SOURCE: “Mapping Islam in Farah's Maps,” in The Marabout and the Muse: New Approaches to Islam in African Literature, edited by Kenneth W. Harrow, Heinemann, 1996, pp. 205–19.

[In the following essay, Mazrui uses Farah's Maps to trace the author's attitude toward Islam.]

If Africa were to produce its own Salman Rushdie—the writer who became the subject of Ayatollah Khomeini's death fatwa after the publication of his controversial novel, The Satanic Verses （1988）¹—it is likely to be the Somali novelist, Nuruddin Farah. It may be mere coincidence that Rushdie is one of the critics who praised Farah's Maps （1986）, describing it, on the back cover, as “the unforgettable story of one man's coming of age in the turmoil of modern Africa by one of the finest contemporary African novelists”; and indeed, Rushdie may have been referring specifically to Farah's artistic achievements. But one cannot help notice in Maps the seeds of Rushdian sentiments which ended up provoking the rage of many Muslims all over the world.

Most sub-Saharan Muslim African writers have generally been guarded in their criticism of Islam. Their tendency has been to condemn the abuses of Islam by certain powerful interest groups, rather than the doctrine of Islam itself. The writer who may have gone farthest in this regard is perhaps Ousmane Sembène, the Senegalese novelist and film-maker.² As a Marxist, Sembène has sometimes tried to show how the religion is used as a legitimizing ideology of the ruling class in their quest for politico-economic hegemony. This, too, seems to be the position of some other Muslim writers like Tayeb Salih and Nawal el-Saadawi.

To Farah, however, it is not the misuse of Islam by any particular dominant group that is the overriding problem in Afro-Islamic societies. It is, rather, the inherent moral bankruptcy of the religion itself whose manifestations are equally visible among members of less privileged groups. In this regard, Farah seems to be informed by a brand of Eurocentric ideology that has considered Islam as retrograde in its cultural dispensation, and as socially and historically decadent in its doctrines.

Farah's peculiar projection of Islam in his Maps takes place along four different parameters: the identitarian, the spiritual, the moral and the canonical. What is the relationship between Islam and African identity? If Islam is averse to materialism, is it a fulfilling experience in its spiritual provisions? Can Islam serve as a bulwark of morality against human weakness and social decay in a crumbling political order? Does the Qur'an encapsulate the word of God, or does it merely mask the spirit of Satan? It is to these questions, as addressed in Maps, that we must now turn.

ISLAM AND IDENTITY

There are certain societies in Africa in which Islam as a cultural expression is virtually an indispensable attribute of their ethnic identity. The Hausa of West Africa and the Swahili of East Africa are cases in point. It is perhaps possible to have a Hausa or Swahili person who is not a Muslim in religious faith, but it is far less conceivable to have a Hausa/Swahili individual who is not Islamic in cultural practice.

The Somali, whose identity constitutes a central theme of Farah's Maps, are like the Hausa and the Swahili in regard to the identitarian role of Islam. In the words of David Laitin and Said Samatar,

Although traces of pre-Islamic traditional religions are clearly visible in Somali folk spirituality … Islam today is deeply and widely entrenched not only as the principal faith of the Somalis, but also as one of the vital wellsprings of their culture. A pervasive sense of a common Islamic cultural community contributes vitally to Somali consciousness of a shared national identity.

（1987, 44）

This pervasiveness of Islam and the massive infusion, into Somali society, of the Arab culture that came with it, has supposedly generated such an attachment to the religion that, in the opinion of Laitin and Samatar, an elaborate genealogical myth has been “fabricated,” tracing Somali origins to the Arabian peninsula, the cradle of Islam （1987, 44）.

Farah clearly recognizes Islam as an integral part of Somali society. The novel itself is virtually saturated with Islamic cultural practices, from the employment of clichés like “Ma-sha-a-llah,” to actual performance of the Islamic salat [prayer]. At the mythical level, the boundary between what is Islamic and what is Somali in the story of Adam and Eve, with its obvious Biblical and Qur'anic roots, has become blurred in the minds of some characters like Hilaal （1986, 229）. And at the more symbolic level of identity, conversion to Islam, together with infabulation rights, were essential processes towards the Somalization of the Ethiopian immigrant girl, Misra （1986, 69）.

At the same time, however, Farah's position about Islam betrays some ambivalence. In spite of all the suggestions in the novel about the interconnection between Islam and Somaliness, there are definite counter-allusions that the religion is, in fact, foreign to Somalia's body politic.

As regions, East Africa （which includes Somalia） and West Africa naturally differ in the cultural orientations towards Islam. In West Africa, Islamization followed a quiet process fostered by trade and other contacts with Berbers, rather than by an encounter with Arabs. As a result, Islam in West Africa became gradually indigenized, manifesting a dynamic interplay of tensions and accommodations between the religion and other indigenous traditions.

In East Africa, on the other hand, partly because of the proximity of the Arabian peninsula, the Arabic influence has been more pronounced. The arrival and expansion of Islam in this region was coupled with visits and settlements by Arabs from the earliest days down into the twentieth-century. Culturally, therefore, East African Islam probably retained an Arabic character to a greater extent than did West African Islam. And this, in turn, may have promoted the perception, alluded to in Maps, that Islam is essentially a foreign religion.

But, for Farah, this seeming “foreignness” of Islam in Somali society appears to be an issue only to the extent that it is linked to imperialism, to alien cultural impositions that have supposedly confounded Somali identity. This thesis, that Islam in Somalia is a form of cultural imperialism, becomes clearer when one looks at Farah's views on writing （using the Arabic script）, in particular, and the Arabic language, in general—two foundational, historical imperatives of the religion of Islam.

Much of sub-Saharan Africa was characterized by the oral tradition prior to its encounter with the Arab-Islamic world. For a number of African societies, therefore, Islamization also brought an induction into the art of reading and writing. While Muslims believe that the Prophet Muhammad could neither read nor write, Islam itself holds the written word in the highest esteem. Partly as a result of this religious influence, therefore, African versions of the Arabic script, like the ajami of West Africa, emerged and, in time, contributed to the creation of a new literary tradition.

But the process also involved the acquisition of Arabic as the language of Islamic ritual, and the language in which the Qur'an was revealed to the Prophet Muhammad. And this intrinsic religiosity of the Arabic language has been important in forging a collective consciousness of the Muslim umma all over the world. In sub-Saharan Africa, its impact was felt in the formation of Afro-Islamic languages, like Hausa and Kiswahili, indigenous languages of predominantly Muslim communities which became highly infused with Islamic idiom.

In Muslim Africa, therefore, writing in Arabic characters and the Arabic language are two dimensions of Arab culture which have always been part and parcel of the legacy of Islam. Southern Sudan is perhaps the only region in sub-Saharan Africa in which Arabization, i.e., the spread of Arab culture, seems to be proceeding faster than, or independently of, conversion to Islam. But in the rest of sub-Saharan Africa, Islamization and Arabization were twin and, often, fused processes. Literacy and the Arabic language, therefore, are among the aspects of Arab culture which clearly contribute to the construction of a new African Islamic identity.

Within Muslim Africa, however, Somalia presents a rather anomalous case. Despite their geographical proximity to the Arab world, and centuries of exposure to the Arabo-Islamic culture of literacy, the Somali people have remained passionately attached to the oral heritage. The greatest poetry in Somali literature has been primarily in the oral mode. Orality has sometimes been invoked in the quest for cultural authenticity in the attempt to construct an identity that could be considered truly African. But, for Somalis, the orality-identity dialectic is not merely a quest. It is a living reality.

Perhaps partly as a result of this patriotic embrace of orality, Farah seems totally unaffected by the unique veneration and virtual divinity that Islam accords to the written word. Farah recognizes, of course, that the “miracle” of the written word is canonized in the Qur'an itself. When Askar was receiving his first lesson in written English, he remembered reading in the Qur'an in his childhood how Allah swore “By the pen and that which it writes,” and how He ordered the Prophet Muhammad to “Read” in the name of the Most Bountiful “who taught by the Pen!” （1986, 169）. Despite this sacralization of the written word, however, Farah would seem to regard all writing as merely a question of power and domination as far as Somalia was concerned. It is in this regard that Hilaal asks his nephew, Askar:

Are we in any manner to see a link between “This is a book” and the Koranic command “Read in the name of God,” addressed to a people who were, until that day, an illiterate people? In other words, what are the ideas behind “pen” and “book?” It is my feeling that, plainly speaking, both suggest the notion of “power.” The Arabs legitimized their empire by imposing “the word that was read” on those whom they conquered; the European God of technology was supported, to a great extent, by the power of the written word, be it man's or God's.

（1986, 169–170）

Somalis, then, are supposed to have come under colonial domination of the neighboring Amharas, Muslim Arabs, the Christian Europeans, partly through the instrumentality of the written word of man or of God.

Does this mean that writing should be rejected because of its presumed imperialist role and connections? No. Rather like the Most Royal Lady of Cheikh Hamidou Kane's Ambiguous Adventure （1963） who advocated the pursuit of the secular education introduced by colonial invaders, Farah's Hilaal encouraged the acquisition of literacy as a key to the kind of knowledge that would eventually lead to the liberation of the African people （1986, 168）. Writing as part of the Arabo-Islamic legacy, then, is not seen as making a constructive contribution towards a new identity—as it is in many Afro-Islamic societies—but as a weapon of subversion against foreign domination.

With regard to the Arabic language, Farah assumes a quasi-Whorfian position—the relativist position that language influences perception in a culturally specific manner. Benjamin Lee Whorf claimed that a person's basic ontology or worldview is structured or determined by language. Each language is supposedly encoded with a particular mode of thought, a metaphysics, that affects the speaker's experiences at the level of perception. As a “foreign language,” therefore, Arabic is regarded by Farah as a reservoir of “alien concepts and thoughts” which are imposed forcefully on the minds of Somali children, presumably as part of the process of cultural colonization （1986, 84）. Of course, the “alien concepts and thoughts” which are supposedly inherent in the Arabic language must include Islamic thoughts and concepts, for it is in the Arabic language that the Qur'an itself was revealed. In the words of the Muslim Holy Book, “We have sent it down as an Arabic Qur'an, in order that you may learn wisdom” （Qur'an 12:2）.

Should the Somalis, then, reject Arabic together with the Arabo-Islamic worldview it necessarily implies, or as with writing and literacy, should they seek to acquire it with the eventual aim of subverting Arabo-Islamic hegemony? Farah's position on this matter is not explicitly articulated in the novel.

ISLAM AS A SPIRITUAL FORCE

The binary opposition between the spiritual and the material, between the Word and the world, has been a central theme in Islamic thought. There are sayings attributed to the Prophet Muhammad to the effect that a pious Muslim is one who strives for this world as much as for the hereafter （al-Suhrawardy 1980, 91）. Despite the unambiguous supremacy of the Word in Islamic doctrine, therefore, the religion is interpreted by some as urging its followers to maintain a rather delicate balance between their spiritual and material worlds, between the quest for spiritual salvation and the striving for material welfare.

There are versions of Islam, however, in which the veneration of the spiritual entails, at the same time, the debasement of the material. Ultimate salvation is measured in part by the extent to which a person has managed to shun the material in pursuit of the spiritual. Human labor is to be expended in the service of God even if it means relying exclusively on charity for one's subsistence. Some sects of Sufist （mystical） Islam clearly belong to this religious legacy.

Ch. Hamidou Kane's Ambiguous Adventure （1963）, for example, is partly informed by this Sufist ideology. The disciples are expected to demonstrate their anti-materialism not only by devoting their labors entirely to the service of Allah and living in the most deprived of material conditions, but also by bringing the body under spiritual control. Bodily senses which interfere with the development of a complete communion between the person and the Word, between the spirit and Allah, must be subdued. And Samba Diallo's excruciating experiences under Thierno's tutelage demonstrate that the quest for the spiritual “ultimate” makes physical pain not only bearable, but almost desirable and, certainly, purifying. Thierno subjects Samba Diallo to extreme physical torture when it appears to him that his bodily senses interfere with his pronunciation and mastery of the Word.

Samba Diallo's reaction stands in marked contrast to that of Askar in Farah's Maps. Like Senegal, Somalia, the setting of Maps, has a mystical brand of Islam with Sufi orders which include the Qaadiriyya, Ahmadiyya and Saahiliyya. In the opinion of Laitin and Samatar, the vast majority of Somalis belong to some mystical order and their Islam “is characterized by saint veneration, enthusiastic belief in the mystical powers of charismatic roving holy men, and a tenuous measure of allegiance to Sufi brotherhoods” （1987, 45）. But what this ideology spiritually provided for Samba Diallo, it completely failed to provide for Askar.

As in Senegalese society, in Somalia there is the belief that a disciple may have to undergo physical suffering in the process of acquiring the Word. When Askar was first taken by his uncle to Aw-Adan, the “priest,” for Qur'anic instruction, the uncle reminds the teacher that:

Askar is part bone and part flesh. The flesh is yours and you may punish it to the extent of it letting or losing a bit of blood. Teach him the Word … show him the light which you've seen when he is still young.

（1986, 81）

Inflicting pain on the body for purposes of inculcating the Word of God is seen as a natural part of the process of training the spirit.

Unlike Samba Diallo, however, Askar does not quite accept this religious connection between physical mutilation and spiritual salvation. Of course, as a child, societal and familial pressures led him to pretend that he did espouse this ideology. In Askar's words:

I behaved as though I were convinced that being caned by Aw-Adan was part of the ritual of growing up, that in a way, it was for my own good—didn't learning the Koran form part of the ritual of growing up spiritually?

（Farah 1986, 85）

In reality, however, he could not come to terms with this painful path towards Islamic spirituality. Physical pain led Kane's Samba Diallo to perfect his Qur'anic recitation; but with Askar it had the reverse effect. “The letter alif,” said Askar, “because I was hit by Aw-Adan and I bit my tongue, became balif; and ba when struck again sounded like fa; whereas the letter ta, now that my mouth was a pool of blood, was turned by my tongue into sha” （1986, 82）.

To Askar, then, Islam and the Qur'an lacked the spiritual substance that could prepare him to endure bodily pain. He believed that “no verse in the Koran could've reduced the pain or even eliminated it altogether” （1986, 89）. While Muslims are generally urged to read the Qur'an in moments of psychological and emotional stress, Askar felt that he could not depend on the Word to fill his own void: “The Word, I said to myself, was not a womb; the Word, I convinced myself, wouldn't receive me as might a mother, a woman, a Misra” （1986, 86–87）. Far from being touched by the Word and deriving strength from it, therefore, Askar actually felt deserted by it.

Partly because of the Word's “failure,” then, Askar's physical suffering turned into a compulsive hate against Aw-Adan, the priest. According to Askar:

I hated him more when he caned me, because I thought that each stroke struck a blow, rending a hole in the wall of my being. When with him, when at school that is, I uttered every sound so it was inlaid with the contemptuous flames meant for him. Which was why I shouted loudest, hoping he would burn in the noises—ablaze with hate.

（Farah 1986, 77）

The priest, then, became the target of the very pain he inflicted on Askar, partly because the Word and the Islamic doctrine had failed to grip Askar and uplift him spiritually.

ISLAM AS A MORAL CODE

But there was another, somewhat Freudian, reason why Askar hated Aw-Adan so intensely; and this had to do with the nature of the priest's relationship with Askar's adoptive mother, Misra. Islam is not only a spiritual path; it is also a way of life. It encompasses certain values and mores which help guide the social conduct of the believers. If Islam has failed as a spiritual guide—in Farah's conception—has it fared any better as a moral code? Are the custodians of the Word, like Aw-Adan, also the moral conscience of society?

In this regard, Kane's Ambiguous Adventure and Farah's Maps again offer contrasting perspectives. Thierno, the teacher in Kane's novel, is a model of morality and social uprightness. In his society he is regarded with utmost honor and veneration. Apart from devoting the most minimum amount of time in the field to procure his extremely frugal nourishment, the “rest of his days and nights he consecrated to study, to meditation, to prayer, and to the education and molding of the young people who had been confided to his care” （1963, 7）. The custodian of the Word in Ambiguous Adventure, then, is unambiguously the epitome of Islamic morality.

The priest, Aw—Adan, in Farah's Maps, however, presents a dramatically different picture. In spite of his thorough knowledge of Qur'anic law and the trust that the community has placed in him to serve as a spiritual and moral guide for their young, Aw-Adan engages in one of the few crimes against Islamic morality, adultery, that is punishable by death. Jealously, Askar explains to us how he saw Misra, his adoptive mother, and the Islamic priest lying naked in bed, and how Aw-Adan's artificial, wooden leg

was dropped and how fast another between his legs came to raise its head, jerkily, slowly and how the whole place drowned in the sighing endearments of Misra who called him … yes him of all people … “my man, my man, my man!”

（1986, 32）

This seemingly prolonged illicit relationship between Aw-Adan and Misra started when he was teaching her the Qur'an.

Aw-Adan's moral standing had become so low that Askar wondered if, in fact, he, the “master,” had not once acted altogether sacrilegiously in his affair with Misra. Was Aw-Adan not guilty of violating the very Word for which he served as custodian by making love to her as she was reading the Holy Book? “Did Aw-Adan make her read the Koran,” wondered Askar, “and, while she was busy deciphering the mysteries of the Word, did he insert his in?” （1986, 52）. The Muslim priest's reputation was so negative, then, that one could think the unthinkable of his moral conduct—committing adultery in the very process of imparting the Word.

This negative portrayal of the priest as essentially immoral and hypocritical is, in fact, extended to other characters who espouse an Islamic ideology and who are still attached to the more non-westernized dimension of Somali traditions. Qorrax, Askar's paternal uncle who sent him to the priest to receive the Word and to be shown the light while still young, engages in the same kind of adulterous affair with the same woman, Misra, as Aw-Adan. Again, Askar tells us how Qorrax “came after nightfall and made his claims on Misra,” how he threatened to hire another woman to take care of Askar and dispense with her services unless she offered herself to him, and how “Misra suffered the humiliation of sleeping with him” so she could continue being with Askar （1986, 28）. The uncle who is so concerned about Askar's Islamic and moral upbringing, then, is himself so morally decadent as to force Misra into an illicit affair through sheer coercion.

On the other extreme of the morality continuum are Askar's maternal uncle, Hilaal, and his wife, Salaado. Though intensely nationalistic towards Somalia, these two are anything but Somali in their socio-cultural disposition. As intellectuals who are highly educated in the Western tradition, they have become completely alienated from their “cultural Somaliness” in the process. They have, in fact, become highly Westernized and, in their attitudes and behavior, seem to espouse an “extreme” brand of Western liberalism that even questions the boundaries of gender.

But precisely because they have become more liberal in the Western tradition, Hilaal and Salaado have become less Islamic in social orientation. It is perhaps possible to be a Westernized liberal in political and economic terms without being less Islamic in politico-economic ideology. It is, however, less possible to be a Westernized liberal in cultural terms without violating some of the basic canons of Islam. Western media has created the impression that all politically active Islamic groups are “fundamentalist” with overall aims and objectives that are incompatible with liberalism and democracy. But, the polysemy of the term “Islamic fundamentalism” notwithstanding, it is in fact possible to have Islamic-oriented politico-economic action that is not antidemocratic or antiliberal, and which advances the political aims of liberal democracy.

Perhaps less compatible with Islam is a cultural liberalism in the Western mold. Some of the most basic values of Western liberalism are diametrically opposed to Islamic doctrine. The cultural values of Western liberalism would accommodate, for example, a multiplicity of religious views and beliefs—from fundamentalism to agnosticism to atheism. In Islam, however, such a wide range of liberal opinion in religious affairs is likely to enter into the realm of apostasy. It is perhaps for this reason that some followers of Islam who reject what is seen as excessive Westernization³ often react more violently towards cultural symbols than towards political and economic symbols of the West. They are more likely to target a Western theater showing western-style films than a Western-style legislative assembly following Western-derived procedures of deliberation, or a Western factory producing Coca Cola.

The cultural dimension of Hilaal and Salaado's Western liberalism thus implies a certain degree of cultural divergence from Islam. Their behavior has ceased to reflect anything Islamic, and the Islamic learning that they grew up with has been all but forgotten. During Misra's funeral, for example, where verses from the Qur'an were recited in chorus by those present, Salaado reports that she could not remember a single verse from the Holy Book, not even from such a basic chapter as the “Faatihah.” Salaado acknowledges that this may have been due, in part, to her mental state precipitated by the shock of Misra's death; but she then goes on to add that “even now” she doubts if she could remember anything from the Qur'an （1986, 241）.

Yet, it is precisely these two characters, who have apparently been de-Somalized and de—Islamized through a process of cultural Westernization, that are projected extremely positively in terms of their conduct. The two are morally upright and deeply sensitive people who have transcended the parochial confines of “tradition” in their humanism. What Islamic ideology failed to provide to the likes of Aw-Adan and Qorrax, then, Western liberal ideology succeeded in providing for Hilaal and Salaado.

THE QUR'AN

Historically the most widely read book in its original language, used at least five times daily in formal worship by millions of people, the Qur'an is regarded by Muslims as Allah's direct revelation to His Prophet Muhammad. There are, in fact, many Muslims who believe that the Qur'an is so sacred that one must be in a state of ablution before handling it, and that it must always be stored in a place that is compatible with its supreme honor. Contrary to these beliefs held by a wide section of the Muslim population, however, Farah's views on the Qur'an are, at best, ambiguous, betraying a mixture of seeming reverence and what borders on sacrilege.

Many of the Muslim beliefs about the Qur'an are, in fact, contained in the Qur'an itself, and some of these are articulated in Maps. To Muslims the Qur'an is the ultimate miracle from Allah, and there are several verses which point to its inimitability. But equally important among God's miracles is nature, and the Qur'an repeatedly calls on the unbelievers to look at the various aspects of nature—the mountains and the seas, the moon and its “accompanying” stars, the sun and its orderly movement, and so forth—as miracles of God's creation in their own right. And this is perhaps the essence of Askar's suggestion that

in Islam, Nature … is conceived of as a book, comparable, in a lot of ways, to the Holy Koran: a genus for a sura, a species for a verse, and every subspecies shares a twinship with the alif, ba, and ta of mother nature—maa shaa Allahu kaana!

（1986, 128）.

In Maps, therefore, as in popular Muslim beliefs, the Qur'an and nature join to serve as a testament of the existence and boundless power of God.

Equally important to Islam is the idea that, despite its great clarity on all fundamental issues, the Qur'an is also a reservoir of hidden meanings known only to the Almighty. Following the bizarre murder of Misra, Askar suggests that the priest supervising the burial should have recited, among others, verse sixteen of Sura Luqmaan （1986, 242） which reads: “O my son! if there is but the weight of a mustard-seed hidden in a rock or anywhere in the heavens or on earth, God will bring it forth: for God understands the finest of mysteries and is well acquainted with them.” Like a good Muslim, therefore, Askar seems to turn to the mysterious aspect of the Word of God in the quest for a resolution to his own inner conflicts and for some light on his enigmatic past and the direction of his destiny.

Muslims also regard the Qur'an as a form of healing. Verse 82 of Surat Banii-Isra-il proclaims to the world: “We sent down in the Qur'an that which is a healing and a mercy to those who believe. …” Of course, the Qur'an regards itself as a healing for broken spirits; but there are many Muslims who regard it as a cure for physical ailments as well. And it is this popular belief rather than the doctrinal position of Islam which is invoked when Askar falls sick and Aw-Adan offers “to read selected verses of the Qur'an over Askar's body astraddle the bed in satanic pain” （1986, 102）.

Is the appearance of the words “verses” and “satanic” in the above quotation a mere coincidence, or, like Salman Rushdie's Satanic Verses, is it, in fact, intended to have an allusive significance that pits God, on one side, and Satan, on the other? Askar promptly and categorically rejected Aw-Adan's offer to recite the Qur'an over his body. He feared that the priest may read the “wrong” passages from the Holy Book, “passages, say, which could turn him into an epileptic” （1986, 103）. The idea that one could maliciously or inadvertently invoke the “wrong” verses from the Qur'an that could end up harming an innocent person is alien indeed to the belief system of the Muslim umma, and would amount to an attack upon the Book for possessing an evil dimension that is incompatible with its Godliness. But, to Askar, the Qur'an does seem to encapsulate both Godly power that could heal the sick and “satanic” power that could harm the innocent.

Farah further explores this interplay between the Word and the world of Askar through two symbols, one sexual and one unsanitary. The prospects of circumcision and the fear of being separated from Misra thereafter lead Askar to sleep with the slate containing Qur'anic verses between his legs to serve as a much needed extension of his body—a penis perhaps?—as he “chanted selected verses of the Koran whenever Aw-Adan called on Misra, as he was accustomed to doing after dusk, verses which promised heaven for the pious and a hellish reward for the adulterous and the wicked” （1986, 86）.

Later, when Askar was being given a bath by Misra, the Word moved from its position between his legs to intermingle with the filth from his body. As Misra lovingly splashed water on his face, Askar tells us, “I jumped up and down in glee, oblivious of the fact that the Koranic writings had ended up in the same baaf as the dirt between my toes. I decided I wouldn't hold the slate between my legs that night, and the following night too. Misra and I slept in each other's embrace and the slate was left in a corner until after I was made a man” （1986, 88）.

With a somewhat Freudian twist, the Qur'an reassures Askar about his sexual existence when there is some distance between himself and Misra; but when the two are joined again, the Word becomes peripheral to his life and even meaningless, as it is cast aside in a neglected corner or allowed to wallow in the same water as the filth from his feet. At least until Askar became a man!

And what happens when Askar is initiated into adulthood? In his sojourn in the land of pain immediately after his circumcision, he tells us: “The waters of the rain washed the slate on which I had written my prayers and the thunder drowned my chanting of the verses which praised the traditions of Islam” （1986, 92）. As Askar enters a new psychosexual stage of his life and becomes his own man, so to speak, after belatedly outgrowing his oedipal inclinations he realizes that he no longer needs Misra. Nor, indeed, does he any longer need the Word. The Word gets washed away and drowned like any material thing on the ground, as he himself physically moves away from Misra to his new home, Mogadisho.

CONCLUSION

Farah's Maps portrays a complex social web that is heavily intertwined with Islamic symbols and idioms. This has arisen, in part, because his fictional world of the Somali people is, after all, predominantly Islamic in faith and culture. However, this is a culture and a worldview that Farah seems to reject in quite explicit terms. But Farah goes beyond rejecting Islam. He satirizes it. And it is in this respect that one can draw a parallel between him and Salman Rushdie. He does not, for example, go to the extent of describing the Prophet Muhammad as Mahound and his wives as prostitutes. But, in addition to debasing the religion and its Book, through the metaphoric and symbolic strategies discussed above, he does make sex a primary feature of the relationship between the Prophet and his wives. Even the Prophet, then, is “sooner or later” expected to engage in sex partly as a way of subduing his wives （1986, 223–24）. In his satirical projection of Islam, therefore, Nuruddin Farah has clearly taken the path of a cultural apostate.

Notes

1. Like Rushdie, but to a lesser extent, Farah's novel raises once again the problematic question of the conflict between faith and fiction, between the freedom of the writer and the integrity of the community of believers. For a more extensive coverage of these issues, see The Rushdie File, edited by Lisa Appignanesi and Sara Maitland （1990）.

2. Mbye B. Cham describes Ousmane Sembène as an apostate, and seemingly the only one among Senegalese Muslim writers （1990, 178–83）.

3. In the words of Ali Mazrui, “there is a heavy responsibility on the shoulders of Islam as the one culture that clearly produces rebels against western hegemony. … It is the vanguard against western cultural hegemony. Whenever we complain about Muslim fundamentalists, let us remember that that is a term which describes a rebellious mood against being assimilated by the majority culture in the world” （1990, 225）.