Zeina by Nawal El Saadawi Read Free Book Online

heir to his unwavering eyes, which turned dark blue at night and light blue in the daylight. She imagined him a different man called Naim, who was her first love before she got her period. It was Badreya who opened her eyelids to see the eyes before they disappeared into the darkness. She saw them for a split second, but she never stopped looking for them afterwards. After the whole universe had gone to sleep, she got dressed and went out, walking along the streets, looking into the eyes of little children, trying to find those pupils. A girl might be sleeping soundly on the pavement, her eyes closed, her little feet charred, her dark complexion burnt by the heat of the sun and dotted with white and yellow spots as well as scars and bruises. Her lips would be open a little, like a baby’s mouth during sleep, smiling to her mother or her unknown father in the dream. She would open her eyes to find Badreya sitting next to her, handing her a loaf of bread fresh from the oven or a piece of cake before she got up and left. But these were not the same pupils, not the same eyes, and this was not the same glance engraved in the cells and grooves of the brain. It was not Zeina, daughter of Naim.
    The girl didn’t reach out to touch her, for she realized that she wasn’t her mother. She was an unknown woman, a woman perhaps belonging to a charity organization that helped street children or looked after people suffering from tuberculosis, leprosy, or AIDS. She might have been one of the women on the Childhood and Motherhood Council, or an employee at one of the political parties or at a human rights organization.
    The girl was too proud to extend her hand. She didn’t want the charity or pity of anyone, and didn’t crave a piece of bread or cake. What she wanted was to go to school and university like the other girls from good families. She wanted to have dignity, pride, a birth certificate, BA and PhD degrees.
    Badreya came back home totally exhausted, her head bent, looking almost like Bodour after marriage. Zakariah al-Khartiti was not her Prince Charming. He asked her father for her hand in marriage. This was the period after the revolution and the overthrow of the king. In the seats of power sat little kings wearing military uniforms, like her father, Captain al-Damhiri. His sister was married to the cousin of one of the revolutionary leaders. Al-Damhiri removed the military uniform and dressed in an elegant civilian suit. He was given a lavish office in the Foundation or Committee of Culture, Literature, Art, and the Press. Like other military personalities, he accumulated a number of posts and sat on several higher committees. One person might supervise a number of authorities, councils and committees. The name of any committee was always appended by the words “Permanent Higher”. Each one of the military personalities held a yellow rosary in his hand and went to Friday prayers to sit behind the first or second row. He imagined God to be always on his side in every step he took and that his “permanent higher” committee was inspired by God and was as permanent and everlasting as God Himself.
    Zakariah al-Khartiti was a young upcoming journalist. He had written a few articles in praise of the king, which he deleted from his memory after the revolution and started writing about the glory of the new regime. He later switched to writing about Arab Islamic socialism, which he contended was a very different kettle of fish from the socialism of Karl Marx, the “Jewish atheist”.
    He pressed with his pen on the words “Jewish atheist”, because one of these two epithets was enough to ruin the reputation of any human being, living or dead.
    In the morning, while the young Zakariah al-Khartiti was sipping his coffee, he looked at the photographs published on the first page of the newspaper. His dreams didn’t go so far as to imagine himself among the great writers on the front page. He turned the pages with his lean fingers,