Translating Nouzha Fassi Fihri's La Baroudeuse: A Case Study in ...

midwife who had been called in the middle of the night as soon as her aunt had
first cried out was washing the bloody sheets in full sight of everyone. This
spectacle had offended Kenza's girlish modesty. She thought for a long time about
this birth in the midst of pain, blood, and filth. She squeezed her thighs together
apprehensively. Is this what comes of love? Did one have to go through that to
attain the status of motherhood and to consecrate love? She remembered her aunt
the way she had been: coquettish, in full bloom, wonderfully feminine, adored by
her husband, making less fortunate women jealous. She thought of her again, her
hair disheveled, screaming, lying in an indecent position, torn apart by the pains
of childbirth.
She remembered her uncle who had been spared this sight. He had paced
up and down the garden walkways in spite of the cold night, and then went off
toward the other side of the house until the degrading signs of childbirth
surrounding his wife could be cleaned away while he announced the birth of his
child.
She remembered she had run to her cousin Moulay Ali, jumped on him
and slapped him hard, twice, without his knowing the reason. Why had she done
that? Out of all the children playing in the patio that particular evening, why had
she chosen to take out her resentment on him? Was it a premonition? Did she
already instinctively know that she was predestined to be his for all time and that
she would suffer because of him?
Every morning, the hem of her caftan tucked into her belt, sleeves held
back with a silk cord and head scarf awry, she dressed him carefully, from head to
foot. He would sit on the couch, docile, letting her have her way with him, happy
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