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Summary
Summary
IN THE LIBYAN CITY of Ghadames, Malika watches her merchant father depart on one of his caravan expeditions. She too yearns to travel to distant cities, and longs to learn to read like her younger brother. But nearly 12 years old, and soon to be of marriagable age, Malika knows that--like all Muslim women--she must be content with a more secluded, more limited life. Then one night a stranger enters her home . . . someone who disrupts the traditional order of things--and who affects Malika in unexpected ways. "I was enchanted by this story of a brave Berber girl who dares to dream and its filigree of details about harem life, ancient trade routes, goddesses and healers. The real beauty ofThe Shadows of Ghadamesis that it transcends the exotic to explore universal truths about the condition of being human."--Suzanne Fisher Staples, author of Newbery Honor Book, Shabanu: Daughter of the Wind
Reviews (4)
Horn Book Review
(Intermediate, Middle School) Women who lived in the ancient Libyan city of Ghadames during the late nineteenth century conducted their cloistered, segregated lives almost exclusively amidst painted gardens on the city's rooftops, while their husbands controlled affairs in the ""cool shade of the alleyways"" and actual palm groves below. Eleven-year-old Malika longs to experience life beyond the rooftop confines, but her prospects are extremely limited. Malika's mother, Meriem, is a cautious, obedient woman; her father's other wife, Bilkisu, is Malika's model for fearlessness. When Malika's father is away, Bilkisu dares to rescue and give shelter to an injured young man preaching Muslim fundamentalism -- an act for which she could be disowned. Stolz gives prideful Abdelkarim real dimensionality; while he recuperates from his wounds, he teaches the eager Malika to read, forgetting that she is ""just a girl"" destined soon to marry and lose even the privileges of childhood. In this novel translated from the French, the wealth of cultural detail is sometimes distracting, and the author is too obvious in her selection of a gift for Malika from her father: a telescope, to see beyond. But then Stolz's whole story, which is steeped in the syncretic Islam of Ghadames, revolves around changing visions of people and places. (c) Copyright 2010. The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted. All rights reserved.
Booklist Review
Gr. 6-10. In the Libyan city of Ghadames at the end of the nineteenth century, Malika is dreading her twelfth birthday. That is the time when, according to her family's Berber customs, she will be close to marriageable age and confined to the world of women. In Ghadames that means restriction to the rooftops, a city above the city, an open sunny town for women only, where . . . they never talk to men. Malika longs to live beyond the segregated city and travel, like her father, a trader. But the wider world comes to Malika after her father's two wives agree to harbor, in secret, a wounded stranger. The story of an outsider who unsettles a household and helps a young person to grow is certainly nothing new, and some of the lessons here are purposeful. But Stolz invigorates her tale with elegant prose and a deft portrayal of a girl verging on adolescence. The vivid backdrop is intoxicating, but the story's universal concerns will touch readers most: sibling jealously, confusion about adult customs, and a growing interest in a world beyond family. --Gillian Engberg Copyright 2004 Booklist
School Library Journal Review
Gr 5-8-In Libya at the end of the 19th century, upper-class women were confined to their homes and rooftops, leading a quiet life filled with household tasks. Nearly 12, Malika is about to enter that world, although not without regret for the loss of freedom and the education her brother has. Her father's two wives offer her good models: her upper-class mother, the "wife from home," who calmly runs the household, and her brother's mother, the "wife from the journey," who moves more freely about the city, still veiled and hiding in dark alleys when a man appears. In spite of their upbringing and their husband's departure on business, the two women rescue a man injured outside their home. Abdelkarim remains hidden with them while they nurse his wounds, and as he recovers, he and Malika come to see that the world of women is richer than they thought. He teaches Malika her alphabet before he is smuggled away, and her mother, admitting that times are changing, finally agrees to let her learn to read. This quiet story is notable for the intimate picture of the traditional Muslim world that it conveys; unfortunately, not until the author's note at the end is the time period made evident. The imprecise use of language may make it difficult for readers to visualize this distant world and to understand the characters' motivations. Still, this novel would be useful in schools studying this part of the world.-Kathleen Isaacs, Edmund Burke School, Washington, DC (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Kirkus Review
A Muslim child poised on the threshold of adulthood comes to understand that her world is less constrained than she supposes. Bolstered by centuries of custom, the streets of the Libyan city of Ghadames are considered men's territory, while, with limited exceptions, the women are confined to the connected rooftops. Though Malika has the freedom of those rooftops, she yearns for more: to travel with her merchant father, to learn to read, to see what lies beyond the heavy veils and limited roles that women are expected to assume. But she gets startling insight into just how powerful and complex that woman's world is when, with her father away on business, his two wives defy law and morality by sheltering a wounded fugitive in the house. Setting her tale at the end of the 19th century, Stolz not only weaves the sights, sounds, and daily rhythms of life in Ghadames into a vivid tapestry, she creates a cast of distinct characters, each of which displays a unique blend of strengths and weaknesses, as well as sometimes unexpected intelligence and compassion. (Fiction. 11-13) Copyright ©Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Excerpts
Excerpts
My father left on a trip early this morning. This is our way of life in Ghadames. The men are often away on the desert tracks while the women wait for them on the rooftops. But since this morning I can't stay still. I wander around the house, worried and tense, like an animal that senses a great windstorm is on the way. Bilkisu woke me up before sunrise from a sound sleep. I had been rolled up in one of my mother's worn, soft and cuddly wool veils. I think I was dreaming of caravans. . . . "Hurry up, Malika, if you want to say goodbye to your father!" Bilkisu says. It is dark but I make out Bilkisu's smile as she leans toward me, her heavy silver rings pulling on her earlobes. And, above all, I recognize her smell, so unlike my mother's, a blend of jasmine and peppery spices. Bilkisu knows I have a superstitious fear of letting my father leave on a trip without saying goodbye to him. If I fail in my duty today, something dreadful could befall him. "Hurry up," she says again more gently. "He's already in the kitchen, about to shut the grain storage container." I scramble to the stairway leading to our rooftop. It is as straight and narrow as a rope ladder. I am so used to its steep incline that I can climb up even in the dark without falling. Upstairs, I shiver from the cold--the desert cold at the end of the night, when not a single cloud protects human beings from the immense black sky. Fortunately my mother has already lit a fire and sparks are flying to the corner of the roof. I like our kitchen, with its palm trunk beams worn by the smoke of the cooking pots, and its earthenware jars, covered with basketwork lids, for preserving food. And the convenient holes in the wall next to the hearth for the salt brought by caravan, one hole for the coarse gray cooking salt, the other for the fine white table salt that squeaks when you rub it between your fingers. But, most of all, I like the grain storage container built into the corner farthest away from the fire; it is reassuringly potbellied, with a small round opening like a belly button. "Good morning, my child." My father greets me with a smile. His camel-hair burnoose is slung over his shoulders and his head is wrapped in a turban with the flaps floating around his neck. When it's time to leave, he will fold them over his mouth, as the Tuareg nomads do. My mother does not look up. She is holding her measuring jar and counting in a low voice, taking out the amount of wheat and barley we will need for our meals during my father's absence. I hear the grain crackling as it rolls inside the wooden plates placed on the ground. Take exactly what's needed, that's our custom. We can feast and celebrate again only when the men return. More than anyone else in Ghadames my mother, Meriem, insists on a strict adherence to traditional practices. I watch her in the glow of the fire as she divides up the grain and packs it down, with her fingers spread out. Her straight forehead, strong eyebrow line and delicate mouth are the features of a queen. She has bluish tattoos on her forehead and chin, and a mark in the shape of a star on each of her cheekbones. I know these tattoos have a magical significance, but I am not old enough yet for the women to explain it to me. "Bilkisu," my mother says, addressing my father's second wife, "you can pour the barley into the large jar in the pantry." Bilkisu picks up the plate. Though she never raises her voice, my mother has a commanding tone. Perhaps that's why I feel more at ease with Bilkisu, who treats me as though I were her own daughter. Bilkisu is tall and lithe, draped in indigo blue veils. She often laughs; when my father hears her, he can't help looking at her. Her task accomplished, my mother lifts the plate filled with grains of wheat and holds it at arm's length. It is time to hermetically seal our grain container. Before sealing the opening, my father removes any putrid fumes that may taint the grain by slipping a burning wick inside the container. For a brief moment, the glow of the flame outlines his angular jaw and his aquiline nose, and I feel a violent pang in my heart. I realize how much I will miss him during this trip, more than ever before. He straightens up, throwing the thick pleats of his burnoose behind his shoulder. Then he looks at me, his intense gaze making me feel like a real person, not like a child whom people caress without seeing. "Look after yourself, Malika, and take care of your mother." He has never spoken to me like this before. Excerpted from The Shadows of Ghadames by Joelle Stolz All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
