The Novel “Braids at the Window” and Hemingway’s Imprint

Doctor and writer Abdelhakim Ameioua, a psychiatrist practicing at his clinic in Nador, Morocco, has published a novel titled Braids at the Window. Released in its first edition in 2019 by Lotus Publishing (Egypt), this medium-format work spans 402 pages.

A novel without “plot” or chronology

Anyone accustomed, like me, to the classic 19th-century novel models—those that open with a central dramatic conflict and resolve in a climax, like Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables, Stendhal’s The Red and the Black, or Émile Zola’s A Love Episode—will feel disoriented when reading Dr. Ameioua’s work. Indeed, one will find neither a central narrative pivot around which events revolve, nor a resolution toward which they converge, nor even a linear chronology to fuel the suspense that typically grips a reader and holds them to the story. Although the novel is structured into sixteen chapters, they do not follow a chronological progression leading toward an anticipated ending. Instead, these self-contained chapters are linked primarily by Ayoub, the novel’s protagonist, and the presence of a second main character: the writer Ernest Hemingway, to whom I will return later. For this reason, Braids at the Window is a novel without “events” in the conventional sense of a sequential, material timeline. Its “events” are rather vivid artistic canvases drawn from nature and human lives where all contrasts and contradictions coexist: joy and sadness, wisdom and madness, serenity and anger, sincerity and hypocrisy, selfishness and altruism, love and hatred, strength and weakness, beauty and ugliness… Yet the author does not relate these scenes of nature and life like a mere recorder taking minutes; he presents genuine, exquisitely beautiful artistic compositions that bring these scenes to life before us with such vivid reality that readers feel as though they can touch it, live it, and take part in it.

Dr. Ayoub

The novel follows the story of Ayoub, an intern appointed to Al-Hosni Hospital in Nador. Living in the hospital’s staff quarters, he occasionally visits his elderly parents at the family home in the same city. At his residence, he receives visits from Nora, a divorced young woman eager to marry him, who persistently urges him to take the leap. Yet his heart leans toward Malika, a neighbor living near his family home, whom he discovered one day upon opening an upstairs window: she was gazing out from the opposite window, her braided hair swaying. It is from this scene that the novel takes its title, Braids at the Window. Ever since that encounter at the window, he has been hopelessly in love with Malika, who “tethers him with two steel cables, like a ship anchored to a port quay, pulling him through two compelling desires: passion and the flesh” (p. 180), despite her being divorced as well and rumored to suffer from madness. One day, she invites him from her window to visit her secretly at night—an invitation he dares to accept. Ayoub spends his days working with the sick, the injured, and the dead, such as a group of decomposed bodies washed ashore on Nador’s coast—undocumented migrants who drowned after their boat capsized—for which he is tasked with writing examination reports. Outside of work, alcohol is his constant companion, both at the staff quarters and in his family home, while a cigarette rarely leaves his hand. “Futile evenings crushed him, shattering him into fragments hard to piece back together” (p. 278), writes author Abdelhakim Ameioua, who seamlessly merges with the character of Ayoub.

Abd el-Krim’s Melilla

As Ayoub visits Melilla, wandering through the old seaside quarter of General Sanjurjo with its low, single-story houses, the narrative takes on the role of an expert tour guide. He compares the layout of the narrow streets to a “grid… reminiscent of a crossword puzzle” (p. 181). He leads us through the museum, showcasing its collections with an intimate knowledge of their history and striking detail, revealing both a remarkable memory and a sharp eye for observation. He pauses before the building of a former prison to recount how Abd el-Krim once leapt from its ramparts to escape captivity, fracturing “his leg, which left him with a slight limp for the rest of his life” (p. 202). He then guides us to the site of the former “Marina” café to explain that Abd el-Krim el-Khattabi had shared a coffee there with companions in 1910, during his time teaching at the Native School of Melilla. He had noticed that the price charged significantly exceeded what Spanish customers were paying. When he asked why, “the reply came: ‘It is to prevent Moroccans from entering the café'” (p. 203). He subsequently filed a complaint against the owner, resulting in a heavy administrative—though not judicial—fine. After leaving the old town to reach the grand park, Ayoub—who is none other than the physician and author Ameioua, as previously mentioned—points out the residence where Abd el-Krim lived while working in Melilla, at No. 27 Gran Capitán Street, not far from the house Franco occupied on the other side of the park. The author observes: “What an irony of history! The history of events and stones has turned Melilla’s grand park into a monument separating the memories of two men between whom an abyss lies” (p. 205). Finally, Ayoub arrives at “La Cantina,” Paco’s bar, where “the drinks flow freely and appetizers of all kinds tempt the palate” (p. 205).

The Contradictions of the Human Soul

In his immersion into the deepest recesses of the human soul—and who better to do so than a specialist in psychiatry?—Ayoub, the author’s alter ego, highlights the contradictions and duplicity of the psyche. He explores the gap between visible appearances and inner truths, particularly among the devout. First, there is Hadj Abdelkader Bastos, Malika’s father: though he performs his prayers on time at the mosque and presents an image of pious devotion, he “still notices the curves of women’s figures while on his way to prayer at the local mosque” (page 25). Then there is his colleague Boudlal, the most religious and pious doctor in the entire hospital. He is a regular at dawn prayers, abstains from alcohol, and avoids all that is forbidden. Yet, this does not stop him from coming one evening to beg Ayoub, the “drunkard,” to help him out of a crisis after he got Dr. Dalal pregnant, fully aware that she is engaged to a colleague working in another province. It is this clinical and lived understanding of human nature that drives him to write, even when reflecting on the cruelty with which his father treated his mother: “What is truly sad is the scale of human betrayals that so quickly forget years of shared life, as if the hopes and heartbreaks had meant nothing in the existence of people” (page 122).

Yet, amidst these human betrayals, the dominance of selfishness, and the spread of a “culture” of ingratitude, certain actions prove that loyalty, altruism, and sacrifice remain living virtues. Ayoub witnessed this firsthand through the Spanish nuns who dedicated their lives to serving the sick, providing aid and comfort within the hospital walls. Indeed, the Mother Superior sent him a request, pleading with him to visit the ward for sick prisoners—men whom no one else cared for, neither their families, nor the doctors, nor the nurses. “What an extraordinary gift of self it is that drives them to ignore their own lives and devote themselves, with boundless dedication, to sick and sullied strangers. And here is this foreign nun before him, begging him to deign to care for prisoners from his own people” (page 133). He also noted the love and attention they [referring to two nuns] showered upon the wounded and the mutilated in the general surgery department. He found himself wondering: “These nuns who have refused to be mothers—from where do they draw this maternal spirit in their words and actions?” (page 134). The friendly relationship he maintained with these nuns—who would occasionally invite him for a cup of coffee or a glass of wine in their quarters within the hospital—eventually caused friction with the facility’s director. The director formally summoned him to demand an explanation for his frequent visits to the nuns, a move that sparked Ayoub’s indignation; he revolted against the director, categorically refusing to be spied upon or monitored outside of his official duties.

The Absence of Raw Erotic Scenes:

Ayoub’s descriptions of his intimate relationships with women—whether it be Nora, Malika, or the one he describes as a “woman with mixed skin, a tanned complexion, a generous bust, and shapely legs” (page 66)—do not deviate from ordinary, socially “acceptable” language. Why raise this point? Because in his novel Far from Boqana (Union of Moroccan Writers, 1st edition 2007), the author recounted his “bedroom” adventures in direct, bold, and raw language, written in the first person and bordering on explicit pornography—though this arguably lent the text greater credibility and realism. This is why I was surprised to observe in Braids at the Window—even as he asserts that “there is no love outside of the burning body” (page 275)—a “moderate” style when evoking these intimate relations; a style that is, as I mentioned, conventional and socially acceptable. Is this “moderation” due to the weight of the passing years? To the fact that the author is now a father? Or perhaps because, as a renowned physician whose patients include readers, intellectuals, and the faithful, he does not wish to be viewed, in a moral sense, in the same light as Mohamed Choukri’s For Bread Alone?

Beautiful Language and an Even More Beautiful Style:

I have previously noted that the novel Braids at the Window lacks a “central plot” around which events pivot, a “dénouement” toward which they converge, or even a linear chronology—all elements of suspense that usually keep a reader in their grip and hold them to the story. In the absence of these dramatic devices, what is it that captivates the reader of Braids at the Window and compels them to read it with such an insatiable appetite?

The first notable element is the language in which the novel was written: the familiar Arabic tongue. This is neither the native language of the Amazigh writer, Dr. Ameioua, nor the language of his medical studies. Yet, he has seized it, mastering its deepest intricacies until it became entirely his own—an instrument dedicated to beauty, brilliance, and refinement. Having transformed it into his personal tool, it has ceased to be a Bedouin, religious, or legal tongue, once weighted down by redundant phrasing. He has converted it—or perhaps it has metamorphosed itself—into a light, clear, sparkling, fluid, and graceful prose. Like a seductive beauty, the language flaunts its grace and splendor through a style marked by a subtle allure. Such is the author’s style, which captivates the reader with its charm and seduction—for does not speech possess its own magic, as the saying goes? This gives the novel its radiance and majesty. This singular style, born of a total mastery of an Arabic he has fully appropriated, asserts itself as a central character in its own right throughout the narrative.

This is why a mere summary of the novel, as I presented earlier, makes it appear to be a common or even banal work. And that assessment is entirely accurate. Why? Because a novel, as an artistic and creative expression, is not written simply for its plot to be recounted like a news item or a historical event. Its true artistic, creative, and aesthetic value does not lie in the sequence of its events or a simple list of its characters, but in the sense of beauty, joy, and fulfillment it inspires in the reader. A novel is written to be read and savored in the text itself. One cannot grasp its aesthetic value by merely summarizing the plot; otherwise, it would cease to be art or a creator of beauty. It might resemble a simple report or a journalistic account, but it would in no way constitute a work of fiction or a graceful literary creation.

Thus, beyond the language and style unique to the art of the novel, the author could have simply informed us that the lips of Nora, Ayoub’s mistress, remained fresh even after he kissed her and smudged her makeup, and that her blonde hair brushed against her cheeks and shoulders. But as a creator who fashions beauty through his prose, he depicts Nora’s lips and hair in magnificent language and even more beautiful prose, awakening a sense of wonder and fulfillment in the reader: “Ah, those carmine lips of Nora, which retain all their freshness even when his saliva overcomes the brilliant colors applied with Moroccan precision and Spanish care!” (page 9); “As for her vaporous blonde hair, it danced upon her cheeks and shoulders, falling hesitantly on either side to tease her chest” (page 72). Similarly, instead of merely stating that Habiba the cook spoke with Ayoub about the doctor nicknamed “the Crocodile,” he describes the slightest movements of her face before she speaks through a vivid and striking depiction: “Her laughter faded, her eyebrows arched, and she bit her lower lip before releasing it” (page 13). Furthermore, rather than dryly informing us that this doctor was nicknamed “the Crocodile” by his colleagues because his facial features resembled those of the reptile, the author paints a striking artistic portrait of the morphology of this so-called “Crocodile,” writing with remarkable precision: “His two jaws thrust forward, completely breaking the alignment of his face, following a conical profile that ended in sharp teeth evocative of a crocodile’s maw” (page 14). Finally, to describe the weather, he could have written that the night was cold and rainy and that the wind was blowing hard. But as a true artist, he prefers to make us “feel” this meteorological atmosphere: “There he is in the cold, lightly rainy night, surrounded by a wind that intones its mad laments, accompanied by and mingled with the shrill whistle that only the chabbaba (reed flute) of a deserted beach can produce” (page 195). Or again, in this same enchanting style: “The wind became sad, moaning, cutting with a dark pain that pierced his soul” (page 193). To express the melancholy and solitude felt by Ayoub, he uses his ability to make us experience the protagonist’s condition and the state of the sky as if we were in his place: “The window appeared to him like a mythological beast opening its mouth, while the sky stood like a dull and merciless veil” (page 76).

This is the essence of the novel Braids at the Window: a work of art, beauty, creation, and radiance, carried by a language that only one who has crafted a singular idiom belonging solely to himself can wield with such splendor. This is the hallmark of a distinct and remarkable style. Through its artistic and aesthetic depth, Braids at the Window resembles a musical composition: no matter how precisely we describe the grace and sweetness of its melodies, it will never be enough to truly hear its music. Only through attentive listening can one appreciate its full measure. Just as music is meant to be heard by the ear, this novel is written to be read, revealing its artistry, beauty, and grandeur.

The Hemingway Imprint

I have previously mentioned that alongside the protagonist, Ayoub, stands another central figure: the writer Ernest Hemingway. What, then, is the connection between the American author and Braids at the Window? This link lies in his pervasive presence throughout the novel from beginning to end, like a shadow accompanying the author. In truth, it is rather the author himself who becomes Hemingway’s shadow, considering the clear influence the American writer exerts on the Moroccan novelist, Dr. Abdelhakim Amewa, personified by Ayoub. Beyond recurring references to Hemingway and the permanent presence of his masterpiece, The Old Man and the Sea, at Ayoub’s bedside, the author dedicates three entire chapters to him (Chapters 7, 12, and 15). When evoking the great American writer, Ayoub—and by extension, Dr. Abdelhakim Amewa—appears truly enamored with this exceptional novelist. He does not merely possess an intimate knowledge of Hemingway’s literary career by reading his entire body of work—a feat within reach of any intellectual—but also masters the smallest details of his private and family life. Thus, through the narrative’s many references, Hemingway emerges as a guiding figure who inspires and stimulates Ayoub. It is no coincidence that he writes under Dr. Amewa’s pen: “If only man could learn from the pencil with which Hemingway wrote” (page 241). One is also tempted to discern a form of identification between Ayoub and the American writer through various aspects of his life: his alcohol consumption, to which Hemingway himself was addicted, or his simultaneous attachment to two women, Nora and Malika, with a marked preference for the latter—echoing Hemingway’s own experience between Elsie McDonald and Agnes von Kurowsky, for whom he had a preference. Even when Ayoub, in a fit of rage, asks Nora to leave and never return, the novel’s author—who is none other than Ayoub himself—notes: “Then Hadley Richardson, Hemingway’s first wife, appeared before him” (page 386), recalling that Ayoub is merely walking the same path of trials as the American writer before him.

This fascination with Hemingway even drives Ayoub to propose “to his professor a study inspired by his favorite readings, titled Love and Death in the Writings of Ernest Hemingway…” (p. 40). In it, he analyzes both the novelistic characters and the psyche of the American author himself, examining the case of his suicide to determine whether it was a pathological or philosophical act, in Ayoub’s words. As the story unfolds, it appears that his professor, the colonel in charge of the psychiatry and psychology department at the military hospital in Rabat, gave his approval. Through his readings, Ayoub forged a vision of Hemingway that blends literary analysis with psychological decoding. The author—who here identifies with Ayoub—writes on this subject: “He had concluded, in his subconscious and in light of all his readings on the matter, that Hemingway suffered from the ‘sickness of hope.’ His hopes were profoundly tormented: every time he aspired to a goal, he created the conditions for its destruction. Suffering a disappointment, he would immediately begin to nurture a new wish, which he would then hasten to bury again, and so on, trapping himself in a vicious cycle where he spun around, drained of all will. His frantic race to write a captivating work and live a passionate love led him to break this vicious cycle one morning in that hallway in Ketchum (an American town), when he leaned over his shotgun and pulled both triggers” (pages 397-398).

However, to fully gauge Hemingway’s influence on Dr. Abdelhakim Mayout’s prose, one would need to have read the American author’s works firsthand. Only such a comparison would reveal the concrete ways in which the American novelist’s style and narrative techniques manifest in the Moroccan author’s writing. I mention this because it describes my own position as the author of this review of the novel Tresses à la fenêtre (Braids at the Window). Being neither a man of letters, a novelist, a literary critic, nor even a devoted bibliophile, I consider myself merely a “casual” reader who picks up books by chance, without a predetermined plan or specific selection process. Consequently, I have not read any of Hemingway’s work that would allow me to identify the imprint he may have left on Mayout’s style and narrative methods. Should I be granted the time—though my days are numbered given my age—to read Hemingway’s oeuvre, I would undoubtedly rewrite this analysis from an entirely different perspective.

Final Remark:

As previously mentioned, the author, Dr. Abdelhakim Mayout, is Amazigh, and his mother tongue is the Amazigh language. He writes in Arabic, just as many of us Amazigh intellectuals do, because it is the language imposed upon us in school alongside French. In a sense, it represents the “spoils of Arabization.” Paradoxically, we now use this language to defend our Amazigh identity—the exact opposite of what the proponents of Arabization intended when they hoped to make us forget our mother tongue and disavow our heritage. Thus, while the Amazigh language may not be the medium of writing for those Imazighen who express themselves in Arabic or French, their identity remains a central theme claimed with pride in their work. We see this in the writings of Mohammed Khaïr-Eddine, who wrote in French, or Mohamed Choukri, who wrote in Arabic. Yet, this assertion of Amazigh identity is entirely absent from Mayout’s novel Tresses à la fenêtre. Anyone unaware of his background would never guess his Amazigh identity from reading the text alone.

Arabic version | French version