{"id":30900,"date":"2024-01-15T08:53:50","date_gmt":"2024-01-15T06:53:50","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldsite\/?p=30900"},"modified":"2024-01-15T08:53:50","modified_gmt":"2024-01-15T06:53:50","slug":"new-reasons-a-short-story-by-samira-azzam","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldsite\/new-reasons-a-short-story-by-samira-azzam\/","title":{"rendered":"“New Reasons”\u2014a short story by Samira Azzam"},"content":{"rendered":"
In the latest translated tale from Palestine\u2019s first lady of short stories, the newest technology exacts a toll on people ahead of their time.<\/span><\/h5>\n

 <\/p>\n

Samira Azzam<\/span><\/h4>\n

Translated from the Arabic by Ranya Abdelrahman<\/p>\n

It was just a story in the paper. Stuck in a corner of the local news column. Held in place by stiff letters, arranged a certain way to form one story, then scattered and combined again into another. The same letters. A single person\u2019s hand setting the type. The story languished in the spot the typesetter had chosen for it. It couldn\u2019t protest and prove it was more tragic than the fake dollars story or the announcement of so-and-so\u2019s bankruptcy. As my eyes skimmed over the story, I carried on chewing. In one hand I held the newspaper, and in the other, the sandwich I eat at the office at noon. I munch on it while I read my newspaper, and I never know if my food plays second fiddle to my reading, or my reading to my food. I understood easily enough that someone had died, but this didn\u2019t really affect my mood. My jaws were still working, the sounds of taxis in the street still assaulted my ears, and ads for the national lottery \u2014 blaring from atop decorated cars that oozed with the promise of riches \u2014 continued to tear apart everything that was peaceful and contented in this world.<\/span><\/p>\n

It\u2019s true, a man had died. And it was clear he\u2019d died differently from the way people usually do. But his unusual death had earned him a story in the newspaper instead of a small announcement in the obituaries, paid for per centimeter of print. He\u2019d fallen off a four-story building while installing an antenna for a new television set. Yes, we have televisions now and \u2014 like everything new \u2014 they\u2019ve created new reasons for things to happen. For instance, people who fall off roofs, as far as I know, are almost always taking their own lives, and they, of course, have chosen to die. But this young man didn\u2019t seem to have died by choice. He had a name, obviously, but his name hadn\u2019t stood out alongside the circumstances of his death any more than it had in life. In fact, aside from the news of his death, only one detail had been confirmed: that the incident had been an accident. It was as if the world, which hadn\u2019t cared about how he\u2019d lived, was solely interested in knowing how he\u2019d died.<\/span><\/p>\n

That evening, I looked at my brother\u2019s face as he sat across from me, his features set, his fingers tapping against the armrest in a nervous beat that was perhaps not entirely unconscious. It was his usual way of hinting that something was troubling him, and we never let him stew for long before asking what was wrong. In response, he\u2019d reposition his crossed legs \u2014 slowly placing left over right, or vice versa \u2014 before beginning to tell us some story. But that night I noticed he was so distressed he\u2019d forgotten to put on his trademark theatrics as he said, \u201cDunia \u2014\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIs everything OK?\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHere.\u201d He held out a newspaper he\u2019d taken from his pocket. It was the same one I\u2019d flipped through at the office, folded to show half the local news column. \u201cCan you imagine a more horrible way to die?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

My eyes wandered over the lines again: \u201c\u2014 while the man, identified as Ahmed Marzouk, was \u2014\u201d Not seeing a connection between my brother and Ahmed Marzouk\u2019s death, I looked up with a questioning expression.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHaven\u2019t you figured out who Ahmed is yet?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAhmed?\u201d I said, alarmed. \u201cYou mean Ahmed \u2014?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I read the story again then shut my eyes against the gruesomeness of the image that flashed in my mind when I realized who Ahmed was. \u201cHow could I not have known? I\u2019d almost forgotten him,\u201d I murmured. \u201cBut this man seems to be a television technician, and the other was a just a store boy.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

My brother cut in. \u201cA gap of seven years stands between that store boy and the skilled technician he became. Time enough to make him a different person from the one you used to know.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Through the denseness of time, the childish, brown face came back to me. I remembered the day my brother first sent him to our house. \u201cFind him a pair of shoes,\u201d he\u2019d said. \u201cI\u2019m hiring him to work at the store.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I gave Ahmed an ancient pair of shoes that used to belong to my younger brother. \u201cShall I leave them at the store at night?\u201d he asked me, \u201cOr can I take them home with me?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

For a long time after that, we\u2019d jokingly inquire where the shoes had spent the night: at Ahmed\u2019s house, or at the store? With a laugh that lit up his brown face, he\u2019d grab the basket in which he\u2019d brought our house supplies and rush to his waiting bicycle. He flew from house to house on that bike, and it toiled away with him for three years until he quit the store.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI forgot why he left you,\u201d I said, still trying to recall Ahmed in all his dimensions.<\/span><\/p>\n

My brother flicked his lighter. \u201cSomeone like Ahmed would never be satisfied with being a store boy forever,\u201d he said. \u201cDid you know he had an amazing knack for adding numbers in his head \u2014 faster than I could ever do with a pen and paper? And that he never once made a mistake with a client\u2019s accounts? But when he picked up a newspaper, I felt he was decoding the words by sheer force of will \u2014 he\u2019d spent no more than two years, or maybe three, at school. And the day he left me \u2014 yes, I still remember it well \u2014 he\u2019d just finished sweeping the store before locking up. He wiped the dust off the windows, checked the fridge and put in more bottles of Coca-Cola. When he was done, he came over to me, and asked a question in that way of his, a smile always beating the words to his lips.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018Can I ask you something?\u2019” Ahmed said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI told him to ask away.”\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHe rubbed the bridge of his nose. \u2018What kind of future do you think I\u2019ll have here, boss?\u2019”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cTo be honest, the question took me by surprise. What a strange word for him to use, I thought. What <\/span>could<\/span><\/i> his future be, other than for me to raise his weekly salary by a lira or two? I used to feed him too, as you know. \u2018What do you mean?\u2019 I asked, not sure what he wanted.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018What will I be, say, if I spend ten years working for you?\u2019”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018Anything but a partner,\u2019 I replied, slightly irked.”\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018I know,\u2019 he said.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018Is this some kind of attempt at bargaining? I gave you a raise two months ago,\u2019 I said.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018When was I ever interested in bargaining?\u2019 he said. \u2018No, that\u2019s not what I\u2019m aiming for, boss. I want to learn something useful. You wouldn\u2019t be happy if I spent my whole life delivering groceries.\u2019”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018What do you want to be, then? A pasha?\u2019 I asked, trying to clamp down my anger.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018No!\u2019 he said, laughing. \u2018That\u2019s too grand for me, boss. But I can learn to be an electrician at my cousin\u2019s shop. And you want what\u2019s best for me, don\u2019t you?\u2019”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHe left, untempted by the raise I offered, but he never stopped visiting me. Every time he came, he acted just like he did when he used to work at the store, polishing the glass windows and arranging the merchandise the way he liked it. Afterwards, he\u2019d take a bottle of Coke from the fridge, saying, \u2018This is my fee.\u2019 He took his time drinking it, asking about our family and offering me a cigarette from his pack.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI asked him a question once \u2014 it was not free from sarcasm. \u2018Tell me, Ahmed, are you a partner at your cousin\u2019s shop now?\u2019”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018I left him.\u2019 And before I could ask why, he beat me to it with a question of his own. \u2018Have you bought a television set?\u2019”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI said, \u2018Why do you ask? No, I haven\u2019t.\u2019”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018But you will,\u2019 he said. \u2018Everyone will. Did you know I left my cousin\u2019s shop to join an agency that specializes in television sets? I\u2019m training at their workshop, learning \u2014\u2019”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018About television engineering,\u2019 I teased, interrupting him.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018Do we have to say engineering?\u2019 he said, ignoring my attempt at humor. \u2018They call it maintenance at the workshop.\u2019 He went quiet for a bit, then continued. \u2018It seems they like my work because the manager called me in and told me I was one of two employees the agency was sending to Germany. The company wants us there; they\u2019ll train us to install and maintain antennas. If everything goes to plan, I\u2019ll travel in three months\u2019 time.\u2019”\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI looked at him: he grew taller in my eyes in that moment, so much so that I didn\u2019t give him the keys to close up the store like I usually did, but he came and took them from me anyway. After he\u2019d dragged the metal door shut and made sure it was locked, he said, \u2018I\u2019m learning a bit of German now, at night school.\u2019”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cFor the first time in my life, I reached out to shake his hand. That was exactly two years ago. From that time on, Ahmed stopped coming to see me, so I knew he\u2019d gone abroad. I heard nothing of him until a week ago, when he paid me a visit.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAfter he came back?\u201d I asked my brother.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d he replied. \u201cI wish you could\u2019ve seen how that barefoot boy with the frizzy hair had transformed into a well-kempt young man, a pleasure for the eye to see.”\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHe came up to me and said, \u2018What do you think of me now, boss?\u2019”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018Don\u2019t call me that,\u2019 I said. \u2018I feel like I should be saying it to you\u2026\u2019”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHe laughed \u2014 laughed for a long time \u2014 and said, \u2018Don\u2019t embarrass me: the eye doesn\u2019t rise above the eyebrow. Have you bought a television yet?\u2019”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI told him I had.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018Well don\u2019t forget to call me if anything goes wrong with it,\u2019 he said.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018Are you an engineer now?\u2019 I asked jokingly.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018Not exactly,\u2019 he said. \u2018But my wife says I am.\u2019”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018So you\u2019re married?\u2019 I said.”<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAnd he said, \u2018Yes. She\u2019s German, boss, but she likes men with dark skin!\u2019\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Nothing is truly meaningful unless you feel some sort of connection to it. So it was only through my brother\u2019s emotions that Ahmed\u2019s death came to mean more to me than a story in the newspaper. One that my eyes had glided over as I bit into my sandwich, uninterested in spending even a minute wondering who this Ahmed Marzouk might be, who\u2019d fallen off a four-story<\/span> building while installing an antenna. But now, the image of the boy, with his brown face and his ever-present laugh, had ripped apart everything that had accumulated over the years, proving, with ease, that his life had been as real as his death was, and that the former refused to simply fade into the folds of the latter, more-cruel reality. It was as if his knocks at our door, back when he used to deliver our groceries, were now knocking insistently at my soul, invoking a sadness that hadn\u2019t stirred in me when I casually read the paper that afternoon to skim the world\u2019s news.<\/span><\/p>\n

Despondence held us in its grip all evening. We couldn\u2019t shake it off even when my brother got up to watch the news on the television set across the room. As the footage appeared, we stared at it, unable to take in the details: Ahmed\u2019s spirit was being channeled, through the power of our thoughts, into the small screen, and it was as if his was the only image that found itself fit to say anything meaningful. I didn\u2019t notice how the news bulletin started, or how it ended, or how the screen was taken over by a local affairs program, captured by the production company\u2019s lenses. But I suddenly found myself confronted with an unfamiliar image of Ahmed when the presenter began to repeat what was said in the paper while a shot showed a slumped-over corpse in front of a building. And then the camera, still curious and hungry for more thrills, focused its lens on the murderous antenna as it proudly swayed on the roof, allowing a certain television set in the building to receive Ahmed\u2019s image at the very same moment as we did: a crumpled heap of humanity embodying a tale of ambition in its final chapter.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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