The Importance of Self-Narration

Some of Arab history has been passed down by those outside of it. Its meanings, shaped and reinterpreted by voices far from its roots. That is not to say that Arabs don’t tell their own stories; Arabs are, in fact, great story tellers. Some thinkers gifted the world legacies penned by themselves. Others, in the folds of Arabian history, live on through the breath of oral tradition. In Arab life, shaped by deep tribal bonds, you are never just an individual; you are part of a vast constellation of kin. Therefore there was no urgency to write. Words carried weight when spoken. Say them to the people around you, and they would travel through generations, guarded by memory and lineage. As long as your bloodline endures, so does your legacy. The arrival of Orientalists, for instance, disrupted the narration, particularly the written form. Stripped from the protective chain of lineage, written accounts became vulnerable to distortion. What was once guarded by memory and kin was now reframed by foreign pens, detached from the world they sought to describe. Although Orientalists had a great hand in allowing these scripts to survive, their interpretations often diminished the very essence those texts carried. Though many orientalists mastered the Arabic tongue, some truths are not carried in language alone, they live in the weight of belonging, in the rhythm of a world one must be rooted in to understand, not observed from afar, but lived, with all its history, memory, and pride. Tragically, the writings of Orientalists veiled the primary sources, and today, many institutions that claim expertise in Arab history have barely brushed the originals, drawing their entire understanding not from the source, but from those who misunderstood it. What a foreign eye may dismiss as flattery, an Arab knows as the language of respect. Praise is not excess; it is the starting point. Even the simplest request, like passing a pen, arrives wrapped in blessings and kind words; anything less would feel bare, almost impolite. Many poems and scripts were cast aside as empty praise, and over time, this lens seeped into the very culture that produced them. But for the Arab, reverence is not embellishment, it is a form of devotion. For what is held dearer than the Arabic language, the most sacred inheritance. Other notions, like stepping in for someone, especially within the tribe. A person from your tribe, though a stranger to your eyes, is someone you would defend with your life. In Arab culture, it is an unspoken vow: to rise without being called, to shield without being seen. Loyalty isn’t a virtue, it’s the fabric of one’s being, stitched into every moment where honor is on the line. It’s not charity. It’s not pity. Exaggeration, whether in words or action, is not a flaw in the Arab character; it is woven into it. Life in the desert demanded it. When every step forward held the unknown, an empty land or hostile ground, a feast or a fight, peace or prowling beasts; certainty had to come from within. In such a world, values weren’t optional, they were lifelines. That’s why courage found its way into nearly every poem, even if only a line or two. The brave, the loyal, the generous had to be praised, not for flattery, but for survival. If everyone aspired to those virtues, the tribe could endure. That is why self narration plays a crucial role in understanding and preserving one’s own history. 

Written by Tarfah Alrawaf