I am the warrior

"Real war is not fought when two imbecile powers decide to drop a bomb. Real war is fought in the field of uncontrolled love and hatred, especially when the battle is over. Gio, the battle has left your mind and heart lacerated by a very bad wound: but the others are unaware of it, because you still look outwardly the same. Leave them in ignorance. Don't tell them you're changed, don't tell them about the battle that changed you. The tribe you belong to doesn't know what to do with martyrs or heroes. They don't conform to the rules, they trouble the conscience of simple people, they're the mad element in world of sensible folk. You must keep silent or lie, if you don't want to alarm them."

- Penelope Goes To War; Orianna Fallaci

Fallaci's work--and Fallaci, herself, especially after an interview with the Shah--was quite popular back home, especially in the couple of years leading up to the revolution, when several of her books were translated (and very well) into Farsi and published during the last hurrah of the Shah's attempt to allow freedom of publication. (He himself was not fond of her. For good reason.) I read most of her published books ( except 'The Man') in Farsi; they made quite an impression on me, especially this book and 'To A Child Unborn'. English translations of her works are near impossible to come by (in some cases, they don't exist), but I did finally track down an old paperback copy of 'Penelope..' a few years ago. Whether it's because I've now lived for nearly two decades in the country that was idolized by Gio, the protagonist, and am less likely to be charmed by her naivete, or because I find the feminist slant less original and more tired, being an older woman compared to the teenage girl who first read it, or because my youthful impression of Fallaci as a free spirited, strong-minded, and independent woman has been influenced by my changed perception of her as result of her actions in the last decade, or simply because the writing is, realistically, not as tantalizing in English (or, perhaps, even in general) as it appeared to my 14 year old eyes; whatever the reason, I am far less enamored of this book than I was twenty some odd years ago.

And, yet, it is not without its charms still, and in Gio I still sense a familiarity after all this time. I also can't deny that the title and the concept behind it still calls to me: I, too, never was, never am, and never will be a Penelope who sits placidly and sagely at home, weaving intricate deceptions and awaiting fate. I'll go, enthusiastically and possibly foolishly, with no sleight of hand but just straight intentions, into battle to face it.