Acknowledgments

My relationship with Nawal El Saadawi, both intellectual and personal, goes back decades. It was in 1975, while meandering through bookstores in Damascus, that I first encountered Nawal El Saadawi the novelist. I bought two of her novels at the famous Syrian bookstore, the Maktabat al-Nûrî: Mudhakkirât Tabîba (Memoirs of a woman doctor) and Imra’a ‘ind Nuqtat al-Sifr (Woman at point zero). The female heroes of those two novels installed themselves in my library and in my mind. It was a few years later, in Cairo, that I would encounter Nawal El Saadawi the person. Twenty-five Murad Street in Giza became a normal stop for me whenever I arrived in the Egyptian capital.

The seed that eventually became this book on Nawal El Saadawi planted itself in my mind, seemingly on its own, and would not go away. Every time I taught one of her novels in a course, whether in Arabic or in English, I would ask myself why I had not yet written the book. The Saadawian prose would pull on one side, the disparaging comments of friends and colleagues would pull on the other. After all, I was constantly hearing from these well-meaning good wishers, El Saadawi did not write Literature (with a capital L) but Polemics (with a capital P). The power of her prose spoke another message. It was the latter I finally chose to listen to. I would hope that the resulting study will rehabilitate Nawal El Saadawi in the minds of my discouraging friends and colleagues.

But slipping into what I knew would be unfriendly waters was a slow process: an article here, an interview there. In an article I wrote in 1983 for an Arabic monthly, I evoked the name of Nawal El Saadawi. She herself advised me in Cairo to eliminate her name for fear that my article would not appear. When I was invited in 1988 to write something for the cultural page of an Arabic daily, I proposed a review of one of her novels. The editor hemmed and hawed and kindly suggested I might wish to consider another topic. I did.

As an Arab woman, writing about an Arab feminist has meant participating in one of the most highly charged dialogues in our Arab culture. Writing a study of a living author proved to be an intense experience all its own. This exercise could not have been accomplished without Nawal El Saadawi and Sherif Hetata. Their friendship and generosity were more than I could have imagined. They opened up their home and their library to me. I will never forget that wonderful weekend spent in their home in the Egyptian countryside. Nor will I forget those intellectually stimulating evenings spent in the seminars of the Jam‘iyyat Tadâmun al-Mar’a al-‘Arabiyya (Arab Women’s Solidarity Association) in Cairo—alas, now a victim of the political process. Simply, I could not have written this book without Nawal’s and Sherif’s help. This does not mean, however, that either would agree with all that I have written here.

Many are the friends whose names are better left out but they should know that my writing this book does not mean that I did not consider long and hard their sincerely meant attempts to dissuade me from it. But many are also the friends who were encouraging. To name them all might compromise them. Nevertheless, I would like to isolate Evelyne Accad, Etel Adnan, Amel Ben Aba, Simone Fattal, Jane Marcus and Susan Napier for special thanks. I could always count on their unswerving encouragement. Not to forget Jaroslav Stetkevych and Suzanne Pinckney Stetkevych, whose general support and friendship have been a constant. Those friends and colleagues who over the years kindly provided me with forums in which I could present my ideas on Nawal El Saadawi also deserve mention: Leila Ahmed, Roger Allen, Teirab AshShareef, Halim Barakat, Sandra Bem, Ross Brann, William Brinner, Priscilla Parkhurst Ferguson, Adel Gamal, Helen Hardacre, William Hanaway, Peter Heath, Dore Levy, Jane Marcus, Piotr Michalowski, Jan Monk, Magda al-Nowaihi, Susan Slyomovics, Jeanette Wakin, Jay Wright, Farhat Ziadeh. In Bloomington, Hasan El-Shamy has been an invaluable source with his unparalleled in-depth knowledge of Arab folklore.

As with any book whose gestation is years long, this one traveled the world with me. The physical trajectory of its writing crosses continents. It would not be what it is without long and numerous residences in Cairo and other parts of the Middle East and North Africa. Nor would it be what it is without those few weeks spent in Wales thanks to the generosity of my dear friend, James Piscatori. Unbeknownst to him, he encouraged me greatly simply by his passion for El Saadawi’s fiction. The Rockefeller Foundation Bellagio Study and Conference Center on Lake Como gave the writing its impetus, with five weeks of an absolutely idyllic existence that can barely be imagined in an academic’s dream. Alberta Arthurs, Susan Garfield, Pasquale Pesce, Tomás Ybarra-Frausto, and Lynn Szwaja know how grateful I am to them. But, most of all, it was the presence at the Villa Serbelloni of other fellows who never tired of listening to descriptions of one’s research that made the once-in-a-lifetime experience just that. Andrew Billingsley, Margaret Coady, Tony Coady, Alfred Corn, Chris Corwin, Robert Ferguson, Priscilla Parkhurst Ferguson, Anne Fausto-Sterling, Eric Gamalinda, Henry Louis Gates Jr., David Iyornongo Ker, Tanya León, John Malmstead, David Rosand, Ellen Rosand, Paula Vogel, Eileen Wolpert, Julian Wolpert: the annual reunions with these, and sometimes other, Bellagini remind me how sweet can be the life of the mind.

Other friends have also inadvertently made this book happen. As a previous chair of a department, Ross Brann understood my unspoken need to temporarily escape administrative madness. He was instrumental in my being invited to be Senior Fellow at the Society for the Humanities at Cornell University. But without the help of Jonathan Culler, Dominick LaCapra, Mary Ahl, Linda Allen, Aggie Sirrine, and the wonderful staff of the Society, the all-too-short visit to the A. D. White House would never have materialized. Having Natalie Kampen in residence as a Senior Fellow at the same time was a special pleasure.

As always, I am indebted to all those longtime friends who never complain when I impose yet one more book manuscript on them. Judith Allen, Roger Allen, Michael Beard, Helen Hardacre, Susan Jeffords, Jan Johnson, Renate Wise: whether they read the entire text or part of it, I hope they know how much I count on their expertise and deep knowledge.

The enthusiasm of my friend Lynne Withey, Associate Director of the University of California Press, went beyond the call of duty. From the moment we first discussed the idea for the book until its completion, her support never waned. I consider myself lucky to have had her behind the project. Her intimate knowledge not only of the world of publishing but also of the world of Middle Eastern academic politics eliminated many of the anxieties inherent in publishing a book of this sort. The final preparation of the manuscript could not have been accomplished without the patience, good cheer, and watchful eye of Douglas Abrams Arava. At the last minute, it was my ever-helpful student assistant at Indiana University, Susan French, who came to the rescue. She never tired of running to the library on those hot and humid Bloomington summer days to check yet one more bibliographical reference.

Allen Douglas has been a guiding light that kept me on the right path. He dispelled many of the fears and hesitations—intellectual and other—that seem to set in with the writing of any book. His deep and unswerving commitment to feminism coupled with his discerning mind meant that I could count on him to be my harshest, and yet most supportive, critic.

How do I express what I felt for S. P.-T. who kept me company while I read and reread El Saadawi’s books? Her presence on or near the computer was always a great comfort. D. P.-T. picked up the tradition started by her sister. How often she sat next to the printer, staring at me, inspiring me as I wrote and rewrote the chapters! ‘A. P.-T. was always there too, especially during those pre-dawn hours, warming the computer, and at once reassuring me and making me aware that there is more to life than simply long hours of screen work. The deciphering of many of the Saadawian works could not have been done without all three of them. Their beauty, calm, and affection continue to be an inspiration.