The barber

Mr. Kamal, a successful lawyer, has his hair cut by me.  As he enters the shop I always get this feeling that I should be honored that he has chosen my humble shop.

 Mr. Kamal speaks shrewdly about everything and has decisive rules on the ways of life.  It seems to me that his lecture to me is of more importance to him than having his hair cut. I do not mind as salons have the prestigious reputation of places where one finds, and shows off, wisdom and perfect idealism.

When I ask him, for example about his  fiancé, he answers;  I see her once a week, as you well know, if one meets too often, then the nakedness of ones self is bared too quickly and the excitement and anticipation will diminish.

He seats himself and soberly crosses his legs.

I think to myself that he is actually depriving himself of her but say nothing as barbers always do not want to offend a well paying customer. In his voice I can hear the sound of self-admiration and hauteur as he shows his perfect idealism.

Kimo, a seventeen year old, sweet-faced youth with serene features enters the shop.

Mr. Kamal with a pompous _expression wisely remarks, "Life has taught me never to trust women or the sea."

Kimo sits down after respectfully greeting Mr. Kamal and then myself.

“How do you find Helmya?” inquires Mr. Kamal.

“Wonderful," replies Kimo with a shy smile.

“better every day. "Ha!" smirks Mr. Kamal with devious eyes.

It is clear that he is actually referring to something secretive and significant which is the exact purpose of his banter.

"Helmya is a lovely place"; I answer to keep the conversation flowing.

The lawyer looks at me and laughs loudly. A look of conspiracy in his eyes, a look of acknowledgement that he thinks we are playing this deceitful game of his together.

Kimo's bashfulness is evident, as he finally understands the implications of the unspoken words of the lawyer.

The lawyer grins at Kimo saying, "Things happen…you know…under the stairs…Ha! Ha! . You are her first love, she will never forget you."

Kimo tries to stutter a reply but Mr. Kamal interrupts, "Don't say anything…the crux of the matter is that you have the right, you are correct."

"What is correct?" Kimo whispers.

The lawyer glances at me with an _expression that says, "Now we have him trapped" and continues to speak to Kimo in an authoritative tone, "Life will teach you, you will know that I am right…Ha! Ha! Ya Kimo! But surely you don't want to repeat the misery...if her father knows …”

"what misery "I asked

In more serious tone he says you remember when the father's sister eloped with a young man as her family disapproved him for marriage twenty years ago'' said Mr. Kamal .

 "Then what happened ?'' I asked.

"The two lovers insisted on their choice, but the result was horrible,

it was easy that time for the father's authoritarian family to find the youth

a crime to be guilty with and to find the girl the suitable husband''.

Then he laughs loudly again so proud that he can use history to prove his ideas.

"The silly girl tried to kill herself but fortunately they saved her, and time marched on, yes she became silent and sullen since that time but life is going  on'' continued the lawyer. I don't replay as my thoughts dwell on that horrific incident.

I am almost finished cutting the lawyer's hair. I pity the youth, I can see his mind in a turmoil, disclosing his secret in a barber’s shop. The smirking laugh of the lawyer still lingering in the air. He is like a singer that has just come on stage forgetting his song.

Mr. Kamal gets up and hands me ten pounds.

"Keep the change," he remarks, "I don't want the change…it's your tip…money means nothing to me...it's only paper."

I silently wish that he would take his money and stop this propaganda.

After much deliberation, Kimo stutters as Mr Kamal is leaving, "Mr. Kamal, I want to say…people talk…but."

" Say nothing my boy, I know what you are thinking, the same old story, you love her, but I am afraid she will marry another but she will never forget her first time, her first kiss, her first touch," Mr. Kamal states.

The young boy swallows hard as he answers, "She is not like this."

An interval of silence passes between the two and then Mr. Kamal playfully punches Kimo on the shoulder as he smilingly leaves my shop.

Kimo's bewildered eyes follow Mr Kamal as he exits into the street, muttering to himself, "What are they saying about us?"

"People always find something to gossip about," I reply in a fatherly tone, my voice trailing off as I see the devastation on his young face.

He continues, "I am sick and tired of trying to convince others of the innocence of our relationship, they clearly want to believe otherwise. What would her father say?"

I answer thoughtfully, "He will destroy your future as you defame his family."

"It is not for me that I am afraid…but;" his voice trails off.

I continue to cut his hair deep in thought. Why do we poke our noses into affairs that do not concern us at all?. We are the judges and the jury condemning something that is so sweet and innocent changing it into something devious and sordid which it is not. Who gave us this right?

I finish cutting Kimo's hair and he leaves my shop.

My thoughts continue to wander. This sweet relationship between the engineer's daughter and the young mechanic will end because of the foolish custom of classes. Assumptions are always made. We dwell on the negatives, closing our minds to the reality of the heart. We dig graves for those that who have not yet become ill.

The young boy always made time to be by Rana's side, to walk her to the library, to the grocer, their sweet tethers of love that anchor them to the reality of this world will be severed by the malice of ,adults,.

Does innocent love deserve this kind of treatment? To be tarnished, soiled and cheapened?

While my hands automatically attend to the next customer, my mind continues to question.

I feel that I am suddenly drawn into this outside world, that my shop, my haven, my security, and my refuge.

An hour passed and Kimo returns, breathlessly telling me that Rana's sister has told him to hide.

His eyes are wide with apprehension like a sheep before slaughter.

I wonder why he is suddenly confiding in me?  We are not close friends so that he comes to me in troubles.

"Someone must have told her father about the two of you'', I quietly answer.

I have so met so many kinds and know these that take so much pleasure in relating bad news, it is as if their eyes come alive and glitter as they tell of others misfortunes.

 "It was none other than him" he replies.

Mr.  Kamal?  It can only be he, I thought, he herd the boy’s confession and immediately informed her father. Oh noble man did they respect you more then?  Did their eyes tell you what a good citizen you are?   Did they shake your hands…you honorable neighbor?

 All day long Kimo came and went from my shop, each time his features more tortured, his eyes frightened.

After his last visit three hours passed without his return and it was getting to the time that I have to know what happened. I decided to go out to know.

I am reluctant to step outside, reluctant to leave my sanctuary but go I must.

 The early evening streets are full of the hustle and bustle of those on their way home from work.

 I wait a bit longer, watching, waiting, for any news of the boy and the girl.

 I suddenly became a part of the story,

 As the time slowly ticks on, I feel more anxious. I have unwittingly been drawn into this event. As I step onto the sidewalk, the people, the cars, the noise all assault   my senses at once but I have to find out what has happened. I feel it tugging my very soul.  My heart will not rest if I don't get word of some kind.

"Have you seen Kimo?''  I ask one of the passers by.

He has this curious look in his eyes as I mention the name Kimo.

 "Don't you know?'' he asks proudly.

 "What?'' I ask, my heart filling with dread, heavy, hurting.

“Two policemen caught him. You know Sami?  The coffee worker?  He told Rana's father that he saw them together this morning..Kimo is locked up.   Ruined  ...''he smirks.

 I stand speechless, my mind seeing the picture of Sami, the overweight worker running as fast as his stumpy legs can carry him to relate the news to the father who lives close to where he works.

Before I go I looked up at their window then I see an  old woman's face It is the saddest and  sullenest  face I have ever  ever  seen.

The kid

 

 He  entered the shop then placed his son on the barbers chair. The child was shocked when he found himself in a barber shop.

“Cut his hair “the father demanded solidly.

That man frowned so long , His mouth,   it seemed, was etched in an eternal grimace.

  The child was about six years old. His face was as silent as glass, his eyes were a fathomless blue and, His golden hair crowned his face as an angel's halo. Beautiful enough to make you love and handle him fondly for ever but there was no emotion in those blue eyes, no innocent curiosity, and no smile played upon his delicate lips.   .

  The father stood beside me head as I began to cut the child’s hair . The little boys body began to tremble   when he saw the towel ,the scissors and fearing of what the barber may do.

“Stop “said the father decisively, and it  stopped.

  I always know that cry is the manner of  babies and weak oppressed  people when they suffer. It was strange to see this child stop at just one word . He just sobbed once. 

I was reminded of my primary school days, when the teacher would frighten me with just a look. I remembered the same feelings of fear and oppression. I passed urine of panic then.  I was only one or two years older than this child then.

I was full of horror in spite of the fact that it was the break.

I was one or two years older than that child.

I continued with the hair cut brokenheartedly. It was hard just standing there watching the tears well up in his eyes, and knowing the pain in his heart. I wanted to beg the stonehearted father to just let him cry. Let him release all those pent up tears and be a child. I was just about to when he turned to me and asked, "Do you clean these tools?"

That question simply means “Are you dirty?! “.I was furious

I was mean talking to him. I hate his movements around me with each touch of the scissors.

 “Yes” I replyed shortly.

He then began to lecture me on various diseases and plagues that could be spread through unsanitary barber's tools. It seemed to me that he had prepared that lecture before even coming for he knew so much about it. I felt that if the haircut didn't end soon I would punch him. He classified me with other filthy barbers. Picking at every speck of dirt in my shop. On and on he went.

  His ranting filled my ears I felt he was riding on my shoulder and moving…his lecture included most of dirty barbers.

   I know that frown and concrete way of dealing with others is all bluster. Empty words to cover one’s flimsy. All these questions to hide your own flaws. Attack everyone you meet before he discovers your wobbly and crushed soul. Oppress the lower always while you are the biggest oppressed one. The icy false surface which hide water and lost in a lower place of it. I looked down at the boy who had become more silent and withdrawn with every word of his father. The tears were gone, replaced by an emptyness that squeezed my heart.

“Is it nice darling?” I asked the child with smile.

He didn’t respond.  His eyes were blank, like he was off in his own little world. The father began moving around his head pointing to different spots. "Here...here...here...." He would say, and point to imaginary flaws in the cut. Reluctantly I fixed the places he pointed to. He then paid me three pounds and carried the child, the thing, out of the shop. I had a strong desire to walk out of the shop to watch them. It was the first time I had seen a child without any interest in the sights around him. He was just a doll.

Ended

A stranger

Disturbed since he arrived, haunted by cruel memories and bloody faces, surrounded by ghostly images of dead souls, broken pieces, human remains and desperate cries. The gory corpses in his mind’s eye traumatize him with each waking moment, even though he is safe now, there is nothing that can erase the past.

He looks around himself and finds emptiness. The crowd confuses his mind and makes him lonelier. He has merged with unknown souls. He talks with them, he listens to them, he argues with them, he loves them…to others he is insane.

His blonde hair and blue eyes makes him a stranger amongst these people.

Since his arrival to this land, the crowd has ridiculed him, their eyes staring, probing, and watching his every move. The children mock him, laughing at his strange pallor, giggling as he stutters which started from fear, and the loud cannon blasts.

The more he grows, the more the fear grows within him and the need to hide grows. Panic is rooted in his heart.

In their eyes, he has tried to find a friend but in vain, for all of them despise him.

Five years have past since he first arrived here from war torn Bosnia.

He survived the war but now he sees this endless sea of uncaring faces.

His name is Maged. His father’s occupation was in tourism.  His parents met in Bosnia. They were married there where they had a son and daughter. The war, which Serbia started with the intent to destroy the Bosnia Moslem Race, broke out and his father had fled with his family to his home country.

Maged was eight and his sister was three at that time.  Now Maged is bewildered, which language should they speak? His mother speaks Bosnian at home with his father but here, in the street, they speak a strange language with mixed voices and their eyes always stare. This makes him feel divided and detached. Fear is with him always, memories of the war haunt him, he can still see  dead bodies, dismembered limbs...everything happened so quickly, someone  that he spoke to a moment ago lies with his throat cut.

Here the fear is different but still he feels the same sense of horror; he cannot distinguish his feelings anymore. It is all a nightmare!

His father had told him of this land, this bountiful land, and its loving inhabitants, the lush green plants, and the love.

Yes, his father had told him but, his father did not understand how lost his son felt, how wounded. His father did not probe into his feelings... his father trusted his Kinsmen.

 Things were different for his sister, she was so young when it happened, she easily overcame any of the experiences and adapted quickly, forgetting the past.     Life was different for him he could never forget, the past, which echoed in his mind.  Maged could still hear the sounds; the carnage, replays like a movie, over and over his constant companion.

His father left him to his own defenses thinking that he would improve, trusting the goodwill of his fellowman.

Does his father not realize things may have changed since he went away?  Did he not consider?

People change.

At first children had thronged around him out of curiosity not friendship.   Because of his size, some wanted to test his strength, quickly discovering, that he was but a coward, afraid to stand up to them, which they found  hilarious. They bullied him, each one bragging with dignity how he had knocked Maged to the ground.

All  this boy wants is to be left alone, so he can silently roam the streets and  know  peace.  His father thought he was grown up, and he wished the could tell him the truth, his son had become a joke!

His mother, who daily thanked God for their survival, stayed at home, with  her heart at ease…for she could finally  sleep without fearing for her life, or that of her family’s.

 Maged asked his father to buy him earphones… but it was not so much as to listen to music but to escape, to find refuge from the staring eyes. As the sounds of music filled his ears, other sounds became hushed and he withdrew into himself becoming invisible. This becomes his shield, his shelter. He prefers to walk in remote places, afraid to be seen, acting out his imaginary play. He mimics a foreigner as they are treated with respect and kindness. He hears the words clearly….”Hi…. Hello…. Welcome”…and this makes him feel warm and loved and thus he retreats deeper and deeper into this safe fantasy world. When he feels that someone might get too close, he retaliates with abusive shouting and the kicking of stones. Those are his defenses.

I once tried to help him, to show him that he did not have to be alone.  I make every effort to show him love.  I attempt to enter his world but fail.

I took him to an institution where I thought he could be helped, he was reluctant to go, but after gentle persuasion, I managed to have him admitted. He ran away from there and I was told…”Maged prefers to be alone, roaming the streets, insulting his hallucinations, he is insane, he cannot be helped.”

One evening Maged went for a walk, he did not realize how far away from home he was, he just walked aimlessly, tuned into his music, unaware of how far he had gone. The most amazing thing happened; the farther he ventured into a new area, the more aware he was of the difference in the people.  It is true they were just ordinary people, but they looked at him like and equal, they did not mock him or stare at him rudely, nor did they speak down to him. He  could understand them even better than his own mother tongue. Maged stopped listening to his music and stood listening to their animated conversation.

He found himself very close to three young men his own age. They were staring at him. What should he do? Should he insult them? Should he kick stones?

Should he act insane? Should he pretend he was a foreigner?

As he was contemplating on what to do, his mind flashed back... he remembered a Serbian soldier who had killed his friend’s father, no mercy had been granted, he was shot at point blank range, and blood had gushed from his faceless head.

 He could not avoid the youngsters now; they came closer.  They surrounded him, staring maliciously.

He smirked idiotically, his heart pounding against his ribs, his voice disappearing, his feet rooted to the spot. He was completely aghast with fear as they came face to face.

One of them said something and Maged understood that they wanted his headphones; the other taunted him with a small knife while the third one pushed him violently.

Maged removed his headphones, giving it to them with nervous fingers, his eyes apprehensive; it felt as if the knife was the Serbian bullet.

As the youngsters were checking the headphones, Maged broke away and started to run for his life.

He ran, and he ran, like a guilty sheep from a flying arrow.

Faster and faster, all his ghosts returning, the images changing into flying arrows, chasing, pursuing, there was no time to catch his breath, they might catch him…stab him. Breathless, he reached home and only felt safe once he was sobbing loudly against his father’s chest but the horror never left his eyes.

 His influential father managed to find the boys and his headphones the following day.

Maged is now 16...  insanity is firmly rooted in his mind…he now learned to deal with people, and the children do not mock or tease him anymore, they have become accustomed.

He still has no friends; he has never spoken to a girl other than his sister.

Whenever Maged had tried to approcach a girl she shied away from him, so he remains alone. 

Now he trudges along very slowly, his clothes are untidy, his hair disheveled and always he appears unkempt! One would think he is dumb, for he is always silent.

Yes, for those whose eyes cannot truly see, It was said “Maged likes to be an idiot.”

………

In the famous square of Helmya a crowd of young people gathers... the shining light gives them, a vibrant appearance... their voices and smiles have a way of making one feel young and winsome.

A little way off in a darkened corner Maged stands alone…still he wears his headphones…his body is moving in a strange exaggerated way... a kind of dance I suppose.

I had been walking on the other side of the street when I saw him.  Oh how I wanted to greet him to see him face to face.  I moved closer and closer, I caught his eye, he returned my greeting, but he did not stop moving, he danced on, lost and alone, I can see the tears running freely down his face,his nose wet with mucus, this time he is so hidden in his dance yet nobody sees he is a stranger to them all.

The end

The Bird

 

He falls plummeting towards the earth and hits the ground with a gentle thud.

It might be some sort of rejection; it might be mutiny which we can’t understand. Or disown from the beloved land to the land of pretending

Ali, the fruit seller, called Naser and me closer when he saw the little bird.

 "Hisham, take it". He suggested

My heart tightens as I see the little one on the ground, motionless, without hope, fearless and dazed.

I feel proud of the fact that they have called me to be the one to nurture the little soul. Has he been exiled from his beloved land?

Is he perhaps a prophet who has been exiled by the non-believers?

What is your story little one?

As I move closer, I see the blood on the tiny head, it is unbearable. He is still alive but his breathing is erratic, he lies deathly still, his pain greater than his instinctive fear of a giant human.

Ali has just finished sweeping the pavement outside his shop and Naser points casually towards the little one.

Both of them are certain that there is no hope for this little one and that he will soon become the delectable lunch for the neighbour’s cat.

“Oh barber look at him…you enjoy meditating and pondering and nurturing” smirks Naser.

I bend lower, looking down at the small wings stretched hopelessly on the pavement, his form haggard, preferring death to this life.

“Oh, little one!” I whisper, taking him carefully into the palm of my hand.

Is my hand so huge that it can hold a complete life without any effort?

A life that contains a heart, a complete nervous system with feelings and a little brain with thoughts and may thousand ideas?

I feel him in my hand, death is close. His emotions move my heart and I feel his pain as if it was my own.

Why did you fall?. What is the meaning of this?. Why are you giving up on life?.

Is this your set out path by the birds philosopher who has no one to believe ?.

Or the poet who has no one to hear?.

Or the saviour?
What IS your story little bird?
Did they deny you in reality and you chose to leave?
Did you waste all your energy trying to convince the birds of the true value and the deep meaninig of flying and the beauty of the sky and looking at things from tha hight?
Do they think that the beauty of wings and adorning feathers is of more value than the cleansing of the soul?
Do they prefer ornamental beauty to the beauty within a life?

Are you Don Quixote of Birds?
It's so clear that he has no group to worry about him. It is a known fact that when a bird falls, others of its flock hover overhead chirping and chattering and yet there is not a single one above the head of this little one.

I feel his loneliness, it is clear to me that he has no one.

Maybe he is an old one with lots of experience and the youngsters are rebellious wanting to live the free life, not wanting to be bound by the rules of the elders.

I carefully carry him inside my shop. I ask myself…why are your wings so broken ?
Are there no more dreams of a better life?
Do you isolate yourself from reality also…sitting in a safe corner…pondering on your own morals, own ideas, own principles, simple dreams?

Do you realize the implications of such a life?
I start with nothing, I will lose nothing. Can you bear the riskof being far and losing the tangent with life?

Are you this lonely bird who looks to the distance seeing others and thinking, “I should be there”

Were you refused and thus became me little one?

Are you punishing them by your absence wanting to teach them a lesson?
Did you thank that they would grieve and say, “a good bird was amongst us”?

Then you are dreaming my little one.

The hustle and bustle of life gives no one the time to remember, no time to look back; they are all moving forwards in this quest for happiness.

Their happiness formed by a beautiful feather and properties.

Golden dreams do not exist any more except in ones imagination.

Alas little bird, you are punishing yourself and not them.

They do not care; they have no time to care.

What is your story little bird? Your secret, Your pain?

I sit inside my salon in front of my mirrors…looking down on this little creature.

What a sweet moment between life and death. I listen to him, hoping that he will whisper to me his last wish, wanting to know so many answers to my questions.

Are you refusing to live because you feel that you do not deserve life or is the opposite?

Will you meet my two deceased cats, Eman and Shavoki? Tell me little one of your pain and suffering.

Was your life worthwhile…or was it filled with garbage?

Was there happiness and truth or just pretence?
Did they humiliate you in everything that you did?

Was that why you left them?
By this time, I could feel that his breathing had become more laboured.

Mahmood, the carpenter, enters my shop and glances at the bird in my hand.

“Has he come for a haircut?” he smirks “Give him some water!”

I watch as he leaves with a grateful sigh.

I take my handkerchief and carefully wipe the bird’s head. The wound is deep and his tiny beak is filled with blood.

I then take some tissue paper and dab the blood carefully from his mouth then I take a clean handkerchief and tenderly place it against his tiny head.

I feel him relax in my palm, pouring out his special secrets into my heart.

An interval of silent union passes between us and I decide toget him and myse;f to the best resort and read to him from the Quaran. I feel this calmness as I randomly open the Holy book.

I read the passage that is before me.

“Whatsoever on the earth or in the heavens glorifies Allah and He is the almighty and the wise. He is able to do all things.”
I feel the words and I know that the precious bird I hold in my hand feels it also, there is no distinction in our languages, he understands as I do.

“Allah is the first (nothing before Him) and He is the last (nothing is after Him), He is the most high (nothing is above Him) and He is the most near (nothing is closer than Him) and He is the all-knower of everything”

I continue reading,”and to Allah all matters. Wherever you are, He is beside you, He knows exactly what you do or think.”

"Has not the time come for the hearts of those who believe to be affected by Allah reminder and that which has been revealed of the truth lest they become like those who received the scripture {Turah and Gospel}and the term was prolonged for them and so,their hearts were hardenedand and many of them were desobedient to Allah”.

“Know that the life of this world is only a game and amusement, pomp and mutual boasting among you and rivalry in respect of wealth and children (it is) as the likeness of vegetation after the rain thereof the growth is pleasing and you see it turning yellow then becoming straw but in the hereafter (there is) a severe torment for disbeliever’s and evil doers and (there is) forgiveness from Allah”

As I read, I forget about the outside world, submerged in these words.

“And the life of this world is only deceiving enjoyment".

" Race with one another in hastening to your Lord (Allah) for forgiveness.”

The words and the little true life in my hand give me a sense of weightless ness and I feel that nothing else matters outside this salon.

I feel that the truth is lying here in my hand, a life and the meaning of it .

I forget for a moment about the little bird and think about my life. Thoughts that I have long since buried in the recess of my mind come flooding to as I drift farther and farther along my mind journey.

Are there no more dreams of a better life?

Suddenly, without warning, the bird moves more strongly and then in a flash flies away without even a backward glance. I am slightly dazed and bewildered for a moment and also slightly annoyed thinking that perhaps he takes me as an enemy. But don’t I wish him to fly? Did he recognize me when he awoke?
Or are we of such different worlds that he takes me as a threat, as a fearful giant to the meek?. Did he come down to earth just to listen to the reading of this Sura from anyone that he chanced to meet then he will approve or reject?.

Will he now go back and relate what he has heard?. Will he tell the birds about me? Or does he hate me because I stood between him and death?
As he came, I questioned and now that he has left, I question more.

He has vanished into the unknown. I look at my empty hand. It is over. I must return to my world. I feel something that I cannot put into words.

I wonder if he can see me from above?

Will he tell others about me?

Why does he not return even for a moment?

I just want him to know that I am not the person that he needs to fear.

The pearl

The pearl

I admire this customer and really enjoy cutting his hair, he is not the kind of person who participates in idle chatter, he has deep issues to discuss. His character is profoundly admirable and his ideas flow fluidly from his tongue. His soul is peaceful and genuine, pious without showing off or loud. He is fair and his way of dealing with life is simple, true and neutral. His soul is deep and his opinions take more than one haircut to discuss.

I often wished that the haircut could last all day or that there would never be awaiting customers when he was in my salon. We seemed to isolate ourselves in my simple haven and his only request was that I complete his cut before the midday prayer call.

He is an ordinary customer but possess the arrest qualities I have ever encountered.

His eyes are a unique secret full of kindness and foresight that embraces you. He delighted me when he admitted that is was happy that I am his barber.

My words were always meager ones which initiated the conversation, like a seeping hole in a honey bottle. If I did not begin a conversation he would remain silent. This reminded me of the philosopher, Baydaba, who always started his deep lecture only after the king has asked him about a subject and the words written by a critic “his words flow drop after drop from a pure stream” are also so appropriate in describing my customer.

Recently, he has a deep feeling of bitterness that seems blunt in most people’s eyes because of his directness. The fact that people have adopted the wrong lifestyles disappoints him. The only way of perfection is the divine way, he says. Thousands of years of human failure has proven that. No one is perfect but we are as good as we make u p our minds to be.

I feel closer to him when he shares details of his life with me. He told me about his love for his wife. The one who helps him bear life and find peace. She is his refuge, I wonder if refuge can be a wife. He takes her as a blessing except at the times when she loses her temper and her anger boils over, she complains that he is not in touch with the real. What she does not realize is that she is the great soul who gives him the reason to think and breathe and they would be the happiest couple if she stopped measuring happiness with material possision.   I tried to warn him that he should be more compassionate with her but his answer was, “nothing can destroy a true love as we have the talent of tolerance and understanding,”

At times we disagree but I intentionally debate him as this encourages words and ideas to flow from his mind and I listen in amazement to his interpretations.

He says that the brotherhood, which the prophet Mohamed,peace be upon Him, made in Almadina between the immigrant and the Ansar,  was the perfect ideal for the Utopia which philosophers have been searching for. This period was the perfect human creation and also that the arrangement of the four Khalifs after the prophet Mohamed was completely divine, so that no of them can be replaced or preceded. He also argues that the discrimination between people and their beliefs is that they are not aware of God’s miracles.

He says that not praying actually means denying Allah. We are so ungrateful and yet we expect blessings from Him; children, health and even money, while we refuse to give thanks and have little faith. We want a modern religion with all blessings and no obligations or dedication.

He says the biggest defeat of our nation is the false feeling of perfection that we have, thus stopping us historically in the past ages while the rest of the world is moving forwards. Although we are the unimportant part of civilization now, we still affect the majority. While we stand dogmatically in our history, the western mind has invented its own set of moral values that are less spiritual than our own but which they all follow. With their lower values they are greater and yet us with the higher values are the lesser.

He says that most of those who speak of moral values do so to achieve their own goal but if one looks deeper into their souls you will find corruption.

He believes that Anthon Chikov, the Russian writer, was the greatest author of short stories.

He wrote deeply and yet simply about ordinary people in a way that made them cry and laugh at themselves. He wrote that ugliness is not only in hated things far away but also close inside ourselves making even love which is the greatest gift turn into malice.

He says that you could read thousands of old Arabian poetry even Motanabi, the greatest poet, but yet rarely find their souls expressed openly.

He says that we shall never reach the world cup championship because civilization is still in parts, not a whole form and a country in which there is a bribery judge can never go there. 

 the judges are bribed.

One day he came to have his hair cut and I noticed that he was silent and sorrowful. His eyes were sad and he was silent. His thoughts were drifting far away. I tried to find a subject to persuade him into conversation but in vain. When his haircut was almost complete, he looked into the distance and said, "He who opposes life never expects his own life to become conflicting.”

He had had a severe disagreement with his wife but never imagined that it would end up in court.

His weapon to punish her was always silence or being away from home. He always believed that being away from the one who loves you is the greatest punishment when you have been offended. He thought that time alone would cure and that she would come to the realization that she was in the wrong.

He had entered their home to find it completely bare. The police had sent him a letter demanding divorce by law. He did nothing, had not even contacted his lawyer, he pondered and tried to find answers to how this had got so out of hand.

“She will regret everything and return”, he thought.

“She will say to herself, ‘I lost a great true love for some wood.”

When he came to me the last time, he was terribly disappointed and downcast, as he said, “Her moment of regret ahs not yet come.”

A long time of silence passed between us and then he asked me mournfully, “What on earth can turn a true love to this? Have we never had a respected moment or memory together?”

His morose was thick, deep and dark. I wished to tell him that one needs to come into touch with reality, to know it, but I kept silent, thinking it better than to judge him.

He is a pearl on a black man’s chest on a very dark night.

Then I told him, “The greatest punishment for her is to live without a man such as you.”

A look

 

In the beginning of a day we don’t know how it will end…  

One morning, while people are usually seeking to start a blessed day, Ali, the old fruiterer, was standing, preparing the setting to sell his fruit in the street and romancing the fruits with his lovely sweet calling songs.

        His eyes were full of hope.  The delight of the sunshine was reflected there, mixed with the tiredness of spending the night in the street.  Exhaustion featured on his face as it was his practice to stay up late and then sleep in the street at night instead of going to Abou-Elnomros, where he lives, and coming back in the morning.

The fruit merchant would bring him the goods every morning and he must be ready and waiting for him lest the merchant pass him by. He must pay half the price at least for the goods. Then with expert hands he would have to clean and arrange the fruits one by one in the baskets. Everything should be ready and neat before the customers started getting out from their homes to market, or to visit friends. He sings everyday, no matter how tired he feels. He is so old and poor and yet his tired smile never leaves his face

.

Suddenly, his delight turned over to panic as officers and soldiers jumped in front of the old man like vultures and started to throw his fruits to the big van. Their excitement indicated that they were familiar to such actions; the strangest thing was that the same familiarity didn’t make Ali move to stop them. The soldiers were very rough and their chief officer had a vicious look. Street people only stood watching the scene, unable to face the officer or even to pick up the dropping fruits. The soldiers seemed to possess an incredible conviction of the importance of what they were doing. Yes and why not?  Weren’t they organizing the streets and decorating the white area like the rest of the town?

I thought of approaching the chief officer to talk to him as an “educated” person that he is, but someone else preceded me and the officer offended him badly; then, with a fierce look, he ordered his officers to separate the people.  After everything was over, I went back to my shop, my haven.  Every time I go out into the wide streets, I long for my small shop and limited world.  I wished to tell the officer that such simple, poor people are not the ugliest thing in town; they are only naïve people who sell their goods in the streets earning 20 piasers( Egyptian coin) a kilo or at maximum 25 piasters. Those who really make our entire world ugly are sitting now in their luxurious offices, wearing their fashionable suits, moving smoothly and comfortably and you bow when you see them.  All of these ideas remained in my head--maybe in everybody’s heads.

We were midday, about one o’clock, and Ali’s last look was still engraved in my mind without explanation.  I couldn’t forget his eyes, following the van as it walked away, the soldiers in it, with such looks that suit a prime minister rather than mere soldiers who hardly earn their living and are as humble as Ali.

 I wondered if there would be any beauty in the town without a man like him, passing by, saying “good morning”, hearing his pleasant replies and lovely calling songs for customers.  In the beginning of a day we don’t know how it will end… The officers had left him and took the fruits. From the soldiers’ looks, it was crystal clear that there was a delicious fruit meal awaiting them.

As Ali was collecting the fifty pounds for paying the fine in order to regain the scales, he said about the fruits, “Thank God they only took the fruits, not me as well.  May Allah reward me for my loss.”

Yes good man, thank God, He is the Most Powerful while we are the most powerless; He will reward you for being patient and convinced with your status. It may be quite enough for you to have that peaceful contentment and for them the fruits.

The desire to keep life going turned the whole situation into a big joke.

“It would have been better if we had eaten the fruits,” someone said.

“If only I knew what was about to happen, I’d have stayed the whole night eating them,” Ali remarked.

The event ended but it seemed that such a despicable day would have yet another incident.

A woman ran out in front of my shop, screaming in panic, followed by her husband,  who was threatening her.  When a group of girls saw the scene, they followed them saying to each other, “let’s find it out, girls.”  Every time this couple passed by a shop, its crew came out to watch.  I was shaving for a wealthy client (shaving is enslavement--what does it mean to shave for someone when they can do it for themselves?)  So, I asked someone, “What is going on?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Hasan is running after his wife.” 

She was wearing a house dress with her hair disheveled.  He was behind her wearing shorts and a blue t-shirt.  This tall, respectable, venerable rich man looking so savage.  She, too, was known by her elegance, gentle talk and wealthy appearance.  She was esteemed highly by everyone in our area. When she accompanied her child to get his hair cut, she looked elegant, paid well, and she wisely handled her child’s fear of the tools.

She found refuge in an upholstery shop. The upholsterer, who never cared for anything in the world but his sofas, didn’t even move to know what was going on--maybe because of privacy or maybe because of his respect for Mr. Hasan, who lay in wait outside the shop with a wild lion look. There was a long moment of horrible silence.  Suppression and humiliation were engraved in her eyes.  It seemed that she had been hiding for a long time behind her bright appearance and gentle talk while, in fact,  she was living with the cruelest of men.  It turned out to be a false appearance.

The lion’s share of her fear of him was more about her fear of being revealed like this amongst the humdrum people in the street.  Looking at her prestige in such a hard time in front of the barber, the carpenter, and the unmovable upholsterer was considered welfare to her at that moment.

People were afraid to say a word, wordless as they were with the officer hours ago. In everyone’s mind was the thought, “they are a couple and such things happen.”

Her husband stood in front of her like a lurking cheetah and gave her a fierce manly gaze, then said “you made me run in the street you bitch.”  (But, the vicious cheetah is too lazy to make any more effort to run and eat his prey.)

He was about to attack when two women and a man showed up.  She sought their protection as they were less dangerous, though they had the same hateful look for her.  Savage, but without the same authority as her husband. When they approached her, she said in a pitiable tone “please, not in the street.”

When I got closer to her, I saw signs of a cheetah attack on her face. She had been injured.  His brother told her to accompany him. Then they all went away, the cheetah watching from a distance.  She went with his brother, mother, and sister and he walked into the crowd, receiving a special respect.  All of them just walked away; they were in the front and he a few metres behind, walking in calm and peace. Then the side talks and juicy gossip began.

“What do you think could have happened?” someone asked.

“He called her bitch, you heard it,” another man said.  “If so he will kill or at least divorce her,” he continued on expertly.

All of a sudden, the two looks seemed identical to me.  I knew then the explanation of Ali.  Although they had all distance and boundaries in every area, the look of Ali and the look of the woman were exactly the same, as if they were for the same person and the same eye.  It was a look of oppression, helplessness and hope.  An air of disappointment, an endless call for aid from the collected bones of flesh and blood.

When I went back to my client, I was silent.  He told me, “they are a couple…. and such things happen; tomorrow everything will be all right.”

The next day was exactly as my client had suggested. In the morning, Ali was standing again, preparing his fruits.  As for the woman, she looked all right as she hung the laundry on the white, fragile rope.

In the beginning of a day we don’t know how it will end…

Ended