A Land Without Jasmine Read online

  A LAND

  WITHOUT JASMINE

  Wajdi al-Ahdal

  Translated by William Maynard Hutchins

  A Land Without Jasmine

  Published by

  Garnet Publishing Limited

  8 Southern Court

  South Street

  Reading

  RG1 4QS

  UK

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  Copyright © Wajdi al-Ahdal, 2012

  Translation copyright © William Maynard Hutchins, 2012

  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 Edition

  ISBN: 978-1-85964-312-9

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Typeset by Samantha Barden

  Jacket design by Haleh Darabi

  Printed and bound in Lebanon by International Press:

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  To you who are without flaw I will explain this as well: that it is the most secret wisdom and the supreme form of knowledge that allows you to attain ultimate perfection.

  The Bhagavad Gita

  CONTENTS

  About the Author

  Note from the Translator

  1. The Queen

  2. The Minion of Pleasure and Power

  3. A Man Blinded to This Disconcerting World by Supernatural Delusions

  4. The Sacrificial Lamb

  5. The Sceptic whose Scepticism Disappears Like a Scattering Cloud

  6. The Ascetic

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Wajdi Muhammad Abduh al-Ahdal is a Yemeni novelist, short story writer, screenwriter and dramatist. Born in 1973, he received a degree in literature from Sanaa University. He won the Afif prize for a short story in 1997, a gold medal for a dramatic text in the Festival for Arab Youth in Alexandria, Egypt in 1998 and the youth prize of the President of the Republic of Yemen for a short story in 1999. He is currently employed in Dar al-Kutub, the National Library in Sanaa.

  He has published several collections of short stories: Zahrat al-Abir (The Passerby’s Flower, Sanaa, 1997), Surat al-Battal (Portrait of an Unemployed Man, Amman, 1998), Ratanat al-Zaman al-Miqmaq (Gibberish in a Time of Ventriloquism, Sanaa, 1998) and Harb lam Ya‘alam bi-Wuqu‘iha Ahad (A War No One Knew About, Sanaa, 2001). His novels are: Qawarib Jabaliya (Mountain Boats, Beirut, 2002), Himar Bayna al-Aghani (A Donkey Among the Songs or A Donkey in the Choir, Beirut 2004), Faylasuf al-Kurantina (Quarantine Philosopher, Sanaa, 2007) and Bilad bila Sama (A Land Without Sama [or a Sky], published here as A Land Without Jasmine, Sanaa, 2008). His screenplay al-Ughniya al-Mashura (The Enchanted Song) was published in Sanaa in 2006 and his play al-Suqut min Shurfat al-‘Alam (Falling off the Balcony of the World) was published in Sanaa in 2007.

  Al-Ahdal’s novel Mountain Boats proved controversial. An extremist campaign against the book drove him into exile and the book’s publisher faced charges. When the German Nobel Laureate Günter Grass visited Yemen in December 2002 for a cultural conference, he was received by the Yemeni President Ali Abdullah Saleh to whom he mentioned al-Ahdal’s situation and asked the President to protect him. Al-Ahdal was then allowed to return to his country. Himar bayna al-Aghani is dedicated to Günter Grass in appreciation. Although al-Ahdal’s passport was seized at Sanaa Airport in the spring of 2010 he was later allowed to travel.

  NOTE FROM THE TRANSLATOR

  For this translation I started with the 2008 Sanaa edition published by by Markaz Ibadi lil-Dirasat wa-l-Nashr. I then checked my translation against the author’s computer file and added three sexually explicit passages that had been deleted from the published version.

  Chapters 1 and 2 appeared in a slightly different form in Banipal Magazine 36, Autumn/Winter 2009, pp. 178–199.

  William Maynard Hutchins, 2012

  1

  THE QUEEN

  When I enter the bathroom first thing in the morning I feel uncertain and anxious. I start to examine myself in the mirror while my fingers probe my feet, belly, chest and head. Then I shudder involuntarily. Once I’m sure that I haven’t lost any of my body I praise God and sigh with relief. Returning to my senses I realize I’ve merely had a beautiful, harmless, enjoyable dream, one of those delightful dreams when a girl sees herself as a bride on her wedding night.

  After drying my face with my rose-coloured towel, I head towards the curtains, which I draw back. I enjoy looking out of the window, gazing at the joyous colours of the sky shortly before sunrise.

  My name is Jasmine Nashir al-Ni‘am. I’m a first year student in the Faculty of Science and my hobbies are reading, and writing in my diary.

  My room, which is on the second floor, overlooks a quiet back street. Opposite, down below, is Hajj Sultan’s grocery store. This man, even though he’s made the pilgrimage to Mecca, when he sees me peek out of the window, stands there smiling idiotically and makes an obscene gesture. He puts his large store key in his ear, moving it in and out while his eyes flash fiendishly. Then I can’t resist running to the bathroom to fetch a slipper to brandish at him.

  He’s fifty, as old as my father, and short and stout with a grey beard and a prayer callus on his forehead. Instead of growing angry and indignant he winks at me and I see him nod his head cheerfully as if confident he’ll get me some day!

  I slip into a black coat and veil my face before heading out. Behind his door’s peep-hole, Ali, the adolescent son of our neighbours, whose apartment faces ours, has been lying in wait for me. The moment he sees me descend the stairs he pursues me like my shadow, clutching his books, which are wrapped in a prayer rug, under his arm.

  His secondary school is in the same direction as my faculty but further. It takes him twenty minutes walking at a fast clip to reach it before the bell rings and the gate closes. Ali is sixteen, four years my junior. He is tall and good-looking, and his skin is fair, smooth and sleek. His body ripples with flesh and fat, and his protruding butt gives him a feminine allure that troubles me and makes him a target for lewd sexual advances from men.

  During the ten minutes that he shadows me he doesn’t say a word and doesn’t even hum a tune. All I hear is the rapid shuffle of his feet behind me. But I sense that his ardent glances are devouring my buttocks. I feel as if fiery rays are striking them, almost melting them.

  The way this taciturn boy looks at me upsets me. Occasionally he focuses on me so intently I grow hot and tremble. Then I panic and perspire. I feel so upset my steps become clumsy and one leg brushes against the other.

  People’s curious stares dog celebrities, who avoid appearing in public places for this reason. In Yemen, all young women are considered celebrities! When a girl leaves her home and ventures onto the street she’ll notice that everyone is staring at her. Perhaps some girls feel good when men look lustfully at them but this continuous gaze from dozens of passers-by upsets me, gets on my nerves and makes me feel unbearably tense.

  I consider this mass gaze, which comes from all directions, to be a noxious type of male violence. It’s true their stare isn’t tangible and that it’s not like being touched by a hand but it exerts psychological pressure, tightens my chest and makes it hard to breathe. This gaze by repressed males assaults my skin, makes my blood boil and scrambles my thinking.

  As an experiment, I once stared straight into a cat’s eyes. He
fled in alarm, his tail between his legs! Whenever I want to vent my rage at the male gaze I stare into the eyes of cats. This disconcerts them and they invariably flee. All cats are uneasy when someone gazes into their eyes; they assume he intends to harm them.

  My grandfather told me that when he was young he left his mountain village one night and passed through a dense forest where he encountered a leopard blocking the narrow rocky trail. He shone his torch at the animal and fixed his gaze on its eyes, which glowed like embers. He stood there resolutely looking at it. Do you know what happened next? My grandfather said the leopard was visibly troubled; felt perplexed and sensed danger. It turned tail and disappeared back to its lair in the forest.

  My late grandfather repeatedly told me about this incident because he wanted me to know how to react when confronting a leopard. But his story hasn’t ever helped me since leopards are extinct in Yemen. Besides, I live in a city where it’s inconceivable that leopards would appear on the street. What I gained from my grandfather’s story was that even leopards, those prime predators, lose courage and turn tail when a person stares resolutely into their eyes. If a leopard can’t think straight when only one person stares at him, what about my state of mind when dozens of men are staring at me simultaneously?

  On the street most men look at me lecherously and all of them want to screw me. If they weren’t also watching each other I’d be raped on the pavement at least twenty times a day. Is it because I’m unmarried and have never had any sexual adventures that I seem so extraordinarily committed to virtue? Occasionally I reflect that if I were to experiment by closeting myself with a member of the rougher sex I might then feel differently about the male gaze.

  I’ve nothing against sex. In fact, I await with bated breath my bridegroom’s arrival. But this overly intense, ocular male provocation enrages me, almost driving me crazy at times. Then I must exert a superhuman effort to keep myself from screaming and cursing.

  Who knows? Perhaps I’ll change once I’ve married and be like my faculty classmate Nasama, who is delighted when men ogle her!

  Men in our country are secular in their own special way, making a clear distinction between mosque and daily life! In the mosque our men pray devoutly and piously, embodying such praiseworthy characteristics that they seem to be Merciful God’s angels. But the moment they’re back on the street they forget God, morph into evil demons, practise duplicity, deceit and perfidy, and chase after forbidden pleasures. I’ve seen a white-haired man in his seventies emerge from the mosque, his shoes still in his hand, and ogle me while licking his chops as if he wanted to nip me with his decaying teeth.

  I would strongly advise any girl in my country against carrying a white handbag because this colour attracts men’s attention in a weird way. Some men succumb to a special type of hysteria known as ‘White Handbag Hysteria’ in which the victim loses control of his senses and of himself. I witnessed an instance of this syndrome myself the only time I carried a white bag. That was the most miserable day of my life!

  It happened as I walked past a construction site where labourers were carrying bags of cement on their backs into a new building. A worker with rippling muscles caught sight of me, heaved the bag of cement off his back and began to yell right in my face: ‘Have mercy on me, Lord of the White Bag … have mercy!’ I froze in alarm and nearly wet my knickers I was so terrified by his hungry look!

  His fellow workers and even passers-by froze like statues and I saw him rub his crotch while he continued his monstrous, bestial howl as spittle ran from both sides of his mouth: ‘O Lord of the White Bag … White!’ I crossed to the far side of the street and started to walk faster, feeling that my honour had been defiled, my femininity violated and my virtue sullied.

  In our city it’s not considered wrong to pee in the street. In fact, it’s an everyday event! So I see a lot of men urinate standing up, and notice that the vicious ones deliberately display their hosepipe when a pretty girl passes, pretending they are peeing. I occasionally sneak a peek, curious to see their fountains, but the acrid smell sends a shudder of disgust through my entire body.

  I’m harassed many times a day. When I hand the bus driver the fare he will deliberately push his talons in between my fingers and only take the fare after having enjoyed touching me. I’m not a devout girl and that’s why I used to ignore these fleeting touches, thinking them a kind of tax exacted from every girl who ventures out on our repressed streets. But one young bus driver with an ugly face and a ruddy complexion made me change my views; now I object to this paltry gender tax. I’ve started to toss the coin onto the dashboard, even though people may say I’m stuck-up or that I pay the fare in a humiliating way.

  This young man, who had repulsive features and hair that came down to his shoulders, was overflowing with health and vigour. I’ll never forget him as long as I live; when I was last to leave the bus and held out my hand to give him the money he stuck his claws into my flesh up to the wrist, grasping my hand in his huge paw. I felt him quiver as if an electric current had shocked him. He moaned and leaned forward in delight as he released a dreadful groan of pain. I pulled my hand away in alarm and walked about aimlessly, forgetting the way home. My head was whirling around in a vortex and my feet were unsteady. Even today I don’t know why I was so afraid of that driver; it’s an irrational fear that I experience but can’t explain.

  Even though I’m very cautious, protect my personal space and take care to avoid getting too close to men, they not only touch my body, they … If it weren’t for my disgust over the experiences I’ve had I’d recount them in detail.

  One incident that has stuck in my memory and that still elicits my intense disgust is the time I went to the market with our neighbour Umm Ali. She was leaning over to inspect some nightshirts that an itinerant vendor had spread out on the sidewalk when a man, whose moustache covered half his face, passed behind her with his thumb raised. I watched what happened next with astonishment. He continued on his way, not blinking, his features immobile, while she straightened up with the coquetry of a young filly and turned toward him laughing.

  Will I share her feelings when I’m her age? Will I laugh at a man who flirts with me in this crude way?

  When I was seven I thought of killing myself by plunging the kitchen knife into my belly. Then I could die an innocent child without sin and enter paradise immediately.

  The world of grownups used to keep me awake at night, especially the feverish sexual atmosphere in which they lived. In my early years I felt a terrifying loathing for the way adults fall apart over sex. I had learned from books and from relatives that grownups must have sex exactly the way children must eat and drink. I decided to spare myself this inevitable sexual destiny by killing myself. I went into the kitchen and stuck the knife into my belly as I wept hot, bitter tears. With the passing years the thought of suicide has receded.

  During my childhood I considered sex so vile that it should be forbidden, even to spouses. That’s why I hated my father and mother because I knew that their relationship wasn’t pure and that they did things in secret that weren’t innocent.

  I adopted moral views that were quite prim and didn’t tolerate human desires; as I conceived it, the ideal world would lack any and all forms of sexual attraction. Now that I’ve grown up and understand life I’ve learned to tolerate conjugal sex. In fact, I think it’s necessary so that progeny will continue to be produced.

  In my childhood I went through a phase when I thought I should avoid the world of pleasures but the desires I feel now make me scoff at the naiveté of the child I used to be and at her way of thinking about these things. The transformations that our ethical principles undergo are really strange!

  At home I have to put up with my eldest brother’s covert attempts to read my diary. He suspects that love may have found its way into my heart. Ever since I enrolled at the university, where instruction is co-ed, he has been searching my papers for my hypothetical boyfriend. There’s nothing in my diary f
or me to be ashamed of because although I don’t brag about it I’m a paragon of virtue.

  My father, for his part, is also plagued by doubts about me. I can tell he says to himself when he scans my eyes, ‘The mature female searches for a mate!’ Ever since I became a young woman and my breasts developed he has been prejudiced against me and apprehensive, fearing that I will sully his honour, disgrace him and besmirch his reputation.

  Whenever he enters or leaves our building he always stares at my window. He feels qualms about my conduct and suspects me of standing behind the windowpane to flirt with young men. I have explained to him repeatedly that, during the day, passers-by really can’t see through the glass, but he doesn’t believe me at all. In his heart of hearts he believes that women’s wiles are formidable. My father has become my adversary and is openly hostile to me because I haven’t married yet and still live in his home. He considers me a landmine that will explode beneath his feet at any moment if he neglects to supervise me.

  Even my mother, who is the one person in the world closest to my heart, stares at my face intensely when I return from the university, searching for any trace of love. I realize that she hugs me on my return so she can smell my clothing and make sure I don’t bear the scent of any unknown billy-goat.

  Every day she raises the same subject with me, ‘What did you do today?’ and interrogates me about my relationships with male professors and classmates in the faculty. Her heightened anxiety distresses me but in spite of everything I forgive her and love her.

  My life is nonstop suffering on account of the stares directed at me all the time, both inside our house and out. I’m under supervision night and day. No one thinks about me, about my feelings, dreams and ambitions, or concedes that I have a right to live at ease without anyone troubling me with his inquisitive gaze and repressed desires, and a right to a happy life that a father should not poison with his suspicions and fantasies or a mother by poking her nose into my private affairs.