Mona Ibrahim Ali
Mona Ibrahim Ali is a Professor in the English Department at Cairo University. She obtained both her Masters and PhD degrees in American literature. She has publications on translation: theory and practice, travel literature, women’s writing and post-colonial literatures. She is the Director of the Centre for Humanities and Interdisciplinary Studies, Cairo University, and is a member of the Board of Trustees of the New Woman Foundation. She is the editor-in-chief of Tiba, the theoretical magazine of the New Woman Foundation. She is also a writer, storyteller and a member of the ‘I am the Story (Ana el-Hekkayya)’ storytelling group.
'I Am the Story'
I agree with Joanna that we need to ‘challenge things which may seem very normal and accepted’ and that we need to change attitudes and values that perceive violence as being just the ‘norm’. In using storytelling we can create new narratives that offer both women and men models beyond what they view as ‘normal’, and open up alternative ways of being.
Through its different activities, 'I Am the Story' presents aninteractive model of empowerment and combating violence against girls and women. Training participants of both sexes to read the cultural heritage of the Egyptian society (whether it's oral or written) from a critical gender-sensitive perspective helps them realise the roots of the problem of violence against women. These roots are usually represented within widespread cultural materials in the form of stereotyping the roles of men and women in the society, putting women at a lower status than men and treating them in this cultural heritage as sex objects or simply objects, which renders violence against girls and women acceptable and sometimes even encouraged.
Unlike other conceptions of empowerment, 'I Am the Story' also allows the space for empowering discourses to be locally developed and not imposed by external players. Conceptualizing empowerment through creative materials is a special focus for 'I Am the Story', as it works on empowering women and girls through a gender-sensitive and artistic production of knowledge. Training participants to use art, represented by storytelling, to express themselves helps to give voice to the participants and to boost their self esteem and their ability to communicate their feelings and experiences. The following story is one example of the stories produced in our storytelling workshops:
A Cloth Doll
By Soha Raafat
When Fatma’s father entered the country house at sunset, Fatma’s mother was sitting on the wooden bench, and still crying. The father’s sympathetic yet angry gaze had become so familiar to the mother. The father said in a compassionate voice: 'You have been crying for over a week, woman. Aren’t you going to stop it? Do I have to repeat what I have been saying over and over?'
Fatma’s mother looked at him while sniffing and said: 'This is not fair… You are a pious man and you have visited the Ka’ba in Mecca. You are aware that Fatma is our only daughter… I cannot believe that you could be so cruel to her.'
The father lost his temper this time and shouted: 'These have always been our traditions and our legacy from our ancestors. Do you want our people to look down on me? I am Fatma’s father and I know what is best for her or do you want her to stay with you for the rest of her life in this house? If I listen to you, no man in this country would ever be interested in her. Come on, go and prepare dinner for me. I want to pray, eat my dinner and sleep immediately. Stop nagging me.'
When Fatma’s mother went to the kitchen, Fatma stood behind the door of her room watching her father praying. She was trying to understand anything about the catastrophe about to happen. She did not hear anything except the voice of her father asking God for forgiveness. When she got tired, she went inside her room, hugged her cloth doll and started talking and asking the doll questions about her fears until she fell asleep in a small corner of the bed and her little back was stuck to the cold stone wall.
The following day, early in the morning, Fatma saw her mother heating the water in order to bathe her. After the bath, the mother combed Fatma’s hair, pulled and interweaved it into two braids that remained hung up in the air as they were strongly stretched from the roots. 'Aiy ! Aiy ! Ahhhhhhhhh … My hair, mom, please unwind my braids a little mom, please mom let go…' But Fatma’s mother was speechless, her eyes were staring nowhere.
Suddenly, Fatma’s mother heard someone knocking on the door. She was stunned and ran to open the door quickly. The fat woman 'Om Badawy' stepped inside the house and said in her buzzing voice: 'How are you Om Fatma? Where is our little bride?' When she saw Fatma standing in the corner trembling of fear and the winter cold after the hot bath, she laughed and her gold tooth shone in the narrow sun beam that passed through the window of the big dim hall. She lifted and opened her grey stained cloth bag and brought out a small, sharp knife and a bag of cotton and a small bottle filled with red water, the colour of blood!! And then she laughed said to Fatma’s mother: 'Come on Haja Adeela, hold the little bride and tighten your grip on her. Don’t be afraid… I am very skillful and all children have a very short memory. Hope I come again soon to your place on her wedding day, if God wills.'
Fatma stared at the sharp blade in the hand of Om Badawy and hugged her cloth doll strongly. The shiver of fear ran through her body from the top of her head to the tips of her toes and her tight braids hung higher up in the air. Fatma tried to escape, but, like what happens in nightmares, her legs were heavy and would not move.
When her mother caught her clothes, Fatma resisted with all her being, kicked strongly in the air with both legs and arms over and over until she got extremely tired and then fainted while holding her cloth doll firmly. Her mother and Om Badawy carried her unconscious to bed.
Fatma’s loud scream brought her back to consciousness and shook her weak body like an earthquake shaking the earth. The colour of red blood was spread on her galabia (dress) and marked the face of her cloth doll. The following day, in spite of her pain, Fatma rose up from bed and put her doll inside her wardrobe… She did not utter a single word, as if nothing had happened.
Fatma’s mother and father were ready for the aftermath… They waited for Fatma to speak about the pain in order to cheer her up or bring her some sweets or a molasses lollipop from the grocery shop. But, Fatma did not say anything and did not cry….. Weird!! Maybe Om Badawy was right when she said that 'Children have a short memory!'
One week later, Fatma went to school and when she heard Aisha telling the girls about Om Badawy during the break, Fatma left the girls and walked away. As soon as she reached home, she walked directly to the wardrobe, had a look at her cloth doll with the stain of blood on its face, kissed the bleeding scar and locked the doll inside the wardrobe again.
Many years later, a year before Fatma was due to complete her high school education, a suitor came to her father to ask for Fatma’s hand. He was the type of suitor that everybody in the country admired, a pious and wealthy man. Fatma heard her father saying to her mother: 'Why do we have to wait for Fatma to finish school? I am Fatma’s father and I know what is best for her or do you want her to stay with you for the rest of her life. If I listen to you, no man in this country would ever be interested in her. Come on, go and prepare dinner for me. I want to pray, eat my dinner and sleep immediately. Stop nagging me.'
Fatma ran to the wardrobe, brought out her doll with the blood mark on its face, looking as if it was the fresh blood of a new bleeding scar. Fatma stood opposite her father and said with a steady challenging voice: 'Dad… there is no bride to be in this house. I am not going to get married now.' And before the father opened his mouth to speak, Fatma threw the cloth doll with the fresh blood mark in his lap and went inside her room, leaving the father in his complete bewilderment.
What happened before would never happen again to Fatma. Now, she knows quite well what she could do if anybody tries to hold her back once more.
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