THE NIGHT WILL HAVE ITS SAY, historical fiction about the Muslim Wars of Conquest

THE NIGHT WILL HAVE ITS SAY
IBRAHIM al-KONI (tr. Nancy Roberts)
Hoopoe Books|American University in Cairo Press
$18.95 trade paper, available now

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Rating: 4* of five

The Publisher Says: The year is 693 and a tense exchange, mediated by an interpreter, takes place between Berber warrior queen al-Kahina and an emissary from the Umayyad General Hassan ibn Nu'man. Her predecessor had been captured and killed by the Umayyad forces some years earlier, but she will go on to defeat Ibn Nu'man's forces.

The Night Will Have Its Say is a retelling of the Muslim wars of conquest in North Africa during the seventh century CE, narrated from the perspective of the conquered peoples. Written in Ibrahim al-Koni's unique and enchanting voice, his lyrical and deeply poetic prose speaks to themes that are intensely timely. Through the wars and conflicts of this distant, turbulent era, he addresses the futility of war, the privilege of an elite few at the expense of the many, the destruction of natural habitats and indigenous cultures, and questions about literal and fundamentalist interpretations of religious texts.

Al-Koni's masterly account of conquest and resistance is both timeless and timely, infused with a sense of disaster and exile—from language, the desert, and homeland.

I RECEIVED A DRC FROM THE PUBLISHER VIA EDELWEISS+. THANK YOU.

My Review: I'm kind of an outlier among this book's Anglophone readers: I like the formal, "speechifying" tone. This is historical fiction about the incredibly consequential events surrounding the Arab Wars of Conquest, specifically of the Maghreb. This century-long expansion of Islam and political control by Baghdad's rulers formed the fault lines of our present-day world. It felt appropriate to me that the words they spoke on the page were...heightened...not quotidian, not the same ones you'd use to ask your housekeeper why your nan's vase is suddenly chipped.

So, please understand that I'm aware of the formality, the speech-giving style, the focus on the characters as actors on the world's stage, and am okay with and invested in that. The consequentiality of the events in this book very definitely merit it. The author is telling this story from the PoV of the conquered, not the triumphal and celebratory version preferred (see the linked Wikipedia article) by the conquerors. In many ways the story is so very astonishing that it feels a bit like a fantasy epic. This story's The Lord of the Rings, only for real...and y'all lap up that deep-purple prose.

Give this a shot.

About the story itself I am so ignorant that I can point to no departures from History's pages. The North African civilizations were very old indeed. Pharaonic Egypt had diplomatic ties and cultural interchanges with the Libyan cultures millennia ago; the Berbers are, I think, their descendants. Roman, Byzantine, and then Arab Muslim conquests have overlaid rulers and rules and religion on the enduring people. The book's assumption of the conquered ones' voices is delightful to me, who daily bumps against the heterohegemony and religious restrictiveness on my right to exist. To have a woman assering her and her people's right to exist as they are and have always been, against a man sent to chnage them on a basic level, seems like a story you're going to want to read just now. It's not like it's got any modern resonances, is it? A woman standing up for freedom to exist unchanged against an overbearing, bloviating hypocrite of a man?

I'm suddenly seeing an orange haze between me and the screen....

However much I want you to read this story, I feel there's a resistance inside my mostly Anglophone and largely American readers. It's about people you know (most likely) nothing about. It takes the side of the powerless, to induce you to get over that hurdle. It's negatively focused on religion. The main character is a woman asserting herself, to get you over that hurdle. The prose is...well...I said above it's heightened, and really, given the stuff I see y'all reading, I don't think that's a hurdle you need much help getting over in and of itself. I suspect most objections like that are more about resisting the unfamiliarity of the subject matter. I strongly encourage you to get over that hurdle. This story is deeply rooted in an entire ancient civilization's resistance to being restyled and remade to suit the opinions of powerful men with an arsenal of weapons superior to its own and fueled by rage and the lust for Control.

These stakes should resonate with all y'all in the Anglophone world, and I hope inspire you to resist what we see around us from becoming normal.

Again.

"MUSLIM": A Novel, outrage, anger, and grief shouted to the Heavens

"MUSLIM": A Novel
ZAHIA RAHMANI (tr. Matthew Reeck)
Deep Vellum
$14.95 trade paper, available now

Rating: 3.5* of five

Winner of the 2020 Albertine Prize
Selected for Asymptote's February 2019 Book Club

The Publisher Says: "Muslim": A Novel is a genre-bending, poetic reflection on what it means to be Muslim from one of France's leading writers. In this novel, the second in a trilogy, Rahmani's narrator contemplates the loss of her native language and her imprisonment and exile for being Muslim, woven together in an exploration of the political and personal relationship of language within the fraught history of Islam. Drawing inspiration from the oral histories of her native Berber language, the Koran, and French children's tales, Rahmani combines fiction and lyric essay in to tell an important story, both powerful and visionary, of identity, persecution, and violence.

I RECEIVED A DRC FROM THE PUBLISHER VIA EDELWEISS+. THANK YOU.

My Review: One can call a cat a dog, but that won't make the creature bark or fetch a stick. This is not a novel. It is, in my pretty well-informed opinion, a récit. And, at under 150 pages, it isn't possessed of the scope a novel needs. Here's why that's important: Expectations get set when a person reads a title, and someone expecting a deep, immersive novel experience is going to leave this read disappointed.

Sad that this is the case. I would've chosen a different title, in fact; but the book's beauties are plentiful, call it what one may, and much here is to be savored.

Born in 1962, the author and the narrator of the book, whom we understand to be the author in heightened and fictionalized form, was the child of a Harki father:

He was only the man who had impregnated my mother. I never knew what to call him. I never had a father. The war had stolen mine.

and a Berber mother:

I was old enough to walk, and yet my mother was carrying me on her back in a shawl, with a scarf tied around my head. She told me later that she used to put baby potatoes in the shawl to help my headaches. "Did I get headaches a lot when I was a child?" "I didn't have any medicine," she told me. "I had headaches a lot?" "All the time," she told me.

Her father's imprisonment until a daring escape in 1967 meant her childhood was spent as a doubly disadvantaged person: Berber language and culture was no more accepted in Algeria after independence than before, and her father's legacy of French co-operation was the cause of trouble. Her entire life, then, was delineated in hyphens...she was never Rahman, herself, and later Elohim, her invented self. She was Othered in an Algeria bent of Arabizing to belong to a larger Islamic community of "Pan-Arabism" and then in France by not being white, not looking like other little girls did.

And here, at this juncture, fiction diverges from fact as Rahman-the-character not Rahmani-the-writer is exiled by the French language...and so leaves France, the not-homeland of the body. This story having been written and published in France in 2005, it's sort of inevitable that the US invasions of Muslim lands like Iraq in Operation Desert Storm take a sort-of vague center stage. French intellectual that she is, the author sets a good deal of the, um, events (no real "action" in a récit) in a prison camp much like the camp her Harki father occupied after Algeria's independence.

They had just one Name. One Name. And no one suspected the evil inside them, no one bore witness to this evil inside them, the thing that they were referring to when they said, "we don’t want them, we don’t want others, not him, not her, not them." And this always brought to mind the scenes of trains leaving for Poland.

"Of all the excuses that intellectuals have found for executioners—and during the past ten years they have not been idle in the matter—the most pitiable of all is that the victim's thought—for which he was murdered—was fallacious."

It is at this point that quotidian reality departs the scene for good; what replaces it is Reality-Plus, the enhanced experience of poetry and fable and fairy tale. The mere fact of her existence becomes threatening to Them, the Powers That Be. She is not one thing, not that she ever was ever allowed to be only one thing (herself); she is Other, and takes the identity Elohim, that ambiguous plural Ugaritic word for the monophysite Jewish god as well as for the Children of El as well as for the Canaanite pantheon...she never shies away from complexity, Author Rahmani. And so I've never made any attempt to make it clear if any of the foregoing is fiction or autobiography.

Because it doesn't matter.

If you choose to read this book, and I hope you will, the reason to do so isn't to go from Point A to Point Q. You're not doing the Stations of the Cross, Catholics; not on Hajj, Muslims. You're making the pilgrimage through the countryside tending towards Santiago de Compostela or Mecca or Canterbury. You're there, in other words, for the voyage in, towards the destination, and not the destination itself.

Coming to France was my father's fault. He'd been banished from Algeria. Banished like so many others had been, and like so many more would be. Banished, stripped of a name, a soldier of the colonial army, a traitor to his country. They were the banished, the silent participants of the wars in Korea, Vietnam, Algeria, Iraq and elsewhere, the comrades of the losers of these wars, waiting to drag their shame home.

Because, in the end, there is no destination, no Home, no place for us on this Earth, that we do not demand accept us, speak into being intentionally and unyieldingly.

I wouldn’t be just an exile, an immigrant, an Arab, a Berber, a Muslim, or a foreigner, but something more. Despite all they might do to force me back into these categories, I wouldn’t return to those places. I would strive to find in these words whatever they had of the universal, of the beautiful, of the human, of the sublime. The rest—the dark flipside of the particulars—I would leave for those starving for identity politics. I would continue to love my mother tongue, and I would see how it linked me to Arab people, to Semitic peoples, to “Muslim”, and to “Jewish.” I wanted to learn everything that had been kept from me about these people and their languages.

In just under an hour and a half, you'll make the acquaintance of one who has done precisely that.