PART FIVE
21
Chapter Twenty-One – On Pre-Islamic Literature
Pre-Islamic literature was among the most captivating subjects for first-year university students, especially under the guidance of Professor Wahib Roumiya, whose voice carried both sweetness and the gravitas of thought. His renowned book, “Journey in Pre-Islamic Literature”, served not merely as a textbook but as an experience to be lived, rich with insight and encounter.
One evening, as Muna slowly turned the pages, as if seeking some hidden secret, she looked up at Numan and said,
“Do you know? It feels as if this book is not about poets in the desert at all—but about us… about you and me.”
Numan smiled, flipping through his notebook.
“Perhaps,” he said, “because we too are on a journey… a journey of another kind, whose beginning and end we do not yet know.”
Professor Roumiya’s book was more than a literary study; it was a secret gateway opening onto a world of poetry and existence. From the very first pages, the author made it clear that the journey in pre-Islamic literature was not simply a passage from one place to another, but a comprehensive human experience, embodied in the texts as a mode of poetic and intellectual being.
Later, after they had finished reviewing the first chapter, Muna whispered, jotting down a phrase in her notebook:
“”The journey is not a place, but a question traveling within us”… this alone deserves an entire book.”
Numan adjusted his glasses, leaning closer to her eyes:
“Or perhaps it deserves that we write it about ourselves—if we dare.”
The book’s chapters unfolded across various themes, the first of which explored the concept of the journey in pre-Islamic literature. Professor Roumiya argued that the journey had not been a choice for the ancient Arab; it had been a necessity imposed by the harsh realities of the desert.
Though its beginnings were grounded in the tangible, it always drifted toward symbol and meaning: existence, wandering, searching, challenge, and triumph over fate.
As for the second chapter, the professor devoted it to the varieties of journeys in pre-Islamic poetry, from the solitary journey that manifests in standing amid ruins and reflecting, to the lover’s quest in pursuit of his beloved, to the journeys of hunting and war, laden with pride, skill, and courage.
Muna lingered over an illustrated scene in the book, where a lone camel tread across the desert, and she asked, “Did Antara truly feel solitude, or did Abla accompany him in every battle within his heart?”
Numan, flipping through his notes, replied, “Perhaps he fought to see her eyes mirrored in the eyes of his foes… or perhaps he fled from his weakness, just as we flee from things we dare not name.”
In the following chapters, Dr. Roumiya deconstructed the aesthetic and intellectual architecture of the journey, adopting a philosophical, interpretive method that approached the poem as a living being, coursing with meaning, thinking within itself. He believed that the journey in pre-Islamic poetry was not merely an event, but a symbolic structure expressing the fracture between stillness and motion, between self and world, between longing and destiny.
Numan paused at a page analyzing the Mu‘allaqat of Tarafa ibn al-‘Abd and remarked, “Perhaps this is what makes pre-Islamic poetry eternal… its supposed simplicity conceals depths without end.”
Muna, pointing to the margin, added, “Exactly. Here it says, ‘The poet does not describe a place, he inhabits it.’ Isn’t that what we do when we read? We inhabit the poem.”
As the exam approached, Numan and Muna had memorized dozens of verses and passages, citing them and sharing their analyses in private sessions in Numan’s room, in the college cafeteria, or on the crowded steps of the lecture hall.
In the final exam, the students were asked to choose between two topics. Numan chose to write about the journey in the poetry of Antara al-Absi, the lover-knight who dedicated his victories to Abla, while Muna opted to explore the journeys of Imru’ al-Qais in his Mu‘allaqat, moving between ruins, hunting, wandering, and rain.
A week after the results were announced, they sat together on a wooden bench in the institute’s back garden. Muna held up her paper and said, “We got top marks… both of us!”
Numan laughed, flipping through his notebook. “It seems we’ve successfully completed the first of our journeys.”
She studied him closely and replied, “No, the journey is only beginning.”
The setting: Numan’s study room in the Ahmed household wing.
The time: an autumn evening, after the second semester exams, which typically conclude in September.
The atmosphere: warm, scented with books and rain, a dim lamp casting golden light over Numan and Muna as they sat on either side of the familiar wooden table.
The mood: relaxed after the tension of exams, open to conversation after a long silence.
Muna closed her notebook, where she had jotted down fleeting sparks of memory, and looked at him with eyes shining in an unusual light. “Numan… the second exam cycle is over, and you insisted we postpone the study of pre-Islamic literature. Were you right? Or did you simply need more time with the poems?”
“I needed more time, yes,” Numan said, “but not just to understand the poems. Each of us needed time to understand ourselves, to give the poems the space they deserve… while reading poetry like this, poetry that demands a whole sentence of knowledge and possibilities that cannot be skipped.”
Muna tilted her head slightly, raising her eyebrows with genuine curiosity:
“Like what?”
Numan looked at her, his eyes gleaming with the thrill of recalling something precious, then said:
“Muna… don’t you remember the esteemed Dr. Aziza Mureddin, who taught us Arabic Library Studies?”
She shook her head, smiling with ease:
“Of course, I remember her well… what about her?”
He took a deep breath, as if summoning the echo of those lectures:
“Didn’t you notice how, in every lecture, she would present a tiny literary passage, sometimes no more than a few lines? Yet she would draw us in until time itself slipped by unnoticed. She would read the text aloud, even though Dr. Wahb taught literature, and open it linguistically, as if completing Professor Asim’s lessons on grammar… then she would illuminate it with profound reflections, almost like recalling Dr. As’ad Ahmad Ali’s insights from his book The Art of Life…”
Muna’s eyes widened in astonishment, catching his thread of thought:
“And baladi’ [rhetoric]? Did she touch on that too?”
“Yes… as if she summoned Dr. Muhammad Ali Sultani himself when discussing baladi’. And don’t forget prosody—if the text was poetry, she would hint at its music, much like the professor of poetic music did… she could awaken the text’s very scent of history, without ever straying from the realm of meaning.”
He paused for a moment, gently running his hand over the book’s cover, then continued:
“That’s when I understood, Muna, that a literary text, whether prose or poetry, cannot be read with a single eye… it demands a linguistic eye, a literary eye, a reflective eye, and a musical one… as if one needs a council of experts just to read a single line in a way that approaches the truth.”
Muna lowered her gaze, lost in thought, then spoke softly, a trace of gentle reproach in her voice:
“Now I understand why you were so keen on making the exam on pre-Islamic literature the last one… But why didn’t you warn me of this before?”
Numan laughed, turning his eyes away from her with a playful coyness, as if hiding some secret intention:
“Because you didn’t need a warning, Muna… You have excelled far beyond me in many subjects. Shouldn’t I get a chance to outshine you, even just once?”
Muna let out a brief laugh, a mixture of pride and affection:
“I see that now you grasp the meaning of the journey in literature… and perhaps the journey in life as well, Numan.”
She rested her hand under her cheek, looking at him with a spark of astonishment:
“And so it felt as if you had been traveling with them, those poets?”
Numan nodded:
“Exactly… I felt as though I was chasing behind ‘Abla like Antarah, dragging my steps across ruins I did not know… Each line of poetry became a mirror to a state I had lived. Do you remember how many times I reread the description of the she-camel—not to memorize it, but because it had become a symbol of the toil and the dream I carried?
Did the poets depart from the ruins?
Or did you discover the dwelling after wandering in illusion?
Antarah opens his ode with this rhetorical question, laden with challenge, as if asking: Has anything about love and standing among the ruins remained untouched by poets?
This method exalts his poetic pride while wearing a mask of humility, as if acknowledging the paths others have already walked. The question is rhetorical, a prelude to his bold entry into the literary field.
And the word ‘ruins’—metradam—is a beautiful image, meaning a dilapidated, crumbling place, a spot revisited time and again by poets, a metaphor for the abundance of what has already been said.”
Muna lowered her gaze, thoughtful, then spoke in a soft voice, tinged with a gentle reproach:
“Now I understand why you insisted that the pre-Islamic literature exam be the last one we took… but why didn’t you warn me about this earlier?”
Numan laughed, glancing away from her with a teasing sort of secrecy, as if hiding his intentions:
“Because you don’t need a warning, Muna… You have outshone me in many subjects already… Shouldn’t I get the chance to surpass you, just once?”
Muna let out a brief laugh, a mixture of pride and affection:
“Now I see that you’ve grasped the meaning of the journey in literature… and perhaps even the journey in life, Numan.”
She rested her hand beneath her cheek, looking at him with a hint of astonishment:
“And so it seems as if you were traveling with them, those poets?”
Numan nodded.
“Exactly… I felt as if I were chasing after Ablah like Antarah, dragging my steps over ruins I did not know… as if every verse of poetry reflected a state I had lived. Do you remember how many times I reread the description of the camel—not to memorize it, but because it became a symbol of the burden I tried to carry, of a dream I sought…”
He hesitated, then softly recited:
“Did the poets depart from Mutaraddam?
Or did you recognize the dwelling after the delusion?”
Antarah opens his Mu‘allaqa with this rhetorical question, layered with challenge, as though to ask whether any meaning of love or standing upon ruins had yet to be touched by poets. This style reveals pride in his poetic power, yet with a subtle humility, acknowledging that the paths have been trodden before. “Mutaraddam”—a vivid image—means the crumbling place, a site frequently visited by poets, a metaphor for what has been said many times. The question is rhetorical, used to prepare his strong entrance into the literary field.
Muna smiled quietly, then whispered:
“I felt the same about Imru’ al-Qais… that he resembled me in some ways… in his hesitation, in his journeys across the desert, caught between longing and uncertainty, between rain and waiting. But in the exam, I didn’t write about him as one writes a report—I wrote a long letter to him.”
Numan narrowed his eyes with curiosity:
“As if you were reproaching him?”
Muna laughed and nodded.
“Yes, and sometimes consoling him. I told him in the end: poetry cannot save us from being lost, but it gives us a map to understand how we wandered.”
Numan leaned on the table and drew a little closer, his voice softer, almost a confession:
“I wrote about Antarah… about his journey not only as a warrior, but as a lover who fights to offer victory to a woman who never gave him a clear acknowledgment of her love.”
Muna, moved by his words, leaned toward him slightly:
“Was it really Ablah you were speaking of?”
Numan smiled without answering, gazing at the steam rising from his cup of coffee, then said:
“In every journey, there is a destination, and in every destination, the possibility of disappointment… but I chose to write about love, even if it ends in the desert.”
Muna leaned back, placing her hand over her heart as if tracing the imprint of his words within her, and spoke with sincerity:
“And you know… when I read your answer after you shared it with me, I felt you wrote about a man crossing the desert barefoot, not to arrive, but to keep moving without pause.”
Numan looked at her for a long moment and whispered:
“Sometimes, we cannot reach… but we can keep going.”
Muna gently held his hand, her eyes warm:
“I think we didn’t take the literature exam alone… we took it together, in writing and in feeling, over months. And the grade we received was deserved… because we understood poetry not only with our minds, but with our hearts.”
Mr. Ahmed’s voice came from behind the door after a soft knock:
“Muna?”
Muna glanced at Numan, then rose to open the door for her father, speaking gently:
“Dad… we were talking about the pre-Islamic literature exam… and about the journey within the poem.”
Mr. Ahmed entered the room, patting Numan on the shoulder with a smile:
“Beautiful… but remember, some journeys require a wise guide.”
Numan laughed shyly and said:
“And I think we found the best guide for us, not only in poetry… but in life, we found them among those closest to us.”
Mr. Ahmed turned to Numan and Muna, a glint of an idea shining in his eyes, ready to share it with He spoke with the calm of someone planning something cherished:
“Since you’ve finished your exams, and have time before the new year begins… I actually need someone to help me complete some engineering drawings. What do you think?”
Numan turned toward him attentively, while Muna lifted her eyes from the notebook in her hands, a hint of curiosity appearing on her face.
Mr. Ahmed continued, pulling a small sheet of paper from his briefcase:
“This is the sketch!”
22
Chapter Twenty-Two – From the Memory of Childhood
Everyone had grown accustomed to long conversations and extended debates, spanning personal matters, general culture, and acquired experiences—whether during idle hours or shared evening gatherings.
During those three years bound together by cooperation, affection, and sincerity, Numan would tell them about his life. Sometimes about his childhood, sometimes about the stages of his studies, occasionally about his work, and often about his insatiable love for reading, a habit that had become an inseparable part of him.
Numan had enrolled in an intensive course in architectural and engineering drawing, which qualified him to assist in producing the technical drawings connected to Mr. Ahmed’s office projects—projects extending all the way to Lebanon, while the office itself remained in Damascus.
Though Numan had his own wing, mornings and evenings still brought them together around breakfast and dinner tables, often followed by long nights of discussion, dialogue, or warm recollections.
One evening, gathered with Muna and her father, Numan said:
“Tonight, I will tell you about a period of my life in painstaking detail. It may be dull, but I hope I won’t bore you with my story.”
Muna interrupted eagerly:
“I have long awaited this moment, for you to open your heart to us, so that we may live through every fine detail of your life… Speak, and I promise I will never interrupt. But don’t begin until I fetch what we need, while we prepare to fully listen to your words.”
Upon her return, Numan smiled, gazing toward the window as if he were replaying a distant ribbon of his childhood:
“There is nothing remarkable in my life… except my mother.”
He paused for a moment, his voice settling onto the words like winter rain upon a windowpane.
Muna tilted her head gently toward him and asked:
“Your mother?… What makes her so, specifically?”
Numan answered with a warmth that felt like writing a letter of gratitude in the heart’s own notebook:
“Mom is the reason my father—and even my grandfather—agreed to enroll me in school. Without her, I’d be somewhere else entirely today… completely.”
Muna’s father listened in quiet reverence, hands clasped over his knees, a trace of some old memory crossing his face.
Numan continued, smiling as though speaking to a child within him:
“I remember that first day so clearly… the day my father walked me to elementary school. The school wasn’t far, only about a quarter-hour’s walk, yet the path felt so much longer then… as if I were walking straight into the city of dreams itself.”
Muna chuckled softly. “And were you excited for that journey?”
“I counted the days,” Numan said, “even the hours, with a kind of eagerness that can’t really be put into words. Every time I passed its wooden door, staring at it as if it were a secret gateway, I only wished it would open for me one day.”
Muna’s father interjected, nodding knowingly:
“Most dreams are simple in childhood… they carry the deepest meanings when we recognize them later.”
Numan nodded in agreement, then added:
“The imam of the mosque near the school—a venerable man, one of my grandfather’s friends—he was the same teacher my father had once learned the verses of the Quran from at my age. I don’t know exactly why I felt so attached to him… but I watched for him every evening before sunset. And when he passed by my grandfather’s shop on his way to the mosque, he would take my hand, and we would walk to the mosque together.”
Muna, caught up in the moment, asked:
“Weren’t you afraid? Small, walking to or from a mosque in the dark… and studying the Quran?”
He answered, as if listening to an old, familiar voice within himself:
“I was not afraid… I felt as though I was performing a sacred duty. We would pray the Maghrib and Isha together, and in the time between, we learned to recite the verses of the Holy Qur’an and memorize them by heart. The sheikh would patiently correct my pronunciation… and would rest his hand on my shoulder as if planting something within me that he never wanted to fade away.”
He drew a deep breath, then added:
“And when we arrived, he would hand me over to my grandfather, saying the words I shall never forget: ‘This is your trust… it has been returned to you.’”
A brief silence spread across the room; no one interrupted. Then Muna spoke, her voice wavering slightly:
“How many trusts are returned… yet never the same as they once were.”
Her father nodded gently, replying with quiet conviction:
“But the trust of the heart… when preserved as that sheikh preserved it, bears men like Numan.”
Numan spoke softly, flipping through memories that had not dimmed despite the passage of years:
“I used to overhear some of the conversations between my father and grandfather, and sometimes between my father and mother… and all of them revolved around me. I could understand some of it, yet much remained beyond my grasp.”
Muna raised her eyebrows, a touch of curiosity in her voice:
“Around you? And what were they talking about?”
Numan smiled, a mixture of longing and pain curling at the edges of his lips, and said:
“My grandfather believed that my going to the mosque, learning the Qur’an under the sheikh’s guidance, was enough. He said I was too young for school, my frame too weak, my body unable to endure the winter’s cold or the summer’s heat.”
Muna’s father shook his head empathetically and said:
“That was a generation that feared illness more than ignorance… and perhaps sometimes, feared even what was right.”
Numan added, as if recounting something he had lived through more than once:
“Truth be told… not a month would pass without my spending a week—or more—confined to bed.
A sudden, searing fever would strike me, and an icy chill would pierce my bones, until my limbs trembled as though I were in the heart of a frozen storm.”
Muna’s voice interjected softly, tinged with worry:
“And how did they deal with those episodes?”
Numan lowered his head slightly before answering:
“Every time, my father would rush me to the doctor. And sometimes, one of my mother’s relatives—one of those wise old women—would come, seat me on a chair, and slide her long, coarse finger down my throat, pressing each tonsil in turn.”
Muna gasped, her voice laced with childlike disgust:
“My God! Did it hurt?”
Numan let out a short laugh, then said:
“Of course it hurt… but it would draw out a strange pus, and she would look at me with certainty and say, ‘This is the cause of all that you suffer.’”
Muna’s father, a contemplative smile forming on his face, remarked:
“Mothers and grandmothers know far more than any medical college could teach.”
Numan continued, his tone darkened with sorrow:
“Sometimes, the fever would strike so suddenly that I would lose consciousness completely… collapsing to the floor without warning, as if I were a candle snuffed out in the blink of an eye.”
A brief silence settled, then Muna spoke, as if addressing the child he once was:
“Numan… how fragile you were, and yet, how strong as well.”
Numan smiled, a smile that did not quite reach his eyes, and said quietly:
“Fragility does not cancel out strength, Muna… it may, in its own way, be the path to survival.”
Numan added, a shadow of a grateful smile in his voice:
“As for my mother… she saw what no one else could.”
Muna looked at him in silent contemplation, as though she were hearing the first pulse of his old dream, while her father spoke in a calm tone:
“That is a mother… her heart always sees more than any pair of eyes.”
Numan continued, shaping his words as if he were rearranging his memory before them:
“My mother always insisted to my father:
We must hurry to enroll our son in school; he cannot fall behind. If he misses this year, another year will be lost, and we will face this every registration season… he will always lag behind his peers…”
He paused, as if the sound of his mother’s voice had returned alive within him, then went on:
“She would also say to him:
‘We have spent our lives unable to read or write, blind in broad daylight… do our children not deserve to learn? To learn and teach us about life? To become our mirror to the world? Life is not only food, drink, and children… it is understanding, learning, and rising.’”
Muna’s father nodded with admiration:
“Your mother thought as if she were teaching the future to write itself.”
And Muna added, casting a sidelong glance at her father:
” I was deeply struck by that phrase: ‘To learn and to teach us about life.’ How much depth it carries!”
Numan continued, as if his memory flowed on its own:
” But my father… he was hesitant, loving me to the point of fear, and fearing for me to the point of paralysis. All he dreaded was that I might catch a fever at school, or on the way there… So he leaned on my grandfather’s opinion, and wavered for nearly two years.”
He sighed, then said:
” He kept postponing my enrollment, once to convince himself, another time to convince his father, thinking that the longer I waited, the more I would mature and recover, and that school would be less harsh on me then.”
Numan paused for a moment, then a quiet pride lit his eyes, and he added:
” But my mother was wiser. She suggested that I continue going to the mosque, as my grandfather liked, learning the recitation and the Quran under the Sheikh’s guidance, so that when I completed the cycle, it would have naturally matured in everyone’s eyes.”
Muna asked, curiosity catching her:
” And did your grandfather agree?”
Numan answered lightly:
” He did! … In fact, he felt victorious.”
They laughed together, and Numan added:
” As for their fear of illness attacks, my mother found a gentle solution. She asked my cousin Ahmed, who was two and a half years older, to accompany me at school and on the way back… and he did.”
Muna’s father spoke, his voice tinged with emotion:
” Your mother was a complete school within a single woman’s heart.”
Muna added, smiling warmly:
” And if she hadn’t been the only one in your whole life, she alone would have been enough to make the dream worth writing.”
Numan spoke, turning over memories as if replaying scenes from an old film:
” My father accepted my mother’s suggestion without debate. It seemed as though he found comfort in an idea that pleased everyone, and finally convinced my grandfather, after long resistance and extended silence.”
Muna nodded silently, with a wistful glance, and asked gently:
” And was the moment you entered school… like you had imagined it?”
Numan smiled, a shadow of that frightened child glimmering in his eyes:
” It was a mix of joy and apprehension… I finally entered the primary school, which at the time was an old Arab house, rented as a school. In its courtyard, a circular pool flowed, fed by a small fountain, murmuring softly like a cold breath in the morning air.”
Muna’s father commented with admiration:
” Even your school has living features… I know that style of old Damascene houses: walls of mud and straw, wooden ceilings, carrying the scent of time when you walk beneath them.”
Numan continued, brushing aside the sudden pang of longing in his heart:
” The first time I crossed that large wooden door, I felt as if I were stepping into a world unlike anything I had known. We entered the principal’s office; my father handed over my registration papers, his hand slightly trembling. But the principal raised an eyebrow and said firmly:
‘ It’s long past the registration period… The year started months ago.’ ”
My father looked at him with a quiet, earnest hope, gently pleading for my enrollment, while I watched the scene with eyes heavy with longing and restraint… I cast silent glances at the principal, as if silently begging him to forgive my father for this delay that was no fault of his own.
Muna said, her thumb tracing the edge of the table,
“I know that feeling… when grown-ups struggle in silence to secure a small place in the world for their children.”
Numan continued,
“And while tension hovered over the room like a thick fog, a teacher entered, greeted us, and requested a record and a summons for one of the lazy students. Then he turned, and it was as if he suddenly noticed my father. He approached him warmly, shook his hand, and asked why he was here. My father returned the greeting and asked for his help in persuading the principal… A conversation unfolded between them, of which we heard nothing but muffled whispers.”
Here, Muna’s father said,
“These are the coincidences of fate that change entire destinies.”
Numan nodded in agreement:
“Indeed… Moments later, the principal took the papers from my father, and that same teacher came over to me, held my hand, and said firmly:
‘I will take Numan to my class, and I will make sure he catches up on the lessons he has missed.’”
It felt as if I had received a gift from the heavens. Later I learned that this teacher was a relative of my maternal grandfather, and that my grandparents were visiting us at that very moment, as they did every Monday, the barbers’ day off… My mother had told them that my father had taken me to school, but she feared the principal would refuse my enrollment because of our delay or my age, as my peers were already in the third or fourth grade… And I? I was still standing at the threshold of the first grade.”
Muna looked up at him, her voice soft, her eyes reflective:
“Perhaps it was that teacher’s hand—the first hand that reached out to open the door to your dream…”
Numan answered in a low voice, touched with a note of gratitude:
“Yes… and perhaps that hand was the very first line in my whole story.”
He spoke slowly, as if pulling a thread from an old scarf:
“My grandfather knew that one of his relatives taught at that school. He rushed there immediately, as if the worry that had haunted our home had transformed into a restless energy that could not be contained. He entered the school, asked for his relative, then met him and spoke in a quiet voice—I do not know whether it carried reproach or urgency.”
Muna, following the lines of his face with a soft, almost childlike focus, asked:
“Were you still in the principal’s office when your grandfather arrived?”
Numan nodded:
“Yes. I had no idea he was coming… Moments later, the teacher himself appeared in the administration room. Surprise flickered across his face when he saw my father, yet he did not linger in his gaze. Instead, he took my hand gently and said:
‘Come, Numan, I’ll show you your classroom…’
I left with him, still staring at the ground, as if stealing a glimpse of this new world from beneath my feet. As we passed by one of the classrooms, a piercing cry shattered the silence, sharp and cutting.”
At this, Muna’s father interrupted, frowning:
“A cry?! From a student?”
Numan nodded slowly:
“Yes… I stopped walking and looked toward the source of the sound. A small child sat on the bamboo chair usually reserved for the teacher, while two classmates held him tightly. In front of him stood a huge, powerful man, striking him with a thick stick on the palms of his feet… A scene time has not erased. I learned later that the man was the classroom teacher.”
Muna placed her hand over her chest and whispered:
“God… this is torture, not teaching.”
Numan continued, his voice low, as if fearing to awaken childhood pain from its slumber:
“The scene terrified me… it made the blood freeze in my veins. I pulled my hand from the teacher’s grip and ran, crying, unsure whether I was running or stumbling… All I remember is that my tears spilled from my eyes as if I had become a fountain of fear. I screamed at the top of my lungs:
I don’t want school! I hate it! I want to go home!
I saw my grandfather standing at the wooden school door, as if he had heard me from the distance, from the space itself, and he rushed toward me. And my father, who had just stepped out of the principal’s office, hurried after me as well.”
Muna’s father shook his head, heavy with sorrow:
“A scene like that can kill a dream at its cradle… no wonder he cried like that.”
Numan went on:
“The teacher who had been with me chased after, took my hand again, soothing me, patting my back, and asking my father and grandfather to leave the school quickly, as if he wanted to separate me from that image of terror before it could settle inside me forever.”
He paused for a moment, then resumed, a faint smile brushing the edge of his face:
“But, amid all that fear, I never let go of my satchel… that old satchel my mother had bought for me two years before, packed with everything I might need on my first school day… It was as if I clung to it as my last thread to my mother… or to the dream itself.”
Muna said, her eyes glistening:
“The satchel was your safe memory… your moving nostalgia.”
Numan continued, his voice carrying a faint warmth, as if summoning a tender shadow from the past:
” I finished my first year with distinction, not through genius nor a love for study, but through a fear that had burrowed deep in my heart… I dreaded every moment, the possibility of being cast aside, of hearing ‘You are not fit!’ or, God forbid, becoming that student who would be laid across the wicker chair, the stick descending upon him… I told my mother about what I had witnessed on that first day, about the fear that woke me from sleep as though a dream were gnawing at my chest. And she understood that the answer was not to flee, but to keep moving forward—yet not alone.”
Muna lifted a delicate brow, her voice soft with curiosity and awe:
“Did your mother oversee your studies herself?”
Numan smiled, though it was a measured smile, one tinged with another memory:
“She managed it as if she were tending a clay house on the verge of collapse, her fingers placing each straw perfectly in the mud… From that day, she set a plan that never changed, a sacred ritual we practiced every evening.”
Muna’s father nodded, admiration clear in his tone:
“A plan? What kind?”
Numan answered, enumerating it as if he were stepping back onto the cold floor that had shaped his school memories:
“First, I change out of my school clothes, then we perform ablution for prayer. After prayer, we have lunch, wash our hands and mouths… Then we lie on the floor, side by side, my mother and I, a book and two notebooks before us. I hold my pencil; she holds the sharpener, as though keeping the weapon honed.
Then the tasks begin, one after the other, not school lessons but lessons of life itself:
The first task: spelling and reading the words of the lesson, word by word, in the style of the imam who taught us between the Maghrib and Isha prayers… My mother would mimic his voice, and sometimes it felt as if she were memorizing the Qur’an—or that I was memorizing my own heart alongside her.
The second task: reading the lesson multiple times until my tongue became familiar with the words, stumbling and fear dissolving, as if I were restoring calm to the language itself.”
“Task three,” Numan continued, his voice soft, almost conjuring a tender shadow from the past, “was tracing the words in my first notebook—a draft where I practiced mirroring the shapes as they appeared in the book. No dot was too small, no curve too subtle.”
“Task four,” he added, “was writing what I had mastered into the exercise notebook, the one the teacher would eventually see. To me, it was my window to the world beyond, a window I loved to keep clean and bright.”
Muna’s eyes gleamed with the image of a mother silently watching her child with love. “How remarkable this devotion is… your mother was not merely overseeing you; she was shaping you.”
Numan nodded, his voice dipping lower. “I kept at it, day after day, under her gentle guidance, until I could complete my tasks alone, free of the fear of mistakes. She planted in me a confidence I had never known. Even amid her household chores, she meticulously compared my drafts to the book, listened as I spelled each word, corrected my pronunciation, and only allowed me to write in the school notebook once she had heard me read the lesson in full.”
“We would take brief rests, sometimes sipping tea or laughing at a mispronounced word, and then return to work without feeling its weight… until the end of my second year.”
Muna’s father, resting his hand on his chin, remarked, “It’s clear you were raised on love and discipline together… and that is rare.”
Numan continued, his tone tinged with a childlike pride. “In third grade, I brought home a picture story from the school library for the first time. I read it aloud to my mother, then sat down to explain it to my siblings, showing them the colored illustrations. My mother would smile and say:
‘Read to them as if you were a storyteller of the neighborhood…’
“From that day, I became a regular at the school library. The Arabic teacher guided me in choosing stories, suggesting what suited me, encouraging me to return with the book, not just the schoolbag. Through reading, I discovered something akin to home—something that did not frighten me.”
At this point in his narrative, Muna gently raised her hand, as if to halt a surging wave of images, and spoke in a soft voice, tinged with hesitation:
“Wait, Numan… could you pause for a moment? There’s something that puzzles me…”
Numan looked at her with mild surprise, and she continued, struggling to find the right words:
“Some of what you tell… the way you describe events as if they were ordinary, familiar, it strikes me oddly… I feel as if there’s something missing in the story, something not said directly.”
Numan smiled, that quiet, apologetic smile, then spoke with a calm, confident softness:
“You’ll understand, Muna… everything that seems mysterious to you now will become clear when you connect the events. It’s like reading a sprawling novel; no chapter can be grasped alone. You must stitch the lines together with the silent thread between them.”
Muna’s father interjected, sensing the depth behind the words, and said with a smile:
“As for me… I can understand it perfectly.”
Muna glanced at him with a playful look, then nodded in agreement:
“Since you both see eye to eye, you may continue, Numan.”
Numan took a deep breath, as if diving into the depths of a new memory, and said:
“I received my elementary school completion certificate… on the surface, it was just an ordinary piece of paper, but I saw it as a bridge, or rather: small wings for a boy who dreamed of flight.
As soon as I moved on to middle school, I became a frequent visitor to the cultural center library in town… I entered it as a thirsty soul enters a pure spring, drinking deeply from the books whatever I wished to know, to learn, or even simply to glimpse. Sitting between those wooden shelves, I felt as if I were shaking hands with the world through the edges of the books.”
And yet, despite my immersion in it, I never neglected my studies… I pursued my school lessons with intense focus, as if racing against something unseen, or as if behind every question in the book lay a door whose key I sought.
Muna’s father interrupted, a spark of admiration lighting his eyes:
” The Cultural Center’s library? I doubt many at your age even knew the way there, let alone frequented it!”
Numan nodded, a shadow of wonder in his tone:
” Yes… it was unfamiliar to most of the town’s children, but I felt it was my other home… Then came a surprise—not from the books this time, but from the house itself.”
Muna leaned in slightly, curiosity glimmering, as if ready to catch a secret:
” A surprise? What happened?”
Numan lowered his gaze for a moment, as though recalling that long-ago scene, and spoke in a low voice:
” After I passed the sixth grade, my father invited me to meet my grandfather… It was unusual—I was not normally summoned to such a meeting. At the time, I did not understand what awaited me, but I sensed, from my father’s tone and the house’s stillness, that what would be said might change a course…”
A short silence followed, and in the quiet of Muna and her father, there was the feeling of listening to doors about to open…
It did not take long before my grandfather began to speak, his voice solemn, carrying sometimes the weight of wisdom, at other times the shadow of resolve. Adjusting his turban atop his head, he said:
” My son, your father is a poor man; he cannot bear the full burden of your studies and their expenses. He has other children besides you, and he must provide for them as he has provided for you, as best he can.
For years, you have helped me in the shop during your summer breaks, and I gave your wages to your father to buy you clothes, notebooks, and pens.
For this reason… I suggested to him that you work with me, to learn the trade of barbering. But your father, my son, does not want you to taste the bitterness of this hard, low-paying craft. Therefore, we have chosen to speak with you directly, in hopes of finding a path—an occupation by which you may support yourself and your family.”
The conversation was not a surprise, just as my mother had anticipated, and she had gently hinted that I should prepare for such a moment. I turned toward them with measured composure, straightening my posture as if I were presenting my case before a courteous court:
“May I offer a suggestion? A choice that would satisfy me while considering both of your circumstances?”
Grandfather regarded me with a gaze tinged with curiosity, then leaned back, a smile touching his lips:
“Go on, boy. Tell us what’s on your mind.”
I spoke with confidence, though a glimmer of hope shone in my eyes:
“I have a classmate, Salim, our neighbor’s son. He invited me a couple of days ago to work with him. The job is rewarding, and the pay would cover all my personal expenses for an entire year, including my school needs.”
Excitement flickered across my father’s face. He leaned forward, eager, almost breathless:
“And what kind of work is this? And who exactly is this classmate?”
I answered simply, clearly:
“My classmate is Salim—you know him well. The work is in a construction workshop, as a concrete laborer.”
The room fell silent for a moment. Then my father furrowed his brow, and a shadow of concern crept into his voice:
“A concrete laborer? Numan… that work is grueling. It demands great physical strength, endurance under the sun, and handling the sting of iron. No… I don’t think it is suitable for you!”
I met his gaze with steady eyes and spoke with quiet insistence, threaded with hope:
“Let me try. If I find that I cannot continue, I will leave it. But for now, I see no other work that can secure my studies as this one can.”
Muna said nothing, yet her face revealed a watchful mix of admiration and puzzlement. She turned to her father, her eyes silently questioning:
“Would you have stopped him if he were your own son?”
He did not answer, but simply fixed Numan with a deep gaze, as if seeing a boy striving to become a man before his time. “After a quiet discussion, hearts quietly aligned in understanding, we reached an unspoken agreement more than a spoken one. There were no grand promises, only exchanged glances carrying consent and quiet satisfaction.
With the first light of dawn the next day, I had already begun my work.
The labor was harsh… yes, harsh for a boy barely free from the remnants of childhood. Yet, for reasons I still cannot fully understand, I decided to keep its bitterness to myself. No complaints, no sighs, no hints. Every evening, I returned home, washed the dust of iron and sweat from my body, and recorded my earnings in a small notebook under my mother’s watchful eye.
Mother hid the money in a secret corner of our single room, the one grandfather had granted us, as if it were a small piece of hope amid life’s constriction. Between her and me, a silent pact existed: she would hide, and I would gather… as if together we were weaving a warm cloak to wrap ourselves in on the first days of school.”
Numan paused for a moment, as though recalling a scene from an old film, then continued in a softer, more tender tone:
“One evening, I looked at my mother’s face, weary from the day, and gently said to her:
‘Mother, do you need anything? I have enough for the coming school year, and I can forgo next month’s wages for you.’
Muna spoke then, her eyes shimmering with gentle astonishment:
‘You thought this way at that age? That’s too much for such a young boy…’
Her father smiled and nodded in agreement:
‘In houses like these, boys grow up fast, Muna… Dreaming alone is not enough; toil must pave the way.’
Numan continued:
‘Mother smiled, a smile like rain falling softly on a thirsty branch, then brought the money and counted it before me.’”
I watched her, and noticed the amount was less than I had recorded. I didn’t utter a single word, yet she caught the hesitation in my eyes and asked softly, in a voice free of any accusation:
“Did you take something without telling me?”
I waved my hand in denial and replied,
“I would never do that, and I don’t even know where you hide it.”
Her features shifted suddenly. She sank into a heavy silence, and then tears began to fall—silent tears, as if they were descending inside me rather than on her face.
I stepped closer, gently wiped her tears with my trembling hand, and said with deep earnestness,
“By God, Mother, do not burden your heart beyond its strength! All the wealth in the world is not worth a single tear from your eyes!”
Muna lowered her head in silence, touched by the words, and murmured,
“Do you bear all of this alone?”
The next day, I finished my work early and went to the market, searching for something that could ease my mother’s heart, something to honor the labor we shared.
I bought a small iron box with a sturdy lock. Returning home to an empty house, I hurried to the backyard, bringing a ladder, a small digging tool, and a container.
I closed the door behind me, leaned my younger siblings’ small cabinet against it, then placed the ladder beneath the high opening in the southern wall—the very spot where sunlight streamed in like a golden thread suspended from the sky.
I climbed up and dug a hole just the right size for the box in the window’s floor, then placed the money inside, wrapped in cloth and soft leather, and carefully filled the hole back in.
I returned everything to its place, descended quietly, bathed, changed into my pajamas, and sat at the table, waiting for my mother and siblings to come home.
When they returned, I looked at her with eyes full of trust and gratitude, handed her the key to the box, and kept the other.
I spoke as if presenting a cherished gift:
“That way, if you ever need money while I’m away, you can find it without borrowing from anyone.”
She looked at me for a long moment, then whispered—without a word leaving her lips, only a single murmur in her eyes: “May God be pleased with you, my son…”
I continued my middle school studies with unwavering determination, as if a quiet, eternal fire burned within me. I passed seventh and eighth grade without losing an ounce of my passion, balancing school notebooks, reading books, and the toil of summer work that served as a bridge toward some measure of independence.
That summer work, harsh as it was, coursed through my veins like lifeblood, helping me pursue my dreams and granting me a measure of self-respect. I did not stretch my hand to anyone; I extended my heart to what I loved.
When the summer of ninth grade arrived—the summer I prepared for my proficiency certificate—a strange feeling stirred in me… something like premature maturity, or perhaps the desire to prove to myself that I could choose.
It was then that I agreed with a fellow apprentice in the workshop to leave working as laborers under someone else’s hand and take on projects for ourselves. We formed a simple, verbal partnership, sharing our earnings equally: the effort was ours, the livelihood was God’s.
Muna said, her eyes glinting with admiration:
“And did you trust him? I mean… partnerships aren’t always successful!”
I smiled and nodded.
“It was a matter of our word, Muna, and that, my dear, was stronger than any contract.”
Numan continued,
“Three summers went by, and we worked this way. We toiled and sweated, sharing the fatigue as we shared the dream… a dream that felt like a warm loaf of bread, which we bit into together, so that neither of us felt hunger alone.
But after I passed the baccalaureate, something inside me asked for a pause. It wasn’t just my body crying for rest; even my mind demanded a small reprieve.
That’s when I decided to prepare myself for the next stage: university. So I left the blacksmithing trade—the one that had painted my days with the glow of iron and the blaze of the sun, leaving marks on my hands that would never fade.
Luckily, I had saved enough. I quietly readied myself, just as roots probe the earth before a tree blooms. I bought my university books, everything I would need for all my years of study, without having to endure the summer labor again.”
Mr. Ahmed interrupted, a subtle surprise in his tone:
“Wait a minute… you said your father was extremely poor, right? But I heard that your grandfather, your father’s father, was very wealthy… and you all lived together in one house? Your grandfather’s house? How come he couldn’t cover your expenses, or at least your tuition?”
Numan smiled, a smile that seemed to rise from a distant corner of his heart, and said,
“That’s a fair question, Uncle Ahmed… but the truth rarely fits in a single line. Yes, my grandfather was rich, and the house was his. We lived in a small wing of it. But my father… he was a different kind of man. He didn’t like to burden anyone, not even his own father. And perhaps—something I realized later—they didn’t fully see eye to eye. My father chose to be honorably poor rather than humbly rich… and I respected that choice, even when it hurt me.”
A brief silence settled, as if the words themselves sensed the weight of meaning. Then Muna spoke softly, almost a whisper:
“I think I understand better now… a dream, when told like this, stops being just an idea. It becomes a person we love.”
Numan spoke, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the present, as if he were summoning a memory that had cloaked itself over the moment:
“Yes… you are right. But let me tell you another story… one that begins at the very threshold of consciousness, when life first started opening its eyes within me.”
He leaned back in his chair, his voice drifting closer to storytelling than mere speech:
“It was the sweltering noon of a distant summer… My mother led me into the bathroom, washing me with a tenderness that dripped from her every motion. She rubbed my small body with water and soap, yet the white foam, as it slipped over my face, stung my eyes—and I let out a piercing cry, a cry of raw pain.”
“My mother hurried,” he continued, “her trembling hands brushing my face with gentle urgency, kissing me as if she could erase the sting with her lips.”
Muna’s eyes glimmered with intensity:
“My God… nothing compares to a mother’s touch when the pain is in the eyes!”
Numan smiled, resuming his tale:
“After the bath, she dressed me in summer clothes she had chosen with care, as though painting me with soft strokes of color. Shorts, colored like the blossoms of a small tree by our kitchen door, held up by slender suspenders and a belt matching the leaves. My shirt was adorned with tiny summer buttons, some hiding a broad, pale tie, as if my mother had placed a flower on the dining room window.”
Muna’s father chuckled briefly:
“By God, I can see her now! Your mother was a painter with fabrics!”
Numan nodded in agreement:
“She was a painter of love. Even the shoes… light, short-legged, with two small knots on the sides, completing an ensemble that did not just resemble a child, but the morning itself, laughing.”
Then he drew a slow breath and returned to his story:
“She poured a few drops of light perfume from a small bottle onto her palms, then ran them through my hair and over my clothes. I sneezed repeatedly, and she laughed, wiping my face with a soft cloth she had prepared in advance.”
Muna said lightly:
“Clearly, you were a pampered child, Numan!”
He smiled and replied:
“In my mother’s arms, the whole world seemed to indulge me.” He continued:
“Then she carried me to the front door and spoke in a voice soaked with tenderness:
‘Sit here, and wait a little… the one your father sent will come to take you to him.’
I sat on a small wooden chair, carefully placed by my mother in front of the door, while she watched me through it with eyes tinged with expectation… eyes that remain in my memory, as if they never closed at all.
It wasn’t many minutes before my father’s ‘long’ car stopped in front of me, the one I had always imagined as a ship out of a dream. The driver stepped out lightly, smiling as he said:
‘My little teacher… Numan, in my care.’
He lifted me into his arms and placed me in a special seat my father had prepared for me inside the car, as if he knew I would fall asleep in just a few moments.”
Muna’s father chuckled:
“Clearly, your father made sure your place was ready even down to the details of the car!”
Numan laughed and said:
“He always considered me the single point of light in the middle of his long day.”
The car glided smoothly along the road, and I soon surrendered to sleep. When I awoke, I found myself cradled in my father’s arms, his hand dampened with a touch of water, gently brushing my face, teasing me as if I were his little treasure.
“My father’s shop stood in the heart of the city, on Jalaa Street, facing the Grand Mosque. A spacious place, teeming with life and motion. I saw workers unloading huge wooden crates from a long delivery truck, arranging them neatly along the right-hand wall.
Inside… rows of tools and sewing and embroidery machines of all sizes, each proudly bearing the same name engraved on its frame. As if they were calling out: ‘This place is ours… and this boy will become someone important one day.’”
Numan’s voice took on a hue of quiet joy, as though he were drawing back a curtain to reveal a scene etched in memory:
“I remember that moment perfectly… when my father set me on a small wooden chair and lifted me onto the surface of his large desk. The chair wobbled under my thin frame, as if it did not yet know how to carry me.”
Muna smiled, leaning slightly toward him, as if she were rearranging the scene in her mind:
“He sat you on the desk?! As if he wanted you to be a little partner from the very beginning.”
Numan nodded in agreement:
“Perhaps he saw in me an extension of his dream. In front of me lay a black rotary phone, which to my eyes then seemed a magical device, humming with an obscure sound. Next to it, a massive iron safe, almost like a creature from a story… it seemed a box of secrets that only my father’s eyes could unlock.”
Muna’s father nodded thoughtfully:
“In big safes, small dreams sometimes find their home.”
Numan continued, his gaze fixed on some point on the wall, as if he were rereading time upon his own face:
“To the left of the desk, there was a smaller desk, littered with scattered papers and worn notebooks. Behind it sat a man, my father’s age, absorbed in writing numbers on fragile pages, turning them carefully, as if rearranging his own memory.”
“Between the two desks,” Numan added, “ran a narrow passage, allowing movement to flow silently. My father’s car was parked along the curb outside, stately, rigid, as if it were watching him too.”
Muna whispered, leaning closer:
“It’s as if everything in the store was waiting for him—even the inanimate things…”
Numan smiled softly, his voice calm:
“I watched him move lightly, exchanging quick words with the workers, sharing fleeting signals with the man beside him, making calls through that old rotary phone.”
“I followed him with my eyes, tracking his every gesture, pointing from time to time toward the car, hoping he would notice me and take me along… but his focus was overwhelming, relentless, and soon I drifted into sleep again.”
“When I woke,” he continued, “I found myself in my mother’s arms, held close to her chest as she carried me through a dark hallway toward my bed, into a quiet, dim room, imbued with the scent of her old reassurance.”
A moment of silence fell among the three, before Muna’s father said:
“How beautiful it is that small moments of absence… can open the door to unforgettable memory.”
Numan nodded, then added:
“And one day, a simple young man came, carrying me in his arms through narrow alleys, whispering words my ears had never heard—some resembling the call to prayer, some like a folk song unknown.”
Muna laughed softly:
“Was this your first encounter with the alleys?”
He answered her:
“First encounters with childhood are like being thrown into a reality you have not yet known.” He turned toward her, continuing:
“We reached a small shop. My father stood there, beside a tall chair where a man sat before a wide mirror. In my father’s hand were scissors and a comb, while other men sat on wooden chairs, waiting their turn.”
Muna’s father said in surprise:
“Was your father a barber or a merchant?!”
Numan shook his head, smiling:
“He was everything. A merchant, a barber, a craftsman… not for anything, except so I would never need anyone when I grew up.”
“He placed me on a small chair beside a humble table, on which sat an old rotary phone, an antique kerosene stove, two teapots, and a tray crowded with glass cups.”
“Conversations spun softly in the room, mingling with quiet laughter and a dense silence, as if everyone carried secrets beneath their shirts.”
“And the moment my father finished cutting a customer’s hair, the young man would rush to him, waving a small brush, and say in the voice the place had grown accustomed to:
‘Naeeman, sir!’
Then he would sweep the floor of every clipped hair.”
“And the customer, as soon as he donned his jacket, would reach into his pocket, draw out a small coin, place it in my father’s hand, and then hand another to the hardworking young man.”
Muna asked, her voice touched with wonder:
“Did you feel pride? Or something strange?”
Numan whispered:
” I felt that I belonged… to a shop, to a pair of scissors, to a man who was crafting a small glory for me, without asking whether I understood.”
The room fell silent for a moment, as if preparing to cross into another state.
Numan’s words carried a kind of dust, the kind that does not easily settle, but leaves an indelible mark upon the soul.
Muna’s father turned to him, his eyes gleaming with a mysterious spark, as though a thought had begun to take shape.
He spoke quietly, a note of caution in his voice:
” Numan… do you remember the man who sat behind the other desk? The one you said recorded and sorted the papers?”
Numan hesitated for a moment, then said:
” Yes, I know him well! It’s (—–). I didn’t understand who he was at the time, but he spoke often with my father about the accounts.”
The father’s lips curved slightly, as if he had found the last piece of a scattered puzzle. He said slowly, turning his words to his daughter:
” I thought so… everything fits. The name, the role, even the way he disappears.”
Muna blinked, startled:
” What do you mean, Father?”
He straightened in his seat, placing his hand on the edge of the table before him, as if preparing to reveal a secret long kept locked in his chest.
” I mean, Numan’s father was never a barber to begin with. He was one of the leading merchants of the town years ago… His shop on Jalaa Street, in Douma, was among the most renowned for household goods, and he had dealings with the company I worked for when I was young in Beirut. I dealt with him… yes, I remember it well… I used to provide him with large transport vehicles to carry his goods from Beirut to Syria.”
He turned to Numan, then lowered his voice, as if sharing a shadowed truth:
” And the accountant you mentioned… (—–)… he was one of the most notorious for theft and fraud. The man vanished from the country suddenly at the end of the fifties, and with him disappeared entire accounts that neither the courts nor the security forces could ever trace.”
Muna gasped:
” You swear it’s him?!”
Her father nodded firmly:
” Without a doubt. What I heard from Numan, over our recent sessions, allowed me to connect the dots. I listened without interruption, keeping every detail in mind, until the picture was complete today.”
He looked at Numan with eyes full of both admiration and sorrow, and said:
” Your father, my son, did not fall because he failed, but because he was stabbed by those he trusted most. Were it not for the betrayal of that accountant, he would have remained at the helm of his business. But he lost everything in a single moment: his capital, his trust, his accounts… transformed from creditor to debtor.”
He paused for a moment, then added, in a deeper tone:
” And when the banks pursued him, he did not flee… he chose to stay, repaying his debt coin by coin. He went on buying back his dignity with a barber’s scissors and a small comb.”
Numan lowered his head, his eyes fighting back a burning tear, unsure whether it was pride or sorrow that stung his heart.
Muna whispered, her voice tinged with tenderness:
” Father… why didn’t you tell us before?”
He answered her, smiling with a trace of sorrow:
” Because I wasn’t certain. But now I know. I know that we are sitting with the son of a man who built, with his own hands, a ladder to rise above his wounds. He did not wail, he did not complain, but chose to begin again, silently, as grown men do when they are broken yet undefeated.”
He reached out to Numan, placing his hand on his shoulder with deep affection:
” He hid much from you, my son, not out of fear, but so that you would not carry what you were not yet meant to bear.”
Numan’s lips trembled, and he said nothing… silence spoke louder than words.
As for Muna, she looked at her father and then at Numan with a gaze transformed, a mixture of wonder, reverence… and something else without a name, yet as clear as the morning light in her eyes.
Wanting to restore the pulse of the moment, Muna smiled softly at Numan and said:
” Continue, Numan… perhaps speaking will ease the shock.”
Numan breathed slowly, as if retrieving something distant and precious, then spoke in a voice that seemed to listen to his own heart:
” One new summer, I began slipping out to the back door, hiding from my mother, waiting for someone to take my hand, to lead me to my father.
And when the wait grew long, and no one came… I would creep out alone, stepping hesitantly, as if walking through a lost dream.”
He bowed his head for a moment, then continued, his eyes glistening:
“Under the searing heat, I leaned against a large stone in front of the door of one of my mother’s relatives. The stone was not strange, nor the door. I had accompanied her there once, on a brief visit, and I recall little of it except her face, laughing with the women in the courtyard.
Sleep would overcome me from sheer exhaustion, and I would doze atop that stone, unaware of how much time had passed… until a warm hand gently woke me. It was the same woman, who took me in, led me inside, and laid me on a couch under the shade of a towering fig tree, its branches stretching across the yard.”
Here, Muna spoke, her voice soft with unmistakable compassion:
” So you were poor then, yet you describe poverty as if it were a beautiful dream.”
Numan gave a faint smile, then said:
” I did not know! Did I not know what poverty meant… or whether we were poor at all? But we were not defeated.”
Muna’s father looked at his daughter with silent admiration, as if reading in Numan’s words something that went beyond the story itself.
Numan went on:
” I would sleep there for long hours, then open my eyes as if I had never left our home. Everything looked familiar, except my father was not there…
And on a cold evening, at the close of the autumn that followed that summer, I had just turned four. A large truck arrived, carrying my bed, our household furniture—even the kitchen utensils were not left behind.
My father rode beside the driver, holding my mother, my little sister, and my infant brother, barely opening his eyes. They wanted me to sit with them in the front seat, but I insisted on staying in the back, beside my bed.”
At this, Muna’s father furrowed his brows slightly and asked:
” You refused to be close to them?”
Numan shook his head and said:
” I just wanted to stay where I could find myself… within my little things, in a world I knew.”
He added in a low voice:
” My father wrapped me in a thick quilt, fearing the night’s cold. I rested my head on my small pillow and dozed to the groan of the shaking car.
And when I awoke at the first streaks of dawn, we were all asleep in a room unfamiliar to my eyes and my soul.
I hesitated to leave my bed, thinking I must be dreaming. I reached for my sister, waking her in a whisper:
‘ Where are we?’ ”
She murmured drowsily:
” No… feed…”
And fell back asleep.
I realized everyone was here… and my heart eased. I stayed under my quilt, watching my mother as she woke and began arranging the scattered furniture.
I called to her softly:
” Mom, should I help you with something?”
She turned to me, exhaling a long sigh, and said:
” You won’t be able to do anything until our new home is ready!”
I looked around, filled with confusion:
” You mean this ramshackle house… will be our home!?”
She gave a faint smile and replied firmly:
” No, it is our new home… so don’t talk so much, and go back to sleep!”
A brief silence fell, as if the walls themselves were listening.
Muna spoke in a low voice, looking at her father:
” Imagine, Dad… that a person begins his journey atop a stone, and then suddenly wakes up in a house he does not know.”
Her father whispered, as if speaking to himself:
” It is not the houses that are lost, my daughter… but a person’s certainty of his place in the world.”