Breaking Stereotypes in the Writings of Majida Mohammedi Yemenat

 Yemenat

Mohammed Al-Mekhalfi

The journey of the Tunisian writer and poet Majida Mohammedi emerges as a distinctive human and creative model within the modern Arab literary landscape. She does not write from the position of a spectator of the world, but from the heart of experience — from direct engagement with life, and from a profound awareness of the meaning of writing and its role in understanding, expression, and resistance.

From her very beginnings, writing for her was neither a luxury nor a linguistic ornament. Rather, it was an existential necessity — a means to mend the self and construct meaning in a world where sensibility erodes and certainty fades.

Majida believes that the word is not merely a tool for communication but a living entity, born from the womb of experience and nourished by anguish, longing, and contemplation.

She writes as the heart breathes — she does not plan the text nor fabricate the state; instead, she allows it to form organically, arising from a genuine emotion, a memory, or a simple scene that transforms in her hands into a text carrying a subtle, human radiance.

She does not write to proclaim herself a poet but to remain alive to feeling. Writing, for her, is an act of salvation from silence — a means of confession when ordinary language proves inadequate for expression.

While many Arab women writers have produced literature grounded in direct emotional outpouring, Majida belongs to a generation that strikes a balance between emotion and intellect, between sensory experience and aesthetic awareness.

She does not separate what is felt from what is pondered, for in her conception, a text reaches completion only when heart and mind embrace in a single moment. Thus, her poetry overflows with emotion yet avoids sliding into excessive lyricism; her prose engages with thought without freezing into dry theorization — always retaining a warm, human pulse.

Majida moves freely between literary genres without imposing rigid boundaries between poetry, prose, and essays. Form, in her view, is not externally imposed but rather emerges from the very nature of the idea itself.

When emotion ignites and overflows with imagery, the poem emerges. When the need for contemplation intensifies, language takes the form of an essay or an extended reflection. Yet in all cases, she remains faithful to her primary source: human experience — the indispensable wellspring of writing.

She writes from life, yet does not merely describe it; instead, she artistically reshapes it to reveal what lies beneath the surface, illuminating the profound human dimension hidden within details. When she interrogates sorrow, she does not lament, but transforms it into knowledge. When she revisits memories, she does not cling to the past but reconstructs it through language as part of present consciousness.

In this sense, writing becomes for her an act of purification and balance — a spiritual practice before it is an aesthetic one.

Reflecting on the relationship between the writer and the world, Majida believes that the sincere word is not written from the outside, but from within — from a moment of interaction between the self and its surroundings. She maintains that a genuine writer does not write about others but through them, through their pain, dreams, questions, and love.

Hence, the distinctiveness of her literary voice emerges: it does not shout or proclaim but whispers with a profound feminine wisdom, drawing its strength from tranquility and sincerity.

In her texts, woman is not a fragile being or a victim awaiting salvation, but an active, self-aware presence — capable of thought, of creation, and of redefining the world from her own perspective.

She does not adopt slogan-driven feminist discourse, but expresses a mature femininity that views writing as an extension of woman’s inherent nature — in her capacity to embrace, to listen, and to transform pain into creative energy.

Through this vision, Majida transcends the literary and social classifications that have long constrained Arab women writers, affirming that woman’s voice is an integral part of Arab cultural consciousness, inseparable from its evolution.

As for her view of criticism, she regards it as a partner in creativity, not an adversary. She believes that a text is not complete at the moment of its writing but begins its real life when it is read and reinterpreted.

Each reading adds a new dimension to the text, revealing an aspect that may not have been apparent even to the writer herself. Therefore, she values criticism that illuminates the text — not that which judges or confines it within preconceived frameworks.

Despite her daily responsibilities as a mother, wife, and working woman, writing remains for her an inner priority that cannot be compromised.

She does not wait for the perfect time to write; instead, she creates her own time amid the tumult of life — transforming pressure and clutter into motivation rather than obstacles. She believes that true creativity is not born in a void but in the heart of chaos, when the need for meaning is most acute, and when the word becomes the only refuge.

Thus, it can be said that Majida Mohammedi represents a model of a writer who writes from within experience, not from outside it.

Her writing is neither linguistic luxury nor an attempt to manufacture beauty; rather, it is an act of life — a balance between human sensibility and thought, between personal experience and shared concerns.

She writes because she cannot stop writing — because, for her, the word is not merely a means of expression, but a way of understanding, confronting, and reconciling with both the self and the world.

In her texts, pain coexists with contemplation, and simple language intertwines with profound meaning, resulting in a sincere form of literature that reaches the reader without affectation or pretension.

In both her poetry and her essays, there is a consciousness of language as a living entity, not as a rigid tool. Every word she uses harbors a small life within it, and every sentence pulses with what resembles a quiet confession.

In doing so, she presents an elevated model within the Arab literary scene — one where emotion and thought coexist, and the text becomes a mirror of human experience in all its fragility and authenticity.

Her poem “The Falling of Names” is a clear example of this approach. In it, she blends memory and loss, posing a profound question about identity, longing, and the meaning of survival. She does not write about oblivion as a philosophical concept, but as a human condition that touches each of us.

The poem progresses quietly yet leaves an indelible mark, confronting us with a simple yet poignant question: Who would we be if we lost our memory?

“The Falling of Names”

What if memory spilled from our minds
like water from a cracked vessel?
What if we woke suddenly, strangers to ourselves,
gazing into the mirror as through another’s window?

We would have no past to lean upon,
no ancient wound to feel when the wind blows.

Like a mother closing her eyes to her child,
we would not know the name of a first love,
nor distinguish the features of those who departed.
We would not understand why we weep at a certain melody,
or why we fear particular rooms.

We would forget how a mother placed her hand on our brow when fever burned,
and forget that a father’s laughter was a hidden music
with which we extinguished the night.

We would lose the path back to the small places —
the school alley,
the cake vendor,
the fig tree that believed in our secrets more than our parents did.

We would lose our oldest friends,
for memory would find no address for them.
We would see them in the streets and smile
as at a familiar face in a dream,
then walk on, not knowing why our skin shivered.

We would forget how we laughed running in the rain,
and how we blushed before those we loved.
We would forget the beautiful mistakes that taught us life,
and the foolish words our hearts once said so sincerely.

But would we gain anything?
Perhaps.

Perhaps we would love people with no prior memory.
We would gaze upon faces as upon unsigned paintings —
beautiful, without knowing why.
We would greet the world with hands wiped clean,
that recall not who stabbed them,
nor who held them.

We would begin the story from its first line —
with no regret,
with no expectations.

But what of longing?
Where is it born when its memory is silenced?
Where does one dwell who has no past?
And where does one go whom no one remembers?