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From the author of the novel Regions of Fear, excerpted in Banipal 44
A testimony on Writing
I thought of Charles Dickens as my first boyfriend from the world of literature
With my adoptive father, I lived a life different from my peers. Firstly,
because I belonged to a cultured family that loved books, and second, because
they had firm notions about women’s freedom. My family was famous for keeping
its women away from the general public, unlike the other tribes I found myself
among. For some reason, my isolation from those around me was difficult,
particularly since my adoptive father would tell us many stories about the
revolution for Independence, and freedom and the sacrifices that had to be made
in order to achieve it; and I also heard many stories when I went with him to
the shoe shop he owned, where his revolutionary friends would tell us stories
of their lives with Mustafa Ben Boulaïd, the hero of the first Algerian revolution,
that I thought were like epics. Those were my first lessons in narrative,
lessons I absorbed unconsciously. The most important formative experience for
my talent were the story books my father would bring me so that I would stay
inside the house and not mingle with the other kids in the neighbourhood. I
think that literature has been my fate since birth; it came to me, not the
other way round. In the village, we had a very limited range of games suitable
for girls, so the library was the place where I would discover new things that
satisfied my curiosity. I read many of the famous Ladybird short stories, but
the real treasure trove was the novels of Charles Dickens that I found at my
biological father’s home in Constantine – I used to spend part of my summer
vacation there with him, my mother and my siblings. Dickens was the first
writer whose words resonated with me so much that I was convinced David
Copperfield was real, and went about praying for him to have a good life for
ever after.
I thought of Charles Dickens as my first boyfriend from the world of
literature, followed by Robert Louis Stevenson and his wonderful Treasure
Island, which made me and my girl friends dream of adventure and treasure
hunts.
Following my discovery of the Arris public library, I don’t think I left a
single book unread, from translations of world literature and the work of the
pioneers of Arabic literature, to the autobiographies of great authors,
musicians and poets. When I was sixteen, however, I discovered Ghada al-Samman,
and I think she had a profound effect on me, not only with her language and her
style, but in her defiant lifestyle which provided fertile ground for my
imagination, where similar dreams abounded. I began to write powerful school
essays, thirty-two pages long. My ideas could not be contained by the
double-sided paper my classmates used. My work impressed my teachers, and I
became well known at school.
I moved to Constantine in 1985 to live with my biological parents. I missed the
village, the mountains, Tamazight, and my adoptive mother’s cooking. I pined
away, and my separation from my adoptive father – whose decision it had been –
almost destroyed me. Every day I threw myself into writing, assuming that I was
about to die from sorrow and that these journals would be the testament to my
parents’ crime. But I didn’t die. I entered into the maelstrom of medical
school, which my father directed me towards, and spent two years there
completely lost, before deciding to defy him and enrol in the faculty of Arabic
literature.
In 1990, I began to publish my work under the pseudonym Fadhila Farouk, which I
used out of fear of my family. I wrote of my anger and my resentment at their
decisions and the way they raised girls, I wrote things that provoked Algeria’s
Arabic-language readership, which was not used to women who were as angry and
as defiant as I was. While some encouraged me, others attacked me and tried to
silence me, but I refused to be silent until my life was made very difficult by
the Islamic fundamentalist militias that had begun to assassinate intellectuals
in Algeria. Faced with the world’s silence about their deaths, I had no option
but to pack my bags and head towards the first country that would take me, and
allow me to say what I had not yet said. Ghada al-Samman’s voice and Fairouz’s
music were constantly on my mind, so I left in 1995 for Beirut. In 1997, I
published my first book, A Moment of Stolen Love, and this is the year I mark
as my true launching point into the world of literature.
Translated by Ghenwa Hayek for Banipal 44