‘Christ in Dishna’: Short Fiction by Ihsan Abdel Kouddous

Editor’s note: Dishna is an Egyptian village in Qena governorate, near Luxor, on the north bank of the river Nile. This short story, by the towering twentieth-century writer Ihsan Abdel Kouddous (1919 – 1990), was included in his short-story collection التجربة الأولى, which was published by Akhbar al-Youm in 1996. It appears thanks to the family—and, of course, thanks to translator Ibrahim Fawzy.

Christ in Dishna

By Ihsan Abdel Kouddous

Translated by Ibrahim Fawzy

Fifteen years ago, I was a different person than the one you see before you now. I was lively, passionate, and full of hope, one of the leading students in the Faculty of Law and a member of the university student union. I was tough. My masculinity, strength, and stubbornness — qualities young Cairene men seemed to lack — reflected my Sa’idi upbringing and the life I knew in Dishna.

All my colleagues loved me, feared me, and sought refuge in my strength and high principles. Female students admired me and listened to my Sa’idi accent with fluttering hearts. But I deliberately avoided them, treating them with prejudice, as my mindset couldn’t accept the idea of girls at the university. In my village, girls were confined to their homes at the age of ten. How could I bear to see girls mingling with boys, walking among them with uncovered faces and arms?

I graduated with a Bachelor of Law degree in 1944 and returned to Dishna. It was as if the next twenty years of my life had been sketched out before me: I would live in my family home, marry one of my cousins, and earn a living from the yield of the 50 feddans I inherited from my father. I’d set up a law office and earn money from the practice of law. Handling cases for my extended family, the Asrans, whose members comprised almost half the village’s population, would be more than enough.

Nothing had changed inside me when I returned from Cairo. But my horizons had broadened, and I’d become more easy-going with Sa’idi traditions — well, when it came to how men and families interacted, not how women were treated. My life unfolded as I’d envisioned. I married my cousin, and we had two sons within two years. I kickstarted my law office and quickly secured a name for myself. Soon, the villagers trusted me, including the Farghaly family, our long-standing rival.

Most cases in Dishna were criminal. You rarely saw a civil dispute over land or inheritance. However, hardly a day passed without a case of murder, a brutal beating, or some other act causing irreversible harm.

The perpetrators weren’t always criminals. Often, they belonged to the most noble families and were kind-hearted individuals. Sadly, it was our traditions, the traditions of Dishna, that had made killing a form of self-assertion. One murder led to another, and revenge was followed by more revenge. Each time there was a violent death, the perpetrator would come to my office and pay the fees. Nothing changed until the tragedy that would turn my world upside down loomed before me.

*

A wedding party was being held for one of the villagers. Ahmed Ahmed Abdullah Farghaly, a member of the Farghaly family, wanted to salute the groom by firing his gun into the air. Unfortunately, a stray bullet struck one of my cousins, who collapsed in a pool of blood and died two days later.

Before the body was buried, the men of my family, both old and young, gathered — led by my uncle, Asran Bey — to make a decision. I wasn’t invited to this quasi-meeting because they considered me a Cairene, calling me Ustadh, or Sir. They pronounced it as though they were calling me Khawaja — foreigner— as if I no longer belonged to them. But I stumbled upon this meeting by chance and overheard them discussing revenge. In a matter of minutes, they had decided to kill Ahmed Ahmed Abdullah Farghaly, the one who had fired the shot. I stood up, shaking at the simplicity of such a critical decision.

“Revenge in this instance is senseless,” I interjected. “The killing was accidental.” They gave me scornful looks, remaining silent for a moment before my uncle said, “Son, killing is never accidental. Have you forgotten the tension between us and the Farghaly family? You have to wonder why this accident only targeted one of our sons.”

“Let’s take it to court,” I retorted.

Three of the men spat on the ground. My uncle turned his head to the man next to him and continued their conversation, as if he hadn’t heard me.

“Let’s take it to court,” I repeated.

Infuriated, my uncle turned toward me, yelling as if he were slapping me, “Shut up! Do you want to take our rights to court? Don’t we have men enough to take our own revenge? What would the court do, my esteemed Ustadh? Our enemies will have some servant confess, taking the blame and serving a seven-year sentence. And our blood will have been spilled in vain!”

I mumbled something, but my uncle shouted, “Get out of here! You’re not invited to this men-only meeting.” And so, I left.

Less than two months later, Ahmed Farghaly was found dead, killed by a bullet shot through the reeds. The Farghaly family refused to reveal the killer, whom we all knew but remained silent about, myself included.

Within a year, my cousin was murdered. Months later, the son of the Farghaly family’s sheikh and patriarch met the same fate. The Farghaly family declared they would take their revenge on our family’s sheikh, Uncle Hamad Bey Asran. My uncle didn’t even flinch, showing no fear. And that was that. He no longer ventured outside our neighborhood. When he did, he was surrounded by heavily armed guards.

A year passed, then two. It seemed that things had quieted down, and the Farghaly family had abandoned their quest for revenge. My office took on more cases. Each time there was a violent death, the perpetrator would come to my office and pay the fees. I was content and blessed with my wife, children, and the village’s social gatherings.

*

Then my uncle, accompanied by two heavily armed guards, traveled to Cairo on business. On his way back, as he prepared for sleep in the sleeping car, the door was forced open, and he was shot dead. My cousins refused to reveal the killer and escorted the deceased to his final resting place without any public funeral.

It was only three years later that my uncle’s funeral was held, and we began to receive mourners, as that was when the Farghaly family’s sheikh was also killed. That meant it was our family’s turn. One of us had to die, and we knew who the Farghaly family had targeted. Me! Yes, me! I had become the family’s sheikh, its most prominent member at that time.

I wasn’t afraid, but I couldn’t tolerate the idea of being murdered simply because I was a ring in this endless chain of crossfire. The chain had to be broken one day. Better to cut it short before I was murdered.

I contacted the Farghaly family in secret; my office assistant acted as an intermediary. I offered them blood money, but they refused, saying it would be shameful. Money couldn’t compensate for their sheikh’s life — only my own could.

I didn’t give up. I offered every form of appeasement, addressing the narrow breathing spaces of their minds. I hoped I could convince them that it wasn’t just my life at stake, but also theirs, and the lives of everyone in both families. They finally agreed to end the cycle of revenge if I performed the rituals customary in our village when seeking to end blood feuds.

Do you know what these rituals were? I had to leave my house with a shroud over my head, walk through the streets accompanied by family members, and go to the Farghaly home. There, I would surrender to their authority. They could decide my fate as they saw fit. It was the sole hope. These people were fools. What difference would it make if I followed these primitive rituals to save my life and the lives of those who would come after me, and to restore safety and calm to our village? The situation called for an audacity that transcended the traditions that had rooted themselves in our village for centuries, a bravery greater than that needed to kill.

I ultimately decided to go through with the rituals. My cousins refused to accompany me to the Farghaly home with a shroud over my head. They threatened to kill me if I went there to ask for an end to the feud. They too were idiots.

I gathered some of the poorer members of my family and bribed them into coming with me. I placed the shroud over my head and left my home with them surrounding me. The streets were silent as we moved. People lined up on both sides, following my procession with a heavy, frightening silence. That’s when, I confess, I began to feel afraid. I soliloquized, “You’re saving the blood of two families. You’re enduring all this for humanity, for the sake of peace and love. You are like the Christ, being tortured for humankind.” But an invisible voice inside me kept screaming that I was only saving myself.

Finally, I reached the Farghaly home. The entire family, young and old, had gathered in the courtyard — in a silent semi-circle. The silence of the graveyard. I stood in the middle of the courtyard as if I were in the middle of my tomb, with my shroud over my head. They stared at me with undisguised loathing and scorn. I stood there for what seemed like forever. Then, the sheikh snapped, like a shot from a gun, “We forgive you.”

No sooner had the words been spoken than the men, young men, and children stood up and went inside, leaving me alone.

I walked out of there, my steps faltering. I pulled off the shroud, shook off the overwhelming sadness, and sprinted away. We were done. No need to reconsider this. The Asran and Farghaly families could live in peace from now on. I returned to my office and waited for clients, but none came. The entire day passed, and not a client nor a friend stopped by. It didn’t matter. This was temporary; it would pass.

I went to the coffee house I usually visited. As soon as I entered, everyone left. When I greeted one of them, he turned his face away, replying curtly, as if I were a mangy dog. It didn’t matter … It didn’t matter. Tomorrow, everything would be back to normal.

I returned home. None of those who usually spent evenings with me were there. Even my wife was more than usually silent. That night, I forced myself upon her, and she surrendered without a word.

The next day came, but nothing returned to normal. Clients withdrew their cases. Friends and relatives severed their friendships and ties. Even the servants who had grown up blessed by myself and my father deserted me. Some of the peasants who rented my fields refused to work. The ones who continued refused to pay rent. When I threatened them, they sneered. My children … My own children looked at me with bowed heads. Watching them play in the courtyard, I saw each of them aiming a toy rifle at the wall and firing it, saying: “Fall dead, Farghaly,” as though I had been murdered by the Farghaly family, and my children were readying themselves to avenge me.

I heard that cousins intended to kill me to cleanse my shame. I bottled myself up at home, seeking solace in cognac. I drank and drank, day and night. I looked at my wife and noticed her silence. I hit her. I took out all my anger and frustration on her. I hit my children whenever I saw them. I hit the servants, too. I was drunk, constantly drunk.

Six months later, my cousin arrived. I refused to meet him. No, he would kill me. I knew he would. My cousin forced his way into my room, addressing me as though I were a dog. Did that ass not realize I was older than him, and I was the family’s sheikh?

“Stand up!” he ordered, grabbing my arm. I stood up, defeated.

He made me dress and pack for a long journey. He accompanied me to the station and put me on the train to Cairo. He told me that the family had changed their minds about killing me, on the condition that I never returned to the village. If I did, they would kill me the moment I stepped off the train.

And so, now I’m in Cairo, far from my home, my children, and my office. I drink cognac. But I want to return to my village, to those fools.

Also read: A Look Back: Iconic Egyptian Writer Ihsan Abdel Kouddous

Ihsan Abdel Kouddous (1919–90) is one of the most prolific and popular writers of Arabic fiction of the twentieth century. Born in Cairo, Egypt, Abdel Kouddous graduated from law school in 1942 but left his law practice to pursue a long and successful career in journalism. He was an editor at the daily Al-Akhbar, the weekly Rose al-Yusuf, and was editor-in-chief of Al-Ahram. The author of dozens of books, his controversial writings and political views landed him in jail more than once.

Ibrahim Fawzy is currently pursuing his MFA at Boston University. He’s a graduate of the British Center for Literary Translation Summer School. He was awarded a mentorship with the National Center for Writing, UK (2022/2023). His translation of Khalid Al-Nasrallah’s The White Line of Night won a 2023 English PEN Presents award. He’s a 2024 ALTA Travel Fellow and was awarded a 2024 Global Africa Translation Fellowship.