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 living room, 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 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. I 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.”
“I’ll wait.” The young man sat down on the blue plastic stool while his companion waited out with the cables as Majid got busy with the job. The dusty old leather shoe whined and hissed as the needle and thread passed through it. In less than seven minutes the trap was closed. The young man tried it on, smiled in satisfaction and looked at Majid.
“How much?”
“Fifty fils only.”
“Only! Fucking bedoun is damn expensive!” Cursed the youth, while rummaging his pocket. Majid looked hard at him without flinching. He knew he was the cheapest cobbler around.
“Here, take, dog!” The young man grinned sardonically, revealing nicotine stained teeth as he tossed the coin. Majid pretended to be deaf. He clenched his jaws and his heart burned to retaliate but he knew it would do him no good. “Shukran.”
The Egyptian muttered something inaudible on his way out and joined his companion for a smoke. “Masris! I’m sorry about that, Majid,” said Aziz.
Majid smiled weakly as he secured his shumag. “I have learned in life that when one is powerless, there is nothing greater than patience and forgiveness. They call me ‘dog’ but I did not see any one of them when this country was burning!” He blinked away the tears of pain. Aziz shook his head and took up the newspaper. He skimmed through the headlines. Something caught his eye: CABINET MOVES TO GRANT CITIZENSHIP
“Majid, there is some good news! The cabinet is trying to get approval to grant citizenship to bedouns. You will no longer be bidūn jinsiyya!”
“How many times has this circus now happened, Aziz? We are tired of this so called ‘movement in parliament.’ This week I took Jamila to many hospitals. They refused to treat her, reason being that she is a bedoun.”
“Oh.”
“Is that a crime? Does it make her less human?”
“I’m sorry about it, but you know, it is not easy. Your situation is so tricky. While some of you were here longer than us citizens, but out in the desert as bedouins, others wormed in after burning their papers, in the hope of getting benefits bestowed on citizens. Now, how to sift the legitimate from the illegitimate? Even King Solomon would have found it a tough job.”
“True. What you say is true. But this wait, this injustice…”
“Look, Majid, in a war, it is not only the bad people who are killed. Good people suffer too. I’m not justifying it, but that’s how it works.”
“I remember my father telling me about how he had participated in the six day war of 1967. To raise an army they used us bedouns. But after the war, the bedouns went back to the desert. My father never received any benefits. He felt used. Some others had rewards, but they were very minimal when compared to what the citizen army personnel got. We are discriminated against atrociously; we are seen as being low, even lower than that of animals. That has affected our dignity.” Majid sighed, “Yesterday Badru was arrested for selling watermelons.”
Aziz looked up from the newspaper and adjusted his glasses. There was nothing he could say. Luckily for him, adhan for Dhuhr filled the air. The two men spread their prayer mats and knelt down observing Qibla towards Makkah. The müezzins’ melodious chants reverberated in the stillness of that winter noon. The streets were less noisy for the next fifteen minutes as life came to a temporary standstill only to resume the flurry once the prayer was over. The two men - one citizen and the other bedoun - lost in worship bowed their heads before one God. He who dwells in the heavens and in the hearts of men would not have seen any difference between them. While folding his mat after prayers, Majid looked deeply pensive.
“Why so thoughtful?” asked Aziz.
“I was just thinking whether we bedouns should be worshipping a bedoun God!”
“Shush! What a thing to say!” chided Aziz.
“I sometimes wonder if He is deaf and blind. Has He not taken long? He seems to be hiding His face in shame. Our souls have grown weary. That’s why I…”
“Don’t let despair make you utter blasphemy! Which God should I be praying to then? The God who watched over my home and family, watched them perish. But that does not mean I have to look for another God. Our life situations teach us many great truths,” said Aziz patting Majid reassuringly on the shoulder.
“Is there justice?”
“I’m sure there is, but we need to open our mind’s eye to see and feel it. Sometimes we may never understand it. My life in the camp has taught me that there is nothing greater than being of service.”
Aziz looked at his crestfallen friend. He could see nothing but misery and a state of desperation brought on by the wait that has taken long to be answered. He knew Majid prayed for freedom in its most simple yet intricate sense. He could not even vaguely imagine the disabilities of a life with no privileges; of not having an identity. Like a body with no face. He saw pain and anguish hovering in those dark eyes. Sadly, there was nothing he, Aziz, could do. All he had learned was to show kindness, which of course was a great thing but quite useless in the context. “The day will come soon,” assured Aziz.
“I’m just reminded of the day my father died. At that time I did not know that he was a corpse with no identity; that he only had rights to be buried incognito just like his father. The same might happen for me. Not that it matters much, but it is a good thing for the future generations to see the resting place of their forefathers; for that sense of belonging. As for us, we belong to nowhere. From nowhere, going nowhere, with nothing to prove our existence,” said Majid.
“Please don’t speak like that. Have some hope.”
. “It is the same hope that has disillusioned me.”
“Let’s have some lunch,” urged Aziz in an attempt to deviate from the prickly topic. He adjusted his ogal and brought out his lunch pack. Majid went out to get his khubz and laban. On special days and during Ramadan, he survived on the food from the mosque. If possible he managed to fill a plastic bag to feed his family and some friends. Usually, he lived on the zakat of Ali Baba bakers, who gave away khubz and laban as lunch for hundred people. Labour class Egyptians, Bangladeshis, Pakistanis, Indians, all queued up to partake in Ali Baba’s generosity. Each would get a pack of four warm khubz and a small bottle of laban. It might not be a balanced diet, but that food kept many alive for years. Majid hurried back to Aziz’s shop where the latter awaited his return.
Every morning Aziz woke up early and prepared his breakfast and lunch. And he took care to make an extra portion when it came to chicken or lamb. He was only happy to share food with Majid. The aroma of spiced lamb curry filled the shop as Aziz opened his lunch box. He spooned out a generous portion for Majid who thought of his family at Panar.
Faridah utilized her skill in stitching. The money she made from it helped her buy meat for the family and medicines when the children fell ill. A rich Arab woman liked the embroidery she did and wanted more of it. It hurt her fingers and put a strain on her eyes, but she made new pieces for the precious small earnings. Since they did not attend school, the children were at home or in the vicinity, frolicking or bickering with other children. The housework, the embroidery and the three children were quite a handful, but she managed it all with much fortitude. Sometimes the rich woman gave her milk powder and flour and even old clothes for Jamila, Siraj and Omar, which she thankfully accepted. It was a relief given their circumstances.
“Nice lamb. Have some of my khubz. It tastes great with lamb,” offered Majid.
“Then who will eat this rice? Next time I’ll come prepared,” smiled Aziz.
Majid looked at Aziz and said, “Indeed, God lives.”
That night, after ’Isha prayers, as he recounted the day’s events, Majid told his wife of his hope that God will answer his prayers soon. He looked up at the dark expanse of the winter sky. The wind whistled and died among the sand dunes. Camels loitered outside the settlement. He sat near the window, prayed in his heart and watched the sky. The clouds drifted southwards and a distant star twinkled. His joyous heart leapt like a hornbill’s at the first drop of rain. The last time he had seen a star scintillate that brightly was the night before Aziz gave him space in his shop. He remembered that bygone time when he had almost decided to kill his family and himself in the face of impending uncertainty. He knocked on many doors with his unimpressive bag of tools but was turned down, unsurprisingly. One day he was tired after his hunt for shelter and sat in front of a shop which happened to be Aziz’s. It was nearing noon and the sun was hot. Aziz asked him in, gave him some water and they talked. That was the beginning of a new phase in Majid’s life.
“Baba, why are you smiling?” asked Omar looking up at the night sky. Siraj and Jamila huddled around their father, looking at him in wide-eyed wonder.
Faridah looked at her husband, smiled and got on with her chores. Majid looked at his children for a while and grinned. Trembling with a happiness that he could not translate, he hugged them tight. He knew in his heart that he was given a promised sign. The day shall come. Friday morning dawned with a lull in the air. Majid felt an unusual urge to go to the mosque in the city. After noon prayers, on his way back, he saw somebody lying face down on the roadside. Majid turned him over and was shocked to see dried blood on the young boy’s face. He scooped up the unconscious boy, waved down a truck and headed for the nearest hospital. Once there, he handed him over to the casualty ward and waited anxiously outside. He feared he would get into trouble. As Majid was about to retreat, a doctor talking into his mobile, gestured for him to wait. His heart fluttered till he felt nauseous and dizzy. Sweat broke on his forehead and his throat went dry.
A dazzling black jaguar screeched to a halt outside the hospital. A flustered looking middle aged Arab got out from the car. His countenance was the epitome of worry. He adjusted his ogal, wrapped his black robe that kept on slipping as he hurried in. Majid watched in trepidation as the Arab swept past him and disappeared into the casualty unit. Although he knew in his heart that he had done no wrong, an unknown fear gripped his innermost being. As he was about to gather all his strength to run away, the Arab came out with the doctor whom Majid had seen earlier speaking into the mobile phone. He pointed at Majid and there was some animated talk between him and the Arab who gestured for Majid to come over. Majid stood rooted to the spot. The Arab came close to him and took Majid’s mottled hand in his and kissed it. Majid was too stupefied to resist or understand what was happening.
“Allahu Akbar! Otherwise my son would have died on the roadside. He is the one who sent you in time. What’s your name?” asked the Arab with quivering lips.
“Majid.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a cobbler.”
“Where do you live?”
“In Panar. I’m a bedoun.”
The Arab looked stunned and pondered over something before recovering his voice.
“Who do you have?”
“My wife and three small children.”
“Why don’t you pick them and come to my home? You can be my gardener. I shall take care of your children’s education and your wife shall have some comfort.”
Majid could not believe his ears. Suddenly he remembered the twinkling star. Surely it was more than a coincidence. He knew that God had decided to put an end to his misery. His face streaming with tears, he fell to his knees and bowed to Makkah.