When I Was Young and Beautiful

Mahmoud Darwish

Most trees grow vertically, but there are trees that grow horizontally. If I were a tree, I would be one of the latter: spreading out and branching into lowlands and secluded, distant places—not because I fear heights, nor out of a love for the earth, but because a ceiling, or rather several ceilings, was imposed upon me and closed in on me from every direction. So I stretched myself across the low, dark ground.

I belong to the generation that was made to memorize by heart: “If you knew what I know, you would laugh little and weep much.” And so I grew up burdened with guilt over sins I had never committed, and over myself as a woman. As for fear, I would not compare it to my shadow, which might disappear when the sun stands directly overhead. It was more like the color of my skin; it lived with me day and night. In life, there was the watchful eye of the ever-present guardian, and in death, the grave’s embrace and the bald, blue-eyed angel awaited me.

I graduated from high school, then enrolled at Qatar University, where I studied for a bachelor’s degree in pure chemistry—not because I loved it, but because engineering, the rational choice, was not available to me, while psychology and literature, the two fields closest to my heart, seemed to promise nothing but unemployment.

I took a government position in the laboratory of a hospital. At the time, a government job was, as Amr Diab sings:

“You know what luck is? Well, you are luck.”

That job did not resemble me, and I did not resemble it. I was like a tall, broad-shouldered, stern-faced man wearing a pink wedding dress.

For many years, I remained deeply dissatisfied with work that consumed half of my day, yet unable to move into the private sector. The ceiling of fear was higher than the sky of adventure. Besides, the private sector was, in truth, reserved for men, while our share as women was small and often went to those with connections and favor.

During those years, I earned my first master’s degree in Health Sector Management from Swansea University in Wales. I paid for it from my modest salary, and for two years I received only half of that salary, which did not exceed five thousand riyals. Incidentally, the cost of all my degrees, from my bachelor’s through my doctorate, was paid either from my own money or my family’s, because the low ceilings of my life did not allow me to enjoy what were called scholarships—the ones that seemed to fall upon those around me like rain.

I entered the world of writing officially through Al-Watan newspaper, on its opinion writers’ page. Dr. Othman Al-Sini was the one who gave me that opportunity. I imagine he does not remember me, but I will never forget his kindness. Several years later, I published Memoirs of a Saudi Employee, which documented my observations during that period. To me, that book is like my firstborn child. I learned how to write through it, and more importantly, I love it—with all the flaws I created myself.

Then the country began to change, and we women started to catch our breath. I left my government job and moved to another position in the private sector, where I would begin my day at six in the morning and not return home until after sunset. During my years in the private sector, I earned my second master’s degree in the field closest to my heart: psychological counseling, with a specialization in trauma and disasters.

During those years, I stopped writing altogether, and I discovered the answer to an important question: Why did most Arab writers, if not all of them, work in government positions rather than serve as CEOs or project engineers? Because the mill of capitalist private enterprise grinds people down, leaving them with barely enough strength to breathe. Writing is a delicate creature; it does not flourish in the midst of such a struggle.

I also deliberately stopped buying and reading books. At the time, I saw reading as an endangered activity—nothing more than transferring knowledge from the library into one’s head, after which my head and I would both go underground, and the story would end in nothingness. There was nothing an intellectual could actually do.

My specialization in psychology and trauma, followed by my doctoral studies in community psychology, gave me a deeper understanding of the human psyche. I no longer saw people as they appeared to the eye. Instead, I began to see them in multiple dimensions: their histories, motivations, and the hidden sides of their personalities. I could no longer remain on the surface of relationships and ideas.

This had many effects on my life, perhaps not all of them good. I lost the bliss of ignorance, except for its impact on my ability to write. But, on the whole, it was something with both its advantages and its disadvantages.

Then came the year of COVID-19, the year that divided the lives of so many people into “before” and “after.” That year, I met a fellow intellectual whom I hold in the highest regard. During our conversation, he spoke to me about books, writing, and blogs. His words brought my love of writing back to life after years of dust had settled over it.

After that meeting, I published two books within two years: Ahab Shafika, followed by The Hydra.

I retired before completing my years of service, and I am now married to a kind-hearted man with a beautiful spirit. I have devoted myself to old dreams I had longed to fulfill—among them, this blog, which I created at the urging of people whose opinions I trust.

Here, I gather the scattered pieces of my work and thoughts and make them available first to myself, and then to anyone who wishes to read them.