This Time All the Heroes are Women
This novel is the first of its kind. No author has written a road novel in Turkish whose four non-Western characters are women and whose story takes place in the Middle East and North Africa (MENA or ‘the wider Middle East’ as it is sometimes referred to). This is a novel written from a feminist perspective (my compliment as someone who has been analyzing women’s travel literature and different forms of life writings for years). However, I have doubts whether such a description negatively affects the book sales in Turkey since we do not have many feminist writers left. I felt like reaching an oasis in the desert of the contemporary literature market. Can a book about independent eccentric women who like to hang out on the roads of the non-Western geographies still sell?
The major characters in the novel are extraordinary and deep. They are vulnerable inside, and as readers we have the privilege to know their ‘brokenness’ though they act tough in the story. The decision of hitting the road without a preplanned destination (except for some form of revenge plotted by Madam Lilla), the way they support each other, and sharing their most personal stories provide more than enough evidence to qualify the women as feminist characters.
The personal becomes the political and suddenly you realize that the political is mixed with the most private. For example, Maryam, who is a historian from Egypt, is doing something very revolutionary regarding her sexual life during the Tahrir Square protests. When she sums it up in one sentence at the beginning of the novel, Amira from Tunisia affirms Maryam’s story by saying “well-done, may your pleasure be great!” This response is a decisive stand against the status quo of sexual politics. Plus, Maryam abandons her baby due to “some reasons.” In fact, she entrusts the baby to a female caretaker in whom she has full confidence (there is a subtle reference to Sounds of Bananas, Temelkuran’s first novel). Eventually, as the reader, you cannot categorize Maryam as the “monster mother,” a frequent label used by the Turkish media for women who dare to desert their babies.
The title’s verbatim translation is Women Who Blow on Knots, with a poetic and mysterious resonance. However, it has a direct reference to the Surah al Falaq (Felak) in Quran. It refers to the women who are engaged in witchcraft, magic, secret plotting and seductive charm. I prefer the verb “breathe” to “blow” but the translator opted for the verb blow in English. The novel's subtitle in Turkish reads: “Çünkü bir erkek bir kadının nefesi kadar”, meaning, “because a man is only as much as a woman’s breath.” I assure you that these words will mean much more once you finish the book (I'm resisting spoilers here!) In certain geographies such as the wider Middle East (the road trip takes place) where oral traditions have been more powerful than written forms; one can literally breathe the words into people’s souls while making up stories.
From the very beginning of the novel, these non-Western women drink frequently and in generous amounts for the reasons triggered by their own feelings, out of pleasure or sorrow, not to accompany or seduce a man. In the mornings, they make coffee or find a coffeehouse before they drive further. In that sense, these characters can be reverse reminiscent of free-spirited Dean Moriarty(s) in the novel On The Road. There is poetry and music, not jazz, but legendary female Arab singers like Asmahan, Warda and Fairouz along with Amy Winehouse. However, the free-spirited female characters are also kind of lost and give in to Madam Lilla, the most powerful and oldest woman in the novel, who has a plan to execute. The rest of the gang follow her, but not without reservations and they enjoy the ride.
Keeping and enjoying one’s femininity is important in the story. Against the patriarchal, cultural and societal limitations, womanhood is highly valued (as much as the concept of sisterhood). There are many instances where the gender roles are reversed and this does not make the unusual female characters man-like (e.g., when a Bedouin turns out to be a woman). The story utilizes symbols of flowers such as jasmines and Judas flowers, and this is no Orientalist trick. Some wise women are hired by Madam Lilla to keep Judas trees alive and even bloom in the desert signaling sisterhood, solidarity and indeed femininity unspoiled by the harshness of a patriarchal system.
The sense of humor that the author exhibits throughout the story not only blocks the Orientalism, but also makes fun of it. For example, early in the novel, there is a Turkish bath scene which takes place in Tunisia, and I believe that the scene is deliberately set up to dismantle an overused women-only public space in Orientalist literature. Amira insists that the Turkish journalist and the Egyptian academic join her in a Turkish bath although both express dislike and do not want to visit it (indeed, Turkish women rarely go to hammams). Aside from a few middle-aged British tourists who are “determined to enjoy this experience so that they can have a grasp of pleasures of the East” (56), there are some upper-class local girls who mingle French words in their chat. Their conduct becomes extremely irritating for Amira who happened to know them before she left the country: “What kind of attitudes do they have? As if they are coming from Switzerland or something!” (57)These girls’ alienation from their own culture and their condescending attitude represent a different form of Orientalism which has not been widely analyzed in literature. In fact, not only the characters but the non-Western authors themselves can act like these Tunisian women, an attitude which Temelkuran carefully and deliberately avoids. This is tricky because the journey for Amira, Maryam and the anonymous journalist/narrator begins after a sexy dance performance of Madam Lilla. They then raise a toast for the future dance school that she is going to sponsor for Amira. The scene has the potential to be an Orientalist one; yet, it is not.
Another parody of Orientalism occurs in an episode where the narrator describes Libyan girls watching the movie Sex & the City 2 and crying. The narrator finds it “odd” that these girls were “watching the Arab women constructed by Hollywood” (181). In Chapter 12, where Maryam, Amira and the Turkish journalist are hosted by the Amazigh female militia leader in Libya, they perform some sort of a belly dance in their bedroom (and in not-very-fancy white night gowns!) Paradoxically, the dance that they mimic called khavagi is supposed to be a lascivious one, but the women are only mocking it, laughing very hard as the narrator says: “because there are no men around, we can parody being a woman and make fun of our bodies” (152). They decorate this silent dance (they don’t want to be caught in this absurd situation) with quotations from Albert Camus, the Myth of Sisyphus, to be specific.
On the other hand, the book exposes some vulnerabilities of these strong female characters. Readers soon discover that the women are hiding some hurtful abandonment of a mother figure in their souls. This negligence of the mother does not necessarily have to be taken in the literal sense. Thus, the ones who act like tomboys do so because of its practicality or despair. In fact, this becomes even clearer in the conversations of the women when they meet a six-year old girl named Melika in one of the houses they stay. Her energy and straightforwardness remind the women of the inner strength and creativity almost all girls enjoy at that age: “How powerful we could have been as women if our spirits remained unbroken and unhurt” (220). These lines remind me of the poem Barbie Doll by Marge Piercy. Initially, the girl in Piercy’s poem was “healthy, tested intelligent, possessed strong arms and back/ abundant sexual drive and manual dexterity,” but then, as she was growing up “She went to and fro apologizing” and “She was advised to play coy/exhorted to come on hearty/exercise, diet, smile and wheedle/Her good nature wore out like a fan belt.” Unfortunately, the destructive socialization of girls’ souls and bodies seems to be active across cultures.
If you are one of those women who would also agree to hit the road with Madam Lilla and can imagine yourself in the car with the characters on the roads to Egypt, Tunisia, Libya and Beirut, maybe you should consider Madam Lilla’s observation: “You are already thrown out of your worlds, there is no room for you in your country or family, what is more is that they are afraid of you” (134). Instead of fighting with this, why not enjoy the pleasures of the adventure called life? Why not befriend restlessness and listen to the call of the roads? It can be too late when you regret your decision to settle down, be a good girl or mother or wife. Despite its fairy-tale tone at times, the novel is full of wonderful statements uttered by wise women and goddesses. One of the most valuable ones for me was: “Do not betray your daughter and have trust in your sister.” Even if they carry Arab blood (!)This exclamation point is intentional, and because the author is extremely sensitive towards hidden racism and is well-aware of Turkish Orientalism. She displays Turkish people’s stereotypes and prejudices against Arabs and their inability and ignorance about differentiate between Arab cultures. Temelkuran exposes all these not only affectionately but also humorously.
After dealing with analysis of feminist literary works produced in different time periods, I have come to the decision that “sisterhood narratives” should only be introduced into a contemporary women’s story in an unexaggerated tone. Temelkuran has achieved it. In her book, there are references to the “repressed and fragmented women” in ourselves when we choose to settle down in one place or get married etc. We also have letters from the goddess Dido (the first Queen of Carthage, modern-day Tunisia) whose significance I won’t reveal here. There are women criticizing the Arab Spring, or convincing a cleaning lady in a hotel corridor of her daughter’s ‘good’ intentions in demonstrating in Tahrir. Wonderfully inserted and realistic details of the Arab Spring, “behind the scenes”! Yet, the male readers are not excluded. On the contrary, they are invited to smile at the secondary male characters which are constructed as clumsy, naïve, macho and totally unaware of the dynamics of the women’s worlds. With the exception of one (named after the prophet Ayyub due to his patience in love and dedication), the men are more or less caricatures of what can be observed around us. That is why I claim that Temelkuran’s readers, regardless of their gender, will be quick to smile and shake their heads as they turn the pages.
This novel reads like a road-movie so it is no wonder that Temelkuran reported in one of her interviews that she visualizes scenes in her novel as if it were a movie. However, this is no Thelma & Louise. After all, as Madam Lilla says: “The only way for us to have a voice is to write our own stories” and “not to surrender” so killing one’s self is not the solution (223). The only rebellious (but dead!) Western woman referred to in the novel is Amy Winehouse; the women listen to her songs as they cross the desert.
Because of its strong and travelling female characters, the novel challenges many clichés of Orientalist literature. I have loved travelling as a woman and I claim to be a good solo traveler. However, I have grown tired of the questions posed by the people I met on the road (as if the liberty and the means of traveling without male company is under the monopoly of American or European women). Until Women Who Blow on Knots, I have not yet read a novel or travel-fiction in which the protagonists are exclusively from non-Western countries and with Muslim backgrounds.
Madam Lilla, Maryam, Amira and the Turkish journalist are non-stereotypical and indeed uniquely constructed characters. This could potentially be the element to be focused on by literary scholars, especially in terms of analyzing representations of non-Western/Muslim female characters in novels. How many more “oppressed and sexualized” images of women can be created? Aren’t we fed up with those representations around the world? Maybe it is time to question our own images? Are you, as a brunette with a curvy figure and “cute” accent, likely to give in to the stereotypes and lie about your belly dancing skills? I highly recommend the novel to my colleagues and friends around the world who are familiar with my area of research, and thus can no longer even joke about ‘exotic women’ of the Middle East! Maybe it is time to reclaim my sense of humor thanks to Ece Temelkuran.
