By Ihsan Abdel Quddous
Translated from Nabeel M. Yaseen
I am a Palestinian refugee. The word refugee evokes struggle, strife, injured dignity, pride, and the fight to liberate the Arab world from the yoke of occupation. You might have forgotten its other meanings—like hunger, poverty, and homelessness—simply because you sit at a comfortable desk without knowing hunger, destitution, or displacement. You are excused!
I arrived at the refugee camp when I was two years old. My nine young siblings and I wrapped ourselves around a wailing mother who mourned a killed husband and a devastated, stolen land. Like thousands of other refugees, I lived with all my siblings in a small, ripped tent, where in winter our bodies stuck together to keep warm through our body heat. We spent most of our days killing time while waiting for relief agency supervisors and other visitors. They came from different countries just to look at us—like we were aliens, or a different species held in cages. When they saw our conditions, the visitors bit their lips in remorse and bitterness. Their talks gave us hope, but once they left, we never heard from them again.
They donated four blankets to each family. Three members of the same family shared one blanket, and each member received a ration of sugar, flour, and fava beans that comprised 1500 calories a day. Do you know what a calorie is? You probably don’t, because you don’t have to count the calories you eat. We know for a fact that a normal person needs a minimum average of 3000 calories every day.
We took our rations of wheat flour to the merchant and exchanged them with corn flour, which is less expensive, in order to get a greater quantity of food. Some businesses rely on people’s hunger to turn a profit. Even the corn flour was not enough for all of us, so we exchanged it with crumbs, which are even cheaper.
Yes, crumbs! Crumbs are the tiny bread pieces you might have dropped from your dining table that you—or your maid—swept and threw away. You might be surprised to know that inside our refugee camp there was a big market called “Crumbs Market.” Yes, that’s the name! You could see leftover loaves for sale: half a loaf, a quarter of a loaf, and even small bites of a loaf. The refugees don’t deal with money; they have none, because there are very few jobs. They must completely rely on philanthropists and charity. For instance, if I needed a pen, my mother would give me a half loaf, which I would take to the crumbs market and exchange for a pen.
I went to the local school in the refugee camp. All of the children went to school, not because it was mandatory, but because they didn’t have anything else to do. Knowledge is a free food. It is God-given charity. Education is the only weapon we are allowed to carry to resist occupation. Our school was a special one, and it suited our living conditions. It was outdoors; instead of desks, we sat on large stones. Our teacher would sit at the front and face us. We never had a chalkboard to write on, so the teacher would write on the asphalt street instead. I stayed there until I finished high school.
As usual, when young people passed their high school exams, they waited for Hajj season so they could travel to Saudi Arabia to get a job, because that country always had a great demand for workers. They would claim they wanted to perform the obligation of Hajj, but they really wanted to find work to support their families. Families collected money to help with the travel costs. Mothers and sisters sold their jewelry, if they had any. To make the excuse of going to Hajj convincing and show good religious conduct, a worker needed to go for at least one year. He must pray all five daily obligations and fast for the entire month of Ramadan. Then, if he was able to travel to Saudi Arabia, he would begin roaming around and searching for a job immediately after he reached the country. Allah will not accept one’s obligation of performing Hajj if his living circumstances and lack of wealth cause him to suffer. If he finds a job—any job—he will relax, settle down, and fulfill his other obligations, like repaying the money he got from his family and relatives. I waited for Hajj season to travel and stay permanently in Saudi Arabia or any other Arab country. Allah helped me, and with His help I got a job inside the refugee camp, among my own people, and could save money for travel.
I was appointed as a teacher after they expanded the school to a new building. My salary became seventeen Egyptian pounds every month. This was the first time I was able to use my own money. I used to see it from far away, but was never able to actually touch it. I was happy; my mother and nine brothers ululated and celebrated.
The happiness soon evaporated, because we knew our homeland Palestine was stolen years ago. I learned that the bylaws of the welfare forbade assistance to families whose monthly income was fifteen pounds or more. As head of the family, my monthly salary was seventeen pounds every month. We lost the welfare assistance and missed the 1500 calories a day that supported my family. What would I be able to do now? Seventeen pounds were not enough for a family of eleven people. I was afraid that we would die of hunger, and of cold in the winter. The only solution I could think of for this problem was to pretend to move away from the family’s house, and let them manage their own life. This meant that I had to get married and establish my own family. They could then keep their welfare assistance and enjoy their calories. In reality, I did not want to leave my family; I had to take care of them, and spend every single penny I earned on them. This pro-forma marriage was the only way to satisfy the charity group’s regulations.
In the refugee camp, an old, mentally disabled woman usually walked around the tents/houses, and would always talk gibberish. I asked for her hand in marriage. Ironically, she woke up from her madness and asked me for a dowry. Her brother suddenly appeared and began an endless negotiation with me. He was a wise brother who negotiated with me not based on the fact that his sister was an old, mad woman, but because he realized my situation and the amount of financial support my family would be denied if I did not get married. Then, I did my calculations and figured out my loss if I did not do it. I paid ten Egyptian pounds in two installments. Eventually, I got falsely married and brought back the 1500 calories to my mother and brothers. I left my wife to wander among the camp houses (tents) while talking gibberish to people as she used to. In fact, she was never my wife in the actual meaning of marriage—not for a single minute.
After the marriage, I got settled and became among the wealthiest men in the entire refugee camp. Unfortunately, my happiness has never remained for that long. Before I could complete three months of my marriage, the mad woman who I called my wife had died.
I lost my dowry and paid for the funeral. The charity committee decided to prevent my family from taking any assistance. Ever since that day, I go to my wife’s grave at sunset and weep endlessly.
(1961)
Ihsan Abdel Quddous was an Egyptian writer, novelist, and journalist and editor in Egypt’s Al Akhbar and Al-Ahram newspapers. He is known to have written many novels that have been adapted in films.
Dr. Nabeel M. Yaseen holds a PhD in English Literature and Criticism from Indiana University of Pennsylvania, and a Master of English literature and composition from the University of Akron-Ohio. He has taught at various universities in the US and the Middle East, including the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign and Pennsylvania State University. Now, he is an assistant professor at Qassim University where he teaches English literature and translation. He is interested in the 19th and 20th century American literature and literary translation; especially, the literary works of Ihsan Abdel Quddous and other Arab writers.
