This is a short story by al-Mazini, an egyptian critic, writer of fiction, poet, and essayist which I fancy very much (full name: Ibrahim ‘Abd al-Qadir al-Mazini). His short fiction is like a combination of fairytales and real event, the mystical feature of his writing would seem to be a big "duh" in the arab world but still, even now after 3/4 of a century he can still surprise us. The way in which he writes makes you wonder if he considers his readers as adults or children, probably a little but of both. Now I leave you with "How I Became a Demon of the Jinn"
"When I was a teenager, I tried my hand at everything, taking any opportunity that came my way. I only used to think about the moment in which I was living, hungry for my share of life, anxious to get my fill of it. One marvelous summer’s night I was wending my way home in the early morning hours—we Ibrahim ‘Abd al-Qadir al-Mazini: How I Became a Demon of the Jinn 99 lived in the Saliba quarter—after a whole night of drinking and listening to music and songs. When I arrived at my threshold, I realized my ninety-year-old grandmother was the only person home and I didn’t have the key with me. I said to myself, “Should I disturb my grandmother? She can only rise with the greatest difficulty, and when she walks anywhere, she moves along the walls so she can prop herself up. I should let her rest and go join up with the rest of my family—my mother and brother—after all, the weather is clear and it will be a refreshing walk.”
So I turned my back on the door and left. In those days the road to the Imam Shafii mosque had not yet been paved; there were no trams or lights, and no one path was any better than another. So I chose the shortest route, which passed by the Sayyida Nafisa mosque, cut through the graveyard, and eventually merged with the public road again at the other end. I started stumbling along and kept bumping into things because there were so many graves, scattered haphazardly yet all crowded together. It was hard to find my way in the dark. Yet I didn’t really bother or think about this; I just entrusted things to my two legs, which proceeded, moving and stumbling along as they did every day and every night. I remember I was singing the tunes of that evening, which were still alive in my head and heart. One piece kept on eluding me and I felt that my walking intruded on my finding the correct notes. So I stopped, leaned my back against a tombstone, and tried singing it again. I can still picture myself there in my mind today, even though I thought nothing of it at the time; it did not impress me then as a dramatic situation. Why should a lad intoxicated by music and wine bother to think about graves and what they contained?
In the prime of life, when does a man ever really think about death, even though it is a reality close to him? There is no running away from it and no way to avoid its eventual encounter, yet young people look upon death—when it occasionally occurs to them—as they might consider something hidden behind a mountain, without understanding it. It is simply something unknown and
far away. Our attention is busy with the climb to the top of the mountain and all the wondrous things encountered on these fascinating slopes! Later, nearer the summit, conjectures about what lies beyond the peak begin crowding into his head and the meaning and gravity of death occur to him bit by bit. Later these thoughts may dominate a mind entirely; after all, the long climb may have sapped the strength and wrecked the body. So toward the top one may become rather stupid, facing the thought of death with a spirit of helpless despair that eclipses any sense of oblivion or personal alarm.
So, anyway, I stood for a while, singing over the grave, projecting my voice into the darkness without bothering about the cluttered tombs or the remains buried beneath me. Once all these people had, like me, been in the prime of their lives, showing all the ignorance of youth, filled with joy and singing, not thinking about that all-embracing oblivion that is the fate of every living creature. Even now, I am still amazed at how I ignored death when I was right in
the middle of its motionless sea! Youth is indeed a mercy. What would life be like if our thoughts were filled with death from the cradle to the grave? In such a case everything would be unbearable; men could cease all their endeavors and efforts, however fascinating, immediately. What would be the good of life,
the point of any effort, the consolation for all striving, if thoughts of this abyss continually swallowed up mankind? Death is despair, and God has been merciful enough to let life be more powerful. Man’s feeling for it is stronger, so it has more control over him.
Youth is a bursting force. Life in youth possesses a sweet magical novelty. In middle age life becomes something familiar, consisting of habitual experiences; now, man feels less alarm when he thinks of someday giving up this life and all its familiar tastes. Some don’t even like the taste by now! Were it not that life is a habit like everything on earth, and people are used to being alive and breathing air, they would not consider it a burden to die and be cut off from the world. Habit and fantasy grow along with life and one’s feeling for oneself, which is what makes death so hard, makes people sad at the thought of leaving the world. With children and animals, it is the opposite. As I stood there singing, I spotted a figure approaching—I had no doubt it was a man, since no woman would dare, except in very rare circumstances—walk around these graves at night. I stopped singing, suddenly nervous. It occurred to me he might be a thief, or if he were not, this desolate quiet spot might entice him to robbery. But then I calmed down, thinking, “What am I worrying about? I have nothing on me worth stealing; I have only a few piastres, which won’t make him rich if he gets them and won’t make me poor if I lose them. Anyway, I am very light and can run fast, and I know all the entrances and exits; I don’t
think he could catch up with me if I took off with both feet flying. So there is nothing to fear from this approaching person, whoever he may be.” It didn’t seem sensible to panic; it would show clearly in my voice and movements, which would only encourage him if he were a sinister character. Prudence demanded, nevertheless, that I hide behind a secluded grave, so I could see him without his seeing me, determine what kind of person he was, and wait until he would be walking in front of me with me behind him—that would be the stronger position, I thought.
Approaching was an old shaikh with a white beard; in his hand he carried a rosary, and he was reciting the name of God and passages from the Quran or something, although I could not really hear him. It annoyed me that this feeble shaikh had startled me, and I felt my inner self moving to take vengeance on him. I let him walk on a little way then sprang out in front of him suddenly, from behind a grave. The poor fellow was terrified and almost collapsed on the ground. I quickly hid myself again, retracing my steps for a grave or two—a distance of a few meters. He was staring all around at nothing. He held himself closely, spat right and left, and raised his voice in a plea to God, seeking refuge from every accursed devil. Then he began reciting again and walking, with me darting stealthily between the graves behind him. His pace quickened and I
realized he was still afraid. I leapt to his side once again, stretching out my hand and tugging at the hair in his beard. He screamed and I ran away to hide. I cut round behind the graves and got in front of him again, almost bursting with suppressed mirth. I waited till he passed by me, then I put my hand out to his waist and tickled him. I swear, the man leapt off the ground as if I had plunged a sword or white-hot iron into his side. I realized the moment was ripe; the poor
man’s trauma had reached its peak and he had started mixing up the things he was reciting, like someone who cannot remember his words. He was so terrified that he was shouting, “I seek refuge in the devil from . . . ” I came up behind him and began making roaring noises, producing the most repulsive sounds I could muster. The poor wretch broke into a run. In this way, he got away from me. I myself had grown tired of the game and did not attempt a chase. I walked calmly along, brushing the dust off my clothes, and eventually came out on the public road.
After a quarter of an hour or so, I reached the Imam Shafii mosque just as the muezzin was about to chant the call to prayer in his banal tone. People were arriving, making preparation for their dawn prayer, and I saw my friend the shaikh surrounded by a whole group of people. He was exclaiming, “It was like a black cat leaping on my shoulders, licking my cheeks, passing between my legs, and climbing inside my qaftan! I sought refuge in God, then the earth opened up and it disappeared into the hole, but it came back again, appearing sometimes in the form of a bear on hands and legs, other times like a grave shroud emerging from beneath the tombstones; the veil had been ripped from its face, and its eyes shone, glowing like angry sparks. I kept reciting as much of the Quran as I could, then it wrapped its face in a ragged garment and sank into its grave. I’ll never forget its teeth as long as I live . . . They were like burning charcoal, gleaming red, they clattered around in its mouth like gleaming stars! God be praised, who saved me from its clutches . . . ”
Someone asked him, “Did you think it was going to strangle you?”
“Going to?” the shaikh replied. “What do you mean, going to? I tell you, he stretched out two arms as long as minarets and came forward, intending to wrap them around me! The spikes on his chest were gleaming like bayonets! If God had not given me the inspiration to recite the Kursi Sura,1 it would have been I who died.”
Someone else said, “You mean it died? That’s strange!”
“It was burned,” replied the shaikh. “The Kursi Sura burned it to death. Then I kept walking till I reached this road . . . ”
He turned around to point to the direction from which he had come, and saw me behind him. Astonished, he cried out, pointing, “That . . . Tha . . . that’s . . . ”
No one except me understood what he was shouting about or pointing at, while I suppressed the laughter welling up inside me. I looked behind me as 1. The Kursi verse is in the chapter of Yasin, the twenty-fifth chapter of the Quran. It is regarded as a central Quranic verse, recited as a prayer to avert evil or to summon good. though to see what he was pointing at, while the trembling man clung desperately to the people around him. Some asked, “Where? Where? We cannot see anything.”
The man wiped his face with his hand and calmed down. “Odd,” he said, “very odd indeed . . . this gentleman looks just like it.” I couldn’t contain my laughter. “Do you think my face is like a demon’s?” I sputtered. Standing nearby was someone whom I knew, someone both clever and cunning. It was clear he was suspicious and was imagining part of the truth, at least. “Listen,” he said to me.
“Which way did you come from?”
I realized what he was getting at and replied, “I came from that direction.” This was a lie, at least a half-truth. But I was afraid it would cause a scandal if the truth came out. He asked, “Did you come via Sayyida Nafisa or the Citadel?”
“Via the Citadel, of course,” I replied. “Who would dare to walk among all
those graves?”
He mumbled something I did not hear then went away. I was saved. I, who had been a demon of the jinn for one night!"
"When I was a teenager, I tried my hand at everything, taking any opportunity that came my way. I only used to think about the moment in which I was living, hungry for my share of life, anxious to get my fill of it. One marvelous summer’s night I was wending my way home in the early morning hours—we Ibrahim ‘Abd al-Qadir al-Mazini: How I Became a Demon of the Jinn 99 lived in the Saliba quarter—after a whole night of drinking and listening to music and songs. When I arrived at my threshold, I realized my ninety-year-old grandmother was the only person home and I didn’t have the key with me. I said to myself, “Should I disturb my grandmother? She can only rise with the greatest difficulty, and when she walks anywhere, she moves along the walls so she can prop herself up. I should let her rest and go join up with the rest of my family—my mother and brother—after all, the weather is clear and it will be a refreshing walk.”
So I turned my back on the door and left. In those days the road to the Imam Shafii mosque had not yet been paved; there were no trams or lights, and no one path was any better than another. So I chose the shortest route, which passed by the Sayyida Nafisa mosque, cut through the graveyard, and eventually merged with the public road again at the other end. I started stumbling along and kept bumping into things because there were so many graves, scattered haphazardly yet all crowded together. It was hard to find my way in the dark. Yet I didn’t really bother or think about this; I just entrusted things to my two legs, which proceeded, moving and stumbling along as they did every day and every night. I remember I was singing the tunes of that evening, which were still alive in my head and heart. One piece kept on eluding me and I felt that my walking intruded on my finding the correct notes. So I stopped, leaned my back against a tombstone, and tried singing it again. I can still picture myself there in my mind today, even though I thought nothing of it at the time; it did not impress me then as a dramatic situation. Why should a lad intoxicated by music and wine bother to think about graves and what they contained?
In the prime of life, when does a man ever really think about death, even though it is a reality close to him? There is no running away from it and no way to avoid its eventual encounter, yet young people look upon death—when it occasionally occurs to them—as they might consider something hidden behind a mountain, without understanding it. It is simply something unknown and
far away. Our attention is busy with the climb to the top of the mountain and all the wondrous things encountered on these fascinating slopes! Later, nearer the summit, conjectures about what lies beyond the peak begin crowding into his head and the meaning and gravity of death occur to him bit by bit. Later these thoughts may dominate a mind entirely; after all, the long climb may have sapped the strength and wrecked the body. So toward the top one may become rather stupid, facing the thought of death with a spirit of helpless despair that eclipses any sense of oblivion or personal alarm.
So, anyway, I stood for a while, singing over the grave, projecting my voice into the darkness without bothering about the cluttered tombs or the remains buried beneath me. Once all these people had, like me, been in the prime of their lives, showing all the ignorance of youth, filled with joy and singing, not thinking about that all-embracing oblivion that is the fate of every living creature. Even now, I am still amazed at how I ignored death when I was right in
the middle of its motionless sea! Youth is indeed a mercy. What would life be like if our thoughts were filled with death from the cradle to the grave? In such a case everything would be unbearable; men could cease all their endeavors and efforts, however fascinating, immediately. What would be the good of life,
the point of any effort, the consolation for all striving, if thoughts of this abyss continually swallowed up mankind? Death is despair, and God has been merciful enough to let life be more powerful. Man’s feeling for it is stronger, so it has more control over him.
Youth is a bursting force. Life in youth possesses a sweet magical novelty. In middle age life becomes something familiar, consisting of habitual experiences; now, man feels less alarm when he thinks of someday giving up this life and all its familiar tastes. Some don’t even like the taste by now! Were it not that life is a habit like everything on earth, and people are used to being alive and breathing air, they would not consider it a burden to die and be cut off from the world. Habit and fantasy grow along with life and one’s feeling for oneself, which is what makes death so hard, makes people sad at the thought of leaving the world. With children and animals, it is the opposite. As I stood there singing, I spotted a figure approaching—I had no doubt it was a man, since no woman would dare, except in very rare circumstances—walk around these graves at night. I stopped singing, suddenly nervous. It occurred to me he might be a thief, or if he were not, this desolate quiet spot might entice him to robbery. But then I calmed down, thinking, “What am I worrying about? I have nothing on me worth stealing; I have only a few piastres, which won’t make him rich if he gets them and won’t make me poor if I lose them. Anyway, I am very light and can run fast, and I know all the entrances and exits; I don’t
think he could catch up with me if I took off with both feet flying. So there is nothing to fear from this approaching person, whoever he may be.” It didn’t seem sensible to panic; it would show clearly in my voice and movements, which would only encourage him if he were a sinister character. Prudence demanded, nevertheless, that I hide behind a secluded grave, so I could see him without his seeing me, determine what kind of person he was, and wait until he would be walking in front of me with me behind him—that would be the stronger position, I thought.
Approaching was an old shaikh with a white beard; in his hand he carried a rosary, and he was reciting the name of God and passages from the Quran or something, although I could not really hear him. It annoyed me that this feeble shaikh had startled me, and I felt my inner self moving to take vengeance on him. I let him walk on a little way then sprang out in front of him suddenly, from behind a grave. The poor fellow was terrified and almost collapsed on the ground. I quickly hid myself again, retracing my steps for a grave or two—a distance of a few meters. He was staring all around at nothing. He held himself closely, spat right and left, and raised his voice in a plea to God, seeking refuge from every accursed devil. Then he began reciting again and walking, with me darting stealthily between the graves behind him. His pace quickened and I
realized he was still afraid. I leapt to his side once again, stretching out my hand and tugging at the hair in his beard. He screamed and I ran away to hide. I cut round behind the graves and got in front of him again, almost bursting with suppressed mirth. I waited till he passed by me, then I put my hand out to his waist and tickled him. I swear, the man leapt off the ground as if I had plunged a sword or white-hot iron into his side. I realized the moment was ripe; the poor
man’s trauma had reached its peak and he had started mixing up the things he was reciting, like someone who cannot remember his words. He was so terrified that he was shouting, “I seek refuge in the devil from . . . ” I came up behind him and began making roaring noises, producing the most repulsive sounds I could muster. The poor wretch broke into a run. In this way, he got away from me. I myself had grown tired of the game and did not attempt a chase. I walked calmly along, brushing the dust off my clothes, and eventually came out on the public road.
After a quarter of an hour or so, I reached the Imam Shafii mosque just as the muezzin was about to chant the call to prayer in his banal tone. People were arriving, making preparation for their dawn prayer, and I saw my friend the shaikh surrounded by a whole group of people. He was exclaiming, “It was like a black cat leaping on my shoulders, licking my cheeks, passing between my legs, and climbing inside my qaftan! I sought refuge in God, then the earth opened up and it disappeared into the hole, but it came back again, appearing sometimes in the form of a bear on hands and legs, other times like a grave shroud emerging from beneath the tombstones; the veil had been ripped from its face, and its eyes shone, glowing like angry sparks. I kept reciting as much of the Quran as I could, then it wrapped its face in a ragged garment and sank into its grave. I’ll never forget its teeth as long as I live . . . They were like burning charcoal, gleaming red, they clattered around in its mouth like gleaming stars! God be praised, who saved me from its clutches . . . ”
Someone asked him, “Did you think it was going to strangle you?”
“Going to?” the shaikh replied. “What do you mean, going to? I tell you, he stretched out two arms as long as minarets and came forward, intending to wrap them around me! The spikes on his chest were gleaming like bayonets! If God had not given me the inspiration to recite the Kursi Sura,1 it would have been I who died.”
Someone else said, “You mean it died? That’s strange!”
“It was burned,” replied the shaikh. “The Kursi Sura burned it to death. Then I kept walking till I reached this road . . . ”
He turned around to point to the direction from which he had come, and saw me behind him. Astonished, he cried out, pointing, “That . . . Tha . . . that’s . . . ”
No one except me understood what he was shouting about or pointing at, while I suppressed the laughter welling up inside me. I looked behind me as 1. The Kursi verse is in the chapter of Yasin, the twenty-fifth chapter of the Quran. It is regarded as a central Quranic verse, recited as a prayer to avert evil or to summon good. though to see what he was pointing at, while the trembling man clung desperately to the people around him. Some asked, “Where? Where? We cannot see anything.”
The man wiped his face with his hand and calmed down. “Odd,” he said, “very odd indeed . . . this gentleman looks just like it.” I couldn’t contain my laughter. “Do you think my face is like a demon’s?” I sputtered. Standing nearby was someone whom I knew, someone both clever and cunning. It was clear he was suspicious and was imagining part of the truth, at least. “Listen,” he said to me.
“Which way did you come from?”
I realized what he was getting at and replied, “I came from that direction.” This was a lie, at least a half-truth. But I was afraid it would cause a scandal if the truth came out. He asked, “Did you come via Sayyida Nafisa or the Citadel?”
“Via the Citadel, of course,” I replied. “Who would dare to walk among all
those graves?”
He mumbled something I did not hear then went away. I was saved. I, who had been a demon of the jinn for one night!"
Translation by Roger Allen and Naomi Shihab Nye
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