Orientalized and disoriented identities in « The Parisian » (2019) by Isabella Hammad

Introduction

Isabella Hammad’s The Parisian follows the life of the Nablusi Midhat Kamal, starting in the early 20th century when Palestine was still under Ottoman rule. As a young man, Midhat went to the south of France to study medicine, then to Paris, and came back to find Nablus under British Mandate rule. In Nablus, Midhat cultivates a Francophile ethos through his persona of “the Parisian” or — “Al-Barisi”. Through his life story, Hammad explores Palestinian history between 1914 and 1936 — before the foundation of Israel. Midhat and his family embody history, placing The Parisian at a crossroads between genres, being both a historical novel and a Bildungsroman.

The Parisian is divided into three parts, each corresponding to an era of Midhat’s life: the first one is dedicated to his life in Montpellier and Paris, the second to his arrival and re-adaptation to Nablusi society, and the last part to the crisis he goes through in his forties. Throughout the novel, Midhat struggles with his identity: his projected self, his desired self and his actual self do not match. This quest for identity reflects the political debates taking place around him about Palestine in the global context of Arab nationalisms, as well as debates about colonialism and independence, because of the controversial British presence in the territory. Jamil, Midhat’s cousin, characterizes him and his position in the following way: “to be a Parisian in Nablus was to be out of step with the times, locked in an old colonial formula where subjects imitated masters as if in the seams of their old garments they hoped to find some dust of power left trapped.” (505) This quote demonstrates how Midhat’s desire to conform in order to belong (in France and in Nablus) corresponds to what Homi Bhabha calls “mimicry”: he poses, dresses, talks like a European at a time when European imperialism was deeply entrenched in the Middle East. This essay will first explore the bridging of the personal and the historical in The Parisian within a transnational context of political upheaval. It will then examine storytelling and history-telling as narrative tools, before investigating general feelings of disorientation caused by the fragmentation of identities.

1. An international and multilingual Bildungsroman

Midhat’s story is presented as international: after spending his schoolboy days in Constantinople (the capital of the Ottoman Empire) in the Lycée Impérial (modeled after the French institution), the protagonist leaves Egypt to pursue his studies in France, the first few months in Montpellier as a medical student, before moving to Paris and shifting to the humanities. Wherever he is, Midhat faces cultural and social constraints: in Nablus, he is torn between his class and a longing for European freedom; in Montpellier, he is labeled as “Oriental” (55) or “Turk” (81) during World War I. The linguistic barriers in Montpellier further isolate him, leaving him “lost in the wild multiple of language” (87). Midhat’s departure from Montpellier marks a loss of innocence upon discovering M. Molineu’s project to study “The Effect of a New Language Learned by a Primitive Brain” (128) — the “primitive” specimen in question being Midhat himself. Despite Molineu’s claim that he seeks to “humanize” Midhat and Arabs (132), the betrayal pushes Midhat to leave for Paris. Midhat’s time in France seems to reflect on 19th-century French literary tropes: it allows Hammad to discuss essentializing, orientalist discourses all the while portraying Midhat as a flâneur, fantasizing himself as Al-Barisi. Through a series of familiar rites of passage (rebellion, love, joining his father’s business, marriage, fatherhood, and illness), Midhat’s life is ultimately marked by a return to the ordinary, even as he moves through extraordinary political and historical circumstances. These experiences span both France and Palestine, culminating in his return to Nablus and his reintegration into family life. The novel closes with a moment of reconciliation: after a stay in the mental hospital, Midhat returns home and offers an apologetic look to his daughter, accompanied by the simple phrase, “yalla, we’re going home” (549). This return signifies not just a physical homecoming, but a symbolic restoration of belonging.

Although The Parisian appears as Midhat’s Bildungsroman, he is not the only character whose growth is under study. His future wife Fatima Hammad and his cousin Jamil Kamal also come of age before the reader’s eyes, shaped in part by their relationships with Midhat but also by their individual experiences. Fatima is depicted early on in the novel as a headstrong teenager: “while her father entertained his guests, Fatima escaped through the kitchen garden and climbed the mountain path” (148). She also goes to Nebi Musa in April 1920 (expecting a procession in Jerusalem, she is instead confronted to riots, involving Arabs and Jews, which caused nine deaths) where she scandalously locks eyes with Midhat. Likewise, Jamil is early on depicted as having a life of his own despite spending most of his time with his cousin, and as he and Midhat drift further apart in their adult lives, Jamil finds a purpose in the fight for independence as early as 1920. The Nebi Musa riots are a formative event in their lives: the horror of it all incites Jamil to join the fight and resent Midhat (“We got back and you were away in your world again, reading poetry. The Parisian, wandering around with your coloured ties”, 355) and pushes Fatima and Midhat together (“while everyone else was discussing the Mandate, Midhat was thinking about Fatima Hammad”, 320).

As the main character speaks Palestinian Arabic and French, many passages in the two languages appear in the text untranslated, making the novel only fully accessible to those who understand both languages. This choice, at first glance, contrasts with the didactic aspect of the novel, as readers are taught Palestinian history between 1919 and 1936 through Midhat’s eyes. However, this decision seems to suggest that some parts of the dialogues should not be made available to everyone. The deliberate intent to limit some readers’ access to the full story is a statement in itself and reflects Hammad’s underlying discourse on who should or should not be able to assert or verify “premises” (448) about Palestinians and their history. In France, Père Antoine and M. Molineu both othered and reified Midhat and Palestinians under their theoretical microscope of little scientific or intellectual value — Hammad exposes such orientalist approaches. “Key events in the development of the Palestinian and Syrian national movements” are included at the end of the book, confirming the author’s desire to render Nablusi life with exactitude. She also expresses her intention through a bibliography of sorts in the acknowledgments, considering herself “indebted to the following books” — some of them being memoirs and edited primary sources, and others works of historiography. Hammad therefore built a twofold Bildungsroman: not solely focused on Midhat’s coming of age but also intended to educate the reader about the historical period through the lens of fiction. This double dimension is reinforced by the fact that Midhat is and isn’t essentially a fictional character as Hammad is telling the life story of her great-grandfather, and dedicated her novel to ‘Teta Ghada’, her grandmother, who also appears in the novel. The Parisian therefore intertwines the familial and the historical with the fictional.

2. History telling through storytelling

The very title “The Parisian” or “Al-Barisi” refers to the public persona Midhat adopts when he returns from France. While he did live in Paris for a time, he adapted both his appearance and, eventually, his business persona to fit Parisian expectations. Once back in Nablus, Midhat confabulates with gusto. He posits himself as a kind of rawi, an orator and a historical narrator of “imagined France”, meshing true and imagined tales to entertain Nablusis: “Perhaps it did not matter if he had invented the story. It was a good story, and that was plenty. [...] he saw this part he played for the men of Nablus as the inverse of his persona in Paris—the part he used to play for women” (333). While Midhat skillfully inserts himself into the stories unfolding around him, he refrains from active participation in historical events. His solitary wandering as a flâneur in Paris is at odds with the vibrant social interactions he has with friends and family in Nablus. Close friends of his, like Hani and Sahar Murad, Faruq or his cousin Jamil are all actively participating in the struggle for their homeland’s independence, whereas Midhat only concerns himself with his appearances. However, Midhat cannot fully escape the turmoil of the growing political unrest and discussions, as his domestic retreat becomes reminiscent of the larger picture through his wife and children “who had turned the house into a kind of martial zone in which he was constantly disentangling their limbs and delivering verdicts as to who was in the right and who in the wrong” (388). In addition, when he does diverge from his Parisian storytelling, his narration becomes blurry — he is surprised to see how much he forgets or goes over, and confuses fiction with reality when it comes to key events of the political situation: “he dwelled on the fact that he had blindly forgotten what he saw, Jabotinsky’s men and women marching in formation. The version of Nebi Musa he gave Teta and Um Jamil had replaced his real memory of it. [...] He wondered, dismayed, what else he might have forgotten, or was capable of forgetting” (334). Midhat therefore proves to be an unreliable narrator of events to others, thus contributing to the propagation of false narratives about himself, and about the political forces and corruption at hand. The recurrence of Midhat’s forgetfulness illustrates how easily facts can be replaced by fiction and lies, especially when historical events unfold rapidly. This is particularly true in contexts where information is crucial, as shown by the extensive network of informants employed by British military forces. Amid such instability and confusion, personal and collective efforts to protect and nurture the idea of home take on new significance, often expressed through political activism by those around Midhat.

For Midhat and those around him, political engagement becomes a symbolic way of caring for their home. However, in most conversations about politics, Midhat remains silent or intervenes through platitudes. This passivity reflects a larger theme present in the novel, surrounding class and political activism and rebellion: the fellahin (lower classes) appear as the true leaders of the fight, actively laying their lives for independence, while elites and intellectuals only talk, or betray them like Hani Murad. Even when the higher classes argue over statehood and independence, their discourse is often cut short or does not reach a united conclusion, reflecting the hollow nature of their rhetoric. For example, the owner of a soap factory whose name became a synonym for wealth, Addallah Atwan, is often depicted debating politics from a prejudicial stance against Samaritans and Jews alike while appearing completely disconnected from the realities of daily lives for most Nablusi — “[his] rage was general and his prejudice limitless” (204). In Paris, the discussions of the diasporic youth about independence and rebellions are punctuated by interventions such as “Habibi would you pass me that ashtray” (161) or “Glass of cognac anyone?” (162) which show how disconnected they are from the realities they discuss, and how feeble their convictions are since, as Midhat analyzes, “none need be held to any assertion he had made, and each was free to swap between positions as served the present conversation” (164).

Arab nationalisms are therefore split in two with the nationalist discourses of the elites on the one hand, and the threatening realities of the lower classes on the other hand, whose tension can be perceived in every mundane interaction: “to walk through the onion souq was to hear voices raised with a passion quite out of proportion to any of the transactions at hand [...] Nabulsiyyat took to the podiums before the post office to point at the sky and unleash their fury at British hypocrisy, and at every local person too weak for the Cause” (396). However, some characters like Jamil or Sahar (both part of the elites) nuance this binary division: Jamil dies alongside his comrades in arms, who are farmers and peasants, and Sahar leads a march of women to the High Commissioner protesting the Balfour Declaration — “the women she associated with came from all parts of society, including the fellahin; all classes, all religions” (403). Sahar’s leadership reflects a broader inclusivity in the movement, where alliances form beyond traditional social hierarchies in surprising ways.

3. Dis-orientation

From the outset of the novel, an interesting pun between “Proche-Orient” and “désorienté” sets the tone about Midhat’s destiny (13). Midhat is permanently within an interstice, never fully adhering to one part of himself or the other, whether it be his love for Jeannette or Fatima, his Parisian self or his identity as a Nablusi, his family life or his desire for greatness. This lack of stability culminates in a psychotic episode of several months in the last part of the novel, caused by the reading of the letter his former lover Jeannette sent him in 1919 when he left her and Montpellier. There are symptomatic elements hinting at a possible crumbling of Midhat’s carefully crafted life. For example, the recurrent ringing sound he hears before dissociating (“he would hear a high ringing sound and make love half in disgust [...] That sound moved into and out of his awareness” (156); “He thought of the sharp ringing sound that sometimes burst into his ears” (466)) and the frequent impression of an incoming earthquake (“the next evening the shaking was so strong he was certain it was a tremor from the earth itself” (390)) both hint at his mental instability throughout the novel. In his psychosis, words and people become interchangeable. For instance, Midhat’s confusion between “serment d’hypocrite” and “serment d’hippocrate” (449) can be read as a Freudian slip in translation, revealing an underlying sense of self-awareness.

Loss of bearings affects other characters as well: Jeannette, as she revisits the circumstances of her mother’s death (38), Um Taher, who does not understand Midhat nor his vision of life, Père Antoine when he understands that his monograph of Nablusi life reflects a completely thwarted vision of Nablus. In their final discussion, Midhat admits that his own pre-constructed idea of Paris was incorrect: “I had an idea about France [...]. I had a kind of fantasy of virtue” (546), which parallels the Frenchman’s own realization about Nablus: “He simply observed as the premise of his monograph disintegrated before his eyes” (448). This generalized disorientation reflects the political situation of Nablus, as the novel ends with the beginning of the Revolt of 1936. The personal and the political are both in crisis as the death of Jamil as part of the armed resistance intertwines both struggles.

The Taher, Kamal and Murad families change houses several times in the novel, as the urban and social fabric of the city evolves in the 1920s and 1930s under British rule. “Home” therefore has variable geographies in The Parisian, which leads to some characters being disoriented: Ghada, Midhat’s youngest daughter, often goes out to explore alone and locating her is a recurrent issue (475, 478, 482, 487). Meanwhile, buildings are destroyed in the revolt, and as Midhat’s store is malignantly burnt down, familiar places are lost; the only real structures that remain are the emotional connections (love, kinship and friendship) formed by the characters. Relationships are compared to architectural structures several times in the novel, underlining their status; there is a “structural significance of marriage” (84) since stories of love and/or marriage frame the narration, when everything else is changing: “stories of longing were the only stories. To desire was as good as to possess” (87). The emphasis on desire over possession illustrates how relationships function as a foundational element, giving characters emotional continuity despite external upheaval.

Commented excerpt

In this passage from the second part of the novel, after Haj Nimr unexpectedly accepts Midhat’s proposal to marry Fatima, Midhat ecstatically runs to share the news of the union with his family.

Midhat perceives his newfound sense of belonging as analogous to the building of a house, made possible by his union to Fatima. The use of the word “deed” encapsulates this ambiguity: it can refer to their marriage contract, or to the deed of ownership of a plot of land he could use to build their house. In any case, it appears that Midhat considers his marriage as the foundation that will structure his future social existence, the erection of this “edifice” is made possible because of the “solid wall ahead of him” that is Fatima. In this passage, she is either reified and compared to a “prize virtually in hand”, or appears as an unspecified figure Midhat desires as suggested by the use of the indefinite article “a” (“need for a woman”). This seems to indicate that she is a means to an end: she was the missing piece of Midhat’s puzzle and will help him project an image of accomplishment and, paradoxically, independence. In this moment of revelation, Midhat sees his new relationship with Fatima as teleological — in his confused and eager wandering, she appears as the conceptual balm that will soothe not only his own suffering but the entire geopolitical situation of the 1920s in both Europe and in Palestinian territory. This lack of affect highlights how different his love for Fatima is from what he felt towards Jeannette: whereas his relationship with Jeannette only highlighted his inability to join French society, his union to Fatima opens new doors to Midhat. Marrying her equates weaving himself back into Nablusian society, and placing himself as one more “object”, one more “strand” in the historical scenography (“old museum”) he is so desperate to knit himself into.

The repetition of the marker “now” at the beginning and at the very end of the excerpt illustrates how this fortunate turn of events constitutes a rupture, and conveys Midhat’s enthusiasm and his relief, as he can now divide his existence in two. There is a past Midhat: he is characterized by “his nostalgia”, as well as a lack of something he struggled to identify until this day (“this was what was missing from his life”). In his delusion, this new Midhat, however, is sturdily implanted in Nablus through his construction of walls (“his strong body had laid the first stone”, “sturdy wall at midday”, “solid wall ahead of him”) that come to strengthen his presence in Nablus. This division is also represented through the use of different modals, as Midhat evolves from the speculative “now he would belong”, to the affirmative “he could see it all” to an almost substancializing turn-of-phrase “edifice that would now arise”. Midhat’s voice seems almost frenetic here: this zeal is shown through oral markers such as the exclamative and a repetition of the word “no” as well as through a peculiar rhythm induced by Hammad’s use of commas in the last paragraph, as well as the shortness of certain sentences (“He was of them, and he was his own” or “That was plain; it was fantastically coherent”). The cadence of his internal speech mirrors his delusion of incoming grandeur.

Bibliography

BHABHA, Homi. K. 1994. The Location of Culture. London: Routledge.

CRESWELL, Robyn. "A Free Man in Nablus", The New York Review of Books, 15 August 2019, pp.16-20. URL: https://www.nybooks.com/articles/2019/08/15/isabella-hammad-free-man-nablus/.

HAMMAD, Isabella. 2019. The Parisian, or, Al-Barisi: A Novel. London: Penguin Random House.

MOHARRAM, Jehanne. 2020. Review of The Parisian, or, Al-Barisi: A Novel, World Literature Today, volume 94, n°1, pp.110-111. URL: https://www.jstor.org/stable/10.7588/worllitetoda.94.1.0110.

PATAKI, Éva. 2023. “'As Much as I Belong': Space, Affect, and Identity in Isabella Hammad’s The Parisian", P’Arts’Hum, volume 3, n°1. pp.1-15. URL: https://doi.org/10.52885/pah.v3i1.126.

RAHMAN, F. K. A. 2021 "Mapping Spaces, Identities, and Ideologies in The Parisian (2019)", IAFOR Journal of Literature & Librarianship, volume 10, n°1. URL: https://doi.org/10.22492/ijl.10.1.07.

Cette fiche a été rédigée dans le cadre d'un Master 2 à l'ENS de Lyon.

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Blandine Colas, Orientalized and disoriented identities in The Parisian (2019) by Isabella Hammad, La Clé des Langues [en ligne], Lyon, ENS de LYON/DGESCO (ISSN 2107-7029), juin 2025. Consulté le 20/06/2025. URL: https://cle.ens-lyon.fr/anglais/litterature/litterature-postcoloniale/orientalized-and-disoriented-identities-in-the-parisian-2019-by-isabella-hammad