Book 168: Bahrain (English) – Yummah (Sarah A. AL SHAFEI)

 

 

Dana was the one who killed me the most. She loved her freedom and liberty and had a very strong personality, very different than her quiet self when she was much younger. She wanted much more than what she had, and her ambition and enthusiasm always got her what she wanted. Even when her father left, she had chosen to look forwards rather to than [sic] think of the loss like the rest of us; “Baba wanted another life and so he went to look for it. I also want a better life and will prove to Baba some day that we were better off without him anyway,” she told me once. And maybe she was right.

 

At first I was a bit disappointed with Yummah. But I came to love it. The plot is not all that exciting – and in any case some spoilsport put effectively all of it into the back page blurb – and the writing is also not thrilling, or literary, which is not to say that there is anything wrong with it at all. But I had no problem keeping reading the story of Khadeeja and her family down through the generations.

As a 12-year-old, she is torn away from her doll and forced into an arranged marriage to a much older man. Her mother dies soon after, leaving her with two unknown brothers and a husband, though she does come to know and love the latter and have a happy life. She then comes to lose both a child and her husband, struggles to raise her huge family without him, and suffers more tragedies before the dénouement.

For me, it was heartbreaking to see her still speaking to her doll even when she has had nine children and two miscarriages, and when she has to sell her hair in order to pay for a hajj.

So, not the greatest novel ever written and I couldn’t help thinking, “not another novel about the unjust and/or hard life of Islamic women”, but well worth reading.

 

Al Shafei, Sarah A., Yummah, London, Athena Press, 2005, ISBN 1 84401 368 5

Book 143: Liberia (English) – Guayna Pau: a story of an African princess (Joseph J. WALTERS)

            The girls were not affected by the lovely scenery as one would suppose; for having lived amid similar scenes so long, it was natural that they should be the least appreciative of it.

            I have seen men and women in that country, when all nature was thrilling in transports, to pass along with downcast eyes and crestfallen brows, unable to catch one bright suggestion from the lark’s whistle or the waterfall’s dash. The rose has for them no lesson, the flowers no word of warning, the grass no voice of hope.

This was a fascinating discovery, billed as “the first novel by an African in English”.

It turned out to be totally different from my choice from neighbouring Sierra Leone (except that polygamy looms large in both); although the authors of both were writing from the West (Walters from the US, Forna from the UK), Forna seems to be writing for her countrymen and women, and goes to little trouble to explicitly explain indigenous words and culture; Walters is writing only for an American audience and goes to great trouble to explain everything for them (and us) to an almost anthropological degree.

Liberia itself is a unique case in Africa. Unlike every other African colony (excepting Ethiopia, if you ignore the brief Italian occupation), it has never been colonised by an overseas power. And yet it was deliberately colonised, by freed American slaves, from the 1820s in what was meant to be a humanitarian gesture, which had the ugly side that these Afro-Americans colonised and effectively enslaved the native inhabitants, who were also excluded from any power until late in the twentieth century. Ugly civil wars involving child soldiers followed. Finally an inspiring democracy emerged. The author would no doubt have been pleased to learn that Liberia was to become the first African country to choose a female president.

Guayna is a princess betrothed at four to a 20-years-older man who already has six other wives, is rich and (you guessed it) ugly. Inevitably she falls in love with another boy. She escapes with a girl friend. During their flight they encounter a series of scenes of the suffering of child brides and other mistreatments of women. The plot is actually quite exciting.

In some ways it seems a typical 1800s novel with its occasional purple prose and sermonising from the author. The lack of respect for ‘heathens’ is obvious (civilisation can only come from outside). It covers the important themes of polygamy, child betrothal, womens’ education and evangelisation – and the beauty of nature. So while some of the attitudes it espouses seem to us outdated, others were ahead of their time.

This slim novel was such a surprise! If not for this world tour, I wouldn’t have even heard of it. It deserves to be far better known and more read. It was a fascinating discovery of early African written literature.

Walters, Joseph J. (186? – 1894), Guayna Pau: a story of an African princess, Lincoln & London, 1994 (first published 1891), University of Nebraska press, ISBN 0-8032-9755-6

Book 113: Sierra Leone (English) – Ancestor Stones (Aminatta FORNA)

As a spectator, I had watched on my television screen images of my country bloodied and bruised. The burned out façade of the department store where we bought mango ice cream on Saturdays. Corpses rolling in the surf of the beach where we picnicked on Sundays, where I rolled for hours in those very waves. A father with his two sons dodging sniper bullets on a street I travelled every Monday morning on my way to school. Peace had been declared and yet the war was far from over. It was like witnessing, from a distance, somebody you know being set upon by thieves in the street. And afterwards, seeing them stagger, still punch drunk, hands outstretched as they fumble for their scattered possessions. Or else, shocked into stillness, gazing around themselves as if in wonder, searching for comfort in the faces of strangers. What would you do? You would go to them.

It took quite a while for this one to grab me. There was no doubt, however, about its beautiful, sometimes sensual, language. It is basically a series of tales told down through time (from 1926 to 2003) by the daughters, and the granddaughter, of some of the eleven (!) wives of a single man. I found that by the time I came back to another story by the same woman, I’d forgotten her story so far. Though in effect it is a collection of short stories, it is definitely a novel; but the format leads to a disjointed, random feel. I felt that the description of the relationships between the women was underdone. The various women are not all likeable, but all are very real.
As in my book for the UAE, the ugliness of polygamy is quite evident here. The wives seem to be in a constant state of insecurity: will he get yet another wife? who will be his next favourite? As for those who are not the Flavour of the Month, their life seems boring and useless.
The story is relieved by some funny incidents, such as the fraudulent voting episode. There are some interesting insights into local culture, such as the mambores (women who lived as men).
This is one of several books I’ve read for this undertaking that desperately need a glossary. It is sprinkled with many local words whose meaning is not explained, nor obvious. We do not even know which language they come from.
So – not perfect, but definitely worth reading especially if you want an insight into what it’s like to be one of the wives in a plural marriage.

FORNA, Aminatta (1964 – ), Ancestor Stones, London, Bloomsbury, 2006, ISBN 9780747585923

Book 104: United Arab Emirates (English) – The Sand Fish (Maha GARGASH)

Noora heard their talk, too: “Which is the bride?” She knew it was hard to tell. She looked the same as Lateefa and Shamsa, tented from head to toe in their abayas, faces hidden under their shaylas, both legs dangling on one side of their donkeys. She also knew she was a bride who was not arriving as a bride should. There was no family to deliver her and not a hint of celebration. But she did not care. She just wanted a chance to be alone so that she could ponder the design of her new life.

The Sand Fish is set in Dubai in the 1950s, before everything changed and it became an oil-fuelled, glitzy, super-modern glassed city, powered by expatriate labour, on the surface at least (one wonders how much has changed behind closed doors in Arab society).
Feisty 17-year-old Noora lives in an isolated area; mother dies, her father is losing it; so her brother (who is 14) becomes de facto family head – such is sexist society – and arranges her marriage with a businessman who is rich but much older. And she becomes his third wife. Her brother (as an adult) is 100% awful.
The novel is a great portrayal of the bleakness and discomfort of a polygamous marriage. The wives hate each other (and there is an interminable power struggle between them). Their lives seem to me like slavery – ironically, it is the cheeky slave girl Yaqoota who seems to be the freest in the household.
I found it a bit unbelievable that no one realised it was the husband, not his plurality of wives, who was infertile – but perhaps it is (or was) the sexist society that considered male infertility unthinkable, or at least unmentionable. Noora didn’t seem to me to be the most intelligent of heroines – much of the time I felt I was way ahead of her and it’s hard to believe she didn’t see the situation that was being set up to get the husband a child. But I had to ask myself, why should all protagonists be clever and knowledgeable, when not everyone in the real world is? Especially if they are forced to be cloistered away by their society.
Not the greatest nor the worst book I’ve ever read, but well worth it for a glimpse into the past (or is it?) of the glitzy modern Dubai.

Gargash, Maha, The Sand Fish: a novel from Dubai, NY, Harper, 2009, ISBN 978-0-06-174467-9

Book 97: Jordan (English) – The Cry of the Dove (Fadia FAQIR)

I woke up early in the morning, washed and changed, had group breakfast with the nuns, then went for a long walk, down the valley, then up the mountain. My only companions were the amulet hanging around my neck and my reed pipe. I would watch how the sea woke up when touched by the morning light, its colours changing from grey, to coral, to gold, then to turquoise like my grandmother’s necklace, which was a string of beads encased by silver. The sun would fight the darkness of the sea. The sunlight would win the day, filling the air with light. The dark-blue sea, exhausted, grew mossy green around the edges.

The heroine Salma is a Jordanian Bedouin woman. She committed what was in her society an unforgivable sin: she had sex outside marriage and became pregnant, and was subsequently disowned by her own family. She is placed under protective custody, and her own girl is taken from her. Her life is under constant threat of what I believe should be called a dishonour killing (since for me it brings nothing but shame to the murderer’s family and society).

She seems to be able to find no happiness in her life. She feels hopeless, despairing, and deracinated She calls herself “a rootless wind-blown desert weed.” In exile, Salma has a bleak, jaundiced and negative view of England (and of Jordan) – she doesn’t really seem to try to fit in. She is nowhere at home. She seems to be constantly miserable and even appears to have a death wish.

Maybe the only happiness she ever found was in the half-way house of Lebanon (as in the quote above).

Salma is continually obsessed with her lost girl (what about her boy and her husband?) and finally goes back to find her. Without giving anything away, somehow the novel’s ending seemed to me to be impossible – but probable. 

For me one of the best things about the book is the beautiful cover – a gorgeous blue mosque with a lonely woman. One of the reasons I avoid e-books…

Like Salma, the author Fadia Faqir also grew up in Jordan and moved to England. Salma has both a Jordanian/Lebanese past and an English present, which alternately come together but are not totally stitched – there are patches missing (such as the moment when she falls in love in England). I also felt that as a learner, Salma’s ‘pidgin’ English was not believable. My apologies for harping on this theme, but I get constantly annoyed when authors and filmmakers try to portray the speech of characters who have English as a second language or are learners as being fluent, or making unlikely mistakes, and when there are no communication difficulties between speakers of different languages (even with aliens!)

However, I don’t want to be too critical of a book that was touching and insightful. It is definitely worth reading.

Fadia (al-)Faqir فادية الفقير‎ (1956 – ), The Cry of the Dove, New York, Black Cat, 2007, ISBN 978-0-8021-7040-8