Gender-bending Bulgarian novel takes literature world by storm

Prefer on Google by Kate Tsurkan The cover of “She Who Remains,” by Bulgarian author Rene Karabash, with the background of the Albanian Accursed Mountains in Theth, Albania. (JP Black/LightRocket / Getty Images; Collage: The Kyiv Independent) In the shadow of Albania’s Accursed Mountains, where the centuries-old laws of Kanun dictate people’s fate, Bekija publicly renounces her womanhood to live socially as a man after her father is shot dead in a blood feud and her younger brother flees home. This feverish dynamic is at the heart of Bulgarian author Rene Karabash’s novel “She Who Remains.” Now, thanks to Izidora Angel’s evocative and bold English translation — co-published by Sandorf Passage in the U.S. and Peirene in the U.K. and recently shortlisted for the prestigious International Booker Prize — the novel is making waves across the English-language literary world, underscoring the vital importance of translated literature. While the novel is a work of fiction, the vow taken by Bekija, just before she assumes the name Matija, is based on reality. A “sworn virgin” is a centuries-old tradition in parts of the Balkans , where a woman takes a vow of lifelong celibacy and lives publicly as a man. This role enables women to avoid arranged marriages, assume leadership of their families when there are no male heirs, or simply fulfill a personal desire without facing personal consequences. Sokol (Zhire) Zmajli, an 80-year-old "sworn virgin" (Virgjineshe) who took on a male identity to head her family household, is pictured in Bajram Curri, Albania, on Sept. 1, 2006. (Ben Speck/Getty Images) In today’s increasingly globalized world, this tradition, which once presented women with a loophole to escape the restrictions of a deeply traditional and patriarchal society, is fading away. Its rarity is a keypoint in the novel, as a journalist arrives to interview Matija about their life. “I must resemble a shorn donkey, my braids lie on the church floor, to part with something you’ve had forever turns out to be easy as the wind,” Matija recounts their emotions after the public ceremony, adding that “if I violate and desecrate this oath, may (bad luck) befall me.” “Bekija’s murder is the smartest thing I ever did, they gave me a shotgun and a watch, now I could smoke and drink and move with the men, go to the pub and visit the men’s social clubs, they teach me to stand like them, legs apart, the kids in the neighborhood begin to call me bate Matija, I roam the narrow streets of the village every night practicing my new walk, getting used to it, getting used to overcoming my worth, getting used to wearing a watch, daddy’s boy.” The novel propels the reader forward with relentless, near-delirious prose that commands their full attention. At times, it can be challenging to get through — many passages invite a second or even third read — but that’s part of its appeal. Once the reader manages to keep up the pace with the style of prose, it becomes a deeply rewarding read. The more time the reader spends with Matija’s reflections, the more they come to understand the profound scars left on them by the way of life in the Accursed Mountains. Matija declares that “freedom is a dangerous thing,” yet also calls it “the most precious metal in Albania .” Their decision to publicly live as a man is meant to bring greater freedom after the fallout from refusing an arranged marriage  — a choice that ultimately costs their father his life. The reader is led to believe that Matija backed out of the marriage because of what appears to be a rape committed by the village madman, but as their recollections continue to unfold, it becomes clear that the truth is more complicated. Lika (Lirie) Thera (C), a 57-year-old "sworn virgin" (Virgjineshe) who took a vow of lifelong celibacy to enjoy male privileges (such as inheriting property, making decisions within the family and the community, being able to carry weapons, taking part in blood feuds and socializing freely with men), sits with her mother and aunt in their apartment in Pec, Kosovo, on Sept. 1, 2006. (Ben Speck/Getty Images) When Matija stilled lived as Bekija, she formed an intense friendship with Dhana, a girl who visited her family in the village each summer. Soon, villagers began to whisper that their bond was unusually close, and before long, Dhana stopped coming. In the book’s second half, we revisit the rape scene Bekija once described to the journalist — only now, it’s revealed as an intimate encounter between Dhana and Bekija in a dairy. The implication between the double-layered portrayal of the sexual encounter is clear: in such an isolated, closed-minded society, a woman losing her virginity in a same-sex relationship is, in some ways, considered even more shameful than being raped by a local outcast. These contradictions in Matija’s retelling of the event deepen the understanding of their psychological trauma. “Love, who here speaks of love, love around these parts is death,” Matija laments. “Were you to choose love you’d be choosing death or death would choose you, but you’re always the last to find out, before the pomegranates ripen and crack.” The only real letdown in “She Who Remains” — and it’s a minor one — is the inclusion of full letters from Matija’s brother, who tries to reach out from Bulgaria later in life. These letters add sharp coherence to the otherwise restless and searching prose, and it feels like an unnecessary lifeline for the reader just as they begin to stay afloat in the waves of Matija’s internal grief. From a narrative standpoint, it would have been more effective to weave the letters’ contents into more fleshed-out interactions with the journalist, as we’re told Matija is illiterate and is listening to the letters being read to them. Nonetheless, the information revealed in the letters serve as a dramatic crescendo to the central conflict that has been building since the novel’s opening pages. A view shows a hotel built during the communist era in Bajram Curri, Albania, on Sept. 1, 2006. (Ben Speck/Getty Images) As it turns out, freedom isn’t “precious metal” to be measured or possessed outright — it’s elusive, its value misunderstood and decided by the choices people make. True freedom lies in recognizing its subjectivity and embracing how people define the value of this freedom for themselves, no matter how much others try to define it for them. The inherent heartbreak of the novel is in showing the reader how easily that realization can come too late for some in life. Hi, this is Kate Tsurkan, thanks for reading this article. I've written a lot about books from Ukraine and Russia, but keep a look out as our book review section starts to expand to cover books from other countries in the region.  If you like reading about this sort of thing, p lease consider supporting The Kyiv Independent.