Ramzi Salti. World Literature Today. Volume 75, Issue 2. 2001.
When Yusuf Idris (1927-91) published his controversial story Abu al-rijal (Eng. A Leader of Men) in the Egyptian magazine October in 1987, it was immediately hailed by scholars as the first and only work in modern Arabic literature to probe “so deeply in the mind and soul of a latent homosexual” (Elkhadem, 1988, 1). Consequently, many critics praised the story for daring to broach a subject that “is normally regarded in the Arab world as one about which feelings, thoughts, and words ought to be repressed” (Boullata, 83), one that is “regarded by the great majority in Islamic Egypt as repugnant and distasteful” (Elkhadem, 1). Even those scholars who did not perceive the work as a significant contribution to Arabic short fiction tended to emphasize that the story was nevertheless noteworthy “for both its theme and technique” (Allen, 360).
Although critics seem unanimous in praising Idris for daring to broach the sensitive and controversial topic of homosexuality, few have attempted to engage the subject as it may relate to notions of gay liberation and homophobia in the Arab world. In fact, many critics of the work seem to have opted for a stylistic critique, thus marginalizing and diffusing the very heated subject that is at the heart of this story. For instance, in his review of the 1988 book version of A Leader of Men, Roger Allen mentions only in passing that the work is about a man “who finds himself relentlessly faced with the reality of his own homosexual inclinations,” dedicating the bulk of his review instead to matters of translation and general stylistics. Like most other critics, Allen avoids addressing the sociopolitical implications of the work and expresses no opinion as to the many ways in which homosexuality is represented throughout it. Is the reader to deduce from the fact that Idris has “probed so deeply in the mind and soul of a latent homosexual” (Elkhadem, 1988, 1) that he is necessarily attempting to dispel existing negative stereotypes of the homosexual in Egyptian society? Or is Idris in fact reaffirming social views that aim at persecuting and oppressing homosexuals? Is Idris’s work homophobic or is it enabling to gay movements, however obscure, in the Arab world? Is Sultan represented as a victim of bigotry and homophobia or as a man who has strayed from “tradition” and “goodness” and is punished accordingly?
Clearly, the answers to such questions are far from obvious. Some may argue that Idris is attempting merely to present the plight of a homosexual without making a judgment—be it negative or positive—on the very topic he is broaching, as if the writer were somehow able to detach himself completely from his reality and give readers an untainted and completely objective account of homosexuality. In addition to ignoring the fact that Idris himself is a participant in his society, such a view also overlooks the very basic question concerning the (mis)representation of the homosexual protagonist in the work. A detailed analysis of the story would therefore not only shed further light on Idris’s genius, but would also prove enabling for any discourse centering on homosexuality and homophobia in the Arab world. Such an examination will necessarily and appropriately attempt to engage sociopolitical issues that are of central importance to the text—issues that have been dismissed thus far by a majority of critics dealing with the work.
The protagonist in Abu al-rijal is Sultan, a man who, in his early fifties, begins to confront his homosexuality after many years of hidden torment and repression. Yet what is most significant about Sultan’s character, at least in the way he is presented at the beginning of the story, is that he does not in any way live up to the stereotypical image of the homosexual in society. Instead of being predictably represented as passive, victimized, and weak, Sultan is initially depicted as an overly macho, dominating, tough individual who is respected and feared by almost everyone in his village.
As the story progresses, however, Sultan finds himself confronting feelings that he has long repressed, emotions that, once faced, eventually lead to some sort of demise in his social standing—i.e., in the way in which people start to view him as well as in the way he comes to see himself. At fifty-one, Sultan is finally toying with the idea of “coming out,” if not to society then at least to himself. Once he makes that decision, he seems willing, and ultimately able, to cross the line between theory and practice, between exploring his homosexual desires and acting on them. Theory, in this novella, precedes practice, and Sultan’s coming-out process, as convoluted and complex as it may be, is nevertheless carefully planned out, with little or no spontaneity accompanying his actions. Consequently, each of the ten sections contained in the story may be thought of as a step toward self-acknowledgment and self-acceptance. On the other hand, each section may also be considered as a step toward Sultan’s demise.
At the beginning, we are presented with Sultan, who at “fifty-one and three months” seems to be in a state of delirium, as if some power had suddenly overtaken him, forcing him to look at his own body with new eyes. Standing in his room and dressed only in his underwear, he observes the natural effects of age on his once hairy and muscular body, which has now become much less hairy and also fat. This loss of body hair, emphasized in detail throughout the opening sections of the story, is not only significant but pivotal to Sultan’s consequent realizations. Aging here is recounted as a loss, never as a gain. Sultan does not realize that the years have enabled him to acquire wisdom and power, but rather that they have taken away many of the things that had defined him as a manly man, nay “a leader of men.” The most obvious and visible of these is facial and bodily hair, for in Sultan’s society a moustache and a hairy chest determine a man’s virility and masculinity. Instead of his hairy body, Sultan notes “a frightening effeminate smoothness” (3), and his instinctive action of running his fingers over his moustache, which he had recently shaved, causes him to panic and grow angry. In his rage, he calls out to one of his many faithful followers, nicknamed Bull, summoning him to his room. At this point, the reader is alerted to another loss, that of a manly voice; Sultan’s shout, which “used to shake the house” (4), has grown faint.
It is interesting to note that, from the opening passages onward, homosexuality is introduced as a loss of masculinity—here a loss of physical masculine traits that make a man a man—in order to separate, as Arno Schmitt puts it, “the Man from the non-Man” (19). In order for Sultan to begin accepting his homosexuality, he must face up to his being a “non-man.” Only then, it seems, will he be able to take the next step, in which he sets the stage for his eventual sexual encounter with Bull. It is also his rage at his perceived losses that, ironically, gives him the courage to invite a real man, appropriately named Bull (Thawr), into the scene.
If the first part of the narrative deals with Sultan’s mental readiness for a further exploration of his homosexuality, the second part sets the stage for the actual realization of Sultan’s fantasy, for it is at this point that a real man is called into the picture. Bull is described as “handsome and attractive in spite of his untidy hair and clothes,” conjuring up an image of great contrast to Sultan’s perfumed body and tidy attire. The man and the non-man are now in the same room, and the anticipation continues to mount.
The third section of the narrative is devoted solely to a description of the encounter between the two main characters, a scene engulfed in darkness, silence, and tension. In discussing A Leader of Men, Elkhadem notes that “no situation in [Idris’s] story could be construed as pornographic or even erotic” (1990, 27), yet this section of the story, which (like all others) does not employ any profane language, seems to be filled with homoerotic elements, as Sultan’s fantasy is recounted in detail:
A dark, deserted place; touching ensues; a feverish groping that makes his hands shake and his whole body shiver as he swoops down on the young man, squeezing the powerful muscles of his arms and the bulging muscles of his legs, and his desire is becoming mightier, and inside him yearning howls boldly and madly unleashing a wailing cry that represents his masculinity. (5)
Although, as Elkhadem states, Idris seems to be consciously avoiding graphic descriptions and language, this scene is far from tame in its account of Sultan’s attraction to Bull’s body, and although the elusive line between pornography and eroticism may or may not have been crossed at this point (depending, of course, on the reader), it would be difficult to dismiss this scene as completely devoid of eroticism. After all, the setting itself and the anticipation alone have already contributed to the establishment of a stereotypical homoerotic encounter.
The fourth segment of the story finds Sultan wondering about the cause or origin of his homosexuality, triggering memories that center on his childhood years, his parents, and his upbringing in general. He remembers being raised in a large poor family, being “an outstanding pupil” at school, shying away from other kids who sought some sort of sexual gratification by touching each other, “emulating his father, whom he regarded as the manliest of all men” (7) at a very young age, and working very hard in order to contribute to his family’s finances.
At this point in the narrative, it is crucial to note the way in which Idris turns from the microcosm (Sultan’s specific reality in his village) to the macrocosm (a homosexual’s reality in a homophobic society). It is perhaps here, for the first time, that the author hints at some sense of commonality in the struggle for liberation by homosexuals everywhere—a sort of universal homosexual plight that transgresses borders, cultures, and religions, yet one which is only able to function at a macrocosmic level. For although homophobia takes on different disguises in relation to the (homophobic) society at hand, it is nevertheless united in its hatred of homosexuality; and although the laws, attitudes, and customs regarding homosexuality vary enormously according to each respective society (even within the entity that we call the Arab world), they are all based in a common desire to uproot, cure, punish, or otherwise marginalize homosexuals. Consequently, the fact that a homosexual views his homosexuality in relation to his own (homophobic) society does not—should not—detract from the common bond he shares with homosexuals everywhere, if only in his desire to be with someone of the same sex.
If the first five segments of Idris’s story hint at Freudian views of homosexuality, the sixth focuses strictly on the mother-son relationship during Sultan’s childhood. Here, Idris seems determined to dive into the question of whether a domineering mother can influence her son’s sexual orientation. Sultan’s mother is described as having “a special brand of love that aims at making men out of boys … for all a mother wants is to create men and not toys to play with nor dolls to cuddle” (12). This presentation of the mother as being full of “tenderness and steadfastness,” with an “unadulterated Egyptian temperament,” is seen by some critics as a much too obvious attempt on Idris’s part to link Sultan’s homosexuality with his mother’s character. In his review, Roger Allen notes: “Although the handling of the psychological dimension has always been one of Idris’s strong points, it is not treated with any great subtlety here; the causality presumably to be inferred from the description of the strong-willed mother in section 6, for example, is patent enough to become almost trite” (Allen, 360). Although on the surface it may seem that Idris is merely reiterating existing social and psychological views that blame a male child’s homosexuality on his mother’s temperament, a closer analysis of this sixth section may actually prove that, far from being “trite,” the mother-son relationship is problematized and complicated in a way that paradoxically upholds existing stereotypes while simultaneously chipping away at their very core.
The portrayal of Sultan’s mother is far from two-dimensional, for she cannot be said to fall neatly within a stereotypical classification. She is presented as tender and steadfast at the same time, without being more one than the other. Yet she also never pampered her child at all, instead giving him his privacy, respecting his manhood, and never “impugning his masculinity” (12). In this way, she is neither domineering nor stifling in her treatment of her child, and no indication is given that she was overprotective of Sultan in any way. So what is to be inferred from this paradoxical representation? That her strong character, coupled with Sultan’s father’s unwillingness to beat him, caused or contributed to his homosexuality? Or that her tenderness and the remarkable way in which she dealt with discovering her son committing bestiality somehow turned him into a sissy?
It may be due to Idris’s genius that the above two questions cannot be answered easily. The lack of pampering on the mother’s part may, on the one hand, be seen as a subversion of the mother-spoils-son, son-turns-to-sissy (gay) model. On the other hand, the fact that she is an intelligent woman who is far from submissive may be regarded as a reaffirmation of the stereotype of the domineering mother who impugns her son’s masculinity at an early age, a point that Allen seems to have opted for. Either way, the fact that the mother-son relationship is presented in such complexity makes it difficult to dismiss the story’s psychological dimension as insignificant.
This sixth section of the novella is also crucial because it introduces readers to Shahin al-Tahhan, the village’s well-known homosexual. Shahin al-Tahhan lives up to the stereotype of the homosexual who is out of the closet in every sense, a fact that puts him in sharp contrast with the rugged Sultan. The first time he is described, it is in the following manner:
This Shahin al-Tahhan was one of the many phenomena known in some villages of Lower as well as Upper Egypt. A man who was always clean-shaven and who had the appearance of a man, but was effeminate in everything else; the way he walked and talked, his closeness to women socially and even in his work. (12)
It is interesting to note first of all that, being a homosexual, Shahin al-Tahhan is necessarily “clean-shaven.” Not unlike Sultan, who had shaved his moustache upon his decision to deal with his repressed desires, Shahin al-Tahhan is presented as having lost an essential part of his manhood, a loss which contributes to the rumor that he is a homosexual.
At first glance, it may seem disturbing that homosexuality, here as elsewhere in the story, is recounted strictly in terms of a loss—a point that will have been exhausted by the end of the text. Yet this stereotypical presentation may also prove functional in subverting some common views of the homosexual as necessarily effeminate. In addition to the obvious dimension of questioning gender roles in society, one must bear in mind that Idris’s protagonist himself is presented as overly macho to start with.
Another problematic aspect of the story which needs to be addressed at this point concerns Sultan’s history of attraction toward males. Here the text seems to be sadly lacking in recounting past (probably potential) sexual encounters between Sultan and other men. While Sultan’s past is constantly recalled—presumably to dismiss and/or reinforce governing views of a man’s sexual orientation as attributable to his upbringing—the reader is never given an account of his desires’ having significantly surfaced in the past. Furthermore, the fact that he is involved in a heterosexual marriage, and has many children, is never addressed on any large scale. Did Sultan only become aware of his “latent” homosexuality in his fifties? Or was it at that age that he was no longer able to contain it? Few clues are given by Idris regarding this crucial point, and the reader is left to wonder—perhaps rightly so—about when the process began on a conscious level.
Shahin al-Tahhan is also significant, because it is through him that the reader is given a concise view of Egyptian social attitudes toward homosexuality. After all, this is a man who was known to seduce young boys by paying them for their services—a point that would presumably ignite hatred and fear in the hearts of many. Yet al-Tahhan, as despised as he may be, is nevertheless accepted as a “natural” part of society. Although the implications of such a statement are many, the crucial point remains that al-Tahhan has never been run out of town, or worse, for his behavior or his very existence. Instead, he is left to himself even by religious leaders in the village: “He was loathed by the prudish and religious people, but, because of his notoriety and long history, ordinary people took him as a normal phenomenon that did not evoke any loathing; he only became the object of ridicule to some, and an example given by mothers to their sons when they wanted to warn them of the consequences of being soft” (12). True, had al-Tahhan not belonged to a well-known family in the village, the consequences of his homosexuality might have been different. Yet, as things stand, there may actually be a hint of social tolerance in this paragraph, though any discussion of the legal ramifications of homosexuality—which might have been relevant at this point—is absent.
The seventh section traces a recent event that contributed greatly toward Sultan’s “metamorphosis.” It also attempts to trace the roots of his forthcoming demise. The recounted incident centers on Sultan’s failure to respond to a cry for help by one of his supporters (who was being assaulted by thugs) in his legendary manner—i.e., spontaneously and ferociously. Instead of his customarily manly cry urging his supporters to lash back at the aggressors, Sultan informed them in a soft voice that they would delay the confrontation until later, a statement which bewildered both his supporters and his enemies.
This scene is of extreme significance for many reasons. First, it equates Sultan’s refusal to commit violence with cowardice and nothing but; second, it deeply roots his homosexuality in a domain of weakness and frailty. After all, as Sultan’s stream of consciousness informs us, it was at that moment that he began feeling his manliness slip away, leading him to the realization that “he was nothing but a lie” (14). The most obvious reading of this incident, of course, would equate homosexuality with effeminacy and consequently with a lack of courage. Yet there is more to this scene than a mere reaffirmation of preconceived notions of gender. It must be remembered that in facing up to his true self, Sultan is also succumbing to existing social views on the topic and to fallacies that he himself may be adopting as a necessary prerequisite for anyone on his way to becoming another Shahin al-Tahhan: “The great tragedy was that he believed it, and because of his strong conviction, the others believed him … and because he was not sure that they would fear him, or, indeed, that they might even hurt him, he stepped out of his role as a lion and showed them that he was nothing but a mouse” (14).
Thus there may be a suggestion here that it is not homosexuality that renders the individual weak but rather the way a homosexual perceives himself and his sexual orientation that ultimately causes his demise, even within a certain solitary imaginary space that excludes social views. Did Sultan become a coward as a direct result of his acknowledged homosexuality, or did the realization that he was gay cause him to perceive effeminacy as the only way of liberating himself from the confinements of a traditionally defined heterosexual role? Clearly, the answer here lies in self-esteem and the ways outward behavior affects the manner in which one is viewed by others and by oneself. Even if Idris is suggesting that cowardice may be an essential component of homosexuality, the fact that Sultan was able to translate his inner self into his outward behavior in a credible manner for most of his life points to the power of the mind. A reversal of the inward-outward model would then conclude that when Sultan ceased to believe in himself—when he began to hate his self—that lack of self translated into everyday-life situations, leading to his downfall (in society’s eyes as well as his own).
Sultan’s metamorphosis from “lion” to “mouse” did not happen overnight, as the eighth section is quick to affirm. The incident involving the failure to respond to the cry for help seemed an isolated one, for “in the morning he became his same old self again” (15). In the eyes of society, however, the incident did not pass unnoticed, and it was at this point that some people began looking at Sultan differently, though no one dared verbalize such thoughts.
In addition to foregrounding the beginning of Sultan’s downfall, this section also provides a powerful commentary on homophobia, pointing to the fact that homophobia is often deeply rooted in self-hatred. By ridiculing (other) homosexuals, the closeted homosexual hopes not only to fool society, but also to disassociate himself from what he hates most about himself. In order to illustrate this notion, Idris stages a confrontation between Sultan and Ahmad al-Tahhan (Shahin’s nephew), wherein the former begins to ridicule the latter not for being gay, but for being related to a gay person, going so far as to declare, “By God, we will never stop until we make you do it openly with your uncle tonight!” (17). Yet Sultan’s plans to regain acceptance and respect from his followers backfire on him, for, in an unprecedented move, Ahmad rebels against Sultan, wrestling him to the ground with a sickle at his throat, forcing him to say “I am woman!” To the shock of everyone watching the scene, Sultan actually utters the words—presumably to save his own life—causing the crowd to moan “as if the sky had fallen down” (17). Then, to seal Sultan’s defeat, Ahmad spits at him as he walks away.
By the end of this section, Sultan’s downfall seems to be complete. He has been humiliated, degraded, and forced to admit to being a woman—a fate worse than death, it seems—in front of everyone in the village. He has chosen dishonor over death in a society that has always preached to the contrary. Yet this admission on Sultan’s part is also significant at another level, for his defeat somehow proves liberating for him: “The thing that amazed him most was that he said it without having the feeling of yielding or surrendering to an unchangeable situation, but as if he were uttering a sigh of relief: `I am woman!'” (17). Once again, homosexuality is equated with being a woman and consequently linked to weakness, helplessness, and dishonor in the eyes of society. Sultan is freed of his torment when he speaks the words of truth, and, despite society’s rejection, he feels that he is now able to face up to his true self.
The connection and affinity between the status of women and that of homosexuals in a patriarchal society is quite clear in this section. Both are marginalized segments of society that traditionally have been dominated by heterosexual males in power. Subsequently, there may be a strong suggestion to equate the struggle and situation of gays and lesbians in the Arab world with existing feminist struggles for equality and recognition. Thus it may be argued that homosexual men (in this case) have to become women, or at least adopt traditionally defined roles for women, in order to achieve some sense of comfort and relief, if not some vague notion of identity or agency. Gay Arab empowerment would then be linked to preexisting feminist struggles in the Arab world and not seen primarily as an autonomous struggle for freedom.
If one is to subscribe to the view that homosexuality is constantly recounted as a loss in A Leader of Men—a loss of virility, strength, respect, and leadership abilities—then the title gains another significant dimension. In his essay on the story, Saad Elkhadem discusses the significance of Idris’s title by noting that, “Literally translated, ‘Abu al-rijal’ means ‘The Father of Men.’ However, because the story deals with the latent homosexuality of a strong and virile man who has an exaggerated sense of masculine pride, the title must be understood as an ironic comment on the tragic dilemma of the protagonist” (25). Although Elkhadem’s comment is undoubtedly valid, there may also be an additional significance to the title, if the novella is read as an attempt to subvert existing social views of the homosexual in society. Is homosexuality necessarily related to a lack (or loss) of leadership abilities, or is society’s conjured-up image of the homosexual man as woman—and thus as lacking within male-dominated domains—determinant in its insistence on removing homosexuals from positions of power? Could Idris be scrutinizing society for upholding appearances over content in its adoration of conceived idols (broaching a debate that is very much alive in both Western and Eastern societies)? If so, then may the former (now deposed) Leader of Men now be seen as a new kind of leader of men, one who heads a new social movement that calls for reform and equality by challenging certain existing prejudices?
If Sultan’s “emerging” homosexuality has been thus far linked with shame and dishonor, the story’s ninth section—the shortest one of all—manages to turn the argument around by questioning the very roots of homophobia. This recuperated sense of self-pride and self-acceptance comes in the form of a rhetorical yet central question that asks, “But, indeed, why is it wrong for a human being to be a Tahhan?” (18). This question becomes more poignant when read in the original Arabic, for, literally speaking, Sultan does not actually question what is wrong (khata’) in being a Tahhan (gay), but rather what is “shameful” (`ayb) about being a Tahhan. Clearly, the word `ayb in this context is significant, for it shows that, instead of merely questioning and/or accepting notions of right and wrong, Sultan is for the first time directly broaching social notions of shame and honor, and the way these two concepts relate to what he and others perceive in terms of such Manichean opposites as wrong and right, black and white, et cetera.
Admittedly, the line between what is shameful and what is wrong may be muddled in this instance, as indicated by the translator’s choice to translate the Arabic word `ayb as “wrong” (perhaps for contextual or even idiomatic reasons). Yet that translation here seems to diffuse the subtle rebellious tone of the question, which aims at challenging notions of “shame” in society and not “right” and “wrong.” After all, what is perceived as shameful is not necessarily always perceived as wrong (depending, of course, on the perceiver). Thus, although society may see homosexuality as “shameful” and therefore as “wrong,” the rhetorical question comes from Sultan, who is actually trying to separate what he had previously considered to be shameful from what, in his mind, is truly wrong.
This subversive question is, significantly, left unanswered. It is presented as part of Sultan’s new view of himself and his acknowledged homosexuality, yet it also represents his first attempt, however feeble, to challenge existing social views rather than succumb completely to the shame they inflict on anyone who is perceived as going against the norm. In fact, it may not be an exaggeration to state that, in this question, one can trace a faint cry for gay liberation and a plea for social tolerance. On the other hand, the question, as central as it may be to a discourse centering on homosexuality, remains isolated within the boundaries of a work that consistently represents homosexuality as a loss, as seen in the very next paragraph which, stresses yet again Sultan’s shame at his now nearly hairless body.
In his essay “Homosexuality and Islam,” Khalid Duran discusses the Qur’an and the shari’ah and the way they relate to homosexual behavior by noting that, although homosexual acts are strictly forbidden in Islam, they are only punished when they move from the private to the public space: “Like fornication, homosexuality has to assume the character of a public nuisance in order to become punishable. There are, therefore, no self-proclaimed gays in Muslim countries” (183). Although such sweeping statements may be neither entirely valid nor statistically correct, Duran does point to the problematic aspects of moving from the private (secular) space to the public (religious) one. As long as one’s comportment is confined to the private, whether in a homosexual or a heterosexual context, society seems much more inclined to acknowledge or even accept “normal deviation.” When the private is equated with the secular, neither religion nor the law needs to be addressed, while society itself continues to shape and be shaped by unfamiliar behavior. The danger therefore lies in the transition between the private and the public, and such a transition may only occur once the private space has been educated to understand local concerns by gays and lesbians. On that level, Duran’s view seems to coincide with Idris’s affirmation that homosexuals (Shahin al-Tahhan) in society may be tolerated as a “normal deviation,” situated somewhere between a necessary evil and a fact of life.
The closing section of A Leader of Men represents, in more than one way, the climax of the story, since it focuses on Sultan’s ultimate demise as he at last engages in sexual behavior with Bull. Yet, although the actual sexual encounter is omitted—as Elkhadem puts it, “Idris stops before the sexual act begins, but then resumes his description after it has taken place” (27)—there are nevertheless striking remarks included that make this scene perhaps the most significant one of all.
The twist in this final scene is described by Idris in a most subtle tone. Bull, who by now has “reconciled himself to accept” playing the passive role in the sexual encounter, is surprised to find that he is asked to play the “opposite” role—i.e., that of the active partner. His reaction is one of surprise and relief: “Happy that he was saved, although he was entrapped in a different way; this is not important; important is that he had reached a stage where this one was the same as the other” (19). Such loaded statements are left ambiguous for obvious reasons. Yet in spite of this ambiguity, or perhaps because of it, the scene is pivotal to the way homosexual relationships are seen by (Arab) society as it broaches issues of gender, role playing, and traditional notions of masculinity. Bull, who has long looked up to Sultan, automatically assumes that he will be expected to play the “female” role in the encounter, that of the “inferior” party who will serve as woman, as the depository of male aggression, desire, and lust. The fact that he is asked to play the role of the aggressor, the one who is supposed to be in control, surprises him and completes Sultan’s transformation from masculine to feminine, a journey downward whose origin may be traced back to the story’s very first section.
In his review of A Leader of Men, Issa Boullata does not seem to do justice to this last point when he states that “finally [Sultan] stopped caring as he accepted to act like a woman in homosexual relationships” (83). By equating Sultan’s acceptance of his sexuality to “acting like a woman,” Boullata seems to reaffirm the stereotype of the homosexual as necessarily lacking in manliness that the whole story is attempting to dispel. Even a superficial examination of such statements as “A man’s worth is not dependent on how thick his moustache is” or “A man is a man when he is gallant, generous, courageous, unambiguous, and a savior to those in trouble” (11) leads one to understand that, in this story at least, the stereotypical characteristics of—and alleged explanations for—homosexuality are rendered invalid. It is therefore neither a lack of caring nor “sinking further into shame” that induces Sultan to “act like a woman”; it is rather his acceptance of himself as a homosexual man and his realization that homosexuality is not necessarily equated with femininity that lead him to act upon the feelings and desires he had kept buried within himself for so long. Furthermore, the “shame” in which Sultan “sank” and which Boullata seems to see as a step toward acceptance of acting “like a woman”—note that Boullata is not talking about Sultan’s self-acceptance—is actually a “veil of shame” which Sultan willingly drops once he realizes that what he has mistaken for masculinity all his life is nothing more than a veil, the “veil of masculinity” (19).
Several social views of homosexuality surface in this closing section of A Leader of Men. Homosexual relationships, when acknowledged, are often nothing more than a replica of traditional heterosexual relationships, where each party is assigned a gender role that she or he must play. As Schmitt notes, male-male sex relations in the Arab world are often seen as a way for one party to establish superiority over the other, or, as in Sultan’s case, to reaffirm one’s dominant status. Penetration is thus seen as happening “between a Man and a non-Man” (19). Based on this governing social view, it is no wonder that Bull—who in many ways is Sultan’s inferior follower—is ready to assume the passive role during the sexual encounter as a means of reaffirming Sultan’s superiority over him, sacrificing his body to please his master without having any desire for sex with another male. It is also due to this social view of homosexuality that Sultan’s role reversal gains more impact and proves so shocking and unexpected, even though foreshadowed by his imminent loss of masculinity.
In subverting the existing stereotype of the man and non-man (or “half man”), Idris may be pointing to a notion of desire that has remained unexplored through centuries of Arabic literary production. Male homosexual relations, when surfacing at all in literature, have almost invariably been between an adult male and a youth, where the former is attracted by the latter’s femininity, androgyny, and passivity. The erotic encounter that came to be relatively accepted, and definitely expected, by Arab society for many centuries thus revolved around the notion of pleasure and release for the so-called dominant party, with little regard given to the notion of pleasure for the penetrated party. Like a woman, the passive participant is considered a depository of male desire, a tool to be used for the pleasure of man with no regard to its own desire or consciousness. These passive participants, regardless of their will to be penetrated, become accepted, as in Abu Nuwas’s time, as a natural part of society and as another tool to be used to fulfill the true man’s desire. Furthermore, it is understood that once the youth reaches a certain age, he becomes no longer desirable and may himself as an adult turn to a new generation of youths one day.
Sultan’s situation in the story’s concluding section is therefore doubly marginalized. His emerging homosexuality, which excludes him from the norm, may somehow be understood by a society that is more than familiar with the works of the Abbasid poets, but his desire to be penetrated excludes him totally from any existing category and consequently from any notion of grace and forgiveness that otherwise may have been bestowed upon him. Sultan is not attracted to any female attributes in Bull—who is continually described as rugged, muscular—but is instead drawn to the masculine qualities that would have repulsed many “gay” Abbasid poets. His desire to be penetrated, and thus dominated, is in sharp contrast with accepted social views of any leader of men.
On the other hand, Idris’s attempt at subverting the view of the manly homosexual as the “buggerer” may not, in the long run, do much to subvert the traditionally accepted views of homosexual relationships. After all, Sultan’s encounter with Bull is not one that occurs between two men, but still one that falls within the binary definition of man and non-man, the latter being the newly emerged and feminized Sultan. It is not until Sultan completes his journey downward toward feminization—thus becoming a non-man—that he is able to engage in sexual activity with a man. Consequently, although the roles have been altered, the basic dichotomy remains, and the possibility of a homosexual relationship involving two men—or, for that matter, two non-men—remains undiscussed and nonexistent.
Defining homosexual relationships within the narrow binary opposition of man/non-man is obviously as destructive to postcolonial gay discourse as using the traditionally narrow man/woman gender definitions is to postcolonial feminist discourse. In both cases, it is not until traditionally assigned gender roles are reexamined and subverted that any progress may occur. It is not until patriarchy’s two main driving forces (misogyny and homophobia) are understood and discussed that the road may be paved for the liberation of those who are not in the privileged position held by heterosexual males. The universality of such statements, on a very general level, rings true for the marginalized elements of any patriarchal society; yet in the specific instance of Sultan, they gain a new dimension: Sultan is not only combating reigning social views of the homosexual, but is also going up against neocolonialism, enacted laws, and religion.
Throughout the story, Sultan’s loss of masculinity is constantly juxtaposed with notions of shame and degradation. By the final section, he comes to a kind of self-acceptance that is the result of refusing to feel shame for something that is beyond his control. Sultan thus rejects the “hypocritical courtesy” that had long governed his life, because “after the veil of masculinity was removed from him, he himself removed the veil of shame” (19). In his process of self-affirmation, he ceases to care about the way in which society will henceforth view him and accepts his marginalization as he revels in his newfound femininity. In this way, he may perhaps join the ranks of al-Tahhan and others like him—the first step toward gay empowerment—but must shed his traditional notions of masculinity, thus substituting essentialist social prerequisites for the homosexual with a set of new yet equally narrow definitions that will henceforth govern his life.
Still, it would be difficult if not impossible to dismiss completely the importance and relevance of Idris’s story in relation to Arab society and to Arabic literature. The fact remains that this is the first published work in many centuries to address homosexuality in such a blatantly noncloseted manner. After all, the work had been first published in one of Egypt’s most popular magazines and had been read by the public at large. The fact that it was written by a renowned Egyptian author added to its importance as a breakthrough in Arabic literature. Yet, for all the critical acclaim that the novella received, and as functional as it may be or could have been in initiating some kind of discourse centering on the state of the Arab homosexual in Arab society, the story for the most part was easily dismissed as yet another deliberately controversial work on the part of writer who had not only become famous for daring to broach unmentionable topics (Idris had previously published a story which dealt with male impotence, for example) but also was and is perceived as clearly heterosexual. The combination of the above two elements, and the fact that it was specifically Idris who was writing about homosexuality, may have thus diffused the anger and backlash which might have otherwise occurred had the theme been broached by an unknown or lesser-known author.
Yet, as in the case of other progressive Egyptian writers such as Naguib Mahfouz and Nawal El Saadawi, the main question remains whether the lack of reaction by conservative circles is in actuality beneficial for the author and, in this case, for gay discourse. One is reminded here of El Saadawi’s statement that “nothing is more demoralizing for a woman [author] than to produce literary or scientific work which no one feels worthy of criticism” (Tarabishi, 189). Perhaps more than in any other part of the world, censorship in Muslim countries functions as a double-edged sword. In El Saadawi’s case, many of her works have indeed been published—albeit in limited quantities—in Egypt, but were deliberately left unreviewed, thus thrusting them into a state of temporary oblivion, only to be (re)discovered later and by subsequent generations. Such works remain virtually unknown to the Egyptian reading public, unlike other El Saadawi books, which were censored and banned, yet, for the most part, continue to circulate in various forms around Egypt and the Arab world.