This week we read two autobiographical graphic novels about young girls growing up in the Middle East. Both girls narrate their lives through similar themes of family, education, independence, and lurking political turmoil that often interrupts their narratives. 

I was thinking about these books in relationship to the recent headlines about Malala Yousafzai and Greta Thunberg meeting in the UK last week. The meeting was symbolic to many of a universal girl struggle. Malala is known for being shot in 2012 on a school bus in Pakistan by an extremist who opposed girls education. Greta has risen to fame in the past year for refusing to attend school to protest for legislators to start listening to scientists and take urgent action on climate change. While at surface level, it seems like Malala is in favor of education in a way Greta is not, Greta’s speeches emphasize that she wants to learn and have a future but that the climate crisis denies her a future to make the education meaningful. Thus, we see, her demand is for the legislators to fix the climate crisis so that she can do what young girls ought to be doing — going to school. The two icons share similar values of education and this motivates them to speak out against patriarchal oppressors.

The graphic novels in some ways succeed in resisting Orientalist stereotypes in narrowing in on one story, with all of its complexity. I think what the graphic novels accomplish well is showing that there is in fact barbaric violence within “Islamic Societies” but they do not characterize the entire population. For example, in Persepolis, Marji’s mom encourages her to forgive her school friend whose father participated in the torture of political dissidents (46). Later, when family friends are recounting stories of their personal experience of torture, Marji’s mother modifies her position and tells Marji “Bad people are dangerous but forgiving them is too. Don’t worry, there is justice on Earth.” These conflicting positions regarding Justice and forgiveness highlight the fogginess that accompanies normative opinions. Academic writing, which always seeks to abstract and generalize, can create moral bright lines for the sake of analytical clarity, but these bright lines often do not neatly map onto real life. This moral mapping is a task that creative projects and memoirs can handle with more nuance.

Yet, like Malala, there is a tendency to neutralize the politics of girls’ education as common sense, which I don’t disagree with, but frames Western education (which both girls in Persepolis and Growing up in Turkey participate in) as a universal good. Malala becomes not just a protagonist in her own story but a symbol of a Muslim girl rising out of Islamic oppression into Western enlightenment. In Growing up in Turkey, at one point Ozge is hit by her teacher and her mother dismisses it as common practice (53). The reader is compelled to empathize with Ozge who is horrified, and schemes many ways to destroy the pink ruler to erase the memory of violence (55). Ozge talks about how her university, by contrast, is modeled after Western education and thus, conducted in English. Ozge notes how some of her friends critique this, but the comic make the critic (Hakan) look crazy. He says “You are like Americans…All you care about is finding a high paying job. You don’t care about the politics of Turkey. You only fight for your space in the school’s parking lot” to which Pelin responds “None of us have a car” (140). This makes the critique of the Western university seem vapid and manic, as though Hakan is being silly.

In class I would love to discuss more:

The stories present narratives of how unmarried women are trapped in Iran and Turkey. How might this interact with last weeks readings about the Western “universal” desire for autonomy, and education as a tool towards that value?

What is significant about the form of the graphic novel? I am thinking about the Homi Bhabha quote in the Abu Lughod reading that “access to any sort of real “tradition” has been made impossible by the historical cultural encounter with the West” (261). Might forms like the graphic novel carve out important new intellectual spaces for thinking about experiences in the non-West? Especially if the audience is white? 

Week 8 Blog Post

CW: Child Abuse

Özge Samanci’s Dare to Disappoint is a compelling story, that it feels almost wrong to call it “creative nonfiction.” Creative nonfiction has the connotation of not being completely real, a sense that things may be a tad bit made up. Dare to Disappoint is a fast and easy read, but there is depth within the illustrations and the captions. Recently, as I’ve been thinking about my own creative process and my relation to the world, I’ve been contemplating how to “Write About Family” (there’s a whole course at Yale devoted to it). How do you recreate a world that you intend to share that is authentic, and acknowledges the complexity of your lived experience?

In her search for authenticity, Samanci turns to her math notes and her poster of Jacques Cousteau. This is something that resonates with me, because I’ve found that what drives me and gives me direction in life are not the “I should” thoughts that come from family, friends, outsiders, or what I “think” the world expects of me, but the places and spaces and activities that I give my energy to and are fulfilling for me. It’s what makes her title so powerful--understanding the system and structure that you are socialized into, and realizing that finding your own path does not have to equal a rejection of those who love and support you. 

Reading this also brought to mind three other memoir-like things that explore this relationship between authenticity and writing about family: The Broke Diaries by Angela Nissel, A Child Called It by Dave Pelzer, and Ugly by Constance Briscoe. 

Broke Diaries by Angela Nissel originally came from a series of blog posts that she wrote throughout college, but it is also a story about race, class and gender throughout time. It is both a collection of snapshots of Philadelphia in the ‘80s and ‘90s, and a historiography of racial identity formations in the United States. Like Samanci who balances her interests in art and theater with pride and a sense of duty, Nissel wrestles with majoring in medical anthropology to appease those “back home” and pursuing her creative interests. These works cannot be constrained to one category, which I find beautiful.

Dave Pelzer’s and Constance Briscoe’s books deal with much heavier content than Angela Nissel’s Broke Diaries. Both were severely abused and neglected by their various parents, guardians, and caretakers. But the purpose of these books is not necessarily to share pain or perpetuate trauma (Well, for A Child Called It that might not be completely true--the validity of his experiences have been questioned). Nor are they neatly packaged stories that promise to reveal something uplifting about society. They are a collection of experiences and reveal authenticity in the most brutal way, and are ultimately projects about writing about family.

I think for me, I’d like to know the role she expects her art to play in the world. Why does she feel like her life is worth sharing, in this way? What does she feel like her drawings contribute to her narrative, or what do they encompass that words could not say?

Blog 1: Comparing the Artistic Choices and Gender Analyses of Greta Gerwig, Özge Samancı, and Marjane Satrapi

A few weeks ago I saw Greta Gerwig’s Little Women. I was so excited to see the movie that I read the book for the first time in probably 10 years over winter break. Maybe it was because, after reading numerous articles about the end of the movie being a revolutionary feminist twist, I had hoisted my expectations to the moon—I did not love the movie. I liked it! I just did not love it like I expected to. If you’re reading this and have not seen the movie, stop here! Because I am about to spoil the ending. In the book, Jo, the protagonist among the four March sisters, gets married and has children like all the other women she knows, after spending the entire novel claiming she will never get married. I was disappointed by this ending and eager to watch Jo escape marriage and live out her literary dreams in the movie. But she still gets married! The twist is that the movie’s ending is ambiguous—even as it shows her getting married, there seems to be an alternate storyline running alongside the marriage one where she sees her book published and opens a school. These two threads are interwoven, and the distinctions between them blurred, so it is not clear what really happens, allowing moviegoers to choose which ending they like best. But I did not fully understand this dynamic until reading articles about the ending afterwards. When I walked out of the theater, I felt let down, because the storyline most visible to me was the marriage one, and it seemed like Gerwig simply followed the original story after all. I bring up this anecdote to make a point about art making a point: Art, be it painting, literature, film, or something else, usually aims to present content that can be interpreted in multiple ways. But sometimes, in pursuing ambiguity, artists may send a message they do not want to send, or send too many messages that end up getting tangled and confusing the audience. I am not necessarily suggesting Little Women was confusing in exactly this way; but the movie serves as a good example of art that intended to present itself ambiguously but in reality ended up strongly conveying the very message (that women should stay at home) it hoped to subvert in using that ambiguity.

I found this phenomenon to some extent in Özge Samancı’s Dare to Disappoint: Growing up in Turkey, but not in Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi. In some ways, movie adaptations of books are like graphic novels, because they put something originally meant to stay on the pages of a book into visual form. In the process of illustrating literature, which on surface level would seem to clarify the words rather than muddy them, sometimes the images and words can convey different stories or create separate threads that do not intertwine quite right (as in Little Women). (I also want to note that I have only ever read one or two graphic novels before I read these two, so I might be biased against them or ignorant of their form.)

First, I want to discuss how each of these authors uses art to make their words come alive. Satrapi draws simply, consistently, and in only black and white. Her style remains largely the same throughout the book. But I love the perspectives she takes in different scenes, zooming in close on someone’s face or out to show an entire street or building, and often relying on images rather than words to further the story. Samancı draws with a completely different style, incorporating mixed media and colors instead of sticking to black and white. Some of her designs are incredibly creative and beautiful, such as the representation of the TV show “Dallas” on page 63; or page 156, which reads “everything changed in a flash,” and depicts vibrant sunlight bursting forth from clouds on a watercolor blue background. Yet others seem a bit contrived, like they are trying too hard to send a message artfully when the same message could be sent more subtly using simpler images, or words alone. On page 92, for example, she writes that Pelin “left all the things we loved behind,” and then pastes cutouts of words from different magazines or books such as “kite,” “bicycle,” “par-ty,” onto the page. I feel like she could have activated those words more, perhaps by representing them as objects, or drawing little remembered scenes of Pelin flying a kite, riding a bicycle, or dancing at a party. On other pages, too, the artistry seems like overkill, but perhaps I get that impression because I am comparing them directly to Satrapi’s very neat, pared-down style.

Of course, these details of Dare to Disappoint are minor and do not significantly affect the overall message of the book; but some of Samancı’s artistic choices do affect the message, and somewhat like Little Women, the book sometimes tangles the threads of its own storyline. At different moments in the story, it is hard to tell which voice to pay attention to. Since the format is more freeform than Persepolis, onto which Satrapi imposes a fairly rigid grid like more traditional graphic novels, the order in which readers of Dare to Disappoint should proceed through speech bubbles and asides by other secondary characters is not always clear, and some of the meaning can get lost in the process of hunting for the “correct” next step. Characters like the bird narrator further confuse the story. I was not sure if the bird was its own character or supposed to represent the author’s voice in the present making judgements about her past life. The bird educates readers with facts like, “At the end of WWI, Greeks invaded Izmir, and Atatürk and his soldiers took it back” (32); but it also makes mean remarks such as “She dropped the ball. Again.” after Özge gets suspended (128). I also was not sure whether the square boxes that hold explanatory information and point at characters are the author’s voice in the present or the past, or some third party. One on page 96, pointing to a boy whose mother brags he scored very well on his secondary school exam, states apparently objectively that he “has no friends, no hobbies, no social skills.” Is this judgement passed by the teenage or the adult Özge? Since the distinction between these voices is unclear, this box simply comes off as a mean, petty dig at the boy’s success, as if the adult author is still bitter this unpopular boy scored well and she did not. She may not have intended to send this message, but it is sent anyway.

My observations sound like criticisms of Samancı as an artist, but I really enjoyed reading Dare to Disappoint and generally appreciated its unconventional format. I merely mean to point out that well-intentioned artists can skew their own message by making certain stylistic choices. Satrapi is much more successful in this regard, as she keeps the voices of her narrator and the characters all distinct.

Since I have spent most of this post talking only about the form of these books, and not their content, I want to highlight a few themes or moments in each that I appreciated. Aware of her own privilege as a member of what appears to be an upper middle class (if not upper class) family, Satrapi deals a lot with class hierarchy in the book. She notes that her father has the financial stability to bribe the police officer about to search their home (110), and that her aunt, “who [knows] some bureaucrats in the education system,” secures Özge a spot at a new school after she gets expelled from her old one (144). Some part of me wishes she had addressed her own high social status a little more explicitly (she claims “it was a real struggle to find another school that would accept me,” but a lower-income family with fewer connections would undoubtedly have struggled much more), but, unlike Samancı, being explicit is not her style (144). I give her credit for at least bringing up the topic of class often throughout the book. And she makes sure to introduce lower-ranking individuals, such as her maids, by their name, and to tell their story, so readers get a sense for experiences in this place and during this time period outside her own. Samancı more explicitly addresses themes such as gender, and I appreciate her educational project about women and Islam. Like the BBC video we watched last class, “Things Not to Say to Someone Who Wears a Burqa,” Samancı appears to dismantle myths about Muslim women, but I like her approach more. She demonstrates that some people within the Muslim faith call other Muslims “radical Islamists,” as the girls at Özge’s science high school label the boys there (113). Furthermore, Özge’s roommate Merve still wants to veil but cannot because the practice is forbidden at school, and Özge expresses her support, stating, “We should all be able to do what we want” (114). This scene sends the dual message that not all Muslim women want to be unveiled, and that Muslim women do not always impose their choices onto others (in fact, many do not!).

Told through the lens of girls who grow up Muslim, these two books explore many of the themes we have discussed in class: gender, Islam, bourgeois values, feminism, nationalism. I want to reiterate that although I have some reservations about Samancı’s artistic choices, my criticism does not prevent me from enjoying Dare to Disappoint. I recognize that books like these, addressing the subject of “Muslim women” (and revealing all the diversity that seemingly monolithic phrase actually entails) for a Western audience, often come under stricter scrutiny because there are fewer such books. Dare to Disappoint and Persepolis are thus held to higher standards than other graphic novels, simply because they deal with subject matter about which many members of their target audience are ignorant. Expectations were similarly high for Greta Gerwig, as she has directed several female-driven movies in the past two years and thus was expected to create a feminist retelling of a classic novel. Overall, both Samancı and Satrapi strike a good balance of storytelling, autobiography, and education, and I look forward to discussing them in class.

persepolis, dare to disappoint, and capernaum

This week we read Persepolis and Dare to Disappoint, two beautifully, cleverly narrated stories of growing up. I only formed this sentence to be able to compliment these works before I start.

I have many questions, and I want to explore them by introducing Capernaum (Capharnaüm) into the discussion. Capernaum is a 2018 movie by Nadine Labaki, telling the story of Zain, a Lebanese boy. The main event is Zain suing his parents for having him (“Why do you want to sue your parents?” “Because I was born”), while we see his life full of poverty, violence, and many other hardships. It won the jury prize at Cannes and was clapped on foot for a long time (15 minutes, I think it broke a record?). 

Here, check the trailer if you have time (the lead actor is so so good):

Now. This movie is said to “hit hard”, and it does. I can’t describe all the dense feelings I had the first time I saw it. Though I don’t want having feeling towards (or “liking”) something to stop me from questioning it. 

All of the three works have received immensely positive reactions from a Western audience.

Yet, there are differences (and similarities) as to how they do that.

Let’s start with the similarities.

-They all have (or at least start with) children as the protagonists. This is crucial, as children are often seen as relatable blank slates born into those oppressive environments by chance. They attract affection.

-They use “universal” languages. This is not only literally the language (French for Persepolis, English for Dare to Disappoint), but also the use of references, terms, and mediums that are familiar to the “universal” (Western, historically dominantly male) subject. 

What makes the two books different and better (terrible choice of word) in my opinion is that they allow nuances (by far one of the most important concepts that the scholars we read point out the lack and need of). 

Being autobiographies, they have ups and downs, just like...life.

The oppressive father of Özge is not necessarily evil, there is a context behind his behavior, and still, this does not mean he is completely right and must be obeyed to.

Not just for the father, there is a context for many of the social events and practices in both works. Context is not equal to acceptance, but it exists. It is inseparable. 

In Persepolis, there are people having fun in the midst of “all the tragedy”. There are actual PEOPLE living lives with actual feelings of joy, shame, excitement, regret, frustration and many more. 

Islam or nationalism is not simply accepted/rejected, but the narrators have complicated and evolving relationships with them.

Whereas in Capernaum, there is a stronger sense of some “evil” entity, bad people doing bad things (Zain’s 11-year-old sister being married off to the landlord’s son), apparently because they are bad. It is a bad world where the bad holds power. Zain, however, is a resisting hero. Empathy and pity arise towards the boy struggling in this alien world. 

With this approach, “the problem” becomes the parents having children into this cruel world, and you get comments like: “this is so real. some parents do not deserve to have children😢” (copy-pasted).

The audience understands, yes, things are bad, but does the solution really lie in preventing people from having children? Of judging the parents who if their stories were told, the audience would also feel bad for?

(Many woke modern people think so)

And oh, criticizing works of art, sorry, Art, with their possible political interpretations accepting that they inevitably serve as political tools? That is scary for an artist (wow I just called myself one) “just wanting to do art”.

Elle magazine spread of Halima Aden

"halima-aden-is-the-role-model-we-need"

Things Not To Say To Someone Who Wears A Burqa

The Portrayal of Muslim Love in HBO’s Ramy - Fatma Elsayed

In Remaking Women: Feminism and Modernity in the Middle East, Lila Abu Lughod’s piece on “The Marriage of Feminism and Islamism in Egypt '' considerably explores the portrayal of women in Egyptian media. Abu Lughod uses examples like Usama Anwar ‘Ukasha’s Hilmiyya Nights, a television series that aired during the 1980s and early 1990s about struggles of looking for love and marriage, and She and the Impossible by Fathiyya al- ‘Assal about the value of education for women. It was interesting to find how, despite both creators sharing a similar strand of progressive and liberal views on feminism and women in the workplace, there were still differences in how that intersected with marriage and love.  For example in Hilmiyya Nights, Zohra marries her boss at work who seduces her as Ali frustrates her and in She and the Impossible, the female lead goes from illiterate to educated and raising a son alone after being rejected by her lover. In both pieces, there is a similar sense of autonomy but portrayed in different ways Zohra chooses to marry her boss and the female lead chooses to educate herself and raise her son alone.

Reading Abu-Lughod’s piece made me think about the HBO show Ramy which recently won an Oscar for Ramy Youssef as Best Actor in a TV Comedy. The show itself is a modern, comedic portrayal of a Muslim, Egyptian in America that follows their struggles and challenges with merging their Muslim faith and Egyptian culture with American life. The show deals with standard topics such as growing older and building a career, but also emotional ones like love, marriage, and sacrifice. 

I enjoyed the show, and I had previously watched clips by Ramy Youssef who’s comedy was an entertaining yet relatable expression of being Muslim in America. However, I know female Muslim friends who absolutely despised the show, criticizing it’s negative portrayal of Muslim women as objects and appealing to the western eye. Having a back-and-forth with these friends about the show was very conflicting because I usually agreed with these friends on many other things but this case seemed to be an exception. I was fully a fan of Ramy for how hilarious it was, but also for how I felt like it painted a relatable portrayal of the spectrum of Muslims and piety in western societies, and how challenging it can be to find an appropriate partner in the midst of this diversity. However, my friends mentioned plots such as the hijabi Muslim woman who sleeps with Ramy and cheats on her husband as an offensively sexualizing portrayal of Muslim women. 

Conversations and disagreements like these make me wonder if we can ever portray Muslim women in all their diverse lifestyles and piousness without degrading the Muslim woman herself? Additionally, what responsibility do Muslim creators have in upholding or molding the perception of Islam and Muslims? Do we hold them accountable if we do not like their vision?