Aaminah Hernández

Secret Son

admin — Sun, 03 May 2009 22:48:00 +0000

Having read Laila Lalami’s short fiction collection Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits, I was thrilled to find out she was working on her first novel, Secret Son. Often when I read first-time novelists, I notice some difficulty with dialogue (my own biggest downfall when I’m writing fiction), awkward clichés, and pages of text that don’t really keep the story moving. Lalami managed to escape all these snares and Secret Son is a joy from the beginning to the end.

On her personal blog, Lalami says she was recently asked why the main character is a man, and her response is “Youssef c’est moi”. One might ask just how a woman writes a book about a man, and if the book qualifies for a review from a feminist perspective. If you ask this, you need to read Secret Son.

The story is set in Morocco and tells of Youssef El-Mekki’s coming of age. Youssef is a young man who lives in the slums of Casablanca. He believes the story his mother has always told him: that his father died in an accident when he was very young. He lives as a fatherless child in a patriarchal society. The shocking discovery that his father is not only alive, but also rich, is a seeming fairy tale come true. His mother Rachida warns him that his heart will be broken, but Youssef moves away from her and into an apartment offered by his father. It is not so difficult to imagine the direction the story takes, and eventually Youssef is sent back to his mother after his father’s wife finds out about his existence.

There is commentary on the desperation of life in Casablanca for poor young men who feel drawn into the “family” of fundamentalist leanings or the escapism of drugs. The difficulties posed when living in multiple cultures and the self-discovery of an alternative way are explored when Youssef’s half-sister Amal studies in the U.S. and falls in love with a non-Muslim Latino. The truth of Youssef’s birth and his mother’s precarious living situation reveals an all-too-common truth of a class-conscious society, where the higher classes abuse the women of the lower classes and then discard them.

Although Youssef is the main character, the exploration of women’s roles—and the often stifling and hypocritical expectations put upon them—is a theme throughout the novel. Amal’s rebellion against her father and cultural norms—by insisting on studying in the United States and living with a non-Muslim, non-Arab man without marriage—is a perfect foil for Rachida’s story of love and betrayal by Youssef’s father Nabil, and the ultimate rebuilding of her life.

One of the most interesting things for me as both a writer and reader is the way the story’s narrative actually changes when different characters are speaking. For example, we see the initial meeting between Youssef and Nabil first through Youssef’s narrative and later through Nabil’s. When Nabil reminisces about the meeting there are inconsistencies between the two descriptions. In another area, a visit by Amal to Rachida also varies markedly between the two versions.

Unlike some books, the narrative does not clearly delineate that this part is from one point of view, and this other part is told from another. Instead, the story unfolds organically and it is up to you to catch these interesting discrepancies. I asked Lalami if it was intentional, and she explained: “The technique of using inconsistent dialogues in different points of view is absolutely willful on my part, and in fact I had to stop my copy-editor from trying to make it consistent. You are absolutely right that this is something that reinforces the fundamental fact that we each hear different things in a conversation.”

Lalami’s first novel is a jewel that takes her previously published short stories out for a longer spin and produces a beautiful and moving expose of Morocco’s duality—a duality that exists for many who are straddling two differing cultures. Lalami has taken the threads of several stories and sewn them together into one whole that shows how our lives entwine and how our choices change each other in both tangible and imperceptible ways.

Written by: Aaminah Hernández, May 3rd 2009

The Jewel of Medina

admin — Sat, 07 Mar 2009 11:07:00 +0000

By Sherry Jones

Beaufort Books

There was a lot of manufactured controversy over The Jewel of Medina. As a practicing Muslim, I fully expected to hate it based on the very idea that it is a fictionalized account of a revered woman: A’isha, wife of our Beloved Prophet. The media made a bit of noise about how it took a particular event in A’isha’s life and twisted it into a “sexier” story. Like most Muslims, I expected it to offend me. I admit I went into reading this novel with a bias. As it turns out, the book was not what I expected.

It was much, much worse.

For just a moment, let’s ignore the controversy surrounding the book. Allow me to be the “average” reader, a non-Muslim perhaps. The writing is of poor quality. Cliché runs rampant throughout the book. Characters are one-dimensional—simplistic, in fact. Although Jones claims to be inspired by A’isha and wanting to bring her story to the world, she does not succeed in making A’isha a likeable character. Nor does she manage to create even one other character that a reader can relate to or be similarly “inspired” by.

Something that may not be noticed by the average reader—but is problematic—is the claim that the book was researched extensively when, in fact, it is full of errors and historical inaccuracies. For example, Jones makes reference to henna designs that are common in India and Pakistan, but they are not designs used in Arabia in the past or present. She also speaks extensively of purdah as a normal cultural phenomenon, but it was not a concept that was normal to Arabia, nor to early Islam. (Purdah refers to complete seclusion of girls and women within the home, and as described in the book can mean being literally locked into one room. Purdah should not be confused with the concept of hijab, which refers to the dress of Muslim women and general segregation of unrelated men and women in public and private gatherings.) She intersperses non-English language, but misuses words, and even mixes in words from other languages that would not have been in usage in Arabia at that time.

With such shoddy research of the story of the birth of Islam, one of the most documented stories ever, why should the reader accept the remainder of the story? This of course brings up the question that many have wrestled with regarding revered figures of many religions: is it acceptable to turn the life of a sacred historical figure into soft-core porn for the enjoyment of the masses?

The Jewel of Medina has hyper-sexualized A’isha’s story, and while there may be concerns about other historical and revered figures being misrepresented, there is a significant difference in Jones’ portrayal of A’isha. Arguments claiming that Jesus may have married, for example, do not denigrate his character, but instead pose questions where historical data has left gaps that people have a desire to fill in understanding his life. Jones, however, did not need to fill in any gaps in A’isha’s life. Instead, she seems to be using the idea of fiction as an excuse to write something completely fabricated and ridiculous that seeks to deny the very virtues for which A’isha is revered. Ultimately, it is the tasteless, explicit sexual discussion in the book that further differentiates it from the way other spiritual figures have been written about.

Written by: Aaminah Hernández, March 7th 2009

The Revolution Starts at Home: Confronting Intimate Violence Within Activist Communities

admin — Mon, 02 Feb 2009 22:06:00 +0000

Edited by Ching-In Chen, Jai Dulani, Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha

South End Press

The Revolution Starts At Home is not your usual zine. At 111 pages, it qualifies as a book, and I’m excited to say the editors are looking for a publisher. Pending publication*, it will soon be available on the INCITE! Women of Color Against Violence website. Don’t be turned off by the bulk; this is an important zine that needs to be read by all activists of any sort. Contributors include Alexis Pauline Gumbs of UBUNTU, collective members of Communities Against Rape and Abuse (CARA), Vanessa Huang, Gina de Vries, and a collection of women from the Mango Tribe.

Tackling the touchy subject of partner abuse that occurs within so-called progressive communities is a brave move. The best thing about this zine, of which there is much good to speak, is the variety of voices present. It is written from a perspective of radical action, encompassing diversity in ethnicity, sexual and gender orientation, and yes, there are even male voices. An excellent job has been made to address partner violence between men and women, women and women, against transgender people, and even against the disabled.

One of the most interesting essays is by Peggy Munson: "Femora & Fury: On IPV and Disability." The essay made me rethink some of my own ableist assumptions. There are subtle ways that a differently-abled person can be abused that I had simply never thought of or did not immediately recognize as abusive, but certainly came to understand through this essay.

The one area that I felt was left out was in addressing women abusers of men. While the zine recognizes that women can be the abuser in women to women relationships, it is oddly silent on the matter of when it is the woman in a heterosexual relationship that is the abuser. This is an often-neglected discussion, and I would have liked to see some acknowledgment of it in such an otherwise well-rounded zine.

The zine is not easy, light reading by any means, but it balances personal essay with semi-academic notes, and organizational narrative of growth with step-by-step guidance on ways to address violence. While its core purpose is keeping abused women safe and centering their needs first, it does not leave out abusers. The zine seeks to hold them fully accountable while remaining compassionate to their potential to change. It also confronts how other members of the community can, unwittingly or intentionally, contribute to abuse through denial, privilege, or desire for “unity” within our movements. It holds each of us accountable to each other. There are tips and resources for the abused, the abuser, and the community as a whole so that we can recognize and openly address abuse in a proper and healing way that allows all of us to move forward.

The Revolution Starts At Home does not take the view that abuse can be pushed aside to be dealt with on another day, after the work of our movements is complete. Dealing with the abuse is part of the movement itself. No movement for justice will ever succeed if justice is not prioritized from within by supporting each other and creating a safe place for all members.

* In May 2011, South End Press published this zine as a book.

Written by: Aaminah Hernández, February 2nd 2009