Zeina

by Nawal El Saadawi

  But the seat in front of him was empty. Where had Bodour gone? She might be in the bathroom or in her study writing her novel. She might have gone to the university, to her friend Safi or to her daughter Mageeda. On the cover of the Renaissance magazine he saw the picture of his daughter, Mageeda al-Khartiti, with her head wrapped in a white scarf. Her article stood next to the articles of great writers. It had the title “Women in Islam” by the great writer Mageeda al-Khartiti.

  His daughter had become an Islamist writer. A presidential decree awarded her a seat at the elected Higher Journalism Council. It made little difference whether the seat at a higher council was secured by appointment or election. A decree had to ratify both types of seats issued by the one and only authority in the land. The decree was often unwritten, but sometimes it was written in invisible ink, like the death lists, the lists of the righteous destined for paradise, and the lists of infidels and disbelievers who followed in the footsteps of the Devil and Eve and the Serpent. The names on the death list were published in a small font size on the accidents and crimes page. There were forty-four names, including four women and forty men, like Ali Baba and the forty thieves. They were all accused of violating religious and state laws, of making lawful what was prohibited by God, and of prohibiting what was permissible by God. There was little doubt that they deserved death, according to God’s canon and the emir’s.

  His eyes fell by chance on the name of Zeina Bint Zeinat below a photograph showing her as a street child, her black hair dishevelled and in wiry spikes. She was holding her lute as though she were embracing Satan, and was singing and dancing with her mouth wide open, revealing her tonsils. Her bare feet walked steadily on the ground and her face was long and pale like the faces of the dead, or of women of dubious character in brothels and whore houses.

  He moved his eyes away from her picture, from the large eyes burning with a bluish black flame. He quivered deep inside to see those eyes, but he banished them with his head, hands, arms, and legs. He wanted to gouge those eyes out, to crush that lean body with his own hands, to dig his nails into the flesh until they reached the bones. In his memory was a nightmare that came to him almost in a dream, an accident that happened outside his conscious mind. The pain crept from the belly to the Devilish gland underneath the pubic hair. In his prayers, he beseeched God for forgiveness. During his visit to the Holy Places, he walked around the Kaaba, kissing the black stone with his lips and hurling stones at Satan with his hands. He came back cleansed of his sins like a newborn babe, for God forgave all transgressions except the sin of worshipping other gods. Zakariah was a strong believer, who had faith in the one and only God. He was not an infidel who worshipped other gods like those who believed that Christ was God, or the son of God, or who went to sleep listening to the sound of music and dancing instead of the recitation of the Qur’an.

  At the bottom of the accidents and crimes page, a piece of news was published along with the picture of Mohamed Ahmed. His hair was dishevelled like a madman and his cheek was scarred like hardened criminals. His eyes were half closed and he looked unconscious:

  The journalist Mohamed Ahmed stood before the Public Prosecutor on charges of contempt for religion and violation of public order and God’s law. This obscure journalist tried to attract the limelight by joining the opposition. He had suspicious relations with the West. He frequented nightclubs and attended dancing and singing performances. He published articles in the Thawra opposition paper, an illegal publication that did not get the approval of the State Higher Council, which issued a ruling to close it and confiscate the last issues. It ruled that its funds be transferred to the Islamic Society for Charity and Piety, to be used in feeding the needy and offering free meals during the month of Ramadan.

  Mohamed sat on a small wooden stool in a basement room. He was in his underwear, and the deep cut on his left cheek was bleeding. Around him were men carrying whips that squirmed like snakes. Their eyes were looking in the direction of their boss, who carried the title of investigator, judge, or prince and occupied the position of minister, court deputy, or head. His voice rang high and majestic in contrast with his short, plump body. His soft white hands held a newspaper clipping.

  “Your full name?”

  “Mohamed Mohamed Ahmed.”

  “A Muslim?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you believe in the one and only God?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you write this article?”

  “Yes.”

  The investigator stared at the face of the young man but did not see the blood on the left cheek. His narrow, sunken eyes were raised to the ceiling, toward God in the sky beyond. His two small pupils trembled within the white eyeballs, and the look in his eyes was cold and hollow. The pupils seemed to be made of glass or plastic. A strong electric light made up of four lamps was directed at the young man sitting on the backless stool. He tried to keep his back straight and his eyes open. He struggled to stay alert by concentrating on the investigator’s face.

  The investigation continued throughout the day and part of the night, without any intervals except for a few minutes, when the investigator went to the toilet, drank water, or ate lunch or dinner. The young man did not move from his chair. He had to hold his urine and keep the blood inside the wound while being hammered by one question after another.

  “Haven’t you read the religious ruling that music, dancing, and singing are the works of the Devil? How can you defend an illegitimate, fallen woman from the streets in your article?”

  “Zeina Bint Zeinat is a great artist. People love her and feel happy to attend her performances to listen to her. Beautiful art comes from God because God is beauty.”

  “You know nothing about God, so how can you talk about Him? You’re misleading people. You say that building schools and universities is more important than building mosques and churches. Did you say that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Aren’t you misinforming people and leading them away from Islam?”

  “Islam is based on reason, and everything that builds the mind and knowledge is part of Islam.”

  “Did you say that washing the dead is an old custom that has nothing to do with religion? Did you say that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you against cleanliness, then? Don’t you know that cleanliness is godly and dirtiness is womanly?”

  “Cleanliness needs soap and clean, running water. Most of the living have neither soap nor water. How can we wash the dead while the living cannot take baths? The dead body will be eaten by worms and dust, so what is the point of washing it?”

  “Are you arguing with me? Don’t you know that your article is controversial and can incite conflicts and tensions?”

  “Arguments lead to knowledge and understanding and not to tensions.”

  “You’re against the veiling of women and you claim that it is not connected with religion or morality. Aren’t you going against God’s precepts in this way? Don’t you know that a woman’s face is prohibited because a woman’s beauty can lead to temptations and conflicts?”

  “Women are not the cause of conflicts. There are other causes, such as religion, injustice, corruption, and lies.”

  “This is heresy. How can you say this kind of thing? You deserve to die.”

  “But before I die, I want to express my views. We inherit religion from our fathers and grandfathers. Our ethical conduct depends on awareness and conscience, and not on religion. Some priests and sheikhs rape children and embezzle money. There are women and men who believe in no religion, but they have integrity and fight for truth. They would die defending justice and freedom. Music lifts the spirit and revives the conscience. It never causes rifts or wars. Religions cause sectarian tensions and pogroms. There is no connection between justice and religion, for justice can exist in a world without religion. There is also no connection between morality and religion, for there are people who have no religion but act in a perfectly moral manner
. Religion in fact has double or triple standards as far as values and ethics are concerned, a standard for men and another for women, a standard for the ruler and another for the subjects, the slaves, the hired hands, and the poor. I’m tired, really tired ... exhausted. I wish you would end my suffering. Hell is here on this earth and not after death. When I die I will be free from your torture and at peace. There’s no hell in death or after it!”

  “Do you wish me to record all this heresy in the investigation?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is another document against you to be added to your article. Are you seeking death?”

  “Yes. Death is better than living in a world where a person is killed only because he expresses his opinions in an article, because he loves music, poetry, and beauty, or because he exposes injustice, hypocrisy, and corruption, hiding behind the cloak of God’s name. I know that you will assassinate me either openly or in secret. You’ve put my name on the death list. But who are you to pass a death or a life sentence on people? Who are you exactly? You’re a group of mercenaries, hired by the governments inside and outside, trained for killing in the wilderness of Afghanistan. You receive money and arms, swap women, slave girls, and concubines. You let your beards grow until they cover your faces, but your heads are empty.”

  “Shut up!”

  “I’ll say all I want before I die. You have no conscience, no morality, and no religion ... You are ... the age of darkness and disintegration ...”

  Before he finished his sentence, he was shot in the chest. Seven successive bullets were fired at him. Three of them lodged in his chest, one pierced his heart, and another penetrated his forehead and came out through the back of his head. Splinters of his brain were scattered across the floor. They trampled on the pieces with their heels and the butts of their rifles. They wanted to destroy his mind because their world was built on the elimination of human reason.

  The following day, demonstrators marched, shouting his name and carrying his picture on placards and slogans over their heads. Among the demonstrators were men, women, youngsters, children, workers, students, low-ranking government officials, children born on the streets, Mohamed’s colleagues at the opposition paper, obscure men and women artists, Mariam’s music band, men and women thinkers whose names were on the death list, wives, divorced women, deserted lovers, girls raped by elderly men and carrying their little children, peasant women selling watercress and radishes, servants, secretaries, prostitutes, elderly people walking with crutches, lame children and stray limping cats and dogs, meowing and howling and shouting with the people. The cheers rose high and shook the earth and the sky with the slogans:

  We don’t need religion,

  Better give us a pigeon.

  Of prayers and fasting we’ve had enough,

  Better give us some foodstuff.

  We don’t want the rosary bead,

  We need bread indeed.

  Enough mosques and churches,

  We need schools and researches.

  Police sirens blared out and policemen were ready with rifles, batons, water hoses, and tear gas. People marched side by side like a huge barricade to fend off the attack and ward off the bullets. Loudspeakers and bells were heard together with the whistling and the beating of drums.

  Armored vehicles ran over the bodies of children and cats. The children got up from underneath the wheels to receive the bullets with their naked chests. The cats also fought with them, fell down and rose up again. If cats had seven lives, how many did human beings have? Those children lived and died a hundred times over. Life for them was like death, and death resembled life.

  Zeina Bint Zeinat walked among the crowds playing her lute. She held it like a baby in its mother’s arms. Her long fingers moved over the lute strings with the speed of lightning as they did over the piano keys. The lute was closer to her heart than the piano, for she carried it in her arms and rocked it at night before she went to sleep. She held it beneath her ribs to keep it safe from the thieves and the police. It lay in her arms throughout the night. She wrapped it in a leather case to protect it from the cold, the heat, the little stones and pebbles. Children gathered around her and she trained them to play music. They shared the pavement, the love of music and singing, and the lute. They played music spontaneously, without learning to read notes. They sang when the white cotton buds blossomed and when the golden ears of wheat gleamed in the sun. Without a family to provide for them, they slept on the pavement. Music compensated them a little for the absence of family, eased their pains and sorrows, and lifted their spirits high. It healed their bodies and comforted the pain in their breasts. They slept listening to the sound of music and the voice of Zeina Bint Zeinat singing for them. In their dreams they chanted the songs of the revolution:

  “Down with injustice, long live freedom.”

  “Oh my land, you have all my love.”

  “You’ve come to bring us light, oh Nile cotton, how lovely you are!”

  “Here’s the wheat on its feast, may God bless it!”

  She stood in the spotlight on stage before the shots were fired. Her two large eyes were two blue volcanic rocks, two dark blue flames. Their color changed with the movement of the earth around the sun, bluish black like the color of the earth and the sky, surrounded by the transparent whiteness of the waves gleaming in the sun or the high mountaintops beyond the sea.

  She looked older than her real age by a hundred years, for she had known life and death, God and Satan, and was no longer afraid of them. Her face shone brightly as she smiled. Her childlike smile dissipated the darkness like the rays of the sun. She hugged her lute, and her long, sturdy fingers moved over the strings with the speed of electricity. They were as strong and hard and pointed as nails. Nobody could attack her or attempt to rape her, for she would dig those nails into the neck of any attacker. She played the rhythmic tune, singing with the children the first song she sang for her mother when she was a child:

  I dream of building my mother a house

  Made of red brick,

  Not of mud,

  A house she owns,

  A house no one can take away from her.

  It has a ceiling to protect her from summer’s heat

  And winter’s cold,

  A bathroom with running water

  And an electric lamp.

  Her mother, Zeinat, wiped her face with a white handkerchief. She held her tears deep in her eyes. Next to her sat Mageeda al-Khartiti, sobbing silently.

  Her mother’s friend, Safi, whispered in her ear, “Did you hear the shots?”

  “It’s the sound of clapping, Auntie Safi.”

  “It’s bullets, Mageeda.”

  “No, Auntie. Zeina is singing, listen to her.”

  The sound of clapping drowned the sound of bullets. Zeina Bint Zeinat stood on stage, erect and graceful, hugging her lute. Her eyes met those of her mother, Zeinat, for whom she sang the model mother song when she was a school girl:

  I came from this earth and to it I return.

  I have not descended from space,

  I am not the daughter of gods or devils,

  I am Zeina and my mother is Zeinat.

  My mother is dearer to me than the sky.

  I have known falling and rising,

  I fall and rise, and fall and rise,

  I die and rise again,

  Hugging my lute.

  She wore her white dress made of cotton. Blood-red lines started leaking from her chest. Her voice rose higher as she sang and danced to the tune. The audience clapped thunderously and shouted, “Encore, encore, encore ... sing ‘I Dream’ ... again, Zeina, again.”

  She started singing again:

  “I dream of building my mother a house ...”

  People sang with her, the whole auditorium sang with her, men, women, and children, and they danced to her tune.

  “You’ve come to bring us light, oh Nile cotton, how lovely you are!”

  She bled from the chest as she st
ood singing and playing music, people around her singing and dancing. They carried her over their shoulders, chanting, “Long live Zeina Bint Zeinat, long live Zeina Bint Zeinat, long live freedom, long live freedom, long live love, long live love, long live music, long live music, long live beauty and justice and virtue, long live love and art and beauty and justice and virtue, long live Zeina Bint Zeinat.”

  Bodour was walking when she heard the sounds of hundreds, thousands, millions cheering and chanting.

  Bodour walked, dragging her suitcase behind her. The black cloud covered the whole sky, obscuring the sun and the moon. She couldn’t tell whether it was day or night. She walked on and on, following an endless road, until her feet were swollen. She sat on a wooden bench on the Nile front and took off her tight leather shoes with their high pointed heels. She removed the brassiere pressing into her chest and the hairpins and the gold bracelets and the rings studded with stones. She broke the chains that kept her in shackles from head to toe. Her flesh and bones were released from captivity, and the reins restraining her were loosed. She let her body swim freely on the bench which was as long as a boat. She heard a whisper in her heart saying, “I am neither a wife nor a widow and I shall not grieve, like Babylon, the whore in the Bible.”

  Inside her suitcase, which she placed under the wooden bench, was a yellow folder containing her novel. There was also her old white cotton dress, with the dry blood stain and the tears and the sweat that had never dried. Through her half-closed eyes she glimpsed a phantom dressed in mourning and walking, her back stooped and her white rubber shoes the color of dust. She held a black plastic bag in her hand. Her dark face was pale and she was out of breath. She sat on the pavement, opened the bag and a swarm of street children and newborn kittens, gathered around her, sniffing the bread inside the bag. These were the leftovers from well-to-do families: pieces of meat, bones, and rice. Zeinat collected them from the garbage and put them in a bag every day and walked along the Nile front. If she didn’t find a bag, she used a newspaper to wrap the crusts of bread. She recognized the framed photographs published in the paper. The eyes were pierced by a fish bone or a chewed meat bone. On the front page was the picture of the president and the first lady. Their faces were stained with tomato sauce and reeked of onion and garlic and dried bastourma. On the second page was the picture of Zakariah al-Khartiti, whom she addressed as sir. His nose was slashed and his long column was soaked in chicken soup. The ink ran on the paper and the words were covered with a black liquid that looked like mercury or tar.