Requiem: Cloud of thoughts that rained ink unto paper. Page 2

  10 minutes later, Zaki was running towards the polyclinic, he only had one thing in his mind, Revenge.

  In the clinic, a crying, bleeding Amina holding Roqaya in her hands and trying to breast-feed her. Zaki storms in saying; “ Eih el hebab da (What the hell was that?)”. “Mesh be 2eedy ya Zaki manta 3aref (It’s not my fault, Zaki)”, whispers Amina. “Omal 3’altet meeeeeeeeeen? ( So who’s fault is it?)”, says Zaki slapping his wife on the face, and adding “ Ana maleesh da3wa bel bet di, be3eeha be 50 geneih( I have nothing to do with this girl, sell her for 50 pounds)”.

  Chapter 2

  Now, Roqaya is one year old, a year she spent fighting hunger, flu, and diarrhea. If you see her, misery would fill your heart. Her non-combed yellow hair. Her blackish eyes, and her wrinkled skin, her bowed legs. After, the village’s Sheikh ( religious scholar) talked Zaki into keeping his child and promised him that God will give him a huge reward for his patience, and that an awaited Son will sure be his reward. Roqaya never had the love of her father. It was his negligence all the way.  

  Amina, lost between her job as a maid in the Omda’s house and back as a maid in her own house. Where she serves her 7 daughters, their father and the mother in law, didn’t have much to give to her infant except her constant thinking about having her circumcision done, A habit she kept with all the older sisters.

  For her, chastity is all these girl would have, and the only security for their future. Isn’t that what brought her a husband. In their world, it’s doom’s day if a girl has gone astray into what they see in these series on national TV. So, despite the efforts of the authorities to prohibit this act and prosecute those who practice it, with again those fat fancy ladies who used to appear during election time, through the unreadable books among the ignorant public in the village and the undistributed also unreadable flyers. The calls by Sheikh Salam among the villagers are more well heard and more practiced.

  So according to the sheikh’s advice, Amina visited Khadra, the village’s midwife asking for help about her new campaign. Sadly for her, Khadra had to decline because this time unlike the 6 previous times, the police are keeping an eye on Khadra and its practice. Yet, Khadra told her that the doctor at the polyclinic would do the operation for a nice hot meal of molokheya (Greenish kind of soup eaten mixed with rice in Egypt).

  The next morning, Amina was knocking the polyclinic’s door, with Roqaya on her right shoulder and the molokheya pot on her head, supported with her left hand.

  Doctor Samir, works in the village’s polyclinic for 3 years now, he makes 67 (about 10 dollars) pounds a month as a salary. Yet he makes a fortune doing circumcisions, and distributing Egyptian Viagra like pills among the male impotent public. Sometimes morphine derivatives find their way in his “Over The Counter” drugs for young public. Yet his main income happens to be the tips he get every now and then, when he tells the suspicious newlywed groom that his newlywed bride who fails to produce the anticipated rose of honor, was actually the purified virgin he was expecting. How does he do that? Well, he tells everybody they were virgins, he gets money for that.

  So, the sight and smell of the molokheya pot was appealing for doctor Samir, who started yelling at the nurse to get the room set for the circumcision process.The room, as filthy as it was one year before, had nothing prepared for any kind of emergency. Yet, Amina’s mind would never comprehend that her daughter’s life is on the stake. Ensuring her chastity is a must.

  An hour later, Roqaya screaming out of pain, not knowing what she did to deserve such a torture. Her mum is kissing the nurse and thanking the doctor for his favor. Roqaya’s marital life as a human being in anywhere in the world is over.

  Chapter 3

  Roqaya is 4 years now, new changes took place all over the town. Zaki, the “once upon a time “electrician, decided that he had a calling from the heavens to be the village’s Imam, following the death of sheikh Salam, who died a month before in a freaky accident in which fire burnt the house of Zouba the village’s belly dancer, leaving 3 victims: Salam, Zouba and Wahiba her 68 year old maid.

  Zaki, a 4th grade dropout, had no prior knowledge whatsoever to religion. He only memorizes a couple of short Quran suras, which he recites in his new habit of praying. Nevertheless, he thinks that Salam’s promised reward would only arrive if he starts pleasing the heavens. And what better job would his heavens want, than someone who’d set rules and enforce them on everyone in the village.

  Roqaya was outside the house playing with her broken doll, still miserable as she was 3 years ago, with her still non-combed hair, her shredded red turning pink dress and her pants with mud all over them. Where the young 5 year old boy, Ahmed, the son of Reda the grocer, came with his old ball and sent her to Roqaya. 

  Roqaya, not used to have anybody to play with, stood still for a moment, not knowing what to do. She shot the ball back to Ahmed. “Esmek eih? (What’s your name?)”, Ahmed says. “Roqaya” she replies, when a slap fell into her face.

  It was her father Zaki, who started babbling and swearing at his daughter. “Ya bent el kalb ya fagra (You bitch)”. A series of punches and slaps followed on his daughter’s face until her cheeks turned as pink as her dress was. 

  He pulled her back into the house from her hair. Threw her on the bed, and he shouted “Manteesh 7’arga men el beit da tany (You’re never ever leaving this house again)”.

  At night, after the evening prayers, Zaki (now with a long beard), kept talking to Reda the grocer about the act of the devil he stopped at noon. “ La ya 3am enta, 7oosh weladak 3an banaty, e7na ben7’af rabena (Don’t let your son ever talk to my daughter again, we fear God)”.

  Chapter 4

  Roqaya is 7 year old now. Her father made her wear a hijab (Headscarf) when she goes out. Of course, Zaki’s daughters get only the sight of the door on his permission and in the most necessary circumstances.

  Last year, Only Roqaya’s oldest sister Fatma was able to go out with her parents to attend her grandmother’s burial. Also, the third sister Kawthar made it to the outer world 6 months ago when she had epileptic seizures and a visit to doctor Samir was a must before two successive visits to “Awleya2 Allah El Sale7een” (Famous Cairo mosques) so that this spell of the devil should be removed.

  Roqaya now helps her mother in Omda’s house, as school was obviously declined as an option by her father. Still miserable to see the young girl wearing the same dress, now pink turning white, and the same pants with the same mud on. With only one new garment to wear, the tablecloth, turned headscarf.

  Roqaya helps her mother with the dishes and the laundry from dawn each morning till the noon prayers when she can get to have a loaf of bread and a piece of cheese as her breakfast.

  Later on she helps her mother set the table for the Omda and cleaning up before having a 30 minute walk back home, to set another table to Sheikh Zaki (as people call him nowadays) and her miserable sisters.

  Being used to sleeping right on the floor, as the parents occupy the only bed. The sisters always complain of backaches, something away from the norm to their young ages. Roqaya after her busy daily schedule has too little to say if any about where she sleeps, because the misery of the days are only swept away by the nightly pauses of life.

  Maybe, that’s how Roqaya’s love to death started as a remedy for the torture and the sadness she knew life as.

  Chapter 5

  Roqaya is in metamorphosis. She’s becoming a woman. She’s thirteen. In this age all over the world, the young ladies have this nice chitchat with their parents maybe with their teachers about what’s happening to their bodies. Not for Roqaya.

  When Amina found out about Roqaya’s changes. She told Zaki. Who became suddenly irritable. He already had her sister Fatma married at the age of fourteen to Ali, a doorman in Cairo, Manal at the age of fifteen to Abdullah a fellow brother who prays with Zaki in the mosque, whose job is not known, Faten at the age of 15 to Gamal, a driver in ismailiyah, Haneya at the age of thirteen to Doctor Sam
ir (now owns a satellite TV receiver installation company) who was already 20 years older. After the death of Kawthar; during her latest trip to Cairo mosques. He has two things and only two things in mind.

  That was getting Sayeda and Roqaya married as soon as possible. Without a shadow of a doubt, girls in this world never had a choice of their own about their future husbands. What choice do those little girls, who know nothing of this world but misery and despair have?

  These girls who were deprived from any connection to the outer world. Even through the imaginary lives on TV. As TV was forbidden by Allah, as Zaki stated long time ago.

  They even might have not known that they had other chances in life. Their years of imprisonment only ends with starting new prisons. As Zaki made a good job choosing new wardens for his daughters cages. Every single one of the new wardens was an illiterate, stupid, condescending, sadistic son of a bitch who took all he has got on the weak child he took as a wife. Thus Zaki’s daughters faced a new phase of life. Where beating and humiliation were the only language.

  Chapter 6

  Roqaya is fifteen, there’s a celebration around. Roqaya is wearing white, she doesn’t understand what this means. She only grasps this means she’ll be gone, the way her older sisters were gone. She only hopes that she won’t end up like her sister Fatma who died giving birth last year. And not like Manal who ended up in a cave in Afghanistan with her husband Abdullah. And not like Faten who killed her husband last year for beating her every single night with the belt, and now facing the death penalty. And not even like Haneya who turned out to be the wife number five to doctor Samir, who’s imprisoned for practicing polygamy with more than four wives at a time.

  Her groom is the Omda himself, at the age of 59, the Omda decided it’s time to get new refreshment into his life and why not maybe he’ll get to have the boy, his first two wives failed to provide. And no one was more perfect than the chaste, and young Roqaya the daughter of Zaki.

  Zaki was so delighted when the Omda told him he decided to marry the first’s daughter. It’s a new step towards his welfare. Now it’s over, the misery he had having all these burdens of daughters gone, and having his wife divorced. He can marry a young beautiful girl too. And few extra pounds from the Omda would be excellent for his dreams.

  Roqaya had only one dream these days, her own burial, not because she was against this marriage. On the contrary, living at the Omda’s or at her Father’s made no big deal of a difference. But She only found happiness in her sleep. Again when her life went into a pause. So what about the eternal pause!

  Young girls danced in the all girls’ room, saying words about the beauty of the bride. The bride sat in complete silence.

  On the other hands, guns were fired all over the fields, where men were celebrating the Omda. An hour later, a woman runs around the village with the rose of honor in her hands. People congratulated Zaki and continued dancing for a while before the police arrive to catch some 23 men including Sheikh Zaki for possessing pot and illegal drugs.

  Chapter 7

  “Yala ya seti, 7’aleena ne7’las (C’mon madam, let us finish”, says the young female doctor, who was brought by the Omda to deliver his wife. It’s not appropriate anymore to have male doctors around women.

  Nagwa, The Omda’s first wife, together with Aziza his second wife and Tahani his eldest daughter, are peaking through the door, to take a glance at the baby’s secret organ.

  With completely understandable emotions, the three of them are hoping it’s a girl, so they get to have decent amount of money should the Omda die. If it’s a boy he gets the half, and they are lost.

  “Yalla (Push)” says the young doctor once more. “ Aho tale3 aho (I see a head)”, she adds.

  “Di bent (It’s a girl)”

  Derailment

  Man is a very unique species. Not for being able to talk or to laugh or to think like most scientists say and proved. But for the unstoppable changes he/she undergoes through his/her life. So I can frankly conclude that we are born as someone and we die completely different others.

  The degree of changes varies between each and every person and his ability to learn and attain different traits throughout his lifetime. I am not saying that all changes we undergo are on the positive sides of our axes. On the contrary we do regret lots of the changes we went through and we never can go back to square one.

  The feeling of the change is also completely different. And I totally think it differs according to the degree and the distance we move away from the starting point. Talking about the hair color we have changed, the beard we have grown, the language we now speak, a skill we can perform or even the type of clothes we now wear. That's to say that to have a significant change a certain time is needed and another not less significant time is needed to think about the significant time we needed to make the change. Lost? Well, me too. I mean that when we talk about our childhood years we remember the dreams, the haircuts, the glasses, the clothes, the friends, etc. We can tell what a huge difference there is in comparison to the moment we live. That always brings lots and lots of nostalgic emotions even if the past was a worse part of our histories but still it is the distance that we crossed that brings the tears in our eyes.

  Some people and some places are very effective in causing a change to nations. It's not always because of their charismatic characters or the righteous path they'd draw with their words. It's merely because we let them do this. Deliberately we shut our brains down and listen to whatever shit they'd bring. Why do we do this? And why do we do this in masses? I think it's because the white-hearted creatures we were born as die in our early years because of the polluted milieu of hypocrisy, lies and individualism. To ride the roller coaster is only the way this and that have already done to reach this aspired place.

  Waking up as a middle-aged guy, thinking about the person I once was, the person I should have been and comparing that to reality is exactly like a guy waking up of a coma and finding himself an amnesiac not having a clue even about his own wife and kids.

  Being lost in the middle of the road, like a mad person gone astray. Looking at the manners that were lost, the elitist habits that are gone, the hobbies flushed down the toilets, the friends gone far away, the moments lost and even forgotten.

  Suddenly, a pause button is needed but not found. A rewind button is impossible and all you have is the play and forward buttons.  

  The only difference between both buttons is that the play button would give you a chance to make some changes, while the forward button means go ahead through the ride and lose whatever is remaining, and in this case a bottle of scotch would be my recommendation.

  One more mistake, which I think is such a common mistake, don't bother looking around. It's the only a fool thing to do, and I always do, finding this son of a bitch got a raise out of the blues when he's too dumb to count his ongoing salary. Or for instance this dumb, dumber and dumbest kind of person suddenly settled around between New York, Paris and LA, when he doesn't even know how to speak his mother tongue not to mention basic English or French.

  On this matter, I reached out an agreement with my inner self. God works in mysterious ways. I can't complain. Ways too weird for my comprehension. But who says everything should be understood.

  O Changes, O lifetime, O my lost dreams, O my pause button, What did I do to myself ending up a mediocre doctor in less than mediocre hospital in a weird kind of country spending hours every day explaining the unexplainable to those who are beyond the most ignorant, taking the blame for a failing system I was forced to play a part in, and taking blame for being a part of the system I hate I became a part of. O laziness, O my big ass, why am I still stuck? Looking backwards maybe three years ago, I was walking on the right path. I derailed.

  Did that derailment come out with any goods? It sure did. But on whose account? What was the price?

  The pursuit of sadness

  It is destiny. My destiny. I don't want to talk about others', everybod
y knows what his is. And they know more about their lives. I don't want to talk about others. Although they are the ones who wrote my book of life. My autobiography should be written by others, and when I am gone, It would be easy to find out the life I lived. Not so much of a life anyway. A life should be full of achievements and, what were mine?

  It is destiny. My destiny. The warmth of my body. Is a normal thing when you have all these things going on in my systems. It gives you warmth with every single time you feel the pain. And your eyes and cheeks know that warmth every time a tear is shed. Who cares?

  It is destiny, My destiny. The continuos failures masked by phony successes. What matters the most? Apparently in everything that matters, I have to fail. Because it is destiny.

  So with every time I try to avoid what is written. It's Mockery. Maybe from the heavens, maybe from the skies and surely from the people around. Let him go. He's a failure. It is his destiny.

  It is destiny. To be controlled. You might think I am in charge. Again I was trying to escape, but back to my cage.