by Fadia Faqir
The Golden Chariot
by Salwa Bakr
translated by Dinah Manisty
The Golden Chariot
Published by
Garnet Publishing Limited,
8 Southern Court,
South Street,
Reading,
RG1 4QS,
UK
www.garnetpublishing.co.uk
Original text © 1991 Salwa Bakr
Translation © 1995 Dinah Manisty
The right of Salwa Bakr and Dinah Manisty to be identified respectively as the author and translator of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
First English Edition 1995
Second English Edition 2007
First published in Arabic as al-‘Arabah al-Dhahabiyyah la Tas‘ad ila-l-Sama’ by Dar Sina Publishing, Cairo.
Series editor: Fadia Faqir
Literary editor: Georgina Andrewes
ISBN: 9781859640371
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Cover design by David Rose
Cover illustration by Peter Hay
Typeset by Sarah Golden
Printed by Biddles, UK
Introduction
Set within the walls of a women’s prison just outside Cairo between the 1950s and 1970s, The Golden Chariot introduces us to Aziza, a member of the Alexandrian aristocracy now imprisoned for murder. She presents an intricate woven frame narrative, within which we become acquainted with the other fourteen inmates and the prison warden. The novel takes place in a women’s prison as an ‘allegory or metaphor’1 for the social reality outside the walls and as a reaction to dishonesty, oppression, violence, economic deprivation and social injustice. The women have committed crimes ranging from pickpocketing, begging and prostitution, drug dealing and murder, though some women like Umm al-Khayer and Aidah are in prison for the crimes of others.
The main reason for their crimes is the abuse of their bodies by men, where the body emerges as a contested space. Many commit crimes as a reaction to men abusing their bodies, men being unfaithful, dishonest, exploitative and violent. Most of the crimes are as a direct result of ‘the violation suffered by them at the hands of men’.2 Aziza’s body is violated by her lover, her step-father, which leads her to kill him. Hinnah kills her oversexed husband, Azimah castrates her lover who enjoyed her body for years but refused to marry her.
Yet the prison is also a haven. Salwa Bakr creates a space in a women’s prison outside the traditional private and public spaces. The imposed roles of daughters, wives and mothers subservient to fathers, husbands and sons have no relevance here. The women prisoners get rid of the masks that a patriarchal society imposes on them.
The novel was conceived in Egypt in the mid-1980s when the daily newspapers began to cover women’s crime extensively. The rise of female crime, or coverage of criminal women, caused a controversy over the causes and implications of the ‘gentler sex’ resorting to violence against men. In both criminological and lay explanations criminal women were seen as either inherently evil, becoming more masculine, committing crimes because of their increasing social freedom, or committing crimes as a result of simply going mad.
The author, with a mischievous grin on her face, sets out to destroy all these dominant myths and expose their crudeness. She uses parody, irony, satire and stories within stories, constantly negating her narrative in order to challenge the reader’s ready-made ideas about women and their position in society. For this reason the theme of madness runs throughout the novel – due to her slight madness Aziza is kept in solitary confinement, Aidah refuses to talk as a protest against the injustice of the world, Shafiqa becomes completely paralysed with grief, while Bahijah suffers from the schizophrenia of a society which at one level affords her the respect due to a woman doctor but then denies her a husband because of her poverty.
This deliberate selection of characters who suffer from neurosis, madness or odd behaviour questions the dominant system that labels them. Through these inmates, doubly confined by imprisonment and madness, the writer presents an alternative discourse aiming at carving a space for women in what Sabri Hafiz calls ‘the dominant discourse of power, exclusivity and superiority’.3 Bakr uses her imagination and powers of story-telling to examine the monological central discourse. She questions the borders between madness and sanity; normality and abnormality and undermines them as fossilized concepts within the bounds of a patriarchal society. No final answer to the complex question of women’s criminal behaviour is offered. I have chosen this novel precisely because it gives a unique insight into the world of Arab women prisoners but discourages the reader from either condemning or sympathising with them.
In a mode similar to Scheherazade in the Arabian Nights, Aziza’s narratives provide the novel with a structural unity. Her telling and retelling of the stories of the inmates weaves seemingly disconnected episodes together and gives voice to ‘a vocal, knowledgeable narrator intervening to pass judgements on the characters, unify episodes, narrate and tell stories, comment and clarify, and connect the world outside to that of inside the prison’.4 Using Aziza as a mask which she chooses to wear at times and discard at others, the omniscient narrator moves within the text creating the tension that is the core of the novel, that is the conflict between the stories of the women and Aziza’s narrative. It is here that the social commentary of the novel lies.
Aziza is a member of the upper class and most of her initial encounters with the women prisoners show that Aziza is repulsed by their physical appearance and condemns them as deviants from the social norms. This is in accordance with Lombroso’s theory of criminality, her observations show that she believes that the inmates’ socio-sexual destiny is dictated by their ‘biological attributes’.5 However, as she becomes more acquainted with their stories, Aziza begins to question her initial reactions to them, which leads her to question her background, education (or lack of it) and predetermined ideas. The women gradually become other than what their ‘evil nature’, ‘madness’ and ‘ugliness’ suggest. A re-examination of the moral values of a society which condemns her as a killer of her incestuous step-father and condemns other inmates as criminals and deviants takes place. Gradually the women prisoners are freed from the reductionist and essentializing biological and psychological explanations for their criminality. Perhaps the main precondition for their lawbreaking is, as Pat Carlen would have it, their ‘consciousness of economic marginalization’.6
Language and the part that it plays in the marginalization of women within a patriarchal structure is another theme picked up by this novel and others in the series. In the past Arab women writers used correct standard Arabic language, Fusha, which is similar to the language of the Qur’an to prove their linguistic credentials to puritan Arabists. The Arab Women Writers series shows a clear departure from the use of standard Arabic. Women writers in this series use a colloquialized Fusha to describe the daily experiences of women. The dominant written Arabic was found inadequate to present their sexual, religious and social experiences. To be true to the women’s voices the oral tradition had to be brought in. The Golden Chariot draws strongly on a rich oral tradition, the voices of the women, which most of the time cannot be distinguished from each other, are close to colloquial Egyptian.
Bakr’s awareness of the Arabian Nights, the Qur’an and a long tradition of folk-
tales is evident throughout the novel. She uses digression to provide social and political commentary, long sentences to construct a tableau made up of numerous tiny details, and tales within tales. ‘Her style is similar to the style of folk-tales (al-haki al-sha’bi) which depends on digression, description, accumulation of seemingly separate details, and turning dramatic events into narrative.’7 The author intervenes to punctuate the text, open it up to bring in the wider social picture and stop the text sliding towards the melodramatic. Women create a different language where the patriarch is lampooned, ridiculed and where women’s oral culture and daily experiences are placed at the centre of the discourse. The standard perceptions of masculine and feminine language are rejected and from a third space within the language they question a culture which misrepresents their experiences.
The Golden Chariot is an exercise in the suspension and questioning of preconceived ideas. Whenever the reader moves closer to identifying with the inmates, another possible interpretation is presented in the text. Satire is used to distance the reader and prevent identification with or condemnation of the characters. The text is continually deromanticised, the normal becomes the abnormal and the periphery is pushed to the centre. In an attempt to subvert the symbols of romantic love Aziza wishes that she were able to find more romantic ways of killing her lover, like covering him with melting chocolate or suffocating him with the smell of flowers.
The narrator, through Aziza, then provides the women with a fantastic way out of their misery in the shape of a golden chariot which will fly the women prisoners to heaven where their crimes will no longer matter. Aziza organizes a farewell party for the inmates similar to public feasts or festivals. Bakr, by using this fantastic journey, shows that an escape route exists and instigates an alternative world.’ On the space of the white sheet, I construct my chosen religion, my personal moral values, the politics I aspire to, my favourite world; I become free, really free, away from the romanticised past and the nightmarish present.’8 But in order to stop the reader from taking this heavenly journey seriously, the author negates the whole project in her choice of title for the Arabic original, The Golden Chariot Does Not Ascend to Heaven. The narrative continually dismantles itself in order to keep the reader vigilant and alert. The writer, having the last laugh, walks away from the public festival she creates.
Dinah Manisty’s knowledge of colloquial Egyptian made it possible for her to preserve the local colours in the translation. Her years spent studying Egyptian women writers in Egypt meant that she is perfectly suited to this translation, which depends heavily on detailed and colloquial story-telling. In the absence of many good translators from Arabic into English, a problem partly responsible for the absence of Arab culture from the international arena, her efforts stand out.
It was partially to redress this lack of intervention of Arab culture that the Arab Women Writers series was started. Arab women are treated as a minority in most Arab countries. They feel invisible, misrepresented and reduced, often perceived as second-rate citizens. They are thus subjected to a peculiar kind of internal Orientalism and hidden behind a double-layered veil. This series aspires to open a window on the walled garden where Arab women’s alternative stories are being told, to challenge the foundations of a patriarchal tribal system. It also defies Western preconceptions about Arab women, lifting the veil to show the reader the variant, colourful and resilient writings of Arab women and so that the clear voices of Arab women singing their survival might be heard.
Fadia Faqir
Durham, 1995
1 Itidal Uthman ‘Habs al-Rajul fi Ghurfat al-Zuhur’, al-Katiba magazine, no 7, June/July, 1994, p6.
2 Dinah Manisty’s unpublished thesis ‘Changing Limitations: A Study of the Women’s Novel in Egypt (1960–1991)’, SOAS, 1993.
3 Sabri Hafiz ‘Layali Shahrazad wa-Layali Shahrayar’, al-Katiba magazine, no 7, June/July, 1994, p6.
4 Latifah al-Zayyat, ‘Qira’ah fi-Riwayat Salwa Bakr al-‘Arabah al-Dhahabiyyah al-Tas’ad ila Sama’, Fusul, vol 2, no. 1, Spring 1992, p275.
5 Pat Carlen, Criminal Women: Autobiographical Accounts, Polity Press, Cambridge, 1985, p2.
6 Ibid, pp 9–10.
7 Latifah al-Zayyat, ‘Qira’ah fi-Riwayat Salwa Bakr al-‘Arabah al-Dhahabiyyah la Tas‘ad ila al-Sama’, Fusul, vol 2, no 1, Spring 1992, p276.
8 From In the House of Silence: Conditions of Arab Women’s Narrative, Fadia Faqir, ed., a collection of testimonies by Arab women novelists to be published by Garnet Publishing to complement this series.
Translator’s Note
This novel uses colloquial Arabic to capture the reality of the spoken language for women in Egypt. When transliterating Arabic names and words into English, I have reflected the local pronunciation wherever possible. Thus the traditional Arabic name Rajab has been written as Ragab, following Egyptian phonetics. Umm Ragab means mother of Ragab. The only exception is the word Hajja, a title used for a woman who has undertaken the pilgrimage to Mecca, and now commonly used as a form of address for elderly women. This title is used throughout the Islamic world, and I have retained the standard transliteration.
I would like to express my warm thanks to Mukhtar Kraïem of the Arabic Department, Faculty of Human and Social Sciences, University of Tunis, for the valuable advice and support he gave me while translating this novel.
1
Where the River Flows into the Sea
Aziza the Alexandrian woke from her usual midday nap which she took to make up for the long hours she was up during the night, sometimes till dawn. The din of daily life in the women’s prison had subsided a little; the laughter mixed with the sound of crying, the habitual quarrels between the inmates over the bathroom, the fights over food and the perpetual shrieks of rebuke from the warders demanding submission to the rules and regulations which governed prison life.
Stretched out on her bed on the floor, she opened her eyes. Through the open window high up in the cell, her gaze rested on the wispy outlines of the trees, now slightly blurred in the fading light. She listened for a few moments to the evening chorus of sparrows which settled on the branches, bidding farewell until the dawn of another day. It was a performance she had listened to at the same time every evening since the first day she came to the prison. The chirping and twittering usually blended with the voices of Sheikh Abdel Baset or Mohamed Rifaat chanting beautiful Qur’anic recitations. It was Hajja Umm Abdel-Aziz who tuned in the radio to the station which broadcast the Qur’an and placed it on the window ledge of the special block for elderly and disabled prisoners.
Aziza gave a deep sigh when the Sheikh came to the comforting words of the Wise and Almighty: “For you who are punished there is life, O most wise!” She had begun to feel anxious and breathless; the intense humidity of August, which ripened the cotton until it burst open and which made the dates plump and full also brought with it the oppressive weather which dampened her spirit. Sweat smelling of rancid dates trickled down from her neck and from under her arms. She got up and took off her regulation long, prison robe made from white calico and walked across the room. She cupped some water in her hands from the green, plastic bucket in the corner and splashed her face and neck with it. Then she washed under her arms, letting a few drops fall into an old al-Mizan ghee can, which was now used for scraps.
She wiped her wet hands over her hair to gather the soft strands which had strayed during sleep from her bun secured with nets and pins. When she had finished she began to walk a little in the big room. One of the windows looked onto the long corridor which led to her cell, and the others, in this block of the prison reserved for disabled, sick and ‘special’ cases. She tired of walking and went over to the other window, hoping to cool down and lift her spirits with a breath of fresh air; the cold water she had washed herself with had long since dried. All she could see was the high wall topped by barbed wire which separated the women’s prison from the men’s and a few treetops which were slowly sinking into the darkness. She s
ighed with irritation and left the window with its thin, iron bars and the bleak outlook which had become engraved on her mind since they had moved her to this cell. She went back to her bed and sat down to begin the solitary evening ritual – which she had followed for many years, where she withdrew into herself and ruminated over her grief and the memories of days past. This was the time she allowed herself to communicate with her lonely soul to relieve it of its pain and torment and shattered hopes.
Aziza lit up a Cleopatra cigarette and inhaled deeply with the pleasure of a heavy smoker, hooked since youth. She gazed at the scattered stars looking down on her from the small chink of clear sky which she could see through the window. She poured a little cold water into the plastic cup resting near the earthenware pitcher and took a sip. As part of her evening ritual she summoned up Umm Ragab, in her imagination, from her bed in the next door block. Then, sitting opposite her, she spoke her mind, in a low voice, about how her neighbour carried on: “Listen, Umm Ragab; your trouble is that you’re a donkey. The first day I set eyes on you I said to myself: ‘This old woman, with her coarse, red, dyed hair must be a silly ass.’ When I first saw you I reckoned you must be well over sixty and you’d have to be an ass to land up in prison at that age. When Mahrousa, the warder, told me what you’d gone down for, I said: ‘This old woman must be a fool’, because, Umm Ragab, you’re in for something so trivial. Three years for stealing a wallet nobody would look twice at with a measly ninety pounds in it – that’s thirty pounds for each year of your life in prison. The odd thing is how you owned up, at the investigation, to having been a pickpocket all your life – you said you ‘stole to put the flesh on your bones’ – and what’s more, you’re stupid enough to go and tell them how you did it.”