I Suffered, I Learned, I Changed: Exploring Personal Transformation Through the Lens of Alaa Al-Aswany's Experiences
This article examines the meaning of "I suffered, I learned, I changed" through the experiences and insights of prominent Egyptian writer Alaa Al-Aswany. By exploring his life story, particularly his relationship with his father, we can gain a deeper understanding of how suffering can lead to learning and ultimately, personal transformation.
Alaa Al-Aswany: A Multifaceted Figure
Alaa al-Aswany is a prominent Egyptian writer with a broad array of interests and accomplishments. He is a dentist by profession, a bestselling novelist, and a political dissident who played a vital role in the Egyptian revolution of 2011. Al-Aswany’s novels have been translated into more than 30 languages and his columns have appeared in international publications including the New York Times, the Guardian, the Financial Times, Le Monde and Deutsche Welle’s Arabic news site. A writer with a passion for reading world literature in the original language, he’s fluent in French, English, Arabic and Spanish.
His novel, The Yacoubian Building, published in 2002, established al-Aswany’s reputation as one of Egypt’s most celebrated and popular novelist. It resonated with the public for interesting reasons, perhaps providing a focused physical setting for Egyptians to look back self-critically and ask themselves who are we, what have we become. The novel sold out in four days and was subsequently made into a hugely popular film starring one of Egypt’s most famous comedians and actors Adel Imam. The Yacoubian Building has been translated into more than 35 languages, including English. Al-Aswany’s most recent novel The Republic or “As if” in Arabic revolves around the events of the Egyptian Revolution in 2011. We eagerly await the English translation. There are compelling reasons to engage with al-Aswany’s life story, political writings and literary works.
The Influence of a Father: A Moral Compass
Al-Aswany often spoke of his father with warm affection and enduring reverence. He puts me at ease with a combination of old world charm and Egyptian hospitality. Alaa speaks of Egypt during the 1960s, a turbulent era in the country’s modern history.
Alaa sat back in his chair and proclaimed, “My father was a school.” He repeated the Arabic word madrasa for emphasis. Madrasa: The word has acquired negative connotations in the West. It is often associated with strict Islamic schools that enforce orthodoxy and indoctrinate children through the rote memorization of sacred texts. It becomes possible to see and recognize a different kind of moral education that occurred beyond the power of religious authorities and within the confines of a private home.
Read also: Making Sound Driving Choices
Tolerance and Acceptance
“My father was a very liberal man. He wasn’t religious. He never fasted. But my mother-she was a religious woman. She fasted during Ramadan but she never blamed him for not fasting. He didn’t eat lunch during the day out of respect for my mother. He’d wait for us to break the fast and then we’d eat together. That’s tenderness. Two people who are very different loved each other and allowed each other to be different. Tolerance wasn’t an abstraction. I lived tolerance at home. I was never forced to fast. My mother never blamed me. It was my choice. Sometimes I did and sometimes I didn’t. This anecdote embodies the Qur’anic principle that there is no coercion in religion just as it demonstrates the diversity of religious views or practices within families. The practice of home based tolerance, of course, allowed him as a child to act as a free agent in matters of religion.
Dignity and Respect for All
Al-Aswany told me other stories that highlighted his father’s sensitivity. “My mother wanted the house to be impeccable. She had a passion for cleanliness. We always had servants in the house. One of them happened to be a young girl. She was around my age. That suited me just fine since I was an only child. We became friends. There was a natural camaraderie between us. My mother always bought her expensive clothes, high quality clothes that were practically indistinguishable from what we wore. My mother did this because she was a practicing Muslim and my father approved because he was a committed socialist.
“I remember we were once invited to a friend’s house for sham al-nasim (a national Egyptian holiday marking the beginning of Spring). It was a day-long affair. I think the spring celebration was being held at a famous friend’s house. He was a close friend of my father’s. Somebody had mistaken the little servant girl for my sister. My mother was about to reveal her true identity. Father quickly intervened. He threw mother a knowing glance, urging her to spare the young child any unnecessary pain or indignity. That day the guests lavished the young girl with delicious chocolates and affectionate kisses. It was like a fleeting dream, a rare moment snatched from her daily chores. Father didn’t want to spoil it for her. Once we got home the little girl glanced at my father with pleading eyes. She wanted to keep the chocolates that had made sham al-nasim a feast. Mother wanted to know why he had played along. “Why not let the poor child indulge her fantasies for one day,” he replied with a broad smile. “She got some chocolate. We lost nothing. The commitment to preserving a worker’s inherent dignity imparts an important ethical lesson from the perspective of a child. On some level it helps cultivate a particular sensibility, one that privileges mercy (rahma) over false pride and recognizes the inherent worth of all human beings. The young girl’s dream may be “fleeting” but it alerts the boy to the indisputable fact that she has dreams, fantasies, and an interior life that is being acknowledged by a figure of authority. Her feelings matter, a space is made to accommodate her pleasure. It’s a physical space at the celebration and a budding space in the boy’s heart, the seat of understanding and emotional intelligence. The boy sees how power and privilege can be enacted to protect an underprivileged child from the gratuitous cruelty of a classist society. This enactment is not a lesson apart. Rather, it’s imbricated in daily life.
Learning from the Literati and Glitterati
The boy’s education extended beyond the narrow boundaries of his home in Garden City, an affluent residential district in Cairo. In fact, Alaa’s father socialized with the literati and glitterati. The boy moved with ease amongst “Egypt’s giants,” as he put it. “Our house was a meeting place for poets, writers and artists. To me they were simply father’s friends. Salah Jaheen was uncle Salah Jaheen.” It would be difficult to exaggerate Salah Jaheen’s popularity and celebrity status in Nasser’s Egypt. Jaheen was an extremely talented cartoonist, playwright and poet who wrote patriotic songs that marked Nasser’s revolutionary era. One might want to think of him as the bard of the 1952 revolution. Alaa remembers uncle Jaheen as a playful character who gave each person his due. “He never embarrassed anyone.”
“I went to Salah’s office at Sabah al-khair with my father. An aspiring young poet, this obscure man that nobody knew literally came off the street and asked to meet with Salah Jaheen. He wanted to get the poet’s opinion of his work. There were other people present. The room grew silent and the poet began to recite. Everybody’s face fell. I was too young to fully appreciate the poetry but I was like a radar observing all the facial expressions in the room. I took in all the adult reactions. When the poet finally stopped reciting, Salah Jaheen politely advised him to read the poetry of the tenth century poet al-Mutanabbi. “Read him, memorize his poetry until you get a better feel for the Arabic language. Then come back to me. I’ll gladly lend you the books of other Arab poets but only on one condition. You have to bring them back to me,” he added playfully. Salah Jaheen got up and walked the young man to an elevator at the end of a long corridor. This just wasn’t done at the time. As soon as he came back into the room, he was greeted by a loud chorus of disapproval. Why would you waste your time on somebody who has absolutely no talent? The guy’s hopeless. Why insist on offering him a drink? To them the failed poet was nothing, a non-entity with no future. Only my father held his tongue. I noticed that. Uncle Salah finally spoke. “He’s a human being first and foremost. He has dignity. Alaa looked at me and said, “You see what a wonderful man Salah Jaheen was? Nobody humiliated the man or crushed his spirit for being an awful poet. Nobody humiliated him for daring to show up. Nobody mocked him for putting himself in the company of the company of successful men. On that day I learned how important it is for an artist to be a human being first. See what a sensitive man Salah Jaheen was?
Read also: Mastering Application
Humility and Overcoming Pride
Al-Aswany recalled a “famous’’ story that had become a part of family lore. This particular story reveals another dimension of his father’s approach to parenting, particularly the internal struggle against the pride associated with belonging to a privileged class. In Egypt it’s common for members of the upper class to have a doorman or bawwab who carries bags of food or vegetables for the residents.
“My father had a Buick in those days. It was a big American car. We had a driver but sometimes my father would drive the car himself. One day I was sitting next to him in the passenger seat. He stopped to buy two lettuce heads from a street vendor. I was watching all this from the car window. I felt pretty grand sitting in that big car. My father was a shrewd man. He picked up on my attitude and acted decisively. We drove to Garden city. My father parked the car right in front of our building. Everybody could see us. Me: Why don’t we call the bawwab? Father: I think you misunderstood me. I’m not going in with you. Father: Yallah. Don’t waste my time. What’s the problem here? Is the lettuce too heavy for you to carry? “I dreaded walking down that long corridor with the lettuce in my hands. I knew that my father was being serious from the tone of his voice. He was starting to lose his patience with me. So I decided to make the best of a bad situation and tried to hide the lettuce. Father immediately noticed. “Ha…
Suffering as a Catalyst for Change
While Al-Aswany's upbringing appears privileged, the values instilled by his father provided a foundation for navigating the complexities of Egyptian society and the world. The challenges and suffering he encountered later in life, particularly his experiences as a political dissident, likely built upon this foundation.
Read also: Exploring Camus's Philosophy
tags: #i #suffered #i #learned #i #changed
