Nadia, Captive of Hope: Memoir of an Arab Woman

Memoir of an Arab Woman

Fay Afaf Kanafani

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2016
• ISBN:
  9781315502236
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Politique et relations internationales
• Subtopic: Politique

A rare feminist perspective on a people and a culture in one of the most tumultuous regions in the world, Nadia, Captive of Hope is the autobiography of Fay Afaf Kanafani, an Arab Muslim woman born in Beirut in 1918.

1

February 21, 1918

I owe the reader an explanation for the choice I made to begin this memoir on the day I was born. On that day, the body of a newborn would barely manage to split away from the womb safely, let alone remember.

Memories are known to be piled up and installed in the brain. The power that commands those memories is something else, I have discovered. It is the spiritual power of our existence, our soul. I have thought about this many times through the years, and my thoughts reach deep into the mysterious pool of that existence to listen to those memories. They are inside me, irrecoverable and yet ever present from my youngest years. They brighten the light by which my tiny footsteps roam this earth.

* * *

The room was quiet. On a large bed, surrounded by sheets, bowls, jars, and towels, lay a young woman, motionless. The yellow kerosene light fell on her closed eyes and on the taut muscles of her small face. The only sound was that of the heavy February rain that might not stop for days.

Suddenly, her hands clutched the cover of her bed as a contraction seized her back and spread around her bowels. She opened her eyes with a moan. “Sara! Sara!”

The door of the room flew open and a large woman rushed to her side. “Come on, dear Ban. Push hard now! Don’t let that contraction go in vain.” She dipped a towel into a ceramic bowl half filled with warm water and dabbed at Ban’s face and neck.

“It smells like Damascus,” Ban said in a weak voice.

“What?”

“The perfume on the towel. Kareem ordered it when we were in Damascus after the wedding.” Giving in to fatigue, Ban shut her eyes, carried away by her sweet memories:

The silver-gray horse kicked excitedly under his bearded rider, and the groom calmed him as they waited to start their weekly ride to the country. Ban, waves of golden hair streaming behind her, rushed out and with the groom’s help jumped up and sat behind her father, apologizing for the delay, when she suddenly saw him.

He stood next to the old eucalyptus tree, only a few steps away from the garden gate of her house, watching … a young man, carrying his tall, lean frame straight in a fitted blue coat and an immaculate white cotton shirt. He seemed unaware of how handsome he was, with his round, freshly shaved face and large brown eyes that met hers in a quick glance before the restive colt trotted away.

Ban did not know who he was or where he came from. Nor did she understand why the fleeting glance she had exchanged with the stranger had sent the blood racing through her veins. She knew, though, that seeing him waiting by that old eucalyptus every morning filled her with joy. She would dress quickly on her way to school and gulp down her cream cheese sandwich and oranges so she could go downstairs before her sister Salma to peek around the garden gate, looking for him. He was always standing there next to that tree, unaware of her watchful eyes.

But one morning, when Ban unlocked the gate and slipped her head out, she gasped! His face was less than two yards away from hers. She felt trapped in her own game.

“Please don’t go, Miss Mehdi!” the young stranger whispered breathlessly. “I know who you are, and I don’t mean to scare you. I live one block away, and have often watched you ride with your father or ride out in the carriage. I would be honored if you would let me introduce myself properly.” He saw panic in her eyes and stepped behind the tree as Salma approached.

The groom came around to help the two sisters into the carriage. Ban could not take her eyes away from the man’s intent gaze, oblivious to her sister Salma, who watched with open mouth, then tugged at her sister’s sleeve. “Ban! Stop it!” Ban’s face turned crimson and she looked away. An awkward silence fell between the two sisters.

That evening, as they put their nightgowns on, Salma asked, “Who is that young man? What does he want from you? You know we are not supposed to show our emotions to strangers!”

They settled onto a large Persian cushion. Ban told her sister the whole story, finding all the reasons a seventeen-year-old could think of to justify her romantic feelings. “If you hadn’t dropped in on us without any warning, I would have known all the answers to those questions,” Ban retorted.

Nadia’s Maternal Grandfather

The youngest daughter of the eminent Sheikh Mehdi, patriarch of a family prominent among the upper class of professionals that included lawyers and judges, Ban little knew then that the handsome Kareem Rajy was destined to become the one and only man in her whole, long life, even though her family—as tradition dictated—did not mix with his. They were money-making merchants, but belonged to the other class.

A strong spasm shook Ban’s body. Old Sara was dozing, sitting with her back toward the corner. The rain seemed to have stopped.

Within her belly, the tiny body struggled. Ban moaned, and Sara was next to her. “That’s it, dear Ban. Don’t give up. Concentrate on breathing and pushing.” The midwife touched Ban’s brow soothingly. “I think it’s time to go get Salma.” Just moments later, as two heads bent over her, Ban’s body stiffened with sharp pain. A piercing scream was heard before she fell back onto the wet sheets. A purplish six-pound infant slipped out to life … a life that would experience abundance, love, deprivation, terror, sacrifice, and determination in a struggle for personal integrity against uncivilized tradition.

“Darling, look at her!” My father’s cheerful voice brought Ban back. “She looks very much like you. See?” He lowered my bundled body close to her.

“Oh, Kareem! Let me look at her; she is so tiny. I hope you don’t mind having another girl.” My mother’s arms were weak as she took me and brought me close to her bosom.

“I do not mind girls as long as they look like you.” He bent down and kissed her tenderly on both cheeks. “Do you think there is some correlation between girls and wars?” he teased. “When Nora was born, the war came right after, remember? And now the next girl seems to have come just in time to celebrate its end!”

Soon after Kareem left, Salma came in smiling and set a tray of fresh juice, chicken broth, and sauteed fruits with a pinch of cinnamon next to Ban. “I am so happy you presented us with such a healthy, beautiful girl, Ban, my love. Now give me that little one and have some food. I have a hunch she is going to be mine for some time. I felt such a wave of compassion the moment I held her tiny body. I hope you don’t mind if I call her Miss Mehdi until you decide on a name for her!” She held me tenderly and then she left the room, her face shining with pride.

Salma lay awake on the nursery couch all night, unable to recover from the shock of Kareem’s behavior toward her earlier. Nor could she decide whether she should leave the Rajys’ home immediately or wait until her ailing sister improved. She felt sorry for Ban, who loved her husband too much to believe that he could attack another woman and force himself on her physically. That was the dark side of Kareem’s nature, which Salma had never expected from a man who worshiped his wife and had dragged the Mehdis and the Rajys into a long-standing feud to marry her. Although Kareem had often teased Salma for her austere style of dress and plain appearance, this was the first time he had made harsh comments about her being single for so long and tried to physically violate her. It would break her heart to let his frivolous attempt separate her from a sister she loved more than anything in the world, should he react to her refusal by creating some kind of scandal against her.

When she finally made her decision, it was to confront him rather than risk losing a sister who needed her support at that point more than ever before. Kareem had filed a lawsuit against the Mehdis concerning his wife’s share of her father’s estate, and Salma was the only member of that house who maintained a relationship with the couple.

Kareem was stretched out on the large sofa in the living room, fully dressed under the crocheted afghan covering his legs. His eyes were closed when Salma crossed the carpeted room quietly and sat by the window. The rain had started again and the early morning February wind sent wet leaves tossing and falling.

Kareem massaged his forehead and opened his eyes. “Salma! How long have you been sitting there?”

“I could not sleep.” Her back turned toward Kareem, Salma sobbed miserably. “I still can’t believe you would behave so frivolously and betray the trust of our kinship. You could at least respect Ban’s condition!”

“You just don’t want to understand! My intention is your happiness. But you have never given yourself the chance to discover your own sensuality!”

“Obviously I cannot win with you treating this issue so arrogantly. All I want now is that you stay away from me until Ban recovers her health.” She rushed from the room, seeking refuge in the nursery. Bending over my tiny body, she buried her hot face in the soft folds of the baby blanket, filling her lungs with the sweet scent of the newborn.

Handsome in his elegant gray suit and flowery red tie that brought out the warmth of his tan skin and brown eyes, Kareem, on his way to work, stepped in to see the recovering new mother. Two days had passed since the delivery and Ban looked rested. “Good morning, angel, did you sleep well? I’m afraid I’ll be gone all day. A special occasion is being planned to celebrate the end of the war at the pasha’s residence, and it’s important that I stick by his side now. You can’t imagine how rich this Turkish businessman is, Ban. Once the war is over, we will prosper again. You just wait and see. I promised on our wedding night that you would never regret leaving your family’s fancy life for a modest marriage with an empty-handed, loving husband.” He kissed her and hurried down the staircase to the street.

The bedroom door swung open again as five-year-old Anwar and Nora, who was younger by a year, waddled in, followed by Salma, dragging along baby Sami, the Rajys’ two-year-old son. “Well, hello, Anwar,” Ban exclaimed as Nora stood apart watching. “Jump up here and have a look at your little sister.” She took a deep breath as she looked at her children’s faces. “You know, Salma, I still feel a pain in my heart when I think of my two poor little ones. Did you notice how much this baby looks like Aida? How can I look at her hazel eyes and not remember the poor little babies I lost during the war?” Sorrow filled Ban’s voice, as she remembered her two dead babies lost during the early years after World War I. “Five years since my little son Nadi was gone. Six since Aida died. But my heart still cries for them.” She turned her head to hide her tears.

Salma held her sister in her strong arms. “You must not dredge up that grief now. Save your strength for the surviving ones. Hand me my precious baby now and give those three some attention.” She carried me out of the room, whispering, “Yes, my little one. You are as beautiful as that poor girl was. I promise to look after you and pray that you live.”

When Kareem returned home that night, the house was dark except for the blue flame of a kerosene lamp in Ban’s bedroom. Ban was standing next to the window, wearing a long blue nightgown with an embroidered blue silk robe. Her golden hair was pulled into a chignon crowned with two white lilies. The two beds, pushed next to each other again, had been freshly made with soft blue linen. A white wool blanket was folded at the foot of each one. The couple would be back together.

“Sorry I’m so late, angel.” Kareem’s tender voice sent her pulse jumping with joy. He crossed the room in two strides and took her into his arms. “Oh, sweetheart, you look more breathtaking than ever. I have missed you so much! Ban, please don’t let us be separated like this anymore.”

She knew he was referring to the issue of having babies, which was more devastating to her than to him. “But you always forget that I am not in this alone; it is your fault as well,” she said.

“Come on, Ban, I have repeatedly told you that the only way to get rid of that problem is abortion. But you refuse my advice.”

She heard the reproachful hint in her husband’s tone and preferred not to press that painful issue at that moment. “Come, sit down and tell me about your day.”

“Let us celebrate your safe delivery, first thing.” He took off his black wool coat and necktie, handed them to Ban, and bent down to unbutton his boots.

Ban poured water into a ceramic bowl for him to wash his hands and offered him a towel. “Now sit down and relax. I’ll see what Salma made for supper.” She went to the side table and lifted a linen kerchief from a tray, then carried the tray with both hands to the low divan. Stretched out on the cushions, Kareem watched her delicate feet step silently on the thick red and black carpet, feeling relieved that she had gained back her vivacity.

He kept his eyes on her as he ate. “I really look forward to the times we spend together in this little room when the whole world is asleep. But soon I’m going to find a larger apartment in an area that has better schools for the kids.”

“Can we afford that now? The war is barely over, and you’re already working long hours. What is wrong with the local school Anwar attends?”

“Oh God, Ban! You call that shabby, decadent place a school? All those people do is recite old Arabic lyrics and chant monotonous prayers over and over. None of those tutors is qualified to be called a teacher.”

“I don’t see what choice we have, Kareem, apart from the parochial schools of our friends the Christians. Do you want our children reading the Bible and reciting catechism instead?”

“Beirut is changing. For as long as I can remember, we have had only Muslim or Jesuit schools to choose from. But now there is the French lycée for boys, which is totally secular, and some missionary schools where non-Christian students are not forced to attend classes on religion.”

“We can’t afford that! Salma told me about the astronomical fees some of my cousins pay for their sons who attend the lycée.”

Kareem’s face reddened. “No cousin of yours is superior to me! Nothing is going to stop me from becoming just as prominent as any Mehdi! Please trust me, Ban. These are not things for you to worry about.” He took a deep breath. “So it is decided, then. We will have Anwar’s enrollment papers by summer. A colleague at work who has two sons at the lycée has recommended our son. I’m sure he will be accepted.”

“What do you mean, reco...