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April 9th, 2021 
Awake Goy This month we’ve selected Sonia Nimr’s riveting imagined historical fable, “Wondrous Journeys in Strange Lands” translated to English for the first time by Marcia Lynx Qualey. This rich tale is set in the mountains of Palestine, hundreds of years ago, inspired by the famous travel narratives of the 14th-century Moroccan traveler Ibn Battuta. The captivating adventures of our heroine, Qamr, Arabic for “moon” and her sister Shams, Arabic for “sun,” are whimsical and folkloric dreamscapes that are set familiar terrain.
Qamr tells readers about her father’s village, which suffers from isolation—and a curse. In vain, her family tries to undo it. Yet misfortune trails as they embark on daring adventures, running into pirates, kings, and kidnappers. This is a truly unique book and the kind of story you’ll want to binge.
Use promo code: BookClub and receive a 10% discount from Interlink.
WONDROUS JOURNEYS IN STRANGE LANDS
bySonia Nimr, translated by Marcia Lynx Qualey
224 pp. Interlink Books. $15.
Copyright © 2021 Interlink Books.”The Curse,” is the first chapter of “Wondrous Journeys in Strange Lands,” by Sonia Nimr and translated by Marcia Lynx Qualey for Interlink Books. This excerpt is reprinted with permission.
And so it was that my mother went into labor while sitting astride the donkey that was carrying her from the city to our village. My father had to halt the caravan and pitch a small tent at the foot of the mountain. In that long-ago tent, my mother bore twins: my sister Shams, or “Sun,” and me, Qamar, or “Moon.”
It was a difficult birth. If it weren’t for the quick-wittedness of our servant, Aisha, and the instructions my mother gave despite her condition, she would have died bringing my sister and me into the world. For seven days, she stayed in that tent at the foot of the mountain, before managing to continue on the hardest part of their journey: the climb up the mountain.
That summer was searing hot, and travel was almost suicide. But it was the only time of year when the wide valley surrounding the mountain could safely be crossed by those who wanted to reach our village. My father had left his nameless village in the north of Palestine nearly four years before, thinking he would never return. Yet fate had other plans.
My father’s village was a tiny, remote hamlet perched high on the mountain, and its people lived by farming and sheep herding. Once each year, the men of the village went down the mountain to the city, traveling on foot or by donkey for two days to reach it. There, they would sell their produce of cheese, fruit, and olives, and their leather hides, and they would buy what they needed of clothes, tools, and sometimes even books. In the city, the men would also learn news of the past year, like the name of their country’s latest ruler, and other talk. Since only the adult men from our village went down to the city, none of the women knew what this city looked like, or how to reach it.
“The Village,” as the people who lived there called “The Village,” as the people who lived there called it, was so isolated that no one knew of its existence, except for a few of the merchants who traded with the villagers. No one ever visited there. The men made their journey in the summer, when the wide valley surrounding the mountain dried out. For the rest of the year, the village was isolated by the waters that filled the valley below.
All the people in the village were relatives, born of one original family. The story went like this.
Sheikh Saad, the village’s first elder, had fled the south of Palestine hundreds of years ago. He had murdered a man, and he feared revenge from the man’s family. So, Sheikh Saad wandered with his family for a long time, until he had a dream. In it he saw an enormous tree with leaves that were always green, throwing their broad shade over a mountain. So, he traveled north, searching until he found that tree. There, on the mountain, he built his house—and the village.
Over the years, the village established its own laws and beliefs, created and enforced by the Council of Elders. The villagers believed that if anyone left there to live somewhere far away, it would bring a curse onto the village, dragging misfortune and ruin in its wake. They also believed that, if a stranger were to come into the village, they would bring catastrophe, perhaps leaving them cursed for all time. So, marriage to men outside the village was forbidden—although, since women weren’t allowed to leave, marriage to an outsider was impossible anyway!
In the village, only boys were allowed to learn to read. Girls were barred from education and denied books for fear that books would corrupt them.
And yet, despite all the strict laws and extreme caution, a curse befell the village.
Life in the village went on like this for many years. Laws took root and grew more and more complex, such that no one even dared to think of staying in the city for more than the two sanctioned weeks. Certainly, no one dared marry outside the village. Neither did the women think of learning, nor did the girls think of playing. And no one dared raise their eyes to meet the gazes of the village’s long-bearded elders, who were its absolute rulers. If one of the elders passed by on the road, the men would stop working. They would look down, staring at the ground until the elder had passed.
As for the women, whether they worked out in the fields or stayed at home, they were not allowed to take a single honest look at the elders, but instead had to be satisfied—or even happy—that the only reason they might be allowed in the elders’ presence was during an appearance before the court. That was where they would end up if their husband filed a complaint against them. In these cases, the elders’ rulings were harsh. Either they would order that the woman be beaten in the village square, or they’d order her to be locked up in a house with other guilty wives. The woman might stay there for several months, depending on the severity of the accusation.
The House of Shamed Wives was a small, one-room shack at the edge of the village, with neither windows nor light. There, a woman would live on dry bread and water until the end of her sentence. Then, she’d have to promise not to raise her head in front of her husband, nor speak to him, unless she had been spoken to first.
One day, a man named Suleiman fled the village and did not return. The men of the village said that Suleiman loved a girl from the city who, they claimed, was a jinn. It was she who had possessed his mind and made him commit this crime. The curse began with his departure, and the Village Elders could do nothing about it.
It was a great and disastrous curse. For fifty years, the village women gave birth only to male children. Even the sheep gave birth only to males. And, as the youngest woman in the village grew older and older, fear crept into the men’s hearts. The population of women dwindled, and men began to shake their heads when they learned that their wives had given birth to a boy. The elders forbade the traditional celebrations for a male birth. The women craved girls, and they had their boys wear girls’ clothes and grow out their hair.
Despite many attempts, the healers failed to discover a solution, and all the special prayers did not help. No, despite all the sacrifices of slaughtered calves, the curse still hung over the village. And yet, even with this disaster, the Council of Elders still forbade men from marrying outside the village, believing that if they could catch Suleiman the fugitive and offer him as a sacrifice, the curse would be lifted. His family continued to search for him. But what none of them knew was that, just a few months after he’d arrived in the city, Suleiman had died of a mysterious illness.
My father, Saeed, was the youngest boy in the village. When boys reached the age of thirteen, it was the men’s custom each year to take them to the city as an initiation into manhood. So, my father Saeed went with his father, his uncle, and the rest of the village men down the mountain. And from the moment my father saw the city, he couldn’t stop thinking about it! The first thing that struck him was its size. Then he was dazzled by its colors, since the village was dominated by shades of brown and black in all their variations, if it was even possible to vary them. The elders had long forbidden the use of bright colors as too flashy and extravagant, and they had imposed brown and black as a sign of pious modesty. But in the city, colors danced before Saeed’s eyes in the shimmering sun: reds, greens, pinks, yellows, blues, and golds. And then there was the market! Never before in his life had he seen so many people and shops—for clothing and wares and scents and books! The men stayed in the khan. The khan was itself a wonder: a huge, two-floor rectangular building, with an enormous yard in the middle. Travelers would shelter their animals downstairs, and the khan’s attendants would take care of them, while the travelers lodged in the rooms upstairs. There were also many shops and craft corners in and around the yard. For Saeed, the khan contained a whole world within its walls.
In the city he saw shops that specialized in selling books, and he was amazed to see so many of them together in one place. Compared to this, even the village library looked like a single shelf. There were books on shelves, books on the floor, books in boxes stacked one on top of another—a mountain of books!
When they arrived at the market, Saeed asked his father for permission to buy books. His father explained that no one was allowed to buy books that hadn’t been selected by the Council of Elders. Anyone found with a book that wasn’t approved by the Council would face a heavy penalty. Saeed stood in front of the bookshops, in dazed surprise, wishing he could stay there for a hundred years so he could read all these masterpieces.
He snuck into one shop and glanced around. There, he found a book with a reddish cover, emblazoned with the image of a colorful bird. Written on the cover in beautiful calligraphy was the title: Wondrous Journeys in Strange Lands. He opened it and began to flip through the pages. On every page, he discovered colorful photographs, maps, and the names of cities and countries of which he had never heard. Pictures of birds and animals seared his imagination.
My father stood for a long time, contemplating the book’s pictures and its beautiful form, without noticing that the shop owner was watching him. Suddenly, he was startled by the man’s voice, asking if he’d like to buy this book. Saeed apologized and returned the book to its place without shifting his gaze. When the shopkeeper tried to tempt him to buy it, Saeed explained that he couldn’t bring it to his village. The shopkeeper realized that my father came from “that village” and invited him to visit every day during his stay, so he could read as many books as possible.
The next day, the village men dispersed. Some went to exchange goods, while others went to search for a doctor, a magician, or even a sorcerer to help lift the village curse. The rest split up to seek out news of Suleiman, meeting each evening at the khan.
This gave Saeed a golden chance, and he hurried to the bookshop. It was open, but he stopped when he saw no sign of the shopkeeper. Then he heard a soft voice, asking if he was in search of a particular book. Saeed looked up. There was a girl his age, lovely and slender, as if she were from a dream. She said she was the daughter of the bookshop owner, who had gone to pray at the mosque, and she was watching the store until he returned.
Saeed stood in front of her without understanding a thing the girl said. He was stunned and sweaty. Never in his life had he seen a girl like her—well, no! Never in his life had he seen any girl at all. His mother was the youngest woman in the village. What’s more, the village’s women covered their whole bodies. Even their heads were swathed in black wraps, while this girl had a bare face and head. She said her name was Jawaher and that she loved books. Saeed was stunned by this wonder of wonders—women who were not forbidden to read!
He asked if she had read all the books in the shop, and she laughed and said she’d tried. She gestured to the book with the red cover, saying it was her favorite, and that she loved it because it transported her to distant lands and new cities, to people of different colors and shapes and customs.
Saeed sat on the floor and listened to Jawaher talk about the book and about her wish to travel someday to all these lands and places. Saeed’s nerves calmed a little, and he began to shower her with questions about the city, and the life there, and whether there were public places to bathe, and whether the ruling prince was really married to ten women—a thousand and one questions. Jawaher asked him about his village and its people, its customs and laws.
The two weeks passed in the blink of an eye, and Saeed came to say goodbye to the bookshop owner and his daughter. As he walked away from them, heartsick, Jawaher called out. She came to him and handed him the book Wondrous Journeys, saying it was a gift. He couldn’t refuse, so he hid the book in the folds of his clothes. He knew he would never forget this visit, and it would remain forever printed on his mind and heart. As he hurried away, he touched the book—the book that would bring him and my mother together once more, and the only book I would carry with me when I left his village forever.
The men returned from the city laden with goods, tools, and clothes. They were also laden with disappointment, as they’d failed to discover anything about Suleiman, or to find a way to lift the village curse. But as for Saeed, he had left his heart and mind in the city, and he returned with a magical book in the folds of his clothes. From that moment, he was seized with an obsessive desire to return both to the city and to Jawaher, who had captured his imagination and filled the whole of his being with love.
And so, my father decided to leave the village for the city. What he didn’t know was that his departure would be the cause of a journey full of obstacles and misery. Nor did he know that his journey would end in the very village he’d left.
Seven years passed, and he turned twenty. At last, he was old enough to return to the city alongside the men, with the red book back in the folds of his clothes and a plan lodged in his mind. His heart raced ahead of him to the city, while his feet stopped when he reached the front of the bookshop.
Jawaher greeted him, and his heart froze. She had grown into a beautiful woman! He stood in front of her, as beaded with sweat as he had been at their first meeting. Then he sat down to resume their conversation, as though it had not been years since he was last here. He took the book out from his clothes to return it, but she refused—it was a gift.
Saeed told the bookshop owner about his plan to stay in the city, and the man welcomed it, offering Saeed a job working alongside him, selling books. And with that, Saeed disappeared.
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