On any given session a Basic Computers class at the Hubbs Center, my group of adult learners is different from the day before. No seating assignments could be practicable—or even desirable—in such conditions. Students walk in, they greet me by the title of “teacher,” they shuffle around each other, and they sit down. Yet a stark difference can be observed between the way students of the same gender treat one another as compared to how women and men interact. Men sit down by other men without compunction; women tend to come in with each other side by side, chatting through the session. A more complicated dance of chivalry and shieldedness takes place when a man wishes to sit by a woman or vice-versa: a polite “may I sit here” is usually the extent of verbal communication, and most classes pass without so much as another word from the pair. Such a match-up usually only takes place when seating is restricted.
As with any set of norms, there is much going on under the surface. Between white native-born Americans, similar rituals and taboos can be seen when men and women interact; an overly tedious observer could find many sociological or historical explanations. The Somalian fiction writer Nuruddin Farah illustrates, with occasional prosaic glitchiness, the subterranean currents in Somali society that affect gender relations in that part of the world in his 1970 novel From a Broken Rib. No doubt, some of the issues that Farah highlights can be found in the classrooms at Hubbs.
From a Broken Rib begins at the deathbed of its protagonist’s grandfather. The main character, a teenaged girl named Ebla, has decided to run away from home (the Somalian countryside), frightened as she was about her arranged marriage with a man whom she finds too old and physically repulsing. Her grandfather prays for a curse to fall upon her and collapses, dead. The next chapter shows Ebla running to the countryside where she is taken in by a distant cousin of hers. Her pregnant aunt gives birth during one of Ebla’s first nights. Ebla encounters an Arabic person for the first time (she is taken aback by the full-body cover); ultimately her cousins, involved apparently in embezzlement or an illicit trade, decide to sell her away. She takes the opportunity to marry a man named Awill, who takes her to Mogadishu, beats her, and convinces her to have sex with him before she is ready. Awill soon goes to Italy on business; photos are taken of him groping other women, and the photos make their way back to Ebla. Ebla contracts into a second marriage with a rich man in partial revenge. The jealousy of this new man’s wife nearly results in a physical confrontation; he and Ebla divorce. The novel ends with Awill’s return. Ebla chides him for eating pork while abroad. They sleep together, and Ebla hopes for a better future.
Farah in From a Crooked Rib achieves, at least for the purposes of this reviewer, one of the basic objectives of literature: opening up a psychological window into a world that statistics or even narrative history cannot. I saw from Ebla’s point of view the way that women have sometimes (often?) been treated in her corner of the world. Horrifying statistics can be found about bride kidnapping in Ethiopia and Kenya; child abduction is a reality that many must spend their young lives fearing in parts of Somalia. We can see Ebla struggle with the lot the world has cast for her: at one point she tells herself that “Nature is against women” and asks, “aren’t men the law?” (75). Later she finds herself attached to a woman in Mogadishu who is the only person in her life who has treated her like a human: “[s]he made Ebla aware of who she was” (109). The reader is invited to share, as much as they can, the torment Ebla experiences and the glimmers of redemption after Awill’s return.
Unfortunate lapses dot this work. Most of them are simply bad word choice, perhaps the misdeeds of the translator, but one mistake stands out. At one point, the author notes of Ebla that “[s]he had not the slightest idea that there could be such people as homosexuals” (114). Farah’s intention here is admirable, but his execution is clumsy. The writing in From a Broken Rib is third person, but the “mind” behind the writing had been interior to Ebla; this break in style was not a skillful postmodern shift in narration but a ham-fisted injection of an outside idea into a narrative where it did not belong. Traditional sex roles are the very subject of this novel; that Ebla would not have known about homosexuality (she did not know what a car was) could have been safely assumed by the reader.
Gender relations follow proscribed forms in any society; the ones I see from East Africans in my classroom at Hubbs differ barely from those one could see among white Americans in my home state of Iowa. But Farah’s From a Broken Rib brings the reader under the surface of women’s lives in Somalia, whence come the plurality of my adult learners. I can think of no better example of a lesson from Farah that I might apply in the classroom than a route I will choose not to take. Starting a month from now, I will teach a unit on emails: one cartoon that I could have put on my PowerPoint hinges on a joke where a woman sees multiple CC’d women on a love note sent by her boyfriend. The humor perhaps makes sense in an American context; for my students, many of whom might have been in a country where polygamy is sometimes accepted (illustrated in one chapter of From a Crooked Rib: it is often okay for men to take multiple wives, but not vice-versa), the joke would fall flat—or worse. Farah’s book has allowed me to learn more about an important and fascinating part of the world and to be more sensitive in my daily life.