Literature | Before the last slumber of the night (Short Story)

The Author

Ahmed Hussein Humaidan

Ahmed Hussein Humaidan (1958) is a Syrian poet, literary critic, and short story writer. He was born in Aleppo and has many poetic and critical publications. He also won the United Arab Emirates Writer’s Union Award in short story in two consecutive sessions (1999–2000).

Before the last slumber of the night (Short Story)

On that night, when the sounds of explosions came to him from places both near and far from his home, the boundaries between the taste of things, their shapes, and their various colors faded in his mind. The death that rained down on houses erased everything else, and its shells, which hit some of the homes in his neighborhood, swiftly turned them into small cemeteries where his neighbors moved from their temporary sleep to their eternal rest. The words that mixed fear with courage were silenced in their chests, and the stories, dreams, and songs they once sang were forever closed in their hearts. On that night, as the roar of shells and the howl of gunfire intensified, and everything became entangled with everything else, tears streamed from his eyes as he imagined the house collapsing at any moment on his children and wife, who had finally succumbed to sleep, while his own attempts to close his eyes failed to bring him rest. He was burning in a hell of obsession, accompanied only by that child who had remained inside him for over sixty years without ever growing up! That child ran in his heart, taking him to the bliss of his mother and father, and the playgrounds of his childhood friends… There, in the glow of those days bright with joy, the sounds of explosions fell silent as he was in the paradise of memory. Before leaving it, he did not forget to ask the question of joy: where had it gone, and where had it disappeared? He did not hesitate to scold it and remind it that it had never left him in those days when he was close to his mother, father, and childhood friends. He assured it that it had not stayed with him when he reached adulthood, no longer lingering as it once had, and its presence became limited to occasions like his wedding to the woman he loved and the births of his children. But soon after, it would disappear again for weeks and months. And now, after growing old and the country falling into hardship, it remained submerged in its long absence as usual; and before that, it had quickly faded during the nights of his parents’ illness and their passing, which broke his heart and made him drown in a sea of tears in front of his children and the gathered crowd, like a small child who had never grown up! He often sought to conquer the present of sorrow with the past of his lost joy, and he tried in many ways to find it and reclaim its days, even if only through the echoes of memory. He often confessed to that joy, scolding it in his solitude and in the confessions of his secret, hidden letters, that he was still that six-year-old child despite being sixty, and that in its absence, he had not made any friendship with sorrow, and here he was, still trapped in its prisons after so long! As the sound of explosions faded, the sixty-year-old child left his lost joy submerged in its absence and turned to the child that remained inside him, who had never grown up, saying:

“I am you, and you are me, but joy is still closer to you. It’s true that gray hair has taken over my head, but my heart remains the same. Even today, I fear funerals just as I used to run from the neighborhood to my grandfather’s house when a neighbor died. Do you remember how happy we were when our mother told us about Leila surviving death when the wolf chased her? We didn’t know back then that Leila was us, and that the wolf would multiply and have guns, cannons, and planes!! I miss joy just like you. Where has our joy disappeared? Perhaps they arrested it and handed it over to our sorrows!! Perhaps they killed it and buried it near our dreams!! The shells of death that rain today on heads, buildings, and streets do not distinguish between the white worn by a bride and the white of a shroud. Where is our joy that has been gone for so long this time? There is no trace or address to guide us to it.”

The questions of the child in his sixty-year-old heart remained hanging in his mind, never leaving him, along with the fear and anxiety that haunted him. As the shells fell silent, he drifted into a late-night slumber, and with the sound of some family members waking, he opened his eyes with difficulty. He smiled as he looked toward his wife and his children, then pulled the youngest one close and kissed him, his eyelids heavy with exhaustion closing once again.

Translated from Arabic by Dr.Salwa Gouda

Salwa Gouda is an Egyptian literary translator, critic, and academic at the English Language and Literature Department at Ain-Shams University. She holds a PhD in English literature and criticism. She received her education at Ain-Shams University and California State University in San Bernardino. Furthermore, she has published several academic books, including “Lectures in English Poetry, and “Introduction to Modern Literary Criticism,” and others. She has also contributed to the translation of “The Arab Encyclopedia for Pioneers,” which includes poets and their poetry, philosophers, historians, and men of letters, under the supervision of UNESCO. A poetry anthology is published recently through Alien Buddha press in Arizona, USA. Additionally, her poetry translations have been published in various international magazines.