Translated by MAYADA IBRAHIM
When Did Life Flip Upside Down and Make Us Walk on the Ceiling?
I asked him, “Where are we?”
He said the name, then became preoccupied with finding batteries for his portable radio with one hand, and with the other clutching me so that the crowds would not sweep me away.
“What does that mean?” I pressed.
The awe I felt for the city faded; I was lost in my thoughts. I had not heard a name like that before. Usually, when one hears the word saqf, or “ceiling,” the eyes dart upward. A ceiling is on top. That’s the way it is. But this ceiling I was supposedly walking on top of. Perhaps he misspoke, saying “ceiling” instead of “roof.” The word sayl, or “stream,” on the other hand, brings to mind a flow of moving water. I couldn’t find a satisfying explanation; I kept coming up against the limits of my understanding. So I decided that Saqf al-Sayl (“The Ceiling of the Stream”) had to be the name for this patch of land, which divided the city into two parts and was flanked by a market for used goods, white service taxis, kiosks, vendors, and countless curious onlookers.
To complete the picture: massive buildings rose amidst the clamor on both sides of the ceiling, with arched, towering doors that offered a salute to some unseen procession. Two worlds, each meaningless to the other—the procession never halts, nor do the people. Parallel, they sliced through my head, which has been consumed by dizziness.
I emerged from that upside-down world and realized that some stream, flowing freely from some source, once ran there. My mother used to dip her small feet into it whenever she passed by.
Days went by, and dread coursed through my body every time I walked by, fearing the ceiling might collapse and that some curse might befall us—the wrath of those who were here, of what was here. Memories, now turned into corpses piled in a vast mass grave called Saqf al-Sayl, might one day rise in revolt.
Newly Appeared at the Side of the Road
The first bus runs over my shadow and disappears.
A faint groan, followed by a hefty cloud of smoke, invades my nostrils. Two steps back won’t affect the view of the roundabout, from which the buses emerge like crescent moons, but they might embolden the thoughtless and the uncouth standing in the queue. After all, there are no laws governing queues at bus stations. It’s sink or swim.
Once again I was among the first to arrive, and quickly people gathered around me. I look sharply at them—I try, at least. I mean to show them that I am occupying the first spot in the queue. But the queue might only exist in my mind. I gather my strength and straighten my back. I start to study the faces around me. A girl, with part of her fringe showing, is putting on heaps of makeup. She shoots me a hostile glance and takes a step closer, so I step back and leave her to her own devices. I also decide to leave alone the man with the protruding belly and his cascades of sweat. Who would want to go near him? Add to the mix the hyperactive young man who slaps half a can of gel on his hair and slicks it back, turning it into a shiny plastic-like surface that reflects the sun, blinding my eyes. He goes back and forth, eager to win the fight.
I say to myself something like, I’ll teach them a lesson. As soon as the bus graces us with its presence, I’ll step forward, head held high, afraid of nothing. But I will make way for the elderly man in the elegant suit and tie—who knows what he’s doing in the middle of all this scuffle on his own?
(You know how this ends, don’t you?
That’s right: the second bus runs over my shadow and disappears.)
The defeated ones sit at the roadside, while others sit on the other side of the road. Elegant chairs around shiny tables. Their hands hold clean glass cups. They gasp if a daring cat crosses the road, barely escaping the large wheels of a car, and they say in English, Thank God!
And how horrifying it is when I’m the one who almost tramples a small child who comes out of nowhere. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, overwhelmed by the fragility of my limbs. The little one taps on my window.
He says, “A rose for a rose?”
I say, “No, thank you.”
He says, “Please.”
I say:
(You’ll never guess.)
A decade passes. Countless wheels have trampled my shadow thousands of times. Now I trample on other shadows with my patched-up wheels. I end up in front of the house. I enter. I fall asleep, hoping not to dream of a pickup truck taking me to the other side.
The City of Seven Impossibilities
The Impossible No. 1
To keep fifty dinars in your pocket an entire day.
Where the hell did it go? It was right here. I could’ve sworn I just saw it. Touched it, even. Folded it gently and stuffed it in my pocket. Was it stolen? It’s possible. Lost? It’s also possible. Was it spent? Maybe. But when and how? Oh, I remember! I bought a chicken! I told the seller, “1.5 kilos.” He asked me, “Four or eight?” I said, “I have eight kids, and the ninth will arrive at the end of summer. Is that enough?” I laughed like an idiot.
He gave me the change. Fifty dinars reduced by three dinars and a quarter. So where is the rest?
The Impossible No. 2
To sleep.
I tried to put the matter to rest. What’s done is done. Whatever will be, will be. It wasn’t the first time, nor will it be the last, that the markets and streets of my city swallow my money. Then I have to swallow air until the end of the month alongside my eight children, and the ninth on the way. Oh, how I long to sleep. The fifty dinars that were lost—like the country—scatter before me like monkeys leaping to the rhythm of the water droplets escaping from the faucet and falling on my head. The bed underneath me whines and wails at the loss of one of its screws. My eldest stretches his hand and says, “Give me. Give me. Give me.” The “Give” merges with the ticking of the clock, flowing together as one torrent, cutting through my mind. Then comes the woman––I don’t know what she’s been doing here with me for so many years. She says her one and only phrase: “Useless. Neither in the caravan nor in the fray.” So where am I, then?
The Impossible No. 3
To arrive on time.
The end of the month is here, and with it a message that says that the salary has arrived safely, with minor scratches, scarcely worth mentioning. Social security deduction (fine), income tax deduction (okay), health insurance deduction (God help us), other deductions (why?).
It seems that my justifications didn’t succeed in convincing HR that I had real reasons for my absences.
- The excavations for the rapid bus transit are taking place right on my doorstep.
- Traffic.
- Accident no. 9.
- A neighbor graduated and was appointed in one of the banks through a waasta, and he did his friends a solid and gave them car loans without a guarantor.
- Traffic.
- The traffic officer disrupted the flow of traffic.
- Accident no. 13.
- My father died.
- I overslept.
- My aunt died.
- …
- …
And so on.
The Impossible No. 4
To achieve what you dream of before retirement.
One Friday morning, the day I eagerly await each week in hopes of getting two extra hours of sleep, my body was shaken by the sound of furniture scraping against the ceiling of my room, which is also the floor for a family that we call neighbors. Is our neighbor doing spring cleaning today? As if dealing with the stomping feet of her monkey-like grandchildren wasn’t enough…
The noise continued through the stairs and past the door of my house, descending to the street. What was going on? A six-meter-long car was swallowing their belongings—where were they going?
I went down to find out, and I wish I hadn’t. The joy in our neighbor’s eyes was palpable. “I bought a house,” he told me, adding, “May you do the same one day.”
I had always thought that he owned his house and that I was the only poor soul, an employee, who rents. I envied him when I saw him in the mornings, wearing a white undershirt with short sleeves, standing on the balcony like a warrior who had completed all his duties, and when he retired, he would sit and rest. “I’ll have to wait for retirement to get a house, so why the rush?” I said to my wife, who threw me her one-liner and headed toward the kitchen.
The Impossible No. 5
To love.
“The cost of love is high these days. I told her I loved her, and she took a piece of paper from her bag and wrote: Jabal Amman, Zahran Street, Zahran Park, Next to Zahran Palace, Building No. 64, Thursday, 8:00 PM.
“And, oh, the horror of what I found waiting for me—a tall, broad man, likely in his seventies, with a neatly groomed moustache and a pressed outfit. He said something like, ‘Please, come in.’
“As for her, she was upstairs, gazing down at me with eyes burning with longing, her smile singular and her hair flowing. The world spun around me a hundred times, and I turned toward my beaten-down neighborhood in Jabal al-Joufa, like a lunatic.”
That was how my colleague at work responded when I asked why he looked so pale and drained, with a yellowish complexion. Then he began to sob, saying, “How will I ever find enough money to marry her?”
The Impossible No. 6
To understand the passage of time.
How does the day slip away? When did I become a father of eight children, with a ninth on the way, and a husband to a woman who knows nothing of language except for the caravan and the fray?
When did I join the herd?
The Impossible No. 7
To escape.
This city is a large prison, and the key is lost, and no one knows a thing.
Behind Zahran Palace
The flood brought me here, where no water spills onto the doorsteps to wash the sidewalk, nor transforms into a torrent that courses through the street, carving its path over time, slicing through summer football fields on the streets, and underneath carts of ice cream and cotton candy.
There are no clotheslines strung across the windows, no clothes hanging from clothespins, dripping chlorine water onto the unemployed guards of the alleyways fleeing the scorching July heat, always clutching cups of strong tea.
The aroma of fried eggplant doesn’t waft from the kitchens on Fridays. Nor do small, tender hands deliver plates of hummus, fūl, falafel, and taboon bread to the hungry souls just waking up, before they immerse themselves in their endless battles.
No curtains fly from windows at sunset, nor the laughter of the neighborhood women as they gather, snapping their fingers before eating alive a woman whose husband threatened to divorce her if she ever dared step back into the house again.
No gas, scrap metal, or fresh milk vendors disturb a sleeper’s rest, and you won’t find traces of a herd of sheep, with its droppings squashed and sinking into the asphalt cracks.
There are no mothers’ names written on the walls, causing skirmishes between the alleyways, skirmishes that are passed down through generations. No secret hiding places for lovers revealed by a game of hide-and-seek when small feet run and leave a cloud of dust behind.
The streets are empty here; no one will guide you if you lose your way. Who loses their way in paradise?
Haleemah Derbashi is a writer, political activist, and mathematics teacher from Jordan. Born in 1985 in Saudi Arabia, she grew up in a Palestinian refugee camp in Amman. She has published several literary works and contributed to local and Arab magazines and newspapers. She served as vice president of the Jordanian Writers Association. Her writings engage with both the subjective and objective realities of those living within capitalism’s grip.
Mayada Ibrahim is a literary translator and editor based in Queens, New York, with roots in Khartoum and London. She works between Arabic and English
