introduction

Why might a translator undertake a ‘feminist’ translation and what do feminist translations look like in practice? This anthology has emerged from the Feminist Translation Network, a project based at the University of Birmingham which brings together translators, publishers, readers and other literature-lovers to think about the place of feminist translation in today’s literary landscape.

Working in partnership with The Emma Press, we invited a group of translators, some with Birmingham links, to select a short literary text which would benefit from a ‘feminist’ translation. Discussions at Feminist Translation Network events have shown that there are no straightforward definitions of feminism or feminist translation. With this in mind, we wanted to provide a space for the translators to explore feminist approaches to translation as part of a wider community of practice. The group met a couple of times during the translation process to discuss ideas and share work-in-progress, including at a public scratch night held online in May 2025.

The anthology you have in front of you now hints at the variety of ways in which feminist translation can be understood. Feminist translation does not seem to be about the gender of the author or translator but the way the translator reads the author’s text. Feminism here seems to mean stories about women, women’s perspectives, women’s experiences. The translators don’t employ any specific linguistic strategies which might be labelled ‘feminist’ but adopt different approaches in transferring these works into English: from creative intervention, turning a short story into an unconventional playtext, to the smooth, idiomatic translation deemed necessary to convey the feminist agenda of a YA novel. It has been fascinating to see the translations take shape and we hope you find the anthology thought-provoking and inspiring!

We are grateful for support from Writing West Midlands. The Feminist Translation Network project is funded by grants from the Arts and Humanities Research Council.

Hilary Brown, August 2025

An Anthology of New Feminist Translations

Published by The Emma Press on behalf of

The Feminist Translation Network

University of Birmingham

the emma press

First published in the UK in 2025 by The Emma Press Ltd.

Translations © individual translators 2025.

Cover design © Maggie Mason 2025.

All rights reserved.

The right of the translators to be identified as the translators of these texts has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Typeset and designed by Normunds Ozols.

The Emma Press

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Birmingham, UK

Contents

My fleeting return to Syria: First impressions of Sweida

The Picture of Verónica G

Not a Word of a Lie: The Story of One Woman’s Life, Written on a Bedsheet

She Tried, Failed, and Tried Again

Good Consequences;or, The Winsome Maiden of al-Zahira

My fleeting return to Syria: First impressions of Sweida

Translated from Arabic by Anam Zafar

An extract from

Intiba’at awaliyyah ‘an ‘awdati al-khatifah ila Suriyyah/Al-Sweidah

by Najat Abed Alsamad

First published online by UntoldMag in February 2025.

The English translation has been included in this collection with the permission of Najat Abed Alsamad.

The feeling was violent – no other word fits. It tore through me the moment I heard the regime had fallen, over there in my dear country that had so often been here, before I left, a little over seven years ago, not by choice of course. What sound mind could have comforted my heart then, burning with longing for home but having to wait yet another day? My emotions were merciless when I boarded the first plane possible from Berlin to Beirut to there – and even when I arrived, my every sense bathing in its air, its soil, its homes, its people. But my heart didn’t stutter for long… Soon enough, my eyes and feet readjusted to their first home as if they’d never left. This dear country and I were the same. Both our fates had been reversed in the blink of an eye, from the deepest pit of despair to the first glimpses of an opening in the road. I had a debt to clear between my soul and my first home. I needed to listen to what it had to say. When we met, I was heavy with an ache that tormented me like an unforgiven sin.

At the new border crossing, I was surprised to see the passport office was closed – the same terrifying checkpoint that lives on in the nightmares of the exiled. Was this my warm welcome? All I wanted was to hear Come on in, my children, you’re safe with me now. This wasn’t hospitality: this was a crowd of arrivals crossing the border unregistered, whether or not they were from here, no matter if they were visitors, official guests, drug dealers, international criminals… Would the torment never end?

I thought the guard-less border was a prelude to the chaos sweeping through the country. I was wrong. Evident safety, despite no electricity. Total darkness on the road from the border to Damascus, and from Damascus to Sweida. Desolate but for the corpses of military vehicles along the sides, tyres burst and glass shattered, as if left behind by an enemy army. But really, they belonged to the Syrian National Army, and when liberation came, people swarmed them, breaking open the tanks and filling their jerry cans with fuel so they could heat their homes, disgraced with bitter cold through so many past winters. As they drove away, their overflowing cans spilled onto the road, forcing the cars to slow right down to avoid swerving into each other.

Suddenly: ‘You need to lean back, all the way please.’ This was my driver. Then he put his foot down. The car shuddered and jolted beneath us. Afterwards, he told me he’d seen someone waving a torch at us: bandits, who took advantage of the empty checkpoints to steal from travellers, sometimes threatening to kill them. But we survived.

We entered Sweida at night… My city, whose features I had memorised like the veins on my hands. I came to her with all my cravings, my hopes and fears of meeting her again… Feelings at war in my chest, and a mind wide awake yet unable to settle the conflict.

Duwwar al-Anqud was just as it had always been, the roundabout at the entrance to the city. But the next one, Duwwar al-Basil, had changed. Originally named after the parachuter who had been first in line to die, before his father and brother, it was now Duwwar al-Basha, reclaimed by the city, the structure from before more or less intact. As we finished our journey in darkness, I surrendered to that deep-rooted, slow-burning pain. But it was my fear that was strongest: would I lead the driver to the right junction for my neighbourhood, and then to my home? And my house: would it recognise me after such a long time?

Outside my apartment, the schefflera flowers hadn’t just weathered the storm; they now flooded the entryway. They’d carried on growing while I wasn’t here: my husband – now with his arms spread wide for me – had remembered to water them every day… When he was away, my neighbour had taken over, and she greeted me now with the revolution’s anthem: Lift your head up high, you’re a free Syrian!

Gingerly, I stepped inside. All I could do was cry. My honey-coloured shawl hung exactly where I’d left it seven years ago, on the coat stand. My toothbrush and hairbrush were the same, their teeth crumbling at my touch. My husband, stubborn man that he is, had insisted on leaving my things where they were, no matter how long I’d be gone, as long as I promised to come back. So it’s family, then, that breathes life into our time and belongings; our neighbours, too. To take care of them is to tend to our own selves.

I whisper to the furniture. Salam, rickety blinds, shabby furniture, tatty towels… God bless your patience, God bless the one who taught you that enduring the wait, in itself, is a quiet act of survival.

Quickly, on to my parents… The wrinkles overflowing on their faces mirrored the ones that had spread across my own. We had aged faster than time had passed. My father and mother embraced me, and I became a crutch in their hands. The love that day was stronger than any other time… On to a clan of nieces and nephews, some who’d been born, grown up and forged their own paths all while I’d been gone. Six of the little girls and boys I’d left behind were now about to graduate in medicine, informatics, psychotherapy and mathematics. The sparkle in their eyes restored light to mine, to the entire country…

First stop the next morning, a fitting destination: Sahat al-Karama, Dignity Square. Timidly, silently, I slipped in amongst the pioneers who had brought life to the square for more than a year now, who had chosen its new name, just as it had granted them the strength to persevere in the wasteland the country had become, until the time came to rebuild it, together with their lives. I was surprised to notice that those coming home before and after me chose not to enter silently, in its honour, or to face themselves first before addressing the masses under the flash of the cameras. The only way to confront your conscience is alone, in the quiet darkness of contemplation.

I, on the other hand, felt embarrassed by my lengthy absence. So I rejoined the people with a certain furtiveness, first preparing my voice and cementing my faith that yes, here I was, standing again in my first home. My memory was suddenly invigorated, after a listlessness that had made me miserable, refilling all the empty space that had accumulated in my mind during my time away from home. I remembered names, faces, dates and landmarks, which didn’t wear me out as I had imagined, but instead came to me beautifully clear. This pure air could soothe my listless memory; this land’s water could heal the wounds of exile; this people’s breaths would bring me peace again. The secret – the whole secret, and all the joy – lived within the people themselves. I felt at home from my very first moment, as if I hadn’t been away for those endless years. Their smiles were life-giving, and their elegance – marred by their humble, worn-out clothing – was a counter-punch to all the humiliation thrown their way, which had backfired on the culprits instead…

At night, I drove my car in the pitch darkness through timeworn neighbourhoods, no electric lights or gas lanterns. I wandered the alleys, guided by my heart, with faith I wouldn’t take the wrong turnings and that they, in turn, hadn’t forgotten me. In fact, it felt as though they were granting me their selves. I listened to the songs of Fahd Ballan and realised I could do so without crying, that the grief was bearable. In Berlin, the same music had ravaged my eyes with tears…

I couldn’t gather the strength to take a selfie and write that I was in a country suffocating me with its love. What happens on the ground could not be further removed from those beaming faces online. I think people take photos to convince themselves, before anyone else, that they have really come back to their homeland, that they are really breathing its air – while the camera flash muzzles the fear of reuniting with a sadistic lover who reemerges after fourteen years of battle with more battles to come. The aftershocks are waiting and won’t subside quickly. I could hear the scolding voices of my own inner battles, coloured with shame and guilt: I, the survivor who had run away from all those difficult years of poverty, searched for myself in the faces of old friends who had been left behind. Were they as changed as I was? A blurriness had lodged itself between us: different wounds, different needs, different perspectives, different priorities. Our qualities of life and states of mind were simply incomparable. These differences had morphed into personal grievances against even the closest friends, as if they were to blame for one’s problems.

But real life here, every big and small part of it, was nothing like on Facebook. In the end, the warmth of a real embrace – not one you watch on a tiny screen – was enough to clear up the blurriness. We became classmates again, strolling together through our old school, our playground now a garage and the place where my seventh- and tenth- grade classrooms once stood now a coffee shop called Flamenco. No harm in having one coffee, I thought to myself, as I chatted to a young man who had insisted on going to the square in silence throughout the unrest. He hadn’t joined any “political” movement.

‘Now there’s no government, people are realising they have to solve their problems on their own,’ he said. ‘But we still don’t even have the bare minimum. No water, no electricity, no fuel. Everyone’s cold and thirsty, everywhere’s dark. But at least we can breathe a little easier now the regime has fallen… It feels like things could change. Before, we were in a black tunnel with no end. But look at us now: we finally feel safe, and we’re looking out for each other. And organised crime has just disappeared. There’s no police, but also no abductions, thefts or assaults. The traffic is taking care of itself: there’s no accidents, not even beeping or drivers shouting. Like the concept of civilised driving has returned overnight. And people aren’t fighting: they’re not scared of each other, there’s only love. Even the simplest people now realise the so-called “security forces” were the reason for all those crimes in the first place. And we’re not scared of robbers anymore… Actually, the only places being looted are old government buildings: some justice, at last, after they’d rented from the owners at shockingly low rates for decades. Now the owners have taken them back. Thrown everything out and fitted new locks. Some of them have even torn down the old buildings so there’s no chance the new government will take them, like last time.’

But after my first moments of arrival had passed, Shaytan filled in the details. […]

Translator's note

What is a feminist translator or a feminist translation? I can’t say I’d ever thought about it before this project. But when I accepted this invitation, I had two realisations. One: for whatever significance it holds, my main translation projects to date have been books by women authors, on their experiences of being a woman in very specific contexts. Two: this project coincides with a new and ongoing personal exploration into what it means for me to embrace femininity as a Muslim woman. Over the past half-year or so, I’ve found joy and comfort in leaning into Islam’s guidelines for honouring compassion, mercy, intuition and fluctuating energies within myself and others.

Perhaps this is what drew me to translate the essay here. I’ve translated Najat Abed Alsamad before: stories from her collection In the Tenderness of War. The title is a perfect distillation of why her writing is right for this project, showing that a feminine perspective centring love, care and sentiment is never irrelevant. Even – or especially – in the horror of war. In those raw and yes, highly tender, accounts from the Syrian conflict, where she retells the stories of the wounded people she treated as a volunteer doctor, she urges us to zoom in past the headlines, the numbers, the political analysis, and recognise the humans at the heart of it all. Now living in Berlin where she still works as a doctor, she moved from her hometown Sweida years ago to escape the sprawling, devastating conflict that began with large-scale protests and pro-democracy rallies and ended last year when the Assad regime suddenly fell.

In this essay, she applies the same principle but to the next chapter in Syria’s fate, the one playing out now: liberation from the former regime. The feminine perspective pushes back against clinical descriptions of war as black-and-white, either happening now or happily over, a reminder to recognise not just what happened but who continues to live through the aftermath: to be eyewitnesses, not just onlookers... to feel something. In this piece, we walk with Najat as she returns home for the first time in seven years and… I’ll let you find out the rest.

What you read here is just the first half of one survivor’s – one returnee’s – experience. In the deeply moving second half, Najat holds a microscope to the ways the country is still suffering yet attempting to move forward. Many have found ways to hold onto hope, but others still have no interest in the politics or ‘what the future holds’. They just want the cold, hunger and joblessness to end. A full translation needs to exist, and that is my next goal. With all that in mind, please read around for context. You could start with those stories I mentioned, from In the Tenderness of War, describing what came before.

Read four stories from In the Tenderness of War in The Stinging Fly: https://stingingfly.org/2022/03/09/four-stories/

Listen to Anam talk about In the Tenderness of War on MAKTOOB: Arabic Stories in English: https://buff.ly/kVtfB0w

About the translator

Anam Zafar is a multi-award-winning translator from Arabic and French to English. She appears on the 100 Inspiring Muslims: Next Generation Edition list (Emerald Network/Aziz Foundation). Her co-translation of Josephine Baker’s memoir Fearless and Free, with Sophie Lewis, is out now with Vintage Classics/Tiny Reparations. Her co-translation with Nadiyah Abdullatif of Yoghurt and Jam, Or How My Mother Became Lebanese, Lena Merhej’s graphic memoir, won a PEN Translates Award, was shortlisted for the Saif Ghobash Banipal Prize for Arabic Literary Translation and was longlisted for the Warwick Prize for Women in Translation. https://www.anamzafar.com

The Picture of Verónica G

Translated from Spanish by Ruth Donnelly

An extract from

El retrato de Verónica G

By Andrea Ferrari

El retrato de Verónica G was published by Loqueleo in Buenos Aires, Argentina, in 2020.

The translation is included here by arrangement with Literarische Agentur MertinWitt.

Her name was Verónica Grey. I still remember my surprise the first time I heard it. We were very young, barely five or six, and as far as I was concerned a colour couldn’t be a name.

It took me a long time to see the irony in it. Because if there was one thing you couldn’t say of her, one thing that was the exact opposite of who she was, it was grey. Verónica shone brightly – people were drawn to her like moths to a flame. Back then I guess I didn’t have a clear idea of what beauty was, but I always knew she was special. I don’t know if it was the particular blue of her eyes, her perfect nose, her long blonde hair, her full lips, or all of this combined that created a magnetism no one seemed able to resist.

Over the years, I was witness time and time again to people’s reactions when they met her for the first time. The open admiration, the undisguised attempts to win her favour, the suspicion, the envy. Even the hatred. Because no one could be indifferent to an exceptional beauty like Verónica’s.

But I don’t think we had a real conversation about beauty and what it does to others until many years later. In those early days we just accepted it. She got more attention, more favours, more smiles. That’s just how it was. Sometimes I ask myself what would have happened if she hadn’t been so dazzling. If the famous photo had never happened.

But maybe the real question is what things would have been like if the world didn’t react to beauty the way it does, if we weren’t all searching for it in such a pathetic and desperate way.

Of course, deep down I know the question keeping me awake at night is something different. It comes out when I’m at my most fragile, most vulnerable. The question eating me up is what I could have done to change what happened. Where did I fail her. There are nights I wake with a start, unable to breathe, and I’m convinced she’s waiting for my help somewhere, but I can’t get to her. Even worse, sometimes I find it hard to picture her the way she really was, now so much time has passed. The only image that comes to mind is the photo.

***

Did she have a fixed destiny? I don’t know, but it’s no surprise we all thought she’d end up as a model. Partly because of what happened to her when she was thirteen, sitting on a bench in the plaza with her mum. They were approached by a tall, very sophisticated woman with a foreign look about her (or at least that’s how she told it to me), who gave them her card. She was a scout for a very famous agency. She said Verónica could be a big hit as a teen model and invited them to her office in a week’s time. Verónica was immediately hit by an explosion of adrenaline that reverberated through her body: for hours she imagined herself strutting down catwalks, on the covers of magazines, on TV. But that night, over a meal that ended with yelling and scraps of chicken thrown on the floor, her parents decided she was too young and shouldn’t be working. However much she begged, they refused to call the agency. Verónica didn’t speak to them for fifteen days. Later she seemed to forget about it, but I always suspected that, as soon as she was able to make her own decisions, this was the path she would go down.

She surprised us all, though, when it was time to choose a career. The rest of us enrolled at university – Carola in Sociology, Irene in Law and me in Communication – while she announced she was going to art college to take classes in musical comedy and improvisation. She wanted to see how she did on stage, she told us; she had a comic side that she thought was worth exploring. And it was true: Verónica could be extremely funny.

But in the end, the destiny that was constantly at her heels caught up with her. She hadn’t been at college more than a couple of months before one of the acting tutors approached her with a proposition: he knew the owner of a modelling agency that was looking for a girl just like her for a big national campaign. If she agreed, he would send in her photo. It could mean, he added with a knowing look, serious money.

Verónica couldn’t resist. A month later, the deal was done. The advert was for a cosmetics company that was trying to break into a difficult market: creams for women so young they didn’t yet use creams. The slogan was ‘It’s never too early to start taking care of yourself’, and the face was Verónica.

When she told me the terms of the deal, my jaw dropped. It really was a lot of money, especially for someone so young, and for her very first job. It hit her like a ton of bricks: she was tense, scared. She asked me to go with her to the photoshoot a week later.

When I went to get her, she was a bundle of nerves. She had dolled herself up too much for my taste, in a bright green dress and shoes that were clearly uncomfortable. But even so, when I think of that moment now I get such a sense of nostalgia: I think it was the last time I saw that soft, slightly naïve side of Verónica, before the world around her changed and changed her with it.

When we arrived at the studio, we realised all her efforts had been for nothing, because they weren’t going to use anything she had on already. First, they washed and styled her hair. Then they gave her some clothes: dark jeans and a plain, figure-hugging top. The main thing was the make-up: a woman worked on her face for half an hour and managed to make her look absolutely stunning, and also like she was wearing no make-up at all. I’d never seen her look so beautiful before.

The photo shoot took over two hours. The photographer, a thirty-something-year-old guy keen to show off his considerable experience, used most of that time getting her to relax. He told her there was no need to pose; just be herself. He chatted, told stories, and made her laugh until he found the sweet spot: Verónica relaxed and became her true, beautiful self.

I didn’t see the results of the shoot until two or three months later, when the campaign went live. The guy was undeniably a genius. The photo (just the one, always the same image, everywhere) was exceptional. Verónica was radiant, with a look in her eyes that was both sensual and innocent, and a smile you couldn’t tear your eyes from.

The adverts were in magazines, on bus stops, on hoardings around building sites, along motorways, and on a gigantic billboard on the side of the Obelisco. Suddenly every teenage girl in the country wanted to be Verónica Grey.

***

A story that stuck with me from the hundreds I heard and read at that time, perhaps because it made me a bit sad, was about a 15-year-old girl called Camila. Her story got out through a video on YouTube. It was filmed by one of her friends, Marcela, who appeared briefly at the start in a Fuck Beauty t-shirt and was clearly an activist for the movement. She’d convinced Camila to make the video, but Camila was clearly quite hesitant about it, like she wasn’t entirely convinced of what she was doing.

If you asked me, I’d have said she was pretty. Clear skin, dark curly hair, big eyes. But she didn’t like the way she looked. She’d rather have straight hair, she said in the video; a daintier nose, a smaller mouth, blue eyes. The only thing she was happy about was being thin. And she was very thin. Extremely thin, if anything. But she didn’t have a thigh gap.

She’d heard about the thigh gap from TV. Then she’d seen it in photos of models, which she and her friend Margarita pored over together. Models with slim, super-long legs and this thigh gap that, she said, looked so good. All the girls wanted it. But it wasn’t easy – you had to work for it.

They found tips in various places: on social media, on websites. You had to eat very little, and do leg exercises. Show them, said the off-screen voice of Marcela, and Camila sat down on the floor. You put your feet like this: she placed her soles together with her knees pointing outwards. Then press down on your thighs until they’re flat to the floor and hold it for several seconds. For the other exercise you had to place a cushion between your thighs and squeeze it for a while. Like this, lots of repetitions. And the third – here Camila lay down on her left side, with the right leg bent behind her – was like this, raising and lowering that leg several times. At least three repetitions. And then the other side. All this, several times a day.

There was the thing with the hairbrush too, said Marcela. Yes, where you brushed your thighs really hard, to stimulate the blood flow, to make you lose fat more quickly.

And then?

What?

The weight.

She’d lost quite a bit of weight, Camila agreed, but not intentionally. She’d lost interest in eating. And Margarita had too, but even more so: she got really bad and in the end she was hospitalised.

Then what happened?

Camila sighed. Margarita wasn’t doing well, and they wouldn’t let Camila see her. She didn’t get any details, but it sounded pretty bad. Her parents got worried too, and sent her to a psychologist. That was a while ago.

And what do you think of it now?

Now she understood, Camila nodded. She had to eat well and not get so obsessed with things like that. She understood it up here, she said, pointing to her forehead. But she still liked thin legs. And thigh gaps. She looked at the floor, tired. Are we done?

Her friend said yes, but she kept filming for a few more seconds. Camila let herself flop into the armchair, her body long, ethereal, almost transparent, her face exhausted, as if weighed down by an ancient sadness.

***

It took me ages to find the photo. It’s from when we were eleven. We were in Mar del Plata, where I’d been invited along on her family holiday. We’d spent several hours that day on the beach, lying on striped mats, making plans for the future. That’s when the Africa plan first came up. We didn’t actually have the faintest idea about Africa; I think Verónica had been looking at photos of safaris, that was the only reason behind it. But we decided we were going to go there for a long time, that we’d see lions, elephants and giraffes, and we’d sleep in the jungle.

Then we went into the sea. I took this photo when we came out, with a cheap camera I’d got just before the holiday. Her hair is wet and there’s a stripe of sand on her forehead from where we’d been knocked over by a wave. And she’s laughing with her mouth wide open. You can see a crooked tooth that she got fixed later on.

It’s not a great photo but I like it a lot, I think because it captures all the happiness that she was capable of exuding. That’s how I want to remember her. My friend, the beautiful, imperfect, human, Verónica Grey.

Translator’s note

I chose this text because I feel very strongly that the most effective way to further the feminist cause is to get the next generation thinking about inequalities in society and issues that have a disproportionate adverse effect on women. El retrato is a book for young adults about beauty standards and the harm that can be done by placing too much import on physical appearance. Clearly this is not an issue that only affects girls and women, but historically it has certainly been women who have borne the brunt of the changing ideals of beauty. In El retrato, Ferarri looks at this from a very contemporary perspective: the characters use filters on the photos they post on Instagram, and ultimately the pressure to remain young and beautiful leads to the already young and beautiful Verónica undergoing an aesthetic medical procedure that she will live to regret.

There are many differing views on how to approach a feminist translation, with some translation studies theorists positing strategies that are heavily interventionist in their efforts to bring out the feminine, or perhaps highlight the patriarchal, in texts. In practice, however, while these approaches work well for some texts, they don’t work for everything. In this particular instance, it is the subject matter of the book that I consider to have a feminist agenda, so the aim for me is for the reader to fully immerse themselves in the story, to empathise with the characters, and so to really feel their pain when things start to go wrong. I want them to understand the dangers of getting too drawn in to beauty fads like the dreaded “thigh gap”; by feeling shock when we learn Camila’s friend has been hospitalised with an eating disorder.

To achieve this, a very smooth, idiomatic translation was needed. This might mean not always translating exactly what is said, but thinking about what is meant, and how best to express that in English, in a way that a teenager can understand and relate to. When translating books aimed at children – and especially teenagers – that have a strong message, my goal is always to try and present it in a way that, rather than appearing to tell them what to think, makes them consider what is being said and draw their own conclusions. In modern life, it is difficult to protect kids from the dangers around them, and I personally feel that books and stories are a great way to equip them with the tools they need to make sense of the world.

About the translator

Ruth Donnelly is an emerging literary translator working from Spanish into English. As part of her MA, Ruth carried out a feminist translation of a young adult novel from Chile, and she has a particular interest in the ways in which feminist translation strategies can be adapted for young people, and the value of expanding children’s awareness and understanding of different ways of thinking by introducing them to literature from around the world. Ruth’s work has been published in Latin American Literature Today and Asymptote.

Not a Word of a Lie: The Story of One Woman’s Life, Written on a Bedsheet

Translated from Italian by Seán McDonagh and Georgia Wall

Excerpts from

Gnanca na busia

By Clelia Marchi (1912-2006)

The bed sheet by Clelia Marchi is collected at the Archivio diaristico nazionale of Pieve Santo Stefano (AR).

The transcription of the text is curated by Rosanna Mai and the Archivio diaristico nazionale.

For the Italian edition © il Saggiatore S.r.l., Milano 2024.

Gnanca na busia was published by il Saggiatore in Milan, Italy, 2024.

Dear Persons Make Of This A Treasure Of This Bed Sheet ’Cause There is A Piece of My Life; there is My Husband; I Clelia Marchi, (72) years of age, have writ-ten the story of my land and my people, I’ve filled a bedsheet with my words: there’s the farm work, there’s my loved ones, the threads, the kittchin, my loved ones, our celebrations: I have writ-ten an entyre story; an adventure, in these sacrifices, in the everyday suffering, every line unwynd-ing along a thread of honesty: just like the title of my bedsheet book: ‘Not a Word of a Lie’ have I told: Gnanca nà busia, not fore myself; or to my readers!!!

Our life. I remember as a young girl there were lots of us children: my mamma worked hard to send us to school, I went to school but only in the winter; because my mamma had to go and work elsewhere, I had to take cair of my littel brothers and sisters, but we did’nt have any toys: not one! we used to play with stones, the earth, make littel dishes, littel tables, littel balls etc. etc… I used to teach my brothers and sisters a bit, the younger ones, how to do there home-work; but I had littel to teach them; because I did’nt often go to school myself, only in the winter: in my clogs, and a patchwork pinny in two colours made out of my mamma’s petticoat; and a pair of my papà’s old trousers; I looked like Arlecchino!; when we got home from school we did’nt go and play: we made socks or crib shoes for the babies; or lace: my mamma’d give me a big pile of hemp, and so, you worked from when you were a child—

[…]

If folk only knew how hard we worked back then, carry-ing out chard by the cartful: the same cart that was for the manyure from the cattel shed. and in that mud barefoot: be-cause our landlord said that if the tredding of the soil was left to the cattel then next year he would reap less. O the things we had to do all the sacrifises and the strugguls would need a whole bedsheet, as wyde as the sea: to tell you all our toils and sorrows—

[…]

one day our son got sick and had to go to the hospital in venice: for .18. months: us two working more so we’d be working more to help that son of ours: and who knows if he’d be able to work again: cause that year seemed to us like the year of desperation, first our son in hospital then the cheese was spoild in the dairy, no-body was buying the watermelons; because the landowner wanted more than what the buyers they wanted to give him… so the first batch of them rottid in the fields, desperate we were: that was the same year of the mas-sive storm, or hail-storm; and then what happened! What happened was something much more important than this dissaster: our son who had to be operated on on his kidney: nothing compares to fearing for your child’s life! And then too much work; me and my son husband working all the same; needless to say it was one thing after another and not just with work!

[…]

Ive always thought that someone would ask me some-thing about my past, about my marriage, but it has never been possible for me, because back then if a woman was seen talking with any-one she would have criticism that she’d never hear the end of; plus back then it was the husband who was in charge, he was the head of the family: and what the husband said went for everyone; women took care of the children and that was that: and this is why women never took a step forward: it was like that for all women: work, eat, and then too bed: and so theyve never been able to express their ideas… they settled for very littel…

[…]

Who knows what you think of my write-ings; but I wrote them for me, I’m not wanting to offend anyone, I wrote them as my heart always told me in real life: I know that there’s only terrible things in these write-ings; just thinking about it there’s not a reason in the world to even write about it all!; but who can say what my heart tells me, that bye God, they are God’s own truth, that these write-ings are things I have lived through too do’nt you forget: there’s always some-thing that you have’nt done in life; whoever reads this book I think it’s not something to be forgotten like you would a pair of old shoes thrown in the rubish bins whoever reads these words can understand what life was like for certain people; that it was harde for me, an my husband; maybe because I’m talking about .50. years back: it’s never needed to be said today things are’nt bad; tough things used to happen to you; so years after years more than .50. passed by, just like that drop by drop they arrived up until this point; of course you have to react, so you don’t make yourself ill, or get stuck in the sadness: we do’nt really know; how a person should behave youll always find some-one against what you do; so, do as your heart tells you

If you want something done, do it yourself: with some people, it’s best to just turn your back: it’s not worth suffering for those who don’t love you, when you do your duty: when the worst happenes, who’s there for you, I know who; without anyone telling me twice: if your always watch-ing others you would’nt even go to get the bread, life goes on and no-thing can erase what we’ve been through

[…]

Night is the time of lonely-ness: the moment of truth: it is the moment: or the time for memorys: if you’ve no sorow of your own it’s no use you trying to understand: but who in this world has no sorow? more so than before, with all the acsidents there are: almost more people die. it seems of acsidents than illness. There’s so much to be said here that, as always, we need to go back;

the poverty there was back then: poor like you wouldn’t believe, short on everything: barely any bread, barely a change of clothes, we lived on polenta, we washed with lye, made from ashes: from burnt firewood; you put the ashes in the copper polenta pot with water brought to the boil; that was the lye for your day-to-day wash. For laundrie and linen it was different… And we lived on top of each other, so cramped that there were lice too, for beds we had mattresses on the floor stuffed with husks, with the dryed corn leaves, there was only a singel room in the house; the beds, table, chairs and hearth: littel or no furniture: the cupboard: the board for knede-ing dough: but next to nothing we had really, it was like that for all the poor back then, we thought we had it good: that was all there was!

[…]

Behind the house there was the toilet which was a hole in the ground: everyone’s rooms were small, with low ceilings and the windows were like those in the chicken coop: and because everything was so cramped, you’d get fleas hopping on the floor; we were always douse-ing the floor, with tar oil and lye soap; then there were the lice that did the rounds with everyone: that’s how it was with lice, if you didn’t have them you got them anyway because everyone near you did, and some folk had to cut their hair, and the girls’d cry because they’d get teased for their shorn heads, and what we did was to dab a bit of petrol and tye a scarf round their heads; it was like that for everyone, more or less, it’s not even worth write-ing about—

[…]

In the past, just before Easter, that was when you did your proper clean even up the chimny: that was difficult to do other times of the year: you took down your trammel hook: the one with chains like this , and you tyed it to a metal wyre and you’d get the children to drag it round the dusty streets, every so often they’d dip it in water and it’d come up shine-ing like new: for them too it was like having a toy, meanwhyle the mothers cleaned all the copper: they brought out all the copper they had: then with vinegar, salt, cornflour, stirring it all: the picklin, we called that: that was how you cleaned copper, then you dryed it and it was as good as new: we cleaned the hearth too with a red stone; but we had littel copper to clean: we cleaned the mens’ shears the ones for the vines: the sickle: the falson as we called it: then we hung them all up on the wall: and we looked at them like they were precious things: and they were precious things: because they were for our work; and we loved them.

Translators’ note

Clelia Marchi was born in 1912 and raised in abject poverty in rural Northern Italy. She wrote her life story on a bedsheet in 1984, following her husband’s sudden death.

Reading the Italian text(ile), Clelia Marchi’s idiosyncratic but effective spelling and punctuation bespeak the ingenuousness of a woman who only had sporadic access to primary-level education. We debated the ethics of correcting the orthographic errors present in the original text: Marchi’s explicit desire to be read and, crucially, understood meant that we wanted to give her the same editorial attention as any other writer. At the same time, we believed that the originality of this text, and perhaps the power of it, lies in its open and unedited quality. This contrast with the polish of edited texts could be seen to accentuate the moments of poetic beauty, profound emotion and wisdom in Clelia’s story. For us, Clelia’s raw expressiveness, from the emotional intensity of her words to her unique use of punctuation, is a defining feature of the text, and we believe they serve to amplify her reflections on universal themes such as fertility, loss, value, and labour.

In our translation we have sought to retain the oral quality of Clelia’s writing by re-creating errors that give a sense of a disadvantaged but determined writer, without inhibiting the reader’s comprehension. Where possible, we have mis-spelled the same words Clelia has: care in standard Italian is curare; Clelia’s alternative but phonetically rational spelling of qurare is replicated here as cair, following the logical application of primary-level phonics. We have tried to give an idea of her over-use of emphatic accents which aren’t found in English (e.g. ò for ho) by omission or misplacement of the contractive apostrophe (e.g. would’nt rather than wouldn’t) and additional hyphens (e.g. some-thing).

Marchi’s choice to re-purpose the linen she had, half a century prior, embroidered for her trousseau is a feminist act: a beautiful, tangible allusion to the fact that, for many women, domestic labour, though burdensome and mundane, can also serve as a means – perhaps the only means – of expressing creativity and a sense of self. And if Marchi’s spelling and grammar imply ingenuousness, the bedsheet filled with undulating rows of loops of ink feels symbolic of her quiet ingenuity. The decision to write on the sheet, Marchi explained, was inspired by an ancient civilization she remembered learning about at school and their practice of wrapping the dead in cloth. As she put it: ‘Because I could no longer lie with my husband in them, I filled them with my words.’

About the translators

Seán McDonagh is a Milan-based literary translator and editor who translates from Italian to English. He was the National Centre for Writing 2024 Emerging Translator Mentee for Italian and he is a former member of the Emerging Translators Network committee. His work has been published in MAYDAY Magazine, Literary Hub, Exchanges: Journal of Literary Translation, Asymptote, the Southern Review and the Morocco Bound Review. seanmcdonaghtranslator.com

Georgia Wall lives in Birmingham, where she works as a translator and creative workshop facilitator. Since 2022, she has also been employed as the part-time publishing manager of The Emma Press. She has a PhD in Italian Studies from the University of Warwick. Her first full-length translation, Struck by Susanna Bissoli, was published in July 2025 by Linden Editions.

She Tried, Failed, and Tried Again

Translated from Arabic by Elete Nelson-Fearon

An extract from

by Ihsan Abdel Kuddous (1919-1990)

First published by Al-Ahram Publishing House in 1994.

The translation is included here by arrangement with Ahmed Abdel Kuddous.

2am. Zaynab has just returned from the theatre. Usually she bids farewell to the other members of the troupe, wishing them a good night’s sleep. Then she goes home to her husband, Mahgoub, who welcomes her with a big warm smile, waiting for her to sit in his lap, a haven after a long day. She gives him a kiss, then speaks to him with words that are sweeter still.

Tonight, Zaynab left the theatre without saying goodnight to the troupe. She returned home trembling, and now she pauses for a moment in the doorway, watching Mahgoub. The trembling travels up from her feet to every part of her face. Then she falls to her knees and bursts into tears, wailing like a small child.

Mahgoub, at his desk as usual, smiles widely, as usual.

Sometimes Zaynab comes home and cries herself into a dance.

Sometimes Zaynab comes home and cries herself to sleep.

Tonight, Zaynab cries, then sits down, dries her tears, and—

Zaynab

That’s the last time I’m doing that play.

Mahgoub

Why? What happened that doesn’t always happen?

Zaynab

I’ve had it with that snake. He won’t be happy until he’s made sure there’s nothing, no one, by his oh-so-glorious side. Remember yesterday when he called me in and told me he was making a small change to our scene in Act II? I didn’t say anything, because I can’t say no to Mister Farag, I can’t say no to the owner of the troupe. He gets the final say. And I also didn’t say anything because the whole play revolves around the protagonist—me. The whole play is me. All the success, the cheers resounding in the theatre each night, that’s me. So if he wants to add in a few extra lines for himself, that doesn’t take away from my role. I asked him if we were going to rehearse the changes, and he said they wouldn’t affect me—it was just a monologue that he’d perform. Then when we were on tonight, I couldn’t believe what was happening. It was a disaster! He didn’t just add a few lines, he went on for over fifteen minutes. He performed it with these strange new movements. I almost lost my mind waiting for him to finish so I could get back onstage. I had to stop myself from leaping out and shutting him up. It completely messed up the play. But he doesn’t care about ruining the show, he only cares about taking the audience from me and making them watch him instead. He’s hated this play from the start because it’s centred on the female protagonist, not the male one. If it wasn’t for his business sense, the side of him that makes money, he wouldn’t have put this play on. He couldn’t even handle not being mentioned in the original title: it was The Nun on the Way to Hell, my character being the nun, but he made it On the Way to Hell so I wouldn’t outshine him, so the audience wouldn’t come just to see me. I’m not going to be in this play if he keeps in everything he added for himself tonight. I’ll never set foot in his theatre again, and I’ll never work with that miserable old man again. In any theatre!

MAHGOUB gets up from his desk and sits next to ZAYNAB. He embraces her, and kisses her on the forehead.

Mahgoub

That’s nothing new. The new always threatens the old. He’s an old star, and now you’ve come along and shot up to bright heights. A new star, a sun. It’s the same at medical school. The professor feels threatened by the lecturer, and the lecturer feels threatened by the TA. The old ones try to block the path of the new. Doctors gossip about new private clinics like they’re spreading their enemies’ secrets, and the doctor whose clinic makes more money than everyone else has more enemies than anyone else, each one thinking of a way to sabotage the clinic and end the doctor. That’s just how it goes: talented people don’t just get to wander down the path to success. Success is a battle—not between enemies, it’s a battle to make it out of the melting pot.

Zaynab

Well even so, this was my last night with that troupe. And the last time I share a stage with Wagdy Farag.

Mahgoub

You can’t make this decision when you’re frustrated and exhausted. Wait till the morning and think it through again.

MAHGOUB goes to the kitchen to get ZAYNAB a cup of mint tea and a sleeping tablet.

Mahgoub

[Returning to ZAYNAB] Get some sleep.

ZAYNAB drinks the tea and swallows the tablet.

MAHGOUB sits next to ZAYNAB. He starts to tell her about his day, knowing she isn’t listening, then leads her to their bedroom to tuck her in and lie down next to her. His gaze is filled with her face; his face is filled with a smile.

She’s the same as when he first saw her on Al Mounira Street. Perhaps she was born an actress—each cry, each wail, each gurgle more expressive than those of her newborn peers. Perhaps she was born memorising and reciting her cries to an audience seven years older than her. He’s always felt kinship to her despite the clear difference in their personalities. He keeps to himself, he’s quiet, reserved, while she is a bright blue flame: she never stops moving, laughing, crying, rejoicing, arguing. She’s been an actress since her first breath. She read stories and poetry and performed them to him whenever she was round at his house to see his sister, or if he was at her house visiting her brother. Then she started going just to see him and perform what she’d been learning. She joined the drama club in every school she went to, always getting cast as the main character. Sometimes he was able to attend her shows. He’s never liked acting and has never thought about trying it out. He’s never been a fan of cinema either. But acting gave him a chance to see Zaynab. He didn’t feel like she was an actress then, or like she was performing—it was just Zaynab. Zaynab, in turn, knew he wasn’t a connoisseur coming to critique her performances. But she loved performing for him, perhaps because it was a chance to see him.

The next day. ZAYNAB is talking to herself as she paces.

Zaynab

You are an actress. An artistic genius. You are at your peak, the peak of performance, in all Arab theatre. Nothing—no jealousy, no corruption—can come between you and the stage. Two minutes of Zaynab onstage are worth a whole performance from any other actor. Wagdy Farag will see. You’ll show him.

At the theatre. WAGDY FARAG’s office. ZAYNAB stands in front of WAGDY FARAG, smiling as though she is standing before her old friend, her mentor. It’s her most challenging role to date.

Zaynab

I think we should close this play.

Wagdy Farag

Why?! It’s barely been on three months!

Zaynab

That’s long enough. Even if it’s doing well, it shouldn’t outstay its welcome. People will get bored.

Wagdy Farag

Well what do you think we should put on instead?

Zaynab

The Crazy Woman. It’s been years since we’ve done it.

Wagdy Farag

But you don’t have a main role in The Crazy Woman. Why would you want that?

Zaynab

Because I love that play. It’s the first show I did with you when I joined.

Wagdy Farag

Okay. We’ll do it.

Opening night. Enter ZAYNAB. She has not been on stage for two minutes when the crowd erupts in applause, only forced to stop when the succeeding dialogue begins.

Act II. The audience hangs onto ZAYNAB’s every word for the five minutes she’s onstage, then applauds her with a standing ovation and shouts of “Brava!” “Brava!”

Act III. The audience can feel the void left by the death of ZAYNAB’s character.

The following night. The show is about to begin.

Theatre employee

Good evening. To avoid disturbing the actors, please refrain from applauding during the performance.

The audience cannot hide their marvel at ZAYNAB’s performance. They cannot help applauding her.

The following day. Rehearsal.

Wagdy Farag

[Avoiding eye contact] I’ve had to make some changes. I’m sorry to say that I’ve been forced to cut your scene in Act II.

Zaynab

If you remove so much as a single word, I’m out. You can find some other actress. I will never set foot on a stage with you again. You’re selfish! You’re jealous! You want to kill my career before I end yours!

ZAYNAB runs home to the sofa, trembling and sobbing.

Zaynab

There’s only one way for me to share my art and stand in front of crowds. I will start a troupe. A troupe of my own.

Mahgoub

How? A project like that needs a lot of money.

Zaynab

I know exactly who will fund it.

Mahgoub

Who?

Zaynab

Abdel Moneim Marzouk. He’s ready to help me with whatever I need.

Mahgoub

I can’t bear you having anything to do with that man.

Zaynab

Why not? I’ve already called him to discuss the project.

Mahgoub

We’ve called him before. We’ve hosted him here, because he’s a patron of the arts. Well, your arts. And he came here, bearing gifts and going on about all the artistic projects he’d do for you. And we—both of us—decided to cut him off, or maybe he was the one who cut himself off from us and any trust we had in him. Because he was desperate for one thing. And it wasn’t art. He wants the artists. He doesn’t care about watching actresses onstage or onscreen. The only place he wants to see them is between his sheets, between his—

Zaynab

Stop spreading rumours! The industry is full of stories about famous actresses relying on rich men to fund their work in return for their bodies. But there’s no proof of any of this. It’s all in your head, and it depends on women being a certain way. And you know I’m not like that. You know I wouldn’t give myself to a man, however much I needed something. I couldn’t do it if I tried. So let him try. We know he won’t get anything. We’re stronger than him.

Mahgoub

There’s a certain type of millionaire, a certain type of entrepreneur. Or businessman, as they like to call themselves. They’re all over Egypt, just like they’re all over the oil countries. They have a complex, where they do the impossible just to please themselves. So they run after well-known women, especially artists, and bleed themselves dry, spending their millions all the way to their beds. Then they brag about special visitors, tell tales… That’s the kind of millionaire he is. Remember he told us a story once, about what happened between him and Atiyat, God rest her soul? I couldn’t bear it if that happened again, but with my wife. Even if it was just a rumour. I won’t let you meet with him. In fact, I’ll make it my mission to ensure there are no dealings between the two of you. None. Not even a phone call.

Zaynab

Well I’m on a mission too. I’m going to set a meeting with him. My art is my life. My life is my acting. And right now, I have no life.

Mahgoub

Then I will leave you to it.

Zaynab

What do you mean? You’re divorcing me?

MAHGOUB stands.

Mahgoub

No, I won’t divorce you unless you ask me to. I thought I lived with an actress who is respected and revered by the people. I can’t live with an actress who has lost that respect.

Zaynab

I’m doing it. I’m on a mission.

MAHGOUB gathers his things in a small bag and leaves for his mother’s house.

ZAYNAB stands, glued to the spot. She doesn’t cry as she usually does. Something is lit up inside her—she goes to the phone and dials the millionaire’s number.

A month has passed. ZAYNAB and MAHGOUB have not spoken to one another, nor has either asked after the other.

One day, ZAYNAB turns up at MAHGOUB’s mother’s house. ZAYNAB looks weak, defeated.

Mahgoub

Have you come to ask me for a divorce?

Zaynab

No… I’ve come to bring you home.

Mahgoub

What about your mission? You let it go?

Zaynab

I knew I couldn’t live without you. My whole life is with you. I tried to set up my project so I could come back and show you, so you could see I hadn’t given in, and I hadn’t let him get his claws into me. Maybe he knew what my plan was. He was one step ahead of me—he insisted that he get what he wanted before I got what I wanted. You were right about him. I’m back now, and I haven’t started my troupe. I’m sorry.

MAHGOUB takes ZAYNAB in his arms and showers her with kisses.

Mahgoub

You’ll always be an actress. The best actress in the world. But don’t go back to a troupe run by another actor. An actor who sets up a troupe does it for themselves only. They’re set on being the only name in lights, the main character in every show. That’s what Youssef Wahbi did. And Fatima Rushdi. Maybe it’s what you would have done, too. The troupes that can really push artistic boundaries are the ones that aren’t owned by actors, or even by writers. Running a troupe turns them into businesspeople, and all businesspeople care about is turning a profit. And everything you do turns a profit. Right now, in Egypt, many acting troupes are owned by one of these arts managers. And actors have had huge success with them. Take the troupe that’s putting on Raya wa Sekina. If it were owned by one of the actors in the play, it wouldn’t be on right now. And Shadia and Soher El Bably would have been forced out by the actors that had wormed their way in as troupe owner. Try to get into one of those troupes.

Zaynab

Why didn’t you say all this before I set myself up for failure?

Mahgoub

You were on a mission. I wanted you to follow through with it and find out for yourself.

Zaynab

Let’s go home.

Mahgoub

You’re exhausted. I don’t want to leave you on your own when I go to work. Let’s stay here with my mother for a few days until you’re back to feeling yourself.

Zaynab

[smiling widely] Okay.

Translator’s note

I decided to translate this story because I enjoy the tone of Ihsan Abdel Kuddous’s writing—with an omniscient yet intimately comprehensive style of narration, you find yourself understanding the thought behind each character’s actions, even if you don’t agree with them. She Tried, Failed, and Tried Again feels particularly primed for a feminist translation as there is a fluidity not only in the narration but also in the perception of Zaynab’s actions and the motivations behind them.

I also felt there is a malleability in the format the translation could take, given the topic and shape of the text. She Tried, Failed, and Tried Again doesn’t read as a traditional playtext, which was a conscious—and enjoyable—decision. Consider this quote from Olga Castro and Emek Ergun’s Feminist Translation Studies: Local and Transnational Perspectives:

‘This type of translation requires the translator to exercise generosity and hospitality while relating to the other, a practice by which the translator leaves space within the translation to host the other, while vulnerably taking the risk of transforming themselves as well as the other.’

The works of Ihsan Abdel Kuddous remain under-translated into English, so—a translation of She Tried, Failed, and Tried Again makes more space for his work in English, and invites Zaynab to face a new audience. Furthermore, as a theatre translator not interested in being invisible, I find a space here to collaborate with Zaynab, who rejects any restrictions of her work and expression. In this project I have found the opportunity to explore adaptation as translation, and craft a playtext that is not a clear instruction but a natural expression of a story, ripe for interpretation by directors and actors.

I love Abdel Kuddous’s careful descriptions of characters’ smallest actions and I didn’t want to relegate them to the space between the lines of a playtext. Leaving in literary details that cannot be brought to the stage without other theatre-makers’ innovatory interpretations breaks open the possibilities of the rehearsal room and stage, starting with the lines on these pages.

About the translator

Elete Nelson-Fearon is a translator, editor and educator working between Arabic, Spanish and English. She was the 2024-25 editorial fellow at Words Without Borders and is the managing editor of 128 LIT. Elete was awarded a Travel Fellowship by the American Literary Translators Association for her translation of Ana Harcha’s play Irreversible Palestine; she has translated, and facilitated workshops around, plays from Cuba, Egypt, Mexico, Palestine and Spain.

Good Consequences;or, The Winsome Maiden of al-Zahira

Translated from Arabic by Marilyn Booth

An extract from

Husn al-‘awaqib aw ghadat al-Zahira

by Zaynab Fawwaz (c.1850-1914)

First published by Maktabat Hindiyya in Cairo, Egypt, in 1899.

In the Name of God, Most Beneficent and Merciful

Praise be to God, Who generously grants the wisdom of well-conceived views and bestows the talent for luminous and piercing thought; Who brings into our vision the wondrousness of creatures by offering sights of wonder to our eyes; Who makes the soundness of founding principles the path to good consequences and happy endings.

And may God’s blessings and salvation be upon the Prophet of Islam, his life story a radiant guide…

And now, I say:

Since literary-moral narratives are eminent among compositions whose reading makes visible the mirror of thought, and whose delights disperse clouds by anxieties wrought; since, to the measure of their minds, people remember them well and ponder lessons they tell; since the most valuable and noblest are those closer to the actual, or representing truths about the factual: I was determined to publish this charming account—of benefits, a fount—because its era is close to our time and what it brings to the fore; and distant from the caravans of talk on those paths of days-of-yore. […]

***

Come with us, O explorer-visitor across the Earth’s surface, traveller through vast regions, as we set our course for Syria and Palestine. As our gaze ranges across the splendid vistas of a lofty mountain, observe these emerald rises. You will notice a well-fortified redoubt.

Stop, stand! and turn your gaze there

Listen, for of its folk I will speak

It is a fortress erected on a mountain so high that the onlooker almost fancies it a white cloud full in the sky, so far does it tower above the surface of the earthly sphere—a fortress built to last, from the era of Hugues St Aumere. Inside sits a palace constructed with the most precise craft, exhibiting utterly splendid arts of old in its decorations and carvings—ones to dazzle the gaze and astound the mind.

[…]

The palace housed an emir whose greatness adds new meaning to the notions of pride and glory, exemplifying virtue in all its senses. This emir had four sons, to whom he gave the best upbringing, teaching them the laws of Heaven and Earth, training them in horsemanship and the arts of war and struggle; they excelled in every science they studied. Their father divided his wealth and land equally, giving each a great parcel of land on which he had a village constructed and tenanted, and a palatial residence erected where the offspring would live amongst gardens and forest tracts. Each son married a young woman from among daughters of the emirs who were their peers.

Their father made it clear that the eldest would inhabit that palace-fort after him, assuming rule and passing it on to al-arshad—the next in age and wisdom—and so on among his brothers until the father’s progeny was no more. It was not long before that noble, good man passed on. Emir Asaad, the eldest son, ruled after him. He married a princess of refinement and beauty, perfect character and sublime morals, all joined to excellence in managing a household. God decreed for him the blessing of a little boy, of utter sweetness and beauty, whom he named Shakib. He gave full and careful attention to his son’s upbringing. But what a disappointment ensued! God took Emir Asaad before he could reap the fruits his son would yield; he departed this life when the boy was still a child, no older than seven years.

His brother succeeded him: Emir Hamid, taking up rule as the father had enjoined, as the next eldest. He took his brother’s son Shakib into his care and married his late brother’s widow, mother of Shakib.

[…]

The other brothers, Hasan and Nasif, each had two sons. Hasan’s were Tamir and Salim, and Nasif’s were Aziz and Khalid. Nasif had a daughter called Fariaa, formed in the mould of goodness and beauty, bedecked with the gems of splendour and perfection.

[…]

God decreed that Hasan and Nasif would pass away in Hamid’s lifetime, leaving their children orphaned. Of the cousins, Tamir was oldest in age, greatest in wiliness, most malignant in character.

Emir Hamid relied on Shakib, seeking his opinions on legal matters—human-made and divine law both—and respecting his judgment in important decisions and matters requiring discretion. Shakib had two dear friends, Najib and Sadiq. The relationship amongst them was like body and soul. Sons of prominent people, having grown up with him, they agreed in comportment and deeds.

It transpired that Emir Hamid was requested to deal with a certain issue in al-Zahira, the village where Emir Nasir’s children resided. He delegated the matter to Emir Shakib. […]

***

We have alluded to Tamir’s wickedness—his facility at deception. With his ill-intentioned leanings and corrupt consciousness, when Tamir saw Emir Hamid inclining so fully to Shakib, with evident affection and trust in important affairs, his chest went tight with envy. Resentment and jealousy consumed him. His greatest anxiety was that his uncle would endow the headship of the clan on Shakib. […]

In a state of despair, Tamir began to think up schemes and plant false information—whatever chicanery he could find to destroy Shakib. He summoned a little group of troublemakers he always relied on to execute his atrocious designs. His uncle was nearing life’s end, Tamir told them. He wanted to fell Shakib before his uncle’s death, to ensure that his cousin would not assume rule. After all, he—Tamir—was more worthy of the headship. He was the eldest, and his grandfather’s instructions had been that it go to ‘the most mature’.

Amongst this group was a man named Talib, of great physical strength, crude looks and manners coarse, a man more cunning than a fox and more treacherous than a panther. He addressed Tamir: ‘Sidi, give me whatever command you wish, for I am more obedient to you than your own shadow. I will kill him in such a way that no one will even know of his loss. If my master sees to advancing me some money to help me arrange the business, he may consider the deed done.’

‘Whatever you want, Talib—and if you deal with it, I’ll put you in command of some truly fine work and shower you with signs of my grace and bounty. You will be a master among men, Sultan of your era.’

‘Talib!’ another man called out. ‘How will you get anywhere when Shakib has friends who guard him day and night, showing their loyalty with their property and persons alike?’

‘I’m not worried about them,’ Talib said. […] He turned to his master. ‘Give me the money…’

***

On his way through the forest to accomplish his task, Shakib is mysteriously shot. One of his friends apprehends the shooter, Tamir’s man Jabir. The party decides to keep the plot a secret, and continues on to al-Zahira.

Emir Aziz ordered a room prepared for Shakib. He summoned physicians, who extracted the bullet, dressed the wound and ordered bedrest. […]

The Emir bid his sister Fariaa to the task, entrusting her with the benevolent care of her paternal cousin Shakib and reminding her that she must not leave his needs to be met by the household’s female servants. She agreed. After all, Aziz was her elder brother and she must obey him. But she felt deeply unwilling. She had never set eyes on her cousin and it distressed her that her brother would task her with such an obligation. She went to her mother to complain.

‘My dear’, said her mother, ‘he’s your cousin. He is known to be a shining example of kindness and refined conduct, and so you must not feel any doubts about him. It’s your duty to care for him and ensure his comfort exactly as you would your own brother’s.’

Fariaa bowed to her mother’s pronouncement. She went into the room Shakib had been given. She found him lying in bed, beset by a painful fever, sluggish and half asleep. She sat down and waited for him to come around. She was pondering her mother’s words, especially that description of his praiseworthy qualities. Her confusion grew as she gazed at his fine features. For he was splendidly handsome.

Emerging slowly from his groggy state, Shakib found her there beside his bed. She must be his cousin Fariaa, he thought; surely it would be out of the question for any women not of the family to come into this room unveiled. And there was nothing about this lovely maiden’s appearance that suggested she was a palace servant. Whoever she was, God had singled her out for heavenly adornment, giving her features of beauty and perfection, bestowing a lightness of spirit and a gentle demeanour, over and above the ornaments and precious gems she wore.

When Fariaa saw him sit up in bed she came closer, hoping to signal that he should make his needs known to her and she would be honoured to fulfil them. She was too shy and embarrassed to utter a word. He raised his eyes to her. ‘You have left me feeling grateful indeed,’ he said, ‘as I can see your kind solicitude towards me, noble lady. Especially since you were here and waiting for me to wake up, when any of those serving this household could do so instead.’

‘I am at your service, sir,’ she replied. ‘None of the servants would feel the concern I feel, because for me you are just like my brothers, Aziz and Khalid. Ask me for whatever you wish to have—I am subject to your requests.’

***

Talib and Jabir report the grim news of their failure to Tamir.

‘So—what do we do now, Talib? Since your actions—the two of you—didn’t meet with success?’

‘But Sidi, I think I did succeed! With my own ears I heard Shakib screaming when he was hit with the bullet I shot. Surely he died on the spot! If Sadiq hadn’t shown up and blocked my way, I would have gone to see. But it’s no use regretting what’s past. We must look to what comes next.’

‘I’m afraid my uncle will read that letter. Whether Shakib has died or not doesn’t matter to me nearly as much as that.’

‘Don’t worry, you can rest assured on that score. I will come up with a scheme to seize the letter before it reaches the Emir.’ […]

Jabir took a step forward. ‘I have a view on this. Will you hear me out?’

‘We’re listening.’

‘You’re all irritated with me now, but you’ll appreciate me once you see how I serve you. Here’s my opinion. You know that your cousin Aziz is the most valorous man in the family. If you marry his sister, you can get him to support you against Shakib. She’s gorgeous. She’s a true beauty—she stands out from the other girls. I happened to see her one day in al-Zahira, with a group of friends on the bank of the Litani River, sashaying amongst those lush gardens like houris in Paradise. I hid in a corner of the garden until they’d passed by. Seeing her among them was like seeing the full moon so bright it outdid the stars. Ever since, I’ve hoped secretly that she would become my master’s partner—after all, she won’t find anyone else in the family suitable.’

‘Hmm … you’ve got me thinking, Jabir. But I’m afraid Aziz might see the letter. If he does, he’ll never agree to having me as a brother-in-law.’

‘Look, I’ll go to al-Zahira myself, disguised. I’ll bring back news to settle your mind.’ […]

***

We left Shakib still confined to bed. As he healed, he wooed this young woman whom he’d found to be of most wondrous character, surpassingly beauteous to her core. He felt such great repose in her company that he forgot the searing pain—and anyway, gradually the pain lessened. He began readying himself to depart, having also accomplished the business for which his uncle had sent him hither. But whenever the image of this girl’s sweet goodness assailed his mind, in every moment when he felt her lethal glances carving into his person, he was sent into raptures. Frequently, he broke into poetry:

‘How long I lived complaining of my loneliness, diminished

You gave me a heart anew and my poetry will sing

Beauty, culture, learning, a temper unblemished

Chaste morals, fine taste—all of this, you bring! […]’

When Fariaa heard his ode, her heart melted in hot emotion, tears glistening over her black eyes. Although her cheeks were bright with bashful uncertainty, she managed to speak: ‘I am in terrible distress over the idea of your absence, my good sir, my Emir.’

‘Possessor of my heart, only my body is to be absent!’ he exclaimed. ‘But my spirit and my heart […] these I place in your care, as a trust you must protect, a gift only you are most worthy to safeguard. For:

We give our hearts over—needy, we share

a trust that we ourselves are incapable to bear

If you cannot keep them safe with your being and your care,

return them to their owners, and beware!’

‘Preserving trusts is something one’s conscience demands,’ she murmured. ‘And possessing a conscience requires a mind. So, ahh, if you return my mind to me, I will preserve your trust, but otherwise…’

Hearing her response—these sentiments so delicately phrased—Shakib nearly went out of his mind. His heart burned red-hot beneath his skin. He seized her hand and pulled her to his chest. Embracing her, he spoke again through poetry. […]

***

Shakib and his friends must leave.

Fariaa, at the window, said her goodbyes in mounting sighs and falling tears, until he was no longer in sight. She returned to her room and collapsed onto her bed, her eyes wet and her heart grieving, wounded in spirit as she thought back to those few days with Shakib, days passed like a dream, a flitting shadow. Her thoughts were agitated and her feelings raged. But her tongue gave voice to what propriety and her mind had concealed:

‘O self of mine! Love’s increased its pain

for naught but blood has passion added

Be it so—have patience for this destroyer,

an ill difficult to treat, and no easy solace […]’

translator’s note

The excerpt is taken from a novel published in 1899, by Zaynab Fawwaz (c.1850-1914), a native of south Lebanon who immigrated to Egypt and became a published essayist in the periodical press there. Her hard-hitting essays—for which male newspaper editors labelled her an ‘extremist’—focused on issues of gender right, education, and social justice, in the context of an intensifying European presence and intervention in Egypt, and then the British occupation from 1882. She also published a playscript, a second novel, and—her most famous work—an immense biographical dictionary of notable women in world historyi.

Amongst the earliest Arabic novels known to be by a female author, Husn al-‘awaqib is a fictional rendering of recent history in south Lebanon—of which Fawwaz was a part, and which she rewrites from a feminine (and feminist) perspective. As did other Arabic novels of that era, it confronts what was a political issue of burning concern in public discourse: what were the rights of the young—especially the female young—to choose their own futures? The story reimagines an intra-family struggle over local-feudal rule in south Lebanon through the lens of a ‘marriage plot’. The novel suggests that gender justice, entailing respect for women’s decisions and equal intelligence (Shakib falls in love with Fariaa’s mind and outspokenness), is essential to legitimate and just governance. It enacts related issues raised by early feminists, Fawwaz and others: girls’ reading and the aims of female education, ideal motherhood, toxic masculinity and the role of ‘bad mothers’ in perpetuating it, and ‘honour’ as a patriarchal concept that allowed, as it masked, coercive measures against females.

The text is a fascinating mirror of its era in its stylistic melange of received writing practices and a new genre in formation. It incorporates rhymed prose and passages of poetry, a narrative voice echoing the persona of the oral storyteller, stock characters and names that reveal their loyalties. It’s often awkward in its narrative transitions, a sense that it must ‘explain’ this new genre of the novel to readers. But it also attempts some psychological depth, vivid scene-setting, and lively dialogue. Translations of European fiction (Fawwaz was monolingual) and the Arabic tradition of popular epic, with its heroes and quests, could have furnished models. Political history, melodrama, and feminism! I’m having fun with this translation—and with the challenges it poses.

About the translator

Marilyn Booth is Emerita Professor, Asian and Middle Eastern Studies and Magdalen College, Oxford. She researches nineteenth-century Arabophone women’s writing and early Arab feminisms, and historical translation (Arabic/French). Her latest monograph is The Career and Communities of Zaynab Fawwaz: Feminist Thinking in Fin-de-siècle Egypt. She has been translating Arabic fiction and memoir since her graduate school days; her translations comprise works from Egypt, Iraq, Lebanon, Oman, Saudi Arabia and Syria. Her rendering of Jokha Alharthi’s Celestial Bodies won the 2019 Man Booker International Prize.

i These works feature in two books by the translator: Classes of Ladies of Cloistered Spaces: Writing Feminist History through Biography in Fin-de-Siècle Egypt (2015) and The Career and Communities of Zaynab Fawwaz: Feminist Thinking in fin-de-siècle Egypt (2021).