history of the novel into its interpretation— 119 —www.taq.ir

shai ginsburgthen interrupts the location of literary meaning; the reception history underminesthe equation of the literary text and meaning as the product of interpretation.In fact, the reception history in my argument functions analogously tothe way history threatens to undermine Uri’s myth in the novel. We are thusdrawn to look at a space between the critical text and the novel. To interrogatethat space, I would like to introduce here a third text and argue that Uri’scharacter, and particularly his death, comment upon the image of JosephTrumpeldor, one of the best-known Zionist figures, and upon the reception ofthe latter’s death. I juxtapose the two despite the fact that one is historical andthe other literary. 21Trumpeldor was born in 1880 in Russia. Though he opposed militarism, hemade no attempts to escape military service (as many Jews did) in order to provethat Jews were not cowards. He was drafted in 1902 and distinguished himself inthe Russo-Japanese War (1904–5) in which he also lost his left arm. Recoveringfrom his injury, he requested to be sent back to the front, and his request wasgranted. He was promoted to a non-commissioned rank, which was rare for Jewsin the Tsarist Army, and was cited for bravery. After the war he was promotedto a reservist Second Lieutenant and became one of the few Jews ever to beappointed to a commissioned rank in the Tsarist Army. He was a leading Zionistfigure both preceding and following World War I, a proponent of varioussocialist/communist plans to settle Palestine by Jews. When he arrived inPalestine for a second time in 1919, he was asked to inspect the Jewishsettlements in Upper Galilee, which were subjected to frequent attacks by theBedouins in the area. The precarious conditions that he found there persuadedhim to accept the command of the defence of three settlements: Metula, KefarGiladi and Tel Hai. On 1 March 1920, Trumpeldor was fatally wounded in TelHai during an armed conflict between the settlers and Arabs. As the Jewishsettlers were forced to evacuate the outpost, Turmpeldor’s last words reportedlywere ‘never mind, it is good to die for our land.’ 22Mourning Trumpeldor’s death, Berl Katzenelson, a prominent Zionist leaderof the time, wrote the following eulogy:May the People of Israel remember the pure souls of its faithful and brave sons anddaughters, people of work and peace, who followed the plough and risked their livesfor the glory and love of Israel. May the People of Israel remember and be blessed inits seed and mourn the splendour of youth and the preciousness of courage and theholiness of will and self-sacrifice that perished in the heavy campaign. Do not bepacified, do not be consoled, and do not let the mourning grow faint until Israel willhave returned to liberate its robbed land.Katzenelson uses here the yizkor, the traditional religious prayer over thedead, secularising and nationalising it. This yizkor became one of the cornerstonesof national consciousness and of the self-image of the Jewish public, and— 120 —www.taq.ir

etween myth and historywith minor changes it was accepted as the official Zionist eulogy for the Jewishvictims in the armed conflict in Palestine and later in the State of Israel (Segev1999: 107). Moreover, it sets, in fact, an interpretative model effective for whatit says as much as for what it does not say. Changing the traditional model,Katzenelson’s eulogy appropriates the acts and death of individuals for thecommunity via the establishment of a communal commemorative act. This isdone not only by identifying the dead with a community, but also by turningtheir death into a symbol of the communal ideology. The latter is marked here bysuch catchwords as ‘labour’, ‘plough’, ‘peace’, and ‘glory’ in a hegemonicdiscourse that equates the Zionist project with the agricultural settlement andcolonisation of the land – that is, Social-Zionist ideology. At the same time, thetransformation of the individual death into communal symbols leaves nothingpersonal in this eulogy: all individual attributes are turned into nouns thatfunction as generic adjectives (sons and daughters, people of work and peace),and even personal names are omitted. For my discussion, it is of particular interestthat the precise circumstances of death are erased here. What remain are thereality of death, on the one hand, and the memory of the community, on theother hand.Drawing together Trumpeldor, Uri and the critics, I would argue that criticsexamined He Walked in the Fields and its protagonist against Katzenelson’syizkor. Despite the ambiguities marring Uri’s death, its reception is surprisinglysimilar to the reception of Trumpeldor’s. Faced with the massive killing in theJewish-Arab conflict in Palestine, critics looked to the novel for a reaffirmationof the myth of the Zionist settlement of Palestine, as Trumpeldor represented.Those who approved of the novel read Shamir’s Uri as a literary realisation ofthe archetypal image of the eulogy’s Zionist settler: the man who was forcedfrom behind the plough to protect his land and home. Not the least among Uri’sarchetypal characteristics is his symbolising power, not unlike that of Trumpeldorand his comrades, of a hegemonic Zionist ideology.Following Yael Zerubavel’s discussion of the formation and function of themyth of Trumpeldor within Zionist culture, one can note structural similaritiesin constructing the myths around both Trumpeldor and Uri. First, in both cases,the characters’ personal sacrifice is seen as breaking away from traditionalJewish martyrdom, which is centred on Jewish passivity and victimisation.Second, in both cases, the individual death is elevated beyond its immediatehistorical (or textual) context into a symbolic text that serves as a paradigm forunderstanding other communal experiences. 23 Third, both cases present acertain ambiguity between the actual (or textual) death and the myths correspondingto it. As Yael Zerubavel notes, in the case of Tel-Hai, the actualwithdrawal from the outpost was erased from the ‘official’ story and transformedinto a myth of successful defence and a historical edict never to abandon a— 121 —www.taq.ir

shai ginsburgJewish settlement (Zerubavel 1995: 222). In both the cases of Trumpeldor andUri, the ambiguity in question is erased from the final account by extending theconclusion of the story and locating it in a different historical (or textual)context that diminishes the significance of the immediate failure. The death’scircumstances do not define the fallen as heroes. The fallen are heroes becausethey realise an ideal according to which the individual has to sacrifice everythingfor the nation; thus, they express the ultimate sacrifice of an ultimatecommitment to the national struggle. The fallen do not serve as ideals in theirown right; rather, they symbolise the heroic sacrifice. 24Two interpretative mechanisms in particular have enabled the above readingof Uri. First, the narrative is displaced from World War II to the Israeli War ofIndependence: while the novel takes place during World War II, it is commonlyread as if it takes place during the War of Independence. The two periods arefused together and the time separating them is erased. Thus, Yaakov Malkin,reviewing the book in May 1948, writes that ‘such is the quality of our life today;such is the book’ (1948a). Malkin sets Shamir’s novel within a historicalculturalcontinuity that erases the historical specificity of the novel. Second,Uri is identified with the dead of the War. This was helped by the fact thatMoshe Shamir dedicated the novel to his brother Elik who was killed during thefirst weeks of clashes between Palestinian Jews and Arabs. In 1951 Shamirpublished a biography of his brother, With His Own Hands. In it, Shamir idealiseshis brother and his generation in terms far less ambiguous than the ones he usesin his earlier novel. 25 From the moment of its publication, and despite thedifferences in genre, tone and complexity, Uri was often identified with Elik,and many critics read them as one and the same. For example, Gershon Shakedaffirms that ÆElik and […] Uri were made of the same substance’ (Shaked 1971:30). 26 In sum, the dramatic effect of the establishment of the State invited amythification of events in an attempt to produce an explanation and givemeaning to the moment. 27 In this case it means the collapse of history into asingular moment, the moment of death.While the reception and interpretation of He Walked in the Fields were nodoubt shaped and formed by these and similar cultural texts and forces, again itshould be noted that not all critics accepted such an apotheosis of Uri. For mostcritics of the time, the events of the Israeli War of Independence confirmed thatthe ‘new Hebrew man’ was not a myth but a reality. The main bone of contentionbetween those who commended and those who condemned the novel was,then, whether in Uri’s character one could equate the idealised image of theHebrew settler and the historical Hebrew youth. The above discussion dealsextensively with those critics who idealised Uri. The critics who questionedUri’s character pointed to his inability to reflect on the circumstances in whichhe finds himself, or, more seriously, to his defective character and egotistical— 122 —www.taq.ir

etween myth and historybehaviour, mainly as manifested in his relationship with Mika. In other words,Uri’s flaws as are expressed in his life taint, for these critics, the value of hisdeath. In short, Uri’s ‘life’ interrupts his idealisation in death.What is surprising, though, in the debate surrounding the novel is that themoment of Uri’s death remains obscure and most critics do not read it. 28 Indeed,in the critical discussion of the novel, Uri’s death is a moment of ‘un-reading’,rather than one of reading, a moment that critics consciously or unconsciouslycircumvent. By this I do not mean, of course, that critics neglect to note Uri’sdeath, but rather that they fail to examine its ‘logic’ and the precise circumstancesin which it occurs. 29 The singularity of the moment of Uri’s death lies,therefore, not only in the collapse of historical time and the fusion of myth andhistory, but also in the blindness of reading itself. The obscurity of this momentthickens in later critical discussions by another kind of un-reading: the erasureof the reception history of the novel. I am not suggesting here that critics areunaware of the diverging interpretations of the novel. Still, rather than inferringfrom the novel’s conflicting reviews that it presents a complex structure, mostcritics ignore the reception history of the novel, and this allows them to insiston the novel’s univocality. Even those critics who acknowledge the complexityof the novel’s reception history do not allow that complexity to inform theiroverall evaluation of the novel. 30 The obliteration of that history thus supportsthree complementary claims of these later critics: the first claim is that thenovel fails to interrogate the ideology of its characters and ultimately establishesthem as one-dimensional. The second is that the novel was uniformly receivedat the time of its publication, and the third – that that uniformity reproducesthe ideological simplification of the novel. What I am, in fact, arguing is that thereception of the novel presents a structure of obscurity that permeates its historyand that can ultimately be ‘traced back’ to Uri’s death in the novel. In otherwords, the obscurity of Uri’s death doubles and re-doubles itself in the reviewsand critical discussions of the novel and finally in the history of its reception.In this chapter, I tried to make transparent both Uri’s death and its placewithin the reviews of the novel and its reception history as a whole. What is themeaning of the visibility of that doubled moment in my own reading of thenovel? My point of departure in approaching the novel assumes the myth of Uri,both as a protagonist of the novel and as a cultural symbol. Introducing ‘history’into my reading serves, then, to undermine three myths: of Uri’s death, of thenovel’s reception, and of meaning. 31 I have already discussed the first two, and Iturn now to the third. I have suggested above that literary interpretation tendsto locate the meaning it produces within the text it reads. 32 In that, it effects amythification of meaning. Yet, if meaning is produced through and in history,locating it within the literary text erases the historicity that marks the productionof meaning; that is, it collapses the representations of divergent historical— 123 —www.taq.ir

shai ginsburgmoments of interpretation into one non-dialectical moment. Both meaning andthe history of meaning are thus condensed into a point of singularity, outside oftime and history.My own interpretation of Uri oscillates between moments of mythicalreassurance and historical doubt. For me, this movement suggests that readingthe reception history of the novel may be utilised to contravene the tendency totransfigure both the novel and its protagonist into a transcendental realm. Byerasing the tension constitutive of historical representations, such a transfigurationallows for the equation of Uri’s and the new Hebrew man. Indeed, Uri’sdeath and its interpretations are revealed as complex only when seen as aninteraction between a series of representations and erasures: in the case of thischapter, as the interaction of my own interpretation with others’; the interactionof the representation of the reception histories of the novel and the mythof Trumpeldor, and so on. In short, the singularity or non-singularity of Uri’sdeath is an effect of a play of mirrors and distortions. In the end, it seems that itis the position of myself as reader within this play of mirrors that determineswhat I see, what I determine as (provisional) ‘Truth’, and what remains obscure,waiting for yet another reader. 33notes1. I am grateful to the participants of Literature and Nationalism in the Middle Eastand North Africa conference for their comments on the first version of this paper. Iam especially thankful to Ayelet Ben-Yishai and Nirmala Singh whose commentson the paper have proven to be invaluable.2. See, for instance, Jauss 1986; Gadamer 1993.3. See, for instance, Said 1979; Jameson 1981; Greenblatt 1988, 1991; Bhabha 1994;Anderson 1991.4. While the first edition was ready for printing during the last months of 1947, theactual publication of the novel was delayed for several months. I am dealing with thisissue in detail below. In the following I am quoting from the first edition. A secondedition with a few changes was published in 1955 (Shamir 1966) and later criticscommonly refer to this edition. These changes, however, do not affect my argumenthere.5. The data is cited in Shaked 1993: 393.6. This is the Hebrew-Israeli name for the armed conflict between Palestinian Jews, onthe one hand, and Palestinian Arabs and the Arab countries, on the other hand,which lasted from November 1947 until July 1949. In this paper I focus exclusivelyon the Jewish-Israeli perspective of literature and history. Hence, I adopt theterminology current in the Zionist-Israeli discussion of the period.7. Zionist discourses often described the modern Zionist project as re-establishingJewish independence, following the independent Jewish entities of antiquity.8. For the sake of clarity, I give account here only of the main plot-line of the novel.9. Here and in the following, all translations from the Hebrew are mine.— 124 —www.taq.ir

etween myth and history10. Both Oz Almog’s and Emmanuel Sivan’s books examine this nexus in detail.11. For the cult of the dead soldier and its relation to the construction of modernnationalism, see Mosse’s Fallen Soldiers (1990).12. Mikhal Arbel argues that at the core of the world of the kibbutz lies the ethos ofcreatio ex nihilo, of a refusal passively to accept the given. While she maintains thatUri understands that in order to authentically return to the kibbutz he has notmerely to return, but also to repeat the act of heroic creation, I argue that this is notUri’s major concern (Arbel 1999).13. I am here indebted to Dan Miron’s work on Shamir’s novels, which underscores thepreoccupation with questions of history and historical forces. At the same time,Miron underscores what he identifies as Shamir’s anti-historicist attitude, especiallyas manifested in Shamir’s later work (Miron 1975: 466), while I argue that this is butone aspect of the structure of the novel.14. See, for instance, Lea Goldberg (1948); David KnaÆani (1955: 145); Yaæakov Malkin(1948a, 1948b); Shalom Kraemer (1959); David Merani (1948); H. M. Rottblatt(1951); Zila Rubin (1948); A. B. Yafe (1950); Yisrael Zemora (1948); and MosheZilbertal (1948).15. It should be noted here that I do not argue that one could politically map the criticswho reviewed He Walked in the Fields according to party lines. There are a fewimportant exceptions that would undermine any such attempt.16. For the Marxist component in the ideology of Ha-Shomer Ha-Tsa’ir, see, forinstance, Yaari 1972: 21–6, 31–43, 223–5.17. See Shamir (1999: 148–9); Mohar (1973); Halperin (2000). The publication of thenovel was allowed, in fact, only after a play based on the novel was staged.Significantly enough in the play, Shamir modified the end and Uri actually falls inbattle (Shamir 1989). The play gained enormous success, was produced abroad, andfinally filmed in 1967. Two points should be noted here. First, that the play is hardlyever mentioned in the critical discussion of Shamir’s work. Second, to the extentthat it is mentioned, no one, to the best of my knowledge, discusses the discrepanciesbetween the novel and the play (see, for instance, Gat 1966; Shoham 1974).From the journals and newspapers of the time, it is difficult to gauge not onlywhether the audience was aware of such discrepancies but also how the reception ofthe play affected the reception of the novel and vice versa. A full discussion of theplay in relation to the novel is, however, beyond the scope of this paper.18. For similar reading of Shamir’s novel, see, for instance, Yehuda Burla (1954);Avaraham KnaÆani (1950); Avraham Shea’anan (1948); Shelomo Zemach (1952;1956: 254–5); and Shlomo Zui (1948).19. Nurit Gertz (1978) and Gershon Shaked (1971, 1993) are the most noticeableamong these critics, but see also Reuven Kritz (1978); Reuven and Ori Kritz (1997);Zevi Luz (1970) and Eliezer Schweid (1957). Hillel Weis is unique among thesecritics in paying attention to the paradoxical structure of Shamir’s earlier works.However, as do the critics mentioned above, he ends his essay by reaffirming theimage of Shamir’s protagonists as the people’s agents during the political conflict(1983: 75). Only recently have critics begun to pay attention to the ideologicalambiguity at the foundation of the novel. See, for instance, Mikhal Arbel (1999);Michael Gluzman (2002).— 125 —www.taq.ir

shai ginsburg20. See, for instance, the use of the novel in Oz Almog’s historical/sociological portraitof the Sabra (1997: 24); in YaÆakov Shabtai’s attempt to trace the literary roots of hisnovel Past Continuous (1983); and in Emmanuel Sivan’s historical research into themyth surrounding the 1948 dead (1991: 56).21. The following biographical notes are based on Shulamith Laskov’s biography ofTrumpeldor (1995).22. The word artsenu in Trumpeldor’s maxim could be translated as land, soil, country,territory, and so on. The precise circumstances leading to his death remain unclear.As Tom Segev remarks, one of the earliest (Jewish) reports of the incident talks of‘mutual misunderstanding’ (Segev 1999: 106). Similarly, Trumpeldor’s last wordsremain a matter of debate. The physician who treated the dying Trumpeldor quotedhim as saying, ‘Never mind, it is worthwhile to die for the Land of Israel.’ It wasfinally Y. H. Brenner, a leading Hebrew writer of the time, who in his eulogy ofTrumpeldor gave the words the form in which they were popularised (Laskov 1995:237–8; Segev 1999: 107). For the way the myth of Trumpeldor played was used inthe construction of a Jewish national consciousness in Palestine, see Zerubavel 1995.23. See Zerubavel’s corresponding discussion (1995: 9–10, 16–21, 43–7).24. See in this context Maoz Azaryahu’s discussion of the cult of the fallen soldier inIsraeli civil religion, and in particular, his discussion of the mythification of the deadsoldier (1995: 10, 123–4).25. For such readings of Shamir’s With His Own Hands, see, for instance, Gurfein(1952); Kraemer (1957); and Tuchner (1952).26. See also Miron (1975: 439–71) and Almog (1997: 24).27. See, for instance, Maoz Azaryahu (1995: 3, 117).28. Among the critics I read here there are only three exceptions. Shlomo Zui andDavid Aran, reviewing the novel in 1948 and 1952 respectively, criticise the novelfor its failure to give expression to the Hebrew youth’s more ideal characteristics.Gershon Shaked in his second treatment of the novel also notes the ambiguities andoverdetermination of Uri’s death, but in his conclusion still constructs Uri as theHeroic character (Shaked 1993: 248–9, 266–8). Shaked’s reading here deviatessignificantly from the terms in which he reads the novel the first time as a simpleidealisation of the 1948 generation (Shaked 1971: 27–46).29. Interestingly enough, even those critics who explicitly question the necessity ofUri’s death, who confusedly look for its roots and justification, still avoid examiningits different contexts within the novel and ultimately accept it as unambiguous. See,for instance, Schweid (1957: 26); Shlomo Zui (1948).30. See, for instance, Dan Miron (1975: 439–71); Gershon Shaked (1993: 235–52).31. By the myth of the novel’s reception I mean the impression of a uniform reading ofthe novel by earlier critics.32. Even those critics that underscore meaning as the production of the reader or thecommunity of readers, such as Wolfgang Iser and Stanley Fish, end up by locatingthe meaning they offer for the literary texts they read within the literary text itself.See, for instance, Iser (1974); Fish (1980).33. My objection, then, to the attempt to read the novel allegorically is that, once more,such a reading establishes a realm of uninterrupted meaning. I could think of twodistinct allegorical readings in the context of this novel: first, as it was done— 126 —www.taq.ir

etween myth and historytraditionally, by equating Uri and the self-sacrifice of the Hebrew youth during thewar; second, as symbolising the failure of the pre-war native generation to establishindependence and a call to integrate the survivors of the Jewish Holocaust into theJewish community in Palestine to guarantee its regeneration. Both allegories,however, erase, in fact, the tension between the different temporal grids in favour ofone ‘transcendental’ meaning.— 127 —www.taq.ir

17Writing the Nation: The Emergence of Egyptin the Modern Arabic NovelJeff ShalanIn his classic study on the rise of Arab nationalism, George Antonius writes:‘Without school or book, the making of a nation is in modern times inconceivable’(1946: 40). Of course, modern nations are not built in schools and booksalone; but one need not discount nationalism’s socioeconomic determinants,nor its historical specificity, to accept the premise of Antonius’s argument: thatis, the effect of culture and cultural institutions on the political formation of thenation-state. Though the nature of that effect is itself overdetermined, itslocation can in part be inferred from what Antonius then goes on to writeconcerning certain educational reforms initiated in Syria in 1834: ‘[They] pavedthe way, by laying the foundations of a new cultural system, for the rehabilitationof the Arabic language as a vehicle of thought’ (ibid). In other words, onemight say, a modern nation is inconceivable apart from a language in which itcan be conceived and communicated as such. By articulating this linguistic linkbetween nation and thought, Antonius thus points to the site of culture, or acultural system, as the specifically ideological field in which nationalism is sownand from which national identities are reaped.I draw attention here, through the above metaphor, to the organic character ofthis relationship between culture and nationalism not because, as Ernest Gellnerargues, there is anything natural about it, but because it is almost invariably fromthe field of culture that proponents of nationalism first posit an idea of the nationas an organic entity, one which pre-exists its geopolitical formation. 1 Whether itbe language, territory, race, religion, ethnicity, the presumed historical continuityof a people, or any combination thereof, which serves as the organic and unifyingprinciple of the nation, the idea itself typically takes shape in and is transmittedby way of a cultural system. In this sense, then, the ‘vehicle’ of a rehabilitatedlanguage becomes as important as the thought it carries. 2 If a standardisedArabic were eventually to come to serve as one of the pillars of modern Arabnationalism, around which a people could be gathered, and through which theycould communicate and come to identify with one another as members of anation, then it would have to be made accessible to more than a select fewschooled in its classical idiom. And together with the rise of an indigenous printmedia, schools and books became the primary means towards this end.— 128 —www.taq.ir

writing the nationI do not mean to imply in this way an inversion of the historical chronologyof events. Clearly, as Antonius argues, it is only after the nineteenth-centurynahda, or Arab cultural renaissance, is well underway that the first glimmers ofwhat could be called a national consciousness become visible. And it is onlyafter that point that the link between nation and language could then beconsciously forged as one of the central tenets of Arab nationalist thought.What Antonius thereby makes apparent in his analysis is that a nation does notspring forth of its own in the minds of a people, full-grown from the earth, likeAthena from the head of Zeus. Rather, in both Western and non-Westernnationalism, it has typically first taken shape in the heads of a cultural elite, as atentative and ill-defined response to the crises and disruptions in social relationsand modes of production resulting from modernisation and often, as concernsthe non-West, the encroachment of Western imperialism. In the case of Arabnationalism, it was the nineteenth-century nahda, itself already set in motion bysuch changes, that provided fertile ground for the burgeoning national consciousnessof that cultural elite.But generalising references to a cultural system cannot alone explain themanner in which an emergent ideology, whose formation can to some extent belocated among a cultural elite, achieved the hegemony that allowed for itstransformation into various political movements and parties with substantialpopular support. The institutions of a rejuvenated cultural system, such asschools and the press, can account for the method of transmission, but not forthe equally important modes of internalisation whereby a nationalist ideologytakes root in the lives of individuals to become an essential part of their worldview.And the importance of this process of internalisation cannot be underestimatedinsofar as nationalism’s success as an ideology is predicated on thecollective appeal it makes to an inclusive group of individuals, many of whommay in fact have no knowledge of and little or nothing in common with oneanother. 3 It is for this reason that I have chosen to focus here on a relativelyneglected but arguably significant offshoot of the relationship between thenahda and the rise of Arab nationalism: the emergence of the modern Arabicnovel. Even as Antonius himself made a courageous if perhaps misplacedattempt to locate the beginnings of Arab nationalism in a poem inscribed onthe famous placards of his narrative, studies on the nahda in its relationship toArab nationalism, such as Albert Hourani’s seminal work, typically touch uponthe novel, and literature in general, in only the most cursory way. 4 Likewise,studies devoted to the rise of the modern Arabic novel, where they even broachthe issue of nationalism, do so, at best, in schematic or incidental fashion. 5Without inflating its importance in this context, it nonetheless seems apparentthat the modern Arabic novel developed in conjunction with a specificallynationalist mode of thought, and that it was instrumental not only in the— 129 —www.taq.ir

jeff shalandissemination of that thought, but in its very formation as well.In the case of Egypt, for instance, where many leading writers and intellectualsof the 1910s and 1920s believed cultural independence would provide thenecessary insurance for political and economic independence, narrative prosewas singled out as the artistic genre best suited to express the essence of theemergent nation and the character and aspirations of its people. 6 Thus ensued aquite conscious and concerted effort to create a new national literature as thebasis of a broader cultural movement to ‘transform the value system and thecollective mentality of the Egyptian people’ (Gershoni and Jankowski 1986:87). 7 As Muhammad Husayn Haykal, one of the leading figures of this movementwrote: ‘[L]iterature and its course constitute the most authentic hallmarkof a nation’s civilization. Literature is the force which nothing else can vanquishor overcome as easily as an armed force can suppress political revolution’ (ibid.:88). While Haykal’s exaggerated claim overstates the case, his words nonethelessattest to the ideological significance granted to literature in the context ofnationalist thought.Such significance notwithstanding, the lack of critical attention devoted tothe subject is understandable in light of the problems it poses for analysis, mostespecially the problematic relationship between, on the one hand, ideas andcultural productions and, on the other, material conditions and social change.To quote Beth Baron in a related context, establishing such connectionsfrequently entails a ‘leap of faith’, insofar as what that ‘leap’ broaches is thespecific ideological space of peoples’ lived experience. 8 And yet this is preciselythe point, I think, at which the relationship between the modern novel andArab nationalism becomes significant and warrants closer study, since thediscourse of nationalism is an ideological formation whose success depends onits internalisation at the level of the individual, and it is at that same level thatthe novel, more so than other traditional cultural forms, operates on the reader. 9To what extent literature can be credited with such transformative power,however, remains a question. At the very least, then, a thorough considerationof the relationship between the modern Arabic novel and the rise and developmentof Arab nationalism would necessitate not only a theory of ideology toaccount for the complexities of the relationship between cultural productionsand social movements, as well as substantial empirical data on the circulation ofliterary texts and the constitution of reading publics, but also a method forlocating the specificity of literature’s place and effect within the context of abroader cultural system. 10Envisioned as such, the full scope of that study extends beyond my presentmeans; and for the purposes of this chapter I will therefore aim only to establishthe importance of a more extensive study of the subject, informed by the generalbelief that a critical reading of the applicable literature would provide a useful— 130 —www.taq.ir

writing the nationand, indeed, necessary supplement to any study concerned with the largerquestion of Arab nationalism. Such a study might help one to better locatenationalism’s persuasive appeal for the individuals who comprise its intendedaudience, as well as its contradictions, elisions and limits as a guiding agent ofsocio-political change. With this aim in mind, I will limit my approach to whatmight well serve as that larger study’s logical point of departure: an analysis ofthe ways in which specific literary texts ‘announce’ their own modernness byencoding in their narratives an emergent nationalist discourse or, in otherwords, how such texts, in effect, write the nation. My analysis will centre on twoworks in particular, whose seminal influence in the rise of modern Arabicliterature, together with their subject matter and widespread popularity, wouldnecessarily grant them an essential place in such a study: Muhammad HusaynHaykal’s Zainab and Tawq al-Hakim’s ÆAwdat al-ruh (Return of the Spirit). 11 Butbefore I turn to the first of these, my choice bears one further comment.It is no coincidence, with respect to the subject of this chapter, that I havechosen the works of two Egyptian writers as the focus of my study. For whetherthe nahda can be traced to a specific group of nineteenth-century LebaneseChristians, as Antonius claims, or whether, as A. L. Tibawi (with whom I agree)contends, it was a far more diffuse phenomenon with multiple and overlappingpoints of departure, 12 a self-consciously modern and distinctly nationalist literatureemerged first in Egypt in the 1920s (Gershoni and Jankowski 1986: 95).That its emergence, as mentioned, coincided with the rise of a specificallyEgyptian brand of cultural and political nationalism should not, however, leadto the conclusion that literary developments in Egypt at this time were withoutinfluence elsewhere in the region. The Iraqi writer Jamil SaÆid makes thatplainly apparent when he writes: ‘Iraqi writers did not produce much fictionbecause their colleagues in Egypt and Syria were ahead of them. Iraqi readerspreferred to read books on whatever subject written by Egyptians rather thanIraqis; they even preferred books printed in Egypt rather than in Iraq’ (quoted inAllen 1982: 26). Thus, while not discounting the specificity of this moment inEgypt’s literary and national history, neither is it my intention to cast Egypt inan entirely isolated light. Rather, I have chosen to focus on the literature of thisperiod precisely because the specificity of this period in Egyptian history is whatallows the question of nationalism’s ideological content to be raised for the firsttime in the Arab world. 13 And insofar as narrative prose was identified as aprivileged means of response to that question, my analysis of the manner inwhich two representative literary texts help to articulate that content isintended to encourage further consideration of the ways in which developmentsin Egypt may or may not have prefigured related developments elsewhere in theArab world.Originally published anonymously in 1913 under the pseudonym of Misri— 131 —www.taq.ir

jeff shalanFallah (an ‘Egyptian peasant’), though written a couple of years earlier whileHaykal was studying in France, Zainab is considered by many critics to be thefirst modern Egyptian novel and one of the first modern novels in Arabic. Andsince Hamilton Gibb initially dubbed it as such, Zainab has been the subject ofconsiderable discussion, centred largely on the question of whether its artisticvalue merits this distinguished epithet. 14 What is seldom mentioned, though, isthe significance of the subsequent and gradual revelation of this Misri Fallah’sreal identity. Although those associated with al-Jarida, the newspaper in whichZainab was first published in serialised form, knew from the start that Haykalwas the author, it was not until 1922 that his name first appeared on somecopies of the text, and only in 1929 did he finally republish it under his ownname (Sakkut 1971: 12). But Zainab’s popularity, which led to a film version in1930, is perhaps less the cause than the result of this gradual identification ofthe author with the text, the explanation for which must instead be sought ingeneric developments themselves (Gibb 1962: 294).Without a clear antecedent in the traditional forms of Arabic prose narrative(maqama, hadith, sira, qissa, khurafa, ustura) it was for the most part a group ofSyrian Christians who first introduced the novel to the Arab world throughnineteenth-century translations of European works, often adapted to therhymed prose form of the maqama (Allen 1982: 17). But as consequence of theSyrian migration that followed the Lebanese massacre of 1860, and the strictcode of censorship imposed by the Ottoman administration in Syria, the centreof literary activity had shifted by the latter part of the nineteenth century toCairo where the climate was more conducive to literary freedom, especially after1882, when the British protected it by law (Allen 1982: 21, 24; Moosa 1983:172). With a still small but growing readership, the popularity and thus demandfor these translations and adaptations increased, and this in turn gave somewriters the incentive to begin writing ‘novels’ of their own (Badawi 1985: 130–1). But by and large, these early experiments in the genre were unable to breakfree from the formal and thematic constraints of the traditional prose forms(Allen 1982: 29–31). And in spite of the popularity of such works, genericdevelopments on the whole were further restricted by the stigma attached tonarrative fiction in general. As with the development of the novel in Europe,such work had long been held in contempt by the educated classes, who viewedit as not only inferior to the tradition of classical Arabic poetry but morallysuspect as well (Connelly 1986: 12; Brugmar 1984: 205). And in the eyes of aconservative Islamic elite who felt increasingly threatened by the encroachmentof Western values, the belief that fiction was a corrupting force could notbut be confirmed once it began to take shape in the specifically Western form ofthe novel (Badawi 1985: 130).In this context it is understandable, as Haykal later claimed, that as a young— 132 —www.taq.ir

writing the nationadvocate from a wealthy landowning family he would not want to jeopardise hisown social standing and professional rank by claiming authorship of Zainab,especially because one of the novel’s two central characters, Hamid, is clearly anautobiographical portrait of a young and sentimental Haykal (Badawi 1993:105). By 1929 Haykal, having long since abandoned a career in law, hadbecome one of Egypt’s pre-eminent intellectual and political figures and wouldthus have had even greater reason to dissociate himself from Zainab had thenovel as a genre not since acquired a certain degree of legitimacy among theeducated classes. But as a study of the history of the European novel suggests,such legitimacy is never conferred in response to aesthetic developmentsalone. 15 Indeed, as Haykal’s own words, which I quoted above, make perfectlyclear, the perceptible change in the novel’s status around this time, from populargenre to the beginnings of a canonical art form, was politically motivated aswell. In this respect, Haykal’s authoritative signature on the 1929 edition ofZainab can itself be seen as part of a process of legitimation, and one which infact continued up until quite recently (Moosa 1983: 24). How the modernnovel and a nationalist ideology emerge together in Zainab might best besuggested, then, by returning to the question of Zainab’s place in modern Arabicliterature and why it is considered to be among the first real novels as such.There are essentially four interrelated features which, taken together,distinguish Zainab from virtually all its predecessors and help to establish thetext as the prototype for a national literature: plot, characterisation, setting andsocial commentary. Briefly, the novel centres around the figures of Zainab, abeautiful peasant girl who works in Sayyid Mahmoud’s cotton fields, and thelandowner’s son, Hamid, a student in Cairo who returns home for vacations –primarily, it seems, for amorous pursuits. Hamid’s affections are torn betweenZainab, who initially responds to his flirtatious advances, and his cousin Aziza,with whom he eventually carries on a sort of love affair through letters becauseshe has since reached the age of veiling and seclusion. Zainab, for her part, fallsin love with Ibrahim, the foreman of the fields, but her parents have arrangedfor her to marry Hassan, the son of a neighbouring landowner who has fallen onhard times. When Aziza’s parents also arrange a marriage for her, a dejectedHamid returns to Zainab in the futile hope of consolation. But she has sincespurned him out of love for Ibrahim, and so Hamid departs and finallydisappears from the story, leaving his parents only a letter in his wake and noindication of his whereabouts. When Ibrahim is then conscripted into theBritish colonial army and sent to the Sudan, a now hopeless and unhappilymarried Zainab sinks into despair. She soon contracts tuberculosis and dies inthe end with Ibrahim’s name on her lips.Although at times digressive, the plot is clearly delineated, and its sustaineddevelopment allows Haykal to weave together the stories of Zainab and Hamid— 133 —www.taq.ir

jeff shalanwith careful attention to detail and a good deal of narrative poise. The structuralcoherence of the plot itself represents a marked advance in the development ofthe Arabic novel, breaking as it does with the predominantly episodic style thatits predecessors had inherited from the traditional forms of Arabic prose. Thisbreak, in turn, is in no small part enabled by the characters themselves. Haykalleaves behind the familiar stock types associated with the maqama, folktales andlegends, and, at least in the figures of Zainab and Hamid, offers two individualswhose characters are drawn with unprecedented depth and complexity. Theirnearly flesh and blood existence owes something in its turn to the environmentin which they find themselves. Parting with a narrative tradition that wascentred on a distant and highly imaginative past, Zainab is set in the moderndayEgyptian countryside. By choosing this site as the setting for his novel,Haykal thus presents not only one of the very first fictionalised accounts ofcontemporary rural life, but in so doing allows his characters to experience andembody the conflicts that emerge as modernity begins to encroach upon thevalues, practices and customs of traditional village life. 16 And even if Zainab’sromantic yearnings and independence of thought seem at times unrealistic for agirl in her position, the novel itself offers a realistic portrait of the conditions ofthe peasantry around the turn of the century.Taken together, the particularities of plot, characterisation and setting allowthe narrator of Zainab to engage in a good deal of social commentary on theproblems of contemporary Egyptian society. Prose fiction as a vehicle for socialcritique is not itself a necessarily new development here, nor is the didactic toneof an often intrusive narrative voice. But the two primary subjects of Zainab’scritique – the hardships and injustice of peasant life and the social conventionsof sexual relations as they pertain to issues of love, marriage and the status ofwomen – enhance the modern orientation of the novel and help to situate itfirmly within an emerging trend of liberal nationalist thought embodied by theUmma Party and two of its leading figures, Ahmad Lutfi al-Sayyid and QasimAmin (Smith 1979: 250–1). Lutfi, in particular, had a tremendous influence onHaykal’s own intellectual development, and the former’s secularist notion of aterritorial nationalism rooted in the peasantry finds perhaps its first literaryexpression in Zainab. 17 It is not surprising, then, that Zainab first appeared on thepages of the same journal that Lutfi founded and that, as the leading theorist ofthe Umma Party, he used to promulgate his party’s reformist programme. Andin this context, Haykal’s choice of a pen name seems quite appropriate as well.It is nonetheless important to note that Zainab was published at a time when al-Jarida expressed what was still a minority viewpoint, one that would only attainwidespread popular support in the decade following the 1919 revolution againstthe British occupation, and only after the collapse of the Ottoman empire hadrendered obsolete the more popular pro-Ottoman appeal of Mustafa Kamil’s— 134 —www.taq.ir

writing the nationWatani Party (Baron 1991: 274–5). The subsequent hegemony that the territorialnationalists established through the liberal reformist agenda of the new WafdParty was predicated on precisely this turn of events, as they cleared the groundfor a specifically Egyptian brand of nationalism, and one which could thenconfidently invoke Egypt’s long-standing agrarian past, as Zainab does, to legitimatethe claim to a national entity and identity distinct from Islam and fromthe Arab lands and peoples to the East.Qasim Amin’s influence on Haykal is no less apparent in the pages of Zainab.As the author of two controversial works on the emancipation of women inEgyptian society, Tahrir al-mar’a (The Liberation of Women [1899]) and Al-Mar’aal-jadida (The New Woman [1900]), Amin inaugurated with the turn of thecentury a widespread debate on the subject. But even in his own time, Amin’sposition was not an especially innovative one. As Leila Ahmed notes, Muslimintellectuals like Rif’at Rafi’ al-Tahtawi and Muhammad ÆAbduh had argued forwomen’s primary education and advocated similar reforms in the divorce andpolygamy laws a generation earlier (Ahmed 1992: 144). And given theemergence of a women’s press in the 1890s, Amin can hardly be credited withgiving rise to what was in fact an already burgeoning feminist movement. 18 Thesignificance of his argument lay rather in the link it forged between the status ofwomen and the state of the nation, whereby the progress of the former becamea necessary barometer for the moral and material advancement of the latter. 19Through the figures of Zainab and Aziza, Haykal, in turn, gives Amin’sargument and how it comes to bear on questions of love, marriage and conventionalsexual relationships central thematic importance in his novel. What Iwould thus like to examine in more detail now is the novel’s treatment of theseissues of class and gender, and the ways in which the narrator’s and Hamid’spositions with respect to them cast a distinct light on a certain emergent strainof nationalist thought.Despite its appropriateness, Haykal’s choice of Misri Fallah as his pen namefor the original text evinces from the start an ambivalent relationship betweenauthor and subject. For, as we know, Haykal was not a peasant and neither, forthat matter, is the narrator of his story, judging by his employment of literaryArabic as the dominant medium of expression, a literary Arabic that wouldhave been inaccessible to a largely illiterate peasantry. Thus, as Pierre Cachianotes, a more accurate rendering of Misri Fallah needs to take account of theusage of the period in which it ‘conveyed the sense of “an Egyptian of nativestock,” and has nationalist connotations, for it stands in contradistinction to“an Ottoman subject residing in Egypt” who, if of Turkish extraction, woulduntil then have claimed some social superiority’ (Cachia 1990: 113). Consequently,if an identification is to be forged between the author and his subjectmatter, it is not via the peasantry, who with the exception of Zainab serve— 135 —www.taq.ir

jeff shalanlargely as a backdrop for the story, but via Hamid who wanders through thatbackdrop from the privileged perspective of the landowner’s educated son. It isfrom a similar perspective that both narrator and author approach their subject,and in the same way that the mobility of Hamid’s class position distances himfrom the peasantry, the narrator’s use of literary Arabic distances him from thepeasants who employ colloquial in the dialogue which itself was a nonethelessinnovative advance at the time (Brugman 1984: 240). Thus, Haykal’s pen namemight be seen as the first instance of a semantic transference that works tobridge, if not efface, this distance by shifting the focus from class difference to acommon national identity.A similar transference is enacted in the narrator’s imaginative openingaddress to the reader:If fortune favoured, you might step into a moonless night … Soon you would findyourself following a path without knowing why, attracted by a force which you couldnot resist, your feet following your impulse … Moving on in pursuit of your heart’sdesire, you would reach a spot where your feet refuse to take you further … you wouldbe overwhelmed by the beauty of the world … Continuing on your journey … youwould see the young girls and boys … In their right hands they hold their sickles –those semicircles of iron which have been in use from the time of the Pharaohs up tothe present day. (Haykal 1989: 6–7) 20As the reader is drawn into the story, he is implicitly reminded of the fact thathe is an outsider to this world and that he finds himself on its unfamiliar terrainonly at the behest of the narrator, who thereby positions himself here as themediating agent between the reader’s world and the world of the story. One canthus assume through this rhetorical invitation that the intended reader isneither a peasant nor one familiar with the ways of rural life. But the reader’sfigurative placement within the actual scene of the story here works, in turn, tocounter the distancing effect of his status as an outsider to the action of thestory. By placing the reader within the scene, and indeed suggesting its irresistibleattraction, the narrator in a sense encourages him to step beyond his role asobserver and to in some way partake in this world. For if he, too, is one ofEgyptian stock, then this world is also his world, as the historical continuity ofthe concluding phrase suggests, the sense of which is then underscored a fewpages further on: ‘Their steadfastness, with its roots in history passed on fromgeneration to generation from the time of the Pharaohs through the rule ofIsmael to the present day’ (Haykal 1989: 15).It is thus possible to see in the narrative strategy of this passage the beginningsof Haykal’s attempt to construct for his reader a community centred onthe land and the agrarian life of the peasantry. But the reader’s momentaryidentification with the romantic depiction of this seemingly timeless life is quicklydisrupted by the contrasting image that immediately follows it:— 136 —www.taq.ir

writing the nationHowever much they suffered they had become accustomed, like their fathers beforethem, to this environment and heritage which was their lot. They were used to thatstate of eternal bondage in which they lived their lives and submitted to it withoutcomplaint or misgiving. Toiling endlessly, they would regard the results of their workwith shining eyes while the proprietor alone gathered the fruits of their labour. Hisonly concern was to sell the cotton at the highest price and rent out his land for thebest return while at the same time exploiting the farm workers in accordance withtheir lowly status. The thought never occurred to him to raise them from themiserable conditions in which they lived as though he did not realize that his workersmight be more efficient if their standard of living was improved or if they had anincentive to work in order to live at a more humane level … He was also accustomedto accepting things as they were and never considered for a moment to exchange thecustoms of his forefathers. (Haykal 1989: 8–9)The peasantry is still cast in a timeless light here, but the romantic veneerhas suddenly been stripped away and in its place we find a more realistic portraitof endless toil and exploitation. As such, the reader is discouraged fromidentifying too closely with this life and is instead encouraged to adopt thenarrator’s critical point of view, which distinguishes him from both peasant andlandowner in their uncritical acceptance of custom.Haykal’s ambivalent treatment of the peasantry, as evident in these openingpassages, is one that pervades the novel. A persistent desire to romanticisepeasant culture is repeatedly short-circuited by a lucid critique levied againstthe totality of the social order from corrupt landowners and greedy moneylendersto an inept government that further alienates the peasants throughexcessive taxation and forced military conscription, and from the arbitrarinessof British rule to a hypocritical practice of Islam that can thus no longer serve asthe moral centre of society. 21 In this sense the social critique marks the limits ofthe desire for a national community constructed around the image of thepeasant and the land. The realization of that desire, Haykal seems to suggest, iscontingent on wide-scale social change and, most especially, an improvementin the living conditions of the peasantry.But the persistence of the romantic desire can be seen, in turn, to mark thelimits of the social critique and the bourgeois nature of Haykal’s essentiallyreformist argument. For despite what appears at times as a quite trenchantcritique, Haykal is by no means advocating a fundamental change in therelationship between the peasant and landowning classes, but only a morehumane maintenance of it through higher wages and better working conditions.Indeed, a more radical argument for change, such as substantial land reform,peasant collectives or a redistribution of income, could represent a potentiallyserious disruption of that relationship and thus strike at the very core of theterritorialist’s image of the Egyptian nation as embodied in the eternally unchangingways of the peasant. And even in the rare instance where the possibility of a— 137 —www.taq.ir

jeff shalanmore radical alternative is in fact broached, the narrator ultimately resorts tothe common refrain of fatalism:There was nothing that Ibrahim could do to prevent the rich and powerful tyrantsdisposing of his life until sufficient cooperation existed among his fellow workers forthem to defend themselves and rise up against the unjust oppressors. Then theywould be forced to listen to what he had to say … But Ibrahim was poor, destined tobe sent away … Yet if he had possessed but twenty pounds he could have savedhimself from this. What injustice could be greater, or rather what hostility couldequal it? There is no escaping fate. (Haykal 1989: 155–6)Is the great injustice here that Ibrahim is conscripted against his will toparticipate in the military campaign in the Sudan, or is it that he simply lacksthe money to buy his way out? Either way, the corruption that promotes thisinjustice is consigned to fate. From a certain perspective, the rhetorical appealto fate has its point, since the Hamids who see in this campaign the chance forfuture national glory are certainly not the ones who will fight and die in it. Butif that appeal does not quite exonerate the social causes of corruption here, itcertainly enervates the critique. And more importantly, perhaps, it compromisesthe agency of the very peasants whose interests the text purports to represent.And this, in fact, seems to be the real injustice of the manner in which thenarrative repeatedly renders the peasants and workers impotent through itscontinuous evocation of fate. In contrast to later works like Abdel Rahman al-Sharqawi’s Al-Ard (The Earth [1954]), where the peasants actively combatcorrupt officials at both the local and national level, or Yusuf Idris’s Al-Haram(The Taboo [1959]), which offers a more nuanced and individualised portrait ofthe peasantry internally differentiated between those who own or rent land andthose who subsist as migrant labourers, Haykal’s peasants are deprived of anypolitical agency in the process of modernisation and social change. The result isthat, as a class, the peasantry is effectively neutralised through its objectificationas symbol.From a literary perspective, it might be tempting to explain this depiction ofthe peasantry in terms of the novelty of Zainab’s form and subject matter. For asReinhard Schulze notes, it was only around the turn of the century that the‘literary world began to discover and study the Egyptian peasant’ (Schulze 1991:182). But the utter absence in the text of any allusion to the incipient workers’movements or to the peasant protests and uprisings which dotted the nineteenthcenturylandscape, culminating but not concluding in the 1882 ÆUrabi revolt,suggests the inadequacy of this explanation. 22 Haykal’s particular representationof the peasantry seems rooted, rather, in his own class position and anintellectual elitism inherited from Lutfi al-Sayyid in which a sincere desire forsocial reform was mitigated by a distinct fear of mass movements (Smith 1979:250). In a fatalistic portrait that preserves the romantic image as it argues for— 138 —www.taq.ir

writing the nationchange, we can read both an expression of that fear and one which seeks thereader’s allegiance against such movements, the implication being that if thepeasants are powerless to change their lives, then change must be initiated andorchestrated from elsewhere.One might recall here, by way of comparison, an oft-quoted line from Marx’sThe Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte (1898): ‘They cannot represent themselves;they must be represented’ (1984: 124). In Marx’s analysis of the 1848French revolution, the small peasant proprietors could not represent their ownpolitical interests because they were not conscious of themselves as a class andthus aligned themselves, against their own best interests, with Bonaparte’sreactionary agenda. But as Gayatri Spivak points out in her insightful discussionof this passage, representation carries a strong double sense in Marx’s text,meaning both ‘proxy’ and ‘portrait’ (Spivak 1988: 276). And following thedistinction Spivak draws, what we can then see in Zainab is an instance of therhetorical power that derives from the collation of the two meanings: theliterary representation, or portrait, of the peasantry standing in as the politicalrepresentative, or proxy, of their class interests by constructing those veryinterests through a portrait that leaves the peasantry bereft of all agency. Assuch, the novel can offer the reader an image of a community centred on theimage of the peasant without having to worry about the ways in which theactions and demands of the peasantry might in fact challenge that image of thecommunity. 23 For as an objectified symbol of the nation, the peasantry will onlyparticipate in its construction to the extent that they are constructed to fit theneeds of a community whose agency and power will evidently reside elsewhere.To arrive at such a conclusion may seem extreme in light of Zainab’s relentlesscritique of tradition and the way it contributes to and helps to maintain themiserable social conditions of the peasantry. But what I am suggesting here isthat this critique is, in a sense, contaminated by its very object in such a way asto defer to a now more distant future its argument for fundamental socialchange. In other words, by rhetorically excluding the peasantry from taking anactive role in the process of social transformation, the text implicitly advocatesthe continuation of a traditional class structure. What first appears in Zainab asthe inclusive appeal that nationalism makes on behalf of the majority mightthus be better seen as the articulation of an exclusionary pact between narratorand reader. That pact does not foreclose the possibility of change so much as itdefines the terms of change by projecting a vision of the nation under thetutelage of an intellectual elite whose power is predicated on maintaining itsprivileged distinction from the masses.This vision becomes, in turn, even more pronounced through the figure ofHamid as the ‘fallah-intellectual’ who embodies what Charles Smith sees as thenovel’s central conflict: love and the impossibility of its fulfilment in Egypt— 139 —www.taq.ir

jeff shalanunder present conditions (Smith 1979: 251). 42 In his discussion of Zainab, Smithsees love itself as a metaphor of Haykal’s own desire for ‘personal happiness anda position of intellectual and political leadership’ (Smith 1979: 250). FollowingSmith’s point here, it is thus possible to see how Haykal invests his vision of thenation in Hamid’s search for love, a search which leads from city to country andback again, and which thus allows Haykal to link the distinct classes andcultures of these two worlds through a common indictment of that which foilsthe quest and thus necessitates reform – the traditional constraints placed uponwomen:[Aziza’s] education ended when she started to wear the veil and this also preventedher from further meetings with many of her acquaintances … Zainab would raise herhead to the sky as if to lament the injustice of life or to seek refuge in God from heroppressive family who expected her to agree [to a marriage] for which she had nodesire. (Haykal 1989: 13, 36)It is Aziza’s veiling and seclusion, in fact, that first leads Hamid to Zainab insearch of his ‘object of desire’. As a peasant girl, Zainab is necessarily lessrestricted in her movements than her urban, upper-class counterpart Aziza, andshe thus represents for Hamid a seemingly more realistic opportunity to satisfyhis desires: ‘However much the peasant mind may tremble at the mention of theword honour, the natural instinct of the human heart to love is a compulsionmuch stronger than social convention, as long as the deed remains out of sight,safe from the judgement of men’ (Haykal 1989: 17). But Zainab is not just anordinary peasant girl, for it is this distinctly romantic sentiment, coupled withher extraordinary beauty, that distinguishes her from the backdrop of hercompanions. And while Hamid is drawn to her above all by her beauty, it is theromantic depiction of her character underscored by repeated references to the‘unveiled moon’, suggesting a symbolic link with Isis, the Egyptian goddess offertility, that allows the presumably middle-class reader to entertain what wouldotherwise appear as a scandalous affair. Here again, then, is another instance ofwhat I have referred to as that semantic transference which momentarily bridgesclass differences by shifting the reader’s attention to a point of common identification,in this case a romantic image of and desire for love as the unifying forceof the nation.But even before Hamid’s and Zainab’s brief affair comes to a close, thenarrator alludes to the essential problem in such a relationship: ‘[M]an can onlyattain what his social position allows him to. Thus to a greater or lesser extent,he lives in a permanent state of conflict according to the amount of freedom hissituation grants him in the way of achieving his aims and desires’ (Haykal 1989:17). Although the narrator does not present it explicitly at this point, theproblem here is precisely one of Hamid’s and Zainab’s respective social positions.While the amount of freedom accorded to each does indeed allow them to carry— 140 —www.taq.ir

writing the nationon an affair ‘safe from the judgement of men’, the curious way in which they actout those positions in their relationship permits Hamid to reaffirm his own classdistinction from Zainab through his exploitation of her beauty. Hamid himselfseems half-conscious of the fact when he attempts to justify his desire forZainab: ‘As a result he found that he could kiss her from time to time withoutbeing shaken by shame, saying to himself: “Isn’t it natural for a boy to kiss a girlwhose beauty pleases him?”’ (Haykal: 1989 17). Natural perhaps but, for Haykal,undesirable in this case because the relationship is not one of love but passion.At this point Hamid is seemingly too consumed by his passion to recognise thedifference, and it is Zainab, rather, who almost instinctively senses the problem:‘Zainab enjoyed listening to Hamid and conversing with him but she neededsomeone to whom she could give herself. Her aimless love needed somewhere torest, in the heart of another to whom she could devote her life’ (Haykal 1989:29). The narrator then quickly intervenes to define, in no uncertain terms, thenature of this longing:As though the human heart, in its search for love, strives to find a partner of equalstatus so that the compatibility between the two may assist their chances of happiness… A relationship exists between us and them which we do not experience withpeople from a different class … So it was from among the workers that Zainab wouldfind the companion she wanted. Indeed, she had been feeling for some time that shehad already discovered her partner in Ibrahim. (Haykal 1989: 29–30)Thus, Hamid’s predicament becomes apparent as well: while passion mayindeed be natural among individuals of different classes, love is only naturalamong members of the same class.To a great extent Zainab is the story of Hamid’s struggle to understand andcome to terms with the narrator’s argument here. 24 If Hamid is to find love,according to this argument, his natural choice should therefore be his cousinAziza, to whom he does indeed return at this point. But his desire for Aziza isnow further complicated by the effect of those very conventions that led him toseek out Zainab in the first place. For as the narrator informs us at the start,Hamid is a romantic dreamer:In this Egyptian environment and with an upbringing such as Hamid’s, it is notuncommon for young men to grow up with a false view of life. They often live in aland of fancy, creating their own happiness and suffering while painting the presentand future with their own desires. Relying on such imaginings to get them throughtheir work, many boys colour the outside world in a contradictory manner. Althoughtheir senses may belie their imaginings, the power of their fantasies is strong enoughto overcome them, making them disbelieve what they see or distorting theirjudgement and estimation of what stands before them. (Haykal 1989: 13)And with Aziza now standing before him, we learn that Hamid has alreadyconstructed a false image of her: ‘Stirred by his dreams, Hamid imagined Aziza— 141 —www.taq.ir

jeff shalanto be everything he wanted’ (Haykal 1989: 14). But what is crucial to theirrelationship is the manner in which Aziza’s seclusion is itself implicated in theconstruction and maintenance of the image Hamid nurtures: ‘[U]pon becomingsecluded at home something awakened in the soul of one of her relatives[Hamid], who had always been kind to her as a child’ (Haykal 1989: 14).Hamid’s romantic image of Aziza is allowed to flourish precisely because thesocial conventions of veiling and seclusion preclude the kind of intimatecontact that might otherwise dispel such an image. And like Zainab before her,it is Aziza herself who, in a series of letters, must now awaken Hamid to thereality of her own condition:Brother Hamid, do you believe that girls like me are happy in this outmoded prison ofours? You might think we are content but God alone knows the vexation of our bitterexistence which we are forced to put up with and become accustomed to as a patientgets used to her illness or sick bed … Don’t remind me of the veil for the verymention of it ruins me. I cannot even think about it without suffering intolerableanguish so I have grown accustomed to ignoring my situation, accepting my fate as itis … However much our hearts are kindled by the fire in our breast we are forced toconceal and repress it until finally it dies, having eaten away the dearest and mostbeloved part of our lives. (Haykal 1989: 134–6)This confession comes as a revelation to Hamid who, like ‘everybody else’,had ‘believed that veiled women were quite content to stay at home’ (Haykal1989: 135). But the subversive potential that thus opens for Aziza in thisclandestine correspondence is undercut by the resignation of her words, whichecho, in no uncertain terms, the fatalistic outlook of the peasantry. And after asingle brief encounter where the fantasy of love that each has construed in theabsence of the other clashes with the awkward reality of their sudden intimacyAziza resigns herself to fate: ‘Forget me Hamid … leave me in my cell. I amcontent with my life or at least I am forced to be … I am not cut out for love norhas love anything to do with me’ (Haykal 1989: 140). Then, as if to underscorethe helplessness of her situation, a final letter arrives a few weeks later in whichshe announces that a marriage has been arranged for her.With Aziza condemned to the fate of social convention, Hamid’s desire mustremain unfulfilled, and Haykal’s vision for the nation remains but a vision:marriage based on a love naturalised in terms of class is unattainable in thissocial climate, no more possible for Hamid and Aziza than for Zainab andIbrahim. With Zainab’s arranged marriage to Hassan, she too has since fallenvictim to the same tradition. And so, like Ibrahim, both women are consignedto a customary fate and rendered powerless to oppose it. Only Hamid is free todepart and continue his search elsewhere; and after a vain attempt to return toZainab, he quite literally vanishes from the sterile terrain of the novel’s purview.But in the letters to his parents that follow his departure, Hamid establishes— 142 —www.taq.ir

writing the nationhimself as a staunch critic of the conventions that have foiled his search thus farand as the novel’s central voice of reform:Turning my back on the establishment, I rejected the values which those who adhereto our traditions are so proud of, and the whole concept of marriage in my eyesbecame a subject of bitter criticism. (To this day I consider the institution of marriagedefective, on account of the conditions that are attached to it. Indeed I believe amarriage which is not based on love and does not progress with love to becontemptible). (Haykal 1989: 174)Thus, it seems, Hamid has learned the narrator’s lesson. And as the fallahintellectual,his refusal to settle for marriage under present conditions suggeststhe significance of his departure from the scene of the story: marriage based onlove will become possible only if the nation follows his lead and breaks withthose destructive effects of tradition that culminate in the symbolic portent ofZainab’s death: ‘Tomorrow or the day after I shall die and I warn you mother,when the time comes for my sisters to marry, don’t force them against their willfor as you can see, it is a mortal mistake’ (Haykal 1989: 211).Although Haykal’s treatment of the status of women and relations betweenthe sexes is more complex and compelling than his treatment of the peasantry,Zainab’s dying warning, like Aziza’s confession, seems ultimately ineffectual.The women who bear the primary burden of tradition can voice their sufferingsand misgivings in private, but only the male intellectual is at liberty to departfrom the conditions of tradition, and thus only he is in position to initiatereforms in the socio-sexual order. Without question, Egyptian men of a certainclass were indeed at much greater liberty to do so. But in adhering to Amin’sargument, Haykal overlooks the contributions Egyptian women of the time madein putting the question of their own status on the agenda of social reform. 25 As aresult, like the peasantry, the women in the novel are deprived of the chance toplay an active role in the course of social change, and the question of their ownstatus is consequently made subservient to Haykal’s vision of the nation and hisprivileged place within it as represented through Hamid’s search for love.One is left to conclude that without the leadership of a male intellectualelite, women are doomed to tradition. And it is then only by adhering to aspecifically male vision of the nation, based on a modern bourgeois conjunctionof love and marriage, that women can hope for their own liberation. That aburgeoning women’s movement did in fact employ the rhetoric of that nationalistagenda in order to legitimate its own emergence into the traditionallymale-gendered public space of Egyptian society should not, however, lead to theconclusion, as Haykal would have it, that women were entirely in accord withthe terms of that agenda. 26 Rather, as I have tried to suggest here, a criticalreading of Zainab might encourage one to look instead at the ways in which acertain vision of the nation centred around the needs and desires of the male— 143 —www.taq.ir

jeff shalanintellectual can work to silence the expression of other, perhaps conflicting,needs and desires – especially those of women and the peasantry, who togetherare assigned, or consigned to, a central symbolic role in that vision.If Zainab marks the literary inauguration of Egypt’s first phase of culturalnationalism, Tawq al-Hakim’s ÆAwdat al-ruh represents its culminating artisticachievement. Written in 1927, ÆAwdat al-ruh met with immediate popularacclaim when it was finally published six years later; and, according to severalcritics, it was the first Arabic novel to warrant comparison with the best of theEuropean tradition (Brugman 1984: 281; Moosa 1983: 179; Sakkut 1971: 89).Although al-Hakim is better known as a prolific playwright, and perhaps themost renowned dramatist in modern Arabic literature, 27 ÆAwdat al-ruh remainshis most influential work. Gamal ÆAbd al-Nasser himself read it as a boy, andwas said to have been not only moved but purportedly influenced by its populistdepiction of the 1919 revolution. 28 And al-Risala, the leading magazine of theday, even proclaimed it to be the first genuine Egyptian novel (Brugman 1984:281). Given the appearance of Zainab twenty years earlier, however, and severalother novels in between, such a claim cannot be substantiated. But ÆAwdat alruhand its author do bear other striking parallels with their respective forebearshere.Like Haykal before him, al-Hakim was the son of a wealthy landowningfamily who passed his early years in the rural environs of the peasantry. Al-Hakim also studied law in Cairo and later in Paris, which is where both writerswrote their respective works. And from what can be inferred concerningHaykal’s decision to republish Zainab, al-Hakim’s decision to publish ÆAwdat alruhwas motivated by similar considerations. In his own words, ‘the countryneeded the novel form to give shape to new subjects which were necessary inthis important phase of our development’ (quoted in Brugman 1984: 281).ÆAwdat al-ruh is, likewise, an autobiographical text that recounts the author’scoming of age, in this case during the year or two leading up to the events of1919. And though al-Hakim never championed a particular political party orbecame actively involved in politics himself, ÆAwdat al-ruh bears the imprint ofHaykal’s own profound influence on al-Hakim’s intellectual development andhis nationalist orientation. Indeed, ÆAwdat al-ruh picks up on and developsmany of the same thematic concerns that we find in Zainab – relationshipsbetween the classes and sexes in a modern setting, the concomitant need forsocial reform, and, most importantly, the role of the peasantry and women inthe construction of a national community.But the two novels also differ from one another in notable ways. In its highlyrealistic and comically endearing treatment of character, if not necessarily inthe symbolic content of its subject matter, ÆAwdat al-ruh departs from its romanticpredecessor. And al-Hakim’s rich and witty use of dialogue, evidence of his— 144 —www.taq.ir

writing the nationobvious dramatic skill, allows him to avoid what Haykal resorts to, perhaps forwant of that same skill: an excessively descriptive style which tends to marZainab’s overall effect. Consequently, the intrusive voice of Haykal’s narrator isvirtually absent from al-Hakim’s text. In place of that controlling voice, and thevision it articulates, largely through Hamid as the figure of the buddingintellectual, al-Hakim offers us a self-portrait of the aspiring artist in search ofhis voice and the voice of the nation. And if the text itself represents thefulfilment of al-Hakim’s own quest for mature artistic expression, it is no doubta consequence of his acute attention and commitment to the formal matter ofcomposition which is usually not a priority for a didactic writer like Haykal, andwhich makes ÆAwdat al-ruh, as a result, a far more convincing and finelywrought portrait of various aspects of Egyptian life.Perhaps the most significant difference between the two novels, however,lies in the advantage of hindsight afforded to al-Hakim. Writing in 1910–11,Haykal could not possibly have foreseen the events of 1919 and what wouldfollow. Al-Hakim, on the other hand, was writing at the height of the culturalnationalist movement, after Egypt had secured at least its nominal independenceand at a time when the ideological content and direction of the newnation-state had thus become a paramount concern for artists, intellectuals andpoliticians. And in the Pharaonicist spirit that swept through Egypt upon the1922 discovery of Tutankhamen’s tomb, al-Hakim found the motif which wouldrespond to that ideological concern as it addressed the significance of the 1919revolution. 29 What Haykal could thus only allude to through a romantic imageof the peasantry, al-Hakim was, in turn, able to weave through his text as theunifying symbolic thread for its otherwise prosaic subject matter; and in sodoing, he created the first masterpiece of modern Arab literature: an allegory ofthe 1919 revolution as the rebirth of the eternal spirit of the Egyptian nation.But it would be misleading the reader to suggest that ÆAwdat al-ruh is thestory of the 1919 revolution. In fact, the mass uprisings which broke out inresponse to the British banishment of the Egyptian statesman SaÆd Zaghlul arerecounted only briefly in the final pages of the novel. Furthermore, at the literallevel, the text provides the reader with no preparation for this narrativemoment, remaining entirely mute on both the great historical events thatprecede it – World War I and the subsequent collapse of the Ottoman empire –and the obvious signs of social unrest in Egypt in the years leading up to 1919(Beinin 1981: 19; Beinin and Lockman 1988: 84–5). The narrative effect,consequently, is one of a spontaneous, almost unconscious, awakening of nationalistfervour that seems to erupt exclusively in response to Zaghlul’s forcedexile. 30 But far from a mere appendage to the main story, the depiction of thisevent marks, both aesthetically and ideologically, the climactic moment of thenovel. And while its particular representation here might in part be accounted— 145 —www.taq.ir

jeff shalanfor in terms of the narrative perspective of the youthful protagonist, who maywell have experienced it in this spontaneous light, its textual significance –analogous to the text itself as the culminating achievement of this first phase ofcultural nationalism – can better be explained by first attending to the storyitself. For it is there that al-Hakim lays the figurative groundwork for, and fromwhich he forges, this renewed image of the Egyptian nation and its eternal spiritmiraculously reborn in the collective expression of a single moment.ÆAwdat al-ruh is set in a middle-class neighbourhood in Cairo where Muhsin,the 15-year-old protagonist, has come to study. Having left his parents’ estate inthe country, he now lives in a small apartment with his uncles Abduh, anengineering student, and Hanafi, an arithmetic teacher and the absent-mindedhead of the household; Zanuba, his illiterate aunt who was sent along to lookafter his uncles; their cousin Salim, a policeman temporarily relieved of duty forsome mysterious escapade with a Syrian woman; and Mabruk, a childhoodfriend and the servant of the household. In the house next door lives Dr Hilmi,a retired government employee, with his wife and their beautiful 17-year-olddaughter Saniya, who becomes the novel’s erotic centre of attention – drawingthe affections first of Muhsin, then Abduh and Salim, and finally Mustafa Bey,a neighbour of Turkish descent who has inherited a firm from his father but whospends most of his time at the local coffeehouse observing the others and beingobserved, in turn, by Zanuba. But like Haykal’s Zainab, Saniya is more than amere object of male desire. She is both a catalyst for the novel’s humorousportrayal of the male characters and, more importantly, the one who generatesthe narrative’s construction of, or movement towards, a national community, aswell as Muhsin’s aspiration to be its voice. And given the novel’s Pharaonicunderpinnings, Saniya’s character, much more so than her romantic counterpart,evokes a comparison with the mythical Isis, charged with the task ofresurrecting her dead and dismembered brother-husband, Osiris or, in this case,the Egyptian nation itself. But whether Saniya’s character can, in fact, supportthe symbolic weight of her role becomes, in turn, a crucial question for a novelwhose powerful rhetorical appeal for national unity derives from an allegoricalmeaning deftly woven into the fabric of the story. And, as I will go on to argue,by problematising the seamless appearance of this weave, Saniya’s figure raisesfundamental concerns about the nature of that appeal.The leitmotif of unity is announced at the start, as the ‘Prologue’ presents anisolated image of a national community writ in miniature. The five male membersof the household have taken ill, and when the doctor enters their home, hefinds them jammed together in a single bedroom. Why, he wonders aloud,did they put up with this crowding when there was room elsewhere in the apartment– the sitting room at least? … A voice which rose from the depths of a bed replied,‘We’re happy like this!’— 146 —www.taq.ir

writing the nation… A person scrutinizing [the reply] would sense an inner joy at this communalstyle of life. It might even have been possible to read on their pale faces the glow of asecret happiness at being sick together. They were submitting to one regime, takingthe same medicine and eating the same food. They suffered the same fortune anddestiny… He turned to the invalids stretched out there and said, ‘You must be from thecountry.’… His imagination had sketched a picture of subsistence farmers … He startedsaying to himself, ‘Only a dirt farmer could live like this, no one else. No matter howspacious his house, he will sleep with his wife, children, calf, and donkey colt in asingle room.’ 31These invalids are indeed from the country but, with the exception ofMabruk, they no longer hail from the class of subsistence farmers. In fact, asrecent arrivals to Cairo, they are largely representative of a new urban middleclass; and, taken together, they embody an even wider cross-section of a changingEgyptian society and signify several aspects of the emergent nation-stateapparatus. Hanafi offers a comic revision of the traditional patriarch as petitbourgeoisschoolteacher; Abduh, the engineering student, is representative of anew technocratic class; Salim, the policeman, stands in as the figure of statelaw; and Mabruk’s character suggests the uprooted peasantry’s transition into anurban working class. And while Muhsin foregoes the luxuries of family wealth,inherited by a mother of Turkish descent, to live here with the others, hisliterary studies mark him off as a future member of the intellectual elite. Zanuba,as the displaced peasant woman, is noticeably absent from this communal scene,figuratively if not literally. It is thus difficult to overlook the symbolism of thisrepresentative group introduced as a family of invalids – the nation, evidently, isin need of a cure. And though the household quickly recovers, each of itsmembers, with the possible exception of Muhsin, is plagued by a general level ofincompetence that reinforces this opening impression. In this light, the doctor’sinability to comprehend his patients’ curious behaviour as anything but theproduct of peasant life suggests, paradoxically, that the nation’s ills are rooted inan otherwise non-existent sense of solidarity. And it furthermore foreshadowswhat Muhsin will derive from his later encounter with and musings about thepeasantry: a traditional image of unity as the basis for a new national community.But it is Saniya who first emerges as Muhsin’s muse; and as her effect on himreveals, without that clearly defined basis, the unity that now exists among themembers of the household is necessarily a frail one.The ‘folks’, as the male members of the house affectionately refer to themselves,are all infatuated with Saniya, but Muhsin is the first to meet her. Oneday while in the company of his Aunt Zanuba, who is on friendly terms withSaniya, Muhsin is introduced to her as a singer; and because Saniya plays thepiano, she immediately invites him in. Although the propriety of this invitation— 147 —www.taq.ir

jeff shalanis questioned, the educated and cultured Saniya is an emblem of the newEgyptian woman; and since Muhsin is in the company of his aunt, the invitationis deemed acceptable. Saniya’s effect on Muhsin is quickly apparent. In schoolthe next day, he first explains to his friends, against their objections, why he haschosen the arts over the sciences:I don’t care about money and wealth … Tomorrow we’re going to be the eloquenttongue of the nation … Our occupation tomorrow will be to give expression to whatis in the heart of the entire people … If you knew the value of the ability to expresswhat is in the soul … to express what is in the hearts … Think of the maxim in ourbook of memory pieces: ‘A man is known by two of his smallest parts: his heart andhis tongue’ … The nation too has a heart to guide and a tongue to direct the materialforces within it … Wealth by itself is nothing. (79)Then, later in class, when the teacher asks Muhsin to speak extemporaneouslyon a topic of his choice, he can think of only one: love. His choicecreates a minor scandal in the classroom, but after much insistence from hispeers, the teacher allows him to proceed:The class fixed their eyes on Muhsin … It seemed they were hearing something theyhad all sensed for a long time but had not dared express, or realized they felt … beingignorant of the existence of beauty in the world. They were ignorant of the heart’srole in their lives … They did not know the sublime meaning of life. Muhsin felt thatabout them. He also felt that the secret of their amazing attentiveness and overwhelmingpleasure with him and what he was saying to them clearly visible in theireyes was based on a single thing: he was expressing what was in their hearts. (81–2)Obviously, Muhsin is also expressing the feeling that has suddenly claimedhis own heart in the presence of Saniya’s beauty. And when he visits her againlater the same day, the mythic import of her inspirational beauty is madeexplicit: ‘A picture came to Muhsin’s mind. It was one he looked at frequentlyin the year’s text for ancient Egyptian history and one he loved a great deal …That picture was of a woman. Her hair was cut short too and was a gleamingblack as well … and rounded like an ebony moon: Isis!’ (86). The aspiring artistthus seems to have found in his love for Saniya the mythical key to the nation’sheart and the fulfilment of his own desire to be its voice.But Saniya’s role here as the generative matrix of the solidarity that Muhsinestablishes among his peers is called into question through his private responseto this sudden presence of love in his life. Returning home after their initialmeeting, Muhsin went straight to bed, seeking the solitude and independencewhich only a person with a private room can feel.For the first time Muhsin resented that style of living: five individuals in a singleroom. For the first time he felt exasperated by that communal living which hadalways been a source of happiness, contentment, and joy for everyone; … Muhsin hidhis head under the covers. He attempted to block out the cold, merciless sound of his— 148 —www.taq.ir

writing the nationcomrades till he would hear nothing but the beautiful, enchanting, musical voice ofSaniya. (69–70)Muhsin’s desire to be left alone now produces an immediate rift in thehousehold, compounded, in turn, by Abduh and Salim’s competitive jealousywhich surfaces in response. And when Abduh and then Salim succeed ingetting themselves invited into their neighbour’s house, the one to repair anelectrical problem, the other to tune the piano, each returns with the samefeeling of resentment towards the other ‘folks’ and their communal livingarrangement and feels the same subsequent need for privacy and solitude.Saniya’s generative power of unity doubles as a disruptive force, alienating themembers of the household from one another. And so whereas Isis resurrectedher brother-husband by piecing together his mutilated body, Saniya’s presencethreatens to tear the familial community apart. In her self-contradictorycapacity, Saniya thus becomes the novel’s primary site of conflict, and not onlyfor the contesting desires of Muhsin, Abduh, Salim, and later Mustafa. At amore general level, Saniya functions as a vehicle for the development of thenovel’s central thematic conflict: the tension that exists between the needs ofthe individual and the needs of the community. 32 In her symbolic role as aninspirational idol, she represents the needs of the community and the power ofmyth, channelled through art, to call that community into being. But in herliteral role as a desirable young woman, she represents the needs of individuals(albeit, in this case, male individuals), which are often at odds with one anotherand thereby pose a potential threat to the community. To a great extent, then,the resolution of the thematic conflict hinges on the reconciliation of Saniya’scontradictory position in the narrative. Without that reconciliation, the novel’sargument for unity remains necessarily weak, as must the allegory on which it isbased. But the dilemma posed by Saniya’s character is placed in dramaticabeyance at this point, as Muhsin receives a letter from his parents requestingthat he pay them a visit. With the subsequent shift in setting from Cairo to thecountryside, some critics see an abrupt diversion from the main storyline. 33 Theepigraph that introduces this section of the novel suggests otherwise, however:‘Arise Arise, Osiris. I am your son Horus./I have come to restore life to you./Youno longer have your true heart, your past heart’ (153). In keeping with thePharaonic motif, the meaning of these lines, taken from the sacred Egyptiantext, Book of the Dead, is transparent enough: they foreshadow the cominginsurrection/resurrection and the casting of Zaghlul in the leading role as thesymbolic son of modern Egypt. But placed as it is here, this reference to Horus,and not Isis, as the restorative agent also signals the dominant narrative strategythat al-Hakim will go on to employ in response to the conflict discussed above:a strategy of displacement. In this respect, the shift in scenes is something otherthan a convenient diversion that allows al-Hakim to develop the allegorical— 149 —www.taq.ir

jeff shalanmeaning of the plot. Rather, just as Isis is displaced by Horus, who usurped her(re)generative power in myth, so too is Saniya’s disruptive power displaced bythe change in setting and by what Muhsin will discover upon his return to thecountry: the real heart of Egypt in the solidarity of peasant life. 34Al-Hakim’s fluid orchestration of the symbolic (from Isis to Horus), thematic(from Saniya to the peasantry), and literal (from city to country) shifts in focusat this point is further evidence not of an abrupt diversion, but of an essentialturning point in the narrative and another instance of his artistic brilliance.The literal means of transition, for instance the train that carries Muhsin home,provide the transitional site for the thematic turn, as Muhsin listens to theconversation of the passengers who share his compartment:… the emotion of mercy, a goodness of hearts, a union of hearts. These wereemotions to be found in Egypt and not in Europe.… The people of Egypt are a deeply rooted nation. Why, we’ve been in the NileValley for seven thousand years. We knew how to plant and cultivate, had villages,farms and farmers at a time Europe had not even achieved barbarism.… Yes, Sir … we are without doubt a social people by instinct, for we have been anagricultural people since ancient times. Back then other peoples lived by hunting ina barbarous and solitary fashion with each tribe or family in a different place. We,however, from prehistory on, have had villages of a civilized type and have dwelt inthe Nile Valley. Social organization was in our blood. Social life is a characteristicthat has developed among us through many generations. (156–7)Upon Muhsin’s arrival, however, the general mood of solidarity establishedin transit and around the subject of the ancient unity of the Egyptian people isquickly shattered by the appearance of his aristocratic mother whose Westernisedlifestyle has claimed his father’s devotion as well. Muhsin had always beenembarrassed by the wealth that marked him off from his peers, but his parents’arrogance towards the peasants who work their land now awakens somethingelse within him:He detected a rebellious spirit he had not been conscious of before … Secretly herebelled against his father … Wasn’t he a peasant too, first and foremost … a man ofthe earth? … How had he changed? Did his clothes, his expensive walking stick, hisshoes and socks, and his diamond ring alter him?… Wasn’t it his mother of Turkish heritage who had influenced his father in thename of civilization? … Yes, what right did he have now to look down on thepeasant? Because the peasant farmer was poor? … Was poverty a fault? (161–2)Although Muhsin’s rebellion is directed against his father, it is clear that hismother embodies all that the nation must now oppose – the remnants ofOttomanism, the encroachment of European values, and the deleterious effectsof wealth on the community. His father, by contrast, has simply gone astray. Byarming his father’s originary identity as a peasant, the rebellious Muhsin thus— 150 —www.taq.ir

writing the nationsets himself up as another symbolic son whose task it is to restore the ‘true heart,[the] past heart’ of the father of the epigraph. And the near demonisation of hismother, which effectively excludes her from any place in a new nationalcommunity, reflects, in turn, the narrative shift away from woman as the symbolicsource of national renewal. 35Muhsin’s rebellion leads him, naturally enough at this point, to seekcommunion with the peasantry – a movement that, at the individual level, nowdovetails with the narrative turn away from woman as the thematic centre. Forwhen an expected letter from Saniya does not arrive, Muhsin responds to hisown uncertainty about her feelings for him by rushing out into the fields withthe intention of ‘inhaling love from this pure, clean air and seeing it in all thepure, innocent creatures surrounding him’ (168). And when Muhsin thenwanders into a barn where he finds a cow nursing not only her calf, but a smallchild who has crawled up to her udder, the symbolic centre shifts as well:The calf and the child both seemed to be her children. What a beautiful picture!What a striking concept! … Muhsin was delighted by this scene. It meant somethingto him at a deep, mysterious level … If one attempts to translate Muhsin’s feelingsinto the language of logic and intellect, one can say he responded in his soul to thatunion between the two different creatures, joined together by purity and Innocence.But sadly, tomorrow that child will grow up and as he does his human nature willincrease while his angelic qualities diminish. His feeling of union between himselfand the rest of creation will be replaced by desires and wishes that make him scorneverything differing from him. They will blind him to all their resemblances. For thatreason the angelic light which manifests itself as purity, innocence, and a feeling ofunity and of the spirit of the group, leaves him. Its place is taken by man’s blindnessmanifest in desires and passions and selfish, egotistical feelings … But there was onething Muhsin was able to grasp with his intellect and that was thanks to his study ofthe history of ancient Egypt. This scene reminded him suddenly, without there beingany particularly strong link, that the ancient Egyptians worshipped animals or at leastportrayed the one god with images of different animals … [D]id not the ancientEgyptians know that unity of existence and that overall union between the differentgroups of creatures? If their symbol for god was half man and half animal, was it not asign of their perception that existence is nothing but a unity? They did not scornanimals any more than this child would scorn the calf … The feeling of being mergedwith existence, that is, of being merged in God, that was the feeling of that child andcalf suckling together. It was the feeling of that ancient, deeply rooted Egyptianpeople. Even now, the farmers of Egypt had a heartfelt respect for animals. They didnot disdain to live with them in the same house or to sleep together in a single room.Was it not an angelic Egypt with a pure heart which survived in Egypt? She hadinherited, over the passing generations, a feeling of union, even without knowing it.(169–70)In its richly allusive texture this passage stands as the novel’s pivotal moment.First, it recalls the opening scene as it reverses its effect. What the urban doctor— 151 —www.taq.ir

jeff shalanhad looked upon with disdain there is revealed here as, in fact, the ‘pure heart’of the nation, suggesting the thought which then comes immediately toMuhsin’s mind: ‘Possibly life in the town and in the capital had corrupted hisheart’ (171), corrupted no doubt by those ‘desires and passions and selfish,egotistical feelings’ which breed division. If the towns and cities of Egypt are tounite in the name of a single nation, then, they must seek to reclaim that ‘pureheart’, the ancient Egyptian spirit of solidarity that resides here with thepeasantry. Furthermore, as the site of Muhsin’s epiphany, this scene providesthe young artist with the new inspirational source for a voice that longs to speakon behalf of the national source whose mythical and historical dimensions giveit the power to overcome as it displaces his previous source of inspiration, whosedisruptive effects are manifest in those same desires and passions. And, finally,by revealing its ‘mysterious’ meaning to Muhsin alone, a meaning not entirelyaccessible through the ‘language of logic and intellect’, this scene legitimates hisown claim (as well as al-Hakim’s, and that of a national culture in general) tospeak for the ‘heart’ of the nation. For if even the peasants themselves lack theself-conscious awareness of their own privileged position as the living locus ofthis mystical knowledge, then who but the artist can reawaken that still purebut slumbering heart?Informed now by the revelation of this scene, Muhsin proceeds to find, in thescenes that follow it, the confirmation of his vision and the essence of nationalunity. He first encounters a group of peasants mourning the death of a waterbuffalo; and apparently unaware of the animal’s importance to the peasanteconomy, he cannot understand the tremendous outpouring of grief. But whenthe carcass is skinned and butchered, and each mourner steps forth to buy apiece of the meat, the event acquires a new-found significance for Muhsin:Everyone came forward to buy without any haggling or hesitation. They seemed tothink they had a duty to provide more than spoken consolation. They had to lightenthe burden on its owner by getting its price together and giving that to him incompensation for its loss. One of the farm workers told Muhsin that this was thenormal practice, the custom followed whenever one of them suffered a loss from hislivestock. They were not, like the people of the district capital, a people who stoppedat talk. They shared the grief in a way that was more than phrases to be repeated. Itwas an actual sharing to lessen the burden. Each of them sacrificed part of his wealthfor the sake of the other. Muhsin was silent in astonishment. That luminoushappiness, the essence of which was beyond his ken, returned to him. It came back tohim this time from sorrow, like life coming from death. What an amazing nation theywere … these Egyptian farmers … Was there still left in this world solidarity asbeautiful as this and a feeling of unity like this? (171)When he then wanders into a neighbouring field where other peasants areharvesting the crop, he is struck by this same sense of communal sacrifice:— 152 —www.taq.ir

writing the nationWere they chanting a hymn for the morning, to celebrate the birth of the sun theway their ancestors did in the temples? Or, were they chanting in delight at theharvest. It was what they worshipped nowadays. They had sacrificed for it: with work,toil, hunger, and cold all year long. Yes, they had given all they had for the sake ofthis deity … He began to look at them and at their faces in wonder. Their featuresand expressions all conveyed the same sense. Despite their differences they seemed asingle person with regard to this sense of work and hope … They were looking at thecollected harvest with loving interest, as though they were saying, ‘Toil and sufferingare of no concern so long as they are for you whom we worship.’ (172)In each instance, one sees how Muhsin’s previous revelation leads him toread these events in a particular light, and thereby ascribe to them a significanceof near mythic proportion. And it is only the assurance he derives from hisconclusions here that then allows him to raise the telltale question: ‘Would he,too, be able to sacrifice for the sake of Saniya … to plunge himself in pain andsuffering because of her? Or was he not of the same blood as these Egyptianfarmers?’ (172). For Muhsin, herein lies the secret of solidarity and renewal. Therealisation of his desire to speak the pure and eternal heart of the nation, andthereby awaken it in others, hinges on precisely his ability to make this sacrifice,without which he can only remain among the dead and corrupted souls of thecity. Thus emboldened by his discovery of Egypt’s embalmed source preserved inthe body of the peasantry, Muhsin returns to Cairo in the spirit of sacrifice.But as he prepares for his departure, we catch a glimpse of another and rathermore troubling source only briefly alluded to above: the source of Muhsin’sknowledge of the history of ancient Egypt that enabled the translation of hisvisionary experience into the language of the intellect. I am referring here tothe body of knowledge produced by European Orientalists and Egyptologists,whose origins can be located in the complex and contradictory ideology ofRomanticism and its need to see in Egypt, and specifically in the Egyptianpeasant, the image of an eternally unchanging world. It is this same knowledgethat later served as the basis for the textbooks that Egyptian students, likeMuhsin and al-Hakim, studied in school. 36 The French archaeologist who,along with a British agricultural inspector, pays a visit to Muhsin’s family at thispoint in the novel personifies the general tenor of the Orientalist discourse onEgypt. A few excerpts from his private debate with the inspector should, in turn,be sufficient to problematise the nature of Muhsin’s epiphany:‘Ignorant … These ignorant people, Mr Black, know more than we do.’ The Englishmanlaughed and said with more sarcasm: ‘They sleep in the same room with theiranimals!’ The Frenchman answered seriously: ‘Yes, especially because they sleep inone room with the animals … Yes, this people you consider ignorant certainly knowsmany things, but it knows by the heart, not the intellect. Supreme wisdom is in theirblood without their knowing it … This is an ancient people. If you take one of thesepeasants and remove his heart, you’ll find in it the residue of ten thousand years of— 153 —www.taq.ir

jeff shalanexperiential knowledge, one layer on top of the other, but he’s not aware of it … Thisexplains for us Europeans those moments of history during which we see Egypt takean astonishing leap in only a short time and work wonders in the wink of an eye …The power of Egypt is in the heart which is bottomless … Yes, this is the onedifference between us and them: they don’t know the treasures they possess.’ At that,the Britisher rose and said sarcastically, ‘The French nation to which you belongthinks nothing of sacrificing facts to eloquence … I am convinced that those creativethousands who built the pyramids were not herded in against their will the way theGreek Herodotus stupidly and ignorantly asserts. They rather came to work in droves,singing a hymn to the beloved in the same way their descendants go to bring in theharvest. Yes, their bodies suffered, but even that gave them a secret pleasure, thepleasure in sharing pain for a common objective … This pleasure in communal pain… had a single cause which all shared: the emotion of belief in the beloved and ofsacrifice … this was their power … Do you hear these voices in unison which arecoming from numerous hearts? Wouldn’t you think they all flow from a single heart?… When the Egyptian peasants suffer pain together they feel a secret pleasure andhappiness about being united in pain. What an amazing industrial people they will betomorrow.’ (179–82)The fact that the Frenchman’s words echo almost verbatim Muhsin’s ownthoughts on the subject contests the initial depiction of Muhsin’s personalawakening as the result of a near-mystical vision. Rather, it seems in retrospectnow to have been the product of a powerful imagination acting on and shapedby a pre-existent and internalised body of knowledge. The veracity of what aseries of existential encounters had hitherto revealed the ancient and eternalsource of the Egyptian nation is thus implicitly called into question here. And,at least for a moment, the purported source of the nation is displaced by thederivative source of the nationalist discourse itself – the self’s (Egypt’s) readingof the other’s (Europe’s) reading of the self. 37 Consequently, we are left herewith a quite different and compromised image of a unison of hearts – not thatwhich exists between the peasants, but the one established between Europe’sand Egypt’s cultural elite. 38 And just as the former had ‘awakened’ the latter toits own ‘identity’, the latter can now, in turn, perform that task for its ownpeople.But if this particular revelation undermines the credibility of Muhsin’sepiphany, it fails to negate its effect. In fact, it is precisely the force of the youngartist’s imagination that gives him the strength to make the necessary sacrificeonce back in Cairo. 39 The necessity of that sacrifice is, of course, enhanced bythe fact that Saniya and Mustafa have since fallen in love with one another. Butthat fact cannot negate the ennobling significance of Muhsin’s sacrifice, asrevealed through the reactions of the other members of the household to thisnew romance and its effect on him. Zanuba responds first by calling Saniya a‘whore’. Having formally squandered the family’s savings on magical potionsdesigned to win Mustafa’s love, she now resorts to mischievous pranks in order— 154 —www.taq.ir

writing the nationto disrupt the relationship. In marked contrast, Salim and Abduh’s responseevolves in a quite different direction:Extraordinarily enough, Salim changed into another person. Muhsin’s sensitive hearthad enough of the sacred fire in it to suffice to fill Salim’s heart and to make up forthe deficiencies of Abduh’s … Was it then contagious? Or a question of imaginationand suggestion? Is the heart not a frighteningly powerful source? A single sensitiveheart may suffice to inspire a wide diversity of others. Thus Abduh and Salim’sfeelings began as admiration and sympathy and ended as a shared participation. Thedeeper Muhsin got into his pain and the more they shared it with him they felt raisedby that much above their original status. With the passing days as they lived withMuhsin and his beautiful grief, every evil or hateful feeling in them toward Saniya orMustafa evaporated … They were witnesses and elegists for the torment of this youngperson who had given up so much for the sake of his beloved. (248–9)Thus, the original divisiveness of individual needs in the specific shape ofmale desire is displaced onto the superstitious Zanuba, who, as the figure of areactionary tradition, has become another national outcast or target of reform.And, in exchange, it is the sensitive heart of the artist, inspired by his vision,that now becomes the new source of male solidarity and the agent of communalsacrifice and the collective sublimation of those needs. By elevating his belovedto the status of an idol, but an idol for whom he now suffers, Muhsin removesSaniya from the earthly realm of competitive desire and thus appears to resolvethe conflict between individual needs and the needs of the community. Butinsofar as Muhsin’s symbolic appropriation of the peasants’ ‘treasures’, aided byhis imagination, is what empowers him to make the sacrifice, Saniya’s owncontradictory position in the narrative is not really reconciled. Rather, in raisingher to an idol, Muhsin seems almost to supplant her in her symbolic role, since itis around his suffering, and not her image, that the others now unite. And whilehis image of the suffering peasantry as the source sustains, as it competes with,his image of Saniya as the beloved Isis, it is his imagination, ironically enough,that now refuses to relinquish its grasp on the literal Saniya, the desirable woman:Not even the truth could destroy those imaginings and fantasies which he hadconstructed for so long around that letter [from Saniya]. Imagination is at times morepowerful than fact … He clung to it and to its familiar phrases as though imaginationthrough its persistence lent it the force of truth, or fantasy had changed into belief.How can truth defeat belief unless the intellect defeats the heart? (249)What the others seem able to sublimate through Muhsin, he seems finallyunable to sublimate himself. And in the link established through his desire herebetween imagination, the heart and belief, the artist’s vision reveals its doubleedgedeffect, rallying the nation around an image which is itself represented as afiction. It is thus perhaps only the faith in fiction, in the artist’s voice and theproduct of his vision, that can will the nation miraculously into being. ÆAwdat— 155 —www.taq.ir

jeff shalanal-ruh is itself testimony to the rhetorical power of such action of the work of artwhich, as I’ve tried to suggest in this case, can in a quite literal and selfconsciousway write the nation into being. When the climactic moment of theinsurrection at last arrives, it is then perhaps more than coincidence that itbursts forth in the ‘season of creation’, since this ‘resurrection’ of the Egyptiannation is also the realisation of the young artist’s vision: the work of art itself.But in al-Hakim’s representation of the event, we can also see more clearly whatis at stake in an argument for national unity predicated not only on sacrifice buton the power of imagination and belief.It is the Frenchman’s opinion which the ‘[f]acts bore out’, a narrative factthat itself comes as no surprise at this point:Perhaps this archaeologist who lived in the past saw the future of Egypt better thananyone else … The Egypt that had slept for centuries in a single day arose to her feet.She had been waiting, as the Frenchman said, waiting for her beloved son, thesymbol of her buried sorrows and hopes, to be born anew. And this beloved was bornagain from the body of the peasant … Each group and band thought that it hadinitiated the uprising, in response to a flaming, new emotion. No one understood thatthis emotion had flared up in all their hearts at a single moment because all of themwere sons of Egypt, with a single heart … Fourteen million people were thinking ofonly one thing: a man who expressed their feelings, who arose to demand their rightsto freedom and life. He had been taken and imprisoned and banished to an island inthe middle of the seas. (272–3)Without question, Zaghlul’s banishment was the catalyst for the uprisings.But far from being a singular expression of anti-British nationalist sentiment,the popular uprisings were fuelled as much by diverse and contradictory currentsof internal discontent. By casting Zaghlul in the image of the nation’s ‘beloved’,expressing the hopes of one and all, the narrative effectively silences those otherdissenting voices – a gesture whose textual representation occurs at numerouspoints in the novel (the symbolic appropriation of the peasantry, which canfunction as an apology and indeed justification for exploitation, the demonisationof Muhsin’s mother, the rejection of Zanuba), but most notably in thisculminating displacement of Saniya as the ‘beloved’.In a sense, the terms of the narrative’s argument for unity make Saniya’sdisplacement inevitable, but not because the ‘beloved’ must be ‘born again fromthe body of the peasant.’ Rather, as Muhsin has shown, it is because there isfinally no way to reconcile oneself to the dilemma posed through Saniya’scharacter. Self-sacrifice cannot alone resolve the problem of the individual’splace in the community, and so it seems one can only imagine the dissolution ofthe problem by making its disruptive agent, like those dissenting voices,disappear. Interestingly, it is a relative outsider to the community who providesus with the final insight:— 156 —www.taq.ir

writing the nationAmazingly Abduh, Muhsin, and Salim rushed and plunged into the revolution withabandon. Perhaps Zanuba was the only person who noticed that. It seemed to her sheunderstood the secret of that a little. Those three who not long before were still andsilent … Their gloom and melancholy had departed and been replaced by concern,struggle, and zeal … All the bitterness of unrequited love had been transformed in[Muhsin’s] heart into fervent nationalist feelings. All his desire to sacrifice for thesake of his personal beloved had changed to daring sacrifice for the sake of hisnation’s beloved. This was what happened to Abduh and Salim as well, to a lesserextent. (274–5)Unity, thus, is not only contingent on self-sacrifice, or what it is in the selfthat might preclude the emergence of a unison of hearts; as a figurative readingof Saniya’s final displacement suggests, it may well necessitate the sacrifice ofothers as well. And while the imaginative vision of the artist may serve as a powerfulagent for the former, the latter evokes the image of some less benign force.Through al-Hakim’s near flawless weaving of the artistic vision and thetextual allegory into the fabric of the plot, whereby his young protagonistmerges with the community for whom he speaks, ÆAwdat al-ruh succeeds whereZainab had failed: it constructs a genuinely populist image of the nation withtremendous rhetorical appeal. But the nature of the solidarity argued for andengendered in the text should trouble us. At its worst, the image of the Egyptianpeople as a single orchestrated entity marching in an almost instinctive beatportends the excesses of Nasserism. 40 And even at its best, the text remainsconspicuously silent on the direction of that march. Thus, this image of nationalunity leaves us with a final question: Who or what, exactly, are the peoplesacrificing for other than an image of the nation itself? 41 Naturally, one does notlook to novels for political programmes; but given the power and influence ofthis particular novel, it is a question well worth asking. For in spite of its widespreadsuccess, ÆAwdat al-ruh could not rekindle the nationalist spirit that hadalready begun to wane by the time of its publication. Nevertheless, and despitesome clear differences and al-Hakim’s obviously more lasting accomplishment,Zainab and ÆAwdat al-ruh are exemplary products of Egypt’s, and the Arab world’s,first phase of cultural nationalism. As bookends for this particular moment inEgyptian history, these two texts not only represent the dominant focus andtrajectory of the nationalist thought of the period; they also provide valuableinsight into the rhetorical appeal, as well as the ideological limits and contradictions,of the territorialists’ nation-building project. And while one cannotdraw substantial conclusions on the basis of two novels, these two influentialtexts do shed light on some of the less tangible reasons for the ultimate failure ofthat project and the disillusionment with the programme of secular reformswhich by the 1930s had led many of Egypt’s leading intellectuals, includingHaykal and, to a lesser extent, al-Hakim, to finally abandon the territorialistargument.— 157 —www.taq.ir

jeff shalannotes1. Ernest Gellner, Nations and Nationalism (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1983).2. The idealist assumption that thought is independent of and precedes language,which then serves as a mere vehicle or transparent medium for it, is a highlyproblematic and largely discredited one, but I am following the terms of Antonius’sargument here.3. See Benedict Anderson’s argument in Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Originand Spread of Nationalism (London: Verso, 1991). The importance of Anderson’stheory of the nation as an imagined community cannot be overstated. But the factthat Anderson, along with numerous other critics and theorists of Westernnationalism, seems unaware of the similar insight that Antonius arrived at severaldecades earlier is indicative of the power of such ‘imagined communities’ tocircumscribe even their own critical discourse.4. Albert Hourani, Arabic Thought in the Liberal Age: 1798–1939 (Cambridge:Cambridge University Press, 1983).5. Hilary Kilpatrick’s detailed study of the novel’s relation to its socio-historicalcontext in The Modern Egyptian Novel: A Study in Social Criticism (London: Ithaca,1974) most closely approximates my own concerns here. But as the subtitle of herwork suggests, Kilpatrick addresses a broad range of issues of which nationalism, asone, is touched upon only in passing. And whereas Kilpatrick’s sociologicalapproach situates the novel in an essentially mimetic relationship to its context, Isee the novel’s relationship to its context as ideologically more complex.6. Israel Gershoni and James P. Jankowski, Egypt, Islam, and the Arabs: The Search forEgyptian Nationhood, 1900–1930 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1986), 209–10.7. Egypt, of course, was by no means unique in this respect. For an insightful andcompelling analysis of the subject and related issues in the comparative contexts ofArab, Greek and Japanese cultures, see Mary Layoun, Travels of a Genre: The ModernNovel and Ideology (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990). For a discussion ofa similar phenomenon in the Latin American context, see Doris Sommer,‘Irresistible Romance: The Foundational Fiction of Latin America’, in Nation andNarration, ed. Homi Bhabha (London: Routledge, 1990), 71–98. Also see Kemal H.Karpat, ‘Contemporary Turkish Literature’, The Literary Review 4.2 (Winter 1960–1), 287–302, which is especially pertinent here given the profound influence ofKemalist reforms on a generation of Egyptian intellectuals. For a summation of thisinfluence, see Gershoni and Jankowski, 82–3.8. Beth Baron, The Women’s Awakening in Egypt: Culture, Society, and the Press (NewHaven: Yale University Press, 1994), 8. Even Baron’s admirable and thoroughlyresearched attempt to link this turn-of-the-century ‘awakening’ in Egypt to the emergenceof a women’s press ultimately fails to be conclusive in any empirical sense.9. The novel’s earlier emergence in Europe coincided with the rise of a new bourgeoisclass, and of all literary genres the novel is arguably the most expressive of the valueof the individual in Western bourgeois thought. See Mikhail M. Bakhtin, ‘Epic andNovel’, in The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays by M. M. Bakhtin, trans. CarylEmerson and Michael Holquist, ed. Michael Holquist (Austin: University of TexasPress, 1981), 3–40. See, too, Walter Benjamin’s seminal essay, ‘The Storyteller’, inIlluminations, trans. Harry Zohn, ed. Hannah Arendt (New York: Schocken Books,— 158 —www.taq.ir

writing the nation1968), 83–109; and Nancy Armstrong, Desire and Domestic Fiction: A Political Historyof the Novel (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987).10. Baron’s work suggests a possible methodology but is not concerned with literatureper se. For a brief comment on Egyptian literary tastes in the early twentieth century,see Hamdi Sakkut, The Egyptian Novel and Its Main Trends from 1913 to 1952 (Cairo:The American University in Cairo Press, 1971), 19. On the specificity of literature’sfunction as providing an ‘escape’ from the political realities of late nineteenthcenturyEgypt, see Matti Moosa, The Origins of Modern Arabic Fiction (Washington,DC: Three Continents P, 1983), 24.11. On the influence of these two novels, see M. M. Badawi, A Short History of ModernArabic Literature (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993), 109–10; and Sakkut, 89.12. A. L. Tibawi, ‘Some Misconceptions About the Nahda’, Middle East Forum 47.3–4(Fall/Winter, 1971), 15–22. Although Tibawi seems to have a particular axe togrind with Antonius and Hourani, his argument nonetheless offers a necessarycorrective to their overly narrow contentions.13. As Philip S. Khoury notes, it is not until the eve of World War II that this questionreally becomes a concern for Syria. See his Urban Notables and Arab Nationalism: ThePolitics of Damascus, 1860–1920 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 98.14. Gibb, Hamilton A. R., Studies on the Civilization of Islam, eds Stanford J. Shaw andWilliam R. Polk (Boston: Beacon Press, 1962), 294. On the discussion generated byGibb’s evaluation, see, for example: Sakkut, 17; Moosa, 173; Badawi, Modern ArabicLiterature and the West (London: Ithaca Press, 1985), 133; J. Brugman, An Introductionto the History of Modern Arabic Literature in Egypt (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1984), 211.15. See, for example, Ian Watt, The Rise of the Novel (Berkeley: University of CaliforniaPress, 1957). Terry Lovell’s Consuming Fiction (New York: Verso, 1987) offers, in turn,an important feminist corrective to Watt’s otherwise still cogent argument.16. I am inclined to agree with Bakhtin when he argues in ‘Epic and Novel’ that one ofthe defining traits of the novel which, at least initially, distinguished it from otherliterary genres is its temporal orientation towards the present and future. It is for thisreason that Zainab might well be considered the first Egyptian novel.17. Evidence of Lutfi al-Sayyid’s influence on Haykal’s thought can be found in CharlesWendell, The Evolution of the Egyptian National Image from Its Origins to Ahmad Lutfial-Sayyid (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1972), 275–90. Haykal, in turn,went on to become one of the leading theorists of territorial nationalism,encouraging Arabs elsewhere in the Middle East to adopt the same ideology(Gershoni and Jankowski: 89, 142). For the European origins and influences onHaykal’s thought, especially the environmental determinism of the French literaryhistorian and philosopher Hippolyte Taine, see Gershoni and Jankowski, 34–9.18. Baron’s The Women’s Awakening in Egypt offers ample evidence for this point.19. See Qasim Amin, The Liberation of Women, trans. Samiha Sidhom Peterson (Cairo:The American University in Cairo Press, 1992), ch. 3: ‘Women and the Nation’.20. Muhammad Husayn Haykal, Zainab, trans. John Mohammed Grinsted (London:Darf, 1989). Subsequent references are from this translation and will be citedparenthetically by page number.21. Kilpatrick speculates on other possible reasons for the tension between Haykal’sromanticism, fashionable at the time and perhaps accentuated by the nostalgia of— 159 —www.taq.ir

jeff shalanwriting while abroad, and his realist critique (23–5). Ultimately, she arrives at aconclusion similar to my own, which sees in this tension the contradictory expressionof nationalist ideology in the hands of a liberal intellectual, be it Haykal or Hamid.22. On the relationship of labour movements to the nationalist struggle, see Joel Beinin,‘Formation of the Egyptian Working Class’, MERIP Reports 94 (February 1981): 14–23; and Joel Beinin and Zachary Lockman, Workers on the Nile: Nationalism,Communism, Islam, and the Egyptian Working Class, 1882–1954 (London: I. B.Tauris, 1988). For a good overview of the peasant protests and uprisings, see EdmundBurke, III, ‘Changing Patterns of Peasant Protest, 1750–1950’, in Peasants andPolitics in the Modern Middle East, eds Farhad Kazemi and John Waterbury (Miami:Florida International University Press, 1991), 24–37.23. To what extent the peasants envisioned their own uprisings of 1919 in nationalistterms is debatable (Brugman, 306; Schulze, 188–9). But what is not debatable, Ithink, is that the Wafd’s establishment of hegemony was predicated on the Britishsuppression of these uprisings, which allowed the indigenous elite to consolidatetheir power (Schulze, 196).24. In her otherwise insightful analysis of Zainab, Kilpatrick neglects the importance ofthe narrative voice at this point. Contrary to the Rousseauian influence she seeshere, in a conflict that situates Hamid between the opposing forces of socialconvention and ‘natural’ law (22), the narrator implicitly argues for the verynaturalisation of that convention.25. For those contributions, see Baron, The Women’s Awakening in Egypt: Culture,Society and the Press, 169–88; and Afaf Lutal-Sayyid Marsot, ‘The RevolutionaryGentlewomen in Egypt’, in Women in the Muslim World, eds Lois Beck and NikkiKeddie (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1978), 261–76.26. For the limitations this form of legitimation imposed on the women’s movement, seeThomas Philipp, ‘Feminism and Nationalist Politics in Egypt’, in Women in theMuslim World, 277–94.27. For a detailed study of al-Hakim’s plays, see Richard Long, Tawfiq al-Hakim:Playwright of Egypt (London: Ithaca, 1979). Paul Starkey’s From the Ivory Tower: ACritical Study of Tawfiq al-Hakim (London: Ithaca, 1987) also offers an excellentoverview of al-Hakim’s life and work.28. Badawi, A Short History of Modern Arabic Literature, 120. Nasser even inscribed acopy of his The Philosophy of the Revolution (1954) for al-Hakim with the followingvery telling words: ‘To the reviver of literature, Ustaz Tawq al-Hakim, inanticipation of a second, post-revolutionary return of the soul’ (quoted in Long, 65).29. For the influence of Pharaonicism on the nationalist orientation of Egyptian artistsand intellectuals in the 1920s, see Gershoni and Jankowski, 184–90.30. This explains, no doubt, why some critics see the novel’s closing episode as a ‘mereappendage’ (Starkey, 220), ‘out of tune with the rest of the book’ (Long, 28).31. Tawq al-Hakim, Return of the Spirit, trans. William M. Hutchins (Washington, DC:Three Continents Press, 1990), 27. Subsequent references are from this translationand will be cited parenthetically by page number.32. To see individual needs here solely in terms of romantic love, as Starkey does (89–91),is to lose sight of the larger significance of this conflict and how the themes of socialand political frustration, contrary to his assertion (220), are thus in fact connected.— 160 —www.taq.ir

writing the nation33. See, for instance, the translator’s ‘Introduction’, 14.34. The appropriation of the traditionally female power of (re)generation by maleheroes and deities is a common occurrence in the myths of many cultures, and onewhich some feminists see as representing an historical transition from matriarchal,or at least matrilineal, societies to patriarchal and patrilineal societies. Compare, forinstance, the Sumerian epic Inanna with the Babylonian epic Gilgamesh. Also seeHesiod’s Theogony.35. Long sees al-Hakim’s own relationship with his mother clearly depicted here, and init the source of the misogynistic current that runs through much of his work (2–3,132–43).36. Despite its many problems, Edward Said’s Orientalism (New York: Vintage Books,1979) remains the classic statement on the subject.37. On the derivative nature of third-world nationalisms, see Partha Chatterjee,Nationalist Thought and the Colonial World: A Derivative Discourse (Minneapolis:University of Minnesota Press, 1986).38. This is why the novel’s apparent elaboration of the familiar romantic oppositionwhich pits the heart as emblem of Eastern spirituality against the mind as emblem ofWestern materialism is finally untenable. For a discussion of this opposition, seeStarkey, 118–29.39. On the necessary sacrifice of love in the pursuit of artistic creation as a recurringtheme in al-Hakim’s work, see Long, 138–40. I attempt to tease out the furthersignificance of this romantic motif in what follows.40. It is worth noting that despite Nasser’s admiration for al-Hakim, the latter was in hislater work increasingly critical of Nasser’s rule. See Long, 152–62, and Starkey, 180–1.41. Kilpatrick’s observation, that the novel’s depiction of the 1919 revolution reflectsboth the general tendency of the time to see independence itself as a ‘panacea forthe country’s problems’ and the attitude of the majority who were thus ‘intoxicatedby nationalism for its own sake’ (43–4), is quite pertinent here.— 161 —www.taq.ir

118Arabic Poetry, Nationalism andSocial Change: Sudanese Colonialand Postcolonial PerspectivesHeather J. SharkeyIn an essay published in Khartoum in 1934, Muhammad Ahmad Mahjub, acolonial government-employed engineer, spare-time poet and future PrimeMinister of Sudan, lamented the lack of national sentiment around him.Declaring that nationalism required active construction, Mahjub urged hisArabic-speaking peers to create a national poetry (Mahjub 1970: 113–16).Living in a political context shaped by European colonialism, Sudanese Arabicpoets were not unique in pressing their art into the service of nationalism. Bythe time Mahjub wrote, poets in Egypt, such as Mahmoud Sami al-Barudi,Ahmad Shawqi and Hafiz Ibrahim, had been presiding over a nationalist literarynahda, or ‘awakening’, for more than half a century (Khouri 1971, Badawi1993). Meanwhile, in India during the late nineteenth and early twentiethcenturies, Bengali poets in Calcutta were conscious of their own literaryawakening, or nabajagaran (Sarkar 1997: 160), with luminaries like RabindranathTagore composing verse on behalf of the nation. Poet-nationalists emerged laterin sub-Saharan Africa, after World War II. The Swahili poet Shaaban Robert,for example, helped to foster Tanganyikan (later Tanzanian) nationalism, whilethe French-language poet, Leopold Sedar Senghor, did much the same inSenegal (Iliffe 1979: 379; Ba 1973). These commonalities were not accidental.In the Middle East, South Asia and Africa alike, poetry was conducive andimportant to nationalist expression in this period, for at least four reasons.First, in its oral forms, poetry had traditionally served political and educationalfunctions, transmitting information and opinion in addition to entertainingor morally edifying. Before the mass literacy of the mid to late twentieth century,this remained equally true in societies that had low rates of literacy (forexample, the Arabic- or Bengali-speaking world), as in communities that hadlacked writing systems entirely (for example, parts of pre-colonial sub-SaharanAfrica). Recited in rhymed prose or set to music as song, poetry was a potentiallypopular medium, capable of spreading messages, such as nationalism, widely.Poetry was also memorable, with its rhyme, rhythm and (in the case of song)melody serving as mnemonic aids (Finnegan 1977, Ong 1991, Goody 2000).— 162 —www.taq.ir

arabic poetry, nationalism and social changeSecond, as an esteemed verbal medium, poetry was well-equipped to ennoblethe nation through creative use of language and imagery. Poems could evokeideals such as cultural pride and heroism, and thereby give the abstract conceptof the nation a glorified, imaginative substance.Third, and in the colonial context, poetry could be a useful tool in anticolonial,nationalist activity. By relying on metaphor, allusion and symbolism,poetry could be politically charged and possibly escape government censors in away that the prose essay, with its more forthright language, could not.Fourth and finally, as a respected art form that had strong ties to culturaltradition, poetry could make social change seem more palatable, or lessominous. Poets had the authority and prestige to call for new developments,such as railway travel and girls’ schools, that would transform social practicesand lifestyles. By welcoming and guiding change in the early twentieth century,poets showed a faith in constructive social reform and progress that was asimportant to Asian and African nationalisms as the goal of political liberation.The following pages elaborate and illustrate these ideas about poetry,nationalism and social change, by focusing on the history and development ofArabic culture in the Northern Sudan. 1 Starting with the assumption thatpoetry played pivotal roles in Sudanese culture, and that its history can thereforereflect wider social and political trends, this essay assesses the influence ofpoetry on incipient Sudanese nationalism in the early twentieth century, as wellas its continuing relevance in the decades that followed.In certain general respects, Sudanese Arabic culture before the twentiethcentury resembled its counterparts in other low-literacy societies: traditions oforal poetry thrived in both rural and urban settings, while writing had limiteduses and audiences. Yet within its own setting, Sudanese Arabic had evolvedover several centuries in response to local conditions. Some basic points aboutSudanese history can help to explain the distinctive features of its Arabic cultureand its position in the region.Arabic and Islam first came to the Sudan together, in the early Islamic era,through waves of Arabian nomadic migration (Hasan 1967). In the riverainNorth (roughly, from the border with Egypt to the Gezira region south of theNile junction), Arabic and Islam spread slowly among indigenous peoples,partially supplanting Nubian languages, and displacing Christianity and localreligions (Adams 1977). Around 1500, the region’s first Islamic state took root,with the founding of the Funj sultanate at Sennar on the Blue Nile. By thistime, too, itinerant Sufis had begun to convert more widely, from the Red Seainland to Darfur and beyond (O’Fahey and Spaulding 1974, McHugh 1994).Soon Islamic culture spread farther than Arabic culture; that is, people embracedIslam and became acculturated to Muslim practices without becoming Arabised.Three hundred years had passed after the founding of the Funj sultanate— 163 —www.taq.ir

heather j. sharkeywhen, in 1820, the armies of Muhammad Ali of Egypt invaded the Sudan.Under the aegis of the Turco-Egyptian colonial regime, the Northern Sudanedged more closely into the cultural orbit of Egypt and, by extension, theOttoman imperial world. This colonial episode ended in the 1880s, when themillenarian Mahdist movement launched a jihad in the name of Islamic reformand justice. Overthrowing the Turco-Egyptian regime, Mahdists established anIslamic state based at Omdurman. Mahdist rule ended, in turn, in 1898 whenBritish and Egyptian troops invaded the Sudan, bringing the country under thesway of the British Empire at a time when European powers were pursuing their‘Scramble for Africa’.When the nineteenth century ended, Arabic was one of several languagesspoken in the overwhelmingly Muslim regions of the Northern Sudan. In the farnorth, east and west, for example, Nubians, Beja and Fur peoples continued tospeak distinct non-Semitic languages. Arabic was nevertheless dominant as amother tongue in the riverain North and Kordofan, and as a lingua franca inlong-distance trade. Endowed with a system of writing (uniquely, amongSudanese languages), Arabic was a useful tool for statecraft. Finally, as themedium of the Qur’an, Arabic was also the language of Islamic learning andscholarship, and commanded prestige through its religious connections.Taken together, these features ensured that native Arabic-speakers, at thestart of the twentieth century, were the best placed among Sudanese to benefitfrom new educational and professional opportunities that would translate, inthe long run, into political and economic power. Arabic in the Sudan wouldmaintain and even reinforce its hegemony in the twentieth century, as a languageof government, academic study and communication in a wider region stretchingfrom the Maghrib to the Arabian peninsula and Iraq. The only language thatcould possibly compete with Arabic was English – the language of the Britishcolonisers – which also had a trans-regional scope and powerful written tradition.By 1900, the rich culture of Sudanese Arabic poetry was taking three mainforms. First, and particularly in rural areas, there was an oral culture of folk andBedouin poetry, capable of expressing praise and censure, bravery, love andgrief, or recounting histories of battles. Second, and especially in settled farmingareas along the Nile, there was a vibrant culture of Sufi devotional poetry, oftencombining colloquial and literary forms; this Sufi poetry was primarily an oralmedium, though fragments were recorded beginning in the late eighteenthcentury (reflecting the relatively late development of a local Arabic writtentradition). Third, and among learned men who came under Turco-Egyptianinfluence in the nineteenth century, new forms of fusha poetry were taking shapeas Sudanese poets were becoming more aware of Arabic literary (that is,written) works from the Islamic heartland’s pre-Islamic, Umayyad and Abbasidperiods (Badawi 1964, ÆAbidin 1967). These three forms began in some cases to— 164 —www.taq.ir

arabic poetry, nationalism and social changeoverlap in the late nineteenth century, notably in Mahdist panegyric andpropaganda poetry, which official poets composed for recitation in the 1880sand 1890s (Hasan 1974, Sharkey 1994).Local applications for Arabic writing and for prose literature were relativelylimited by 1900. Funj rulers had begun to use writing on a limited basis in theiradministration in the mid-seventeenth century, with surviving Funj documentsconsisting largely of charters and of travel passes for visitors or emissaries(Spaulding and Abu Salim 1989). The mid-eighteenth century witnessed thebirth of Arabic history writing, as a few scholars began to chronicle the deeds ofSufi sheiks and rulers, as well as the occurrences of natural and environmentalphenomena, such as floods, famines and eclipses (Ibn Dayf Allah 1982, Holt1999). Record-keeping became more systematised under the Turco-Egyptiansand later the Mahdists (reflecting an elaboration of bureaucracy), while privateindividuals, such as merchants and landowners, began to keep records too (Hill1959, Abu Salim 1969, Holt 1970, Abu Shouk, Ibrahim and Bjørkelo 1996).Printing, meanwhile, made a limited debut some time after 1820, when theTurco-Egyptians brought a lithographic press to Khartoum to publish officialdocuments. Years later, in 1885, the Mahdists seized this press and printedproclamations and prayer books, but faced a practical restraint on their outputin the form of a shortage of paper (Salih 1971).Three points stand out about the status of Arabic culture at the dawn of thetwentieth century. First, literacy was a rare skill, so that written sources (manuscriptor printed) were reaching small audiences that consisted primarily ofIslamic scholars. In such a context, only oral communication could be masscommunication; by extension, only oral poetry could be popular poetry. Second,the use of prose writing was steadily expanding, and would continue to developin the twentieth century – arguably, and in the long run, at poetry’s expense.Third, Sudanese Arabic culture was not stagnant and convention-bound in1900, as a critic, praising Europe’s literary interventions, once claimed ofEgyptian Arabic poetry on the eve of the Napoleonic conquest of 1798 (Badawi1975: 1). On the contrary, the Sudan’s Arabic literary ‘traditions’, if one caneven use a term which implies such fixity, were and had been steadily evolving.British colonialism thus brought new influences to bear on a cultural systemthat had been in motion for centuries.The Anglo-Egyptian conquest of 1898 ushered in an era of changes that haddramatic and far-reaching consequences for virtually every aspect of political,economic, and social life in the region. From 1898 to 1956, the Sudan functionedas a de facto British colony, notwithstanding the 1899 partnership agreementthat framed the regime as a de jure Condominium under joint British andEgyptian control.In the Sudan as in the rest of Africa, European imperial powers imposed new— 165 —www.taq.ir

heather j. sharkeyand arbitrary borders following the land-grabs of the late nineteenth and earlytwentieth centuries. In the Sudanese case, these borders reconciled Britishterritorial ambitions with competing Belgian, French, Italian and Abyssinianclaims in the vicinity. Outlined clearly on international maps, the Anglo-Egyptian Sudan emerged as the largest country in Africa, binding an Arabicspeakingand Muslim riverain zone to culturally and linguistically diverse regionsin the south, east and west. Before thirty years had passed, poet-nationalistswere striving to make sense of a Sudan in these borders, by conceiving of thenation as a community congruent with the colonial territory, and fortified byArabic and Islamic foundations.The Anglo-Egyptian conquest rapidly affected Arabic culture, much like theNapoleonic conquest of Egypt a century before. In 1798, the French hadintroduced the printing press in Egypt, paving the way for the birth of the firstArabic periodicals under Egyptian government auspices (Ayalon 1995). In1899, the British did much the same in the Sudan, by importing a printing press– the first in the region with moveable type – to publish official proclamationsin Khartoum. Four years later, in 1903, Greek and Lebanese entrepreneursbegan to develop Khartoum’s commercial press, publishing Arabic periodicalsfor the Egyptian and Lebanese expatriates who had come to work in the colonialadministration or military, or in private businesses. These journals, whichfeatured both poetry and news stories, soon attracted Northern Sudanese readersand contributors, some of whom went on to establish the first Sudanese-ownedand -edited newspaper in 1917 (Sharkey 1999).In the years that followed, and among the highly educated, the developmentof journalism began to affect the creative process and social function of poetryin at least two ways. First, while Sudanese poets initially recited poems in frontof friends and colleagues before submitting them for publication, some in the1920s began to compose verse in written form, assuming individual readers –not groups of listeners – as their audience. Some indeed were beginning to regardpoetry less as a social event and more as a private experience. Second, whereaspoets had conventionally composed verse for specific occasions – to mark anIslamic holiday, for example, or to elegise a friend just deceased – some poetsnow composed poems for publication and perusal at an unspecified date. In thelong run, these two developments may have contributed to a growing abstractionin the content of poems, explaining, for example, the debut in the late1920s of a ‘nature poetry’ which, unusually for this time, was more likely tocomment on cloud formations than on human affairs.Under the dual influence of colonialism and print culture, Sudanese Arabicpoets (and not only poetry) changed as well. Those contributing to journalsdiffered in their social profile from the leading poets of the generation before, inthat few were Sufi shaykhs and none were poet-professionals, like the official— 166 —www.taq.ir

arabic poetry, nationalism and social changepraise-singers who had served the Mahdist state. On the contrary, almost all ofthese new poets were employees of the Anglo-Egyptian state – schoolteachers,clerks, engineers, accountants, and even qadis in the reformed Islamic judiciary(El-Shoush n.d., Mikha’il n.d.). Moreover, of those who came of age after 1900,nearly all were graduates of colonial government schools that taught newsubjects, such as English and world geography, in addition to Arabic and Islam.Many attended one school in particular – Khartoum’s Gordon College – whichfavoured candidates from elite Muslim, Arabic-speaking families and groomedthem for the highest bureaucratic jobs available to Sudanese. These governmentschoolgraduates or khirrijin, as they often called themselves proudly in Englishor Arabic, went on to lead the Sudanese nationalist movement and to takecontrol of the country upon decolonisation in 1956 (Sharkey 1998a).The modern educated classes, from whose ranks poet-nationalists emerged,were also exclusively male. Since only men had access to advanced literacybasededucations throughout the colonial period, only men could participate inprint culture and the budding nationalist movement it stimulated. By contrast,in rural areas where oral traditions prevailed and where literacy was irrelevantto performance, women had often emerged as formidable poets and social critics(ÆAbidin 1967: 188–9). Advances in girls’ education in the late 1940s laid thefoundations for wider female participation in print culture in the postcolonialperiod, so that at independence in 1956, an estimated 4 per cent of theSudanese female population could read and write to some degree – a significantadvance from a generation before (Sanderson 1968: 120–1). In any case, sinceliteracy rates for both men and women were minute in the first half of thetwentieth century, the writing, publication and reading of poetry was perforcean elite endeavour.However inadvertently, government employment facilitated the Arabicliterary output and nationalist imagination of the educated Northern Sudanese.Scattered in postings far from Khartoum, and kept on the move through frequenttransfers, these men contributed and subscribed to journals from afar. Instead ofconstraining their nationalist thought, the obligation to communicate longdistance, from ever-changing posts, helped them to conceive of the colonialterritory as a spatial, national whole (Sharkey 1998a).The isolation of many government job posts also fostered literary activity.Often living in remote district centres where boredom posed a challenge,Northern Sudanese employees tended to focus on literary pastimes for pleasureand solace. Gathering in groups after hours, they composed and shared poems aspart of daily routine. The most serious poets sent poems by mail to Khartoum,for publication in a journal; a few even wired poems to friends by telegram,affirming in the process their grasp of new technologies and their power to cutacross physical distances (Sharkey 1998a).— 167 —www.taq.ir

heather j. sharkeyIn the big towns of the North, and in the Three Towns (the conurbation ofKhartoum, Khartoum North and Omdurman) most of all, employees alsogathered for literary endeavours, building social circles from friendships forgedat school and in the course of government service. Meeting in clubs or cafés,they lavished time and energy on poetry, experimenting in the process with thestructure, style and content of their compositions. They drew inspiration partlyfrom the works of colleagues; partly from what they were reading in newspapersand printed books (the latter now imported from Cairo and sold in bookstoresin Khartoum or by mail order); and partly from changing conditions aroundthem. As the cultural pacesetter of the Arabic-speaking world, Egypt exerted acritical influence on its thought, providing models for the use of poetry in theservice of modern causes (al-Hardallu 1977, Babiker 1979, Osman 1987, Sharkey2000).Among the educated Northern Sudanese of the early twentieth century, thecomposition of Arabic poetry was a way of life and passion. This was notsurprising in a society where men and women had traditionally set their finestthoughts and sentiments to verse, where big events in life (religious holidays,deaths, even job promotions) occasioned the recitation of odes, and where poetscould wage political battles (ÆAli 1969). Moreover, in a culture where competencein poetry was an index of accomplishment, talented poets were socialleaders, as the Sudan’s first locally printed Arabic books – all poetry anthologieswith biographical sketches – make clear (Sharkey 1998a: 301–2). 2 Thus it wasnatural that the new poets of the early twentieth century (educated in modernschools, employed in government jobs, and mutually connected through newprint and communications media) led the way as early nationalists.If colonial government employment facilitated literary output, then it alsoconstrained it significantly. Poets after 1898 could not criticise the Britishregime or question the British presence, while even praising Egyptians – whomthe British were increasingly anxious to contain or shunt aside – had limits.(Nominally, the Egyptians were co-domini, with a right to a Sudan presence; inpractice, they had been struggling to undo their own British colonialism sincethe Occupation of Egypt in 1882. British efforts to contain Egyptian influencein Sudan were rooted in a fear that anti-colonial nationalism in Egypt wouldinfect the Sudanese.) To enforce the ban on open dissent and to curb shows ofEgyptophilia, British authorities policed the press, requiring editors to submitpre-publication proofs to the Intelligence Department for censorship (Sharkey1999). Sometimes they also stationed informants and observers in clubs or atspecial events (such as Islamic new year, or mawlid, celebrations), where poetsrecited odes before audiences (Najila 1964: 74; Abu’l-ÆAzayim, n.d.: 45–6).Sanctions were simple for those who went out of bounds: deportation forEgyptian and Syrian expatriates (Najila 1964), and professional penalisation for— 168 —www.taq.ir

arabic poetry, nationalism and social changeNorthern Sudanese, almost all of whom (that is, about 98 per cent of livingGordon College secondary-school graduates in 1929 3 ) were government employees.Authorities accomplished the latter by calling errant poets before Boards ofDiscipline, which left permanent records in personnel files, regardless of theoutcome of a case. To challenge the regime in poems, essays or speeches was toendanger prospects for salary raises, promotions and job security – a risk notworth taking for most men, who often supported extended families on theirincomes (Sharkey 1998a: 237–330).Politics nevertheless slipped into poems obliquely. In 1914, for example, theEgyptian editor of a Khartoum newspaper sponsored a contest which called forodes in praise of the first ‘Turkish’ airplane landing in Cairo – an exercise meantto evoke sympathy for the idea of the Ottoman caliphate while highlighting thetechnical capacity of Muslim peoples (Najila 1964: 16–19). It undoubtedlyhelped, from the government’s point of view, that the Sudanese winner was nota young effendi (modern educated type) who might be susceptible to Egyptiannationalist ideas, but rather a placid, respectable sheik of the older generation.(The man in question, Muhammad Umar al-Banna, had in fact been an officialMahdist poet in his youth.) The newspaper was able to print the winning entry,although British authorities were generally wary lest Egyptian expatriates interestthe Sudanese in a wider Arab nationalist or pan-Islamic cause.By the time World War I had ended, British concerns about Egyptians weregrowing as widespread discontentment mounted within Egypt. In 1919, Egyptiansof all social classes rose in revolt against the protectorate in Egypt and demandedthe right to self-determination. The young educated Northern Sudanese drewinspiration from these uprisings, and in the next four years began increasingly toquestion the British presence on their own soil. Thus emboldened, somecomposed incendiary poems, which a few dared to recite in the open or sent toCairo for anonymous publication, while others gathered clandestinely to criticisethe regime (Najila 1964, Jibril 1991, ÆAbd Allah 1991).Khalil Farah (1892–1932), a Post & Telegraphs employee by day, became asub rosa poet-resister by night, as a member of the secret League of SudanUnion, which flourished in the early 1920s. After work in Khartoum, he and hisfriends gathered at a café where they shared poetry, listened to music and talkedpolitics into the early morning hours, and where they sometimes preparedinflammatory anti-British proclamations for posting around town at dusk. KhalilFarah not only composed poems, but set them to musical accompaniment assongs, using the Æud as his instrument. In addition to love songs, he composedmany songs for the nation, extolling the country’s beautiful landscapes, noblepeople and magnificent Nile river. Much to the dismay of Intelligence Departmentofficials, some of Khalil Farah’s nationalist songs (notably those incolloquial Arabic) became popular in northern cities, where they propagated— 169 —www.taq.ir

heather j. sharkeyideas of Nile Valley unity and of Sudanese-Egyptian brotherhood. Indeed, whenanti-British revolts broke out in the Northern Sudan in 1924, manydemonstrators and army mutineers sang his songs as they marched (Najila 1964:149–54; Farah 1977). In this way, more than any other poet among his peers,Khalil Farah helped to extend nationalist ideas beyond male reading elites, andtowards illiterate or semiliterate men and women.Precisely because the 1924 Sudanese uprisings posed the greatest challengeto the British presence since the colonial conquest, the government’s responsewas swift and strong. British authorities expelled Egyptian army units along withmany Egyptian civilian employees (on the grounds of their subversive influence);sentenced dozens of Northern Sudanese agitators to prison terms (many underbleak conditions in southern jails, where death tolls were high); and executedfour army mutiny leaders by firing squad. With their ties to local elites, mostmembers of the modern educated classes were able to escape punishment bydrawing on family connections, but nonetheless suffered from a loss of trust andstatus which had professional repercussions. Namely, after the uprisings, Britishauthorities turned towards Indirect Rule and the cultivation of notables in thegovernance of rural areas, and began to rely less (psychologically if not always inpractice) on the administrative assistance of effendis. After 1929 and the onsetof the world Depression, economic woes compounded job insecurity. To keeptheir positions and still, perhaps, rise on the job ladder at a time of widespreadcutbacks, the educated Northern Sudanese had to remain on good behaviour.By practical necessity, young nationalists became quietists after 1924. Farfrom challenging the British authorities in verse, employees after 1924 weremore likely to compose and recite praise poems for their British superiors, asthey came or left on transfer. In this way they replicated a practice of theirelders (some of whom had submitted rhymed oaths of allegiance to the Britishconquerors right after the 1898 conquest), 4 signalled their cooperation ingovernment, and more generally, demonstrated local standards of courtesy.In the climate of repression that followed the 1924 uprisings, the educatedNorthern Sudanese focused renewed efforts on literary activity. Withdrawing,for the most part, from anti-colonial agitation, they turned their attention tosocial reform, literary experimentation and modernisation – the last reflecting afaith in new technologies (such as electricity), and in the higher living standardsthey promised. In this period, taqaddum or progress became the goal of poetnationalists,and applied to everything from the content of newspapers to theextension of paved roads and piped water systems.Increasingly convinced that poetry could both reflect and propel nationalprogress, poets chronicled, evaluated and encouraged socially constructivedevelopments, praising in the 1920s, for example, the construction of SennarDam, the marvels of photography and, more controversially at the time, the— 170 —www.taq.ir

arabic poetry, nationalism and social changevalue of girls’ schools (which many eminent men of the period still considered adubious enterprise). In the early 1930s, one poet even applied the traditionalpraise poem to the Swedish actress Greta Garbo, revealing the growing influenceof European and American films on young educated men in Khartoum.Others praised graduate-sponsored charities, such as the Piaster Orphanage inOmdurman, that reflected support for the ideal of national self-help asadvocated in India by Gandhi (with whose writings and deeds the graduateswere familiar, thanks to the periodical press) (al-Banna 1976, al-Nahda 1931–2,al-Fajr 1934–7).Against this context of social reform and improvement, poets coaxed thegrowth of early nationalism by discussing what it meant to be Sudanese. It was apoet, in 1927, who first suggested the idea of a ‘Sudanese’ Arabic nationalliterature – and by implication, of a ‘Sudanese’ national identity. The unlikelychampion of Sudanese Arabic was a government tax-collector named Hamza al-Malik Tambal (1897–1951), who was born in Aswan, Egypt and who spokeNubian, not Arabic, as his mother tongue. Tambal argued that poets could maketheir work distinctively or authentically ‘Sudanese’ by incorporating referencesto indigenous themes, settings and customs – an agenda he applied in a series ofinnovative nature poems that evoked mountains in Kordofan and sunsets nearDongola (Tanbal 1931, Tambal 1972, al-Shush 1971: 149–76, Sharkey 1998b).Tambal’s ideas about ‘Sudanese’ literature initially caused an uproar, buteventually caught on. For members of the educated Northern elite, who tookpride in their Arab pedigrees, the term ‘Sudanese’ or sudani implied slave originsand was conventionally applied to dark-skinned peoples from non-Muslimsouthern regions – not to noble Arabs. One of the fascinating developments inmodern Sudanese history is the transformation of the term ‘Sudanese’ from acomment on low social status to a badge of national pride (Sharkey 1998: 34–80) – a situation paralleling, in some respects, the nationalist rehabilitation of‘Turk’ – which had implied a boor or yokel – in late Ottoman Anatolia (Lewis1968: 1). Poets worked to make the term ‘Sudanese’ or sudani more palatable,though it undoubtedly helped first that it was a convenient adjectival formbased on the colony’s name (referring to a territory, not a social group), andsecond, that nationalists were able to coin a new plural form from the singular –sudaniyyin, connoting Sudan nationals, rather than sud, meaning blacks. Thisvariant plural made its way into a political slogan of the late Anglo-Egyptianperiod: ‘Sudan lil-Sudaniyyin’ – Sudan for the Sudanese.Two literary journals of the 1930s became the forum for the new literature of‘Sudanese’ national identity and social reform. These were al-Nahda (1931–2)and al-Fajr (1934–7), which by their very titles touched on common nationalistthemes. (ÆAl-Nahda’ evoked the ideal of national revival, while Æal-Fajr’ evokeda new dawn.) Their formats included poetry as well as new genres – editorial— 171 —www.taq.ir

heather j. sharkeyessays, book and film reviews, stories and plays. Both journals agreed that apoem or other literary creation was nationalist (qawmi), or served the nationalcause, if it was locally descriptive or socially relevant – rooted in the experiences,customs and physical settings of the Sudan. Two types of poetry fit thisagenda: nature poetry (portraying Sudanese environments) as introduced byHamza al-Malik Tambal; and praise poetry in support of new social and technologicaldevelopments. For social criticism (as opposed to praise), however, proseforms began to take over from poetry. For example, in essays and short storiescontributors questioned Sudanese marriage customs and stirred up heated andsometimes angry debate. Some argued radically that wives should be highlyeducated, that prospective spouses should meet before marriage, and thathusbands should treat wives as partners and not as underlings (Sharkey 1998a:351–8).More than any other publications of the colonial era, al-Nahda and al-Fajrsought to highlight features and values that made the Sudan Sudanese, realisingthat the Sudan as a territorial entity was too new to have a manifest primordiallogic. Muhammad Ahmad Mahjub was one of those who used their pages toconfront nation building head on. Bearing such titles as ‘Nationalist Sentimentand Our Need for It’, ‘The Duty of Writers to Their Nation and Their Art’ and‘National Poetry’, Mahjub’s essays testify to a time when literary activity offeredthe highest forms of political and social debate (Mahjub 1970).Nationalist poetry had its heyday in the 1920s and 1930s – years when theBritish banned open political organisation, but also when the locally-runperiodical press was just beginning to develop. From the late 1930s, periodicalscontinued to flourish, though poetry became less central to them: instead newsstories, domestic and international, took centre stage, along with editorial essays.This trend had even become more obvious in al-Fajr, towards the end of its run,when its editors decided to reduce literary content for the sake of greater newscoverage.With independence still years ahead (and not even visible on the horizon),nationalism by the late 1930s had not reached its logical conclusion, withliberation from colonial rule. So why then did poetry wane in importance, evenamong the most ardent proponents of nationalism, when there was so much leftto do? A few points stand out.For a start, in 1938 the regime allowed the formation of the GraduatesGeneral Congress, a consultative assembly in which only educated Northernmen could serve. In this way, the government relaxed its ban on organisedpolitical activity and enabled the graduates to participate in governance in avery limited manner, by discussing and offering suggestions on certain domesticissues, such as education. Arabic poetry and literary activity in general came toseem less important as leading intellectuals focused new energies on political— 172 —www.taq.ir

arabic poetry, nationalism and social changealignments, conscious that power and influence within the Congress were atstake. Meanwhile, parties and factions formed (particularly around the adherentsor affiliates of two religious sectarian groups, the Ansar or neo-Mahdists and theSufi Khatmiyya). Sectarianism in turn eroded the ideal of Sudanese unity thatnationalist poets had espoused, in the days when political repression andopposition to the British had drawn the graduates, inevitably, together (AbuHasabu 1985).In any case, after the foundation of the Graduates General Congress, thequestions for debate had changed. Leading thinkers were no longer asking,‘What was the Sudan, as a nation?’ (a question that poets had broached), butrather, ‘Who should lead the Sudan, as a state?’ The latter question gainedcurrency during and after World War II, as British policy makers began todiscuss plans for administrative devolution (foreshadowing the final transfer ofpower that occurred in 1956). As colonial government employees who werestuck on bureaucracy’s middle rungs, nationalists stood to benefit from thesechanges.Illustrative in this regard is the career of Muhammad Ahmad Mahjub, thepoet, essayist and short story-writer who had argued in the early 1930s that theSudan’s Arabic literary movement and nationalist movement were one and thesame. First a government engineer, then, after 1938, a civil judge, Mahjub threwhimself into Graduates General Congress politics and became a leadingsupporter of the Umma Party and its affiliates, which had links to the neo-Mahdists and opposed ideals of union with Egypt. Mahjub became a ForeignMinister in 1956, the year of independence, Prime Minister in 1965, and UNdiplomat in 1967 (Abu Salim 1991: 9–61; Bashiri 1991: 291–3). For Mahjub asfor others, poetry had been a passion of youth, but careers and party politics tookprecedence as time went on.The sidelining of poetry was in some sense inevitable: by the late 1930s,prose was clearly taking over. Young, leading thinkers were beginning to framemany of their best ideas in essays rather than verse – a natural development in acontext where cheap printed materials and office supplies (and even the personaltypewriter) made writing (as opposed to oral communication) so important.The periodical press had, of course, contributed significantly to this change, byproviding a regular forum for printing and disseminating news and opinioneditorials.By the late 1930s, too, poetry’s social functions had changed among thelearned. For an older generation of educated men, who had reached adulthoodbefore the British conquest, poetry had been a mnemonic tool for record-keeping.Babikr Bedri, for example, a Mahdist army veteran and educator, recalled thatwhen he opened a small-town school around 1910, he set all his lessons to verse,so that his students could retain them (Bedri 1980: 115). His school, in other— 173 —www.taq.ir

heather j. sharkeywords, had been practically paperless, aside from the Koran. For the generationof nationalists, however, trained in modern schools, poetry increasingly lost itsmnemonic functions – cheap books were theirs for reference.Finally, other communications media began to compete with poetry as asource of entertainment and edification. In the mid-1930s, commercial cinemascame to Khartoum showing Egyptian, Anglo-American, and later Indian films,and offering visual, as well as aural stimulation (Sharkey 1998a: 347–51). Radiofollowed a few years later, in 1940, when the Sudan Intelligence Department,fearing a wartime threat from Italy via Abyssinia or Libya, set up ‘RadioOmdurman’ – initially to broadcast war propaganda, later to broadcast generalnews (Boyd 1993). Given the competition from cinema and radio, no wonderpoetry lost ground in the late colonial period; it was no longer the only sourcefor news, analysis and entertainment rolled together.Without a doubt, poetry played a critical role in the development of earlySudanese nationalism. And yet, its appeal had limits, even though its influenceendured to reach new generations of literate Arabic speakers.For a start, Arabic nationalist poetry did not appeal to non-Arabic speakers,who have collectively accounted for a majority of the Sudanese population.According to various estimates, ‘Arabised’ peoples made up only 40 per cent ofthe country’s population in the late twentieth century (Lesch 1998: 17, Metz1992, CIA 2000). As the Sudanese civil war (1955–72, 1983–present) hasshown, the nationalism of the educated Northern Sudanese, and not only theirnationalist poetry, has had ethnic limitations too. The Sudan’s early nationalistswere generally high-status, Arabic-speaking Muslims of the country’s riverainNorth, whom the British groomed to serve in government jobs. Rising to powerat independence in 1956, they claimed leadership over a country that containedspeakers of scores, or by some estimates, hundreds, of different languages (withthe South accounting for much of this diversity). Emphasising Arabic and Islamas platforms of national culture, their nationalism failed to attract many non-Arabic speaking and non-Muslim peoples – however universally ‘Sudanese’ ithad purported to be.Rooted in literary Arabic (fusha) with its formal vocabulary and syntax, someof the poetry of the early nationalists may have been little understood, even inthe riverain North. With only 13 per cent of the population literate to any extentat independence in 1956, and with literacy remaining low in years thereafter (ElBeshir 1967: 71; International Migration Project 1978: 3–7), few were able toread the periodicals or books where this poetry had first been printed. Evenwhen recited, the fusha poetry may have eluded many Arabic-speaking listeners,because of its literary language. 5 Yet, despite its difficulty for the illiterate, fushapoetry had prestige. The mere agreement that it stood at the apex of Arabiclearning and accomplishment would have helped to unite its listeners.— 174 —www.taq.ir

arabic poetry, nationalism and social changeNotwithstanding the limited appeal of early Sudanese Arabic nationalistpoetry, some poems of the 1920s and 1930s became increasingly read afterindependence, for the simple reason that the early nationalists, at decolonisation,became architects of educational policy and enshrined some of theirgeneration’s works in school curricula. As the Sudanese educational systemexpanded in the postcolonial period, successive cohorts of schoolchildren readanthologies of the founding fathers. Meanwhile, once British repression hadbeen lightened or lifted, some members of the nationalist generation confirmedthis trend by publishing memoirs that chronicled the nationalist movement,and asserted their own central role in its heroic resistance – largely through theexchange of poems (Najila 1964, Kisha 1963, Khayr 1991, Mahjub andMuhammad 1986, ÆUthman n.d., Hamad 1980). Still other nationalist poetsreceived attention posthumously, as historians (not literature experts) publishedspecialised volumes on their life and work (al-Banna 1976, Jibril 1991, ÆAbdAllah 1991).Judging by the spate of Arabic literary studies, biographical dictionaries andposthumous poetry compilations that have been published in the past twentyfiveyears, the Sudan’s poet-nationalists of the 1920s and 1930s are retainingtheir pride of place in the country’s Arabic literary canon – perhaps, in part,because their heady optimism, and their faith in national unity and self-help,now seem so appealing in a region beset by political and economic crises. Takentogether, these works suggest that poetry is still important to the country’s highArabic culture, in spite of the growth of prose forms and of film and soundmedia. Biographical dictionaries are especially fascinating in this regard (Sharkey1995). Profiling early nationalists in anecdotal essays while describing theirprofessional and political trajectories, they confirm verbal prowess and poetic skillas marks of intellectual distinction among educated, Arabic-speaking Sudanese.Early nationalist poetry may be prestigious, but its mass appeal is still open toquestion. As the twentieth century closes and the colonial era further recedes,perhaps the only really popular nationalist poems, among those from the 1920sand 1930s, are the songs of Khalil Farah, lyricist and Æud player extraordinaire.In Khartoum Arabic newspapers, and even in English-language webpages (thelatter catering to Sudanese migrant trans-nationals and to those interestedgenerally in Sudanese affairs), Khalil Farah continues to receive homage andpraise, not so much as an early nationalist, but as the ‘father’ or ‘pioneer’ ofmodern Sudanese music (Sidahmed 1996, Verney 1999). 6The colloquial language of Khalil Farah’s songs has undoubtedly contributedto their appeal. In the 1920s, his songs were able to reach broad audiencesbecause even the illiterate could understand them; the same would be true today.For while the Sudanese government has made enormous strides in expandingthe educational system in the postcolonial era, some analysts estimated that— 175 —www.taq.ir

heather j. sharkeyover half the population was illiterate in the 1990s (CIA 2000). 7 From thissituation, a difficult question arises: Can the high culture of the literary languageor fusha, revered as it is, ever be truly popular in Arabic-speaking regions wheredialects vary and where literacy remains such a privilege?In his seminal work on nationalism, Benedict Anderson upheld novels andnewspapers – not poems – as the literary forms that most strengthened nationalistperceptions. By linking individuals across distances of time and space, he argued,both prose genres fostered ‘imagined communities’ of readers (Anderson 1991:22–36). Successive critics have continued to hail the novel, in particular, as ‘asort of proxy for the nation’ (Gandhi 1998: 151) – representing its communalideals, physical settings and mundane concerns within a single narrative frame.The novel, however, came late to the Arabic-speaking world, as a Europeanimport, whereas Arabic poetry was heir to a venerable and vibrant tradition thatstretched back to pre-Islamic times (Badawi 1993, Allen 1995). Throughout theArabic-speaking world in the early twentieth century, poetry was still the goldstandard for verbal and intellectual skill, so that poetry – not the novel – wasthe nation’s early proxy.In the Northern Sudan, poetry had solid credentials for serving the cause ofnationalism. It had a ceremonial and dignifying force, a strong following and areputation for social commitment. Endowed with these strengths, poetry made asmooth transition into print in the early twentieth century, as the periodicalpress first developed. At a time when periodicals were only a few pages long,poems fitted easily into the journal format along with short news articles oressays. Poetry was so all-embracing as a vehicle for expression that even someearly newspaper advertisements took rhymed, poetic form (Salih 1971: 44).When the first Sudanese-owned press faced the challenge of publishing wholebooks in the early 1920s, poets and poetry provided the natural subject for theseventures. In short, poetry was an idiom in which educated men were fluent.And yet, as Sudanese Arabic print culture developed, prose achieved increasingprominence. Nurtured by the periodical press, short essays proliferated inthe form of news articles, editorials, critical essays (on cultural and social topics),and book and film reviews. Many years passed, however, before periodicalsaccommodated narrative fiction. The credit for this development goes to al-Nahda, which began its short run in 1931. With twenty-four-page issues thatwere six times as long as the Arabic periodicals published before World War I,and four times as long as the major Khartoum paper of the 1920s, al-Nahda wasable to encourage writers to experiment with the short story genre and,moreover, to publish the results. It helped that many contributors had readEnglish-language fiction, such as Rudyard Kipling’s Just So Stories, at GordonCollege, 8 so that models for emulation were available (Babiker 1979: 54–98).Arabic novels, however, had to wait until the postcolonial period before— 176 —www.taq.ir

arabic poetry, nationalism and social changeSudanese presses took them on. Boosted by government funding, book productionof all kinds increased after 1956. This trend reflected both the expansion ofhigher education (and hence the increase of reading audiences), as well as ademand for national history and literature texts that could prove the nation’scultural, and not merely political, autonomy. When the masterwork of theSudanese Arabic novel – al-Tayyib Salih’s Mawsim al-hijra ila shamal (Season ofMigration to the North) – appeared in the late 1960s, it was postcolonial in moodand substance, and not only in its timing. In other words, Season of Migration tothe North explored the kind of cultural dislocation and doubt that distinguisheswhat some critics have called the ‘postcolonial condition’ of the late twentiethcentury (Gandhi 1998: 4).In the early twentieth century, by contrast, poetry had been the mouthpiecefor the colonial condition. Living under a British regime in a period of dramaticsocial changes, educated men had turned to its familiar patterns and rituals tomake sense of the world around them. On the one hand, they used poetry tochart the local developments that occurred as the region, under Britain’simperial aegis, moved more closely into a Western-dominated global order. Onthe other hand, they used poetry to rationalise the new territorial and politicalstructure of the ‘Anglo-Egyptian Sudan’, within which a Sudan republic wasborn at independence. In this milieu, a generation of poet-statesmen flourished,using the power and beauty of words to apprehend and define a nation.notes1. The term ‘Arabic culture’ is here used as a more general term than ‘Arabicliterature’. For while the former may include oral and written genres, the latter,through its Latin etymology, implies a lettered tradition or written practice alone.2. The first locally-printed Sudanese Arabic books appeared between 1922 and 1924.3. The Gordon Memorial College at Khartoum, Reports and Accounts to 31st December,1929: 23. A copy of this report is preserved in the Sudan Archive at DurhamUniversity.4. A whole file of such praise poems is preserved in the Sudan Archive at DurhamUniversity. SAD 100/6 [AR]: F. R. Wingate Papers. File of addresses of welcome andverses in praise, in Arabic, composed in honour of the Sirdar and Governor-General, Wingate, dated 1900–6.5. According to one source from the early 1970s, Arabic speakers in the western Sudanreportedly had so much trouble understanding the fusha radio broadcasts fromgreater Khartoum that many preferred listening instead to the colloquial Arabicradio broadcasts emanating from Chad (Metz 1992).6. In 1995, a Khartoum newspaper published a tribute to Khalil Farah on the sixtythirdanniversary of his death in 1932, entitled ‘Khalil Farah: You Will RemainImmortal throughout the Passage of Time’, al-Sudan al-Hadith (Khartoum), 29Jumada al-Ula 1416/ 24 October 1995: 7.— 177 —www.taq.ir

heather j. sharkey7. The CIA World Factbook asserted in its year 2000 edition that the proportion of theSudanese population, age fifteen years and over, that could read and write, was stillbelow 50 per cent (46.1 per cent average total, including 57.7 per cent male literacyand 34.6 per cent female). However, the rates would probably be higher in theriverain North, where Arabic speakers prevail and where the postcolonialgovernment has focused educational resources.8. Sudan Archive, Durham University, SAD 606/5/45–46: E. A. Balfour Papers. Letterfrom E. A. Balfour (teacher at Gordon College) to his mother, dated 9 October1936.— 178 —www.taq.ir

19Marginal Literatures of the Middle EastPeter ClarkIn the last hundred years the Arab world has been given a unity that has beenmore ideological than real. Most Arabs both within the Arab world and beyondacknowledge to some extent some idea of cultural unity. The idea is reinforcedby the existence of the Arab League and other regional organisations and has,by and large, been accepted by all Arab governments. Other Arab countries areshaqiq ‘brother’ rather than sadiq ‘friend’. Modern Standard Arabic, Arab Clubsamong students in British, mainland European and American universities, tapesof Umm Kulthum, the novels of Naguib Mahfouz, the poetry of Nizar Qabbaniand the issue of Palestine all contribute towards this cultural unity. Arabnewspapers treat news of other Arab countries as of greater relevance than newsof Europe, the Far East or the United States.It is easy to see this successful idea, with its emphasis on the territory of theArab world, as somehow deep-rooted and everlasting. The Arabic language, asthe language of Islamic revelation, suggests an unchanging nature of Æuruba,Arabness. Its status is within the realm of sacred geography, and cannot besubject to academic examination or scientific analysis like secular languages.Study of the colloquial Arabic is seen as divisive (Suleiman 1994: 12). Even thestudy of local history can open old wounds and conflicts to the detriment ofArab unity (Jabbur 1993: 11–12).Yet this victorious ideology is, we must remind ourselves, very new. If welook at the Arab world a century ago we can discern three different culturalworlds that transcended the convergence of territory and language. Each had itsdistinctive characteristics. Each overlapped with others. I refer to the Ottomanworld, the Mediterranean world and the Indian Ocean.The Ottoman Empire was probably the most successful Islamic politicalinstitution in history. It occupied major areas of the Arab world for up to fourcenturies. Greater Syria, Egypt and North Africa up to but excluding Moroccowere all deeply affected by the nominal political unity of the Ottoman world.Islamic legitimacy was reinforced by political suzerainty of the Holy Places ofthe Hijaz. One of the titles of the Ottoman Sultan, Servant of the Two SacredPlaces, is now adopted by the Kings of Saudi Arabia. Elites in the OttomanEmpire, political, religious and educated, were mobile. The colloquial Arabic of— 179 —www.taq.ir

peter clarkeach country has Turkish words – belki ‘perhaps’ in Damascus, kubri ‘bridge’ inEgypt, hastahane ‘hospital’ in Iraq, yalek ‘waistcoat’ in Yemen or mekteb ‘school’in Tunis. In the first generation of Arab independence an education at theIstanbul Law School or service in the Ottoman army provided a unity ofcommon experience for many Arab politicians. The first Hashemite rulers ofIraq and Transjordan had grown to adulthood in Istanbul. Their families werelinked by marriage to the Ottoman aristocracy. I remember in 1970 PresidentSuney of Turkey, an old soldier, made a state visit to Jordan. One evening wasspent with elderly Palestinians and Jordanians, including senior members of theruling family. All had memories of World War I and, I was told, the eveningended with the singing of old Ottoman army songs.Contemporary Arabs are often ambivalent in their attitudes towards Turkeyand the Turks. In the University of Damascus the Turkish language is taughtonly in the Department of History. There is a political repudiation of theOttoman Empire from whose occupation Arab countries liberated themselves.On the other hand Turkish architecture and interior decoration is admired, andit is rather chic to have a Turkish grandmother. There is still a branch of theSyrian ÆAzm family in Istanbul.The Mediterranean world overlapped with the Ottoman. But the major portsof the Mediterranean, from Barcelona to Haifa, all had features in common.They all had international communities and a perspective that looked awayfrom the territory. Until the nineteenth century transport was always easier andcheaper by sea than over land. For two millennia Alexandria had large Jewishand Greek populations. Istanbul had Greeks, Italians and Armenians. Beirut andHaifa had strong European and American communities. Salonica had its Jewishand Donme community. Palermo has a church still with an old Byzantine rite.Pisa, Venice, Naples, Marseilles and Barcelona have flourished as a result oftrade with the Ottoman and Arab worlds. Tunis had a quarter known as LaPetite Sicilie. The cosmopolitanism of the ports contrasted with the nationalismof the inner cities – Cairo, Ankara, Damascus. The idea of omerta insouthern Italy is identical with ideas of family honour in many Arab societies.The Ottoman and Mediterranean worlds also overlapped linguistically. Anumber of commercial words, such as sigorta ‘insurance’, entered Turkish andcolloquial Arabic. There were even hybrid words, such as the Syrian colloquialgommaji ‘puncture repairer’ that uses the Italian for rubber with the Turkishagent suffix.The Indian Ocean also had an economic and cultural homogeneity. Therewas a generic similarity in its ports on the northwest shores from Karachi toMombassa via Kuwait and Aden. Arabia, the Gulf and to some extent Iraq werepart of this cultural world. Until 1970 the countries operated with one unit ofcurrency – the Indian rupee. Those who were educated into the modern world— 180 —www.taq.ir

marginal literatures of the middle eastreceived their education in India. Bahrain and Bombay were the great commercialtransit centres for the pearl trade. The British government of India had aforeign policy that was almost separate from that of imperial government inLondon. The Colony of Aden was run from India. British consuls and agents inArabia, Iraq and Iran were appointed from the Indian military and civilianservices. Just as Maltese could be found in every Mediterranean port, so Somaliswere ubiquitous on the northern and western shores of the Indian Ocean.The ideologies of Arab nationalism have denied these rich heritages. Thetwentieth century has seen the triumph of the territorial nationalism of thecities of the interior. The kaleidoscopic mix of communities that were in all thecities and ports has yielded to a more monochrome uniformity. The OttomanEmpire was a multi-ethnic polity. The successor states have worked towards aunified culture. Those who have had a country to return to – Greeks, Maltese,Italians – have gone home. Those Armenians who survived early twentiethcentury Anatolia have contributed to forming the largest non-Arab communitiesin cities like Beirut and Aleppo. Others have moved to Armenia that forseventy years was under Moscow’s influence. Ottoman Kurds and Jews have hadcontrasting fortunes. So many Jews of the former Empire have moved to Palestine,at the expense of the indigenous Palestinians, that it could be argued thatthe State of Israel is a succession state of the Ottoman Empire. From outside theArab world, people of South Asia – Indians, Pakistanis, Bangladeshis and SriLankans – have however increased in numbers in Arabia and the Gulf, albeit onsufferance.Most countries of the area achieved independence only in the twentiethcentury. A major target of the elites of each country was to establish their ownlegitimacy. This legitimacy has been based on a mono-ethnic identity. Otherfoci of loyalty – national or linguistic – have been discouraged. The nationalideologies of Israel and Turkey have been similar. Even the more internationalistideology of the constitution of the Islamic Republic of Iran enshrinesIranian nationality as a condition for full citizenship (Zubaida 1997: 105). In allthese countries illiteracy has been effectively eliminated with an emphasis on anational language. Marginal languages – Armenian, the Circassian languages,Nubian, Coptic, Berber, the languages of Southern Arabia or Southern Sudan –are not taught in government schools, though English and French are. Anofficial mainstream culture has been promoted through schools, universities andthe official media, and backed by the resources of the state, through censorshipand ultimately force.There is nothing exceptional in the Middle East about this. Countries havebeen following the practices of most European countries in identifying anational identity with territory and language. In nineteenth century Italy andFrance only a small minority spoke standard Italian or French (Al-Azmeh— 181 —www.taq.ir

peter clark2000: 73). In the Arab world perhaps an even smaller minority speak theprescribed taught formal Arabic (Parkinson 1994: 207–10).The teaching of literature in schools and universities has been similarlynationalistic. Most literature is taught according to the language in which it iswritten – English, French, Spanish, Arabic, Turkish, Hebrew, and so on. Thestudent and common reader have generally had to discover world literature,usually in translation, on their own. But when we look at writers who have animpact and an influence we find they often defy the concurrence of languageand territory. Arabs of North Africa have long expressed themselves in French.The French educational and cultural influence from the 1930s onwards inTunisia, Algeria and Morocco was overwhelming. A nationalist writer, such asKateb Yacine, thought the French ‘wanted to destroy our nationalism … Thus,whoever wanted an education had to attend French schools.’ Algerian literature,written in French, argued Yacine, was ‘independent of the language it uses,and has no emotional or racial relationship’. Yacine wrote initially in French inorder to address the French directly, showing them what was wrong with thecolonial system, rather than telling his people about a situation they knew in alanguage they did not read (Salhi 2000: 102, 149). Some North African writersin French, such as the Moroccans Tahar bin Jelloun and Driss Chraieb, havewon French literary prizes. The Egyptian Albert Cossery has written from the1930s to the 1990s in French. Others, such as the Algerian Rachid Boujedra,have switched to Arabic in the 1980s and 1990s. Kateb Yacine’s later work wasin the Algerian Arabic and Berber dialects. But is their work only Arabic if it iswritten in Arabic? Is their French work part of Arabic or French literature? Inthe last ten years we have witnessed a growing literature of Arab consciousnessexpressed in English. The Sudanese Jamal Mahjoub, the Jordanian Fadia Faqirand, above all, the Egyptian Ahdaf Soueif have all received critical acclaim intheir English novels.We must get this in proportion. The British are today insular and are singularlyfortunate in having English as a global language. But most people in theworld have a choice of languages in which to express themselves. Seventy percent of the world’s population operate in two languages, forty per cent in three.Early in the twentieth century the Pole Joseph Conrad and the Russian VladimirNabokov mastered the English language to the extent that their works haveentered the canon of English literature. In earlier centuries even the British hada choice of languages in which to express themselves. In the eighteenth centurythe first published work of that master of English prose, Edward Gibbon, was inFrench. In the seventeenth century John Milton wrote poetry in Latin. In thecenturies before that writers from Britain were part of a Latin-writing Europeancivilisation.Again throughout the twentieth century there have been Arabs writing in— 182 —www.taq.ir

marginal literatures of the middle eastEnglish (Nash 1998). There is a library of academic writing by Arabs in English.Eighty years ago Khalil Gibran Khalil and Amin al-Rihani adopted an AmericanEnglish to express their Arab consciousness. In the 1940s another Lebanese,Edward Atiyah, wrote novels about Lebanon and Sudan in English. ThePalestinian Jabra Ibrahim Jabra wrote novels equally in Arabic and English. TheEgyptian Waguih Ghali’s Beer in the Snooker Room, published in the 1950s, hasrecently been reprinted. These writers have all come from the older Ottomanand Mediterranean cultural worlds, but use of a European language was notrestricted to these. The Bahraini poet, the late Ibrahim al-ÆUrayyid, was born inBombay in 1908. His father was a Bahraini pearl-merchant, his mother fromIraq. His first education was in Urdu and English and he went to Bahrain for thefirst time in his teens. But he became a distinguished poet in Arabic, arguablyhis third language. He represents too an Indian Ocean culture, having writtenpoetry also in English and Urdu, and having translated ÆUmar Khayyam fromFarsi into Arabic (Sarhan 1998).The number of Arab writers of quality who are writing in English today hasbecome a critical mass. This is a distinctive phenomenon requiring an explanation.The phenomenon reflects aspects of the contemporary culture of the Arabworld. Individuals have not complied with the orthodoxies prescribed by differentArab regimes. The monopoly of truth assumed by Ministries of Information andEducation, and backed by Ministries of the Interior and security systems, ischallenged by the availability of alternative sources of information, from satellitetelevision to the internet. Millions of Arabs have in the last thirty yearsmigrated as never before, either within the Arab world to oil-richer states or toBritain, mainland Europe or the Americas. Tens of thousands have gone outsidethe Arab world – to east and west Europe and North America – for highereducation. Students return. Families reunite. Experiences are exchanged. Theauthority of the propaganda from the home country crumbles, if it does notcollapse. This weakening of the authority of the domestic education andinformation apparatus has coincided with the emergence of English as a globallanguage. English has become the commercial language of Arabia and the Gulf.Commercial contracts between Japanese and Arabs are drafted in English. It isthe language of numerous international professions. It is the language of themajor international news agencies. Most Arab countries have English televisionchannels and English-language daily newspapers. Al-Ahram has an Englishedition. It is not surprising, therefore, that English has become a language ofcreative expression for many Arabs. Some Arabs find a formality in modernstandard Arabic that inhibits freedom and also style of expression. A Syrianjournalist and academic who writes with equal fluency and distinction in Arabicand English has said that she has a sense of humour when she writes in English,but not when she writes in Arabic. This emerging critical mass of Arab writers— 183 —www.taq.ir

peter clarkwriting on Arab themes in English has some similarity to those North Africanswho have written in French. Although most are subject to anglophone culturalinfluences by living outside the Arab world, they do not have to write inEnglish. The Syrian Zakaria Tamir, the Sudanese al-Tayyib Salih, the JordanianAmjad Nasir and the Lebanese Hanan al-Shaykh have long lived in Britain butcontinue to write in Arabic. With four daily newspapers that circulate widelythroughout the Arab world, London has become a centre of Arab journalism.But we are seeing an Arab literature in English that is parallel to Indian orCaribbean literature in English. Jabra Ibrahim Jabra probably spoke for them allwhen he wrote, in an essay, ‘Why Write in English?’ that ‘my work could onlybe, in the final analysis, Arabic in the profoundest sense. Cultures have alwaysinteracted, but never to the detriment of a nation conscious of its own vitalsources, of the complexity of its own identity’ (Jabra 1988: 15).The contemporary writers I have mentioned have all been writers of fiction,and their work has first been published in Britain. There have been no first rankEnglish-medium poets in Britain from the Arab world. This is in contrast to theUnited States, which has produced an Arab consciousness expressed throughpoetry. I may mention here the Libyan Khalid Mutawwa‘, the Iraqi SargonBoulos and the Palestinians Naomi Shihab Nye and Suheir Hammad whosePalestinian consciousness has been grafted onto a tradition of American blackpoetry (Hammad 1996).I have so far been talking of Arab writing in French and English. But acentury ago Middle Eastern cities were multi-lingual. Members of the BritishLevant Consular Service were expected to be familiar with Latin, French, Greek,Turkish, Arabic and Persian. Italian, German and Spanish were optional(Wratislaw 1924: 2–3). Today most British diplomats serving in the Middle Eastdo not even have Arabic.I have mentioned how Alexandria had a huge Greek population. There wasan Alexandrian Greek literature. The work of Cafavy is well known. His lifeand work are intimately connected with the city. Greeks were in most cities andtowns of Egypt and the Sudan in the early years of the twentieth century. Iwould like to pause and consider the interesting case of Stratis Tsirkas. BornIannis Hadjiandreas in Cairo in 1911, the son of a second generation Greekbarber, he worked in industry in Upper Egypt, and started publishing poetry inthe 1930s, and was active in the Communist Party until the 1960s. He was nopart of the Greek plutocracy and his feelings for Egypt could have beenexpressed by any Egyptian nationalist:And I sing of Egyptbecause she shelters and nourishes me like a mother,because she hurts, like a motherand because she hopes like a mother (Karampetsos 1984: 42)— 184 —www.taq.ir

marginal literatures of the middle eastHis novella, Nourredin Bomba, was published in 1957. It is about theEgyptian revolt against the British in 1918 and was written in honour of therevolution of 1952. But his major work was a trilogy, translated into English asDrifting Cities. Although the main themes are based on the Egyptian Greekcommunity, there is a portrait of a multi-racial, multi-ethnic city neighbourhoodwith a shared humanity. In one scene, the muezzin has called for thesunset prayers, an announcement to all that it is the end of the day.Arab women came out on their doorsteps and called their children in singsong tones.‘Tolbah, Hassan, Felfel, where are you hiding?’ From the balconies, other voicescalled: ‘Marco, Nicola, Virginia, come home now.’ (Karampetsos 1984: 47)The trilogy is unquestionably an Egyptian novel, part of Middle Easternliterature. Tsirkas migrated from Egypt and settled in Greece in 1966, dying in1980. His work is an example of what I call marginal literature. Today theGreek community of Egypt is a shadow of a shadow, yet up to fifty years ago theywere a vital element at all levels of society. To overlook their literature is tooverlook an essential ingredient of twentieth-century literary Egypt.I would like to turn to another fictional work that even more defies easycategorisation. Mohammed Cohen by Claude Kayat was published in Paris in1981. The author was a Jew from Sfax in Tunisia who migrated to France andbecame a teacher of French and English. The novel, written in French, tells thestory of the child of the union of a Sfax Jewish barber and his Bedu wife. Havingswallowed the improbability (but not impossibility) of that union, we follow thenarrative of the Sfaxian childhood and youth of Mohammed who lives to thefull on the margins of Tunisian nationalism. He has three passions in life: Frenchliterature, Arab music and Jewish cuisine. The boy is involved in TunisianZionist camps and he migrates with his family to Israel. He resists pressure tochange his name from Mohammed to something more Hebraic. Mohammedexperiences the difficulties of a Tunisian Jew in Israel and becomes disillusionedwith Zionism. He gets a scholarship to Sweden, stays on, takes Swedish nationalityand marries a Swedish girl. He has problems explaining that he is an ex-Israeli Tunisian half-Jew. When he tries to explain his attachment to his Arabheritage, someone says to him:Alors, tu te sens a moitié juif et a moitié arabe?Non. Cent pour cent juif et cent pour cent arabe.[Then you feel half Jewish and half Arab?No. One hundred per cent Jewish and one hundred per cent Arab.] (Kayat 1981: 263)He and his Swedish wife take a holiday in Tunisia and pay what is forMohammed a sentimental visit to Sfax. Just as they identify the flat whereMohammed was born, the wife has labour pains and, of course, gives birth inthat flat: a satisfying completion of the circle.— 185 —www.taq.ir

peter clarkThe novel is a great read, but also an intriguing and revealing account ofTunisian provincial life, of the dilemmas of a disillusioned Zionist and of theissue of multiple identities. Is it a Tunisian novel? A Jewish or an Israeli novel?A French novel? Should such pigeon-holing matter?A real writer who, like the fictional Mohammed Cohen, may also see himselfas 100 per cent Jewish and 100 per cent Arab is Samir Naqqash. Naqqash wasborn in Baghdad in 1936 and has written plays, novels and short stories, oftenusing the Baghdad Jewish Arabic of his childhood. He migrated to Israel as ateenager but has resisted submission to Israeli Hebrew culture. He sees himselfas part of the Arabic cultural world and has expressed the wish to live in anArab country (Elad-Bouskila 1999: 137). He looks back to Iraq with a certainnostalgia. In his Baghdad childhood he had access to the literature of the world.Coming to Israel meant a narrowing of horizons and a submission to a dominantEuropean Jewish culture (Alcalay 1996: 105). His works have limited print runsand, inevitably, the number of readers who will understand the Baghdad Jewishdialect of the 1940s must be declining annually. Fortunately his works oftenhave a detailed glossary. Nevertheless his work has received critical acclaim, notleast among Arab critics. He is happiest when he visits Egypt and meets Egyptianwriters, and keeps in touch with trends in contemporary Arab literature. Hekeeps abreast of Palestinian literature but finds it too focused on one politicalissue touching the chords of dispossession, nostalgia, loss and grievance. Takethat away, he argues, and not a lot is left. Literature should be either personal oruniversal, uncommitted to any political issue (Clark 2000: 15). Is his work partof Arab literature? Israeli literature? Does it matter?Samir Naqqash is one of a group of Israelis of Iraqi origin who have written inArabic. Yizhak Bar-Moshe and Shimon Ballas long continued to write in Arabic– ‘It is the language in which we lived,’ said the former (Berg 1996: 51) – butlike North Africans in the 1970s and 1980s have for national reasons switchedto Hebrew after twenty or thirty years. Iraqis who migrated to Israel often did soto escape political persecution in Iraq, rather than from any messianic Zionism.Jews such as Murad Mikha’il and YaÆqub Bilbul were pioneers of the Iraqi noveland short story. There is often a sentimentality, perhaps best represented inSami Mikha’il’s novel, Victoria, for a mythic Baghdad that may never haveexisted. Nissim Rejwan, in his memoirs, recalls working in al-Rabita bookshopin Baghdad which became a meeting place for intellectuals and bookworms, andadjourning to the Café Suisse with Buland al-Haydari and other Iraqi writers(Rejwan 1996: 48, 50).If the number of Israeli Jews writing in Arabic is declining, the number ofPalestinian Israelis writing in Hebrew is increasing. The success in 1986 of theHebrew novel, translated into English as Arabesques, by Anton Shammas, wasan outstanding but not an isolated phenomenon. Atallah Mansur had published— 186 —www.taq.ir

marginal literatures of the middle easta Hebrew novel in 1966. But Anton Shammas is one of a group of Palestinianwriters – NaÆim ’Araydi, Nazih Khayr, Siham Da’ud, Samih al-Qasim,Muhammad Hamza Ghana’im, Salman Masalha – who are translating betweenArabic and Hebrew, and writing poetry in Hebrew. All were born after thefoundation of the State of Israel. The revival of Hebrew was a pillar of twentiethcenturyZionism. The incoming Jewish migrants came speaking numerouslanguages. Just as a people needed an exclusive territory, so they needed anexclusive language. Other languages associated with Jews – Yiddish or Ladino –were seen as languages of the Diaspora. Hebrew would help to cement the newnation. Conversely many Arabs outside saw the adoption of Hebrew as alanguage of literary expression by Palestinians as a kind of cultural treason. ButPalestinian Hebrew is not simply an attempt to challenge and undermine theJewish monopoly of the Hebrew language. It is an example of an interactionbetween Arabic and Hebrew culture that is taking place in contemporary Israel,that defies mainstream Arab and Israeli ideologies. ‘I do not know’, NaÆim’Araydi has written, ‘if I, who write in Hebrew, am writing Hebrew literature.But I do know that I am not writing Arab literature in Hebrew’ (Elad-Bouskila1999: 146).Palestinians choose to write in Hebrew out of convenience rather than forideological reasons. This should not come as a surprise. The Palestinians in Israelhave, like Arabs in most other countries, enjoyed universal schooling in the lastgeneration. In their case they have learned Hebrew from primary school. Theylive in a Hebrew-medium environment. All their dealings with police andofficialdom are in Hebrew. They are exposed every day to radio and televisionin Hebrew. Palestinian lawyers, doctors, civil servants and academics have towork in Hebrew. In all this their situation resembles that of North Africans fiftyyears ago. Hebrew for Palestinians, like French for North Africans, is theimperial language, the language of access to authority. The isolation of Palestiniansfrom the rest of the Arab world has made Hebrew an inescapable option asa language of literary self-expression. The language has become internalised.Unlike most of the Israelis of Iraqi origin who have shifted from Arabic toHebrew, the Palestinians are not writing exclusively in Hebrew or abandoningthe use of Arabic. But do we define the novels and poetry produced by IsraeliPalestinians as Arabic literature? Israeli literature? Hebrew literature?Enough has now been said to indicate that there is a huge amount of what Icall marginal literature emanating from the contemporary Middle East. It mayalso be defined as the literature of exile, of ghurba, of ightirab. This may includeArabs expressing themselves in French, English or Hebrew – or, like the SyrianRafik Schami, in German. It may be the literary expression of minorities whohave been eclipsed. It may be Israelis and Palestinians indulging in linguisticcross-dressing. Is it valid to group these disparate writings under one label?— 187 —www.taq.ir

peter clarkPerhaps not, but they all represent different aspects of a common MiddleEastern experience and narrative. And I think they do reflect other culturaldevelopments in the Middle East.The experience of many people from the Middle East in the twentieth centurywas one of dramatic change, of upheaval, dislocation, exile.I have referred to the fact that most Middle Eastern states are creations of thetwentieth century, and from the early part of the century had to assert their ownlegitimacy, in repudiation of either long Ottoman centuries or the overwhelminginternational, economic and technical power of the British and Frenchempires. The infancy of the new states coincided with developments in effectivetechniques of state control and of propaganda. Within most Middle East statesfreedom of expression is often severely curtailed. There are of course nuancesfrom state to state, and the situation is neither monolithic nor unchanging. Butimprisonment, unemployment or exile have been common experiences for mostwriters in the Arab world. Some writers have found hospitality in other Arabcountries: Jabra Ibrahim Jabra in Iraq, ÆAbd al-Rahman Munif in Syria. NizarQabbani and Adonis were for many years based in Lebanon. Very fewPalestinian writers have avoided imprisonment, expulsion or exile.Physical and cultural dislocation has been a fact of life and not just forwriters. Among the thousands who have been educated outside the Middle Eastmany have taken spouses from abroad. Their offspring composes a generationthat is growing up belonging to more than one culture. Multiculturalism is not amatter of public policy, but of personal experience, an experience that isconstantly being reinforced by the information revolution. The assumptions ofnationalism – the convergence of state, territory, people and language – thatnourished mainstream literature have broken down. But the aspects of a MiddleEastern cosmopolitanism of a century ago have reasserted themselves in thesemarginal literatures. It is these literatures that touch on universal themes ofchange, identity, dislocation and adjustment. The marginal should be mainstreamand the mainstream should be marginalised.appendixGetting to Know a Friendly American Jew: ConversationTell me, you’re from Israel?Yes, I’m from there.Oh, and where in Israel do you live?Jerusalem. For the last few years I’ve lived there.Oh, Jerusalem is such a beautiful city.Yes, of course, a beautiful city.— 188 —www.taq.ir

marginal literatures of the middle eastAnd do you … you’re from West … or East …That’s a tough question, depends on who’s drawing the map.You’re funny, and do you, I mean, do you speak Hebrew?Yes, of course.I mean, that’s your mother tongue?Not really. My mother’s tongue is Arabic, but now she speaks Hebrew fine.Oh, Ze Yofi, I learned that in the kibbutz.Not bad at all.And you are, I mean, you’re Israeli, right?Yes, of course.Your family is observant?Pretty much.Do they keep the Sabbath?Me, no, depends actually …Do you eat pork?No, that, no.Excuse me for prying, but I just have to ask you, are you Jewish or Arab?I’m an Arab Jew.You’re funny.No, I’m quite serious.Arab Jew? I’ve never heard of that.It’s simple: Just the way you say you’re an American Jew. Here, try to say‘European Jews.’European Jews.Now, say ‘Arab Jews.’You can’t compare, European Jews is something else.How come?Because ‘Jew’ just doesn’t go with ‘Arab,’ it just doesn’t go. It doesn’t evensound right.Depends on your ear.Look, I’ve got nothing against Arabs. I even have friends who are Arabs, buthow can you say ‘Arab Jew’ when all the Arabs want is to destroy the Jews?And how can you say ‘European Jew’ when the Europeans have alreadydestroyed the Jews? (Chetrit 1996: 362–3)— 189 —www.taq.ir

10 11The Predicament of In-Betweenness inthe Contemporary Lebanese Exilic Novelin EnglishSyrine C. HoutThe last few years of the twentieth century witnessed a proliferation of Anglophoneand Francophone novels by Lebanese-born, and in many cases first-time,authors whose childhood and adolescence were fully or partially spent in wartornLebanon between 1975 and 1991. Rabih Alameddine, Tony Hanania,Hani Hammoud and Alexandre Najjar 1 top the growing list of post-1995literature produced in and about exile, 2 thus dealing not only with the civil strifebut with one of its most crucial and long-lasting by-products: expatriation. 3 Thepost-war novels characterise a new literary and cultural phenomenon, and havefounded what one may predict to become a full-fledged branch of Lebaneseexilic (mahjar) literature.Elise Salem Manganaro opines that ‘it is necessary to examine the everbroadeningdefinition of what constitutes a Lebanese literature’ and argues for a‘literary pluralism’, as many authors with no Lebanese identification papers havenonetheless ‘consciously sought to identify themselves with some aspect of thisamorphous Lebanon’ (1994: 374–5). 4 A new group of mahjar writers, she states,emerged during the war between 1975 and 1991 in the US, Canada, WesternEurope and Latin America. In addition to the geographical distance enjoyed byimmigrant authors, the post-war exilic narratives are written with the hindsightnecessary to create a critical distance from the immediacy of violence and chaos.Emerging a few years after peace had been achieved in Lebanon, these textsexhibit a more recent consciousness, one replete with irony, parody and scathingcritiques of self and nation.Notwithstanding their exilic condition, the relatively young authors of thepost-1995 mahjar literature share with their immediate literary predecessors, inLebanon and abroad, what Marianne Hirsch calls the survivor memory. Despitetheir differences in age and experience, their collective work does and willcontinue to embody, for a while at least, the memories of the first generation ofwar survivors. Second-generation writers who grow up dominated not by thetraumatic event itself but by narratives that preceded their birth display whatHirsch terms ‘postmemory’. Qualitatively, this literature is different because it is— 190 —www.taq.ir

the predicament of in-betweennessconnected to its object of study ‘not through recollection but through animaginative investment and creation’ (1998: 420). In light of this definition,Lebanese war literature based solely on postmemory, if there is to be one,cannot be expected to come into full force before the middle decades of thetwenty-first century.Elie Chalala claims that ‘writing from exile and in different languagesmarginalizes and limits the effectiveness’ of the work of intellectuals living abroad.Further, he argues that ‘segments of the literary and artistic communities have… failed to match the commitment of their pre-1975 predecessors’, as ‘somehave chosen a post-modernist, post-structuralist, and post-colonial approach,producing works accessible only to Western elitist audiences’ (2000: 24). Whileworks written in languages other than Arabic may be inaccessible to a strictlyArabic-speaking readership, it is erroneous to suggest that the aforementionedapproaches to literature, especially the third, are peculiar to Western intellectualismand, therefore, are fake and/or pretentious when adopted by writers ofArab origin. Chalala’s term commitment betrays his penchant for realism as theonly serious method for analysing the Lebanese war. What he fails to appreciateare the subjectivity, selectivity and self-referentiality of literature, irrespectiveof the language and the region in which it is produced. Although French is theex-colonial language of Lebanon, many Lebanese have perfected English astheir second language. 5 André Chedid writes that there is ‘in each Lebanese adouble inclination for both Europeanization [and Americanization] and Arabization;a complex situation, sometimes contradictory, often harmonized’ (quotedin Accad 1990: 28).What is the relationship between exile and nationalism? Almost all postcolonialThird World fiction raises questions about the nation. Timothy Brennanargues that as a result of insurgent nationalism, international capitalism, andcultural globalism, postcolonial novels are unique in portraying the topics ofnationalism and exile as two realities ‘unavoidably aware of one another’ (1991:62). In one particular type of this literature, he contends, ‘the contradictorytopoi of exile and nation are fused in a lament for the necessary and regrettableinsistence of nation-forming, in which the writer proclaims his identity with acountry whose artificiality and exclusiveness have driven him into a kind ofexile – a simultaneous recognition of nationhood and an alienation from it’(63). Edward Said states that nationalism is ‘an assertion of belonging in and toa place, a people, a heritage. It affirms the home created by a community oflanguage, culture, and customs; and, by so doing, it fends off exile, fights toprevent its ravages’ (1994: 359). Unlike the national, he argues, exile is‘fundamentally a discontinuous state of being’ (360). Both Brennan and Saidthink of the nation and exile as opposite realities. Further, while the nation isviewed as an entity and exile as a particle ejected or self-expelled therefrom, the— 191 —www.taq.ir

syrine c. houtformer acquires the attributes of stability and centrality, while the latterbecomes synonymous with anxiety and marginality. For both critics, the exile isalways ‘out of place’ (Said 362) or ‘ec-centric’, someone who feels his differenceas ‘a kind of orphanhood’ (Said 1984: 53).Other critics depoliticise the concept of exile by emphasising its philosophicaland psychological, specifically its existential, dimensions. Hamid Naficyexplains that after having been associated in the past either implicitly orexplicitly with a present or absent home, or a homeland, as referent, the idea ofexile is ‘now in ruins or in perpetual manipulation’, free ‘from the chains of itsreferent’ (1999: 9). Martin Tucker equates ‘exilism’ as a universal state of being,with a ‘plurality of referents’ (1991: xi). In its post-modern guise, ‘exile’ itselfseems to have been exiled from its original home or meaning. As a ‘discontinuousstate of being’, to quote Said again, it fulfils one’s desire for displacements,dislocations and detours in post-modern culture. In Strangers to Ourselves (1994),Julia Kristeva contends that everyone is becoming a foreigner to himself orherself in a world that is becoming increasingly heterogeneous and fragmentedbeneath its ostensible technological and media-inspired oneness. In this context,humanity as a whole is orphaned.This chapter focuses on two Anglophone novels, Rabih Alameddine’sKoolaids: The Art of War (1998) and Tony Hanania’s Unreal City (1999), 6 withthe aim of analysing the post-war exilic sensibility conveyed by these twounique yet comparable contemporary works. The questions to be raised are thefollowing: how is nationalism (re)defined in the context of a civil war caused,among other factors, by the very absence of collective national identity andcivic-mindedness? In such a fragmented nation, what constitutes home? Andhow is one’s original home viewed from a geographical and temporal distance?Evidently, both narratives betray a certain degree of nostalgia evinced in thevery fact of having been published. Nationalism, defined in psycho-social termsas the devotion and loyalty to one’s own nation – that is, patriotism – assumesthe sense of personal as well as communal belonging to derive from some kind ofconformity or continuity. If so, how does nationalist sentiment suffer or changewhen such conformity and/or continuity are neither possible nor perhaps evendesirable?Borrowing Rosemary George’s terms in The Politics of Home, I show bothKoolaids and Unreal City to be neither nationalist nor immigrant texts, asneither one deals with the nation exclusively as ‘object and subject’ (1996: 12)or entirely ‘unwrites nation and national projects’ (186). Instead, both novelsdisplay the predicament of cultural and national in-betweenness. The samecritic argues that there are several factors – such as home, gender/sexuality, raceand class – which act as ideological determinants of the human subject (2). InGerman, the etymological link between Heim (home) and Heimat (nation),— 192 —www.taq.ir

the predicament of in-betweennesssignifying respectively the private and the public spheres, is much more obviousthan in English. For George, ‘home-country’ is the ‘intersection of … individualand communal that is manifest in imagining a space as home’ (11).It is this intersection of the personal and the collective that constitutes thefocus of my reading and, more specifically, how it largely determines theprotagonists’ attitudes towards both their original (nation) and adopted (exile)homes. As Eva Hoffman explains, ‘within the framework of postmodern theory,we have come to value exactly those qualities of experience that exile demands– uncertainty, displacement, the fragmented identity’ (quoted in Tirman 2001:par. 6). Koolaids and, to a lesser degree, Unreal City cannot but be read inrelation to literary post-modernism. In both novels, exile neither dampens norstrengthens nationalistic feeling. Instead of pitting exile against ‘original home’or nation as two diametrically opposed realities – as Said and Brennan do – andsinging the praises of the one or the other, Alameddine and Hanania show exileto be independent of geography by locating it within the individual, the nationand the host country, as theorised by the second group of critics mentionedearlier. Feeling at home is associated with freedom, a sense of belonging andpersonal dignity, wherever and whenever these may be found and enjoyed.Exile, by contrast, is a state of cognitive and emotional dissonance, whethergenerated by war and political/sectarian division in one’s own nation or inducedby physical uprootedness abroad. Both novels portray a complex relationshipbetween self-love and love for a bleeding nation. Staying in Lebanon does notprove love for one’s country of birth anymore than leaving it affirms indifferencetowards it.As a novel which draws parallels between the Lebanese civil war and theAIDS epidemic in the US, Koolaids has attracted the attention of readers andreviewers in the East and West. 7 As Michael Denneny states, fiction respondingto AIDS has become more ambitious in the last few years by ‘seeing this epidemicin the wider context of humanity and history’. He equates Alameddine with‘the great Latin American masters of fiction … who confront the concretehistorical dilemmas of their own people with a soaring, almost metaphysicalimagination that irradiates the ultimately particular with universal meaning’(1999: 21). Sarah Schulman’s comment that Koolaids’ ‘content reflects the needfor justice’ 8 is compatible with Adnan Haydar’s reading of the novel as oneengaged in an endless critical process aimed at a grammar of truth but whosecontent, in a true post-modernist fashion, is rendered absurd through irony andparody. Thus, the text is not about the Lebanese civil war but rather aboutconditions of war, furnishing a view of global history and common destiny.Leo Spitzer argues that in the twentieth century nostalgia – which had beenused earlier to describe the emotion of ‘homesickness’ 9 – came to signify ‘anincurable state of mind’ in which the feelings of absence and loss could no— 193 —www.taq.ir

syrine c. houtlonger be replaced by those of presence and gain except through reconstructivememory (1998: 376). In underscoring the positive aspects of what he calls‘nostalgic memory’, Spitzer cites French sociologist Maurice Halbwachs, whoviews nostalgia as the mechanism which frees individuals and groups from theconstraints of time by allowing them to transcend its irreversibility and thusfocus on the positive in their traumatised past. Nostalgic memory is crucial forthe reconstitution and continuity of individual and collective identity of allkinds. By contrast, critical memory, according to Spitzer, incorporates ‘thenegative and bitter from the immediate past’. But this type of memory is equallysignificant to the retrospective act of self-definition (384).Alameddine weaves both forms of memory – nostalgic and critical – into hisliterary collage. Sweet and bitter memories exist side by side. Interestingly,unlike all other fragments whose narrators may be determined upon a secondreading, those expressing nostalgia for happier times remain anonymous, articulatingperhaps the covert homesickness of the Lebanese characters abroad. Inone segment, pining for the scent of pine is triggered by either imagining orencountering its smell, which ‘calls the [narrator] home’ (Alameddine 1998:83). As Margaret Morse explains, the memory of home can be evoked by certainsensory experiences, the olfactory one being the most prominent. Thus, parts ofhome ‘can be chanced upon, cached in secret places safe from language’ (1999:68). Elsewhere, the nameless narrator declares: ‘Lebanon is a piece of land …but it’s our land, our home (even if actually we are not living there). It’s ourSweet Home, and we love it. So we are called Lebanese’ (Alameddine 183). Theunidentified voice seems to speak for those Lebanese exiles whose love for theircountry is genuine and inclusive, that is, free of any political and/or religiousbias.In a letter excerpt posted on the internet, Wayne Kasem, a Lebanese-American, writes: ‘I agree with many of the writers that Lebanese are free to beArabs if this is their cultural identity, and they are free to be Western if that istheir cultural identity, or even Aramaic. This is the point. In Lebanon, oneshould be free to be different. This is the essence of being Lebanese and theessence of being American’ (Alameddine 71–2). One of these writers, I believe,is Alameddine himself. In his acknowledgements, he describes himself as ‘anerrant non-conformist’ (viii). While he may be referring to his homosexuality,this self-labelling may also be understood as a lack of commitment to aparticular religious sect and/or political ideology.According to Kasem and Alameddine, cultural identity is different fromnational identity in two ways: first, it is inculcated in the maturing Lebaneseindividual by his or her immediate social milieu; second, it should be secondaryto, albeit larger than, that individual’s inherited nationality. Therefore, whilecherishing one’s acquired cultural identity, including one’s religious beliefs,— 194 —www.taq.ir

the predicament of in-betweennessevery citizen should be ‘a Lebanese first’ (71), that is, open-minded enough tobe respectful of other Lebanese irrespective of their cultural allegiances. Onlythe distinction between these two types of identity would guarantee collectiveloyalty to the idea(l) of Lebanon as a pluralistic yet unified nation. 10But unlike Kasem, and as may be gleaned from the novel as a whole,Alameddine does not view the war in retrospect as ‘a legitimizing event … thecrucible in which the nation of Lebanon was born’ (Alameddine 70). Nor doeshe see wars in general as having any positive effects. The character Mohammad,who comes closest to representing the author himself, quotes James Baldwin bysaying that ‘[p]erhaps the whole root of … the human trouble, is that we willsacrifice all the beauty of our lives, will imprison ourselves in totems, taboos,crosses, blood sacrifices, steeples, mosques, races, armies, flags, nations, in orderto deny the fact of death, which is the only fact we have’ (124). Despite itsatheistic, stoical and/or cosmopolitan spirit, this statement is neither antinationalisticnor anti-religious; it simply bewails the drowning of human life,happiness and freedom in the quagmire of jingoism and religious fanaticism.Like AIDS, war destroys one’s life, claims the lives of loved ones, and kills largenumbers of people at random.Despite their different behaviours and attitudes, the conduct of all theLebanese characters in the novel is tinged by the war. The physical exilesamong them exhibit what Edward Said calls ‘contrapuntal consciousness’, thatis, the inevitable double or plural visions which exiles acquire as a result of beingaware of two or more cultures (1994: 366). While Mohammad’s perception isdominant, Samir’s and Makram’s contribute to the novel’s polyphony. Theirhomosexuality aside, Mohammad (a Muslim), Samir (a Druze), and Makram (ofa Christian Maronite father and a Muslim mother) represent not what thereader may think of as the (stereo)typical attributes of their religious sects butrather three possibilities of personal reactions to the war situation. Familialrelationships, psychological makeup and physical distance from Lebanon shapetheir nationalistic sentiments or lack thereof in various combinations.Mohammad, born in Beirut in 1960, eventually overcomes his ‘childhood ofcomplete and utter confusion’ (Alameddine 8) after his family relocates to andthen back from West Africa to Lebanon. But he is soon pressured to join hisuncle in Los Angeles, and so leaves in 1975 at the age of fifteen. Financiallyinsecure and dismayed by his father’s unwillingness to support his education atan art school in San Francisco, he never returns. After gaining financialindependence as a painter, he ‘lost [his] roots’ (122). Samir Bashar, born inWashington, DC in 1960, moves back at the age of seven to Beirut, and leavesin 1978 to study at a university in Paris. In 1983, he returns to Washington, his‘hometown, so to speak’ (81), to pursue a PhD in history at GeorgetownUniversity. After resettling in the US, he continues to revisit Lebanon— 195 —www.taq.ir

syrine c. houtperiodically. Unlike Mohammad, Samir is painfully aware before and after eachvisit that he ‘had separated [him]self for too long’ (208). Makram is born inBeirut in 1970 and is killed, without ever having left, in 1989, along with hismother.All three men die, whether of AIDS or during the war. Also, Mohammadloses two brothers, and Makram his father in war-related accidents. AlthoughMohammad and Samir avoid possible physical annihilation by departing, theydo not end up ‘in ivory towers’ as some of those who never left Lebanon mightthink (Alameddine 219). For unlike immigrants who start new lives in a newhome, ‘exiles never break the psychological link with their point of origin’(Pavel 1998: 26). Notwithstanding the possibility of returning home, expatriation– that is, voluntary exile – is quite similar to involuntary exit, if whatensues is the ‘pattern of exilic behavior’ (Tucker 1991: xv).Estranged from his disapproving father and submissive mother, who cut offall communication with him, Mohammad adopts and practises the belief that‘[w]e build our own family’ (Alameddine 115) by devoting ten years of his lifeand some of his artwork to his American lover Scott, whose last words are ‘Ilove you, Mohammad’ (13). Despite the love he receives from Scott, his ownsister Nawal, his Guatemalan housekeeper Maria, and a handful of compassionateAmericans and Lebanese, Mohammad never surmounts his obsession with hisoriginal home and country. John Tirman states that the three core constituentsof memory, which serves as the ‘emotional channel to the homeland’, arelanguage, culture and history. In Mohammad’s case, his memory is revealed byhis unconscious in three areas: his dreams, his paintings (culture) and his ‘slips’into Arabic (language).As Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s personal experience in his prologue to StrangePilgrims demonstrates, while in exile some night dreams fulfil the dual purpose ofallowing the expatriate, first, to bridge past (nation) and present (exile) and,second, to conscientiously examine his or her own identity (1994: viii). Similarly,although Mohammad ‘can’t touch home’ (Alameddine 166) physically, his fourdreams transport him to an earlier time in Beirut, once where he meets hisadolescent self, and his family welcomes him without recognising his olderversion, causing him to decide once again to take off. As Chénieux-Gendronexplains, in a state of self-loss, the exile searches for that which, in childhood,foreshadowed the exile to come (1998: 164–5).Arguing that visual language is more transportable than language to a placeof exile, Linda Nochlin maintains that visual artists, using concrete materials,find it easier to translate their familiar worlds than writers, for whom the loss ofnative language is more devastating (1998: 37). In keeping with this theory,Mohammad, while clearly traumatised, succeeds as a painter but fails as a writer.Scott and Samir, individuals with whom Mohammad shares respectively his— 196 —www.taq.ir

the predicament of in-betweennesssensibility and nationality, see in his work his ‘dreams … fears … mother …father [and] the war which tore [his] life apart’ (Alameddine 13). In whatAmerican art critics interpret as Mohammad’s abstract art, Samir sees Druze,Christian and Muslim village houses and admires his compatriot for havingrealistically ‘captured Lebanon’ and told ‘the tale of [his] home’ (101). Later, tothe mythological, psychoanalytical, philosophical and metanarrative interpretationsof American critics, Samir adds a nativist one when he sees a jackass oncanvas as a symbol of an outmoded means of Lebanese transportation, and thepainting as a whole as ‘mourn[ing] the death of a country’ (190). As may beseen, nostalgic memory, to borrow Spitzer’s concept, permits Mohammadthrough the cultural medium of his paintings to bypass the war years andreconnect himself to the untarnished image, if not the reality, of a simpler andreligiously harmonious nation.As Svetlana Boym demonstrates, bilingual exiles can rarely shed an accent,and their ‘[e]rrors betray the syntax of the mother tongue’ (1998: 244). English,spoken with an accent, slips away in Mohammad’s moments of delirium,drunkenness and anger. Here, Arabic as a whole takes over, re-attaching him tohis linguistic roots. Mohammad, nicknamed Mo, often refers to this linguisticcondition as a predicament. Fitting in America without belonging there, andbelonging in Lebanon without fitting there epitomises his linguistic, emotionaland mental state of cultural in-betweenness.Interestingly, Mohammad’s location of home keeps shifting. Critical memory,the opposite of the nostalgic kind, is exhibited when he declares that he hateshis sister’s cooking because it ‘reminds [him] of home’ (Alameddine 17). Later,however, when she ‘talks to [him] of home’, he insists that he is ‘home’ (212).Here, the distinction between original and adopted home discussed earliercomes to mind. Although Mohammad insists that his happiest day was when hebecame an American citizen and tore up his Lebanese passport, in his lastmoments he curses Lebanese and Americans alike. Further, he expresses hisexilic mood as follows:I tried so hard to rid myself of anything Lebanese. I hate everything Lebanese. But Inever could. It seeps though my entire being. The harder I tried, the more it showedup in the unlikeliest of places. But I never gave up. I do not want to be consideredLebanese. But that is not up to me … Nothing in my life is up to me. (243–4)Clearly, while it may be easy to extricate oneself from one’s home-country, it isa lot harder to expunge one’s national traits from one’s appearance or psyche.Boym argues that there are two types of nostalgia, depending on whether thestress is laid on the nostos – which implies the desire to return to a mythicalhome – or algia – which is enthralled by the distance, and not by the referentitself. This ironic nostalgia is fragmentary in that it ‘accepts (if it does notenjoy) the paradoxes of exile and displacement’ (1998: 241). Mohammad’s— 197 —www.taq.ir

syrine c. houtestrangement from Lebanon and later from America is symptomatic of hisironic nostalgia. By contrast, Samir demonstrates a modified version of tendernostalgia by shuttling back and forth between two homes. His good relationshipwith his father and mother, who come to accept his homosexuality and illness,helps him in maintaining his physical connection to Lebanon. Unlike manyLebanese whose professed love for their country shrank or remained tied tospecific territories, defined by their respective religious sects, Samir’s grew whilecontinuing to be secular and apolitical. With his mother and his long-timeAmerican lover on his side, Samir dies in peace, ‘at home’ with himself. Makram,by contrast, dies at home but not in peace. The eventual elimination of Makram’sinterfaith family symbolises the erasure of hope for a politically and religiouslyharmonious nation. Raised on the principles of tolerance and love, Makram diestoo young to effect any positive changes in members of his generation, let aloneposterity.Luckily, however, hope for a better future for Lebanon lurks in two ofMakram’s female friends: Nawal, Mohammad’s young sister, and Marwa, herbest friend, both born in 1972. Both are ambitious, principled and highlyeducated. Ironically, however, their academic success abroad lowers theirchances of refitting into Lebanese society. In the US, they ‘were never able tocompletely shed their indigenous relationship with their culture’ (Alameddine79). Conversely, they refuse to abide by patriarchal Lebanese mores andcustoms, especially those of marriage. Mohammad wonders why his sister ‘keptgoing home at least twice a year’ but admits that, in doing so, she remained ‘thefamily bridge’ (156). In wishing to go back permanently after he dies and carrythe fruits of their exilic lives to a country which needs them, Nawal and Marwarepresent ‘a new breed, a new species’ (79), that is, a new hope for Lebanon.Unlike Mohammad and Samir, who spend their lives, shortened by AIDS,reacting to their past centred on one or two turning points, these two womenmanage to bridge the gap between home and abroad by evolving into responsibleindividuals. If anything, exilic life has strengthened their nationalistic feelingsand sense of duty. Whether this achievement is due to gender and/or sexualorientation is not made clear, as their voices are mediated mostly throughMohammad’s consciousness.Unlike most aforementioned characters, several others suffer from internalexile. As Susan Rubin Suleiman states, ‘All travelers are outsiders somewhere… but not all outsiders are travelers’ (1998: 3). Zygmunt Bauman corroboratesthis view by equating exilic existence with three modes: being literally out ofplace, needing to be elsewhere, and not having that ‘elsewhere’ where onewould rather be. From this perspective, exile becomes a place of compulsoryconfinement, one that is ‘itself out of place in the order of things’ (1998: 321).David Bevan takes this opinion one step further by suggesting that ‘exile within— 198 —www.taq.ir

the predicament of in-betweennessa place is often still more poignant than exile from a place or exile to a place’(1990: 3).In Koolaids, Samia Marchi – a thirty-year-old Muslim wife and mother, bornon the Christian side of the so-called Green Line between Christian East andMuslim West Beirut – sees herself as ‘a true Beiruti … no matter what otherssay’ (Alameddine 85). But a militiaman at a checkpoint, speaking in French,insists that she is no longer from East Beirut although her French would allowher to fit in under the bizarre standards that applied during the war. Herextramarital affair with Nicola Akra, a handsome Christian thug, is a symboliccrossing from West to East Beirut and a union of two religions, cut short bypolitical division and moral corruption. Other characters – like the GreekCatholic Mr Suleiman, the Palestinian Fatima and the Muslim Amin Baghdadi– are killed randomly or deliberately on their way home or while visiting theirhometowns. The loss of the safety associated with home turns the entire countryinto an exile with no exits. These tragic stories are captured by a roving eye andstrewn, like the bodies of their victims, throughout the text. More significantly,they show the complementary, not the contradictory, nature of exile andnation; the civil war transforms life in one’s homeland into a state of exile, or a‘discontinuous state of being’ (Said 1994: 360).Benedict Anderson argues that modern communications, particularly theinternet and e-mail, create what he terms long-distance nationalism, that is, thetechnological capacity of diasporic national groups to participate in the politicallife of their nations. Thus, a new or post-modern form of nationalism, namelydiasporic nationalism, is born (Tirman). The dates of the sundry letters ande-mails that Alameddine scatters throughout Koolaids range between 19 Marchand 2 August 1996. They encapsulate concurrent, discrepant views on whatconstitutes Lebanese nationalism. Depending on the speaker, anti-Arab, anti-Syrian, anti-Muslim, anti-Hizbullah, anti-Christian or anti-Israeli sentimentsare prerequisites for being a true Lebanese. While electronic correspondencefacilitates discussion, some mailing lists are limited to like-minded recipients.The result is a cacophony in tune with the splintered narration of this mosaicnovel. What Alameddine is showing us, again, are the immense danger anddisastrous consequences of confusing cultural and national identities and mistakingthe former for the latter. Positioning oneself with or against an external,larger national/cultural group (here, Arab, Syrian or Israeli), a religious one(Christian or Muslim) and/or a political one (Hizbullah) in the name of ‘true’Lebanese nationalism is, in fact, the very negation of enlightened and tolerantnationalism.Like Koolaids, Unreal City is ‘a novel about division – cultural, religious,political, and physical’ (Vinten 1999: 22). It has been dubbed ‘a Lebanese Warand Peace, with the personal and national tragedies intertwined’ (Padel 1999).— 199 —www.taq.ir

syrine c. houtHanania sees himself as ‘an exile’ who writes about ‘doomed youth, … exile,alienation, loss, and the consolations of worldly sensuality’ in relation to ‘thefalse consciousness of politics, religion, and public ethics.’ He states: ‘Throughthe idea of Lebanon, through Lebanon as an idea, I explore exile as alienation.To this extent, the modern everyman is a Lebanese’ (interview). But unlikeAlameddine, Hanania weaves the themes of exile and nationalism into the firstpersonaccount of a nameless protagonist, thereby refraining from making anydiscursive and/or direct statements about either topic. Although Hanania hasbeen known to identify himself as a Palestinian, his main character is a LebaneseShiite; therefore, my discussion of nationalism will be tied to Lebanon.The novel’s three books – Sidon, Dark Star and Homecoming – aresubdivided into sections indicating the place(s) and month(s) and/or year(s) ofaction. The events – stretching from the pre-war years to July 1990 – are presentedin a more or less linear fashion from the vantage point of one full day inthe present – 3 February 1992 – which frames the text and on which thenarrator is expected to assassinate a ‘renegade’ Muslim writer living in Londonin a suicide mission. Thus, all the narrative threads are made to converge on thisanticipated climax. The autobiographical account, written outside of Lebanon,contains metanarrative references to its genesis, evolution and approaching endas a ‘testimony’ (Hanania 1999: 19) to a life wasted but about to be redeemed ina final act of self-sacrifice for a common cause. The narrator’s reliability andtruthfulness are compromised, however, by years of drug use, as he ‘woulddiscover pages [he] did not remember writing, in a hand [he] barely recognizedas [his] own.’ Due to its ‘unbidden’ nature, he keeps it hidden but ‘[t]o [his]dismay the text [finds] its way into the hands of … a Yemeni radical, and [is]copied, and circulated first among dissident student groups, and then among thewider expatriate community’ (197–8). Besides being too high on opium tocontrol his writing, the narrator cannot decide the influence his words will haveon his own life. Initially intended as a cathartic transcription of his personalhistory and a search for some sort of meaning, the text, in an ironic twist ofevents, decides the narrator’s fate by paving his way towards ultimate meaningin death.The only child of a half-Palestinian, half-English mother and a Lebaneseuniversity professor, the narrator splits his time between Lebanon and England.Having lost his mother at a young age, he suffered from ‘a lonely upbringing’(Hanania 194) in a villa within a short radius with the campus of the AmericanUniversity of Beirut as its centre. Between ‘the cold exile of boarding-school’(196) in England and ‘those dreary … afternoons in the years before the war’(221) in Lebanon, the narrator has led a sheltered and repressed childhood.Restrictions on food and drink, movement and behaviour due to his highersocio-economic class make him wish not only to taste sweets he ‘had been— 200 —www.taq.ir

the predicament of in-betweennessforbidden as a boy’ (126) but to savour freedom by rebelling against familialauthority and going ‘beyond the boundaries prescribed’ (53).Rebellion manifests itself in many forms: the addiction to opium and sleepaids (Nembutal), the ‘unveiling’ of emotions via writing, the contradiction ofparental wishes, and taking refuge in political extremism by joining the Shiiteparty Jihad al-Binaa. What leads to defiance is primarily guilt deepened by regret.The narrator is the victim not of the civil war but of ‘the remote [my emphasis]insouciance that comes to those who have survived a war in which they havenot participated’ (Hanania 194–5). He feels inferior to ‘the names of formerstudents of [his] father … who had died defending the strongholds in Tyre andBeaufort Castle’ (168). But cowardice underpins his passivity. He writes: ‘I wouldnever have the courage to go out into the [Palestinian refugee] camps’ (142) and‘would lose my nerve beyond the Commodore [Hotel]’ (179). To assuage hisguilt, however, he gives money and cigarettes to his friends and poor villagers,and powdered milk, chocolate, old clothes, toys and even his Nembutal tabletsto needy and injured children.Guilt is instigated by several facts: the narrator’s privileged status as a memberof two cultures – resulting from his mixed parentage, ‘mobile’ (extended) familyand Western schooling – on the one hand, and his belonging to an oppressivefeudal family from southern Lebanon, on the other. As a boy, he wished toknow from his Lebanese friend Ali, whose ancestors had served his own, about‘the crimes of the old beys [chiefs]’ (Hanania 56), a fact of which he is laterreminded when his room in the Ealing Husseinya in London is ransacked byboys whose ‘families had suffered under the beys’ (259). After joining the Shiitemilitary organisation, he is he told by Ali’s father, Musa-al-Tango, how thelatter ‘had always known … that the last of the beys [that is, the narrator] wouldredeem the crimes of all his forefathers’ (253). The narrative re-ordering of hispast from his point of view in the present makes the reader anticipate a teleologicaldevelopment of events despite the aimless and precarious existence ledby the narrator. As he puts it, his ‘conversion has been the only child of fate’ (30).The road to redemption is not smooth but ‘wrinkled’ by spatial and temporalgaps, as the narrator spends the war years shuttling between Madrid, Londonand Beirut. Three characters – his two British companions, Leighton and Verger,and later Ali – help connect the narrator’s disjointed experiences by appearingin both Beirut and London at various points. The narrator’s psychologicalmobility, vouchsafed by his cultural and national in-betweenness, makes him atdifferent times spurn requests by his father, his Palestinian girlfriend Layla, andAli for him to stay in any one place, whether that be Europe or Lebanon. Afterhis mother’s death and his father’s remarriage to an American, the idea of afixed home has been replaced for him by what James Clifford calls ‘dwelling-intraveling’(1997: 36). His self-indulgent travelling is contrasted with the— 201 —www.taq.ir

syrine c. houtinvoluntary exit of many villagers who have fled from blood feuds and faminesto West Africa and South America and sometimes returned with fortunes madeabroad.The narrator’s memories of Lebanon, resurfacing during the ‘seven yearssince [he] had been home [here, Lebanon]’ (Hanania 197) and given narrativeshape between 1985 and 1992, are nostalgic, not critical. He fondly rememberslistening to martyr plays and old Abu Musa’s tales, and touching the fountain’scarved lions. Familiar sights, sounds, tastes and smells encountered during hischildhood spell ‘home’ for him. He frequents the Lebanese restaurant Al-Bustanin Ravenscourt Park so that he can savour the ‘Shish’Taouk in the old villageway’ (15). The ‘sweet juices running over the gums and tongue’ evoke the‘heraldic blue of the sky and the terraced hills and the distant margin of the sea,all that could never change there’ (16). According to Ghassan Hage, nostalgiacan be active and always functions metonymically. Furthermore, it is not so mucha yearning for a place as it is for an intensely personal experience associatedtherewith. Not only does this alimentary experience trigger the recollection ofthat which is naturally and consistently beautiful due to its indestructibility bywar but also that of eating forbidden foods offered to him by Ali’s mother butnever served in his uncle Samir’s house in Sidon. The memory is so precious andprecarious that dessert at Al-Bustan is shunned lest it threaten ‘to take away thetaste of what [he] had just eaten’ (17). Specific tastes and smells are alsoattached to certain childhood friends who remind him of home. For thenarrator, Lebanon is never just a symbol or an ideal – as is sometimes the case inKoolaids – but a lived reality or, to reiterate George’s term, a home-country inwhich the personal and the public overlap and contribute equally to ‘imagininga space as home’ (11).As Morse explains, ‘home’ here is a repertoire of familiar sensory experiences.Later the war, partly spent in his Beirut residence overlooking the sea, becomesassociated in the narrator’s mind with a set of peculiar and unpleasant sights,smells and sounds: the ever-higher heaps of rubbish – alternatively rotting andburning – the humming of generators and the din of explosions. Hage explainsthat although the object triggering the memory may itself be disagreeable, theresulting recollection is always sweet. In the days of heavy shelling and restrictedmovement, rationing becomes necessary and hunger makes the narrator crave‘foods [he] had always hated, some [he] did not know [he] had ever eaten’ (144).But life outside of Lebanon, too, is associated with certain alimentary habits. Atthe supermarket in Beirut, the narrator buys ‘the last supplies of those staples[he] had developed a taste for at [his English] boarding-school [and] which likethe apples of [Layla’s brother] Harun seemed mysteriously to augment in flavourthe further from England they travelled. Marmite, digestive biscuits, Cadbury’sDrinking Chocolate’ (126).— 202 —www.taq.ir

the predicament of in-betweennessThe abnormal circumstances and daily deprivations of the war strengthenthe desire for that which is not readily available. The narrator confesses thatwhat he missed the most while in war-torn Lebanon was not ‘the England [he]had known, [that is] the mildewed country houses [and] his schoolfriends’drinking and smoking in pubs’ but the ‘the electricity and looking out at thesnow from a hot bath and the spiteful tidiness of the pavements in that littlehouse off the Brompton Road where the bey owned the house he never used.’ Atnight in Beirut he dreams ‘of a country [he] had never left behind, a bey’sEngland of summer hats and swizzle-sticks and concinnous buttonholes andgarden parties where Layla strolls’ (Hanania 135). When in England, as theopening and ending of the novel show, he dreams of Layla in the ‘land she hasnever left’ (5 and 267). Ten years later, he still hears ‘the old ringing in [his] earsfrom the summer of the siege’ (14) when alone in Leighton’s house. Wheneverhe leaves his country, whether that is England or Lebanon, he never leaves itbehind but carries it with(in) him in his ‘contrapuntal consciousness’, to quoteSaid again.The atrocities of the war compound the narrator’s guilt towards his Lebaneseand Palestinian friends who, due to poverty, political commitment and/ornational status, do not have the option of going into exile. To assuage hisculpability, he lapses into drug-induced numbness. Protected by the snow inYorkshire (his mother’s birthplace) while attending university in 1982, he ‘nolonger took the papers [or] watched the news’ (Hanania 159) despite hisattempts to communicate via letters with his friends. After learning about theIsraeli invasion, he returns to Beirut for the summer before starting to work atan auction-house in Madrid. For the following five years he lives in Madrid andin London, where as a junior curator at the Tate Gallery he leads a ‘solitary …immured life’, immersed in ‘a discipline of forgetting’ (193). With no news fromthe Red Crescent offices about his friends after the massacres in the Sabra andShatila Palestinian refugee camps, he ‘saw the newspapers in the kiosks, andlooked away’ as all ‘the names that had played as refrains in the long song of[his] childhood return[ed] like strange blooms to these foreign walls’ (191).In his attempt to overcome his guilt towards Layla – whom he had ‘strung …along for three summers with gifts and visions and promises’ (Hanania 118) andwho is now rumoured to have turned to prostitution – the narrator pursues ‘briefand barren affairs’ with fashionable women and succumbs to ‘the rigours of thepipe’. Sex and substance abuse prove insufficient, however, in guarding himagainst his mounting ‘self-disgust’ (195). Despairing of finding Layla, and thuslosing a sense of direction, he starts looking for an alternative atonement.Before joining the brotherhood, however, he shows hesitation by avoidingcontact with the ‘bearded men’ (198) – who loiter around the bey’s house inLondon – and paradoxically ‘escaping’ through the back window to Lebanon in— 203 —www.taq.ir

syrine c. hout1987. After returning to London in 1990, he ‘avoid[s] all [his] old acquaintances… [from] the old days’ (30–1). But his radicalisation is sealed when news ofAsad’s gruesome death reaches him. In addition, with his father’s death, ‘the lastweight had been lifted’ (261).The narrator’s love for his wounded country, so far manifested in his devotionto a few friends and attachment to certain locales, habits and objects – like hismother’s painting which symbolises the pre-war years – is transformed into apartisan ideology whose idea(l) of national loyalty is based on that of Islamicjihad. And so the secular, drug-addicted and womanising art connoisseur burnshis books and begins ‘a new regime of washing’ (Hanania 260), praying andfasting and adopts the idea of martyrdom as the only means for his spiritualpurification. Having done little besides ‘dream[ing] through the years of the war’(266) and fruitlessly searching for ‘the faces war and time [that is, exile] hadstolen’ (260) from him, he responds to what he now perceives to be his call ofduty towards his suffering nation by assuming his newly discovered religiousidentity.As in Koolaids, the difference between cultural/religious and national identitycomes to the fore, albeit in novelistic garb. For the narrator, joining thissectarian but also political and military brotherhood allows him to accomplishtwo goals simultaneously: to re-affirm his (misunderstood) ‘Lebaneseness’ and torebel against his upper socio-economic class, which had partly protected himagainst direct danger and involvement by offering him, in hard times, an alternativenation (England). If, as George argues, home and class are two factors,among several others, which shape the individual’s ideological constitution,then what we see the narrator doing is undermining the latter in order todeepen, however fallaciously, his nationalistic roots.Looking back on his life, the narrator had perceived himself as ‘a comicalimposture’ (Hanania 27), devoid of substance and value. In a dream shortlybefore his suicide mission, he had seen his self – as the writer of a play about thecivil war – split between a ‘garish marionette’ – with ‘features not entirelydissimilar to those of [his] own person’ blaspheming on the stage – and the‘actual’ playwright who congratulates him on his convincing performance oftrying to control the disorder caused by the puppet. Like some of Mohammad’sdreams in Koolaids, this one reveals his unconscious to contain contradictoryselves. Thinking/wishing himself to be the author of a theatrical production, he‘discovers’ that he is but the unwitting star in someone else’s drama, like the‘clown’ whom he destroys in front of the audience. One may interpret the dreamas expressing his desire to be in charge of his life (and art) but failing to be sodue to the war and his chemical dependency. As one reviewer put it, the‘narrator is mostly out of the action, and nearly always out of his head’ (Vinten1999: 22). So, his antidote to drifting through life is politicised action against— 204 —www.taq.ir

the predicament of in-betweennesswell-defined and easy-to-reach targets such as ‘irreverent’ writers. Killing ascapegoat is a highly distorted example of active nationalism, not only becauseof its aggressive nature but also because of its religious motivation.The novel has for its title a line from T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land (1922).The narrator is the modern ‘hollow’ man, to use Eliot’s metaphor, whose emptylife in the ‘unreal city’ of his inner landscape finds eventual fulfilment, howeverbrief, in a party ideology which allows him to prove his love for his country byproving himself loyal to one of his few surviving childhood friends: Ali. Whileassassinating a writer for religious reasons thousands of miles away from Lebanonmay hardly qualify as evidence of patriotism, it is certainly an act of allegianceto Ali, whose charisma turns him into a quasi supernatural figure and a pseudoprophet, especially when he vows to the young narrator that ‘on the appointedday [they] would go together to the cave’ (Hanania 56). This cave, we are told,had protected Fakr-al-Din, the Lebanese dwarf emir (prince), who hid insidefrom the Turks.As foretold, the narrator’s curiosity to visit this hollow is satisfied inadvertentlyyears later when, as a Jihad al-Binaa ‘soldier,’ he finds refuge from theShiite Amal militiamen in the same cavern. Like the isolated emir, for years he‘had hidden in his cave, and peopled the walls with his imaginings, and thoughhe remembered the world he had no longer trusted his memories’ (Hanania266). In States of Fantasy, Jacqueline Rose discusses the enormous importance ofcollective fantasy in nation building. ‘Fantasy is a way of re-elaborating andtherefore of partly recognizing the memory which is struggling, against all odds,to be heard’ (quoted in Tirman 2001: par. 21). Reduced to a personal level,fantasy may be seen here as helping the narrator fill in his memory gaps abouthis home-country. Again like the emir, he is now ready to step out of hisproverbial cave into the sunlight by assuming his ‘national’ responsibility andaccepting his fate in the form of imminent yet dignified death. Earlier, thenarrator had stated that people must exist a little less if they cannot be certainthat others have remembered them. If living on in people’s memories is atestimony to one’s existence, then dying with a bang cannot but serve as areminder of a man whose fall was a fitting end to a purposeful life.Like Koolaids, Unreal City is post-modern in that it refuses to convey a singleobjective truth about the Lebanese experience of coping with the war. Uncertaintyand ambiguity equally pervade the narrator’s account in the latter. Heconfesses: ‘I remember little of those times now, and what I remember is not fitmatter to record’ (Hanania 195). The discrepancy between experiences and theirtextual (re)construction is attributed here not to AIDS but to drug abuse.Ironically, however, in both texts foggy and fragmentary memories portray acutelyas well as broadly the inner complex reality of various Lebanese characters tornbetween two homes, two identities and ultimately two life choices.— 205 —www.taq.ir

syrine c. houtBoth novels exemplify the Borgesian post-modernist notion that ‘historicaltruth is not what took place; it is what we think took place’ (Alameddine 12),making it ‘possible [that] everyone was right’ (190). The truth is indeedsubjective and consequently multiple, contradictory and shifting. Humanexistence, as Nabokov maintains, ‘is but a crack of light between two eternitiesof darkness’ (122). How bright or dim our lives are, however, depends on ourdecisions and actions. Perhaps no one is fully responsible as no one is fully exempt.But one thing is certain. Deconstructing myths of religio-ethnic superioritiesbidding for political supremacy would be the first step towards reconstructingthe fragmented nation and fostering what Miriam Cooke calls humanistnationalism. Unlike statist nationalism, which is absolute, inherently violent,and ‘requires a binary framework of differentiation and recognition, positing thenation out there from time immemorial and awaiting discovery by those whonaturally belong to it, humanist nationalism construes the nation as a dialectic,as both produced and productive’ (1996: 270–2). The latter is not predicated ona collective ideology but is the expression of individual states of mind (290).Indeed, various expressions of individual states of mind with regard toLebanese nationalism are presented in Koolaids and Unreal City. As I have argued,neither novel portrays exile and the nation as antithetical entities but asrealities co-existing within the individual, the nation and the host country.Nonetheless, the general impression that until Lebanon emerges as a democratic,tolerant, peaceful and just nation, contemporary Lebanese exilic literaturewill continue to be, for many Lebanese writers and readers everywhere, theirsubstitute nation is quite unshakable.notes1. Hammoud was born in 1963, Hanania in 1964 and Najjar in 1967. Alameddine is inhis early to mid-forties.2. See I, The Divine: A Novel in First Chapters (2001), Koolaids: The Art of War (1998)and The Perv: Stories (1999) by Alameddine, Homesick (1997), Unreal City (1999)and Eros Island (2000) by Hanania, L’Occidentaliste (1997) by Hammoud, andL’école de la guerre (1999) by Najjar.3. Between 1975 and 1989, approximately 40 per cent of the multi-sectarian Lebanesecitizenry, representing different socio-economic classes, found refuge abroad. Aboutone half left for North America, Europe, Africa and Australia, while the other halfwent to oil-producing Arab countries as well as Syria and Jordan. In 1989, as a resultof the declining Lebanese pound and the continuing civil unrest, the rate ofemigration went back to its 1975 level, when 15 per cent of the population fled thewar (Labaki 1992: 607–9, 621). Currently, the ratio of Lebanese abroad to those inLebanon is five (or six) to one (Cooke 1996: 269).4. She cites, for example, Samuel Hazo, Gregory Orfalea, Elmaz Abinader and RonDavid.— 206 —www.taq.ir

the predicament of in-betweenness5. This is the result of mixed marriages and/or attending British or American schoolsand universities in Lebanon or abroad.6. The paperback editions came out in 1999 and 2000 respectively.7. It has been placed on the list of Selected Gay and Lesbian Titles for Spring 1998:Buyers’ Guide. But as Michael Bronski explains, novels with gay or lesbian contentstarted being marketed as ‘literary fiction’ – ‘with an eye to their national or ethniccontent’ – and not exclusively as ‘gay fiction’ around 1994 (1999: 38).8. The blurb is from the 1998 Picador edition.9. Alsatian Johannes Hofer, he explains, coined the term in a 1688 Swiss medicalthesis.10. Lebanon has seventeen official religious denominations.— 207 —www.taq.ir

11 1The Nation Speaks: On the Poetics ofNationalist Literature 1Yasir Suleiman— 208 —The title page of George Antonius’ classic study The Arab Awakening: The Storyof the Arab National Movement, published in London in 1938, carries as anepigraph in beautiful Arabic calligraphy the first hemistich of Ibrahim al-Yaziji’s(1847–1906) famous ode: tanabbahu wa-stafiqu ayyuha al-Æarabu (‘Arise, ye Arabsand Awake!’). As I have argued elsewhere (Suleiman 2003: 96), this choice wasnot fortuitous: it was ‘intended to highlight the cultural nature of this nationalismin its initial stages’ in the nineteenth century; in addition, it was meant todraw attention to the fact that the nationalist idea was, as Antonius expresses it,‘borne slowly towards its destiny on the wings of a nascent literature’, in which,it may be added, poetry played a leading role (Antonius 1936: 60). Thisreference to literature is echoed in the metaphorical use of the term ‘story’ in thesubtitle of Antonius’s book and in the ‘poetic’ flavour of his prose, of which thepreceding quotation is an example. Although one may disagree with Antonius’snarrative on periodisation and agency in the evolution of Arab nationalism, hisviews on culture and literature as sources of this nationalism are still as validtoday as they were at the time of writing. In fact, I would go further and say thatno account of Arab nationalism would be complete without understanding thecontribution literature made, and still makes, to its articulation or to its role ingroup mobilisation.The same is also true of literature, in prose and in poetry, in expressions ofterritorial and pan-Islamic nationalisms in the Arabic-speaking world. 2 To takeone example from Egypt, Ali al-Ghayati, a minor poet, published in 1910 acollection of patriotic poems, Wataniyyati (‘My Patriotism’), to which thenationalist leader Muhammad Farid (1868–1919) wrote an introduction underthe title ta’thir al-shiÆr fi tarbiyat al-umam (‘The Influence of Poetry on theEducation of Nations’). In this introduction, Muhammad Farid – who was triedin a criminal court and sentenced to six months’ imprisonment by the Britishauthorities for his composition – writes: ‘When the vanquished nations awoketo their situation, they made the first of their principles the composition ofpatriotic qasidas (odes) and rallying songs … It pleases me that this blessedawakening has spread in our country’ (cited in Khouri 1971: 90). He furtheradds, stressing the mobilising role of poetry in Egypt and expressing his panwww.taq.ir

the nation speaksIslamist nationalist orientation, ‘Peace upon the one who listens, heeds, andsucceeds in serving his country, and who strives; for his effort will be observedand his recompense will be of the highest’ (ibid.).Ali al-Ghayati’s collection was special not because he was an accomplishedauthor, but because he culled it from poetry that was published in the Egyptianpress by obscure or aspiring poets who responded to the national crises of theirtime, hence Muhammad Farid’s reference to the ‘awakening’ of his own people.This awareness of the role of literature, particularly poetry, in resisting occupationand in nation building is symptomatic of the discourse of nationalism tothis day. Spontaneous expressions of this kind can be found in compositions inthe pages of the Arabic daily newspapers, especially at times of crisis such as, inrecent years, the war against Iraq or, even, the death of President Arafat. In2004, I collected over thirty such compositions, over a period of two months,from one paper only, the London-based Al-Quds Al-Arabi. This numberindicates the scale of this phenomenon.The importance of literature in nation building relates to its ability tofunction as a channel of communication through which a national consciousness,a national sentiment, a shared cultural inheritance and a shared destinycan be fashioned in a shared idiom. In nation building, a national literature is asimportant in articulating ‘nationhood’ as the national broadcasting media, thenational orchestra, the national museum or the national gallery. In the theoriesof nationalism, literature shares this communicative function with othersemiologies of signification which, typically, include rituals (for example, parades,marches, processions, funerals and inauguration ceremonials) and objects ofsymbolic representation (for example, flags, anthems, monuments, postage stampsand coins). In fact, literature has a greater semiotic reach because it can be usedto talk about these rituals and objects of representation, but not vice versa. Andfor nations in the diaspora, literature is a particularly potent force because of itsability to link the members of a refugee nation across state borders and toencode their ‘exilic’ experience in different linguistic idioms.In the West, the novel is considered as the primary vehicle for delivering thisnationalist function. 3 In the Arab context, this function is allocated to poetrywhich has a long and highly respected position in Arab culture and which, byvirtue of its compact expression, sonorous cadences and implicit orality is bettersuited than the novel to deliver an immediate and memorable impact onaudiences, typically through shared public performances. Arab nationalists havebeen quick to exploit these qualities of poetry, particularly its diachronic depth,by assimilating it into their constructed nationalist historiographies. To takeone example, in April 1980 a conference was held in Baghdad to discuss the roleof literature in forming and sustaining the Arab national consciousness (Dawral-adab fi al-waÆy al-qawmi al-ÆArabi, 1980). In a mode typical of Arab— 209 —www.taq.ir

yasir suleimanconferences, the participants summed up their findings in a final communiqué(al-bayan al-khitami, ibid.: 23–5). Not only did these findings telescope literaryhistory and cast it in unambiguously nationalist mode, but they constituted anexercise in national ‘myth making’ in a seamless progression from the past to thepresent. Thus, the findings of the conference were written in a thoroughlymodern nationalist idiom which, to say the least, is at odds with the facts as theliterary critic might recognise them. These so-called ‘findings’ included thefollowing points: 4 (1) pre-Islamic poetry discharged its nationalist duties andaffirmed the existence of an Arab self (al-dhat al-Æarabiyya, ibid.) by using poetryas a weapon to fight the enemies of the Arabs; 5 (2) Arab literature in the earlyIslamic period succeeded in discharging its nationalist tasks (muhimmatihi alqawmiyya,ibid.: 24) and in keeping pace with the Islamic revolution (al-thawraal-islamiyya, ibid.), which through the Arab liberation wars (hurub al-tahrir al-Æarabiyya, ibid.) – that is, the Islamic conquests – carried the national anduniversal values of the Arabs to the newly liberated lands; 6 (3) in the Abbasidperiod, Arabic literature delivered its expanded national functions by affirmingArab unity (wihdat al-wujud al-Æarabi, ibid.) and rebutting the claims of thenewly emerging anti-Arab movements (al-harakaat al-shuÆubiyya al-munahida liruhal-umma al-Æarabiyya wa-jawhar risalataha al-insaniyya, ibid.); 7 and (4) Arabicliterature in the modern period continues the above trends of national consciousnessformation, advocacy of Arab unity, and mobilisation against externalpowers and the forces of decline and fragmentation.The participants at the conference concluded by calling Arabic literature inits re-christened nationalist mode throughout history as a ‘literature of struggle’(adab siraÆ, ibid.: 25). According to this reading, there is hardly any difference,in nationalist literary terms, between what the students of nationalism call theformative age, the golden age, the dark age and the age of struggle in nationbuilding. Moreover, the Arabs of today are fused in the Arabs of pre-Islamic andearly Islamic Arabia at the stroke of a pen, and the lands which the earlyMuslims acquired by conquest are declared as ‘liberated lands’ rather thanconquered territories.This mode of ‘packaging the past’, as Coakley calls it (2004: 540), serves avariety of functions in the nationalist enterprise. For our purposes here, reinforcement,legitimisation and inspiration are the most important of these functions(ibid.: 541). The first, reinforcement, is intended to instil a sense of pride in pastachievements as ‘part of a psychological search for symbols of confidence in thepresent’ (Rustow 1967: 42). This search tends to intensify when there is a crisisor when the nation feels under attack from external forces. The nationalisthistoriography of Arabic poetry outlined in the preceding paragraph provides aperfect example of this practice. The conference alluded to above was held inBaghdad at a time when Iraq was engaged in a bitter war with its non-Arab— 210 —www.taq.ir

the nation speaksneighbour and regional arch-rival, Iran, the cradle of the modern Islamicrevolution par excellence; hence, the intensely nationalist reading of the earlyhistory of Arabic poetry and the casting of this reading in a modern nationalistidiom that is out of place within the confines of that early history. Hence, also,the resort to literary production by political leaders at times of national crises, asshown by Colonel Qaddafi of Libya and Saddam Hussein of Iraq who found inprose fiction, particularly the latter, an outlet for their national concerns. 8 Thesecond function, legitimisation, serves the aim of validating the nationalistenterprise in the literary domain by endowing it with an authenticatinggenealogy that links the past with the present in literary production. Finally,inspiration is forward looking and mission-oriented; it relates to the destiny ofthe nation and aims to underline the message in the nationalist literature of theinevitability of a bright future for the nation, provided that it lives up to itsreputation in the past. As a ‘packaging of the past’, nationalist literaryhistoriography is therefore a purposeful activity: it responds to the Orwellianformulation in 1984: ‘Who controls the past controls the future: who controlsthe present controls the past’ (cited in Coakley 2004: 554–5).‘Packaging the past’ is a pervasive ‘myth making’ tool in all nationalist movements,although it may be more intense in some movements than in othersdepending on the socio-political context. Historians of literature and literarycritics who pour scorn on it as anti-literary or misguided construction thereforemiss the point, as do scholars of nationalism who deplore the involvement ofmen of letters in the construction of nationalist thinking. Elie Kedouri providesthe best-known example of the latter attitude when he describes nationalism asthe creation of ‘literary men who had never exercised power, and appreciatedlittle the necessities and obligations incidental to intercourse between states’(1966: 70–1). A more productive approach to nationalist literary historiographythan either of the two above is to acknowledge this historiography for what it is:as a form of ‘sociology of literature’ which primarily attends to the extra-literaryuses of literary production rather than to its internal composition or to itsstrictly literary qualities. This, however, does not mean that the ‘internalcomposition’ and the ‘literary qualities’ of a piece of literature are not importantto nationalist historiography; 9 they are, but they do not act, when not available,as a ‘criterion of exclusion’ from the scope of the literary.According nationalist literature respectability in the eye of the literary criticis therefore not an easy task. It is, however, possible to make some progress inthis direction by rejecting the generalising attitude towards this literature whichnationalist ideologues tend to exhibit, as we have seen above. The idea that allnationalist writers of a particular persuasion speak with one voice on all, oralmost all, nationalist issues is a non-starter. Recognising variation withinnationalist literature is therefore as necessary as recognising commonalities or— 211 —www.taq.ir

yasir suleimanpoints of contact and interaction. This anti-generalising attitude must also beextended to the work of individual writers. Recognising variation, dissonance orcontradiction in a writer’s nationalist oeuvre is often closer to the truth thanestablishing a counterfeit or bland uniformity. The Egyptian poet AhmadShawqi (1868–1932), the Iraqi poet MaÆruf al-Rusafi (1877–1947) and theJordanian poet Mustafa Wahbi al-Tal (1897–1949) spoke in myriad voices on ahost of nationalist issues. 10 Finally, studies of the national in the literary canserve both enterprises – the national and the literary – by concentrating on‘content’ and ‘form’, on what is of immediate interest to the nationalist thinkerand that which is highly valued by the literary critic respectively. The followingstudy of the poetics of the national in the literary in Nazik al-Mala’ika’s poetryaims to follow this approach. 11 It will pay attention to ‘content’ and to ‘form’,that is, issues of style. 12 It will also avoid the generalising pitfalls of nationalistliterary historiographies.Western studies of Arabic poetry pay little attention to its rich nationalcontent, with the exception of Palestinian poetry in which the national isregarded as an inescapable part of the literary. 13 By contrast, the ‘national in thepoetic’ is the subject of great interest in the Arab literary polysystem. 14 It is notmy intention to deal with the causes of this difference in orientation here.Suffice it to say that ignoring the ‘national in the poetic’ in studying Arabicliterature provides a truncated view of this component of Arab culture toWestern audiences and that, in an age of inter-disciplinarity in research, itdeprives the students of nationalism in the West of a rich source of informationabout the construction of national consciousness in the Arabic-speaking world,the channels of communication that are used to foster this consciousness andabout nation building generally.Surveying Arabic works about the ‘national in the poetic’ in Arabicliterature provides interesting insights into the ‘manipulation’ of literary fame.First of all, one notices how much these works are subject to the generalisingtendency mentioned earlier. In one respect, these works are canon-driven inthat they reproduce the dominant classificatory schemas as to who is counted asa ‘nationalist’ poet and who is not. Thus, instead of looking for expressions ofnationalism in the poetry of a particular poet, and treating these accordingly –particularly when they are of a substantial kind – these works tend to start withpreconceived notions of who belongs to the category of ‘nationalist’ poets anduse these as a blueprint for inclusion and exclusion. I believe this is responsiblefor ignoring the nationalist component of Nazik’s poetry in the historiographyof the ‘national in the poetic’ in the Arabic polysystem. 15 For most critics andhistorians of literature, Nazik has not been associated with the nationalist trendin Arab culture, in spite of the fact that (1) her last three collections inparticular, as I shall show below, are devoted to nationalist themes of an— 212 —www.taq.ir

the nation speaksinteresting kind, and (2) she participated in well-publicised debates about Arabnationalism on the pages of the hugely influential monthly al-Adab (al-Mala’ika1960a, 1960b). 16 Second, women poets tend to be under-represented in workson the ‘national in the poetic’ in Arabic literature. The male gendering ofnationalist poetry has its culturally bound reasons, but these do not justifyexcluding women poets. I believe that the dominance of ‘masculinity’ as a tropeof nationalist poetry is responsible for ignoring Nazik’s contribution to thisliterary genre.At the centre of Nazik’s nationalist poetry stands her abiding commitment topan-Arab nationalism as an intuitively conceived and self-evident ideology.Hovering between a perennialism that asserts the antiquity of the Arab nationand a primordiality that assumes its naturalness, 17 Nazik espouses a view of thisideology that conceives of it, to borrow a term from Roland Barthes (1977: 47),as the ‘Voice of Nature’. Although Nazik would accept Ernest Gellner’s (1983:6) formulation that, in today’s world, ‘a man must have a nationality as he musthave a nose and two ears’, she would nevertheless reject his modernist views onthe socio-historical construction of nations, particularly as this applies tonations that are rooted in antiquity, of which the Arab nation is cited as anexample. 18 Nazik set out her views on this issue in her two articles in al-Adab(al-Mala’ika 1960a, 1960b), and she used these views to claim that poetry, beingintuitive and subliminal, is most perfectly suited to comprehending the innernature of the nation and its deepest liminal secrets. Being natural and amenableto comprehension by the most intuitive of means, the nation, Nazik argues, is notin need of deliberate definition. In the 1980 Baghdad conference mentionedabove, SaÆdun Hamadi, one of the nationalist thinkers of the BaÆth party,promoted a similar view of literature in the nationalist enterprise. He believedthat literature is as valid in understanding the nation as the rationalist approachwhich culls its definition out of the careful sifting of historical and social facts.Literature, he says, comprehends through inspiration (ilham). Nazik would agree.The commitment to Arab nationalism characterises the work of two otherIraqi women poets whose poetry had an influence over Nazik in the nationalistliterary domain, as we shall see later. The first is ÆAtika al-Khazraji 19 whosenationalist poetry is full of compositions in support of (1) Arab unity as apolitical ideal that is animated by the ties of culture, history and religionbetween the Arabic-speaking people, (2) the Algerian struggle against Frenchcolonialism in pursuit of independence, and (3) the liberation of Palestine asthe most pressing issue on the Arab political agenda. In all three domains, thepoet believes that Arab political regeneration is dependent on the interweavingof the national and the religious. This double trajectory is particularly apt forthe Algerian context because of the fusion of Arabism with Islam in NorthAfrican expressions of national identity. It is also suitable for the Palestinian— 213 —www.taq.ir

yasir suleimansituation because of the rich associations Jerusalem has with Islam. It is,however, at odds with mainstream expressions of Arab nationalism which tendto be secular in character, or, at least, pay no more than lip service to religion. 20This fusion of the national with the religious finds rich expression in many ofÆAtika al-Khazraji’s poems. To take one example, in Surakh al-Zulm (‘Cries ofOppression’) the two currents are lexically woven to create a double force formobilisation purposes. Religious terms – such as Qur’an, Islam, iman (faith),haqq (truth), shahada (proclamation of belief in Islam), shariÆa (religiousdoctrine, law) baÆth (resurrection), rushd (right-guidance), khulud (eternal life),huda (right-guidance), Zalal (error), kufr (unbelief) and fasad (corruption) – areplaced in nationalist frameworks which give their meanings a new identity thatis neither exclusively religious nor exclusively national but one that stands atthe intersection of both.The second poet to influence Nazik is Umm Nizar, Nazik’s mother who diedin London, where she was buried, in 1953. Umm Nizar had one collection ofpoetry to her name, Unshudat al-majd (‘The Song of Glory’), which was publishedposthumously in Baghdad in 1965. This collection is dominated by threenationalist themes. The first focuses on the major crises that faced Iraq in thefirst half of the twentieth century. One example is the revolt Rashid ÆAli al-Kailani led in 1940/1 against the Iraqi authorities and their British backers. 21Umm Nizar wrote poems in which she urged the Iraqis to continue theirstruggle against these two parties and against those Iraqis who sided with themfor opportunistic reasons. The second theme focuses on the dismemberment ofthe Arab nation at the hands of the colonial powers, Britain and France, intoseparate political entities. Umm Nizar calls on the Arabs to fight the forces ofpolitical fragmentation in their societies and to wage a struggle for regainingtheir unity. Like ÆAtika al-Khazraji before her, Umm Nizar believes that liberationand unity are dependent on the interweaving of the national and the religiousin political activism.The mixing of these two political currents dominates her third theme: theliberation of Palestine, to which she devoted the bulk of her collection Unshudatal-majd. Thus, Umm Nizar reminds her readers of the doctrinally elevatedposition of Palestine in Islam as the land of isra’ and miÆraj (the Prophet’snocturnal journey to Jerusalem and his Ascension therefrom to Heaven), and,also, of its historical significance as the land of martyrdom and peace in anobvious reference to the Crusades. 22 In addition, Umm Nizar engages, in a spiritof political activism, with the events of her time in Palestine. Thus, shelampoons Lord Balfour, British Secretary of State, whose Declaration in 1917laid the cornerstone for a British colonial policy that ‘stabbed’ the Arabs in the‘heart’. She also attacks the United Nations for sponsoring the Partition Planfor Palestine in 1947. In a similar vein, she attacks the UN for the armistice— 214 —www.taq.ir

the nation speaksagreements between Israel and the surrounding Arab countries in 1949 becausethese agreements consecrated the status quo and deprived the Palestinians oftheir rights. In fact, Umm Nizar reserves her most biting poetry to deliver bitterattacks against the Security Council, which she calls Majlis al-Ifk (‘The Councilof Falsehood’), and the United Nations, which she calls ÆUsbat al-Dhull (‘TheLeague/Gang of Disgraceful Humiliation’). This list of poems shows the degreeto which Umm Nizar was involved in the events of the day.Two facts are interesting about Unshudat al-majd. First, the title. The termunshuda conveys the meaning of ‘song’, ‘hymn’ and ‘anthem’ in one; the termthus conflates the lyrical, the sacred and the national respectively as importantaspects of mobilisation and activism in the political struggle of the nation. Theterm al-majd (glory) has a Janus-like function. On the one side, al-majd looksback to the ‘golden age’ of the Arab nation and seeks to locate it, through thepoems in the collection, in two historical epochs: the rise and expansion ofIslam and the victories over Franks in the Crusades. On the other side, al-majdlooks forward to the destiny of the nation, to what awaits it if it heeds themessage of the poet and acts in a way that is true to its self, as this self wasmanifested through the glories of the ‘golden age’. As an operative term, al-majdties the future to the past via the present and through the inspirational functionof literature as a nationalist means of expression.Second, it is most likely that Nazik chose this title, as she was responsible forpreparing the collection for publication which, as has been pointed out above,was published posthumously. If so, Nazik can claim a share of authorship overUnshudat al-majd. This claim to authorship extends to the way Nazik arrangedthe poems in her mother’s collection. It is therefore a matter of great interestthat Nazik placed the poems on Palestine at the beginning of the collection. Byfront-loading these poems and giving them textual visibility in the collection,Nazik reflects the symbolic weight her mother accorded the Palestine cause inthe nationalist enterprise and in her poetry. 23 It is therefore no accident thatNazik followed in her mother’s footsteps in her last two collections, as I shallexplain below.In 1968, Nazik published her fifth collection, Shajarat al-qamar (‘The MoonTree’), in which she incorporated poems she had written over a decade earlier. 24Many of the poems in this collection deal with Arab nationalist issues, thetrigger for which seems to have been the ‘revolution’ of 14 July 1958, which putan end to the British-backed Iraqi monarchy and replaced it by a republicansystem of government. 25 Nazik celebrated the institution of this new form ofgovernment in her poem Tahiyya li-l-jumhuriyya al-Æiraqiyya (‘A Salute to theIraqi Republic’, 1968: 445–50), in which she welcomed ‘the republic’ as an‘orphan welcomes a fatherly embrace’ or a ‘thirsty man welcomes a drink of water’(1979: 445). In a series of syntactic equative frames, the poet concatenates the— 215 —www.taq.ir

yasir suleimannewly established Iraqi republic with joy (jumhuriyyatuna, farhatuna, ibid.: 446),with childhood (jumhuriyyatuna, tiflatunaa, ibid.: 448) and with the beauty ofnature (jumhuriyyatuna, wardatuna, ibid.: 448). These equative images conveyfragility because of the symbolic associations of the second item in each pairwith tenderness and delicacy, but, through the repetition of the plural possessivesuffix -na, they also convey a sense of ownership and responsibility. Iraq, Nazikis telling us, is no longer for the ruling class as it was before; it now belongs tothe entire Iraqi people and, indirectly, the whole of the Arab nation.However, Nazik soon had reason to doubt the sincerity of the leadership ofthe newly-born republic when ÆAbd al-Salam ÆArif, who was known for his pan-Arab nationalist convictions, was imprisoned in the same year. In anotherpoem, Nazik describes ÆArif as a man who spoke the language of Arabism (kanaÆarabiyya al-shifah, ibid.: 476), as a supporter of Arab unity (Ya nasira al-Æurubati… wa-l-wihdati, ibid.) and, through the play on the word nasir (‘supporter’), asthe Gamal Abdel-Nasser of Iraq. In the political idiom of the time, Nazik couldnot have chosen a more flattering epithet to describe ÆArif: Nasser was the undisputedchampion of the cause of Arab nationalism, the man who established theunion of Egypt and Syria and, as a result, the ‘darling’ of the Arab masses. Nazikblames the fate of ÆArif – who went on to become President of Iraq in 1963 – onthe Iraqi communists who came into prominence during the rule of ÆAbd al-Karim Qasim (1914–63), the President of the new Iraqi republic (1958–63). Inher poem Thalath ughniyat shuyuÆiyya (‘Three Communist Songs’, ibid.: 566–72),Nazik expresses her derision towards the conspiratorially paranoid mentality ofthe communists and their repugnant machinations against the cause of Arabnationalism. Turning the redness of the anemone (shaqa’iq al-nuÆman, ibid.: 568)into a symbolic motif for the tyranny of communism, she mocks the brutality ofthe communists and their readiness to nourish the red colour of their ‘beloved’flower with the blood of innocent children (min ajli hadha al-lawn nujri al-najiÆajadawilan tanthal, 1979: 569); but she also warns them that the forces of Arabismare on the march and that they will finally triumph.In Shajarat al-qamar, Nazik is consumed with the events in Iraq and in theway these unfold on the wider Arab scene. In comparison, her interest in thePalestine issue is muted. There is also little interest in Islam as a force in Arabnationalism in Shajarat al-qamar. Nazik’s Arab nationalism in this collection isof the secularist kind, in line with the general articulations of this ideology atthe time. In these two respects, Palestine and secularism, Nazik differs at thisstage in her poetic career from ÆAtika al-Khazraji and Umm Nizar. However,this difference disappears in her last two collections, as will be explained later.Unlike Palestine and Islam, Algeria is not so excluded in Shajarat al-qamar: itis a subject of strong emotional interest for the poet. One such poem thatexpresses this interest is Nahnu wa Jamila (‘Jamila and Us’), which carries as a— 216 —www.taq.ir

the nation speaksdate of composition the year 1957. The poem is addressed to the Algerianfreedom fighter Jamila Buhayrid who achieved huge fame in the Arab worldwhen she was ruthlessly tortured by the French occupying authorities. 26 Thepoem is not, strictly speaking, a celebration of Jamila’s courage in the face ofFrench savagery, but a fierce attack on the Arab political system which failedher by substituting rhetoric and empty talk for effective action. Nazik accusesthis system of moral and national bankruptcy, and she reserves her sharpestattack for political leaders, songwriters, musicians and fellow poets who ‘cynically’and ‘brutally’ plucked their words and musical notes out of Jamila’s wounds.Nazik ends her poem by expressing her shame for this shameless behaviour (fawakhajalata min jirahi Jamila, 1979: 508). There is no doubt that Nazik thoughtshe was speaking for millions of Arabs, her subaltern constituency, who felt asangry as she had done but lacked the voice or the courage to express themselves.For these people, Nazik fulfilled the traditional role of the poet in Arab culture– albeit in reverse – as the spokesperson of her people. Traditionally the poet issupposed to broadcast the triumphs of his own people, not to publicise theirfailures. In Nahnu wa Jamila, Nazik turns this principle upside down.In nationalist terms, therefore, Nahnu wa Jamila is an ‘anti-poem’. It does notcelebrate the achievements of the nation, but criticises its shameful failures. It isanchored to the trope of the brave hero in the nationalist ‘age of struggle’, butsets this against another trope of this age: that of the despicable opportunist who,vulture-like, cynically and immorally appropriates the suffering of his fellownationalists for reasons of blatant self-advancement. But is not Nazik open tothe same criticism? Is not she also blatantly and hypocritically taking advantageof Jamila’s suffering to occupy a moral high ground from which she can proclaima ‘holier than thou’ attitude? And what makes Nazik’s sentiments of nationalself-flagellation more credible and worthy of respect than the celebratorysentiments of her rivals? Does not the nation in the age of struggle need tobalance the kind of self-critical attitude that Nazik adopts against the selfcongratulatoryposition of her rivals? Is Nazik’s act of remembering more crediblethan her rivals’ act of forgetting, when it is in the nature of nationalism for thetwo acts to co-exist in nation building? 27The answer to these questions is not easy, but the title gives us a few clues. Init, Nazik sets the Ænahnu’ (we, us) of the nation against the ‘them, she’ that isJamila. In this equation, Nazik is as distant and divorced from Jamila as herrivals are. Both Nazik and her rivals therefore belong to the Ænahnu’, thedespicable collectivity in the age of struggle, rather than to the figure of the bravehero which Jamila represents in that same age. The nahnu of the title is inclusiveof all that is not Jamila. If so, it makes little difference where Nazik positions hersubjectivity in relation to the people she criticises. She is as guilty of inaction asthey are. Like their pens, words and musical notes, her poetry is not mightier— 217 —www.taq.ir

yasir suleimanthan Jamila’s sword. Under this interpretation, the title yields another interestinglayer of meaning. Instead of expressing togetherness and concomitance(maÆiyya), the wa- (and) that conjoins nahnu and Jamila in the title in factexpresses disjunction and opposition. As such the dictionary meaning of ‘wa-’ as‘and’ is at odds with its rhetorical force as ‘versus’. A more appropriatetranslation of the title therefore is not ‘Jamila and Us’, as I have suggestedabove, but ‘Jamila versus Us’. Better still, ‘Us versus Jamila’ to underlinethrough the grammatical fronting of ‘Us’ the Arab readers’ complicit agency inher suffering. Either way, Nazik is part of this ‘Us’ and, therefore, is on the otherside of ‘versus’ from Jamila.Nazik believes that by failing to help Jamila the Arabs were guilty ofcomplicity in her suffering and oppression. In expressing this and other themes,Nazik resorts to inter-textuality to underpin what she says. Inter-textuality is aneffective tool for this purpose: it acts as a ‘bonding agent’ by helping to satellitea text in the orbit of those canonical texts which it unambiguously recalls, thusgiving the text in question historical depth and a validating authenticity. Thismay be done, mutatis mutandis, by the direct quotation of an expression or aword, by paraphrasing an idea or exploiting an image or, in poetry, by exploitingrhyme schemes. In the domain of nationalist literature, inter-textuality isperfectly suited to relating the past to the present, to connecting the age ofstruggle to the golden age or to the peaks of the literary canon for, as has beensaid above, validating, reinforcing and inspirational purposes. In Nahnu waJamila, Nazik links the Arabs’ failure in the age of struggle to a poetic aphorismfrom the literary canon. Thus, when she says that the ‘wound inflicted by arelative is the deepest and hardest to bear’ (wa-jurhu al-qarabati aÆmaqu min kullijurhin wa-aqsa, 1979: 508) she deliberately invokes al-Mutannabi’s (AD 915–65)famous line of poetry, immediately recognised by most educated Arabs, inwhich he says ‘the injustice committed by a relative is more painful than thewounds inflicted by a sword made of Indian steel’ (wa-Zulmu dhawi al-qurbaashaddu maDaDatan, Æala al-fata min waqÆ al-husami al-muhannadi). Nazik usesinter-texuality to support her case in Nahnu wa Jamila by ranging the weight oftradition and the force of the literary canon against her rivals.Nazik exploits inter-textuality to full nationalist effect in her poem Ughniyali-l-atlal al-Æarabiyya (‘A Song for the Erased Arab Encampments’, ibid.: 465–9)which she wrote in 1963 after the dissolution of the Union between Egypt andSyria at the hands of the BaÆthists a year earlier. This was a cataclysmic event forthe Arabs. It shook their confidence in Arab unity as a political objective, asNazik acknowledges. The ‘erased encampments’ that Nazik has in mind,therefore, are the political ruins of the failed Union. However, Nazik’s messageis an optimistic one. She tells her readers that unity would be well within theirgrasp if they re-enacted the glories of the past which, in this particular case, are— 218 —www.taq.ir

the nation speaksembodied in great literary achievements rather than in feats of political unity.To underpin this message, Nazik connects the present to the past by borrowingimmediately recognisable expressions from some of the best-known odes of pre-Islamic Arabia, namely the muÆallaqas of Imru’ al-Qays (siqt al-liwa), Tarafa Ibnal-ÆAbd (burqat thahmad), Zuhayr Ibn Ibi Sulma (dimna) and Labid Ibn RabiÆa(aramiha), in which the erased encampment is an important poetic motif. Thisnetworking of the present with the past for inspirational purposes deliversanother objective: it serves to signal to the readers that Nazik’s belief in Arabnationalism is rooted in a secularist paradigm. Her point of reference is pre-, notpost-, Islamic Arabia.On a formal level, inter-textuality is a kind of repetition, a topic in whichNazik was interested as a literary and cultural critic, as is clear from her longstudy on the subject in her book Qadaya al-shiÆr al-muÆasir (‘Issues in ModernPoetry’, 1981b: 263–91). In this study, Nazik highlights the role of repetition inachieving what she calls al-handasa al-lafziyya al-daqiqa in poetry (‘preciselinguistic engineering’, ibid.: 278). In addition to this artistic/structural function,repetition is an important tool in nationalist poetry as an aid to memory. Thepoet resorts to it for message and impact reiteration, which are essentialelements in national mobilisation and in contexts of oral public performance.To take one example, in her poem Thalath ughniyat Æarabiyya (‘Three ArabSongs’, 1979: 492–8), the poet exploits repetition at two levels. On the formalinter-textual level, Nazik frames her poem in relation to Nasser’s famous call inthe 1960s – which the Egyptian broadcasting media turned into a well-knownsong and used as the theme tune in some of its daily programmes – ‘the hour ofrevolutionary work has struck’ (Ædaqqat saÆat al-Æamal al-thawri). 28 There is noway that readers at the time could have read Nazik’s poem without being drawninto the popular nationalist culture of the day, or at least were reminded of it.Nazik’s exploitation of inter-textuality in this case is purposeful and mobilisation-oriented.29On another level, Nazik uses sub-word structures, involving gemination andreduplication, to create another layer of communication to boost the aboveeffects. In particular, she uses action verbs exhibiting gemination and reduplication,to convey vigour and urgency, as in daqqat (struck), dajjat (yelled),dawwat (reverberated), talawwat (zigzagged), hazzat (shook), jaljalat (rang out)and ghalghalat (penetrated). In Arabic, the term for ‘verb’ is fiÆl, which lexicallymeans ‘action’. Nazik is aware of this connection between the name of thisgrammatical category and its lexical meaning, and she exploits this deliberatelyfor mobilization purposes in the nationalist enterprise. I believe this explainsher statement in Qadaya al-shiÆr al-muÆasir that ‘the verb is the most honourablepart of the [Arabic] language’ (al-fiÆl ashraf juz’ fi al-lugha, 1981: 329). Nazik isnot alone in holding to this view of the Arabic verb, but she is the only poet I— 219 —www.taq.ir

yasir suleimanknow of who explicitly makes the connection between the verb as a grammaticalcategory, its lexical meaning and the role of poetry in promotingmobilisation in the nationalist project. 30In view of the importance of repetition for Nazik as a literary critic and poet,it would be useful to dwell a little further on this phenomenon in her poetry byhighlighting three other types. The first consists of placing a repeated item inpatterned slots within the same poetic frame. This creates balance and rhythm,which are important as aids to memory retention and recall in nationalistliterature owing to its interest in mobilisation and its reliance on oral publicperformance. We have observed this earlier in the use of jumhuriyyatuna (ourrepublic) in Nazik’s poem Tahiyya li-l-jumhuriyya al-Æiraqiyya (‘A Salute to theIraqi Republic’) in such frames as jumhuriyyatuna, farhatuna (Our Republic, Ourjoy), jumhuriyyatuna, tiflatuna (Our Republic, Our child) and jumhuriyyatuna,wardatuna (Our Republic, Our flower/rose). This item is repeated six times inthe poem. The second type is used for closure. It typically consists of repeating anitem at the end of a poem to add emphasis to closure. To use a commonexpression, the poet applies this style of repetition to ‘go out with bang ratherthan a whimper’. An example of this occurs in Thalath ughniyat Æarabiyyaa, towhich we have referred earlier. The last two stanzas of this poem end with theword Æarabiyy (Arab). However, there is a subtle difference between these twotokens in that the former functions as an agent and the latter as a patient ingrammatical terms. The poet uses this grammatical difference to signal thedistinction between the active and the passive in the nationalist narrative,between the ‘doer of the action’ and its ‘receiver’. The third type involves theuse of an item, typically a function word (for example, a preposition) or amorpheme, to draw attention to a set of adjacent items (preceding or following),thus highlighting their meaning through semantic layering. An example of thisis the repetition of the preposition Æan (‘for’) in the poem Hudud al-raja’ (‘TheLimits of Hope’, ibid.: 513–17), whose subject is Arab unity: nahnu Æabarna kullaufqin maÆa: nabhathu Æanha, Æan shadhaha al-jamil, Æan lawniha, Æan ruhiha, Æansada … (‘We roamed the distant horizon together looking for it, for its sweetscent, for its colour, for its soul, for its echo …’, ibid.: 516). Nazik considers thisto be one of the most subtle types of repetition and, in her critical study Qadayaal-shiÆr al-muÆasir (1981: 273), she highlights the following example from a poemby the well-known Tunisian Abu al-Qasim al-Shabbi (1909–34) as a particularlysuccessful one: Æadhbatun anti ka-l-tufulati, ka-l-ahlami, ka-l-lahni, ka-l-sabahi aljadidi… (‘You are sweet like childhood, like dreams, like musical tunes, like thenew morning’).In her last two collections, li-l-Sala wa-l-thawra (‘For Prayer and the Revolution’,1978) and Yughayyiru al-wanahu al-bahru (‘The Sea Changes its Colours’,1977), particularly the former, Nazik moves in a new direction: the mixing of— 220 —www.taq.ir

the nation speaksspirituality with nationalism in a thematic framework dominated by Palestine,although not all her poems about Palestine are cast in this mode. 31 Thisdirection brings Nazik closer to ÆAtika al-Khazraji and, particularly, to UmmNizar with whom we dealt earlier. Nazik signals this radical shift in ideologicaloutlook in one important way: she dates her poems in these two collectionsusing the Islamic calendar first and the Gregorian calendar second, whereasbefore she used the latter exclusively. This may look like a cosmetic matter, butit is not. It takes mental effort for an Arab accustomed to the Gregoriancalendar to match it with its Islamic counterpart. In fact, many Arabs, eventhose who would consider themselves ‘good’ Muslims, cannot always rememberthe correct Islamic month of the year outside Ramadan (the month of fasting)and, to a lesser extent, Dhu al-Hijja (the month of pilgrimage). Some find iteven difficult to name the correct Islamic year. Nazik’s use of the Islamiccalendar, therefore, requires a change in ingrained habits of thought andschooled practice in the marking of time. Her new time is the time of Islam, thetime of spirituality and the time of inner revolution in a different process ofnation building; hence, the use of sala (prayer) and thawra (revolution) in thetitle of one of her collections above.The mixing of spirituality/religiosity with nationalism represents a moveaway from Nazik’s earlier secularism. Here again, Nazik was in tune with thegeneral orientation of the time. The Arab defeat in 1967 at the hands of theIsraelis dealt a humiliating blow to the Arab nationalist idea, at least in itssecular form. 32 In the personal and collective stocktaking that followed, peoplelooked to Islam as a place of succour, a source of inspiration and as anauthenticating voice in acts of political revisionism. Literature itself, includingnationalist literature, became an arena for two competing ideologies: the secularnationalist and the Islamist. 33 Nazik straddled both. Understandably, she couldnot fully divest herself of the old nationalist idea in which she invested so muchpsychological, intellectual and literary capital. As a result, she was unable toaccept a full-blooded Islamism. Her answer, therefore, was to opt for spiritualityas a compromise between the national and the completely religious. Palestine,as we shall see below, proved to be the perfect poetic topos for her in effectingthis compromise.Nazik charts her new outlook purposefully. She tells her readers in li-l-Salawa-l-thawra that sala (prayer) is ‘the symbol of spirituality in actions’, and that itis like ‘a rose that grows in a man’s soul through contact with God’ (1978: 8).Thawra (revolution), on the other hand, represents the ‘total rejection of falsehood,corruption, servitude, evil, tyranny, ugliness and oppression in humanlife’ (ibid.: 9). Nazik then associates sala with thawra by saying that the genuineand sincere acceptance of the power of the former inevitably leads to realisingthe latter: ‘In fact,’ she says, ‘I believe that sala is the same as thawra’ (ibid.). She— 221 —www.taq.ir

yasir suleimanlater refers to sala as the ‘throbbing equivalent to revolutionary values’ (ibid.:10). Nazik then connects these ideas to Palestine as follows (ibid.: 10–11):I have named this collection li-l-Sala wa-l-thawra to call on the Arabs to rise highthrough spirituality and struggle, with which Islam armed man in all places and at alltimes, to reach the highest peaks of his humanity [and] thus … achieve his freedom[and] the freedom of his nation … [In this context], the victory of the Arab overoppression in Palestine is the [revolutionary] equivalent to the call to prayer from theDome of the Rock.In her poem Sawsana ismuha al-quds (‘Jerusalem, Lily of the Valley’, ibid.: 39–44) the scene is the Day of Resurrection. Before passing judgement on His ownpeople (the Muslim Arabs in this case), God reminds them of the covenant theymade with Him to defend their homeland against all aggressors. The poetanswers on their behalf, telling Him that they had failed to do so, before she asksfor compassion and mercy. In the process, she acknowledges the gravity of theirguilt in view of the special place Jerusalem, and by extension Palestine, have inIslam as the land of isra’ and miÆraj (the Prophet’s nocturnal journey from Meccaand his Ascension to Heaven). But the poet reads more into this failure. Sheconsiders it as a sign of bondage to a state of servitude that negates the gift offreedom God has bestowed on His people. The continued occupation of Jerusalemtherefore has a double meaning. On the one hand, it represents failure touphold an important religious duty. On the other hand, it is synonymous withthe loss of freedom as a defining characteristic of man’s humanity, as that whichmakes man human. In this way, Nazik fuses the national with the religious andboth of these with the spiritual, in so far as freedom is the quality that enablesman to fulfil God’s design and will.This atmosphere in which the national fuses with the spiritual is at thecentre of the poem that gives its name to the collection li-l-Sala wa-l-thawra. Inthis long poem (ibid.: 149–65) the poet addresses the Dome of the Rock in aseries of overlapping thematic expressions which highlight the spirituality ofJerusalem and the surge of revolutionary impetus this spirituality creates: ‘[Youare] a mosque that is thirsty for the Qur’an and Prayer’ (ya masjidan Æatshana li-lqur’anwa-l-sujud, ibid.: 152); ‘[You are] a symbol, a history and an idea’ (yaramzu, ya tarikhu, ya fikra, ibid.: 161); and ‘[You are] an explosive mine, ahurricane and a dangerous prisoner’ (ya lughmu, ya iÆsaru ya sajinatan khatira,ibid.: 162). The poet then declares that ‘when man triumphs, the call to prayerwill rise from the Dome of the Rock’ (yantasiru al-insan, yartafiÆu al-adhan, ibid.:163). It is significant that the poet does not refer here to the triumph of theMuslim or the Arab man, but to the triumph of ‘man’ in his unqualified form, tothe fact that when freedom as the highest spiritual value triumphs thenJerusalem will be liberated. It is in this context, a context of freedom, thatprayer will be most effective (ibid.: 159):— 222 —www.taq.ir

the nation speaksWhen will we pray?Our prayer will be an explosionOur prayer will make the sun rise,Will arm the defencelessAnd cause the banner of the revolution to fly.Our prayer will ignite the hurricane,Will make the arms and the irises grow in the wildernessTurning resignation into victory.The repeated use of the vocative ‘ya’ in this poem shifts its focus from beingone about prayer to becoming an act of prayer in its own right. The vocative ‘ya’is typically used in prayer in Arabic to address God, to ask for His forgiveness orto seek His help and support. This strong spiritual atmosphere is found in otherpoems in the collection. In al-Hijra ila Allah (‘Migration to the Lord’, ibid.: 68–78) Nazik addresses God in a mood of complete supplication, telling Him, usingrepetition again, that her journey towards Him had taken her a very long time(maliki talat al-rihlatu talat, ibid.: 74), no doubt in reference to that period in hercareer and poetry when God seemed absent. Mixing the spiritual with thenational through the topos of Palestine, Nazik tells God that she came on herlong journey carrying with her the grief of Jerusalem, the wounds of Jinin – asmall town in the Occupied West Bank – and the humiliation inflicted on theAqsa Mosque (the first qibla in Islam) in a period of history that lacked leadersof the calibre of Saladin or the Abbasid Caliph al-MuÆtasim, whose victory overthe Byzantines in ÆAmmuriya (Amorium) in 833 is etched in the minds of allschool children, not least because it was encoded in one of the masterpieces ofthe Arabic poetic canon. She also tells him that she came carrying with her thewounds inflicted on the fida’iyyin (Palestinian freedom fighters) whose bloodwas spilled in Amman and Beirut in the 1970s. This poem is full of quiet angerwhich, unlike the fiery anger the poet displays in her earlier poetry, is moreeffective and haunting. The poem also speaks of God’s anger at His own peoplewho, by failing to follow His right path, the path of freedom, have acceptedoppression in their own lives and, in the process, negated their humanity.This weaving of the spiritual with the national takes a new turn in Aqwa minal-qabr (ibid.: 58–67). In this poem, the poet injects a strong personal elementthat connects her with her dead mother who, as we have seen above, championedthe Palestinian and other nationalist causes in her poetry. Upon hearing arecording of one of her mother’s poems in her own voice, memories andassociations came flooding back to the poet (ibid.: 64):Your bleeding poems:Their salt ignites sadness and fire in my bonesAnd I feel the surge of your boiling [anger]Running through me— 223 —www.taq.ir

And (ibid.: 61):yasir suleimanThe echo of your poetry will wake the slain.It will challenge [the enemy’s] rocketsAnd it will challenge their guillotines.The echo of your poetry will make the streams flow.In this poem, Nazik deploys a religion-soaked lexicon, including such termsas: shahid (martyr, ibid.: 62), dima’ al-Æaqida (the blood of faith, ibid.), tasabihana(our hymns, ibid.: 63), ma’adhin (minarets, ibid.: 64), Æatabat (holy shrines,ibid.) with its strong Iraqi ShiÆa associations, qara’in (texts of the Qur’an, ibid.)and takbira (glorification of God using the formula Allahu akbar, ibid.: 65). Butshe also uses expressions with a clear Arab nationalist flavour of the old kind:qabraki al-Æarabiyy al-hazin (your sad Arab grave, ibid.: 65) and Æarabiyyata aljada’il(your Arab tresses, ibid.: 67). In the same poem, Nazik uses a militarylexicon culled from terms that were fashionable in the armed struggle forPalestine in the late 1960s and early 1970s, including: lughm (explosive mine,ibid.: 65), qanabil (bombs, ibid.), sarukh (rocket, ibid.), midfaÆ (artillery gun,ibid.: 66), lahab (fire, ibid.), khanjar (dagger, ibid.) and sikkin (knife, ibid.: 65).Underpinning this are her references to filastin (Palestine, ibid: 59 and 60), alquds(Jerusalem, ibid.: 60 and 65), jalil (Galilee, ibid.: 65) and Æasifa (the militarywing of Fatah in pre-Oslo days).To strengthen the association of the national with the spiritual Nazik resortsto inter-textuality, using the Qur’an as her anaphoric reference. She does this intwo ways. First, she encodes fragments from the Qur’an in her poetry to extendits meaning and to lock the national into the spiritual and vice versa. There aremany examples of this kind in her poetry, but the following two, which she usesto talk about God’s enemies, will suffice: 341. Nazik (ibid.: 164): wa-yamkuruna makrahum wa-yamkuru al-rahman(They make their plans, and God makes His)Qur’an (30:8): wa-yamkuruna wa-yamkura Allahu wa-Allahu khayru al-makirin(They plan and God plans, and God is the best planner)2. Nazik (ibid.): wa-yazahaqu al-batilu wa-l-buhtan(Deception and slander have come to nothing)Qur’an (81:17) wa-qul ja’a al-haqqu wa-zahaqa al-batilu inna al-batila kana zahuqa(And say: Truth has come and falsehood has disappeared, falsehood is bound to perish)The second type of inter-textuality consists of using rhyming schemes whichevoke similar assonance schemes in the Qur’an. One such example occurs inNazik’s poem Aqwa min al-qabr (‘Stronger than the grave’) which, as we haveseen above, fuses the spiritual and the personal with the national via the toposof Palestine. This example of inter-textuality ‘bonds’ all these interests with theQur’an to generate a holistic unit of signification which ‘spiritualises thenational’ while ‘nationalising the spiritual’. Nazik writes (ibid.: 59):— 224 —www.taq.ir

the nation speaksMin matahati landana, haythu al-duja wa-l-dukhanJathimani Æala sadriha jathimanWa-Æala qabriha yanhani kawkabanWa-tariffu Æala huznihi wardatan(From the labyrinths of London,where the darkness and the smokecrouch nightmarishly over her gravewith two stars bendingand two fluttering roses)The above rhyming scheme immediately recalls the assonance scheme in thebulk of Chapter 55 in the Qur’an (Surat al-rahman) where the verse fa-bi-ayyiÆala’i rabbukuma tukadhdhiban (‘Which one of the favours of your Lord will youtwain deny?’) is repeated thirty times. Another example is the use of therhyming scheme –ah in al-Malika wa-l-bustan 35 (ibid.: 80–1), which recalls thesame assonance scheme in Chapters 79, 80 and 90 in the Qur’an. These Qur’anlinkedexamples of inter-texuality inject a religious dimension into thenational. The fact that most of these inter-textual links are located in the earlychapters of the Qur’an, which are characterised by short and sonorous verses,enhances the vigour and impact of Nazik’s compositions. While reading thesecompositions, the reader cannot but hear echoes of the Qur’an in his head,which provide another layer of meaning and musical cadences of a strongspiritual nature.This mixing of the spiritual with the national is found in Nazik’s othercollection, Yughayyiru al-wanahu al-bahru (‘The Sea Changes its Colours’, 1977). 36I will deal with two poems from this collection only to show how this is done.The first is Maraya al-shams (‘Mirrors of the Sun’, ibid.: 95–107), which the poetwrote after her husband, the Iraqi academic ÆAbd al-Hadi Mahbuba, presentedher with a map of Palestine. At the beginning of the poem, Nazik tells herreaders that she had dedicated her life to the mission of liberating Palestine. Thisact of dedication is signalled through the use of the verb Ænadhartu’ (ibid.: 95),which has strong spiritual and devotional meanings, in addition to implyingthat the poet had entered into a covenant with her Lord. The poem thenproceeds by offering a four-stop tour of the map of Palestine which she organisesaround the themes of ‘love’, ‘sadness’, ‘resistance’ and ‘faith’. The poet ends thepoem by telling her readers that, although love and sadness are importantingredients for resistance as the tool for liberating Palestine, these threeelements are bound to fail if they are not bonded together with faith as thesingle most important factor of liberation. The poem is interspersed with intertextualreferences which will not detain us here, 37 except to say that thereference to the Palestinian poet Fadwa Tuqan brings the two most accomplishedmodern female poets together in the nationalist project through the topos ofPalestine.— 225 —www.taq.ir

yasir suleimanThe second poem is al-Ma’ wa-l-barud (‘Water and Gunpowder’, ibid.: 25–51). This is a long poem, which suits its reliance on narration as a poetictechnique. The poet does this by inter-textually anchoring a modern story to anarchetypal event in the Islamic tradition. On one level, the poem relates how,in the 1973 (Ramadan) War between Egypt and Israel, the Israelis mistakenlyhit a hidden water supply in Sinai causing it to leak. The Egyptian soldiers who,we are told, were fasting at the time took advantage of this and used the water tobreak their fast and to quench their thirst in the blistering heat of the desert. Onanother level, this theme is developed in tandem with the story of Hajar and herson Isma’il – son of Abraham and ‘father’ of the Arabs – who were able toquench their thirst only when water, through divine intervention, miraculouslygushed out from under their feet. This is the story of the well of Zamzam which,to this day, gives its ‘blessed’ water to the pilgrims to Mecca. The two stories areprojected as examples of how God never forgets His own people and that He isquick to come to the aid of those among them who obey His will: la yakdhibuAllahu wa la yu’akhkhiru (God does not lie and he does not delay the fulfilmentof His promises, ibid.: 47). Hajar and Isma’il’s story acts as the frame to themodern-day event which, in symbolic terms, emerges as its echo and enactment.Through inter-textuality the present is woven into the past and projected as acontinuation of it in a double trajectory that ‘nationalises’ the past and‘spiritualises’ the present. This, as we have seen above, is one of the most importantthemes in Nazik’s last two collections. The ‘spiritual’ and the ‘national’envelop each other within a context that exploits the special place of Palestinein spiritual and national terms. Jerusalem occupies a special place in this topos,and this accounts for its textual visibility in Nazik’s poetry.One of the key concepts in the poetics of nationalist literature is the matchingof ends to means. Literature is an important channel of communication in nationbuilding. As I have pointed out earlier, it helps foster a national consciousness,a national sentiment, a shared cultural inheritance and a shared destiny, and itdoes so through a shared idiom that resonates with members of the nation. Toachieve this, nationalist literature aims at mobilisation and political activism bybonding the present to the past for reinforcement, legitimisation and inspirationpurposes. Nationalist literature therefore is not a reflection of reality, althoughreflection is a dimension of it; 38 it is, more importantly, an exercise in acting onreality, of constructing it, to fashion it in a way that gives the nation literaryform and socio-political substance. So, what literary means does the nationalistwriter deploy to give expression to his nationalist ends? Put differently, whatkind of literary devices does the nationalist writer use to promote his extraliteraryaims or objectives?The above analysis of Nazik’s nationalist poetry offers some answers as tohow this matching of means to ends is done. We have seen how Nazik deploys— 226 —www.taq.ir

the nation speaksinter-textuality to relate the past to the present. In doing this, the poet contraststhe pitiful state of the Arabs in the present with the glorious achievements oftheir forebears in the past. Inter-textuality here performs two contradictoryrhetorical functions. On the one hand, it suggests the existence of rupturebetween the past and the present, between the glories of the golden age and thetraumas of the age of struggle. On the other hand, inter-textuality suggests thepossibility of repair, the potential for the continuity of the past into the future,but it makes that conditional on overcoming the traumas of the present bycleansing the age of struggle from its debilitating failures.To bond the past with the future via the present Nazik creates inter-textuallinks to the canonical texts of the past in poetry and in the Qur’an. These linksare immediately recognised by the reader, and their contents and contexts aspre-texts are read into her compositions in a way that adds meaning, impact andmotivational force to them. The disjunction between these inter-textual links,the poetry and the Qur’an, however, indicates the change in nationalist outlookNazik underwent in her career. Whereas the former links dominate her earlypoetry, which followed the secular nationalist schema, the links to the Qur’anindicate a new phase in her nationalist thinking, in which the national and thespiritual are interwoven together. This change of outlook is further marked in anew lexicon in which religious terminology plays an important part in tying thenational to the spiritual. The combination of the Qur’an-centred inter-textuallinks and religious terminology, when it works well, has the effect of turningNazik’s later poems into devotional ‘hymns’ that work through the power ofsuggestion and spiritual atmosphere to promote their national aims.Inter-textuality serves another aim of nationalist literature: mobilisation.Nazik promotes this by framing her poetic compositions against elements fromthe popular culture at the time of writing. The reference to the popular tune‘the hour of revolutionary work has struck’ in her early nationalist poetry is anexample of this, as is the application of a lexicon of popular struggle, basedaround the Palestinian guerrilla movement, in her later poetry. Mobilisation forthe nationalist poet is of the ‘here and now’, hence Nazik’s utilisation of theculture of the day as a conduit for spreading her nationalist message. In most ofher nationalist poetry, particularly her early compositions, Nazik is moreinterested in resonance than in the longevity and the reception of her poetry byfuture generations, not that this reception is totally immaterial to her. In fact,one of the intended effects of moving the national in the direction of thespiritual in Nazik’s later poetry must have been to create a reception horizonthat loosens the ties of her poetry to the exigencies of the ‘here and now’ andbestows on them greater longevity. Whether Nazik has succeeded in doing thisor not is another matter.Mobilisation as an end of Nazik’s nationalist poetry is tied to repetition. We— 227 —www.taq.ir

yasir suleimanhave discussed examples of this above. Repetition delivers a number offunctions in nationalist poetics. It is an aid to memory, particularly in oralperformance which, unlike reading, is a collective and participatory activitythat promotes inter-subjective interaction and, therefore, helps bridge thedistance in socio-psychological terms between members of the nation. As a formof reiteration, repetition offers the nationalist message cyclically to ensure thatit has reached its target audience. And when cleverly executed, repetition canwork subliminally at a variety of levels to infuse urgency and vigour into thenationalist message. Gemination and reduplication, which we have identifiedabove as examples of sub-word repetition, work in this way, as do reiterativesyntactic frames and equative constructions of the kind we have highlighted inour discussion of Nazik’s poem Tahiyya li-l-jumhuriyya al-Æiraqiyya above (‘ASalute to the Iraqi Republic’). It is no coincidence, however, that most of theexamples of gemination and reduplication in Nazik’s nationalist poetry areverbs. For Nazik, verbs are action-full, which explains her reference to them inthe nationalist paradigm as the ‘most honourable part of the [Arabic] language’(1981: 329). Verbs, for Nazik, are the linguistic engines of nationalist mobilisation.Their dynamic force contrasts with the static inertia of the nominals. It istherefore through the ‘verb’ that the nationalist ‘subject’, both as grammaticalentity and human actor, exercises agency and moves to action; hence, therespect which Nazik accords to the verb.In matching ends to means, the poetics of nationalist literature does notclaim the means as its sole preserve. These means exist in other literary genresand are used for other purposes. As far as the ends are concerned, the poetics ofnationalist literature is neutral as to the veracity of the claims this literaturemakes or to the constructions which nationalist historiography places on them.On both fronts, literature may be exploited to package the past or to createmyths, to make claims or to rebut counter-claims. This is part and parcel of thesociology of literature in the nationalist domain. At its worst, nationalist literaturecan descend into crass propaganda, but even this can provide interestingmaterial for the student of nationalism. 39 At its best, nationalist literature canelevate the national to the status of the humanist and universal, but for it to doso it would need to move away from open mobilisation. This is a matter ofcontents and contexts, and of balancing the former against the latter. As a massmovement for nation or state building in the here and now, nationalism cannotalways afford that kind of subtlety in literature which so excessively underminesits populism and ability to mobilise.Dealing with nationalist literature is therefore a precarious scholarly business.As an exercise in hyphenation, it risks alienating the literary critic and thestudent of nationalism at one and the same time. The former may be tempted todiscount the national in the literary as a form of propaganda that downgrades— 228 —www.taq.ir

the nation speaksthe value of literature as art. The latter may consider the attention given to theliterary in the national as a form of elitism that peels away at the social messageof literature. It is therefore important to proceed in a way that preserves for theliterary and the national their integrity. But it is also important that the two aretied together. Getting the right balance is the challenge.notes1. For the purposes of this research, we will adopt Hrushovski’s characterisation ofpoetics as ‘the systematic study of literature’ insofar as it relates to a ‘particular poet’s“art” or “language”’ and ‘how literary texts embody “non-literary” phenomena’(1976: xv, cited in Rimmon-Kenan 1983: 2).2. For ‘territorial nationalism’, see Suleiman (2003: 162–223).3. See Anderson (1991).4. See Dawr al-adab fi al-waÆy al-qawmi al-Æarabi (1980: 23–5).5. See al-Qaysi (1980).6. See al-Bayyati (1980).7. See ÆAli (1980).8. See Qaddafi (1996) and Hussein (2004). Saddam Hussein is claimed as author offour novels.9. Nationalist thinkers stress the importance of ‘quality’ in nationalist literature not asan attribute for its own sake, but as a means to creating a more effective literature inmobilising terms; see Hamadi (1980) for a discussion of the ‘beauty’ (jamal) innationalist writings.10. This is true of prose literature, including the novel; see ÆAbd al-Ghani (1998) for adiscussion of the Arab novel from this perspective.11. Nazik al-Mala’ika is an Iraqi poet. She was born in Baghdad in 1923 and educated inIraq and the US; see Sharara (1994) for a biography of Nazik.12. This paper has its genesis in Suleiman (1995), from which it differs substantially.13. Commenting on the study of nationalism, Hutchinson and Aberbach point out that‘studies of artistic nation builders are thin on the ground’ (1999: 502). They ascribethis to the fact that ‘nation building is … excessively associated with political andsocial processes’, partly because the ‘effects of culture are not as clearly quantifiableas those of politics’ (1999: 501).14. See, for example, al-Daqqaq (n.d.), al-Dasuqi (n.d.), Husayn (1983), ÆIzz al-Din(n.d.), al-Jayyusi (1964), al-Jundi (1962), al-Maqdisi (1982), Sallam (1959), Sharara(1988), al-Tarabulsi (1957), Dawr al-adab fi al-waÆy al-qawmi al-Æarabi (1980), al-Adab al-Æarabi (1987).15. See, for example, al-Daqqaq (n.d.) who ignores Nazik as a nationalist poet in hiscomprehensive survey al-Ittijah al-Qawmi fi al-shiÆr al-Æarabi al-hadith.16. These contributions have been recently anthologised in an influential publicationby the Centre for Arab Unity Studies in Beirut: al-Qawmiyya al-Æarabiyya, fikratuhawa-muqawwimatuha (2 vols, 1993).17. For perennialism and primordialism, see Smith (2001).18. Ibid.19. See Tabana (1974) and Simrin (1990).— 229 —www.taq.ir

yasir suleiman20. See Suleiman (2003).21. See Tripp (2000: 99–107) for information on Rashid ÆAli al-Kailani.22. The Crusades were the topic of many poetic compositions that celebrated thevictories of the Muslim campaigns against the Franks; see ÆAbd al-Mahdi (1989) forexamples.23. See Tabana for some insightful comments on this issue (1974: 83).24. Nazik al-Mala’ika published seven collections of poetry: ÆAshiqat al-layl (‘Lover ofthe Night’, 1947), ShaZaya wa ramad (‘Shrapnel and Ashes’, 1949), Qararat almawja(‘The Depth of the Wave’, 1957), Shajarat al-qamar (‘The Moon Tree’, 1968),Ma’sat al-haya wa-ughniya li-l-insan (‘The Tragedy of Life and a Song to Man’, 1970),Yughayyiru alwanahu al-bahru (‘The Sea Changes its Colours’, 1977), and li-l-Sala wal-thawra(‘For Prayer and Revolution’, 1978).25. The fall of the monarchy in Iraq was a source of joy for many Arabs who believedthat this system of government was a relic of the past. I still remember how excitedwe were as little children in Jerusalem when we heard the news. The fact that theruling class in Iraq were seen to be on the side of the British damned them in theeyes of most Arabs at the time.26. I remember as a little boy going to see an Egyptian film about Jamila with my cousinsin al-Zahra’ Cinema (or was it Cinema al-Hamra?) in Jerusalem in the late 1950s.The whole cinema was in tears and people spoke about Jamila’s legendary courageand the barbarity of the French for weeks after that. The film helped make thestruggle of the Algerian people ‘real’ and made us all feel ‘Algerian’. When werelated the story of the film to my mother, she said kulna fi al-hawa sawa (We are allin the same boat). We all understood what she meant: Algeria is Palestine, andPalestine is Algeria. As a tool of mobilisation, the film was very successful indeed.There is no doubt that Nazik was locking into feelings of this kind in this poem.27. See Billig (1995) for the function of remembering and forgetting in nation building.28. This was a famous song at the time. As young boys we used to sing it while playing orflying our kites. I can still remember it to this day. In fact, I am finding it difficult toget it out of my head at the time of writing, almost forty years on.29. See Street (1997) for the role of popular culture in politics and nation building.30. See Shusha (1993) for a similar view about the verb.31. See Suleiman (1995: 104–5) for a discussion of some of these poems.32. This shift seemed very sudden at the time. In 1968 I observed an event in the citycentre in Amman (in Jordan) which illustrated the impact of this shift on theordinary person in the street. Two young women stepped out of a taxi wearing thejilbab (ankle-length dress) and the veil. They then walked down the street withconfidence and, it was clear, with purpose and the intent to display/model the newway of dressing. I still remember how we were all stunned by this, for none of us hadseen that mode of dressing before. Literally, the whole street came to a standstill asif, in the context of today, the women stepped out of the taxi wearing a ‘skimpy’ skirtand proceeded to model this to onlookers in the same street.33. For a manifesto-like study of the role of literature in Islamist thinking see al-ÆAshmawi (2002).34. For more examples, see Suleiman (1995: 107–8).35. In this poem (1978: 77–83) Nazik attacks Queen Elizabeth II for accepting as a gift— 230 —www.taq.ir

the nation speaksin April 1974 an ‘orchard’ (bustan) which, the poet tells us, belonged to Palestinianrefugees who fled their country in 1948.36. Although this collection bears a date of publication prior to that of li-l-Sala wa-lthawra(1978), the later collection is in fact older; its publication was actually heldback because of the Civil War in Lebanon, where it was printed.37. For more information on these inter-textual references, see Suleiman (1995: 109–10).38. For the theories of reflection in national literature, see Corse (1997).39. In one such example, a 331-page collection of forty poems under the title Diwan almiladal-shiÆri (‘The Christmas of Poetry’, 1987), Saddam Hussein is described,among other things, as ‘a moon in the sky’, a ‘star in the sky’, ‘muse of the poets’, ‘themaker of joy’, and ‘descendent of the Prophet’ (hashimi al-Æiraq). The last poem isentitled ‘A Christmas ode’ (muÆallaqat al-milad), in which the term muÆallaqa (ode)recalls the pre-Islamic poetry compositions.— 231 —www.taq.ir

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IndexAbbas, Ihsan, 54ÆAbduh, Muhammad, 135Aberbach, David, 4absent-present experience, 7, 8and ironic reversal, 36–7and possible-impossible riddle, 36Aden, 181Ahmed, Leila, 135al-Ahram newspaper, 183AIDS, fictional response to, 193Akash, Munir, The Adam of Two Edens, 81Alameddine, Rabih, 190Koolaids: the Art of War, 192, 193–9Alexandria, 180Greek literature in, 184Algeria, 182independence struggle, 213, 216, 230nallegory, 6–7, 9in al-Hakim, 149–50in He Walked in the Fields, 126–7nin Men in the Sun, 54, 56, 57in Third World novels, 76–7nAmherst College (US), Five-College Programin Peace and World Security Studies,93, 99nAmichai, Yehuda, 80Amin, Qasim, 134, 135Al-Mar’a al-jadida (The New Woman), 135Tahrir al-mar’a (The Liberation of Women),135Anderson, Benedict, 59, 110, 158n, 176,199anti-colonialism, 163, 168–70, 214Anti-Oedipus (Deleuze and Guattari), 64Antonius, Georgeand Arabic language, 128, 129The Arab Awakening, 12, 128, 208Appadurai, Arjunand locality, 16–17, 22, 27Modernity at Large, 16Arab League, 179Arab literaturein English, 183–4as inspiration for nationalism, 211, 213as legitimisation of nationalism, 211as literature of struggle, 210‘national in the poetic’, 212–13in other languages, 182in Sudan, 165, 174translations into Hebrew, 102–3, 104–5see also Arabic language; poetryArab nationalism, 5and Arabic language, 128effect on cultural diversity, 13–14, 181–2failures of, 217–18and Islam, 213–14and literature, 5, 129–30, 208–9and nahda (cultural renaissance), 129,131and poetry, 5, 12, 162, 209–10, 215–29and recognition of Jews, 102and role of novel, 130secular, 216, 230nsee also pan-Arab nationalismArab Nationalist Movement, 64Arab world, diversity and links, 179–81Arabic language, 128, 177n, 179colloquial, 179–80Jewish literature written in, 186in Sudan, 164, 174verbs, 219–20, 228see also dialectArafat, Yasir, 82’Araydi, NaÆim, 187ÆArif, ÆAbd al-Salam, 216Armenians, 181Atchity, K. J., 20, 21–2, 29–30nnAtiyah, Edward, 183audiences, 82, 84–90for Darwish’s ‘Indian Speech’, 84–5, 93–4,95–6—257 —www.taq.ir

indexBaghdad, conference on role of literature(1980), 209–10, 213Balfour Declaration (1917), 34, 35, 46–7n, 79,85, 214Ballas, Shimon, 105, 108n, 186al-Banna, Muhammad Umar, 169Bar-Moshe, Yizhak, 186al-Barudi, Mahmoud Sami, 162Bauman, Zygmunt, 198Bedri, Babikr, 173–4Bevan, David, 198Bhabha, Homi, 110Nation and Narration, 16and nation-space, 56, 62Bialik, Hayim, 80Bilbul, YaÆqub, 186Boshes, Heda, 106Boujedra, Rachid, 182Boulos, Sargon, 184Boym, Svetlana, 196Brennan, Timothy, 191Brooks, Cleanth, 33Buhayrid, Jamila, Algerian freedom fighter,217, 218, 230nCafavy, Constantine, 184calendar, Islamic, 221Chalala, Elie, 191Chanson de Roland, 23–4Chedid, André, 191Chraieb, Driss, 182Cleary, Joe, 6Clements, Kevin P., 93Clifford, James, 201collective memory, 87–8colonialism, in Sudan, 165–6colonists, and dispossession of indigenouspeoples, 34–5Columbus, Christopher, 82, 85, 91, 94communism, in Iraq, 216community, and performance, 21–2conflict resolution, 92–3constructivism, 1–2, 3–4Cossery, Albert, 182cultural diversity, 14, 15effect of Arab nationalism on, 13–14, 179–81and marginal (multi-ethnic) literature,185–8cultural identity, 194, 204Darwish, Mahmoud, 31, 79, 80Hebrew translations of, 104–5‘Indian Speech’ (poem), 82–4, 85–91and irony, 32Journal of an Ordinary Grief, 44A Lover from Palestine, 49Memory for Forgetfulness, 38, 80Da’ud, Siham, 187Deleuze, Gilles, 64Denneny, Michael, 193desert, as female, 72, 73destiny, Arab belief in, 41diachronic–synchronic (material–spiritual)connections, 82–4, 89–90dialect, 22, 42in poetry, 8, 12directive language, 27–8Dong, Xeuping, 58Doob, Leonard, 92education, Sudan, 167, 171, 174, 175–6, 177Egypt1919 revolution, 134, 145, 161n, 169Arabic literature in, 166, 186cultural nationalism, 144, 157nation-building, 146–7, 155–6oral epic poetry, 25rise of nationalism, 131, 134–5, 157and Sudan, 164, 165–6, 168and Syria, 218unity in ancient history, 150–4, 157see also SudanEgyptian literaturenationalist poetry, 208–9role of novels, 13, 130, 185translations into Hebrew, 104Eliot, T. S., The Waste Land, 205English language, 182, 183Arab literature in, 183–4in Lebanon, 190, 191, 207nin Sudan, 164Europe, 4national identity and language, 181–2novel in, 132, 158nEven Zohar, Itamar, 100–1exileand absent-present experience, 31–2, 192and gender in literature of return, 49internal, 198–9and multiculturalism, 188and nationalism, 191–2and nostalgic memory, 14, 190, 192al-Fajr (Sudanese journal), 171–2fallah-intellectual, role of, 139, 143–4—258 —www.taq.ir

indexFaqir, Fadia, 182Farah, Khalil, 169–70, 175–6Farid, Muhammad, 208, 209Fatah organisation, 64femininityin All That’s Left to You, 65–75and male return, 64, 65–6and problem of female desire, 71–4feminist analysis, 49; see also feminity; womenfolk heroes, Palestinian, 41–2France, 166, 182French languageArabic literature in, 182in Lebanon, 190, 191Frye, Northrop, 33, 39, 54Funj sultanate (Sudan), 163–5Gadamer, Hans-Georg, 110Gandhi, Mahatma, 171Gellner, Ernest, 128genderand Palestinian narrative of return, 48, 49–50, 52–3and political allegory, 58George, Rosemary, The Politics of Home, 192,193German Romanticism, 4‘republic of letters’, 6Germany, before re/unification, 2, 6–7Ghali, Waguih, Beer in the Snooker Room, 183Ghanayim, Muhammad Hamza, 187al-Ghayati, Ali, Wataniyyati (poetrycollection), 208, 209Gibb, Hamilton, 132Gibran Khalil, Khalil, 183Grass, Günther, 6Great Britainnational literatures in, 4and Sudan, 164, 165–6, 167, 168–70, 172Greek literature, in Egypt, 184–5Greenblatt, Stephen, 110Guattari, Felix, 64Habash, George, 48Habibi, Imil, The Amazing Events Leading tothe Disappearance of the Hapless Said, thePessoptimist, 40–6comparison with Candide, 45–6Hebrew translations of, 106Hajjaj, Nasri‘A Hungry Orange’ (story), 36–7, 39‘Soup for the Children’ (story), 37–8al-Hakim, Tawfiq, 144–5ÆAwdat al-ruh (Return of the Spirit), 131,144–57Halbwachs, Maurice, 194Hamadi, SaÆdun, 213Hammad, Suheir, 184Hammoud, Hani, 190Hanania, Tony, 190Unreal City, 192, 199–206Harvard Negotiation Project, 92Haydar, Adnan, 193al-Haydari, Buland, 186Haykal, Muhammad Husayn, 5, 130, 132–3compared with al-Hakim, 144–5use of pseudonym, 132–3, 135–6Zainab, 131, 133–44, 157Hazan, Yaakov, 118Hebrew culture, and literary translation, 101Hebrew languageArabic literature translated into, 102–3,104–5, 106, 187Palestinian Israeli writing in, 186–7Hebrew University of Jerusalem, OrientalStudies Institute, 103heroic construct, in poetry, 23–5, 27–8Hirsch, Marianne, 190historyand myth, 122–4and nationalism, 110Hoffman, Eva, 193homeand country, 192–3and nostalgia, 194Homer, place names in, 20–1, 29–30nnHourani, Albert, 12, 129humour, 40–1Hussein, Saddam, 211Hussein, Taha, al-Ayyam (novel), 109nHutcheon, Linda, 33Huxley, Aldous, 1Ibrahim, Hafiz, 162identityambiguous, 44hyphenated, 8, 43–5multi-ethnic, 185–9Idris, Yusuf, Al-Haram (The Taboo), 138imagery, 23–4, 85, 97nIndia, 162, 181Indian Ocean, cultural world of, 180–1, 183inter-textuality, 218–19, 224–5, 226, 227Iraq, 180, 215–16Egyptian literature in, 131Jews in, 186—259 —www.taq.ir

indexwomen nationalist poets, 212–15Ireland, national literature, 6irony, 8–9as deictic device, 39–40double, 41, 43, 46interpretations of, 33, 39in literature, 32, 33, 38–9and martyrdom, 38, 39in Palestinian literature, 32, 35phatic dimension of, 37, 38Isis, imagery of, 146, 149–50Islamand Arabic culture, 163–4, 210and Arabic language, 179–80and Arabism, 213–14Israel, and peace process, 93–5Israel, state of, 47n, 100, 181, 1871967 War, 85–6, 221foundation of, 11, 31, 85immigrants, 103–4interaction of Arab and Hebrew culture, 187kibbutz movement, 112, 118, 125nand myth of New Hebrew youth, 112,117–22renaming of Palestinian places, 19–20, 29nnstatus of Palestinians in, 34, 80Israeli army, Palma’h unit, 113–14Istanbul, cultural diversity, 180Italy, Ottoman links in, 180Jabra, Jabra Ibrahim, 183Jameson, Frederic, 76–7n, 110al-Jarida (journal), 134Jauss, Hans Robert, 110Jelloun, Tahar bin, 182Jerusalem, 214, 222, 223Jewish national identity, and translations fromArabic, 10, 100, 103–8Jewsin Ottoman Empire, 181writings in Arabic, 186see also Hebrew language; IsraelJordan, Hashemite rulers of, 180journals, Sudan, 166–7, 171–2, 173, 176al-Kailani, Rashid ÆAli, 214Kamil, Mustafa, Watani Party, 134–5Kanafani, Ghassan, 48, 108Ma Tabaqqa Lakum (All That’s Left to You),48, 57–8, 65–75Rijal fi al-Shams (Men in the Sun), 48, 50–7,58–63, 74Um Saad, 71Kapeliouk, Menahem, 109nKasem, Wayne, 194Katzenelson, Berl, 120–1Kayat, Claude, Mohammed Cohen, 185Kedouri, Elie, 211Kelman, Herbert, 92Khaled, Leila, 64Khalidi, Rashid, 64Khalifeh, Sahar, Wild Thorns (novel), 74Khayr, Nazih, 187al-Khazraji, ÆAtika, Iraqi nationalist poet, 213–14Surkh al-Zulm (‘Cries of Oppression’), 214Khoury, Elias, 47n, 54Kristeva, Julia, Strangers to Ourselves, 192Kurds, 181Kurzweil, Baruch, 118language, 6, 70, 158nand cultural diversity, 14, 181and nationalism, 128, 181–2use of borrowed (foreign) words, 22visual (art), 196words and motion in oral tradition, 97–8nwriters’ choice of, 182see also Arabic language; dialect; Englishlanguage; Hebrew language; translationLeague of Sudan Union, 169Lebanoncivil war, 193, 195, 200, 202–3exiles from, 190, 206nexilic novel in, 14, 190–206and identity, 194–5literature in English and French, 190literacy, 5, 162Sudan, 165, 167, 174, 176, 178nsee also oral traditionliterary criticism, 32, 211–12literatureand Arab nationalism, 5, 129–30, 208–9and censorship, 6–7and common language, 6of exile, 14, 187marginal (multi-ethnic), 185–8nationalist, 211–13New Criticism, 32, 39and politics, 48, 58, 91–3reflection theory of, 3taught in national language, 182see also Arab literature; novel; poetrylocality, 16–17and phaticity, 28London, Arab journalism in, 184—260 —www.taq.ir

indexLuah Eretz Yisrael (journal), 103Lunz, Avraham Moshe, 103Mahbuba, ÆAbd al-Hadi, 225Mahfuz, Naguib, 103Mahjoub, Jamal, 182Mahjub, Muhammad Ahmad, 162, 172, 173al-Mala’ika, Nazik, Iraqi nationalist poet, 212–13al-Hijira ila Allah, 223al-Ma’ wa-l-barud, 226Aqwa min al-qabr, 223–4Hudud al-raja’, 220influences on, 213–15inter-textuality in, 218–19, 224–5, 226li-l-Sala wa-l-thawra (poetry collection),220, 221–2Maraya al-shams, 225Nahnu wa Jamila, 216–18nationalism and spirituality, 221–6Qadaya al-shiÆr al-muÆasir (Issues in ModernPoetry), 219Sawsana ismuha al-quds, 222–3Shajarat al-qamar (poetry collection), 215Tahiyya li-l-jumhuriyya al-Æiraqiyya, 215–16,220, 228Thalath ughniyat Æarabiyya, 219, 220Ughniya li-l-atlal al-Æarabiyya, 218–19use of repetition, 219, 220, 227–8use of words, 216, 218, 219, 224Yughayyir al-wanah al-bahr (poetrycollection), 220–1, 225–6Malinowski, Bronislaw, 21Malkin, Yaakov, 122Manganaro, Elise Salem, 190Mann, Thomas, 6Mansur, Atallah, 186–7Marquez, Gabriel Garcia, 196martyrdom, 36, 37–8, 47nMarx, Karl, The Eighteenth Brumaire of LouisBonaparte, 139Masalha, Salman, 187masculinityand castration, 51, 53–4, 55, 65, 71, 77nand force, 64and national identity, 52–8, 59, 63, 73–5and nationalist poetry, 213rhetoric of, 60–2Massad, Joseph, 58mediaEnglish newspaper editions, 183Sudan, 174Mediterranean, and Arab world, 180memorycollective, 87–8food and, 202nostalgic, 14, 190, 192survivor, 190–1metanarrative discourse, 26–7, 30nMiddle Eastconcept of nation in, 4–5, 188multi-lingualism in, 184peace process, 93–5, 108Mikha’il, Murad, 186Mikha’il, Sami, Victoria, 186modernism, 3–4, 32Morse, Margaret, 194Muecke, D. C., 33multi-lingualism, 184, 197MutawwaÆ, Khalid, 184Myerhoff, Barbara, 28myth, Darwish’s use of, 81myth-making, 1, 11, 35and heroic construct, 24–5, 115–17of New Hebrew youth, 112, 117–22nahda (Arab cultural renaissance), 129, 131,162al-Nahda (Sudanese journal), 171, 172, 176Najjar, Alexandre, 190naming, 6, 18, 41in oral tradition, 98and renaming of places, 19–20Nancy, Jean Luc, 62Naqib, Fadl, on Men in the Sun, 52, 53–4Naqqash, Samir, 186narrators, of poetry, 25, 26Nasir, Amjad, 184Nasser, Gamal Abdel-, 144, 216nationconstructivist view of, 1–2, 3–4reciprocal relations with literature, 2–3,226nation building, 1, 110and boundaries, 79and culture, 129and ethnicity, 181role of literature, 209–10, 211, 226, 228–9role of poetry, 4, 162symbolic, 146–7, 150–1and use of literary translation, 100–1National Front for the Liberation of Palestine,64national identityand cultural identity, 194–5, 204culture and, 2, 181–2—261 —www.taq.ir

indexnational self-determination, 49, 58–9, 79nationalismas divisive, 4, 6, 79and exile, 191–2home and, 192–3and language, 128mobilisation and, 219–20, 226, 227–8and spirituality, 221–6see also Arab nationalismNative American tribes, 34–5, 81and Darwish’s ÆIndian Speech’, 82–4, 85–91Nedivei ve Giborei ÆArav (collection of Arabicpoetry in translation), 104negotiation, political, 92New Criticism, 32, 38–9Nochlin, Linda, 196North Africa, 182, 213nostalgia, 193–4, 197–8nostalgic memory, 14, 190, 192Novak, Havar, theatre critic, 107novel(s)Egyptian, 13, 130, 131–2exilic, 14, 190–206introduction of, 132, 176modern Arabic, 129–30role of, 11, 12–13, 159n, 176Sudan, 176–7Nussbaum, Martha, Poetic Justice: The LiteraryImagination and Public Life, 91, 94Oedipal relationships, 64–5oral traditionArab, 25–6, 85, 97–8nnPalestinian oral poetry duel, 7–8, 16–29Sudan, 164, 166–7Orientalism, 153–4, 221Ottoman Empire, 132, 134cultural diversity in, 179–81Palermo, 180Palestineand Camp David summit (2000), 47ncult of martyr in, 38historical experience of, 85–6Jewish population (1948), 110liberation movement, 214–15and narrative of return, 48, 49–50, 51–7negation of, 31, 32northern, 17, 22Oslo Accords, 79–80, 82, 94partition plan (1947), 75n, 214and peace process, 93–5place names, 19–20, 29nnas state of exile, 31, 33war of 1948, 52, 55–6, 68–9, 75–6n, 111,122, 124n, 215see also PalestiniansPalestine Liberation Organisation, 48, 55, 58Palestinian literaturein Hebrew translation, 105and national identity, 7–9political dimension, 48Palestinian oral poetry duel, 7–8, 16–29character of performance, 17–19heroic construct, 24–5, 27–8imagery, 23–4place naming in, 19–22, 29nritual nature of, 28Palestinians, 6, 7and absent-present experience, 7, 8, 31–2,33–4and concept of return, 32, 63–4hyphenated identity of, 43–5, 80and Israeli politics, 28–9, 81‘lost years’ of identity, 55–6and national identity, 7–9, 79–81use of Hebrew language, 186–7pan-Arab nationalism, 2, 5, 12, 213and Palestinian identity, 56, 64peace studies, 92–3, 99npeasants, 160in al-Hakim, 144, 147, 150–4in Haykal, 135–7, 138–9performanceof poetry, 7, 25–7, 87–90, 96–7nsee also oral tradition; Palestinian oralpoetry duel‘phatic communion’, 21, 38, 40phaticity, 7, 18, 21, 28and irony, 37, 38and metanarrative discourse, 26–7place names, 6, 18, 19poetic listing of, 20–1, 29nnPnueli, Sh. J., 118–19poetry, 163, 210Abbasid period, 210Arabic nationalist, 5, 12, 162, 208–9Arabic oral tradition, 25–6, 85, 97–8nn,162and audiences, 82, 84–90, 95–6in English, 184fusha, 164, 174, 177nheroic construct in, 23–5, 27–8Islamic Arab, 210and nationalism, 4, 162, 163, 214–15, 226–7—262 —www.taq.ir

indexoral Palestinian duel, 7–8, 16–29performance of, 7, 25–7, 87–90, 96–7nnpre-Islamic, 210, 219Sudanese Arabic, 164–5Sudanese nationalist, 11–12, 164–5, 168–9, 170–2, 173–7Sufi, 164politicsand influence of literature, 91–3and nationalist poetry, 214–15in Sudanese poetry, 169–70, 173Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine,48postmodernism, 205–6print culture, Sudan, 165, 166‘prophetic poem-making’, 93, 94, 96proverbs, Arabic, 40, 41puns, 40Qaddafi, Colonel Muammar, 211qasida, pre-Islamic tradition of, 85, 95, 97nnQasim, ÆAbd al-Karim, President of Iraq, 216al-Qasim, Samih, 43, 104–5, 187‘Persona Non Grata’ (poem), 35–6al-Quds al-Arabi newspaper, 47n, 209Qur’an, inter-textual links to, 224–5, 227refugee nations, 6, 16; see also Lebanon;PalestiniansRejwan, Nissim, 186repetition, use of, 86, 97n, 219, 220, 227–8al-Rihani, Amin, 183ritual, 28, 209Robert, Shaaban, 162Rose, Jacqueline, States of Fantasy, 205al-Rusafi, MaÆruf, Iraqi poet, 212sacred space, concept of, 88–9Said, Edward, 31, 33, 85, 110, 191–2SaÆid, Jamil, 131Salih, Tawfiq, film director, 50The Betrayed, 52Salih, al-Tayyib, 184Salonica, 180al-Samaw’al, poet, 104, 108nal-Sayyid, Ahmad Lufti, 134, 138Scarry, Elaine on Nussbaum, 92–3Schami, Rafik, 187Schulman, Sarah, 193Schulze, Reinhard, 138Second World War, Sudan, 174Senegal, 162Senghor, Leopold Sedar, 162al-Shabbi, Abu al-Qasim, Tunisian poet, 220shahid (martyr), cult of, 38Shamir, Elik, 122Shamir, Moshe, He Walked in the Fields, 110–24, 125ncritical reaction to, 117–20interpretations of, 122–3and Zionist heroic ideals, 111–14, 115–16,119–20Shammas, Anton, 106Arabesques, 44, 186–7al-Sharqawi, Ahmed Rahman, Al-Ard (TheEarth), 138Shawqi, Ahmad, 162, 212al-Shaykh, Hanan, 184Shibab Nye, Naomi, 184Siddiq, Muhammad, on Men in the Sun, 53Smith, Charles, 139–40Soueif, Ahdaf, 182spirituality, mixed with nationalism (inNazik’s poetry), 221–6Spitzer, Leo, 193–4Spivak, Gayatri, 139Sudan, 170, 173, 174Anglo-Egyptian conquest, 164, 165–6anti-colonialism, 169–70Arabic culture in, 163–5, 174–5, 176–7biographical dictionaries, 175colonial rule in, 166–7, 168–9education, 167, 171, 174, 175–6, 177Gordon College, Khartoum, 167, 169Graduates General Congress, 172–3growth of nationalism, 170–3, 174–5Mahdist regime, 164, 165national(ist) poetry, 11–12, 164–5, 168–9,170–2, 173–7nature poetry, 172praise poetry, 172, 177nwritten poetry, 166, 167–8, 173–4Suleiman, Susan Rubin, 198Suney, President of Turkey, 180survivor memory, 190–1Sykes-Picot Agreement, 85Syria, 128, 132, 218Tagore, Rabindranath, 162al-Tahtawi, Rif’at Rafi’, 135al-Tal, Mustafa Wahbi, Jordanian poet, 212Tambal, Hamza al-Malik, 171, 172Tamir, Zakaria, 184Tanganyika, 162Thompson, William, The Land and the Book,35—263 —www.taq.ir

indexTibawi, A. L., 131Tirman, John, 196, 199Toury, Gideon, norm theory of translation, 101translation, 9–10choice of texts, 102–4Jewish national identity and, 10, 100, 103–8, 187and nation-building, 100–1polysystem theory of, 100–1preliminary norms, 102–5, 108reaction norms, 105–6reviews of, 105, 106–7Trumpeldor, Joseph, 117–18, 120–2, 124, 126nTsirkas, Stratis (Iannis Hadjiandreas), 184–5Drifting Cities, 185Nourredin Bomba, 185Tucker, Martin, 192Tunisia, 185–6Tuqan, Fadwa, 225Turkey, 180, 181Turkish language, 180Umm Nizar, Iraqi nationalist poet, 214–15Unshudat al-majd (‘The Song of Glory’),214, 215Umma Party, liberal nationalism of, 134UN General AssemblyResolution 181, 75nResolution 194, 32, 46n‘unisonality’, 5, 11United Nations, 214–15United States, 93–5, 184al-ÆUrayyid, Ibrahim, 183Vance, Eugene, on Chanson de Roland, 23–4Voltaire, Candide, 45–6Wafd Party, 135, 160nWatani Party, 134–5weddingsPalestinian oral poetry duel at, 17–18, 22,25role of saff (male participants), 17, 21, 23,25, 27sahrah (groom’s celebration), 17, 21, 23,25, 27–8womenemancipation in Egypt, 135and Islamic social conventions, 140–3Palestinian, 47n, 64, 65–6as (passive) symbol of land, 49–50, 58, 66,73as poets, 213in Sudan, 167, 171, 172Yaari, Meir, 118Yacine, Kateb, 182Yahuda, Avraham Shalom Yehezkel, 104Yakhlif, Yahya, A Lake Beyond the Wind(novel), 63al-Yaziji, Ibrahim, tanabbahu wa-stafiqu ayyuhaal-Æarab, 208Yemen, oral poetry, 25Zaghlul, SaÆd, 145Zandbank, Shimon, translator, 107–8Zaydan, Jurji, 12Zerubavel, Yael, 121–2Zionism, 79, 100, 121heroic ideals of, 111–14, 115–16, 118–19and Jewish population of Palestine, 110–11and view of Palestine, 101–2Zionist Congress (First), Basel (1897), 34, 35—264 —www.taq.ir