Sufism in the Contemporary Arabic Novel 9780748655649

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Sufism in the Contemporary Arabic Novel

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Edinburgh Studies in Modern Arabic Literature Series Editor: Rasheed El-Enany

Gender, Nation, and the Arabic Novel: Egypt, 1892–2008 Hoda Elsadda Sufism in the Contemporary Arabic Novel Ziad Elmarsafy Post-War Anglophone Lebanese Fiction: Home Matters in the Diaspora Syrine Hout www.euppublishing.com/series/smal

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Sufism in the Contemporary Arabic Novel Ziad Elmarsafy

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© Ziad Elmarsafy, 2012 Edinburgh University Press Ltd 22 George Square, Edinburgh EH8 9LF www.euppublishing.com Typeset in 11/15 Adobe Garamond by Servis Filmsetting Ltd, Stockport, Cheshire, and printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN 978 0 7486 4140 6 (hardback) ISBN 978 0 7486 5564 9 (webready PDF) ISBN 978 0 7486 5566 3 (epub) ISBN 978 0 7486 5565 6 (Amazon ebook) The right of Ziad Elmarsafy to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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Contents

Series Editor’s Foreword

vii

Abbreviations

x

Acknowledgements

xi

Introduction: Ouverture

1

1

Naguib Mahfouz: (En)chanting Justice

23

2

Tayeb Salih: The Returns of the Saint

52

3

Maªmūd Al-Masʿadī: Witnessing Immortality

66

4

The Survival of Gamal Al-Ghitany

78

5

Ibrahim Al-Koni: Writing and Sacrifice

107

6

Tahar Ouettar: The Saint and the Nightmare of History

139

Epilogue: Bahaa Taher, Solidarity and Idealism

162

Notes

168

Bibliography

235

Index

253

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Series Editor’s Foreword

new and unique series, ‘Edinburgh Studies in Modern Arabic Literature’ will, it is hoped, fill in a gap in scholarship in the field of modern Arabic literature. Its dedication to Arabic literature in the modern period, that is, from the nineteenth century onwards, is what makes it unique among series undertaken by academic publishers in the English-speaking world. Individual books on modern Arabic literature in general or aspects of it have been and continue to be published sporadically. Series on Islamic studies and Arab/ Islamic thought and civilisation are not in short supply either in the academic world, but these are far removed from the study of Arabic literature qua literature, that is, imaginative, creative literature as we understand the term when, for instance, we speak of English literature, or French literature, and so on. Even series labelled ‘Arabic/Middle Eastern Literature’ make no period distinction, extending their purview from the sixth century to the present, and often including non-Arabic literatures of the region. This series aims to redress the situation by focusing on the Arabic literature and criticism of today, stretching its interest to the earliest beginnings of Arab modernity in the nineteenth century. The need for such a dedicated series, and generally for the redoubling of scholarly endeavour in researching and introducing modern Arabic literature to the Western reader, has never been stronger. The significant growth in the last decades of the translation of contemporary Arab authors from all genres, especially fiction, into English; the higher profile of Arabic literature internationally since the award of the Nobel Prize for Literature to Naguib Mahfouz in 1988; the growing number of Arab authors living in the Western diaspora and writing both in English and Arabic; the adoption of such authors and others by mainstream, high-circulation publishers, as opposed to the

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academic publishers of the past; the establishment of prestigious prizes, such as the International Prize for Arabic Fiction (the Arabic Booker), run by the Man Booker Foundation, which bring huge publicity to the shortlist and winner every year, as well as translation contracts into English and other languages – all this and more recently the events of the Arab Spring have heightened public interest, let alone academic, in all things Arab, and not least Arabic literature. It is therefore part of the ambition of this series that it will be increasingly addressing a wider reading public beyond its natural territory of students and researchers in Arabic and world literature. Nor indeed is the academic readership of the series expected to be confined to specialists in literature in light of the growing trend for interdisciplinarity, which increasingly sees scholars crossing field boundaries in their research tools and coming up with findings that equally cross discipline borders in their appeal. Sufi thought and practice and their main historical exponents have exercised a not insubstantial influence on all main genres of modern Arabic literature: poetry, drama and fiction. In poetry the influence can be traced back to the revivalist or neo-classical period of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries down to the contemporary Adūnīs (b. 1930) and later poets. In drama, and particularly verse drama, it was the Egyptian poet, Salah Abd alSabur (1930–81) who showed the relevance of Sufi thought and practice to contemporary political life in his memorable play of the 1960s, The Tragedy of Al-Hallaj. When we come to the novel, the art form most adept by its nature at the detailed representation of reality, it was no wonder that Muhammad Husayn Haykal’s novel, Zeinab (1912), broadly accepted as the first novel in Arabic of literary quality, reflected in some of its scenes popular Sufi practices and beliefs, as did the great Taha Husayn’s fictionalised autobiography, The Stream of Days (1929). It is as if the Arabic novel was born with a genetic propensity towards engagement with Sufism, a condition which continued unabated from those early days until the present, with the relationship growing ever more intense and complex, naturally more so with some authors than others, manifesting itself sometimes realistically, sometimes symbolically or allegorically, according to the styles of writing, the political agenda of authors, and their worldview in general. Most notably, Sufism plays a major role in the work of Egypt’s Nobel laureate, Naguib Mahfouz (1911–2006),

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who has demonstrated time and again in his work that while Sufism may be viable as a means of personal salvation by withdrawal from society, it had no role to play in bringing about progressive social change. Other writers may have other views, but few could afford to ignore Sufism in their writing, considering its standing both in Arab/Muslim thought and popular belief and practice. Despite the above, the study of representations of Sufism in Arabic fiction, let alone other genres, has received little scholarly attention and remains a field wide open for researchers’ endeavour. The vast landscape needs to be surveyed, historical and socio-political connections established, developments delineated, links with world trends identified, and the tools of relevant literary theory brought to bear on all that. Ziad Elmarsafy’s current volume, Sufism in the Contemporary Arabic Novel, makes a much needed start on all these fronts through representative case studies of some of the most central exponents of Sufi thought in the contemporary Arabic novel. Rasheed El-Enany, Emeritus Professor of Modern Arabic Literature University of Exeter

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Abbreviations

CW = Complete Works / Al-Aʿmāl Al-Kāmila (various authors) EI = Encyclopaedia of Islam. Refers to articles in both the second (P. Bearman et al.) and third (Kate Fleet et al.) editions EM = Louis Massignon, Ecrits mémorables EQ = Jane Dammen McAuliffe, Encyclopaedia of the Qurʾān FM = Ibn ʿArabī, Al-Futūªāt Al-Makkiyya GA = Martin Heidegger, Gesamtausgabe Note on Transliteration and Translation I follow the IJMES system for the transliteration of Arabic names. For the authors studied in this work, however, I have relied on the spelling used in the extant translations into Western languages (mainly English), in order to make them more accessible for the general reader. I have followed the same policy with titles and characters, adopting them as they exist in the extant translations. If there is no English translation, I use the transliterated Arabic for the author’s name and title. For the sake of clarity, authors’ names are transliterated according to the IJMES system at first mention in the text (mainly in the introduction) and in the bibliography where necessary. All nouns and the definite article ‘Al’ are capitalised in Arabic titles and names. Some widespread proper names are transliterated according to their better-known form, hence Gamal Abd El-Nasser rather than Jamāl ʿAbd Al-Nā‚ir. Unless otherwise indicated, all translations are my own. Once again, for the sake of accessibility, translations of individual works (mainly English, some French) are listed in the bibliography. All translations from the Qurʾān are taken from The Qur’an: A New Translation by M. A. S. Abdel Haleem (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2004). x

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Acknowledgements

irst and foremost, I wish to thank Professor Rasheed El-Enany, whose initiative and constant encouragement over the past three years made this book possible. The patient and professional support of the editorial and production teams at Edinburgh University Press was essential to keeping this project from derailing. The generous leave policy of the English Department at the University of York, coupled with a visiting appointment at the Université de Paris III–Sorbonne Nouvelle at the kind invitation of Professor Jean Bessière, gave me the time and resources necessary to get the project off the ground. The idea at the heart of this book began as a series of discussions with Gilles Ladkany, Daniel Rivet and Hamit Bozarslan at the Institut d’Etudes de l’Islam et des Sociétés du Monde Musulman (IISMM). Since then, numerous conversations with colleagues, friends and students – too many to list here – as well as discussions during talks and seminars at the universities of Cairo, Paris III and Warwick, forced me to rethink and sharpen key aspects of the text. Exchanges with my students at Paris III as well as Sayyid Bahrawi, Mustapha Bentaïbi, Renée Champion, Boutros Hallaq, Amal Helal, Robert Irwin, Ronald Judy, Marc Kober and Emmanuelle Ly, along with patient, intelligent readings of earlier drafts by Jane Elliott and Alain Messaoudi, helped me to add clarifications, engage with key references and write more coherently. Lewis Lewisohn and Alexander Knysh both responded with great courtesy and generosity to my queries. As in the past, Daniel and Françoise Rivet went beyond the call of duty with their hospitality and assistance. At the Bibliothèque Nationale de France, the unflagging support of Philippe Chevrant kept me abreast of the latest publications in Arabic literature and criticism, while Michel Fani helped me not to take certain things too seriously. Lisa Eveson and the staff of the J. B. Morrell Library at the University

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of York were heroic in procuring material through purchases and the interlending service, often at very short notice. The editorial and production teams at Edinburgh University Press and Eliza Wright’s and Bryan Radley’s careful copyediting provided safe pairs of hands that saw the manuscript through its final stages. The friendly, collegial and occasionally culinary support of Derek Attridge, David Attwell, Anna Bernard, Judith Buchanan, Rose Coote, Hugh Haughton (whose great idea for a title – Ça sufi! – I was, alas, unable to use), Kit Fan and Claire Westall kept me going during some very tough times, as did the reappearance of many old friends. My deepest and warmest thanks to them all. Last but not least, I wish to thank my family for their patience, their kindness and their love that kept me mindful of what really matters in life. The Leavis Fund covered costs associated with indexing and proofreading. Their support is hereby gratefully acknowledged.

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Introduction: Ouverture

he following monograph aims at studying the deployment of Sufi themes and ideas in the Arabic novel during the second half of the twentieth century. The frequency with which Sufi characters – dervishes, wanderers, disciples, saints – and themes occur in the Arabic novel means that the authors studied here are illustrative rather than exhaustive. My argument will be that, during the second half of the twentieth century, a significant number of Arabic novelists used the language and thought of the Sufis as a way of tackling problems that were aesthetic first and foremost, as a way of interrogating the limits of the creating self and the creative act. Allusions and references to Sufism were not the only means to this end during the period under consideration, but the frequency with which such poets and mystics as Al-Óusayn b. Man‚ūr Al-Óallāj (c. 857–922) and Muªyi-l-Dīn Ibn ʿArabī (1165–1240), or theologians like Abū-l-Qāsim Al-Qushayrī (986–1072), are mentioned in Arabic novels written in the second half of the twentieth century calls for a sustained critical meditation. Although there is no lack of theories describing the ways in which art and literature are produced, one recent line of inquiry proves especially inspiring. Following Derrida, Derek Attridge proposes a lucid perspective on literature as the ‘creation of the other’, otherness being, ‘that which is, at a given moment, outside the horizon provided by the culture for thinking, understanding, imagining, feeling, perceiving’.1 Far from being a denial of authority or authorship, the idea that the literary work is the creation of the other

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indicates that the relation of the created work to conscious acts of creation is not entirely one of effect to cause. The coming into being of the wholly new

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requires some relinquishment of intellectual control, and ‘the other’ is one possible name for that to which control is ceded, whether it is conceived of as ‘outside’ or ‘inside’ the subject.2

Attridge compares the response to the other through openness to change to what happens ‘when a writer refashions norms of thought to realise a new possibility in a poem or an argument’.3 For Derrida, the process of creating this new possibility is so unpredictable that, when it produces a new work or concept, it can only be compared to a stroke of luck rather than being merely the result of hard work.4 Although Attridge takes pains to explain that the phrase ‘creation of the other’ should not ‘be taken to imply a mystical belief in an exterior agent’, the term ‘other’ in the present study will cover both divine and human variants: the other could be another person, an abstract entity, or to use Rudolf Otto’s terminology, God as the Wholly Other.5 Literary creation involves an opening up to, and a making of space for, the other.6 The notion of opening up takes us back to one of the earliest Sufi manuals, namely the Kitāb Al-Lumaʿ (The Book of Flashes) by the Sufi writer Abū Na‚r Al-Sarrāj (d. 988), where Sufism is defined as ‘the science of openings [al-futūª: revelations, illuminations, spiritual “conquests”]; God opens up the hearts of His saints to the understanding of His speech and the connotations of His discourse as He wills’.7 This process of ‘opening up’ the human heart to divine inspiration recurs in Goethe’s ‘Pindar letter’ to Herder, in which the young writer reflects on his status and that of his creative activity, saying ‘I would like to pray like Moses in the Qurʾān: “Lord, open up my chest.” ’8 Goethe refers to the prayer of Moses before his encounter with Pharaoh, as narrated in Q20:25: like Moses, Goethe seeks an opening up that will result in eloquence and allow the words to flow. Let us note that this ‘opening up’ occurs with reference to both the human and divine Other. While instructive and important, Goethe is not a Sufi. The modernist Egyptian poet and playwright Íalāª ʿAbd Al-Íabūr (1931–81), on the other hand, constructs an entire theory of poetic creation based on the notion of such openings as they are described in one of the key Sufi manuals, the Risāla (Epistle) of Abū-l-Qāsim Al-Qushayrī.9 ʿAbd Al-Íabūr’s rare synthesis of a meditative poetic voice, a commitment to social justice and pioneering formal experimentation accommodates Sufi themes and ideas readily,

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including a tragedy about one of the most important figures in the history of Sufism, Al-Óallāj (Maʿsāt Al-Óallāj [The Tragedy of Al-Óallāj], 1965). Across a series of texts that constitute his own poetic autobiography, ʿAbd Al-Íabūr pursues the comparison between the activity of the poet and the life of the mystic: both poetic creation and mysticism involve spiritual and mental exertion (ijtihād ) unencumbered by the laws of cause and effect; if they are rewarded with anything it will be something sent by the infinite Other, God; both seek a way towards reaching the sort of truth that transcends the quotidian.10 A poem starts as an unknown thing, an idea that occurs to the writer as a flash of lightning that he or she tries to capture in written form and endow with a material existence. ʿAbd Al-Íabūr then traces the details of this process – the coming into being of the poem – via Al-Qushayrī’s photic imagery: In his Epistle Al-Qushayrī tells us about other expressions from the Sufi lexicon – namely glimmers, dawnings and flashes – by way of defining these rapid thoughts that come from one knows not where. They live on in the course of the individual’s consciousness. They are produced less by the exertion of the mind than by the state of mental clarity. Al-Qushayrī therefore compares them to flashes of lightning that disappear as soon as they appear.11

ʿAbd Al-Íabūr’s account follows the poet’s itinerary, from these first sparks, to what he calls al-wārid (‘that which arrives’)12 – an immediate esoteric inspiration whose impact is longer lasting than the aforementioned lightning flashes – via the multiple spiritual and aesthetic stages involved in the creation of the work of art defined through Al-Qushayrī’s terminology of ‘colouring and consolidation’ (al-talwīn wa-l-tamkīn).13 Whole worlds open up before the poet during this itinerary: ‘A treasure-chest is opened, a new land discovered, mountains and valleys are revealed to the gaze, and a new life is born.’14 The poet-mystic’s journey of creation takes the poet in two directions, initially away from him- or herself and towards the Other who ‘transmits’ the inspiration, and back in an attempt to find again that moment when the flash of lightning starts the act of literary production.15 The act of poetic creation involves a separation of the self from the self, both in response to the call of the Other and as a way of accommodating the Other. Writing poetry leaves

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the self transformed by this encounter. Indeed, since this encounter is what makes poetry happen, the poet qua creator of poetry would not exist without this relationship to and meeting with the Other. Both poet and poem are creations of the Other.16 None of the foregoing explains the importance of the novel in this context. In his La Pensée du roman Thomas Pavel describes the novel as the genre that simultaneously accomplishes two goals. First, the novel is the cultural product that accompanies the concept of the individual. Pavel relies on Louis Dumont’s account of the birth of the individual, a phenomenon that Dumont locates in early India, at the moment when early ascetics gave up the rights and duties that came with being part of a hierarchical society in order to devote themselves to the contemplation and adoration of a tutelary deity, who, in turn, provides them with everything that society might have. Dumont terms this individual the ‘extra-worldly’ individual (l’individu-horsdu-monde) and argues that the history of modern individualism is, in fact, the history of the gradual insertion of this extra-social bubble into the fabric of society, until it begins to resemble the collection of spheres that it is today.17 The genre that accompanies the trajectory of the extra-worldly individual is, Pavel argues, the novel, which finds its origins in a cultural space that has come to terms with the notion of individual freedom in relation to, rather than away from, divine presences and forces. Second, by proposing a gap between the protagonist and the surrounding environment as an object of investigation, the novel interrogates the genesis of the individual and the possibility of creating a common order. In doing so the novel raises the axiological question that underlies the human situation in the world: is the world habitable in moral terms? Does the moral order dictated by the tutelary deity that guides, protects and informs the individual have a place in the world? If so, why is life so difficult, and if not, why do that individual’s notions of right and wrong seem so obvious to him or her? Can the individual inhabit the world, ethically and morally speaking?18 The novel is thus concerned less with mimesis – though that is certainly a key part of its aesthetic – than with norms and values. Similarly, realism matters less to the proper operation of this genre than idealism. In Pavel’s terms, fiction defies, rather than merely reflects, actuality.19 The novel invites the reader to abandon the empirical perspective, with its focus on what is, in

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favour of the normative and value-oriented perspectives that focus on, and praise, what ought to be. To read a novel is to inhabit a fictional world, for a time, and allow oneself to be subject to its laws and values. We are not far from Virginia Woolf’s observation that ‘The novel is the only form of art which seeks to make us believe that it is giving a full and truthful record of the life of a real person.’20 This may explain why the novel has become the central global art form, a phenomenon aided and abetted by the novel’s ability to absorb various intellectual systems with relative ease. As Frank Kermode has it, the novel ‘lends itself to explanations borrowed from any intellectual system of the universe which seems at the time satisfactory’.21 It is a small step from Dumont’s earliest extra-worldly individuals to the Sufis of the medieval and modern period. Accordingly, one of the key tasks assumed by the novels under scrutiny in this work is thinking through individuality via the language and thought of Sufism.22 The turn to Sufism in the literature of the post-war period, especially after 1980, marks an attempt at reappropriating and redefining individuality along lines that evade the dogmas of institutional religious and political restriction. This is not to say, however, that individuality itself is somehow un-Islamic: as Louis Massignon reminds us, the dignity of the individual is very much intact at the moment of the shahāda, the instant where the Muslim bears witness that there is no God but God and Muªammad is his prophet.23 This dignity has, however, been under more or less continuous assault in the post-war period, caught between an increasingly oppressive state security apparatus, constant warfare and everincreasing economic and civil inequality. The highest stakes attach, therefore, to the survival of that self in writing. Whereas for Massignon the idea of individuality (or personhood) is that which survives (rather than being born of) the transformative union with a tutelary deity, the sort of survival at stake most frequently in the novels under scrutiny in this study tends to be investigated in a more quotidian register, though this investigation is informed nevertheless by the contact with the Other.24 Coupled with the practice of using literature to get around the heavy demands of censorship – even as the state’s censors continue to tell writers what they can and cannot say – the novel becomes the locus of certain claims that would otherwise have been completely excluded from the public sphere.25 The ideas and voices of Sufism that become increasingly frequent in fiction after 1980 attest to a selfhood under

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siege and a dismayed worldview. This is the period that effectively confirmed the bankruptcy of almost every ideology – nationalist, socialist, Arab unionist, communist, secular, liberal, neo-liberal – in favour of the forces of reaction. This is the period that saw peoples and causes abandoned to their fate and the consolidation of states and governments built on exploitation, injustice and the routine abuse of human rights. This is the period where the reforms that were slowly built and set into motion during the first half of the twentieth century came to an end, and where only those who were on the right side of the rapacious logic of global capitalism managed, for a time, to keep the worst at bay. Between the assassination of Sadat, the consolidation of dictatorship as a political norm from Morocco to Kuwait, the atrocities of civil war in Lebanon and Algeria, the ongoing travesty that is the Palestinian–Israeli peace process, the invasion of Kuwait and the two Gulf wars, and the fate of Iraq under Saddam and under American occupation, what is surprising is not the appearance of Sufism but the fact that it is not more prevalent, that there are not more saints cropping up every minute to propagate something like an idea of order – personal and public – amidst the chaos of history.26 According to Michel de Certeau, this is as it should be. In his study of mysticism in early modern Europe, de Certeau identifies a certain link between the ‘rise’ of mysticism (or at least an increase in certain mystical orientations of a literary and cultural order) and an increase in the surrounding misery: states of destitution and dismay accompany the appearance of saintly figures who ‘intercede’ on behalf of the world’s downtrodden.27 On this important point, de Certeau cites Massignon’s monumental study of Al-Óallāj, where the central hypothesis is precisely the eruption of the heroic mystical moment as a solution to social distress. For Massignon, there is a ‘trans-social’ axis to the heroic life of the saint or Sufi, one that might be figured as a projection outside the world (note the parallel with Dumont) of the mystic’s life, on levels both imaginary and social.28 This conception of history, oriented as it is towards interiority and individuality, establishes a real and effective solidarity between collective social misery and the life of the saint, whose mission it is to see the sense in history and apply it to the suffering in the world.29 For suffering there is, and not only in the early modern or medieval periods but also (especially) in the modern period. De Certeau’s aetiology

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of mysticism traces one possible reason for its appearance to Wittgenstein, who explains the need for mysticism through the critique of modernity. For Wittgenstein, the need for mysticism arises when one feels that one has been left behind by all the promise of science and progress: The urge towards the mystical comes of the non-satisfaction of our wishes by science. We feel that even if all possible scientific questions are answered our problem is still not touched at all. Of course, in that case there are no questions any more; and that is the answer.30

The turn to Sufism is the net result of a sense of abandonment that pervades both the writer and the surrounding world; a world for which nothing – not science, not progress, not revolution – can do any good. Sufism then becomes an answer, of sorts. It is difficult to agree with Wittgenstein, however, on the fact that ‘there are no questions any more’ in such a situation. There are questions aplenty, not the least of which might be: what sort of language is adequate to this situation? What sort of linguistic and literary expression is allowed by such desperate times? One way of speaking of such upheaval is to claim that we are in an important transitory period, at the end of one epoch and the start of another. According to Frank Kermode, such thinking is as old as Christianity, if not older, and is especially apparent at the start of literary movements such as Modernism.31 The self-reflexive moments of literary history are marked by both an obsession with being situated at the dawn of a new age of history (which Kermode calls a useful fiction, a good way of thinking about upheaval) and with inventing a new sort of writing adequate to that moment.32 As Kermode rightly points out, however, every claim of novelty necessarily invokes a past that is not novel. The turn to Sufism in the contemporary Arabic novel does both: it constitutes a useful way of thinking about the present without losing touch with the past. The past in question is, of course, very carefully chosen: in the Sufis our writers find a set of cutting-edge literary experimenters, ironically – or perhaps usefully – situated centuries in the past. This appropriation and linking of past and present sustains the survival of the individual under siege in times of crisis. The foregoing matters thus constitute the themes with which this book is concerned. Between the vertices of the self, the Other, history and writing,

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Sufi themes and topoi enable key meditations on individuality, survival, hospitality, autobiography and, above all, the novel itself as a vector for ideas about the world and its habitability. In the writings of the medieval Sufis, modern Arabic novelists find a constant testing of the possibilities of language and thought; a practice that they themselves then try to follow assiduously. Nor are the writers under scrutiny the only ones interested in Sufism, which inspires writers well beyond the Arabophone literary space. One might mention Salman Rushdie (Grimus, Haroun and the Sea of Stories), Doris Lessing (The Four-Gated City, ‘Out of the Fountain’), Philip K. Dick (Eye in the Sky) among those whose fiction has touched on the subject.33 The Sufi tradition itself is literary through and through, insofar as the very first Sufis seem to have immediately thrown themselves into an exploration of the limits of language and the sayable, that which can and that which cannot be said, written, spoken of, in relation to desire, belief and the sacred. Gamal Al-Ghitany (Jamāl Al-Ghi†ānī, 1945–) describes the stakes thus: The language of Sufism is the result of deep spiritual states. It is not the result of a semantic artifice or rhetorical construct. [The mystic] Al-Niffarī [d. 976–7] stated this concisely when he uttered his wonderful saying, ‘The more that vision expands, the narrower expression becomes’ . . . Thus, words appear like indications of the extraordinary distance [between experience and expression] on most occasions. The problem with which the Sufi wayfarer concerns himself resembles what the literary innovator faces. Both of them see the essence of the problem as being the meanings and spiritual experiences that they desire to express in words – in the customary framework of language – as a means of connection. How can these meanings be expressed? How can new words possibly be created? How can the distance between rapturous, ebullient feelings and visions blazing away in the spirit or mind and what emerges from the fingertips, written in ink, be narrowed?34

Despite Al-Niffarī’s aphorism regarding the inadequacy of language to the Sufi experience, and notwithstanding the long relationship between mysticism and apophasis, the writers at the core of this project seem to prove that Sufism actually enables the logos and an expansion of expression, the strongest case being the sheer length of Al-Ghitany’s Kitāb Al-Tajalliyāt (The Book of

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Revelations, 1983–6). This is not to say that apophasis disappears entirely, but it is to say that fiction somehow undoes negative theology.35 From its beginnings, Sufism, like all mysticisms, has concerned itself with questions that would today be called literary. Put another way, most questions about literature have something to do with the interrogation of the sacred. This is not to say that the space of literature is the space of belief, but it is to say that the transcendent calls forth patterns of questioning and interrogation that are recognisably literary. I say ‘recognisably’ rather than essentially or ineffably because of the difficulties that attend dealing with and defining the literary. Although the definition of literature has tried the patience of numerous scholars, almost to no avail, quite a few important insights into the operation of the literary thing have been gleaned along the way, and we will be making use of many of these in what follows. One good summing up is offered by Derrida: Literariness is not an intrinsic property of this or that discursive event. Even in those places where it seems to persist, literature remains an unstable function with precarious legal status. Its passion consists in the fact that it receives its determination from something other than itself.36

The process of writing literature constantly involves questioning limits: between the human and the divine, the self and the Other, the self and the world, and so on. The creation of literature has much to do with the creation of spaces within those limits that mark finalities and boundaries. One of the most important of these spaces is the space within the self, whose solid selfidentity is called into question by the very act of writing. As noted above, the creative, inventive process that gives rise to literature entails ceding control to the Other, creating a space within the self that the Other might inhabit and through which the Other might speak. One way of understanding this process, and the quality of literariness that it confers on what is written, is through the two further idioms that are deeply concerned with limits, namely mysticism and deconstruction.37 Both of these will run through the course of this study, which, while being neither mystical nor deconstructive, is informed by them. Hence the textual selections that I have made. Readers might cavil with the fact that there are Sufi characters with which I do not deal, and authors

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that I do not discuss. In truth, researching this book has revealed that the Sufi presence in the Arabic novel is widespread; dealing with them all would have been impossible. The authors under scrutiny here were selected because they wrote the works that best fit the argument. The aesthetic of Yahya Haqqi (Yaªyā Óaqqī, 1905–92) serves as a point of departure, illustrating the necessary concern of literature with Sufism and a dependence on the Other, and using this concern to investigate the idea of the modern, rational self located at the crossroads of the human and the divine on the one hand, and Eastern (Egyptian) and Western (English) culture on the other.38 Abdel-Hakim Kassem (ʿAbd Al-Óakīm Qāsim, 1935–90) provides an uncompromising view of the opposition between mysticism and political history: the exit from one marks the entrance into the other. Between them Haqqi and Kassem define the axes along which the curve of this monograph is plotted. The subsequent chapters each focus on a separate writer. Naguib Mahfouz (Najīb MaªfūÕ, 1911–2006) narrates the poetic, musical intrusions of the Other into a violent socio-political universe where the question of justice is always being posed. Tayeb Salih (Al-˝ayyib Íāliª, 1929–2009) narrates the history of the modern Sudan via the village of Wad Hamid and the hospitality that its residents show to a steady stream of saints and visitors. Maªmūd Al-Masʿadī (1911–2004) narrates contact with eternity through the saintly, photic self produced by the discourse of science and rationality. Gamal Al-Ghitany uses the language and style of Ibn ʿArabī to narrate Egypt’s political history as seen through his father’s life and his own. Ibrahim Al-Koni (Ibrāhīm Al-Kūnī/Al-Kawnī, 1948–) serves up a cartography of the desert as a theophanic space wherein are revealed the materials and characters that populate his novels. Tahar Ouettar (Al-˝ahir Wa††ār, 1936–2010) uses the character of the perverse waliyy (saint; pl. awliyāʾ) to explore the possibility of historiography in light of the unspeakable horrors of civil war. The study ends with an epilogue rather than a conclusion reflecting on the persistence of idealistic modes of literary expression in the work of Bahaa Taher (Bahāʾ ˝āhir, 1935–). The chapters do not have to be read sequentially; rather they are arranged as a constellation around the key themes of this study. The chapter sequence follows the relationship of ideas between writers and texts rather than the more artificial order dictated by the chronology of the novelists’ lives. This

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also applies to the order in which literary works are examined within certain chapters. In Chapter One, for example, the reading of Mahfouz’s ‘A Story without Beginning or End’ (1971) precedes that of The Beggar (1965), all with a view to better delineating the logic of individuality, the limits of reason and openness to the Other as they operate in the Mahfouz canon. In Chapter Two, the analysis proceeds according to the order of events narrated in Salih’s works rather than the order of publication of his works. In Chapter Five, explicating the complexities of Ibrahim Al-Koni’s desert novels calls for a similar non-chronological approach. There is nonetheless a rough correspondence between the chapter sequence and the publication dates of the novels treated, though here again deviations are necessary for the sake of coherence and readability. Thus the chapter on Al-Masʿadī follows that on Salih as a better way of introducing the questions of mortality and survival, which are common to both Al-Masʿadī and Al-Ghitany. By the same token, Salih’s use of hospitality is more closely related to Mahfouz’s ideas about creativity and social justice. Similarly, the Ouettar chapter follows those on Al-Koni and Al-Ghitany even though he was born over a decade before them, both because the novels covered in the chapter on Ouettar were published after Al-Ghitany’s (though they are roughly contemporaneous with Al-Koni’s novels) and because the question of history constitutes a fitting end to this study. Although historical, social and political concerns frame and underlie the corpus under consideration in this study, they do not, and cannot, determine the content of the novels themselves. There is far more to the Sufi turn in contemporary Arabic fiction than a reaction to living in an age of injustice and corruption. It will be seen that questions of love, desire, mortality, hospitality and survival play a prominent role in shaping the appropriation of Sufi idioms in contemporary Arabic fiction. The reader should not, therefore, expect a set of correspondences between a given political event and its refraction into an episode in a given novel, or between historical phases and an author’s seeking recourse to Sufism (though there are some clear instances of this process, especially in the works of Al-Ghitany and Ouettar). The limits of creativity and reason, the possibility of ethical action and the unforeseeable character of desire all feature frequently as aspects of the journey of the self into the space and language of Sufism.

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The recurrence of these themes should come as no surprise; they are common to the literary history of the novel as genre. Their frequency should also be related to the question of scale: as novels, the texts under scrutiny here do not constitute a large proportion of Arabic fictional production. By and large, the field of the Arabic novel is dominated by realist texts. Nor, as will be seen, do they constitute the prevailing mode of literary expression of the authors under scrutiny. The authors should thus be seen as engaging in a significant literary experiment by turning to Sufi ideas and language, but this experiment defines a part, rather than the whole, of their literary output. The reasons for undertaking that experiment, and in the last analysis the unpredictable character of literary creation, means that it will probably never be possible to isolate a certain incident that drives an author to Sufism, though that does not detract from the intrinsic interest of the phenomenon. Yahya Haqqi: Human and Divine Love Yahya Haqqi’s status as a pioneer in the art of Arabic fiction is paralleled by his work in several other fields of endeavour, including journalism, literary criticism, government and international diplomacy. Haqqi was born and raised in popular Cairo, specifically in the area around the shrine of Sayyida Zaynab (the Prophet’s granddaughter) which features prominently in his best-known work, discussed below. Apart from the broad range of activities that filled his life and inform his work, his writing is marked by a rare combination of lucidity and allusion, dealing with themes such as the rural and the urban, wealth and poverty, development and education. In her account of his life and work, Miriam Cooke describes him as ‘one of the last udaba [men of letters]’ whose myriad accomplishments are connected by his ‘love for Egypt and his quest for the role befitting him as its literary custodian/harbinger’.39 Although it is a novella rather than a novel, Qindīl Umm Hāshim (The Lamp of Umm Hāshim; The Saint’s Lamp, 1944) tackles the same problems of the moral habitability of the world that constitute the novel’s focus. Published during the Second World War when Haqqi worked for the Egyptian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and haunted by the place of religion and the other-worldly in the process of national development, Haqqi’s novella marks a key critique of the narrative of progress according to which science, triumphant, can cure the nation’s ills. The text is built around two axes, one running from East to

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West and the other linking the human to the divine, both spanning the plot of a short Bildungsroman that centred on the departure and return to Egypt of its protagonist, Ismail, armed with a degree in ophthalmology from England and a desire to do well. As Haqqi’s readers have pointed out, the text is heavy with allegory and symbolism: Ismail stands for Egypt in its encounter with the West, while his fiancée, Fatima Al-Nabawiyya, embodies Egypt in its isolation and ignorance.40 The names, too, are significant: Ismail is named after the son of Abraham who is believed to be the father of the Arabs, and Fatima’s name means ‘Fatima the Prophet’s daughter’.41 Ismail’s ambitions flounder on the fact that he is unable to cure the disease that affects, and eventually blinds, Fatima Al-Nabawiyya. Like most of Ismail’s community, Fatima anchors her hopes on the curative powers of the oil contained in the lamp that hangs in the shrine of Al-Sayyida Zaynab, the Prophet’s granddaughter. In a scene that neatly encapsulates the novella’s lines of tension between modern medicine and superstition, an exasperated Ismail breaks the lamp as he shouts ‘I . . . I . . . I . . .’ before an angry mob attacks him for his sacrilegious behaviour. Still, Ismail does not give up on treating Fatima. Eventually, Ismail recovers the customs of his youth and community, which leads him to add the saint’s oil to the other forms of treatment that he employs. The strategy succeeds, vindicating Haqqi’s lesson that there can be no science without faith. The novella closes with the narrator describing Ismail in old age: an overweight, badly-dressed asthmatic addicted to food and cigarettes, perpetually in a good humour, surrounded by the love of his community. Between his charm, his charitable efforts as a doctor and his love of humanity (which partly manifests itself in his love of women), the aged Ismail is diametrically opposed to the handsome, upwardly mobile, logic-driven young doctor who had returned from England decades earlier. In his seminal article on The Saint’s Lamp, M. M. Badawi asks, [W]hat does he [Ismail] actually do with the oil? Does he treat Fatima’s eyes with it, concurrently with his use of proper medicine? If so, does he actually believe in the medicinal power of the oil? Do we take that then to be the mark of atavism, of his reversion to type? Or does he use the oil purely as a means of obtaining Fatima’s confidence and trust in him, as a means of suggesting to her that she is after all getting the right kind of treatment?42

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As Badawi proposes, Haqqi’s ambiguity is deliberate. It is as if he wanted to make the case that there are things that surpass language and narration: no one knows at what point healing occurs, nor what the actual agents of that healing might be.43 The best that a doctor can do is coax the patient along towards the point where the body heals itself. Put another way, Ismail uses the lamp to invoke, or beckon to, the Other, whose inscrutable powers cannot be explained rationally. The impotence of human agency and the power of love (of Fatima, of the community and perhaps above all of Al-Sayyida Zaynab herself) become the two faces of the sign of Al-Sayyida Zaynab’s power, both communicating to the believer the value of divine intercession and the order that the saints maintain. It is not for nothing that Shaykh Dardiri, who sells the oil in the mausoleum, takes the young Ismail aside one day and describes to him the events of the laylat al-ªa∂ra, when the legendary saints – members of the Prophet Muªammad’s family and later jurists who have acquired the status of awliyāʾ – gather and hold court to look into the injustices that afflict the community. (The motif of the court of saints [the dīwān] will return in Gamal Al-Ghitany’s Kitāb Al-Tajalliyāt.) ‘If they wanted they could remove all the injustices, but the time has not yet come, for all those who are oppressed oppress others in turn, so how can proper punishment be meted out?’44 The order that is maintained by the saintly court is more real and more permanent than the promise held by the more rational order that Ismail imports from England. Ismail’s emotional life is circumscribed by three women: his fiancée, his English girlfriend, Mary, and Naima, a prostitute who prays at the saint’s shrine for deliverance from her lot.45 This triad of women pushes Ismail away from his sceptical, scientific outlook and towards his more faithful and loving (albeit dishevelled) elderly self. They do not do so in unison, of course: instead there is a dialectical process that goes from belief (Fatima, Naima) to disbelief (Mary) to informed belief (Fatima). Quite apart from Nabawiyya’s solid commitment to Al-Sayyida Zaynab as her tutelary saint, Naima’s experience at the shrine neatly prefigures the dynamic that effects Ismail’s spiritual reawakening. Before he leaves for England, Ismail sees Naima at the shrine. At first he is taken by her beauty, then by her oath: fifty candles to decorate the shrine if she finds a way out of her life as a sex worker. She then

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placed her lips on the wall of the shrine. This kiss was not of her trade; it came from her heart. And who can say for sure whether the saint did not approach the wall from the other side, with her lips ready to exchange one kiss for another?46

This charged erotic vision of a saint and supplicant kissing marks the first step on Ismail’s journey of understanding of the continuum joining human to divine love. The journey first takes a long detour in the realm of human erotic life and rationality before returning to the divine in the saint’s shrine. In England, Mary teaches Ismail the value of freedom and independence. His greatest fear, the narrator tells us, is freedom; hers is confinement.47 He seeks a programme for his life; she sees life as an ever-renewed polemic. He spends a great deal of time with his most vulnerable patients; she finds his spirit of generosity and self-sacrifice inappropriate because unproductive. Eventually he breaks down under the impact of Mary’s instruction, seeing in religion the opiate of the masses and in rational, solitary individuality the only possible route to happiness.48 Haqqi’s text vividly describes the destruction of Ismail’s psyche under the impact of Mary’s lessons, which are compared to the blows of an axe. Mary then helps him heal, rebuilding him in his modern guise, substituting for his religious belief an even stronger faith in science, to the point where he no longer approaches her as ‘an adept (murīd ) before a saint (qu†b)’ but rather as an equal.49 When Ismail takes Mary’s lessons back to Egypt, the results are the aforementioned catastrophes: an individual self standing in pitched battle against the crowds of worshippers at the mosque of the Sayyida Zaynab. It is only once he lets go of his ambition and utilitarian outlook, opening his heart and mind to the people of the neighbourhood, their faith and their humour, finally allowing himself to be a mere one among many believers, that his efforts in treating Fatima Al-Nabawiyya finally bear fruit. In other words, the answer to Badawi’s question regarding what Ismail does with the oil is: nothing. Instead of regarding the oil from the saint’s lamp, and the saint’s lamp itself, as an instrument to be used or an ointment to be applied, Ismail sees them as markers of a spiritual path (the programme that he so desperately desired) linking the worldly to the other-worldly. Far from reverting to superstitious type, Ismail learns that progress along this

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path takes time, and that healing operates on both cultural and physical levels, and that this opening up to the Other requires, in Rasheed El-Enany’s words, ‘gradual change, persuasion, patience and persistence’.50 Instead of understanding freedom and independence as an attempt at dominating the masses, he perceives individualism as it should be: an ever-present link with the sacred that binds him to both his society and his God: ‘Before him is not a collection of individuals but a people held together by one common bond: a kind of faith, born of company over time and the slow ripening over its fire.’51 The final stage in this ‘ripening’ comes in the last line of the novella, where Ismail’s love of all women stands for his love of humanity. The narrator uses the term tafānī which could be translated as ‘self-sacrifice’ but also carries important connotations of the self-dissolution that obtains in mystical love, fanāʾ: ‘My uncle spent his entire life loving women, as if his love for them were but one aspect of his tafānī and love of humanity.’52 Thus Ismail’s reintegration into Egyptian society depends on the maintenance of a social bond that is itself driven by the link to the divine. The dialectic of human and divine love, the opposition between ambition and renunciation as two opposed aspects of individuality, and perhaps above all the relationship between the sacred and creativity (a term that encompasses unorthodox approaches to both medicine and art) returns in another short story by Haqqi, ‘The Priest Is Not Perplexed’. The title invokes the Sufi topos of ªayra (perplexity, bewilderment),53 and the story is all the more interesting for its application of issues related to Sufism to a Christian context. The absence of perplexity indicates a failure or inability to embark on the path of the mystic. The plot is simple: a handsome young nobleman abandons his wealth and follows the retinue of an itinerant priest. When the latter happens upon the house of a rich man in town, he enters and preaches a sermon encouraging him to lead a better life. During the sermon the rich man’s daughter tries to seduce the young nobleman, to no avail.54 The sermon and the seduction operate in parallel: just as the rich man is at the point of abandoning his home and family to join the priest’s retinue, the latter advises him to stay and take care of his loved ones, as becoming a peripatetic will cause more harm than good. The rich man’s daughter accuses the nobleman of acting out of ambition rather than piety: he only joined the priest because he did not want to share his father’s inheritance, and only stands at

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the very end of the group of followers as a way of outdoing their humility. This radical ambition and refusal to compromise is reminiscent of the sort of individualism that Ismail picks up in England. The rich man’s daughter proposes another possibility: what if the young nobleman loved and danced with her? ‘I have always considered dancing a sort of worship. Every time I dance I feel that God is closer to me than during the times of emptiness and boredom.’55 When the young nobleman answers that there is something more important than dancing, and that he has ears for God alone and the sound of the cosmos singing His praises, she retorts that this only shows his incapacity for perceiving God’s beauty. Only by loving her and accepting her love can the nobleman be brought back to himself, and thereby start to love God properly.56 When the priest leaves, however, the young man joins him. In the young woman’s estimation, he has failed to heed the lesson of the priest that he claims to follow: the priest advised the rich man to stay at home based on the principle of God’s mercy, but the lesson is lost on this most ambitious of disciples, who leaves with the priest, this time at the head of the congregation. The woman muses, ‘What a poor half-wit! He did not understand the divine message [al-waªy]. When God’s mercy called to him to stay, he turned away and left!’ before clapping her hands and calling for dancing and music.57 Unlike Ismail, the young nobleman fails in the mystical quest, precisely because of his insistence and sense of purpose. The way to God is not path-independent: those who are not capable of human love can never reach the love of the divine. The woman’s final dance and call for music underlines the fact that she embodies this all-important nexus. Haqqi’s two novellas skilfully use sainthood and Sufism, devotion and discipleship to trope belonging, creativity and the idea of the individual. The ambiguities surrounding the saint’s lamp and the young nobleman’s motives convey the difficulty of placing Sufism and popular devotion on the chart of national development; a difficulty that is only resolved with the assumption of a love that builds societies while maintaining the relationship with the divine. In Abdel-Hakim Kassem’s case things turn out differently: while he remains alert to the operation of love within a family and a community of Sufis, the opposition between the mystical and the political renders the former obsolete under the weight of Egypt’s history of the 1960s and 1970s.

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The Saints Abandon Abdel-Aziz: The Seven Days of Man (Ayyām Al-Insān Al-Sabʿa) One of Haqqi’s many gifts to literature and posterity during his years as editor of the cultural periodical Al-Majalla (1962–70) was publishing the work of Abdel-Hakim Kassem. Kassem is usually grouped with a set of avantgarde writers known as the ‘Generation of the 1960s’; their distinguishing political feature being initial support for the policies of Gamal Abd El-Nasser followed by disillusion with and opposition to their increasingly oppressive character. Kassem was born in a village near ˝an†ā and moved to Cairo in the 1950s. Ever alert to the realities of injustice and inequality, his political activity eventually saw him detained and imprisoned in the 1960s, and then exiled in West Berlin from 1974 to 1985. Although his œuvre is not voluminous, his elegant prose and strident clarity regarding everyday struggles with the weight of history and the inequities of power, especially in the 1970s and 1980s, ensure his enduring interest. Kassem’s Seven Days of Man (1969), perhaps his best-known work, is an important development of the subgenre of the village novel in Arabic literature and a significant departure from the stereotyped social realism of his predecessors.58 It also marks another approach to the question of the Sufi self via the Bildungsroman, though the mood is far darker than that of The Saint’s Lamp and more consonant with the sorrow that followed Egypt’s catastrophic defeat in the 1967 war. The protagonist, named Abdel-Aziz in the novel and clearly modelled on Kassem himself, grows increasingly distant from the life of the village he inhabits, centred as it is on agriculture and devotion to Egypt’s most popular Sufi saint, Sayyid Aªmad Al-Badawī (c. 1200–76). The pilgrimage to Al-Badawī’s shrine and attendance at his mawlid (festival) in ˝an†ā mark the apex of village life. As his Sufi-centred existence collapses with the death of his father, the protagonist finds his voice. The novel ends with him sitting in a café in the village, smoking hashish and talking incessantly.59 Abdel-Aziz’s discovery of his voice contrasts sharply with his quiet, thoughtful presence throughout the novel, notwithstanding his brief outburst at the height of the mawlid when he accuses those around him of being mindless animals and idolators.60 Similarly, the angry, embittered voices that surround and inform him at the end of the novel contrast

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sharply with the gentle, loving modes of communication that are the fabric of village life. Abdel-Aziz’s Bildung is an education in modes of address, forgetting the nostalgic modes that dominate the life of his father and his band of dervishes while learning the loud language of political opposition.61 In a 1980 article Kassem locates the birth of the writer precisely in the moment of political opposition to power.62 He starts that same article by positing the dialectic of the real and ideal, or reality and dreams, as the dynamic that starts the process of writing.63 In Kassem’s case, the real is identified with an ugly present necessity, while the dream-ideal ‘has the features of the ancestral countryside’, though he finds that these are limited and exhausted.64 He writes at the intersection of worn-out ideals and implacable reality, which opposition he maps onto that between the country and the city. Having inhabited both locations, Kassem finds his loyalties divided between the loud city and the gentle village in the countryside in a destiny of perpetual estrangement: he is another individual outside the world. The only constant with which he identifies is the sound of the train on the tracks between these two worlds, the sound that speaks his estrangement. Nevertheless, this estrangement is not his alone: it is the fate of all Egyptians, caught in a ‘tortured journey between the inferno of a terrifying present and the uselessness of impossible dreams’.65 Much of Kassem’s bleak, alienated worldview is worked into the fabric of The Seven Days of Man. The world of dreams and ideals is that of the Sufi rituals and the lives of the dervishes in the evening, the gathering that gives them solace from what would otherwise be an unmanageable life and reframes the meaning of the cosmos.66 The many rituals and performances – the ādāb – constitute the life of the dervish and give it meaning, grounding it in a reality of things far deeper than the one indicated by hard work and materiality.67 Theirs is the Sufism of purity, of ‚afāʾ, which is a term occasionally advanced in popular Sufi circles as being the etymological root of the term ‘Sufism’.68 In the opening chapter, the world of Hagg Karim and his dervishes is one that combines poverty with ‚afāʾ and satisfaction: ‘How happy is he who opens his heart to love and purity, his few feddāns multiply with God’s blessing.’69 The men whose lives are so full of these blessings in turn act as a conduit for these blessings to the villages they inhabit: wherever they go they are told that they ‘light up the place’ and that ‘the world without them has no flavour’.70

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Stories circulate about these ‘men unlike other men’, (saints, awliyāʾ, though the word is never used) with superhuman powers.71 What, the young AbdelAziz wonders, would the world be like without them and their lamps?72 The answer to this question comes at the end of the novel: it would be a world without purity and loving attachments, a world where the individual’s ‚afāʾ is routinely polluted by the material and political realities of economic deprivation, powerlessness and injustice. A world, in short, very much like that of the café scene that closes the novel. The last image that we have of Abdel-Aziz is that of a man who is ‘unlike men’, but only in the sense that he is as different from his father and his group of dervishes as the Sufi saints of legend were from ordinary human beings. The trajectory from Sufism to politics carries Abdel-Aziz from ‚afāʾ to anger, from fascination with his father’s world and the joyous ceremonies of the festival to lasting bitterness. Kassem uses a number of devices to narrate his protagonist’s increasing politicisation. Perhaps the most striking of these is the ironic chapter titles that structure the novel, all of which carry a double meaning – one is tempted to say an apparent (Õāhir) and a hidden (bā†in) meaning.73 The first chapter, Al-Óa∂ra, refers to both the ceremony of al-ªa∂ra and the presence (ªa∂ra) of Hagg Karim in the life of his son Abdel-Aziz. The second chapter title, Al-Khabīz, refers both to the baking of the bread in preparation for the mawlid and the sexual maturity of Abdel-Aziz and Samira. The third chapter, Al-Safar, refers to the metaphor of the spiritual journey, a staple of Sufi life, and to the voyage undertaken from the village to ˝an†ā, with a secondary signification referring to Abdel-Aziz’s – now a secondary school student – discovery of the world around him through travel. The fourth chapter, Al-Khidma, covers both the ritual service performed by the dervishes during their pilgrimage (feeding the poor, setting up dhikr ceremonies) and their treatment like slaves by the urban dwellers of ˝an†ā. The fifth chapter, Al-Layla Al-Kabīra, narrates the events of the ‘big night’, the climax of the mawlid, but at the same time it covers Abdel-Aziz’s outburst at his father and his fellow dervishes. The sixth, ‘Farewell’, refers both to the departure from ˝an†ā after the festival and to Hagg Karim’s advancing age and inevitable death. Finally, Al-˝arīq shows us the narrator as a grown man, his father dead and his father’s world derelict. We understand that he has come a long way since he was a child, but ironically he has now abandoned ‘the way’ (al-†arīq) of the Sufis. The seven

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‘days’ of Abdel-Aziz’s life are therefore symbolic of the seven ages that are represented in these chapters: from a childhood immersed in village life and that of the Sufis, to puberty, independence, rebellion, separation (and the concomitant sorrow), to the forging of a new path in life. But each of these seven days is marked by a dark undercurrent: the intimacy and ‚afāʾ of Sufi life set off against harsh economic and political realities. Neither the abandonment of the values of the dervishes nor the entry into the political is wholly absolute, however. Indeed, much of the novel is devoted precisely to the prevalence and persistence of the way of Hagg Karim until his death, while the narration of the café scene takes up a few pages. In this respect the novel narrates a political socialisation of an individual only seemingly at odds with the values of his family, but in reality informed and determined by them as he adopts the political creed that makes him an artist.74 The reader is thus faced not with a facile opposition between Sufism and politics, but with their dialectical interdependence as an engine that drives Kassem’s idiolect.75 The novel’s narrative style depends on the novel’s interlocking perspectives and interpenetrating voices.76 A number of events are narrated that could not possibly have been witnessed by AbdelAziz, whose Sufi-informed consciousness persists in the narrative voice that overtakes them.77 The constant oscillation between the viewpoints of AbdelAziz and the omniscient narrator underlines the hesitations and uncertainties (Who am I? What am I? Do I believe? What do I believe?) that come with the protagonist’s Bildung, as he goes from being the beloved (and loving) son of a devoted Sufi, to the educated sceptic who grows distant from his origins, to the angry young man who realises that his entire existence has been a lie. If we bear in mind that the novel was composed during Kassem’s first period of political imprisonment, we could read it as a critique of Sufism insofar as the latter excludes – and excludes its adherents from – the political, which, as we have seen, is of paramount importance for Kassem. That, however, would be to ignore the persistence of the Sufi sensibility and the love of Hagg Karim, both of which infuse the narrative right down to its last page. It is the Sufi sensibility and the constantly amazed consciousness of the opening chapter that make Abdel-Aziz’s growing awareness of socio-political realities possible. Far from abandoning the life of the saints, it is they who have abandoned him. At the end of the novel, Abdel-Aziz is in a state not unlike the exhausted

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and angry one of the dervishes that he describes in the opening chapter, and, like them, he may well benefit from the dhikr and the ªa∂ra, were it not for the fact that it is far too late for him: the baraka of the saints is long gone. The lines of force that shape Kassem’s pioneering narrative return in the following decades under the pen of Naguib Mahfouz and, most significantly, Gamal Al-Ghitany. Although the tendency in both Mahfouz’s and Al-Ghitany’s work is towards a narrative that recounts an increasing saintliness in a character’s life, or even the process by which a character becomes a Sufi or a saint, as opposed to Kassem’s unmaking of a Sufi world, there is no gainsaying the significance of The Seven Days of Man as an intertext. The lesson of this novel is that no easy separation of the mystical and the political is possible: both elements of Egyptian life must be reckoned with in any work of art that makes a claim to aesthetic and political commitment.

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1 Naguib Mahfouz: (En)chanting Justice

orn in 1911 in the Gamaliyya (Jamāliyya) neighbourhood of central Cairo, Naguib Mahfouz went on to become the foremost Arab novelist of the twentieth century and the only Arab recipient of the Nobel Prize for Literature, which he received in 1988. The sheer volume and variety of his literary output led Edward Said to describe Mahfouz as, ‘not only a Hugo and a Dickens, but also a Galsworthy, a Mann, a Zola and a Jules Romains’.1 A prolific writer, Mahfouz published some thirty-five novels, sixteen short-story collections, a handful of plays, several volumes of essays and newspaper articles, as well as some two dozen film scenarios before his death in 2006. Although most readers know him through the realist depictions of Cairene urban life that feature in such works as his Trilogy (1956–7), Mahfouz never stopped experimenting with different narrative styles and techniques throughout his career. Mahfouz has described his creative process as something that takes place when he experiences a split between himself and the society in which he lives, thereby underlining his extra-worldly status.2 This does not, however, make him an apolitical or quietist writer. His relentless exploration of questions relating justice to knowledge and art, as well as his constant pushing against the envelope of literary expression, make him one of the most important cases for the investigation of the links between Sufism and literary creativity. Readers of the first part of Mahfouz’s trilogy will remember the sad ending of Palace Walk (Bayn Al-Qa‚rayn, 1956): Al-Sayyid Ahmad Abd alJawad has the grim duty of telling his wife that their son, Fahmy, is dead, shot during an anti-British demonstration. As Sayyid Ahmad approaches his front door, he hears his youngest son, Kamal, singing Sayyid Darwīsh’s song, ‘Zūrūnī kull sana marra’ (‘Visit me once a year’). The refrain is the last line of the novel.

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The scene contains a number of noteworthy elements. First, and foremost, the song itself: a lyrical form that comes from beyond the immediate vicinity and addresses the situation like a musical accompaniment. Second, the fact that the song comments on a moment of injustice: Fahmy was protesting the British occupation of Egypt when he was shot. Finally, the character doing the singing is Kamal, the loneliest member of Sayyid Ahmad’s family who is most frequently identified with Mahfouz himself. Kamal is the outsider, the extra-worldly individual: his course through the Trilogy lurches from one moment of radical doubt to the other, seeing him lose faith in science, progress, religion, love and generally remaining at odds with the world’s values. Kamal represents the artist – the identification in the criticism about the novel between him and Naguib Mahfouz is not fortuitous. The artist lives outside the world and perceives what no one else can see. One of the ironies of ‘Zūrūnī’, is that it is a song that Fahmy himself (or his ghost) might sing, asking his family to visit his grave once a year. When Kamal sings this song, it is as if he knows about Fahmy’s death before Sayyid Ahmad announces it. Kamal’s extra-worldly location keeps him in touch with the transcendent Other, the source of inspiration – musical or literary – that acts as a source of knowledge, now understood as gnosis rather than science. In the rest of the Trilogy, Kamal is spurred by his predicament: it is important and inevitable that the world not contain him, that he connect with something beyond its human boundaries. Far from being an apolitical gesture, Kamal’s endless self-questioning is related to the issue of social and political justice. Kamal’s situation as an artist-outsider offers an important indicator regarding Mahfouz’s use of Sufism: it is the device that enables the Künstlerroman, narrating the artist’s Bildung, alienation and incompatibility with the social world. Mahfouz had a long-term interest in Sufism, having registered to complete a Master’s dissertation on the subject while he was at university.3 As Rasheed El-Enany points out, the Sufi as a character type occurs regularly in Mahfouz’s novels, usually as a means of exploring ‘in symbolic terms the absolute in the life of both the individual and society’.4 Frequently the Sufi – whether or not he is treated as a type – operates as a pole or a qu†b around whom the plot revolves. The presence of a character who acts as a pole seems to be a constant in Mahfouz’s novels, no matter how loose

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their engagement with Sufism might be. Among these we might mention Shaykh Ali Al-Junaydi in The Thief and the Dogs (1961), the enigmatic man with the white beard in Fountain and Tomb (1975), Ashur Al-Nagi in The Harafish (1977), Shaykh Abdullah Al-Balkhi in Arabian Nights and Days (1982), Akhenaten in Akhenaten: Dweller in Truth (1985), Shaykh Qāsim in Morning and Evening Talk (1987) and Shaykh Abd-Rabbih in Echoes of an Autobiography (1994). These poles are not mere protagonists; rather they act as a focal point for the plot of the novel in their presence and their absence. As Mahfouz’s career progresses, the equation between artist and Sufi generates a process whereby the novels trace a sort of sanctification, the becoming Sufi of the artist as a means of recovering a self under siege from social and political upheaval. Accordingly, the rest of this chapter will focus on those texts that bring out this dynamic in sharpest relief. Henri Bergson, whose thought had an extensive influence on the young Mahfouz, had much to say about art as a source of knowledge.5 In Le Rire, Bergson dwells on the ways in which art unblocks and reveals reality.6 Bergson underlines the importance of idealism (read: other-worldliness) in realism, a term often applied to Mahfouz (though in truth the realist moment was only part of his long and varied career). The revelation operated by art depends on evoking a sense of the immateriality of life. The realist aesthetic, for Bergson, is essentially idealist: we are only realistic – we only make contact with reality – when we are at our most idealistic. This idealist core in a realist wrapping is present throughout Mahfouz’s œuvre, not least in the case of Kamal and the other characters who resemble him, all of whom can be related to the equation between Sufism and art. In an early article, Mahfouz describes the artist as someone who cannot help but communicate his ideals and the glory of their source: ‘His chief attribute is that of the Sufi . . . And how can you ask the Sufi not to praise what he adores; [namely] that which communicates the secrets of the unknown to him?’7 Mu‚†afā ʿAbd Al-Ghanī describes Mahfouz’s conception of Sufism as a vector of desire with two dimensions spanning the space of moral values: the desire for an increase in love (ʿishq) and the desire for an increase in knowledge.8 ʿAbd Al-Ghanī quotes Mahfouz stating that his interest in Sufism grew out of a desire for knowledge, which he defines as ‘an awareness of the language (mufradāt) of life, and living it [. . .] as if you were to live forever’.9

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Mahfouz adds an important distinction between Sufism and the love of Sufism (ʿishq al-ta‚awwuf ), with a marked preference, indeed love, for the latter, not least because of its connection to social engagement: There is something called Sufism, and there is another thing, the love of Sufism . . . I am one of those who favour the other thing, the love of Sufism, that love whose demands are not too heavy and that does not distance me from social concerns [. . .] [Sufism] plays the leading role in society, and it is the role to which I grant my greatest care in all of my creative works [. . .] I reject the sort of Sufism that blinkers the mind and effaces individual qualities. My Sufism is that I care about human concerns and social issues.10

Furthermore, Mahfouz’s early articles repeatedly link Sufism and love to literature. Thus in an early article Mahfouz describes love as the thing that drives people towards poetry: if we are in love, ‘We would be wise [. . .] to seek the company of poets to listen to their lyrics; for God has granted them great emotional energy’.11 This desire for mystical desire, this love of mystical love, as a means towards learning the language of being and what it means to be alive, is at the heart of the Mahfouzian aesthetic. Now, Mahfouz’s understanding of this ‘love of Sufism’, or Sufism at a second remove, might seem to contradict our foregoing claims regarding the position of the outsider. This contradiction is resolved, however, if we bear in mind that Mahfouz applies the principle of individuality to Sufism itself. The sort of Sufism that he would support is not the stereotypical sort that abandons one world for another, but one that simply stands outside the world while remaining involved in its concerns and committed to what is right (and what is right often does not obtain in the world). Hence the exemplary status that he accords to Sayyid Aªmad Al-Badawī, the Sufi saint who was the object of popular veneration in The Seven Days of Man, for fighting alongside his people when they were in danger: One must respond to daily and popular concerns, rather than hiding within a Sufi fortress whose master claims that he has no relationship to everyday life. Al-Sayyid [Aªmad] Al-Badawī was one of the greatest Sufis; he joined the people and fought with them when he saw a threat to the entire Arabic

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population. In Sufism we always find a commitment to positive [i.e. socially just] values.12

The opposition between disengaged and politically committed Sufism is illustrated by the plot of a short story, ‘A Story without Beginning or End’ (‘Óikāya bilā Bidāya wa lā Nihāya’, 1971). The tale begins with a crisis in the Akramiyya order, which is coming under attack from what would otherwise be called a gang of neighbourhood youths, were it not for the remarkably learned tone of the debate between the leader of the gang, ʿAlī ʿUways, and the leader of the Akramiyya, Maªmūd Al-Akram. The terms of the debate revolve around that loaded term, ‘al-ªaqīqa’, which in Sufi literature is used to connote the reality that is realised after years of spiritual effort, a truth that transcends quotidian human concerns. Indeed, the progression along the Sufi path is often described as a tripartite process, taking the Sufi through the law (sharīʿa), the Sufi order or confraternity (†arīqa) and the higher reality that is revealed by the spiritual quest (ªaqīqa). For the younger, politically active generation featured in the story, however, the truth is synonymous with scientific, rational knowledge, and directly contradicts the claims and teachings of the †arīqa. The biggest lie in ʿAlī’s eyes is the claim that the †arīqa is a source of social and political good, bringing material wealth and status to the neighbourhood (al-ªāra), or as Maªmūd Al-Akram puts it, ‘Were it not for the Akramiyya your neighbourhood would be totally unknown, its people would be totally unimportant and without hope.’13 Later, in a discussion with ʿUways’s ‘sister’ Zaynab, he goes farther in asserting that the †arīqa’s benefits are individual as well as collective: ‘Thanks to our order even the lowest man in our neighbourhood believes that he is the origin and aim of all existence!’14 For the young men under ʿAlī ʿUways’s leadership, on the other hand, the †arīqa has done little more than enrich the Shaykh Maªmūd at the expense of the ªāra’s impoverished inhabitants, misleading them with false claims of love, belonging and asceticism in order to exploit them financially and psychologically. This revolutionary conflict turns out to be Oedipal as well as social, since it transpires that ʿAlī is, in fact, the Shaykh’s son by Zaynab. Things come to a head after he publishes a series of tracts revealing the origins of the Akramiyya order and its family secrets, including the fact that the founder (Maªmūd’s grandfather) had come to Egypt an impoverished

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criminal, and that his daughter had run away with a British officer. This history undermines the unity of the ªāra and the influence of the †arīqa until Shaykh Maªmūd, Zaynab and ʿAlī are reconciled and ready to face the future as a family. Mahfouz’s critique of the †arīqa’s hypocrisy is patent, but the terms of that critique are especially significant: the relationship between mysticism and social justice as expressed through the interaction between urban space (the ªāra) and mystical centre (the zāwiya that is home to the Akramiyya order). This opposition is a recurring feature in the Mahfouz canon, returning as the axis linking the ªāra to the takiyya that houses the dervishes in Fountain and Tomb and The Harafish.15 The fact that we are presented with a Sufi †arīqa that is deeply embedded in the ªāra’s social and economic affairs is significant: the laying bare of the family politics of the Akramiyya †arīqa upholds the image of the Sufi order as a means of social integration and a source of stability. Shaykh Maªmūd’s mistakes notwithstanding, Sufism can, and ought, to be a mechanism that addresses social inequities and establishes a fairer order. The Beggar (Al-Shaªªādh) The Beggar (1965) belongs to the series of novels that Mahfouz wrote in the 1960s, most of which centred on the failures of the 1952 revolution, as well as his increasing alienation from the society that was created in its wake.16 Whereas the prevailing ideological claim was that society was progressing and modernising along rational, secular and socialist lines, the reality was far more disturbing: there were oppression and injustice aplenty, with dissent barely tolerated and an increasing income gap that left Mahfouz wondering whether Egypt was moving towards socialism or neo-feudalism.17 The unfolding of the artist’s lonely, individual self at the nexus of knowledge, poetry and justice returns in The Beggar. Here a worldly man takes himself outside the world and loses himself in his unending dialogue with the Other who inspires him. The novel also features an important depiction of the fate of the left in Egypt through the lives of the protagonists, Omar, Mustafa and Othman, three left-wing activists who end up as a wealthy lawyer, a television journalist and a political prisoner, respectively. The novel begins with Omar’s mid-life crisis. He throws himself into an unrestrained

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quest for pleasure, abandoning his family to live with a cabaret dancer. Like Mustafa, he is haunted by the memory of Othman’s arrest and the guilt caused by his own prosperity while his friend languishes in prison. He is also troubled by the memory of his former activity as a poet, realising that his liaisons with dancers are a desperate attempt to reconnect with the source of inspiration that made it possible. One night near the pyramids Omar has an ecstatic experience that justifies his abandonment of his former life. The terms in which this experience is narrated, while not explicitly mystical, could conceivably be read as a Sufi experience. Omar’s trance sees the universe opening up around him, coming alive with visions and possibilities: He could not remember seeing anything like this before. Land and space disappeared. He stood lost in the black emptiness. He raised his head before his eyes were used to the darkness and saw in the huge vault thousands of stars, some in constellations and some alone [. . .] A change caught his eye. The darkness softened. A transparency ran through it. A line formed very slowly and started glowing with an amazing colour. A break or a perfume. Once ascertained, there came pulses of joy and luminosity and sleep. Suddenly his heart danced with intoxicated delight. Happiness invaded his fears and miseries. His eyes nearly jumped out of their sockets as his gaze looked forward to the joys of the light. He held his head up high and strong; he was overcome with an all-consuming, overwhelming mad ecstasy and a rhythm that made all the creatures in the four corners of the world dance.18

Mahfouz’s account of this trance describes the opening up of physical space to make room for the advent of the Other that inspires Omar. The combination of cosmic unity with overwhelming, unsuspected joy, leads Omar to conclude: ‘This is bliss [. . .] Certainty without argument or logic [. . .] The breath of the unknown and the whisper of the secret [. . .] Isn’t it worth abandoning everything else for this?’19 Once again, opening up to the Other creates the moment of union, which union creates gnosis and art, both of which place the seeker outside the world. Even after Omar learns that his wife gave birth to a son on the night of the cosmic vision, nothing will stop his quest for the communion. At one point during the discussion about this decision with his friends, Othman asks

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him what if all the sane people in the world followed his example, to which he responds simply, ‘let the world keep them’: his place is outside the world.20 Large sections of the last part of the novel are narrated in the second person, as if Mahfouz wanted to convey Omar’s final union with the Other.21 We read several dream visions experienced by Omar, each ending with the same refrain: ‘How is it that I think about you during all my waking hours only to have my sleep disturbed by desires?’22 The question underlines Omar’s amazement by the depth of his desire for the Other. His absorption in this state is such that he fails to comprehend what is happening when Othman shows up at his rural home, having aroused the wrath of the authorities with his renewed political activity and married Omar’s daughter Buthayna, thinking it all another vision. The end of the novel, in which Othman is carried off to prison in the same car that takes Omar to the hospital, emphasises the completion of the ascetic’s exchange; he has not only given up his social position, with all of the rights and duties that it implies, in favour of his extra-social status, but he no longer understands how the social hierarchy functions. The last line of the novel underlines his sense of loss and confusion: ‘If you really desired me why did you abandon me?’23 The full force of this question – why compromise with the world when what you really want lies beyond it? – haunts the Sufis, and artists, of Mahfouz’s œuvre.24 The ending of The Beggar opposes Omar’s obstinate rejection of the world, since it cannot solve any of society’s ills. The truth that Omar so desperately desires, and the telos of the erstwhile struggle that he shared with Othman and Mustafa, can only be sought in the world. The future belongs to the unborn child of Othman and Buthayna, who embodies the union of political commitment, knowledge and art, as the only synthesis that can tackle the social failures of Egypt and fulfil the promise of the 1952 revolution.25 Fountain and Tomb (Óikāyāt Óāratinā) By the time Mahfouz published Fountain and Tomb in 1975, Egypt had changed significantly. Under the presidency of Anwar Al-Sadat, the economy was liberalised and foreign policy oriented towards the American sphere of influence. The negotiations that would culminate in the signing of the Camp David Peace Treaty with Israel were well under way. Such profound changes in all that Egypt stood for during the presidency of Gamal Abd El-Nasser

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returned Mahfouz to a familiar place: pondering the division between himself and society. The literary form that accompanies this moment is the one that Rasheed El-Enany calls ‘episodic’; using episodes, character sketches and fragments to create longer novels. It is perhaps no accident that two of these episodic novels, Mirrors (Al-Marāyā, 1972) and Fountain and Tomb carry a strong autobiographical flavour, as if Mahfouz were shoring up fragments of himself against the onslaught of time and political change. The story that opens this collection narrates a vision during the protagonist’s (and first person narrator’s) childhood. The plot begins near the takiyya, which houses the local dervishes. The narrator and his friends play and chant for the dervishes when they see them (‘Long live the dervish’). One day, he sees, or thinks he sees, a dervish with extraordinary features: A dervish but quite unlike any of the ones I had seen before: very old, very tall, his face a lake of light, wearing a green cape and a white turban, with a grandeur far exceeding anything that my imagination could conceive. I stared so hard that I was drunk with the light that radiated from him and he seemed to fill the entire universe.26

The child tells the dervish that he likes mulberries (al-tūt), to which the dervish responds by uttering a foreign nonsensical formula. The narrator then imagines that he sees the dervish throw a berry towards him, but when he bends over to pick it up he finds nothing. Once he stands up again he sees that the dervish has disappeared. The child’s father tells him that what he saw was a vision of the Great Shaykh (al-shaykh al-kabīr; another allusion to Ibn ʿArabī, Al-Shaykh Al-Akbar, ‘the Greatest Shaykh’), who hardly ever comes out of isolation. He also tells him not to repeat the strange chant that the Shaykh said to him. Later in life the narrator asks himself whether he really saw the Great Shaykh that day, since he never saw him again. The closing lines of the tale sum up its significance: ‘Thus I created a legend and thus I destroyed it. But the alleged memory of the shaykh settled deep inside me like a memory full of sweetness. And I am still madly in love with mulberries.’27 While the tale could rightly be, and has indeed been, read as a narration of the experience of seeing God or encountering God,28 the narrator’s claim to have created and then destroyed the legend emphasises the link between the mystical experience and literary creation: the desire to see God sets the

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process of writing stories in motion. So powerful is the experience that, whether or not it has taken place, it has created an unshakeable memory in the narrator’s mind, one bound up with his physical desire (he is literally ‘set aflame’ by mulberries; the exaggerated idiom echoes the equivalence between taste and gnosis in Sufi vocabulary)29 and his ability to write. In effect, the intangible gift that the Great Shaykh gives the narrator is the peculiar language of literature, as represented by the nonsense phrase that the narrator learns immediately and repeats.30 At the end of Fountain and Tomb the narrator returns to this incident at the remove of several years. In a discussion with a family friend and voice of reason, Shaykh Omar, he learns that many other people claim to have seen the Great Shaykh, though none can agree on a description of his appearance.31 Furthermore, the Shaykh Omar himself had tried to catch a glimpse of the Great Shaykh, but the dervishes at the takiyya were ‘troubled’ by his request. He concludes that it is logically impossible to see him: ‘Reason confirms a truth on which we can all agree; namely that we see the dervishes and the takiyya but do not see the Great Shaykh.’32 Shaykh Omar adds that the narrator’s desire to ascertain the Great Shaykh’s existence is something that can only be realised using ‘illegal’ methods.33 The fact that the Great Shaykh is inaccessible to reason and sense perception, neither of which is sufficient to disprove his existence, reinforces the identification between him and God. The debate effectively vindicates the reality of the mystical experience, which can neither be denied nor repeated. What can be repeated, but is insufficient to explain the Great Shaykh phenomenon, is logical argument. In response to the narrator’s question as to why the takiyya’s doors are always locked, Shaykh Omar reiterates the logic of social isolation and asceticism that defines the Sufi space because that is all he can do, in much the same way that the only thing that can be discussed in language is the material manifestation of institutions oriented towards the other-worldly, while that other-worldly space itself remains inaccessible to language and vision: The takiyya was originally built in an empty space because they [the dervishes] call for isolation and withdrawal from the world and its people. As time passed, however, the buildings spread towards them and surrounded

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them with the living and the dead, so they shut the doors as a desperate means of realizing isolation.34

This last tale might be read as an intellectual coming of age, concluding, like the early Wittgenstein, that whereof one cannot speak, thereof must one be silent.35 While one cannot speak of the Great Shaykh in terms of logical reason or explanation, the narrative still leaves room for the knowledge and certainty produced by the mystical experience (insight/ba‚īra).36 Indeed, the very existence of the narrative bears witness to the reality of the Great Shaykh and his impact on the narrator’s life: if physical means are insufficient to ‘prove’ the Great Shaykh’s existence, literary ones might do so. As the narrator admits, he has not found the courage to ‘disobey the law’ preventing him from trying to see the Great Shaykh, but nor can he imagine the takiyya – the worldly manifestation of spirituality – without the Great Shaykh: there is more to the presence of the Other than a physical structure. The last sentence of the tale describes his repeated returns to the takiyya, and his attempts at reliving the mystical vision that inspired the narrative that he has just completed.37 The Harafish (Malªamat Al-Óarāfīsh) The Harafish is by far the most accomplished of the episodic novels, and an outstanding example of Mahfouz’s gifts as a writer. Here the question of the Sufi outsider, torn between questions of worldly social justice and transcendental aesthetic ones, is further consolidated. An epic narrative that recounts the lives of Ashur Al-Nagi and his descendants, The Harafish is also a story about the acquisition, loss and recovery of the relationship with the divine Other. This relationship is encoded in manifold ways, the most important of which is the link between spirituality – read: Sufism – and social justice. The relation is encapsulated by the idea of futuwwa, a proletarian and spiritual knighthood of sorts. The term futuwwa has a long history, both mystical and social. It features prominently in multiple texts by the Sufi hagiographer Al-Sulamī (942–1021), notably his Book of Futuwwa (Kitāb Al-Futuwwa) and Epistle on the Malāmatiyya Order (Risālat Al-Malāmatiyya), as well as Al-Qushayrī’s Epistle and several others.38 Of the many definitions and qualities associated with futuwwa, perhaps the most important for our purposes is that of the philosopher and Sufi Al-Óārith Al-Muªāsibī (d. 857): ‘Futuwwa is being fair to

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others while not demanding fairness for yourself.’39 In The Harafish, the term is used as a synthesis of physical, social and spiritual force: extraordinary strength coupled with a capacity for self-abnegation and a selfless dedication to justice. Mahfouz thus recalls the historical association between futuwwa and both working-class and criminal elements in urban Egyptian society.40 The vision of history at work in this society involves a deep investment in the apocalyptic arrival of social justice that will liberate this proletariat from the many crises that afflict their lives; an arrival that is proclaimed and described in legend and song.41 Hence Mahfouz’s description of The Harafish as an epic (malªama) and the key part played by Sufi chanting in the novel. The plot revolves around the two key Mahfouzian loci, the ªāra (the quarter, the neighbourhood) and the takiyya. The latter location operates as a narrative black box, a space that no one actually enters but that consistently produces information about the characters and their lives in the form of the anāshīd, the chants, furnished by verses from the Persian lyric poet Hafez (ÓāfiÕ) Shīrāzī (c. 1325–90), providing a choral accompaniment to the novel. Mahfouz makes a point of leaving the verses untranslated, thereby adding to the impact of their alterity.42 Like the song ‘Zūrūnī’ in Palace Walk, the verses are the sound of the Other, coming from a place beyond the world, conveying knowledge and solace to those who hear them. At the same time, those who hear them, the children of the Al-Nagi dynasty, are locked in a struggle for social justice, with varying results and outcomes. Like Kamal and Omar, Ashur Al-Nagi is an outsider, a foundling. His story is punctuated by invocations of his isolation, the first of which occurs when he takes leave of his adoptive mother and quickly feels that he lives in a world without people.43 At the same time, however, this empty space is filled with something else: He felt the emptiness overtaking everything, that he wanted to climb the rays of the sun, to dissolve in a dewdrop, to ride the wind as it blew through the cellar, but a voice from his innermost self told him that when emptiness occupies the earth it fills up with the emanations of the Most Merciful, the One endowed with Majesty.44

The sense of cosmic unity and connection with the divine Other in this passage marks a return to the scene where the reader first encounters Ashur, ‘in

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the dawn’s desirous darkness, in the passage between life and death, within sight of the vigilant stars, within earshot of the strange, jubilant chants’.45 These places where heaven and earth communicate and where binary opposites meet are the privileged locus of access to the Other. Ashur’s clash with his adoptive brother Darwish is the clash between art and violence: Darwish turns to violence despite having been brought up in a home where, as his father Afra puts it, ‘the service of the Qurʾān is the source of honour and majesty’.46 The reference to the text of the Qurʾān underlines the fact that Darwish is incapable of making room for the sounds and words of the wholly Other, whence his deprivation of blessing and his readiness for mendacity and barbarism. Ashur, on the other hand, belongs to the community of those who have ears to hear. Even at his loneliest, when Darwish refuses to help him, Ashur passes by the takiyya and tells himself that he has innumerable brothers in the world, whereupon he hears the opening verses of Hafez’s Ghazal 12: ‘Oh! The radiance of the moonlight that reflects your shining face! / And the renowned beauty that radiates from your dimpled chin!’47 The verses remind Ashur of the beauty of the extra-worldly location, beyond the violent, selfish world of Darwish and his followers. This beauty repeatedly pulls Ashur away from that world and towards salvation. The most significant phase of this trajectory outside the social world comes when Ashur abandons the plague-struck ªāra to seek salvation for himself and his family. This, too, is a departure in response to a divine message, namely a dream wherein he sees his father beckoning him towards the mountain. As he leaves the ªāra, his cart passes by the takiyya where they hear the start of Ghazal 76: ‘I have no shelter in the world but your doorstep / And no fortress in the world but your door.’48 Accordingly, Ashur takes his family outside the world to the place of shelter, the mountain that lies outside the city limits and constitutes the doorstep of the space of the divine. As they approach it, the description reflects Ashur’s spiritual state: The darkness dissolves in pink water and worlds are revealed in heaven and on earth. It emits amazing, intersecting colours until the horizon is painted a pure, joyous red whose edges disappear into the transparent blue dome. The first dew-rinsed ray appeared behind it. And the mountain came into view, towering, solid, immovable, indifferent.49

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Having reached the foot of the mountain – the doorstep that is his shelter – Ashur echoes Ghazal 76: ‘The journey has ended [. . .] the journey has begun!’50 The end of the spatial journey translates into the beginning of the spiritual adventure.51 For the rest of the novel Ashur operates as a Sufi saint and a pole – a waliyy and a qu†b – around whom the plot revolves. Every subsequent generation attempts to revive his spiritual might and acquire the blessings that enabled him to save himself and his family from the plague. The mechanism at the heart of The Harafish is the synthesis of Sufism and the quest for social justice: the charismatic blessing (baraka) of the Al-Nagi clan is the phenomenon that obtains when their championing of social justice works hand in hand with the sounds and visions that come from beyond. Any failure of synthesis – be it to heed the call of the takiyya or the cause of justice – results in a withdrawal of this blessing, leading to a world of hatred, devoid of love, that imprisons its inhabitants. This is perhaps most vividly seen in the story of Rummanah and Raifah, two of the most unpleasant characters in the novel, who end up living in an inferno of loveless boredom. Other moments document the distress of Ashur’s children as the wholly Other drifts away, taking inspiration and baraka with it. As Shams Al-Din, Ashur’s son and successor, feels the weight of old age and his increasing loss of control over himself, his family and his ªāra, he hears the opening verses of Ghazal 2: ‘Where is my broken self from righteousness and good counsel? / Look how the path goes, from where to where.’52 Years later, as Khidr sits and reflects in the shadow of the takiyya on what the Al-Nagi children have become, having erred in their ways and chosen mere thuggishness (baltaga) over true chivalry (futuwwa), he wonders why Ashur alone received the blessed vision. As he does so, he hears Ghazal 196 resonate with his solitary dismay: ‘Those who turn dust to gold with the gaze of alchemy / Could they but revive my hopes with one look of their eyes?’53 The operation of the ghazals in the story of Samaha the outcast is especially poignant. Samaha’s is a life of perpetual exile with no hope of redemption, an endless quest for justice that invariably finds unfairness and social inequity. Samaha gives in when he learns that his boss, Al-Fullali, wants to marry Mehallabiyya, his own fiancée. As he wanders through the dark alleys the chanting in the takiyya bespeaks his anxious loneliness: ‘Now the only loyal, honest friends without defect /

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Are a goblet of pure wine, and a book of ghazals.’54 The irony, of course, is that no such friend exists for Samaha at this point: his patron has taken the woman he loves, and once Mehallabiyya is mysteriously murdered he feels that he is left with no option but to leave the ªāra. This will turn out to be a mistake: as the end of his story will make clear, he would have fared better had he stayed close to the takiyya, the source of the ghazals in that verse. Samaha returns many years later, but leaves a second time for supposedly killing a man, though it later transpires that his putative victim has survived. The verses that he hears express his distress at his perpetual abandonment by the same forces that blessed his ancestor Ashur (Ghazal 96): ‘Help! There is no cure for our pain / Help! There is no end to His abandonment [hajr] of us!’55 When Samaha returns for the last time, older still and blind, to the ªāra, he seeks the space of the takiyya as a locus of proximity to his forebears and their baraka, filled and consoled by the sound of Ghazal 122: ‘Whoever regards and keeps to the people of God / God preserves from calamity.’56 The only safe place for the outcast, the extra-worldly individual, is near the ‘people of God’ who are housed and buried in the takiyya. The meaning behind the allusion to Ghazal 122 is clear: blessings only come to those who are true to the way of the takiyya rather than the code of violent thugs. For all the oblique modes of communication between the characters and the takiyya chants, there are instances where visions respond directly to a character’s demands. We have already seen Ashur find salvation, physical and metaphysical, after his dream of his father pointing to the mountain. When Samaha’s son Wahid wonders why his uncle’s killer is a free man, he has a dream that combines a number of elements of Sufi lore and history.57 In his dream, a dervish tells him that ‘The Greatest Shaykh [Al-Shaykh Al-Akbar, i.e. Ibn ʿArabī] informs you that the universe was created yesterday at dawn’ – an allusion to Ibn ʿArabī’s doctrine of the perpetual re-creation of the cosmos.58 Wahid is then transported to a red mountain; a probable allusion to the ‘red sulphur’ that designates, in Ibn ʿArabī’s idiom, the excellence of a spiritual level attained by a saint or a seeker.59 Here a giant tells him that he, Wahid, is Ashur, and anoints his arm, thereby making it seem that he has inherited his forebear’s blessing and strength. Although the dream seems to work for a while, Wahid’s immoderate desires prove to be a serious problem that contradicts the asceticism that was the source of Ashur Al-Nagi’s salvation.

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This contradiction also operates on the level of the dream text: Ibn ʿArabī’s doctrine of perpetual re-creation implies that there is no repetition in the universe, whence the impossibility of Wahid actually ‘being’ Ashur. As the plot makes clear, he is not. As his name makes clear, Wahid is alone, having failed to connect his worldly strength with extra-worldly values. Direct communication in the space of the takiyya recurs in later generations. When Galal’s beloved Qamar dies, he wanders back to the takiyya and asks, ‘Does your neighbour have no rights?’, to which the chants respond with a reminder of the inevitability of mortality: ‘At dawn a bird spoke to the rose and said / Do not be so arrogant, in this garden many like you have blossomed.’60 The message is conveyed once again in clear terms a few days later when the shaykh of the takiyya, Khalil Dahshan, reminds him of the fact that every mortal must die.61 This is, of course, the lesson that Galal refuses to acknowledge ever since his earliest days in the kuttāb, where he questions Q3:185 (‘Every soul will taste death’) and is consequently beaten in punishment by his teacher.62 Galal’s error is using his individuality, his strength, his direct contact with the takiyya and, eventually, the jinn to try to conquer death; a project that fails to acknowledge the limits of his own humanity and the powers of the Almighty. Like Wahid, Galal is doomed by hubris. The spiritual failings and vicissitudes of nine generations culminate in the story of the second Ashur (henceforth Ashur II), who succeeds in reviving his namesake’s power and legacy. His tale combines incidents of direct communication with the wholly Other through dreams and lyrics with a staunch asceticism and an ability to realise social victory by self-overcoming. Ashur II revives the futuwwa tradition by reinscribing it in a legal framework: all of the members of the harafish guild now have to work for a living, rather than imposing themselves on the community through force alone, while the merchant class supports them and the community through the itāwa taxes. Unlike many of his predecessors, Ashur II’s loves are circumscribed within the triangle of human beauty, the takiyya and his family’s ‘real’ glory (as opposed to false glory gained through a lust for money and violence).63 Like his predecessors, Ashur II is in direct contact with the lyrics of the takiyya, though unlike them he is rewarded with a vision of the return of the vanished saint, Ashur I. Ashur II stays in touch with Ashur I through the takiyya. When he learns of his mother’s humiliation by her employers, he cries in the

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courtyard of the takiyya, ‘Oh my grandfather I am in such pain!’, a sentiment echoed in the lyrics of Ghazal 38: ‘Without the light of your cheek, there is no light left for my day / And nothing of my life remains, except the dark night.’64 After his older brother Faiz’s suicide and his other brother Diya’s decision to seek his fortune elsewhere, Ashur II returns to the takiyya to question its inhabitants. His questions summarise the plot of the novel and the fate of the Al-Nagi clan: Do God’s men not care about what happens to God’s people? [. . .] Until when will our community suffer and be humiliated? Why do the criminal and selfish prosper? Why do the kind and loving fail? Why are the harafish trapped in endless slumber?65

To which the ‘men of God’ respond with a couplet that narrates the sense of betrayal and disappointment from Ghazal 78: ‘You saw that my lover had nothing but the desire for violence and tyranny / He broke the promise, and, because of our grief, did not grieve.’66 Once Ashur II has accomplished his revolution, reconstituted the ªāra on a sound footing and, as Mahfouz puts it, ‘overcome himself’, the novel ends, as it began, near the takiyya. Ashur II ‘realises why the takiyya’s doors remained closed’:67 they were waiting for the cycle of generations to be complete and for Ashur II to repair the world of the ªāra. The novel ends with a vision of the doors opening at last, and a dervish announcing the return of Ashur Al-Nagi from his long isolation. This second coming of Ashur Al-Nagi makes the world whole again. The novel ends, as it began, with the moment of enchantment, communion and song with the wholly Other, as expressed in Ghazal 183, where Hafez remembers the moment of his initiation into Sufism and gnosis: ‘Last night, at dawn, they saved me from all my cares / And in the darkness of the night they gave me the water of life.’68 Like Ashur I’s journey to the mountain and salvation, the end of the novel is the beginning of a spiritual adventure that resynthesises Sufism and justice. Arabian Nights and Days (Layālī Alf Layla) The global wave of political and religious conservatism that swept across the world in the 1980s hit Egypt especially hard. The rising influence of the Islamic Republic of Iran after 1979, the assassination of Sadat by Islamist

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extremist Khaled El-Islambouly in 1981, and the combined efforts of the USA and Saudi Arabia to back the mujahideen forces in Afghanistan, coupled with the rising chorus of domestic voices critical of Egypt as an ‘infidel’ state and calling for the implementation of sharīʿa law, left many wondering whether there could be a future for the secular values of the 1960s, or even for Egypt’s Christian population.69 Eventually, these forces would catch up with Mahfouz himself: death threats followed his signing a petition opposing Khomeini’s fatwa against Salman Rushdie in 1989, and in 1994 there was an attempt on his life by a member of the Al-Gamaʿa Al-Islamiyya, an extremist group whose leader accused Mahfouz of blasphemy in his novel Children of the Alley (Awlād Óāratinā, 1959). Two of the novels that Mahfouz wrote in the 1980s deal with questions of monotheism, though this is undertaken in a manner that deliberately complicates the blinkered ideas that were spreading rapidly at the time: Arabian Nights and Days, which was published in the year following the Sadat assassination, and Akhenaten: Dweller in Truth. In both of these texts we see Mahfouz opening up the idea of belief to tackle the questions of creativity and justice that run through his œuvre, deliberately drawing on the rich cultural past of Egypt and the Muslim world to remind his readers that there is more to Islam and monotheism than their extreme varieties. Although often read as yet another commentary on the socio-political state of the Arab world, Mahfouz’s reappropriation of the One Thousand and One Nights deals almost exclusively with the relationship between Sufism and the individual’s place in the world. This one novel contains more frequent and extensive allusions to Sufi texts (specifically Al-Qushayrī’s Epistle on Sufism and Al-Sulamī’s Lives of the Sufis [˝abaqāt Al-Íūfiyya]) than any other in the Mahfouz canon. This is not to say that questions of creativity and justice are irrelevant here, but rather that the use of Sufism in Arabian Nights and Days cannot be overlooked, nor should it be read as a text that subordinates the search for justice to an ambiguous quietism.70 If anything, the novel makes the case that everyone, even a bloodthirsty ruler like Shahryar, has the capacity to embark on the mystical path and become a saint. The opening pages echo those of The Harafish: once again, the night is at its darkest and dawn is about to break; once again, a character is about to be born (or reborn). This is the morning after Shahrazad’s endless storytelling

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to stave off certain death at Shahryar’s command. A new story is beginning that will take Shahryar away from Shahrazad and towards the spiritual spaces of the wholly Other. Nor is Shahryar alone in this: the becoming-saint, or becoming-waliyy, dynamic of Arabian Days and Nights is experienced by most of its characters. Predictably, the axis around which these spiritual journeys revolve is the personality of Shaykh Balkhi, whose utterances drive the plot.71 He is first presented to us through a conversation with his friend, the physician, Abdul Qadir Al-Maheeni. Shaykh Balkhi opposes aphoristic pronouncements to the physician’s rationalist position. In a moment of selfreflection he says, ‘A pure soul could save an entire nation.’72 The pure soul is, of course, his own, and over the course of the novel most of the characters will be driven towards the Sufi path thanks to the Shaykh’s intervention. This does not mean, however, that the Shaykh is endowed with magical powers. On the contrary, he seems to be the only character that is totally removed from the extraordinary fates that befall the others: he is not harassed by evil spirits and is capable of standing his ground against the oppressive authorities. Emotionally, the Shaykh is at some remove from the turmoil that surrounds him: ‘Thank God, joy does not alleviate me, nor does sadness touch me’, he says.73 The source of the Shaykh’s influence is twofold: his status as the master of the zawiya and the fact that he runs a school there. Among his students, Gamasa Al-Bulti is one of the most intriguing and deserves a detailed examination. We first meet Gamasa as the corrupt chief of police who arrests his friend Sanaan Al-Gamali. It soon becomes clear, however, that any objective standard of guilt is a secondary consideration for Gamasa, whose real job is the protection of his superiors. A chance encounter with the jinn Singam whom he liberates forces Gamasa to change. Gamasa tries to justify his behaviour with the claim that he lives in the ‘real’ world, the human world, the world of people.74 Gamasa realises just what this means: the abandonment of all his personal values for the sake of survival. When Singam asks the obligatory question that every liberated jinn asks of his liberator (‘What do you want?’), Gamasa responds, ‘To destroy criminals and rule the nation with purity and justice.’75 Gamasa’s wish comes true eventually: he does destroy criminals and does end up ruling the nation with ‘purity and justice’, though this is brought about through the hard path of murder, execution and resurrection. Far

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from ruling the nation by being magically transformed into a Sultan himself, Gamasa receives a summons from the governor, who is dissatisfied with him. In his consternation, Gamasa consults Shaykh Balkhi, who advises him to act for the sake of God alone rather than any other motive.76 This principle drives Gamasa to kill the governor Khalil Al-Hamadhani. After (or rather during) his execution, Gamasa is resurrected, metamorphosed into the mad Abdullah the Porter (Al-Óammāl). We would not be far wrong in reading an individualist inflection into this name – Gamasa has now become a simple one among many Muslims, a mere one ‘servant of God’. In this new capacity he circulates within ‘the world of humanity’ (dunya al-bashar) but secretly remains outside it, fully aware that he is Gamasa Al-Bulti in a new guise. He is now an extra-worldly individual recirculated within the world, thanks to the unwitting cooperation between Shaykh Balkhi and Singam. Initially this new, ‘mad’ Abdullah the Porter, alias Gamasa II, sets about ruthlessly getting rid of the new security apparatus, which is every bit as corrupt as its predecessor, and patiently building a new one. Although everyone refers to him as ‘the madman’, his insight and skill are universally recognised. It is as though the proper (pure, just) way of being a chief of police were being the mad Abdullah the Porter. Gamasa’s removal from the world starts him on the path to sainthood. In an early exchange at Shahryar’s court, Dandan opines that ‘he [Gamasa] is a mere madman, but he has a secret that should be taken seriously and so he should be left alone; every kingdom has a group of such men who play a part in its divine protection’.77 And indeed Abdullah the Porter proceeds like a man with a plan; one so complex that at one point a water-spirit, Abdullah Al-Bahri, asks him why he does not do more to reveal the actions of the wicked. The madman’s response – ‘I felt pity for the populace were it to wake up one morning to find itself with no sultan, no vizier, no governor, no keeper of secrets or policemen, and thereby falling prey to the strongest of the evil men’78 – indicates a strategic approach to state governance. Both of these statements further emphasise the madman’s status as a saint, and a member of the secret saintly hierarchy, spanning the range from individual murīd to qu†b, that guards the world and maintains justice.79 The madman is finally renamed Abdullah Al-Aqil (Abdullah the Sane) and appointed chief of police under the governorship of the fair and just Ma’rouf the Cobbler. Thus Gamasa’s desire to rule ‘with purity and justice’ comes true.

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Gamasa’s story ends well, but other instances of becoming-saint occur in a more melancholic register. Sindbad returns from his travels with tales galore and a sharp set of proto-Cartesian methodologies for dealing with life’s philosophical questions, such as the distinction between true and false, illusion and reality, good and evil. So extensive is Sindbad’s rational arsenal, that he is invited to regale Shahryar’s court with its details. He is aware that something is missing, however: he has a dream in which he sees the mythical roc and finds himself longing for the sea again, as if he had received an invitation ‘from beyond the ocean’.80 Like all those who feel lost in the novel, he consults Shaykh Balkhi. The Shaykh’s response relies heavily on Sufi aphorisms and verse,81 informing Sindbad that he will not attain what he wants until he commits to the suffering of the ascetic rather than the wealth and comfort he thought he would find upon coming home. The conversation proceeds with Sindbad pleading the limits of his capacity for modest devotion rather than spiritual transport, while Shaykh Balkhi unfailingly finds a quote from a Sufi to persuade him to think again. The Shaykh’s last word of advice to Sindbad urges him to save himself from himself, which only leaves Sindbad perplexed. Finally the Shaykh’s friend, Abdul Qadir Al-Maheeni, explains the problem: No-one flew the roc before you. And what did you do? You left it at the first chance for the brilliance of the diamond [. . .] The roc is a bird that flies from unknown world to unknown world, and leaps from the summit of Waq to the peak of Qaf. Do not settle for any [material] thing, for this is the will of the Most Majestic.82

Sindbad, who had left the roc when he discovered a diamond mine and a safe shore, is struck by the revelation: he has traded spiritual fulfilment for comfort and safety. The call that he hears ‘from beyond the sea’ is, in fact, his understanding that his journey is not yet complete, and that he must take to the seas again to reach the place that names the end of the Sufi’s quest, Mount Qaf. Thanks to Shaykh Balkhi, Sindbad is on his way to becoming a saint through his maritime being: as he himself recognises, he is one of ‘the people of the sea and the tide . . .’83 rather than the people of heaven. And it is by going on being a man of the sea, rather than a comfortable businessman on land, that he approaches heaven.

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Perhaps the darkest tale of sanctification is that of Aladdin, a young man caught between the familiar opposition between political violence and Sufism/love – a dilemma neatly encapsulated in Shaykh Balkhi’s frequently quoted line, ‘There is a way for the sword and a way for love . . .’84 – and who ends up being engaged to the Shaykh’s daughter, and then executed on false charges. In the immediate context of the novel, the Shaykh says these words to imply that Aladdin is nothing like his friend Fadil Sanaan, who dreams of a violent vindication of his father’s unjust death and meets an appropriately violent end. Aladdin best embodies the full extent of the possibilities offered by the Shaykh’s principle that every person must follow his or her own path to the very end, and that it is only by following this path that fulfilment will come. Earlier in the novel, the Shaykh had classified his students into three categories: there are those who learn the basics and roam the earth looking for a living, then there are those who learn more and assume positions of responsibility, and finally there are the select few who keep going until they reach what he calls ‘the station of love’: the acme of the Sufi path.85 In another conversation with Nur Al-Din, the Shaykh exposes another point of view: that it is possible to be alive, and to be with one’s beloved, and yet to be deprived of being, not through death but through death-in-life, through a life that is less than fulfilled. Both of these principles are at work in the story of Aladdin: he persists on the path to its very end, and dies fulfilled. The Shaykh’s teachings emphasise authenticity and remaining true to oneself as a means to fulfilment with the understanding that no one is so liberated by this authenticity that they can escape God’s decree or his own desire. As he tells Aladdin, ‘Do not come to me unless you are propelled by an irresistible desire!’86 The Shaykh initiates Aladdin through a conversation that, like the one he holds with Sindbad, exploits Al-Qushayrī’s Epistle and Al-Sulamī’s ˝abaqāt. The Shaykh’s lessons emphasise the values of asceticism and devotion to nothing other than God as a means of diverting Aladdin from his hidden anger and confusion. Thus: ‘He who has been blessed with three times three things has been saved from evil: An empty stomach with a satisfied heart, constant poverty with ever-present renunciation, and total patience with enduring remembrance [of God].’87 During one of Aladdin’s visits to the Shaykh’s house, the latter invites his student to listen to his daughter singing the following verses:

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My night has turned to dawn thanks to your face, While its shadow goes forth among people, They are enveloped in darkness, While we roam in the bright light of day.88

Al-Qushayrī uses this poem to illustrate the impact of the Sufi master on his followers – the master’s spiritual excellence outshines the knowledge and understanding of those who make their way to God by argumentative reasoning. Shaykh Balkhi, on the other hand, uses it to draw Aladdin into his world, and to propose marriage on behalf of his daughter Zubeida. When the young man hesitates due to his poverty, the Shaykh responds with more Sufi lore emphasising the virtues of modesty.89 After the short-lived marriage of Zubeida and Aladdin and the latter’s sad end, the Shaykh tries to ease his widowed daughter’s pain with a parable from Al-Qushayrī’s Epistle.90 In this story, which Al-Qushayrī uses to illustrate the principle of tawakkul or trusting in God alone, a Sufi traveller (Abū Óamza Al-Khurasānī) falls into a deep pit, which is then covered over by someone unaware of his existence. The traveller does not call for help, as he is committed to relying only on God. That night a lion uncovers the pit and lowers its leg, thereby enabling the traveller to emerge. Upon doing so he hears a voice calling to him saying, ‘Abū Óamza, isn’t this better? I have saved you from one destruction with another.’91 In Mahfouz’s novel Al-Qushayrī’s text is shortened, and the lion is replaced with a dragon, and the last line is changed to, ‘I have saved you from death with death.’92 The moral of the story emphasises Shaykh Balkhi’s previous teachings about living an authentic life: had Aladdin followed the path of the sword like Fadil Sanaan, he would have lived, but he would have led a violent, unjust life. Similarly, had the Shaykh’s daughter Zubeida married the man that she rejected – the son of the new chief of police, Habazlam Bazaza (whose first name could be interpreted as meaning ‘lover of injustice’) – she, too, would have led an unjust life. By taking a risk and agreeing to marry Aladdin, she avoided living the unfair, inauthentic existence that the Shaykh had earlier described to Gamasa Al-Bulti. By acting on their desires, Aladdin and Zubeida have been saved from the death-in-life that mars the life of those who do not follow ‘the way of love’. The final chapter narrates the becoming-saint of the Sultan, who joins

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the community of ‘those who cry’. Before this stage of the novel, the Sultan has not only abandoned his bloodthirsty tendencies and righted all the wrongs that have been narrated in the novel, but has also realised that Shahrazad could not possibly love him because of that past. Once again, the path of justice and authenticity proves to be a hard one, but the Sultan follows it all the same. On one of his nocturnal meanderings the Sultan finds a group of men crying around a large boulder. Upon closer inspection, the Sultan realises that the boulder is a portal to another world, which he enters. This world is a paradise full of beautiful women and lush gardens where the only imperative is desire, and its fulfilment inevitable. The only restriction is a small door that the Sultan is told not to open. Naturally, he does so, only to find himself back where he was before entering the portal and desperate to regain entry. Like the others, he weeps for having treated the heavenly experience so lightly. On the last page of the novel, none other than Abdullah Al-Aqil (formerly Gamasa Al-Bulti) tries to ease his pain with a Sufi parable. It is not insignificant that it is he rather than Shaykh Balkhi who performs this role: the reader understands that Abdullah Al-Aqil has progressed along the Sufi path to the point of being a waliyy, and the Sultan is now a murīd and well on the way to becoming a saint himself. The text in question again comes from Sulamī’s ˝abaqāt and describes God’s jealous insistence on being the only object of desire in the universe. It is worth quoting at length if only to underline the powers that Mahfouz is claiming for the principle of spiritual desire or ʿishq as a path towards justice: The Real (Al-Óaqq) is so jealous that He did not leave any path to Himself open, and did not drive anyone to despair of reaching Him, and left His creatures running here and there in various states of perplexity, drowning in oceans of speculation, so that every person who thinks he might have reached Him is cut off, and every person who thinks that he might be cut off is lost. There is neither reaching Him nor escaping Him; there is no way around Him.93

Akhenaten: Dweller in Truth (Al-ʿĀʾish fī-l-Óaqīqa) Although Mahfouz’s novel about the Amarna experience might seem to be a return to his early novels on pharaonic themes, Akhenaten: Dweller in Truth

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is in fact of a piece with the creative, socially committed individualist-gnostic line of thought running through the novels discussed above. It would be an exaggeration to say that Mahfouz’s Akhenaten is a Sufi, but his radical monotheism and repeated declarations of his religion being that of love and song mark a return to the spiritual concerns of The Harafish. Akhenaten’s status as an outsider is implied both by the title of the novel – Akhenaten dwells in al-ªaqīqa, the reality that is the desideratum of the Sufi quest and that is not of this world – and the term by which other characters refer to him in the novel: al-māriq. Although this could be translated by ‘the heretic’, its connotations are far more serious: whereas heresy could imply saying something untrue about a given object of belief, the term māriq is applied to one who has crossed the boundaries of and stands outside a given belief system in its entirety. Although there is no evidence that Mahfouz relied directly on James Henry Breasted’s description of Akhenaten as ‘the first individual in history’,94 his construction of the pharaoh’s character presents a textbook case for Dumont’s theory of the individual, the ascetic who exchanges social duties for divine protection. Quite apart from Akhenaten’s asceticism – his private physician Bento reports his disgust with Amenhotep III’s lack of self-control and easy surrender to instinct and appetite95 – he considers the very idea of a disciplined existence in the service of the state, which is what his own life as pharaoh must be, a form of slavery.96 Every character in the novel comments extensively on Akhenaten’s physical and mental strangeness, as someone connected with certain truths that are not of this world. Bek describes Akhenaten’s reaction to his abandonment by his troops and followers as a process of ever-increasing belief rather than doubt on the part of the monotheistic pharaoh, singing hymns about the place of his God in his heart, proclaiming himself his son and the only one who understands him. ‘He could have enjoyed a life of happiness, majesty, women and comfort’, Bek adds, ‘but he turned away from all that, devoting himself to the truth [al-ªaqīqa].’97 Individuality proliferates within the novel. Like Akhenaten, the narrator of the novel, Merymoun is an outsider, interviewing the participants of the Amarna experience years after the death of Akhenaten to put together what he calls ‘the truth’ (al-ªaqīqa), the same term used by Akhenaten to describe his religious aims. Like so many of the pharaoh’s followers, the narrator is attracted to Akhenaten’s monotheism, not least its lyrics and chants. The

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novel is framed by two love stories: the story of Akhenaten’s love for the one true God, and the narrator’s love for the cult that Akhenaten creates. Not for nothing does the novel open with an invocation of love, and continue through the repeated invocation of desire: Desire was born from a gaze overcome by excitement [. . .] I stared at it [Amarna] but my heart sank [. . .] My gaze returned with redoubled excitement and a stream of memories [. . .] There is the city of wonders surrendering to death, there is its mistress a prisoner taking doses of pain and solitude, there is my young heart beating violently wanting to know everything [. . .] ‘I want to know everything about this city and its master, about the tragedy that tore the country apart and lost the empire.’98

What lurks behind these pronouncements is more than a mere child’s desire for a story; rather it is a translation of the idea of the ‘love of love’ that defines Mahfouz’s understanding of Sufism. By the end of the novel the narrator has been carried from one love to another; from the love of the narrative to the love of Akhenaten’s ceremonies – the term that he uses is anāshīd, the same one used in The Harafish – and the woman who best performs them, Nefertiti.99 Akhenaten is the outsider who sings, the artist-king.100 Like the spiritual knights of The Harafish, he is in constant touch with messages and lyrics that come from beyond, informing him of the spiritual truth that he so desperately seeks. And like the artist, he is involved in a constant process of creating space for the Other even as he explores the spaces of the Other. In Akhenaten’s lyrical creations and hymns, the world is transformed into a field of desire, with Akhenaten himself at its centre. When the High Priest of Amun warns him about the god’s wrath, Akhenaten replies with a pastoral self-description that responds to the language of justice with the language of love: I am merely a child crawling in the vast space of the One, a bud blossoming in His garden, I obey His command and accept His decree. He has been kind enough to reveal Himself to my soul so that it is now brimming with lights and overflowing with lyrics.101

The reference to the ‘space of the One’ (riªāb al-wāªid ) is significant, echoing the space made in Akhenaten’s soul for the presence of the divine Other. This space will eventually take physical form in the city of Akhetaten emptied

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of all its inhabitants except Nefertiti, who goes on worshipping the One for the rest of her life. Similarly, Akhenaten’s description of the revelation of the One recalls the scenes in and around the takiyya in The Harafish, starting, like the earlier novel, at dawn: I was in retreat just before sunrise, the night my companion bade me farewell as the silence blessed me. My weight grew lighter until I felt that I would leave fast on the night’s heels. Suddenly the darkness seemed to take the shape of a living creature bowing its head in greeting,102 and inside me there arose a fragrant light. I saw all the creatures in a space that the eye contained, exchanging whispered congratulations, moved by the joy of welcoming the arrivant [al-tarªīb], receiving the approaching Reality. I said to myself that I have overcome pain and death at last, while joy cascaded above me, and Being secretly permeated my breast filling it with its sweet nectar. I heard His voice clearly proclaiming: ‘I am the One God, there is no God but me, I am the Truth [the One, the Real; al-Óaqq], throw your soul into my vast expanse [rihābī], worship me alone, give yourself to me for I have given you my love.’103

The passage is a remarkable paean to the process of making space for the divine Other within the self even as the Other makes space for the adoring human. The divine light allows Akhenaten’s gaze to expand so that it contains all the creatures in the universe, and what it sees is that expansion proliferating at the level of every creature, now seen to be opening its arms and welcoming monotheistic reality. This self-expansion is reciprocated by the one God, who invites Akhenaten to take the plunge into an even greater expanse, namely the universal divine presence. Akhenaten: Dweller in Truth, the novel of the māriq, is therefore the story of a king who abandons the political routine of violence and tyranny for the sake of art and truth. The parallels with the problematic of The Harafish are clear, as is Mahfouz’s lesson: although artistic truth originates outside the world, and only seems to come to the world in rare moments like a falling star, its survival in the world can only be guaranteed through a negotiation with the rival idiom of force. Any artist, even a king, must strive to make a space for the truth that is expressed in art – the haqīqa at the heart of Akhenaten’s hymns – within the world rather than outside it.

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Echoes of an Autobiography (A‚dāʾ Al-Sīra Al-Dhātiyya) After receiving the Nobel Prize in 1988, Mahfouz intensified the attention that he gave to questions of autobiography and memory. Although these were matters that had occupied him in earlier years through Mirrors and Fountain and Tomb, his ongoing formal experimentation reshapes the endeavour: his style becomes pithy and aphoristic but retains its lyrical force. Instead of lengthy accounts of Cairene dynasties, the reader is treated to micro-narratives that concentrate Mahfouz’s powers of narration and characterisation. The achievement is all the more remarkable in view of Mahfouz’s advancing age and the effects of the assassination attempt of 1994. Echoes of an Autobiography completes the process of becoming-saint that we see in Arabian Nights and Days. The book starts as a series of first-person reminiscences, but by the end all talk of Mahfouz ceases and the narrative revolves around a new saint, the extra-worldly individual, Abd-Rabbih Al-Ta’ih, whose name connotes his status: ‘The Lost Worshipper of his Lord’. Echoes synthesises much of what has come before in Mahfouz’s career. This synthesis is framed by two moments. We start with a chance encounter that recalls both the Trilogy’s Kamal and the lyrical backbone of The Harafish. An old friend runs into Mahfouz, who seems to have forgotten their friendship.104 The novelist’s friend reminds him of their schooldays, when he sang with a beautiful voice and Mahfouz liked the tawāshīª. The fragment ends with Mahfouz remarking that forgetting has consigned his friend to nonexistence, but that he still likes listening to the tawāshīª.105 On the same page, Mahfouz narrates a return to the old neighbourhood (presumably the Gamaliyya district in Cairo) for a funeral. He remembers a local beauty and wonders where she might be buried. At this point he remembers the voice of a ‘wise friend’ (presumably a prefiguration of Shaykh Abd-Rabbih), ‘First love is a mere training exercise for the fortunate among the spiritually adept [al-wā‚ilīn]’;106 thereby proposing a trajectory from human to divine love. The formulation of this statement relies on the pun inherent in the word wā‚ilīn, which also means those who engage in wa‚l or love. There is thus a conflation of wa‚l as connecting with the divine and wa‚l as connecting erotically with another human being. So another translation of the Shaykh’s statement could be, ‘First love is a mere training exercise for fortunate lovers.’

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At the other end of the book we find an episode that bears strong resemblances to the end of The Harafish. Mahfouz narrates a gathering of Sufis in a cave. Cold winds blow outside, and within Shaykh Abd-Rabbih addresses his followers with the strains of a reed-pipe in the background. Suddenly the Shaykh orders the Sufis to look at the entrance to the cave. The Sufis’ hearts ‘beat in the expectation until their roots trembled, and in our excitement, our insight saw Him and our innermost self heard Him’.107 In between the primal love of lyrics and chants and the final moment of revelation and release, the Shaykh’s lessons and aphorisms focus on spiritual love (ʿishq). The Shaykh underlines the inextricable binding of desire to life, describes himself as being ‘chased by love from cradle to grave’.108 Love becomes an invitation to authentic being: ‘As you love, so shall you be.’109 When the narrator falls ill, the Shaykh’s prayer is for love as a fitting end: ‘Oh God, grant him a good end; that is, love.’110 At another point the Shaykh relates narratives about love to another Mahfouzian topos, time: ‘How beautiful are the stories of love; may God forgive time that creates and kills them.’111 This linkage of human love, divine love, singing and revelation – the faraj (release) of the final episode is not far from the tajallī (revelation, selfdisclosure) mentioned in numerous Sufi texts – contains a lengthy process whereby the scattered remembrances of the novelist converge on the sayings, maxims and teachings of Shaykh Abd-Rabbih, who operates as a saintly substitute for Mahfouz. In other words, the dynamic of becoming-saint here reaches its completion, extending from literary characters to the novelist himself; first when the novelist becomes a character in his own autobiographical text, and then when that character becomes a saint. This transformation of Mahfouz from realist novelist to saint, this repeated plea for literary creation as a process of welcoming the wholly Other into the world of human endeavour and the struggle for justice, adds to the aesthetic framework of the previous chapter. It also paves the way for the work of Mahfouz’s protégé, Gamal Al-Ghitany, who narrates his autobiography in the words and idiom of an actual, historical saint, namely Ibn ʿArabī.

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2 Tayeb Salih: The Returns of the Saint

ayeb Salih was born in the village of Kormakol in northern Sudan in 1929. After studying in Khartoum and London, he joined the BBC Arabic Service before embarking on a career as a civil servant at the Ministry of Information in Qatar and UNESCO in Paris. Salih’s first literary experiments came in the early 1950s, and over the course of the following two decades his literary production was such that he was described in 1976 as ‘the genius of the Arabic novel’.1 Salih’s fiction centres on the village of Wad Hamid in northern Sudan. His works cover the political, economic and social complexities of Sudanese rural life over the course of the twentieth century, routinely showing up the failures of dogmatic approaches to questions of identity, national development and spirituality. In this respect, Tayeb Salih’s fiction occupies a key position between Kassem and Mahfouz. Like Kassem, Salih makes much of the central place that Sufism occupies in rural life and the tensions that oppose it to the forces of both heavy-handed bureaucratic modernisation and fundamentalist religion. Like Mahfouz, Salih understands the ethical importance of making room for the other – human and divine – as a driving force in communal life. The following chapter will address these issues through the repeated appearances of characters that either possess or approximate saintly qualities in Salih’s work. The pattern to be examined is a simple one: despite the numerous forces in the history of the Sudan that all aim at driving Sufism out of the village of Wad Hamid, the saints, and the saintly, keep coming back. These returns of the saints cut across the historical framework that surrounds the Wad Hamid cycle, from the relatively optimistic phase of Sudan’s independence, rife with hope and promise, seen in the early narratives such as The Wedding of Zein (1962), to the darker, uncertain mood that swept across the Arab world after 1967 as manifest in

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Bandarshah (composed of two parts, Dau al-Beit, 1971 and Meryoud, 1976). Salih succeeds in using these texts to destabilise the increasing conservatism and fundamentalist moods of the 1970s, showing how the life of Wad Hamid depends on the mixing of peoples, beliefs and ideas – a process that depends in no small part on saints and Sufis – rather than defensive isolation. The first ingress of the divine into the terrestrial occurs in the story behind the village of Wad Hamid, named after a saint who is buried there. One of Salih’s earliest publications, ‘The Doum Tree of Wad Hamid’ (1960), narrates a conversation between an old villager and a young visitor. The old man takes the visitor to the eponymous Doum Tree, which together with the tomb of Wad Hamid marks the presence of the divine Other in the village. The description of the tree is reminiscent of the Sufi topos of the Cosmic Tree (Shajarat Al-Kawn), which Ibn ʿArabī develops as a metaphor for the creative Logos and the Perfect Man (Al-Insān Al-Kāmil ), both of which converge on the figure of the Prophet Muªammad.2 In Salih’s case the tree is identified with Wad Hamid himself, and its protective and curative properties keep the village alive. Like the Cosmic Tree, the Doum Tree’s branches reach the summit of the heavens and its roots to the centre of the earth; like a giant eagle it spreads its wings over the village and everything it contains.3 The tree’s presence makes Wad Hamid the centre of the universe in the old man’s eyes. Miraculously, the tree grows on a stony mound by the river, a patch totally unsuited to agriculture of any sort. It marks the very beginning of every villager’s memory, ‘like the faint glow that precedes the dawn’, and remains coeval with every generation as if it was born and had grown up with them.4 The villagers see the tree in their dreams and visions, many of which foretell salvation: relief from distress and healing from illness, thanks to the blessings (karāmāt) of Wad Hamid located at the Doum Tree.5 The population of the village traces its origins to the arrival of Wad Hamid, a saint who had been a slave to an evil master. When Wad Hamid prays for salvation, a divine voice commands him to spread his prayer rug on the water and ride it until it stops at a given shore. The rug brings him to the Doum Tree, where he settles. His presence populates the village: It is as if the earth had split open to put forth this hamlet with its people, its water mills and its buildings. Anyone who tells you that they know

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the history of its beginnings is lying. All other towns start small and then grow bigger. Our town just happened all of a sudden. Its population never changes; it neither increases nor decreases. Ever since our village has existed, so has the Doum Tree of Wad Hamid.6

This dyad composed of the saint and the Cosmic Tree defines the axis around which the life of the village revolves and upon which Salih will plot the rest of the Wad Hamid cycle. The pattern whereby an other-worldly stranger comes to the village, which takes him in and flourishes thanks to the room it makes for this sacred guest, is repeated over several generations.7 Most significant is the resistance that the tree-saint dyad provides to the advent of an exploitative state apparatus: the old man narrates several stories in which a government emissary is sent to Wad Hamid to do away with the tree, and close this space made for the divine Other, to make way for modern technologies such as river ports and irrigation stations, all to no avail. As the old man points out, what they fail to understand is that there is room for both in the village, the Sufi beginnings and modern technologies, but they need not be in the same place. There is room for the divine Other and the industrialised future: there is no need to cut down the Doum Tree and move the saint’s tomb just to create a port.8 This allegory of postcolonial development, remembered (and forgotten) pasts and resistance to oppressive modernities, again forms an important leitmotiv in the Wad Hamid cycle. The tone of the cycle peaks in The Wedding of Zein, where Salih’s belief in the blessings of modernity and progress reach their apogee. This novella has been rightfully described as an account of how the village idiot married the most beautiful woman in town.9 Like Wad Hamid, Zein acts as a conduit of blessings for the village, as may be seen from his activity as a broker of love: every time a woman catches his eye he roams here and there, singing her blessings, until a suitor arrives and marries her.10 His attachment to Sheikh Haneen, the spiritual heir of Wad Hamid, is a key instance of the village’s Sufi–disciple dyad that parallels the rapport between Sheikh Nasrullah and Bilal in Bandarshah. Haneen’s insistence on the fact that ‘Zein is a blessed man’, and his refusal to eat in anyone else’s home, coupled with Zein’s commitment to the marginal and vulnerable people in the village, strengthens the belief in his divine qualities, leading some to speculate that he might be an

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angel or the prophet Al-Khi∂r.11 Together they bring what are described as miracles to the village, though Salih’s narrative makes clear that what they are is a fortunate series of decisions by the recently independent reform-minded state: new agricultural policies that allow them to grow cotton, a new army barracks providing a steady market for the village’s produce, a new hospital, new schools and new roads.12 Perhaps the most important miracle, however, is the one that befalls Zein himself: first, his metamorphosis in hospital from deformed village idiot to a handsome man who lives up to his name (‘Zein’ meaning beautiful), and second his fulfilment of Haneen’s prediction that he will marry the best woman in the village.13 This marriage is itself something prophesied by Niʿma’s behaviour: ever since her childhood she has been especially interested in the Qurʾānic story of Mary (Q19) and the idea of divine mercy and sacrifice14 – indeed, she sees herself as being made for some ‘great sacrifice’ whose exact nature she does not know. It is this profound capacity for love and mercy that brings her together with Zein (recall the scenes where he runs around the village claiming to be ‘murdered by love’ [maqtūl al-ªubb]).15 Salih takes care to introduce a significant counterweight to the Haneen– Zein dyad in the person of the Imam, an ‘official’ representative of Islam that no one particularly likes, not least because he is seen as a parasite who does not work.16 Zein in particular detests him.17 The village of Wad Hamid has now learned the lesson of the old man in ‘The Doum Tree of Wad Hamid’, having made room for both the trappings of progress and the Sufis who make the village what it is. It is no accident that Mahjoub and his friends – not Sufis but clearly in the camp of Zein and Haneen – now sit on the boards of the schools and hospitals that the state has provided (thanks, of course, to Haneen’s miraculous presence in the village).18 The Imam is the one element that does not fit this scheme: a marker of the abyss that divides state-sponsored religion and the authentic faith of the villagers. The novella ends with a long description of the wedding itself, reiterating the gathering of people from distant locations (another convergence prompted by the presence of the Other) and ending with the image of Zein standing in the circle of dancers ‘like the captain of a ship’, or, the reader might add, like a Sufi pole around whom everything revolves.19 The canonisation of Zein as a saint in the lineage that includes Wad Hamid and Haneen, and will include Bilal and Sheikh Nasrullah, is complete.

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The earliest narrated event in the Wad Hamid cycle is the arrival of Dau al-Beit, c. 1860. The arrival is narrated in terms that compare the newcomer to an unidentified, and unidentifiable, evil entity. As is usually the case with other-worldly events in Salih’s idiom, the arrival occurs at dawn. Dau al-Beit arrives as an amorphous, nameless dark form (duhma) swimming in the Nile, growing larger as he draws nearer to the river banks and terrifying Hasab arRasoul, who immediately starts reciting the Qurʾān to protect himself from what he takes to be the imminent onslaught.20 The arrival of the stranger puts everything into question.21 Not insignificantly, Hasab ar-Rasoul says that he feels himself falling and being lost, both states that recur with every appearance of an other-worldly individual in Salih’s novels. The new arrival is tall, white, green-eyed, militarily attired and amnesiac: qualities that underline his utter foreignness in Sudan. Eventually Hasab arRasoul sees the new arrival for what he is: a human being like himself, despite the differences in appearance. In a scene set on a riverbank in nineteenthcentury Africa, the reader might mistake this for an incident from a slaving expedition, or indeed the start of a new colonial scenario. In the event, however, Hasab ar-Rasoul, and eventually the entire village of Wad Hamid, offer hospitality: they take in the new arrival, give him a new name and identity. The process begins with the stranger telling Hasab ar-Rasoul that he is hungry and has not eaten or slept in days. It is this declaration of hunger that triggers Hasab ar-Rasoul’s sympathy and sense of obligation towards the stranger, who thereby becomes a sacred guest according to the traditions of chivalry and mandatory generosity towards the heaven-sent guest, ∂ayf Allāh: ‘Welcome,’ I said, ‘a thousand welcomes to the stranger, the guest who comes from God’s lands. You have reached the place where the guest is fed and the tired can rest.’ I became my old self again and more, Hasab ar-Rasoul son of Mukhtar son of Hasab ar-Rasoul the Brave, generous to those in need and protector of orphans, the one whose fire never goes out and whose guest is never turned away.22

As they share their first meal, the stranger takes on increasingly glorious qualities in the eyes of his host: ‘A face like rock and a nose like a hawk. The teeth like a horse’s teeth. The green eyes shining like turquoise. Glorious is the Creation of God.’23 Oddly enough, the stranger also has one box in

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his possession. When he is asked about it, he gives the enigmatic reply, ‘It contains the elixir.’ We find here the traits of the psychology of the colonial encounter and the laws of Muslim hospitality as described by Massignon: the white man is seen as a divine guest by the colonised subject, who offers hospitality to this stranger and expects an inestimable treasure in exchange. The tragedy of the ‘clash’ (the term is Massignon’s) of cultures that obtains in the wake of Western imperialism is precisely that the white man fails to reciprocate properly: Europe’s history is one of having participated in, despised and mercilessly exploited a sacred ceremony central to the Abrahamic monotheisms.24 What is fascinating about Salih’s novel is that this does not happen. The white man who comes to the village has forgotten who he is. Once the villagers take him in and name him ‘Dau al-Beit’ (Light of the House), he assumes this new, human identity completely, ‘as if we were guarding the name from pre-eternity, awaiting the arrival of this stranger who came from beyond the sea and the unknown to receive it’.25 Instead of shedding his identity as a sacred emissary to reveal a rapacious criminal, Dau al-Beit becomes a human being like his hosts – the phrase ‘a son of Adam like you and me’ returns repeatedly in Hasab ar-Rasoul’s account. The scene of Dau al-Beit’s conversion at the mosque underlines the other-worldly dimension of this process whereby the demonic stranger becomes a Muslim. The lack of temporal markers in Salih’s text makes it seem as if the stranger’s arrival, his entry into the community and conversion to Islam were all happening during the same sacred moment, at dawn. All of those present, and especially Muftah al-Khazna, find themselves in a state of mystical transport (ʿishq), feeling as if they were witnessing a miracle, growing increasingly certain that Dau al-Beit was sent to them to be a bearer of good fortune and blessings.26 This assumption of the other, and the doubts that it raises, reach their apex with Dau al-Beit’s circumcision and marriage. The very idea of marriage raises serious questions in the villagers’ minds, precisely because they have not forgotten Dau al-Beit’s alterity and other-worldly origins: the colour of his eyes and skin, his aquatic genesis, his recent conversion to Islam, his namelessness.27 Eventually, however, Mahmoud settles the issue: based on the principles of equality and fraternity in whose name they included Dau al-Beit within their community, they agree to allow him to marry into their

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midst. Once again, the decision propels the gathering into a trance producing shouts of ‘Allāhu akbar!’ as the men’s eyes fill with tears. The villagers know that ‘they found something and lost something that day, not knowing whether they cried over what they lost or what they found’, and wondering whether they were at a wedding or a funeral.28 The scene ends with the men overcome with emotion (shawq, wajd ) sitting as if in a gathering of chanting Sufis (ªalaqat dhikr), with Dau al-Beit at its centre, like a Sufi pole (qu†b) surrounded by his followers. The metamorphosis of sacred stranger to local saint is complete. Salih’s account of the festivities surrounding his circumcision are reminiscent of the scenes of a mawlid, with people coming to Wad Hamid from far afield to celebrate the transformation and to be transformed themselves: they arrive weak and leave strong, they come vulnerable and leave rich, they arrive lost and they find their way.29 In Salih’s phrase, ‘the parts will be joined together, so that each becomes its unique self’, blessings of the errant saint enveloping them withal. The process continues during Dau al-Beit’s wedding, where the serial mimetic identifications that surround Dau al-Beit turn everyone into Dau al-Beit: Tonight every old man is young again, every young man a lover, every woman a female, and every man Abu Zeid al-Hilali. Tonight everything is alive [. . .] Every human form curved and every breast trembled, every buttock shook, every eye was dark, every cheek smooth, every mouth sweet, every waist slender, every act beautiful, and everyone Dau al-Beit.30

Nor do the saint’s blessings end there. In the five years that he spends at Wad Hamid, he excels in agriculture and commerce, teaching the villagers how to plant tobacco (the aforementioned elixir), oranges and bananas, introducing them to all manner of new commodities, instructing them in architectural techniques that give them more living space and, finally, furnishing a new village mosque and a palace on top of the hill ‘resembling a city in itself, after it used to be an empty wasteland at the end of the village’.31 The stranger’s invaluable gifts are very real, in Salih’s account; the saint is an agent of modernisation that brings benefits to, rather than destroys, the village. This is hospitality as it ought to be. Dau al-Beit’s presence ends with the drowning accident that reclaims him. No one sees him die; he simply disappears in the water from which he

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once emerged, and from which he saves the drowning Hasab ar-Rasoul.32 The last visions that the villagers have of him return him to the other-worldly framework: Abd al-Khaliq sees him ‘hanging by the threads of the setting sun, holding Hasab ar-Rasoul overhead in the red twilight’;33 Mahmoud sees him ‘suspended between heaven and earth surrounded by a green light’;34 while Hasab ar-Rasoul sees him ‘in the heart of the red sunset, going farther and farther away’. Not insignificantly, Hasab ar-Rasoul feels the ‘hand of a giant reaching out from the redness of the twilight, tearing him up and throwing him on to the beach’. 35 The giant’s hand is, of course, Dau al-Beit’s: he has returned from being Hasab ar-Rasoul’s ‘little friend’ (‚uwayªibī) to the giant that emerged from the Nile one dark dawn. Dau al-Beit’s son, Isa Wad Dau al-Beit, nicknamed Bandarshah, and Isa’s grandson Meryoud (‘The Desired One’), both have a share in their ancestor’s extraordinary qualities. Salih’s narrative makes clear, however, that they do not use them for the benefit of the community: the characters of Meryoud are all haunted by visions of Bandarshah and Meryoud torturing and exploiting their subjects. This vision contains a key part of the collective memory of Wad Hamid: the oppressive and exploitative ways of Dau al-Beit’s progeny that bring havoc and confusion to the ways of the village. Waïl Hassan has demonstrated how this vision speaks for Salih’s view of history: just as Bandarshah and Meryoud whip Bandarshah’s eleven sons, so do the past and the future conspire against a hapless present; an Oedipal pattern that returns with leaden consistency in the lives of numerous characters in Wad Hamid.36 The confusion spreads to the memory of Dau al-Beit himself, whose foreign origins are projected onto those of Bandarshah in the many oral histories and conjectures that circulate about the latter – in some versions he is a Nubian Christian king, an Ethiopian prince named Menderes in others, a pagan king from the South in still others and, in the version that comes closest to Dau al-Beit’s story, a white slave trader from the West.37 Varied as they are, the same ingredients go into all of these narratives: Bandarshah’s foreign origins, wealth and tyrannical power. Salih’s serial setting out of these narratives addresses what he described as the central question at the heart of Bandarshah: political organisation and power relations as configured between the city or the town (the Bandar) and political authority (the shah). In this respect one cannot really speak of

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competing narratives in the multiple explanations of Bandarshah’s origin and identity, but rather of features and patterns that always recur in the tense relationship between the governor and the governed. No matter where power comes from – and it bears pointing out that Salih’s manifold explanations hail from the four cardinal points surrounding Wad Hamid (Nubia to the North, Ethiopia to the East, ‘pagan’ Africa to the South and Europe to the far West) – excesses of wealth and injustice invariably produce the same result. Salih’s skilled narration also bespeaks the inevitable erasure that surrounds every human life as it slips into memory and myth: facts are effaced even as traumatic scenarios – most notably the whipping scene – inexorably return. The parallels between the visions of Bandarshah whipping his sons and the narrative of Dau al-Beit whipping the villagers at his wedding38 conflate fact and representation in memory: both scenes have a comparable structure (Dau al-Beit/Bandarshah at the centre of the circle, brandishing a whip, surrounded by villagers/sons/slaves/dancing girls), one scene derives from the other (Bandarshah is Dau al-Beit’s grandson), and both express the social configuration of the village, invigorated by Dau al-Beit and destroyed by Bandarshah. The fact that several characters, including Meheimeed, have a vision of Bandarshah as a man sitting silently at the mosque on the day of Maryam’s burial speaks to the persistent memory of tyranny and injustice long after the villagers murder Bandarshah and Meryoud. It is as if Salih wanted to remind his readers that the foreign is not necessarily a source of evil – as witness the good that Dau al-Beit does for the village – and the indigenous not necessarily a source of good – as witness the harm done by Bandarshah and Meryoud, both of whom are born in Wad Hamid – with the added implication that the two ends of the foreign/local and good/evil oppositions are not entirely inseparable. For better or worse, the saint’s legacy unites the village, both in the joys of Dau al-Beit’s days and the murderous rage that follows Bandarshah’s and Meryoud’s. The most touching instance of this ambivalence comes in the person of Bilal, another son of Bandarshah but from a different wife, and the only one, presumably, to survive Bandarshah’s reign. Nor is it insignificant that his son, Taher, is the only one who manages to avoid the Salihian-Oedipal pattern of grandfathers and grandchildren conspiring against sons.39 Since Bilal’s mother was a slave, his status remains ambiguous – his servile origins prevent

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him from taking his father’s name, but at the same time his half-brothers refuse to treat him as someone’s slave and dependent. The unusual origins of Dau al-Beit are renewed in his grandson, who appears quite suddenly, ‘as if he had descended suddenly from heaven, or as if he had emerged from the earth when it opened up, or come out of the Nile, a fully-developed person’.40 Dau al-Beit’s foreign origin reappears in Bilal’s strange accent. No one remembers Bilal as a child; the first memory the villagers have of him is as a fully formed young man following the Sufi Sheikh Nasrullah Wad Habib. Finally, Dau al-Beit’s other-worldly attributes re-emerge in the powerful effects of Bilal’s voice during the call to prayer, which shakes everything in Wad Hamid with a joyous frisson, a call to life and death rather than a ritual performed five times a day.41 It is no accident that, on the day of his death, the universe echoes with the sound of his voice which seems to descend on the village from every place and every time, so much so that the village is metamorphosed into ‘another city from another time’.42 Extraordinary though these qualities are, they do not stop Bilal from his humble devotion to Sheikh Nasrullah, whom he describes as ‘qu†b, the master of the age’.43 This description mirrors the Sheikh’s description of the remarkable spiritual capacity of his devotee, who has ‘seen and heard and attained degrees that many hearts despair of reaching’.44 The dyad formed by Sheikh Nasrullah and Bilal re-enacts a number of prior configurations, of which the pairing of Sufi disciple and spiritual pole is only the most obvious. Here again, however, their interaction makes clear that Sheikh Nasrullah considers Bilal to be the ‘true’ pole whose spiritual advancement literally leaves the Sheikh in the dust. The introduction of Bilal to the village as the Sheikh’s disciple reiterates the arrival of Dau al-Beit as sacred stranger and soteriological emissary: the villagers find the Sheikh crying out ‘Help us, Bilal!’ (‘Ilaynā yā Bilāl’) one day at the mosque after the dawn prayer, whereupon Bilal enters the mosque having clearly come from afar, covered in dust and beads, pronouncing the traditional response, ‘I heed your call’ (‘Labbayk’).45 Their time in the village is described as an age when ‘the doors of heaven are open’; doors that close with the death of Bilal and Sheikh Nasrullah.46 Among the blessings of this dyad are the many visitors who come to Wad Hamid: there are those who come from far-off places to visit Sheikh Nasrullah in his quality as the qu†b, and there are the numerous strangers who fill the mosque every

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time Bilal calls for prayer, as well as the ‘mysterious folk’ – Salih leaves it to the reader to decide whether they are angels or other saints – that Bilal ferries across the river at dawn (whence his agnomen, ‘Al-Rawwasi’, the ferryman, and his description as ‘the ferryman of the boats of divine power’).47 The others (saints, Sufis, children of strangers) bring others. The impact of this particular dyad goes well beyond the limits of Wad Hamid. In a deft return to the central theme of Bandarshah, Salih deliberately inserts the texts of the correspondence between Sheikh Nasrullah and Muhammad Ahmad Al-Mahdi, the leader of the Mahdiyya movement and revolution (1881) and his successor, Abdulla Al-Ta-ayshi.48 Sheikh Nasrullah’s rejection of the Mahdi’s ‘invitation’ to join his forces shows a remarkable degree of indifference to the revolutionary and all-encompassing nature of the Mahdiyya revolt. Sheikh Nasrullah’s speech to the villagers makes clear that he considers Al-Ta-ayshi a power-mad leader who is bound to be punished by God for his tyranny and arrogance.49 Apart from the evident valences that Salih’s narrative attaches to these characters – the Sheikh, a humble Sufi unconcerned with power or material wealth, is opposed to the Mahdi, a revolutionary Sufi-turned-political leader desperate for power and might – and apart from the clear echo of the villagers’ revolt against the tyranny of Bandarshah, the Sheikh’s distance from the Mahdiyya repeats the novel’s concern with hospitality and the space made for the Other. The Mahdiyya aimed at pushing out national, ethnic and religious others who took the form of the Egyptian–Turkish regime (the Turkiyya) occupying nineteenth-century Sudan. The Mahdi, in Peter Holt’s words, ‘saw his movement not merely as the revival of Islam, but as the recapitulation of the life and order of the primitive umma: a divinely ordained correspondence between Urzeit and Endzeit’.50 Sheikh Nasrullah’s situation and actions directly contradict these two claims: not only is he seen by his followers as the true master (‚āªib) and pole (qu†b) of his age, and therefore a much more convincing link between Urzeit and Endzeit than the Mahdi, but he also calls for the arrival and inclusion in the village of the descendants of the Turkiyya (it will be remembered that Dau al-Beit’s origins are presumed to be Turkish). For Tayeb Salih, there is a profound contradiction between Mahdism and Sufism: the former opposes qualities of strength to the humility that characterises the life of the inhabitants of Wad Hamid. What Salih

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proposes through the dyad of Sheikh Nasrullah and Bilal is not only a vision of a spiritual way of being far more powerful than any institutional religious organisation, orthodox or revolutionary, but also an alternative take on Sudan’s struggle with imperialism. The hospitality extended to the saint – the opening made for the other – undoes the ravages of imperialism and tyranny by restoring love and beauty to the world.51 Small wonder that Bilal’s wife, the extraordinarily beautiful Hawwa (who Salih tells us behaves like a Sufi in raising her son),52 stays beautiful well into her seventies, and that her legacy of love becomes the only thing for which her son, Taher Wad Rawwasi, wants to be held responsible on the Day of Resurrection. Among Bilal’s other miracles, we might also include his son’s excellent health and his relationship with the fish in the Nile as if they were people; a reminiscence of the way Bilal’s voice called and was heard by every creature in Wad Hamid.53 The last chapter of Meryoud is framed by another call from the mosque, a voice that conflates those of Saeed ʿAsha ʾl-Baytat and Maryam, the woman that Meheimeed loved in his childhood but did not marry. The voice repeats, ‘O Meryoud, you are nobody. You are nothing.’54 The names and voices circumscribe the situation of Meheimeed at this point: having once been Maryam’s object of desire (her meryoud), he has abandoned her and his own inclinations for a career in the city and a life worn out by the concerns of worldly power (as incarnated by the historical Meryoud, the grandson of Bandarshah). ʿAsha ʾl-Baytat, whose protean, opportunistic character is diametrically opposed to those of Sheikh Nasrullah (the pole) and Bilal (the saint), stands as an ironic commentary on what has become of Wad Hamid: the blessings of the past are now exploited by the ambitious and upwardly mobile. Indeed, ʿAsha ʾl-Baytat’s bombastic self-description as ‘the Bandarshah of my time’ constitutes an absurd counterpoint to the reality of Sheikh Nasrullah’s status as the ‘the master of his time’.55 Similarly, the triumphant narration of the vision in which ʿAsha ʾl-Baytat passes a ‘test’ of temptation at Bandarshah’s palace contradicts the quiet humility in which the miracles surrounding Sheikh Nasrullah, Bilal, Hawwa and Taher Wad Rawwasi are contained.56 The vision itself contains the inverted image of Bilal’s story: ʿAsha ʾl-Baytat brags about having resisted a naked woman who was offered to him in Bandarshah’s castle, while Bilal actually accepts Hawwa’s offer of herself to him once he learns Sheikh Nasrullah’s lesson

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that ‘the love of some people is the love of God’.57 ʿAsha ʾl-Baytat’s cry that Meryoud is nothing describes, in fact, Meheimeed’s return to a spiritually devalorised Wad Hamid. The death of Maryam, and with her the last trace of Meheimeed’s hopes and dreams, acts as a point of convergence for the novel’s themes. Throughout Bandarshah, Meheimeed’s visions of a green-eyed stranger sitting in the mosque occur on the day of Maryam’s burial. As he carries her body in the funeral, he experiences the final vision that drives home the reality of his alienation. He sees Maryam as others saw Dau al-Beit, surrounded by light in the river. Despite his desire he cannot join her in that well of light. When he begs her to take him with her she responds in the language used by Al-Khi∂r with Moses in Q18:67: You do not have the patience to bear with me: behind this wilderness there are mountains, and beyond the mountains there is a sea, and beyond the sea neither this nor that. The call came to me alone. You go back and I will leave.58

Unlike the Qurʾānic Moses, Meheimeed cannot follow his guide; he is excluded from the spiritual space. When he asks for a sign, Maryam responds with an even more mysterious, ‘Your sign is water [. . .] Your sign is that you stay awake until the end of time.’59 Meheimeed is allowed to watch but not to participate in Maryam’s ecstatic spiritual departure from the earth. She even pities him, telling him that after she is gone neither his hunger nor his thirst will ever be satisfied.60 Her final words to him remind the reader of what has been lost in Meheimeed’s departure and return: the thing that makes the saint a saint, and the thing that made Meheimeed’s spiritual father (Dau alBeit or Wad Hamid himself), was a capacity for generous love with neither hope nor expectation of anything in return. The final quality of this saintly father-figure is left in suspense by Maryam’s voice: ‘When life called him . . . when life called him . . .’ Meheimeed finally understands: when life calls, the saint says yes.61 This is precisely what he finds himself saying at the very end of his narrative (‘I said yes. I said yes. I said yes’) though he has no illusions about the difficult road facing him as an ageing pensioner trying to learn how to love, give and assent like a saint.62 Meheimeed had forgotten this part of his past, allowing himself to be torn from his desires by the wishes of his

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grandfather, his teachers, his employers and every authority figure that comes his way.63 It is only by following the path of flashing visions and heeding the call of distant voices that he can begin to write the true histories and hagiographies of Wad Hamid and, in so doing, be reconciled and brought back to himself.64 The last line of the novel, ‘the way back was harder because I had forgotten’,65 describes the imperative to remember with which Meheimeed must now contend. This remembrance, however, is only enabled through the openness to the other: the cultural memory of the presence of the saints in the village, from Wad Hamid to Dau al-Beit to Bilal and Sheikh Nasrullah to Maryam herself. It is Meheimeed’s response to the call of the divine and human other that makes the recovery and remembrance of the past, its narration, and more significantly his understanding of the events of Bandarshah, possible.66

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3 Mah.muˉd Al-Masʿadıˉ: Witnessing Immortality n his foreword to Mohamed-Salah Omri’s landmark study of the Tunisian writer Maªmūd Al-Masʿadī (1911–2004), Tayeb Salih compares the latter to the ‘literary and political giants of the Abbasid period [c. 750–1258]’.1 Salih refers to Al-Masʿadī’s successful revival of the tradition whereby politics served letters and vice versa. But Salih could also have been referring to the linguistic and stylistic innovation that Al-Masʿadī brought to his works, which combine a firm grasp of classical Arabic with memorable, if demanding, syntax and form. Between his writing, his teaching career, his positions at UNESCO, his tenure as Tunisia’s Minister of Cultural Affairs (1973–6) and Speaker of Parliament (1981–6), Al-Masʿadī had, by the time of his death, become the foremost Tunisian intellectual figure of the late twentieth century.

I

Thus Spake Abū Hurayra (Óaddatha Abū Hurayra Qāl ) Although most of Al-Masʿadī’s fiction was written in a burst of creative activity between 1938 and 1941, it was not published in book form until the 1970s. Excerpts from his novels, and the entirety of Mawlid Al-Nisyān (The Birth of Forgetting, or, as Mohamed-Salah Omri translates it, The Genesis of Oblivion) were published in the journal Al-Mabāªith in 1944–5. It would be difficult to make the case that Al-Masʿadī’s turn to Sufism is a reaction to turbulent histories or political upheaval, though his life and career certainly brought him a great deal of both. Instead, Al-Masʿadī uses Sufism as a meditation on the use of art as a means of defeating time and mortality and a way of probing the limits of knowledge and rationality. This process is especially evident in his best-known novel, Óaddatha Abū Hurayra Qāl (first published 1973, henceforth Óaddatha) with its echoes of Horace and Goethe and 66

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its strong Nietzschean overtones. Al-Masʿadī’s title cleverly combines the standard formulation for the opening of a reported ªadīth or khabar with the wording of Nietzsche’s title, Also Sprach Zarathustra, whence my translation of the title as Thus Spake Abū Hurayra.2 More significantly for our purposes, Al-Masʿadī constitutes an important prefiguration of Al-Ghitany and Al-Koni. Although Al-Masʿadī does not go as far as adopting a Sufi master’s language like Al-Ghitany, his writing is nonetheless circumscribed within themes with strong Sufi resonances: the journey, desire, eternity, contemplation and salvation. At the core of Al-Masʿadī’s writing is a phenomenon isolated by Mohamed-Salah Omri as being the driving force behind Óaddatha: the journey as tafātuª, understood as the ‘gradual opening up or the unfolding of the individual self in relation to the universe’.3 In this chapter I will explore the consequences of Al-Masʿadī’s repeated attempts at opening up the human to the superhuman in his novels. Although his works always seem to reach the same conclusion – namely, the failure of self-overcoming – the process by which they reach that conclusion is not without interest, and the paths followed by his characters full of ideas that speak to the relationship between Sufism and literary production. In an introduction to the first publication of Óaddatha in book form, Al-Masʿadī reflects on the status of his novel as a journey to the self and a pilgrimage to a lost home: ‘A faithful longing for the true individual self, a genesis of intimacy from the substance of loneliness, and a testimony [ishhād ] to the fact that the crown of being is composed of desire and annihilation [fanāʾ].’4 Al-Masʿadī’s list moves along a cosmological path linking the individual to the sacred, recalling Pavel’s identification of that moment as the novel’s point of departure. From this moment onwards, Óaddatha narrates the individual’s opening up, from a frozen isolated state to an eternal passing-away to become one with the cosmos. Al-Masʿadī invokes the Sufi concept of fanāʾ, which Fazlur Rahman defines as ‘the passing-away from the consciousness of the mystic of all things, including himself, and even the absence of the consciousness of this passing-away and its replacement by a pure consciousness of God’.5 At the same time, the language of love and testimony serves as a strong reminder of the presence of Louis Massignon, who taught Al-Masʿadī, and via Massignon of Al-Óallāj’s presence in Al-Masʿadī’s work. Al-Masʿadī was very frank

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about the shadow cast by Massignon: ‘[H]e revealed to me the horizons of al-Óallāj’s experience and the greatest meaning, which is Sufism. Sufism is the summary of the human adventure’.6 Central to this relationship is the notion of the Hallajian witness (shāhid ) as one whose entire being becomes an act of bearing witness to the transcendent reality of the divine (hence Al-Óallāj’s well-known statement, ‘I am the Real [Anā al-Óaqq]’). This is completed by the idea of waªdat al-shuhūd – the ‘oneness of witnessing’, or what Massignon calls ‘monisme testimonial’ and which he defines as follows: God witnessing to Himself in the heart of His votary (ʿābid ). This union with God (djamʿ) leads to a unification (ittiªād ) which is not a unification of substance, but operates through the act of faith and of love (ʿishk·, maªabba), which welcomes into the emptiness of oneself the Loving Guest (= God), ‘the essence whose Essence is Love’, as al-Óallādj expressed it.7

The entire structure of Óaddatha is built around this unified testimonial core: multiple narrators bear witness to the words and deeds of Abū Hurayra, who himself embodies testimony to the love of the divine. This process itself proliferates from text to paratext via the three stages delineated by Al-Masʿadī, which recall Massignon’s description of the three stages of the construction of a person in his piece on the ‘life-curve’ (‘courbe de vie’) of Al-Óallāj, from individual mask to social role to group participation through religious experience. The person (or rather the persona) thus constructed is then experimented with through love, reaching its apex in the mystical adventure.8 The sense of Abū Hurayra’s itinerary as precisely such an erotic, testimonial adventure of self-exploration is evident from the outset. In ‘The Tale of the First Resurrection’, a friend invites him on a journey.9 Their first encounter is that of the young lovers’ prayer before the sun, which prayer introduces the importance of beginnings. It is at dawn, at the moment of the mind’s awakening to a new reality and an invitation to whatever comes, that one is most alive, but it is also dawn – the marker of time and mortality – that takes eternity away. Abū Hurayra’s relationship with his lover Rayªāna is built around and eventually destroyed by these questions after they make love in a graveyard one night, an act during which they reach the state of fanāʾ.10 When Abū Hurayra asks, ‘Is this eternity?’ Rayªāna responds in the affirmative, adding that they have destroyed age. Abū Hurayra disagrees,

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asserting that, ‘if age were annihilated, death would be annihilated too [. . .] the farthest point of eternity is dawn, Rayªāna’.11 Abū Hurayra eventually leaves Rayªāna, leading her to comment that ‘dawn took eternity away’.12 She ends her narrative by quoting an aphorism of Abū Hurayra’s: ‘If you can, make your entire life a dawn’, remarking that he always yearned for the sun but feared its appearance.13 This tension between desire and its satisfaction, between inspiration and consummation, the ancient and the eternal drives Abū Hurayra’s movement in the narrative. He moves in perpetual search of novelty only to find that it has no duration. His predilection for the dawn and concomitant acknowledgement of the primordial underlines the principle at work: he can accept the idea of eternity as time without end, but has trouble with the idea of time without beginning. In the last analysis, Abū Hurayra, like Al-Masʿadī, is haunted by the fact of mortality: no degree of mortal joy, not even the ecstasy and fanāʾ that he finds with Rayªāna, will change the fact that as human beings they will die one day. The only solution is to keep moving forward in time, perpetually seeking new beginnings and new dawns. Just how difficult this search can be is revealed in ‘The Tale of Clay’, which is shot through with the vocabulary of novelty and virginity. Here the fusion of new spaces with eternity and creativity epitomises Al-Masʿadī’s claims about his purpose in writing the novel: bearing witness to the interplay of desire and the infinite at the heart of artistic creation. Finding himself beckoned by a virgin land, Abū Hurayra immediately starts exploring it, finding it ‘like creation or like time’.14 He compares his peripatetic situation to a groom on his wedding night, seeking hitherto unknown fruit, wanting the universe to be recreated and wishing he could be like Adam and Eve. So intense is his experience that night and day lose their meaning and time spreads out before him ‘like a calm sea or eternity’. As the episode continues, Abū Hurayra investigates the limits of his creativity by writing an elegy that fails to please its audience – itself an audience that exists beyond the limits of the human, since they could be jinn – and that he then swears is the worst of poems, and then plumbs the depths of his own inner limits by refusing to reveal any of his secrets to his companions.15 This perpetually vacillating self-knowledge is paralleled in the design of Abū Hurayra’s elegy for Adam and Eve. He mourns the self-knowledge that might have been through the example that they might have set as the first created human beings:

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They almost taught me their ignorance of the world and the virginity of the path. When I lost them the beaten [lit. preordained] paths guided me again, and I fell into my story’s and my own past. I had wanted it [my story, my self, my path] a virgin, untouched, but it turned out to be an old whore.16

Abū Hurayra’s search for originality, be it in the elegy that he composes or the life that he lives, is repeatedly cast in cosmic terms. As he contemplates a sandstorm, the wind grows increasingly intense and starts speaking in a human voice, blowing enough sand to reveal a set of ruins containing an old skull. Abū Hurayra finds this extremely frustrating:17 Every time someone sets out in search of solitude a faded drawing appears to him. It is as if I found it in my heart [. . .] I had set out to efface my story but it turned out to be inside me from before Adam’s time, ineffaceable.18

The ruins, drawings and skull as markers of death indicate another limit, and with it another failure. Abū Hurayra curses the perpetual return of mortality and his own inability to realise something new or locate a new beginning. Indeed, one could sum up his experience as a search for a superhuman beginning that ended up locating a very human origin. Perhaps the most important instrument in Al-Masʿadī’s apparatus is the story of Moses as narrated in the Qurʾān and worked through in various Sufi texts, the most important of which is Al-Óallāj’s ‘˝āsīn of Pre-Eternity and Confusion’ (‘˝āsīn Al-Azal wa-l-Iltibās’). At the end of ‘The Tale of Clay’, Abū Hurayra falls asleep, and in a dream sees people of variable size, again broaching the question of limits through their comparison to ants and elephants. As they build a tower, they chant a poem proclaiming the virtue of work and the futility of reason. The final verse of the workers’ chant, ‘Let us build a building that will annihilate nothingness’,19 echoes Horace’s exegi monumentum aere perennius.20 In the background a voice recites Q28:38, followed by a call-and-response interaction with the crowd as he recites Q79:21–4.21 Both of these pericopes narrate the story of Moses’s interaction with Pharaoh, emphasising the latter’s arrogant scepticism. The repeated use of the term ‚arª (tower, pyramid) reflects the desire at the heart of Abū Hurayra’s vision: the search for immortality through a monumental creation. Al-Óallāj relies on this part of the story, and in particular on Q28:38, to make a case for both

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Pharaoh and Iblīs (the devil) as Promethean monotheists, Sufis avant la lettre, who could not worship anyone other than God even when ordered to do so.22 In the reading of Al-Óallāj and his followers, the ‘I’ in Pharaoh’s utterances refers both to the all-consuming power of the self, from which the seeker must be liberated before finding God, and to God Himself, speaking through Pharaoh and proclaiming His own Lordship.23 The entire episode, from chants proclaiming the uselessness of reason to the allusions to Pharaoh and Al-Óallāj saying ‘I’, delineates the limits of the self and the impossibility of its overthrow. Abū Hurayra’s dream seems, therefore, to turn into a nightmare that further confirms the impossibility of originality: no matter where he looks or goes, Abū Hurayra is condemned to rediscover and witness the mortal, human self, far from eternity. Every attempt at self-overcoming is doomed. Hence the ironies of the title of this section: ‘The Tale of Clay’ refers to the building materials in Abū Hurayra’s dream, of course, but could also be read as referring to the substance from which humans are made in the monotheistic tradition. Indeed, this is one of the reasons adduced by Iblīs for not bowing to Adam when he was commanded to do so in Q7:12: Adam is made of clay while he, Iblīs, is made of fire. The title of this section might be better rendered by ‘What the Clay Said’, as it narrates the human retort to the devil’s claims of superiority. The Mosaic narrative and diabolical motif is also used to interrogate the limits of fatalism and acceptance of mortality. When Abū Hurayra narrates his inconsolable grief at the death of a younger sister, his interlocutors try to console him by advising him not to make himself like a mountain calling a thunderbolt onto itself.24 This is a clear allusion both to Q7:14325 – where Moses asks to see God, who responds by telling him that he could not stand such a vision and to look instead at a nearby mountain that He proceeds to destroy – and to Al-Óallāj’s reading of this episode in the ‘˝asīn of Pre-Eternity’. Here Al-Óallāj builds upon an earlier tradition in which Iblīs appears to Moses and informs him that it was his voice, rather than that of God, that he had heard during that incident near the mountain.26 Once again, Iblīs is shown to be a more sincere monotheist than Moses, and one of much older and greater standing. Al-Masʿadī appropriates this tradition to underline the narrow limits of human belief. In ‘The Tale of the Dog’, the Mosaic narrative inflects Abū Hurayra’s

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assumption of the role of prophet and statesman. We first see him raving in the desert, rhetorically asking the bandit Kahlān about time’s destruction of hope and the vileness of human nature, the limits of which are explored in this chapter. Kahlān eventually encounters a small group of people who ask to be led to Abū Hurayra. It is especially significant that the group is described as ‘six, with the dog as their seventh’ as this alludes to the Qurʾānic account of Ahl Al-Kahf, the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus.27 This account occurs in the same sūra that contains a lengthy account of the Mosaic itinerary with Al-Khi∂r (Q18:60–82). These two passages are especially important in the history of Sufism, not least with respect to eschatological concerns: Ahl Al-Kahf act as proof of the reality of the resurrection (Q18:21), and the story of Moses’s travels with Al-Khi∂r centres on the knowledge that the latter has received directly from God (al-ʿilm al-ladunnī).28 Furthermore, the dog in the story of Ahl Al-Kahf is frequently identified with the figure of Al-Khi∂r, acting as a conduit of secret knowledge between the sleepers and God.29 The story of Ahl Al-Kahf has been called the ‘apocalypse of Islam’ by both Massignon and Norman O. Brown, not only as a prefiguration of the Day of Judgement but also as an exploration of what happens after the age of the prophets has ended and the age of the saints (awliyāʾ) has begun.30 In other words, Al-Masʿadī is deliberately alluding to a part of the Qurʾān where questions of time, knowledge and the self come to the fore as a lens to examine questions of community and state viability. Nor is it any accident that Al-Masʿadī continues the Mosaic motif through Abū Hurayra asking ‘Pharaoh or God?’ in his delirious state.31 Abū Hurayra’s political experiment changes the lives of his followers, taking them from a decidedly Hobbesian tribal existence, caught in a war of all against all in a land of few resources, to something seemingly more stable. He rebukes, converts and transports them to places that they compare to heaven on earth.32 They then preach this gospel to other tribes in the area. The conversion process follows a set algorithm: Abū Hurayra harangues a given tribe, wondering how its people can stand to live by the sword alone, even though violence does not help them attain their desires. When they object that his speeches will not feed them, Abū Hurayra’s followers give them the fruits from their earthly paradise, thereby converting them to their peaceful ways.33 Abū Hurayra then proclaims the miraculous nature of the

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event.34 The pattern of reprimand, conversion and reward, coupled with the announcement of miracles, establishes the political status of Abū Hurayra. Eventually, however, Abū Hurayra’s followers return to their violent ways, and he himself falls ill. The only one who remains by his side to the very end is the dog whom he first encounters with the group of six, who operates, like the dog in the Sufi reading of Ahl Al-Kahf, as a bearer of secret knowledge, communicating the sad truth about humanity that Abū Hurayra ends up rediscovering: homo homini lupus. No matter how often they give up violence, people return to it again and again. There is no self-overcoming at either the individual or collective levels. Perhaps this is why the first element of Abū Hurayra’s teaching that is mentioned in this episode is that ‘human beings are not made for patience and self-effacement’,35 and why the episode ends with Abū Hurayra commenting on the dog’s wailing thus: ‘He, too, cries because he is hurt by fate [. . .] That is the moan of the sick person or the revolt of the transgressor.’36 The Birth of Forgetting (Mawlid Al-Nisyān) The failure of self-overcoming continues in Mawlid Al-Nisyān (first published in book form in 1974). Although the use of Sufism here is lighter and less intertextual than it is in Óaddatha, the concern with immortality and eternity remains, now inflected through a meditation on memory.37 The title of the novel recalls the Adamic story through the homophony between nisyān (forgetting) and insān (human being). Indeed, one etymology of the word insān explicitly refers the idea of the human to the idea of forgetting.38 Traditionally attributed to Ibn ʿAbbās, this etymology derives the name and idea of the human from Adam’s forgetting of God’s alliance and the prohibition of the forbidden fruit. In the Qurʾānic narrative, this fruit is identified as being that of the tree of immortality.39 It is likely, therefore, that Al-Masʿadī was thinking of this story as he constructed his own, inscribing his plot squarely within the framework of creation and immortality: being human entails the desire for immortality – now understood as the forgetting of death – and the inevitable frustration of that desire. The plot raises the same questions as The Saint’s Lamp: the opposition between science and magic, the traditional and the modern, reason and the supernatural. Similarly, there is a parallel with the Galal episode of The

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Harafish, whereby Galal sought the assistance of sorcerers and the jinn in a doomed attempt to vanquish death. Unlike Galal, whose quest for immortality was a quest for unlimited power, the motivation behind The Birth of Forgetting’s Promethean protagonist is altruistic: Madyan wants to establish a hospital in a town where sorcery is the only source of healing. When Madyan himself falls ill, however, he turns to the sorceress Ranjahād, who eventually betrays him, thereby teaching him a cruel lesson about his own delusions and limitations. The novel ends with Madyan’s death, and Ranjahād announcing that there will be neither birth of forgetting nor defeat of time, and, in a deliberate undoing of Al-Óallāj’s utterance (Anā al-Óaqq), that she is deception itself (anā al-buhtān).40 The significance of the ending of the novel is not in the fact that Madyan fails, but rather in how he fails, and the path he takes to reach that failure. The dynamic of Madyan’s itinerary hinges on the opposition between two ideas of being human: the Abrahamic, according to which the human is made of clay, and the Mazdean, according to which the body is made of light. Al-Masʿadī sets up an opposition between the human, the soul and light on the one hand and the earth, the body and mud on the other. The novel opens with the evocation of death, which Madyan associates with filth and rot, located at the corporeal, Abrahamic end of the scale, and the desire for life.41 Given the allusion to Genesis in the title, it is perhaps no accident that the narrative peaks in the sixth episode with Al-Masʿadī’s version of the Creation story: the God Salhawā created the universe in six days, at the end of which he saw that the earth was in a state of utter filth. To rebalance the cosmos, Salhawā creates the human, a creature of pure light, the unique bearer of the divine secret and meaning in the cosmos.42 The earth envies this beautiful creature, and accordingly bursts its matter out onto the creature of light. At this point, Al-Masʿadī says, Adam descended to earth, discovering death and ugliness in the process.43 In this neo-Platonic scheme the human is constantly trying to return to its primary ethereal state but is always weighed down by its corporeal and mortal reality. These two states in turn are mapped onto remembrance (which is associated with death and the body) and forgetting (associated with the soul, the human, light). Al-Masʿadī’s use of Plato is therefore ironic: instead of the soul ascending towards God through remembrance, in Mawlid Al-Nisyān it is forgetting that sets the soul free.

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Al-Masʿadī’s references to light and emanation imply an allusion to the Illuminationist (Ishrāqī) ideas of the philosopher-scientist and mystic Shiªāb Al-Dīn Yaªyā Al-Suhrawardī (1154–91): the idea of the photic origins of the human, the conflict between the photic-spiritual and the terrestrialcorporeal, and finally the psyche’s desperate return out of the ‘cave’ of its mortality to the Orient of illuminated spirituality are all key elements of the plot.44 Perhaps the strongest gesture in this direction comes when Madyan takes the drug that he concocted with Ranjahād’s help and believes that he has finally set his soul free from his body, even as the latter is preserved in a mummified state. In accordance with Al-Masʿadī’s version of the creation myth, Madyan sees himself, briefly, in his primal state as a body of light. He refers to the idea that inspired him as an ‘emanation’ (fay∂),45 a term rife with neo-Platonic connotations that recall both Plotinus and Al-Suhrawardī, adding: I see myself brilliant, and find light within me. The sky has poured pure rain on me and purified me completely, so that I became as clean as a clean white robe. My greatness, my purity and my beauty have returned to me.46

The moment is replete with references to Sufi language. In a later paroxysm Madyan alludes to Al-Óallāj through the term ªulūl (union, indwelling, Incarnation) and Ibn ʿArabī through the term khalq jadīd (renewed creation, alluding to the perpetual recreation of the cosmos)47 to describe his state: But who am I? I am born every hour in a new creation. See how my horizons expand: how vast are my dimensions! All sensation has died away, the ªulūl has come. I have become great; I have drunk the heavens and all the universes have descended into me . . .48

Omri has traced some of the Sufi elements at work in this passage with respect to the union with the divine in Al-Óallāj and Al-Suhrawardī as well as the infinitely expanding self and endlessly metamorphosing heart as expressed by Ibn ʿArabī’s poetic anthology, Tarjumān Al-Ashwāq (The Interpreter of Desires).49 In the vocabulary of mysticism, the complex term ªulūl denotes the descent, indwelling or infusion of the divine spirit in the seeker’s mind and body.50 Often equated by the critics of Sufism with the idea of Incarnation, or the claim that God has inhabited the body of the mystic, and used against

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Al-Óallāj as the true meaning of his cry ‘Anā al-Óaqq’, on that basis its use by Muslim writers of all stripes, including Al-Masʿadī, goes beyond that.51 Madyan uses it to designate his crossing over from mortal to immortal and human to divine space. Sadly, however, Madyan’s mortality catches up with him. As he starts to die he proclaims, ‘My body and my soul have betrayed me. Neither was capable of immortality . . . ’52 ‘The Voyager’ (‘Al-Musāfir’) Madyan’s plight is related to the dynamic of a shorter text by Al-Masʿadī, ‘The Voyager’ (‘Al-Musāfir’), first published in the journal Al-Nadwa in 1954 though presumably composed at the same time as Al-Masʿadī’s novels. Originally subtitled ‘Contemplations in Narrative Form’ (‘Taʾammulāt fī Shakl Qa‚a‚ī’), ‘Al-Musāfir’ is an allegory of the search for knowledge and ‘serenity’.53 Mohamed-Salah Omri has already underlined the importance of this text, with its Sufi ingredients and references – travel in search of wisdom and serenity, the idea of stations on the way to gnosis, the naming of Al-Óallāj, the Sufi poet ʿUmar Ibn Al-Fāri∂ (1181–1235) and the philosopher and mystic Abū Óāmid Al-Ghazālī (1058–1111) – to Al-Masʿadī’s literary project as a whole.54 Like the allegory of the soul in Ishrāqī literature, as exemplified by Al-Suhrawardī’s ‘Tale of Western Exile’ (‘Qi‚‚at Al-Ghurba Al-Gharbiyya’), the narrator longs to return to the East as the fount of the self. Like Al-Suhrawardī’s narrator, the voyager finds himself at the bottom of a mountain on a moonlit night, gazing upwards at a dome.55 The moonlit night and mountain both feature prominently in Al-Suhrawardī’s allegories. The mountain – alternately identified with the psycho-cosmic Mount Qāf or Mount Sinai in the ‘Qi‚‚at Al-Ghurba Al-Gharbiyya’ – stands for the task of ascending towards an encounter with the transcendent divinity. The moonlit night evokes the multiple ambiguities associated with day and night. Finally the dome in Al-Masʿadī’s ‘Al-Musāfir’ parallels the palace in Al-Suhrawardī’s ‘Qi‚‚at Al-Ghurba Al-Gharbiyya’: both represent the celestial vault. Unlike Al-Suhrawardī, however, for whom the city symbolises oppression and evil, Al-Masʿadī’s narrator finds in the city a place where he can simply be and accept the fact of being alive.56 He reaches this conclusion by rejecting the moment of the incorporation of the soul, where security and serenity are found in an Apollonian marble stillness that thinks it has defeated time.57 Nor

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does he accept the idea of using reason to go beyond reason and, in so doing, leave the worldly order as was the case with Al-Ghazālī and Al-Óallāj: this is the first step towards impotence and despair.58 The story concludes with the importance of a return to historical time and the world, both of which are made manifest in the city to which he descends and in which he finds the security and serenity that he had long sought, having understood that they are the gift of divine ‘absolute existence’ to the living, a gift realised once the latter has given himself over to being alive.59 In this respect, ‘Al-Musāfir’ rejects the premises of Al-Suhrawardī’s ‘Qi‚‚at Al-Ghurba Al-Gharbiyya’: the latter, like all Gnostic texts, is predicated on not being at home in the world, which is precisely what ‘Al-Musāfir’ advocates.60 The end of the journey, like the death of Madyan and the tragic end of Abū Hurayra’s itinerary, bears witness to Al-Masʿadī’s realism: artistic creation is perfectly valid as an experiment aimed at attaining immortality, as long as that immortality is not meant physically, but rather spiritually and aesthetically. For all the metaphysical and spiritual distance spanned by his stories and novels, Al-Masʿadī never loses sight of the fact that being human means being rooted in space and time, being embodied and mortal. The opposition between absolute existence in relation to God and situated human existence in time and space remains fundamental to his work.61 Al-Masʿadī’s originality lies in his use of Sufism as a set of ideas that is always available to hand, in the background of his fictions, rather than a mode of behaviour or belief associated with one character or a given period of time. The tragic outcomes and failed projects that characterise Al-Masʿadī’s fiction stand, in a curious way, as vindications of the greatly daring human self, paving the way for the long processes of reconciliation that we find in the works of Al-Ghitany and Al-Koni.

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4 The Survival of Gamal Al-Ghitany

Name: Maªrūs Fayyā∂ Salāma Date of Birth: May 9, 1945 Religion: Muslim Occupation: Designer Place of Residence: Al-Gamāliyya Card Number: 81661

part from the name, the above data could easily have come from the identity card of Gamal Al-Ghitany himself: like Salāma, he was born on 9 May 1945 in Upper Egypt, once lived in the Gamaliyya district of Cairo and was briefly a carpet designer before taking up a career in journalism and writing.2 Like Abdel-Hakim Kassem and other writers of the ‘60s Generation’, Al-Ghitany was imprisoned due to his critical views of Abd El-Nasser’s regime; an experience to which he returns in his fiction. On his release from prison he became a journalist, continuing to write and publish prolifically, and until 2011 was editor-in-chief of the influential literary weekly, Akhbār Al-Adab. As a writer Al-Ghitany has made a name for himself as the master of pastiche, routinely borrowing other writers’ idioms and titles to narrate his novels and short stories. Thus what I consider to be his most important work, Kitāb Al-Tajalliyāt (henceforth Al-Tajalliyāt), imitates Ibn ʿArabī, who happens to have written a book entitled Kitāb Al-Tajalliyāt Al-Ilāhiyya (The Book of Divine Revelations).3 Although Ibn ʿArabī’s work is not the only Sufi hypotext in Al-Tajalliyāt – there are echoes and allusions to the Sufi poetry and sayings of Jalāl Al-Dīn Rūmī (1207–73), Abū-l Qāsim Al-Junayd (d. 910), Al-Óallāj, Al-Niffarī and ʿAbd Al-Qādir Al-Jīlānī (1077– 1166) – the novel’s title, style and content give Al-Shaykh Al-Akbar pride

A

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of place.4 Nor is Al-Tajalliyāt the only text that demonstrates Al-Ghitany’s interest in Sufism: the themes of fanāʾ and spiritual travel return, though less extensively, in Hātif Al-Maghīb (The Call of the Sunset, henceforth Hātif, 1992) and Mutūn Al-Ahrām (Pyramid Texts, 1994). Given the prominence and scale of Al-Tajalliyāt, much of the following chapter will focus on the appropriation of Ibn ʿArabī therein as a way of dealing with issues of authorship, political change, mourning, writing and survival, especially as seen through the topoi of individuality, spiritual travel and revelation. It will nonetheless be necessary to take a wider view of the Al-Ghitany canon to better situate the argument. Salāma’s story, ‘Ayyām Al-Ruʿb’ (‘Days of Terror’) is published in a collection, Awrāq Shābb ʿĀsha mundhu Alf ʿĀm (Papers of a Young Man Who Lived One Thousand Years Ago, 1969) that contains more of Al-Ghitany’s fingerprints. The story that opens the collection presents us with fragments from the notebook of a writer (probably Al-Ghitany himself) written in the aftermath of the 1967 war. The story’s conceit is that these fragments are rediscovered in an archaeological dig in the year 2067.5 Another story, ‘Extracts from the Return of Ibn Iyās to Our Age’ (‘Mukhtārāt min ʿawdat Ibn Iyās ilā Zamāninā’) chronicles the imagined return to the twentieth century of the historian Ibn Iyās (1448–1524), best known for his detailed account of the decline of Mamlūk rule of Egypt and the Ottoman conquest in 1517.6 Ibn Iyās was clearly a favourite of Al-Ghitany’s, who would return to the historian’s work in Zayni Barakat (1974). In his essay on Ibn Iyās, Al-Ghitany emphasises the historian’s style, which he finds close to that of the Sufis; indeed, in Al-Tajalliyāt, he credits Ibn Iyās with advising him to turn to Sufism.7 In all of these texts, the novelist relates his preoccupations: Egypt’s political and religious past, the fragmentation of time, the present seen sub specie aeternitatis and the place of the individual in space and time. These are not unlike the questions that Al-Ghitany asked himself during his childhood, to wit, ‘Where did yesterday go?’ and ‘Who walked here before me?’8 In Risāla fī-l-Íabāba wa-l-Wajd (The Epistle of Passion and Ecstasy [1988]; henceforth Risāla fī-l-Íabāba) the narrator asks, ‘Can we trace a bygone moment?’9 Al-Ghitany’s anxiety about the disappearance of entities over the course of time creates a near obsession with structures that preserve lives and memories (buildings, pyramids) and narrative processes that enclose

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the fleeting moment, allowing it to live on.10 Early in Al-Tajalliyāt Al-Ghitany articulates these questions in relation to the movement of a certain corner of the earth in time: The world is in endless departure from the world. I see a spot of earth as it travels through the time that I will not live, I see movement flowing over it after my final departure, I wish I could leave a message or a mark for those who will step over it, cross it, perhaps, if only . . .11

What goes before these questions is the novelist’s concern with his identity and reputation, with what is being and what will be said about him, with his name and renown, and what will remain of him once he is gone. Because of this interest in identity, reputation and the persistence of both over time, Al-Ghitany has a Hitchcockian tendency to appear and disseminate multiple self-portraits in his work. Saʿīd Al-Juhaynī, one of the protagonists of Zayni Barakat, resembles Al-Ghitany, as does Aªmad b. ʿAbdallāh, the traveller of Hātif, whose name, Al-Juhayni, recalls the novelist’s ancestral village (Juhayna), and who embarks on his journey on the novelist’s birthday, 9 May. In Risāla fī-l-Íabāba, the narrator explicitly identifies himself as the author of Risālat Al-Ba‚āʾir fī-l-Ma‚āʾir (The Epistle of Destinies [1989]; henceforth Risālat Al-Ba‚āʾir).12 The most extended of these appearances is of course the one found in the monumental Tajalliyāt in which the life stories of the novelist’s parents, and consequently the novelist’s own life, are narrated in great detail and in a Sufi idiom, spurred by the death of Gamal Al-Ghitany’s father during the novelist’s absence from Egypt. Al-Ghitany’s many self-portraits speak to his interest in autobiography, which he defines at several points as the genre where ‘the writer and that which is written about are one and the same’.13 Much of Al-Ghitany’s concern with this genre has to do with his own investment in making the writer and ‘that which is written about’ (al-maktūb ʿanhu) one and the same, the better to be able to control his literary afterlife. The process is a difficult one: in Hātif, the ending sees the writer, Gamāl, declare that he and the protagonist Aªmad are one and the same: ‘His voyage was mine’, he says, and ‘his absence is mine’.14 In other words, his life was mine and his death is mine. I am he, but he is gone. The gap between narrator and narrated character remains unbridgeable.

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The dialectic of the writing self and the self-written-about goes to the root of literary creation and the passage from first to third person that makes it possible. This shift, whose importance was underlined by Blanchot, marks the moment when writing the novel begins the act of thinking through individuality in the world and in relation to literature.15 As he copies and rewrites the texts of Ibn Iyās and Ibn ʿArabī, Al-Ghitany reworks them à la Pierre Menard. Like Borges, Al-Ghitany uses the canon to re-present and reappropriate his many fathers – biological and literary.16 This preoccupation with literary genealogy comes through very clearly in Al-Ghitany’s interviews, which frequently start with a detailed list of what he read during his formative years and the impact of Western literature on his activity as a writer. Some of his statements betray a very real concern with his status. This preoccupation is linked to the many self-portraits dispersed throughout his œuvre, a practice that aims at using writing as a strategy against writing and death, to designate the figure of the author and stamp his identity on the reader’s mind. Needless to say, this strategy is not limited to Al-Ghitany; it has also been used to great effect by writers as diverse as Joyce, Dumas, Stendhal and Pessoa, among others. Al-Ghitany has, however, been most emphatic in declaring this struggle against death to be the aim of writing, indeed of all art.17 Not for nothing is his first complaint to Al-Sayyida Zaynab in Al-Tajalliyāt about the temporary and ephemeral nature of life.18 Al-Ghitany’s need to mark out a spot within the canon comes across in a revealing anecdote: as an omnivorous reader, he read everything that he could, including books whose title pages had been torn off and where the name of the author was consequently absent. It is precisely in order to escape this nightmarish possibility that Al-Ghitany leaves traces of himself in all of his work – literary self-portraits, identity cards and so on. Even with the cover gone, the reader would know that the text is by Al-Ghitany. The autobiographical project runs, however, into the limitations of every process of self-narration: autobiography has more to do with the relation to the other than the story of the self, with what is heard rather than with what one says,19 and, moreover, writing depends more on surviving than living. In the last analysis, self-narration produces an account of an afterlife rather than a life. All of which raises several questions: why fiction? Why does Al-Ghitany insert so many characters that resemble him and yet are not him?

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Why does writing the self have more to do with fiction than documentary history?20 In asking this question we invoke one of the most delicate relationships in modern Arabic literature in general and in Al-Ghitany’s in particular, namely the relationship between literature and power. This is a matter so important that it was one of the first points raised by Al-Ghitany during an interview with his long-term friend and mentor, Naguib Mahfouz. Al-Ghitany asked Mahfouz about the seeming contradictions between the apparent political stances of his novels and his public declarations. Mahfouz’s answer says much about the situation of the writer in Egypt during the last quarter of the twentieth century: ‘The literary work is the trustworthy one.’21 Richard Jacquemond relies on this contradiction to describe the uneasy condition of the Egyptian writer in his study of the field of Egyptian literary production. Since this field is over-politicised, literature becomes a substitute for or an extension of political action. Caught between censorship on the one hand and the demands of writing on the other, Egyptian writers tend to speak in a double discursive register that privileges fiction as the space where the truth finds its clearest expression. Literature is there to oppose the official story.22 In this context the form of the novel, and the device of the Sufi vision in particular, allows Al-Ghitany to risk treating subjects that might displease the authorities while addressing his audience. Hence the rare frankness of Al-Tajalliyāt. Starting with Al-Óusayn b. ʿAlī, the narrator’s first guide during his spiritual travels and the symbol of a founding moment of injustice and martyrdom in the early history of Islam,23 the history of oppression runs through the narrative like a ground bass, leading to the vituperative treatment of Anwar Al-Sadat, the praise heaped upon a certain Khaled (the reader understands that it is Khaled El-Islambouly, Sadat’s assassin),24 and the scenes where Gamal Abd El-Nasser returns to Egypt, shocked by the aftermath of the Camp David Peace Treaty, and, worse yet, is subjected to the same horrifying treatment as Al-Ghitany himself in the notorious Tura prison complex, including detailed accounts of torture at the hands of a specific officer identified by name and rank in the novel. Narrating all of these episodes as part of a mystical vision, an experience of tajallī (revelation) in a novel protects the novelist’s voice and right to self-expression. None of this would have been possible in a text identified as an autobiography and

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published in Egypt, where declaring admiration for the assassin of a former head of state would be tantamount to suicide. In addition to standing as a strong indictment of certain aspects of Abd El-Nasser’s regime, Al-Ghitany’s account of his experiences of imprisonment and torture become a way of reclaiming all that torture attempts to destroy and take away: the prisoner’s voice and, with it, his world.25 Revisiting the experience in the Al-Tajalliyāt enables him to rebuild the world that was taken away from him during those terrible months of his imprisonment. The process of writing is an even more successful means of self-restitution and establishing the reality of what happened than revisiting the place where he was tortured, as the latter undertaking results only in increasing his sense of radical alienation.26 It is the mystical framework of Al-Ghitany’s Al-Tajalliyāt that makes this oppositional selfreclamation cohere. For Al-Ghitany, the novel militates against the official version of events through its own inscription in the broad sweep of Egypt’s history.27 Ever since he successfully appropriated the style of Ibn Iyās to write Zayni Barakat – a parody so successful that at least one acquisitions editor took it to be a manuscript that Al-Ghitany had simply copied by hand – the challenge that Al-Ghitany sets himself is to write the history of Egypt without yielding to the lies of the authorities. Al-Ghitany’s project might usefully be described as a process of taªqīq – verifying, bringing out the truth in things – in a manner inherited from Ibn ʿArabī. For the latter, the task of all inquiry has to be the realisation and actualisation of the Real (ªaqq), through the process of painstakingly verifying the presence and operation of the Supreme Reality – that there is no God but God – in all things, not least in their own soul and intellect.28 Particularly in Al-Tajalliyāt, this process is applied to the novelist himself: the novel stands as a monumental taªqīq of his reality, as it was created through the union of his parents. The text’s continuous oscillation between literary, historical and mystical registers bears witness to the dynamics of this process, whereby the (historical, experiential) reality of a given fact or incident is measured up against the form it takes in memory and in writing. Al-Ghitany’s constant coming and going between fact and fiction – one is tempted to say between Dichtung and Wahrheit – spans the space in which the self can be explored. Al-Ghitany writes in order to preserve his individuality against the forces

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of a time and place that threaten to obliterate it. His remarks during an interview given in 1984 are haunted by the idea of time and that of using art to conquer time and its effects: Time is my basic concern, time with all of its names [. . .] all of which name something that cannot be conquered, something eternal, neither first nor last, something inscrutable despite the fact that we see its signs and features in every second that passes us by. All human desire would become nothing were it not for art, all human life would lose its character without art. Art, with its many facets, is the only authentic human effort against this force that cannot be repelled . . . to resist annihilation and non-being.29

In addition to the Horatian (and Shakespearean, and Proustian) overtones of this statement, Al-Ghitany’s language echoes the language of the Sufis, with whom he claims a certain affinity in the same interview. Al-Ghitany opposes art to annihilation (al-fanāʾ, the mystic’s ‘death to the world’) and non-existence (al-ʿadam). In Sufi literature, fanāʾ is accompanied by baqāʾ – the persistence or survival, the going on of the visions seen, things learned and attributes acquired during the state of fanāʾ in the Sufi’s consciousness once the latter returns to the world. Baqāʾ might therefore be translated by ‘survival’. It is precisely that survival in time that interests Al-Ghitany, albeit in a more worldly sense: baqāʾ through art to counteract the fanāʾ wrought by time. Hence Al-Ghitany’s interest in monuments. Al-Ghitany’s undertaking of this monumental struggle with time results in a fascination with the texts and structures that persist in time. Literature for Al-Ghitany, specifically Arabic and Egyptian literature, is, and must be, monumental: he goes so far as to claim that Islamic architecture is the closest art to the novel as he conceives it, not only because of its intricacy but also because of its longevity.30 This is the idea behind Pyramid Texts, where Al-Ghitany maps the mystical experience onto that of exploring the pyramids, describing Shaykh Tuhāmī’s decision to stay near the pyramids as baqāʾ in fanāʾ, and continuing with the variations on fanāʾ that afflict the pyramids’ explorers and lovers. Al-Ghitany’s interest in architecture is also evident in the Risāla fī-lÍabāba, where the narrator justifies his interest in architecture as an interest

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in baqāʾ, though it bears pointing out that the style of Risāla fī-l-Íabāba draws heavily on that of Rasāʾil Ikhwān Al-Íafā (The Epistles of the Brethren of Purity, composed c. 961–86), coming closer to neo-Platonic Ismaʿīlism than Sufism.31 With this in mind, his literary project is twofold: to revive the cultural heritage of Arabic and Islamic literature, allowing them to stand once again as monuments that can conquer time, and in so doing to create a body of work that will itself stand the test of time. From this results his turn to the idiom of the historian Ibn Iyās in his first novel, Zayni Barakat, the pyramidal structure of Pyramid Texts and the Sufi idiom that seasons his writing in Al-Tajalliyāt.32 In Al-Tajalliyāt Al-Ghitany’s narration of his own life and (or rather as a function of) that of his father, Aªmad Al-Ghitany, stands as the most ambitious take on baqāʾ. The importance of baqāʾ and the question of heritage – cultural or otherwise – makes the turn to Ibn ʿArabī in Al-Ghitany’s Al-Tajalliyāt almost inevitable. Ibn ʿArabī asserts the superiority of baqāʾ, understood as a state of enlightened abiding in the world, usually following a spiritual journey or ascension.33 The notions of heritage and inheritance are contained in the term wārith (inheritor), usually a synonym for a saint in the Sufi lexicon and central to Ibn ʿArabī’s theory of the waliyy as the heir to the prophets.34 The project of Al-Ghitany’s Al-Tajalliyāt might be thought of as a description of his father’s baqāʾ in the novel of his wārith, Gamal Al-Ghitany, and the latter’s baqāʾ in the eyes, minds and memories of his readers and future generations. Through his synthesis of long-lived structures, past idioms and the survival of the past into the present, Al-Ghitany aims at grasping the essence of reality, ‘jawhar al-wåqiʿ’.35 This phrase resonates with what Ibn ʿArabī would have called al-Óaqq – the transcendent and unique Real that creates reality. Al-Óaqq is both one of the Ninety-Nine Most Beautiful Names of God and the name that defines the contour of the relationship between Creator and creature (al-khalq).36 The task of writing, therefore, is to address, or reveal, or signify the Real, which is itself unrepresentable.37 Al-Ghitany’s return to Ibn ʿArabī is part and parcel of the examination of the process of literary creation and a deepening of the literary function of the text in its coming to terms with the Real. The impossibility of representing the Real demands a certain tactical approach; the Real has to be perceived from a suitable distance.38 This distance is textual as well as temporal, whence the importance

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of intertextuality and the frequent oscillation between hyper- and hypotexts in Al-Ghitany’s writing practice, and the emergence of reading and writing as two phases of the same process.39 Small wonder, then, that Al-Ghitany includes a list of the many faces of al-Óaqq in Al-Tajalliyāt: I believe, am certain, trust, submit that separation is ªaqq. And that the encounter is ªaqq, that the first scream is ªaqq, as is the last gaze through the pupils, the enamoured beat of the heart is ªaqq, and the last beat after which there will be none is ªaqq, being is ªaqq, not being is ªaqq, the beginning is ªaqq and the end is ªaqq, sorrow over what is gone is ªaqq, that beauty is ªaqq, that ugliness is ªaqq, that completeness is ªaqq as is incompleteness [. . .]40

The ªaqq is everywhere and everything; it is the alpha and omega. This universality and omnipresence consolidate the link to time that Al-Ghitany mentions above. The question of ªaqq is at its most acute at the limits of time: at its beginning and at its end, when a moment passes or a heart beats. It is therefore no accident that Al-Ghitany’s most serious exploration of time and the limits of art and the mortal self occurs in Al-Tajalliyāt. On Time and Mourning One of the most difficult aspects of mourning is coming to terms with time, and the fact that there is no time left to spend with the dead. Those left to mourn are frequently left wondering how much they would not give for a little more time, and when or whether they might see the beloved again. The equation between life and time bespeaks the desperate desire to spend more time with the one who is no longer alive. If only we had more time, we think, if only they were still alive and had more time on earth. Simultaneously, we feel an obligation to the dead: we owe them remembrance, fidelity, respect. The structure of time desired and remembrance owed frames the experience of mourning. The time–life equation is central to Derrida’s reflections on the gift. In Donner le temps, he shows convincingly that temporalisation is central to the gift; and that giving is effectively bounded by narration.41 It is only in narration, therefore, that anything is ‘given’ at all. Moreover, for Derrida, the self-cancelling nature of gift-exchange (every counter-gift cancels the obligation created by the gift) means that it is only in making funerary offerings to

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the dead that we can speak of giving tout court, since the dead cannot reciprocate.42 If Gamal Al-Ghitany wants to ‘give’ any more time to his dead father, it will have to be in writing, in the form of a narrative. In his memoir on Naguib Mahfouz, Al-Ghitany cites a conversation where the elder novelist tries to ease the pain of mourning by reminding the younger that there is no way of knowing for sure that he will never see his father again, given the possibility of consciousness living on in some way despite the material transformation wrought by death.43 This structure of living on, of survival, is bound inextricably with the act of writing. As Derrida explains, writing-as-giving only occurs when there is survival, once death makes a space for itself in the realm of the living, who carry on living and writing.44 Al-Ghitany’s project is built around a similar idea of survival as the matrix that makes writing operative – and vice versa. From his first published text, where he examines what will survive of him and his times in one thousand years’ time, to his style, where the idioms of other writers, most notably Ibn ʿArabī, live on in his works, to the project of Al-Tajalliyāt, where every revelation brings with it the survival of the past into the present, to the many instances of survival (of war, of bombings, of imprisonment and torture, of the childhood during which two of his siblings died in infancy) in his writing, and finally to his practice of using art to defeat the ravages of time,45 we are always haunted by the traces of the past and other texts. The mystical experience is the device whereby the past is conjured into the present. This resonates with Ibn ʿArabī’s Kitāb Al-Tajalliyāt, in which the meditation on the finer points of esoteric doctrine frequently involves a vision of and dialogue with a past Sufi master.46 The turn to Sufism as an idiom, as a style, enables Al-Ghitany to master time, to say the survivals that enable his writing and allow him to perform the work of mourning. The world in which the dead person was alive ends with his or her departure; the work of mourning involves the reconstruction of the mourner’s world without them.47 The work of mourning involves making a space for the dead to speak on through us.48 If the work of mourning is ‘successful’, it will last until the next death and the next cycle of mourning. This is what Derrida refers to as the ‘impossibility’ of the work of mourning: it never ends; it merely goes from death to death.49 It is also what we see in the plot

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of Al-Ghitany’s Al-Tajalliyāt: the book starts with the death of his father and ends with that of his mother. The central paradox involved in the work of mourning revolves around the possibility, or lack thereof, of being faithful to the memory of the dead. The work of mourning oscillates between two possibilities, or, as Derrida might call them, ‘aporias’: between remembrance as an idealised consumption or appropriation of the image of the dead, who would then survive only through our narcissistic relationship to this image, or respect for the dead as an other, with all the rights and honours due to this alterity – one of which would be the refusal of any sort of appropriation into our psyche.50 Al-Ghitany’s mourning of his father seems to fall into the second category: the novelist is not only haunted by the life of his father, which he narrates, but he responds to the trace that his father has left in him by proceeding to ‘haunt’ his father’s life, as he imagines and remembers it (the posing as the aforementioned helpful stranger at certain key episodes in the narrative). Like most, the father–son haunting starts with an improper burial:51 not only did Al-Ghitany not bury his father, as he was away when the latter died, but his first visit to his father’s grave is marred by the fact that said grave cannot be found – his brothers simply drive him to an empty, unmarked lot on the outskirts of the city and inform him that this is where his father is buried.52 Similarly, the metamorphoses that link his father to Gamal Abd El-Nasser (the latter is described in one episode as speaking with the voice of the novelist’s father) bespeak the extent to which, in Al-Ghitany’s mind, Abd El-Nasser himself is improperly buried: Egypt has neither been faithful to his legacy nor properly repaid its debt to him. A similar relationship, with a history of injustice at its core, links Al-Ghitany to his first guide in the novel, Al-Óusayn b. ʿAlī. And so it is that the dead return to collect their debts, but in repaying the debt, Al-Ghitany places himself in their stories (it is no accident that he is the only one who sees and speaks to Abd El-Nasser in his tajallī; or that, later in the novel, his torments and torture become Abd El-Nasser’s). Needless to say, this remarkable feat, this ability to respond to haunting in kind, and repay the debt to the dead through narrative, is something that can only be described or narrated properly in the language of Sufism. This structure of repaying debts and haunting the dead calls for a very

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particular understanding of time. Although the aforementioned equation between God and time (al-dahr) recurs regularly across Ibn ʿArabī’s magnum opus, Al-Futūªāt Al-Makkiyya (The Meccan Illuminations, lit. The Meccan Openings), there is one key instance that might be used to describe Al-Ghitany’s temporal strategy. Ibn ʿArabī defines al-dahr as a single day stretched out into a permanent moment that contains (or constitutes) eternity.53 This notion of stretching or spacing out time brings us closer to what Al-Ghitany does in Al-Tajalliyāt: he stretches out his father’s time as far as the narrative will allow, and makes room (space) therein for his own account of his life, seen as he interprets it (his father the kind, generous man, his father the victim of injustice) rather than as circumstances dictate. Similarly, the equivalence that drives the first part of the novel between Karbalāʾ, the defeat of June 1967 and the death of Aªmad Al-Ghitany is enabled by this notion of stretching out: they are all part of one catastrophic point in time that survives to the present day. While it would be an exaggeration to claim that Al-Ghitany’s attempt at making time, or making a space within his father’s lifetime, is equivalent to, or derives from, Derrida’s ideas about the making-space-of-time that is constitutive of différance, the resemblances are notable.54 Al-Ghitany’s description of the ‘Situation of Union’ (mawqif al-jamʿ) revolves around the axis of fissile time, the instant divided to reveal its secrets. This revelation occurs in a Sufi Gnostic context that correlates every station along the seeker’s path with perceptions, sensations and spiritual knowledge. In this mawqif Al-Ghitany combines vocabularies and styles from multiple sources – Al-Niffarī (who coined the term mawqif, and whose style is openly imitated later in Al-Tajalliyāt), Ibn ʿArabī, Al-Qushayrī as well as a verse epigraph from the Ummayad poet Dhū-l-Rumma (c. 696–735) – to yield an intense description of the attempt to create some room in the past for the seeker’s inquiry. Even Al-Ghitany’s description of the Situation of Union involves a great deal of partition and separation: It is a difficult situation: to it belongs Friday, and of the moments of the day the instant that separates one second from the next, and of the night the instant of its middle, does it belong to the previous day or the day to come? [. . .] Its store of knowledge is great, containing the science of encounter

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[. . .] and the knowledge of ‘Everyone on earth perishes’ [i.e. Q55:26] and ‘no soul knows in what land it will die’ and ‘no soul knows what it will reap tomorrow’ [i.e. Q31:34, verse syntax rearranged; a verse that returns repeatedly throughout Al-Tajalliyāt], and knowledge of ancient moments [. . .] and knowledge of the moment when the feeling of separation settles, and knowledge of the last instant past which we will no longer see people we loved or places to which we grew attached, having spent much time there, and our silent repetition: ‘Will we see what we saw again? Will there be a return?’55

The common denominator to these myriad examples is the amplification of a limit, as in that between one second and the next, or that between one day and the next, or that between one lifetime and its end, and the possibility of dividing that limit (through the manifold epistemologies and knowledge associated with this situation) into further subdivisions, the better to contain and think through the passage of time and its effects. This fissile, flexible character of time is then mapped on to the différance of the narrator himself, who literally differs from himself having been beheaded: ‘I was unaware of the location of my body, I was isolated from it, a stranger; for difference is the sign of my times, not the resemblance of all my states therein.’56 Al-Ghitany inserts himself into his father’s story in multiple guises: an invisible, ghostly futurity that anticipates his own existence, we see him as the son that his father will have, a person with whom his father converses, sometimes his father himself.57 By thus supplementing (the Derridean allusion is deliberate) his father’s life, Al-Ghitany narrates, at a secondary level, the anticipatory structure of his novel: one might say that he meta-narrates Al-Tajalliyāt. Mark Currie has argued that the logic of prolepsis parallels the logic of supplementarity: both function as additions that define the whole. Prolepsis narrates a future that ‘produces the event to which it is said to be added on’.58 The events of Aªmad Al-Ghitany’s life are of course anterior to the composition of Gamal Al-Ghitany’s Al-Tajalliyāt, but Gamal Al-Ghitany tells the story as an anticipated future. The Sufi visionary lens through which Al-Ghitany travels backwards in time to understand his father’s life is bound inextricably with the proleptic logic of the novel.

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Individual, Voyage, Revelation Al-Ghitany’s characters are loners. Whether we are dealing with Saʿīd Al-Juhaynī, who stands outside the apparatus of power in Zayni Barakat,59 or the narrator of Al-Tajalliyāt, who often describes himself as an individual (fard ) before the collective agents of power,60 or Maªrūs Salāma before his murderer in ‘Ayyām Al-Ruʿb’, or Gamal b. Aªmad b. ʿAbdallāh, the itinerant protagonist and scribe of Hātif,61 Al-Ghitany’s novels are full of characters cut off from the world, with which any contact quickly degenerates into confrontation. Al-Ghitany’s insistence on this particular aspect of his characters says a great deal about his view of himself as someone who preserves his individuality by writing on the margins of society. This strategy clearly addresses Pavel’s aforementioned axiological question located at the heart of the novel, namely whether the individual can inhabit the world. Al-Ghitany’s use of the word fard also echoes Ibn ʿArabī’s terminology, where the term is applied to those who have attained the highest permissible degree of spiritual perfection and the most complete mystical vision.62 By affiliating himself with these spiritual supermen, Al-Ghitany in fact asserts his own ethical superiority against the forces of oppression, as in one of the numerous passages in Al-Tajalliyāt where he maps his destiny onto that of Al-Óusayn b. Alī, adding, ‘I was one [fard ] and the guards were many.’63 In addition to the resemblance between Al-Ghitany’s characters and Dumont’s ascetics, the relation to the divine is an increasingly important presence in Al-Ghitany’s novels. That said, the alleged evolution in Al-Ghitany’s work from a historical intertextual dimension towards a mystical one in the later novels is misleading.64 The loners of the early fiction are other-worldly individuals just as much as the voyager-narrator of Hātif or the extra-temporal, extra-worldly narrator of Al-Tajalliyāt. Al-Ghitany’s appropriation of Sufi literature in general and Ibn ʿArabī in particular allows him to explore the function of writing as an investigation of the individual with a narrative vocabulary that takes him to the limits of selfhood and individuality. Al-Ghitany admits having copied numerous passages of Ibn ʿArabī’s Al-Futūªāt Al-Makkiyya by hand in order to write Al-Tajalliyāt, so much so that he speaks of Sufi language being one of the ‘heroes’ of his novel.65 There

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is therefore a conflation between the focus on the father – the most obvious hero and subject of Al-Ghitany’s Al-Tajalliyāt – and that on the language of the turāth, of the intellectual and spiritual heritage that Al-Ghitany claims as his own. The novel is written in the language of the father(s).66 The mastery of this language is brought about through the physical act of copying. Copying is a practice with a long history in the life of Al-Ghitany, whose earliest memories are those of copying books that he could not afford during his childhood, and who continues to use this method to capture the voices of writers whose style he wants to imitate.67 The very act of copying due to penury has strong historical and personal connotations for Al-Ghitany: he does not fail to mention that the Egyptian Sufi scholar ʿAbd Al-Wahhāb Al-Shaʿrānī (1492–1565), whose mosque Al-Ghitany regularly visited with his father, did the same thing in his day.68 The process that generated the style of Zayni Barakat and Al-Tajalliyāt is therefore a mise-en-abyme of a cherished moment from Al-Ghitany’s own past. Given the importance of individuality to both Ibn ʿArabī and Al-Tajalliyāt, it is worth exploring the use of the term fard in Akbari writings. Ibn ʿArabī uses the word fard to refer to the highest degree of sainthood (walāya). The fard is he who attains the station of proximity to God (maqām al-qurbā), and whose worldly existence consequently becomes worthless. Ibn ʿArabī describes these extraordinary extra-social individuals in detail. They constitute an élite among Sufis; seekers whose only concern is with the contemplation of the beauty and majesty of God.69 Radically separate from the world, their relationship to God is therefore direct, unencumbered by the mediation of a pole (qu†b who operates as the head of the mystical hierarchy on earth). Such is the intensity of their orientation towards the divine presence, and so overwhelming is this relationship, that they are completely unaware of any worldly sensation. The afrād are utterly consumed by their relationship to God. They exist for God: God has made them for Him, they derive what they know from Him, they glory in Him and desire only Him.70 In Ibn ʿArabī’s cosmology, these afrād travel between God and humanity, circulating a divine energy that becomes the motor of the universe: they perform acts of worship and contemplation, and God sends them multifarious divine secrets and gnosis in return.71

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The extra-worldly situation of the afrād is very close, therefore, to that of the narrator of Al-Ghitany’s Al-Tajalliyāt: like them, he stands outside the flux of history, operating as a time-travelling messenger who brings information and warnings, sometimes taking the form of a stranger saluting Aªmad Al-Ghitany on his first trip to Cairo, and at others as a quiet whisper that ends up saving his life. These interferences translate Gamal Al-Ghitany’s concern with the judgement of the future and the past on the present, himself included. These passages among worlds, across time and through the boundary between visibility and invisibility constitute the revelations that give Al-Ghitany’s Al-Tajalliyāt its title. The signifier tajallī from which the title is taken covers a wide semantic field. In The Book of the Definitions of Sufism, Ibn ʿArabī defines it as ‘The secret illuminations that are revealed to the hearts [of the believers].’72 Revelation of this sort is a privilege reserved for the initiated, making manifest the presence and behaviour of the divine in the cosmos. In Al-Futūªāt Al-Makkiyya, Ibn ʿArabī uses the word tajallī in two closely related registers. The first is cosmological: ‘Every possible thing can be resumed in two parts: one secret and the other revealed.’73 The second is epistemological: in Ibn ʿArabī’s hierarchy of the things known by the Gnostics or Sufis (ahl Allāh) the science of the tajalliyāt follows immediately from the capital science of the beautiful names of God (asmāʾ Allāh), which itself constitutes the all-important first step of the seeker towards God.74 In Ibn ʿArabī’s Kitāb Al-Tajalliyāt, the author relates a series of dialogues with all of his (dead) predecessors on the Sufi path, who appear to him through the process of tajallī. Were we to attempt a synthesis of the semantic field of tajallī in Ibn ʿArabī’s idiom, we would say that the word refers to the apparition, revelation, disclosure or unveiling of a given thing, person or idea that would normally be hidden in the order of the unknown or unknowable. The verbal form stresses the process, the phainesthai of this unveiling, of the interpenetration of the visible and the invisible. This, too, is the way in which the word is used in Al-Ghitany’s idiom, whose Al-Tajalliyāt features a series of dialogues with his past, including spiritual guides like Ibn ʿArabī and Al-Óusayn b. Alī, as well as paternal figures such as his own father and Abd El-Nasser, that leads the narrator to a deeper understanding of hidden things, of life and death.

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In Ibn ʿArabī’s idiom the process of disclosure is closely linked to the ubiquitous spiritual voyage. The frequency with which such voyages recur derives from the principle that everything travels, and the corollary that nothing that exists remains at rest: ‘Since movement is the origin of existence the latter can contain no immobility, for anything that remains at rest returns to its origin, which is nothingness.’75 The opening of this text summarises the stories of the prophets as stories of travel: from the tanzīl of the Qurʾān, to the Prophet Muªammad’s miʿrāj, to Adam’s fall, to Noah’s wandering on the waters of the flood and so on.76 Later Ibn ʿArabī adds: ‘In reality there is no immobility at all; in the world movement is perpetual: day and night alternate, while thoughts, states, dispositions and the divine realities inherent in those things follow.’77 Ibn ʿArabī thus underlines the link between the natural, physical world and the mystical universe of divine realities revealing themselves in the world. The voyage has no point of arrival or departure: ‘In reality we never stop travelling, from the moment of our original constitution and that of the elements from which we are built all the way to the infinite.’78 Al-Ghitany alludes in very clear terms to this doctrine of perpetual motion and travel in the first chapter of his Al-Tajalliyāt: Nothing remains as it is; if that occurred non-being would result. Everything is in perpetual departure: the newborn leaves the womb, the human being leaves the world for a neverending afterlife [. . .] Everything, everything leaves, everything changes, everything changes.79

For all of its seemingly amorphous universality, the voyage has a supreme point of orientation: God, who thus completes the link between ascetic individual and tutelary deity. Ibn ʿArabī divides voyages into three categories. There is the voyage from God, whose will determines the movement of all beings. The seeker’s voyage is the voyage towards God. Certain seekers attain the privilege of travelling ‘in’ God. The traveller who travels in God acquires a key benefit: ‘He who travels in Him only gains himself.’80 The voyage in God thus becomes the ultimate form of self-discovery through contact with the divine: ‘It is during the course of such voyages that our Lord appears.’81 Although He orients the spiritual voyage, Ibn ʿArabī’s God is not stationary. The creation (ibdāʿ) of the world is itself a voyage. The relationship between creation and travelling enables a translation of this activity onto the human

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scale. If the (believing) writer cannot rival God in creation (khalq), he can nevertheless innovate – an activity that is defined as a voyage by Al-Ghitany. Writing itself travels: on the human scale, habent sua fata libelli; while on the divine scale, the Qurʾān descends from God to humanity, and is then recirculated towards God through prayer and recitation. A constant toing and froing thus encompasses the cosmos in both Ibn ʿArabī’s and Al-Ghitany’s vision, in the form of humanity meeting God on the Day of Resurrection, the many aspects of spiritual travel, the movement of the Qurʾān and so on. One sort of spiritual travel is of particular importance in Al-Ghitany’s appropriation of Ibn ʿArabī’s text: the miʿrāj or spiritual ascension. Ibn ʿArabī makes clear that the essence of the miʿrāj consists not in the physical displacement of the voyager, but rather the ‘signs’ (āyāt) that God causes him to see.82 Furthermore, the locus of this voyage, and the many things seen during its course, are located within the voyager (what Ibn ʿArabī calls the heart, what we might call the mind) rather than in the outside world.83 Indeed, the heart surpasses the mind for Ibn ʿArabī insofar as it can contain inconceivable infinities.84 The cyclical nature of the miʿrāj entails two phases: the departure, or ascent, as dissolution (taªlīl ) of the voyager, who leaves a part of himself in each step of the journey, and the return, or descent, as synthesis or reconstitution of the voyager (tarkīb).85 This process of selfdissolution or self-distribution becomes the means whereby the voyager is made to see God’s āyāt: the space that is thus constituted within the traveller allows the perception of things hitherto concealed. Like the making-space of time, this easing out of a space within the spiritually voyaging self that is ready to receive the signs from the divine Other propels Al-Ghitany’s writing and enables the aforementioned identification between writing and the spiritual voyage. Al-Ghitany’s travelling dissolution follows and extends that of Ibn ʿArabī. The ‘signs’ that he sees along the way surpass what any normal person would perceive, including the atoms that compose the cosmos and his father; every leaf, drop of water or grain of sand that will eventually come together to form the body of Aªmad Al-Ghitany and that of his son. Here, too, Al-Ghitany does not exaggerate; for Ibn ʿArabī defines the mineral and vegetable realms as being necessary parts of the spiritual voyage.86 For the seeker, the passage through the four sublunar realms (mineral, vegetable, animal, human) is part

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and parcel of the process of ‘dissolution’ leading to the initiatory death to the world that will then enable the miʿrāj. In line with Ibn ʿArabī’s theory of a cosmos undergoing constant creation, nothing in the universe is inanimate: everything, including the letters that make up language, possesses life and a sacred order complete with messengers and prophets. This reality, however, is hidden from all but the most spiritually advanced humans, whom he describes as ‘the people of the unveiling’ (ahl al-kashf ).87 In Al-Ghitany’s Al-Tajalliyāt this translates not only into the narrator ‘becoming’ the constituent elements of the universe, but also an active listener in a conversation with the physical entities that contain his father’s childhood – the walls of the house and the palm tree in the village that he calls ‘entities’ (mawjūdāt) inform him about the fears of Aªmad Al-Ghitany’s childhood.88 The palm tree in particular plays a key role in Al-Ghitany’s voyage through this animated landscape, corresponding not only to a real palm tree in the past, but to a series of palm trees that were part of his father’s inheritance, and, perhaps most significantly, to the palm tree that was created along with the Land of Reality (Ar∂ Al-Óaqīqa) from the clay left over from Adam’s creation.89 Al-Ghitany cites Ibn ʿArabī’s account of the creation of this tree verbatim before adding, ‘This palm tree has a relationship to my father.’90 Furthermore, Al-Ghitany’s description of the places to which he travels during the early part of the Tajalliyāt bears some resemblance to Ibn ʿArabī’s description of Ar∂ Al-Óaqīqa, especially given the identification of the latter as the location of a dīwān (though not one identical to Al-Ghitany’s) and the privileged setting for theophanic revelations.91 As Ibn ʿArabī’s spiritual voyager travels through the Ninety-Nine Most Beautiful Names of God, so does the narrator of Al-Tajalliyāt travel through the many names of his characters, assuming their identities as he narrates the novel, literally saying, ‘I would bear many names.’ The work of mourning in Al-Ghitany’s work thus entails a moment of demetaphorisation – his father’s body literally becoming the physical elements of which it was constituted – followed by remetaphorisation – his father’s life as narrated in Al-Tajalliyāt. The tajallī is the fruit borne by the spiritual voyage. The relationship between the two activities is contained in one common trilateral Arabic root: s.f.r (‫)ﺳﻔﺮ‬, from which the Arabic words for ‘voyage’, ‘reveal’ and ‘book’ are derived. Thus the three parts of Al-Ghitany’s Al-Tajalliyāt are called the first,

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second and third ‘book’ but with a slight change of vocalisation they could be read as the first, second and third voyage and/or revelation. Al-Ghitany cites Ibn ʿArabī’s theory of the etymology of the word safar (travel, voyage): ‘The voyage is called safar because it reveals [yusfiru] the character of the traveler.’92 Ibn ʿArabī’s text also brings out the double mapping of voyage onto revelation and temptation onto danger: [Travel/al-safar] means that it is that which reveals what every person contains in the way of either good or bad manners. We also say, ‘the woman has revealed her face’ when she lifts the veil and her beauty or her ugliness appear. When He addresses the Arabs, God says, ‘And by the dawn when it breaks’ [Q74:34], which is to say when it reveals to their gazes what they see [. . .] In effect, when an Arab woman wants to warn that she is in danger, she uncovers her face [. . .]93

Denis Gril’s gloss on this passage stresses the double signification at the heart of the word sufūr (the state of being unveiled) which connotes anomaly, the possibility of a threat and perhaps above all the ambivalence of occultation and laying bare.94 Once the spiritual voyage is accomplished the traveller rejoins his former self (since the voyage was not physical), armed with a new gnosis that goes to the heart of things and ready to continue the process of serving and representing God on earth. At the end of his spiritual ascension, Ibn ʿArabī understands that his voyage ‘in God’ was only a voyage in himself, a voyage that revealed his true self as a ‘mere servant’ (ʿabd maª∂) of God. Al-Ghitany alludes to this aspect of the spiritual journey on the first page of his novel: ‘My voyage was only in search of myself, and my migration [hijra] was only from myself, in myself, to myself.’95 To this new self-knowledge are added various other insights, including what Ibn ʿArabī calls the science of circularity – indeed, of mutual interdependence – between God as truth (al-ªaqq), creation (al-khalq) and the understanding that this relationship is nothing other than all that is.96 Al-Ghitany’s work circumscribes the three points of Ibn ʿArabī’s triangle – the spiritual voyage, the gnosis that it brings about and the formation of the individual. Al-Ghitany is careful to describe the spiritual voyage as the result of an irresistible call that comes from the realm of the unknown, and will

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nevertheless (or perhaps consequently) not be denied. In the Tajalliyāt, the narrator’s first voyage is the result of a voice that says, ‘O Gamal.’97 In Hātif, there is a mere command, ‘Leave.’98 This command that comes from a wholly other place is precisely the one that marks the beginning of the spiritual voyage and mystical quest according to de Certeau: The spiritual subject is born of an exile. His formation is to desire nothing and to only be the one who answers to the pure signifier ‘God,’ whose mark is the very act of destroying all signs: The Only Name I have is the one that makes you leave [cf. Exodus 3:14]. The primary formula of the spiritual is to be only the decision to leave.99

Al-Ghitany’s exiled loners, himself included, who want nothing but move on compulsively, embody this ethos. Every human activity takes the form of a voyage for Al-Ghitany, as witness the following passage taken from his Al-Tajalliyāt but which happens to be lifted, verbatim, from Ibn ʿArabī’s Revelation of the Consequences of Travel (Kitāb Al-Isfār ʿan Natāʾij al-Asfār): We are in a perpetual voyage from our beginning and throughout our eternal destiny. One day, a dwelling appears and you say to yourself, ‘That is what I have been looking for.’ Then a new path opens up before you, you come across new dwellings that make you exclaim, ‘This place was always meant for me!’ but inevitably, you leave them for a new passage. How many voyages have you not made, passing through various forms that infiltrate the genes of your father and your mother, and when they met – by accident or design – and you came out of their union, first as sperm, then a clot of blood, then a fetus, then cartilage. Then the cartilage was covered in flesh, and from that moment on you had your own existence, after which you were brought into the world. Then you went through all the stages: from nursling to toddler, from toddler to child, from child to adolescent, from adolescent to young man, from young man to grown man, from grown man to old man, from old man to senile old man, and thence to the limbo of the Barzakh.100

The topos of the voyage allows Al-Ghitany to appeal to traditions at the base of his identity as an Egyptian Arabophone Muslim: the voyage of Isis to

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the source of the Nile in order to gather the limbs of Osiris, the miʿrāj of the Prophet Muªammad, the Abbasid poet Abū-l-ʿAlāʾ Al-Maʿarrī’s (973–1058) Risālat Al-Ghufrān (Letter on Forgiveness), where the poet imagines a trip to Paradise after the Day of Resurrection, and finally the voyage of Al-Ghitany himself during the course of which Aªmad Al-Ghitany died and as a result of which we have Al-Tajalliyāt. The relationship between travel and death spans all of these topoi, starting with the ancient Egyptian euphemism for death: ‘going forth by day’, according to which death, like life, is a voyage, but it is a voyage towards daylight. Al-Tajalliyāt is framed by voyages beyond the grave: from the death of Aªmad Al-Ghitany that starts the novel to the death of his wife Bakhita that closes it, we see the deaths of Gamal’s brothers, his friends, the Nasserist state and mythology – particularly important themes for a novelist who has paid dearly for his political commitments – and finally the death of all affective links to the novelist’s world. In all of these situations, not to mention in other novels by Al-Ghitany, life and death – now seen as intertwined rather than opposing activities – are seen as voyages in the same way as reading and writing. Nevertheless, the voyages that fill Al-Ghitany’s novels are rarely undertaken voluntarily. From travel for practical reasons, as in Al-Tajalliyāt, to the numerous economic migrations of Risālat Al-Ba‚āʾir to the irresistible call for spiritual travel in Hātif, we rarely see Al-Ghitany’s travellers undertake a pleasure trip. On the contrary, long, sad passages describe the arrival as much as the departure. In Al-Tajalliyāt, this melancholia is linked explicitly to the ubiquitous necessity of travel: to be born is to leave the womb, to die is to go forth by day, with very little permanence in between. Hence the sound of alienation that inhabits Al-Ghitany’s writing, as well as the constant theme of sorrow for the voyager who is never at home. Allusions to the idea that strangers are always vulnerable no matter how strong they are recurs frequently in Al-Tajalliyāt, Hātif and Risālat Al-Ba‚āʾir. The ubiquity of departure makes exile synonymous with being in Al-Ghitany’s idiom, furnishing the basis for his project as a writer: The meaning of the word ‘exile’ is manifold. Exile can be spiritual or moral without entailing physical exile. Since we are suspended between two instants, an irretrievable past and an unattainable future, it is impossible

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not to feel like a foreigner, an exile. The writer is perhaps more conscious of this situation than other people; conscious of a three-fold exile: personal, social and political.101

Among the numerous connotations of exile, survival is especially important for Al-Ghitany. Starting with an event that he relates frequently in his novels and interviews – the fact of having survived the Arab–Israeli wars, even as his friends were killed by his side – he frequently conveys the sense of living ‘by accident’ a bonus lifetime that has miraculously escaped a violent end.102 Hence the interest of an especially gruesome anecdote related in the Risālat Al-Ba‚āʾir, in which a man on a bicycle is decapitated by an explosion and whose legs continue to pedal after the head has been separated – exiled – from the body.103 Like this headless body that carries on, Al-Ghitany sees himself as being cut off from something essential, but living on, by accident. Al-Ghitany also treats this particular phenomenon through another incident from 1969, in which a soldier sitting next to him in a café is killed by a shell, leading him to ponder his fate had they swapped places: ‘What if I were sitting there?’104 Al-Ghitany’s writing unfolds in the space between trauma and survival, always fully conscious of having lost an important link to his origins and always desperate to re-establish a link with them. Al-Ghitany’s many survivals drive his writing. In this space in which one has outlived one’s place in the world, to live is to be exiled. The idea that being alive is to be in perpetual departure recurs regularly in Al-Tajalliyāt. Far from blocking writing, the myriad forms of exile and survival make it possible: Ever since that day [of his father’s death] exile has been my lot. Exile is the separation from the fatherland, and my father was my land. When he left me I felt like a stranger, which is why I started my search and made my inquiries, which is why what happened to me happened to me. I did not let any answer keep me from interrogating myself.105

It goes without saying that the narrator’s question will necessarily remain unanswered, since the end of the interrogation implies the end of writing. As Georg Lukács pointed out many years ago, the novel is the genre of exile and homelessness.106

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One of the most important stations on the narrator’s exile-cum-spiritual voyage is an imaginary parallel existence as the son of Egyptian immigrants in Paris who falls in love with a woman named Laure.107 Whereas everything would lead the reader to believe that the narrator has merely substituted one obsession for another during this episode, Al-Íimādī’s analysis convincingly demonstrates Al-Ghitany’s clear reliance on Ibn ʿArabī’s erotic language in writing it.108 In this code, the woman represents wisdom or truth (al-haqīqa); sexual desire represents the desire to attain that truth (wi‚āl ); and sexual intercourse represents union with that truth.109 Neither the choice of Paris as a location for this episode nor the narrator’s alter ego is accidental: Paris is the home of revolution and the age of twenty is the one where one is most likely to yield to revolutionary temptation. Al-Ghitany would have been twentythree in 1968. The Laure episode is thus written in praise of the narrator’s youthful idealism and revolutionary fervour, as well as a lamentation of the sorry consequences of his (the real, historical Al-Ghitany’s) political activities that led to his arrest, imprisonment, torture and, perhaps most painfully, separation from his family. There is more at work here than allegory, however. Al-Íimādī’s remarkable analysis reads the birth of the narrator’s Parisian self against Ibn ʿArabī’s physics, generating a human life out of the combination of elements and principles.110 While Ibn ʿArabī’s scheme is Aristotelian, his language is not: he uses the term ummahāt – mothers – to refer to the four basic elements (air, earth, water, fire).111 Al-Ghitany demetaphorises this language to create an alternative mother and an alternative self that revolve around his real existence, born of his real mother. The dynamic binding Al-Ghitany’s two selves is comparable to that between what Deleuze calls the virtual and the actual: the power of creation and the things it creates.112 In addition to being a nostalgic moment, the Laure episode foregrounds the relationship of the artist to his work, and the extent to which actual lived being is always surrounded by a cloud of creative virtuality. The Laure episode, or rather the maqām with which it is associated, stands for art as creative activity: the expulsion of the self along a line of flight outside oneself, towards another character (who may well bear a strong resemblance to oneself, as Al-Ghitany’s Parisian alternative self resembles him) in another place at another time.113 Ibn ʿArabī’s idiom thus enables a mise-en-abyme of the very process of literary creation itself.

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The Laure episode thus brings into focus Al-Ghitany’s metamorphoses into his many characters, qua narrator of Al-Tajalliyāt: ‘Another curiosity: I would bear many names other than the one chosen for me by my noble father – among them: Kamāl, Farīd, Khāled [El-Islambouly], Ibn Iyās, Saʿīd Al-Juhaynī, Muªyi-l-Dīn [Ibn ʿArabī], and many more [. . .]’114 In other words, Al-Ghitany the reader and writer takes on the mask of the authors that he cites and whose style he appropriates, as well as the characters that he creates. Al-Ghitany the narrator pushes the process of identification-cummetamorphosis to the point of sharing the most extreme events of his characters’ lives: like Al-Óusayn b. ʿAlī, he will have his head cut off, like Ibn ʿArabī he will experience a miʿrāj in Fez; both experiences of self-division that will allow him to rejoin his physical but not spiritual self, to the point of speaking of his ‘original self’ in the third part of Al-Tajalliyāt. Reconciliations Al-Ghitany’s spiritual travel through time and memory (both personal, political and cultural) is coupled with repeated instances of separation from the self. This separation can take brutal physical form – as when the narrator is beheaded, like his first guide, Al-Óusayn, for not accepting his fate and asking too many questions – or a more subtle and troubling form, as in the Ichspaltung that occurs when he experiences a miʿrāj in Fez, together with the concomitant fragmentation of the self into its constituent elements and the dispersal of these elements throughout the cosmos. It bears pointing out that, in all of these cases, the space created within the narrator’s person has as much to do with revisiting the creative process – yielding control to the Other, making space for the Other to speak through us, inscribing the language of the Other on the language of the self – as it does with revisiting the past. The repeated disintegrations of the narrator’s self call forth the past, making room for the narrative to flow. Through the multiple mechanisms that maintain the operation of Al-Tajalliyāt, the myriad forms of the divided self converge on the idea of writing. One topos central to this process is that of following a master or imitating a saint. The narrator travels in time under the orders of a master – usually Al-Óusayn, Ibn ʿArabī or Abd El-Nasser – and, qua disciple, aims at reproducing the phases of the master’s spiritual voyage, the better to acquire

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the esoteric knowledge that results from this process. This self-division and imitation of the master can be mapped onto the two poles of autobiographical writing: the writing self and the self written about. We might regard the divided body of the narrator in the second part of the novel, or the divided psyche of the narrator following his spiritual ascension during the conference in Fez,115 as markers of the two poles of this mapping. Al-Ghitany’s miʿrāj thus yields a new perspective on the writing process even as it represents it. Al-Ghitany describes the state of being fragmented or divided as being in a new state of creation (khalq jadīd ), alluding to one of the most important topoi in the Ibn ʿArabī canon: the constantly (re-)created universe, as evinced by Q50:15.116 One of the consequences of Ibn ʿArabī’s belief in a cosmos that undergoes constant creation is that there is no repetition in the self-disclosure of God (la tikrār fī-l-tajallī). Since this self-disclosure occurs in the universe, and since God is Being (wujūd ), it follows that there is no repetition in existence. Al-Ghitany states these principles towards the end of the third part of his Al-Tajalliyāt.117 The idea of self-renewal is so important to Al-Ghitany that it stands as a motto on his official website, where we read the following: My impossible wish . . . That I might be offered another chance to live . . . that I might be born again under different circumstances . . . that I might return armed with the things I learned during my first existence that is now nearing its end . . . how much time have I spent figuring out elementary matters . . .118

One version of this wish is of course realised in the second part of Al-Tajalliyāt, during the Laure episode. The conclusion of that episode, however, in which the narrator concludes that the entire episode was a ‘voyage inside himself’,119 implies that even were Al-Ghitany to be granted the wish to be born again, he would find himself again. This meditation on eternal returns takes us to the central problem of autobiography and self-narration. We alluded above to some of these limitations – that autobiography depends as much, if not more, on its reception as on its production; that it has more to do with the ear of the other than the tongue of the I. Accordingly, Al-Tajalliyāt closes with a solicitation of the readers’ sympathy and compassion, inviting them to gather round him and be

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generous with their tears that they might serve as emotional sustenance in his perpetual exile.120 This request is preceded by a description of his breakdown at his mother’s funeral where he finally confronts the utter impossibility of self-presence (understood here to mean he who most consistently follows Ibn ʿArabī’s teachings), while his relatives look on, amazed: I will never be the one you described, why do you contradict yourself, are you not the one who said, the one who asked, ‘Who oppresses himself most?’ [and answered] ‘He who accepts what has been decreed’? Why do you ask this of me now? Why? It is not me [lit. I am not I] and never will be. He [Ibn ʿArabī] raises his hand, while people stretch out theirs to restrain me, to stand between me and the sand, my roaring mixes with my wailing; for what I said is what I did not say, and what I did not say is what I said, so where can I run away to? Where?121

This passage marks the end of a cycle and the start of another. Al-Ghitany had started the Tajalliyāt as a spiritual exercise aimed at reconciling himself with his father’s death, only to end it unable to come to terms with his mother’s. Worse yet, the self-exploration that took place under the guise of various spiritual travels and ascensions did not yield the self-possession that he thought it would. Instead he rediscovers the same despair wrapped in shouts and tears. The narrator finds himself trapped in a double bind: writing his own, and his father’s, story did not result in the monumental text that would survive him, except in the form of the eight hundred or so pages that do not speak for him, that do not say what he said. Al-Ghitany’s often repeated definition of autobiography – the genre of perfect self-identity between the writer and the person being written about – is doomed to failure in his own case. The split from himself following his spiritual ascension in Fez may have successfully staged the writing process and the dynamics of autobiography in the third person (what Derrida refers to as the genre where ‘I writes’),122 but this lucidity regarding the limits of autobiography and writing does not guarantee a successful outcome. Indeed, he is advised by his spiritual masters that this self-division is false, and that he is one single person despite his numerous alienations from himself.123 Nevertheless, the self will always escape the self, never more than during the process of self-narration. If we return to the Arabic term for autobiography – tarjama dhātiyya or ‘self-translation’ – we

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might say that something of the self always, inevitably, gets lost in its selftranslation. What is left in the text of the tarjama dhātiyya is what survives this procedure of narration and loss. Nor is this all. The numerous ‘whys’ and ‘where tos’ inscribed on the last page of the novel are reminiscent of another line of interrogation that runs its course through Al-Tajalliyāt from start to finish. I refer, of course, to the many questions that the narrator asks the figure of Gamal Abd El-Nasser, though the responses never satisfy him. The themes of the abandonment and betrayal of Abd El-Nasser’s cause underlie the novel, running in parallel with Al-Ghitany’s guilt about abandoning his father. In one early episode, their conversation combines almost all of the identities in play in the novel.124 Abd El-Nasser appears to the narrator and speaks to him in his father’s voice. The words that they exchange are taken from Ibn ʿArabī’s famous encounter with the philosopher Ibn Rushd (1126–98), during which the latter is supposed to have been astonished at the mystic’s intellectual precocity.125 As the narrator’s tone becomes increasingly angry, inquiring ‘Why? Why?’ (as in ‘why are things so bad now?’ or ‘why did your cause fail?’) Abd El-Nasser disappears. His final words are those addressed by Al-Khi∂r to Moses in Q18:78, alluding to an episode that stands as the paradigm for the relation between knowing Sufi shaykh and faithful, if puzzled, disciple: ‘This is where you and I part company.’126 Thus we have the following set of convoluted relationships: Abd El-Nasser :Gamal Al-Ghitany::Aªmad Al-Ghitany : Gamal Al-Ghitany :: Ibn Rushd ::Ibn ʿArabī ::Khi∂r:Moses. The fact that all of these relationships are centred on the figure of Abd El-Nasser is the novelist’s way of conveying just how much this leader meant to Al-Ghitany and his generation: to them he was a father, a philosopher, a guide spiritual and intellectual. This rich synthesis of relationships helps to explain the anger that Al-Ghitany feels towards him. Not only was Al-Ghitany arrested, imprisoned and tortured by Abd El-Nasser’s oppressive security apparatus; he was arrested despite being a man of the left and being a true believer in Abd El-Nasser’s cause. Hence the reproach that he directs at Abd El-Nasser in another tajallī: ‘It is true that you are cruel, but you are cruel toward those who follow you.’127 A later encounter is written in the anaphoric style of Al-Niffarī, the dialogue thus implying that the meeting between Al-Ghitany and Abd El-Nasser is based on one between a mystic and God.128 Following

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all of this, one would not be far wrong in thinking that the final confrontation during the funeral that closes the novel is directed as much at Abd El-Nasser as at Ibn ʿArabī. One last question that imposes itself is, as the novelist himself puts it, why? Why does he not abandon his Nasserist beliefs after his experience of imprisonment and torture? Why does his political credo survive the collapse of all that he held sacred? One possible answer could come from the work of Wendy Brown, who coined the phrase ‘state of injury’ to describe the foundation of a politics of subject-formation grounded in a sense of victimisation in the late twentieth-century USA.129 Brown links this nexus of affect and politics to the desire for the exclusive love of the father seen in political figures of authority. Despite the difference in context, we would not be far wrong in saying that Al-Ghitany inhabits a state of injury. In Al-Tajalliyāt he often refers to the ‘wound’ being raw: the term could apply as much to his grief at losing his biological father, Aªmad Al-Ghitany, as his political father, Gamal Abd El-Nasser, as well as the end of the Nasserist order. If Al-Tajalliyāt is an elegy for the father, its true aim is retaining the exclusive love of the father who demands so many sacrifices of his children. The turn to Sufism enables the interrogation of the political and biological fathers in the idiom of the literary and mystical fathers (Ibn ʿArabī and the other Sufis whose voices fill Al-Tajalliyāt), thereby allowing their son, Gamal Al-Ghitany, to reconcile himself to what he has lost and carry on living in the world.

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5 Ibrahim Al-Koni: Writing and Sacrifice

hereas Al-Ghitany’s employment of Sufism hinged on ideas of survival and baqāʾ, Libyan novelist Ibrahim Al-Koni’s many novels and short stories move in the opposite direction, continuously pushing the self in an ascetic space towards, and beyond, annihilation, fanāʾ.1 This is not to say that Al-Koni is any less interested in being remembered than Al-Ghitany, as witness the moment in his fictional autobiography, Marāthī Ūlīs (The Elegies of Ūlīs, 2004), where forgetting and being forgotten (al-nisyān) are described as a fate worse than death. The encounter with death defines and delimits the task of writing: both literal and figurative fanāʾ play a prominent role in Al-Koni’s plots. As in pharaonic eschatology, death is seen as the start of real life rather than its end. Dissolution in what is becomes the pinnacle of human existence. Born in 1948 in the oasis town of Ghadames, Al-Koni’s concerns are bound with his identity as an Arabophone Touareg who uses the space of fiction to revive and explore the desert cosmos. Al-Koni’s education, first in Libya and then at the Gorki Institute in Moscow, led to a career as one of the most prolific novelists writing in Arabic, with over sixty titles published to date. As a writer who is caught up among rival belief systems, Al-Koni often turns to Sufi language and ideas as a way of negotiating the sometimes difficult passages between the laws of the desert, the laws of God and the laws of humanity. As such his deployment of political ideas is more subtle than that found in Al-Ghitany’s work. Instead the emphasis is on what might be called a mystical ecology, tracing the wanderings of individuals in the desert. Among the key topoi of Al-Koni’s life and work is the idea of the stranger, which is strongly reminiscent of Dumont’s ascetic. Indeed, Al-Koni’s highly stylised Arabic and his routine mixing of Abrahamic monotheistic belief with

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Touareg mythology place him at some distance from the norm in contemporary Arabic literary production. 2 The titles of his works oscillate between references Touareg and Qurʾānic. The majority of Al-Koni’s works belong to the first category, spanning the physical elements of Touareg desert life (as in Al-Biʾr [The Well ], 1989), its inhabitants (Al-Majūs [The Magi], 1990) and the fundamental structures of Touareg anthropology (as in Bayt fī-l-Dunyā wa Bayt fī-l-Óanīn [A Home in the World and a Home in Longing], 2000). Among the Qurʾānic titles we find Al-Íuªuf Al-Ūlā (The Earlier Scriptures, 2004) and Íuªuf Ibrāhīm (The Scriptures of Abraham/Ibrāhīm [Al-Koni], 2005); both allusions to Q87:18–19. Al-Koni describes his project as being one of founding a radically innovative tradition, namely that of the desert novel: ‘I am in the middle of a creative adventure: that of founding a culture of the desert novel, which is something as new to the world as it is to Arabic literature.’3 Indeed, so strange and utterly different is the world of the desert that one of Al-Koni’s earliest short stories narrates the bewildered encounter between the nomad (the badawī) and the city: a meeting that ends in violence, torture and the nomad returning to the desert incapable of producing the songs that were his only solace.4 As will be seen below, the elements of this story – the opposition between the desert and the city, the lyric as the most intimate and most important art, the perpetuity of homelessness – will return in Al-Koni’s late writings to define his aesthetics. Unlike Al-Ghitany, Al-Koni’s use of Sufi elements is present in his writing from the outset. His is an enchanted universe full of possibilities and perspectives impossible in its rational counterpart. His writing strives to undo the oppositions between the reasonable human and the non-human, be it spiritual or animal. Al-Koni’s strategies in dealing with these matters become a way of tackling questions of literariness, reading and writing. To read a novel is to inhabit a fictional world, for a time, and allow oneself to be subject to its laws and values. Connoisseurs of puns will have noticed the double entendre contained by the name Al-Koni/Al-Kawnī: the word kawn means being, world or universe. And it is precisely as a maker of fictional worlds that Al-Koni teaches, or rather narrates and recites, the entities, laws and values of the world to the reader. In a recent interview, Al-Koni identifies writing with two aspects of individual identity outlined by Dumont: ascesis and the sacred. Like Dumont’s

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earliest individuals, he positions himself outside a rigidly structured social hierarchy: the Touareg social order. In order for writing to occur, he tells us, the writer must sacrifice his life in the full sense of the term; otherwise creation becomes impossible.5 In other words, Al-Koni can only assume the writer’s voice insofar as he is an individu-hors-du-monde; ‘Objectively speaking, there is no alternative: either life in the world, or the spiritual life of creativity.’6 As he excludes himself from this world, Al-Koni travels to another: ‘Any reader of my work can see that the desert of which I speak is synonymous with the world, that it is an allegory of the world.’7 The desert becomes Al-Koni’s fictional world: a setting for the sacred and the concomitant inquiry into norms and values that then informs the writer’s spiritual and creative orientation. Al-Koni glosses the Book of Exodus in terms that emphasise its proximity to the divine: In the book of Exodus, God says to Pharaoh via Moses: ‘Let my people go so that they can worship me in the desert.’ The desert is thus a sacred place, a sanctuary. The chosen people must cross the Sinai to be purified of polytheism before they can enter the Promised Land. In fact, the desert is also the place of purification, of the aʿrāf according to the Qurʾānic term. Sanctuary, purgatory but also freedom, which is a synonym of death: that is what the desert is to me.8

The essential element that makes the desert serve all of these functions, however, is the fact that it is a physical space buttressed by a myth, which Al-Koni calls ‘the soul of the desert [l’âme du desert]’.9 This structure makes the desert an enchanted space; a comfortable home for a wide range of deities: Monotheism was not really known in the great Sahara. I think, however, that God is more present there than in a lot of other deserts; for God is present wherever nature is found. I have always been interested in the problem of the unity of creation and even of the unity of the Creator and creature. God, the human and the animal are united in a single body called the Sahara. This is why, when we kill a waddān we hurt ourselves.10

Al-Koni’s description posits an equation between a pantheistic perspective that serves to accentuate Abrahamic monotheism and the Sufi concept of the unity of being (waªdat al-wujūd ). This equation drives the identification

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between the human and non-human central to a number of his plots, including that of what is probably his best-known novel, Nazīf Al-Óajar (The Bleeding of the Stone, 1990), where Al-Koni uses the Cain story to trope the identity between killing the waddān and homicide, thereby emphasising the utterly profane nature of the crime. With respect to the Sufi genealogies of waªdat al-wujūd, Al-Koni makes a point of inserting a debate between a Sufi darwīsh who believes that God can ‘inhabit’ any of his creatures (the doctrine of ªulūl ), as opposed to the Pauline Christian perspective that limits this incarnation to Christ alone.11 For Al-Koni, Sufism thus operates as a key vector of the laws and ideas that govern both the act of writing and the operation of the fictional world built by that writing. It is no accident that his repertoire of stock characters includes the darwīsh and the murīd, the spiritual master and the disciple. The location of the individual in the liminal space that is simultaneously hors du monde and in the sacred space of the desert intensifies his or her relationship with the divine. Indeed, it is this location of the individual that has enabled Al-Koni’s aesthetic from its inception: I grew up in the vast expanse of the desert, in this unlimited emptiness that extends into the infinite, reaching out to the horizon where it meets an eternally clear, equally bare sky. Together they form one body, and in fact I have always been looking for the secret of their union that resembles the fusion of two lovers in the intoxication of love. As a child I sought God in this fusion, and through it, with the understanding of a child, I understood the Unity of Being. Then I discovered in the cosmic ritual the meaning of freedom [. . .] All of my novels, my short stories, my essays and aphorisms constitute an attempt to put into words the mystery of this great being: God, the Unity of Being and freedom.12

These three vertices – God, the unity of being and freedom – thus define the triangle that circumscribes the relationships of Al-Koni’s fictional universe. A proper reading of Al-Koni must thus account for the myriad forms of these relationships, be they between the human beings and jinn, and both humans and jinn and God, as well as the eternal, but lost, Touareg law (al-Nāmūs [the nomos] or Ānhī, terms that Al-Koni uses interchangeably) that regulates their operation.13

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Defining the Space of the Desert Al-Koni’s desert calls for reinvention rather than depiction. This desert is not real; it is an idealised desert eminently suited to the register of mythology and archetype. Michel de Certeau has argued that narration is what turns a given place into a space: ‘space is a practiced place [l’espace est un lieu pratiqué]’.14 It is precisely the practice of the text – reading, writing, reciting – that brings about the metamorphosis of place into space. Furthermore, this practice sacralises the place by defining it as a field in which action is authorised: relying on Georges Dumézil’s analyses of the iūs fētiāle, de Certeau underlines the extent to which the ritual of narrative authorisation must precede action in a given space, operating as the thing that renders such action intelligible – a given time and place are deemed fasti or nefasti precisely insofar as they yield this mystical basis for human law and action.15 Once the story’s trajectory opens up the desert in this manner, there is room for the laws of human and divine behaviour to interact and create the texts of Al-Koni’s writing. As such its rules and epistemologies are not those of the rational universe. This is perhaps nowhere more apparent than in the aforementioned relationship between the human, the spiritual and the animal. On this question, it would be useful to consider Stanley Cavell’s work on the ‘Kantian settlement with skepticism’ and the extent to which the world can be known. Cavell claims that ever since Kant, Western philosophy has been stuck in a mode that enables certain epistemologies at the cost of other ways of knowing: we can know the world, but only on condition that we give up any knowledge of the thing-in-itself.16 Certain knowledge about the world is possible, but only insofar as the possibility of knowledge about things-in-themselves, or other minds-in-themselves, is abandoned. As Cary Wolfe puts it, ‘We gain knowledge, but only to lose the world.’17 Mind reading is impossible, as is communion with the non-human or inanimate. Taking a detour through Wittgenstein, Cavell shows how the resulting condition of ‘skeptical terror about the independent existence of other minds’ becomes a hallmark of postEnlightenment modernity; a hallmark that leaves us wondering about just what counts as knowledge: the encounter with the animal ‘makes us wonder what we conceive knowledge to be’.18

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If we extend this mode of enquiry to Ibrahim Al-Koni’s fictional universe, we find that the reader is treated to something like a solution to the problem of sceptical terror via the deployment of non-human characters. Far from being exotic touches of local colour, the animals and jinn of Al-Koni’s fictional desert are markers that enable an ethics and epistemology that seeks to overcome the Kantian impasse: in Al-Koni’s fiction, non-human things-inthemselves can be known, but that knowledge comes at the price of the more generalised rational knowledge of the world. The system of values that operates concurrently with such knowledge undermines Cavell’s post-Kantian sceptical outlook in favour of forms of gnosis that resituate the individual human at some distance from the centre of the universe. Al-Koni’s readers will remark that it is easy to lose the plot of his novels: there is not much ‘rational’ knowledge but there is, on the other hand, a great deal of gnosis (ʿirfān, spiritual insight). Far from being an alienated or ‘fallen’ condition, this is, in fact, as it should be; for Al-Koni’s displacement of the human recalls Dumont’s genesis of the individual outside the world: in order for the human to be at all, he or she must communicate, however strenuously, with the jinn and the animal. Al-Koni’s deployment of these possibilities bears witness to literature’s power of address and response vis-à-vis the (im)possibilities set forth by modernity’s rationalist outlook. The structure of the space that enables these possibilities leads to the question of the spirit and the place of the mystic in the desert. In her article on Touareg cosmologies, Hélène Claudot-Hawad draws attention to the fundamental division of the universe into two spheres: the visible and the invisible; the former being the home of the human, the latter the home of the spiritual.19 Each sphere has its inhabitants and its epistemologies. The two frequently interact but the process is hardly ever peaceful or easy. In order to make sense of all this, Touareg society depends on those who can shuttle back and forth between the two orders. The most important figure of this ‘inbetween’ space is the Sufi: ‘The Sufi, an in-between character whose specific qualities perfectly articulate the structures necessary for Touareg cosmogony, assumes the role of mediator between God and people, among whom he plays the role of the conciliator par excellence.’20 The Touareg Sufi bears a strong resemblance to Dumont’s other-worldly individual, always moving on the edge of society in order to proclaim the importance of individuality, thereby

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constituting an anti-hierarchical, oppositional political force that exercises its influence in the space of the desert. Susan Rasmussen argues that the Sufis or marabouts ‘do not so much mediate static categories, as are themselves mediated in processes of meaning-transformation and representation of the social other, according to vantage point and interest group, rather than structural position’.21 Elsewhere Rasmussen emphasises the extent to which nomadism, poetic creation and Sufism seem to work together in Touareg society in their concern with ‘the hermeneutics of inner experience and altered personal states in relation to external position in the natural and social terrains’.22 The poet, like the Sufi, occupies a space between the space of the living and the space of the wilderness (essuf/esuf ). Indeed, the process of literary creation consists of ‘peopling’ empty spaces: The poetic imagination pervades places which are settings with human referents, in a permanent duality of here and beyond, near and far, interior and exterior. The poet enlarges reality and exaggerates images, for example, of the camp and the tent, as closed sheltering places and refuges. Tent and camp are enclosed with essuf, an outside, immense territory. The poet, believed to be solitary (and thus in the wild and trance-like) traverses this space [. . .] Essuf is in effect re-peopled by the poet’s imagination.23

The idea of the poet as solitary, other-worldly individual seems to have played a key part in Al-Koni’s intellectual formation. In a recent autobiographical essay, he narrates his erstwhile project of writing a dissertation on the messianic in Dostoyevsky precisely as a means of studying the personality of someone whose ‘truth is not of this world’ (cf. John 18:36: ‘My kingdom is not of this world’). Al-Koni translates the word ‘kingdom’ by ‘haqīqa’; the very same term that he defines as the only true object of desire and the one he was pursuing passionately through his literary studies.24 As the essay progresses, it becomes clear that the abandoned dissertation was, as is often the case, something of a disguised autobiography: the truth that is ‘not of this world’ is the reality of the other-worldly individual, whose identification with heaven closely parallels Dumont’s individual under the protection of a tutelary deity, and whose existence couples freedom with exile in the world as we know it. Al-Koni lists the attributes of this other-worldly individual in an anaphoric moment meant to convey the messianic character of his mission:

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The location of the truth outside the scope of the temporal world is not the tragedy of the saintly soul alone, but that of every creative soul in this world. This is the meaning in the language of the world of the curse of eternal exile that crowns the creative soul with its dreadful crown as it crowned the Messiah once to turn him into a stranger in this world, abandoned by family and friends, betrayed by his companions; for all of the creative soul’s others in this world are like Judas Iscariot. How could the creative soul not identify with the reality of Christ as he wandered from this world, thereby deserving the punishment of this world? And how could the creative artist not feel close to the Messiah when he sees himself (from the minute that he accepts artistic creation as his fate) as a victim sacrificed by this world in order to proclaim the extra-worldly reality, thereby recalling to mind the deadly experience of the Messiah as a teacher of pain and an innovator in spiritual exile? This means that the Messiah was a creative artist, and the creative artist a Messiah. The Messiah creates a reality through sacrifice. And the artist is a Messiah [sacrificial victim] of the world through reality.25

The sacred mission and the aesthetic project go hand in hand, each revolving around the inevitability of sacrifice and the encounter with death. Due perhaps to the extremity of the experience, the language of the artist as messianic outsider necessarily takes on peculiar forms. Al-Koni’s texts consistently foreground the importance of the law in the life of his characters: time and again his readers are confronted with maxims, aphorisms and sentences (which he refers to as mutūn), either as part of a novel, its epigraph or as an independent publication. Such is Al-Koni’s dedication to this practice that he does not hesitate to cite himself as one of its masters.26 From a literary-historical viewpoint this is nothing new: much of the development of the novel in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries can be described precisely as a mise-en-récit of a set of laws, be they the laws of worldliness, nature or virtue.27 At certain points, Al-Koni narrates the origins of the law through the interaction of the human, the space of the desert and the force of the divine. There is a neat synthesis of the genesis of the law and the individual in Marāthī Ūlīs, where the protagonist’s paternal grandfather dedicates himself to the ancient god Harw (in opposition to the maternal grandfather,

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the warrior who protects the valley from the invaders), who then sets about creating the law of laws (nāmūs al-nawāmīs), the ur-law that later generations would call fate.82 These pronouncements of the law operate as parameters that further define the space traversed by Al-Koni’s fictions and characters, and the worlds they inhabit. One of the more striking references to the law comes in his recent novel, Anubis (2002). The title refers to the ancient Egyptian God of the Dead, whose task is to introduce the dead into the other world, before their trial at the hands of Osiris. In Al-Koni’s idiom, however, Anubis becomes Anubi, a Tamasheq term meaning ‘orphan’, a man without a father. Moreover, the term ‘Anubis’ is a term that can be applied to anyone, roughly a synonym for ‘individual’. Al-Koni maps this equivalence of existence and fatherlessness onto the Touareg ontology that identifies the earth with the mother and heaven with the father. If our father is (in) heaven, then our relationship with him is not so far removed from the relationship to the tutelary deity of Dumont’s extra-worldly individual. Insofar as we are all ‘Anubis’, we also embody the law of the individual. This law is further complicated by a key tragic detail in the plot of the novel, namely that Anubis crosses the desert only to kill his father by accident. It is on this Oedipal note that the novel ends: all sons are destined to kill their fathers; ‘We must kill the father in order to seek the father. We must kill the father in order to find the father.’29 At this point in the text, narration gives way to declaration, and the novel opens onto a supplement entitled ‘The Sayings of Anubis’ (Wa‚āyā Anūbīs): a collection of maxims and aphorisms that extend the plot of the novel. It is as if the novel only existed to enable the pronouncement of the law. In this respect, Anubis is strongly reminiscent of a key Touareg ritual: the pronunciation of the enni, the aphorism, at the end of a conversation. As Dominique Casajus puts it, the point of the aphorism is to anchor the conversation, to give it an indisputable point of arrival and a centre of gravity.30 The aim is to bring a particular situation to a universal truth, or to bring the latter to bear on the former. The style of the enni is not, however, particularly lucid. If anything it holds fast to the mysterious language of the sacred, the veiled expression in which sacred truths are cast; the style that in Tamasheq is called tangält and is associated with the self-restraint of the

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noble social caste. The importance of tangält, allusive, figurative, ironic or veiled discourse, is such that it is often used as a synonym for Tamasheq; the linguistic penumbra where only native speakers may tread.31 As Casajus puts it, ‘[L]a tangält, pénombreuse sans être obscure, voile tout en laissant deviner, comme l’élégante qui n’ourle sa paupière d’une ombre de koheul que pour en mieux souligner le contour’.32 There is therefore a cautious use of language in the enni. Resorting to universal aphorisms to end a conversation is one way of dissolving one’s responsibility into a general, anonymous collectivity that ratifies the speaker’s enunciation. The beginning of Anubis is marked by the ritual definition of the self. Elsewhere, Al-Koni describes this process as one where the human self is situated and defined with respect to the divine. In Al-Íuªuf Al-Ūlā Al-Koni argues that the question ‘Who am I?’ really means ‘Where is God?’33 Although Al-Koni does not mention Ibn ʿArabī in this context, it is difficult to overlook the parallels with the latter’s commentary on the ªadīth, ‘He who knows himself knows his Lord.’34 Ibn ʿArabī’s immanent mysticism implies that the location of the divine is within the self, so that knowledge of one necessarily leads to, indeed is identical with, knowledge of the Other. Al-Koni relates this question to the phenomenon of ancestor worship: the conjunction of personal origins and orientation with respect to the divine results in a conflation of the objects of worship. So it is with the protagonist of Anubis: Al-Koni narrates his birth as a reawakening after a long journey, followed by the encounter with his parents and the solar deity, Raʾ (Ragh in the novel; an allusion to the early Egyptian myths in which Anūbīs was the son of Raʾ). Soon thereafter Anubis starts perceiving flashes of light that, he tells us, are early flashes of prophecy (nubūʾa); a synonym for literary creation in Al-Koni’s idiom. Anubis describes these rare, short moments through an allusion to Q42:11: ‘There is nothing like Him: He is the All Hearing, the All Seeing.’35 Ibn ʿArabī relies heavily on this verse to explain the absolute otherness and incomparability of God, the wholly transcendent Óaqq with respect to creation (khalq), even as He is identified with ‘the Light of the heavens and the earth’ (Q24:35 – this light lies at the origin of the flashes seen by Anubis).36 The simultaneity of God’s transcendence (He is the wholly Other) and immanence (He is ubiquitous, even in the rare flashes seen by the newborn Anubis) is something that

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underlines both Ibn ʿArabī’s and Al-Koni’s understanding of the divine. The irruption of these flashes of inspiration into the newborn’s consciousness and his understanding of them as early moments of prophecy foregrounds the reliance of Al-Koni’s understanding of identity and writing on Ibn ʿArabī’s ideas. ‘The Land of Celestial Visions’ (‘Wa†an Al-Ruʾā Al-Samāwiyya’) First published in 1991, this variation on the Abraham story stands as a sort of key to Al-Koni’s vast and expanding fictional universe. The plot is simple: a man takes his son on a journey of spiritual initiation. Once they reach the chosen location, the man kills his son and then himself. The tale centres on mystical, other-worldly foci: the protagonist has been a member of the Qādiriyya Sufi order for several years but has failed to attain the lofty spiritual experiences about which he has heard so much.37 Direct allusions to Sufi themes and ideas in the novella are limited to two short aphorisms from Al-Junayd (‘the colour of the water is the colour of the vessel’38) and Persian poet Farīd Al-DīnʿA††ār (c. 1119–90; ‘I know of no greater happiness for man than to be annihilated from himself’39). These allusions constitute part of a wider network of references to the laws of the desert that also includes the Qādiriyya order and the Touareg Nāmūs. Al-Koni also employs Sufi vocabulary and terminology strategically, using the term fanāʾ to mean both physical death and death to individuality and worldly concerns, ruʾya to mean both physical vision and spiritual discovery, sirr to mean innermost self and the secret, and so on. The importance of Al-Koni’s references to Al-Junayd is bound up with his interest in the concept of fanāʾ. It is no accident that one of Al-Junayd’s texts is entitled Kitāb Al-Fanāʾ. Al-Junayd defines Sufism through the obliteration of the self: ‘Sufism [ta‚awwuf ] is that God should make you die from yourself and should make you live in him.’40 Thus death to the self is seen as the start of a life that is more real than the quotidian human existence. The irony of Al-Koni’s reference to fanāʾ effectively demetaphorises the term, so that it ends up meaning ‘death’ when it actually refers to the absence from oneself on the way to union with the divine.41 Al-Koni’s protagonist misses the point: fanāʾ is but a way station on the way to baqāʾ, the new existence after extinction. As Hellmut Ritter puts it:

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The cessation of individual existence is no longer a menacing end, the gate to an unknown destiny in the hereafter which man looks forward to with dread and trembling. Nor is it any longer the bridge to beholding the divine Beloved’s face. Rather, it is immersion and extinction in the primordial ground of Being itself, disappearance of the drop in the ocean of transcendence whence it originates and is derived, where as an individual it will henceforth be ‘suspended’ in a double sense, vanished, concealed and sheltered at the same time.42

In Al-Koni’s story, the protagonist substitutes lying dead on the desert sand for being ‘suspended’ in the transcendent primordial ground of the desert; a tragic misreading of Al-Junayd and ʿA††ār. This topos is also found in Ibn ʿArabī’s Fu‚ū‚ Al-Óikam through repeated references to the ªadīth, ‘People are asleep; when they die they awaken.’43 This theme allows of a further ascetic variation through the death, or sacrifice, of the self that desires this world in favour of the desire of and for God. In a great deal of Sufi literature, this is often modulated through the topos of the Abrahamic sacrifice, which tropes the sacrifice of the lower, animal self and base desires as a way station towards self-perfection and the eventual encounter with God.44 This capacity for self-sacrifice can be mapped onto the sacrifice of the desire for the beloved in Marāthī Ūlīs, as well as the murīd’s self-castration in Al-Majūs. The text opens with a description, or rather a recitation, of the space in which this Nāmūs holds sway. The exposition is written from the traveller’s perspective, where one frontier creates another as the horizons multiply in conformity with de Certeau’s account of boundary-crossing fictional form.45 Possessed by wanderlust, the restless protagonist is seduced by playful mirages that conspire to keep him moving. Typically, the environment functions as an important, if inscrutable, character. Despite his father’s warnings about the similarity between the appeal of the far horizon and the legendary Sakhrik Ibrā∂en (the coloured bird that seduces children into leaving their families and gets them lost in the desert),46 the protagonist does not stop travelling whenever he hears the call of the wild. The text of the novella oscillates between the two poles of earth and heaven, slavery and freedom, clearly explaining the price that each locus demands – attachment to the demands of agriculture in the oasis versus the constant risk of death in the desert.

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This oscillation and its implications are clearly spelled out in the protagonist’s discussion with the leader of the tribe. Here the language of the Qādiriyya clashes with the law of the tribe, and belonging comes into open conflict with individuality. For the protagonist, being settled and having roots equal enslavement, while for the chieftain this chain (qayd ) to the earth is a tribute (itāwa) that has to be paid by every living creature.47 The protagonist’s idea of an ideal world is one where palm trees are suspended in mid-air, so that their roots fail as points of attachment.48 Conversely, the leader views the nomadic life, together with its desert locale and the freedom it offers, as death.49 It is not insignificant that he uses the term fanāʾ to criticise the Sufi outlook: ‘It is said that the followers of the Qādiriyya consider death a bounty [yarūna fī-l-fanāʾi naʿīman].’50 At stake in the discussion is whether or not the protagonist should take his son away from his grandmother, with whom he lives in the oasis. For the protagonist this is only as it should be, for by taking his son he is in fact saving him from a life of servitude. If he were left in the oasis, the sedentary son would not inhabit the same ethical world as his nomadic father. The law of the desert, however, commands that the son belongs to his mother and her tribe; as they are agricultural workers so shall he be. Furthermore, the leader adds, even if the protagonist broke this rule, his tribe would always regard his son as a servile peasant.51 The language of the exchange is over-determined: both men use the term sharīʿa to refer to the harsh laws of desert life, with the added implication that the idiom of Sufism will be employed to find a way around it. Time and again the leader starts his objections to the protagonist by saying, ‘I do not understand the language of the Qādiriyya’, or, ‘I do not understand the secrets of the Qādiriyya’, thereby stressing the opposition between tribal law and the Sufi way.52 Among these linguistic secrets of the Sufi order is the use of paradox and contradiction as a pedagogical device: when someone knocked on the Qādirī shaykh’s door, he would say, ‘Leave’ (meaning that by entering the khanqah he would essentially be leaving his self, as defined by his worldly concerns and the physical demands of his body, behind).53 As his guests and students left, the shaykh would say, ‘Enter.’ Once again, the narrative is overdetermined: we know that it is precisely the protagonist’s failure to control his body and leave his self that has left him with the predicament of having an enslaved son. The son’s putative servility is bound

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inextricably with the father’s: just as the latter could not control his desire and married the boy’s mother, so must he now pay the price for his attachment to the pleasure of the flesh. On this point the difference remains irreconcilable: the protagonist sees such attachments as being inevitable, while the leader, having equated liberty with death, sees them as being necessary only for the purposes of procreation.54 The protagonist’s period of study as a Sufi novice does little to quell his desires, whether they are attached to other people or other places. He resolves the filial dilemma by deciding to take his son on a journey to the mythical land of Wāw, a Touareg utopia synonymous with, but not identical to, paradise; the place from which humanity was once evicted and to which it is fated to return.55 The decision is consistent with the motives of departure and exteriority that inform the rest of the protagonist’s actions, and Al-Koni duly names it ‘exodus’ (khurūj) to emphasise its consonance with the logic of extra-worldly individuality: ‘What if I accompanied him to Wāw? [. . .] His long search taught him that exodus was the price of entering Wāw. The virgin earth only opens its doors to those who find within themselves the courage to leave the desert. The land of visions, safety [al-sakīna] and eternal salvation only recognises those brave enough to split their breasts and open their hearts in order to enter it, in the promised sanctuary [al-ªaram al-mawʿūd ]. There he can ensure salvation for himself and his offspring.56

The following section of the novella narrates father and son’s pilgrimage to Wāw. On their approach the desert takes on strangely fertile dimensions, with every turn suddenly revealing vast expanses of herbs and plants not usually associated with arid environments. Every animal that they see assumes supernatural characteristics: gazelles fly into the air and disappear, birds of bright plumage – alias Sakhrik Ibrā∂en – threaten to lead them astray. The air fills with extraordinary scents. The environment signifies enchantment and the abandonment of the quotidian. The step that allows the pilgrims to break away from the everyday and into the sacred is the discovery of the rare, hallucinogenic truffle, al-tirfāsa. As the father kneels to touch it, he tells his son to put his hand in his, and together, trembling, they dig it up. The narrator’s voice sees in the truffle an

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allegory of human existence, trapped in darkness and always longing for the sacred. The father compares its shape to the idibnī, the gravestones that mark the burial place of the ancestors’ remains and on which the Touareg sleep to learn the future. The father intones solemnly, ‘Idibnī hides the ancestors’ remains, and the dwelling of the tirfās hides the secret. It covers the only key that leads to Wāw.’57 The shape and location of the tirfās make it operate as a symbol for idibnī, exodus and the mystical seeker or murīd. As the father pulls the tirfās out of the ground, his physical state is compared to that of the Sufi in the most advanced stages of ecstasy: ‘It is the same shaking as that which comes over the ecstatic (al-majdhūb) in that moment of rapture (wajd ) where he expects to see the face of God.’58 Upon noticing that the truffle is reddish, like the colour of the surrounding mud, the father mutters Al-Junayd’s aphorism, ‘The colour of the water is the colour of the vessel.’59 Al-Koni does not fail to inform the reader of the provenance of this dictum, nor does he omit to mention Ibn ʿArabī’s allusion to it in his Fu‚ū‚ al-Óikam.60 Here the case is made that there are as many ways of adoring God as there are creatures, for the creature adores God according to the idea that God creates of Himself in the creature. Belief varies according to the capacity and nature of the believer.61 The reference to both Al-Junayd and Ibn ʿArabī is a case in point of Al-Koni turning to Sufism in support of the multiple belief systems that coexist in the Touareg desert. Al-Koni’s description of the tirfās foregrounds its characteristics as a believing entity: The cap did not shine white in the light but grew dark and cast its majestic light inwards. Towards disappearance, towards the unknown that lay hidden somewhere in the hollow, in the depths, in the interior [al-bā†in], in itself, in the internal limit that touches the secret, innermost self [al-sirr] and derives its glow and darkness and majesty from God [. . .] The father carried on contemplating the precious peak. The hidden head striving for union [al-iltiªām] with God.62

The vocabulary in this passage is taken from the Sufi lexicon.63 Once endowed with an interiority and a sirr, the tirfās becomes a fully fledged part of the enchanted universe that refuses the Kantian settlement with scepticism. Although the key Sufi authority on the interplay of sirr and al-bā†in was

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Sahl Al-Tustarī, Al-Koni’s use of the language of illumination, nobility and mortality comes closer to Al-Qushayrī’s description of the sirr as the location of mushāhada (witnessing) and direct visions of God as well as something that is ‘buried in the breasts of [spiritually] noble men’; indeed that ‘the breasts of noble men are the graveyards of innermost secrets [‚udūr al-aªrār qubūr al-asrār]’ – a phrase that might stand as a motto for many of Al-Koni’s characters.64 In this space, analogy rules: just as the idibnī contain the secrets of the dead, the tirfās contains the secret that will lead the traveller to Wāw. And just as the Sufi seeks a way out of the quotidian and towards the divine, so does the tirfās search for a way outside its immediate environment towards union with the divine. Following the same principle, the consumption of the tirfās leads to Wāw. The final section of the novella narrates the consumption of the tirfās, the sacrifice of the son and the father’s suicide. The anthropomorphic reading of the tirfās continues into the narration of its ‘suffering’ as it is cooked. The markings on the truffle are compared to the amulets that the Touareg wear for protection, while the hissing and crackling of the truffle on the fire evoke the wailing of the spirits’ and houris’ grief.65 The analogical mechanism that equates the idibnī with the tirfās, the latter with the Sufi, and the entire desert environment with the witness to human mortality and suffering sees parallels between the darkening horizon, the fluid that oozes from the tirfās as it is being cooked and the father’s tears.66 At the same time the father loses himself in a meditation about his exodus from this world and the start of his ‘real’ life: The father listened and heard the cry of pain. The secret of birth and the calamity that is life. The newborn’s joy at being alive and the long suffering of the trajectory of pain, wandering and exile. The border between birth and the kingdom of forgetting is the nightmare. The song of joy only starts after the exodus. Security only arrives after the earthly span has been traversed, and the nightmare negotiated to return to the kingdom of forgetting. At the moment of the crossing human suffering loses its meaning and Wāw opens its doors. Therefore do not cry as you prepare to enter Wāw.67

Father and son eat the tirfās, their consumption punctuated by tears of joy and other-worldly ecstasy. Eventually the son falls into a trance induced by

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the hallucinogenic truffle. As the father approaches this state himself, he sacrifices his son, whose cry of ‘Allah’ gives way to a long ‘Ah’ of pain. As the blade comes down on the boy’s chest, the father remembers the lesson of his master: ‘I can see no greater happiness than to be absent from oneself, and none shall enjoy God’s bounty [al-naʿīm] except he who opens his heart to people [lit. “he who brings his heart out to people”].’68 The irony of the Sufi master’s ‘lesson’ – the boy’s heart is opened physically rather than emotionally, and the absence from oneself (fanāʾ) is death rather than ecstasy – leads the entire fictional world of the desert environment, which Al-Koni calls ‘the planet of the desert [kawkab al-‚aªrāʾ]’, to shudder in sympathy, in a manner not unlike the chorus of a Greek tragedy.69 The desert remains an enchanted space ruled by analogy. At the end of the tale, Al-Koni offers neither judgement nor evaluation: he simply casts in narrative form the difficult, not to say impossible, lot of individuality in the modern world, with its necessary condition of death to the world in order to exist on one’s own terms. He refrains from a Manichean critique even of those aspects of Touareg life that are most offensive, including the rigid caste system and racist ideas, as when the tribe’s leader tries to allay the protagonist’s anxieties by informing him that he has a son by a black woman.70 More significantly, Al-Koni links the process of writing to an understanding of the literal and figurative meaning of presence and absence: the father’s understanding of fanāʾ drives his actions, and the whole is cast as a legend about the complexity of modulating norm and value between the one and the many. Derrida proposes the distinction between particular duty and universal ethics as a paradigm for reading the Abraham story in both Genesis and Kierkegaard. Typically, his reading goes through a number of thinkers, including Jan Patočka, Levinas and Heidegger, in an effort to understand the singularity of the sacrifice of Isaac and its ethical consequences. Derrida’s reading of Genesis 22:8 via Kierkegaard hinges on the question of the singular and the universal, and the extent to which the former can, ethically and legally, take precedence over the latter. The received answer should, of course, be no, but in the Abraham story things are different: Abraham is commanded by God – the source of the universal law that makes ethics – to break that law and kill his son. Derrida’s reading lays bare the nature of ‘unconditional

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obligation’ to always obey God, even if God’s command is to break the law. In the process Derrida foregrounds the moment of undecidability inherent in this decision, and the way in which the fulfilment of any one obligation to one entity necessarily entails the sacrifice of the obligation to all others.71 Caught up as he is between conflicting systems of law and belief, the father in Al-Koni’s story has no easy way out: he must act with what Derek Attridge calls ‘the knowledge of the aporia implicit in every deed [. . .] Both duties are binding, and they cannot be judged against one another.’72 Al-Koni does not hesitate to underline the extent to which the father’s obligation towards his son transcends and contradicts not only universal ethics, but all of the particular codes at work in the novella (tribal custom and the Qādiriyya order). The confrontation with death is the only one that allows his existence, and that of his son, to come into fullness, though the plenitude is, of course, fleeting. A further point of contrast is that the Qurʾānic account of the Abrahamic sacrifice involves a dialogue between Abraham and his son (Q37:102); we are far from the secrecy that we find in Genesis. Ibrahim Al-Koni’s story, therefore, stands somewhere between the Bible and the Qurʾān. Al-Koni’s conflation of these traditions in ‘Wa†an Al-Ruʾā Al-Samāwiyya’ with his own poetics of self-sacrifice via Kierkegaard in ‘Al-Mawt wa-l-ʿAbqariyya’ (‘Death and Genius’, in Íuªuf Ibrāhīm) points up not only the horror of the father’s crime, but also, and perhaps more significantly, its inevitability. Far from being utterly indifferent to his son, the father cares about him deeply: he does not want him to suffer, does not want him to live as a slave, protects him from Sakhrik Ibrā∂en and so on. As fathers go, therefore, he lives up to his obligations; indeed, he is more than dutiful. And yet his sense of obligation brings him into open conflict with every ethical code and custom that holds sway in the human, social world. Animals In Al-Koni’s work an immanent outlook enables a mode of writing that treats human and non-human animals as members of the same order. This relationship of continuity, rather than contiguity, should be read against the backdrop of Al-Koni’s views of the battle between nature and culture (or ‘the world’). This is, in part, a condemnation of those who would anthropomor-

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phise nature (usually, though not exclusively, the desert in Al-Koni’s idiom), since the last consequence of such a gesture is the exclusion of humanity from nature.73 Humanity’s struggle against nature contains a deep opposition; salvation only comes through the reinscription of the human in nature: ‘Nature only gives herself to us, when we give ourselves to her first.’74 As long as the human subject imagines him- or herself to be outside nature rather than within it, life will be solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short. The importance of this principle is such that it not only drives a number of Al-Koni’s plots and subplots (as we will see below), but the very act of literary creation; in a related moment Al-Koni relates this principle to writing: ‘Nature does not offer herself to the creative man [l’homme créateur] who does not offer himself to her.’75 Al-Koni’s routine invocation of the animal is interesting not only as an operative axis of the unity of being, waªdat al-wujūd, but insofar as it does so it recalls the limits that define the human. When Al-Koni tells us that by hurting a waddān we are hurting ourselves, he is recalling the relationship between the human and the animal whereby the former can only know itself through the latter. As Derrida reminds us, it is only by tackling the animal head on that we understand just what it is that defines the human.76 Derrida argues that the opposition between human and animal suffers from ‘contamination’; that understanding ‘the human’ relies in no small part on criteria located beyond the space that calls itself ‘human’. Al-Koni’s fiction investigates these forms of life (and death) relentlessly: not only animals, but also the plants and the elements, the places and the lives of the desert. It is not a question of losing the distinction between human and animal, but rather one of displacing the former with respect to the latter. This displacement might be best understood in terms of Deleuze and Guattari’s rich exposition of the notion of ‘becoming-animal’.77 Using the unity of Being as a starting point, Al-Koni’s writing unfolds where transformation and metamorphosis are the norm. These transformations, these becomings, are the very stuff of writing for Deleuze and Guattari; they are the reason behind the unpredictable and unknowable, or magical, aspect of writing.78 Writing is shot through with strange becomings, through which the writer follows a line of flight that takes him along a becoming-rat, becomingwaddān or becoming-camel. Following his pronouncements about the

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unity of being and consequent prohibition of harming the waddān, Al-Koni upholds an ethical responsibility for the animal. The coexistence of human and non-human animal comes through in the animal responses (as opposed to reflexes or reactions) of Al-Koni’s fiction. In a novella entitled ‘Al-Fakhkh’ (‘The Trap’, 1991), the protagonist Ikhnawkhen is haunted by a dream in which he hears a voice repeatedly accusing him of having killed its mother (‘Ikhnawkhen, you killed my mother!’).79 In the event, the ‘voice’ belongs to a young waddān, whose mother the protagonist had indeed killed. The novella meanders with the protagonist’s movement until he himself is finally punished by dying in a trap similar to that with which he killed his accuser’s mother. A comparable fate befalls Marzūq, a young man hired to guard desert gazelles as part of a governmental conservation effort in ‘The Gazelles’ (‘Al-Ghuzlān’, 1992). Having been persuaded by his friend Maymūn to betray his mission, Marzūq kills a pregnant gazelle (among many others) under the intent gaze of a male gazelle. He ends up lost in the desert. As he nears death, he sees the male gazelle approach with a threatening gleam in his eye.80 Earlier in the story Maymūn, Marzūq’s unreliable companion, tells him a story about the becoming-gazelle of a former hunter-trader who starts to behave like a gazelle shortly before killing himself.81 This identification between the human and the non-human can also extend to plants: in Al-Majūs, Shaykh Mūsā, the dervish, claims to be descended from a tree, and goes so far as to clothe the trees in the desert to save them from the harsh extremes of their environment.82 Of all Ibrahim Al-Koni’s characters, Shaykh Mūsā is probably the one who best embodies the Sufi problem of being an ascetic trapped in a human body made of desire and mortality. In his desperate bid to ‘leave’ his worldly form behind, he castrates himself, only to find that this does not kill his desire; it merely makes fulfilment impossible.83 Similarly, his communion with Awdād, the protean jinn of the Tadrart mountains, is a symptom of his fully living the unity of all being. This combination of asceticism, the mortification of the flesh and the metamorphosis of human beings into animals constitutes a key part of the Qādiriyya Sufi order.84 The becoming-animal and becoming-jinn of Shaykh Mūsā becomes a line of flight leading him out of the antinomies of the human form and towards something more like fanāʾ, which, not coincidentally, is the last word of the novel.

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Al-Tibr (Gold Dust, 1990) is remarkable for the fact that its protagonist is not a human being but an animal, the dappled camel that is the pride and joy of its owner Ukhayyad. Ukhayyad’s attachment to this animal tropes the excessive human attachment to the things of this world, which passion leads to the sin of shirk, or idolatry, associating minor deities with the one true God. 85 When Ukhayyad embarks on a night of amorous conquest in a neighbouring tribe, the camel does the same. The results, however, are catastrophic: the camel’s uncontrolled erotic activity leaves him ill, and his owner’s world in tatters. The plot of the novel is driven by the aforementioned identification and continuity between the human and the animal: the camel’s sickness ‘infects’ its owner’s world, both physically and metaphysically; morally and ethically. The only possible ‘cure’, per Shaykh Musa, who belongs to the Qādiriyya Sufi order, is castration and a diet of the legendary asyar plant; both means of mortifying the flesh.86 The side effects of the latter include extreme pain and madness, so much so that when Ukhayyad undertakes this cure, Ukhayyad prays that he, too, feel some of the camel’s pain.87 Later in the novel, once famine strikes the tribes after the Italian conquest, Ukhayyad’s wife tells him to sell the camel rather than let them starve, to which his response is that the camel is his brother.88 When he decides to rent the camel instead, the latter comes back immediately – a feat he repeats three times – prompting Dudu’s claim that he is no camel but a human being disguised as a camel.89 Eventually, Ukhayyad persuades Dudu to return the camel, in exchange for which Dudu demands Ukhayyad’s wife and child. Ukhayyad accepts this bargain, and leaves with his camel only to find that he has a disgraceful reputation throughout the desert as the man who sold his family for a camel. Whereupon he returns to the oasis, kills Dudu and is killed in his turn by Dudu’s family. The moral of the story, which is what Shaykh Musa told Ukhayyad – ‘Do not leave your heart anywhere but in heaven’ – implies that Ukhayyad’s first, and last, mistake was his attachment to the camel. Once he lets go of everything, including the gold dust (al-tibr) that he pours in the stream where he kills Dudu, he returns to heaven, but only after paying a heavy price. Gold Dust thus narrates the failure of the individual, who attaches himself to the things of this world to the point of losing himself, and the fact that this is a necessary failure once the first step (attachment) has occurred. It is perhaps no accident that the manner in

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which Ukhayyad is killed involves being torn limb from limb by two camels, both animals from the same species to which he was attached to the point of self-loss. Ukhayyad’s sin, as it were, is doubly ironic insofar as his relationship with the camel was one of perfect lucidity: he well knew that the camel was his fraternal double, but sold him anyway. A similar fate befalls the protagonist of The Bleeding of the Stone (Nazīf Al-Óajar), Asouf, whose family enjoys a symbiotic relationship with the waddān but who is fated to lead the extremely carnivorous tourist Qābīl (i.e. Cain)to the end of his rampage in the Fezzan. Asouf is named after the desert wilderness (essuf ).90 Susan Rasmussen notes the reversal of values operative in this name and the novel: the character named ‘wild’ is in fact very mild while the truly wild creatures are the carnivorous humans who hunt and eat with no regard for their symbiotic relationship with the non-human inhabitants of the desert.91 This reversal extends to the desert environment, which, far from being wild is described in the words of a Sufi song (mawwāl ) as ‘a treasure; a reward to those who seek salvation from human exploitation and harm; it is where joy, fanāʾ and satisfaction are found’.92 The truly wild Qābīl, on the other hand, embodies the ultra-virile, carno-phallogocentric male supersubject described by Derrida; the one who eats meat and accepts sacrifice.93 Qābīl effectively wipes out the animal populations of the desert, and keeps pushing Asouf to tell him where the waddān is found. Having betrayed his animal kindred, Asouf finds himself trapped in the temple that is the home of the ‘sacred waddān’ with which Asouf himself becomes identified. In the last scene of the novel the flesh-crazed Qābīl, clearly described as a cannibal due to his ravenous need for meat, sacrifices Asouf as he would an animal, an act that fulfils an ancient Touareg prophecy that salvation will come when the stones of the temple of the sacred waddān bleed: as Asouf’s blood spills over the Tifināgh inscriptions the rain starts, and, we understand, a cycle starts anew. The novel’s characters are divided according to their relationship with the non-human animal: there are the hunters (Qābīl, Masoud, Captain John Parker) and the hunted (Asouf, his family, the waddān).94 The novel starts with a Qurʾānic allusion that underlines the continuity between human and non-human: ‘[A]ll the creatures that crawl on the earth and those that fly with their wings are communities like yourselves’ (Q6:38).95 Furthermore, as is made clear through John Parker’s conversation with the Qādiri Sufi, this

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line of continuity and the matrix of the unity of Being from which it emerges endow every living creature with a sacred capacity, one of the consequences of which is that God can inhabit any living creature.96 On a later occasion the dervish adds that the ‘divine secret’ (al-sirr al-ilāhī) lies in the waddān.97 The relationship with the waddān begins when Asouf’s father sets out to hunt, and kill, a waddān, an exercise that set off a series of initiatory moments, all of which revolve around the human and the animal swapping places.98 The origins of this sacred relationship are archaic, as witness the totemic drawing of the waddān on the walls of Massak Satfat, which also happens to be the place where the novel ends with Asouf’s sacrifice. In the first episode, the waddān leads the hunter to a surrounded spot and jumps off the edge of a cliff at the moment when the hunter tries to kill it.99 During a second trip, Asouf’s father once again tracks a waddān to a surrounded spot. This time, however, the hunter’s foot slips and he finds himself hanging from a cliff, tactically as helpless as the waddān during the first episode. The waddān lowers its head into the abyss so that the hunter can hold on to its horns, thereby allowing the waddān to save his life. Having sealed the pact with the waddān, the father then goes hunting a third time, during a period of famine. As a result of this act of betrayal, the father’s body is found dead in the same spot where the first incident occurred (‘the hunted animal broke his neck as he broke the neck of the waddān that committed suicide’).100 The cycle of symbiosis, salvation and betrayal recurs with Asouf’s life. Asouf’s isolation increases after his father’s death. From the outset, Asouf takes on the attributes of the waddān: he, too, lives in the desert and avoids human contact, knowing full well that the human is the source of all evil in the desert. Like his father before him, Asouf forgets the pact that binds him to the waddān, and proceeds to hunt the latter only to find himself hanging in an abyss, kept from falling only by a rope tied to the horns of the waddān.101 Al-Koni makes clear that the abyss (al-hāwiya) is a key step in a spiritual journey, during which the traveller’s suffering is at its worst.102 Al-Koni adds an epigraph from Al-Niffāri to the chapter emphasising the importance of patience and contentment as essential elements in the spiritual strength needed for the making of a waliyy.103 As he ponders the rope with which the waddān saves him, Asouf’s thoughts return to the question of identity, wondering which of them is the hunter and which the prey, which

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is the executioner and which the victim, which is the human and which the animal, effectively contemplating his own becoming-animal, even as he ‘recognises’ the waddān as his own father.104 Soon thereafter he manages to escape imprisonment by metamorphosing into a waddān and breaking his bonds, driving the Sufis of the oasis to proclaim him a saint and organise a feast in celebration of the descent of the divine self into a miserable creature.105 Asouf stops eating meat and is proclaimed a saint by the Sufi shaykhs of the desert, precisely for having overcome hardship with apparently superhuman powers, though this extraordinary sainthood involves a death to his human self in the process of his becoming a waddān.106 Asouf’s eventual sacrifice at the hands of Qābil spills the former’s blood and runs over the rocks beneath him on which the prophecy of the priest of Matkhandush is inscribed.107 The text predicts that salvation will only come when the sacred waddān bleeds (yanzif ) and the blood flows from the rocks (al-ªajar), thus giving birth to the miracle that will wash the curse away, purify the land and flood the desert. In placing this text beneath Asouf’s crucifixion, Al-Koni confirms that Asouf is in fact the sacred waddān in question. This becominganimal of Asouf completes the pact between human and animal under the aegis of the unity of being. The triangle combining the animal, the saint and the desert can only form in the locus of sacred writing, namely the temple of Matkhandush. The Sufi Autobiography Revisited: Marāthī Ūlīs The oscillation of the Touareg Sufi between the world of the spirits (jinn) and the world of humanity sets the opening tone of Marāthī Ūlīs, whose subtitle, Al-Murīd, could be translated as ‘The Disciple’, but it also carries a very strong Sufi connotation. In other words, the novel centres on the Sufi as a personage of the liminal space between habitation and wilderness. From the outset, Al-Koni makes it clear that we are in this hybrid space: the protagonist is born in the valley of the spirits, which is also called the valley of awal. Now, awal means, as Ibrahim Al-Koni kindly points out to the reader, speech, chatter, language. The Touareg call themselves ‘Kel Awal ’, the people of the word; their identity is bound by the Tamasheq language. In designating the valley where the spirits, or jinn, live through the term ‘Wādī Awal ’ (the valley of the word), Al-Koni is using something that could be called a misnomer were

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it not part of a deliberately composed literary text. For the usual term for the spirits, or the jinn, would be esuf (the darkness, the invisible, the spiritual), and the valley of the jinn would be called ‘Wādī Esuf ’.108 By using the term used for human beings in the toponym ‘Wādī Awal ’, Al-Koni calls attention to the hybrid status not only of his protagonist but of the entire Touareg population, all of whom are part of the visible universe but constantly doing battle with the invisible. The novel narrates, in very thinly veiled terms, the life of Ibrahim Al-Koni the writer. This veiling takes various forms: allegories of tribal life, anagrams of toponyms (to take but one example, Moscow becomes Wocsom), and mythologies of the task of the writer. The protagonist’s inscription between the human and the spiritual, the ins and the jinn, stands as an allegory for the creator who is literally in-spired by this contact with the other-worldly spirits. Apart from resembling the model of literary creation that dominates the Western tradition,109 this situation is not without parallels in Ibrahim Al-Koni’s own life.110 As a child, it seems, Al-Koni was especially voluble and troublesome, going so far as to fight with the jinn when his energy had worn out his siblings.111 The toings and froings between the human and the divine, the this-worldly and the other-worldly, the visible and the invisible (the esuf ), are in fact the trajectories of literary creation. And it is literary creation – that voyage without hope of return to the world of the invisible, of the jinn, of the spirits that inspire, and the intrepid return to the world of the ins despite it all – that is defined in this novel as the highest form of valour: ‘There is no heroism greater than saying aphorisms in poetry. There is no heroism greater than venturing forth into the nothingness with no desire for retreat, and despite that coming home bearing treasure’.112 The use of the word marāthī (elegies) in the title opens up an additional consideration. The writer is not only a traveller between the worlds of the ins and the jinn, but also an explorer of the space that links writing to the space of death. This practice raises the question of what it would mean for a writer to imagine, or even invoke, his own death during his lifetime. Like Al-Ghitany, Al-Koni aims at mastering death through writing, albeit in a more aggressive, less conciliatory mode. As Blanchot reminds us, writing is only possible once the writer has established a relationship of sovereign domination with respect to death.113

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This mastery of the final moment of the artist’s existence naturally involves an accounting for the life that Al-Koni has lived. As fictional autobiography the novel falls into two parts, the first covering the protagonist’s nomadic existence, while the second focuses on his life as a writer in the making, still nomadic but firmly in the space of the visible. Over the course of the narrative the protagonist consistently finds himself in situations that exemplify the solitude of the other-worldly individual, the writer and the Sufi.114 In the novel the protagonist’s childhood involves long periods of madness (mass; he is literally ‘touched’ by the jinn); a state that marks him out as a solitary creature. Later in his life – whether he is in the oasis, travelling through the desert with companions who eventually try to betray him, at school or in the Russian academy where he sharpens his skills – both the human and spiritual realms disavow any relationship with him: ‘Everyone shouts at him as the jinn shouted at him with their ambiguous accusation: “You are a stranger. You are alone in your world. There is no room for you among us!” ’115 As he starts to realise the significance of his gift, he too starts to link it to the essential solitude that makes it possible. Because the artist can see what others do not, he is condemned to live on his own. And because the desert only communicates with those who see it with the inner eye, the eye of insight, he is condemned to simultaneously see and remain on the margins of society: The desert hides its truth from those who see with physical sight, and reveals its beauty to those who see with spiritual insight rather than sight. The latter see no more in the world than the beauty of women [. . .] He has no place among them because they do not see what cannot be seen, and he cannot see what they see. They only see the visible, whereas he can only see the invisible. How can he relate to them what they cannot see as long as they will only acknowledge what they do see?116

This chronic and congenital displacement connects the young writer’s fate with that of the mystic in constant movement. Ūlīs’s trip away from the desert and to the USSR connects these aspects of his life to the strange new places where his formation continues:

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Countries bordering on the nations of the great wall; the people of these parts call them ‘The Multitude’ because of all the bears that roam the forested territory that is covered in rivers. Inhabited by pink-skinned, yellowhaired, large people; people called mad by the neighbouring tribes because they took upon themselves a difficult, indeed crazy task, because it is said that they set out to recover the lost comfort of yore by rebuilding Lost Wāw.117

The mechanisms of defamiliarisation at work here – the former Soviet Union described as a collection of lands on the edge of the ‘nations of the great wall’, named ‘The Multitude’ due to the great number of bears that inhabit its numerous forests, and called mad for trying to create heaven on earth – ironically work to make the protagonist’s new location strangely familiar. The use of the animal as a means of naming this locus inscribes it within the same logic of human–animal continuity and the unity of being that operates in Al-Koni’s desert. Indeed, the word daylam could, conceivably, refer to a multitude of human beings or an army. By choosing to focus on the bears, Al-Koni simultaneously foregrounds the totemic animal traditionally associated with Russia and the fact that this new place, for all of its distance from the Sahara desert, remains connected to it via the principle of the unity of being (waªdat al-wujūd ). Similarly, the translation of the communist project into an avatar of the rebuilding of the lost land of Wāw underlines the similarity, rather than the difference, between the protagonist’s point of departure and his point of arrival. Finally, Al-Koni’s turn of phrase, ‘it is said’, stresses the all-encompassing character of his literary creation. That the communist project was indeed attempted in Russia is a matter of historical fact, but the comparison of the history of the Russians to those who tried to rebuild Wāw properly belongs to Al-Koni’s fictional world. The last part of the novel deals with the writer’s final crisis, the one that establishes his mastery over death and confirms, in his mind’s eye, his status as a writer. The crisis is triggered by his feeling torn between his desire for his partner, and all the earthly comfort that she brings, and his calling as a writer, which he calls ‘prophecy’ (nubūʾa). Feeling trapped by the former, and weighed down by the sense of guilt that he has betrayed the source of his prophecy (heaven, the stars and the desert), he decides to commit suicide.

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This act is described as a return to heaven, his true and eternal home.118 As he hangs from the rope he witnesses a series of visions, all of which return him to the ‘principles’ that he lost: the old man who ‘gave’ him the gift appears to tell him that he has done well, the snake of fire that he first absorbed when he realised that he had the gift (clearly another term for poetic inspiration) re-enters him, and he rediscovers the power of literary creation (prophecy, nubūʾa).119 The whole is described as a second birth that releases a euphoric sensation of absolute freedom: ‘Is this what the wise men of the ages call salvation? Is this what the tribal magicians call freedom? Is this what the lovers of solitude describe as calm? Or is it that puzzle that the masters of mystery describe as a second birth?’120 The ecstatic nature of this experience is such that his suicide attempt might be read as another example of approaching fanāʾ that ended ‘Wa†an Al-Ruʾā Al-Samāwiyya’. His return from this traumatic moment, however, inscribes him within his world in a far more ‘connected’ fashion: what he perceives outside himself is what he sees within. Everything seems closer, more intimate, an integral part of who and what he is: Only now does he see that these objects in which he only used to see bodies, names and things are neither bodies nor names nor things, but something else whose name he does not know. Something closer than friend or intimate or companion. Something else that he now sees with the eye of insight after his eyesight kept it hidden all these years. Something else not separated by distance, not obscured by darkness, something that has no existence outside himself. The light did not emanate from the rainbow behind the hill, but from his own chest. And the water racing into the hollow of the river did not spring from the depths of the earth, but from his own heart.121

The novel ends with the writer’s return to himself as a return to the land of Touat, the land of the dead. In a footnote Al-Koni explains that this is a mythological setting that the Touareg share with the ancient Egyptians, who, it will be remembered, refer to death as ‘going forth by day’, a release from the current life into the truer life beyond the grave. From the high point of a hill in Touat, Ūlīs starts declaiming the titles of the literary works (Marāthī) that are those of Ibrahim Al-Koni. We finally understand the meaning of the title: Marāthī Ūlīs means not only the elegies of Ūlīs, as in the works com-

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posed about him after his death, but also the works that he composed, the novels of his alias Ibrahim Al-Koni. For Al-Koni, the writer becomes who and what he is by braving death.122 In an essay that combines his interest in waªdat al-wujūd with the meaning of the writing process, Al-Koni compares the destiny of the writer to that of Shahrazad, always conjuring away death with writing. It is a difficult choice, says Al-Koni, because execution (the fate that Shahrazad conjures away) brings but one death, whereas writing a novel brings ‘a thousand deaths and resurrections’.123 Death – this death, the metaphorical death described in fiction, the near miss narrated in Marāthī Ūlīs – becomes the route to endlessness, a timeless going on and living on that might be compared with al-baqāʾ fī-l fanāʾ. In the space of writing where death has been overcome there are no ends; merely a timeless literary survival that ensures prolific literary creation. Al-Koni’s view of writing as a ritual that involves self-sacrifice and a headon encounter with death leads him to the definition of writing as a form of prayer.124 Al-Koni claims that this sort of prayer demands isolation, which means that any public appearance that the writer makes to read from his work is necessarily an insult to the principles by which he lives and works: What do we mean when we invite a creative artist to make us listen to his psalms? [. . .] His presence, his mere presence, is an insult directed at the presence of isolation. In the creative artist’s mind, isolation is extraordinary; it is a place of worship in the most sacred sense of the term. It is, in other words, a sanctuary for prayer. Not prayer of the prescribed sort, but the far nobler prayer that we call artistic creation.125

For Al-Koni, therefore, writing is spiritual work. This work leads to an important destination, namely the truth (al-haqīqa).126 The secret of writing, however, must itself remain secret. Indeed, Al-Koni defines artistic creation as ‘the prayer of keeping things secret’ (‚alāt al-istisrār), which is why performing a reading or work of art in public immediately becomes an act of betrayal.127 The revelation of the act of creation is called a ‘sin’ by Al-Koni; it is unseemly and indecent for the artist to bare his soul.128 The being of the artist is located in a lost dimension; his appearance on-stage occludes his true self and the text that this self produced.129 All such revelations are a betrayal of the writing

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process. At the end of this text, Al-Koni compares the creation of the book to ‘the bleeding of the soul’ (nazīf al-rawª) that must remain unexpressed.130 Finally, Al-Koni speaks in Pauline terms of the ‘expression that kills’ and the need to keep the act of prayer constituted by his writing secret: Yes. Expression is a letter, and the letter is a body, and the body the talisman that kills. Yes, expression reveals. And everything that reveals is the devil’s work. As for the representation of the creative act that is written in blood; that is the haemorrhage of the soul whose reality is no different from the practice of Sufism, the one that [the early Sufi Abū ʿAlī] Al-Rudhbārī [d. 933] described as a sort of allusion [ishāra] that disappears once it turns into an expression.131

Writing, then, works through allusion rather than outright proclamation, a process of simultaneous presentation and effacement that maintains the sacred character of artistic creation. Al-Koni ends the chapter with a reference to Heidegger, for whom the work of art is precisely the locus of the revelation of the truth. Al-Koni’s closing sentence refers to Heidegger’s claims about language rather than art (though all art, insofar as it reveals truth, is linguistic/poetic [dichterisch] for Heidegger132): ‘This means that our language in the course of this experience [i.e. artistic creation] can no longer remain the one that we speak and does not speak us, but rather must become Heidegger’s language that speaks us and that we do not speak.’133 Al-Koni’s formulation recalls Heidegger’s thoughts about language rather than humans being the subject of the verb ‘to speak’: it is language that speaks, and it is up to us to listen.134 In the essay ‘Language’ Heidegger describes the speaking of language as the ‘peal of stillness’ (das Geläut der Stille) that produces the event (Ereignis) of the human.135 The truth or haqīqa of the work of art involves letting language speak for itself rather than be ‘spoken’ by an artist standing in front of a microphone. If we are bespoken by language, if we yield to language’s power in order to allow it to let the truth come forth, then any public recitation or reading of the work of art, outside its ritual function, must become impossible. In view of the manifesto and essays published one year after Marāthī Ūlīs (Íuªuf Ibrāhīm), the suicide narrated in Ūlīs comes across less as a scene from the writer’s lived existence than an illustration of his theory of writing as set

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forth in ‘Al-Mawt wa-l-ʿAbqariyya’. For Al-Koni, writing cannot happen without a direct confrontation with death; indeed, without a foretaste of death, going so far as to call (biological) birth false and the second birth, the one that comes after the brush with death real, insofar as it leads to the birth of the soul.136 The whole essay might be read as a commentary on John 3:3, a verse that Al-Koni cites repeatedly, here and elsewhere: ‘Unless one is born anew, one cannot see the kingdom of God.’137 The confrontation with death is illustrated in this essay through three exemplars – Dostoyevsky, Pascal and Kierkegaard – that Al-Koni calls ‘poles’ (aq†āb), a term which, as we have seen in previous chapters, carries weighty Sufi connotations. While Al-Koni claims neither perfection nor saintly status for his three exemplars, his use of the term ‘qu†b’ along with his standard term for the writer – al-murīd – underlines his investment in writing as a mystical process. Of the three, Dostoyevsky’s case is the most straightforward: having been condemned to a mock execution, the writer’s creative genius is liberated by the moment of surviving the hangman’s noose, giving rise to the works that make his reputation today. It is especially significant that what Dostoyevsky acquires at the moment of death is not mere creativity; it is prophecy.138 The parallels with the failed suicide scene in Marāthī Ūlīs are clear. In Pascal’s case, the experience of chronic illness injures the writer’s soul as well as his body, leaving him always on the edge of death. Finally, and in Al-Koni’s eyes crucially, Kierkegaard’s abandonment of his fiancée Regine Olsen is a form of self-sacrifice. Kierkegaard’s significance for Al-Koni is manifold. Al-Koni considers that Kierkegaard’s confrontation with death is deliberate, rather than the result of external circumstances as had been the case with Dostoyevsky and Pascal. Even more important, however, is the fact that Kierkegaard’s love for Regine Olsen was more than love for a woman, but rather a love for someone who symbolised the invisible kingdom that cannot be seen unless one is born anew.139 And so, by sacrificing his relationship with Regine, Kierkegaard was, in fact, engaging in an act of messianic self-sacrifice that leads to the truth and salvation.140 Al-Koni’s conflation of genius with death via Kierkegaard brings to mind not only the stark opposition between desire for a human being and desire for the truth as narrated in Marāthī Ūlīs, but also, and perhaps more significantly, Kierkegaard’s observations about the ethics of sacrifice as narrated in

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Fear and Trembling. This is all the more noteworthy in view of the Abrahamic subtext of ‘Wa†an Al-Ruʾā Al-Samāwiyya’. Al-Koni is not alone in identifying Kierkegaard’s account of the Abrahamic sacrifice as a moment of selfsacrifice.141 His joining together of Kierkegaard’s case with those of Pascal and Dostoyevsky and his use of all three as markers of the death that has to be made one’s own in order that life be lived authentically is more significant. For Al-Koni, unlike Al-Ghitany (and Mahfouz), the writer, the novelist, as an individual, has no place in the world. Both he and his desires can only inhabit the other-worldly place, Wāw. The encounter with death that makes writing possible leads to a second birth that is itself a form of permanent alienation from the self. This death to the world and the self repeats the dialectic of fanāʾ and baqāʾ that we have encountered elsewhere in this study, but without the hope of reconciliation to the world that we find there: indeed, the recurrence of sacrifice in Al-Koni’s œuvre bespeaks a situation where no treaty is negotiable between the writer and the world. This disturbing and irrevocable absence of a compromise is also found at the centre of the novels of Tahar Ouettar, to whom the next chapter is devoted.

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6 Tahar Ouettar: The Saint and the Nightmare of History ahar Ouettar was born into a rural Berber family near the town of M’Daourouch in eastern Algeria in 1936. He studied in Algeria and Tunisia, maintaining a strong commitment to Arabic literature and culture throughout his life in opposition to the practice of writing in French, which was widespread in the Maghreb even after independence from France. Ouettar joined the FLN (Front de Libération Nationale; National Liberation Front) during the Algerian War of Independence (1954–62) in 1956, remaining active in politics well into his later years. His fiction features bold reflections on Algerian history and the failures of post-independence Algeria and the Arab world, frequently turning to satire and allegory to communicate a sense of profound dismay with the betrayal of the revolutionary socialist ideals of the FLN. Although Sufi characters are found in Tahar Ouettar’s work, it is in the trilogy that he wrote during and after the Algerian Civil War (1992–2002) that this pattern reaches an incisive pitch. In Al-Shamʿa wa-l-Dahālīz (The Candle and the Labyrinths, 1995; henceforth Al-Shamʿa), Al-Waliyy Al-˝āhar Yaʿūd ilā Maqāmihi Al-Zakī (Saint Tahar Returns to His Holy Shrine, 1999; henceforth Al-Waliyy Al-˝āhar Yaʿūd ) and Al-Waliyy Al-˝āhar Yarfaʿ Yadayhi bi-l-Duʿāʾ (Saint Tahar Raises His Hands in Prayer, 2005; henceforth Al-Waliyy Al-˝āhar Yarfaʿ), Ouettar takes the process of becoming-saint to the heart of the vortex of history, memory and the artist’s creative self.1 Ouettar’s creation of the waliyy as a character with avatars and descendants across multiple novels allows him to remap the nature of political inquiry. Instead of remaining content to list the reasons that brought Algeria to the disastrous 1990s, Ouettar seems intent on recasting the debate entirely, from ‘Whose fault is it?’ to ‘Who are we?’ Al-Shamʿa explores the place of the Sufi poet in a nascent Algerian Islamist republic,

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concluding decisively that he has no place in such a political framework. Al-Waliyy Al-˝āhar Yaʿūd examines the relationship between the cultural and political memory of Algeria and the writer, concluding, again, that the writer cannot belong to the socio-political entity into which he was born. Al-Waliyy Al-˝āhar Yarfaʿ is a hasty, if well-composed, satire written in the wake of the American invasion of Iraq in 2003, effectively despairing of the future of the Arab world. My focus in this chapter will be mainly on Al-Shamʿa and Al-Waliyy Al-˝āhar Yaʿūd due to their extensive examination of the link between Sufism, history and writing. In his history of the Algerian Civil War, Luis Martinez points out that war is the scene not only of violent conflict but also of the reinterpretation of national memory.2 This reinterpretation involves a repeated backward movement in history, and an ongoing claim that the issues of the moment derive from an earlier conflict.3 The memories of past wars haunt and inform Algeria’s history. Thus the FIS (Front Islamique du Salut; Islamic Salvation Front) and GIA (Groupe Islamique Armé; Armed Islamic Group) repeatedly claimed in their dispatches that their struggle began in 1954, at the start of Algeria’s war of independence, and not after the interruption of the electoral process in 1992.4 In response, the Algerian authorities described themselves as the true heirs of the struggle for independence and the Islamists as reactionary harkis. On both sides, there is a serious claim being made on the minds and memories of the Algerian people, in whose name the war is being fought. Memory and its failures lie at the heart of Tahar Ouettar’s civil war novels: the horror of what it means to be caught in a history without memory, to go from one war to another without any sense that the lessons of the past have been put to anything like good use. This circularity is simulated through Ouettar’s use of repetition and movement: in both Al-Shamʿa and Al-Waliyy Al-˝āhar Yaʿūd certain passages are repeated verbatim to suggest the obsession that haunts the protagonist, who finds himself unable to hold on to any aspect of a history or reality that are in constant upheaval. Similarly, the circular structure of Al-Waliyy Al-˝āhar Yaʿūd in which the waliyy circles his shrine without being entirely sure of how he got there, or indeed how to enter, reflects the impossibility of being at home in Algeria or its history. Far from being something that is made by human beings, this history is something that happens to them: they are involved in it but it always remains

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beyond their control. In his introduction to Al-Waliyy Al-˝āhar Yaʿūd, Ouettar describes history as a series of mystical ‘states’ (aªwāl ), that must then be narrated and understood. It is precisely the failure to remember or understand these states that constitutes the protagonist’s tragedy. Ouettar’s vocabulary emphasises the passivity of those to whom history happens, recalling Al-Hujwīrī’s definition of ªāl as ‘something that descends from God into a man’s heart, without his being able to repel it when it comes, or to attract it when it goes, by his own effort’.5 Ouettar’s genius addresses the fraught relationship between ªāl, history and duration through the open-ended structure of the novel:6 The artist in me reads history as a flash, or a ªāl to use the Sufi expression. Perhaps this is why the protagonist is a Sufi living several states (ªālāt) in one. This is another base that allowed me to use a spiral structure that allows the ªāl to last. I did not add an ending, but rather I suggested several. I contented myself with an epilogue: a forced landing and another point of departure.7

The choice of the waliyy as a protagonist, therefore, allows the novelist to explore the possibility of experiencing and embodying multiple, conflicting histories simultaneously. Far from being exceptional, this multi-historical constitution of the protagonist’s identity is in fact something typical of all Algerians, as he makes clear in the text that precedes and constitutes the historical memory of Al-Waliyy Al-˝āhar Yaʿūd, namely Al-Shamʿa. Al-Shamʿa wa-l-Dahālīz: God is Light, God is Reason Written in the thick of Algeria’s civil war, Al-Shamʿa explicitly demonstrates the strong correlation between violence and the interpretation of history. Since this text also acts as a prologue to Al-Waliyy Al-˝āhar Yaʿūd, it comes as no accident that the Sufis are present from the outset. The epigraph reworks Al-Óallāj’s ‘˝āsīn of Pre-Eternity and Confusion’ where Iblīs is described as the most ‘ardent’ of the monotheists.8 Needless to say, Iblīs’s post-lapsarian isolation is reminiscent of the Sufi’s status as an extra-worldly individual, and Al-Óallāj’s text is accordingly replete with terms that denote varying degrees of isolation and individuation. In Al-Óallāj’s text Iblīs explicitly makes the

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question of isolation and uniqueness the basis of his faith: ‘He worshipped the Adored One [al-maʿbūd ] through ascetic isolation [tajrīd ] and was cursed when he reached complete isolation [tafrīd ].’9 At the end of this particular chapter, Iblīs returns in the guise of his avatar, ʿAzāzīl, whose name, Al-Óallāj explains, derives from his isolation in his sainthood.10 This cluster of signifiers connoting individuality of a very lonely sort is translated very clearly by Ouettar onto the protagonist of Al-Shamʿa, who, like Al-Óallāj’s Iblīs, is an ardent, headstrong believer and pays a heavy price for his beliefs. Nor is this all. By turning to the ˝awāsīn Ouettar is continuing the tradition of using the juxtaposition of opposites, the coincidentia oppositorum, to trope the paradoxical and unpredictable nature of a reality that transcends human understanding or control. Traditionally, of course, this was the perspective used with respect to the representation of the divine, and as Peter Awn’s commentary on Al-Óallāj’s rendition of the Iblīs story demonstrates, the coincidentia oppositorum becomes an indispensable tool for underlining the very intimate relationship that binds Iblīs and God.11 In Ouettar’s hands this tool becomes a way of approaching the terrifying instability of political and social developments in an increasingly dysfunctional state. Furthermore, Ouettar’s reliance on the Iblīs story in the ˝awāsīn inscribes the novel in a long debate about the place of reason in political life. Peter Awn points out that even before Al-Óallāj, the Iblīs story served as a warning against the excessive reliance on reason and analogy (qiyās) in Islamic law and jurisprudence.12 For Ouettar, Iblīs’s transvalorisation of reason shows up the failings of a Hegelian-Marxist configuration of the secular state built on reason rather than faith. All along the course of the novel the novelist asks – via his protagonist – what Marx and Lenin would have made of late twentieth-century Algeria. The answer, tragically and movingly emphasised by the death of the protagonist, is that the rational, secular state has failed utterly at delivering on its promises and meeting the needs of its population. Ouettar uses Al-Óallāj as a lens through which to view the relationship between the singular and the plural as contradictory paradigms in Algerian history: the individual and society, the self and the multitude, and, perhaps most significantly, democracy versus one-party rule. It will be remembered that it was the introduction of a new constitution legislating multi-party rule in Algeria that preceded the electoral victory of the FIS and the subsequent

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civil war. In his introduction to the novel Ouettar makes clear that the events of the novel precede those of 1992. Be that as it may, it remains difficult, if not impossible, for the contemporary reader to separate the plot and the protagonist’s tragic end from the numerous murders of intellectuals, writers, artists and journalists that marked the civil war years. In his epigraph, ‘The ˝āsīn of One and Zero’, Ouettar relates Iblīs’s tawªīd to a rejection of democracy: Iblīs refused to recognise plurality, and was adamant in his refusal to bow prostrate to any but the one. With that he gave the zero a value that rivalled the value of the one. Indeed he went beyond that: he made the one lose its value without the zero, so that everything except the one became zero, and everything except zero became one.13

Ouettar’s identification of tawªīd with one-party rule evokes the political, rhetorical and military processes whereby the FIS tried to replace the FLN as the dominant political party on the Algerian landscape. Ouettar’s implication is clear: there is something inherently evil about one-party rule, regardless of who upholds it as a political principle.14 The FIS and the FLN therefore have much in common.15 The exchange performed by Iblīs’s over-valorisation of the one creates a world where only the one exists, and where only the one can persist and survive. This is not normal, however: the space in which ‘everything except one turns into zero and everything except zero turns into one’ implies a world turned upside down – indeed, one where political identities and allegiances turn into their opposites – but within the same paradigm that cannot tolerate the existence of differences. This consistency of the parameters of historical and political evolution inscribes the novel under the rubric of d’une guerre l’autre that is sometimes used to make sense of the Algerian Civil War, and indeed Algeria’s history, as a constant redeployment of violence.16 Under this aegis we are introduced to the protagonist: a poet who teaches sociology and keeps to himself.17 His neighbours muse that if he prayed with them at the mosque, they would have called him a saint.18 He, on the other hand, sees himself as a synthesis of a prophet and the Iblīs of Sufi psychology; he is the outsider whose only crime is that he understands the true nature of things.19 The identification between the protagonist and Iblīs exemplifies an aspect of Sufi hagiography, in which the saint’s spiritual development

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involves a simulation not only of prophecy but also of diabolical attributes.20 The poet’s isolation turns him into a network of tunnels and labyrinths, an impregnable fortress immune to social values and religious enthusiasm. The poet’s isolation is not complete, however; for the tunnels and mazes within him embody the labyrinthine nature of Algerian history and politics: This age [. . .] is a giant tunnel. Even though we think that it is illuminated by several forms of knowledge, it is dark, mysterious and frightening. All questions are in it simultaneously, forming a permanent storm that grows darker the harder we try to look at it [. . .] Try tackling one question, or one issue, without tackling the millions, if not billions of other issues that lie in wait. You will not find a single door to open without seeing entire mazes and basements opening up before you [. . .] Every time you enter one you find yourself in another corridor that drags you in, and you go down, down, to no place, only to other tunnels and mazes.21

The poet’s self-isolation starts as a form of social protest, but ends up imitating the unmanageable complexity of the age in which he lives. This is an ironic rendition of another Sufi topos, namely the Perfect Man or Al-Insān Al-Kāmil, the ‘pole’ of the age who mirrors the cosmos – natural and supernatural – in his very being, though in the case of the poet the cosmos being mirrored is decidedly dysfunctional and, far from repairing it as the Insān Al-Kāmil is supposed to, the poet simply condemns it and withdraws. The poet’s status as mirror of this labyrinthine world and saint despite himself leads to a projection of Sufi qualities onto others. The crowd, for instance, that chants the slogan of the Islamic Republic, is described as being in a state of ecstasy (wajd ).22 As in Tayeb Salih’s ‘Doum Tree of Wad Hamid’, the Perfect Man topos in Al-Shamʿa is associated with the Cosmic Tree, but Ouettar is more overt than Salih, relying heavily on the description of the tree in the Verse of Light, Q24:35: God is the Light of the heavens and the earth. His Light is like a niche containing a lantern, the lantern in a glass, the glass like a star glittering, set aglow by the oil of a blessed olive tree, neither Eastern nor Western, its oil almost aglow even if untouched by fire. Light upon light! God guides

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whomever He will to His Light. God draws comparisons for humanity and is all-knowing.23

The Islamist counterargument to the poet’s disgruntled assessment of Algeria’s dark history also draws on the language of Q24:35. The establishment of an Islamic state in Algeria will, the argument goes, show people worldwide that following God, ‘the Light of the heavens and the earth’, will illuminate the Algerian labyrinth.24 As forms of enlightenment go, this one is particularly intriguing due to the use made of this verse in Sufi texts. Sufi exegetes underline the trope of illumination as a representation of the heart and mind of the believer.25 The light of the heavens and the earth, the tabernacle of lights and the tree whose light glows of its own accord become images for what happens to the believer’s heart when God ‘throws the light of belief therein’ (Ibn ʿAjība ad loc.) This photo-energetic element acts as an agent of illumination and enlightenment on scales both personal and political: security in the labyrinth is equivalent to the light in the tabernacle, which is itself analogous to the position that the Islamic Republic of Algeria will hold with respect to other countries in the region. A number of exegetes went so far as to locate the tree that is ‘neither Eastern nor Western’ in the Levant (Al-Shām),26 but Ouettar goes farther than them by having his Islamist character identify that tree with Algeria: Our beloved country that is neither Eastern nor Western, geographically or culturally. Algeria lies North of Mali, Niger and the Islamic African states, to the West of the Eastern Islamic states, to the South of the Christian states, and to the East of the Far East.27

By translating the location of the tree, and by alluding explicitly to the language of the Sufi exegetes who situate this tree in a specific geographic location, Ouettar draws an important equation between the history of Algeria and the history of Sufism, clearly intimating that the two are inseparable.28 The ‘blessed tree’ acts as a trope for the idea of sainthood as the site of contestation and confluence uniting the many events running through Algerian history. The account of the poet’s childhood and youth, his involvement with the FLN and his strong belief in an independent Algerian state all culminate

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in his ecstatic dance in his room, which is itself a flashback to his dance performance at the lycée. The dancer’s ecstasy is described in mystical terms that go beyond performance and find their roots in intoxication until fanāʾ.29 And what the fanāʾ enables is precisely the transcendence and dissolution of all the binary oppositions – the paradoxes, contradictions and coincidentiae oppositorum – that constitute Algerian identity: It is impossible for any other creature to be Algerian; the descendant of all the devils and all the angels and all the jinn. The descendant of the sea and the land, the coast and the mountain and the desert. The Berber the Arab the Phoenician the Roman the Vandal. The white the black the yellow. The descendant of folly and wisdom. The descendant of national loyalty and betrayal. The murderer and the victim and the sword. Khaireddine Barbarossa [c. 1466–1546, corsair who consolidated Ottoman sovereignty over Algiers] rides a horse, the Amir ʿAbd Al-Qādir [1808–83, leader of the Algerian resistance to French invasion and colonisation] rides a barge. The conqueror of Spain [the Berber commander ˝āriq b. Ziād, d. 720], the builder of Al-Muʿizziya [i.e. Cairo, founded by the Fā†imid military commander Jawhar Al-Siqillī, d. 991, and Caliph Al-Muʿizz Li-Dīn Allāh, 931–75], the murderer of ʿUqba b. Nāfiʿ [d. 683, Arab military commander and founder of Kairouan, murdered by the Berber king Kusayla (Kasīla) b. Lamzam]. Donatus the rebel and Augustine the conservative.30

By the end of the dance, all of this has dissolved into the poet’s essential self (al-jawhar), the self that understands and masters everything; a candle in the labyrinth.31 The poet’s reflections on his own life and death, his own fanāʾ and baqāʾ, are interwoven with his own life narrative to explain how things have reached a point where an Islamist state in Algeria is possible and what his place – as a citizen, poet and saint – will be therein. Like all saints, the protagonist’s vocation is imaged through desire. The introduction of Al-Khayzurān (named after Al-Khayzurān bint ʿA†āʾ [d. 789], mother of the Abbasid Caliph Hārūn Al-Rashīd [766–809], which then becomes one of the poet’s nicknames) changes the course of the poet’s life, not least because she recognises him as an avatar of her grandfather, the waliyy Sīdī Abū Al-Zamān who intervened decisively in the Algerian War of

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Independence, thereby inscribing the poet’s identity as a Sufi in the cultural memory of Algeria.32 The description of Al-Khayzurān herself is continuous with the image of Algeria and the trope of the cosmic tree within the framework of the coincidentia oppositorum: she is neither Eastern nor Western, neither African nor Asian, neither female nor male. Her recognition of the poet as a waliyy stands for Algeria naming him as one of her patron saints. The dynamics of the interaction between the poet and Al-Khayzurān parallel the movement of the Sufi along the spiritual path. Her description recurs several times in the second half of the novel like an incantatory sequence pronounced by a voice trying to remember, or by a worshipper engaging in dhikr: the repeated invocation of God as a way of imprinting His memory on the heart and mind of the believer: A young woman of twenty-three, a boyish face, her eyes at the edge of her face look like Nefertiti’s or Cleopatra’s [. . .] Her colour is close to white or brown or blue, which makes her look simultaneously Asian and African.33

The poet sees in her the avatar of all the women who dominate Algeria’s and the Islamic world’s history: she is simultaneously all the Berber warrior-queens, women of the Prophet’s family, iconic saint and image of the Virgin Mary.34 Al-Khayzurān’s appearance is the theophany that moves the poet along the mystical path, prompting utterances that parallel the Sufi’s sha†aªāt: ‘God is revealed [tajallā] in your beauty’, he tells her, ‘and there is none in the mosque but He.’35 Indeed, where the Sufi might have experienced the self-disclosure (tajallī) of God, the poet only experiences the vision of the beloved: ‘God does not disclose Himself to me. Only your eyes are disclosed.’36 Al-Khayzurān intensifies the poet’s meditations about Algeria, not least because he sees her as an avatar of Sīdī Abū Al-Zamān.37 These review a number of political and historical trends, all of which converge on an explanation for the gathering storm in Algeria itself. First, the failure of socialism and its replacement by Islamism in several independent Arab republics, which is due less to political reaction than the postcolonial bourgeoisie’s fear of downward mobility and poverty.38 Second, the long history of social revolutions under the pressure created by religious causes in Algeria, from the Donatist

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revolts to the Berber queen Al-Kāhina’s resistance to the Arab conquests to the Amir ʿAbd Al-Qādir’s campaigns against the French colonisation of Algeria. It therefore makes sense that religion, as a driving force, will at some point dominate the social praxis of the society that they inhabit. Third, the strategic reasons behind the Islamist movement: the announcement of a collective Algerian Muslim identity that had long remained concealed under colonialism, empire and even secular independence.39 Finally, the poet diagnoses the current Islamist phase of the state as a temporary process of ‘walking backwards’ on the part of the Muslim proletariat in order to avoid marching on the spot, in historical terms, and concluding that, once in power, even the Islamists will have to admit and enable the sovereignty of reason. All of which leads the poet to the conclusion that ‘God is reason [Allāh huwa Al-ʿAql ]’40 – in other words, the Islamist project is itself reasonable – before his thoughts turn to Al-Khayzurān. With its wealth of historical detail, the poet’s analysis is reminiscent of Wittgenstein’s statement that the turn to mysticism comes when all the world’s problems have been solved, except for the speaker’s. The rational revolutionary poet fully assumes responsibility for his status as a mystic: it is reasonable that Algeria become an Islamist Republic, but it is clear that he, as a secular revolutionary-turned-Sufi, will have no place in such a republic. The poet’s terminal isolation is troped through the historical figure of Abū Dharr Al-Ghifārī (d. 652), a Companion of the Prophet Muªammad and probably the first Muslim to pronounce proto-Marxist ideas and insist on sharing the wealth of the early Muslim community by violent means if necessary. Like Ouettar’s protagonist, his ideas condemn him to unending solitude: hence the poet’s attraction to the tradition whereby the Prophet Muªammad, on the way to the battle of Tabūk, said that Abū Dharr will walk alone, die alone and be resurrected alone.41 By the end of the novel the poet-mystic’s death becomes inevitable, as a symbol both of the death of the FLN’s legacy and of the utter impossibility of living in the Islamist republic. His ‘trial’ by his assassins consists of a review of Algerian history from multiple perspectives: nationalist, Marxist, Islamist, all of which demonstrate the dysfunctionality of the present and its exclusion of freedom of thought and expression. The trial itself turns not only on the betrayals of Algeria by the FLN after independence, but by the poet’s own mystical tendencies that

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wreak havoc with the values of the new political order. Perhaps the most telling moment comes when one of his assassins calls for his death on the following grounds: You said, against [the conservative theologian and jurist] Aªmad b. Óanbal [780–855], may God be pleased with him, and may God please him, what could be interpreted as the following: ‘May [the Abbasid writer and freethinker] Al-JāªiÕ [776–869] die. May [the rationalist theologian and ascetic] Wā‚il b. ʿA†āʾ [d. 748] die. May Ibn Rushd die. May [the scientist] Ibn Al-Haytham [965–1039] die. May [the philosopher and scientist] Al-Bīrūnī [973–c. 1050] die. Aªmad b. Óanbal sits on the throne again. He says nothing other than ‘God willed it thus’ and ‘The Prophet, may God’s peace and prayers be upon him, did not do that.’ May you die. […] You are a muʿtazilī. You interpret things in a manner unlike that of our pious ancestors. Even setting aside what you said about Muªyi Al-Dīn b. ʿArabī, [the Sufi] Rābiʿa Al-ʿAdawiyya [c. 714–801] and Al-Óallāj. You come close to repeating – perhaps you have repeated – what that heretic Al-Óallāj said; namely that the devil was the most adoring of God’s creatures because he refused to bow to Adam. And you use ones and zeroes in the way that Ikhwān Al-Íafā did. You must die.42

The poet’s crime, as this part of the charge sheet makes clear, inheres in his siding with the long tradition of pluralist thinking in Arabic and Islamic culture over against the blinkered reductive thinking that has taken over his age. His prosecutor does not even bother to carefully analyse the poet’s use of Al-Óallāj in the epigraph: the mere invocation of Al-Óallāj in a positive light is enough to earn him the death penalty. The Óanbalī republic of Algeria leaves no room for thinkers like Al-JāªiÕ and Ibn Rushd or mystics like Rābiʿa and Ibn ʿArabī. The poet must die. As he dies, Al-Khayzurān experiences a vision that completes the epigraph of the novel: the poet, now renamed Hārūn Al-Rashīd, emptying the sun and proclaiming, as he laughs, that the zero has become itself again.43 The other-worldly individual thus leaves the world that excludes him.

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Al-Waliyy Al-˝āhar Yaʿūd: Amnesia and the State/The State of Amnesia If Al-Shamʿa dealt with the birth and death of the saint, this novel deals with the saint in hell; a place where he is neither dead nor alive, where he has a past that he can barely remember and is condemned to repeat. The waliyy’s meanderings and misadventures trace a story of the remembering and forgetting of the constituents of Algerian identity: the Qurʾān, the history of Algeria and the history of Islam, and in particular the early Islamic conquests that often served as an exemplum for those who tried to recreate the Islamic state in late twentieth-century Algeria. The novel can be properly called trauma fiction insofar as it narrates the case of a character possessed by a traumatic event that he seems unable to grasp fully and around which his narrative circulates, thereby recalling Cathy Caruth’s definition of being traumatised as being ‘possessed by an image or event’, which possession leads to symptomatic patterns of forgetting and re-enactment.44 Accordingly, the novel deals with, and is possessed by, the central problem of ‘knowing and of representing that emerges from the actual experience of the crisis’.45 It is precisely the experience of that history, and in particular of the civil war, as trauma, that makes it imperative that it be addressed via literature rather than history; for literature, as Cathy Caruth remarks, is ‘a language that defies, even as it claims, our understanding’, thereby re-enacting the trauma that occasioned it in the first place.46 The text of Q87 plays a key part in the novel, both because of the central theme of remembrance and because of its image of an infernal punishment in which the impious, who forget God’s warnings and reminders, remain suspended in a state between life and death: So remind, if reminding will help. Those who stand in awe of God will heed the reminder, but it will be ignored by the most wicked, who will enter the Great Fire, where they will neither die nor live. Prosperous are those who purify themselves, remember the name of their Lord, and pray. (Q87:9–15)47

The fate of the ‘most wicked’ who do not heed the reminder is the worst possible form of survival. The turn to the Qurʾān as a text dealing with memory is doubly apposite, not only because the waliyy is, as a saint, inti-

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mately bound with the Qurʾān. For memory is deeply implicated in the Qurʾān. As Michael Sells puts it, memory in the Qurʾān is ‘the primary mode of human–divine interaction’.48 In his study of Sahl Al-Tustarī’s exegesis, Gerhard Böwering goes further in describing remembrance as being specifically the remembrance of God: The act of remembrance of God (dikr) represents a principal practice of mystic man which achieves the actual realization of God’s presence within his inmost being. As an act of a predominantly cognitive rather than volitional nature, dikr reflects man’s concentrated and introverted consciousness of the divine presence within his inmost core. As an act of remembrance, dikr recalls the memory of the divine presence (recollection of God), and re-enacts the awareness of the divine immanence (commemoration of God) within man.49

The act of remembrance thus reminds human beings of their existential situation and status as worshippers (ʿibād ) before God. Dhikr is therefore the building block of the knowledge of the spiritual state, ʿilm al-ªāl – the very same spiritual state which constitutes, in turn, the building block of history as Ouettar represents it in this novel.50 Ad Q87:1 (‘Glorify the name of your Lord, the Most High’), Sahl interprets the act of tasbīª (glorifying God) to mean ‘the ritual witnessing of God through remembrance and prayer, without witnessing of any other than Him’.51 This is, of course, an act of witnessing at which Saint ˝āhar, the protagonist of the novel, fails repeatedly. Indeed, his constant oscillation between being inside and outside the shrine (maqām) of Algerian history makes any sort of witnessing or remembrance, be it in a divine or a secular register, absolutely impossible. For Al-Ghazālī, dhikr is in reality the process whereby the thing remembered (i.e. God) progressively takes over the entirety of the Sufi’s being.52 This obsessive aspect of memory and remembrance, whereby the individual is entirely subject to an idea or experience, is very much in play in Al-Waliyy Al-˝āhar Yaʿūd, but the thing remembered is the trauma of Algeria’s history and the use (and abuse) made by human beings of the idea of God therein. The novel starts with a scene of forgetting and remembrance: the waliyy returns to his maqām, and is initially happy to have found it again. But time seems to have stopped: wherever he turns in search of the qibla the sun moves

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with him. His prayer is symptomatic: during the first genuflexion he recites Q87, dwelling on the verses of memory and punishment (Q87:10–13), while during the second he recites a verse that has just returned to his memory and that describes his physical situation perfectly (Q25:45: ‘Do you not see how your Lord lengthens the shade? If He had willed, he could have made it stand still – We made the sun its indicator’)53 feeling especially grateful that it has been brought back to mind. Needless to say, the choice of these two verses is not haphazard. The first announces the subject of the novel, while the second illustrates the structure of repetition and chronological stasis that characterises the behaviour of trauma victims: the waliyy recites, and in his recitation re-enacts, the fact that the sun is not moving. Furthermore, by reciting Q87 he is remembering the Qurʾān itself, the dhikr; that which is to be remembered. The mise-en-abyme marked by this moment – the waliyy reciting Q87, a chapter that enjoins remembrance, specifically in order to remember – is symptomatic of the trajectory of the entire novel. As we shall see, this circularity is itself part of the novelist’s judgement on the course of Algeria’s history, and the way in which Algerians always seem to find themselves in the same situation without remembering (indeed, because they do not remember, because they cannot remember) how they got there. The waliyy’s experience of history as a series of trances or spiritual states (aªwāl ) is built on the traumatic base of the novel. Precisely because the waliyy cannot come to terms with his past, it comes to him in dreams and visions. And precisely because it comes to him in dreams and visions, it remains distant, unavailable, unknowable, misunderstood but simultaneously, and most troublingly, always there, ready to reappear. The narrator’s self, voice and memories, dispersed as they are between engaged presence and entranced absence, as well as Ouettar’s heavy reliance on certain episodes of Islamic and North African history, exemplify the techniques that Anne Whitehead associates with contemporary trauma fiction: intertextuality, repetition and a ‘dispersed or fragmented narrative voice’ (features that we have also seen in the work of Al-Ghitany and Al-Koni).54 The turn to Sufism enables Ouettar to better emphasise these devices – especially the fragmentation of the narrator’s voice – in a more effective way than, say, internal monologue or free association. The fact that the histories ‘seen’ by the waliyy during his trances are known to have occurred, and the fact that the waliyy is, qua Sufi, perpetu-

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ally in search of the truth (al-ªaqīqa), makes Ouettar’s narration of his ªālbased history far more powerful than alternative approaches might have been, effectively saying the reality and unsayability of the nightmare of history. As Ouettar’s introduction to the novel makes clear, the trauma that is Algeria’s history has a history of its own. For him, the earliest breach in the narrative comes with the wars of apostasy (al-ridda) that followed the death of the Prophet. The choice of that historical juncture is deliberate, as many of the extreme armed factions active in the Algerian Civil War, and specifically the GIA, called their violent campaigns and massacres a war of, and on, apostasy, having judged that the postcolonial Algerian republic had abandoned its Islamic identity. For Ouettar, therefore, the Arab world is still fighting the wars of apostasy, on a catastrophically larger scale and with no end in sight. Just as poets were assassinated in the decades following the Prophet’s death, so are writers and intellectuals being killed in Algeria and Egypt in the 1990s. This demetaphorisation of the wars of apostasy might also be read as a symptom of incorporation and failed mourning.55 Indeed, the entire novel circumscribes three moments of failed mourning: Ouettar’s mourning for the Algerian republic born of the FLN’s anti-colonial struggle; the waliyy’s mourning for Bullāra b. Tamīm (the woman that he murders in his shrine, named after the Fā†imid princess who married in order to avoid having her tribe massacred); and the characters’ mourning for the poet Mālik b. Nuwayra, who was famed for his futuwwa and courage, killed in 632 on the orders of the military commander Khālid b. Al-Walīd (d. 642). Both the waliyy and the poet stand in for the novelist Tahar Ouettar. This workingthrough operates by narrating a failure of mourning and a subsequent incorporation of the thing lost – the Algerian republic as embodied in the beloved Bullāra. The loss of the beloved is concomitant with, and consequent upon, the waliyy’s murder of the woman he finds in his maqām and whom he identifies with the devil. It is as though Tahar Ouettar were proclaiming his fidelity to the Algerian republic precisely through all these moments of failed mourning with the waliyy at their centre.56 One of the novel’s key lines of force is precisely the one that takes the waliyy from his impossible return to his shrine and his memories to the melancholic scene on the last page where a return of sorts occurs – we see the waliyy back where he started, we read a verbatim version of the first page, but the sun has turned black (another

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echo of the end of Al-Shamʿa). The black sun of the waliyy’s melancholy also underlines his amnesia and ignorance: like Freud’s melancholic, he neither knows nor remembers what has been lost.57 The start of the saint’s journey across times, places and aªwāl is narrated in the middle of the novel, thus foregrounding its circular structure. The waliyy dreams of a world without war, without injustice, but also, and most significantly, without sin. His shrine, the maqām, is designed as a fortress against the vagaries of a licentious and connected modern world, within which two hundred male and female students seek shelter and salvation, united by the motto that returns on nearly every page of the novel, ‘O You whose graces are hidden, save us from what we fear.’58 As the waliyy circles the maqām, it recedes as he approaches. In this respect Ouettar’s physical maqām (shrine) resembles the spiritual maqām (station) that depends on the Sufi seeker’s efforts, ambition and energy. Saint ˝āhar remembers the crisis that struck his institution as incarnated in the diabolical figure of Bullāra b. Tamīm. First, her presence dominates the maqām but the waliyy cannot identify her clearly. He has a vague recollection of who she is, and the name of Bullāra occurs to him, but he does not understand who she is. The only thing that he does remember is that he desires her. The students send a formal request to the waliyy requesting that one of them, a female student (Bullāra again), be expelled, as her presence prevents them from concentrating. The male students see her naked form in visions where she tells them to ask for her hand from the waliyy, threatening them with the curse of Mālik b. Nuwayra, the poet of the tribe of Tamīm who was murdered by Khālid b. Al-Walīd during the wars of apostasy. The waliyy attempts a number of solutions for expelling the evil that has infected the spirits of his followers, including a night spent performing the dhikr with all of the male students in the desert as a way of filling their hearts and minds with the presence (ªa∂ra) of God. The following morning the waliyy returns to the maqām to find the female students in tears. When he interviews them about what happened, the answer shocks him: they have all decided to adopt the name of Umm Mutammim, Mālik b. Nuwayra’s widow, and each of them has had an erotic experience with the waliyy at midnight.59 Far from being a ªa∂ra intended to clean the hearts and minds of the waliyy’s followers and bring them back under God’s sovereignty, the previous night was, in fact, an orgy enabled by

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the waliyy’s trances and powers, his ªāl and karamāt. The night of the divine presence has become the night of error: laylat al-ªa∂ra has become laylat al-ghala†.60 Saint ˝āhar eventually understands that these collective dreams are related to Bullāra’s presence in his maqām. She insinuates herself into his plan to save the world, seducing him with stories about how they will proceed to populate the world with their children. As the seduction advances, she makes clear that she is drawn to the waliyy not only because of his spiritual powers, as befitting a true pole (qu†b), but also, and perhaps more significantly, because he is the physical centre of the universe. His brain can operate as a power station, transmitting images and influence all over the cosmos; he can ‘attract all the television signals in the world and all the artificial satellites that float in heaven’.61 Once they repopulate the planet the waliyy will enjoy untold power: he can be anywhere instantaneously, communicating with his offspring via global satellite technology.62 The image is simultaneously one of reproduction and the multiplication of differences. The metaphors of television, media and communication are especially significant here: Bullāra is proposing the contamination of the waliyy’s universe with the very media that he and his followers fled in building the shrine. What Bullāra proposes is, in fact, the benefits of peace and modernity; armed with science and technology the waliyy can rule the world. The proposal comes with a warning, however. Bullāra reminds Saint ˝āhar of her past: she is the woman who entered a marriage of convenience to prevent bloodshed. She is, actually, the seductive avatar of peace, come back to the world to warn its residents of the horror of war and bloodshed. Hence her warning to Saint ˝āhar: shedding her blood will precipitate him into an endless nightmare of war and forgetting: I warn you, master, against spilling my blood. What is stored in your head will be erased and will not be restored to you for centuries. It will only return to you drop by drop and bit by bit. You will wander in the desert here for centuries without finding your way, and once you do you will start all over again. I warn you, master, against spilling my blood. You will be chased by the curse of waging war, so that you find yourself fighting wars past, present and future, fighting with people that you do, and do not know, people

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whose language you do not understand, nor will you understand why they are fighting. I warn you, master, against spilling my blood. You will be chased by the curse of beheadings, strangling children, the elderly and the disabled, and burning people alive. You will die a thousand and one deaths, your blood will irrigate every land in which the call to prayer is heard, and every time you return you will be chased by the curse of looking for me without knowing what you seek.63

Bullāra’s warning sums up the plot of the novel. Once the waliyy tears her earrings off and cuts her earlobes, she disappears, and he finds himself transported to the ªāl of the Algerian Civil War, without knowing how he got there. The narration of the conversation between Bullāra the attractive agent of peace and the saint who sheds her blood intimates a sharp critique of the relationship between Islam and political violence in Algeria. The saint’s insistence on ‘purifying’ his maqām from Bullāra reflects a desire for violence above all else. Ouettar’s message is clear: the choice between righteous violence and seductive peace is always available, even if choosing the latter seems difficult. The desire for a pure, homogeneous state, whether it be Islamic or of any other variety, can only pass through the sort of violent sacrifice that destroys the community and perpetuates war, making said state impossible. The narration of the ªāl of the Algerian Civil War spares nothing of the atrocities that shook places like Al-Rais and Bentalha in 1997.64 Ouettar emphasises the murderous intent behind the GIA’s behaviour: there will be ‘no living creature left in the neighbourhood’.65 Saint ˝āhar’s involvement in these events follows Bullāra’s prediction to the letter: he simply ‘finds himself’ in the middle of a war, and finding that orders are needed, he proceeds to give orders without hesitation and to fight. All that matters for the waliyy is that there is a war, into which he plunges headstrong without hesitation: ‘I did not know the people’, he says, ‘but it was enough that they were waging war.’66 There is a total absence of responsibility or reflection on anything other than the will to kill. The victims, all of whom are civilians, include women and children. The relentlessly indiscriminate character of the killing is brought home through the repetition of the same phrase after every victim begs for mercy: ‘The cleaver comes down. The blood spurts. The head flies.’67

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Ouettar uses another ªāl to pay homage to a fellow novelist with an interest in Sufism, namely Naguib Mahfouz. The episode is all the more interesting for being nested within another ªāl, during which the waliyy is on a mission to bomb a concert in Cairo, featuring the presence of Egyptian pop star Amr Diab. The chapter refers to the ruthless decision-making that goes into Islamist violence: ‘It has been decided that they will die, so they die.’68 A similar decision has been made regarding Naguib Mahfouz, who is seen as the devil’s agent: He read philosophy, and was a fellow traveller of Al-Suhrawardī. He turned in his first books [i.e. Mahfouz’s early novels, set in Pharaonic Egypt] to the roots of idolatry in the curves of the valleys and pyramids, then he equated the Muslim Brotherhood with the atheists and communists, allowing them to speak in many of his works [e.g. in The Cairo Trilogy]. He then ‘imprisoned’ God in his ªāra [i.e. in Children of Gebelawi/Awlād Óāratina] and made the prophets the futuwwas of the various ages. The Jews and Christians understood him, so they rewarded him [with the Nobel Prize] to make him into a symbol and an example, a rallying point for our rotten minds.69

Ouettar’s account of the mind of Mahfouz’s would-be assassin returns him to his own identity as an Algerian writer. We thus see the waliyy-cum-terrorist voice the same sense of divided identity as the protagonist of Al-Shamʿa, with the additional layer of identification with Mahfouz. Both Mahfouz and Ouettar synthesise Islamic and global culture, which is why they prove to be so threatening: In an instant I saw myself in him. I saw Egypt and the Arabs and the Muslims in him. In us. I saw myself torn between myself and another self. Half of me is full of the Qurʾān and the hadīth and Ibn ʿArabī and Al-Mutanabbī and Al-JāhiÕ and Al-Shanfarā and Imruʾ Al-Qays and Zuhayr b. Abī Sulmā and Muªammad ʿAbd Al-Wahhāb and Muªammad ʿAbduh and Jamāl Al-Dīn Al-Afghānī, and the other half of me is full of Marx and Engels and Lenin and Sartre and Gorky and Hemingway and Hegel and Dante [. . .]

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I tried to restore the lost half of myself, but I failed. I tried to get rid of the other, but I failed. Let me die, then. Let me be slaughtered.70

According to this murderous logic, Mahfouz has to be assassinated because he embodies global cultural differences to a mind that cannot stand them. Just like Bullāra, whose alluring presence promised a brave new world of intelligent, modern, technologically advanced people to the waliyy, so does Mahfouz exemplify a place and culture where the entire Arab-Islamic tradition, from the Qurʾān and pre-Islamic poetry down to the reformers of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, can comfortably sit alongside Hegel, Marx and Lenin. Furthermore, in so doing and through his literary activity, Mahfouz keeps adding syntheses to this rich cultural ferment that he then transmits to readers such as the figure of the waliyy-assassin. The latter finds this hybrid, culturally divided self insufferable: part of the divided soul must be destroyed. Over the course of the saint’s many other aªwāl, we see the background story building of the Algerian Civil War. We revisit the death of Mālik b. Nuwayra at the hands of Khālid b. Al-Walīd during the wars of apostasy, we see the start of the Wahhabi movement in the Arabian peninsula during the eighteenth century, we see the anti-Russian war of the 1980s in Afghanistan in which many active participants in the Algerian Civil War were trained and formed their ideas. In short, we see a series of vignettes that tell the parallel story to the numerous political and theoretical debates of Al-Shamʿa; one in which the waliyy is identified with the agents of the rise of a perverse form of political violence committed in the name of Islam but used for ignoble ends. What Ouettar seems to imply is that the politicisation of Islam and the abandonment of any other form of political organisation leads directly to a world where the violence is rampant and unstoppable, where it is impossible to distinguish between good and evil, where friendship leads only to targeted assassination, where even those who pray are not immune to murder (as in the Ibrahimi mosque massacre in Hebron, where Baruch Goldstein opened fire on Muslims performing the Fajr prayer on 25 February 1994); a world where the agents of peace (Bullāra) are seen as evil and treated accordingly while the agents of good (the saint) are only happy to perpetuate war and car-

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nage. Worst of all, and in line with Bullāra’s prophecy, all of this takes place within an amnesiac universe; the ªāl is remembered and immediately forgotten, its violence to be repeated on a larger scale in the not-too-distant future. This particular politicisation of Islam, for Ouettar, leads to a forgetting of the lessons of history, and indeed of history altogether. Some of these ‘lessons’ of history are contained in the chest that the waliyy unearths as he digs his way into the wall of the maqām. The transformation of the building itself – from solid stone to soft flesh – conveys the reality of the maqām that the waliyy cannot reach: it is, in fact, the people of the history of Algeria.71 If the waliyy is condemned to circle the maqām and dig his way into it only to find himself back where he started, it is because he stands outside that history; he is incapable of belonging because incapable of remembering who he is or where he started. Ouettar’s is a deeply ironic rendition of the individuality of the saint as an extra-worldly individual: the saint has renounced nothing – violence and libido dominandi least of all – but it is this very refusal that has led to his condemnation to being radically separated from the world. His only companion is the split-eared donkey that he rides and which, as he eventually realises, is in fact Bullāra metamorphosed. An additional irony here is that the donkey, ‘Al-ʿA∂bāʾ’, is named after the Prophet Muªammad’s camel. Far from being the diabolical creature that he imagined, Bullāra in all her forms is part of a chain of signifiers going back to the roots of Islam. The novel ends with the waliyy making a final push to reach the inside of the maqām only to find himself on the outside again. The failure is a failure of belonging: the waliyy can neither fully withdraw from nor belong to the history of his world. The latter is doomed to remain something he only sees in visions and nightmares. The waliyy finally understands the common bond that unites him with all of the people that he sees in his aªwāl: he is both the perpetrator and the victims of the Al-Rais massacre; he is the poet Mālik b. Nuwayra; he is the Islamists fighting in nearly every faction of the Afghanistan war in the 1990s, as well as Kosovo and Chechnya; he is there during every chapter of the history of the Muslim world.72 In one of his rare moments of lucidity, he understands that ‘when one person dies, it is as if everyone had died’. There is an extension of the universal identification games that had

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dominated the earlier chapters in the novel, specifically during the waliyy’s inquest into the behaviour of his students, when all the men are identified with Mālik b. Nuwayra and all the women with Umm Mutammim, speaking through the voice of Bullāra. There is, moreover, a reinscription of the identities of all those that have been called ‘terrorists’ or ‘criminals’, be they those who fought the Afghanistan war, the Algerian Civil War or those who perpetrated the various crimes associated with the Egyptian armed Islamist Groups in 1996, within the space of Muslim and Arabic identity. Far from being exceptional or unusual or perverse figures, Ouettar seems to be saying, they are all normal; they are all part and parcel of an Arabo-Muslim world that has repeatedly rejected unity and reconciliation. The result of this rejection is a personality split between East and West, between what is symbolised by Bullāra and the waliyy, always ready to sacrifice mercy for (and with) violence, always ready to make war, always ready to destroy what it has built, arms outstretched and willing to stab novelists and poets. For Ouettar, the Arabs, the Muslims, are doomed to wander the desert in a state of astonished amnesia; a people who, having destroyed their history, have deprived themselves of a future. Writing the nightmare of history is impossible due to the repeated ejection of the writer – the saint, the waliyy – from that history. The Saint Curses his People Al-Waliyy Al-˝āhar Yarfaʿ completes the cycle. In his preface Ouettar states that the figure of the waliyy, as seen through the protagonists of the novels discussed above, all represent the Muslim unconscious, thereby extending the pattern of universal identification found in the first two parts of the trilogy: As I see it, the waliyy, be he Sīdī Abū Al-Zamān or Saint ˝āhar, as I have described him, is the unconscious of the contemporary Muslim, in his many manifestations, which can be seen in both individual and collective Islamic movements, as well as in dynamism and stasis, all of which resemble enraged or rejectionist reactions [to reality].73

Continuities aside, the tone of Ouettar’s writing changes significantly. He gives the reader a sarcastic reading of an Arab world plunged into the dark ages, quite literally by the appearance of a black mass in the sky covering the entire region except Jerusalem. What brings this about is the waliyy’s

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final dialogue with Bullāra, in which she convinces him to change his prayer, invoking not protection from ‘the things that frighten us’, but actually asking God to bring them about. The frightening thing is the black ‘cloud’ that hangs over the Arab world, bespeaking its sorry state in which the invasion of Iraq is complete, George Bush Jr. announces victory and Saddam Hussein awaits his execution. While the details are a solid testament to Ouettar’s wit, the use of the waliyy does not add significantly to what has been discussed above. The blackout that hits the Arab world can also be read as a demetaphorisation of a world from which history has been completely excluded and reality is limited to what can be reported on satellite channels such as CNN and Al-Jazeera. The uniformity of this space is underlined by the fact that all of the reporters have decided to adopt the same name – ‘ʿAbd Al-Raªīm Fuqarā’ – and report what is, in effect, the same thing: the Arab world goes on being its lamentable self despite the apocalyptic events that take place on its soil. The novel confirms the prediction with which the last two novels ended: the Arab world has become a dark inferno in which there is neither life nor death. The end of history – for that is what it seems to be – is no end at all for a region without a history.

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Epilogue: Bahaa Taher, Solidarity and Idealism n Egyptian man in love with a European woman goes to a desert temple. Once there, he attempts suicide. This is, in short, the plot of two texts by Bahaa Taher (1935–) ‘Anā Al-Mālik Jiʾtu’ (‘I, the King, Have Come’, 1985) and Wāªat Al-Ghurūb (Sunset Oasis, 2006). Like Abdel-Hakim Kassem, Bahaa Taher belongs to the ‘60s Generation’ of Egyptian writers. His commitment to his political and aesthetic values quickly led to both an active career in the cultural sphere and increasing pressure from the Egyptian authorities. From 1981 to 1995 he took a position with the United Nations in Geneva. This period also saw the publication of several of his most important literary works. His lucid prose frequently presents apparently simple plots and language to unmask the morally and politically troubling aspects of the everyday. In ‘Anā Al-Mālik Jiʾtu’ and Sunset Oasis, the journey to a distant temple, the call of the sacred and the deliberate attempt at crossing over from mortal to immortal spaces surround the theme of the wholly Other and its relationship to Sufism. That said, Taher’s idiom privileges the generally mystical over the specifically Sufi. There are Sufi characters in his texts, but rather than foregrounding particular Sufi authors and ideas his prevailing concern is with the conflict between the worldly and the other-worldly in a more general sense, as witness the references to Ancient Egyptian and Greek history. In both texts, the other-worldly space serves as a refuge for the protagonists, removing them from a world in which their values cannot operate. Although Taher’s protagonists are not identified as Sufis, his texts share a close relationship with those of Haqqi, Al-Ghitany and Ouettar, not least in their cross-cultural arrangement and the reliance on the use of the other-worldly as an escape from time, history and mortality. The operation of Sufism as a theme in Taher’s stories is also linked to the

A

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idea of the transmigration of souls, which Taher translates into both physical and spiritual itineraries in search of completion and fulfilment. In ‘Yesterday I Dreamt of You’ (‘Bil’ams Óalamtu Bik’, 1983), the exiled Egyptian protagonist reads a book on Sufism where he encounters the idea that the soul occasionally leaves the body and wanders separately, meeting other souls and spirits of varying spiritual worth. Although the narrator is sceptical of these claims, his relationship with a young woman named Anne Marie bears them out: she dreams of him, and after meeting him and asking him for help with her unstable emotional state, commits suicide. That night, in bed, he enters a mystical state in which he reaches out to a pair of wings fluttering in his room, reaching out across the boundaries separating life from death and human from superhuman to complete a relationship that proved impossible in the bounded, temporal quotidian space. Both ‘Anā Al-Mālik Jiʾtu’ and Sunset Oasis focus on opening up the space of the everyday to the possibility of contact with the sacred. ‘Anā Al-Mālik Jiʾtu’ explores the transmigration theme on a larger historical scale through a love story between Farīd, a French-trained Egyptian doctor, and Martine, a woman he meets in Grenoble. Martine is a gentle, other-worldly creature. Her visit to Egypt is a revelation: at the Karnak temple with Farīd she proclaims that she has never felt so close to the beauty, joy and majesty of life. She cannot wait to return to Egypt permanently so that she can be baptised in the Nile and the temple with her beloved, thereby finding the completion she desires. Upon her return to France she lapses into mental illness and is hospitalised, leaving Farīd with the burden of knowing that his medical training can do nothing for her as he awaits her return in vain and buries himself in work. His research into ophthalmology moves in a more mystical direction, investigating ante-natal timeless visual memories. Fakhrī Pasha, a patient of Farīd’s, fascinates him with stories about the Western Desert, the ‘yellow paradise’ (al-janna al-‚afrāʾ) and ‘garden of the soul’ (bustān al-rūª) that was destined to be the birthplace of prophecy and religion.1 Soon Farīd finds himself embarking on a journey to the Western Desert, in search of a long-lost oasis that featured in Fakhrī Pasha’s stories. Fakhrī Pasha describes this journey as a ‘call’ (nidāʾ).2 The other-worldly silence of the desert returns Farīd to Martine: he sees her face everywhere and wonders why she brought him there. Once he reaches his destination, a lost temple of Akhenaton in the

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Western Desert, the reader understands the reason: to meet Martine again in an other-worldly space. Abandoned by his guides and companions, Farīd stays in the temple. He applies himself to deciphering the inscriptions on the wall, which could be read as a prayer of Akhenaton’s declaring that absolute, eternal joy and fulfilment can only be found in the relationship with the one true God.3 Suddenly, however, Farīd starts shouting, ‘You liar!’ before deliberately seeking death by stepping into a snake pit. Sunset Oasis builds on the themes of ‘Anā Al-Mālik Jiʾtu’ by greatly expanding the imperial context and increasing the intensity of communication with the sacred. Mahmoud Abd El Zahir, a major in the Egyptian army, is posted to Siwa as a District Commissioner. He is joined by his Irish wife, Catherine. Mahmoud’s past is rife with action and adventure: an active youth that features an active sex life, frequenting Masonic lodges, avid attendance at Al-Afghānī’s speeches and debates, following Sufi devotional rites and generally making the most of what Cairo had to offer in the 1870s. Mahmoud’s fortunes change due to his involvement in the Orabi Revolt (1882), as a consequence of which he is transferred to Siwa. Catherine’s life with Mahmoud starts as one of uninterrupted bliss, but the voyage to the Western Desert changes them. Catherine’s fascination with Ancient Egypt finds its focus in the temples of Siwa, which she believes may house the tomb of Alexander, who was worshipped in Egypt as the God Amun. Taher’s novel features an entire chapter where Alexander speaks from beyond the grave, as if his soul had returned to haunt Catherine and the text were experiencing the same opening up to the voice of the sacred as the Western Desert. Catherine describes the Pharaonic temple accurately as a miniature representation of the Egyptian Kingdom that also operates as a gateway to the divine, opening up a location for the manifestation of a God who would then inhabit the temple and protect the kingdom and its inhabitants.4 Her interest in antiquity, however, threatens the marriage. Catherine’s and Mahmoud’s life in Siwa is one of seemingly endless conflict: apart from their own marital difficulties, tension simmers over the Siwans’ refusal to pay taxes, the differences between local Berber governance and the hierarchy based in Cairo, the conflict between the oppressive mores of Siwa and the comparatively more liberal ways of Mahmoud and Catherine, and the deep suspicion harboured by Mahmoud’s superiors at the Ministry of Internal Affairs. Catherine’s

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repeated trips to the temple arouse the Siwans’ hostility, as does Mahmoud’s increasingly stern management of local issues. A sudden visit from Maleka, a young Siwan woman with an active intellect, leaves Catherine wondering whether she loves her or Mahmoud. An extended visit by Catherine’s sister Fiona, who is very ill, further strains Mahmoud’s relationship with Catherine. When Fiona dies, Mahmoud destroys the temple with dynamite, deliberately seeking death in its destruction. In all three texts, the relationship of the protagonists – Farīd and Martine, Mahmoud and Catherine, the unnamed narrator of ‘Yesterday I Dreamt of You’ and Anne-Marie – is, in Rasheed El-Enany’s words, a ‘real union of individuals, not an allegorical one of cultural representatives’.5 What makes this union both inevitable and tragic is the other-worldly dimension that frames the relationship and the antagonism between the characters’ values and the surrounding world. Although they are neither Sufis nor mystics, Taher’s characters are haunted by the same desire for the sacred and perpetual sense of dissatisfaction that drives Al-Ghitany’s and Al-Koni’s voyagers. Taher’s originality lies in the fact that he reminds us, quite deliberately, of the multiple registers of belief – Muslim, Christian, Pharaonic, Greek – within which their journeys unfold. The conflation of the journey to the sacred and the voyage towards the beloved, the sense of dismay with the worldly and the thirst that can only be quenched by the other-worldly recall de Certeau’s mystics who cannot inhabit the world, but are instead inhabited by something that keeps them moving from place to place.6 Even Mahmoud, who happily inhabits the world he was born into at first, finds himself betrayed and marginalised as his narrative and journey progress. The openness that brings French and Irish women to their Egyptian lovers draws them out of urban comfort and towards the sacred space of the desert. And the promise of finding completion in the Other is the same one that drives Farīd to call the author of the sacred inscriptions a liar: the fulfilment described can only come about with the beloved, even if that beloved is in the space of the divine that transcends human space, rather than with the god of Akhenaton or Amun. If, as Taher argues in an interview, he writes narratives where human solidarity trumps individual salvation, that solidarity must all too often cross boundaries that go well beyond the physical and the temporal.7 Despite the absence of overt Sufi references, the persistence of spirituality and

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solidarity in his work bear witness to the enduring idealism at the heart of contemporary Arabic fiction. The fate of Taher’s couples, caught as they are between the vagaries of imperial history and the call of the sacred, returns us to the difficult questions with which this study began. The continuum between human and divine love lies at the heart of both Haqqi’s fictions and Taher’s. The difficult relationship between the political and the mystical frames the suffering of Kassem’s Abdel-Aziz, Ouettar’s Saint ˝āhar and Taher’s Farīd and Martine. Between them, history runs through and inflects the investigations of the creative, spiritual self under political, economic and psychological siege in the Arab world: from Mahfouz’s steady drift away from the realist register, to Al-Masʿadī’s experiments with thinking of a new superhuman humanity, to Al-Ghitany’s assessment of personal against national history, we are never far from the impact of time on the artist and the world. Simultaneously, the temporal register of creation and language moves in parallel with that of ‘real time’, accruing new literary works that say all the anguish and excitement of mapping and modifying the limits of expression. Far from being an ahistorical, apolitical or politically disengaged undertaking, therefore, the turn to Sufism in contemporary Arabic fiction faces the intractable forces of history head on, though it does so without turning the novel into a political agenda. As this study was being written, history has come crashing into the quotidian reality of the Arab and Muslim worlds in the form of the peoples’ revolts sweeping across the Middle East and North Africa from Morocco to Bahrain. The movement and upheaval of the 2011 Arab Spring has the hallmarks of creation as outlined by Derrida and Attridge: like a work of art, they were both recognisable – a recent cursory glance over the Arab world would have perceived the tremendous pressure weighing down on the populations of the region and predicted some sort of popular reaction – and totally unexpected, as witness the many self-deceptive statements about the enduring stability of the region from world leaders like US Foreign Secretary Hillary Clinton and French President Nicolas Sarkozy. It remains to be seen what the cultural outcome of these events will be. It would be even more interesting to speculate about the impact of these events on the incidence of Sufism in literary production. The importance of the Sufis as writers rather than theologians to the authors covered in this study

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assures their place as an enduring point of reference: allusions to Al-Óallāj and Ibn ʿArabī are unlikely to disappear anytime soon. This is because the turn to Sufism and idealism is not only a reaction to political forces, but a way of thinking about the novel and the dynamics of literary creation. As long as there are writers and artists, the self-reflexive mode of writing will persist, and as long as self-reflection informs literary production, Sufism will continue to affect and inform that output. The narrative and linguistic interventions of Mahfouz, Al-Ghitany, Salih and Ouettar would seem to indicate that the saints are here to stay, and that their cultural legacy lives on as much in the space of ideas as in the physical world of shrines and temples. As long as Arabophone novelists think about their novels, the dialectic of baqāʾ and fanāʾ will find a place in their work.

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Notes

Introduction 1. Derek Attridge, The Singularity of Literature, 19. Attridge’s sentence recalls the title and argument of Derrida’s ‘Psyché: Invention de l’autre’ in the eponymous volume, Psyché, 11–61. J. Hillis Miller offers a useful account of Derrida’s use of the word ‘other’ in ‘Derrida’s Others’, especially 337–9. 2. Attridge, Singularity, 24. 3. Attridge, Singularity, 34. 4. In an interview with Daniel Ferrer, Derrida remarks, ‘Ce dont j’ai le sentiment, ce n’est pas d’avoir inventé ou d’avoir été l’auteur actif de cette chose, mais de la recevoir comme une chance.’ ‘«Entre le corps écrivant et l’écriture»’, 70–1. Attridge glosses this phenomenon with an appropriately illuminating anecdote: ‘Mike Nichols is reported as saying, “When a joke comes to you, it feels like it’s been sent by God.” ’ Singularity, 24. 5. Attridge, Singularity, 24; Rudolf Otto, The Idea of the Holy, 25–30. Another variant on this term would be Levinas’s idea of God as infinite Other. Attridge takes his distance from the idea of the absolute, wholly transcendent Other, but this is a key part of the semantic field attached to the term as it operates in my study. Attridge, Singularity, 27, 151 n. 6. Or, as Derrida puts it: Mais on ne fait pas venir l’autre, on le laisse venir, en se préparant à sa venue. Le venir de l’autre ou son revenir, c’est la seule survenue possible, mais elle ne s’invente pas, même s’il faut la plus géniale inventivité qui soit pour se préparer à l’accueillir : pour se préparer à affirmer l’aléa d’une rencontre qui non seulement ne soit plus calculable mais ne soit même pas un incalculable encore homogène au calculable, un indécidable encore en travail de décision. Est-ce possible? Non, bien sûr, et voilà pourquoi c’est la seule invention possible. (Psyché, 60)

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‫‪notes‬‬ ‫‪7. Al-Sarrāj, Kitāb Al-Lumaʿ, 18:‬‬

‫ﻭﻫﻮ ﻋﻠﻢ ﺍﻟﻔﺘﻮﺡ ﻳﻔﺘﺢ ﺍﷲ ﺗﻌﺎﻟﻰ ﻋﻠﻰ ﻗﻠﻮﺏ ﺃﻭﻟﻴﺎﺋﻪ ﻓﻲ ﻓﻬﻢ ﻛﻼﻣﻪ ﻭﻣﺼﺘﻨﺒﻄﺎﺕ ﺧﻄﺎﺑﻪ ﻣﺎ ﺷﺎء‬ ‫ﻛﻴﻒ ﺷﺎء‪.‬‬

‫‪8. Or, more literally, ‘make space in my narrow breast’; ‘Ich mögte beten wie‬‬ ‫‪Moise im Koran: Herr mache mir Raum in meiner engen Brust.’ Briefe, edited‬‬ ‫‪by K. R. Mandelkow, 1:132, 10 July 1772. The prayer of Moses and Goethe‬‬ ‫‪finds an uncanny parallel in the Sufi topos of the wusʿ (breadth, width) of‬‬ ‫‪the human heart, which can embrace God, whereas heaven and earth cannot.‬‬ ‫‪See William C. Chittick, The Sufi Path of Knowledge, 107; Afifi, The Mystical‬‬ ‫‪Philosophy of Muhyid Din-Ibnul ʿArabi, 118–19.‬‬ ‫‪9. Good accounts of ʿAbd Al-Íabūr’s poetic theory are found in Muªammad‬‬ ‫‪Binʿimāra, Al-Athar Al-Íūfī, 190–4, and James Howarth, ‘Neo-Sufism in‬‬ ‫‪Modern Arabic Poetry’, 136–43. The relationship between Sufism and poetry‬‬ ‫‪has a long history. As Howarth’s thesis makes clear, ʿAbd Al-Íabūr is not the‬‬ ‫‪only modern Arabic poet to take an active interest therein: one might also‬‬ ‫‪mention Al-Bayyātī and Adūnīs in this regard.‬‬ ‫‪10. See ʿAbd Al-Íabūr’s 1981 lecture, ‘Tajribatī fī-l-Shiʿr’ (‘My Experience in‬‬ ‫‪Poetry’), Al-Aʿmāl Al-Kāmila, 9:435:‬‬ ‫ﻭ ﺍﺫﺍ ﺗﺤﺪﺛﺖ ﻋﻦ ﺍﻟﺸﻌﺮ ﻭ ﺍﻟﺘﺼﻮﻑ ﺃﻗﻮﻝ ﺃﻧﻨﻲ ﺃﺣﺐ ﺍﻟﺘﺠﺮﺑﺔ ﺍﻟﺼﻮﻓﻴﺔ ‪ ،‬ﺫﻟﻚ ﻷﻥ ﺍﻟﺘﺠﺮﺑﺔ ﺍﻟﺼﻮﻓﻴﺔ‬ ‫ﺷﺒﻴﻬﺔ ﺟﺪﺍ ﺑﺎﻟﺘﺠﺮﺑﺔ ﺍﻟﻔﻨﻴﺔ‪ .‬ﺍﻥ ﻛﺘﺎﺑﺔ ﻗﺼﻴﺪﺓ ﻫﻲ ﻧﻮﻉ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻻﺟﺘﻬﺎﺩ ‪ ،‬ﻗﺪ ﻳﺜﺎﺏ ﻋﻠﻴﻪ ﺍﻟﺸﺎﻋﺮ ﺑﻘﺼﻴﺪﺓ‬ ‫ﺃﻭ ﻻ ﻳﺜﺎﺏ‪ .‬ﻛﺬﻟﻚ ﻗﺎﻝ ﺍﻟﺼﻮﻓﻴﻮﻥ ﺃﻥ ﺍﻻﻧﺴﺎﻥ ﻳﻤﻀﻲ ﻓﻲ ﻃﺮﻳﻖ ﺍﻟﺼﻮﻓﻴﺔ ‪ ،‬ﻳﺠﺘﻬﺪ ﻭ ﻳﺒﺘﻌﺪ ‪ ،‬ﻭ ﻟﻜﻨﻪ‬ ‫ﻗﺪ ﻻ ﻳﻬﺒﻂ ﺇﻟﻴﻪ ﺷﻲء ﺃﻭ ﻻ ﻳﻔﺘﺢ ﻋﻠﻴﻪ ﺑﺸﻲء‪ ،‬ﻭﻫﺬﺍ ﺍﻟﻔﺘﺢ ﻟﻴﺲ ﺇﻻ ﺗﻨﺰﻻ ﻣﻦ ﻋﻨﺪ ﺍﷲ‪.‬‬ ‫ﻛﺬﻟﻚ ﺗﻘﺘﺮﺏ ﺍﻟﺘﺠﺮﺑﺔ ﺍﻟﺸﻌﺮﻳﺔ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﺘﺠﺮﺑﺔ ﺍﻟﺼﻮﻓﻴﺔ ﻓﻲ ﻣﺤﺎﻭﻟﺔ ﻛﻞ ﻣﻨﻬﻤﺎ ﺍﻻﻣﺴﺎﻙ ﺑﺎﻟﺤﻘﻴﻘﺔ ﻭ‬ ‫ﺍﻟﻮﺻﻮﻝ ﺍﻟﻰ ﺟﻮﻫﺮ ﺍﻻﺷﻴﺎء ‪ ،‬ﺑﻐﺾ ﺍﻟﻨﻈﺮ ﻋﻦ ﻇﻮﺍﻫﺮﻫﺎ‪ .‬ﺍﻥ ﺍﻟﺘﺸﺎﺑﻪ ﻓﻲ ﻭﺍﻗﻊ ﺍﻷﻣﺮ ﻛﺒﻴﺮ ﺟﺪﺍ ‪ ،‬ﻭ‬ ‫ﻓﻲ ﺍﻋﺘﻘﺎﺩﻱ ﺍﻥ ﺍﻷﺩﻳﺎﻥ ﻓﻲ ﺗﺠﻠﻴﺎﺗﻬﺎ ﻫﻲ ﺍﻟﺘﺼﻮﻑ ‪ ،‬ﺫﻟﻚ ﻻﻥ ﺍﻟﺪﻳﻦ ﺍﺫﺍ ﺍﻗﺘﺼﺮ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺍﻟﻌﺒﺎﺩﺍﺕ ﺍﻟﺸﺎﺋﻌﺔ‬ ‫ﻭ ﺍﻟﻤﻌﺎﻣﻼﺕ ﺍﻟﻴﻮﻣﻴﺔ ‪ ،‬ﺩﻭﻥ ﻣﺤﺎﻭﻟﺔ ﺍﻗﺘﺮﺍﺏ ﻣﻦ ﺟﻮﻫﺮ ﺍﻟﺤﻘﻴﻘﺔ ‪ ،‬ﺃﺻﺒﺢ ﻟﻮﻧﺎً ﻣﻦ ﺿﺒﻂ ﺍﻟﺴﻠﻮﻙ‬ ‫ﺍﻹﺳﺎﻧﻲ‪ .‬ﻟﻜﻨﻪ ﻳﺠﺐ ﺃﻥ ﻳﻨﺘﻘﻞ ﺍﻟﻰ ﻣﺮﺣﻠﺔ ﺃﻋﻠﻰ ﺣﺘﻰ ﻳﺼﺒﺢ ﻟﻮﻧﺎ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﻄﻤﺄﻧﻴﻨﺔ ﺍﻟﻨﻔﺴﻴﺔ ﺃﻭ ﺍﻟﺴﻜﻴﻨﺔ ‪،‬‬ ‫ﻭ ﻫﺬﻩ ﺍﻟﻤﺮﺣﻠﺔ ﻫﻲ ﻣﺎ ﻋﺒﺮ ﻋﻨﻪ ﺍﻟﻤﺘﺼﻮﻓﻮﻥ ﻭ ﺍﻟﻤﺴﻠﻤﻮﻥ ﻭ ﺍﻟﻤﺴﻴﺤﻴﻮﻥ ﻭ ﺍﻟﻴﻬﻮﺩ ﻭ ﺍﻟﻬﻨﺪﻭﻙ‪ ،‬ﻭ ﻗﺪ‬ ‫ﺭﺃﻳﺖ ﻣﻨﻬﻢ ﺍﻟﻜﺜﻴﺮ‪ .‬ﻭ ﻛﻞ ﻫﺆﻻء ﻳﺤﺎﻭﻟﻮﻥ ﺍﻟﻮﺻﻮﻝ ﺍﻟﻰ ﺍﺩﺭﺍﻙ ﺍﻟﺤﻘﻴﻘﺔ ﺍﻟﻜﻮﻧﻴﺔ ﺍﻟﻌﻠﻴﺎ‬

‫‪11. ʿAbd Al-Íabūr’s autobiobiography Óayātī fī-l-Shiʿr (My Life in Poetry, 1969),‬‬ ‫‪Dīwān, 3:13:‬‬ ‫ﻭﻳﺤﺪﺛﻨﺎ ﺍﻟﻘﺸﻴﺮﻱ ﻓﻲ ﺭﺳﺎﻟﺘﻪ ﻋﻦ ﺗﻌﺒﻴﺮ ﺁﺧﺮ ﻣﻦ ﺗﻌﺒﻴﺮﺍﺕ ﺍﻟﺼﻮﻓﻴﺔ ‪ ،‬ﻭﻫﻮ ﺍﻟﻠﻮﺍﺋﺢ ﻭﺍﻟﻄﻮﺍﻟﻊ ﻭﺍﻟﻠﻮﺍﻣﻊ‬ ‫ﺗﺤﺪﻳﺪﺍً ﻟﻬﺬﻩ ﺍﻟﺨﻮﺍﻃﺮ ﺍﻟﺴﺮﻳﻌﺔ ﺍﻟﺘﻲ ﺗﻨﺒﻊ ﻣﻦ ﺣﻴﺚ ﻻ ﻳﺪﺭﻱ ﺍﻻﻧﺴﺎﻥ ‪ ،‬ﻭﺗﺤﻴﺎ ﻓﻲ ﻣﺴﺎﺭ ﻋﻘﻠﻪ ﺍﻟﻮﺍﻋﻲ ‪ ،‬ﻭﻻ‬ ‫ﻳﻨﺘﺠﻬﺎ ﻛﺪ ﺍﻟﺬﻫﻦ ﺑﻘﺪﺭ ﻣﺎ ﻳﻨﺘﺠﻬﺎ ﺣﻞ ﺍﻟﺼﻔﺎء ﺍﻟﻌﻘﻠﻲ ‪ ،‬ﻓﻴﺸﺒﻬﻬﺎ ﺑﺄﻧﻬﺎ ﻛﺎﻟﺒﺮﻕ‪ ،‬ﻣﺎ ﻇﻬﺮﺕ ﺣﺘﻰ ﺍﺳﺘﺘﺮﺕ‪.‬‬

‫‪Cf. Al-Qushayrī, Epistle on Sufism, 99; Al-Risāla Al-Qushayriyya, 47.‬‬

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12. ʿAbd Al-Íabūr relies on the Kitāb Al-Lumaʿ for his definition of the wārid as something that arrives suddenly, something the truth of which ‘troubles the heart’ and forces it to change course. Dīwān, 3:12. William Chittick points out that Ibn ʿArabī goes even further, comparing the wārid (which Chittick translates as ‘the arriver’) with ‘the world that is unveiled during God’s selfdisclosures’. The Self-Disclosure of God, 149. Cf. Chittick, Sufi Path, 402 n. The idea of the arrivant – the person or the thing that arrives, and the concomitant call for unconditional hospitality – constitutes another important element of Derrida’s and Attridge’s theory of literature as the creation of the other; ‘to welcome the arrivant [. . .] is to be willing to remake your familiar world without setting any prior limits on how far you are willing to go.’ Attridge, J. M. Coetzee and the Ethics of Reading, 121. In ʿAbd Al-Íabūr’s scheme, creating a poem implies being receptive to the wārid, the arrivant. 13. ʿAbd Al-Íabūr, Dīwān, 3:15–17. 14. ʿAbd Al-Íabūr’s Arabic is even more emphatic on this point: ً‫ ﻭﺇﻥ ﻭﺩﻳﺎﻧﺎ‬، ‫ ﻭﺇﻥ ﺃﺭﺿﺎً ﻟﺘﻜﺘﺸﻒ‬،‫ﺇﻥ ﻛﻨﺰﺍً ﻣﺎ ﻟﻴﻔﺘﺢ‬ ً .‫ ﻭﺇﻥ ﺣﻴﺎﺓ ﻟﺘﻮﻟﺪ‬،‫ﻭﺟﺒﺎﻻ ﻟﺘﻨﺠﻠﻲ ﺃﻣﺎﻡ ﺍﻟﻨﻈﺮ‬ ʿAbd Al-Íabūr, Dīwān, 3:28. 15. ʿAbd Al-Íabūr, Dīwān, 3:17–29. 16. Cf. J. Hillis Miller’s commentary on this process through his reading of Derrida’s ‘Psyché’ and D’un ton apocalyptique adopté naguère en philosophie: We do not say ‘Come!’ to the other. The other says ‘Come!’ to us, to which we respond with another ‘Come!’, but a ‘Come!’ that is secondary, responsive, not initiatory or inaugural. We let the other come, and the other comes or does not come, unpredictably [not unlike the results of the ijtihād in ʿAbd Al-Íabūr’s poetic model]. The ‘we’ does not even pre-exist the ‘Come!’ spoken by the other. It is brought into existence by the other, invented by the other. (‘Derrida’s Others,’ 338)

17. Louis Dumont, Essais sur l’individualisme, 35–81. 18. Thomas Pavel, La Pensée du roman, 46–7: Au moyen de la coupure qu’il pose entre le protagoniste et son milieu, le roman est le premier genre à s’interroger sur la genèse de l’individu et sur l’instauration de l’ordre commun. Il pose surtout, et avec une acuité inégalée, la question axiologique qui consiste à savoir si l’idéal moral fait partie de l’ordre du monde: car s’il en fait partie comment se fait-il que le monde soit, au moins en apparence, si éloigné de lui, et s’il est étranger au monde, d’où vient que sa valeur normative s’impose avec une telle évidence à l’individu ?

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Dans le roman, genre qui considère l’homme par le biais de son adhésion à l’idéal, poser la question axiologique revient à se demander si, pour défendre l’idéal, l’homme doit résister au monde, s’y plonger pour y rétablir l’ordre moral ou enfin s’efforcer de remédier à sa propre fragilité, si, en d’autres termes, l’individu peut habiter le monde où il voit le jour.

19. 20. 21. 22.

23.

24. 25.

26.

Pavel, ‘Fiction and Imitation’, Poetics Today 26, no. 3 (Fall 2000): 529. Virginia Woolf, ‘Phases of Fiction’, Granite and Rainbow, 141. Frank Kermode, The Sense of an Ending, 128. Muhammad Siddiq has recently emphasised the fraught relationship between realist Arabic fiction and the idea of individuality in Arab Culture and the Novel, 154–202. Siddiq also has much of interest to say about the refraction of religious identity in the Egyptian novel (101–53), but his focus is not necessarily on Sufism alone. ‘La personne humaine est, en Islam, avant tout, un témoignage; ce qui fait de l’Islam une société nivelée, démocratique, jalousement individualiste.’ Massignon makes this point in an article entitled ‘Le Respect de la personne humaine en Islam’, Ecrits mémorables, 2:781. In my view it is no accident that this statement is made by one of the most important scholars of Sufism of the past century. EM, 1:782. Cf. Derrida on the relationship between writing and survival in Parages, 181–2; a question to which I will return below. See Richard Jacquemond, Entre scribes et écrivains, 54–7, as well as Chapter Four. The impact of social and political change on the form of the novel, pushing the genre towards interiority and intimacy, is summed up very effectively in Sabry Hafez, ‘The Transformation of Reality and the Arabic Novel’s Aesthetic Response’. Ferial Ghazoul traces the use of Sufism in Maghrebi fiction as a search for literary authenticity in ‘Al-Riwāya Al-Íūfiyya fī-l-Adab Al-Maghāribī’. Since my focus in this study is on the aesthetics rather than the politics of Sufism, and because my position is that Sufism is used as a tool for working out aesthetic rather than political problems in the Arabic novel (without, however, maintaining that either Sufism or the novel are apolitical), I will not deal with the opposition to Sufism in the social and political sphere. The question is dealt with at great length in Elizabeth Sirriyeh, Sufis and Anti-Sufis, especially the final chapter (140–70) which deals with the contemporary period. Frederick de Jong and Bernd Radtke have compiled a monumental collection of essays on the controversies and polemics surrounding Sufism worldwide,

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from the thirteenth to the twentieth centuries: Islamic Mysticism Contested: Thirteen Centuries of Controversies and Polemics. Despite state and institutional opposition to Sufism, there have been multiple attempts at a modus vivendi and reconciliation between Sufism and its opponents. See Frederick de Jong, ‘Opposition to Sufism in Twentieth-Century Egypt’, and Andreas Christmann, ‘Reconciling Sufism with Theology’. One telling incident that seems to have had a direct impact on the authors in our study is the attempt by the Egyptian People’s Assembly to ban Ibn ʿArabī’s Al-Futūªāt Al-Makkiyya in 1979, an incident narrated in Th. Emil Homerin’s ‘Ibn ʿArabī in the People’s Assembly’. ʿAmmār ʿAlī Óassan has recently published an important study of the political socialisation of the Sufi orders in Egypt from a more sociological perspective: Al-Tanshiʾa Al-Siyāsiyya li-l-˝uruq Al-Íūfiyya fī Mi‚r. 27. Michel de Certeau, La Fable mystique I, 42–4. 28. Massignon, La Passion de Hallâj, 1:27. 29. Massignon, Passion, 1:27. 30.

Der Trieb zum Mystichen kommt von der Unbefriedigtheit unserer Wünsche durch die Wissenschaft. Wir fühlen, daß selbst wenn alle möglichen wissenschaftlichen Fragen beantwortet sind, unser Problem noch gar nicht berührt ist. Freilich bleibt dann eben keine Frage mehr; und eben dies ist die Antwort. (Wittgenstein, Notebooks 1914–1916, 51–51e)

31. Kermode, Sense, 93–124. 32.

Crisis is a way of thinking about one’s moment, and not the moment itself [. . .] The fiction of transition is our way of registering the conviction that the end is immanent rather than imminent; it reflects our lack of confidence in our ends, our mistrust of the apportioning of history to epochs of this and that. (Kermode, Sense, 101)

33. The career of Henry Corbin, who went from translating Heidegger to studying Muslim thought, presents a similarly fascinating synthesis. In an interview with Philippe Nemo, Corbin explains that the shift was facilitated in part by the language of revelation common to both registers, whereby terms like Entdecken and kashf become equivalent insofar as both designate revelation or dis-covery (a-lēthetia) of the truth. ‘De Heidegger à Sohravardî’, 26–7. 34. Gamal Al-Ghitany, ‘Originality under the Guardianship of Ibn ʿArabī’, 3–4. Al-Niffarī’s statement, ‫ﻛﻠﻤﺎ ﺍﺗﺴﻌﺖ ﺍﻟﺮﺅﻳﺔ ﺿﺎﻗﺖ ﺍﻟﻌﺒﺎﺭﺓ‬, is in ¤āqat Al-ʿIbāra, 108. 35. For a fine analysis of the relationship between mysticism and apophasis across a

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number of traditions including Sufism, see Michael A. Sells, Mystical Languages of Unsaying. 36.

La littérarité n’est pas une propriété intrinsèque de tel ou tel évènement discursif. Même la où elle semble demeurer, la littérature reste une fonction instable et elle dépend d’un statut juridique précaire. Sa passion consiste en ceci qu’elle reçoit sa détermination d’autre chose que d’elle-même. (Demeure, 29)

37.

38.

39. 40. 41. 42. 43.

Cf. Attridge, Reading and Responsibility, 19–31. This is not the first study to interrogate that particular relationship. Quite apart from those texts by Derrida relating to mystical themes and writers (among them ‘Comment ne pas parler. Dénégations’; Sauf le nom; ‘Lettre à un ami japonais’ [addressed to the Japanese Islamologist Toshihiko Izutsu]), his work has prompted further juxtapositions of deconstruction and Sufism, such as Ian Almond, Sufism and Deconstruction: A Comparative Study of Derrida and Ibn ʿArabī and Sherīf Hazzāʿ Sherīf, Naqd/Ta‚awwuf. Neither focuses on the novel, however. The best account of Haqqi’s aesthetic and its relationship to mysticism and experience is Miriam Cooke’s The Anatomy of an Egyptian Intellectual: Yahya Haqqi, 14–28. ‘Haqqi’s mysticism was not a point of meditative fixation within a state of unity, but rather a continued awareness of an Other.’ 20. Cooke, Anatomy, 12. See Muhammad Siddiq, ‘ “Deconstructing” The Saint’s Lamp’, 144 and Rasheed El-Enany, Arab Representations of the Occident, 68. El-Enany, Arab Representations, 68. M. M. Badawi, ‘The Lamp of Umm Hashim’, 159. In ‘ “Deconstructing” The Saint’s Lamp’, Muhammad Siddiq traces the operation of an entire series of binary oppositions to conclude that Ismail’s turn to superstition marks his regression to a lower intellectual level and deterioration, thus proving that the putative ‘synthesis’ between East and West has failed. More recently, in Islam on the Street, Muhsin Al-Musawi has analysed Haqqi’s novella from a sociologically informed postcolonial studies perspective, concluding that Haqqi’s use of oppositions and symbolism ‘is naïve and lacking in genuine appreciation of both metropolitan and national centers.’ 58. While I do not agree with either conclusion, especially Al-Musawi’s, which seems to overlook several of the novella’s complexities and ending, both analyses remain valuable and thought-provoking.

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44. Haqqi, Qindīl Umm Hāshim, 13: ‫ ﻓﻤﺎ ﻣﻦ ﻣﻈﻠﻮﻡ‬،‫ ﻭﻟﻜﻦ ﺍﻷﻭﺍﻥ ﻟﻢ ﻳﺌﻦ ﺑﻌﺪ‬،ً‫ ﻟﻮ ﺷﺎءﻭﺍ ﻟﺮﻓﻌﻮﺍ ﺍﻟﻤﻈﺎﻟﻢ ﺟﻤﻴﻌﺎ‬،‫ﻳﻨﻈﺮﻭﻥ ﻓﻲ ﻇﻼﻣﺎﺕ ﺍﻟﻨﺎﺱ‬ ‫ﺇﻻ ﻫﻮ ﻇﺎﻟﻢ ﺃﻳﻀﺎً ﻓﻜﻴﻒ ﺍﻹﻗﺘﺼﺎﺹ ﻟﻪ ؟‬ 45. Cf. Susan Gohlman’s account of Ismail’s trajectory between the women in the novella (Fā†ima, Mary, Umm Hāshim) in Susan A. Gohlman, ‘Women as Cultural Symbols in Yaªya Óaqqī’s Saint’s Lamp’. 46. Haqqi, Qindīl, 18–19: ‫ ﻭﻣﻦ ﺫﺍ ﺍﻟﺬﻱ‬. ‫ ﺑﻞ ﻫﻲ ﻣﻦ ﻗﻠﺒﻬﺎ‬،‫ ﻟﻴﺴﺖ ﻫﺬﻩ ﺍﻟﻘﺒﻠﺔ ﻣﻦ ﺗﺠﺎﺭﺗﻬﺎ‬.‫ﻭﻭﺿﻌﺖ ﺍﻟﻔﺘﺎﺓ ﺷﻔﺘﻴﻬﺎ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺳﻮﺭ ﺍﻟﻤﻘﺎﻡ‬ ‫ﻳﺠﺰﻡ ﺑﺄﻥ ﺃﻡ ﻫﺎﺷﻢ ﻟﻢ ﺗﺴﻊ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺍﻟﺴﻮﺭ ﻗﺪ ﻫﻴﺄﺕ ﺷﻔﺘﻴﻬﺎ ﻣﻦ ﻭﺭﺍﺋﻪ ﻟﺘﺒﺎﺩﻟﻬﺎ ﻗﺒﻠﺔ ﺑﻘﺒﻠﺔ ؟‬ 47. Haqqi, Qindīl, 23–4. 48. Haqqi, Qindīl, 25: ‫ ﻛﺎﻥ ﻳﺸﻌﺮ ﺑﻜﻼﻣﻬﺎ ﻛﺎﻟﺴﻜﻴﻦ ﻳﻘﻄﻊ ﻣﻦ ﺭﻭﺍﺑﻂ ﺣﻴﺔ ﻳﺘﻐﺬﻯ‬،‫ﻛﺎﻧﺖ ﺗﺘﺄﻭﻩ ﻭﺗﺘﻠﻮﻯ ﺗﺤﺖ ﺿﺮﺑﺎﺕ ﻣﻌﻮﻟﻬﺎ‬ ‫ ﺑﺪﺍ‬. ‫ ﻟﻢ ﻳﺒﻖ ﻓﻴﻬﺎ ﺣﺠﺮ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺣﺠﺮ‬،‫ ﻭ ﺇﺳﺘﻴﻘﻆ ﻓﻲ ﻳﻮﻡ ﻓﺈﺫﺍ ﺭﻭﺣﻪ ﺧﺮﺍﺏ‬.‫ﻣﻨﻬﺎ ﺇﺫ ﺗﻮﺻﻠﻪ ﺑﻤﻦ ﺣﻮﻟﻪ‬ ‫ ﻭﺍﻟﻨﻔﺲ ﺍﻟﺒﺸﺮﻳﺔ ﻻ ﺗﺠﺪ ﻗﻮﺗﻬﺎ ﻭﻻ ﺳﻌﺎﺩﺗﻬﺎ ﺇﻻ ﺇﺫﺍ‬،‫ﻟﻪ ﺍﻟﺪﻳﻦ ﺧﺮﺍﻓﺔ ﻟﻢ ﺗﺨﺘﺮﻉ ﺇﻻ ﻟﺤﻜﻢ ﺍﻟﺠﻤﺎﻫﻴﺮ‬ .‫ ﺃﻣﺎ ﺍﻻﻧﺪﻣﺎﺝ ﻓﻀﻌﻒ ﻭﻧﻘﻤﺔ‬،‫ﺍﻧﻔﺼﻠﺖ ﻋﻦ ﺍﻟﺠﻤﻮﻉ ﻭﻭﺍﺟﻬﺘﻬﺎ‬

49.

50. 51.

52. 53.

Cf. Siddiq’s suggestive comparison between the destruction of Ismail’s soul and the destruction of the quarter where Ismail’s family house is located, thus further intensifying the operation of Ismail’s person as a national allegory for Egypt. ‘ “Deconstructing” ’, 137. Similarly, El-Enany underlines the power of Haqqi’s imagery, whereby Mary ‘deflowers’ Ismail during their first sexual encounter, thereby driving home the message that ‘Western civilisation is the active one, the initiator, the penetrator of the hymen of ignorance, the desecrator of the sanctity of superstition.’ El-Enany, Arab Representations, 70. Haqqi, Qindīl, 26: .‫ ﺑﻞ ﺟﻠﺴﺔ ﺍﻟﺰﻣﻴﻞ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺯﻣﻴﻠﻪ‬،‫ﺃﺻﺒﺢ ﻻ ﻳﺠﻠﺲ ﺑﻴﻦ ﻳﺪﻳﻬﺎ ﺟﻠﺴﺔ ﺍﻟﻤﺮﻳﺪ ﺃﻣﺎﻡ ﺍﻟﻘﻄﺐ‬ The term qu†b plays an important role in the technical vocabulary of Sufism, designating the head of the hierarchy of saints and the ideal human being. See Frederick de Jong, ‘al-K·u†b’, EI. In the context of the authors that we are studying, including Haqqi, the term is used to designate a Sufi master. El-Enany, Arab Representations, 73. Haqqi, Qindīl, 43: ‫ ﺛﻤﺮﺓ‬،‫ ﻫﻮ ﻧﻮﻉ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻹﻳﻤﺎﻥ‬:‫ﻟﻴﺲ ﺃﻣﺎﻣﻪ ﺟﻤﻮﻉ ﻣﻦ ﺃﺷﺨﺎﺹ ﻓﺮﺍﺩﻯ ﺑﻞ ﺷﻌﺐ ﻳﺮﺑﻄﻪ ﺭﺑﺎﻁ ﻭﺍﺣﺪ‬ .‫ ﻭﺍﻟﻨﻀﺞ ﺍﻟﻄﻮﻳﻞ ﻋﻠﻰ ﻧﺎﺭﻩ‬،‫ﻣﺼﺎﺣﺒﺔ ﺍﻟﺰﻣﺎﻥ‬ Haqqi, Qindīl, 48: .ً‫ ﻛﺄﻥ ﺣﺒﻪ ﻟﻬﻦ ﻣﻈﻬﺮ ﻣﻦ ﺗﻔﺎﻧﻴﻪ ﻭﺣﺒﻪ ﻟﻠﻨﺎﺱ ﺟﻤﻴﻌﺎ‬،‫ﻋﻤﻲ ﻇﻞ ﻃﻮﻝ ﻋﻤﺮﻩ ﻳﺤﺐ ﺍﻟﻨﺴﺎء‬ William Chittick offers a useful definition of ªayra: ‘To find God is to fall into

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54.

55.

56. 57. 58.

59.

60. 61.

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bewilderment (ªayra), not the bewilderment of being lost and unable to find one’s way, but the bewilderment of finding and knowing God and not-finding and not-knowing Him at the same time.’ Sufi Path, 3. Miriam Cooke sees this as being typical of a number of Haqqi’s female characters in general, as persistent objects of fear and suspicion. Cooke, Anatomy, 67–79. While she builds a strong case, my reading of the story deviates significantly from her conclusions. Haqqi, Qindīl, 89: ‫ ﻓﻤﺎ ﺭﻗﺼﺖ ﻣﺮﺓ ﺇﻻ ﺷﻌﺮﺕ ﺍﻧﻨﻲ ﺃﻗﺮﺏ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺍﷲ ﻣﻨﻲ ﻓﻲ ﺃﻭﻗﺎﺕ ﺍﻟﻔﺮﺍﻍ‬، ‫ﻟﻘﺪ ﻛﻨﺖ ﺃﻇﻦ ﺍﻟﺮﻗﺺ ﻋﺒﺎﺩﺓ‬ . ‫ﻭﺍﻟﺴﺄﻡ‬ Haqqi, Qindīl, 90: ً ‫ﺳﺘﻌﻠﻤﻚ ﻗﻮﺓ ﺣﺒﻲ ﻛﻴﻒ ﺗﺆﻣﻦ‬ .‫ﺃﻭﻻ ﺑﺈﻧﺴﺎﻧﻴﺘﻚ ﻟﻴﺼﺢ ﺍﻳﻤﺎﻧﻚ ﺑﻌﺪﻫﺎ ﺑﺎﷲ‬ Haqqi, Qindīl, 94: !‫ ﻓﺈﺫﺍ ﺑﻪ ﻳﻮﻟﻲ ﻋﻨﻬﺎ ﻭﻳﻨﺼﺮﻑ‬،‫ ﻟﻤﺎ ﻧﺎﺩﺗﻪ ﺭﺣﻤﺔ ﺍﷲ ﺃﻥ ﺍﺑﻖ‬. ‫ﻳﺎ ﻟﻪ ﻣﻦ ﻏﺮ ﻣﺴﻜﻴﻦ ﻟﻢ ﻳﻔﻬﻢ ﺍﻟﻮﺣﻲ‬ See Samia Mehrez’s introduction to Rites of Assent, xiii–xv. Samah Selim offers a more extended reading of The Seven Days of Man as an encounter between the rural novel and what she calls the ‘disciplinary discourses of modernity’ in The Novel and the Rural Imaginary in Egypt, 188–205. Muhsin Al-Musawi reads this novel, along with Mahfouz’s Harafish, as a ‘mass culture narrative’ that explores the protagonist’s alienation qua nah∂a intellectual in 1960s Egypt. Islam on the Street, 110–25. It is difficult to agree entirely with this reading, however, not only because of Kassem’s own distrust of the nah∂a but also because Abdel-Aziz’s rejection of his heritage is only one of several episodes in the novel. Furthermore, the allusive texture and constant reference to the poetry of Hafez in The Harafish plead against the putative mass cultural credentials of Mahfouz’s novel. The novel’s closing paragraph mentioned Abdel-Aziz’s newfound logorrhoea three times. Ayyām Al-Insān Al-Sabʿa, 256: ‫[ ﺗﺪﻓﻖ‬. . .] ‫[ ﺩﺍﺥ ﻭﺳﻌﻞ ﻟﻜﻨﻪ ﻟﻢ ﻳﺘﻮﻗﻒ ﻋﻦ ﺍﻟﻜﻼﻡ‬. . .] ‫ﺗﻨﺪﻯ ﺟﺒﻴﻨﻪ ﺑﺎﻟﻌﺮﻕ ﻭﻫﻮ ﻻ ﻳﻜﻒ ﻋﻦ ﺍﻟﻜﻼﻡ‬ .ً‫ﺍﻟﺪﺧﺎﻥ ﻣﻦ ﻓﻤﻪ ﺃﺯﺭﻕ ﻛﺜﻴﻔﺎً ﻭﺗﺪﻓﻖ ﺍﻟﻜﻼﻡ ﺣﺎﺩﺍً ﺻﺎﺭﺧﺎ‬ Kassem, Ayyām, 187. In this respect Kassem’s novel constitutes an important prefiguration of Al-Ghitany’s Al-Tajalliyāt, which will be treated in Chapter Four. Quite apart from the themes common to both novels – covering the life of the father and an autobiography via Sufism – there are moments where Ghitany reappropriates and expands upon Kassem’s language, as in the beautiful ‘salām ʿalā al-ayyām’ sentence in Ayyām Al-Insān that turns into two full paragraphs in the

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62.

63. 64.

65. 66.

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Tajalliyāt. Kassem, Ayyām, 249; Al-Ghitany, Al-Aʿmāl Al-Kāmila, 7:86, 179. Kassem’s sentence reads: ‫ ﻭﻟﺖ‬، ‫ﺳﻼﻡ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺍﻷﻳﺎﻡ ﺍﻟﻄﻴﺒﺎﺕ ﻭﺍﻟﻜﻠﻤﺎﺕ ﺍﻟﻮﺩﻭﺩﺓ ﻭﺍﻟﻨﻈﺮﺍﺕ ﺍﻟﻄﺎﻓﺤﺔ ﺑﺎﻟﺸﻮﻕ ﻭﺍﻟﺨﺪﻭﺩ ﺍﻟﻤﺰﺩﻫﻴﺔ‬ .‫ﺍﻷﻳﺎﻡ‬ Extracts from this article, ‘Malāmiª Tajribatī Al-Riwāʾiyya’ (‘Aspects of My Experience in the Novel’) are reproduced in ‘Abdel-Hakim Kassem’ in Contemporary Arab Writers, 2:1080–3. The identification between the birth of the writer and the genesis of opposition to power is found on page 1082: ‫ﻟﺤﻈﺔ ﻣﻴﻼﺩ ﺍﻟﻜﺎﺗﺐ ﺗﻌﻨﻲ ﻟﺤﻈﺔ ﻣﻴﻼﺩ ﻣﻮﻗﻒ ﻣﻌﺎﺭﺽ ﻟﻠﺴﻠﻄﺔ‬ ‘Abdel-Hakim Kassem’ in Contemporary Arab Writers, 2:1080: ‫ﺃﺗﺼﻮﺭ ﺃﻥ ﺫﻟﻚ ﺍﻟﺠﺪﻝ ﺍﻟﻤﺤﺘﺪﻡ ﺑﻴﻦ ﺍﻟﻮﺍﻗﻊ ﻭﺍﻟﺤﻠﻢ ﻫﻮ ﺍﻟﻠﺤﻈﺔ ﺍﻷﻭﻟﻰ ﺍﻟﺘﻲ ﺗﺘﻮﻟﺪ ﻣﻨﻬﺎ ﺷﺮﺍﺭﺓ ﺍﻟﻜﺘﺎﺑﺔ‬ ‘Abdel-Hakim Kassem’ in Contemporary Arab Writers, 2:1080: ‫ ﻭﺗﺤﻘﻘﺖ ﻣﻦ ﺣﺮﺍﻡ ﻭﺗﻬﻠﻚ‬. ‫ ﻓﻬﻲ ﻣﻌﻄﻰ ﻟﻪ ﺳﻤﺎﺕ ﺣﻀﺮﻳﺔ‬، ‫ﺗﺤﻘﻘﺖ ﻣﻦ ﻗﺒﺢ ﻭﺧﺰﺍﻭﺓ ﻭﺗﻌﻘﻴﺪ ﺍﻟﻀﺮﻭﺭﺓ‬ . ‫ ﻓﻬﻮ ﻣﻌﻄﻰ ﻟﻪ ﺳﻤﺎﺕ ﺳﻠﻔﻴﺔ ﺭﻳﻔﻴﺔ‬،‫ﻭﻣﺤﺪﻭﺩﻳﺔ ﺍﻟﻤﻼﺫ‬ ‘‘Abdel-Hakim Kassem’ in Contemporary Arab Writers, 2:1080: .‫ﺭﺣﻠﺔ ﻋﺬﺍﺏ ﺑﻴﻦ ﺟﺤﻴﻢ ﺍﻟﻮﺍﻗﻊ ﺍﻟﻤﺮﻭﻉ ﻭﻻ ﺟﺪﻭﻯ ﺍﻟﺤﻠﻢ ﺍﻟﻤﺴﺘﺤﻴﻞ‬ Kassem, Ayyām, 11: ً‫ ﻭﻟﻮ ﻛﺎﻧﺖ ﺍﻟﺪﻧﻴﺎ ﻧﻬﺎﺭﺍً ﺩﺍﺋﻤﺎ‬،‫ﻟﺬﻟﻚ ﺧﻠﻖ ﺍﷲ ﺍﻟﻤﺴﺎء ﻭﺃﺧﻔﻰ ﺍﻟﺸﻤﺲ ﻓﻲ ﻃﻴﺎﺕ ﺍﻟﻤﺠﻬﻮﻝ ﻟﻤﻴﻘﺎﺕ ﻣﻌﻠﻮﻡ‬ ‫ ﻳﺪﻫﺸﻮﻥ‬،‫ ﻻ ﺑﺪ ﻣﻦ ﻫﺎﺩﺋﺔ ﻛﻞ ﻣﺴﺎء‬. . . ‫ﻭﻛﺪﺍً ﻻ ﻳﻨﻘﻄﻊ ﻻﻧﻘﻠﺐ ﺍﻟﻨﺎﺱ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺷﻴﺎﻃﻴﻦ ﻭﻣﺎ ﻋﺮﻓﻮﺍ ﺍﷲ‬ .‫ﻓﻴﻬﺎ ﻟﻌﺠﺎﺋﺐ ﺍﻟﻨﻬﺎﺭ ﺍﻟﻤﺪﺑﺮ ﻭﻳﺒﺘﺴﻤﻮﻥ ﻟﺨﺸﻮﻧﺘﻪ ﻭﻳﺘﺴﺎءﻟﻮﻥ ﻣﻠﺤﻔﻴﻦ ﻋﻦ ﺳﺮ ﺍﻟﻨﻤﺎء ﻭﺍﻟﺬﺑﻮﻝ‬

67. On this aspect of Sufi life, and with specific reference to the musical culture of Sufism in Egypt, see Earle H. Waugh, The Munshidin of Egypt, 6–33. On the history of the festival of Aªmad Al-Badawī more generally, see Catherine Mayeur-Jaouen, Histoire d’un pèlerinage légendaire en Islam. Mayeur-Jaouen finds in Kassem’s novel a realistic depiction of the evolution of the demographic constitution of the population of pilgrims to the mawlid under the influence of modernisation and the concomitant uprooting and disenchantment suffered by the average Egyptian, seeing in Kassem’s life and work a valuable representation of the consistent uprootedness and alienation that afflicted many Egyptians in the 1950s and 1960s. Histoire, 220. 68. Al-Sarrāj, Kitāb Al-Lumaʿ, 26; Al-Qushayrī, Epistle, 280; Al-Qushayrī, Risāla, 148 as well as the fundamental manual on early Sufism by the tenthcentury writer Al-Kalabādhī (d. 990–4), Kitāb Al-Taʿarruf li-Madhhab Ahl Al-Ta‚awwuf (Introducing the Sufis), 21. 69. Kassem, Ayyām, 14: .‫ ﻭﻓﺪﺍﺩﻳﻨﻪ ﺍﻟﻘﻠﻴﻠﺔ ﻛﺜﻴﺮﺓ ﺑﺒﺮﻛﺔ ﺍﷲ‬،‫ﻣﺎ ﺃﺳﻌﺪ ﻣﻦ ﻓﺘﺢ ﻗﻠﺒﻪ ﻟﻠﻤﻮﺩﺓ ﻭﺍﻟﺼﻔﺎء‬

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70. This is Rashīda’s compliment to her father and his fellow travellers, ‫ ﺍﻟﺪﻧﻴﺎ ﻣﻦ ﻏﻴﺮﻛﻢ ﻣﻠﻬﺎﺵ ﻃﻌﻢ‬. . . ‫ﻧﻮﺭ ﺍﻟﺒﻠﺪ‬ Kassem, Ayyām, 116. 71. The reading of a Sufi hagiography, Manāqib Al-Íāliªīn, fires the young AbdelAziz’s imagination. Kassem, Ayyām, 23: ‫ ﺗﺪﻕ‬،‫ ﺭﺟﺎﻝ ﻟﻴﺴﻮﺍ ﻛﺎﻟﺮﺟﺎﻝ‬،‫ ﻭﺗﺘﺤﺮﻙ ﻓﻲ ﺃﺭﺑﻌﺔ ﺃﺭﻛﺎﻥ ﺍﻟﻤﻌﻤﻮﺭﺓ‬، ‫ﺗﻨﻔﺠﺮ ﺍﻟﺼﻮﺭ ﺍﻟﻀﺒﺎﺑﻴﺔ‬ ‫ ﻟﻜﻦ ﺷﻴﺌﺎ ﻏﺮﻳﺒﺎً ﻳﻈﻞ ﺑﻌﻴﺪﺍً ﻋﻦ ﺍﻟﻌﺬﺍﺏ ﻻ ﻳﺪﻣﻲ‬،‫ ﻭﺗﺠﻠﺪ ﺍﻟﻈﻬﺮ ﺑﺎﻟﺼﻴﺖ‬، ‫ﺍﻟﻤﺴﺎﻣﻴﺮ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻷﻃﺮﺍﻑ‬ ‫ ﺍﻧﻤﺎ ﻫﻲ ﻣﺆﺷﺮﺍﺕ ﺗﻄﻮﻱ ﺗﺤﺘﻬﺎ ﺍﻟﻤﺴﺎﻓﺎﺕ‬،‫ ﻟﻴﺴﺖ ﺍﻟﺴﻴﻘﺎﻥ ﻛﺎﻟﺴﻴﻘﺎﻥ‬،‫[ ﺭﺟﺎﻝ ﻟﻴﺴﻮﺍ ﻛﺎﻟﺮﺟﺎﻝ‬. . .] [. . .] ‫ ﺇﻧﻤﺎ ﻫﻲ ﻣﺆﺷﺮﺍﺕ ﻟﺘﻘﺪﻳﺮ ﺍﻟﻤﻘﺎﺩﻳﺮ‬،‫ ﻭﻟﻴﺴﺖ ﺍﻷﻳﺪﻱ ﻛﺎﻷﻳﺪﻱ‬،‫ﺍﻟﺸﺎﺳﻌﺔ ﻛﺎﻟﺒﺴﻂ‬

72. Kassem, Ayyām, 36: ‫ﻛﻴﻒ ﻳﻜﻮﻥ ﺣﺎﻝ ﺍﻟﻌﺎﻟﻢ ﻣﻦ ﻏﻴﺮ ﻫﺬﻩ ﺍﻟﻤﺼﺎﺑﻴﺢ؟‬ 73. Maªmūd Ghanāyim, Tayyār Al-Waʿy fī-l-Riwāya Al-ʿArabiyya, 212–21. The rest of this paragraph summarises Ghanāyim’s argument, which has yet to be translated into English. 74. Hilary Kilpatrick makes the case that Kassem is concerned with ‘the [social, economic, political] system’s effect on the majority of Egyptians, and the way it destroys the potential of young, creative and idealistic individuals’. ‘ʿAbd Al-Óakīm Qāsim and the Search for Liberation’, 58. Later in the same piece, Kilpatrick argues that the Sufism of the village determines Abdel-Aziz’s adult outlook, though I would argue that the point of the novel is to demonstrate the break with and abandonment of this Sufism, which itself becomes constitutive of the adult Abdel-Aziz’s personality. Kilpatrick, ‘ʿAbd Al-Óakīm Qāsim’, 61. 75. Although Kassem’s novel does not pretend to be a social scientific study in any sense of the term, it does point towards the results of recent research into the politicisation of the Sufi orders in Egypt. See, for example, Óassan’s monumental study on the political socialisation of Sufi orders in modern Egypt, especially his arguments against a hard and fast division between the mystical and the political. Óassan, Tanshiʾa, 49–54. 76. Ghanāyim, Tayyār, 159. 77. Ghanāyim, Tayyār, 160–1, 196–203. Chapter 1 1. Edward Said, Reflections on Exile and Other Essays, 318. 2. Rasheed El-Enany, Naguib Mahfouz: The Pursuit of Meaning, 99–100. As will quickly become apparent, I am much indebted to El-Enany’s work on

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Mahfouz, as well as ʿAbd Al-Ghanī, Naguib Mahfouz min Al-Thawra ilā Al-Ta‚awwuf and Fā†ima Maªmūd Aªmad ʿUthmān’s ‘TawÕīf Al-Íūfiyya’. There is some doubt about the subject of this dissertation (which Mahfouz never completed), but even the doubt is telling insofar as it conflates mysticism and art: according to one account by Mahfouz, the subject of his MA was aesthetic theory, while another interview gives the subject as Sufism. In a later interview Mahfouz lists Hafez (whose verse plays a key role in The Harafish) and Tagore as two of his favourite poets. El-Enany, Naguib Mahfouz: Egypt’s Nobel Laureate, 15–16. El-Enany, Naguib Mahfouz: The Pursuit of Meaning, 162. El-Enany, Naguib Mahfouz: Egypt’s Nobel Laureate, 16. Henri Bergson, Œuvres, 462: L’art n’est sûrement qu’une vision plus directe de la réalité. Mais cette pureté de perception implique une rupture avec la convention utile, un désintéressement inné et spécialement localisé du sens ou de la conscience, enfin une certaine immatérialité de la vie, qui est ce qu’on a toujours appelé de l’idéalisme. De sorte qu’on pourrait dire, sans jouer aucunement sur le sens des mots, que le réalisme est dans l’œuvre quand l’idéalisme est dans l’âme, et que c’est à force d’idéalité seulement qu’on reprend contact avec la réalité.

7. Mahfouz, Óawl Al-Adab wa-l-Falsafa, 54: ‫ ﻭﻛﻴﻒ ﺗﺮﻳﺪ ﺃﻥ ﺗﻄﻠﺐ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﻤﺘﺼﻮﻑ ﺃﻻ ﻳﺒﺠﻞ ﻣﻌﺒﻮﺩﻩ ﺍﻟﺬﻱ ﻳﻮﺣﻲ ﺇﻟﻴﻪ‬. . . ‫ﻣﻠﻜﺘﻪ ﻣﻠﻜﺔ ﺍﻟﻤﺘﺼﻮﻑ‬ ‫ﺑﺎﺳﺮﺍﺭ ﺍﻟﻐﻴﺐ ؟‬ The artist in question is ʿAbbās Maªmūd Al-ʿAqqād. The article, ‘Three of Our Literary Writers’ (‫ )ﺛﻼﺛﺔ ﻣﻦ ﺃﺩﺑﺎﺋﻨﺎ‬deals with Al-ʿAqqād, ˝āhā Óusayn and Íabrī Mūsā. 8. ʿAbd Al-Ghanī, Naguib Mahfouz min Al-Thawra ilā Al-Ta‚awwuf, 129–31. ʿAbd Al-Ghanī treats these dimensions as a list of three interconnected topoi (love, knowledge, values) that he then translates into three further motifs in Mahfouz’s work and thought: peace of mind, belief in science and social values (‫ ﺍﻟﻘﻴﻢ ﺍﻹﺟﺘﻤﺎﻋﻴﺔ‬،‫ ﺍﻹﻳﻤﺎﻥ ﺑﺎﻟﻌﻠﻢ‬،‫)ﺍﻟﺮﺍﺣﺔ ﺍﻟﻨﻔﺴﻴﺔ‬. Naguib Mahfouz, 130. 9. ʿAbd Al-Ghanī, Naguib Mahfouz, 131: ‫ ﻭﺍﻟﻌﻴﺶ‬،‫ ﺗﻜﻮﻥ ﺑﺎﻟﻘﻄﻊ ﻫﻲ ﻭﻋﻲ ﺑﻤﻔﺮﺩﺍﺕ ﺍﻟﺤﻴﺎﺓ‬، ‫ ﺃﻳﺔ ﻣﻌﺮﻓﺔ‬، ‫ﺍﺗﺠﻬﺖ ﻟﻠﺘﺼﻮﻑ ﻛﻄﺮﻳﻖ ﻟﻠﻤﻌﺮﻓﺔ‬ .(ً‫ ﻛﺄﻧﻚ ﺗﻌﻴﺶ ﺃﺑﺪﺍ‬-- ‫ﻛﻤﺎ ﻗﺎﻝ ﺍﻻﻣﺎﻡ ﻋﻠﻲ ﺭﺿﻲ ﺍﷲ ﻋﻨﻪ‬-- ‫ﻓﻴﻬﺎ‬ 10. ʿAbd Al-Ghanī, Naguib Mahfouz, 132: ،‫ ﻭﺃﻧﺎ ﻣﻦ ﺃﺻﺤﺎﺏ ﺍﻟﺸﻲء ﺍﻷﺧﺮ‬. . . ‫ ﻭﺷﻲء ﺁﺧﺮ ﺍﺳﻤﻪ ﻋﺸﻖ ﺍﻟﺘﺼﻮﻑ‬،‫ﻫﻨﺎﻙ ﺷﻲء ﺍﺳﻤﻪ ﺍﻟﺘﺼﻮﻑ‬ [‫[ ﻫﻮ ]ﺍﻟﺘﺼﻮﻑ‬. . .] ‫ ﺍﻟﺬﻱ ﻻ ﺗﺜﻘﻞ ﺗﻜﺎﻟﻴﻔﻪ ﻋﻠﻲ ﻭﺗﺒﺘﻌﺪ ﺑﻲ ﻋﻦ ﻗﻀﺎﻳﺎ ﺍﻟﻤﺠﺘﻤﻊ‬، ‫ﻋﺸﻖ ﺍﻟﺘﺼﻮﻑ‬

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‫ﺍﻟﺪﻭﺭ ﺍﻷﻭﻝ ﻓﻲ ﻫﺬﺍ ﺍﻟﻤﺠﺘﻤﻊ‪ ،‬ﻭﻫﻮ ﺍﻟﺪﻭﺭ ﺍﻟﺬﻱ ﺃﻭﻟﻴﻪ ﻋﻨﺎﻳﺘﻲ ﺍﻟﻘﺼﻮﻯ ﻓﻲ ﺃﻋﻤﺎﻟﻲ ﺍﻻﺑﺪﺍﻋﻴﺔ ﻛﻠﻬﺎ‬ ‫]‪ [. . .‬ﺃﺭﻓﺾ ﺍﻟﺘﺼﻮﻑ ﺍﻟﺬﻱ ﻳﻘﻴﺪ ﺍﻟﻌﻘﻞ ﻭﻳﻠﻐﻲ ﺍﻟﻤﻠﻜﺎﺕ‪ ،‬ﺗﺼﻮﻓﻲ ﺃﻥ ﺍﻫﺘﻢ ﺑﻘﻀﺎﻳﺎ ﺍﻻﻧﺴﺎﻥ ﻭﻫﻤﻮﻡ‬ ‫ﺍﻟﻤﺠﺘﻤﻊ‪.‬‬

‫‪11. Quoted in ʿAbd Al-Ghanī, Naguib Mahfouz, 130–1:‬‬ ‫ﻭﻗﺪ ﻳﻜﻮﻥ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﺤﻜﻤﺔ ‪ --‬ﺇﺫﺍ ﺭﻏﺒﻨﺎ ﺃﻥ ﻧﺰﻛﻲ ﺍﺣﺴﺎﺳﻨﺎ ﺑﻪ ]ﺍﻟﺤﺐ [ ﺃﻭ ﻧﺴﻤﻮ ﺑﻌﻮﺍﻃﻔﻨﺎ ﻓﻴﻪ‪ --‬ﺃﻥ ﻧﻘﺼﺪ‬ ‫ﺟﻤﺎﻋﺔ ﺍﻟﺸﻌﺮﺍء ﻧﺼﻐﻲ ﻷﻧﺎﺷﻴﺪﻫﻢ‪ ،‬ﻭﻗﺪ ﻭﻫﺒﻬﻢ ﺍﷲ ﻣﻦ ﻃﺎﻗﺔ ﺍﻹﺣﺴﺎﺱ‪.‬‬ ‫‪Turning to the poets and listening to their anāshīd is central to The Harafish‬‬ ‫‪and Echoes of an Autobiography (see below).‬‬ ‫‪12. ʿAbd Al-Ghanī, Naguib Mahfouz, 132:‬‬ ‫ﻳﻨﺒﻐﻲ ﺍﻻﺳﺘﺠﺎﺑﺔ ﻟﻠﻬﻤﻮﻡ ﺍﻟﻴﻮﻣﻴﺔ ‪ ،‬ﻭﺍﻟﻬﻤﻮﻡ ﺍﻟﻘﻮﻣﻴﺔ ‪ ،‬ﻭﻟﻴﺲ ﺍﻟﺮﻛﻦ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺑﺮﺝ ﺻﻮﻓﻲ ﻳﺰﻋﻢ ﺻﺎﺣﺒﻪ‬ ‫ﺃﻧﻪ ﻻ ﻋﻼﻗﺔ ﺑﻪ ﻭﺍﻟﺤﻴﺎﻩ ‪ ،‬ﺇﻥ ﺍﻟﺴﻴﺪ ﺍﻟﺒﺪﻭﻱ ﻭﻗﺪ ﻛﺎﻥ ﻣﻦ ﻛﺒﺎﺭ ﺍﻟﺼﻮﻓﻴﺔ‪ ،‬ﻫﺒﻂ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺍﻟﻨﺎﺱ ﻭﺣﺎﺭﺏ‬ ‫ﻣﻌﻬﻢ ﺣﻴﻦ ﺷﻬﺪ ﻣﺎ ﻳﻤﻜﻦ ﺃﻥ ﻳﻬﺪﺩ ﺍﻟﻤﺠﺘﻤﻊ ﺍﻟﻌﺮﺑﻲ ﻛﻠﻪ‪.‬‬

‫‪13. Mahfouz, Óikāya bilā Bidāya wa lā Nihāya, 12:‬‬ ‫ﻟﻮﻻ ﺍﻻﻛﺮﻣﻴﺔ ﻟﻤﺎ ﻛﺎﻥ ﻟﺤﺎﺭﺗﻜﻢ ﺫﻛﺮ ﻭﻻ ﻷﻫﻠﻬﺎ ﺷﺄﻥ ﻭﻻ ﺃﻣﻞ ‪.‬‬ ‫‪14. Mahfouz, Óikāya, 26:‬‬ ‫ﺑﻔﻀﻞ ﻃﺮﻳﻘﺘﻨﺎ ﻳﺆﻣﻦ ﺃﺣﻘﺮ ﺭﺟﻞ ﻓﻲ ﺣﺎﺭﺗﻨﺎ ﺑﺄﻧﻪ ﺃﺻﻞ ﺍﻟﻮﺟﻮﺩ ﻭ ﻏﺎﻳﺘﻪ !‬ ‫‪15. See Rasheed El-Enany’s analysis of its genesis and operation: Naguib Mahfouz:‬‬ ‫‪Egypt’s Nobel Laureate, 1–4, 111–30.‬‬ ‫‪16. See El-Enany’s treatment of this phase of Mahfouz’s life and work in Naguib‬‬ ‫‪Mahfouz: The Pursuit of Meaning, 97–112, and on The Beggar specifically,‬‬ ‫‪107–9.‬‬ ‫‪17. El-Enany, Naguib Mahfouz: The Pursuit of Meaning, 100.‬‬ ‫‪18. Naguib Mahfouz, Al-Shaªªādh, 104:‬‬ ‫ﻻ ﻳﺬﻛﺮ ﺃﻧﻪ ﺭﺃﻯ ﻣﻨﻈﺮﺍً ﻣﺜﻞ ﻫﺬﺍ ﻣﻦ ﻗﺒﻞ‪ ،‬ﻓﻘﺪ ﺍﺧﺘﻔﺖ ﺍﻷﺭﺽ ﻭﺍﻟﻔﺮﺍﻍ ﻭﻭﻗﻒ ﻫﻮ ﻣﻔﻘﻮﺩﺍً ﺗﻤﺎﻣﺎً ﻓﻲ‬ ‫ً‬ ‫ﻭﺃﺷﻜﺎﻻ‬ ‫ﺍﻟﺴﻮﺍﺩ‪ ،‬ﻭﺭﻓﻊ ﺭﺃﺳﻪ ﻗﺒﻞ ﺃﻥ ﺗﺄﻟﻒ ﻋﻴﻨﺎﻩ ﺍﻟﻈﻼﻡ ﻓﺮﺃﻯ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﻘﺒﺔ ﺍﻟﻬﺎﺋﻠﺔ ﺁﻻﻑ ﺍﻟﻨﺠﻮﻡ ﻋﻨﺎﻗﻴﺪ‬ ‫ﻭﻭﺣﺪﺍﻧﺎً ]‪ [. . .‬ﺛﻤﺔ ﺗﻐﻴﻴﺮ ﺟﺬﺏ ﺍﻟﺒﺼﺮ‪ .‬ﺭﻕ ﺍﻟﻈﻼﻡ ‪ .‬ﻭ ﺍﻧﺒﺜﺖ ﻓﻴﻪ ﺷﻔﺎﻓﻴﺔ ‪ .‬ﻭﺗﻜﻮﻥ ﺧﻂ ﻓﻲ ﺑﻂء‬ ‫ﺷﺪﻳﺪ ﻭﻣﺪﻯ ﻳﻨﻀﺞ ﺑﻠﻮﻥ ﻭﺿﻲء ﻋﺠﻴﺐ ‪ .‬ﻛﺴﺮ ﺃﻭ ﻋﺒﻴﺮ‪ .‬ﺛﻢ ﺗﺆﻛﺪ ﻓﺎﻧﺒﻌﺜﺖ ﺩﻓﻘﺎﺕ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﺒﻬﺠﺔ‬ ‫ﻭﺍﻟﻀﻴﺎء ﻭﺍﻟﻨﻌﺴﺎﻥ‪ .‬ﻭﻓﺠﺄﺓ ﺭﻗﺺ ﺍﻟﻘﻠﺐ ﺑﻔﺮﺣﺔ ﺛﻤﻠﺔ ‪ .‬ﻭﻳﺠﺘﺎﺡ ﺍﻟﺴﺮﻭﺭ ﻣﺨﺎﻭﻓﻪ ﻭﺍﺣﺰﺍﻧﻪ‪ .‬ﻭﺷﺐ‬ ‫ﺍﻟﺒﺼﺮ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺃﻓﺮﺍﺡ ﺍﻟﻀﻴﺎء ﻳﻜﺎﺩ ﻳﻨﺘﺰﻉ ﻣﻦ ﻣﺤﺎﺟﺮﻩ‪ .‬ﻭﺇﺭﺗﻔﻊ ﺭﺃﺳﻪ ﺑﻘﻮﺓ ﺗﺒﺸﺮ ﺑﺄﻧﻪ ﻟﻦ ﻳﻨﺜﻨﻲ ﻭﺷﻤﻠﺘﻪ‬ ‫ﺳﻌﺎﺩﺓ ﻏﺎﻣﺮﺓ ﺟﻨﻮﻧﻴﺔ ﺁﺳﺮﺓ ﻭﻃﺮﺏ ﺭﻗﺼﺖ ﻟﻪ ﺍﻟﻜﺎﺋﻨﺎﺕ ﻓﻲ ﺃﺭﺑﻌﺔ ﺃﺭﻛﺎﻥ ﺍﻟﻤﻌﻤﻮﺭﺓ ‪.‬‬

‫‪19. Mahfouz, Al-Shaªªādh, 105:‬‬ ‫ﻫﺬﻩ ﻫﻲ ﺍﻟﻨﺸﻮﺓ ]‪ [. . .‬ﺍﻟﻴﻘﻴﻦ ﺑﻼ ﺟﺪﺍﻝ ﻭﻻ ﻣﻨﻄﻖ ]‪ [. . .‬ﺃﻧﻔﺎﺱ ﺍﻟﻤﺠﻬﻮﻝ ﻭﻫﻤﺴﺎﺕ ﺍﻟﺴﺮ]‪ [. . .‬ﺍﻻ‬ ‫ﻳﺴﺘﺤﻖ ﺃﻥ ﻳﻨﺒﺬ ﻛﻞ ﺷﻲء ﻣﻦ ﺃﺟﻠﻪ؟‬ ‫ﻓﻠﻴﺒﻖ ﺍﻟﻌﻘﻼء ﻟﻠﺪﻧﻴﺎ ‪20. Mahfouz, Al-Shaªªādh, 136:‬‬

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21. Rasheed El-Enany reads the novel differently, seeing in Omar’s trajectory a descent into madness and an abnegation of reality, underlining the rejection of any form of transcendental escapism. Naguib Mahfouz: The Pursuit of Meaning, 109. 22. Mahfouz, Al-Shaªªādh, 140: ‫ﻭﻛﻴﻒ ﺃﻓﻜﺮ ﻓﻴﻚ ﻃﻴﻠﺔ ﻳﻘﻈﻲ ﺛﻢ ﺗﻌﺒﺚ ﺑﻲ ﺍﻷﻫﻮﺍء؟‬ 23. Mahfouz, Al-Shaªªādh, 150: ‫ﺍﻥ ﻛﻨﺖ ﺗﺮﻳﺪﻧﻲ ﺣﻘﺎ ﻓﻠﻢ ﻫﺠﺮﺗﻨﻲ؟‬ 24. Cf. Salāª Qansuwa’s point that the end of this novel further bolsters its Sufi dimension by stressing that the truth that Omar seeks is within him rather than in the world outside. Sheªāta, ‘Nadwa,’ 135. The question of the location of this truth, together with that of its source and the desire that it generates, is a key part of the Sufi dimension of Mahfouz’s novels. 25. El-Enany, Naguib Mahfouz: The Pursuit of Meaning, 109. 26. Mahfouz, Óikāyāt Óāratinā, 4: ‫ ﻭﺟﻬﻪ‬، ‫ ﻣﺪﻳﺪ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﻄﻮﻝ‬، ‫ ﻃﺎﻋﻦ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﻜﺒﺮ‬.‫ﺩﺭﻭﻳﺶ ﻭﻟﻜﻨﻪ ﻟﻴﺲ ﻛﺎﻟﺪﺭﺍﻭﻳﺶ ﺍﻟﺬﻳﻦ ﺭﺃﻳﺖ ﻣﻦ ﻗﺒﻞ‬ .‫ ﻋﺒﺎءﺗﻪ ﺧﻀﺮﺍء ﻭ ﻋﻤﺎﻣﺘﻪ ﺍﻟﻄﻮﻳﻠﺔ ﺑﻴﻀﺎء ﻭ ﻓﺨﺎﻣﺘﻪ ﻓﻮﻕ ﻛﻞ ﺗﺼﻮﺭ ﻭ ﺧﻴﺎﻝ‬. ‫ﻣﺸﻊ‬ ّ ‫ﺑﺤﻴﺮﺓ ﻣﻦ ﻧﻮﺭ‬ .‫ﻭ ﻣﻦ ﺷﺪﺓ ﺣﻤﻠﻘﺘﻲ ﻓﻴﻪ ﺃﺛﻤﻞ ﺑﻨﻮﺭﻩ ﻓﻴﻤﻸ ﻣﻨﻈﺮﻩ ﺍﻟﻜﻮﻥ‬

27. Mahfouz, Óikāyāt, 5: ‫ ﻏﻴﺮ ﺃﻥ ﺍﻟﺬﻛﺮﻯ ﺍﻟﻤﺰﻋﻮﻣﺔ ﻟﻠﺸﻴﺦ ﻗﺪ ﺍﺳﺘﻘﺮﺕ ﻓﻲ ﺃﻋﻤﺎﻕ ﻧﻔﺴﻲ‬. ‫ﻫﻜﺬﺍ ﺧﻠﻘﺖ ﺃﺳﻄﻮﺭﺓ ﻭ ﻫﻜﺬﺍ ﺑﺪﺩﺗﻬﺎ‬ .‫ ﻛﻤﺎ ﺃﻧﻨﻲ ﻣﺎ ﺯﻟﺖ ﻣﻮﻟﻌﺎً ﺑﺎﻟﺘﻮﺕ‬.‫ﻛﺬﻛﺮﻯ ﻣﻔﻌﻤﺔ ﺑﺎﻟﻌﺬﻭﺑﺔ‬ 28. El-Enany, Naguib Mahfouz: Egypt’s Nobel Laureate, 135. 29. Cf. Fazlur Rahman, ‘DHawk·’, EI; Suʿād Al-Óakīm, Al-Muʿjam Al-Íūfī, 492. 30. I am relying here on Derek Attridge’s argument concerning literature as ‘peculiar language’, one that is recognisable as language (or as a language) but distinct from everyday language. Peculiar Language, 1–11. Another example of the bond between this peculiar language (literature) and desire comes in the fourth tale of this collection: the narrator recites the Grand Shaykh’s phrase as he stands awestruck by the beauty of some young women in the neighbourhood. Mahfouz, Óikāyāt, 12. 31. Mahfouz, Óikāyāt, 180. 32. Mahfouz, Óikāyāt, 181: .‫ﺇﻧﻪ ]ﺍﻟﻌﻘﻞ[ ﻳﻘﺮﺭ ﺣﻘﻴﻘﺔ ﻧﻌﺮﻓﻬﺎ ﺟﻤﻴﻌﺎً ﻭ ﻫﻲ ﺃﻧﻨﺎ ﻧﺮﻱ ﺍﻟﺘﻜﻴﺔ ﻭ ﺍﻟﺪﺭﺍﻭﻳﺶ ﻭ ﻻ ﻧﺮﻯ ﺍﻟﺸﻴﺦ ﺍﻷﻛﺒﺮ‬ 33. Mahfouz, Óikāyāt, 182: ‫ﻻ ﻳﻤﻜﻦ ﺗﺤﻘﻴﻖ ﺍﻟﺮﻏﺒﺔ ﺇﻻ ﺑﻮﺳﻴﻠﺔ ﻏﻴﺮ ﺷﺮﻋﻴﺔ‬ 34. Mahfouz, Óikāyāt, 182: ‫ ﻭ ﻟﻜﻦ‬، ‫ﺍﻟﺘﻜﻴﺔ ﺷﻴﺪﺕ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻷﺻﻞ ﻓﻲ ﺧﻼء ﻷﻧﻬﻢ ﻗﻮﻡ ﻳﻨﺸﺪﻭﻥ ﺍﻟﻌﺰﻟﺔ ﻭ ﺍﻟﺒﻌﺪ ﻋﻦ ﺍﻟﺪﻧﻴﺎ ﻭ ﺍﻟﻨﺎﺱ‬ ‫ﺑﻤﺮﻭﺭ ﺍﻟﺰﻣﻦ ﺍﻣﺘﺪ ﺍﻟﻌﻤﺮﺍﻥ ﺇﻟﻴﻬﻢ ﻭ ﺃﺣﺎﻁ ﺑﻬﻢ ﺍﻷﺣﻴﺎء ﻭ ﺍﻷﻣﻮﺍﺕ ﻓﺄﻏﻠﻘﻮﺍ ﺍﻷﺑﻮﺍﺏ ﻛﻮﺳﻴﻠﺔ ﺃﺧﻴﺮﺓ‬ .‫ﻟﺘﺤﻘﻴﻖ ﺍﻟﻌﺰﻟﺔ‬

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35. 36.

37.

38.

39. 40. 41. 42.

43. 44.

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Earlier in the exchange Shaykh Omar describes the foreignness of the Sufis thus: ‘They are strangers but our ªāra loves them very much.’ Mahfouz, Óikāyāt, 181: .‫ﺇﻧﻬﻢ ﻏﺮﺑﺎء ﺫﻭﻭ ﻟﻐﺔ ﻏﺮﻳﺒﺔ ﻭ ﻟﻜﻦ ﺣﺎﺭﺗﻨﺎ ﻣﻮﻟﻌﺔ ﺑﻬﻢ‬ While this is logically true, like most of Shaykh Omar’s discourse, this simply repeats what the reader already knows rather than revealing any key secrets about the takiyya. The conversation with the narrator confirms the limits of reason. Ludwig Wittgenstein, Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, §7, 189. This combination of physical and metaphysical vision, or sight and insight, is precisely what must be properly calibrated in order to properly proceed along the Sufi path according to Ibn ʿArabī. Chittick, Sufi Path, 89–90, 223–8. Mahfouz, Óikāyāt, 182. The passage reinvokes the language of hospitality and the reception of the Other; the narrator literally receives ‘memories and more’ when he passes by the takiyya: ‫ ﻭﺃﺣﺎﻭﻝ ﺃﻥ ﺃﺗﺬﻛﺮ ﺻﻮﺭﺓ ﺍﻟﺸﻴﺦ ﺃﻭ ﻣﻦ‬،‫ ﻭﺃﺳﺘﻘﺒﻞ ﺫﻛﺮﻯ ﺃﻭ ﺃﻛﺜﺮ‬، ‫ﺃﻟﻘﻲ ﻋﻠﻴﻬﺎ ]ﺍﻟﺘﻜﻴﺔ[ ﻧﻈﺮﺓ ﺑﺎﺳﻤﺔ‬ ‫ﺗﻮﻫﻤﺖ ﺫﺍﺕ ﻣﺮﺓ ﺃﻧﻪ ﺍﻟﺸﻴﺦ‬ See the detailed bibliography to Claude Cahen’s article, ‘Futuwwa’, and Angelika Hartmann’s article, ‘Suhrawardī’, both in EI2. Afifi gives a good summary of definitions and qualities associated with futuwwa in Al-Malāmatiyya wa-l-Íūfiyya wa Ahl Al-Futuwwa, 24–9. َ ‫ﺗﻨﺼ‬ ‫ﻒ ﻭﻻ ﺗﻨﺘﺼﻒ‬ ِ ‫ ﺃﻥ‬Afifi, Al-Malāmatiyya, 28 n. Cf. Al-Qushayrī, Epistle on Sufism, 238; Al-Risāla, 121. Cf. William M. Brinner, ‘The Significance of the Harafish and their Sultan’, 192–201. Cf. Massignon, EM, 2:622. The translations of Hafez in this chapter are taken with some liberties and modifications from Henry Wilberforce Clarke’s 1891 Calcutta edition and translation of the Divān. Mahfouz, Malªamat Al-Óarāfīsh (henceforth Harafish), 13. Mahfouz, Harafish, 13: ‫ ﺃﻭ‬،‫ ﺃﻭ ﻳﺬﻭﺏ ﻓﻲ ﻗﻄﺮﺓ ﺍﻟﻨﺪﻯ‬،‫ ﻭﺃﻧﻪ ﻳﻮﺩ ﺃﻥ ﻳﺘﺴﻠﻖ ﺷﻌﺎﻉ ﺍﻟﺸﻤﺲ‬،‫ﺷﻌﺮ ﺑﺄﻥ ﺍﻟﺨﻼء ﻳﻠﺘﻬﻢ ﺍﻷﺷﻴﺎء‬ ‫ ﻭﻟﻜﻦ ﺻﻮﺗﺎً ﺻﺎﻋﺪﺍً ﻣﻦ ﺻﻤﻴﻢ ﻗﻠﺒﻪ ﻗﺎﻝ ﻟﻪ ﺃﻧﻪ ﻋﻨﺪﻣﺎ ﻳﺤﻞ ﺍﻟﺨﻼء‬،‫ﻳﻤﺘﻄﻲ ﺍﻟﺮﻳﺢ ﺍﻟﻤﺰﻣﺠﺮﺓ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﻘﺒﻮ‬ .‫ﺑﺎﻷﺭﺽ ﻓﺈﻧﻬﺎ ﺗﻤﺘﻠﺊ ﺑﺪﻓﻘﺎﺕ ﺍﻟﺮﺣﻤﻦ ﺫﻱ ﺍﻟﺠﻼﻝ‬

45. Mahfouz, Harafish, 5: ‫ ﻋﻠﻰ‬،‫ ﻋﻠﻰ ﻣﺮﺃﻯ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﻨﺠﻮﻡ ﺍﻟﺴﺎﻫﺮﺓ‬، ‫ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﻤﻤﺮ ﺍﻟﻌﺎﺑﺮ ﺑﻴﻦ ﺍﻟﻤﻮﺕ ﻭﺍﻟﺤﻴﺎﻩ‬، ‫ﻓﻲ ﻇﻠﻤﺔ ﺍﻟﻔﺠﺮ ﺍﻟﻌﺎﺷﻘﺔ‬ ‫ﻣﺴﻤﻊ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻷﻧﺎﺷﻴﺪ ﺍﻟﺒﻬﻴﺠﺔ‬

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‫ﺧﺪﻣﺔ ﺍﻟﻘﺮﺁﻥ ﺷﺮﻓﻪ ﻭﻋﺰﺗﻪ ‪46. Mahfouz, Harafish, 11:‬‬ ‫‪47. Mahfouz, Harafish, 16:‬‬ ‫ﺍی ﻓﺮﻭﻍ ﻣﺎﻩ ﺣﺴﻦ ﺍﺯ ﺭﻭی ﺭﺧﺸﺎﻥ ﺷﻤﺎ \ ﺁﺏ ﺭﻭی ﺧﻮﺑﯽ ﺍﺯ ﭼﺎﻩ ﺯﻧﺨﺪﺍﻥ ﺷﻤﺎ‬ ‫‪48. Mahfouz, Harafish, 62:‬‬ ‫ﺟﺰ ﺁﺳﺘﺎﻥ ﺗﻮﺍﻡ ﺩﺭ ﺟﻬﺎﻥ ﭘﻨﺎﻫﯽ ﻧﻴﺴﺖ \ﺳﺮ ﻣﺮﺍ ﺑﺠﺰ ﺍﻳﻦ ﺩﺭ ﺣﻮﺍﻟﻪ ﮔﺎﻫﯽ ﻧﻴﺴﺖ‬ ‫‪49. Mahfouz, Harafish, 62:‬‬ ‫ﺗﻬﺐ ﺍﻟﻈﻠﻤﺔ ﻓﻲ ﻣﺎء ﻭﺭﺩﻱ ﺷﻔﺎﻑ ﻓﺘﻜﺸﻒ ﻋﻮﺍﻟﻢ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺴﻤﺎﻭﺍﺕ ﻭﺍﻷﺭﺽ‪ .‬ﺗﻨﺴﺐ ﻣﻨﻬﺎ ﺃﻟﻮﺍﻥ ﻋﺠﻴﺒﺔ‬ ‫ﻣﺘﺪﺍﺧﻠﺔ ﺣﺘﻰ ﺍﺻﻄﺒﻎ ﺍﻷﻓﻖ ﺑﺤﻤﺮﺓ ﻧﻘﻴﺔ ﻣﺘﺒﺎﻫﻴﺔ‪ ،‬ﺗﻼﺷﺖ ﺃﻃﺮﺍﻓﻬﺎ ﻓﻲ ﺯﺭﻗﺔ ﺍﻟﻘﺒﺔ ﺍﻟﺼﺎﻓﻴﺔ ‪ ،‬ﻭﺃﻃﻞ‬ ‫ﻣﻦ ﻭﺭﺍء ﺫﻟﻚ ﺃﻭﻝ ﺷﻌﺎﻉ ﻣﻐﺴﻮﻝ ﺑﺎﻟﻨﺪﻯ ‪ .‬ﻭﺗﺮﺍءﻯ ﺍﻟﺠﺒﻞ ﺷﺎﻫﻘﺎً‪ ،‬ﺭﺯﻳﻨﺎً ‪ ،‬ﺻﺎﻣﺪﺍً ‪ ،‬ﻻ ﻣﺒﺎﻟﻴﺎً‪.‬‬

‫ﺍﻧﺘﻬﺖ ﺍﻟﺮﺣﻠﺔ ]‪ [. . .‬ﺑﺪﺃﺕ ﺍﻟﺮﺣﻠﺔ ‪50. Mahfouz, Harafish, 63:‬‬ ‫‪51. This device returns in Mahfouz’s political allegory of the Arab world, The‬‬ ‫‪Journey of Ibn Fattouma, where the protagonist’s wandering ends with his ‘dis‬‬‫‪appearance’ in the spiritual space of the mountain.‬‬ ‫‪52. Mahfouz, Harafish, 142:‬‬ ‫ﺻﻼﺡ ﮐﺎﺭ ﮐﺠﺎ ﻭ ﻣﻦ ﺧﺮﺍﺏ ﮐﺠﺎ \ﺑﺒﻴﻦ ﺗﻔﺎﻭﺕ ﺭﻩ ﮐﺰ ﮐﺠﺎﺳﺖ ﺗﺎ ﺑﻪ ﮐﺠﺎ‬ ‫‪53. Mahfouz, Harafish, 208:‬‬ ‫ﺁﻧﺎﻥ ﻛﻪ ﺧﺎﻙ ﺭﺍ ﺑﻨﻈﺮ ﻛﻴﻤﻴﺎ ﻛﻨﻨﺪ \ ﺁﻳﺎ ﺑﻮﺩ ﻛﻪ ﮔﻮﺵە ﭼﺸﻤﻲ ﺑﻪ ﻣﺎ ﻛﻨﻨﺪ‬ ‫‪54. Mahfouz, Harafish, 220:‬‬ ‫ﺩﺭ ﺍﻳﻦ ﺯﻣﺎﻧﻪ ﺭﻓﻴﻘﯽ ﮐﻪ ﺧﺎﻟﯽ ﺍﺯ ﺧﻠﻞ ﺍﺳﺖ \ﺻﺮﺍﺣﯽ ﻣﯽ ﻧﺎﺏ ﻭ ﺳﻔﻴﻨﻪ ﻏﺰﻝ ﺍﺳﺖ‬ ‫‪55. Mahfouz, Harafish, 261:‬‬ ‫ﺩﺭﺩ ﻣﺎ ﺭﺍ ﻧﻴﺴﺖ ﺩﺭﻣﺎﻥ ﺍﻟﻐﻴﺎﺙ \ ﻫﺠﺮ ﻣﺎ ﺭﺍ ﻧﻴﺴﺖ ﭘﺎﻳﺎﻥ ﺍﻟﻐﻴﺎﺙ‬ ‫‪56. Mahfouz, Harafish, 318:‬‬ ‫ﻫﺮ ﺁﻥ ﮐﻪ ﺟﺎﻧﺐ ﺍﻫﻞ ﺧﺪﺍ ﻧﮕﻪ ﺩﺍﺭﺩ \ ﺧﺪﺍﺵ ﺩﺭ ﻫﻤﻪ ﺣﺎﻝ ﺍﺯ ﺑﻼ ﻧﮕﻪ ﺩﺍﺭﺩ‬ ‫‪57. Mahfouz, Harafish, 265–6.‬‬ ‫‪58. Afifi, Mystical Philosophy, 29–32.‬‬ ‫‪59. Claude Addas, Quest for the Red Sulphur, 112 n. Cf. Ibn ʿArabī’s, Rasāʾil, 173.‬‬ ‫‪60. Mahfouz, Harafish, 398:‬‬ ‫ﺻﺒﺤﺪﻡ ﻣﺮﻍ ﭼﻤﻦ ﺑﺎ ﮔﻞ ﻧﻮﺧﺎﺳﺘﻪ ﮔﻔﺖ \ ﻧﺎﺯ ﮐﻢ ﮐﻦ ﮐﻪ ﺩﺭ ﺍﻳﻦ ﺑﺎﻍ ﺑﺴﯽ ﭼﻮﻥ ﺗﻮ ﺷﮑﻔﺖ‬ ‫‪61. Mahfouz, Harafish, 390.‬‬ ‫‪62. Mahfouz, Harafish, 384.‬‬ ‫‪63. Mahfouz, Harafish, 526.‬‬ ‫‪64. Mahfouz, Harafish, 515:‬‬ ‫ﺑﻲ ﻣﻬﺮ ﺭﺧﺖ ﺭﻭﺯ ﻣﺮﺍ ﻧﻮﺭ ﻧﻤﺎﻧﺪﺳﺖ \ ﻭﺯ ﻋﻤﺮ ﻣﺮﺍ ﺟﺰ ﺷﺐ ﺩﻳﺠﻮﺭ ﻧﻤﺎﻧﺪﺳﺖ‬ ‫‪65. Mahfouz, Harafish, 543:‬‬ ‫ﺍﻻ ﻳﺒﺎﻟﻲ ﺭﺟﺎﻝ ﺍﷲ ﺑﻤﺎ ﻳﻘﻊ ﻟﺨﻠﻖ ﺍﷲ ؟ ﺣﺘﻰ ﻣﺘﻰ ﺗﺸﻘﻰ ﺣﺎﺭﺗﻨﺎ ﻭﺗﻤﺘﻬﻦ؟ ﻟﻢ ﻳﻨﻌﻢ ﺍﻷﻧﺎﻧﻴﻮﻥ ﻭﺍﻟﻤﺠﺮﻣﻮﻥ؟‬ ‫ﻟﻢ ﻳﺠﻬﺾ ﺍﻟﻄﻴﺒﻮﻥ ﻭﺍﻟﻤﺤﺒﻮﻥ ؟ ﻟﻢ ﻳﻐﻂ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﻨﻮﻡ ﺍﻟﺤﺮﺍﻓﻴﺶ ؟‬

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66. Mahfouz, Harafish, 543: ‫ﺩﻳﺪی ﮐﻪ ﻳﺎﺭ ﺟﺰ ﺳﺮ ﺟﻮﺭ ﻭ ﺳﺘﻢ ﻧﺪﺍﺷﺖ \ ﺑﺸﮑﺴﺖ ﻋﻬﺪ ﻭﺯ ﻏﻢ ﻣﺎ ﻫﻴﭻ ﻏﻢ ﻧﺪﺍﺷﺖ‬ 67. Mahfouz, Harafish, 563: ً ‫ﻃﻮﻳﻼ ﺑﻸﻋﺠﻤﻴﺔ ﻭﺍﻏﻠﻘﻮﺍ ﺍﻷﺑﻮﺍﺏ‬ ‫ﻛﺄﻧﻤﺎ ﺃﺩﺭﻙ ﻟﻢ ﺗﺮﻧﻤﻮﺍ‬ 68. Mahfouz, Harafish, 563: ‫ﺩﻭﺵ ﻭﻗﺖ ﺳﺤﺮ ﺍﺯ ﻏﺼﻪ ﻧﺠﺎﺗﻢ ﺩﺍﺩﻧﺪ \ ﻭﺍﻧﺪﺭ ﺁﻥ ﻇﻠﻤﺖ ﺷﺐ ﺁﺏ ﺣﻴﺎﺗﻢ ﺩﺍﺩﻧﺪ‬ 69. El-Enany, Naguib Mahfouz: The Pursuit of Meaning, 46. 70. This is the one of the lines of force running through the reading proposed by Al-Musawi, Islam on the Street, 72–87. Though thought-provoking, it is difficult to agree with Al-Musawi’s claim that ‘For MaªfūÕ Sufism has no concern other than repose and comfort in the divine presence.’ 73. 71. A good, if concise, formal analysis of the Shaykh’s character and manners of speech is found in Muªammad Wattār, TawÕīf Al-Turāth, 169–74. 72. Mahfouz, Layālī Alf Layla, 8: ‫ﺭﺏ ﺭﻭﺡ ﻃﺎﻫﺮﺓ ﺗﻨﻘﺬ ﺃﻣﺔ ﻛﺎﻣﻠﺔ‬ 73. Mahfouz, Layālī, 9: [. . .] ‫ﺍﻟﺤﻤﺪﷲ ﻓﻼ ﺍﻟﺴﺮﻭﺭ ﻳﺴﺘﺨﻔﻨﻲ ﻭﻻ ﺍﻟﺤﺰﻥ ﻳﻠﻤﺴﻨﻲ‬ 74. Mahfouz, Layālī, 49: ‫ﺍﻧﻲ ﺍﻋﻴﺶ ﻓﻲ ﺩﻧﻴﺎ ﺍﻟﺒﺸﺮ‬ 75. Mahfouz, Layālī, 50: ً‫ﺃﻫﻠﻚ ﺍﻟﻤﺠﺮﻣﻴﻦ ﻭﺃﺣﻜﻢ ﺍﻻﻣﺔ ﺣﻜﻤﺎ‬ ً ! ً‫ﻋﺎﺩﻻ ﻧﻘﻴﺎ‬ 76. Mahfouz, Layālī, 54: ‫ﺃﻥ ﺗﺘﺨﺬ ﻗﺮﺍﺭﻙ ﻣﻦ ﺃﺟﻞ ﺍﷲ ﻭﺣﺪﻩ‬ 77. Mahfouz, Layālī, 125: ‫ﻧﻔﺮ ﻣﻦ‬ ٌ ‫ ﻭﻟﻜﻦ ﺑﻪ ﺳﺮ ﻻ ﻳﺴﺘﻬﺎﻥ ﺑﻪ ﻓﻠﻴﺘﺮﻙ ﻭﺷﺄﻧﻪ ﻭﻣﺎ ﻣﻦ ﻣﻤﻠﻜﺔ ﺇﻻ ﻭﺑﻬﺎ‬، ‫ﻣﺎ ﻫﻮ ﺇﻻ ﻣﺠﻨﻮﻥ ﻳﺎ ﻣﻮﻻﻱ‬ ‫ﺃﻣﺜﺎﻟﻪ ﻟﻬﻢ ﺩﻭﺭﻫﻢ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﻌﻨﺎﻳﺔ ﺍﻹﻟﻬﻴﺔ‬ 78. Mahfouz, Layālī, 174: ‫ﺃﺷﻔﻘﺖ ﺃﻥ ﻳﺼﺒﺢ ﺍﻟﺼﺒﺎﺡ ﻓﻼ ﺗﺠﺪ ﺍﻟﺮﻋﻴﺔ ﺳﻠﻄﺎﻧﺎً ﻭﻻ ﻭﺯﻳﺮﺍً ﻭﻻ ﺣﻜﻤﺎً ﻭﻻ ﻛﺎﺗﻢ ﺳﺮ ﻭﻻ ﺭﺟﻞ ﺍﻷﻣﻦ‬ ‫ﻓﻴﺄﺧﺬﻫﺎ ﺃﻗﻮﻯ ﺍﻷﺷﺮﺍﺭ‬ 79. Cf. Michel Chodkiewicz, Seal of the Saints, 90–8. 80. Mahfouz, Layālī, 260. 81. Most of the allusions in this part of the novel (261–2) are taken from Sulamī’s ˝abaqāt Al-Íūfiyya. These are: 1. ‘Know that you will not attain the rank of the virtuous until . . .’ (‫ﺇﻋﻠﻢ ﺃﻧﻚ ﻻ‬ ‫)ﺗﻨﺎﻝ ﺩﺭﺟﺎﺕ ﺍﻟﺼﺎﻟﺤﻴﻦ ﺣﺘﻰ‬. The Sufi Ibrahīm b. Adham (d. 777–8) quoted in ˝abaqāt, 42. 2. ‘God looked at his saints’ hearts and found some could not carry knowledge

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82.

83. 84. 85.

86. 87.

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so he busied them with worship.’ Maxim attributed to the Sufi Abū Yazīd Al-Bis†āmī (d. 877–8) quoted in ˝abaqāt, 71: .‫ﺍﻃﻠﻊ ﺍﷲ ﻋﻠﻰ ﻗﻠﻮﺏ ﺃﻭﻟﻴﺎﺋﻪ ﻓﻤﻨﻬﻢ ﻣﻦ ﻟﻢ ﻳﻜﻦ ﻳﺼﻠﺢ ﻟﺤﻤﻞ ﺍﻟﻤﻌﺮﻓﺔ ﺣﺮﻓﺎً ﻓﺸﻐﻠﻬﻢ ﺑﺎﻟﻌﺒﺎﺩﺓ‬ 3. ‘Happy is he who has but one concern and does not occupy his heart with what his eyes have seen and his ears have heard.’ Al-Bis†āmī quoted in ˝abaqāt, 73: .‫ﻃﻮﺑﻰ ﻟﻤﻦ ﻛﺎﻥ ﻫﻤﻪ ﻫﻤﺎً ﻭﺍﺣﺪﺍً ﻭﻟﻢ ﻳﺸﻐﻞ ﻗﻠﺒﻪ ﺑﻤﺎ ﺭﺃﺕ ﻋﻴﻨﺎﻩ ﻭﺳﻤﻌﺖ ﺃﺫﻧﺎﻩ‬ This particular maxim occurs in an earlier exchange between the Shaykh and Sinbad: Mahfouz, Layālī, 249. 4. ‘I am in the wilderness, weeping [. . .]’ (‫)ﺃﻧﺎ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﻐﺮﺑﺔ ﺃﺑﻜﻲ‬. Verses recited before Al-Óārith Al-Muªāsibi quoted in ˝abaqāt, 62. 5. ‘If your self is safe from you then you have fulfilled your obligation towards it, and if other people are safe from you then you have fulfilled your obligation towards them.’ The Sufi Abū Óamza Al-Baghdādī (d. 901–2) quoted in ˝abaqāt, 229: .‫ ﻭﺇﺫﺍ ﺳﻠﻢ ﻣﻨﻚ ﺍﻟﺨﻠﻖ ﻓﻘﺪ ﺃﺩﻳﺖ ﺣﻘﻮﻗﻬﻢ‬،‫ﺇﺫﺍ ﺳﻠﻤﺖ ﻣﻨﻚ ﻧﻔﺴﻚ ﻓﻘﺪ ﺃﺩﻳﺖ ﺣﻘﻬﺎ‬ Mahfouz, Layālī, 262: ‫[ ﺍﻟﺮﺥ ﻳﻄﻴﺮ‬. . .] ‫ﻟﻢ ﻳﻄﺮ ﺍﻟﺮﺥ ﺑﺈﻧﺴﺎﻥ ﻗﺒﻠﻚ ﻓﻤﺎﺫﺍ ﻓﻌﻠﺖ؟ ﺗﺮﻛﺘﻪ ﻋﻨﺪ ﺃﻭﻝ ﻓﺮﺻﺔ ﻣﻨﺠﺬﺑﺎً ﺑﺒﺮﻳﻖ ﺍﻟﻤﺎﺱ‬ ‫ ﻭﻳﺜﺐ ﻣﻦ ﻗﻤﺔ ﺍﻟﻮﺍﻕ ﺇﻟﻰ ﻗﻤﺔ ﻗﺎﻑ ﻓﻼ ﺗﻘﻨﻊ ﺑﺸﻲء ﻓﻬﻲ ﻣﺸﻴﺌﺔ‬، ‫ﻣﻦ ﻋﻠﻢ ﻣﺠﻬﻮﻝ ﺇﻟﻰ ﻋﺎﻟﻢ ﻣﺠﻬﻮﻝ‬ ! ‫ﺫﻱ ﺍﻟﺠﻼﻝ‬ Mahfouz, Layālī, 261: . . .‫ﺍﻧﻲ ﻣﻦ ﺭﺟﺎﻝ ﺍﻟﺒﺤﺮ ﻭﺍﻟﺠﺰﺭ‬ Mahfouz, Layālī, 201: . . . ‫ﻣﺬﻫﺐ ﻟﻠﺴﻴﻒ ﻭﻣﺬﻫﺐ ﻟﻠﺤﺐ‬ Mahfouz, Layālī, 68–9: ‫ ﻭﻗﻮﻡ‬، ‫ ﻭﻗﻮﻡ ﻳﺘﻮﻏﻐﻠﻮﻥ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﻌﻠﻢ ﻭﻳﺘﻮﻟﻮﻥ ﺍﻟﺸﺆﻭﻥ‬، ‫ﻗﻮﻡ ﻳﺘﻠﻘﻮﻥ ﺍﻟﻤﺒﺎﺩﺉ ﻭﻳﺴﻌﻮﻥ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻷﺭﺽ‬ ! ‫ﻳﻮﺍﺻﻠﻮﻥ ﺍﻟﺴﻴﺮ ﺣﺘﻰ ﻣﻘﺎﻡ ﺍﻟﺤﺐ ﻭﻟﻜﻦ ﻣﺎ ﺃﻗﻠﻬﻢ‬ Mahfouz, Layālī, 197: ! ‫ﻻ ﺗﺠﺊ ﺇﻻ ﺇﺫﺍ ﺩﻓﻌﺘﻚ ﺭﻏﺒﺔ ﻻ ﺗﻘﺎﻭﻡ‬ Mahfouz, Layālī, 200: ‫ﻣﻦ ﺭﺯﻕ ﺛﻼﺛﺔ ﺃﺷﻴﺎء ﻣﻊ ﺛﻼﺛﺔ ﺃﺷﻴﺎء ﻓﻘﺪ ﻧﺠﺎ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻵﻓﺎﺕ ﺑﻄﻦ ﺧﺎﻝ ﻣﻊ ﻗﻠﺐ ﻗﺎﻧﻊ ﻭﻓﻘﺮ ﺩﺍﺋﻢ ﻣﻊ ﺯﻫﺪ‬ .‫ﺣﺎﺿﺮ ﻭﺻﺒﺮ ﻛﺎﻣﻞ ﻣﻊ ﺫﻛﺮ ﺩﺍﺋﻢ‬ This particular phrase is attributed to Abū Óamza Al-Baghdādī in Al-Sulamī’s ˝abaqāt, 228. Another aphorism from the ˝abaqāt is found on the same page of the novel: ‫ﻣﻦ ﻳﻜﻦ ﺳﺮﻭﺭﻩ ﺑﻐﻴﺮ ﺍﻟﺤﻖ ﻓﺴﺮﻭﺭﻩ ﻳﻮﺭﺙ ﺍﻟﻬﻤﻮﻡ ﻭﻣﻦ ﻟﻢ ﻳﻜﻦ ﺃﻧﺴﻪ ﻓﻲ ﺧﺪﻣﺔ ﺭﺑﻪ ﻓﻬﻮ ﻣﻦ ﺃﻧﺴﻪ‬ .‫ﻓﻲ ﻭﺣﺸﺔ‬

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88.

89.

90. 91. 92. 93.

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This is attributed to the ninth-century Sufi Abū-l-ʿAbbās b. Masrūq (d. 911–12) in ˝abaqāt, 193. It bears pointing out that Mahfouz changes the text slightly, substituting ‘‫ ’ﻓﺄﻧﺴﻪ ﻳﻮﺭﺙ ﺍﻟﻮﺣﺸﺔ‬for the last four words in Abū-l-ʿAbbās’s saying. Mahfouz, Layālī, 201: ‫[ ﻭﻇﻼﻣُﻪ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﻨﺎﺱ ﺳﺎﺭﻱ‬. . .] ‫ﻟﻴﻠﻰ ﺑﻮﺟﻬﻚ ﻣﺸﺮﻕ‬ ‫[ ﻭﻧﺤﻦ ﻓﻲ ﺿﻮء ﺍﻟﻨﻬﺎﺭ‬. . .] ‫ﻓﺎﻟﻨﺎﺱ ﻓﻲ ﺳﻠﻒ ﺍﻟﻈﻼﻡ‬ The verses are found in the closing section of Al-Qushayrī’s Epistle, 404; Risāla, 212. I have slightly modified Alexander Knysh’s translation. Mahfouz, Layālī, 202. The Shaykh responds with two quotations from the ˝abaqāt: 1. A verse attributed to the poet Abū’l-Óassan ʿAlī b. Jabala (alias Al-ʿAkawwak, 776–828) quoted by the tenth-century Sufi Jaʿfar Al-Khuldī of Baghdad (alias Jaʿfar Al-Muªibb, one of Al-Sarrāj’s teachers, d. 960): ‫ﺯﺍﺋﺮ ﻧﻢ ﻋﻠﻴﻪ ﺣﺴﻨﻪ ]…[ ﻛﻴﻒ ﻳﺨﻔﻰ ﺍﻟﻠﻴﻞ ﺑﺪﺭﺍ ﻃﻠﻌﺎ‬ This verse is quoted in ˝abaqāt, 329. 2. A maxim attributed to the tenth-century Sufi Abū’l Óassan Sahl Al-Būshanjī (d. 959), who belonged to the Malāmatiyya order: ‫ﻣﻦ ﺫﻝ ﻓﻲ ﻧﻔﺴﻪ ﺭﻓﻊ ﺍﷲ ﻗﺪﺭﻩ ﻭﻣﻦ ﻋﺰ ﻓﻲ ﻧﻔﺴﻪ ﺃﺫﻟﻪ ﺍﷲ ﻓﻲ ﺃﻋﻴﻦ ﻋﺒﺎﺩﻩ‬ This maxim is quoted in˝abaqāt, 344. Mahfouz, Layālī, 205; Al-Qushayrī, Epistle, 186–7; Risāla, 93. ‫ ﺃﻟﻴﺲ ﻫﺬﺍ ﺃﺣﺴﻦ ﻧﺠﻴﻨﺎﻙ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﺘﻠﻒ ﺑﺎﻟﺘﻠﻒ‬،‫ﻳﺎ ﺃﺑﺎ ﺣﻤﺰﺓ‬ ‫ﺇﻧﺎ ﻗﺪ ﻧﺠﻴﻨﺎﻙ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﻤﻮﺕ ﺑﺎﻟﻤﻮﺕ‬ Mahfouz, Layālī, 271: ‫ﻣﻦ ﻏﻴﺮﺓ ﺍﻟﺤﻖ ﺃﻥ ﻟﻢ ﻳﺠﻌﻞ ﻷﺣﺪ ﺇﻟﻴﻪ ﻃﺮﻳﻘﺎ ﻭﻟﻢ ﻳﺆﻳﺲ ﺃﺣﺪﺍ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﻮﺻﻮﻝ ﺇﻟﻴﻪ ﻭﺗﺮﻙ ﺍﻟﺨﻠﻖ ﻓﻲ‬ ‫ﻣﻔﺎﻭﺯ ﺍﻟﺘﺤﻴﺮ ﻳﺮﻛﻀﻮﻥ ﻭﻓﻲ ﺑﺤﺎﺭ ﺍﻟﻈﻦ ﻳﻐﺮﻗﻮﻥ ﻓﻤﻦ ﻇﻦ ﺃﻧﻪ ﻭﺍﺻﻞ ﻓﺎﺻﻠﻪ ﻭﻣﻦ ﻇﻦ ﺃﻧﻪ ﻓﺎﺻﻞ‬ .‫ﺗﺎﻩ ﻓﻼ ﻭﺻﻮﻝ ﺇﻟﻴﻪ ﻭﻻ ﻣﻬﺮﺏ ﻋﻨﻪ ﻭﻻ ﺑﺪ ﻣﻨﻪ‬

94. 95. 96. 97.

98.

The statement is attributed to Abū ʿAbd Allāh Al-Jallāʾ in Al-Sulamī, ˝abaqāt, 146. James Henry Breasted, Development of Religion and Thought in Ancient Egypt, 339. Mahfouz, Al-ʿĀʾish fī-l-Óaqīqa, 122. Mahfouz, ʿĀʾish, 114. Mahfouz, ʿĀʾish, 65–6: ، ‫ ﻭ ﻟﻜﻨﻪ ﺃﻋﺮﺽ ﻋﻦ ﺫﻟﻚ ﻛﻠﻪ‬، ‫ﻟﻮ ﺷﺎء ﺃﻥ ﻳﻨﻌﻢ ﺑﺎﻟﺴﻌﺎﺩﺓ ﻭﺍﻟﺠﻼﻝ ﻭﺍﻟﻨﺴﺎء ﻭﺍﻟﺮﺍﺣﺔ ﻟﻤﺎ ﻋﺰﺕ ﻋﻠﻴﻪ‬ ‫ﻭﺍﻫﺒﺎً ﺫﺍﺗﻪ ﻟﻠﺤﻘﻴﻘﺔ‬ Mahfouz, ʿĀʾish, 3–4:

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[. . .] ‫[ ﺃﺟﻠﺖ ﺍﻟﻨﻈﺮ ﻓﻴﻬﺎ ﻓﺎﻧﻘﺒﺾ ﺻﺪﺭﻱ‬. . .] ‫ﻭﻟﺪﺕ ﺍﻟﺮﻏﺒﺔ ﻓﻲ ﺃﻋﻘﺎﺏ ﻧﻈﺮﺓ ﻣﻔﻌﻤﺔ ﺑﺎﻹﺛﺎﺭﺓ‬ ‫[ ﻫﺎ ﻫﺎﻱ ﺫﻱ ﻣﺪﻳﻨﺔ ﺍﻟﻌﺠﺎﺋﺐ ﻣﺴﺘﺴﻠﻤﺔ‬. . .] ‫ﻓﺮﺟﻊ ﺍﻟﺒﺼﺮ ﺇﻟﻴﻬﺎ ﺑﺈﻧﻔﻌﺎﻝ ﻣﻀﺎﻋﻒ ﻭﺫﻛﺮﻳﺎﺕ ﻣﺘﺘﺎﻟﻴﺔ‬ ً‫ ﻫﺎ ﻫﻮ ﻗﻠﺒﻲ ﺍﻟﺸﺎﺏ ﻳﺪﻕ ﻓﻲ ﻋﻨﻒ ﻃﺎﻣﺤﺎ‬، ‫ ﻫﺎ ﻫﻲ ﺫﻱ ﺳﻴﺪﺗﻬﺎ ﺳﺠﻴﻨﺔ ﺗﺘﺠﺮﻉ ﺍﻷﻟﻢ ﻓﻲ ﻭﺣﺪﺓ‬،‫ﻟﻠﻤﻮﺕ‬ ‫ ﻋﻦ ﺍﻟﻤﺄﺳﺎﻩ ﺍﻟﺘﻲ ﻣﺰﻗﺖ‬، ‫ ’ﺃﺭﻳﺪ ﺃﻥ ﺃﻋﺮﻑ ﻛﻞ ﺷﻲء ﻋﻦ ﺍﻟﻤﺪﻳﻨﺔ ﻭﺻﺎﺣﺒﻬﺎ‬. ‫ﻟﻤﻌﺮﻓﺔ ﻛﻞ ﺷﻲء‬ ‘. ‫ﺍﻟﻮﻃﻦ ﻭﺿﻴﻌﺖ ﺍﻹﻣﺒﺮﺍﻃﻮﺭﻳﺔ‬

99. Actually the narrator admits that he told his father – the implied reader of the novel – everything except ‘my increasing yearning for the chants. And my love for that beautiful woman’. Mahfouz, ʿĀʾish, 166: . ‫ ﻭ ﺣﺒﻲ ﺍﻟﻌﻤﻴﻖ ﻟﺘﻠﻚ ﺍﻟﺴﻴﺪﺓ ﺍﻟﺠﻤﻴﻠﺔ‬.‫ﻭﻟﻌﻲ ﺍﻟﻤﺘﺰﺍﻳﺪ ﺑﺎﻷﻧﺎﺷﻴﺪ‬ The narrator’s interest in ‘the chants’ will return in Echoes of an Autobiography (see below). 100. In the words of Toto, Akhenaten ‘could have been a poet or a singer; but he sat on the throne of the pharaohs, and disaster struck’. Mahfouz, ʿĀʾish, 77: . ‫ ﻓﻜﺎﻧﺖ ﺍﻟﻜﺎﺭﺛﺔ‬، ‫ ﻭﻟﻜﻨﻪ ﺟﻠﺲ ﻋﻠﻰ ﻋﺮﺵ ﺍﻟﻔﺮﺍﻋﻨﺔ‬، ً‫ﻛﺎﻥ ﻳﻤﻜﻦ ﺃﻥ ﻳﻜﻦ ﺷﺎﻋﺮﺍً ﺇﻭ ﻣﻄﺮﺑﺎ‬ 101. Mahfouz, ʿĀʾish, 19–20: ‫ ﻭﻗﺪ‬، ‫ ﺍﻧﻲ ﺭﺍﺽ ﺑﻘﺪﺭﻩ ﺧﺎﺩﻡ ﻷﻣﺮﻩ‬، ‫ ﻭﺑﺮﻋﻤﺔ ﺗﺘﻔﺘﺢ ﻓﻲ ﺣﺪﻳﻘﺘﻪ‬،‫ﺍﻧﻲ ﻃﻔﻞ ﻳﺤﺒﻮ ﻓﻲ ﺭﺣﺎﺏ ﺍﻟﻮﺍﺣﺪ‬ .‫ﺗﻌﻄﻒ ﻓﺘﺠﻠﻰ ﻟﺮﻭﺣﻲ ﺣﺘﻰ ﺃﺗﺮﻋﺖ ﺑﻸﻧﻮﺍﺭ ﻭﺳﺎﻟﺖ ﺑﺎﻷﻧﻐﺎﻡ‬ There might be an allusion here to Al-Bis†āmī’s description of Sufis as ‘children playing in the lap of al-Óaqq [the Real, i.e. God]. ‘‫ ’ﺍﻟﺼﻮﻓﻴﺔ ﺃﻃﻔﺎﻝ ﻓﻲ ﺣﺠﺮ ﺍﻟﺤﻖ‬in Al-Majmūʿa Al-Íūfiyya, 78. 102. This moment of darkness solidifying into a human form recurs frequently in Mahfouz’s idiom during moments of revelation, the most electrifying of which occurs at the end of The Harafish, when the darwish’s ghost appears ‘as a solidified piece of the night’s breath.’ (‫ )ﻛﻘﻄﻌﺔ ﻣﺠﺴﺪﺓ ﻣﻦ ﺃﻧﻔﺎﺱ ﺍﻟﻠﻴﻞ‬Mahfouz, Harafish, 563. 103. Mahfouz, ʿĀʾish, 30–1: ‫ ﻭﺧﻒ ﻭﺯﻧﻲ ﻓﺨﻴﻞ ﺇﻟﻲ‬، ‫ ﺭﻓﻴﻖ ﺍﻟﻠﻴﻞ ﻳﻮﺩﻋﻨﻲ ﻭﺍﻟﺼﻤﺖ ﻳﺒﺎﺭﻛﻨﻲ‬، ‫ﻛﻨﺖ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺨﻠﻮﺓ ﻗﺒﻴﻞ ﺍﻟﺸﺮﻭﻕ‬ ‫ ﻭﺃﺷﺮﻕ ﻓﻲ ﺩﺍﺧﻠﻲ ﻧﻮﺭ‬، ‫ ﻭﺗﺠﺴﺪﺕ ﺍﻟﻈﻠﻤﺔ ﻛﺎﺋﻨﺎً ﺣﻴﺎً ﻳﻮﻣﺊ ﺑﺎﻟﺘﺤﻴﺔ‬، ‫ﺍﻧﻨﻲ ﺳﺄﻣﻀﻲ ﻣﻊ ﺫﻳﻮﻝ ﺍﻟﻠﻴﻞ‬ ‫ ﺗﺘﻬﺎﻣﺲ ﻣﺘﺒﺎﺩﻟﺔ ﺍﻟﺘﻬﺎﻧﻲ‬،‫ ﻓﺮﺃﻳﺖ ﺍﻟﻜﺎﺋﻨﺎﺕ ﻛﻠﻬﺎ ﻣﺠﺘﻤﻌﺔ ﻓﻲ ﻣﺠﺎﻝ ﺗﺤﻴﻂ ﺑﻪ ﺍﻟﻌﻴﻦ‬، ‫ﻃﻴﺐ ﺍﻟﺮﺍﺋﺤﺔ‬ ،‫ ﻭﻗﻠﺖ ﻟﻨﻔﺴﻲ ﺃﺧﻴﺮﺍً ﺍﻧﺘﺼﺮﺕ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺍﻟﻤﻮﺕ ﻭﺍﻷﻟﻢ‬، ‫ ﻭﺗﺴﺘﻘﺒﻞ ﺍﻟﺤﻘﻴﻘﺔ ﺍﻟﻤﻘﺒﻠﺔ‬، ‫ﺗﻬﺰﻫﺎ ﺳﻌﺎﺩﺓ ﺍﻟﺘﺮﺣﻴﺐ‬ ‫ ﻭﺳﻤﻌﺖ ﺑﻜﻞ‬، ‫ ﻭﺗﺴﻠﻞ ﺍﻟﻮﺟﻮﺩ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺻﺪﺭﻱ ﻓﻤﻸﻩ ﺑﺮﺣﻴﻘﻪ ﺍﻟﻌﺬﺏ‬، ‫ﻭ ﺍﻧﻬﻠﺖ ﻓﻮﻗﻲ ﻓﻴﻮﺿﺎﺕ ﺍﻟﺴﺮﻭﺭ‬ ،‫ ﺇﻗﺬﻑ ﺑﺮﻭﺣﻚ ﻓﻲ ﺭﺣﺎﺑﻲ‬،‫ ﺃﻧﺎ ﺍﻟﺤﻖ‬،‫ ﻻ ﺇﻟﻪ ﻏﻴﺮﻱ‬،‫ﻭﺿﻮﺡ ﺻﻮﺗﻪ ﻭﻫﻮ ﻳﻘﻮﻝ ﻟﻲ ’ ﺃﻧﺎ ﺍﻻﻟﺔ ﺍﻟﻮﺍﺣﺪ‬ ‘.‫ ﻭ ﻫﺒﻨﻲ ﺫﺍﺗﻚ ﻓﻘﺪ ﻭﻫﺒﺘﻚ ﺣﺒﻲ‬،‫ﺃﻋﺒﺪﻧﻲ ﻭﺣﺪﻱ‬

Given the Sufi affinities of this novel, it is perhaps no accident that the voice utters Al-Óallāj’s statement, ‘‫’ﺃﻧﺎ ﺍﻟﺤﻖ‬. Equally worthy of note is the use of the vocabulary of hospitality in creating the image of all creation welcoming and receiving the arriving reality.

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104. Mahfouz, A‚dāʾ Al-Sīra Al-Dhātiyya, 13. Here I assume that the autobiographical ‘I’ is attached to Mahfouz himself, though this assumption has to be relaxed in dealing with the second half of the Echoes which is dominated by Shaykh Abd-Rabbih. 105. Mahfouz, A‚dāʾ, 13: . ‫ ﻭﻟﻜﻨﻨﻲ ﻛﻨﺖ ﻭﻣﺎ ﺯﻟﺖ ﺃﺣﺐ ﺳﻤﺎﻉ ﺍﻟﺘﻮﺍﺷﻴﺢ‬.‫ ﺑﻞ ﻫﻮ ﺍﻟﻌﺪﻡ ﻧﻔﺴﻪ‬.‫ﻳﺎ ﻟﻪ ﻣﻦ ﻧﺴﻴﺎﻥ ﻛﺎﻟﻌﺪﻡ‬ 106. Mahfouz, A‚dāʾ, 13: .‫ ﻣﺎ ﺍﻟﺤﺐ ﺍﻷﻭﻝ ﺇﻻ ﺗﺪﺭﻳﺐ ﻳﻨﺘﻔﻊ ﺑﻪ ﺫﻭﻭ ﺍﻟﺤﻆ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﻮﺍﺻﻠﻴﻦ‬: ‫ﻭﻳﻮﺍﻓﻴﻨﻲ ﺍﻵﻥ ﻗﻮﻝ ﺍﻟﺼﺪﻳﻖ ﺍﻟﺤﻜﻴﻢ‬ This particular lesson returns later in the Echoes, when Mahfouz sees a beautiful woman on the occasion of a mawsim. He believes her to be an angel incarnate, and refuses to speak to her due to the immense gap separating the human from the divine. At this point, ‘the secret of my first love was revealed to me’. (‫ )ﻋﻨﺪ ﺫﺍﻙ ﺍﻧﻜﺸﻒ ﻟﻲ ﺳﺮ ﺣﺒﻲ ﺍﻷﻭﻝ‬Mahfouz, A‚dāʾ, 126. 107. Mahfouz, A‚dāʾ, 156: ‫ ﺭﺃﺗﻪ ﺍﻟﺒﺼﻴﺮﺓ ﻭﺳﻤﻌﺘﻪ‬،‫ ﻭﻓﻲ ﻟﻬﻔﺘﻨﺎ‬،‫ﻭﺧﻔﻘﺖ ﺍﻟﻘﻠﻮﺏ ﺣﺘﻰ ﺍﺭﺗﻌﺸﺖ ﺟﺬﻭﺭﻫﺎ ﻓﻲ ﺇﻧﺘﻈﺎﺭ ﺍﻟﻔﺮﺝ‬ .‫ﺍﻟﺴﺮﻳﺮﺓ‬ The capitalised ‘Him’ is my interpretation of the Arabic original, which could be translated simply by ‘him’. Another important point of contact between the Echoes and The Harafish is the idea of the sacred as something that fills space and darkness, as witness the following aphorism: ‘Were it not for the whispers of the beautiful secrets floating in space, meteors would have fallen to the earth’s surface without mercy.’ . ‫ﻟﻮﻻ ﻫﻤﺴﺎﺕ ﺍﻷﺳﺮﺍﺭ ﺍﻟﺠﻤﻴﻠﺔ ﺍﻟﺴﺎﺑﺤﺔ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﻔﻀﺎء ﻻﻧﻘﻀﺖ ﺍﻟﺸﻬﺐ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺍﻷﺭﺽ ﺑﻼ ﺭﺣﻤﺔ‬ Mahfouz, A‚dāʾ, 153. 108. Mahfouz, A‚dāʾ, 132: .‫ ﺫﻟﻚ ﻫﻮ ﺍﻟﺤﺐ‬، ‫ﻫﻮ ﻳﻄﺎﺭﺩﻧﻲ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﻤﻬﺪ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺍﻟﻠﺤﺪ‬ 109. Mahfouz, A‚dāʾ, 147: .‫ﻛﻤﺎ ﺗﺤﺐ ﺗﻜﻮﻥ‬ 110. Mahfouz, A‚dāʾ, 124: . ‫ﺍﻟﻠﻬﻢ ﻣﻦ ﻋﻠﻴﻪ ﺑﺤﺴﻦ ﺍﻟﺨﺘﺎﻡ ﻭﻫﻮ ﺍﻟﻌﺸﻖ‬ 111. Mahfouz, A‚dāʾ, 116: .‫ﻣﺎ ﺃﺟﻤﻞ ﻗﺼﺺ ﺍﻟﺤﺐ؛ ﻋﻔﺎ ﺍﷲ ﻋﻦ ﺍﻟﺰﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﺬﻱ ﻳﺤﻴﻴﻬﺎ ﻭﻳﻤﻴﺘﻬﺎ‬ Chapter 2 1. Waïl Hassan,Tayeb Salih: Ideology and the Craft of Fiction, ix. As the reader will quickly observe, my reading of Salih owes a great deal to Waïl Hassan’s study. I follow his chronology of the events narrated in the Wad Hamid

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4. 5. 6.

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cycle: Tayeb Salih, 184–5. Haifa Saud Alfaisal offers much that is useful by way of situating the Sufism in Bandarshah in a historical context in Religious Discourse in Postcolonial Studies, 145–220. Alfaisal takes Hassan to task for overplaying the Pan-Arab scenario in his reading of Bandarshah (171–3), but Hassan’s reading remains coherent and valid in my view. Both of these sources will only be cited in the case of a direct quotation or necessary recollection. See Arthur Jeffery’s introduction to his translation of Ibn ʿArabī’s tractate, ‘Shajarat Al-Kawn’, especially 45–60. On the concept of the Al-Insān Al-Kāmil, see Nicholson’s detailed reading of ʿAbd Al-Karīm Al-Jīlī’s (1365–1428) treatise on the subject in Studies in Islamic Mysticism, 77–142, especially 81–5, as well as Izutsu, Sufism and Taoism, 218–34.The Cosmic Tree plays a key role in the work of Taher Ouettar (below). Salih, Al-Aʿmāl Al-Kāmila (Complete Works, henceforth CW ), 504: ً ً ‫ﺿﺎﺭﺑﺔ ﺑﻌﺮﻭﻗﻬﺎ‬ ‫ ﺃﻧﻈﺮ ﺇﻟﻴﻬﺎ‬.‫ﺷﺎﻣﺨﺔ ﺑﺮﺃﺳﻬﺎ ﺍﻟﻰ ﺍﻟﺴﻤﺎء‬ ‫ ﺃﻧﻈﺮ ﺇﻟﻴﻬﺎ‬.‫[ ﺩﻭﻣﺔ ﻭﺩ ﺣﺎﻣﺪ‬. . .] ‫ﻫﺎ ﻫﻲ ﺫﻱ‬ ‫[ ﺃﺗﺮﺍﻫﺎ ﻋﻘﺎﺑﺎً ﺧﺮﺍﻓﻴﺎً ﺑﺎﺳﻄﺎ ﺟﻨﺎﺣﻴﻪ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺍﻟﺒﻠﺪ ﺑﻜﻞ ﻣﺎ ﻓﻴﻬﺎ ؟‬. . .] ‫ﻓﻲ ﺍﻷﺭﺽ‬ Salih, CW, 506. Salih, CW, 506–7. Salih, CW, 512: ‫ ﻛﺬﺍﺏ ﻣﻦ ﻳﻘﻮﻝ ﻟﻚ ﺃﻧﻪ ﻳﻌﺮﻑ‬.‫ﻭﻛﺄﻧﻤﺎ ﻫﺬﻩ ﺍﻟﺒﻠﺪﺓ ﺑﺄﻫﻠﻬﺎ ﻭﺳﻮﺍﻗﻴﻬﺎ ﻭﻋﻤﺮﻫﺎ ﻗﺪ ﺍﻧﺸﻘﺖ ﻋﻨﻬﺎ ﺍﻷﺭﺽ‬ ‫ ﺃﻫﻠﻪ ﻻ ﻳﺰﻳﺪ‬. ‫ ﻭﻟﻜﻦ ﺑﻠﺪﻧﺎ ﻫﺬﺍ ﻗﺎﻡ ﺩﻓﻌﺔ ﻭﺍﺣﺪﺓ‬.‫ ﺍﻟﺒﻼﺩ ﺍﻻﺧﺮﻯ ﺗﺒﺪﺃ ﺻﻐﻴﺮﺓ ﺛﻢ ﺗﻜﺒﺮ‬. ‫ﺗﺎﺭﻳﺦ ﻧﺸﺄﺗﻬﺎ‬ . ‫ ﻛﺎﻧﺖ ﺩﻭﻣﺔ ﻭﺩ ﺣﺎﻣﺪ‬،‫ ﻭﻣﻨﺬ ﻛﺎﻧﺖ ﺑﻠﺪﺗﻨﺎ‬. ‫ ﻭﻫﻴﺌﺘﻪ ﻻ ﺗﺘﻐﻴﺮ‬، ‫ﻋﺪﺩﻫﻢ ﻭﻻ ﻳﻨﺘﻘﺺ‬

7. This pattern might also be compared to the Abrahamic (Biblical and Muslim) topos of the nations gathering at the divine locus marked by the arrival of the other as a result of Abraham’s hospitality. As Massignon puts it: ‘L’hospitalité d’Abraham est un signe annonciateur de la consommation finale du rassemblement de toutes les nations, bénies en Abraham, dans cette Terre Sainte qui ne doit être monopolisée par aucune.’ EM, 1:788. More generally, the villagers’ generous ways recall the long chain of associations between guest, host, hostage and enemy both in Massignon’s reading of the guest as the guest of God (∂ayf Allāh) and Derrida’s reading of Massignon, (‘Hostipitality’, 370–80), where the imperative of being open to the Other is confirmed. 8. Salih, CW, 517. 9. Hassan, Tayeb Salih, 59. 10. Salih, CW, 199.

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11. Salih, CW, 202–3. 12. Salih, CW, 237–8. 13. Salih, CW, 219, 225. Cf. Nada Tomiche’s reading of The Wedding of Zein as a plot centred on two miracles, one physical (Zein’s metamorphosis) and the other spiritual (Haneen separating Zein from Seif Al-Din and rehabilitating him morally, thereby allowing him to marry Niʿma). Nada Tomiche, ‘Al-Tayyib Salih: Le révélateur le plus sensible de l’acculturation. L’individu contre le groupe’, 380–1. 14. Although the word raªma and attributes of mercy abound in Q19, the verse that Salih quotes with respect to Niʿma’s interest in mercy comes from the story of Job in Q21:48. Salih, CW, 212: ‫ﻭﺗﺸﻌﺮ ﺑﻘﻠﺒﻪ ﻳﻌﺘﺼﺮﻩ ﺍﻟﺤﺰﻥ ﻭﻫﻲ ﺗﻘﺮﺃ ﻋﻦ ﺃﻳﻮﺏ ﻭﺗﺸﻌﺮ ﺑﻨﺸﻮﺓ ﻋﻈﻴﻤﺔ ﺣﻴﻦ ﺗﺼﻞ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺍﻵﻳﺔ ’ﻭﺁﺗﻴﻨﺎﻩ‬ ً ،‫‘ ﻭﺗﺘﺨﻴﻞ ﺭﺣﻤﺔ ﺇﻣﺮﺃﺓ ﺭﺍﺋﻌﺔ ﺍﻟﺤﺴﻦ ﻣﺘﻔﺎﻧﻴﺔ ﻓﻲ ﺧﺪﻣﺔ ﺯﻭﺟﻬﺎ‬.‫ﺭﺣﻤﺔ ﻣﻦ ﻋﻨﺪﻧﺎ‬ ‫ﺃﻫﻠﻪ ﻭﻣﺜﻠﻬﻢ ﻣﻌﻬﻢ‬ . ‫ﻭﺗﺘﻤﻨﻰ ﻟﻮ ﺃﻥ ﺃﻫﻠﻬﺎ ﺃﺳﻤﻮﻫﺎ ﺭﺣﻤﺔ‬ 15. Salih, CW, 193–5. 16. Salih, CW, 249. Cf. Tomiche’s remarks on the parallels in Salih’s fiction between Zein and Mustafa Saeed, both of whom are liberal and ‘anti-Imam’: Tomiche, ‘Al-Tayyib Salih’, 376–7. 17. Salih, CW, 254. 18. Salih, CW, 261. 19. Salih, CW, 280. 20. Hasab ar-Rasoul’s account emphasises the supernatural setting of the stranger’s arrival as his dark form takes shape against the dawn: ‫ﺭﺃﻳﺖ ﺍﻟﺪﻫﻤﺔ ﺗﺘﺸﻮﺑﺢ ﺑﻴﻦ ﺍﻟﻨﻬﺮ ﻭﺍﻟﺴﻤﺎء ﻛﺄﻧﻬﺎ ﻣﻤﺪﺓ ﺑﻴﻦ ﺍﻟﻨﺎﺭ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺍﻟﺸﺎﻃﺊ ﻭﻗﺒﺲ ﺍﻟﻔﺠﺮ ﺍﻟﺒﺎﺣﺖ‬ ‫ ﻭﺃﺣﺴﺴﺖ ﺑﻨﻔﺴﻲ ﺃﺿﻴﻊ ﻭﻓﻴﻤﺎ ﺃﻧﺎ ﺃﻫﻮﻯ ﺗﺬﻛﺮﺕ ﺍﻧﻨﻲ ﻣﺘﻮﺿﺊ ﻟﺼﻼﺓ ﺍﻟﺼﺒﺢ ﻭﺃﻥ‬. ‫ﺗﺤﺖ ﺧﻂ ﺍﻻﻓﻖ‬ ‫ ﺑﺪﺃﺕ ﺃﻃﻔﻮﺍ ﻭﺃﻧﺎ ﺃﺗﺸﺒﺚ ﺑﺘﻼﺑﻴﺐ ﺍﻟﻘﺮﺁﻥ ﺃﺭﺩﺩ ﺍﻷﺳﻤﺎء ﺑﻼ ﻭﻋﻲ ﻭﻋﻠﻰ ﺣﺎﻝ‬.‫ﻭﺿﻮﺋﻲ ﻟﻢ ﻳﻨﺘﻘﺾ‬ ‫[ ﻭﺑﻴﻦ ﻛﻞ‬. . .] ‫ ﻗﺎﻑ ﺻﺎﺩ ﻋﻴﻦ‬، ‫ ﻛﺎﻑ ﻻﻡ ﻣﻴﻢ‬،‫ ﺣﺎﻣﻴﻢ‬،‫ ﻳﺲ‬،‫ ﺃﺷﺮﻋﺖ ﺃﺳﻠﺤﺘﻲ‬.‫ﺭﺟﻞ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻷﻣﻴﻴﻦ‬ ‫ ﺣﺘﻰ ﻭﺟﺪﺕ‬، ‫ ﺃﺣﺲ ﺑﻤﻼﻙ ﻣﻦ ﻣﻼﺋﻜﺔ ﺍﻟﺴﻼﻡ ﻳﺤﻞ ﻓﻲ ﻗﻠﺒﻲ‬، ‫ﺑﺴﻢ ﺍﷲ ﻭﻻ ﺣﻮﻝ ﻭﻻ ﻗﻮﺓ ﺇﻻ ﺑﺎﷲ‬ . ‫ﺍﻟﺬﻱ ﺿﺎﻉ ﻣﻦ ﻟﺴﺎﻧﻲ ﻭﺟﻨﺎﻧﻲ‬

Salih, CW, 371–2. Although it frightens Hasab ar-Rasoul at first, the appearance of the demonic stranger thus returns him to himself. Hasab arRasoul adds that he hears the waves hitting the river banks ‘like thunder’ (‫)ﺳﻤﻌﺖ ﺣﺲ ﺍﻟﻤﻮﺝ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺍﻟﺸﺎﻃﺊ ﻛﺄﻧﻪ ﻗﺼﻒ ﺍﻟﺮﻋﺪ‬. Salih, CW, 373. 21. Cf. Derrida’s remark that the coming of the stranger epitomises the process of putting-into-question. De l’hospitalité, 11. 22. Salih, CW, 374:

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‫ً‬ ‫ﻭﺳﻬﻼ ﻗﻠﺖ ﻟﻪ ‪ً ،‬‬ ‫ً‬ ‫ً‬ ‫ﻭﺳﻬﻼ ﻭﺃﻟﻒ ﻣﺮﺣﺒﺎ ﺑﺎﻟﻀﻴﻒ ﺍﻟﻐﺮﻳﺐ ﺍﻟﺠﺎﻳﻲ ﻣﻦ ﺑﻼﺩ ﺍﷲ ‪ .‬ﻭﺻﻠﺖ ﻣﺤﻞ‬ ‫ﺃﻫﻼ‬ ‫ﺃﻫﻼ‬ ‫ﻋﺸﺎ ﺍﻟﻀﻴﻔﺎﻥ ﻭﺟﻤﻪ ﺍﻟﻔﺘﺮﺍﻥ ‪ ،‬ﻭﻛﻨﺖ ﻗﺪ ﻋﺪﺕ ﻛﻤﺎ ﺃﻧﺎ ﻭﺃﻛﺜﺮ ‪ ،‬ﺣﺴﺐ ﺍﻟﺮﺳﻮﻝ ﻭﺩ ﻣﺨﺘﺎﺭ ﻭﻟﺪ ﺣﺴﺐ‬ ‫ﺍﻟﺮﺳﻮﻝ ﺍﻟﺨﻤﺠﺎﻥ‪ ،‬ﺷﻜﺎﻝ ﺍﻟﺼﺮﻳﻤﺔ ﻭﻣﺨﻠﺺ ﺍﻟﻴﺘﻴﻤﺔ‪ ،‬ﻧﺎﺭﻩ ﻣﺎ ﺗﻨﻄﻔﻲ ﻭﺿﻴﻔﻪ ﻣﺎ ﻳﻨﻜﻔﻲ‪.‬‬

‫‪23. Salih, CW, 375:‬‬ ‫ﺍﻟﻮﺟﻪ ﻣﺜﻞ ﺍﻟﺼﺨﺮ ﻭﺍﻷﻧﻒ ﻣﺜﻞ ﺍﻟﺼﻘﺮ‪ .‬ﻭﺍﻷﺳﻨﺎﻥ ﺯﻱ ﺃﺳﻨﺎﻥ ﺍﻟﺤﺼﺎﻥ‪ .‬ﻭﺍﻟﻌﻴﻮﻥ ﺧﻀﺮ ﺗﻠﻤﻊ ﻣﺘﻞ‬ ‫ﺍﻟﻔﻴﺮﻭﺯ‪ .‬ﺟﻠﺖ ﺻﻨﻌﺔ ﺍﷲ‪.‬‬ ‫‪24. Massignon, EM, 1:787–90.‬‬ ‫‪25. Salih, CW, 383:‬‬ ‫ﻭﻛﺄﻥ ﺍﻹﺳﻢ ﻛﺎﻥ ﻣﻮﺟﻮﺩ ﻣﻨﺬ ﺍﻷﺯﻝ ﺃﻣﺎﻧﺔ ﻋﻨﺪﻧﺎ ﻳﻨﺘﻈﺮ ﺻﺎﺣﺒﻪ ﺍﻟﺬﻱ ﺟﺎء ﻳﺴﻌﻰ ﻣﻦ ﻭﺭﺍء ﺍﻟﺒﺤﺮ ﻭﻭﺭﺍء‬ ‫ﺍﻟﻐﻴﺐ ﻟﻴﺴﺘﻠﻢ ﺃﻣﺎﻧﺘﻪ‪.‬‬ ‫‪26. Salih, CW, 384:‬‬ ‫ﺟﻌﻞ ﻗﻠﻮﺑﻨﺎ ﺗﺨﻔﻖ ﻭﻋﻴﻮﻧﻨﺎ ﺗﺪﻣﻊ ‪ ،‬ﻭﺧﺼﻮﺻﺎً ﻣﻔﺘﺎﺡ ﺍﻟﺨﺰﻧﺔ ﺍﻟﺬﻱ ﺍﻋﺘﺮﺗﻪ ﺣﺎﻟﺔ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﻌﺸﻖ ﺃﺛﺮﺕ‬ ‫ﻋﻠﻴﻨﺎ ﻛﻠﻨﺎ ]‪ [. . .‬ﺍﻋﺘﺮﺗﻨﺎ ﺟﻤﻴﻌﺎً ﺣﺎﻟﺔ ﻋﺠﻴﺒﺔ ﺫﻟﻚ ﺍﻟﻀﺤﻰ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﻤﺴﺠﺪ ‪ ،‬ﻛﺄﻧﻨﺎ ﻧﺸﺎﻫﺪ ﻣﻌﺠﺰﺓ‪ .‬ﻭﺗﺄﻛﺪ‬ ‫ﻟﺪﻳﻨﺎ ﺃﻥ ﻣﻮﺝ ﺍﻟﻨﻴﻞ ﻟﻔﻆ ﺿﻮ ﺍﻟﺒﻴﺖ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺷﺎﻃﺊ ﻭﺩ ﺣﺎﻣﺪ ﻟﻴﻜﻮﻥ ﺑﺸﻴﺮﺍً ﻟﻨﺎ ﺑﺎﻟﺨﻴﺮ ﻭﺍﻟﺒﺮﻛﺔ‪.‬‬

‫‪27. Salih, CW, 387:‬‬ ‫ﻫﻮ ﻋﻴﻮﻧﻪ ﺧﻀﺮ ﻭﻧﺤﻦ ﻋﻴﻮﻧﻨﺎ ﺳﻮﺩ ‪ ،‬ﻭﻫﻮ ﻭﺟﻬﻪ ﺃﺑﻴﺾ ﻣﺜﻞ ﺍﻟﻘﻄﻦ ﻭﻧﺤﻦ ﻭﺟﻮﻫﻨﺎ ﻣﺜﻞ ﺍﻟﺠﻠﻮﺩ‬ ‫ﺍﻟﻤﺪﺑﻮﻏﺔ‪ ،‬ﻭ ﻫﻮ ﺧﺮﺝ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﻤﺎء ﻭﻧﺤﻦ ﺧﺮﺟﻨﺎ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﻄﻴﻦ‪ ،‬ﻭﻫﻮ ﻣﺴﻠﻢ ﻣﻦ ﺳﺘﺔ ﺃﺷﻬﺮ ﻭ ﻧﺤﻦ ﻣﺴﻠﻤﻮﻥ‬ ‫ﻣﻨﺬ ﺍﻷﺯﻝ ‪ ،‬ﻭﻧﺤﻦ ﺣﻴﺎﺗﻨﺎ ﺗﺒﺪﺃ ﻭﺗﻨﺘﻬﻲ ﺑﻴﻦ ﺍﻟﻨﻴﻞ ﺗﺤﺖ ‪ ،‬ﻭﺍﻟﺼﺤﺮﺍء ﻓﻮﻕ‪ ،‬ﻭﻫﻮ ﺣﻴﺎﺗﻪ ﻣﺎ ﻧﺪﺭﻱ ﻛﻴﻒ‬ ‫ﺑﺪﺃﺕ ﻭﻛﻴﻒ ﺗﻨﺘﻬﻲ‪ ،‬ﻭﻫﻮ ﺇﺳﻤﻪ ﻇﻬﺮ ﻣﻊ ﻇﻬﻮﺭﻩ‪ ،‬ﻭﻧﺤﻦ ﺍﺳﻤﺎءﻧﺎ ﻣﺴﻠﺴﻠﺔ ﺃﺑﺎً ﻋﻦ ﺟﺪ ﻣﺜﻞ ﺍﻟﺒﻨﻴﺎﻥ‬ ‫ﺍﻟﻤﺮﺻﻮﺹ ﺇﺳﻢ ﻓﻮﻕ ﺇﺳﻢ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺁﺩﻡ ‪.‬‬

‫‪28. Salih, CW, 389:‬‬ ‫ﻭﻧﺤﻦ ﻣﺎ ﻧﺪﺭﻱ ﺍﻟﺒﻜﺎء ﻻﻳﺶ ﻭ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺍﻳﺶ ‪ ،‬ﻋﻠﻰ ﺍﻟﻲ ﻟﻘﻴﻨﺎﻩ ﺃﻭ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺍﻟﻲ ﺿﺎﻉ‪.‬‬ ‫‪This ambiguity of the sentiment running through the group of men at the‬‬ ‫‪mosque who do not know whether they are at a wedding or at a funeral seems‬‬ ‫‪to be a staple of Salih’s fiction. See my reading of The Wedding of Zein below.‬‬ ‫‪29. Salih, CW, 393:‬‬ ‫ﻳﺠﻴﺌﻮﻥ ﺿﻌﻔﺎء ﻓﻴﻌﻮﺩﻭﻥ ﺃﻗﻮﻳﺎء‪ ،‬ﻭﻣﺴﺎﻛﻴﻦ ﻓﻴﻌﻮﺩﻭﻥ ﺃﻏﻨﻴﺎء ‪ ،‬ﻭﺿﺎﻟﻴﻦ ﻓﻴﺠﺪﻭﻥ ﺍﻟﻬﺪﻯ‪ .‬ﺍﻟﻴﻮﻡ‪ ،‬ﺳﻮﻑ‬ ‫ﺗﺘﻼﺣﻢ ﺍﻷﺟﺰﺍء ‪ ،‬ﻓﻴﺼﺒﺢ ﻛﻞ ﻭﺍﺣﺪ ﺃﺣﺪﺍً‪.‬‬ ‫‪30. Salih, CW, 396–7:‬‬ ‫ﺍﻟﻠﻴﻠﺔ ﻛﻞ ﺷﻴﺦ ﺻﺒﻲ‪ ،‬ﻭﻛﻞ ﺷﺎﺏ ﻋﺎﺷﻖ‪ ،‬ﻭﻛﻞ ﺇﻣﺮﺃﺓ ﺃﻧﺜﻰ ‪ ،‬ﻭﻛﻞ ﺭﺟﻞ ﺃﺑﻮ ﺯﻳﺪ ﺍﻟﻬﻼﻟﻲ ‪ .‬ﺍﻟﻠﻴﻠﺔ ﻛﻞ‬ ‫ﺷﻲء ﺣﻲ ]‪ [. . .‬ﻛﻞ ﻏﺼﻦ ﺛﻨﻰ ﻭﻛﻞ ﻧﻬﺪ ﺍﺭﺗﻌﺶ‪ ،‬ﻭﻛﻞ ﻛﻔﻞ ﺗﺮﺟﺮﺝ‪ ،‬ﻭﻛﻞ ﻃﺮﻑ ﻛﺤﻴﻞ ‪ ،‬ﻭﻛﻞ ﺧﺪ‬ ‫ﺃﺳﻴﻞ ‪ ،‬ﻭﻛﻞ ﻓﻢ ﻋﺴﻞ‪ ،‬ﻭﻛﻞ ﺧﺼﺮ ﻧﺤﻴﻞ‪ ،‬ﻭﻛﻞ ﻓﻌﻞ ﺟﻤﻴﻞ ‪ ،‬ﻭﻛﻞ ﺍﻟﻨﺎﺱ ﺿﻮ ﺍﻟﺒﻴﺖ ‪.‬‬

‫‪Abu Zeid al-Hilali (Abū Zayd Al-Hilālī) refers to the conquering folk hero‬‬ ‫‪whose adventures feature prominently in the medieval saga, Sīrat Banī Hilāl.‬‬

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‫ﺗﺮﺍﻫﺎ ﻣﻦ ﺑﻌﻴﺪ ﻛﺄﻧﻬﺎ ﻣﺪﻳﻨﺔ ﺑﺤﺎﻟﻬﺎ‪ ،‬ﺑﻌﺪﻣﺎ ﻛﺎﻧﺖ ﺍﻷﺭﺽ ﺧﺮﺍﺏ ﻣﻬﺠﻮﺭﺓ ﻃﺮﻑ ﺍﻟﺒﻠﺪ ‪31. Salih, CW, 400:‬‬ ‫‪This is of course the palace that will serve as a setting for Meryoud’s oppres‬‬‫‪sive behaviour towards the villagers. Dau al-Beit’s expertise prefigures another,‬‬ ‫‪darker return, namely that of Mustafa Saeed in Season of Migration to the‬‬ ‫‪North.‬‬ ‫ﺫﻫﺐ ﻣﻦ ﺣﻴﺚ ﺃﺗﻰ‪ ،‬ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﻤﺎء ﺇﻟﻰ ﺍﻟﻤﺎء‪ ،‬ﻭﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﻈﻼﻡ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺍﻟﻈﻼﻡ ‪32. Salih, CW, 399:‬‬ ‫‪33. Salih, CW, 399:‬‬ ‫ﺭﺃﻳﺖ ﺿﻮ ﺍﻟﺒﻴﺖ ﻭﻛﺄﻧﻪ ﻣﻌﻠﻖ ﺑﺨﻴﻮﻁ ﺍﻟﺸﻤﺲ ﺍﻟﻐﺎﺭﺑﺔ‪ ،‬ﺭﺍﻓﻌﺎً ﺑﺬﺭﺍﻋﻴﻪ ﺣﺴﺐ ﺍﻟﺮﺳﻮﻝ ﻓﻮﻕ ﺣﻤﺮﺓ‬ ‫ﺍﻟﺸﻔﻖ‪.‬‬ ‫ﻟﻤﺢ ﺿﻮ ﺍﻟﺒﻴﺖ ﻛﺄﻧﻪ ﻣﻌﻠﻖ ﺑﻴﻦ ﺍﻟﺴﻤﺎء ﻭﺍﻷﺭﺽ ﻳﺤﻴﻂ ﺑﻪ ﻭﻫﺞ ﺃﺧﻀﺮ ‪34. Salih, CW, 401:‬‬ ‫‪35. Salih, CW, 401:‬‬ ‫ﺭﺃﻯ ﺿﻮ ﺍﻟﺒﻴﺖ ﻭﻛﺄﻧﻪ ﻓﻲ ﻗﻠﺐ ﺍﻟﺸﻔﻖ ﺍﻷﺣﻤﺮ‪ ،‬ﻳﺒﺘﻌﺪ ﻭﻳﺒﺘﻌﺪ‪ .‬ﻭﻓﺠﺄﺓ ﺍﻣﺘﺪﺕ ﻳﺪ ﻣﺎﺭﺩ ﻣﻦ ﺣﻤﺮﺓ ﺍﻟﺸﻔﻖ‬ ‫ﻭﺍﻧﺘﺰﻋﺘﻪ ﻭﺣﺬﻓﺖ ﺑﻪ ﻓﺈﺫﺍ ﻫﻮ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺍﻟﺸﺎﻃﺊ‬ ‫‪36. Hassan, Tayeb Salih, 145–60. As Hassan points out, the Arabic subtitle of Dau‬‬ ‫‪al-Beit makes this clear: ‘A Tale of How a Father Becomes the Victim of His‬‬ ‫‪Father and His Son’. Tayeb Salih, 136.‬‬ ‫‪37. Salih, CW, 441–5.‬‬ ‫‪38. Salih, CW, 397.‬‬ ‫‪39. Hassan, Tayeb Salih, 164.‬‬ ‫‪40. Salih, CW, 447:‬‬ ‫ﻭﻣﻦ ﻋﺠﺐ ﺃﻧﻪ ﺷﺐ ﻛﺄﻧﻪ ﻧﺰﻝ ﻓﺠﺄﺓ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﺴﻤﺎء‪ ،‬ﺃﻭ ﺍﻧﺸﻘﺖ ﻋﻨﻪ ﺍﻷﺭﺽ‪ ،‬ﺃﻭ ﺃﻧﻪ ﻃﻠﻊ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﻨﻴﻞ‪ ،‬ﺷﺨﺼﺎً‬ ‫ﻛﺎﻣﻞ ﺍﻟﻬﻴﺌﺔ ﻭﺍﻟﺘﻜﻮﻳﻦ‪.‬‬ ‫‪41. Salih, CW, 448:‬‬ ‫ﻛﺄﻥ ﻭﺩ ﺣﺎﻣﺪ ﻛﻠﻬﺎ ]‪ [. . .‬ﻗﺪ ﺍﻫﺘﺰﺕ ﻭ ﺍﺭﺗﺠﺖ ﻭﺍﺻﺎﺑﺘﻬﺎ ﻗﺸﻌﺮﻳﺮﺓ ‪ .‬ﻟﻢ ﻳﻜﻦ ﺩﻋﺎﺅﻩ ﺩﻋﺎء ﺍﻟﻰ ﺍﻟﺼﻼﺓ ‪،‬‬ ‫ﻭﺍﻧﻤﺎ ﻛﺎﻥ ﺩﻋﺎء ﺍﻟﺤﻴﺎﺓ ﻣﻨﺬ ﻋﻬﺪ ﺁﺩﻡ ‪ ،‬ﻭﺩﻋﺎء ﺍﻟﻤﻮﺕ ﻣﻨﺬ ﻛﺎﻥ ﺟﺒﺮﻳﻞ ﻭﺇﺳﺮﺍﻓﻴﻞ ﻭﻣﻴﻜﺎﺋﻴﻞ ﻭﻋﺰﺭﺍﺋﻴﻞ ‪.‬‬ ‫‪42. Salih, CW, 439–40:‬‬ ‫ﺻﻮﺗﺎً ﻭﺻﻔﻪ ﺍﻟﺬﻳﻦ ﺳﻤﻌﻮﻩ ﺑﺄﻧﻪ ﻛﺎﻥ ﻛﺄﻧﻪ ﻣﺠﻤﻮﻋﺔ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻷﺻﻮﺍﺕ ‪ ،‬ﻳﺄﺗﻲ ﻣﻦ ﺃﻣﺎﻛﻦ ﺷﺘﻰ ﻭﻣﻦ ﻋﺼﻮﺭ‬ ‫ﻏﺎﺑﺮﺓ ‪ .‬ﻭﺃﻥ ﻭﺩ ﺣﺎﻣﺪ ﺍﺭﺗﻌﺸﺖ ﻟﺮﺣﺎﺑﺔ ﺍﻟﺼﻮﺕ ‪ ،‬ﻭﺃﺧﺬﺕ ﺗﻜﺒﺮ ﻭﺗﻜﺜﺮ ﻭﺗﻌﻠﻮ ﻭﺗﺘﺴﻊ ‪ ،‬ﻓﻜﺄﻧﻬﺎ ﻣﺪﻳﻨﺔ‬ ‫ﺃﺧﺮﻯ ﻓﻲ ﺯﻣﺎﻥ ﺁﺧﺮ‪.‬‬ ‫‪Bilal’s call to prayer recalls one of Derrida’s most important statements on‬‬ ‫‪the other: ‘L’autre appelle à venir et cela n’arrive qu’à plusieurs voix.’ Psyché,‬‬ ‫‪61.‬‬ ‫ﺃﻧﺖ ﺍﻟﻘﻄﺐ‪ .‬ﺃﻧﺖ ﺻﺎﺣﺐ ﺍﻟﺰﻣﺎﻥ ‪43. Salih, CW, 450:‬‬ ‫‪44. Salih, CW, 450. The Sheikh addresses Bilal thus:‬‬ ‫ﺍﻧﻚ ﻗﺪ ﺗﺒﻮﺃﺕ ً‬ ‫ﺭﺗﺒﺔ ﻗﻞ ﻣﻦ ﻭﺻﻞ ﺇﻟﻴﻬﺎ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﻤﺤﺒﻴﻦ ﺍﻟﺨﺎﺷﻌﻴﻦ ‪ ،‬ﻭﺍﻧﻨﻲ ﺍﺭﻛﺾ ﻓﻼ ﺃﻛﺎﺩ ﺃﻟﺤﻖ ﺑﻐﺒﺎﺭﻙ‪.‬‬ ‫‪45. Salih, CW, 449–50.‬‬ ‫‪46. Salih, CW, 439.‬‬

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47. Salih, CW, 439: ‫ﺑﻼﻝ ﺭﻭﺍﺱ ﻣﺮﺍﻛﺐ ﺍﻟﻘﺪﺭﺓ‬ 48. Salih, CW, 452–3. Salih’s account is deliberately set up to oppose the Sheikh’s humility and other-worldliness to the Mahdiyya’s concern with immediate power on earth rather than providing a complete account of the Mahdi state’s interaction with the Sufis of Sudan. R. Seán O’Fahey offers a concise account of the issues involved, arguing that, ‘during the crisis of the Mahdist revolution and state (1881–98), many, perhaps the majority of, Sudanese Muslims “suspended” one set of beliefs, practices and allegiances – their Sufi identity – for another, a belief in the Mahdi’. ‘Sufism in Suspense’, 267. Sheikh Nasrullah’s refusal to join this majority speaks to his authenticity. Cf. P. M. Holt, The Mahdist State in the Sudan, 17–46. 49. Salih, CW, 452. 50. P. M. Holt, ‘al-Mahdiyya’, EI. 51. The benefits of this opening up to the other can be further complicated by the fact that the Mahdiyya movement was itself modelled on the revolt of Ahmad ʿUrābī in Egypt, and that the Mahdi’s policies opposed Western efforts to end the slave trade in Africa. G. N. Sanderson, England, Europe and the Upper Nile, 1882–1899, 15. 52. Salih, CW, 454: ‫ﻓﻜﺎﻥ ﺷﺄﻧﻬﺎ ﻓﻲ ﺫﻟﻚ ﺷﺄﻥ ﺍﻟﻤﺘﺼﻮﻓﺔ ﺍﻟﻌﺎﻛﻔﻴﻦ‬ 53. The piscine relationship also suggests a link with the Mosaic narrative of Q18:60–4, where Moses and a young companion follow a fish on their way to find Al-Khi∂r. Cf. Cornelia Schöck, ‘Moses’, EQ, and Rāzī ad loc. as well as Norman O. Brown, ‘The Apocalypse of Islam’, 161–7. 54. Salih, CW, 456. 55. Salih, CW, 343. 56. Salih, CW, 342. 57. Salih, CW, 454: ‫ﺇﻥ ﺣﺐ ﺑﻌﺾ ﺍﻟﻌﺒﺎﺩ ﻣﻦ ﺣﺐ ﺍﷲ‬ Perhaps the best commentary on ʿAsha ʾl-Baytat’s vision comes from the truer Sufi, Taher Wad Rawwasi: ‘Next thing you’ll be telling us you’re God’s prophet, Al-Khi∂r or the awaited Mahdi.’ (‫ﺑﺎﻛﺮ ﺗﺠﻲ ﺗﻘﻮﻝ ﻟﻴﻨﺎ ﺍﻧﻚ ﻧﺒﻲ ﺍﷲ ﺍﻟﺨﻀﺮ ﻭﻻ‬ ‫ )ﺍﻟﻤﻬﺪﻱ ﺍﻟﻤﻨﺘﻈﺮ‬Salih, CW, 345. 58. Salih, CW, 470: .‫ ﻭﻭﺭﺍء ﺍﻟﺒﺤﺮ ﻻ ﺫﺍ ﻭﻻ ﺫﺍ‬. ‫ ﻭﻭﺭﺍء ﺍﻟﺠﺒﺎﻝ ﺑﺤﺮ‬.‫ ﻓﻮﺭﺍء ﻫﺬﻩ ﺍﻟﺒﻴﺪﺍء ﺟﺒﺎﻝ‬.ً‫ﺍﻧﻚ ﻟﻦ ﺗﺴﺘﻄﻴﻊ ﻣﻌﻲ ﺻﺒﺮﺍ‬ . ‫ ﺃﻧﺖ ﺗﻌﻮﺩ ﻭﺃﻧﺎ ﺃﻣﻀﻲ‬. ‫ﺍﻟﻨﺪﺍء ﻟﻲ ﻭﺣﺪﻱ‬ 59. Salih, CW, 471: . ‫[ ﺁﻳﺘﻚ ﺃﻥ ﺗﻈﻞ ﻳﻘﻈﺎﻥ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺁﺧﺮ ﺍﻟﻌﻬﺪ‬. . .] ‫ﺁﻳﺘﻚ ﻣﺎء‬ 60. Salih, CW, 472.

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61. Salih, CW, 473. This recalls Sheikh Nasrullah’s praise of Bilal, ‘When the voice called out to you, you said yes, you said yes, you said yes.’ CW, 438: .‫ ﻗﻠﺖ ﻧﻌﻢ‬،‫ ﻗﻠﺖ ﻧﻌﻢ‬،‫ﻟﻤﺎ ﻧﺎﺩﻙ ﺍﻟﺼﻮﺕ ﻗﻠﺖ ﻧﻌﻢ‬ 62. Salih, CW, 473. 63. Salih, CW, 357: ‫ ﻭﻭﻗﺘﻴﻦ ﺑﻘﻴﺖ ﺃﻓﻨﺪﻱ ﻛﻨﺖ ﻋﺎﻭﺯ ﺃﺑﻘﻰ‬.‫[ ﺑﻘﻴﺖ ﺍﻓﻨﺪﻱ ﻷﻥ ﺟﺪﻱ ﺃﺭﺍﺩ‬. . .] ‫ﻛﻨﺖ ﻓﺮﺣﺎﻥ ﻓﻲ ﻭﺩ ﺣﺎﻣﺪ‬ ‫ ﻭﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺨﺮﻃﻮﻡ‬.‫ ﻭﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺘﻌﻠﻴﻢ ﻗﻠﺘﻠﻬﻢ ﺍﺷﺘﻐﻞ ﻓﻲ ﻣﺮﻭﻯ ﻗﺎﻟﻮ ﺗﺸﺘﻐﻞ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺨﺮﻃﻮﻡ‬.‫ﺣﻜﻴﻢ ﺑﻘﻴﺖ ﻣﻌﻠﻢ‬ .‫ ﻭ ﻓﻲ ﻣﺪﺭﺳﺔ ﺍﻟﺒﻨﺎﺕ ﻗﻠﺘﻠﻬﻢ ﺍﺩﺭﺱ ﺗﺎﺭﻳﺦ ﻗﺎﻟﻮﺍ ﺗﺪﺭﺱ ﺟﻐﺮﺍﻓﻴﺎ‬.‫ﻗﻠﺘﻠﻬﻢ ﺍﺩﺭﺱ ﻭﻻﺩ ﻗﺎﻟﻮﺍ ﺗﺪﺭﺱ ﺑﻨﺎﺕ‬ .‫ ﻭﻫﻠﻢ ﺟﺮﺍ‬.‫ﻭ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺠﻐﺮﺍﻓﻴﺎ ﻗﻠﺘﻠﻬﻢ ﺍﺩﺭﺱ ﺃﻓﺮﻳﻘﻴﺎ ﻗﺎﻟﻮﺍ ﺗﺪﺭﺱ ﺃﻭﺭﺑﺎ‬

64. As in the lightning and the voice that beckon him towards his first vision of Bandarshah. Salih, CW, 325: ‫ ﻭﻟﻢ ﻳﻜﻦ ﻟﻪ ﻣﻦ ﺑﺪ ﺇﻻ ﺃﻥ ﻳﺴﻴﺮ ﻭﺭﺍءﻩ‬،‫ﻓﻘﺪ ﻛﺎﻥ ﺍﻟﻨﺪﺍء ﻫﻮ ﺍﻟﻈﻼﻡ ﺃﻭ ﺍﻟﺒﺮﻕ ﺍﻟﺬﻱ ﻳﻠﻤﻊ ﻓﻲ ﺟﻮﻑ ﺍﻟﻈﻼﻡ‬ . ‫ﻭﻳﻘﺘﻔﻲ ﺃﺛﺮﻩ‬ The location of this voice, ‘as close as his jugular vein’ (‫)ﻛﺤﺒﻞ ﺍﻟﻮﺭﻳﺪ‬, recalls the language of Q50:16, where God is described as being nearer to every person than ‘his jugular vein’. 65. Salih, CW, 473: ‫ﻃﺮﻳﻖ ﺍﻟﻌﻮﺩﺓ ﻛﺎﻥ ﺃﺷﻖ ﻷﻧﻨﻲ ﻛﻨﺖ ﻗﺪ ﻧﺴﻴﺖ‬ 66. This movement in response to a divine call defines the mystical quest for Michel de Certeau: ‘Le spirituel a pour formule première de n’être que la décision de partir.’ La Fable mystique I, 243. This dynamic will become especially important in the fiction of Ibrahim Al-Koni (see below). Chapter 3 1. Mohamed-Salah Omri, Nationalism, Islam and World Literature, viii. Omri’s study, to which my reading is much indebted, is probably the most important recent intervention on Al-Masʿadī. Omri’s account of Sufism in Al-Masʿadī’s fiction details the extensive allusions, borrowings and intertextual engagements with Sufism that feature in the writer’s œuvre. Nationalism, 110–35. For my present purposes I will focus only on the questions of witnessing and eternity, and will only cite Omri in case of a direct quotation. 2. Mohamed-Salah Omri finds this (perhaps too) heavily Nietzschean and prefers the more literal Abū Hurayra Is Reported to Have Said, which comes closer to the traditional formula of the ªadīth. Omri, Nationalism, 164 n. Nevertheless, Omri does describe Abū Hurayra as a ‘Zarathustra, an errant philosopher whose wisdom is drawn from experience, sensory experience and the intuitive’. 115.

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3. Omri, Nationalism, 134. 4. Maªmūd Al-Masʿadī, Óaddatha Abū Hurayra Qāl, 9: ٌ ‫ﻭﻓﺎ ٌء‬ ‫ ﻭﺍﺷﻬﺎ ٌﺩ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺃﻥ ﺗﺎﺝ ﺍﻟﻜﻴﺎﻥ‬، ‫ ﻭﺗﻮﻟﻴ ٌﺪ ﻟﻠﻌﺸﺮﺓ ﻣﻦ ﻣﻌﺪﻥ ﺍﻟﻮﺣﺸﺔ‬،‫ﺣﻨﻴﻦ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺍﻟﺬﺍﺕ ﺍﻟﺠﻮﻫﺮ ﺍﻟﻔﺮﺩ‬ . ‫ﻣﺮﻛﺐ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﻌﺸﻖ ﻭﺍﻟﻔﻨﺎء‬ 5. ‘Bak·āʾ wa- Fanāʾ’, EI. Another part of Fazlur Rahman’s definition is especially applicable to Al-Masʿadī, namely ‘the annihilation of the imperfect attributes (as distinguished from the substance) of the creature and their replacement by the perfect attributes bestowed by God’. On the complexities of this term see Nicholson, Mystics of Islam, 148–68 and the treatise Kashf Al-Maªjūb by the Persian Sufi Abū’l Óassan Al-Hujwīrī (d. 1077), 241–6. 6. Omri, Nationalism, 28. 7. Louis Massignon and Louis Gardet, ‘al-Óallādj’, EI. William Chittick makes clear that the doctrine (as opposed to the notion) of waªdat al-shuhūd occurs rather late in the history of Sufism, reaching its proper codification with Sirhindī in the seventeenth century. ‘Waªdatal-SHuhūd (a.)’, EI. Massignon too makes the point that the phrase waªdat al-shuhūd is not invented by Al-Óallāj, tracing it to the fourteenth century, in addition to offering a brief analysis of Sirhindī’s fatwas on the subject. Passion, 1:570 n., 2:293–4. With respect to the operation of waªdat al-shuhūd as an idea in the life and work of Al-Óallāj, see Massignon, Passion, 1:541, 568–70, 2:64–9. On ‘Anā al-Óaqq’ in particular see also Kitâb Al-Tawâsîn, 173–86; EM, 1:443–52. 8. Massignon, EM, 1:385–6: Souvenons-nous, à ce propos, des étapes de la formation de la notion de personne, d’abord masque temporaire faisant participer à une idole, puis rôle assimilant à un type, enfin conscience permanente d’une communion définitive avec le groupe, grâce a un nom personnel de religion [. . .] Du dedans, nous expérimentons notre personnalisation quand nous aimons. «Mon cœur avait tant de désirs épars, mais dès que je T’ai vu, ils se sont condensés en un» (Hallâj). C’est dans l’amour mystique que cette réalisation unificatrice, cette croissance au-dedans de la personne s’achève.

9. I translate Al-Masʿadī’s use of the word ªadīth in his chapter titles by ‘The Tale of . . .’ to emphasise the narrative aspect. 10. Al-Masʿadī, Óaddatha, 88: .‫ﻭﺃﻓﻨﻴﺘﻪ ﻭﺃﻓﻨﺎﻧﻲ‬ 11. Al-Masʿadī, Óaddatha, 88: . ‫[ ﻭﺃﻗﺼﻰ ﺍﻷﺑﺪ ﺍﻟﻔﺠﺮ ﻳﺎ ﺭﻳﺤﺎﻧﺔ‬. . .] ‫ﻭﻟﻮ ﺍﻧﺘﻔﻰ ﺍﻟﻘﺪﻡ ﻻﻧﺘﻔﻰ ﺍﻟﻤﻮﺕ‬ We would not be far wrong in reading an allusion to Ibn ʿArabī’s doctrine of

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‫‪the perpetual recreation of the universe in Abū Hurayra’s utterance, but the‬‬ ‫‪emphasis on the dawn in this chapter is more Nietzschean than Akbarian.‬‬ ‫‪12. Al-Masʿadī, Óaddatha, 90:‬‬ ‫ﻭﻗﺪ ﺫﻫﺐ ﻓﻨﻐﺺ ﻋﻠﻲ ﻣﺎ ﺟﺎء ﺑﻌﺪﻩ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﺪﻧﻴﺎ ﻓﻠﻢ ﺃﺟﺪ ﺑﻬﺎ ﻃﻌﺎﻣﺎً ﺑﻌﺪﻩ‪ .‬ﻭﺫﻫﺐ ﺍﻟﻔﺠﺮ ﺑﺎﻷﺑﺪ‪.‬‬ ‫‪In abandoning Rayªāna Abū Hurayra makes good on his offer to ‘teach her‬‬ ‫‪hunger’ in exchange for her feeding him. 84.‬‬ ‫‪13. Al-Masʿadī, Óaddatha, 90:‬‬ ‫ﻟﻘﺪ ﻛﺎﻥ ﺩﺍﺋﻢ ﺍﻟﺘﻮﻕ ﺍﻟﻰ ﺍﻟﺸﻤﺲ ﺩﺍﺋﻢ ﺍﻟﺨﻮﻑ ﻣﻦ ﻃﻠﻮﻋﻬﺎ‪ .‬ﻭﻳﻘﻮﻝ‪ :‬ﺇﻥ ﺍﺳﺘﻄﻌﺖ ﻓﺎﺟﻌﻞ ﻛﺎﻣﻞ ﺣﻴﺎﺗﻚ‬ ‫ﻓﺠﺮﺍً‪.‬‬ ‫‪14. Al-Masʿadī, Óaddatha, 111:‬‬ ‫ﺗﺼﻮﺭﺕ ﻟﻲ ﺑﻜﺮ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻷﺭﺽ ﺗﺪﻋﻮﻧﻲ‪ .‬ﻓﻄﺮﺣﺖ ﻣﺎ ﻛﺎﻥ ﻣﻌﻲ ﻭﻗﺪ ﻛﺴﻔﺖ ﻋﻨﻲ ﻟﺬﺗﻪ‪ .‬ﺛﻢ ﺍﻭﻗﻌﺖ ﺑﻬﺎ‬ ‫ﺭﺟﻠﻲ ﻓﻜﺎﻧﺖ ﻛﺎﻟﺨﻠﻖ ﺃﻭ ﻛﺎﻟﺪﻫﺮ‪ .‬ﻭﻫﻤﺖ ﻓﻠﻢ ﺃﺯﻝ ﻓﻴﻬﺎ ﻛﻌﺮﻭﺱ ﻟﻴﻠﺘﻪ ﺣﺘﻰ ﻣﻀﺖ ﻟﻲ ﺃﻳﺎﻡ ﻭﺃﻧﺎ ﺍﻃﻠﺐ‬ ‫ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﻔﺎﻛﻬﺔ ﻣﺎ ﻻ ﻳﻌﺮﻓﻪ ﻭﺃﺩﻋﻮﺍ ﺍﻟﻜﻮﻥ ﺃﻥ ﻳﻌﺎﺩ ﻭﺃﻏﺒﻂ ﺁﺩﻡ ﻭﺣﻮﺍء ‪ .‬ﺇﻟﻰ ﺃﻥ ﺗﻢ ﻋﻠﻲ ﺍﻧﻔﺮﺍﺩﻱ ﻓﺼﺎﺭ‬ ‫ﺍﻟﻠﻴﻞ ﻭﺍﻟﻨﻬﺎﺭ ﻛﺎﻟﻌﺒﺚ ﻟﻴﺲ ﻣﻦ ﻭﺭﺍﺋﻬﻤﺎ ﺷﻲء‪ ،‬ﻭﺍﺳﺘﻮﻯ ﻟﻲ ﺍﻟﺰﻣﺎﻥ ﻓﻬﻮ ﻛﺎﻟﺒﺤﺮ ﺍﻟﺴﺎﺟﻲ‪.‬‬ ‫ﺃﻭ ﻛﺎﻷﺑﺪ ‪.‬‬

‫‪15. Al-Masʿadī, Óaddatha, 112.‬‬ ‫‪16. Al-Masʿadī, Óaddatha, 113:‬‬ ‫ﻛﺎﺩﺍ ﻳﻌﻠﻤﺎﻧﻲ ﺟﻬﻠﻬﻤﺎ ﺑﺎﻟﺪﻧﻴﺎ ﻭﺑﻜﺮ ﺍﻟﺴﺒﻴﻞ‪ .‬ﻓﻠﻤﺎ ﻓﻘﺪﺗﻬﻤﺎ ﻋﺎﺩﺕ ﺗﻘﻮﺩﻧﻲ ﺍﻟﺴﺒﻞ ﺍﻟﻤﺴﻄﻮﺭﺓ‪ ،‬ﻭﻭﻗﻌﺖ ﻓﻲ‬ ‫ﺳﺎﺑﻖ ﻗﺼﺘﻲ ﻭﻧﻔﺴﻲ‪ ،‬ﻭﻛﻨﺖ ﺃﺭﻳﺪﻫﺎ ﻋﺬﺭﺍء ﻟﻢ ﻳﻄﺄﻫﺎ ﻭﺍﻃﺊ ‪ ،‬ﻓﺈﺫﺍ ﻫﻲ ﻋﺠﻮﺯ ﻓﺎﺟﺮﺓ‪.‬‬ ‫‪, drawings, signs or ruins. The double entendre is deliberate. Al-Masʿadī,‬ﺭﺳﻮﻡ ‪17.‬‬ ‫‪Óaddatha, 113.‬‬ ‫‪18. Al-Masʿadī, Óaddatha, 113:‬‬ ‫ﻓﺬﻫﺐ ﺫﻟﻚ ﺑﻮﺣﺸﺘﻲ ﻭﻧﺰﻋﺔ ﻓﺮﺣﻲ ﻭﻗﻠﺖ‪ :‬ﻣﺎ ﻃﻠﺐ ﺍﻟﻮﺣﺸﺔ ﻃﺎﻟﺐ ﺇﻻ ﺇﺳﺘﻴﻘﻆ ﻟﻪ ﺭﺳﻢ ﺩﺍﺭﺱ‪ .‬ﻓﻜﺄﻧﻲ‬ ‫ﺃﺟﺪﻩ ﺑﻘﻠﺒﻲ‪ .‬ﻭﻛﺮﻫﺘﻪ ﻓﻬﻤﻤﺖ ﺃﻥ ﺃﻧﺼﺮﻑ‪ .‬ﻭﻛﻨﺖ ﺧﺮﺟﺖ ﻷﻣﺤﻮ ﻗﺼﺘﻲ ﻓﺈﺫﺍ ﻫﻲ ﻓﻲ ﻣﻦ ﻗﺒﻞ ﺁﺩﻡ ﻻ‬ ‫ﺗﻨﻤﺤﻲ‪.‬‬ ‫‪Omri traces additional details of the idea of the effacement of the sign from‬‬ ‫‪the seeker’s soul in Sufi literature, notably from Al-Qushayrī and Al-Bis†amī.‬‬ ‫‪Omri, Nationalism, 121.‬‬ ‫ﻓﻠﻨﺒﻨﻲ ﺑﻨﺎ ﻳﻨﻔﻲ ﺍﻟﻌﺪﻡ ‪19. Al-Masʿadī, Óaddatha, 114:‬‬ ‫‪20. Odes, 3.30.‬‬ ‫‪21. The verses in question are the following:‬‬ ‫‪1. Q28:38:‬‬ ‫ﺎﻝ ﻓ ْﺮ َﻋ ْﻮ ُﻥ ﻳَﺎ ﺃَﱡﻳ َﻬﺎ ْﺍﻟ َﻤ َ ُ‬ ‫ْﺖ ﻟَ ُﻜ ْﻢ ِﻣ ْﻦ ﺇﻟَ ٍﻪ َﻏﻴْﺮﻱ َﻓﺄَ ْﻭ ِﻗ ْﺪ ﻟِﻲ ﻳَﺎ َﻫﺎ َﻣ ُ َ ﱢ‬ ‫ﻸ َﻣﺎ َﻋﻠِﻤ ُ‬ ‫ﺻ ْﺮ ًﺣﺎ‬ ‫ﻴﻦ َﻓ ْ‬ ‫ﺎﺟ َﻌ ْﻞ ﻟِﻲ َ‬ ‫َﻭ َﻗ َ ِ‬ ‫ﺎﻥ َﻋﻠﻰ ﺍﻟﻄ ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ََ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ﱠ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ﱡ‬ ‫ﱢ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ُﻮﺳﻰ َﻭﺇِﻧﻲ ﻷﻇﻨﻪ ِﻣ َﻦ ﺍﻟﻜﺎ ِﺫ ِﺑ َ‬ ‫ﻴﻦ‪.‬‬ ‫ﻟَ َﻌﻠﱢﻲ ﺃَﻃﻠِ ُﻊ ﺇِﻟﻰ ﺇِﻟ ِﻪ ﻣ َ‬ ‫‪Pharaoh said, ‘Counselors, you have no other god that I know of except I‬‬ ‫‪have never known of a god for you other than myself. Haman, light me a fire‬‬

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to bake clay bricks, then build me a tall building so that I may climb up to Moses’ God: I am convinced that he is lying.’

2. Q79:21–4: َ ‫( َﻓ َﻘ‬23) ‫( َﻓ َﺤ َﺸ َﺮ َﻓ َﻨﺎﺩَﻯ‬22) ‫َﺴ َﻌﻰ‬ َ ‫َﻓﺄَ َﺭﺍ ُﻩ ﺍﻵﻳ‬ ‫ﺎﻝ ﺃََﻧﺎ‬ ْ ‫َﺮ ﻳ‬ َ ‫( ﺛُ ﱠﻢ ﺃَ ْﺩﺑ‬21) ‫ﺼﻰ‬ َ ‫َﺔ ْﺍﻟ ُﻜﺒ‬ َ ‫( َﻓ َﻜ ﱠﺬ َﺏ َﻭ َﻋ‬20) ‫ْﺮﻯ‬ َ ْ ‫ﱡﻜ ُﻢ‬ ُ ‫َﺭﺑ‬ (24) ‫ﺍﻷ ْﻋﻠَﻰ‬ Moses showed him the great sign, but he denied it and refused [the faith]. He turned away and hastily gathered his people, proclaiming, ‘I am your supreme lord.’

22. Al-Óallaj, Tawâsîn, 41–55 (text), 170–2 (commentary). As the story is narrated in Q7:11–18, the devil (Iblīs), having been ordered to prostrate himself before Adam, refuses to do so on principle: qua monotheist, he prostrates himself before God alone. In so doing, Iblīs brings upon himself exile from Paradise and God’s eternal curse. In order to complete the allusion, as it were, Al-Masʿadī has Abū ʿUbayda, the narrator of this particular episode, conclude that the devil must have taken possession of Abū Hurayra to make him insert certain nonsensical elements into the Qurʾān in his dream. Óaddatha, 115. 23. Massignon, Passion, 3:374–6. According to Massignon, this particular passage is a late interpolation found only in certain versions of the Tawâsîn, added only to authorise orthodox mystics to read Al-Óallāj after his excommunication. 24. Al-Masʿadī, Óaddatha, 102: ‫ﻓﻼ ﺗﺠﻌﻞ ﻧﻔﺴﻚ ﻛﺎﻟﺠﺒﻞ ﻳﺪﻋﻮ ﺍﻟﺼﺎﻋﻘﺔ ﻓﺈﺫﺍ ﻭﻗﻌﺖ ﻋﻠﻴﻪ ﺇﺭﺗﺞ ﻭﺃﺻﺪﻯ‬ 25. Q 7:143 reads: ُ ْ َ ‫ْﻚ َﻗ‬ َ ‫ﺎﻝ َﺭ ﱢﺏ ﺃَﺭ ِﻧﻲ ﺃَ ْﻧ ُﻈ ْﺮ ﺇﻟَﻴ‬ َ ‫ُﻮﺳﻰ ﻟِ ِﻤ َﻴﻘﺎ ِﺗ َﻨﺎ َﻭ َﻛﻠﱠ َﻤ ُﻪ َﺭ ﱡﺑ ُﻪ َﻗ‬ ‫َﻞ َﻓﺈِ ِﻥ‬ َ ‫َﻭﻟَﻤﱠﺎ َﺟﺎ َء ﻣ‬ ِ ‫ﺎﻝ ﻟَ ْﻦ َﺗ َﺮﺍ ِﻧﻲ َﻭﻟَ ِﻜ ِﻦ ﺍ ْﻧﻈ ْﺮ ﺇِﻟَﻰ ﺍﻟ َﺠﺒ‬ ِ ِ َ ْ ‫ﱠ‬ ًّ ‫ﻑ َﺗ َﺮﺍ ِﻧﻲ َﻓﻠَﻤﱠﺎ َﺗ َﺠﻠﻰ َﺭ ﱡﺑ ُﻪ ﻟِﻠ َﺠﺒَﻞ َﺟ َﻌﻠَ ُﻪ ﺩ‬ َ ‫ﺎﻕ َﻗ‬ َ ‫ﺻ ِﻌ ًﻘﺎ َﻓﻠَﻤﱠﺎ ﺃ َﻓ‬ َ ‫ﺍﺳ َﺘ َﻘ ﱠﺮ َﻣ َﻜﺎ َﻧ ُﻪ َﻓ َﺴ ْﻮ‬ ‫ْﺤﺎ َﻧ َﻚ‬ ْ َ ‫ﺎﻝ ُﺳﺒ‬ َ ‫ُﻮﺳﻰ‬ َ ‫َﻛﺎ َﻭ َﺧ ﱠﺮ ﻣ‬ ِ َ َ ْ ُ َ َ ُ َ ْ َ ‫ﺗُﺒْﺖ ﺇِﻟﻴْﻚ َﻭﺃﻧﺎ ﺃﻭﱠﻝ ﺍﻟﻤُﺆ ِﻣ ِﻨ‬ .‫ﻴﻦ‬ When Moses came for the appointment, and his Lord spoke to him, he said, ‘My Lord, show Yourself to me: let me see You!’ He said, ‘You will never see me, but look at that mountain: if it remains standing firm, you will see Me,’ and when His Lord revealed Himself to the mountain, He made it crumble: Moses fell down, unconscious. When he recovered, he said, ‘Glory be to You! To You I turn in repentance! I am the first to believe!’

26. Al-Óallāj, Tawâsîn, 45–9 (text), 90 (commentary). 27. Al-Masʿadī, Óaddatha Abū Hurayra Qāl, 121. The story is narrated in Q18:9– 30. The verse Q18:22 lists several possibilities regarding the number of the sleepers – either three with the dog the fourth of their number, or five with the

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28. 29. 30. 31. 32.

33.

34. 35. 36.

37.

38.

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dog their sixth, or seven with the dog their eighth – but not the permutation in Al-Masʿadī’s novel. A clear, thorough account of this aspect of the Moses story is found in Sands, Sufi Commentaries, 79–109. Massignon, EM, 1:323–6. Brown, ‘Apocalypse’, 163–4. Cf. Massignon, EM, 1:332–5. Al-Masʿadī, Óaddatha, 122. Al-Masʿadī, Óaddatha, 123: ‫ﻭﻗﺎﻡ ﻳﻬﺪﻳﻨﺎ ﺣﺘﻰ ﻧﺰﻝ ﺑﻨﺎ ﺟﻨﺎﺕ ﻭﻭﺩﻳﺎﻧﺎً ﻃﺎﺷﺖ ﻋﻨﻬﺎ ﺃﻋﻴﻦ ﺍﻟﻨﺎﺱ ﻓﻬﻲ ﻋﻠﻰ ﻭﺟﻪ ﺍﻷﺭﺽ ﻭﻛﺄﻧﻬﺎ ﻣﻦ‬ . ‫ﺍﻟﺴﻤﺎء‬ The text makes clear that once the fruit from the desert orchards rains down on them, the Bedouins ‘approach him [Abū Hurayra] bowing and prostrating’: ‫ﻓﻴﻘﺒﻠﻮﻥ ﻋﻠﻴﻪ ﺭﻛﻌﺎً ﻭﺳﺠﻮﺩﺍ‬. Al-Masʿadī, Óaddatha, 124. Al-Masʿadī, Óaddatha, 124: . ‫ﻭﺍﷲ ﺍﻧﻬﺎ ﻟﻤﻦ ﺍﻟﻤﻌﺠﺰﺍﺕ‬ Al-Masʿadī, Óaddatha, 121: .‫ﻟﻴﺲ ﻣﻦ ﺷﺄﻥ ﺍﻹﻧﺴﺎﻥ ﺍﻟﻔﻨﺎء ﻭﺍﻟﺼﺒﺮ‬ Al-Masʿadī, Óaddatha, 125: ‫ ﺫﺍﻙ ﺃﻧﻴﻦ ﺍﻟﻤﺮﻳﺾ ﺃﻭ‬.‫ ﺇﻧﻪ ﻳﻌﻮﻱ ﺷﺄﻧﻪ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺤﻴﺎﺓ ﺣﺼﻴﺮﺍً ﺑﻤﺎ ﻗﺪﺭ ﻟﻪ‬.‫ﻫﻮ ﺃﻳﻀﺎً ﻳﺆﻟﻤﻪ ﺍﻟﻘﻀﺎء ﻓﻴﺒﻜﻲ‬ . ‫ﺛﻮﺭﺓ ﺍﻟﻤﺘﻤﺮﺩ‬ In an important reading of this novel Ferial Ghazoul treats Mawlid Al-Nisyān as a ‘philosophical Sufi novel’. This is certainly true but the vocabulary and the plot are more distant from the Sufi canon than Óaddatha. Ferial Ghazoul, ‘Al-Riwāya Al-Íūfiyya’, 36–9. Roger Arnaldez’s article, ‘Insān’, quotes Ibn ʿAbbās’s etymology, ‘man is called insān because he receives the alliance of God and then forgets [ fa nasiya]’ َ (‫ﺴﻲ‬ َ ‫ﺍﻹﻧﺴﺎﻥ ﺇِﻧﺴﺎﻧﺎً ﻷﻧﻪ ﻋﻬﺪ ﺇِﻟﻴﻪ َﻓ َﻨ‬ ِ ‫( )ﺇِﻧﻤﺎ ﺳﻤﻲ‬see the entry ʾ.n.s in Lisān Al-ʿArab). Ibn ʿAbbās’s etymology can be related to three passages in the Qurʾān where such an alliance is mentioned: Q7:172, Q20:115 and Q36:60. Of these, Q20:115 is linguistically the one that comes closest to Ibn ʿAbbās’s terminology, using the ُ ‫‘( َﻭﻟَ َﻘ ْﺪ َﻋﻬ ْﺪ َﻧﺎ ﺇﻟَﻰ ﺁ َﺩ َﻡ ِﻣ ْﻦ َﻗﺒ‬We also comterms ʿahd and nasiya: ‫ْﻞ َﻓ َﻨ ِﺴ َﻲ َﻭﻟَ ْﻢ َﻧ ِﺠ ْﺪ ﻟَ ُﻪ َﻋ ْﺰﻣًﺎ‬ ِ ِ manded Adam before you, but he forgot and We found him lacking in consistency.’) In a commentary whose wording comes very close to Al-Masʿadī’s title, Al-Zamakhsharī’s refers the alliance to the prohibition of the forbidden fruit and then explains that forgetting is ‘born’ of Adam’s failure to keep God’s advice as he should have by committing his heart to it and restraining his desires: ‫ ﺣﺘﻰ ﺗﻮﻟﺪ‬،‫ ﻭﻟﻢ ﻳﺴﺘﻮﺛﻖ ﻣﻨﻬﺎ ﺑﻌﻘﺪ ﺍﻟﻘﻠﺐ ﻋﻠﻴﻬﺎ ﻭﺿﺒﻂ ﺍﻟﻨﻔﺲ‬، ‫ﻭﺃﻧﻪ ﻟﻢ ﻳﻌﻦ ﺑﺎﻟﻮﺻﻴﺔ ﺍﻟﻌﻨﺎﻳﺔ ﺍﻟﺼﺎﺩﻗﺔ‬ .‫ﻣﻦ ﺫﻟﻚ ﺍﻟﻨﺴﻴﺎﻥ‬

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َ ‫ﺍﻟﺸﻴ‬ ‫ﺱ ﺇﻟَ ْﻴ ِﻪ ﱠ‬ َ ‫ﺎﻥ َﻗ‬ َ ُ ‫ْﻄ‬ 39. Cf. Q20:120: ‫ﺎﻝ ﻳَﺎ ﺁ َﺩ ُﻡ َﻫ ْﻞ ﺃَ ُﺩﻟﱡ َﻚ َﻋﻠَﻰ َﺷ َﺠ َﺮ ِﺓ ْﺍﻟ ُﺨ ْﻠ ِﺪ َﻭﻣ ُْﻠ ٍﻚ َﻻ َﻳﺒْﻠَﻰ‬ ِ َ ‫ﻓ َﻮ ْﺳ َﻮ‬. ‘But Satan whispered to Adam, saying, “Adam, shall I show you the tree of immortality and power that never decays?” ’ 40. Maªmūd Al-Masʿadī, Mawlid Al-Nisyān wa Taʾammulāt Ukhrā, 114: [. . .] ‫ ﺃﻧﺎ ﺍﻟﺒﻬﺘﺎﻥ‬.‫ ﻟﻦ ﺗﺪﺭﻙ ﺍﻟﺴﻤﺎء‬. ‫ ﻟﻦ ﻳﻐﻠﺐ ﺍﻟﺰﻣﺎﻥ‬.‫ ﻟﻦ ﻳﻮﻟﺪ ﺍﻟﻔﻨﺎء‬.‫ﻟﻦ ﻳﻮﻟﺪ ﺍﻟﻨﺴﻴﺎﻥ‬ 41. Al-Masʿadī, Mawlid, 13–14: ‫ ﻭﺗﻌﻠﻖ ﺍﻟﻨﺘﻦ ﺑﺎﻟﻬﻮﺍء‬.‫ ﻭﻫﺬﻩ ﺍﻟﻐﺪﺭﺍﻥ‬،‫ ﻭﻫﺬﺍ ﺍﻟﻌﻔﻦ ﻛﺎﻟﺠﺜﺚ ﺍﻟﺒﻮﺍﻟﻲ‬،‫ﺗﺠﺎﻭﺯ ﻃﺎﻗﺘﻲ ﻫﺬﺍ ﺍﻟﺤﺮ ﻳﺜﻘﻞ ﻛﺎﻟﻨﺪﻡ‬ ‫ ﻭﻧﻔﺴﻲ ﺃﻥ ﻻ ﻳﻘﻊ ﻟﻬﺎ ﺇﻻ‬، ‫ ﻭﻛﺮﻫﺖ ﻋﻴﻨﻲ ﺃﻥ ﻻ ﺗﺼﻴﺐ ﺇﻻ ﺟﺜﺚ ﺍﻟﻤﻮﺗﻰ‬،‫ﻭﺩﺧﻞ ﺍﻟﺤﻠﻖ ﻣﻊ ﺍﻷﻧﻔﺎﺱ‬ . ‫ﻣﻌﺎﻧﻲ ﺍﻟﻤﻮﺕ ﻭﺍﻟﻔﻨﺎء‬ This same language will be repeated when Madyan’s experiment with immortality fails and he ‘remembers’ his mortal body. 42. Al-Masʿadī, Mawlid, 87. Salhawā addresses the human in the following terms: ‫ ﻭﻟﻴﺲ ﺳﻮﺍﻙ‬، ‫ ﻭﺍﻟﺠﻤﺎﻝ ﻭﺍﻟﺴﻠﻮﻯ‬، ‫ ﻭﺃﻧﺖ ﺍﻟﻮﺍﺣﺪ ﺍﻷﻭﺣﺪ‬، ‫ ﻭﺳﺮﻱ ﻓﻲ ﺃﻛﻮﺍﻧﻲ‬،‫ﺃﻧﺖ ﺃﻣﻠﻲ ﻣﻦ ﺧﻠﻘﻲ‬ . ‫ﻣﻌﻨﻰ‬ 43. Al-Masʿadī, Mawlid, 88. 44. A good account of the neo-Platonic universe of Al-Suhrawardī, its genealogy is found in Ian Netton, Allah Transcendent, 256–306. With specific reference to the idea of the subtle body or the body of light, especially in their opposition to the corporeal body, see Henry Corbin, L’Homme de lumière dans le soufisme iranien, 30–2, 49, 68–70; Corps spirituel et Terre céleste, 13–18, 147–60. Ibn ʿArabī identifies the Muªammadan Reality (Al-Óaqīqa Al-Muªammadiyya) – the fact that Muªammad’s reality precedes Creation – with the pre-existent cosmic light and archetypal logos, describing it as light unmarred by shadow. See Arthur Jeffery, ‘Ibn Al-ʿArabī’s Shajarat Al-Kawn’, 45–53. The invocation of the ‘clear moonlit night’ in the last line of the novel recalls the moonlit night in Al-Suhrawardī’s allegorical tale, ‘Qi‚‚at Al-Ghirba Al-Gharbiyya’ (see my analysis of ‘Al-Musāfir’). Cf. Corbin’s translation and analysis of this allegory in his En Islam iranien, 2:270–94. 45. Al-Masʿadī, Mawlid, 107: ً‫ﺛﻢ ﻧﻈﺮﺕ ﻓﺈﺫﺍ ﻣﺎ ﻛﺎﻥ ﻳﻔﺰﻉ ﻣﻨﻪ ﻋﻘﻠﻲ ﻛﺎﻟﻔﻴﺾ ﻭﺗﺼﻮﺭ ﺑﺪﻳﻬﺎ‬ 46. Al-Masʿadī, Mawlid, 108: ‫ ﻭﻃﻬﺮﺗﻨﻲ ﻓﺄﻧﺎ ﻧﻈﻴﻒ ﻛﻨﺼﻊ‬. ‫ ﻭﻗﺪ ﺃﻣﻄﺮﺗﻨﻲ ﺍﻟﺴﻤﺎء ﻣﺎ ًء ﺻﻔﺎء‬. ً‫ ﻭﺃﺟﺪ ﺑﻲ ﻧﻮﺭﺍ‬،ً‫ﺍﻧﻲ ﺃﺟﺪﻧﻲ ﻭﺿﺎﺣﺎ‬ . ‫ ﻭﻗﺪ ﻋﺎﺩﺕ ﻟﻲ ﻋﻈﻤﺘﻲ ﻭﻃﻬﺎﺭﺗﻲ‬.‫ﻧﻈﻴﻒ‬ 47. Afifi, Mystical Philosophy of Muhyid Din-Ibnul ʿArabi, 29–32. 48. Al-Masʿadī, Mawlid, 111: ‫ ﻓﻤﺎ ﺃﻭﺳﻊ ﺍﺑﻌﺎﺩﻱ! ﻫﺎ ﺳﻜﻦ ﻋﻨﻲ ﺍﻟﺤﺲ‬،‫ ﺃﻧﻈﺮﻭﺍ ﺁﻓﺎﻗﻲ ﺗﺘﻨﺎءﻯ‬.ً‫ﻟﻜﻦ ﻣﻦ ﺃﻧﺎ؟ ﺍﻭﻟﺪ ﻛﻞ ﺳﺎﻋﺔ ﺧﻠﻘﺎً ﺟﺪﻳﺪﺍ‬ . . . ً‫ ﻭﻋﻈﻤﺖ ﻭﺷﺮﺑﺖ ﺍﻟﺴﻤﺎء ﻭﺣﻠﺖ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻷﻛﻮﺍﻥ ﺟﻤﻴﻌﺎ‬.‫ﻭﺁﻥ ﺍﻟﺤﻠﻮﻝ‬

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49. Omri, Nationalism, 130–1. 50. Cf. Louis Massignon and Georges-Chehata Anawati, ‘Óulūl’, EI, as well as Massignon’s Essai sur les origines du lexique technique de la mystique musulmane, 39. 51. Massignon makes clear that Al-Óallāj uses it only as a poetic approximation. Massignon, Passion, 3:57 n. 52. Al-Masʿadī, Mawlid, 113: . . . ‫ ﻭﻻ ﻫﻲ‬،‫ ﻓﻼ ﻫﻮ ﺇﺳﺘﻄﺎﻉ ﺍﻟﺨﻠﻮﺩ‬،‫ ﻭﺧﺎﻧﺘﻨﻲ ﺍﻟﺮﻭﺡ‬،‫ﻟﻘﺪ ﺧﺎﻧﻨﻲ ﺍﻟﺠﺴﺪ‬ 53. The terms Al-Masʿadī uses are ‘security and serenity’, (‫)ﺍﻟﻄﻤﺄﻧﻴﻨﻪ ﻭﺍﻟﺤﻠﻢ‬. Al-Masʿadī, Mawlid, 120. 54. Omri, Nationalism, 111–13; Al-Masʿadī, Mawlid, 127. 55. Al-Masʿadī, Mawlid, 119: ،‫ ﻳﺪﺧﻞ ﺍﻟﺤﺪﻳﻘﺔ ﻭﻳﻘﻮﻡ ﺗﺤﺖ ﺍﻟﻘﺒﺔ‬، ‫ ﻓﺈﺫﺍ ﻫﻮ ﻳﺠﻲء ﺍﻟﺠﺒﻞ ﻇﺎﻫﺮ ﺍﻟﻤﺪﻳﻨﺔ‬.‫ﺟﺎءﺕ ﻟﻴﻠﺔ ﻷﻻء ﻣﻦ ﺯﺟﺎﺝ‬ .‫ﻭﻗﺪ ﺃﺳﻘﻂ ﻓﻲ ﻧﻔﺴﻪ ﻭﺟﺎءﻫﺎ ﺍﻻﺳﻼﻡ‬ Corbin cites one commentator who sees it as a symbol of the ‘purification of the impurities exhaled by material nature’; a topos not too far removed from Madyan’s project in Mawlid Al-Nisyān. En Islam iranien, 2:274. 56. It might be tempting to compare the city to which Al-Masʿadī’s voyager descends with the internal city of Gnostic and Illuminationist doctrine, but that would contradict the clearly worldly location of the former and the otherworldly situation of the latter. See Corbin, En Islam iranien, 2:274–5, 280–2, 293, 325–7. 57. Al-Masʿadī, Mawlid, 123–4. We might see in the Masʿadīan topos of the self transformed into something solid, be it a statuesque body of marble or a mortal body of flesh, an echo of the notion of the Sufi mundus imaginalis (ʿālam al-mithal ) in which, as the scholar and theologian Muªsin-i Fay∂i Kāshānī (1598–1679) puts it, spirits become flesh and bodies are spiritualised. Corbin, Corps spirituel, 207. In this framework the conclusion of the story would plead against the validity of the mundus imaginalis in favour of the world of the here and now. 58. Al-Masʿadī describes the vertiginous Sufi thought process as follows. Al-Masʿadī, Mawlid, 127: ‫ﻓﻼ ﻳﻜﻦ ﺑﻪ ﺇﻻ ﺃﻥ ﻳﻔﻀﻲ‬، ‫ ﻭﻳﻘﺘﺼﺮ ﻓﻴﻪ ﺍﻟﻤﻔﻜﺮ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺍﻟﻌﻘﻞ‬، ‫ﻭﺍﻧﻤﺎ ﻫﻮ ﺍﻟﻤﻔﻜﺮ ﻳﺒﻠﻎ ﺑﺼﺎﺣﺒﻪ ﺃﻗﺼﺎﻩ‬ ،‫ ﻭﻳﺸﺮﻑ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺃﻭﻝ ﺃﻓﻖ ﺍﻟﻴﺄﺱ ﻭﺍﻟﻘﻨﻮﻁ‬، ‫ﺑﻪ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺍﻟﻮﺣﺪﺓ ﻭﺇﻟﻰ ﺍﻟﻌﺠﺰ ﻋﻦ ﺑﻠﻮﻍ ﺃﻟﺤﻖ ﺑﺎﻟﺘﻌﻘﻞ ﻭﺍﻟﻌﻘﻞ‬ . ‫ ﻭﻳﺨﺎﻑ ﺃﻥ ﻳﻘﻊ ﻓﻴﻪ‬، ‫ﻭﻳﻜﺎﺩ ﺃﻥ ﻳﺄﺧﺬﻩ ﺩﻭﺭ ﺍﻟﺤﻴﺮﺓ‬

59. Al-Masʿadī, Mawlid, 133: .‫ ﻫﺒﺔ ﺍﻟﻮﺟﻮﺩ ﺍﻟﻤﻄﻠﻖ ﻟﻠﺤﻲ ﺍﻟﻄﻤﺄﻧﻴﻨﺔ ﻭﺍﻟﺴﻌﺔ ﻭﺍﻟﺮﻭﺡ‬. ‫ﻫﺒﺔ ﺍﻟﺤﻲ ﻧﻔﺴﻪ ﻟﻠﺤﻴﺎﻩ‬

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60. Corbin, En Islam iranien, 2:259. 61. Omri, Nationalism, 47. Al-Masʿadī refers to God as wājib al-wujūd (the Necessary Being) in Mawlid, 122. Chapter 4 1. Gamal Al-Ghitany, Al-Aʿmāl Al-Kāmila (Complete Works, henceforth CW ), 1:33. 2. Al-Ghitany, CW, 1:33–58. 3. In translating the word ‫( ﺍﻟﺘﺠﻠﻴﺎﺕ‬al-tajalliyāt) by ‘revelations’ I am taking liberties: the term could also be rendered by ‘illuminations’, ‘theophanies’ or ‘selfdisclosures’. See the comments on the term tajallī in Chittick, Self-Disclosure of God, 52–7, as well as the comments of Khaled Osman, Al-Ghitany’s French translator, in Gamal Al-Ghitany, Le Livre des illuminations, 13–14. 4. The intertextual relationship between Al-Ghitany and Ibn ʿArabī has been the object of several studies – in addition to works cited below, see Alexander Knysh, ‘Sufi Motifs in Contemporary Arabic Literature: The Case of Ibn ʿArabi’, and Fā†ima ʿUthmān, ‘TawÕīf Al-Íūfiyya’. 5. Al-Ghitany, CW, 1:7–17. 6. Al-Ghitany, CW, 1:19–32. 7. Al-Ghitany, Muntahā Al-˝alab, 154; Al-Tajalliyāt, CW, 7:229: .‫ﻫﻮ ﻣﻦ ﻧﺼﺤﻨﻲ ﺑﺎﻟﺘﺠﻠﻲ ﻷﻥ ﺍﻟﻨﺎﺋﻢ ﻳﺮﻯ ﻣﺎ ﻻ ﻳﺮﺍﻩ ﺍﻟﻴﻘﻈﺎﻥ‬ 8. Al-Ghitany, Nithār, 12. 9. ‘‫’ﺃﺑﻮﺳﻌﻨﺎ ﺍﻗﺘﻔﺎء ﺃﺛﺮ ﻟﺤﻈﺔ ﻭﻟﺖ ؟‬, CW, 5:498 10. Ayman El-Desouky, ‘Al-Qa‚‚ wa-l-Iqti‚ā‚‚’, 131–8. 11. Al-Ghitany, CW, 7:20: ‫ ﺃﺭﻯ‬، ‫ ﺃﺑﺼﺮ ﺭﻗﻌﺔ ﺍﻷﺭﺽ ﻓﻲ ﺳﻔﺮﻫﺎ ﻋﺒﺮ ﺍﻟﺰﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﺬﻱ ﻟﻦ ﺃﻋﻴﺸﻪ‬،‫ﺍﻟﺪﻧﻴﺎ ﻓﻲ ﻓﺮﺍﻕ ﺩﺍﺋﻢ ﻋﻦ ﺍﻟﺪﻧﻴﺎ‬ ‫ ﻟﻤﻦ‬،‫ ﻭﺍﺗﻤﻨﻰ ﻟﻮ ﺃﺛﺒﺖ ﺭﺳﺎﻟﺔ ﺃﻭ ﻋﻼﻣﺔ ﻓﻮﻗﻬﺎ ﻟﻤﻦ ﺳﻴﻄﺆﻫﺎ‬،‫ﺗﺪﻓﻖ ﺍﻟﺤﺮﻛﺔ ﻓﻮﻗﻬﺎ ﺑﻌﺪ ﻓﺮﺍﻗﻲ ﺍﻟﻨﻬﺎﺋﻲ‬ . . . ‫ ﻟﻌﻞ ﻭﻋﺴﻰ‬، ‫ﺳﻴﻌﺒﺮﻫﺎ‬ Later the narrator of Al-Tajalliyāt remarks that there is a spot on the floor in his father’s house that remained untouched after he was born. Al-Ghitany, CW, 7:49. 12. Al-Ghitany, CW, 5:560. 13. ‫ﺍﻟﻜﺎﺗﺐ ﻭﺍﻟﻤﻜﺘﻮﺏ ﻋﻨﻪ ﺷﺨﺺ ﻭﺍﺣﺪ‬. This phrase occurs repeatedly in Al-Ghitany’s essays on the turāth: Muntahā Al-˝alab, 24, 41, 47. 14. Al-Ghitany, CW, 6:489. Al-Ghitany’s language deliberately echoes Ibn ʿArabī’s declaration regarding his miʿrāj, ‘My voyage was only in myself.’ 15. Maurice Blanchot, L’Espace littéraire, 21:

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Kafka remarque qu’il est entré dans la littérature dès qu’il a pu substituer le «il» au «Je» [. . .] L’idée de personnage, comme forme traditionnelle du roman, n’est qu’un des compromis par lesquels l’écrivain, entraîné hors de soi par la littérature en quête de son essence, essaie de sauver ses rapports avec le monde et avec lui-même.

16. 17. 18. 19.

20.

21. 22. 23.

24. 25. 26. 27.

28. 29.

Michel Lafon, Borges ou la re-écriture, 62. Gamal Al-Ghitany, ‘Intertextual Dialectics’, 82. Al-Ghitany, CW, 7:39–40. Cf. Derrida’s comment: ‘C’est l’oreille de l’autre qui me dit, moi, qui constitue l’autos de mon autobiographique.’ L’Oreille de l’autre, 71. My phrasing is borrowed from Robert Smith, who argues that ‘for Derrida autobiography is not so much subjective self-revelation as relation to the other, not so much a general condition of thought as a general condition of writing’. Derrida and Autobiography, i. ʿAbd al-Salām Al-Kiklī argues that Al-Tajalliyāt is a hybrid autobiography that violates the terms of the autobiographical pact set out in Philippe Lejeune’s Pacte autobiographique. Al-Zaman Al-Riwāʾī, 104–6. Cf. Rotraud Wielandt’s response to this point, ‘Mystische Tradition und zeitgenossische Wirklichkeitserfahrung’, 498 n.22. ‘C’est l’œuvre littéraire qui fait foi.’ Al-Ghitany, Mahfouz par Mahfouz, 17. Jacquemond, Entre scribes et écrivains, 54–7; Céza Kassem-Draz, ‘Opaque and Transparent Discourse,’ 32–50. The legends and appellations that developed in the wake of Al-Óusayn’s death at Karbalāʾ are summarised in Laura Veccia Vaglieri, ‘(al-) Óusayn b. ʿAlī b. Abī ˝ālib’, EI. On Al-Ghitany’s concern with injustice see Maʾmūn Al-Íimādī, Gamal Al-Ghitany wa-l-Turāth, 100–9. On Al-Ghitany’s intense relationship to the character ‘Khaled’ see Al-Íimādī, Gamal Al-Ghitany, 159–61. My terms are taken from Elaine Scarry’s account of torture in The Body in Pain, 27–59. Al-Ghitany, CW, 7:608–9. See Samia Mehrez’s fine analysis of the relationship between fiction and history in Egyptian Writers between History and Fiction, 1–14 and, on Al-Ghitany in particular, 58–77, 96–118. Chittick, Sufi Path, 4; Self-Disclosure, xxiv–xxv, 96–8. Al-Ghitany, ‘Intertextual Dialectics’, 82:

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‫[ ﻭﻛﻞ ﻫﺬﻩ ﺍﻟﻤﺴﻤﻴﺎﺕ ﺇﺳﻢ ﻟﺸﻲء ﻭﺍﺣﺪ ﻻ‬. . .] ‫ ﺍﻟﺪﻫﺮ ﺑﻜﻞ ﻣﺴﻤﻴﺎﺗﻪ‬، ‫ﺇﻥ ﺍﻟﺪﻫﺮ ﻫﻮ ﻫﻤﻲ ﺍﻷﺳﺎﺳﻲ‬ ‫ ﻣﺠﻬﻮﻝ ﺍﻟﻜﻨﻪ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺍﻟﺮﻏﻢ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻧﻨﺎ ﻧﺮﻯ ﻣﻼﻣﺤﻪ ﻭﻋﻼﻣﺎﺗﻪ ﻓﻲ ﻛﻞ ﺛﺎﻧﻴﺔ ﺗﻤﺮ‬،‫ ﻻ ﺃﻭﻝ ﻭﻻ ﺁﺧﺮ‬، ‫ﻳﻘﻬﺮ‬ ،‫ ﻭﺍﻟﺤﻴﺎﻩ ﺍﻹﻧﺴﺎﻧﻴﺔ ﺳﺘﻀﻴﻊ ﻣﻼﻣﺤﻬﺎ ﻟﻮﻻ ﺍﻟﻔﻦ‬،‫ ﺍﻷﺷﻮﺍﻕ ﺍﻹﻧﺴﺎﻧﻴﺔ ﺳﺘﺼﻴﺮ ﺇﻟﻰ ﻋﺪﻡ ﻟﻮﻻ ﺍﻟﻔﻦ‬. ‫ﺑﻨﺎ‬ ‫ﺇﻥ ﺍﻟﻔﻦ ﺑﺄﻭﺟﻬﻪ ﺍﻟﻤﺨﺘﻠﻔﺔ ﻫﻮ ﺍﻟﻤﺤﺎﻭﻟﺔ ﺍﻟﻮﺣﻴﺪﺓ ﺍﻟﺼﺎﺩﻗﺔ ﺍﻟﺘﻲ ﻳﺒﺬﻟﻬﺎ ﺍﻹﻧﺴﺎﻥ ﻓﻲ ﻫﺬﺍ ﺍﻟﻜﻮﻥ ﺃﻣﺎﻡ ﻫﺬﻩ‬ . ‫ ﻟﻜﻲ ﻳﻘﺎﻭﻡ ﺍﻟﻔﻨﺎء ﻭﺍﻟﻌﺪﻡ‬. . . ‫ﺍﻟﻘﻮﺓ ﺍﻟﺘﻲ ﻻ ﺭﺍﺩ ﻟﻬﺎ‬

30. Al-Ghitany, Muntahā Al-˝alab, 11. 31. Al-Ghitany, CW, 5:576: .‫ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺒﻘﺎء‬،‫ﺇﻧﻪ ﺍﻟﺮﻏﺒﺔ ﺍﻟﺪﻓﻴﻨﺔ ﻳﺎ ﺃﺧﻲ ﻓﻲ ﻋﺪﻡ ﺍﻟﺰﻭﺍﻝ‬ On the style of Risāla fī-l-Íabāba see Fay‚al Darrāj, NaÕariyyat Al-Riwāya wa-lRiwāya Al-ʿArabiyya, 244–5. 32. Cf. Richard van Leeuwen, ‘An Inner Pilgrimage‘, 159–67; El-Desouky, ‘AlQa‚‚’, 137–9. 33. James W. Morris, ‘The Spiritual Ascension: Ibn ʿArabī and the Miʿrāj Part I’, 633 and ‘The Spiritual Ascension: Ibn ʿArabī and the Miʿrāj Part II’, 64. 34. Chodkiewicz, Seal of the Saints, 47–51, 74–88; Al-Óakīm, Al-Muʿjam Al-Íūfī, 1191–208. 35. Quoted in El-Desouky, ‘Al-Qa‚‚’, 144. 36. Louis Gardet, Etudes de philosophie et mystique comparées, 71–3; Chittick, Sufi Path, 49, 132–4. 37. According to Barthes, this has always been the task of literature : ‘Le réel n’est pas représentable et c’est parce que les hommes veulent sans cesse le représenter par des mots, qu’il y a une histoire de la littérature’. Œuvres complètes, 3:806. 38. Cf. Clément Rosset on the difficulty of creating a suitable representation of the Real: ‘Le réel est toujours ici, mais n’apparaît jamais qu’ailleurs, il faut donc regarder ailleurs si l’on veut l’apercevoir. La seule vision d’approcher le réel est une vision de loin et de biais.’ Le Réel, 124. As Rosset’s subsequent analysis shows, this ‘vision from afar’ is often best provided by temporal displacement, as witness the case of Proust. Rosset’s remarks on the uniqueness and unrepresentability (in his words the ‘idiocy’) of the Real find a striking echo in the second chapter of the Fu‚ū‚ Al-Óikam, where visions of God are revealed to be visions of the seeker of God, as the Real cannot be caught in a mirror. Cf. Rosset, Le Réel, 40–5; Michel Chodkiewicz, Un océan sans rivages, 61; Ian Almond, Sufism and Deconstruction, 14–19; Ibn ʿArabī, Fu‚ū‚ Al-Óikam, 1:61–2 (text), 2:23–4 (commentary). 39. See Barthes, Œuvres complètes, 1:1214–15 and, on the interaction of hyperand hypo-textuality, Samia Mehrez, ‘Bricolage as Hypertextuality’.

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40. Al-Ghitany, CW, 7:259–60: ‫ ﺧﻔﻘﺔ ﺍﻟﻘﻠﺐ‬،‫ ﻛﺬﺍ ﺍﻻﻃﻼﻟﺔ ﺍﻷﺧﻴﺮﺓ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﺤﺪﻗﺘﻴﻦ‬. ‫ ﻣﺴﻠﻢ ﺑﺄﻥ ﺍﻟﻔﺮﺍﻕ ﺣﻖ‬،‫ ﻭﺍﺛﻖ‬، ‫ ﻣﻮﻗﻦ‬،‫ﺍﻧﻨﻲ ﻣﺆﻣﻦ‬ ‫ ﻭﺍﻟﻨﻬﺎﻳﺔ‬،‫ ﺍﻟﺒﺪﺍﻳﺔ ﺣﻖ‬،‫ ﻭﺃﻥ ﺍﻟﻌﺪﻡ ﺣﻖ‬، ‫ ﺃﻥ ﺍﻟﻮﺟﻮﺩ ﺣﻖ‬، ‫ ﻭﺩﻓﻘﺘﻪ ﺍﻟﺘﻲ ﻻ ﺩﻓﻘﺔ ﺑﻌﺪﻫﺎ ﺣﻖ‬،‫ﺍﻟﻮﻟﻬﻰ ﺣﻖ‬ . ‫ ﻛﺬﺍ ﺍﻟﻨﻘﺺ‬،‫ ﻭﺍﻟﻜﻤﺎﻝ ﺣﻖ‬،‫ ﻭﺍﻟﻘﺒﺢ ﺣﻖ‬، ‫ ﻭﺃﻥ ﺍﻟﺠﻤﺎﻝ ﺣﻖ‬، ‫ ﻭﺍﻷﺳﻰ ﻋﻠﻰ ﻣﺎ ﺭﺍﺡ ﺣﻖ‬،‫ﺣﻖ‬

41. Derrida, Donner le temps, 59–60: [L]e don n’est un don, il ne donne que dans la mesure où il donne le temps. La différence entre un don et toute autre opération d’échange pur et simple, c’est que le don donne le temps. Là où il y a le don, il y a le temps[…]La chose comme chose donnée, le donné du don n’arrive, s’il arrive, que dans le récit.

42. 43. 44.

45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50.

51. 52.

Cf. John Protevi, Political Physics, 75–86; Martin Hägglund, Radical Atheism, 16–19, 35–9. Derrida, Donner le temps, 22–9. Al-Ghitany, Al-Majālis Al-MaªfūÕiyya, 28. ‘[S]eule une «vie» peut donner, mais une vie dans laquelle cette économie de la mort se présente et se laisse déborder. Ni la mort ni la vie immortelle ne peuvent jamais donner, seulement une singulière survivance.’ Derrida, Donner le temps, 132. Cf. Parages where the case is made for surviving as a basis for writing: ‘Ça [écriture, marque, trace] ne vit, ni ne meurt, ça survit. Et ça ne «commence» que par la survie.’ 148–9. Al-Ghitany, ‘Intertextual Dialectics’, 82. See Ruspoli’s analysis of this aspect of Ibn ʿArabī’s Tajalliyāt in Le Livre des théophanies, 43–59. Derrida, Chaque fois unique, la fin du monde, 9; Béliers, 22–3. Derrida, Chaque fois, 198. Derrida, Chaque fois, 178. The opposition between these two possibilities can of course be mapped onto the opposition between mourning and melancholia in Freud, or that between the processes of introjection and incorporation in Abraham and Torok. This issue has occasioned a large body of work. See in particular Abraham and Torok, L’Ecorce et le noyau, 259–75; Derrida, ‘Fors’, 17–18; Memoirs, 6, 33–5; De quoi demain, 257–8; Pascale-Anne Brault and Michael Naas, ‘Introduction’, 25–31; Colin Davis, ‘Etat présent’, 373–9. On the idea of improper burial as the efficient cause of haunting, see Slavoj Žižek, Looking Awry, 23. Al-Ghitany, CW, 7:28–9.

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53. In his valuable article on the subject, Gerhard Böwering cites Al-Jurjānī’s gloss on Ibn ʿArabī’s dahr: ‘[D]ahr is the permanent moment (ān) which is the expansion (imtidād ) of the divine presence and the innermost part of time, in which eternity a parte ante and a parte post (abad and azal ) are united.’ ‫ﺍﻟﺪﻫﺮ ﻫﻮ ﺍﻵﻥ ﺍﻟﺪﺍﺋﻢ ﺍﻟﺬﻱ ﻫﻮ ﺇﻣﺘﺪﺍﺩ ﺍﻟﺤﻀﺮﺓ ﺍﻻﻟﻬﻴﺔ ﻭﻫﻮ ﺑﺎﻃﻦ ﺍﻟﺰﻣﻦ ﻭﺑﻪ ﻳﺘﺤﺪ ﺍﻷﺯﻝ ﻭﺍﻷﺑﺪ‬ ‘Ideas of Time in Persian Sufism’, 217. Cf. Böwering, ‘Ibn al-ʿArabī’s Concept of Time’, 75–91; Chittick, Sufi Path, 395; Chittick, Self-Disclosure, 128–31. 54. Hägglund, Radical Atheism, 18; Derrida, Marges, 13–14. 55. Al-Ghitany, CW, 7:238–9: ‫ ﻭﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﻨﻬﺎﺭ ﺍﻟﻠﺤﻈﺎﺕ ﺍﻟﻔﺎﺻﻠﺔ ﺑﻴﻦ ﺍﻟﺜﺎﻧﻴﺔ‬، ‫ ﻟﻪ ﻣﻦ ﺃﻳﺎﻡ ﺍﻻﺳﺒﻮﻉ ﻳﻮﻡ ﺍﻟﺠﻤﻌﺔ‬، ‫ﻭﻫﻮ ﻣﻮﻗﻒ ﺻﻌﺐ‬ ، ‫[ ﻋﻠﻮﻣﻪ ﺟﻤﺔ‬. . .] ،‫ ﺃﺗﻨﺘﻤﻲ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺍﻟﻴﻮﻡ ﺍﻟﺮﺍﺣﻞ ﺃﻭ ﺍﻟﻴﻮﻡ ﺍﻟﻤﻘﺒﻞ؟‬، ‫ ﻭﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﻠﻴﻞ ﻟﺤﻈﺔ ﺍﻧﺘﺼﺎﻓﻪ‬، ‫ﻭﺍﻟﺜﺎﻧﻴﺔ‬ ‫ ﻭﻋﻠﻢ ﻻ ﺗﺪﺭﻱ ﻧﻔﺲ ﺑﺄﻱ ﺃﺭﺽ ﺗﻤﻮﺕ ﻭﻻ ﺗﺪﺭﻱ‬، ‫[ ﻭﻋﻠﻢ ﻛﻞ ﻣﻦ ﻋﻠﻴﻬﺎ ﻓﺎﻥ‬. . .] ‫ﻓﻤﻨﻬﺎ ﻋﻠﻢ ﺍﻟﻠﻘﺎء‬ ‫ ﻭﻋﻠﻢ‬،‫[ ﻭﻋﻠﻢ ﻟﺤﻈﺔ ﺍﺳﺘﻘﺮﺍﺭ ﺍﻟﺸﻌﻮﺭ ﺑﺎﻟﻔﺮﺍﻕ‬. . .] ‫ ﻭﻋﻠﻢ ﺍﻟﻠﺤﻈﺎﺕ ﺍﻟﻘﺪﻳﻤﺔ‬، ً‫ﻧﻔﺲ ﻣﺎﺫﺍ ﺗﻜﺴﺐ ﻏﺪﺍ‬ ‫ ﻭﺗﺮﺩﻳﻨﺎ‬،ً‫ ﻭﻗﻀﻴﻨﺎ ﻓﻴﻪ ﺯﻣﻨﺎ‬،‫ﺍﻟﻠﺤﻈﺔ ﺍﻷﺧﻴﺮﺓ ﺍﻟﺘﻲ ﻟﻦ ﻧﺮﻯ ﺑﻌﺪﻫﺎ ﺃﺣﺒﺎﺑﺎً ﻧﻌﺮﻓﻬﻢ ﺃﻭ ﻣﻜﺎﻧﺎً ﺍﺭﺗﺒﻄﻨﺎ ﺑﻪ‬ ‫ ﻭﻫﻞ ﺳﻨﺮﻯ ﻣﺎ ﺭﺃﻳﻨﺎﻩ ﻣﺮﺓ ﺃﺧﺮﻯ ؟ ﻭﻫﻞ ﺗﻜﻮﻥ ﺍﻟﺮﺟﻌﻰ؟‬:‫ﺍﻟﺼﺎﻣﺖ‬

56. Al-Ghitany, CW, 7:251. 57. These moments are scattered throughout the first two parts of the novel, but see especially Al-Ghitany, CW, 7: 180–204. Although it would be difficult to make a case for an allusion, Al-Ghitany’s synthesis of remembrance (or unforgetting, anamnesis) and anticipation recalls the work of Sahl Al-Tustarī, who envisions the mystic caught between remembering his pre-existential past and anticipating his post-existential future. Cf. Böwering, ‘Ideas of Time’, 219–20 and more generally his Mystical Vision, 49–50, 185–201. 58. Mark Currie, About Time, 42. The narrator’s chronic anxiety in Risāla fī-lÍabāba centres on the prolepsis and the impossibility of grasping an ephemeral present. Al-Ghitany, CW, 5:551. 59. Richard van Leeuwen, ‘Love and the Mechanisms of Power’, 102. 60. This is also how the narrator describes himself in Risāla fī-l-Íabāba: ‫ ﻣﺎ ﺃﻧﺎ ﺇﻻ ﻓﺮﺩ ﻓﻲ ﺟﻤﻊ‬. Al-Ghitany, CW, 5:562. 61. Al-Ghitany stresses his protagonist’s transience early in the novel: .‫ ﻣﻔﺎﺭﻕ‬،‫ ﻣﺆﻗﺖ‬،‫ ﻣﺎ ﻳﺆﻛﺪ ﺃﻧﻪ ﻋﺎﺑﺮ‬،‫ ﺣﻴﺮﺓ ﻧﻈﺮﺍﺗﻪ‬،‫ ﻗﻌﺪﺗﻪ‬،‫ ﻓﻲ ﺣﻀﻮﺭﻩ‬، ‫ﻋﺮﻑ ﺑﻴﻦ ﺍﻟﻨﺎﺱ ﺑﺎﻟﻐﺮﻳﺐ‬ Al-Ghitany, CW, 6:213. 62. Ibn ʿArabī describes the afrād in immense detail in chapters 30–2 and most especially chapter 73 of the Futūªāt. Typically, Chodkiewicz offers the clearest synthesis of the concept in Seal, 54–5, 103–15. Claude Addas emphasises the influence of the afrād on Ibn ʿArabī’s spiritual development in Quest, 71–3.

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‫‪notes‬‬ ‫‪63. Al-Ghitany, CW, 7:126:‬‬

‫ﻛﻨﺖ ﻓﺮﺩﺍً ﻭﺍﻟﻌﺴﺲ ﺟﻤﻌﺎً‬ ‫‪See, for instance, Al-Ghitany’s own remarks about this pattern in Al-Ghitany,‬‬ ‫‪‘Intertextual Dialectics’, 79.‬‬ ‫‪Al-Ghitany, ‘Intertextual Dialectics’, 79–80.‬‬ ‫‪Mahmūd Amīn Al-ʿĀlim, Arbaʿūn ʿĀman min Al-Naqd Al-Ta†bīqī, 150–1.‬‬ ‫‪See the detailed examination of passages from Ibn Iyās and Ibn ʿArabī in‬‬ ‫‪Murād Mabrūk, Al-ʿAnā‚ir Al-Turāthiyya fī-l-Riwāya Al-ʿĀrabiyya, 181–97,‬‬ ‫‪201–8, 271–84, appendix.‬‬ ‫‪Al-Ghitany, Muntahā Al-˝alab, 31. Presumably Al-Shaʿrānī dropped this‬‬ ‫‪habit once he attained wealth and popularity later in his life.‬‬ ‫‪As in the following passage from Ibn ʿArabī’s Kitāb Al-Tajalliyāt Al-Ilāhiyya:‬‬

‫‪64.‬‬ ‫‪65.‬‬ ‫‪66.‬‬ ‫‪67.‬‬

‫‪68.‬‬ ‫‪69.‬‬

‫ﷲ ﺭﺟﺎﻝ ﻛﺸﻒ ﻋﻦ ﻗﻠﻮﺑﻬﻢ ﻓﻼﺣﻈﻮﺍ ﺇﺟﻼﻟﻪ ﺍﻟﻤﻄﻠﻖ ﻓﺄﻋﻄﺎﻫﻢ ﺑﺬﺍﺗﻪ ﻣﺎ ﻳﺴﺘﺤﻘﻪ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻵﺩﺍﺏ ﻭ‬ ‫ﺍﻹﺟﻼﻝ‪ .‬ﻓﻬﻢ ﺍﻟﻘﺎﺋﻤﻮﻥ ﺑﺤﻖ ﺍﷲ ﻻ ﺑﺄﻣﺮﻩ ‪ ،‬ﻭﻫﻮ ﻣﻘﺎﻡ ﺟﻠﻴﻞ ﻻ ﻳﻨﺎﻟﻪ ﺇﻻ ﺍﻷﻓﺮﺍﺩ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﺮﺟﺎﻝ ‪ ،‬ﻭﻫﻮ‬ ‫ﻣﻘﺎﻡ ﺃﺭﻭﺍﺡ ﺍﻟﺠﻤﺎﺩﺍﺕ‪ .‬ﻭ ﻣﻦ ﻫﺬﺍ ﺍﻟﻤﻘﺎﻡ ﺗﺪﻗﺪﻕ ﺍﻟﺠﺒﻞ ﻭ ﺳﻌﻖ ﻣﻮﺳﻰ ﻋﻠﻴﻪ ﺍﻟﺴﻼﻡ ]‪، [cf. Q7:142‬‬ ‫ﻭ ﻟﻢ ﻳﻔﺘﻘﺮﻭﺍ ﻓﻲ ﺫﻟﻚ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺍﻷﻣﺮ ﺑﺎﻟﺘﺪﻛﺪﻙ ﻭ ﺍﻟﺴﻌﻖ‪ .‬ﻓﻬﺆﻻء ﺧﺼﺎﺋﺺ ﺍﷲ ﻗﺎﻣﻮﺍ ﺑﻌﺒﺎﺩﺓ ﺍﷲ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺣﻖ‬ ‫ﺍﷲ‪ .‬ﻭ ﻫﻢ ﺍﻟﺨﺎﺭﺟﻮﻥ ﻋﻦ ﺍﻷﻣﺮ‪.‬‬

‫‪Rasāʾil Ibn ʿArabī, 435. The Mosaic moment carries a lot of weight in the‬‬ ‫‪translation of the afrād from Ibn ʿArabī’s scheme to Al-Ghitany’s fiction.‬‬ ‫‪70. As in this passage from Ibn ʿArabī’s Kitāb Al-Tajalliyāt Al-Ilāhiyya:‬‬ ‫ﷲ ﻗﻮﻡ ﻣﻦ ﺑﻨﻲ ﺁﺩﻡ ﻫﻢ ﺍﻷﻓﺮﺍﺩ ﺍﻟﺨﺎﺭﺟﻴﻦ ﻋﻦ ﺩﺍﺋﺮﺓ ﺍﻟﻘﻄﺐ ﻻ ﻳﻌﺮﻓﻮﻥ ﻭ ﻻ ﻳﻌﺮﻓﻮﻥ ﻗﺪ ﻃﻤﺲ ﺍﷲ‬ ‫ﻋﻴﻮﻧﻬﻢ ﻓﻬﻢ ﻻ ﻳﺒﺼﺮﻭﻥ ‪ ،‬ﺣﺠﺒﻬﻢ ﻋﻦ ﻏﻴﺐ ﺍﻷﻛﻮﺍﻥ ﺣﺘﻰ ﻻ ﻳﻌﺮﻑ ﺍﻟﻮﺍﺣﺪ ﻣﻨﻬﻢ ﻣﺎ ﺃﻟﻘﻰ ﻓﻲ ﺟﻴﺒﻪ ‪،‬‬ ‫ﺃﺣﺮﻯ ﺃﻥ ﻻ ﻳﻌﺮﻑ ﻣﺎ ﻓﻲ ﺟﻴﺐ ﻏﻴﺮﻩ‪ ،‬ﺃﺣﺮﻯ ﺃﻥ ﻻ ﻳﺘﻜﻠﻢ ﻋﻦ ﺿﻤﻴﺮ‪.‬ﻳﻜﺎﺩ ﻻ ﻳﻔﺮﻕ ﺑﻴﻦ ﺍﻟﻤﺤﺴﻮﺳﺎﺕ‬ ‫ﻭ ﻫﻲ ﺑﻴﻦ ﻳﺪﻳﻪ ﺟﻬﻼ ﺑﻬﺎ ﻻ ﻏﻔﻠﺔ ﻋﻨﻬﺎ ﻭ ﻻ ﻧﺴﻴﺎﻧﺎ‪ ،‬ﻭ ﺫﻟﻚ ﻟﻤﺎ ﺣﻘﻘﻬﻢ ﺑﻪ ﺗﻌﺎﻟﻰ ﻣﻦ ﺣﻘﺎﺋﻖ ﺍﻟﻮﺻﺎﻝ‪،‬‬ ‫ﻭ ﺍﺻﻄﻨﻌﻬﻢ ﻟﻨﻔﺴﻪ ﻓﻤﺎ ﻟﻬﻢ ﻣﻌﺮﻓﺔ ﺑﻐﻴﺮﻩ‪ ،‬ﻓﻌﻠﻤﻬﻢ ﺑﻪ‪ ،‬ﻭ ﻣﺠﺪﻫﻢ ﻓﻴﻪ‪ ،‬ﻭ ﺣﺮﻛﺘﻬﻢ ﻣﻨﻪ ‪ ،‬ﻭ ﺷﻮﻗﻬﻢ ﺇﻟﻴﻪ ‪،‬‬ ‫ﻭ ﻧﺰﻭﻟﻬﻢ ﻋﻠﻴﻪ‪ ،‬ﻭ ﺟﻠﻮﺳﻬﻢ ﺑﻴﻦ ﻳﺪﻳﻪ‪.‬‬

‫‪Ibn ʿArabī, Rasāʾil, 429.‬‬ ‫‪71. Cf. Ibn ʿArabī’s Kitāb Al-Tajalliyāt again:‬‬ ‫ﷲ ﺧﺰﺍﺋﻦ ﻧﺴﺒﻴﺔ ﻳﺮﻓﻊ ﺑﻬﺎ ﺗﻮﺟﻬﺎﺕ ﻋﺒﻴﺪﻩ ﺍﻟﻤﻔﺮﺩﻳﻦ ﻓﺘﻘﻠﺐ ﺃﻋﻴﺎﻧﺎ ﻓﺘﻌﻮﺩ ﺃﺳﺮﺍﺭﺍ ﺇﻟﻬﻴﺔ ﺑﻌﻴﻦ ﺍﻟﺠﻤﻴﻊ ‪ ،‬ﻭ‬ ‫ﺗﻮﺟﻬﺎﺗﻬﺎ ﺑﻤﺎ ﻣﻨﻬﻢ ﻓﻴﺮﺩﻫﺎ ﻋﻠﻴﻬﻢ ﺑﻤﺎ ﺇﻟﻴﻬﻢ‪ .‬ﻭ ﻟﻬﻢ ﺧﺰﺍﺋﻦ‪ ،‬ﻓﻴﻘﻠﺒﻮﻥ ﺃﻋﻴﺎﻧﺎ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺻﻮﺭﺓ ﻓﻴﺮﻓﻌﻮﻧﻬﺎ ﺇﻟﻴﻪ‬ ‫ﺑﻤﺎ ﻣﻨﻬﻢ‪ ،‬ﻓﻴﻘﻠﺐ ﺃﻋﻴﺎﻧﻬﺎ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺻﻮﺭﺓ ﺃﺧﺮﻯ ﻋﺮﻓﺎﻧﻴﺔ ﻓﻴﺮﺳﻠﻬﺎ ﺑﻤﺎ ﺇﻟﻴﻬﻢ ‪ ،‬ﻓﻴﻘﻠﺒﻮﻥ ﻋﻴﻨﻬﺎ ﻓﻲ ﺻﻮﺭﺓ‬ ‫ﺃﺧﺮﻯ ﺑﻤﺎ ﻣﻨﻬﻢ ﻫﻜﺬﺍ ﻗﻠﺒﺎ ﻻ ﻳﺘﻨﺎﻫﻰ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺼﻮﺭ ‪ ،‬ﻭﺍﻟﻌﻴﻦ ﻭﺍﺣﺪﺓ ‪ ،‬ﻓﺈﻟﻴﻬﻢ ﻋﺮﻓﺎﻥ ﻭ ﻣﻨﻬﻢ ﺃﻋﻤﺎﻝ‪.‬‬

‫‪Ibn ʿArabī, Rasāʾil, 435.‬‬ ‫‪. Ibn ʿArabī, Sharª Muʿjam Istilāªāt Al-Íūfiyya,‬ﻣﺎ ﻳﻨﻜﺸﻒ ﻟﻠﻘﻠﻮﺏ ﻋﻦ ﺍﺳﺮﺍﺭ ﺍﻟﻐﻴﻮﺏ ‪72.‬‬ ‫‪40. Chittick emphasises the relationship between tajallī and nūr, the divine‬‬

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‫‪light that is God as defined in Q24:35: ‘God is the light of the heavens and the‬‬ ‫‪). The revelation of the divine takes the form of‬ﺍﷲ ﻧﻮﺭ ﺍﻟﺴﻤﺎﻭﺍﺕ ﻭ ﺍﻷﺭﺽ( ’‪earth‬‬ ‫‪knowledge or gnosis, reason and faith. Chittick, Sufi Path, 18–19, 196, 216.‬‬ ‫‪. Ibn ʿArabī, FM, 1:205.‬ﻛﻞ ﻣﻤﻜﻦ ﻣﺨﺘﺼﺮ ﻓﻲ ﺳﺮ ﺃﻭ ﺗﺠﻠﻲ‬ ‫‪Ibn ʿArabī, FM, 1:153:‬‬ ‫ﻭ ﻣﺪﺍﺭ ﺍﻟﻌﻠﻢ ﺍﻟﺬﻱ ﻳﺨﺘﺺ ﺑﻪ ﺃﻫﻞ ﺍﷲ ﺗﻌﺎﻟﻰ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺳﺒﻊ ﻣﺴﺎﺋﻞ ‪ ،‬ﻣﻦ ﻋﺮﻓﻬﺎ ﻟﻢ ﻳﻌﺘﺺ ﻋﻠﻴﻪ ﺷﻲء ﻣﻦ‬ ‫ﻋﻠﻢ ﺍﻟﺤﻘﺎﺋﻖ ‪ .‬ﻭ ﻫﻲ ﻣﻌﺮﻓﺔ ﺃﺳﻤﺎء ﺍﷲ ﺗﻌﺎﻟﻰ ﻭ ﻣﻌﺮﻓﺔ ﺍﻟﺘﺠﻠﻴﺎﺕ‬ ‫‪Ibn ʿArabī, Le Dévoilement des effets du voyage, 4:‬‬ ‫ﻟﻤﺎ ﻛﺎﻥ ﺍﻟﻮﺟﻮﺩ ﻣﺒﺪﺃﻩ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺍﻟﺤﺮﻛﺔ ﻟﻢ ّ‬ ‫ﻳﺘﻤﻜﻦ ﺃﻥ ﻳﻜﻮﻥ ﻓﻴﻪ ﺳﻜﻮﻥ ﻷﻧﻪ ﻟﻮ ﺳﻜﻦ ﻟﻌﺎﺩ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺃﺻﻠﻪ ﻭ ﻫﻮ‬ ‫ﺍﻟﻌﺪﻡ‪.‬‬ ‫‪Ibn ʿArabī, Dévoilement, 1–2.‬‬ ‫‪Ibn ʿArabī, Dévoilement, 7:‬‬ ‫ً‬ ‫ﺃﺻﻼ ﺑﻞ ﺍﻟﺤﺮﻛﺔ ﺩﺍﺋﻤﺔ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺪﻧﻴﺎ ﻟﻴﻞ ﻭ ﻧﻬﺎﺭ ﻳﺘﻌﺎﻗﺒﺎﻥ ﻓﺘﺘﻌﺎﻗﺐ ﺍﻷﻓﻜﺎﺭ ﻭ ﺍﻟﺤﺎﻻﺕ ﻭ‬ ‫ﻓﻼ ﺛﻢ ﺳﻜﻮﻥ‬ ‫ﺍﻟﻬﻴﺌﺎﺕ ﺑﺘﻌﺎﻗﺒﻬﻤﺎ ﻭ ﺗﻌﺎﻗﺐ ﺍﻟﺤﻘﺎﺋﻖ ﺍﻹﻟﻬﻴﺔ ﻋﻠﻴﻬﺎ‪.‬‬ ‫‪Ibn ʿArabī, Dévoilement, 5–6:‬‬ ‫ﻭ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺍﻟﺤﻘﻴﻘﺔ ﻓﻼ ﻧﺰﺍﻝ ﻓﻲ ﺳﻔﺮ ﺃﺑﺪﺍ ﻣﻦ ﻭﻗﺖ ﻧﺸﺄﺗﻨﺎ ﻭ ﻧﺸﺄﺓ ﺃﺻﻮﻟﻨﺎ ﺇﻟﻰ ﻣﺎ ﻻ ﻧﻬﺎﻳﺔ ﻟﻪ‬ ‫‪Al-Ghitany, CW, 7:15:‬‬ ‫ﻣﺎ ﻣﻦ ﺷﻲء ﻳﺜﺒﺖ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺣﺎﻟﻪ ‪ ،‬ﻟﻮ ﺣﺪﺙ ﺫﻟﻚ ﻟﺼﺎﺭ ﺍﻟﻌﺪﻡ‪ ،‬ﻛﻞ ﺷﻲء ﻓﻲ ﻓﺮﺍﻕ ﺩﺍﺋﻢ ‪ ،‬ﺍﻟﻤﻮﻟﻮﺩ ﻳﻔﺎﺭﻕ‬ ‫ﺍﻟﺮﺣﻢ ‪ ،‬ﺍﻻﻧﺴﺎﻥ ﻳﻔﺎﺭﻕ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﺪﻧﻴﺎ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺁﺧﺮﺓ ﺑﻼ ﺁﺧﺮ ]‪ [. . .‬ﻛﻞ ﺷﻲء ‪ ،‬ﻛﻞ ﺷﻲء ﻓﻲ ﻓﺮﺍﻕ ‪ ،‬ﻛﻞ ﺷﻲء‬ ‫ﻳﺘﻐﻴﺮ‪ ،‬ﻛﻞ ﺷﻲء ﻳﺘﻐﻴﺮ‪.‬‬ ‫‪. Ibn ʿArabī, Dévoilement, 3–4.‬ﻓﻤﻦ ﺳﺎﻓﺮ ﻓﻴﻪ ﻟﻢ ﻳﺮﺑﺢ ﺍﻻ ﻧﻔﺴﻪ‬ ‫‪Ibn ʿArabī, Dévoilement, 20.‬‬ ‫‪Morris, ‘Spiritual Ascension Part 1’, 630.‬‬ ‫‪Morris, ‘Spiritual Ascension Part 1’, 630; Ibn ʿArabī, Rasāʾil, 173.‬‬ ‫‪See Afifi’s commentary on chapter 12 of the Fu‚ū‚ 1:119–26, 2:139–54 and‬‬ ‫‪Chittick, Sufi Path, 106–12.‬‬ ‫‪Morris, ‘Spiritual Ascension Part 1’, 639 n.53. Al-Ghitany himself offers a‬‬ ‫‪version of this process in Hātif, where Aªmad b. ʿAbdallāh says:‬‬

‫‪73.‬‬ ‫‪74.‬‬

‫‪75.‬‬

‫‪76.‬‬ ‫‪77.‬‬

‫‪78.‬‬ ‫‪79.‬‬

‫‪80.‬‬ ‫‪81.‬‬ ‫‪82.‬‬ ‫‪83.‬‬ ‫‪84.‬‬ ‫‪85.‬‬

‫ً‬ ‫ﻛﻨﺖ ً‬ ‫ﻣﺘﻜﺎﻣﻼ ﻣﺘﻼﺋﻤﺎً ﻟﻜﻨﻨﻲ ﻣﻊ ﻛﻞ ﻣﺮﺣﻠﺔ ﺃﻗﻄﻌﻬﺎ ﺑﺎﺗﺠﺎﻩ ﻣﻮﺿﻊ ﻣﻐﻴﺐ ﺍﻟﺸﻤﺲ ﺃﺗﻌﺪﺩ ﺍﻧﺸﻄﺮ ‪.‬‬ ‫ﻛﻼ‬ ‫ﻣﻨﻲ ﻣﺎ ﻳﺒﺪﻭ ﻭﺍﺿﺤﺎً ﺟﻠﻴﺎً ﻭﻣﻨﻲ ﻣﺎ ﺗﻼﺷﻰ ﻓﻼ ﺃﻣﻞ ﻓﻲ ﺍﺳﺘﺮﺟﺎﻋﻪ ‪ .‬ﺣﺘﻰ ﻛﺄﻧﻲ ﻟﻢ ﺃﻋﻠﻖ ﺑﺄﻫﻠﻲ ﻳﻮﻣﺎً ‪.‬‬ ‫ﻭﻟﻢ ﺃﺗﺪﺛﺮ ﺑﻬﻢ ﺁﻣﻨﺎً ﻭﻟﻢ ﺃﻗﻠﻖ ﻟﺘﺄﺧﺮ ﺃﺑﻲ ﻭﻟﻢ ﻳﻀﻨﻨﻲ ﺻﻤﺖ ﺃﻣﻲ ‪ .‬ﻭﻟﻢ ﺃﻓﺮﺡ ﺑﻤﻘﺪﻡ ﺍﻷﻋﻴﺎﺩ ﻭﻧﺤﻦ‬ ‫ً‬ ‫ﻭﺻﻼ ﻟﻢ ﻳﺠﺮ ﻳﻮﻣﺎً ‪ .‬ﻣﺎ ﻛﺎﻥ ﻣﻨﻲ ﺗﺬﺭﻯ ﻓﻴﺎ ﺣﺴﺮﺓ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺍﻟﻌﺒﺎﺩ‪.‬‬ ‫ﺻﺤﺒﺔ ‪ .‬ﻛﺄﻥ‬

‫‪Al-Ghitany, CW, 6:390.‬‬ ‫‪86. Ibn ʿArabī, Rasāʾil, 164. Cf. Chodkiewicz’s careful reading of this text (Risālat‬‬ ‫‪Al-Anwār) in Seal, 154–5.‬‬ ‫‪87. Ibn ʿArabī, FM, 1:260, 2:228–9.‬‬

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88. Al-Ghitany, CW, 7:69–70. 89. Ibn ʿArabī, FM, 2:257. 90. Al-Ghitany, CW, 7:73. ‫ﺗﻠﻚ ﺍﻟﻨﺨﻠﺔ ﺗﻤﺖ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺍﺑﻲ‬ The text by Ibn ʿArabī reads: ً ‫ﺃﺻﻼ ﻟﻮﺟﻮﺩ‬ ‫ ﻭﺟﻌﻠﻪ‬، ‫ﺍﻋﻠﻢ ﺃﻥ ﺍﷲ ﺗﻌﺎﻟﻰ ﻟﻤﺎ ﺧﻠﻖ ﺁﺩﻡ ﻋﻠﻴﻪ ﺍﻟﺴﻼﻡ ﺍﻟﺬﻱ ﻫﻮ ﺃﻭﻝ ﺟﺴﻢ ﺇﻧﺴﺎﻧﻲ ﺗﻜﻮﻥ‬ ٌ ‫ ﻓﻬﻲ‬، ‫ ﻭﻓﻀﻠﺖ ﻣﻦ ﺧﻤﻴﺮﺓ ﻃﻴﻨﺘﻪ ﻓﻀﻠﻪ ﺧﻠﻖ ﻣﻨﻬﺎ ﺍﻟﻨﺨﻠﺔ‬، ‫ﺍﻷﺟﺴﺎﻡ ﺍﻻﻧﺴﺎﻧﻴﺔ‬ ‫ﺃﺧﺖ ﻵﺩﻡ ﻋﻠﻴﻪ ﺍﻟﺴﻼﻡ‬ .‫ﻭﻫﻲ ﻟﻨﺎ ﻋﻤﺔ‬ Ibn ʿArabī, FM, 2: 257. 91. Al-Íimādī, Gamal Al-Ghitany, 182–3; Ibn ʿArabī, FM, 2:260–75. Cf. Corbin, Corps spirituel, 164–72. 92. Ibn ʿArabī, Dévoilement, 19: ‫ﺇﻧﻤﺎ ﺳﻤﻲ ﺳﻔﺮﺍً ﻷﻧﻪ ﻳﺴﻔﺮ ﻋﻦ ﺃﺧﻼﻕ ﺍﻟﺮﺟﺎﻝ‬ Al-Ghitany cites this definition verbatim in Al-Ghitany, CW, 7:614; Gamal Al-Ghitany, Asfār Al-Mushtāq, 170. 93. Ibn ʿArabī, Dévoilement, 19–20. ‫ﻣﻌﻨﺎﻩ ]ﺍﻟﺴﻔﺮ[ ﺃﻧﻪ ﻣﻈﻬﺮ ﻣﺎ ﻳﻨﻄﻮﻱ ﻋﻠﻴﻪ ﻛﻞ ﺇﻧﺴﺎﻥ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻷﺧﻼﻕ ﺍﻟﻤﺬﻣﻮﻣﺔ ﻭ ﺍﻟﻤﺤﻤﻮﺩﺓ ﻳﻘﺎﻝ ﺳﻔﺮﺕ‬ ‫ﺍﻟﻤﺮﺃﺓ ﻋﻦ ﻭﺟﻬﻬﺎ ﺇﺫﺍ ﺃﺯﺍﻟﺖ ﺑﺮﻗﻌﻬﺎ ﺍﻟﺬﻱ ﻳﺴﺘﺮ ﻭﺟﻬﻬﺎ ﻓﺒﺎﻥ ﻟﻠﺒﺼﺮ ﻣﺎ ﻫﻲ ﻋﻠﻴﻪ ﺍﻟﺼﻮﺭﺓ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﺤﺴﻦ‬ ‫ ’ﻭﺍﻟﺼﺒﺢ ﺇﺫﺍ ﺃﺳﻔﺮ‘ ﻣﻌﻨﺎﻩ ﺃﻇﻬﺮ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺍﻷﺑﺼﺎﺭ ﻣﺒﺼﺮﺍﺗﻬﺎ‬:‫ﻭ ﺍﻟﻘﺒﺢ ﻗﺎﻝ ﺍﷲ ﺗﻌﺎﻟﻰ ﻳﺨﺎﻃﺐ ﺍﻟﻌﺮﺏ‬ .‫[ ﻓﺈﻥ ﺍﻟﻌﺮﺏ ﺟﺮﺕ ﻋﺎﺩﺗﻬﻢ ﺃﻥ ﺍﻟﻤﺮﺃﺓ ﺇﺫﺍ ﺃﺭﺍﺩﺕ ﺃﻥ ﺗُﻌﻠﻢ ﺃﻥ ﻭﺭﺍءﻫﺎ ﺷﺮﺍً ﺃﺳﻔﺮﺕ ﻋﻦ ﻭﺟﻬﻬﺎ‬. . .]

94. Ibn ʿArabī, Dévoilement, x; Chittick, Self-Disclosure, 68–9, 317–18. 95. Al-Ghitany, CW, 7:5: ‫ﻟﻢ ﻳﻜﻦ ﺭﺣﻴﻠﻲ ﺇﻻ ﺑﺤﺜﺎ ﻋﻨﻲ ﻭ ﻟﻢ ﺗﻜﻦ ﻫﺠﺮﺗﻲ ﺇﻻ ﻣﻨﻲ ﻭ ﻓﻲ ﻭ ﺇﻟﻲ‬ 96. Morris, ‘ “My voyage was only in myself”: Ibn Arabi’s Spiritual Ascension’, 363, 381; Chittick, Sufi Path, 375–81. 97. Al-Ghitany, CW, 7:6. 98. Al-Ghitany, CW, 6:218. 99. Michel de Certeau, La Fable mystique I, 243: Il [le sujet spirituel] naît d’un exil. Il se forme de ne rien vouloir et d’être seulement le répondant du pur signifiant ‘Dieu’ ou «Yahvé» dont le sigle, depuis le Buisson ardent, est l’acte de bruler tous les signes: Je n’ai de nom que ce qui te fait partir [cf. Exodus 3:14]. Le spirituel a pour formule première de n’être que la décision de partir.

The concluding paragraphs of de Certeau’s study arguably come closer to the situation of the protagonist-voyager of Hātif:

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Est mystique celui ou celle qui ne peut s’arrêter de marcher et qui, avec la certitude de ce qui lui manque, sait de chaque lieu et de chaque objet que ce n’est pas ça, qu’on ne peut résider ici ni se contenter de cela. Le désir crée un excès. Il excède, passe et perd les lieux. Il fait aller plus loin, ailleurs. Il n’habite nulle part. Il est habité [. . .] par un noble je ne sais quoi, ni ceci ni cela qui nous conduit, nous introduit et nous absorbe en notre origine. Fable, 411.

100. Ibn ʿArabī, Dévoilement, 6: ‫ﻭ ﺇﺫﺍ ﻻﺡ ﻟﻚ ﻣﻨﺰﻝ ﺗﻘﻮﻝ ﻓﻴﻪ ﻫﺬﺍ ﻫﻮ ﺍﻟﻐﺎﻳﺔ ﺍﻧﻔﺘﺢ ﻋﻠﻴﻚ ﻃﺮﻳﻖ ﺁﺧﺮ ﺗﺰﻭّﺩﺕ ﻣﻨﻪ ﻭ ﺍﻧﺼﺮﻓﺖ ﻓﻤﺎ‬ ‫ﻣﻦ ﻣﻨﺰﻝ ﺗﺸﺮﻑ ﻋﻠﻴﻪ ﺇﻻ ﻭﻳﻤﻜﻦ ﺃﻥ ﺗﻘﻮﻝ ﻫﻮ ﻏﺎﻳﺘﻲ ﺛﻢ ﺇﻧﻚ ﺇﺫﺍ ﻭﺻﻠﺖ ﺇﻟﻴﻪ ﻟﻢ ﺗﻠﺒﺚ ﺃﻥ ﺗﺨﺮﺝ‬ .‫ﻋﻨﻪ ﺭﺍﺣﻼ‬ ‫ﻛﻢ ﺳﺎﻓﺮﺕ ﻓﻲ ﺃﻃﻮﺍﺭ ﺍﻟﻤﺨﻠﻮﻗﺎﺕ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺃﻥ ﺗﻜﻮّﻧﺖ ﺩﻣﺎً ﻓﻲ ﺃﺑﻴﻚ ﻭ ﺃﻣﻚ ﺛﻢ ﺍﺟﺘﻤﻌﺎ ﻣﻦ ﺃﺟﻠﻚ ﻋﻦ ﻗﺼﺪ‬ ‫ﻟﻈﻬﻮﺭﻙ ﺃﻭ ﻏﻴﺮ ﻗﺼﺪ ﻓﺎﻧﺘﻘﻠﺖ ﻣﻨﻴﺎً ﺛﻢ ﺍﻧﺘﻘﻠﺖ ﻣﻦ ﺗﻠﻚ ﺍﻟﺼﻮﺭﺓ ﻋﻠﻘﺔ ﺛﻢ ﻣﻀﻐﺔ ﺇﻟﻰ ﻋﻈﻢ ﺛﻢ ُﻛﺴﻲ‬ ‫ﺍﻟﻌﻈﻢ ﻟﺤﻤﺎً ﺛﻢ ﺃﻧﺸﺌﺖ ﻧﺸﺄ ًﺓ ﺃُﺧﺮﻯ ﺛﻢ ﺃُﺧﺮﺟﺖ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺍﻟﺪﻧﻴﺎ ﻓﺎﻧﺘﻘﻠﺖ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺍﻟﻄﻔﻮﻟﺔ ﻭ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﻄﻔﻮﻟﺔ ﺇﻟﻰ‬ ‫ﺍﻟﺼﺒﺎ ﻭ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﺼﺒﺎ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺍﻟﺸﺒﺎﺏ ﻭ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﺸﺒﺎﺏ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺍﻟﻔﺘﻮﺓ ﻭ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﻔﺘﻮﺓ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺍﻟﻜﻬﻮﻟﺔ ﻭ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﻜﻬﻮﻟﺔ ﺇﻟﻰ‬ .‫ﺍﻟﺸﻴﺨﻮﺧﺔ ﻭ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﺸﻴﺨﻮﺧﺔ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺍﻟﻬﺮﻡ ﻭ ﻫﻮ ﺃﺭﺫﻝ ﺍﻟﻌﻤﺮ ﻭ ﻣﻨﻪ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺍﻟﺒﺮﺯﺥ‬

Cf. Al-Ghitany, CW, 7:55. 101. L’Islam en questions, 144–5: La signification du mot exil est multiple. L’exil peut-être spirituel, moral, sans entraîner pour cela un exil physique [. . .] Et si l’homme se trouve suspendu entre deux instants, un instant passé qui ne reviendra plus et un instant futur auquel il n’atteindra peut-être pas, il ne peut que se sentir étranger, en situation d’exil. Or l’écrivain est conscient de cette situation plus qu’un autre peut-être, conscient d’un triple exil: personnel, social et politique.

102. Claude Guibal, ‘Gamal Ghitany, les lumières de la vie’, Libération, 8–9. 103. Al-Ghitany, CW, 5:157. 104. Al-Ghitany, CW, 5:100: ‫ﻣﺎﺫﺍ ﻟﻮ ﺃﻧﻲ ﺟﻠﺴﺖ ﻣﻜﺎﻧﻪ ؟‬ The incident is narrated in a slightly different form in Hātif and Al-Tajalliyāt. Al-Ghitany, CW, 6:265, 7:14. 105. Al-Ghitany, CW, 7:370–1: ،‫ ﻭﺟﺮﻯ ﻋﻠﻲ ﻣﺎ ﺟﺮﻯ‬، ‫ ﻓﻄﻠﺒﺖ ﺍﻟﻤﺴﻌﻰ ﻭﺳﻌﻴﺖ‬، ً‫ﻭﻗﺪ ﻛﺎﻥ ﺃﺑﻲ ﻣﻮﻃﻨﻲ ﻓﻠﻤﺎ ﺧﺮﺝ ﻋﻨﻲ ﺻﺮﺕ ﻏﺮﻳﺒﺎ‬ . ‫ﻟﻢ ﺃﻗﻒ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺟﻮﺍﺏ ﻟﺴﺆﺍﻟﻲ ﻧﻔﺴﻲ‬ 106. The Theory of the Novel, 121; cf. Edward Said, Reflections on Exile, 181–2. 107. Al-Ghitany, CW, 8:331–400.

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108. Al-Simadi, Gamal Al-Ghitany, 140–3. 109. The topos of the woman = wisdom equation, or what Henry Corbin refers to as the ‘Sophianic feminine’, returns repeatedly in Sufi literature, two especially important loci being Ibn ʿArabī’s Tarjumān Al-Ashwāq and the final chapter of Fu‚ū‚ Al-Óikam. Cf. Henry Corbin, L’Imagination créatrice dans le soufisme d’Ibn ʿArabî, 159–70; R. J. W. Austin, ‘The Sophianic Feminine in the Work of Ibn ʿArabī and Rumi’, 238–42; Annemarie Schimmel, My Soul Is a Woman, 102–4; Ibn ʿArabī, Fu‚ū‚, 1:215–20 (text), 2:300–30 (commentary). El-Marraghi sees this episode as a working out of the narrator’s and Al-Ghitany’s Oedipal desire for the mother, one which ends only with the death of the narrator’s mother at the end of the novel. ‘Deconstructive Discourse’, 80–4. 110. Al-Íimādī, Gamal Al-Ghitany, 137–8, citing Ibn ʿArabī, FM, 1:246–7. 111. Al-Óakīm provides a useful compilation of texts from Ibn ʿArabī on the idea of the mother as physical or elemental origin in Al-Óakīm, Al-Muʿjam Al-Íūfī, 114–17. The verse that opens the cosmogony of chapter 11 of the Futūªāt –whose title, ‘On the Knowledge of Our Fathers’ (‫)ﻓﻲ ﻣﻌﺮﻓﺔ ﺁﺑﺎﺋﻨﺎ‬, could stand as a motto for Al-Ghitany’s Al-Tajalliyāt – summarises Ibn ʿArabī’s doctrine eloquently. Ibn ʿArabī, FM, 2:308: .‫ﻧﻔﻮﺱ ﻋﻨﺼﺮﻳﺎﺕ‬ ‫ ﻭﺃﻣﻬﺎﺕ‬، ‫ﺃﺭﻭﺍﺡ ﻣﻄﻬﺮ ٍﺓ‬ ‫ﺃﻧﺎ ﺇﺑﻦ ﺁﺑﺎء‬ ٍ ٍ 112. Deleuze and Parnet, Dialogues, 179–85. Cf. Peter Hallward, Out of this World, 4, 30–54. 113. Cf. Deleuze and Parnet, Dialogues, 47–9. 114. Al-Ghitany, CW, 7:520: ،‫ ﻭﻓﺮﻳﺪ‬،‫ ﻭﺧﺎﻟﺪ‬،‫ ﻓﻤﻦ ﺫﻟﻚ ﻛﻤﺎﻝ‬،‫ﻭﻣﻦ ﻋﺠﺐ ﺃﻧﻲ ﺳﺎﺳﻤﻰ ﺑﺄﺳﻤﺎء ﺗﺨﺎﻟﻒ ﻣﺎ ﺍﺧﺘﺎﺭﻩ ﻟﻲ ﺍﻟﻮﻟﺪ ﺍﻟﻜﺮﻳﻢ‬ [. . .] ‫ ﻭﻏﻴﺮ ﺫﻟﻚ ﻛﺜﻴﺮ‬، ‫ ﻭﻣﺤﻲ ﺍﻟﺪﻳﻦ‬، ‫ ﻭﺍﻟﺠﻬﻴﻨﻲ‬، ‫ﻭﺇﺑﻦ ﺇﻳﺎﺱ‬ Al-Ghitany’s emphasis of this metamorphosis underlines the contingent character of the proper name, a problem that haunts every project of autobiography and self-narration. Cf. Smith, Derrida and Autobiography, 37–8. 115. For the historical and spiritual details of Ibn ʿArabī’s experience see Addas, Quest, 153–60. 116. References to the absence of repetition are scattered throughout Ibn ʿArabī’s œuvre, but one concise statement of the doctrine comes in the conclusion to chapter 7 of the Futūªāt: ‫ﻓﺎﻟﺬﻱ ﻳﻨﺒﻐﻲ ﻟﻠﻌﺎﻗﻞ ﺃﻥ ﻳﺪﻳﻦ ﺍﷲ ﺑﻪ ﻓﻲ ﻧﻔﺴﻪ ﺃﻥ ﻳﻌﻠﻢ ﺃﻥ ﺍﷲ ﻋﻠﻰ ﻛﻞ ﺷﻲء ﻗﺪﻳﺮ ﻣﻦ ﻣﻤﻜﻦ ﻭﻣﺤﺎﻝ ﻭﻻ‬ ‫ﻛﻞ ﻣﺤﺎﻝ ﻧﺎﻓﺬ ﺍﻻﻗﺘﺪﺍﺭ ﻭﺍﺳﻊ ﺍﻟﻌﻄﺎء ﻟﻴﺲ ﻹﻳﺠﺎﺩﻩ ﺗﻜﺮﺍﺭ ﺑﻞ ﺃﻣﺜﺎﻝ ﺗﺤﺪﺙ ﻓﻲ ﺟﻮﻫﺮ ﺃﻭﺟﺪﻩ ﻭﺷﺎء ﺑﻘﺎﻩ‬ .‫ﻭﻟﻮ ﺷﺎء ﺃﻓﻨﺎﻩ ﻣﻊ ﺍﻷﻧﻔﺎﺱ ﻻ ﺇﻟﻪ ﺇﻻ ﻫﻮ ﺍﻟﻌﺰﻳﺰ ﺍﻟﺤﻜﻴﻢ‬

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117. 118.

119. 120. 121.

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Ibn ʿArabī, FM, 2:256. Cf. Ibn ʿArabī, FM, 1:337–8; Fu‚ū‚, 1:202 (text), 2:301–2 (commentary); Afifi, Mystical Philosophy, 29–32; Chittick, Sufi Path, 7, 18, 96–8, 103–5. One key consequence is the absolute uniqueness of the spiritual trajectory travelled by every mystic. Chodkiewicz, Seal, 147; Ibn ʿArabī, Rasāʾil, 159. Al-Ghitany, CW, 7:732, 745. : ‫ ﺃﻥ ﺃﻭﻟﺪ ﻣﻦ ﺟﺪﻳﺪ ﻟﻜﻦ ﻓﻲ ﻇﺮﻭﻑ ﻣﻐﺎﻳﺮﺓ‬. . . ‫ ﺃﻥ ﺍﻣﻨﺢ ﻓﺮﺻﺔ ﺃﺧﺮﻯ ﻟﻠﻌﻴﺶ‬. . . ‫ﺃﻣﻨﻴﺘﻲ ﺍﻟﻤﺴﺘﺤﻴﻠﺔ‬ ‫ ﻛﻢ ﻣﻦ ﺃﻭﻗﺎﺕ‬. . . ‫ ﺃﺟﺊ ﻣﺰﻭﺩﺍً ﺑﺘﻠﻚ ﺍﻟﻤﻌﺎﺭﻑ ﺍﻟﺘﻲ ﺍﻛﺘﺴﺒﻬﺎ ﻣﻦ ﻭﺟﻮﺩﻱ ﺍﻷﻭﻝ ﺍﻟﻤﻮﺷﻚ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺍﻟﻨﻔﺎﺫ‬. . . . . . ‫ﺍﻧﻔﻘﺘﻬﺎ ﻷﺩﺭﻙ ﺍﻟﺒﺪﻳﻬﻴﺎﺕ‬ Al-Ghitany, CW, 7:367–8. Al-Ghitany, CW, 7:814. Al-Ghitany, CW, 7:814: ‫ ﻣﻦ ﺃﻇﻠﻢ‬، ‫ ﺃﻟﺴﺖ ﺍﻟﻤﺘﺴﺎﺋﻞ‬،‫ ﺃﻟﺴﺖ ﺍﻟﻘﺎﺋﻞ‬، ‫ ﻟﻤﺎﺫﺍ ﺗﻨﺎﻗﺾ ﺫﺍﺗﻚ ﺑﺬﺍﺗﻚ‬،ً‫ﻟﻦ ﺃﻛﻮﻥ ﺫﻟﻚ ﺍﻟﺬﻱ ﻭﺻﻔﺘﻪ ﺃﺑﺪﺍ‬ ،‫ ﺇﻧﻪ ﺍﻟﺮﺍﺿﻲ ﺑﺎﻟﻤﻘﺪﻭﺭ ﻓﻠﻤﺎﺫﺍ ﺗﺮﻳﺪ ﻣﻨﻲ ﺫﻟﻚ ﺍﻵﻥ‬،‫ﺍﻟﻨﺎﺱ ﻟﻨﻔﺴﻪ ؟ ﺍﻟﺴﺖ ﺍﻟﻤﺠﻴﺐ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺗﺴﺎﺅﻟﻚ ﺑﻨﻔﺴﻚ‬ .‫ ﻭﻟﻦ ﺃﻛﻮﻥ‬،‫ﻟﻤﺎﺫﺍ ؟ ﻟﺴﺖ ﺃﻧﺎ‬ ، ‫ ﻳﺨﺘﻠﻂ ﺟﻌﻴﺮﻱ ﺑﻨﻮﺍﺣﻲ‬،‫ ﻳﺤﻮﻟﻮﻥ ﺑﻴﻨﻲ ﻭﺑﻴﻦ ﺍﻟﺘﺮﺍﺏ‬،‫ ﺑﻴﻨﻤﺎ ﻳﻤﺪ ﺍﻟﻘﻮﻡ ﺃﻳﺪﻳﻬﻢ ﻟﻴﻤﺴﻜﻮﺍ ﺑﻲ‬،‫ﻳﺮﻓﻊ ﻳﺪﻩ‬ ‫ ﺃﻳﻦ ﺍﻟﻤﻔﺮ؟‬،‫ ﻓﺄﻳﻦ ﺍﻟﻤﻔﺮ‬،‫ ﻭ ﻣﺎ ﻟﻢ ﺍﻗﻠﻪ ﺫﻟﻚ ﺍﻟﺬﻱ ﻗﻠﺘﻪ‬،‫ﻓﻤﺎ ﻗﻠﺘﻪ ﺫﻟﻚ ﺍﻟﺬﻱ ﻟﻢ ﺍﻗﻠﻪ‬

L’Oreille de l’autre, 69. Al-Ghitany, CW, 7:730. Al-Ghitany, CW, 7:20–1. As narrated in the Futūªāt, the conversation starts with both Ibn Rushd and Ibn ʿArabī saying ‘yes’ (naʿam) to each other, followed by Ibn Rushd’s question, ‘How did you find the matter of revelation and divine emanations?’ Ibn ʿArabī, FM, 2:372. In Al-Ghitany’s account, the imitation stops at the question, ‘How did you find the matter?’ (‫)ﻛﻴﻒ ﻭﺟﺪﺗﻢ ﺍﻷﻣﺮ‬. Al-Ghitany, CW, 7:21. 126. Another point of comparison between Abd El-Nasser and Al-Khi∂r hinges on the latter’s immortality. A. J. Wensinck, ‘al-KHa∂ir (al-Khi∂r)’, EI; John Renard, ‘Kha∂ir/Khi∂r’, EQ; Addas, Quest, 62–6. Chodkiewicz points out that Al-Khi∂r is the ‘teacher’ of the afrād. Chodkiewicz, Seal, 78–9. 127. Al-Ghitany, CW, 7:613: ‘[. . .] ‘‫’ﻟﻜﻨﻬﻢ ﻳﻘﻮﻟﻮﻥ ﺑﻘﺴﻮﺗﻲ‬ ‘.‫’ﻫﺬﺍ ﺻﺤﻴﺢ ﻭﻟﻜﻦ ﻋﻠﻰ ﻣﻦ ﺍﺗﺒﻌﻮﻙ‬ 128. Al-Ghitany, CW, 7:730–1. One significant difference between Al-Niffarī and Al-Ghitany is in the latter’s use of the passive voice: ‘I was told’ (qīla lī) rather than ‘He told me’ (qāla lī). 122. 123. 124. 125.

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129. Brown’s highly original and thought-provoking analysis unfolds in a political context that differs markedly from that of Al-Tajalliyāt but the idea of the states of injury that she describes, as well as the nexus of masochism and political subject-formation, speak to Al-Ghitany’s consistent refrain of being harsh to himself. Cf. Wendy Brown, States of Injury, 52–77; Politics Out of History, 45–61. Chapter 5 1. Al-Koni, Marāthī Ūlīs, 242. 2. On the differences between traditional writing about the desert and Ibrahim Al-Koni’s in relation to the history of the novel see Hafez, ‘The Novel of the Desert’, 55–60, and, with regard to Al-Tibr in particular, ʿAwnī Al-Faʿūrī, Tajalliyāt Al-Wāqiʿ wa-l-Us†ūra, 117–18. On the Sahara in contemporary Arabic fiction more generally, see Íāliª, ‘Tajalliyāt li-l-Íaªarāʾ’, 6–27. The mythological underpinnings of Al-Koni’s fiction have attracted a fair amount of commentary. A very thorough introduction to his novels (as opposed to novellas and shorter texts) is found in Al-Faʿūrī, Tajalliyāt. There are also several analyses in formalist-structuralist and mythopoetic registers in the wake of Bachelard’s Poétique de l’espace; see Hafez, Deheuvels and Slimane in La Poétique de l’espace dans la littérature arabe moderne as well as the interesting generic insights in Stefan Sperl, ‘ “The Lunar Eclipse”: History, Myth and Magic in Ibrāhīm al-Kawnī’s First Novel’. Ronald Judy has an important response to the claim that Al-Koni’s style can be considered magic realist, while Miriam Cooke has recently published a very persuasive reading of Nazīf Al-Óajar as a magic realist text within a Deleuzian framework: Ronald A. T. Judy, ‘What About Magic Realism in the Modern Arabic Novel?’; Miriam Cooke, ‘Magic Realism in Libya’. Rima Slimane’s article deals with some of the material covered here though as will be seen my interpretation of Al-Koni moves in a very different direction. For the purposes of this study Ferial Ghazoul’s seminal article on the Sufi novel in Maghrebi literature has proven particularly valuable. See Ghazoul, ‘Al-Riwāya Al-Íūfiyya’, especially pages 32–6 on Nazīf Al-Óajar. 3. ‘[J]e me trouve dans une aventure créatrice, celle de fonder une culture du roman du désert, qui est nouvelle aussi bien pour le monde que pour la littérature arabe.’ Fähndrich, ‘Ibrahim al-Koni: Le désert e(s)t la vie’, 159. 4. Al-Koni, Al-Khurūj Al-Awwal ilā Wa†an Al-Ruʾā Al-Samāwiyya, 52–8. 5. ‘Il faut que l’écrivain sacrifie, dans le vrai sens du terme, sa vie: sinon il lui sera

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impossible de vivre sa vie de créateur. Toute créativité suppose une ascèse, une sorte de monachisme.’ Ibrahim Al-Koni, ‘Le «discours» du désert’, 100. 6. ‘Objectivement parlant, il n’y a pas d’autres alternatives: soit la vie de ce monde, soit la vie spirituelle de la créativité.’ Al-Koni, ‘Discours’, 100. 7. ‘Tout lecteur de mon œuvre s’aperçoit vite que le désert dont je parle est synonyme du monde, qu’il est une allégorie du monde.’ Al-Koni, ‘Discours’, 101. 8. Al-Koni, ‘Discours’, 97: Dans le livre de l’Exode, Dieu dit au Pharaon, par l’intermédiaire de Moise: «Libère mon peuple pour qu’il m’adore dans le désert!». Le désert est donc un lieu sacré, un sanctuaire. Le peuple élu doit traverser le désert du Sinaï pour être purifié du polythéisme avant d’accéder à la terre promise. En effet, le désert est aussi un lieu de purification, ou aʿrāf selon le terme coranique. Sanctuaire, purgatoire mais aussi liberté, qui est synonyme de mort: voilà le désert pour moi.

9. Al-Koni, ‘Discours’, 97. 10. Al-Koni, ‘Discours’, 98: Le grand Sahara n’a pas connu le monothéisme. Je pense, cependant, que Dieu y est présent plus que dans beaucoup d’autres déserts. Car là où se trouve la nature, Dieu est présent. Je me suis toujours intéressé au problème de l’unité de la création et même de l’unité de la création et du créateur. Dieu, l’homme et l’animal se trouvent unis dans un seul corps qui s’appelle le Sahara. C’est pourquoi, quand nous tuons un waddān (moufflon) nous portons atteinte à nous-mêmes.

11. Al-Koni, Nazīf Al-Óajar, 118. Cf. Al-Faʿūrī, Tajalliyāt, 118–19. 12. Fähndrich, ‘Ibrahim al-Koni’, 157–8 : J’ai grandi dans l’immensité du désert, dans ce vide sans limites qui s’étend à l’infini jusqu’à l’arc de l’horizon, jusqu’à la courbe où il rencontre le ciel toujours clair qui est aussi nu que lui. Ensemble, ils ne forment qu’un seul corps, et en fait je suis toujours à la recherche du secret de cette union intime qui ressemble à la fusion de deux amants dans l’ivresse de l’amour. Derrière cette fusion, dans mon enfance déjà, j’ai cherché Dieu et par cette notion, avec mon petit entendement, très tôt déjà j’ai compris l’unité de l’être. Ensuite, j’ai découvert dans ce rituel cosmique le sens de la liberté [. . .] Et tous mes romans, mes nouvelles, mes essais et mes aphorismes [. . .] constituent la tentative de mettre en mots ce grand mystère: Dieu, l’unité de l’être et la liberté.

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13. Cf. ‘Arkān al-Makh†ū† al-Óajarī’, 85–7 and Hafez, ‘Novel of the Desert’, 66–74. 14. De Certeau, L’Invention du quotidien, 173, emphasis in the original. 15. De Certeau, L’Invention du quotidien, 183–5. 16. Stanley Cavell, In Quest of the Ordinary, 30–3. 17. Wolfe, ‘Introduction: Exposures’, in Philosophy and Animal Life, 5. Cf. Wolfe, ‘In the Shadow of Wittgenstein’s Lion’, 1–11. 18. Cavell quoted in Wolfe, ‘Shadow’, 3. The phrase comes from a letter written by Stanley Cavell to Vicki Hearne in the context of the encounter between humans and horses. Vicki Hearne, Adam’s Task, 114. 19. A concise analysis of the opposition between interior and exterior, as mapped on to the opposition between inhabited and wild spaces (ebawel/essuf ) is found in Mahmoudan Hawad and Hélène Claudot, ‘Ebawel / Essuf, les notions d’«intérieur» et d’«extérieur» dans la Société Touarègue’. 20. ‘Le soufi, personnage de «l’entre-deux» dont le portrait spécifique s’articule parfaitement aux figures structurellement nécessaires a la cosmogonie touarègue, endosse un rôle de médiateur entre Dieu et les hommes chez lesquels il joue par excellence le rôle de conciliateur.’ Hélène Claudot-Hawad, ‘Eperonner le monde’, 118. 21. Rasmussen, ‘Ritual Specialists, Ambiguity and Power in Tuareg Society’, 124. 22. Rasmussen, ‘ “In the Shadows of Great Sheltering Trees (Songs)” ’, n.p. 23. Rasmussen, ‘In the Shadows’. 24. Al-Koni, Íuªuf Ibrāhīm, 32. 25. Al-Koni, Íuªuf Ibrāhīm, 40. My translation reflects Al-Koni’s typically odd diction: ‫ ﻭﻟﻜﻨﻬﺎ ﻗﺪﺭ‬، ‫ﺫﻟﻚ ﺃﻥ ﻭﺟﻮﺩ ﺍﻟﺤﻘﻴﻘﺔ ﺧﺎﺭﺝ ﻧﻄﺎﻕ ﺍﻟﻌﺎﻟﻢ ﺍﻟﺪﻧﻴﻮﻱ ﻟﻴﺴﺖ ﻣﺄﺳﺎﺓ ﺍﻟﺮﻭﺡ ﺍﻟﺮﺑﻮﺑﻴﺔ ﻓﺤﺴﺐ‬ ‫ ﻭﻫﻮ ﻣﺎ ﻳﻌﻨﻲ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﻠﻐﺔ ﺍﻷﺭﺿﻴﺔ ﻟﻌﻨﺔ ﺍﻻﻏﺘﺮﺍﺏ ﺍﻷﺑﺪﻱ ﺍﻟﺘﻲ ﻧﺮﺍﻫﺎ‬.‫ﻛﻞ ﺭﻭﺡ ﻣﺒﺪﻋﺔ ﻓﻲ ﻫﺬﺍ ﺍﻟﻌﺎﻟﻢ‬ ‫ﺗﻄﻮﻕ ﺍﻟﺮﻭﺡ ﺍﻟﻤﺒﺪﻋﺔ ﺑﻜﻠﻬﺎ ﺍﻟﻔﻈﻴﻊ ﻛﻤﺎ ﻃﻮﻗﺖ ﺑﻬﺬﺍ ﺍﻟﻜﻞ ﺍﻟﻤﺴﻴﺢ ﻳﻮﻣﺎً ﻟﺘﺼﻨﻊ ﻣﻨﻪ ﺇﻧﺴﺎﻧﺎً ﻏﺮﻳﺒﺎً ﻋﻦ‬ ً ‫ ﻷﻥ ﻛﻞ ﺃﻏﻴﺎﺭ ﻫﺬﺍ ﺍﻟﻌﺎﻟﻢ ﺇﺯﺍء‬، ‫ﻣﺨﺬﻭﻻ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﺨﻼﻥ‬ ،‫ ﻣﻬﺠﻮﺭﺍً ﻣﻦ ﺍﻷﻫﻞ ﻭﺍﻟﺼﺤﺒﺎﻥ‬، ‫ﻫﺬﺍ ﺍﻟﻌﺎﻟﻢ‬ ً ‫ﻗﺮﻳﻨﺔ ﻟﺤﻘﻴﻘﺔ‬ ‫ ﻓﻜﻴﻒ ﻻ ﺗﺠﺪ ﺍﻟﺮﻭﺡ ﺍﻟﻤﺒﺪﻋﺔ ﻧﻔﺴﻬﺎ‬. ‫ﺍﻟﺮﻭﺡ ﺍﻟﻤﺒﺪﻋﺔ ﻣﺎ ﻫﻢ ﺇﻻ ﻳﻬﻮﺩﺍ ﺍﻻﺳﺨﺮﻳﻮﻃﻲ‬ ‫ﺍﻟﻤﺴﻴﺢ ﺍﻟﺬﻱ ﺇﻏﺘﺮﺏ ﺑﺤﻘﻴﻘﺘﻪ ﻋﻦ ﻫﺬﺍ ﺍﻟﻌﺎﻟﻢ ﻓﺎﺳﺘﺤﻖ ﻗﺼﺎﺹ ﻫﺬﺍ ﺍﻟﻌﺎﻟﻢ ؟ ﻭﻛﻴﻒ ﻻ ﻳﺴﺘﺸﻌﺮﺍﻟﻤﺒﺪﻉ‬ ً‫ﺍﻟﻘﺮﺍﻥ ﺍﻟﺤﻤﻴﻢ ﻣﻊ ﺍﻟﺴﻴﺪ ﺍﻟﻤﺴﻴﺢ ﻷﻧﻪ ﻟﻢ ﻳﺮ ﻧﻔﺴﻪ )ﻣﻨﺬ ﺍﺭﺗﻀﻰ ﻟﻨﻔﺴﻪ ﺍﻻﺑﺪﺍﻉ ﻣﺼﻴﺮﺍً( ﺳﻮﻯ ﻗﺮﺑﺎﻧﺎ‬ ‫ﻣﻨﺤﻮﺭﺍً ﺑﻴﺪ ﻫﺬﺍ ﺍﻟﻌﺎﻟﻢ ﺇﻋﻼ ًء ﻟﺸﺄﻥ ﺍﻟﺤﻘﻴﻘﺔ ﺍﻻﺧﺮﻯ ﺍﻟﻤﻮﺟﻮﺩﺓ ﺧﺎﺭﺝ ﻧﻄﺎﻕ ﻫﺬﺍ ﺍﻟﻌﺎﻟﻢ ﻣﻌﻴﺪﺍً ﺑﺬﻟﻚ ﺇﻟﻰ‬ ‫ﺍﻷﺫﻫﺎﻥ ﺗﺠﺮﺑﺔ ﺍﻟﻤﺴﻴﺢ ﺍﻟﻤﻤﻴﺘﺔ ﻛﻤﻌﻠﻢ ﻟﻼﻟﻢ ﻭﻣﺒﺪﻉ ﻟﻤﺒﺪﺃ ﺍﻻﻏﺘﺮﺍﺏ ﺍﻟﺮﻭﺣﻲ؟‬ ‫ ﻭﺍﻟﻤﺒﺪﻉ ﻣﺴﻴﺢ ﺩﻧﻴﺎ‬. ‫ ﺍﻟﻤﺴﻴﺢ ﻣﺒﺪﻉ ﺣﻘﻴﻘﺔ ﺑﺎﻟﺘﻀﺤﻴﺔ‬. ‫ﻫﺬﺍ ﻳﻌﻨﻲ ﺃﻥ ﺍﻟﻤﺴﻴﺢ ﻣﺒﺪﻉ ﻭﺍﻟﻤﺒﺪﻉ ﻣﺴﻴﺢ‬ .‫ﺑﺎﻟﺤﻘﻴﻘﺔ‬

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26. 27.

28.

29. 30.

31. 32. 33. 34. 35.

36.

37. 38.

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Typically, Al-Koni uses a term from the Sufi lexicon (rubūbiyya) in a new sense, as an adjective that I translate as ‘saintly’ (meaning related to the Lord) rather than the traditional sense in which rubūbiyya is a noun that defines God’s lordliness vis-à-vis the believer’s (or servant’s) servanthood (ʿūbūdiyya). Al-Koni, Marāthī Ūlīs, 117. Geoffrey Bennington, Sententiousness and the Novel; Peter Brooks, The Novel of Worldliness. Brooks’s definition of the novel of worldliness can easily be extended to cover fiction as a whole: ‘a fictional exploitation of the drama inherent in man’s social existence, the encounters of personal styles within the framework and code provided by society’. Novel of Worldliness, 4. Al-Koni, Marāthī Ūlīs, 42: ‫ﻭ ﺗﺮﻭﻱ ﺍﻟﺴﻴﺮ ﺍﻷﻭﻟﻰ ﻛﻴﻒ ﺩﺑﺮ ’ﻫﺮﻭ‘ ﺃﻭﻝ ﻣﺎ ﺩﺑﺮ ﻧﺎﻣﻮﺱ ﻛﻞ ﺍﻷﺷﻴﺎء ﺍﻟﺘﻲ ﺍﺣﺘﻠﺖ ﺣﻴّﺰﺍ ﺑﻴﻦ ﺭﻗﻌﺔ‬ ً ‫ﺃﺻﻼ ﻟﻜﻞ ﺍﻟﻨﻮﺍﻣﻴﺲ ﺍﻟﺘﻲ ﺳﻤﻴﺖ ﺑﻠﺴﺎﻥ ﺍﻷﺟﻴﺎﻝ ﻓﻴﻤﺎ‬ ‫ ﻭ ﻫﻮ ﺍﻟﻨﺎﻣﻮﺱ ﺍﻟﺬﻱ ﺻﺎﺭ‬.‫ﺍﻟﻴﺎﺑﺴﺔ ﻭ ﻗﺒﺔ ﺍﻟﺴﻤﺎء‬ َ ‫ﺑﻌﺪ‬ .‘ً‫’ﻗﺪَﺭﺍ‬ Al-Koni, Anūbīs, 206. ‘[C]onduire vers son point d’orgue une parole déjà ouverte [. . .] ou du moins [prendre] acte en la ponctuant de jalons réguliers de ce qu’elle s’acheminait vers l’apaisante conclusion d’une vérité indiscutable.’ Dominique Casajus, Gens de parole, 35. Casajus, Gens de parole, 40. Casajus, Gens de parole, 45. Al-Koni, Al-Íuªuf Al-Ūlā, 35. ‫ﻣﻦ ﻋﺮﻑ ﻧﻔﺴﻪ ﻋﺮﻑ ﺭﺑﻪ‬. Cf. Fu‚ū‚ Al-Óikam, 1:215, 2:324–5; Afifi, Mystical Philosophy, 118–19. ‫ﻴﺮ‬ ُ ‫ﺍﻟﺴ ِﻤ‬ ُ ‫َﺼ‬ ‫ْﺲ َﻛ ِﻤ ْﺜﻠِ ِﻪ َﺷ ْﻲ ٌء َﻭ ُﻫ َﻮ ﱠ‬ َ ‫ﻟَﻴ‬. Al-Koni only alludes to the first half of the ِ ‫ﻴﻊ ْﺍﻟﺒ‬ phrase in his description of the flashes of inspiration (‫ )ﻟﻤﻌﺎﺕ ﺍﻻﻟﻬﺎﻡ‬that constitute Anubis’s encounter with the transcendent divinity. Al-Koni, Anūbīs, 22. Chittick, Self-Disclosure, 29–38, 75. In chapter 369 of the Futūªāt Ibn ʿArabī develops the identification between God and light on the one hand and the principle of transcendent otherness (tanzīh) on the other. In the third chapter of the Fu‚ū‚, Ibn ʿArabī underlines the necessarily mutual interdependence and simultaneity of God’s immanence (tashbīh) and transcendence (tanzīh), as interpreted through the two halves of the periscope from Q42:11 quoted in note 35 (above). Fu‚ū‚, 1:68–70, 2:35–6. On the Qādiriyya order see D. S. Margoliouth, ‘K·ādiriyya’, EI. Al-Junayd’s statement is found in Al-Qushayrī’s Risāla, with the additional

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40.

41. 42.

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gloss that the gnostic’s condition is determined by the command of his mystical moment: .‫ ﻟﻮﻥ ﺍﻟﻤﺎء ﻟﻮﻥ ﺇﻧﺎﺋﻪ ﻳﻌﻨﻲ ﺃﻧﻪ ﻳﺤﻜﻢ ﻭﻗﺘﻪ‬:‫ ﻓﻘﺎﻝ‬،‫ﻭﺳﺌﻞ ﺍﻟﺠﻨﻴﺪ ﻋﻦ ﺍﻟﻌﺎﺭﻑ‬ Epistle, 324/ Risāla, 167. This is clearly a different sense from that in which it is being used in Al-Koni’s story. Al-Junayd is describing the state of knowledge of the gnostic (al-ʿārif ) who has attained the highest state of enlightenment, namely tawªīd or unification with God, having left behind his individuality and all that goes with it. At this point the gnostic acquires a share of God’s knowledge. See Ali Hassan Abdel-Kader, The Life, Personality and Writings of Al-Junayd, 101–3. On the other hand, Chittick’s development of the idea of self-knowledge via Ibn ʿArabī’s Futūªāt emphasises the link with Al-Junayd’s aphorism about the colour of the cup and the colour of the water: ‘The God that I come to know through knowing myself is the God of my own belief, the water which has assumed the color of my cup.’ Chittick, Sufi Path, 344, cf. 345–6. This comes closer to the way in which Al-Koni is using Al-Junayd’s maxim. Ibn ʿArabī returns repeatedly to Al-Junayd’s phrase, seeing in it an explanation of the necessity of religious diversity and a vindication of individual belief. Chittick, Sufi Path, 229, 341–4. Leonard Lewisohn translates the verse from which this is taken as follows: ‘I know no other greater kingdom and riches than this: / That a man become lost to himself.’ ʿA††ār, Mantiq Al-Tayr, 349, v.2607. I am deeply indebted to Dr Lewisohn for his assistance with this reference. Abdel-Kader, Al-Junayd, 80, quoting Al-Qushayrī’s Epistle, 289/Risāla, 148: ‘‫ ﻭﻳﺤﻴﻴﻚ ﺑﻪ‬،‫‘ ;’ﻫﻮ ﺃﻥ ﻳﻤﻴﺘﻚ ﺍﻟﺤﻖ ﻋﻨﻚ‬God causes you to die for yourself, while endowing you with a life in Him.’ A more literal translation might read: ‘The Real (Al-Óaqq) makes you die to yourself, and revives you in and through Him.’ See note 5 to Chapter Three above, and, with specific reference to ʿAttār, Ritter, The Ocean of the Soul, 593–614, 651–6. Ritter, Ocean, 655. Ritter refers to the (unconfirmed) hadīth exhorting Muslims to ‘die before they die’ (‫( )ﻣﻮﺗﻮﺍ ﻗﺒﻞ ﺃﻥ ﺗﻤﻮﺗﻮﺍ‬193, 601) with reference to ʿA††ār’s Ilāhīnāma, and generally frames his reading of ʿA††ār within what he calls Heidegger’s formulation of ‘the uncanniness of Being-towards-death’ (42, 656). Although Al-Koni does not mention this particular tradition, the idea of dying before death comes up in his writings repeatedly, be it through the narration of such incidents as Ūlīs’s failed suicide attempt, or his assertion that only an encounter with death can unleash a writer’s creative power in Íuªuf Ibrāhīm (see below).

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43. ‘‫ ’ﺍﻟﻨﺎﺱ ﻧﻴﺎﻡ ﻓﺈﺫﺍ ﻣﺎﺗﻮﺍ ﺍﻧﺘﺒﻬﻮﺍ‬Fu‚ū‚, 1:99, 159. Ibn ʿArabī gives a characteristically idiosyncratic reading of this hadīth in the sections of the Fu‚ū‚ dealing with Joseph and Solomon, emphasising the imperative need for the interpretation of everything that one sees, even if it is a dream vision. See Afifi’s commentary: Fu‚ū‚, 2:106–7. 44. The literature on this point is vast. A representative idea may be gained from some of the anecdotes in Al-Hujwīrī’s Kashf Al-Mahjûb. Al-Junayd identifies Abraham with total, indiscriminate generosity (sakhāʾ), which allowed him to give up his son, and Ishmael with acquiescence (ri∂ā), which allowed him to yield to his father’s and God’s command. Kashf, 39–40, 317. Al-Junayd also asks a man about his performance of the ritual sacrifice during the Óajj, which is meant as a re-enactment of the Abraham story: ‘ “When you reached the slaughter-place and offered sacrifice, did you sacrifice the objects of sensual desire?” “No.” “Then you have not sacrificed.”’ Kashf, 328. See also Böwering, Mystical Vision, 185–201; Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam, 377–8. 45. Al-Koni, ‘Wa†an’, 7–8; de Certeau, Invention, 186. 46. Al-Koni, ‘Wa†an’, 20. This is the subject of another novella, translated by Denys Johnson-Davies as Ibrahim Al-Koni, ‘The Ill-Omened Golden Bird’. 47. Al-Koni, ‘Wa†an’, 16. 48. Al-Koni, ‘Wa†an’, 15. 49. Al-Koni, ‘Wa†an’, 17. 50. Al-Koni, ‘Wa†an’, 18. 51. Al-Koni, ‘Wa†an’, 19. 52. Al-Koni, ‘Wa†an’, 15–16. 53. Al-Koni, ‘Wa†an’, 22. 54. Al-Koni, ‘Wa†an’, 17. 55. Another view of Wāw is that it is the Touareg Atlantis. Deheuvels, ‘Le «lieu» de l’utopie’, 31–7. More generally Al-Koni returns repeatedly to the idea of the desert as erstwhile paradise and sacred space in Íaªrāʾī Al-Kubrā, 7–8. 56. Al-Koni, ‘Wa†an’, 26. 57. Al-Koni, ‘Wa†an’, 33: ‫ ﻳﺤﺠﺐ ﺍﻟﻤﻔﺘﺎﺡ ﺍﻟﻮﺣﻴﺪ ﺍﻟﺬﻱ ﻳﻘﻮﺩ ﺇﻟﻰ‬.‫ ﻭﻣﺜﻮﻯ ﺍﻟﺘﺮﻓﺎﺱ ﻳﺤﺠﺐ ﺍﻟﺴﺮ‬، ‫ﺍﺩﺑﻨﻲ ﻳﺨﻔﻲ ﺭﻓﺎﺕ ﺍﻷﺳﻼﻑ‬ .‫ﻭﺍﻭ‬ 58. Al-Koni, ‘Wa†an’, 33: .‫ﺍﻧﻬﺎ ﺍﻟﺮﻋﺸﺔ ﺍﻟﺘﻲ ﺗﻨﺘﺎﺏ ﺍﻟﻤﺠﺬﻭﺏ ﻓﻲ ﻟﺤﻈﺔ ﺍﻟﻮﺟﺪ ﺍﻟﺘﻲ ﻳﻨﺘﻈﺮ ﻓﻴﻬﺎ ﺃﻥ ﻳﺮﻯ ﻭﺟﻪ ﺍﷲ‬ 59. Al-Koni, ‘Wa†an’, 34. 60. Of these misanthropic believers Ibn ʿArabī writes:

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‫ﺇﺫ ﻟﻮ ﻋﺮﻑ ﻣﺎ ﻗﺎﻝ ﺍﻟﺠﻨﻴﺪ ﻟﻮﻥ ﺍﻟﻤﺎء ﻣﻦ ﻟﻮﻥ ﺇﻧﺎﺋﻪ ﻟﺴﻠﻢ ﻟﻜﻞ ﺫﻱ ﺇﻋﺘﻘﺎﺩ ﻣﺎ ﺍﻋﺘﻘﺪﻩ‪ ،‬ﻭﻋﺮﻑ ﺍﷲ ﻓﻲ ﻛﻞ‬ ‫ﺻﻮﺭﺓ ﻭﻛﻞ ﻣﻌﺘﻘﺪ ‪ .‬ﻓﻬﻮ ﻇﺎﻥ ﻟﻴﺲ ﺑﻌﺎﻟﻢ ‪ ،‬ﻓﻠﺬﻟﻚ ﻗﺎﻝ‪’ :‬ﺃﻧﺎ ﻋﻨﺪ ﻇﻦ ﻋﺒﺪﻱ ﺑﻲ‘ ﺃﻱ ﻻ ﺃﻇﻬﺮ ﻟﻪ ﺇﻻ ﻓﻲ‬ ‫ﺻﻮﺭﺓ ﻣﻌﺘﻘﺪﻩ‪.‬‬ ‫‪Fu‚ū‚, 1:226. Afifi’s commentary on and analysis of this passage emphasises‬‬ ‫‪the necessary relationship between the doctrine of the unity of Being and‬‬ ‫‪the variation in belief according to the constitution of the believer. Fu‚ū‚,‬‬ ‫‪2:345–6.‬‬ ‫‪61. Cf. Afifi, Mystical Philosophy, 152–3.‬‬ ‫‪62. Al-Koni, ‘Wa†an’, 33:‬‬ ‫ﻟﻢ ﻳﻠﻤﻊ ﺍﻟﺮﺃﺱ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﻀﻮء ﺑﺎﻟﺒﻴﺎﺽ‪ ،‬ﻭﻟﻜﻨﻪ ﺍﻛﺘﺄﺏ ﺑﺎﻟﻠﻮﻥ ﺍﻟﻤﻌﺘﻢ ﻭﺳﻠﻂ ﻧﻮﺭﻩ ﺍﻟﺠﻠﻴﻞ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺍﻟﺪﺍﺧﻞ‪ ،‬ﺇﻟﻰ‬ ‫ﺍﻟﺨﻔﺎء ‪ ،‬ﺇﻟﻰ ﺍﻟﻤﺠﻬﻮﻝ ﺍﻟﻤﺘﻘﻮﻗﻊ ﻓﻲ ﻣﻜﺎﻥ ﻣﺎ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺠﻮﻑ‪ ،‬ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﻌﻤﻖ‪ ،‬ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺒﺎﻃﻦ‪ ،‬ﻓﻲ ﻧﻔﺴﻪ ‪ ،‬ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺤﺪ‬ ‫ﺍﻵﺧﺮ ﺍﻟﺬﻱ ﻳﺘﻼﻣﺲ ﻣﻊ ﺍﻟﺴﺮ‪ ،‬ﻭﻳﺘﻤﺪ ﻭﻫﺠﻪ ﻭﻏﻤﻮﺿﻪ ﻭﺟﻼﻟﻪ ﻣﻦ ﺍﷲ ]‪[. . .‬‬ ‫ﻇﻞ ﺍﻷﺏ ﻳﺘﺄﻣﻞ ﺍﻟﻘﻤﺔ ﺍﻟﻨﻔﻴﺴﺔ‪ .‬ﺍﻟﺮﺃﺱ ﺍﻟﺨﻔﻲ ﺍﻟﺴﺎﻋﻲ ﻟﻺﻟﺘﺤﺎﻡ ﺑﺎﷲ‪.‬‬

‫‪63. Cf. Mohammad-Ali Amir Moezzi, ‘Sirr (a.)’ and Ismail Poonawala, ‘al- Êāhir‬‬ ‫‪wa ʿl-Bā†in (a.)’, EI; Chittick, Sufi Path, 152.‬‬ ‫‪64. Epistle, 110/Risāla, 52. Al-Qushayrī’s explanation of mushāhada includes the‬‬ ‫‪following phrase: ‘When the sky of the innermost heart [sirr] is free from the‬‬ ‫‪clouds of veiling, the sun of witnessing begins to shine from the zodiacal sign‬‬ ‫’‪of nobility.‬‬ ‫ﺍﻟﺴﺮ ﻋﻦ ﻏﻴﻮﻡ ﺍﻟﺴﺘﺮ‪ ،‬ﻓﺸﻤﺲ ﺍﻟﺸﻬﻮﺩ ﻣﺸﺮﻗﺔ ﻋﻦ ﺑﺮﺝ ﺍﻟﺸﺮﻑ(‬ ‫‪) Epistle, 98/‬ﻓﺈﺫﺍ ﺃﺻﺤﺖ ﺳﻤﺎء ﱢ‬ ‫‪Risāla, 46.‬‬ ‫‪65. Al-Koni, ‘Wa†an’, 35:‬‬ ‫ﺍﻟﺼﻔﻴﺮ ﺍﺭﺗﻔﻊ ﺇﻟﻰ ﻧﺤﻴﺐ ﻛﺌﻴﺐ‪ .‬ﻭﺍﻟﻨﺤﻴﺐ ﺻﻌﺪ ﻓﻲ ﻧﻮﺍﺡ ﺣﻘﻴﻘﻲ‪ .‬ﺍﺳﺘﺠﺎﺏ ﺳﻜﻮﻥ ﺍﻟﺼﺤﺮﺍء ﻟﻔﺠﻴﻌﺔ‬ ‫ﺍﻟﺜﻤﺮﺓ ﺍﻟﻤﻘﺪﺳﺔ‪ .‬ﻓﻨﺎﺣﺖ ﺍﻟﺠﻨﻴﺎﺕ‪ .‬ﻭﻟﻄﻤﺖ ﺍﻟﺤﻮﺭﻳﺎﺕ ﺍﻟﺨﺪﻭﺩ‪ .‬ﻭ ﻫﺪﺩ ﺍﻻﻓﻖ ﺑﺎﻟﻈﻠﻤﺎﺕ‪ .‬ﻭﻭﻋﺪﺕ‬ ‫ﺍﻟﺼﺤﺮﺍء ﺑﺒﻜﺎﺋﻴﺔ ﻃﻮﻳﻠﺔ ‪ .‬ﺑﺪﺃﺕ ﺍﻟﺜﻤﺮﺓ ﺍﻟﺴﻤﺎﻭﻳﺔ ﺗﻨﺰﻑ‪.‬‬ ‫ﺭﺷﺢ ﺍﻟﺴﺎﺋﻞ ﺍﻟﻘﺎﻧﻲ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﻘﻠﺐ ‪ .‬ﻭﺳﻤﻊ ﺍﻷﺏ ﺍﻟﻨﻌﻲ ﺍﻟﻔﺎﺟﻊ ‪ .‬ﻧﺴﻠﺖ ﻣﻦ ‪66. Al-Koni, ‘Wa†an’, 35:‬‬ ‫ﻣﻘﻠﺘﻪ ﺩﻣﻌﺔ ﻛﺒﻴﺮﺓ ‪.‬‬ ‫‪67. Al-Koni, ‘Wa†an’, 35:‬‬ ‫ﺗﻨﺼﺖ ﺍﻷﺏ ﻓﺴﻤﻊ ﻟﻐﺔ ﺍﻟﻤﻨﺎﺣﺔ‪ .‬ﺳﺮ ﺍﻟﻤﻴﻼﺩ ﻭﻓﺠﻴﻌﺔ ﺍﻟﺤﻴﺎﺓ‪ .‬ﻓﺮﺡ ﺍﻟﺠﻨﻴﻦ ﺑﺎﻟﻮﺟﻮﺩ‪ ،‬ﻭﻣﻌﺎﻧﺎﺓ ﺍﻟﻤﺴﻴﺮﺓ‬ ‫ﺍﻟﺘﻲ ﻳﻨﻔﻘﻬﺎ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻷﻟﻢ ﻭﺍﻟﺘﻴﻪ ﻭﺍﻟﻤﻨﻔﻰ ‪ .‬ﺍﻟﻤﺴﺎﻓﺔ ﺍﻟﻔﺎﺻﻠﺔ ﺑﻴﻦ ﺍﻟﻤﻴﻼﺩ ﻭﻣﻤﻠﻜﺔ ﺍﻟﻨﺴﻴﺎﻥ ﻫﻲ ﺍﻟﻜﺎﺑﻮﺱ‪.‬‬ ‫ﺃﻏﻨﻴﺔ ﺍﻟﻔﺮﺡ ﻻ ﺗﺒﺪﺃ ﺇﻻ ﺑﻌﺪ ﺍﻟﺨﺮﻭﺝ ‪ .‬ﺍﻟﺴﻜﻴﻨﺔ ﻻ ﺗﺘﻨﺎﺯﻝ ﺇﻻ ﺑﻌﺪ ﺇﺟﺘﻴﺎﺯ ﺍﻟﻤﺴﺎﻓﺔ ﺍﻷﺭﺿﻴﺔ ‪ ،‬ﻭﻋﺒﻮﺭ‬ ‫ﺍﻟﻜﺎﺑﻮﺱ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺃﺭﺽ ﺍﻟﻨﺴﻴﺎﻥ ﻣﺮﺓ ﺃﺧﺮﻯ ‪ .‬ﻓﻲ ﻟﺤﻈﺔ ﺍﻟﻌﺒﻮﺭ ﻳﻔﻘﺪ ﺍﻟﺸﻘﺎء ﺍﻟﺒﺸﺮﻱ ﻣﻌﻨﺎﻩ ﻓﺘﻔﺘﺢ ﻭﺍﻭ‬ ‫ﺍﺑﻮﺍﺑﻬﺎ‪ .‬ﻓﻼ ﺗﺒﻚ ﻭﺃﻧﺖ ﺗﺘﺎﻫﺐ ﻟﺪﺧﻮﻝ ﻭﺍﻭ‪.‬‬

‫‪It is no accident that we find in this passage the same pharaonic idea of death‬‬ ‫‪as the start of life.‬‬

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68. Al-Koni, ‘Wa†an’, 38: ‫ ﻭﻟﻦ ﻳﺠﺪ ﺍﻟﻨﻌﻴﻢ ﺇﻻ ﻣﻦ ﻭﺟﺪ ﺍﻟﺸﺠﺎﻋﺔ ﻟﻴﺨﺮﺝ‬، ‫ﻻ ﺃﺭﻯ ﺳﻌﺎﺩ ًﺓ ﻟﻼﻧﺴﺎﻥ ﺃﻛﺜﺮ ﻣﻦ ﺃﻥ ﻳﻔﻨﻰ ﻋﻦ ﻧﻔﺴﻪ‬ ‫ﻟﻠﻨﺎﺱ ﻗﻠﺒﻪ‬ ʿA††ār’s phrase returns as the epigraph to a chapter in Al-Majūs, 2:255, though the treatment is far more diffuse there than in this novella. 69. The importance of the equivalence between the desert and fanāʾ is emphasised by the closing line of Al-Majūs: 2:356 . ‫ﺃﻣﺎﻣﻪ ﺍﻣﺘﺪ ﺧﻼء ﻛﺎﻟﻔﻨﺎء‬. 70. Al-Koni, ‘Wa†an’, 19–20. 71. Derrida outlines the distressing nature of the dilemma as follows: ‘Je ne peux répondre à l’appel, à la demande, à l’obligation, ni même à l’amour d’un autre sans lui sacrifier l’autre autre, les autres autres. Tout autre est tout autre.’ Donner la mort, 98. See Attridge’s lucid and witty exposition of the stakes involved in Reading and Responsibility, 56–77 as well as John D. Caputo, The Prayers and Tears of Jacques Derrida, 207. 72. Attridge, Reading and Responsibility, 70. 73. Stefan Weidner, Erlesener Orient, 124. 74. Al-Koni, Un oeil qui jamais ne se ferme, 21. 75. Al-Koni, Un oeil, 18. 76. Derrida, L’Animal que donc je suis, 30: Comme tout regard sans fond, comme les yeux de l’autre, ce regard dit «animal» me donne à voir la limite abyssale de l’humain: l’inhumain ou l’anhumain, les fins de l’homme, à savoir le passage des frontières depuis lequel l’homme ose s’annoncer lui-même, s’appelant ainsi du nom qu’il croit se donner.

77. See the long and thought-provoking chapter on the subject in Deleuze and Guattari’s Mille plateaux, 285–380. Miriam Cooke presents a thorough reading of the becoming-animal of the protagonist of The Bleeding of the Stone by way of explaining the novel’s magic realist dynamic in ‘Magic Realism’, 13–18. As the following pages will make clear, my reading of the novel comes closer to Ferial Ghazoul’s, who emphasises its mystical dimension. ‘Al-Riwāya Al-Íūfiyya’, 32–6. 78. Deleuze and Guattari, Mille plateaux, 293–4 : Si l’écrivain est un sorcier, c’est parce qu’écrire est un devenir, écrire est traversé d’étranges devenirs qui ne sont pas des devenirs-écrivain, mais des devenirs-rat, des devenirs-insecte, des devenirs-loup etc. [. . .] L’écrivain est

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un sorcier parce qu’il vit l’animal comme la seule population devant laquelle il est responsable en droit.

79. 80. 81. 82. 83. 84. 85.

86. 87. 88. 89. 90. 91. 92.

93.

94.

Al-Koni, ‘Al-Fakhkh’, 39. Al-Koni, ‘Al-Ghuzlān’, 112. Al-Koni, ‘Al-Ghuzlān’, 109–10. Al-Koni, Al-Majūs, 1:88, 192; Al-Faʿūrī, Tajalliyāt, 105. Al-Koni, Al-Majūs, 1:194–5. Al-Koni, Al-Majūs, 1:225. The idolatrous relationship that binds Ukhayyad to the camel is reminiscent of the erotic hetero-narcissism (‘je suis’ or ‘je te suis’: ‘I am/I follow’ or ‘I am you/I follow you’) mentioned by Derrida in relation to the putative but questionable opposition between the human and the animal (putative because false, questionable because of the falsity of the examples and topoi routinely used to define what is properly human over against the animal). Derrida, L’Animal, 87–9, 94–100. Among the more striking examples that Derrida mentions is the snake in the Garden of Eden. In both instances the identification between the snake and the human operates as an act of seduction. Derrida’s reading of the snake could, with some modification, apply to Ukhayyad’s Mehari: ‘L’être devient séduction, voilà la ruse du plus rusé des animaux.’ L’Animal, 97. Al-Koni, Al-Tibr, 56. Al-Koni, Al-Tibr, 45. Al-Koni, Al-Tibr, 92. Al-Koni, Al-Tibr, 92. The English translation of The Bleeding of the Stone translates Qābīl’s name as ‘Cain’. I prefer to transliterate the Arabic name out of fidelity to Al-Koni’s text. Rasmussen, ‘The People of Solitude’, 616. Al-Koni, Nazīf, 24: ‫ ﻓﻴﻬﺎ‬،‫ ﻓﻴﻬﺎ ﺍﻟﻔﻨﺎء‬، ‫ ﻓﻴﻬﺎ ﺍﻟﻬﻨﺎء‬.‫ ﻣﻜﺎﻓﺄﺓ ﻟﻤﻦ ﺃﺭﺍﺩ ﺍﻟﻨﺠﺎﺓ ﻣﻦ ﺇﺳﺘﻌﺒﺎﺩ ﺍﻟﻌﺒﺪ ﻭ ﺃﺫﻯ ﺍﻟﻌﺒﺎﺩ‬.‫ﺍﻟﺼﺤﺮﺍء ﻛﻨﺰ‬ .‫ﺍﻟﻤﺮﺍﺩ‬ A comparable reversal is found in the opposition kel awal/kel essuf in Marāthī Ūlīs (see below). ‘La force virile du mâle adulte, père, mari ou frère [. . .] appartient au schème qui domine le concept de sujet. Celui-ci ne se veut pas seulement maître et sujet actif de la nature. Dans nos cultures, il accepte le sacrifice et mange de la chair.’ ‘«Il faut bien manger» ou le calcul du sujet’, 295. Al-Faʿūrī, Tajalliyāt, 66.

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َْ َ ‫ﺎﺣ ْﻴ ِﻪ ﺇﻻ ﺃُ َﻣ ٌﻢ ﺃَﻣ‬ 95. .‫ْﺜﺎﻟُ ُﻜ ْﻢ‬ ُ ‫َﻄ‬ ِ ‫ﺽ َﻭﻻ َﻃﺎ ِﺋ ٍﺮ ﻳ‬ ِ ‫ َﻭ َﻣﺎ ِﻣ ْﻦ ﺩَﺍﺑﱠ ٍﺔ ِﻓﻲ ﺍﻷ ْﺭ‬Although Al-Koni does ِ َ ‫ﻴﺮ ِﺑ َﺠ َﻨ‬ not cite Ibn ʿArabī on this verse, chapter 368 of the Futūªāt spells out the fact that every species has received revelation and has a spiritual life and sharīʿa of its own, partaking in the belief in God’s transcendence through a share in Q42:11, the same verse through which Anubis understood his creative/ prophetic mission. Chittick, Self-Disclosure, 340–2. Ibn ʿArabī emphasises the fact that animals pray, an association that leads to the opening of the novel in which Asouf, who will later experience a becoming-waddān, prays in the direction of the desert animals. 96. Al-Koni, Nazīf, 118: ‫ ﻓﻲ ﺣﻴﻦ ﻧﺮﻯ ﺃﻧﻪ ﻣﻮﺟﻮﺩ ﻓﻲ‬، ‫ﺃﻧﺘﻢ ﺗﻘﻮﻟﻮﻥ ﺃﻥ ﺍﻟﻤﺴﻴﺢ ﻫﻮ ﺍﷲ ﻭﺗﺤﺼﺮﻭﻥ ﺟﻼﻟﺘﻪ ﻓﻲ ﻣﺨﻠﻮﻕ ﻭﺍﺣﺪ‬ .‫ ﺑﻞ ﻓﻲ ﻛﻞ ﺍﻟﻜﺎﺋﻨﺎﺕ‬، ‫ﻛﻞ ﺍﻟﻨﺎﺱ‬ In a footnote Al-Koni refers this belief to Ibn ʿArabī’s belief in ªulūl (the incarnation of God in any creature), though the latter did in fact take pains to distinguish his doctrine from that of Óallāj, who seems to come closer to the position of Al-Koni’s dervish. One possible approximation would be through Ibn ʿArabī’s radical rethinking of transcendence (tanzīh) and immanence (tashbīh), whereby any limitation of God – even a conceptual one – is ruled out (i.e. it would be wrong to say that ‘God is X alone’, even if X stands for Christ). Cf. Ibn ‘Arabi, Fu‚ū‚, 1:141, 2:185; Afifi, Mystical Philosophy, 13–15, 20, 138–40. Furthermore it is not only the divine spirit that can inhabit the animals of the desert: the first page of the novel explains their ‘interference’ with Asouf’s prayer as the result of Iblīs (the devil) inhabiting them. Al-Koni, Nazīf, 7. 97. Al-Koni, Nazīf, 119. 98. It bears pointing out that the waddān, though privileged, is not the only animal with whom Asouf’s father enjoys a close relationship: at one point he consistently reminds his son of the importance and nobility of his camel, as well as the elegy that he sings for the desert gazelles. Al-Koni, Nazīf, 54–5. 99. Al-Koni, Nazīf, 30. 100. Al-Koni, Nazīf, 38. 101. Al-Koni, Nazīf, 74. 102. Al-Koni, Nazīf, 53 n. Al-Koni makes clear that he is bending the meaning of the term slightly: .‫ﻭﻗﺪ ﻭﺭﺩﺕ ﺍﻟﻬﺎﻭﻳﺔ ﻫﻨﺎ ﻟﻴﺴﺖ ﻛﺄﺩﺍﺓ ﻟﻠﻘﺼﺎﺹ ﻭﺍﻧﻤﺎ ﻛﺮﻣﺰ ﺻﻮﻓﻲ ﻟﻠﺘﻄﻬﻴﺮ ﻭﻏﺴﻞ ﺍﻟﻜﻔﺎﺭﺓ‬ Al-Koni takes the title of the chapter from Al-Ghazālī’s detailed description of hell: al-hāwiya is the deepest abyss in hell, whose infinite depth parallels the

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103.

104. 105.

106.

107.

108.

109. 110. 111. 112.

113.

114.

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many temptations of this world. Cf. Al-Ghazālī, Ihyāʾ ʿUlūm Al-Dīn, 4:531. Of course Al-Ghazālī’s description relies heavily on the Qurʾān and the ªadīth, in particular Q101:9, where the use of the term hāwiya exercised the faculties of exegetes and commentators over the centuries. Cf. Devin Stewart, ‘Pit’, EQ. Al-Niffarī, ¤āqat, 53: ‫ ﻭﻭﺟﻮﺩ ﺍﻟﺼﺒﺮ ﻣﺎﺩﺓ ﻣﻦ ﻣﻮﺍﺩ ﺍﻟﻘﻮﺓ ﻭﻭﺟﻮﺩ ﺍﻟﻘﻮﺓ ﻣﺎﺩﺓ ﻣﻦ ﻣﻮﺍﺩ‬. ‫ﻭﺟﻮﺩ ﺍﻟﺒﻠﻐﺔ ﻣﺎﺩﺓ ﻣﻦ ﻣﻮﺍﺩ ﺍﻟﺼﺒﺮ‬ . ‫ﺍﻟﻮﻻﻳﺔ‬ Al-Koni, Nazīf, 70. Al-Koni, Nazīf, 83–4. The text (84) foregrounds the importance of the process of ªulūl in the making of the saint: ‫ ﻭﻓﺮﺣﺎً ﺑﺤﻠﻮﻝ ﺍﻟﺬﺍﺕ ﺍﻹﻟﻬﻴﺔ‬، ‫[ ﺇﻛﺮﺍﻣﺎً ﻟﻠﻮﻟﻲ‬. . .]‫ ﻭﻧﻈﻤﻮﺍ ﺣﻔﻠﺔ ﺫﻛﺮ‬، ‫ﻭﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﻠﻴﻞ ﺫﻫﺒﻮﺍ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺍﻟﺰﺍﻭﻳﺔ‬ . ‫ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﻤﺨﻠﻮﻕ ﺍﻷﺭﺿﻲ ﺍﻟﺒﺎﺋﺲ‬ The text makes the equation Asouf = his father = the great waddān very clear. The identification is enabled by the descent (ªulūl ) of his father’s soul in the waddān, thereby amplifying the process of becoming-animal: ‫ ﻟﻦ ﻳﻔﺼﻞ‬.‫ ﻫﻮ ﻭﺍﻟﻤﺮﺣﻮﻡ ﻭﺍﻟﻮﺩﺍﻥ ﺍﻟﻌﻈﻴﻢ ﺍﻵﻥ ﺷﻲء ﻭﺍﺣﺪ‬.‫ ﻭﺍﻟﻮﺩﺍﻥ ﺣﻞ ﻓﻴﻪ‬، ‫ﻟﻘﺪ ﺣﻞ ﺍﻷﺏ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﻮﺩﺍﻥ‬ .‫ﺑﻴﻨﻬﻢ ﺷﻲء‬ Al-Koni, Nazīf, 75. Ironically Qābīl seems to be the only one who understands what is happening to Asouf: when he ties him up he taunts him to use his supposedly superhuman saintly powers, adding ‘if you turn into a waddān I will eat you’. Nazīf, 107. Al-Koni returns to the relationship between darkness and creation in Al-Saªara, where the darkness is identified as being the preserve of the magicians. Al-Koni, Al-Saªara, 254. Literary creation is therefore not an innocent act in Al-Koni’s idiom; it is associated with forces that transcend reason, finitude and mortality. Cf. Plato, Phaedrus 245a. Casajus, Gens de parole, 72. Fähndrich, ‘Ibrahim al-Koni’, 159. Al-Koni, Marāthī Ūlīs, 159–60: ‫ ﻻ ﺑﻄﻮﻟﺔ ﺃﻋﻈﻢ ﻣﻦ ﺑﻄﻮﻟﺔ ﺍﻟﺬﻫﺎﺏ ﻓﻲ ﺭﺣﻠﺔ‬.‫ﻻ ﺑﻄﻮﻟﺔ ﺃﻋﻈﻢ ﺷﺄﻧﺎً ﻣﻦ ﺑﻄﻮﻟﺔ ﻗﻮﻝ ﺍﻟﻮﺻﺎﻳﺎ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺸﻌﺮ‬ .‫ ﻭ ﺍﻟﻌﻮﺩﺓ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺍﻟﺪﻳﺎﺭ ﺑﺎﻟﻜﻨﺰ ﺑﺮﻏﻢ ﺫﻟﻚ‬، ‫ﺇﻟﻰ ﺍﻟﺨﻔﺎء ﺩﻭﻥ ﻃﻤﻊ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﻌﻮﺩﺓ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺍﻟﻮﺭﺍء‬ ‘[L]’on ne peut écrire que si l’on reste maître de soi devant la mort, si l’on a établi avec elle des rapports de souveraineté [. . .] L’art est maîtrise du moment suprême, suprême maîtrise.’ Blanchot, L’Espace littéraire, 110. Cf. Blanchot’s description of the strong relationship between writing and solitude. L’Espace littéraire, 31.

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‫‪115. Al-Koni, Marāthī Ūlīs, 126:‬‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫ﺍﻟﻜﻞ ﻳﺼﺮﺥ ﻓﻲ ﻭﺟﻬﻪ ﻛﻤﺎ ﺻﺮﺥ ﺍﻷﻗﺮﺍﻥ ﻓﻲ ﻭﺟﻬﻪ ﺑﺎﻟﺘﻬﻤﺔ ﺍﻟﻤﺠﻬﻮﻟﺔ‪’ :‬ﺃﻧﺖ ﻏﺮﻳﺐ‪ .‬ﺃﻧﺖ ﻓﻲ ﺩﻧﻴﺎﻙ‬ ‫ﻭﺣﻴﺪ‪ .‬ﺃﻧﺖ ﻻ ﻣﻜﺎﻥ ﻟﻚ ﺑﻴﻨﻨﺎ !‘‬ ‫‪116. Al-Koni, Marāthī Ūlīs, 131:‬‬ ‫ﺍﻟﺼﺤﺮﺍء ﺗﺴﺘﺮ ﺣﻘﻴﻘﺘﻬﺎ ﻋﻦ ﺍﻟﻔﺮﻳﻖ ﺍﻟﺬﻱ ﻳﺮﻯ ﺑﺎﻟﺒﺼﺮ ﻭ ﺗﻜﺸﻒ ﻋﻦ ﻣﻔﺎﺗﻨﻬﺎ ﻟﻠﻔﺮﻳﻖ ﺍﻟﺬﻱ ﻳﺮﻯ‬ ‫ﺑﺎﻟﺒﺼﻴﺮﺓ ﻻ ﺑﺎﻟﺒﺼﺮ ﺍﻟﺬﻱ ﻻ ﻳﺒﺼﺮ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺪﻧﻴﺎ ً‬ ‫ﻓﺘﻨﺔ ﻏﻴﺮ ﻓﺘﻨﺔ ﺍﻟﻨﺴﺎء ]‪[. . .‬‬ ‫ﻻ ﻣﻜﺎﻥ ﻟﻪ ﺑﻴﻨﻬﻢ ﻷﻧﻬﻢ ﻻ ﻳﺮﻭﻥ ﻣﺎ ﻻ ﻳُﺮﻯ ‪ ،‬ﻭ ﻻ ﻳﺮﻯ ﻣﺎ ﻳﺮﻭﻥ‪ .‬ﻷﻧﻬﻢ ﻻ ﻳﺮﻭﻥ ّﺇﻻ ﻣﺎ ﻳُﺮﻯ ﻓﻲ‬ ‫ﺣﻴﻦ ﻻ ﻳﺮﻯ ﻫﻮ ّﺇﻻ ﻣﺎ ﻻ ﻳُﺮﻯ‪ .‬ﻓﻜﻴﻒ ﻳﺴﺘﻄﻴﻊ ﺃﻥ ﻳﺮﻭﻱ ﻟﻬﻢ ﻣﺎ ﻻ ﻳﺮﻭﻥ ﻣﺎ ﺩﺍﻣﻮﺍ ﻻ ﻳﻌﺘﺮﻓﻮﻥ ّﺇﻻ‬ ‫ﺑﻤﺎ ﻳﺮﻭﻥ؟‬

‫‪117. Al-Koni, Marāthī Ūlīs, 163–4:‬‬ ‫ﺃﻭﻃﺎﻥ ﺗﺠﺎﻭﺭ ﺃﻣﻢ ﺍﻟﺴﻮﺭ ﺍﻟﻌﻈﻴﻢ ‪ ،‬ﻭﻳﻄﻠﻖ ﻋﻠﻴﻬﺎ ﺃﻗﻮﺍﻡ ﻫﺬﻩ ﺍﻷﻧﺤﺎء ﺍﺳﻢ ‪’ :‬ﺍﻟﺪﻳﻠﻢ‘ ﻟﻜﺜﺮﺓ ﺍﻟﺪﺑﺒﺔ ﻓﻲ‬ ‫ﺑﺄﻫﻞ ﺣﻤﺮ ﺍﻟﺒﺸﺮﺓ‪ ،‬ﺷﻘﺮ ﺍﻟﺸﻌﻮﺭ‪،‬‬ ‫ﺃﺭﺿﻬﺎ ﺍﻟﻤﻜﺴﻮﺓ ﺑﺎﻟﻐﺎﺑﺎﺕ‪ ،‬ﺍﻟﻤﻐﻤﻮﺭﺓ ﺑﻤﻴﺎﻩ ﺍﻷﻧﻬﺎﺭ‪ ،‬ﺍﻟﻤﺴﻜﻮﻧﺔ ٍ‬ ‫ﻋﻈﺎﻡ ﺍﻷﺑﺪﺍﻥ‪ ،‬ﺗﺘﻬﻤﻬﻢ ﺍﻟﻘﺒﺎﺋﻞ ﺍﻟﻤﺠﺎﻭﺭﺓ ﺑﺎﻟﺠﻨﻮﻥ ﻷﻧّﻬﻢ‪ ،‬ﺣﺴﺐ ﻣﺎ ﻳُﺮﻭﻯ‪ ،‬ﺃﺧﺬﻭﺍ ﻋﻠﻰ ﻋﺎﺗﻘﻬﻢ ﻣﻬﻤّﺔ‬ ‫ﺟﺴﻮﺭﺓ‪ ،‬ﺑﻞ ﻭ ﺟﻨﻮﻧﻴﺔ‪ ،‬ﺗﺘﻤﺜّﻞ ﻓﻲ ﺗﺤﻘﻴﻖ ﺍﻟﺮﺧﺎء ﺍﻟﻀﺎﺋﻊ ﺑﺈﻋﺎﺩﺓ ﺑﻨﺎء ’ﻭﺍﻭ ﺍﻟﻤﻔﻘﻮﺩﺓ‘ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺃﺭﺿﻬﻢ‪.‬‬

‫‪118. Al-Koni, Marāthī Ūlīs, 216–17.‬‬ ‫‪119. Al-Koni, Marāthī Ūlīs, 224.‬‬ ‫‪120. Al-Koni, Marāthī Ūlīs, 225:‬‬ ‫ﻓﻬﻞ ﻫﺬﺍ ﻣﺎ ﻳﺴﻤﻴﻪ ﻛﻬﻨﺔ ﺍﻷﺟﻴﺎﻝ ﻓﻲ ﻟﻐﺘﻬﻢ ﺍﻟﻘﺪﻳﻤﺔ ﺧﻼﺻﺎً ؟ ﻫﻞ ﻫﺬﺍ ﻫﻮ ﻣﺎ ﻳﺼﻔﻪ ﺳﺤﺮﺓ ﺍﻟﻘﺒﺎﺋﻞ‬ ‫ﻓﻲ ﻧﺎﻣﻮﺳﻬﻢ ﺑﺈﺳﻢ ﺍﻟﺤﺮﻳﺔ ؟ ﻭﻫﻞ ﻫﺬﺍ ﻣﺎ ﻳﻨﻌﺘﻪ ﻋﺸﺎﻕ ﺍﻟﻌﺰﻟﺔ ﺑﺎﻟﺴﻜﻴﻨﺔ ؟ ﺃﻡ ﺃﻥ ﻫﺬﺍ ﻫﻮ ﺗﻠﻚ ﺍﻻﺣﺠﻴﺔ‬ ‫ﺍﻟﻐﺎﻣﻀﺔ ﺍﻟﺘﻲ ﻳﺼﻔﻬﺎ ﺩﻫﺎﺓ ﺍﻟﺴﺮ ﺑﺎﻟﻤﻴﻼﺩ ﺍﻟﺜﺎﻧﻲ ؟‬ ‫‪121. Al-Koni, Marāthī Ūlīs, 234.‬‬ ‫ﻷﻧﻪ ﺃﺩﺭﻙ ﺍﻵﻥ ﻓﻘﻂ ﺃﻥ ﻫﺬﻩ ﺍﻷﺣﺎﺟﻲ ﺍﻟﺘﻲ ﻟﻢ ﻳﺮ ﻓﻴﻬﺎ ﻗﺒﻞ ﺍﻟﻴﻮﻡ ﺳﻮﻯ ﺃﺟﺴﺎﻣﺎً ﻭﺃﺳﻤﺎء ﻭﺃﺷﻴﺎء ﻟﻴﺴﺖ‬ ‫ﺑﺄﺟﺴﺎﻡ ﻭﻻ ﺑﺄﺷﻴﺎء ‪ ،‬ﻭﻟﻜﻨﻬﺎ ﺷﻲء ﺁﺧﺮ ﻻ ﻳﻌﺮﻑ ﻣﺎﺫﺍ ﻳﺴﻤﻴﻪ‪ .‬ﺷﻲء ﺁﺧﺮ ﺃﻗﺮﺏ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﺨﻞ ﻭﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﺤﻤﻴﻢ‬ ‫ﻭﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﻘﺮﻳﻦ‪ .‬ﺷﻲء ﺁﺧﺮ ﻳﺮﺍﻩ ﺍﻵﻥ ﺑﻌﻴﻦ ﺍﻟﺒﺼﻴﺮﺓ ﺑﻌﺪ ﻣﺎ ﺣﺠﺒﺘﻪ ﻋﻨﻪ ﻋﻴﻦ ﺍﻟﺒﺼﺮ ﻃﻮﻝ ﻫﺬﻩ ﺍﻟﺴﻨﻴﻦ‪.‬‬ ‫ﺷﻲء ﺁﺧﺮ ﻻ ﺗﻔﺼﻠﻪ ﻋﻨﻪ ﺍﻟﻤﺴﺎﻓﺔ‪ ،‬ﻭﻻ ﺗﺴﺘﺮﻩ ﻋﻨﻪ ﺍﻟﻈﻠﻤﺔ‪ ،‬ﻭﻻ ﻭﺟﻮﺩ ﻟﻪ ﻓﻲ ﻣﻜﺎﻥ ﺁﺧﺮ ﺧﺎﺭﺟﻪ‪.‬‬ ‫ﻓﻔﻴﺾ ﺍﻟﻀﻮء ﻟﻢ ﻳﻨﻄﻠﻖ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﻘﻮﺱ ﺍﻟﻤﺰﻣﻮﻡ ﺍﻟﻄﺎﻟﻊ ﻣﻦ ﻭﺭﺍء ﺍﻟﺮﺍﺑﻴﺔ‪ ،‬ﺑﻞ ﻳﻨﻄﻠﻖ ﻣﻦ ﺻﺪﺭﻩ ﻫﻮ‪.‬‬ ‫ﻭﺍﻟﻤﺎء ﺍﻟﻤﺘﺪﻓﻖ ﻓﻲ ﺃﺧﺪﻭﺩ ﺍﻟﻨﻬﺮ ﻟﻢ ﻳﻨﺒﻊ ﻣﻦ ﺣﻀﻴﺾ ﺍﻷﺭﺽ ‪ ،‬ﻭﻟﻜﻨﻪ ﻳﻨﺒﻊ ﻣﻦ ﻗﻠﺒﻪ ‪.‬‬

‫‪122. Once again, there is an important parallel between Al-Koni and Blanchot, who‬‬ ‫‪describes the necessary encounter with death in the following terms:‬‬ ‫‪Écrire, ce n’est plus mettre au futur la mort toujours déjà passée, mais‬‬ ‫‪accepter de la subir sans la rendre présente et sans se rendre présent à elle,‬‬ ‫‪savoir qu’elle a eu lieu, bien qu’elle n’ait pas été éprouvée, et la reconnaitre‬‬ ‫‪dans l’oubli qu’elle laisse et dont les traces qui s’effacent appellent à s’excepter‬‬

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de l’ordre cosmique, là où le désastre rend le réel impossible et le désir indésirable. L’Ecriture du désastre, 108–9, emphasis in the original.

After the successful negotiation of the encounter with death, writing goes on endlessly, or as Levinas puts it in his witty gloss of this aspect of Blanchot: ‘La mort, ce n’est pas la fin, c’est le n’en pas finir de finir’. Sur Maurice Blanchot, 16, emphasis in the original. 123. Al-Koni, Al- Íuªuf Al-Ūlā, 50. 124. There is a very curious parallel with Kafka here. Cf. Kafka’s often quoted aphorism about writing as a form of prayer (‘schreiben als Form des Gebetes’ Schriften, Tagebücher, Briefe, 6:1, 354). Indeed, Kafka often describes his art as a means of attaining states of heavenly dissolution not unlike fanāʾ, and the process brings him to the limits of eros and ecstasy. During his interview with the theosophist Rudolf Steiner (28 March 1911), Kafka speaks of writing as something that transports him to the state of clairvoyance (‘hellerseherschen Zustände’) described by Steiner. Later that same year (3 October 1911), we find a diary entry that says that writing (dichterische Arbeit) brings about a state of heavenly self-dissolution (which could be compared to fanāʾ) and a real sense of being alive (which could be compared to baqāʾ): ‘[Z]u einer dichterischen Arbeit alles in mir bereit ist und eine solche Arbeit eine himmlische Auflösung und ein wirkliches Lebendigwerden für mich wäre.’ Schriften, Tagebücher, Briefe, 3:1, 34, 54. On these aspects of Kafka’s aesthetics, see Sokel, The Myth of Power and the Self, 65–81, 161–80. 125. Al-Koni, Íuªuf Ibrāhīm, 81–2: [. . .] ‫ﻣﺎﺫﺍ ﻳﻌﻨﻲ ﺃﻥ ﻧﻌﺰﻡ ﻣﺒﺪﻋﺎً ﻟﻴﺴﻤﻌﻨﺎ ﻣﺰﺍﻣﻴﺮﻩ ؟‬ ‫ ﻭﺍﻟﻌﺰﻟﺔ ﻓﻲ ﻳﻘﻴﻦ ﺍﻟﻤﺒﺪﻉ ﻟﻴﺴﺖ ﻋﺰﻟﺔ‬.‫ ﻫﻮ ﺇﻫﺎﻧﺔ ﻣﻮﺟﻬﺔ ﻟﻤﺒﺪﺃ ﺍﻟﻌﺰﻟﺔ‬،‫ ﻣﺠﺮﺩ ﺍﻟﺤﻀﻮﺭ‬،‫ﻓﺎﻟﺤﻀﻮﺭ‬ ‫ ﻭﺍﻟﺤﺮﻡ ﺳﺎﺣﺔ‬،‫ ﺃﻱ ﺃﻧﻬﺎ ﺣﺮﻡ‬. ‫ ﺩﺍﺭ ﻋﺒﺎﺩﺓ ﺑﺄﻗﺪﺱ ﻣﺪﻟﻮﻝ ﻟﻬﺬﻩ ﺍﻟﻜﻠﻤﺔ‬.‫ ﻭﻟﻜﻨﻬﺎ ﺩﺍﺭ ﻋﺒﺎﺩﺓ‬، ‫ﻛﻜﻞ ﻋﺰﻟﺔ‬ .ً‫ ﻭﻟﻜﻦ ﻟﻤﻤﺎﺭﺳﺔ ﺍﻟﺼﻼﺓ ﺍﻷﻧﺒﻞ ﺍﻟﺘﻲ ﻧﺴﻤﻴﻬﺎ ﺇﺑﺪﺍﻋﺎ‬، ‫ ﻟﺘﺄﺩﻳﺔ ﻻ ﺻﻼﺓ ﺍﻟﺸﻌﻴﺮﺓ‬. ‫ﺧﺸﻮﻉ ﻟﺘﺄﺩﻳﺔ ﺍﻟﺼﻼﺓ‬

126. Al-Koni, Íuªuf Ibrāhīm, 117: ! ‫ ﺍﻟﺤﻘﻴﻘﺔ‬:‫ ﻫﻮ‬، ‫ ﺃﻋﻠﻰ ﻣﻦ ﻛﻞ ﻣﺒﺪﺃ‬،‫ﺍﻟﻤﺒﺪﻉ ﻳﺒﺪﻉ ﻓﻲ ﺳﺒﻴﻞ ﻣﺒﺪﺃ ﻭﺍﺣﺪ‬ 127. Al-Koni, Íuªuf Ibrāhīm, 82: ‫ ﻭﺍﻟﺰﺝ ﺑﻪ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺳﺎﺣﺔ ﺍﻟﻤﻸ ﻟﻴﺆﺩﻱ ﺻﻼﺓ ﺍﻻﺳﺘﺴﺮﺍﺭ ﻋﻠﻨﺎً ﻋﻤﻞ‬،‫ﻭﺇﺧﺮﺍﺝ ﺍﻟﻤﺒﺪﻉ ﻣﻦ ﻣﻠﻜﻮﺕ ﺍﻟﺘﺄﻣﻞ ﻫﺬﺍ‬ . ‫ ﻭﺗﺠﺪﻳﻒ ﻓﻲ ﺣﻖ ﺍﻟﺼﻼﺓ‬، ‫ﻣﻦ ﻗﺒﻴﻞ ﺍﻟﺨﻴﺎﻧﺔ ﻟﻤﺒﺪﺃ ﺍﻻﺳﺘﺴﺮﺍﺭ‬ 128. Al-Koni, Íuªuf Ibrāhīm, 82, 84. 129. Al-Koni, Íuªuf Ibrāhīm, 82: ‫ ﻭﻫﻮ‬.ً‫ ﻷﻥ ﻭﺟﻮﺩ ﺍﻟﻤﺒﺪﻉ ﺍﻟﺤﻘﻴﻘﻲ ﻭﺟﻮﺩ ﻓﻲ ﺑﻌﺪ ﻣﻔﻘﻮﺩ ﺩﺍﺋﻤﺎ‬.‫ﻓﻲ ﺣﻀﻮﺭ ﺍﻟﻤﺒﺪﻉ ﻏﻴﺎﺏ ﻟﺮﻭﺡ ﺍﻟﻤﺒﺪﻉ‬

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‫ ﻓﺈﺫﺍ ﺣﻀﺮ ﺍﻟﻤﺒﺪﻉ ﺇﻏﺘﺮﺏ‬.‫ﻛﻤﺒﺪﻉ ﻓﻲ ﺧﺼﺎﻡ ﺟﺪﻟﻲ ﻓﻲ ﻋﻼﻗﺘﻪ ﺍﻟﻤﻴﺘﺎﻓﻴﺰﻳﻘﻴﺔ ﻣﻊ ﻫﺬﺍ ﺍﻟﺒﻌﺪ ﺍﻟﻤﻔﻘﻮﺩ‬ .‫ ﻭﺇﺫﺍ ﺣﻀﺮ ﺍﻟﻤﺘﻦ ﺍﻏﺘﺮﺏ ﺻﺎﺣﺐ ﺍﻟﻤﺘﻦ‬.‫ﺍﻟﻤﺘﻦ‬ 130. Al-Koni, Íuªuf Ibrāhīm, 85. 131. Al-Koni, Íuªuf Ibrāhīm, 85–6: ‫ ﻭﻛﻞ‬.‫ ﺍﻟﻌﺒﺎﺭﺓ ﺗﺴﺘﺒﻴﺢ‬.‫ ﺑﻠﻰ‬. ‫ ﻭﺍﻟﺠﺴﺪ ﻫﻮ ﺍﻟﻄﻠﺴﻢ ﺍﻟﺬﻱ ﻳﻤﻴﺖ‬، ‫ ﻭﺍﻟﺤﺮﻑ ﺟﺴﺪ‬، ‫ ﺍﻟﻌﺒﺎﺭﺓ ﺣﺮﻑ‬.‫ﺑﻠﻰ‬ ‫ ﺃﻣﺎ ﺑﻴﺎﻥ ﺍﻻﺑﺪﺍﻉ ﺍﻟﻤﺪﻭﻥ ﺑﺎﻟﺪﻡ ﻓﻬﻮ ﺍﻟﻨﺰﻳﻒ ﺍﻟﺮﻭﺣﻲ ﺍﻟﺬﻱ ﻻ‬.‫ﻣﺎ ﻳﺴﺘﺒﻴﺢ ﺭﺟﺲ ﻣﻦ ﻋﻤﻞ ﺍﻟﺸﻴﻄﺎﻥ‬ ‫ ﻓﺈﻥ ﺗﺤﻮﻟﺖ‬، ‫ﻳﺨﺘﻠﻒ ﻓﻲ ﺣﻘﻴﻘﺘﻪ ﻋﻦ ﺍﻟﻤﻤﺎﺭﺳﺔ ﺍﻟﺼﻮﻓﻴﺔ ﺍﻟﺘﻲ ﻗﺎﻝ ﻋﻨﻬﺎ ﺍﻟﺮﻭﺫﺑﺎﺭﻱ ﺑﺄﻧﻬﺎ ﺟﻨﺲ ﺇﺷﺎﺭﺓ‬ . ‫ﺇﻟﻰ ﻋﺒﺎﺭﺓ ﺍﺳﺘﺘﺮﺕ‬

132.

133.

134.

135.

Al-Rudhbārī’s phrase is found in Al-Sarrāj, Kitāb Al-Lumaʿ, 180: .ً‫ﻋﻠﻤﻨﺎ ﻫﺬﺍ ﺇﺷﺎﺭﺓ ﻓﺈﺫﺍ ﺻﺎﺭ ﻋﺒﺎﺭﺓ ]ﺻﺎﺭ [ ﺧﻔﺎ‬ As stated in ‘The Origin of the Work of Art’: ‘Art, as setting-into-work of truth, is poetry’ (‘Die Kunst ist als das Ins-Werk-Setzen der Wahrheit Dichtung’). Heidegger, Basic Writings, 199; GA, 5:62. Al-Koni, Íuªuf Ibrāhīm, 86: ‫ ﻭﻟﻜﻦ ﻳﺠﺐ‬، ‫ﻭﻫﻮ ﻣﺎ ﻳﻌﻨﻲ ﺃﻥ ﻟﺴﺎﻧﻨﺎ ﻓﻲ ﻫﺬﻩ ﺍﻟﺘﺠﺮﺑﺔ ﻻ ﻳﺠﺐ ﺃﻥ ﻳﻈﻞ ﺍﻟﻠﺴﺎﻥ ﺍﻟﺬﻱ ﻧﺘﻜﻠﻤﻪ ﻭﻻ ﻳﺘﻜﻠﻤﻨﺎ‬ . ‫ﺃﻥ ﻳﺼﻴﺮ ﻟﺴﺎﻥ ﻫﺎﻳﺪﻏﺮ ﺍﻟﺬﻱ ﻳﺘﻜﻠﻤﻨﺎ ﻭﻻ ﻧﺘﻜﻠﻤﺔ‬ Heidegger’s declaration that ‘language speaks’ (‘die Sprache spricht’) is repeated in his essay ‘Language’. Poetry, Language, Thought, 188–9; GA, 12:10–11, 17. A more forceful version is found in ‘. . . dichterisch wohnet der Mensch . . .’ (‘. . . poetically man dwells . . .’): ‘Denn eigentlich spricht die Sprache.’ GA, 9:194. This should be put in relation to the constitutive power of language, as made evident by Heidegger’s often repeated dictum that ‘Language is the house of Being’ (‘Die Sprache ist das Haus des Seins’; GA, 9:313) and his arguments about language as the site of world-disclosure. Basic Writings, 217–23; Poetry, Language, Thought, 200–1; On the Way to Language, 63–7. Cf. Charles Taylor’s reading of Heidegger’s claims about the ‘dictatorial’ powers of language, 451. An additional point of contact between Heidegger and the Sufis (without going so far as to claim that Heidegger was a Sufi) might be found in the opposition between ishāra (allusion) and ʿibāra (expression) on the one hand and that between language as designation and language as showing on the other, the latter being the privileged route of access to Being. On the Way to Langage, 115–25. Cf. Heidegger’s resituation of the designating/showing opposition in his reading of Plato’s parable of the cave and his suggestions regarding the language of hints and gestures. On the Way, 25–6; GA, 9:231–8; GA, 12:110–11. Heidegger, Poetry, Language, Thought, 205; GA, 12:27–8. It would be a stretch to call Heidegger’s a mystical view of language, but see John Caputo’s

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136.

137.

138.

139.

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very suggestive confrontation between Heidegger and Eckhart. Still, Caputo argues against a mystical Heidegger and in favour of a ‘mystical element’ in Heidegger’s thought. The Mystical Element in Heidegger’s Thought, 166–73, 238–40. Al-Koni, Íuªuf Ibrāhīm, 55: ‫ ﺑﻌﺪ ﺃﻥ ﻣﺎﺕ ﻓﻴﻪ ﺍﻧﺴﺎﻥ ﺍﻟﻮﻻﺩﺓ‬. ‫ﻻ ﺑﺪ ﺃﻥ ﻳﻮﻟﺪ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻻﻧﺴﺎﻥ ﺍﻧﺴﺎﻥ ﺁﺧﺮ ﺑﻌﺪ ﺃﻥ ﻣﺎﺕ ﻓﻴﻪ ﺍﻧﺴﺎﻥ ﺁﺧﺮ‬ . ‫ ﻟﻴﻮﻟﺪ ﻓﻴﻪ ﺍﻧﺴﺎﻥ ﺍﻟﻮﻻﺩﺓ ﺍﻟﺜﺎﻧﻴﺔ‬، ‫ﺍﻷﻭﻟﻰ‬ It is especially worthy of note that Al-Koni turns to this most linguistically selfreflexive and discursive of the Four Gospels, the one that starts all Being with the logos. See Jean Grosjean, L’Ironie christique, 12–23, 61–2. Al-Koni, Íuªuf Ibrāhīm, 55: ‫ ﻭﻟﻜﻦ ﻣﺎ ﻻ ﻳﺮﻯ ﻻ ﺑﺪ ﺃﻥ ﺗﺘﻤﺨﺾ ﻋﻦ ﺗﻠﻚ ﺍﻟﺮﺅﻳﺔ‬، ‫ﻭﺩﺳﺘﻮﻳﻔﺴﻜﻲ ﺍﻟﺬﻱ ﺭﺃﻯ ﻓﻲ ﺗﻠﻚ ﺍﻟﻮﻗﻔﺔ ﻣﺎ ﻻ ﻳﺮﻯ‬ .‫ ﻭﻟﻴﺴﺖ ﻣﺠﺮﺩ ﺭﺅﻳﺔ ( ﺍﻧﺴﺎﻥ ﺁﺧﺮ‬، ‫ ﺃﻱ ﻧﺒﻮﺓ‬، ‫)ﺍﻟﺘﻲ ﻫﻲ ﺭﺅﻳﺎ‬ Al-Koni, Íuªuf Ibrāhīm, 57: ‫ ﺗﻌﺸﻖ ﻓﻲ‬.‫ﻛﻴﺮﻛﻴﻐﻮﺭ ﻗﻴﻤﺔ ﺃﺧﻼﻗﻴﺔ ﻋﻠﻴﺎ ﺗﻌﺸﻖ ﻓﻲ ﻛﻴﺎﻥ ﺇﻣﺮﺃﺓ ﺍﺳﻤﻬﺎ ﺭﻳﺠﻴﻨﺎ ﺍﻭﻟﺴﻦ ﺭﻣﺰﺍً ﻻ ﺇﻣﺮﺃﺓ‬ ً ‫ﺭﻳﺠﻴﻨﺎ ﺍﻭﻟﺴﻦ‬ ‫ ﺗﻌﺸﻖ ﻓﻲ ﺭﻳﺠﻴﻨﺎ ﺍﻭﻟﺴﻦ ﻗﺮﻳﻨﺎً ﺣﻤﻴﻤﺎً ﻳﻨﺘﻤﻲ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺍﻟﻤﻠﻜﻮﺕ ﺍﻟﺬﻱ ﻻ ﻳﺮﻯ‬.ً‫ﻣﺜﺎﻻ ﻻ ﺣﺴﻨﺎ‬ .ً‫ ﺗﻌﺸﻖ ﻓﻲ ﺭﻳﺠﻴﻨﺎ ﺍﻭﻟﺴﻦ ﺭﺑﺎً ﻻ ﻣﺨﻠﻮﻗﺎ ﻓﺎﻧﻴﺎ‬.‫ﻻ ﺇﻟﻰ ﻣﻤﻠﻜﺔ ﺍﻟﺪﻧﻴﺎ‬

140. Al-Koni, Íuªuf Ibrāhīm, 58. 141. See the biographical readings in Edward F. Mooney, Knights of Faith and Resignation, 132–5, and, in much greater detail that pits Kierkegaard against his family’s past as well as his own self-sacrificing messianic desires, Sylviane Agacinski, Aparté, 73–7, 92–3, 120–1ff. Chapter 6 1. Since it is not inflected, the first part of the Arabic title of Al-Waliyy Al-˝āhar Yaʿūd ilā Maqāmihi Al-Zakī could either be translated as Saint ˝āhar (reading ˝āhar as a proper name) or as The Holy Saint (reading ˝āhir as an adjective). I have opted for the former translation and spelling as they seem to be in line with the strong autobiographical strain running through the three novels under consideration: we are in fact reading a novel-cum-hagiography centred on the novelist named Tahar Ouettar. This is the reading of K. Bougherara, who translated Ouettar’s novel into English as Saint Tahar Returns to His Holy Shrine (available at [accessed various dates, June 2009–January 2012]) as well as Said Djaafer, who translated Ouettar’s novel into French as El Ouali Tahar retourne à son saint-lieu.

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2. Martinez, La Guerre civile en Algérie, 1990–1998, 15. 3. James McDougall traces the lines of force of this process in admirable detail in his History and the Culture of Nationalism in Algeria. He proposes a lucid alternative reading to the idea of a monolithic, nightmarish Algerian past. 4. The continuities between the two wars, the FLN and the FIS receive detailed coverage in Abder-Rahmane Derradji, A Concise History of Political Violence in Algeria, 1954–2000: Brothers in Faith, Enemies in Arms. A full account of the disruption of the electoral process following the introduction of multiparty rule, as well as its violent consequences, is found in Al-˝awīl, Al-Óaraka Al-Islāmiyya Al-Musallaªa fī-l-Jazāʾir. On the self-inscription of the FIS in the tradition and genealogy of the national liberation struggle waged by the FLN, see Al-˝awīl, Al-Óaraka, 303–4, and for a detailed social-historical reading of the complex realities underlying the electoral victory of the FIS and its violent aftermath, see Omar Carlier, Entre nation et jihad, 339–409. Luis Martinez goes farther in arguing that the ‘emirs’ in fact reproduce the internal history of Algeria, whereby caïds and colonels, chaouchs and kouloughlis acquire power, wealth and status precisely through their participation in acts of violence and banditry within and against, rather than with the state – a phenomenon that preceded and, sadly, survived the French colonisation of Algeria. The way of the mujahid was and remains an important means of social and economic ascendance within an economy of plunder and racketeering. Martinez, Guerre civile, 30–6, 142–70, 189–228, 263–92, 337–62. 5. Kashf, 181. 6. On the many debates in Sufi thought on the relationship between the ªāl and duration see Al-Hujwīrī, Kashf, 182; Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam, 99–100; Gardet, ‘Óāl’, EI. 7. Tahar Ouettar, Al-Waliyy Al-˝āhar, 9: ‫ ﻭ ﻟﺮﺑﻤﺎ ﻟﻬﺬﺍ ﺍﻟﺴﺒﺐ ﻛﺎﻧﺖ‬، ‫ ﺑﻞ ’ﺣﺎﻟﺔ‘ ﺑﺎﻟﺘﻌﺒﻴﺮ ﺍﻟﺼﻮﻓﻲ‬، ‫ ﻳﻘﺮﺃ ﺍﻟﺘﺎﺭﻳﺦ ﻭﻣﻀﺔ‬، ‫ﻓﻲ‬ ّ ‫ﺇﻥ ﺍﻟﻔﻨﺎﻥ‬ .‫ ﺗﻌﻴﺶ ﺣﺎﻻﺕ ﺗﺘﺠﺴﺪ ﻓﻲ ﺣﺎﻟﺔ ﻭﺍﺣﺪﺓ‬، ‫ ﺻﻮﻓﻴﺔ‬، ‫ﺍﻟﺸﺨﺼﻴﺔ ﺍﻟﺮﺋﻴﺴﻴﺔ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺮﻭﺍﻳﺔ‬ ‫ ﺇﻧﻤﺎ‬، ‫ ﻓﻠﻢ ﺃﺿﻊ ﻧﻬﺎﻳﺔ‬، ‫ ﻳﻌﻄﻲ ﺍﻟﺪﻳﻤﻮﻣﺔ ﻟﻠﺤﺎﻟﺔ‬، ‫ ﺳﻤﺢ ﻟﻲ ﺑﺎﺳﺘﻌﻤﺎﻝ ﺑﻨﺎء ﻟﻮﻟﺒﻲ‬، ‫ﻭ ﻫﺬﺍ ﻣﺘﻜﺄ ﺛﺎﻥ‬ .‫ ﻭ ﻣﺤﻄﺔ ﻹﻗﻼﻉ ﺟﺪﻳﺪ‬، ‫ ﻫﻲ ﻫﺒﻮﻁ ﺍﺿﻄﺮﺍﺭﻱ‬، ‫ ﻭ ﺍﻛﺘﻔﻴﺖ ﺑﺨﺎﺗﻤﺔ‬،‫ﺍﻗﺘﺮﺣﺖ ﻧﻬﺎﻳﺎﺕ‬

8. Al-Óallāj, Kitâb Al-Tawâsîn, 41–5, especially page 42 where Al-Óallāj proclaims, ‘None of heaven’s people was a monotheist [muwaªªid ] like Iblīs’: .‫ﻣﺎ ﻛﺎﻥ ﻓﻲ ﺃﻫﻞ ﺍﻟﺴﻤﺎء ﻣﻮﺣﺪ ﻣﺜﻞ ﺍﺑﻠﻴﺲ‬ 9. Al-Óallāj, Tawâsîn, 42–3: ‫ﻋﺒﺪ ﺍﻟﻤﻌﺒﻮﺩ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺍﻟﺘﺠﺮﻳﺪ ﻭ ﻟُﻌﻦ ﺣﻴﻦ ﻭﺻﻞ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺍﻟﺘﻔﺮﻳﺪ‬. On the terms tafrīd and tajrīd in relation to tawªīd see Massignon’s notes in Tawâsîn,

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10. 11. 12. 13.

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168–9; Passion 3:142–3, 327; Essai, 92–3; as well as Al-Hujwīrī, Kashf, 281–5 and Anawati and Gardet’s, Mystique musulmane, 107–10. In Massignon’s reading both forms of isolation risk preventing the experience of mystical union. Al-Óallaj, Tawâsîn, 54: ً ‫ﻣﻌﺰﻭﻻ ﻓﻲ ﻭﻻﻳﺘﻪ‬ ‫ﺳﻤﻲ ﻋﺰﺍﺯﻳﻞ ﻷﻧﻪ ﻋﺰﻝ ﻭ ﻛﺎﻥ‬ Peter Awn, Satan’s Tragedy and Redemption, 123–39, 189–95. Awn, Satan’s Tragedy, 184. Ouettar, Al-Shamʿa wa-l-Dahālīz, 7: ‫ ﻭ ﺑﺬﻟﻚ ﺃﻋﻄﻰ ﻟﻠﺼﻔﺮ‬.‫ ﻓﺘﺸﺒﺚ ﺑﺄﻥ ﻻ ﻳﺴﺠﺪ ﻟﻐﻴﺮ ﺍﻟﻮﺍﺣﺪ‬، ‫ﺇﻧﻤﺎ ﺇﺑﻠﻴﺲ ﺭﻓﺾ ﺍﻻﻋﺘﺮﺍﻑ ﺑﺎﻟﺘﻌﺪﺩﻳﺔ‬ ‫ ﻭﺗﺤﻮﻝ ﻛﻞ‬، ‫ ﺟﻌﻞ ﺍﻟﻮﺍﺣﺪ ﻳﻔﻘﺪ ﻗﻴﻤﺘﻪ ﺇﺫﺍ ﺍﻧﻌﺪﻡ ﺍﻟﺼﻔﺮ‬، ‫ ﺑﻞ ﺃﻛﺜﺮ ﻣﻦ ﺫﻟﻚ‬، ‫ﻗﻴﻤﺔ ﺗﻀﺎﻫﻲ ﻗﻴﻤﺔ ﺍﻟﻮﺍﺣﺪ‬ .‫ ﻭ ﻛﻞ ﻣﺎ ﻋﺪﺍ ﺍﻟﺼﻔﺮ ﺇﻟﻰ ﻭﺍﺣﺪ‬، ‫ﻣﺎ ﻋﺪﺍ ﺍﻟﻮﺍﺣﺪ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺻﻔﺮ‬

14. In an interview with Al-Sharq Al-Awsa† Ouettar states that he opposed cancelling the 1992 election results and the mass arrests that followed, condemning those intellectuals that did not do so for being blind to the abuse of human rights that this cancellation implied. Al-Sharq Al-Awsat, 18 February 2002, available at (accessed various dates, June 2009–January 2012). 15. See Al-˝awīl, Al-Óaraka, 53–86 on the staunch opposition of the extreme Algerian Salafist factions and parties to the very idea of democracy, on the grounds that the latter is un-Islamic, that all sovereignty (ªukm) must belong to God, that the only legitimate form of government is the khilāfa, and that, worst of all, any Muslim adherent of democracy must be considered an apostate (murtadd ) and therefore someone who can legitimately be killed. 16. Cf. Omar Carlier, ‘D’une guerre l’autre: le redéploiement de la violence entre soi’. 17. Hifnaoui Bouali argues that the poet’s personality is based in part on the poet Youssef Sebti (1943–93), one of the first writers to die in the wave of assassinations that gripped Algeria in 1993 and a close friend of Ouettar’s. Bouali, ‘Al-˝āhar Ouettar’, 142. This is certainly plausible, not least because the novel is dedicated to Sebti’s memory. The complexity of Ouettar’s construction, however, and the later avatars of the poet’s persona in the remaining novels of the triptych (the poet is identified with the saint Sīdī Abū Al-Zamān, who prefigures Saint ˝āhar), as well as some similarity of detail with other intellectuals who were assassinated during this period such as the sociologist Muªammad Boukhobza (slaughtered in his home in front of his family on 22 June 1993) and the university professor Óanbalī Aªmad (assassinated 30 September 1993)

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20. 21.

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make reading the novel as a strict roman à clef impossible. The ‘trial’ of the protagonist at the end of Al-Shamʿa wa-l-Dahālīz identifies him with a number of positions held by Ouettar, not least his opposition to the use of French in post-1962 Algeria. Ouettar, Al-Shamʿa, 17. Ouettar, Al-Shamʿa, 10: ، ‫ ﻭ ﻓﻲ ﻓﻬﻢ ﻣﺎ ﻳﺠﺮﻱ ﺣﻮﻟﻪ ﻗﺒﻞ ﺣﺪﻭﺛﻪ‬، ‫ﺃﻧﺎ ﻫﺬﺍ ﺍﻟﻤﺠﺮﻡ ﺍﻟﺬﻱ ﺗﺘﻤﺜﻞ ﺟﺮﻳﻤﺘﻪ ﻓﻲ ﻓﻬﻢ ﺍﻟﻜﻮﻥ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺣﻘﻴﻘﺘﻪ‬ . ‫ ﻣﻬﻤﺎ ﺣﺎﻭﻝ‬، ‫ ﻻ ﻳﻘﺘﺤﻤﻪ ﻣﻘﺘﺤﻢ‬، ‫ ﻣﺘﻌﺪﺩ ﺍﻟﺠﻮﺍﻧﺐ ﻭ ﺍﻟﺴﺮﺍﺩﻳﺐ ﻭ ﺍﻷﻏﻮﺍﺭ‬، ‫ﺃﺗﺤﻮﻝ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺩﻫﻠﻴﺰ ﻣﻈﻠﻢ‬ See Miloudi Chaghmoum, Al-Mutakhayyal wa-l-Qudsī fī-l-Ta‚awwuf Al-Islāmī, 152–200. Ouettar, Al-Shamʿa, 11–12: ، ‫ ﻓﺈﻧﻪ ﻣﻈﻠﻢ‬، ‫ ﺭﻏﻢ ﻣﺎ ﻧﻌﺘﻘﺪﻩ ﻣﻦ ﺃﻧﻪ ﻣﻨﺎﺭ ﻣﻦ ﺷﺘﻰ ﺃﻧﻮﺍﻉ ﺍﻟﻤﻌﺮﻓﺔ‬، ‫[ ﺩﻫﻠﻴﺰ ﻛﺒﻴﺮ‬. . .]‫ﻫﺬﺍ ﺍﻟﻌﺼﺮ‬ .‫ﻣﻈﻠﻢ ﻭ ﻏﺎﻣﺾ‬ .‫ﻏﺎﻣﺾ ﻣﺨﻴﻒ‬ [. . .]‫ ﺗﺤﻀﺮ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻵﻥ ﺍﻟﻮﺍﺣﺪ‬، ‫ﺫﻟﻚ ﺃﻥ ﺍﻟﻘﻀﺎﻳﺎ ﻛﻠﻬﺎ ﻓﻴﻪ‬ ‫ ﺑﺪﻭﻥ ﺗﺤﻠﻴﻠﻬﺎ ﻭ ﺍﻟﻮﻗﻮﻑ‬،‫ ﺍﻟﻘﻀﺎﻳﺎ‬، ‫ ﺇﻥ ﻟﻢ ﻳﻜﻦ ﻣﻼﻳﻴﺮ‬، ‫ ﻣﻼﻳﻴﻦ‬، ‫ ﺃﻭ ﺍﻟﻤﺴﺄﻟﺔ ﺍﻟﻮﺍﺣﺪﺓ‬، ‫ﺍﺩﺧﻞ ﺍﻟﻘﻀﻴﺔ‬ ‫ ﺗﻨﻔﺘﺢ ﺃﻣﺎﻣﻚ‬،‫ ﺑﻞ ﺇﻥ ﺳﺮﺍﺩﻳﺐ‬.‫ ﻻ ﺗﺠﺪ ﺑﺎﺑﺎ ﻓﻲ ﺩﻫﻠﻴﺰ ﺍﻟﻘﻀﻴﺔ ﺍﻟﺘﻲ ﺃﻧﺖ ﺑﺼﺪﺩ ﺍﻗﺘﺤﺎﻣﻬﺎ‬، ‫ﻋﻠﻴﻬﺎ ﻛﻠﻬﺎ‬ ،‫ ﻓﺘﻨﺰﻝ‬،‫ ﻳﻨﻔﺘﺢ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺳﺮﺍﺩﻳﺐ ﺗﻤﺘﺼﻚ‬،‫ ﻭﺟﺪﺕ ﻧﻔﺴﻚ ﻓﻲ ﺩﻫﻠﻴﺰ ﺁﺧﺮ‬،‫[ ﻛﻠﻤﺎ ﺍﻗﺘﺤﻤﺖ ﺳﺮﺩﺍﺑﺎ‬. . .] .‫ ﻭ ﺳﺮﺍﺩﻳﺐ ﻣﻤﺘﺼﺔ ﺃﺧﺮﻯ‬،‫ ﺇﻧﻤﺎ ﻟﺪﻫﺎﻟﻴﺰ‬،‫ ﻻ ﺇﻟﻰ ﻣﻜﺎﻥ‬،‫ﻭﺗﻨﺰﻝ‬

22. ‫ﻓﻲ ﺣﺎﻟﺔ ﻭﺟﺪ ﺻﻮﻓﻲ ﻣﺘﻨﺎﻩ‬, Al-Shamʿa, 11. 23. The verse reads: َ ْ ‫ﺍﺕ َﻭ‬ ‫ﺎﺟ ٍﺔ ﱡ‬ ُ ُ َ ِ ‫ﺍﻷ ْﺭ‬ ‫ﺎﺟ ُﺔ َﻛﺄَﻧﱠ َﻬﺎ‬ ُ ‫ﺼﺒ‬ ٌ ‫ﺼﺒ‬ ُ ُ‫ﺍﷲﱠُ ﻧ‬ ْ ‫َﺎﺡ ْﺍﻟ ِﻤ‬ ْ ‫ﻮﺭ ِﻩ َﻛ ِﻤ ْﺸ َﻜﺎ ٍﺓ ِﻓﻴ َﻬﺎ ِﻣ‬ ‫ﻮﺭ ﱠ‬ َ ‫ﺍﻟﺰ َﺟ‬ َ ‫َﺎﺡ ِﻓﻲ ُﺯ َﺟ‬ ِ ‫ﺍﻟﺴ َﻤﺎ َﻭ‬ ِ ‫ﺽ َﻣﺜﻞ ﻧ‬ َ ‫َﻛ ْﻮ َﻛ ٌﺐ ُﺩ ﱢﺭ ﱞﻱ ﻳ‬ َ ‫َﺎﺭ َﻛ ٍﺔ َﺯﻳْﺘُﻮ َﻧ ٍﺔ َﻻ َﺷ ْﺮ ِﻗﻴﱠ ٍﺔ َﻭ َﻻ َﻏ ْﺮ ِﺑﻴﱠ ٍﺔ ﻳ‬ ‫ْﺴ ْﺴ ُﻪ‬ َ ‫ُﻮﻗ ُﺪ ِﻣ ْﻦ َﺷ َﺠ َﺮ ٍﺓ ُﻣﺒ‬ َ ‫ُﻀﻲ ُء َﻭﻟَ ْﻮ ﻟَ ْﻢ َﺗﻤ‬ ِ ‫َﻜﺎ ُﺩ َﺯﻳْﺘُ َﻬﺎ ﻳ‬ ْ َ ‫ﱢ‬ ُ‫ﱠ‬ ُ‫ﱠ‬ ُ‫ﱠ‬ ُ َ َ ٌ ُ‫ﺎﺭ ﻧ‬ َ َ ‫ﻮﺭ َﻳ ْﻬ ِﺪﻱ ﺍﷲ ﻟِﻨُﻮﺭ ِﻩ َﻣ ْﻦ ﻳ‬ ْ ‫َﺸﺎ ُء َﻭﻳ‬ ‫ﺎﺱ َﻭﺍﷲ ِﺑﻜﻞ َﺷ ْﻲ ٍء َﻋﻠِﻴ ٌﻢ‬ ٌ ‫َﻧ‬ ٍ ُ‫ﻮﺭ َﻋﻠﻰ ﻧ‬ ِ ‫َﻀ ِﺮ ُﺏ ﺍﷲ ﺍﻷﻣْﺜﺎﻝ ﻟِﻠﻨﱠ‬ ِ

24. Ouettar, Al-Shamʿa, 12: ‫ ﻭ ﺳﻴﻜﺘﺸﻒ ﺍﻟﻨﺎﺱ ﻓﻲ ﻣﺨﺘﻠﻒ ﺃﻧﺤﺎء‬، ‫ ﻓﺴﺘﻘﻮﻡ ﻓﻲ ﻛﺎﻣﻞ ﺍﻟﻤﻨﻄﻘﺔ‬، ‫ ﻫﻨﺎ‬، [‫ﺇﺫﺍ ﻗﺎﻣﺖ ﺩﻭﻟﺘﻪ ]ﺍﻹﺳﻼﻣﻴﺔ‬ .‫[ ﻫﻲ ﺍﻹﺳﺘﻨﺎﺭﺓ ﺑﻨﻮﺭ ﺍﷲ‬. . .] ‫ ﺃﻥ ﺍﻟﻄﻤﺄﻧﻴﻨﺔ ﻭﺳﻂ ﺍﻟﺪﻫﺎﻟﻴﺰ ﻭ ﺍﻟﺴﺮﺍﺩﻳﺐ‬، ‫ﺍﻟﻌﺎﻟﻢ‬ The passage continues to quote the Verse of Light (see previous note). 25. See, for instance, Al-Tustarī, Al-Qushayrī and Al-Nisabūrī ad loc. Ibn ʿAjība goes further in identifying the light not only with reason but with revelation, uncovering (alētheia). On the image of the tabernacle of lights in particular, Al-Rāzī cites Al-Ghazālī’s Mishkāt Al-Anwār (Tabernacle of Lights) in his commentary on this verse, relying heavily on the triangulation of God, light and reason that dominates its opening. The history of Sufi readings of this verse is covered extensively in Sands, Sufi Commentaries, 110–35. One could rea-

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‫‪sonably see therein a prefiguration of the equation of God with reason that‬‬ ‫‪Ouettar’s protagonist proclaims later in the novel. Ouettar, Al-Shamʿa, 148.‬‬ ‫‪26. See, for instance, Ibn ʿAjība ad loc:‬‬ ‫ﺍﻟﺰﻳﺘﻮﻥ ﺯﻳﺘﻮﻥ ﺍﻟﺸﺎﻡ‪.‬‬ ‫ﻟﻴﺴﺖ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﻤﺸﺮﻕ ﻭﻻ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﻤﻐﺮﺏ ‪ ،‬ﺑﻞ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﻮﺳﻂ ﻣﻨﻪ ‪ ،‬ﻭﻫﻮ ﺍﻟﺸﺎﻡ ‪ ،‬ﻭﺃﺟﻮ ُﺩ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫‪27. Ouettar, Al-Shamʿa, 13:‬‬ ‫ﺇﻥ ﻋﻠﻤﺎءﻧﺎ ﻳﻔﺴﺮﻭﻥ ﺍﻟﺸﺠﺮﺓ ﺍﻟﻤﺒﺎﺭﻛﺔ ﺍﻟﺘﻲ ﻟﻴﺴﺖ ﻻ ﺑﺎﻟﺸﺮﻗﻴﺔ ﻭ ﻻ ﺑﺎﻟﻐﺮﺑﻴﺔ‪ ،‬ﺑﺄﻧﻬﺎ ﺍﻟﺠﺰﺍﺋﺮ‪ .‬ﺑﻠﺪﻧﺎ‬ ‫ﺍﻟﻌﺰﻳﺰ ﻫﺬﺍ ﺍﻟﺬﻱ ﻟﻴﺲ ﺷﺮﻗﻴﺎ ﻭ ﻻ ﻏﺮﺑﻴﺎ ‪ ،‬ﺳﻮﺍء ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﻨﺎﺣﻴﺔ ﺍﻟﺠﻐﺮﺍﻓﻴﺔ ‪ ،‬ﺃﻭ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﻨﺎﺣﻴﺔ ﺍﻟﺜﻘﺎﻓﻴﺔ‬ ‫ﻭﺍﻟﺤﻀﺎﺭﻳﺔ ‪ .‬ﺍﻟﺠﺰﺍﺋﺮ ﺷﻤﺎﻝ ﺑﺎﻟﻨﺴﺒﺔ ﻟﻤﺎﻟﻲ ﻭ ﺍﻟﻨﻴﺠﺮ ﻭ ﺍﻟﺪﻭﻝ ﺍﻹﺳﻼﻣﻴﺔ ﺍﻻﻓﺮﻳﻘﻴﺔ ‪ ،‬ﻭ ﻫﻲ ﻣﻐﺮﺏ‬ ‫ﺃﻭﺳﻂ ﺑﺎﻟﻨﺴﺒﺔ ﻟﻠﺪﻭﻝ ﺍﻹﺳﻼﻣﻴﺔ ﺍﻟﺸﺮﻗﻴﺔ ‪ ،‬ﻭ ﻫﻲ ﺟﻨﻮﺏ ‪ ،‬ﺑﺎﻟﻨﺴﺒﺔ ﻟﻠﺪﻭﻝ ﺍﻟﻤﺴﻴﺤﻴﺔ‪ .‬ﻭﻫﻲ ﺷﺮﻕ‬ ‫ﺑﺎﻟﻨﺴﺒﺔ ﻟﻠﻤﺸﺮﻕ ﺍﻷﻗﺼﻰ‪.‬‬

‫‪28. The identification with the tree is not limited to the poet or the Sufis. The‬‬ ‫‪Islamist leader who calls himself ʿAmmār b. Yāsir reinvokes this figure of the‬‬ ‫‪tree to describe his revolution. Al-Shamʿa, 30:‬‬ ‫ﻧﻨﺠﺰﻫﺎ ]ﺍﻟﺜﻮﺭﺓ ﺍﻹﺳﻼﻣﻴﺔ[ ﺇﻥ ﺷﺎء ﺍﷲ ‪،‬ﺷﺠﺮﺓ ﻣﺒﺎﺭﻛﺔ ﻻ ﺷﺮﻗﻴﺔ ﻭ ﻻ ﻏﺮﺑﻴﺔ‬ ‫‪29. Al-Shamʿa, 70:‬‬ ‫ﺍﻟﻤﺴﺄﻟﺔ ﻣﺴﺄﻟﺔ ﻭﺩﺭ ‪ ،‬ﺣﺘﻰ ﺍﻟﻔﻨﺎء ‪ ،‬ﻭ ﻟﻴﺴﺖ ﻣﺴﺄﻟﺔ ﺃﺩﺍء‪.‬‬ ‫‪30. Al-Shamʿa, 70:‬‬ ‫ﻳﺼﻌﺐ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺃﻱ ﻛﺎﺋﻦ ﺁﺧﺮ ‪ ،‬ﺃﻥ ﻳﻜﻮﻥ ﺟﺰﺍﺋﺮﻳﺎ ‪ ،‬ﻭﻟﺪ ﺟﻤﻴﻊ ﺍﻟﺸﻴﺎﻃﻴﻦ ﻭ ﺟﻤﻴﻊ ﺍﻟﻤﻼﺋﻜﺔ ﻭ ﺟﻤﻴﻊ‬ ‫ﺍﻟﺠﻦ‪ .‬ﻭﻟﺪ ﺍﻟﺒﺤﺮ ﻭ ﺍﻟﺒﺮ ‪ ،‬ﻭﻟﺪ ﺍﻟﺴﺎﺣﻞ ﻭﺍﻟﺘﻞ ﻭ ﺍﻟﺼﺤﺮﺍء‪ .‬ﺍﻟﺒﺮﺑﺮﻱ ﺍﻟﻌﺮﺑﻲ ﺍﻟﻔﻴﻨﻴﻘﻲ ﺍﻟﺮﻭﻣﺎﻧﻲ‬ ‫ﺍﻟﻮﻧﺪﺍﻟﻲ‪ .‬ﺍﻷﺑﻴﺾ ﺍﻟﺰﻧﺠﻲ ﺍﻷﺻﻔﺮ‪ .‬ﻭﻟﺪ ﺍﻟﺤﻤﺎﻗﺔ ﻭ ﺍﻟﺤﻜﻤﺔ‪ .‬ﻭﻟﺪ ﺍﻟﻮﻃﻨﻴﺔ ﻭ ﺍﻟﺨﻴﺎﻧﺔ‪ .‬ﺍﻟﻘﺎﺗﻞ ﻭ ﺍﻟﻤﻘﺘﻮﻝ‪.‬‬ ‫ﺍﻟﺠﺮﺡ ﻭ ﺍﻟﺠﺮﻳﺢ ﻭ ﺍﻟﺴﻴﻒ ﺍﻟﺠﺎﺭﺡ‪ .‬ﺧﻴﺮ ﺍﻟﺪﻳﻦ ﺑﺮﺑﺮﻭﺱ ﻳﺮﻛﺐ ﻓﺮﺳﺎ ‪ ،‬ﻭ ﺍﻷﻣﻴﺮ ﻋﺒﺪ ﺍﻟﻘﺎﺩﺭ ﻳﺮﻛﺐ‬ ‫ﺑﺎﺭﺟﺔ‪ .‬ﻓﺎﺗﺢ ﺍﻷﻧﺪﻟﺲ ‪ ،‬ﻭ ﺑﺎﻧﻲ ﺍﻟﻤﻌﺰﻳﺔ ﻭ ﻗﺎﺗﻞ ﻋﻘﺒﺔ ﺑﻦ ﻧﺎﻓﻊ‪ .‬ﺩﻭﻧﺎﺕ ﺍﻟﻘﺪﻳﺲ ﺍﻟﺜﺎﺋﺮ ‪ ،‬ﻭﺃﻭﻏﻴﺴﺘﺎﻥ‬ ‫ﺍﻟﻘﺪﻳﺲ ﺍﻟﻤﺤﺎﻓﻆ ‪.‬‬

‫‪31. Al-Shamʿa, 76.‬‬ ‫ﻫﺎ ﻫﻨﺎ ﺍﻟﺠﺰﺍﺋﺮﻱ ﺍﺑﻦ ﺍﻟﺠﺰﺍﺋﺮﻳﺔ‪ .‬ﺷﻤﻌﺔ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺪﻫﺎﻟﻴﺰ‪ .‬ﻟﺘﻨﻤﺢ ﺍﻟﺬﺍﺕ ‪ ،‬ﻭ ﻟﻴﻨﻤﺢ ﻛﻞ ﻣﺎ ﻫﻮ ﺗﺎﻓﻪ‪ .‬ﻛﻞ ﻣﺎ ﻫﻮ‬ ‫ﻋﺎﺭﺽ ‪ ،‬ﻟﻴﺒﻖ ﺍﻟﺠﻮﻫﺮ‪ .‬ﺍﻟﺸﺎﻋﺮ ﺍﻟﻤﺴﺘﻮﻋﺐ ﻟﻜﻞ ﺷﺊ ﺍﻟﺴﻴﺪ ﺍﻟﺬﻱ ﻻ ﻳﺴﻮﺩﻩ ﺃﺣﺪ‪.‬‬ ‫‪32. Al-Shamʿa, 124.‬‬ ‫‪33. Al-Shamʿa, 151–2, repeated verbatim 153, 187–8, 190–1, 192, 195, 198,‬‬ ‫‪205–6:‬‬ ‫ﻓﺘﺎﺓ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺜﺎﻧﻴﺔ ﻭ ﺍﻟﻌﺸﺮﻳﻦ ‪ ،‬ﻭﺟﻬﻬﺎ ﻏﻼﻣﻲ ‪ ،‬ﻋﻴﻨﻴﻬﺎ ﺍﻟﻤﻨﺘﺼﺒﺘﺎﻥ ‪ ،‬ﻓﻲ ﻃﺮﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﻮﺟﻪ ‪ ،‬ﺗﺒﺪﻭﺍﻥ ‪ ،‬ﻛﺄﻧﻬﻤﺎ‬ ‫ﻟﻨﻔﺮﺗﻴﺘﻲ ‪ ،‬ﺃﻭ ﻟﻜﻴﻠﻴﻮﺑﺎﻃﺮﺓ ]‪ [. . .‬ﻳﻀﺮﺏ ﻟﻮﻧﻬﺎ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺑﻴﺎﺽ ﻭ ﺳﻤﺮﺓ ﻭ ﺯﺭﻗﺔ ‪ ،‬ﻣﺎ ﻳﺠﻌﻠﻬﺎ ﺗﺒﺪﻭ ﻓﻲ‬ ‫ﺍﻟﻮﻗﺖ ﺍﻟﻮﺍﺣﺪ ﺁﺳﻴﻮﻳﺔ ﺇﻓﺮﻳﻘﻴﺔ‪.‬‬ ‫‪34. Al-Shamʿa, 171:‬‬ ‫ﻓﻤﻦ ﺃﻧﺖ؟ ﻫﻞ ﺃﻧﺖ ﻋﺰﻟﺘﻲ ﻭ ﺍﻏﺘﺮﺍﺑﻲ؟ ﻫﻞ ﺃﻧﺖ ﺗﺮﺩﺩﻱ ﻭ ﺣﻴﺮﺗﻲ؟ ﻫﻞ ﺃﻧﺖ ﺍﻟﺰﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﺬﻱ ﻳﻔﻠﺖ ﻣﻨﻲ؟‬ ‫ﻫﻞ ﺍﻧﺖ ﺍﻟﻮﺟﻪ ﺍﻟﺬﻱ ﻟﻢ ﻳﻮﻫﺐ ﻟﻲ؟ ﻫﻞ ﺃﻧﺖ ﺍﻟﻌﺎﺭﻡ ﺍﺑﻨﺔ ﺧﺎﻟﺘﻲ ‪ ،‬ﺍﻧﺴﻠﺖ ﺭﻭﺣﻬﺎ ﻣﻦ ﻣﻠﻜﺔ ﺍﻷﻭﺭﺍﺱ‬

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‫ ﺃﻭ ﻣﻦ ﻣﻠﻜﺔ ﺍﻟﻬﻘﺎﺭ ﺗﻴﻨﻬﻴﻨﺎﻥ ﺃﻭ ﻣﻦ ﺧﺪﻳﺠﺔ ﺑﻨﺖ ﺧﻮﻳﻠﺪ ﺃﻭ ﻣﻦ ﻋﺎﺋﺸﺔ ﺃﻡ ﺍﻟﻤﺆﻣﻨﻴﻦ ﺃﻭ ﻣﻦ‬، ‫ﺍﻟﻜﺎﻫﻨﺔ‬ ‫ ﻃﺎﺭﺩ ﺧﻴﺎﻟﻪ‬، ‫ ﺃﻭ ﻣﻦ ﺇﺣﺪﻯ ﻟﻮﺣﺎﺕ ﺭﺍﻫﺐ‬، ‫ﺯﻳﻨﺐ ﺃﻡ ﺍﻟﻤﺴﺎﻛﻴﻦ؟ ﺃﻭ ﻣﻦ ﺇﺣﺪﻯ ﻗﺼﺎﺋﺪ ﺍﻣﺮﺉ ﺍﻟﻘﻴﺲ‬ ‫ﺻﻮﺭﺓ ﺍﻟﻌﺬﺭﺍء؟‬

35. Al-Shamʿa, 171:

36. 37. 38. 39. 40.

41. 42.

.‫ ﻭ ﻟﻴﺲ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﻤﺴﺠﺪ ﺇﻻ ﻫﻮ‬.‫ﺍﷲ ﺗﺠﻠﻰ ﻓﻲ ﺟﻤﺎﻟﻚ ﻭ ﺑﻬﺎﺋﻚ‬ The second half of this phrase recalls Al-Óallāj’s statement, ‘There is none in the coat but God’ (‫)ﻣﺎ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺠﺒﺔ ﺇﻻ ﺍﷲ‬. Al-Shamʿa, 170: ‫ ﻋﻴﻨﺎﻙ ﻓﻘﻂ ﺗﺘﺠﻠﻴﺎﻥ‬.‫ﺍﷲ ﻻ ﻳﺘﺠﻠﻰ ﻟﻲ‬ Al-Shamʿa, 165. Al-Shamʿa, 144. Al-Shamʿa, 146. This conclusion contains an echo of Ismāʿīlī rather than Sufi thought, specifically as seen in the Rasāʾil Ikhwān Al-Íafā (Epistles of the Brethren of Purity). This issue added to the many examples of heterodox freethinking (Sufism and muʿtazilī thought) that the poet’s assassins bring against him. Al-Shamʿa, 196–7. That said, it would be an exaggeration to read Al-Shamʿa as an Ismāʿīlī novel rather than one that bewails the exclusion of free thought in late twentieth-century Algeria. On the equation between God, reason and Sufism in the Epistles, see Netton, Muslim Neoplatonists, 10–16, 33–43, 49–50. Ouettar, Al-Shamʿa, 162; Al-Mawardī, Al-Óāwī, 14:82. Ouettar, Al-Shamʿa, 196–7: ‫ ﻳﻤﻮﺕ ﻭﺍﺻﻞ ﺑﻦ‬. ‫ ﻳﻤﻮﺕ ﺍﻟﺠﺎﺣﻆ‬: ‫ ﻣﺎ ﻣﻌﻨﺎﻩ‬، ‫ﻗﻠﺖ ﻓﻲ ﺣﻖ ﺃﺣﻤﺪ ﺑﻦ ﺣﻨﺒﻞ ﺭﺿﻲ ﺍﷲ ﻋﻨﻪ ﻭﺃﺭﺿﺎﻩ‬ ‫ ﻳﺘﺮﺑﻊ ﺃﺣﻤﺪ ﺇﺑﻦ ﺣﻨﺒﻞ ﻣﻦ ﺟﺪﻳﺪ ﻋﻠﻰ‬. ‫ ﻳﻤﻮﺕ ﺍﻟﺒﻴﺮﻭﻧﻲ‬.‫ ﻳﻤﻮﺕ ﺍﺑﻦ ﻫﻴﺜﻢ‬.‫ ﻳﻤﻮﺕ ﺍﺑﻦ ﺭﺷﺪ‬.‫ﻋﻄﺎء‬ .‫ ﺃﻭ ﺃﻥ ﺍﻟﺮﺳﻮﻝ ﺻﻠﻰ ﺍﷲ ﻋﻠﻴﻪ ﻭﺳﻠﻢ ﻟﻢ ﻳﻔﻌﻞ ﺫﻟﻚ‬، ‫ ﻻ ﻳﻘﻮﻝ ﺳﻮﻯ ﺃﻥ ﺍﷲ ﺃﺭﺍﺩ ﺫﻟﻚ‬.‫ﺍﻟﻌﺮﺵ‬ .‫ﺗﻤﻮﺕ ﺃﻧﺖ‬ [. . .] . ‫ ﻭﺑﻐﺾ ﺍﻟﻨﻈﺮ ﻋﻤﺎ ﻗﻠﺘﻪ ﻓﻲ ﺣﻖ‬. ‫ ﺗﻔﺴﺮ ﺍﻷﻣﻮﺭ ﻋﻠﻰ ﻏﻴﺮ ﻣﺎ ﻓﺴﺮﻫﺎ ﺍﻟﺴﻠﻒ ﺍﻟﺼﺎﻟﺢ‬. ‫ﺃﻧﺖ ﻣﻌﺘﺰﻟﻲ‬ .‫ ﻭﺍﻟﺤﻼﺝ‬، ‫ ﻭﺭﺍﺑﻌﺔ ﺍﻟﻌﺪﻭﻳﺔ‬، ‫ﻣﺤﻲ ﺍﻟﺪﻳﻦ ﺑﻦ ﻋﺮﺑﻲ‬ ‫ ﻣﻦ ﺃﻥ ﺍﻟﺸﻴﻄﺎﻥ ﺃﻛﺜﺮ ﺍﻟﻤﺨﻠﻮﻗﺎﺕ ﻋﺒﺎﺩ ًﺓ ﷲ‬، ‫ ﻣﺎ ﻗﺎﻟﻪ ﺍﻟﺰﻧﺪﻳﻖ ﺍﻟﺤﻼﺝ‬،‫ ﻭﻟﻌﻠﻚ ﻓﻌﻠﺖ‬،‫ﺍﻧﻚ ﺗﻜﺎﺩ ﺗﻜﺮﺭ‬ .‫ ﻷﻧﻪ ﺭﻓﺾ ﺍﻟﺴﺠﻮﺩ ﻵﺩﻡ‬، .‫ﻭﺍﻧﻚ ﻟﺘﺘﻌﺎﻣﻞ ﻣﻊ ﺍﻟﺼﻔﺮ ﺗﻌﺎﻣﻞ ﺍﺧﻮﺍﻥ ﺍﻟﺼﻔﺎ ﻣﻌﻪ‬

43. Al-Shamʿa, 204. 44. Cathy Caruth, ‘Introduction’, 5–6. Caruth’s work on trauma has triggered a great deal of debate and polemic, much of it well beyond the scope of this study. A strong critique of her work from the perspective of the history of

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psychoanalysis is found in Ruth Leys, Trauma, 266–97, and a fruitful discussion of Caruth’s work in relation to literary theory, historiography and the representation of trauma is presented by Dominick LaCapra in Writing History, Writing Trauma, 181–6. Despite their importance, these debates do not detract from Caruth’s suggestive claim regarding literature’s unique ability to deal with trauma. Indeed, LaCapra makes a strong case for literature in claiming that it enables a better working through of trauma than a historical reconstruction thereof. 45. Caruth, Unclaimed Experience, 5. 46. Caruth, Unclaimed Experience, 5. َ ‫( َﻭ َﻳ َﺘ َﺠﻨﱠﺒُ َﻬﺎ‬10) ‫َﺨ َﺸﻰ‬ ‫َﻓ َﺬ ﱢﻛ ْﺮ ﺇ ْﻥ َﻧ َﻔ َﻌ ِﺖ ﱢ‬ ْ ‫( َﺳﻴ ﱠَﺬ ﱠﻛ ُﺮ َﻣ ْﻦ ﻳ‬9) ‫ﺍﻟﺬ ْﻛ َﺮﻯ‬ 47. ‫ْﺮﻯ‬ ْ ‫( ﺍﻟﱠ ِﺬﻱ ﻳ‬11) ‫ﺍﻷ ْﺷ َﻘﻰ‬ َ ‫ﺎﺭ ْﺍﻟ ُﻜﺒ‬ َ ‫َﺼﻠَﻰ ﺍﻟﻨﱠ‬ ِ ُ ‫( ﺛُ ﱠﻢ ﻻ َﻳﻤ‬12) (15)‫ﺼﻠﱠﻰ‬ ْ ‫ُﻮﺕ ِﻓﻴ َﻬﺎ َﻭﻻ ﻳ‬ ْ ‫( َﻭ َﺫ َﻛ َﺮ‬14) ‫( َﻗ ْﺪ ﺃَ ْﻓﻠَ َﺢ َﻣ ْﻦ َﺗ َﺰ ﱠﻛﻰ‬13) ‫َﺤﻴَﻰ‬ َ ‫ﺍﺳ َﻢ َﺭﺑﱢ ِﻪ َﻓ‬ 48. 49. 50. 51. 52.

53. 54. 55.

56.

57. 58. 59.

Sells, ‘Memory’, EQ. Böwering, Mystical Vision, 201. Böwering, Mystical Vision, 200–1. Böwering Mystical Vision, 206. Anawati and Gardet, Mystique musulmane, 214. See also the rest of Gardet’s analysis of the dhikr as an internal spiritual experience. Mystique musulmane, 215–16, 226–34. ‫ْﻒ َﻣ ﱠﺪ ﱢ‬ ً ِ‫ْﺲ َﻋﻠَ ْﻴ ِﻪ َﺩﻟ‬ ‫ﺍﻟﻈ ﱠﻞ َﻭﻟَ ْﻮ َﺷﺎ َء ﻟَ َﺠ َﻌﻠَ ُﻪ َﺳﺎ ِﻛ ًﻨﺎ ﺛُ ﱠﻢ َﺟ َﻌ ْﻠ َﻨﺎ ﱠ‬ َ ‫ﺃَﻟَ ْﻢ َﺗ َﺮ ﺇﻟَﻰ َﺭﺑ‬ َ ‫ﱢﻚ َﻛﻴ‬ ‫ﻴﻼ‬ َ ‫ﺍﻟﺸﻤ‬ ِ Whitehead, Trauma Fiction, 84. I use this term as developed in Abraham and Torok’s ‘Deuil ou mélancolie’, where the fantasm of incorporation, and the concomitant process of demetaphorisation, operate as a means of conjuring away the work of mourning. L’Ecorce et le noyau, 259–75. Incorporation, for them, consists precisely in the production of anti-metaphors: ‘[C]e qui est [. . .] le plus radicalement antimétaphorique c’est l’incorporation elle-même: elle implique la destruction, fantasmatique, de l’acte même par lequel la métaphore est possible : l’acte de mettre en mots le vide originel, l’acte d’introjecter.’ L’Ecorce et le noyau, 268, emphasis in the original. Cf. Derrida’s comments on the ethical superiority of failed mourning and concomitant impossibility of true mourning. De quoi demain, 257–8. But see also Žižek’s Lacanian critique of this reading of mourning and melancholy in ‘Melancholy and the Act’. Žižek, ‘Melancholy’, 662. ‫ﻳﺎ ﺧﺎﻓﻲ ﺍﻷﻟﻄﺎﻑ ﻧﺠﻨﺎ ﻣﻤﺎ ﻧﺨﺎﻑ‬ Ouettar, Waliyy, 67:

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60.

61. 62.

63.

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‫ ’ﻳﺎ ﺧﺎﻓﻲ ﺍﻷﻟﻄﻒ ﻧﺠﻨﺎ‬: ‫ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺃﻥ ﺗﺼﺮﺥ ﺑﻜﻞ ﻣﺎ ﺗﻤﻠﻚ‬،‫ ﻓﺘﻈﻞ ﺗﺄﺗﻴﻬﺎ‬،‫ﺗﻘﺘﺤﻢ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺍﻟﻮﺍﺣﺪﺓ ﻣﻨﺎ ﻓﺮﺍﺷﻬﺎ‬ ‘.‫ﻣﻤﺎ ﻧﺨﺎﻑ‬ The theme of collective visions and dreams in connection with Sufi experiences is something of a constant in Ouettar’s œuvre. Apart from the strange events at Saint ˝āhar’s maqām, we might also mention the moment in Al-Óawwāt wa-l-Qa‚r (The Fisherman and the Palace, 1974) in which an entire village of Sufis has the same dream about the protagonist. To a certain extent the plot of Al-Waliyy Al-˝āhar Yarfaʿ could also be read in that light: the whole Arab world ‘experiences’ the strange black cloud, all of the reporters for the Al-Jazeera network suddenly acquire the same name and so on. A good anthropological reading of festival and orgiastic practices, especially on the ease with which one can turn into the other, is found in Emile Dermenghem, Le Culte des saints dans l’Islam maghrébin, 211–14, 232–47. Miloudi Chaghmoum argues that such rituals and their narration in Sufi legend are designed to enact the world’s regression to a pre-social, originary order. Al-Mutakhayyal, 222–8. There is a more humorous reference to laylat al-ghala† in Al-Waliyy Al- ˝āhar Yarfaʿ, where the Tunisian population reacts to the blackout with great rejoicing, assuming that it is an occasion for another laylat-al-ghala† with the participation of European tourists. Ouettar, Waliyy, 78: .‫ ﻭﻛﻞ ﺍﻷﻗﻤﺎﺭ ﺍﻟﻔﻀﺎﺋﻴﺔ ﺍﻟﺘﻲ ﺗﺴﺒﺢ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺴﻤﺎء‬،‫ﺗﺴﻄﻴﻊ ﺇﺳﺘﻘﻄﺎﺏ ﻛﻞ ﺗﻠﻔﺰﺍﺕ ﺍﻟﻌﺎﻟﻢ‬ Waliyy, 80. Bullāra’s language emphasises the link between new technology, capitalism and social services such as health care and education: . ‫ ﺗﺒﻴﻊ ﻭﺗﺸﺘﺮﻱ ﻭﺗﻌﺎﻟﺞ ﻭﺗﻘﺮﺃ ﻭﺗﺘﺨﺮﺝ‬. ‫ﺗﻜﻮﻥ ﻣﻦ ﺧﻼﻝ ﺍﻷﻗﻤﺎﺭ ﺍﻟﺘﻲ ﺗﺠﻮﺏ ﺍﻟﻔﻀﺎء ﺣﻴﺜﻤﺎ ﺷﺌﺖ‬ Waliyy, 84–5: ‫ ﻓﻴﻌﻮﺩ ﺇﻟﻴﻚ‬،‫ ﻳﻨﻤﺤﻲ ﻣﺨﺰﻭﻥ ﺭﺃﺳﻚ ﻭﻻ ﺗﺴﺘﻌﻴﺪﻩ ﺇﻻ ﺑﻌﺪ ﻗﺮﻭﻥ‬. ‫ﺃﺣﺬﺭﻙ ﻳﺎ ﻣﻮﻻﻱ ﻣﻦ ﺳﻔﻚ ﺩﻣﻲ‬ ‫ ﻭﻳﻮﻡ ﺗﻌﺜﺮ‬،‫ ﻓﻼ ﺗﻌﺜﺮ ﻋﻠﻰ ﻃﺮﻳﻘﻚ‬،‫ ﺗﺠﻮﺏ ﺍﻟﻔﻴﻒ ﻫﺬﺍ ﻣﺌﺎﺕ ﺍﻟﺴﻨﻴﻦ‬. ‫ﻗﻄﺮﺓ ﻓﻘﻄﺮﺓ ﻭﻧﻘﻄﺔ ﻓﻨﻘﻄﺔ‬ .‫ ﺗﺒﺪﺃ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﺒﺪﺍﻳﺔ‬،‫ﻋﻠﻴﻪ‬ ،‫ ﻓﺘﺸﺎﺭﻙ ﻓﻲ ﺣﺮﻭﺏ ﺟﺮﺕ‬،‫ ﺳﺘﻠﺤﻘﻚ ﺑﻠﻮﻯ ﺧﻮﺽ ﻏﻤﺎﺭ ﺍﻟﺤﺮﻭﺏ‬.‫ﺃﺣﺬﺭﻙ ﻳﺎ ﻣﻮﻻﻱ ﻣﻦ ﺳﻔﻚ ﺩﻣﻲ‬ ،‫ ﻭﻗﻮﻡ ﻻ ﺗﻌﺮﻓﻬﻢ ﻭﻻ ﺗﻔﻘﻪ ﻟﺴﺎﻧﻬﻢ‬،‫ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺟﺎﻧﺐ ﻗﻮﻡ ﺗﻌﺮﻓﻬﻢ‬، ‫ ﻭﻓﻲ ﺣﺮﻭﺏ ﺳﺘﺠﺮﻱ‬،‫ﻭﻓﻲ ﺣﺮﺏ ﺗﺠﺮﻱ‬ .‫ﻭﻻ ﺗﺪﺭﻱ ﻟﻤﺎﺫﺍ ﻳﺤﺎﺭﺑﻮﻥ‬ ‫ ﺳﺘﻠﺤﻘﻚ ﺑﻠﻮﻯ ﺣﺰ ﺍﻟﺮﺅﻭﺱ ﻭﺧﻨﻖ ﺍﻷﻃﻔﺎﻝ ﻭﺍﻟﻌﺠﺎﺋﺰ ﻭﺍﻟﻌﺠﺰﺓ‬. ‫ﺃﺣﺬﺭﻙ ﻳﺎ ﻣﻮﻻﻱ ﻣﻦ ﺳﻔﻚ ﺩﻣﻲ‬ .‫ﻭﺣﺮﻕ ﺍﻷﺣﻴﺎء‬ ‫ ﻭﻓﻲ ﻛﻞ ﻋﻮﺩﺓ ﻟﻚ ﺗﻌﺎﻭﺩﻙ ﺑﻠﻮﻯ‬،‫ ﻛﻞ ﺻﻘﻊ ﺭﻓﻊ ﻓﻴﻪ ﺍﻵﺫﺍﻥ‬،‫ ﻭﻳﺴﻘﻲ ﺩﻣﻚ‬، ‫ﺗﻤﻮﺕ ﺃﻟﻒ ﻣﻴﺘﺔ ﻭﻣﻴﺘﺔ‬ .‫ﺍﻟﺒﺤﺚ ﻋﻨﻲ ﻣﻦ ﺟﺪﻳﺪ ﺩﻭﻥ ﺃﻥ ﺗﺪﺭﻱ ﻋﻢ ﺗﺒﺤﺚ‬

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‫‪64. The paroxysmic series of massacres and bloodshed that occurred under ʿAntar‬‬ ‫‪Al-Zawābirī’s leadership of the GIA, from their initial break with other Islamist‬‬ ‫‪groups to the takfīr phase where the Algerian civilian population was col‬‬‫‪lectively anathemised is analysed in Al-˝awīl, Al-Óaraka, 251–90. On the‬‬ ‫‪Al-Rais massacre in particular see Al-Óaraka, 280.‬‬ ‫ﻻ ﺣﻲ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺤﻲ ‪65. Ouettar, Waliyy, 92:‬‬ ‫‪66. Waliyy, 91:‬‬ ‫ﻭﺟﺪﺕ ﻧﻔﺴﻲ‪ ،‬ﻣﻀﻄﺮﺍ ﻹﺻﺪﺍﺭ ﺍﻷﻭﺍﻣﺮ‪ ،‬ﻓﺮﺣﺖ ﺃﻓﻌﻞ ﺩﻭﻧﻤﺎ ﺗﺮﺩﺩ‪ .‬ﻟﻢ ﺃﻛﻦ ﺃﻋﺮﻑ ﺍﻟﻘﻮﻡ‪ ،‬ﻟﻜﻦ ﻳﻜﻔﻲ‬ ‫ﺃﻧﻬﻢ ﻛﺎﻧﻮﺍ ﻳﺸﻨﻮﻥ ﺣﺮﺑﺎ‪.‬‬ ‫‪67. The phrase is repeated some ten times over the course of two pages. Waliyy,‬‬ ‫‪96–7:‬‬ ‫ﻳﻬﻮﻱ ﺍﻟﺴﺎﻃﻮﺭ‪ .‬ﻳﺘﺪﻓﻖ ﺍﻟﺪﻡ‪ .‬ﻳﺘﻄﺎﻳﺮ ﺍﻟﺮﺃﺱ‬ ‫‪68. Waliyy, 55:‬‬ ‫ﺗﻘﺮﺭ ﺃﻥ ﻳﻤﻮﺗﻮﺍ ﻓﻴﻤﻮﺗﻮﻥ ‪.‬‬ ‫‪69. Waliyy, 52:‬‬ ‫ﻟﻘﺪ ﻗﺮﺃ ﺍﻟﻔﻠﺴﻔﺔ‪ ،‬ﻭﺳﻜﻨﻪ ﻣﻦ ﺳﻜﻦ ﺍﻟﺴﻬﺮﻭﺭﺩﻱ‪ ،‬ﻓﻌﺎﺩ ﻓﻲ ﻛﺘﺒﻪ ﺍﻷﻭﻟﻰ ﻳﺒﺤﺚ ﻋﻦ ﺟﺬﻭﺭ ﺍﻟﻮﺛﻨﻴﺔ ‪،‬‬ ‫ﻓﻲ ﺗﺠﻮﻳﻒ ﺍﻟﻮﺩﻳﺎﻥ ﻭﺍﻻﻫﺮﺍﻣﺎﺕ‪ ،‬ﺛﻢ ﺳﻮﻯ ﺑﻴﻦ ﺍﻻﺧﻮﺍﻥ ﺍﻟﻤﺴﻠﻤﻴﻦ ﻭﺍﻟﻤﻼﺣﺪﺓ ﻭ ﺍﻟﺸﻴﻮﻋﻴﻴﻦ‪ ،‬ﻭﺭﺍﺡ‬ ‫ﻳﺴﺘﻨﻄﻘﻬﻢ ﻓﻲ ﺃﻋﻤﺎﻝ ﻛﺜﻴﺮﺓ‪ ،‬ﺛﻢ ’ﺳﺠﻦ‘ ﺍﷲ ﻓﻲ ﺣﺎﺭﺗﻪ ﻭﺟﻌﻞ ﺍﻷﻧﺒﻴﺎء ﻓﺘﻮﺓ ﺍﻟﻌﻬﻮﺩ ﺍﻟﻤﺨﺘﻠﻔﺔ ‪.‬‬ ‫ﻓﻬﻤﻪ ﺍﻟﻨﺼﺎﺭﻯ ﻭﺍﻟﻴﻬﻮﺩ ﻓﻜﺎﻓﺄﻭﻩ ﻟﻴﻜﻮﻥ ﺭﻣﺰﺍً ﻭﻗﺪﻭﺓ‪ ،‬ﻭﻧﺼﺒﺎً ﻟﻤﺨﻨﺎ ﺍﻟﻔﺎﺳﺪ‪.‬‬

‫‪70. Waliyy, 53:‬‬ ‫ﻧﺼﻔﻲ ﻣﻤﺘﻠﺊ ﺑﺎﻟﻘﺮﺁﻥ ﺍﻟﻜﺮﻳﻢ ﻭﺍﻟﺤﺪﻳﺚ ﺍﻟﻨﺒﻮﻱ ﺍﻟﺸﺮﻳﻒ ﻭﺑﺎﺑﻦ ﻋﺮﺑﻲ ﻭﺍﻟﻤﺘﻨﺒﻲ ﻭﺍﻟﺠﺎﺣﻆ‪ ،‬ﺍﻟﺸﻨﻔﺮﻯ‪،‬‬ ‫ﻭﺍﻣﺮﺉ ﺍﻟﻘﻴﺲ ﻭﺯﻫﻴﺮ ﺇﺑﻦ ﺍﺑﻲ ﺳﻠﻤﻰ ﻭﻣﺤﻤﺪ ﺇﺑﻦ ﻋﺒﺪ ﺍﻟﻮﻫﺎﺏ ﻭﻣﺤﻤﺪ ﻋﺒﺪﻩ ﻭﺟﻤﺎﻝ ﺍﻟﺪﻳﻦ ﺍﻷﻓﻐﺎﻧﻲ‪،‬‬ ‫ﻭﻧﺼﻒ ﺍﻵﺧﺮ ﻣﻤﺘﻠﺊ ﺑﻤﺎﺭﻛﺲ ﻭﺍﻧﺠﻠﺰ ﻭﻟﻨﻴﻦ ﻭﺳﺎﺭﺗﺮ‪ ،‬ﻭﻏﻮﺭﻛﻲ ﻭﻫﻤﻨﺠﻮﺍﻱ ‪ ،‬ﻭﻫﻴﻐﻞ ﻭﺩﺍﻧﺘﻲ‬ ‫]‪[. . .‬‬ ‫ﺣﺎﻭﻟﺖ ﺇﺳﺘﻌﺎﺩﺓ ﺃﻧﺎ‪ ،‬ﻧﺼﻒ ﺃﻧﺎ ﺍﻟﻀﺎﺋﻊ‪ ،‬ﻓﻤﺎ ﺃﻓﻠﺤﺖ‪ .‬ﺣﺎﻭﻟﺖ ﺍﻟﺘﺨﻠﺺ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻵﺧﺮ ﻓﺄﺧﻔﻘﺖ‪.‬‬ ‫ﻷﻣﺖ ﺣﻴﻨﺌﺬٍ‪ .‬ﻷﻣﻮﺗﻦ ﺫﺑﺤﺎً‪.‬‬

‫‪71. The making-flesh of the maqām is probably an allusion to Ibn ʿArabī’s account‬‬ ‫‪of his experience of the Kaʿba as a living being, and most especially of the vision‬‬ ‫‪that he has in Mecca in which he is transformed into two bricks in the Kaʿba.‬‬ ‫‪FM 5:68–70. Cf. Addas, Quest, 212–13; Chodkiewicz, 128–9. Ouettar’s allu‬‬‫‪sion is doubly ironic here: not only does Saint ˝āhar fail to become part of his‬‬ ‫‪maqām, he fails at a task at which almost everyone else has succeeded.‬‬ ‫‪72. Ouettar, Waliyy, 133:‬‬ ‫ﻋﺎﺭﺽ ﻣﻮﺕ ﻣﺎﻟﻚ ﺑﻦ ﻧﻮﻳﺮﺓ ﻣﻊ ﻗﺘﺎﺩﺓ‪ ،‬ﻭﻟﻜﻦ ﺳﺒﻖ ﺍﻟﺴﻴﻒ ﺍﻟﻌﺪﻝ‪ ،‬ﻭﻛﺎﻥ ﺣﺎﺿﺮﺍً ﻋﻨﺪ ﻣﻮﺕ ﻣﺴﻴﻠﻤﺔ‬ ‫ﺍﻟﻜﺬﺍﺏ‪ ،‬ﻭﻓﻲ ﻓﺘﺢ ﺩﻣﺸﻖ‪ ،‬ﻭﻓﻲ ﺣﺼﺎﺭ ﺑﻴﺖ ﺍﻟﻤﻘﺪﺱ‪ ،‬ﻭﻗﻄﻊ ﻣﻊ ﻃﺎﺭﻕ ﺑﻦ ﺯﻳﺎﺩ ﺍﻟﻤﻀﻴﻖ‪ ،‬ﻭﺗﻮﻏﻞ‬

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‫ﻣﻊ ﻋﺒﺪ ﺍﻟﺮﺣﻤﻦ ﺍﻟﺪﺍﺧﻞ ﺣﺘﻰ ﻧﻬﺎﻳﺔ ﺍﻟﻤﻌﺮﻛﺔ‪ .‬ﻭﻗﺎﺩ ﺍﻟﻌﺴﻜﺮ ﺍﻟﺬﻱ ﺭﺍﻓﻖ ﺑﻼﺭﺓ ﺑﻨﺖ ﺗﻤﻴﻢ ﺇﺑﻦ ﺍﻟﻤﻌﺰ ﺇﻟﻰ‬ ‫ﺑﻴﺖ ﺍﻟﻨﺎﺻﺮ ﺑﻦ ﻋﻠﻨﺎﺱ ﺑﻦ ﺣﻤﺎﺩ‪ ،‬ﻭﺇﺳﺘﺸﻬﺪ ﻣﺮﺍﺕ‪ ،‬ﻣﺮﺓ ﻓﻲ ﻋﻴﻴﻨﺔ ﺩﻓﺎﻋﺎً ﻋﻦ ﻣﺤﻤﺪ ﺑﻦ ﻋﺒﺪ ﺍﻟﻮﻫﺎﺏ‪،‬‬ ‫ﻭﻣﺮﺓ ﻣﻊ ﺍﻷﻣﻴﺮ ﻋﺒﺪ ﺍﻟﻘﺎﺩﺭ ﺩﻓﺎﻋﺎً ﻋﻦ ’ﺍﻟﺰﻣﺎﻟﺔ‘‪ ،‬ﻭﻣﺮﺗﻴﻦ ﻓﻲ ﻛﺎﺑﻮﻝ‪ ،‬ﻣﺮﺓ ﻣﻊ ﻣﺠﻴﺐ ﺍﻟﺮﺣﻤﻦ‪،‬‬ ‫ﻭﻣﺮﺓ ﻣﻊ ﻣﺴﻌﻮﺩ ﺃﻭ ﻣﻊ ﺍﻟﻄﺎﻟﺒﺎﻥ ﺃﻭ ﻣﻊ ﻏﻴﺮﻫﻢ ﻻ ﻳﺬﻛﺮ ﺟﻴﺪﺍً ‪ ،‬ﻛﻤﺎ ﺇﺳﺘﺸﻬﺪ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺸﻴﺸﺎﻥ ﻭﺍﻟﺒﻮﺳﻨﺔ‬ ‫ﻭﺍﻟﻬﺮﺳﻚ ﻭﻓﻲ ﻛﻮﺳﻮﻓﻮ‪ ،‬ﻭﻗﺒﻠﻬﺎ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺨﻠﻴﻞ ]‪ [. . .‬ﺣﺘﻰ ﺃﻥ ﻣﺎﻟﻜﺎً ﺑﻦ ﻧﻮﻳﺮﺓ ﻟﻴﺲ ﺷﺨﺼﺎً ﺁﺧﺮ ﻏﻴﺮﻩ‪.‬‬ ‫ﻭﺣﺘﻰ ﺃﻥ ﻛﻞ ﻣﻦ ﺳﻘﻄﻮﺍ ﻓﻲ ’ﺍﻟﺮﺍﻳﺲ‘ ﻟﻴﺴﻮﺍ ﺳﻮﻯ ﻫﻮ‪ .‬ﻋﻨﺪﻣﺎ ﻳﻤﻮﺕ ﺍﻟﻤﺮء ﻓﻜﺄﻧﻤﺎ ﻣﺎﺕ ﺍﻟﻨﺎﺱ ﻛﻠﻬﻢ‪.‬‬

‫‪73. Tahar Ouettar, Al-Waliyy Al-˝āhar Yarfaʿ Yadayhi bi-l-Duʿāʾ:‬‬ ‫ﻭﺍﻟﻮﻟﻲ ﺳﻮﺍء ﺃﻛﺎﻥ ﺳﻴﺪﻱ ﺑﻮﻟﺰﻣﺎﻥ ﺃﻡ ﺍﻟﻮﻟﻲ ﺍﻟﻄﺎﻫﺮ‘ ﻛﻤﺎ ﻋﺒﺮﺕ ﻋﻨﻪ‘ ﺣﺴﺒﻤﺎ ﻳﺒﺪﻭ ﻟﻲ‘ ﻫﻮ ﺍﻟﻌﻘﻞ‬ ‫ﺍﻟﺒﺎﻃﻦ ﻟﻺﻧﺴﺎﻥ ﺍﻟﻤﺴﻠﻢ ﺍﻟﻤﻌﺎﺻﺮ‘ ﻓﻲ ﺗﺠﻠﻴﺎﺗﻪ ﺍﻟﻌﺪﻳﺪﺓ‘ ﺍﻟﺘﻲ ﺗﺘﻤﺜﻞ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺤﺮﻛﺎﺕ ﺍﻹﺳﻼﻣﻴﺔ ﺑﺸﻜﻠﻴﻬﺎ‬ ‫ﺍﻟﻔﺮﺩﻱ ﺃﻭ ﺍﻟﺠﻤﺎﻋﻲ‘ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺤﺮﻛﻴﺔ ﺃﻭ ﺍﻟﺴﻜﻮﻧﻴﺔ‪ .‬ﻛﻤﺎ ﻫﻮ ﺍﻟﺸﺄﻥ ﻓﻲ ﺭﺩﻭﺩ ﺍﻷﻓﻌﺎﻝ ﺍﻟﺘﺸﻨﺠﻴﺔ‘ ﺃﻭ‬ ‫ﺍﻟﺮﺍﻓﻀﺔ ﺳﻠﺒﺎ‪.‬‬

‫‪Epilogue‬‬ ‫‪Bahaa Taher, Majmūʿat Aʿmāl (henceforth MA), 158‬‬ ‫‪MA, 166.‬‬ ‫‪MA, 175.‬‬ ‫‪Bahaa Taher, Wāªat Al-Ghurūb, 218.‬‬ ‫‪Arab Representations, 139.‬‬ ‫‪See the passage from La Fable mystique I quoted in note 99 to Chapter Four,‬‬ ‫‪above.‬‬ ‫‪7. Quoted in El-Enany, Arab Representations, 141.‬‬

‫‪1.‬‬ ‫‪2.‬‬ ‫‪3.‬‬ ‫‪4.‬‬ ‫‪5.‬‬ ‫‪6.‬‬

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al-Juhayni’. In Love and Sexuality in Modern Arabic Literature, edited by Roger Allen, Hilary Kilpatrick and Ed de Moor, 91–105. London: Saqi, 1995. Wattār, Muªammad Riā∂. TawÕīf Al-Turāth fī-l-Riwāya Al-ʿArabiyya Al-Muʿāsira. Damascus: Ittiªād Al-Kuttāb Al-ʿArab, 2002. Waugh, Earle H. The Munshidin of Egypt: Their World and their Song. Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 1982. Weidner, Stefan. Erlesener Orient. Ein Führer durch die Literaturen der islamischen Welt. Vienna: Edition Selene, 2004. Whitehead, Anne. Trauma Fiction. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2004. Wielandt, Rotraud. ‘Mystische Tradition und zeitgenossische Wirklichkeitserfahrung in Ğamal Al-Gitanis Kitab At-Tağalliyat’. Asiatische Studien/Etudes asiatiques 50, no. 2 (1996): 491–523. Wittgenstein, Ludwig. Notebooks 1914–1916. Translated by G. E. M. Anscombe. Edited by G. E. M. Anscombe and G. H. von Wright. Second Edition. Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1979. ———. Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus. Translated by C. K. Ogden. 1922. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1960. Wolfe, Cary. ‘In the Shadow of Wittgenstein’s Lion: Language, Ethics and the Question of the Animal’. In Zoontologies: The Question of the Animal, edited by Cary Wolfe, 1–57. Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press, 2003. ———. ‘Introduction: Exposures’. In Philosophy and Animal Life, edited by Stanley Cavell, 1–41 [2008]. Woolf, Virginia. ‘Phases of Fiction’. In Granite and Rainbow, edited by Leonard Woolf, 92–145. London, New York and San Diego: Harcourt, Brace and Jovanovitch, 1986. Žižek, Slavoj. Looking Awry: An Introduction to Jacques Lacan through Popular Culture. Cambridge, MA and London: MIT Press, 1991. ———. ‘Melancholy and the Act’. Critical Inquiry 26, no. 4 (Summer 2000): 657–81.

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Index

ʿAbd Al-Ghanī, Mu‚†afa, 25, 178n ʿAbd Al-Íabūr, Salah, 2, 169n Maʾsāt Al-Óallāj (The Tragedy of AlÓallāj) (1965), 3 Abd El-Nasser, Gamal, 18, 30, 82, 88, 93, 102, 105, 106 Abraham hospitality of, 188n sacrifice of, 118, 123, 138, 216n, 218n Ahl Al-Kahf (Seven Sleepers of Ephesus), 72, 73, 196–7n ahl al-kashf (people of the unveiling), 96 Aªmad, Óanbali, 227n ʿālam al-mithal (mundus imaginalis), 199n Alfaisal, Haifa Saud, 188n Algeria, 144, 145, 146, 147–8, 153, 226n Civil War (1992–2002), 139, 140, 141, 143, 150, 156, 158, 227n War of Independence (1954–62), 139, 146–7 alienation, 24, 28, 32, 33, 99 ambition, 13, 15, 16–17, 154 ancestor worship, 116 animals becoming-animal, 125, 126, 129–30, 218n, 221n and humans see human vs non-human relations apophasis, 8–9 art; artistic creativity, 23, 25, 49, 66, 69, 77, 84, 86, 101, 114, 135–6 asceticism, 27, 32, 37, 38, 44, 47, 108, 126 ʿA††ar, Farīd Al-Dīn, 117, 118 Attridge, Derek, 1–2, 124, 166, 180n

autobiography, 8, 80–1, 103–5, 113, 130–5, 201n Awn, Peter, 142 Badawi, M. M., 13–14 Al-Badawī, Sayyid Aªmad, 18, 26 baqāʾ (survival), 5, 8, 11, 84, 100–1, 107, 117, 138, 146, 167 and writing, 79, 81, 87, 171n baraka (blessing), 22, 36, 37 ba‚īra (insight), 33 becoming-jinn, 126 belonging, 17, 27, 119, 159 Bergson, Henri, 25 Blanchot, Maurice, 81, 131, 222–3n Boukhobza, Muªammad, 227n Böwering, Gerhard, 151 Breasted, James Henry, 47 Brown, Norman O., 72 Brown, Wendy, 106 Caruth, Cathy, 150, 230–1n Casajus, Dominique, 116–17 Cavell, Stanley, 111, 112, 213n censorship, 5, 82 de Certeau, Michel, 6, 98, 111, 118, 165 change, social and political, 2, 31, 79, 171n chanting, 34, 35, 37, 38, 51, 58, 70, 71 city, symbolism of, 76–7, 108, 199n Claudot-Hawad, Hélène, 112 Cooke, Miriam, 23 copying, symbolism of, 92 Corbin, Henry, 172n Cosmic Tree, 53, 54, 144–5, 147 cosmic unity, 29, 34

253

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cosmos perpetual recreation of, 37–8, 75, 103, 194–5 see also universe creation story, 74, 75 creativity, 11, 16, 17, 40, 109; see also art; writing Currie, Mark, 90 dance, 17, 29, 146 darkness, 29, 49, 186n, 187n, 221n darwīsh (spiritual master), dervishes, 1, 19–22, 28, 31–2, 37, 39, 110, 126, 129 dead, repaying debt to, 88 death, 99, 114, 118, 124, 131, 133–5, 137–8, 222–3n dying before death, 118, 215n deconstruction, 9, 173n Deleuze, Gilles, 101, 125 demetaphorisation, 96, 101, 117, 153, 161, 231 democracy, 142–3, 227 Derrida, Jacques, 1–2, 9, 86, 87–8, 104, 123–4, 125, 128, 166, 201n, 219n desert, 107, 109, 110, 111, 118, 123, 128, 132, 163–4, 165, 211n desire, 8, 11, 25, 31, 32, 37, 44, 46, 48, 51, 64, 67, 69, 70, 84, 98, 101, 126, 138, 146, 154 for beloved, 118, 133 for immortality, 73 for knowledge, 25 for life, 74 for love, 25, 106 for the Other (God), 26, 30, 46, 91, 118, 165 for truth, 137 for violence, 39, 156 dhikr ceremonies, 20, 22, 151, 152 Dhū-l-Rumma, 89 Dick, Philip K., 8 disclosure see tajallī dīwān (court of saints), 14, 96 Dostoyevsky, Fyodor, 113, 137, 138 dreams and visions, 19, 29–30, 154–5, 232n Dumézil, Georges, 111

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in d e x Dumont, Louis, 4, 5, 6, 47, 107, 108, 112, 113, 115 Egypt, 23, 28, 30, 39–40, 82–3 El-Enany, Rasheed, 16, 24, 31, 165 enni (aphorism), use of, 115, 116 eternity, 10, 67, 68–9, 73, 89, 193n ethical action, possibility of, 11 exile, 36, 98, 99–101, 104, 113–14, 122 fanāʾ (annihilation in mystical love), 67, 68, 69, 84, 84–5, 107, 117, 119, 123, 126, 134, 138, 146, 167, 194n, 218n, 223n faraj (release), 51 fard (individual; saint), 91, 92 Al-Fāri∂, ʿUmar Ibn, 76, 102 fatalism, 71 fathers, fatherlessness, 106, 115 fiction, role of, 81–2 fictional worlds, 5, 108, 109, 110, 123, 133 FIS (Front Islamique du Salut), Algeria, 140, 142–3, 226n FLN (Front de Libération Nationale), Algeria, 139, 140, 143, 145, 148, 153, 226n forgetting, 50, 73, 73–4, 74, 107, 122, 150, 151, 154, 155, 159, 160, 197n freedom, 4, 15–16, 109, 110, 113, 118, 119, 134 futuwwa (selfless dedication to justice), 33–4, 38 ‘Generation of the 1960s’, 18, 162 Al-Ghazālī, Abū Hāmid, 76, 77, 220n Ghazoul, Ferial, 197n, 211n Al-Ghifārī, Abū Dharr, 148 Al-Ghitany, Aªmad, 99, 105, 106 Al-Ghitany, Gamal (Jamāl Al-Ghi†ānī), 8, 10, 11, 22, 67, 78–106, 152, 162, 166, 167 Awrāq Shābb ʿĀsha Mundhu Alf ʿĀm (Papers of a Young Man Who Lived One Thousand Years Ago) (1969), 79 ‘Ayyām Al-Ruʿb’ (‘Days of Terror’), 79 Hātif Al-Maghīb (The Call of the Sunset) (1992), 79, 80, 91, 98, 99

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i ndex imprisonment/torture, 83, 101, 105 Kitāb Al-Tajalliyāt, 8, 14, 51, 78, 80, 81, 82, 83, 85, 86, 88, 89–90, 91, 92, 93, 94, 96, 98, 99, 100, 102, 103–4, 106, 175n ‘Mukhtārāt min ʿAwdat Ibn Iyās ilā Zamāninā’ (‘Extracts from the Return of Ibn Iyās to Our Age’), 79 Mutūn Al-Ahrām (Pyramid Texts) (1994), 79, 84, 85 Risāla fī-l-Sabāba wa-l-Wajd (The Epistle of Passion and Ecstasy) (1988), 79, 80, 84–5 Risālat Al-Ba‚āʾir fī-l-Ma‚āʾir (The Epistle of Destinies) (1989), 80, 99, 100 Zayni Barakat (1974), 79, 80, 83, 85, 91, 92 GIA (Groupe Islamique Armé), Algeria, 140, 153, 156, 159, 233n gift giving, 86–7 global culture, 157–8 God see the Other Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 2 Goldstein, Baruch, 158 Gril, Denis, 97 Guattari, Félix, 125 al-ªa∂ra ceremony, 14, 20, 22, 155 ªa∂ra (presence of God), 154 ªāl (mystical state), 141, 155, 156, 157, 159, 226n Al-Óallāj, Al-Óusayn b. Man‚ūr, 1, 2, 6, 67, 68, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 149, 167, 194n ‘The ˝āsīn of Pre-Eternity and Confusion’ (‘˝āsīn Al-Azal wa-l-Iltibās’), 70–1, 141–2 al-ªaqīqa (the truth, reality), 27, 47, 48, 135, 136, 180n Haqqi, Yahya (Yaªyā Óaqqī), 10, 12–17, 162, 166 editor of Al-Majalla periodical, 18 Qindīl Umm Hāshim (The Lamp of Umm Hāshim; The Saint’s Lamp) (1944), 12–16, 73, 173n ‘The Priest Is Not Perplexed’, 16–17 ªāra (quarter, neighbourhood), 27, 28, 34, 37, 39

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Hassan, Waïl, 59, 187n hāwiya (deepest abyss in hell), 129, 220–1n ªayra (perplexity, bewilderment in finding God), 16, 174–5n Heidegger, Martin, 123, 136, 224–5n heritage, 85, 92 history, 6, 7, 11, 59, 141–2, 152, 160, 161, 166 Holt, Peter, 62 hospitality, 8, 11, 56–7, 63, 170n, 188n Al-Hujwīrī, Abūʾl Óassan, 141 ªulūl (union, indwelling, Incarnation), 75–6, 110, 220n, 221n human solidarity, 6, 165–6 human vs non-human relations, 108, 111, 112, 124, 128, 133, 219n Iblīs (devil), 70–1, 141–3, 196n Ibn ʿArabi, Muªyi-l-Dīn (Al-Shaykh AlAkbar, ‘the Greatest Shaykh’), 1, 10, 31, 37, 38, 51, 53, 75, 78, 81, 83, 85, 89, 91, 95, 96, 101, 104, 105, 106, 149, 167, 214n, 220n, 233n Fu‚ū‚ Al-Óikam, 118, 121, 209n Al-Futūªāt Al-Makkiyya (The Meccan Illuminations/Openings), 89, 91, 93, 122n, 172n Kitāb Al-Isfār an Natāʾij al-Asfār (Revelation of the Consequences of Travel ), 98 Kitāb Al-Tajalliyāt Al-Ilāhiyya (The Book of Divine Revelations), 78, 87, 93, 94, 95 Sharª Muʿjam Istilāªāt Al-Íufiyya (The Book of the Definitions of Sufism), 93 Tarjumān Al-Ashwāq (The Interpreter of Desires), 75, 209n Ibn Iyās, 79, 81, 85, 102 Ibn Rushd, 105, 149 idealism, 25, 166, 167 identification, universal, 160–1 identity authorial, 80, 81, 98, 104, 107, 108–9, 157 individual, 9, 57, 117, 129, 141 multiple, 101 national/ethnic, 130, 146, 148, 150, 160 religious, 147, 153, 171n, 192n

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immortality, 70, 73–4, 77 incorporation, 76, 153, 203n, 231n individual, location of, 40, 110, 142 individuality (personhood), 5, 8, 11, 16, 17, 26, 47, 79, 91, 92, 119, 142, 159, 171n inheritance, 16, 85, 96 insight see ba‚īra; ʿirfān intertextuality, 22, 73, 86, 91, 152 ʿirfān (insight, gnosis), 112, 132, 134, 181n ishāra (allusion) vs ʿibāra (expression), 136, 224n ʿishq (spiritual love), 25, 46, 51 Islam, politicisation of, 158–9 El-Islambouly, Khaled, 40, 82, 102 Jacquemond, Richard, 82 Al-JāªiÕ, 149 Al-Jīlānī, ʿAbd Al-Qādir, 78 jinn (spirits), 38, 41, 69, 74, 110, 112, 126, 130–2 Al-Junayd, Abū-l-Qāsim, 78, 117, 118, 121, 215n, 216n Al-Jurjānī, 204n justice/injustice, 23, 24, 27–8, 33, 34, 36, 48, 60 Kafka, Franz, 223n Kant, Immanuel, 111 Kāshānī, Muªsin-i Fay∂ī, 199n Kassem, Abdel-Hakim (ʿAbd Al-Óakim Qāsim), 10, 17, 52, 78, 162, 166 The Seven Days of Man (Ayyām Al-Insān Al-Sabʿa), 18–22, 26–7, 175n, 177n Kermode, Frank, 5, 7 Khālid b. al-Walīd, 153, 154, 158 Kierkegaard, Søren, 123, 124, 137–8 knowledge, 23, 25, 27, 28, 30, 34, 66, 76, 90, 111–12, 144 gnostic, 24, 214–15n mystical, 72, 73, 89, 151 self-knowledge, 69, 97, 116, 215n Al-Koni, Ibrahim (Ibrāhīm Al-Kūnī/AlKawnī), 10, 11, 67, 117–38, 152, 211n Anubis (2002), 115–16

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in d e x Bayt fī-l-Dunyā wa Bayt fī-l-Óanīn (A Home in the World and a Home in Longing) (2000), 108 ‘Al-Fakhkh’ (‘The Trap’) (1991), 126 ‘Al-Ghuzlān’ (‘The Gazelles’) (1992), 126 Al-Majūs (The Magi) (1990), 108, 118, 126 Marāthī Ūlīs (The Elegies of Ūlīs) (2004), 107, 114, 118, 130–5 ‘Al-Mawt wa-l-ʿAbqariyya’ (‘Death and Genius’) (2005), 124, 137 Nazīf Al-Óajar (The Bleeding of the Stone) (1990), 110, 128–30 Al-Íuªuf Al-Ūlā (The Earlier Scriptures) (2004), 108, 116 Íuªuf Ibrāhīm (The Scriptures of Abraham/ Ibrāhīm [Al-Koni]) (2005), 108, 124, 136 ‘Al-Tibr’ (‘Gold Dust’) (1990), 127–8 ‘Wa†an Al-Ruʾā Al-Samāwiyya’ (‘The Land of Celestial Visions’) (1991), 117–24, 138 Land of Reality (Ar∂ Al-Óaqiqa), 96 language as designation vs showing, 224n of justice, 48 of life, 25, 26 literature as peculiar language, 32, 180n of love, 48, 67 of the Other, 102 possibilities and limits, 8, 14, 32 power of, 136, 224n of the Qādiriyya, 119 of the self, 102 of Sufism, 75, 84, 88, 91–2, 107, 115, 145 laws, 107, 114–15 of desert (Touareg law, Nāmūs), 107, 110, 117, 118, 119 laylat al-ªa∂ra (night of divine presence), 14, 155 Lessing, Doris, 8 Levinas, Emmanuel, 123, 168n light, 3, 74–5 verse of (Āyat Al-Nūr, Q24:35), 116, 144–5, 228n limits, questioning of, 9

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i ndex literary creation see writing literature, definitions of, 1–2, 9, 82, 108, 108n love, 11, 25, 48 human vs divine, 15, 16, 166 Lukács, Georg, 100 Al-Mahdi, Muhammad Ahmad, 62 Mahdiyya movement, 62, 192n Mahfouz, Naguib (Najīb MaªfūÕ), 10, 22, 23–51, 52, 82, 87, 166, 167 ‘A Story without Beginning or End’ (‘Óikāya bilā Bidāya wa lā Nihāya’) (1971), 11, 27–8 Akhenaten: Dweller in Truth (Al-ʿĀʾish fī-l-Óaqīqa) (1985), 25, 40, 46–9 Arabian Nights and Days (Layālī Alf Layla) (1982), 25, 40–6, 50 assassination attempt on (1994), 40, 50, 157–8 Children of the Alley (Awlād Óāratinā) (1959), 40 Echoes of Autobiography (A‚dāʾ Al-Sīra AlDhātiyya) (1994), 25, 50–1, 187n Fountain and Tomb (Óikāyāt Óāratinā) (1975), 25, 28, 30–3, 50 Mirrors (Al-Marāyā) (1972), 31, 50 Morning and Evening Talk (1987), 25 Palace Walk (Bayn Al-Qa‚rayn) (1956), 23, 34 The Beggar (Al-Shaªªādh) (1965), 11, 28–30 The Harafish (Malªamat Al-Óarāfish) (1977), 25, 28, 33–9, 40, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 74, 175n, 186n, 187n The Thief and the Dogs (1961), 25 Trilogy (1956–7), 23–4, 50 uncompleted dissertation, 24, 178n Mālik b. Nuwayra, 153, 154, 158, 159 maqām (shrine), 154, 159 making flesh of, 233n māriq (heretic; outsider), 47, 49 Martinez, Luis, 140 Al-Masʿadī, Maªmūd, 10, 11, 66–77 Mawlid Al-Nisyān (The Birth of Forgetting; The Genesis of Oblivion) (1944–5), 66, 73–6, 197n

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‘The Voyager’ (‘Al-Musāfir’), 76–7 Thus Spake Abū Hurayra (Óaddatha Abū Hurayra Qāl) (1973), 66–73 Massignon, Louis, 5, 6, 57, 67–8, 72, 188n, 194n master, imitation of, 102–3 mawlid (festival), 18, 58, 176n melancholia, 99, 154, 203n, 231n memory, 50, 51, 59, 60, 65, 73, 74, 83, 86, 88, 102, 139, 147, 150–1, 152, 163, 204n failures of memory, 140–1 mercy, 55, 189n miʿrāj (spiritual ascension), 94, 95, 96, 99, 102, 103, 104 mortality, 11, 70, 71, 76, 77 Moses stories, 2, 64, 70–2, 105 mother, as physical or elemental origin, 209n mourning, 79, 86–90, 96, 153, 203n, 231n movement, use of, 140 Al-Muªāsibī, Al-Óārith, 33 murīd (adept, disciple, mystical seeker), 15, 42, 46, 110, 118, 121, 137 mushāhada (witnessing), 122, 217n musical culture, 176n mystical experience, 31–2 mysticism, 3, 6–7, 8, 9, 10, 22, 28, 116, 148 narrative voice, fragmented, 152 nature vs culture, 124–5 Nietzsche, Friedrich, 67 Al-Niffarī, Muªammad b. ʿAbd Al-Jabbār, 8, 78, 89, 105 nomadism, 108, 113, 119, 132 novel, 4–5, 8, 171n Bildungsroman (coming-of-age story), 13, 18, 19, 21, 24 desert novel, 11, 108 episodic novel, 31, 33 village novel, 18 worldliness novel, 214n novelty/originality, 69, 70, 71 Omri, Mohamed-Salah, 66, 67, 76, 193n opposites, juxtaposition of, 142, 146

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258 orgies, 154–5, 232n the Other (God), 7, 162, 168n advent/presence, 29, 48, 110 openness/response to, 2, 3–4, 9, 10, 11, 16, 31, 33, 34, 51, 91, 188n and reason, 228–9n, 230n remembrance of (dhikr), 20, 22, 44, 151, 152 transcendance and immanence, 116, 214n union with (tawªid ), 5, 30, 68, 75, 89, 117, 122, 143, 215n other-worldly, 12, 15, 59, 117, 122, 131, 165 individuals, 54, 56, 57, 61, 91, 112, 113, 132, 149, 159, 163 spaces, 32, 138, 162, 164 spirits, 131 Otto, Rudolf, 2 Ouettar, Tahar (Al-˝ahir Wa††ār), 10, 11, 139–61, 162, 166, 167 Al-Óawwat wal-l-Qa‚r (The Fisherman and the Palace) (1974), 232n Al-Shamʿa wa-l-Dahālīz (The Candle and the Labyrinths) (1995), 139, 140, 141–9, 158 Al-Waliyy Al-˝āhar Yarfaʿ Yadayhi bi-lDuʿaʾ (Saint Tahar Raises His Hands in Prayer) (2005), 139, 140, 160–1, 232n Al-Waliyy Al-˝āhar Yaʿud ilā Maqāmihi Al-Zakī (Saint Tahar Returns to His Holy Shrine) (1999), 139, 140, 141, 150–60, 225n outsiders see alienation; strangers palm tree, symbolism of, 96 paradox and contradiction, use of, 119 Pascal, Blaise, 137, 138 Patočka, Jan, 123 Pavel, Thomas, 4, 67, 91 Perfect Man, 144 poetry; poetic creation, 2–4, 28, 113 poets, 113, 139–40 self-isolation of, 143–4, 148 vs mystics, 3 pole see qu†b

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in d e x politics, 20, 21, 79, 142 political organisation, 59–60 political socialisation, 21 and reason, 142 vs mysticism, 6–7, 17, 22, 166 power; power relations, 19, 59–60, 82 punishment, infernal, 150 Al-Qushayrī, Abū-l-Qāsim, 1, 89, 122 Risāla (Epistle on Sufism), 2, 3, 33, 40, 44, 45 qu†b (spiritual pole (mystical leader)) (pl. aq†āb), 24, 25, 36, 55, 58, 61, 62, 63, 92, 137, 144, 155, 174n Rahman, Fazlur, 67 Rasāʾil Ikhwan Al-Íafā (The Epistles of the Brethen of Purity), 85, 230n Rasmussen, Susan, 113, 128 reading, public, 135, 136 the Real (Al-Óaqq), 83, 85, 86, 202n realism, 4, 18, 25, 77 reason, 11, 142, 145, 148, 228–9n, 230n reconciliation, 77, 138, 160 repetition, 116n, 140, 152 revelation see tajallī Ritter, Hellmut, 117–18 Rosset, Clément, 202n Rūmī, Jalāl Al-Dīn, 78 Rushdie, Salman, 8, 40 ruʾya (physical vision/spiritual discovery), 117 sacrifice, 114, 118, 122–3, 137–8 Al-Sadat, Anwar, 6, 30, 39, 82 ‚afāʾ (purity), 19, 20, 21 Said, Edward, 23 sainthood; becoming-saint, 41, 43, 45–6, 50, 51, 139; see also qu†b; waliyy saints, 20, 92–3, 204n; see also waliyy Salih, Tayeb (Íāliª Al-˝ayyib), 10, 11, 52–65, 66, 167 Bandarshah (Dau al-Beit, 1971); (Meryoud, 1976), 53, 59–65, 187n ‘The Doum Tree of Wad Hamid’ (1960), 53–4, 55, 144 The Wedding of Zein (1962), 52, 54–5, 189n

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i ndex Al-Sarrāj, Abū Nasr, Kitāb Al-Lumaʿ (The Book of Flashes), 2 Sebti, Youssef, 227n self, 7, 116, 142 divided, 95, 102–3, 104 journey to, 67–8 self-overcoming, failure of, 67, 73, 127 Sells, Michael, 151 Al-Shaʿrānī, ʿAbd Al-Wahhāb, 92 Shīrāzī, Hafez (ÓāfiÕ), 34–9 Al-Íimādī, Maʾmūn, 101 sirr (innermost self/secret), 117, 121–2 Situation of Union (mawqif al-jamʿ), 89–90 social engagement, 26 social isolation see alienation spaces creating, 9, 111 enchanted, 109, 123 other-worldly, 32, 138, 162, 164 peopling empty spaces, 113, 213n spiritual voyage, 79, 94–5, 96–9 state of injury, 106 strangers, 54, 56, 57–8, 61, 64, 88, 93, 99, 107, 114, 132 Sudan, 10, 52, 62–3 Sufism, 7, 40, 110, 112–13 becoming Sufi, 25 disengaged/mystical, 27–8, 33 in Egypt, 171–2n, 177n and individual’s place in world, 40 literary tradition, 8, 9 as love of love, 48 and love of Sufism, 26 as science of openings (al-futūª), 2 as vector of desire, 25 vs Mahdism, 62–3 Al-Suhrawardī, Shiªāb Al-Dīn Yaªyā, 75, 198n ‘Tale of Western Exile’ (‘Qi‚‚at Al-Ghurba Al-Gharbiyya’), 76–7 suicide; attempted suicide, 39, 122, 129, 133–4, 136, 137, 162, 163, 215n Al-Sulamī, Muªammad b. Al-Óusayn Book of Futuwwa (Kitāb Al-Futuwwa), 33 Epistle on the Malāmatiyya Order (Risālat Al-Malāmatiyya), 33

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Lives of the Sufis (˝abaqāt Al-Íūfiyya), 40, 44, 46 supplementarity, 90 survival see baqāʾ Al-Ta-ayshi, Abdullah, 62 tafānī (self-sacrifice), 16 tafātuª (opening of self to universe), 67 Taher, Bahaa (Bahaʾ ˝āhir), 10, 162–6 ‘Anā Al-Mālik Jiʾtu’ (‘I, the King, Have Come’) (1985), 162, 163–4 Wāªat Al-Ghurūb (Sunset Oasis) (2006), 162, 164–5 ‘Yesterday I Dreamed of You’ (‘Bilʾams Óalamtu Bik’) (1983), 163 taªqīq (verification), 83 tajallī(revelation, self-disclosure), 51, 79, 82, 88, 93–4, 96, 103, 105, 147, 200n, 228n takiyya (dervish house), 28, 31, 32–3, 34, 36, 37, 38, 39, 49 al-talwīn wa-l-tamkīn (colouring and consolidation), 3 tangält (allusive discourse), 115–16 tarīqa (Sufi order or confraternity), 27, 28 tasbiª (glorification of God), 151 tawakkul (trust in God alone), 45 testimony, 67–8 time, 84, 86–90 tirfās (hallucinogenic trufle), 120, 121–3 Touareg culture and beliefs, 107, 108, 112, 115, 130 society, 109, 112, 113 transmigration of souls, 163 trauma, 151, 152, 230–1n trauma fiction, 150, 152 tree, identification with, 229n truth see al-ªaqīqa Al-Tustarī, Sahl, 122, 151, 204n universe, enchanted, 108, 121 violence, 35, 141, 156–7, 158 virginity, 69, 70 waddān (North African Barbary sheep), 109, 110, 125, 126, 128, 129–30, 220n

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260 waªdat al-shuhūd (oneness of witnessing), 68, 194n waªdat al-wujūd (unity of being), 109, 110, 125–6, 133, 135 waliyy (saint), 10, 36, 85, 129, 139, 140, 141, 147, 150–61 wārid (arrivant), 3, 49, 170n wars of apostasy, 153, 154, 158 al-wā‚ilīn (the spiritually adept), 50 Wāw (Touareg utopia), 120–1, 122, 133, 138, 216n Western Desert, 163–4 Whitehead, Anne, 152 wisdom, woman as, 101, 209n Wittgenstein, Ludwig, 33, 148 Wolfe, Cary, 111

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ind e x Woolf, Virginia, 5 worldliness, 114, 214n writing; literary creation, 7, 23, 31–2, 51, 85, 101, 108, 113, 116, 125, 131, 133–4, 167, 221n as form of prayer, 135–6, 223n as giving, 87 as mystical process, 137 and real vs ideal, 19 and self-identity, 9 as spiritual voyage, 95 and survival, 79, 81, 87, 171n Al-Zawābīri, ʿAntar, 233n zāwiya (Sufi mystical centre), 28, 41 Zaynab, Al-Sayyida, shrine of, 12, 13–15

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