by Ahdaf Soueif
‘Not wear the veil? We live and we see!’ Mabrouka exclaims.
‘The veil is a Turkish thing, ya Mabrouka, not Arab or Egyptian. The women in the countryside, the fallaheen, do they go veiled?’
‘They have their ways and we have ours. No respectable woman would go out of her house without the veil.’
‘Anyway, he’s not saying to abolish it. He’s saying they shouldn’t have to. They can choose —’
‘And what does he do with his hareem? He lets them choose?’
‘Sheikh Muhammad Abdu agrees with him.’
‘The Mufti?’
‘Yes. So will you know better than the Mufti?’
‘By God, if they give me the wealth of Qaroon, I wouldn’t go out with my face uncovered.’
‘And who do you think is going to look at you?’ Layla laughs.
‘Even so. A woman is a woman. Isn’t that so, ya Sett Zeinab?’
‘Ya Mabrouka, has anyone asked you to unveil?’
‘Even so. Are women going to walk in the street with their faces showing?’
‘Ya Setti, it’s their time. For you and me it’s over, we can’t change. Let the young people decide what they want.’
‘All your life you’ve been too good —’
‘Anyway —’ Layla turns back to Anna — ‘everybody’s been talking about this, and the press is full of it. Al-Liwa is against the book: Mustafa Kamel is for education, but wants to keep the veil. Talat Harb wants everything to stay as it is. They’re both down there now, and the author and Sheikh Muhammad Abdu. So of course they’re talking about this.’
‘Sheikh Muhammad Abdu is a great man,’ Zeinab Hanim murmurs, her eyes on her ledger. ‘May God preserve him for his country.’
Mabrouka murmurs ‘Ameen’ as she does for all her mistress’s prayers large and small.
‘What do women think?’ Anna asks.
‘They’re divided too,’ Layla says, ‘as you see,’ tilting her head at Mabrouka with a smile. ‘Shall we go and listen?’
‘We shouldn’t, should we?’ asks Anna.
‘Of course we should. Mama, come with us, let’s go and listen.’
‘Leave the men alone, ya Sett Layla,’ Mabrouka warns. ‘Don’t be afraid, I’ll only look at my husband. Mama, come with us.’
Layla goes over and takes the pen from her mother’s hand, lays it on the ledger and pulls her up. She turns to Mabrouka mischievously: ‘Are you coming?’
‘No, ya Setti, I’ll stay here with Si Ahmad. He’s man enough for me.’
‘Get something and cover him,’ Zeinab Hanim says, ‘the boy will catch cold. I don’t know why you won’t just let him go to bed and you can have him in the morning,’ she says to Layla, who is already holding aside the heavy partition curtains to let them pass.
And now they are in what feels to Anna like a box in the opera. Behind them, the dark curtains have fallen silently closed. In front of them the mashrabiyya that looks down into the salamlek. Layla puts a finger to her lips in warning, rests her knee on the narrow wooden bench that runs below the latticework, and carefully pulls open the thick glass panes. Immediately the sound of coffee cups rattling in their saucers comes to their ears. In the dark Anna and Zeinab Hanim move quietly forward to join Layla. The three women kneel on the cushioned bench, their faces pressed against the wooden screen.
The effect of being in one of these enclosures is most haunting. When I first went in it reminded me of nothing as much as the box in the opera I sat in with Madame Hussein Rushdi: the heavy velvet curtains closing behind us, the screen in front, the darkness, the anticipation of the action to take place there, beyond the screen, framed, on the lighted stage. But then the effect of kneeling on the banquette — its cushion harder than any I have encountered here in Egypt — brought a certain awe into my heart and I realised it was like being in church. And when I saw Layla’s face pressed against the wooden grille, illuminated in patches by the light from the room below, why, my head was filled with the notion that here was the perfect painting of a beautiful woman at the confessional in some Italian church. In the real confessional there would be no light, but the light in the painting would be the light of His all-encompassing Forgiveness and Grace.
Sharif Basha has given his traditional place to his older friend Sheikh Muhammad Abdu. The Grand Imam of Egypt sits on the central diwan, his fierce eyes and brow rendered mellow by the thick, carefully trimmed beard and moustache, now almost completely white except for a graceful V under his lower lip. His gibba is of white striped silk and his quftan of dark brown. On his head the white wound turban. The other men are ranged on diwans and easy chairs. Sheikh Rashid Rida is also in gibba and quftan; the other men are all in suits.
‘It is quite clear that Arabs form a natural unity,’ Sheikh Rashid Rida says. ‘Here am I, a Syrian, and Anton Bey from Lebanon, and we live and work here. Our ideas are the same. Our aims are the same —’
‘And we belong within the Ottoman Empire,’ Mustafa Kamel says. ‘Without the Empire we are divided and weak.’
‘The Empire itself is weak,’ Qasim Amin says. ‘It is dying. Every time Europe makes a move, the Sultan backs off. If he were strong, how is it that Britain is in Egypt?’
‘And we should note the troubles in Palestine,’ Anton al-Jmayyil says. ‘The Sultan is unable to stop the Zionist immigration.’
‘These are a few people. Persecuted, oppressed —’ Talat Harb’s steady, deep voice rises through the room — ‘and the Empire, since the fall of al-Andalus, has a tradition of welcoming the Jews.’
‘I believe Anton Bey is right,’ Sheikh Muhammad Abdu says gently.
Anna watches this man she has held in her affections since the day of her wedding.
‘There is more trouble to come from this quarter,’ he says. ‘You see the news from their Fifth Congress? They request donations from the Jewish community all over the world.’
‘This money will be used to buy land in Palestine,’ Anton al-Jmayyil says.
The women, kneeling in the dark, remember Shukri al-Asali: his impassioned talk, the letters he carried with him —
‘We should learn from them,’ Rashid Rida says. ‘Even though we do not like what they are doing, we should learn from them. They have determination and they work together.’
‘They too are divided.’ Her husband speaks and Anna moves slightly to get a better view of him. ‘Some of the younger ones have broken off and formed a new group, the Democratic Zionist Faction. And then there are the rabbis who are against Judaism becoming political and the wise men who say, “But there are Arabs living on the land” —’
‘The rabbis and the wise men are a minority,’ Anton al-Jmayyil says.
‘And what is new in that?’ Muhammad Abdu smiles.
‘In any case,’ Mustafa Kamel says impatiently, ‘the Zionists are one of our concerns. There are others that are more immediate. The Capitulations, for example, and the special laws —’
Silently Mirghani clears the empty plates from in front of the men, replacing them with full ones. Silently he circles with the tray of hibiscus, tamarind and apple juice.
‘Cromer himself is anxious to get rid of the Capitulations,’ Husni Bey says. ‘They undermine his authority —’
“I think we should leave the Capitulations to him,’ Sharif Basha says. ‘They detract from our sovereignty — but that is a theoretical matter. Without them his grip on the country is even tighter. The special laws are another matter —’
‘You will never get rid of those, ya Basha,’ Talat Harb says. ‘As long as the British are in occupation, they will have special laws to protect themselves —’
‘So much for Cromer’s “equality of all men before the law”,’ Sharif Basha says.
‘Industrialisation,’ Talat Harb says, ‘that should be our first concern now. That is the real battle against Cromer. Al-Minshawi Basha and others have started to put money into textile manufacture. The new taxation Cromer proposes will bankrupt them with
in a year.’
‘We opposed it in the Council,’ Sharif Basha says. ‘Now we have to make sure the Assembly opposes it too.’
‘This is all a waste of time,’ Mustafa Kamel says impatiently. ‘The Occupation itself is our problem. At every turn we come up against it. All our efforts should be concentrated on ending it. We should stand close to the Sublime Porte, anything that strengthens him strengthens us. We should appeal to France, and we should appeal to the United States; they have no interest in seeing Britain in Egypt and the principles of liberty and democracy are clearly set out in their constitutions.’
‘We can do all these things,’ Muhammad Abdu says. ‘But meanwhile, we cannot allow our internal affairs to remain stagnant.’
Qasim Amin speaks: ‘Take the Question of Women, for example,’ he says.
Layla nudges Anna.
‘The Question of Women, with all respect —’ Talat Harb bows towards Qasim Amin — ‘is a fabricated question. There is no Question of Women in our country.’
‘With Talat Basha’s permission,’ Qasim Amin says, ‘I believe there is a question and that we expose ourselves to grave danger in ignoring it.’ And now Anna remembers: the Egyptian gentleman in the Salon of Princess Nazli. She wonders whether he has told her husband that he had met her. She thinks not; Sharif Basha has never mentioned it. ‘We cannot claim to desire a Renaissance for Egypt,’ Qasim Amin continues, ‘while half her population live in the Middle Ages.
To take the simplest matters, how can children be brought up with the right outlook by ignorant mothers? How can a man find support and companionship with an ignorant wife?’
‘I have nothing against girls being educated,’ Mustafa Kamel says. ‘But we should leave the veil alone.’
‘I believe we can leave the veil alone,’ Sharif Basha says and his sister makes a face. ‘Women will decide for themselves about the veil. But if we can agree that girls should be educated —’
‘Ya Sidi, educate the boys first. Are all boys getting an education?’
‘No.’ Ahmad Lufi al-Sayyid speaks for the first time. ‘But if we are to have a general drive for education, if we are to have a law that makes education up to a certain age compulsory, then that should apply to girls as well as to boys. We must start in the right way.’
‘And where will you end?’ Talat Harb asks. ‘By allowing them to work? Giving them the right to divorce? Changing the laws of inheritance?’
Anna sees her husband stand up and sees Muhammad Abdu lay a hand on his arm: ‘Ya Sidi, no one is talking about changing the law. We are talking about teaching girls to read and write —’
They did not agree. Later that night my husband said to me, ‘Yes, the laws should be changed. And if I had my way they would be changed tomorrow.’
He is happiest up in Tawasi, on his land. There, if he makes a decision it becomes a fact. And if he cannot do something, it is because Nature herself will not permit it. He finds it intolerable to submit to the will of other men. He is happy in Tawasi, and he was happy in Rome. It was as though there he was free, free to be himself, to be only himself. We were two anonymous travellers avoiding the places where the English congregate, going where the Italians go. We walked in the streets, went into the churches, ate in out-of-the-way restaurants. The smallest things delighted us. The novelty of ananging to meet in a hidden piazza, of my taking his arm as we walked along the street, of sitting side by side in the theatre — these were all new adventures for us and he was light and playful and happy. But I believe that even without the consideration of his family he would find it impossible to live abroad. He would be a man without a purpose; for his purpose, his vocation, is Egypt.
Cairo
30 December 1901
Dear Sir Charles,
I have received yours of the 1st in which you tell me of Mr Barrington’s appointment on the Tribune. I am most glad of that for he has a thorough knowledge of affairs here and he combines sympathy with a quick mind and an ability with words and his appointment can only lead to good. I am sure he is most sensible of your kindness and will prove worthy of it. I trust it may contribute to your good opinion if I inform you that he was most anxious to secure good positions for his servants before he left and has placed them with British residents — for Egyptian households will not readily take a servant who has been employed by foreigners.
I fear this year has not brought about any changes to your liking in the way the world is run and I do not have much hope that the coming year will do better. Mrs Butcher tells me that Mr Blunt, on hearing that Rosebery has offered himself for Prime Minister, said, ‘Salisbury is bad enough, but Rosebery would merely mean Government by the Stock Exchange.’ A sentiment with which I imagine you would heartily concur.
Mr Blunt has been much in the news here these past months. Some officers gave chase to a fox over his land and his men gave chase to the officers. These last would not leave and a fight ensued; the Egyptians were arrested, tried by the Special Court and given jail sentences for assaulting British officers. Mr Blunt, it would appear, intends to use this event to bring about a change in the law, a change that would be much favoured here, as this business of hunting across cultivated land — for every inch of land that is not desert here is cultivated — does much damage and is a cause of constant grievance to both fellaheen and landowners.
You ask if I have seen the new Lady Cromer and the answer is I have not, for I have no longer any commerce with the Agency; indeed, of all the residents I only see Mrs Butcher, who has been kindness itself and continues to call on me and Ion her.
I have, I confess, been missing our English Christmas. Perhaps more so this year than last. Although Sharif Basha surprised me with a handsome gift, an Ethiopian cross set with rubies, yet it seemed odd to me that the twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth of December should on the whole be passed like any other day — and especially so this year as Christmas falls in the month of Ramadan. Of course the Coptic Christmas here is celebrated on the sixth of January. But even that will not have the music I am used to and love so much. I played some carols on the piano my husband bought for me lately, but it was not quite the same thing — indeed, I think it made me miss the carols at St Martin’s a little more. Last year we had some quite outstanding music, largely due to Mr Temple Gairdner. But I hear now that he has started his work of conversion in earnest and is preaching to the Nile boatmen in Bulaq, and I fear much mischief will come of this.
I have begun to have some understanding of the complexity of things here and of the difficulty of my husband’s situation — the difficulties for all those who think as he does and the delicate balance they must be constantly at pains to maintain.
The British presence here has had the sad effect of dividing the national movement, which was united, under Urabi Pasha in 1881, in its desire to embark on the path of democracy and modernisation. The reasons for our intervention at that time I have heard you speak of often, and always with distaste. Had we not intervened, the conflict between the people and the Khedive would have been resolved in some manner private to them. Egypt’s ties to Turkey had been considerably loosened over the previous hundred years and it is likely that the Khedive alone would not have been able to stand in the face of the will of the people.
Now, although all are united in their desire to get rid of the British, some believe it can be done now, while others believe it can only be done gradually through a strengthening of the national institutions.
And there are other divisions: people who would have tolerated the establishment of secular education, or the gradual disappearance of the veil, now fight these developments because they feel a need to hold on to their traditional values in the face of the Occupation. While the people who continue to support these changes have constantly to fight the suspicion that they are somehow in league with the British.
And the relationship of Egypt to Turkey is another point. There are those who believe that to counteract British influence, Egypt should ally herself eve
r more closely to the Moslem Sultan in Istanbul. Others argue that the Turkish Empire is in decline. They point to the Sultan’s apparent inability to protect his territories from European incursion and argue that a young and vigorous Arab Caliphate should be established in Hijaz, and Egypt should ally herself with that. And there are others yet who feel that Egypt should stand by her history and stand alone, a secular state, embracing its Moslem and Christian citizens alike. And so the very thing that should make Egypt strong — the richness and diversity of her culture — serves to divide her and make her weak. My husband believes that had it not been for the British, the Sultan in Istanbul would have gradually become an irrelevance and Egypt would have found her feet alone, while the natural bonds of history and language linked her closely to the other Arab nations.
And so our presence — at best hampering, at worst oppressive — makes itself felt at every turn and renders the accusation ‘Traitor!’ ever ready to be thrown at someone who does not think as you do on the smallest question …
Cairo
30 December 1901
Dear James,
I have just heard the good news from Sir Charles that you have been appointed to the Tribune. I am very glad for you and I hope you will be happy in London. It is odd to think that we can continue to be friends now better than we could have, were you still living in Cairo.
I shall ask my husband where best you may write to me and I will let you know.
I can hardly give you any news, for of our friends I only see Mrs Butcher, as she is kind enough to continue to call on me from time to time. A part from her and Madame Hussein Rushdi, my friends now are all from among the Egyptians. I am quite taken up with my family and am happier in my marriage than I would have thought possible. Sharif Basha is loving and considerate and Layla is the sweetest of sisters. Ahmad, her son, is the most adorable child. I am grown great friends with my belle-mère and we demonstrate our recipes to each other in the kitchen. And I am grown fond too of old Baroudi Bey, who sits silently in his shrine all day long but will look up and help me with an Arabic word when I am in need.
