The problem with Himmich’s novel is that neither strategy proves to be sufficient in wiping out despotism and tyranny. In a letter addressed to Abu-Rakwa, Hussein Ibn Jawhar, the head of the Fatimid army, reveals that the Egyptian people are helpless and ‘même l’humour ne leur apporte que la vengeance du despote, suivie de malheurs et de souffrances’ (145) [even their jokes bring only vengeful attacks from the tyrant, and misery and suffering as a consequence]. Despite their immediate impact, parody, irony and humour all remain ineffective measures in the face of the over-whelming burden of tyranny. With regard to language and writing, the failure of Abu-Rakwa’s rebellion is particularly compelling. His spiritual and pacifying approach, which seems initially to resist Al-Hākim’s rhetoric of dictatorship, ends up leading to more blood and savagery as he chops off the head of Yanal le Turc, the commander of the ruler’s garrison, and stands powerless before Al-Hākim’s revenge. The rebel’s dramatic failure culminates in ‘les milliers de têtes coupées que l’on promenait dans les rues et sur les places’ [thousands of heads in every alley and square] and ‘les prisonniers qu’on décapitait à coups de sabre’ (165) [an endless succession of prisoners killed by the blows of a sword].
The advent of Sit al-Mulk, the ruler’s powerful sister who plans the assassination of her brother and rides to the rescue of the Egyptian
35 Echevarría, pp. 1–2.
population, does not seem to reverse the trend. Her exercise of power, based on manipulation and secret manoeuvring, not only perpetuates tyranny but also unveils the dilemma of any ruling dictator: ‘pour stopper l’hémorragie, il fallait répandre le sang’ (225) [in order to stem the haemor-rhage, yet more blood had to be spilled]. In this, Himmich’s novel seems to suggest that there is no concrete way out of tyranny and dictatorship.
Connecting Himmich’s novel with Deleuze and Guattari’s reading of power, Wen-chi Ouyang claims that the Moroccan author ‘may be interested in deterritorialisation elsewhere but not in Majnūn al-ḥukm. He is concerned rather with the type of despotism prevalent in the Arabic-Islamic world from which there are no detectable lines of escape’ (2013: 120). The final pages of the novel would encourage such a reading: the persistent shadow of Al-Hākim continues to haunt the streets of Cairo and even after his total disappearance, Egyptian people find themselves submitted to another form of excess, that of Al-Hākim’s successor Al-Dhaher and his immoderate passion for entertainment and debauchery. In other words, the history of dictatorship and tyranny ‘seems to repeat itself in a vicious cycle, as if the regime of signs that is madness has so tightened its noose that no lines of escape from it may be found’.36
However, as evidenced by the totally unexpected eruption of the Arab Spring in 2010, the contemporary reader of Himmich’s novel may argue that indecision and uncertainty are fundamental features of the anti-dictatorial movements and discourses in the Arab world. That would be a justified reading but I would go further and argue that there is still a hidden line of escape which Himmich’s novel alludes to, that of the return to the self and the elaboration of a new self-criticism based on introspection and soli-darity, a form of ‘literary self-constitution’37 that precedes any political or social performance. In this way, Himmich’s novel appears to depart from the model of Latin American dictator novel that ‘deconstructs the assump-tions about the power of self and its representation in fiction’.38 I would
36 Ouyang, 120.
37 Echevarría, 11.
38 Echevarría, 84.
give three examples of this line of escape that hinges on the individual and collective reconstruction of the self.
In his final days, Al-Hākim reflects on his reign and admits having no problems save with ‘mon âme totale, qui m’interroge et me tourmente sans cesse’ (195) [my entire soul, which incessantly tortures me with questions].
His self-critical discourse is quite compelling as he finally concedes: ‘La vérité […] c’est que je me suis mêlé des contradictions et m’y suis abaissé, jusqu’à en être partie, et non plus maître’ (195) [The truth is that I have involved myself in contradictions, so I now see myself brought so low that I am a mere part of things and no longer master]. This belated avowal implicitly suggests that a good ruler is one who masters his very self and manages his own contradic-tions while seeking elevation and transcendence. This individual approach to the self as a potential way out of dictatorship takes a collective dimension in Abu-Rakwa’s final legacy left to Egyptian people before his death:
Si la violence des tyrans de votre temps vous submerge […] ne vous effondrez pas!
[…] Marchez sur les flancs de la terre, grandissez parmi les faibles et les affamés, car chez eux la tristesse fleurit avec les âmes et les corps qui grandissent en même temps que la colère […] faites de votre vie une arme consciente, toujours active.
[if you are submerged by the violence of tyranny in your time […] do not despair […] Go forth into the world and flourish among the weak and hungry. It is among such folk that sorrow grows in heart and body, and anger along with them […]. Keep yourselves forever alert and ready for action.] (169–70)
Abu-Rakwa’s call for the rise of self-consciousness and social solidarity hints at the necessity to promote the collective self as an oppositional tool to tyranny and despotism. Finally, the focus on the self needs also to be understood as a primary subject of writing. More than a historical fiction on dictatorship and madness, Himmich has delivered a novel about the self with its very intricate web of contradictions and inner secrets. Like Al-Hākim’s chronicler Moukhtar al-Mousabihi, the writer should be one who reworks his art to unveil the identity of the despot and lay bare his hidden thoughts. As the despot suggests to his chronicler, ‘Alors, écris l’histoire de ma mélancolie et de ma tristesse, tu comprendras ma tendance à innover […]. Fais donc la chronique de mon silence et de ma plongée profonde en lui, tu verras comment mes actes fermentent et mes œuvres
naissent’ (186) [So, write the history of my melancholy and misery. You will come to understand my penchant for innovation […]. So record my silence then! You will see how my deeds ferment and my innovations fare in their labour pains]. A few pages later, Al-Hākim reveals his yearning for another life in which he could write his own memories, namely ‘tout ce que cet historien ne comprend ni ne perçoit, tous les cris latents, les déchire-ments et les vérités absents de ses gros livres’ (193) [all that historians do not see or appreciate, all the secret cries, rifts, and verities that are missing from their weighty tomes]. History is nothing without those little histories of the self that escape official manipulation and spring from the innermost territories of the subject. Writing or rewriting the self is a fundamental step towards the recapturing of global history and the creation of a potential way out of tyranny.
If one reason behind Himmich’s recourse to historical fiction is ‘an eagerness to escape the self as a subject matter’,39 it has to be acknowledged that the question of the individual and collective self ultimately comes back as possibly the last resort to resist the perpetuation of dictatorship and tyranny. Since rhetorical, linguistic and narrative strategies fail to tackle the persistent power of despotism, the subject needs to seek other alternatives, starting his quest with an examination of the self. A. S. Byatt suggests that writers who return to historical fiction are probably ‘attracted by the idea that perhaps we have no such thing as an organic, discoverable, single Self ’.40 If this is true then the production of those writers, such as Himmich’s Le Calife de l’épouvante, adds another valuable contribution to the process of rebuilding the self and promoting the necessity of an inward reconstruction before tackling the hydras of dictatorship and despotism.
39 Allen, xii.
40 Byatt, p. 31.
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