Market Thoughts, a history essay
Now Playing: Fiction; essay for history class
Topic: Wonder Years - College
ESSAY # 1 HIST 80C, BURKE
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL COMPARISONS
I have decided to do something a bit different [though, apparently not all that different, as I used this technique a few times in college – ew] with this assignment: I am writing a short story based upon the three biographical essays dealing with the women in Middle Eastern society, and added my own experience of living with an Arabic [Tunisian, actually – ew] family for a year’s time in Tunisia.
Market Thoughts
“Allah-u akbar; allaaaaaaaah-u akbar…”
The day’s third athan, the call to prayer rang, out over the minaret’s loudspeaker as people throughout the city prepared their sacred carpets and situated themselves so that they faced the Holy City, Mecca. Heads were covered with pieces of cloth and the prostration process began. Precisely choreographed movements brought most of the population together in a near silent peace, the murmuring of the barely audible prayer escaping the lips of thousands.
Mouna Karoui finished in cadence with those around her. She had just begun her second semester at the University of Carthage, one of the most prestigious schools in Tunisia (as well as being one of the most difficult schools to be accepted into) in a country where only fifteen percent of high school students graduated by passing the national baccalaureate. She was proud of herself for having gotten in, as she had been the top of her class.
She walked towards the souk, contemplating how little prayer had changed since it had been first instituted close to fifteen hundred years before, and how millions of people shared that same moment of peace five times daily. She thought of her favorite cousin, Bouchra in Yemen (who had to perform the prayer either alone or with other women), and the next time they would be able to see each other. It would be a while, as Mouna had her studies and Bouchra had her husband to take care of.
Along with the prayer, another thing that hadn’t changed after many centuries were the medinas. These were the labyrinthine old cities where the souks were based. Straw baskets dangling from her arm, she neared the medina’s ancient stone walls, slipping with practiced ease into the ant-like swarm of bodies that flowed in and out of the main entrance. Slabs of meat suspended from various doorways as flies meandered from butcher shop to butcher shop; produce brought in from farms that morning were on display throughout the marketplace, a rainbow of fruits, vegetables, and spices carpeting the stone pathways.
Merchants came in unannounced for one day, one week, one month, then disappeared into the trade routes once again. In the souk, all was for sale: anything was obtainable if the price was right. That was how Fatima, Mouna’s great-great grandmother, had come to Tunis. She had been bought in Egypt, then travelled here with her master. Once they had settled, Fatima bore Zebdine Ben-Ali, a son who was to become the onl surviving heir of a modest estate.
Mouna reflected upon Fatima’s life, an ancestor who had lived to see the birth of a great-great grandchild. Fatima had been the child of a poor farming family along the banks of the Nile, the youngest of six. The family was essentially ignorant in the ways of the city and the upper classes, as they had no contact with such prestige.
A drought of two year struck the region, followed by an illness that almost killed Fatima’s father. There had been no choice but to sell Fatima to a passing slaver, and thus she was taken to Cairo, never to see her family again.
She was taken, taught the rudimentary social skills that would befit a servant, then quickly sold to Ben-Ali. Fatima was one of two slaves, plus Ben-Ali’s legal wife; it was they who instructed Fatima in the ways of social behavior, domestic requirements, internal and external relations, as well as housekeeping skills.
She rarely left these other women, and when she did it was always in the company of Ben-Ali, his brothers or his cousins. The traditional veil was required, even when just stepping out to visit the servants of the neighbor. The slave girl was in no way displeasing to Ben-Ali, and when she was thirty-three, she bore him the last of his children. The law was, as she understood it, that when Ben -Ali died, she would be as free as her newborn son.
Fatima dutifully performed for her master, never doubting nor contradicting his wisdom, always showing support and consoling him when each of his other six children died their tragic deaths. She had helped to rear them, and they were as her children as well.
As time passed, Ben-Ali was called away form home more and more, his business growing. The more he was away, the more his wives were called upon to help run his textile business, and he was not averse to letting them do so. Times were changing so that women were less stigmatized when doing such things, and he wasn’t one to argue with this change. Fatima and the others were left to their own devices, and, due to Fatima’s penchant for economics, the business prospered even more.
As her son, Ezzidine, grew, he helped and learned what it was to be a merchant. At times he would stay at home, learning what his mothers had to teach. Other times he travelled, meeting his father’s companions and making connections that would be necessary when he took over the business. When the time came, he married into a family that was respectable enough to creat decent ties, but not wealthy enough to create a vast and powerful new fortune. He would make a fine replacement for his father.
World War One came and took the life of Ben-Ali while Ezzidine was fighting for his country’s freedom, a freedom that would not come for another thirty years. The night Ben-Ali was murdered while defending his home from malicious Italian soldiersFatima was raped and left for dead. The other servants, including Ben-Ali’s wife, were killed, as was Ezzidine’s young son. It was Ezzidine’s wife who found Fatima and nursed her back to health, though she would carry with her a limp where a soldier had broken her leg when she had tried to run.
Two children rushed past Mouna, breaking her reverie. They were engaged ina game where the object was to see how long each could keep an old steel hoop rolling upright using only a stick to guide and push it. She smiled as they laughed and yelled out “Sama’hni” to excuse themselves, and she remembered that she was there to buy her food for the day. She picked upa tomato and tested its ripeness.
Mouna reflected upon how many times while fasting during Ramadan she had been told the story of her grandmother’s grandmother, and about how many times she would probably tell it to her own children. Mouna’s life had been a good one up until now, if different than Fatima’s/ Times, indeed, were changing, and not even Ben-Ali would have been able to guess at how much so. Within in each of the Arabic-speaking lands there existed a synthesis of cultures so diverse that conflict would be the expected norm, the default setting. Conflict there was, but it was more subtle and subdued than was shown in the pages of history.
Mouna had been brought up to appreciate where she stood in life, to be proud of her heritage and culture. She understood the qu’aran’s effect on people, on the truth it showed, coupled with a tolerance and wisdom few could argue with.
But there were those who did argue, and she was learning more about the Western societies in her classes. She, like Fatima, enjoyed the subtleties of economics, but Mouna’s goal was to get involved in the banking industry, not shopkeeping.
Mouna’s skirt was cut in a slightly risqué manner just above the knee, and some of the elder women of the market, wrapped in their white sifsari, looked on in disdain. There were few who went veiled any longer, due to ex-president Bourgiba’s changes, though those few were growing as religious factions grew stronger.
Another change that came into realization was the fact that women could not be slaves. Also, these days there was one wife per husband (not including the difficult prospect of divorce), and women had some say in the matter of who they would marry. Mouna also realized that she had voted in the last election, choosing her great-great grandfather’s namesake for president. This type of universal sufferage had been unheard of a mere two generations before.
“Salam alikum, Mouna. Shniyya-whelik; lebes?” Peace be with you, Mouna. How are you, fine, I hope?
“Alikum salam, Tarek. Ay, lebe, wenti?” And with you, peace, Tarek. I am good, and you?
Mouna hadn’t seen Tarek in about a week, and she was excited to see him again. That had been her main reason for making the trip to the market today, for she only saw him in public places. They chastely kissed each other on the cheeks, as always. She wondered if her parents would approve of him. Oh well, if not…
From the TA: Your novel approach to illustrate further the situations of Shemsigul and Bibi Maryam within society is successful. The relation of the biographies to your story are clearly established, but never explored more fully. Your paper could have been improved by the critical examination of the possibilities for female agency in the texts. This, then, could have been used in your story. Nevertheless, the paper is good overall.
I don’t remember the essays this was based on – I will try to hunt them down and cite my sources; my bibliography page is the only one missing from this piece. I believe that one is Shemsigul: A Circassian Slave in Mid-Nineteenth-Century Cairo by Ehud R. Toledano and the other is Bibi Maryam: A Bakhtiyari Tribal Woman by Julie Oehler, but I am not positive. If anyone out there knows, please feel free to correct me. -earthwulf
Topic: Wonder Years - College
ESSAY # 1 HIST 80C, BURKE
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL COMPARISONS
I have decided to do something a bit different [though, apparently not all that different, as I used this technique a few times in college – ew] with this assignment: I am writing a short story based upon the three biographical essays dealing with the women in Middle Eastern society, and added my own experience of living with an Arabic [Tunisian, actually – ew] family for a year’s time in Tunisia.
Market Thoughts
“Allah-u akbar; allaaaaaaaah-u akbar…”
The day’s third athan, the call to prayer rang, out over the minaret’s loudspeaker as people throughout the city prepared their sacred carpets and situated themselves so that they faced the Holy City, Mecca. Heads were covered with pieces of cloth and the prostration process began. Precisely choreographed movements brought most of the population together in a near silent peace, the murmuring of the barely audible prayer escaping the lips of thousands.
Mouna Karoui finished in cadence with those around her. She had just begun her second semester at the University of Carthage, one of the most prestigious schools in Tunisia (as well as being one of the most difficult schools to be accepted into) in a country where only fifteen percent of high school students graduated by passing the national baccalaureate. She was proud of herself for having gotten in, as she had been the top of her class.
She walked towards the souk, contemplating how little prayer had changed since it had been first instituted close to fifteen hundred years before, and how millions of people shared that same moment of peace five times daily. She thought of her favorite cousin, Bouchra in Yemen (who had to perform the prayer either alone or with other women), and the next time they would be able to see each other. It would be a while, as Mouna had her studies and Bouchra had her husband to take care of.
Along with the prayer, another thing that hadn’t changed after many centuries were the medinas. These were the labyrinthine old cities where the souks were based. Straw baskets dangling from her arm, she neared the medina’s ancient stone walls, slipping with practiced ease into the ant-like swarm of bodies that flowed in and out of the main entrance. Slabs of meat suspended from various doorways as flies meandered from butcher shop to butcher shop; produce brought in from farms that morning were on display throughout the marketplace, a rainbow of fruits, vegetables, and spices carpeting the stone pathways.
Merchants came in unannounced for one day, one week, one month, then disappeared into the trade routes once again. In the souk, all was for sale: anything was obtainable if the price was right. That was how Fatima, Mouna’s great-great grandmother, had come to Tunis. She had been bought in Egypt, then travelled here with her master. Once they had settled, Fatima bore Zebdine Ben-Ali, a son who was to become the onl surviving heir of a modest estate.
Mouna reflected upon Fatima’s life, an ancestor who had lived to see the birth of a great-great grandchild. Fatima had been the child of a poor farming family along the banks of the Nile, the youngest of six. The family was essentially ignorant in the ways of the city and the upper classes, as they had no contact with such prestige.
A drought of two year struck the region, followed by an illness that almost killed Fatima’s father. There had been no choice but to sell Fatima to a passing slaver, and thus she was taken to Cairo, never to see her family again.
She was taken, taught the rudimentary social skills that would befit a servant, then quickly sold to Ben-Ali. Fatima was one of two slaves, plus Ben-Ali’s legal wife; it was they who instructed Fatima in the ways of social behavior, domestic requirements, internal and external relations, as well as housekeeping skills.
She rarely left these other women, and when she did it was always in the company of Ben-Ali, his brothers or his cousins. The traditional veil was required, even when just stepping out to visit the servants of the neighbor. The slave girl was in no way displeasing to Ben-Ali, and when she was thirty-three, she bore him the last of his children. The law was, as she understood it, that when Ben -Ali died, she would be as free as her newborn son.
Fatima dutifully performed for her master, never doubting nor contradicting his wisdom, always showing support and consoling him when each of his other six children died their tragic deaths. She had helped to rear them, and they were as her children as well.
As time passed, Ben-Ali was called away form home more and more, his business growing. The more he was away, the more his wives were called upon to help run his textile business, and he was not averse to letting them do so. Times were changing so that women were less stigmatized when doing such things, and he wasn’t one to argue with this change. Fatima and the others were left to their own devices, and, due to Fatima’s penchant for economics, the business prospered even more.
As her son, Ezzidine, grew, he helped and learned what it was to be a merchant. At times he would stay at home, learning what his mothers had to teach. Other times he travelled, meeting his father’s companions and making connections that would be necessary when he took over the business. When the time came, he married into a family that was respectable enough to creat decent ties, but not wealthy enough to create a vast and powerful new fortune. He would make a fine replacement for his father.
World War One came and took the life of Ben-Ali while Ezzidine was fighting for his country’s freedom, a freedom that would not come for another thirty years. The night Ben-Ali was murdered while defending his home from malicious Italian soldiersFatima was raped and left for dead. The other servants, including Ben-Ali’s wife, were killed, as was Ezzidine’s young son. It was Ezzidine’s wife who found Fatima and nursed her back to health, though she would carry with her a limp where a soldier had broken her leg when she had tried to run.
Two children rushed past Mouna, breaking her reverie. They were engaged ina game where the object was to see how long each could keep an old steel hoop rolling upright using only a stick to guide and push it. She smiled as they laughed and yelled out “Sama’hni” to excuse themselves, and she remembered that she was there to buy her food for the day. She picked upa tomato and tested its ripeness.
Mouna reflected upon how many times while fasting during Ramadan she had been told the story of her grandmother’s grandmother, and about how many times she would probably tell it to her own children. Mouna’s life had been a good one up until now, if different than Fatima’s/ Times, indeed, were changing, and not even Ben-Ali would have been able to guess at how much so. Within in each of the Arabic-speaking lands there existed a synthesis of cultures so diverse that conflict would be the expected norm, the default setting. Conflict there was, but it was more subtle and subdued than was shown in the pages of history.
Mouna had been brought up to appreciate where she stood in life, to be proud of her heritage and culture. She understood the qu’aran’s effect on people, on the truth it showed, coupled with a tolerance and wisdom few could argue with.
But there were those who did argue, and she was learning more about the Western societies in her classes. She, like Fatima, enjoyed the subtleties of economics, but Mouna’s goal was to get involved in the banking industry, not shopkeeping.
Mouna’s skirt was cut in a slightly risqué manner just above the knee, and some of the elder women of the market, wrapped in their white sifsari, looked on in disdain. There were few who went veiled any longer, due to ex-president Bourgiba’s changes, though those few were growing as religious factions grew stronger.
Another change that came into realization was the fact that women could not be slaves. Also, these days there was one wife per husband (not including the difficult prospect of divorce), and women had some say in the matter of who they would marry. Mouna also realized that she had voted in the last election, choosing her great-great grandfather’s namesake for president. This type of universal sufferage had been unheard of a mere two generations before.
“Salam alikum, Mouna. Shniyya-whelik; lebes?” Peace be with you, Mouna. How are you, fine, I hope?
“Alikum salam, Tarek. Ay, lebe, wenti?” And with you, peace, Tarek. I am good, and you?
Mouna hadn’t seen Tarek in about a week, and she was excited to see him again. That had been her main reason for making the trip to the market today, for she only saw him in public places. They chastely kissed each other on the cheeks, as always. She wondered if her parents would approve of him. Oh well, if not…
From the TA: Your novel approach to illustrate further the situations of Shemsigul and Bibi Maryam within society is successful. The relation of the biographies to your story are clearly established, but never explored more fully. Your paper could have been improved by the critical examination of the possibilities for female agency in the texts. This, then, could have been used in your story. Nevertheless, the paper is good overall.
I don’t remember the essays this was based on – I will try to hunt them down and cite my sources; my bibliography page is the only one missing from this piece. I believe that one is Shemsigul: A Circassian Slave in Mid-Nineteenth-Century Cairo by Ehud R. Toledano and the other is Bibi Maryam: A Bakhtiyari Tribal Woman by Julie Oehler, but I am not positive. If anyone out there knows, please feel free to correct me. -earthwulf
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