Class, Gender, and Nationalism in ‘Aziza Amir and Fatma Rushdie’s Films

by

Lobna Tamer Mahdi

A thesis submitted in conformity with the requirements for the degree of Master of Arts

Graduate Department of Leadership, Higher and Adult Education Ontario Institute for Studies in Education

University of Toronto

© Copyright by Lobna Tamer Mahdi 2021

ii

Class, Gender, and Nationalism in ‘Aziza Amir and Fatma Rushdie’s Films

Lobna Tamer Mahdi Master of Arts

Graduate Department of Leadership, Higher and Adult Education Ontario Institute for Studies in Education

University of Toronto 2020

Abstract

This thesis examines the works of lower-class Egyptian women filmmakers during the first

half of the 20th century, focusing on the films of ‘Aziza Amir and Fatma Rushdie in particular.

After contextualizing their films in the political and intellectual atmosphere of the time, I analyze

two of ‘Aziza Amir’s works as a screenwriter and four of Fatma Rushdie’s works as an actress. I

demonstrate that both women strategically used their films to interrogate, challenge, and/or

reproduce the Egyptian nationalist and feminist discourse of the time, particularly as it related to

gender, class, nationalism, and national identity. I argue that both women made significant

contributions to popularizing and disseminating the language and ideals that would then become

the trademark of the Gamal Abdel-Nasser era starting in 1952.

iii

Acknowledgements

I wish to express my deep thanks and appreciation to my supervisor, Dr. Shahrzad Mojab,

whom I am honoured to have worked with and learned from. Her guidance, patience, and

encouragement has not only provided me with the motivation and confidence necessary to take on

this work but has made this entire journey a highly enjoyable one. I would also like to thank my

mentor and second reader, Dr. Chandni Desai, for all her support. It was her undergraduate course,

“Art, Cultural Production, and Resistance” that inspired this thesis topic and encouraged me to

pursue this degree. I am endlessly grateful for and inspired by her work and scholarship. Dr. Mojab

and Dr. Desai, thank you both for your time, energy, company, and friendship.

I would like to thank my professors at OISE, Near and Middle Eastern Studies, and Cinema

Studies, who have challenged my thinking, molded my research questions, and equipped me with

the various tools and perspectives needed to produce a truly interdisciplinary study. I must also

give thanks to Dr. Randa Abobakr, whose help in finding Arabic resources and connecting me

with inspiring intellectual figures in Egypt has been invaluable. To my professors and to Dr.

Abobakr, thank you all for your support and the unique influence you have made on this study.

I would also like to thank my beautiful family. My parents have laid the foundation upon

which everything I am and everything I have accomplished was built. I simply could not have

completed this study without their feedback, insight, love, and encouragement. You are both my

greatest blessings and inspirations, thank you. Thank you to my brothers, who always knew how

to lift my spirits when I lost motivation and confidence. I love you both dearly.

I would also like to acknowledge and share my deep gratitude for the contributions and

legacies of the two remarkable women at the center of this study: ‘Aziza Amir and Fatma Rushdie,

without whom, I believe, Egypt and the Arab world simply would not be the same. It has truly

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been my honour and pleasure to have spent the last two years learning about and studying the lives,

careers, passions, sacrifices, and contributions of these two women. It is my hope that this study

can make but a small contribution to celebrating and keeping their legacy alive. ‘Aziza and Fatma,

shukran. May you rest in eternal peace.

Finally and most importantly, all praise is due to the Most High and Most Merciful, my

Creator, Sustainer, and Provider, Allah (SWT).

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Table of Contents

Abstract ii

Acknowledgements iii

Table of Contents v

Note on Translation and Transliteration vi

Introduction 1

Chapter One 7 Setting the Scene: Historical Context

Chapter Two 56 ‘Aziza Amir

Chapter Three 110 Fatma Rushdie

Conclusion 152

References 157

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Note on Translation and Transliteration

All translations of primary Arabic sources are mine unless otherwise stated. For transliteration,

diacritics are not used with the exception of ‘ for the Arabic letter ‘ayn and ’ for the Arabic letter

hamza.

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Introduction

Much has been written in Egyptian popular media and contemporary historiography on the

development of Egypt’s national identity and the nationalist anti-colonial movement of the early

20th century. Most of these writings, however, have focused solely on male political leaders and

intellectual figures, who come mainly from the upper or upper-middle classes. On the rare occasion

that women’s contributions are discussed, it is mainly the upper and middle-class feminist

ideologues and organizers who are considered. This study joins the works of other scholars who

have begun shifting the focus of Egyptian historiography onto the lower and lower-middle class

masses who also actively shaped Egyptian national identity and developed their own

understanding of nationalism, gender, and class relations.

With this shift in demographic comes a shift in the types of sources used. Whereas Egyptian

historiographers have traditionally relied on official newspapers, speeches, novels, and other

‘formal’ sources, some scholars have started embracing colloquial, cultural sources, such as songs,

films, plays, political cartoons, and colloquial poetry. These alternative sources are starting to be

viewed as equally valuable political texts that have much to offer scholars of modern Egyptian

history, particularly with regards to the evolution of nationalist and feminist discourse in Egypt

(Fahmy, 2011). For this study, I have chosen films as my primary sources, focusing specifically

on the works of two Egyptian women filmmakers of lower-class origins: ‘Aziza Amir (1901 -

1952), an actress, writer, producer, and director who created the first ever Egyptian feature-length

film; and Fatma Rushdie (1908 - 1996), an actress, producer, and leader and co-director of the

Fatma Rushdie theatrical troupe. Both women quickly rose to fame during the 1920s and remained

active in cinema until the end of the colonial/monarchical period in 1952.

In addition to filling a significant gap in Egyptian historiography, this study also aims to

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counter some film scholars’ common mischaracterizations of Egyptian commercial cinema during

the pre-revolutionary period. The pre-revolutionary period is alternatively known as the colonial

and/or monarchic period that lasted until the military coup – also known as the July 23 Revolution

- led by Gamal ‘Abdel-Nasser and the Free Officers in 1952. In his essay, “Egypt in Shadows:

Films and the Political Order,” Raymond William Baker (1974) reflects on what he considers to

be a surprising scarcity of political commercial Egyptian films; a trend he traces to the pre-

revolutionary era. During this period, he writes, “Thematic traditions were early established which

focused the cinema on the life of the upper classes; a thin, melodramatic plot laced with oriental

songs and dances became the standard fare” (Baker, 1974, p. 398-399). Similarly, in a historical

overview of Egyptian cinema, Ataa Elnaccash (1968) describes the early Egyptian film industry

as one “born of the bourgeoisie and representing their attitude and their outlook” (p. 54). The

pervasiveness of this position in Egyptian film criticism is demonstrated by Viola Shafik (2007),

who explains that accusations of “misguided consciousness” and a “preference for splendid upper-

class settings,” (p. 248) have been made by various Egyptian and non-Egyptian film critics alike.

Such criticisms have been directed at pre- and post-revolutionary commercial cinema generally

and the melodrama genre in particular. Shafik (2007) counters such claims by offering examples

of pre- and post- revolutionary melodramas that attempted to take up questions of class relations

more critically.

This study builds on Shafik’s (2007) contributions towards deconstructing the image of

Egyptian commercial cinema, including the melodrama genre, as no more than a mindless,

bourgeois-controlled “dream factory.” I argue that both ‘Aziza Amir and Fatma Rushdie saw their

films as far more than mere entertainment; both women understood the value of commercial

cinema in disseminating social and political messages on a large scale. While discussing and

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analyzing their works, I argue that through their film scripts (in the case of ‘Aziza Amir) and their

choice of roles (in the case of Fatma Rushdie), both women offered important commentary on

Egyptian identity, nationalism, gender, and class. They did this, I argue, despite heavy state

censorship.

Importantly, however, the goal of this thesis is not to romanticize these women or to depict

them as revolutionary heroes. The two women’s films contain both progressive and problematic

elements, messages, and themes, all of which are discussed and analyzed. Nevertheless, this does

not make the films any less political. The objective of this thesis is to recover and analyze the ideas

that ‘Aziza Amir and Fatma Rushdie aimed to disseminate through their cinematic works,

regardless of what those ideas were. My theoretical framework is therefore informed by Revalorist

Theory, which stems from Feminist Communication Studies and aims to counter the erasure of

women’s history by engaging in a “recovery project” (Griffin, 2009, p. 396) that investigates and

celebrates women’s forgotten contributions and achievements.

The thesis is divided into three chapters. The first chapter, “Setting the Scene,” aims to

visualize the social, political, and ideological environment that ‘Aziza Amir and Fatma Rushdie’s

lives and careers were born into in order to better contextualize and understand their work. I divide

the chapter into five main historical periods. Since the making and evolution of Egyptian national

identity is one of the main focal points of this study, I begin in 1805, with the start of the

Muhammad ‘Ali dynasty, paying specific attention to the policies and reforms that birthed

Egyptian national identity in its modern sense. I also discuss the rise of a new Egyptian elite during

this period, which resulted in political, economic, and cultural divides within Egyptian society.

Said divisions are crucial for us to understand the development of bourgeois political culture in

the early 20th century and the foundation upon which the mainstream nationalist and feminist

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movements were built. After the first historical period (1805-1879) comes the second (1879-1914),

during which Khedive Isma’il was forced by the British to abdicate his throne and British

interference in Egypt reached new heights, eventually leading to official colonization in 1882.

During this period, we also witness the birth of the nationalist movement, the rise of feminist

consciousness, the beginning of workers’ organizing, and the first iterations of Marxist thought in

Egypt. Finally, I examine how classism and anti-socialist discourse became foundational to the

nationalist movement. The third period, 1914-1921, discusses WWI and the 1919 Revolution. Both

‘Aziza Amir and Fatma Rushdie began their acting careers shortly after the revolution, making it

all the more crucial for us to visualize the exciting and hyper-nationalist atmosphere that quickly

spread across the country from the first moment people took to the streets to resist British colonial

rule. The final two historical periods, 1922-1930, and 1930-late 1940s, focus less on the political

developments of this period and more on the ideological context: the ideas that nationalists and

feminists were working actively to impose as the dominant discourse. I focus specifically on

Egyptian liberal reformism, which launched new attacks against the Egyptian lower- and middle-

class masses, as well as the Easternist and Pan-Arab movements that emerged by the 1930s.

Once the general context is established, Chapters Two and Three focus on ‘Aziza Amir and

Fatma Rushdie’s lives and careers respectively. Both chapters begin with a short biography of the

two women, each crafted with specific objectives in mind. My primary goal for both biographies

is to contextualize the lives and careers of the two women within the broader socio-political

context. My aim, however, was to do this without losing sight of the personal and intimate

moments during which certain social interactions, certain trips, certain successes or failures, fueled

the two women’s ambition, impacted their decision making, or changed their motives. Whenever

possible, I selected quotations from their memoires and interviews that give readers insight into

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how ‘Aziza and Fatma felt during defining moments of their lives, as well as how they remembered

and narrated their life experiences. It is my hope, therefore, that both biographies offer a well-

balanced narrative that flows between external circumstances and internal contemplations.

Apart from this foundational objective, there were additional, distinct aims/motivations that

guided my writing of and research for the two biographies. For ‘Aziza, whose accomplishments

have unfortunately been largely forgotten or even credited to various men, my objective was to

reclaim her achievements by ironing out the details of some of her cinematic undertakings,

particularly her first film, Layla (1927). The absence of said details in various recent accounts of

her life, which can be attributed to the relative inaccessibility of her memoires and the limited

number of interviews she participated in, have allowed misinformation to spread and her

accomplishments to be erased, making this work all the more urgent. For Fatma, who wrote her

own autobiography and gave multiple interviews until her death in the late 1990s, misinformation

has been far less common. My objective, then, was to offer a different perspective on her career.

After outlining the basic details and significant events of her life, I dedicate a specific section titled

“Fatma Rushdie on Stage” to focusing specifically on her theatrical plays. I attempt to examine

her choice of plays more critically, locating them in the colonial conditions of the time and using

her interviews to understand how she herself interpreted the political value of her work.

After the two biographies, Chapters Two and Three move on to analyze ‘Aziza Amir and

Fatma Rushdie’s cinematic works. The objective for both analyses was the same, but the

methodologies used to achieve it were different. In both chapters, my goal was to understand how

each woman used her films to contribute to, challenge, and/or echo nationalist and feminist

discourses of her time, particularly as they related to questions of national identity, nationalism,

gender, and class. Since ‘Aziza Amir was an actress, writer, and producer, I felt that the most

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effective way to investigate her political messaging was through a close textual analysis of her

films. The focus of Chapter Two, therefore, is on ‘Aziza Amir the writer; what can her films’

characters, dialogues, and narrative structures tell us about the issues she was passionate about and

the messages she aimed to share? I chose two of her films in particular, The Apple Seller (1939)

and The Workshop (1940), both of which she starred in, for their rich and interesting political

commentaries.

Fatma Rushdie, on the other hand, only wrote the screenplay for one film, which is no longer

accessible today. Her main titles in cinema (which were different than those she held in theatre)

were actress and producer. A close textual analysis of the films she starred in would therefore have

given us more insight into the (male) writers’ and directors’ political voice rather than Fatma’s. I

focus instead on her decisions as an actress, examining themes/patterns that emerge repeatedly in

the films she chose to star in. I focus on four of her films in particular, namely Al-

Azeema/Determination (1939), Al Tareeq al-Mustaqeem/The Straight Path (1943), Al-Taesha/The

Reckless One (1946), and Gharam El-Shuyoukh/Old Men’s Infatuation (1946). The focus of

Chapter Three, then, is on Fatma the actress; what can her choices as an actress tell us about the

types of stories she was passionate about and the types of messages she wished to participate in

pushing forward? Since Fatma has revealed the intentions she had behind choosing many of the

plays she performed on stage but has not discussed her films at nearly the same length (partly

because interviewers have been far more interested in her pioneering work on stage than her work

in cinema), by analyzing the patterns in her filmography, Chapter Three reveals that Fatma

remained equally selective and intentional in her choices even when shifting into the film industry.

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Chapter One

Setting the Scene: Historical Context

At the core of the national bourgeoisie of the colonial countries a hedonistic mentality prevails - because on a psychological level it identifies with the Western bourgeoisie from which it has slurped every lesson.

-   Frantz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth

In her book, The Voice of Egypt: Umm Kulthum, Arabic Song, and Egyptian Society in the

Twentieth Century, Virginia Danielson (1997) explains that studies of actors, musicians, and other

performers must be contextualized and grounded in the socio-political conditions of their time.

Influential figures, she writes, are those who make history on the basis of pre-existing political,

economic, aesthetic, - and, I would add, ideological – conditions (Danielson, 1997, p. 16). It is

crucial, therefore, that I set the historical scene within which ‘Aziza Amir and Fatma Rushdie’s

lives and careers were shaped in order to better engage with, understand, and appreciate their work.

This chapter provides a brief overview of some of the major Egyptian political events from 1805,

a defining moment in Egyptian modern history, until the late 1940s, the final period of the

monarchical era, with a specific focus on the transformations that facilitated the making of Egypt’s

national identity as well as its nationalist and feminist movements. I will also explore the ideas and

discourses propagated by the nation’s leading political and intellectual elite with regards to

national identity, nationalism, gender, and class. In Chapters Two and Three, I will examine how

‘Aziza Amir and Fatma Rushdie responded to and/or challenged said discourse.

1805– 1879: From Muhammad ‘Ali to Khedive Isma’il

Muhammad ‘Ali Pasha,1 a man of Albanian origin who joined the Ottoman army as a junior

officer three years before becoming its commander in Egypt, became the wali (viceroy) of Egypt

in 1805. His rule came after three years of brutal French occupation (1798-1801), followed by

1 “Pasha” is a word of Turkish origin historically used as a title of a high ranking officer.

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three years of civil and political unrest in Cairo (1802-1805) instigated by Ottoman, Mamluk,2 and

Albanian forces (Marsot, 1984, p. 37-42). Though still under the suzerainty of the Ottoman

Empire, Muhammad ‘Ali and his successors enjoyed a high level of administrative autonomy.

After his rule ended with his death in 1848, ‘Ali was succeeded by his son, Ibrahim Pasha (July –

November 1848), who was followed by his nephew, ‘Abbas Helmi I (1848-1854), after whom

came Muhammad ‘Ali’s second son, Mohammad Sa’id Pasha (1854-1863), who was succeeded

by Ibrahim’s son, Khedive3 Isma’il (1863-1879).

Many historians credit Muhammad ‘Ali with being the “Founder of Modern Egypt” and

designate 1805 as the birth year of an entirely new epoch in the nation’s history. Although others

disagree, arguing that he simply followed in the footsteps of former rulers rather than innovating

a brand new form of governance (Marsot, 1984), it would be difficult to find a historical narrative

that denies the transformational effects of Muhammad ‘Ali’s rule on Egyptian life, which laid the

foundation for the political and economic structures as well as ideological frameworks that carried

on until the early 20th century. The most important change made by Muhammad ‘Ali was the

centralization of the state, which aimed to bring the entire country’s population, industries,

economies, and lands under the direct control of the government. Centralization projects took on

many forms, and in what is to follow, I shall explore those most relevant to this study: the building

of railroads, the introduction of the postal service, the standardization of the education system, and

government annexation of land. It is widely known that the second most crucial figure of the

Muhammad ‘Ali Dynasty is Khedive Isma’il, who carried on and cemented his grandfather’s

centralization efforts but also initiated new, costly modernization projects that changed the

2 The Mamluks were the official rulers of Egypt from 1250–1517. Many of their forces remained in the country after the 16th century Ottoman conquest of Egypt. 3 Isma’il was the first ruler to use the Turkish title “Khedive” rather than “Wali”; both meant “Viceroy.”

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physical, political, and social infrastructure of Egypt. Therefore, this chapter will also explore the

ways in which Khedive Isma’il’s rule introduced an entirely new ideological atmosphere in Egypt

that would shape intellectual thought and political discourse long after his exile and death.

Railroads and the Postal Service

In his book, Ordinary Egyptians: Creating the Modern Nation Through Popular Culture,

Ziad Fahmy (2011) credits the railroad with being “the most important of [the 19th century’s]

transforming technologies” (p. 25). He explains that under Sa’id Pasha, several Delta towns were

connected to each other and to Cairo by the rail, and under Isma’il, the railroad expanded into

Upper Egypt and extended to Sudan. Fahmy (2011) writes that the “2,600 kilometers of

government-controlled railroads,” (p. 25) supplemented by privately-built railway lines that

reached much smaller towns and villages, had dramatic influences on Egyptian life. Though

Egyptian scholar Zeinab Abul-Magd’s (2013) pioneering work on 19th century Upper Egypt

demonstrates that railroads did not exactly include Upper Egyptian towns the way Fahmy’s (2011)

work describes, it is nevertheless agreed upon that the railroad, with its fairly affordable tickets,

physically connected much of the country like never before. This allowed many of those who had

never stepped outside their village to visit new parts of the country, or to see/meet visitors from

different cities. This, in turn, “expand[ed] the geographic worldview of the average Egyptian from

a village or regional perspective to an increasingly national one,” thereby, according to Fahmy

(2011), “creating the beginnings of a national consciousness” (p. 26). Railroads also increased the

speed of crop transportation from the fields to ports and from European shipments at the ports to

Cairo and the countryside (Fahmy, 2011). The Egyptian economy’s dependence on European

goods and manufactured products subsequently increased, which was a contributing factor of the

eventual British occupation of 1882.

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Muhammad ‘Ali’s creation of the Egyptian Postal System, which became accessible for

public use under Isma’il and expanded significantly at the start of the 20th century, also had a

profound effect on the making of Egyptian national identity. The postal system allowed for the

practically instantaneous spread of cultural products such as newspapers and music records.

Through the services of professional readers and writers, illiterate Egyptians, many of whom

migrated from the Delta or Upper Egypt for work in Cairo, could communicate with their family

members back home (Fahmy, 2011, p. 27). Fahmy (2011) explains that the postal system, along

with the railroads which opened the door for theatrical troupes, satirical writers, playwrights, and

others to easily and quickly travel across the country, allowed for the “systemic national circulation

of news, gossip, and culture,” (p. 27) bringing Egyptians closer than ever before.

Education

Standardizing Education.

Education in Egypt underwent several transformative changes with the start of Muhammad

‘Ali’s rule, the first being standardization. Prior to ‘Ali, education in Egypt occurred primarily on

a local level, either in Kuttabs - religious institutions where students would learn to read, write, as

well as memorize the Quran - in Western missionary schools, or in the Islamic and Arabic classes

offered by Al-Azhar, one of the world’s oldest institutions for Islamic learning (Tucker, 1986, p.

123). Part of ‘Ali’s efforts of state centralization meant the founding of the Ministry of Education

and the establishment of the first system of public primary and secondary schools, which were

generally modeled after European education systems. These new public schools, established in

various parts of Egypt, received a standardized curriculum, which “in most cases included the

history and geography of Egypt,” (Fahmy, 2011, p. 24) thereby allowing thousands of students to

acquire the same narrative regarding Egypt’s historical and geographic identity. The 1800s,

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therefore, marked a shift in the sources of identity production: from scattered and region-specific

to centralized and state-focused (Gershoni & Jankowski, 1986, p. 3-5). After experiencing neglect

from the government and a lack of funding under ‘Abbas Helmi I and then Sa’id Pasha, public

education expanded and welcomed a growing population of new students under Khedive Isma’il

(Fahmy, 2011, p. 23). Isma’il also placed a substantial number of kuttabs, which had hitherto

operated independently, under government control and incorporated standardized curricula

(Pollard, 2005, p. 102). Evidently, then, both Muhammad ‘Ali and Khedive Ismai’l were driven

by a motivation to secure as much intellectual control over the population as possible.

Women’s Education.

One crucial difference between Muhammad ‘Ali and Khedive Isma’il’s approaches to

education was their take on whether or not female students should be included. Though ‘Ali opened

a School for Hakimahs (female doctors) in 1832, which mainly received students from lower-

middle class families, primary and secondary public schools were not open for girls (Badran, 1995,

p. 8). This meant that girls’ education was the sole responsibility of kuttabs and all-girls missionary

schools. This changed under Khedive Isma’il, who opened state-sponsored schools for girls. While

some schools were specifically meant to attract the daughters of the lower-classes, others were

targeted primarily towards the daughters of landowners and the ruling class, although the upper

classes continued to prefer homeschooling their daughters (Badran, 1995). Girls’ curricula

included reading, writing, arithmetic, and religion, but students also spent much of their day

learning child raising, cooking, home economics, needlework, and laundry - subjects not taught to

their male counterparts (Pollard, 2005, p. 104). Interestingly then, women’s education was used as

an instrument through which the state could produce good housewives, mothers, and in the case

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of lower-class women, good domestic servants. This reveals a crucial incentive behind Isma’il’s

decision to open the doors of girls’ education.

In her book, Nurturing the Nation: The Family Politics of Modernizing, Colonizing, and

Liberating Egypt, Lisa Pollard (2005) explains that much of the motivation behind educating

women came from Isma’il’s frustration with European criticisms of what they believed to be the

degraded position of the Egyptian woman and the immorality of Egyptian culture. As Pollard

(2005) explores in her book, in their travel literature, fictional stories, and art, European orientalists

often attributed Egypt’s “backwardness” to Egyptians’ home life, explaining that uneducated

Egyptian women corrupted their men, who in turn corrupted the nation. They described the

Egyptian woman as incapable of controlling her sexual desire and the harem as a place where

women did little else but dance, sing, recite novels, and share “facetious” stories and tales (Pollard,

2005, p. 59-60). Egyptian women were therefore depicted by orientalists as incapable of being

good wives, mothers, and homemakers, holding back the nation from ever progressing. Nurturing

the Nation impressively demonstrates how Europeans also tied Isma’il’s family life to his

corruption and ineptitude as a ruler, frequently blaming his polygamous marriages for his failures.

Therefore, a common sentiment prevalent in orientalist British travel literature that then became

embedded in British ruling ideology was that Egypt would only be prepared to become self-

sufficient as a nation once it had learned the ‘civilized’ family practices of the West. Pollard (2005)

argues that ridding the country of polygamy and practices of female seclusion were two of the

clear requirements needed to prove Egypt’s readiness for self-rule; however, the condition that

Egyptians adopt civilized family practices was generally purposefully vague and imprecise so as

to extend British rule in Egypt for as long as possible. No matter what the Egyptians do, they would

never be quite “ready” for independence.

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Isma’il’s response to European orientalist claims and criticisms was the education of

women. By educating girls, Isma’il could prove that he was uplifting and moralizing the Egyptian

woman, which signaled, in turn, the moralization of the Egyptian man. Pollard (2005) writes, “…in

extending its hand into the home life of the nation, the state would assure its own moral and

political future” (p. 105). Importantly, Isma’il’s goal of improving Egyptian habits of the home

through education were not exclusive to him. Foreign missionary schools for girls were founded

by a simultaneous “fascination and repulsion with Egyptian home life” (Pollard, 2005, p. 107). In

an American Presbyterian school for girls, for example, it was believed that girls could only be

taught educational or religious matters once they have learned the morals and skills needed to

reform the Egyptian household (Pollard, 2005, p. 108). Throughout this period, then, we can

observe the development not only of an “ideal Egyptian woman” but also of an “ideal Egyptian

female nationalist.” In order to contribute to their nation, Egyptian women were required to remain

in and reform the domestic sphere.

It is crucial to remember, therefore, that the impacts of European imperialism on Egypt

was not limited to its more direct and material forms. British colonial, orientalist logic had also

managed to severely distort elite Egyptians’ conceptualization of the emerging Egyptian national

identity, producing an internalized rejection of the Self and an uncritical admiration of the

European Other. As I shall explore later in this chapter, the eventual British occupation that began

in 1882 would further cement this psychological state in elite political and intellectual circles, a

theme that will continue to emerge for the remainder of this study.

Educational Missions Abroad.

In order to satisfy the demands of his new and expanding army, industries, transportation

projects, and other modernization reforms, Muhammad ‘Ali opened several specialized

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professional, technical, and military schools (Fahmy, 2011, p. 23; Tucker, 1986, p. 123).

According to Judith Tucker (1986), “Between 1824 and 1839, schools were established in the

fields of military sciences, medicine and pharmacy, midwifery, veterinary medicine, applied

chemistry, mines, civil administration and accounting, languages and translation, crafts, and

technology” (p. 123). Importantly, all of these new schools and training facilities were specifically

meant to acquaint Egyptians with European practices, meaning that local knowledges and

traditions were replaced with westernized technological innovation. Many of the students who

attended these institutions were often sent on educational missions abroad, where they would visit

and study in Western Europe for a certain period of time with the expectation that they would

return to Egypt and implement what they have learned (Maghraoui, 2006, p. 44).

Muhammad ‘Ali was not the first to introduce the idea of educational missions to Egypt,

however. Throughout the 18th century, some communities within Egypt, particularly Coptic

communities as well as missionary groups, occasionally sent groups of students to study in Europe,

mainly for religious purposes (Silvera, 1980, p. 2). During and after the French invasion and

occupation of Egypt, however, the incentive behind said trips changed. Several of Napoleon

Bonaparte’s administrative officials and even Bonaparte himself persistently pressured Ottoman

and Mamluk leaders and then eventually Muhammad ‘Ali to send native Egyptians to France in

order to “civiliz[e] Egypt by means of education” (Jomard, 1861 as cited in Silvera, 1980, p. 5).

In one of Bonaparte’s instructions to his men, he wrote, “If 5 to 600 Mamluks could not be found,

then send to France an equal number of Arab lads and Cheikhs el Balad [village chiefs]. After a

couple years' residence among us, these individuals would be dazzled by our greatness. Having

mastered our language and adopted our culture, they would become the sturdiest champions of our

cause on their return to Egypt” (as cited in Silvera, 1980, p. 4). Although, according to Alain

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Silvera (1980), Muhammad ‘Ali’s personal motivation behind the educational missions was to

replicate the strength and organization of the French military structure so as to protect himself and

the territory under his rule from a highly probable European invasion, Napoleon’s predictions of

Egyptians becoming the “sturdiest champions” of French/European values did eventually prove to

be quite true.

In Liberalism without Democracy: Nationhood and Citizenship in Egypt, 1922-1936,

Abdelsalam M. Maghraoui (2006) writes that students who studied in France, Italy, and England,

returned to their country, “translated and wrote books, and launched an active campaign to reform

their society,” (p. 44) specifically around the ideas of the European Enlightenment. Therefore,

“[t]hough the initial purpose of missions abroad was technical (military, engineering, and

commerce), scores of European-educated Egyptians, including teachers, doctors, engineers, and

public officials, were trained to teach natives the social manners and cultural customs of modern

European life” (Maghraoui, 2006, p. 44). Educational missions continued in mass numbers under

Khedive Isma’il and, the bourgeois, Westernized students who graduated from this education

system became known as the “affandiya4 class.” As I shall explore later in this chapter, several of

the elite political, intellectual, and even cultural leaders of the early 20th century nationalist

movement belonged to the affandiya.

Although women were not normally included in the educational missions of the nineteenth

century, elite women’s education was westernized in other ways. While lower-class female

students were taught to read and write in Arabic, daughters of the upper classes, who were often

educated and tutored at home, were taught to read and write in European languages (specifically

French) and/or Turkish and were denied the opportunity to learn Arabic even when specifically

4 Singular: affandy; Turkish word meaning “sir.”

16

requesting to do so (Badran, 1995, p. 22). Upper-class Egyptian feminist Hoda Sha’rawi was

caused great pain by the fact that she, unlike her brother, had not been taught to read or write in

Arabic (Badran, 1995, p. 22). Additionally, Bahiga Hafiz, an actress born into an aristocratic

family, was often heavily criticized by the Egyptian press for speaking Arabic with a heavy accent

due to her “French education and upper-class upbringing” (Elsaket, 2019, p. 217). Therefore,

through their westernized education both at home and abroad, thousands of Egyptian students were

separated linguistically, culturally, and ideologically from the rest of the Egyptian masses who

remained tied to local traditions and worldviews, creating a conflict, as we shall see, that would

define much of political discourse in the 1920s and 30s.

Land Theft and The Rise of an Egyptian Elite

The Muhammad ‘Ali dynasty began with a clear and purposefully maintained division

between the Turkish-speaking Ottoman elite – which consisted not only of Turks but also of

Circassians, Georgians, Albanians, and other non-Egyptians – and the Arabic-speaking native

Egyptians (Baron, 2005, p. 18). In her book, ‘Afaf Lutfi Al-Sayyid Marsot (1984) writes that ‘Ali

and his administration “despised the Egyptians and looked upon them as an inferior race of dirty

peasants (pis fallah) created to work for the benefit of their masters, the rulers” (p. 109).

(Therefore, although Muhammad ‘Ali’s many centralization efforts inevitably led to the

development of an Egyptian national identity, it is unlikely that this was his intention; his

ambitions were primarily imperialist in nature). Over time, however, it became more difficult to

maintain the ethnic separation between the rulers and the ruled (Baron, 2005) and although there

were still high levels of racist discrimination by elites and government officials against Egyptians,

the creation of a new, Egyptian-Ottoman elite became possible. There were various factors that

led to this, the most important for our purposes was land theft.

17

Land theft was a common practice under Muhammad ‘Ali and his successors. Judith

Tucker (1986) notes that by 1844, almost fifty percent of agricultural land had been taken by the

state and given to royal family members and the increasingly Egyptianized administrative officials.

Ibrahim Pasha not only confiscated lands from farmers and landowners, but also waqf land: private

land that is donated as religious charity for public use, thereby becoming untaxable - a centuries-

old Islamic tradition. Under Sa’id Pasha and Khedive Isma’il, thousands of acres of land in the

Qina province of Upper Egypt were seized for the construction of sugar mills, which were owned

by Europeans and Ottoman-Egyptian elites alike (Abul-Magd, 2013, p. 118). Thousands of acres

were also auctioned off to bureaucrats and foreigners without the permission of farmers and small

landowners (Abul-Magd, 2013, p. 110). In some cases, peasants would attempt to keep or win

back their land by bidding against wealthy and influential government officials, though,

unsurprisingly, they were hardly successful (Abul-Magd, 2013, p. 102). In other cases, Abul-Magd

(2013) explains, after a new law “decreed that if a peasant was proved absent for his land for three

years, he would lose his property rights… [p]easants returned to their villages to find their lands

confiscated and registered under other people’s names, usually state officials” (2013, p. 102). Land

theft was also carried out in a less direct but equally devastating way. Isma’il, who was obsessively

fond of all things European (he declared Egypt part of Europe and not Africa), attempted to model

Egypt’s inheritance laws after British models. This meant that women were denied the right to

inherit land, which they had always been granted under Islamic law (Abul-Magd, 2013, p. 115).

Women who objected were often attacked by their own male relatives; some were even killed

(Abul-Magd, 2013, p. 118).

Almost a century of various forms of land theft led to the creation of what Abul-Magd

(2013) calls a “propertied class,” producing new class divisions between wealthy Egyptians and

18

the land-less masses. Owning land or coming from a large landowning family became a new sign

of upper-class status and prestige, as we will see in one of ‘Aziza Amir’s films. Additionally, many

of these large landowners and/or their sons would become government officials during the

monarchical period, and their influence on the political parties and elite nationalist movement was

significant.

Though countless historians credit the Muhammad ‘Ali dynasty with establishing the

infrastructure necessary for the formation of a somewhat unified national Egyptian identity, which

is certainly true in some respects, ‘Ali and his successors also created unprecedented divisions

within the population. For thousands of years, native Egyptians had been ruled by different foreign

elites, and although there were certainly pre-existing class and wealth-based hierarchies within the

Egyptian population, the 1800s accentuated and exaggerated the disparities between class groups

by creating a new and far more powerful Egyptian elite. This occurred on both a physical level

through various measures such as land theft but also intellectually and ideologically through

educational missions abroad and differing curricula for students at home. With this context in

mind, we can better understand the trajectory of elite Egyptian political and intellectual culture

under British occupation.

1879 – 1914: Financial Debt, British Occupation, and the Rise of Egyptian Nationalism

Khedive Isma’il’s reign was characterized by an obsessive love for European architecture,

art, theater, political structures, education systems, and general lifestyle. He therefore borrowed

large amounts of money at extremely high interest rates, primarily from France and England, to

turn Egypt into what he hoped would be a second Paris. He spent millions expanding railroads,

founding the Suez Canal Company, building an opera house and a national theater, transforming

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narrow alleyways into broad streets, demolishing old buildings and replacing them with mansions

and government buildings of European design, constructing libraries, museums, theatres, parks,

and other places of entertainment, building a luxurious neighbourhood named after him

(Isma’iliyya), indulging in extravagant displays of his own personal wealth, and much more

(Pollard, 2005, p. 43). Pollard (2005) notes that by the 1870s, Isma’il “had managed to increase

Egypt’s foreign debt from 3.3 million to 98.5 million Egyptian pounds” (p. 77).

After unsuccessful attempts to reverse the damage, Isma’il eventually declared bankruptcy,

which led to the formation of the Public Debt Commission in 1876, an Anglo-French Commission

that reserved the right to control Egypt’s finances and ensure the repayment of the loans (Pollard,

2005, p. 77). Pollard (2005) marks the creation of the Commission as “Egypt’s first step toward

the loss of political independence” (p. 77). It is important to note that while Isma’il’s bankruptcy

and inability to pay his loans gave the Europeans a formal excuse to intervene politically, this was

a purposeful imperial act conducted to secure European interests and access to a variety of Egypt’s

resources (Cole, 1993, p. 17; Pollard, 2005, p. 80). In 1879, Khedive Isma’il made some political

decisions that went against the desires and demands of European powers, which led them to

encourage Ottoman Sultan Abdul Hamid II to force Isma’il to abdicate his throne and replace him

with his son, Tawfiq, who remained as Egypt’s Khedive from 1879-1892 (Pollard, 2005, p. 80). A

cabinet government designed after European models was created (Cole, 1993, p. 16), as was an

international commission made up of European members that allowed for even higher levels of

European political control in Egypt (Pollard, 2005, p. 80). Historian Juan Cole (1993) describes

this period as one in which an “informal empire” existed; though Britain had not formally

colonized the country, they had a significant grasp on Egyptian local affairs.

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In 1881, a group of Egyptian army officers, led by a colonel named Ahmad ‘Urabi, decided

to express their anger at the discrimination against Egyptian officers and the preferential treatment

of Turks and Circassians within the Egyptian army. The group’s criticisms eventually expanded

to include the increased European intervention in Egyptian political and financial affairs, the

resulting increase on taxes, and the recent immigration of approximately 90,000 European

immigrants, who were attracted to Isma’il’s ‘modernization’ projects and had begun to buy large

swaths of Egyptian land (Cole, 1993, p. 14; Fahmy, 2011, p. 51; Pollard, 2005, p. 70-78). They

also expressed their anger and general dissatisfaction with Khedive Tawfiq, who was seen as no

more than an unintelligent puppet controlled by Europeans (Fahmy, 2011, p. 54). After a series of

small political wins by ‘Urabi and his officers and greater military power in Cairo and Alexandria,

the summer of 1882 witnessed several battles between ‘Urabi’s forces and British troops, whose

primary goal was to put down the rebellion. By September of 1882, the British had defeated ‘Urabi

and officially colonized Egypt (Pollard, 2005, p. 82).

British rule in Egypt unleashed a new set of hardships for the already impoverished urban

lower classes and the disenfranchised fallahin (peasants). Additionally, while claiming to rescue

the Egyptian woman from her culture, British colonizers actively limited women’s education and

employment opportunities. This section will focus specifically on the Egyptian educational

curricula under British rule in order to better understand the impacts of imperialist logic on the

Egyptian intellectual tradition and political discourse. I will then explore the rise of the nationalist

and feminist movements and introduce the most important political figures and parties of the early

20th century.

Education Under British Colonization

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Once the British occupied Egypt in 1882, the aforementioned emphasis on reforming the

moral and familial habits of Egyptians through education took an unprecedented high. Primary

students attended classes on personal hygiene, good manners, and cleanliness of the home. Later ,

when an increasing number of Egyptian nationalists held important positions within the still-

colonial Ministry of Education, classes on morals, hygiene, and good work ethics became even

more common (Pollard, 2005, p. 118-122). Students were told that being a good nationalist meant

being clean and orderly and living in “proper” (i.e. modern, European-inspired) houses, as opposed

to “huts, tents, and dark or crowded quarters, [which] were listed as dwellings that belonged to

‘another world,’ a premodern world” (Pollard, 2005, p. 120). According to this logic, impoverished

Egyptians, who often lived in these “otherworldly” dwellings, would never be true nationalists.

Importantly, while classes on good etiquette and morals were becoming ever more

common, history and political science classes were severely limited. Lord Cromer, the British

consul-general in Egypt, argued that Muslims, who made up the majority of students, would be

incapable of “absorbing what he called a ‘classical’ education, since modern political thought and

philosophy were anchored in Christian traditions” (Pollard, 2005, p. 116). Pollard (2005) argues

that Cromer was actually weary that political theory and modern history would mobilize students

against the occupation. “Consequently,” she writes, “his policy toward the teaching of subjects

that might inculcate democracy in young Egyptians was premised upon the sentiment that they

were both useless (Egyptians would not catch on) and dangerous (they should not catch on)…”

(Pollard, 2005, p. 116). Therefore, ironically, during the early years of British colonialism, in order

to prove themselves ready for self-rule, Egyptians did not need to demonstrate an adequate

knowledge of (European) political schools of thought and an albeit limited/biased view of modern

history, but rather a readiness to reform family values and ethics. Once again the nationalists were

22

led to believe that as soon the Egyptians could prove that the Egyptian home was undergoing

serious reform, the British would grant them their independence.

Shifts in education also began taking place, with middle class students being trained to

work in irrigation engineering and other fields required to fulfill the technical demands of the

British. Meanwhile, Egyptian doctors were significantly outnumbered by non-Egyptians, as the

British encouraged Syrians and Europeans to work in the medical field. British “government

advisors, technicians, private tutors, teachers, school administrators, nurses, and doctors” (Badran,

1995, p. 12) were also brought to Egypt to strengthen the colonial state’s dominance, control, and

hegemony. The British also attacked perhaps one of the more positive institutions set up under

Muhammad ‘Ali’s reign: The School for Hakimas. The school was phased out by the British,

effectively excluding women from the medical profession. When families and female patients took

to Cromer to address their preference to be treated by female doctors rather than men, he cast them

off, arguing that “throughout the civilized world, attendance by medical men is still the rule” (1900,

as cited in Tucker, 1986, p. 122). Women were also not allowed to attend higher institutions, and

job opportunities for women significantly declined, effectively erasing much of the progress that

had been made in the area of women’s education, employment, and financial independence.

The Revival of Egyptian Nationalism

Important Political Figures and Parties.

Although the defeat of the ‘Urabi revolt and the official start of British colonialism led to

a state of shock and a sense of defeat across much of Egypt, the Egyptian nationalist movement

slowly began to revive itself, in large part due to the efforts of cultural figures such as Egyptian

journalist and cartoonist Ya’qub Sannu’ (Fahmy, 2011). Despite being exiled to France by the

Khedive and being censored by the British, Sannu’ managed to publish and smuggle into Egypt a

23

colloquial satirical newspaper called Abu-Naddara Zarqa (The Man with the Blue Glasses) that

heavily criticized and mocked the British. Another satirical writer and important cultural figure

named ‘Abdallah Nadim also started a newspaper titled Al-Ustadh (The Professor), which had a

significant impact on students, such as the young Mustafa Kamil, who would become one of the

most important nationalist figures of the early 20th century (Fahmy, 2011).

Mustafa Kamil (1874-1908), famous for one of the most popular nationalist phrases in

modern Egyptian history, “Law Lam Akon Misryan Lawadato an Akoon Misryan” (“If I weren’t

an Egyptian, I would have wished to be Egyptian”), was born and raised in Cairo. He was the son

of an army engineer who was educated in one of Khedive Isma’il’s public schools, and he later

became a law student and continued his legal studies in France (Laffan, 1999). After Khedive

Tawfiq’s death in 1892 came his son, ‘Abbas Hilmi II, who established a good relationship with

Kamil and funded his education in France (Laffan, 1999, p. 270). Kamil later founded one of the

first anti-colonial nationalist political parties of the 20th century, the Watani (Nationalist) Party,

which strategically relied on the press – just as ‘Urabi had - to mobilize and garner the support of

the Egyptian masses, and did so successfully (Fahmy, 2011, p. 91). Mikhail Sharubim, an observer

in Egypt quoted by Fahmy (2011) writes, “the masses have continued to increase their

hallucinatory love of this [Watani] party and its leader [Mustafa Kamil]” (p. 91). At just 34 years

old, Kamil died of a heart attack, and what would have surely been a long and successful political

career was cut short.

Another political party founded at around the same time as the Watani Party was the Umma

Party (Party of the Nation), led by writer and politician Ahmad Lutfi al-Sayyid. The Umma Party

was significantly less popular with the masses, since it primarily catered to the needs of Egypt’s

westernized elite and landowning class. The Umma Party also held conflicting views regarding

24

foreign occupation and intervention in Egypt. According to co-authors Israel Gershoni and James

Jankowski (1986), though far more strictly nationalist than the Watani Party, which still pledged

allegiance to the Ottoman Empire, the Umma Party often expressed its sympathies and indirect

support for British rule in Egypt on multiple occasions, particularly during the First World War.

This simultaneous rejection of Ottoman influence and embrace of British influence is a theme that

will continue to characterize much of Egyptian nationalist rhetoric in later decades.

One member of the Umma Party who would later become one of the most well-known (if

not the most well-known) Egyptian nationalist figures of the pre-Nasserist era, was Sa’d Zaghlul

(1859 – 1927). Sa’d Zaghlul was born to a middle class family in the Nile Delta. After studying at

Al-Azhar University, he moved to France to pursue a law degree. He moved on to work as a lawyer

and judge, and was appointed as the Minister of Education by the British (Cleveland, 2004, p.

364). Immediately after the end of World War I, Zaghlul along with seven other Egyptians – both

Muslim and Coptic – formed a wafd (delegation) and requested from the British High

Commissioner to attend the Paris Peace Conference and express Egypt’s longing for independence

(Cleveland, 2004, p. 364; Ali, 2009, p. 48). Though the Wafd’s request was denied by the British,

they would eventually turn into one of the most important nationalist political groups in the 1920’s

and 30’s, (Ali, 2009, p. 48) particularly after the Watani and Umma parties slowly dwindled and

lost their power.

Classism and Anti-Socialist Repression

Though it is evident in much of Egyptian historiographical literature that Mustafa Kamil,

Sa’d Zaghlul, and their political parties successfully garnered the support of millions of Egyptians

of all classes and religions and remain celebrated until today, it is important to call attention to the

classism that was prevalent within the upper-class nationalist movement. Zachary Lockman (1994)

25

explains that for much of the late 19th and early 20th century, many of the upper-class Egyptian

intellectuals and writers who were leading discussions on Egyptian identity and nationalism shared

an exceedingly negative view of lower-class and peasant Egyptians, often describing them as

ignorant, indolent, and lacking self-discipline. These upper-class members of Egypt’s

intelligentsia saw themselves “as part of a small, enlightened, Westernized intellectual elite,

standing apart from, and looking down upon, a great and largely faceless mass of ignorant peasants

and lower-class city dwellers” (Lockman, 1994, p. 168). So much so that some of them,

particularly those in the Umma Party, argued that a prolonged British presence in Egypt would be

necessary if a mass reform of Egypt’s lower class were to take place, as they had envisioned. Even

upper-class nationalists who wanted immediate independence from the British and saw their

colonial presence as the main source of regression in Egypt did not disagree with reformists that a

mass reform of the lower classes was necessary. Lockman (1994) writes, “The nationalists’

disagreement with the advocates of reform was not really so much about the character of the rural

or urban masses (in whom they showed little, if any, interest during the early years of the century)

or the need for reform as about how and by whom reform was to be achieved” (p. 171).

Moreover, much of the leading intellectual and political figures specifically promoted

bourgeois nationalism and the Wafdist party is described by countless historians as one that catered

to the interests of the landowning class. Any expressions of Marxism as well as organized workers’

movements were therefore under heavy attack from the very moment they appeared in Egypt. In

their book, The Communist Movement in Egypt, 1920-1988, Tareq Y. Ismael and Rifa’at El-Sa'id

(1990) explain that in the late 19th century, students returning from Khedive Isma’il’s educational

missions in Egypt began introducing socialist ideas in periodicals and literary circles. Immigrant

Greek, Italian, and Russian workers living in Egypt also began organizing labour unions and

26

workers’ strikes and were sympathetic to the ‘Urabi revolts. One Russian immigrant by the name

of Joseph Rosenthal, who obtained Egyptian citizenship, was particularly influential in building

connections between Egyptian and non-Egyptian workers and organizing some of the biggest and

most successful strikes in Alexandria (Ismael & El-Sa’id, 1990). Egyptian writer Mustafa

Hassanain al-Mansuri, a school principle who had never travelled abroad and “therefore must have

become familiar with Marxism through Arabic materials,” (Ismael & El-Sa’id, 1990, p. 5) and

Syrian writer Nicola Haddad, who had immigrated from Syria to New York and then to Cairo, also

played a crucial role in promoting Marxist ideas in Arabic. Both writers identified the need to

adapt socialist ideas to the specific conditions in Egypt, and much of their writing was shared

across the Arab world.

In the early 20th century, an anti-socialist campaign was led by many elite intellectuals and

religious figures alike. Large landowners were also particularly threatened since many Marxist

writers advocated for land redistribution and expressed their solidarities with the peasant labourer

Ismael & El-Sa’id, 1990, p. 11). Therefore, although the Wafd cleverly presented itself as

representative of the masses and successfully garnered support from the lower classes, there was

a growing awareness amongst workers, primarily in Egypt’s urban centers, that alternative

organizing strategies and theoretical undertakings were required to guarantee liberation. While the

upper classes were committed to a moral and intellectual reform of the lower classes, Marxist

writers such as al-Mansuri and Haddad advocated for a reform of much of Egypt’s political

institutions and the abolition of the capitalist system. Al-Mansuri was also deeply committed to

the emancipation of women (Ismael & El-Sa’id, 1990) which undoubtedly made him a greater

threat to the patriarchal establishment.

The Beginnings of the Egyptian Feminist Movement

27

The late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries also mark the earliest stirrings of what

became the mainstream Egyptian feminist movement. In her pioneering work on Egyptian

feminism, Feminists, Islam, and Nation: Gender and the Making of Modern Egypt, Margot Badran

(1995) locates the first articulations of feminist consciousness in the late 1800s, when Egyptian

and Levantine writers based in Egypt such as Zaynab Fawwaz, Malak Hifni Nasif (also known by

her pen name, Bahithat al-Badiyah), Mayy Ziyadah, and A’ishah al-Taymuriyah began publishing

poetry, compiling women’s biographies (which was an almost nonexistent practice at the time)

and lamenting the patriarchal practices they were forced to endure in books, periodicals, and

women’s journals, which also emerged at this time (p. 15). During this period, there were various

struggles that Egyptian women were faced with, which sometimes differed depending on class

status. For middle and upper-class urban women, domestic seclusion was the most central struggle.

This was not necessarily the case for fallahi (peasant) women, who were required to work the lands

alongside men, or lower-class urban women, who needed to work in order to survive and/or

support their families. Nevertheless, regardless of class status, access to public space, specifically

in urban areas, was generally quite limited for women (Badran, 1995). What this meant was that

public space had become equated with ‘male space’ while the domestic sphere had become equated

with ‘female space.’ Urban women of all classes and religions who did leave their homes were

also required to wear a face veil, which further imposed gender segregation in Egyptian society.

By taking to the equally inaccessible, male-dominated Egyptian literary sphere, early feminist

writers could begin the process of breaking this spatial binary and reclaiming public space as their

own. Through their writing, these women could break the chains of invisibility; they forced

readers, both male and female, to acknowledge their presence, listen to their concerns, and reckon

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with the fact that they would no longer remain “complici[t] in their own subordination” (Badran,

1995, p. 4).

One of the most significant outcomes of these early literary works was a new generation

of women activists who became the leaders of the Egyptian feminist movement for the first few

decades of the 20th century. The most well-known feminist activist of this time was the

aforementioned Hoda Sha’rawi, an upper-class woman born in 1879 whose experiences with

domestic seclusion, forced marriage, and inability to access the same resources and educational

opportunities as her brother led her to develop a critical feminist lens at a young age (Badran,

1995). She played an instrumental role in opening social services for poor women and children in

Egypt, and organized several social services, philanthropic societies, and training centers for

women. Badran (1995) credits these activities with, for the first time, “lessening the segregation

of rich from poor” (p. 51). She writes, “Previously, when contact between the two occurred at all,

it was customary for the poor to go to the rich for assistance; now the rich went to the poor, whom

they could see for the first time in their own harsh environment” (Badran, 1995, p. 73).

Philanthropic activities also allowed for more access to public space for upper-class women.

Moreover, Hoda, like most other feminist leaders, was especially inspired by Malak Hifni Nasif,

who died suddenly in 1918. Hoda was invited to present her eulogy, marking her first public

speech. “By a sad irony,” Badran (1995) writes, “the final silencing of Bahithat al-Badiyah’s

[Malak Hifni Nasif] voice gave birth to Huda Sha’rawi’s public voice” (p. 73). Another important

feminist activist of this time was Nabawiya Musa, a middle-class woman born in 1886 in the Nile

Delta. Nabawiya was a journalist, educator, writer, and all-girls school principal whose activism

opened the door for greater women’s access to education and employment. Badran (1995)

describes her as “an outspoken critic of education policy,” (p. 39) particularly under colonial rule,

29

who was fired, arrested, and imprisoned for her feminist and nationalist activism. She was also

one of the first Muslim women to remove the face veil around 1909.

The late nineteenth century also marks the birth of Islamic modernism in Egypt. Shaykh

Jamal al-Din al-Afghani and Shaykh Muhammad ‘Abduh, the two most renowned advocates of

Islamic modernism during this period, firmly believed that Islam could be used as inspiration for

social, political, and scientific progress. They encouraged a return to ijtihad: re-examining and re-

studying Islamic scriptures through independent inquiry (Rahnema, 1994, p. 8). The concept of

ijtihad had a significant impact on the growing feminist movement, as women began to discover

that many of the patriarchal practices they had been subjected to in the name of Islam had no actual

basis in the religion. Badran (1995) writes, “[S]ome women and men came to see that the domestic

cloistering of women and the imposition of the face veil were not religious prescriptions. They

also discovered that other practices ordained by Islam, such as obtaining a woman’s consent in

marriage, were ignored, while men often abused their rights to divorce and polygamy” (p. 11).

Islamic modernism therefore played a key role in establishing one of the main foundations upon

which early Egyptian feminism would be built, allowing Egyptian Muslim women to reject any

accusations that their religious identities and their feminism were in any way mutually exclusive.

From its very beginnings, the early Egyptian feminist movement also had deep connections

to nationalist discourse. As the idea of Egypt being its own nation-state began circulating across

the country through the modernization projects discussed above, Egyptian women were

formulating their thoughts around the role of women in this new nation (Badran, 1995, p. 12).

Deteriorating political, economic, and social conditions caused by British occupation as well as

ongoing exploitation of Egyptian resources also forced Egyptian women to not only commit

themselves to nationalist activism but to see themselves as instrumental in the fight against

30

imperialism. When Egyptian feminists started building connections with Western feminists

looking to create an international suffragette movement, conflicts often emerged between the two

groups for their oppositional takes on imperialism. Western feminists were often dismayed to find

Egyptian feminists unwilling to separate national liberation from women’s liberation (Badran,

1995, p. 71).

With the birth of a unified Egyptian national identity and the increased interconnectedness

between Egyptians across the country that occurred from 1805 to 1879, it is unsurprising that by

the end of the 19th century and the beginning of the 20th, the foundation for national political

organizing had been laid out. Though, as the remainder of this chapter will continue to explore,

various groups and demographics within the population had different, sometimes opposing views

on what the future of Egypt should look like, Egyptians were generally becoming ever-more

mobilized and motivated to fight against imperialism, oppression, patriarchy, and/or capitalism.

Though British colonizers, in alliance with corrupt Egyptian government officials, built obstacles

for political leaders and organizers every step of the way, the nationalist, socialist, and feminist

movements continued to grow and build stamina. The 1919 Revolution must therefore be

understood as the result of decades of Egyptian consciousness-raising, organizing, and mobilizing.

1914-1921: World War I and the 1919 Revolution

At the start of World War I, Egypt was declared a British protectorate, effectively ending

the Ottoman Empire’s (albeit minimal) four-centuries-long sovereignty over Egypt (Cleveland,

2004, p. 363). Khedive ‘Abbas Helmi II was deposed by the British and replaced with his uncle,

Hussein Kamel, who was declared the Sultan, rather than Khedive, of Egypt to officially mark

Egypt’s split from the Ottoman Empire. After his death in 1917, he was replaced with his son,

31

Ahmed Fuad I (1917-1936). In what is to follow, I shall explore some of the most devastating

impacts of World War I on the Egyptian population, and delve into a critical moment in Egyptian

history: the 1919 Revolution.

World War I

British rule inflicted particularly difficult circumstances on Egyptians during World War

I, when Egypt was declared a British protectorate and its economy and agriculture were made fully

subservient to British needs (Badran, 1995, p. 12). Because Britain and other European countries

no longer had access to their usual sources of wheat or edible oil supply during the war, a sudden,

desperate dependence on Egyptian grain, maize, and cottonseed exports appeared (Goldberg, 1992,

p. 264). Farm animals were also requisitioned for the purposes of the war, and the usual import of

wheat and other crops into Egypt dropped dramatically (Cleveland, 2004, p. 363; Goldberg, 1992,

p. 264). Consequently, the affordability and availability of food declined significantly, affecting

all Egyptians. Ziad Fahmy (2011) explains that while the lower and middle classes suffered far

more harshly, the idea of the Egyptian elite no longer being able to afford their usual intake of

luxurious meat inspired quite a few exaggerative jokes in the colloquial press, relieving some of

the stress surrounding food insecurity at the time (p. 120).

Forced labour, which had begun under Muhammad ‘Ali, was also revived with increased

British dependency on the work of the Labour Corps (Goldberg, 1992, p. 271). Thousands of

peasants were forcefully recruited and hundreds died during the harsh winter months of the British

invasion of Ottoman Syria (Cleveland, 2004, p. 363). Meanwhile, Egyptian doctors were

significantly outnumbered by non-Egyptians, as the British encouraged Syrians and Europeans to

work in the medical field. British “government advisors, technicians, private tutors, teachers,

school administrators, nurses, and doctors” (Badran, 1995, p. 12) were also brought to Egypt to

32

strengthen the colonial state’s dominance, control, and hegemony. This had a particularly negative

impact on women, since they were being pushed out of the two fields they had managed to make

progress in, education and health. They were also denied training and thus any opportunities for

employment were reduced (Badran, 1995, p. 165). The opposite demographic change was

occurring in Egyptian factories and amongst manual labourers as most foreign workers left Egypt

at the outbreak of the war and had to be replaced with Egyptian workers (Ismael & El-Sa’id, 1990).

Standing at the intersection of poverty and imperialist patriarchy, poor women were also affected

in particular ways, writes Badran (1995), as they “were forced to do whatever they could to

generate income, frequently resorting to working as street vendors or household servants. The

social conditions of these jobs exposed them to sexual exploitation… Some women were so

desperate that they found their only recourse in commercial sexual exploitation: prostitution” (p.

169). Any attempts at resistance were heavily suppressed, political activity was incredibly limited,

and martial law and censorship laws were violently enforced. Therefore, though British occupation

in Egypt before 1914 was already known for its countless forms of violence, the global conditions

of World War I and the cruel exploitation of Egyptians by the British brought hunger, poverty,

unemployment, gender-based violence, and already deteriorating working conditions to

unprecedented heights.

After a brutal war exacerbated by senseless colonial violence against the Egyptian masses,

a delegation of seven Egyptian men, including Sa’d Zaghlul, as mentioned earlier, requested to

attend the Paris Peace Conference of 1919 in order to demand independence. The British denied

the Wafd’s request, leading to riots and civil unrest across the country. In attempt to put the

demonstrations to rest, the British exiled Zaghlul and other Wafd members to Malta.

33

Announcements of Zaghlul’s exile immediately sparked mass demonstrations, marking the start

of what would later be known as the 1919 Revolution.

The 1919 Revolution

The 1919 Revolution was one of the most momentous events in pre-1952 Egyptian history.

Although the ‘Urabi Revolution is recognized as the first resistance movement that galvanized

significant numbers of Egyptians from across the country, the millions upon millions of Egyptians

who filled the streets during March and April of 1919 made this revolution the first of its kind in

national history. In her unpublished memoires, Hoda Sha’rawi writes, “The revolution manifested

itself the same everywhere because there was only one way to act and that was to revolt” (as cited

in Badran, 1995, p. 75). United in their demands for the return of the wafdists, the end of the British

protectorate over Egypt, and national independence, people marched, chanted revolutionary songs

and slogans, organized strikes, engaged in physical altercations with British soldiers, destroyed

railway tracks, burned railway stations, and attacked trains (Fahmy, 2011). Actors and actresses

also played a crucial role as they set up and performed skits in front of the masses that mocked

British colonial rulers and Egyptian sympathizers. Unfortunately, however, though Egyptians from

all social classes, religions, genders, ages, and locations participated in the revolution, Fahmy

(2011) notes that in the press and in contemporary historiography, the role that lower-class

Egyptian women played was/has often been overlooked if not entirely erased. This is despite the

fact that lower-class women sacrificed their lives in far greater numbers as they bore the brunt of

physical violence at the hands of British soldiers, while upper-class women remained, for the most

part, unharmed (Badran, 1995, p. 75-76).

After the British decided to free Sa’d Zaghlul and other leaders in attempt to calm the

demonstrations, celebrations erupted across the country. Fahmy (2011) describes these

34

celebrations as a utopian moment when men and women, Christians, Muslims, and Jews danced

and sang alongside one another. Once again, lower-class women participated in these celebrations;

a British observer quoted by Fahmy (2011) writes,

the social standing of these women is represented by a minus sign rather than a zero: yet

they rode unrebuked side by side with the elegant automobiles of the veiled daughters and

wives from the harems of the princes and pashas and beys. Egypt was never before as

democratic as on this day of days: the fiesta was a cross section of the nation’s life. From

royalty to fellaheen and Bedouin, all clamorous with ‘Yahia el Watan’ [Long live the

nation] (Ellis as cited in p. 140).

Egyptians knew, however, that the release of Sa’d Zaghlul was not the end of their struggle, and

organized demonstrations continued. Students at Al-Azhar University planned routes for the

marches and demonstrations which they then printed on pamphlets and distributed to the general

public (Fahmy, 2011). Coffee shops played a crucial role in enriching revolutionary discourse as

people met to discuss and debate anti-colonial resistance strategies and demands. People also used

landmarks, mosques and churches to make impromptu speeches, indicating a collective sense of

leadership and ownership over the revolution (Fahmy, 2011). Mosques and churches both in Cairo

and in small rural towns played a particularly important role since, unlike cafes, which were

occupied almost entirely by men, they allowed men and women to gather together and many

women delivered important speeches. Due to heavy censorship, press activity was very restricted

and several periodicals were banned. This prompted the rise of secret printing presses dedicated to

printing anti-British revolutionary newspapers and pamphlets (Fahmy, 2011). This material was

then distributed in coffee shops every evening. When British crackdowns became frequent, paper-

boys would hide the “illegal” papers inside official newspapers and distribute them (Fahmy, 2011).

35

The revolution also opened the door for more female participation in public space,

specifically for urban upper-class women, who were, as mentioned, far more secluded than their

lower-class and rural counterparts. In her memoires, Hoda Sha’rawi writes, “The Egyptian woman,

from the moment of the first spark of the revolution of 1919, entered public life from the most

honorable door, the door of national struggle for freedom and independence” (1981, as cited in

Badran, 1995, p. 88). During the aftermath of the 1919 Revolution, new women’s organizations

were established. In 1919, Jam’iyat al-Mar’ah al-Jadidah (The New Woman Society) was

established and in 1920, the Lajnat al-Wafd al-Markaziyah lil-Sayyidat (Wafdist Women’s Central

Committee [WWCC]), a women’s group attached to the Wafd, was established with Hoda

Sha’rawi as its president. Most members of the WWCC were from large landowning families,

though middle class women sometimes joined as members. Under Hoda’s leadership, the WWCC

took on important tasks, particularly when Wafdist men were imprisoned or exiled (Badran, 1995,

p. 81). In 1921, Jam’iyat Nahdat al-Sayyidat al-Misriyat (Society of the Renaissance of the

Egyptian Woman) and Jam’iyat Ummuhat al-Mustaqbal (Society of Mothers of the Future) were

established by middle-class women, and between 1921 and 1922, smaller women’s organizations

in smaller towns and cities, such as Ittihad al-Sayyidat bil-Minya (Women’s Union of Minya) and

Ittihad al-Sayyidat bi-al-Asyut (Women’s Union of Asyut) were created (Badran, 1995).

New life was also breathed into socialist organizing, which continued to be led by

Rosenthal as well as Egyptian intellectuals. In 1921, the Egyptian Socialist Party was created and

branches were established in Cairo, Alexandria, and across the Nile Delta. According to Ismael

and El-Sa'id (1990), the party “was actively and intensely involved in mobilizing workers,

organizing meetings, and recruiting members” and their “methods of mobilization and recruitment

included organizing day and evening literacy classes for adults and children and establishing an

36

association for industrial school graduates” (p. 19-20). The party also established Itihad al-

Naqabat al-‘Am (The General Union of Workers) in 1921, which included three thousand

members and influenced the activism of between fifteen and twenty thousand workers across the

country (Ismael & El-Sa’id, 1990, p. 20). After some disagreements between the radical and

moderate factions, the moderates withdrew from the party in 1922.

Meanwhile, Sa’ad Zaghlul and his delegation were allowed to participate in the Paris Peace

Conference of 1919. From 1920 to 1921, the Wafdists continued to engage in negotiations with

the British. Simultaneously, Pollard (2005) writes, the wafdist affandiya positioned themselves as

the official spokespeople of the nationalist movement, travelling around the country to preserve

the image of Zaghlul as the “father of the nation” and promote a very limited view of socio-political

change in Egypt. Any attempts to transform class or gender-based hierarchies were rejected if not

entirely suppressed, and the affandiya, writes Pollard (2005), “were dismissive of any nationalism

that was not bourgeois, thereby claiming that it was their brand of behaviour that suited the struggle

against the British” (p. 178). They also denounced revolutionaries who engaged in any form of

resistance that was deemed violent or “unorderly,” referring to them as “non-nationalists” whose

goals are entirely separate from the ‘legitimate’ nationalist cause (Pollard, 2005, p. 178). Socialist

organizers were under specific attack from both British intelligence, who hired an officer “trained

in anti-Bolshevist methods” (Ismael & El-Sa’id, 1990, p. 22) to suppress the movement, as well

as the Wafd. While in Paris in 1919, Sa’d Zaghlul sent a letter to the Wafd’s central committee

declaring that “The Wafd does not approve the leaflets which indicate that the Egyptians… applaud

the victory of the Bolsheviks” (as cited in Ismael & El-Sa’id, 1990, p. 22). The definition of what

it means to be a “good nationalist” therefore became exclusive to middle and upper-class

37

demonstrators and intellectuals who eliminated any possibility of a radical transformation of

society. Pollard (2005) writes,

The revolution did indeed force the British to recognize the Wafd as Egypt’s

representatives. But did the revolution create a Wafd that represented the interests of “all

Egyptians”? The Wafd was not a party of social revolutionaries or champions of the lower

classes, and it was not in fact interested in a starting a revolution. As a group of elite

landowners and financiers, the Wafd leadership was mostly interested in gaining the

support of the middle and upper classes for its campaign to represent Egypt [in front of the

British] (2005, p. 169).

The Wafd also betrayed their commitment to the women of their party when they drafted the

Curzon Plan, a proposal for Egyptian independence, in 1920 without consulting the WWCC

(Badran, 1995).

In summary, the 1919 Revolution marks the peak of nationalist consciousness in Egypt,

and its effects on all aspects of Egyptian life, including the arts cannot be understated. However,

even in what might be considered the most unified moment in pre-1952 Egyptian history, class-

based distinctions quickly surfaced. The Westernized, male-dominated land-owning class – the

product of Muhammad ‘Ali and Khedive Isma’il’s rule – was able to repress any possible radical

fervor within the population and secure their bourgeois nationalism as the only acceptable form of

Egyptian nationalism. Their primary goal was to take control of the political arena that they had

been deprived of by the British, which they somewhat managed to do in the 1920s and 30s.

1922-1930: Liberal Nationalism and The Constitution of 1923

38

After a series of failed negotiations with the British, the wafdists were unable to achieve

Egyptian independence. Nevertheless, in attempt to quell nationalist sentiment while

simultaneously securing British strategic interests, the British granted Egypt nominal

independence in 1922 on the condition that four provisions be met: “(1) the protection of imperial

communications in Egypt; (2) the protection of Egypt from any external aggression; (3) the

protection of foreign interests and minorities in Egypt; and (4) the custody of the Sudan, which

was an Anglo-Egyptian condominium, to remain under the imperial administration” (Maghraoui,

2006, p. 54). British troops would also remain in Egypt, martial law and press censorship would

stay in effect, and political organizers would continue to face arrests and imprisonment (Badran,

1995, p. 85). In 1923, under the strict supervision, control, and intervention of British colonial

officials, Egypt’s first constitution was drafted by Sultan Fu’ad, declared King of Egypt in the

constitution, alongside a committee of thirty upper-middle and upper-class men (Maghraoui, 2006,

p. 54-58). The committee examined various European constitutions for several months and chose

to follow the Belgian model while remaining loyal to the language and political philosophy of

British liberalism. In the following section, I will discuss Egyptian liberal, bourgeois nationalism

and examine how its ideologues worked to produce a new political community that attempted to

redefine what it means to be Egyptian as well as what it means to be a nationalist. I will also

explore the effects of the constitution and Egyptian liberalism on Egyptian women and examine

some of the main changes in the Egyptian feminist movement during this period.

Liberal Nationalism and the 1923 Constitution

The 1920s are generally associated in Egyptian historiography with the rise of liberal

thought. Though liberal political and economic ideas did not bring about much change to the

country’s economy since it had already been dominated by private enterprise, mostly free trade,

39

and, as discussed, the privatization of agricultural land, (Hansen, 1991, p. 3) the commitment to

the status quo became ever more solidified and ideologically grounded. Socialist and communist

movements were seen with an increasingly suspicious eye by both the British and the Egyptian

liberals. Ismael and El-Sa'id (1990) explain that Zaghlul’s continued attacks on the communist

movement effectively eliminated its leaders and broke down its political activity through

infiltration, surveillance, and imprisonment. Those who were not already imprisoned were made

to fear for their safety (Ismael & El-Sa’id, 1990, p. 29). In 1925, an attempt to create a new

Egyptian Communist Party was made, and during the same year, the party established a small

newspaper, Al-Hisab (The Reckoning). The party’s central committee was once again the target

of sustained government harassment and infiltration by British intelligence. The newspaper was

ultimately shut down and its editors imprisoned (Ismael & El-Sa’id, 1990, p. 29-30). Later in 1925,

all members of the central committee were arrested.

The rise of liberalism and influence of Egyptian liberals also had a crucial impact on the

making of Egyptian identity and nationalism, which is especially significant for our purposes. In

his book, Abdelslam Maghraoui (2006) examines the liberal language and discourse upon which

the constitution of 1923 was drafted. He explains that the moral values typically associated with

liberalism, “justice, equality, and freedom,” (Maghraoui, 2006, p. 10) suggest that the nature of

liberal discourse is universal and culturally neutral. Such an assumption is made questionable,

however, by the fact that liberal principles have historically not only allowed for but justified

Western imperialist domination. British philosopher and liberal proponent John Stuart Mill, for

example, is known for defending and justifying British colonialism in India (Williams, 2018, p.

100). His justification was based on the concept of civilizational hierarchy: while western societies

and countries are civilized, non-western societies are not. In order for humanity to reach its full

40

“progress,” those at the top of the hierarchy must take it upon themselves to civilize those at the

bottom through colonial rule. Under colonization, “backward communities” can be liberated from

all of the political, social, religious, and spiritual conditions holding them behind en route to

civilization (Maghraoui, 2006, p. 36; Williams, 2018, p. 100). What this tells us then, is that justice,

equality, and freedom in colonial liberal discourse - even in their already limited sense - are

conditional rather than universally guaranteed: only when one is civilized (i.e.

Westernized/modernized/Christianized) can one experience the ‘blessings’ of liberal theory

(Maghraoui, 2006).

What happens, then, when liberal discourse is adapted by Egyptians and embedded in their

nationalist movement? According to Maghraoui (2006), the same civilizing logic with which

colonial conquest is justified becomes the foundation upon which Egypt’s new political identity is

defined. At the beginning of the constitution, the state, with King Fouad as its spokesperson,

commits itself to “raising” the Egyptian people to a level “to which its intelligence and aptitudes

accord it the right to aspire and with a view to enabling it to maintain with dignity its rightful place

amongst the peoples of the civilized worlds [emphasis added]” (1923, as cited in Maghraoui, 2006,

p. 58). Immediately, then, the Egyptian state is invited, with the permission of the British, to

partake in the same colonial civilizing mission that will finally bring Egyptians out of their

backwardness and savagery and return Egypt to its rightful place amongst the civilized people of

Europe. Evidently, Maghraoui (2006) writes, “The Constitution assumes a readership that

considers, or will come to consider, European civilization a sublime goal” (p. 59). In return, this

readership is offered “‘well-being,’ ‘happiness,’ ‘progress,’ ‘prosperity,’ ‘freedom,’ ‘peace,’

‘confidence,’ ‘intelligence,’ ‘aptitudes,’ and ‘dignity’”; all of which are “traits and rights of

‘civilized [read European] nations’” (Maghraoui, 2006, p. 59).

41

What exactly does this civilizing mission entail? Earlier, I discussed the consensus that

united all mainstream nationalist groups regardless of political orientation: reform of the lower

classes. Carried into the 1920s, the idea of reform became equated, for liberal nationalist thinkers,

with a “historical, cultural, and racial reconstitution of Egypt” (Maghraoui, 2006, p. 60). This

threefold reconstruction of Egyptian identity was most strongly promoted by secular nationalists,

whom Maghraoui (2006) categorizes as one of three main Egyptian liberal groups of the 1920’s

and 30’s - the two others being Muslim reformists and modern nationalists. The secular nationalist

group was the most influenced by European, specifically French orientalist views of Egypt, and it

included some of the most well-known Egyptian intellectual figures such as Taha Husayn, ‘Abbas

el ‘Aqqad, Mohammad Husayn Haykal, Salama Musa, amongst others. Their influence was

therefore quite strong, and their ideas were embedded throughout the 1923 constitution.

The first type of reform, argued the secular nationalists, was a rewriting of Egyptian

history. Secular nationalists viewed Egypt’s Arab/Islamic past as the result of an unfortunate alien

invasion by an inferior, primitive outsider. This invasion overshadowed and devastated the

remarkable, ingenious achievements of “the original Egyptian civilization,” (Maghraoui, 2006, p.

83) i.e. Pharaonic Egyptians. Egyptian history, therefore, was the story of glorious, non-Arab, pre-

Islamic kings and queens who birthed global civilization; the Arab/Islamic episode was irrelevant

and unrepresentative of Egyptian heritage. This rewriting of history was intimately connected to

the racial reconstitution of Egypt. Heavily influenced by French orientalist Ernest Renan, who

wrote extensively on the “incurable” inferiority and backwardness of the Semitic people (Gershoni

& Jankowski, 1986, p. 102), secular nationalists strongly believed in “scientific” theories of the

superiority of the Aryan race. They wrote countless articles and opinion pieces in the press

attempting to ‘scientifically’ prove that Egyptians share the same racial origins as Europeans and

42

must therefore be considered European rather than Oriental (Maghraoui, 2006). This is where the

emphasis on Egypt’s Pharaonic past served another strategic purpose. Various intellectuals had

looked to ancient Egypt for their own specific interests (many regarded ancient Egyptian royals

and Arab/Muslim historical figures as equally worthy of respect); for the secular nationalists, it

was a “bridge to link Egypt and Europe via the Greek heritage” (Maghraoui, 2006, p. 59). This

refers to the Ptolemaic period (305 to 30 BC), during which the Greeks invaded Egypt and built

the Ptolemaic Kingdom. According to the secular nationalists, particularly Salama Musa,

Egyptians are the result of Egyptian-Greek exogamy and are therefore not racially Semitic peoples;

they are European.

The last type of reform that would guarantee Egypt its place amongst “the civilized peoples

of the world” was cultural, which is most crucial for this study. In order to turn Egypt into “a

political community according to the principles of European liberal democracy,” (Maghraoui,

2006, p. 60) all markers of Egypt’s Arab-Islamic as well as local Egyptian traditions associated

mainly with the lower classes must be replaced with European culture, art, literature, dress,

ceremonial rituals, etc. Secular nationalists believed that Egyptian cultural figures must fulfill the

urgent task of sparking a new, distinctly Egyptian cultural and literary form that was no longer a

“prisoner of the influence of the Arabic and Ottoman heritage” (Maghraoui, 2006, p. 83).

(Ironically, the way to do this was to draw upon the cultural traditions of the current occupying

force.) With regards to dress, only European dress was seen as appropriate for the new, civilized

Egypt. The tarbush (fez) and even the veil were seen as markers of foreign Arab and Ottoman

occupations. Secular nationalists frequently praised and applauded Turkey’s Kemal Atatürk, who

actively sought to change Turkish national dress. One writer, for example, quoted by Maghraoui

(2006) in the Egyptian magazine Al-Muqattam, writes,

43

Since clothing reflects a specific mind-set and a specific social order, the Kemalist

reformers began to change their dressing habits, striving to transform Turkey into a modern

civilization and change the course of their nation. By eliminating the symbols of the past

(the traditional dress), they prevent the resuscitation of a collective memory. When are

Egyptians going to start writing about their renaissance with the same enthusiasm as the

Turks? (as cited in p. 105)

Lastly, almost all religious and ceremonial rituals practiced by the lower and lower-middle class

Egyptian were depicted as backwards, embarrassing attacks on Egyptian “public morality.”

Celebrations of the mawalid (birthdays) of Sufi saints, during which both men and women of the

lower classes would sing and dance were seen as “perverse” and “pernicious” (Maghraoui, 2006,

p. 97). Funeral processions during which lower-class women would often wail in mourning, as

well as the decorations of tombs, were “symbolic of native backwardness and under-development”

(Maghraoui, 2006, p. 101). Article after article, the secular nationalists argued for state

intervention and criminalization of said traditions, explaining that “[if] Egyptian women are to

become like European women, they must abandon such ‘archaic’ practices” (Maghraoui, 2006, p.

102).

This obsession with reform and preservation of “public morality” extended to almost every

aspect of lower-class Egyptian life. Malnutrition and disease, which appeared in much higher

percentages in impoverished areas, were seen not as failures of the state to improve the health

conditions of the people but rather as propensities for criminal behaviour. Maghraoui (2006)

writes, “The poor, the ill, and the nonconformists are seen as having weak characters and as such

are disposed to commit criminal acts” (p. 103). Even the infrastructure of impoverished Egyptian

villages and urban areas was not left without criticism. The narrow streets and tightly packed

44

houses that characterized Egyptian villages and the urban crowdedness that was found in much of

Cairo due to high rates of rural immigration in search of employment were in need of severe

reorganization in order to become “more orderly.” All characteristics of Egyptian lower-class life

was attacked; “popular religious rituals, thick crowds in streets and markets, general ‘unhealthy’

habits, and traditional garb” were seen as “criminal behaviour” that was “unfit for Egypt’s new

‘collective’ self-image” (Maghraoui, 2006, p. 93). The influence of secular nationalists and their

preoccupation with preserving public morality can be seen in the constitution under Article 13,

where it is stated that “‘The state protects, in accordance with the practices established in Egypt,

the free exercise of the rites of all religions and creeds, on condition that they are not prejudicial

to public order or morality” (Maghraoui, 2006, p. 62).

While many of these ideas for reform came out of the secular nationalist orientation within

Egyptian liberalism, the second group of liberal nationalists at this time, the “modern nationalists,”

who were fundamentally opposed to the constitution for its incomplete independence of Egypt,

still exhibited similar sentiments. This group included both Hoda Sha’rawi and Sa’d Zaghlul.

Though their popularity relied on an uncompromising rejection of European presence in Egypt,

the ideological and cultural language through which their reformist ideas and demands for

independence were articulated were often inspired by British liberal principles (Maghraoui, 2006,

p. 67). In fact, though modern nationalists were critical of European colonial logic, which they

understood had “divided the world into civilized and uncivilized nations along cultural and racial

lines,” (Maghraoui, 2006, p. 63) their demands for independence were not built on a rejection of

said logic but rather on the insistence that Egypt was ‘one of the civilized ones’ and therefore

capable of self-rule. Their relationship with Egypt’s Islamic and Arab identity was also quite

contradictory. Though they “valorized [Egypt’s] Islamic heritage for aesthetic, cultural, or spiritual

45

reasons,” (Maghraoui, 2006, p. 67) they were not at all interested, according to Maghraoui (2006),

in identifying with or establishing any form of solidarity with other Muslim, Arab, or Eastern

countries. In 1919, when approached by a delegation of Eastern countries interested in “presenting

a unified position to the colonial powers,” (Maghraoui, 2006, p. 65) the Wafdist party led by Sa’d

Zaghlul rejected the invitation to join. Maghraoui (2006) writes, “when the Egyptian delegation

pleaded for national independence, the Egyptians wanted to minimize any affiliation with the East.

Instead, they emphasized the unique character of Egyptians as distinct from all other peoples of

the Orient” (p. 65).

What we witness during the 1920s and 30s therefore is the result of over a century of

westernization and elite fixation on the West starting from Muhammad ‘Ali, increasing under

Khedive Isma’il, continuing with the birth of the elite nationalist movement and the influence of

the affandiya and then the secular nationalists. Decade after decade, what it means to be Egyptian

became more and more restricted. Arab and Islamic history and culture were to be rejected and

forgotten entirely. Racial identification was studied scientifically and ultimately connected to

Europe. However, those excluded from the new Egyptian political community were not only those

who identified with its Arab and Islamic histories and cultures, but all lower and lower-middle

class Egyptians. All local Egyptian practices that characterized the masses’ daily lives – which

may have been unique to Egyptians and not common in other parts of the Arab or Muslim world -

were condemned as “eastern backwardness.” Maghraoui (2006) writes, “To deserve a place in

society meant to have new motivations for life, to have a new conception of work, and above all,

to comply with imported European codes of social conduct and good morality. To qualify for

citizenship, Egyptians were expected to repress or ‘‘selectively forget,’’ as Ernest Renan

suggested, parts of their identities and common memories” (p. 112). The new Egyptian political

46

community therefore did not include the non-elite and the non-Westernized, and bourgeois

nationalism continued to be the only acceptable form of nationalism. The exclusion of lower and

lower-middle classes from the new definition of Egyptian-ness and from the mainstream Egyptian

nationalist movement was not done solely through the language and implications of the

constitution but also through its declaration that only a small percentage of Egyptians who met

certain criteria could be elected or appointed as senators. Said criteria included but was not limited

to: “property owners paying taxes of no less than LE 150 yearly” and “persons having an annual

revenue of at least LE 1500 and engaged in financial, commercial, or industrial enterprises, or

following professional career” (Maghraoui, 2006, p. 63). The rejection of the masses from the new

Egyptian community therefore manifested itself in both official/legal and unofficial ways.

Women, Feminism, and the Constitution

The extremely limited vision of the new Egyptian identity and Egyptian nationalism

affected all Egyptian women. As discussed, lower-class Egyptian women and their daily activities,

way of dress, and religious rituals were constantly under attack and threats of criminalization by

Egyptian secular nationalists loomed large. Egyptian women of all classes were also denied the

right to vote, which came as a big shock to mainstream feminist organizers, who expected the most

basic of political freedoms after being commended by male nationalists for their role in the 1919

Revolution. In 1923, after a series of conflicts between the Wafd and the WWCC, a group of

Wafdist women took to creating an explicitly feminist group called the Egyptian Feminist Union

(EFU) with Hoda Sha’rawi as its president (Badran, 1995). Earlier in 1923, upon arriving from

Europe to Alexandria alongside Sa’d Zaghlul, Hoda appeared without a face veil in front of

thousands of Egyptian men and women who had come to welcome Zaghlul. Her unveiling

symbolized the EFU’s and the mainstream Egyptian feminist movement’s new stance on the face

47

veil (up until then, unveiling was seen as an essential but non-urgent process that must happen ever

so gradually).

The EFU took on a wide variety of activities and frequently emphasized both their feminist

and nationalist agendas. In 1924, the EFU and WWCC released “The Demands of the Egyptian

Woman,” which listed thirty-two points consisting of six political/nationalist demands, nineteen

social demands, and seven “female demands,” (Badran, 1995, p. 93-95) demonstrating the breadth

and ambition of their movement. As part of their social demands, the two women’s groups insisted

that schools “provide religious and moral instruction, classes in hygiene, public law, and if

possible, music,” (Badran, 1995, p. 94) thereby upholding the belief that an ideal future for Egypt

necessitates a transformation in Egyptian morality and etiquette. They also demanded the

outlawing of alcohol, drugs and state-licensed prostitution, called for building more hospitals and

clinics in poor city quarters, and advocated for an overall increase in the number of social services.

The EFU eventually took on some of these demands themselves by engaging in a variety of

philanthropic activities; they built schools, health clinics, women’s shelters, and hosted several

workshops for lower-class women (Badran, 1995).

While many of the aforementioned 19th century pioneers of feminist consciousness were

of lower-class backgrounds (such as the Lebanese Zaynab Fawwaz) and many made dedicated

attempts to include different social classes in their literary work (such as A’ishah al-Taymuriyah),

the mainstream Egyptian movement became far more elite-oriented as the 20th century progressed.

Though some women in the EFU, such as Nabawiya Musa, came from middle-class families, most

were upper-class women, which was reflected in their agenda and activism. The EFU members’

only interactions with lower-class women occurred during their philanthropic activities, which

became an upper-class feminist tradition. Badran (1995) explains, “The feminist movement,

48

despite its broad claims, was essentially an urban movement, and moreover a movement of middle-

and upper-class women. The feminists approached urban lower-class women through attempting

themselves to provide social services and through pressuring the government in this direction” (p.

95). Though the EFU were in some instances more radical than the Wafd with regards to their

demands for independence, they were not concerned with challenging Egyptian class structure.

Though, as mentioned earlier, their philanthropic activities, workshops, and training programs did

help lessen the segregation between rich and poor, they were mainly designed to help lower-class

women find employment as domestic servants, cooks, nannies, etc. “The training school,” Badran

(1995) writes, “was clearly meant to help women within their respective classes” (p. 113).

Moreover, it is difficult to come across any evidence that members of the EFU or WWCC

considered the possibility that the demands of the lower-class/peasant Egyptian woman or the

future she envisions might be different from their own. In fact, feminist and journalist Saiza

Nabarawi explicitly argued that “a conscious [female] working class… does not exist,” (1929, as

cited in Badran, 1995, p. 100) making it the responsibility of the EFU and its allies to “elevate the

intellectual and moral level of the masses and create lines of solidarity among the different classes

of the nation” (1937, as cited in Badran, 1995, p. 100). Assuming that the lower classes were

unaware of the best interests of the nation, when demanding the woman’s right to vote, EFU and

WWCC members “cautiously (and undemocratically) suggest[ed] starting with literacy and

property qualifications” (Badran, 1995, p. 95). Therefore, despite their many differences, both the

feminist and nationalist movements were united in their urban, upper-class orientations,

condescending views of the non-elite, and desire to exclude the masses from the new Egyptian

political community.

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The Egyptian liberal nationalism and feminism that rose to prominence during the 1920s

and continued into the 1930s was a culmination of decades of westernization projects and

European influence. The suppression of socialist and communist organizing and the attacks on

Egypt’s Arabo-Islamic identity as well as on lower-class traditions, customs, dress, and living

spaces reached unprecedented heights during this period. The counter-discourse that I will explore

shortly - from the birth of the modern Islamist movement to the rise of Easternism and Pan-

Arabism – which developed in large part as a reaction to secular nationalists and other liberal

reformists’ extremist views, can still be felt in Egypt today. Since their careers were born during

this period, ‘Aziza Amir and Fatma Rushdie’s works have much to reveal about the role of women

filmmakers and the cultural sphere more broadly in reflecting, reacting to, and or challenging

liberal discourse both during its peak and in its aftermath.

1930 - Late 1940s: The Rise of Easternism and Arab Nationalism

With the end of the 1920s and the beginning of the 1930s emerges a new ideological take

on the idea of reform and on Egypt’s Arab-Islamic identity, primarily in response to secular

nationalists. In their book, Redefining the Egyptian Nation, 1930-1945, Gershoni and Jankowski

(1995) explain that after almost a full decade of fanatical pressure to Westernize all aspects of

Egyptian life in not only its material and technological fields but also its cultural and spiritual

aspects, intellectuals such as sociologist Mansur Fahmy, journalist Ahmad Amin, and Muslim

Brotherhood founder Hassan el-Banna, among others, began to push back against the attack on all

things Eastern. Advocates of what became known as Easternism pointed to the state of ‘in-

between-ness’ that Westernization had produced; Mansur Fahmy, for example, argued that “in

adopting the cult of Europe and becoming infatuated with every passing fashion of thought

spanned in Europe, Egypt was suspended between two worlds, belonging to neither” (Gershoni &

50

Jankowski, 1995, p. 39). Though this was definitely true of the upper classes, whose loss of identity

had been an ongoing, generational process since Muhammad ‘Ali and then Khedive Isma’il, it is

difficult to make the same conclusion with regards to the lower and middle classes. Ziad Fahmy’s

extensive work on late 19th and early 20th century popular culture indicates that there was strong

resistance not only against Westernization but also against the Westernized elite. Though Fahmy’s

(2011) book ends with the 1919 Revolution, others have shown that such sentiment continued

throughout the 1920s, particularly as the post- 1919 revolutionary political and literary elite

continued to hurl classist attacks at the masses through educational curricula, press opinion pieces,

and even through the constitution. Protection of British colonial presence and the land-owning

class’ interests also undoubtedly maintained a culture of resistance amongst the masses. What

developed over the decades, then, was “a serious cultural schism” (Gershoni & Jankowski, 1995,

p. 39) between the elite and the masses. Therefore, though Gershoni and Jankowski (1995) credit

middle and upper-class intellectuals with the birth of Easternism in Egypt, it must be understood

that it was ‘ordinary’ Egyptians, as Fahmy (2011) calls them, who sustained a culture of resistance

against the westernized elite.

So what exactly did ‘Easternism’ entail? Though the answers differed depending on the

political leanings of each individual/group (for the Islamists, for example, it meant a return to

Islamic values as well as Islamic political leadership), it was generally agreed upon that Easternism

meant a renewed love for and confidence in an ‘Eastern spirituality.’ It was the East’s unique

spiritual essence, they believed, that will free Egyptians from their “mental slavery” and self-

abasement, liberate them holistically from imperial rule, and pave the way for “an authentic

Eastern path to progress and modernity” (Gershoni & Jankowski, 1995, p. 43). Therefore,

Gershoni and Jankowski (1995) explain, a binary emerged between the overly materialist,

51

consumerist west, which believed it “could operate independently of God” and the spiritual East,

which “gave primacy to soul over body, spirit over matter, emotion over reason” (p. 44). Though

the East could learn from Europe’s technological and scientific advances, “imperialist

civilization,” be it British, French, Italian, etc. was to be rejected entirely since its “raison d’etre

was conquest and domination” (Gershoni & Jankowski, 1995, p. 44). Interestingly, some

Easternists, such as Muhammad Husayn Haykal, who was a staunch Westernization advocate in

the 1920s but changed his views in the 1930s, believed that a new nationalist consciousness could

not possibly come from the Westernized elite, who were “completely submissive to imperialist

rule” (1933, as cited in Gershoni & Jankowski, 1995, p. 46). Rather, it was the Egyptian masses

who should and will pave the road to revival through “an organized populist movement” (Haykal,

1933, as cited in Gershoni & Jankowski, 1995, p. 39).

The final feature of Easternism relevant to this study was its take on the relationship

between Egypt and its neighbors. While the liberal nationalists did not support any political, racial,

or cultural identification with Arab, Islamic, or Eastern nations generally, the Easternists, by virtue

of upholding the East-West binary, saw themselves not only as part of the East but as united with

other Eastern countries in their fight against imperialism. The ongoing events in neighboring

countries, namely the brutal French colonization in North Africa and the Levant, British-backed

Zionist theft of Palestinian land and dispossession of Palestinian people, (Gershoni & Jankowski,

1995, p. 46-47) and Italian invasions and massacres in Libya, also contributed to the shift towards

Arab/Eastern nationalism. During this period, therefore, we can observe the early renditions of the

Arab nationalism that would reach its height during Gamal ‘Abdel-Nasser’s presidency.

Importantly, however, in Egypt, Islam and the Arabs (1986) as well as Redefining the Egyptian

Nation (1995), Gershoni and Jankowski make no mention of the fact that some feminists had

52

already expressed Arab nationalist views long before the rise of Easternism (as early as 1905)

(Badran, 1995, p. 96). The EFU also began actively developing connections with feminists across

the Arab world, and diligently organizing initiatives to support Palestinian women and the

Palestinian cause (Badran, 1995; Baron, 2005).

It is important to note here that Gershoni and Jankowski (1995) locate the shift in Egyptian

nationalist thought from an obsessive need to westernize to a rise of Easternism at the very

beginning of the 1930s, and describe Easternist orientations as the dominant view of 1930s

Egyptian political culture. On the other hand, Maghraoui (2006) explains that the push for

westernization continued and was even the dominant intellectual position until the late 1930s.

When both historical accounts are examined side by side, it becomes clear that there was actually

an intense ideological conflict between the advocates of westernization and those of an Eastern

nationalism throughout the 1930s. While writers such as the renowned Taha Husayn implored

Egyptians to “learn what the Europeans learn, feel what the Europeans feel, govern like the

Europeans govern, work like they work, and live like they live,” (as cited in Maghraoui, 2006, p.

85) as late as 1936 and even 1944, scholars such as Egyptian sociologist Mansur Fahmy were

arguing that “those urging Easterners to adopt the civilization of the Westerners are clearly in

error” (as cited in Gershoni & Jankowski, 1995, p. 39) in as early as 1931. We must therefore

understand the 1930s as a period of competing nationalist visions. One of our objectives in the

upcoming chapters is to understand what ‘Aziza Amir and Fatma Rushdie’s films tell us about

where they stood in this debate.

In the 1940s, a stronger and more widespread, local rebellion begins to emerge across

various Islamist, leftist, and communist groups against Egyptian elites. This rebellion took on

many forms, from writings in books, articles, and think pieces in the press to radical extra

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parliamentary movements which had formed throughout the 1930s (Sabaseviciute, 2018). In her

article on the writing of Islamist ideologue Sayyid Qutb, Giedre Sabaseviciute (2018) explains that

the generation born in the 1920s “shared the view that the political elites who emerged out of the

1919 revolution had failed to deliver on the promises that garnered them legitimacy, namely, to

achieve modernization and independence. Accusing Egyptian elites of having grown too

comfortable with the colonial regime, it designated them a local enemy” (p. 87). The displacement,

exile, and massacres committed against hundreds of thousands of Palestinians in the years leading

up to and including 1948, the establishment of the State of Israel, and Egypt’s unsuccessful

intervention amidst it all also contributed to the anger that accumulated against the political elite.

In fact, the Free Officers Movement, which orchestrated the military coup/revolution and ended

the Egyptian monarchy, began in 1948 (Bracco, 2019, p. 311).

Much of the young generation’s criticisms was also specifically directed towards the

leading cultural and intellectual figures identified by Maghraoui (2006) as secular nationalist

liberals; Taha Husayn, ‘Abbas el-‘Aqqad, Tawfik al-Hakim, among others, all of whom were

labelled by the communists as “al-burjiyyin” (those of the [ivory] towers) (Sabaseviciute, 2018).

Through the Marxist newspaper al-Fajr al-Jadid (The New Dawn), established in 1945, the older

generation of writers who were particularly active during the interwar period were criticized for

siding with “feudalists, capitalists, and colonizers” (Sabaseviciute, 2018, p. 89). Sabaseviciute

(2018) explains that emerging writers saw literature as inseparable from politics and cultural

figures as responsible for speaking out against oppression and imperialism. The burjiyyin were

also criticized for the credibility, capital, and prestige they often attributed to Egyptian cultural

figures who were well-versed in European literary traditions and knowledgeable of iconic Western

works. Though they disagreed with the communists on various issues, the Islamists shared much

54

of the same views regarding the importance of culture as a tool for political and social liberation.

Both groups were particularly concerned with cultural imperialism, arguing that “the West was

pursuing the ‘colonization of the hearts’ of Arab people through novels, plays, and books…”

(Sabaseviciute, 2018, p. 89-90). Schools and the education system as well as cinema, radio, and

the commercial press were also criticized for “disseminating knowledge that normalized the

British occupation” (Sabaseviciute, 2018, p. 90). They advocated, therefore, for reforming the

Egyptian humanities, rewriting national history, and “creating specific methods of literature” that

would counter cultural imperialism (Sabaseviciute, 2018, p. 90). “Both Muslim Brothers and leftist

intellectuals,” writes Sabaseviciute (2018), “subjected cultural production to the criteria of whether

it advanced the liberation of Arab countries” (p. 90).

The 1940s marked a new and exciting ideological atmosphere in Egypt where resistance

against the older generation of westernized, oppressive elite and a reclamation of the ‘Eastern self’

became top priorities of the political, intellectual, and cultural spheres. Younger generations of

writers, activists, cultural workers, and ‘ordinary Egyptians’ who had witnessed at a young age the

1919 Revolution being co-opted by the wealthy, land-owning class became all the more

empowered to demand a somewhat more radical anti-imperialist vision and build solidarity with

oppressed groups across the Arab world. Though censorship and government crackdowns

remained strong, Easternist, Pan-Arab, and socialist ideas continued to circulate, with literature,

journalism, and popular culture playing an active role in said circulation. With this history in mind,

the rise of Gamal ‘Abdel-Nasser and the Free Officers in 1952 comes as no surprise at all; it can

only be perceived as the natural product of its time. In the next two chapters, I will explore how

Egyptian filmmakers, and in particular the two lower-class women at the center of this study, used

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their films to challenge and/or popularize the changing nationalist and feminist discourse while

still adapting to censorship laws and achieving commercial success.

Conclusion

An effective analysis of any Egyptian film, even the most seemingly apolitical one, cannot

be done without a thorough understanding of the political, economic, ideological, and cultural

transformations that both led to and constituted the historical moment during which the film was

born. This chapter aimed to highlight the most significant of these transformations, with a specific

focus on the way that Egyptian national identity, nationalism, gender, and class structure evolved

over the 145-year period studied. I have also focused primarily on the way that these issues have

been conceptualized within upper-class, mainstream nationalist and feminist discourse

specifically, with the knowledge that ‘Aziza Amir and Fatma Rushdie were highly aware of and

familiar with said discourse. What I will delve into in the next chapters, therefore, is their response.

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Chapter Two

Aziza Amir

There I was, happy and full of joy because I was surrounded by our great ancestors buried in the ground, whom we longed for just as children long for their parents. Between these heroes, I felt that I was the daughter of Egypt, and that I was creating something extraordinarily significant. I felt that the souls of the great Egyptian kings and queens were spreading their wings around me, reassured by the daughter of the Nile as she carries on her work, with no support except true and honest determination. Whenever I think about their image, I become even stronger and full of energy.

-   ‘Aziza Amir, Al-Musawer Magazine, 1945

‘Aziza Amir’s rise from a girl of lower-class origins to the leading lady of Egyptian theater

and the eventual producer, writer, and star of the first ever feature-length Egyptian film is

intimately intertwined with and influenced by the nationalist and feminist events and discourses

that characterized the first half of the 20th century. Her life’s work, therefore, must be understood

the way she herself understood them: as contributions to a nation fighting for full independence

from British colonial rule and building its national identity along the way, as well as to a growing

national feminist movement that was demanding a reconceptualization of women’s roles in

Egyptian society. In this chapter, I offer some insight into the life of one of the most influential

figures of the Egyptian arts, drawing upon a variety of accounts of her life as well as a recently

published collection of her memoires and interviews. I situate ‘Aziza Amir’s life in the broader

political context, making connections between her own artistic journey and that of the Egyptian

nation. I then analyze two of her films, Baya’et al Tofah/The Apple Seller (1939) and El-

Warsha/The Workshop (1940), both of which come at a crucial point in her career. I explore the

two films’ commentary on Egyptian identity, nationalism, and gender, paying specific attention to

how questions of class identity and class relations are weaved into each of the three topics.

Although, as explained in the introductory chapter, pre-revolutionary cinema has often been

accused of being no more than escapist entertainment, I argue that as a co-writer for both films,

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Amir insisted upon embedding political messages in her scripts. It is up to us, as audiences and

scholars, to listen attentively to what she had to say.

Life of Aziza Amir

‘Aziza Amir was born Mufida Mohamed Ghoneim to an impoverished family in Damietta

in 1901 (my account of ‘Aziza Amir’s life is based on the works of: Adel, 2018; Al-Afify, 2017;

Dickinson, 2007; Farrugia, 2002; Ma’touq, 2018; Mohammed, 2020; Nelmes & Selbo, 2015;

Sadeq, 2020). Her father, a fisherman, died at sea fifteen days after she was born, leaving ‘Aziza5,

her mother, and her siblings behind. In some accounts of her life, it is reported that distant relatives

and family friends provided for ‘Aziza and her siblings from that point onwards. The family moved

to Alexandria and then to Cairo, where they lived on Muhammed ‘Ali street, known throughout

the 20th century for its lively local entertainment and public performances. With the introduction

of movie theaters in Egypt during the first decade of the 20th century, ‘Aziza became an avid

consumer of films, specifically French and American ones, which dominated international markets

at the time (Flibbert, 2005). In one of her memoires with Al-Musawer Magazine in 1945 - which

was published by Mohamed ‘Abdel-Fatah Sadeq (2020) in his collection of Aziza’s memoires and

interviews - ‘Aziza recalls the beginnings of her love for cinema and passion for acting;

My passion for cinema began when I was nine years old, and my happiest moments were

when I had the opportunity to go to the movie theater. I would pick a quiet seat where I

would watch the painting [screen] in front of me, burning with passion, eagerly waiting for

the day that I will become one of the actresses I watch on screen. I would then return to my

home, stand in front of the mirror, and copy the actresses I watched, in all of their

5 From this point forward I will be referring to ‘Aziza Amir using her first name rather than her surname. I follow in the footsteps of Beth Baron, who finds using women’s first names more appropriate when the goal is to engage in a feminist recovery of their history.

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movements and gestures (Sadeq, 2020, p. 21).

She also recalls her love for cinema getting her in quite some trouble with teachers at school who

often caught her staring at pictures of actresses, that she would buy with any amount of money she

could obtain, instead of reading her textbooks.

Eventually, ‘Aziza left school, though it is unclear when or why exactly. When she turned

nineteen, she decided to take the first step towards fulfilling her dream of becoming a movie

actress. Together with a friend and the support of a fatherly figure, Qalini Pasha Fahmy, who was

also a member of parliament and a writer, she travelled to Alexandria and then by ship to Paris.

Upon arrival, she was able to get in touch with an important figure in the French production

company, Pathé, through the connections of Qalini Pasha. After a short audition, the Pathé

manager agreed to sign her for the company’s next silent film, though the agreement never

actualized due to a series of complications. Devastated, ‘Aziza returned back to Egypt.

At around the same time that ‘Aziza was mourning what she worried might be the death of

her life-long dream, Egyptians were experiencing the immediate aftermath of the 1919 Revolution,

the second anti-colonial national revolution in Egyptian history (the first being the ‘Urabi revolt

of 1879). As discussed in Chapter One, nationalist sentiments were unprecedentedly high after

Egyptians of all genders, religions, ages, regions, and classes were unified in their opposition to

British rule. Celebrations erupted across the country after protestors successfully pressured the

British into meeting one of their primary demands: the return of national political leader, Sa’d

Zaghlul, from exile. Three years later, in 1922, the British granted Egypt semi-independence

(while still securing their strategic interests) and in 1923, a new constitution was drafted, thereby

marking an entirely new era in Egyptian history. The year 1923 also witnessed the moment that

Egyptian feminist Hoda Sha’rawi removed her face veil in front of thousands of Egyptians upon

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her return from a boat trip overseas. This marked a significant moment for the Egyptian feminist

movement, which had prioritized unveiling as one of its primary objectives. During the same

eventful year, Egyptian theater actor Yusuf Wahbi and Lebanese-Egyptian actor and theatre

director ‘Aziz ‘Eid established a theatrical troupe named after Ramsees, the Pharaonic king who

established Ancient Egypt’s 19th Dynasty. (Images and references to Egypt’s ancient past were

frequently used by nationalist intellectuals and public figures alike as evidence of a timeless and

distinct national identity and as sources of national pride and glory [See Gershoni & Jankowski,

1986; Baron, 2005].) The years 1919 to 1923 can therefore be understood as years of revival; the

revolution had breathed new life into the nationalist, feminist, and artistic movements, all of which

affected ‘Aziza in different ways. It is unsurprising, then, that in the midst of this electric and

exciting atmosphere, ‘Aziza’s ever-present passion for cinema and her goal of becoming an actress

were reignited.

Towards the end of 1923, the Ramsees troupe put out a call for Egyptian women to join as

actresses in a direct effort to promote Egyptian talent. This opened up an exciting opportunity for

‘Aziza to take her first steps towards acting, even if on stage rather than screen as she had initially

dreamed of. Soon after the call was put out, Wahbi received an envelope from a Miss Mufida

Ghoneim that contained several pictures of her as well as a letter that began with, “Dear Mr. Yusuf

Wahbi, I am from a highly-esteemed family and I love acting…” (Sadeq, 2020, p. 97). In attempt

to increase her chances of joining the Ramsees troupe, ‘Aziza lied to Wahbi about her family

origins and claimed to be the daughter of aristocrats, signifying that she was highly aware of her

social status and felt pressured to conceal it in order to advance in her career. In admiration of

‘Aziza’s “soothing Egyptian beauty,” (Sadeq, 2020, p. 46) grace, and obvious passion for acting,

Wahbi’s only condition for her admission in the troupe was that she change her name. In an account

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of ‘Aziza’s life published in the Lebanese magazine, Al-Maw’ed, Wahbi is reported to have said,

“Your name suits an elementary school teacher, or a seller in one of the “Palatchy” [chocolate

brand] stores. The stage has its own requirements. Stars of the theater must have glamorous names,

suitable for fame!” (Sadeq, 2020, p. 47). He then bestowed upon her the name ‘Aziza Amir, ‘Aziza

meaning dignified, honorable, valuable; “Your name will be ‘Aziza, because surely you are so,”

he declared (Sadeq, 2020, p. 47). In return, ‘Aziza also had one condition for her acceptance to

join the troupe: “the lead role or nothing,” she said (Sadeq, 2020, p. 46). After some arguments

between Wahbi and the theater manager, Wahbi agreed. Though it was eventually revealed to

Wahbi that ‘Aziza lied about her family origins, this did not affect her participation in the troupe

or her relationship with Wahbi. ‘Aziza had therefore successfully taken the first step towards

accomplishing her goal of becoming an actress. Within a few weeks, she was starring in a Ramsees

play written by Wahbi specifically for her.

Al-Gah al-Muzayaf/Fake Prestige was the name of ‘Aziza’s first play. It was performed

for five months in 1924, gathering record numbers of viewers and bringing phenomenal success

for both ‘Aziza and the Ramsees troupe. ‘Aziza went on to star in several plays and eventually

became the highest paid theater actress in Egypt, earning an unprecedented 30 Egyptian pounds

per month. Due to some disagreements with the Ramsees management, she left the troupe after

only one season. Though she joined other renowned theatrical troupes of the time, such as the

Rihani Troupe led by founding figure of Egyptian theater and the father of Egyptian comedy,

Naguib al-Rihani, the Azbakiya Troupe, and the National Acting Troupe, she remained restless

and unsatisfied as she continued to dream and fantasize about becoming a movie actress. ‘Aziza

recalls, “The more the days went by, the stronger the idea of cinema got in my mind, to the point

that nothing concerned me except for one hope, one dream, one idea: to be a movie actress and to

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have an Egyptian film based on an Egyptian story” (Sadeq, 2020, p. 32). Although ‘Aziza’s interest

in cinema started out of a desire to see herself as one of the leading actresses of the big screen, it

eventually blossomed into a larger ambition of making a meaningful contribution to Egypt and its

arts scene.

Making the decision to turn to cinema was by no means easy. First, as Egyptian writer

Raneem Al-Afify (2019) writes, the 1920s were “a time when theater was the first gateway to

stardom in Egypt, and Imad El-Din Street was full of theaters and lit up with pictures of stars”

(para. 4). By taking a temporary break from theater, ‘Aziza risked losing the fame and wealth she

was able to acquire quite quickly. Second, at this time, Egypt lacked all the infrastructure and

equipment necessary for filmmaking at this level (though some short films had been made, more

sophisticated equipment required for a feature-length film were unavailable). As ‘Aziza herself

remarks in her memoires, “How can I accomplish this dream in Egypt, a country that has no film

equipment, no film studio, no cameraman who specializes in this field, no artistic director who is

familiar with the secrets of this great field, and not even the basic equipment that this project

needs?” (Sadeq, 2020, p. 33). Lastly, the difficulty of making such a decision also stemmed from

the fact that discouragements and criticisms from important public figures who believed the task

was impossible were often thrown her way. Nevertheless, ‘Aziza remained resolute; “I thought:

‘If everything I need to achieve my dream is not available, and if all the obstacles pile up, is there

not determination? …. I will spend all of the money and power I have, I will plant my

determination firmly, and I will take the first step of my journey’” (Sadeq, 2020, p. 33).

Sure enough, ‘Aziza took her second trip to Paris to buy some film equipment. Upon her

return, she established an artistic salon which she named “Izis” after the ancient Egyptian goddess,

thereby continuing the aforementioned nationalist tradition of decorating contemporary

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achievements/establishments/institutions with ancient Egyptian imagery. The name Izis also held

feminist undertones, as stories of strong women in Pharoanic and Islamic history had frequently

been used by feminist leaders, since at least the 1890s, to demonstrate that there was once a time

when “women enjoyed something closer to equal rights with men,” (Dickinson, 2007, p. 157) and

were therefore more capable of contributing to their communities. The salon brought together

many of the founding figures of Egyptian theater and cinema - many of whom were also women

of lower-class backgrounds - such as Amina Mohammed, Munira al-Mahdiyya, Zeinab Sidqi,

Dawlat Abyad, Nazli Mizrahi, and many others (Sadeq, 2020). Together, the group would act out

short sketches in front of the camera based on stories written by ‘Aziza and then watch them

together. After several months of acting out sketches, ‘Aziza felt prepared to create the first ever

Egyptian feature-length film. She spent several months searching for a potential director and

screenwriter, until she came across a young Turkish man named Wedad Orfi who had written a

story titled “Nidaa Allah” (The Call of God) and claimed to have directing experience in Germany.

Though ‘Aziza recalls not being too fond of the story, she agreed to have it turned into a film. The

film was to be produced by ‘Aziza’s production company, also named after the goddess Izis, which

was financed by both her and her then new husband, Ahmed Al-Shere’y, the mayor of an Upper

Egyptian village. ‘Aziza and Orfi starred as the two main characters, and much of it was filmed in

the desert, specifically on the ancient burial ground in Saqqara. While filming in the immense heat

of the sun and on the burning hot sand, ‘Aziza recalls feeling as though she was taking on a heroic

act, a nationalist mission; that she was contributing to the thousand-year-old Egyptian legacy that

started with the ancients and carried on until that very moment. She writes, as quoted in this

chapter’s epigraph, “Between these heroes, I felt that I was the daughter of Egypt, and that I was

creating something extraordinarily significant. I felt that the souls of the great Egyptian kings and

63

queens were spreading their wings around me, reassured by the daughter of the Nile as she carries

on her work, with no support except true and honest determination” (Sadeq, 2020, p. 35-36).

One can only imagine ‘Aziza’s heartbreak when she watched the completed version of The

Call of God for the first time and discovered what she describes as “horrific” editing and directing.

It became apparent that Orfi did not, in fact, have previous directing or editing experience. ‘Aziza

was then forced to delay the film’s premiere to start the filmmaking process over. For her second

trial, she wrote the story herself and hired Egyptian-Italian-Austrian director Istifan Rosti. With

the support of her husband, she also edited the film. ‘Aziza was therefore the new film’s heroine,

storywriter, producer, and editor. The new film was titled Layla, after her character; the first ever

Egyptian film was therefore created by a woman, about a woman. Out of the 1600 meters of film

tape left behind by Orfi, ‘Aziza only used 300 meters, which were mainly scenes of the desert

(Sadeq, 2020, p. 88). It is unfortunate, therefore, that Orfi continues to be credited with writing the

film’s story in many accounts of the film, and is commonly listed as a co-director.

Though no copy of Layla exists today, many have discussed and analyzed the film using

media and film critics’ commentary of the time. The consensus amongst contemporary film

scholars is that Layla was an explicitly anti-colonial tale. It told the story of a young Bedouin girl

named Layla who falls in love with a young man named Ahmed. She is simultaneously pursued

by an old, rich, and ill-intentioned man named Salem, whom Ahmed successfully fends off several

times. Eventually, Layla gets pregnant out of wedlock, and though he promised to marry her,

Ahmed leaves her to be with a foreign tourist. Upon learning of her pregnancy, local villagers

chase Layla out of the village, leaving her vulnerable and alone. Accounts differ about the ending

of the film; some say Layla died after giving birth, others say she took her own life, and others say

the tragic ending was changed to have Layla marry another man named Raouf Bek and live happily

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ever after. Regardless of its ending, Layla was ultimately perceived to carry a nationalist message,

specifically through its depiction of Ahmed’s relationship with the foreign woman, who took

Ahmed away from Layla and his homeland; we can then read Layla as Egypt/ as representing the

nation. During the late 1920s and early 30s, intermarriage between Egyptians and foreigners was

a major preoccupation of both the nationalist and the feminist movements. In 1927, for example,

the year of Layla’s release, the women’s magazine Al-Mar’a al-Misriyya (The Egyptian Woman)

published an article titled “A Danger Threatening Egyptian Nationalism,” which “warned men

against marrying Western women and highlighted the importance of protecting the nation’s well-

being and the purity of ‘Egyptian blood’” (as cited in Elsaket, 2019, p. 211). The author, writes

Ifdal Elsaket (2019), “expressed sadness that young Egyptian men took their nationalism so lightly,

while other nations safeguarded their nationalism by frowning upon mixed relationships” (p. 211).

The foreign woman therefore represented both a metaphorical threat of Westernization and

imperialist destruction (symbolized by Layla’s possible death), as well as the more

tangible/physical threat of inter-marriage, which was believed to weaken the nationalist

movement, leave Egyptian women without husbands or families (and therefore without social and

financial support), and according to one Azhari Shaykh, produce a new generation that would

“imitate the European mother’s ‘love of colonization’” (as cited in Elsaket, 2019, p. 214).

The film premiered in 1927, gathering the nation’s most powerful political and economic

leaders, writers, poets, artists, and others. It is famously reported that after the screening, leading

Egyptian entrepreneur Tal’at Harb told ‘Aziza that she had “accomplished what no man could do”

(Dickinson, 2007, p. 145). (Ironically, as Al-Afify notes in her article, it is Tal’at Harb who is

frequently credited in contemporary public discourse with being the founder of Egyptian cinema).

Importantly, the significance of Layla being the first ever feature-length Egyptian film is

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heightened given the historical moment during which it was premiered. Reporting one of the film’s

first screenings, one Egyptian journalist named Eduard Said Abdou wrote, “‘as soon as the name

Aziza Amir appeared on screen, the audience began to shout and applaud without end’” (1927, as

cited in Mejri, 2014, p. 31). Seeing an Egyptian name on screen at a time when all other feature

films were foreign (American and French in particular), was an incredibly significant moment for

Egyptian audiences. In his article on the film and its creator, Kay Dickinson (2007) writes,

From the very outset, Layla was never going to be received as ‘just a film’... On its release,

it was weighted down by the expectations and yearnings of a newly semi-independent state

that had yet to produce its first feature film… From the tones of most responses to the film,

it becomes apparent that Layla was born during an era in which Egypt was thoroughly

ready to recognize itself as a nation, if it was not, in some instances, obsessed with that

idea (p. 145).

The film was therefore not only seen as ‘Aziza’s individual accomplishment or as a source of mere

entertainment; rather, it was a national achievement and a glorious moment of progress for the

country, and it carried deeply political implications. ‘Aziza’s personal legacy was therefore

intertwined with that of the nation from the very beginning of her career.

Layla also marked the beginning of a new era of visibility for Egyptian women, many of

whom - mainly the upper classes - had up until then continued to receive social/familial backlash

for appearing in public without a face veil and interacting with men (Farrugia, 2002, p. 97). With

Layla, ‘Aziza was able to infiltrate Egyptian public spaces in a way that was likely unimaginable

to Hoda Sha’rawi and her fellow feminist activists before. Her face was shown on every screen in

Egypt and in every newspaper celebrating the great nationalist success she had achieved. Egyptians

across the nation were made to reckon with the idea of her leading and acting alongside a team of

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men to create the film, knowing quite well that many women will eventually follow. Therefore,

while Hoda Sha’rawi’s removal of the face veil was significant in its own right, ‘Aziza’s

appearance alone undoubtedly made the feminists’ fight for increased visibility and access to

public space exceptionally easier. Indeed, Margot Badran (1995) notes that by the 1930s,

“unveiling was widespread among both middle- and upper-class women and gender-mixed social

life was growing more common among the upper strata” (p. 160). It is not a coincidence that these

transformative changes of Egyptian gender relations appeared shortly after the birth of Egyptian

cinema.

After Layla’s success, ‘Aziza produced and starred in two films for which she also wrote

the scenario: Bint Al-Nil/Daughter of the Nile (1929) and Kafery ‘an Khateatik/Pay for Your Sins

(1933). While accounts differ on whether or not she directed the former, it is widely known that

she directed the latter. Unfortunately, Pay for Your Sins did not achieve the level of success ‘Aziza

hoped for, most likely due to the fact that it was a silent film at a time when spoken films had

already become the mainstream. Faced with major financial losses, ‘Aziza was forced to sell much

of her possessions, take a hiatus from cinema, and return to the theater. As I shall explore, in 1939

and 1940, she made a comeback with The Apple Seller and The Workshop, hoping once again to

reclaim her legendary status in the industry.

‘Aziza eventually went on to star in 18 films, direct at least two films, and write the

screenplay for 16 films. Her production company, Izis Film, produced about 24 films. In 1948, she

produced and co-wrote the story and dialogue of A Girl from Palestine/Fatah Min Falasteen,

making her the first Arab filmmaker to take up the Palestinian struggle (unfortunately, the film is

not available online). She also discovered several new faces, from actors and actresses, to singers,

belly dancers, and comedians, who eventually went on to lead successful careers of their own.

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After suffering through a stillbirth in the early days of her career, ‘Aziza is known to have said, “I

have one daughter, and that is Egyptian cinema” (Dickinson, 2007, p. 152). She died in 1952,

before the screening of her last film, I Believe in God/Amint Billah (1952). In her obituary,

Egyptian actor Zaki Tulaymat writes, “The life of ‘Aziza Amir, the founder of Egyptian cinema,

is a strange, legendary tale… [she is] a talented artist whose heart was ignited with passion for

cinema and she sacrificed everything she owned for it” (Sadeq, 2020, p. 104). With this short

biography, it is my hope that readers were able to get a glimpse of this “strange, legendary tale,”

and appreciate the bravery, determination, and strength of a woman whose career was born during

an incredibly eventful historical period in Egyptian modern history. Through the different accounts

of her life, we learn that all of the nationalist and feminist political events of the time as well as

the personal experiences she went through as she stepped into the unknown fields of theater and

cinema sharpened her awareness of her class status, gender, and general place in Egyptian society,

which, as I shall explore, was reflected in her cinematic works.

Unfortunately, ‘Aziza’s films are rarely shown on Egyptian television channels today, and

her name has largely been erased from public memory.6 Film theorists and scholars who discuss

her work focus almost exclusively on Layla, lamenting the fact that there are no surviving copies

of it today, while completely neglecting her other valuable and accessible films. In what is to

follow, I shift the focus of ‘Aziza’s career to two films that are highly reflective of her commitment

to sharing her political opinions through her art.

The two films I will be analyzing are The Apple Seller and The Workshop, both of which

center ‘Aziza as the main character. The Apple Seller is an Egyptian adaptation of George Bernard

6 My parents, who were born and raised in Egypt and have been watching Egyptian films of the early-mid 20th century their entire lives, had never heard of ‘Aziza Amir.

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Shaw’s Pygmalion, which had been turned into a British film the year before (1938). The film’s

scenario and dialogue is co-written by ‘Aziza and the director, Hussein Fawzi, and produced by

‘Aziza’s production company, Izis Film. The Workshop is directed by Istefan Rosti and the story,

scenario, and dialogue is co-written by ‘Aziza and her co-star and third husband Mahmoud

Zulfikar.

The Apple Seller (1939)

The Apple Seller comes after ‘Aziza’s six-year hiatus from cinema, thereby marking her re-

entrance into the industry. After her aforementioned failure with Pay for Your Sins in 1933, The

Apple Seller’s success was critical for the survival of her cinematic career. During the years leading

up to 1939, many films, such as Al-Warda al-Bayda/The White Flower (1933) starring the

renowned musician Mohammed ‘Abdel-Wahab, had explored cross-class love stories, and many

revolved around lower-class characters being placed in unfamiliar upper-class settings, resulting

in comical storylines and scenes, such as Salama Fi Kheir/Samala’s Fine (1937), starring

legendary comedian Naguib al-Rihani. Egyptian audiences were therefore accustomed to stories

that explored class differences, and films that did so often achieved great success. However, though

filled with potential for political commentary, such films hardly went beyond moral-of-the-story

monologues about the resilient power of true love or the false admiration and respect that people

receive if they appear wealthy and are instantly deprived of when their true socio-economic status

is revealed. In what is to follow, I shall demonstrate that although ‘Aziza was making a safe career

choice by presenting a class-difference themed story, she was still able to infuse the film with very

specific and sometimes controversial political messages regarding national identity, nationalism,

gender, and class through some clever writing decisions made by herself and her co-writer Hussein

Fawzi. Additionally, though The Apple Seller is an Egyptian adaptation of the British Pygmalion

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– which had achieved widespread commercial success, making it an even safer choice for ‘Aziza

- ‘Aziza and Fawzi’s adaptation of the film is more than just a mere translation; the two writers

completely change several of the story’s plot lines, giving it the features of a typical Egyptian

drama and centering the story around an urban lower-class protagonist.

The film begins with a series of scenes that contrast the environments and lifestyles of the

rich with those of the hara-dwelling7 poor. In the very first scene, Kamal (Anwar Wagdy), talks

to a woman - whom he calls “mon chéri” and “mon amour” - on the phone, telling her that he will

be coming home late because he has to finalize some errands with his lawyer. As soon as he hangs

up, he yells, “Fill up the glasses!” (MelodyClassic, 2016a, 00:01:31), revealing his deception of

the woman and his drinking of alcohol, which is considered forbidden in Muslim societies. The

camera cuts to a long shot of him sitting at a bar, accompanied by other men who, like him, are

dressed in suits, as well as a blonde woman whose appearance and accent reveal her foreignness.

When asked who he was speaking to, he says “fiancé number 13” (MelodyClassic, 2016a,

00:01:41). The audience is then introduced to Murad (Mahmoud Zulfikar) who enters the bar

visibly angry. We learn that Kamal pulled a cruel prank on him, for which he now has to pay 500

Egyptian pounds as per a former agreement they had. Murad promises that he will pull an even

crueler prank on Kamal, for which Kamal will have to pay 1000 pounds. From these introductory

scenes alone, the audience is given a very clear idea of the Egyptian upper classes, specifically

upper-class men: they are alcoholic, wasteful, westernized womanizers.

The film then takes us to a hara, where men and women dressed in galabiyat and abayat

(traditional Egyptian clothes) are walking around, sitting at a coffeehouse, or working in their

shops. One of the men sitting outside the coffeehouse is singing Islamic Tawasheeh (songs),

7 The word “hara” literally means alleyway but is used to refer to a lower-class neighbourhood.

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glorifying and sending blessings to the Prophet Mohammed, much to the delight of those around

him. When he stops singing, a fruit seller with ripped clothes is seen calling back his customer

after he had left, saying “My brother, you forgot your change” (MelodyClassic, 2016a, 00:04:34).

We then hear a woman singing, and watch as everyone in the hara turns to look at the singer with

big smiles on their faces. The singer, Farhana (‘Aziza Amir), emerges from a distance,

accompanied by her friend Na’na’a (Fardous Mohamed); both are dressed in abayat and head-

wraps, carrying baskets of apples on their heads. One of the men in the coffee house yells “Silence,

everyone! Listen to Lady Farhana!8” (MelodyClassic, 2016a, 00:05:14) When she finishes the

song, the men at the coffeehouse welcome her with smiles and proceed to buy her and Na’na’a’s

apples. The people of the hara therefore stand in direct contrast to the men at the bar. They are

authentic Egyptians, good Muslims, hard and honest workers who are poor but not at all greedy,

and respectful of women. They are also remarkably happy; they spend their time singing and

listening to others sing and playing board games with their friends. Farhana’s name also literally

means “happy.”

There is a key difference between Pygmalion and The Apple Seller that must be pointed

out here. While in Pygmalion, linguistic distinctions between the upper and lower classes are the

foundation upon which the film’s plot is built, in The Apple Seller, ‘Aziza turns said distinctions

into moral ones, frequently juxtaposing the two class groups as moral opposites, as I shall continue

to explore. This moral juxtaposition comes at a time when moral values were infused with deeper

political meanings. In her book, Lisa Pollard (2005) explains that at the beginning of the 20th

century, the Ministry of Education began integrating lessons on moral development into school

curricula in order to ensure a productive future for the nation. She explains,

8 The word “lady” (El-Sit) was normally used to refer to women of the upper classes; therefore, its use in this context indicates a high level of respect.

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…Egyptian children were taught that they were involved in a personal struggle to save their

nation. They learned that their every action, from cleaning and dressing to interacting with

their relatives, had a higher meaning. Shaped in the domestic realm, and then transported

into the world outside the home, their habits and morals would serve as the foundation

upon which modern, independent Egypt would be built (Pollard, 2005, p. 122).

As a result, “[v]irtues such as courage, valor, honesty, and integrity” (Pollard, 2005, p. 120) were

more than just praiseworthy individual traits, they were nationalist commitments. Therefore,

portraying the upper and lower classes as moral opposites carries implications about which

demographic is truly devoted to the success, stability, and full independence of the nation.

The film’s emphasis on the lower classes’ religiosity and the upper classes’ lack thereof is

also significant given the role of religion in nationalist discourse at this time. While, as discussed

in Chapter One, Egyptian liberal reformers strongly believed that “loyalty to the Islamic

community… [was] to be abolished,” (Maghraoui, 2006, p. 9) in much of popular culture, holding

onto Egypt’s Islamic identity was seen as a form of resistance against the encroachment of a

European, Christian power. Therefore, throughout the late 19th and early 20th centuries, countless

political cartoons and satirical dialogues used Islam as a symbol of the nation and Islamic tradition

as interchangeable with authentic Egyptian culture. Additionally, when cartoonists aimed to show

that certain political figures, such as Khedive Isma’il for example, were betraying the nation and

its people, they would paint them out to be ‘bad Muslims.’ One example of such a cartoon is

“Isma’il’s Corruption,” created in 1878 by Jewish Egyptian journalist, cartoonist, and playwright

Ya’qoub Sannu’, who was an avid critic of the khedives and their complicity in British occupation.

In the cartoon, which can be found in Fahmy’s Ordinary Egyptians (2011), Khedive Isma’il stands

in between his Prime Minister, Nubar Pasha, and a thin, malnourished fallah. Addressing Nubar

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Pasha, Isma’il says, “My dear minister, I am terrified that these people will defeat us and that I

might lose all this weight that I gained from eating [pork] and drinking alcohol [emphasis added]”

(Fahmy, 2011, p. 52). In order to criticize the Khedive and encourage political dissidence, Sannu’

not only paints Isma’il as an unjust and greedy leader, but strategically uses his ‘un-Islamic

lifestyle’ to portray him as traitor who has betrayed his people in every possible way. A similar

strategy can be found in The Apple Seller; by contrasting the lower and upper classes as standing

on opposite ends of the scale of religiosity, ‘Aziza and Fawzi portray the people of the hara as

more representative of an authentic Egyptian identity, and the upper-classes as traitors who have

betrayed that authenticity.

Egyptian authenticity and its preservation is a theme that runs throughout the film, as I

shall continue to explore. This comes at a time when, as discussed in our previous chapter,

throughout the 1920s and 30s, the “territorial, historical, racial, and cultural boundaries of the new

Egyptian nation” (Maghraoui, 2006, p. 69) were under relentless reconstruction by Egyptian liberal

reformists, particularly secular nationalists. Through novels, political speeches and campaigns,

education curricula, newspaper columns, etc., the reformists aimed to draw any possible

connections between Egypt and Europe, arguing that Egypt could only be recognized as a civilized

nation on the global stage, and thereby receive full independence, if it disavows any identification

with the ‘savage’ Orient and commits to a holistic Westernization process. Lower-class Egyptian

masses, who had not undergone the same westernization processes that had already begun within

elite circles since the Muhammad ‘Ali and Khedive Isma’il periods, became the object of vicious

attacks by liberal reformists. “Any manifestation or sign of native culture,” writes Maghraoui

(2006), “in private or in public, in celebration or in mourning, by a group or an individual, was

considered a serious threat to the newly defined political community” (p. 10). By the late 1920s,

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however, a political and intellectual movement known as Easternism emerged in direct opposition

to liberal reformists’ uncritical westernization attempts, making it their goal to protect, preserve,

and return to an often romanticized Eastern/Egyptian/Arab/Islamic authentic self. Throughout the

1930s, advocates from both camps engaged in frequent debates, both pushing to establish their

definition of Egyptian identity as the mainstream. The Apple Seller’s immediate construction of a

binary between the westernized elite and the ‘traditional’ lower classes, and its repeated insistence

– as we shall observe – that an authentic Egyptian self lies in the hands of the masses, is therefore

highly reflective of the political discourse of the time, demonstrating that women cultural figures

such as ‘Aziza Amir played an active role in driving and echoing the existential search for an

Egyptian identity.

As the Apple Seller’s Pygmalion-inspired story progresses, Farhana meets Murad while

trying to sell him apples, and after imagining what she might look like as a rich, upper-class

woman, he gets the perfect idea for his next prank on Kamal: he will have him fall in love with her

thinking she is a member of his social circle, only to find out at a grand ball that she is a lower-

class apple seller. Murad begs to transform Farhana into a “bint zawat” (daughter of the upper

classes) in exchange for covering her stay at a fancy hotel for one month. Farhana agrees, unaware

of Murad’s intentions. Murad teaches her how to talk, walk, dress, eat, and behave like an upper-

class woman, and changes her name from Farhana to Fifi Hanem/Lady Fifi (keeping in mind that

Farhana means “happy,” there is a clear indication here that Farhana’s entrance into this new world

will inevitably lead to unhappiness). After spending several days with Murad, Kamal, and their

other male friends who live similar lifestyles, Farhana begins to fall in love with Murad, while

Kamal decides to leave his fiancé and chase after Farhana, just as Murad had planned. Though her

love for Murad grows, Farhana develops a deep disdain for the lifestyle of those around her. In a

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conversation with Na’na’a, who pretends to be Lady Fifi’s maid, Farhana compares the men she

is currently surrounded by with the men of the hara:

Farhana: You think I’m happy living this life? If it weren’t for Murad I wouldn’t have sat

here a second longer. The men here- God protect us. [...] I swear Na’na’a, sometimes I just

imagine myself beating all these men up. The men of our area are so great. They’re real

men. Princes!

Na’ana’a: The men in our area? Is there anyone like them? (MelodyClassic, 2016a,

00:40:58 – 00:41:21)

This dialogue alone reveals some of the clever and critical decisions made by ‘Aziza and

Fawzi during the writing process. The first decision revolves around the transformation of the

original story. In Pygmalion, Mr. Higgins is able to share his inner thoughts and plans for Eliza

with the audience through his conversations with his friend, Colonel Pickering. Eliza, on the other

hand, has no one to speak to; her experience in Mr. Higgins’ home is quite lonely, and her only

relative - a greedy, alcoholic father - not only abandons her but tries to profit off her stay with Mr.

Higgins. In The Apple Seller, a new female character is created; Farhana is given a close friend,

Na’na’a, and through this friendship, she is able to share her inner thoughts and frustrations

throughout the film. Her character development is revealed through these conversations. Though

the two friends have their disagreements at times, they support and remain loyal to one another.

Murad, on the other hand, has been deprived of an Egyptian-ized Colonel Pickering with whom to

share his thoughts and plans for Farhana. He is only able to express changes in his attitude towards

Farhana once, through an awkward monologue he delivers alone in his room. By making these

changes, ‘Aziza and Fawzi give Farhana far more speaking time than Eliza, Murad, and Mr.

Higgins, making it very clear who the film’s central focus and protagonist is. The difference in the

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films’ titles also emphasizes this further. Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion was named after and inspired

by an ancient Greek mythological figure who fell in love with a sculpture of his that then came to

life. In the play and then the film, this Greek figure becomes Mr. Higgins, which makes Eliza one

of his sculptures. The Apple Seller, on the other hand, is named after Farhana’s character. Similarly,

in Pygmalion’s official movie poster, a drawing of Leslie Howard’s (Mr. Higgins) face is

positioned at the center, with two much smaller before-and-after drawings of Eliza on either side

of him. Meanwhile, in The Apple Seller’s movie poster, ‘Aziza Amir’s name is the only one

written, and a picture of her dressed in lower-class garb takes up about half of the poster. Though

‘Aziza’s motivations for these shifts in focus may have been self-serving, it nevertheless results in

an Egyptian-ized Pygmalion that is far more woman-centered than its British counterpart.

The second interesting decision made by the writers is their description of the residents of

their hara as “real men,” and the simultaneous emasculation of the upper-class men. This portrayal

of the lower classes is highly consistent with cinematic and theatrical depictions of the ‘ibn al-

balad’ (literally, son of the country) character. The term “ibn al-balad,” according to Sawsan El-

Messiri (1978), emerged under Mamluk rule to distinguish the indigenous masses from the non-

native ruling elite. With the start of Muhammad ‘Ali’s rule in 1805 and the ongoing Ottoman

occupation of Egypt, those excluded from the ‘ibn al-balad’ category were no longer just the non-

native elite but also the Egyptian upper classes who became increasingly affiliated with said elite,

particularly as a result of Muhammad ‘Ali and later Khedive Isma’il’s centralization and public

education reforms, as explained in Chapter One. Therefore, though the term literally means “son

of the country,” upper-class, land-owning Egyptians who adopted Westernized lifestyles did not

belong to this category. Unsurprisingly, therefore, wlad (pl. ibn) el balad are frequently associated

with Egyptian tradition and generally represent the “authentic Egyptian.” In her interviews with

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both upper and lower-class Egyptian men in the 1970’s, El-Messiri (1978) found that many

respondents “equated the term ‘traditional’ with awlad al-balad” (p. 45). One man, for example,

explained, “Ibn al-balad is one who represents our old Egyptian tradition” (El-Messiri, 1978, p.

45). There are additional qualities and traits that are seen as highly characteristic of wlad al-balad:

chivalry, gallantry, wisdom, assiduousness, loyalty to community and country, and most important

for our purposes, masculinity. While analyzing her interview responses, El-Messiri (1978) writes,

“Many interviewees described the ibn al-balad as ‘the person who is manly,’ or ‘the person who

is virile’” (p. 45). Therefore, the term and its associated depictions are not only highly class-based

but also highly gendered. (The female version of the term, bint el-balad [daughter of the country]

is also associated with stereotypically masculine traits: gallantry, bravery, strength). By associating

the hara’s men with all the characteristics typical of wlad el balad, and by erecting a sharp binary

between the upper and lower classes, ‘Aziza and Fawzi are making a clear statement not only about

what it means to be/ who is authentically Egyptian but also what it means to be/ who is a “real

man.” The co-writers position the two class groups not only as moral and religious opposites, as

discussed earlier, but also as two groups standing on opposing ends of the scale of masculinity.

As the film continues, Kamal’s obsession with Farhana grows. After leaving his fiancé

without any remorse, he repeatedly invites Farhana over to his villa, thereby indicating his

intentions of pursuing a physical relationship with her. Farhana repeatedly rejects his invites,

refusing to be alone with him. Halfway through the film, Kamal hosts a party with a large group

of friends who all become visibly intoxicated. When Farhana’s name is brought up, one of Kamal’s

friends remarks, “You’ve been chasing after her for a month now and she hasn’t even paid you a

single visit,” to which Kamal responds, “She’s acting as if she’s honourable. She says we would

have to be married first. But I wouldn’t be Kamal if she manages to escape from me.” At this point,

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Kamal makes it evermore clear that he plans on sexually assaulting Farhana, and eventually, he

does, as I shall discuss shortly. From this scene, we can also easily assume that Farhana is the first

woman to consistently refuse his advances. By adding Kamal’s character and this additional sub-

plot to the story, which does not exist in Pygmalion, co-writers ‘Aziza and Fawzi draw on familiar

Egyptian film tropes to accentuate the moral distinctions between the upper and lower classes

represented in the film.

The first trope revolves around honour, a consistent topic of discussion throughout the film.

Honour (in Arabic, sharaf) is brought up in two main ways. The first is highly gendered, and is

intimately connected to women’s sexuality. In her book chapter, “The Orient and its Others:

Women as Tools of Nationalism in Egyptian Political Cinema,” Lina Khatib (2004) explains, “In

the Middle East, the female has generally been invested with the task of being the moral gauge in

society. The female’s role thus goes beyond symbolizing the morals of the family and also becomes

that of bearing the nation’s values” (Khatib, 2004, p. 73). Consequently, in political films where

Egyptian characters are up against a foreign enemy, Egyptian women who are loyal to the nation

are portrayed as maintaining sexual purity and thereby protecting the nation’s moral compass,

whereas foreign women and Egyptian women who betray the nation are depicted as being

“sexually permissive,” thereby representing the “moral depravity of the enemy” (Khatib, 2004, p.

73). Interestingly, however, the use of female characters’ sexuality has not only been used to

differentiate between nation and Other but also between the various social classes within Egyptian

society. While several of today’s Egyptian films commonly portray lower-class women as sexually

promiscuous, early 20th century films’ depictions of sexual promiscuity were often reserved for

upper-class, westernized women. Being the most westernized, the upper classes were seen as most

accepting of western immorality. This corresponds with popular/non-elite nationalist and feminist

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discourse of the time, which viewed moral degeneracy as a direct result of British occupation and

ensuing westernization (Fahmy, 2011, p. 79-81). Therefore, while the ‘Egyptian woman,’ broadly

speaking, has been used to represent national honour in Nasser-era and later films, pre-

revolutionary films frequently placed the weight of the nation’s honour strictly on the shoulders

of lower-class female characters. For example, just as Farhana is seen consistently rejecting

Kamal’s sexual advances in The Apple Seller, eight years later, in Fatma (1947), Fatma, a lower-

class nurse played by Umm Kulthum, is seen “defending her honour” in response to a wealthy,

upper-class man’s proposal to engage in sexual relations before marriage. Evidently then,

Egyptian morality, tradition, and authenticity are upheld by lower-class men, through their

gallantry and manhood, and by lower-class women, through their sexual purity.

While most commentary on sharaf/honour in Arab films and cultures have focused

primarily on its gendered connotations and associations with women’s sexuality, it is also

important to note that this is not the only way honour is brought up and represented in The Apple

Seller. Throughout the film, honour is almost obsessively described as an inherent characteristic

of all those who engage in hard and laborious work in order to make a living, i.e. the working

class. For example, in a scene where Farhana complains to Na’na’a about Murad constantly

reminding her of the fact that she is an apple seller, Na’na’a replies, “Are apples shameful? Is there

anything more honourable than one who earns their livelihood through hard, independent work

(min ‘ara gibeeno/ from the sweat of his forehead)?” Therefore, the second conceptualization of

honour that the film heavily relies on is non-gendered and highly class-based. In this way, then,

both working-class men and women represent national honour and morality by virtue of belonging

to the working-class, while working-class women are doubly responsible for the upholding of said

honour and morality through their sexual behaviour and their work.

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Kamal eventually invites Farhana to his house party, which he says everyone at the hotel

will be attending, including Murad. Out of excitement to see Murad, Farhana agrees to go, only to

find that there is no party, for she is the only invited guest. Taking advantage of the opportunity,

Kamal forces himself on Farhana, and after struggling for some time, she eventually pushes him

off and rushes out of his house. Through this scene, Farhana once again successfully protects her

honour while Kamal’s immorality reaches its peak. The decision to add a sexual assault scene in

the story when no such sub-plot exists in the original Pygmalion is also particularly significant

when one considers the growing popularity of such assault/rape scenes in Egyptian cinema of the

time, particularly two/three years after The Apple Seller, during the 1942-43 season, as noted by

Galal Sharqawi (1985, as cited in Shafik, 2007, p. 256). In her work, Viola Shafik (2007) explains,

“…the disparity between upper and lower-class characters was crucial to plot construction and the

theme of abuse. In this sense, the images of sexual exploitation, cross-class seduction, and rape

were not just box-office sensationalism, but had a clear sociopolitical reference, not in a reflexive

sense though, but rather as ‘the metaphorical interpretation of class conflict’ (Elsaesser 1985, 168)

[emphasis added]” (Shafik, 2007, p. 257). The co-writers’ decision to add this scene can therefore

be understood not only as another means of articulating the moral contrast between the two class

groups and the incompatibility of their lifestyles, but also as an explicit portrayal of the political

tension that exists between the two groups at a time of alleged national unity.

Towards the end of the film, Farhana finds out about Murad’s prank and intention to reveal

her identity in front of Kamal and all the other attendants at the ball, and vows to reveal her own

identity before he gets a chance to (at this point he is already in love with her and chooses not to

expose her). The night of the ball, when Murad refers to her as “Fifi Hanem,” she angrily responds,

in front of all the guests:

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I’m not Fifi! I’m Farhana, the apple seller. I’ve come to know you all, you cheaters, you

liars. What are you all doing? What does the country gain from you? Is your only job to

play around with poor girls who get cheated on and believe your lies? Even those of you

who are old, you’ve left your homes and act like youth. Do you not have mothers? Do you

not have sisters? Do you not have women you’re responsible for?

What’s wrong? Why are you all quiet now? You don’t like what I’m saying? With

all of your money, you can’t protect your status. I’m a poor girl but God has protected me

because I live with honour and hard work. But you? You have nothing to do but get drunk

and waste your money on meaningless things.

[…] And you [Murad], shouldn’t you have given me the money that you used to

turn me into an upper-class girl so that I could open my own shop so that me and poor

Na’na’a no longer have to wander the streets? (MelodyClassic, 2016a, 1:36:32 – 1:38:31)

With this powerful monologue, all of the implicit political messages delivered throughout

the film become direct and explicit, making the intentions behind ‘Aziza and Fawzi’s

transformation of the story evermore clear. Before exploring said messages, it is important to note

that in Pygmalion, the film’s final major confrontation is between a lost and confused Eliza who

is no longer sure of who she is, and Mr. Higgins, who has developed an attachment for Eliza that

he is too proud to admit. In contrast, The Apple Seller’s final confrontation is between Farhana,

who is more sure of and confident in her identity than ever before, and all the upper-class characters

we have encountered throughout the film, including a changed and remorseful Murad. Therefore,

while Pygmalion concludes by focusing on the romantic connection that unintentionally yet

inevitably grows between Eliza and Mr. Higgins, The Apple Seller makes it clear that while the

Farhana-Murad love story is central to the film, its main concern is with Farhana’s character

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development, which culminates in a complete rejection and denunciation of the upper classes and

an upholding of Egyptian morals and authenticity. This monologue also acts as the peak of class

conflict in the film.

Farhana/‘Aziza makes three critical accusations of the upper classes here. The first

accusation is delivered through the rhetorical question, “What does the country gain from you?”

At a time when, as described in Chapter One, the nationalist and feminist movement leaders as

well as school curriculums of the early 20th century claimed that the lower classes were dragging

the country behind on its route to modernization, full independence, and women’s liberation,

Farhana/’Aziza directly implies that it is in fact the upper echelons of society to which these leaders

and activists belong that do not make any meaningful contributions to the progress of the country

and are actively holding Egypt back from becoming a fully independent nation.

The second accusation comes with her criticism of the fathers and middle-aged men of the

group, who spend their time drinking with young bachelors, attending extravagant parties, and

flirting with younger women; “you’ve left your homes and act like youth.” This critique comes at

a time when commitment to the family had come to be equated with commitment to the nation,

especially when, as discussed in Chapter One, the Egyptian home was seen by British colonizers

and Egyptian nationalists alike as desperately in need of urgent reform. In their respective works

on the Egyptian Feminist Union (EFU), Margot Badran (1995) and Beth Baron (2005) demonstrate

that feminist activists such as Hoda Sha’rawi had to constantly reassure their critics that their fight

for increased access to education and employment would not interfere with their responsibilities

towards their families and children, since only good, patriotic mothers could instill the next

generation of Egyptians with love for and loyalty to the nation. Men were also expected to

prioritize their families for the wellbeing of the nation (albeit to a lesser extent than women).

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School textbooks of the time dictated that “A father hopes for love between him and his wife . . .

and he sees to the ease of the mother and her children. The father must be generous and steadfast

in the tarbiyya [child raising] and education of his family” (Pollard, 2005, p. 122). Additionally,

in his book, Fahmy (2011) examines how colloquial periodicals responded to men’s abandonment

of their families for the sake of drinking and gambling, which they perceived to be a national crisis.

Satirical dialogues and cartoons frequently disparaged and belittled men who wasted their salaries

on alcohol and women rather than spending money on their wives and children (Fahmy, 2011, p.

79-81). In a similar vein, ‘Aziza denigrates the men at the grand ball for not fulfilling their

commitments towards “the women they’re responsible for,” presenting them as neglectful fathers,

husbands, sons, and brothers. This stands in direct contrast to her earlier portrayal of the men of

the hara, whom she describes as “real men,” unlike Kamal and others whom she imagines “beating

up.” ‘Aziza therefore not only re-iterates her message about the upper-class men standing in the

way of the family’s and thus the nation’s wellbeing, but also further emasculates them for their

neglect of the responsibilities they are expected to fulfill as men.

The third accusation is targeted at the men who wastefully and carelessly spend their

money on insignificant objects and activities as opposed to directing their wealth to the betterment

of the country and its people. Throughout the film, the men arrogantly flaunt their wealth,

particularly their ownership of land. Twice in the film, Kamal brags about owning 1000 feddans9

of land, and compares this to Murad’s “measly” 300 feddans. It must be emphasized here that, as

discussed in our previous chapter, the land owned by the ruling classes at this time was inherited

wealth that was acquired by an emerging class of rural Egyptian elite after a change in land laws

under Khedive Isma’il (1863-1879) (Abul-Magd, 2013). The men’s constant bragging about

9 A feddan is an Egyptian unit of area equivalent to just over 1 acre.

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(stolen) inherited wealth they did not work for is consistently contrasted with Farhana, Na’na’a,

the fruit seller at the beginning of the film, and other lower-class characters’ hard and honourable

work. In a song she performs during the film, Farhana sings “There is nothing that honours a

human being more than hard work. / And there’s nothing that protects one’s honour more than

working the land” (a reference to fallahin/peasants). In this way, ‘Aziza and co-writer Fawzi offer

another crucial juxtaposition of the upper and lower classes; while the upper classes flaunt and

waste their unearned, hoarded wealth, the lower classes lead the nation in work ethic and

determination, working tirelessly and making do with the little they own.

After delivering her monologue, Farhana runs up to her hotel room, rushes to her closet,

and begins to throw away all her new dresses, yelling, “Where’s my galabiya? Where’s my head

scarf?” signifying a desperate return to her old, happy, ‘traditional’ life. Meanwhile, downstairs,

Kamal tells Murad that he is thankful for “the circumstances that rescued [him] from a vile apple

seller,” to which Murad replies, “Vile? She’s more honourable than you!” He then punches Kamal,

starting a physical fight between the two men. When Murad falls to the ground, Farhana, who has

changed into her galabiya and headscarf, rushes to his side, and the film ends with an embrace

between the two characters (giving Egyptian audiences the happy ending they are known to love).

The end of the film, therefore, symbolizes Farhana’s triumph. As she strips away “Lady

Fifi,” proudly declares her identity and returns to her original attire in front of all the Pashas and

Beys who, like the upper-class Egyptian liberals and secular nationalists, saw themselves and their

lifestyles as superior, Farhana – and the lower-class masses she stands for - has emerged victorious.

Once again, therefore, ‘Aziza Amir comes to represent “The Nation.” While in Layla, the foreign

woman, who symbolizes western infiltration and intrusion in Egypt, succeeds at reeking havoc in

Layla’s small village by destroying her relationship, and even - depending on the ending that was

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used - ending her (and thus, The Nation’s) life, in The Apple Seller, Farhana/The Nation is able to

overcome the elitist, westernizing force by refusing to succumb to its attempts to

convert/reform/civilize her. Instead, she flips the script, demonstrating that it is the westernized,

landowning upper classes who are in dire need of reform, who will not be recognized as authentic

Egyptians until they return to that which they have chosen to abandon: the culture, identity,

language, and lifestyle of the masses.

Though it may not have been their intention, ‘Aziza Amir and Hussein Fawzi have left us

with a film that perfectly encapsulates one of the major debates that took center stage in Egyptian

politics and intellectual spaces at this time: that between, on the one hand, Egyptian liberals, who

ardently worked to create a new, ‘civilized’ (i.e. European) Egyptian political community, and on

the other hand, Easternists, who applied a critical view to westernization and advocated for a return

to an ‘Eastern’ spirit. We can understand Murad as representing the liberal reformers, who, as

Maghraoui (2006) writes, turned the Egyptian masses into “the object of an arbitrary and

authoritative discourse telling them how to dress, how to eat, what to read, what to believe, how

to cross the street, how to choose a conjugal partner, how to celebrate a birth, and how to mourn

and bury the dead” (p. 88). We can see “Lady Fifi” as symbolic of the transitional period in

Egyptian history during which a superficial and unstable European-Egyptian identity was crafted

by the elite for the sole purpose of impressing/fooling the Western gaze (which is represented by

Kamal). Here we can also remember from Chapter One the state of ‘in-between-ness’ that

Easternist critics, such as Mansur Fahmy, argued characterized the 1920s; “in adopting the cult of

Europe and becoming infatuated with every passing fashion of thought spanned in Europe, Egypt

was suspended between two worlds, belonging to neither” (Gershoni & Jankowski, 1995, p. 39).

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Farhana, then, specifically in the film’s final scenes, becomes the Easternist movement, which

argued for a return to the authentic Eastern self.

Evidently, the strategic use of a western story to criticize the same westernized upper

classes who so degradingly looked down upon the class of people from which ‘Aziza originates is

a clear refutation of the narrative presented by Raymond William Baker (1974) and others

mentioned in the introductory chapter that “the greed, corruption, and selfishness” (p. 398) of the

ruling classes went unchallenged in pre-revolutionary Egyptian cinema. It must be pointed out that

there are limits, however, to the social criticism and upper class critique presented in The Apple

Seller. First, much like post-revolutionary filmmakers’ criticism of the royal family and ruling

classes in films set in the pre-1952 era, the Apple Seller’s critique of the upper classes is mainly

limited to their moral character, classism, and neglect of their ‘national duties,’ but does not present

any criticism of Egyptian class structure. The film therefore presents “a vilification… that took

place mostly on moral grounds and not because of any ‘analytical political concepts’” (Shafik,

2007, p. 270). Second, by portraying the lower classes as living the happiest of lives and being

content with tirelessly working just to make ends meet, ‘Aziza and Fawzi do not represent the

reality of what it means to be impoverished in Cairo nor do they get to the heart of why poverty

exists in Egypt, a country that has had its land and wealth stolen from its people by the Ottoman

and then Egyptian elite since the beginning of the 1800s.

Importantly, however, one can understand the lack of radical political analysis and social

criticism given the heavy censorship laws of the pre-revolutionary period, which explicitly forbade

depictions of social situations as hopeless. Additionally, both the monarchy and the upper classes

“[were] hostile to the portrayal of Egyptian villages and the working class” (Shafik, 2007, p. 263)

generally, as demonstrated by film critics’ reaction to ‘Aziza’s Layla. Though the film was very

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successful and popular with Egyptian audiences, many intellectuals and critics accused ‘Aziza of

representing Egypt as backward and savage by setting the film in “the huts of peasants” (who,

during this period, made up the majority of the Egyptian population) and “showing Egypt in the

Middle Ages” (Shafik, 2007, p. 263). In the International Guide of Women Screenwriters, the

authors write, “[Critics] were worried that a ‘wrong’ image of Egypt would be perpetuated rather

than the proposed national image of progress and modernity, i.e. images of modern cities and

industrialization” (Nelmes & Selbo, 2015, p. 10). Although ‘Aziza and Fawzi do not represent the

reality of the living conditions in hawari (pl. hara), their glamorization of the impoverished living

spaces ‘Aziza was expected to stay away from, and their demonization of the self-proclaimed

civilized populations who live in Cairo’s ‘modernized’ areas and supposedly represent the

“national image of progress” are defiant in and of themselves given ‘Aziza’s former experiences

with critics and her desperation to return as the leading lady of the Egyptian screen after a six-year

hiatus from cinema. Therefore, given the fact that there was only so much a commercial filmmaker

could do when representing the already unwelcomed image of peasants and the lower classes, I

believe ‘Aziza and Fawzi still managed to effectively interrogate and reverse the narrative

presented by upper-class nationalist and feminist discourse, and reject the idea of the lower classes

holding the nation behind by representing them as the true productive force of the nation.

The Apple Seller’s main political messages can be summarized in its answers to three

central questions that permeate the script from beginning to end: Who is / what does it mean to be

Egyptian? Who is / what does it mean to be an Egyptian nationalist? Who is / what does it mean

to be a (good) Egyptian man or woman? To answer the first question, ‘Aziza and Fawzi build two

rigid binaries: traditional/westernized and religious/nonreligious. In a context where British

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colonialism and secular Egyptian liberalism had posed a direct threat, both real and perceived, to

the various customs, lifestyles, and modes of thinking that had been passed down from one

generation to the next in different parts of Egypt, the difference between “traditional” and

“westernized” was equated with the difference between cultural preservation/survival and cultural

suicide. In the film, to be Egyptian/ to be a member of the Egyptian national community is

portrayed as resistance against externally-influenced change. While at the end of Pygmalion, Eliza

finds herself unable to return to her old lifestyle and behaviour after her drastic transformation at

the hands of Mr. Higgins, Farhana effortlessly shifts between her performance as Fifi Hanem

(though she sometimes makes linguistic/fashion errors that Murad scolds her for) and her authentic

self. When her and Na’na’a are alone in their hotel room, she goes back to eating with her hands,

sitting on the floor, and using colloquial words and phrases associated with the lower classes (“bit

ya Na’na’a” is one example). The decision to add Na’na’a’s character and the two women’s

friendship to the story therefore additionally serves as an outlet through which audiences can be

reassured that Farhana has not changed, despite external influences. As per the second binary -

religious/nonreligious - since religion, specifically Islam, had become increasingly campaigned by

popular cultural figures as a symbol of Egyptian authenticity, abidance by Islamic rules was

included as a requirement of cultural survival. The two binaries are manifested through spatial

differentiation (the hara versus the bar; the hotel lobby, where Farhana is “Fifi Hanem” versus her

and Na’na’a’s hotel room, where she can go back to being herself) and through the juxtaposition

between lower and upper-class characters that appear throughout the film. While tradition and

religiosity are strictly associated with the characters, spaces, and appearances of the lower-classes,

upper-class characters, spaces, and lifestyles are represented as threats to an authentic Egyptian

identity and way of life.

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The second question, “Who is / what does it mean to be an Egyptian nationalist?” is

answered through the moral differentiation between the upper and lower classes that is emphasized

throughout the film and throughout this chapter. The lower-class characters are portrayed as having

integrity, bravery, and gallantry. They also engage in hard, honourable and independent work,

respect the women of their community, take care of their families, and do not pursue extra-marital

relations. At a time when Egyptian leaders were desperate to prove to British colonizers that they

were capable of ruling themselves, each of these characteristics was more than just a marker of

good character; they were markers of a good Egyptian nationalist, as previously discussed. The

upper-class characters, on the other hand, are constantly engaging in extra-marital affairs, wasting

time and money meaninglessly, drinking alcohol, flaunting unearned, inherited wealth, and

neglecting family responsibilities. Therefore, at a time when liberals and secularists (who included,

as discussed in Chapter One, the Wafdists) championed elitist nationalism as the only way forward,

and when students were being taught that a good nationalist meant being orderly and living in

“proper” (i.e. modern, European-inspired) houses, as opposed to “huts, tents, and dark or crowded

quarters,” (Pollard, 2005, p. 120) The Apple Seller explicitly states otherwise.

The final question, “Who is / what does it mean to be a (good) Egyptian man or woman?”

is answered through Farhana’s emasculation of upper-class men. Kamal’s friend group, which

consists of Muhsen Bey (Hassan Fayek), who has an unusually high pitched voice and a hearing

deficiency that leaves him unable to have coherent conversations with people, Omar Bey (Hassan

Mukhtar Saqr), who constantly brags about his young age despite being in his early 50’s, and

Kamal himself, who was formerly engaged to thirteen women and never committed to any of them,

are all mocked and have their masculinity undermined/erased in different ways. The only upper-

class male character who has not been given a comedic or problematic emasculating character trait

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is Murad, who falls in love with Farhana despite her social status, regrets taking advantage of her

for the sake of a bet, and defends Farhana’s honour at the end of the film, thus making him

redeemable in the eyes of the co-writers and audience. In contrast, lower-class men were

characterized as wlad al-balad who are known for their masculinity, gallantry, strength of

character, and loyalty to the family. Masculinity, therefore, becomes an exclusive trait of the men

of the hara that may occasionally be extended to upper-class men like Murad who prioritize

principles over class status. The film’s depictions of gender relations is also quite interesting; while

the upper-class men, specifically Kamal, abuse or disrespect Farhana and other female characters,

the men of the hara are far more respectful. What this tells us is that to be a ‘good’ Egyptian man

means refusing to abuse one’s power, while still fulfilling the responsibilities of a provider; in her

monologue, Farhana scolds the men for neglecting “the women they’re responsible for.”

Therefore, the film’s take on Egyptian masculinity is not a radical deviation from mainstream

understandings of a man’s role in society, but is still an attempt to encourage a more equitable

relationship between men and women. What it means to be a ‘good’ woman is quite multi-layered.

On the one hand, ‘Aziza and Fawzi have created an empowered female protagonist who, with the

final monologue, symbolizes the triumph of Egyptian morals and authenticity and a rejection of

the upper-classes and westernization, thereby bravely locating her as a nationalist hero at a time

when the role of women in the anti-colonial struggle was being widely debated. On the other hand,

the film offers a reproduction of the harmful but widely popular image of a woman’s sexual purity

being a representation of national honour. Therefore, although there are certainly very strong

feminist elements in the film’s representation of women, which become especially prominent when

one compares The Apple Seller with Pygmalion, there are other elements that simply reproduce

the status quo.

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Evidently, as it tackles all three questions about nation, nationalism, and gender, The Apple

Seller centers class identity and class relations, reflecting ‘Aziza’s preoccupation with class

differences. As noted in the World Encyclopedia of Contemporary Theater, ‘Aziza’s “favourite

subject matter was the formidable difference between rich and poor, and in her films it was the

poor who invariably won” (Maleh et al., 1999, p. 27).

The Workshop (1940)

After the success of The Apple Seller, ‘Aziza returns to the screen the following year with

The Workshop, starring many of the same cast members, including Mahmoud Zulfikar (who is

also the co-writer), Anwar Wagdy, and Hassan Mukhtar Saqr. Though some new political

messages are introduced in this film, many of the themes found in The Apple Seller make their

way into The Workshop. The consistency in said political messaging is a confirmation of ‘Aziza’s

selective and purposeful script-writing and evidence that she viewed her films as more than just

escapist entertainment.

The film begins in an automobile repair workshop, where we are introduced to the owner

of the workshop, Osta10 ‘Ali (Istefan Rosti), his mother (Soraya Fakhry), his wife Zeinab (‘Aziza

Amir), her brother ‘Abbas (Anwar Wagdy), and assistant mechanic/family friend Osta Hassan

(Hassan Mukhtar Saqr). Osta ‘Ali bids his family farewell as he prepares to go on a trip to the

desert, telling his wife that if she was not responsible for taking care of their son, he would have

left her in charge of the workshop in his absence. Before he drives off, the Adhan (Islamic call to

prayer) is called, and everyone in the workshop stops what they were doing, listens attentively,

and raises their hands in prayer. After the Adhan, Zeinab prays that God brings her husband back

safely. Interestingly then, both The Apple Seller and The Workshop immediately use Islamic

10 “Osta” is used to refer to various craftsmen; mechanics, technicians, etc.

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markers (Tawasheeh and the Adhan respectively) when introducing their lower/ lower-middle

class spaces. By doing this, it is made clear that the characters are not only Muslim but

pious/devout, which also makes them truly authentic Egyptians, since, as discussed, Islam had

become characterized as a symbol of Egyptian values and traditions in popular nationalist

discourse. Evidently, portrayals of devout Muslim protagonists are a consistent pattern of ‘Aziza’s

films; in fact, the last film of her career, Amint Billah/I Believe in God (1952) is about a mother

who remains steadfast in her faith in God after her baby son is kidnapped, trusting that God will

lead her son back to her. When her and her son are reunited many years later, she looks to the sky

and says “I Believe in God.” The final scene of the film – and of her entire career – is of her

praying.

After sending Osta ‘Ali off on his trip, Zeinab and her family wake up the next morning to

the news that he has died in a car accident. Zeinab’s brother, ‘Abbas (Anwar Wagdy), becomes

the workshop’s new rayyes (supervisor/head of mechanics). Eventually, he becomes an alcoholic

and starts using customers’ money to buy alcohol rather than pay the workers their salary. Since

the rise in alcoholism in Egypt was perceived as a direct result of foreign occupation, (according

to Fahmy, the rates of public drunkenness actually did increase significantly under British rule

[2011, p. 17]) ‘Abbas’ growing addiction represents a direct attack on the moral character of the

workshop, which was formerly occupied by the pious Osta ‘Ali who treated his workers equitably.

Therefore, while in The Apple Seller, a rigid binary was built between the upper and lower classes,

who stood on opposite ends of morality and commitment to Egyptian values, in The Workshop,

we learn that even the lower/lower-middle classes can become vulnerable to the lure of

westernization and western immorality. If we use the workshop as a metaphor for the Egyptian

nation, we learn that the biggest threat to Egypt is western influence. The rest of the film

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interestingly lays out how such threats can be overcome.

After being denied their pay for two weeks, the workers storm into ‘Abbas’ office

demanding their wages, yelling, “We’re more deserving of the money you spend on alcohol,” “We

have houses to care for and children that need to eat,” and “This isn’t work anymore!” When the

workers collectively and repeatedly yell “We want our rights!” (Masr Online Aflam, 2019,

00:12:42 – 00:14:27), Osta Hassan urges the men to leave ‘Abbas’ office, promising that he will

ensure their demands are satisfied. The significance of this scene is better appreciated when one

remembers the argument made by Saiza Nabarawi, mentioned in Chapter One, that a “conscious

lower class” does not exist, and would not exist unless the upper classes take it upon themselves

to elevate the intellectual and moral character of the lower classes. Though she was speaking

specifically of a feminist and nationalist consciousness rather than a class consciousness, the film

demonstrates that workers and those of the lower classes more broadly certainly did not need

intellectual and moral guidance from those higher in rank or status to collectively mobilize against

injustice and demand better conditions for themselves and one another.

The scene is also significant given the censorship laws of the time, which, explicitly

forbade any depictions of political activism (since ‘Aziza’s cinematic success was still relatively

fragile, including such a scene is quite a bold risk on her part). Interestingly, with the 1940s came

a series of films that centred workers’ struggles and sometimes explicitly promoted leftist political

activism. For example, three years after The Workshop was released in 1940 came The Worker/Al-

Amil (1943), which told the story of a young factory worker named Ahmad who leads his

coworkers in a strike and revolt against the factory owners, who are then forced to satisfy the

workers’ demands and improve their working conditions. Unsurprisingly, the film was

immediately censored and has been lost (erased) from Egyptian archives. Other films that dealt

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with workers’ issues include The Son of the Blacksmith/ Ibn Al-Hadad (1944), and The

Appearances/ Al-Mathaher (1945), both of which came a short while after The Workshop. While

many have credited the first Egyptian realist film, Determination/Al-Azeema (1939) with opening

the door for increased representation of the economic crisis and worsening working conditions of

the 1930s, very rarely has The Workshop been credited with adding momentum to the rise of such

representations. This may be in part due to the tendency described in the introductory chapter to

utterly disregard the melodrama genre as entirely incapable of engaging in political themes. Given

that The Workshop is one of the first, if not the first Egyptian film to showcase workers mobilizing

to make their demands rather forcefully, I believe it is an injustice not to credit it with impacting

future films such as The Worker.

When Osta Hassan informs Zeinab about the workers being unpaid, she sells her jewelry

to pay their salaries and decides to fire her brother. The next morning, she dresses in the mechanics’

uniform and goes down to the workshop with her son’s hand in hers. The workers gather around

her, and the following dialogue ensues:

Zeinab: I’m here to cooperate with you. I’m here to work long and tirelessly with you. I’m

here to eat bread [make a living] with you. This workshop is your workshop. You’re the ones who

established it with your hard work and dedication to my husband, Osta ‘Ali.

Workers: God have mercy on his soul.

Zeinab: All I want is for you to care about me the way you cared about him. Look at me

like your sister; your sister who will join you in your happiness and sadness. From now on, there’s

no supervisor and supervised between us. Rather, we are siblings. United. One hand, working

together towards success. Are you ready to cooperate with me?

Workers: We’re ready! We’re all ready!

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Zeinab: You have homes and children to care for. I’m like you, I have an orphaned son

whom I want to raise. And with God’s help, I want to help you in your life affairs, the same way

you will help me. Do you trust what I’m saying?

Workers: We trust you and we’ll sacrifice our necks [our lives] for you. Long live the

workshop! (Masr Online Aflam, 2019, 00:17:39 – 00:18:55)

For much of the remainder of the film, Zeinab works with the men as a mechanic, and she

is referred to and refers to herself only using male pronouns and the name “Osta Zahzah.” There

are two crucial points to be made here. The first point concerns the way in which ‘Aziza and co-

writer Zulfikar chose to resolve the conflict at hand. Rather than simply appointing Zeinab as the

new rayyes who treats her workers better and pays them on time, which still would have been a

satisfying solution for the sake of the story, the writers chose to have her work alongside the

mechanics, and in several scenes she is shown with dirty clothes and a dirty face. Her declaration,

“There’s no supervisor and supervised between us” is quite radical in 1940s Egypt, especially

given the extensive state and colonial violence and harassment targeted against communist and

socialist movement leaders who may have propagated similar slogans (Ismael & El-Sa’id, 1990).

Though it is unclear what ‘Aziza and Zulfikar’s personal motivations may have been behind the

inclusion of such a line, it is worth appreciating how powerful (and risky) it is given the political

circumstances of the time.

This scene is also noteworthy for its self-contradictory take on gender and gender roles. In

her chapter, “Feminism and Femininity,” Shafik (2007) explains that though several films both

before and after the Nasser regime represented women’s employment as a source of empowerment

for both women and the nation, many scriptwriters struggled to depict women who were both good

wives/mothers and successful workers. Working women, particularly those who succeeded and

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were promoted to higher ranks, were often seen as unable to satisfy their husbands or care for their

children (Shafik, 2007). One example of such a film is Aqwa min el Hob/Stronger Than Love

(1953), about a man (Emad Hamdi) who starts developing feelings for another woman after his

wife (Madiha Yousry), a doctor, refuses to prioritize him over her career. Moreover, Shafik (2007)

explains, “The roles of housewife and working woman outside the home are… regarded as

mutually exclusive, if not morally opposed to each other, for they are presented as an alternative

between performing in front of other men or remaining faithful to the (economic and spatial)

confinement of one’s own home and spouse” (p. 123). Therefore, working women were only

commended in films if they were unmarried and child-less, such as the case of Farhana and Na’na’a

in The Apple Seller or the aforementioned Fatma where Umm Kulthum’s character works as a

nurse but then quits after her husband demands her to. Even in such cases, however, said women

only worked when their survival depended on it.

In The Workshop, we witness quite a powerful moment during which Zeinab takes control

over the conflict in the workshop and single-handedly solves it by selling her jewelry to pay the

workers, firing her brother, and replacing him without even notifying him. When she declares that

she will be working alongside the (male) mechanics, she holds her son’s hand and has him stand

in front of her, reassuring both the workers and the audience that she will not abandon the duties

she is expected to fulfill as a mother (as her husband feared at the start of the film). Though we are

led to believe that perhaps Zeinab will accomplish the supposedly un-accomplishable, being both

a working woman and a good mother, we eventually find her abandoning her work for the sake of

motherhood. Halfway through the film, when her son gets injured in an accident, she rushes to

care for him, and never again returns to work, even after he heals. Eventually, when she falls in

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love with Ahmed Bey11 (Mahmud Zulfikar), as I shall discuss, he promises to take control of the

workshop, and thus, with a new man in her life, it is made clear that she need not work again.

Zeinab’s cross-dressing and identification as a man also play an incredibly interesting role

here. The purpose of the cross-dressing can be understood as an avenue through which the writers

can navigate the strict gender roles of the time; though it was common for lower-class women to

work, being a mechanic was a strictly male job. The inconceivability of having a female mechanic

is therefore resolved through this temporary, performative gender switch, which is done despite

the fact that all the workers already know that she is a woman. By dressing Zeinab up as a man,

the writers also ensure that Zeinab does not, as Shafik (2007) writes, “perfor[m] [as a woman] in

front of other men” (123). In other words, since working with and amongst a group that is

comprised entirely of men might be perceived as bordering on the dishonorable, Zeinab protects

her honour by eliminating her femininity/sexuality entirely. Therefore, the power and

progressiveness of depicting a working widow in 1940s Egypt who proves to herself, the workers,

and the audience that she is fully capable of making critical decisions independently, succeeding

in a male-dominated field, protecting the workers’ livelihoods from her brother’s greed, and

keeping the workshop’s operations running smoothly, is somewhat undermined by the fact that

she only does so out of necessity and with the utmost precautions put in place. When she is no

longer needed, or rather, when there is a new man in her life, she goes back to her usual place

inside the home. The complexity of the film with regards to its take on women’s employment

cannot, therefore, be celebrated as an entirely progressive, feminist breakthrough but should also

not be dismissed as regressive/restrictive.

If we continue to imagine the workshop as a metaphor for the nation, we can develop a

11 “Bey” is Turkish word imported to Egypt under Ottoman rule used to refer to a man of high social status.

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deeper understanding of what the film tells us about women’s role in the nationalist struggle. When

the nation is in crisis, they must sacrifice everything and lead their countrymen and women to

victory; however, when the job is done and/or the male politicians and revolutionaries are able to

reclaim their role as the leaders of the struggle, the women – even after having proven themselves

capable of leading and liberating the nation – must return to their homes and support the nationalist

struggle by being loyal wives and sensible mothers. This is precisely what had occurred during

and after the 1919 Revolution; as discussed in Chapter One, women took to the streets in mass

numbers during the revolution and were highly praised by the nation’s leaders for doing so. Once

the revolution’s main demands were met and Sa’d Zaghlul returned from exile, the truly nationalist

woman was no longer the protestor on the street but the mother and wife in the home, and with the

constitution of 1923, women were denied the right to vote. (This experience is not unique to Egypt;

countless scholars have noted an identical turn of events in global liberation movements.)

After all goes well with the workers, Zeinab is introduced to the aforementioned Ahmed

Bey, an upper-class customer who gets his car fixed at the workshop regularly. Awkward and

comedic moments ensue when he believes she is one of the male mechanics and treats her as such.

Viewers also meet his fiancé, Rafi’a, who comes with him to pick up his car, and is shown treating

the workers with arrogance and disrespect. In the following series of scenes, several interesting

and revealing conversations take place. First, Rafi’a walks into her villa with a young man named

Mimi by her side:

Mimi: Rafi’a, you can’t expect me to believe that you would prefer some engineer like

your fiancé over me, your young, chic cousin. He’s going to take away your fun personality and

your freedom.

Rafi’a: My freedom? [Laughs] Impossible. My freedom? [Laughs]

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On the opposite end of the room, we see Rafi’a’s mother playing card games with her friends,

making quite a commotion. Rafi’a then walks towards her father, who wears a Tarbush,12 greeting

him in French:

Rafi’a: Bonsoir Papa!

Rafi’a’s father: Is there no masa el kheir (good evening)? Is there no sabah el kheir (good

morning)? Is there no ‘awafy (well wishes)? Is it bonjour and bonsoir every day? I want to hear

just one Arabic word!

Ahmed Bey then enters the room, greeting his father-in-law-to-be with the Arabic-Islamic

greeting, Assalamu Alaykum (Peace be upon you). Ahmed then turns to Rafi’a and finds her

wearing a backless dress, resulting in the following conversation:

Ahmed: Do you think showing up at a charity event with your back showing is

appropriate?

Rafi’a: And why wouldn’t it be appropriate?

Ahmed: You know my mother will be with us, and she’s a woman who sticks to tradition.

Rafi’a: And how is that my fault? So I have to wear a shall when I’m going out with your

mother? […] I’m free to do whatever I want and I don’t care what anyone says.

Ahmed: In that case, I’m sorry, I can’t take you with me.

Rafi’a: And why be sorry, my dear? Mimi, get me my coat. Everyone is free to go wherever

they please. Mimi, let’s head to the Continental.

[Ahmed pushes Mimi aside]

Rafi’a: What, so I can’t go out with my cousin?

Mimi: Yeah, she can’t go out with her cousin?

12 A red hat, also known as a fez, traditionally worn by men across the Middle East and North Africa.

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Ahmed: I won’t allow you to go out with anyone other than me.

Rafi’a: What right do you have to do that?

Ahmed: I’m your fiancé, and I have that right.

Rafi’a: I don’t care. I’m going out. (Masr Online Aflam, 2019, 00:27:48 – 00:30:47)

After their fight begins to escalate, Rafi’a’s parents get involved. While her mother defends

her, her father defends Ahmed, accusing his wife of corrupting his daughter. He then starts yelling

at the mother, telling her she has turned their house into a club, and yelling at her friends, saying

“Do you not have homes? Do you not have husbands? Do you not have children? Go back to your

houses!” (Masr Online Aflam, 2019, 00:31:53). After Rafi’a’s father and Ahmed are left alone in

the house, Rafi’a’s father turns to Ahmed and says, “Rafi’a is not for you, Ahmed, because she

has been poisoned by the false modernity (el-madaniya el-kadabba) that she learned from her

mother. Go, son, find a girl who was raised the eastern way, who knows your needs and protects

your dignity” (Masr Online Aflam, 2019, 00:32:45). In a later scene, when Rafi’a visits Ahmed’s

office to make up after their fight, he tells her:

“I have some advice for you. I want one of your first priorities to be obedience to and trust

in your husband.”

Rafi’a: I’m not one to cross the limits. I’m willing, my dear, to agree with everything you

say. But I won’t ever allow you to control my freedom.

Ahmed: Freedom has limits, Rafi’a.

Rafi’a: I don’t know limits or rules. I’m raised well enough to be free in my decision

making. No one can control me. And if these are your rules, goodbye (Masr Online Aflam, 2019,

00:35:16 – 00:35:43).

There is quite a lot to unpack here. Let us first begin with what these scenes tell us about

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masculinity. Out of the three men we have recently encountered, only one supports Rafi’a’s right

to live and act as she pleases, and actually implores her to protect “her freedom.” Interestingly, he

is given the name Mimi, which was quite a feminine name in the early 20th century (in The Apple

Seller, Mimi was the name of Kamal’s ex-fiancé), and is portrayed as the weakest in character of

the three men. He is always seen standing or walking behind Rafi’a, and when she orders him to

grab her coat, he immediately does so. Even when he is displeased with Ahmed’s treatment and

gets physically pushed aside, he simply repeats Rafi’a’s interjection. Mimi is therefore more of

Rafi’a’s shadow than his own person. Her father and fiancé, on the other hand, go by the titles

“bey” and “pasha.” In Ahmed’s case, whenever he speaks to her, he either stands in front of her or

even briefly turns his back towards her so that she stands behind him. Both men tell Rafi’a what

to do and what not to do and pose a direct threat to the freedom Mimi warns her they will take

away. The message here, therefore, is that any man who allows a woman to dress revealingly, go

to any place she desires and with whomever she desires, and act upon her own volition in all

aspects of her life, is no man at all. ‘Real men’ put women in their place, stop them when they go

‘too far,’ and refuse to be disobeyed. They also do not allow themselves to appear in public spaces

with a woman dressed revealingly; if they do, their dignity is compromised. Masculinity, then,

becomes more complex than it was in The Apple Seller. Whereas most of the upper-class men in

The Apple Seller, are emasculated and contrasted with the wlad el-balad of the hara, in The

Workshop, upper class masculinity is defined by a man’s relation to and control over women (it is

reasonable to assume that the same standard applies to the film’s lower-class men as well). In her

chapter, Shafik (2007) writes the following about Egyptian cinema’s take on women’s access to

employment: “women's access to power results automatically in the disempowerment of men” (p.

126). Though the context is slightly different, this simple statement can be used to summarize The

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Workshop’s take on masculinity; an increase in women’s personal freedoms (freedom of

movement, freedom of dress, freedom of speech) results in the emasculation of men.

Through this perspective, we can re-analyze Zeinab’s performance as a man. When Ahmed

and “Osta Zahzah” first meet, Ahmed begins to consider Zahzah a close friend, opening up to him

about his troubles and taking him on a work trip. During the trip, Zahzah’s true gender identity is

unintentionally and unknowingly revealed to Ahmed, who decides to continue to treat Zahzah as

a man but becomes increasingly interested in the woman hidden underneath. During this time,

although Zeinab is surrounded by other men and is able to move and travel freely, Ahmed’s

masculinity is not threatened because her femininity/sexuality is concealed. Therefore, performing

as Osta Zahzah serves to protect Ahmed’s masculinity as he begins to develop feelings for Zeinab.

Evidently, Rafi’a and Zeinab are portrayed as opposites of one another, presenting us with

two prototypical images of the “good Egyptian woman” and the “bad Egyptian woman.” Though

there are many differences that set the two women apart, such as their class status and the treatment

of the mechanics at the workshop (Zeinab treats them with kindness and comradery while Rafi’a

is disrespectful and arrogant), the most important and exaggerated difference between the two

women is their relationship to tradition. As soon as Rafi’a is criticized for speaking French rather

than Arabic by her father, she immediately becomes marked as a symbol of westernization. When

Ahmed enters the room and greets Rafi’a’s Tarbush-wearing father with “Assalamu Alaykum,”

we are shown that others of the same class status have managed to escape the effects of

westernization and preserve their Egyptian/Islamic identity. Therefore, unlike the upper-class

characters of The Apple Seller, Rafi’a’s upper class status is not necessarily to blame for her

westernization. Keeping in mind that ‘Abbas has also become a victim of western immorality,

westernization in The Workshop is portrayed as a looming threat that is capable of penetrating the

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minds and homes of all Egyptians, regardless of class. Hence, while at the center of The Apple

Seller is a political tension between the upper and lower classes, The Workshop’s main political

tension is between ‘East’ and ‘West’. Once Rafi’a is marked “western” all her subsequent actions

become a representation of said western-ness. Her dress, her insistence on protecting her freedom,

her disobedience to her fiancé, all become marked as external influences that have no place in

Egyptian society and go directly against Egyptian traditions. In typical ‘Aziza Amir script-writing

style, the implicit becomes explicit when Rafi’a’s father ‘releases’ Ahmed from his commitment

to his daughter, claiming that she has been “poisoned” by “false modernity” and has not been

raised “the Eastern way.” Through this statement, modernity and westernization are made

synonymous, and they stand as the polar opposites of an authenticity that is not only Egyptian but

also Eastern. Once again, echoes and reflections of the Easternism movement emerge in ‘Aziza’s

script.

Zeinab, on the other hand, is marked “traditional” before the film even begins. In Ifdal

Elsaket’s (2019) article on the first Egyptian sound film, Awlad El-Zawat, which depicts a similar

binary between a ‘bad’ westernized/foreign woman and a ‘good,’ traditional Egyptian woman, we

learn that the ‘good’ Egyptian woman was also named Zeinab. “[T]he choice of name, Zaynab,”

writes Elsaket (2019), “anticipates a particular characterization linked to tradition and authenticity.

The name Zaynab had already been linked to such characterizations through [Muhammad] Karim

and [Yusuf] Wahbi’s first film Zaynab, an adaptation of Muhammad Hasan Haykal’s novel from

1914. Zaynab celebrated the ideals of ‘proper’ modern femininity and garnered a whirl of

attention” (p. 215). Therefore, the name selection alone is indicative of the character ‘Aziza Amir

has crafted out for herself. From the very first scene in the film, we see her as a pious woman and

a devoted wife. She later goes as far as firing her own brother in order to protect the workshop

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from his alcoholism/western immorality. Zeinab is therefore not only an adherent of

Egyptian/Eastern/Islamic tradition but a safeguard of it. Thus, while all of Rafi’a’s actions

symbolize a commitment to western values, all of Zeinab’s actions symbolize national/regional

values. According to this narrative, wearing a backless dress does not just represent one woman’s

licentiousness, it becomes an attack on Egyptian identity and morality. Obedience to one’s

husband, which Ahmed does not find in Rafi’a but eventually finds in Zeinab, does not just

represent the supposedly ideal relationship between spouses, it becomes an upholding of Egyptian

identity. Therefore, the same way that protecting one’s honour – as a woman - becomes equated

with protecting the nation’s honour, obeying one’s husband (even at the expense of one’s freedom)

becomes equated with protecting national identity and being a good nationalist. In this way, Rafi’a

becomes vilified as a bad woman and a bad nationalist, while her controlling, patriarchal fiancé is

celebrated for choosing tradition (Zeinab) over westernization (Rafi’a).

The last two observations worth noting about the series of scenes mentioned above revolve

around productivity and family oriented-ness. In The Apple Seller, Kamal and his group of friends

are repeatedly criticized for spending their time on meaningless activities and wasting their

unearned wealth, while Farhana, Na’na’a and all working class people and peasants are seen as

embodying the productive work ethic that is required of any good nationalist. In The Workshop, it

is made clear to us that Ahmed Bey is a hardworking engineer, unlike Mimi, who spends his time

pursuing Rafi’a. Therefore, in both films, hard work and employment are seen as crucial for

securing the success of the collective national future, a message that is consistent with mainstream

nationalist discourse and school curricula of the time. As for family-orientedness, while the men,

particularly the fathers, in The Apple Seller are scolded in Farhana’s final monologue about

neglecting their family responsibilities, in The Workshop, it is the upper-class women who are

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scolded for doing the same. If one was unsure whether or not the two films shared the same script-

writer, they would only need to compare Farhana’s monologue in The Apple Seller - “Do you not

have mothers? Do you not have sisters? Do you not have women you’re responsible for?” - with

Rafi’a’s father’s monologue in The Workshop - “Do you not have homes? Do you not have

husbands? Do you not have children?” This repetition of an almost identical line of questioning

proves the intentionality behind ‘Aziza’s script-writing and her insistence on embedding certain

political messages throughout her work. Although a co-writer in both films, ‘Aziza knew how to

make the scripts her own.

After Ahmed and Zeinab decide to get married, Rafi’a, who is utterly humiliated at the

thought of being replaced by a woman of much lower socio-economic status, and ‘Abbas, who is

jealous of Ahmed since he will soon be in charge of the workshop, plot to break the couple up. A

cross-class alliance has thereby been formed between those representing the West and those

representing the East. Rafi’a tells Zeinab that Ahmed was only pretending to be in love with her,

leading Zeinab to break off her engagement with Ahmed. Heartbroken, Ahmed leaves Zeinab’s

apartment and the following internal monologue plays in the background as he walks down the

street: “Overcome your despair. You are strong! You are a man! What have you lost? The love of

a woman? There’s a love that is more principled and noble: your country! Your king! Sacrifice

your life, your love for them! Join the army, the army, the army" (Masr Online Aflam, 2019,

01:22:24 – 1:22:41). Suddenly, a nationalist song begins to play. A group of men drinking alcohol

and playing cards in surrounding bars hear the song, and, in a Zombie-like way, throw away their

cups and cards, and rush out into the street. One of these men-turned-nationalist-zombies is

‘Abbas. In the next scene, we see army soldiers, including Ahmed and ‘Abbas, saluting the

Egyptian flag while chanting “Long live Farouk, King of Egypt!” They then sing a song titled

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“The Army Gave Me My Freedom.” When Ahmed and ‘Abbas see each other at the military

training camp, ‘Abbas says, “Don’t be surprised [to see me], Ahmed Bey. I used to be a bad person,

but now, I thank God who has guided me to serve my country” (Masr Online Aflam, 2019,

01:26:16). He then confesses his joint plot with Rafi’a to break Ahmed and Zeinab apart.

Eventually, the two are reunited, and just as they are about to marry, Zeinab finds out that her first

husband, Osta ‘Ali, did not actually die but was only lost in the desert, and is therefore separated

from her new love.

If we return to the metaphor of the workshop as nation, we see that the integrity of the

workshop/nation is threatened when ‘Abbas becomes influenced by alcoholism, i.e. western

immorality. It is only when he dedicates his life to defending the nation (by serving in the army)

that he is purified of the evils of westernization and the workshop can return to its former glory.

This is consistent with the narrative put forth in much of the colloquial press, which presented

westernization as the primary obstacle in the way of full independence that can only be overcome

with complete loyalty and devotion to the nation (see Fahmy, 2011; Toni & Zuhur, 2001). Ahmed,

who turns to the army for entirely different reasons, implores both himself and the audience to rise

above past heartbreaks and adversities by loving and serving Egypt and its king. Devotion to the

nation, then, becomes the cure for all troubles, and Egypt becomes the only entity worthy of an

all-encompassing, sacrificial love. The song, “The Army Gave Me My Freedom,” can be

effectively analyzed when one remembers Rafi’a’s constant, almost obsessive use of the word

“freedom.” With this song, we are told that real freedom comes from the nation. “Freedom” that

is influenced or inspired by the West is not freedom at all; only chaos. It is worth noting that

although the “Long Live Farouk, King of Egypt” chant may have been simply used to reflect the

reality of daily life in military training camps, it may be the case that ‘Aziza and Zulfikar

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strategically included this scene to counterbalance the controversial scenes at the beginning of the

film in order to prevent the film from being censored.

Evidently, The Workshop is filled to the brim with political messages. Though it presents

us with quite radical moments, such as the workers invasion of ‘Abbas’ office to demand they be

paid, or Zeinab’s declaration that there will no longer be “supervisor and supervised” (although

she eventually assumes the role of a supervisor), there are limits to this momentary critique of

worker exploitation and the brief representation of political mobilization. Said limits are similar to

those of The Apple Seller in the sense that they stand purely on moral grounds. The workers are

mistreated because of ‘Abbas’ western immorality, and therefore the cure to this mistreatment is a

return to Egyptian morals. The film’s take on gender and gender relations is also somewhat limited

and contradictory. Though it presents us with a courageous, talented, ambitious, successful

working woman (she is eventually able to hire new mechanics, indicating a rise in the number of

customers), this woman is hidden beneath the appearance of a man, which, as discussed, works to

hide/protect her sexuality. The vilification of Rafi’a is also filled with its own paradoxes. On the

one hand, it reproduces mainstream problematic attitudes of gender dynamics at the time; on the

other hand, however, it challenges colonial and nationalist praises of modernity and demonstrates

a very critical view of the association between modernization and westernization. When Rafi’a’s

father criticizes her mother for poisoning her with a “false modernity,” he suggests that an embrace

of all western values does not necessarily equate to modernity; we can be ‘modern’ without

changing who we are. This is reflective of Easternists’ belief that while replicating European

advances in technology and infrastructure may be beneficial to the country, Egyptian morals,

traditions, and culture must remain untouched. This is further demonstrated in the film using

Ahmed’s profession; choosing to make Ahmed an engineer is certainly not an uncalculated

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decision on ‘Aziza and Zulfikar’s part. Ahmed represents “true modernity,” he works to

industrialize/modernize the country while simultaneously preserving Egyptian traditional values

and authenticity.

To conclude, let us summarize how The Workshop answers the three questions explored

previously: Who is / what does it mean to be Egyptian? Who is / what does it mean to be an

Egyptian nationalist? Who is / what does it mean to be a (good) Egyptian man or woman? The

answer to the first question is quite similar to the one offered in The Apple Seller. ‘Aziza and

Zulfikar maintain the same two binaries: traditional/westernized and religious/nonreligious to

explore Egyptian identity. In direct contradiction to the messages of Egyptian liberal reformers,

The Workshop makes it clear that to be a member of the Egyptian national community is to

preserve one’s cultural and religious practices against external forces, even if it means risking

one’s relationship with close relatives or romantic partners. Unlike The Apple Seller, however,

Egyptian authenticity is not restricted to the lower classes; it is shared amongst all those who refuse

to succumb to western, un-Islamic immorality.

The answer to the second question is quite multilayered. While some of the same messages

found in The Apple Seller are replicated, such as the emphasis on productivity and on dedication

to the family – from both mothers and fathers – new elements are also added. In the Workshop,

being a good nationalist becomes deeply intertwined with being a good woman. To be a good

woman is not only to protect one’s honour and sexuality, as previously discussed, but to abide by

the expected gender dynamics of the time. To obey one’s fiancé/ husband is not only a requirement

for being a good Egyptian woman but also for being a good and loyal nationalist. Though men are

also expected to abide by the same gender dynamics, it is their masculinity but not necessarily

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their nationalism that is at stake if they transgress. An additional requirement for women is to step

into positions of leadership in times of national emergency without lingering too long; once men

are ready to return as leaders, women are expected to return to their homes. Lastly, being a good

nationalist also means loving and prioritizing the nation above all else, which is demonstrated

through Ahmed and ‘Abbas’ commitment to the army.

The answer to the third and final question, “Who is / what does it mean to be a (good)

Egyptian man or woman?”, shares both similarities and differences with the one provided in The

Apple Seller. In both films, to be a (good) Egyptian woman is to remain sexually pure and work

whenever necessary. In The Workshop, there is the added requirement of being good fiancés,

wives, and mothers. Once again, ‘Aziza Amir’s character is a brave, honorable, morally conscious,

selfless protagonist, giving audiences the message that to be a good Egyptian woman is to be like

Zeinab. To be a (good) Egyptian man, on the other hand, is less class-based than it is in The Apple

Seller. Any man of any socioeconomic status is capable of being a hard and conscientious worker,

a good nationalist, and a strong, masculine, and productive family man – so long as they stick to

Egyptian traditions and values and control the women in their lives when they transgress the

Egyptian moral compass.

Conclusion

Growing up at a time when Egypt was undergoing unprecedented, transformative changes

and nationalist sentiment was almost tangible, ‘Aziza Amir viewed her artistic journey as

intimately connected to that of the nation’s. On different occasions, she referred to herself as “the

daughter of Egypt,” “the daughter of the Nile,” and “the mother of Egyptian cinema,” thereby

consistently positioning herself as the product of Egypt’s past and an innovator of Egypt’s future.

Her films, therefore, had a nationalist purpose; they meant more to her than mere entertainment.

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‘Aziza understood the potential of films to contribute to, challenge, and reproduce nationalist and

feminist discourse and to shape the conceptualization of Egyptian identity. Throughout this

chapter, I have demonstrated that behind each line, each dialogue, each monologue, each sub-plot

of The Apple Seller and The Workshop lay a political message, be it progressive or problematic,

controversial or a simple reproduction of the status-quo. I have also demonstrated that ‘Aziza was

heavily influenced by the Easternism movement of the time, and that her work undoubtedly played

an active role in echoing, visualizing, and making accessible the ideas and arguments of

Easternists. Her role – and, by extension, the role of women in pre-revolutionary Egyptian cinema

- in laying the foundation for the Pan-Arab nationalism and (so-called) Arab socialism that would

reach its peak during Gamal ‘Abdel-Nasser’s era must therefore not be underestimated. It is my

hope then, that, as promised at the beginning of this chapter, I was able to encourage readers to

listen closely to ‘Aziza ‘Amir’s political voice.

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Chapter Three

Fatma Rushdie

[A]cting requires effort and involves thinking. It requires creativity and exhaustion, but it’s an enjoyable exhaustion, because its message to society is more important and greater than the role of singing.

-   Fatma Rushdie, My Struggle in Theater and Cinema, 1971

This chapter tells the story of Fatma Rushdie, an extraordinary woman of lower-class origins

who stepped into the Egyptian entertainment scene when she was less than 10 years old and

eventually became the first female theater director, the second woman to own and lead her own

theatrical troupe, and the second female film director after ‘Aziza Amir. Drawing mainly upon her

memoires and interviews I begin the chapter with a short biography, examining how her life was

shaped by the leading Egyptian cultural figures around her as well as the political and economic

circumstances of the time. I then offer some insight into her theatrical career, focusing specifically

on her contributions to the making of national identity and nationalism and exploring her belief in

the power of theater to resist against European imperialism across the Arab world. After exploring

some of her theatrical works, I move onto analyzing her films, though my analysis is structured

quite differently from my analysis of ‘Aziza Amir’s works in Chapter Two. Since Fatma Rushdie

was not a screenwriter, I focus instead on her decisions as an actress, examining themes/patterns

that emerge repeatedly in the films she chose to star in. I focus on four of her films in particular,

namely Al-Azeema/Determination (1939), Al Tareeq al-Mustaqeem/The Straight Path (1943), Al-

Taesha/The Reckless One (1946), and Gharam El-Shuyoukh/Old Men’s Infatuation (1946). I also

make some reference to Al-‘Amil/The Worker (1943). I argue that there are two main themes that

emerge when analyzing the films, one which unites The Straight Path and The Reckless One, and

one which unites Determination and Old Men’s Infatuation. Both themes are intimately related to

gender, class, national identity, and nationalism. The first theme revolves around the crafting of

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“ideal Egyptian womanhood” through the femme fatale embodied by Fatma Rushdie. The second

revolves around the many power imbalances of Egyptian society, and how they often intersect to

create especially harsh conditions for the most marginalized Egyptians. Throughout the chapter, I

demonstrate that each of Fatma’s13 films were chosen carefully by her and with a deep

understanding of the director’s intended political or social message.

Life of Fatma Rushdie

Fatma Rushdie was born Fatma Adry in Alexandria in 1908. Like ‘Aziza Amir, her father

died when she was young, leaving behind a small and impoverished family comprised of Fatma,

her mother, and her two sisters (my account of Fatma Rushdie’s life is based on the following

sources: Al-Beely, 2017; Dream Art, 2019; Maspero Zaman, 2018; Maspero Zaman, 2019;

Moberly, 2016; “Fatma Rushdie”, 2014; NiceQ8i, 2019; Rubin et al., 1999; Rushdie, 1971). As a

young child, Fatma, her older sister Ratiba, and her mother would travel the streets of Alexandria

every night to go to Masrah Amin ‘Atallah, a local theater where Ratiba worked as a singer in

order to provide for her family. In her memoires, Fatma writes, “I would listen to my sister sing

while I sat in the hall, and I would repeat the songs in a low voice no one else could hear but me.

When Fathiya Ahmed – who would become the singer adored by both the north and south [of

Egypt] – would come on stage after her and sing, I would repeat her songs until I memorized them

by heart” (Rushdie, 1971, p. 12). After several hours of performances that would only end after

midnight, Fatma, Ratiba, and their mother would return home. Therefore, whereas a young ‘Aziza

Amir found her artistic inspiration in movie theatres, the young Fatma found hers in the singing

performances of the stage. At around nine years old, Fatma began sneaking backstage, where she

13 From this point forward I will be referring to Fatma Rushdie using her first name rather than her surname. I follow in the footsteps of Beth Baron, who finds using women’s first names more appropriate when the goal is to engage in a feminist recovery of their history.

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would closely observe the singers’ performances, often copying them and singing along. One

night, after a disagreement with Fathiya Ahmed that led to her refusing to perform, theatre owner

Amin ‘Atallah asked Fatma to sing in her place. Fatma recalls his request, “‘I heard you sing Tel’et

ya Mahla Norha [The One with the Beautiful Light has Come Out] backstage, what do you think

of singing it in front of the audience, and I’ll give you a piece of chocolate?” (Rushdie, 1971, p.

13). Suddenly, at less than 10 years old, Fatma found herself standing in front of a large crowd,

who, she recalls, were astonished by her performance and celebrated her with a great round of

applause. On this very night, Fatma’s career on stage began.

In the audience that night was the Egyptian musical genius Syed Darwish, whose song

Fatma had just sung charmingly. Impressed by her talent and stage presence, he demanded ‘Atallah

take him to the young girl’s mother, to whom he guaranteed a bright future for her daughters on

the condition that the family moves to Cairo. Darwish also gave the mother ten Egyptian pounds

with which she could travel to Egypt’s artistic capital. And so, “for the sake of bread [i.e. making

a living] and in search of a better future,” (Rushdie, 1971, p. 11) writes Fatma, the family moved

to the country’s capital, where the arts scene was quickly flourishing. It was after her arrival in

Cairo that Fatma’s name was changed from Fatma Adry to Fatma Rushdie, since there had already

been a relatively well-known Fatma Adry at the time (Gamil-al-Maghazi, 2018). At around the

same time that Fatma and her family were preparing to embark on their new journey in Cairo, the

1919 Revolution was quickly approaching, and Egyptian collective consciousness would soon be

transformed forever.

After being introduced by Syed Darwish to Egyptian comedic legend Naguib al-Rihani,

Fatma was able to secure a job as a singer in one of the many casinos of ‘Imad El-Din Street,

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known as the heart of Cairo’s entertainment scene. After spending some time working as a singer,

she recalls,

There was a famous coffeehouse called Rodium on Imad el Din street where the men of the

arts, literature, and journalism used to spend their time. I started to think, after finishing

my work every evening, am I not an artist too? If the audiences of Al-Bisfoor [the casino

she worked at] would applaud me when I appear on stage and after I finish my performance,

am I not worthy of including myself amongst the people of art and literature who go to this

famous coffeehouse? (Rushdie, 1971, p. 18)

Fatma, who was still a young girl at the time, decided to visit the coffee house and join some of

the nation’s biggest cultural producers and literary figures in their daily gatherings. Though this

group of men treated her as no more than a child, often spoiling her with chocolate, she recalls

listening attentively to their discussions, which were undoubtedly filled with ideas and reflections

on the future of the arts in what was now post- (1919) revolutionary Egypt. The group included

Naguib al-Rihani, Ibrahim Ramzi, Ibrahim-al Masri, Ayman Sedqi, among others, but the two men

who would have the most transformative impact on Fatma were theater director Aziz ‘Eid and

writer Muhammad Taymour (Rushdie, 1971).

‘Eid and Taymour were the first to notice Fatma’s potential to be a successful theater

actress, and took on the responsibility of hiring Egypt’s best Qur’anic recitation and Arabic

language instructors to teach her how to read, write, and speak fluently in Fusha (Modern Standard

Arabic). Since many plays at this time were performed in Fusha, it was crucial that actors and

actresses mastered the language and perfected its pronunciation, and there was no better way of

achieving this than by learning how to recite the Qur’an.14 Along with learning the language, Fatma

14 It is widely known that Umm Kulthum was also taught how to properly recite the Qur’an as soon as she started her career in Cairo in order to perfect her pronunciation and enunciation while singing.

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was also taught Islamic, Arab, and Egyptian history. ‘Eid would take her to the Egyptian museum

where, she writes, she was “introduced to our ancient Egyptian relics, and… their great history. I

used to stand there shocked and in awe in front of Tut Ankh Amun’s monument, which was

exceedingly beautiful and majestic” (Rushdie, 1971, p. 44). Fatma was also assigned to read the

most iconic European novels and plays (translated into Arabic) which, as I shall explore, left a

great mark on her theatrical career. After her training, ‘Eid believed Fatma was prepared to take

to the stage to participate in her first play. He had her perform alongside him in a play titled, “The

Red Village,” a story about village ‘Umdas (chiefs) who exploit and abuse their people (Rushdie,

1971, p. 20). Fatma played a young village girl whom the ‘Umda would attempt to rape.

It is important to pause here and reflect on this incredibly eventful, transformative period

in Fatma’s life. Within the span of just a few years, she went from being illiterate to mastering one

of the world’s most difficult languages. She was able to connect with the pioneers of Egyptian art,

theatre, and literature, whose passion for storytelling she undoubtedly absorbed and whose

imaginations for the future of the nation and its arts she was able to envision and perhaps even

participate in creating. During this time, the 1919 Revolution had erupted and semi-independence

from British rule was granted, taking nationalist sentiments to new heights and sparking new life

into Egyptian cultural spaces. Narrations of ancient Egyptian history, which Fatma was being

introduced to for the first time, had become imbued with nationalist undertones and a longing for

freedom and independence. Fatma also learned much about Arab and Islamic history and was

assigned to read some of the oldest Arabic stories and folkloric tales that had been passed on from

generation to generation. We can assume that through this education and training, her Arab identity

became all the more central to her, and perhaps she began to see herself as intimately connected

not only to her fellow Egyptians with whom she shared a collective national identity and heritage

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but also with the people of the Arab world more broadly. Lastly, her very first play, “The Red

Village,” not only opened her eyes to some of the class and gender-based oppressions facing

Egyptians but also taught her how to use art to directly expose, challenge, and intervene in said

oppression. As we shall see, all of these experiences deeply shaped her career and outlook as an

artist until the very end of her life.

In 1923, Yusuf Wahbi and ‘Aziz ‘Eid established the Ramsis Theater Troupe, which Fatma

immediately joined. “With the creation of the Ramsis troupe,” recalls Fatma in one of her later

interviews, came a “nahda (renaissance) for the country. It was a great artistic, literary nahda …

It made people wake up. The plays addressed problems, they encouraged revolution, they spoke

about tyranny, they spoke about ignorance” (Gamil-al-Maghazi, 2018, 00:05:23 – 00:05:50). It is

unsurprising then, that both ‘Aziza Amir and Fatma Rushdie, who started their careers with the

Ramsis troupe (and likely crossed paths during the brief time they were in the troupe

simultaneously), continued to make films and choose roles with a wider social/political purpose in

mind.

Throughout her time at the Ramsis Troupe, Fatma met with, learned about, and drew

inspiration from various female actresses. In the early days of the troupe, she recalls playing minor

roles, including those of young boys, while the lead roles – sometimes even the male ones15 - went

to older actresses such as Rose Al-Yusuf, whom Fatma especially admired and refers to as a

“brilliant actress” (Rushdie, 1971, p. 38). During this time, she also became enamored with

American actress Pearl White, known for performing her own stunts (Rushdie, 1971, p. 41).

Another one of Fatma’s role models was legendary French theater actress Sarah Bernhardt.

(Though she makes no mention of ‘Aziza Amir in her memoires or interviews, we know that the

15 Actress and journalist Rose al-Yusuf played Charles Dickens most renowned fictional character, David Copperfield.

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two women must have crossed paths during this time, since they had both joined the troupe in

1923/24.) As she got older, Fatma eventually became one of Ramsis’ leading ladies, and in

appreciation of her talent as an actress, ‘Eid bestowed upon her a nickname she would be known

by until this very day: “Sarah Bernhardt of the East” (Rubin et al., 1999, p. 25). Both Sarah

Bernhardt and Fatma Rushdie were known for taking on lead male roles such as that of Hamlet,

which made it easier for audiences who were familiar with the French actress to make the

connection between the two women. Therefore, while ‘Eid and Taymour took responsibility for

Fatma’s offstage education and practice, it was a diverse group of women like Rose Al-Yusuf,

Pearl White, Sarah Bernhardt, and earlier, Fathiya Ahmed who gave her the on-screen inspiration

she needed to eventually become one of the most well-known female stage actresses in Egyptian

history.

The years 1924-1927 also marked an important, transformational and eventful period in

Fatma’s life. In 1924, despite their drastic age difference (twenty-four years), ‘Eid confessed his

love for his young student and converted to Islam in order to marry her. In 1925, she had her first

and only daughter, ‘Aziza. Though they divorced a short number of years later due to what Fatma

refers to as ‘Eid’s over-controlling jealousy, it is difficult to find a single memoire or interview

where she does not speak of him with complete respect and admiration. Later in her life, she made

it a point to write his biography. Her career also underwent a complete transformation when a

disagreement with Yusuf Wahbi and fellow actress Zeinab Sedqui led to Fatma leaving the Ramsis

troupe. In 1927, at just nineteen years old, she formed The Fatma Rushdie Troupe, making her the

second woman in Egyptian history, after the singer Munira al-Mahdiyya, to establish a theatrical

troupe, and the first to establish an acting company of this size. She also became the first female

theater director in Egyptian history. Even when she was not directing, Fatma’s influence on her

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troupe remained powerful. In his article on one of her performances, David C. Moberly (2016)

quotes an English professor who attended her troupe’s plays and remarked, “‘the actor in England

[is] nothing but a chess piece in the hand of the director, ... but I see in Egypt the opposite of this’”

(p. 15). “He points out the freedom,” Moberly (2016) writes, “with which Rushdī moved about the

stage, and the prestige and recognition she received from the public in comparison to her director”

(p. 15).

When we remember that ‘Aziza Amir’s Layla was released during the same year, we can

recognize 1927 as a monumental year for Egyptian women cultural producers. Both ‘Aziza and

Fatma were proving themselves critical for the advancement not only of Egyptian art and culture

but of Egyptian nationalist and feminist progress. This is not only due to the fact that Layla and

the birth of the Fatma Rushdie Troupe were celebrated as nationalist achievements but also because

‘Aziza’s film and the plays put on by Fatma’s troupe during this year presented explicitly political

content, as explored in the last chapter and will be further explored in this one. The two women’s

achievements also significantly advanced the push for women’s visibility and access to public

space in Egypt, as discussed with regards to Layla in Chapter Two. I re-iterate, therefore, that it is

simply unfair to discuss the contributions and successes of the Egyptian and even Arab feminist

movement without crediting cultural figures like ‘Aziza and Fatma for re-defining the gender-

based spatial dynamics of Egyptian society. Importantly, ‘Aziza and Fatma were also two women

of lower-class origins, and yet not only were they working alongside or leading teams of Pasha’s

and Bey’s, but even directly competing with them; Fatma’s troupe became the Ramsis troupe’s

greatest competitor. It would therefore not be an exaggeration to recognize 1927 as a momentous

year for Egyptian lower-class women’s cultural production.

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One season after another, the Fatma Rushdie Troupe presented dozens upon dozens of

plays, mainly based on translated stories by European writers. Several of these plays were also

presented by the Ramsis troupe, sometimes even at the same time, which created a fierce

competition between Yusuf Wahbi and Fatma Rushdie. Ramsis and the Fatma Rushdie troupe

became two of the most successful troupes in the country and in the Arab world, and audiences

and critics frequently compared the two troupes’ performances, set designs, and translations of the

original works (Moberly, 2016). Rushdie continued to take on both male and female lead roles,

which made her a major competitor of male and female actors. The Fatma Rushdie troupe’s

successes were not confined to its work in Egypt, however. Starting in 1929, the troupe is known

to have travelled across the Arab world, performing in the biggest theatres of Beirut, Homs, Yaffa,

Baghdad, Marrakech, Algiers, and Tunis. The significance and influence of said trips will be

discussed later in this chapter, when I delve deeper into Fatma’s theatrical career.

At around the same time that Fatma established her theatrical troupe, she also established

a career in cinema. In 1928, one year after Layla, Fatma starred in two silent films, Fage’a Fawq

al-Haram/Tragedy atop the Pyramid, and Taht Samaa’ Masr/ Under the Egyptian Sky.

Unfortunately, however, due to poor technical quality, the films were heavily criticized by critics

and did not succeed with Egyptian audiences, rendering Fatma’s first cinematic experiences

failures. In 1933, one year after the first Egyptian sound-film, Awlad El-Zawat/ Sons of Aristocrats

(1932) was released, Fatma took a second shot at cinema. At just twenty-five years old, she wrote,

directed, produced, and starred in Al-Zawag/The Marriage, making her the second Egyptian

woman director and screenplay writer in Egyptian cinema. The Marriage told the story of a young

lower-class woman named Salma who is forced by her father to marry a man she does not love as

opposed to the man she always has. After attempting to escape and reunite with her love interest,

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her husband calls the police and demands they return her to him in accordance with the Egyptian

Bayt al-Ta’a (House of Obedience) Law, which allows police officers to force a woman who has

left her home back to her husband. After being chased by the police, Salma throws herself in front

of a speeding car, taking her life (Moberly, 2016, p. 18). Though several accounts of her life have

reported that Fatma burned the only surviving copy of The Marriage, the film is quite reflective

of what the rest of her career would look like; tackling forced marriages and the House of

Obedience Law, two horrific patriarchal practices, as well as filming in southern, Andalusian Spain

to stir “the nationalist spirit of the Arabs’ and [remind] them of their great past,” (Rushdie, 1971,

as cited in Moberly, 2016, p. 18) are indicative of the types of films Fatma would choose to

participate in, as I will explore.

Fatma did not take up directing or writing again, but produced about four films and went

on to star in about 14 others. Her most well-known character is that of Fatma in Al-

‘Azeema/Determination (1939), the first realist film in Egyptian cinema, which I will discuss later

in this chapter. After retiring in the late 1950s, Fatma went on to write her own memoires,

reportedly becoming the first actress to do so. She continued to be loved by Egyptian audiences

and held in very high regard by cultural and artistic figures. She received many awards, honours,

and had a street in Cairo named after.16

Unfortunately, much like ‘Aziza Amir, Fatma spent everything she owned on theater and

cinema. The last several years of her life where therefore plagued with financial insecurity and

poverty. It is commonly reported that she was at one point unable to afford a place to live in the

very street named after her. It is also commonly reported that renowned actor Farid Shawqi had

16 My grandmother has lived on Fatma Rushdie Street since before I was born. I have walked down this street countless times throughout my life and grew up hearing Fatma Rushdie’s name before I ever learned who she was or watched any of her films. It feels surreal to now be writing a thesis on this legendary woman and the exciting career she led.  

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learned about Fatma’s financial condition and expressed public outrage that such an icon of the

Egyptian arts would be forced to live poor and alone. He then reportedly supported her in securing

a decent place to live and cared for her expenses. Nonetheless, Fatma spent her last days living

alone in a small apartment located in an impoverished town in Sinai (NiceQ8i, 2019). She was

therefore born into poverty and died in poverty, despite the extraordinary contributions she made

in between. By an almost sad irony, she was once again forced to endure the wealth inequalities

and harsh realities of poverty in Egypt that many of her films were dedicated to exposing and

challenging. It is my hope that this chapter offers a new perspective and appreciation of the works

and contributions of a far too underappreciated woman.

Fatma Rushdie on Stage

Before discussing Fatma Rushdie’s filmography, I must first delve into her theatrical

career, since it is difficult to understand her contributions to the making of Egypt’s national identity

and nationalism without exploring her work as the owner, star, and occasional director of the Fatma

Rushdie troupe. Established in 1927, the troupe presented over 200 plays, many of which, like the

Ramsis troupe’s works, were translations or adaptations of European plays/novels/operas. In my

discussion on Egyptian liberal reformists, particularly secular nationalists, in Chapter One, I

explained that they strongly rejected Egypt’s Arabo-Islamic identity and history and completely

denied any connection to surrounding Arab countries. They believed instead that Egypt was closer

to Europe in racial identity and history than it was to the Orient, and that the development of an

authentic Egyptian culture bereft of all Arab and Ottoman influence could only occur if Egyptian

literary and cultural figures modeled their work after iconic European cultural texts. So, if Fatma

Rushdie spent much of her theatrical career performing adaptations of European plays and novels,

does this qualify her as a ‘liberal reformist,’ the likes of whom, as discussed previously, are Salama

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Musa, Taha Husayn, ‘Abbas el-‘Aqqad, and others? Was her goal of familiarizing the Egyptian

masses with the works of European playwrights and novelists in line with secular nationalists’

obsession with European culture and their attempts to reform and ‘civilize’ (i.e., westernize) the

Egyptian nation?

To answer this question it is important to look first to how Fatma herself understood the

significance and implications of her work on stage. In an interview later in her life, she explains,

“we would [perform] world-renowned foreign plays and fight against occupation and oppression”

(Maspero Zaman, 2018, 00:02:32). Remembering her travels with her troupe across Egypt and the

Arab world, she says,

When I went to the Arab countries, those Arab countries started waking up; “How are we

colonized? How can we not demand independence? Egypt is so great! Look at what these

troupes have made us aware of." So naturally, when I was working there, the colonizers

would come to me and say, “Madam, please leave and go back to Egypt.” I said, “Why?”

[They said,] “You’re encouraging people to revolt against us!” I said, in Arabic, “No, we’re

doing the plays that were written by your great writers” (Maspero Zaman, 2018, 00:03:25

– 00:03:53).

One such a play was Saint Joan by George Bernard Shaw, which told the story of the renowned

Joan of Arc, a young teenaged girl from France who waged a military campaign against the British

during the Hundred Years’ War (1337-1453) between England and France. Though temporally,

culturally, and geographically disconnected from Egyptian or Arab audiences of the late 1920s,

Joan’s mission to liberate her homeland from British occupation undoubtedly struck a chord with

those suffering under British, Italian, and even French imperialism. Her ability to lead a revolt and

achieve great military successes at such a young age and her background as an illiterate peasant

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must have also inspired the weakest and most marginalized of audience members, sparking hope

that they too could do the same. Women and girls watching the play must have also been

particularly moved, especially at a time when Egyptian and Arab feminist movements saw

themselves as intimately connected to the anti-imperialist struggle.

Beyond re-telling Joan of Arc’s seemingly mythical tale, Shaw’s play also offers a critical

examination of and attack on the British political system that captured, interrogated, and ultimately

executed Joan at just nineteen years old. Analyzing Shaw’s play, Julie Stone Peters (2004) explains

that while writing in 1923, he recognized that not much had changed about that very political

system; “the tyrannical international order of the Church and the feudal aristocracy has not, after

all, melted into air, but simply been replaced with another one, the tyrannical international order

of colonialism. Britain’s repression of Irish resistance, Shaw points out in the preface, is as

violently intolerant as the Inquisition’s repression of those who resisted its supremacy” (p. 361).

Elsewhere in his preface, Shaw charges the courts that executed Joan with representing “as much

anti-prisoner, pro-police, class and sectarian bias as we now take for granted in our own courts”

(1924, as cited in Peters, 2004, p. 359). Saint Joan therefore took the already malleable tale of Joan

of Arc and added to it a timely political commentary that deeply resonated with global anti-

imperialist discourse of the 1920s. It is also expected that local adaptations of the play, such as

that performed in Egypt, adjusted/developed Shaw’s critiques to fit their own political

circumstances. Choosing to present this play, therefore, was a clever decision made by Fatma

Rushdie. By criticizing, attacking, and inspiring resistance against the British empire using the

very plays written by the most celebrated British literary icons, Fatma’s troupe was able to

weaponize the very literary tradition and culture used by the British to flaunt their supposed

supremacy, against them.

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Other European plays adapted and performed by Fatma Rushdie’s troupe were David

Copperfield by Charles Dickens, Las Dame aux Caméliax by Alexandre Dumas fils, and Ruy Blas

by Victor Hugo, all of which offer interesting commentary on class relations and demonstrate the

need for certain political and social reforms. Without access to the Egyptian translations, it is

difficult to explore how said reforms were understood and portrayed once adapted to the

national/regional context; however, as mentioned previously, Fatma informs us in her interviews

that the plays performed by both her and the Ramsis troupe “addressed problems, they encouraged

revolution, they spoke about tyranny, they spoke about ignorance” (Gamil-al-Maghazi, 2018,

00:05:41 – 00:05:50). We can assume, therefore, that like colonial officials, repressive state

authorities as well as the large landowning class also found themselves under scrutiny when

watching said plays. Evidently then, though the secular nationalists may have been satisfied to

learn that the Fatma Rushdie troupe was regularly performing European plays, Fatma makes it

clear that her intentions were entirely different than theirs. To her, performing European plays was

a means of resistance against enslavement, occupation, and oppression. Time and time again, she

tells us that she dedicated her theatrical work to raising nationalist consciousness across Egypt and

the Arab world.

One might ask, however, if Fatma Rushdie sought to use theater as a form of resistance, why

did she resort to the works of Europeans as opposed to those of Egyptian playwrights? In his book

on the history of theater censorship in Egypt, Syed ‘Ali Isma’il (2018) explains between 1925 –

1936, when Egyptian theatre was most popular, “…the censorship at this time used to serve

statesmen and the foreign occupation” (p. 55). Plays written by Egyptian playwrights that included

even the slightest bit of political content or reflected the difficult realities of the political and

economic circumstances of the time were therefore either banned or endlessly postponed. Several

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Egyptian playwrights, such as Uthman Hamdy, Qilada Mikhaeil, Lateef Ibrahim, Hussein Fahmy,

Syed al-Gamal, and others either ended their careers as playwrights or significantly decreased their

output after receiving multiple rejections and bans from the theater censorship bureau (Isma’il,

2018, p. 122). Fatma Rushdie also recalls in an interview having her troupe shut down for a week

after presenting political content. Interestingly, however, Isma’il (2018) explains that translated

European plays were not subject to any censorship restrictions. He writes, “…any play that [was]

translated or Arabized [was] given permission by the theater censorship authority without any

limitations or conditions” (Isma’il, 2018, p. 55). Why? Because according to censorship authority,

the play, “even if it ha[d] subtle [political] symbols or projections… [was] tied to western countries

and ha[d] no relationship to Egyptian society or Egyptian politics” (Isma’il, 2018, p. 55).

Nevertheless, the similarities, however limited, between the socio-political struggles faced by

European characters and those faced by the Egyptian/Arab masses could not have been lost on

Fatma’s audiences. This is evidenced by the aforementioned fact that colonizers in other Arab

countries often objected to Fatma performing her regularly scheduled plays out of fear of anti-

colonial revolt. European plays such as those mentioned earlier were therefore instrumental in

taking up some of the issues that Egyptian playwrights were banned from discussing, and the

performance of said plays was a critical and clever way to avoid censorship in Egypt.

It is also important to note that the Fatma Rushdie troupe did not solely perform European

plays. The troupe also performed several plays written by Egyptians that were either based on Arab

folktales or on different episodes of Egyptian, Arab, and/or Islamic history. The renowned

Egyptian poet Ahmed Shawqi, known in Egypt as Amir Al-Shu’ara (The Prince of Poets) wrote

four plays specifically for Fatma Rushdie’s troupe. The first, Majnun Layla/Layla’s Mad Lover,

told the famous 7th century love story between Qays and Layla, known as “the Romeo and Juliet

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of the East,” who were the subjects of 12th century Persian poet Nezami Ganjawi’s famous poetry.

The second play, Amirat al-Andalus/Princess of Andalusia was set in Andalusian Spain during

and after the fall of Abbadid rule,17 and told the story of King Al-Mu’tamid bin Abbad and his

daughter, Princess Buthaina bint Al-Mu’tamid. The third was Masra’ Kilyubatra/ The Death of

Cleopatra, which was about the last 10 days of Cleopatra’s life, attempted to ‘rescue’ Cleopatra

from the Orientalist depictions of European writers. The fourth was ‘Ali Bey El-Kbeer/‘Ali Beck

the Grand which was a re-writing of his earlier play about the 18th century Mamluk ruler of Egypt

who was later betrayed by his friend and general, Abu al-Dahab (Rubin et al., 1999, p. 82). While

the first two plays drew upon the very Arabo-Islamic history which secular nationalists were

attempting to erase and disconnect from entirely, the second two plays covered nationalistic

themes, portraying both Cleopatra and Ali Bey El-Kbeer as nationalist heroes who prioritized

Egypt above all else.18 That the founder of the Arabic verse play (Rubin et al., 1999, p. 82) and

one of the most prominent literary figures in Egypt chose to write said plays specifically for

Fatma’s troupe – while forfeiting any financial compensation – signifies the leading role her troupe

played in promoting the Egyptian arts and its ability to take on such artistically demanding plays.

Fatma’s troupe also played an active role in disseminating the arts to the masses and

promoting a shared national culture by increasing accessibility to the theatre in two main ways.

First, Fatma was the first troupe leader at this time to offer discounted tickets to students. When

secondary school students were assigned to read Shakespeare’s Julius Ceasar, which Fatma’s

troupe was performing, she set up free show times for students and arranged post-performance

17 The Abbadid dynasty was an Arab Muslim dynasty that ruled Muslim Spain and Portugal from 750BC to 1258. 18 In his book, Syed ‘Ali Isma’il explains that while plays with any political symbols were banned or postponed, some exceptions were occasionally made for the most well-known and esteemed playwrights, which certainly included Ahmed Shawqi.    

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gatherings where students and members of the troupe would discuss the play (Moberly, 2016, p.

14). As a result, in addition to “Sarah Bernhardt of the East,” Fatma also became known as

“Sadiqat al-talaba” (The Students’ Friend). Second, though much of its plays were presented in

fusha, the Fatma Rushdie troupe was also the first troupe of its size and production level to present

plays in ammiyya. When performing Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew, for example, Fatma

chose Bishara Wakim’s ammiyya translation of the play, calling it Al-Gabbara/The Giantess. In

his article, Moberly (2016) writes, “The Giantess…represented the first time many Egyptian critics

and theatre-goers could remember seeing a Shakespeare play translated completely into ‘āmmiyya

performed on such a public stage” (p. 11). This decision to translate the play into ammiyya faced

backlash from elite critics who believed Wakim had “denigrated” Shakespeare’s work by

“relegate[ing] [it] to the lowest of depths” and to “the language of the streets” (Moberly, 2016, p.

15). Three years later, a fusha translation by Ibrahim Ramzi appeared at the request of the Egyptian

Ministry of Education, (Moberly, 2016, p. 9) and starting in the mid-1930s, the government began

to solely fund plays in fusha. Fatma’s performance in ammiyya was therefore a defiant act in the

face of the political and cultural environment of the time. Therefore, by offering discounted and

complimentary student tickets, organizing discussion sessions for students, and choosing to

perform in ammiyya, Rushdie’s troupe worked diligently to make Egyptian theater accessible to

the masses, removing it as much as possible, given the political environment, from the confines of

elite culture.

The contributions of the Fatma Rushdie troupe to the broader Arab world and to the

development of Arab nationalism must also not be underestimated. While travelling and

performing across the Arab world, Fatma’s troupe, alongside other Egyptian troupes, aided in

sparking a theatrical renaissance in various countries. In an article published in the Iraqi online

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magazine, Mulaheq Al-Mada, Rifa’a ‘Abdel-Razeq Mohammad writes that in Iraq, for example,

with performances by the George Abyad troupe in 1926 and the Fatma Rushdie troupe in 1929,

emerged a new generation of Iraqi actors, the most notable of which was Haqqi Al-Shibli,

considered the founder of Iraqi theater. Haqqi developed a close relationship with Fatma and was

invited to Egypt to be trained under ‘Aziz ‘Eid. Upon his return to Iraq, Al-Shibli achieved great

success as an actor, director, and theatre administrator, and was eventually named head of

Baghdad’s Fine Arts Institute in the 1940s where he had tremendous influence in theatre training

for decades to come (Rubin et al., 1999, p. 106 – 111). Similar effects can be seen in Algeria,

where Muslim women rarely appeared on stage or even amongst theatre audiences. About Fatma

Rushdie’s visit to Algiers in 1932, The World Encyclopedia of Contemporary Theatre states,

[This] event… deeply affected artistic circles. It seemed not a problem that the star was

female and on her arrival an unprecedented welcome was organized. Her performances

were filled to capacity with spectators coming from all corners of the country. Among the

plays presented were Masra’ Kilyubatra (The Fall of Cleopatra), Majnun Layla (The Mad

Lover of Layla) and al-‘Abbasa Ukht al-Rashid (Abasa, the Sister of al-Rashid). Two years

after Rushdie’s appearance, Algeria’s best known Muslim actress first appeared on stage:

Kulthoum was her stage name and she began a comedy career that continued into the 1980s.

(Rubin et al., 1999, p. 49).

Therefore, while political and literary figures have been credited with building the framework,

momentum, and discourse of Arab nationalism, cultural figures such as Fatma Rushdie have often

been unfairly excluded from the conversation. The work of theatrical troupes and their

performances of historic plays from the Arabo-Islamic tradition undoubtedly popularized a shared

sense of “Arab culture” and identity and helped spark a new Arab artistic renaissance, which in

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places like Algeria and Iraq played an active role in anti-colonial resistance. Fatma’s success also

had a unique impact on female artists such as the Algerian Kulthoum by familiarizing Arab

audiences with the image of a Muslim woman on stage, thereby ultimately contributing to the Arab

feminist movement as well.

Fatma’s theatrical career tells us much about her values as an artist and lays the foundation

upon which we can fully understand and appreciate her filmography. Her and her troupe’s work

also informs us of the complex role Fatma played in promoting both Egyptian and Arab

nationalism and in shaping Egyptian national culture. Though her performance of several

European plays may come across as fulfilling the westernizing agenda of Egyptian liberals, we

learn from her interviews and through an examination of some of her work that she in fact uses

iconic European literary texts as a strategic weapon against censorship and British imperialism

(“We’re doing your own plays!”). Additionally, while secular nationalists were working to sever

any ties with the rest of the Arab world, Fatma was travelling across the Arab world, building a

shared sense of Arab culture and identity, inspiring and training new generations of Arab artists,

and encouraging a unified anti-imperialist resistance in the face of European repression. We must

therefore understand Fatma’s theatrical career as a major contributing force to the rise of

Easternism, which was discussed in Chapter One. Her work on stage also demonstrates a

commitment to accessibility and to building a connection with students, women, and the illiterate

masses (of which she was once a part of). This, Moberly (2016) writes, “solidif[ied] her fame as a

‘girl of the country’” (p. 18). Lastly, like ‘Aziza Amir, Fatma strongly believed in the political and

social impact of theater; never seeking to merely entertain people, she always looked to perform

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plays that addressed issues she was concerned with, a theme that continues to emerge while

examining her filmography.

Fatma Rushdie on Screen

Theme 1: The Ideal Woman - Fatma Rushdie and The Egyptian the Femme Fatale

In her article, “The Creation of the Femme Fatale in Egyptian Cinema,” Carolina Bracco

(2019) argues that the Egyptian femme fatale emerged at the beginning of Gamal Abdel-Nasser’s

rule, when the state was actively working to brand itself as an emancipator of women. Though it

did open up employment and education opportunities, allow for increased participation in public

space, grant women the right to vote, and expand welfare programs, the Nasser regime maintained

oppressive personal status laws and ruthlessly attacked and repressed feminist organizing in order

to ensure that the only acceptable form of feminism was state feminism. The goal of state

feminism, Bracco (2019) writes, was to produce a “new Egyptian woman,” who was “to be modern

and educated but obedient and respectful of her family and social duties. In short, she was more a

complement than a political actor… Passivity was a highly esteemed attribute in a woman” (p.

312). Egyptian cinema, which was under the direct control of the Nasser regime, became a crucial

vehicle through which this image of the ideal Egyptian woman was produced.

One effective method used to construct the ideal Egyptian woman was the depiction of her

exact opposite: the strong, independent, evil woman with uncontrollable, dangerous sexual appeal.

Bracco (2019) argues that the “evil woman,” who is “ambitious and full of sexual desire” (p. 313)

was presented for the first time on Egyptian screens in the 1952 film Al Usta Hasan/ Foreman

Hasan. In it, the rich, ‘evil woman,’ played by Zuzu Mady, seduces the poor worker, Hassan,

leading him to leave his family. She is contrasted with ‘Aziza, played by Huda Sultan, the kind,

loyal, and naive Egyptian wife. Similarly, in the 1954 film, Shabab Imra’a/The Youth of a Woman,

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Tahia Carioca plays Shafa’at, an attractive dancer who seduces the young ‘Imad (Shukri Sarhan),

taking him away from his studies and his naive girlfriend, Salwa (Shadia) and threatening him if

he refuses to marry her. At the end of the film, Shafa’at is killed at the hands of her ex-husband

and it is only then that ‘Imad gains his freedom.

Though Bracco (2019) offers interesting analyses of the films, explaining how they

satisfied Nasser’s agenda and focusing specifically on how they vilified any expression of female

sexuality, her article is built on one fundamental mistake: that the “evil” woman and/or Egyptian

femme fatale was born under Nasser in 1952. When analyzing Fatma Rushdie’s filmography in

the 1940s, it becomes clear that this is simply not true. In what is to follow, I will examine two of

Fatma’s films, Al-Tareeq al-Mostaqeem/The Straight Path and Al-Ta’esha/The Reckless.

In 1943, almost 10 years before Nasser appears on the Egyptian political stage, Fatma

starred alongside Yusuf Wahbi in Al-Tareeq al-Mostaqeem/The Straight Path, which told the story

of Yusuf, a hard-working middle-class man who works at the National Bank. His wife, Amina

(played by Amina Rizk) is a kind, loyal, and virtuous woman who dedicates all of her time to

caring for and raising her two young children. All is well between Yusuf and his family until he

meets Soraya, (Fatma Rushdie) a young and attractive singer. Yusuf finds himself attracted to

Soraya and tries to avoid her, but she is able to engineer any possible circumstances that would

allow the two to meet and spend time together until they eventually start an affair. About halfway

through the film, Soraya is able to convince Yusuf that she is in severe debt and on the verge of

bankruptcy, and out of sympathy, he pays off her debt. The second he hands Soraya her cheque

and walks out of the room, we are introduced to her brother and husband, who emphatically praise

her for her acting skills and her ability to secure a large sum of money in such a short amount of

time. It is from this moment onwards, therefore, that Soraya’s intentions are made clear. Scene

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after scene, we watch her trick Yusuf into giving her more money, effectively destroying his career

and family. After being an ideal employee and husband, Yusuf neglects all his responsibilities to

satisfy Soraya’s financial demands, until he eventually sells his house despite his wife’s pleas. He

then robs a large sum of money from the bank and runs off to Lebanon with Soraya, her brother,

and her husband (who poses as her brother in front of Yusuf). Once they reach Beirut, the gang

steals Yusuf’s money and abandons him, forcing him to work as a janitor in order to make ends

meet. One night, Yusuf finds himself mopping the floors of the very theater Soraya now works in,

realizing that has not only lost a stable and successful career, a loyal wife, and beautiful children,

but also his dignity/honour; repeatedly, he declares, “I lost my sharaf (honour)” (Abyad w Eswed,

2020). After eavesdropping on a conversation between Soraya and her husband, Yusuf realizes

what has been done to him at the hands of the gang. Infuriated, he attacks Soraya and her husband,

killing them both. He is then arrested and killed by the police.

Three years later, in 1946, Fatma both produced and starred in Al-Ta’esha/The Reckless,

in which she plays Lawahez, a young,19 attractive woman living in an impoverished hara. Her

lover and next door neighbor, Samy (Yahya Shaheen) is an engineering student who lives with his

older brother, Kamel (Hussein Riad), a manager at a factory. At the beginning of the film, Lawahez

frequently complains about living in poverty; in a conversation with Samy, for example, she

remarks, “I know happiness is forbidden for poor folks like me” (sameh770, 2017, 00:10:58). Life

begins to change for Lawahez when Kamel introduces her to his manager’s daughter, a young,

wealthy woman named Samira. After visiting Samira’s spacious villa and being invited to her

wedding, where dozens of guests are dressed in the most expensive gowns and jewelry, Lawahez

19 Fatma Rushdie was actually almost 40 years old at this time, but continued to play characters of young women in their mid- late 20s throughout the 1940s. Yahya Shaheen, who plays the love interest her age, was around 10 years younger than her.

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becomes envious of their wealth. When Kamel gets a big promotion at the factory, she decides to

abandon Samy and pursue him. Kamel, unaware of Samy and Lawahez’ previous relationship, is

flattered that a young and beautiful woman like Lawahez would be interested him, and the two

quickly marry. As the film progresses, Lawahez becomes increasingly greedy and hungry for

wealth, until she eventually gets involved in an extra-marital affair with Samira’s husband, Farid,

who also works at Kamel’s factory. Without Kamel’s knowledge, Farid takes large sums of money

from the factory’s financial repository in order to buy Lawahez expensive jewelry and gowns.

After finding out about her affair, Kamel invites all of Lawahez’ friends to their house, exposes

her in front of them for “destroying his honour,” drags her out of the house, and promises to return

all the money she (indirectly) stole from the factory. Lawahez becomes homeless and hopelessly

roams the streets, eventually attempting to take her life. Both Kamel and Samy rush to her side at

the hospital and promise to forgive her, but Lawahez dies at the hospital.

There are several similarities that unite both films, despite the fact that they were written

and directed by two different teams. The Straight Path was directed by renowned Jewish-Egyptian

filmmaker Togo Mizrahi, who also wrote the scenario, while Yusuf Wahbi wrote the story and

dialogue. The Reckless One was directed by Ibrahim ‘Emara, who also co-wrote the script

alongside Yusuf Gohar. In both films, the femme fatale/ evil woman/ good woman-turned-evil

successfully seduces an Egyptian man into providing her with all the wealth she desires. The man,

ignorant of her past and blind to her schemes, is easily enchanted by her beauty and easily fooled

by her false confessions of love. Both films also effectively demonstrate that the evil woman’s

damage impacts far more than the individual man she is fooling. As a result of her taking advantage

of the kind, hardworking, innocent Egyptian man, his family is destroyed; in Yusuf’s case, he is

ripped away from his wife and children; in Kamel’s case, his relationship with his brother is ruined,

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and in Farid’s case, he abandons his wife Samira and his newborn son. The two “good” women,

Amina in The Straight Path and Samira in The Reckless One are forced to watch as their husbands

leave them behind for the seductive (and far more curvaceous) woman. Two symbols of national

wealth, the National Bank of Egypt where Yusuf is employed, and the factory that Kamel becomes

the manager of, are also robbed without Fatma’s characters even stepping foot in either place;

through Yusuf, Farid, and Kamel to a lesser extent, she is able to extract all the money she needs

using her beauty and seductiveness alone. As a result of her actions, there is no satisfying ending

but death; Soraya is killed at the hands of the man whose life she destroyed, and Lawahez, even

after admitting her mistakes, seeking forgiveness, and reuniting Kamel and Sammy, is still killed

off by the writers (though she dies a much more dignified death than Soraya, in a hospital bed next

to two men who mourn her loss).

From the discussion of Fatma Rushdie’s theatrical career, we know that she chose her plays

and roles very carefully with a greater purpose in mind. What may have motivated her, then, to

take on these two very similar roles? First, it is important to establish that Fatma was a famous

cultural icon and celebrity at this time. Directors and producers actively fought to have her star in

their movies. Like ‘Aziza Amir, however, the number of movies she did star in were less than one

would expect. Over a period of 27 years, she starred in about 17 films. Though it is difficult to

know the exact reasons behind this relatively low number since Fatma does not discuss this herself,

we can assume that one reason was selectivity; despite the many roles offered to her, it is

reasonable to assume that Fatma only chose a select few. There are therefore important messages

behind both films that Fatma undoubtedly understood and must have supported at least to a certain

extent for her to choose these specific roles. The remainder of this section is dedicated to exploring

what those messages are.

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From the very first Egyptian film, Layla, the seductive woman who lures the Egyptian man

away from his family and destroys his career remained a consistent theme in Egyptian cinema.

During the 1920s and early 30s, however, that woman was almost always foreign. The Straight

Path was actually a re-adaptation of Yusuf Wahbi’s 1929 play, Awlad El-Zawat/Sons of

Aristocrats. After being performed by the Ramsis troupe and selling out at each performance, the

play was turned into a film in 1932 (Elsaket, 2019, p. 210). Sons of Aristocrats became the first

ever sound-film in Egyptian cinema, achieving widespread success. Yusuf Wahbi and Amina Rizk

play the same characters; a young Egyptian man who works at the National Bank, and a kind, loyal

wife who is abandoned by her husband. Instead of Soraya, however, the seductress is a French

woman, played by French actress Colette Darfeuil. In her article on the film, Elsaket (2019) notes

that Yusuf Wahbi wrote the play after a horrific case in London during which a French woman

murdered her Egyptian husband. Her lawyer, who weaponized Orientalist narratives of Arab men,

was able to have her exonerated by the British courts, to the applause of the French and British

public. Egyptians were furious, writes Elsaket (2019), and perhaps none more so than Wahbi,

whose brother-in-law was the man killed. Reflecting on the case, Wahbi wrote, “There is nothing

easier than to drown the Easterner in accusations and lies. Imperialism’s main objective is to

position the colonized nations [in a frame of otherness and primitiveness]” (1978, as cited in

Elsaket, 2019, p. 209). A short while after the case, Wahbi found evidence that the woman, Marie-

Marguerite Laurent Alibert, had received a number of love letters from various men during her

marriage to ‘Ali Kamil Fahmi, her Egyptian husband; “Alibert was not only a murderer,” writes

Elsaket (2019), “but also a cheating wife,” (p. 209). It was out of his anger over this discovery that

Sons of Aristocrats was born. In his memoires, Wahbi writes, “I could not find a means to resist

our humiliation as Arabs except by writing a play that examines selfish foreigners… and to unmask

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the greed of foreign tramps [al-affaqat al-ajnabiyyat] who scheme their way into the beds of our

young men… They hide their negative traits and attach like vipers in the beds of our nation’s sons,

and their aim is one: plundering, murder, and disloyalty” (1978, as cited in Elsaket, 2019, p. 209).

The femme fatale in Sons of Aristocrats was therefore both a production/confirmation of the image

of female sexuality as a (colonial) threat as well as a direct manifestation of anti-colonial anger.

Why Yusuf Wahbi felt the need to re-create the film, this time replacing the French femme

fatale with an Egyptian one, is a puzzling question to answer. Given the political context of the

time, when Easternism and Pan-Arabism were becoming the mainstream political

ideologies/cultural frameworks as the 1940s progressed, one would assume that films with the

anti-imperialist and anti-western messages seen in Sons of Aristocrats would remain popular. What

we see in The Straight Path, however, is that what was once an outside, western/colonial threat,

becomes a threat from within. Both Soraya and Lawahez are Egyptian, and neither of them is

westernized the way Rafi’a from The Workshop is, for example. In fact, Lawahez is from the very

hara (impoverished lower-class neighbourhood) that The Apple Seller convinces us is the

birthplace of all authentic Egyptians. So what could have motivated such a shift in narrative? Here,

I return to Carolina Bracco’s (2019) article.

I have established that the evil Egyptian woman/femme fatale did not appear for the first

time on Egyptian screens as a result of Gamal Abdel-Nasser’s state feminism, as Bracco (2019)

argues. Nevertheless, her article is helpful in underlining how Egyptian cinema was used to re-

shape the definition of ideal Egyptian womanhood. This is a political project that was not exclusive

to the Nasser regime. As explored in Chapter One, during the pre-revolutionary period, the

Egyptian feminist movement had taken on the task of demanding increased access to public space

and established themselves as integral to the nationalist struggle. ‘Aziza Amir, Fatma Rushdie,

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and other female cultural figures also revolutionized Egyptian womanhood as they defiantly

graced the screens and stages of Egypt as actresses, singers, and dancers. With increased visibility

and access to public space came intense debate about the role of women in Egyptian society. While

many embraced the new roles that women had taken on, others were not pleased with the recent

changes. This is not unique to Egypt; at around the same time that these two films were made, the

film noir genre and its related femme fatale character were starting to appear on American screens.

According to American film scholars, the film noir genre emerged partly as a reaction to women

taking to the workforce in unprecedented numbers. Therefore, the underlying motivations behind

the genre, writes Christine Gledhill (1998), include “the post-war drive to get women out of the

workforce and return them to the domestic sphere; and… the perennial myth of woman as threat

to male control of the world and destroyer of male aspiration” (p. 32). What many American and

Egyptian films were actively engaging in, then, was an attempt to sculpt the figure of the “ideal

woman” as a more docile, less empowered and therefore less threatening being. The evil woman

or the femme fatale was one of the most strategic textual devices through which the borders of

ideal womanhood were drawn.

For a long time, much like her foreign predecessor, the Egyptian evil woman was featured

as no more than a backdrop; a side character who is contrasted with the good female protagonist

at crucial moments. The Workshop’s Rafi’a is one example of this. What makes The Reckless One

and The Straight Road different, then, is the way they do the opposite: relegate the good woman

to the background, and re-direct the spotlight onto the evil woman. Giving the evil woman such

screen time and attention is crucial. Audiences are not only taught what it means to be a good or

bad woman or what the consequences of “bad womanhood” might be, they are also given insight

into the kinds of upbringing and/or circumstances that create an evil woman. In The Straight Path,

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Soraya’s husband and brother are no more than partners in crime. They have absolutely no control

over her whatsoever. They watch her as she initiates an affair, often hiding behind doors as she

flirts with, seduces, and kisses Yusuf – and do nothing but applaud. In The Reckless One, we watch

as Lawahez’s step-mom (Mary Mounib) physically abuses and chases her husband (the much

smaller in size, Hassan Kamel). In both cases, we see the consequences of unlimited, uncontrolled,

unrestrained women’s freedom. Much like the film noir genre, we can interpret these films as the

“paranoid fantasies about the threat to patriarchal authority posed by weakened manhood, female

sexuality, and feminist empowerment’” (Babener, 1992, p. 25). The message then seemingly

becomes that which was shared by Ahmed Bey in The Workshop; “Freedom has limits, Rafi’a.”

Yet what has consistently amazed feminist scholars about the femme fatale is the way that

she both reproduces misogynistic fears and messages while simultaneously allowing for the

representation of powerful, independent, complex women with interesting back stories and

sometimes even internal monologues (a feature that, in much of American films at least, has often

been restricted to male characters). In her book, Julie Grossman (2020) describes femme fatales as

“three-dimensional women who have their own stories to tell: difficult backgrounds and feelings

of privation based on class and gender and the vitality to push against the limits of their experience

in clever ways; their criminality is often a means of rejecting or rebelling against the constricting

roles ascribed to or projected onto them” (p. 9). This is particularly true of Lawahez, whose

transformation into an ‘evil woman’ simply began with a desire to live a life free of poverty. After

witnessing the extravagant displays of wealth at Samira’s mansion, she simply could not fathom

how some could have so much while she was left with nothing. In an internal monologue, she says

to herself, “Those women you saw drowning in silk while the men kissed their hands are not better

than you. Samira, with all of her diamonds, is not better than you. Why should she have all of that

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and not you? … Escape this poverty and hopelessness. Forget him [Samy]. He won’t be able to

please you” (sameh770, 2017, 00:30:27). Meanwhile, throughout her monologue, Sammy tries to

grab Lawahez’ attention in any way he can in order to meet with her; he flickers his shutters,

climbs up to their usual meeting spot on the roof, and bangs on the floor. For the first time,

Lawahez ignores his calls. What we witness here is a powerful moment during which Lawahez

simply refuses to accept her current conditions, refuses to suffer the consequences of a cruel

economic system and class structure. This refusal, this decision to escape poverty by any means

necessary, becomes her number one priority. Romantic love, the possibility of marriage and

starting a family, all of which women are expected to aspire to and prioritize above all else, become

meaningless to her. The life she envisions for herself is a life of wealth, luxury, and prestige; men

are only tools through which this life can be attained. As Grossman (2020) writes, the femme fatale

must therefore be understood as a tool of disruption; “The femme fatale is an ongoing pattern and

creative tool of gender critique and redefinition… The femme fatale recurs throughout culture as

a provocative figure of disruption [emphasis added], a means of questioning gender norms and

cultural hierarchies" (p. 12).

The complexity of the femme fatale and the many paradoxes she carries is precisely, I

believe, what makes Fatma Rushdie’s performances so intriguing, what proves her remarkable

talent as an actress (despite her sometimes overly melodramatic delivery), and what might give us

further insight into her both selecting and being selected to play these roles. When we recall her

early theatrical career, we remember that Fatma refused to limit herself to playing female roles;

she frequently competed against male actors - such as Yusuf Wahbi himself - by taking on male

characters. It is unsurprising then, that her filmography is also filled with diverse characters. Unlike

‘Aziza Amir and others, who only ever played the role of the protagonist, Fatma was unafraid of

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embodying the antagonist, surely recognizing the challenge in doing so. Playing the femme fatale

is no easy task; normally, only “dynamic and charismatic performers… whose embodiment of the

femme fatale emphasizes her agency and intelligence” (Grossman, 2020, p. 15). have taken on this

role. Moreover, what is especially unique about the femme fatale character is that, like feminist

author Jess Sully (2010) writes, she is “a figure in which feminine beauty and masculine power

combines” (p. 57). Fatma’s former experiences playing both men and women make her the perfect

choice for this role. The exact moments during which she role-plays as fragile and pretends to be

in need of a man’s rescue in front of Yusuf and Kamel are also the exact moments when she is

most powerful. Her ability to effortlessly flow between masculine and feminine, between

stereotypical feminine fragility and unbridled strength that is supposedly exclusive to men is what

makes this actress worthy of every accolade, every award, every prestigious title. While Tahia

Carioca and Hend Rostom are often the first two women that come to mind when the Egyptian

femme fatale is brought up, we must not forget that Fatma Rushdie was the first to breathe life into

the character as Egyptians know her today.

Evidently, then, the motivations behind Fatma’s choice to take part in these two films are

plenty. After having discussed her earlier works, we can recognize the aspects of these projects

that likely would have caught her attention. Fatma was a woman who loved the art of acting. In

her memoires, she recalls being asked by the owner of Casino Bosfour why she chose acting

instead of singing when she could be exponentially richer as a singer. She replied, “Yes, that’s

true. But the success of the singer is dependent on the beauty of her voice. This is a talent from

God that does not require any effort. As for acting, it requires effort and it involves thinking. It

requires creativity and exhaustion, but it’s an enjoyable exhaustion, because its message to society

is more important and greater than the role of singing” (Rushdie, 1971, p. 47-48). The

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aforementioned artistic challenge of embodying the role of the femme fatale was therefore

undoubtedly one of the most important reasons why Fatma was attracted to playing Soraya and

Lawahez.

Like ‘Aziza Amir, Fatma also strongly believed in the role of plays and films in

disseminating social and political messages, as quoted above. She therefore must have understood

very well what the messages and implications of these films were, and perhaps in many ways,

agreed with them. As discussed, these films were part of a larger trend in Egyptian cinema, and

certainly of global cinema, of portraying unrestrained women’s freedoms as well as women’s

sexuality as a threat to men, the (middle-class and bourgeois) family, and the nation. The femme

fatale’s threat to and rejection of the family in particular is perhaps what makes her most evil, most

infuriating, most insulting. The family, as Gledhill (1998) writes, is an ideological cornerstone that

“embodies a range of traditional values: love of family, love of father (father/ruler), love of

country… we may see the family as a microcosm containing within itself all of the patterns of

dominance and submission that are characteristic of the larger society” (p. 36). Refusing to

conform to this structure, to embrace a situation where “she is the proletarian, he the bourgeois,”

(Gledhill, 1998, p. 36) is therefore a direct attack on the broader patriarchal societal structure. The

good woman, like Amina, Samira, or Zeinab in The Workshop is one who never questions or

disrupts this structure. As discussed in the last chapter, the good woman, like Zeinab, steps out of

the domestic sphere when absolutely necessary, and immediately returns when a man, in this case

Ahmed Bey, appears in her life. Now, though it would be unfair to suggest that Fatma Rushdie

believed in promoting a less-empowered, oppressive image of Egyptian femininity given her own

personal experiences and the life she led, we do know from her interviews that she sometimes

hosted plays that emphasized the need for women to maintain and prioritize their roles in the

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domestic sphere. While discussing one of her troupe’s plays in an interview, she explains, “Our

plays had important messages. In one play, the woman leaves her home to go study… [the message

was] ‘It’s okay to get educated. Education is light. But you have to return to your home’” (Gamil-

al-Maghazi, 2018, 00:09:15). Therefore, Fatma, like many Egyptian women and feminists of her

time, likely agreed with many aspects of the “ideal woman” image; a good Egyptian woman is one

who preserves and respects the Egyptian family structure, putting her roles as a good wife and

mother first, all else is secondary.

Theme 2: Power, Oppression, and Exploitation - The Birth of Egyptian Realism and Egypt’s

Many Power Imbalances

Although most of Fatma Rushdie’s films are not generally well-known amongst Egyptian

audiences today, there is one film that stands the test of time as the most popular and loved of all:

Al-‘Azeema/ Determination (1939), written and directed by Kamal Selim. Revered by Egyptian

and non-Egyptian audiences, scholars, and critics alike, the film has been labelled one of the most

important contributions to international cinema. Renowned French film critic George Sadoul, for

example, is known to have titled Determination a “world classic” (1962, as cited in Taha, 2021, p.

69). What makes Determination so significant is that it marked the birth of Egyptian realism at

least four years before the more famous realist genre, Italian neo-realism, ever emerged; the first

Italian neorealist film, Ossessione, came out in 1943. Determination was therefore incredibly

innovative not only in its story but also in its set design and directorial technique. Though the

movie was filmed in a studio, Kamal Selim has been credited as the first filmmaker in Egyptian

cinema to accurately represent the Egyptian hara with realistic set design and costumes; the film

was allegedly supposed to be titled Fi Al-Hara/ In the Hara, but the name was rejected (Maspero

Zaman, 2019).

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The film tells the story of a young man named Mohamed (Hussein Sedki) who lives in an

impoverished hara, next door to his love interest, Fatma (Fatma Rushdie). Mohamed is a

hardworking student who, at the beginning of the film, anxiously awaits his exam results that will

determine whether or not he receives his diploma. Upon learning that he passed all of his exams,

the hara’s community erupts with joy, celebrating the fact that one of their own, the local

barbershop owner’s son, will now have a world of opportunities ready to embrace him and elevate

his and his family’s standard of living. With the same expectations and optimism, Mohamed

travels across Cairo searching for any government job, but is repeatedly rejected. Simultaneously,

he has a business idea that he relentlessly works to develop and desperately wishes to pursue, but

does not have the money for. His business partner, the wealthy, upper-class ‘Adli (Anwar Wagdy),

who has promised to financially support Mohamed, abandons him. Pressure begins to mount as

Mohamed’s father, Hanafi, who is now in debt after paying for his son’s student fees, is at risk of

having his barbershop shut down by the government. Mohamed’s relationship with Fatma also

becomes strained since, without being employed, the two cannot get married. Fatma’s parents

attempt to pressure her into marrying the much older local butcher, an ill-intentioned and envious

man who consistently belittles Mohamed and his family. Eventually, Mohamed meets with ‘Adli’s

older brother, Nazih Pasha, who decides to help him find a job. With just one phone call, Mohamed

is given a job at one of the government offices that had previously rejected him multiple times.

Mohamed marries Fatma and all seems well until he is accused of stealing important government

documents at his new job and gets fired. Worried about disappointing Fatma, Mohamed takes a

job at a fabric store without informing her. Fatma finds out and demands a divorce. All ends well,

however, when Mohamed and ‘Adli finally start their business and achieve great success, and

Mohamad and Fatma re-marry.

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Determination played a crucial role in reflecting the difficult economic conditions of the

1930s and in representing the many struggles Egyptian youth were forced to endure at this time.

Being unable to find a job despite working tirelessly to earn a diploma, being forced to take up

underpaying jobs despite being overqualified, being unable to start a business or any independent

enterprise due to a lack of funds, being unable to marry or buy a home due to unemployment or

underemployment, only being able to secure a job through a wasta (nepotism), living at risk of

government confiscation of property and one’s sole source of livelihood, are all familiar

experiences that millions of Egyptians continue to suffer through today. Determination was

therefore the first time in Egyptian commercial cinema that the impoverished masses could

accurately see themselves and their struggles represented on screen. Four years later, Al-‘Amil/The

Worker (1943) was released, marking another major milestone for Egyptian realism. Directed by

Ahmed Kamel Morsi and co-written by Mohamed ‘Abdel-Gawad and Hussein Sedki, the film stars

both Hussein Sedki and Fatma Rushdie once more. As mentioned in Chapter Two, the film tells

the story of a young factory worker named Ahmad who leads his coworkers in a strike and revolt

against the factory owners, who are then forced to satisfy the workers’ demands and improve their

working conditions. Fatma Rushdie plays Haniya, Ahmad’s love interest. The Worker was

immediately censored and no copies of it are available today.

Fatma Rushdie’s participation in both films, despite the high likelihood that either or both

would be censored and banned due to their political content, is an incredible testament to her career

and her work as an artist. First, let us not forget that Fatma herself spent most of her childhood in

theatres and casinos as she watched her sister work to provide for their family and soon became a

performer herself in order to do the same. She is all too familiar with the struggles, anxieties and

pressures of poverty, of searching for a source of livelihood, and possibly, even, of dealing with

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exploitative employers. It is unsurprising, then, that she would agree to participate in such films,

even despite the very little financial compensation that she recalls being offered before filming

Determination. Therefore, while ‘Aziza Amir’s love and loyalty to the Egyptian masses and the

impoverished people of the hara were often expressed through a hyper-romanticization of lower-

class characters and lifestyles, as we have seen in The Apple Seller, what we find in Fatma

Rushdie’s filmography is a dedication to exposing the harsh realities of those same people. By

doing this, the differences between the lower and upper classes become more about power

dynamics than about moral or nationalist values, as one finds in the majority of ‘Aziza Amir’s

works. In Determination, though Nazli Pasha is kind, generous, and supportive of Mohamed, the

power he holds to be able to secure Mohamed a job with just one phone call at an office he was

already rejected from multiple times is enough to spark anger and irritation amongst viewers at the

nepotism that has plagued the Egyptian job market and deemed upper-class influence more

important than qualifications or merit. Amongst the people of the hara, Fatma’s father is an

alcoholic who appears drunk throughout the entire film, which in many other Egyptian films would

immediately be used as a sign of moral deficiency and ultimately result in the demonization of the

character. Instead, in Determination, the man’s perpetual drunkenness is at some moments a source

of comedic relief, and at other moments a reflection of the many coping strategies used by the

residents to deal with their harsh living conditions. Therefore, with the introduction of the realism

genre, moral character begins to play a more peripheral, secondary role. At the center of both

Determination and The Worker lies a deeply problematic power imbalance, and it is precisely this

power imbalance that instigates the main chain of events. Therefore, while ‘Aziza was perhaps

more concerned with tackling classist social prejudice, an analysis of Fatma Rushdie’s

filmography points to a concern to offer a more political take on Egyptian class structure.

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Importantly, Fatma’s films are not reflective of class conflict and the power imbalance

between classes alone. In Determination, the hara’s butcher, who does everything he possibly can

to pressure Fatma into marrying him (at one point he even attempts to kidnap her), is representative

of the additional level of oppression that lower-class women have to deal with in addition to

poverty: patriarchy. The intersection of poverty and gender-based violence is another theme that

appears in Fatma Rushdie’s filmography. In one of her most melodramatic films, Gharam el-

Shuyoukh/Old Men’s Infatuation (1946), the young, lower-class Ahlam (Fatma Rushdie) is

physically abused by her father and forced to work as a belly dancer at his bar. Carrying the

responsibility of buying her sick mother’s medications and paying their rent, Ahlam finds herself

with no other choice but to continue working for her father, even as she gets sexually harassed and

violated by the men at the bar. The film was co-written by Yusuf Gohar, who also co-wrote The

Reckless One, and by the director, Mohamed ‘Abdel-Gawad, who also co-wrote The Worker.

While The Worker focused more on the conditions of the mainly male working class, in Old Men’s

Infatuation, ‘Abdel-Gawad gives us a glimpse of the female working class, and the added sexual

violence they are often forced to endure. Fatma’s decision to work with him once more, even after

their earlier film together had been banned, is testament to her belief in his message, and his ability

to present a multi-layered depiction of lower-class life.

In addition to the inequities embedded in the Egyptian class structure and gender hierarchy,

both Determination and Old Men’s Infatuation also feature a third layer of power imbalance: the

generational gap, i.e., the struggle between young and old. Given that the butcher in Determination

is significantly older than both Mohamed and Fatma (the actor, ‘Abdel-Aziz Khalil, was 21 years

older than Fatma Rushdie and 30 years older than Hussein Sedki), we can perceive the differences

and disagreements between them as a generational gap between the elders and the youth of the

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community. This gap is expressed in two main ways. First, the conversation around forced

marriage in Egypt throughout the first half of the 20th century was normally framed as a conflict

between old, harmful traditions, and new, progressive reforms. Both the nationalist and feminist

movements of this time repeatedly championed marriage built on romantic love as an integral

process for the advancement of Egypt and the Egyptian woman. Therefore, while the butcher

represents Egypt’s old, patriarchal past, Mohamed and Fatma’s love for one another is symbolic

of the progressive Egyptian future. Second, as mentioned earlier, the butcher is incredibly envious

of Mohamed and his education, likely since he himself is illiterate; in conversation with a

customer, he says, “They never taught me how to read or write since I was an only child. Reading

and writing are useless; they’re not necessary for success” (Aflam Zaman, 2018, 00:06:55).

Though he does not admit this, we can easily suspect that Mohamed’s education and achievements

are a reminder of everything he was deprived of. In order to protect his self-image and pride in

front of the community, the butcher spends much of the film publicly boasting about owning a

successful shop despite being illiterate, particularly when Mohamed is unemployed and unable to

cover his father’s expenses. At risk of over-analyzing the character, we may even go a step further

to say that the butcher’s desire for Fatma, though certainly built on physical attraction, is also built

on his jealousy of Mohamed. By destroying his relationship with Fatma, the butcher could ensure

that Mohamed does not ‘have it all’, that despite his ignorance and illiteracy, he too could have

‘the job, the money, and the girl.’ Fatma herself then becomes the battlefield between the old and

young, between the ignorance and patriarchy of the past, and the knowledge and progressiveness

of the future. Mohamed’s success at the end of the film and the couple’s return to one another is

therefore a multi-layered victory: the victory of the poor man against a vicious job market and

brutal economic conditions, the victory of romantic love and an equitable marriage against the

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pressures of old patriarchal traditions, and the victory of knowledge and education over ignorance

and illiteracy.

In Old Men’s Infatuation, the power struggle between generations appears once more,

though this time in an entirely different shape. As mentioned, Ahlam, who is her mother’s only

caretaker, one day finds herself unable to afford her mother’s medications. After her father refuses

to provide her with any financial support, Ahlam is left hopeless and desperate, and attempts to

take her life by jumping off a bridge. Standing by the bridge that night is Mukhtar (Mensi Fahmy),

an old writer and well-known intellectual figure. Mukhtar rescues her and takes her to his home, a

spacious and luxurious mansion, where he and his domestic servant, Fahima (Thoraya Fakhry)

nurse her to full health. Mukhtar offers Ahlam a room to live in in his mansion, covers all of her

financial expenses, and offers her father a large sum of money to leave her alone when he demands

she come home with him to work at his bar. For the first time in her life, Ahlam is able to live

happily, safely, and freely, with no financial stresses whatsoever. She becomes very emotionally

attached to Mukhtar, seeing him as a caring and protective father figure.

One day, while tending to the mansion’s garden, Ahlam meets Raouf, Mukhtar’s student,

and the two quickly fall in love. When Raouf informs Mukhtar of his intention to propose to

Ahlam, Mukhtar becomes furious, demands that Raouf never speaks to Ahlam again, and reveals

that he, too, is in love with her. At the end of their meeting, Raouf declares war; “might I warn you

that you’ll never win this battle” (MelodyClassic, 2016b, 00:50:07). Mukhtar then rushes to Ahlam

to lie to her and tell her that her father has once again demanded she return to work at the bar, and

that the only way she can protect herself is by marrying him. Out of fear of her father and without

ever knowing of Raouf’s intentions to marry her, Ahlam agrees, though she makes it clear to

Mukhtar that she could never love him as a husband, only as a father. In attempt to keep her away

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from Raouf, Mukhtar forces Ahlam to travel with him across Egypt, keeping her locked up in

trains and hotel rooms. Already miserable and still in love with Raouf, Ahlam becomes furious

when she learns of Mukhtar’s lies. In a powerful confrontation, she yells, “you’ve killed me under

the guise of mercy” (MelodyClassic, 2016b, 01:09:30) and demands her freedom. After a long

“battle” between Raouf and Mukhtar – Ahlam reunites and escapes with Raouf but then returns to

Mukhtar once more to support him after he loses his vision – Ahlam attempts to take her life yet

again when Mukhtar forbids her from visiting Raouf after he becomes ill. It is only when she ends

up in the hospital that Mukhtar ‘surrenders’;

I can’t separate you from one another, because your love is stronger than death. Shake my

hand, Raouf. Don’t reject it; this is the hand of a friend who has now been convinced that

he cannot fight nature and have the youth enslaved by old men. Ahlam, your imprisonment

is over. You’re free. Here is your divorce paper… I seek only one thing: forgiveness

(MelodyClassic, 2016b, 01:34:23).

Though it can be easy to get lost in the story’s many events and dense but carefully crafted

dialogue, there is a very crucial message at the heart of this film that is highly reflective of the

political and intellectual environment of the 1940s. As explained in Chapter One, the 1940s

witnessed a local rebellion across the younger generations of various political groups in Egypt

against the Egyptian elite. Young activists and writers in Islamist, leftist, and communist groups

alike “shared the view that the political elites who emerged out of the 1919 revolution had failed

to deliver on the promises that garnered them legitimacy, namely, to achieve modernization and

independence” (Sabaseviciute, 2018, p. 87). Anger was also specifically directed at the older

generation of intellectual and literary figures, who were seen as complicit in the maintenance of

imperialist capitalism. Two years after this film was released, Gamal ‘Abdel-Nasser, a 30-year-

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old at the time, along with the Free Officers, began planning an overthrow of the Egyptian

government. The power struggle over Egypt’s future between the older and younger generations

is precisely the focus of this film. Just as ‘Aziza Amir’s character represented Egypt in Layla,

Fatma Rushdie’s Ahlam becomes Egypt in this film.

At the beginning of the film, Ahlam is forced to endure horrific conditions and horrendous

sexual violence at the hands of her abusive and exploitative father, who possibly represents British

imperialism. Though she is ‘rescued’ and cared for by Mukhtar, who represents the older

generation of political and intellectual elites, what is supposed to be a pure, nurturing, ‘father-

daughter’ relationship turns into a disturbing affair between a selfish, hypocritical, and exploitative

“father,” i.e., ruler, and an imprisoned, oppressed, and miserable “daughter,” i.e., nation.

Meanwhile, Raouf - who was once an avid admirer and dedicated student of Mukhtar, perhaps

reflecting a former admiration of the younger generation’s political and intellectual figures for the

works of their elders - is determined to be marry Ahlam. When Ahlam’s father returns once again

to Mukhtar in hopes of receiving another great sum of money, Mukhtar not only satisfies his

demands but tells him to search for Ahlam after she escaped with Raouf. The two father figures –

the ever-present imperialist force and the new Egyptian government - therefore actively work

together to control Ahlam/ Egypt. After a long struggle, Ahlam is finally let free, and is happily

reunited with her love interest. What lies ahead is a loving relationship between the young nation

and its new, young leadership.20 What Old Men’s Infatuation tells, then, is a story of Egyptian

leadership, and the battle between young and old.

Evidently, Fatma Rushdie’s filmography provides us with a complex, multi-layered image

of the power dynamics and political conflicts plaguing 1930s-40s Egypt. Poverty, class conflict,

20 Given the power dynamics between husband and wife at this time, there are many interesting implications to this metaphor.

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patriarchy, gender-based violence, intergenerational struggles, and the changing nature of the

nationalist movement are all portrayed in unique and innovative ways. While the birth of Egyptian

realism played an important role in normalizing said political content, the melodrama and drama

genres also continued to engage in social and political commentary, as we have seen throughout

the last two chapters.

Conclusion

Like ‘Aziza Amir, Fatma Rushdie was born into an exciting and unprecedented moment in

Egyptian political, cultural, and artistic history. Her decision to surround herself with some of the

leading figures of the Egyptian arts at such a young age quickly led to her becoming a pioneering

cultural leader herself, who went on to establish one of the largest and most successful theatrical

troupes in Egyptian history. From the moment she established her troupe, each and every play she

was involved with became a contribution to the conversations happening nationally and regionally

around gender relations, class conflict, national identity, and nationalism. Throughout her

interviews and memoires, Fatma repeatedly emphasizes the intentionality behind her work and her

desire to promote certain ideas and messages (be they revolutionary, controversial, regressive,

problematic, or otherwise). Fatma’s influence on the nationalist and feminist discourse of both

Egypt and the Arab world, and her contributions to the development of a shared sense of Arab

identity were therefore immense.

When she stepped into cinema, Fatma carried the same level of intentionality with her, and

one of the aims of this chapter was to demonstrate just that. Every single film she chose to

participate in was chosen carefully and deliberately. Each film’s narrative, dialogue, characters,

mise-en-scene, set design, etc. carried very specific social and political commentary that either

perpetuated or challenged the status quo, particularly with regards to gender relations, class

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structure, and nationalist discourse. Fatma’s frequent collaboration with the same group of

directors and writers - Yousef Gohar, Mohamed ‘Abdel-Gawad, Hussein Sedki, and Kamal Selim

- also signifies a shared vision between the actress and those behind the camera. It is my hope,

then, that this chapter allowed readers to gain a better understanding of Fatma Rushdie’s

filmography, and appreciate the “effort, thinking, creativity, and exhaustion” (Rushdie, 1971, p.

47-48) that Fatma put into her work as an actress.

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Conclusion

Summary

‘Aziza Amir and Fatma Rushdie have left behind two incredible legacies that this thesis could

only scratch the surface of. At a time when Egyptian artists, cultural figures, businessmen, and

entrepreneurs viewed cinema as too risky an undertaking, ‘Aziza Amir, also known as the Mother

of Egyptian cinema, was able to birth a film industry with hardly any of the necessary resources.

Her very first film, Layla (1927), is now recognized as the first feature-length silent film of the

Arab world. She then went on to become the first ever Egyptian and Arab female director.

Likewise, Fatma Rushdie has achieved some remarkable “firsts” that continue to be celebrated

today. With the creation of her own theatrical troupe in 1927 at just nineteen years old, she became

the first ever Egyptian and Arab female theater director. Her troupe eventually became one of the

largest and most successful across both Egypt and the Arab world, competing with the great Yusuf

Wahbe and his Ramsis troupe. When she decided to step into the film industry, she directed,

produced, wrote, and starred in Al-Zawaj/The Marriage (1933), becoming the second Egyptian

and Arab female film director. In 1939, she went on to star in Al-Azeema/Determination, the first

ever realist film in Egypt. Both ‘Aziza and Fatma have also discovered and promoted several

emerging Egyptian talents at the time - from actors and actresses to singers and belly dancers –

thereby educating, training, and supporting a new generation of Egyptian cultural figures. Both

women’s influence on Egyptian and Arab cinema, theater, and the arts therefore simply cannot be

overestimated.

However, while many of those who have discussed both women’s legacies have often focused

mainly on their aforementioned career milestones, achievements, and historic “firsts” within the

artistic sphere, few have appreciated their works as valuable political texts. In attempt to

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understand and study the socio-political environment and mainstream nationalist and feminist

discourse of the early 20th century, many scholars have looked primarily to the works of upper-

class political figures and intellectuals. As a result, both the cultural sphere and the lower-class

masses – particularly women – have been neglected. Following the footsteps of scholars such as

Ziad Fahmy, Beth Baron, and Viola Shafik, who have begun shifting Egyptian historiography

towards the non-male, non-elite, and/or non-political/intellectual spheres, this thesis has

demonstrated that female cultural figures of lower-class origins made significant contributions to

the making of Egyptian national identity and in shaping national conversations around gender and

class.

By analyzing the works of ‘Aziza Amir and Fatma Rushdie, I have demonstrated that both

women were highly aware of the ideas and images being pushed forward by nationalist and

feminist leaders of their time and actively engaged in interrogating, challenging, and/or sometimes

reproducing those ideas/images. Though they were able to rise to fame and (albeit

temporary/unstable) fortune, their lower-class origins and experiences of being born into poverty

cannot be ignored; they must be understood as having a critical impact on the stories they

eventually felt compelled to share with their audiences. In ‘Aziza Amir’s films, we see a consistent

effort to create female lower-class protagonists, criticize the westernized upper-classes, and flip

the classist discourse that characterized much of the mainstream nationalist and feminist

movements on its head. Across Fatma Rushdie’s filmography, we see an effort to represent a more

political take on the many intersecting struggles facing the lower-classes in general and lower-

class women in particular, exposing a deep fragmentation in Egyptian society at a time of alleged

national unity.

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Beyond their discussions on class identity and class relations, both women also demonstrated

an allegiance to certain articulations of nationalism through their storytelling. In both of the

analyzed films by ‘Aziza Amir, The Apple Seller and The Workshop, there is a consistent refutation

of the nationalist visions articulated by the liberal nationalists of the 1920s and 30s and a leaning

towards an Easternist expression of nationalism with loyalty to ‘Islamic values’ and traditions.

Likewise, whereas liberal and secular nationalists attempted to distance Egypt’s national identity

from its Arab neighbours, Fatma Rushdie’s troupe actively worked to create and spread a sense of

shared Arab heritage, promote a unified anti-imperialist consciousness across the Arab world, and

essentially give rise to the Arab nationalism that became characteristic of the Gamal Abdel-Nasser

period. Therefore, both women’s careers must be understood as significant contributions to the

shift in the boundaries Egyptian national identity and the visions of Egyptian nationalism: from

territorial to regional, from westernized to Eastern, from secular to Islamic.

‘Aziza and Fatma also made significant contributions to the feminist movement, which

prioritized the fight for women’s increased visibility and access to public space as a primary

concern. By appearing on virtually every screen and stage in Egypt, ‘Aziza and Fatma made

women’s participation in the public sphere an undeniable reality, opening the door for a new

generation of both lower and upper class women to join the arts and entertainment industries. Both

women also presented strong and sometimes controversial female characters with complex back-

stories, high ambitions (both ‘good’ and ‘evil’), and diverse perspectives. With the birth and

embodiment of the Egyptian femme fatale by Fatma Rushdie, Egyptian audiences were introduced

to Egyptian female characters who refuse to subscribe to the patriarchal order and are easily

capable of outsmarting the men in their lives. Since it was born out of a place of anxiety over

women’s changing roles in society, the femme fatale or ‘evil’ female character allows us as

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scholars and students to better understand the ways in which the identity of the “ideal woman” or

even the “ideal nationalist” was negotiated and sculpted in the first half of the 20th century. Finally,

it is important to note that ‘Aziza and Fatma’s careers were flourishing at a time when European

orientalist literature could not conceive of an Arab woman as anything but submissive, oppressed,

and silenced. Their films, which were sometimes distributed to international theatres, posed a

direct threat to the orientalist-imperialist visions of Egypt and the Arab world that was (and still

is) used to justify Western colonialism.

This thesis has also demonstrated, then, that contrary to popular belief across much of Egyptian

film studies, pre-revolutionary commercial cinema, despite the restrictions and censorship

imposed upon it, still had potential for political commentary, even if it was at times indirect or

discreet. ‘Aziza and Fatma were not interested, as Raymond William Baker (1974) and Ataa

Elnaccash (1968) have argued, in simply glorifying the lifestyles of the bourgeoisie or

“representing their attitude and their outlook” (Elnaccash, 1968, p. 54). They believed in the power

of commercial films to shape the paradigm for social and intellectual thought in the country and

they actively sought to do so.

Limitations and Recommendations for Future Studies

Having written this thesis without access to Egyptian film archives, there are many of ‘Aziza

Amir and Fatma Rushdie’s films that I was not able to write about or explore, such as Fatah Min

Falasteen/A Girl from Palestine (1948), Bint Al-Nil/Daughter of the Nile (1929), and Banat al-

Reef/Girls of the Country Side (1945). Moving forward, future studies on the two women’s careers

and their contributions to early 20th century nationalist and feminist discourse would benefit greatly

from an analysis of their less accessible films. Additionally, while I have discussed most of the

Fatma Rushdie films that are currently available online, there are films by ‘Aziza Amir, such as

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Amint Billah/I Believe in God (1952) and Qisma w Naseeb/Fate and Destiny (1950), that are

available online but have not been analyzed in this thesis. Each film shares stories, themes, and

characters that are quite similar to those in The Apple Seller and The Workshop and would therefore

offer an even more comprehensive view of ‘Aziza Amir’s political outlooks and artistic vision.

Future studies on this subject would also be enhanced through a comparative analysis that explores

some of the concrete ways lower-class women filmmakers differed in their scripts, filmographies,

characters, etc. in comparison to upper-class women filmmakers, upper-class male filmmakers,

and lower-class male filmmakers.

Concluding Remarks

Like most children of immigrants, being an Egyptian, Arab woman living in the diaspora

has often left me with uncertainties regarding my identity and place of belonging. Writing this

thesis has therefore not only been an intellectual journey but a deeply personal one as well. Reading

about the last two centuries of Egyptian history, learning about and visualizing the birth of

Egyptian cinema, reading and listening to the memoires and interviews of the two remarkable

women I have dedicated this study to, has allowed me to ‘time travel’ to a period when many

Egyptians were also attempting to understand and negotiate their own identities as Egyptians, as

Arabs, as women, as artists, as politicians, etc. What I have learned is that my identity as an

Egyptian, Arab woman has been under construction long before I stepped into this world and will

remain under construction long after I leave it. And while this idea of fluidity and uncertainty may

have been unsettling to me prior to writing this thesis, I am now reassured knowing that maybe

this process of “figuring it out” is precisely what it means to be Egyptian/Arab/woman.

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