‘The Interpreter’ is the English version of Arabic novel ‘Al Tarjuman’, authored by Ashraf Aboul Yazid, an eminent writer and poet of Egypt

My life is shattered enough, it cannot bear another crack.

How great the confusion you have caused me, my sister “Fawz.”

I, “Shahlaa Al-Tayeh,” a symbol of freedom, a lover of rebellion, the Kuwaiti woman who does what she pleases, the self-made woman who built herself, and turned away from men, shock myself and surprise you when I advise you not to liberate yourself, and I urge you not to rebel. I wish I could convince you to abandon what you are planning to do.

Do you think I am two-faced?

On the contrary, I love you more than myself. I almost see you as my daughter “Modhi,” so dear to my heart. Yes, I see you as my daughter, even though we, “Fawz,” grew up together in the same path, and were raised together in the same neighborhood, born in the same month. But as you know, I am two weeks older than you, and I know more about you than you know about me by a year.

Do you remember when we used to act together on the roof of our house in the neighborhood, playing the “Darab Al-Zilj” series? I played the role of “Husseinoh,” and you played the role of my brother “Saeed.” At that time, the government gave us endless dinars, and every day we planned a new project to spend our pennies on. Today, thank God, we are among the wealthiest women in the country, but there are no more projects. That’s why we look for losing ventures. I’ve found my two failed marriages, and you’ve found your most disastrous project.

True, when I look at my life, I don’t see it as a model to give you—or any other woman—lessons in family, marriage, love, or men. I am unhappy with them, and others may see me as more miserable without them, but I have loved a hundred times, gotten engaged three times, married and divorced twice. My daughter is almost a stranger to me, even though I befriended her and never imprisoned her at home, as my grandfather used to do with his granddaughters when my parents traveled, leaving us with him and the maids.

But the madness you are planning surpasses anyone’s imagination. How can I encourage you to commit such a crime?

Do you want to marry a man who is dying? Do you want—being the widow of a martyr—people to say that you swam with the tide of love, sank in the sea of passion, and drowned your pure page in a night of mistakes?

But just as the Kuwaitis shouted at the waves fifty years ago: “Stop, sea,” to make it stop taking divers and sailors—our people—into its depths, never to return, I shout at you now: “Enough, Fawz!”

Stop destroying what’s left of your life and look to the future.

Yes, the future, for our children, not for us. Now, it’s too late for us when it comes to marriage and relationships… you know what I mean, and we must arrange things for the new generation’s unions. Instead of talking to me about your marriage to “Mr. Mohsen,” let’s talk about the marriage of “Khaled” and “Modhi.” There’s an old saying, “Marry for your daughter, but don’t marry for your son.” It’s true that my daughter hasn’t entered university yet, and there’s a six-year age gap between her and “Khaled,” but I tell you, this is the ideal age.

A marriage between two people of similar ages is destined to fail.

I want to learn from my mistakes, and I don’t want my daughter to fall into the same disasters I did. You know her as I know her, true, she’s a bit wild, but she will be in her aunt’s house, a companion to her mother’s lifetime, and she will find in “Khaled” a good man.

I wish he would be like her father in every way, so that “Modhi” would love him as you loved “Badr.” You know, Fawz, you will see in their story with you a reflection of your youth with “Badr.” You will give them portions of the love you gave him, and that love will flow into its proper channel. And I promise you, Fawz, I will never be a mother-in-law, the advice is yours, and the decision is yours.

As for “Mr. Mohsen,” why all this pain?

If you can’t travel with him for treatment, arrange for him to travel with a family member. In my opinion, this is the best solution, Fawz. And if it’s impossible for his daughter to leave her studies, contact one of his siblings and explain the situation to them, then cover the costs, since God has blessed you, and you want to try treating him at your expense, in Germany or France, as you told me.

Know, Fawz, that this man, specifically, is not a suitcase you can take on your trip to the airport to travel to Frankfurt or Paris without anyone seeing you. There are papers, procedures, and your attempt to forge official documents by making the marriage date predate the illness may be exposed by anyone. There are plenty of people waiting to catch him and you.

Didn’t you read the news that “Shaden” wrote about what happened in his apartment?

That woman placed the blame on the man without fault, aroused suspicions without revealing anything, and thus escaped punishment for forgery and spreading false news. But she opened the door to assumptions and gossip, especially among those who knew part of your love story, or those who knew you moved him from Mubarak Hospital to Hadi Hospital, or who anticipated your marriage.

Yesterday you told me that the doctor who visits Mr. Mohsen at home will bring an Egyptian marriage officiant, who works as an imam and preacher at a mosque in the East. Since he will take a tip, he will be willing to backdate your marriage to the first year of the Islamic calendar, with documents authenticated from Egypt!

You also told me that the doctor himself would be the first witness, and that a colleague of Mr. Mohsen — the only one among his peers who continues to visit him at your house — would be the second witness.

By God, this gang of four — a marriage officiant, a doctor, a translator, and a writer — you forge and conspire, without fear of God or the law. Even if you escape worldly punishment, you will meet hell in the hereafter.

This is your last chance to withdraw, Fawz. I urge you because I cannot imagine harm coming to you. My life is shattered enough; it cannot bear another crack.

When I called you last night, only to ruin my evening afterward, I wanted to tell you what “Sirr al-Uyoun” confided in me. The Moroccan woman called me in the morning, just as she had called “Bzweena Al-Saleh” and “Sabah Al-Hamoud,” and informed us that she was expecting all of us together at 5:30 p.m., after Maghrib prayer.

In her apartment overlooking the Arabian Gulf Street in the Shabih area, “Sirr al-Uyoun” received us wearing her pink abaya with silver threads. We immersed ourselves in the special incense she brings from Marrakesh whenever she travels. She removed the perfumes we had sprayed with a bit of anxiety and then we slipped off our shoes and sat on the short wooden reception chairs, lined with leather and stuffed with wool. We completely relaxed as we drank the Moroccan tea she poured for us from a silver kettle into glass cups, their bases and handles decorated with engraved silver deer motifs.

Afterward, “Sirr al-Uyoun” played a record for us, introducing it as “Nass Ghiwan.” True, we understood little of their lyrics, but our hearts danced to the rhythms of their music.

Suddenly, “Bzweena Al-Saleh” attacked her:

“Enough, ‘Sirr al-Uyoun.’ We’ve smelled the incense and perfume, we’ve drunk the tea, we’ve heard the music, and we know we didn’t come here for that. True, this isn’t our first visit, and hopefully, it won’t be the last, but this is the first time we’ve come at your request, and honestly, our patience has run out. This invitation is definitely about our friend Fawz.”

“Sirr al-Uyoun” smiled, as though she already knew that “Bzweena” would get angry and immediately ask:

“Are you the fortune-teller now, Sheikha Bzweena? You predict, and then you believe. Yes, I invited you because there’s something new. And it’s not something I could say over the phone—wires have ears. I didn’t want to tell one of you before the others because you all ask me about Fawz, and you all care about her. And I’ll tell you more: you no longer come alone, for her matter has become my primary concern, just like it is for you.”

“Sirr al-Uyoun” then told us how she had read the papers of her grandfather, Sheikh Al-Taji Al-Marrakeshi, purified herself, prayed Isha, and slept on a pillow wrapped in a shawl Fawz wore, intertwined with a keffiyeh belonging to Mr. Mohsen. Then she woke up at dawn, prayed, and prostrated for a long time, read the remaining papers, prayed, and then slept again. That’s when the vision came, one she feared to interpret alone:

“I saw Fawz, her hair turned white like a piece of snow, almost like a silver crown she was wearing, resembling a bride’s tiara. Her dress was white as well. There was no man with her. But there were two giant birds flying over her—an eagle and a green falcon. The eagle soared upwards, while the falcon descended, and she ran in the middle, as if unaware of them, heading toward an open book, next to which sat a sheikh with a turban and a man holding something in his hand, sitting by a stream whose waters turned golden at times and red at others…”

“Bzweena Al-Saleh” listened, spellbound, while I tried to recall the details “Sirr al-Uyoun” was telling. As for “Sabah Al-Hamoud,” she leaned backward and forgot we were sitting on chairs without backs, almost falling over.

I asked “Sirr al-Uyoun” to explain what she had seen and narrated. She asked if we understood anything or if we knew something that might help her before she explained the vision. We were silent, so she continued:

“Fawz is planning something, thinking it’s a bath in what she believes is a river of gold. But what she doesn’t know is that the deceptive water is not gold—it’s a bath of blood. As for the two birds, one is bidding her farewell, and the other is coming to hunt her. And as for the sheikh by the river, he might be a Quran reciter at the graveyard, and the man next to him is likely a bearer of shrouds!”

The objection to “Sirr al-Uyoun’s” interpretation escalated. We attacked her without offering an alternative. We disagreed on the details but agreed that our friend Fawz was walking toward danger, which coincided with her announcement that she had decided to marry Mr. Mohsen and wanted our support, or at least our prayers, so that her efforts wouldn’t be in vain.

But the stubborn one made my night worse after the call, and I have no idea what happened with “Sabah” and “Bzweena.” (Continues)

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Published under International Cooperation with "Sindh Courier"