Joumana Haddad - Superman Is an Arab: On God, Marriage, Macho Men and Other Disastrous Inventions

Praise for I Killed Scheherazade: Confessions of an Angry Arab Woman

A spirited call to arms New York Times

A vivid assertion of individuality, free speech, free choice and dignity against religious bigotry, prejudice and the herd instinct both within and outside the Arab world. Guardian

Haddad is a poet who inhabits the storm. Tahar Ben Jelloun

In this courageous book Haddad breaks down the taboo of the silent absent Arab woman. Elfriede Jelinek

Haddad is a revolutionary, this book is the manifesto. Read it or be left behind. Rabih Alameddine

Courageous and illuminating it opens our eyes, destroys our prejudices and is very entertaining. Mario Vargas Llosa

Haddad cannot be intimidated. This book is a lesson of courage for all those who fight to go beyond their own limits and chains. Roberto Saviano

Lifts the veil on love and sex Marie Claire

ALSO BY JOUMANA HADDAD

I Killed Scheherazade: Confessions of an Angry Arab Woman

JOUMANA HADDAD

On God, Marriage, Macho Men
and Other Disastrous Inventions

First published 2012 by The Westbourne Press

I

Joumana Haddad 2012
ISBN 978-1-908906-09-0
eISBN 978-1-908906-08-3

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publishers prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A full CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

A full CIP record for this book is available from the Library of Congress.

Printed and bound by CPI Mackays, Chatham, ME5 8TD

The Westbourne Press
26 Westbourne Grove, London W2 5RH
www.westbournepress.co.uk

To my two sons,

Mounir and Ounsi.

May they grow to become less Supermen

and more real men:

Men I can be proud of,

Men they are proud to be.

This then? This is not a book, in the ordinary sense of the
word. No, this is a prolonged insult, a gob of spit, a kick in
the pants to God, Man, Destiny, Time I am going to
sing for you, a little off key perhaps, but I will sing.
Henry Miller (Tropic of Cancer)

I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my
strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does
not doubt my courage or my toughness, who does not
believe me naive or innocent, who has the
courage to treat me like a woman.
Anas Nin

The tragedy of machismo is that a man
is never quite man enough.
Germaine Greer

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who loved to read more than anything else in the whole wide world. She read everything she could get her hands on: her fathers newspapers, her mothers glossy magazines, and all the books that were stuffed in their houses big library. She even read the tiny information leaflets that come inside drug boxes, notifying users about dosage, administration and side effects. Thats how she learnt, by age eight, that antacids and alcohol were not a good mix, and that Ranitidine may decrease the absorption of diazepam and reduce its plasma concentration: warnings which proved not to be very useful later in her life.

She read while she was having lunch (to her mothers despair); at break time in school (to her friends disappointment); during the courses she wasnt interested in (geography is way overrated); when she was riding the bus (thats why she often missed her station and arrived late); in the shelter where she used to hide from the bombings during the civil war taking place outside (much more efficient than ear plugs) And at night-time, when everybody else was sleeping, she would sneak a lamp light under her bed sheet and read.

Needless to say, that little girl was me.

Comic books were never available at home. First of all, they were a kind of luxury that cost too much money; or at least too much money for a modest middle-class family like mine. Secondly, they werent serious enough reads for my traditional dad, who disdained any sentence that you didnt have to read at least twice in order to fully understand. So I was mostly unaware of the existence of comics. Until one day I must have been nine or ten when we were visiting my aunts house and as I was feeling increasingly excluded between three cousins (all male) and a brother who were playing catch me if you can, I found a stack of Superman magazines in a corner. I delved into them immediately. And what a discovery it was.

I loved Clark Kent right away. He was a timid, clumsy, honest, sweet, mild-mannered man. He was, in short, genuine. But every time he ripped open his street clothes and turned into Superman, flying away out of a window to presumably save the human race, I felt a kind of discomfort and distress. I couldnt quite put my finger on the reason why I disliked him so much, especially since he was such an admirable hero in appearance. But I couldnt help it. I was put off by the character who is faster than a speeding bullet and more powerful than a locomotive and who can change the course of mighty rivers and bend iron with his bare hands. I didnt see Clark Kent as a disguise for him, but the other way around. And I strongly resented Lois Lanes affection for Superman, and rejection of Kent.

Then it suddenly hit me one day, much, much later: this world (and women in it) doesnt need manufactured men of steel. It needs real men. Real men, yes: with all their clumsiness, timidity, flaws, slips and weak spots. Real men who dont have secret identities. Real men who dont think they can see further than you, hear more accurately than you, run faster than you and worst of all, think better than you. Real men who dont need to put on blue tights and a red cape (an odd metaphor for virility) in order to feel empowered. Real men who arent convinced they are invincible. Real men who arent afraid to show their vulnerable sides. Real men who dont hide their true personalities from you (or from themselves). Real men who dont feel embarrassed to solicit help when they need it. Real men who are proud to be supported by you, as much as they are proud to support you. Real men who dont identify themselves with the dimensions of their penises and breadth of their chest hair. Real men who dont define themselves by their sexual performance. Real men who dont define themselves by their bank accounts. Real men who carefully listen to you instead of arrogantly trying to rescue you. Real men who dont feel mortified and castrated if every now and then they fail to have an erection. Real men who discuss whats best for both of you with you, instead of arrogantly saying, leave it up to me. Real men who consider you a partner and not a victim/mission/trophy. Real men who share their problems and worries with you, instead of insisting on solving them by themselves. Real men who, in a nutshell, arent shy to ask for directions, instead of pretending they know it all (frequently at the price of getting lost).