The Mirage

11

My school life proceeded with such slowness and tedium it was almost cause for despair. By the time I reached third grade I was fourteen years old. My grandfather used to say to me in exasperation, “When are you ever going to apply yourself to your studies? When will you ever realize your duty? Don’t you see that if you keep on at this rate, you’ll be retirement age by the time you finish!”

My mother was pained no end by this bitter sarcasm, and she would always ask him not to throw it in my face for fear that it might discourage me and make me even duller.

Or she’d say to him, “Intelligence is from God, and his good character is more than enough to make up for what he lacks. You couldn’t find anyone more bashful or better mannered!”

It then happened that my life underwent a critical development. I don’t recall when or how it began, and I fear that imagination may have distorted my memory of some aspects of it. A strange sort of restlessness began to course through body and soul. It flowed through my limbs as a kind of disquiet and turmoil, and when I was alone I was accosted by new sorts of dreams. When I was at school, I would be absented from my surroundings by a tendency to daydream that would focus all my sensations on myself. As the carriage took me home from school, I would gaze up at the heaven’s horizons, wishing I could soar up among its mysterious-looking blue particles. Enveloped in melancholy and gloom, I would console myself by crying my heart out. I’ll never forget the vague longings, the unnamed fears, the hushed groans, and the sprouting hairs. Lord! I thought: I’m a creature that’s bringing forth some bizarre, terrifying life force whose demons make sport of me day and night, whether I’m waking or dreaming.

I discovered on my own — under the pressure of this life force — that fiendish boyhood pastime. No one lured me into it, since I was without friends or companions. Rather, I discovered it the way it must have been discovered for the first time in the life of humanity. I received it with wonder and delight, and in it I found a fulfillment the likes of which I found nowhere else. Finding in it a panacea for my weird loneliness, I gave myself over to it to the point of addiction, while my imagination selected womanly images with which to adorn my imaginary table of love.

The strange thing is that in its ardor, my imagination never went beyond the realm of the servant women in Manyal who went about laden with vegetables and fuul. Nor was this merely a passing phenomenon. Rather, it was a hidden secret, or rather, a hidden malady, as though I’d been destined to love unattractiveness and squalor. If I saw a bright, lovely face that emanated light and beauty, I would be filled with admiration, but my animal instincts would grow cold. If, on the other hand, I was confronted with a robust but homely face, it would arouse me and take utter possession of me, and thenceforth I would include it within my store of fuel for solitude’s dreams and amusement. I went to excess as one does when ignorant of consequences, and in that consummate ignorance of mine, I imagined that no one but I was familiar with such a practice. Then one day when I was in the school’s courtyard, I heard some of the students accusing each other of it in the most shameless manner. Terribly upset, I was seized by an unbearable chagrin. From that moment on, torment was my constant companion, and my erstwhile placid waters were roiled by a troubled conscience. That didn’t keep me from persevering in the habit, however. Rather, I would spend my solitude in wild, but short-lived sensual delight followed by lingering misery.

Those monotonous days of ours would be brightened every now and then by visits from families who were either neighbors or relatives. These would include married women and girls of marriageable age, and on occasion one of the women might lightheartedly introduce her daughter, saying, “Here’s Kamil’s bride!”

My mother would receive such banter with a notable lack of enthusiasm that was lost neither on the woman addressing her, nor on me. Consequently, I felt increasingly timid, estranged, and fearful, especially toward women. Add to this the fact that once the lady visitors had departed, my mother would never fail to criticize their scandalous, decadent remarks. Meanwhile, I went on with my forlorn, friendless life, feeling restive under its constant pressure, yet doing nothing to change it. I would seize upon its covert pleasures in a state of disquiet and despair, then have nothing to show for them but a bitter sense of guilt. Trapped in an isolation that distanced me from life’s other spheres, I wondered in anguish how I would ever break free. At the same time, I was vaguely aware that there was a wider world beyond my narrow horizon. I would overhear snatches of other students’ conversations about politics, the cinema, sports, and girls as though I were listening to inhabitants of some other planet. How I wished I had a share of their expressiveness and joie de vivre. How I wished I could penetrate the solid, thick wall that barred me from their world. I would gaze at them in dejection, like a prisoner looking out through the bars of his cell at those who enjoy their freedom. Yet not once did I try to break out of my prison. After all, I wasn’t unaware of the cruelty and humiliation that awaited me in the world of freedom. Indeed, even when I was safely behind bars, as it were, I was vulnerable to a certain degree of harassment, mockery, and aggression. I said to myself: This is my prison, so let me be content with it. Here was where I found my pleasure and my pain, and here was where I found safety from fear. It was a prison with an open door, but there was no way to cross its threshold. The only release I found, I found in dreams. As I sat in class, I’d be absent from everything around me while my imagination worked miracles: warring, slaying, and vanquishing, mounting the backs of steeds, flying airplanes, storming fortresses, whisking beautiful women away, and inflicting the most grisly, humiliating punishments on the other students. There would even be times when such daydreams would betray themselves in the movements of my head and contortions in my face, while reflections of those phantoms would cause my head to rise smugly, crease my brow in a merciless glare, or evoke a menacing wave of my hand.

My dreams weren’t confined to the realm of humanity, but ascended to the realm of the Creator as well. Primal and firmly rooted, my faith filled my heart and spirit with the love and fear of God. I’d begun performing the rites of my religion from an early age in imitation of my mother. Given the unaccustomed sense of guilt produced by my secret pleasures, my religious sensibilities intensified, and along with my faith I experienced a powerful longing for God and His mercy. Never once would I finish a prayer without lifting my palms heavenward and seeking God’s forgiveness. My longings knew no bounds and were transformed into an aspiration to know God. I wished with all my heart that God had made it possible for His servants to see Him, beholding the ubiquitous divine majesty that surrounds all things.

One day I asked my mother, “Where is God?”

“He’s everywhere,” she replied in astonishment.

Casting her an uncertain look, I asked fearfully, “In this room?”

“Of course!” she rejoined in a tone of incredulity. “Now ask His forgiveness for that question of yours!”

So I asked His forgiveness from the bottom of my heart. Bewildered and fearful, I looked about me. Then I remembered with a pained heart the fact that I would indulge in sin under His watchful eye. The thought caused me intense suffering and I was filled with remorse. Even so, I continued helplessly in its grip.

* * *

The ongoing struggle was so grueling, I began thinking seriously of committing suicide. I was seventeen years old at the time, and I was preparing for the primary school final examination for the third time after having failed it two years in a row. I was gripped with panic and despair, both of which were even more overwhelming when I thought of the oral examination. I had no speaking ability, nor did I have the heart to face the examiner. During the previous year’s test, the English examiner had asked me about the landmarks I’d visited in Cairo. Whenever he asked me about one of the city’s archeological sites or attractions, I would reply that I wasn’t familiar with it. Thinking that I was evading his questions, he failed me. Fear overcame me, ushering me into the terrifying chambers of desolation. For the first time ever, I found myself taking a kind of bird’s-eye view of life. Tracing its overall trajectory from beginning to end, I no longer saw anything but the start and the finish while disregarding everything in between. Birth and death: this was the sum of life. Birth had passed; nothing was left but death. I’m going to die, I thought, and everything will end as though it had never been. So why go through all this suffering? Why should I have to endure fear, distress, loneliness, exhausting effort, and examinations? My head was swarming with distressing memories from the life I was living: a test that was too much for me to handle followed by failure and bitter ridicule, deprivation of the pleasures in life that other students enjoyed, and being called dumb and disagreeable. One day a student standing near the door to the school mosque saw me coming. He cupped his hand over his ear as though he were going to utter the call to prayer, then in a sing-song voice he shouted in my face, “Hey, disagreeable!” against a background of raucous laughter. I remember how a certain teacher had wanted to test our general knowledge one day. When it was my turn and I stood there in a daze, not answering any of his questions, he asked me what the name of the prime minister was. I didn’t say a word. So he bellowed at me, “Where do you live? In Timbuktu?” There were innumerable opportunities to go on strike, but during those days, I’d never taken part in a single demonstration. One day the entire school declared a strike and every single one of the students went out on a demonstration — every one of them but me, that is. I stayed behind in the schoolyard, flustered and afraid on account of my being one of the oldest students. I was seen by a teacher who was known at that time for his nationalist views. When he saw me, he rebuked me sternly, saying, “Why did you break with the consensus? Isn’t this your country, too?” As a consequence, I was torn between the suffering caused by the teacher’s rebuke and the instructions I received every morning from my mother and which she adjured me to follow without question.

Memories like these threatened to rob life of all value whatsoever. And wouldn’t death deliver me from all this? Indeed, it would, I thought. So let me die! Such thoughts became my sole preoccupation, and I made up my mind to throw myself into the Nile. That evening I spent a long time in prayer. Then I went to sleep with my mother’s hand in mine, considering myself ready to be numbered among the dead. The next morning I began stealing worried, mournful glances at my mother’s face. Moved by her tranquility and beauty, I had the urge to cry, and it distressed me not to be able to say goodbye to her. How will she handle the shock? I wondered fearfully. Will she be able to bear it? I’ll be responsible for bringing grief to those serene eyes, causing wrinkles to appear in that smooth, youthful-looking face, and destroying her tranquility forever. Suddenly I feared that I might weaken in my resolve, but despair endowed me with new strength and prompted me to flee. I finished my morning tea without taking my eyes off her face. Then I bade her farewell and left the room, my chest tight and my soul full of bitterness, and got into the carriage. Casting a glance back at the house, I muttered, “Goodbye, Mama. Goodbye, dear house.” Then the carriage took off. Before long I caught sight of al-Malik al-Salih Bridge, and my heart started pounding so hard I could hardly breathe. Everything would have to end now. Just a few more minutes, then eternal rest. At that time I knew nothing about the torment in the afterlife that awaits those who take their own lives, so I was sure I was about to commence a life of pure serenity. Little by little the bridge drew nearer and the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves began pounding on my heart. I glanced down at the Nile and saw pearls scattered over its dark façade. I imagined myself striking the surface of the water as its peaceful, soundless waves cast me indifferently to and fro, confident of the struggle’s outcome. Then, readying myself for the act of madness that I’d determined to commit, everything else faded from consciousness and I cried out to the aged driver as he turned onto the bridge, “Stop!”

The man pulled in the reins and the carriage came to a halt. I got out hurriedly and said to him, “Go on ahead to the end of the bridge, and I’ll catch up with you on foot.”

I waited until he’d gotten several yards ahead of me, then I turned toward the railing. I looked out over the river with my towering height, saying to myself, “They say I’m not good at anything in life. But now I’m going to do something that nobody else would dare to!” I cast a stony glance at the water, and in a flash, what I was about to do appeared in my mind’s eye. Everything has to happen within a matter of seconds, I thought. Otherwise, passersby are sure to intervene and prevent me from doing what I intend to. I’ll climb over the railing, then throw myself down. As long as I’ve taken matters firmly in hand, that won’t take more than a few moments. My heart shrank as I looked down at the flowing water. When viewed from above, it looked swift and turbulent, and my head began to spin. One … two … a chill went through my body. What do you suppose it feels like to fall from a height? How does your body collide with the water? How is it when you plunge beneath its watery depths? And how long does it take for the ordeal of drowning to be over? My grip on the railing grew tighter and I said aloud, “Everything has to be over right away.” In reality, however, I was retreating, and my resolve was giving out. I’d been defeated by the thoughts and images that I’d allowed to thwart my purpose. Someone who intends to commit suicide mustn’t think or imagine. I’d begun thinking and imagining, and I’d been defeated. My heart beating wildly, my hold on the railing went limp. Then I moved away from it with a dazed sigh. My wobbly legs carried me to the end of the bridge where the carriage was waiting for me, and I got back in. Dog-tired, I sprawled out on the seat until I was overcome with sleep.

For years I wondered what it was that delivered me from death on that morning. My heart would say: It was fear! While my tongue would say: It was God, the Most Forgiving and Merciful!

No doubt I’d overstated my reasons for committing suicide, since I graduated from primary school at the end of that year.