Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Tarek El-Ariss
Introduction
533
Both established Arab writers like Elias Khoury (b. 1948), Hoda Barakat
(b. 1952), and Gamal al-Ghitani (b. 1945), among others, as well as new
writers from across the Arab world are contributing to a flourishing literary
scene. Internet savvy and conversant with the products and transformations
brought about by globalization, this new generation relates to English not
as a foreign language but rather as the language that is constitutive of their
cultural landscape. From blogs and websites to satellite TV, films, and lit-
erature, global culture is pervasive in both these authors’ psychological and
material realms. In this cultural landscape, a new generation is looking for
a literary voice, an articulation of a cultural experience that can no longer
be understood in terms of neatly organized binary oppositions of resistance
and imperialism, East and West, and tradition and modernity. Facebook,
MySpace, and Twitter, cellular phones and text messaging have allowed Arab
writers to articulate new identities and experiences, as they mix languages,
address the reader, and blur the distinction between traditional genres.
These new literary voices have benefited from technological develop-
ment and the Internet but also from the decentralization and privatization
of the publishing industry in the Arab world. Dar El Shorouk in Egypt is
publishing many new works such as Khalid Khamisi’s Taxi (2007) [Taxi
(2008)] and ‘Awza atgawez (2008) [I Want to Get Married (2010)] by Ghada
His novel stages the rants of an angry narrator, a Cairene youth who goes
about dating girls, riding public transportation, and discussing politics, cul-
ture, history, the state, and consumerism. Influenced by Chuck Palahniuk’s
Fight Club (1996) and by the works of Sonallah Ibrahim, Being Abbas el
Abd presents a split character who performs various narrative functions. As
Abdel-Messih notes, “The first/third-person narrative voice shifts inad-
vertently between past/present temporalities, showing forced relationships
and failed relationality in disconnected situations.”8 ‘Abdallah, a depressed
young man who spends most of his time hallucinating in his room, serves
a primary narrative function. ‘Abbas is ‘Abdallah’s friend; he comes to
‘Abdallah as a voice or as an image, pushing him to engage the world around
him through angry acts of violence and rebellion. ‘Awni is ‘Abdallah’s uncle,
a psychiatrist who tortured his nephew when he was a child. There are two
girls, both named Hind, whom the narrator tries to date: one is a prostitute
and the other is a girl from a “good family” [“bint nas”]. The last character
is Shahinda, who works as a nurse at the mental asylum to which the nar-
rator was sent as a child.
In his review of the novel, Hazem Abyad argues that Alaidy’s text
conjures a disembodied space, a city stripped of its materiality, and that it
relies on postmodern pastiche and parody, rupturing in this way questions
of causality and originality.9 This characterization provides the necessary
perspective for interpreting Alaidy’s text, which consists in a series of often
inexplicable events. A vulgar and violent narrative expresses anger over
Egypt’s social and political reality, language, and civilization. While discuss-
ing the relation between Egypt and the West, ‘Abbas tells the narrator: “You
want us to progress? So burn the history books and forget your precious dead
civilization. Stop trying to squeeze the juice from the past. Destroy your
pharaonic history. . . . We will only succeed when we turn our museums
into public lavatories.”10 In this way ‘Abbas lashes out against Egypt’s national
identity. ‘Abbas “explodes like a sewer pipe,” breaking the link between
‘Abdallah and a prestigious and old notion of historical identity. Progress,
in ‘Abbas’s view, not only requires a break with the past but a destruction
of the history books through which the past is imagined as constitutive of
national identity. Burning history books and turning museums into public
toilets are acts that serve to delegitimize the ways the past is mediated
through educational and cultural institutions. ‘Abbas, the angry voice in
Alaidy’s novel, exposes the discrepancy between Egypt’s imagined past and
its contemporary social and political reality.
To break with Egypt’s romanticized past means breaking with the
generation of the defeat. In a reference to the Arab defeat in the 1967 war
with Israel, which was a turning point in Arab political and cultural history,
‘Abbas tells ‘Abdallah: “Egypt had its generation of the Defeat. We’re the
generation that came after it. The ‘I’ve-got-nothing-to-lose generation.’
We’re the autistic generation, living under the same roof with strangers
who have names similar to ours. . . . Pull-shit. You need to UPGRADE
your wisdom and UPDATE your experience” (36). Here ‘Abbas identifies
the means by which a model of Egyptian identity that breaks along gen-
erational lines can be overcome. “Tawahhud” [“autism”] is the condition of
the Arab youth, chatting and texting, relating to their parents, who happen
to live with them in the same house, as complete strangers.11 This powerful
metaphor of youth’s alienation, connected to one another and the Internet
through modes of silence, exposes a new generation’s disconnect from the
family and the state. The articulation of traditional forms of identity is thus
metonymic, based on an artificial proximity rather than significant symbolic
bond. Using computer language, ‘Abbas asks the narrator to update and
upgrade his system and install a new server that would supersede the cultural
model that holds young people hostage. With the expletive “pull-shit,” a
combination of “bullshit” and “don’t pull this crap on me,” which is given
in English in the Arabic text, ‘Abbas violently shakes not only ‘Abdallah but
also the reader of the text, forcing him or her to take notice of this need to
update, upgrade, that, install new software, and move on. The discourse of
technology thus transforms the “barbaric” burning of history books and the
destruction of museums into acts of computer uploads and upgrades, signal-
ing the advent of a new generation that is radically rethinking its relation to
social and political identity.
Updating and upgrading one’s server in this context are forms of prise
de conscience that replace political engagement understood in the French
sense, which characterizes the older generation that demanded and believed
in social and political change and ended up being disillusioned after the
Naksa in 1967. Alaidy’s text gradually elaborates a model of critique of the
cultural products associated with the generation of defeat, as he calls it. The
generation that matured in the 1950s and 1960s is best known for its novels,
the quintessential genre of Arab modernity. The new generation of Arab
authors and readers imagined in Alaidy’s text upgrade and update this liter-
ary form. Alaidy launches an unwavering attack against the novel and the
literary establishment that sustains it for ideological and commercial reasons,
thereby excluding young upstart authors. As the narrator says,
it isn’t. This is not a novel. No one likes to read about the torments
of the demigods when it is revealed to them what semidemihumans
they are. These are the works that go along with the critics to the lava-
tory to assist them in floating free of the burden of fat buttocks. (51)
Here the narrator redefines the genre of the text he is narrating by reposi-
tioning it at the intersection of the virtual and the material, the literary and
the nonliterary. This liminal yet literary work resists—in fact, unequivocally
renounces—the genre of the novel itself. Through this postmodern gesture,
the narrator disabuses the reader of the idea that the text he is narrating is a
novel. Through his call to arms, Alaidy raises doubts regarding the nature,
social function, and ideological framework of the genre as such. The text
interpellates the reader and calls him or her to action through blank spaces
interspersed throughout the text, yielding an interactive writing akin to that
of blogs. In this new text, the reader is asked not only to become aware of
his or her social and political reality but also to refigure it by intervening in
the act of writing. A far cry from 1960s engagement and its iconic marches
and demonstrations, Being Abbas el Abd constitutes an aesthetic of subversion
and a call to action, staged as an active participation in cultural production.
Alaidy exploits the literary genre to which his work arguably belongs by
acts of upgrades and updates, mixing Arabic and English, using parentheses
and question marks to excess and systematically repeating words and sen-
tences. Furthermore, Alaidy uploads to the novel genres like advertisements,
prayers [du‘a’], and user manuals. In one instance, he sings the praises of a
fictitious drug, Paratcozine:
umma. Alaidy parodies the traditional du‘a’, removing it from its religious
and ideological context and incorporating it into an advertisement for
antidepressants. Linda Hutcheon claims that the postmodern makes stra-
tegic use of parody to call attention to the constructedness of literary genres
and aesthetic traditions, exposing in this way the ideological framework
of canon formation. “Parody seems to offer a perspective on the present
and the past which allows an artist to speak to a discourse from within
it, but without being totally recuperated by it. Parody appears to have
become, for this reason, the mode of the marginalized, or of those who
are fighting marginalization by a dominant ideology.”12 In Being Abbas el
Abd, the parody and the mixing of literary with nonliterary genres serve
to articulate the postideological, post-Naksa moment in Arab history. In
this context, true victory is no longer to be achieved by defeating Zionists
and imperialists—as the traditional political discourse in the Arab world,
both secular and Islamist, would have it—but rather by engaging the state
of psychological collapse of the Arab individual, now in need of drugs to
withstand his or her social and political reality. In this way Alaidy parodies
not only du‘a’ and its political context but also consumerism and aspects
of globalization that are reflected in the proliferation of drugs in the Arab
world. This double parody operates both as a social and political critique,
on the one hand, and as a literary intervention in the genre of the novel
itself, on the other. Alaidy’s parody exposes the ideological formation of
literary and political fantasies that stifle contemporary society and cultural
production.
The critique of moribund social and political systems maintained
through discourses on history and culture takes a new shape in Alaidy’s
text. In his attempt to further infiltrate the existing power structure and
expose its fundamental weaknesses and contradictions, he rails against the
materiality of the book itself, deploying the genre of the “user manual” to
provide instructions for destroying books, and especially long novels. The
narrator enumerates the steps in the act of sabotage:
5. Pour the gum into the center of the book while flipping the pages,
bearing in mind that “Knowledge is Light.”
6. Stick the front and back covers of the book to the first and last
pages, then cross out the author’s name, using an X. . . .
7. Put the book back on a shelf other than its usual shelf. . . . The
day is coming when the last barrier separating paper-backs from
bags of potato chips will disappear. . . . The day is coming when
they’ll put a picture on the front of every book of a man tossing
it into a trash can, and write underneath it:
Help Make the World
A Cleaner Place! (92–93)
Alaidy here incorporates the genres of street signs (“Hafiz ’ala al-nazafa” [“No
littering”]) and instruction manuals into the novel, transforming postmodern
parody into sabotage. The recipe in this case is reminiscent of the anarchist
cookbook, wherein food preparation becomes a violent affair. Deconstructing
the relation between food and knowledge, reading and nourishment, Alaidy
transforms the book into a target for sabotage, an object to be discarded like
an empty bag of chips. Assuming the position of a terrorist or a saboteur who
goes into the library to destroy the book, Alaidy unleashes a critique of the
power structure that the book represents. The attack on library books calls
attention to the educational system that is constitutive and symptomatic of
the social and political decay that Alaidy’s character exposes, forcing the
reader to entertain the erasure of both the book’s materiality and its politi-
cal and epistemological significance and bringing him or her into the text
as an accomplice in a project of sabotage. Marx wrote a manifesto aimed
at factory workers with the goal of making them aware of their rights and
of the need to take action to preserve them; Alaidy, by contrast, addresses
a new reader, forcing him or her to acknowledge a new political reality and
act to change it through acts of violence.
Being Abbas el Abd’s call to infiltrate and sabotage literary and political
power structures exposes their vulnerability, reflected in infiltration of the
Arabic literary realm by the Internet and blogs. The destruction of the novel’s
materiality exposes its vulnerability not only as a genre now infiltrated by other
nonliterary genres but also as a product, an object placed on a library shelf, in
the hands of the traditional reader. This destruction of the book simultane-
ously undermines the act of reading, which mediates the production of the
imagined national community in Anderson’s sense.13 Alaidy’s reference to
“autism” is thus a reference to the absence of social and political bonds that
Conclusion
Roger Allen accurately points out that it is Mahfouz’s earning of the Nobel
Prize in 1988 that has generally driven American academic interest in modern
Arabic literature.27 However, Allen observes, it is Mahfouz’s trilogy from the
1950s that occupies center stage in the critical literature. This observation
needs to be more deeply probed. A rethinking of the contemporary Arabic
canon in the American academic context is urgent given political change
and new aesthetic configurations. Syllabi that reduce this literature to 1940s
and 1950s works by Naguib Mahfouz and Tayeb Salih need to be updated
and upgraded, to use Alaidy’s terms. These American critical approaches
to Arabic literature have yet to acknowledge the aesthetic and political
transformations shaping new writing. Arising from a liminal space at the
intersection of the material and the virtual, these texts are ushering in new
genres and political consciousness.
The emphasis on reading a new Arabic textuality that connects
Hollywood films with Arabic literature, the novel and the blog, and Arabic
and English unsettles clearly circumscribed fields in the U.S. academy.
Reduced to a representation of Arab culture and Islam or read as staging
struggles and resistances to hegemonic models from patriarchy to imperi-
alism, “Arabic literature is not allowed to have aesthetics,” claims Marilyn
Booth, translator and scholar of modern Arabic literature.28 Both the politics
of translation and the literary criticism that ensued after Edward Said
published Orientalism in 1979 have inadvertently elided the aesthetic signifi-
cance of Arabic texts. The critical emphasis on questions of representation
Notes
The author wishes to thank the Humanities Institute at the University of Texas for their
generous support that allowed the completion of this article.
1. Marie-Thérèse Abdel-Messih, “Hyper Texts: Avant-Gardism in Contemporary Egyptian
Narratives,” Neohelicon 36.2 (2009): 515–23, 515.
2. I Want to Get Married, trans. Nora Eltahawy (Austin: Center of Middle Eastern Studies
Press at the University of Texas at Austin, 2010).
3. Claudia Roth Pierpont, “Found in Translation: The Contemporary Arabic Novel,” The
New Yorker, 18 Jan. 2010, 74–80.
4. Samuel Shimon, ed., Beirut 39: New Writing from the Arab World (New York: Bloomsbury,
2010).
5. Al-Hayat’s literary reviewer is Hazem Abyad; Al-Akhbar’s is Muhammad Khayr. A new
periodical entitled Wasla, which has been recently launched in Cairo, is produced entirely by
bloggers (http://wasla.anhri.net).
6. For an issue dedicated to new writing in Egypt, see Banipal 25 (2006).