Repentance
By Mikhael Naimy*

"Say blessed is life."
"Blessed is life. What next?"
"Do you remember how many times you have dissuaded me from hunting?"
"I do. Hopefully you have finally listened to me."

Abu Marwan has a reputation as a swift hunter. He is past 40, with a cheerful face, sleepy eyes, and a fine smile. A witty and lively man, he is moreover famed for being honest, generous, soft-spoken, and kind-hearted. People tell amusing tales about his compassion for animals: when his cat broke her leg, he nearly disowned his family because they suggested that he throw her in the river. Instead, he devoted much time tending to her needs until her foot healed. When one of his hens became blind, he built her a special coop, fed her with his own hands, brought her the fresh grass she liked, and cleaned her nest. He would not eat her meat and, when she died, he buried her with reverence and dignity. Rumor suggests he cried over her grave.

He refrains from eating the meat of his prey. When asked about it, he replies: "Glory to God! My mouth refuses to eat what my arm is willing to kill. Suffice for me to kill and for others to eat."

Because I knew Abu Marwan and his agreeable disposition well, whenever I listened to his fascinating tales about his hunting tricks, I expressed my surprise at this strange contradiction in his nature. He sympathized with blind hens and lame cats, yet took great pleasure in destroying a partridge, a rabbit, or a deer. I tried my best to dissuade him from hunting, but I failed. I attempted to deter him by warning that life returns pain for pain and pleasure for pleasure. I reminded him of the old saying, "An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth." Unconcerned, he scratched his head slowly. "Hunting is halal [permitted by Islamic law]," he said, "and I have no joy greater than that sport."

More than once I asked him to explain why he found such pleasure in hunting. Did it lie in searching for the elusive, or in trapping and subduing the rebellious, or capturing that which was distant? Is it in the physical exercise of the hunter? He assured me that the joy of hunting included those feelings and more - it was about the hunter's wish to escape the anxieties of living, the desire to run wild in nature and smell the scent of the rocks and the soil, the wind and the clouds. "For a hunter," he declared, "the hunting game is like getting drunk on the songs of dawns and dusks, like bathing in his sweat and listening to his heart-beat as he pursued his prey." He concluded his speech with a shrug of the shoulders and a murmur: "um . . . um . . . um! Hunting is a joy that none other than a hunter can truly experience. It is an enormous celebration of one's body and soul. God help me when this body of mine is confined within four walls."

These conversations flashed through my mind when Abu Marwan asked me to bless life and reminded me of what had come to pass between us about hunting. I sensed a change in his attitude and said to him: "Your eyes bear news, Abu Marwan. Let us hear it!" He held his chin and paused for a moment, then he took my hand and bid me sit on the rock beside him. He cleared his throat and spoke: "Listen. Yesterday I woke up from an alarming dream in which I killed a partridge. When I picked it up, it was still breathing, so I took my knife and slit its throat. Suddenly, it became a child with its throat cut and that child was my four-year-old son Fouad. You know and love him, but you must understand that, besides God, he is what I adore. The dream almost kept me from hunting that morning, but I was ashamed of myself for acting weak like a woman. I took my lunch and gear and set out.

"Before I stepped outside, Fouad called out to me: Papa! Papa! I held him in my arms and kissed his eyes, his brow, and his cheeks. I asked him what goodies he wanted me to bring him back. Opening his arms wide, he pleaded: A real big partridge--that big! Would you believe it, my friend, if I told you that I spent the whole day climbing mountains and descending into valleys to no avail? I spotted many partridges and shot at about 10 of them but did not hit any. Had someone else told you this, you would not have believed it because you know that there is nothing that I can do better than hunting. I do not know why, but my eye and my hand were at odds that day. The dream controlled my thoughts and nerves and I became angry with myself. I had refused to acknowledge your advice that life's measures are different from ours, that involuntary inner forces can either drive us to, or restrain us from, some actions, and that it is wiser to understand and obey the dictates of life.

"The sun began to set and I had no bird in my sack. It pained me to face Fouad without the partridge he expected. I would rather lose one year of my life . . . ten years . . . than face my young son with empty hands. I wished I had the strength of Joshua in the Old Testament so I could stop the sun from setting and extend the daytime. Perhaps then I would succeed in killing a partridge or some other bird that would be a substitute for it.

"Finally, I gave up and headed back home with defeat gnawing at my heart and the cursed dream invading my head and flashing in front of my eyes. How and why I did not know, but I was certain that the dream was the reason for my failure. As I emptied my rifle and swung it onto my shoulder, intent on returning home before dark, a fox darted out of the thistles around a curve in my path. Instantly, I shot it dead. I was not interested in its fur because, as you know, fox furs are worthless at this time of year. I killed it in retaliation against myself and against nature-a release of the feelings that had antagonized me all day long. I wanted to regain confidence in the balance between my eye and my hand and to relieve my mind from the nightmarish dream.

"As I approached the place where the fox fell, three baby cubs leaped out of the thistles and scattered through the nearby rocks. I immediately realized that I had just killed a mother of three. Truthfully, I had killed a mother and her offspring because the cubs were too young to survive on their own. I felt as if spears were piercing my heart and sticks were falling on my head, but the pain transformed into amazement and then into joy when in the mother fox's mouth I saw a big partridge hanging onto life.

"You cannot imagine the thoughts and feelings that flooded me at that moment. I had committed a terrible crime, no doubt. The mother fox took care of her three cubs and they were as dear to her as my children are to me. Perhaps, as she left her hole that morning, one of her young ones wanted the same thing that my youngest son asked for - a big partridge.

"Perhaps she wandered all day, as I did, but could not find her prey until she reached that spot at that moment. What is it that led me to the same spot at that exact moment to snatch away this poor mother's life and rob her and her cubs of their dinner so I can offer it to my children? Could she have known that the prey she caught was not meant for her and her young ones but for mine? Answer me if you can."

I did not reply. He smacked his lips like he was eating something tasty and continued: "The incident is beyond my understanding. There is more. When I put the knife on the partridge's throat and slit it, the dream recurred. In a flash that seemed like ages, the slain partridge appeared before my eyes as my youngest son. I thought that I would lose my mind and spirit; it took a few seconds for me to regain my senses. Forgive me, but my body shudders as I speak! It was my son's innocent desire for me to return with the bird that had brought this delusion upon me, I thought. I convinced myself that I had committed no crime and that there was no need to blame myself. As for the dream, I decided that it was a mere fantasy. Thanking the Lord for a successful close to my day I forgot, or tried to forget, that the prize I carried in my sack was not my kill but that of an ill-fated mother fox. She, I felt, deserved the credit for the joy that my son displayed when I handed him the bird.

"My wife roasted the partridge and gave Fouad a leg and some breast meat. In the merry atmosphere around the dinner table Fouad suddenly let out a terrible cry. He was overcome by a fit of coughing and began to gasp for breath. His hands shook as he tossed and turned. We thought a small bone could be choking him and that we would surely lose him if we did not act immediately. Luckily, our next-door neighbor, who is a doctor, came to our aid. In short, my friend, the boy was saved by a miracle. My heart trembles and I feel sick when I recall what he went through that night."

Abu Marwan fell silent for a long time. He rose sluggishly, put his hand on mine and said, "Say with me 'Blessed is life!' Unbeknownst to us, it continues to enlighten us."

"Blessed is life," I repeated. "Does that mean that you have abandoned hunting?" He replied resentfully: "After what I just told you, how can you doubt that?"

Translated from the Arabic by Nada Najjar. "Repentance" is from "Mikhael Naimy: The complete Works Vol. II" (in Arabic), Beirut: Dar-al-Ilim-lil-Malayeen 1970. pp. 512-518. (Please see Naimy's biographical sketch on page 27).

* Mikhael Naimy, (1889-1988)
Mikhael Naimy was born Baskinta, a small town in Mount Lebanon. He acquired his formative education in Russian missionary schools in Palestine and the Ukraine. This Russian experience allowed him to study Russian literary realism and familiarize himself with well-known Russian writers such as Dostoevsky, Gogol, Lemertov, and others. He arrived in the United States in 1911 and studied law at the University of Washington in Seattle. Naimy continued his interest in Western and Eastern literature and philosophy, and was influenced by the Transcendentalist and Theosophical movements and philosophers such as Lao-Tse and al-Ma'arri. However, the Bible remained his primary source of inspiration.

In 1932, Naimy returned to his homeland where he led a reflective, hermitic lifestyle, occupying himself with writing and spreading his spiritual beliefs. His works advocated a universal philosophy that transcends temporal conditions.

Naimy was a prominent member of the New York group of early Arab-American writers, better known as The Pen League or Al-Rabita al-Qalamiyya. He emerged as the critic of the group when he published "Al-Ghirbal" (1923), critical essays in which he outlined and introduced his approach to literature and literary criticism. Over the years, Naimy produced a considerable body of literature that included poetry, essays and short stories. Among his noted works are "Mirdad" (1948), "The Memoirs of a Vagrant Soul" (1949) and "Sab'un" (1959, 1960), a three-volume autobiography.

Naimy was a skilled short story writer. Among his powerful early stories, "The Cuckoo Clock" stands out because it laid the ground for the spiritual philosophy that he developed in his later writings. Naimy establishes a contrast between the Western materialistic way of life and that of a natural and harmonious existence in an Eastern rural town, warning against the dangers of placing materialistic and technological ends ahead of spiritual pursuits.

In "Repentence," Naimy approaches a theme that very few Arab or Arab-American writers have written about. He portrays the conflict for survival between man and beast and expresses sympathy toward the animals. His comparison of the relationships between the hunter and his son and that of the mother fox and her cubs invites the thought that they, too, are creatures of God entitled to share His earthly bounty.
- Nada Najjar

This article appeared in Al Jadid, Vol. 6, No. 32 (Summer 2000)
Copyright © 2000 by Al Jadid