from The Shadow of Hermaphroditus
Once a leaf falls, it can never reattach to the tree again. Leaves dry out, stolen away by the wind, only to die and decay. Covered by soil, only to become food for another tree. That is the law of the jungle. Hold on, did I say the jungle? Yes, that is the correct word, perfectly placed in the sentence, it is merely missing a suitable diacritical mark. It is the law of the jungle. I am nothing but a tiny leaf that prematurely fell off of an old perennial tree filled with solid branches and way more leaves than necessary. Will she feel the absence of a small leaf? A leaf experiencing the feeling of freedom, free from what stopped her from accompanying birds who settled and turned this tree into their home. Birds decide when to leave and when to stay. I wonder how many birds have settled on this tree, which has lived for over two centuries. A vast, huge tree planted in some forest. I believe no one cares to figure out how long it has been alive. I do not even care much about it.
Happiness engulfs the leaf at the first taste of freedom. Surrendering itself to the wind, flying off, dancing, somersaulting in the wind, flattening its palms and not closing them until they face upwards, spinning around itself like a ballet dancer not wanting to land on the ground, ever. Dreams of being a swan, embracing butterflies, giggling at the trickle of a raindrop down its back:
– Oh, you are heavier than I expected. You felt lighter when I was connected to branch fifty-four on the frontal left side. I was closer to the side whereas my sister was closer to the trunk. That made it easier for me to be freed when the wind blew over. I did not have an escape plan. I decided on a whim and went for it. Oh raindrop, do you know that I am grown enough to be free? Away from the aging tree that only seems to shake off its leaves once they dry out, birthing new fresh green leaves, small in size, dancing with every blow of the wind. I overheard people enjoying its shadows say how barren the tree is. If that is the case, then what are we for god’s sake? Aren’t we the children of this tree, ones it does not mind letting go of whenever it pleases, definitely not how we imagined it? Oh you raindrop, you are hindering my movement, can you fall so I can fly off once again?
The leaf sways its body until the raindrop falls. Flies again, day after day until its yellow features come about, losing its power, because of its lightness it begins flying faster. Coming across many trees as it flies away, no one recognizes her though. She almost embraces the sky, believing wholeheartedly that she will become a mother to all the leaves roaming around on this planet. Then weakness creeps in, falling, unable to fly anymore. Focusing its vision on the sky, with the wind blowing, but it’s heavier than to be able to ride the waves of the wind. Becoming too heavy to ride like a magic carpet that will take them to the promised heaven. She thinks of her mother, the enormous aging tree with thousands of branches, if not more. Where is she now? Oh how stupid of a question this is, she must be right where I left her. She should be the one asking where I am! Which land will be my cemetery; dying as a stranger, the homeland will not embrace her, she lost some of her parts, pale, neither green nor yellow, not even gray. It seems as though she became transparent, about to disintegrate, veins are clear as day, is she old enough to pass? Maybe, maybe she was one of those tender ones consumed by death, disintegrating at the sight of all those leaves who lived on the same tree. Those that, one day, fell with her. Are they alright or are they suffering as well, living their last moments somewhere else?
– Maybe, all I know is that the happiness that engulfs me when I fly is incomparable. Remembering its beauty, I do not regret it one bit. For freedom is not cheap and I willingly paid for it.
The leaf whispered to itself, succumbing to the last nap, becoming the mother of freedom, a mother who has no care in this world when it comes to who worships her.
That is me, my story. I was happy to be free upon falling from my tree… My mother told me how, unlike other babies, I did not cry upon birth. I was happy enough to refuse to cry. Doctors said I swallowed too much fluid the moment I was born, causing me to suffocate. Yes, really. My mother mentioned how blue I was, almost purple. None of their attempts worked, they could not get me to cry. It seemed as if crying was difficult for me, as it remains to date and always has been. Maybe it was because I was not touched by the devil, or the devil simply had not formed in front of me. One of the sheikhs whispered to my father when he took me there after doubting if I was a female. They leaned towards thinking that I was a boy whose organs failed to develop fully. As my father had mentioned in the story of my deadpan birth. The sheikh said:
– Do not fret, nothing is wrong with your daughter. No one was able to run from the knick of the devil other than Mary the daughter of Imran and her son Jesus, and your daughter.
My questioning father muttered:
– I still do not understand, is she a boy or a girl?
Perplexed, the sheikh said:
– What do you want me to say? She is most probably a girl, can’t you see her hair? Have you ever seen a boy with hair this long?
– Have you ever seen a girl with a mustache?!
As he was leaving, my father pondered the issue of my being an alien who the devil has not laid a hand on. He stopped and muttered:
– Do you think she is a prophet?
The sheikh went into a laughing fit, answering sarcastically:
– Do not dream too big, is Prophet Mohammad (PBUH) the last prophet with the False Messiah being part of your ancestry?
Laughing loudly, my father thought: Oh that fool, it is only he who is the false messiah. He does not even know how to pronounce ‘Al-Masikh Al-Dajal’ properly, confusing him with Jesus the son of Mary who is being resurrected, oh what a liar.
I spent a whole month in the NICU. During that time, my mother cared for my siblings back home. Was I spoiled? No. But some said I was attempting to be. I never drank my mother’s milk, as it dried up before my lips got the chance to latch on. She would visit me and look as if I was a stranger, looking at me through the glass panel of my incubator, filled with warmth, well-lit with its lamp that never turns off. Given my extreme sensitivity and inability to breathe without a machine, she was not allowed to touch me. Only a month after my birth was she able to fully embrace me. I did not cry when that happened either. I did not ask for her breast, I was content with formula milk that I fed on through a thin nasogastric tube inserted through my right nostril. I remained calm in my mother’s arms with her puzzled looks as if she was meeting me for the first time. I did not return that same look to her. I was used to changes in facial expressions, the only thing I could not comprehend was the hot liquid falling on my face like dew drops falling from the heart of a cloud straight onto my cheeks. Only because of their saltiness did I later figure out that these drops were in fact falling from my mother’s eyes. Later I realized that these were tears. The doctors concurred that I most probably would not be able to speak given that I did not scream even once, saying her throat might not work later on when she tried to speak. I did speak and I did laugh in the end, having conversations like no other. I was known for my exceptional wit, no one could escape my remarks charging at them. Everyone was focused on me, all eyes on me. It seems as if this will only be added to the list of my peculiar characteristics. My loud cackling that always ticked off my mother because it was not fitting for a girl, or my interest in activities that no girl dared to partake in – as my mother says – it did not begin or end with me climbing the outer walls of our house to reach our neighbors’ home. Moving through the walls from one house to another.
– Aren’t you scared of falling? My mother says.
– On the contrary, Mother, it’s fun and exciting. I can easily do it and jump around.
– It looks like I failed to raise you. I have to do it all over again, she said angrily.
I do not pay her much attention though, I continue on with my adventure. It is not as bad as my mother believes, as the taste of Badam in our fifth-floor neighbor’s yard was too delicious for me to share with anyone. Even though our neighbor, Khamees, was a drunkard with whom no one wanted to mess. Every time he saw me, he would utter:
– Oh Suad, it is my first time seeing Badam eating Badam!
With drool forming on my lips, I would answer:
– What do you mean?
I really did not understand what he was hinting at. All I could comprehend was that he might be asking me if I liked eating Badam. I nodded in approval. Sometimes when I encountered his wife, Auntie Sabiha, she would give me some fruits she picked earlier or ones that had fallen from the tree. She would then send me off home quickly before her husband woke up, which hurt me. It would irritate me because I prefer picking my fruit on my own. On so many occasions, I would brush her off to only go back again and pick some fruit without her seeing me. I do not understand her fear for me from her husband’s scathe. He has only ever been kind to me and he enjoyed eating Badam as well.
My mother’s chastising hits were too soft to pain me. My one-month hospital stay post-birth can be credited for her constant fear hanging over me. It looks like a good thing does come out of everything. Here I am, a monkey who is not afraid of anything and does everything. I still remember my childhood when I would play with my brothers and neighbors. Being very stubborn, never taking no for an answer when they tried to kick me out. I was an amazing scorer, leading my team to victory thanks to my left foot which sends the ball straight into the goal. The losing team complains and says they could never get beaten by a girl, disregarding my goals, and saying that our team is simply a bunch of girls for accepting me. Anger fills my teammates so they push me away, which only builds up frustration within me. I launch at them, leaving nail marks on their necks. No kid in our neighborhood escaped the wrath of my long nails. Those who did not experience it had a different experience with my bites. When fighting with someone, I do not stop until tears start streaming down their faces.
I was the only one who did not learn how to cry. I do not remember a single tear falling down my face as a child, not even when my father would hit me after all of my fights when my neighbors snitched on me. Not when he would ban me from having my favorite sweets, giving it to my siblings to enjoy in front of me just so he could shame me into tears and ask for forgiveness. I never did though. Something always stopped me. I do not know what it is, not even the essence of it, all I know is that I possess a feeling of strength that grows whenever I hold back the epitome of my sorrow and sadness. Whenever I would notice their confused looks, it would only make it fester within me. I was convinced that I was right, what was happening to me was abnormal. No one will be able to summon tears out of me. Was it fun? I think it surpassed that point and turned into pride. What I do not understand is why my mother would cry as my father hit me, she kept crying, wailing, saying he was cruel, trying with all of her might to push him away, but he didn’t budge:
– Do you think this pains her? Look at her! Not one tear fell from the eyes of this witch.
Yes, father, I was in pain. The strikes were painful and hurtful, I felt them in my blood. I felt the sting of the whip on my soft skin and body, your stick would dive in, planting itself within my heart. Sometimes, it felt like my heart was about to succumb, but I could not let it. Something is blocking my tears, how can I convince you that I simply cannot do it? It is out of my control. My lacrimal glands are as good as new, I have no health issues, that is what the optometrist told my mother after her worry increased with the lack of tears. The thing is, it was far off from the lacrimal glands, I never knew how to cry to begin with. I would sit with myself at times and try to force the tears out, to no avail. I try to act sad, no, I actually would feel sad. I forcefully close my eyes, rubbing them, lips quivering, allowing them to tremble and fall like a sad crescent. The tears never come, I never cry. Most of the time, I would open up my eyes and chuckle upon seeing myself in this state. I look like a fake clown, one that did not play its role properly.
I still remember when my mother accompanied me to the old lady living across our village, complaining about my lack of tears, the lady muttered:
– You should be thankful! Some women come in complaining about the non-stop wailing and crying of their children. You are the first one to complain of this, do you really want me to place an amulet that would make her scream and cry?
I was two years, five months, and four days old. My memory is insane, it is so great to the point that it surpassed the issue of my lack of crying, having a memory like no other, a memory that does not drop anything it comes across. Asking my mother about that specific day, she only asks one question:
– Who told you about her?
She cannot believe that I remembered it, thinking I was too young to remember such an incident. How do I convince her that no one told me? Convince her of the fact that I really do remember how she took me to the lady wearing a yellow dress dotted with filled and hollow black circles, not as dark as her eyes, for her eyes were grayish in color. She sat there with a hunched back, but when she stood up she did not lean on her stick. She had a full set of teeth as well. Her picture is as clear as day in my mind, what pains me in that memory is my mother’s disbelief in me and her constant scolding me for mentioning it:
– Do not lie, God will send you to hell!
She would retreat then mumble to herself: Who the hell told you though? No one other than me and that lady knew of that visit.
I have always been a level-headed girl, a beautiful child with long black hair and clear hazel eyes. Always played with my sisters. I was never an only girl with six brothers, I was one of seven girls, neither the oldest nor the youngest. I was lost somewhere in the middle, the fourth sister and the seventh daughter out of all thirteen of us. The center of the bunch, as my mother would say, the prettiest of my sisters and, of course, the prettiest amongst my brothers. I would start off the day by playing with my sisters then afterwards I usually played with my brothers in the afternoon. Starting the day by making dolls out of wooden slabs that would look like a cross without really understanding the meaning behind the cross at that point. We would sew clothes for the doll, dress it up, and practice our motherly roles that one day we would fulfill. I never doubted for a second that I would be a mother, with no little girl to sew clothes for, no little girl to dress up. When we take on the roles of mothers and fathers, I always would assume the role of a mother. I knew deep down that it was the prettiest role, the most suitable one for me. When I grew older, I began helping my mother out in cleaning the house and washing clothes, learning how to cook by the ripe age of twelve. I assisted my sisters in sewing the holes in our clothes with our pants having holes right in the center because of our wide steps, or those holes by the knees from our constant falling whilst running on the road or around the yard. Our clothes were undeniably long. My mother says it is because we grow an inch a day. We would tailor our clothes whenever we grew taller, undoing the sewing and properly sewing them back together. Working according to my mother’s plan. A big dress gets tailored to the young ones with a small build to fit them, saving the small clothes for my younger sibling, even if that child is yet to be born. My mother never believed in determining the number of children she would have, she simply believed that a woman is born to breed, and she must do so until God stops it. Otherwise, a curse will fall on her in this life and in the afterlife. This includes women losing all of their children and becoming infertile after choosing not to bear any more children. My mother believes that having a lot of children is merely protection for the parents, as the children will care for them once they grow old. It is the same as their belief that the large number means if she ever loses a child she will forget about the child and be overtaken by the ones already there given their large number. My mother has awry beliefs, but she loves us all even though there are thirteen of us. She gave birth to us and never complained about the long, tiring nights. She still would call every one of us “the light of my eye”.
Translator’s Note:
In The Shadow of Hermaphroditus, Badriyah Al-Badri addresses themes rarely explored in Arabic literature, making it both unique and challenging to translate. The novel stands as one of the first works in the Arab world to delve into the life of an intersex individual, providing readers with a fresh perspective. Al-Badri’s poetic writing brings depth to the struggles of her protagonist, Suad, who faces not only gender dysphoria but also the complexities of family dynamics, relationships, and identity. Suad’s life is shaped by silence and isolation, living as a bystander to her own existence, unaware that an outburst of truth will ultimately free her from the misery she has endured.
Al-Badri’s portrayal highlights Suad’s inner turmoil and the emotional and psychological battles faced by intersex individuals in a society that often seeks to hide or ignore them. The novel presents Suad’s experience without the need to categorize or define her, instead offering a compassionate exploration of her humanity. By shedding light on such a sensitive and underrepresented subject, Al-Badri challenges societal taboos and invites readers into a conversation about gender and identity.
The translation process of this book was quite interesting, as the author shifts from one perspective to another ever so smoothly, allowing you to dive deeper into the book without realizing it. This excerpt showcases what identity is, and tackles its various aspects through personalizing this tiny leaf, using it to project the novel’s scenes and outcomes that have yet to be unveiled. Essentially, I chose this excerpt because the author’s way of bringing the topic about, at the beginning of the novel, prepares you in a poetic way to delve into hard topics, ones that we must speak of nevertheless.
It is essential to raise awareness of issues faced by marginalized individuals around the world, foster empathy, and open up discussions about the often-overlooked struggles of those who live outside traditional gender norms. This is why translating this book is a necessity.
Badriyah Al-Badri is an Omani poet and novelist, known for her works across novels, poetry, children’s literature, and critical essays. Al-Badri has received numerous awards, including the Katara Prize for Prophets Poets, and her works have been longlisted for prestigious honors including Fombi for the International Prize for Arabic Fiction (2024) and The Adventurous Smoothy for the Sheikh Zayed Book Award. Additionally, her novel The Shadow of Hermaphroditus won Oman’s Cultural Creativity Award. In 2024, her novel The Last Crossing was translated into English.
Nada Hodali is a Palestinian literary translator. Following her BA in English Language and Literature with a minor in Translation at Birzeit University, Hodali further continued her education and obtained a MA in Translation Studies from Durham University. Hodali’s translation works have been published in ArabLit Quarterly, FIKRA Magazine, with a forthcoming publication in TBA21. Hodali’s first full-length translation, Safaa and the Tent, by Safaa Odah is set to be published in 2025.
BACK TO ISSUE