"My Heart Beats with Love of the Arabs": Iraqi Jews

Journal of Modern Jewish Studies

ISSN: 1472-5886 (Print) 1472-5894 (Online) Journal homepage: http://www.tandfonline.com/loi/cmjs20

"My Heart Beats with Love of the Arabs": Iraqi Jews Writing in Arabic in the Twentieth Century Reuven Snir To cite this article: Reuven Snir (2002) "My Heart Beats with Love of the Arabs": Iraqi Jews Writing in Arabic in the Twentieth Century, Journal of Modern Jewish Studies, 1:2, 182-203, DOI: 10.1080/1472588022000029406 To link to this article: https://doi.org/10.1080/1472588022000029406

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Journal of Modern Jewish Studies, Vol. 1, No. 2, 2002, 182± 203

ªMy Heart Beats with Love of the Arabsº: Iraqi Jews Writing in Arabic in the Twentieth Century Reuven Snir

Introduction Jewish writers in Arabic have only seldom been able to make a name for themselves in the history of Arabic literature under Islam. We know there were Jewish poets creating Arabic poetry in the pre-Islamic period, but once Islam appeared on the scene it is almost only in Muslim Spain in the eleventh and twelfth centuries that we find Jewish authors so at home in literary standard Arabic (fushÅa ) that they were able to achieve widespread recognition for the works theyÇ Ç wrote in Arabic.1 As ª Arabized Jewsº 2 some of them became famous in both Hebrew and Arabic, for example, Ibn al-Nagrila (Shmuel Hanagid) (993± 1056) and Ibn Gabirol (1021± 1058). A few wrote only in Arabic, such as IbraÅ hÅõ m b. Sahl al-IshbÅõ lÅ õ al-IsrÅa’ilÅõ (1208 ± 1259) who, though a Jew by birth, became famous for the panegyrics and love poems he wrote in Arabic. His works abound in quotations from the Qur’an and later he completed the shift by converting to Islam.3 We even know of a Jewish woman named Qasm Åuna who composed Arabic poetry sufficiently noteworthy to be transmitted by Arab sources.4 Still, most of the Jewish poets, when they wrote poetry, would write mainly in Hebrew, not Arabic. S. M. Stern provides the following explanation: This choice may have been conditioned by the existence of a tradition of Hebrew liturgical poetry, but the chief motive in creating poetry in Hebrew was the love of the holy tongue and the desire to clothe the most prominent expression of the new ideals of the Jewish poetry . . . in the forms of the national language. . . . They did not seek, moreover, to address themselves to the large Muslim public . . . because they considered it their function to be at the service of their own particular Jewish Society.5

It has also been argued that this was so because as Jews they were not as concerned as their fellow Muslims with adhering to the ideal of àrabiyya, that is, Arabic as the true, pure language of the Qur’an, and less motivated to invest time and effort in the task of fully mastering Classical Arabic. J. Blau says in this regard: Journal of Modern Jewish Studies ISSN 1472-5886 Print/ISSN 1472-5894 online © 2002 Taylor & Francis Ltd http://www.tandf.co.uk/journals DOI: 10.1080/147258802200002940 6

Iraqi Jews Writing in Arabic in the 20th Century

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The explanation for it is to be sought, perhaps, in the linguistic set-up of the Arabic idioms, characterized. . . . by a basic dichotomy between the analytical Middle Arabic dialects as against synthetic Classical Arabic (and Bedouin idioms). The Jews6 spoke Middle Arabic. Being much less attracted by the ideal of àrabiyya, the veritable Arabic language, than their Muslim fellow citizens, they generally attained only a limited mastery of Classical Arabic.7 Consequently, they could, at best, write some kind of Classical Arabic with Middle Arabic admixture, often only semi-Classical Middle Arabic or even some sort of classicized Middle Arabic. Being qualified only for writing in some blend of Classical and Middle Arabic, they could venture to write Arabic when composing scientific, religious, &c., tracts, but their superficial knowledge did not suffice for writing poetry. The severe tradition of Arabic poetry demanded unlimited mastery of Classical Arabic as regards vocabulary, morphology, and syntax. The bulk of Jewish authors, not spellbound, like their Muslim colleagues, by the ideal of àrabiyya, were not sufficiently interested in Classical Arabic to take pains to master this intricate language. 8

It is helpful in this regard to make a distinction between the use of language for practical purposes, such as composing scientific texts or theological polemical tracts, and that for ª non-practicalº aesthetic purposes, that is, texts in which the author gives free rein to his/her artistic imagination and expresses inner feelings and emotions. The important question then becomes what the authors themselves profess as their cultural identity and what position and role they take up in the literary system within which they create. That is, one would not expect a Jewish writer, whose inner aesthetic preferences were rooted in the spiritual values of the Jewish culture alone, to express his innermost feelings in Arabic. But it is assumed that the Arabization of the Jews in al-Andalus led at least some of them to fundamental changes in their attitude to the Arabic language, especially when we know that the Jews in al-Andalus had been speaking Arabic for generations and ª came to think in and view the world through the medium of that languageº .9 Quoting Franz Fanon who said that ª to speak a language is to take on a world, cultureº ,10 and alluding to the conception that language structures reality through pre-existent cognitive ingredients, thereby informing the experience of its speakers, R. Brann indicates that Andalusi-Jewish culture cannot be referred to only through using Arabo-Islamic terminology, Arab discursive forms and Arab modes of thought within the Jewish tradition. Rather, the literary culture of the Jews also represents their instinctive, creative refraction of the language, forms and substance of Arabo-Islamic learning in the forms of sub-cultural adaptation. Apart from their specifically religious observances, practices, beliefs, and their distinctive sense of history, [T]he Jews’ Arabization fully integrated them into the pluralistic Andalusi scene. Arabic language and culture not only surrounded the Jews in the speech and writings of their Muslim (and Christian) neighbors so as to influence them as cultural others; but also and more pertinently, Arabic was the linguistic medium central to the Andalusi-Jewish experience. Indeed, it was the agency responsible for their intellectual and social integration, which along with their full participation in the political economy of al-Andalus and their inspired attachment to the country they called Sefarad, marked them as Andalusis.11

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Since the mid-twelfth century, Jews had nowhere been as open to participation in the wider Arabic culture, and as at home in literary standard Arabic, as in Iraq in the twentieth century.12 Substituting ª Iraqº for ª al-Andulusº and ª Iraqiº for ª Andalusiº , Brann’s above quotation can be fully applied to the Iraqi Jews in the first half of the twentieth century.13 Writing in literary standard Arabic, as of the 1920s Iraqi Jews were producing literary works that quickly became part of the mainstream of modern Arabic literature and gained the recognition of Arab writers and scholars. For example, Abbas Shiblak says: The Jewish writers and artists of Iraq were in fact part of the general cultural life of the Arab east, maintaining connections and sometimes working relationship s with writers and artists in other Arab countries. Its is significant that in Iraq (unlike Lebanon, Egypt, or Tunisia, for instance) there were few, if any, Hebrew or Zionist newspapers. The works of the Iraqi Jewish intelligentsia were Arabic in essence and expression.14

From the outset, Arabic literature by Jewish Iraqis was a secular literature, inspired by a cultural vision whose most eloquent slogan was ª Religion belongs to God and the homeland to allº .15 The reality in which Jews lived and worked in Iraq was one of close symbiotic contact with the wider Arab Muslim culture and for most of them their Arab identity was uppermost ± they were ª Arab Jewsº or ª Arabs of the Jewish faithº .16 Thus, it comes as no surprise to find their works brimming with Arab patriotism and full of confidence towards a common cultural future. The first Jewish-Iraqi author to publish a book in literary standard Arabic was SalÅ õ m IshaÅ q (1877± 1949), a lawyer and translator, whose al-Thawra al-’UthmaÅ niyya Ç (The Ottoman Revolution) appeared in 1909 in Baghdad. Ishaq’s subject matter could hardly have been more emblematic: the ª Young Turksº seemed to herald a new dawn, especially as their 1908 Constitution promised full emancipation for ethnic/religious minorities. That same year saw the publication of the first issues of two newspapers that were edited by Jews, al-Zuh Åur (The Flowers) and Bayna alNahrayn (Mesopotamia). Thus, when the state of Iraq was created in the wake of the First World War, the Jews rallied as a matter of course behind the efforts to make it a state for all its citizens ± Muslims, Christians and Jews. It was a vision that had its roots in the nineteenth century, as cultural barriers between Jews and the wider Arab society had begun to crumble with the foundation in 1864 of the Alliance IsraÂelite Universelle school in Baghdad where education was predominantly secular with a tendency to Western culture.17 Jewish educational institutions soon put heavy emphasis on teaching Arabic so that the physician and writer SalmÅan DarwÅõ sh (1910 ± 1982) spoke for an entire generation of contemporary Jewish intellectuals when he wrote that in the 1920s and the 1930s Arabic language and literature had ª penetrated our very bloodstreamº 18 Not only that Arabic became, according to the writer IshaÅ q (Isaac) Bar-Moshe (b. 1927), a Ç literary work and fluent Arabic ª decisive fact of lifeº ,19 but, more than once the style of the Jews were deemed superior to the average among their Muslim and Christian counterparts.20 The Syrian writer ÀlÅõ al-TantÅawÅõ (b. 1906) even noted Ç Ç that after the excellence of the Jews in Arabic studies disturbed one school administration it was decided to integrate instruction in Arabic literature with instruction in Muslim studies. Still, this did not prevent the Jewish students from


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excelling in the new curriculum.21 The journalist and scholar NissÅõ m RajwÅan (Rejwan) (b. 1924)22 recalls these days: It was from quite an early age that I started reading Arabic books and magazines, starting with the numerous historical novels of Jorji Zaydan and the many translations-adaptations of French and English romances and novels produced by the Egyptian Lutfi al-Manfaluti and several Syrian and Lebanese literary hacks whose names I don’t recall. I was not only an avid reader but also something of bibliophile. I liked possessing and keeping what I read, and by age 14 or 15 I had built myself a sizable home library ± collected works of the best and most famous Egyptian writers, among them Taha Hussein, Ahmad Amin, Muhammad Hussein Haykal, IbrÅahÅõ m Abdel Qadir al-Mazani, Tawfiq al-Hakeem, Àbbas Mahmoud al’Aqqad and others. Also, Arabic classics like Kitab al-Aghani, Rasa’il Ikhwan al-Safa, Ibn al-Atheer’s History, The Muqaddima of Ibn Khaldun, and the collected poems of such classics as Al-Mutanabbi, Al-Ma’arri, Ibn al-Rumi and others. Bound volumes of carefully collected and kept weeklies like Al-Risala of Muhammad Hasan al-Zayyat and later his Al-Riwaya, Ahmad Amin’s Al-Thaqafa. The two leading monthlies, Al-Hilal and Al-Muqtataf, were also included.23

Drawing on Arab literary modernism and the various Western schools of literature they had become familiar with, Jewish authors began in the 1920s to write in various genres but especially poetry and the short story, and it was as short-story writers that they were to make their most significant contribution to Iraqi literature. That they were attracted to the rather new genre of the short story may well have been because of their close involvement in the changing reality of their society ± already at the turn of the century we find Arabic prose gradually developing into a powerful medium for the depiction of everyday life and the vicissitudes of ordinary people.24 First Iraqi-Jewish literary writings The emergence of the art of the short story by Iraqi Jews may illustrate their involvement in Iraqi society in those years. Like other Arab authors, Iraqi Jews wrote the short stories they began publishing in the 1920s in literary standard Arabic, including dialogues, but a strong influence of popular vernacular literature, be it Jewish or Muslim, is undeniable.25 At the same time, they were well aware of the techniques of the modern Western short story that had found their way into the experiments then being made throughout the Arab world, especially in Egypt and Iraq.26 This also meant that part of their inspiration came from the mainly English and French short stories that were available in Arabic translation. 27 One of the very first short stories published by an Iraqi Jew was Bayna AnyÅab al-Bahr (Between the Tusks of the Sea) (1924). The author uses the pseudonym of FataÅ Ç IsrÅa’Åõ l (Youth of Israel), indicating that through his communal identity he belonged to the wider fabric of Iraq’s new society.28 It was not, of course, expressive of any Jewish nationalist tendency ± Zionism was not yet in the picture in Iraq. Offering rare literary evidence for the various sources from which the first Iraqi Jewish authors drew their inspiration, Bayna AnyÅab al-Bahr is illustrative of Ç the cultural circumstances surrounding the emergence of the new genre. As this story shows, Iraqi Jewish writers were moving into ª territory which was

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relatively unknown and untroddenº .29 It is easy to find in their works the influence of popular Jewish and Muslim folk narratives.30 Furthermore, very often the role played by the narrator in the early stories is similar to that of the ancient hakawÅatÅ õ , the itinerant storyteller who used to appear in places such as Ç coffee houses and public squares and present stories inspired by hoary folk tales and legends. The largest inventory such storytellers could rely on was Alf Layla wa-Layla (A Thousand and One Nights), which was composed in a mixture of literary standard Arabic and colloquial language (’ aÅ mmiyya).31 It should be noted that until the nineteenth century Alf Layla wa-Layla was associated with public performances beloved of illiterate lower social classes, and only when it was translated into European languages and had become part of world literature, did it acquire canonical status in Arabic literature.32 The storyteller was also known as shÅa’ir al-rabÅaba (singer of the rebab; a stringed instrument with one to three strings) or, under the influence of Sufism in some Muslim (but not necessarily Arab) societies, `Åashiq (lover).33 Indeed, the narrator in Bayna AnyÅa b al-Bahr uses the Ç of all, the same techniques to which the traditional storyteller used to adhere. First story is filled with phrases and sentences that allude to a kind of storytelling narration in front of a group listeners, such as ª while it was in that condition which we mentioned aboveº , or ª if you had looked around a little then you would have seenº , or the allusion to the protagonist as ª our friendº , or the guiding question ª What did he see?º , or sentences such as ª There seemed to be sweet smile on her rosy lips, a smile whose essence you cannot realize or know its effect, esteemed reader, unless you have seen it with your own eyes, and what a difference there is between a viewer and a listener!º In addition, the story yields to what is known as ª the law of openingº which is common in the folk tales, that is, the beginning of the story is tranquil as follows: The sun was squatting on the throne of its splendour and its lights were glittering in the heart of the sky. The weather was sunny and clear and the sea was calm and serene as if it were a silk carpet covering the surface of the earth when a ship appeared, neither big nor small, proceeding slowly on the shoulders of the water like a bride on her wedding night. As for this ship, it was carrying on its back a number of those tourists who leave their homelands in order to look at God’s huge wide land and see some of his worshippers of different ideologies and varying schools. The passengers sat here and there in a scattered manner, toying with whatever they had in hand, oblivious to the whole world. There was a joker boisterously laughing, a narrator skillfully telling his stories, a secluded one reading his book, and another gazing at the view, admiring the beauties of nature which steal one’s heart and take one’s breath away.

Immediately afterward, and as frequently known from the folk tales, the narrator uses the tranquil beginning to express his world view regarding life and death: Alas, I pity you, poor man, seeing you as a bird flying in the vast space of life, at times rising, at others sinking. Sometimes you flap your wings and twitter, and sometimes you are submissive, firmly shackled with silence and reticence, while treacherous fate is lurking, aiming his arrow of deceit at you, waiting for the opportunities to hunt you when you don’t know and don’t want to know. I even see you resemble that mellow rose which opens its bosom in the morning to inhale the cool breeze of life. If nature is kind to it, it will let it complete its whole


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day until evening comes, then its bloom will fade, its leaves will die and its fragments will be dispersed on the ground. But if nature is not compassionate it will provoke a wrathful iniquitous storm against it before noon, to root it out and hurl its leaves in all directions until it turns it into scattered dust and makes it fade away.

Again, as is common in folktales, the tranquil opening scene and the delay in the narrating of the central event of the story by means of meditating on fate and its ups and downs, is disturbed by a disaster whose advance notice is given by the description of the sunset and the ª army of darknessº . Suddenly, A horrible scream burst, exploded like a bomb, rent that prevailing calm and reached the clouds: ª Fire! Fire!º The fire had broken out in one of the stoves of the ship and the flames blazed and devoured whatever came near so rapidly that the sailors stood stunned against it, and it wasn’t more than few minutes until you could see that ship turn into scattered wood floating on the surface of the water, tossed about by the waves to the right and to the left.

As we are frequently used to seeing in folk tales, the disaster is only a background for an heroic deed: a young man who is about to drown sits on a piece of wood and while rowing with his hands in order to reach the shore, he hears a whisper saying, ª Over here! Over here!º Feeling chivalrous he heads for the source of the voice and sees long hair rippling on the water and two soft hands appearing and disappearing. Only when reaching the shore, carrying on his shoulder the unconscious person, is he aware that he has just rescued a beautiful girl, ª he did not know whether this was the real moon or that which shines in the heart of the skyº . The young man stands near this beauty, thinking himself in front of one of the virgins of paradise which God promised his good worshippers, then he firmly puts his palm on his beating heart as if he wants to hold it so that it won’t fly out of his chest. And then Little by little, the girl opened her eyes like the narcissus when the east wind blows, and when she saw this young man near her she rose to her feet, trembling like a feather blown in the wind. Shyness colored her cheeks with red, a red which resembles that of a ruby, and horror tied her tongue, therefore she couldn’t say a word, so the young man approached her and said in an affectionate manner, ª Don’t be afraid, sister, of him who has just risked his life to save you from the tusks of the sea and stayed awake to watch you until this minute.º

Realizing that her salvation is due to that noble young man, the beautiful girl opens her mouth wanting to thank him but she is not able to do so, yet the young man can read in her eyes what is on her mind, so he kneels down, takes her hand, and kisses it with warmth. A love develops between the handsome young man and the girl who feels an overwhelming power occupying her thoughts, sight, heart, bosom, and each and every part of her body; she realizes the meaning of ª loveº . And according to ª the law of closingº , which is common in folk tales, the happy ending is inevitable, according to the narrator: The beautiful BadÅõ ’a loved her courageous young savior abundantly, and SalÅõ m loved BadÅõ ’a with such love that no one can know its value but he who loves. In

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Reuven Snir two weeks following that incident, the city of love was celebrating the wedding of the goddess of beauty, purity, and virtue BadÅõ ’a and her beloved noble and courageous SalÅõ m.

The events that make up the story are presented in chronological order, with continuity of action and repetitions in order to emphasize a certain element or to increase the tension of expectations. The style is concise, using first person direct speech in dialogue and rhetorical questions in order to hold the attention of the audience. The story has unity of plot, only little attention is paid to the psychology or the character of the heroes, concentrating on actions, short static descriptions and a steady flow of quick movement using strings of verbs. In addition, as in folk tales, the story contains elements of the miraculous and the descriptions are generally based on the senses of sight and hearing. Moreover, the reader can imagine the narrator as if he is standing, at the time of the narration, in front of an audience that is incapable of, or uninterested in, absorbing any intellectual or analytical presentation.34 Yet, the story is not a folk tale: it is written in the standard Arabic and contains the basic elements of the modern short story,35 such as the organization of the action and interaction of the characters into an artful pattern; it has a plot, which ª has a beginning and develops through a middle to some sort of denouement at the endº .36 In addition, as its main objective is the totality of effect, the principle of selectivity is preserved. Bayna AnyÅab al-Bahr contained several ª seedsº which would prepare the Ç ground for the next stage of the Jewish short story in Arabic. This is characterized by the various elements of the romantic school which became dominant in the Arabic literary system in the 1920s and 1930s. Prominent here are the descriptions of nature and analogies to human life which recall the writings of the Egyptians Muhammad Husayn Haykal (1988 ± 1956) and MustafÅa LutfÅõ al-Manfal ÅutÅõ Ç ± 1924), and Ç the emigrant Lebanese JubrÅan KhalÅõ l JubrÅan (1883 Ç (1876 ± 1931).37 Ç The influence of romantic Western literature Western influence on Arabic literature was especially remarkable in the field of poetry. One of the most famous anthologies of poems and lyrics in the English language, Francis Turner Palgrave’s The Golden Treasury (1861), 38 was a major inspiration for Arab poets, during the first half of the twentieth century, especially in the early stages which saw the emergence of a modernist poetic sensitivity.39 The first change in the traditional Arabic poetics came with what was described by students of modern Arabic literature as pre-romantic40 and romantic poetry in both its Eastern41 and Western branches.42 Romantic poetry, which began to deviate from the accepted classical forms43 by emphasizing personal internal experiences, had a major influence on Iraqi Jewish poets. One of the most prominent of them was MurÅad MÅ õ khaÅ ’Åõ l (1906± 1986), whose poetry was admired even by such great Iraqi poets as JamÅõ l SidqÅõ al-ZahaÅ wÅ õ Ç considered to (1863 ± 1936) and Ma’r Åuf al-RusÅafÅõ (1875 ± 1945).44 MÅõ khÅa’Åõ l is also Ç have been the first to publish a true short story in Iraq, that is, ShahÅõ d al-Watan Ç a wa-ShahÅõ dat al-Hubb (Homeland’s Martyr and Love’s Martyr).45 Well known as Ç poet for his romantic sensitivity, it was natural that the romantic traits in his art would be typical in the short stories he wrote as well.46 His al-BÅa’is (The Miserable Man)47 is a good example.


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Unlike Bayna AnyÅab al-Bahr, the narrator of al-BÅa’is provides from the start of the story the background for Ç the tragedy which is alluded to by the title. The description of nature is effectively used to give the reader a glimpse into the soul of the miserable man: The sun gathered the rays it had spread earlier over the peaks of the mountains, and all that wanders the earth and floats in the sky have calmed down. Darkness spread its ornamented scarf and he was still knocking on the doors of the people, begging for whatever would nourish his family. The roads have become empty, and the crowded city has turned into a huge cemetery with the smell of cadavers rising out of it and with different intentions and aims wrestling underneath its wings. Only the sound of his footsteps was crashing at the threshold of horrible silence.

When walking has exhausted him, he sits under a window of a house of some rich people, while despair has found its way amongst his wishes, and disappointment has settled deep down in his soul. Suddenly, he hears echoes of mirth and the ringing of glasses coming out of that house, and ª trembling like a gentle pigeon in the claws of a rapacious hawkº , he addresses his sick son in an interior monologue: Forgive me my dear son; you ± a smile on the lips of the betraying fate, and a blossoming flower in the desert of this existence. Forgive me if I could not provide you with something to allay your hunger, for I have risked the last arrow in my quiver, but destiny decided otherwise. Oh! How strong my grief will be if the lights of your overwhelming smile would fade for my coming back to you emptyhanded!! The pity for you heaving in my chest cannot be described in words, and that is why you see me praying to God for patience over the misfortune.

He has barely finished speaking when the door of the house opens and a servant steps out carrying the remains of supper, puts them in a distant corner, hurries back inside and locks the door. The miserable man gets up from his place and walks towards the food, putting in his empty bowl ª what was the dogs’ portionº and runs to his hut, longing for his son ª as the stranger longs for his home, and the old man for days of his youthº . However, the end of the story gives no hope to the hero, or better the anti-hero: on his way to the hut he sits down to take a rest, but sleep overtakes him and he sleeps. At the same time an old poor man passes by and, seeing the bowl, he eats what is there. When the miserable man opens his eyes and finds the bowl empty of what should have been in it, he looks up to the sky and finds that the stars are mocking him, so he turns his face away, crying and wailing. The romantic traits in the story, especially the social aspects of French romanticism, come to the fore in the sharp dichotomy between individual and society and in the revolt against fate as understood from the clear stance of the narrator and the implied author. The title of the story clearly echoes Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables (1862), which has been translated into Arabic under the title alBu’asÅ õ . 48 Then there is MÅ õ khaÅ ’Å õ l’s HadÅ õ th BÅa’is (A Talk of a Miserable Man),49 a Ç poetic rendition of the same topic. al-BÅ a’is reveals a further development in the art of the short story as compared with FatÅa IsrÅa’Åõ l’s story, as it consistently attempts to escape the influence of popular literature and to integrate modern elements of the art of the short story. The Arabic style in MÅ õ khaÅ ’Åõ l’s story has become more polished and avoids the tendency found in folk tales and stories influence by

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them to digress from the main theme. Concentrating on a single episode, the story introduces a limited number of characters and the central incident is selected to reveal as much as possible of the totality of the protagonist’s life and character, while details are carefully devised to have maximum significance.50 MÅ õ khaÅ ’Å õ l also combines realistic dimensions so as to heighten the misery of the poor people, preparing the ground for the next stage, that is, the realistic short story,51 as illustrated in the following sections by the writing of the poet and writer Anwar ShÅa’ul (1904 ± 1984). The realistic trend and the struggle for women’s rights Anwar Sh aÅ ’ ul was very active in the literary life of Iraq from the 1920s as a writer of poetry and prose as well as the editor of two literary journals, al-MisbÅah Ç Ç (The Lamp) and al-HÅasid (The Reaper), the most influential Iraqi literary journal Ç Ç 52 in the 1930s. Al-Mi sbÅah was published by the lawyer and member of the Iraqi Ç õ na Ç (1898 ± 1978) between the years 1924 and 1929. As its parliament SalmÅan ShÅ editor, in the first year of its publication, Anwar ShaÅ ’ul wrote under the pseudonym Ibn al-Samaw’al, an allusion to the pre-Islamic Jewish poet alÅ Samaw’al ibn Àdiy aÅ ’ , proverbial for his loyalty.53 Being confident that his religion would not pose an obstacle to his integration into Iraqi society, in December 1929 he read in the al-KaylÅanÅõ mosque in Baghdad an elegy for the deceased Iraqi leader Àbd al-Muhsin al-Sa’ d Åun. As a Jewish writer who, as many other Jewish intellectuals, lived Ç in symbiotic contact with the general Arab Muslim culture, we find striking Arabic and Iraqi patriotic motifs in ShaÅ ’ul’ s works, to the point that they blur his religious identity.54 ShaÅ ’ul’s major contribution to Iraqi literature in the 1920s and 1930s was in the field of the short story. That the journal al-HÅasid, which he owned and edited from Ç art Ç may help to explain why the Iraqi1929 to 1938, did much to promote the new Jewish short story became as much a defined genre as it was in the West: a prose narrative limited in characters and situations, concerned with a single effect; character is revealed, not developed; generally, a single aspect of personality undergoes change or is revealed as the result of conflict; and because of limited length, background is generally sketched in lightly.55 One of the first realistic short stories in Iraq was ShÅa’ul’ s Banafsaja (Violet),56 which addresses the problem of the status of women in traditional Arab society. The story, which, according to the author, was based on a case he knew from reality,57 is about an attractive and charming girl named Banafsaja, a literary Arabic translation of the French name Violette, which was very common at the time among the Jews in Iraq. The narrator describes the girl as ª one of those divine pictures that Heaven grants to the sons of the earth, to be a delight for their eyes and recreation for their soulsº . The eyes of young men circled around her rare beauty ª the way bees circle around fragrant flowersº . Described as having studied science and literature and walking the streets with her face uncovered, she falls in love with a young man but her family intends, against her will, to betroth her to a wealthy man. Nevertheless, she has decided to struggle, since she is not ª a piece of merchandise in the market to be bought and soldº . The core of the story is an ironic scene in which members of her family are gathering to decide her fate, without her presence. That gathering epitomizes the traditional conception regarding the status of woman in Iraqi society: the grandmother, the


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mother and the father are united in their position that the girl should marry their wealthy candidate who is over 40 years old, while she is only 19, just because her lover JamÅõ l, is only a clerk with no financial resources. The arguments presented by her brother, as the representative of new Iraqi generation, that she loves JamÅõ l and that the family should consider the girl’s feelings, are of no importance, since, as the grandmother says, all words of love are ª nastyº and money should come ª before anything elseº .58 The engagement is planned for the day after the gathering but the girl decides to fight back and when all is ready for the engagement she locks herself in her room and refuses to take part in the ceremony. When her father threatens to break down the door of her room she responds by saying: ª You may break down the door of the room, father, but you cannot break down the door of my heart.º As a result of her resolution, the wealthy fiancÂe leaves the house ª ashamed, staggering as if he had drunk some old wineº . As the anticipated happy end is inevitable, the narrator soon receives an invitation to the wedding of Violette and her lover and the final words of the story are ª and so love triumphed!º Employing the basic elements of the art of the short story, ShÅa’ul’s story demonstrates clearly that he was fully aware of the three qualities that make the short story unique: ª It makes a single impression on the reader, it does so by concentrating on a crisis, and it makes that crisis pivotal in a controlled plot.º 59 However, the chief purpose of the author was not poetic but to convey his social message, much as he had done in his journalistic writings,60 namely, the struggle towards changing women’s status in traditional Arab society and extending equal rights to them, including access to education ± the first area in which women gradually began making significant gains.61 In this Sh aÅ ’ ul followed in the footsteps of major poets, writers and intellectuals, especially in Egypt and Iraq, outstanding among whom was the Egyptian QÅasim AmÅõ n (1863 ± 1908), whose books TahrÅõ r al-Mar’a (The Liberation of Woman) (1899) and al-Mar’a al-JadÅõ da (The Ç New Woman) (1901) were important landmarks in the struggle for women’s rights. The novel Zaynab (1914) by the abovementioned writer, Muhammad Husayn Haykal, considered by some students of Arabic literature to be Ç the first Ç novel in Arabic, was centred around the woman as the primary victim of injustice in society.62 The Egyptian poet HÅafiz IbrÅahÅõ m (1871± 1932) dedicated poems to Ç poem he dedicated to Jam’iyyat al-Mar’a support the above struggle, such Ç as the al-JadÅ õ da (The New Woman Association) which portrays Egyptian women as inspiring men and taking part in the consolidation of the Arab nation.63 In the poem MuzÅa harat al-NisÅa’ (The Women’s Demonstration) he describes them as standing ªÇ armed with roses and sweet basilº in front of the drawn swords of the English soldiers.64 ShÅa’ ul was especially inspired by such Iraqi defenders of women’s rights as Ma’r Åuf al-RusÅafÅõ , who, in his poem al-Mar’a fÅõ al-Sharq (The Ç Woman in the East), saw an essential link between the status of woman in Arab society and the status of the Arab nation among other nations: If they [the Arabs] had left for them some honour, they would have been, thanks to that, noble, Don’t you see, they have become slaves, since as low they grew in the arms of slave girls, They attached no importance to foreign politicians’ injustice, when their women were disdained.65

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Al-RusÅafÅõ ’s compatriot JamÅõ l SidqÅõ al-ZahaÅ wÅõ ’s commitment to the struggle Ç Ç him the title ª The Woman’s Liberatorº .66 for women’s emancipation won Viewing himself as belonging to the mainstream of Arabic literature, Anwar ShÅa’ul equally saw his work as part of the struggle for the emancipation of Arab women, Muslim, Christian or Jewish. That ShaÅ ’ul treated the same topic in other stories,67 bears witness to his awareness of the urgent necessity of abandoning the traditional customs regarding marriage, and allowing Iraqi young people the freedom to be responsible on their future. Still, while social themes such as the oppression of woman by men were very frequent in ShaÅ ’ul’s literary output, the extra-literary interests, especially his drive for social betterment, did not prevent him from extensive experimentations in the art of the short story. From a literary aspect, he was among the first to lay the foundations of that art in Iraq, being himself well aware of his pioneering efforts: ª I am among the writers who tried to create the art of the story from nothing. I am like the inventor opening the road to this kind of literature.º 68 Although some scholars have expressed reservations about the quality of his literary works,69 ShÅa’ul’s realistic short stories laid the groundwork for the further development of that art in Iraq. His achievements in the field would encourage other Jewish writers to follow his example, as shown in the late 1930s and 1940s by the works of especially Shalom DarwÅõ sh (1913 ± 1997)70, and Ya’q Åub Balb Åul (b. 1920).71 Emigration and the clash of narratives Following the war in Palestine and the establishment of the State of Israel in 1948, many Iraqi Jewish poets and writers emigrated to the Jewish state,72 while a much smaller number decided to seek their future in the West.73 Only few chose to stay in Iraq. The writers who ended up in the 1950s in Israel faced very harsh material conditions and the difficulties of adapting to a new society. They underwent an ª experience of shock and uprootingº , according to Sasson Somekh (b. 1933),74 who was one of them, and in these conditions ª it became difficult to think about literatureº .75 In spite of this, many continued to write and publish their literary works in Arabic, while adhering to the poetics they had grown accustomed to in Iraq, which was suffused with English and French influence. A significant thematic change appeared in their literary work: alongside the conventional subjects which had preoccupied them in Iraq, that is, love, social and ethical problems, the status of woman, fate and its illusions, death and thoughts of life, other subjects touching on the pressing social and political circumstances of Israel in the 1950s became dominant. Furthermore, in Israel, those works written in Arabic by Jews that dealt with traditional themes, were marginal. It was precisely its preoccupation with issues of urgency that granted importance, however limited, to Jewish writing in Arabic during the 1950s. 76 However, since the 1960s, most Iraqi Jewish writers and poets have, over time, completely severed themselves from any creative literary activities. The very few who insisted on remaining true to their cultural origins and continued to write in Arabic soon realized they were working in a void, their voices lost, presumably forever, a fact regretted even today by Muslim and Christian authors as well.77 Among them we can mention two writers who began


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publishing only in the 1970s in Israel, although, their books hardly found any readership inside or outside Israel: IshaÅ q BÅar-Moshe (b. 1927)78 and SamÅ õ r Ç words epitomize that loss: Naqq aÅ sh (b. 1938).79 Naqq aÅ sh’s following I don’t exist in this country [Israel], not as a writer, a citizen nor human being. I don’t feel that I belong anywhere, not since my roots were torn from the ground [in Iraq].80

Yet the gradual demise of Arabic literature by Jews has opened a new controversy regarding the cultural preferences of Israeli society. The great dilemma which began to make itself known was whether Arab culture could be regarded as a ª correctº source of inspiration for the new Israeli culture. In this regard, the new emigrant writers from Iraq faced the dilemma of the choice of language: on the one hand, their mother tongue was Arabic, on arriving to Israel most of them even did not know Hebrew; on the other hand, the language of the new state is Hebrew, the language of Zionism, while Arabic is the language of the enemy.81 Conclusion In the 1940s, Iraqi Jews were still in no doubt that the Jewish community in Iraq would endure and prosper, as Shalom DarwÅõ sh (1913± 1997) was to put it, ª to the days of the Messiahº .82 Little did he foresee at the time that political developments in Palestine would crudely foreshorten the ª days of the Messiahº for his community. It is not farfetched to see Arabic literature by Jews as another victim of the conflict played out in Palestine. And indeed, since the early 1950s, the literature of twentieth-century Iraqi Jews produced in Arabic has almost entirely been relegated to the margins of Arabic literature. Reasons for this are not hard to come by, as political and politico-cultural reasons are mainly behind that process and behind the paucity of scholarly attention this literature has been given through the years. Although in the 1940s literary writing by Iraqi Jews gained some attention among Jewish intellectuals in Palestine,83 scholars outside Iraq since 1948 have almost totally shunned the study of that literature. The Hebrew literary establishment, as much else in Israel, follows the hegemony of Western culture and the preferences it dictates. In the Arab world it was still possible in the 1950s and early 1960s to find a few scholars dealing with IraqiJewish writing as part of Iraq’s general literary legacy, but the war of 1967 made it unlikely that Jewish literati in Baghdad would somehow be singled out for the contribution they might have made to the development of Arabic literature. Given the pariah status enforced upon Iraq today, it is sad to realize that in the 1920s and 1930s Baghdad encapsulated the possibilities for a ª newº Middle East where nationalist ideologies would have given way to cultural cooperation and religious tolerance. Only recently has academic interest in Iraqi-Jewish literature seen some revival, especially in American universities.84 If it increases, it may well show us that the demise of Iraq’s Jewish community has meant more than the loss of an alternative to the current social and cultural Israeli identity. There is no better illustration of the fate of Arabic writings by Iraqi Jews in the twentieth century than the fate of those who chose to stay in Iraq after the establishment of the State of Israel, refusing to be forced to leave the homeland

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they loved and to give up the Arab cultural values of their internal aesthetic preference, let alone their Iraqi identity. Among them was Anwar ShaÅ ’ul, the father of Iraqi-Jewish literature, who as mentioned above, began his literary activities in Iraq in the 1920s under the pseudonym Ibn al-Samaw’al. Together with other Jewish writers, such as MÅ õ r BasrÅõ (b. 1911),85 even in the 1960s and Ç 86 1960s ShÅa’ul continued in his literary activities, as well as to express his patriotism and love of Iraq. In April 1969, less than two years after the war of June 1967, ShÅa’ul participated with BasrÅõ in the Iraqi delegation to the Conference of Arab Writers held then Çin Baghdad.87 Standing before the assembly of the conference he recited a long and sad poem, echoing alSamaw’al famous words, which had been so full of hope for the Iraqi Jews in the 1920s: When a man’s honour is not defiled by baseness, Then every cloak he cloaks himself in is comely.88

In ShÅa’ul’s poem in the late 1960s, al-Samaw’al above words lost their original optimistic significance and took on an ironic, pessimistic one: My heart beats with love of the Arabs, my mouth proudly speaks their language Do not they and I share a common source? The distant past drew us together The day al-Samaw’al set in the book of faithfulness an emblem to the Arabs in al-Ablaq.89 Today we march towards glory, we together long for a happy tomorrow My childhood blossomed on the waters of the Tigris, and the days of my youth drank of the Euphrates O Homeland of Arabism, blessed be you as a shelter whose generosity shines in its streets . . . I love my previous homeland, and those who ennobled me with their love . . . Our fates have been bound together in a radiant homeland which is like water and air to us.90

MÅõ r BasrÅõ , on his part, during one of his most difficult times in Iraq, wrote the followingÇ dark verses, perhaps addressed equally to the Zionists in Israel as to the hardships he had to endure at the hands of his compatriots: What sin have I sinned in my life, for which I am so cruelly and harshly punished? Is it my struggle and my stand on the side of my Iraq and of the Tigris and the Euphrates? 91

When in the 1970s ShÅa’ ul, BasrÅõ and others finally decided that their situation had Ç become untenable and left Iraq, it was clear that another chance of Muslim± Christian± Jewish cultural coexistence in the Middle East has reached its unfortunate end.


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Appendix Violet, by Anwar ShÅa’ul If we have the right to say that God creates people according to his beautiful image, then Violet, that attractive charming girl, was one of those divine pictures that Heaven grants to the sons of the earth, to be a delight for their eyes and recreation for their souls. She was nineteen years of age with sweet looks and tender manners, ornamented with scholarly study of the principles of science and literature. This was why the eyes of young men circled around her rare beauty after she left school, the way bees circle around fragrant flowers. People talked about her moral daring when they saw her walking in the street with an uncovered face after she used to go veiled. They began waiting for opportunities to hit at her with accusations; however, their attempts were in vain, since Violet was of strong character and morality. Days and months passed during which Violet opened her heart for its corners to be enlightened by the blazing rays of love, and in a short time she became loving and beloved.

It was one o’clock in the afternoon and all the members of the family were gathered in the reception room, all except Violet, for she was alone in her room, looking upset, strolling back and forth in unbalanced steps. When she was certain no one was watching her, she took out a letter from her pocket, opened it quickly and read: My fragrant Violet! Is the upsetting news that struck me like a thunderbolt true? If what they are saying is true, then I am the most miserable of God’s creatures! How sweet was that first hour when I first saw you and how bitter, yes, how bitter, how bitter it is today! They are determined to take away the glass that we have decided to drink only together. There are many rumors saying that your family intends to betroth you to that wealthy man, despite your refusal. If that would be fulfilled, how great my misery would be!

Here the girl’s heart began to beat rapidly: I send you this short tear-stained letter reminding you of that heart whose beating you used to hear beside you. Your lover Jamil

When she had finished reading the letter she kissed it and tucked it into her pocket. She said to herself: ª How far they are from doing so. I wonder, am I a piece of merchandise in the market to be bought and sold according to their wishes? I will show them true determination.º Then she walked in stealthy steps to the room beside the reception room, where the family was gathered, and listened from behind the wall. She heard the following conversation:

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Reuven Snir The mother: Is her lover Jamil a clerk? How much money does he have? The brother: He is a clerk on the lowest rung of the ladder, and I don’t think he owns more than ten thousand rupees. The mother: Ten thousand rupees is nothing compared with the fortune our friend owns. The brother: But she loves him, mother, and he too . . . The grandmother: Oh, what are these nasty words? What do we care about love? Money? Money before anything else? Loves him? Ha ha? Did Baghdad turn into ª Londonº or ª Parisº . The brother: We are not in London or Paris but shouldn’t we consider the girl’s feelings? The father: I see you all jumped into this discussion. Know that only I will decide Violet’s destiny.

The girl moved a little in her place and said: God help us all if this destiny is to be so black. She listened and heard: The brother: They say that your wealthy friend is over forty years old. The mother: You are ignorant, my son. Forty years or more, what difference does it make as long as the man has a great deal of money. The father: You are right, and anyway the engagement will be announced tomorrow afternoon.

Here the girl’s excitement reached its peak and she yelled angrily: ª Tomorrow afternoon? Yes, tomorrow afternoon we will see who wins the battle!º The next day the house was busy, announcing the approach of the engagement, and the mother informed her daughter of her father’s will, asking her to get ready. The girl nodded silently and went to her room. The news was spread in the house that Violet had agreed after her refusal, so the efforts of the servants were doubled in making the necessary preparations to celebrate the engagement. At nine o’clock, K. arrived with a number of his friends, and the family welcomed them and served them with dishes of sweetmeats; after a while, the spiritual representative arrived to perform the engagement ceremony. It is time, so where is the betrothed girl? She is in her locked room sitting, reading the magazine al-HÅasid, indifferent to Ç Ç the fuss. ª Violet! They are calling you, come on!º She did not answer the maid’s call. ª What are you doing now? This is not the time for newspapers.º She did not answer. In a few minutes the father, the mother, the grandmother and other members of the family were talking to the girl through the room’s window, without receiving any answer from her. Meanwhile, the girl was pretending, to the best of her ability, to be calm. It made her parents angry but she did not say a single word until the father said: ª We will break down the door, do you hear?º ª You may break down the door of the room, father, but you cannot break down the door of my heart. So do what you want to because I shall not open it.º


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ª Open the door quickly; your fiancÂe is waiting here with his friends. Open, for you have scandalized us.º ª Let the honourable man go back to where he came from, because I don’t want this engagement. Let him go back!º There was a great din in the house: some were threatening, some pleading, some advising, but none of that would do any good or make the girl move a finger. An hour later K. left the girl’s house ashamed, staggering as if he had drunk some old wine. A month and a half ago I received the following invitation: The families of R. and S. are honoured to invite you to the wedding of their children Jamil and Violet, which will take place at nine o’clock on Thursday, the 15th of December, in house No . . .

And so, love triumphed . . .! (Translated by M. Awda and R. Snir) Notes and references 1. MurÅad Faraj, al-Shu’arÅa al-Yah Åud-’Arab, Cairo: al-Matba’ a al-RahmaÅ niyya, 1929; David J. Ç Ç Wasserstein, ª The language situation in al-Andalusº , in Alan Jones and Richard Hitchcock (eds), Studies on the MuwaÆ ssÆ ah and the Kharja, Reading: Ithaca Press, 1991, pp. 1± 15; Yosef Tobi, ª Hawla Ta’ththur al-Shi’r al-’IbrÅõ bi-l-Shi’r al-’ArabÅõ fÅõ al-Qur Åun alÇ WustÅaº , al-Karmil ± Studies in Arabic Language and Literature 18/19 (1997/8), pp. 285 ± 299. Ç 2. R. Brann, ª The Arabized Jewsº , in M. R. Menocal, R. P. Scheindlin and M. Sells (eds), The Cambridge History of Arabic Literature: The Literature of al-Andalus, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000, pp. 435 ± 454. 3. On IbrÅahÅõ m b. Sahl al-IshbÅõ lÅ õ al-IsrÅa’ ilÅõ and the issue of his conversion, see the introduction by IhsaÅ n ÀbbÅas to his DÅ õ wÅa n (Ibn Sahl-al-AndalusÅõ , DÅ õ wÅa n, Beirut: DÅar Ç SÅadir, 1967, especially pp. 33± 37). See also Julie Scott Meisami and Paul Starkey (eds), Ç Encyclopedia of Arabic Literature, London, and New York: Routledge, 1998, p. 367 and the bibliographical references. 4. On Qasm Åuna, see J. M. Nichols, ª The Arabic Verse of Qasm Åuna bint IsmÅa’Å õ l ibn Bagd aÅ lahº , International Journal of Middle East Studies 13 (1981), pp. 155 ± 158; J. A. Bellami, ª Qasm Åuna the Poetess: Who Was She?º , Journal of the American Oriental Society 103 (1983), pp. 423 ± 424; D. J. Wasserstein, ª Samuel Ibn NaghrÅõ la Ha-Nagid and Islamic Historiography in al-Andalusº , Al-Qantara 14 (1993), pp. 120 ± 122. Á 5. M. Lazar, Romanica et Occidentalia, Etudes DÂediÂe es aÁ la MÁemoire de Hiram Peri [Pflaum], Jerusalem: Magness Press, 1963, p. 254. 6. ª As well as Christiansº (Blau’s note). 7. ª We have in mind the active mastery of Classical Arabic; there existed of course many Jews who had a fair but passive knowledge of Classical Arabic, as borne out by the transliteration of àdab books into Hebrew letters, quotations from Arabic poetryº (Blau’s note). 8. Joshua Blau, The Emergence and Linguistic Background of Judaeo-Arabic, A Study of the Origins of Middle Arabic, Jerusalem: Ben-Zvi Institute for the Study of Jewish Communities in the East, 1981, pp. 22± 23. For a critical approach to this conception, see Rina Drori, Models and Contacts: Arabic Literature and its Impact on Medieval Jewish Culture, Leiden: Brill, 2000, pp. 173 ± 177, especially note 18. For Blau’s response, see the revised edition of his above-mentioned study, The Emergence and Linguistic Background of Judeo-Arabic, A Study of the Origins of Neo-Arabic, Jerusalem: Ben-Zvi Institute for the Study of Jewish Communities in the East, 1999, pp. 230± 239.

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9. Brann, ª The Arabized Jewsº , p. 41. 10. Frantz Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks (trans. by C. L. Markmann), New York: Grove Press, 1967, p. 38. 11. Brann, ª The Arabized Jewsº , pp. 441± 442. 12. Since the second half of the nineteenth century other Jewish communities in the Middle East and North Africa began to interact in the political, social, economic and cultural life of their countries, as a result of the processes of modernization and secularization undergone by these countries. However, only in Egypt can we find some involvement in Arabic Literature that, however, cannot be compared to what happened in Iraq: see Itzhak Bezalel, The Writing of Sephardic and Oriental Jewish Authors in Languages Other than Hebrew, Tel-Aviv: Tel Aviv University, and The Ministry of Education and Culture, pp. 279 ± 310; Shmuel Moreh, Arabic Works by Jewish Writers 1863 ± 1973, Jerusalem: Ben-Zvi Institute, 1973. On Jewish cultural and literary activity in Egypt, see Sasson Somekh, ª The participation of Egyptian Jews in modern Arabic cultureº , in Shimon Shamir (ed.), The Jewish of Egypt, Boulder, CO, and London: Westview Press, 1987, pp. 130± 140; Sasson Somekh, ª Lost voices: Jewish authors in modern Arabic literatureº , in Mark R. Cohen and Abraham L. Udovitch (eds), Jews Among Arabs: Contacts and Boundaries, Princeton, NJ: The Darwin Press, 1989, pp. 9± 14. 13. On the historical background of the Jews in Iraq from the earliest times until the twentieth century, see M. H. Mudhi, ª The origin and development of the Iraqi-Jewish short story from 1922± 1972º , PhD thesis, University of Exeter, 1988, pp. 8± 57. 14. Abbas Shiblak, The Lure of Zion ± The Case of the Iraqi Jews, London: Saqi Books, 1986, p. 28. 15. Anwar ShÅa’ul, Qissat HayÅatÅõ Fi WÅa dÅ õ al-RÅafidayn, Jerusalem: RÅabitat al-JÅamÅõ ’iyyÅõ n alÇ Ç Yah Åud al-NÅazihÅ õ n Ç min al-’IrÅ aq, 1980, pp. 119, 223; SalmÅan DarwÅõ sh, Kull Shya’ HÅa di’ fÅõ Ç al-’IyÅada, Jerusalem: RÅabitat al-JÅami’yyÅõ n al-Yah Åud al-NÅazi hÅ õ n min al-’IrÅaq, 1981, p. Ç Ç 202. 16. David Semah, ª MÅõ r BasrÅõ wa-Nahdat al-Adab al-’IrÅaqÅ õ al- Had aÅ ithº , al-Karmil ± Studies in Arabic Language and Ç Literature 10Ç (1989), pp. 88± 89; andÇ Sammi Michael’s words in Ba-Mahane, 22 March 1989, p. 23. 17. On the educational institutions of the Jews in Iraq, see FÅadil al BarÅak, al-MadÅaris alÇ Yah Åudiyya wa-l-ÅIrÅaniyya fÅõ al-’IrÅa q, Baghdad: al-DÅar al-’Arabiyya, 1985, pp. 19± 89; Mudhi, ª The origin and developmentº , pp. 35± 44; Reuvin Snir, ª Cultural changes as reflected in literature ± the beginning of the Arabic short story by Jewish authors in Iraqº [in Hebrew], Pe’amim ± Studies in Oriental Jewry 36 (1988), pp. 109 ± 113. 18. Darwish, Kull, p. 200. 19. IshÅaq BÅar-Moshe, Bayt fÅõ BaghdÅad, Jerusalem: RÅabitat al-JÅamaÅ ’iyyÅõ n al-Yah Åud alNÅaÇ zi hÅ õ n min al-’IrÅaq, 1983, p. 231. Ç 20. See Abd al-Ilah Ahmad, Nash’at al-Qissa wa-TatwwuruhÅa fÅõ al-’IrÅaq 1908± 1939, Baghdad: Ç Ç Ç Ç Matba’at ShafÅõ q, 1969, p. 242. 21. See Al-Sharq al-Awsat (London), 23 May 1984, p. 10. It should be mentioned that, in the Ç 1940s, prominent Arab Intellectuals were teaching Arabic language and literature in Jewish schools in Iraq (cf. Semah, ª MÅ õ r BasrÅõ º , p. 86; and Sammi Michael’s words in BaÇ Mahane, 22 March 1989, p. 23. 22. On RajwÅan and his work, see Abraham Ben-Yaacob, The Jews of Iraq in the Land of Israel from Ancient to Modern Times [in Hebrew], Jerusalem: Rubin Mass, 1980, p. 404; A. Alcalay (ed.), Keys to the Garden: New Israeli Writing, San Francisco, CA: City Lights Books, 1996, pp. 46± 60. RajwÅan published essays on films in The Iraq Times between June 1946 and August 1948, and, between May 1947 and August 1948, also served as the literary critic of the newspaper after the constant critic, the Jewish Elie Kedouri (1926 ± 1992), left for England to study. 23. Nissim Rejwan, Baghdad Exit: A Memoir (unpublished). I thank the author for permitting me to read the manuscript of his memoir.


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24. Mudhi, ª The origin and developmentº , pp. 94± 105. 25. Iraqi Jews had their own Iraqi vernacular, which they used in their own houses and in their daily contacts with each other, while at the same time managing to speak with their Muslim neighbours in the latter’s own colloquial Arabic. On the popular vernacular literature among the Jews in Iraq, see Snir, ª Cultural changesº , p. 109, and the bibliographical references in note 5; Reuven Snir, ª Arabic literature of Iraqi Jews ± the dynamics of the Jewish cultural system and the relationship with the Arabic cultural systemº [in Hebrew], Miqqedem Umiyyam 6 (1995), p. 263; Yitzhak Avishur, ª Mutations in the literary creation and linguistic changes among Iraqi Jews in the modern era (1750± 1950)º [in Hebrew], Miqqedem Umiyyam 6 (1995), p. 242. 26. On the influence of Egyptian literature on the crystallization of the Iraqi Jewish short story, see Ahmad, Nash’at al-Qissa, pp. 87± 88. Ç were among theÇ Ç major translators of Western literature into Arabic in 27. Jewish writers Iraq. Prominent among them were Anwar ShÅaul, (1904 ± 1984), Na’Åõ m Tuwayq (1916 ± 1989), and Y Åusuf Mikmil; see Mudhi, ª The origin and developmentº , p. 173; Snir, ª Cultural changesº , p. 120. On translated Western literature in Iraq in general, see Mudhi, ª The origin and developmentº , pp. 99± 103. 28. The story was published in two parts in al-MisbÅah, 10 April 1924, p. 6, and 17 April Ç Stories by Jewish Writers from Iraq, 1924, p. 7. See also the story in Shmuel Moreh, ÇShort Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1981, pp. 51± 55. 29. Mudhi, ª The origin and developmentº , p. 5. 30. The analysis of the literary works in the present articles and all arguments and conclusions, regarding both form and content, are based on the Arabic texts. The English quotations can hardly convey the stylistic traits and the figurative language of the original. 31. Until the nineteenth century Alf Layla wa-Layla was considered as lowbrow literature, hardly admissible into respectable households. Ibn al-NadÅõ m (d. 987), who included it in his comprehensive catalogue of books entitled al-Fihrist (The Index), describes it as ª kitÅb ghathth bÅa rid al-hadÅõ thº (a coarse book, without warmth in the telling). See Ibn alNadÅ õ m, al-Fihrist (ed. and trans. by Bayard Dodge), New York and London: Columbia University Press, 1970, p. 714; Ibn al- NadÅõ m, al-Fihrist, al Dawha: DÅar QatrÅõ ibn al FujÅa’a, 1985, p. 605. Cf. Franz Rosenthal, ª Literatureº , in Joseph Schacht and C. B. Bosworth, The Legacy of Islam, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1979, p. 322; Rana Kabbani, Europe’s Myths of Orient ± Devise and Rule, London: Macmillian, 1986, p. 23. For a general account of Alf Layla wa-Layla, see E. Littmann, ª Alf Layla wa-Laylaº , The Encyclopaedia of Islam, 1960, pp. 358 ± 364. 32. On the translations of this popular work, see ClÂement Huart, A History of Arabic Literature, Beirut: Khayats, 1966, pp. 402± 403. Antoine Galland (1646 ± 1715), who first introduced this work to European readers at the beginning of the eighteenth century did not consider it of high literary importance; see Duncan Black MacDonald, ª A bibliographical and literary study of the first appearance of the Arabian Nights in Europeº , Library Quarterly 2 (1932), p. 398. On Galland and his translation, see Kabbani, Europe’s Myths, pp. 23± 29; C. Knipp, ª The Arabian Nights in England: Galland’ s translation and its successorsº , Journal of Arabic Literature 5 (1974), pp. 44± 54. On the influence of Alf Layla wa-Layla on the Jewish writers in Iraq, see Snir, ª Cultural changesº , p. 115. 33. On storytellers in the Islamic world, see ÀlÅõ Ùqla ÀrsÅan, Al-ZawÅa hir al-Masrahiyya ’ind Ç Ç õ ’ wa-I-I’lÅan, 1983, Å al’Arab, Tripoli: al-Munsh’a al-’ Amma li-l-Nashr wa-l-TawzÅ pp. 353 ± 359; FÅar Åuq Kh Åurshid, al-Judh Åur al-Sha’biyya li-l-Masrah al-’ArabÅõ , Cairo: al-Hay’a alÇ Å Misriyya al-’ Amma li-l-KitÅab, 1991, pp. 166 ± 167; Metin And, A History of Theatre and Ç Popular Entertainment in Turkey, Ankara: Forum Yakinlari, 1963 ± 1964, pp. 28± 31; E. W. Lane, Manners and Customs of the Modern Egyptians, London: Dent, and New York: Dutton, 1954 [1908], pp. 397± 431. Sometimes the storyteller is known after the

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34. 35.

36. 37. 38.

39.

40.

41.

42.

43.

Reuven Snir narratives he relates: Ab Åu Zaydiyya, for example, means that he is a specialist in relating the adventures of Abu Zayd al-HilÅalÅõ (see Amnon Shiloah, Music in the World of Islam ± A Socio-Cultural Study, Aldershot: Scholar Press, 1995, p. 157). Axel Olrik, ª Epic laws of folk narrativeº , in Alan Dundes (ed.), The Study of Folklore, Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1965, pp. 129 ± 141. Overlooking the modernist aspects of the story Miklif Hamad Mudhi considers its content ª primitiveº and ª nothing more than a vehicle for beautiful sentences and descriptive writing which the narrative content itself did not justifyº (Mudhi, ª The origin and developmentº , p. 116). M. H. Abrams, A Glossary of Literary Terms, New York: CBS Publishing Japan, 1987, p. 176. Mudhi, ª The origin and developmentº , pp. 117, 110± 111, 134 ± 135. See Francis Turner Palgrave, The Golden Treasury, London: Dent, and New York: Dutton, 1906 [1861]. In its World’s Classics edition of 1907 it carried additional poems, while the 1928 edition included more work by contemporary poets, as was the case with The World’s Classics edition of 1941. Finally, a fifth book by John Press brought the existing four up to date (Oxford Standard Authors, 1964). The same text is used in The World’s Classics edition of 1964 (on the various editions, see Palgrave, The Golden Treasury, pp. vii± xix; Michael Stapleton, The Cambridge Guide to English Literature, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985, p. 667). Shmuel Moreh, Modern Arabic Poetry 1800 ± 1970, Leiden: Brill, p. 56; HilmÅõ BadÅõ r, alMu’aththirÅat al-Ajnabiyya fÅõ al-Adab al-’ArabÅõ al-HadÅ õ th, Cairo: DÅar al-Ma’ aÅ rif, 1982, p. Ç 152. Among the pre-romantic poets we can mention KhalÅõ l MutrÅan (1872 ± 1949) and the Ç DÅ õ wÅa n group, that is, Àbd al-RahmaÅ n ShukrÅõ (1886 ± 1958), ÀbbÅ as Mahm Åud al’ AqqaÅ d Ç adir al-M ÅazinÅõ (1890 ± 1949). On these Ç poets, see A. (1889 ± 1964), and IbrÅahÅõ m Àbd al-QÅ M. K. al-Zubaidi, ª The DÅ õ wÅan Schoolº , Journal of Arabic Literature 1 (1970), pp. 36± 48; Rubin C. Ostle, ª KhalÅõ l MutrÅan: the precursor of lyrical poetry in modern Arabicº , Ç Journal of Arabic Literature 2 (1971), pp. 116 ± 126; M. M. Badawi, A Critical Introduction to Modern Arabic Poetry, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1975, pp. 68± 114; FÅar Åuq MawÅasÅ õ , Ash’ aÅ r al-DÅõ wÅa niyyÅõ n ± Shi’r Madrasat al-DÅõ wÅa n, Jerusalem: Ministry of Education and Culture, 1995. Among the romantic Muslim poets of the East, we can mention the Egyptian Ahmad ZakÅ õ Ab Åu ShÅadÅõ (1892± 1955), IbrÅahÅ õ m NÅajÅõ (1893 ± 1953), and ÀlÅõ Mahm Åud Ç TÅah aÅ Ç (1902 ± 1949), the Tunisian Ab Åu al-Q aÅ sim al ShÅabbÅõ (1909 ± 1934), and the Sudanese alTÅ õ jÅanÅ õ Y Åusuf BashÅõ r (1910± 1937). On them and the Apollo group, see Badawi, A Critical Introduction, pp. 115± 178; Rubin Ostle, ª Romantic poetry and the tradition: the case of IbrÅahÅ õ m NÅajÅõ º , in Alan Jones (ed.), Aribicus Felix ± Luminosus Britannicus ± Essays in Honour of A. F. L. Beeston on his Eightieth Birthday, Reading: Ithaca Press, 1991, pp. 202± 212. Among the romantic poets in the West, especially the USA, we find the Christian poets JubrÅan (1883± 1931), MÅ õ khÅa’l Nu’ayma (1889 ± 1988) NasÅõ b ÀrÅõ da (1887± 1946) Åõ liyÅa Ab Åu Ç MÅadÅ õ (1889 ± 1957), and RashÅõ d Ayy Åub (1872 ± 1941). On them and the New York-based Ç al-RÅa bita al Qalamiyya, see Badawi, A Critical Introduction, pp. 179± 203. On theÇ romantic Arabic poetry in general, see Muhammad Abdul-Hai, ª Shelley and the Arabs: an essay in comparative literatureº , Journal of Arabic Literature 3 (1972), pp. 72± 89; Moreh, Modern Arabic Poetry, pp. 54± 195; Salma Khadra Jayyusi, Trends and Movements in Modern Arabic Poetry, Leiden: Brill, 1977, pp. 54± 176, 361± 474; JÅõ hÅan Safwat Ra’ Åuf, Shelly fÅõ al Adab al ’ArabÅõ fÅõ Misr, Cairo: DÅar al-Ma’ aÅ rif, 1982; J. Ç Brugman, An Introduction to the History of ModernÇ Arabic Literature in Egypt, Leiden: Brill, 1984, pp. 56± 62, 94± 204; JÅõ hÅan al-SaÅ d Åat, Athar al-Naqd al-InglÅõ zÅõ fÅõ al-NuqqÅa d alR ÅumÅa nsiyyÅõ n fÅõ Misr, Cairo: DÅar al-Ma’ aÅ rif, 1992. See also the review of the abovementioned Ra’Ç Åuf, Shelly, in al-Karmil ± Studies in Arabic Language and Literature


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8 (1987), pp. 198 ± 202. 44. MurÅad MÅ õ kh aÅ ’Å õ l, al-A’mÅa l al-Shi’riyya al-KÅamila, Tel Aviv: DÅar al Sharq, 1988, pp. 15± 17; Shmuel Moreh (ed.), MukhtÅa rÅa t min Ash’ aÅ r Yah Åud al-’IrÅaq al-HadÅ õ th, Jerusalem: AkadeÇ mon, 1982, pp. 37± 38. 45. The story was published in al-MufÅõ d, vol. 1, nos 15, 16 and 22 (March± April 1922). According to Mudhi, ª The origin and developmentº , p. 179, note 45, the pages of the story were torn from the only existing bound copy of the newspaper and no other source exists. 46. On MurÅad MÅ õ khÅa’Åõ l’s work, see Moreh, Short Stories, pp. 73± 75; Mudhi, ª The origin and developmentº , pp. 105 ± 111. 47. Published in al-Had_th 1 (1928), pp. 98± 100. See also the story in Moreh, Short Stories, pp. 76± 77. 48. On the influence of Western romantic literature on the Jews, see ShÅa’ ul, Qissat HayÅa tÅõ , Ç Ç Ç p. 68; MÅõ kh Åa’Å õ l, al-A’mÅal, pp. 26± 27. 49. MÅõ khaÅ ’Å õ l, al-A’mÅal, p. 168. 50. Abrams, Glossary, p. 177. 51. On MÅ õ kh aÅ ’Åõ l’s short stories in general, see Mudhi, ª The origin and developmentº , pp. 105± 111. 52. On Anwar ShÅa’ul’s work, see E. Marmorstein, ª Two Iraqi Jewish short story writers: a suggestion for social researchº , The Jewish Journal of Sociology 1 (1959), pp. 187± 200; Moreh, Short Stories, pp. 81± 87; Mudhi, ª The origin and developmentº , pp. 191± 230. For a list of his short stories published in newspapers and magazines, see Mudhi, ª The origin and developmentº , pp. 497± 501. 53. According to Arab ancient heritage, al-Samaw’al refused to deliver weapons that had been entrusted to him. As a consequence of this, he witnessed the murder of his own son by the Bedouin chieftain who laid siege to his castle so as to carry off the weapons, which had been left in his charge. He is commemorated in Arab history by the well-known saying ª AwfÅa min al-Samaw’alº , meaning ª more loyal thanº or ª as faithful as al-Samaw’ alº (Ahmad b. Muhammad al-MaydÅanÅ õ , Majma’al-AmthÅa l, ed. by Na’Åõ m Husayn Zarz Åur, Ç al-’Ilmiyya, 1988, pp. 441± 442. On the poet and his loyalty, Ç Beirut:Ç DÅar al-Kutub see also Meisami and Starkey, Encyclopedia of Arabic Literature, pp. 685 ± 686). 54. On the tendency among Jewish authors in Iraq to blur their religious identity to the point that we can find striking Islamic motifs in their works, see Reuven Snir, ª ’Under the patronage of Muhammad’: Islamic motifs in the poetry of Jewish writers from Iraqº [in Hebrew], in T. Alexander et al. (eds), History and Creativity in the Sephardi and Oriental Jewish Communities [in Hebrew], Jerusalem: Misgav Yerushalayim, 1994, pp. 161± 193. 55. According to Karl Beckson and Arthur Ganz, Literary Terms, London: Andre Deutsch, 1990, p. 257. 56. Anwar ShÅa’ul, al-HisÅa d al-Awwal, Baghdad: Matba’at al-Jam’iyya al-Khayriyya, 1930, Ç Ç Å pp. 9± 13. The storyÇ was first published in the magazine al-’ Alam al-’ArabÅõ , 3 February 1928, and republished in al-HisÅa d 45 (1932), p. 5. See also the story in Moreh, Short Ç Ç Stories, pp. 88± 92. For an English translation of the story, see the appendix to the present article. 57. ShÅa’ ul, al-HisÅad al-Awwal, p. 6 from the introduction. Ç factors that were behind marriage among the Jews in Iraq, see Rejwan, 58. Regarding Ç the Baghdad Exit (unpublished): ª Until the forties of this century [twentieth], the other factor that would naturally come to mind in considering these soci-economic ìntermarriages’, namely love and elopement, was hardly ever heard of.º 59. Ian Reid, The Short Story, London, and New York: Methuen, 1977, p. 54. 60. For example, ShÅa’ul, Qissat HayÅa tÅõ , pp. 155 ± 160, 171± 173. Ç the Ç Arab world in general, see Ruth Frances Woodsmall, 61. On women’s education Ç in Moslem Women Enter a New World, New York: Round Table Press, 1936, pp. 133 ± 216; Nagat al-Sanabary, ª Continuity and change in women’s education in the Arab worldº ,

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62.

63. 64. 65. 66. 67.

68. 69.

70.

71.

72. 73.

74. 75. 76.

Reuven Snir in Elizabeth Warnock Fernea (ed.), Women and the Family in the Middle East, Austin: University of Texas Press, 1985, pp. 93± 110. On women’s education in Iraq, see Wiebke Walther, ª From women’s problems to women as images in modern Iraq poetryº , Die Welt des Islams 36 (1996), pp. 219± 241, especially pp. 219 ± 222. Muhammad Husayn Haykal, Zaynab, Cairo: Maktabat ak-Nahda, 1968 [1914]. On Ç Ç Ç novel, see Àbd al-Muhsin TÅahaÅ Badr, Tatawwur al-RiwÅ Haykal and his a ya al-’Arabiyya Ç Ç pp. 322± 337; Brugman, An al-HadÅõ tha fÅõ Misr (1870 ± 1938), Cairo: DÅar al-Ma’ aÅ rif, 1983, Introduction, pp.Ç 234 ± 243; Saad Elkhadem, History of the Egyptian Novel ± Its Rise and Early Beginnings, Fredericton: York Press, pp. 26± 28; Roger Allen, Modern Arabic Literature, New York: The Ungar Publishing Company, 1987, pp. 31± 35; M. M. Badawi (ed.), Modern Arabic Literature, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992, pp. 190 ± 192, 223± 226. The novel had presumably an evident influence on Iraqi Jewish writers (see Snir, ª Cultural changesº , pp. 119, 124). For example, HÅafiz IbrÅahÅ õ m DÅ õ wÅa n, ed. by Ahmad AmÅõ n, Ahmad al-Zayn and IbrÅahÅ õ m Ç ar al-’Awda, n.d., p. 132. Ç Ç al-AbyÅarÅõ , Beirut: DÅ IbrÅahÅ õ m, DÅ õ wÅa n, pp. 87± 88. Ma’ r Åuf al-Ru safÅ õ , DÅ õ wÅa n, Beirut: DÅar al-’Awda, 1986, pp. 126 ± 127. Ç Sadok Masliyah, ª Zahawi: a Muslim pioneer of women’s liberationº , Middle Eastern Studies 32 (1996), pp. 161± 167. For example, the story entitled ª al-Hubb al-Mabt Åurº [The Broken Love], ShÅa’ul, alÇ was published for the first time in al-’ Alam Å HisÅad al-Awwal, pp. 116 ± 121. The story alÇ Ç õ , No. 1306, June 1928. ’ArabÅ Mudhi, ª The origin and developmentº , p. 307. For example, Ùmar al-TÅalib, al-Qissa al-QasÅõ ra al-HadÅõ tha fÅõ al-’IrÅaq, Mosul: Mu’assasat Ç Ç 1979,Ç pp. 40± Ç 41. Cf. Mudhi, ª The origin and DÅar al-Kutub li-l-TibÅõ ’aÇ wa-l-Nashr, developmentº , pp. 215 ± 216. On Darw_sh and his work, see E. Marmorstein, ª An Iraqi Jewish writer in the Holy Landº , The Jewish Journal of Sociology 6 (1964), pp. 91± 102; Moreh, Short Stories, pp. 111± 118; Mudhi, ª The origin and developmentº , pp. 231± 312; Shimon Ballas, ª alTawjjuh al-WaÅ qi Åõ fÅõ Qisas Shalom DarwÅõ shº , al-Karmil ± Studies in Arabic Language and Ç Ç 27± 60; Reuven Snir, ª Zionism as reflected in Arabic and Literature 10 (1989), pp. Hebrew belles lettres of Iraqi Jewryº [in Hebrew], Pe’amim ± Studies in Oriental Jewry 73 (1997), pp. 128 ± 146. For a list of his short stories published in newspapers and magazines, see Mudhi, ª The origin and developmentº , pp. 502 ± 506. On Balb Åul and his work, see Moreh, Short Stories, pp. 97± 103; Mudhi, ª The origin and developmentº , pp. 145 ± 153. Balb Åul published the first Iraqi-Jewish story which used colloquial (Islamic!) language, that is, ª S Åura Tibqa al-Aslº [True Copy]: Ya’q Åub Balb Åul, Ç aÅ rif,Ç 1938, pp.Ç 97± 103). al-Jamra al-ÅulÅa, Baghdad: Matba’at al-Ma’ Ç On the Jewish-Iraqi emigration to Israel and its causes and motives, see Mudhi, ª The origin and developmentº , pp. 58± 91. One of them is Naim Kattan (Na’Åõ m QattÅan) (b. 1928), who left Baghdad for Paris and ÇÇ then for Canada. Kattan published an autobiographical novel on his life in Iraq, Adieu babylone (MontrÂeal: Julliard, 1975), which was also published in English and Arabic translations: Farewell, Babylon, trans by S. Fischman, New York: Taplinger Publishing Å Company, 1980; WadÅa’an BÅa bil, trans. by Adam FathÅ õ ), K Èoln: Al-Kamel Verlag, 1999. On Ç Kattan and his work see al-HayÅat (London), 11 November 1994, p. 16; The Scribe 66, Ç September 1996, p. 34; E. Benson and W. Toye, The Oxford Companion to Canadian Literature, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997, pp. 588 ± 589. On Somekh and his work, see Ben-Yaacob, The Jews of Iraq, pp. 388 ± 390; Bezalel, The Writings, p. 299; Moreh & ÀbbÅasÅõ , pp. 109 ± 111. Iton 77, January ± February 1988, p. 32. On the literary activities of the Jewish-Iraqi authors in Israel in the 1950s, and the cultural trends among them, see Reuven Snir, ª `We were like those who dream’: Iraqi-


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Jewish writers in Israel in the 1950sº , Prooftexts 11 (1991), pp. 153 ± 173. 77. The Lebanese writer and critic IlyÅas Kh ÅurÅõ (Elias Khoury) (b. 1948) considers the ª Jewish-Arab voiceº a central voice in Arab culture; therefore, its loss has been a great loss for that culture (interview with Anton ShammÅas in Yediot Ahronoth, 7 Days, 15 March 2002, p. 60). 78. On IshÅaq BÅar-Moshe and his work, see Shmuel Moreh ª al-TÅaba’al-DhÅõ ti li-Qisas IshÅaq Ç Ç 236; Ç BÅar Mosheº , al-Sharq, April± May (1975), pp. 43± 58; Moreh,Ç Short Stories, pp. Ç 233± Mudhi, ª The origin and developmentº , pp. 365± 403. 79. SamÅõ r NaqqÅash and his work, see Moreh, Short Stories, pp. 251± 254; Mudhi, ª The origin and developmentº , pp. 404± 458; David Semah, ª The Iraqi novel of SamÅõ r NaqqÅashº [in Hebrew], Naharde’a 7 (1989), pp. 21± 22; Reuven Snir, ª Jewish-Muslim relations in the literature and periodicals of Iraqi Jewryº [in Hebrew], Pe’amim ± Studies in Oriental Jewry 63 (1995), pp. 32± 33. 80. Nancy E. Berg, Exile from Exile ± Israeli Writers from Iraq, Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1996, p. 3. 81. On the general issue of the interactions of Hebrew and Arabic literature, the dilemma of the language, the involvement of Iraqi-Jewish writers in these interactions, and the clash of narratives in Israel, see Reuven Snir, ª Intersecting circles between Hebrew and Arabic literatureº [in Hebrew], in Yosef Tobi (ed.), Contacts between Arabic Literature and Jewish Literature in the Middle Ages and Modern Time [in Hebrew], Tel Aviv: Afikim, 1998, pp. 177± 210. For more about the Arabic literature of Iraqi Jews, in addition to the above references, see Reuven Snir, ª Women in the Arabic belles lettres of Iraqi Jewry in the 20th centuryº [in Hebrew], Pe’amim ± Studies in Oriental Jewry 82 (2000), pp. 119± 149; Reuven Snir, ª Iraqi Jewry after 1945 ± literature, history and historiographyº [in Hebrew], Miqqedem Umiyyam 7 (2000), pp. 245± 271. 82. S. Darwish, ª Relations between communal institutions and the Hehalutz underground movement in Baghdadº [in Hebrew], in Zvi Yehuda (ed.), From Babylon to Jerusalem, Tel Aviv: Iraqi Jews’ Traditional Cultural Center, 1980, p. 83. Cf. Sammi Michael, A Handful of Fog [in Hebrew], Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 1979, p. 77. See also the poem ª FÅ õ Dhimmat alTa’rÅõ khº (For the Benefit of History) written in 1951 in Teheran by the Iraqi Jewish poet IbrÅahÅõ m Obadia (b. 1924) Sayha min ÌrÅaq al-’Ahd al-BÅa’id, Jerusalem: RÅabitat alÇ al-’ IrÅaq, 1990, pp. 61± 68. Ç JÅami’yyÅõ n al-Yah Åud al-NÅazi hÅ õ Ç n min Ç 83. See, for example, Yehushua Ben Hananya, ª Jewish writers and poets in Iraqº [in Hebrew], Hed Hamizrah, 29 September 1943, p. 12; 13 October 1943, pp. 6± 7; October 1943, p. 7; 12 November 1943, pp. 6± 7. 84. See Hebrew Studies 40 (1999), pp. 391± 394. 85. On BasrÅõ and his work, see Moreh, Short Stories, pp. 155 ± 159; Bezalel, The Writings, pp. Ç Mudhi, ª The origin and developmentº , pp. 157± 172; Shohet, The Story of an 285 ± 286; Exile, p. 124; Semah, ª MÅ õ r Ba srÅõ º , pp. 83± 122; Badawi, Modern Arabic Literature, p. 517; Ç Meisami and Starkey, Encyclopedia of Arabic Literature, p. 141. 86. See Anwar ShÅa’ ul, FÅ õ ZihÅam al-MadÅõ na, Baghdad: Sharikat al-TijÅara wa-l- TibaÅ ’ a alMahd Åuda, 1955; MÅ õ r BasrÅõ ,Ç RijÅa l wa-ZilÅa l ± Qisas wa-Suwar Qalamiyya, Baghdad:Ç Sharikat Ç ara li-l-Tib Åa’a, 1966. Ç Ç Ç Ç Ç al-TijÅ Ç 87. ShÅa’ ul, Qissat HayÅa tÅõ , pp. 120 ± 124, 270 ± 274, 225 ± 227; MÅõ r BasrÅ õ , Rihlat al’Umr min DifÅa f Ç Ç Dijla ilÅa WÅÇ aÇ dÅõ al-Thames, Jerusalem: RÅabitat al-JÅami’iyyin al-Yah ÅudÇ al-N ÅuzihÅ õ n minÇ alÇ Ç ’IrÅaq, 1991, pp. 145 ± 146. 88. Ab Åu Tamm aÅ m, al-HamÅa sa, Cairo: Muhammad ’AlÅõ Sabih, n.d., p. 36. Ç of al-Madina. Ç Ç 89. Al-Samw’al’s fortress in Taym_’, north 90. ShÅa’ ul, Qissat HayÅatÅõ , pp. 335± 336. Ç Ç Ç 91. On the events that prompted the writing of these verses, see ShÅa’ul, Qissat HayÅatÅõ , pp. 329 ± 333; BasrÅ õ , Rihlat, pp. 139± 144. For the complete poem, see MÅ õ r BaÇ Ç srÅ õ , Ç AghÅa nÅõ alÇ Åud, Jerusalem: RÅabitat al-JÅami’ yyin al-Yah Åud al-NÅazi hÅ õ nÇ min al-’IrÅaq, Hubb wa-l-Khul Ç Ç Ç 1991, pp. 149 ± 152.