SOURCE: Cazenave, Odile. “Gender, Age, and Narrative Transformations in L'Enfant de sable by Tahar Ben Jelloun.” French Review 64, no. 3 (February 1991): 437-50.

[In the following essay, Cazenave traces the central themes of age and gender in L'Enfant de sable and explores how the novel acts as a metaphor for the problems faced by Maghrebin authors writing in French.]

Traditionally, in African literature, and even more so in North-African Literature, factors of age and gender appear to be key elements in determining the role and status in society for a given character. Geographically and socially, such factors establish a distribution of space (the outside and the inside) and of fixed functions. In L'Enfant de sable (1985) the Moroccan writer Tahar Ben Jelloun, who was awarded the Prix Goncourt for La Nuit sacrée in 1987, uses the two parameters of age and gender as the very focus of the novel. The plot revolves around the question of the gender of the hero as he (or rather she) grows: a girl from a Moroccan family is raised as a boy and then as a man. It then centers on the development of the character, the problems caused by this false identity, and the reactions elicited from the hero, the other protagonist, and the story-teller (acknowledged as the official narrator).

With a twisted and subversive character like Ahmed, Ben Jelloun naturally highlights the question of the many levels of textual interpretation. Beyond the impact that ambiguity of gender and maturation may have in terms of self-identity and social status within the context of the Moroccan family and Moroccan society at large, one may wonder how to interpret this controversial text. I will therefore explore the different phases in the make-up of the image, particularly the consciousness of the character in becoming aware of the falsity of his or her identity and of the implications (restrictions, obligations, and potentials) of this identity. Also, I will study the step-by-step changes in behavior—physically, psychologically, and socially—that occur willingly or unwillingly during adolescence and adulthood, when the character becomes sexually aroused or is faced with a social act that he/she has (or decides) to take on, for example, marriage and death. I will then analyze more specifically the textual components and see how ambiguity in gender and identity is reproduced in the text. I will especially examine the symbolism of the title along with the use and function of a title for each chapter, the multiplication of narrators and variants on the narration of the story, as well as variations on possible endings of the story, the role of the audience, the use of a diary, of a story within a story, and of the epistolary form. Finally, I will address the question of point of view and ideology of the writer himself when writing about ambiguity, gender, and age within the context of Moroccan culture, in an effort to determine whether the discourse is socially committed, and if there is a political orientation based on social and literary alienation.

L'Enfant de sable centers around a cultural construct of the subject-object, where, because of the impact of patriarchal values prevalent in the Moroccan society that considers it a shame, if not a curse, for a family to have only daughters, a father decides to resist fate and the natural order and raise his next child as a boy. As it turns out to be a female, the parents' efforts are all aimed at a single purpose, that is to make this construction believable so that consequently, in everybody's eyes, the newborn baby is a male. The construction of the character takes on two dimensions. The outward construction is supposed to fool the audience and make it believe in the male gender of the subject, and the presence of the diary of the protagonist, as patent proof of an “inward construction” helps to achieve the deception.

The different phases occurring in the shaping of a character usually correspond to the different stages that any individual experiences in the course of life: birth, infancy, childhood, adolescence, and adulthood. Furthermore, a number of events such as marriage, motherhood if a female, and the prospect of death may influence the character's general attitude toward life. Because these events are inscribed in cultural patterns related to the ideology of a given society, they imply a given behavior and fix a certain set of expected situations according to the age and the gender of the character.

In the case of the protagonist Ahmed in L'Enfant de sable, the question is precisely to examine whether these phases are truly pre-set or are likely to change, given the fact that the novel focuses on the identity of the character. At first glance it appears that the character's evolution will be determined, even pre-determined, by the parents. Whatever the sex of the baby, it will be treated as a male. According to the father, nobody but he and his wife will know the secret; as to the midwife who handles the delivery, she is so elderly that she will soon take the secret with her to the grave. The father omits only one detail, i.e., how the character¹ will cope with the situation.

The different stages in the maturation of the character are indicated symbolically by three doors that have to be entered in order to discover what happens to the initial plot: the first door, the Thursday door, is the entrance door; it gives access to the story itself and is equated with birth. The choice of Thursday is not perfunctory. According to tradition, as explained by the storyteller, Thursday is the best day for trades and any type of exchange, and first and foremost, it is the day when only male babies are born. Therefore, due to the traditional wisdom, the baby is guaranteed to be a boy. As a matter of fact, there is an over-emphasis concerning the gender of the baby when the administrative formalities are being addressed. Even before it is born, the parents intentionally spread the rumor that the mother is expecting a male child. Then, when the time of the delivery comes, the midwife, by her triumphant “you-you” makes it clear and official that the new baby is indeed a boy. Moreover, as she proudly announces, it is not merely a boy but a man: “Lalla Rhadia entrouvrit la porte et poussa un cri où la joie se mêla aux you-you, puis répéta jusqu'à s'essouffler: c'est un homme, un homme, un homme” (26).

As to the father's attitude, a physical change indicates emphatically his newly acquired male pride and happiness. Persuasion works as actual conviction. In addition, there is a public announcement in the local newspaper. The unusual length of the announcement plus the fact that it is combined with a political message, starts talk around town. Of course, the official affirming of the child's sex reaches a crescendo with the ceremony of circumcision. The father cuts his little finger so that the onlookers see a piece of bloody flesh while the baby cries.

The Friday door recounts the daily life of the character as a child, with some key events to mark his/her evolution: the Turkish bath taken with the women, as well as with the men; his/her being refused entrance to the female bath when turning seven—which openly makes the character a member of the male society—and from then on, the attendance at all events such as baths or the prayers, which are exclusive to men. In addition, two incidents remind Ahmed of his true bearings: being slapped for imitating his/her mother and trying some henna on “his” hair, which is only done by girls; and again for crying and not being able to fight against boys, who were trying to steal the bread he just bought. Both times, Ahmed is snapped at with the same remark: “This is for girls! You are not a girl!”

The Saturday door describes the character's adolescence and how nature is restrained and thwarted in its necessary physical changes, such as breasts and menstruation. Adolescence, which by definition is a transitional period for any individual, reaches its full ambiguity here. Thematically, it serves as a turning point in the development not only of the character but also of the novel itself. Previously, the strings seem to be pulled strictly by the father, and, to a certain extent, by the mother. However, some biological facts seem to be undeniable, and one would expect nature to win: “Et le sang un matin a tâché mes draps … Sur mes cuisses, un mince filet de sang, une ligne irrégulière d'un rouge pâle” (46).

She first tries to fool herself—maybe it was a vein that burst or it was a wound—but then she has to come to terms with evidence: “C'était bien du sang.” She physically tries to deny what is happening, attempting to stop the bleeding with her hand, which indicates her refusal of her biological constitution. By choice, she wishes to be a man. However, the fact of her being a female resurfaces: “le souvenir d'une vie que je n'avais pas connue et qui aurait pu être mienne” (46). From then on, to act as a man therefore becomes a conscious decision. The character decides upon her own destiny, namely to be a “he”: “Il comprit que sa vie tenait à présent au maintien de l'apparence. Il n'est plus une volonté du père. Il va devenir sa propre volonté” (48).

Thus, the chapter “Bab El Had” opens with a series of leading questions. She asks her father about her breasts and skin: she tells him that she wants to grow a moustache and dress in a suit and a tie. To all these claims—should we call them whims?—the father just nods and submits passively: “Si cela te fait plaisir!”; “Comme tu veux.” The father is forced to confess openly the whole masquerade. The decision to dress in the European way, in a suit and tie, adds a political dimension to the change. Not only does the character deny her gender but also her ethnic background and national heritage.

The character is half-drunk with the sudden power and privileges to which she, as a man, has access. Consequently, Ahmed becomes authoritative, behaving like a dictator toward her sisters, ruling out all affection in her relations with any member of the family, especially her mother. In showing coldness and indifference and by mistreating other women she manifests a definite will to deny her gender.

This denial leads inevitably to the next decision, that is, to be married. Such a choice, which would be natural for a man at that age, takes on the dimensions of a challenge to the parents for the unstable quality of the situation for which they are responsible. Ahmed is beyond himself/herself with enthusiasm at the possibility of having access to traditional male privileges. There is something exciting in being a man, especially in a patriarchal society where gender assigns a fixed status and space. Unlike the other daughters, she can smoke, engage in political discussions, and, theoretically, have access to the outside world. I say theoretically, since it appears that the paradox of this privilege is that the character wraps himself/herself in solitude and enjoys the inner space, locked in a bedroom. Aware of her identity, she expands the fantasy to its limits by deciding to follow the natural course of any man's life and get married. Technically, this existence borders on both homosexual and incestuous relations since the woman whom Ahmed chooses to marry is his/her cousin. The fact that the cousin is an epilectic is quite symbolic of the whole unsound situation. We are close to the absurd because, to a certain extent, this decision reestablishes the balance insofar as they are both sick, one due to natural biological causes, the other due to his/her own choice. What may be repulsive in the character of the cousin will, in the long run, be transferred to the protagonist. In its very essence, Ahmed's infirmity is more severe than the cousin's. Indeed, because of a definite choice of a certain identity, she restricts herself to a type of life, which concomitantly bans other things, particularly anything related to sexuality. Interestingly enough, the chapter is entitled “Bab el Had,” which is supposed to describe the character's development into a true autonomous being, and translates by “the door of restrictions/of limitations.” In fact, while the character takes full initiative as to the subsequent events that will affect his own life and that of the family, his strong willpower also leads to suffering as a consequence: “Et je me tais pour piétiner cette image qui m'insupporte … Je suis l'architecte et la demeure, l'arbre et la sève, moi et un autre; moi et une autre” (46). At this point, language connects with the theme to express the inner debates of the character in terms of gender and identity. Two means are mainly used here to highlight the innuendos of ambiguity. To the traditional use of a storyteller, the narrative adds a series of narrators, official and unofficial, in combination with the presence of a diary. In fact, there is a series of diaries, all of which are supposed to reveal the stream of consciousness of the protagonist in the step-by-step shaping of the person.

The study of the diary denotes a clear transition in the character's evolution. The naïve voice that speaks in the Friday door—“ma mère s'inquiétait de ma poitrine” (36)—is gone. Instead it shows extreme lucidity: “Pourtant je m'y attendais” (47). The tone of the diary is pregnant with bitterness and revolt; but also, it betrays at times a certain elation. The juxtaposition of the feminine and the masculine shows hesitation between the content and the form, which is by definition the mark of poetry. In this case however, it involves the character's sanity. Words used to provoke the discussion which will bring the father to acknowledge the character's true identity are similarly veiled (just like women are supposed to be). By claiming a male gender, she unveils herself and clarifies the ambiguity behind double-meaning words. There is a will to show the naked truth: “Il nous faut regarder les choses en face. Ni toi ni moi ne sommes dupes” (50). In fact, words are responsible for shaping the character; there is something almost sacrilegious, irreverent, about using them in their naked, literal meaning. Language attains its full mimetic power. To pronounce the word, the pronoun that will dissipate any ambiguity as to the character's gender, would be equivalent to undressing the body, revealing its nakedness to everybody's eyes. Significantly, she carefully avoids any mirror that could reflect her image. Nor is it by chance that the woman she chooses for a spouse herself has a distorted image in terms of her femininity. The use of feminine marks in the writing follows accordingly a dialectic pattern: there is an absence of feminine marks, then, simultaneously, the use of both masculine and feminine marks, then again a total absence of feminine marks, and eventually the reappearance of strictly feminine marks, and finally their systematic presence, all of which are linguistic signs of dédoublement in Ahmed's personality.

The stages just analyzed, symbolized in the narration by the number of doors through which the subject goes—infancy, childhood, adolescence—are only meant for one objective: to prepare the child “to act consistently with the values of the Moroccan society,” that is, to inculcate in him/her “the dominant version of appropriate behavior,” which Althusser calls Ideological State Apparatuses (ISAs): “Among the allies of the educational ISA are the family, the law, the media, and the art, all helping to represent and reproduce the myths necessary to enable people to work within the existing social formation” (Belsey 47). Within the frame of Moroccan society, Ahmed learns through different incidents that only girls put henna on their hair and are allowed to cry. Until the character becomes a teenager, the falsity of gender does not seem to affect identity, and indeed, his/her general behavior abides by the ideology of the given society, which Althusser defines in this way: “I say: the category of the subject is constitutive of all ideology, but at the same time and immediately I add that the category of the subject is only constitutive of all ideology in so far as all ideology has the function (which defines it) of ‘constituting’ concrete individuals as subjects” (160).

Belsey concludes: “the destination of all ideology is the subject (the individual in society) and it is the role of ideology to construct people as subjects” (47). In Ahmed's case, ideology constructs an object whose aim is to be a subject apt to function in Moroccan society. While an infant and a child, the forged character adheres to the equation object-subject. However, as a teenager, because of obvious biological development—growing breasts, menstruation, the lack of facial hair—Ahmed comes to realize that he/she is but a product, the fabrication of an ideology and somebody else's will. At this point, his awakening consciousness transforms his subjectivity in two ways: first, Ahmed is conscious of the fact that she/he is not an autonomous being, but a creation. Once aware of the artificiality of her status as he-subject, she conquers her true subjectivity as an individual in deciding that, precisely, she will be that he-subject that has been forced upon her. By dismantling her self, she deconstructs the object she was and gains the status of an individual: “Suis-je un être ou une image, un corps ou une autorité?” (50). She now initiates the construction (or rather the shaping) of the object; from then on, whatever she will turn out to be is of her own making: “Il comprit que sa vie tenait à présent au maintien de l'apparence. Il n'est plus une volonté du père. Il va devenir sa propre volonté” (50).

This self-control of his/her own shaping betrays traditional theories about the role of language in the development of the self. For, as Belsey recalls, “the obviousness of subjectivity” (and the prevalence of ideology) is “challenged by the linguistic theory. … It is in language that people constitute themselves as subjects” (Belsey 47). By saying “I,” the speaker posits himself or herself as a subject. As Benveniste demonstrates, the “I” only exists through contrast, and differenciation (225). “I” cannot be conceived without “You.” Derrida further underlines that the subject (self-identical or even self-conscious of self-identity, self-conscious) is inscribed in the language, that he is a “function” of the language (145-46). In L'Enfant de sable, the subject defines himself/herself according to a label that has been stamped on its given identity. But the character's concern is not to assert this self through contrast with a “You,” rather with himself, and what he could have been or should be. “I” avoids any direct contact with the other. Ahmed's only interlocutor is indirect, present through an exchange of letters. Furthermore, the interlocutor is kept anonymous: his/her gender, too, is left uncertain. Even the interlocutor's existence itself is dubious, as suggested by the storyteller.

Thematically, the first stage, which corresponds to Ahmed's childhood, exposes the problem of the formation of the character. Generally, in the case of a normal child, consistent with the primacy of language over subjectivity apparent in Lacan's reading of Freud, the child seems initially like an “hommelette,” a term that suggests both a little man (homme) and the unstructured state of a broken egg (omelette). As Belsey relates, the child has no way of conceiving itself as a unity, has no identity. However, it appears that during what Lacan calls the “mirror phase” of its development, “the child ‘recognizes’ itself in the mirror as a unit distinct from the outside world. … But it is only with its entry into language that the child becomes a full subject” (Belsey 49).

In Ahmed's case, he is indeed shaped; yet, language is not meant to direct him toward recognizing himself and his identity but is aimed primarily at reinforcing the image that the parents tried to construct. The language Ahmed is taught is only one of the parameters that will contribute to the success of the deception. Moreover, there is no mirror in which the child could find the true reflection of his/her own image. Because he is reared away from his sisters and other children, Ahmed has no other frame of reference than his parents. The description of Ahmed's attending the Turkish bath with the mother and the father is quite revealing: first, even though the tone is that of a child relating his experience (“J'avais tout le temps de me promener comme un diable entre les cuisses de toutes les femmes” 36), it reveals a psychological trauma when seeing all the naked women. The diary insists on the repulsion caused by the spectacle of fat bellies and legs: “Je m'accrochais à ces cuisses étalées et j'entrevoyais tous ces bas-ventres charnus et poilus. Ce n'était pas beau. C'était même dégoûtant” (36).

The trauma is so intense that it creates sexual images with distorted bodies in the child's dreams. There is a fear in identifying with such “degenerescence.” In this respect, Ahmed enters the phase of “self-recognition,” insofar as at night, she/he hides to examine her own body and make sure that she in no way resembles such repulsive beings: “Je me cachais le soir pour regarder dans un petit miroir de poche mon bas-ventre: il n'y avait rien de décadent; une peau blanche et limpide, douce au toucher, sans plis, sans rides” (36). Paradoxically, the child is terrified at the prospect that she may well belong to the gender that these bodies represent. The speech also denotes a contemptuous judgment passed on women's behavior compared to the men's when doing their ablutions. The diary betrays both a fascination for the male gender and an excitement with the artificiality of the situation. Two levels of language coexist; the mention and description of the genital parts, clearly indicates that the child is indeed a girl, while the other connotes that one is still dealing with the diary of a child: “A l'époque ma mère m'examinait souvent. Elle non plus n'y trouvait rien! En revanche elle s'inquiétait pour ma poitrine qu'elle pansait avec du lin” (36). The exclamation mark, plus the verb “s'inquiétait,” which may be interpreted in two ways—irony or true naïveté—again perpetuate the ambiguity of consciousness that the character has reached at this point.

Nevertheless, according to the narrative form, the diary makes it clear that until then Ahmed believes what he is made to believe, namely that he is a boy. The language in the diary shows a systematic absence of any mark normally used for the feminine gender; all the nouns and adjectives are used in the masculine. The chapter entitled “the Saturday door,” which represents adolescence, also has only masculine marks present: “Je serai voleur” (74). Whereas the chapter ends with the decision to claim the male identity as his/her own, the character banishes throughout his/her diary any feminine mark that could betray her true being, physically or mentally. It is only after the father's death, in the chapter “Bâtir un visage,” that the masculine and the feminine marks are both present, in fact, even juxtaposed: “je suis las et lasse” (94). We can interpret this as a wish to leave the door open to a choice, but it seems more that it symbolizes the way in which the character copes with the double identity she feels within herself/himself. At that stage, too, the “construction” is solid enough so that the character can afford to let her true self emerge.

Consequently, the character seems to be out of control when he/she realizes the power he/she has in her hands. She mistreats her mother and father and cuts herself off from the family. After the father's death, she asserts her new independence and power in an almost tyrannical fashion: “A partir de ce jour, je ne suis plus votre frère, je ne suis pas votre père non plus, mais votre tuteur. J'ai le droit et devoir de veiller sur vous. Vous me devez obéissance et respect” (54). As a result, the character exaggerates everything that proves he is a man. He not only adopts a contemptuous attitude toward his sisters and mother, but he also appropriates the contemptuously patriarchal masculine discourse. As a woman made into a man, Ahmed looks down on women, exhibits a male perspective, passes masculine judgments on them, invokes the Koran as justification of the established hierarchy between the sexes. Cynicism and irony are the weapons of speech she is now entitled to use in the diary: “C'est vrai! Dans cette famille, les femmes s'enroulent dans un linceul de silence … elles obéissent, mes sœurs obéissent, toi tu te tais, et moi j'ordonne! Quelle ironie!” (54). She even speaks about her former self in the third person; pulling all the strings of alienation: “A présent, je vais écrire des poèmes d'amour pour la femme sacrifiée” (54). The character has lost some of the control of his/her self.

The storyteller too stresses that he has lost control of the character and feels overwhelmed by the drastic switch in the character's mood: “O mes compagnons! Notre personnage nous échappe. Ce revirement brutal, cette violence soudaine m'inquiètent et je ne sais pas où cela va nous mener” (54). Whereas the storyteller is taken aback and finds it quite exciting, he admits feeling uncomfortable about the overauthoritarianism of the character. For, after gaining complete autonomy, Ahmed shows hubris and the potential for turning into a monster: “Un monstre qui écrit des poèmes! Je doute et je ne me sens pas bien avec ce nouveau visage” (54).

The character is both thrilled and horrified when he contemplates the abyss where she has flung herself. The diary abounds with a combination of visions reminiscent of Baudelaire, Mallarmée, and Rimbaud, blending the enjoyment of beauty, naked emotions, the pleasure of solitude, and the elation derived from considering evil:

J'ai beaucoup lu et j'ai opté pour le bonheur. La souffrance, le malheur de la solitude, je m'en débarrasse dans un grand cahier. En optant pour la vie, j'ai accepté l'aventure. Et je voudrais aller jusqu'au bout de cette histoire.

(51)

Tu sais ce qu'il y a au bout de ce chemin? Un précipice … Les odeurs se marient et cela donne, pas la nausée, mais l'ivresse du Mal.

(52)

Ahmed's writing serves as a catharsis and is his only escape from this turmoil. Once again, narration plays a key role: while Ahmed's excitement lies in adopting a new identity and asserting himself, the narrator is excited by the character's change and conveys it in reading the diary to the audience. There is a kind of tacit give-and-take: readers are given access to the character's stream of consciousness, and in turn, they have to participate in accepting or rejecting the construct of the character.

The constructing of the character results from a very elaborately refined process, and the word construct is to be taken literally, for, just as the image of woman is broken down into a myriad of facets in cubist art, so Ben Jelloun reflects Ahmed's image through an assemblage of the multiple strategies of the narrative. Thus, in addition to the official storyteller and the use of a diary, we encounter multiple narrative levels such as a story within a story or an exchange of letters between the protagonist and a reader, who is anonymous. Through this device, the author rounds out his character while demonstrating at the same time that he cannot be seized in his totality.

Indeed, the question of the supremacy of language over subjectivity takes a very complex form in L'Enfant de sable. It is the focal point of the novel, and is expressed thematically, syntactically, and ideologically. The theme and syntax are so tightly interwoven that it is hardly possible to analyze the former without constantly referring to the latter. Two reasons may explain this extraordinary intricacy: the novel is the narration of a story of the character whose gender has been decided and whose future is therefore supposed to be predetermined within the framework of the traditional values of the society to which he belongs. The story develops along the passage through doors, and a character that eventually vanishes into thin air, only to reappear in the words of a storyteller, who himself is challenged to make the story believable to the audience while insisting on its stupendous reality. The work is therefore a story within a story; that is, the story of narration by an official storyteller, who in turn disappears, and is replaced by a series of storytellers, all of them trying to convince the audience of their own version of the ending of the story. In addition, with the insertion of the character's personal diary, thus giving access to the inner thoughts of the character, and within this diary, the mention of an exchange of letters with an anonymous individual, the narrative becomes part, if not the center, of the theme. Thus, there is a constant play on language, by the storyteller, the protagonist, of the other characters, the audience, and eventually ourselves in our acceptance of the accumulation of mirrors and layers. It is a constant game of hide and seek, in which the storyteller has a decisive function.

Unlike most stories that use an official storyteller as the given narrator to present the story to the audience, L'Enfant de sable does not mention in its opening any storyteller, or any audience. Rather it starts with the description of a male character whose identity is left anonymous. The narration is indirect and gives access to the character's stream of consciousness. The verbs and adjectives suggest suffering, arising from a painful secret. Mystery will definitely be the leitmotiv of the story: “Et qui fut-il?” (12). The question is only natural. Our curiosity is aroused, and at the point, a storyteller enters the stage: “Le conteur sortit d'un cartable un grand cahier et le montra à l'assistance” (12).

Here, we notice two things: the focus remains on the character, and more particularly on his identity, and the diary is used in its material form, as solid proof of Ahmed's existence—the storyteller is only reporting something that is real, as unbelievable as the story may be. The other aspect to underline is the way the storyteller then immediately puts himself in the foreground: his position of authority is not so much due to the fact that he possesses the diary, but mainly because, as he stresses himself, the book needs to be deciphered. According to the storyteller, readers would not be able to have access to it on their own. Because of the nature of the secret, the diary needs an intermediary: “Vous ne pouvez y accéder sans traverser mes nuits et mon corps. Je suis ce livre” (12-13).

He is the one who is going to set the pace of the story's narration. He is also the one who, from the start insists on the ambiguity the character is doomed to experience; through his welcoming speech, he actually gives an anticipating synthesis of the character's life:

Bienvenue, ô être du lointain, visage de l'erreur, l'innocence du mensonge, double de l'ombre … tu apportes le bonheur mais pas la joie, tu lèves une tente dans le désert, mais c'est la demeure du vent, tu es un capital de cendres, ta vie sera longue, une épreuve pour le feu et la patience. Bienvenue! ô toi, le jour et le soleil! Tu haïras le mal, mais qui sait si tu feras le bien … Bienvenue … Bienvenue. …

(25)

The recurrence of “Bienvenue” suggests ambiguity: the -e ending should indicate that the subject is female; “Bienvenue” is an ellipsis for “tu es la bienvenue,” but because it is used in its elliptical form, it can also be interpreted as “nous te souhaitons la bienvenue,” which can address a male or a female. The accumulation of oxymorons such as “l'innocence du mensonge” and the structure of the sentences based on opposition with the repetition of “mais” also show tension and anticipate a dilemma for the character. Speech takes on magical power and the storyteller, through the timing of his narration, spins a web between the teller and the receivers: “Cela fait quelques jours que nous sommes tissés par les fils en laine d'une même histoire. De vous à moi, de chacun d'entre vous à moi, partent des fils. Ils sont encore fragiles. Ils nous lient cependant comme un pacte” (29).

Along with the fragility of these ties (throughout the narration of the story), two main dangers are evident: the vertigo of words (just as Ahmed as a child dreams of words dripping down from the rising stream, when in the hammam with the women), and the danger of hubris: “Méfions-nous de convoquer les ombres confuses de l'ange, celui qui porte deux visages et qui habitent nos fantaisies … l'ange bascule de l'un à l'autre selon la vie que nous dansons sur un fil invisible … O mes amis, je m'en vais sur ce fil” (27). There is indeed a danger for the storyteller—rather than for the audience—of being carried away by the power of imagination, which puts his power to the test: because the story is to such a large extent implausible, the audience rebels and calls him a liar. Used as a narrative device, this rejection of the storyteller in turn elicits a series of different storytellers arising from the audience.

In terms of narration, we have here a network of narrators, who, from interlocutors, are turned into locutors, and from originally extradiegetic² narrators into intradiegetic narrators, since they claim to have some kind of relationship with the protagonist, and are thus fully entitled to know what truly happened. For instance, the brother of Fatima (Ahmed's epileptic cousin and wife) stands up in the center of the audience to speak the truth and tell how the story continues. At this point, the diary plays a key role again as an object. The book does exist, but it is not that of the storyteller. Quite expectedly, the new narrator claims to have the real one (after stealing it the day following Ahmed's death). Once again the story, as well as the story of the narration, intertwine and move in parallel directions: on the one hand, the audience—and thus the reader—learns that the character is dead; on the other hand, the storyteller loses his status and therefore the reason for being in the story. Thus, we have another potential development: from then on, the new book is going to be the reference, and will actually be read—the reading of it should give evidence of the reality of Ahmed's life. Yet, through another twist in the narration, the story is deadlocked again when the French colonizers clear the place where the audience is gathered. By forbidding any gathering of the sort, the colonizers are responsible for leaving the story unfinished, for lack of a narrator. At this point, the story changes its focus and centers on whether it is possible to locate the real narrator amid three members of the audience who gathered at a cafe and who are trying to convince the others that he/she has the true version and ending of the tale. Structurally, each chapter then corresponds to the description of each character in its attempt to replace the storyteller and give the best, most convincing version of the ending of Ahmed's story. The gist of the narrative device is to lead the reader—now that there is no longer any audience, and the book has disappeared with the words being washed away or absorbed into the stone—to guess who owns the true story. One narrator is blind. Another is an old woman claiming to be the protagonist herself. With her revelation, the narrative reverts to an autodiegetic narration. This is a direct mode of discourse, without the intermediary of the diary. As for the third and last apparently extradiegetic narrator, the man, in a final twist of the narrative, confesses the intradiegetic nature of his narration: after listening to a series of other storytellers, a woman had chosen him as most likely to achieve the unachievable, that is, to absorb a story, the story of her uncle who actually was her aunt. The story comes full circle and we end where we started: somebody wishing to say “ce que cette personne a cessé d'être,” what this person ceased to be. This time, though, it is one of the protagonist's relatives who has taken over, but only temporarily because his aim is to find someone who will spread the story to others and will be the perfect narrator to internalize the story and eventually become the story.

Indeed, the story's theme and narrative seem to be shattered. In the end, we are left with a myriad of elements, all of which have the sparkle and the brilliance of a piece of jewelry, but which no longer fit together to form the original necklace. Each of these pieces is now a unit in itself and has gained autonomy, just as Ahmed attempted to do. Like the first storyteller, the reader now feels overwhelmed with the many directions offered by the narrative. In essence, the reader possess a magic Rubic's cube with which he can play endlessly.

Quite naturally, this idea of a language game highlights the question of meaning highlighted by the novel. Through a twist of words, this message is already apparent in the title: L'Enfant de sable. Despite the fact that a letter to the editor of Le Monde sought to point out a mistake in the spelling of the title. According to the reader, it should have been L'Enfant du sable. Obviously, the reader had interpreted the novel as referring to a child from the desert, thus associating the character with the usual images of North Africa, the desert, and the nomads. He thereby completely missed the pun on the preposition “de,” which implies that the child is made of sand, and that, just like sand, one cannot grasp it and hold it firmly. In other words, the protagonist is an evanescent character with no firm substance.

Another way to explain the concept of sand in the title is to perceive sand as a measure of passing time, as it drifts away in the hour-glass. Thus, time as the key parameter challenges nature: thematically, the physiological changes brought about through time challenge the initial decision to turn a female child into a male adult. On the narrative level, time influences the narration as it plays with and against time; for the storyteller, on the one hand, weaves certain threads between himself and the audience that are necessary in telling the story. On the other hand, with time elapsing, the audience comes to challenge the official storyteller and breaks with the normative pattern of communication. Instead of being passive auditors, members of the audience, supposedly external to the story, become the initiators of the narration. Thus, through the complexity of its title, the novel suggests untold layers of interpretation and different messages.

There is certainly a very striking, if not disturbing, presence of overwhelming violence throughout the text. Its most extreme manifestation is rape. Physically and mentally, the character is violated: physically, as a child and a teenager, Ahmed is denied her femininity, and her body is mistreated accordingly (putting on a bandage to prevent her from growing breasts, forbidding her any feminine attributes—using make-up or shedding tears—repressing her first menstruation, growing a moustache, dressing like a man); later, as an adult, Ahmed is abused by an old woman who touches him in an inappropriate way to determine whether he is a woman or a man. From the outset, the character is denied her femininity through a number of deprivations: the use of a masculine first name, the absence of any feminine marks in the discourse when referring to the character, the repression of sexual desires, feelings, and love, her prevention from examining her image, and the conscious suppression of her female attributes. Other characters are also victims of physical and emotional violence: the mother, when to keep her from having only female children she is forced to have her belly touched by the hand of a corpse; when she is forced to abide her husband's fantasy; and later on, when submitting to all of Ahmed's whims. The text, too, is tortured—by the constant switching of narrators in a diary that both claims and rejects a female autodiegetic discourse, as with the presence of letters, the existence of which is as dubious as the identity of the sender.

The definite emphasis on violence committed upon some body (whether the character's or that of literature), naturally calls its meaning into question. Given such resonances, the novel's focus on a character whose true identity has been denied suggests further the problem of identity with which the writer's nation has to cope. Because of its history of colonization, Morocco has similarly been raped, forced into another identity and other norms, to the detriment of its own. In fact, the whole novel can be seen as a metaphor for this loss and the aftermath that such enforcement may create on the national body. Another possible reading is to consider the text as a global metaphor for the constraints that society sometimes inflicts on the individual, who then, like Ahmed, though dominated initially, may become tyrannical. If L'Enfant de sable underlines the dangers of opposing norms and being different, the final message, through La Nuit sacrée, is that of hope: asserting oneself is the only way to reach complete freedom and enjoy thorough satisfaction—sexually, intellectually and socially.

Finally, at another level of interpretation, L'Enfant de sable also alludes to the problem of Maghrebin literature of French language versus that of Arabic expression. Until very recently, Maghrebin authors writing in French were traumatized since, on the one hand, they denied their true identity and, on the other, this effort gained them only marginal acceptance and attention in French literature. Through this novel, Tahar Ben Jelloun makes us aware of the hesitations and fears writers experience when writing in a foreign language. But it further shows a will to claim an identity and a status for Maghrebin literature of French expression. Obviously, with La Nuit sacrée (1987) as a sequel to the novel, Ben Jelloun masterfully succeeds in his goal, establishing Ahmed as a woman who accepts her gender. The fact that La Nuit sacrée was awarded the Prix Goncourt further proves that Maghrebin literature of French expression has now gained true recognition.

Notes

1. Throughout the essay, I will be using in turn the pronouns “he,” “she,” and the associations “he/she” and “she/he.” This choice is meant to help the reader decipher the different stages reached by the character in the process of maturation and construction of a final identity.

2. For a complete definition of the following terms—autodiegetic, homodiegetic, intradiegetic, and extradiegetic—refer to Genette. Put simply, “extradiegetic” characterizes a narration done by an outside observer who is not involved in any way in the development of the story; the term “intradiegetic” designates a narration made by someone from the audience, and who, at one point can participate in the events of the novel; “homodiegetic” qualifies the degree of involvement/implication of the person that takes the relay in the narration, and “autodiegetic” refers to the protagonist—whether he is a temporary one or the designated permanent one—in the novel.

Works Cited

Althusser, Louis. Lenin and Philosophy and Other Essays. Tr. Bren Brewser, London: New Left Books, 1971.

Barett, Michèle. “Ideology and the Cultural Production of Gender,” Feminist Criticism and Social Change: Sex, Class and Race in Literature and Culture. Ed. Judith Newton and Deborah Rosenfelt. New York: Methuen, 1985. 65-85.

Belsey, Catherine. “Constructing the Subject: Deconstructing the Text,” Feminist Criticism and Social Change: Sex, Class and Race in Literature and Culture. Ed. Judith Newton and Deborah Rosenfelt, New York: Methuen, 1985. 46-64.

Ben Jelloun, Tahar. L'Enfant de sable. Paris: Seuil, 1985.

———. La Nuit sacrée. Paris: Seuil, 1987.

Benveniste, Émile. Problèmes de linguistique générale. Paris: Gallimard, 1966.

Derrida, Jacques. Speech and Phenomena. Tr. David B. Allison. Evanston: Northwestern UP, 1973.

Genette, Gérard. Figures III. Paris: Seuil, 1972.