Receive Our Newsletter
For news of readings, events and new titles.
Homeless Rats
A Desert Novel by Ahmed Fagih
Quartet, London, 2011. Pbk, 203 pp.
ISBN 978-0-70437-232-0
Anatomy of a Disappearance
by Hisham Matar
Viking/Penguin, London, 2011. Hbk, 247 pp.
ISBN 978-0-670-91651-1
Art is the Fiction That Tells the Truth
The events of the Arab Revolution
of 2011 leave the most sanguine of us giddy. As I write this, even the seemingly perdurable regime of Muammar al-Qaddafi has crumbled. By lovely
coincidence, two novels by Libyan writers were published this year from writers
who could not be more different in standing, yet both are artists of the first order.
Ahmed Fagih, billed by the Guardian as “Libya’s greatest living writer”, has
been an established member of the Libyan diplomatic and cultural circles for
decades, awarded Libya’s highest medal, the Grand al-Fatah. Hisham Matar’s own
Libyan father was abducted in 1995 by Qaddafi’s agents in Cairo, and he has
never heard from him since.
Fagih’s Homeless Rats was
one of a group of five novels first translated into English in 2000. The
decision to republish it likely pre- ceded
the current uprising, but it is tempting
to seek clues within this exemplary work
as to the author’s frame of mind toward
the regime. The events in the book may
be dated to the early 1970s – shortly
after Colonel al-Qaddafi’s 1969 overthrow
of King Idris – based on the Libyan uprising
against the Italian occupiers some forty
years previously, in which several of
the elderly protagonists took part. One
of the former resistance fighters
laments: “What a difference there is
between great men like [them] and us
today. If there were two like them in
Libya now, we wouldn’t be living the way
we are.”
Three principal groups occupy
this fable: first, a conservative tribe of
Bedouins from a village south of Tripoli named Mizda (also the name of the author’s birthplace). Second, a
tribe of Eastern Desert Bedouins who, by
Mizda standards, have loose morals and disgusting habits: their women are bold, unveiled, and
the people eat jerboa meat. Finally, the
jerboas themselves: mouse-like, big-eared,
springy-legged rodents who are in fact rather cute; in the western world they’re raised as pets. Remarkably, the
cover of the book shows a drawing of a
giant rat. When you hear Qaddafi describing
the rebels as “rats” you understand how pejorative the term is. On the contrary, the jerboas are depicted as a
just, pacific nation, advocating non-violent
resistance against the rapacious, invading humans. Other animal characters include the hedgehog,
lizard and tortoise – wise and observant
philosophers residing on the hill above the
plateau – and the chameleon, a seer who warns of the final disaster.
Calamities abound. Drought and famine have
struck the Mizda, and the tribal elder,
Sheikh Hamed Abu Leila, leads his people to
the valley of Jandouba where in the past they have helped landowners harvest barley, the tribe’s staple food. But
to their horror, every single ear of
barley is gone, taken by the jerboas to feed a growing population. When a child digging at play
discovers the jerboa granaries, the
humans root up and destroy virtually every jerboa home. When the Eastern Bedouins arrive, also
seeking succour, the Mizda people are deeply suspicious, and try to hide their
largesse, but are finally forced to
share the secret, which is to be kept from other tribes who might wander by. Inevitably, romances
spring up between the two groups.
Perhaps as divine punishment, snakes, wolves,
and insects afflict the people. In the final tragedy, a great flood roars down from the mountains, and all
the humans’ possessions are lost,
including the barley. The people save themselves by scrambling to the high hill – only to find
all the jerboas there with them. In the
end, as they laugh in great relief: it was the “jerboas’ barley” all along.
The novel cracks along at great speed, full
of wonderful ethnographic detail. Each
chapter ends on a note of suspense, enlisting
the gifted storyteller’s device of “and
then . . . and then” to make pages fly
by. Only when we come to the end do
we recognise, in an existential sense,
that we are all homeless – but not all
of us are rats.
In Hisham Matar’s novel Anatomy of
a Disappearance it is 1971. A boy, Nuri, just 12, becomes infatuated with an English woman twice his age while on holiday with his stern 39- year-old father at a resort in Alexandria, Egypt. His mother – frail and emotionally absent – had died two years earlier, in a probable suicide. The woman, Mona, encourages the boy – at one point she lets him brush her
hair as she sits barebreasted. Nuri, the
narrator, realizes later that “what I then took for adoration was Mona’s fancy to be adored”. It
is the father, Kamal, who marries her,
shaping the classical Oedipal triangle. Who is this father, and what does he do? He served as a
minister to a king of a Middle Eastern
country, until a military coup in late 1950s had the king “dragged to the courtyard of the palace
and shot”, an event mirroring Iraq’s
coup of 1958. The family goes into exile in Paris, then to Cairo, and the father becomes an
active dissident. To break up the
triangle, Kamal sends his boy to an English board- ing school. Two years later,
the father is forcibly abducted, in Geneva,
in the middle of the night, from a bed he is sharing with another woman: whore? Mistress?
Co-conspirator? The mysteries thicken in
a book full of silences and secrets. As an uncle of Nuri advises, carelessly: “Sometimes it’s better
not to know”.
The novel is beautifully
crafted, both as a mystery and as a lyrical
journey of growth for a young man in love with his stepmother. Matar plants landmines to explode in the final
collision of secrets. At one point his
mother tells how the faithful Egyptian maid,
Naima, who dotes on Nuri, came to work for them when only 13: “ ‘I wanted someone young to get used to our
ways, to be like a daughter.’ Then she
stopped, looked at her fingers, and only when
she had glanced up again did I realise that tears had been gathering in her eyes.” The reader goes back to this
moment, to be amazed how the detail was
so perfectly prescient of yet another secret, another absence.
After the disappearance, Mona and Nuri come together in bed one night, more out of grief and loneliness
than in lust. The moment is so
delicately and tenderly told as to stand for the entire craft of the novel: “I found that the night had
wrapped us even tighter, coiled her bare
thigh round my waist and pushed mine up between her legs. Like branches of a tree, each limb
found its natural way. And although the
shame was powerful, it remained distant. I moved against her and she moved with me.”
Nuri grows into young manhood, takes a PhD in
art history (Matar is an architect),
grows distant from Mona, and later comes
to Geneva to untangle the secrets of the abduction. More landmines explode. Eventually he returns to his parents’
flat in Cairo, where he sleeps in his
father’s bed, is served by the old retainers (Naima included), and wears his father’s clothing.
But not his raincoat: “He will need a
raincoat when he comes back.” As with the thousands other desaparecidos around
the world who are never gone, the search
for them is unending, the past is never past.
Pundits, bloggers, newsmen, and other
haruspicators may try to explain the
Arab Revolution. Artists are the true Cassandras whom we ignore at our peril, as Picasso and
William Carlos Williams instruct – “Art
is a lie that makes us realise truth”; and “It is difficult to get the news from poems, yet men die
miserably every day for lack of what is
found there.”
From Banipal 42 - New Writing from the Emirates
Back to top