The Poet of Shoubra Street
Foreword
There are two things I know for certain about my grandfather Ibrahim. One, he was a well-known professor and poet at a prestigious University in Cairo, and two, he died of a heroin overdose.
My father spoke of him as if speaking of a demigod, that is of course until I was old enough to understand the tones of one's voice, and how to read between the lines of our speech. He would tell my 8-year-old self the story of how my grandfather wrote a poem about Cairo, as a way to show a Nation's pride. This poem was published in the popular Cairo newspaper, Al Ahkbar, bringing gratification to the whole family. This notable publication brought my grandfather’s newfound popularity in the neighborhood he called home, Shoubra. He would walk the streets with his head held a little higher, his pockets a little fuller and his time at home with his children and wife more scarce than ever.
This is a story about Ibrahim, a poet who would go to the end of the world for one chance at being someone worth reading about.
Chapter 1
The year is 1955.
If the sun didn’t rise and set, one would never know the time in the streets of Shoubra. In this vibrant and colorful district, tucked into north central Cairo like a hidden jazz club, the cafes and bazaars never die. The hustle and bustle of the city sways and pulsates as though the very façades of the buildings have a rhythm of their own. At any time of day, you can hear these faint conversations in the background, muffled by the car horns that continue to blare, as their inpatient drivers yell and wave their hands out the window, as though they have somewhere super important to be. Ibrahim would wake up in the early morning hours to the slow shuffling feet of half sleeping children. He, his seven children, and his wife, Munira, all shared the same modest apartment. For Cairo in 1955, it was a nice space, adequate even for a newly prestigious poet and his family. Cairo was like New York; real estate was scarce, precious, and expensive.
Munira, as usual, is awake before him, and begins to brew his morning Sadaf tea with dried mint leaves. Ibrahim holds the handless glass teacup by the rim and places a side of it to his lips as though kissing it. He always feels alive as it kisses him back, the warm caramel colored potion seeping into his mouth. It will take him 20 minutes to finish the scolding elixir before he gets dressed to leave Munira with their flock of small children for the day.
Ibrahim walks down the 8 flights of stairs to the streets below with his briefcase in hand, heading to Al-Azhar University. He will first stop at the local teashop on the corner, where he will sit with his friends and colleagues sharing pita bread, beans and falafel while sipping on his second cup of tea. There, they will catch up on the tittle-tattle from the previous day and put great emphasis on the small irrelevant stories that took place in the few square blocks they roamed. Stories seemed to recycle through this group, with small-added flourishes to give a surprise effect when the familiar punchline came round. This day was a little different, as one of the members of this posse, Razi, announced that his cousin, Abbas, was in town from Libya and going to stay with him. That night they would get together at Razi’s home to give Abbas a proper Shoubra welcome.
Chapter 2
The gates to Al-Azhar University are an old rusty blue and have the Rub el Hizb centered perfectly on them. Ibrahim walks past the gates and heads directly for Al-Azhar mosque, which stands connected to the university. At the entrance, there is usually a man, Haz, who sits on a wooden and wicker chair smoking cigarettes and drinking tea near the prayer hall. Tea and cigarettes were as embedded into Muslim culture as much as the Dua itself.
“Salaam aleikum, Professor,” Haz says to Ibrahim, who responds, “Wa alaykum as salam, Haz”, as he steps into the mosque.
He makes his way to the corner to take off his shoes and to wash, before raising his hands to his ears reciting “Allahu Akbar,” then kneeling on the red carpet for his obligatory salat. After his daily prayer, he gathers his belongings and goes to his office that is located near Aqbaughawiya Medrersa, which serves as the library. He teaches classes on Sharia Law and Islamic literature, two subjects near and dear to him, as his father was a well-established litigator in his time.
Ibrahim sits at his desk to grade papers before his lecture begins. The only break from his daily monotonous tasks are the get-togethers with his crew in the evenings. Most of the men in Shoubra spend their nights with their comrades, sitting at the local penny universities discussing recent events, reciting poetry, competing over who knows the Quran best and recalling the histories of many trivial affairs. This evening's welcome party is more exciting for him as he gets to meet a newcomer to the familial group, one who he can learn from but most importantly, impress.
In today's class, the topic of discussion is centered on the seven Mu’allaqat and the influence these poems have had on pre-Islamic Arabia. Ibrahim, as a poet himself, lectures on subjects that have influenced his literary life. He enjoys hearing the thoughts and opinions of his pupils, as they often spark fresh ideas for his subsequent work. He begins the class by reciting one of the Mu’allaqat to his onlookers: the poem of Imru’ al-Qais, “Let us stop and weep.” He recites this poem, and tries to do its imagery justice for his audience.
Ibrahim begins:
Halt, two friends, and we will weep for the memory of one beloved
And an abode at Siqt al-Liwa between al-Dakhul, then Hawmal, Then Tudih, then Miqrat, whose trace was not effaced
By the two winds weaving over it from south and north. You see the droppings of white antelope
Scattered on its outer grounds and lowlands like peppercorns.
(Imru al-Qays, “The Mu’allaqah of Imru al-Qays,” lines 1-3, in Stetkevych, Mute Immortals, pp. 249–50)
After the poem that was so eloquently recited to his students, he gets a most gracious applause from them. This feeds him, and he feels proud of himself, as proud as though the words were his own. They jump into discussion in attempts to decipher the cryptic messages within each stanza. Their homework is to write a paper on the meaning of the Mu’allaqat and their interpretation of its poetry.
During the discussions, many of the students fall prey to the exotic and mesmerizing words of Abu Tammam. Ibrahim knows that many of their works will be based on this poet’s writings, as many of their in-class discussions have been wrapped around the works in Hamasah, the anthology by Abu Tammam.
Class is dismissed and each of the students go their own way while Ibrahim packs a few papers and books in his briefcase to head back to the mosque for Asr. After this prayer, Ibrahim prepares for his second class of the day, where he will enthusiastically discuss Sharia law, the Islamic law that refers to Allah’s immutable divine code.
Chapter 3
After class, Ibrahim makes his way home to shower. The Egyptian sun shines down with all of its unrelenting desert strength, making it unbearable to go about one’s day without washing off at least once. Usually when he goes home, most of the children are in school, and Munira is left to ensure that Ibrahim has food to eat and more tea to drink before he takes his nap.
During his nap, Munira continues to wash around the house, hanging the clothes she just cleaned in the kitchen sink, and makes sure her remaining young children at home stay quiet and do not disrupt their sleeping father. Ibrahim finally wakes from his slumber, sits up in his bed and rubs his eyes. He turns himself and lets his feet fall to the chilled concrete ground of his bedroom. He walks to the rug that is not too far from his bedside and stands there looking outside his window to the dusty noisy streets of his Shoubra neighborhood. He then pulls on a robe and walks across to the bathroom where he washes his face, his hands and his feet to get ready for his afternoon prayer. Ibrahim returns to his room, and without saying anything to his wife and children, unfolds his prayer rug and begins his salat.
Ibrahim walks from his bedroom dressed and refreshed for his afternoon. He salutes his wife, and his small children run to hug him as he returns the embrace and kisses them, one after another on the cheek. Munira brings out his tea, falafel and pita bread to nourish him for the unknown journey into the night he will surely take. Munira is often left in the dark about her husband's actions, as most wives in these lands are. She knows that he is going to get up from his chair soon, grab his cigarettes and house keys, put on his jacket and leave. She does not know where he goes or who he meets or when he will return. Her diligent lack of inquiry is one of the many characteristics that make her a devout and loyal Egyptian wife.
Ibrahim leaves his family and steps into the darkening streets of Shoubra. He walks down the many flights of stairs to get to the sidewalk. He lights a cigarette and begins to weave between the suffocating buildings, while Munira stands near the window and watches him walk, further and further away from her, until all she sees is the cherry of his cigarette swaying back and forth, and then not even that. He will return when he chooses to return. Munira sighs, straightens herself, and then continues to tend to their children.
Chapter 4
Ibrahim knocks at Razi’s door, and after a moment or two he opens the door and welcomes Ibrahim in with enthusiasm. Razi leads the way to his back study, where the men are sitting and chattering amongst themselves. Their chatter is interrupted by Razi’s announcement of Ibrahim’s arrival.
“Hello Ibrahim,” the men say in unison. Ibrahim says his hello’s back.
Razi’s friend from Libya, Abbas, walks over to Ibrahim and shakes his hand. “Hello, I have heard a lot about you my friend. I feel as though I already know you.”
“Welcome Abbass, it's wonderful to see that Razi is willing to share his family with us after all these years of only knowing Khepri and the kids.” Ibrahim says with a smile on his face. The men share laughs and begin to speak about Abbas’ journey to Egypt from Libya.
“Things are going well with me in Libya. I teach a class there, on poetry. Similar to you Ibrahim.” Ibrahim looked at him with bright eyes and said, “Yes, very similar indeed.”
“I just needed to get some air, to get away for a while,” said Abbas. “I want to focus on my work for a few months, and what better place to do it then here with my family and my new friends, especially ones that are scholars and academics like myself.”
“We are happy that you are here,” said Ibrahim. “You are always welcome, even in my home. It is yours when you want it,” he said ecstatically.
“Thank you, my friend,” said Abbas
“Anyway, I want to be in a familiar place when I work on my next projects, especially as I work and give my brain a boost with this,” said Abbas as he pulls out from his suit jacket pocket a small bag filled with a white and beige powder.
Everybody asks, basically in unison, “What is that? What did you bring?”
Abbas replies, “This here is poppy seed powder, or what we like to call, poppy tears. It comes from the opium plants and its medicine. This here is the most incredible medicine I have ever taken in my life and I bring it here, my friends. to share with you.”
They all look at him and Hamza asks, “Why would we take that? We aren’t sick.” Abbas retorts with, “Ahh my friends, but you are.”
He goes on. “This type of medicine, what it does is, it allows me to open my mind, reach into my imagination and see everything that lurks there. Everything subtle of the mind that our day-to-day troubles stifle and silence. Do you ever think to yourself: how is it that you manage to think up ideas during the day?”
He then looks directly at Ibrahim and says, “Maybe Ibrahim, it is of a poem or a short story that you have in mind, and all of a sudden that thought is interrupted by the reality that is your life. Your children, your wife, your work, your debts. Maybe how you ran out of your morning tea. Something so simple. Then you try to get back to where you were before, you try to complete the story or poem, but the inspiration just isn't there anymore. The imaginative impulse has gone. This is so frustrating. Have you ever experienced this?”
Abbas finishes his short soliloquy and Ibrahim is looking at him in disbelief. It is as though he is speaking directly from his own mind. Ibrahim knows this happens more often than not.
Abbas speaks up again. “Well, I am sure one of you knows how this feels, and this my friends,” as he hold up the bag with a mystery powder, “will give you the most incredible feelings of joy and happiness, This medicine allows you to recline in your imagination, to enjoy the thoughts and ideas that make your days wonderful, lively and vibrant, without these nagging mundane interruptions pulling at your mind.”
Now that he has the room enraptured, Abbas continues, weaving words like a dark magician. “I couldn’t tell you how many poems I have written after taking this miraculous medicine. How many short stories were made a success. After my friends and colleagues read my work, they are left in disbelief that all of these colorful words and innovative notions have come from my mind. To be honest with you, I often am blown away too.”
“How do you take this?” interrupted Ibrahim, on the edge of his seat.
Abbas replies, “I snort this through my nose. This is the closest entrance to the brain, to the factory where your imagination is created. There, the wheels themselves are turning. It is as though I become the person that I have forever been meant to be.”
At these words, Ibrahim becomes ecstatic. “Wow,” says Ibrahim, “you have described this medicine as something from the Gods.”
“This is from the Gods, my friend,” says Abbas. “Don’t you see? The Gods want us to be successful, they want us to understand that we have a duty to live up to our greatest potential. We have a duty to reach greatness every single day, and with their help we can! The Gods have provided this to us, the creators, the artists, so we can share our insights and beauty with the world and make it better. The Gods want us to enlighten the world!”
Razi asks “Where did you get this my friend?”
Abbas tells him about a friend of his who spent time in Afghanistan. “In Afghanistan, this is everywhere! They are so blessed with the poppy plant in their backyard. My friend was able to get some in his possession and was so kind as to share it with me. I have been hooked to this elixir of life ever since.”
“I feel as though, in this powder, I have found the Philosopher's stone, because everything I think of and everything I touch turns to gold. If you feel brave and daring you can try it with me. If you are scared and don’t want to, I understand, but this,” he says, as he waves the bag of magic powder like a talisman.
“Here is the finest form of medicine, and the sweetest introduction to your
life that you will ever find.”
Razi asks, eagerly. “How do we take it? What do we do?”
Abbas answers: “You scoop a small amount into your pinky nail. Place it to one of your nostrils and inhale through that one nostril as forcefully as possible, so the medicine flies straight into your brain. Once it is there, it begins to work for you. It opens channels you never knew of. It opens windows you never thought were closed.”
From the corner, one of their friends, Ahmed, says, “Man, you are crazy, what do you mean you snort it?! Every time there is something in my nose I want to blow it out, not put it in!”
All the men yell out in laughter. They drink their tea and eat almonds and dates. Abbas says, “I'll let you think about it, if you want to try it with me, you know where I'll be.”
The men then spend the rest of the evening chatting breezily about their wishes of traveling and writing. They hatch plans for future goals and future dreams.
What Abass didn’t know was the effect he had had on Ibrahim, who sat in his chair thinking of the passion with which Abbas spoke of his magic dust from far away lands, the potential it had on his imagination and how badly he wanted to fly with his dreams and never wake from them. He would one day get that wish.
“Tomorrow night,” intones Ibrahim, “We will get together again, just like this, however tomorrow we will not hesitate, we will take this sacred flight of which Abbas speaks. We will fly all together, like brothers, embarking on a journey into the unknown depths of the imagination.”
The story continues next week with part 2. Thank you for reading.