"My mother often reminded me that Dad had been a prisoner of war, captured by the Israelis in Sinai in 1973. She would sigh as she recounted the day he came home. She’d gone to receive him with the other families of returning soldiers, only for him to fail to recognize her. She wept, but he’d merely smiled." |
Kosovo by Sacha Carden
The schoolyard walls closed in around me like a prison. At school, I recoiled every time they called my name, shame weighing me down. Everyone knew who my father was. To them, he was just the madman who roamed the village alleys at night.
At home, my mother no longer asked why I was upset—she knew all too well. My father sat with us, but remained unreachable in his own world, inspecting his bread before forcing a smile. But the smile never lasted long, and he would struggle to swallow. At random intervals, without warning, he’d leap up and dart out the door, disappearing onto the narrow streets. Hours later, he would return, his clothes drenched—either from rain, sweat, or the water tossed at him by idle passersby, we never knew.
My mother took care of him. Once he’d calmed down, he would sit beside me, sipping tea.
I would complain about the bullies at school. “They hit me every day, Dad. Some even splash water on my clothes.” He would chuckle softly, oblivious to my distress, then lie on the floor, staring up at the ceiling on the far side of the room.
My mother often reminded me that Dad had been a prisoner of war, captured by the Israelis in Sinai in 1973. She would sigh as she recounted the day he came home. She’d gone to receive him with the other families of returning soldiers, only for him to fail to recognize her. She wept, but he’d merely smiled.
“The families of the other POWs cried too,” my mother said with a sigh, her voice heavy with despair. “I almost wished he hadn’t come back.” She stopped short at this admission, her grief palpable. “I told him, ‘I’m your lifelong companion, the mother of your child.’” Her tears fell thick and fast, unchecked as the memory replayed endlessly.
He’d merely smiled at her words, but she could do nothing but cry. One of his fellow returnees had told her how the Israelis had brutally beaten him with wooden cudgels until blood streamed from his scalp, soaking his once-soft black hair. My mother had brought him home, hoping life could somehow return to normal.
Every July, she took Dad to a hospital in Cairo, beseeching the state to acknowledge his mental state. If she didn’t, the last door of support would slam shut, and the few pounds the government granted us at the start of each month would vanish. Those meager pennies were payment for my father’s broken mind, along with everything else that had been lost.
This year, my mother reached out to the drivers in our village and beyond, hoping to convince someone to take us to Cairo. But everyone knew my father, and they all feared the uncertain risk of traveling with him.
They’d heard the story from the previous year—how he’d escaped from the car, darting through Cairo’s streets while Cairene women laughed from their windows as my mother chased him with her jalabiya flowing behind her. Eventually, she found a man who reluctantly agreed to take us, doubling his fare for the trouble.
We set out early in the morning, the sun already blazing down. I sat in the front seat, my mother and father behind in the back. They both seemed calmer and I almost allowed myself to believe everything would be fine this time. She held his hand, trying to make him feel safe in this strange environment. She also tried her best to reassure the driver, who occasionally glanced nervously into the rearview mirror, bracing himself for the inevitable moment when panic would strike.
My father didn’t seem to notice us and kept staring steadily out the window. At one point during the drive, my mother tried to feed him, but he turned away, refusing yet another small kindness. He drank absent-mindedly when she offered him water, a dazed look in his eyes. He coughed lightly and, once again, the driver’s eyes darted to the rearview mirror. It wobbled and shook, mirroring the car’s movements.
Our driver wasn’t well-versed in navigating Cairo’s streets—he was one of the many people who had sold his brown farmland to buy a brightly colored car. As we neared the city, his trepidation grew into a light panic, and the confusion on his face became more apparent.
As soon as the busy streets swallowed us up, he stopped to ask a pedestrian for directions to the hospital.
“You’ll need to cross the Nile over the Peace Bridge,” the man said. “The hospital is just past the Israeli embassy.”
As we approached the crowded bridge, my father leaned in and whispered in my mother’s ear, “Do they have an embassy here?”
Sensing a fleeting moment of lucidity, I quickly told him about the boys at school—the beatings, the water cruelly splashed on me. He only smiled nonchalantly and turned away. Then, abruptly, he leaped from the car and bolted, refusing to cross the bridge. My mother ran after him, her rural jalabiya billowing in the wind, while city women gasped at the sight of a woman chasing the remnants of a man.
At home, my mother no longer asked why I was upset—she knew all too well. My father sat with us, but remained unreachable in his own world, inspecting his bread before forcing a smile. But the smile never lasted long, and he would struggle to swallow. At random intervals, without warning, he’d leap up and dart out the door, disappearing onto the narrow streets. Hours later, he would return, his clothes drenched—either from rain, sweat, or the water tossed at him by idle passersby, we never knew.
My mother took care of him. Once he’d calmed down, he would sit beside me, sipping tea.
I would complain about the bullies at school. “They hit me every day, Dad. Some even splash water on my clothes.” He would chuckle softly, oblivious to my distress, then lie on the floor, staring up at the ceiling on the far side of the room.
My mother often reminded me that Dad had been a prisoner of war, captured by the Israelis in Sinai in 1973. She would sigh as she recounted the day he came home. She’d gone to receive him with the other families of returning soldiers, only for him to fail to recognize her. She wept, but he’d merely smiled.
“The families of the other POWs cried too,” my mother said with a sigh, her voice heavy with despair. “I almost wished he hadn’t come back.” She stopped short at this admission, her grief palpable. “I told him, ‘I’m your lifelong companion, the mother of your child.’” Her tears fell thick and fast, unchecked as the memory replayed endlessly.
He’d merely smiled at her words, but she could do nothing but cry. One of his fellow returnees had told her how the Israelis had brutally beaten him with wooden cudgels until blood streamed from his scalp, soaking his once-soft black hair. My mother had brought him home, hoping life could somehow return to normal.
Every July, she took Dad to a hospital in Cairo, beseeching the state to acknowledge his mental state. If she didn’t, the last door of support would slam shut, and the few pounds the government granted us at the start of each month would vanish. Those meager pennies were payment for my father’s broken mind, along with everything else that had been lost.
This year, my mother reached out to the drivers in our village and beyond, hoping to convince someone to take us to Cairo. But everyone knew my father, and they all feared the uncertain risk of traveling with him.
They’d heard the story from the previous year—how he’d escaped from the car, darting through Cairo’s streets while Cairene women laughed from their windows as my mother chased him with her jalabiya flowing behind her. Eventually, she found a man who reluctantly agreed to take us, doubling his fare for the trouble.
We set out early in the morning, the sun already blazing down. I sat in the front seat, my mother and father behind in the back. They both seemed calmer and I almost allowed myself to believe everything would be fine this time. She held his hand, trying to make him feel safe in this strange environment. She also tried her best to reassure the driver, who occasionally glanced nervously into the rearview mirror, bracing himself for the inevitable moment when panic would strike.
My father didn’t seem to notice us and kept staring steadily out the window. At one point during the drive, my mother tried to feed him, but he turned away, refusing yet another small kindness. He drank absent-mindedly when she offered him water, a dazed look in his eyes. He coughed lightly and, once again, the driver’s eyes darted to the rearview mirror. It wobbled and shook, mirroring the car’s movements.
Our driver wasn’t well-versed in navigating Cairo’s streets—he was one of the many people who had sold his brown farmland to buy a brightly colored car. As we neared the city, his trepidation grew into a light panic, and the confusion on his face became more apparent.
As soon as the busy streets swallowed us up, he stopped to ask a pedestrian for directions to the hospital.
“You’ll need to cross the Nile over the Peace Bridge,” the man said. “The hospital is just past the Israeli embassy.”
As we approached the crowded bridge, my father leaned in and whispered in my mother’s ear, “Do they have an embassy here?”
Sensing a fleeting moment of lucidity, I quickly told him about the boys at school—the beatings, the water cruelly splashed on me. He only smiled nonchalantly and turned away. Then, abruptly, he leaped from the car and bolted, refusing to cross the bridge. My mother ran after him, her rural jalabiya billowing in the wind, while city women gasped at the sight of a woman chasing the remnants of a man.
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Atef Ebeid is a distinguished Egyptian author known for his contributions to short fiction and his research in cognitive science. He possesses a doctorate in cognitive systems and has authored over four acclaimed collections of short stories, which have garnered significant recognition from critics.
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Essam M. Al-Jassim is a Saudi writer and translator based in Jubail, Saudi Arabia. His writings and translations have been featured nationally and internationally in various Arabic and English-language literary journals. He is the translator and editor of the recently published anthology of flash fiction Furtive Glimpses: Flash Fiction from The Arab World.
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