To the one who left the deepest mark on my life,
My therapist, Ms. Alaa Abdallah.
Thank you for everything.
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| Inner Voice - Short Story |
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"The reason wars happen all around the world is that we believe we are better than others, but we are not."
Pep Guardiola
Spanish Football Manager
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Egypt, Alexandria
March 20th, 2018
“The handsome scientist.” That phrase clung to my mind the moment I read it a little while ago in the The Deer Hunting Season novel, *(an Egyptian novel by the contemporary writer Ahmed Mourad). I have no idea when I’ll finally finish it. It feels like I read two lines per year. Tonight, I read a few pages beneath the flashlight of my phone because the lamp in my room is broken. The room is shared between me and my older brother, Seif. I always wished I were an only child, so I could have all the care and attention to myself. But I have three brothers and one half-brother from my father’s second wife. *(Islam allows a man to marry more than one woman). I am the second among them, and my father’s most spoiled son, especially because, in his eyes, I excel at school. He hopes that I will fulfill his dream of becoming a doctor, and that’s why the phrase “the handsome scientist” caught my attention.
“Alright then, Mr. Handsome Scientist, why don’t you attend with us?” That was how I imagined my friend Ali teasing me, with his thin voice and his soft mocking tone. At the educational center where I attend my classes, every teacher has two sessions: an early one at two in the afternoon, and another at four. Since the beginning of this year, I chose the earlier session, leaving the later one - the one Ali and Mostafa my friends attend. Instead, I became friends with Youssab in the early session, and we discovered a shared admiration for the writer Ahmed Mourad. Youssab and I were waiting for the release of Diamond Dust movie *(an Egyptian movie released in 2018, written by Ahmed Mourad), more eagerly than we were waiting for the World Cup - not like most boys. And it saddens me deeply to see the subtle racism he faced from some classmates during classes. Every now and then, they would complain about a bad smell in the classroom because of “those Christians” who attended with us.
By attending the early session, I had also stopped going to school altogether. Students who still attended school could hardly make it to the two o’clock session anyway. I lost nothing because at Abbas Helmy Secondary School *(Abbas Helmy II, Khedive of Egypt from 1892 to 1914), no teacher truly lectures, and therefore no student truly benefits. As for Hassan ibn Thabit School *(Hassan ibn Thabit, the poet of the Prophet Muhammad), - Ali and Mostafa’s school - it was considered a school for outstanding students. It required high grades to enroll after middle school, and my grades had only been average.
As for why I preferred avoiding the later session, there were two reasons. “Habiba was asking about you, man. Says you’ve become arrogant.” That was the first reason. Habiba, whose name alone made my heart tremble. The second reason was that the later session was filled with top students. The teachers would constantly stop lecturing and ask questions. It wasn’t that I feared not knowing the answer. I feared being unable to say it. I’m a stammerer. And despite avoiding the top students, I still couldn’t escape. Once every month, I had to say my name to confirm my payment registration. Tomorrow was payment day, that the confrontation I spent the entire month dreading. Yet once it passed, I would suddenly belittle it in my mind. Despite how horribly I stumbled through it, I would tell myself it had been something simple. But it only felt simple because it was already over. If they asked me to say my name again, I would probably stumble even worse than before. That had been my life ever since the idea of stammering first came to me. Because stammering is nothing but an inner voice whispering that I will not be able to speak. A voice so powerful it truly robs me of speech. My lips tremble, my breathing falters, and my eyes avoid the eyes of the person in front of me.
“Alaa Mohamed El-Sayed Mousa Ahmed El-Sayed Ali Abdel Aal.” I whispered my full name softly, avoiding the family name we disliked mentioning. And speaking of family reminded me of Upper Egypt, where I was born and raised. We had left it two years ago because of the tribal family system that prevailed there: the larger your family, the more respected you were; the fewer relatives you had, the more invisible you became. And that had been our situation. I came from Upper Egypt carrying the early seeds of stammering, and a masturbation addiction that returned, as always, whenever I needed God’s help before any verbal confrontation. If I wanted His guidance, then I shouldn’t disobey Him. But wasn’t I supposed to be myself? If He wanted to guide me, then let Him guide me while I was still sinful. I remembered how Miss Hanaa, the employee responsible for registration, had once helped me by letting me write my name instead. Wasn’t that enough to ease the pressure a little? Wasn’t that enough reason not to masturbate? And strangely enough, it became a reason to do it! I opened the calendar page on my phone. I had grown used to tracking the number of times by placing a 🙂 beside each day I did it. The numbers were terrifying. And oddly, that only increased my desire!
- What money do you need for tomorrow?
That was Dad’s voice coming from the living room, as though God had sent him at that exact moment to stop me from what I was about to do.