Into the Feline's Den A Journey Through Mohieddine Ellabbad’s Wondrous World of Animals

“What makes a cat fat?” The lion’s question hung in the air, deceptively simple. I wondered how I got here!? My day had begun like any other, but quickly spiraled into something extraordinary the moment I touched the book in Ellabbad’s archive. As I traced my fingers over the page, the room began to transform. The air filled with the scents of mastic and camphor trees, as if the photograph was coming to life.¹ Faint calls of Egyptian curlews echoed faintly in the background, pulling me deeper and deeper, until reality began to blur. As I took in my shifting surroundings, I noticed a man hunched over a desk at the far end of the room. Surrounding him was an eclectic assortment of objects: a Mexican skeleton doll that watched him with eerie attentiveness, a genie-like mask hanging on the wall in front of him, and shadow puppets frozen in mid-dance.

As the figure shifted in his chair, I caught a glimpse of something familiar—his spectacles, iconic and unmistakable. My heart raced. There he was: Mohieddine Ellabbad, the bookmaker whose work had captivated me for years. After all this time, I was finally going to meet him. Eagerly I moved towards him. However, the distance between us stayed exactly the same, as if we were in two different realms. As I looked at him in despair, he turned to me and whispered words I could hardly hear. With a subtle gesture, he pointed toward a tree outside the window, so I walked towards it. The tree was truly magnificent: colorful, vibrant; its branches teemed with all sorts of strange activity.

Ellabbad must be trying to show me something, so I started to inspect the tree closely. I was immediately taken by the peculiar things happening in between the tree branches. A miniature plane landed on a branch and the captain, poking her head out, called, “Last call for Mr. Chick Afandi, the plane is about to take off.” As I attempted to make sense of what was happening, I noticed an even stranger sight taking place on the opposite branch. However, the view from the window was slightly obscured, so I decided to get closer.

Before leaving, I glanced back at Ellabbad. He was once again deeply immersed in his work while the Mexican doll maintained its vigilant watch.

Threshold Guardian

Inspecting the tree up close, I was perplexed. The creatures that had been here moments before had vanished, leaving behind an eerie stillness. The tree’s twin trunks arched together, forming a gateway that pulsed with mystical energy. Suddenly, a deep voice echoed from within the arch, “Welcome, seeker.” A lion stepped forth from the shadow between the arch.

Surprised by the fact that the lion was speaking to me, I managed to stammer, “Greetings.” My anxiety about the lion softened as I took in the charming adornments he presented. The lion fixed his gaze on me and said:

I knew I was embarking on a strange journey into Ellabbad’s world. So I said, “I seek a deeper understanding of Ellabbad’s work, one that only this enchanted place can unveil.”

“A noble quest,” the lion said before continuing, “Inside, you shall find what you seek but, first, you must answer a simple question.”

As I tried to make sense of how I got here, the lion’s question echoed again.

“What makes a cat fat?”

The question hung in the air, deceptively simple. I recalled a term I had recently come across—“fat cats”, or in Arabic «القطط السمان», a term used by Egyptian intellectuals in the 1970s to describe an emerging class of greedy, power-hungry businessmen who had thrived under Sadat’s Infitah, or “open-door,” economic policy. They were often depicted in publications as corpulent; their hunger for wealth was insatiable. Even Ellabbad had depicted these “fat cats” in Sabah-al-Khair magazine a few times.

I responded carefully, “Exploitation, greed, and corruption?”

A rumble of approval emanated from the lion. “Insightfully answered.” He then gestured grandly with his head, “Let me show you in.”

On the other side of the arch, we stood before a vast, beautiful terrain filled with animals of all sorts, all drawn from Ellabbad’s oeuvre. “What was I truly seeking in this enchanted realm?,” I asked myself. The lion’s voice broke through the moment’s silence. “Unfortunately, every seeker is granted only one question, and the answer awaits in the Feline’s Den.” He quickly added, “My role ends here. From this point on, you are on your own. Remember—just one question, so think… think... think.”

A Walk with Travolta

The echoes of the lion’s words “think, think, think” lingered in the air like a riddle unfolding, hinting at the path I needed to take. The fact that I only had one question to ask felt like a daunting constraint, but it meant I had to think really hard.

As I tried to get a sense of orientation, the sound of rustling leaves alerted me to a Siamese cat emerging from the bushes, meowing and weaving around my feet. Hung on its neck was a name tag; it read “Travolta.” Once I started walking, Travolta walked with me. “Why not,” I thought. Some companionship on my journey wouldn’t be so bad.

We walked along a stream, its waters sparkling with an ethereal glow, and I began to consider the enormity of my task. If I could ask just one question, it needed to pierce through the surface of what I already knew. To keep from simply indulging in my own musings, I voiced my thoughts aloud:

So, with enthusiasm, I proceeded to contemplate the things I knew about Ellabbad’s work. For the past year, I have spent more time at Ellabbad’s archive than in my own home. By immersing myself so deeply in his world, I feel as though I’ve gained a rare glimpse into the inner workings of his mind. It is a privilege, no doubt, but one that comes with the responsibility to share what I’ve learned. During that time, I began to notice recurring themes about Ellabbad surface as I studied his archive. These patterns first emerged in tangible materials: his complete body of published work, personal belongings, tools, book collection, work references, correspondences, and annotated drafts. But there were also intangible traces embedded in choices that revealed some of his thought process, from significant life decisions to the smallest stylistic ones. The more time I spent at the archive, the more I felt that these collected layers formed a distinct image of Ellabbad’s creative mind.

Early Inclinations and Formative Years

The formative years are the foundation of any creative journey, so it is fitting to begin with Ellabbad’s earliest influences. Ellabbad often recalled his gravitation towards the visual world around him as a child in the 1940s. In a book titled 9 Major Artists in the Children's World, published in 1999 by the Supreme Council of Culture, Ellabbad lists the kind of artifacts he was drawn to as a child:

But it wasn’t until the launch of Sinbad, an illustrated children’s magazine founded in Egypt in 1952, that these artistic inclinations found a nurturing incubator.

From the end of the 19th century to the mid-20th century, children's literature in Egypt was primarily illustrated by European artists, mostly Armenian, French, and Italian. Many of them worked as technicians in workshops that prepared plates of photographs and illustrations for printing in books, including those for children. Since there were hardly any Egyptian artists specialized to do these illustrations at the time, these European technicians often stepped in to fill in this gap and create the drawings.

Suddenly, Travolta leapt onto my notebook and placed a few books there before jumping back on the floor. I looked at the first book and exclaimed, “This is the perfect book to illustrate my point!”

The book was a rare find, combining the talents of two of the most prominent European illustrators I had just been thinking about. The cover was illustrated by the Italian illustrator Mario Morelli di Popolo, who signed his work as Morelli (1901-1969), and the inside story by the Armenian illustrator who signed his name as Dik.³ These two illustrated a wide variety of children's books, from popular books by Kamel Keilany (1897-1959), the renowned Egyptian children’s literature writer, to government-issued illustrated textbooks. I took out some pages, added them into my notebook, and gave them captions. I looked at Travolta with great amazement and wondered, “Who is this cat!?”

That was not all Travolta had left for me. As I looked at the rest of the books, I was even more astonished. They were works of Hussein Bicar (1913-2002), one of Egypt’s most iconic artistic figures of the 20th century and the art director of Sinbad. The contrast between the two books illuminated a vivid distinction between Morelli and Dik’s illustration styles, which shared an often eerie and uncanny quality, and Bicar’s mesmerizing and fantastical illustrations.

Between the pages of Bicar’s book, I found a quote that read:

Ellabbad’s recollection of this event is revealing. It shows that at the age of 9, he had accumulated enough visual input to form a meaningful comparison. It also pinpoints the first time Ellabbad encountered Bicar’s work. Ellabbad himself highlights the importance of this encounter in Nazar (3), describing it as a “blow to the head”, which, according to him, marked a “pre-Bicar” and a “post-Bicar” Ellabbad.⁵

Bicar’s first impression on Ellabbad clearly altered the trajectory of his creative journey. When Sinbad was launched in 1952, Ellabbad, then only 12 years old, vigorously inserted himself into the magazine’s cosmos and Hussein Bicar’s sphere of influence.

Sinbad was a magazine that presented itself from the outset as a pan-Arab publication for all children across the Arab world and beyond, as stated in its slogan.⁶ The magazine aimed to connect Arab children by tapping into stories rooted in shared Arab cultural heritage, hence the name Sinbad. The magazine provided Ellabbad with a community of like-minded people during a time marked by widespread nationalist, pan-Arab, and post-colonial enthusiasm.

As I flipped through the pages of the books that Travolta left me, I recalled a video presentation by Esmail Nashif in which he revealed the extent of Ellabbad’s engagement with Sinbad from its inception. Nashif presented fascinating statistics showing that Ellabbad began corresponding with the magazine in its first year, with 9 contributions that year, which increased to 31 in 1955 after peaking in 1954 with 36 contributions out of a total of 52 annual issues.

It struck me that during those years, Ellabbad was only between the ages of 12 and 15. One could easily imagine the dedication and effort that young Ellabbad put in to have this number of contributions published. Nashif rightly asserts that this period was like a “workshop” for developing his artistic, editorial, and conceptual skills.

After watching Ismael’s presentation, my curiosity was ignited. I felt compelled to explore every issue of Sinbad myself. What a revelation it was! With each page, I observed the fascinating evolution of Ellabbad’s skills across the magazine’s different sections. Ellabbad not only contributed many drawings, but also published short stories, simultaneously honing his storytelling and writing skills alongside his drawing skills. In this way, the pages of Sinbad provided Ellabbad with a space to put his natural artistic inclination into practice, allowing him to develop a range of creative expressions. This practice laid the foundation of versatility that would come to define his creative journey.

By the 7th year of Sinbad’s circulation in 1958, Ellabbad was regularly contributing to the magazine's editorial and visual content. He even redesigned some of the magazine’s section layouts. By this time, Ellabbad was engaging with more complex ideas and more elaborate stories, practicing character building and experimenting with comedic devices such as exaggeration, irony, satire, gags, surprise, repetitions, banter, and other techniques.

By 1959, Ellabbad took a significant leap in his involvement with the magazine. Despite being only 19, he redesigned the magazine’s cover layout. Suddenly, Travolta jumped onto my lap once more, this time with exactly the cover I had just mentioned. How strange! My excitement about the issue of Sinbad distracted me from thinking about how Travolta was bringing all of these items to me.

After briefly indulging in how the cover of this issue looked, suddenly it dawned on me that I was still miles away from coming up with “The One Question” and probably just as far from the Feline’s Den. So I decided to start moving, hoping that a question would come to me along the way. Travolta got the zoomies and began leading the way.

Rabbits: The Unlikely Heroes

With every step we took, I was pulled deeper into a landscape that shifted with vibrant impossibilities. In the distance, I saw an unassuming home nestled among palm trees that I recognized.

A rabbit and his mate hopped out of the house and greeted me with enthusiasm. They nodded in a familiar way toward Travolta, hinting that they were already acquainted. The rabbits invited us into their home and, once I stepped in, I felt the house was much larger on the inside than its modest exterior suggested. The rabbits were very excited for our visit and they started showing us around the house. As we walked through the rooms, they proudly shared stories about the importance of rabbits in Ellabbad’s work.

One tale in particular captured my attention. The rabbits spoke of a time when three of their nephews had overcome Superman in an epic battle—a battle that Ellabbad illustrated. In disbelief, I followed them to a wall where they showed me a poster of that moment of victory. I was about to ask how or why the battle had taken place, but then I remembered the rule: only one question. So, instead, I settled on, “Tell me more.”

The two rabbits perked up as if they had rehearsed this moment for ages. The first rabbit began, "Can you tell us more about this tale?"

Adjusting an imaginary pair of glasses, the second rabbit nodded sagely. "Ah, yes. I’ve been looking forward to sharing this story with you all."

The rabbit cleared his throat dramatically and said: “We do not know for certain whether this tale ever manifested in a published project or not. All we have are faint traces of its appearance: a poster, photographs where you can see it blurred in the background, and printing films. All indicate that this tale once existed in the world.” The rabbit took out two photographs from a box and pointed at some blurred objects in the background. “As you can see, in both you can see the posters behind Ellabbad bear the title “Heroes Seen in Vivid Colors” on them. In the one on the right; there is also a book!.”

He continued, “In this project, Ellabbad wielded visual storytelling to question and expose the heroic narrative of the West. In this illustration”—pointing at the illustration of Superman that he had taken off their wall—“my nephews, equipped with nothing more than a simple walking stick, toppled the mighty Superman himself—the very symbol of the US imperialist power.”

"I believe,” said the rabbit, “that Ellabbad fully understood the power of stories in reshaping how people saw themselves and, more importantly, how they perceived the other. He used illustration to perform a ritual of catharsis for the Arab reader, so they could see the true nature of these so-called superheroes and, by extension, what they represent.”

The first rabbit interrupted, “But, what is so special about rabbits?”

The second rabbit answered, “In truth, it is not really about us rabbits. Ellabbad utilized the ‘unlikely hero’ story archetype to invoke certain ideas about power, identity, resistance, and decoloniality—not only in this series but in other works too. In this series in particular, Ellabbad simultaneously subverts the savior narrative that the US presents in their superhero stories while providing the Arab reader with a space for self-reflection. If you ask me, the ‘unlikely hero’ archetype is a brilliant satirical device for the kind of critical inquiry Ellabbad wanted to invoke.”

While I was engrossed in the rabbit’s talk, Travolta’s loud scratching of the house door reminded me of the reason I was there. So, I politely asked for directions to the Feline’s Den. The rabbits insisted that we stay longer, but I promised to return for more stories. They instructed me to take the bus, which Travolta and I managed to jump on just as it was leaving the station.

Moving across this landscape, I continued writing from where I had left off.

I reread my notes about Ellabbad’s early inclination for illustration and storytelling, and how Bicar was such an important figure for Ellabbad during his time with Sinbad and beyond. This is evident from Ellabbad’s autobiographical writings, where he expresses no shortage of gratitude for Bicar’s guidance and the various opportunities he offered him. I remembered one such opportunity beyond Sinbad: Ellabbad’s first published book by Dar al-Ma’arif. Nashif mentions in his presentation that Ellabbad's first book was titled The Laughing Rat (1964). Suddenly, Travolta stepped on my diary and wouldn’t move, as if protesting. For a moment, I thought it was because I wrote the word “rat,” but when he left two books there and jumped on the seat next to me, I realized why he was agitated. Ellabbad's first book was actually titled The Queen of Carrots, published in 1962, also by Dar al-Ma’arif.

Regardless of which book came first, I knew that both were created under Bicar’s mentorship. As I noted this, I felt a pang of jealousy. Ellabbad was exceptionally fortunate to have been guided by such a prominent figure who shaped his growth into maturity.

Despite being pivotal in Ellabbad’s early life, a departure from Bicar’s influence was inevitable. Wait—this is not self-evident! There are countless examples throughout history of talented apprentices who were unable to step out from the shadows of their masters. Their fear of venturing beyond their master’s guidance left them creatively stunted, forever bound by what they were taught.⁷ Ellabbad’s ability to depart from Bicar’s influence reveals a rare quality that allowed him to transcend his teacher’s legacy—a quality that I discussed with Ahmed Ellabbad, the son of Mohieddine Ellabbad, in a recent conversation, but never noted down.

Tajawuz al-Akhar: The Student Surpasses The Master

The quality of “al-Tajawuz التجاوز” roughly translates to ‘being able to go beyond limits’ but can take on different meanings depending on its context and positioning. It could be Tajawuz al-zat (the self) تجاوز الذات referring to self-transcendence, self awareness, self reflectiveness, and more. It could also be Tajawuz al-Thabit al-mustaqir تجاوز الثابت المستقر, referring to going beyond conventions and traditions, manifesting as critical thinking, non-conformism, dissidence, or rebellion. Or it could be Tajawuz al-akhar (the other) تجاوز الآخر which manifests as the need to surpass or exceed the other.

I observed traces of al-Tajawuz in all its iterations in the way Ellabbad distinguished himself from Bicar. In Nazar (3), Ellabbad writes an autobiographical piece in which he precisely articulates the fundamental difference between himself and his mentor: between what I will call a clean-lined, idealist view of the world that Bicar championed and Ellabbad’s rugged and radically realist worldview. Ellabbad writes:

He then highlights the difference between them:

Their respective worldviews were reflected in their contributions to children's literature. Bicar believed that the way to raise children is to edify them with messages of morality, and shape them into so-called “good citizens.”¹⁰ His approach aligned well with the nationalist sentiments of the post-colonial era that focused on enforcing social harmony.

In contrast, Ellabbad denounced this didactic approach to children's education, which he believed rendered them docile and subservient to adults. Ellabbad saw children as fully autonomous and not as innocent or naive as adults insisted on representing them. In fact, Ellabbad believed that traits such as defiance and mischief were not flaws to be disciplined but qualities to cultivate for curious and critical thinkers.¹¹

A gentle scratch on my foot alerted me that Travolta wanted my attention. To my great pleasure, he left me the perfect example of the difference I was trying to highlight: two illustrations of cats, one by Bicar, the other by Ellabbad.

Both Bicar and Ellabbad used animals as conduits to shape how children understood the world around them, but their approaches could not have been more different. In this illustration for a book cover, Bicar’s cat is defanged, harmless and naive—a reflection of an idealized, sheltered world. Ellabbad’s illustration of cats for a postcard, on the other hand, is a stark contrast—wild with sharp, pointy claws, cunning and untamed. This juxtaposition reveals the underlying philosophies that each adopted: should children be shielded from the real or harsher aspects of life, or should they be invited to confront them?

As I mused about this difference, I remembered Bicar’s deep involvement in state pedagogy, another branch of children's education. In 1955, he produced a series of textbooks titled al-Qiraʼah al-Hadithah (The New Reading) for the first four years of primary school.

In 1965 he illustrated another lesser-known series on behavioral education, which was also taught in primary schools. The first book of the series is titled Saleh and His Friends.

The protagonist is named “Saleh,” a name that translates to “The Good,” and he is presented in various moral and social situations throughout the book’s chapters, each time making the virtuous choice. Saleh’s story reads like a blueprint for a model citizen, reflecting the state’s desire to cultivate compliant, virtuous youth. Bicar, who truly believed in these ideals, helped bring this vision to life. This clear-cut idealism was the antithesis of Ellabbad’s radical realism.

In 1976, Ellabbad published a small piece criticizing several points raised at a conference discussing children's culture that year. He criticized regional publishers for prioritizing profit over cultural integrity, particularly those who opted to Arabize Western comics instead of supporting locally produced ones, which he believed undermined and crippled local efforts:

A year later, in 1977, Ellabbad undertook a project that attempted to engage with mass education. Unlike Bicar’s state-funded projects, Ellabbad’s effort was small-scale and independently funded. The project involved designing school notebooks that aimed to resist the increasingly pervasive influence of Western characters in children's literature. The spaces where children were exposed to locally relevant content had been shrinking since World War II, particularly in post-Infitah Egypt, when cultural imports were encouraged by the state, accelerating a wave of neo-colonial influence. American icons like Mickey Mouse, Superman, and others not only dominated children's literature but extended into nearly every medium targeting young audiences.

Ellabbad saw an opportunity in a medium that was still largely untouched by Western influences: school notebooks. In an effort to combat this growing neocolonial tether, he designed a series of nine notebooks with covers and stories illustrated by Egypt’s leading illustrators and published them through three publishers: al-Arabi Publishing in Cairo, A1 Publishing House (which he also founded) in Cairo, and al-Wehda Publishing in Kuwait.

As Ellabbad remarked in his 1976 criticism, these efforts would be doomed to fail if not supported by a large institution, as the cost to the end customer would be too high.¹³ This prediction unfortunately proved accurate, leading to the project’s discontinuation.

Next Stop: The Feline’s Den

As I looked up from my notebook and out the bus window, I heard the driver call, “Next stop: The Feline’s Den!” Before rushing to get off the bus, I quickly wrote at the end of my diary entry, “To be continued…”

Travolta and I stepped off the bus and found ourselves before the Den, which seemed to pulse with life. As we entered, countless watchful eyes tracked my every move. Suddenly, music began to play, and I paused, straining to catch the lyrics.

“Meow, meow, I am the cat—
Prowling the night where shadows sat.
Meow, meow, silent I glide,
Pussyfoot steps where secrets hide.
I leap with glee, my spirit free,
Meow, meow, as wild as can be.
My eyes gleam where darkness lies,
Twin embers bright beneath the skies.
In the Feline’s Den, your answer waits—
With the Wise Old Cat, who guards the gates.”

The lyrics felt strangely fitting. I closed my eyes, letting the music wash over me, and in that moment, I realized that the lyrics echoed my journey with Travolta. He had been with me this whole time—so silent, almost invisible, and yet illuminating my path. Still, I didn’t know who he was.

I looked ahead and saw that the Wise Old Cat sat amongst the others. I recognised him immediately because I had read The Cat’s Banquet, illustrated by Ellabbad in 1975, only a day before. He watched me with a look of skepticism flickering in his eyes as he puffed on a cigarette. "This has to be the question," I thought, “What else could it possibly be?” So, I asked, "Who is Travolta?"

The Wise Old Cat grinned, exhaling smoke slowly before answering. "Travolta is no mere companion. He was Ellabbad’s cat." A shiver ran through me. I had not expected that. A part of me had hoped Travolta was maybe another creation of Ellabbad’s or perhaps a figment of my imagination.

The Wise Old Cat continued, “But few knew. Ellabbad himself barely acknowledged Travolta’s presence. Strange, isn’t it? One might think that someone who drew so many cats would form a bond with a real one. But no. As you may have discovered on your journey, it was never truly about cats or any real thing, for that matter. Ellabbad’s world was one woven of symbols, each a window to something beyond the surface. In this world, Travolta guides the curious, the ones who seek to know.”

The irony was not lost on me: a cat who had been ignored in life had become the guide who helped me piece together the fragments of Ellabbad’s complex creative mind.

Suddenly, the air around me began to shift. The Wise Old Cat became ten cats, all speaking at once, and the world—the den, and other felines—began to dissolve away. The otherworldly energy that had hung in the air dissipated. Light flooded in from a nearby window, blinding me until I could no longer keep my eyes open.

When I opened them again, I was back in Ellabbad’s studio, alone.

The light filtered softly through the windows, illuminating the desk where papers lay scattered haphazardly. Everything was as it had been when I first drifted into this journey. I looked at the desk in front of me and among the scattered papers, something caught my eye. A small, delicate slide negative, half-hidden beneath the piles of notes and sketches. I picked it up and held it against the light. It was a picture of Travolta.

Footnotes