By: Dr. Mamdouh Faraj Al-Nabi
Narratives Seeking Favor and Others Deconstructing Dogmas
Just a few days passed after the Algerian writer Amin Zaoui asked: Why are Arabs afraid of translating Israeli literature into their language? This question sparked varying reactions—some supporting the necessity of such an action, while others outright rejecting it, arguing against cultural normalization, even if some Arab governments see it as “beneficial.” The labels changed, and the old enemy became a friend or neighbor after religious authorities reinterpreted concepts to suit the new era. Terms like coexistence, respect for differences, interfaith dialogue, and religious tolerance emerged, serving as excuses to open the door to normalization and accept the once-closed “other,” as heads became equal and hands—both those that helped and those that harmed—became indistinguishable, as the poet of rejection, Amal Dunqul, once cried out.
Ms. Rachel
Amid this Byzantine debate, the Syrian Kurdish writer Salim Barakat, who resides in Sweden, published his novel What About the Jewish Lady Rachel? (2019) through the Arab Foundation for Studies and Publishing. This novel can be summarized as a work that sympathizes with the plight of Syrian Jews during the 1967 Six-Day War, highlighting their rejection, forced displacement, and the deprivation of their most fundamental rights, including the right to citizenship, identity, and above all, safety.
This is the novel’s central theme and the path taken by its characters, though it unfolds in a narrative void without clear purpose or direction. The author moves his characters aimlessly, offering no message to the reader. The novel lacks significant events and is dominated by excessive dialogue, trivial conversations, and overdone descriptions that render the novel bloated, reaching 566 pages. This article will provide several examples of these excesses, such as the overly detailed description of lighting a cigarette, which serves no purpose:
“He placed the cigarette between his large lips. He began to light it with a metal lighter, pressing the lid with his thumb, causing the other side to rise and spark the wick soaked in kerosene, which then ignited” (What About the Jewish Lady Rachel, p. 21).
Similarly, what is the point of the long-winded conversation between Kihat and the merchant Hamid Zanabili on Kihat’s first day at work with his father? The reader finds themselves bogged down in an explanation of the word “Tarzan,” derived from a movie character, even though Zanabili initially interrupted the conversation, angrily saying, “Those who go to the cinema should be burned” (p. 247). What is the point of the tedious dialogue between Kihat and the chicken seller (p. 75 and onwards) about the price of one chicken versus two, and the differences of a quarter lira versus two liras? There are countless other scenes that bore the reader rather than engage them.
The central focus of the novel is a Kurdish family consisting of the father, Osi, who works for the electricity company, his wife Hada, and their two sons: Kihat, the 16-year-old eldest, and Musa, the younger, aged nine. The Kurdish family lives near the Jewish neighborhood in Qamishli in the Assyrian quarter, with deep ties to the area and its residents. These connections are either through friendship, like Kihat’s relationship with his school friends—Na’im Sami, Samir Isaac, and Rahim (both Jewish), and Boghos Janik (Armenian)—or through work and business, like Kihat’s relationship with Mrs. Rachel, the butcher, and Mr. Zanabili, the merchant he works for during the holidays. There is also a romantic connection, as Kihat falls in love with Lina, the daughter of Mrs. Rachel.
Most of the events take place within the family’s home, through family conversations between the father, his wife, and their children. These discussions revolve around daily life, the impact of the Six-Day War that coincides with the beginning of the novel, and its effects on both their livelihood and the city, particularly after the spread of security and intelligence services. These services harass the citizens, especially Jews and those with identities contrary to the state’s official ideology, which only accepts one party—the Ba’ath Party, which monopolizes power. This situation leads the family to consider forming an opposition to their Jewish neighbor Katia’s family, by affiliating with several parties.
The narrative moves beyond the confines of the house to the neighborhood, through a narrative component/intermediary, which is Kihat and Musa, whether in their trips to the cinema or Kihat’s trips to school and meeting his friends, or his trips to the market where Mrs. Rahel and her butcher shop are located, or to her house where he meets her daughter Lina or works for them on Saturdays, begging them to let him be their servant to clean the house, mop, clean entrances, knead dough, and other tasks that Jews do not perform on the Sabbath. The circle of narration soon returns to the house again, as if movement begins and ends there, signaling a confined identity imposed by the dominant ideology on those different from
Cohen the Spy
Barakat, in his novel, revives a controversial character, the spy Eliyahu Cohen, who became highly influential among the senior leaders. Barakat mentions him as follows: “The Israeli spy who humiliated the Syrian ruling class before the Six-Day War with contemptuous ease… He came from Argentina, wealthy, reciting verses from the Quran, and fortified by Islamic teachings” (p. 328). However, Barakat makes a mistake by stating that Cohen was executed in 1966 after three years in Syria, serving as an advisor to the Minister of Defense. In fact, research reveals that Cohen was executed in 1965, and he was not an advisor to the minister but rather had connections with the Ba’ath Party leadership and was close to decision-making circles.
In reality, Cohen’s character, mentioned briefly in Barakat’s novel, is one of the central figures deconstructed by Jabīn in his novel The Eye of the East. Cohen appears through interrogation transcripts granted by the old lawyer Hael Yousfi to Jabīn’s protagonist. Thus, Cohen takes up considerable space in Jabīn’s narrative, as the story follows his upbringing in Alexandria, Egypt, his family’s emigration to Israel after its declaration as a state, his travels between Egypt and Israel, and even his meetings in Buenos Aires before he met former Syrian President Amin al-Hafiz in his office at the Syrian embassy. The novel tracks his journey to Syria in 1962, where he expressed a “great longing to return to his homeland, Syria, to see its kind people, and to walk its streets, hills, and plains” (The Eye of the East, p. 90). The narrative continues through his disguise under a new name, his mysterious rise among the leadership, and eventually his discovery, trial, and execution in Marjeh Square in Damascus. The novel even recounts the details of the trial, including Cohen’s objections to the court’s labeling him as a spy (p. 125).
Curiously, Jabīn presents Cohen as a hunter of Nazi fugitives in Damascus, seeking to bring them to justice, as expressed in a conversation between the protagonist and his friend, Ihad. Jabīn even portrays Cohen as a victim, depicting him as a Middle Eastern Jew sacrificed, “just like the rest of the Orientals — Jews, Muslims, and Christians. The indigenous people who are being exterminated one way or another” (The Eye of the East, p. 132).
Displacement, Sabbath, and Matzah
One of the parallels between the two works is the disappearance of Syrian Jews. Barakat’s narrator says, “Oral history will not be able to trace the facts regarding the disappearance of Jews from the city of Qamishli…” (p. 328). These disappearances were the result of pressures from the authorities, exploited by merchants. Similarly, The Eye of the East mentions a comparable compulsion, as “Christians of Damascus found their homes marked with crosses” (The Eye of the East, p. 316), referring to the notorious Christian riots, which led to forced displacement. This event was exploited by foreign powers, with “French and British ships docking on the Lebanese shores to take them away from the sectarian war.” Yet, the interventions of figures like Salim al-Attar and Emir Abdelkader protected the Christians of the Levant (p. 322), a protection that other sects in Barakat’s novel did not enjoy.
Barakat highlights Jewish customs through the character of Rachel, the butcher, and their avoidance of work on the Sabbath. This opens the door for Kihat, who offers to assist Rachel’s family with tasks prohibited on the Sabbath. Meanwhile, in The Diaries of a Jew in Damascus, Linda asks her friend to thread a needle for her, saying, “Please, I can’t do that today… It’s the Sabbath” (p. 36).
In both novels, the Jewish Sabbath serves as a gateway to romance. In Barakat’s work, it becomes a means for the protagonist to infiltrate the world of his beloved, while in Jabīn’s novel, it is a catalyst for love. Barakat also explores discussions of the Hebrew language, as seen in Lina and Kihat’s conversation about learning Hebrew. Lina notes that they don’t have Hebrew books, only the Torah at home (The Lady, pp. 341-342). Jabīn’s work also features several conversations about the Hebrew language, with Ihad mentioning that it was not used at home, stating, “It’s only a language for prayer, and Arabic is the mother tongue.”
Barakat’s novel portrays Jewish baking traditions, showing how Rachel teaches Kihat how to make dough, while in Jabīn’s novel, Jewish matzah is featured prominently, particularly in the story of the “Damascus Affair,” where Jews were accused of killing the Capuchin monk Thomas. European consulates intervened, transferring the accused to Egypt, where they were eventually pardoned.
Barakat also describes extremists who view the arts as forbidden. He references the Brotherhood’s clashes with intelligence agencies in Qamishli’s streets, a theme echoed in The Eye of the East, which depicts the extremism of Al-Qaeda and others. Jabīn’s protagonist, Abu al-Muhajir, fears an assassination attempt, possibly orchestrated by intelligence services. The novel delves into the extremist mindset, particularly in sessions where followers of Mohammad Shouq Niazi seek guidance on relations with Jews and Christians.
Questions Raised by the Texts’ Parallels
Given these clear parallels between the two texts, several questions arise: Did the publisher thoroughly review the texts, especially since Jabīn’s work was also published by the same house? Was the publisher misled by the fame of Barakat’s name, blindly accepting his work? If the roles were reversed — if Barakat’s work had paralleled that of Jabīn or a lesser-known author — how would the publisher have reacted? Would the publisher dismiss the similarities as coincidental? Furthermore, why would a renowned author like Barakat need to draw so extensively from another novel? Could it be that these overlaps emerged subconsciously without Barakat’s awareness? Or did he deliberately choose to rework the same themes addressed by Jabīn, resulting in undeniable similarities?
While Ibrahim Jabīn’s The Diaries of a Jew in Damascus and The Eye of the East seek to deconstruct the authoritarian symbols that dominated Syrian and Arab societies, Barakat’s protagonist Kihat reflects a different narrative. He appears submissive, seeking to ingratiate himself with the Jewish characters, competing with the Bedouin Nabhan for the privilege of serving them (p. 344). This unashamed approach extends to mocking the Kurdish identity, accusing Kurds of fabricating their history to claim rivers and lakes as their own. Barakat writes, “They attributed rivers and lakes of history to their race” (The Lady, p. 266). Barakat also philosophizes about the disputed region of Iskenderun, stating, “Reality attributes it to Turkey, while imagination, driven by racial sentiment, attributes it to Syria” (The Lady, p. 284).
Is Barakat’s protagonist, with his deference and mockery, a reflection of an upcoming Arab reality, one that paves the way for appeasement or normalization? Is Barakat, through his novel, subtly advocating for such a future, or is this simply a narrative of failure, as the protagonist ends up empty-handed after all?
