: Abdel Rahman al-Sharqawi
: Egyptian Earth
: Saqi Books
: 9780863567223
: 1
: CHF 7.50
:
: Erzählende Literatur
: English
: 288
: Wasserzeichen
: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet
: ePUB
A twelve-year old boy returns from school in Cairo to find his village torn by feuding and fear. A corrupt official has decreed that the peasants must irrigate their fields in five days instead of the customary ten - a demand that threatens to severely disrupt the life of this small community. It will take something extraordinary for the villagers to overcome the greedy ruling-class. The schoolmaster Sheikh Hassouna urges the villagers to stand together if they want to keep custody of the land they have lived on for generations. But it takes many attempts, some disastrous, others comical and touching, before they join forces against their oppressors. Egyptian Earth was first published in 1954, two years after the Egyptian revolution. An epic drama of great power, it is a masterpiece of modern Arabic literature.

Abdel Rahman al-Sharqawi (1920-1987) was a highly acclaimed writer and a pioneer of the innovative movement in Arabic poetry. Born into a peasant family in the Egyptian province of Menoufia, al-Sharqawi's first works were published while he was a student at the University of Cairo, where he graduated in 1943. Al-Sharqawi was a prominent political activist, mainly involved in the defence of democracy, social justice, religious tolerance and true faith. His novels, short stories, poetry and plays were highly regarded for their realism and commitment to social issues. His first novel, Egyptian Earth, is one of the most successful Egyptian novels ever published and was made into a popular film by the well-known director Youssef Chahine.

PART ONE


THAT WAS the summer I finished primary school. When I went home to my village, I heard a lot about Waseefa – whom I could not remember.

Usually the boys in the village would question me about Cairo. They would ask me to say a few sentences in English, or joke in English, or open an English book to show what the letters looked like. But this year they were all talking about Waseefa. We were loitering outside Sheikh Yusif’s shop; he was the grocer, and his shop was on the main road from the village to the river.

I asked the boys who this Waseefa was.

One of them, adjusting his skullcap of grey wool, murmured:

‘You mean, you’ve forgotten Waseefa, you mean Cairo’s made you forget her?’

The boys smiled, and still I could not remember her. One boy raised his eyebrows. ‘So you don’t remember Waseefa who used to jump with us into the canal, all day long, four, or was it five years ago?’

And another boy, leaning on his little mulberry stick just as the older men lean on their staffs, broke in: ‘She’s come to the boil; she came back from the town last winter.’ Then he turned to me, scratching his back, ‘You really mean you don’t remember her, my friend? Waseefa – your wife!’ And the boys burst out laughing, and I joined in the laughter, suddenly remembering all that had taken place between Waseefa and myself.

The year before I went away to school we used to bathe in the small canal near the village, all of us together, boys and girls. We used to roll in the dust and cover our faces and heads with mud, to pretend we were demons. Then we jumped into the canal and plunged into the muddy water, our shouts mingling with the cries of ducks and geese which welcomed us with flapping wings.

One day we all met by the small canal as usual, just before the time for noon prayers. Before we undressed, Waseefa challenged us:

‘For a change, let’s swim in the river.’

She knew a place which was not too deep, where we could stay within our depths. For in those days we were too small to swim in the river, though we longed to do so, like the bigger boys who could even cross it.

She alone could climb the mulberry tree and shake it, so that we could eat the fruit; she alone could make necklaces from berries; and she alone climbed Abdul Hadi’s frighteningly high sycamore, to come down with a handful of fruit, still green, for us to play with, or to eat. She would answer back any men who shouted at us when we played; if necessary she would insult them too. Therefore as soon as Waseefa proposed swimming in the river, we at once ran after her, enthusiastic to splash the water, and to dive into it like the bigger boys.

Near a deserted waterwheel we took off our clothes. It was easy to see that Waseefa was older than us, for her body already resembled that of a grown woman. None of the rest was more than eight, so we always examined Waseefa’s body with interest. She was nearly twelve, her waist was already well defined, her hips too; the lines of her body were well formed, and we boys enjoyed touching her breasts and her back.

We piled our clothes in a heap under a tree. We then went into the water, our pride wa