Middle East – Page 4 – The Book-Butterfly

September 11, 2023 – To Ithaka

I could have trespassed. Cavafy’s house was temporarily closed for refurbishment, but the workers were away for their noontime break, and someone left the front door ajar. Too bad I wasn’t well-versed in Egypt’s laws on property transgression and had to decide against the risk of spending time inside an Egyptian jail.

I do, however, admit to these things: Sticking my head in and taking a peek through the marble staircase, and summoning Sean Connery’s reading of Cavafy’s Ithaka in my head as I walked down the street where the poet lived…

© 2023 MDR
Bibliotheca Alexandrina
Alexandria, Egypt

“As you set out for Ithaka / hope your road is a long one / full of adventure, full of discovery. / Laistrygonians, Cyclops, / angry Poseidon—don’t be afraid of them / you’ll never find things like that on your way / as long as you keep your thoughts raised high, / as long as a rare excitement / stirs your spirit and your body. / Laistrygonians, Cyclops, / wild Poseidon—you won’t encounter them / unless you bring them along inside your soul, / unless your soul sets them up in front of you…”

Unless you bring them along inside your soul. One of my favorite lines from this favorite poem. Almost everyone who learned of my upcoming trip immediately expressed concern about the dangers of a woman traveling solo to Egypt. What I carried in my soul was my mom’s prayers, and I left no room for angry Poseidon, Cyclops, Laistrygonians, and Fear. And true enough, I encountered none of them.

And I hoped for my road to be a long one, with many summer mornings when, with what pleasure, what joy, I entered harbors I was seeing for the first time! And I visited many Egyptian cities to learn, and to go on learning…

I keep Ithaka always in my mind. Arriving there is what I’m destined for. I do not hurry the journey at all. Better if it lasts for years, so I’m old by the time I reach the island, wealthy with all I’ve gained on the way, not expecting Ithaka to make me rich… And if I find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled me. Wise as I will have become, so full of experience, I’ll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.

September 11, 2023 – Sunsets in Alexandria

This is what sunsets look like in the city that Alexander built, and which Cleopatra lost.

Isn’t it crazy how I hopped on an early bus from Cairo this morning, paid the fare equivalent to two hundred Philippine pesos, and three hours later I’m here? Here! Alexandria! How magical that I can write those two words together — here, Alexandria.

But I won’t lie. When I got off the bus, the sun was already high and wielding its full power. It exposed everything unsightly about what has become of the city. With an aching heart I walked to C.P. Cavafy’s house while waiting for the opening hours of the Bibliotheca Alexandrina; mainly for comfort, and maybe for shade. It was closed for renovation. The ache slightly intensified.

I took a cab and decided to wait at the library’s entrance along with droves of tourists. The driver cruised through the Corniche on the way there and I saw the Citadel of Qaitbay looming in the distance. That 15th century fortress built where once stood one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, the Lighthouse of Alexandria. After a few minutes, we arrived at the impressive new library where once stood the Library of Alexandria. Everything was something where something great once stood.

When the sun finally relented I walked the entire stretch of the Corniche up to the Citadel of Qaitbay and back. With the Mediterranean breeze blowing on my face and the sun casting a golden glow on everything, Alexandria’s beauty started to reveal itself to me.

Lawrence Durrell was right. This city is “the capital of Memory”. And perhaps it really is about creating one’s own personal Alexandria.

I will spend the night, and maybe in the morning, Alexandria will have more lessons for me.

September 10, 2023 – Old Cairo

Old Cairo’s dust and cacophony remind me of Kathmandu. But instead of Hindu temples or Buddhist stupas, mosques and minarets. Instead of Newari tiki jhyas, Arabic mashrabiyas.

These windows with intricate latticework are some of my favorite features of traditional Islamic and Newari architecture. They seem to me embodiments of how a thing of beauty and tradition can become a refuge or a prison, and it is for you to decide. Moreover, these similarities in architectural identities make me wonder at the extent and influence of the Silk Route.

But what’s beautiful about these places of endless excitement is when you explore beyond the chaos and pass through their exterior, and find pockets of poetry and enchanting silence. I usually find what I’m looking for behind these latticed windows.

September 9, 2023 – The Citadel of Saladin

The Pyramids of Giza seen from the Citadel of Saladin.

Several friends wondered why I hadn’t gone crawling straight to the pyramids as soon as I arrived.

That’s because the Cairo presented to me by beloved authors goes beyond travel packages, tour groups, and cookie-cutter experiences; and so I was aware that there was another Cairo I wanted to savor apart from the pyramids and pharaonic Egypt.

But even though it would take me over two incredible weeks after landing in Egypt to get close to the Pyramids of Giza, my first glimpse of the pyramids took place on my second day as I was exploring the Citadel of Saladin. Saladin, or Salah ad-Din Yusuf ibn Ayyub (1137 – 1193), founder of the Ayyubid dynasty — one of my favorite historical characters.

This strategic fortress with a commanding view of Cairo that he built on the Mokattam Hills was the seat of government in Egypt from the time of his rule up until the 19th century.

Within the fortress walls are magnificent architectural exemplars of Ayubbid, Mamluk, and Ottoman architecture that bear proof of the major Islamic eras that Egypt underwent.

To the untrained eye, Old Cairo’s mosques and minarets look similar, but I have learned that there are differences between Umayyad, Abbasid, Fatimid, Ayyubid, Mamluk, and Ottoman architecture that manifest the vastness of the umbrella term that is Islamic Architecture.

September 8, 2023 – The Cairo of Naguib Mahfouz

The Cairo that was introduced to me as a reader was not the Cairo of travel posters. The same way that the Istanbul I know is the Istanbul seen through the soul of Orhan Pamuk, the Cairo I know is the Old Cairo of Naguib Mahfouz.

If you’ve read works of both Nobel laureates, you can attest that the constant main characters of their novels are the cities of their birth.

And just as I crossed to the European side of Istanbul to visit Pamuk’s museum, the first thing I did after only a few hours of sleep post-MNL-DIA-CAI flights was to visit the Naguib Mahfouz House Museum and the Naguib Mahfouz Coffee Shop (a coffee house Mahfouz used to frequent so that when he was awarded the Nobel, the owner renamed it in his honor).

A special display of the author’s books.

On Google Maps, the distance between the two establishments is near. But I turned out to be like an Israelite who fled Egypt and wandered for 40 years traversing a distance that can be done in 9 hours and 5 minutes by car, if you consult Google Maps.

The confused directions came from locals who mistook the coffee shop for the museum and vice versa, and this had me going in circles. It took me a while to finally realize what was going on. But it was as if Mahfouz planned the excursion himself. He did not want me to have it easy. I had to experience his Cairo before arriving there — the Cairo of chaos, of spices, of squawking chickens, of tantalizing fragrances and unpleasant smells, of shouting vendors, dirt, heat, of wonderfully claustrophobic alleys, of uncomfortable stares but also friendly and curious smiles. What I saw today was not the sugarcoated Cairo, and definitely not the whitewashed Cairo. It was the Cairo I came a long way to experience.

A collage of book-covers from Mahfouz’s novels.

Out El Kouloub: Zanouba

The soundtrack: Wails from professional mourners and murmurs among the attendees. The novel opens with a funerary scene in Cairo at the turn of the twentieth century.

“God refuses to grace his home,” they whisper of an honored guest in the crowd. “Sad is a house deprived of a son,” they lament. “Not one son!” they say of this man who has four wives but “only” daughters. We enter yet another world where men are favored over women — even by the women.

The titular character who becomes this man’s fifth wife is uneducated and easily swayed by superstition. Although the author treats her with compassion, Zanouba’s unhappy fate seems to me a gentle critique on the tolerance and perpetuation of this mindset among women.

It is unimaginable for me to dethrone Naguib Mahfouz as the king and Nawal el Saadawi as the queen of Egyptian literature, but Out El Kouloub deserves a significant spot in the tapestry of Egyptian literature. I’m delighted with the discovery of this relatively obscure author who sheds light on Cairene women as Nawal el Saadawi does but without the rage, and paints early 20th century Cairo as perceptively as Naguib Mahfouz but through a more feminine frame of reference.

Although Out El Kouloub grew up in Cairo, she fled to France during the Nasser regime. Once dubbed “the richest woman in Egypt” by many, Out El Kouloub’s life is as intriguing as her stories. The work is translated from the French by Nayra Atiya, as all of Out El Kouloub’s books were written in French.

On Women in Translation Month 2023, I write this for the rare reader who tries to look for traces of Out El Kouloub (1899–1968) in #bookstagram and finds only six frames bearing her hashtagged name. This will be the seventh. There should be more.

Naguib Mahfouz: The Cairo Trilogy

There are better editions with attractive new covers now. Mine still carry the designs of the first American edition of the English translation, but I love how the first volume depicts the antique mashrabiyas of Old Cairo. These projecting windows with intricate latticework are some of my favorite features of traditional Islamic architecture. They seem to me exemplars of how a thing of beauty and tradition can become a refuge or a prison.

And yet, not even these mashrabiyas could shield Ahmad Abd al-Jawad and his family from life, love, death, and a changing world.

It is often said that the Cairo Trilogy is a family saga spanning three generations, from the period of the Egyptian revolt against British colonizers in 1919 to the final days of the Second World War. But it is more than a family saga: It is an astute record of a society, a city, a nation, and a world in transition.

I admit that I found good reason to put the first volume down. I was constantly infuriated by how women were perceived and treated by the male characters, by how men justified their immorality and hypocrisy and got off scot-free while women were punished severely for the most innocent blunders, and by how women themselves accepted this as the natural order of things. Those passages were deeply frustrating.

But Mahfouz’s exquisite storytelling carried me through. He does not so much describe Cairo as transport me there — into the volatile political scene of an Egypt yearning for independence, through its wondrous or disreputable backstreets and alleys, and especially into the women’s cloistered lives so I could hear the questions brewing in their hearts, and eventually to the reflection of society’s gradual development through the change in attitude toward women and their education.

In this trilogy, imperial tyranny juxtaposes with tyranny in the family, but through it all, an incredible compassion and empathy emanates from Mahfouz who humanizes everyone, even the tyrants.

Before I knew it I was at the final page of the last volume, not quite ready to let go, and contemplating on the fact that I had just read one of the finest works of literature ever written.

Naguib Mahfouz: Three Novels of Ancient Egypt

Cleopatra’s era is closer to the invention of the iPhone than it is to the construction of the pyramids of Giza. A podcast episode that I listened to years ago pointed this out. The fact still blows my mind. When they are mere numbers written on a page, the breadth of history’s timeline cannot be fully grasped until such a comparison is made; but to make those epochs come alive is a task for the novelist.

Khufu’s Wisdom is set in Ancient Egypt’s Fourth Dynasty (circa 2625 – 2500 BCE). Khufu, also known as Cheops, whose sarcophagus rests in the Great Pyramid of Giza, is the pharaoh to whom Egypt’s biggest pyramid is commonly attributed when people are not busy attributing it to aliens. Rhadopis of Nubia in the Sixth Dynasty (circa 2350 – 2710 BCE), gravitates around a courtesan and King Merenra’s short-lived reign. Thebes at War, set between the Seventeenth to Eighteenth Dynasty (1630-1292 BCE), reimagines the interval when Egypt was ruled by the Hyksos or “foreign kings”.

I have read several works by Naguib Mahfouz before taking on this trilogy but have found this to be the easiest to read and the most entertaining thus far! Yes, the language is grand and often pompous — it has to match its pharaonic subjects! Yes, some details can be politically incorrect by today’s standards — the publication years of each volume are as follows: 1939, 1943, and 1944! But reading this made me feel like a very young girl again; one who cannot help but be swept away with abandon into wondrous tales of the past. How I was able to imagine the stories as grand cinematic adaptations in my head is proof of Mahfouz’s skill as a storyteller!

Although the stories are easy to read, they are not as simple as they seem on the surface:

Khufu’s Wisdom is a classic contemplation on fate and duty, and about the difficult submission to both. My favorite passage comes from a secondary character who asks the protagonist, a skilled warrior, “And now, tell me, are you reading anything useful? …the virtuous mind never dismisses wisdom even for a day, just as the healthy stomach does not renounce food for a day… The virtue of the science of war is that it trains the soldier to serve his homeland and his sovereign with might, though his soul does not benefit at all. And the soldier who is ignorant of wisdom is like the faithful beast — nothing more… if the soul isn’t nourished by wisdom then it sinks to the level of the lesser creatures.”

It was in Rhadopis of Nubia where I felt the political undertones deepen. While it also questions the role of beauty and art, there are questions posed to corruption in theocracies and the tricky relationship between king and clergy. In the hall of Rhadopis, politicians and all manner of men gathered to be entranced, even though it was believed to be a most dangerous thing to set eyes upon her. Her tragic tale left me wondering whether she inspired Salman Rushdie’s Enchantress of Florence and whether she is, as I continue to reckon Rushdie’s enchantress, an allegory for Power.

Thebes at War is the most dramatic out of all the three and a most fitting finale for the trilogy. It is where one will find this line, “Weeping is no use, gentlemen. The past will disappear into ancient times and obliteration so long as you are content to do nothing but mourn it.”

Mahfouz is a man who did more than mourn Egypt’s past. He has built literary edifices forged from existing architectural wonders and archaeological findings, constructed modern allegories out of ancient lives and times, and transformed them into timeless political missives — knowing that there will always be those who are doomed to forget and repeat the follies of history.

Elias Khoury: Children of the Ghetto

Children of the Ghetto: My Name is Adam is my fifth Khoury. Would I recommend this? Perhaps not as a reader’s first Khoury. Would I read another Khoury after this? Absolutely!

In what seems to be a foreword signed by the author, he recounts how the notebooks of Adam Dannoun came into his possession. The entire book is the purported sum of Adam’s scribblings. “This is neither a novel nor a story nor an autobiography. And it isn’t literature,” writes Adam in his notebooks. But of course, through his virtuosity, Khoury turns the non-novel, the non-story, and the non-autobiography into literature.

It is literature that is one of the trickiest webs that he has woven because it challenges Khoury himself as a storyteller. It is soon revealed that Adam claims to have known the characters in Gate of the Sun personally, and he dislikes “the author of the novel Gate of the Sun, standing next to the bald Israeli director, presenting himself as an expert on Palestinian history, and lying.”

Adam, an infant in 1948, named so as the first born of the Ghetto of Lydda. Adam lived through the horrors of the ghetto, the massacre in Lydda, and the Lydda Death March. Before his suspected suicide in New York as an older man, he struggled to write about what befell his people. The notebooks contained his attempts. The whole history of our Nakba is unwritten. Does that mean we don’t have a history? That there was no Nakba? Does that make sense?

It possibly cannot be the unfathomable pain of the Nakba or the senseless violence of the Lebanese Civil War that keeps me coming back to Elias Khoury. It’s probably not the history either, because he is the kind of writer who questions it.

Or maybe it is because he questions history that I keep coming back. Maybe it’s also for the reason that every book I’ve read that’s written by a Lebanese reveals how capricious and adventurous the Lebanese are with form, or with the defiance of form. Maybe I’ve been lucky with the chronology of which I read, and of which the books came to my possession, that instead of being thwarted by this unconventional and sometimes disorienting quality, each book has only heightened the allure for me.

And maybe it is because Khoury, as a writer, urges and trusts the reader to be the one to bring a story to life; a truly Eastern composer of tales who wants to obliterate the author and make his identity of no interest so that literature becomes, like Eastern classical music, not a fixed composition, but an unfolding.

Mathias Énard: Street of Thieves

Maybe if I were not repulsed by Lakhdar who reminded me so much of the young men who catcalled or boldly approached me for my contact details on a solo trip to Morocco, I would have esteemed Street of Thieves better. At the same time, I also checked myself if it was because I was uncomfortable with the portrayal of the darker streets that a female solo traveller usually circumvents, and which shatter more romantic notions of Morocco, Tunisia, and Spain. After all, the truth hurts, even when it concerns favorite or dream destinations.

“…I had realized that afternoon, Judit’s Tangier did not coincide with mine. She saw the international city, Spanish, French, American; she knew Paul Bowles, Tennessee Williams, and William Burroughs, so many authors whose remote names vaguely reminded me of something, but about whom I knew nothing.”

Still, I’m afraid I cannot agree with the blurb claiming that this novel “may take Zone’s place in Christophe Claro’s bold pronouncement that Énard’s earlier work is ‘the novel of the decade, if not of the century.’” But that’s not to say that this book doesn’t have its merits. The fact that I continued reading up to the chilling last page is proof of Énard’s prowess. The story clarifies the youth’s discontent and anti-government sentiments in the wake of the Arab Spring and the anti-austerity movement of the indignados in Spain. This one has its own special niche in political literature of the Maghreb.

“‘All young people are like me,’ I added. “The Islamists are old conservatives who steal our religion from us when it should belong to everyone. All they offer are prohibitions and repression. The Arab Left are old union members who are always too late for a strike. Who’s going to represent me?”

I simply think it falls short of the enigmatic and beautiful prose of Tell Them of Battles, Kings, and Elephants; incomparable to Compass that holds certain passages that mean to me more than I can express; and quite a distance away from the extremely impressive threnody for the last century that is Zone.

If there’s one thing that the main character of Street of Thieves definitely got right, it is this: “I think today of that dark parenthesis, that first imprisonment in Algeciras, that antechamber, when around me spin the lost ones, walking, blind, without the help of books…” How dark, indeed, to go through life without books.