by Mona Yahia
Armed with half a dozen rubbers, I set upon the textbook again and remove each word that evokes homeland or associates it with heroism, chivalry, nobility, honour, faith, virtue, martyrdom, motherhood, manhood, brotherhood, life, freedom, blood, beauty, loyalty, soul, and glory.
When the omitted words have outnumbered the remaining ones in my Contemporary Arabic Literature‚ the design of the pages collapses. The order from right to left and from top to bottom has been shaken. Margins are hardly discernible and paragraphs no longer conspicuous. Sentences are frequently interrupted by long silent blocks, which, in their turn, are punctuated by commas and full stops that break up the silence into a series of minor pauses. Here and there, question and exclamation marks erupt, like misplaced intonation. Prepositions designate vague connections, while adverbs linger, submitting time where no motion is, and suggesting a mood in the absence of a subject. Personal pronouns haunt the scraped pages, like amnesiac fugitives seeking their identity among the rubble of the past.
Only the page numbers have remained intact, designating a sequence which no longer makes sense.
I have at last forced Arabic to stutter.
*
—I’ve censored our Arabic reader, I confide to Selma, when she pops in at the weekend, and show her the expurgated version of our textbook.
She riffles through the pages, then casts the book indifferently aside.
—And? What’s next?
—The dictionary! I hear myself say.
But when Selma jiggles her mother’s car keys, I realise we are at cross-purposes.
—All by yourself! You never told me … Selma, since when have you been able to drive?
Shattered by Hai and Mrad’s arrest on the river bank last summer, Selma and her father could not but give up their swimming schedule. They continued to get up before dawn, however, and drove to the suburbs instead. On the empty motorway and in mid-desert, Selma’s father fulfilled her wish and let her take the wheel.
—But you’re underage, you’re only fifteen!
She grabs my hand and drags me downstairs, then outside. Her mother’s green Beetle is waiting at our gate.
—You know how easily I’m taken for eighteen. Let’s go for a drive. Not as far as the centre of town though, I’ve promised Mama to stay in the neighbourhood.
We drive to her place, proceed to the market in Rikheta, and drive back to our street. We repeat the journey, taking various routes and detours until Selma has displayed her skills in reversing, making U-turns, overtaking other vehicles, and parking in extremely narrow spaces. Finally she pulls up in front of our house and explains, in a flow of technical vocabulary, the function of the lights, knobs, gauges, and counters on the dashboard. As if that was not enough for a first lesson, we hop out again, go round to the back of the car and look inside the engine.
—Do you know how the car starts? As soon as you turn the ignition, the carburettor mixes air and fuel together, and this brings about an explosion. Isn’t it exciting? Every journey begins with a tiny explosion. Most cars have radiators, but Beetles are special, they’re air-cooled, and the engine is where the boot should be. The disc lying over there is the air-filter, and down on the left, you’ll find the oil-filter. The battery’s also in an odd place, under the back seat. Do you know how it works?
When she has at last finished her demonstration, I divert her back to my own interests.
—Selma, do you think we’re capable of an active, deliberate forgetting of what we have learnt?
Leaning over the engine, fiddling with some oily wires, she says, absent-mindedly,
—Active forgetting? I don’t know. Anything in particular you want to forget?
—The Arabic language!
Selma throws me a curious look, then bursts into laughter.
—Selma, I’m dead serious.
—But Arabic’s your mother tongue!
As if I have been waiting for these words to fuel my anger.
—With such a mother, we can envy the orphans! How are we to live with the abuse they pour on us: bloodsucker, vulture, poisonous snake, cancerous growth, child of a whore, agent of the devil, error of humanity – just take your pick, you’ll end up hating yourself anyway.
Selma motions me to keep my hands away and slams the engine shut.
—Drop your voice, Lina, we’re in the street!
—But that’s precisely what I’m talking about! Arabic has been silencing us for the last fifteen years! It’s my turn to silence it. I’m disowning it, it’s as simple as that.
—I bet you’ve been seeing too much of Dudi lately, otherwise I can’t understand what has possessed you. How can you imagine yourself going on living here and …
—That’s the point, Selma, I can’t imagine myself going on living here!
—You’re talking nonsense, crap, from beginning to end.
—But why?
—I don’t even want to go into it. Isn’t it clear? Your language’s not a piece of clothing you can just shed!
—How do you know?
Selma snorts with exasperation,
—’Cause Arabic’s in your tongue and in your ears, p-h-y-s-i-c-a-l-l-y! Do words sound dirty or sweet unless they’re in Arabic? Can you read between the lines in any other language? Can you laugh at English jokes, do you understand French puns? Can you multiply or even count, can you curse, can you remember other than in Arabic? It’s as if … as if your whole life is stored in your mother tongue.
—Including fear. If I forget Arabic, I might forget what fear is …
—You’d still be sawing the very branch you’re sitting on!
—I’ve got English and French at my disposal. I’ll fly with them.
Selma blows a raspberry,
—Or fall and break your neck! You’ll never speak them as fluently as Arabic. They’ll remain your second languages, second best, like crutches. You know what that means? Your memories will be scattered, full of gaps. Your heart will be divided… your feelings confused. You’ll never have an opinion, but vacillate between two at least, one in English and one in French… both of which will be substitutes, none really your own. That’s it, you’ll always live in translation, forever a foreigner in your own mind.
Selma has never spoken with such eloquence before. In spite of her dark forecast, my impulse is crystallising into a resolution.
—Better a foreigner in a free mind than a prisoner at home.
—You’ll stutter in your freedom! You’ll stutter day and night. Even in your thoughts, even in your dreams.
—Nobody dies from stuttering. Moses himself stuttered.
—Moses didn’t want to be a journalist!
—So I won’t be a journalist. I’ll be something else … a photographer perhaps.
—That’s not the same! she shouts.
—And who’s the same after the executions in Tahrir Square?
Selma hops into the car, slams the door, and, without rolling down the window, turns the ignition. An explosion – the start of all her journeys. I am tempted to tap on her window, call her back, thank her for the ride, congratulate her on being such a good driver. But the only gesture I manage is to wave her off.
Selma speeds away while I slowly walk inside. She has not waved back. She looked offended as if I have spoiled her day. What did we quarrel about after all? Did I criticise anything close to her? Did I ask her to give up her driving? Why do arguments flare up so easily between us these days?
They say the closest of friends may diverge at some point. It seems to me Selma and I are not only diverging but moving in opposite directions. She is absorbing the world about her, while I am rejecting it. She is collecting, I am throwing away. She is adding, I am subtracting. Is our rift inevitable? The thought makes me shudder. If I ever walked away from Selma, it would only be towards solitude.
The dictionary at my side, I conceive a systematic programme of unlearning Arabic. It consists of twenty-eight stages which correspond to the twenty-eight letters
of our alphabet. At each stage, I will omit from my speech and writing all the words beginning with a particular letter. The programme will start with the first letter and advance letter by letter, until the last.
I hope we will have left the country by then, otherwise I would have to declare an everlasting strike on Arabic.
Secrets
—This must be suq el-Bezzazin, mother says, indicating the entrance of the wood-roofed bazaar.
Like every old suq in the centre of town, the cloth market is dim, narrow, packed with shoppers. The stores have their fronts open to the road, their interiors girdled with bolts of colourful fabric, lined on shelves or stacked on the ground, in some places right to the ceiling. The owners squat on low stools before their thresholds, chatting or listening to the radio, worry-beads in one hand, the stikan in the other. In their pose of leisured effendis, they greet the passersby, offer them tea, propose to display their goods – the best in the market – promise exceptional prices, bid them good day, wish them long lives, then crane their heads to welcome the next potential customers. Children keep weaving through the crowd, holding out small items like hankerchiefs, hair-pins, zip-fasteners, clothes-pegs. The vendor standing in front of the men’s coffee-shop is dangling worry-beads from his forearms. The old man beside him is holding out one red-eyed baby rabbit, shivering between his calloused fingers.
Mai el-zebib, mai el-zebib, raisin juice, cries out the boy in the brown dishdasha, wandering through the suq, rattling his brass bowls. I nudge mother.
—No! she retorts, forestalling my request. They never wash these bowls. Do you know how many mouths drink from them every day?
My thirst is immediately quenched by the hundreds of lips bathing in the sweet juice.
—Mama, can you hear the hammering in the distance? It must be the coppersmiths of suq el-Sefafir!
—Impossible! We are nowhere near the copper market! If anywhere, we are close to suq el-Saray, the book bazaar. Believe me, daughter, I know these suqs like the palm of my hand.
The lane seems to taper, the throng to grow ever thicker. The brazen beating persists, defying mother’s familiarity with the suq. The grey donkey, overloaded with tottering jute sacks, is coming towards us, claiming the entire road. His owner goads it on from behind, shouting his requests to let the donkey pass. I hasten to the side only to bump into the man with the blue shirt who is rushing past me. Before I have realised it, he cups my left breast, briefly squeezing it before letting go.
—Mama! I groan, more in shock than in pain.
—What’s the matter? Did he touch you? Show him to me. Hassa asberu, I’ll soot his face right away!
But the blue shirt has disappeared in the crowd. I take hold of my breast, to reassure myself that it is still in place, in one piece.
—An’al abouk, ibn al-gawad, curse on your father, son of a pimp! By my honour I’ll twist his neck if ever I lay hands on him … one shopkeeper roars in indignation.
Heads turn, first in the direction of the shopkeeper then towards me, brushing me with stern, disapproving glances – or so I imagine. I take my hand off my breast, blushing.
—Mama, I want to go home! Why don’t we buy what we need then go?
Mother clasps hold of my hand, kisses my cheek, then drags me with her deeper into the suq. Showing no hurry to do our shopping, she loiters, studies the stores, their owners, their distance from the last intersection, confirms their location in some tattered map in her memory. The drumming in my ears gradually dies out. When the road forks, mother takes the left turn. Her pace quickens. She seems to have regained her homing instincts. She stops before one of the shops. It bears no nameplate. No particular feature distinguishes it from its neighbours, not even the name of God hanging on the wall. The vendor is tending to two women by the counter. Mother inspects the old man in the brown zbun, who is squatting in front of the shop, consumed in his nargila. I follow her inside. The bolt of flowery violet cloth flows from the shopkeeper’s hands, unrolling itself under the pale electric bulb.
—It matches the colour of your eyes, as if designed especially for them, he flatters while measuring the length of several yardsticks then reaching for his shears.
Having made the two inch long cut just beyond the measured spot, he halts ceremoniously,
—Mabrouk, he congratulates his customer for her purchase before he plunges the shears into the fabric.
But her gaze clings possessively to the entire roll, resentful of the dozens of other women who will share the flowery fabric with her.
When they bid him farewell, the vendor turns to mother, pops his hands behind his back, like some mechanical toy reverting to its starting position.
—At your service, oukhti!
Mother shifts her dialect into Moslem.
—We’re looking for abayas. One for me and one for the girl.
—I’ve got ready-made abayas in artificial silk. But if you wish to sew them yourself, I can show you plenty of fabrics in a wide range of prices and qualities.
—That’s not necessary. The ready-made will do.
The vendor climbs up on the stool, fetches the heap of folded black cloth from the upper shelf. He unfurls it into two identical robes, displays them on the counter. Mother feels the material, cocks her head to one side, indicating it is worth considering. He holds the gown up to help her inside. No sooner has she slipped into it than she metamorphoses into one of those cloaked women who daily cross my path in the street, intimidating me with their grim exterior.
Mother calmly examines her reflection in the mirror, betraying no surprise.
—It’s the right size, she says nonchalantly, focusing on her white high heels, which have escaped the totality of the shroud.
The dark silhouette in the mirror reminds me of some old sepia photograph of my grandparents, which we burned during the war. In spite of her blurred features, I recall my grandmother’s girlish figure, standing beside her husband inside his shop, bundled in the black sack. The black sheep of the family, you would think.
The vendor inquisitively eyes my mother while praising his merchandise. She takes off the robe then gestures to me to try on the other one. What’s the point? With me being slightly taller than her, it is evident that the gown will look slightly shorter. So what? Didn’t Sabah’s father say we would most probably have no use for the things? I cannot protest now that the vendor is gallantly holding out the gown. If only he would hold it low enough for my hands to slide inside. The tips of my fingers finally peer out of the wide sleeves. The hemline sweeps the floor. The hood flops over my forehead.
—It’s one size larger than the previous one, he points out.
—It’s much too large! Don’t you have another abaya in this size? mother inquires.
—But of course, I have them in all sizes.
He clambers up on the stool, rummages through the upper shelf. I pace the shop, feeling the different bolts, toying with taunts I dare not voice. What is keeping you up there, Brother? Is the rest of your supply moth-eaten, perhaps? Suhtain, to their health! Let the moth be fed until every robe in the store has shrunk to the size of Barbie dolls.
—This must be the right size, the shopkeeper mumbles, climbing down.
My hands grope in vain for buttons on the front. Familiar on strangers, the robe feels foreign once it sits on me, its tentlike dimensions swallowing me up. The vendor claims it fits me perfectly. The hypocrite. If he dares to say it has been designed especially for me. He is pointing to the mirror. Out of the question. Definitely not in his presence. I would betray our secret in the mirror. When I shift my gaze to mother for her judgement, the hood slips down to my shoulders.
—We’re taking them, she decides. How much do they cost?
He speaks his price. Mother raises her brows, feigns surprise. He swears that nowhere in the suq would she find such finish, that he has never made such discounts before – not even to his own relatives – that if the other shopkeepers hear of it, they would mock him saying
he has given it for balash. Mother stands her ground, slowly brings him round to her terms.
—Yallah, let’s hear your last price, I don’t have the whole day.
—Wallah I’d lose if I went down by one more fils.
Standstill. Neither is willing to compromise. He replaces the flowery bolt of cloth on the shelf, puts the row in order, pretending to have lost interest in the deal. It is the right time for us to leave the shop, reckoning on being called back for some better bargain. My favourite stage in every haggling, but mother skips the strategy today. She speaks her last offer then opens her handbag with determination. The vendor continues to object, yet returns to the counter to pack our robes.
—You must be visiting relatives, somewhere in the welayat? he ventures, now that he is reaching out for the banknote.
—How did you know? My husband’s family lives in Amara. They’re sort of … well, I don’t want to disparage them, but you know how the people from the provinces are like!
I fiddle with the reels of bright ribbon hanging beside the cash register, taking delight in mother’s fluency in telling lies. The vendor hands me the brown parcel then grins in complicity, without speaking his mind on people from the provinces. Mother reviews the shop, dawdles over the silk section before she finally steps out.
—It used to be your grandfather’s! she says, once outside. I used to take him his lunch basket every day. When he emigrated, he sold it for a handful of dinars, to that old man perhaps – but it could just as well have been somebody else. The warehouse must be a few steps from here. Who knows what’s become of it. Nothing was the same in the market after the taskit.
I nod impassively, weary of old history – the mass emigration of Jews twenty years back. Mother goes on,
—Somehow, I felt like buying our abayas from here, as if asking for Baba’s blessing.
Suddenly it occurs to me that the old photograph of my grandparents had been taken here, that my memory of the photograph is the extension of mother’s memory of the shop. I turn for one last glance, wondering if her first-hand recollections would colour my sepia image of our familial past. The vendor is replacing the unsold robe on the upper shelf. The old man is making bubbles in the water-pipe. The bulb is sending out yellow light, timeless, just like that of the neighbouring stores.
