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  Copyright © 2016 by Nicole Fares

  Syracuse University Press

  Syracuse, New York 13244-5290

  All Rights Reserved

  First Edition 2016

  161718192021654321

  Originally published in Arabic as 32 (Beirut: Dar al-Adab, 2010)

  ∞ The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1992.

  For a listing of books published and distributed by Syracuse University Press, visit www.SyracuseUniversityPress.syr.edu.

  ISBN: 978-0-8156-1069-4 (paperback)978-0-8156-5370-7 (e-book)

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Available from the publisher upon request.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  CONTENTS

  From the Author

  From the Translator

  Translator’s Introduction

  32 Sahar Mandour

  Glossary

  FROM THE AUTHOR

  To the dearest ones:

  Maya Chami, Mayssa’ El-Husseini, Lena Merhej, Ali Cherri, and Remi Bonhomme.

  Love and respect to Adla Bekdache and Leen Hashem

  FROM THE TRANSLATOR

  To my brother, George Fares

  Translator’s Introduction

  Sahar Mandour, named “one of Beirut’s new movers and shakers” by Wallpaper Magazine, was born in 1977 to an Egyptian father and a Lebanese mother. She studied psychology at L’Université Saint Joseph in Beirut and received her master’s degree in media and the Middle East from the University of London. Mandour is a journalist for the Assafir newspaper and a social activist who was recognized by HELEM (a Lebanese non-profit organization working to improve the legal and social status of lesbian, gay, and transgender people) for her contribution to the rights and social freedom of the LGBTQ community in Lebanon.

  Mandour’s first novel, I’ll Draw a Star on Vienna’s Forehead, published in Beirut in 2007, is a whimsical, satirical biography of a young Arab woman searching for an identity she might call her own. Two years later, she wrote A Beiruti Love (2009), a novel about romance and relationships in Beirut, which was, like 32, a best seller at the Arab Book Fair. Her fourth novel, Mina (2013), tells the story of a young Lebanese gay actress.

  Mandour’s third novel, 32 (2010), is the first to be translated into English. It is an engaging narration of the life of a young woman and her four female friends in Beirut after the civil war. This eventful period, with its wars, assassinations, terrorism, and the reconstruction of Beirut, remains relevant to those living and experiencing it with ennui and weariness in Lebanon. A lot has happened during this period that is key to understanding the political situation in Lebanon today as well as to understanding its people, especially the younger generation.

  There is an experimental quality to this work’s form and style. The novel is a long conversation that shifts from the anonymous narrator speaking to herself, to her friends, and to the reader. She comfortably alternates standard Arabic, the Lebanese dialect, and Egyptian as she moves from one topic to another. Mandour’s style of writing and its complexity carries a voice that is all at once cynical, hopeful yet exhausted, and loaded with dry humor and hurt, which can only be produced by a people all too familiar with war.

  What makes this novel valuable as a modern piece of fiction is its honest reflection of the life led by millions in Lebanon: a life that is rarely revealed in contemporary Lebanese literature. Sahar Mandour takes readers to uncomfortable places as they are forced to experience the unfamiliar and absurd in everyday Lebanese life. They are subjected to mundane yet intricate and critical detail as the narrator takes them around Beirut and documents everything she sees. This narration displays Mandour’s journalist skills impeccably. She connects the events and conditions of the people she encounters with the political situation of the country. She asks questions and scrutinizes the answers in an attempt to explain the injustices she encounters, and her inquiry exposes the elites’ accountability and the politicians’ hypocrisy, corruptness, and abuse of power. Mandour controls the flow of the information, gradually introducing the reader to the harsh situations and traumatic events that confine the lives of the Lebanese people and prevent the country from growing out of its political instability.

  Furthermore, in 32 Mandour subtly exposes the consequences of postwar redevelopment as new tall, modern buildings replace older ones in the capital. Despite the efforts of activists, journalists, and organizations such as the Association for the Protection of the Lebanese Heritage (APLH) to stop the erasure of what is left of Lebanon’s history, ancient archeological sites (some that date back to 500 BC) continue to be destroyed as skyscrapers take their place. The novel reminds us of the red and blue shutters of the old apartment buildings, the Ottoman-style architecture, and the Venetian windows and arches that once epitomized Beirut. It introduces us to Lebanese folklore vis-à-vis the architecture as the narrator speaks of actors and singers who once marked the height of the art scene in the Middle East. She shows the changing landscape of Lebanon through its music by juxtaposing the old folklore and Western music. The mixing of Western and Middle Eastern styles and instruments makes Lebanese music a highly unique genre, and the narrator embraces it while showing how the old music is disappearing much like the old buildings.

  Mandour also sheds light on life in Lebanon from the perspective of women as she discusses the positive and negative aspects of the female experience in 32. She succeeds in exposing the complex gender structure in Lebanese society. On the one hand, women have long been allowed to play an active role socially and in the work force, especially after the civil war when they began to assume more independence. On the other hand, although Lebanese women have more rights and liberties than women in other Arab countries, they are far behind in terms of pay equity and their participation in politics. The narrator openly discusses poverty, sexual harassment, divorce, independence, and rights and the lack of them as she zooms in on details of the everyday life of Lebanese women (a difficult life to which they’ve become accustomed). The negative and positive aspects of the male experience are visible as well. Mandour exposes Lebanese patriarchal society and family structure by depicting the irrational masculinity and pathological level of machismo and narcissism that authors like Etel Adnan have written of in an effort for reform.

  Mandour also addresses the social reality of female domestic workers in Lebanon. Despite the fact that Koko, the narrator’s cleaner, is portrayed as a strong and independent woman, she is a Sri Lankan domestic worker and is therefore excluded from the protection of the Lebanese labor code. Although progress has been made on this social issue in Lebanon, many domestic workers are still being abused as
legal and social change manifests slowly.

  Religion—a topic that remains sensitive to many in Lebanon—is lightheartedly touched on in 32. Mandour underlines the absurdity of religion, demonstrating how politicians employ it as a technique to manipulate the masses and exploit it as a sales pitch in today’s capitalist market. People continue to be seen as pawns to the elite, preying on religion’s sensitive relationship to their history and fragile identity.

  To define one’s identity as a Lebanese is a debate that remains heated. The civil war plays a major role in the definition of the Lebanese identity, as does Lebanon’s complex and intersecting history and its inseparability from religion. Sahar Mandour proves that, as a Lebanese, writing your own story is not an easy thing to do. By being Lebanese and explaining the whys and hows of one’s life and country, it is nearly impossible to produce a logical and relatable work. Toward the end of the novel, the narrator comes to the realization that all people can do is take life one day at a time and write their story one page at a time, hoping it might help them understand themselves better.

  In 32 Mandour tackles several highly important topics in contemporary Lebanon and the Middle East in general. She treads on these subjects with sensitivity and often humor while emphasizing their significance and the misfortunes that people face as a result. Through this novel, Sahar Mandour provides insight into an important time in Lebanon’s recent history. She offers a view of life during that period that is unfamiliar to many, and she gives a voice to her generation—the product of the civil war.

  There’s something about Beirut that makes the ending obvious from the beginning.

  Knock knock knock. . . . Ring ring ring.

  Door knocking. Bell ringing.

  Am I dreaming or is someone at the door? I want to sleep! I’m a guest here; I shouldn’t have to open the door. There’s no one there anyway.

  Knock knock knock. . . . Ring ring ring.

  What time is it? What’s going on? An attack?

  Oh. It’s Komodo.

  And as soon as I stop asking questions, my phone starts ringing. Door, doorbell, phone. . . . The sky is falling on my head, and my head is trying to shield my body with a last desperate command: Sleep, ignore it, sleep!

  I get up, not because I don’t want her to wait any longer but because I want to put an end to this nerve-racking beginning to a sunny day off that comes once a week only.

  I open the door to find no one there. I glance at the elevator—it’s going down.

  I rush barefoot to the balcony.

  With my head poking out of the bedspread of green plants, I wait for her to walk out of the building. I stand there like a wild rose, eyes half-closed, old prescription glasses weighing my eyelids down even more, hair pointing in all directions, and wearing a slightly-too-loud pink top inappropriate for balcony appearances.

  No one exits the building, well, at least not Koko (short for Komodo, my pet name for her when I’m feeling friendly).

  I go to my cell phone that is almost out of minutes—a result of laziness, not poverty. I find a missed call from Koko that didn’t wake me. There’s a text message from Mona too: I’m up and ready for our day off, let’s have some fun! I get exhausted just reading her text with all its energy and enthusiasm. I’m still dead; I’ll text her back later.

  The phone rings again in my hand. Komodo. I hang up and run through the door to the balcony overlooking the silent Ras Beirut. The problem with silence is that the laugh of a baby can destroy it. In the silence, loud sounds become jarring, targeting the ear and violating it, affecting a person’s mood directly. They travel through the veins and make people lose their temper. Just like the beeping sound in someone’s ear after an explosion—if, that is, before that explosion, the ear had been enjoying the silence. And in this country, life is trying to accustom people to absorbing the highest amount of beeps possible; and to do so with patience. Because people don’t like to wait even if the wait is justified, like if an old woman is getting out of a car, or if a bewildered, sweaty man’s car has broken down because of the heat. Even the sun is more compassionate than the shouting of “why can’t you discipline that car of yours!” and the honks that make a person jump out of his own skin. They’re not patient. And they’re free not to be. They all are free. Free to scream, and fight at a party. Free to curse, harass, and drive people out of their environment either with violence or with the smell of cigars. They’re all free.

  There’s no Koko at my doorstep, and no Koko at the front gate of my building. Where’s Koko?

  I dial her number on my beautiful yet empty cell phone. I’m seething because I’m using up my emergency minute. I’ve saved it in case I needed to call a friend to rescue me in a moment of semi-consciousness after an armed gang has driven by me, cursed me for something they think I stand for, and shot me. (No, I decide this daydream won’t kill me, nor will I be permanently injured, or permanently dispossessed. I will emerge from my short coma—a coma to make the audience fear for my life and the media take my assassination attempt seriously. But it will be short so people won’t get bored and give up on me. Only my parents and loved ones will wait for me, but waiting would be more tolerable if the world were sharing it with them. And they won’t be too worried because the doctors will tell them that my prognosis is very good. I will awake from my coma in a moment of media climax and will announce that I’ve become more mature after the assault and pain I endured. I will remain calm and won’t curse anyone or shout at the camera. No, never. I will ask the camera to be calm, and I will ask it to be patient. We all are, after all, against this fitnah, and I will refuse to be considered any better than the others who are also against the fitnah.)

  I dial Koko’s number. She picks up yelling, unleashing a store of Arabic vocabulary, like a Bekaa wedding conquering my eardrum. “Koko! Lower your voice, please, I’ll let you in, come up, but for heaven’s sake, shut up!”

  Her Sri Lankan voice is loud—I have to talk to her about that. My friend Zumurrud is always telling me to lower my voice. She’s a believer in low volume. Sensitive, light as a feather, classy, civilized. When she tells me to lower my voice, my happiness in telling a story snuffs out. Her sudden comment smothers it. Like a hand placing a cup over my candle. My flame flickers and I fade. I get ashamed of my enthusiasm because it’s loud, or maybe it’s my enthusiasm that becomes ashamed of me because I haven’t stood up for it, so it abandons me. Then my story flickers and drools off the side of my tongue, and I turn into a rabid dog, fuzzy-eyed and overly emotional, hugging myself on the floor in a corner, howling with a broken voice: “Ouuuuuuuuu.” I’m sensitive, by the way.

  So Koko comes into the room talking in her loud voice. “For God’s sake, lower your voice!” She laughs in my face. No flickering like a candle? No “ouuuuuuu”? Not her, she laughs and says in her Arabic that would be perfect if it weren’t for that accent that unites Sri Lankans in Lebanon: “You donkey!”

  I shut up. She keeps laughing. I get angry. She finds it hilarious. I run through the door of the house where we are still standing, into the living room and sit down. She follows me, silent this time.

  She sits quietly next to me for barely a few seconds before she picks up the conversation in the lowest tone of voice she can muster. What a low morning voice is to me is a whisper to her. So, out of consideration for my feelings, she whispers. She continues with her story of her brother the “beast”—her word, not mine—whom she used to love very much until he succumbed to his wife’s nagging and threw their mother out of the house Koko had bought her in Sri Lanka with the money she earned slaving away in Lebanon for ten years. Why did he take the house? Because it was rightfully his as the only male heir after his father’s death. But the house wasn’t given to him. Since Koko had paid for it, she’s the one who chooses who gets the house.

  He stirred up a lot of trouble before taking the house by force and leaving his mother on the street. His actions tore the family apart, and Koko was torn in Lebanon too
and had to borrow a thousand dollars: five hundred to build a new house and another five to raise its ceiling. And that wasn’t the end of the expenses. She kept sending hundreds and hundreds of dollars until, before she knew it, her debt had doubled. And by the way, that brother of hers owns a house of his own. Years ago, Koko had given him the money for it. He really is a donkey. Koko adds, “His wife is fat cow. A vermin. Shame on her! Money not everything!”

  Today, she tells me of a new development to her story; it seems that her brother has gone crazy.

  “How, Koko?”

  “Crazy, crazy, he crazy now, insane! No brain, brain gone, flew away, bye.”

  “Okay Koko, but repeating the word and giving me its synonyms don’t really add any information to the story. Why do you think your brother has gone crazy?”

  “Because he crazy! No brain, brain gone means it no work, and he cut down all them flowers, all of them, enormous flowers. I planted them myself when Prasanna was coming to the house to propose to me. Yeah, enormous, very pretty. All gone now, he cut them down, the crazy donkey!”

  It appears that his (evil) wife went to his mother (Koko’s mother) and begged her to move back in with them, to the house they kicked her out of. But Koko told her mother, all the way from Beirut, not to move back in with them. She has a new house now, and besides, that old house is jinxed. Her brother must have gotten depressed after that, and people thought he’d gone crazy, because “shame on him for what he did, there is a God after all! Really, there is a God.” (She says that matter-of-factly rather than contemplatively.) “Plus, how can he sleep in peace? Of course he going to go crazy. There’s nobody in the neighborhood—we all jammed in there together you know—nobody talk to him no more. The man who works at the grocery store next to our house is like a brother to me and more, he watch out for Mom when I’m away. He told my brother: ‘Don’t come here no more. Shame on you. The house is for the two girls’” (Koko explains: he meant me and my sister). “I’m the one who paid for the house! Yeah, he told him that if he goes to his store he breaks both his legs! Yeah! Because he did wrong, nobody talking to him now.” (She gets worked up and raises her voice, abandoning her commitment to her morning whispering, but I don’t interrupt her). “It’s all his wife’s doing! My brother was good man, and I loved him a lot and he loved me. This is all because of his wife, the cow! She teach at the university you know.” (I get shocked by what she says, and check to see if I heard correctly. She pauses for a dramatic effect, then repeats what she said.) “Yes, yes, yes! A university professor, so not an idiot! A lot of learning in her!” (As in, she’s very educated.) “But she greedy, shame on her; it’s not right what she did!”