Majdhub is an Arabic word, meaning 'the drawn one'. It is a Sufi term describing a person who is in a mystic state and is drawn to the Divine totally where materialistic and worldly gains vanish completely.

In Egyptian culture the "Majdhub would be unkempt, and some would consider him the village idiot, while others would feel he is blessed, and try to retain some of his blessings.

My idea for this novel expresses the pull between the soul and the physical world, and the conflict between a person's desires and society.

Book One

 Childhood and Youth

Abdel Nasser

Chapter 1

They say before you die your life flashes before you. But if I go over my life like a roll of film, does that mean that my hour is near? For I can see my life clearly now as if it is a book, all the chapters; from my childhood to youth, adulthood, and finally old age.

I was never a religious person, but I attended the house of worship my father used to drag me to as early as I can remember. His big muscular hand holding tightly to mine, his sweat dissolving the remnants of candy stuck to my palm. The seriousness with which my father attended these prayer sessions was an unquestionable sign that I shouldn’t take them lightly either.

Every Friday morning I would put on my best galabiya and skull cap, and wait at the entrance of our house for my father to emerge from his bedroom, clean shaven, and smelling of cologne. He too had on his special kaftan made of pure wool, and in his right hand he held his ebony walking stick and amber prayer beads. He was not a vain man, but his unique status in the village made it necessary for him to keep up appearances.

 My father was the Sheikh of the village, which meant that he was loved and respected by all. He led prayer in the mosque, five times a day, married the villagers, headed the funeral prayers, and solved about most any personal issue any neighbor, relative, or inhabitant had. He was a proud, yet gentle man, and he loved my mother very much.

My mother was Egypt. In an artistic sense. All the depictions of artists of Egypt was a fallaha (peasant woman) wearing a cotton, floral, frilly dress, with a scarf tied tightly to her head, and long black braids resting on her chest, reaching down to her waist. She was the embodiment of Egypt in all the patriotic paintings.

My first memories of my mother was of her sitting in the backyard, shaking the goatskin suspended   from a wooden frame, filled with buffalo milk. She was making butter. She’d get up before dawn to wake my father for dawn prayer. Sometimes I would get up, and other times I would surrender to sleep instead of piously responding to the call to worship. Espescially in the winter, when the warmth of my bed seemed more tempting to me than the palace waiting for me in paradise if I had risen to worship. But such is human nature and the never ending battle between worldly pleasures and rewards of the afterlife.

After praying herself in the sanctity of her bedroom, Amma would then milk the buffalo, feed the chickens, collect eggs for breakfast, and then make bread. If there is one thing I miss about my mother, it’s her bread. Huge metre-wide loafs of thin corn bread that covered the space of the rounded wooden table top we used to sit at to have breakfast. This table had one foot-high legs, so naturally we had to sit cross-legged on the floor, while eating at the tablia. What I wouldn’t give up gladly to just sit at that table again, and smell the aroma of fresh fried eggs in glistening golden butter ghee. 

I was an only child, which was unusual for the village. Every friend of mine had at least six to ten siblings. I did have older brothers and sisters though, but from my father’s first marriage. His wife died while giving birth to her last child, which was a girl ‘Fatima’, she was two years older than me. My elder brothers and sisters were already married and had their own families, whereas Fatima lived with us and helped my mother with all the house chores.

Our house was open all the time. The front door closed only at night to keep away the cold and mosquitoes. Villagers would come in and out in a constant stream, clapping their hands to inform the inhabitants of the house that a visitor had arrived, and then taking off their slippers and entering without waiting for an invitation. It wasn’t rude or imposing of them, that was just the way life went on in “El Robaie” our beloved village.

These guests would be ushered into the living room, a sunny rectangular room with windows on the two walls facing the courtyard. The walls were covered with pictures, of my father and grandfather, and me. Box-like sofas rested against the four walls, lined in colourful floral patterns, and pillows covered in the same cotton material were placed against the wall as a back support. In the middle of the floor was a huge straw mat that covered the cool light blue tiles.

Outside our house the yard contained a bevy of farm animals. An Egyptian buffalo, a donkey, three goats, geese, ducks, chicken, an occasional rabbit, and a village dog eyeing all the other animals, thankful that he wasn’t eating material. I’d sit on the low wall made of mud-brick, under the lofty eucalyptus trees, that harboured thousands of sparrows while I watched the geese as they played a hilarious game of follow the leader. The head goose would trot around the yard honking loudly while the other geese followed in a perfect line, answering back in chorus. Across the yard they’d travel, over mounds of mud and grass, into their sheds and back in the open yard again, never ending, never tiring.

 Life in the village, to me at least, was perfect. Only because I didn’t know better, or did I? What is civilization after all? I need another life time to be able to answer that question. My world consisted of my family, school, and my friend Abdallah.

Abdallah was from a family of farmers, not intellectuals like us. And yet his family sent him to the only elementary school in the village. So naturally we met every day, and after the bell released us we would take the long way home. Throwing our books and shoes, in the nearest field we would run barefoot in the dirt, and run after almost every car that happened to pass. The main road outside ‘Robaie’ extended along the canal, which was almost always nearly blocked with a weed they called paradoxically ‘flower of the Nile’. This water plant was introduced in Egypt by an Italian expatriate who grew it as a decorative plant. The plant took to the Egyptian environment so well that it thrived and spread and began to block the canals, and cause a major hazard to the water environment. The sad thing is that it is really a beautiful plant.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                              “Don’t go near the water,” my mother would warn me. “A  monster lurks under its surface.”

My mother though illiterate possessed an age-old wisdom. She didn’t know what the monster was, and neither did I until much later. But I obeyed. I was a wild child who knew his boundaries. So to enjoy my much abused freedom, I succumbed to my mother’s only warning, otherwise she pretty didn’t mind what I did.                                                                                                                                                               

Generally she was very cheerful and loving, and talked nine to the dozen. She was a pioneer among the other women always had something to say, and something to give. I never understood women who rebuffed their children and insulted them. All I got from my mother was pure unconditional love.

“Why does Auntie Heba talk about Hesham like that?” I asked her one time, sitting on our porch at night while my father made tea. It was an art to him. He’d bring a shallow earthenware pot with a thin stand. On the top he would lay corn stalks, and set fire to them. The stalks would burn through and transform into smoldering charcoal. Then he would place the tiny white enamel teapot on the coals and wait for the water to boil. My mother would sit cross-legged on the straw mat and watch him silently, and watch me do my homework by the light of a single oil lamp. We had electricity, but we still resorted to the oil lamp as it didn’t attract the mosquitoes like the electric bulb did. My mother, being the vibrant woman that she was, worked all day, preparing beautiful food, attending to the guests, welcoming more into her hospitable house, and talking ten to the dozen all the while. This was the time of day when all the chores were finished and she had the chance to calm down.

“Oh, she just wants to keep away the evil eye,” she answered nonchalantly, fanning herself with an old newspaper as it was late August and the heat of summer still hung over us, “but every mother loves her child.”

“She doesn’t look like she loves him. I think she hates him.”

“Of course she doesn’t hate him. She feeds him doesn’t she? Washes his clothes. Bathes him. If she shows she is happy with her son she will attract the evil eye, and something bad will happen to him.”

What worse could happen than being ridiculed by your own mother in front of relatives and sometimes strangers, even if she washed my clothes spotless and ironed them stiff.

“But you are happy Mummy, aren’t you afraid of the evil eye?” I’d ask as a last resort.

Mother looked at me sharply, as my father managed to hide a smile.

 “Don’t ask too many questions, ya walla,” she answered sharply. Or in other words she wanted me to shut up. She was so understanding to the imperfections of other people, that in her defending them she would forget her own convictions. And when I questioned them or forced her to acknowledge them she would change the subject.

Fatima, who also went to school, sat beside me doing her own homework. She tilted her head to the side and gave me a look as if to say that I should shut up. And I did. I knew better than to intimidate Amma, for all her good heart and dedication, she had a short temper. And it was wise of me to resume my studies, while my father eyed us all in silence, poured out the sweetened tea, and beckoned to Fatima to serve the glasses.

We sipped the tea in silence, the stars shining bright above our heads. The occasional Carawan shrieking into the night, and crickets joining in. We could hear the sound of the local supplier’s radio singing in the distance. A fresh evening breeze set the charcoal blazing, and a waft of the burning smoke filled my nostrils, together with the aroma of the earth, eucalyptis, and smells from the animal yard. All this mingled with the tea. It was a time of basics. Basic smells, basic needs, and basic living. We drank the tea, and as soon as my father finished his glass, he got up to get ready to lead evening prayer in the village mosque.

I was young, vibrant, and had the love of my parents. Life was as it should be.

On Friday afternoons, after the prayer, I would play soccer with Abdallah and the other village boys. I played defense, while Abdallah was the spearhead. We always played on the same team. Most of the time they would make me the goalie. I didn’t mind. As I always was a champion for the underdog, even if it meant that I would end up being one myself. The soccer pitch was a dust clearing and we would play with our bare feet.

One Friday, which seemed like any other Friday, the dust rose up with every kick and covered our hair and clothes. Passersby stopped and watched us for a while. Young girls and women marched in a single file towards the canal to fill their ollas (clay pots) with water. On their way to the canal, the pots were empty and they stood them sideways on their heads. On the way back the pots would be full, so naturally they stood up straight. If by chance they would encounter a young man going to work and the olas were empty, they would quickly remove the olla from their head, and hide it from the man, lest the empty ola bring him bad luck on his venture. It was a courteous jesture, and done with grace and giggles, especially if the young man was single.

The clay pots were the foundation of life in the village: slender small ones that were filled with water and placed on the window sill, a dish underneath to collect the water that seeped through the pores of the earthenware, some were a little larger with short necks and a bigger base. Some had one handle others had two. The pots the girls carried to the canal were a little larger, to hold as much water as possible, without being too heavy on their slender necks, these were the ballass. At home was a much larger water container also made of clay, the zeer, that we poured water from the ballas into.  It was like a storage for drinking, and cooking.  

The girls were going to fill the water pots and they were resting at a precise and yet dangerous  angle on their heads. We were little boys so they didn’t bother lowering the empty pots.  As I was busily engrossed in the football playing, one of the girls caught my eye. I knew her well. She was my neighbor, and I’d walk her to school every morning. Azza was the prettiest girl in Robaei, I even carried her books for her, and give her half of my sandwich. That morning she joined the girls to go to the fetch the water, and her ola was a small one that matched her small physique. She lagged behind to watch us – or me – playing, and I put on my best act and jumped sideways on the ground preventing one of Ahmed’s shots to enter my goal. Ahmed was the best scorer there was, but I was the best goalie there was. I heard Azza clapping softly as I walked back to the goal with an exaggerated swagger. She was beaming at me and I smiled back, and waved.

“Come on Azza,” her elder sister shouted pulling her by the arm. “Don’t dilly daddle.”

Azza was pulled away, still looking back at me and smiling, nearly tripping over and breaking her ola. After that she decided to join the rest of the girls and hurried along away from me. I stood there for a moment watching her move away, then something else caught my eye.

“Hey,” Abdallah shouted. “Are you going to kick that ball or what?”

I complied. Abdallah picked up the ball and ran towards the opposite goal. Just as he was about to shoot, Ahmed stole the ball and headed back to me. He gave the shot his best. With no Azza to show off to, and being distracted by what I saw this time, the ball whizzed right past me and shot out of reach. The goalpost had no net, as there was no goalpost, just two stones indicating the presence of a goal.

“Oh no!,” Abdallah shouted at me, while the other team cheered. “Hassan? What are you thinking of? That was an easy one.”

“Sorry,” I shouted back, and ran after the ball. The ball, was actually a group of old socks that were tied together to make a small ball that served us extremely well.

The ball ran further and further away from me, it was quite a kick from Ahmed. I was aware that I was approaching closer and closer to the thing that had drew my attention earlier. It was as if the ball was beckoning me to go and check out what was going on. Suddenly a foot stopped the ball in its tracks, I looked up to see who it was, and found a familiar face smiling at me. It was Swelam, a farmer who rented some of our land, and ran errands for us, and brought supplies. He was a mountain of a man, with a God-sent strength, and with a heart bigger than his smile.

“What are you doing here, Ostaz Hassan?”

He always called me Ostaz which meant Teacher, on the account that I was educated.

“Playing ball,” I said, indicating the game going on a hundred meters away. “What are you doing?” I asked suddenly. “What’s this queue?”

In front of us were nearly all the village men standing patiently in line. At the head of the queue, were two men in white coats. One of these men I knew well. He was the village Hakim or nurse, or Medicine man, whatever you want to call him. He would give shots, take blood pressure and escort the mid-wife when she was needed, and perform circumcisions. His cures consisted of an analgesic, probably aspirin, an antispasmodic, mercurochrome, and savlon for wounds. Any condition that required a little more medical knowledge and attention, the patient had to travel to the nearest town that was about five kilometers away, most of the times on a donkey. The other man was young in his twenties, he was good-looking, and looked too refined to be from our village. He was the kind of person who drove through our village in a car that Abdallah and I were certain to run after. 

Swelam’s smile seemed to fade and his eyes shifted slightly.

“The government says we should take these shots,”  

“What shots?” I asked persistently.

Swelim wasn’t annoyed at my excessive nosiness. It was a habit of ours to be curious, to know all the goings on. We had no qualms in asking direct to the point questions and expect to be answered as such. And yet something was bothering him. As if he was to reveal a secret about himself, no one knew.

“You know, the disease,” he said lowering his voice.

At this point the boys at the playground were waving and cursing me at the top of their voices.

“What disease?” I asked, and waved frantically back at my friends to shut up.

Swelam looked left and right and bent down and whispered in my ear, “Bilharzia.”

It was the first time for me to hear that name, and I hadn’t the slightest idea what it was. The look on my face must have given me away.

“The son of Sheikh ElBalad doesn’t know what Bilharzia is?!” He exclaimed the smile returning to his face.

“See that man at the front of the line facing the men?” he asked me.

Speechless I nodded in consent.

“He’s the doctor from the Health Unit. He’s come to give us all injections, so we will be rid of the disease once and for all.”

I looked back at Swelam and smiled. The knowledge that this powerful giant had a secret disease I’d never heard of came as a shock to me, that a smile was all I could manage. I turned on my heels, kicked the ball back to the boys, and ran as fast as I could to the front of the line. I could hear Abdallah calling me to resume the game, but I did not heed him.

A few meters before I reached the doctor, I stopped abruptly and proceeded slowly and cautiously, not wanting to receive a negative reaction. Bu the man in question seemed to be engrossed in what he was doing, writing down the names of the villagers who received the dosage, while Hakim pierced the arms of the villagers with a glass syringe. There were about three syringes in use through rotation, and no less than a hundred villagers waiting in line. The syringe that wasn’t being used was placed in an aluminum pan filled with boiling water. The heat was provided by a burner under the pan.

The syringes stayed in the water for not more than a couple of minutes, and were pulled out to be reused.

The doctor witnessed all this with nonchalance, giving instructions when needed, and recording the names.

I was nine, I knew little of disease and shots and proper sterilizing techniques. All I knew was that one day I wanted to be like that good looking, clean shaven man in the white coat. I wanted to be a doctor. And all that I did from that moment on would lead me to achieve that goal.