Background Literature written by people born in what is now Algeria dates back over 1,500 years and has been written in several languages. Around the year A.D. 400, Christian theologian St. Augustine, writing in Latin, composed Confessions, one of the world’s great spiritual autobiographies. Later, as the region converted to Islam, the native Berber population adopted Arabic as a common language. Then, between 1830 and 1962, Algeria was a French colony, and many writers wrote in French. Two of the best-known Algerian writers of the 20th century are famous for their optimism. Mohammed Dib (1920–2003) offered a sweeping view of modern Algerian history in a set of three novels known as the Algerian Trilogy. A believer in the equality of all people, he once declared that “the things that make us different always remain secondary.” Albert Camus (1913–1960), in novels such as The Stranger, explored the absurdity of human existence in an indifferent universe. Camus believed that humans could create their own meaning and treat one another justly. Algeria and the United States U.S.-Algerian relations have often been tense over the past two centuries. In the 1790s, privateers, pirates licensed by a government, based in North Africa seized U.S. ships and sailors. These seizures resulted in a series of military battles. In the past six decades, the two countries have clashed over the Israeli-Palestinian conflict in the Middle East. However, in recent years, record levels of trade have provided a closer link between the two countries. Today, about 30 percent of Algeria’s exports go to the United States. Most of these are natural gas or oil. Research: Collaborate with a Partner Dib and Camus belonged to a group of Algerian writers known as the Generation of ’52. Though friends, the two differed on the cause of Algerian independence from France. Dib supported it; Camus opposed it. With a partner, collaborate to research the reasons for their positions, and write a one- to two-page imaginary conversation between these two men about the issue. Think carefully about how to divide the work and make a clear plan. Whenever my mother spoke of my father, she, in common with all the women in her town, simply used the personal pronoun in Arabic corresponding to “him.” Thus, every time she used a verb in the third person singular which didn’t have a noun subject, she was naturally referring to her husband. This form of speech was characteristic of every married woman, from fifteen to sixty, with the proviso that in later years, if the husband had undertaken the pilgrimage to Mecca, 1he could be given the title of “Hajj.” Everybody, children and adults, especially girls and women, since all important conversations took place among the womenfolk, learnt very quickly to adapt to this rule whereby a husband and wife must never be referred to by name. After she had been married a few years, my mother gradually learnt a little French. She was able to exchange a few halting words with the wives of my father’s colleagues who had, for the most part, come from France and, like us, lived with their families in the little block of flats set aside for the village teachers. I don’t know exactly when my mother began to say, “My husband has come, my husband has gone out . . . I’ll ask my husband,” etc. Although my mother did make rapid progress in the language, in spite of taking it up fairly late in life, I can still hear the evident awkwardness in her voice betrayed by her labored phraseology, 2her slow and deliberate enunciation at that time. Nevertheless, I can sense how much it cost her modesty to refer to my father directly in this way. 2 phraseology: a method of putting one’s words together It was as if a floodgate had opened within her, perhaps in her relationship with her husband. Years later, during the summers we spent in her native town, when chatting in Arabic with her sisters or cousins, my mother would refer to him quite naturally by his first name, even with a touch of superiority. What a daring innovation! Yes, quite unhesitatingly—I was going to say, unequivocally—in any case, without any of the usual euphemisms and verbal circumlocutions. When her aunts and elderly female relations were present, she would once more use the traditional formalities, out of respect for them; such freedom of language would have appeared insolent and incongruous to the ears of the pious old ladies. Years went by. As my mother’s ability to speak French improved, while I was still a child of no more than twelve, I came to realize an irrefutable fact: namely that, in the face of all these womenfolk, my parents formed a couple. One thing was an even greater source of pride in me: when my mother referred to any of the day-to-day incidents of our village life—which in our city relatives’ eyes was very backward—the tall figure of my father— my childhood hero—seemed to pop up in the midst of all these women engaged in idle chit-chat on the age-old patios to which they were confined. My father, no one except my father; none of the other women ever saw fit to refer to their menfolk, their masters who spent the day outside the house and returned home in the evening, taciturn, with eyes on the ground. The nameless uncles, cousins, relatives by marriage, were for us an unidentifiable collection of individuals to all of whom their spouses alluded impartially in the masculine gender. With the exception of my father . . . My mother, with lowered eyes, would calmly pronounce his name “Tahar”—which, I learned very early, meant “The Pure”—and even when a suspicion of a smile flickered across the other women’s faces or they looked half ill at ease, half indulgent, I thought that a rare distinction lit up my mother’s face.

Question

Background Literature written by people born in what is now Algeria dates back over 1,500 years and has been written in several languages. Around the year A.D. 400, Christian theologian St. Augustine, writing in Latin, composed Confessions, one of the world’s great spiritual autobiographies. Later, as the region converted to Islam, the native Berber population adopted Arabic as a common language. Then, between 1830 and 1962, Algeria was a French colony, and many writers wrote in French. Two of the best-known Algerian writers of the 20th century are famous for their optimism. Mohammed Dib (1920–2003) offered a sweeping view of modern Algerian history in a set of three novels known as the Algerian Trilogy. A believer in the equality of all people, he once declared that “the things that make us different always remain secondary.” Albert Camus (1913–1960), in novels such as The Stranger, explored the absurdity of human existence in an indifferent universe. Camus believed that humans could create their own meaning and treat one another justly. Algeria and the United States U.S.-Algerian relations have often been tense over the past two centuries. In the 1790s, privateers, pirates licensed by a government, based in North Africa seized U.S. ships and sailors. These seizures resulted in a series of military battles. In the past six decades, the two countries have clashed over the Israeli-Palestinian conflict in the Middle East. However, in recent years, record levels of trade have provided a closer link between the two countries. Today, about 30 percent of Algeria’s exports go to the United States. Most of these are natural gas or oil. Research: Collaborate with a Partner Dib and Camus belonged to a group of Algerian writers known as the Generation of ’52. Though friends, the two differed on the cause of Algerian independence from France. Dib supported it; Camus opposed it. With a partner, collaborate to research the reasons for their positions, and write a one- to two-page imaginary conversation between these two men about the issue. Think carefully about how to divide the work and make a clear plan. Whenever my mother spoke of my father, she, in common with all the women in her town, simply used the personal pronoun in Arabic corresponding to “him.” Thus, every time she used a verb in the third person singular which didn’t have a noun subject, she was naturally referring to her husband. This form of speech was characteristic of every married woman, from fifteen to sixty, with the proviso that in later years, if the husband had undertaken the pilgrimage to Mecca, 1he could be given the title of “Hajj.” Everybody, children and adults, especially girls and women, since all important conversations took place among the womenfolk, learnt very quickly to adapt to this rule whereby a husband and wife must never be referred to by name. After she had been married a few years, my mother gradually learnt a little French. She was able to exchange a few halting words with the wives of my father’s colleagues who had, for the most part, come from France and, like us, lived with their families in the little block of flats set aside for the village teachers. I don’t know exactly when my mother began to say, “My husband has come, my husband has gone out . . . I’ll ask my husband,” etc. Although my mother did make rapid progress in the language, in spite of taking it up fairly late in life, I can still hear the evident awkwardness in her voice betrayed by her labored phraseology, 2her slow and deliberate enunciation at that time. Nevertheless, I can sense how much it cost her modesty to refer to my father directly in this way. 2 phraseology: a method of putting one’s words together It was as if a floodgate had opened within her, perhaps in her relationship with her husband. Years later, during the summers we spent in her native town, when chatting in Arabic with her sisters or cousins, my mother would refer to him quite naturally by his first name, even with a touch of superiority. What a daring innovation! Yes, quite unhesitatingly—I was going to say, unequivocally—in any case, without any of the usual euphemisms and verbal circumlocutions. When her aunts and elderly female relations were present, she would once more use the traditional formalities, out of respect for them; such freedom of language would have appeared insolent and incongruous to the ears of the pious old ladies. Years went by. As my mother’s ability to speak French improved, while I was still a child of no more than twelve, I came to realize an irrefutable fact: namely that, in the face of all these womenfolk, my parents formed a couple. One thing was an even greater source of pride in me: when my mother referred to any of the day-to-day incidents of our village life—which in our city relatives’ eyes was very backward—the tall figure of my father— my childhood hero—seemed to pop up in the midst of all these women engaged in idle chit-chat on the age-old patios to which they were confined. My father, no one except my father; none of the other women ever saw fit to refer to their menfolk, their masters who spent the day outside the house and returned home in the evening, taciturn, with eyes on the ground. The nameless uncles, cousins, relatives by marriage, were for us an unidentifiable collection of individuals to all of whom their spouses alluded impartially in the masculine gender. With the exception of my father . . . My mother, with lowered eyes, would calmly pronounce his name “Tahar”—which, I learned very early, meant “The Pure”—and even when a suspicion of a smile flickered across the other women’s faces or they looked half ill at ease, half indulgent, I thought that a rare distinction lit up my mother’s face.

These harem conversations ran their imperceptible course: my ears only caught those phrases which singled my mother out above the rest. Because she always made a point of bringing my father’s name into these exchanges, he became for me still purer than his given name betokened. One day something occurred which was a portent that their relationship would never be the same again—a commonplace enough event in any other society, but which was unusual to say the least with us: in the course of an exceptionally long journey away from home (to a neighboring province, I think), my father wrote to my mother—yes, to my mother! He sent her a postcard, with a short greeting written diagonally across it in his large, legible handwriting, something like “Best wishes from this distant region” or possibly, “I am having a good journey and getting to know an unfamiliar region,” etc. and he signed it simply with his first name. I am sure that, at the time, he himself would not have dared add any more intimate formula above his signature, such as “I am thinking of you,” or even less, “Yours affectionately.” But, on the half of the card reserved for the address of the recipient, he had written “Madame” followed by his own surname, with the possible addition—but here I’m not sure—“and children,” that is to say we three, of whom I, then about ten years old, was the eldest . . . The radical change in customs was apparent for all to see: my father had quite brazenly written his wife’s name, in his own handwriting, on a postcard which was going to travel from one town to another, which was going to be exposed to so many masculine eyes, including eventually our village postman—a Muslim postman to boot—and, what is more, he had dared to refer to her in the western manner as “Madame So-and-So . . . ,” whereas, no local man, poor or rich, ever referred to his wife and children in any other way than by the vague periphrasis: “the household.”
So, my father had “written” to my mother. When she visited her family she mentioned this postcard, in the simplest possible words and tone of voice, to be sure. She was about to describe her husband’s four or five days’ absence from the village, explaining the practical problems this had posed: my father having to order the provisions just before he left, so that the shopkeepers could deliver them every morning; she was going to explain how hard it was for a city woman to be isolated in a village with very young children and cut off in this way . . . . But the other women had interrupted, exclaiming, in the face of this new reality, this almost incredible detail: “He wrote to you, to you?” “He wrote his wife’s name and the postman must have read it? Shame! . . . ” “He could at least have addressed the card to his son, for the principle of the thing, even if his son is only seven or eight!”
My mother did not reply. She was probably pleased, flattered even, but she said nothing. Perhaps she was suddenly ill at ease, or blushing from embarrassment; yes, her husband had written to her, in person! . . . The eldest child, the only one who might have been able to read the card, was her daughter: so, daughter or wife, where was the difference as far as the addressee was concerned? “I must remind you that I’ve learned to read French now!” This postcard was, in fact, a most daring manifestation of affection. Her modesty suffered at that very moment that she spoke of it. Yet, it came second to her pride as a wife, which was secretly flattered. The murmured exchanges of these segregated women struck a faint chord with me, as a little girl with observing eyes. And so, for the first time, I seem to have some intuition of the possible happiness, the mystery in the union of a man and a woman. My father had dared “to write” to my mother. Both of them referred to each other by name, which was tantamount to declaring openly their love for each other, my father by writing to her, my mother by quoting my father henceforward without false shame in all her conversations.
Using this Passage do the following steps to answer the following questions, each with the RACES format
Restate. This refers to restating or rephrasing the question or prompt in your own words to ensure that you understand it correctly.
Answer. Provide a clear and concise answer to the question or prompt. ...
Cite your evidence. ...
Explain. ...
Summarize.
1. Where does the story take place? In what country, town, neighborhood, building, or room?
2. When does the story take place? What century, year, season, or time of day?
3. What details establish a sense of time and place? What sights, sounds, tastes, or smells?
4. What atmosphere or mood does the setting create? For example, is the mood dreary, festive, mysterious, or serious?
5. How do characters respond to the social environment—the manners, customs, rituals, and values? How does it affect them?

Answer 1

1. Restate: Where is the setting of the story?

Answer: The story takes place in a village in Algeria.

2. Restate: When does the story take place?
Answer: The story takes place during a period when the narrator is a child, around the early 20th century.

3. Restate: What details establish a sense of time and place?
Answer: The details that establish a sense of time and place include the mention of the narrator's mother speaking Arabic and French, the reference to a traditional village life, and the description of the postcard sent by the narrator's father.

4. Restate: What atmosphere or mood does the setting create?
Answer: The setting creates an atmosphere of cultural and social norms, with a mix of tradition and change. It also conveys a sense of curiosity and discovery through the eyes of the narrator.

5. Restate: How do characters respond to the social environment?
Answer: The characters, particularly the narrator's mother and father, respond to the social environment by adjusting their language and behavior according to cultural expectations. The narrator's mother gradually gains more freedom in referring to her husband, while the other women in the village react with surprise and criticism to the changes in their relationship.