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These are recollections by women and men of letters in Lebanon who were in touch with “May”—in her earlier life, in her ordeal, and after the ordeal.

In this reportage we publish some of the recollections of those days, by some of these writers, apologizing for our inability to reach all those who knew May in those days.

And here is “May” herself, opening this series.

Why did you refuse to eat?

... Because I longed for death, after all the persecution and oppression I met with—whether in Egypt, from the management of al-Ahram, in one of whose buildings I occupied a house: they gave me no respite to pay the rent, but sold my furniture and my library at public auction; or in Lebanon, where I met with strange devices for persuading people of my madness.

— Why do you refuse to receive people and talk to them?

— Because the people who visited me on my arrival in Beirut spoke to me in ways that showed their belief in my madness... Though these people are excusable, up to a point: it was alleged to them that I had burned my library—the dearest thing I own in life, for the works it holds bearing their authors' signatures and their words of dedication—and it was alleged to them that I had tried to burn children... so it was left to them to believe.

I confess my fault: I was remiss. I believed as everyone believed. I believed the stored-up rumors when May was brought from Cairo, and I refrained from visiting her... And when I asked after May, I was told that she was in the Rebeiz hospital. One day I rose, with May's name on my lips and in my heart..., and I came to the hospital, and I said to the nurse: I am Ameen Rihani;

I want to visit May without asking leave. She smiled and walked before me, and I arrived.

It was a joy for me... I had expected to meet an emaciated woman, and found myself before a woman whose face betrayed no trace of wasting.

I greeted her and sat down... May hastened to cover her bare forearm, then drew up the cover and turned her face away from me.

Words by May (The Silent Voice of Woman)

I speak now with burning grief, as though I were the voice of woman, silent for generations... the faint voice that has known nothing but the whisper of obedience and the muttering of obscure rebellion, rising, coming from afar, from the depth of the depths of the black ages, from the farthest of the far reaches of this wondrous creation—coming from the graves, from the seas, from all the elements of life, crying: O man! You have abased me, and so you were abased. Free me, that you may be free.

Words and Signals

I spoke to her, apologizing for my remissness; she turned her face to look at me askance, then closed her eyes and remained still. I understood what lay behind the silence. I grasped the meaning of the seal upon her lips, and I tried to overcome it, but did not succeed.