It was Thursday, a day not much different from any other day of the week. Winter was harsher than the previous years and the pale morning sun shone from an ashen sky.
Majid watched his daughter cough and curl up on the floor which had been newly laid with a not-so-old carpet that he had picked from the dump the previous day. It spread some warmth to their one roomed desert home in the settlement of Panar. Pneumonia was rampant and he had taken his daughter to different hospitals before a doctor finally agreed to attend to her.
He was advised to keep the little girl warm and give her some medicines before it got worse. “Come, have an egg with some khubz and tea,” called Faridah
. Majid heard his sons playing happily outside.
He watched in silence as his wife fretted around. The dark circles around her eyes, her stubby fingers and callous-hardened palms made her look very different from the girl he had married. She moved a small table into the middle of the room, which served as dining area, kitchen and bedroom
. The toilet and shower outside were shared by many families. Their furniture was limited to seven plastic chairs and the small table. A 21″ television, crowned by cheap plastic flowers, rested atop a wooden crate in a corner. Coca-cola bottles were recycled to hold drinking water.
They did not eat chicken every day. Even if they did, there would be no leftovers, so the presence of a refrigerator was unnecessary. Majid knew Faridah had not slept for days on account of their daughter’s illness.
Her face had become gaunt in less than a week, but she never whined about anything and although he was glad for that, he also felt secretly guilty. Every day he hoped for something to happen that would improve their lot. “Jamila, Baba is going. Wish him well.” Faridah picked the little girl from the floor. She resisted and broke out into a loud wail. The flustered mother made soothing clucking noises to pacify the disturbed child.
“I’ll try to come early today,” said Majid as he finished his tea. “Insha- Allah.” Majid walked to the highway where he waited for the grey bus to take him to the city. Pale brown desert, dotted by thorny bushes, stretched monotonously on either side of the road. His dishdasha fluttered in the wind while the shumag protected him from the cold and dust. He camouflaged his winter-cracked feet in a pair of old woollen socks and fake
leather shoes he had picked from one of the small discount shops. It was not easy for any of the bidūn jinsiyya to make both ends meet. Every day he hoped and prayed that the city’s authorities would not arrest him for working. Since begging was prohibited, they resorted to odd jobs, most of them illegitimate. Being a bedoun, neither Majid nor his father or his grandfather ever attended school.
A lot of disadvantages came with being illiterate in a modern society. He was sustained by the mercy of Aziz in whose shop he kept his tools. “How is little Jamila?” asked Aziz. “Getting better. Thank you for asking,” said Majid. “I was worried as you did not turn up for two days.” Aziz was a good citizen with a golden heart. He ran a modest shop that sold electrical goods. He allowed Majid to put up a notice that announced the service he offered, but he did not seek anything in return. All that he felt in his heart was a burning zeal to help a fellow being to make an 40 honest living. On a good day, Majid would have made five to seven dinars, but good days did not come often. He lived on khubz and laban for lunch. Quite often Aziz shared with Majid a portion of his lunch which he brought from home - some chicken, felafel or baba ganouj. Sometimes Aziz ordered from Mehboob’s grill. Guilt plagued Majid, whenever Aziz offered him a kebab, as he felt he was being an unnecessary burden. “Eat, Majid. If you don’t I will feel bad,” Aziz would coax. “Shukran.” In order not to offend the generosity of his host, Majid would accept. He knew he would never be able to repay the goodness shown to him. He prayed for a miracle in his life with which he could help other people just as Aziz had helped him. Every day, during the five times he bowed towards Makkah, he prayed fervently for that miracle amongst many others. At forty-five, Majid had to feed a family of five. He was in a way thankful that his parents had died before Operation Levinbolt which brought about a lot of hardships. At that time Majid was a young man of twenty-three, full of fire and fervor to save the motherland which never recognized him. He enlisted himself in the low ranks of the army and witnessed with his own eyes the ravages of war. “There is no glory in war. Just death and bloodshed. There is no exhilaration in the veins as the tanks roll on the streets, but just a hollow feeling. Is it for the empty feeling inside or is it for the gory sights that you claim victory? It’s just a sham!” Many a time, Majid poetically recounted his experience over a cup of herbed tea. In the war, Aziz lost his family and all his possessions. For many months he lived in the communal tent, depressed, keeping to himself and wishing for death, which never visited him. He saw others die and that slowly opened his eyes. “What’s gone is gone. Let me make myself useful now,” he told himself. He helped bury people and assisted whenever an extra pair of hands was needed. During that time he rubbed shoulders with some bedouns who evoked in him a feeling of awe due to their fortitude and dedication to a people who did not care for them. Perspectives change with experience and his experience with the bedouns filled Aziz with a respect for them which was second only to God.
The tanks retreated beyond the burning borders and the bedouns went back to their marginalized,
underprivileged, unrecognized life. Aziz could not do anything to prevent it. Shame gnawed at his core as the red, black and green flag flew high in the glory of newly bought freedom. The Allied forces were cheered while the selfless sacrifice of the bedouns sank into oblivion. “I burned under the shame of hypocrisy.
felt useless,” said Aziz. “What can one man do?” asked Majid as Aziz became somber. “I don’t know
. I just don’t know.” Aziz sipped his tea slowly. “The goodness you are showing to me is itself a great deal. God has prepared a great reward for you in heaven.” “Heaven?” snorted Aziz. “Yes, one may not be able to make big changes. But know one thing - you have made a big difference in my life by showing me kindness. I believe you are one of God’s angels. His Malak.” “Oh, Majid, doesn’t flattery have a limit?” “It is not flattery.” Aziz put his cup away and went back behind the counter. “As salamu alaikum.” Two young Egyptians came in blue overalls and asked for wiring cables. “Wal aikum salam.” As Aziz disappeared behind the racks, one of the Egyptians looked around and went to Majid and gave him his right shoe that gaped like a toothless mouth. “Will take some time,” said Majid. “It needs stitching.”
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