Memoirs of a Woman Doctor by Nawal El Saadawi Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nawal El Saadawi
hands, ready to tear it into shreds, but my husband-to-be took it from me, and the weakness and need that I saw in his eyes made me feel ashamed of my act of rebellion and despise myself for going against him. He said quietly, ‘It’s just a formality; nothing more,’ and I signed.
I might as well have signed my death warrant. My name, the first word I ever heard and which was linked in my conscious and subconscious mind with my existence and very being, became null and void. He attached his name to the outside of me. I sat at his side, hearing people call me by my new name. I looked at them and at myself in astonishment as if they couldn’t really be addressing me. It was as if I’d died and my spirit had passed into the body of another woman who looked like me but had a strange new name.
My private world, my bedroom, was no longer mine alone. My bed, which no one had ever shared before, became his too. Every time I turned over or moved, my hand came into contact with his rough tousled head or his arm or leg, sticky with sweat. The sound of his breathing beside me filled the air round about with a mournful lament. Nothing bound me to this man when his eyes were closed. I saw him as a lifeless body like the ones in the dissecting room. But whenever he opened his eyes and gave me one of his weak, pleading glances which aroused my maternal instincts but failed to arouse any sexual response in me, I saw him as my own child, sprung from my loins in a place and at a time of which I had no recollection.
‘I’m the man.’
‘So what?’
‘I’m in charge.’
‘In charge of what?’
‘Of this house and all that’s in it, including you.’
The first signs of rebellion were showing themselves: his feeling of weakness in front of me had been translated inside him into a desire to control me.
‘I don’t want you going out every day,’ he said.
‘I don’t go out for fun. I work.’
‘I don’t want you examining men’s bodies and undressing them.’
The weak spot that a man focuses on in his attempt to gain control over a woman: her need to be protected from other men. The male’s jealousy over his female: he claims to be frightened for her when he’s really frightened for himself, claims to be protecting her in order to take possession of her and put four walls around her.
‘We don’t need the income from the practice,’ he insisted.
‘I don’t work for money. I love my work.’
‘You need to be free for your husband and your home.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Close the practice.’
He’d reached the conclusion that it was my work which endowed me with the strength that prevented him controlling me. He thought that the money I earnt each month, however much or little it was, was what made me hold my head up high. He didn’t realize that my strength wasn’t because I had a job, nor was my pride because I had my own income, but both were because I didn’t have the psychological need for him that he did for me. I didn’t have this need for my mother, my father or anyone else because I wasn’t dependent on anyone, whereas he’d been dependent on his mother, then had begun to replace her with me.
And yet he considered himself a man. He had a man’s features: a deep voice and a bushy moustache. Other men were in his employ, women stole glances at his moustache and children he passed in streets and alleys didn’t dare make rude remarks or throw stones at him.
‘Close down the practice,’ he insisted.
‘What about the patients, and all the people I’d be letting down?’
‘There are other doctors besides you.’
‘And my future, and the knowledge I’ve spent half my life acquiring?’
‘I’m your life.’
‘And all those things you said to me?’
‘I didn’t know what it would be like.’
I looked at him with my eyes wide open. His eyes were pale and without depth. His hands were hard and rougher than I’d pictured, his fingers shorter and stupid-looking. Who was this
I might as well have signed my death warrant. My name, the first word I ever heard and which was linked in my conscious and subconscious mind with my existence and very being, became null and void. He attached his name to the outside of me. I sat at his side, hearing people call me by my new name. I looked at them and at myself in astonishment as if they couldn’t really be addressing me. It was as if I’d died and my spirit had passed into the body of another woman who looked like me but had a strange new name.
My private world, my bedroom, was no longer mine alone. My bed, which no one had ever shared before, became his too. Every time I turned over or moved, my hand came into contact with his rough tousled head or his arm or leg, sticky with sweat. The sound of his breathing beside me filled the air round about with a mournful lament. Nothing bound me to this man when his eyes were closed. I saw him as a lifeless body like the ones in the dissecting room. But whenever he opened his eyes and gave me one of his weak, pleading glances which aroused my maternal instincts but failed to arouse any sexual response in me, I saw him as my own child, sprung from my loins in a place and at a time of which I had no recollection.
‘I’m the man.’
‘So what?’
‘I’m in charge.’
‘In charge of what?’
‘Of this house and all that’s in it, including you.’
The first signs of rebellion were showing themselves: his feeling of weakness in front of me had been translated inside him into a desire to control me.
‘I don’t want you going out every day,’ he said.
‘I don’t go out for fun. I work.’
‘I don’t want you examining men’s bodies and undressing them.’
The weak spot that a man focuses on in his attempt to gain control over a woman: her need to be protected from other men. The male’s jealousy over his female: he claims to be frightened for her when he’s really frightened for himself, claims to be protecting her in order to take possession of her and put four walls around her.
‘We don’t need the income from the practice,’ he insisted.
‘I don’t work for money. I love my work.’
‘You need to be free for your husband and your home.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Close the practice.’
He’d reached the conclusion that it was my work which endowed me with the strength that prevented him controlling me. He thought that the money I earnt each month, however much or little it was, was what made me hold my head up high. He didn’t realize that my strength wasn’t because I had a job, nor was my pride because I had my own income, but both were because I didn’t have the psychological need for him that he did for me. I didn’t have this need for my mother, my father or anyone else because I wasn’t dependent on anyone, whereas he’d been dependent on his mother, then had begun to replace her with me.
And yet he considered himself a man. He had a man’s features: a deep voice and a bushy moustache. Other men were in his employ, women stole glances at his moustache and children he passed in streets and alleys didn’t dare make rude remarks or throw stones at him.
‘Close down the practice,’ he insisted.
‘What about the patients, and all the people I’d be letting down?’
‘There are other doctors besides you.’
‘And my future, and the knowledge I’ve spent half my life acquiring?’
‘I’m your life.’
‘And all those things you said to me?’
‘I didn’t know what it would be like.’
I looked at him with my eyes wide open. His eyes were pale and without depth. His hands were hard and rougher than I’d pictured, his fingers shorter and stupid-looking. Who was this