Diary of a Jewish Muslim

Kamal Ruhayyim

Description

Egyptian Muslims and Jews were not always at odds. Before the Arab–Israeli wars, before the mass exodus of Jews from Egypt, there was harmony.
Spanning the 1930s to the 1960s, this sweeping novel accompanies Galal, a young boy with a Jewish mother and a Muslim father, through his childhood and boyhood in a vibrant popular quarter of Cairo. With his schoolboy crushes and teen rebellions, Galal is deeply Egyptian, knit tightly into the middle-class fabric of manners, morals, and traditions that cheerfully incorporates and transcends religion—a fabric about to be torn apart by a bigger world of politics that will put Galal’s very identity to the test.

Sujets

• Judaïsme
• Judaïsme
• Judaïsme
• Language
• Lettres et linguistique
• Foreign Language study
• Arabic

Informations

• Publié par: The American University in Cairo Press
• Date de parution: 04 décembre 2018
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781617978906
• Langue: English

Extrait

Kamal Ruhayyim , born in Egypt in 1947, has a PhD in law from Cairo University. He is the author of a collection of short stories and five novels, including Days in the Diaspora (AUC Press, 2012) and Menorahs and Minarets (AUC Press, 2017). He has lived in both Cairo and Paris.

Sarah Enany has a PhD in drama and is a lecturer in the English Department of Cairo University. Her translation credits include works by Yusuf Idris, Mohamed Salmawy, and Jerzy Grotowski, and Kamal Ruhayyim’s Days in the Diaspora and Menorahs and Minarets.
Diary of a Jewish Musilm


Kamal Ruhayyim




Translated by Sarah Enamy
This electronic edition published in 2018 by Hoopoe 113 Sharia Kasr el Aini, Cairo, Egypt 420 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10018 www.hoopoefiction.com

Hoopoe is an imprint of the American University in Cairo Press www.aucpress.com
Copyright © 2004 by Kamal Ruhayyim First published in Arabic in 2004 by as Qulub munhaka: al-muslim al yahudi Protected under the Berne Convention
English translation copyright © 2014, 2018 by Sarah Enany
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
ISBN 978 977 416 841 3 eISBN 978 161 797 890 6
Version 1
To Suzanne, wife and mother, and to the companion of my
childhood and youth: to the memory of my brother
Lt. Mohamed Ruhayyim, lost to us in the war for
liberation, the October War.
1
We only heard about my father’s death a month after the fact.
We heard two knocks on the window inset into the house’s front door, and I tried to wriggle out of the grasp of Umm Hassan, the neighbor who had volunteered to nurse me along with her own son, Hassan, after my mother’s own milk had run dry. She pushed me gently into her lap with a deft motion of her wrist. I ignored her, twisting my head backwards, eyes smiling at this newcomer, who I thought was my grandfather. It turned out, though, to be one of my mother’s acquaintances, wearing a black dress and shawl. She was there to offer condolences on the death of my father, only to discover that no one in the house had heard the news.
She sat on the sofa looking from one to the other of us, wondering how we hadn’t heard a thing until now; my mother stared at her, her face losing its bloom with every passing moment. She said she had only learned about it by chance herself; a distant cousin of her husband’s had told her about it while visiting the day before yesterday. My father and some of his courageous fellow soldiers had been on a boat on Lake Manzala in the north of Egypt, heading for Port Said. There were quite a lot of them, double the capacity of the boat in fact, further weighted down with food, weapons, and supplies. The boat had capsized in the middle of the lake, killing my father and two others. She told my mother all that the cousin had related. He’d told of my grandfather, the village elder, of the ceremonial tent erected for the funeral, and of the vast number of people who had poured in from every direction—some on foot and some riding donkeys—of the women weeping in their homes. And all the while, my mother stared at nothing, stunned, eyes lowered. She only managed to look up and speak after a long silence. She said in a choked voice, “Whatever did he go there for? What is this war to us, anyway? What is to become of me now? Where shall I go? What shall I do?”
The visitor bent and hugged my mother, who began to cry. Umm Hassan jumped up out of her seat, with me still in her arms. She leaned close to my mother, patting her on the head. “Patience is a virtue, my dear.”
“Patience? What are you talking about? Patience is for when you have hope! It’s been a year with no news of him, and I’ve been patient, never said a word. But now what use is patience? How could you, Mahmoud? Leave me like this? Leave your son, your son whom you’ve never even seen!”
The guest looked toward me, saying to Umm Hassan, “Great heaven above! Is this fine little fellow Mahmoud’s son?”
“Yes,” my mother said. “This is Galal. What’s to become of him now? What am I to do with him? The whole world conspires against me! The family, the marriage, the way we live—nothing ever goes right for me!”
The radio played loud in the kitchen, where my grandmother stood at the sink clattering and banging cups, plates, utensils, and everything she laid eyes on, occasionally letting out a sharp cough that offended my ears.
“Yvonne! Hey, Umm Isaac!” Umm Hassan yelled.
My mother gestured. “Not now, Umm Hassan. Not now.”
“She has to know, Camellia.”
“Listen to me. Listen to me: let it wait, now. I can’t put up with her needling—not now.”
Umm Hassan sat back down, murmuring, “Heaven help us.” She offered me her breast, but I refused. She patted my back until I acquiesced and started to suckle on the delicious milk flowing into my mouth, deliberately not swallowing so that it dribbled out between my parted lips and flowed almost to my neck. A lugubrious silence fell, broken only by my grandmother’s coughing from the kitchen; she had turned off the radio as soon as the Qur’an for the evening prayer had started at eight o’clock.

I must have sensed something, or been frightened by my mother’s face buried in the chest of the woman visiting us, and her audible gasps as she drew breath; I looked up at Umm Hassan questioningly. Her eyes, too, were red, tears clinging to her eyelashes and about to fall on my brow. Her face looked unfamiliar; I had never seen her like this before. I pushed out her nipple immediately, and my body arched in fear. She took hold of my clothing for fear I should fall, but I squirmed out of her grasp and flung myself at my mother. Feeling Umm Hassan’s attempts to get me back, I could only cling to my mother’s neck and scream as loudly as I possibly could.
Later, when I had grown up, my mother told me that this was my usual habit. Whenever something happened at home—a sad or even a happy event—I would forget the whole world—food, toys, nursing, everything—and fling myself upon her breast. She would hold me, slipping her palm under my clothing, and rub my bare back until I calmed.
Umm Hassan held back a moment; then she slipped her breast back into her gallabiya, covering the hole up with her veil. My mother and the guest were too busy talking about my father’s family to pay attention to her. I took to looking at her as she used her big toe to turn her discarded shoe right-side up, then as she tied her scarf more firmly about her head. When she leaned down to pull her other shoe from where it had slipped under the couch, I realized she was getting ready to go. At the last moment, though, my mother pressed a hand on her knee, urging her silently to stay and finish my feeding. It was then that I stiffened, arching my back, and began to reformulate my plans.
Her hand still on Umm Hassan’s shoulder, my mother introduced her to the guest as more than a neighbor, closer than a sister, and privy to all her secrets. Umm Hassan was the woman whose kindnesses could never, ever be repaid no matter what.
Umm Hassan’s eyelids had sagged, without her noticing; her lips remained pursed for a moment, then she approached my mother, patting her hand and offering condolences. My mother gave her a grateful glance.
I stood erect in my mother’s lap, playing with her and teasing her, pulling at her earlobe and at the collar of her gallabiya and slapping my little hands against her neck and cheeks. I remained aware, of course, of Umm Hassan’s movements. I only started to whine when I saw her pushing her veil back and opening the button at her breast. Understanding what she meant to do, I bent my knees, trying to escape from under my mother’s arm. Umm Hassan was quicker, though. She snatched me up, while I struggled and gasped with the force of my crying, and comforted and rocked me. Then she took me in her arms and held me close, her chest rising and falling as her breath mingled with mine.
I was more like a toy than anything else in her hands. Realizing that resistance was futile, I relaxed in her embrace, feeling her breast, and began to nurse again, never taking my eyes off my mother. When sleep overcame me, Umm Hassan laid me on the couch and left.

I do not know how much time passed after that; perhaps a minute, perhaps an hour. All I remember is waking, frightened, at the sound of my grandmother’s voice.
She spoke in a nasal, fast-paced patter, incomprehensible unless you were ready for it and listening intently. It appeared that the news had reached the kitchen. She rushed in, standing with her short, squat figure and red hair, wiping her hands on the apron she wore over her housedress and gesturing at me. “So who’s going to raise this little scamp, then?”
My mother didn’t answer. The guest started to look embarrassed; she half-stood, making to leave, perhaps hoping to avoid being the jury in my grandmother’s show trial, but was halted by my mother’s grip on her arm, lowering her to the couch once more.
My grandmother waved her hand. “Is it Papa who’s going to raise him, then? He repairs watches, and his income’s not stable! And you know perfectly well I can’t see well enough to be a seamstress any more! As for her—” she pointed to my mother, causing our guest to squirm in discomfort—“she’s been out of work since her husband made her quit her job at Bank Sednaoui!” It was not really a bank; that was what they called department stores in those days. She untied her apron, flung it impatiently onto a nearby chair, and sat beside me, putting her knee right next to my head. I lay stret