New Short Fiction from Syria: ‘A Bird with a Broken Wing’

Editor’s note: This story — one of the finalists for the 2024 Arabic Flash Fiction Prize, co-run by ArabLit and Komet Kashakeel — is set to appear in a 2025 publication. However, author Imad Saad requested that, because of the current extraordinary events in Syria, it could appear early.

A Bird with a Broken Wing

By Imad Saad

Translated by Mandy McClure

I don’t know why, but every time I came out of an interview in which I translated the miseries of immigrants for the acceptance committee, I would be overcome by pointless black emotions. The kind of sadness you feel from staring at a sunset too long. After that endless deluge, it would take a while before I felt optimistic and whole again.

Our survival came at a cost. Our scars and pains, both visible and hidden, were nothing to be proud of. We were wracked with guilt because we hadn’t stood strong in the face of death and were just happy to be alive.

Claiming asylum is an inhuman process. It’s excruciating to go begging to a country that your mind wants but your heart rejects and to which your whole self does not belong. You’re always torn between here and there. It isn’t fair. I’ve long noticed how exiles are so solitary and polite—overly polite, more than is natural. Their bodies have a different rhythm. Alienated from their surroundings, they’re assailed with a sense that they have reached an unwelcoming place. It’s largely true, and it has nothing to do with their inability to adapt. That’s why you see them plodding along in silence, their eyes cast down, squinting at whatever they encounter, their usual Levantine audacity having deserted them. If they do raise their eyes, their gaze is vacant, lost, as if they don’t comprehend what they’re seeing. They haven’t yet reconciled themselves to all these novel, untested situations, especially the older, more sensitive ones who don’t know the language. The language deficit oils the machinery of exile, enabling it to defeat them with greater efficiency.

With time, I learned to conceal my nationality from Arab men. They weren’t used to spilling their secrets and anxieties, their personal stories and the indignities they’d endured, in front of a woman of their own kind. Since this caused them a great deal of discomfort and embarrassment—for them, it was borderline disgraceful—I began to put a certain distance between myself and the people I interpreted for, to protect me from the swell of emotions. Most of the time, reality derailed my plans, and I couldn’t help but feel sympathy and intervene.

The stories I heard and translated were not complete or coherent. People offered up excerpts to make themselves look better to the committee. I didn’t blame them. We all have our imagined, invented life and the life fit for public consumption. I deliberately helped to iron out the wrinkles. With time, I became more prone to fantasy, lying remorselessly so these people could quickly move beyond their present ordeal and find a better life.

Yousef, however, disagreed with this approach.

“I don’t want you to make me look good for the committee. I’m not seeking pity or to cast myself in a melodrama. The truth is simple, always.”

“I do it to remove obstacles and shorten the road for people. To keep them from getting mired in the unbearable tedium of red tape.”

“I understand your motives. But I don’t wish to be seen as either a hero or a victim. I have the right to be ordinary.”

I had no choice but to comply with his wishes. I knew his story in full because we’re from the same neighborhood. Life-long neighbors. I could have told his story for him and explained circumstances that would be understood only by someone who lived there. But Yousef brushed me off.

The interview was very brief, no more than half an hour. I was more economical with my emotions this time. Things went as Yousef wished. With few words and concise sentences, he said what he wanted to say.

After the introductions, they asked him what he did for a living.

“I run a lab that makes prosthetic limbs.”

The committee chair was amazed and baffled in equal measure.

“Your profession should be booming, given the many years of war in your country,” he said. “Why did you decide to emigrate?”

“That would be true, if things worked according to logic. But, at a time when people needed help and hope, our hands were tied by an official order that stood against all common sense. The order prohibited fitting anyone for prosthetics without security approval.”

“That’s fucking insane,” one of the committee members said, outraged and unable to hold his tongue.

“It was a foolproof trap to ensnare regime opponents and people injured fighting on all fronts, and also to expose the doctors who secretly treated them.”

“Were you in the opposition?”

“No.”

“Were you with the regime?”

“No.”

“You didn’t take up arms?”

“No, I tried to stay out of the conflict. I believed then, as I still believe now, that helping people is more productive. Everyone came to the lab—amputated limbs have no sect or religion. I didn’t care that I was sometimes called a coward. God charges no soul with more than it can bear. I held the stick from the middle, thinking that neutrality would keep me safe, until it happened.

“After the order was issued, all exits were blocked for the injured, and our work slowed to a trickle. We received constant threats, and I thought of closing down the lab. To shut the door that brought an ill wind and to find some peace of mind.”

“So, you became unemployed?”

“Yes and no. My financial situation was good, so I was able to get by for a while without work. It wasn’t a question of money. It was that I was incapable of facing people in need without doing something. I decided to continue working despite the risks. We removed anything that suggested the lab was still open and, terrified, we started to work in secret, without pay. Initially, things went all right. We did great work that made me proud, without noticing that informers had started to track our every move. In the end, I was arrested.”

“On what charge?”

“Violating the security order.”

Yousef rolled up his right pant leg to the knee and began unbuckling the leather straps. He showed them the stump.

“I came out of detention with an amputated leg. That was my punishment.” Pointing to the prosthetic limb, he said, “This was the last piece I made.”

We were dumbstruck. A silence enveloped us that we had no idea how to dispel. A lump formed in my throat and tears welled in my eyes. With difficulty, I got ahold of myself. I looked Yousef in the eye and spoke in our language.

“Do you regret it? Tell us something about how you feel.”

Yousef’s gaze did not waver, and I glimpsed pride in his eyes that he tried to conceal. He briefly bowed his head and then looked up, before he said in a resolute voice:

“No, I have no regrets, not one. I can now tell you how it feels to be a bird with a broken wing.”

Imad Saad is from Homs, Syria. He is a retired civil engineer who writes short stories and novels.

Mandy McClure is a translator living in Cairo.