Can the story of a life be told through a single moment? What would it mean to, in William Blake’s words, “see a World in a Grain of Sand”? In Azza Maghur’s story, a single luminous leaf from a man’s childhood comes to define his entire life. Maghur’s prose is spare and understated; it is given a lovely cadence in Dr. Safa Elnaili’s translation, which lures the reader into a moment of beauty that is given a telescopic significance in the narrator’s reminiscence. Published in Arabic at the start of this year, this quiet piece received much praise for its resonances with reader’s experiences of the pandemic—its sensitivity to the tactile world, for instance, when a world was reckoning with the potency of touch.
All the rays of sunlight that day filtered through the trees onto a single leaf.
I swore to Mother that the sun rested on one leaf. I witnessed it shine as brightly as day against the dimness of its mother tree.
Mother was standing in front of the kitchen sink. She pulled her wet hands from under the running faucet, wiped them on the sides of her dress, and then smiled. She told me I was a little boy with a wild imagination. I had no idea whether I should give rein to my imagination or let it take me away on its wings.
I tell you this story because that leaf and my soul have become inseparable since that day. I searched for it my entire life. It was the size of my hand or slightly bigger, dark green, and so thick that even light couldn’t pass through it. Water droplets could rest on it undisturbed.
My only recollection of the tree was that its aura was dim, almost black. I learned as I grew up It must’ve been an emerald green tree, but I only remember the one particular leaf that soaked in the sun and captured all its strings of light as if it were planning to make something out of them. I reckon it’s the reason the tree was so dim.
I’ve roamed this earth; I’ve visited cities, villages, farmlands, and forests in search of the leaf but never found or seen anything that resembled it.
The sun’s light is boundless. It shines on earth with a fair and steady rotation, inflames the edges of leaves and homes, and draws shapes on sidewalks and rooftops. Its light and warmth sneak into concrete buildings and even shine through the tiniest holes in shirts or carvings on the soles of shoes. It stretches into the entrance of a dark cave but never dares to travel beyond it. Its light wrestles shadows. When it’s time to set, it departs leisurely, and its rays shine over the horizon. It yawns with heavy eyes and then sleeps until dawn to rise again.
I drove my car, parked it in the shade under a tree, and hopelessly looked for the leaf. I walked into forests and farms and searched for it among trees and bushes and even between the leaves of fruits but could never find it.
Is my memory deceiving me? Is it playing tricks on me?
I asked Mother again when she was standing at the kitchen sink. She dried her hands in her long cotton dress like she always did and then turned towards me to nod and laugh. “Right!”
Mother was only playing along. My memory wasn’t deceiving me; I remembered the same details—her same reaction to me when she was at the kitchen sink that day.
“Have you ever seen such a leaf?” I once asked a friend who worked in agriculture. “I wish I can find myself a leaf like that!” He smirked. I knew he was trying to be funny, so I kept my peace.
I vividly remember that it was right there hanging on a branch that was a little above my head in front of me, embracing all of the sun’s rays in a bundle. Some rays even broke through the shade below the leaf. I was bedazzled; I couldn’t speak to the point that even my eyes hurt as I gazed at it. I feared if I touched the leaf, it would either sting me, or its light would run through my body and melt me instantly.
When I shared my experience with Mother, she went back to washing the dishes. She even laughed her heart out and said, “You should know what’s real and what’s not.”
I kept to myself that day. I didn’t even go out and play. I was so downhearted that no one believed me, and no one even bothered to ask me. I was eager to pour my heart out on the leaf and the sunlight. How enchanted I was by its beauty. I wanted to share with others my unique experience of how the leaf opened the gates of my soul for my emotions to flow like a torrent drifting me along.
Mother took notice of my drifting mind. “What’s wrong? Stop being such a delusional child! Grow up! Be a man!”
“But I DID see it!”
“No, you didn’t! Real men only see what they can touch, and you didn’t touch it! So, how do you know it’s real?”
Ever since that day, I started touching everything. Mother scolded me for doing so, especially when we were visiting relatives or neighbors.
“Behave, boy! Stop touching people’s things!” She’d bite hard on her lip and pinch the back of my hand. “Didn’t I tell you to quit this bad habit of yours?”
In my head, I always wanted to tell her, “Mother, wasn’t it you who said that real men should always put their hands on facts before they speak?” But I never did.
***
One day, at work, my eyes glimpsed a beauty beyond measure. She had a halo like the one I had seen around an angel in a translated children’s book. I was speechless and taken by her charm. How can one describe such beauty? I once heard Mother describe beauty to a neighbor “like the moon.” No, the moon is hollow and cold—she was more like a bright full moon. Her face was slightly long, her curved chin gave her that arrogant royal look, and her face was so bright that everything around her faded. She moved gracefully between the desks at work like a butterfly floating over a bed of flowers. I had to feel her true existence before I could express my feelings to her.
So, I touched her, and then I smiled.
She screamed at the top of her lungs and then slapped me on the face. All the employees gathered around us—such an embarrassing display. I touched my face and bolted out before things got worse. That day, I couldn’t stop my tears from running. I wanted her to know that what I did was what Mother had taught me—a real man must touch with his own hands what’s before his eyes. I only touched her to tell her how breathtaking she was. She reminded me of when the full moon had once followed me in the alleys when I was a little boy. I hid from it and ran back home overjoyed, but then, I remembered aching for its presence again, so I watched it from the window and imagined it smiling back at me with its tongue sticking out.
***
One evening, Mother wasn’t feeling well. She had her hand on her side as she walked the neighbors out the door.
“Something’s hurting!”
“Oh, dear! Where?”
“Here, it’s like a thorn is dug into my flesh!” she replied in pain as she pointed at her right side.
I couldn’t see anything when I looked behind her r`daa. As soon as I touched her side, she pushed me. “Get off!”
She passed away less than an hour later and left me without any last words or even a will. The weeping and wailing neighbors all gathered around her. I had a strong urge to lift her r`daa again and pull out the thorn in hopes she’d wake up. I knew she’d push me again, but, at least, she’d do it with a smile.
***
Years later, I found myself lying on a bed. I didn’t know where exactly I was, but what I knew for sure was that I was fighting for breath. A ventilator covered my mouth and nose; attached to it was a long plastic tube pumping air into my lungs. I tried to take it off, but a woman standing close to me signaled that I shouldn’t. She reminded me of Mother.
Everyone around me wore white. I was in a spacious room with several beds safely spaced. I couldn’t make out the patients’ faces; some of them had ventilators on while others didn’t.
I had a strong urge to touch the ventilator and see whether it was real. A man stepped forward with a stethoscope around his neck. He moved my hand away from it with force. “Don’t do that! You’ll die!”
I tried to talk, but my words sounded muffled as if I were underwater.
There was a big wide window next to my bed covered in dust. The branches of a nearby tree brushed against the window. I was running out of breath, so I could barely get any air into my lungs.
There it was . . . the leaf!
Indeed, it was the leaf I’d been looking for all my life. Sunlight was breaking through, its rays slit the sky, and they finally united as one as they were shining down on the leaf, just the leaf. It lit as brightly as the sun while everything else around it faded into darkness.
Everything faded into darkness.
Translated from the Arabic by Dr. Safa Elnaili
Azza Kamel Maghur is a Libyan lawyer, human rights activist, and constitutional law expert. She holds a law degree from Benghazi University and a DEA in international law and international organization from Pantheon-Sorbonne University in Paris. Azza is known for defending political prisoners, advocating for NGO rights, and openly calling for a constitution in Libya. After the Arab Spring, Azza played a major role in campaigning for democracy, human rights and women’s rights. She spearheaded a legal committee to draft laws concerning NGOs and worked on further legislations, including the election law of 2012. She published numerous legal articles in both Arabic and English. Azza was the only woman selected to join the February Constitutional Committee that was in charge of amending the Libyan Constitutional Declaration that led to the current House of Representatives’ establishment. She is also a short story writer and has published three collections of her work.
Dr. Safa Elnaili is an assistant professor of Arabic language and literature at the University of Alabama. She holds a PhD and an MA in linguistics and literature from Louisiana State University, in addition to an MA in Applied linguistics and Literature from Benghazi University. Dr. Elnaili is currently earning an MFA in Literary Translation and Creative Writing at Vermont College of Fine Arts. She is a Libyan Scholar, translator, and writer who has published papers on language and literary style in the Libyan short story. Dr. Elnaili is devoting her career to bringing Libyan literature—as an underrepresented literature—to a wider, international readership. She has an upcoming translated short story collection with DARF Publishers.
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