Unlike a number of contemporary women writers born in Algeria (from Assia Djebar to Hélène Cixous to Malika Mokeddem), Maïssa Bey has not left her country of origin. While she is active in conferences and regularly lectures in various parts of France, she maintains a permanent residence in her native land where she is professor of French and mother of four. Her familiarity with Algeria as it is evolving in present times is a boon for much of her writing, and her recent novel Cette fille-là (Éditions de l'Aube, 2001) reflects its author's knowledge of the particular struggles Algerian women are facing today.

Cette fille-là features a parade of women's names: chapter headings like "Yamina," "Kheïra," "M'a Zahra," and "Houriya" introduce a cast of characters from the outskirts of acceptable Algerian society. Like Malika, the girl from the title, Algerian women of different social, racial, and even national backgrounds are gathered together under surveillance in Oran. Malika is the narrator and interlocutor whose personal story is gradually unraveled in fragmented form among the threads of other life experiences belonging to the women around her. The diverse nature of their disjointed narratives combines to dispel any single prevailing stereotypical image of an "Algerian woman" and effectively unveils the multiple competing forces that make life challenging for many individuals in post-Independence Algeria.

The word "individual" is especially apt to describe Malika. She stands out from other conversationalists in this abode because of her youth; she can only listen as older women reminisce about the days when Algeria was still a French colony. Despite the time lag between their lives and hers, the women nonetheless have much in common. Discovered in 1962, Malika is a "fille d'amour," a love child whose lineage remains a mystery and whose only wealth may ironically lie therein: "Je suis l'héritière que je dois sans cesse inventer. Mais c'est peut-être cela ma richesse. Ma seule richesse" (50). Not only do her biological origins remain a mystery, she doesn't even know who is responsible for her name, an aspect of her life that she constantly invents as well.

It is significant that this novel does not broadcast a woman's name on its cover. Its anonymous designation of the main protagonist stands out in contrast to the careful naming that takes place throughout the book. The title seems to point to the lack of respect it seeks to correct within its pages. It also indicates the importance of family ties in Algeria. Malika not only delves into her own appellation and its unique history, she investigates the names of women around her. Allowing them to tell their stories means finding out how they call themselves: "Jeanne" is really "Aïcha," and "Messaouda" is "M'barka." Giving these women a chance to re-call their names is a gesture that defies tagging, the labeling act that pins them in place. Like the larger society from which they have been removed, this residence has classified their cases and closed their books. Opening Cette fille-là is an exercise in learning just how limited the suitable definitions for an "Algerian woman" are today, and in exploring innovative paths out of inflexible confines, finding new was to name women in (our) time.