I wasn't intending on reading this book. Christa Wolf's Cassandra was supposed to be read in it's place, but then I set that aside and reached out to this one instead. I think I'm fortunate to have it in my collection, though I'm not sure it will stay there for long. It mustn't have gotten many prints when it was released in English and so I assume it is quite rare. I found it at a used book sale - one of those massive charity events where you see all sorts of familiar classics and discarded contemporary works. I walked through looking for unfamiliar names that sounded like they weren't "North American". It isn't a perfect method, but I've got a good sense of genealogy and language and naming conventions around the world so I like to think I can recognize small things. And it has led me to some pretty fantastic discoveries in the past and helped me move further and further into the vast library of world literature that is so frequently invisible in the big box book store that holds a near monopoly over my city.
Ulfat Idilbi fit my intrigue on that day in that book sale, so I picked up the book, read the back cover, and decided to add it to my small but growing pile to be purchased at a ridiculous discount. And given the Syrian Refugee crisis from the past several months I felt it was an appropriate time to give it a go - help me understand something of the nation which is at the heart of so much attention in the 2015 media.
I’m glad I read this book.
It caught me off guard in many ways.
First, I think it is worth noting that I know very little about Middle Eastern history or culture, just some snaps of the past and tiny episodes, and much of it is presented to me in an American or British or Canadian voice - sometimes I get to hear it from friends of mine who are Turkish or Iranian and the place becomes a great deal more remarkable and humane. These are both features that I strive for in my own work as a historian, but I work in a markedly different region with an entirely different history.
I think it is also worth noting that I haven’t read much literature from this region. Actually, I don’t think I have ever read any literature from this region - Naguib Mahfouz is on my shelf, and some others from North Eastern Africa might fit into that cultural zone as well. I haven’t even read any Israeli literature, though I have a book by a Palestinian that I would like to read soon, and The Owl has looked down and me at times and wondered why I haven’t decided to read it, and Elias Khoury looks marvelous. But for some reason or other I haven’t read any of these things, and so the literary of the voice of this area has always been silent for me.
I suppose that is no longer true, and certainly the voice Idilbi uses in this book is passionate and compassionate and opens up a whole different world than I can understand or truly appreciate without exploring more of the literature that her novel is talking to.
I can tell you that Idilbi’s work reveals a deep passion and love for her country - perhaps stronger than my own for Canada. The main character, Sabriya, loves Syria, she loves the Syrian people. She wants it to be free of the French who at one time had turned the region into one of its many colonial outposts. She admires the strength and fortitude of those who fight and those who support the fighters, and she herself helps as much as she is permitted to. She sells her pieces of jewellery, or gives it to fighters (including her brother) so that they can purchase their own armaments and food. This is, after all, a rebel force. It needs to be self-funded.
Sabriya is also incredibly intelligent - she has a clear sense of justice, of right and wrong, and she uses it to understand her world, including the potential threat of having Hitler come to the Middle East and become the new ruler over Syria. It is not something that Sabriya wants - she perhaps doesn’t have a thorough understanding of Hitler’s evil (but few of his contemporaries did) but she does understand him as another colonial ruler. No better or worse than the French, by her judgement. His tanks would offer no liberation to their country, but only a renewed oppression. Sabriya is skeptical.
Sabriya is also a feminist, fighting as best as she can against the various forms of oppression that she faces in her family, her society, her politics. This is perhaps the most impressive pairing of ideas that this novel provides - the mixing of the feminist ideal with the nationalist ideal, how easily the two could be combined but how quickly they founder at the hands of domineering and spiteful men who abuse their power (including her other brother). She wants to live without the veil, without the need to conceal, without the need to host the mourning for each dying family member, without the restrictions on her involvement in her country’s liberation.
And so it is quite sad to see that, though the connection between the liberation of the country and the liberation of the woman is clearly intended to be seen as partnered battles, one movement is a total success and the other is a lifelong struggle against oppressions of all sorts. Indeed, the entire story of Sabriya’s bittersweet life is one told in rememberance, from her diary, read by her neice who found her hanging body in the courtyard of her grandfather’s home. Suicide. Sabriya fought and fought and fought but in a moment of complete vulnerability, when conventions made her nothing more than the pawn in some game for her brothers and their wives to play, rather than accept the reality and continue living a life of disappointed hopes, lost love, and emotional exhaustion, she committed suicide.
It’s a striking story. Heartbreaking in retrospect. I’ve given the book to my mom. I think she will enjoy it.