Repentance

“Say blessed is life.”

 

“Blessed is life. What next?”

 

“Do you remember how often 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 pleasing smile. A witty and lively man, he is 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 throwing her in the river. Instead, he devoted much time to her needs until her foot healed. When one of his hens became blind, he built a special coop, fed her with his hands, brought her the fresh grass she liked, and cleaned her nest. He would not eat her meat and buried her with reverence and dignity when she died. 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 him 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, 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 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 heartbeat as he pursues 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, "Your eyes bear news, Abu Marwan. Let us hear it!” He held his chin and paused momentarily, 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 a bad dream in which I killed a partridge. It was still breathing when I picked it up, 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 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, brow, and 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 I spent the whole day climbing mountains and descending into valleys to no avail? I spotted many partridges and shot at about 10 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 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 returned 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 sure 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. I wanted to regain confidence in the balance between my eye and hand and relieve my mind from the nightmarish dream.

 

“As I approached 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 killed a mother and her offspring because the cubs were too young to survive independently. I felt as if spears were piercing my heart and sticks were falling on my head, but the pain transformed into amazement and joy when I saw a big partridge hanging onto life in the mother fox's mouth.

 

“You cannot imagine the thoughts and feelings that flooded me then. I had committed a terrible crime, no doubt. The mother fox took care of her three cubs, who 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 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 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 could 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 eating something tasty and continued: “The incident is beyond my understanding. There is more. The dream recurred when I put the knife in the partridge’s throat and slit it. In a flash that seemed like ages, the slain partridge appeared before my eyes as my youngest son. I thought 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. I felt she deserved the credit for my son's joy when I handed him the bird.

 

“My wife roasted the partridge and gave Fouad a leg and some breast meat. Fouad suddenly let out a terrible cry in the cheerful atmosphere around the dinner table. He was overcome by 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, 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?”