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RABEE J ABER But none of them left him alone. They listened to his moans until he breathed his last. “God have mercy on him. Knock on the door.” They knocked, but the guard didn’t come. “And now?” “Now we’ll have a wake.” So they began talking about him and others, comparing stories and dates, naming his children and his relatives and recalling his admirable qualities. Of all the men there, the closest relation to him was Sheikh Othman Abu Ghannam. He was from the same big family but lived in another village in the neighbouring province and, before they landed in Belgrade, they hadn’t known each other. Even there, they hadn’t spoken much. The deceased had been a goatherd with a wild sort of temperament. A man of few words, he hadn’t been terribly sociable. He had moved often, from place to place, living the life of a vagabond. They washed his head, his neck, his hands and what they could of his body with a wet shirt. Then they lined up, as though they were at a funeral above ground, and paid their respects. Offering condolences to his relative Othman, they squeezed his hand one by one. Movement was difficult and the wake took quite some time. However, they did it gladly. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Sheikh Othman.You can’t see me, but I’m Najib Abd al-Samad from Amatur.” “I’m so sorry for your loss, Sheikh Othman. God have mercy on your cousin. I’m Imad al-Din Mahmoud from al-Baruk.” “I’m so sorry for your loss, Sheikh Othman. It’s wrong to take a life, and we aren’t supposed to pray for mercy for someone who takes his own. But I still say, God have mercy on him. Nobody in this place knows how they keep going. God have mercy on him, and on all of us. I’m Muhammad Barakat Radiy al-Din from Ba’qalin.” “I’m so sorry for your loss, Sheikh Othman. I’m Khattar Abd al-Malik from Batatir.” And so on it went in the darkness. One of them would turn Sheikh Othman’s hand over to the next person, until his fingers were wet with perspiration and his wrist had started to hurt from shaking so many hands. Some of them, though not very many, would raise one hand in a gesture of sorrow and, instead of shaking Sheikh Othman’s hand, offer their condolences with one hand on their heart. Such gestures were lost in the darkness, of course. However, they completed the rites in full, as though they were in a spacious house, complete with fresh air in the mountain sun beyond the sea. 120 BANIPAL 43 – CELEBRATING DENYS JOHNSON-DAVIES
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2012 INTERNATIONAL PRIZE FOR ARABIC FICTION NASSER IRAQ The Unemployed AN EXCERPT FROM THE NOVEL, TRANSLATED BY ROBIN MOGER In the plane, my father’s words were drumming in my brain but were unable to blot out the wave of terror which swept over me – accompanied by an ache in my left ear that would stay with me for over a week – as the airplane rose and fell.Yet for all that, and despite my father’s hurtful comments, I was delighted to be flying for the first time, and overjoyed at the promise of a better life waiting for me in Dubai. I was now certain that for sons of Cairo such as myself it was impossible to make a living at home. My fellow employees at the café said goodbye, urging me to find them work contracts if I could. My regulars shook my hand, wishing me better luck in exile. Some were generous, lavishing me with tips and I thanked them, overwhelmed by shyness. My mother’s tears and her sorrowful glances scourged my senses as I kissed her hand, ready to make my departure. I promised her I would come to visit at least once a year, unlike my brother Hassan, who had returned to Egypt only once in four years. Meanwhile Thuraya, Najat and Aunt Enayat were busy packing my travel bags, stuffing them with pigeon and duck. “Mansour loves a bit of bird!” So said Aunt Enayat, who was visiting us once again, the passing of time having relaxed my father’s unbending order that she never enter our house. But the pain that haunted me and left me with a chronic sense of powerlessness came from seeing the dawning womanhood snuffed out of my sisters’ eyes.Thuraya and Najat were bundled up in hermetically sealed hijabs, not a single hair visible, and in shabby clothes that looked like the robes of women from the distant past. Yes. On the plane to Dubai I did feel thatThuraya and Najat had received a harsher and more grievous punishment than my brother and I. Neither sister had ever had the joy of a wedding nor escaped my father’s prison BANIPAL 43 – SPRING 2012 121

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RABEE J ABER

But none of them left him alone. They listened to his moans until he breathed his last.

“God have mercy on him. Knock on the door.” They knocked, but the guard didn’t come. “And now?” “Now we’ll have a wake.” So they began talking about him and others, comparing stories and dates, naming his children and his relatives and recalling his admirable qualities. Of all the men there, the closest relation to him was Sheikh Othman Abu Ghannam. He was from the same big family but lived in another village in the neighbouring province and, before they landed in Belgrade, they hadn’t known each other. Even there, they hadn’t spoken much. The deceased had been a goatherd with a wild sort of temperament. A man of few words, he hadn’t been terribly sociable. He had moved often, from place to place, living the life of a vagabond. They washed his head, his neck, his hands and what they could of his body with a wet shirt. Then they lined up, as though they were at a funeral above ground, and paid their respects. Offering condolences to his relative Othman, they squeezed his hand one by one. Movement was difficult and the wake took quite some time. However, they did it gladly.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Sheikh Othman.You can’t see me, but I’m Najib Abd al-Samad from Amatur.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Sheikh Othman. God have mercy on your cousin. I’m Imad al-Din Mahmoud from al-Baruk.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Sheikh Othman. It’s wrong to take a life, and we aren’t supposed to pray for mercy for someone who takes his own. But I still say, God have mercy on him. Nobody in this place knows how they keep going. God have mercy on him, and on all of us. I’m Muhammad Barakat Radiy al-Din from Ba’qalin.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Sheikh Othman. I’m Khattar Abd al-Malik from Batatir.”

And so on it went in the darkness. One of them would turn Sheikh Othman’s hand over to the next person, until his fingers were wet with perspiration and his wrist had started to hurt from shaking so many hands. Some of them, though not very many, would raise one hand in a gesture of sorrow and, instead of shaking Sheikh Othman’s hand, offer their condolences with one hand on their heart. Such gestures were lost in the darkness, of course. However, they completed the rites in full, as though they were in a spacious house, complete with fresh air in the mountain sun beyond the sea.

120 BANIPAL 43 – CELEBRATING DENYS JOHNSON-DAVIES

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