This is what happens when writers who have pseudonyms and claim they are North Africans– and have “translators” who also use pseudonyms— pen sentences that go: “In these lines where sperm and poetry mingle, my ambition is to give women back the speech that has been confiscated by their fathers, brothers and husbands. I lift these words, as one lifts a glass, to the health of Arab women.” As just one Arab woman, I have to say, those words were bad for my health. Here is my response:
I sat, my breasts heavy like pomegranates, onto the toilet. Earlier that morning, I had woken up musky with desire, like a cat or a lioness, from a wet dream. I had intended to spend the day reading my copy of The Almond, but instead I practiced the secret habit– my fingers are double jointed and thus I am quite skilled at that, even though I was initially handicapped by my upbringing, which caused me to rely heavily on bidets for this particluar task–remembering the sexy tattoed women from my dream, their persistence and strength. They reminded me of the uniformed girls from my childhood on the Arabian peninsula… or, more likely, of that one acrobatic tattoed stripper from the tittie bar I had visited the night before. I also remembered the masked and unmasked men from the dream; they reminded me of my teenagehood in the seedy clubs of the New York peninsula. Later, after I recovered my senses, I attempted to read the book by “Nedjma.” It was very moving… or atleast my bowels thought so. I ran to the bathroom, where I sat, my breasts heavy like pomegranates, onto the toilet. When I was done, I reached out for the toilet paper, but I was all out. I then realized my copy of the book could come in handy, afterall. After, I retired to my sofa and made a few phone calls to my beloveds.
By Randa Jarrar*
*My real fucking name.