by Rafik Schami
August 12 — Uncle Salim and my father have become enthusiastic followers of the newspaper. My father listens to BBC London and was very taken with the third question: “Do you happen to know how many days a week a baker works? (The answer is seven, because bakers, despite a decades-long battle, still don’t have a day off.) And how many days in his life does a big landowner work? (The answer is approximately zero.)”
August 17 — Damascus is most beautiful at dawn. Today I awakened from a dream and crept out of my room onto the terrace. The street sweepers had just finished up on our street. They shouldered their long brooms and walked home with slow strides. They looked tired. I had an idea about what street sweepers and bakers have in common, but now, in the afternoon, I can’t think what it was.
August 18 — Somehow or other the paper has changed me. I look at things more carefully, and when I see or hear something, questions more than answers rise up in me. I also love Nadia very much, and I’m certain we belong together. This gives me peace of mind.
When I read my early diary entries today, I was ashamed. I would have liked to tear them out. But I have sworn not to alter anything, so all of it will remain. There was much I would have forgotten if I had not immediately made my notes. I have also become far more diligent. Whether I’m content, sad, or indifferent, I write it down. Habib already has more than ten volumes in all.
August 20 — Last night I sat long on the terrace, looking at the stars. I wanted to write a poem about the night, but my thoughts kept straying and ended up with Nadia. If only she could lie beside me for a few moments, and in the freshness of the night we could gaze at the stars together!
A few days ago Nadia said to me, “Sometimes I wish your head lay on my pillow so we could share the same dream.”
I have no further wishes anymore.
August 21 — The third issue went off very smoothly today. It is even more readable than the first two. Mahmud’s questions and my story about the cunning inhabitants of Homs, who for centuries have affected lunacy, worked out well.
The owner of the sock factory suspiciously asked us our names and where we lived. Of course we made something up, but we have to be careful. The secret service has been getting very sharp. Habib is extraordinarily fearful for us.
August 24 — Today we had a close call. I spread out my cloth in front of a cinema in the new quarter. The cheap socks attracted passersby, and within a short time I had sold three-quarters of our wares. Mahmud kept a lookout nearby. Suddenly a well-dressed man tore open a package of socks and grabbed me by the collar. Mahmud noticed this and, like greased lightning, rammed into the man so forcefully from behind that he toppled over and hit the ground. I slipped out of his grip and ran as fast as I could. The man screamed, “Stop! Thief! Stop! Thief!” in the hope that passersby would help, but no one did.
As I scaled a wall and ran down an alley on the other side, children playing with marbles cried out in terror. A woman gazing out a window called to her neighbor, “Just look how pale the poor boy is!”
As I came to a busy street, I put on the brakes, slowing my pace. I walked into the first cafe I saw and ordered a lemonade. I had to sit for half an hour before I felt strength in my knees again. My boss was grouchy, but he’s been like that a lot lately. The bookshop is not doing so well. We have competition.
Habib was utterly appalled and proud at the same time. He said we have to find a new way, always look for new ways, and not use the same ones too long. In Aleppo, he learned through a friend, three groups also producing sock-newspapers have been caught.
August 27 — Neither the Israeli nor the Jordanian broadcasters have said a word about our third edition, even though (thanks to Habib’s courage—he stuffed the paper into over three hundred mailboxes) it was far more widely distributed. Habib said they probably were keeping silent so the disgruntled masses in other countries would not make their own sock-newspapers.
There must still be some other clever way!
August 29 — Nadia asked me why I’ve been so aggressive lately. I’m sorry I can’t tell her, but I don’t want to put her in jeopardy.
September 1 — A coup! Once again the new government, composed of old generals, has discovered that the preceding regime consisted of nothing but thieves and traitors. This isn’t even funny!
The prisons are overflowing, and Nadia’s father serves the new government as a spy. He has just removed the photo of the old president from their living room and is waiting for the new president to have his picture taken.
September 2 — Habib has a new idea. He has given a great deal of thought to which cheap, salable articles are packed in paper. Oranges are extremely well suited to our purpose; the newspaper strips could easily be hidden beneath the bright paper they are wrapped in. We’ve completely rejected textiles because it takes too long to get them to consumers. Habib has been working as a day laborer in the packing department of a pharmaceutical firm. They manufacture only a few items (headache pills and the like), but they do so by the ton. He could slip our newspaper into the packages with the tablets. The firm is near Damascus; the oranges are packed on the coast, but Habib will drive there.
September 4 — Habib forges like a pro. He magically made himself a set of identity papers with an assumed name.
I have an idea about how we can bring the paper to people everywhere. A balloon filled with a light gas could hold several strips inside; when it bursts somewhere in the sky, the strips will fall over the city. Mahmud is enthusiastic about the idea and reminded me about the experiment we made with hydrogen in school. A little zinc and hydrochloric acid will release hydrogen. Tomorrow we’re going to try it.
September 5 — Today we opened our witches’ kitchen in the attic. A soda bottle, a few pieces of zinc (from a broken gutter), and hydrochloric acid (it’s called spirit of salt in the shop and is quite cheap) were all we needed. The contents of the bottle foamed and seethed, and when we set a match to the gas, a bluish flame hissed up and scared us. The bottle tipped over, and the mixture ate into the wooden floor and smelled awful. We coughed like maniacs! But then we managed to fill a balloon with the gas, and it rose in the sky rather quickly.
How will we get it to the height at which it will burst? If we can’t, only God above will be able to read the strips of paper in the belly of the balloon. Maybe we should fasten a long string to it and light the string? We tried this with the next balloon, but the string didn’t burn. Tomorrow we will drench it in diesel oil.
September 8 — Darkness was upon the fields on the outskirts of Damascus. Mahmud stuffed thirty newspaper strips into a big balloon and filled it with gas. I dipped its thin string in diesel oil, and we let the balloon go up. When it reached a height of about ten meters in the dark sky, we lit the string. But the flames raced up too quickly, and before the balloon could rise a few meters more, there was a dreadful bang.
We ran away quickly. We took the bottle and the remains of the zinc with us. On our way we encountered people gazing skyward in confusion, talking about the explosion. Suddenly Mahmud began to laugh. He is quite a guy! In the midst of every catastrophe he finds something to laugh about. At first I was annoyed, but then I joined in his crazy laughter, and we were delighted by the agitated people who suspected they’d seen a UFO. They’ll discover the pages soon enough. Now the newspaper has a cosmic collaborator.
September 11 — I have saved one hundred and eighty-six pounds. When I have two hundred altogether, I will buy my mother a dress that costs fifty.
Things are going somewhat better in the bookstore, and my boss isn’t grumbling so often. Now he has a few titles that are hits with university students: 200 Questions Pertaining to Medicine, 300 Questions Pertaining to Chemistry, 150 Questions Pertaining to Law. Students buy these brochures as if possessed, and the profit per pamphlet is not thirty but fifty percent. And just look at our future doctors, chemists, and lawyers! They read the questions, learn the answers like parrots, and spit them out on paper. In olden times a medici
ne man or medicine woman was a wise person. When I read about everything that one Avicenna or a single Leonardo da Vinci knew, the university and its teachers seem pathetic.
Yesterday Habib said that Socrates had not read more books in his lifetime than a person who nowadays has taken his university entrance exam, but that with his knowledge Socrates reached even to the root of life. I don’t know anything at all about Socrates. Today I looked around in the shop. There are three books about him.
September 13 — We nearly burned up the attic experimenting with the string and diesel oil. With my face entirely black, I went into the kitchen. My mother made fun of me. All evening she called me chimney sweep, and finally my father wanted to know why. She fibbed, saying that I’d gotten dirty helping her in the kitchen.
This is something I especially love about my crazy mother. She never tells on us. Even when we’ve nearly driven her nuts, she settles things with us herself. She never says, “Just wait until your father gets home.” Sometimes she hits us, crying while she does; then we, too, keep our mouths shut when my old man returns. Mahmud’s mother always runs right to his father and gripes about one thing or another. That’s something I don’t like about her.
September 14 — “Have you told Mariam about the newspaper?” I asked Habib.
“Of course I have. I don’t want to make the same mistake twice.” He told me how he had made a secret of his political work, hiding it from his wife out of concern for her. But his seeming prudence had not saved her. He had also seen how wives had unwittingly divulged the names of their husbands’ friends, not knowing that these alleged merchants and docents, farmers and artisans, whom their husbands visited from time to time, were high-ranking functionaries. And so, by not having trusted their wives, having shared their beds only and let them cook, the men had betrayed their confidants. “Among spies I could understand this, but nowhere else!” he said.
I must talk to Nadia about this as soon as possible. I’m no spy!
September 16 — Habib packs up the orders for pharmacies in the factory storeroom. A tedious job. While doing it, he stuffs the newspaper strips into the boxes. We told him about our balloon, and he laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks.
September 18 — I haven’t been to church in ages. My father asked me why, and I said I probably didn’t go because I no longer needed pocket money. He almost choked with laughter. Uncle Salim, who had been listening with amusement to our conversation, told us a story:
“A poor man was out of work. He was very pious and always went to church; he prayed and prayed but found no work. One day he noticed that the collection box under the portrait of the Virgin Mary was full of coins and bills, but the box under the picture of Jesus was almost always empty.
“Soon after, the man had had his fill of begging. He entered the church, stood before the picture of the Virgin, and spoke to her.
“’Blessed Mary, all day long I seek work and do not find it. My children need their food and clothing and I my schnapps, but, as you see, I haven’t got a single cent. I’m not a bad person. Just look at your son’s box. Nothing. The wind whistles in it. And he’s not bad either. May I take twenty pounds? I will share it with your son, ten for me and ten for him. My children will get their food and I my schnapps. It will stand your son in good stead, too. If you don’t want me to do this, just say so, and I won’t even lay a finger on it.’
“Of course the picture made no reply, and the man did as he said. The next day he came back.
” ’O holy Virgin, I am so ashamed,’ he said, ’I cannot even look you in the eye. But what should I do? Look, things go no better for your son. Not a single piaster. Today I need forty pounds, for the rent is due. But I am like a camel; I forget nothing. I will also give forty to your son. If this is too much, just say so. I won’t touch a thing.’ Naturally the image didn’t say a word, and the man took eighty pounds from the overstuffed box, divided them, and went his way.
“The man’s situation did not improve in the following days, and he came, took, and divided. But he always asked whether the Virgin had any objection; she never did.
“The priest puzzled a long time over this sudden change in the two collection boxes. In ten years he had never seen such paltry figures for Mary and such good ones for Jesus. Suddenly his accounts no longer balanced, and to find out the reason, he hid behind the painting of Jesus and waited.
“The man came in, eyes to the ground, and said, ’O Blessed Virgin, for two weeks I have been searching for work and finding none. I told my wife and children they have your good heart to thank for all I have given them, and every day they pray for you. Before, my wife couldn’t stand you, but now you can count on her in hard times. I seem to be saying a lot today because the rent must be paid again, and I’m ashamed. But the woodworms in your son’s box are catching cold from the draft. Still, if you don’t want me to, just say so, and I’ll leave everything as it is.’
“’No, I don’t want you to!’ the priest cried out in anger.
“Infuriated, the man turned to the picture of Jesus. ’Shut your trap. I’m talking to your mother! But very well, if you don’t want me to, I won’t share with you any longer,’ he scolded, took the eighty pounds, and left.”
The most wonderful thing is how Uncle Salim manages to extract from his memory the right story for every occasion.
September 20 — A splendid day! Today I went to the circus with Nadia. The afternoon show began at three. An impoverished troupe from India is visiting the exhibition center. They don’t even have a cash register; a man just stands there collecting money. With his scant knowledge of Arabic, he has a lot of trouble doing his job, and all the spectators seem to want to haggle.
During the performance nothing went right. The dogs refused to jump through the fiery hoops and raced under them instead. The elephants had diarrhea. The tightrope walker slipped even after his fifth attempt; the rope, however, was only about two meters off the ground.
The master of ceremonies tried hard to introduce the tiger act in an interesting way. “A matter of life and death!” he cried. The tigers slinked around inside the ring, yawning incessantly, then fell asleep. The tamer roared at them like a lion, but the big cats each sleepily opened one eye and went on yawning. The children laughed heartily.
The knife-throwing number, thank God, was the one thing that went smoothly. Upset, Nadia closed her eyes and pressed my hand. I found the act abominable. The poor girl who stood there trembling was as beautiful as a rose.
The loveliest act was that of the sad clown. He told a love story without saying a word. All he had was a withered flower that he took great pains to bring back to life. The spectators howled, but Nadia and I wept.
October 1 — We have solved the problem of the string. After days filled with tears and coughing, we realized that a few drops of diesel oil were enough to make the cord burn slowly but surely.
From atop the roof of an old abandoned factory, we sent up a big balloon with fifty strips inside. The wind carried it over the inner city. Suddenly it blazed up blue in the dark sky. We waited a moment, stashed the bag with our chemical laboratory in a rusty barrel, and hurried home.
October 15 — Habib ran off another three hundred strips of the fourth issue. He gave notice at the pharmaceutical firm, and tomorrow he is going north to work as an orange packer.
By hand he added a note in French: Show this strip to an Arab and let him translate what it says for you. We would be thankful if you would then pass our newspaper on to a journalist.
Hopefully nothing will happen to him. A gutsy guy!
October 18 — How stupid we are despite all! The simplest solution was right under our noses, and we took tremendous detours, perilous detours, and inhaled soot and oil. All this was completely unnecessary. Today we came upon the idea that solved the problem. We filled a small, lightweight raffia basket with the leaflets, fastened it to the balloon, and sent it up. After a few meters, the wind blew the flyers out of the swinging bask
et. The lighter the load, the faster the balloon rose and dumped it. The wind distributed the papers for us. No more lightning and diesel fuel. So now it’s also a little less dangerous.
November 6 — Three weeks have gone by and Habib is still up north. Nadia and I can meet more often. Best of all is when we make love at Habib’s.
November 8 — I have been looking for the madman. I don’t know why, but yesterday I dreamed about him. He is no longer at the entrance to the Umayyad Mosque. A perfume seller, who offers little aromatic flasks on a table there, told me the madman had grown weaker day by day and one day lay there unconscious. An ambulance picked him up, and since then he has not appeared again.
November 15 — Did I ever have a terrifying nightmare tonight! Habib squatted in front of the mosque with his mouth sealed shut. He had burns on his hands. They were square and red.
November 17 — Uncle Salim wanted to pour me some tea. His trembling hands could not hold the glass. It fell tinkling to the floor and shattered. I tried to make light of it, but Uncle Salim laughed at my concern.
“My friend, you have seen some of nature’s wisdom and endeavor to excuse it.” While we drank, he explained. “Nature, my friend, nature is mute. But she shows what she wants to say. Now she is telling me: Don’t hold on tight to worldly things. You cannot take them along with you, and the more tightly you hold on to them, the faster they will slip through your fingers. That’s what Nature says; she weakens the hands of old people so they can grasp and enjoy life more intensely than ever.”
November 24 — After forty days, Habib has returned. Now he has a gray beard. The radio stations are talking about the fourth issue again. Habib hopes the oranges will soon come into good hands. He told us a lot about the sea and the fishermen.
December 23 — (Have written nothing for nearly a month!) What luck! In Marseille several people who bought oranges passed the strips on to journalists. Habib learned of this through a colleague and had a taxi driver bring a copy of the French newspaper, Le Monde, from Beirut. The Syrian government has banned this edition. They do this whenever there’s anything at all against them in a newspaper. It’s idiotic that everybody else knows things are going badly for us, while we alone are not allowed to learn about it.
