ادبيات د. عبدالله الطيب

Less than a Goodbye

المزيد

- When are you going to stop fighting with the boys in school? I see new cuts and bruises on your body and your face everyday.

المزيد

بحر الرمل إحدى قصص الأديبة الأماراتية المبدعة فاطمة الناهض

 A Sea of Sand

 Written by : Fatima Al Nahidh
Translated by : Dr. Abdallah Altaiyeb 

We disregard; I emphasized every syllable of the word. Times change, we change, grow up, and start looking the other way to stay alive. But he said one sentence only, while staring at the horizon stretching endlessly before him; if only those who said this would experience what I had been through

It hadn’t been easy for me to know, in those moments whenever we reached that edge, the sun would drown in a well of darkness, and we would part with heartache. But I could swear that we, as creatures blended with myriad lusts, tended to forget our traumas so we could go on. Our enemy, the time, deliberately awarded us one motive after another to jostle forward with our pains and broken dreams on the road to the terra incognita of oblivion, only to lose them there and go back to perhaps resume the same sins and harvest desire and agony

It was neither a confession session nor a sudden strike of transparency, let a lone a planned one. We just walked and let our feet take us towards calmness, and silence walked kindly between us like a mutual friend

He stopped for a while as if trying to ascertain the place, so I stopped as well. He then marched on, and I walked next to him and the silence

There was nothing but sands across the land. They rose a bit to form a dune, rose more to look like a hill, rose more and more to perhaps become a mountain, but then went flat like a sea spreading mercilessly, and then leveled some more like an infertile dry valley

There were only sands, and nothing else!

The astronomical moon seemed extremely close, much like a shield ornamenting a wall, sprinkling glistening silver on the peaks, and leaving us in a peaceful unknown

We shall have a rest on top of that dune; he clarified when we got closer to a sand dune about fifty steps away. I sensed that he said so because I had started panting with the effort of disentangling my bare feet from the softness of the sands with each step. I felt my back stoop a little as the walk upward towards the dune got steeper, as if the desert had been tilting

We walked a distance immeasurable with any decimal system ever since we left the camp an hour ago, going silently most of the time through silken sands, content merely with the company of each other

When we finally reached the top of the dune, we emerged onto a large open area of green meadow, with grass springing from the sands and extending to an end unknown to us. I screamed childishly: O God, why didn’t we camp here; my God where did this grassland come from? Is this your secret hideout

We sat down, silence along with everything before us bathed in an ocean of silver. He was looking at the far horizon, my hands were playing with the soft and juicy grass, not believing it was filling the spaces between my fingers, caressing it, touching the little flowers that glowed with sweet dew under the moonlight, forming circles, stars, lines, letters, and unlinked points

Then, like reading from a book, he said

 We cannot continue looking the other way. Our pasts don’t die; we are prisoners behind no bars, we foolishly think we left them behind, but they rise in their due time, to announce their barbaric presence

  My hand was still holding on to the coolness that was slowly slipping through my fingers; he was not waiting for a reply, and continued reading

That stormy night, they put us in the prison bus after covering our heads with sacks. I cannot remember how long we traveled, but it sure was a long drive, the only sound we heard was that of the squeaking joints of the bus. Sometimes we heard the sound of air ripped by a car speeding like an arrow, and every so often a coughing sound from the end of the bus broke our anxiety. We finally stopped, they got us down, uncovered our heads, and we found ourselves on sands like these

He held his arm high with a handful of sand from the heart of the grass and started slowly scattering it in the wind away from my face. He then took a deep breath

We didn’t know that there was another truck behind us, they brought from it excavating tools, piled them in front of us, and told us to get to work

Our hearts were gripped with terror. The first thing we thought, while digging under the threats of the loaded guns and the slowly growing sandstorm that had been stroking our spines, was that they were going to bury us in mass graves dug by our own hands. They didn’t talk much; they were just prompting us to dig faster, but we stalled fearfully for more time to live, and slowed down the digging

We consumed about all the time we could stall for; after all how much time do you need to dig a hole your size, and in a sandy area? We were around fifteen prisoners but they asked each of us to dig two holes

Our hearts were roaring violently, and maybe their tumult reached climax as we stood in front of our open holes waiting for orders. Some of us struggled to keep standing straight, with knees knocking in fear, before destiny gave us a break; each one of us was ordered to bring a corpse from the truck and bury it in a hole. Just then, we realized that the covered truck was carrying a load of dead people too

We walked to the truck with steps heavy like iron. Each one carried a corpse on his shoulder, headed towards his two holes, buried it hurriedly, and ran again to the truck to bring another one. I guess we were just afraid they would change their minds and ask us to jump into our second holes

We couldn’t believe when we finally got back on the bus that we had actually survived, just like that. We didn’t talk on our way back but when we reached our cells, the dawn was approaching, so we just collapsed on our bunks from tiredness and restlessness. Those of us who had dozed all through the journey continued the rest of their nightmares till sunrise

For seven nights and in the same manner, we labored in burying countless corpses. By then, we had known the exact location by calculating the distance, but we had become like machines that failed to recognize their own parts. It didn’t matter much, because we had lost forever our humanity along with our dreams

I buried fourteen people, dug their graves with my own hands, and carried them on my weary shoulders. I laid them in small holes and large holes all the same, and covered them with sands. I still could feel their smell in my lungs. Some of them were lightweight and petit, some had fresh wounds, and some had broken jaws or limbs; one of them dropped one of his eyes on my hand

In many instances, our shovels hit corpses that we had previously buried because we were so disoriented from stress. Many times, we found the graves and the corpses uncovered by the blows of the passing winds and we had to rebury them again. Sometimes the dead were actually not completely dead

He suddenly stood up and looked far away, as if to seek refuge in the stretching horizon

The dead used to visit me in the night, looking the same way they did when I buried them, and ask me, why? And honestly, all I could remember was fourteen corpses; after that I got mixed up and could not distinguish between what was real and what was mere optical hallucination. After the fourteenth corpse, whenever they got us out of the bus, we would see a large area of corpses thrown out of their graves, waiting for us, as if the sand sea spat them out to float on its waves again

Illness then rescued me from the burying rituals. I was admitted to the prison hospital for a long time before they eventually pardoned a group of us old prisoners, those whose opinions were a threat to no one any more, not even to stray animals. We were finally free of our obsession of being buried half-alive by our friends one day

I saw him clearly in the moonligh

المزيد

الغراب قصة إنسانية من قصص الرائع الكاتب الكبير عواض شاهر

 أشكر الأديب عواض على نصه المتميز

The Crow

Written by: Awaadh Shaher

Translated by: Dr. Abdallah Altaiyeb

The fragile virginity of the place trembled before me. The sky had frail blue ends, and the sun was awesomely naked. A wooden pole, with a lone crow announcing its presence on top, was determined to stay but with an undecided mission in the middle of the desert, after they had removed the electrical wire holders and fixed them on an enormous steel tower, newly erected on a road that traveled far.  It had resolved to stand tall with its dark color and cylindrical body, as it had been doing for ages, diligently carrying the wires.  So, why couldn’t it simply stay a bit more for a lone crow that possessed nothing but its raucous sound    

I shifted my sight deliberately from one pole to another in the heart of the desert, while the crow echoed its caws solemnly.  I took a deep breath, for I was not annoyed of its presence around me.  Quite the contrary, a feeling of joy made me listen to the beat of life in its cries, echoing naturally in the place. Its petit body gave the pole a jet black pointed head.  Every time it raised its head to bestow an everlasting greeting upon the place, ancient shadows of a nomadic nation that dwelled once upon a time in the wedges of the sands, hunting fresh lightning as an offering for the commanding door, moved on things. Ages with unbroken flashes of lightning passed by the sky, and yet other ages marched on while the barefooted nomads waited daily for the clouds.  Generations died and left their spines for the grinding teeth of stones and the remains of the ancestors, who showed up in dreams with their exposed skulls pouring ashes

Black and clammy winds carried the news.  The Door had abandoned the lightning flashes and the desert, and instead started building houses in so many cities that only welcomed whomever it invited.  It shaved its matted beard and fixed its moustache.  It donned its very precious turban and married many women of different breeds and lands.  It learned the languages of nations and sent its children, in a crusade for knowledge, to the lands of Christians

They all came back home, eyes looking down.  Their heads were consumed with thoughts they could not describe, let alone get rid of. They felt defeated, and inside their ragged houses they stayed awhile nurturing their skeletons and weeping all along. They felt deceived by the sand; the very one they devoted their lives for its cause over the ages.  Its overwhelmingly silky touch on hands puzzled them, and its discontent with their old habit of digging water out of its guts discomforted them. The sand had become domesticated, but only like quern stones in times of hunger. And while the Door had forged a deal with a foreign wind to carry him along with the smell of homes and the seeds of their fertile plants, the desert contracted the fever of infectious water, where hallucination was the sole gate to madness and death on long roads

The crow’s caw came out softly like smoke from ruins. Then, with its freshly sharpened voice, it began mercilessly slashing the innocence of whatever stood in its way, causing the faces to revert back to their origin, to the first set of eyes that feasted on them the very first time.  And when the place lost its identity and things looked quite the opposite of what they were, the soft lines on the sand’s facade quivered.  The sand deserted its serenity, giving rise to dust and burnt papers that flew around with a native wind that was murmuring unexpectedly in the place

Terrified, I was looking at the charred relics of ancient creatures surfacing out of the folds of the volatile sand that was flying with the wind. I was wondering why it didn’t rain instead of this branched lightning that burned everything. Only the wooden poles survived the flashes. Yet, there they were, standing in the desert helplessly and vainly, just like me; exactly like me, except for the crow which at that particular moment landed on my head and indulged in cawing

From the book “Not a Trace” by the same author, 2007

الغراب

 قصة الأديب عواض شاهر

المكان، ترتجف بيني وبينه عذرية هشة. سماؤه مفككة الزرقة من الأطراف، وشمسه فاضحة الضوء. ..العمود الخشبي الذي وقف على رأسه الغراب، كان سيقف على أي حال بلا مهمة محددة، في قلب الصحراء، بعد إذ نزعوا من رأسه حوامل الكيبل الكهربائي وثبتوها في برج حديدي ضخم يمر بمسار بعيد. كان سيقف العمود بلونه الداكن وشكله الأسطواني كما وقف لعقود طويلة ممسكاً بالتيار، بلا كلل. إذاً، ما الذي يمنعه أن يقف هذه المرة لغراب وحيد ليس معه سوى النعيق؟في تتابع مقصود، نقلت بصري من عمود إلى آخر في عمق الصحراء، فيما كان الغراب يردد صوته في خشوع الطيور.

المزيد

نص سلوى المتحف عميق بانسانيته ، وتفوقه في القص بلوحة فنان اسطوري.
فيصل أبو سعد ، وقد تعودنا على خفة دمه ، كان صادما في تصويره لبطلة النص الحالمة بحب يبدو مستحيلا من الحرف الأول .

أرجو أن تنال الترجمة القرب من النص الأصلي البديع ، وقلب القارئ.
ولن يفوتني شكر الأديب فيصل على متعة العيش داخل النص.

The Museum Girl

Written By:  Faisal Abu Saad
Translated By:  Dr. Abdallah Altaiyeb

Heading towards the Grand Museum, Salwa was crossing the street, holding on to a brilliant hope for a job as a tour guide.  She had just earned a degree in Foreign Languages from the National University, but the words of all the languages she had learned seemed to vanish, like bubbles touching the land of reality

There, just few meters away from the museum, a tall handsome tourist appeared in her sight, a dream that had lost its way home.  He was beaming like a sun, and she too was beautiful like a fairytale; it seemed that, together, they portrayed what looked like the masterpiece of a legendary painter

He asked her, in broken Arabic that sounded like the first words of a joyful child, to show him the way to the Museum.  Captivated by his spell, and swept off her feet by his charm, she told him she was going in the same direction.  She thanked her degree that had come in handy as she hastened to add that he needed not to struggle with words, she could fluently speak his native language!

And they walked together

Jonathan, who made heads turn in awe, in every country he toured, with his natural elegance, streaming blonde hair like ribbons of gold, and superior culture, had stunned her, and she wrote in her diary that day

I think God is still on my side

She carried the same first name with two of her cousins, and shared with them the same family name, and a similar fate.  She would later be known as Salwa of the Museum, just to tell her apart from her cousins, for, simply, it would not be appropriate to call her limping Salwa.  She distanced herself from those around her when she realized that there were people living freely as they pleased in this strange world.  Despite her astonishingly beautiful eyes and classic features, so many others wished for, all they could see was her slight limp
 
Jonathan was the only one who looked into her eyes, and did not seem to notice or wonder much about her short leg.  He did not care if it was polio or an old accident; he showed no sympathy, and certainly no displeasure.  He just walked with her like two old friends, reliving shared memories, and minding their sprouting moment

That day, it was only reasonable for her to write atop a fresh page in her diary: is my dream finally coming alive

In college, Salwa was an accomplished student, and languages came easy to her.  She answered those critical about her passion for languages, that a new language gives a person a new life.   She was very talkative, but her eyes were always fixed on a point somewhere, visible to no one but her, looking beyond the seen, and dreaming

After years in college and meeting different people, it was not likely for her to marry her Libyan cousin, the knight on a chronically disabled white horse.  Nor could she settle for her military cousin, although she liked him, for the smell of his uniform reminded her of the associated backwardness.  And definitely, she could not revive old friendships with her male colleagues from school time; afte

المزيد

A Luminous Woman

 Written by Sharif Saleh

Translated by Dr. Abdallah Altaiyeb

There was a silvery light, from an unknown source, in the room, along with a woman, freckled and lonely.  She was tightening her eyes, so it was not possible to tell their color, but probably they had a silver shine to them, matching that of the lonely light.  A lonesome window was closed in the face of the room, and a clock was ticking from somewhere, with a perpetual monotony, tick … tick … tick

She had been standing there in the room for a while.  Then, she decided to take off her black velvet jacket, revealing a blouse of a blended green and yellow color, crowned with a large collar.  She took it off too, and looked somewhat taller in her high heal shoes and slender legs.  Her body was still great, despite the grey strands of hair above her ears 

She opened the window, and the lonely light was quick to change its color, just as the air in the room was trading its smell with the wind outside

Was I late for you, darling

As if talking to someone in the room, she asked, and then started wandering around, disturbing the fragile peace forged between the thin layers of dust and the room furniture.  Whether lying in the open atop the commode or hiding behind the desk, she knew where to find them     

Fetching wilted flowers from under the bed in the corner, she murmured

He used to love these flowers

While still on her knees, she cast them away to the wastebasket.   Standing slowly, holding on to the bed frame for support, she glanced at his stretched body and, on the spur of the moment, leaned forward and kissed his forehead, which was cold as ice.  However, just for a second in the frail light, she thought he blinked his eyes

He kept his eyes closed while she was pulling his body to the bathroom.  He was heavy, but she maintained her h

المزيد

Don’t Leave The Door Open… Please

Written By: Wafa Altayeb

Translated by : Dr. Abdallah Altaiyeb

My husband left without closing the armoire door after changing his clothes.  He knew how I hated for our maid to see me scattered all over my bed and in my sleep. Carelessly and as usual, he left the door of the apartment open.  He did not close the door behind him when he got in either 

Despite my frequent warnings not to leave the door open at night, he always counterargued by saying

Don’t worry, we are in the eighth floor, and the apartment next to us is vacant; and besides, the doorman would not allow strangers in

My heart was restless as I forgot my keys inside the apartment this time. It was already past 1 AM and I was on my way to my apartment with my friend, Um Ahmad, and her husband as I had prearranged with her to give me a lift at the conclusion of the soiree.   I got out of the car while still in full makeup.  The doorman opened the door of the house and I climbed the stairs.  I knew that the elevator would be out of service by force of habit.  But what if my husband did not leave the door open?  No…this time he would intentionally leave it open, because he knew I was outside and I would return at 1 AM

Regrettably, the door was not open, I would have to wake him up and ring the door bill

Actually, I was not sure how many hours passed while I was still at the door.  A white light was sneaking through the roof’s door.  The doorman was clearing his throat while starting to collect the garbage.  This assured me that it was day, while the door was still closed

لا تترك الباب مفتوحا

وفاء الطيب

لم يغلق زوجي خزانة الثياب بعد أن بدل ثيابه و خرج ، ترك باب غرفة نومنا مفتوحا كالعادة ، يعرف كم أكره أن تراني شغالتي مبعثرة و

المزيد

Dominos

Written by: Ebtesam Trisy

Translated by: Dr. Abdallah Altaiyeb

I had just carefully placed another brick in the structure with precision.  And in the company of a smile on my face for the path it was paving in the matrix of my life, I collectedly started writing

The smell of burning under my skin was overwhelming me but I ignored the smell and recomposed the final draft of my opening article for The Morning newspaper.  Springing out of their lines, my words were streaming towards a dark horizon, mocking my feelings, and overpowering me with their cruelty

(I need to show the importance of the existence of women and their effective role in shaping history

My father used to tell me

It is natural that you get more than what your brother gets; for being a woman, you are deprived of many privileges

Like a rusted metal, my brother’s strong hand encircled the long locks of hair

I will root it out so you may not look all pretty for an outing.

The hairs that had remained rapped around his fingers were still scarifying my neck and slashing my throat.   The cold water had turned into piercing thorns and my voice became a whimper. My father’s hand rushed from a far past, chasing away the violence … with care blended with another abuse

Damn you… it is not mannish that you beat a woman

He was saying the truth, though!  Truth is sometimes devastating.  My father himself, the devoted lawman and journalist who swamped the world with articles about women and their rights and roles in the society, looked at me with affection and anxiety when I had finished high school

You have had enough of education.

He flooded me with books, opened up his library for me, but locked me up in the house.  I was enchained to his kindliness and handcuffed to his tenderness.  He bought me a car before he bought one for my brother.  I felt I was handicapped, needing others to stand up and move away from the wheelchair of helplessness

(I will first write about the independence of women and how they enjoy natural intelligence qualifying them to live in the society independently of men

When my marriage had set me free of the influence of my father, I started designing my life in a stunningly organized way and engineering my existence the same way I had been living it in my dreams.  I must confess; I had been taking advantage of my husband who submitted to my wishes and did not interfere in my life.  I did not even feel his presence around

The death of my father had ended his reign, but only freed me to face the scarecrow that was persistently sharing my breaths, and I sighed; what pain I was going through

(Motherhood has got to have a role in shaping the society in an ideal and perfect manner.  Why don’t I start discussing this subject

While my daughter was still trembling with fever, bleeding, and grieving over her stillborn baby, his iron fist slapped the table, shattering the glass, and insisting

I will not divorce her.  Let’s see what you can do about that

She ran to me like the petted lass she was with her long tresses. She was on my lap, crying through her streaming tears

I don’t want him, ma; please divorce me from him and get him away from me

She was back on my lap, a little tot, but I was not able to breastfeed her.  My breasts had gone dry and my love was lost in a heap of ash. The pale but gloating eyes of my husband were starring at my perplexity.   Well… what was I going to do?  It was I who went after the bridegroom; the rich spoiled brat

Every time she faced a problem, she came rushing to my womb seeking warmth, safety, and relaxation.  This time, I was helpless.  How could I get her a divorce

(My lecture will be about the strongly bonded family

My eyes were fiery with tears, as I was pushing through crowds and nightmares to rush my son to the hospital. I had washed my face off of his ashes.  How could I forget the gloomy face of the doctor pulling me aside

You should have brought him earlier.  His addiction is way beyond treatment

I fell down on the white clean floor.  I wondered if I still had courage and well to continue building a structure that collapsed every time I added another brick

The phone rang reminding me with the interview time.  The beautiful show hostess smiled while presenting me to the audience

In today’s show, we are glad to meet with doctor Layla to talk about her successful experience in building a strongly bonded family through an important and pressing topic, which is the Arabic family and the contemporary challenges.  This is Nessrin Trabulsi in the Morning Table show.  Welcome to all of you dear viewers

The desk was shaking violently, and the bricks of the structure started falling down one by one.  The fatal whiteness had occupied my head wiping the words, titles and topics, and only leaving behind a stupid smile on my lips, dignifying me to face the staring eyes behind the waiting and lurking TV cameras 

As if coming from a deep well, the voice of the show director ordering a commercial break, of a new toy in the market, climbed down my ears

August 1, 2007

دمينو

                 للكاتبة ابتسام تريسي         

هذا هو السبب الذي من أجله ـ  يا سيدتي ـ  كانت ابنتك خرساء .

موليير

بدقة أضع الحجر في البناء، أبتسم لمساره في منظومة حياتي، بهدوء أبدأ الكتابة.

المزيد

Mister Jumah

Written by:      Sameer El-Feel

Translated by: Dr. Abdallah Altaiyeb

I came to find Mister Jumah sitting as usual at the door of the grand mosque facing the souk. The shops had started their day early, while the houses were still in a deep sleep since the night had fed on men’s nectar.  I had become aware of that early in my life. In the souk, my eyes had opened up on the inconspicuous and the obscure and I thought of practicing discretion as God had taught us.  Divulging secrets of other people and exposing them is detestable and unsavory; for there are secrets and things that must remain untold.

Hajj Khaleel Albitahi had a bunch of women who separately came to his shop to wipe off the tiredness of their feet after marching up and down the marketplace.   I might have not personally seen them flirting or messing around with his mind, he who always scolded and shouted at his devoted wife, blaming her for giving birth to only one boy while filling the house with girls who could not be effectively utilized in running his shop.  Nevertheless, I maintained discretion over what the days had revealed of his shady relations and strange acts.

Mister Jumah erected his work stall before the grand Mosque and gave me a look which I completely understood.  I would need to help him put the mat on the ground, fix it with bricks at the edges, and leave him with the task of centering the pole, two steps away from the sidewalk. For he was the only credible cobbler in this neighborhood and his daughter Fawziyah would come just little before Asr prayer with his lunch.

He was more than a cobbler who mended old and worn out shoes; he was their eternal savior from disgrace and humiliation. One might put on an old shirt to work, or don a pair of expired pants; but it would be impossible for one to wear shoes that had a hole the size of open hungry jaws crowned with toes protruding for the amusement of people through the torn socks!

Also, Mister Jumah was considered as a cover or a haven for all the people in our neighborhood, and even other neighboring neighborhoods.  On top of that, he was a kind man, disregarding that he bought me a cup of tea every Friday morning, and paid for it gratefully.  In that space, he squatted with his back against the wall waiting for the first customer, and then he would do miracles to save the life of the “dying pair”.  To his side was a sack made of old cloth, but contained pieces of leather of various sizes, and that was what his trade thrived on.

A woman came from the countryside, handed him her right shoe, then tightened the abayah on her body and turned to tears.  The marketplace was still not busy with patrons yet when he cried out for me.  I was afraid the Hajj would fire me if he came and found the shop unattended, so I signaled back to Mister Jumah that no one else was in the shop but me.

I saw the woman sitting a bit far from him with her back facing him, yet I could see her trembling body and distinctively hear her whimper in the calmness of the seven AM. He came to me and asked: 

Did you sell anything?

I conveyed to him that it was up to God, for Friday customers usually came in the difficult time which was an hour or two before Jumah prayer, then disappeared suddenly leaving us merchants to spend the day combating flies and stagnant air.  City people would never go shopping on Friday even if it were a matter of life or death because they believed it brought bad luck and misfortune. On the contrary, people of the countryside seemed only to multiply on Friday.  He nodded, while I was still mulling over these thoughts in my head!

With a broken half smile, he told me:

I’ll sit in for you.  I only have one Pound; please break it at the Café

I did not comment but did what he asked of me.  When I came back, he took the change, wrapped the mended pair of shoes in a paper bag, and gave them all to the woman who now had stopped whining.  She refused to take the change but he swore she should share it with him. With what’s left for him, he would have breakfast, buy cigarettes, and pay for my cup of tea. God is the great provider.

I never saw the woman’s face since it was protected behind the veil, but I felt as I watched her walk away that she had become more light-hearted and gentler.  When the Hajj came, he sent me to buy him coffee and on my way, I stopped by Mister Jumah and asked why he had done what he had done with the woman. He shook his head while offering me half of his Foul sandwich:

God provides for birds in caves, not to mention human beings, Filfil.

A boy suddenly came from nowhere with a copper incense burning tazza and let the clouds of incense fume and smell wander in the shop.  As soon as the Hajj saw the boy, he shook in violent anger and shouted at the boy:  

Get out, you tar can!

Only fifteen minutes later, the Quran reciter came in.  Adjusting his caftan, the reciter sat on the chair, and started reading whatever he managed of the Quran chapters, while his chubby body was still vibrating from the abrupt movement.  When he finished, the Hajj gazed at him with eyes fueled with hashish:

Tomorrow.  Money did not change hands yet!

I looked at the plaza; the circle of merchants was about to complete, while Mister Jumah’s head was hardly noticeable among the crowd. My mind was swirling in my head like a rotten egg, but I managed to say to the Hajj:

I’ll go to the store to bring some goods that have run out.

He shook his head in agreement, and handed me the key. On my way, after two side streets, I met Fawziyah, and I asked her:

Where are you going?

She knew me, but she was silent for a moment, and then said:

I want some money from Dad. I need to buy some Foul and Falafel for my family.

She was holding a plate and looking at the tall minarets in awe; I asked:

Can you just wait, and I’ll walk back with you?

She nodded, and gave me a smile, young and bright like a sun shining for its first morning.  I kept her waiting at the entrance of the house where the store was in the first floor.  I carried the shoe boxes down and found her still waiting for me.  I asked her:

What’s the time?

She innocently laughed.

I have no watch!

Feasting my eyes on the dimple on her chin, I told her:

What if we save money, then we can buy a watch and take turns of custody, one week with me and one week with you!

She very much liked the idea, and even put her hand in my free hand, and I felt an overwhelming happiness ravishing my insides.  I saw her pupil glisten in joy, and my heart leaped out of its cage; for Fawziyah had a beautiful countenance and had dark brown eyes, sweet, so sweet and delicate.  The boxes nearly fell, but she managed to lean towards me in time to carry half of them without saying a word.  We headed back to the shop and I was a few steps ahead of her when the Hajj saw us.  He watched her while she was putting the boxes on the chair next to the glass window.  When she had left, the Hajj snorted and said:

Where were you …boy?

I answered back immediately:

At the store.

Sarcastically, he replied:

Alone!!

I nodded:

Yes.

He made me sit facing him and looked me in the eye:

Hey, don’t you take me for a fool… boy.  I know all the tricks of silly boys like you..

I left the shop in anger and went straight to Mister Jumah.  I sat on the sidewalk contemplating and looking at the worn out shoes which seemed to be multiplying, filling the sky, and nearly blocking the sun.  I saw them moving in the space towards the Hajj.  I wished that I could work with Mister Jumah but I knew that my mom would absolutely not agree.  That made me very sad.

July 3, 2007

Souk:  Marketplace in an Arabian city

Caftan: A full-length garment

Abayah:  a women’s cloak

Beisha: a women’s veil

Foul: Beans; Arabic food

Falafel: Arabic food

Tazza: A wide and shallow bowl

Asr: The time of the middle Muslim prayer

Hajj: A title for one who performed pilgrimage to Makkah

عم جمعة
للكاتب سمير الفيل

وجدت عم جمعة يجلس كعادته أمام باب الجامع من الناحية المواجهة للسوق ، حيث المحلات قد بدأت فتح أبوابها مبكرا ، بينما البيوت تغط في نوم عميق ، بعد أن أمتص الليل جهد الرجال .
عرفت كل ذلك مبكرا في السوق ، فنجلت عيني على الخفي والمبهم ، ورأيت أن أمارس فعل الستر لأن الله قد أمر به ، ولأن هناك أسرارا لابد أن تبقى في الكتمان ، ففضح العبد مكروه .

بغض النظر عن أن الحاج خليل البطاحي ، كانت له شلة بين النسوان ، يأتين إليه فرادى ، لإراحة أقدامهن من المشي لساعات طويلة في السوق جيئة وذهابا ، وحتى لو لم أر بعين رأسي أكثرهن يتلاعبن بعقل ذلك الرجل الذي يشكم زوجته الصالحة ، ويشخط فيها عمال على بطال ، ويؤنبها لأنها لم تأت له سوى بولد واحد أخرج عينيه من محجريهما ، وكومة

المزيد

ONE-S

Written by :  Jubair Almelaihan

Translated by : Dr. Abdallah Altaiyeb

Let’s go

I casually told my friend, as the road looked wide as a stream, with trees swaying and swinging on both sides… heavy clouds at an arm reach… and dew sauntering on the trees and slowly dancing its way to young Palm trees and villages 

Can you see

He turned around, gloomy dust seeking refuge in his face… and said while enduring more pain

This route is sinuous …and difficult.  The trees of this march are short… no green leaves… the sky is dull… the desert stretches like oppression… and they are all running away from the magnificent storm that’s coming.  Look at the desolate dirt biting at the faces

He was frequently shifting his vision as lost people would do… I told him

Do you see?  This is our road… what’s left for us of a dream is ahead of us… look ahead to see… look ahead

He looked around in panic… and words seemed to evaporate atop of his head… his wailing sustained

Dirt… dust…storm…where is the road   

We have come close to a festival…the people, crowding in the court, were busy erecting the palms of their gaiety…bygone joys… or the ones yet to come?… sweaty faces but jubilant…the court is wide… and the floods of arrivers advance persistently

I dragged him towards the trail of the festival…I saw the clouds of the dream looking upon us, sprouting, growing, and singing for the clamoring and roaring people…the leaves of the dream dancing over the heads with streaming colors

In the festival, the buoyancy widened across several lapsing years… and others coming yet

I glittered and radiated the joy of the dream to my friend…but he was not with the people…he was there…I saw him far away…dull eyed…straying alone in different directions…and carrying his ever falling head

He was fleeing people…like a cloud having no rain…he got away…further away…my heart flowed with sadness on the ground… and he cried

I saw him withdrawing away from the light of others… killing himself…I ran to him… and he was carrying his corpse…veiling it…the shadows of joy were approaching… I dragged him…I pleaded to his dull eyes and falling head…but he continued to get away like a mirage

There were so many clouds pouring their emptiness instead of the rain…clouds of people from so many different lands…they all resembled him…all started carrying their carcasses and, like night, leading their way to the burial ground

Bleeding like a cry…I stopped where I was

From far away, some women appeared…like scattered trees…they, too, were holding their carcasses and walking in the shadows…mostly walking solo…but only one…and may be another one…and perhaps still another one too…was curling up her hands on a swelling pouring cloud in her belly…and sitting waiting…

I raced my way to the eyes of children

May 24, 2007

واحد (ون)

قصة من جبير المليحان

مشينا!

قلت ذلك لصديقي ؛ كنت أرى الطريق واسعا كالماء ، على الجانبين تتماوج الأشجار ، و الغيوم قريبة ، و الندى يمشي على الأشجار : متراقصا متمهلا إلى نخيل يانعة و قرى ….

- هل ترى ؟!

تلفتَ ، و سكن وجهه غبار حزين ، قال ، و قد ازداد أسى :

- متعرج هذا الدرب، و صعب ؛ و أشجار هذه المسيرة قصيرة ، لا أوراق خضراء.. السماء جافة .. الصحراء تمتد كطغيان .. كلهم يفرون من العاصفة الكبيرة القادمة . انظر الأتربة الموحشة تقرض الوجوه .

المزيد

Catch the Thief

Written by Wafa Altayyeb

Translated by Dr. Abdallah Altaiyeb

How happy we were when it repeated those words the day our area Mayor visited us; exactly the minute he landed on our doormat. We could never forget that he falsified a court testimony to gain ownership of a real estate property that my grandfather had bought two years earlier, but died before completing the legal registration of the deed

He had already entered the house amongst those my father invited for dinner in recognition of our guest of honor; a visitor from our village. That day, all our neighbors, my father’s friends, and both of my uncles had come to our house. Clearing their throats, they uttered “Oh Allah  … Oh Veiler“. The women of the house could not dare to face the male guests, not even covered in their black Abayah, and definitely not through the main room’s balcony that overlooks the front yard. And when our maid, Maymoona,  dared to peep on our guests through a crack in the roof’s edge, it started whistling and crying loudly while clapping its wings “Maymoona ... shame…Maymoona… shame

The Mayor arrived last, all puffed up with pride and too good to touch himself like a peacock, wearing a white thobe and a wide girdle that encircled his large belly; a room to more sheep than those we slaughtered for the occasion. On his head, a yellow shaal surrounded a silver embroidered cap. He walked in happy and assured with the notion that no one would touch the food before he blessed it with thanks giving, and tasted it with a skilled hand that dripped with rice left and right

As soon as it sat its eyes on the Mayor, it clapped its wings fiercely and cried “catch the thief… catch the thief”. And when the Mayor started gulping the giant snowballs of rice stuffed handsomely with delicious pieces of sheep meat, it cried once again…”choke on it… choke on it“. That night, all guests but the Mayor laughed

On the night of the ominous accident that parted “Ayman” with our house, it cried with continued relentlessness “Ayman… Ayman”, and we stupidly thought “Maymoona” had forgotten to offer it water, pieces of Guava, and green pepper which it used to eat off the hand of “Ayman” everyday. It did not stop crying that night and the night after. It cried for two days until sunset, and then it released a

المزيد

Not Like That

Written by Wafa Altayyeb

Translated by Dr. Abdallah Altaiyeb

At dinner, he only had a small piece of steak with very little vegetables.  Pity me, the Arab who could only lure her husband with stuffed food dishes! I had prepared for him Macaroni Bashamil, green salad, European style steak, and Um Ali.  This time, he had only had little Macaroni when she reminded him not to indulge in greasy and starchy food according to the doctor’s recommendation to safeguard his heart.  Now, Ann claimed authority over his stomach after she had claimed ownership of his heart. He no longer said to me “what did you cook for me Dalal? My stomach and I are weary of the English food.  My colon longs for your tasty dishes

After dinner, he felt ashamed of saying while kissing my hand “God bless your hand Dalal”.  I carried the plates to the kitchen while he was sipping on the coffee I made for him.  My tears dropped as I heard her lecturing him like a teacher with an obedient student 

You know that drinking coffee after 8 PM is not healthy and we ought to sleep early

More tears dropped seeing that he had put away the cup on the table, like a child fearing scolding from his mother

She looked at me with her blue eyes and said firmly

I made him refrain from smoking and drinking coffee Dalal, so waste not my efforts

She said that without the faintest attempt to fake a smile, like I was nothing more than a waitress in a cheap restaurant.  I thought of letting my nails work on her white skin in a fierce attempt to win back my husband, but instead I looked back at him. He seemed like a quivering cat on her lap.  I saw him walking towards the bedroom, as if my coffee was nothing but sleeping syrup, and she followed

They locked the door of my bedroom behind them.  Half an hour had passed, but felt like three months and nothing happened.  She had not come out, nor had he, and I had not walked in

May 9, 2007

Umrah: A pilgrimage to Makkah

Macaroni Bashamil:  Pasta with Bashamil Sauce, Beef or Vegetarian

Um Ali: A pastry pudding with raisins and coconut steeped in milk

Taken from the writer’s website  http://benttaibah.maktoobblog.com/

ليس على تلك الصورة

للكاتبة وفاء الطيب

جسدٌ نحيلٌ جداً  ي

المزيد