By Nawal El Saadawi
This is the 1st quantity of the autobiography of Nawal El Saadawi, giving an emotionally shattering, yet splendidly lyrical, portrait of her formative years in a distant Egyptian village -- the adolescence that produced the liberty fighter. She describes vividly the tradition of where and time into which she used to be born and in addition her intuitive -- and encouraging -- wish to go beyond the limitations pressured upon her as a result of her gender. From the very begin, escaping the take hold of of attainable marriage on the age of ten, we see how she moulded her personal inventive energy right into a weapon and the way using phrases grew to become an act of uprising opposed to injustice, prime first to her profession as a doctor and eventually to her iconic prestige as a novelist and political activist.
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Additional info for A Daughter of Isis: The Early Life of Nawal El Saadawi: The Autobiography of Nawal El Saadawi
She waited until his body was buried under the earth, rose to her feet, heated a big tin full of water, performed her ablutions and knelt in thanks to Allah for ridding her of her husband. She had become a widow at the age of twentyeight. She tied a black kerchief around her head, and swore that until the day she died she would let no man come near her again. Since her wedding night, she had hated all men, or since even before that, four years prior to her wedding night, when she was still a child only six years old and the daya Um Mahmoud came to their home.
Then she got hold of a razor, whetted it so sharp on a stone that it cut through me like a flame. I said to myself, it’s all over with you Mabrouka, this is the end. I lay on the mat, the blood gushing out of me like from a tap. My mother recited the Fatiha three times for my soul as though I would die any minute. But after a few days God gave me a helping hand and I got up as full of life as the devil. You see, daughter of my son, girls have seven lives, like cats. But boys are not like girls.
Whenever it rang out in the air, my aunt Ni’mat’s face went pale, and the lips of Aunt Fahima curled in scorn. Over my mother’s face floated a misty sadness. Grandmother Amna would cease her muttering, the prayer beads circling between her fingers would come to a sudden stop, and her eyes became fixed, their colour changing to that of muddy stagnant water. They went so dark that not a gleam of light looked out of them. ’ I began to realize that the third person referred to by ‘Him’ meant God, and that all the calamities which had befallen this house had come from God.