Libre Magazine

In the year 1950, an old man would visit our village every month. It was strange that he would always appear at the exact same time, every time He had many small colorful toys, which were so enchanting that they always made me follow him through the streets. But my parents knew him for bigger and mostly uncolored things he would bring from Cairo city. My mother would spend hours choosing from his goods, and my father would spend hours bargaining. Once the bargain was over, my mother and father would go upstairs and my brother would start exchanging a few words with the old man. Words like “papers” and “inspection” and sometimes “martial”… back then, I didn’t really understand what they meant. And when the man would prepare to leave he would make a small exchange of some small object with my brother; some paper I guess it was.

One day, my curiosity, as that of any 9 year old boy, overcame my reason and I sneaked that small yellow paper from the man’s bag, while my father was paying him. Busy in making the transaction, the old man didn’t notice it. After he had left, I unfolded that piece of paper. I could h barely read so I understood absolutely nothing. I figured there were some numbers and names which were closer to adjectives. I thought it was some kind of a small story with an address at the end. And the last line, the only line that I understood, read: “burn it now!” Perplexed, I did exactly that, I burnt it. For some very strange reasons, I believed that the paper was addressed to me so I was obliged to do it. But I didn’t do it until after a couple of days.

Before the evening fell on the village that day, the entire village was gathered at the small village market which served also as a public square. I saw police cars there and a man in uniform was standing tall in the middle of the square. The old man from Cairo was down on his knees and his face was a bloody mess, only his eyes were clearly visible. The police officer was looking down at him with only one phrase persistently coming out of his mouth, “Where is it?” His voice was plain, hollow and emotionless. He didn’t seem to look as if he was commanding but merely wondering. The old man from Cairo didn’t answer. “Where is it?” the police officer kept asking but he never got an answer. Then came another question, “Where r they now?” He kept asking those questions but got no answer until he took out his pistol as a last resort. He laid a cold gaze on the weapon and then looked down at the old man.

“Pathetic” he said without a look of hate or disgust or even indifference; nothing at all. While the police officer kept his glare on him, the kneeling man raised his head to see me clutching the small yellow paper in my small hand. A spotless shine appeared in his eyes as his mouth articulated the soundless words, “Thank you”

I never stole anything ever again.

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Inspired by Photos taken by Marwa Nasser