from Research in African Literatures Volume 33, Number 3

Tradition and Transgression in the Novels of Assia Djebar and Aïcha Lemsine

Silvia Nagy-Zekmi

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Man is the outer lamp, woman is the inner lamp.

Proverb

Language is no longer linked to the knowing of things, but to human freedom.

Michel Foucault


Feminist and postcolonial theories alike have begun by simply subverting images of existing hierarchies (gender/class/culture/race) in a patriarchal or colonial setting. This strategy was not very effective, because a person may belong to more than one group simultaneously, as Trinh Minh-ha suggests by proposing the "triple bind" (6) in which women of the so-called Third World1 may find themselves—being colonized once by the colonizer then by the patriarchal order—caught between the problems of race and gender. Women writers face these predicaments in addition to the ambivalence vis-à-vis the language in which they write: "Writer of color? Woman writer? Or woman of color? Which comes first? Where does she place her loyalties? On the other hand, she often finds herself at odds with language, which partakes in the white-male-norm ideology and is used predominantly as a vehicle to circulate established power relations" (Minh-ha 6). Contemporary authors have attempted to articulate personal, individual theories on identity politics, theories through which they hope to be able to express the totality of their identities as they create new methodologies for others who wish to grapple with the continually shifting discussion of identity.2 Gloria Anzaldúa and Eva Hoffman, in their respective texts, Borderlands/La Frontera and Lost in Translation, attempt to articulate how their identities are constructed and contribute "to paradigmatic shifts in theorizing difference" (Yarbro-Bejarano 7). These authors approach the problem of constructing a politics of identity from a transnational perspective, recognizing and foregrounding the historical specificity of their individual experiences and asserting that in a responsibly transnational critique of constructions of identity, historical contexts cannot be dismissed. Their texts share a focus on transnationalism, an emphasis on the historical, global, and contextual specificity of experience, particularly as it relates to questions of language. They respond to Gayatri Spivak's injunction that "one needs to be vigilant against simple notions of identity which overlap with language or location" ("Poststructuralism" 201) by beginning with discussions of language and then building on those discussions to create their larger theories of identity.

Identity may be linked to tradition, which in turn may be understood as a system of long-established beliefs and customs, which plays an essential role in creating identity. Tradition, however, has other definitions as well—"any unwritten religious teachings regarded as coming from the founder or earliest prophet of a religion" (Webster's New World Dictionary, 2nd concise ed., 1982). The application of the term in this paper corresponds more to the latter definition.

Tradition has been portrayed as a negative force when it comes to the Third World. Fatma M¸ge Göçek considers that "[Western] studies on the Third World often contain Orientalist elements that treat social processes in cultures and societies other than itself as static or, at best, as derivative" (5). Raymond Williams reveals the reasons tradition is such an important element of so-called "traditional societies," as many of the Third World societies are labeled by Western critics. This label is the result of a homogenization of the so-called peripheries embedded in the Western mind.3 Williams notes that tradition legitimates hegemony, thus reproduces power and keeps power relations intact: "Tradition, as an active coping agent, is the most powerful means of societal incorporation" (111). However, it may also be a form of resistance by enhancing the difference between postcolonial and Western societies, as it does not encourage non-Western societies to fall prey to consumerism, dictated by the endless appetite of the economies of the so-called Industrialized World. In gender relations tradition keeps patriarchy alive, and women in postcolonial societies may not escape the "double" or even "triple bind." In conclusion, traditions may emerge "as a vibrant force that can be both constricting and liberating" (Müge Göçek 6).

This article examines the way two Algerian authors include and treat tradition in their works. While Aïcha Lemsine in both her novels, La chrysalide (1976) and Ciel de porphyre (1978), tries to reconcile Maghrebian4 tradition and Western values, Assia Djebar, in La soif (1957), Les impatients (1958), Ombre sultane (1987), and L'amour, la fantasia (1985), opts for a careful deconstruction of tradition as an oppressive force in her representation of history5; her writing, however, is embedded in the (Islamic) tradition as an axis of religious and social identity. Her characters often transgress taboos, for example, those pertaining to marital and sexual relations. Seemingly, it is Lemsine who "respects" tradition more, but in reality, it is Djebar whose work nourishes from the vernacular, albeit the open rebellion of her heroines against the domineering traits of patriarchy. Djebar subverts some of the concepts embedded in this tradition by applying several literary strategies. Many of her characters (Nadia, Dalila, Hajila, and Isma) choose to transgress taboos created by patriarchal tradition, while in L'amour, la fantasia the author applies a complex system of paratexts6 (epigraphs, chapter titles, etc.) to recontextualize both Algerian wars, that of colonization and that of liberation, undermining the Western tradition of historic representation, which corresponds closely to Michel Foucault's assessment of historical representation. According to him, there is no History (with capital H), only versions of the same event.7 Due to the fact that the written records of [H]istory represent the version of those in power, Djebar intends to fill the voids by including noncanonical and/or oral sources to her representation of Algerian history, which is significant, because with this strategy she indeed subverts the Eurocentric historic tradition. Djebar, in fact, shows great sensitivity toward subjects left out of the official historic records and readily creates the other "versions" of history. This palimpsestic modality of writing appears in a powerful metaphor in L'amour la fantasia where the author quotes the diaries of Eugene Fromentin, a traveler in Algeria in 1852 as the country was being colonized by the French:

. . . Fromentin ramasse dans la poussière, une main coupée d'une Algérienne anonyme. Il la jette ensuite sur son chemin. Plus tard, je me saisis de cette main vivante, main de la mutilation et du souvenir et je tente de lui faire porter le qalam. (L'amour 255)8

Fromentin picks up out of the dust the severed hand of an anonymous Algerian woman. He throws is down again in his path. Later, I seize on this living hand, hand of mutilation and of memory and I attempt to bring it the qalam. (Blair 226)

The visions and versions of history and the representation of women's lives ruled by patriarchy are two recurrent themes in Djebar's work. In the Maghreb, the roots of patriarchal power, according to some, may be found in the Qur'an; however, in the holy scriptures it is stated that man and woman are equal before God. Fatima Mernissi convincingly argues in The Veil and the Male Elite that neither the Prophet, nor God as the source of the Holy Law, desired anything other than equality between the sexes, and not an equality enforced by separation.9 Phyllis Monego has a similar view in general; however, she adds: "[W]hile the Koran upholds the equality of men and women in the sight of God, the Sharia (Arabic: ëash-sharîca),10 the code of Islamic law, based on the interpretation of the Prophet's teachings, spells out women's subordinate nature and inferior status" (127). Mernissi adheres to this position in another book, Beyond the Veil, and calls the "principles of religion, the principles of patriarchy" (66). She refers, of course, to the human interpretations of Islam, spelled out in the Sharia as a set of rules regulating the behavior of all Muslims. However, men, if they transgress these norms, are punished, but not nearly as severely as women are. The reason, according to Souad Khodja, is that women "qui transgresse le sacré, menace d'écroulement tout un system social basé sur le haram" ëwho transgresses the sacred threatens an entire social system based on haram' (A comme Algériennes 165-66). The Arabic word haram has many meanings: one of them is prohibition related to sin. Haram is also the origin of the word "harem," which is, in itself a good example of patriarchal domination. Mernissi points out that, contrary to Orientalist conceptions, the harem is not a place of debauchery, rather it refers to a segregated household, which "has little to do with sex, and much to do with control, and it vanished some thirty years ago" (qtd. in Friedman).

Representation of the sexual exchange has a major role in Dejbar's works. According to Hédi Abdel-Jaouad, sexuality is a frequently treated subject in Maghrebian literary texts that "revolve almost exclusively around the theme of women" (15). Nevertheless, taking up this topic is not without risks. Mildred Mortimer's explanation is quite convincing:

Unlike Western civilization which, Foucault reminds us in his Histoire de la sexualité, delights in the public airing of all private matters—desires, sins, suffering—Islamic culture is bound to the non-dire, or unspoken, in other words, to silence; it prohibits personal disclosure. If a Muslim woman is to be neither seen nor heard in public and divulges private matters, revealing in public the secret world neither men nor women should ever reveal, she is, in effect, involved in a double transgression. If the female writer dares to preserve for posterity the very secrets not to be revealed in public, is she not committing a triple transgression? As a woman writer of the Arab world, a novelist whose quest for self-definition encompasses self-revelation, Djebar is forced to come to grips with the thorny issue of the non-dire. ("A. D.'s Algerian Quartet" 103)

Assia Djebar, however, is willing to commit this "triple transgression" and in her novels she deals with many aspects of the sexual exchange:

  1. The illusion of love (La soif)
  2. Disintegration of marriage prospects (Les impatients.)
  3. Egalitarian vs. hierarchical relations between a couple (Ombre sultane)
  4. 4.The (im)possibility of "illicit" (premarital) love (L'amour, la fantasia)

La soif (1957) is her first novel, for which Djebar has been harshly criticized.11 According to her critics she was writing about "frivolous topics" in the middle of the Algerian War (1954-62). However, La soif is "a revolution in itself," according to AbdelkebirKhatibi (50), because of the topic it raises: the "thirst" of a woman (Jedla) for a child, and the thirst of another woman (Nadia) for her (Jedla's) husband. Each one of these characters formulates their ideas about love, sexuality, and marriage, but when tested in reality, these ideas fail to bring the satisfaction that was hoped for, because those ideas neither follow the patriarchal tradition nor openly rebel against it. Nadia, who mocks or ignores patriarchal domination, finally succumbs to it, when she marries the man she does not really love (Mortimer, "The Evolution" 9).

Dalila, the main character of Les impatients (1958) is a figure that is antithetical to Nadia. She wants to be freed from the hypocrisy of the antebellum bourgeoisie as she rebels against her family and refuses to marry her prospective husband. Thus, in this novel, Djebar shows the fissures on the model of arranged marriage:

Ce que j'ai voulu montrer, c'est la prise de conscience de Dalila, une jeune Algérienne en révolte contre la tradition, dans sa famille. J'ai voulu montrer comment dans un monde de calme o˜ rien objectivement n'avait encore changé se développait un processus qui laissait deviner les bouleversements futurs. (Djebar, qtd. by Memmi, Anthologie 101-02)

What I wanted to show was the self-awareness of Dalila, a young Algerian woman in her rebellion against tradition, her environment, her family. I wanted to show how in a quiet world where nothing has objectively changed, yet a process started to develop that allowed future storms to be foreseen.

The disintegration of the prospective marriage between Dalila and her fiancé, Salim, is caused by the irreconcilable difference in the way men and women view intimacy. For Salim, to love is to possess. He believes himself to be tender when he is patronizing and treats Dalila as though she were a child:

Tu es une toute petite fille, finissait-il par dire en m'emprisonnant le visage, le regard. Tu es une toute petite fille dont je ferai un jour une femme. (205; emphasis added)

You are a little girl, he was saying while imprisoning my face, my view. You are a little girl and one day I'll make a woman of you.

Djebar textually12 expresses the ambiguity of the situation by the simultaneous presence of constructive sentiments (intimacy) and destructive ones (possession, patronization). The gesture of taking someone's face gently between the hands is a tender one, yet Djebar uses a word with a negative semantic connotation to describe it: "emprisonner" 'to imprison.' The context of intimacy and the negative connotation are incongruent, and that discrepancy reflects the ambiguity of Dalila's feelings toward Salim. At the level of verbal communication, Salim's discourse is a reflection of patriarchal values: "je ferai" 'I'll make' (a woman of you) expresses his inherent idea of "creating" the woman, suggesting that without him, she has no identity.

Throughout the novel Salim's actions are backed up by patriarchal tradition. Dalila, however, is not ready to submit to it and the tension mounts between the couple, causing serious friction between Dalila and her stepmother who blames her for "causing the trouble." The stepmother's condoning of Salim's values makes a powerful statement about women's role in perpetuating patriarchal values.

As many critics (Mernissi, Mortimer, Lionnet, etc.) stated before, in the Maghreb, sexual difference is marked by spaces. In Les impatients as well as in Ombre sultane (1987), the same motive appears regarding space. Space is a key element in the Maghrebian model of female conduct. Sexual segregation is imposed (more or less) and contacts between men and women tend to be sporadic and superficial. Public sphere is assigned to men and private (domestic) sphere is assigned to women. The iconic symbol of this segregation is the hijab, the Islamic veil that envelopes women and creates a small private place around them when they appear in public. This territoriality "sets patterns of ranks, tasks, and authority" (Mernissi, Beyond 169). Mernissi does not believe that the segregation would come from a religious tradition; rather she thinks it is the social expression of a specific division of power and authority within a specific economic system (xvi). According to Issa Boullata's comments on Mernissi's work, Mernissi fails to take into account the fact that Maghrebian society does not oppose women à priori, but it opposes extramarital sexual relations that would have "destructive consequences" with respect to social order (132).

Nevertheless, segregation in public, but even in domestic spaces, impedes intimacy between members of the family (couples, especially). The idea of segregating the sexes seems to stem from the Islamic concept of sexual exchange, according to which the sexual impulse of man makes him lose control of himself. The intimate union of a couple is the momentary suspension of order (and leads to chaos) where evil may interfere (Qur'an 3, 113) All this puts women (as sexual beings) at odds with God. It is this idea that is the basis of misogyny in the Maghreb.13

A woman who is searching for refuge in a public space (a park) seems to be ironic, for one usually would find shelter in a private space, not in public. Yet the characters in Djebar's novels, namely Dalila and Hajila, search for an escape from the suffocation they suffer in their private space (home), caused by patriarchal power. In Les impatients this is not a conscious choice, yet it is an important one: Dalila runs out to a park after a family quarrel. On the other hand, in Ombre sultane, Hajila "escapes her confining kitchen to discover the 'frémissements du dehors' (94) 'thrill of the outdoors' (85), to physically encounter the outer visible tangible world from which she has been excluded by traditional patriarchy" (Mortimer, "A.D. Algerian Quartet" 106)

In Les impatients women were accomplices to perpetuating patriarchy, but in Ombre sultane Djebar characterizes female relationships in a different light: the two women protagonists (consecutive wives of the same man, who has no name in the novel) show compassion and solidarity towards one another,14 such as is referred to in the title.15 In Ombre sultane two parallel plots appear in alternating chapters. In one of them, the narration is focused on Isma, the first wife—educated, independent, whose marriage to the husband was based on an egalitarian relationship. The other chapters are focused on Hajila, the poor, humble, uneducated second wife, whom the husband married after his first marriage failed (due to troubles that rose when the husband's family was trying to enforce patriarchal rules over Isma) and maintains with her a traditional, i.e., hierarchical relationship. Thus Djebar examines the dynamics of the two types of marriages. Interestingly enough, married to Isma, the husband—"l'aimé" 'beloved,' as Isma refers to him—was represented as gentle and kind, yet in his marriage to Hajila, who by contrast calls him "l'homme, il, lui" 'the man, he, him,' he becomes increasingly violent. Hierarchical relationships are not conducive to love and intimacy, abuse of power is tempting, so he treats his second wife worse and worse. In spite of this, Hajila and Isma are not antithetical figures. They both need space and freedom to discover the world (Mortimer, Djebar 39). Djebar sees no other ways to be freed from the suffocation of this domestic world, but through flight: "Au sortir de la longue nuit, l'odalisque est en fuite" 'Coming out of a long night the lady flees' (Ombre 169). I must emphasize that Djebar does not advocate Westernization of values in her novels. Her strong statements against patriarchal tradition do not originate in Western models, but from a desire for a more satisfying relationship as emotional and sexual fulfillment for both partners.

Many authors and critics see modernization and modernity in the Maghreb (and by extension in the postcolonial world) as an equivalent to Western values, which are not particularly attractive, because they represent the values of the colonizer. However, modernity seems to be inescapable and it presents a great dilemma. Tradition and modernity are opposing alternatives, according to Aïcha Lemsine's interpretation as it becomes evident in La chrysalide (1976). The author, however, makes several attempts to reconcile this unreconcilable antagonism (by her own admission), which leads to inconsistencies in the characters' behavior and creates implausible situations throughout the plot. Moreover, the romantic tone employed throughout the novel resembles that of a roman rose. According to Christiane Achour, La chrysalide is a roman rose with nostalgic overtones, similar to the colonial novels (written by French or pied noir authors) idealizing the possibilities of a harmonious relationship between the colonizer and the colonized (42-47). This observation is interesting, particularly in view of the fact that Lemsine's next novel, Ciel de porphyre (1978), is about the war against colonialism in Algeria. Hédi Bouraoui says in a laudatory article that "[in that novel] Lemsine corrige l'image stéréotypée néfaste de la femme opprimée et répudiée que les romanciers maghrébins ont perpétuée dans leurs oeuvres" 'Lemsine corrects the nefarious stereotypical image of the oppressed and repudiated woman that Maghrebian authors perpetuated in their works' (40). It is not the authors who are responsible for "perpetuating a nefarious image" about women, but it is the reality of patriarchal tradition they represent in their writing. To deny its existence may be considered disingenuous. In Ciel de porphyre one of the female characters, Meriem, simply nullifies the existence of patriarchy: she decides upon her destiny by herself, and without interference from her family she is able to choose her own husband. Not that it may never happen, but this is rather unrealistic, especially if we take into consideration that the novel was published nearly twenty years ago.16

Souad Khodja observes that the feminine model Lemsine presents in La chrysalide is that of "moderated emancipation," which combines the traditional and Western customs in the way the characters speak, dress, cook, etc. According to this model the ideal Maghrebian woman is able to speak Arabic and French with the same ease, wears traditional and Western dresses with the same grace, excels in preparing local dishes and is equally well versed in French cuisine (Les Algériennes 110-13).

With respect to the education of women, a point is reached where compromise is not a possibility17; therefore Lemsine's feminine model is no longer viable. A woman should be educated, says Lemsine, but she should not excel too much, nor be overly committed to her education, because "being a diploma-ace will not get her a husband" (Lemsine qtd. by Lazreg 202). La chrysalide was an instant success and it is still quite popular, possibly because of its simple, linear structure, melodramatic plot, and the intention of presenting the characters (including the colonizers) as benevolent and pleasant. Marnia Lazreg is quite critical of this: "The book strikes a note of colonial nostalgia by attributing changes in customs to a benevolent French woman who symbolizes benign colonialism" (202). It may be the gaze of the colonizer, internalized by Lemsine, that motivates her judgment of certain traditions as mere "superstitions." In fact, the narration emphasizes the exoticism in the lives of the Algerians. Exoticism creates distance between the author, the reader and the subject. Bill Ashcroft comments: "Exotics in the metropoles were a significant part of imperial displays of power" (94). Moreover, he refers to an incident in which, due to colonial education, Australian children saw their own fauna and flora as exotic when reading about it in English works (95). In her novels Lemsine displays the same defamiliarization regarding Algerian life and codes of behavior, because her perspective is that of the colonizer. The novel is written in French and contains a few expressions in Arabic, explained in footnotes,18 which raises questions about the intended readership of the novel. The fact that Lemsine did not publish it in Algeria, but in France supports the idea that the text was meant for French readers, in which case the novel is an apology of Algerian culture and intends to show that Algerian women, after the liberation of their country, did not "lose the civilization" brought to them by the French. Lemsine's preoccupation with the reader seems to motivate Mortimer's comment: "Why does Lemsine deny her heroine a life of happiness? There are two equally plausible answers. Perhaps she is too conservative, or believes her reading public is" ("A Feminist Critique" 37).

The character Mortimer is referring to is Faiza, one of the three key characters in the novel. Faiza went to Algiers from the countryside in order to complete her studies in medicine, and she returned to her village pregnant (and unmarried). After many conflicts, the family and the village accept the presence of the child. However, Faiza is strictly supervised and deprived of an "adult" (i.e., private, sexual) life. These conditions make her feel she is living a mutilated life that is an obstacle to her happiness.19 Therefore, her rebellion in having consummated her love is no longer useful as a literary strategy for standing up to patriarchal values, for the plot in the novel is focused on the postrebellion oppression. The conclusion the reader may reach is that it is not worth rebelling against something so deeply embedded in Maghrebian culture as patriarchy, and education is not going to be a shield from it. It is a surprising conclusion in view of the fact that Lemsine, has declared herself "a feminist" on more than one occasion (see Forjas, "Una escritora" n.p.).

In conclusion, it is safe to say that in La chrysalide, in contrast to Djebar's novels, Lemsine does not subvert patriarchal values, but on the contrary, she represents them in her writings as a model to follow, in spite of her own characterization of La chrysalide as a "feminist novel" (Achour 112). She represents a harmonious coexistence of vernacular and Western values in Algerian society, by accentuating individual benevolence and understanding and by "toning down" the manifestations of patriarchal power. In this manner, she reinforces hegemonic discourse on both fronts, the colonial and the masculine. Both Khodja (Les Algériennes 110) and Lazreg (203) attribute this to the fact that the Algerian bourgeoisie—of which Lemsine, married to a diplomat, is a "mouthpiece," according to Lazreg (203)—is still looking for its own identity.

The two writers are very different is their representation of Algerian identity in general, and Algerian female identity in particular. While Djebar uses sophisticated literary devices to represent the complexity of both issues, Lemsine's texts show traits of the intended compromise of two opposing forces. The representation focuses at the national level, on the values of the colonizer and those of the colonized, and at the individual level, on the forces of patriarchy against women who try to free themselves from it. Although Lemsine claims to be "an Algerian writer rooted in Maghrebian tradition and a feminist" (Forjas, "Una escritora" n.p.), neither of her two novels examined here attests to these ideals. In the works of both writers the characters transgress social taboos, as part of the authors' literary strategy in their depiction of female resistance to patriarchal power. Djebar succeeds in her strategy but Lemsine does not, because she represents her characters as "objects of patriarchal knowledge" (Lionnet 187), rather than subjects with their own free will. Only if the subject is allowed to speak for herself (see Spivak) will marginalized elements (such as the societies colonized by Europe, and women by their own societies) be included in the main stream.

NOTES

1. I am aware of the fact that Third World is nowadays a rather pejorative way to refer to the postcolonial world. This expression was used for the first time in 1952 by the French demographer Alfred Sauvy as Barbara Harlow quotes him in her book, Resistance Literature: "[. . .]this Third World, ignored, scorned, exploited, as was the Third Estate, also wants to say something" (5).

2. In an early essay, "French Feminism in an International Frame," Spivak attempts to define the role of the author and address the tension manifested in the representation of the female postcolonial subject: "I see no way to avoid insisting that there has to be a simultaneous other focus: not merely who am I? But who is the other woman? How am I naming her? How does she name me? Is this part of the problematic I discuss? Indeed, it is the absence of such unfeasible but crucial questions that makes the 'colonized woman' as 'subject' see the investigators as sweet and sympathetic creatures from another planet [. . .]" (150).

3. Gayatri Spivak explains that the West "homogenizes the Third World [. . .] their literatures [. . .] thus subalternizing Third World material" ("A Literary Representation" 246).

4. Maghreb (the West) is a cultural and geographical entity that comprises countries of North Africa, namely Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia (and sometimes Libya). Egypt, though geographically belonging to North Africa, culturally is considered as part of the Mashreq (the East).

5. In my use of "history" I am indebted to Foucault's critique of nineteenth-century views on history that relies on an essential and fixed historical origin, and thus proposes a linear notion of history: "I undertake to relate history of perpetual difference" says Foucault ("Politics" 17); thus he concludes his thoughts on versions of history that allow for subjectivity.

6. Term coined by Gérard Genette in Seuils (1987). It is applied to those texts that surround the text proper: prefaces, epigraphs, footnotes, jacket descriptions, etc.

7. In Les mots et les choses (1966), Foucault describes the combination of discourses, assumptions, and values that distinguish historical periods as the epistemological paradigm governing what is considered truth or knowledge at the time.

8. Qalam: (Arabic) pen, originally bird feather, for writing. According to Donadey, "pen, the stylus with which one writes Quranic verses on tablets in Quranic school" (30).

9. Mernissi, a Moroccan sociologist, has made numerous comments and interpretations of the Qur'an. There has been an increasing focus on feminist exegesis of the Qur'an written by such historians as Riffat Hassan and Haleh Afshar, or that produced during a workshop organized in 1990 under the aegis of the organization Women Living under Muslim Laws (WLUML) (see Winter).

10. "Sharia is the law of Islam, based upon the Koran, the Sunna, parallel traditions and work of Muslim scholars in the two first centuries of Islam. It is well known to most Muslims that the sources to the Sharia are more than the Koran, yet it is frequently stated that the Sharia is based upon the Koran. There are traces of many non-Muslim juridical systems in the Sharia, such as Old Arab Bedouin law, commercial law from Mecca, agrarian law from Madina, law from the conquered countries, Roman law and Jewish law" (Encyclopedia of the Orient).

11. As Patrice Catrice puts it: "Assia Djebar, semble-t-il, n'est pas, ne veut pas être un écrivain engagé" 'It seems that Assia Djebar is not, [or] does not want to be an engaged writer' (25).

12. Anne Donadey wrote about the textual strategies used by Djebar in an article titled "The Multilingual Strategies of Postcolonial Literature: Assia Djebar's Algerian Palimpsest." This article is based on the second and third chapters of her dissertation (Northwestern U, 1993) and it focuses on the semantic value of French and Arabic expressions and the interplay of the two languages in Maghrebian societies. I also wrote about the question of language (the choice of language) and representation in Maghrebian literature in Paralelismos transatlánticos (77-80, 112-15).

13. In The Veil and the Male Elite, Mernissi dedicates two chapters to the formation of the misogynic tradition in Islam.

14. Ahmed Bouguarche makes the following comment when referring to Ombre sultane: "[L']auteur emprunte l'histoire de Shéhérazade et de sa soeur Dinarzade des contes Les mille et une nuits pour développer son idée de sororité et solidarité" 'The author makes use of Sheherezade and her sister, Dinarzade's stories of the One Thousand and One Nights in order to develop her ideas of sisterhood and solidarity' (31).

15. In feminine/feminist writing reference to the Mille et une nuits, and to Shérazade in particular, is a metaphor for female solidarity. There are many examples: Parle mon fils by Leila Sebbar, as well as her trilogy Scherazade, in addition to Eva Luna by Isabel Allende, and the Scherazada criolla by Helena Araujo. Hédi Abdel-Jaouad refers to the work of Abdelwahab Boudhiba, L'imaginaire maghrébin, according to which "Maghrebi's imagination is shaped by the stories he is told by his mother in childhood. [. . .] Bouhdiba sees in the act of storytelling a compensation value, or form of therapy by which the female storyteller as avatar of the ancestral Scheherazade scores psychological victories over her male oppressor, the husband" (17).

16. In addition to the implausibility of characters, Achour puts in doubt the originality of the novel as a whole, and suggests that it is a "recopiage" of Steinbeck's In Dubious Battle (1936). One might argue that the milieu and the plot of the two novels are different; however, Achour identifies several (at least five) instances in which Ciel de porphyre is verbally identical to the French translation of Steinbeck's book ("Textes, prétextes, contextes" 121-23).

17. There is a fundamental difference between Western and Maghrebianan cultures, insofar as the education of a woman is concerned. In the Western countries, in most cases, it is the woman who decides how much education she will obtain. In the Maghreb today, while education is appreciated, it is still widely believed that the primary raison d'être of a woman is to have a family, to have children, and she should stay home with her children. Of course, this is a generalization, and there are exceptions to the rule.

18. On the other hand, Djebar, who also uses Arabic expressions in her novels (qalam, tzaghrit, sakina, etc.), does not explain them in the footnotes. Donadey comments: "The total absence of footnotes or glossaries—which directly attempt to bridge the gap between the two languages—should also be noted" (30).

19. It is important to point out that the ideal of happiness in Western society (and in this novel) is individual. However, in Maghrebian societies the well-being of the group (family, clan) is valued over individual self-fulfillment (Mince 28).

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