The limits of Historical precision
(Book review)
The following review cannot claim complete objectivity. The partiality
with which I will treat Joseph Michas' new book will not attach it any
false virtues - my personal acquaintance with the author and my taking
part in some of the research can only act to bias my judgment for the
worse. Nevertheless, this will not undermine the basic fact, thus far
undisputed by any critic: Michas wrote an original, important book, a
unique work which is probably pioneering as well - that is, many are
sure to follow in its footsteps. As the book was published in French
first, France was where its importance was first acknowledged. In the
somewhat ethnocentric French cultural milieu it is sometimes assumed its
masterpieces can just as well be left un-translated; perhaps the
forthcoming English translation will shed some light on this work and
bring it to the consciousness of the English speaking world. It is also
hoped a Hebrew and Arabic translation will follow. Most reviewers were
very impressed by the book and went out of their way to praise it; one
used terms such as "a major achievement of both research and literature
of the fin-de-sciele." This may well be a romantic exaggeration,
characteristic of its writer, Lescalopie'; but when he says that "this
is a book which forces us to reexamine old definitions" he expresses a
view shared by many.
The novelty of Michas' book is simple enough, formally put, and some
will say not a novelty at all: It is a combination of an academic
research and a literary work, in which both aspects stand on their own
and complement each other. Its academic value is not diminished as a
result of its literary character, and its virtues as artistic prose is
not affected by the scholarly meticulousness. In the words of Nogart,
many historical works are superb literature, and some of the finest
literature is in fact an in-depth analysis of an historical period, but
here both things were accomplished by one person, with unreserved
success.
So the book was almost unanimously applauded, there were very few
reservations, and no one attacked it. The book has pure literary
qualities and historical research making use of the most advanced tools
available to modern scholars, such as computer-aided quantitative and
statistical analysis. It reveals a rather astonishing historical
discovery. To have something meaningful to remark, one must be an expert
in two fields. It is well known that experts are sometimes easily
impressed by achievements out of their jurisdiction - achievements real
professionals will dismiss as amateurish or charlatanistic. Hence, I
shall limit myself to the historical aspects in the following review of Michas'
"the Rif of Haleb in the 18th century." As to its non-academic
aspects, if I touch upon them, I will be arbitrary and capricious, as
this is most appropriate to the way they were written.
First I must give the uninitiated reader some clue as to this unique,
not easily defined work. Michas gained a reputation in the academia with
the publication of his PHD, also dealing with social questions in the
Ottoman period. His current book is, in some respects, a natural
continuation of his former research. But beyond this, it a book telling
about its own writing - the process of writing an historical research in
the mind of the scholar: the difficulties, the setbacks, the doubts, the
insights, the breakthroughs; and since a persons' consciousness is a
wide and open field, never limited by the strict boundaries of a
scientific rules, the reader is introduced, in a literary fashion, to
the writer: his mental processes with all their complexities: Their
unresolved dilemmas, the painful recognitions, the loves and hates -
everything that is the fuel of great literature. At the same time the
reader is able to read (in the different print) the outcome, written in
the strictest compatibility to scientific demands. The meeting between
the two spheres is not unavoidable: there are no instant parallels,
supposedly "required" for artistic effect. The reader may look for such
allusions or similarities, and he may well find them, but he is warned
in advance that they are inherently false. Michas puts it this way: "the
historical material has life of its own, independent life that run their
course and nothing can change the flow. The historical material is
rigid, uncompromising, unchanging. But not I. I am flexible and
changeable, given to illusions, and I insist - even when everything
tells me to avoid it - to look at the manuscripts I investigate as into
a mirror, when in fact they are just a frozen image."
Academically, it is a research based mainly upon the "Sigils", protocols
of Sari'i tribunals in Islamic countries. It is an unfailing source, as
yet under exploited, of historical data, especially of social and
economic nature. There are many difficulties in merely gaining access to
these documents, and one of Michas' major achievements is the very fact
he managed to acquire them, through personal acquaintance and bonds of
trust and friendship with Muslims - a rare phenomena in a climate of
alienation and suspicion between the Islamic world and the west. His
family background assisted here (his family is originally from Haleb -
Aleppo.) a complicated operation - technically, financially and humanely
- was accomplished, and hundreds of documents, hand written in
ornamental, dazzling Arabic script - a real challenge to anyone who
thought he can read Arabic - were photographed in their original
location. Michas scrupulously worked on these documents for more than
five years - a painstaking job I had the honor of participating.
Wisely, Michas avoided the boundaries of standard practice of his field.
This sort of historical work will almost automatically include chapters
titled "land ownership", "women's social standing" and the like. When he
discovered a rough diamond in his raw material, he polished it and put
it in the center of his work, where many others would probably consider
it a marginal anecdote, not deserving the concentrated efforts of
serious academic work. Thus, a major part of the book is built around
the
The amazing story of A'isha um-Rashid - a distinguished widow and a very
exceptional woman, whose exceptional story can be traced by the Sigil
documents. It is the protocol of a long and complicated trial in which
the religious court was asked to enforce the Islamic inheritance laws by
the word, and grant the widow the assets she is entitled to. This was
not common practice: deeply entrenched local traditions and practices
gained precedence over clear rules given from the prophet's mouth. But
the juridical question, upon which I will not elaborate here, becomes
secondary once the manuscripts begin to unfold the story. A different,
more intriguing question arises from the long sequence of testimonials
and allegations. In these inheritance trials the material assets in
dispute are usually carefully detailed. In this case, the family home
and grounds. At first, the evidence has it, there was just a large stone
oven, serving not only the extended family but also the rest of the
village people, making it an important source of income; there was also
a covered areas where women spinned, weaved, and embroidered. Um-Rashid
managed all these operations. But out of the many descriptions, each
more obscure than the other, description in which it seems like the
villagers are attempting to describe something which is out of their
ordinary vocabulary and imagery, the following arises: a big
installation somehow connected the big oven and the spinning and weaving
devices, creating a workshop in which the rags and cloth were magically
weaved by themselves, without the no human hand, and Um-Rashid, as a
sort of sorcerer's apprentice, conducts everything. The other women were
sitting there, passing the time, eating almonds and gossiping, while
their work was done for them on its own.
These descriptions could be left alone in the deep mists of everything
incomprehensible to us, being as we are foreign to the time and place in
question. It could all be seen as exaggerations of the witnesses or the
clerks writing their words. But Michas refused to do that: he struggled
with the text, turned to numerous experts from various fields, dealt
with issues of technological history, and came up with a bold assertion,
according to which in that area, in the middle of the eighteenth
century, an early version of the steam engine powered various mechanical
devices.
In spite of the fact Michas turns to classical Arabic texts in order to
sustain his extraordinary thesis - he quotes "Kitab fi-Maarifat el-Chiyal
alHindasyia" by el-Gazari and "Majmu' ilat wa-Chiyal", a manuscript
attributed to Heron of Alexandria;
Points out Arab scholars' close acquaintance with the said Heron (his
writing were translated to Arabic at the orders of the Chalifa el-Muaatasim)
and with his famous steam devices, used by the Egyptians priests to
create all sorts of magical tricks to amaze the masses - and even after
he built, with his loyal students, a scale model of the hypothetical
installation, his conclusions remain almost unbelievable.
The sources, as I said, don't make it easy on us, piling descriptions
originating in ignorance, or even fear and hostility; but they all point
at Um-Rashid as the key figure, the driving force, the one who initiate
and mange the operation. The people's reactions varied, ranging from
surprising indifference a primitive tribesman may show facing some ultra
modern gadget, to the usage of a rich world of popular beliefs, curses
and sorcery. But in the end everything boiled down to economical issues
- an inheritance dispute, not a technological question.
This is, in a nutshell, the story Michas and I were able to assemble,
with great effort, from the court protocols. Michas turns it into an
axis, through which the social and economic power relations in the
village are examined, as well as the spiritual world of the residents.
To uncover all these we had to weigh almost each word in the text,
question weather it is a literal quote (the protocol does not presume to
be a word-for-word record) and when did the clerk introduced his own
words, unfamiliar to a local peasant, and tried to explain - for
himself, or for posterity - how things stood. We had some disputes over
this matter, but it is conceivable that his deductions are as good as
mine or any other reasonable mind. These disputes are presented in the
book as Michas' own deliberations. To a certain extent, this is true. He
also deliberates, in his book, about this question: is it necessary to
expose all the cards, to present the reader with every alternative, and
to explain why one interpretation was preferred over the other? The
reader may think you have answered this in the positive, but this is not
true.
While working on the manuscripts we were able to find some time for
those lengthy, lazy, speculative talks about out profession. You
pondered the possibility of writing an alternative history, the
forbidden "what if' history; I brought up the possibility of historical
writing that is also a personal diary, through which future readers will
be able to read not only the learned analysis of the events, but also
the man who wrote them. We had many peculiar notions at the time, but I
remember this one more distinctly, because it seems like it caught you
and didn't let go. We argued: we would sharpen the blades of our
thoughts against each other. But all this is missing from your book.
Where has your stubborn, cute little adversary disappear to? The one who
knows how to debate but is can also flatter, poses dilemmas but can be
persuaded, your favorite, beloved devil's advocate?
You know where to - to this flat large campus in the Midwest, in a city
with yellow McDonald arches as its only landmarks. Over there, you said,
one can build a career - start new things, once in a lifetime challenge,
they long for fresh good people, they have money and need a reason to
spend it, you said, they want brilliant publications with their logo on
it. And it all sounded so lucrative, convincing, and mostly so
altruistic, so much in line with my views, even my views about you, that
I really reprimanded myself for suspecting, even if for a minute, The
you urge me so enthusiastically to accept the offer for hidden motives,
that there is a certain young lovely student in the background, this was
as far as my suspicions would go, and I immediately set them aside, and
still they remained, occasionally raising their heads from the dark
corner into which they were thrown, so typical of feminine
narrow-mindedness and shallowness that you naturally do not believe in,
being as you are so enlightened and progressive, but maybe some of it is
still buried deep down, because you never bothered to deny, on the
contrary, you turned a bit vague when the conversation went that way,
but before parting there were all those hours when I was lying on the
papers, when the early excitement was all gone and only the pain in the
neck and head remained and a sort of mild nausea, I should look up and
move my head slowly from side to side, there's a sort of clicking and it
helps for a few minutes, OK, three more pages, just to the end of this
paragraph, thick black worms crawling slantwise on the page, turning
blur, no diacritical points, and when I was fed up and couldn't go on
any more you would come and put your hand on my shoulder and I would
lean my head and touch it with my cheek and be relaxed and at the same
time feel an energy, as if flowing from your hand like mystical healers,
but it was me, the way I am, this cursed addiction, this cursed sense of
duty, it must me done, finished, not left incomplete, I must go on, but
it was really all for your sake, so you will not scold me, slap me on
the wrist, hit me, I know you don't hit, or scold, you don't have too, I
do it by myself, scold, slap myself, where is your self-discipline, I
lower my head obediently under your hand, cover myself with a cotton
garment, attentive to what you might say, I veil myself, dim my
sharpness, not sure anymore: is this really an "S" and not a "SH", and
so it's a different root, another term, rare but not unheard of, it
appears in Shachbari, remember, the last chapter, but why not simply
"laundry", it goes well with the context, but you must know more, I am
your pupil, you come up with another source I haven't read, what,
haven't you read...? I would lose something near you, I would need approval,
there were moments I came too, deciding I have given up too much, what's
going on, you are senior but my abilities are as good as yours, admit
it, there are some things in which I'm better than you, don't start with
those arguments I could never accept, how did you put it, the difference
between us is that you know about people and I know the people, what
people, I would ask, two Syrian students studying with governmental
funding and three political exiles, gee, I'm sorry my circle of friends
doesn't include anyone born before the year1700, honestly, "know the
people", what are you on about, I told you, you are an historian, you
speak for the dead, like a medium in the séances they said the dean is
having, but somehow all that mingled with love, an my pointed arguments
would melt and fade and become unimportant, and I knew, with this
absolute confidence of the local televangelists, that the main thing
lies elsewhere, the important thing we both burn with the same passion,
we both dream of this village we were not born in, I'd think of the
first time, hoe you ran to my room to tell me the consignment has
arrived, our stuff in several crates, I almost screamed, you could
hardly talk, a very rare situation, you were hot and your sweat smelled
strange through your perfume and your other smells, the dry-cleaned suit
and the leather bag and the burning smell of the Xerox machine, and at
long last you could, we both could, translate everything that happened
before into pure, bursting passion, a bit violent, a bit ludicrous, I
noticed you needed help because you always turn in these moments to a
big fledgling dummy, but a very sweet, huggable one, and sometimes I
feel this large wave that sweeps me, but I am also the sea from which it
is born, I can also be poetic, I admit you have some wonderful phrases,
I wonder where you have found them; and after that first time we
celebrated many more times, whenever there was a breakthrough, you loved
that expression, used it profusely and I caught it, and I kept thinking
of her, Um-Rashid, she who was strong and confident, how did she face
her husbands nightly offenses, she had three boys, we don't know how
many girls, I thought at first she may have seen it as we may see some
medical treatment, unpleasant but necessary, and than I thought no, she
must have house trained him, as she housetrained everything, she must
have made him wash and perfume himself, prepared candies near the bad,
she must have discovered on her own variety of pleasures, must have
shocked him a bit, the silly pompous notable husband of hers, her big
bellied husband who inherited everything and only knew how to bribe the
tax collectors sent by the Sheikh el-Nachia and keep them at bay, and
for that everyone thanked him, but what did he think of his Um-Rashid,
the one who really made him prosper, he must have liked her but
suspected her little peculiarities, she did everything she was expected
to do as a wife of a Wagih, a notable, and gave him male boys, but in
his heart the dark mistrust was growing, he was bothered by all the
activity that went on, the heat of the oven and the crackling sounds of
the weaving devices, the voices of cheerful women, sitting there, doing
their work and sharing secrets, those picture I've seen, the village
today, virtually unchanged for two hundred years, I almost smelled the
smoke and goat droppings, almost saw her standing there, the back of her
hand leaning on her grand hip, surveying her property, alert yet calm,
and of course she has lost everything, it was unavoidable, you said, she
couldn't fight against what was almost the law of physics, because the
suspicion turned to fear and fear to hatred, so everything went to the
sons after the fathers' death, and they just wanted to make everything
as it was before, the oven is for baking bread, the women should return
to weave separately in their homes, I should go to this green flat
campus - they have betrayed her and so have you, with your always
moderate manner, with your brilliantly phrased words, the frowning, the
finger on your lower lip, your intellectual integrity is showing, and
yet you are infidel, not in other beds, the occasional sex with a
student, that's not betrayal to me, you betrayed in your mind, behind
that high forehead, near you desk in the library, you sent me away to
keep you're your aura intact, and with such a devious pretext you
started to believe your own lie, and that's the worst of it, and even if
I forgive you there is no way you can forgive yourself, if not for lying
to me than for all the other things you started to believe in; if not
for what you have done to me, than for what you have done in your book,
all the shortcuts, cutting corners, the smart interpretations, the
speculations presented as unavoidable conclusions, filtering out
everything that didn't sit well with the thesis, all those manuscripts
you have meddled with as in your own until you concocted a charming,
fictional story, so go now, lay with your steam engine. I'll keep my
distance from you, in a place were counterfeits are simple and obvious
and are not delicate and stylized and solemn; go and play with your toys
but leave me in peace. I want to sip my coffee and look at the oak in my
window with the squirrels running, and I'll sit at my table to write the
book, the true book about Um Rashid: my book.
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