As autumn sets in, the name of Bahrain rings like the mention of a pearl in the councils of the three Al-Aqiq neighborhoods. This is how Amal Al-Faran opens her fourth work, Ghawaso Al Ahqaf (Divers of the Empty Quarter), published in September 2016 by Dar Aljadawel Publishing & Distribution. Al-Aqiq, the old name for Wadi Al Dawasir in Saudi Arabia, serves as the setting of the work. It comprises three neighborhoods – Al-Hathal, Al-Fawaz, and Al-Bunyan – all descended from the founder, Mani’. With the diving season over, the divers return to Al-Ahqaf, the desert. Here, their work shifts from the sea’s depths to scaling palm trees, either for fertilization or harvest. The desert, therefore, becomes the heart of their labor, the source and end of their livelihood. Al-Faran’s portrayal of the desert in this novel is distinct from the works of Munif and Al-Koni. She offers a multifaceted perspective in each chapter, presenting the landscape from above, atop the jagged mountain, and from below, within the soft valleys. Similarly, her descriptions vary, sometimes focusing on the harsh beauty of Harmel, Ashar (calotropis), and Arar (Juniper) plants, and sometimes highlighting the life-giving Salam (Vachellia flava), Umbrella Thorn, and Panicum trees ((and always pointing out the palm trees). This exploration extends from the grand palace to the houses with their gardens, culminating at the hill of slaves.
During the diving season, the desert becomes empty, as do the homes, or the hearts of women who were forced to part with a father, a brother, or even a son. Hunger surrounds everyone all the time, and it hardly distinguishes between masters, slaves, and livestock. Unlike the ripe dates season, when everyone, overwhelmed with energy, is above or under palm trees hoarding their annual harvest. The essence of life in these neighborhoods is dates and milk. During the war seasons, where one neighborhood attacks another while the third neighborhood watches them with caution and suspicion without seeking reconciliation, however, if the torrent attacks these three neighborhoods, they will bond and become friendly, cousins and neighbors, for a while. Yet, later on they will break off that kinship and fight again until they almost annihilate each other.
The great-grandfather, Mani’ bin Hadi, single-handedly founded this island. He built a house that became the palace, planted palms that sprouted into farms, and stood firm against those who coveted his creation. But unity fractured with his sons, Fawaz, Hathal, and Bunyan, who disagreed and separated. Their land, once whole, became three distinct neighborhoods. Subsequent generations, through growing families or festering grudges, only widened this distance. Before diving, they’d gather under the sprawling Umbrella Thorn, pledging a fragile peace: no war until their return from Bahrain. Of course, such promises wouldn’t hold for everyone. A single spear or bullet, fired anywhere, could ignite an unstoppable bloodshed. Revenge, after all, is a fertile woman who keeps birthing the dead.
In the conflicts that embroiled the three neighbors, the slaves found themselves drawn into their masters’ battles. All except Ibn Quwait, the Abyssinian slave. He refused to fight in a war that held no meaning for him. This stance earned him scorn from his fellow slaves, who branded him a coward and weak. Given the situation, a murmur spread among the slaves: though Ibn Quwait might have carried himself with arrogance, he was undeniably one of them – a slave. He remained a slave, even if he hadn’t endured the horrors of the slave markets. After all, even a slave who refuses to work can only hold out for so long before succumbing to starvation and death.
However, the blood scent of Al-Aqiq is not the whole story. Fragrances of incense and sandalwood prevail in their houses, perfume and amber grace the clothes of its women, and musk lingers under their masks. In this neighborhood, love stories blossom and flourish like palm trees. The women of Al-Aqiq are seers, dreaming of unseen husbands and departed loved ones. Dance is their constant companion; age and circumstance hold no sway here. They dance within their homes and in the streets, for their men, their children, and most importantly, for themselves. They dance to ward off the nightmares that plague those bitten by animals, and even when one returns divorced, their dance drowns out the whispers of malicious gossip. Men too participate, forming lines or dancing solo – in war, to intimidate their enemies; in peace, to woo the maidens. Al-Faran meticulously details the improvised drums that take center stage on the dance floor. She doesn’t neglect even the moment when a single drum challenges the established rhythm with a counterbeat, seemingly igniting a spark that energizes not only the other drums but the dancers themselves.
There are many love stories: Amoush and Nafla, Jaber and Batla, Shafi and Nafla, Khafra and Jaber. Some are mutual, others one-sided. Lovers carry their letters, often platonic poems, to the neighborhood, reciting them for girls who demurely bow their heads, feigning shyness or disinterest. Perhaps most poignant is the story of Batla and Amoush, a great and mutual love tragically ending in divorce, no different from Batla’s forced marriage to her cousin, a marriage that led Khafra to take her place. Ironically, the marriages that endured, even if formally, were the “real” ones: Khafra and Jaber, and Faraja and Faihan to a lesser extent. Ultimately, this is neither a love story nor a war novel. It may encompass both, but it is undeniably broader.
There are about thirty characters in the work. This technique, a favorite of Al-Faran’s, indicates her original talent, previously employed in her novel Kayinat Min Tarab (Beings of Joy). Here, she has perfected this technique, even excelling by avoiding the confusion a large cast can bring in a medium-sized work. She uses surnames to spare the reader the burden of too many names, as with the character of Abu Shafi, whose real name remains unknown, just like Umm Shafi.
Al-Faran sees building characters like building houses. Some, like Roshan, are small and simple, while others, like Watheel Palace, are grand and imposing. Yet, she treats them all equally, granting them time and second chances. Shafi exemplifies this perfectly. He secretly admired the slave Jamaan’s qualities (except for his skin tone), but ultimately follows in his knightly father’s footsteps, a path his father himself walked before him, just as Mani’, the founder, started from nothing. Faihan stands in stark contrast. He actively seeks opportunities to solidify his reputation for cruelty, ensuring no one rivals him in that regard.
One of the most unforgettable characters, potentially, is Musa’aq, the head jinn of Al-Aqiq. He terrorizes caravans with sandstorms, throws children into wells, or hurls them from palm trees, snapping their necks. His simplest act is to fuel anger and hatred. Musa’aq is a mythical being whose supernatural powers many still believe in, even fearing to speak of him, neither secretly nor publicly. Alongside him is Umm Al-Afan, the female jinn who poisons flesh, causing it to fester and rot. Both she and Samir Al-Riyah are frightening creatures, though less imposing than Musa’aq. The slaves of Al-Aqiq have their own mythical protectors. Umm Al-Subyan, for instance, could strip cruel masters of their stolen rights, acting as a guardian against injustice. Jinn are a powerful presence in Al-Aqiq, as in any desert. Another terrifying force is Qashash, the unstoppable torrent. It demolishes houses and fences, uproots palm trees, and sweeps away livestock to their deaths. In its wake, it leaves behind a plague of green flies and termites.
The narrative unfolds horizontally, fragmented with alternating stories from the three neighborhoods. The narrator serves as a conduit, faithfully conveying their voices. Narration takes precedence, followed by dialogue. The language itself dances between the poetic (without indulgence) and the dominant narrative style. It’s charming, welcoming when needed, yet concise when gestures speak louder than words. At times, especially at the outset, the language can feel rugged, even harsh. The reader might need some acclimation, a few pages to adjust. After all, can one truly capture the desert with a gentle voice? However, this very language softens when it speaks of love, particularly in the conversations between a mother and daughter. Yet, as the specter of war approaches, it hardens once more, becoming as solid and unyielding as desert stones. The vast vocabulary of Al-Faran is matched by its innovative and precise expressions, with metaphors that land perfectly. Consider this description: “The council chamber of Watheel, a rectangular room, its triangular windows resembling the nostrils of small sleeping ones” (p. 18). Or this, where the sand is personified: “The sand has the traits of humans, the closest to their dwellings clings to its position, its heart is dry and its face is slippery, blown by the winds so that the nature of movement is not forgotten, it moves away from their homes and its face becomes furrowed with pebbles” (p. 41). Just as the houses of Aqiq brim with proverbs, wisdom, and poetry, so too does the novel.Amal Al-Faran paved her creative pathway at the beginning of the millennium with a collection of short stories, Wahdi Fi Al-bayt (Alone at Home), Ruhuha Al-mushumat Bih novel (Her soul is attached with him) comes next, which won the Sharjah Award for Arab Creativity 2004, followed by Kayinat Min Tarab novel (Beings of Joy). She says that writing this novel took her six years, during which almost everything changed, starting with the title to the last word and everything in between. The difficulties that she faced were writing about dancing and camels specifically, those creatures that were created for the desert or vice versa, and writing about them required a lot of strenuous efforts in reading, researching, and inquiring about it. In her next work, she hopes to write about the era before or after Ghawaso Al Ahqaf.
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