The richness of the original Arabic text hampers this superb attempt at translation
Naphtalene: A Novel of Baghdad By Alia Mamdouh American University in Cairo Press; Paperback 198 pages; LE 70
CAIRO: The title of the book “Naphtalene: A Novel of Baghdad is an illuminating description of what is kept between its covers. A potent anti-moth agent, Naphtalene is a shield against the disintegration of long-stored fabric, or as in this case, the fine threads of old memories. It is also an incendiary component in napalm, and the writing of Alia Mamdouh flares with her heroine Huda’s unpacking of her stored recollections of childhood.
A tomboy with a confrontational attitude and a rebellious heart (“They said Huda was suckled by Satan, ) Huda comes of age amids a highly stratified and patriarchical society. The women that she grows up with lead lives of subservience to their men, who at different turns abuse, beat and leave them.
Huda’s own mother Iqbal, suffering from tuberculosis, is cruelly cast aside by her prison guard father with little mercy: “I want a real woman he shouts,”I’ve given you my best years and my heart’s blood, but all in vain. Go back to your own family. Go back to where you came from.
In such surroundings, Huda maintains a determined defiance against all encroachments on her character, and refuses to act in accordance with what is expected of a girl her age. She is not cowed by the threats and bullying of her father: “The pistol was in his hand, and he was tapping it on your head. You did not cry. Your eyelids shone, your eyes were clear, and your eyelashes were dry. He brandished his pistol: ‘If you come here again, I’ll kill you!’ As her mother is banished, Huda’s grandmother, more sensitive to the little girl than anyone else in her family, becomes her guardian and mentor.
With the passage of time, Huda’s experiences go on to reflect the growing fissures in her family superimposed on the growing pains of her fragile country, once again relevant in today’s troubled Iraq. The book is filled with vivid imagery of Iraqi life and custom. Mamdouh was born in Baghdad in 1944 and her novel conjures up beautifully the city of that era, in both its splendor and misery, along with delectable insights into the more intimate details of everyday life, from bridal depilation to mouth-watering recipes of indigenous cuisine.
The Naphtalene in the title also sears through conventional writing styles. Mamdouh, whose first novel was published in 1973 when she was 29, apparently feels the need to conform as little as her heroine does. The narration flits often between first and second person, resulting in a sometimes muddled and often muddling read, especially at the beginning of the book when the reader’s eye is still untrained and the tendency seems greatest.
The richness of the original Arabic text hampers this superb attempt at translation, and the reader is often lost in the idioms and metaphors,which, in a foreign language and a wide cultural divide, appear disjointed and displaced. This is no Mahfouz, whose sublimity lay in his simplicity as much as his insight, and Peter Theroux, the translator of Mahfouz’s Children of the Alley and of this novel, can only be forgiven for failing to weave an English version that is Naphtalene-resistant. That being said, the very human aspects of the characters that bring this novel to life will prove a rewarding read to those who allow the story its endearingly slow seep into what is, ultimately, an enduring place in the heart.
