As in days past the caravan moved off with unhurried majesty. We plunged into the gentle darkness of dawn, not this time to drink deeply of poetry but to relive the blows from memories of prison, the sorrows of a wasted life. When I saw the shapes of my companions, it was a new generation of traders that I was viewing, but energy still persisted, wealth increased, and honor and glory still stalked the adventurous. As for the dreamers, perplexity was for them. My former failures passed before me: the moment I had quit my homeland, mourning Halima, the moment I had been turned out of Mashriq, weeping for Arousa, and the moment I had said farewell to Haira, bemoaning the loss of happiness and youth. I became aware of the east and saw it surging with red rosewater, while the face of the sun, as had been its habit throughout these past twenty years, swelled forth. The desert revealed itself as endless, and summer unloaded its heat. We continued our journey for about a month. At one of the rest stops I asked the owner of the caravan about al-Qani ibn Hamdis, and he said, “God rest his soul.” I then asked about Sheikh Maghagha al-Gibeili, but he had not heard of him, nor had any of the traders in the caravan.
We made camp at Shama, preparatory to entering Halba. My hair and beard had begun to grow and healthy blood was again running in my veins. We continued on our way until we saw the great walls in the lunar light.
The director of customs advanced towards us. He wore a light jacket suited to the mild summer weather. “Welcome to Halba,” he said joyfully, “the capital of the land of Halba, the land of freedom.”
I was amazed to hear the accursed word wherever I went; I was amazed too that his words were devoid of any warning note, declared or hidden.
“The first land to welcome the newcomer without a warning,” I said to the owner of the caravan.
“It’s the land of freedom,” he answered, laughing, “but as a foreigner your security lies in being on your guard.”
They took me off to the inn for guests. On the way, under the light of the moon, the city’s landmarks were scattered in a grandeur that suggested a new panorama. So too did the great number of sedan chairs coming and going in the light of flares at such a late hour. The entrance to the inn stood erect, broad, and tall under a roofed gallery from which hung candelabra that dazzled the eyes. The building itself looked high and vast, beautifully and richly constructed. My room gave me another surprise, with its blue walls, sumptuous carpet, raised brass bedstead with its embroidered coverings, and other things usually to be found only in upper-class houses in my homeland. It disclosed to me eloquently a civilization without doubt very many degrees superior to that of Haira. I found myself wondering where and how Arousa was now living. Before I had immersed myself in my memories, I was paid a visit by a middle-aged man wearing a blue jacket and short white trousers. “Qalsham,” he said to me, smiling, “the manager of the inn.”
I introduced myself to him and he inquired politely if there was anything he could do for me.
“Nothing before I go to sleep now,” I said frankly, “except to let me know the rates for staying here.”
“Three dinars the night,” he said, smiling.
I was horrified at the figure and told myself that everything in Halba appeared to enjoy freedom, including the prices. As usual, I paid for ten nights in advance.
I went to bed, and not since leaving my homeland did I enjoy so welcoming a one. I rose early and breakfast was brought to me in my room; it consisted of bread, milk, cheese, butter, honey, and eggs. I was astonished by both the quality and the quantity of the food and was ever more convinced that I was visiting a new and exciting world. Leaving the room, I was stirred by heartfelt longings and by the hope that I might also come across Arousa, so that destiny’s game might be completed. Qalsham met me at the entrance to the inn. “Sedan chairs are available to the traveler for seeing the important sights,” he said.
I thought a while, then said, “I’d like to start on my own and take it as it comes.”
From the first instant I felt I was in a city so large that the individual melted into anonymity. In front of the inn was a vast square, on the surrounds of which stood buildings and shops; at the far end, in the middle, there was a bridge across a river leading to a small square from which large streets branched out, stretching away endlessly, their sides bordered by buildings and trees. Where was I bound for? Where was Arousa to be found? How could I proceed without a guide? I allowed my feet to lead me freely in this city of freedom, and I was enchanted by all that met my gaze at every step. A network of streets without beginning or end, rank upon rank of buildings: houses, palaces, shops as numerous as the desert sands exhibiting countless varieties of goods, factories, places of business, and places of entertainment. There were numerous parks of every kind and description, and endless streams of men and women and sedan chairs: the rich and the great, and the poor too, though these were several degrees better off than the poor of Haira and Mashriq; and not a street without a mounted policeman. The clothes of the men and the women were varied, and beauty and elegance were much in evidence. Modesty was to be found alongside emancipation that was close to nakedness, while seriousness and gravity went hand in hand with gaiety and simplicity. It was as if I were meeting for the first time human beings who had their own existence, their significance, their pride in themselves. But how could a person hope to come across Arousa in this raging sea without shores? I walked, grew tired, and rested in the parks, feeling all the time that I had not yet started. I regretted that I had not taken one of the sedan chairs for travelers that Qalsham had mentioned.
However, I saw two interesting incidents. The first was an isolated incident in a public park, when I saw policemen questioning some people; I then learned that the gardener had come across the body of a murdered woman in a corner of the park. Similar things often occur everywhere. The second thing I saw, though, aroused my disconcerted astonishment: the passing of a demonstration of men and women shouting their demands, while the police followed them without interfering in any way. I recollected a similar demonstration I had witnessed in my homeland, which was on its way to the Sultan to complain about increased taxes and the straitened material situation. But this demonstration was demanding legal recognition of homosexual relations. I could believe neither my eyes nor my ears. I was convinced I was going around in a strange world and that a vast chasm separated me from it, and I was overcome by fear of the unknown. Noontime approached and the temperature rose to its highest. Nonetheless, Halba’s summer was bearable. I was asking the way back to the inn when a voice rang out with the words “God is greatest!”
My heart jumped violently, kindling a fire in my senses. Good Lord, this was a muezzin giving the call to prayers! Did this mean that Halba was a Muslim country? Guided by the direction of the voice, I rushed off until I found a mosque at the entrance to a street. I had not heard such a sound or seen such a sight for a quarter of a century. I was being born anew, and it was as though I were discovering God for the first time. I entered the mosque, made my ablutions, and, taking my place in the ranks of those praying, I performed the noon prayer with a glowing joy, a tearful eye, and a happy heart. When the prayers were over the people left, but I stood pinned to the ground till there was no one left in the mosque but the imam and I. I hurried towards him and clasped him in my arms, kissing him on both cheeks warmly. He submitted to my enthusiasm, quietly smiling, then muttered, “Welcome, stranger.”
We sat down not far from the mihrab and introduced ourselves. He was Sheikh Hamada al-Sabki, a true native inhabitant of Halba. Breathlessly, my voice shaking, I said, “I didn’t imagine that Halba was a Muslim country.”
“Halba is not a Muslim country,” he said gently. Having read my astonishment, he added, “Halba is a free country. All religions are to be found in it. It has Muslims, Jews, Christians, and Buddhists; in fact it also has atheists and pagans.”
“How has this come about, Master?” I asked, my astonishment increased.
“Halba was originally heathen,” he said simply, “and its state of freedom gave to all who wanted it the opportunity of propagating their religion. The various religions spread among its people, so that today there is only a minority of heathens in some of the oases.”
“What religion does the state observe?” I asked with increasing interest.
“The state has nothing to do with religion.”
“How, then, are the different creeds and sects reconciled?”
“All are treated on the basis of complete equality,” he said simply.
“And are they content with that?” I asked him, as though remonstrating against it.
“Every faith preserves within itself its own traditions, and mutual respect rules social relations, no distinction being given to any one faith, even if the head of state is of it. Talking of which, I would inform you that our present head is heathen.”
An astonishing and thought-provoking country!
“A freedom of which I have never previously heard,” I said thoughtfully. “Are you aware, Master, of the demonstration demanding legal recognition of homosexual relations?”
“It also contained Muslims,” he said, smiling.
“They are no doubt penalized by their coreligionists.”
The sheikh removed his turban and rubbed his hand across his head, then put it back and said, “Freedom is the sacred value accepted by everyone.”
I protested. “This freedom has overstepped the boundaries of Islam.”
“But it is also sacred in the Islam of Halba.”
Frustrated, I said, “If our Prophet were to be resurrected today he would reject this side of your Islam.”
“And were he, may the blessings and peace of God be upon him, to be resurrected,” he in turn inquired, “would he not reject the whole of your Islam?”
Ah, the man had spoken the truth and had humbled me by his question.
“I have traveled much through the lands of Islam,” the imam said.
“It was for this purpose,” I said sadly, “that I undertook my journey, Sheikh Hamada. I wanted to see my homeland from afar, and to see it in the light of other lands, that I might perhaps be able to say something of benefit to it.”
“You have done well,” said Sheikh Hamada approvingly. “May God grant you success. You will be taking from our land more than one lesson.”
“If you will permit, we shall have other opportunities of exchanging views,” I said, taken up again by a traveler’s curiosity. “But for now, could you tell me about the system of government in this extraordinary land?”
“It’s a unique system,” said Sheikh Hamada. “You have not met it in anything you’ve seen, and you will not meet it in what you will yet see.”
“Not even in the land of Gebel?”
“I know nothing about the land of Gebel to be able to make the comparison. What you should know is that the head of our state is elected in accordance with political, moral, and scientific specifications. He rules for a period of ten years, after which he retires and is replaced by the chief judge. New elections are then held between the retired head of state and the new nominees.”
“A good system,” I exclaimed enthusiastically.
“It would have been more appropriate for the Muslims to have propagated it before others. The head of state has an assembly of experts in all fields, whose opinion is of assistance to him.”
“And is this opinion binding?”
“If there is some difference of opinion they all are retired and elections are held again.”
“What an excellent system!” I exclaimed.
“As for agriculture, industry, and trade,” continued the sheikh, “they are carried out by those citizens most capable.”
“And so it is that there are both rich and poor,” I said, remembering some of the scenes I had seen.
“There are also unemployed people, robbers, and murderers,” said the sheikh.
“Perfection is with God alone,” I said meaningfully with a smile.
“But we have made great headway on that path,” he said seriously.
“If only you were to apply the canonical law of Islam!”
“But you apply it!”
“The fact is that it is not applied,” I insisted.
“Here commitment is to the Authority, applied both in the letter and in the spirit.”
“But the state is committed solely to maintaining order and to defense, so it seems to me.”
“And public projects which individuals are unable to undertake, such as parks, bridges, and museums. It runs schools which are free to outstanding students who are poor, as well as free hospitals, but most activities are carried on by individuals.”
I thought for a while, then asked, “Perhaps you consider yourselves the happiest of people?”
He nodded his head seriously. “It’s a relative judgment, Sheikh Qindil, but one cannot generalize with complete confidence so long as there are rich and poor and criminals. Apart from which our life is not devoid of anxiety: there are conflicting interests between us and Haira in the north and Aman in the south. Thus this unique civilization is threatened and could be wiped out in a single battle; even with victory we could go into a decline if we were to suffer great losses. Also, the religious differences are not always resolved peacefully.”
He asked me about my journey and I summarized for him what I had encountered since leaving my homeland. The man was saddened for me and wished me success. “I would advise you,” he said, “to hire a sedan chair because the sights of the capital are too numerous for you to see by yourself. We also have many other cities that are worth seeing. As for finding Arousa in our land, it would be easier to reach the land of Gebel.”
“I know that perfectly well,” I said sorrowfully, “but I have another request: I wish to visit the sage of Halba.”
“What do you mean?” he said in astonishment. “Mashriq has its sage and Haira its sage, but here the centers of learning are teeming with sages. With any one of them you will find the knowledge you wish to have, and more.”
Thanking him for his conversation and his friendship, I rose to my feet saying, “The time has come for me to go.”
“But you will lunch with us at my house,” he said, taking hold of me.
I welcomed the invitation as an opportunity to immerse myself in the life of Halba. We walked together for about a quarter of an hour to a quiet street bordered by acacia trees on both sides. We made our way to a handsome building, on the second floor of which lived the imam. I did not doubt that the imam was from the middle class, but the beauty of the reception room gave an indication of the high standard of living in Halba.
I was faced by strange traditions which in my homeland would have been considered inconsistent with Islam, for I was welcomed by both the imam’s wife and his daughter, as well as by his two sons. We all sat down at the one table. Even glasses of wine were served. It was a new world and a new Islam. I was disconcerted by the presence of his wife and daughter, for since attaining adolescence I had not shared a dining table with any woman, not even with my own mother. I was uncomfortable and overcome by shyness, and I did not touch the glass of wine.
“Let him do as suits him,” the imam said, smiling.
“I see that you follow Abu Hanifa’s opinion,” I said.
“With us there is no necessity for that,” he said, “as individual judgments continue to be made, and we drink according to the weather and traditions, but we do not become drunk.”
His wife ran the household, but Samia, his daughter, was a pediatrician at a large hospital, while the two sons were preparing themselves to be teachers. Even more than at the nudity I had encountered in Mashriq, I was amazed at the unrestrained way in which the mother and her daughter took part in the conversation. They talked with a bold and spontaneous frankness just like men. Samia asked me about life in the land of Islam and about the role of women there, and when I had explained the situation she was extremely critical. She made comparisons with women at the time of the Prophet, and the role that they had played then. Then she said, “Islam is wilting away at your hands and you are just standing back and contemplating.”
I was also much impressed by her youthful beauty, my admiration the greater for the long time I had been deprived of female company and for my advancing years. The imam related to them something of my life, as well as of my journey and of what I sought to achieve from it.
“He is not, in any event,” he said, “one of those who give up.”
“You deserve acclaim,” said Samia to me.
I was greatly touched by this. Then, in the afternoon, we all performed the prayers behind the imam, and this caused me yet more thoughtful consideration.
The imam’s family occupied the depths of my soul even after I had physically left them. On the way back I was overtaken by a yearning for stability and for the warmth of love. Where was Arousa? Where the land of Gebel? Youth had been lost under the ground, so when would I settle down and forge a family and have children? Until when would I remain torn between two conflicting calls?
On the following day I hired a sedan chair, in which I was taken around the important sites of the capital, the centers of teaching, the citadels, the largest factories, the museums, the old quarters. The guide informed me that the people of the different religions acted out the lives of their prophets in the mosques, churches, and temples. I announced my desire to witness the life of our Prophet, may the blessings and peace of God be upon him, so he took me to the biggest of the capital’s mosques. I seated myself among the audience and his life was acted out from beginning to end in the courtyard of the mosque. I saw the Prophet, his Companions, and the polytheists: a boldness that approached blasphemy, but I felt I should see everything that deserved to be recorded. The person who performed the role of the Prophet so impressed me that I believed in him, and he affected me more than any vision I had had in my dreams. “What truly astonishes me,” I thought, “is that the faith of these people is so sincere and genuine.”
I invited the imam and his family to lunch at the inn, thus consolidating my attachment to them still further.
“I shall arrange a meeting for you with a sage of stature named Marham al-Halabi,” said the sheikh. I thanked him for his solicitude and we spent a pleasant time together, my heart beating all the while with joy and delight.
On the morning of the following day I left my room at the inn to visit the sage. However, I found many of the guests gathered at the entrance, engaged in animated conversations.
“There is news that one of Haira’s leaders has revolted against the king, but that he has failed and has fled to Halba.”
“Do you mean that he’s now living in Halba?”
“It is said that he is living in one of the oases of Halba.”
“The important thing is that the king of Haira is demanding that he be arrested and handed over.”
“But that is contrary to the principles of the Authority.”
“And his request has been turned down.”
“Will the matter end there?”
“There are whispers of war.”
“What if the land of Aman seizes the opportunity and attacks Halba?”
“That is the real problem.”
Anxiety crept deep into me, feeling I was being chased from one land to another by wars. I wanted to go to the sage but I was frightened when I found the square filled with various demonstrations, meeting up there as though it had been prearranged. I was forced to stay on in the entrance to the inn, looking and listening in a state of extreme astonishment: one demonstration was demanding the handing over of the commander who had fled, another giving dire warning to anyone who handed him over, another demanding that war be declared on Haira, and yet another demanding that peace be maintained at any price. I was overwhelmed by confusion and wondered what a ruler could do faced with such contradictory opinions. I waited until the square had cleared and then hurried to the house of the sage Marham, reaching it an hour late for my appointment. He met me in an elegant room that contained couches and chairs as well as cushions arranged on the floor. I found him to be a tall, thin man in his sixties, with white hair and beard, wrapped round in a lightweight blue cloak. Accepting my apologies for being late, he welcomed me, then inquired, “Would you prefer to sit on chairs or cushions?”
“I like cushions better,” I said, smiling.
“That’s the way with Arabs: I know you, I visited your countries and studied your cultural background.”
“I am not one of the scholars or philosophers of my country,” I said shyly, “but I like to acquire knowledge and it is for this that I undertook this journey.”
“That alone is sufficient,” he said with encouraging quietness. “And what is the goal of your journey?”
I thought for a time, then said, “To visit the land of Gebel.”
“I have not known anyone who has visited it or written about it.”
“Have you not thought of visiting it one day?”
“He who believes with his mind can dispense with everything.”
“The land of Gebel is not my final goal,” I added. “I would hope to return from there to my homeland with something that might benefit it.”
“I wish you success.”
“The fact is that I came here to listen, not to talk,” I said apologetically.
“Is there some question that worries you?”
“The life of every people is generally revealed through some basic idea,” I said with interest.
Sitting up straight, he said, “Thus lovers of knowledge such as yourself ask us how it is that we have fashioned our life.”
“And your life is worthy of provoking such a question.”
“The answer is very simple: we have fashioned it ourselves.” In concentrated silence I followed what he was saying. “There is no credit for this to any god. Our first thinker believed that the aim of life is freedom, and so from him there issued the first call for freedom, and this has continued generation after generation.” He smiled and was silent until his words became firmly embedded in my soul. Then he went on, “Thus I regard everything that liberates as good and everything that fetters as evil. We have set up a system of government that has freed us from despotism. We have dedicated our work to freeing ourselves from poverty. We have achieved outstanding advances in knowledge so that it may free us from ignorance. And so on and so on. It is a long road without an end.”
I very carefully committed to memory every word he said.
“The road to freedom was not an easy one,” he continued, “and we have paid the price for it in sweat and blood. We were prisoners of superstition and despotism. Pioneers came to the fore, heads fell, revolutions flared, civil wars broke out, until freedom and knowledge triumphed.”
I inclined my head in a gesture of admiration for what he was saying. He went on to criticize and make fun of the systems of government in Mashriq and Haira. He also made fun of the system in the land of Aman, which I had not yet visited. Even the land of Islam did not escape censure from his tongue. He must have seen a change on my face, for he grew silent, then said in an apologetic tone, “You are not used to freedom of opinion?”
“Within defined limits,” I said gently.
“Excuse me, but one should reconsider everything.”
“Your land is not without its poor people and deviants,” I said defensively.
“Freedom,” he said fervently, “is a responsibility which only the competent can be conversant with. Not everyone who belongs to Halba is equal to it. There is no place for the weak amongst us.”
“Does not mercy have a value in the same way as freedom?” I inquired hotly.
“This is what the people of the various religions are always saying, and it is they who encourage the weak to remain so. As for me, I find no meaning for such words as mercy or justice—we must first of all agree as to who deserves mercy and who deserves justice.”
“I disagree with you completely.”
“I know.”
“Perhaps you welcome war.”
“Yes, if you promise an increase in freedom,” he said clearly. “I have not the slightest doubt that a victory by us over Haira and Aman would be the best guarantee for the happiness of their two peoples. Speaking of which, I am for the principle of holy war in Islam.”
He went on to give an aggressive interpretation of it, so I applied myself to correcting his theory, but he gave a contemptuous wave of his hand and said, “You have a splendid principle, but you do not possess sufficient courage to acknowledge it.”
“To what religion do you belong, sage Marham?” I asked him.
“To a religion whose god is reason and whose prophet is freedom,” he answered, smiling.
“And all sages are like you?”
“I wish I were able to state that,” he said, laughing.
He brought me two books: the first was The Authority, or the principal law in Halba, while the second had been written by him and was entitled Storming the Impossible. “Read these two books,” he said, “and you will know Halba as it really is.”
I thanked him for his generosity and for his kind hospitality, then I bade him farewell and left. I had my lunch at the inn, where all tongues were eagerly speaking of the war. In the afternoon I went to the mosque and prayed behind Sheikh Hamada al-Sabki. He then invited me to sit with him and I accepted with pleasure. Then, smiling, he asked me, “Have you found Arousa?”
“Continuing to be attached to Arousa is a meaningless self-delusion,” I said seriously.
“That’s the truth,” he said, confirming my words. Then, after a short silence, he asked, “Will you continue on your journey with the first caravan?”
Feeling slightly embarrassed, I answered, “No, I want to stay on a while longer.”
“A good decision. And right in the circumstances, for the king of Haira has prohibited the passage of caravans between Haira and Halba in response to our refusal to hand over the escaped commander.”
I was astonished and perturbed.
“The big landowners and the men of industry and business are angry and held an important meeting with the ruler at which they demanded that war be declared,” said the sheikh.
“And what is the position of the land of Aman?” I inquired uneasily.
“It’s as though you had become an inhabitant of Halba!” said the sheikh, smiling. “The quarrel between Halba and Aman revolves round the ownership of certain wells in the desert between our two lands. The dispute will be settled in favor of Aman right away so that they will not think of treachery.”
“I am a stranger,” I said uneasily, “and warnings of war are flying all around me.”
“The best thing you can do is to remain in Halba. If your stay is extended, you have sufficient funds to allow you to engage in some lucrative business.”
I gave up the idea of joining the caravan despite my worry that it could be the last caravan for Aman. I was strongly drawn to Halba by the cleanliness of its atmosphere and by hopes of enjoying myself in the company of some of its inhabitants. I divided my time between sightseeing and the family of Sheikh Hamada al-Sabki. As for Arousa, she hovered as distantly from me as the stars of the night.
Daily life was saturated with thoughts of war. Many were upset at the concessions obtained by Aman without having shed a single drop of blood. The manager of the inn said sullenly, “Despite our sacrifice of the wells, Aman may still double-cross us.”
Nerves were strained to the utmost and I was infected by the same feelings as the people around me. I was terrified during the limited hours I spent on my own in the inn, when not sightseeing or with the al-Sabki family. My nerves rebelled and demanded that I find satisfaction in stability. And when Halba declared war and sent its army to Haira my nerves rebelled even more and I began to search around in the violent storm for some safe cave in which to take refuge. People talked of the war, comparing the forces of the two sides and their capabilities, while I strictly confined myself to looking for the means by which to obtain satisfaction in stability. I forgot everything but the objective close at hand, as if I were engaged in a race or being chased. I was encouraged in this by the atmosphere of the family and Samia’s sincere friendship, her admiration for me as a traveler, and her sympathy for my never-ending sorrows. “She is a girl of genuine worth,” I thought, “and there is no life for me without her.”
“I have put my trust in God and have decided to marry,” I said to the imam.
“Have you found Arousa?” he inquired.
“Arousa, in any event, is over and done with,” I said shyly.
“Have you chosen anyone?”
“What I seek lies with you,” I said quietly.
He gave an encouraging smile and asked, “Are you going to marry as someone who is traveling or as someone who stays in one place?”
“I do not think that the dream will vanish,” I said truthfully.
“Everything depends upon what she wants. Why don’t you yourself speak to her?”
“It is better for you to act on my behalf,” I said in embarrassment.
“So be it,” he said affectionately. “I appreciate your situation.”
I received her agreement the following day. I was impatient to proceed and they complied with my wishes. I rented a flat in the same street and we both furnished it together. The marriage contract was concluded in a quiet atmosphere befitting the circumstances of the war, and so we were brought together in the matrimonial home. My heart was gladdened and I recovered my balance. Encouraging news of the fighting came to us, but sadness forced its way into many hearts, and the prices of innumerable goods rose. Sheikh Hamada al-Sabki suggested I should go into partnership in a shop selling works of art and jewelry, and I agreed with enthusiasm. My partners were two Christian brothers, and their shop was located in the square where the inn was. The work required me to stay in the shop with them all day long, so—for the first time in my life—I devoted myself to work with commendable zeal. Samia would spend the same hours at the hospital.
“You must make Halba your permanent residence,” she said to me. “If you wish, complete your journey, but return here.”
“I may think of returning to my homeland,” I said frankly, “as I had planned to write my book, but there is nothing wrong in taking up residence here.”
“In that event,” she said joyfully, “I shall accompany you to your homeland and return with you. As for permanent residence, you will not find such a civilized place as Halba.”
I hesitated a while, then said, “It seems to me that my new work will bring us a good income. Wouldn’t it be a good idea to think about resigning from your work at the hospital?”
“In our land, work, for man and woman alike, is something sacred,” she said with a sweet laugh. “From now on you must think like a man of Halba.”
I gazed tenderly at her. “You are all but a mother, Samia.”
“That’s my affair,” she said gaily.
As summer rolled up the last of its pages, the fact that she was to become a mother became visibly apparent. The breezes of autumn arrived, replete with humidity and the shadows of clouds, and every day I discovered something new from the world of my beloved wife. She had pride without being conceited, she loved to discuss things, she was a true believer, and she was possessed of a strength at which my heart rejoiced.
Perhaps the most extraordinary thing I encountered in my journey was Halba’s type of Islam, in which there blazed the contradiction between outward and inward forms. “The difference between our Islam and yours,” Samia said to me, “is that ours has not closed the door of independent judgment, and Islam without independent judgment means Islam without reason.” What she said reminded me of the lessons of my old master.
However, I was in love with what was feminine in her and with her comeliness, which was so satisfying to my deprived natural impulses. I hungrily pursued that comeliness, heedless of anything else, though her personality was too strong and sincere to be dissolved in the beauty of a ripening woman. I found myself face to face with a brilliant intelligence, an enlightened mind, and exceptional goodness. I was convinced she was superior to me in many things, and this troubled me—I who had not seen woman other than as an object of enjoyment for man. My ardent love for her was commingled with fear and caution. Nevertheless reality demanded that I come to terms with the new situation and meet it halfway, in order to preserve both it and the happiness I had been granted.
“It is a mystery,” I said to myself, “that she should give herself to me with such generosity. I am truly fortunate.”
Disguising my inner fears, I once said to her, “Samia, you are a priceless treasure.”
She told me openly, “And the idea of a traveler who sacrifices security in the cause of truth and goodness intrigues me a great deal, Qindil.”
She brought to mind my slumbering project, wakening me from a sleep of honeyed ease, of love, of fatherhood and a civilized life. As though I were spurring on a person anesthetized to reality, I said, “I shall be the first person to write about the land of Gebel.”
“Perhaps you will find it more remote than the dream,” she said, laughing.
“Then I shall be the first to dispel the dream,” I said resolutely.
Autumn passed and winter came in. Its cold was no more severe than that of my homeland, but the rainfall was heavy and one saw the sun but rarely. The winds would blow strongly and noisily, and the thunder would roar loudly and would engrave itself deep within one’s soul. People talked of the war, which did not want to come to an end. I shared their feelings with sincerity and wished that freedom might gain the victory over the god-king and that my child might be born in the arms of freedom and security. Then one evening Samia joined me at home after work. She was aglow with a joy that brought to life that bloom of hers undermined by pregnancy. “Rejoice—it’s victory!” she exclaimed.
She took off her overcoat, saying, “Haira’s army has surrendered, the god-king has committed suicide, and Haira and Mashriq have become an extension of Halba. Freedom and civilization are now destined for their peoples.”
Joy entered my heart, though some of the fears engendered by experiences of the past made me inquire, “Will they not pay the price of defeat in some manner?”
“The principles of the Authority are clear,” she said enthusiastically. “There is no obstacle in the path of freedom apart from the land of Aman.”
“At any event,” I said innocently, “it did not double-cross you while you were enduring a long war.”
“That’s true,” she said sharply, “but it is an obstacle in the way of freedom.”
The day of the return of the victorious army was a memorable one. All of Halba, men and women, turned out to welcome it and pelt it with flowers, despite the cold weather and the pouring rain. Celebrations of every sort continued for a whole week. I soon noticed, on the way to work, that a strange state of affairs, incompatible with the festivities, was spreading strongly, unhesitatingly. Rumors were flying about as to the number of dead and wounded, rumors that were accompanied by sadness and disquiet. Pamphlets were distributed accusing the state of having sacrificed the sons of the people, not in order to liberate the peoples of Mashriq and Haira, but in the interests of the landowners, industrialists, and merchants; they said that it was a war of convoys of goods, not of principles. Another leaflet I received accused the publishers of the previous ones of being enemies of freedom and the agents of Aman. As a result of this there were noisy demonstrations attacking Aman and challenging the agreement to surrender the water wells. The head of state met with the experts and a unanimous decision was issued nullifying the agreement on the wells and regarding them as jointly owned by Halba and Aman, as they had been before. The people once again began talking about a possible war between Halba and Aman.
Sheikh al-Sabki and his family came to lunch with me, and we sat talking and exchanging views. “If this disturbance,” I protested to the sheikh, “is as a result of a decisive victory, what would things be like if it were the result of a defeat?”
“This is the nature of freedom,” he said, smiling.
“It reminds me of anarchy,” I said frankly.
“It is so for someone who has not had dealings with freedom,” he said, laughing.
“I thought you were a happy people,” I said bitterly. “But you are torn apart by invisible conflicts.”
“The only remedy is yet more freedom.”
“And how do you judge, morally, the nullifying of the agreement on the wells?”
“Yesterday I was visiting the sage Marham al-Halabi,” he said earnestly, “and he told me that the liberation of human beings is more important than such superficialities.”
“Superficialities!” I exclaimed. “One must admit of some moral basis, otherwise the world would be transformed into a jungle.”
“But it was and still is a jungle,” said Samia with a laugh.
“Look, Qindil,” said the imam, “your homeland is the land of Islam, and what do you find there? A tyrannical ruler who rules to please himself, so where is the moral basis? Men of religion who bring religion into subjection to serve the ruler, so where is the moral basis? And a people who think only of the morsel which will fill their stomachs, so where is the moral basis?”
Something seemed to stick in my throat, so I remained silent. Once again I was seized by the memory of my journey. “Will war break out soon?” I asked.
“Only,” said Samia, “if one of the two sides feels that it is stronger or if it is overcome by despair.”
“Maybe you are thinking of the journey?” inquired my mother-in-law.
“First of all,” I answered, smiling, “I must feel assured that Samia is all right.”
At the end of winter Samia had her first child, and instead of preparing myself for traveling I gave myself over to the soft life I led between work and home. I immersed myself in the life of Halba, in love, in a high standard of living, in fatherhood, in friendship, and in the treasures of the sky and the parks, which were endlessly beautiful. I dreamt of nothing more delightful than that this state of affairs should continue.
And with the passage of time I became a father to Mustafa, Hamid, and Hisham. However, I refused to admit defeat and would say to myself in shame, “Oh, my homeland! Oh, land of Gebel!”
I was recording some figures in the accounts book at the shop when I found Arousa in front of me. It was no dream, no illusion, but Arousa, dressed in a short skirt and a shawl embellished with pearls, of the sort worn by high-class women in summer. She was no longer young, no longer going about naked, but was still possessed of a decorously dignified beauty. It was as if she were a miracle come out of nowhere. She was turning over in her hands a coral necklace while I looked at her aghast. She happened to turn to me, and her eyes came into contact with my face and grew wider and wider. She forgot herself, and I myself.
“Arousa!” I called out joyfully.
In a daze she answered, “Qindil!”
We stared at each other till we decided, at one and the same time, to recover from our stupor and return to reality. I went to her and we shook hands, oblivious of the astonishment that had overtaken my partner.
“How are you?” I asked her.
“Not bad, everything’s fine.”
“Are you living here in Halba?”
“Since I left Haira.”
“On your own?” I asked after some hesitation.
“I’m married to a Buddhist. And you?”
“Married and a father.”
“I didn’t have children.”
“I hope you are happy.”
“My husband is a remarkable and pious man and I have embraced his religion.”
“When did you get married?”
“Two years ago.”
“I gave up all hope of finding you.”
“It’s a large city.”
“And how was your life before you married?”
She gave a gesture of displeasure. “It was a time of hardship and torture,” she said.
“It’s unfortunate,” I muttered.
“It was for the best,” she said, smiling. “We shall journey to Aman, and from there to the land of Gebel, then to India.”
“May the blessing of God be with you wherever you may be,” I said warmly.
She stretched out her hand and I clasped it, then she took up what she had bought and left. I found myself required to cast some light on the scene which had been enacted in front of my partner. However, I continued my work and kept my emotions to myself, though I knew for certain that everything had come to an end. I told Samia what had occurred, straightforwardly and with apparent indifference. I was not devoid, though, of a feeling of guilt about the excessive interest that flamed in my breast. It was violently shaken and there welled up in it springs of sadness and nostalgic yearnings. Warm gushings from the past flooded over it till it was submerged. While it was not unlikely that the old love had raised its head, had been resuscitated, the new reality was more weighty, more powerful than to succumb to such winds. Nevertheless the hidden desire to undertake the journey awoke in splendor, springing to the fore and searching out the morrow with firm and unrelenting resolve. Fearing that I would rush off to put it into execution, I invented doubts about it and took a decision to postpone it for a year, though during that year I would pave the way by preparing people to accept it.
And so it happened.
My beloved wife gave me permission, neither enthusiastically nor rapidly. I appointed the sheikh to replace me in the business until I should return, and I allocated such dinars for the journey as would give me a good life. I promised that I would return to Halba immediately after the journey and that I would then accompany my wife and children to the land of Islam, where I would compose the book of my journey and find those of my family who were still alive; after this we would return to Halba.
I bade Mustafa, Hamid, and Hisham a heartfelt farewell, as also my wife, Samia, who was bearing within her a new life.