Sherine Elbanhawy
Writing has always been one of my greatest comforts and passions.
I owe my self-discovery to Linda. I never thought that I could be a writer. I thank her for opening this new dimension in my life. It has filled a void.
Un
Teddy Bear
Its velvety touch, so comforting, so smooth, it took her back to those days of innocence that carefree time when she was so happy. The highlight of her day was riding her bicycle, exploring the woods, and feeling the wind in her face. She was so naïve, so young, so open to conquer the world. She was seeing the world through rose-tinted glasses and she didn’t even realize it. She had Snow White for a caretaker and thought that this was what everybody had. She had more friends than she could count and more family relatives than she could name. She thought all relationships ended up in happily ever after and had never noticed even her own parents having a fight. She didn’t realize that she was average or maybe even below average at everything academic. She didn’t worry about her grades, being the best or even failing. Everything she did was rooted from pure desire to do it; who she played with, where they went, what they did. Sports were for pure pleasure not competition.
The food she ate was for pure love of it. No thought went to the amount of calories that were in it or its nutritional value, just the simple untainted fact of loving it and therefore eating it. She didn’t think twice towards how much money it took to get that dinner on the table nor did she feel a glimpse of shame for not knowing. It’s not that she was royalty; it was just how it was.
She possessed the most beautiful canopy bed with soft pink cotton sheets, the most treasured books with their unique sent, and the most portrait like family. She believed that anything that was wrong could be changed. She trusted that good would always conquer evil. She felt the security that all her problems would go away with a fatherly hug and a motherly kiss.
There wasn’t a questioning of God, of rituals. Everything she believed to her core without the possibility of doubt. She couldn’t fathom the notion that religion can incite fear and hatred, not simple love and compassion.
She had an entrenching steady love for her home, for the country of her birth, for seeing it as the best and most perfect place on earth. For seeing her people as the most kind, most clever, most humble people on the planet.
She had never had nightmares nor had she ever feared that the world would overheat, explode from a giant meteor, or fall underwater because of a giant endless tidal wave. These were unimaginable ideas, that the human race and she included were causing or could ever cause the earth’s destruction.
She assumed that all the people you loved would never get sick and would never leave her.
She had relentless ambition, insurmountable dreams and endless scaleable mountains to climb.
She never thought that being a woman was limiting. She didn’t even have a glimpse that with race came certain disadvantages.
Today, she craves that naiveté and she wishes she could live by that untainted view of the world.
Smell
It’s that hideous hospital odor. My heart races, I feel faint. There is also that metallic aluminum smell. Will the endless sweat and pain ever be over? The scent of everyone’s agitation, coupled with the nurses’ horrid odor makes even my own perspiration unbearable. I don’t want anyone to touch me. I am scared and tired. I hate the starchy sanitized towel they give me to wipe my face with. I am screaming so loud because of the pain. I never knew my voice could be so irritatingly shrill. I can taste a nauseating smell, I cannot escape it, and it’s coming from me. It’s my body straining, changing and transforming. I am no longer a girl, I have transformed. I am now a mother. Thump
The thump was not feminine. It couldn't be. Could it?
She took another arduous awkward step towards her chair. She could not believe how cumbersome her movement had become. She was sticky and sweaty like summer humidity and felt like there was not enough air to breathe. Although it was wintertime or so she thought.
The ripples of extra flesh were spread out everywhere like an endless highway. She had long ago lost her voluptuous figure. She could not remember when it had gone. It was almost as if it had been kidnapped. One day she gagged when she saw her reflection. She did not know how many years ago had passed since then, and did not want to find out. Now, mirrors were one of her biggest fears.
Her breath was a labored heaving. She was scared to use her voice because it was quiet, and feminine. It was the only thing that had survived all this time unhindered. Her shadow was alien even to her. She did not feel like she had aged as much as was apparent on her face and her body. Yet she had. She wanted to hold back her emotional clenching whimpers.
The dark room was nothing but shadows. She was a slave to its walls. They had witnessed it all and this petrified her. The old rustic creaking wood with each decrepit step recounted her story.
She trembled as she pulled herself toward the drawer where her box was located. She thanked God that it was locked. She tried to deter herself because of the knowledge of everything that will come with it. She was starting to be panic stricken at the idea that she might open the box. She couldn't control her irritating shaking whines.
She held the box still hesitating to open it. She was burdened with regret, it is so heavy. It's like constantly carrying your children while always having your feet in quicksand and never arriving at your destination. She wished she knew what would have happened if she hadn't made these choices. Would she have had different things to atone for?
Or would she have been where she needs to be or at least where she should be? Her life had been difficult but whose life hadn't been? She had solely supported her three siblings. It's not that she was given a choice, there were no alternatives. She was the eldest and the sacrifice had to be her life for theirs. This is what she was meant to do.
There were three souls on this planet who are better off because of her. Actually, only two souls. Samir was now in his parents arms. She wished daily that she could join them. Yet she feared dying alone and wondered how long it would take for someone to realize that she had passed. Would the stench of her rotting body be the first sign? How long would that take? If she wasn't buried right away, would that mean she would not go to heaven? She would end up in an abyss, lost with all the other confined souls. She was haunted by these possibilities.
To dissuade this rational she picked up one of Tamer's family pictures which he sent twice a year. Behind it was her sister Samia's graduation photo from university. She had gotten married to her university colleague and they have been living for years in the Gulf. She was alone now with the movie of her life being constantly replayed in her mind. Her unspent tragic life was continuously stabbing her chest like a serial killer that could not satisfy his hunger. Her heart so strained from all these years of blistering strife.
She mustered all her energy and opened the box. Her eyes swelled immediately at his sight. He was so handsome, so elegant, so perfect. He was everything she ever wanted and she never knew that she could love so strongly. He was her elixir to youth and infinite happiness. Yet he wanted more than she could give. He wanted her for himself and for her siblings to take care of themselves. She couldn't bear not living up to the responsibility that God had given her. It was her choice. She chose them. They needed her to provide for them. She had become pent up to her situation. Forever entangled in fulfilling the hopes and dreams of others.
She had heard that he also had waited for her for many years unable to love someone else. Then, hopelessness had overtaken him like the vast ocean. If she had chosen differently. Would she have had now a life of her own? Would she have had children, a husband, maybe even grandchildren? Would she have aged better, remained beautiful, taken better care of herself? Would she have been happy?
The easy thing now would be to die. She has done her duty, She was no longer needed, so why should she still breathe? All these emotions and this doubting are exactly why she didn't want to open the box.
She strained her wobbly body and started praying. She pleaded God, to grant her the patience and the understanding to comprehend his will. She begged God to let her understand his purpose. She supplicated God to reassure her that she had made the right choices. Most of all she prayed with all her might that God switch off the voices in her head. Her pleas were continuous like the radio station and she eventually fell asleep on the prayer rugs amidst prayer, tears, and repentance.
Today was just another day in her life. She no longer counted nor did she know what day of the week it was, not even what year it was. It was a day like every other day in her life. Her only company were her thoughts and they were her nightmare.
Biography
My name is Sondos Shabayek. I am a Mass comm. Graduate and currently work as journalist for Al Masry el Yoom newspaper and editor in Chief of an Arabic speaking magazine (Ehna).
I write articles, features and interviews as part of my job as a journalist but have very limited fictional work. That is why I decided to join the course. To escape writing about factual information and real events, that are usually the cause of one's depression over time. I wanted to imagine I was an elephant and write about it! Or that I was Alice in wonder land and not feel ashamed about it because I'm supposed to writing about the real land!
It's very important to run riot every once and awhile, and I believe that I did run riot with Linda for awhile and I thank her for that. I enjoyed the writing exercises very much. I enjoyed being taught to break walls in my mind and imagine the color green was a person I could talk to or that joy was a beautiful dancer. I think that a lot of young people like myself would agree with me when I say that you are too down to earth, and that more than anything we need to nourish our ability to imagine and let go of earth. I believe the best to write about what really happens is to forget about it and write!
Linda thank you! the little Alice in me is very grateful for you! As for my fictional biography: my name is Alice, I live in Wonderland and work a zoo keeper!
Mahmoud Khalil Museum Piece
One of the most vivid manifestations of what I and the rest of the young women of my generation have been fighting against for long. You see her there and all that comes to your mind are pictures of a woman leading a life that is not her own. Obliged in every word she utters and every step she takes. Her genuine self hidden beneath a number of layers she had worn, on top of which a shawl. Her hair tied backwards strictly in a bonnet. As if she isn’t allowed to let it loose … as if she never let it loose, and never knew how it feels to have the wind blow through it. Even her smile was a fake one. A smile she has been taught repeatedly how to fake and keep. That could of have been a painting for her on her engagement day. Before she was engaged to someone she saw once from the key hole of her cousin's room. Of course no one asked her opinion. The decision was taken by those who told her how to live her life. I take another glimpse at her and see my mother and grandmother and other women … forced by one way or another to keep the pretense, To fake the smiles and the laughs and the confidence. I see women whom their lives have been stolen … 'I wonder if you could talk to me' I mutter silently to the painting. And right there and then the young lady steps out of the wooden frame and takes me in her arms and says 'it's ok. You don't have to fake the smiles or the laughs now'.
Alice And Her Teacher
Dearest Alice,
Even though you have always given me a hard time teaching you, never paid attention to my lessons, or paid any attention afterwards doing your home work, I have to be grateful to your mother's continuous greetings, and ask how it is you're doing.
Dearest Mrs Nottingham,
Even though you always bore me to death and I never understood a word you spoke, and never really wanted to, I must admit that without you I wouldn't have realized my need to get away and find something more substantial and relevant to me other than your geography and history facts. But thanks for asking, I'm doing very well.
Dearest Alice,
My 'boring' lessons are the only thing that is keeping you right now from falling into the gutter with the rest of the ignorant commoners. If there is one thing I have helped you realize, that is your utmost stupidity and lack of ambition. Good luck being an ignorant pig and may you rot in your wonderland. And I am glad you're doing fine.
Dearest Mrs Nottingham,
Thanks for your wishes. I definitely need the good luck around here. But I think it's someone else who is going to rotten. Don't watch too much TV and send my regards to your geography and history books, by the way are they still alive??
In The Forest Where None May Pass But You
'In the forest where none may pass but you' muttered an old witch looking lady in some horror movie on TV. It was a very ironic background sound given the situation. Their gathering is like a time bomb, if one of them doesnt leave in the right time something bad happens. Their tense expressions and uptight postures are fit for a portrait. Every week an hour of physical and psychological torture. I break the silence with a comment about the weather or the traffic, and afterwards both are out of control. Try envisioning two people with swords behind their backs, ready to slaughter the other. This time it starts off with scar the old one has caused the other when she accidentally spilt boiling water on her neck. The scar was never really noticeable till she talks about it. Then it reddens and grow larger than ever as if screaming 'here I am look at me I never went away'. It grows and grows as it's owner's own agitation increases … and as it grows everything else sorts of disappears. The blond hair and blue eyes and fair skin and baby face … along with all the sweet words and kind and loving gestures. The maker of the scar on the other hand grows smaller in size. All the arrogance, snobbery and merciless behavior dissolves away … leaving her just an old lady in a wheel chair. The old lady's heart beats increases along with her need for oxygen. The words thrown at her consume all the air in the room. Leaving her blue and heavy. It is now the peak, if I don't interfere and cut the rope one of them is going to drag the other on the floor. I cut the lights off. Everyone is silent. The weather in the room is cooler and there's more oxygen to breathe in.
Behind the Sun – Wara el Shams
Wara el shams
Behind the sun
'Madge, now you can soften your hand in a washing detergent!'
He looked up to check the new product advertised on the bill board covering the front side of his building. It's a weekly habit of his ever since he was a little boy. He'd run back home from school, check the AD and plead for money to buy whatever was on that board. Chocolates, chips, biscuits, artificial candy … you name it. As the years went by the bill board started advertising for different products. This time it was a washing detergent, 'removes all types of stains' the AD read. Ahmed took out his wallet, counted the money and handed it to his door man to go buy the supposedly magical detergent.
The bill board has been there for as far as he remembers. He has no recollection whatsoever of a time when this bill board wasn't there blocking all the windows and balconies of his flat. His mother had to hang the clothes on the roof and his dad had to put his plants in front of the door man's room. Sun light never entered their home. The advertiser paid a monthly sum of money for their family, in return of taking their sun and air away. The father used some of the money to provide for a strong lighting system in the house, so that the family would be able to recognize each other. But as the years passed by and both parents had passed away, Ahmed couldn’t be bothered to provide maintenance for his dad's lighting system. And gradually, as each bulb faded out, Ahmed spent both his day and night in chocolate darkness.
Carrying his grocery bag and new detergent Ahmed got into his flat. It was 4pm in the afternoon. But inside his flat it was pitch black. It's after mid night all day long. Ahmed's eyes got used to the darkness and learnt to find their way around things. There are rooms he never goes into and places he never checks. In the kitchen stands a shelf with all the products that were ever advertised on that bill board. Ahmed reached out for the ladder, emptied some of the detergent into the washing machine and put the packet on the shelf along with its siblings. He then reached in his pocket for his life saving companion; Brufen 400. On a day like today his headache was mild so 1 pill of the blessed Brufen 400 was enough to set him to rest. But on other days, when his headache went out of control he'd take up to 4 pills.
It was already 5pm and he needed to finish some work before his girlfriend Sara, came over for dinner. He opened his lap top and tried to focus on the numbers and digits, failed miserably and switched it off. 'What kind of job is that' his girlfriend always used to say. 'You sit all day staring at numbers and listening to some dork who calls himself boss, when you could be doing something more useful and creative with your life' she would continue. But Ahmed could never see beyond that bunch of numbers.
He tried to switch on the rest of the remaining working bulbs in the house. It bugs him every time Sara goes into his place and complains about the 'vibes' and the 'aura' of his sunless flat. 'The place is fine' he would say. But she'd carry on complaining and nagging that he sells the apartment and buys a new one. But he doesn’t want to risk the change. 'God knows what it's like in other flats' he'd respond. 'Yes, and god knows what's it like outside those humid old walls of yours!' she'd argue back.
The door knocked and there was Sara with all her colors and accessories. Ahmed has to check her out at the door step because inside it's hard to tell whether her surprise was a hair cut or a different hair color or a new dress. She had learnt to bring along a huge torch light to use in the kitchen for preparing the food, and later for cleaning up. They had the same food, same talk, watched the same series and ended up having the same fight.
'Why are we still doing this if you think everything about me is dark and boring!'
'Because … because when I look at you I see someone different. I don't see that depressed looking accountant living in a place no better than a ditch hole. I see someone whose ambitions have no limits. I see someone who is creative and optimistic. And I see a place that is close to a perfect glass house. I see a place that matches that person's energy and farfetched dreams'
She said that, opened the door and left both Ahmed and his flat standing hopelessly.
He knew then and there that he will not see her again. Part of him was relieved because no one will keep criticizing his life and urging him to change it anymore. But part of him felt like he lost the only catalyst in his life. The only thing that stood as a reminder that there's more to this world than his numbers, shelf of old products, dark rooms, huge bill boards …. and Brufen pills. If only he could see it.
Ahmed put off his shirt and pants and dragged his mind and body to bed. Unlike most of the people he knew exactly what awaited him in few hours. It was just another day of darkness, numbers, decimals, cranky bosses, detergents, chocolates, and hair sprays.
He lied down staring at the ceiling waiting to fall asleep. 'What could I possibly be missing?' He wondered. More hairsprays? More chips? The he remembered Sara's words and he grew angry at himself, his life and his sunless flat which he thought he never seemed to mind.
'Haaahaa she dumped me cause of a bill board!' He then let himself out into the dark balcony for the first time in years. 'I am happy the way I am! Yes I am happy … am I?? maybe I'm not, maybe I never was, and maybe I never will be … I never tried to live it differently … I never tried not to buy the detergents or snap at my boos or wonder about jobs that have nothing to do with numbers, decimals and endless tables … I never wondered what the paintings my cousin keep sending really looked like … what my mother's kitchen really looked like … what my dad's desk really looked like … I never wondered how this place would look like with more sunlight". He then grew hysterical and started banging the bill board with an old large wooden stick, and when it broke he used all he could put his hands on in the balcony. When all was shattered he banged his hands then his head, till the pain took over and he fell on the floor.
The next thing he knows is trying to wake up with pain in his back after spending the night on cold cement, and pain he can't explain in his eyes. It was just so hard to open them. He managed to crawl into his room with eyes closed. The air in the room felt warm and the bed sheets were fuzzy. He gradually opened his eyes and everything looked different. The colors of the room suddenly showed. He could see his mum's mahogany table and his dad's gigantic antique clock. He could see the corridor that stretched till the kitchen where he used to ride his bike when he was 5. And he saw the mirror Sara had gotten him on his last birthday. It looked dark and ugly back then. But now it looked like a handmade masterpiece. The frame was painted with oil colors along with pictures of both him and her. The mirror was round and had short iron sticks surrounding it. The sticks were yellow and the tag on the left side of the mirror read 'The sun'. It was then that he realized what had happened. The bill board was down. Ahmed no longer lived wara el shams – behind the sun.
