Rewritten to fit the patriarchal script

A production of "Carmen" has been running for over three months at the El-Taliaa Theatre—one of Egypt's state-funded venues in Cairo—drawing significant audience numbers and praise for its set design, choreography and narrative. The play, adapted from Prosper Mérimée’s 1845 novella, unfolds in the same time and place as the original: Spain of the year 1820.

Yet the production, directed by Nasser Abdel Moneim and written by Mohamed Ali Ibrahim, seems to perpetuate a patriarchal perspective found in Egyptian society that casts women as the root of men's failures and violence. It is a perspective in which women are the bearers of sin and all but the very embodiment of the "greatest evil."

Mérimée's novella tells the story of José, a former Spanish police officer turned outlaw, who falls in love with a Romani woman named Carmen. The latter passionately reciprocates his affection before eventually growing tired of his obsessiveness and falling for another man. When José learns of this infidelity, he gives her an ultimatum: either move with him elsewhere, or be killed. Carmen chooses death over the loss of her freedom. 

The Romani are an ethnic group with roots that can be traced back to South Asia, in particular the Indian subcontinent. They are known for their nomadic lifestyle, unique traditions and diverse languages, which vary depending on the region of origin.

In contrast to the free and rebellious character of the novella, the Carmen portrayed in Cairo lacks authentic emotion and ethical principles. Played by young actress Reem Ahmed, the character is depicted as manipulative, relying on seduction and trickery to achieve her goals. These character traits are reinforced in the choreography, which, though well-executed and varied, is aggressive and tense, bordering at times on the convulsive.

As the play's events unfold on the Cairo stage, Carmen proceeds to manipulate José, seducing him into helping her escape and repaying this debt with physical intimacy. She later repeats this form of transactional intimacy in exchange for help in smuggling goods.

Avoiding the question of women's liberation

The original character of Carmen is driven by a freedom she has forged for herself, without reliance on others. In Cairo, the play belittles any conception of women's liberation by portraying it as frivolous and ultimately dependent on men. 

In the novella, José reflects on Carmen and her people: "To people of her blood, liberty is everything, and they would set a town on fire to save themselves one day in prison." In another passage, Carmen boldly declares: "I won't accept to submit to anyone. All I want in this life is to live freely and do as I please, so do not overstep by attempting to control me."

The theme of freedom comes up only in two scenes of the Egyptian production. First, Carmen's husband Garcia recalls robbing a caravan owner who fought back and left a scar on Garcia's face. Surprisingly, the man forgives Garcia, stating: "Freedom comes at a price." This line, rather than celebrating freedom, seems to serve as a cautionary warning against it.

In another scene, José says about Carmen: "I freed her and paid the price," perfectly embodying the patriarchal trope that a woman's liberation must come from a man who, naturally, must suffer as a consequence.

The adaptation deviates not only in dialogue but in plot. In one scene, Carmen's husband duels with José. When José drops his knife, he pleads with Carmen to hand it back to him. Instead, she throws it to her husband, a gesture suggesting she never loved José but merely used him. In the Egyptian play, her loyalty lies squarely with her husband, reflecting the centrality of marriage and fidelity in Egyptian society.

In Mérimée's novella, Carmen chooses José over her husband, even scolding him for duelling with her spouse in her absence, worried that the husband might have won and taken her beloved from her.

In her relationship with the other man—a bullfighter—the play portrays Carmen as deceitful. She feigns interest in him only to lure him into a gambling den, where he loses all his money. This depiction contrasts sharply with the novella, where Carmen and the bullfighter genuinely fall in love. She cheers him on in the arena and cannot bear the sight of him wounded.

Critic Khaled Ashour views the perverse transformation of Carmen from "a symbol of freedom" to "a fallen woman" as a sign of serious artistic decline. Speaking to Qantara, he says: "Some critics might consider mere translation a betrayal of the original text, since not all words carry the same shades of meaning in another language. So what, then, of a complete upending of a narrative's entire philosophical core?"

A more progressive predecessor

This is not the first Egyptian adaptation of "Carmen". Renowned director and actor Mohamed Sobhi staged the play in 1999. Remarkably, nearly 25 years later, Sobhi's adaptation appears as a beacon of progress compared to the regressive recent production. 

Sobhi's Carmen was cast as a political symbol of freedom in opposition to dictatorship. The plot revolved around a tyrannical theatre director, attempting to stage "Carmen", who clashes with a dissenting lead actress. She later inspires her fellow performers to revolt against the tyrant.

Director Nasser Abdel Moneim has defended his recent adaptation, arguing: "Carmen is a controversial character whose essence lies in the idea of absolute freedom—of not being tied to any one person, regardless of how much she may love them. But freedom comes at a price, and in her case, that price is her life."

Speaking to Qantara, he added that he "stayed true to the events of the original novella and did not intend to pass judgment on the character of Carmen, leaving that to the audience." He pointed to what he referred to as "the dilemma of bodily freedom, which varies across cultures. Some view Carmen as a symbol of liberation, while others simply view her as a whore."

Critic Essam Zakaria described it as "depressing" to see a fundamentally progressive work turned into a deeply "reactionary" one, stating that it reflects the prevailing mindset of a society that adapts original works through its own cultural lens. 

He cited "King Lear" by Shakespeare, which has been widely adapted in Arabic literature. In some versions, the story is interpreted through the lens of "Uquq al-Ābā" (disrespect or disobedience towards one's parents), which is considered haram in Islam and culturally taboo in Arab societies. In other adaptations, the role of the youngest daughter Cordelia—the wisest and ultimately most noble character—is sidelined, reflecting a general patriarchal marginalisation of the role of women.

Feminist activist Shaimaa Sami told Qantara that presenting artistic works in a way that judges women more harshly than men is nothing more than "a reproduction of misogynistic discourses, embedded in a structure of power that casts every woman as the evil whore who deserves her fate." 

"It is a way of whitewashing the systemic violence that women are subjected to," she added.

This text is an edited translation of the Arabic original. Translation by Basyma Saad.